As the door closed behind her father, Lydia closed her eyes briefly, torn between relief and guilt. She knew he could not help his irritable state of mind – his growing confusion must be terribly trying for him – but his hostility hurt her. If John were ever to become truly rich, which she doubted he would, a kindly nurse to help with her father would be a real blessing.
That same afternoon Dolly sat opposite her beloved in Bert’s Caff, listening with disbelief as Don outlined his plan. She sipped her tea without tasting it as her new life unfolded, word by word. In her wildest dreams she had never expected him to actually marry her, but she had hoped they would live together with their baby. Now he was promising to make her his legal wife, and the idea was almost too exciting to bear.
‘You mean . . . get wed in a church and everything?’ She stared at him. ‘This isn’t a joke, is it? You wouldn’t be so cruel . . . would you?’ Her heart was racing as she tried to imagine herself standing outside the church with their friends around her. Mrs Jenny Wickham! No, what was she thinking? She would be Mrs Donald Wickham.
‘No, Dolly, this isn’t a joke,’ he said gently. ‘But there won’t be a church because that would cost too much money and I’m trying to save up so that later on we can find a little flat and be on our own away from Mansoor Street – maybe an airy attic with a nice view across the rooftops.’
Dolly felt quite faint at the thought of it. She had expected to move in with the two brothers and would have settled for that. A place of their own! She wanted to throw her arms around him and hug the living daylights out of him but restrained herself. There was more to know, and she wanted to hear it all. She looked trustingly into his eyes as he continued.
‘I have a very good friend who has promised to marry us – a quiet, private affair with just Sidney as best man . . . His name is Reverend Willis Burke, and he has conducted several other weddings. He is not going to charge us the full rate because partly the ceremony will be his present to us. Isn’t that splendid of him?’
‘His wedding present to us? Oh, that is so kind!’ Dolly liked him already. ‘Will he – you know . . . Will he wear all the right clothes? The long dress and stuff? I mean, will he look like a reverend?’
‘Certainly. He is a reverend. Everything will be just as you imagine except for the church and all that silly hymn singing. There’s a small room over the Rose and Garter on Clarence Street which he uses for these private affairs.’
She had the feeling that he was watching her closely and did not want him to think she was in any way disappointed but she knew the Rose and Garter, and Clarence Street was hardly where she would have chosen to hold their wedding. But . . . beggars can’t be choosers, she told herself.
Don took hold of her hand. ‘Then afterwards we can pop down for a drink and—’
‘Can my ma come? And my sister and . . .’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The licensing laws only allow weddings on the premises if they are entirely private and discreet. No crowds. No rice or rose petals. They’re just trimmings, anyway. A private wedding is a very staid affair. Simple and elegant.’
‘But my ma . . .’ Her voice wavered.
‘No, Dolly!’ His tone had changed. ‘I’ve just explained that a private wedding has to be exactly that. Private.’ He shrugged, and his expression hardened. ‘Look, Dolly, if you would rather skip the wedding it’s fine by me. I wanted to please you, that’s all. I don’t give two damns!’
Dolly gasped. She stared at him, stricken. ‘No! No, everything’s fine, Don. Fine and dandy.’ She forced a smile, terrified that the dream wedding was about to be snatched away. ‘Truly it is, Don.’ She gazed at him beseechingly. ‘We can tell everyone afterwards. Explain that it was private and everything.’
‘Good girl. I knew you’d be sensible. We’ll be man and wife, and that’s all that matters. The baby will have a mother and father. It’s arranged for two o’clock on Saturday.’ He smiled. ‘Promise me you’ll be there!’
‘Oh dearest Don, most certainly I’ll be there – in my best bib and tucker!’ She was recovering from her fright. But whatever was she going to wear? she wondered, immediately anxious. Maybe she would confide in her sister and borrow the white silk rose from her straw hat. She could pin that on her Sunday best dress . . . But would her sister be able to keep the secret? She was something of a blabbermouth . . .
