The Child From Nowhere

by Freda Lightfoot

  Lucy was shocked by this lack of deference. ‘I beg your pardon? I’ve just asked you to do a job for me. Are you refusing?’

  ‘Well, would you believe it, so I am. It may have slipped your notice but I’m no longer employed as a servant in this house. We don’t in fact have a housemaid any more. Fanny has left.’

  ‘Gone to work for you in that dreadful little workshop, I understand.’

  Kate beamed cheerfully. ‘My ‘dreadful little workshop’ as you call it, is now part and parcel of Tyson Industries, so you’d best get used to the idea. But yes, that is where Fanny is happily ensconced. And although I’ve tried placing several advertisements in the local press, I’ve found no replacement housemaid, so we are all going to have to pull our weight a little bit more than usual. At least until hostilities are over and things settle back to normal.’

  ‘Well, really! You surely aren’t expecting me to sweep and clean? Isn’t it enough that I’ve sacrificed my lady’s maid because of Eliot’s parsimony? These Tyson brothers were always mean, dreadfully so, considering their vast wealth.’

  Kate sighed and sorrowfully shook her head. ‘And isn’t that what I thought meself once? They appeared wealthy, certainly from Poor House Lane, but now I’m not so sure. This is a big house to run, the aunts, and you, live in it and need to be kept, along with your children and their school fees paid. Eliot does his duty, bless his generous heart, but the money has to be found from somewhere. And there are God knows how many other aunts and uncles and cousins who depend upon Tyson’s to furnish them with pensions or dividends on their shares. You, dear sister-in-law, are not the only one making demands upon him. Perhaps you should remember that occasionally.’

  Lucy bridled at being reminded of their relationship. Had she been a cat, her fur would have stood on end and her claws unsheathed. ‘Is that meant as some sort of criticism?’

  ‘No,’ Kate replied calmly. ‘It’s meant as a comment on the facts. Eliot carries all the responsibility for this family on his broad shoulders, which mebbe you should appreciate a bit more. I’m surprised ye’ve made no progress finding yerself a new chap. Course, it isn’t easy nowadays, not with all the best men going off to war, and there’ll be even fewer when it’s over, I shouldn’t wonder. So if you couldn’t find a husband before, I doubt you’ll have much better luck after.’ She gave a sad shake of her head. ‘What a waste. I’m sorry for your misfortune, so I am.’

  Lucy’s cheeks fired to scarlet, and she leapt to her feet in a fury. ‘I’m not asking for your pity.’

  ‘No, course you aren’t,’ Kate continued, at her most pleasant. ‘Only to fetch ye a handkerchief, or whatever it is ye’ve a fancy for next. But we can’t find a maid, do ye see, let alone a rich husband. And I’m sorry I can’t help like I used to, but since Eliot has left the responsibility for Tyson’s Industries in my hands, and the workers depend upon it for their livelihoods, not to mention all the rest of the Tyson family, the factory must have first call upon my time. I hope you understand. We must all do our best to pull together and get along, eh?’

  Words which were echoed in Eliot’s own letters home from the front. ‘I hope you and Kate are getting along better now,’ he would say.

  And Lucy would write back. ‘We are like dear sisters.’

  Kate found that once she’d made it clear that she was no longer a servant but Eliot’s wife, and should be treated as such, she coped quite well with her new role. Her fears for Eliot increased over the long months of his absence. At the end of last year he’d been involved in the fracas over Gallipoli, an ill-conceived campaign which Kitchener had finally abandoned when he’d gone out there to inspect the situation at first hand. She’d spent a tense few weeks before hearing that Eliot had been safely evacuated along with his men.

  She’d received several letters after that, a whole bunch of them which gave her a small insight into the horrors he was facing, although some words had been scored through by the censor. Eliot spoke of the horrors of the trenches, the slush and mud, the stink and blood of dying men, how there’d been times when they were sick with fear or fed up to the back teeth; his pain over losing one of his men, as well as his fury if one wasn’t pulling his weight.

