by Annie Murray
‘He’s a lovely little lad, isn’t he?’ Mercy said.
‘Oh yes, he is indeed.’
What was it about this woman? Mercy thought. She had an air of command, of coldness even when she was pretending to be nice as pie.
‘Come along now, Steven, dear,’ she said.
‘Oh, couldn’t he just stay a little bit longer?’ Margaret appealed. ‘He and Mercy were just getting acquainted.’
There was no reply. The woman just stood there waiting to be obeyed, her disapproval seeping across the room.
Margaret quailed and gave in, reaching over to take her son. ‘I suppose time is getting on.’
As she tried to hand Stevie over he clung to her blouse, face crumpling. He’d already begun crying as, without a word, Radcliffe took him away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Over that first month Mercy settled into the big house on the Wake Green Road. She spent her evenings with Rose and Emmie in the little sitting room at the far end of the kitchen, talking and laughing. She started to feel young again and more energetic, especially as even the servants’ food in the Adairs’ house was better and more plentiful than anything she’d ever been used to. Mrs Parslow went home in the evenings to a little house in Kings Heath. But she was kind enough when she was there, once she’d decided Mercy wasn’t going to get above herself.
But Mercy knew she was still on trial.
‘He might send me packing come the end of the month,’ she complained to the maids one evening.
‘Well, I ’ope you don’t go,’ Emmie said, huddling close to the tiny fire in the grate. ‘It’s been a good laugh since you’ve been ’ere.’
‘I hardly ever see ’im, so I don’t know how he thinks he’s going to know what’s going on.’ Mercy only ever saw Mr Adair in passing and he never seemed to take any notice of her. This wouldn’t have worried her – she didn’t expect him to – except that he was the one who would decide whether she could stay or not. And it was growing more and more important to her that she did stay. The thought of going back to Angel Street would come over her like a rainstorm on a sunny day. She liked Margaret Adair, and her job was easy. She could scarcely believe what a comfortable life she had suddenly found. No more poverty, no more scraping for every penny in that damp, jerry-built house, having to see Mabel’s horrible face! It seemed like a miracle. If only she knew for sure she could stay!
But there was one other thing that made her ache for this certainty and that was Stevie. She adored him almost as if he were her own. She looked forward every day to seeing his wide, brown-eyed face and when she heard him crying she had to stop herself running to give him comfort. If only she could get closer to him. She found it hard to understand Margaret letting herself become so cut off from her child.
If I had a babby, Mercy thought, I’d never let it out of my sight.
‘I’d love to see Stevie more,’ she said to Rose and Emmie. ‘He’s so beautiful. I wish I could just take ’im off and play whenever I like.’
‘You’ll be lucky!’ Rose guffawed with scorn at the very idea. ‘Not with that guard dog ’e’s got looking after ’im!’
One day she was passing through the hall when Nanny Radcliffe pushed Stevie’s black perambulator in through the front door. It was a windy day and Mercy ran forward and helped her shut the door.
‘’Er, thank you,’ Audrey Radcliffe said, sounding surprised but not hostile. She smiled. Mercy felt encouraged, and bent over Stevie. ‘Hello there!’ She reached out and tickled him under the chin. ‘How’s the beautiful lad then?’ She looked up at Audrey Radcliffe who was standing, watching. Mercy was taken aback. She had expected the woman to stiffen and tell her to leave off but instead she saw an odd, wistful expression on her face.
Mercy smiled at her again, her heart thudding. What was it about this little woman that made her so uncomfortable to be with? All her childhood nerves around Miss O’Donnell and the others rushed back through her. But this was a chance, and she decided to risk it.
‘I, er – I like babbies. I was wondering if I could come up and see him like – I could give ’im a bath or summat for you?’
The woman seemed to tighten up. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ She started to push the pram on down the hall. ‘No. That’s my job. You leave all that to me.’
Soon after, when Margaret had gone out for an hour and the sun was winter bright, Mercy looked out and saw the pram in the garden. Through the glass she could hear Stevie crying. There was no sign of anyone else. Nanny Radcliffe must have put him out for his sleep. She was rigorous about him getting enough fresh air.
