'I think you're right.' Isobel was glad that at last they were becoming companionable and settled with one another. 'I remember thinking, in Scotland, that for the first time in my life nobody probed my background. Nobody asked who my father was.' She stopped abruptly. She had said too much. Grandma could have come back with, 'And who was your father?'
But Grandma laughed. 'There's an old saying in Scotland which we use if someone is getting too big for his boots.'
'A man's man, for a'that?' Isobel suggested.
'No. We say, "Aye! I kent his faither!'" She looked at Isobel's puzzled face and translated… 'I knew his father.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning, "I know who you are. You will never be other than your father's child."
It was perhaps an innocent little observation. It may have been tactless. But the relaxed feeling that had come to Isobel seconds ago was gone. Her nerves were on a knife's edge. She jumped to her feet, threw the glass of sherry through the open door on to the grass and turned an angry face on her mother-in-law. 'And what about me? What about Bobby? I never knew my father. Bobby will never know his. Where does that put us on your scale of values? Are we nobodies -because we don't have fathers?'
The telephone started to ring, but before Grandma could go to pick it up or answer, Isobel stormed out, through the garden, down the path, hurrying to get away from her and all of the self-satisfied people at Archerfield. She ran as fast as she could, heading for the hills and a breath of clean, fresh air.
She was wearing only sandals and a print frock, but she would not go back to change. The heather would scratch her bare legs and she had no cardigan in case it went chilly, but on and on she went until, out of breath, out of practice and out of temper she reached the top of Kerridge Hill.
Below, all of Bollington lay dreaming in the heat. There were no signs of war from here. Few people walked in the hills these days, with the men gone and the constant need to be near to shelter.
She had calmed down. She wished she hadn't made that outburst. Grandma hadn't meant to be hurtful. She was tactless and domineering but she had no ill-will towards Isobel. They all lived on their nerves, waiting for the next disaster to strike, waiting to hear what had happened to the men.
There had been no bombing raids for a week and everyone wondered if it could possibly be true that the tide of war was about to turn. A few days ago news had come through that Hitler had broken his pact with Stalin. He had turned on Russia. A hundred German divisions had smashed through the eighteen-hundred-mile border from the Arctic Circle to· the Black Sea.
Ray was safe. He had telephoned Sylvia only last night. But Isobel had not heard from Ian, and since Nanna died she had not been to church. But she prayed, on that warm hilltop, 'Please God. Keep Ian safe ... Please God. Keep Ian safe ... Please God. Keep Ian safe ...' over and over. She didn't need to embellish it or promise anything in return. Ian's ship - a county cruiser whose name she dared not mention had been sent from the North Atlantic, with about a hundred others, to hunt and sink the Bismarck.
Now, the Bismarck - the unsinkable - was lying at the bottom of the Atlantic and they had heard no news of home losses. There was no news of which ships were damaged and returning home, how many men were dead.
It was one o'clock. Isobel had time to walk over the hills towards the pine woods and Rainow. There was a taxicab climbing the hill below her, clanking its gears, disturbing the quiet. She got to her feet and started to walk over the Saddle on her favourite route.
She had been walking for half an hour and was nearing the pine woods when she stopped to take the kirby grips out of her hair. She was warm and it would cool her to let her hair out of the confines of the roll she wore it in. She had shaken her dark hair out and put the precious kirby grips into her pocket when she heard, 'Isobel ...! lsobel ...!'
For a terrible moment she thought she was having hallucinations -hearing voices from above. She was rooted to the spot. She dared not tum. Then it came, louder and clearer, 'Isobel! Wait for me, Isobel!'
She wheeled round and saw him, running towards her, his naval uniform jacket flying open, his white cap in his hand. 'Isobel ...!'
Then they were in each other's arms. Ian had his arms tight about her and their mouths were locked together in the kisses that made her faint with relief and love and the sweetness of his need of her.
He stopped for breath, laughed and took her by the hand. 'Marry me?' was all he said as they ran towards the pine woods.
'Yes, Oh yes,' she said. And they were running deeper into the woods, into a little sheltered hollow where their canopy was a leafy green tracery against the blue of the sky and the ground below, the flattened brown bracken, dappled in sun and shade.
