Through Glass Eyes

by Margaret Muir

  ‘I’m looking for my son,’ she said.

  ‘Mind your step,’ he drawled. ‘A lot of rubbish gets thrown around here. Don’t want to fall in!’

  She glanced down at the murky water. It was coal black and still, and smelled foul. It made her stomach churn at the thought of James running along the bank, slipping over and sliding in.

  ‘James!’ she shouted, her voice piercing the night’s silence. A dog barked, barked again then stopped. Lucy picked her way along the bank, stumbling at times over obstacles she couldn’t see, never thinking of her own safety. Then she saw the lock ahead and a dark silhouette sitting astride one of the gates. Her voice faltered. ‘James!’ she cried.

  The boy looked up and raised his hand.

  ‘Thank God!’

  Mr Carrington helped James carry Lucy’s furniture into the middle cottage. It was not an easy job as the passages were narrow and the heavy beams which ran across the ceiling meant there was little headroom. He had said the cottages were old but Lucy had not realized how old.

  Individually, the rooms were smaller than at Loftholme Street, but each cottage had two separate rooms downstairs and a tiny kitchen. Upstairs there were two bedrooms. The windows were quite small but from the back of the house there was a view across the field to the patch of trees in the distance. From the kitchen door a path of broken slate led through the garden to the old iron gate which opened directly to the meadow.

  At Mr Carrington’s suggestion, Lucy moved into the middle cottage. He explained that it would be more convenient for her if she had to run between the two on wet days. Furthermore, he said, the old chestnut tree kept the sun off the end cottage, and, as a consequence, its back bedroom had a smell of dampness about it and was in need of a good airing.

  Despite having the front door wide open while they moved Lucy’s possessions in, the new house was warm. Mr Carrington had lit the fire in both rooms early that morning.

  As the empty wagon rumbled away, he turned to James. ‘Have you ever ridden a horse, lad?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then it’s about time you learnt.’

  James looked across to his mother.

  ‘I like to ride and I enjoy riding with company,’ he said. ‘The countryside round here is ideal, so I have arranged with Mr Fothergill, a local farmer, to lease the meadow at the back. Now all that remains is to purchase a couple of suitable horses and build a stable. Every boy should be able to ride,’ he said. ‘I think I learned to ride before I could walk.’

  Over the next few years James’s education came on by leaps and bounds. Apart from his regular schooling, he learned how to ride and fish. He learned how to trap rabbits, shoot, and cure skins. How to chop wood, dig potatoes and grow beans from seeds. He learned to recognize the song of a willow warbler from a whitethroat and know the difference between a thrush’s egg and that of a chaffinch. He learned how to identify a peacock butterfly from a painted lady, and learned the names of all the wild flowers which grew in the meadow. Mr Carrington was a walking encyclopaedia. The stories he told, of life in India and of his travels across the world, mesmerized James.

  ‘When I am old enough I will join the horse-guards and go to India,’ James often said, while Lucy would sit back with her knitting and listen to the pair talking late into the evenings.

  From the day she moved into the cottage, when he first insisted she call him Edward, Mr Carrington was not like an employer. Though she prepared his meals and cleaned his cottage, and received a wage in return, for Lucy it was not like a job. She treated Edward as if he were an older relative who needed a little special care.

  The more she came to know him and understand his ways, the harder it was for her to believe he had come from a disciplined army family. He was the most undemanding and patient man she had ever known, and despite their growing companionship he was always the perfect gentleman. He never forced himself on Lucy and James when he felt they did not need his company. Nor did he outstay his welcome when he was invited to share a meal or an evening with them.

  James on the other hand was forever running to Edward’s cottage, never knocking but bursting through the front door full of excitement, behaving as though the house was his own. Though Lucy reprimanded him, Edward assured her he was no trouble. And one morning when they were alone, he admitted how much he enjoyed having the boy around. He said, for him, James was the son he had never had and from the first day, the pair thrived on each other’s company.

