Her Heart's Desire

by Vivienne Dockerty

  “Do sit down, Margaret, Lily,” Lydia said, not attempting to take their outer garments, although there were glowing embers in the grate, keeping the room quite cosy. “I’ll just bring the kettle back to the boil. I take it that you would both enjoy a warming cup of tea? Then we can settle down to our luncheon. The ham and cheese is from Thornton Farm across the way.”

  On platters – not china plates as they had at Rosemount – lay thin slices of bread, portions of yellow, crumbly cheese and slivers carved from a small leg of ham on a silver salver, which was still on display at a nearby oak buffet. A small stone jar, that on investigation held brown chutney of unidentifiable ingredients, was the only relish on offer.

  “A bit last century, compared to a Victorian built house in the Rock Ferry area, which you have I hear?” Lydia said ruefully, once they had all helped themselves to food that was really quite delicious. “I can see from your face, Margaret, that you were expecting something more lavish, considering that the house was built by a wealthy family. Unfortunately, Brookvale has been let down by a few descendants whose only concern was spending their inheritance on frivolity. Inept management and the repeal of the Corn Laws, which has allowed foreign wheat to come in, has also added to the family’s misfortunes.”

  Grand-mama had the grace to look a little sheepish at Lydia’s words and Lily reddened slightly, as she suddenly worried that instead of perhaps a privy in the yard, she might have to go searching for a midden when she needed to pass water. Was this really what she wanted, to be buried in the countryside in a residence which was poor and in need of much repair and restoration?

  “Of course, with a little money spent on restoring the place to its former glory,” Lydia went on to explain, “many more generations could enjoy its position and history.” Hadn’t she been saying just that to Roland, before he had sailed off with his battalion to some heathen land many miles away called Burma? He was there to keep the peace and keep the trade routes open, as the French were threatening the British monopoly on teak.

  Roland had been adamant for many years that he wasn’t going to supply an heir for the continuation of the De Crosland family, but with his mother’s pleading ringing in his ears every time he came home from another foreign foray, he had weakened. Now that his father had died at the hands of a vengeful Zulu some twelve years before (although he hadn’t actually been fighting, he had been sitting directing operations in the officers tent), his mother was alone for many months on end. This time it had been for two long years and she wasn’t getting younger, though it had to be said she was a tough old bird. He had written in his last letter from Yangon that, as he would be boarding a ship early that September, perhaps she could find a willing candidate from an exemplary background.

  Lily Griffiths would not be chosen for her exemplary background, Lydia thought, as she watched the girl delicately dabbing her mouth with one of the monogrammed De Crosland napkins that Lydia had been able to keep a hold of. No, it was the thought of her wealthy background that made a marriage to her son so attractive. Margaret Patterson’s husband had left his wife an inheritance that was not to be sniffed at, according to the gossipmongers. Some land, a couple of houses, a thriving business in coal provision and it was rumoured that she had a son-in-law who had his fingers in lots of pies. This could only improve Lily’s attractiveness.

  Not that she was a plain girl; she was sure that Roland would be proud to walk such a pretty bride down the church aisle. The question was how to tempt this girl to live a life of loneliness, deprived of all the luxurious things she was used to and her only companion a mother-in-law. Outings would be a trip to Birkenhead market if they could persuade William Thornton to give them a lift in his cart, or a long walk through the lanes to the villages of Irby or Greasby.

  “I’ve some cake that you might like to try,” she said, seeing that her guests had drunk the tea that she had provided from an earthenware teapot, which she had purchased recently from the market. “It is freshly made and I can spread some delicious damson jam upon it. The damsons are from our local trees, then perhaps when we have finished you would like to be shown to your bed chambers. We’ve closed the ones in the far wing, but the one’s in use are nice and dry.”

  The two rooms that had been allocated to Lily and her grandmother were small, but perhaps just as well that they each only held a light oak wardrobe, a wooden bed consisting of a carved bed head and foot panel and a matching oak chest. There was nothing to be gained by their choice of room, as they were both identical. Lily, however, saw that one of the rooms overlooked an orchard and a small vegetable patch, though beyond stood a thicket that looked dark and gloomy.

