by Polly Heron
‘No? Are you sure?’ His hand stopped in mid-air. ‘Such a little thing to do, and your sister’s future is secure.’
‘No.’
He stilled, then rested his hand on her shoulder and leaned in – to kiss her? No, to murmur in her ear.
‘No matter. She can pay for the job herself when she starts.’
Belinda gasped.
‘Tell her not to worry. I’ll let her find her feet first.’ He smiled. ‘Unless, of course, you’d rather pay the debt up front, as it were—?’
The door opened and one of the other tattlers stopped in surprise at the sight of them. Belinda fled. No, no, no. Never. Sarah wasn’t coming to work here. Even if Belinda had to tie her up and lock her in the cellar, she wasn’t coming here. She hovered outside the canteen, getting her breathing under control before she went in.
‘There you are. Where’ve you been?’ Annie laughed. ‘We thought you’d mistaken the dinner-hooter for the going-home hooter.’
‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Flo. ‘Jenny Ollerenshawas-was is starting as the new tenter. That’s good, isn’t it?’
Belinda’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. Mr Butterfield had tried to get her to give in by threatening Sarah when he had already promised the job to Jenny Forrester. The dirty old bugger.
Across the room, Minnie Ollerenshaw nibbled on a barm cake. What price had she paid to get her Jenny taken on?
Chapter Sixteen
MANIAC MANOR BOASTS an excellent library. I spend hours at a time in here, flicking through the books, trying to deduce information about myself based on what interests me. Time and again, I open an atlas of the British Isles. Where am I from? My vowels are northern. I sound educated. Was I a professional man before the war? Not knowing leaves me feeling flat.
Frustrated, too. Dr Jennings is no help. Seated behind his desk, he urges me to bide my time.
‘I’ve bided enough time, thank you.’
‘And why did you?’ He steeples his fingers, watching me across the desk. ‘You’re an intelligent man, a highly capable man, yet you stayed on that farm in France for a little over three years. The fire took place shortly before the war ended. Even allowing time for your physical recovery, you remained for a significant time with the Durands. What made you do that?’
Waiting for my reply, he strikes a match and sucks on the stem of his pipe, gently encouraging the flame to catch the tobacco. The aroma rises from the bowl of the pipe, a pungent tang with an underlying sweetness. I inhale, enjoying it, recognising it – but then, who doesn’t recognise the smell of pipe tobacco?
‘At first I stayed because I was waiting for my memory to return. Then I stayed because it was a busy time, not just on the farm, but also in the town. There was work to be done and not many men left to do it. I owed it to the Durands to stay and help. And, finally, I stayed because what else was I to do? Had I returned to England, where would I have gone?’
He points the stem of his pipe at me. ‘Where indeed?’ It is a challenge, a quiet one, but a challenge nonetheless.
A police station. A hospital. A newspaper office. A solicitor.
‘I suppose I stayed… because I stayed. The Durands and the other farmers and the townsfolk made it possible for me to stay and so I did.’
‘Perhaps you stayed to recover from your wartime experiences. Many men would.’
I smile. Not a real, eye-crinkling smile, more a wry tug of the lips. ‘Ah, but I don’t recall my wartime experiences.’
‘What is your greatest fear?’
I look away. What man wants to answer a question like that? Out loud, I mean. I know the answer, but I’m reluctant to give it voice. I don’t want him to think ill of me. Even though he is a doctor and his function is to help, not to judge, I don’t want him to think less of me.
When I look at him, I find his gaze on me. He appears thoughtful, interested. He looks as if he isn’t going to be fobbed off.
‘Is your greatest fear that your memory will never return?’ Does he think my fear of this is so great that I cannot put it into words?
‘No,’ I answer. ‘After all this time, I accept that it’s unlikely to happen. My greatest fear…’ And it is fear: the hairs on the back of my neck stand up one by one. ‘…is that I stayed put in France because I’m a coward.’
