The Deserter's Daughter

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘I need to speak to him. We have to sort this out.’ A movement behind Mrs Shipton caught her eye. ‘Billy! We need to talk—’

  Mrs Shipton landed a great jab in her chest and she almost went over backwards, her feet scrambling for purchase as Mrs Shipton surged towards her, forcing her through the gate onto the pavement. Mrs Shipton delivered a final jab, thrusting her face down into Carrie’s, eyes snapping with contempt.

  ‘You’re not welcome here. I’m not having any lad of mine marrying the likes of you. He’s a bright boy, our Billy. It’s not everyone can pass town hall exams. He’ll end up a senior clerk one day – but not if there’s a scandal dragging him down. No wonder your mother kept her mouth shut all this time. Happen she’s cursing that army chaplain for turning up today instead of this time next week. Happen you are too.’

  ‘I never knew about Pa until today.’

  ‘Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. The result’s the same. Our Billy’s not being held back by anything or anyone, least of all you and your family scandal, so get that through your thick skull, Carrie Jenkins.’

  ‘Whatever happened to Pa, you can’t punish me for it.’ Carrie reached out her hand.

  Mrs Shipton dashed it aside with a stinging swipe. ‘Blood will out. Just look at you, coming round here half-naked. Where’s your decency?’

  Bewildered, she looked down at herself. She had ventured out without her shawl.

  ‘Billy! Come out, love – please.’

  Mrs Shipton loomed in front of her. ‘Hark at you, bawling like a fishwife. And you wonder why our Billy doesn’t want you any more.’

  With a shove that sent Carrie tottering off the kerb, Mrs Shipton did a smart about-turn and marched indoors. The door slammed and Carrie flinched. Her knees wobbled. Another moment and they would collapse under her and she would plonk down in the road.

  A hand touched her arm. She looked into a lined, compassionate face.

  ‘It’s Carrie, in’t it? Best get thee home, lass. Your mam’ll be fretting after you.’

  ‘She doesn’t know I’m here.’

  ‘Oh aye, and aren’t things bad enough for her without you mekking ’em worse?’

  The woman looked round. Carrie glanced about too, saw figures on doorsteps, faces at open sashes, sharp-eyed women, grinning children.

  ‘Show’s over,’ called the woman. ‘There’s nowt more to see … unless you was planning on beating down the Shiptons’ door?’ she asked with a wry lift of her brows. ‘Go home, love. Best thing.’

  Feeling the eyes of the neighbourhood clamped on her, Carrie headed for home, forcing herself to walk, though she was desperate to take to her heels. Her hand twitched, an instinctive movement, the desire to protect. She grabbed her elbows and hung on to them for dear life. She mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t put a hand on her belly.

  Chapter Five

  Evadne hovered in the narrow hallway, fingertips brushing the parlour doorknob. All she had to do was walk in and draw the curtains. Simple.

  She closed her eyes, unshed tears burning in the darkness beneath her eyelids. It wasn’t simple at all, but she had her standards and her pride and she would not shirk this duty, however painful, however humiliating.

  A flame of anger ignited inside her chest. Heaven help her, she had believed Carrie’s wedding represented the ultimate humiliation. For weeks, her skin had been crawling with dread at the thought of having to hold her head up while Wilton Lane, waiting for the bride, amused itself by trying to work out how old she had been when Pa brought her and Mother to live here. Whoever would have imagined that she – beautiful, poised, well-spoken Evadne – would be unwed at … well, never mind how old. It didn’t matter.

  Yes, it did. It mattered more than anything in the world.

  Now there was another shame to be borne. How could Pa have deserted? How could he? He had always been a decent, straightforward fellow. Not educated or cultured like the Baxters, obviously, but solid and dependable in a flat cap and baccy kind of way. Respectable – that was Pa. Trustworthy.

  Yet he had let them down in the most frightful way imaginable. How could he? They would never recover from it. What would it do to her chances? It had already put paid to Carrie’s wedding.

  That was another thing. That foolish little piece had sneaked out, no doubt to beg and plead with Billy. It was too bad. Going out gallivanting made her look brazen and even if she didn’t care on her own account, she might at least care that her sister and mother would be tainted by association.

