Alexander now pulled himself to his feet and stood with one hand gripping the mantelshelf as he looked across to his son. ‘Whether you are with me or not in this, James, our firm is no longer going to see to the Wellbrook Estate. I know what it’ll do to the firm’s income, but as it is, we both know we’re doing quite well now and can live comfortably without his business.’
James’s reply was quiet: ‘I’m with you there.’
‘There’s the bell,’ Glenda put in. ‘That’ll be him. I’m away. You can call me later, if you like, but I can’t be in on this. I just couldn’t sit through it; and anyway there was my share, and I’m not proud of it. I’ll never forgive myself for letting her go alone on that train to Eastbourne.’
When Richard Baindor entered the room his handsome face looked strained and his voice held an anxious note as he said, ‘Well, here I am, at your command, Alex. And I’m still wondering what it’s all about.’
‘Sit down.’ Alexander pointed to an armchair; then he resumed his seat, as did James. There followed a long, awkward silence as they surveyed each other; then, haltingly, Alexander said, ‘What do you know about your mother, Richard?’
‘About my mother? Only that I was about four years old when she left me and . . . well, she went away. My father told me later that she had died and that he didn’t want to hear me speak of her again. It seemed to annoy him. Even as a child, I had noticed it when I asked him something like “When is Mama coming back?” And this happened a number of times while we were in Italy; and because at that time I was a little afraid of him, even more than a little, I kept my thoughts about my mother to myself. Then one day, some years later, without any lead-up, he said, “Your mother is dead, Richard, and I don’t want you to mention her name to me ever again.” I don’t know how old I would have been then, ten or eleven. It was during a school holiday, and I remember, when back at school and hearing other fellows talking about their mothers, feeling a bit lost somehow, as if I had missed out on something.’
‘You had indeed missed out on something, Richard. You had indeed.’ Alexander was nodding at him. ‘Now, I’m going to start at the beginning, and it’ll be the second time I’ve had to go through it, and this is a painful process. I told James here the story and he found it almost unbelievable, as no doubt you will yourself.’
Richard said quietly now, ‘You’re going to tell me about my mother?’
‘Yes, I’m going to tell you about your mother, and also about your father. And I warn you that you will be disturbed. But you must know the truth before it is too late.’
And so Alexander began. For a full half-hour he talked, and for a full half-hour Richard Baindor sat staring at him, not uttering a word or asking a question, not even when Alexander finished, ‘Nearly twenty-seven years have gone by. We don’t know what has happened to her in all that time, only that she must have worn the same clothes practically every day, I think, and that, for a time, she must have been sleeping rough. Very rough.’
Again there was a painful silence. Then both Alexander and James watched the young man fall back in his chair and cover his face with his hands. They made no move, but waited until the spasm had eased. Then they watched him pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his face. He did not say he was sorry or make any apology for his tears, he just sat staring at them. It was some minutes before he spoke: ‘It’s . . . unbelievable,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said James, ‘it does seem unbelievable, but when you see her, Richard, you will believe all right.’
‘He turned her mind?’
‘Yes,’ said Alexander. ‘He definitely turned her mind. It is slipping back now, into Wellbrook Manor when you were a boy of four. I recall the night she last held you: she put her arms around you and hugged you while she promised you you were both going on an adventure. I didn’t know anything about it then. She had told me nothing, but her manner had been rather odd – odd for her, that is, because usually she was not placid exactly, but just quiet. That evening she seemed excited, even highly excited, especially when she went on the stage, and she had never sung better. In her heart she must have known it would be her last appearance there because she was going to escape. It was only some time after the terrible scene in the dressing room that Cox called on me and gave me what money was left over from the purchase of two second-class tickets to America. At that time, your father was away, but she was determined, even if he hadn’t been, that she would still make a run for it, and take you with her. Trip has told me that he was in on this.’
‘Trip? Old Trip?’
‘Yes, old Trip.’
‘Why has he never said anything to me?’
‘Because, I should imagine, he knew what it would do to you: you thought she was dead and it was better to leave it like that. He didn’t know what had happened to your mother and, what is more, he was middle-aged even then, and the manor had been his home since he was a boy working in the yard. He had no other home, but he knew that if he dared to say anything to you he would be out on his neck; and so would Mrs Atkins.’
‘And . . .’ Richard hesitated ‘. . . have you thought she was dead all these years?’
‘Not really. No. For years we had detectives looking here and there, but we decided, at least I did in my own mind, that when one reported that a strange lady had been sighted on the London docks, she must have gone abroad after all. But no; she must have just been wandering there, knowing with half her mind that that was the place of escape.’
Richard rose to his feet and began to pace the room almost from the window to the door. Neither Alexander nor James did anything to stop him or uttered a word until he looked at them and said, ‘I can’t take it in. You say she looked like a vagrant and probably had been exactly that for years, judging from the condition of her clothes?’
It was Alexander who answered, saying, ‘Yes, Richard, and we shall show you the clothes so that you will see what I mean by a vagrant.’
Now Alexander rang a bell, and when a maid arrived he said, ‘Would you please ask Matron if she will step in here a moment?’
