by Maggie Hope
Havelock Fortune was downstairs, talking on the telephone. As Hetty came down, carefully not looking at the place where Matthew had lain, he said, ‘I have to go now. I’ll ring you back.’
He put down the telephone and stared at her. ‘You’re awake, then,’ he said. ‘My lad’s dead, but you can sleep like a baby.’
‘Good morning, Mr Fortune,’ said Hetty.
‘I expect you’ve got your things packed,’ he replied.
Hetty was startled. She couldn’t go yet, what about the funeral? Anyroad, she had nowhere to go. Surely Mr Painter wouldn’t throw her out today?
‘Because if you haven’t, you can go and do it now!’
‘This isn’t your house.’
‘No, it isn’t, but I want you gone. And I’m sure Mr Painter will agree with me.’
The animosity he felt towards her was plain to see, she could even feel it. ‘I’m going now, I don’t expect to see you again. And don’t think you’ll get a penny from us because of that.’ He indicated her stomach and she put a protective arm around it almost as if she feared a blow.
‘What about the funeral?’ she asked, and he laughed.
‘You don’t think you’ll be welcome at the funeral, do you? Get yourself away, girl, as far away as possible. The Antipodes won’t be far enough for me!’
Hetty did not reply but turned to the stairs; she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She went up to the bedroom and began to pack. She heard Havelock drive away and the house fell silent. She brought her few belongings down into the hall and hesitated. By, but she should be at the funeral. Matthew would have wanted her there. It wasn’t right just to leave, she should show her last respects. Even though she hadn’t respected him in life. Hetty sighed. Should she just leave or should she get in touch with Mr Painter? She eyed the telephone doubtfully. She had never made a telephone call in her life. But it looked like no one was coming to the house today.
As though to prove her wrong there was the sound of a car drawing up at the gate. She waited, bracing herself for more insults, but it was Mr Painter who came in the door.
‘Hetty? You’re not going?’
‘Well, I’m not sure what to do, Mr Painter, and Mr Fortune said—’
‘Never mind what he said. You must stay until after the inquest anyway.’ He looked around the hall with an approving air. ‘You wouldn’t like to stay anyway, would you? I can see what a difference you have made to this place. Stay for a while, at least. I don’t want to have to sell the house and any tenants will have to be special. Will you stay? Finish cleaning it up? Until such time as I do find tenants, that is.’
Hetty stared at him. She needed somewhere to stay, of course. He was different since Matthew had died, she realised, more human, not so much the boss. He actually smiled at her. But she couldn’t live on air, she had no money. As if he knew what was going through her mind, he said, ‘I will pay you, of course. Three pounds a week? And the cost of any cleaning materials you need?’
It was good pay but she would have to work for it. But what about when the baby came? Still, it was now she needed a place.
‘I’ll stay,’ she said.
It was good living in the house all by herself: no listening for the sound of Matthew’s car stopping outside the front door, no wondering whether he had been drinking, or what sort of a mood he was in. Mind, she was grateful to Mr Painter for giving her the job, she told herself every day. And she could live on a pound a week if she was careful and save the other two for when the baby came.
Hetty worked hard all morning in the house, gradually going through the rooms, making her own pace. She began to take a pride in seeing the house emerge from its pall of dust, discovering what it must have been like in the old days. Most of the furniture was of rosewood, very old, and polishing it was rewarding for it had a patina to it which always came up glowing. She rolled up the carpet in the hall. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t get rid of the stain upon it, so she put it away in an empty room and scrubbed the black and white tiles which covered the floor.
At one o’clock, she would have a rest in the kitchen, eat a sandwich or make scrambled eggs. She had made friends with the farmer’s wife from the farm about half a mile away, along the cliff. There was a row of miners’ cottages near the farm and though the mine was closed now, there were still a few people living in the cottages and they were friendly, though curious about her. A travelling shop called twice a week on the cottages and the owner was only too willing to call on her and even bring her items such as baby wool from the Co-op in Staithes. There was really no need for her to go into the village for weeks on end and she didn’t, content to work about the house in the mornings and sit before the fire in the evenings knitting and sewing for the baby.
