To Dream Again
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Next in Series
Copyright
Chapter One
Mercy Seaton ran down the lane, her skirts flying, her dusty boots slithering on half-hidden stones. Above her on top of the hedge-bank, small green sloes were already forming on the blackthorn bushes, and the spiny branches were a tangle of old man’s beard and late honeysuckle. Mercy had no time to notice them. She had looked forward to this evening for weeks, to spending a few hours at the Regatta, the golden crown of summer, with its fair, its fireworks, its excitement; but today of all days she had had to work late. Her hand still felt hot and sore from wielding flat-irons, and her body, beneath her stays, was clammy with perspiration, but she did not slacken her pace.
It was the noise which brought her to a halt – raised voices, cat-calling, taunting. One voice sounding angrily above the rest was painfully recognizable.
Old Daddy Widecombe leaned over his gate curiously.
‘Sounds like they’m on at your grandma again,’ he said. ‘You’d best get down there quick, Mercy, chile.’
She scarcely heard him, for she was already on her way, her heart pounding with dread at the thought of what she should find when she turned the corner. The scene which greeted her was distressingly familiar. Half a dozen village boys, their faces sharp with mischief, were surrounding their victim, teasing her relentlessly.
‘A lady or a duchess, too drunk to know which – old Blanche Seaton piddled in a ditch,’ they chanted as they circled her, their words accompanied by a steady shower of stones and dried cow-pats.
In their midst stood Mercy’s grandmother. Her hair was in disarray, her feet planted apart as she tried desperately to retain her balance while with one hand she hit out wildly at her tormentors. Her other hand grasped a gin bottle as though her life depended on it.
‘Yokels! That is what you are!’ she yelled. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!’ The words were a little slurred but each one was enunciated carefully in the most well-bred of accents. Even when very drunk Blanche Seaton never forgot that she was a lady.
‘We ought to be ashamed of ourselves! My! My!’ one of the boys mimicked her. Then he ran forward and attempted to take the bottle from her. Blanche’s fist caught him squarely on the nose, and at once blood gushed out, cascading down his face.
‘’Er ’it me!’ he bellowed tearfully. ‘The mean old cow’s broke me nose!’
‘Serves you right if she has, Georgie Hannaford!’ cried Mercy, rushing up. ‘It’s no more than you deserve, attacking a poor old woman like that. Off you go, the lot of you, or I’ll make your ears smart, and that’s a promise!’
At the sound of Mercy’s voice the boys retreated, but only enough to be out of reach.
‘Oh look, ’tis Mercy! ’Ave mercy, Mercy!’ they taunted, dancing round.
‘Come to fetch your Gran, ’ave you?’ demanded one. ‘Where’s yer carriage, then? What’s the matter, did yer coachman fall asleep?’
‘The King’s coming to tea, is ’e?’ demanded another. ‘Your Lizzie’ll know ’ow to keep un ’appy. I’ll bet.’ And he wiggled his hips suggestively while the others roared with laughter.
These were old jibes. Mercy had heard them often enough before, yet they still stung her. She fought to keep her expression calm.
‘That’s about your level, Billy Dawe,’ she retorted. ‘Attacking old women and making coarse jokes. Your Ma must be really proud of you.’
Billy responded by pelting her with mud. His action encouraged his companions and soon Mercy and her grandmother were ducking under a hail of missiles.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Mercy rushed at Billy.
He ducked under her arm. As he did so one of the other boys ran behind her back and kicked Blanche in the shins. At her grandmother’s cry of pain Mercy spun round and caught the culprit by his hair.
‘Ow! Let go!’ the boy yelled, his face screwed up with pain. He tried to kick her too. Mercy held him at arm’s length and tightened her grip.
‘Go on, go away, all of you!’ she cried.
The boys hesitated and one made a move towards her. She clenched her fist tighter and her prisoner gave a yell.
‘I’m warning you, I’ll pull harder,’ she declared.
‘Oh go, blast ’ee!’ shrieked the boy. ‘She’m pulling my hair out by the roots!’