  Grand-mama asked if Lydia would find it impolite if she was to rest for a while; the journey had been quite long and she wasn’t used to rising as she’d had to do so early that morning. So Lily and her prospective mother-in-law sat back in the kitchen and drank another cup of tea.

  “I had a daughter who would be much the same age as you are,” Lydia confided sadly. “We were the best of friends, although not at the end when she took it into her head to run off with the local school teacher…”

  “I had heard from Grand-mama that your daughter was dead?” Lily couldn’t stop herself from saying, although she knew that she might be causing her hostess some pain with her outburst.

  “A rumour put out by my husband, Lily, and a confidence that I hope you won’t share with anyone else if you are to become a member of the De Crosland family.”

  “Oh, does that mean you have decided that I am suitable?” Lily’s voice rose with excitement at the thought, although later there would be a few misgivings.

  “I think so Lily, and I am certain that Roland will think so too.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was around lunchtime when a tapping on the office window caused Charlie to look up from his desk in surprise. It was Mary and how she had got past the man who sat by the shipyard gate, employed to ensure that the secrets of the drawing office didn’t get into the hands of the public, was beyond him. It was lucky that the building was single storey, thought Charlie inconsequentially, as he asked his supervisor if he was allowed to speak to the woman who seemed a bit distraught. Perhaps his mother needed him to run an errand for her later, or perhaps she had sent him a little lunch; a sandwich or a piece of cake. He had forgotten to bring his carryout and had left it on the kitchen table.

  “Your mother needs yer,” Mary said breathlessly, her long hair all over the place and her face all ruddy, as once the outer door had been opened carefully it tended to blow of its hinges if there was a ferocious wind. “I found ‘er face down in ‘er vegetable patch when I went to see why she wanted ter speak with me. I ran as fast as I could down ter that St. Caths place and they sent somebody up ter see ter ‘er.”

  Mr Hammond, the office supervisor, nodded, as he had stood at the back of Charlie listening to the woman’s business. “Couldn’t have happened at a worse time, Charles, but listening to the circumstances, I’ll make an exception.”

  By this time Charlie couldn’t have cared less if he had been sacked on the spot for not continuing with studying the drawings of the proposed underwater submersible, a project beginning to take shape in a large shed nearby. His mother’s health was much more important in the scheme of things. Automatically tidying his desk and covering over the plans he had been looking at, he shrugged into his overcoat and promised that he would be back to his employment as soon as he could.

  “Get your girl to make you a strong cup of tea at the next opportunity,” said the affable manager, full of sympathy when he saw the sudden pallor on his staff member’s face. Charlie just nodded, then fell in step with Mary, who was in a great hurry to be somewhere else it seemed.

  “She’s been working too hard,” Charlie said, feeling short winded as there was a bit of an incline, but making an effort to keep up with Mary, who was pounding along the street as if her life depended on it. “I feel bad that it’s come to this, when
I could have given her a bit more of a hand.”

  “She wouldn’t ‘ave took it, yer know ‘ow independent she were. The man at the ‘ospital said it were ‘er ‘eart.”

  Charlie stopped in his tracks at Mary’s words. “What do you mean it ‘was’ her heart? Are you telling me she’s a goner? I thought you’d come to tell me that they had taken her to the hospital at St. Caths?”

  “Yeah, the mortuary at St. Caths! Oh, Charlie…” Mary grabbed him around his shoulders and drew his slight body to her, her voice trembling with emotion. “Oh, come ‘ere, love. I’ll stop with yer, I’ll ‘elp yer through it, if yer’ll let me.”

  For a moment he was touched that she cared so much and responded to her like a child wanting to be held in the warm embrace of its mother. Then he pushed her from him and ran.

  It was a chilly day when Jane Elizabeth Wilson, née Oakes, was buried at the very cemetery that she had sat outside the gates of whilst selling her bunches of flowers. Charlie had been inconsolable when he arrived at St. Catherines, blaming himself for her early demise and sad that when at last he was able to give her his proper wages, she wasn’t there to enjoy a few little luxuries. Mary had been constantly at his side, guiding him through the bureaucracy concerned with laying a loved one to rest, making sure he was eating and listening to his tearful tales of Janey’s love for her son.

