Her Heart's Desire

by Vivienne Dockerty

  Dorothy was closely followed by Mostyn, a sensitive young man from an upper class background who liked to spend his evenings with Charlie, discussing the research being done on a black fly at a laboratory in Sierra Leone. It was thought to be the cause of river blindness, or the link with mosquitoes as the cause of malaria. He described the lecture rooms where the students listened in fascination to information gained by pioneers in their field; he spoke at length about the research laboratories, the museum and an insectary that had been built on the new building’s roof in Pembroke Place, praising the founder, Sir Alfred Jones, a visionary of the future. He in turn was fascinated with Charlie’s sea trial tales and didn’t mind sitting in the outside toilet, providing he had an oil lamp of course.

  At the weekends, he would sit Charlie on a garden bench and set to with the hoe or a pair of secateurs, regaling Charlie with tales of his father’s team of gardeners at his manorial home. The family fell in love with the easygoing student – especially Irene, who hung on his every word. They were deeply upset when at the beginning of 1922, after returning to his home in Berkshire for Christmas, he wrote to say that he had been offered a graduate post at a research lab in London.

  It was during the time of Mostyn’s stay that Isabel, a bit of a stranger really, preferring to help her aunt make the Sunday dinner for Eliza’s married offspring and grandchildren, sent a letter that came one morning to say that she was intending to visit and would be bringing a surprise for them. Mostyn, on hearing that there was to be a visitor and having met Isabel on an earlier occasion, had said that he had been invited out for luncheon that day. This had dashed Lily’s hopes of matchmaking, as her lodger, usually a very polite young man, had tended to ignore her elder daughter,

  So, there was only the family waiting, whilst carrots nearly boiled dry in the saucepan, and the potatoes and roast lamb frazzled in the oven tin, when Isabel arrived. She was dressed in a fashionable, cream, knee length flapper dress and matching cloche hat with red T-bar shoes, full of apologies as there had been an accident with a dray cart, which had hampered their walk across the Penny Bridge. ‘Their’ walk left the three of them puzzled, until Isabel drew a lanky, ginger haired young man through the front door and proudly introduced him as Duggie.

  “This is Duggie, Papa, Mama. Duggie works down the road from me in the butcher’s shop and we’ve come across together today to tell you that Duggie has asked me to marry him.”

  To say that her parents were stunned was an understatement, although Irene, tickled pink that she might have the chance of being her sister’s bridesmaid and get a new frock out of it, was grinning ear to ear.

  “Oh Isabel,” she said, rushing to her sister and throwing her arms about the now anxious-looking girl’s waist, stopping suddenly to wonder why her parents had scowls upon their faces. Well, her mother did; her father looked a bit dismayed, but he was holding his hand out politely.

  “How do you do, young man?”

  “I’m all right, Mr Wilson. Isabel’s told me a lot about yer, says yer were one of the first to trial them subs.” He blushed with embarrassment as he spoke and couldn’t bring his eyes to look into Charlie’s.

  “Well, you’d better come in, you’re lucky that there’s still some dinner worth having.”

  Lily, rather rudely, refused to shake the young man’s hand. “Take your guest into the parlour Isabel, and Irene, you can help me in here.

  If that doesn’t take the biscuit,” she muttered angrily, as she set Irene to making the sauce from the bunch of mint leaves she had gathered earlier from her kitchen garden. “A girl with Isabel’s education wanting to marry a butcher’s boy, turning her nose up at the son of a lordship. To think I could have had Mostyn as my son-in-law! When I think of the things we’ve gone without, just so she’d have the same advantages as I had and now she’s going to throw it all in my face by marrying a butcher’s boy. Well, she can wait until she’s twenty-one, because there’s no way I’ll give my permission for her to marry him.”

  “Does Duggie cut up little animals at the butcher shop? Is that why you’re cross?” asked Irene, licking the spoon, as she loved the taste of mint once it had been added to a little vinegar. She knew the answer because she had seen the many carcasses hanging down from hooks in a Liscard butcher’s window, but the thought of their visitor doing just that made her think that she should dislike him too.

  “Well, they’re already dead when they come to the shop,” said Lily, looking for a moment with distaste at the piece of meat she was about to carve into. “But that isn’t why I’m cross, Irene, it’s because I wanted somebody better for Isabel, because of the good education that she’s had. Anyway, stop licking that spoon and put those potatoes into the tureen. After you’ve done, go and set the kitchen table. I’m not going to serve dinner in my best room for that one.”

  “So after dinner, is that when I invite you into the study and offer you a cigar, then you ask can you have my daughter’s hand in marriage?” Charlie asked jokingly from his armchair near the fireplace. You cut could the tension in the parlour with a knife; Duggie was sitting alone on the sofa, while Isabel was pacing, her thin face wearing a worried look.

  “Ha, funny, Papa. No one does that anymore.”

  “Your mother will expect it. I had to ask permission from your grandfather.”

