The Child From Nowhere

by Freda Lightfoot

  She might well have got away with her crime the first time around, had Callum not returned to Kendal market, his curiosity stirred by meeting Flora, that hint of red in her dark brown hair betraying her Irish ancestry, and her pale, freckled face so like the remembered image of his mother’s.

  The unreliable memories of a young boy had brought Lucy shame and exile, near poverty and humiliation, living upon the charity of friends. Finally, when even they had grown tired of her, she’d been compelled to endure a miserable existence in the aunts’ fusty old-fashioned house in Heversham. It stank of dogs and mothballs, with not a flicker of sunlight filtering through the leaded windows because of all the overgrown trees and shrubs in the tiny garden. Lucy had deliberately put up with the inconvenience, choosing to guard her privacy from prying eyes rather than bask in light and sunshine.

  Oh, but she’d resented her exile. She most certainly had. She had a lot of ground to make up.

  Later in the day, she would take out her brand new Austin 20, so distinctive and high-class, and drive it around town for a little while, calling on one or two of the few friends she still had left, for afternoon tea and a gossip.

  When she’d grown weary of hearing Adeline Cross list the great accomplishments of her children, or Felicity Goodchild proclaiming how splendidly her husband was doing, Lucy would climb back into her motor and drive herself home again. Except that she would make a slight detour. She always judged the time precisely, so that she reached the factory at the exact moment Callum would be leaving.

  Not that she ever offered him a lift. She would park up a side street and watch as he walked or cycled up Aynham Road with his chums. Five-thirty, without fail, every day.

  Evenings seemed to be fully occupied, with Callum rarely spending one at home. On Mondays and Thursdays he attended a class at the Allen Technical College, something to do with bookkeeping. On Tuesdays he went up to Kendal Green for a game of football with his mates, and sometimes he would go to the swimming baths in Allhallows Lane.

  On Fridays he always called at the library to change his book before going out for a beer to one of the less salubrious establishments in town, certainly in Lucy’s opinion, who preferred the County or possibly the White Lion which were most commodious and comfortable.

  She’d followed him only once or twice, simply to ascertain that he drank at what were known locally as Jerry shops, typical of his low-brow tastes. His favourite was either the Rifle Man’s Arms or the Odd Fellows’ Arms. He didn’t seem to be a heavy drinker, which was unfortunate, and generally left well before closing time, being home by nine-thirty. Young Callum was becoming a most sober, right-minded citizen, and quite the scholar, or so he imagined, which made her task more difficult.

  What she would do with all this information, Lucy hadn’t quite made up her mind. But by God, she meant to do something.

  ‘You called me a stuffed shirt.’

  Kate giggled, snuggling close against her husband beneath the sheets, twining her legs about his. They wasted no time in going early to bed that night, longing to be alone and revel in their joyous news. Eliot had been nervous at first, fearful of hurting her, but Kate had reassured him and they’d made love with such tenderness that afterwards she’d wept in his arms. ‘And so ye are a stuffed shirt, so self-righteous and pompous these days. The fault of the army, not you. Don’t you need to learn how to relax and stop worrying so much? The war is over and the world is not going to blow up in yer face, nor crash and bang in your head any more. You’re free, m’darlin’. Free as a bird.’

  ‘To love you, and give you more children.’

  ‘And isn’t that the truth of it.’

  ‘I don’t want you to have to work.’

  ‘Sure and of course I don’t have to work., I just want to, and where’s the wrong in that, will ye tell me? You were happy enough for me to run the company single-handed throughout the war, so what’s changed? I’m still the same person, still as capable, still as argumentative and infuriating.’

  He laughed. ‘You can say that again.’

  She smiled softly at him, loving him so much it hurt. This small miracle seemed to have brought them close again, and Kate couldn’t have been happier. ‘Will you at least give me a chance? Maybe I could do a bit of work at home, if you’d let me? And then when the babby is born and I’m on me feet again, we could get a nursemaid so I could come in to the factory. Not every day mind, just two or three mornings a week, mebbe. How would that be?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘You promise me?’