‘Don’t you get very lonely?’ Susan asked more than once. Susan was the farmer’s wife who supplied Hetty with eggs and milk and cheese. She was a woman in her thirties with three children, all at school. They walked three miles every day to school through the fields, and three miles back, unless their father happened to be in the village for supplies when they had a lift back in his ancient car.
‘No, I’m not lonely,’ Hetty would reply to her. ‘I know I can come over here and visit you if I want company.’ But she didn’t, not often anyhow. Funny, she would muse. When Matthew was alive she had thought there was no one within miles of the house and yet all the time there had been people so near. Then she had been lonely but now she was happy messing about on her own. ‘Nantling’ her gran used to call it.
In the afternoons Hetty would weed the garden, though she was finding it harder to stoop now that the baby was getting bigger. That was another thing. It was all right to stay here until the baby was born, for there was a telephone at the farm and Susan would help her. Susan had even arranged for the midwife to call on her.
‘You’ll like her, she’s a grand lass,’ Susan said, and Hetty did like the midwife, a Nurse Bainbridge, when she called in.
Sometimes in the afternoons, if it was fine and the wind from the sea not too strong, Hetty would walk down the path to the bay at the bottom and sit and listen to the birds wheeling and crying above her. No one else ever went there and she didn’t mention it to Susan or the women in the row of pit houses.
Once she watched seals dipping and diving, once saw dolphins playing in the waves and went home happy and at peace with the world, By, she loved that little bay, she thought. Sometimes she walked over to the other bay, the spoiled one, but she only tried climbing up to the house by the passage once. She was too big now, she thought ruefully as she collapsed on to the floor in the attic. For a minute or two she had thought she wouldn’t make it.
Her wages arrived every week on Fridays, usually by the postman who wound his way over the tracks on his bicycle. On the day they failed to arrive, Mr Painter rang to say that he was coming himself, to expect him at four o’clock. Hetty gave the downstairs rooms an extra dusting and put a bowl of dahlias on the table for it was autumn already.
‘Good afternoon, Hetty,’ he greeted her as she stood on the doorstep. She had opened the door when she heard the car, had been listening for it for half an hour. Was he going to tell her she had to go? Would Susan take her in for a day or two until she could make arrangements? Was it fair to ask her friend? Her head was full of questions.
‘Havelock Fortune wants me to send you packing,’ said Mr Painter. He watched her face keenly. Pregnancy suited the girl, he thought. She had a bloom on her cheeks overlaid with a slight tan, no doubt from the sun and wind but very attractive. There was a radiance about her. The shadow which had seemed to hang over her when he’d first met her had disappeared. Her dark hair was brushed and shining. She had it pinned back behind her ear but round her neck it fell in waves. It made him begin to understand why Matthew Fortune had acted as he did.
‘Will I be packing my bag, then?’ asked Hetty. She bit her lip. He was going to send her away.
‘Not unless you wan
t to go,’ said Mr Painter. Perhaps if he bided his time, until after the baby was born at least, she would be grateful to him, show him some favour. He hadn’t thought of it before, but after all, this house was isolated. He could keep her here for as long as he wished.
‘I would like to stay,’ Hetty said simply. She coloured and looked at the floor. For a minute she had thought she saw something else in his eyes but of course she was wrong, the light was not too good in the hall.
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Mr Painter. He took hold of her elbow. The flesh was firm though soft to the touch. ‘Now I would like to see the rest of the house.’
Chapter 27
Hetty was working in the garden, pushing an old hoe she had found in the shed between clumps of Michaelmas daisies, trying to clear the bed of couch grass, when she had another visitor. She had heard the car approaching but didn’t look up, supposing it must be going on along the track. Frustrated at the tenaciousness of the weed in clinging to the ground no matter how hard she pushed the hoe, she threw the implement down and got down on her hands and knees in spite of her bulk, leaning forward awkwardly to pull it up by hand.