  ‘They are so young, Kate. Little more than boys. Some of them can’t even . . .’ and again obliteration of his words by the censure, but Kate assumed them to be, ‘fire a rifle.’

  Sometimes he spoke of his need for her. Nothing overly romantic, just a few plain, simple words scribbled on the bottom. ‘I miss you, Kate,’ or ‘Thinking of you, my love.’

  She thought of him too, every day. And when the pain and worry became too great, she would bury her fears in work, as she always did.

  In July, the British launched their offensive on the Somme although even that grand military campaign was soon bogged down in controversy. Despite its apparently careful planning, losses were huge and soon Rolls of Honour were being posted in the parish church. Kate became obsessed with calling in, just to make sure Eliot’s name wasn’t on it and someone had forgotten to inform her. Shrines to the fallen appeared everywhere, at churches up and down the land, on street corners, outside ordinary houses in the streets of Kendal, all with names and flowers, prayers or crosses set beside them.

  Kate helped her women workers make up parcels of cigarettes and Kendal mint cake, socks and even the balaclavas she’d once flippantly promised Eliot, to send out to the soldiers. When once he wrote to say that nothing was getting through, she contacted several food suppliers in town, who agreed to send out parcels to the soldiers, all packed together in a great big van, which did get through and was gratefully received.

  But as the summer wore on, his letters became less frequent, their contents more guarded, which caused her to worry all the more.

  She did at least get a letter from Dermot saying that as conscription didn’t apply to Irishmen, he’d not been forced to go. He was doing well with his own little business, he told her.

  Though not as well as yours, mind. Aren’t you the grand one now? Me and Dolly have three babbies, and still happy as Larry after nearly six years of marriage. I’d come and see you Katy love, only we never have two halfpennies to rub together. One day, eh me lovely? Keep those Irish eyes smiling.

  Kate shed many a tear over that letter, reading and re-reading it over and over till she knew every word by heart. Wouldn’t she just love to see her little brother again? Aw, but you couldn’t have everything in this world, and he was fine and dandy, safe enough where he was. There were many who weren’t so lucky. Too many. Fear and anxiety for their loved ones ran through everyone these days, though it was true she’d little enough family that she could afford to lose sight of any one of hers. She’d never found the red haired boy Flora had spoken of, had lost heart that she ever would. It had probably not been Callum anyway. Kate decided that he was simply a figment of the child’s imagination. But that wouldn’t stop her search continuing. Only right now, she’d little enough time, not with a factory and a workshop to run.

  There were times when she suffered pangs of conscience over leaving Flora more and more in the care of the two aunts, and with Lucy. But then Cissie was quite fond of the child and would happily read her stories for hours, much to Flora’s delight. Vera, on the other hand, would read only carefully selected stories from the bible. Fortunately, Flora liked these too, which softened even Aunt Vera’s stony heart, at least a little. It seemed to Kate at times, that her daughter was making better progress with them than she was. She even got on well with Cissie’s hysterical dogs.

  But if they had learned to tolerate the child, the maiden aunts rarely spoke to Kate, except to issue her with an order or instruction of some sort, which she generally ignored. Or else it would be to chide her on some supposed failing. ‘Eliot would wish you to leave the letters on the tray in the hall, not take them to the post office yourself.’

  ‘But who else will take them, if not me? Fanny works at the factory now. Dennis has enlisted. Dear
old Askew is no longer with us, and Mrs Petty and Ida have enough to do. Who else would post the letters, will ye tell me that? Your good selves, mebbe?’

  But she never won an argument. They would find some other fault instead. ‘Poor dear Amelia always used to have the brasses polished on a Friday. These are looking very grubby dear. Quite dilapidated.’

  ‘Then here’s a rag, give them a rub, why don’t you? Or ask Lucy. She’s not got much on this week.’

  ‘Well, I never!’

  ‘Oh, deary, deary me.

  They still hadn’t quite accepted her for what she was, a vital part of Eliot’s life. Winning the men over had been easy by comparison.

  Chapter Eight

  Lucy wasted no time in taking advantage of Kate’s distraction. The fact that running the factory was taking all her attention was proving to be a positive bonus. It had the wonderful benefit of allowing Lucy long periods alone with the child, and she willingly volunteered to collect Flora from school.

