Wise Child

by Audrey Reimann

  'I’m not an infant...'

  'In the eyes of the law you are. Until you're twenty-one.'

  Mam did not sound sure. Lately Mam asked what Lily thought about people and why they said or did things; she looked to Lily for a lead. Lily wanted Mam to rely on her, so she squared her shoulders and said firmly, 'We’ll go to the funeral and will-reading.'

  Mam shifted things on the mantel shelf and Lily held her breath in case she noticed that Tommy Stanway's picture had gone. When she did it she'd wanted Mam to ask why. This was not the time to speak. But Mam had only said, 'If you're going to church you'd best get off.'

  Mollie Leadbetter was buried in consecrated ground on the Thursday. It was a quiet family affair which few attended. But the following day hundreds of people packed into St Michael's for Mrs Chancellor's funeral service. Ushers guided people to their seats until there was standing room only in the side aisles. People crowded round the font in the baptistry and packed into the little side chapel inside the church.

  Mam and Lily arrived early. Mam was pale but she cut a smart figure in her black velvet hat and velour coat. Lily wore navy blue. They were shown to seats a couple of rows from the carved pulpit. The Chancellor family, Mr Chancellor's brothers and their wives and old Mrs Chancellor, were seated at the front.

  Lily was quaking. Mam's nerves were all a-jangle; a little pulse was beating fast in her throat and the tiny lines at the corner of her mouth tightened as the church filled with so many well known people. The air was filled with that familiar, dusty, candlewax-and-old-paper scent of ancient churches that charged Lily up like a wireless battery, making her aware of her own heartbeat and every movement around her.

  Lily dropped to her knees on the hassock and tried to pray, but for the first time in her life she could not concentrate so, kneeling, she took the Book of Common Prayer from the little wooden box holder on the seat in front. It was the first funeral she had been to and she searched through until she came to the order of service for the Burial of the Dead. Then the colour drained from her face. The first words, in italics, were notes for the clergy: Here is to be noted that the office ensuing is not to be used for any that die unbaptized, or excommunicate or have laid violent hands upon themselves.

  Lily clutched the back of the rush-seated chair in front.

  'Sh! Don't make a noise!' Mam whispered, elbowing and frowning. 'Stand up. They are coming in.'

  Everyone fell silent as the vicar at the back of the church, said in loud singsong intonation, 'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord…'

  Mam nudged Lily so she'd keep her eyes straight ahead, but Lily could not. White as death herself, she watched the clergy go slowly ahead of the brass-bound oak coffin. Behind, pale with grief, walked Mr Chancellor, leaning on the arm of his taller son. Ray was ashen-faced and tight-lipped, staring straight ahead, expressionless as the men put his mother's coffin down on the trestles that stood before the chancel steps.

  Mr Chancellor's eyes were shiny with tears all through the chanting of the words of the thirty-ninth psalm, and Lily was overcome with pity, seeing the solemn faces about her. She couldn't chant the psalm but could only whisper, '... For man walketh in a vain shadow. He heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them...'

  Such beautiful words, whose rhythms were music and whose meaning was hidden. When the psalm was over, Mr Birchenough had collected himself. He stood without support, eyes closed.

  'Oh God Our Help in Ages Past' was next - a simple tune but a powerful hymn for raising a lump in the throat. The organist drew out the male voices, filling the church to the high vaulted roof with resounding song: '...A thousand ages in thy sight, Are like an evening gone. Short as the watch that ends the night before the rising sun.'

  Those very same words were repeated in the ninetieth psalm they chanted after: '... Seeing that is past as a watch in the night...' and a few verses on, 'Thou hast set our misdeeds before Thee, and our secret sins in the light of Thy countenance. The days of our age are threescore years and ten. So soon it passeth away and we are gone...'

  But, under the influence of the ritual power of words, Lily was asking God all the questions that the service was putting into her mind, knowing that if she prayed hard enough God would give her the answers. She prayed, and the words came to her as if from another place: 'Are our lives, which are all we have, to you, Heavenly Father, as short as a watch in the night? And if we are sinners and born in sin. Dear God, please let me see the face of my own true father, dear Lord. And if I have no earthly father... ?'