‘There are many who will view your memory loss as a symptom of lack of moral fibre.’ He uses the same tone that he might use to share the cricket scores. ‘They, however, are fools. Your memory loss is the result of trauma and nothing to do with cowardice. Neither is cowardice a part of your general character, I can assure you of that. That fire, the men who perished: you were all part of a special unit of soldiers on a mission that went tragically wrong. You wouldn’t have been selected to serve in that unit had there been any doubt as to your character. Does that reassure you?’
Does it? I consider. The mere fact that I have to consider gives me my answer.
‘I’m glad to be told, obviously, but you were correct when you said that true knowledge is a feeling. You tell me I’m no coward and I trust you to speak the truth; but that in itself doesn’t give me the knowledge inside here.’ I rap my chest with my knuckles.
‘Let’s leave it there for today,’ he says.
It is a fair old walk into Aylesbury. It is a market day: I can tell by the carriers’ carts that overtake me, bringing people in from the villages. I walk past the shops on the High Street, past the statue of Disraeli outside the London Joint Stock Bank; past the statue, at the top of the market square, of John Hampden. He is pointing – I have been told he points the way to London. I pause beside the new war memorial to pay my respects. It is an elegant, dignified creation: a stone cross rising above a low curved wall with plaques of names. My heart reaches out to the local people whose menfolk are remembered here. Not knowing what I did in the war leaves me feeling shallow and inadequate. I turn away.
In the market square, stallholders cry their wares, gaunt bearded old men sort through ancient farming implements and mothers sift through piles of clothes. The flower-seller deftly makes posies and buttonholes and the toffee-man stretches his toffee. I’m not short of a bob or two. The army owed me money, apparently. I buy toffee and give it to some wistfullooking urchins, who should probably be at school.
I wander towards the canal and walk along the towpath. Coming across a bench, I sit down and stretch out my legs.
It is time for me to leave Maniac Manor. Not because Dr Jennings says so – he has said nothing of the kind – but because I say so. I know so. Staying won’t make my memory come back. Maybe nothing will. That being the case, I need to get on with my life.
I will ask for information about myself and my old life and use it to help me decide what to do. If all else fails, I’ll stick a pin in a map of the British Isles.
I slap my knees and come to my feet. I am… ready.
I return to Maniac Manor to find that Dr Jennings has been asking for me. That’s unusual. It isn’t my day to see him. But when I knock on his door, he rises from behind his desk and ushers me across the chessboard-tiled floor.
‘Let’s sit somewhere more comfortable,’ he says. ‘In here do you?’
He throws open the door to the common room. Other rooms have been plundered of sofas and armchairs and tables to make this a relaxed place. We inmates spend our evenings here. At this time of day, the room is empty, but there is a fire. Is there a fire all day every day, just in case someone needs it? Or was it laid for my benefit?
Jennings heads for the wing-back chairs to either side of the fireplace.
‘I like sitting by the window,’ I say. It is a small way of taking control.
He concedes the point and we sit down.
‘Something’s happened,’ I say, not making a question of it.
‘It has.’ Out come the pipe and tobacco-pouch. ‘I’m going to tell you something of yourself.’
‘Does this mean you’ve officially given up on waiting for my mem
ory to jump through hoops?’
‘It means, Linkworth, that it’s time to give you some information. You’ll see why in a minute.’
Have they brought my family here? Is he about to rattle off a list of names and relationships, then the door will open and they will pour in?
‘You were a schoolteacher before the war.’
A schoolteacher. Of all the professions I have toyed with in my mind, I’ve never considered that.
‘It must have been quite a cushy life,’ he observes. ‘Small private school; boys up to the age of thirteen.’
I see myself in a black gown with a mortar board, standing beside the blackboard, chucking a piece of chalk across the classroom at Smithers Minor to wake him up.
‘What subject?’ I ask. From nowhere comes the thought: I was good at Latin at school. Latin and maths.
‘You were the sports master.’
Sports, eh? Does that surprise me? I remember playing cricket with the local children in France.
‘The school was in the Lake District,’ says Jennings.
‘Am I from there?’
‘No, you’re a Yorkshireman.’
Yorkshire. Walking boots and a rucksack. Sweeping landscape, endless skies. Memory or imagination?