  ‘I’ve said I will think about, haven’t I? A man’s word is his bond.’ Eliot’s voice was grave but his eyes were laughing at her, twinkling merrily.

  ‘Well then, because I’m only a simple woman, I shall need you to seal your promise with a kiss.’

  ‘I have no problem with that.’ And he pulled her close to smooth his hand over her breasts, the ripening curve of her belly, and kiss her deeply and passionately.

  ‘Will we tell them soon, tomorrow mebbe?’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Callum and Flora will need time to get used to the idea that their mammy is still capable of making love, let alone having more children. And the aunts’ll want to start knitting. You know how they are. Getting ready for the babby will keep them happily occupied for hours on end. And sure as hell is hot, I certainly can’t knit.’

  ‘Kate!’

  ‘Well, isn’t that the truth? Remember when Amelia tried to teach me? More holes than knitting there was.’ And they both laughed fondly at the memory then fell silent as they recalled how that was during her last illness, a sad and poignant time.

  ‘Do you miss her still?’ Kate tentatively asked and Eliot looked at her for a long moment, unspeaking, then gathered her lovely elfin face between his two hands.

  ‘I loved Amelia, as you well know, but I love you too. I love you more than life itself, if that doesn’t sound too trite. I’m a very lucky man to have had so much love in my life.’

  Kate’s piece of news came like a bolt from the blue. ‘You’re pregnant? Good God!’

  ‘Yes, I was rather stunned too, but so pleased.’

  Eliot put an arm about his wife and hugged her to his side. ‘We both are. Isn’t it wonderful news, Lucy?’

  ‘Absolutely marvellous,’ she agreed, struggling to disguise the sour edge to her tone. It felt as if shards of ice were stabbing her insides. Another child! It was unendurable. Where was the point now in incapacitating Callum when another boy could well replace him in a matter of months? The woman bred like a rabbit. Who knew how many more brats she might have before she was done?

  Lucy was silently fuming. She’d been considering calling upon Swainson, the foreman who had once worked for the firm and been dismissed for taking advantage of the women. She’d thought he might assist her by breaking the boy’s legs. She’d been so looking forward to seeing this workhouse brat confined to a wheelchair, which would not only have put an end to any hope of his running the factory, but also to his swimming and his football, as well as his nights out at the beer shops. It would have made his life an utter misery which was exactly what he deserved. Serve him right for not having stayed where she’d put him.

  But something, she wasn’t sure what, had held her back. Now she knew that wouldn’t achieve her ends at all, not with another child on the way.

  Then what was the answer? Should some desperately unfortunate accident happen to Kate herself, thereby disposing of the expected infant? But that would still leave Callum as heir, and Eliot in charge.

  Flora, of course, was of no consequence, and could easily be controlled. So far, Lucy had exercised that power merely by a look, delighting in making the child shiver with fear. But she was willing to go further, if she felt it necessary. She was willing to go to any lengths.

  But first she needed to think through all the implications of this new development, to plan carefully. Nothing must be rushed.

  Lucy continue
d with her normal routine, her mind a turmoil of emotion as she strove to find a solution to her dilemma. Young Georgie had plenty of time on his side, but Jack and Bunty would be home by September, and she was determined to have something worthwhile to offer them by then. She continued with her afternoon vigils and a day or two later was parked in her usual spot, hidden up a side street some distance from the factory but with a good view of Aynham Road, along which Callum must walk. He was late today and she was growing tired of waiting. Lucy had almost decided to give up, in view of the changed circumstances. Where was the point? She must devise some other plan. The anger and resentment she felt towards the whole lot of them festering deep inside of her.

  Kate O’Connor had no right to so much happiness, to lord it over her as the mistress of Tyson Lodge, let alone be constantly nagging Eliot to allow her to help run the factory as well. The woman had grown above herself and needed bringing down a peg or two, back to where she belonged, in the gutter.