  Well, Evadne knew the correct thing to do, even if Carrie didn’t. Her hand closed around the smooth wooden curve of the doorknob and the door breathed open. The smells of beeswax and lemon nudged the edge of her consciousness. Were there neighbours in the street? Would the door’s movement be noticed? She would wait them out. She couldn’t put herself on show.

  Oh, this was ridiculous. She was waiting for people who might not even be there. It went against the grain to hide – or did it? Hiding often seemed highly desirable. Every time she looked in her dressing-table mirror and beheld a spinster, she felt like crawling under the bed and not coming out, but hiding was a luxury that had never been open to her.

  She took a step. She was across the threshold but still behind the door. Fear bloomed on her flesh. Inside the parlour, the grandmother clock ticked softly and she tried to absorb its sound to regulate her heart. Another step took her past the door. She forced her head to turn, her neck almost creaking with the effort as she dragged her gaze from the piano to the mantelpiece with its array of coloured glass ornaments. Were they all there? It appeared so. Which pawnbroker had Mother used? Had anyone seen her? Oh, was there no end to the shame? Beneath the mantelpiece, the empty summer fireplace boasted a vase of dried flowers front and centre. Mother had copied that idea from Grandmother Baxter, though naturally Grandmother’s flowers had always been fresh – rich red roses, plump and fragrant, or fuzzy-leaved stocks, filling the room with spicy sweetness.

  At last she turned to the window. No one there. Relief swooped through her. Her knees went mushy, but she didn’t sag. She ghosted around the room’s perimeter. Not like that other time. Four years ago, she had entered the parlour with quiet dignity and drawn the curtains to signify theirs was a house of mourning.

  This time – this time—

  With a rattle of brass rings, she twitched one curtain closed, insinuating herself into its shelter to reach for the other one. She drew it across, narrowing the gap—a face appeared. She exclaimed; so did the face – Miss Reilly. Heart banging, Evadne pressed a hand to her throat. Of all the moments for Mother’s lodger to come home. She would let her go upstairs before quitting the parlour. She heard the front door open, but the sound of voices sent her hurrying to the hall.

  Miss Reilly was dithering on the doorstep. She stumbled inside, apparently propelled by a squat figure all in black – Mrs O’Something.

  An overwhelming urge to slink away consumed Evadne, but this had to be faced, just like every other bally thing in her life.

  ‘Miss Reilly, you evidently haven’t heard—’

  The squat figure elongated. ‘We’ve heard all right. We saw you, Evadne Jenkins, closing your curtains in shame.’

  The scorn and malice pinned her to the spot. ‘My name is Baxter from now on.’

  ‘As if that makes any odds.’

  Evadne caught her breath so sharply her throat burnt. ‘This isn’t the time for visitors, Miss Reilly.’

  ‘Mrs O’Malley isn’t visiting,’ whispered Miss Reilly.

  ‘I’m here to help her pack. You can’t expect her to stop in this house of ill repute.’

  ‘Who is it? Who’s there? Evadne, shut the door. Oh, Miss Reilly—’

  Oh lord, just what she needed, Mother tear-ravaged and dishevelled, stumbling downstairs like a corpse risen from the tomb. Where was her pride? It wasn’t as though Pa’s desertion had taken her by surprise.

  ‘Well, Gwen Jenkins,’ said Mrs O’Malley, ‘yo
u always thought yourself a cut above—’

  ‘There’s no call for that, thank you,’ said Evadne. Just when had she started sounding so schoolmistressy? ‘Mother, Miss Reilly has decided to leave—’

  Mother’s legs gave way and she crumpled onto the stairs, fingers cobwebbed across her mouth, a low keening sound dribbling through the cracks.

  ‘Mam – oh, Mam.’

  And wouldn’t you know it, here came Carrie to add to the fray, darting from the kitchen and swinging round the newel post onto the stairs, kneeling on the step below Mother to gather her into her arms.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she crooned and Mother buried her face in Carrie’s neck and wailed.

  Evadne felt like clobbering the pair of them. Was she the only member of this godforsaken family to comprehend the value of appearances?

  ‘Carrie, take Mother to the kitchen – now, please. Miss Reilly needs to go upstairs.’ She swung round, fixing her eyes on Mrs O’Malley. ‘You may wait outside.’

