Bourbon Creams and Tattered Dreams

by Mary Gibson

  ‘But why would he think that? He was trying to help me... free me!’ Matty said with unintended vehemence.

  ‘You’ve no need to convince me, my dear. Of course we know that’s the case, but he told Neville about a promise he made to you, that the scheme would involve no violence and that no one would come to any harm... least of all you.’ She paused for an instant. ‘My doctor says his low spirits are a factor in his slow recovery.’

  Matty groaned. ‘I need to see him.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘But they won’t let me out of here like this.’ Matty held up her hands.

  Lady Fetherstone tilted her head to one side, so that her diamond drop earring caught the weak autumn sunlight glancing through the hospital window. ‘That might depend upon who asks.’

  29

  New Dreams for Old

  December 1932–Summer 1933

  It hadn’t taken Lady Fetherstone long to convince Matty’s doctors that a stately home in the middle of the peaceful English countryside, under the care of a personal physician, would be preferable to another day in the bleak burns ward at St Olave’s. Shades of the workhouse infirmary that it had been only a few years earlier still hung about the hospital. The nurses and doctors bravely tried to counteract it and Matty had valued their solicitude and expertise, but she couldn’t wait to leave.

  She walked with deliberate care towards the hospital gates, which spanned the two sooty Victorian wings. Heaving a sigh of relief, she passed beneath the hoop-shaped wrought-iron gate, topped by its massive lantern. The pain surprised her. The burns on her legs had been superficial compared to those on her hands, but still, her first walk had been an ordeal. The doctors credited her dunking in the Thames for lessening the severity of all her burns. But even so, tender skin stretched along her shins and calves as unused muscles flexed. She tried hard not to hobble, God forbid anyone should stop her now. If they did, she thought she might reach for her hat.

  She had said her goodbyes to Sam and the family the day before and Lady Fetherstone had promised she would send a car to take her from St Olave’s to the station. No doubt Matty could have waited in the ward, but the anticipation was even more painful than her healing skin. Soon she would see Tom, soon everything that had been so muddled and impossible would become clear. He blamed himself, he felt guilty, he thought she would not want to see him – he had confessed as much to Neville. The Tom who waited in Fonstone was obviously a very different man from the one whose jealousy over Frank the week before the fire had made him so cold to her.

  She waited outside the hospital gates in the company of a small group of dockers who’d obviously failed to be called on that morning at nearby Surrey Docks. Dressed in identical flat caps and white chokers, they were lounging on the wall, hands in pockets, exchanging the odd comment. Either they couldn’t bear to go home so early to their wives without a day’s pay, or they were waiting to pick up a few hours’ work in the afternoon. Matty thought she could tell those who were ashamed from those who were hopeful and she counted herself in good company, for she felt both.

  Matty didn’t consider herself a manipulative person, and yet the years had taught her that people were far more likely to forgive the mistakes of another when they were living amidst the consequences of their own. If all was to be clear between her and Tom, then he would have to be convinced that she forgave him, and he would have to find forgiveness in his heart for her. For the ghost of her lost child had come back to haunt those mist-filled dreams when she’d evaded consciousness in the stark hospital ward. She had carried the secret for so long that she had built a world apart for her and the baby to live in. She had conjured a fictional life of first smiles, first words, first steps, in an imaginary world that excluded the real. Her secrets had been prised from her one by one by fear alone. Tom had promised he would demand no more of them from her. But this last one she would have to give up freely, if they were ever to have a life together.

  She became aware of a little girl skipping towards her. The child’s dress was a grubby, once-white hand-me-down, and she wore no shoes. She ran straight past Matty, the little black soles of her feet kicking up behind her. She could have been the spectre of a Victorian orphan running from the workhouse gates. But Matty heard her shouting, ‘Mum sent me to find you!’ And then came a joyful shout as one of the shamefaced dockers swept her up and whirled her round. Matty felt a pain like a fist in her chest. How many moments like these had she secretly imagined in the past few years? It was as if she had wrapped up all her dreams for that lost child and put them into a genie’s lamp. Now, witnessing this moment of simple joy forced the stopper off, let the dream out of the lamp, and in its emergence she realized it had never felt good; it had always been just an illusion. Looking at the living child caught up in her father’s arms, Matty understood that in the keeping of her secret she had denied her child its existence. Its brief life had been barely formed, yet it was still a life and needed to be acknowledged. It was time to let her little girl go free.

