Through Glass Eyes

by Margaret Muir

  The words made Alice boil. What her mother was saying was true. She knew she had done almost nothing recently either inside the house or out, and she felt guilty. But it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t burnt her hands on purpose. She didn’t set the room on fire. She’d only tried to put it out.

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ Alice yelled, ‘I’ll go out and get a job. And I’ll save up and go and live somewhere else, then you can have your fancy man calling on you every day and I won’t have to get out of the house, and you can do what you do with him, whenever you want!’

  Alice ran from the kitchen, through the cottage and out onto the lane, slamming the door behind her.

  From the next cottage Lucy could hear Pansy calling after her, begging her not to go. From the window she saw Timothy running down the hill after his sister, shouting her name.

  But Alice didn’t look around. She just kept on running, her gait stiff and ungainly as the knurled skin at the back of her legs was stretched to the limit.

  Chapter 11

  Bad News

  It was a long and tedious winter, cold and bleak in more ways than one. Lucy missed the warmth which had previously existed between the two families living next door to each other. With Edward and James away, the atmosphere was not what it used to be, and the widening rift between Lucy and Pansy was pulling the two friends apart.

  The month of December 1915 was not an easy month, but for the sake of Alice and little Timmy, Lucy made a special effort. She wrapped presents and made cakes, even helped the children with the decorations. But the sight of the paper chains dangling from the ceiling rekindled memories of the previous Christmas, and when it was time to take the trimmings down Lucy was relieved to pull them from the walls. After screwing the chains into tight balls she pushed them deep into the ashes. The decorations smoked before the flames appeared, but it wasn’t the smoke which made Lucy’s eyes water.

  Alice never mentioned last year’s fire or complained about her burns, even on the days she had to struggle down muddy tracks or through deep snow to get to work. She liked her job at the munitions factory and liked the girls she worked with. Even wearing trousers instead of a skirt was a novelty to her. Wearing the factory uniform made her proud to be contributing to the war effort. But her desire to become a nurse never wavered. It was a matter of waiting until she was old enough to begin her training.

  Lucy missed seeing Alice. Missed the times they had spent together and the conversations they had shared as if they were mother and daughter. Because Alice left for work before dawn and was not home until late, Lucy hardly ever saw her.

  On the days Pansy worked, Lucy minded Timmy. Though he was only four, he was a bright boy and ready for school, but in size he hardly looked it. He was small, delicate and fine-boned like Pansy, but unlike Alice as a child, he never demanded Lucy’s attention and was content to amuse himself.

  When she sat alone at night Lucy would think about James and reread all his letters. Though she valued them and anxiously awaited news, she noticed that recently his tone had changed. The youthful enthusiasm of his earlier letters had disappeared and the grim picture he painted was becoming increasingly depressing. Gazing into the fire, with the bundle of letters on her knee, she tried to image the scenes he described, to picture what the battlefields in France were really like. The bullet-riddled houses blackened and pockmarked like lumps of coke, charred piles of rubble where people once lived, villages razed to ash and cinders, the smell – not of wood-smoke and warmth but of bodies rotting in trenches, and the fields so bombed and burned that not even a single blade of grass remained.

  Lucy shuddered. It was a horrible war and it was showing no signs of stopping. It didn’t end in 1914 as predicted, and 1915 had come and gone and nothing had changed. Now older men were being conscripted to replace the young ones who were being sent home on stretchers, or in boxes, or merely identified as a name on a War Office telegram:

  His Majesty regrets…killed in action…deepest sympathy

  How could James possibly live through it? Survive to the end – whenever that might be? If only he could come home. If only he could be injured – not badly but enough for him to be withdrawn from the front line – not merely to be sent to the field hospital but returned home to England. But it was said, of men brought back, once they had recovered from their injuries they were sent back to fight on the front line. Lucy’s heart ached for them. For their mothers. For James.