Mercy had a great rush of longing. If only she could just go and take a peep at him! She was alone: Rose and Emmie were busy, and she would have loved to play with him or walk him round the park. Perhaps she could just go and rock him to get him to sleep . . .
She went to the back door, unlocked it, and went out into the garden, hugging herself. She had no coat on and it was freezing cold! She could hear Stevie’s cries, loud now, and wretched.
When she reached the pram, she gasped, horrified. Stevie had been put outside with no covers on. Not one! He was clad simply in a vest and napkin, his arms and legs bare. He was crying wretchedly, his nose was running and his fingers and lips had a blue tinge.
‘Oh my Lord, the stupid bitch!’ Mercy reached in without giving it a thought, gathered him up into her arms and carried him back into the house. Sitting by the fire in the back sitting room, she held him wrapped in a shawl and rocked him, warming him until eventually he grew drowsy and slept in her lap. She still carried on humming, looking down into his chubby face, the scar over his eye at last beginning to heal properly. She laid him softly to rest on the couch and sat watching him, mesmerized. Imagine if he were hers. Belonging to someone! Really belonging. Being able to call him family. She pretended to herself that Stevie was hers, imagined trying to build a life for him. How she would work to see he had everything better than her! And she would never, never leave him . . .
‘What are you doing?’
The voice at the door made her jump violently. In that split second she had to decide what to say. She wanted to shout, but knew she must be polite.
‘He was crying. I just thought I’d give ’im a bit of a love, that’s all. He was cold,’ she pointed out, trying to speak humbly. She had to keep on the right side of this woman.
Audrey Radcliffe stared at her for an uncomfortably long time. Mercy saw that she, too, was struggling, having to decide how to play this one. To Mercy’s astonishment she walked across the room and sat down. She put her feet in their pointed shoes neatly together.
‘You shouldn’t go against what I say, you know.’ Her voice was oddly childlike, wheedling almost.
‘Sorry,’ Mercy said, controlling her anger. ‘Only it is cold—’
‘I’m the child’s nanny, not you.’
‘I know, only—’
‘Me. Not you.’ She smiled suddenly, eyes fixed on Mercy’s face, then stood up again. Mercy noticed to her astonishment that her hands were trembling. In a desperate voice she said. ‘Don’t tell her.’
‘Tell who?’
‘Mrs Adair. About this afternoon. It won’t happen again, really it won’t.’
‘Awright. No, ’course I won’t.’ Mercy smiled up at her. So she was human after all. She was worried about losing her place here! But looking at her Mercy could still only feel the same sense of disquiet. There was something oddly wooden about her. Something not right . . .
‘Shall I bring him up when he wakes?’
‘All right. Straight away though.’ She was on her dignity again now, and went out of the room without another word.
‘Well,’ Mercy murmured to the sleeping baby, ‘she’s a rum’un all right, that one.’
‘You surely have no objection to her staying with us now?’ Margaret Adair pleaded with her husband. ‘She’s been here a month and she’s been marvellous.’
James Adair had arrived home
from the works and the two of them were in their bedchamber, changing for the evening. James was sitting on the edge of the bed unfastening his shoes. He hesitated before answering.
Margaret assumed this thoughtful pause was his way of justifying his initial doubts about Mercy, of asserting his control of the household.
‘James – darling . . .’ Margaret came round the bed. ‘Perhaps we could invite Mercy to share our dinner with us tonight? You complain that you don’t know what she’s like because you scarcely ever see her!’
She turned her back to him, inviting him to button her up. She was dressed in a rather matronly frock, blue, with a maroon paisley pattern, which accentuated her already considerable curves. She had tried to pin up her hair, though wisps of it were already escaping down her back.
‘You look nice,’ James offered, even though he didn’t quite feel it was true. Surely a woman should have more instinct about what clothes would suit her?
‘Oh, thank you!’ She turned her head, startled. It was a long time since he’d paid her a compliment.
