by Val Wood
She recalled gathering up sheep’s wool and duck down, washing and drying it and then filling a bolster case to make a mattress to put on the middle shelf. The child hadn’t liked it, of course, and cried piteously, so much so that Deakin had got out of bed and closed both doors on her, fastening them with the wooden sneck and threatening the child with a beating.
I lay all night listening to her cries and that sneck rattling, she remembered now. But what could I do? He was master here. He said she would get used to it and that it would be warm in there. And she did, and it was.
She sat down by the fire and pondered. The child slept in there every night for nigh on eight years, and then one day she asked for an old sheet to make another mattress, and went out that summer and gathered up more sheep wool and down, goat hair and some clean straw, and stitched two sides of the sheet together, filled it, and stitched it up and told me she’d sleep on the floor in front of the fire.
‘I telled her he’d not let her,’ she muttered, ‘and she said that he wouldn’t know, for she’d be up before him every morning and store the mattress in its usual place in the cupboard. I’m too big to sleep in there now, she said. An’ I said do as you please.’
It wasn’t until one morning when he rose earlier than usual that he found her and fitted out a space under the eaves so that she might sleep up there; I started to use the cupboard again for storage and discovered that at some time during her night-time imprisonment she’d whittled a gap at the bottom of the door so that she could jiggle it to loosen the latch and open the doors.
She gave a cackling laugh. The girl wasn’t dim even though she were only a little biddy; she’d managed to outwit him and he never knew.
She went back to the scullery window to peer out, but the couple had gone. It bothered her as to who the woman was. She saw so few people that when someone new came into her sight she was always curious. This one didn’t look like someone from the village; she didn’t have the bearing or style of a country woman. She was more of a townie, so why was she here? But wait, mebbe it was the Robinsons’ daughter, she worked in town. But no, she then bethought herself; she has red hair too, like her brother and the rest of the clan.
Although Mrs Deakin didn’t speak to anyone in the village, on rare occasions she went to the shop to buy flour for baking, and sugar – for if Deakin brought a parcel of tea home, she sometimes indulged herself with a spoonful of sugar in a cup of tea as a treat – and as she waited to be served she would listen to local gossip, which was discussed freely in front of her as she was unresponsive to their nods of greeting and appeared to be completely uninterested in what they were saying. I’ll think of an errand and go in again, she thought, and mebbe find out who she is.
She liked the days when Deakin went out on an all-day trip, for she could then please herself with her time; she’d feed the animals and the poultry, prepare food for the evening for when he returned, then bake herself some biscuits and sit in the easy chair that Deakin claimed as his own. She’d drink tea with a teaspoonful of brandy and eat all the biscuits and think of happier times when she was a child in Brixham, before she met Deakin.
If the weather was good she would put on her working boots and go outside and turn over a plot to grow vegetables. Never flowers, for you couldn’t eat them, but she grew enough food to keep them all the year round: potatoes, parsnip, swede and onions, leek and cabbage, peas and beans, carrots and winter sprouts.
I could survive without him if he didn’t come home, she often thought; I’m not that fond of fish even though I was brought up on it. I’d rather eat a slice of chicken breast. I’d miss the tea, though, and the brandy. I’m not so bothered about the Genever; the Dutch can keep it as far as I’m concerned, along with their cheese. She would lean back in the chair and occasionally make a plan about how she might live without his brooding presence if by chance he didn’t come back from one of his fishing trips.
It was after dark when she was dozing in front of the fire that she heard the muffled clod of the mule and the rattle of the cart as it came along the track, and then the squeak of the gate. He’d never had a horse, always used a mule, a more bad-tempered animal you’d rarely find; he drove it down to the creek where his two boats were kept and tied it on a long rope so that it could graze until his return, knowing that no one would dare go near it without risking a nip from its yellow teeth.
She peered out of the window, and as Deakin drew past the cottage towards the barn she saw a pile of sacks covering a mound in the cart and knew he had had a successful trip. She unbolted the door and then turned to re-heat the kettle and pans of water for his bath.
He came in carrying a wet sack containing shrimps which he passed to her muttering, ‘Soup’, so she lifted the lid from the cauldron containing the vegetables that had been simmering all day on the flame, put her hand in the sack, brought out a handful of quivering shrimps and tossed them into the bubbling liquid.
‘Anybody about?’ she asked, referring to the other shrimpers.
‘Not sin’ this morning,’ he mumbled, starting to strip off his wet coat, jumper and heavy trousers. ‘They’d finished by dinner time.’
‘What about ’Patrington shrimpers?’
‘Some, but they’d finished by midday and by four there was a sea fret coming up.’
‘Good. All the more for you.’ She poured a jug of cold water into the bath and then another, then lifted the steaming kettle and poured that in too. She fetched a thick pad and with it held firmly in two hands lifted the large pan of hot water, muttered, ‘Shift yourself,’ and poured that in as well, taking a small delight when some of it splashed on to his bare arm and made him splutter. Then she turned her back to refill the kettle whilst he took off his long johns and vest and carefully lowered his backside into the bath.
