by Jess Foley
She could feel her cheeks suddenly burning. ‘No – no, of course not …’ Her voice trailed off, then she added, ‘I’m sorry, I must be going.’
He touched at his hat. ‘And I’ll wish you a very good day, Miss Grace.’ He gave a brief nod, and turned and walked away across the yard. Grace did not watch his departure, but went into the house.
The house – where Grace had been born – was Tudor, of red brick, and stood in an acre of ground on the eastern edge of the village of Green Shipton. The building was of two storeys, with a tiled roof, having a small garden at the front and the greater part of its land at the rear. The dwelling had once been a very small farmhouse, but years before the Harpers had taken over the rental the farm had fallen into failure and, as a result, most of the land had been sold to a neighbouring farmer. What little remained was now laid to orchard, a kitchen garden, and a paddock where the pony ran and the goat grazed.
Inside the house, Grace went along the short passage to the kitchen where she found Billy drinking a mug of water.
‘Where’s Pappy?’ she said as she took off her hat.
‘In his workshop. He said he had to get on. I’m hungry, Grace.’
Grace saw that her father had eaten the cold dish she had left for him: meat, potatoes, lettuce and beetroot. ‘All right,’ she said to Billy, ‘I’ll get you something. I’m hungry too.’
When she had set the food on their plates, she and Billy sat down to eat. As they ate, Grace looked around her at the large kitchen, the room where her small family congregated – except for some Sundays when the fire was lit in the front parlour. The summer light in the room seemed to show up the room’s drabness, and Grace was suddenly aware that it appeared rather shabby and the worse for its years of wear. It was evident in the worn arms of her father’s armchair, the near-threadbare patch on the rag rug before the fire, the stained area of wall beside the door where the coats brushed as the family members entered. But there was another difference from how it had been in the past. Though the furniture was essentially the same – the same pictures on the walls, the same curtains at the windows, the same cushions on the windowseat – there was still a difference. And that difference, she knew, was partly due to the lack of her mother’s presence. Her mother had spent so much time in this room, either cooking, mending, working on their father’s accounts and letters, or helping Billy with his schoolwork. She had been the essence of the place. Sometimes it was impossible to believe that she had not merely gone outside, and in moments would return and take up her chair.
‘Mr Spencer doesn’t only work around Berron Wick,’ Billy said. ‘Pappy said that sometimes he has go to Redbury and to London. And to other countries – like Italy. Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Grace said. She pushed aside her plate and got up. ‘I’m going to make some tea and take some to Pappy.’ She moved across to the stove where the kettle was sighing on the hob.
Billy said, ‘Pappy said he heard there’s a position for a governess in Harbrook. Would you fancy going there?’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Grace said, ‘but it’s so far away. I’d like somewhere a little closer to home. At least for the time being.’
When she had made the tea she poured a mug and took it outside.
Her father’s workshop stood separate from the house on its western side across the cobbled yard, a long, red brick, single storey building, with windows along one length and at one end. Here it was that he spent the greater part of each day, working on the cabinets and bureaux and whatever else he was commissioned to provide.
Inside the well-lit room she found her father busy with a plane, working on a piece of timber that was held in a vice. He acknowledged Grace’s entrance with the briefest nod, but continued working with the plane for a few seconds longer. Then, setting the tool aside, he loosened the vice, took out the piece of wood and tested it with his set-square. After putting down the tool on the work-scarred bench, he turned to Grace and smiled.
‘Hello, Our Gracious.’
She put the mug of tea down on his workbench. ‘There you are. A drop of tea for you.’
‘Thanks, I can do with that.’ He picked up the mug, sipped from it. ‘I thought you were coming to give me a hand.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, I wish I could.’
He lifted up the piece of timber and held it up to his eye, squinting, peering along its length for variations in its surface. ‘So,’ he said as he laid the piece of timber down on the bench, ‘there you were, going off to deliver the frames, and along comes Mr Spencer calling at the house.’
‘Yes, I know. I saw him in the yard.’ She paused. ‘When we went to Asterleigh we saw Mrs Spencer.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, we gave them to her.’
‘Did she look at them?’
‘Oh, yes. She had them unwrapped right away.’
‘Did you bring back the burlap?’
Grace clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, Pappy, I forgot. Mrs Spencer said you did excellent work. She was very complimentary.’
‘Well, that’s nice to hear. And what’s nice too is that Mr Spencer paid me.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’
‘Not like Mr Copperstone when I delivered the walnut chest last week.’
‘He didn’t pay you? You didn’t say.’
‘No, well …’
‘Oh, Pappy, this is no good at all.’
‘He said he’d be sending it to me – but I wanted it paid, on the spot.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘And he still owes me for the footstool. That was almost two months back.’
‘Well, if you don’t hear before long, you’ll be justified in writing to chivvy him up.’
‘Maybe.’ He nodded. ‘At least Mr Spencer pays on time. And he’s been a good customer over the past year or so.’
‘Give him his due there.’
He grinned, taking in her tone. ‘You make sure you don’t go overboard in your praise of the man, now.’
Grace pulled a face, perplexed. ‘It’s just that I don’t know how to take him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well – he’s so – attentive.’