James smiled. Things are getting better, he thought. It was days – no, more than that – since he’d come home and found her weeping and incapable, her clothes all anyhow, some of the buttons left unfastened. And she was definitely smiling more. He stood up and before doing up the dress he slipped his hands inside. Feeling her soft, curving form he wanted her with such a reconciliatory stab of desire that for a moment he felt like weeping. Perhaps all could be well again. He pulled her closer to him.
‘James,’ she murmured, reassured by his sudden affection. She turned and faced him. James smiled, the skin crinkling round his eyes.
‘My love – You seem more . . . yourself.’
‘I am! I do feel better. Except . . .’ She stopped, chewing her lip.
‘What?’
I want her out, she felt like shouting. Get rid of that wretched Radcliffe woman who rules my life and all will be well. But she didn’t want to sour the moment.
‘Nothing.’ She brushed her hands down the lapels of his jacket, her expression sweet. ‘You didn’t answer my question about Mercy.’
James laughed. ‘You’re a strange one, aren’t you? Why eat with us? She’s a servant! Still, I suppose she’s not so much younger than Lizzie. A replacement sister for you, eh?’
‘Yes.’ Margaret’s face was bright. ‘Just like that.’
Her beloved sister Lizzie had left her father’s Warwickshire farm as she had done, to marry another farmer and settle outside Carlisle. Margaret missed her sorely. ‘So may she?’
James’s spirits were high, and he could feel the pleasant sensation of wanting her increasing in him. ‘Oh, all right, if it keeps you happy. How’s our boy today?’
Margaret’s face fell. ‘He’s all right. From what I’ve seen of him. That woman took him out in a terrible rainstorm. She’s obsessed with this fresh air business. I hope he didn’t catch his death.’
‘’Course not. Toughen him up. She knows what she’s doing.’
Margaret tried to demur, but she could see James was barely listening. Such close proximity to his wife after the deprivation of months of union with her was overcoming him. Cautiously he ran his hands over her enlarged breasts. The feel of them was extraordinary.
‘Oh, my love,’ he whispered, leaning to kiss her soft mouth. He was overcome with need for her.
‘James, we must go down – they’ll be waiting for us.’
‘Let them wait.’
Gently, she moved away from him. ‘Let us think about – that . . .’ A blush spread over her face as she appealed to him. They never spoke of the physical things which happened between them. ‘Later – please?’
‘Very well.’ He struggled for composure, unsatisfied desire bringing him for a moment to the edge of violence. But he must control himself. Self-control was vital, was the mark of civilized behaviour. He turned from her, clearing his throat hard.
‘They want me?’ Mercy was in the kitchen with Emmie and Rose. She often gave a hand in the evening while Mrs Parslow was plodding round on her big flat feet amid the steaming saucepans.
Rose was grinning. ‘Ooh,’ she teased. ‘Miss La-di-dah. We are going up in the world!’
‘Better go and put a clean frock on,’ Mrs Parslow commented, testing the potatoes to see if they were boiled. ‘You can’t sit in there with them unless you’re clean.’
‘But I haven’t got another clean frock!’ Mercy was all nerves at the thought of eating a meal in the presence of Mr Adair.
‘Ah well,’ Mrs Parslow said dryly. ‘You’ll ’ave to do then won’t you? Go on – best get on in there.’
Mercy rushed to wash her hands and then went timidly to the dining room. Why have they asked me? she wondered. Was it to tell her whether she was going to be allowed to stay or not? If they were going to turn her out, would they have asked her to eat dinner with them?
The light was on over the dining table and three places had been set. Mercy thought Mr Adair didn’t seem in a very good mood and Margaret Adair was flustered and apologetic in her too-tight dress.
‘Come in and sit down, dear,’ she said as Mercy slid into the room.
The three of them settled at the well-polished table, Mr Adair at the end with Mercy to his left and his wife to his right. A few moments later Emmie and Rose carried in the food, both smirking at Mercy behind the Adairs’ backs and Mercy had to look down at the hunting scene on her place mat to stop herself grinning back. What was she doing sitting here when she should be out in the kitchen with those two clowns as normal!
‘So how are you getting along?’ Mr Adair asked her once the three of them were alone.