The weeds weren’t the only things making her frustrated. She was trying to make plans for what she could do after this baby finally decided to come into the world. Two pounds had seemed such a lot to be able to save every week at first, but if she left as soon after the birth as she could she reckoned she would only have between thirty and forty pounds, hardly enough money to keep them both for long. It was a nagging worry to her.
For she couldn’t stay, she knew that. Mr Painter fancied her. Oh, she had tried to tell herself it was her imagination running riot yet again but she knew it was true. He came almost every Friday now; he made remarks, some of which made her blush; when he handed her her money, his fingers lingered on hers. And eeh, by, she wasn’t going to get mixed up with another toff, not for anything, not even for the sake of the bairn. Especially not for the sake of the bairn. She had got herself into enough of a mess now. How could she embarrass a bairn, a little lad maybe, let him grow up knowing his mother was a— The thought was interrupted by the clanging of the front gate. She realised that the car hadn’t gone by at all, it had stopped. Oh, mebbe it was Susan and her man. Sometimes he dropped her off so that they could have a nice chinwag.
‘I’ll make a cup of tea, Susan. Hold on a minute, while I get to my feet,’ she said.
‘Here, let me help you. I really don’t think you should be doing that in your condition.’
It was a man’s voice. A man’s hand was under her arm, helping her to her feet. A well-kept man’s hand, not a labourer’s but capable-looking. And the voice was familiar. Hetty straightened her back with some difficulty and looked up at him. He was against the sun and what with her hair all over the place, for a second or two she couldn’t see who it was. She pushed back her hair from her eyes.
‘Richard,’ she said. Of course she had known it was him but she couldn’t let herself believe it. All summer she had thought he might come, if only to see how she was. But when he didn’t she’d asked herself, why should he? She was nothing to him. He had been disgusted with the way he thought she had behaved, she had seen it in his eyes. Yet gladness filled her at the sight of him. He was broader now, she noted, his mouth and eyes so like Matthew’s yet they were more open, smiling, the mouth firmer.
‘Father said you were still here,’ he said. ‘I wanted to see how you were.’
Hetty was suddenly conscious of what a mess she must look. Even apart from her enormous bump she felt fat and plain and her face was burnt with the sun. She had on her oldest dress. She had let it out as far as it would go and then put an insertion in the side which didn’t quite match, and besides there was a smear of damp soil across the skirt. Her fingernails were black with earth. The contrast between them couldn’t have been more marked, Richard so smart in grey flannels and a navy blue blazer with a badge on the pocket.
‘Em … come into the house,’ she stammered. Her old shoes were caked with damp soil. She had to take them off at the door and all her movements were heavy and awkward.
‘I’ll help you,’ he said, holding out a hand, but she shrank from it.
‘I can manage,’ she answered and did. ‘I’ll just wash my hands.’ She went up to the bathroom in her bare feet. Seeing herself in the glass, she was mortified. There was mud on her brow where she had pushed her hair back and the insert in her dress had given way as she had bent forward over the weeding, showing her petticoat. Her face was red with exertion and something had gone wrong with her breathing.
When she came back down the stairs ten minutes later she was washed and dressed, her hair brushed back from her forehead. She had even got most of the dirt from under her nails.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took a few deep breaths to steady herself. He hasn’t come to see you for yourself, she told herself sternly. It’s because he’s so good, he likes to make sure everyone is all right. He’s not interested in you, not really.
‘I’m in here,’ he called, and she saw he was standing by the kitchen door. He had put on the kettle and the teapot was warming on the hearth. ‘I thought you would be ready for some tea after all that hard work,’ he said. It was so unlike anything his brother would have done that it brought tears to her eyes.
‘Come on, sit down.’ He came to her side and led her to a seat by the table. ‘It looks like you’re doing too much. You must be careful with the baby on the way.’