He frowned. ‘He hasn’t made any – improper remark to you, I hope.’
‘Oh, no, not at all. It’s just that he’s so – pleasant.’
‘And you don’t like pleasant?’
‘Pappy, you know that’s not what I’m saying.’
‘I’m not sure that I do.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that I – I don’t always know how to take him, I suppose. At times he seems so pleasant and yet …’ She let her words trail off.
‘You must tell me if he says anything – untoward. You will, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She shook her head, then gave a sigh dismissing her concern. ‘Oh, I’m imagining things, that’s all.’
Her father was silent a moment, considering this, then said, ‘So, what did you think of Mrs Spencer? I’ve never even seen the woman.’
A moment of hesitation. ‘I – I’m not sure. She’s older than he is, that much is clear. I should think she must be fifty-something.’
‘Mrs Tanner tells me she’s disabled in some way. Crippled. Is she?’
‘Well,’ Grace shrugged, ‘ – she limps on her right leg.’
He nodded. ‘She came from Swindon way, I heard. I don’t know much more than that.’
She smiled. ‘You’re not much of a one for gossip, are you, Pappy?’
He chuckled. ‘Your mother had enough interest for the two of us. But I don’t think a lot is known about them – the Spencers. Well, as they haven’t been in the area for that long – five or six years – and pretty much mind their own business. There must be money in that family. With him having the business in Redbury. And what they’ve spent getting Asterleigh House up together again. Must have cost a fortune.’
‘It’s a huge place.’
‘A b
eautiful place, they tell me. I’ll bet Billy was impressed.’
‘We both were.’
‘And did you have a nice relaxing walk?’
‘Oh, yes, it was fine. We stopped at the Berron Pits on the way back.’
‘Your mother used to take you there when you were a girl.’
‘Yes, I remember very well. They were wonderful times. And you came with us once, don’t you remember? We took a picnic: you, Mama and I.’
‘So we did.’
‘One of those rare times when Mam could persuade you to leave your workbench.’
He nodded wryly. ‘Things were a little easier then.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Did Billy swim today? I should think the water would be very pleasant.’
‘I couldn’t persuade him to. He didn’t feel like it.’
‘How is he, d’you think? He says so little.’
Grace shook her head in a little gesture of helplessness, briefly opening her hands. ‘We stopped at Mama’s grave – and there were some tears. But he was all right afterwards.’ She put her head a little on one side, and moved a step closer. ‘Anyway, Pappy, how are you?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m all right.’ He affected an expression of surprise that she should ask such a thing. But Grace was not taken in.
‘Mr Spencer said he thought you looked tired.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not really that interested in Mr Spencer’s observations.’
‘No – well … Have you managed to get much work done today?’
‘A good bit – when I wasn’t interrupted.’
‘As I’m doing now.’
‘Oh, Gracie, my love, I don’t mean you.’
Grace reflected that in his workshop he had been somewhat unproductive of late. Certainly compared to how it used to be. Before her mother’s death he had been so industrious and productive. Since that time, however, he had seemed only to work in fits and starts. And when he did put his hand to work Grace had never believed that his heart was really in it. Today, however, she had hoped that things were changing for the better. Yesterday he had worked steadily through the day, and this morning he had expressed the intention of doing the same.
A bee hummed in at the open window, hovered about the room for a few seconds, then drifted out again. Grace looked at her father as he turned, picked up the piece of timber he had been working on and peered closely at it. He was a tall man, with a lean build and square shoulders, becoming a little stooped of late – which was surely due to his work, the constant bending over his workbench. He was two months away from his fifty-sixth birthday, and she reflected briefly that over the past year he had begun to show his age. His hair, once a thick and luxuriant dark brown, was now thinning and fading, and growing in grey at the front and over his ears. His face was strong, with a square jaw and heavy brows, the flesh of his forehead for ever marked in creases from his frowning concentration as he worked, his mouth pulled into one thin line.
Edward Spencer had spoken of him looking tired. And though she had somewhat resented the man’s comment, she had to admit that perhaps he was right. Her father did look rather tired. He’d been working too hard, there was no doubt about it. Not that she could foresee any way in which he could ease off. They needed the money; it was as simple as that. And a sad thing about it was the fact that despite his hard work, so little money seemed to be coming in. This was not for any want of craftsmanship in his work. There was no lack in that. Part of the problem – it must be, Grace had to admit – was in the matter of his business acumen. Over the years, for as long as Grace could remember, it had been her mother who had handled the administrative side of his work. Taking off his hands all the bothersome business of dealing with payments from customers, of paying the bills for his timber and other materials, she had given him what he wanted – the time and opportunity to work at his carpentry unhindered. She it was who wrote to customers if there were questions concerning the design or progress of the work in hand, she who sent the customers their bills, and wrote to them again if the bills were not paid; she who managed to write the ultimately persuasive letter that eventually got results. She believed passionately in the value of her husband’s work and tried to make sure that others did also. She would not allow him to work at cut rates, no matter how much he might like a certain individual. His work was their livelihood, she said, and he could not afford to give it away.