The next morning, when he had again gone out, she dressed in her boots and a heavy coat, let out the poultry, milked the goats and fed the pigs, and then, first glancing over her shoulder towards the gate, she opened the barn door and peered inside. Everything appeared to be in place; the wheelbarrow hadn’t been shifted, spades and forks were hanging on the wall and the straw bedding was stacked as usual, as were the hay-racks and the animal feed.
Yet there was something different, and her sharp eyes narrowed as she stepped inside.
A rully, the flat four-wheeled cart they had inherited from the previous owners, was usually up-ended and leaning on the barn wall but now had all four wheels on the ground and various boxes, crates and sacks piled on it.
‘Deakin’s allus grubbing about in here,’ she muttered. ‘He’s been in and out for weeks.’ She pondered, debating. He kept things in here that she wasn’t supposed to know about: wooden crates and old trunks had lobster baskets and trawl nets, sacks of potatoes and heavy objects piled on top of them, making it difficult for anyone to move; but he didn’t know her strength and she had soon discovered his cache of spirits and boxes of tea, although when she looked again after a week or so everything had gone.
But something else was going on these days, for he went out for longer periods during the day and night time, and she was convinced that now he wasn’t fishing only for shrimp or small batches of tea and spirits, but for something more lucrative.
‘I’ll not look today,’ she mumbled. ‘He said he’d be back by dinner time and he might catch me. But I’ll find out, that I will. He’s doing a big run and he’ll think that Customs won’t suspect him in his shrimp boat. The big fellows use their steamboats to avoid capture; but I heard talk down in the village that baccy tax has gone sky high and he’d want to benefit from that.’ She sniggered. ‘Thinks he’s clever, don’t he, but he’ll not keep owt from me.’
Carefully she fastened the barn door and with a sly grin she went back into the house where he would expect to find her on his return.
CHAPTER FORTY
They were now at the beginning of March and the pantomime was in its final week. It had been an exceptionally long season but
extremely successful; the leading lady, aware that Delia had a better singing voice than she had, had asked the management if her substitute might continue until the finale and Delia had been glad of it. But her contract had expired and she was once more running out of time to find a new booking. She had made enquiries at other theatres but there were no vacancies, and fashion shops who were advertising for assistants wanted staff with experience.
One morning she called in at the theatre to ask Mr Rogers what his next show would be. He had talked of putting on another production after the pantomime, but nothing had been said since the run of Cinderella had been extended, and she doubted there would be a role for her even if his plans had not changed.
He was sitting at his office desk with his head in his hands when he looked up, startled, as she knocked gently on his door.
He got to his feet, ever the gentleman. ‘Come in, come in, Miss Delamour.’
‘Are you unwell, Mr Rogers?’ she asked, for he was ashen-faced and his usual ruddy complexion had quite lost its glow. ‘If so I can come back later.’ She would have been quite pleased to put off the question she was about to ask.
‘No, no, just tired and a little under the weather, you know.
And …’ He heaved a big sigh. ‘There’s always some issue to complicate the daily grind of theatre management.’
She didn’t know what the issue might be, but nodded politely. ‘I don’t feel well, as a matter of fact,’ he confessed suddenly, without any pretext of hiding his anxieties. ‘This has been a very long show, and although successful you of all people must be aware there have been some trials during its run. Frankly, I’m ready for some time off,’ he shuffled papers around his desk, ‘but no chance of that, I’m afraid.’
Delia nodded again, sympathetically.
He sat down again and motioned her to take a seat. ‘My under-manager has handed in his notice,’ he said flatly. ‘He’s been offered a more lucrative position, and now the ticket cashier has given a week’s notice because she’s getting married.’ He leaned his head against his hands again. ‘Finding anyone who understands the workings of a theatre is not easy.’
‘I see,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘What skill does the under-manager need, Mr Rogers? You seem to do most things yourself.’
‘I do,’ he said mournfully. ‘You know how it is; sometimes it’s quicker to do something oneself than explain how it should be done. Yet it shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Can I help at all?’ she asked. ‘I have a good head for figures and could perhaps help in the box office – temporarily, of course, until you find someone.’
Oh, please, she thought. I’ll do anything. Then she opened up and confessed. ‘It was before your time, Mr Rogers, so you won’t know that I once worked at the old theatre, the one that burned down.’ She thought back to that time, when she was distraught, knew no one and was given a chance. ‘I was in unfortunate circumstances at the time and was offered work as a cleaner and general run-around. I took it, and several months later the manager of the touring company that was performing there heard me singing and gave me a small part to try me out.’
She gave a huge smile. She would bless that man for ever. ‘I’m not exaggerating when I say that he saved my life. The theatre and this town have been good to me. They didn’t judge me or blame me for my circumstances.’
Dennis Rogers stared at her. ‘You had a child!’
Swallowing, and wondering how he had put two and two together, and if he would now want rid of her, she whispered, ‘I did.’
‘It was born here?’
‘Yes. He was. In the old theatre that once stood here.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘He came so quickly. Everyone looked after me so well. They cleared a dressing room and someone ran for a doctor, but he arrived too late. The woman in the ticket office and the star of the show, a singer, delivered my son.’
