‘I’ll say one thing about Charlie Parkinson,’ Ginny remarked to the cook on one of her numerous trips in and out of the kitchen, ‘he’s a master of the art of arsehole greasing.’
‘Aye, well, just you remember that when he tries greasing yours,’ said the cook. ‘This lot’s ready. You can take it to the table and go and tell her ladyship that dinner is served.’
The party did more than justice to the cook’s efforts. Soup and fish courses were followed by a roast goose, a leg of pork, a sirloin of beef for those who disliked pork, every vegetable that could be procured, gravies, sauces and chutneys, and Ginny was kept busy waiting on them all.
‘You’ll never eat a better fowl than the ones I rear, or a better joint of pork either, but I will admit, your cook’s done them justice,’ the red-faced farmer bragged, paying homage to his own produce with his mouth stuffed with it.
‘Yes, a good cook’s indispensable. We don’t go without our comforts here.’ A smile of satisfaction lit up Helen’s face.
‘Certainly not. It’s a life of luxury, and somebody’s got to live it. It’d better be us. Wouldn’t you agree, Clarice?’ Charlie smiled conspiratorially and lifted his glass towards the farmer’s daughter. She nodded in a confusion of blushes and smiles while the rest looked on with approbation.
‘A good cook, a handyman, and a good clean housemaid. I suppose that’s all the livestock you need to make you comfortable,’ was the farmer’s attempt at humour, and Helen’s tinkling laugh rang out gratifyingly.
‘It may be all we need, but it’s not all we intend to have,’ she assured him, eyes gleaming. ‘Charlie’s got his shares in the mine, and his business in London, of course, and a good property there. As for Robert and me, we mean to count for something. The mine’s doing very well. We’re set fair for real prosperity and when it materializes we’ll keep a much better, larger establishment and have our servants living in, won’t we, Robert? We’ve already ordered one of those lovely Daimler horseless carriages they’re making in Coventry, haven’t we, Robert?’ The manager gave a dubious nod.
‘Bloody woman!’ exploded Ginny, kicking the kitchen door shut after her and dumping a tray full of dirty pots on the draining board. ‘Me and you – they’re calling us livestock now. And when she’s even richer, she’s going to have a better establishment than us!’
‘Ah well, never bother. If your life goes according to plan, you’ll have your own drawing room and she’ll have to ask for permission to come into it.’
‘Sarcastic bugger,’ said Ginny.
The cook laughed and struck a match. ‘Mind you don’t set fire to yourself with this,’ she said, as she ignited the moat of brandy surrounding the Christmas pudding.
‘No, I’ll set her ginger wig alight instead.’
‘I believe there’s a race meeting tomorrow,’ Charlie was saying as she got back with the pudding. ‘Anybody game?’ Ginny set the flaming pudding on the table and smiled inwardly to see Helen lean away from her with a look of apprehension on her face.
‘Is there? I thought you were coming to us. We’re not racing people. We usually have a quiet day with family, or close friends. You will come to us tomorrow, won’t you?’ The farmer’s wife looked anxiously at Helen. ‘Only it’s a bit late for us to make different arrangements now.’
‘Of course,’ Helen soothed, ‘I’m just like you. I prefer the company of pleasant friends to racketing round racecourses. Give me a warm and comfortable drawing room and good conversation and you can keep your shouting, vulgar racing enthusiasts. Of course you can depend on us, Hilda.’
The house was in darkness when Ginny got home. Her father lay on the bed in the front room, his thunderous expression just visible in the firelight. Ginny passed quickly through to the kitchen where her mother sat gazing vacantly into space, surrounded by the three younger children, all silent.
‘What’s up wi’ him the day?’ Ginny mouthed quietly, lifting the kettle to fill it at the sink. Her mother said nothing. Ginny set the kettle on the fire, hung up her coat, and ran upstairs to find Emma sitting up in bed reading by the light of the candle.
‘What set him off?’ she asked.
‘How the hell do I know?’ Emma shrugged. ‘Have you looked outside? It’s probably a full moon. He chucked his bloody Christmas dinner on the fire. I had to clean it all off the hearth.’
‘Silly old bugger. Still, it must have been something.’
