A Family Affair

by Nancy Carson

  So Elijah moved all his belongings out of the Jolly Collier and into the large terraced house in Brooke Street. As a partner in Beckitt’s Brewery he continued to work there every day, returning home to his wife for his meals. Marriage seemed to suit Elijah and he wondered why he had never seriously considered it before.

  The disappearance from the Jolly Collier of Elijah’s company at mealtimes and leisure times had a lowering effect on the household. However, it soon became evident to Mary Ann and to Jake that their was another reason for the lack of jollity; their respective offspring were not communicating cordially. Indeed, they were not communicating at all. A rift had developed somehow, rendering the atmosphere distinctly icy. Ramona and Clover made sure that they never sat at the table together. They had seldom breakfasted together anyway because of the different times they arose from their beds, but at teatime, Ramona made sure that she ate before Clover returned from Cook’s.

  Mary Ann tackled Clover about the situation the day after the wedding as they swept the yard together, prior to Mary Ann’s attendance at Matins at St John’s.

  ‘What’s up twixt thee and young Ramona, our Clover?’

  ‘Nothing that I want to talk about, Mother.’ Clover replied curtly and continued sweeping.

  ‘There is summat up, I can tell. Your stepfather can see as there’s summat up an’ all. He’s werriting about it and he’s asked me to have a word with you. Whatever it is, he wants you to make it up with her.’

  Clover stopped her sweeping and looked at Mary Ann. ‘I appreciate Jake’s concern, Mother. But there’s nothing he can do and I’d appreciate neither of you interfering.’ She spoke quietly so as not to be overheard.

  The early morning sun was already snooping between the brick buildings of George Street. The weather promised to behave for yet another day.

  ‘I reckon it’s to do with that Tom Doubleday…’

  Clover shrugged. ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Well, it’s only happened since he stopped coming here a-courting you.’

  ‘Mother, Tom Doubleday and me stopped seeing each other nearly three weeks ago. As far as I’m concerned he hasn’t started calling on Ramona, if that’s what you’re implying. The two things are unconnected. Anyway, if she wants him she’s welcome to him.’

  Mary Ann looked at her daughter knowingly. ‘Huh! And if I believe that I’ll believe anything. I’ve seen you moping about over him like a fairy with the ballyache. Well, I hope he’s worth it, that’s all.’

  Clover sighed. ‘I don’t know if he’s worth it or not, Mother. It’s irrelevant. He and I have had our differences and they won’t change…And that’s an end to it.’

  Mary Ann leaned on her brush. She felt like saying she wasn’t surprised, that he wasn’t good enough for her anyway, but held her tongue. Her daughter would disagree.

  ‘All it means, Mother, is that you’re stuck with me for a bit longer…till I can find somebody else who’ll marry me. But it’s nothing to do with Ramona. So tell Jake not to worry. I daresay we’ll get over it…How was the wedding yesterday?’

  ‘Well, there’s no flies on the Downings and no two ways. You should have seen Dorcas’s mother. Phew! Done up like a shilling dinner, she was. Her father seems a nice person, though.’

  ‘Did Dorcas look nice?’

  ‘Oh, she looked nice enough, as you’d expect. But she was a bit peaky, if you ask me. That, and the rush to get wed…If she ain’t pregnant, our Clover, I’ll chew coal.’

  When Florrie Brisco called at Rudd’s in Brown Street for a gallon of lamp oil she heard the news that Clover Beckitt and Tom Doubleday had fallen out and couldn’t wait to pass it on to Ned when he returned from work. So Ned made it his business to call at the Jolly Collier that same evening. Through the scullery window that looked out onto the side of the building she saw him approaching, dried her hands and went outside.

  ‘Ned!’ she greeted affably. ‘How’s this?’

  ‘I called to see how you are, Clover. I heard as you’ve fell out with that Tom Doubleday.’

  She wiped the last smears of soapy water from the backs of her hands on her apron. ‘Yes, we’ve parted. It’s nice of you to call.’

  ‘I would have called sooner if I’d known, Clover.’

  She smiled appreciatively. ‘So how’s the job going? Oh, and how’s the motor car?’