  Mary was a practical girl but she could also see an opportunity when one came along. Knowing that she was no beauty, but could cook and care for children, which most men of that time would think were attributes in a wife, she tried to make herself indispensable to her friend’s bereft son. Although she knew that the gossipmongers would have a field day, she installed herself on the sofa at night time, telling Charlie that he only had to call and she would be there for him. Not that Charlie ever took her literally, but in the grief filled world he found himself in he didn’t question her presence, relying on her for food and more. It was Mary who had contacted the Co-operative Undertakers, although once done there was little more she had to do. Now was the time when friends from Jane’s various employments, a few neighbours and Mr Bryson, the minister who had conducted her funeral, all crammed into the tiny cottage room, ready to partake of the post funeral spread.

  A late edition to the invited guests was Mary’s mother, a large woman with a body of strange proportions. Her notably pendulous breasts seemed to overflow under the waist of the voluminous skirt, which she wore with a cream blouse and a long sleeved navy jacket. As she handed around the sandwiches that she had helped Mary make earlier along with the slices of currant cake that Mary had purchased from the bakers, it was noted that it wouldn’t be long before Mrs Casson was in need of a pair of false teeth.

  A surprise visitor, who had made an appearance at the side of Jane’s graveside, was Alf Hewitt. Word had got around quickly in the small community and later, after he had shaken Charlie’s hand and whispered words of condolence, he had taken a plate and a couple of sandwiches from Mrs Casson and had situated himself by the front door. The minister, who was taking his fill of the funeral spread and had just accepted a cup of tea from the teapot that Mary was holding, spotted a possible candidate for the future attendance of his chapel and wandered over to speak to him.

  Charlie listened dully to the muted conversation between the two men from where he sat on the nearby sofa, nodding in agreement to himself when the minister mouthed words of commiseration to the family friend. It was only when the name of James Wilson, husband of the deceased came floating passed his ears, that he paid attention. James Wilson, the father who had drowned whilst crossing the Mersey River in a ferry boat called Gem, according to Alf Hewitt, was still very much alive!

  “Going to confession is a great cleanser of the soul,” Alf was saying to the minister. “I was able to square my part in the whole chicanery, that’s why I don’t bother with you lot anymore.”

  Charlie looked aghast, as the minister, taking Alf’s words as a monumental insult and no doubt secretly thinking that this sinner should be in hell, moved away. Charlie shot up from the sofa and, to the surprise of the other mourners, grabbed Alf by the arm and asked if he could speak to him outside. Alf was just as surprised, as he put down his plate on the windowsill and the two men walked out onto the pavement.

  “Do you think that there’s something the matter with my hearing?” Charlie asked in a voice full of sarcasm, because he didn’t want to believe that whatever he was going to be told next wasn’t going to be to his liking.

  “Ah, about your father.” Alf looked guilty and endeavored to move away a little, in case Charlie got handy with a couple of punches. “She meant to tell yer. Many a time I asked if she had got round to doin’ it, but she said what yer didn’t know wouldn’t hurt yer.”

  “So tell me now,” Charlie said through clenched teeth, wondering why the hell his mother would pretend she was a widow, struggling to get by on what little she could earn, when all the time there was still a husband in the background.

  “She thought it was best that you were in the dark. You didn’t really remember ‘im as ‘e was away at sea a lot and it was easy to make up a story when the Gem ‘ad just collided mid-river and men were swept out to sea. It was yer parents’ way of throwing the towel in, without resorting to divorce or a church annulment.”

  “Yes, I remember the shouting and the bickering and I even heard my mother throwing a pan against a wall one day.” Strangely enough this revelation wasn’t such a shock as Charlie thought it would have been.

  “That would be ‘is dinner.” Alf tried to make light of the situation. “They were chalk and cheese, your parents. If they ‘adn’t of done summat about it, one of them would have ended up swingin’ on a rope at Walton Jail.”