  ‘But—’

  Evadne walked straight at her, as if intent upon collision, forcing her backwards out of the house through sheer resolve. She tapped the door, allowing it to swing shut in the woman’s face. Bitch – where did that word spring from? Were her standards crumbling under pressure? That was no excuse.

  And on the subject of standards—

  She threw open the kitchen door. Mother sat slumped in Pa’s armchair. They still called it Pa’s chair, though often as not he had given way to Evadne. ‘Don’t want you straining your eyes,’ he used to say. ‘You and your book learning. You sit by the lamp, chick.’ How proud he had been of her, though, of course, it was her grandparents’ pride she had striven for.

  Mother lolled in Pa’s chair, leaning against Carrie, who balanced on the arm, cuddling her close. Carrie was always cuddling someone, usually small children, whenever she could get her hands on one.

  A flash of memory. Eight years old, cuddling her new baby sister. That moment of knowing life in Wilton Lane couldn’t be all bad, if she had a baby of her own to look after. Another memory. Tea at Grandfather and Grandmother’s house, and Mother trying to hang on to little Carrie, and Carrie slipping free and staggering over to her big sister, arms confidently lifted to be picked up, and herself obliging, loving the feel of the child’s warm, squirmy, snuggly body. Then Grandmother’s voice: ‘Really, Evadne, whatever happened to keeping your hands to yourself?’ And putting Carrie down with a bump. The child’s look of surprise.

  ‘Carrie, can’t you keep your hands to yourself for once? Honestly. And what did you mean by sneaking out behind our backs? Deplorable behaviour.’

  ‘I had to see Billy.’

  ‘And did it make one iota of difference?’ She arched her eyebrows, a technique perfected in the classroom.

  Angling her head, Carrie gave her a direct look, an unusual sharpness in her normally soft blue eyes. ‘If going out is so deplorable, does that mean you’re stopping here tonight? With Miss Reilly upping sticks, you could have your old room back.’

  Cheek! Evadne didn’t dignify that with a reply. The less she had to do with Wilton Lane the better had been one of her guiding principles ever since she moved into the schoolhouse. It would be even more important now. Was Oaklawn School sufficiently far away for her to be safe from gossip? If Grandfather had had to find her a pupil-teacher place when she left school, why did it have to be in Chorlton? Why not near his gracious home in Parrs Wood? Then she could have lived with him. Moving into the schoolhouse as the headmistress’s lodger had churned up despair so potent she had been able to hear it inside her head, like listening to a seashell.

  She closed her eyes, shutting everything out. If only her life could have been lived the way it had been intended. She inhaled crisply and straightened her spine. She was a lady and a soldier’s daughter and those attributes would carry her through.

  She spent an interminable hour with Carrie and Mother. Disgrace seeped into the atmosphere until it was thick enough to swim in. At last, as the lingering light of midsummer gave way to twilight, she rose to leave. Front door or back? Everyone, namely Mother and the neighbours, would say she should slip out the back and creep away into the fading light, but she never used the entry. Back doors and entries were for the lower orders, not for Baxters.

  ‘May I borrow your veil, Mother? I’ll pop it over my hat so that …’

  No need to finish the sentence, but she couldn’t have anyway. Her throat was too tight. Veil: beastly word. Even though she meant the funeral veil, it was the wedding veil that popped into her head. The veil she had watched Carrie try on. Her younger sister. Her significantly younger sister.

  With the world in a darker, softer focus, she paced the mile back to school through twilight from which the heaviness of the day’s heat had lifted. As she left Wilton Lane behind, the roads became wider, the houses larger. Privet hedges smelt green and fresh. As she crossed the road-bridge over the railway line, she raised a hand and, quicker than any conjurer, whisked away the veil. Not far now to the school with its shrubby garden, and the schoolhouse next door.

  As she let herself into the wood-panelled hall, Miss Martindale called to her.

  ‘Good: you’re back. Come and help me with this jigsaw.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Upstairs, she stood in her bedroom, absorbing her surroundings, trying to be the way she was before she knew about Pa. The room was the same, the bed with its brass bedstead, the dressing table, the matching washstand with its pretty china set on top, her shelf of books, the hanging-cupboard. Everything was the same … except herself. If she looked in the mirror, would she look the same or would she see a ghastly caricature, changed for ever by this calamity?