‘She didn’t look happy enough when she was putting it out, so he asked her what was wrong with her bloody clock. She told him she was worried about our John, not hearing from him. That was enough. The dinner went on the fire, and he’s been in the front room and she’s been in the kitchen since. She cried all through her dinner and hardly ate a thing, and me and the bairns lost our appetites an’ all. I helped her clear away and wash up and then I came up here out of the way. I’m near frozen.’
‘Rotten old bugger. I’ve been dying to get home all day, and now I’m glad I was out. Talk about Christmas Day in the workhouse – it’s a treat compared to Christmas Day at the Wildes’. I’m off to Mam Smith’s. It couldn’t be as miserable as it is here if they’d buried half a dozen. Are you coming?’
‘No. I’m not fit company for anybody, the mood I’m in. You go. I’ll go down and sit with Mam after you’ve gone.’
‘You’ll not be much company for her either if you’re that way out.’
Emma pushed the heavy quilt aside and swung her legs out of bed. ‘Whether I am or not, I’m too cold to stay up here a minute longer.’
‘Seeking sanctuary again?’ Mam Smith enquired with a smile when Ginny arrived on the doorstep with Lizzie and Arthur. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, or maybe you need something stronger. Do you think she’s old enough, Martin?’
‘No, I don’t. And we don’t want her learning any bad habits here.’ He caught the look on his mother-in-law’s face. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t getting at you, Mam. You pour yourself a drop of brandy and enjoy it; you’re old enough to know when to take it and when to leave it alone. Ginny’s not very old, and she’s not all that wise.’
Ginny drew herself up to her full height. ‘I’m not a bairn now, you know,’ she challenged.
‘You’re not much more, and you’re not going to learn anything here that’ll end up getting you into trouble. What did Father Christmas bring you, eh?’ he asked the children. Lizzie held up a rag doll, and Arthur showed a can of marbles. ‘By, that’s clever. You must have been good to deserve them.’ He smiled, but the smile soon faded, as if the effort was too great to sustain.
‘Why don’t you have a drink, Martin?’ asked Ginny. ‘It is Christmas, when all’s said and done. One can’t hurt you.’
‘No. The way I feel, I might not stop at one.’ He leaned down to play with the marbles and the boy looked up at him and laughed.
‘They’re good ones, aren’t they, Martin?’
‘The best I’ve ever seen.’
Ginny watched him as he examined the toys. Me mam’s right, she thought, he has got a lovely head of hair. Thick, the colour of ripe corn. She had a sudden impulse to stretch out her hand and touch it, feel the silkiness of it in her fingers.
But his refusal to recognize her as an adult annoyed her. She sniffed. ‘Well, as soon as I’m old enough, I never shall let a Christmas or a New Year go by without having a glass of brandy with you, Mam. Never mind what anybody else thinks. And on Boxing Day I shall always go to the races. Have you ever been to the races, Martin?’
‘Aye. I don’t know who hasn’t. I used to like going with Maria.’
‘Did you ever put much money on?’
‘I might have done if there’d ever been a race with only one horse running. It takes an optimist like Tom Hood to gamble the housekeeping money if there’s more than one. You can’t beat the bookies, bonny lass. The system’s not set up that way. Betting’s all right for people who’ve got a lot of money they’ve no use for.’
‘But would you go just for a day o
ut?’
‘Aye, it’s all right for a day in the fresh air. But if you can’t afford to bet, you don’t care which horse is first past the finishing post, so there’s not a lot of interest in it. It’s exciting if you’ve got money to splash about, you can have a grand time watching it gallop away. It would be all right for a young lass like you, that just wants to have a look at everybody’s clothes, and see what her betters are wearing,’ he teased.
Ginny sighed heavily, and thought she’d be glad to get back to work. Helen Vine irritated her to hell, but at least the house was buzzing with life, and Charlie knew how to make people enjoy themselves. Everybody else she knew seemed to want to wallow in misery.
‘What’s up, lass?’ said Mam Smith, offering her a mince pie.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever get to the races or anything else. I don’t know why I talk about it. Nothing exciting’s ever happened to me, or ever likely to.’
Chapter 8
Ginny listened to the family dispute with keen interest, waiting for enough of a gap in the argument to get her message out.