She was choked with emotion as she admitted the truth. ‘Someone asked where I lived and said they’d arrange to take me home, and I had to explain that I didn’t live anywhere and that I’d been sleeping in the theatre.’
‘I was working in Hull at another theatre, but I heard about you,’ Dennis Rogers said in astonishment. ‘The news ran round the theatres like wildfire; everyone wanted to see the baby that was born on stage, that’s what the rumour said!’ He smiled. ‘You were legendary, coping alone without family, and everyone wondered later where you had gone and what had happened to you and your child.’
‘I was offered a role with the touring company. I did whatever was needed, including’ – she gave a choked laugh – ‘including in the ticket office when the theatres were short-staffed.’
She told him many things during the course of the next hour, including the information that her son was presently living with relatives nearby, which was why she wanted to stay in the area. He seemed to understand.
‘He’ll be of an age when he needs a regular education,’ he said, ‘and it’s fortunate that there’s someone to care for him; the theatre is not conducive to learning the three R’s, though many seem to thrive on it. He should be given the chance to choose a career and perhaps he might come back to the theatre one day?’
She told him about Robin’s enjoyment of prompting for Arthur Crawshaw and agreed that he might, but not yet. Mr Rogers sat pondering for a moment, and then said, ‘My word, Miss Delamour, I think I have little to worry about after hearing your story. You have done remarkably well to survive and thrive.’
He sat thinking for a moment or two longer and Delia suggested that she might make them some coffee or tea rather than bother the caretaker, and he readily agreed. When she returned five minutes later with two steaming hot drinks, he was smiling.
‘I should be delighted if you would agree to help,’ he said. ‘We’ve booked a variety show in which I couldn’t offer you a part in any case; it includes a music hall singer and a rather risqué comedian, so it’s not at all the type of show that would interest you. But …’ He raised his forefinger and took a sip of coffee, and Delia felt her breath quicken. ‘I think you might be able to help on several fronts.’
He pulled forward a clean sheet of paper and a pencil. ‘You know the workings of the box office, so perhaps you could interview potential staff and find someone who is numerate and able to deal with seating arrangements?’ Delia nodded, and he went on, ‘And maybe help to arrange forthcoming programmes, enquire about suitable lodging houses that we might recommend for top of the bill, and, most important, remind me to send out contracts to agents and file their return?’
‘The usual matters,’ she said lightly. ‘Yes, there’s far too much for one person to deal with.’ Privately, she considered that she was quite used to juggling and there was nothing he had mentioned so far that she couldn’t do.
‘There would be other matters if you took on the role of under-manager, and although the position is normally filled by a man I don’t see any reason why a woman can’t do it.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘But you’re a singer; would you not prefer to continue to perform?’
‘Normally I would,’ she agreed. ‘But touring is out of the question whilst my son is still young. I would be anxious if I thought he needed me and I was out of the district, and I have never yet broken a contract. I would relish the chance of being in one place, and, as I said, this town has always been kind to me.’
He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Then that’s settled. What a relief. Now, Miss Delamour, all we have to do is talk salary.’
She couldn’t believe her good fortune and wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Giles was away in York and had been for several days so she couldn’t tell him, but she wrote to Robin, and to Peggy and Aaron, to tell them the good news, and travelled to Holderness on the following Sunday to see them. She asked Jenny to go with her but received a postcard in reply saying she couldn’t spare the time just now, making the excuse that she was busy with the school schedule. Delia thought that her friend sounded rather preoccupied
/> She took bonbons to thank the Robinsons, but Peggy said that she mustn’t keep bringing presents. ‘We don’t need a gift whenever you come, Delia,’ she’d said. ‘We don’t expect one from Susan when we look after their bairns; if you want to bring the children something every now and again, that’s all right, but I don’t want them to expect a present every time. Save your money for a rainy day.’
Giles returned from York a few days later and they bumped into each other in the hall as she was about to go out. He smiled. ‘Well met, Miss Delamour. Would you care to partake of luncheon?’
‘I would,’ she said. ‘I have something interesting to tell you.’
The sun came out as they crossed Trinity Square and there was a first fresh hint of spring in the air, a smell of narcissus and crocus and greenery coming from tubs and green growth in the churchyard.
‘You seem very animated,’ he observed. ‘Something momentous has happened?’
He put out his arm and she tucked hers into it. She felt very comfortable with him and was sure he would be pleased with her news.
‘Yes, I’ve been longing to tell you. I’ve got a job,’ she announced. ‘Regular everyday work, with a salary!’ She paused and turned to look at the surprise on his face, but he seemed more astonished than anything and a little perturbed. ‘In the theatre,’ she added triumphantly.
‘Our theatre?’
‘Yes, I’m to be under-manager. Isn’t it wonderful? Quite by chance I caught Mr Rogers in a dilemma and offered him a solution.’
‘That’s really good news,’ he said, opening the door to what had become their favoured café. ‘I’m very pleased for you.’
‘Are you?’ she asked as she slipped off her coat. ‘Am I doing the right thing?’