‘Oh—’ Mercy was startled. ‘Er – very well thank you,’ she said, unsure how to respond. ‘Very nice.’ She was watching intently to see what the Adairs did with all the implements on the table. There was a generous slice of belly pork on her plate which smelt delicious.
‘Here we are, Mercy.’ Margaret passed her the potatoes. Mercy could feel her mouth watering at the sight but the dish was so heavy that in taking it in one hand she almost dropped it.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured, blushing as James Adair’s hand reached out and caught it.
‘Steady,’ he said. He smiled suddenly, a kind smile. Mercy smiled back, relieved, and for a moment his eyes dwelt on her face as if puzzled, before reaching for the other dish.
‘Swede?’
‘Oh, no, thank you.’
‘Do you not care for swede, Mercy?’ Margaret asked. ‘I must say I never liked it as a child . . .’
‘No, I don’t.’ Mercy felt her voice coming out very quietly.
She accepted greens, and they all began to eat. The food was delicious, and she was grateful when Mr Adair began to talk to his wife.
‘I had a letter today from that Kesler chap – the one in New York.’
‘Oh?’ Margaret frowned with her fork poised in the air. ‘Kestler? Isn’t he German?’
‘He’s an American by birth.’ James’s tone silenced any argument. ‘This is business, darling.’ There was a moment’s silence.
‘And what did he have to say?’
‘Well . . .’ James laid down his knife and fork, speaking with the kind of animation which only work could bring out in him. ‘He’s thinking and planning very much along the same lines as we are. That for smaller companies to survive we’ll have to get into one of the specialist niches in the market – and fast. And develop that as hard as we can. Kesler’s company is on about the same scale as ours.’
‘How marvellous,’ Margaret said.
James chewed on a mouthful of meat, then chuckled. ‘Oddly enough – in fact it seems like fate, almost – he’s also putting together a new model of racing cycle. It’s rather different from the approach Silkin and I have been working on, but Kesler’s full of all sorts of ideas about all these new aluminium alloys – lighter, you see, and . . .’
‘That sounds very exciting,’ Margaret enthuse
d, just a little too much.
James smiled and looked at Mercy. ‘I don’t suppose all this kind of business talk is of any interest to you?’
‘It is,’ she said truthfully. ‘What is the name of your company, Mr Adair?’ She knew, actually, but thought she’d ask again.
Mr Adair looked a little taken aback at her interest. ‘Well, it’s Adair and Dunne actually. Dunne’s made the parts for the cycles, or a lot of them any rate. So my company bought them up just before the War. We still have to go out to Dunlop for the tyres, and of course your best lamp is a Lucas lamp, but there’re local firms too. Of course, during the War—’ – he was really getting into his stride now – ‘we went over to making spares for military vehicles, which wasn’t unprofitable, I must say.’ He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. ‘But now’s our big chance to develop.’
Mercy frowned. ‘I always thought the BSA made all the cycles.’
‘Oh no.’ He laughed again, expansively. He was relaxing, flattered by Mercy’s interest. Margaret was visibly relieved. ‘The BSA are big of course. But there are quite a few firms. Some of the smaller ones have combined – take Weldless Steel Tubes, for instance. Now twenty-five years ago, they were—’
‘James, I can’t see that Mercy really needs to know all this,’ Margaret interrupted gently.
Her husband looked a little rueful, and sat back in his seat, stroking his slightly gingery moustache with one hand, his fine crystal glass in the other.
‘Factory life. There we are. You ever been in a factory?’
‘Yes,’ Mercy said simply. ‘I made grenades – Mills Bombs – for two years. Up Deritend.’
‘Did you now?’ He glanced at his wife, eyes reproachful. No one had told him he’d employed a factory hand in his house.
Shyly, Mercy began to question him. One question led to another. She was interested, and she also saw her attention pleased him. Margaret was bored by his work. She didn’t know anything much, of course. How did he know what people wanted? she asked. How did they know how many cycles to make? And if there were all these other cycle manufacturers in Birmingham, why did he need an American gentleman?