Mr Blake had a powerful influence over his children, but it was not the influence of a heavy hand. He stared a moment at the potato touching his toe, then looked up at the three and opened his mouth in one of his queer soundless laughs.
‘Teddy.’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘Look after shop a few minutes, will you? Fergusons are here and want a word alone with Mother and me.’
‘All right, Father.’
They went indoors and the sisters were left to gather up the spilt peas. They bent together, their wide-spreading skirts flowering like giant mushrooms from small curved waists. Esther said:
‘I wonder what they’re here again for?’
‘Phew, it’s hot! There’s thunder about somewhere.’
‘It must be important if old Mr Ferguson’s come. He’s too busy to waste his time on us.’
‘Perhaps he’s taken a fancy to Father.’
Esther eyed her sister. She knew that Cordelia was by no means as ingenuous as she pretended.
‘Or to you.’
‘Why to me? I’m sure he’s made far more fuss of you.’
‘And left you to Brook.’ Esther giggled. ‘I confess I like Mr Ferguson better than his son. He’s got a comfortable waistline and good gentlemanly manners. Seriously, Delia, has Brook ever said anything to you?’
‘What? Oh, of course not. There’s nothing like that about it.’
‘I thought at that last concert he was looking at you in a sentimental way.’
Cordelia said with a slight heightening of colour: ‘I feel sorry for the poor man. He’s so shy and delicate and – artistic. But it was the music that was making him sentimental, not me.’
‘What must it be like to live in a big house with servants to do everything for you?’ Esther stretched her arms and yawned. ‘Smith, dig those potatoes for me, Jones, sweep the path. Very pleasant, I should say.’
‘Mm … That should be enough for dinner … They’re a bit on the small side this year.’
‘The rows are too close together. That’s Teddy’s fault … I wonder how long we’re supposed to stay out here. Shall we go in as if we didn’t know that they were there?’
‘No, no, we can’t do that.’
‘How those two thump the piano.’ Esther frowned at an upper window. ‘It’ll need tuning again in no time.’
‘Essie …’
‘Yes?’
‘I wonder what they have come about?’
‘Go in and see.’
‘No. Wait a minute.’ Cordelia turned and her eyes moved slowly over the house.
The kitchen had a flat roof and in the roof was a large open fanlight. Against the corner of the kitchen wall was an old and battered tree. It had been much used for climbing until Sarah had fallen out of it one day like an over-ripe pear and cracked her arm. Cordelia had not been up it for three years. Now she was impeded by all the inconvenient spread of her crinoline, but the way was too familiar to put a foot wrong. Presently she was on the roof and waving down in triumph at Esther. She took off her shoes before tiptoeing across the leaded roof.
As she stared down her father was just lighting the gas. It bobbed and flickered for a moment and then as he turned it up the noise developed into a steady hiss and the flame flickered yellow out of the top of the globe.
The Fergusons had not been quite successful in getting Mr and Mrs Blake alone. Mrs Blake, enormous now in semi-disguising draperies, was sitting on a rocking-chair before the fire with Winifred on her knee, drying the child’s hair. Beside her was the small soapy bath which had just held Winifred. At the kitchen table Mary and Penelope, with round, thoughtful, distant eyes, were scooping up bowls of bread and milk. Mr Ferguson’s bulk overflowed the edges of a small armchair, Brook sat turning his hat and biting the skin round his fingers.
Cordelia had never been able to take quite such a detached and unhurried view of the Fergusons before. She stared first at the father and saw all his exceptional bulk, the great weight of his shoulders, the thickness of his strong legs, his broad, capable, well-kept hands. It was all bulk rather than fat, power rather than ballast. Strong sonorous voice, phrases and words that came easily, that flowed. Ice-blue eyes which stayed a little cold even when they were smiling. There was something about him which was thrusting yet secure, unsatisfied yet confident. He was a leader, a doer, a mover of men; he would be conspicuous in any company.
She looked at the son and saw his slender build, his soft, easily startled brown eyes, his thin artistic hands, his high smooth forehead with the hair brushed forward and round. She wondered what the mother had been like, for there seemed nothing the same between these two.
