Friendship's Bond

by Meg Hutchinson

  Oh yes. She did all that her mother had done; and much that Ada had not.

  He once again thanked that watchful fate which had allowed a childhood chest infection to keep him from the Army and also from the foundry floor; the doctor’s opinion that the heat of furnaces, the dust and smoke of iron and steel smelting, would further irritate his lungs had led to a position as wages clerk, one not requiring extra hours. More favourably still, being office staff meant he left the workplace before day shift ended and night shift began, thus benefiting from unlit near-deserted streets. This added to the chance of his going unseen the evening he went not directly home to Cross Street but to Chapel House.

  But then soon Chapel House would be his home.

  The thought warmed him like mulled wine. They had no idea! Those letters the congregation asked be written requesting a minister were of course dutifully done by himself, then read aloud there in the chapel for the approval or otherwise of the members who then entrusted the sending to him.

  A reply? Contempt thickened in his throat. How could they have a reply to letters never posted! But nobody questioned whether they were sent just as nobody enquired into the management of Chapel House; Thomas Thorpe was their trusted preacher, the friend of everyone. He was just a little more friendly to some . . . like to the daughter of Ada Clews.

  He returned the farewells of other clerks while pretending a last-minute check of the wages ledger ensured he was last to leave the office and so could avoid any offer of a companion on the walk home.

  He paused at the entrance to the yard with its wide green-painted gates boasting the title ‘Patent Shaft and Axletree’ to turn up the collar of his jacket then pull the flat cap more firmly down on his brow. The evening had turned brisk; no one would give a second glance to a man buttoned against the cold; another advantage for one who did not wish to be recognised.

  With a glance behind to check the watchman had withdrawn into the warmth of his hut, he pushed his hands into his pockets then with head bent low walked quickly along the narrow alleyway between a row of tight-packed houses, tension easing only when he reached St James’ Street, a less direct route to Chapel House. He acknowledged the diversion to himself. But with the church and graveyard occupying almost the length of one side and the rectory and school filling the other, it positively guaranteed he be unobserved; after all, a cemetery was the last place folk would choose to be on a dark night. Yet even going this longer way meant having to follow some short distance along the more frequented Holyhead Road, but the traffic of carts, wagons and trams had local people avoid it wherever possible and that suited his purpose admirably; as admirably as specifying the two evenings a week when there was no chapel meeting as the times when the Clews girl should clean the small house set at its rear.

  As always his proposal was accepted and as always no question was raised regarding his satisfaction with her activities. ‘I ’opes as how my wench be a doin’ all as ’er should Mr Thorpe, that ’er work be pleasin’ to y’self.’

  As he slipped into Queen’s Place, moving silently past the darkened chapel, Thomas Thorpe’s scathing reply laughed loud in his head. Yes thank you, Ada, your wench is proving very pleasing.

  ‘I had to be certain it were you, I can’t never be sure as it ain’t me mum or one of the kids sent to walk me ’ome.’

  Did she always have to say exactly the same thing! Dissatisfaction he had felt grow over the weeks reared in Thorpe as he looked at the girl smiling back at him.

  Mousy hair, its dullness unrelieved by any forgiving gleam of copper or bronze, was shackled with pins coiling it tight into the nape of an overlong neck, that same severity causing her brow to appear wider while in contrast her mouth was small, the lips thin and uninviting.

  No Deborah Marshall by any stretch of the imagination!

  Cynicism added to his dissatisfaction.

  Sarah Clews had none of that girl’s prettiness or grace of manner . . . but then neither did she have Deborah Marshall’s objections.

  He locked the door he had closed behind him.

  He had managed the whole business very well, he congratulated himself. He removed cap and jacket, placing them in a cupboard the size of which dominated the tiny entrance hall. He had bided his time, allowing mother and daughter to settle comfortably to the situation, remarking to Ada after each Sunday evening service how well the girl had done, what a good teacher her mother had proved to be.