‘You had a brother.’
I note the had.
‘He died at Passchendaele; and your parents have passed away as well, I’m sorry to say.’
If I hadn’t remained in France, I could have come home and found them. Did the anguish of one fallen son and the other missing presumed dead help them on their way to the grave? A pang of sorrow and regret pierces my chest in the place where I imagine the knowledge-feeling would be.
‘You should know that after your mother died of the influenza, your father made a will. In the belief that both his sons had fallen on the battlefield, he left everything to your Cousin Irene.’
‘Irene?’ I make a quick dash around the inside of my head, hoping Irene will pop out of a corner, but the name means nothing.
‘Mrs Irene Rawlins, a war widow and the mother of five children.’
‘Five? What ages?’
‘The oldest was born in 1910.’
A quick calculation. ‘So they’re all still at school.’ A widow with five dependent children. ‘She has it hard. Did my father have much to leave?’
‘Enough to keep the wolf from the door until the oldest starts earning.’
‘Does Irene…?’ Presumably I am entitled to use her first name since we’re cousins. ‘Does she know I’m back from the dead?’
‘No. It’s up to you to tell people. It isn’t the army’s job.’
‘Well, she has nothing to fear from me. I shan’t make any claim against her to retrieve my father’s money. I’ll write and tell her so, if you’ll furnish me with her address. When she’s had time to adjust to the idea of my being alive and well, I’d like to visit her.’
He puffs on his pipe before he answers. ‘There’s somewhere you need to go before that. Does the name Reginald Tyrell mean anything to you?’
Has there been a mistake? Am I not Gabriel Linkworth after all? I try Reginald Tyrell for size. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘Reginald Tyrell is – was – your uncle. He passed away recently. He made you his sole heir.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘I APOLOGISE IF THIS makes things awkward for you,’ said Miss Hunt, ‘but you do see my point of view, don’t you?’ She sat on their sofa, looking poised in a cream blouse spotted with green, her feet tucked out of the way, trim ankles neatly crossed. She evidently expected agreement and apologies.
Patience’s heart sank. Prudence would agree. She knew she would. Miss Hunt was upset because she shared Tuesday evenings with Miss Layton from the slums – only she hadn’t called her Miss Layton, she had called her ‘a certain person’, and she hadn’t let the word ‘slums’ sully her lips, referring rather distantly to ‘a lower-class area’. Miss Hunt wanted to change her Tuesdays for another evening, though she probably expected them to change Miss Layton’s arrangements.
And Prudence would. Patience knew it.
‘Firstly,’ said Prudence, ‘you may not change your Tuesday evenings, Miss Hunt. That is your allocated slot and when you joined our school, you confirmed that it suited you. Secondly, I assume you’ve heard an unpleasant rumour. Let me tell you that Miss Layton is a respectable mill-girl. More to the point, she is a surplus girl, as are you. As such, it’s appropriate for you to make the best of your personal situation, is it not? If it is, are you able to furnish me with one good reason why it is not appropriate for Miss Layton to do the same? We will not entertain snobbery in our school. All our girls are decent and capable and that is all you need to know about one another.’
Gratitude flooded Patience. She had been prepared for Prudence to do what most people would have done and let class make the decision. Poor Miss Hunt looked aghast. Patience felt sorry for her. How could she save the poor girl’s dignity?
‘It’s most unfortunate that you heard this rumour,’ she said. ‘You aren’t alone in having been taken in by it.’
Miss Hunt reddened. ‘Obviously, I didn’t realise—’
‘I suggest you’re more careful in future.’ Prudence never knew when to let go.
‘I’m sure she will be,’ Patience murmured. ‘We’ll never refer to the matter again. The last thing we want is for you to feel uncomfortable here, Miss Hunt, dear.’
Later, she said to Prudence, ‘I never thought I’d see you defend Miss Layton so energetically.’
‘Miss Layton may be a lower-class girl, but she’s our lowerclass girl and I won’t hear her spoken ill of.’
