She lost her appetite and slept badly and odd little jumping nerves started in her eyelids, at the corner of her mouth, at the back of her neck, so that if anyone spoke to her for more than a few seconds her head shuddered on her neck and she was afraid they would think she was mad.
She stopped writing to Ian, whose letters were full of his own progress. In a few months' time he would be a doctor. He wrote of Rowena, who had passed her nursing exams and now worked in their father's practice. In the face of all this advancement Isobel could not put pen to paper and write about her wasteland of a life. Nor could she put pen to paper and tell lies.
He wrote to ask why but she did not reply.
Their beloved King died at the beginning of the year. A popular new young King would soon be crowned and the newspapers showed his smiling face, but Isobel knew that he had nothing to be happy about because the world was going wrong all about them.
She became inward-looking, melancholy. At the piano, instead of playing 'Dancing With My Shadow' and the light romantic pieces she used to like, she played wistful music by Debussy and the ponderous slow movements from the Beethoven sonatas. Then she'd punish herself, playing scales for an hour.
Every day she listened to the one o'clock news on the radio in the living kitchen at the shop. 'This is the BBC news on Wednesday the fourteenth of October. The two hundred unemployed men of Jarrow who started their march to London ten days ago have reached ...' and hearing these things, and seeing the dole queues and tales of suffering all around her, she told herself that beyond the confines of her life a harsher world existed. She was lucky to be able to earn her living and keep hold of the house. She told herself that she was ungrateful, but then she had never wanted any of it in the first place.
She was sensitive to everything. She saw Hitler on the cinema newsreels saluting and smiling while at the same time the Jews in Germany had been deprived of their citizenship, their jobs and their pensions. Hitler was a fiend, and where once Isobel had thought it exaggerated, this time she knew it was true.
Mr. Chancellor told her that one of the town's dyeworks had been given a big government contract to dye cloth khaki. .Soldiers wore khaki. They were heading for war.
*…*…*
Elsie dreaded seeing Howard. He expected her to have pulled herself together. He said so. 'Pull yourself together, woman,’ he said, every time they were left alone in the private room that was costing him a fortune. 'We have to sell the house. I can't afford all this.' He made a sweep with his arm to indicate the world beyond the hospital. 'Everyone pities me. What can I say? That my wife would rather skulk in a hospital bed than take up her duties?'
She was ashamed of being such a liability to him - and ashamed that she now detested him without reason. He was working hard to keep the house, he told her. lsobel was running the shop and looking after him well, he said. He said that they were content without her, and certainly Isobel never voiced any contrary opinion. So was she, Elsie perhaps giving in to base and selfish fears - afraid now that Howard had control of everything that she held dear? And try as she might she could not shake off the dreadful lethargy, nor could she reason her way past the terrors that alternated with weariness. She was silent, frightened of everyone when she was awake, yet asleep she had dreams of violence; dreams of arming herself with the sharp kitchen knife, of stalking Howard, of stabbing him straight through the heart whilst he mocked her efforts to kill him until her limbs grew heavy and she sank to the ground, weeping, weeping until she awoke, lathered in sweat, with nurses around her, brisk and impatient. As now.
'Mrs Leigh! Come, come!' A sister pulled her up the bed then said to Howard, 'What brought it on?'
Furious, Howard replied, 'I can't take any more of this. Tell the medical superintendent that my wife must be certified insane. She will go to the asylum. I will sign the consent.'
'It is not quite that simple, Mr Leigh,' the sister said sharply. 'There has to be an independent signatory to certification.'
'Who, besides me and the doctor?'
'A justice of the peace. A magistrate.'
'Frank ...' Elsie wept. 'Frank won't let you put me away…’
Chapter Twenty
Mam was not away to the asylum as her stepfather had threatened. She was sent home, and it was only right that she should go to Lindow, where Nanna could watch over her and nurse her back to health.
Nanna wanted Isabel to live at Lindow with them, begged her to give up the lease of the shop, saying, 'Your Mam won’t want it back, lass.'
