‘These are required urgently, Seaton,’ she said at last. ‘Have them finished before you leave. And none of your sloppy workmanship, mind, or you’ll do them again.’
Mercy looked as the fresh consignment of clothes was tipped into her basket and she groaned inwardly. Every garment was a difficult one, heavily adorned with frills which would need hours of careful work with a small goffering iron to bring them up properly.
Aloud she simply said, ‘Very good, Mrs Hoskins,’ for she knew her employer was just waiting for her to utter one word of complaint.
I almost wish the old harridan would dismiss me, Mercy thought angrily, as she set the goffering irons to heat and damped down the clothes. But she knew Mrs Hoskins gained far too much pleasure from tormenting her ever to do such a thing.
Ma Hoskins was becoming adept at finding subtle ways to make Mercy’s life difficult – keeping her quota of work until last, so that she was always struggling to catch up, or making sure her load consisted of intricate items which needed extra work, such as today’s frilled garments. Often Mrs Hoskins simply insisted on the work being done again, on the pretext it was unsatisfactory though they both knew it was not. Infuriating though she was she paled into insignificance compared with the problem presented by her husband.
Albert Hoskins had not given up his pursuit of Mercy, far from it. He would come into the ironing-room upon any pretext and, standing so close to her that the cloying scent of his hair-oil enveloped her, he would find some excuse to try to paw her. She did her best to avoid him but it was not easy. He had a way of creeping up to her on feet as silent as a cat’s. The first she would know of his presence would be an arm about her waist or a clammy hand caressing her arm.
She knew that before long she would be forced to leave the laundry. She had begun to look for alternative employment but it was not easy to find; she was not naive enough to expect Mrs Hoskins to give her a decent reference. She wished she could afford the luxury of just walking out, but hers was the only money coming into the house. Joey’s earnings were too small and irregular, and as for Pa’s wages they seldom got past the Oak intact. There was nothing for it except to hope a new job would come up before something happened. It proved a vain hope.
It was a damp and chilly November day, already the sky through the laundry windows was beginning to darken. By contrast the ironing-room seemed warm and cosy, so the girls had started to sing at their work. Perhaps that was why Mercy did not know of Albert Hoskins’s approach until two hands slid over her breasts.
‘Stop it!’ she cried, dodging aside.
‘Oh come on, it’s only a bit of fun. I like a bit of fun.’
His face was flushed, his eyes were bright. He reeked of cheap spirits. Hoskins sober was unpleasant, Hoskins drunk was repulsive. Mercy struggled to move away, but his arms still imprisoned her.
‘Come here! Come here! I’ve got a message for you, that’s what I’ve got!’ he leered. Nuzzling his slack mouth close to her ear he began whispering obscenities while at the same time his fingers dug deeper into her flesh. It was horrible and disgusting and she could not free herself. Then, incensed beyond endurance, she struck out blindly at his head. She was hardly aware that she did so with a flat-iron.
Albert Hoskins dropped like a stone to the floor and lay there. The last notes of the singing faded away and an awed hush fell upon the ironing- room.
‘’E’m daid,’ remarked Annie laconically. ‘Dirty old devil! Tis no more than ’e deserved.’
Attracted by the unaccustomed silence Mrs Hoskins hurried in and saw her husband lying prone on the floor.
‘Albert!’ Her scream was piercing. ‘Albert!’ She flung herself on her knees beside him.
‘’E’m daid,’ repeated Annie with relish.
Dolly stepped forward. ‘No, e’m not. Look, e’m stirring. Move back, Missus, do! ’E needs a bit of fresh air, that’s all.’
Albert Hoskins groaned, then groaned again and opened his eyes. ‘She hit me,’ he said in tones of wonderment.
All eyes turned towards Mercy who was standing frozen with shock, the iron still in her hand.
‘You hit him? With that?’ Mrs Hoskins looked from the girl to the flat-iron. There was a silence as she contemplated the enormity of what had happened. ‘You might have killed him,’ she began, then with mounting hysteria she went on, ‘It’s what you wanted to do, wasn’t it? To kill him! Murderer! You deserve to hang! To hang, do you hear me?’
