‘Rose was looking particularly charming. She had on a new dress, I think. At least, I had never seen it before. Blue satin trimmed with bugle beads, very pretty. She seemed disappointed that you weren’t at home. I rathershe had been looking forward to seeing you again.’
His mother hoped he would one day marry Major Gifford’s only daughter, the heiress to a tidy fortune. She was a nice enough girl, though too pale and insipid for Peter’s taste.
‘I saw Rose yesterday evening at the Regatta Ball. I danced with her three times. Wasn’t that enough?’
His mother refused to give him a reprieve. ‘After showing her such marked attention one evening don’t you think it was unkind to neglect her the next?’
‘Marked attention? They were duty dances! We aren’t living in the days of Queen Victoria now, Mother! Three dances can’t be regarded as a declaration of undying love any more!’
‘Not in your eyes, perhaps, but did you stop to think of how Rose considered it? Young men can be very thoughtless, I am afraid. I cannot expect you to be any different. I would be grateful if in future you would let me know if you will not be in to dinner, especially when we have guests. However, you obviously had an agreeable evening and that is all that matters.’
‘But, Mother—’
‘I do not think we need to talk about it any more, do you? Although it is very late, you know, I did not want to go to bed before you returned home.’ Even when dismissing him there was reproof in her voice.
Peter left his mother’s room submerged in the guilt she always instilled into him. He had never managed to come up to his mother’s expectations, at least, certainly not since the death of his father.
To be honest Peter could recall his father only as a vague distant figure who had impinged rarely on his childhood, though he remembered clearly the day his father had died. He had been taken into his mother, sobbing bitterly, affected more by the sudden climate of grief among the servants than by any sorrow of his own. His mother had made no attempt to comfort him. Instead she had looked down at her son, a boy of seven years old, and said, ‘Now that Papa has gone you are the man of the house. It is a great responsibility, I know, but you must always be aware of the duty you owe to Papa’s memory and to me. I shall need your comfort, your support, and your love.’ It had not been a plea nor a request but a demand. Peter’s small shoulders had bowed beneath an unfair burden which had not lessened with the years.
For some time Peter sat cast down with gloom; then his misery became charged with resentment. It was ridiculous being so miserable. He had gone out and enjoyed himself instead of staying at home! He wasn’t a child, he was twenty-two, a man who could do as he pleased. His thoughts went back to Mercy, and he was surprised how quickly the memory of her face with its dark eyes came back to him, lifting his spirits.
His mother would not approve of Mercy, that was certain, and she was bound to find out soon enough that he had been seen in her company. In a strange way Peter both dreaded this discovery and looked forward to it. It would bring about the inevitable well-modulated recriminations, but it would also present a challenge. His choice of friends was something which his mother could not control; he was of age and able to go out with whom he wished, whatever his mother thought, a fact which garnished Mercy’s attractions with all the desirability of forbidden fruit. He hadn’t really meant to see her again, the words had seemed to come of their own volition, but once spoken he had not regretted them. He found her quite fascinating, this ordinary working girl who ironed other people’s linen for a living.
Upon consideration he was very glad he was going to see her again on Saturday, it should prove a new experience for him, something to look forward to in a life which was, at times, deadly dull.
Chapter Two
Joey knew that it was raining even before he opened his eyes. The kitchen was filling with smoke as Ma tried to encourage a reluctant fire, a sure sign the weather had taken a turn for the worse.
From his bed in the dark cubby-hole beneath the stairs Joey got the benefit of all the household’s early morning activities. From outside in the yard came the regular squeak-splash, squeak-splash of the pump, followed by the rattle of pails as someone – probably Mercy – fetched the water. Upstairs Lizzie’s child, William, was raising his voice in protest at something, and Joey wished his sister could keep her babe quiet when other folks were trying to sleep. He groaned and snuggled further into his bed, ignoring the prickling of straw through the mattress-ticking. He never liked getting up; this morning was going to be worse than usual.
‘Come on, lazybones. Some folks sleep their lives away,’ Mercy chided him gently.