  Neither did Eliot have any right to disinherit his own brother’s children for the sake of a workhouse brat. It was intolerable. Lucy would never forgive him for that, not for as long as she lived. If he’d left the boy to rot in Poor House Lane, her darling husband Charles might still have been alive today, she thought, conveniently forgetting that Charles’s suicide had been caused by debt which she herself had helped him to accumulate.

  And then she saw Eliot come out of the factory and start to walk up Aynham Road, more of a hobble in fact, favouring his injured leg as he always did. When he reached the corner of Nether Bridge, he would cross the road and call in the corner shop for his evening paper.

  And suddenly the answer came to her. Neat and simple.

  The engine was ticking over nicely, and it took no time at all to slip it into gear, hit the accelerator and surge forward, the power of the engine exciting her. There was even time to catch the startled expression in Eliot’s eyes as he focussed upon her at the moment of impact, and then his body was flying upwards, right over the top of the car.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lucy didn’t wait to find out where or how his body landed, she pressed her foot to the floor on the accelerator, skidded left over Nether Bridge, left again, and was soon racing away from town, quite certain that no one would have had the chance to take the number of her car. There’d been some old dear standing on her doorstep but Lucy was quite certain she wouldn’t have been near enough to identify the driver.

  She found that she was gasping for breath, her nerves a jangle of excitement and terror. Oh, but she had never enjoyed herself more in all of her life. Seeing a policeman come into view ahead, she slowed the car down to the correct fifteen miles an hour. She mustn’t get too carried away. It was vital that she remain free from all suspicion.

  Lucy made a wide detour of the town as quickly as she possibly could without drawing attention to herself, and miraculously was back home with the Austin parked in the garage within ten minutes. She slipped quietly in through a side door, calling for Ida to bring her a tray of tea to the parlour at once, as if she’d been there all along. Most satisfactory.

  The doorbell rang. No sound permeated up the wide stairs to indicate that Ida was rushing to answer it, and Kate correctly surmised that she was engaged in some task for Lucy. She seemed to be constantly answering to her beck and call these days. Mrs Petty could well be out in the garden, collecting vegetables for dinner, or else gossiping with young Tom in the afternoon sunshine. Kate glanced at the clock. It was early yet, not quite five. With a sigh, she set down the pile of books she’d been sorting, wiped the dust from her hands on her apron, and hurried downstairs.

  It was the local constable who was patiently waiting for her, and even before he spoke, the look on his face told her everything. She felt, in that moment, as if time stood still, yet the chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall sounded louder than ever, and a chill descended upon her, despite the August heat.

  ‘I’m that sorry, Mrs Tyson. Happen it would be best if you sat down.’

  ‘Oh, dear God … Callum?’

  ‘No, ma’am, don’t fret none about your boy. It’s – well, fact of the matter is ...’ This was the one part of his job that the constable hated the most. ‘Is there anyone else in the house, ma’am? Can I call someone for you?’

  ‘Please, get on with it. What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, the car didn’t even stop, d’you see. It was all very quick. The master wouldn’t even have known what had hit him. He were just walking across Aynham Road, limping like, one witness said. War injury, I dare say. He should have used a stick. Too proud, no doubt. Anyway, the motor car swung round the corner and ploughed straight into him. Like I say, didn’t even stop, the villain, went shooting off out of town at the speed of light. We’re trying to find out the make and registration number but all we know for sure is that it was black, which doesn’t help us much at all, does it? I mean, what else would it have been? All cars are black. The poor man didn’t stand a chance. Blinded by the lowness of the sun to see proper, I expect. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, ma’am. Never was a nicer bloke, and him just back from the front. Missed all them German bullets and bombs, only to cop it in his own town.’

  The constable seemed to be asking and answering his own questions. Which was just as well since Kate was quite incapable of doing so. She’d passed out on Ida’s clean doorstep.

