Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1

by Bingham, Charlotte

  Marjorie wanted to take Aunt Hester’s hand, to hug her, to do something to show her that she was feeling love for her, but since her aunt wasn’t even looking at her any more she decided the best course was to do just as she was told and put on more toast.

  When she turned back from the stove she saw her aunt was on her feet reaching up to the top shelf of the dresser for the cocoa tin. She sat back down at the table, unscrewed the top and took out the key.

  ‘After we’ve had our tea, Marjorie,’ she said, ‘you and I will go upstairs and open up Richard’s room. And we’ll leave it open. And the key in the lock. So that’s that.’

  But beside the door being unlocked, everything in their lives remained the same, despite Marjorie’s hoping that her aunt would change, and somehow turn back into the beautiful, radiant woman she had seen in the photograph. Not surprisingly, the return to the status quo made Marjorie vaguely resentful, as if she had opened a beautifully wrapped gift, only to find nothing inside – until the day she received a letter.

  Marjorie had often written to Billy, but never received a reply. In her letters Marjorie always made sure to explain why she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to him and Maisie, and continued to do so each time she wrote. Perhaps in some desperation, she finally took the bull by the horns and, without reference to Aunt Hester, invited Billy to spend Christmas with them.

  ‘Letter for you,’ Aunt Hester announced one morning at breakfast, a meal always eaten in silence while Aunt Hester concentrated on her copy of the Daily Sketch. ‘Not like you to be getting letters.’

  Noting the spidery writing on the front as well as the postmark, Marjorie found her hands trembling as she opened it.

  ‘Are you going to tell me who it’s from then? Or am I going to have to read it for myself? When you’re at the shops.’

  Marjorie looked up from her reading, not sure whether this was intended as a rebuke, or light sarcasm.

  ‘It’s from the boy I told you about, Aunt Hester,’ Marjorie replied. ‘Billy at the Dump, or rather Mrs Reid’s school—’ she corrected herself quickly, but Aunt Hester was on to her at once.

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t call it that, Marjorie dear. It conjures up the most horrible picture.’

  ‘It wasn’t my word for it, it was Billy’s, actually.’

  ‘Hmm. So what’s this Billy want then? Not a handout, I hope, because I’m a poor woman, Marjorie.’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that, Aunt Hester,’ Marjorie said hurriedly.

  She folded Billy’s letter, excitedly accepting the invitation to come and spend Christmas with them, and carefully replaced it in the envelope before slipping it into her pocket. Her aunt said nothing more about it, and the letter remained in the pocket of Marjorie’s skirt for the rest of the morning before being put in the little desk her aunt had recently installed in her tiny bedroom.

  The next day Marjorie sat down and wrote to Billy to say that she was afraid she couldn’t ask him for Christmas after all. She gave the letter to her aunt to be posted, and heard nothing more back from Billy, which as usual came as no surprise.

  In spite of this, Marjorie found herself looking forward to Christmas. All the previous Christmases she could remember had been at the boarding school. Since Pet and Uncle Mikey hadn’t liked children, there had been no attempt to include those left in their care over the holidays in their own celebrations. The only glimpses their charges had of Christmas was a sight of their tree when they distributed the children’s token gifts, a tangerine or a small bag of nuts wrapped in brown paper.

  As Christmas drew nearer Marjorie became increasingly excited at the lengths her aunt appeared to be going to in her arrangements. It was not just the purchase of a proper tree to place in the sitting room, it was the jaunt to Woolworth’s to buy tinsel and a box of glinting silver glass ornaments for the tree, a small fairy with a wand for the top and two of the most glamorous decorations Marjorie had ever seen – paper bells that when opened out revealed themselves to be made of bright yellow, blue, red and green quarters. These were hung in solemn state on either side of the fireplace.

  There was one slight difficulty that Marjorie still had to overcome and that was how to afford the gift she had in mind for Aunt Hester. The day before Christmas Eve she faced the proprietor of the shop with her dilemma.