  Perhaps she had part of her answer, for wave upon wave of relief flooded through her when the service was over and she walked down Chestergate with Mam. They processed in sunshine up Prestbury Road to the cemetery among the other mourners, who spoke in whispers. Mam said not a word. The cortege passed and all the people stopped at the kerbside. First came the hearse, pulled by four black horses, black-plumed. Then followed a carriage carrying Mr Chancellor with Ray at his side. Behind came seven motor cars carrying the chief mourners and the Hammonds.

  Lily said, 'It was a moving service, wasn't it, Mam?' as the cortege passed and they moved on again, 'What does it mean at the end of the lesson when St Paul says, "Oh death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law." What does that mean, Mam - about the strength of sin being the law?'

  Mam looked at her, aghast. 'Where did you learn all that?'

  'Out of the prayer book. I just read it.'

  'And you memorised it? Just by reading it over?'

  'Yes.'

  Mam held her hand tighter and quickened her pace. 'You are a funny girl, Our Lil. Learning things off by heart. You'll have to watch out. Watch you don't overtax your brain.'

  'What does it mean?' Lily persisted.

  'I don't know. Ask Grandpa.'

  Mr Chancellor broke down at the graveside. He slumped against Ray, who stood ramrod straight, staring into space as if he couldn't take it all in. Lily took it all in. She took in Mam's strained face. Mam had never taken her eyes off the Hammonds and the Chancellors. She was craning her neck to see the coffin and the raw earth heaped up beside the grave. But in the fresh spring air in the vast park of Macclesfield Cemetery, with the scents of newly dug earth, cut grass and blossom, Lily had lost her sense of doom. The words were being carried away from those who stood at the back. As the vicar.said, 'Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust...'Lily looked around. She saw Mrs Hammond's fixed expression and Magnus, just like his father, pale and shocked by it all. Sylvia was stately, standing tall and fair and above all display of emotion.

  They walked for twenty minutes from the graveside to the house in Park Lane, where everyone crowded into a wide hall with double doors opening on to a long dining room, making one enormous room. The big table had been taken out and through the whole length little tables were set with plates of sandwiches and cakes, tea cups and saucers. Mam didn't join in the hand-touching and murmuring condolences but slid out of the line and sat at a table near the dividing door, as far as she could be from a long, narrow table at the far end of the dinging room that was set as for a speaker, with a carafe and glass and a sloped book rest.

  'Are all these people mentioned in the will?' Lily asked Mam. They were piling into the house - all sorts from grand people like the Hammonds right down to mill hands in tight jackets with their cloth caps rolled into tubes and stuffed into pockets.

  'It looks like it.' Mam sounded more like herself now they were seated and inconspicuous. 'Look over there!' She dipped her head in the direction of the other end of the hall, making the black eye-veil in her hat quiver. 'Nellie Plant and the Leadbetters.'

  'Do you think Mrs Chancellor has left all these people something? ' 'Sh!' Mam dug her elbow into her. 'Someone's going to speak.'

  Mr Chancellor was standing right next to Mam in the open doorway, and when everyone was silent he said, 'Thank you all for being with us on this day of deep grief for
my son and myself.'

  There was no trace of the grieving man Lily had seen earlier. He spoke of grief but he gave a confident nod in the direction of the far end of the hall, where maids entered carrying trays laden with tea pots, sugar and milk. He stepped back a little to let them pass, and said loudly over the clatter, 'You will be served with tea, and afterwards our lawyer…’ here he nodded towards the long table, where a morning-suited man had seated himself, '…will read the will.'

  When the tea things were cleared away, Lily's mood of calm expanded with the air of expectancy that lit up all the faces around them. It felt as if an electric current passed through everyone in the room when the grey-whiskered lawyer got up to speak.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said. 'It is my duty to read the will of my client, Mrs Sarah Chancellor. It is also my duty to inform all concerned that the said will was drawn·up and sealed in my presence by the testator only a week ago, when my client could not have anticipated her tragic death. However, I must warn you that should the coroner come to a different conclusion as to the cause of death from that which prevails today, this will could be revoked and the terms of the testator's previous will would apply.'