  ***

  ‘Mr Roberts is taking a walk in the gardens, Miss Gilbie. I could send someone to let him know you’ve arrived, if you would like?’ Daring, the butler, welcomed her and had already sent her bags up to her room. He had greeted her like a beloved family member; her saving of Feathers from Dubbs’ clutches had made her a heroine in his sight.

  ‘Oh no, thank you, Daring. I think I’d like to surprise him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you, miss. He usually walks to the stone and back. You’re likely to find him there.’

  She thanked Daring and set off for the ancient megalith that lay at the heart of the estate. She wasn’t sure if she really did want to surprise Tom, but she simply couldn’t wait any longer to see him. She remembered the way to the stone, through the formal gardens with their low hedges and bare rose bushes, out on to the long striped lawn, past the circular lake. The tall slab came into sight, smoothed by the ages, pointing like an accusing finger in her direction. And there was Tom, sitting on the grass leaning his back against the stone. He faced the lake but his eyes were closed. She thought he might be sleeping. She walked softly towards him, but the grass was deep here and she could hear her own feet brushing the sward.

  His eyes stayed closed as she lowered herself softly beside him. She waited for him to wake. Easing her back up against the stone, which was wide enough for both of them, she watched as scimitar-winged birds curled and dipped across the lake, then rose in wheeling arcs before returning for another pass across the fly-dappled water. She turned at a sound beside her and found herself looking into his pale hazel eyes, liquid as the wintery lake in front of her. She waited for them to catch fire. Such a strange alchemy, how his eyes became flecked with gold whenever he looked into hers, like a secret small signal that only she could read. There they were, she saw them, small sparks of amber that told her he loved her still.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said simply.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘You’re so beautiful, Matty.’ He looked down at her hands. She wore the soft white gloves that Esme had given her and a spasm of pain crossed his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Tom. I’m free.’

  ‘You could be dead, and if you were, it would have been my fault.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘I let you down, Matty. I promised you no one would get hurt and I was a fool.’

  She peeled off her gloves and reached for his hand. She laid her scarred fingers across his palm. ‘See these?’ She pointed to the red raised burns that striped her skin. ‘Each one’s a reminder of what you saved me from. If Frank had got his hands on me I would have had more to worry about than a few burns.’

  But he shook his head.

  ‘Tom, you know I’m right! You saw what I did to his face. Do you think he wouldn’t have repaid me ten times over?’

  She felt his finger begin to trace the scars. ‘You saved my life, Matty. I fe
lt you there, holding me, keeping me from falling into the river. I even thought I heard you singing to me. It kept me alive. And if you can forgive me, there’s something I want to ask you, something I should have asked a long time ago...’ His eyes were now wide with hope and it hurt that she had to stop him. She put a scarred hand up to his cheek.

  ‘I forgive you, Tom, though there’s nothing to forgive. But before you ask me anything, there’s something I need to tell you and after you’ve heard it, if you still want to, you can ask me... whatever you like.’ She smiled and felt her lip tremble.

  The birds were still tracing curves across the lake and she concentrated on their flight, the hypnotic rhythm of the endless arcs seeming to calm her.

  ‘Remember when you told me I was entitled to my secrets? That you didn’t need me to give them all up?’

  Tom nodded. ‘I meant it.’

  ‘There’s one last thing you deserve to know...’

  He opened his mouth to interrupt but before she could lose her courage she sped on. ‘Tom – there was a child and I lost it.’

  His expression turned to stone. Immobile as the granite block they leaned against, it had frozen at the point where hope had turned to bewilderment and she couldn’t bear to look at him any more. She spoke to the wheeling birds and the mirrored lake.