‘It’s not time to get up yet,’ he protested drowsily.
‘Yes it is, long past. Pa’s gone already.’
Joey reluctantly swung his legs out of bed and groped for his trousers, then pushed his bare feet into his boots. The big question now was whether to make a dash across the yard in the rain to the privy and relieve himself, or wait. It was no use, he’d have to go, he was bursting.
The combined effects of the drizzle and the pungency of the midden revived him a little, enough to make him realize that his stomach was rattling with hunger. He would have sat straight down to eat but Mercy intervened. ‘Soap,’ she said firmly, ‘and water.’
‘But I’m starving.’
‘You’re always starving. Five minutes spent washing won’t make any difference.’
‘Nor will washing after I’ve been out in the tiddy field. Honestly, Mercy, what’s the point in washing when I’ll be covered in mud in no time?’
‘Well, at least, the mud won’t get a chance to soak in, will it? And how many times do I have to tell you that it’s a potato field not a tiddy field?’
‘Stop botherin’ the boy! Leave ’im be,’ protested Ma, who always adopted the line of least effort.
‘Encouraging him to wash isn’t exactly bothering him. It’s something he should learn,’ stated Mercy in exasperation. ‘How is he going to get anywhere in the world if he can’t keep himself decent?’
‘’E’s only tiddy pickin’, when all’s said and done,’ retorted Ma.
‘Now he is, but who’s to say what he’ll be doing in ten or fifteen years’ time, given the chance…?’ Mercy stopped. Joey was already slopping water into the chipped enamel bowl and liberally soaping himself.
Mercy could go on a bit when she chose, but she was the only person who cared about him. She knew how much he hated the tedium and back-breaking grind of farmwork, and she encouraged him to think ahead. After he had finished with schooling he might never have opened another book without Mercy’s intervention. She would borrow books from the village school teacher for him, and sometimes, if she had any money to spare she would buy others second-hand from Torquay Market, and together they would read them. Ma could not understand why they bothered, and Lizzie was openly scornful. But Joey didn’t care; Mercy had faith in him and wanted him to get on, and if that meant having to wash then so be it.
The smell of carbolic wafted through the kitchen, and he had to admit it was an improvement on what had been there before. He balked, however, when she handed him a comb.
‘Take it,’ insisted Mercy firmly, seeing his expression. ‘You don’t want to get nits like Georgie Hannaford, do you?’
Joey pulled an even longer face but complied. ‘You don’t happen to have a bit of cologne or hair-oil about you, do you?’ he asked.
‘Saucy!’ Mercy smiled as she aimed a mock blow at his head.
He thought how pretty she was. He didn’t know of anyone who was half as pretty; and his heart swelled with pride because she was his sister, an emotion he never felt when he looked at Lizzie. He was glad to see Mercy smile because he thought she’d seemed rather miserable this morning. Perhaps, like him, she was just overtired after the Regatta.
He settled down to his bread and cocoa, closing his ears as the noise upstairs intensified. William was screaming at full pitch and Lizzie ha
d now joined in, yelling persistently, ‘Stop your racket, you little varmint!’
Suddenly the kitchen door opened and there stood Blanche. She was wearing an old coat over her flannel petticoat, and her legs, scrawny as a fowl’s, ended in boots that had long since had the toes kicked out of them. For all that, she was an impressive sight, for she was angry, and anger made her awe-inspiring.
‘Silence that child!’ she commanded, glaring round with eyes still red from yesterday’s drink.
There was no question that she should be obeyed. Mercy hurried upstairs, to return almost at once carrying the child, quieter now, with his face crimson and his lower lip trembling pathetically. Lizzie followed after, and at the sight of his mother William remembered all his grievances and opened his mouth to bawl again. Hurriedly Joey cut the corner crust from the loaf and spread one end with plum jam.
‘Here you are, young Bill. Get your teeth into that,’ he said.