  He waited for someone to speak, but you could have heard a fly walking about if there had been one. He broke the seal on the great thick envelope and pulled out a wax-sealed and ribbon-bound document, which he opened out on the sloping box before him: six or seven sheets of parchment. Then, very slowly, in a deep, unemotional voice, he read:

  'This is the last will and testament of me, Sarah Elizabeth Chancellor, of Pilkington House, Park Lane, Macclesfield. I hereby revoke all former wills and codicils and declare this to be my last will.

  'I appoint John Hammond and his wife Catriona Hammond, of Archerfield House, Bollington, in the county of Cheshire, to be the Executors and Trustees of this my will.'

  The lawyer glanced about the room again before returning his attention to the will. Much faster, and in a higher pitch of voice, as if he wanted to get this next part over and done with, he read:

  'First, to my husband, Francis Chancellor. Upon marriage my husband was made a director of the printworks and given a ten per cent holding. He also received a generous settlement of tenanted properties. Francis Chancellor is entitled by law to a proportion of my personal property. There is nothing the law allows me to do to deprive him of these benefits or the legal right he has to live in our marital home until he marries again. But l owe him nothing. I leave him nothing.

  There was a noise - a shocked catching of breath before, with a crashing sound, Mr Chancellor stood, letting his chair fall to the floor. 'No! No! No! Bloody vindictive!' His face was crimson, suffused with outrage, and everyone present saw this as permission to tut and sigh and cough and blow noses.

  Lily should have felt pity for him, hearing how low he was held in his wife's esteem. But to her it was exciting. She could not help but be impressed with all the drama. It was better than the cinema. She'd never seen grown-up people behaving like this, for other chairs were shuffling and some of the working people were saying, 'Shame! Shame!' and Mam's eyes were ablaze with what looked like triumph but must be anger. Nellie Plant's pale eyes were as round as saucers and Mr Leadbetter's mouth was gaping open.

  Ray Chancellor stood and put an arm about his father's shoulders, making everyone around the room voice their approval with cries of 'That's the ticket!' and 'Good lad!' It was a right and proper demonstration - a touching show of affection. Ray Chancellor spoke words of comfort in his father's ear to persuade him to sit again and hear the rest of the will-reading.

  All this happened in about a minute, and the lawyer paused for a sip or two of water before continuing in the same solemn tones.

  'Chancellor Printers is a family business founded by my father and left by him in trust to his beloved grandson, my dear son, Ray Francis. If I die before Ray Francis reaches his twenty-first birthday, the thirtieth of August, nineteen hundred and thirty-six, then until that time all of the Printworks will be under the joint control of my husband and the trustees I have appointed.

  In nineteen thirty a private company was formed and it was necessary to raise capital. This was done by the issuing of debentures. For the sake of privacy we chose to have the debentures payable to bearer rather than registered holder. Bearer bonds are negotiable instruments and can be transferred from person to person by the simple process of handing over the said debenture documents without registration. I have handed over ninety-five per cent of my holding to my dear son Ray Francis and these will remain in trust for him should I die before my son reaches his majority.'

  After this there followed a lengthy list of earnings from stock holdings, mortgages, pensions, investments and dividends. Lily never knew such things existed. He was taking for ever to come to the end, and through this long recital, which fascinated her, chairs were being scraped as people became bored and moved their positions. Only the family, the Hammonds, Mam and Lily gave this dusty list their rapt attention. Lily was enthralled. No wonder these people were powerful compared with those like themselves, who had only what they earned or could save.

  At last the lawyer came to the bit everyone had been waiting for. An electric silence fell over the room. 'The following bequests are to be met from the remaining five per cent holding in the Printworks and such monies as are deposited under my name in the District Bank. 'To the tenants of the Printworks' properties, whether working or pensioned, and their dependents I bequeath the properties entire and without entail. The deeds are to be handed over when my will is proved.