  She hung up her jacket, stowed away her hat and went downstairs, pausing in the sitting-room doorway. Her heart thumped. Miss Martindale looked round. She had a kind face. Well, her kindness was about to be tested.

  Evadne said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Chapter Six

  Ralph flexed his shoulder muscles, appreciating the smooth feel of the motor as it bowled through the country lanes, the breeze cresting the top of the windscreen and streaming across his face beneath the brim of his homburg. The motor was a Crossley, a real beauty. He had driven one in France during the war, ferrying bigwigs about, aye, and loathing them too, all that yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir. But he had loved the motor, had cared for it like a baby. You sometimes saw surplus military Crossleys about; a bloke in Chorlton used one as a taxi. The vehicle this evening was one of the newer 25/30 models. The higher bonnet gave it a modern look and he liked that. It spoke of money.

  He had learnt about motor cars in the army. They had trained him as a mechanic, which hadn’t impressed him to start with, not until he had crossed the Channel and seen the trenches for himself; the bones and rotting body parts that came poking out when part of the wall caved in; the rats, as big as terriers, some of them, and scared of nowt; the mud, the foul water, the foot rot; and the waiting, the endless waiting, that brain-churning mixture of boredom and dread that was enough to send the strongest bloke off his chump. After experiencing all that for himself, he had found it a bloody great relief to be put back on driving and repairs.

  Not that driving had been a picnic, not with the Hun firing from the air, but it had its compensations. Never for one instant had it occurred to him when he had been chucking up his guts on the Channel crossing that it might actually be to his advantage to come to this hellhole of a country. But some of the meetings he had driven the bigwigs to had been held in fancy French chateaux crammed with treasures. His eyes had popped out on stalks, fingers itching to pick up a trinket box or a statuette so he could take a proper look. He soon realised that much of the best stuff was absent – stolen possibly, or packed away for safekeeping. He had kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself, but his gaze had roved everywhere, assessing and valuing, while his brain had turned somersaults keeping up wi
th the calculations.

  He glanced about. In the gathering dusk, the hedgerows made dense green walls, woven through with buttercups and masses of frothy white cow parsley. Queen Anne’s lace his mother had called it, and he had too, until that day on the meadows years ago when two of his mates had laughed their stupid heads off at him for using such a fancy name. Cow parsley they had called it, and they had called him a sissy. It had felt like they were jeering at his mother and he had flattened the pair of them with his fists, breaking Tom’s nose for him and knocking Will’s front teeth clean out of his head. He felt afterwards that he had wiped out the insult to his mother, but it hadn’t wiped out that bloody cow parsley name from his memory.

  A dog – bloody hell. He pulled hard on the wheel, swerving the motor behind the animal, his heart thudding. A girl – he yanked the wheel the other way, but it was too late. There was a thud. She was in front of him and then she was hurled into the air. It seemed she might fly clean over the windscreen and come tumbling into the seat beside him; then she was gone.

  He jerked the car to a halt. Christ Almighty, what had he done? He stumbled from the motor, caught his heel on the running board, steadied himself by grabbing the spare attached to the driver’s side. He pulled back his shoulders before walking round the vehicle, aware that another chap might have run, but not him, not Ralph Armstrong. Stay calm. Assess the situation. That was something he had learnt in the army. Let others dash about like headless chickens, but make sure you stay in control.

  In an overgrown gap in the hedgerow, beneath arching honeysuckle, was the stile she must have climbed over as she followed the dog. She lay crumpled on the grass, motionless, eyes closed, looking more asleep than damaged, but her proximity to the stile meant the back of her head must have fetched a nasty crack. No sign of any blood. Compared to some of the sights he had seen in France, she looked … tidy.

  The dog, a yappety little brute, came dancing up, anxious and barking. He kicked it away, ignoring its terrified yelp. It kept its distance after that, torn between whimpering and growling. He squatted beside the girl – eighteen, nineteen years old. Simply dressed but clean. Alone? That brought him to his feet, eyes sharp, ears cocked.