  ‘The job’s getting me down, Clover, to tell you the truth. I wouldn’t mind if I was getting more money than I was at the Coneygree, but I’m not. But the motor’s fine. How do you fancy a ride out into the country? It’s a lovely evening and we could talk. We’ve always been able to talk, Clover.’

  Well, she was not averse to that idea. ‘All right. Give me ten minutes to get ready. Why don’t you go in the taproom and have a drink while you wait?’

  ‘Is Ramona in there?’

  She shrugged. ‘I imagine so. Go and have a chat to her. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’

  Remembering her last cold outing in Ned’s motor car on the fateful day of her engagement, Clover put on a coat, despite the warm evening sun that was painting everything yellow.

  As he drove the vehicle, Ned explained in detail how he was frustrated in his new career. Oh, they had made some progress but everybody thought in terms of motor car engines and clung to the idea that those principles would suffice when applied to aeroplanes.

  ‘Do you wish you’d stayed at the Coneygree?’ Clover asked.

  ‘Who knows, I might end up back there.’

  ‘But that would be a real step backwards, Ned. You shouldn’t think of such things. Have you forgotten? You were frustrated working there, as well.’

  ‘No more than I am now. At least I could get on with my Gull in my spare time in the way I thought fit.’

  ‘You still can, can’t you?’

  ‘Not when it’s at Woodall’s farm in Bobbington. Nor where the engine’s concerned. I’m dependent on Star.’

  ‘But you had that anonymous loan. You could use that. Or did you pay it back?’

  He hesitated to answer while he slowly negotiated a stretch of rough road. ‘No, I didn’t pay it back, Clover,’ he admitted at last. ‘I haven’t got the money now either. I used most of it to buy this…’ He tapped the steering-wheel.

  ‘So how are you going to pay it back? You’ll have to pay it back some time.’

  ‘I know.’ He shrugged and tugged his cap harder on his head to save the breeze lifting it. ‘I’ll have to save up the money.’

  ‘But that could take ages, Ned.’

  ‘You’re telling me…’ He sighed. ‘Years…It was a lot of money.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve been a bit too hasty, using it to pay for this motor car, nice as it is?’

  He nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘It’s something you could have done without.’

  They fell silent for a while and Clover looked out across a landscape utterly ravaged by the hand of man. They were traversing a horse road that straddled Wrens Nest Hill on their right and Dibdale Bank on their left. On both sides the land fell away, dipping into valleys, each with its own characteristics. The valley on the east side, to the right, was pock-marked with slag heaps, lime works and quarries. On the west side, green and yellow fields began to emerge like a half-finished quilt between the tall, red brick chimney stacks, the furnaces and iron mines.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Baggeridge Wood.’ He turned his head to look at her. ‘Ever been?’

  ‘No. I’ve heard of it, though. Is it pretty?’

  ‘One of the loveliest places I know. I took a girl there a few times. It’s high and it overlooks Penn Common. We’ll be able to watch the sun go down over Shropshire.’

  ‘A girl, eh?’ she queried. ‘Who, might I ask?’

  ‘Oh…er…just a…a girl from work, Clover,’ he stumbled. ‘I thought I might as well, seeing as how you was courting that Tom Doubleday.

  She thought she saw his colour heighten and she
smiled. ‘Was she nice?’

  ‘She was all right,’ he answered sheepishly. ‘She gave me up, though.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Were you upset?’

  He shrugged. ‘A bit. Not much.’

  Baggeridge Wood was all he said it was. At a place called Gospel End that hosted a smattering of cottages and, appropriately, a church, they turned off the lane that ran from Sedgley to Wombourne village and travelled through an arcade of trees along a narrow track. They might have been a million miles from civilisation. Ned stopped the engine and the silence struck them, a profound, country silence, punctuated only by the singing of birds. Sunlight the colour of saffron streamed in at the edge of the wood, creating long shadows over the soft leaf mould that lay thick on the ground. Through the coppice of straight, dark tree trunks ahead you could see the hills falling away, gathering fields and hedges as they rolled towards the distant border with Shropshire. The smell here was different, too; nutty, woody, earthy, fresh; as far removed from the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke as it was possible to be, miles distant from the smutty, sulphurous stinks that spewed out from the myriad chimney stacks.

