The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  Just as he was about to open the front door, he noticed Matthew come round the corner with several of his pals and it was clear from the way the boy was walking that he was holding something wrapped in his jumper.

  ‘Da!’

  Matthew’s cry held an element of relief in it, and as David waited for the crowd of small lads to reach him, he noticed how tall Matthew was getting. It hadn’t struck him before, seeing the boy every day, but he was a good head above his pals who were all about the same age. When the group was still a few yards away, David called, ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘It’s a baby rabbit, Da.’ As Matthew reached him, the boy unfolded the jumper just enough to reveal a tiny ball of fluff with a quivering nose and whiskers. ‘Mr Dent was up by the old quarries an’ his Jack Russell had gone down a hole and brought up the mother an’ all the little ’uns. It’d killed them all ’cept this one an’ so I grabbed it quick.’

  ‘The dog bit him,’ one of his friends supplied.

  ‘It bit you?’

  ‘Just a nip.’ Matthew waved the concern away, his focus wholly on the baby rabbit. ‘Can we keep it, Da? It’ll die without its mam.’

  David glanced at the insignificant little scrap. Matthew had been after having a pet of his own for some time now but Carrie wasn’t too keen on the idea, mainly because she suspected it was a whim which would burn itself out once the boy had to feed, clean and take care of an animal. ‘I’m not sure it’s old enough to survive on its own, Matt.’

  ‘But if it can?’

  ‘Who’s going to look after it? And by that I don’t just mean stroking it and giving it some food now and again.’

  ‘I will, I promise. I promise, Da.’

  David stared down into the intense little face, his brows raised sceptically.

  ‘Please, Da. I saved it and if I take it back it’ll die.’

  It was time the boy had some responsibility, David thought, and the way this had happened, with Matthew having, as he’d just said, saved the little creature, he was sure Carrie would be amenable. ‘I’ll talk to your mam, all right? And if she’s happy about it we’ll see about building a hutch and a pen in the yard where it can exercise. But I’m holding you to your promise. Pets need time and attention.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ Matthew’s face had relaxed. If his da was going to talk to his mam it’d be all right.

  ‘Come on then. Say cheerio to your pals.’ David opened the front door and stood aside for Matthew to step into the narrow hall in front of him. Then he called, ‘Hello there.’

  ‘Hello there, he says.’ Carrie appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. She was only half joking when she said, ‘I’ve kept dinner going for more than a couple of hours past when it should’ve been eaten, and all he says is, hello there. I thought you said it was going to be a quick word with your da.’

  She hadn’t noticed that Matthew had something in his bunched up jumper, and as the boy sidled past her and went into the kitchen, David said, ‘Sorry, lass. Walter was with Da and we got talking. He was a bit down the night.’

  ‘Walter or your da?’

  He could have said both of them. ‘Me da. Over that business with the deputy this morning. Mind, we had to talk round the trees and up the Khyber Pass before he’d let us raise it with him, but we got there in the end and he saw sense. He’ll make it right with Tom in his own way now.’

  In the kitchen, David placed the box of vegetables on the work table next to the sink. Matthew had seated himself at the kitchen table and was as quiet as a mouse, his big eyes fixed on his parents.

  ‘Go and wash your hands, Matthew.’ Carrie had already begun to ladle thick beef stew and dumplings on to three plates at the side of the range but she turned as she spoke, suddenly conscious of the boy’s stillness. Her voice changed as she said, ‘What have you got there?’ Her eyes were on the jumper now resting on his bony knees.

  ‘Ah, now we want a little word with you about that.’ David smiled as he spoke, his eyes drinking in her peaches and cream skin and glowing hair, the soft mouth which even when it was trying to be stern, like now, was inordinately kissable. ‘Go and get a cardboard box, Matt. There’s one in the privy.’