But with the coming of Mrs Harper’s illness their joint way of working had gone, and with her death he had shown less and less interest in his own well-being. And Grace had not needed Mr Edward Spencer to point out to her that her father had changed. Of course he had changed. Anyone close to him could see it. Before his wife had died, he had lived as if his life was full. With her death, though, it was as if a shadow had come over him. He no longer seemed to have the same interest. And not only in his work, but in everything around him – even his children sometimes seemed to him a distraction.
‘If you don’t hear from Mr Copperstone, I’ll write to him,’ Grace said. ‘You’d only have to sign the letter.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I’ve no doubt it’ll get sorted out in the end. We’ll not worry.’
‘No, Pappy,’ she said, ‘we won’t worry.’
Chapter Three
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what a lot of fuss about a little splinter.’
Her father’s voice came to Grace as she rounded the corner of the house and approached the rear door. She had spent the morning and afternoon of that Wednesday in the schoolroom of the Marren household, situated just over a mile away, teaching the couple’s twin sons, Edgar and Roger. With the impending excursion to relatives only days away, they had been less than attentive throughout their English and history lessons, and Grace was relieved when the school day had finally come to an end. At 3.30, for the last time as their teacher, she had said her goodbyes to the boys.
Now as she turned in at the kitchen door from the rear yard of Bramble House she was met by the sight of her father sitting at the kitchen table with Mrs Tanner, the occasional charwoman, standing beside him, bending over his hand. Mrs Tanner turned her head and straightened as Grace made her appearance. Mr Harper said:
‘Here’s Our Gracious. She’ll do it.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Grace said.
‘Just a bit of a splinter, that’s all,’ said Mr Harper. ‘But all the fuss and carrying on, you’d think it was half a plank.’
Mrs Tanner looked around as Grace entered the room and said with a sigh, ‘I’m glad you’re here, Grace. My eyes are not what they were, I’m afraid, and I have to admit that your father’s not the best patient.’
‘He’s a man,’ Grace said with wide eyes, as if that explained it all, and Mrs Tanner straightened and let fall Mr Harper’s hand. ‘Of course, why didn’t I think of that?’
Mr Harper lifted his large right hand and peered at the thumb. ‘The dashed thing. I’ve tried myself, and I just can’t get it out.’
‘Grace’ll do it,’ Mrs Tanner said. ‘Her eyes are good.’
‘Just give me a second.’ Grace went through into the hall where she took off her hat. Then, back in the kitchen, she washed her hands and moved to her father’s side. Mrs Tanner, having relinquished her role of nurse, now went back to her task of wringing some cotton and linen that she had washed. Sarah Tanner was fifty-two years old, a widow from the village, mother of a married son who lived nearby, and an unwed daughter who lived at home. Mrs Tanner had been with the Harpers for eight years now, having originally come to help out shortly after the birth of Billy. The family could not afford her on a daily basis but she came in regularly three or four times a week to clean and help with the cooking and washing. She could be a little short-tempered at times, and occasionally cut corners, but she was faithful, inexpensive and reliable.
Grace checked that there was hot water in the kettle, then poured some into a bowl. ‘Now let me see,’ she said, and took her father’s right hand in he
r own.
‘It went in under the nail,’ her father said. ‘It’s not much, but it stings a bit.’
‘Pappy,’ Grace said, ‘you’re not safe to be left alone, you really aren’t.’ Lifting his hand up to catch the best of the light she could just see the end of the splinter, embedded under the thumbnail. ‘How did you come to do it?’
‘Smoothing out a piece of wood – and obviously not paying as much attention as I should have been doing.’
Grace nodded. ‘Well, you certainly did a good job of this.’
From her sewing basket she fetched a pair of tweezers along with a small pair of scissors and a needle. Then, holding her father’s hand once more, she carefully trimmed the thumbnail back as far as she could. She could see the end of the splinter much more clearly now. Bending close, she managed to grip the splinter with the tweezers and pull it out.
‘There.’ Grace laid the splinter of wood in her father’s palm. ‘And next time be more careful.’
‘What a good girl.’ Samuel Harper flicked the splinter aside and sucked at his thumb. ‘That feels better.’
From one of the kitchen cupboards Grace took a little bottle containing a very small amount of iodine. Carefully she poured the remaining drops onto a tuft of cotton wool and dabbed it on the site of the injury. Her father sucked in his breath.
‘I know, Pappy, it stings,’ Grace observed. Removing the stained cotton, she threw it into the fire. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea now,’ she said. ‘I need one – and especially after dealing with those Marren boys all day.’
She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. When the water was boiling she made tea, and was pouring it as Mrs Tanner came back into the room after hanging out some washing. Grace asked her if she would like a cup, and the woman thanked her but declined. She had better be getting back, she said.
‘Were the boys difficult?’ her father asked when Mrs Tanner had departed.
‘No,’ Grace replied, ‘just young and full of life and energy.’
‘Still, you won’t be bothered by them again.’
‘It was never a bother,’ Grace said. ‘And I shall miss them. And who knows what’s in store for me instead.’ She took a sip from her cup, then said, ‘Where’s Billy?’