The Deserter's Daughter

by Susanna Bavin

  He opened the curtains. Fog was plastered against the window.

  ‘Pea-souper today,’ he remarked.

  Just like the inside of her head.

  Chapter Twenty

  The front door snapped shut behind Evadne and she stamped down the front steps, heels tapping resentfully on the path. She routinely quitted Grandfather’s house frothing with frustration and today she could feel the blood sizzling in her veins.

  Her wool coat flapping against her shins brought a long-standing grudge to the fore. It was beastly of Grandfather not to let her have her pick of Grandmother’s clothes. She was positive the attics must be groaning with trunks crammed with Grandmother’s things, and she, the only descendant, was entitled, especially in this weather. She remembered a vast ermine stole and matching muff, and that three-quarter-length fur with all those tails dangling from the gorgeous deep collar. Instead, she was doomed to wear this overcoat she had had for donkey’s years: a good coat, of course, since she always bought the best she could afford, but a plain garment compared to Grandmother’s fabulous furs – and doubly plain when she saw herself through the eyes of Grandfather’s visitor.

  Grandfather’s visitor. She had made a point of coming here today, and never mind how Grandfather had tried to put her off. Ever since catastrophe had descended upon her last summer, she had been visiting him more frequently, desperate for him to recognise his obligation and offer her a home. But his sense of obligation, not for the first time, seemed assuaged by the provision of a job – and what a job! Of all the places he could have found, of all the cronies he had at that wretched club, he couldn’t possibly have chosen her a less desirable position.

  Last time she had come to Parrs Wood, she had as always announced when her following visit would be. ‘I’ll see you next Saturday, Grandfather.’ Times were when it had made her feel important to invite herself to this gracious address, quite as if she belonged here; but these days, doing so occasioned a dark fluttering beneath her ribcage.

  ‘Not convenient, I’m afraid. I’ve someone coming. An old crony has written, don’t y’know.’

  The thought of two old codgers rehashing long-ago campaigns made her purse her lips. Then her ears pricked up. Not the old crony, but his grandson. Her fantasies of meeting an eligible man under Grandfather’s roof came stampeding back.

  She had arrived today at her usual time.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting you,’ Grandfather said, bluntly.

  ‘I always come at this time on a Saturday.’

  ‘Told you not to. Told you I had a visitor.’

  Impossible to keep the heat from her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you didn’t. I’m so sorry if I’m intruding, Mr …?’

  Which obliged Grandfather to remember his manners. ‘This is the Honourable—’

  Honourable! She would have bought a new dress had she known. She was too dazzled to catch the rest of the introduction, but fortunately Grandfather called him Larter once or twice afterwards, so at least she knew his surname. She studied him covertly. A few years her senior, he was tall – she liked that; she was tall herself – with a narrow, bony face, his hairline interrupted by a scar that puckered his left temple. There was another scar, the faintest of lines down his left cheek. Everything about him spoke of breeding: the cut of his clothes, his polish and confidence. He had called on Grandfather as a courtesy to his own grandfather, but there was none of the deferential younger man about him. This was a man who had been in the war and had been a leader of men, as befitted one of his class.

  ‘What brings you to these parts?’ Grandfather enquired.

  ‘Business. My family expected me to stay in the army, younger son and all that, but …’ He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug, as if generations of tradition meant nothing. Evadne was thrilled: only someone who could trace his ancestry back to the Conquest could be so blasé. ‘I have fingers in a few pies. I have an interest in a new auction room hereabouts. Chorlton-cum-Hardy.’

  ‘Humph. Not the most select area.’

  ‘Up-and-coming.’

  ‘Humph.’

  ‘Perhaps my connection will help it to be up-and-coming.’

  Evadne could scarcely believe it. ‘Are you—you can’t be connected to Ralph Armstrong?’

  Keen grey eyes sliced the air between them. ‘Yes, as it happens. Do you know him?’

