A Mother's Choice

by Val Wood

  If Robin was disenchanted at being described as a child or the fact that he was introduced by his mother’s stage name, he didn’t show it, but murmured ‘Thank you’ and smiled as she said, ‘I hear that you play a good hand at cards. Perhaps we might have a game of bezique whilst you’re here?’

  He expressed his disappointment that he didn’t know the game but offered to play cribbage. ‘I haven’t played it in a while,’ he said. ‘Not since I last saw Mr Arthur Crawshaw, but I think I can remember it.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll all play this evening,’ Crawshaw suggested, and then turned to the door as the ladies and Giles entered the room.

  Introductions were made and both Delia and Jenny were aware they were under intense scrutiny from Arthur’s mother. Delia didn’t know how much Mrs Crawshaw knew of her history, and knowing, as Arthur had often told her, that both his parents disapproved of his theatrical life, she behaved with impeccable decorum; Jenny, having only just met Arthur, responded politely as she would as a guest in anyone’s home, and with deference to their hostess’s seniority, but without any flattery or fussiness as behoved a liberated woman.

  Giles conducted himself with charm and courtesy, and it was immediately apparent that he had gained Mrs Crawshaw’s approval.

  ‘You have a beautiful home, Mrs Crawshaw,’ Jenny commented, as they sat down to await the luncheon bell. ‘Have you lived here very long?’

  ‘I came as a bride nearly fifty years ago.’ She gave a disheartened sigh. ‘But I will be turned out if Arthur should marry, which of course he must, and be confined to the dower house.’ She made it sound as if she were to be locked away in the Tower of London.

  ‘Convention must rule, I suppose?’ Jenny acknowledged. ‘But then,’ she paused as if considering, ‘might you not find that you’re willing to discharge the responsibility to someone else; and as this fine house speaks so beautifully of your hand, would it not be satisfying for you to create a comparable design on a smaller scale and with less effort?’

  Mrs Crawshaw’s eyes burned into Jenny’s but Jenny smiled openly back at her, as if she had spoken from the heart and not with any hidden purpose.

  Giles’s mouth worked to hide a wry grin. The house had an aged elegance about it, but the furnishings were tired, the curtains faded and the decor in need of several coats of paint; and, he thought, it must be freezing cold in the winter. Arthur Crawshaw, he perceived, was not so much in need of a wife as of an administrator with enough energy to return it to its once regal splendour. He gave a breath of satisfaction. If Miss Robinson kept her wits about her, she could be that person.

  During luncheon, Mrs Crawshaw questioned Delia and Giles about their careers and Delia in particular came in for much probing; her hostess wanted to know how she had come to decide on a musical career and about the difficulties of bringing up a child at the same time; at no time did she enquire after the whereabouts of a husband.

  ‘My voice was the only thing I could offer,’ Delia explained when she was questioned about her first singing role. ‘I wanted a career of my own,’ she realigned the truth a little, ‘and one day as I passed a Hull theatre I saw an advertisement on their door.’ She didn’t say that the postcard was asking for a cleaner and not a singer, nor that it was raining and cold and she’d pushed open the door and gone inside and begged for the work. She’d told the manager she was used to cleaning; to sweeping and scrubbing floors, dusting and polishing, and that no job would be too hard for her. The singing had come later.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Robin interrupted. ‘May I ask a question?’

  Mrs Crawshaw looked benevolently at this polite child. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wondered if it would be possible, if I’m very careful, for me to slide down the banister rail?’

  Everyone laughed, and he went on. ‘I’ve never seen such a long rail and never ever one with a big curve in the middle of it.’ He glanced at his mother and said, ‘I’d hold on very tight so that I wouldn’t fall off and damage anything. It would be such an exciting thing to do.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Crawshaw, and Arthur looked at his mother in astonishment, ‘I think that might be possible. Arthur,’ she commanded. ‘You must put out cushions and rugs to be sure of a soft landing if he should fall.’

  Mrs Crawshaw herself took Jenny and Delia on a tour of the house as far as the first floor; she declined to go any further, but said that they could have a wander about themselves if they wished. They peeped into the very top attic where the maids slept and reported back that there were several damp patches on the ceiling, indicating loose roof tiles.

