“Brother Eli, this is my wife Henrietta and, of course, this is my daughter, Flora.”
Eli observed them impassively but said nothing.
“Such an honour deserves a celebration. Would you care to take a little wine?”
Eli inclined his head slightly forward and this was taken by Flora’s father to signal consent. He reached up to a high shelf and took down a dusty bottle. This was the only alcoholic drink in the house and to Flora’s knowledge it had lain there untouched for two years. Her father blew the dust from the bottle and poured out two glasses. He gave one to Eli and took one for himself. The women received nothing.
“Please be seated, Brother Eli. Flora, this is indeed a great honour for our family.”
She was immediately alerted to danger. Her father never addressed her directly in the presence of other people.
“Brother Eli is being spoken about as the next leader of our congregation – a very great honour. Therefore, the news that he brings is even more wonderful for our family.”
Flora’s father inclined his head towards Eli in the expectation that he would deliver the news, but Eli continued to stare impassively ahead.
“Well, the wonderful news, daughter, is that Brother Eli, in spite of your past indiscretions and er frailties, would like to take you for his wife.”
Flora felt a sudden sickness well up in her stomach and she had a great desire to retch. The thought of physical contact with this man left her feeling faint. She knew he was a widower. His sickly and browbeaten wife had died childless nearly two years previously. In their church, it was considered shameful not to provide children for the next generation of the Brotherhood and Flora could see clearly what Eli’s intentions were. She realised that her father was still speaking to her.
“You know, daughter, that in our congregation it is considered a great honour for an older man to wed a younger woman. He can then instruct her in the ways of our Lord and curb her excesses.”
Flora knew that there had been talk of beatings and punishments in his household. Normally, what went on behind closed doors was of no concern to anyone else, but the crying and shouting that had disturbed the tranquillity of the community’s life had led to murmurings and quiet words of ‘advice’.
“We are going to leave you and Eli to talk alone now, daughter.” Flora pleaded with her eyes as her mother and father rose from the table, but her anguished looks were ignored.
“Listen carefully to what Brother Eli has to say and be guided by his wisdom and experience.”
Her parents left the room and Flora found herself alone in the chilling presence of Eli Krautz. He played with his wine glass, his stubby white hands gliding up and down the glass stem. When he spoke, it was to the opposite wall.
“You are young and I imagine you are fertile. That is good. If I am to be leader of this community – and I will be – I need children to follow in my name. It will be an honour for you to be my wife but I will expect you to perform your duties as a wife with the utmost diligence.”
Flora felt a shudder run down her spine and she fought to stifle a scream.
“You will obey me at all times. Especially, you will obey me in the bedroom. Being a virgin and being naive, you will encounter some things that may not be to your liking and may seem, how shall I say, unholy.”
Flora noticed that he was speaking more quickly now and his breathing was getting deeper.
“Within marriage, everything is acceptable and it is ordained that you will accommodate the desires of your husband – whatever they may be.”
Now he had turned towards her and was leaning forward. She could see that his eyes were opaque and bloodshot.
“When I penetrate you it will be for the glory of our church. When I sow my seed, it will be for the honour of our founding fathers.”
Now he had raised himself from the table and was lurching forward. Flora leapt to her feet and grabbed hold of one of the rickety wood chairs, letting out a stifled scream as she tried to create a barrier between herself and the advancing spectre. He didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were distant and unseeing.
“When I take you …”
Suddenly, he was clutching at his chest and emitting a croaking sound from his throat. Froth started to bubble from the sides of his mouth. Flora was transfixed and unable to move. He clutched at the table with one hand and stretched out his other arm towards her. She made no move. Their eyes met briefly and she saw panic and fear within his. She felt suddenly removed and calm, as if she was disembodied from the scene that was playing out before her. He fell to the floor still gripping his chest. Flora knew that she should call for help but a stronger force held her back. She had been told all her life that God had ordained our lives to be led as he wished. Then this was his will. She would place her trust in him and not intervene.
She watched his final jerking movements as he lay on the floor. Instead of feeling weak and vulnerable, she felt a new strength invade her body. It was time to take control of her life and stop being the eternal victim. She had to leave this place and soon.
She took a deep breath and then let out a scream, shouting loudly for help as she rushed to the door of the next door room where her parents were waiting to offer their congratulations to the happy couple.
Jed
It was a bright morning with a hint of frost on the ground as Jed set off on the two mile walk from Mount Farm to Frampton. He had travelled the distance many times before when he had attended the town school, but since his mother’s illness his visits had been far less frequent. He had also lost contact with many of his friends there. When his mother was first diagnosed with consumption, neighbours and friends would call by to offer help, but the curt greeting they received from Jed’s father soon reduced this flow to a trickle and finally it dried up altogether. For over a year Jed hardly left the house, bound by his mother’s need for constant attention.