  She couldn’t write back. Not immediately. There was nothing positive to write about. She had not heard from Edward and was worried about him, hoping he was all right. She was worried about the trouble Stan Crowther had stirred up between herself and Pansy, and between Alice and her mother. Since her father’s death on the moors, Alice had always been very close to her mother, but now Stanley was demanding all of Pansy’s attention.

  Maybe her negative thoughts were unfounded, Lucy thought. Perhaps Alice’s job in the munitions factory would change her outlook. For the first time she had a little money of her own and she enjoyed mixing with other girls her own age. Occasionally her mother had allowed her to go out dancing and she had met a few nice boys. But they were all very young and none of the boys were interested in courting girls, they were merely biding their time, waiting till they were old enough to go to war.

  On the positive side, Lucy was amazed how much movement and strength Alice had regained in her fingers during the past year. Handling ammunition all week had proved good therapy for her fingers. Lucy was only sorry Sunday afternoon was Alice’s only chance to play the piano, and because her tunes were always bright, and the music cheered them both, she always looked forward to that

  Alice still limped a little on her right leg, but as the months had passed it had become less noticeable. Her hair had grown sufficiently to cover the keloid scarring running from behind her ear. She was thankful her face was not marked and pitied the poor soldiers burned on the battlefield.

  Lucy cut out the red cross from a length of satin ribbon. It was very striking on the bleached apron. The cape she made from a remnant of red velvet and the dress from an old white table cloth. At first, the skirt was too long, falling almost to the doll’s feet, but the miniature nurse’s veil, with a second red cross sewn in the centre, was perfect. Lucy pinned the veil to the doll’s coarse hair so it wouldn’t fall off. Heavily starched, it stood out perfectly at the back.

  ‘About time Constance had a change from that old school tunic,’ Lucy said, handing the doll to Alice. ‘Do you like her nurse’s uniform?’

  ‘You’re so clever,’ Alice said, wrapping her arms around the doll and leaning forward to peck Lucy on the cheek.

  ‘It won’t be long before you have your own uniform,’ Lucy sighed.

  Alice’s eyes glowed with excitement. ‘Only a few months now.’

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ Lucy said, ‘but I know you will make a good nurse.’

  ‘And I will miss you too. Will you write to James and tell him what I am doing? And to Uncle Edward too?’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘And when I’m away, will you take care of Constance for me? After all she was yours in the first place.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lucy, indicating the empty chair near the window. She can sit there, and when you’re gone, when I look at her uniform it will remind me of you.’

  Alice smiled. ‘And will you look after Mum too? She’s not as strong as you and I’m afraid she will get hurt if she’s not careful.’

  Lucy hugged the girl she loved. ‘I promise I will do my best.’

  Stanley Crowther visited Pansy every Saturday and Sunday. He always arrived mid-morning and stayed until after tea. He was also on her doorstep early on the mornings she did not work. Occasionally Lucy saw him outside with Timothy but she hardly ever saw him working. It was hard for her to say nothing, but she made a point of never asking Pansy what Stan was doing there. Pansy in turn never mentioned him. Though they lived in adjoining cottages, the two wome
n, who were once close friends, saw little of each other.

  Sometimes Lucy wondered if she was jealous. Not of Pansy’s relationship with Stan, but of her having a man around the house. It was years since she had enjoyed a man’s company, and her experiences had been both brief and disastrous. She had never considered her friendship with Edward in that regard. He’d always been kind and considerate. Like a father. Never a lover.

  As the months rolled by, Lucy tried to be polite to Stanley, but something about him still rankled her. If they passed on the lane, his tone was brash and cocky, his friendliness affected. Whenever she saw him, he always reminded her of Arthur Mellor. His swagger. The way he turned his head. His false smile. Reminded her how gullible she had been, how vulnerable to his smooth talking and suave mannerisms. Reminded her how she had been used. She hoped Pansy would not suffer a similar fate.

  ‘Can you lend me a few shillings?’ Pansy begged. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks streaked where she had rubbed them with smutty fingers.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘I owe Stan some money and he says he wants it. He’s coming back on Saturday and he says if I don’t have it he’ll find some other way of getting it. Lucy, I know I shouldn’t ask but you’re the only one who can help me.’