  ‘I thought if I gave you what I’d saved out of my pocket money so far – which is five shillings and sixpence – I could then give you sixpence a week for the next fourteen weeks. If that would be all right?’

  ‘No it would not be all right, young lady, and even if I was to let you break the law in that way, you’d have to pay me back a lot more than fourteen sixpences. You’d be looking to pay me back more like forty sixpences. What’s called interest, see?’

  ‘Why should that be of interest?’

  ‘Not of interest,’ the proprietor said curtly. ‘Interest. The money you are required to pay on top of the asking price in deals such as the one you’re suggesting. You borrow money – you pay for it.’

  He put out a hand to ruffle Marjorie’s hair, but she quickly stepped back from him.

  ‘But like I just said,’ he continued, ‘you’re not old enough, so it’s cash up front or nothing at all, Christmas or no Christmas.’

  Marjorie eyed the object of her desire, the delicately wrought bracelet studded with brilliant mauve stones, and wished there was something she could sell or do to earn the extra seven shillings that she needed.

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ Aunt Hester announced at breakfast the next morning. ‘I don’t know what I can have been thinking. Must be all this rushing about for Christmas, I suppose. I was going through my desk and found this.’

  A hand appeared across the table, having taken something from a pocket. The postal order was waved at her while Aunt Hester continued to read her morning paper. Marjorie took the order and carefully unfolded it. The middle line promised to pay the bearer the sum of ten shillings. It was unsigned.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Marjorie said carefully. ‘Who’s the bearer? Who does this belong to?’

  Aunt Hester lowered her paper.

  ‘When your mother agreed to my having you here, she sent me a few pounds. Not much, but enough to help get you some clothes and things. She also asked me to keep back ten shillings so that you could have something at Christmas. It’s nothing to do with me, so you can stop staring.’

  Marjorie frowned at the money in her hand.

  ‘But if it’s a present, shouldn’t it be under the tree?’

  ‘Suppose so, except a present is no sort of present at all if it’s just money. Much better for you to go out and buy something you’d like. Much more the thing.’ She smiled suddenly.

  Marjorie returned to the shop and excitedly presented the postal order to the proprietor.

  ‘It’s gone up, now it’s nearly Christmas.’

  ‘How much exactly?’

  ‘All the way up to fifteen shillings.’

  Marjorie took her purse from her coat pocket and unclipped it. ‘Do you like Christmas, Mr Gingold?’ she asked him suddenly, after a short pause.

  ‘I love Christmas! Shall I tell you why I love Christmas? Because I make a lot more money!’

  Marjorie stepped forward and counted out the sum they had originally agreed.

  ‘That’s what I’m paying, and not a penny more. Now if you wouldn’t mind wrapping it.’

  The shopkeeper stared at her and then snapped the case shut, after which he stared hard at Marjorie.

  ‘You’re quite a little card, you know that?’ he said, as Marjorie moved out of range of his extending hand. ‘It’s all right. I don’t really bite. And you can have the bracelet for what we originally agreed.’

  ‘Two pounds five shillings and sixpence wasn’t it?’ Marjorie asked, deadpan. ‘With the interest?’

  ‘Twelve and six, to be precise,’ he said, fetching some tissue paper to wrap the dark blue leather case. ‘And that includes the wrapping.’


  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There,’ he said, having wrapped it in gold paper and stuck a small piece of imitation holly in its ribbon. ‘That’ll look all right under the tree, won’t it?’

  ‘Very nice. But before I go, mind if I ask you why you let me have it cheaper?’

  ‘’Cos like I said, you’re a right little card – and I likes right little cards, the cheekier the better. That surprise you, does it?’

  ‘Yes, it does, rather,’ Marjorie agreed, carefully taking her gift-wrapped package and slipping it into her shopping bag. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘You too, young lady. You too.’

  The shop bell seemed to be ringing with a triumphant note as Marjorie closed the door behind her.

  Aunt Hester was out when Marjorie returned, which was unusual because it was not one of her business days, and lately she seemed to have tired of whist. But then, seeing as Christmas was all but upon them, Marjorie imagined a few changes in their routine were only to be expected. Having hung her coat up on the stand in the hall, she went into the living room, wrote a card for her aunt and carefully placed her gift under the tree. There weren’t many presents to accompany it, only a couple wrapped in brown paper, and tied with red ribbon.