  ‘You see how I have taken your words to heart about us all pulling together. This is my way of doing my bit, dear sister. One way, at least, that I can help, and with my own children away at school, it is a pleasure to spend time with a child again.’

  And the joy of it was, Kate believed her. She would kiss her sleepy daughter while she was still in her bed, and dash off without a second thought, completely trusting.

  Lucy was beginning to really quite enjoy herself, growing more imaginative in her abuse of this child which had been foisted upon the household. Not only did the luckless Flora stand in very well as a make-shift servant to fetch and carry her knitting wool, embroidery threads, books or whatever, but from that very first morning when Lucy had made the situation clear, the child had proved to be a surprisingly quick learner.

  Dear Flora had a natural instinct for survival which meant she responded well to the fear Lucy induced in her, and proved to be surprisingly easy to control. Disappointingly easy at times, which meant that Lucy needed to devise new trials to provoke her, if she was to remain entertained and not grow bored by the whole enterprise.

  It was such a marvellous way of relieving her own personal frustration and fury. So utterly satisfying to take out her revenge on the child.

  She would order Flora to stand in a corner for lengthy periods with her hands on her head whenever she didn’t instantly obey one of Lucy’s instructions to the letter, or else pinch the flesh on her tummy or on the backs of her legs, somewhere any unfortunate marks were less likely to show. By way of variation, Lucy would put a blanket over the child’s head while she slapped her quite hard, to and fro with the flat of her hand. That way there would be no bruises. At first, Flora had cried a great deal during these ordeals, but the little girl soon learned that this only resulted in yet worse punishment and would now suck in her breath, bite her lip and keep silent, which, oddly enough, infuriated Lucy all the more. It seemed to issue a further challenge, and she’d be desperate to find some way to make the child cry.

  ‘I’ll break your stubborn spirit, drat you,’ she would hiss through gritted teeth. ‘You are so very naughty, no wonder your mammy neglects you and doesn’t love you any more. You are going to have to learn better manners, or nobody will love you ever again.’

  ‘Yes she does love me,’ Flora stubbornly insisted, pouting her wobbly lips, and be slapped even harder for this show of defiance.

  Sometimes, if Lucy should offer to take her for a walk to feed the ducks or up to Serpentine Woods, Flora would object, becoming tearful over this promised treat.

  ‘No, I want Mammy. Mammy, you take me for a walk.’ And she would cling to her mother’s skirt, or drag her feet and refuse to go.

  Kate would panic, worried that Flora wasn’t finding it any easier than herself to settle into this new routine with a strange family in a strange home. She would hold her close and soothe her, trying to reassure her precious child. ‘There now, won’t ye have a grand time? You must thank Aunt Lucy for offering to look after you so well when Mammy’s busy.’

  ‘But I want you to look after me. You never do. You don’t love me no more.’

  ‘Now where did you get that nonsense from?’

  ‘Aunt Lucy said you don’t, not if I’m naughty.’ A gulp and a guilty swallow, since this was dangerous territory.

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t say anything of the sort. Wouldn’t she only be telling you to be a good girl so’s yer mammy would be proud of ye. And sure I am proud of ye. Don’t I love the bones of you? Aren’t you my precious treasure?’ And Kate hugged her daughter tight, to prove it.

  ‘I know it’s hard for you to understand, sweetheart, but there’s a war on, and our brave soldiers have gone out to fight to protect us all. Daddy has left Mammy in charge of the factory. That’s my war job, d’you see? Not only do I have boots to make for all these fine soldiers but I must see that the business is run properly, that all the workers are properly looked after, orders taken and dealt with so the factory will still be here for Daddy when he comes home again at the end of it all. Do you understand, me cushla?’

  Even as Kate patiently offered this explanation as simply and clearly as she could, half of her mind was worrying over what fresh trouble might be brewing, whether a promised order had been completed, if she could squeeze a free day to go off round the markets again on yet another fruitless search for Callum. And also worrying over when she’d last had a letter from Eliot, not for two weeks surely? So much to think about, so many worries.