Glenda came in. She looked at Richard, who was now standing by the far window, gripping the framework.
At her entry he turned slowly.
She did not speak to him and it was a moment or so before he murmured, ‘Oh, Glenda. Glenda.’
‘I know, Richard. I know just a little of how you must feel, because I, too, am staggered.’
It was here that James broke in, ‘Do you think you could get the coat and hat and other garments?’
She paused, then said, ‘Yes, I can do that,’ and went off.
It was more than five minutes later before she returned, and during that time not half a dozen words had been exchanged between the three men.
Glenda drew away the white sheet covering the garments that were laid across her arm. She put them on the couch and, turning to James, she said, ‘Hold that up, will you?’
He took the dirty-looking, worn coat and held it so that Richard could see it. Then, when Glenda took the weird contraption of a hat and placed it on the neck of the coat there came a loud exclamation from Richard. ‘I’ve seen her! I’ve met her! Oh, dear God! Yes.’ He put his hand to his head and turned to face them again. ‘She was sitting on a box on the drive of the hospital. She—’ He couldn’t go on: his eyes were tightly closed and his lower lip was caught between his teeth, before he recovered sufficiently to say, ‘She gripped my wrist. She must have recognised me somehow. Why she was there, I don’t know; but the chaps – there were two with me – they thought she was begging. And’ – he closed his eyes again – ‘one of them offered her a shilling, and she knocked his hand flying and the shilling went into the gutter. She still had hold of my wrist and was trying to say something.’ He looked at Alex now and asked, ‘Is . . . is she partly dumb?’
‘In a way, yes, Richard, or, at least, she’s fearful of speaking.’
‘She kept opening her mouth and putting her head back, and one of m
y friends suggested that what she said was “Rich”, and went on to explain: “She thinks you’re rich, she’s begging.” And I remember now how that dreadful pale face changed. I – I had to ease her fingers from my wrist and I kept telling her she must get to Outpatients. She – she needed attention for her chest. Intermittently she was absolutely croaking, and I recall I backed away from her saying I had a car waiting. And, you know, I almost went at a run. And she had come in those clothes when she first saw you?’
‘Oh, yes. Just like that. She must have worn them for years.’
Richard now took the coat from James’s hands and, holding it in front of him, he stared at it before pulling it to his chest and saying, ‘Poor woman! I’ll – I’ll kill him! I know now that I’ve always had two overriding emotions with regard to my father. Fear and dislike. But not any more. It isn’t just dislike. I’ll kill him!’
He laid the coat gently over the arm of the couch and said to them, ‘But where has she been all this time? She couldn’t have been going round in such a state. She would have been picked up by the Salvation Army or some organisation like that.’
‘We don’t know where she’s been, Richard,’ said Alexander, ‘and I doubt if we’ll ever find out, because she still has great difficulty in speaking, though I think part of it is her weakened state. She’s in a bad way.’
Glenda was now holding up the tattered remains of two other garments. She hadn’t brought the drawers with her; that would’ve been too embarrassing; but she had brought what was left of the woollen shift, and he took it in his hands, and saw that it had been stitched here and there, with stitches over stitches. The woollen garment was still long but very fragile and worn.
Glenda said to him: ‘It’s as I told Alex, she has terrible memories, and she thinks she’s back in the manor, and what she reveals happened at night in it becomes more horrifying. But how, I ask myself now, did she ever expect to escape from that man? I’m sure he would have hunted her to the ends of the earth and taken you back, Richard. Then God knows what he would have done to her, because he must have certainly intended to kill both her and Timothy on that night of the concert. When I saw her body I couldn’t believe it. I know she has a delicate skin, it still shows in her face, but I don’t think she bruises easily. But her body is almost covered with marks left by deep cuts and tears of some kind. Even after all these years they are still evident, faint but evident, like stains on the skin. They’re especially noticeable around the ankles. I’m telling you this, Richard, to give you some indication of the reason for her mental condition. The last battering must have turned her mind and impeded her speech. But why she has worn these clothes all these years, I don’t know. At some time she might have had a change in circumstances, but we’ll probably never know. She has clung to these clothes as if . . . well, I have my own theories, but we won’t know until we find out where she’s been.’
Richard sat down, his elbows on his knees, and rested his face between his hands. No one spoke until he lifted his head and, looking at Glenda, asked, ‘May I see her?’
Glenda hesitated before saying, ‘Well, she’s asleep now; she became so agitated that I had to give her a jab. It might be an hour or so before she’s round. But of course you may see her; and,’ she smiled now, ‘it will be wonderful, I’m sure, when she wakes to see your face.’
‘She must have recognised you that day, as you say, when she gripped your hand,’ Alexander said.
‘But how? If I was four when she last left me.’
After a moment’s thought Alexander said, ‘Probably because you bear a strong resemblance to her father. Yes,’ he nodded, ‘the more I look at you the more I see Francis, your grandfather. And you have her mouth. But there’s no sign of your . . . begetter in you, and none as yet shows in your nature, and I’ve known you since you were a baby.’
