by Dominic Luke
The dad who was dead, thought Dorothea, remembering everything that she had learned from Nora about the Carters. Their mother had died too, and now their home was gone. The fire had left behind such a wretched muddle, as tawdry as her hat.
‘Don’t you worry about us, miss,’ said Nibs, scowling at her as if he could read her mind. ‘We’ll be all right. But I just wanted to…. Well, to thank you, for all you did, and for helping out and that, and for binding my hand. It was … was good of you.’
‘You’re very welcome—’ Dorothea began fervently, but she had barely got the first words out before Nibs had gone.
A moment later Roderick came nosing into the day room, suspicious. ‘Who was here? I heard voices.’
‘No one,’ said Dorothea. And it felt almost like the truth, for Nibs had looked – and sounded – like a ghost of his former self. Or had there been, perhaps, a hint, a spark, something of his old touchiness? It seemed almost appealing now.
‘You’re lying,’ Roderick accused her. ‘It wasn’t no one. It was Nibs Carter. I’d know his stupid voice anywhere. What do you want with Nibs Carter?’
‘Nothing. It’s none of your business.’
‘You shouldn’t talk to him. He’s a rat.’
‘Why don’t you leave him alone? What’s he ever done to you?’
‘What’s he done? I’ll tell you what he’s done! He spooked my pony, for a start, so that I fell off and cracked my head open. And then, after I’d caught him by the canal and knocked him down for the swine that he is, he got his ratty friends together and they ambushed me in the Spinney and beat me black and blue. So after that I—’
‘You’re as bad as each other!’ cried Dorothea. ‘You want your heads knocking together!’
‘Well, I like that! Me, as bad as Nibs Carter! Of all the cheek! You’ve changed your tune, I must say. You used to say he was—’
‘Oh, stop it, Roddy, just stop it!’ She couldn’t explain why her feelings had changed towards Nibs – why her feelings had changed altogether since yesterday; nor would Roderick have listen if she had tried. ‘You’re worse than Nibs, Roderick Brannan, because you ought to know better, only you don’t!’
She ran out of the day room and into her own room, slamming the door. As she threw herself onto the bed she found she was sobbing. All of the peace she had discovered earlier that morning was gone. All the horrors of her dreams were back. And worse, too, because even her dreams hadn’t been as bad as the real thing, the raging fire, the suffocating smoke – not to mention Pippa’s unearthly screams as she writhed in agony in the dirt and the dark and the wet. There was the baby, too – that slimy little bundle. Dorothea felt sorry for it and repelled by it at the same time – the way it had been disgorged onto the rotting leaves as casually as one would empty the lees from a tea pot. A baby was nothing, tipped out into the world to live or die as chance decreed. And at any moment its parents might be snatched away or its house might burn down or it might be left – abandoned – at some stranger’s home, unwanted, alone.
‘Now then, miss, what’s all this?’ Nora was suddenly there, gathering her up, and Dorothea put her arms round her and sobbed into her pinafore, and never mind the responsibility and prestige of being eleven. ‘There, there! Don’t take on so! It can’t be as bad as all that, surely? Master Roderick said as I should come and find you, he said you might be upset, but I never expected you to be in a state like this! Come on now. Dry your eyes. The doctor’s here to see you – to look you over after yesterday. I’ll just put the brush through your hair and straighten your frock, and then we’ll let him in, shall we?’
Dorothea nodded glumly but nothing seemed to matter just then, not even a visit from Dr Camborne. But as Nora made her presentable before going to fetch the doctor, Dorothea suddenly thought of Nibs Carter coming all the way from the village to bring her hat. And fancy Roderick noticing that she was upset, let alone sending Nora to look for her! How strange, she thought. How odd. Could it be that Nora was right? Could it be that things weren’t quite a black as she’d imagined?
Uncle Albert came to see her once the doctor had gone.
‘Ah, here you are, child. In bed, I see.’
‘Dr Camborne said I should rest.’