  ‘Well, there you are, you see! Arthur can be quite lax at times,’ Mrs Crawshaw said irritably. ‘And I can’t be expected to be everywhere.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t like to look in the servants’ quarters, Mrs Crawshaw,’ Jenny suggested. ‘The housekeeper ought to have noticed, or the maids should have told her.’

  ‘You’re quite right.’ To Jenny’s surprise, her hostess agreed with her, although she sighed and shook her head.

  Robin ran up and down the lawns, turning somersaults and looking for fish in the lake as Arthur took them on a tour of the gardens; they saw parkland, and meadows where cattle grazed, and then they came to the kitchen garden which was overgrown with rampant weeds. Delia noticed that Jenny’s eyes gleamed as she came up with various proposals for improvement.

  ‘You sound as if you know what you’re talking about, Miss Robinson,’ Arthur observed.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ she answered. ‘I was a country girl before I became a teacher; and although it’s a long time since I used a spade or a hoe I do know how to instruct on how they should be used and what should be planted and when.’

  Arthur nodded in agreement, and Delia and Giles exchanged a discreet glance. Both knew that an understanding had been reached and wandered off to look elsewhere.

  Before dinner Mrs Crawshaw, whose sharp eyes had seen Giles carrying in his violin case on their arrival, requested that he might play for them, and he agreed that he would. ‘May I also beg Miss Delamour to entertain us too?’ he said. ‘We have previously performed together.’

  He raised a questioning eyebrow and Delia agreed. ‘Perhaps Miss Robinson would play the piano as accompaniment?’ she suggested. ‘You were once very accomplished, Jenny.’

  A memory of a happy time when she had called one day and been ushered into the Robinsons’ parlour where Jenny was playing a merry melody and Jack was blowing a penny whistle came rushing back to her. She hadn’t been able to stay long as she was on an errand for her mother, but the recollection was sharp and clear.

  ‘I was,’ Jenny agreed, ‘but I’m very rusty and only play occasionally on the school piano.’

  ‘The piano needs tuning,’ Arthur broke in. ‘We’ll say it’s to blame for any missed notes.’

  And so they played and sang several jolly pieces with much laughter at the whines and squeaks of the piano keys, and Giles deliberately misplayed some notes on the violin, until finally he said, ‘But now to be serious and to thank you for your kind and generous hospitality.’ Here he gave a slight bow to their hostess and a nod in Arthur’s direction. ‘I thought of this piece of music as we drove towards your beautiful home; it’s from The Bohemian Girl.’

  Delia knew the music, and whilst Jenny sat on the piano stool with her hands calmly folded on her lap, for she did not, Giles played and Delia began the first verse in a low and wistful voice.

  I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls

  With vassals and serfs at my side,

  And of all who assembled within those walls

  That I was the hope and the pride.

  At the end of the song, Mrs Crawshaw wiped a tear from her cheek and said in a husky voice, ‘I recall that beautiful piece of music from many years ago, and loved it then as I do still.’ In a reedy quavering voice she sang some of the verse that she remembered.

  But I also dreamt which pleased me most,

  That you loved me st
ill the same.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  From behind the closed barn door and through a narrow gap in the planks, Mrs Deakin saw the stocky figure of their neighbour Aaron Robinson open the gate and come into the yard and knew he was coming to complain about the rifle shot. Old granfer, he’ll be coming to whine that there are children about, she thought contemptuously. But he won’t come near the barn. He’ll go home when nobody answers his knock.

  She’d let the mule into the paddock and then closed the barn doors so that she could decide what to do about Deakin. She thought that she’d load him into the cart and cover him up and then after dark hitch the mule up again, but that was easier said than done, for the animal wasn’t always easy to catch and even harder to put in the shafts. ‘As bad-tempered as his master,’ she muttered, ‘but I’ll have to do it. I’ll sweeten him with a carrot.’