‘You must tell no one, Dolly,’ he was urging. ‘The reverend was most particular about that. If word gets out, he’ll be pestered from noon ’til dusk by other folk wanting the same – and he’ll blame us!’
Suddenly, his eyes darkened again. ‘There’s one more thing, Dolly, that you must accept. The day after the wedding I am away again on business all day so . . .’
‘On a Sunday?’ A wave of regret swept through her at the prospect. ‘But if you tell them you’ve just got married . . .’
He stood up. ‘No, Dolly. There is no way round it. Being a salesman means being available. If a customer in Leeds wants to see our sample range, I’m going to get it to him on time.’
‘Can’t they send someone else – just this once?’
‘They could, but I’m the best they have so it has to be me. Lester’s are a very big firm, and we can’t afford to disappoint them . . . but if I get the order I’ll do what I always do.’
She brightened. ‘You’ll bring me a present!’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die!’ He grinned. ‘Give me a kiss, you funny girl!’
‘I’m not a girl,’ she protested, kissing him. ‘I’m a mother-to-be!’
‘And a bride-to-be!’ He held her close and kissed her again. ‘Now remember, two o’clock tomorrow, outside the Rose and Garter, and in the twinkling of an eye you’ll be Mrs Wickham!’
Meanwhile, alone in his dreary room, Willis Burke was rummaging in his flimsy wardrobe for what he laughingly called his ‘vestments’ – a long shapeless dress which he had found in a second-hand clothes shop and which had once been white, and a long table runner which he had cleverly redesigned so that it fitted round his neck and shoulders and hung down over the front of his body. The latter, he felt, gave the outfit a certain gravitas because it had several tassels remaining along each end. Now he retrieved both items and regarded them dubiously.
They need ironing, he told himself, but he did not own an iron – and even if he did, he could never afford a fire with which to heat it. He could ask his landlady, Mrs Duggett, to iron them, but she might wonder what he was doing with such strange items and she would certainly make a small charge for the work.
It irked him that he had nothing resembling the headgear that vicars sometimes wore – or was that bishops? He ought to know such things, he thought guiltily.
Although Willis knew that impersonating a vicar was risky, he rather enjoyed the thrill of dressing up, and he usually managed to think himself into the role once he was dressed and the bride had arrived. This would be his fifth wedding, and he had only been caught out once. All things considered, he managed to convince himself that it was worth the risk because he was always well paid for the service and the money was very necessary since the nightwatchman’s job paid scanty wages.
‘Now where the hell is that bible?’ he muttered. He felt that once dressed in ‘the outfit’, holding a bible made the whole charade more believable, and he was proud of the way he could recite an approximation of the service. Now, however, he sighed. Did the women believe in the makeshift service or was the ring on the finger what really mattered? Did they care, one way or the other? Willis Burke had no idea.
He searched the flimsy desk, which did double duty as a table, and peered under the bed, but eventually found the bible under the once handsome sofa, propping up a missing castor. Tutting, he carefully dusted it off. On impulse, he pulled the dress over his head and smoothed it down, trying unsuccessfully to get rid of the creases. Then he draped the table runner over his shoulders. Thus arrayed, he picked up the bible, opened it and smiled at an
imaginary couple in what he hoped was a fatherly way.
Willis cleared his throat. ‘Dearly beloveds . . .’ he began, then paused to adjust his voice to a more sanctimonious tone. ‘We are gathered here to unite these two people in marriage and Holy Matrimony in the face of God who loves all sinners . . .’ He faltered. What else did he have to say? Frowning, he turned the pages of the bible, but came upon nothing that was suitable for the occasion.
‘Drat!’ Once upon a time the necessary words had just flowed from his lips, but during his incarceration in an unpleasant prison cell his ability to invent had suffered somewhat. He tried again. ‘Beloved brethren, here in the sight of the Lord, we ask for your forgiveness . . .’ Forgiveness? For what exactly? He rolled his eyes. For getting married? Or for pretending to do so? And if He was keen to forgive sinners why had He not helped Willis avoid incarceration? Surely He could have weighed in and used his power to rescue his faithful servant!