  Indeed she did, and that was another reason she was now bubbling with bitterness as she marched through the slush to the tram stop. After months of virtually ignoring her cheap tart of a sister, it turned out that Carrie’s husband could be the means of furthering her acquaintance with the Honourable Mr Larter.

  She felt sour towards Carrie. With Pa’s disgrace hanging over her and Billy jilting her, instead of keeping herself to herself, the girl had hurled herself at the next man to walk past their front door, leaving Evadne barely able to hold up her head. To cap it all, little Carrie from the corner shop had bagged herself a well-to-do husband. Did she possess more brains than Evadne had given her credit for? She had certainly escaped the immediate disgrace of living surrounded by people who knew about Pa. How Evadne resented that. It was she, the innocent stepdaughter, who should have been spirited away into a better situation – instead of which, Grandfather had produced a job, courtesy of one of his cronies.

  Her heart quaked with indignation at the thought of returning to that place. She had deliberately not attempted to find herself a new position last summer because she had had no intention of making it easy for Grandfather to ignore his responsibilities. Hence she had ended up with no alternative but to accept the post at Brookburn when Carrie upped and married, thereby rendering her homeless since Mr Dawson wouldn’t rent a house to a single lady. Not that she had had any desire to remain in Wilton Lane; the only place she wanted to live in was a certain address in Parrs Wood.

  She stepped in a puddle and gasped as icy water sloshed over her shoe and soaked her stocking. The raw air bit her face, leaving her cheeks smarting and her nose numb and no doubt bright red. It was hateful having to turn out on a day like this, worse knowing what lay at the end of her journey.

  Brookburn. She loathed everything about the place. No, that wasn’t entirely true. The administrative work suited her; she was proud of her methodical mind. Sometimes when she was in her office with the door closed, she could almost convince herself that this horrid situation wasn’t so bad after all.

  Sometimes.

  Almost.

  Who did she think she was fooling?

  She had nothing to do with the patients – well, virtually. Sometimes she couldn’t avoid seeing them, like when she needed a doctor to sign something and had to search for him in the wards – a creepy experience, with all those figures silent and motionless beneath the sheets. And not just in beds: there was a rota for getting them out of bed and wheeling them about. They were taken outside whenever the weather was even halfway decent. The grounds had been littered with them until the end of September.

  ‘We have reason to think this helps,’ Doctor Armstrong had said, coming upon her curling her lip at the sight.

  That was another thing she detested about Brookburn – Doctor Armstrong. But for him, she could have introduced herself as the fiancée of a soldier killed in the war. Better a bereaved fiancée than an old maid. But having Carrie’s brother-in-law here had put paid to that. There was also the constant discomfort of knowing that someone at Brookburn knew what had happened to Pa.

  ‘I trust you won’t mention my stepfather to anyone,’ she had said to him. ‘My name is Baxter. There’s no need for anyone to know the connection.’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked at her with what might have been pity, something that made her stomach muscles clench with hurt pride, anyway. ‘But I think you’ll find that our patients and their families have other things on their minds.’

  Evadne trudged up the drive, tired and chilled. Through the sleety murk of the winter teatime, Brookburn’s lights glowed. Soon the staff meals would start.
Not that she cared; she made a point of having a tray sent upstairs. A stiff breeze swept across the grounds and stung her face. To her left lay the park, while on her right, down in a dip of five or six feet, was Chorlton Brook.

  As she drew closer to the house, she realised someone was down there in the dip, standing at the edge of the water, facing the bank; just standing there, staring. She felt a flutter of alarm before she recognised Ted Geeson, the groundsman. Geeson was a former soldier, and you only had to see how he swung his right leg when he walked to know he had an artificial limb.

  She was going to walk past, but something tugged at her conscience and she halted with a disgruntled sigh, squeezing her frozen toes inside her wet shoes.

  ‘Geeson! What are you doing? Are you all right?’

  He looked up at her, raising gloved fingers to his cap. ‘Evening, miss. I’m fine, thank you.’