  Seeing Mavis Arnold and her husband from Number 30 next door had been invited for Christmas lunch, she imagined the gifts under the tree were probably for them, which meant there was nothing for her. What she always called the wishbone, not a lump, started to constrict her throat as she struggled with threatening tears, and then taking a deep breath she shook her head hard. No more wishbones, no more lumps in the throat, from now on she would be as she had been with the man in the jewellery shop – strong as she could be.

  It seemed only a moment later that the door flew open and her aunt reappeared, still in her hat and coat, and, for her, unusually red in the face. At first Marjorie suspected that she might have been drinking, just as Pet and Uncle Mikey always took to doing as soon as they saw Christmas heave into view, but as she began to talk Marjorie sensed her excitement was rooted in something quite different.

  ‘Marjorie dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ah, there you are! Now, let me see. Ah yes, I want you to pop upstairs for me and find – and bring me down my flat shoes, there’s a good girl.’ She cleared her throat, and looked at her feet. ‘Ah yes, my poor feet are killing me with all the walking I’ve done today. Go along now – and hurry. They’re probably under my bed!’ she called after her as Marjorie hurried from the room. ‘If not, try the wardrobe!’

  As Marjorie reached the landing she heard the front door opening again, although the bell had not sounded. She found herself feeling suddenly excited. Perhaps it had something to do with her aunt’s odd manner, her usual brusqueness mixed with a sense of excitement.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ her aunt said from her armchair by the fire when Marjorie finally returned with her flat shoes. ‘Thought you’d gone to Timbuctoo, I did really. Shoes. Must be hard to find, shoes, eh?’

  ‘Your shoes weren’t by your bed, and they weren’t in your wardrobe. They were under your chair, right at the back.’

  ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘Anyway, here they are.’

  ‘Fancy,’ Aunt Hester sighed. ‘Must be losing my marbles.’

  ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on, shall I?’

  ‘In a minute, in a minute. I need to talk to you first.’ She stared up at Marjorie. ‘I expect you’ve spotted there isn’t anything under the tree with your name on it, eh?’ She laughed. ‘And I expect you’ve been thinking mean old Auntie, that’s what you’ve been thinking, I dare say.’

  Marjorie shook her head.

  ‘No, really not, Aunt Hester. You’ve done more than enough for me, really you have.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Aunt Hester sighed over-dramatically. ‘Sometimes you’re a little too good to be true, aren’t you?’ She looked at her niece with her head on one side, while Marjorie stood looking at her own feet.

  ‘You didn’t think I’d let Christmas go by without you having a present, did you? Your present, dear, is behind my chair.’

  ‘Behind your chair, Aunt Hester?’

  ‘Behind my chair. What’s the matter? Not been washing our ears out?’

  ‘I meant shouldn’t it be under the tree?’

  ‘Don’t think it’ll keep till then, dear,’ Aunt Hester murmured. ‘Think you’d best have it now.’

  Realising that was as much information as she was going to get from her relative, Marjorie approached Aunt Hester’s chair, and looked behind it.

  ‘Billy? Billy!’

  A much taller and even thinner boy than she remembered uncoiled himself from behind Aunt Hester’s chair.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Marjorie dear!’ Aunt Hester beamed at them both.

  Billy was standing in front of her now, looking more like a lost sheep than ever before. He had grown so much in the last six months that the clothes that had been a size too big for him when last seen by Marjorie were already far too small. He was paler and more straggly-haired than ever, if it were possible, but his dark eyes were as affecting as they had always been, as was his slow shy smile. Marjorie wanted to hug him to her. Instead, she took one of his hands, smiled at him and led him over to the table where she sat him down while she finished laying tea.