  ‘Mammy wants you to be a brave little soldier too, d’you see?’ Kate said, unconsciously worsening the situation.

  For Flora it was all very confusing. She understood about the war, and her mammy working hard, but she still couldn’t get rid of that nasty feeling in her tummy. Something wasn’t right and it must be her fault because hadn’t they all had that lovely wedding, hadn’t she worn her best dress, acquired a new daddy and come to live in this great big house? Even her friend Maggie had been impressed. So she should be happy, shouldn’t she? And if nobody liked her, and kept smacking her, it must be her fault, mustn’t it? Oh, why was everything so muddled? And why couldn’t she make Aunt Lucy pleased with her?

  The battles over the meals were, to Lucy, a particular delight. Lucy just loved breakfast times. Flora hated eggs. It didn’t matter whether they were boiled, fried, scrambled, any way Mrs Petty chose to make them, she absolutely refused to eat eggs. Kate said that she’d always disliked them.

  ‘You’re too soft with that child. Always were, and with Callum too.’

  ‘Callum isn’t here now, so let’s not bring him into this,’ Kate firmly insisted, and Lucy gave a careless shrug.

  Mrs Petty offered various alternatives. ‘If the little petal doesn’t care for eggs, would she like a nice fat sausage for her breakfast instead? Or a bit of crispy bacon?’

  ‘I’m sure that would be lovely,’ Lucy agreed, thrilled to have found a new and imaginative way to plague the child. ‘But I’ll take the eggs, Mrs Petty. You know how I do love them.’

  The aunts always ate their own breakfast early at seven, so Lucy made a point of waiting until they’d finished before taking Flora in. Then she put the specially prepared sausage on to her own plate and gave the two poached eggs to the child. Flora turned up her nose in disgust.

  ‘Don’t want them. Don’t like eggs, Aunt Lucy.’

  ‘You’ll eat what’s good for you, like them or not.’ And when it became clear, as anticipated, that she was not going to eat them, Lucy began spooning great lumps of the rapidly congealing mess into the child’s protesting mouth. Flora began spitting and crying in most satisfactory distress.

  The following morning was even better. Lucy stood behind the child’s chair, arms folded, and took immense pleasure in watching how she struggled to eat the hated egg through choking tears, gagging over the yolk which she loathed most of all.

  ‘You really need far more discipline. Your mammy has spoilt you, but I’m in charge now, so you’ll
do as I say.’

  Lucy had another brilliant idea. If drilling was good for soldiers, she thought, why not for a small child? She conducted these ‘exercises’, as she liked to call them, out on Scout Scar, far away from the house and any prying eyes, where she could be in complete control. She insisted Flora march back and forth over a given area, arms either raised above her head, or constantly swinging, for hour upon hour. This became a regular routine, often in the pouring rain, till the child was weeping and giddy with exhaustion. Lucy would generously allow her a short respite before brutally making her start all over again.

  ‘Fifty times. You must walk this path fifty times without stopping. Your daddy drills because of the war, so why not you? Do it right, and I’ll tell him what a good little soldier you are.’

  There was the odd awkward moment. Should they return home with the child soaking we, Lucy would hurry her upstairs through the silent house before anyone could see, handing her a towel with the order to strip off and dry herself.

  To Flora’s credit, she made less and less fuss, withdrawing into a silent shell which she cast about herself, as if she’d grown indifferent to pain and punishment. As a consequence, she did indeed become more disciplined, a great deal better behaved, both at meal times and in company.

  Kate would remark upon it, saying what a ‘good girl’ she was, thus seeming to condone the situation in Flora’s eyes. Other days, she would look slightly troubled, saying how quiet Flora had been at bedtime, asking if she was sickening for something.

  Lucy always dismissed such a notion as utter nonsense. ‘She’s tired out from playing so hard all day, that’s all. You really mustn’t fuss the child, sister dear.’

  Even Vera would put on her spectacles and frowningly comment, ‘We don’t like noise here. Children should be seen and not heard.’