  She turned to walk on, vexed as she realised he was blundering up the bank to the drive. She didn’t stop. People could say what they liked about social barriers starting to come down, but she was perfectly happy with the old ways, and small talk with the groundsman was definitely not on her agenda.

  He was nippier on his feet than she had thought, however, and in a moment he was swinging along beside her.

  ‘Sharp evening, miss.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And a cold night to follow.’

  She didn’t bother answering.

  ‘You were wondering what I was about down there.’

  ‘I’m not interested, Geeson.’

  ‘Truth is, I was feeling … well, quiet, I suppose. Sort of peaceful, you might say.’

  She couldn’t help looking at him, a thickset figure bundled up in a greatcoat and scarf. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It’s when the riverbank gets all slick with rain, you see. I’ve been here four years now, miss. Times were when the sight of that bank all wet and muddy would make me want to dig into it with my bare hands. Did it once or twice an’ all; couldn’t help myself. But now – well, now I don’t need to no more, and that’s something to be grateful for. It’s sad too, in a way, sobering like, though that’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say. Sad to think mebbe I don’t need to help them no more.’

  ‘Help whom?’

  ‘Fallen comrades, miss. Digging ’em out.’

  She stopped, swung round on him. ‘You’re mad.’

  Even in the darkness, she could see how his eyes clouded in his lined face. ‘Sorry, miss.’ He touched his cap to her and loped away at surprising speed.

  ‘That was cruel, Miss Baxter,’ said a voice beside the front door, and she turned in annoyance to see Doctor Armstrong leaning against the porch, smoking his pipe.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘It’s everyone’s business, what happened in the war. The more who know about it the better, for all our sakes. It’s rare that a man says a word about it. You should feel honoured.’

  ‘It depends on the man,’ she retorted. She imagined the Honourable Mr Larter telling her about his war; she would listen to that for hours, though she rather thought a gentleman wouldn’t trouble a lady with such unpleasantness.

  Doctor Armstrong knocked the bowl of his pipe against the side of his hand to eject the ash. ‘Knowing more might help people understand what happened to your father.’

  She whipped round, eyes narrowed in fury. ‘He wasn’t my father.’

  He opened the door for her. ‘Good evening, Miss Baxter.’

  Evadne swept inside.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Carrie was careful not to show it, but she didn’t like Ralph’s new assistant. Saying goodbye to Mr Weston had been hard. The poor man was deeply shocked; she could tell by the hitch in his voice, even though he remained his usual courteous self.

  ‘I need someone young and fit who can do some toing and froing between the shop and the auction room,’ Ralph told her. ‘And no, I’m not keeping Weston on as well. He’s lucky to have worked here as long as he has.’

  She had been dreading going downstairs to say goodbye on his last day; but, dear man that he was, he came up to the flat to bid her farewell.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Mrs Armstrong.’

  ‘Likewise. What will you do?’

  ‘I hope to be taken on by one of the antiques houses in town.’

  ‘They’ll be lucky to have you.’

  ‘Mr Joseph Armstrong always said Armstrong’s was lucky to have me,’ Mr Weston said sadly.

  His replacement was Arthur Renton, a thin-faced ferret of a man with a permanent five o’clock shadow. He couldn’t be faulted for his efficiency, but Carrie thought he lacked the proper deference for working in this class of shop, and he didn’t seem the sort to dust the stock every day like dear Mr Weston used to.

  Adam dropped in one morning, as he did now and again. Carrie had realised that, without these informal visits, there would be no contact between the brothers. They didn’t even go to the pub together. She was in the back room, dusting some small items, and could hear their conversation.

  ‘Where’s Weston?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Gone. Sacked.’

  ‘Why? He devoted his life to this place and there was nothing he didn’t know about fine things. Dad always said so.’

  ‘Do I tell you how to do your job? Then don’t tell me how to do mine.’

  ‘Even so—’

  ‘The business belongs to me and you have no say in it.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’ Adam’s voice sounded stiff. ‘I simply wanted—’

  ‘Wanted what?’