William paused, his mouth open, then decided that eating was better than making a noise. He accepted the proffered crust and settled on Mercy’s lap to reduce the bread to a messy pulp.
‘There,’ said Joey, ‘the poor lad was just hungry. You don’t look after him proper.’
‘Properly!’ Blanche and Mercy corrected him in unison.
‘Properly,’ amended Joey. ‘Well, she doesn’t, does she, Ma?’
‘Yer, I don’t want no more lip from ’ee.’ Lizzie moved towards him, her hand raised menacingly.
Mercy intervened swiftly. ‘The babe’s quiet enough now. Let that be an end of it,’ she said. ‘Do you want some cocoa, Lizzie? The water’s still hot.’
Lizzie shot her a glare of dislike which suddenly changed to near alarm as she clapped a hand over her mouth and dashed outside.
Blanche watched her go with scorn.
‘Why don’t you go back to bed, Grandmother? You’ll get some peace now,’ suggested Mercy.
Joey could feel the tension in the room as they waited for Blanche’s reply.
His grandmother was in no mood to be obliging. She looked round her with venom, bleary about the eyes and unsteady on her feet, otherwise none the worse for yesterday’s drinking bout.
‘I cannot find my dress,’ she declared, ignoring Mercy’s suggestion.
They all looked towards where the dress still soaked in the bucket, oozing dye inkily into the water.
‘I’m afraid I forgot it,’ said Mercy.
‘Never mind, I’ll give un a rinse through in a minute,’ put in Ma.
Blanche focused on her daughter-in-law. ‘You will leave my dress alone,’ she commanded, in a tone which betrayed only too clearly what she thought of her capabilities.
Ma shrank visibly.
Lizzie returned then, green of face, her hair lank from the drizzling rain, and Blanche transferred her animosity.
‘Is it too much to hope that this time the man can be persuaded to marry you?’ she said.
Lizzie sank into a chair by the fire and glared at her without speaking.
Blanche was not deterred. ‘I suppose anyone can be a fool once, but twice is sheer stupidity. Do you never learn? That child’ – she indicated William – ‘grows more like Harry Dawe every day. It is a miracle his wife has not seen the resemblance already. She must be as blind as she is stupid. Are we to be treated to a change of visage this time, or are we to have to put up with the fact that Harry Dawe has once more reproduced himself in our midst?’
Blanche was certainly on form this morning. Out of the corner of his eye Joey saw Lizzie gathering herself for the fight. She was afraid of her grandmother, but she shared the old woman’s vindictive streak and her vicious tongue. She always came off worse; she lacked Blanche’s intelligence and her vocabulary, yet it never prevented her from responding.
‘What do ’ee know of it, you stinkin’ old slummick?’ Lizzie demanded.
Joey drained his cocoa-mug with haste and got up from the table. The fur was going to fly any minute and he didn’t want to be around when it did. Mercy also rose and handed William to Ma, who looked as if she, too, would like to escape.
‘We’d best be off before we’re late,’ Mercy said, steering Joey out before her.
Picking up the bread and cheese she had already prepared for him, Joey noticed that she had also placed two pieces of butterscotch on the top. One he popped into his mouth, the other into the fibrous darkness of his pocket for later. An old sack, one side torn open, hung from a nail on the back of the door, and this he put over his head, his only protection against the rain. Together they turned out of the gate.
‘Blanche is in fine fettle this morning,’ Joey observed.
‘She certainly is… Oh dear, I still didn’t do her dress – though it never would have dried today.’
‘Perhaps it’ll keep her off the drink for a bit. She can’t go down to the Oak in her shimmy, can she?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her to try,’ Mercy smiled. She had the collar of her coat turned up against the elements, and the hem of her skirt was already wet. Her fleeting smile had gone and now she looked tired again, the penalty of a late night.
One other aftermath of the Regatta was troubling Joey. ‘That toff of yours, what’s his name?’ he asked.
‘He’s a gentleman, not a toff. And he isn’t mine,’ replied Mercy with more than usual sharpness.
‘If you say so, but what’s his name?’