Reluctantly the others moved away. Only when they were out of sight did Mercy loose her hold, and the snivelling boy shuffled away rubbing his head. Just before he turned the corner, however, he bent down swiftly and picked up a stone. It caught Mercy a glancing blow on the arm.
Wincing with pain, she was annoyed to find she was shaking. It was silly to let a few stupid louts unnerve her so, they were a pretty cowardly bunch, but it was not fear which distressed her. It was the fact that her grandmother had been the butt of the scum of the village yet again. Oh why did she do it? It was bad enough that she made herself so unpopular with her high and mighty ways, but why did she have to invite ridicule too by getting so hopelessly drunk?
Blanche was sitting on the ground now, her legs sticking out stiffly in front of her, her arms clasped around the bottle.
Mercy went over to her. ‘Are you all right, Gran?’ she asked.
Slowly Blanche looked up. Her dark eyes, glassy with drink, were disapproving.
‘If you are addressing me you will refer to me as Grandmother,’ she said haughtily. Then she added condescendingly, ‘Though I have no objections to being called Grandmamma at times.’
Mercy sighed. It was too much to expect Blanche to thank her for her concern.
‘Are you all right, Grandmother?’ she repeated. ‘Here, let me help you up.’
‘I think I prefer to remain where I am,’ said Blanche with ponderous dignity. She hugged the bottle more tightly to her bony bosom. It was full. In spite of having no stopper she had not let one drop of gin spill during the scuffle.
Mercy wondered where she had got the money from for drink. It was always a mystery where she got the money, but then, quite a few things about Blanche were a mystery.
‘You can’t sit here in the dirt,’ coaxed Mercy. ‘Come on, let me help you up and we’ll go home.’
‘I shall sit wherever I choose.’ An obstinate note had entered Blanche’s voice.
Oh no, please don’t let her be awkward, not now, Mercy silently pleaded.
She knew all too well how difficult Blanche could be when the mood took her, and it was always she, Mercy, who had to cope, for Ma and Lizzie were afraid of Blanche’s sharp tongue and domineering ways. Joey was too young, and as for Pa… Well, when did he care about anything other than his own pleasure? He preferred to spend all his time in the Oak. His mother could sit in the lane until eternity, he would never lift a finger to help.
‘Please, Gran – Grandmother,’ begged Mercy.
But there was no response. In desperation she tried to lift the old woman. Blanche simply went rigid, making any attempt to remove her impossible. Mercy knew better than to go
for assistance; no one in the village would be over-eager to help Blanche. Instead, she pulled and heaved strenuously without result, until exhaustion and frustration forced her to stop.
‘You’re an obstinate old fool!’ she cried. ‘I’ve half a mind to leave you here.’
She knew she would not. Her grandmother was a difficult woman at the best of times, at worst she was drunken, dirty and argumentative; yet Mercy had a sneaking regard for her. No, more than that, she was fond of the old harridan. She had such spirit; and when she was sober and in a good mood – rare events both – she would tell wonderful stories about her girlhood. Many people in the village reckoned that her claims to be of good birth were the result of too much alcohol on a fertile imagination. Mercy was inclined to agree. She had the doubtful privilege of being Blanche’s favourite grandchild. She shared a bed with her, and she knew there was a consistency about her stories which rang true - stories of elegant living and servants, but these were details any housemaid would know. The idea that Blanche was of high birth was too ludicrous to contemplate.
There were some things which Blanche never mentioned, however, no matter how confiding she was or how drunk. She never told who her family were, nor what catastrophe had driven her to eke out an existence in a mouldering overcrowded cottage in Devon; and no one, not even Mercy, dare ask her.
Mercy eased her aching back ready for one more attempt to move her grandmother. As she did so she heard the sound of booted feet hurrying down the lane. She straightened defensively, thinking that her tormentors had returned. When she saw the familiar figure she could have wept with relief.
‘Joey! Thank goodness!’
Her youngest brother came hobbling towards her, his clumsy hobnailed boots seeming too heavy for his thin legs.