They dropped to their knees and held one another close, out of sight of the world, and unseen but seeing he said again, 'Will you marry me?’
'Oh, yes. I wrote to you and ...'
Isobel got no further, for his mouth was on hers again and he was struggling out of his jacket and putting it aside.
Then he stopped kissing her and held her a little way from himself and feasted his eyes on her. Then he put his hands on her breasts and pushed her away a little way.
Smiling at her said, 'Do you want me to,...?'
'Yes.' Isobel laughed a little before she kissed him on the mouth, the eyes, the neck.
'Tomorrow ...' he said when she stopped for breath.
'What? What tomorrow ...?'
'I bought a special licence. We're catching the early train to Edinburgh tomorrow ...'
Isobel pressed her mouth over his again and he was laughing when she came up for air. He said, 'We're getting married at four o'clock on Tuesday. Rowena and her fiancee will be there. That's all.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Macclesfield Arms Hotel, 1948
Last night I dreamed that Ian made love to me. It is a recurrent dream and the act of love is incomplete, as I am without him. The dream began with his calling to me from a far, far distance. 'Isobel ... Isobel ... Isobel Leigh!' He came striding across the saddle of Kerridge Hill, wearing the cord trousers and Fair Isle pullover he wore when he first kissed me.
I ran to him and we clung together for a moment before we sank to our knees on the grass in a passionate embrace, with his declaration of love whispering in the soft heather- scented wind that played across our swaying bodies. 'I love you ... I love you, Isobel.'
I knew from the start that I was dreaming. I always know. I tell myself with my conscious mind when I am in the half-asleep state that is the dream's precursor, 'Stop this dream. There is no need to dream. Ian is your husband. Your past is done.'
But the subconscious always triumphs and I am back in my dream to the time when I was Our Lil, the girl who had only a Mam, trying to re-create myself as one of that breed of strong, unassailable north-country women who would never be bested or demeaned. But I needed a father for that creation. I had always needed a father to complete my dream. And I believed that I had never known my father. Such were my waking thoughts as I lay, half dreaming, in my bed at the Macclesfield Arms Hotel at the posh end of Jordangate, watching the breakfast maid pulling back the curtains.
'Mornin’ Mrs Mackenzie’ she said as she crossed the room to place the breakfast trolley at my bedside. 'It's a lovely day,' and quickly she followed the observation with another, with true Macclesfield directness.
'How long are you stopping?'
'Another day, at least.'
When she left I got out of bed and went to the window to look at the hills beyond the District Bank and, craning my neck, at our old shop. And a little voice inside my head repeated, 'You belong to Macclesfield. This old town is where your heart lives. Don't be influenced by a chance glimpse of Doreen yesterday. If you return, Doreen will have no part to play in your life.'
I had a good life; the life of a doctor's wife in Edinburgh. The voice said, 'All that can change. The choice is yours.'
I sat at the breakfast trolley and p
oured a cup of tea. Tomorrow Ian and Bobby would arrive at the station. Mam, who lived with us in Edinburgh, had refused to come with them, saying she was afraid to return. She said, 'I can't go back to visit. Too much of my life has been spent there. I miss it. I'm homesick. I want my old life back.' Her lovely face had been clouded.
I replied, 'I wouldn't stop you, Mam. But what is there in Macclesfield for you now? My stepfather is dead. Nanna is dead. There’s nobody left.'
Mam had put an arm about Bobby and my son pressed himself against his beloved grandmother's skirt. Bobby was as devoted to Mam as I had been to my Nanna. Mam said, 'I can't leave you. But I feel as if there's a part of me that's been torn out.'
I laughed and said, 'Your heart?' then wished I hadn't, because I saw the yearning for something or someone in Mam's eyes. So I said with brisk practicality, 'I haven't ruled it out. But you can always change your mind.'
'I can't .. .' she said, as if a decision she once made had come home to haunt her.
'Mam!' I said, 'You have nobody left in Macclesfield. Your family is here. And we want you to stay with us.' But Mam had the haunted look when she waved me off.