  ‘Frank never knew about the child. I was going to tell him, but I wasn’t showing and something made me wait. I was four months pregnant when I saw him murder a man and I knew I had to get my baby as far away from that monster as I could. It was my fault I lost the child. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut, but I couldn’t even do that for my baby. Always chattering, you know how I got the nickname as a kid, always singing, always prattling. Ask Sam and Nellie – they had to put up with me. I’m sure I used to drive them mad. Frank liked it, said he loved hearing me chattering away in my cockney accent, it made him laugh. You think monsters don’t laugh, but they do. If only for once in my life I’d kept silent. I knew that what I’d seen could be the death of me, but I couldn’t keep it to myself. I told Maria, Frank’s sister. She was good at omerta, that’s what they called it, keeping your mouth shut. But then one day, she slipped up, one small slip of the tongue and he knew I’d told her. And that’s when it happened. He wanted to teach me a lesson, what happens when you break omerta. He beat me black and blue, kicked me around that posh apartment till there was blood all over the cream rugs, and then he finished it off with a kick to my stomach. I thought I’d die, but it wasn’t me who died. Me and Maria, we’d already made our plan to get me and the baby I was carrying away from Frank. But it was too late. He’d already killed my poor little baby. That last kick I’m sure is what did it. I thought we’d escaped. It was on the boat home... that’s when I lost my little girl.’ Matty had been holding the scrunched-up white gloves and now used them to wipe away her tears. Tom had listened in silence and she didn’t look at him, frightened at what she might see – hurt, disappointment, disgust.

  ‘So, now you know, and I don’t expect you’ll want to ask me anything now.’

  She went to get up, but felt Tom’s hand grasp her arm and pull her back down.

  ‘Look at me.’ He turned her face towards him, but she resisted.

  ‘Matty, look at me.’

  When she did, she saw that tears had wet his cheeks and she wiped them away with one of her white gloves.

  ‘My poor, darling Matty,’ he said, taking the glove and kissing it. He pulled her close, and he placed her head on his shoulder, while she sobbed in his arms. He waited until her tears had subsided and whispered, ‘There’s still something I need to ask you...’

  She raised her head to look him full in the eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I haven’t asked you anything yet.’

  ‘Tom, you’ve been asking me for years, I just couldn’t hear...’

  ‘Well, you’re not doing me out of this, Matty Gilbie.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Will you marry me, Matty?’

  ‘Yes, Tom, I’ll marry you,’ she said, and it was as easy and natural to her as singing her favourite song. There was no struggle left in her heart, nor question left in her mind that this was right, and Tom’s radiant smile convinced her that he felt the same. There were no shadowy secrets that could darken their happiness any more, and he kissed her so passionately that for Matty all the past, and all the future too, was resolved into one eternal moment of love so intense she felt it must be as timeless and enduring as the ancient stone that had been their only witness.

  *

  It was Will who broke the spell, though Matty couldn’t have been happier to see him. The silent stone had been a fine enough witness, but now she was ready to share her news with the world. She had seen him approaching, swishing a stick as he walked towards them through the long grass. He spotted her and waved the stick.

  ‘Come on, you two. Daring wants to serve lunch and I’m starving!’ he called to them.

  ‘Will! I didn’t know you’d be here!’ She beamed at him, pushed herself up and ran to greet him.

  ‘Feathers’ idea – he thought you and Tom might find undiluted Neville and Ma Feathers a bit of a strong brew... Besides,’ he continued, leaning to kiss her cheek, ‘Sam asked me to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine... more than fine!’ she said, looking at Tom.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Will said, looking from one to the other. ‘Come on, Matty, you know you’re useless at hiding anything – what’s the secret?’

  She laughed, marvelling at how light she felt, then smiled at her brother. ‘There’s no secret, Will. Tom’s asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.’

  Will whooped and caught her in his arms, then shook Tom’s hand. ‘About time too, talk about drag your feet. I thought you’d never ask her!’