  “That was years ago. We’re living in the 1920’s now and women are allowed to vote.”

  “Some have got the vote if they’re over thirty, but don’t forget that you’re still a minor and if you’re mother says you can’t get married, then you’ve had it.”

  “And you wouldn’t go against my mother?”

  “When have I ever?” Again Charlie tried to joke, but he knew that if Lily were against the marriage, he would back her.

  “Then I don’t know why we’re even sitting here, if that’s going to be the answer. Come on, Duggie, let’s go; I’m sure your mother will feed us if we go there now.”

  “Isabel, your mother might…”

  “Come on everyone, dinner’s out on the kitchen table.” Irene stood at the door.

  “We’ll eat here then, seeing she’s gone to the trouble of cooking it, but after that we’re going back home.”

  Irene made her escape as soon as the meal was over, running across the road to the Patterson’s house. Confronted at the door by her new cousin, Evan, she promptly burst into tears. They sat in the branches of an old cherry tree, watching the two black horses in the stable nearby while Irene poured out her tale. They agreed that grownups were the strangest of folk, especially parents, who didn’t often smile.

  Charlie, unusually for him, helped Lily clear the table and stack the plates and tureens on the scullery draining board ready for washing. On a nearby shelf, an apple pie sat on a plate next to a jug of cream, waiting to be served by Lily. She had bought the cream especially from the dairy when she had received Isabel’s letter, Charlie thought sadly, wondering if it had been intentional on her part not to serve it.

  “Cup of tea?” Lily said briskly, after adding a dash of soda to the water in the sink and swirling it around vigorously. “I’ll just put this lot into soak, then I’ll make it.”

  “I’ll put the kettle back on,” Charlie said, beginning to feel his chest tightening at the thought of her confrontation, which was bound to happen in a minute or two. “I thought I’d take a look at those strawberries that Mostyn planted in the pots. They should be ready for selling in a week or so.”

  “Not so fast, Charlie. It’s your daughter, too, that we’ll be discussing – you can look at the strawberries later.”

  “I can’t see anything for us to talk about, Lily. You’ve made your mind up that you’ll not allow her to wed the poor blighter, so I can’t see the point.”

  “Yes, but I want you to know why I don’t want us to give our permission, otherwise it will look as if I’m being stubborn.”

  “You’ve made it clear that you don’t like the lad, why harp on it?”


  “Don’t you see? We’d be throwing away all that good money that we paid out for her education, just for her to marry someone of his ilk, when she should be marrying at least a doctor or even a solicitor!”

  “Wasn’t that the reason why you wouldn’t marry me when we were younger, because your parents had paid for a good education and you thought me beneath you? From what you have told me, you weren’t that happy with Roland De Crosland.”

  “That was totally different, I was expected to marry well. My father would never have allowed me to marry a shipyard worker and I was given no choice in the matter of whom I married.”

  “No, but I was good enough for you when you were back at your parents’ house and you hadn’t got a penny to your name.”

  “Shame on you, Charlie Wilson, dragging that up after all these years of happiness together.” Lily had gone white and she began to dab at her eyes with her pinafore.

  “Happiness?” Charlie flung the word back at her angrily, as he stamped out to the garden. “Well, if all these years have been happy ones, I’d have been better off being happy on my own.”

  Christmas came and went, with none of the usual family parties. Only Bertha turned up with a pretty dress for Irene, bought in New York by Lawrence, who still travelled the world in his fifties. A dour man now, with a full head of white hair, a moustache and a beard, he ruled his crew with a rod of iron, but had a soft spot for this niece who reminded him of a young Lily.

  Ellen came too, bringing along a pot doll for Irene, with miniature clothing that she had spent a lot of hours stitching, her postman husband gone now as he had perished in the war. There was no word from Eliza, nor of course from Isabel, and the sisterly meetings that were once attended by all had been disbanded. Their father had left this mortal coil when, after suffering from a fatal bout of pneumonia earlier in the previous year, he had died, virtually a pauper after death duties had been paid.

  Irene was ten now and, not fully understanding why this particular Christmas felt so different from the ones she had known before, she spent more of her time with the Patterson’s, where at least the children’s parents didn’t bicker. There was also a big dog now, a Welsh border collie to play with called Nuts.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was just after Irene’s birthday in February, a non-event really, except that she was allowed to have Evan and Mfanwy around for a birthday tea, when Lily provided jam sandwiches and a sponge cake. Evan and Mfanwy had brought her a book as a birthday present – The Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett, a copy of which had been bought in Liverpool by Uncle Tom. From her mother and father, desperate for money now they had lost their lodger and were waiting for another, there was the promise of a treat at Easter.

  It was a Monday when Lily, having seen her daughter off to school holding hands with young Mfanwy and with Evan skipping along the road ahead, saw the postman hovering by the gateway.

  “Mornin’ Mrs Wilson,” Dickie said, peering at an envelope that he was carrying. “Looks official, it’s not from one of your family I’ll be bound.”

