by Maggie Hope
‘Aye,’ said Frank. His smile slipped a little and he looked searchingly at Hetty. ‘A lot of people have moved away. The Jameses now, they’ve emigrated to Canada to be with their son. He’s farming in Alberta and they say he’s doing grand.’
Well, at least she didn’t have to fear bumping into Mrs James, thought Hetty, relieved. Aye, but the woman had a right to hate the sight of her, she admitted to herself as a vivid vision of Dorothy, lying so still in the snow, invaded her mind. But it hadn’t been all her fault! No, it had not.
‘Have you not got a lad, Hetty? A bonny lass like you, you’re not going to land on the shelf, are you?’
‘I’m only nineteen, Gran,’ she protested, laughing. But for a fleeting moment an image of Richard flashed into her mind. But that particular dream was finished, Matthew had seen to that.
‘No, I haven’t got a lad,’ she said. ‘I don’t want one, neither, I’m happy on me own.’
‘I wish I had a sixpence for every lass as said that before they met the right one and got wed,’ Gran observed.
Morton Main wasn’t so much changed though, thought Hetty as she got off the bus and walked past the chapel on the end of Chapel Row. There was still that air of deprivation and poverty about in spite of the yard steps scrubbed white and marked out with sandstone, the dolly-dyed cream curtains at the windows in the backyards. The same tin baths hung on the walls beside the windows too and it could almost have been the same knots of miners, whether they were out of work or simply off-shift, Hetty didn’t know, sitting on their hunkers at the gable ends of the rows, discussing the pit and the conditions in it.
‘I tell you, man, the water’s seeping in that bad in the seam I come home wringing wet every blessed day,’ one was saying. It could have been the same conversation she had overheard the last time she was home, Hetty thought.
Some of the women hanging out washing in the back lanes looked sideways at her but most greeted her civilly enough.
‘That Sally Dunn was spreading lies about you,’ said Mam when she saw Hetty’s face. ‘Take no notice, pet. If they’re talking about you, they’re leaving other folks alone.’
Hetty’s smile lit up her face. Praise the Lord, she thought. Mam was taking her side. She was all right again, must have forgiven Hetty for Cissy’s death.
Maggie had baked and all. There was bacon and egg pie, and rhubarb tart and custard, even fresh lettuce from the cold frame on Da’s allotment, and tomatoes and pease pudding from the Co-op. By, her mam had gone to a bit of trouble to welcome her home!
‘Oh, Mam!’ said Hetty, and her eyes filled with tears. She put her arms around her mother and hugged her.
‘Howay now, none o’ that,’ Maggie said softly. ‘You’re home now, me bairn, an’ I’m right sorry it’s taken me all this time to see sense. I was off me head, likely. The change, I reckon, but I’m over it now.’
The men had seen what was going on and retired into the front room out of the way. Not Gran, however. She had gone into the pantry to fill the kettle from the tap there. Now she came out and settled it firmly on the fire.
‘I gave her a good talking to, our Hetty,’ Gran said now. ‘Why, aye, I know it’s hard losing a bairn, especially a little ’un like Cissy, bless her heart, but mebbe she’s better out of the troubles of this world. Mebbe—’
‘Mother,’ Maggie butted in, ‘don’t go on, please.’ She turned back to Hetty and smiled as Gran muttered something under her breath about not being allowed to have her say, and what was the world coming to? Time was when a bit of respect was shown to your elders, but not these days.
‘I’ll say this now and then we’ll not speak of it again,’ Maggie said to her daughter. ‘I did blame you for Cissy’s death as you well know, pet. But I was out of my head and I let it prey on me mind for far too long. I know you loved the bairn, Hetty—’
‘Eeh, I did, I did,’ she said.
‘Aye, well, it was an accident, I know that now. An’ I’m sorry I blamed you, Hetty, it was wrong of me. I felt I had to have somebody to blame but I was wrong. Forgive me, pet?’
‘I’m sorry too, Mam,’ Hetty said softly. Behind them, Gran grunted.
‘Right, now that’s over, let’s get the dinner on the table. By, I’m fair clemmed for a bite to eat.’