  “That bad?” Charlie found it hard to imagine his mother getting in such a temper that she would have gone so far.

  “Fraid so. Anyway, if yer ever want ter see yer dad, I ‘ave ‘is address and you could look ‘im up. ‘E lives in Wallasey now.”

  “I don’t think I would want to be in touch with him now, Alf. I’ve done without him all these years and he’s never put himself out to see me. Even Aunt Emily used to walk past my mother with her nose in the air.”

  “Ah well, that’s up ter you, Charlie. I’ve kept him up ter snuff on what yer were up to, but ‘e ‘as another family now and ‘e gave up the sea after ‘is supposed drownin’.”

  “Bully for him. Anyway, I think we should get back to the reason we’re all gathered together; Poor Mother, God rest her soul. Perhaps we’ll raise a glass to the eccentricities of life and to the living.”

  They were all there, the mourners of a fine woman’s passing and Charlie noticed, as he walked back into the dwelling with shoulders hunched and a solemn look on his face, that each person was holding a glass in their hand. They were his mother’s gold-rimmed sherry glasses, a wedding present from someone or other all those years ago. It hit him just at that moment that he hadn’t even considered informing the Lancashire side of Jane’s family, then corrected that thought, as he didn’t even know where she had lived. It seemed that his mother was adept at keeping secrets. Now, having been given the knowledge that his father hadn’t been assigned to a watery grave, he wondered if her family were really buried somewhere in the countryside near Blackpool. Charlie hoped that there weren’t any more skeletons to be revealed to him that day, besides wondering who had provided the bottle of sherry.

  When Mr Bryson, the minister of the Weslyan Church that he and Mary attended, asked for everyone to raise their glass to the life of an exemplary woman, a wonderful mother who would have been very happy had she heard the news of her son’s intended marriage to Miss Casson, Charlie shrugged his shoulders mentally and helped himself to a glass. Who was he to change the course of his destiny? His mother was gone, his beloved had turned her nose up at him and Mary seemed very eager to become his wife!

  To say that the problems in Charlie and Mary’s marriage could be laid squarely on
the trouble they had in the bedroom department would be an understatement. Perhaps they could have eventually worked on them, at least to one person’s satisfaction; however, it was Mary’s lack of education and her tendency to fill the small cottage with her mother and as many of her small noisy siblings as she could find a place for that caused Charlie to wish that he had the gumption to sail the seven seas and eventually jump ship! He began to stay longer at work each day, his admiring office manager praising his dedication to the other staff, causing them to steer clear of the little upstart and sending him to Coventry. The Grapes welcomed a regular evening visitor, as the bar became supporter of another inebriated soul. Weekends saw Charlie with his notebook down by the landing stage, avidly recording the comings and goings of the world’s shipping trade.

  It was Mr Bryson who brought Charlie’s attention to the state of his marriage, having noticed after five weeks of non-attendance at his church services that neither of the couple had put in an appearance. Charlie had been one of the most dedicated people in his flock and he had thought when he was marrying them that it was the starkest wedding he had ever officiated at, given that Charlie didn’t even have a groomsman and the bride wasn’t wearing a pretty long dress and veil.

  He decided, in his capacity of being God’s instrument, to call upon the cottage. Perhaps the couple felt there was no need for an hour’s uplifting in the house of God on a Sunday morning, when they were happy to have a lie in bed instead!

  Charlie had his notebook in readiness at the kitchen table, a sharpened pencil residing in the inner pocket of his jacket and was making himself an egg sandwich to eat before setting off down to the river. Mary had withdrawn all aspects of wifely servitude including feeding him, until he began to show her some affection in their bed. It was a lovely day, warm for April and she had taken some of her siblings to the park. Charlie was wary when he saw who was standing on the doorstep. It wasn’t as if he was a Catholic, when the priest would automatically come calling to round up his missing few. “Why, Mr Bryson! What a surprise to see you. Do come in, is there anything I can do for you?” He decided on politeness. After all, the man was only doing his job by checking up on the welfare of one of the members of his flock.