‘Quite right, quite right. He said the same to me. We had quite an experience yesterday, didn’t we, eh?’ The mattress sagged as Uncle Albert sat down. ‘I’m to stay home for a week, no work allowed. Lot of nonsense, if you ask me, but Ellie insists I do as I’m told. Anyone would think I’d been ill! I was a bit short of breath, that was all! Ah well. You know what doctors are like. They know best. They think they know best.’ He gave a snort, as if he didn’t hold a high opinion of doctors. ‘I’m sure I’ll find lots to keep me occupied while I’m on leave. Thought I might write to that chap on the train, the one who’s designed a new sort of autocar. Chaps like that – the go-getters – should be given every encouragement. It’s good to have ambition. It was the making of me. Where’d I be now if I’d simply stuck with my father’s watch-making business? When I took up bicycles they said I’d never make a go of it, said I was barking up the wrong tree. Proved them wrong there, didn’t I, eh? It’s all bicycles in Coventry now. Watches have gone by the board.’ He glanced down at her, smoothing his moustache. ‘You’re very quiet today, child. That fire took the wind out of both our sails, eh? But you showed a lot of pluck, a lot of pluck. Take after your mother, I daresay. But tell me … what are you worrying about in that pretty little head of yours, eh, eh?’
Greatly daring, Dorothea reached out and took his hand as it lay on the coverlet. Her fingers seemed very small and thin compared to his but he squeezed her hand and smiled at her from behind his moustache, and she felt at that moment that she could tell him anything.
‘Uncle…?’
‘Yes child? What is it?’
But there was too much in her head to tell him even half of it. All she could find words for was the fate of the Carters, who’d lost their home and were scattered across the village.
Uncle Albert didn’t hum and haw as she might have expected. He didn’t change the subject or say that the Carters ought to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. The fire had changed Uncle Albert too, it seemed.
‘Don’t go upsetting yourself, child. These things have a habit of working out for the best. You’ll see.’
‘But I won’t see, Uncle, because I never go to the village, never, and I’d so like to! Nora said I can go to tea with her anytime, but Nanny says—’
‘Oh, well, Nanny.’ Uncle Albert snorted again as if he had a similar opinion of Nanny to that he had of doctors. ‘Nanny is not your keeper, child. You go to the village if you want. I don’t hold with all this mollycoddling and wrapping in cotton wool. I used to play in the street all the time when I was your age.’ He stood up, stretched, caught sight of her hat as he did so. ‘What’s this? Not much good for anything now, is it, eh? We’ll have to see about getting you a new one. Oh, and before I forget, you left this in Fitzwilliam’s motor contraption yesterday.’ He handed her a box, smiled, nodded – nodded as if, unlike Nanny and doctors, she was someone of whom he did approve.
When he’d gone she looked at the box he had given her and realized it was the toy soldiers she’d bought in Lawham the day before. It seemed an age ago now. She thought of the money she’d spent on them and the money she had left and wished she could give it all to the Carters who needed it – who deserved it. But would Nibs have taken it if she’d offered? Or would he have turned up his nose and called it charity, the way some people did? She rather thought that he would have.
She sighed, remembering how she’d come by her riches, her half-sovereign. It had been entirely out of the blue. She’d been on her way back from her afternoon walk with the governess. An ancient man, wrinkled and bent over, had been descending the front steps shadowed by two tall attendants in splendid livery. The old man’s watery eyes had fixed on her, he had beckoned her over.
‘You must be
the girl my grandson was speaking of.’ He’d laid a wasted hand on her head, then clicked his fingers. One of the attendants had jumped to it, handing the old man a little bag. ‘Here. A small token. On behalf of my grandson. For your kindness.’ He had taken something from the bag, passed it to her.
She had only remembered her manners at the last moment, stammering a thank you as the old man was helped into his magnificent carriage. She had realized who he must be: Richard’s grandfather – his mother’s father, the earl whom Becket had told her about. To meet a real live earl had made her head swim. She could not have been more in awe if an angel had come down from heaven.
But Richard had not been in the best of moods when she rushed up to tell of her remarkable encounter. His grandfather’s visit had made him peevish and irritable. ‘All he ever talks about is the weather and if his horse will win the Derby. He cares more about horses than he does about people. He doesn’t care about me at all. He only comes because he thinks he owns me, and he likes to look at all his possessions.’