  The compliments had flattered the woman as intended. She had talked with friends, evidently enjoying letting them hear the praise being accorded herself and her daughter, how the girl ‘be trusted wi’ the run o’ the place’. But those later compliments paid directly to the girl the times he went to lock the home had not been heard by Ada.

  ‘. . . such lovely hair . . .’

  ‘. . . what an attractive smile . . .’

  ‘. . . you are such a pretty girl . . .’

  Lies, but they had resulted in considerable enjoyment.

  Again he had played cautiously, a hand lingering on her arm, his glance holding hers a little too long each time she left for home, one devious ploy after another, deceptions sweet to her ear as honey to the tongue, drawing, luring her ever more surely into his web. When her whole attitude showed victory was his for the taking he had cast the final dice.

  ‘. . . as happened with your mother my own hours of employment have been extended, consequently . . .’ He had smiled ruefully. ‘. . . we will have to discontinue the present arrangement; I’m sorry, Sarah, you can no longer come to Chapel House.’

  Crestfallen, she had stared a moment then almost sobbed, ‘You mean y’ don’t want me.’

  ‘No Sarah, I don’t mean that at all, I do want you . . . I want you . . . very much!?’

  This last was said in a low almost breathless tone. He had caught both of her hands in his, holding them while the look on his face had been deliberately despairing.

  ‘So why do you be sayin’ we can’t be goin’ on? That arrangements be no longer suitable?’

  Gently, the perfect facsimile of an older brother reassuring a younger child, he had drawn her to him, his arms firm yet not imprisoning.

  ‘Sarah,’ he had murmured, his lips brushing her cheek, ‘you have to understand the changes in my hours at the foundry mean I can only come to carry out my own duties in this house when you are here . . . and that is out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’ she had snuffled against his chest, ‘why be it out of the question?’

  With a soft laugh he had answered quietly, ‘Your mother, Sarah, she would never hear of it.’

  She had drawn her head back to look at him, her eyes bright with defiant tears.

  ‘Then ’er won’t hear of it cos we won’t tell ’er, what Mother don’t know won’t ’urt ’er none.’

  ‘Sarah . . .’ His hold had tightened, pressing her body close against his own, his broken reply a masterly art of barely controlled ardour. ‘Sarah you . . . you would trust me . . . but can I trust myself?’

  As he followed her into the bedroom Thomas Thorpe’s inward laugh was one of pure contempt. The rest had been child’s play. She had believed that first time that his moral values made him loth to lie with her, that his hesitancy, his trembling breath, denoted a continuing struggle against the emotions of love.

  Watching the cheap dress slide to the floor, petticoat, bodice and long-legged knickers following, he fought the desire to laugh out loud. This poor fool had believed him in love with her, so believed she had given herself, as she would go on giving for as long as he wished.

  Chapter 14

  ‘What gives you that idea, lad?’ Leah looked at the man standing in the doorway connecting living room to scullery, placing a pot on the table as she did so.

  Would she tell him if he asked, would she admit to being unwell? Edward Langley felt the worry of the day pull even harder at his nerves. If Leah Marshall had a failing it was pride; would that pride prevent her telling of something being wron
g?

  Leah breached the interval saying firmly, ‘There be groats and barley in this pot, there be carrot, parsnip and ’tater along of a nice piece o’ beef cheek, what don’t be in it is Edward Langley’s tongue, in which case I’ll tek it considerate if you was to answer when you be asked of a question.’

  Experience had taught him that that tone of voice meant no more prevaricating yet anxiety about what her answer to his question might reveal made Edward hedge. ‘Beef cheek . . . mmm, acceptable, though I was fancying a nice dish of tongue.’

  ‘Y’won’t be fancyin’ of this ladle about your shoulders but that be what I’ll be dishin’ out to you should y’be tryin’ to pull the wool over my eyes so y’best set to words what it be I sees in your own.’

  She had not been deceived; but then she had always been able to detect duplicity, and the years had not clouded that ability.

  He said quietly, ‘You gave me that idea, you’ve looked so tired these few days. I wondered were you . . . is there anything wrong?’