‘Mr Lisburne – Peter.’
Joey wished she hadn’t known his Christian name. The Mr Lisburne part was all right, formal and anonymous; if she knew he was called Peter it implied a certain closeness, and Joey was never happy at the thought of her being close to any man.
‘When are you seeing him again?’
‘On Saturday afternoon.’
‘Oh… !’
‘But that’s to be the end of it. I won’t see him again after that, you’ll be pleased to know.’
‘Why’ll I be pleased to know?’ demanded Joey, even though it was true. ‘I never said anything against the fellow.’
‘No, but you looked it. You are right, of course. It would never do.’
She looked so sad when she spoke Joey was sorely tempted to protest that of course it would do, she was good enough for anyone. Then he had second thoughts; he didn’t want to lose her, particularly not to a toff called Mr Peter Lisburne.
Their paths divided. Mercy carried on towards the Newton road, while Joey took the lane to Prout’s farm. He had another mile to trudge although he knew he wasn’t certain of any work when he got there. Of all the jobs he had ever done on the farm he hated potato picking the most; it was back-breaking and at the end of the day he finished with hands so raw and painful he couldn’t bear to touch anything – and for ninepence a day! At some places you could get a bit extra for casual work, but you’d never catch Sam Prout paying out a ha’penny more than he needed to.
Usually Joey got to the farm early, not because he was keen but because if he were first sometimes Farmer Prout set him to help with the stock instead of sending him out to the fields, and this meant he would get breakfast. It had only happened a couple of times yet Joey still dreamed about them. Sam Prout was tight-fisted over his money but his missus was lavish with the food, probably because she realized she got more work out of their labourers if they weren’t half-starved. Today, however, he was out of luck. There were quite a few people waiting hopefully in the farmyard when he got there. He’d be fortunate just to get potato-picking.
‘Be ’ee comin’, boy, or baint ’ee?’ demanded a gruff voice. Sam Prout was regarding him irritably. ‘I wants they tiddies today, ’ee knows, afore this weather sets, not some time next week.’
‘Sorry, maister.’ Joey looked about and realized that the others had left the yard.
‘Stone Acre,’ Sam Prout directed, ‘I’ll be along meself presently. Don’t ’ee be dawdlin’ none, do ’ee ’ear?’
‘Yes, maister.’ Joey was already hurrying after the others. He caught them up fu
rther along the lane, a silent and morose bunch, shrouded like himself in sacking against the rain. The wet weather had depressed everyone’s spirits, there was none of the lively chatter that usually made the tedious work more bearable.
‘Rotten old morning,’ remarked Joey conversationally to his neighbour.
The only response was a discouraging grunt. Joey sighed. Ahead of him stretched the long dismal hours. He tried to think back to the previous evening, to the crowds and the excitement of the Regatta – he had liked that, being among so many people with so much going on – but the Regatta was over, gone until next year. He thrust his hands into his pockets and encountered the piece of butterscotch Mercy had given him. Already it was growing sticky with the humidity and warmth of his body. To save it from further deterioration he put it into his mouth and began sucking appreciatively. It looked as though the toffee was going to be the only bright spot in his whole day.
* * *
The Orchard Hygienic Laundry was situated on one of the roads leading out of Torquay, in a flat expanse which had once been a quarry. If there had ever been any orchards in the vicinity no one could remember them; high cliffs now towered above the grey building, giving it a forbidding air.
Mercy and Dolly went into the staff entrance together. In the subterranean corridor which served as a cloakroom Mercy took off her coat and gave it a shake, spraying droplets of water everywhere.
‘Yer, watch out! I be wet enough as ’tis,’ protested Dolly.
‘Sorry.’
Mercy hung up her coat then followed her friend into the long ironing-room, tying on her apron as she went. They were early, but the stove was already lit to heat the flat-irons, and the girls hurried towards it, eager to snatch an opportunity to dry off. For once they were grateful that the management were way behind the times and had not gone in for gas-heated irons.
To Dream Again Page 4