‘Oh, Helen, have a heart, do,’ Charlie was protesting. Christmas Eve, and the best part of Christmas Day. I can’t spend another day in such tedious company talking about swine fever and the price of cows. You go, and I’ll come along at five or six. That should do for them. Hang it all, they must allow for a fellow having business of his own to attend to.’
‘Business at the racecourse, Charlie? The only filly you should be concerning yourself with now is Clarice Farr. She’s sweet on you. I’ll swear her hand’s yours for the asking, and the hand isn’t empty. You’re a fool if you’ll risk it for a day at the races.’
‘I won’t risk it. I’ll be along at five or six, honour bright. Better say six. And I’ll be so gay and amusing I’ll make a much better impression than if I’d had them depressing my spirits all day. No, I’ll leave you two at the Farrs and come along later myself.’
‘Charlie, you really are insufferable,’ said the manager. ‘Why the devil should I take more care about your courtship than you take yourself?’
‘Because my sister will give you hell if you don’t,’ grinned Charlie, ‘and because I’ll reward you a hundredfold when I’m master of Manor Farm. I’ll give you a full account of my winners when I get back. I’ll put a bet on for you, if you like. Tell the Farrs anything you like.’
Helen stabbed a hatpin into her enormous feathered hat and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You idiot. You know from Hilda Farr’s comments when you brought the subject up that they’re not racing people, and if you don’t come with us they’re bound to know where you are. Yes, Ginny, what do you want?’
‘Bob’s got the horses harnessed and ready, Mrs Vine.’
She held the door open and watched them go. Back in the kitchen the cook was washing the breakfast pots.
‘Come on, lass, let’s hurry up and get done. If they’re going to be out all day we’re off home early. What her eye doesn’t see, her heart won’t grieve over. And if all’s done, she’ll never know the difference.’
‘You know,’ said Ginny, picking up a tea towel and swiftly drying pots, ‘I never thought I’d say it, but I feel really sorry for yon Clarice Farr. She’s in for a rude awakening if she thinks Charlie Parkinson’s as sweet on her as she is on him. All he’s sweet on is her father’s property.’
‘Aye, life’s hard for the rich,’ agreed the cook, her voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘and her father’s acres mean she’ll never hev the pleasure of living from hand to mouth, or possing clothes in the back yard in the middle o’ winter, or skivvying in somebody else’s house after her man’s dead and buried. It fair breaks your heart to think o’ some poor bugger missing all that. Anyway, he’s not got her yet, and maybe he never will. Maybe her father’s not the fool they take him for.’
Ginny laughed. ‘Well, somebody got out o’ the wrong side o’ bed today. What’s up, didn’t Father Christmas put anything in your stocking?’
‘Well, Mrs Vine didn’t. Did she put anything in yours?’
‘No, but I wouldn’t want it. I wouldn’t want to be treated like a servant.’
The cook gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Well, yer are a bloody servant, so why not?’
Put to it, Ginny couldn’t explain, but being a servant and feeling like a servant seemed to her to be two different things. ‘I just wouldn’t want to lower meself,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I got an extra shilling in me wages, and I’d rather have that than any Christmas box.’
They were ready for off when they heard someone in the hall. A second or two later the kitchen door opened, and Charlie entered holding a package.
‘Mrs Vine says you’re to take the rest of the day off, cook,’ he said, pressing it into her hands. ‘Just a little Boxing Day token for the best cook in the north.’ The cook gave Ginny a sidelong glance, then smiled and mumbled thanks.
‘I seem to have left yours upstairs, Ginny. Bring in some coal and bank the fires while I find it.’
He disappeared, and the cook left by the back door whilst Ginny was in the coalhouse shovelling slack. She was banking up the drawing room fire when Charlie reappeared.
‘Has she gone?’ he asked.
‘She was away two minutes after you said. She’ll be halfway home by now.’
‘How’d you like a day at the races, Ginny? You seem a game sort of girl, and I’d be glad to have your company. You might even come home richer.’
She took pleasure in refusing. ‘No, thanks. Racing’s all right for folk who’ve a lot of money they’ve no use for. I haven’t.’