Giving up, he tossed the book aside and began to parade slowly up and down, wishing he could see himself, but the only mirror was a small one which hung above the chipped sink in the corner. Suddenly inspired, he tried again.
‘In the love of the Holy Ghost, the Holy Father and God . . .’ A niggling doubt still lingered, but it was slowly coming back to him. Just a matter of time, he reassured himself. Ah yes! Willis brightened. There would be the ring to deal with. Now how did that bit go? ‘Take this woman . . . No . . . With this ring I declare you man and wife!’ But was that it exactly? With a sigh he determined to work at it before the bride and groom arrived for the service. He wanted his performance to be faultless.
That afternoon Lydia planned to take Adam along to the paper shop which among other things sold birthday cards, knitting patterns and wools, children’s books and a few sweets. These last were to be found in a row of large bottles arranged on the shelves behind the counter. She herself wanted a birthday card for a neighbour – an elderly widowed lady who lived next door but one.
Adam clutched a penny which Lydia had given him to spend on sweets of his choice, and he walked beside his mother feeling very important and trying to imagine which sweets he would spend the penny on.
At the last minute George had decided he needed the exercise and said he would join them on their walk, so the three of them set off together. Lydia did not know whether to be glad or sorry that her father was going with them. He might behave perfectly, or he might do or say something extravagant and entirely unsuitable, or he might wander away altogether while she was otherwise engaged. On the other hand, if he remained at home on his own there was no knowing what mishaps might occur.
When they arrived the shop was very full because the schoolchildren were on their way home and had made the paper shop a last port of call. George surveyed the available newspapers with a critical eye, but turned his attention to the magazines, finally choosing The Gardener and paying for it. He then tried to help Adam choose which sweets he would spend his penny on.
‘There’s a jar of humbugs,’ he suggested, pointing to it. ‘And next to that is a jar of lemon sherberts – the ones that fizz in your mouth. Do you like those?’
Adam shook his head. ‘I sometimes like the sugar mice . . .’ he said, frowning with concentration, ‘and I sometimes like the liquorice strips.’ From his position on the floor he could hardly see the selection for the throng of schoolchildren who laughed and argued at the tops of their voices.
George suddenly hoisted Adam and rested him on his left hip. ‘Now you can see the sweets, Adam.’ He chuckled. ‘What will it be, eh? You like lollipops, don’t you?’
‘And pear drops!’ the boy said, troubled by so much choice and the responsibility of making a decision. Within minutes, however, a transaction was made, and Adam was returned to the floor where he found Snip the puppy and renewed their acquaintance.
When at last Lydia reached the counter the shop had almost emptied and she and Richard Wright were able to chat.
To her surprise, Mr Wright had a request to make. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider taking another lodger, Mrs Daye?’ he asked. ‘A very nice young man came in yesterday enquiring if I knew of anyone who might rent him a room for a few months. He’s just moved into the area for his job. A promotion, he told me.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ Lydia began.
‘I just thought because you have quite a big house, and he would only want one room. I’m sure he’d be no trouble, and I know you did have a lodger once . . .’
‘But that was a lady lodger,’ Lydia explained. ‘She was a friend of my mother’s – a spinster – but she was only with us for a year or so.’ She was suddenly aware of her father taking an interest in the exchange and lowered her voice. ‘I really don’t think so. I mean, I would have to consult my husband before I could agree, and I’m sure he would say no . . .’
George, moving closer, smiled at Mr Wright. ‘Nice chap, you say? Well now, I wonder. I wouldn’t say no to a little male company.’
Lydia’s heart sank. Her father was going to interfere. It was exactly what she had dreaded.
Mr Wright rushed on, now addressing his remarks to her father, who seemed to be more sympathetic to the idea. ‘The thing is, the way he explained it, he intended to stay with his cousin who lives somewhere near here with a wife and child but she has suddenly gone down with some sort of kidney disease and cannot now cope with a lodger, not even a family member.’
‘I’m sure John won’t approve,’ Lydia said as firmly as she could in the circumstances. It was her father’s house, she reminded herself, so he was entitled to be consulted. ‘He might think it improper – him being away so much.’