The kettle began to sing and the table was soon laid. It was as good as a party, thought Hetty, her family all around her. And afterwards they all went off to the picture house on top of the Workingmen’s Club, which was run by the club committee. They watched Douglas Fairbanks swashbuckle his way across an unlikely landscape and cheered mightily when he came out triumphant. And the committee men shone their torches and shouted for order and threatened to put out some of the more unruly lads and lasses in the twopenny end who promptly sat down quietly for they knew the committee men meant what they said and they didn’t want to miss the ending. And Hetty remembered sitting on the benches at the front herself when she was a bairn, and grinned. She had always been as good as gold, as her mother used to say, for it would be dreadful to be put out before the picture ended.
They walked back home arm in arm across the road. The air was fresh and clear and there was a cool breeze coming from the fields in front of the village and no one noticed the smell from the coke works except Hetty. She supposed she had forgotten it.
‘Hadaway, man,’ said Da, grinning at her when she wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s good for you that smell, kills all the germs that does.’ Which she could well believe.
By, it had been a lovely day, she thought as she lay in bed that night, a lovely, lovely day. And tomorrow she would make the Yorkshire pudding for her mother to go with the joint of beef which sat in the pantry under a gauze cover, and peel the potatoes and turnip. And afterwards she would go for a walk and discover all the old secret places she and Frank used to have when they were little. And after that she would go to chapel with her mam and da. She didn’t care if anyone looked sideways at her, no, she didn’t.
Monday, though, Monday she would have to start looking for a job, she couldn’t expect her family to keep her forever. They were eating well this weekend but she knew it was a special effort and had probably made a big hole in Mam’s emergency fund, which she kept in an old teapot on the top shelf of the pantry.
‘Please, God,’ she prayed, closing her eyes tightly as she had done when she was little, ‘please let me find a job so that I can stay here for a bit. And don’t let Matthew find me or even come looking for me. Let him forget all about me and I promise I’ll never be so wicked again as I was with him.’
Joan Hunter sat before her dressing table, gazing at her reflection. She looked well, she decided. Maybe a little too plump but Daddy assured her that men liked a bit of flesh on a girl. And Matthew did like her, she was sure of it, and she would make sure he married her, yes, she would. Joan nodded to herself in the mirror, pleased with the way her hair, Marcel-waved and dressed just like that German film star’s, Marlene Dietrich, held close to her head, not a hair disturbed by the movement.
Maybe her cheeks were a little too red … she picked up a fluffy powder puff and dusted her face heavily with the cream-coloured powder. There, she was ready. She felt a thrill of excitement. Tonight, she had decided, was the night Matthew would ask her to marry him. She had it all planned. She would take him into the conservatory after dinner and they would sit on the cushioned basketwork sofa where she would allow him a small liberty or two.
He was a man, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t be able to help himself. And afterwards, well, he would feel compelled to ask her to marry him for she was a young lady, unused to the ways of men, and would act the frightened virgin, just like Pauline in the Perils of Pauline, and he would feel like a cad if he didn’t offer for her. Joan grinned at her reflection. If all she’d heard was true, Matthew had been a cad and worse, but that was all to the good. He must be experienced in it. Anyway she would change him when they were married, indeed she would. No husband of hers would get away with being
a philanderer!
Pulling on her elbow-length blue silk gloves, which matched her blue silk dress, low-cut to show off her magnificent bosom, she gave her hair a final pat and made for the stairs. Matthew must have been waiting ten minutes at least, best not let him get too impatient. It might be a good idea, she thought as she reached the bottom stair, to have Daddy come into the conservatory at just the right time and catch Matthew with his hand in her dress or something like that. Then he would have no choice but to act the gentleman. Breathing in, for the blue silk dress was a little tight, she went into the drawing room.
Matthew and his father were standing before the fire with her father, and her mother was sitting straight-backed on the edge of the settee. All turned and smiled at her as she came in.
‘So you have decided to come down then, have you?’ said Mr Hunter. ‘Come along, come along, we’re all starving to death waiting for you.’