He poured her tea and watched while she drank it and all the time she wanted to shout at him, ‘Where’ve you been? Where were you when your brother was killed, where were you when your father tried to get me thrown out of here, where were you, Richard?’ But she knew she had no right. After all, he was not in love with her, not as she was with him. For she was, oh yes, she loved him, she had always loved him and never was she more aware of her love than now when he had reappeared so unexpectedly after so long.
As if in answer to her unspoken questions, he said, ‘I went abroad with a friend from university. I was in Africa when Matthew died. I didn’t find out for weeks and then I came home as soon as I could. I was worried about you, Hetty, especially since my father told me you were pregnant. But I see you are all right, really. You are, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I thought, if you weren’t happy, you would go home to Morton Main. But I see there was no need.’ He looked down at his hands, suddenly embarrassed. For he was remembering Havelock’s words that morning, how his father had said she was already up to something with Painter. ‘Don’t be so soft, lad,’ his father had said, ‘she’s the type that falls on her feet. There’s always some man daft enough to keep that sort. I tell you, why else would he let her stay in that great house?’
‘I daresay she’s earning her keep looking after the place. And the baby is your grandchild,’ Richard had said. ‘It is our duty to make sure Hetty is all right.’
‘Duty, be blowed,’ Havelock had retorted. ‘If I had to look after all Matthew’s by-blows, I’d be bankrupt.’
Nevertheless, Richard thought now, even if his father were right about Hetty and Jeremy Painter, he had to make sure that she was being looked after. If only for Matthew’s sake, he told himself, it had nothing to do with how he himself felt about her. But would his brother even have cared?
‘Who is this, Hetty?’
Both Richard and Hetty jumped as Jeremy Painter stepped through the door from the hall. They had been so engrossed they had not heard him come in the front door. She started to her feet with a cry of surprise but Richard was before her.
‘I’m Richard Fortune, how do you do?’ He held out a hand to the newcomer. ‘I take it you are Jeremy Painter? Yes, of course you are, I remember you from school. You were a year or two ahead of me. Same age as Matthew, aren’t you?’
Jeremy shook his hand but his eyes were cold. ‘Yes, of course, I remember you now. Well, what can I do for you?
’
Richard looked surprised. ‘Well, er … nothing really. I came to make sure Hetty was all right, that’s all. I’ve just come back from abroad.’
Jeremy pursed his lips. When he had entered the house he had expected to find Hetty on her own. He had no intention of letting her get under his skin as she had done with Matthew Fortune, but still, he had looked forward to seeing her – and here she was with another Fortune brother. He had to think about that. In the meantime he turned to her.
‘Hetty, what are you doing? Why didn’t you take Mr Fortune into the drawing room?’ he asked coldly. ‘The kitchen is hardly the place for visitors.’
‘It was my idea,’ said Richard quickly, hearing the censure in Jeremy’s voice.
He looked pointedly at Richard’s empty tea cup. ‘Well, perhaps you will excuse us now. You have seen for yourself that Hetty is not taking any harm. And I haven’t much time to spare.’
Richard rose to his feet, flushing slightly. ‘I must be on my way in any case,’ he replied.
‘I’ll walk with you to the car,’ she said quickly, ignoring Jeremy’s frown.
‘No need, Hetty. We don’t want to hold Mr Painter up any longer than need be.’
Hetty was left staring after him as he strode across the kitchen and out into the hall. The front door opened and closed and shortly afterwards his car started and faded into the distance. I won’t see him again, thought Hetty. She was crushed. Why, oh why, did Mr Painter have to come today? It wasn’t even Friday. For a minute or two she had really thought the old feeling was back between her and Richard, then Mr Painter had come in and everything had changed. She began to collect the tea things, briefly holding the cup Richard had used before putting it on the tray.
‘Leave those alone, Hetty,’ said Mr Painter. ‘Come and sit down.’ She left the tray on the table and sat down opposite him.