  A telegram delivered one afternoon upset Edward. It was dated 10 August 1910 and read:

  Sorry to advise – Lydia very ill.

  Come immediately if possible.

  Wainwright – Bombay

  Chapter 6

  The Accident

  ‘Sit down for a moment, would you?’ Edward’s tone was serious.

  Lucy put down her duster. ‘What is it, Edward? Are you worried about your sister?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But not only that.’

  Lucy waited for him to speak.

  ‘You have been good to me, Lucy,’ he said slowly. ‘It is strange how one changes as one gets older.’ He paused. ‘I love my sister Lydia, but we have lived apart for many years, and though she is my own flesh and blood, over the last five years I have come to regard you and James as my family.’ He continued, before she could interrupt. ‘It is my duty to go to India. And I will be obliged to stay for however long it is necessary. The problem is, I don’t want to leave here, or leave you and James.’

  ‘But we will be here when you get back. You must not worry.’

  ‘But I do worry. I worry about the journey – it is long and can be hazardous. I worry about the situation in India. The country has changed since I was a boy. I worry about the growing unrest in Europe, and the riots in the Home Counties with the suffragette movement. And I worry about leaving you alone.’

  ‘James will care for me,’ Lucy said. ‘You have taught him so much and he is capable and strong.’

  ‘You are a good woman, Lucy, and a good mother.’ He paused. ‘I remember the first time I saw you on the Skipton train, how attractive you looked. But you also looked a little lost, which was the way I was also feeling at that time.’

  ‘Edward, you’ve never told me that before.’

  He smiled. ‘It’s true.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Before I leave for India, there are things we must speak of.’ He took out his pocket book and flipped through his notes. ‘Firstly,’ he said. ‘I will arrange for your wages to be paid into a bank account. Do you already have one?’

  ‘No, but I have a little money put away in a tin.’

  ‘Then I suggest you secure it in the bank. If you will accompany me to Leeds next week I will assist you in opening an account in your name.’

  ‘But I will not be working for you while you are away.’

  ‘No, buts, please. Let me continue. Secondly, I intend to set aside some money to help with James’s education. He is progressing well and I hope eventually he will go to the university. He has the brain for it.’

  ‘But that is several years away!’ The colour drained from Lucy’s cheeks. ‘Edward, you are speaking as though you have no intention of coming back.’

  He touched her hand. ‘I like to be prepared for all eventualities. Don’t worry, Lucy, the booking I have is for a return journey even though I can’t be certain when I will be returning.

  ‘Now, there is another matter I would ask you to consider. You don’t have to answer immediately.’ He looked directly at her, when he spoke. ‘Would you like to sail to India and visit me when I am there? If the answer is yes, I will arrange tickets for you both. It would be a wonderful experience for the boy.’

  ‘Edward, that is very generous, but it is too much to offer. You are going because you are duty bound, but at this time I feel we should stay here. James has school and I have the cottages and gardens to care for.’

  He stared down at the book in his hands.

  ‘Perhaps,’
she suggested, ‘if you go again, then we could accompany you. I would not like to travel alone.’

  ‘Yes! A splendid idea. We will do that.’ He folded his pocket book and laid it on the chair arm. ‘There is one more thing. How old are you, Lucy?’

  It was a strange question.

  ‘I was thirty-five on my last birthday.’

  ‘As I thought. And I will be sixty while I am away. A considerable difference, is it not?’ he said. ‘After caring for me for five years, I think you know me as well as anyone has ever done. But what I ask is that while I am away you consider the idea of becoming my wife.’

  ‘Edward?’

  ‘I will say no more about it and I do not want your answer until I return. Now,’ he said. ‘I shall need help with my clothes for the tropics. They are packed away and will require airing. Until I get news of the sailing date I can’t be sure when I will be leaving, but I would like to be prepared. Will you see to that for me?’

  Lucy squeezed his hand. ‘Of course, Edward.’