  It being Christmas Eve, Aunt Hester had laid on a special tea, with scones, strawberry jam, fruit cake and a big jug of orangeade. Although Marjorie was accustomed to having cake or scone treats at least once a week now, she was nevertheless hardly able to take in such a spread, while Billy, who could only ever have dreamed of such heavenly delights, was reduced to a stupefied silence, particularly when he was encouraged by his hostess to drink his orange squash through two coloured straws.

  ‘In case you’re wondering, Marjorie,’ her aunt said, pouring herself some tea, ‘Billy’s sleeping in Richard’s old room. I cleared it out and made up the bed when you were out shopping the other day.’

  ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Is that all right indeed. Would I have done it if it wasn’t “all right”?’

  Marjorie took Billy upstairs after tea to help him settle in and unpack his small suitcase. Aunt Hester certainly had done it out all right. The room was hardly recognisable, at least not in its furnishings. Gone were all her son’s belongings, his sporting equipment, his photographs, and his clothes, and in their place were a few ordinary sporting prints and photographs of contemporary sportsmen.

  ‘Mr Arnold,’ Marjorie suddenly exclaimed, looking closely at one of the photographs. ‘Of course, these are his.’

  Seeing Billy looking at her in some bewilderment, she shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Mr Arnold is a friend of Aunt Hester’s, and these were his. I saw them one day in his house.’

  Unsurprisingly Billy had as few things to his name as Marjorie had when she arrived so just at first he seemed too embarrassed to unpack his suitcase. While he dallied, Marjorie pulled open the top drawers of the chest. To her amazement there were still clothes in the chest, boys’ clothes, but not the clothes she’d seen there before. There was a whole new set, everything from simple shirts and sweaters to socks and warm underwear.

  She looked across at Billy who was finally taking his few belongings out of his case and putting them away, and noticed the present wrapped in shiny bright blue paper on his bed, with a card with one robin redbreast in the corner that announced Happy Christmas, William, from all at Number 32.

  ‘We’ll put that under the tree,’ she said, picking up the package. ‘With the rest of the presents.’ She stared at him. ‘Actually, I suppose I really should wrap you up and put you under the tree tomorrow.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when Pet come and said I been called for,’ Billy announced, sitting himself down on the edge of the bed. ‘Pet come and said Billy – you been called for, and honest – I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was one of their stupid jokes.’

  ‘Didn’t you get my letters, B
illy?’

  ‘Yeah – course I did. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering, that’s all. ’Cos I never heard from you, I suppose.’

  ‘What?’ Billy turned to her, as she sat down beside him. ‘But I wrote straight back to you. Honest. Every time you wrote, I did. And I gave them to Pet to post as usual. Couldn’t do other, could I?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose she never posted them, the old meanie.’

  ‘Look what I got, Marjorie.’ Billy opened his small suitcase and sure enough there were all the letters she’d written to him, done up tight with a piece of brown string. ‘See?’

  ‘You got the one there that said you couldn’t come for Christmas?’

  ‘No.’ Billy shook his head and frowned. ‘But I got a letter from Mrs Hendry saying as I could – but that I was to keep me mouth shut.’

  Marjorie laughed, and putting her arm round Billy’s shoulder gave him a quick hug.

  ‘I won’t ever forget this, Marjie,’ he said, quietly, not looking at her. ‘Not never.’

  They sat like that for a little longer, Marjorie with her arm round him, Billy staring straight ahead, before Marjorie jumped up and started to tickle him to distract him from realising that being with her and Aunt Hester at Christmas couldn’t go on for ever.

  On Christmas Day Aunt Hester wore an old, faded but still glamorous full-length red velvet dress while Marjorie wore a white organza dress with a taffeta underskirt that Aunt Hester had found for her in a second-hand shop. It was too long for her, but they sewed up the hem and after that it fitted as if it had been made for her. Billy wore the clothes that he had found in his room, put there especially by Aunt Hester.

  ‘Even though they’re not new, William, they’re quality, and it’s quality that counts. Don’t you ever forget that. Quality clothing makes you feel like quality, while cheap makes you feel just that. Flannel’s quality suiting, young man, and I’ll warrant you’ll look just the thing when we see you in these tomorrow.’