  Matthew took the hint to disappear and scuttled off without a word, whereupon David walked over to his wife, took the ladle out of her hand and drew both her hands to his chest. ‘He’s rescued a baby rabbit from someone’s dog which had killed the mother and the rest of the brood. He wants to keep it and I think we should let him.’

  Carrie stared up at her husband. One of the reasons - maybe the main one, she acknowledged silently - she had hesitated about getting a pet for Matthew was because of the confrontations between her son and David which would occur if the boy didn’t follow through on his promises to look after whatever he had. She knew she was too easy with Matthew at times but he was a good lad at heart, although she had to admit in the last twelve months he’d begun to be something of a handful. He was so different to David, that was the thing. This hadn’t been apparent when he was young, but lately . . . But she was glad David was championing the rabbit for Matthew; she’d just have to make sure the boy kept up to scratch with cleaning its hutch and so on. This last thought prompted her to say, ‘What about a hutch?’

  ‘I’ll let him help me make one. It’d be nice to do something together, just me and him.’

  The words brought a measure of gratitude along with some sadness, but her main feeling was one of sick panic. It had been some eighteen months ago, when Alec had come to David, cap in hand, that things had started to change between her husband and son, and Matthew had begun to challenge David’s authority now and again. She had prayed David wouldn’t be taken in by his brother’s apparent desire to eat humble pie at the time, but Alec was clever. He’d gone on about Margaret’s miscarriages and the difficult time they were having, how he had come to realise family was everything and bitterly regretted his estrangement from his youngest brother. David was so lucky to have a good wife and bonny child like Matthew, Alec had said wistfully. He’d give his eye teeth for the same. When Alec had gone, David had been very quiet for an hour or so, before saying, ‘He’s changed, you know. I never thought I’d see the day, but all this trouble with Margaret has knocked the stuffing out of him, taught him a lesson. What do you think?’

  She had told him what she thought, and he had looked at her in surprise. ‘Easy, lass, easy. It’s not like you not to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.’ She had realised then that she had to be careful. And Alec’s behaviour had confirmed the suspicion she’d had for some time that he was aware Matthew was his child.

  Before that day she could have counted the number of times she had seen Alec and Margaret on both hands, and those had been unnerving enough. To see Alec doing the benevolent uncle act and monopolising Matthew had given her the jitters for days afterwards. And she had been right to be wary.

  She reached up to touch David’s cheek and said quietly, ‘Why don’t you go and tell him he can keep the rabbit while I finish dishing up the dinner?’

  ‘Aye, all right, lass.’ He drew her into him, kissing her hard on the mouth, before muttering into her hair, ‘You smell of apple blossom and strawberries, do you know that? Good enough to eat.’

  ‘Go on with you.’ She smiled at him, pushing him with her hand, but once he had disappeared into the backyard the smile faded. Was she the only one who realised the significance of Alec’s timing? Didn’t anyone else think it a little odd that the very week Margaret had been told by the top consultant her father had called in that it was unlikely she would ever carry a child full term, Alec had made peace overtures to David? But it was best they didn’t. Whatever, Alec had set out to buy Matthew’s affection eighteen months ago, playing the fond brother with David even as he furthered his aim to take David’s place in Matthew’s heart by indulging the boy shamelessly, and always putting David in the position of a killjoy. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

  ‘Oh, Mam! Mam!’
A little whirlwind burst into the kitchen as Matthew raced across and hugged her waist. Carrie smiled at David who had followed the boy into the kitchen. ‘I’ll look after it and clean it and everything, and me an’ Da are going to get some wood for the hutch after dinner.’

  ‘Are you now?’ She smiled down into the handsome little face, the heavily lashed hazel eyes almost too beautiful for a boy and the rich brown hair just a couple of shades darker than her own.

  ‘We’re calling him Nibbles, aren’t we, Da?’

  ‘Aye, Nibbles it is.’

  ‘And we’re making the hutch with two compartments, a bedroom and a living room.’