  Less than two weeks later, Lucy and James waved Edward goodbye from Leeds station. As the guard waved his flag, Edward lowered the compartment window and leaned out.

  ‘A safe journey,’ Lucy shouted, when the train jerked forward.

  James trotted alongside the compartment, until he reached the end of the platform. As the engine clattered across the points and the train slowly turned away, the hand waving the white handkerchief disappeared from view.

  The station was smoky and cold. Outside in the centre of the city’s square the sun glinted on the huge bronze statue of a black-clad knight mounted on a prancing steed.

  ‘The Black Prince,’ said Lucy. ‘His name was Edward also.’

  ‘Was he a king?’

  ‘No, but he was a great horseman and leader.’

  ‘One day I will be like him’ James said.

  Lucy did not reply.

  It had been pouring for more than three hours. At times the rain, pelting against the kitchen window, sounded like tiny stones. The lane had become a river and a tributary was pouring under the gate into the front garden. A large pool had formed outside the front door and water was beginning to seep into the hallway.

  Lucy was worried. James often rode for several hours on Sunday mornings but he was always back well before it was time to sit down for dinner. It was over an hour since she had taken the roast out of the oven and now it was almost cold.

  The sound she heard was his boot thumping against the kitchen door. ‘Mum! Quick! I need help!’

  Alarmed, Lucy opened the door to find James standing in the rain, shivering violently. His hair was stuck to his face and neck, his shirt sopping wet and in his arms, he was cradling a child. She was wrapped in his overcoat.

  ‘Goodness, James. What happened?’

  Carrying the young girl into the living-room, he set her down on the sofa. ‘Take care of her, Mum. I must get some help.’

  ‘But what happened? Where did you find her?’

  ‘On the moors. A wagon had turned over. Lost its wheel. The driver was killed – crushed underneath it. I didn’t see the child at first. She was cowering in the heather, wet through and freezing cold. At first, I couldn’t make her understand me. I don’t think she is injured but she wouldn’t speak.’ He turned to the door. ‘I must get some help and go back. There may be someone else out there. I’ll take Edward’s horse.’

  ‘But you’re soaked to the skin! At least dry yourself.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. But I’ll take my coat.’

  Lucy slid it gently from around the child whose eyes were open but staring blankly ahead.

  ‘Be careful,’ Lucy said, helping him into his wet overcoat.

  ‘I will.’

  As soon as he left, Lucy dried the girl’s face and hair. But her clothes were soaking wet. After wrapping her in a blanket, she filled the hot-water bottle and laid it carefully between the covers. Pushing the sofa closer to the fire, she added some wood.

  With difficulty Lucy coaxed the girl to drink a little of the sweet tea she had brewed. ‘What’s your name?’ she whispered, but the girl did not answer. Her hands were clasped tightly together, the knuckles squeezed hard against her cheeks. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Lucy stroked her wet hair and hummed the nursery rhymes she used to sing to James. It was not many minutes before the drooping eyes closed and Lucy felt confident to leave her alone, just long enough to search for something suitable to dress her in.

  Hurrying up the stairs, she remembered the calico bag in the bottom of the wardrobe. It was full of linen and old clothes, including the nightshirts James had grown out of. One of the smaller ones would fit the child. Reaching in, she found an old cardigan. It had shrunk and no longer fitted her. There were woollen socks too which were also too small.

  Humming softly and without waking her, Lucy slipped off the girls’ wet clothes and pulled the nightshirt over her head. The cardigan sleeves were far too long so she rolled them over several times. Lucy estimated the girl was the size of one of Sally Swales’ daughters – about nine years old.

  It was after six when Lucy heard sounds from the lane. From the front door she could see her son and at least four other men with horses. The rain had stopped, but water was still streaming into the garden. James invited one of the men into the living room. ‘Mum, this is Sergeant Wilkey.’

  The man tipped his hand to his wet hair and leaned over the little girl. ‘How is she, Missus?’