Patience was delighted, though she took care not to show it in case she was accused of crowing. Anyway, her delight was short-lived. Two girls who had been due to start with them next week were both withdrawn by their parents, who freely admitted to having second thoughts after seeing the piece in the paper.
‘I’d almost forgotten that,’ sighed Patience, ‘what with Miss Hunt’s fuss over the rumour.’
‘Hasn’t Miss Layton sent her letter?’ said Prudence, vexed.
‘She promised she’d write.’
‘Maybe her letter wasn’t considered of a suitable standard for publication. I should have insisted upon writing it myself.’
Patience was still receiving glances loaded with criticism when she went round the shops. She decided not to attend her monthly flower-arranging afternoon.
‘You should have gone,’ Prudence told her that evening. ‘We have to hold up our heads.’
‘I didn’t mind missing it. All the other ladies talk about is their children and grandchildren.’
She cast a hopeful glance at Prudence, aching for some fellow-feeling, for understanding of how left out she felt when Mrs Keene went on about her Maud’s two little boys or Mrs Trevor described the arrangements for Ellen’s forthcoming wedding. It made her feel even more childless.
Prudence, however, didn’t respond. Well, she had been silly to hope for it.
After tea, as Patience washed up, Prudence came in behind her. Patience looked over her shoulder. Prudence was holding the Manchester Evening News.
‘Miss Layton’s letter?’ Patience asked, pleased.
‘Better than that. They haven’t published it, but they have followed it up.’
‘Please don’t say they descended on Miss Layton at home.’
‘Better than that.’ Prudence’s face relaxed into her rare smile. ‘They descended on Lawrence and showed him her letter, thus putting him in the position of having to babble on about the importance of this scholarship position and how Miss Layton is the perfect candidate, being clean and hard-working, with a good basic education, and her young man having given his life for his country.’
‘Never!’ Patience started to raise her hands in delight and dripped all over herself.
‘Not only that, they also showed him our letter, so he’s been forced to agree wit
h everything we said.’
‘Oh, that is good news.’ But she felt a twist of unease. Lawrence wouldn’t be pleased.
‘He was even obliged to praise us. See here: The business school was my idea, but I could never have put it into practice without the support of my sisters, who are working hard to ensure the success of the venture. I rather think a small celebration might be in order. If you meet me off the tram tomorrow evening, we could go for a walk and perhaps a bite to eat. We have a little extra money now, thanks to our pupils.’
Patience spent all the next day looking forward to their excursion. Their outings consisted of walks at the weekend or listening to the band in the recreation ground on summer afternoons, but they never ate out, apart from a toasted teacake or a scone to celebrate a birthday. With Pa using Mother’s small annuity to act the part of the gentleman of private means, leaving Prudence to provide the only salary, and a woman’s salary at that, their household had long stood testament to the ability of the middle class to live on fresh air and an unswerving belief in appearances.
Patience met Prudence at the terminus and they strolled down Barlow Moor Road to Chorlton Park, which was open later now that the evenings were drawing out. Afterwards they crossed the road to a modest place to have their tea, where they enjoyed slices of pork pie with tangy chutney, followed by syrup sponge and custard.
‘That was a splendid treat,’ Patience said on their way home, but the biggest treat of all was that Prudence – reserved, keepyour-hands-to-yourself Prudence – linked arms with her as they walked.
Patience’s happy mood lasted until they turned the corner into Wilton Close, when she saw Lawrence’s motor parked outside their house. Before he could emerge, Mrs Morgan came hurrying out of her house, in an ankle-length blue satin evening dress. Patience had long since suspected that the Morgans were the sort who dressed for dinner. Keeping up with the residents of Wilton Close was rather a strain when you hadn’t got sixpence to scratch yourself with.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I have to apologise for my husband. I know he had words with you… on a certain matter. The thing is, we saw yesterday’s paper and I do apologise for what Raymond said to you. It came as such a relief when I saw the piece in the paper. I said to Raymond, “I knew the Miss Heskeths would never lend themselves to anything untoward.” You won’t hold it against us, will you? You’re far too generous for that. Please come inside and have a sherry and you can tell me all about your business school.’