  Clover climbed down from the vehicle and thrilled to the feel of soft earth under her feet, softer than the softest carpet.

  ‘Let’s walk to the edge of the wood. It’s not far, look.’

  He got down and walked with her.

  ‘Tell me what happened between you and Tom.’

  Clover sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter what happened, Ned, I still love him. I’ll always love him.’

  Occasionally a dry stick cracked underfoot as they ambled along.

  ‘So tell me what happened.’

  She told him. Everything. From the first time they met, even how they made love regularly. She finished by relating his accusations concerning Elijah and the subsequent incident of Ramona’s photos.

  ‘Ramona posed with no clothes on?’ he queried.

  ‘Can you believe it?’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  Clover thought she detected a flicker of interest in his eyes. ‘Why? Are you concerned?’

  ‘Me? No, ’course not.’

  ‘Well, it was over three weeks ago. She’s a slut, that Ramona. I could tell you stories about her that would make your hair curl.’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  ‘No. I don’t think I could bring myself to.’

  ‘Well Tom must be as bad, Clover. It beats me how you can still be in love with a man who treated you like that.’ He ran his hand over the trunk of a tree, feeling the rough texture of the bark. ‘It’s obvious something must have gone on with Ramona. Especially if she’s like you say she is.’

  She shrugged and pulled up the collar of her coat. ‘Oh, he never treated me badly, Ned. You must never think that. Just the opposite, in fact. He was always so kind and so considerate. I just don’t know what got into him at the last. Something to do with a girl called Maud, I think, who he was engaged to before – she ran off with his best friend. I can see how something as horrible as that happening might warp your mind and make you see it elsewhere, like a spectre, even where it doesn’t actually exist.’

  He thrust his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders and looked out over the valley below them, the low sun directly in his eyes. ‘You’re still defending him, Clover. You’re still very loyal.’

  She stood beside him, also peering into the sun. He turned to look at her. It hurt him to see that her beautiful blue eyes were welling with tears.

  ‘No, don’t get upset, please, Clover…’

  ‘But I love him, Ned…’ He offered his arms and she fell into them, thankful for his chest that she could rest her head against while she wept, thankful for somebody’s consoling arms around her. It was what she needed. She’d been starved of love and care and sympathy for too long already, starved of somebody to talk to, somebody she could bare her soul to, to help get Tom Doubleday out of her system. ‘I’ll always love him, Ned. I can’t help it. He was everything to me…’

  He hugged her with his great reserve of affection, pleased to feel her in his arms. ‘I know, Clover,’ he breathed. ‘I know. And he’s the biggest fool that ever wore a pair of trousers for letting you go. I never would. I would never treat you like that, Clover. I’d cherish you for ever.’

  On the last Thursday in June, a batch of wort, unfermented beer, had been drained and allowed to cool. George Doughty, the thin excise man, tapped on the door of the brewery and stepped inside. Ramona greeted him with little enthusiasm, for she thought he always took advantage of his position to barge in.

  ‘Is it your day to come already?’ She found it hard to hide her resentment.

  ‘Morning, Miss Tandy,’ he replied affably. ‘So how are you today?’

  ‘I’ve been better, thanks.’

  ‘Off the hooks, are you?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Not been sleeping?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sleeping all right, Mr Doughty. I had some herrings for me supper last night and they must have been a bit off. I felt rotten this morning.’

  ‘Stomach upset?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Try some liver salts. That’ll sort you out.’

  She forced a smile. ‘I suppose you want to check the wort, Mr Doughty. There’s a batch ready in one of the fermenters, waiting to be pitched with yeast.’

  ‘I timed it right then today, eh?’ They walked over to the row of fermenting vessels. Five of them were bubbling away nicely, with a cover of yeast on each that was growing like rampant fungus. The remaining vessel contained the fresh wort. ‘Is Elijah about?’

  ‘He’s upstairs, I imagine, Mr Doughty. He’s due to put hops in the copper.’