‘Nonsense, darling,’ said Mrs Hunter primly. She was thin and angular and Joan looked at her critically. There was no doubt her mother had a certain elegance but, as her father said, a man liked something to get hold of and Mother hadn’t an ounce of fat on her.
Complacently, Joan turned to Matthew and smiled brilliantly before addressing his father. ‘I’m truly sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Fortune,’ she said, giving him her hand.
‘No, not at all,’ Havelock answered. As she turned to Matthew he could not help seeing the way her dress pulled across her ample hips. An unfortunate choice, he thought. He had seen the strain in Matthew’s smile for an instant before it was covered up. Bless the lad, at least he was an excellent actor. Havelock would have a quick word with him if he could get him on his own for a minute during the evening, remind him that a large dowry made up for a multitude of sins. In any case, women were all the same in the dark. Who looked at the chimney when they were stirring the fire? And Joan looked to be a strong-minded girl, would keep Matthew on the straight and narrow, he was sure of it.
The dinner was good and the company ate heartily: salmon caught in the Tweed and smoked locally was followed by a saddle of lamb from their own moor. Joan ate daintily, Matthew was amused to see, tiny little bites from the end of her fork, her brightly painted mouth showing only glimpses of small teeth. Yet her plate was cleared at every course and when the chocolate mousse appeared she eyed it greedily and had a second helping.
Matthew would have enjoyed the evening, found it highly amusing, if only he’d known where Hetty was now. He had gone down to Smuggler’s Cove every day for a week but was well used to her hiding from him. The feeling of power that had given him was intoxicating. But she couldn’t possibly hide away all this time, and besides, that other woman was going in and out of the house now. So only today he had knocked on the door and asked for Hetty.
The door was opened by the sprat, as Matthew thought of Charlie. He had gazed up at Matthew with woebegone eyes. Miserable as sin, the kid looked.
‘Who is it, Charles?’
The woman’s voice was harsh, impatient, and the boy had jumped and stammered as he answered: ‘It’s … it’s that man, the one … the one who … who sits in the car up the road.’
‘Mother!’ shouted the voice. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’
Charlie looked down at his boots. ‘Mother,’ he mumbled.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘Mother,’ said Charlie, louder this time. ‘It’s the man who …’
‘Yes, I heard you, go inside.’
The woman came to the door, her face set, and cuffed the boy, none too gently across the head. ‘Remember what you have to call me another time.’ He disappeared inside and she looked at Matthew enquiringly. ‘Well? What do you want?’
Matthew looked down his nose at her in the way which Hetty would have recognised and quailed before in her days at Fortune Hall.
‘I’m looking for Miss Pearson,’ he stated.
‘Are you now?’ retorted Anne. ‘Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? She doesn’t live here any more.’ She started to close the door but Matthew slipped his foot in the opening to prevent her.
‘Don’t close the door on me,’ he warned her, and she snorted. ‘I’m telling you, don’t do it or you’ll be sorry.’
Anne looked uncertain. ‘I’ve told you, she’s gone,’ she said, but quieter now.
‘Well, can you tell me where?’
‘No, I can’t. I’m not interested.’ She looked behind him and took courage. ‘You’d best not threaten me either, mister, here’s me man coming and he’ll sort you out.’
Matthew looked down the road. A group of men were walking up, Mr Hutchins among them. ‘Damn!’ he swore and stamped off up the road to his car. Behind him Anne had opened the door wide and come out into the road.
‘Don’t you come back here, do you hear me?’ she shouted. Matthew turned his head to retaliate but saw Mr Hutchins detach himself from the group and hurry up to his wife, taking her arm and hurrying her inside. Matthew grinned. Evidently Mr Hutchins didn’t like any unseemly shouting in the street. He drove up to the main road and across it in a furious temper for all that. Now he had to find Hetty again, he had to, and he must face the prospect of not seeing her until he did and that thought was anathema to him.
‘Don’t forget we’re going over to the Hunters’ tonight,’ Havelock had growled at him the moment he came in at the door.
‘Bugger it all!’ Matthew had snarled.