  ‘Come in. Sit down. Now tell me, how much do you owe him?’

  ‘He says I owe him fifteen pounds.’

  Lucy’s jaw dropped. ‘How much!’

  ‘Fifteen pounds,’ she said meekly.

  ‘My goodness, Pansy! How on earth can it be so much?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought he visited because he liked me but it seems he’s been keeping a tally book. He’s written down all the times he’s been here, right from the start, and listed all the odd jobs he says he never got paid for. Now he tells me I must have been barmy if I thought he was doing it all for nothing. He says I can well afford to pay him because I ain’t got no rent to pay, and ’cause I got my own wages, and the money Alice has been bringing home since she’s been working on the munitions.’

  ‘Have you got any money put aside?’

  ‘He’s had it all. Every last penny. Always nice-talking me and bringing us rabbits and things. I thought he liked me, Lucy, honest I did.’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘Pansy, I wish you had listened.’

  ‘I knew you would say that,’ she said, screwing her hands together. ‘What do I do, Lucy?’

  ‘Well, you don’t pay him another penny! And next time he comes, tell him you don’t want him stepping over your doorstep ever again.’

  ‘But how can I tell him that. He’s always so nice.’

  ‘Don’t open the door. Keep it shut!’

  ‘But I can’t’

  ‘Well that’s up to you, Pansy Pugh, stop right now, or he’ll be the death of you!’

  Lucy trudged slowly back from the village. It was all uphill and her bag of shopping was heavy. As she turned the corner of the lane she saw Crowther’s old bicycle leaning on the limestone wall by Pansy’s gate. With no sign of the man, it was obvious he had wheedled his way back into the house. Lucy shook her head. There was nothing she could do about it. Pansy had made her bed and now she must lie on it. And, Lucy thought, it was quite likely that Stan Crowther was on it with her at that very moment.

  Before she reached the gate she heard the rumble of a motor bike driving up the hill. Apart from the milk wagon, few vehicles ventured up the lane. When the engine rattled to a stop, Lucy turned. The driver was wearing a postal worker’s uniform. Lifting his goggles to his forehead, he pulled an envelope from the small leather pouch around his waist.

  ‘Mrs Oldfield?’ he enquired.

  Lucy’s heart almost stopped. She knew it was a telegram and a telegram could only mean bad news.

  Chapter 12

  The Legacy

  Without waiting for a reply, the rider touched his cap, smiled sympathetically and pulled the goggles over his eyes. After kicking the machine back into life, he turned the throttle. The engine revved and backfired blasting black smoke from the exhaust pipe. Driving off in a hurry, the back wheel spun in the dirt sending a shower of grit over Lucy’s feet. Within a few seconds, bike and rider had disappeared from view.

  Lucy’s hands were trembling when she walked inside. She didn’t wait to take off her hat and coat before opening the envelope.

  The sheet of paper bore only three lines:

  Sorry to advise Edward Carrington died Thursday

  Funeral Monday

  Wainwright

  As she caught her breath, Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. Fully expecting to read the news that James had been killed, she felt relieved, almost elated, but at the same time she was shocked and confused. Her dearest friend Edward was dead – but how and why? She realized she hadn’t heard from him lately, nor had she written. That made her feel guilty. Perhaps he had been ill for some time and she’d not known about it.

  She wondered if she should attend the funeral but decided against it. It was too late to organize the journey to Tunbridge Wells and besides she had heard the trains were packed with soldiers. After making a drink, she sat down and wrote a long letter to his brother-in-law, Wainwright, expressing her sympathy, telling him how attached she had been to Edward and how much she would miss him. Though she had never met Captain Wainwright, she felt an empathy with him and concluded the letter by asking after his wife, Lydia. She did not expect to get a reply.