  Lady Fetherstone insisted they turn their lunch into a celebration. Daring was despatched to find a bottle of champagne and Neville made the toast. ‘To Tom and Matty, may we soon hear our Cockney Canary singing for joy once more!’

  It was the first time that Matty had seen Neville since the fire and after lunch she took the chance of speaking to him.

  ‘Neville, I’m so sorry about your beautiful bolt-hole. I feel responsible.’

  ‘Nonsense, darling!’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s not as if I had no other home to go to – there’s the Kensington flat and my little place in Cap Ferrat. But in many ways, the whole affair did me a kindness.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Lady Feathers was shocked into an uncharacteristic declaration of love and I am permanently ensconced in the lodge! I’m a fixture, Matty darling – immovable as a dowager duchess!’

  ‘Or the Fonstone stone?’

  He flashed her a smile. ‘Even better! But, Matty, there’s a business matter I need to talk to you about...’

  At that moment Tom came to find her. It was as if an invisible cord of happiness had been strung between them and each of them felt the tug of it. Though the room was full of people and she was conscious of needing to speak to all of them, she felt a magnetic pull which inevitably led her back to his side. She knew he felt the same way as he put his arm round her.

  ‘Can I have my fiancée back, Neville?’ he asked.

  ‘For a while, dear boy, for a while,’ Neville replied enigmatically.

  *

  At cocktail hour in the scene-painted drawing room that had so caught Matty’s imagination on her last visit, she discovered the meaning of Neville’s remark. She and Lady Fetherstone were sitting on the sofa in front of the fire.

  ‘A Gibson for you, Matty?’ Neville handed her the cocktail. ‘And a Gimlet for you, darling.’ He set Lady Fetherstone’s drink on a side table and pulled up a chair.

  ‘Now, Matty, I can’t restrain myself a moment longer.’ He had the look of a mischievous boy, confident that when his crime was discovered he wouldn’t be punished.

  ‘Tom, do come and sit with us. I want to tell Matty all about my plan.’

  Tom had been chatting to Will and Feathers
and now the three joined them. Matty held Tom’s gaze. ‘A plan? Why is it you always know the plans before I do?’

  ‘Don’t blame the poor chap. I swore him to silence. He’s not the person to persuade you about anything at the moment. He’s far too soft on you to make you do anything you don’t want to!’

  Matty was getting uncomfortable. ‘I think I’ll say “no”,’ she said, pleased to see that she’d wiped the smile off Neville’s face.

  ‘Before you’ve heard my suggestion? You can’t!’

  She saw Tom give a secret smile.

  ‘Classic mistake, Neville,’ Will said, laughing. ‘Try to tell Matty what she should do and you’ve already lost. Her other nickname was Matty the Mule, you know.’

  Neville looked uncertainly towards her, opened his mouth and then shut it again. ‘All right, Tom, you tell her,’ he said, crossing his legs and sitting back.

  Matty laughed. ‘No! You tell me. I’m pulling your leg, Neville. I’m listening.’

  ‘All right then. How would you like to make a film?’

  ‘I make films all the time, or I did before...’

  ‘No, not those, a real film!’

  Matty could see that Tom was about to take issue with Neville’s dismissal of their carefully crafted Bermondsey films, but she launched in first. ‘Our films are real, Neville. They’ve helped cut fever and TB rates – Bermondsey used to have the highest rate in London! And infant mortality has dropped by what?’ she appealed to Tom.

  ‘By half,’ he said.

  ‘Half! How many mothers are not mourning their dead babies because of our films!’ She felt the eyes of everyone on her and she lowered her voice. ‘Sorry, Neville, but they are real.’

  Lady Fetherstone laid a hand on Matty’s. ‘I’m sure Neville had no wish to denigrate Bermondsey Borough Council’s sterling efforts, Matty dear.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Matty,’ Neville continued. ‘What I should have said is a film with a wider distribution... a film for general release.’ He let that sink in and took Matty’s silence as his cue to continue.