  She waited until her neighbour, with a last look about him, walked back to the gate, opened it and closed it behind him, and then she got on with the job in hand. She let down the tailboard of the cart and looked down at her late husband, and then touched his hand, just to be sure. Cold, she thought, and he’s not going to warm up. He’ll be heavy, a dead weight so to speak. Am I going to be able to lift him? She had often considered a plan for living without him, but hadn’t reckoned on having to dispose of him.

  She wedged a box under the front wheels of the cart to keep it steady, put her hands beneath Deakin’s armpits and with a supreme effort pulled him to a sitting position. Then she bethought herself and felt in his pockets and brought out a bag filled with coins and a wad of paper money. She peered at it and saw the notes were white. Hah! Fivers or tenners; the greedy old miser, and me with never a penny to my name. What was he planning on doing with it? Not sharing it, that’s for certain. Mebbe getting rid of me? She stuffed the money bag in her skirt pocket, took a breath and pulled again, moving him nearer the cart so that he was lolling against it, but she had to keep her hand on him to stop him from falling over, then she grimaced as she saw the bullet wound in his chest.

  ‘It was quick,’ she muttered. ‘You didn’t feel a thing; you didn’t suffer, though you deserved to, you old devil.’

  Another extreme effort and she managed to turn him over on to his knees and heave him half into the cart.

  By the time she had hoisted Deakin fully into the cart and covered him with sacks and straw she was exhausted, her back and shoulders red hot with pain. She grumbled and grunted and decided to go inside, make a drink and plan what to do next.

  She sat with a cup of strong sweet tea, for now she knew where there was plenty and she didn’t have to skimp with the leaves. She’d bring one of the tea boxes into the house for her future use. She sighed and considered and talked to herself as she so often did.

  ‘If I take him down to the creek about midnight, there’ll be nobody about; not any of the other Paull Shrimpers, they’ll all be abed by then, and I’ll get him into the smaller boat, lie him for’ard and cover him so nobody’ll see him should anybody be awake and chance to see a boat drifting by.’ She considered the tide and thought it would be running towards the Humber mouth; the wind was freshening, she could hear it, but from which direction? I don’t want the boat hitting the lee shore and getting caught up, or somebody will find him come morning.

  She poured another cup and sat pondering. It had been a long time since she had sailed; not since she had married Deakin and set sail away from Brixham to a new harbour. It had been hard work, she remembered, especially once they’d reached the sea, but Deakin was strong and she’d been a good sailor, and the weather had been in their favour.

  ‘But can I hoist the sails on my own? I’m thirty years older than I was then. Mebbe – mebbe …’ She was beginning to have doubts. Once the boat met estuary waters there wouldn’t be any difficulty, the tide would carry the boat and its cargo, but – ‘I’ll need to go aboard and bring her out of the creek,’ she mumbled. ‘Can I handle her? I wonder if … could I … yes, that’s a possibility.’ She was talking to herself and providing the answers. ‘If I row her out of the creek into the Humber, keep to the lee side and pull towards the Pier House jetty where the ferries dock … or mebbe the landing near the Humber Tavern, yes, you’re right, that might be another option. If I grab hold of one of the staves of the jetty I’ll leap out of the boat, shove her off again and set her free.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I’ll do. Then I’ll come back here and hide all of his ill-gotten gains until I can find customers for it. I’ll have a couple of days’ grace before I report him missing. If anybody sees the mule and cart they’ll not think anything of it. He often leaves the mule to graze when he’s gone fishing.’

  She had several hours to wait so she made herself some food, hid the money bag in a cupboard and then sat down to await the midnight hour when she would bring the mule into the barn, hitch him to the cart and move off. She soon nodded off into a doze, for she had built up the fire and put a blanket over her knees and for once was cosy and warm. When she woke it was half past eleven. She looked out of the window and saw that it was raining hard.

  She dressed in one of Deakin’s rubber waterproof coats and his cap. She wrapped a scarf round her neck and turned up the coat collar, then lit an oil lamp to take into the barn. She locked the cottage door and put the key under a stone.

  The mule brayed at her from the paddock fence and she realized he’d be hungry, but decided not to feed him as she wanted to entice him with carrots. She opened the barn door wide and hooked it back to the wall, then put the lamp down near the rully and took a handful of carrots from a sack.