She made a lunge for Mercy but the girls held her back.
‘Mr ’Oskins idn’t too bad,’ Dolly tried to calm things down. ‘Look, ’e’s only got a cut and a bit of a burn on ’is face. The doctor’ll fix ’im up in two shakes.’
Strangely, Mrs Hoskins seemed more involved with her animosity towards Mercy than in caring for her husband. ‘The police!’ she shrieked. ‘Why hasn’t anyone called the police? I want this creature arrested at once.’
At last Mercy broke out of her shocked trance and faced the woman. Suddenly she was angry.
‘Yes, call the police!’ she declared. ‘And when my case comes to court I shall tell how your husband is nothing more than a dirty old tom-cat who pesters girls until they can’t take any more. If I hadn’t hit him someone else would!’
‘Who would believe lies like that?’ demanded Mrs Hoskins.
‘The whole of Torquay! Everyone knows what he is like – a dirty, disgusting animal – and you know, so why haven’t you done anything about it?’
‘Lies! Dreadful lies!’ countered Mrs Hoskins, but her voice was beginning to lack conviction.
‘It’s the truth and you know it!’ Mercy confronted her. ‘Otherwise, why haven’t you asked me why I did it? Well, he went too far. Call the police if you wish but don’t complain if the Torquay Directory splashes the story across its pages. Yes, and other papers too, so the whole country knows what sort of man you married.’
Mrs Hoskins swallowed hard, her face taking on a pinched look.
‘Get out!’ she said in a low voice. ‘Collect your things and go! And think yourself lucky you haven’t finished up in prison!’
Mercy knew she was lucky: but for the fact that Albert Hoskins had approached her from behind and therefore had not received the full impact of the blow, she might indeed have been facing a murder charge.
Ice-cold and shaking with delayed shock she fled from the room. Snatching up her coat from its peg she ran from the laundry without bothering to put it on. People turned to stare as she dashed past but she did not care. All she wanted was to get as far away as possible. A stitch in her side seized her with agonizing cramp and her breathless lungs became a fiery torment, only then did she slow down. She was at the outskirts of the town by now, where the houses were interspersed with fields and orchards, and quite suddenly she collapsed against a farm gate and sobbed bitterly.
Gradually she grew conscious of the persistent drizzle which was soaking her and of her coat still clutched in her hands. Slowly she pulled it on, the wet sleeves of her blouse sticking to the lining. Then wiping her face inadequately with the back of her hand she began the dismal trudge home.
Her family greeted her unexpected arrival with surprise. Her account of her dismissal silenced them with disbelief. Ma was the first to recover.
‘’It ’im with an iron? Never!’ she said at last. ‘Oh, ’ee shouldn’t have done that, maid! ’Ee really shouldn’t! Not to your maister! Tidn’t right!’
She seemed more distressed by her daughter’s attack on authority than anything else. But support for Mercy came from an unexpected quarter. Lizzie’s pregnancy was proving uncomfortable and so, out of sorts and clumsy with her swollen stomach, she was delighted to hear her sister had struck a blow at the sex who was the cause of so much discomfort.
‘Yes ’twas!’ she declared. ‘I ’opes ’ee thumped the old goat real hard, that I do! Men! They care for nothing but their own pleasures. We’re the ones as suffer. ’Ee did fine, Mercy, my maidie. ’Ee did fine!’
‘A splendid time to be wondering that!’ rasped Blanche. ‘You should have thought of it before.’ Then she added, almost gently for her, ‘Still, what is done is done. And matters will not be improved if you catch your death of cold. You are soaked through. Here, drink this then put on some dry clothes.’
From the bottle she held in her arms she poured some gin into a cup. It was not a drink Mercy liked; even the smell turned her stomach; but she was so touched by her grandmother’s unexpected gesture that she swallowed the gin in one gulp. As it coursed through her veins it warmed her. Soon she found it blurring the edges of the nightmare events of her day.
‘We’ll manage somehow,’ she said optimistically. ‘I’ll get work again soon, you’ll see.’
It did not prove to be so easy. There was no shortage of work, but as she had no reference and she was unwilling to state why she had left her last place of employment Mercy stood little chance. All that was open to her was occasional farmwork and two mornings a week scrubbing out the bar parlour at the Oak – a task of which Lizzie was no longer capable.