‘What’s been happening?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing unusual,’ she replied bitterly. ‘Some of the lads have been on at Gran and now she’s gone all difficult. I can’t move her.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll lend a hand. Mr Miracle himself is here! I’ll take this arm, you take the other. Now, come on, Gran, ups-a-daisy. Sam Prout’s cows’ll be along any minute and you don’t want them wiping their feet on you, do you? Goodness knows, you smell as though they’ve heen through here already.’
‘Joey!’
Mercy tried to sound reproving, but it was no use, she could never be stern with him. From the day he was born Joey had been able to twist her round his little finger. For all he was so thin he had surprising strength, and together they were able to get Blanche to her feet and half carry, half drag her back to the cottage that was home to them all.
‘Idn’t ’ee ready yet? Where’m you bin?’
The questions came from a girl who was sitting on the garden gate, idly swinging to and fro. She was dressed with some pretension to fashion; the plum-coloured dress, as it strained to keep her generous curves in check, was adorned with too many bows and flounces to be stylish; and her straw hat, decorated with a spectacular bunch of crimson feathers, could have been considered vulgar. For all that, though, her pretty face was good-humoured as she addressed Mercy.
‘The Regatta… ! Oh, I’m sorry, Dolly, I’d forgotten. We’ve had a bit of trouble.’
‘So I sees!’ Dolly eyed the dung-bespattered Blanche warily.
‘Look, I’ll be a while yet… In fact, I’m not sure I can come. You go on without me.’
‘I’ll wait. Twouldn’t be no fun without ’ee. Us’ll catch the next omnibus, that’s all.’
‘Are you sure? I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Mercy flashed a harassed smile at her friend as she and Joey dragged Blanche up the garden path. As they passed Dolly, however, the old lady raised her head.
‘You are a trollop!’ she declared loudly. ‘You dress like one. You act like one.’
Dolly jumped back off the gate. ‘There idn’t no call for you to say that, Mrs Seaton,’ she protested.
‘Take no notice. She’s had a bit of a shock. She doesn’t mean it,’ said Mercy hastily, although both she and Dolly knew better. A more waspish soul would have pointed out that Blanche’s shock was probably connected more with the gin bottle she still firmly clasped, but Dolly was too kind-hearted.
‘’Tis all the same to me. I don’t pay no ’eed,’ she said cheerfully and climbed placidly back on the gate to continue her wait.
A familiar musty, foetid smell greeted Mercy and Joey as they entered the cottage. Damp had been seeping into the cob walls for generations, covering everything with a greeny-black mould, and one sun-drenched August day was not enough to dry it out. Mercy did blench, however, at the cloud of flies which droned its way from the slop-bucket to the table where the remains of the dinner lay congealing on dirty plates. Her mother and her sister, Lizzie, sat drinking tea, oblivious to the squalor. Although they looked up as the trio shuffled in, neither rose nor made any effort to help.
‘’Er be all right?’ asked Ma apprehensively, more because she was afraid of her mother-in-law than through any concern for her.
‘She will be when we get her to bed,’ replied Mercy.
There was still no offer of help.
Somehow she and Joey pushed and pulled the old woman up the narrow staircase and laid her on the bed. Then with a dexterity born of long practice Mercy pulled off Blanche’s boots, eased the stained dress over her head and undid her stays. Her grandmother fell back on to the pillow and began to snore. Her skin was sallow and wrinkled, like that of a plucked chicken, and the spirit and vigour which made her so formidable when she was awake had gone. Lying there in her soiled flannel petticoat and equally grubby chemise she looked what she was – a dirty, drunken old woman. Mercy looked down at her with irritation tinged with pity. For the hundredth time she wondered what had brought her grandmother to such a state. She longed to peel off those filthy undergarments and give them a good wash, but she knew better than to try. Blanche was none too fond of soap and water, and she could show her disapproval most violently and when least expected.