Sitting now in bed with the box of soldiers on her lap, Dorothea thought of the shiny half-sovereign the earl had given her and wished that she hadn’t accepted it. For your kindness, he’d said. But she wasn’t kind to Richard out of duty or in hope of some reward (unlike Nurse, according to Nanny). She was kind to Richard because she liked him – loved him.
Was Richard’s grandfather really as bad as all that, liking horses better than people? Or was it just Richard being Richard? She did feel that the earl was not someone one could love, unlike Uncle Albert, for instance, who— Well, it seemed odd now that she had ever been afraid of him and that, three years ago, she hadn’t even known he existed. She felt now as if she’d known him forever. To have him sit on her bed and hold her hand buoyed her up, as if nothing could touch her, as if no harm would ever come to her again. How glad she was to have an uncle like that!
‘Are you ready, Miss Dorothea? It’s time!’
‘Coming, Nora. Coming.’ Dorothea took one last look out of the window. She’d been watching Uncle Albert and Henry in their shirt sleeves tinkering with Bernadette on the gravel below. If, by ordering Uncle Albert to stay at home, Dr Camborne had expected his patient to rest, then he ought to have known better. Uncle Albert had been busy all week – not just in writing to the mysterious man on the train, but in repairing Dorothea’s puncture, replacing the brake pads on Mlle Lacroix’s bicycle, and embarking on a thorough overhaul of Roderick’s rather battered machine. ‘Don’t know what the boy does to it. Look at the state it’s in!’ he’d said. Today Henry had called to see how they all were after the drama of the fire and Uncle Albert had decided to inspect Bernadette. Henry was beaming with pleasure, of course.
Dorothea very much wondered where her uncle’s newfound interest in motors would take him.
‘Miss Dorothea!’
‘Ready, Nora! On my way!’
It was Nora’s half day. She was off home. And – such excitement, such a treat! – Dorothea was to go with her, to take tea at the Turners’!
‘Dad and Billy will be at work, of course,’ said Nora, taking Dorothea’s hand as they walked down the long drive, leaving the motor enthusiasts to their own devices. ‘And our Daisy will likely be out in the fields helping to look after the youngsters. So it will be just you and me and Mother.’
But it did not turn out that way. When they reached the little cottage in Back Lane, old Noah Lee was there too, sitting at the gate-leg table with his white whiskers and beady eyes.
‘Hello, Grandpa! This is a surprise! What are you doing here?’
‘Come to see your mother, of course. Is there a law against it?’
Nora laughed. ‘Come to inspect our guest, more like.’
‘And why not? ’Tis not often someone from the big house comes calling.’
Dorothea was not at all sure that she wanted to be inspected by Noah Lee but she was determined that nothing would spoil her afternoon. The Turners’ cottage was clean and tidy but rather small – small, that is, when compared to what Noah Lee called the big house. Next to the crowded rooms in the courts off Stepnall Street, the cottage was the lap of luxury. The gate-leg table was set by the front window. Geraniums grew in a pot on the sill. There were Windsor chairs either side of the hearth and a wooden staircase leading to the upper rooms. There were two rooms upstairs, Dorothea knew – one for Mr and Mrs Turner, and one that Nora shared with her little sister Daisy. Nora’s brother Billy mostly slept up at the big house, above the stables where he worked. ‘I could have had a bed at Clifton, too, miss. I think Mrs Bourne would prefer it, to keep an eye on me. But I knew I’d miss home too much. Our Billy doesn’t bother about things like that, he’s a boy. Not that he isn’t always in and out at home, and he still gives his wages to Mother.’
The back door of the cottage was open, giving a glimpse of the garden bathed in sunshine and of Seed Meadow beyond. It had been dark and terrifying on the night of the fire, now it was entirely green and peaceful.
Mrs Turner was all smiles, a plump woman with rosy cheeks and a clean apron. ‘Now sit yourself down, miss. Tea will be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she continued, taking Dorothea’s hat, nudging a stool towards her with her knee, setting the kettle to boil, laying the table. ‘We wanted the chance to thank you for all you did on the night of the Great Fire.’
‘It was her uncle who did all the work,’ Noah Lee put in. ‘I’ve never had much to do with Master Brannan afore. He’s not from round these parts. But I speak as I find, and he stopped to help when he could easily have passed on by. That’s what I call neighbourly. That’s what I call being a good Samaritan. There’s others I could mention who wouldn’t so much as give you the drippings off their nose.’