‘Ask your toff for some money,’ suggested Joey. ‘You’re still seeing him regular, aren’t you?’
‘Regularly!’ Mercy corrected him automatically. ‘Anyway, don’t be silly!’
‘What’s silly about it? It’s time you got something out of him. What do you go out with him for, otherwise?’
‘Joey!’ At the tone of Mercy’s reproof the boy began to head for the door. ‘Where are you going now?’ she asked.
‘None of your business!’ he retorted, and left, slamming the door behind him.
Mercy sighed. She was growing concerned about him; he was so cross and moody these days.
‘’E’m growing up; tasting ’is oats,’ said Ma. ‘Leave un be.’
Mercy could not help being anxious. She did not like him being constantly in the company of boys such as Billy Dawe and Georgie Hannaford. Most of all she was distressed by his surliness towards herself. They had always been so close; she sensed her little brother was growing away from her and it hurt. His suggestion that she should ask Peter for help stung her. Didn’t he know she would never do such a thing?
She had not told Peter of the change in her circumstances; it would have meant telling him about the trouble with Albert Hoskins. No, she would have died of shame having to recount such things to Peter. Her love for him was the only beautiful thing she had and she refused to let the sordid details of her life intrude.
* * *
Peter had his own problems at that moment. His mother, having decided upon Rose Gifford as the most suitable wife for her son, was using her considerable powers of coercion to get the matter settled. At first she had been quite subtle, but Peter began to notice how often he and Rose appeared at the same functions. It seemed that everywhere he went he found himself escorting her in to supper, or partnering her at bridge. Only when people began to refer to them as ‘the young couple’ or speak of them in the same breath did he realize how firmly his feet were being guided towards matrimony.
Eventually he was goaded into declaring, ‘Mother, I must tell you, I have no intention of marrying Rose.’
Agnes Lisburne opened her eyes wide in amazement and said, ‘What an extraordinary statement! Who suggested that you should?’
The solid grounds of his complaint shifted from beneath his feet.
‘Well, didn’t you— wouldn’t you— ?’ he stammered.
‘I confess, I think she would be an excellent choice, but so would several others. Maud Blandford, for example, she’s a charming girl. Or Alice Dixon. Why you should bring up poor Rose’s name in such a way I cannot imagine. Has her father been speaking to you?’
‘No,’ admitted Peter uncomfortably, ‘but it seems that everywhere I go, there she is too, an —’
‘I do not see why you consider it to be peculiar. Our families have known each other for years; we move in the same circles; our friends are their friends. Of course you meet frequently! What an extraordinary boy you are!’ No hint of fondness softened her final statement.
Peter withdrew feeling foolish; so often in an interview with his mother he left feeling foolish, or guilty, or both! Had he imagined it? He almost persuaded himself it was possible, and felt relieved at his own idiocy.
His relief was short-lived. That very Sunday, after church, the vicar patted him on the shoulder and said in a confidential tone, ‘From what I hear it will not be long before I have the pleasure of putting up the banns for you, eh, Mr Lisburne?’ He did not name the prospective bride, but he looked towards Rose, who was getting into a carriage with her father, and gave a very un-clerical wink.
Peter made some mild reply. He felt annoyed and trapped, and his mood was not improved by the way Rose gazed at him adoringly out of her pallid eyes. Now, to see Mercy looking at him in such a way – that would be a different matter…
Thinking of Mercy made him uneasy. She had seemed different lately, more withdrawn and quiet, not a bit like the affectionate carefree girl of the summer. The idea that she might be falling out of love with him troubled him. He was not a vain man, nor was he stupid; he knew he could offer Mercy so much, and the thought she might be rejecting him was an uncomfortable one. Yet it would be typical of her; she was so fastidious about not accepting gifts that a simple posy of flowers or box of chocolates provoked a protest. Why, then, should he be surprised if she abandoned him, one of the wealthiest young men in Torquay?