The tiny attic was already like an oven, and now the room was filled with the stench of gin, cow-dung, and unwashed flesh. A sudden wave of fatigue swept over Mercy. Everything about her seemed so squalid and sordid. Surely life was not meant to be like this? Surely it had something better to offer? She felt she was too weary to go out now; only the thought of Dolly waiting patiently goaded her into getting ready.
She had hoped for a longer, more elaborate toilette – incongruously, toilette was one of her grandmother’s words – thankfully she had already laid out her best serge skirt and clean white blouse that morning. Cold water on her skin revived her, and putting on fresh clothes made her feel better. She had little time to do more than scoop her dark hair on to the top of her head and anchor it with hairpins and put on her hat. She was pleased with the hat. It was far from new. She had taken ages retrimming it with swirls of cheap pink veiling, and – a great extravagance – a huge pink artificial rose. Looking at herself in the broken fragment of mirror she felt satisfied. Every minute spent on the hat had been worth it; it made her look soft, almost ethereal, and emphasized her brown eyes. Excitement began to stir in her. She felt pretty and it was Regatta time. For a couple of hours she could forget about home, perhaps pretend that she was someone quite different, more elegant, more genteel.
Gingerly carrying Blanche’s soiled dress she hurried downstairs to find Ma and Lizzie still sitting, the tea grown cold and grey in their unwashed cups. They got on well together those two, happy to accept their lot and unwilling to make any effort to improve things. Indolent and sluttish, their lives revolved around tea and gossip, interspersed with brief periods of activity when jobs got started but seldom finished.
‘Goin’ out?’ Ma asked unnecessarily. ‘It’ll be time to come back afore ’ee gets there.’
‘We’ll be in time for the fireworks and the fair. They are the main things. Can you give Gran’s dress a wash; it’s all messed up?’
Mercy held o
ut the garment, but Lizzie turned her head away.
‘I don’t want un,’ she said vehemently. ‘The smell turns my stomach, I’ve been that bad all day.’
Mercy did not ask what was wrong with her. She did not need to, not with the way Lizzie had been vomiting into the chamber-pot every morning lately.
‘Well, how about you, Ma?’
Ma looked vaguely over her shoulder in the direction of an insanitary collection of bowls and pails. ‘Oh, put un to soak over there. I’ll do un later,’ she said.
Mercy knew what that meant. The dress would stay soaking until the smell became too much, the bucket was needed for something else, or until she tackled it herself.
‘Idn’t you going to’ ’ave no tea? There’s a bit of cold bacon ’ere.’
Ma meant well, but Mercy took one look at the greasy meat with its attendant bluebottles and suppressed a shudder.
‘Thanks. I’ll just take a bit of bread and cheese with me,’ she said.
Dolly was still waiting.
‘At last!’ she exclaimed as Mercy hurried from the cottage. ‘Yer, I like your ’at! Is that the veiling you got from the market?’
‘Yes, that’s where the smart people shop, all the carriage trade.’
Dolly gave a chuckle then said admiringly, ‘Well, no one’d know ’ee didn’t buy it at Williams and Cox’s, unless you tell un. But then, you allus turns ’eads.’
‘And you mean you don’t? You have to fight the men off with a stick.’
‘Oo said anything about fighting?’ asked Dolly roguishly.
And they both laughed. Dolly could always make Mercy laugh. For all she was brash and not overparticular where she bestowed her favours, she hadn’t a mean bone in her body. It was impossible to be miserable for long in her company.
Together the girls trudged up the lane towards the main road, their skirts hitched up to keep them out of the red dust. Mercy ate the bread and cheese as she walked, and the nourishment added to her feeling of well-being.
Torquay was drawing the crowds like a glittering magnet. On the Newton road horse-drawn traffic mingled with the new-fangled motorized transport, causing much tossing of heads and nervous shying from the animals. The omnibus, when it came, was already full, though both girls managed to squeeze on board for the couple of miles to Torquay. For Mercy the ride alone was part of the excitement of the evening. Buses were an extravagance she could rarely afford. Tonight, however, was special and among the pennies hoarded for her evening’s entertainment she had carefully laid aside some for her fare.
To Dream Again Page 1