  ‘Come on then, you old rogue,’ she muttered, holding out a carrot. The animal lunged for it, but she was quicker than he was and she moved backwards so that he would follow her. He kept braying at her and she hoped the neighbours wouldn’t hear. She got him into the barn and gave him the carrot. With another dangling above his nose she managed to turn him round so that she could hitch him up to the cart. She then put several on the ground for him to munch whilst she made the cart and traces secure.

  For several minutes she stood whilst considering other options for her own well-being, and decided to take a half-anker of brandy with her. She’d put it beside him in case anyone should find the boat, for instance stuck on a sandbank further down the estuary at Sunk Island or Trinity Sand. There were many treacherous sandbanks in the Humber and good navigational skills were required.

  She nodded to herself at her ingenuity and foresight. This way, if he should be found shot dead with the brandy beside him, the customs men would conclude there had been a fight amongst the free traders and Deakin had got the worst of it. ‘They’d think it was some foreign seaman,’ she muttered. ‘Not his little wifey at home.’ But then she reconsidered. Wouldn’t the other smugglers take the brandy with them? She spent a few precious minutes undecided about what to do, but as she’d already loaded it next to him, she decided to leave it there.

  ‘I’m ready, I think.’ She urged the mule out of the barn and across the yard and held him by the snaffle until she’d unfastened the gate, but then couldn’t close it after her as the mule set off at such a fast trot that she had to grab his neck collar to stop him before climbing on to the wooden box that served as a seat. It was then that she remembered that she hadn’t closed the barn door or doused the lantern. ‘Oh, well, can’t be helped,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll not be long. An hour at most.’

  The mule knew his way to the creek and set off down the track towards the village. Mrs Deakin pulled the coat collar up so that it hid her chin and the peak of the cap shielded her face; not that anyone was about on this dark wet night, but she thought that if anyone should see they would think it was Deakin out on his night-time activities.

  She reined in as they approached the creek; she wasn’t sure where Deakin moored the boats. He had two, one large, one smaller, and she’d decided to use the smaller one as it would be easier to row. The mule, though, kept moving across
the grass, and she gave him his head. He would know where the boats were, and besides, she could barely see a hand in front of her. The cloud was thick and dark, heavy with rain. Eventually the animal stopped beside a wooden bollard where presumably Deakin tied him up, and sure enough a long rope was attached to it and this she used to secure him, giving him plenty of space to graze.

  She walked along the bank to try to identify Deakin’s boats. He’d sold his original and bought two others, then sold those and bought two more, but she’d never seen them, nor had he ever told her what names he’d given them. Then she saw a white-painted bollard with two sailboats attached by a long mooring line which stopped them from bumping into each other; one, larger than the other, was held by two anchors and the smaller boat by only one and she hazarded a guess that they might be his. The smaller boat carried a pair of oars attached to the rowlocks and that decided her. I can manage a boat that size without any difficulty at all, she thought, filled with confidence now that her goal was almost reached.

  Yet it was much harder than she’d anticipated as she hauled the boat towards her and wrapped the mooring rope tighter to the bollard before dragging Deakin towards it. ‘Oh! What if I drop him in the water,’ she moaned. ‘What’ll I do then?’ But she didn’t drop him and she stood in the swaying boat and pulled and pulled him from the bank by his feet and legs until she thought her arms would loosen in their sockets and over the bulwark he came, landing with a thud in the stern.

  She sat for a moment to get her breath back and thought that now she only had to carry the brandy over and the sacks to cover Deakin’s body, unfasten the mooring rope, haul up the anchor and then they’d be away. He’ll have to stay in the stern, she decided; she was spent and had no more strength to move him for’ard.

  The rain was lessening but the wind becoming stronger, and she reckoned that once in the Humber the boat would be carried swiftly towards the estuary mouth. She brought the brandy and the sacks, staggering now with tiredness, and covered Deakin up so that apart from his boot-clad feet nothing else of him showed; she freed the mooring rope, letting it hang loose, and determining that she was ready began to haul up the anchor, casting a glance at the mule grazing steadily on the muddy bank.