'But we need the money. I have to keep the house going,' Isobel answered. She became stubborn. She would not be diverted in her determination to hang on to the house. She need only remember her bookcase and the legacy and the fact that she or Mam had paid every penny of mortgage and deposit. But she was smarting underneath, because Mam ought to pull her weight instead of languishing at Lindow, being mothered by Nanna. Still, no matter how low she felt or how she despised Mam's spinelessness, Isobel would not budge. She would hold on to the house at all costs.
Sylvia and·Magnus sometimes dropped in to see her at Lindow on a Sunday when they were at home, but Isabel never wavered in her decision not to accept invitations to Archerfield. Mrs Hammond had meant every word when she'd called Isobel brazen, 'exactly like her mother', and Isabel would not allow her to be rude about her or Mam ever again. Once every fortnight she received a phone call from Ian. In spite of her-cold-shouldering he continued to call her. Yet he was a complete stranger, someone she used to know long ago. He said that he wanted her to talk to him. He told her he understood that she was unhappy and worried about her mother. He said he had made enquiries and that Mam was suffering from a shock which had caused a temporary unreason known as melancholia. He assured her that Mam's faculties would return. He asked her to try, little by little, to look outside herself, not in. And he said he would not hold her to any promises she thought she had made to him.
He did not say more than this, and from then on he talked about his work, the challenge of it, the long hours. He spoke now and again of sailing his boat or crewing for a friend. He told her about Rowena and about his beloved Edinburgh. But he never spoke a word of love. lsobel thought of him not as a sweetheart, but as Magnus's cousin whom she did not expect to see again, and it was a surprise when, two hours after she arrived at Lindow on Christmas Eve, Ian came to the house.
Mam had gone early to bed when Isabel heard Ian talking to Nanna at the back door. To her dismay her heart hammered in her chest. Until now her feelings had been under control. She did not want them reawakened. Then when Nanna brought him into the living room and she saw him - tall, darkly handsome and yet much older, remote and commanding - she was overcome with shyness as well as a hideous embarrassment. She didn't want him to see her like this; thin and pale and drab. And her mouth would not be still and her head jerked as pangs of doubt and fear and inadequacy swept through her.
Ian had on a heavy overcoat, and when Nanna offered to take it, he refused, saying, 'We're having a get-together at Archerfield. I thought Isobel would be there. I want to take her for an hour or two, if you will allow ...'
It was a particularly cold night and Nanna, standing close to the fire with a shawl about her shoulders, said, 'Get your coat on, lass.' And to Ian, 'Bring her back before ten o'clock.'
'Ready?' Ian came to her, smiled and put out a hand. 'You don't need to change. It's very informal. A family gathering. Music and singing. Mince pies and mulled wine round the tree. Come on!'
She knew they were going to have a party. They would all be dressed up and the talk would be clever and witty. The blue Delage had passed Lindow half an hour ago. But she had not been invited. She had seen Magnus only two days ago and he had not mentioned that Ian was coming for Cbristmas. Mrs Hammond certainly would not want her there. And Isobel was afraid of being alone with Ian. She couldn't go. But she was trembling, being so near to him. Even so, she stood back and heard her voice, rebuffmg, saying, 'I don't want to go to
Archerfield with you. Thank you.'
There was a dreadful, painful silence and if she had known how to do so she would have apologised, begged his pardon for her rudeness. If they had been close, as they had been nine months ago, she could have explained. But she stared somewhere to the left of his ear.
‘Isobel?' he said in the warm voice that had suddenly lost its authority. 'Do you mean that?'
'Yes!' She made a hard little face to cover her wretchedness. It was her age, her circumstances, her inexperience, but it made her say what could not be unsaid. 'I can think of nothing worse than spending Christmas Eve with the Hammond family.'
Ian looked puzzled and hurt, and as realisation came burning into his eyes he said, 'Forgive me. I won't ask you again.'
He turned away from her to say to Nanna, 'I'm sorry. I misunderstood. When you told me this morning that Isobel would be here, I naturally thought she'd want to see me.'
He left. Isobel ran upstairs and cried herself to sleep.
Later, at Archerfield, with everyone seated round the fire, mellow with wine, and Ray returned to Macclesfield, Ian said quietly to Magnus, 'Isobel refused to come tonight. I didn't realise that she was so run down. Why didn't you tell me?'