The Macclesfield Arms faces the District Bank and I could see two clerks arriving for work. Magnus's father would be passing under my window soon, if he still worked at the bank on Fridays.
I buttered a piece of toast and went back to the window. On Monday Ian would have his interview at the new hospital that once was the Macclesfield Institute of Guardians; the workhouse. The National Health Service was crying out for doctors all over the country. Ian was certain to be offered a post and I had until Monday or Tuesday to decide whether our home was to be Edinburgh or Macclesfield.
Four days. And the decision was mine.
When I had eaten breakfast I had a bath, brushed my curly hair as Nanna used to do until it waved and loosened so I could fasten it in a chignon at the back of my head. Then I dressed, as yesterday, in the Parisian tangerine suit. I put on sheer nylon stockings that had a thin black seam and slipped on the black patent high-heeled shoes and finally pinned a black pill-box hat on top of my head, high and tall.
I liked what I saw in the long mirror when I was ready. I looked a picture of confidence and competence so why did I have this feeling that I was still the little girl everyone in Macclesfield knew as Our Lil, the girl with no name, no father and no place in this ancient order?
I picked up my handbag and at ten thirty left the hotel and crossed the road to the District Bank. The banking hall was busy with company clerks withdrawing wages cash, as I used to do when I worked at Hammond Silks. I had not made an appointment, so I waited until the chief cashier looked up and recognised me, left his place and went through the door marked 'Mr John Hammond'.
The door opened and Pop came out, his eyes alight with welcome, his beautiful voice soothing. He took my arm and led me into the office. 'I had no idea ... When did you arrive?'
'Yesterday. I have some things to attend to in Macclesfield. Ian and Bobby are not coming until tomorrow so we’ll all come up to Archerfield and stay with you and Grandma. How is she?'
His lovely face broke into a smile, though he said, 'We have missed you. We miss Bobby dreadfully. Grandma hasn't been the same since he went.'
'Pop!' I said quickly. 'I went to the Town Hall yesterday. They want to pull down the Bollinbrook Road house. They are going to build an estate of new houses there. We've agreed a price, though we have no choice, really. They offered five hundred. So we will sell.'
'You want the deeds?'
'Yes. I want to take everything out of my safe deposit box. The deeds to Lindow as well. There's a lot to do. The tenant isn't satisfactory …' He looked sad as I added, 'We may sell Lindow.'
'Your mother? Doesn't she want to come back to us?'
'Not unless I come home.'
I had said it. Home. It was not what I meant. I must keep my head, not be swayed by sentiment.
'How is Bobby?' Pop said.
Trying to be calm and practical and do what was right for us all I smiled and said, 'Splendid. He misses you. He's been very excited knowing he'll be seeing Pop and Grandma - and his cousin Judy. How's Sylvia?'
Sylvia had given birth in 1941, to a healthy daughter. I said, 'And how's the mill?'
'Sylvia is well. The mill isn't working to capacity. Nowhere near. It would be sensible to join forces with Chancellor's. Ray could take over Hammond Silks. That’s if you were agreeable,' he said. I still had a casting vote in the future of Hammond Silks, because it would one day be Bobby's. He said, 'We will have to have a family conference. You will represent Bobby's interests, of course.'
‘What are the options?'
'We have two choices. British Nylon Spinners want to buy us out. Or we join forces with Chancellor's Printworks.'
'Oh.' My mouth went tight at the corners as an obstinate frown crossed my brow. 'Magnus wouldn't have wanted that.'
'He might have changed his mind, Isobel, if he'd seen how hard Ray works. He's made a great success of Chancellor's.'
'I don't want Ray to be in charge of Bobby's inheritance.'
He looked baffled. 'You have always had a grasp of financial matters, Isobel,' he began, 'I know that you and Ray don't see eye to eye..'
'It's not just that, Pop,' I protested.
He waved my objection aside and said gravely, 'I want you to look at it differently. Put your prejudices aside and ask yourself, "What if Bobby had been a Chancellor?'"