Now, as he made his way between hedgerows and smelt the familiar pungency of freshly ploughed Norfolk loam, he felt as if he was entering the town for the first time, seeing it with new eyes. As he reached the outskirts, low roofed workers cottages lined the road, each with evidence of some form of toil. Smoke billowed from the furnace of a smithy and across the road milk churns littered the path outside a small dairy. Washing billowed in the wind by a laundry and a tethered cow lowed mournfully as it patiently waited its turn to enter the slaughterhouse.
Further into the town, the buildings were more substantial and imposing, housing the co operative bank, the doctor’s surgery and the police station. All roads led to the market square. The buildings surrounding this were gothic in style and looked onto a central pavilion which had once served as the food market. Now, long since abandoned as a market, it housed a few benches which were usually occupied by the elderly men of the town, sitting and observing life unfold as it had done for centuries.
Today was market day and, as Jed entered the square, stall holders were busy selling a range of produce brought in from neighbouring farms and fresh fish from nearby Cromer. As he weaved his way through shoppers and stall holders, he recognised the faces of people he’d known from before his mother’s illness but no one seemed to recognise him. He had the strangest feeling of being invisible.
He had to stop to get his bearings. At the far end of the market square, tucked in between two buildings was a narrow alley, known locally as Thresher’s Cut. He made his way down this path until it opened out onto a small courtyard surrounded by stone buildings. The taller buildings were used as store houses and rope pulleys swung from first floor landings. Between the taller buildings were a few single story thatched workshops which predated the store houses. Jed made his way towards one of these.
Inside, he felt immediately at ease as he recognised a scene which hadn’t changed in the years he’d been absent. By the window which overlooked the courtyard, was a large work bench made from rough hewn oak. Its many indentations and gouged scars were evidence of years of creative toil. On wooden racks at
tached to the wall by the side of the table were artisans’ tools – chisels, files, wood planes and numerous hand saws. From the wooden rafters hung a profusion of additional tools and implements, some of which looked as if they’d last seen service in the Middle Ages.
Jed picked up one of the chisels and ran his fingers down the metal shaft. It brought him pleasure to handle an instrument with which he could create something useful and lasting. Jed’s deliberations were halted by a gravelly voice calling out from the back room.
“Who’s that out there? Is you wantin’ somethin’?”
Jed recognised the voice of Daniel.
“It’s me, Jed Carter.”
“Who?”
“Jed Carter. I used to help out here.”
Daniel came into sight, emerging from the gloom of the backroom. He looked older than Jed recollected. He was small and very slightly hunched. His body showed signs of having once been powerful but the muscles had long since given way to a fat belly which gave him a rounded and benign appearance.
“Well, blow me – Jed Carter. I thought you’d gone – left the village. Folks said there was trouble up at your place and you’d all left.”
“No, it weren’t like that.”
Jed placed the chisel on the work bench and struggled to find words to explain his situation.
“You see, my Ma got very ill and I had to look after her. There was no one else to do it. Pa and Tom were busy on the farm and looking after Ma was left to me. I tried to get word to you.”
“I heard nothin’,” replied Dan, with a hint of indignation. “One day you was here and the next you was gone. I would ‘ave come looking but folks said you’d left.”
“I’m real sorry, Dan, but they wouldn’t let me out. Ma needed seeing to all the time – you know, bed pans and all that.”
“That doesn’t seem right, a youngster like you having to nurse his mother.”
“It wasn’t good. I seen things and had to do things I don’t care to talk about.
“Weren’t there no one to help you, neighbours, that sort of thing?”
“You know what it’s like round here. Mind your own business and keep yourself to yourself. And my Pa and Tom didn’t help. Anyone come a knockin’ at the door and they’d send ‘em packin’.”
There was a prolonged silence as Dan digested this news. Jed allowed his eyes to scan the workshop shelves, taking in boxes of rusty nails, assorted chair legs and misshapen knives. He felt his spirits begin to rise, surrounded by these implements which enabled people like Dan to create order and structure from simple raw materials.
“So what’s brought you back then?” enquired Dan at last.
“My Ma died a year ago and since then I’ve just been left to myself.”
“Why aren’t you helping out on the farm then?”
“I tried but it just ain’t working out. I don’t fit in.”
“Why’s that?”
“The place is dead since Ma and Matt has gone. Matt were the life and soul of the place. You should have seen my Ma’s eyes light up when he was around. He told her stories that made her laugh and got up to pranks that took her breath away. An’ you could see Pa loved him too. He didn’t say much but you could see it in his eyes. Now they’ve gone the place is like a morgue. Pa and Tom work together and no one seems to know I exist – or even cares.”
Dan sat down heavily on an old sea chest that served as a seat.
“Well, I care young Jed. I done my fair share of being alone and I know it ain’t good. We all need to belong and we all need some purpose. Have you had any thoughts about what you want to do?”
“I was brought up to do farming and I ain’t trained for anything else. But I love this place, all them tools and that lathe over there. I like making things. I think I’d like to build things, houses, cabinets, chairs – anything.”
Dan rubbed his beard thoughtfully and scratched his ample stomach as he pondered Jed’s situation.
“Well, it seems to me, young Jed, there ain’t no choice. How about you come and work for me again and learn yourself a proper trade. My arthritis stops me doing all the things I need to do an’ I need a pair of young hands to help me.”