  ‘She’s sleeping,’ Lucy whispered. ‘She drank a little tea and warm milk, but she won’t eat anything.’

  ‘Has she said anything to you? We have to know where she came from.’

  ‘She hasn’t spoken.’

  He turned to James. ‘And you say she didn’t speak to you either?’

  ‘Never uttered a sound.’

  ‘Can you keep her here tonight, Missus? Just until we find who she belongs to.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lucy turned to James. ‘Did you say her father was dead?’

  The sergeant answered. ‘There was a man’s body under the wagon. But we can’t be sure it’s the little lass’s dad. Even if he is, they must have other folk somewhere and before long they will be out looking for them. Until that happens I shall have to notify the authorities and the girl may have to be taken into care.’

  ‘She can stay here,’ Lucy said defensively, recalling stories she had heard of the orphans’ asylums. ‘You can’t move her now. I’ll look after her.’

  The sergeant sounded relieved. ‘Right then! We’ll leave her where she is till the morning. Let her have a good sleep. As for myself, it’s been a long day and I’ve got to get that body down to the morgue.’ As he turned to go, he took James’s hand and shook it. ‘You did a good job, young fella. If you hadn’t come across them when you did, I reckon we’d have had two bodies by the morning.’

  Lucy followed them to the door.

  ‘If you have any problems with the lass, your son knows where to find me.’

  James watched the men ride away before walking the horse to the back of the cottages and the stable he had helped Edward build. By the time he came in he was tired but had no appetite for food. At Lucy’s insistence, he swallowed one slice of meat, ate a cold potato, and drank a cup of cocoa, before going to bed.

  The little girl asleep on the sofa looked pale and delicate. Seeing her lying there reminded Lucy of Miss Beatrice, the delicate child in the four-poster bed at Heaton Hall. She reminded her of the expensive French doll which had once rested in the crook of a little girl’s arm. The expensive doll she had stolen. The same doll she had forgotten about since she had moved to Horsforth. It had been packed away for more than five years but it was about time it was brought out and put to good use.

  Chapter 7

  Constance

  Working by the window in the dim light of early dawn, Lucy busily stitched the pieces of cloth together. She had cut the doll’s blouse from a piece of white cotton sheeting she had put aside for
patches, and the tunic from an old twill skirt. The cloth was coarse, rusty brown in colour and faded in parts and it was not exactly the material she would have wished to make a doll’s school dress from. But it would suffice. After cutting a length of yellow ribbon to serve as a sash, Lucy was satisfied with the result. All that remained was to gather the stitches around the cuffs and sew a hem around the bottom of the skirt. The doll’s lace socks and buckled shoes were the ones it had been wearing when she had taken it from the Hall but they were still satisfactory.

  When Lucy threaded another length of cotton, she realized the girl had woken and was watching her work. ‘Would you mind helping me?’ she asked.

  Sitting up, the girl nodded and held out her hands. Lucy kneeled down beside her and placed the doll into her lap. ‘There,’ she said, carefully slipping the blouse and school dress over its head. Then she slid the sash around the doll’s waist and tied a neat bow at the back. Picking up the lengths of cotton around the doll’s wrists, she gathered them in tightly and fastened them off.

  James stopped at the bottom of the steps. ‘I see you have a helper.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lucy. ‘We will be finished in a moment.’

  The girl watched intently as Lucy ran a line of stitches around the hem. When that was done, the school tunic was complete.

  ‘Now I will make some breakfast,’ Lucy said.

  Crouching down beside the girl, James took hold of the doll’s right hand. ‘And what is your name?’ he said, addressing the wistful smile on the porcelain face.

  The girl replied in a whisper, ‘Constance.’

  Glancing across to his mother, James winked. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Constance,’ he said, shaking the doll’s hand graciously. Then he turned his eyes to the little girl. ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Alice,’ she whispered.

  ‘Hello, Alice. My name is James.’

  ‘James,’ she repeated.