  ‘Lucky Nibbles,’ Carrie said lightly, her mind registering that Matthew was smiling Alec’s smile. Not for the first time she thanked the Almighty that her son’s colouring was so different to his natural father’s. In spite of all her worry, Matthew had inherited the McDarmount fair complexion and her hair; his eyes, although flecked with green, had enough brown in them for that colour to dominate. He resembled Billy more than anyone else, although she could see Alec’s mouth more and more as the boy grew, and a certain devil-may-care tilt to Matthew’s head of late that had caused her heart to come up into her mouth. He was changing fast, there was no doubt about it, and she lived in constant dread that someone sometime would point out the likeness between Matthew and his Uncle Alec.

  ‘Can I bring him into the kitchen while I eat me dinner, Mam?’

  ‘No you cannot.’

  It was firm and brooked no argument and David laughed, ruffling the boy’s hair. ‘Nice try, son.’

  Why couldn’t it always be like this? Carrie pushed Matthew towards his chair and turned to the range. She would give anything for Alec to be out of their lives and gone for good.

  Matthew bolted his dinner down, squirming about on his seat and watching every mouthful David took. As David finished his last forkful, Matthew said, ‘Can we go now, Mam?’ as though he and David were the same age.

  Carrie smiled, shaking her head. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘Oh, Mam.’

  Carrie walked across to the pantry. It was Matthew’s birthday the next day and unknown to him she had baked a separate little cake when she had made his birthday cake, decorating it exactly like the bigger one. She said, ‘Here, this is a happy-the-day-before-your-birthday cake.’

  ‘Thanks, Mam.’ Grinning from ear to ear, Matthew demolished the cake in ten seconds flat before sliding off his chair and pulling at David’s arm. ‘Come on, Da.’

  ‘Matthew?’ Carrie’s voice was serious and brought the pair of them to a halt just as Matthew opened the back door. ‘The rabbit isn’t a birthday present, not really. You do understand it’s a live creature and will be depending on you to care for it? The hutch will need cleaning out even if we’re knee deep in snow.’

  The brown head nodded solemnly. ‘I know, Mam.’

  ‘Can we go now, Mam?’ David asked gravely.

  Carrie wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re as bad as each other, you two,’ she said, flapping her hand at them, but again, once the back door had closed, she stood quite still for some moments before starting to clear the table.

  When she had washed the dishes in the tiny scullery off the kitchen, Carrie walked through to the front room. This was not set out with a stiff three-piece suite, china cabinet and aspidistra, as most people would have expected considering there was only one child in the family and no lodgers to necessitate the room being used as a bedroom. It was Carrie’s work room. The kitchen was the family room with a table, four hardbacked chairs, David’s armchair and a small saddle with thick flocked cushions along one wall. It was here the three of them ate, sat in the evenings, washed and generally lived.

  Although the front room held a drop-leaf table, four Georgian style chairs and two small pink armchairs with bobbles round the bottom, these were pushed against two walls and covered in piles of clothing. A bundle of woollens waiting to be unpicked, finished articles neatly arranged in piles and awaiting collection by Horwood’s van, work in hand, and remnants of linen and rolls of cloth were piled high, and in front of all these stood an ancient table with a small sewing machine on the top and a chair tucked underneath it. Two clothes horses, one holding garments and the other draped with more cloth, completed the room, and the cream paper blinds with deep imitation lace on the bottom at the window were bordered by thick blue curtains, the same colour as the lino on the floor.

  Carrie looked about her. In view of the number of people coming to Matthew’s birthday tea the next day, she would need to clear all her work away into the big packing case in a corner of the room and rearrange the furniture so folk could sit and eat in here as well as in the kitchen, she thought. And there was still plenty of baking to do, the kitchen floor to scour and clean, lemonade to make with the lemons and sugar and ginger essence she’d had soaking all day in one of her big pans, and a hundred and one other things besides.