Jed’s face was transformed from desolation to ecstasy. It was the outcome he’d hoped for but hardly dared believe might happen.
“I don’t know what to say. I mean yes – yes. It’s what I want. You’re a real friend, Dan.”
“I can only pay you a small wage, mind. If you wants you can sleep overnight in the loft. Saves you having to go back each night when we’re working late.”
“I’ll work for a pittance and I’ll work real hard and learn from you and …”
“So be it,” said Dan, interrupting Jed’s torrent of gratitude.
“Just you mind you don’t go runnin’ off again like last time. Now, how about you beginning by fetching me a mug of tea. I like it real dark, mind, with five big spoons of sugar.”
Jack
Jack rearranged the papers on his desk once more. Behind him, the factory was visible on the other side of the glass panelled door. The low hum of machinery provided a constant background to any conversation. The volume rose suddenly as the office door opened.
“Good news, Jack. We’ll meet the target this week. Ten machines completed by the end of today.”
The young factory manager was in his mid twenties, conventional save for the wooden peg leg that replaced the one he had been born with.
“Thanks, Adam. That’s good work. Have they all been tested?”
“All but the last one. That’s just going on the test rig now.”
“Good. I’d like that to be on the rig when I show this fellow round. He should be here shortly. I’ll have a chat to him, then give him a brief tour.”
“Right. We’d better get the place tidied up a bit.”
The factory manager left, leaving Jack waiting for the visitor. A sudden fit of coughing forced him to sit down at his desk and hold onto his chair for support. The words of his doctor were still ringing in head. It was only two days since he’d been summoned to the surgery to receive the results of hospital tests.
“The news isn’t good, Jack,” announced his doctor, reclining into a deep leather chair. “It’s the mustard gas that’s really done the harm to your lungs and it’s damaged the linings of your bronchial tubes too. All this coughing and straining is putting huge pressure on your heart and it’s getting weak. Then that beating you took has weakened you too. Basically, your body is showing signs of giving up.”
“So what are you saying?” enquired Jack, nervously. “What treatment are you suggesting?”
“There isn’t any treatment. Your condition is chronic. I’m afraid you’ve got five years at the most – three if you stay here in London. You need to get out of the city, away from the smog. Find somewhere near the seaside and enjoy what time’s left to you.”
Sitting at his office desk, Jack tried to compose himself before his visitor arrived. He had returned to the family business at the end of the war making sewing machines for the tailoring trade in the east end of London. His father had started the company in 1883 after he and his French wife had arrived in London as refugees from Russia. It had been modestly successful and Jack’s brother had been destined to inherit the factory on his return from war, but like so many other young men he became another victim of the slaughter in the trenches of northern France and the business passed to Jack.
Jack’s war had ended in late November 1917 when he was rescued, half dead, from a German interrogation centre. It took six months for him to convalesce and though the physical scars healed, the mental scars would trouble him for the rest of his life. Determined to put the war behind him, he put all his efforts into rescuing what had by then become a failing business. Using skills learned in the army, he experimented with attaching electric motors to sewing machines instead of the traditional foot pedal. The idea proved successful and their fortunes began to revive but Jack soon realised he ne
eded investment to make the business secure. Other rival companies were offering similar innovations and scale was the answer to keeping prices competitive.
Now, with the news that his life expectancy was five years at the most, carrying on with the business seemed futile. He had to get away – do something different for these final years. That’s why this meeting was so important. He unfolded the letter again and re read the contents. It was from a Mr. Grant P. Hoester, Chief Executive Officer of Deltic Sewing Machines of Chicago. It read:
Dear Mr. Malikov,
Deltic Sewing Machines of Chicago intends to launch a new range of electric driven models into the UK. Having researched the market in your country, we have decided that our preferred policy would be to buy a British company and develop an existing product. We have conducted exhaustive tests on the S104 model made by your company and are very impressed with the performance and durability. We would like to arrange a convenient date for our agent in the UK, Mr. Alec Morgan, to meet with you and discuss the potential for a sale.
Jack knew the rest of the letter by heart – he had read it many times. He stood up from the desk and looked out of the soot–stained window. A dank mist clung to the buildings and pavements, making it difficult to determine exact shapes – ‘five years at the most, three if he stayed in London’. He would do as the doctor had suggested, go to the coast, maybe buy a small place with the proceeds of the sale. The sea air would be good. Perhaps he could even cheat death a little longer.
The Guest Who Stayed: Chapter 3 – Winter 1919
Winter began early in 1919. There were extensive snow falls in mid November and the Norfolk country side was buried beneath an icy white blanket. Work in the fields ceased and animals were brought back into the barns to protect them from the plummeting winter temperatures.
In Frampton people hurried about their tasks with shawls pulled across their faces to protect them from the biting wind that drifted in from the North Sea. No one stopped to chat or pass the time of day. Many carried logs or kindling wood, desperate to keep their fires well stocked against the penetrating cold.
The Guest Who Stayed Page 3