Abandoned! It was a strange choice of word, even in thought. Peter tried to imagine what existence would be like without Mercy and her unstinting adulation and warm bright smile. With a shock he realized he would indeed feel bereft, and yes, abandoned. How far their relationship had moved on from the carefree flirtation at the Regatta. That was in the past, what of the future? Peter’s brow knotted with anxiety as he tried to work out a solution.
‘This has just arrived for you, sir. It was delivered by hand.’ Rogers held out the letter on a silver salver.
Recognizing Freddie Parkham’s scrawl Peter opened it.
‘Not bad news, I hope?’ asked his mother, looking up from her embroidery.
‘Not really. Freddie and I had arranged to go to the theatre this evening, but he has to go to Plymouth on urgent business and won’t be back in time.’
‘So you will be home for dinner?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Splendid! Now numbers at my table will be just right.’
‘At table?’
‘A few old friends. Being certain that you will be dining with us makes the round dozen, a very satisfactory number.’
Peter could have groaned aloud. He had walked straight into a trap he should have seen opening before him; it was too late now to think of an excuse. Silently he cursed Freddie, the more so as he was certain his ‘urgent business’ was a raven-haired little actress from the Theatre Royal.
‘Who is coming?’ he asked, though he could guess.
‘Sir John and Lady Thorpe, the Blandfords—’
‘And the Giffords?’ cut in Peter.
‘Certainly. Did I not say old friends? Naturally that includes the Major and Rose.’
Now Peter did groan aloud.
His mother looked at him sharply. ‘I trust you will be nice to Rose. I will not have you being discourteous to any of my guests.’
‘Of course, Mother,’ he replied, irritated at being addressed like an erring schoolboy.
How much easier it would be if he could tell Rose openly and frankly he had no wish to marry her. But polite society did not work in such a way. He would have to spend the evening involved in a game of matrimonial cat-and-mouse; and he was not looking forward to it.
The Giffords were early, and Peter found himself constantly paired with Rose. No matter how many times he excused himself to greet new arrivals, within minutes she would be at his side again, whether by accident or design he could not tel
l, he suspected the latter.
‘Isn’t Rose’s dress charming?’ his mother asked him. ‘Such a delightful shade of pink.’
Peter had no option but to agree. ‘Yes, very pretty,’ he said.
It was true, the dress was pretty and he knew enough about female fashion to guess it had cost a small fortune. But pink velvet did not flatter Rose, it made her look scrawny. He had a sudden vision of how Mercy would look in that dress, the skirt flaring out from her small waist, the soft colour glowing against her creamy skin. He longed to be able to give her such clothes. How proud he would be to be seen with her…
His mother was addressing Rose and her words broke into his thoughts.
‘… such a clever choice for a young girl, so suitable. Did you know that pink is Peter’s favourite colour – or perhaps you guessed, you sly boots?’
Peter felt himself go crimson. To witness his mother in this arch mood was embarrassing enough, but her words had alarmed him. They were far too pointed for comfort.
Bright colour suffused Rose’s face and she glanced up at Peter half shyly, half encouragingly.
Peter was completely tongue-tied. Frantically he sought for a non-committal reply. Nothing came. To his intense relief Rogers announced that dinner was served. Peter was the host, so as protocol demanded he offered his arm to Lady Thorpe. Unfortunately there was no salvation to be found with her.
‘Such formality amongst friends,’ she declared with a little pout. ‘Let’s dispense with anything so stuffy. Major Gifford, dear, can I beg you to oblige and take me in to? And as for you, Peter, I am sure there is a young lady not a million miles away who will make you a far more suitable dinner partner than an old married lady like myself.’
Lady Thorpe, who was in fact young and very elegant, slid her arm through the major’s, leaving Peter no alternative but to offer his to a beaming Rose.
At table he found he had Lady Thorpe to his right and Rose to his left. Desperately he tried to engage Lady Thorpe in conversation. Every time he tried she said, ‘My dear boy, there is no need to be polite with me! I understand these things, I promise you. I will be perfectly happy chatting away to the major about my garden.’ She spoke in a stage whisper, so that her words were distinctly heard by everyone, and Peter’s discomfort increased as ten pairs of eyes regarded Rose and him with fond indulgence.
To Dream Again Page 7