She knew her mother was highly flattered by this friendship, and in a way she was pleased with it too. The Fergusons were superior. The Fergusons were known everywhere and knew people the Blakes wouldn’t ordinarily have met at all. She had been to a dance at the Athenaeum, which was very superior; and she had been to Grove Hall where they lived. Both father and son had put themselves out to be nice, and she liked them in return. It wasn’t hard to like people. Old Mr Ferguson had a finger in every pie, and the son was deferential and refined.
Mr Blake lit the second gas with a pop, and the burning spill shook in his hand before he threw it into the fire.
‘Well, Mr Ferguson,’ he said, with his soft, quiet, level voice as if he were adding up. ‘I can’t say I’m not surprised. I’ve never been more surprised, not since that Brunswick thirty-six-hour I was repairing … You remember that, Mrs Blake, eh? And promised for the following day–’
‘But in this case a pleasant surprise,’ said Mrs Blake, towelling away. ‘We never thought, of course, that dear Cordelia …’ The child on her lap began to cry. ‘There, there, my little pet. Yes, quite a surprise. I’m sure she’ll be quite taken aback when she hears.’
At the fanlight Cordelia was as taken aback as her mother could have wished – was held by a sudden frozen fascination.
Mr Ferguson said: ‘I take it then you’ve no objection to an arrangement of some sort being come to?’
‘Mummy, can I ’ave some more bread?’ asked Penelope.
‘Mummy, can I have some too?’ said Mary.
‘Yes, yes, but what d’you say?’
‘Please,’ they piped together like little birds.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Blake, getting up and handing Winifred to her husband. She went to the bread-bin in the corner and began to saw off two crusts. From the parlour on the first floor came the turbulent trills of the ‘Huntsman’s Chorus’.
‘It all,’ said Mr Blake, shaking his youngest daughter absent-mindedly, ‘ it all really depends on Cordelia, doesn’t it? She’s a very good girl. Very good indeed and it’s her happiness we want above aught else.’
‘But naturally,’ said Mr Ferguson, ‘you have some parental influence.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Blake. ‘And I fancy we should know what is best for the dear child’s happiness. Dear Brook! May I call you Brook? I’m that convinced you and Cordelia are meant for each other. In my heart, here, here, I believe I’ve felt it from the start!’
Pushing hair up from her face, she moved round the table and seemed about to squeeze him to her; but Mr Ferguson had other subjects to bring up, and Cordelia, cold a moment ago, cold as she’d never been before in her life, but now hot, listened unbelieving to his strong self-controlled voice.
‘I am a widower,’ he said, ‘ and an old man. I should want Brook. They would live with me at Grove Hall.’
‘Of course, yes.’
‘Brook’s wife would be expected to live in the style we’re accustomed to and she wouldn’t be stinted of money in doing this.’
‘Of course, no,’ said Mrs Blake. ‘Cordelia’s a very good girl, as Mr Blake said. And the clever one of the family. We’ve always said that, haven’t we, Mr Blake? Three prizes she won at school, and if Mr Blake or I are ever wrong in our monies she can put us right in no time. And as for fretwork …
Did you see that decoration over the mirror in the shop? When she was twelve …’
Shut up, Mother, thought Cordelia, shut up, Mother, shut up.
‘… Simple people, and I should be there to give her any advice she needed. There are times when I might be away and Brook might also be away, but I do not think your daughter on the whole would find her life too lonely.’
‘Of course, no, Mr Ferguson. Why ever should she be?’
Mr Blake had been trying to get a word in. Now he passed the baby back to his wife and blurted out:
‘We’re – grateful for this offer, Mr Ferguson, but–’ He hesitated, and they all looked at him, Mrs Blake in horrid astonishment, while he put a finger inside the rim of his large collar. ‘But I’m Cordelia’s father, and it seems to me – not being ungrateful, mind you – it seems to me that it’s up to the girl to choose – and choose quite free – who she’ll marry and when.’