She marched out by the front door, leaving Charlie to lock it, and walked on a little way under a pearl-grey sky enlivened with white streaks of cloud shot through with bolts of gold. The sun was bright on the bare trees and there was a bracing nip in the air. She breathed its fragrance and hesitated. She might never get the chance to go racing again. It would be something new, a break in the monotony, fresh air and freedom, out instead of in with her mother’s misery and her father’s dour face.
She turned and looked over her shoulder. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I would like a day at the races if you still want me to come.’
Charlie walked towards her, grinning. ‘That’s the wonderful thing about women. You change your minds so often, but I don’t mind it. I like to be kept in suspense.’
The curricle gave a smooth, comfortable ride. She sank back into the leather upholstery and listened idly to the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the rattle of the wheels, the squeak of leather and the cawing of rooks. They passed houses bathed in golden light, fresh ploughed fields and green hills dotted with thick-fleeced sheep. A sudden sleet came down, followed just as quickly by the sun, leaving raindrops on the bare branches of lichen-clad trees glinting like diamonds. The journey was pleasure enough, and the racecourse came into view almost too soon, its track bounded by miles of white fencing.
‘Do you want a bit of excitement, Ginny?’ he asked, when they were through the gate.
‘What sort?’
‘We’ll have an accumulator. If you win the first race, it makes you that bit keener when it gets to the second one, and so on. If any horse loses, you lose everything. But if you win every time, which I admit is not very likely unless you’re with me, it’s thrilling when it gets to the last race. Gives you something to shout about. What do you think? Will you chance your guinea?’
‘I haven’t got it with me,’ she lied.
‘I’ll lend it to you.’
‘I’ll cheer for your horse.’
‘Oh no, that won’t do. It has to be your own risk or you won’t feel the thrill.’
She was very reluctant. ‘Well, maybe I’ll just put half of it on.’
There were eight races. The prices on the first few they backed were two to one or even money. At first, Ginny was resigned to losing her ten shillings and sixpence and her eyes were as much on the fashions and the women’s hats as the races, but as their horses won race after r
ace, she began to feel a fluttering in her stomach, and her grip on the fence became tighter. At last the horses were lined up for the final race.
‘Which did we bet on?’ she asked.
‘Fiery Jack,’ grinned Charlie.
‘Is he the favourite?’ she begged for reassurance.
‘He is not. The odds are fourteen to one.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means we’ve a much better chance of losing than winning. This is going to be a furious race. There are some really good horses running.’
‘Well, why didn’t you back one o’ them then?’
He leaned back on the fence and laughed at her. ‘I wanted the pleasure of stirring you up, my hinny. I shall enjoy seeing your terror if he falls back a bit, and your excitement if he gets out in front. Don’t despair yet, Ginny. He may only be an old handicapper, but he knows what he’s about. He was once one of the most talked about horses in jump racing. So say your prayers hard enough, and cheer loudly enough, and you can make him win.’
The horses were lined up, and a minute later they were off, with Fiery Jack trailing behind until a couple of furlongs down the field, when Ginny got him confused with other horses and lost sight of him until they hove into view again on the far side of the track.
‘My God, my God,’ she shrieked, ‘is that him, out in front?’
Charlie seemed supremely unconcerned. ‘I do believe it is, and by about four lengths at a guess. Your prayers must have been answered, Ginny.’
She stood in front of Charlie gripping the fence, urging Fiery Jack on until she was hoarse. When they thundered up to the last fence but one he was still in the lead and putting in giant strides to get over it. She screamed him on, and then groaned as he hit the fence and stumbled over it, landing with his nose nearly touching the turf. The jockey slid down his neck and was off, she was sure. She raised her eyes to the skyline and stared at the naked trees, not daring to watch. When she looked again, the jockey was still in the saddle, but another rider had gained on Fiery Jack and was leading by a length. Fiery Jack was soon hard on his heels, with the jockey laying on the whip. Ginny shut her eyes as they took the last fence, and prayed hard. When she opened them again, the leading jockey was rolling on the ground, his horse charging on riderless and beginning to lose ground. Amid shouts and screams, Fiery Jack thundered home, first by a neck. Ginny almost fainted with relief, and then felt a surge of elation. She turned her face to Charlie with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
A Sovereign for a Song Page 8