  ‘Be you askin’ am I sufferin’ some illness then the answer be no I ain’t, but tiredness, that I don’t deny; the nursin’ of that lad, the hours of sittin’ through the night teks toll of a body young as well as old, it’s teken it of Ann Spencer same as meself but illness,’ Leah smiled, ‘no lad, ain’t neither the wench nor me be sufferin’ no illness.’

  Ann Spencer was not ill. Edward watched the delicious-smelling meal being ladled on to a plate. That was as maybe but he had seen more than tiredness on that face, and with the boy on the mend it could not be attributed to anxiety on his behalf. So what was the worry he could see sitting on her shoulders?

  ‘Oh there y’be wench, I were about to ask Edward go call you in . . . the meal be the tastier for not bein’ left to go cold.’

  He had not heard her come into the scullery. Standing aside for Ann to enter the living room Edward noted the brevity of the nod she accorded his greeting. Leah Marshall was not easily deceived but neither was he; it was easy to see where he stood in Ann Spencer’s esteem.

  ‘I’ve got a meal ready at home.’ It wasn’t the truth but it would spare Ann Spencer the onus of his presence.

  ‘Since when were a slice of bread and cheese preferable to a plate of beef cheek!’ Leah looked up sharply from the plate she had set on her ancient wooden tray. ‘You’ll sit there my lad and eat of that meal, hmph! Bread and cheese indeed!’

  The bang of the spoon and fork on the tray emphasised that she would brook no argument. Leah returned the pot to the hob, saying as she did so, ‘I’ll tek a plate to the lad.’

  ‘No.’ Ann reached for the tray. ‘You have done enough today. Sit and talk with Mr Langley, I will take Alec his meal.’

  ‘Be good of you wench.’ For a moment it seemed Leah would take advantage of the offer but with a characteristic lift of the head she went on. ‘But like I were sayin’ a minute since, you’ve been on the go as much as me and though y’be many years the younger y’ gets every bit as tired.’

  ‘I can rest later.’

  ‘We both can rest later!’

  Leah’s dogmatic retort brought a quiet chuckle from Edward. ‘A word in your ear, Miss Spencer. Leah Marshall is a hard woman, she will argue the sun out of the sky simply to get her own way. Take my advice, and admit defeat while you have strength left to talk.’

  ‘There be one more bit of advice needs be given.’ Beside the fireplace Leah was rolling back her sleeves. ‘Comin’ the old buck gets a lad a leatherin’ and big as you be Edward Langley you ain’t too big to get your arse smacked!’

  ‘What did I tell you, Miss Spencer.’ Edward sighed in mock despair. ‘Not only is a man accused of impudence but he’s also threatened with a hiding.’ He reached for the tray Ann was holding. ‘Please let me take Alec his supper, help me get out of this room before my rear end becomes too sore to sit on.’

  ‘Cheeky young sod!’ Leah shook her head fondly. ‘I swears young ’uns today don’t ’ave no respect.’

  Eyes that glinted with laughter locked momentarily on Ann’s, then Edward pleaded in a theatrical whisper. ‘Show a poor man a kindness miss, spare me any more of the woman’s chuntering.’

  ‘Chunterin’!’ Leah’s hands went to her hips. ‘Now it be me askin’ of you wench, let that rogue tek of that tray afore I gives ’im the true length of me tongue.’

  Listening to the footsteps going upstairs Leah lowered herself wearily into a chair.

  ‘He be a good lad.’ She smiled over the plate Ann set before her. ‘Kindness be Edward Langley’s middle name.’

  ‘You love him don’t you?’

  Leah nodded. ‘Like a son. He were always that for me, more so after his mother were teken, God rest ’er. Oh, John Langley were a good father but the heart died inside him when he lost Miriam, then with news of Edward bein’ missin’ in action the man just give up the ghost. He were dead afore we got word Edward were found wounded but livin’. Deborah and me took on the seein’ to Hill Rise ’til the lad were able to do it for hisself, I’d ever hoped him and Deborah . . .’

  ‘I’d ever hoped him and Deborah . . .’