He was going to go on but he was too slow.
‘Nay, of course she will, John James,’ said his wife indignantly. ‘Nobody thought anything different. But if I know my dear child, she’ll choose the way we want her to.’
‘Why not call her now?’ suggested Mr Ferguson. ‘Then we could proceed.’
‘I think it might be a sudden shock for the dear girl,’ objected Mrs Blake, but her husband had already gone to the back door.
‘Cordelia!’
There was no answer. It was growing dark in the garden.
‘She’s out here somewhere,’ said Mr Blake stolidly.
‘You go and fetch her, Brook,’ said Mr Ferguson.
‘Oh, no,’ said Brook. ‘I hardly like to. Wouldn’t it be better–’
At that moment the echoing jangle of twenty-nine clocks came to them from the shop, and almost at once two cuckoo clocks on the mantelpiece opened their doors and began to explode.
‘Do you know how a cuckoo works?’ asked Mr Blake, diverted.
‘I do not,’ said Mr Ferguson.
‘It’s really quite a nice bit of machinery. Remind me to show you some time. When the hour comes, a wire gives a push to the body of the bird–’
‘Mr Blake,’ said Mrs Blake, ‘go and fetch your daughter. And tell Essie to stay out for the present.’
‘Was it me you wanted, Father?’ said Cordelia.
She came in out of the falling dusk, in her pink striped skirt with its frilled hem and white apron; and there was a piece of old blue ribbon about her throat. No one – except her mother, who had come to distrust innocence in her second daughter – supposed any connection between this lovely girl with her natural reserve and dignity and the scraping sounds they had all heard on the roof.
Chapter Four
A few hours later she lay in bed watching Esther at the dressing-table brushing her hair. Her own hair lay in a cloud on the pillow, looking darker than it really was against the white linen. Her eyes were at their most thoughtful. Yet behind the thoughtfulness was a hint of humour, as if she wanted to laugh at life even when life held her in its closest and most humourless grip.
‘Well, go on,’ said Esther, ‘what then?’
They never modified their voices when talking in the bedroom; experience had shown that whispers would wake Sarah and Mary in the other bed, but ordinary speech seldom.
‘Well then,’ said Cordelia slowly, ‘I said – simply out of panic and to gain time – ‘‘What sort of an offer?’’ Old Mr Ferguson looked a bit impatient, but he smiled and I think he was going to say something, only Mother spoke first. ‘‘The only sort of offer a gentleman can bring,’’ she said, and I could see how excited she was. I’ve never seen her so worked-up before, though I believe she was doing her best to hide it.’
‘What did Brook say?’
‘Nothing – at least, not then. I didn’t look at him. Just then Penny upset her bowl of milk and it gave me something to do to wipe up the mess, but Mother stopped me and Mr Ferguson said something about him being happy at the idea of the match and he was sure his son had made a wise choice. Then Papa took out his watch and began winding it – you know how we always used to mind our step when he did that when we were young. And he said: ‘‘Is this a surprise to you, Cordelia?’’
‘And of course you said it was?’
‘I said it was! And it had been five minutes before! Oh, Essie, up on that roof I could have died–’
‘Go on. You said it was a surprise. What did Father say?’
‘He stood there fiddling with his watch and made such a queer little speech, slow and steady and careful and wise, almost as if he was talking to himself, about this was just as much a surprise to him and that he was very mindful of the kindness meant, but that he didn’t want anything – anything that had been said to something the main point – I’ve forgotten the word he used – which main point was my happiness, and of course, Brook’s happiness; and although he thought it right that I should be told at once, he must insist that I didn’t answer tonight even if I should have no hesitation in saying yes. Winnie was crying now and making everybody have to say things twice to be heard, and Penny had turned her bowl upside-down and was beating the top of it with her spoon. But Mummie seemed too upset at what Papa was saying to take any notice of any of this; and then Teddy came in from the shop to know if it was time to close.’
Cordelia paused and looked at her sister. Esther was plaiting her hair.