  George Doughty’s job was to check the specific gravity of the wort so that he could calculate the duty to be paid. He could not check every batch but he applied the reading taken that day to the week’s production and so arrived at a total amount of duty due for the week.

  He produced his hydrometer, took his reading and made a note of it. ‘I’ll go and see your father now,’ he said. ‘He loves me coming to take money off him.’

  ‘Like he loves pain.’

  George laughed. ‘See you next week, Miss Tandy. Don’t forget…Liver salts.’

  Ramona bid him cheerio and reached for the thermometer hanging on the wall nearby. She dipped the thermometer into the cooled wort, allowed a few seconds for it to stabilise and read it off. It was cool enough.

  Elijah appeared from the floor above. ‘Has he buggered off?’

  ‘He’s gone to see me father to work out the excise duty.’

  ‘Can’t stand that bloke. Supercilious bastard. Are you ready to pitch the yeast in?’

  ‘I’m just about to do it.’

  ‘Check the temperature then,’ he said.

  ‘I already did, Uncle Elijah,’ she replied, her tone tinged with sarcasm, underlining their new unimpeachable relationship. ‘And it’s all right.’

  Ramona’s contact with Elijah remained cool after his wedding. Even on those days when they worked together in the brewery, when opportunities to sneak away and make love presented themselves, no signal was given any more, no suggestion made.

  She felt like an old shoe, discarded when she was of no further use. Trouble was, she could not complain too much. She had known from the outset of their affair that he was already engaged to be married to Dorcas, had been for ages. He’d been engaged to her for so long, with no outward sign of marriage, that nobody believed he seriously intended it. Consequently, Ramona had earnestly believed she could usurp Dorcas. She was confident that Elijah, once he had tasted her younger, sweeter flesh, would become addicted. How wrong she was. Rather, the reverse had happened. His indifference at times had been hard for her to understand, but that same indifference, his ability to turn away, had intrigued her all the more and become the hook that ensured her addiction. And that addiction was increased when he did pay her attention, when he was aroused, fo
r he made love to her with a practised expertise that made her feel like the desirable woman she aspired to be. He did it so much better than anybody else.

  However, rigid social conventions, let alone her father, would never countenance an uncle-niece love affair, never mind marriage. Ramona though, had never seriously considered that. She believed that Uncle Elijah’s ardent wish that the affair be kept secret was so that Dorcas should not get to hear of it and be upset. Well, she could upset Dorcas good and proper now if she chose to. She only had to reveal what had gone on. But what was to be gained apart from the sadistic satisfaction of telling her? Nothing at all. Besides, the revelation would upset too many people and particularly hurt her father, when he did not deserve such pain. No, there were plenty more men about, willing and able to divert her, as she knew well enough, even though they might not make her toes curl with ecstasy nor make her whimper with pleasure like Elijah.

  It was time to find a new love, time for another romantic adventure with somebody different. Without doubt, the best therapy for overcoming the disappointments of one affair was to commence another. Gaining the attentions of another man was sure to take her mind off Elijah Tandy.

  And she thought she knew a likely candidate who might also be glad of a bit of the same therapy. So, when her morning stint in the brewery was over and the dinner-time trade in the Jolly Collier had finished and all was quiet, Ramona asked her father if she could take an hour or so off work. Good-naturedly, he agreed, so Ramona went to her room and prepared herself for the encounter she had in mind.

  Tom Doubleday, that afternoon, decided to update the gallery of photographs in his lobby. Some of those on display were a couple of years old and it was time for some fresh faces to be put on display. He kept likely photographs in a special box and today was as good a day as any to do the work, since he had no further appointments. So, he took the framed pictures off his walls and inspected them all one by one, prepared to remove the photographs within them and replace them with others. One of his favourites, that in a recent fit of pique he’d relegated to the box, was a photo of Clover. He studied it for longer than he intended and, as he looked at those open and honest eyes smiling her love at him he felt an intense sadness that he imagined was never going to leave him. She was beautiful. And not only in looks, with that delightful, exquisite nose that she thought was so awful. Now that it was too late, he realised just how honest and forthright she really was. She was also warm, gentle, invariably pleasant. He would never find anybody who would match up to her.