  Ann poured the jug full of water in which a small piece of dried and salted calf stomach had soaked overnight into the evening milk Edward had emptied into the vat, hearing again as she did so those quietly spoken words in her mind. Sympathy ran like a tide in Ann. Leah had hoped for her daughter and Edward to marry – and he? She stole a glance at the tall figure carrying empty churns across the yard to the scullery. Edward Langley also must have wanted that marriage. His feelings for Leah’s daughter, did they still run deep? Had love for her kept him from forming a relationship with another girl, might it prevent his ever doing so?

  The last query stung so sharply it made her catch her breath. Ann stared at the swirl of milk. Such a question should not have her senses react in that way . . . it must not be allowed to affect her in any way. Thought of Edward Langley choosing to marry or not to marry could be of no concern to her.

  No concern!

  Ann met the smile of the man returning across the yard.

  So why did it hurt so much?

  ‘I’ll be along in the morning to see to Leah’s girls.’

  The emotion of the previous moments prevented Ann from replying.

  The lady wanted no conversation! Lifting churns he had helped scour on to his cart Edward smiled grimly to himself. Leah Marshall had been and still was like a mother to him. He loved her dearly and had been happy with the prospect she had put to him. Joining her holding to Hill Rise, becoming joint business partners would have provided him with a way of taking care of her. But Ann Spencer’s presence in this house was already doing more for Leah than ever he could; she was a daytime companion Leah could talk with whereas he after completing his milk round was out in the fields until gone dark; and then in the evening and especially the long night hours the presence of that girl and the lad lent Leah the security of knowing she was not alone in the house. That was a security Edward Langley could not supply. He heard the words he knew Leah would say: ‘A young lad unmarried! Livin’ in the ’ouse of an older woman who be no relative! Whatever would folk say? Well I tells y’ this Edward Langley, they won’t be sayin’ it of Leah Marshall.’

  Once the last of the churns was in place Edward felt the obvious truth of the situation. Ann Spencer could take the place of a daughter but with her aversion to him he must relinquish the idea of replacing a son. He bolted the tailboard of the cart into place, then took the horse’s bridle, saying over his shoulder, ‘Be sure to tell Leah I’ll see to the girls.’

  No goodnight, no smile? But was that not understandable? Sympathy rippled through Ann. Seeing a perfect stranger where his beloved Deborah should be. That he came to the house at all must demonstrate great strength of mind but nothing had power enough to keep that sadness completely hidden from his face.

  ‘Leah’s girls, does . . . does she always refer to cows in that way?’

  It had come q
uickly. Ann blushed, knowing she had spoken not for the want of an answer but to have him turn to her before he left.

  ‘Not all cows.’

  He had turned to look her way but there was no smile.

  Her question provided an opportunity for a few moments longer in her company. But though she had asked she had not looked at him, had not spoken with warmth. Edward told himself it would be less stressful for her and a whole lot less painful for himself to let that brief reply suffice, to leave without further word. But watching her now, the shadows of dusk kissing her cheeks, Edward Langley knew that was advice he could not follow.

  ‘Leah has seen every one of that herd born right here on her own patch, named each even before it stood on its feet for the first time. I reckon they have helped her face the pain of losing a family, that talking to them while milking eased the loneliness. She looks on them more as friends than animals, p’raps that is the reason of her calling them “the girls”; but now you and Alec are here with her Leah isn’t lonely though it’s my belief she’ll go on speaking of those cows as “girls”.’

  But I won’t be here! The answer flashed silently in Ann’s mind. Alec is well enough to be told . . . tomorrow I have to do as I promised those women.

  Taking her silence and failure to lift her head as further proof Ann wanted only his departure Edward clucked softly to the horse, then as it began to move off said, ‘Tomorrow, after the cows have been put into the field, I’ll load the butter and cheese, give you more of a break before you set about deliveries.’

  ‘I won’t be making any deliveries, I have to leave.’

  Barely a dozen yards from her the cart stopped abruptly making the animal whine a protest.

  ‘You have to leave!’