  It was not until the following morning Lucy realized the full consequences of Edward’s death. Not only had her source of income come to an end, but her rent-free tenancy at Honeysuckle Cottages was over. She hoped she would be allowed to stay on until the cottages were sold and perhaps even continue as a tenant with the new owner, whoever that may be. If that wasn’t possible, then both she and Pansy would need to find new accommodation, and she would have to find a job so she could afford to pay rent for a house or rooms elsewhere.

  ‘What!’ Stan Crowther yelled. ‘When you said you didn’t pay rent, I thought you owned this house. You never told me some old bloke from the south let you live here for nowt. I’d like to know what you did for him to get that sort of arrangement.’

  Pansy was hurt. ‘It’s not what you think! Edward Carrington was a dear kind man and he was good to Lucy and me.’

  ‘So he had the pair of you, did he?’

  ‘Get out, Stan! Get out of here!’

  ‘I’ll get out if you pay me the money you owe me.’

  ‘I don’t have any money and if I did, I’d not give you a farthing of it!’

  ‘Bugger you!’ he yelled, before banging the door. ‘And bugger you too!’ he shouted, directing his abuse towards Lucy’s cottage. ‘I’ll be back!’ he yelled, from the gate. ‘And I’ll get what you owe me, one way or the other. That’s a promise!’

  ‘What did you say his name was?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Crowther, Stanley Crowther.’

  ‘Not Stanley Green or Stan Blenkinsop? Are you sure it wasn’t either of those names?’

  Lucy and Pansy both shook their heads.

  ‘Well from your description I’m certain it’s the same fella. Bit of no good, he is. Been known for quite some time. Preys on women who live on their own. And with so many men folk away at the war, right now he’s having a birthday.’

  ‘Where does he come from?’ Pansy asked.

  The old constable shrugged his shoulders. ‘Gypsy-type I gather. Has an old caravan somewhere on the moors, though he spends most of his time hanging around the towns. Once he gets a women’s sympathy, he wheedles his way into her life. He sometimes works two or three different houses at the same time. Hangs around one area for a while, usually till he gets found out, then moves on. He’s done the rounds in Halifax and Knaresborough and, before he came here, he was over in Ilkley. I reckon his moral values are lower than a snake’s belly!’

  ‘Is there anything we can do if he comes back?’

  ‘Apart from
kicking him out, I don’t know. I can tell you ladies, we’d love to get our hands on him but somehow he manages to keep himself clean. He sweet-talks his way into free food and lodgings, and somehow picks up enough money to pay for his bets and whisky. What we need is something criminal to pin on him, like if he stole something. Then we’d come down on him like a ton of bricks. Trouble is, he’s as slippery as an eel. But don’t worry, ladies, we’ll get him one of these days.’

  ‘What if he lied at his army medical so he wouldn’t have to be conscripted? Is that criminal?’

  Surprised by her question, Lucy and the constable both looked at Pansy.

  ‘What are you getting at, luv?’

  Pansy spoke cautiously, ‘Well, he told me he failed the army medical.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He told the medical board he couldn’t see, but I know he can hit a rabbit between the eyes across the meadow. And he’s threaded many a needle for me. I’d say Stan Crowther has better eyesight than all of us put together.’

  The constable took her words down in his notepad then flipped it shut.

  ‘Leave it with me, ladies. The right words in the right ears can work wonders. Don’t hold your breath though. Nothing’ll happen immediately, but I’ll guarantee you this, if the army gets their teeth into him, they won’t let go in a hurry!’ The constable winked at the two women. ‘Mr Crowther, cum Green, cum Blenkinsopp, could be in for a rude awakening.’

  The two envelopes in Lucy’s hand looked almost identical. The stationery was the same, as was the handwriting. Both were stamped with the Skipton postmark, but while one was addressed to her, the other bore the title, James Harrington Oldfield Esq. Lucy was puzzled as she examined them. The only two people she knew from the Wharfedale town were Arthur Mellor and the man called Harry Entwhistle, whom she had presumed was Arthur’s father. Surely after twenty-one years neither of those men would be renewing acquaintance with her, especially as in all those years Arthur had never once enquired after his child.