Heat came flooding into my face. I can still blush if I think anyone has the tiniest inkling of my past. Pop didn't notice. He said, 'I want you to ask yourself something, my dear. Ask, "What if Sylvia had given birth to Bobby and Magnus had fathered a daughter?'" He smiled a little sad smile and said, 'If that had been so, the child who inherited Hammond Silks would be a Chancellor.'
I had not thought of it that way. Iron-willed, I had forced it out of my mind, and it was easy to do being far away from Macclesfield. But here and now I had to ask myself whether it was right that Bobby would grow up knowing little about his Macclesfield inheritance. Bobby had relatives here: Pop and Grandma, Sylvia and her child. Mam and I had nobody left in Macclesfield - not a relative in the world. All I had was the old unsatisfied curiosity, the question that had plagued me for half of my life. Is the father I never knew dead? I don't think I could bear to live here again, knowing that my real true father· was alive and had no interest in me. But I said to Pop, 'I'll talk it over with Ian.'
Pop said, 'There's no immediate hurry. Come along. I'll take you down to the vaults.'
He took a great bunch of keys from the desk and led me through the offices to the back of the bank. He opened an iron grille and went ahead, down a wide flight of stone stairs, through another set of locked iron gates and into a big, barrel-vaulted cellar room that was brightly lit. Along one long wall were the steel boxes of the safe deposit customers. Mine, I saw, was marked 'Stanway/Leigh'.
I looked around while Pop tried to find the right key. On the other walls were narrow shelves with little date labels in the manner of 'January 1910 to July 1910' and so on. On these shelves were bundles of cheques and credit slips, wrapped round loosely with split-open brown envelopes that were sealed with red wax. And on each open-ended parcel was written the day's date, clearly and in sequence.
'What are these?' I asked Pop.
'Each one is a whole day's work - in alphabetical order. We seal the day's clearing, as we call it, every day, and store it down here.'
'Do you keep everything?' I asked. 'And how long do you have to keep them? Some of the bundles are very small.'
He laughed. 'We keep them for ever. We never destroy them. We often have to refer to them. If a customer wants to know whether or not a cheque was cashed ...'
It cameto me then that I could discover whether St Ursula's school did cash the cheque for my last term's fees. The school had never re-imbursed me and it had rankled, over the years.
Pop was trying key after ke
y in my box and having no luck. He said, 'Dash it. I've brought the wrong keys.' He was getting cross. ‘Everything is changing. The new general manager wants to restrict my powers ...'
I said, 'I'll wait here. Would it be all right for me to look something up?'
'I'm afraid not. It’s confidential. You see, you'd have access to information on other customers.'
'How long does it take for a cheque to return to the drawer's bank?' I asked, as if I had only an idle intrest.
'Three days,' he said, and left me to wander along the shelves while he, becoming more and more exasperated, tried key after key.
It wouldn't take a minute to slip a day's business out of those loose paper covers. The cheque had been a large one not the little personal cheques that individuals used. I could see that there were very few large cheques inside each parcel.
Pop rattled the bunch of keys. 'I think I've gone through the whole lot. I'm back to the first one again. Will you wait here? I'll go and ask one of the clerks to find the right bunch.'
'That's all right,' I said, and watched him go up the long flight of stairs. He was old now, and much slower.
As soon as he was out of sight, I pounced on the bundle I thought it might be - the one dated three days after I left St Ursula's. I slipped off the brown cover and riffled through, stopping only at the large cheques. But it was not there. There were no large cheques in the next one and I put it back. Then I took down the bundle that was dated five days after I was called home to Mam's hospital bedside.
And the very first large cheque I came to was made out to St Ursula's School. Blood rushed to my face. It was signed 'Francis Chancellor.'
It was common practice in the old days to give money to someone and ask them to write a cheque for you if you had no bank account. Mam used to ask Pop – Mr Hammond –to take out cheques for her on Fridays. Pop not Mr Chancellor. And when I was sent to St. Ursula's Mam had had a bank account. She wrote cheques on her account. My face stiffened as I asked myself, Why would Frank Chancellor have paid my school fees? I must stop thinking like this. I tried to divide my mind…to resist the thought…but even as I put up objections, all the pieces were falling into place as fast as my divided mind tried to control them …
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