‘It wasn’t all Mr Brannan,’ said Mrs Turner, placing bowls of lettuce and radishes on the table, and a jar of homemade raspberry jam. ‘Heaven knows what would have happened to our Jem’s Pippa if Miss Dorothea hadn’t been there! But all’s well that ends well, and the baby’s thriving now. They’re going to call him Richard, miss, as you suggested. They liked the name. But I’m sure Nora’s told you. You’ll be coming to the christening, too, I hope, miss?’
‘I shall call the lad Dick, like Dick Turpin,’ said Noah Lee, reaching for some bread and butter. ‘My second great-grandson, he is. And I’ve three grandsons. But I never had a son of my own. Two daughters, I had, but no sons. Famous beauties they were, my daughters – though you wouldn’t think it to look on her now.’
Mrs Turner laughed as she poured tea. ‘I’ve no need of beauty at my time of life! Now, miss, here’s your tea. And have some lettuce and a radish or two. It’s all from our own garden.’
‘Moll here is my younger daughter,’ Noah Lee continued, biting into his bread. ‘Meg was the elder. She’s at peace now, God rest her. She married a Cardwell. Used to be a lot of Cardwells in the village at one time. Bred like rabbits, they did.’
‘Grandpa, really! That’s no way to talk in front of Miss Dorothea!’
‘Get on with you. The girl’s not stupid. Not stupid, are you? No. No. I thought not.’ Noah Lee turned his back on Nora, addressed Dorothea. ‘Now I never did take to them Cardwells. Thought themselves a cut above, they did. But they weren’t, most of ’em. And they’s all but extinct now. There’s just my Meg’s widower – he’s the shopkeeper, if you know who I mean – and his son David: my grandson, that is to say. There’s a few of the womenfolk left. The blacksmith’s wife, she’s a Cardwell, and the mistress at the Barley Mow, and them two old maids at the Post Office. And then there’s that girl what lives with ’em. Mercy Bates, they call her. Came by the light of the moon, so they say but she’s a Cardwell or I’m a Dutchman. Her father was Ted Cardwell, like as not. A black sheep, was Ted Cardwell. Went off to Broadstone, if you can believe it, went and lived in Broadstone.’
He spoke of Broadstone as if it was the ends of the earth, but Dorothea remembered talk of cycling there on
e day so it couldn’t be that far. Roderick, in fact, claimed to have cycled there already on more than one occasion but what Roderick hadn’t done wasn’t worth knowing about.
‘Now this Ted Cardwell,’ said Noah Lee, tapping the table to get her attention. ‘There’s some right old stories I could tell you about him – things that would make you hair curl!’
‘That’s enough, Dad!’ Mrs Turner interrupted. ‘You’ll talk poor Miss Dorothea to death. And why should she be interested in the Cardwells? She don’t know them from Adam. Well, now, miss, will you have another cup of tea? And how about some more bread and jam?’
But Noah Lee wasn’t to be silenced so easily, even if he did steer clear of Ted Cardwell. Dorothea didn’t really mind. She liked hearing about the village and its inhabitants, although she soon got lost amongst all the different names. After a time, however, Noah Lee turned his attention to ‘the goings-on up at the big house’. He hadn’t been up there for a good while, he said, not since the days of that ‘old villain’ Mr Rycroft. Could this old villain, Dorothea wondered, really be the same Mr Rycroft that Becket had told her about, the one who had been Aunt Eloise’s father and had kept the gardens spic and span? A proper gentleman, Becket had called him, but he’d been by way of a tyrant, according to Noah Lee, putting the rents up, persecuting the poachers, ‘and carrying on like he owned the place’.
‘That’s because he did own the place,’ Mrs Turner put in. ‘Or most of it, leastways.’
‘Stole it, you mean. And what about that there common land? Belonged to everybody, that did, but he just took it and cut it up into fields.’
‘Get away with you, Dad! That weren’t old Mr Rycroft! That happened long since!’
Noah Lee cast a sour look at his daughter. He obviously did not care to be contradicted. But Mrs Turner seemed immune to his ire, gathering up the plates and bowls, singing under her breath.