  The funeral took place early the following week at Kendal Parish Church where the vicar gave a lengthy eulogy on what a very fine gentleman Mr Eliot Tyson had been; how well thought of he was in the town, by townsfolk and factory workers alike; how brave he’d been in volunteering for active service; and how tragic it was that having survived the war, he had not managed to survive the peace.

  The respect and high esteem in which he’d been held were only too evident in a church that was packed to the door. Hymns were sung, prayers chanted and psalms read, before he was laid to rest in the parish churchyard.

  Not that Kate was aware of any of this. She had been rushed to the County hospital where she’d lost her baby and had since lain in a stupor, unaware of anything going on around her.

  All of which suited Lucy perfectly.

  The reading of the will, some three weeks after Eliot’s death, delayed out of respect for Kate’s condition, was the first day she felt able to rise from her bed and come downstairs. She would not have achieved even this had it not been for dear Aunt Cissie’s help and quiet insistence.

  ‘I shall help to get you washed and dressed, dear girl, but it is essential that you are present. You must hear what is being said.’

  And when Kate turned away with a groan, complaining that she didn’t care what the will said, she simply wanted to be left alone, Cissie became surprisingly firm.

  ‘You must get up, you really must. Lucy will be there, with all her children. They have arrived in force, don’t you know? Jack, Bunty and even young George, dragooned into action to prove they are “family”; that they care. How would poor Callum and Flora feel if you weren’t present too, right beside them? Or are you going to throw in the towel and allow Lucy to take over?’

  If anything was calculated to galvanise her into action, it was the thought of Lucy taking charge.

  Kate submitted herself to Cissie’s ministrations. A bath was drawn, her face and hands washed like a child’s, her back scrubbed and her hair shampooed. The fresh lemon verbena scent of it making her cry as she recalled how much Eliot had loved it. Then she was tenderly dried and dressed in the frock she generally wore for other people’s funerals, had never intended to wear for anyone so close to her as her own husband. It all seemed unreal, as if she were one step removed from everything, standing behind a pane of frosted glass, not quite able to see or hear what was going on beyond it.

  With her face wax pale and her hair neatly tied back Kate walked slowly downstairs, supported by Cissie every step of the way, to take her place in Eliot’s study. Every day throughout the war she had o
ccupied that room without a second thought, now she hesitated at the door, summoning every ounce of her strength before she was able to face the prospect of entering.

  ‘Be brave, dear girl, you are not alone. Vera and I will be right there beside you, as always,’ Cissie said, patting her hand.

  Kate felt a rush of warm gratitude. ‘Thank you.’ She wanted to say so much more, about how she appreciated the support the aunts had given her so often in the past, despite their initial disapproval of her, but knew that she couldn’t, not without starting the tears all over again.

  Vera opened the door and the two maiden ladies helped Kate to a seat right in the centre of the circle of chairs set before Eliot’s desk. The leather seat was cracked and she could feel the horse-hair stuffing pricking the back of her legs, but didn’t ask for a better one or shift her position. The discomfort would serve to keep her mind on what was going on.

  It seemed wrong to Kate that a stranger, Mr Jeffries the family solicitor, should be seated at Eliot’s desk. She wanted to shout at him to go away, to tell him that her husband would not approve of his presence here. The aroma of Eliot’s after-dinner cigar still lingered in the air, an acrid, stale odour that brought a rush of fresh tears to Kate’s eyes. Would she ever get through this ordeal?

  Kate was aware of Lucy and her three children, of Mrs Petty and Ida and the two aunts, all watching her with varying degrees of sympathy and concern. She must look what she was, a vulnerable young woman grieving for a beloved husband; a woman who’d just lost a precious child and had suddenly aged by ten years.

  She also noticed that Callum was not present.

  A small warm hand slid into hers. ‘Are you all right, Mammy? Aunt Cissie said you were ill and that I was not to disturb you.’