‘D’you think they were annoyed when they left, Delia? I thought Brook looked a bit down, but perhaps that was the lace curtains.’
Cordelia said: ‘I wish he’d asked you, Essie.’
‘Oh, pooh!’ Esther turned. ‘I’m glad he didn’t. I should have told him …’ She stopped. From now on the Fergusons were no longer material for joking. All that was changed. ‘I wouldn’t have been any good to him at all.’
‘Yes, you would.’ Cordelia paused. ‘Why not?’
‘Oh … I think Brook needs someone more like you. You’re the practical one. You’d be able to look after a big house and not let it worry you. I’d be off my head. And you’re kind and understanding …’
Cordelia sat up and hugged her knees through the bedclothes. ‘I’m not kind and understanding, Essie! No more than anyone else. It’s rubbish to talk like that. I’m selfish – I want to be happy, happier than most people. I want comfort and an easy life. Oh, Lord, I don’t want to be a dressmaker always: pins and needles and lengths of serge every day from eight in the morning till eight at night. And being crushed up and short of money … I want all the things, the good things, there are in the world. I want to travel and to have time to read and to think – to meet people, intelligent people, and to hear music and to go to dances and to give parties – of my own, in my own home …’
Esther dropped her plaits behind her shoulders and climbed slowly into bed beside the other girl.
They did not say anything more for some time, Esther with her hands behind her head on the pillow, Cordelia sitting up, leaning back against the painted iron bedrail. However much one tried to consider it so, this was not just an offer of marriage from a rather kind, delicate man seven or eight years older than oneself.
Not only were the good qualities in her appealed to; but all the instincts she felt in her heart had no right to be considered – and all the dreams. If as a child she’d ever tried to snatch the biggest plum; if she had ever given way to pride; if she had ever felt lazy or envious or wanting to be better than her fellows or to shine in the eyes of the neighbourhood, or to be a benefactor of one’s family … If she had ever dreamed of becoming beautiful and rich …
‘D’you love him, Delia?’ Esther asked.
‘Oh, I like him,’ said Cordelia quickly. ‘I like him very much. I think perhaps …’
‘When have you promised to give an answer?’
‘Papa said next Tuesday, but Mother looked as if she was going to be ill, so we agreed on Sunday. They’re to drive us home from church and I’ve to tell him then.’
Esther knelt on the
pillow and turned out the gas. The steady hissing died away and there was a sharp plop. She settled into the bed again.
The new darkness gave her courage and she said:
‘What’s it to be?’
Cordelia settled down on to the pillow, letting out a slow and not quite steady breath.
‘I wish life wasn’t so mixed up.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I wish one didn’t have to have children – and all that sort of thing.’
‘Don’t you want a family?’
‘Oh, yes – some day. It’s not the family I don’t want …’
There was a long silence. Far away in the distance came a rumble of thunder, lazy, reluctant, moving across the roofs of the sleeping town.
Esther said: ‘I forgot to starch my cuffs. It was all the excitement. Hang.’
‘I’ve got a pair you can have.’
‘Thanks.’
There was another silence.
‘What are you laughing at?’ Cordelia said.
‘I’m not laughing. At least, not the way you think. I was only thinking how funny it would be to have a sister who lived at Grove Hall.’
So even Esther really, privately, took it for granted. Teddy too. Over cocoa he had had his revenge for their teasing of him. But beneath the chaff Cordelia had been able to see that he was counting on the marriage and was quietly excited about it. Already they were all counting on it, building it into their picture of the future. ‘My daughter, Mrs Ferguson.’ ‘My brother-in-law who owns the printing and dye works in Ancoats.’
There was really only her father who stood out against all this pressure, who refused to let her hurry herself. Thanks to him, she had at least some time for reflection. But was her choice really free when she knew her mother would practically die of the disappointment, and she expecting to be confined next month? Cordelia didn’t want a repetition of last year and the year before, when they had lost Clara and little Elizabeth: her mother sitting in front of the fire crying with her hair down and all the children round her crying too. She didn’t want to feel responsible for such a scene.
Cordelia Page 3