‘What did you say?’ snapped his father. ‘You’re going to have to take a different attitude to that, my lad, and you’re going to have to get a move on about it too. Now away up to your room and get ready.’
‘Oh dear, I’m so hot,’ said Joan, bringing Matthew’s mind back to the reality of his tedious evening with the Hunters. She gazed at Matthew meaningfully. He looked away for a minute, couldn’t stand to see that fat white hand waving a handkerchief over the vast expanse of exposed bosom. Like a slug, it was, that hand.
The smile slipped from Joan’s face for an instant, but only for an instant, as she decided that the momentary disgust he had showed could not possibly be aimed at her.
‘Why don’t you young people take a turn in the garden?’ suggested Mr Hunter. ‘Or sit in the conservatory, perhaps?’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ Joan exclaimed, jumping to her feet. ‘Are you coming, Matthew?’ That was one thing about Daddy, he cottoned on to an idea immediately. A word in his ear as they were leaving the dining room had been sufficient. Matthew walked to the window and looked out over the dark garden. He didn’t appear to have heard the small exchange.
‘Matthew? Matthew!’ The sharp note in his father’s voice roused him and he turned, summoning a smile.
‘I think it will be chilly in the garden, Joan,’ he said.
‘The conservatory, then,’ she replied. The two fathers looked at each other indulgently though Havelock only just restrained himself from telling Matthew to behave himself.
The conservatory was poorly lit by a couple of imitation Victorian street lamps. There was a great deal of cast ironwork and an Italian tiled floor and tall frondy plants in ornate pots. Joan put her arm through Matthew’s and looked up at him admiringly.
‘Oh, Matthew, isn’t this nice and private? We can sit and talk in here, can’t we? Look, let’s sit on this little sofa here.’ She pulled him down on to the cushions. The sofa was indeed small and he was squashed in between her bulk and the equally fat, overstuffed cushions.
Oh well, he may as well play his part, Matthew thought. She was a girl, wasn’t she? He was never one to refuse something offered on a plate. He leaned over her and smiled brilliantly before dropping a light kiss on her cheek. He was so close to her that her perfume was overpowering and he pulled his head back sharply.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘No, of course not, but I don’t want to offend you.’
He put one arm around her waist and picked up her hand (the slug) with his free one and bro
ught it to his lips.
‘Oh, you’re so romantic!’ squealed Joan, but softly so as not to be heard by the others. Matthew drew a deep breath and kissed her on the lips. After all, he was getting used to her perfume. If they did marry he would soon wean her off that, he thought abstractedly. For in spite of his aversion he was beginning to feel aroused. The pressure of her tightly restrained breasts against his chest encouraged him.
‘Oh, Matthew, Matthew,’ she murmured, and her mouth opened slightly, just enough for him to insert an experimental tongue. She tasted of chocolate mousse and wine. He could feel the rapid beating of her heart even through her corset. He ran his fingers down her spine. The corset ended just below her bust, he reckoned, and, yes, there was the fastening of her brassiere. Damn! It was broad, there must be at least a dozen hooks and eyes. Oh, well. Matthew began to kiss the nape of her neck, then lower down to the top of her breast.
Joan sank back on the cushions. He pulled the top of her dress down a little and kissed the exposed skin. Joan moaned but made no move to stop him. He kissed her eyes, her lips, and pulled the dress a little lower over one breast – and suddenly it popped out! There it was in all its glory. Though the light was dim he could see it, like the figurehead on the prow of an old sailing ship, white and firm and with a rosy-tipped, surprisingly small nipple. He bent his head to taste it and his hand slid down to her thighs.
‘Matthew! What are you doing to my little girl?’
The centre light had been switched on and there stood Mr Hunter, looking extremely shocked, and Havelock behind him, barely able to contain his mirth.
Chapter 20
Hetty picked up her mop and bucket and took it down the hall to the caretaker’s room. There was a big sink in the corner and she tipped the dirty water down the drain, rinsed out the bucket and washed the mop under the tap before putting it away in the corner. She dried her hands on the hessian apron which she had tied round herself before starting on the floor. It was almost dark outside, she noted. Well, another half an hour and she would be finished for the night.