  'I give and bequeath to the following women who may suffer loss as a result of my death the sum of three hundred pounds each. These named legatees are as follows: Miss Ellen Plant of High Street, Macclesfield, for her loyal service as head designer at Chancellors; Mrs Elsie Stanway of Jordangate, Macclesfield, for her services as my dressmaker; Miss Winifred Mitchell of Pickford Street, Macclesfield, for her services as my hairdresser; Miss Veronica Bell of Exchange Street, Macclesfield, for her services as my personal maid; Mrs Albert Leadbetter of Hibel Road, Macclesfield, for her services as purveyor of fruit and vegetables.'

  There followed a list of small bequests to house servants, but Lily could not take any more in in detail. Her mind was whirling. They were rich! Three hundred pounds! They were rich beyond their wildest dreams and Mam was not smiling. The lawyer then tapped on the table for quiet.

  'To such children who are above the age of eleven years, of the above legatees. I leave their choice of personal memento from the contents of my private sitting room and bedroom. I wish to have these two rooms emptied of my effects. The entire contents are afterwards to be sold and the proceeds given to the Guardians' Institute.

  Lastly I give and bequeath to my beloved son, Ray Francis Chancellor, the whole of the residue of my property, real and personal.'

  The lawyer removed his pince-nez. 'Has anyone any questions?'

  'What does it mean? Deeds and such without entail?' a man at the front called out.

  The lawyer said, 'It means that Mrs Chancellor has given to her workers the houses they presently rent.'

  'Won't we have to pay anything?' another asked.

  The lawyer tapped upon the table again. 'Insofar as this will shall be proven, the terms of it will apply.'

  'Our house is going to be condemned!' shouted somebody.

  'And ours!'

  'And mine!' Every week or so a list of condemned properties was published in the Macclesfield Courier, streams of them week after week. Whole families were being sent to live in a vast estate of new houses on the Moss. They were luxurious houses, with gardens, electricity, hot and cold running water, flushing indoor lavatories and half-tiled kitchens and bathrooms. But not everyone wanted to go. Some saw it as a mark of shame to have had their slum houses pulled down. Others, it was said would keep their coal in the bath; they knew only how to live in squalor.

  'When will we know?' someone shouted from the back.
r />   'None of us expects any dispute,' the lawyer said. 'The inquest was held yesterday. The coroner will give his verdict tomorrow. It is expected that he will be satisfied that death was accidental. The will can then be proved and the bequests made.'

  There were murmurs of 'I don't understand it all' and other banalities, but Lily's mind was already far ahead. Mrs Chancellor had given away the company houses to save having to pull them down or repair them - and to the people whose houses were rented from her husband she had given the means to buy them. They could buy their house. Or Mam could buy the bungalow she said she had always wanted. Either way they would be property owners and could say, 'That's my house!' A man had paid £375 for two houses in Macclesfield only last week, and they were good solid houses.

  They could buy two houses if they wanted to. They could live in one and rent out the other. Or buy a whole row of cottages. Or put the money in the bank and get the interest. That was as long as nobody tried to contest the will. But who would? Mr Leadbetter? Lily saw acceptance, or it might be resignation in his eyes. He would take his bequest and drop his threats. And if Mr Leadbetter took his share there would be no justification for Mr Chancellor to contest the will.

  Mr Hammond had come up to their table. 'Elsie, my dear! May I take Lily to the private sitting room to choose a memento?'

  Lily followed him to a large, airy room that was painted white and gold. It was a pretty room, with wide spaces between the yellow silk-upholstered chairs and sofas. A modem Crane piano in an alcove was set about with photographs in silver frames. There was no music to be seen. There were pedestal tables holding ornaments that eight or so young people were examining under the eagle eye of Mrs Hammond who was standing in front of an empty marble fireplace. Magnus was not there but Sylvia was beside the window, looking out. Lily went to her. 'Can I have anything?'

  'Anything,' Sylvia said. 'What is left has to be sold off and given to the workhouse. I think she was afraid that if Mr Chancellor marries again...' Sylvia put her finger to her lips.