  ‘To be on good terms. It’s what Dad would have wanted.’

  ‘Dad isn’t here to want anything.’

  Carrie gasped. Evadne had put her in her place more times than she could count, but even she had never been this brusque.

  Later, she said to Ralph, ‘What you said to Adam …’ She saw the displeasure in his eyes and the warning as well. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Are you sure, Carrie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Only I wouldn’t want to think you were entertaining disloyal thoughts.’

  ‘It was nothing, Ralph. Honest to God.’

  The next time Adam called, it was in his professional capacity. He checked Mam’s pulse, listened to her chest and manoeuvred her arms, testing the muscles. Then he asked the usual questions before looping his stethoscope and dropping it inside his topper, then made some notes.

  ‘I went to see Weston,’ he told her.

  ‘How is he? I was so sorry he lost his job.’

  ‘He’s been taken on by a place on Deansgate, but only for a day a week as they’re fully staffed, so he’s at rather a loose end. He’s going after a job in the bookshop on Beech Road as well. I’ve asked him to come to Brookburn to read to the lads. I can’t pay him, but at least it’ll get him out of the house.’

  She felt a stab of guilt. ‘Would you like me to read to the patients an’ all?’ Not that she could imagine how she would fit it in, but she would if she had to.

  Adam’s smile touched his eyes, turning the brown deeper and warmer. She had never seen Ralph’s eyes soften like that.

  ‘You’ve more than enough to do, though I appreciate the offer. I’ve just finished a book that you might care to share with Mrs Jenkins. It would make a change from newspapers and magazine articles. It’s by a new lady author called Agatha Christie. I’ll drop it round.’

  She had to look away. It had never occurred to her to read to Mam. She talked to her, told her all kinds of things, but she had never been a great reader. Pa used to say that reading was for the likes of Evadne. Yet here was Adam, whose good opinion she treasured, taking it for granted that she read to Mam. Well, in future she would. It would give her something to use her spends – sorry, her pin money – for, with an easy conscience. She would buy Vera’s Voice and give the old copies to Letty.

  She decided to call on Mr Weston every we
ek – yes, and she would take him a batch of scones or a slab of cake. After the first visit, what she really wanted to take was some slices of beef or half a dozen eggs. She was sure he wasn’t eating as well as he used to. But while cake was a gift, meat would be charity, so she couldn’t.

  Carrie came downstairs to do some dusting. She had loved helping Mr Weston with this. She had seen things she never knew existed, like a spoon warmer – fancy warming spoons! – and a mug with two handles that Mr Weston said was called a loving cup.

  At the foot of the stairs, she opened the door, pausing to ensure there were no customers. Ralph and Arthur had their backs to her, their heads bent over something.

  She heard the words, ‘… solid silver. What a beauty,’ before they looked round.

  She came forward, smiling, expecting Ralph to invite her to take a look, but he said nothing. Both men looked at her and she felt uncomfortable, which made her say with artificial brightness, ‘What is it? Oh, a tray – though I should call it a salver, shouldn’t I, with it being solid silver? Why rich folk can’t have trays like the rest of us, I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s not solid silver,’ said Arthur.

  ‘I thought I heard—’

  ‘You heard wrong,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s just plated.’ He pushed it into Arthur’s hands. ‘Put it in the back. What do you want, Carrie?’

  ‘I thought I’d do some dusting.’

  ‘I’ll bring some things through.’ He didn’t like her being seen in the shop now she was so heavily pregnant.

  She slipped into the room beside Ralph’s office. The office door was open and she could see Arthur putting the salver – or was it a tray if it was simply plated? – into a cupboard. Ralph came through and placed two or three items on the table.

  ‘You’ll like this one. It’s a musical box.’ He gave her one of his direct looks. ‘What you heard was a spot of wishful thinking, Carrie. We were just saying what a shame it’s not solid silver or it would be worth a pretty penny.’

  She didn’t know what to say, so she just said, ‘Oh.’