'I did,' said Magnus. 'I thought I did ...' and crossed his fingers. He would not act as go-between for Ian, who could easily get any girl in the world to fall for him.
Sylvia, in a long dress of green velvet, burst into happy laughter. 'Magnus would have liked Isobel to come. Silly Ian! He'd just love to get Isobel under the mistletoe. Wouldn't you, Magnus?'
They all laughed. Magnus's face burned. He wanted to tell them to stop making sport of him. They saw him as a child, with childish impulses and no desires. One day he'd prove to them just what kind of a man he was. But he made his mouth into a stiff smile and said to Sylvia, 'You were enjoying yourself with Ray under the mistletoe!'
Ray had kissed Sylvia and Rowena. He had even given Mother a gleeful peck on the lips. But to Magnus's alarm. Ray's kiss with Sylvia was the one he'd lingered over. And afterwards it took all Magnus's ingenuity to keep them apart.
Rowena said, 'Well, I didn't enjoy mine. I'd have preferred another glass of wine! And I shall go down to Isobel's house on Boxing Day and tell her she didn't miss a thing.'
The wireless was on and Rowena asked them to be quiet because it was being announced that the Duke of York would be broadcasting the Christmas message to the nation tomorrow. He was shy, inward-looking, the opposite of his brother who had abdicated only two weeks ago. People had talked of little else since. Rowena said, 'Can you turn it up a little? I want to hear the abdication speech again. They're playing it.' Ian obliged and soon they were all quiet, intent on the now familiar words of the young King who could not 'carry the heavy burden of state and discharge my duties as King, as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love'.
Rowena sighed at the end. 'What do you think, Sylvia?'
'I suppose he's doing the honourable thing, marrying Mrs Simpson. His grandfather had a wife for keeping the line going, mistresses for pleasure.' Sylvia looked at her uncle and avoided Magnus's eye as she spoke. 'What do you think, Uncle?'
'Och! He's been spoiled - wasted, we call it in Scotland. He's been given the earth. He's done nothing in return. He should have behaved himself. Set a good example.'
Rowena said, 'What would you have done, Ian?'
Ian said quietly, 'Duty first. I should put it behind me. And I should find some girl perhaps…
Rowena said hotly, 'You wouldn't! Don't quote Rupert Brooke. He's my favourite poet!' She stood up in front of them all and said, 'I'm going to bed. To have a cry!'
Magnus used crutches, not the under-the-armpit ones that the men who'd had amputations used, but short-handled crutches a little thicker and stronger than walking sticks, for getting about on foot. But his life had changed since Father had bought him a motor car. It had given him freedom. Magnus could go wherever he wanted - and the place he wanted to visit most often was Isobel Leigh's, as the shop was known. His darling had gone into a decline since her grandfather died.
Magnus knew instinctively that if he stayed by her, always there for her, one day she would turn to him, in gratitude if not in love, as he was. He always went on a pretext, and he always went at one o'clock, when Miss Duffield had gone home and Isobel was about to prepare a quick lunch. Often he took something to eat - hot pies or cold meat - and he'd bring samples of silk and say, 'I wondered if you'd like to see these swatches of silk, Isobel. If there's anything that takes your fancy, we can let you have some on sale-or-retum.' He said, 'I'd like to show you the mill.’ And on the day she was to see round the mill, he went to the shop at ten o'clock in the morning, saying, 'Are you sure? Do you really want to see over the mill?'
‘You know I do.'
'Don't say anything to Mother.'
She stopped him with a swift lift of her hand. 'I never see your mother. But why should she be kept in the dark? There's nothing to hide!' Then, seeing his hurt expression., 'You invited me, Magnus.'
'Sorry, dah-ling!' He made a face and laughed to disarm her. 'It's just that Mother says, "Why do you see her every day!" She thinks we're courting.'
'Whatever gave her that idea?'
She did not think it funny, and quickly he tried to pretend that it meant nothing. 'Me. I suppose.' He made an apologetic face. 'Coming here for lunch every day, instead of going home.'
'I don't give you the impression that we are courting, do I?'