  But still she stood there without moving, her eyes coming to rest on the neatly folded clothing she had finished that month. Folk just would not believe how little it cost her to make them, certainly not in view of what Horwood & Sons, Outfitters and Hosiers, sold them for.

  Carrie walked across to the pile of clothing, stroking the soft material of the top garment absently. ‘Exclusive design.’ ‘Original model.’ That was how Mr Horwood had decided to market what he had called her ‘line’. After what he’d considered a slow start, he’d recently announced himself well satisfied with the way things had picked up.

  And it had all started from the day she had walked into the grand shop in the best part of Bishopwearmouth, inwardly shaking in her boots and outwardly poised. She told one of the shop assistants she wished to speak to Mr Horwood, and she could still picture in her mind’s eye the way the beautifully dressed woman had eyed her from head to foot. The shop assistant’s voice had been coldly superior when she’d asked which Mr Horwood madam was referring to. And from somewhere deep inside, the part of her that had reached out for life that morning on Penshaw Hill sprang up, giving her the courage to answer equally coolly that she meant Mr Horwood Senior of course.

  Did madam have an appointment?

  No, madam did not have an appointment but madam was quite sure Mr Horwood would want to see her.

  Would madam like to explain what it was about?

  Carrie had thought quickly before saying that the matter was private but greatly to Mr Horwood’s advantage. And, amazingly, the woman had asked her to take a seat while she enquired if Mr Horwood was free.

  Cuthbert Horwood had turned out to be a fat little man with a mop of grey, wiry hair which stuck straight up from his head like a brush. But it was his eyes, black, round and penetrating, that had unnerved her when she’d stood before him in his office five minutes later.

  ‘I’m told you are about to inform me of something which is greatly to my advantage, Mrs Sutton.’ His tone was not encouraging.

  Her stomach was turning over like the hoops some of the bairns played with in the street, but she swallowed hard and said, ‘Aye, that’s right. I . . . I make things. Clothes. I knit and crochet.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I wondered if you’d like to sell them in your shop.’

  ‘And this is the matter you led one of my staff to believe was of some importance? I don’t like people wasting my time, young lady.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ Her head shot up at his biting tone. ‘Probably because I never have enough of it.’

  It clearly wasn’t the response he expected. He stared at her, long and hard, and she stared back. She had nothing to lose now anyway.

  ‘Show me.’ He gestured abruptly to the large brown paper parcel she was holding, his voice impatient.

  She unwrapped it on his grand mahogany desk, laying out the three items she’d brought as samples. They were favourites of hers: a crocheted sleeveless top in dove grey with matching cardigan, a cream and beige knitted dress, and a long-sleeved, waist-length j
umper in midnight blue.

  He picked each garment up, examined it closely but made no comment, and Carrie’s confidence in the quality of her work took a nosedive.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he leaned back in his big leather chair and raised his eyes to hers. ‘You say you designed and made these?’

  ‘Aye, I did.’ Her voice was flat now.

  ‘I like them. I like them very much.’ His smile altered the hard face entirely. ‘You have flair, Mrs Sutton. Panache, our London friends would call it. This is something that cannot be learned, it is here’ - he rested a finger next to his eyes - ‘and here’ - he tapped his forehead. ‘You clearly are an admirer of Coco Chanel, abandoning flamboyant fussiness in favour of a bold simplicity dependent on line, cut and quality.’

  Was she? She had no idea what he was talking about. She’d vaguely heard of the Parisian designer who had led a revolution to make it ‘chic’ to dress like the poor in black or beige or grey, even adopting the workman’s cap or scarf as an accessory, but fashion magazines were an expensive luxury she couldn’t afford. She looked into the bright black eyes, sensing he knew something of what she was thinking and expected her to try and bluff it out. She cleared her throat, searching for the right words before she spoke. ‘I’m not familiar with her work,’ she said quietly. ‘These are just my ideas, that’s all.’