‘Well, I suppose I can thank God for that,’ said Richard bitterly. ‘But when I think how my poor mother was allowed to suffer so much all those years . . .’ In quite a different tone he appealed to Alexander, ‘What am I going to do?’
‘You’ll have to see him and tell him.’
‘Tell him? If I were to see him at this moment I’d strangle him. I’ll have to think, because this puts an end not only to my way of life but also to his.’ He stood up again and once more began to pace. Then he stopped and, looking at them, he said, ‘I’ll never live in that house again. I’ll set foot in it once and that will be to tell him what I know of him and think of him. I’ve felt guilty all my life about my feelings regarding him because everything he did seemed to be for my welfare. Until I decided for myself what I was going to be he was for pushing me on into business so that in time I could take over his empire. And it is an empire he’s got, as you know only too well.’
He turned to Alexander now. ‘And what has he made most of his money out of? Property. A lot of it in the slums, dropping to pieces. That has always upset me; but I was so afraid of him for years that I daren’t say anything to him. Twice only I have witnessed how he reacts when he is thwarted in any way. On each occasion he became violent. Once only, though, did he attempt to lift his hand against me, when he kept his doubled fist in mid-air before dropping back to his seat. It looked as if he was going to have a seizure. I recall now, it was in my teens on the day I dared to say to him, “I would like to know more about my mother, Father.” That day I was once more forbidden ever to mention her name again: she had been a wicked woman, he said, she had left me without a thought. On and on he went, before finishing in a dreadful, terrifying voice, “Don’t ever speak her name to me again as long as we live.”
‘From that day I began to question, but daren’t voice my thoughts. It was Trip who, one day, took me aside and said, “Your mother was not a bad lady. Just remember that.” I could never get him to go on and tell me more, although I begged him, and he said . . .’ Richard paused. ‘He said, “I’ve lived in this house all my life, as has Mrs Atkins. We both came when we were very young; we look upon it as home. We want to finish our days here in peace, Master Richard. Do you understand me?” I didn’t, but I said yes. It would be easy to condemn his attitude, but when I think that only a few days ago I pushed her off me, I want to bury my head in shame.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ Alexander said sharply. ‘You weren’t to know.’
‘Come along, Richard,’ said Glenda, ‘but she won’t be round yet.’
A few minutes later he was entering his mother’s bedroom. He walked slowly to the bedside and looked down on the emaciated face with the two long grey plaits lying, one each side of it. He was so pale himself that the sister pushed a chair towards him.
As he sat there, staring into the face of his mother, there was no way to describe the emotions that flooded him. He could say the main one was love, but there was sorrow, anxiety, remorse and, through it all, a strong vein of anger. For a moment he felt it would overpower all his other emotions, because it was linked with hate, and deep within him he knew that, if nothing else, he had inherited those two emotions from the man who had begotten him, and he knew he would use them to the full.
How he would do this, he did not yet know. He knew only that he wanted to lift the figure from the bed and hold her in his arms and tell her he remembered her. Oh, yes, he remembered her. He could even now recall the last time she had held him in her arms. She had looked so lovely, and she had worn that coat and that hat, which had made her extraordinarily beautiful then. He could even recall his nurse of that time . . . Flora. Flora Carr. But where had his mother been all these years? Why hadn’t she come back and sought him out?
Well, she had, hadn’t she? She had sat on the box on the hospital drive and held his wrist. In some way her mind had cleared and she remembered the past. But who or what had brought her into the present?
Someone was speaking to him. He turned to see a nurse at his side who said softly, ‘Matron says will you stay to dinner?’
He couldn’t give her an answer, his mind was in a
whirl. He muttered, ‘I don’t know. I’ll see.’
He recalled that he had promised to meet Jackie later on for dinner; he wasn’t due back in the hospital until nine tomorrow morning. But he wasn’t going back to the hospital and he’d have to tell them. But Jackie? He’d have to get word to her as well. Just now, though, the only thing that mattered was that he meant to stay with his poor mother for as long as she needed him.
During the next hour he drank two cups of coffee, sitting where he was, holding the long-fingered, blue-veined hand. It was the hand of an old woman, yet the face did not show many wrinkles. The skin was too tightly drawn for that. He was staring down into it as the lips moved and the eyelids lifted; and then she was looking at him. Now her mouth opened and she brought out one word in a husky whisper, ‘Richard.’
As his arms went about her, hers went around his neck and he murmured, ‘Oh, Mother, Mother.’
The sister and a nurse were standing at the foot of the bed. Both turned away and busied themselves at a table by the door. It was too much to witness.
‘My love, I should have known you the other day.’
The arms tightened about his neck.
How long they clung together he didn’t know; only when she released her hold on him did he let her slip back on to the pillows and, stroking her damp hair from her forehead, said, ‘I’ll never leave you again. Never.’
‘Richard.’ The name was clear although throaty.
‘Yes, talk to me. Tell me where you’ve been all this time. Just a little bit at a time.’
She put up her hand and stroked his cheek, and now she said another name, ‘Bella.’
The Silent Lady Page 27