'Oh! Mother would keep me in a glass case if she could.' He kept on smiling so she shouldn't take it seriously.
'You'll have to assert yourself one day,' she said, though she could not be cross with him for long, for he sang her praises without being too pressing, saying, 'I love coming to see you. You are such a dear, good-hearted girl.'
She said, 'Where do you get your ideas from, Magnus? If only you knew how much ill-will I bear to some people.’
'No you don't. You're speaking to Doreen again. And she's always been beastly to you. Why didn't you tell her to take a running jump?' Magnus said. 'I would have.'
'For a hundred reasons. She's marrying my friend's brother. Her mother and mine were friends, and most of all I can't afford to make enemies.'
Recently Isobel had tried to exercise her will, forcing herself to stop dwelling on misfortunes. The vicar came to see her, to ask her to play the piano for Sunday School and lsobel would hurry back from Lindow at two o'clock on Sundays, looking forward to the afternoons with the little children in Beech Lane School where the classes were held. After a few weeks of enjoyable Sundays she made a bit more effort at the shop.
Then, when she was just picking up, Doreen's wedding invitation arrived: Doreen Millicent Grimshaw, to Cyril Ernest Anderson, at 12 noon on Saturday 3 April at the €hurch of St Michael and All Angels. Reception afterwards at the Macclesfield Arms Hotel will be followed by a supper and dance at the Parish Hall. Doreen wanted her to make the dress and going-away outfit. Her biggest order yet.
Isobel was grateful for Doreen's custom. She was slowly coming out of the depression. She was glad to see Magnus and talk to him because he always offered her encouragement and praise, saying things like, 'I've told Sylvia to come to you for her clothes. But she says you are her best friend, not her dressmaker.'
'I am. Her best friend. Sylvia and I made a pact, when we were babies. To share everything, for ever.' She laughed. 'Especially Nanna.'
Magnus laughed too, 'You don't know the latest. She's got a boyfriend.'
'Sylvia?' Isobel had seen Sylvia only last week.'She never said.'
'It's top secret. But I have a feeling there'll be an announcement.'
'Really, Magnus? Who?'
'I don't know. Something's happened. I think it's someone she's met at these weekend gatherings. I don't go any more.'
'Don't you suspect?'
'No. I thought at one time she was going to get tangled up with someone unsuitable. I wa
s worried.' He laughed. 'This time she's besotted. She's in Edinburgh for a month, pretending to play 'hard to get so he'll miss her so much he'll fall to his knees as soon as she comes home.'
'She'll tell me when I see her,' Isobel said.
'She's spending a fortune on clothes,' Magnus went on. 'And they aren't a patch on your designs.' Then, wistfully, 'You are so clever! You made that beautiful wedding dress for Doreen.'
She had made them all, the wedding dress and Shandy's bridesmaid dress. Doreen's going-away outfits, two the same but in different colours, had been the very devil to make. Doreen had chosen striped silk and a dress pattern that had eight gores in the skirt. She had insisted on the gores being cut on the cross to produce chevrons from the stripes. It made Isobel dizzy matching stripes, making sure they all fell properly and the hems were level.
If only her biggest order had come from anyone else. Doreen was at her worst during her engagement. If she came for a fitting when Shandy was at the shop she was not so outspoken - dared not be, for she was marrying into the up-and-coming Anderson Bakery family but when she and Isobel were alone she was wicked.
While Isobel fitted and pinned, Doreen jabbered away, saying, 'Make it good. We're going to London for the honeymoon. Try that lace on the neck - no, not that! The other stuff.'
It was a real test, of both her skills and her self-control, making these· clothes for Doreen, listening to her and getting satisfaction at seeing how well she looked in them. And putting up with Doreen's foul mouth, having to listen while she revealed such intimate details about Cyril and their courtship as would have made a navvy blush. At her final fitting for the ankle-length wedding dress, that made her appear statuesque, a Greek goddess - for she had a marvellous figure -Doreen ruined the effect as soon as she opened her mouth. 'He's not very experienced. Poor Cyril. Doesn't get me worked up first!' She exploded with laughter, then looked sideways at Isobel. 'Don't suppose you know what I'm talking about, eh?'
Wise Child Page 35