Mr Wright was looking at her father. ‘He buys himself something light at midday – a pie or some such – but would appreciate a cooked meal in the evening . . . if you are preparing something for the family, that is. His name’s Leonard Phipps.’
‘Leonard Phipps.’ George looked at Lydia, who was shaking her head. ‘I like the sound of Leonard Phipps. What d’you think, Lydia? Should we throw him the proverbial lifeline?’
‘I really don’t think so, Father. At least, I must talk to John about it, and I’m sure he won’t like the idea.’
‘Why ever not?’ Her father gave her a challenging look. ‘Your husband is away so much that he would hardly notice if we had another man around the place! Mr Phipps could have the upstairs room that Miss Baisley used to have—’
‘Miss Baisley?’
‘Wasn’t that her name? The old dear.’
‘Her name was Farley. Edith Farley.’
‘Well, what’s in a name, eh?’ he said with a laugh. ‘As I was saying, he could have her room and just pop down to dine with us . . . or better still, you could cover the meal with a cloth and he could carry it up on a tray.’
Lydia felt helpless against the two of them. ‘We’d have to meet him first,’ she said weakly. ‘We might not get along. And I would definitely have to ask John before I agreed. And as I’d be the one who’d have to look after him, I must have some say in the matter.’
But Mr Wright was beaming. ‘You’d have to meet, naturally, and agree a price. No doubt a few extra shillings a week would come in handy for you. Suppose I send him round to you next time he calls in? I know he’s very keen to settle somewhere he can call his own – be it ever so humble! That’s how he put it.’ He smiled. To Lydia he said, ‘I feel sure you’ll approve of him, Mrs Daye, but if you don’t, or if your husband is against the idea, I’m sure Leonard Phipps will understand. I’ll tell him it’s just a possibility.’
George said heartily, ‘Well, that’s settled, give or take a few details.’ With a cheery nod to Mr Wright he walked out of the shop, taking Adam with him.
Lydia was forced to say, ‘Goodbye,’ and hurry after them.
Her father was talking to Adam. ‘A very nice man is coming to stay with us. Won’t that be fun?’
Adam, his mouth full of raspberry lollipop, nodded dutifully, but Ly
dia’s spirits sank to a new low. She should have known it would be a mistake to allow her father to accompany them.
Halfway home she brought up the subject again, trying to strike a warning note about the unsuitability of taking a young male lodger into the household. ‘We don’t know anything about him.’
Her father remained unrepentant. ‘How can your husband possibly object when I am here to act as chaperone?’ he demanded, laughing heartily at the very idea of anything untoward happening.
‘But what about the neighbours? They might talk.’
‘Why should they? We don’t talk about them.’
‘But they’re not doing anything to talk about, Father!’
‘How do we know that? Look at Mrs Roffey, next door but one. She looks like a sly piece.’
‘A sly piece! For heaven’s sake, Father! That’s a terrible thing to say! Poor Mrs Roffey. She’s a grandmother, for goodness’ sake. She was once a nursery maid. She’s—’
‘Mr Stamp then. How do we know what he gets up to in that motor of his? Driving off every morning to do goodness knows what! Coming home at night as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth!’
‘Mr Stamp is a perfectly respectable railway clerk! I’m quite sure he’s not doing anything at all unlawful. He has a wife and two children. He’s . . .’
‘Where does he get the money to buy a motor car? He might be a gambling man. He might be a spy.’
‘He is not a spy, Father. You have spies on the brain! None of our neighbours are doing anything wrong and—’
‘And neither are we!’ He gave her a triumphant smile, took off his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. ‘We will simply be offering a nice young man a roof over his head for a few months. A very charitable, very Christian gesture, if you like.’
Lydia regarded her father with dismay. ‘You must not go round maligning the neighbours,’ she said. ‘Promise me you won’t repeat any of this nonsense. Someone might sue you for slander – or is it libel? I’m not sure.’
The Great Betrayal Page 3