  “Thank you, Dickie.” Lily snatched the envelope from the postman’s hand. “If it’s anything you should know about, I’ll be the first to tell you.”

  “Oh, thank yer very much,” he replied, missing her sarcasm. “I’ve time fer a cup o’ tea, if yer’ve got the kettle on. Me bag’s not so heavy today.”

  “Got to go, Dickie. Charlie’s not up yet and I’ve still to make his breakfast.”

  “I don’t mind waitin’, Mrs… ”

  Lily had already gone. The envelope, partially blurred by the ink of a franking machine, could only be the answer to a dream that she had half forgotten. Six months earlier she had seen a delivery boy, posting a newspaper through the front letterbox. She had frowned when she had picked it up from the red stone tiled floor, deciding to have a word with the shop in the village. Charlie always ambled up there if he wanted a newspaper and there was no money to spare for a daily one. To celebrate the launch of this national publication, the editor was proposing a competition for its new readers: buy a copy for the next six days, cut out the daily coupon, fill them out with name, address and add two reasons why you would buy the paper in the future then send it to the editor at the address shown in London.

  It had been a bit of a bind to say the least, having to find a few coppers from their already limited income, to pay for the newspapers at the end of the week. Charlie felt disgruntled, because he liked to read the opinions of the more professional type of reporter, but agreed to Lily’s plea of a more downmarket broadsheet just until she had collected all the coupons, if it would keep the peace. When the bank draft in the name of Mrs Lily Wilson fluttered to the floor and she read that she had won £365, one pound to spend on herself for everyday of the year, she nearly fainted. She’d forgotten about that, which was what had caught her attention when she had riffled through the paper to see if it had a fashion or cooking section. Those had been her two reasons, which had obviously caught the editor’s eye. How would she have spent one pound a day for the next coming year? Now I will find out, she thought as she picked up the bank draft with trembling hands, and read that it had to be presented to the Liverpool Union Bank on Bold Street, Liverpool. She went into the kitchen to make a calming cup of tea.

  It wasn’t until a few minutes later that she emerged from a sort of utopian trance, where she had sorted all her problems out courtesy of this new cash flow. First she would put a deposit on a house – there was a row of semi’s being built just off Leasowe Road, where the fresh air from the ocean, rather than the oily pool across the road at the dock lands, would do Charlie’s chest good. Then she would pay for Charlie to see an eye specialist. He’d been complaining for some time that his vision was becoming a little murky and he couldn’t focus as well as he once had. Irene seemed to be doing well at the local church school; she hadn’t complained and could read and write as well as Lily had when she was a youngster, so she wouldn’t pay out for another private school for her daughter, but buy her pretty frocks and fancy shoes instead.

  Charlie of course, coming down the stairs a little later, wearing his old velvet dressing gown and wondering why there was no smell of fried egg cooking in the pan, was just as astonished as she had been. Lily, not really wanting to come clean just yet, because he would probably spoil her plans as he had been apt to do in the past, saw him sit down with a thump onto the kitchen chair after being told, asking her what she planned to do with it.

  She was just about to share the plans that she’d been making up until he had interrupted them with his appearance, when suddenly a vision of Isabel came swimming before her eyes. Isabel, who she had not seen or heard from since the day she had come over for Sunday dinner with Duggie, in Lily’s eyes a no hoper. Even at Christmas there had been no communication from the alteration shop, as Eliza, or so it had appeared, had taken Isabel’s side.

  Hadn’t she always dreamt that one day her daughters would walk down the church aisle, dressed in frothy lace on her way to a marriage with the love of her life? Something half forgotten, when there was no possibility of such a thing happening. This was her chance to make things right.

  “The first thing I’m going to do with the money is to make sure that Isabel has a decent wedding.”

  Charlie stared at her in amazement, as the first thing he was sure she would have wanted was a move to a better house.

  “Isabel?”

  “Yes, Isabel. It’s time that girl got married. She’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks and I’m not having my sisters say I stood in the way of her happiness.”

  “Your sisters have been saying that?”

  “Well, I don’t know if they have or not, but it’s all right for them as they don’t have daughters.”

  “Henrietta does.”

  “Apart from her, anyway she doesn’t count, I never see her.”

  “So how are you going to go about it? You’ll have to eat humble pie and that’s never
agreed with you.”

  “Ha, ha, ever the joker. You can come with me.”

  They chose the following Sunday afternoon for their visit, after they had caught the ferry from Egremont on the previous Wednesday and travelled across the Mersey to the nominated bank. Irene had been invited across the road to one of the children’s birthday tea. Worried about what reception she would receive when they got to Eliza’s house, Lily was relieved that her youngest wasn’t with them.

  The couple walked across the Penny Bridge to Conway Street, wearing their Sunday best, albeit shabby, then through the park until they reached the row of shops where Eliza had her business. The window shutters, tattered and faded, were down, as one would have expected on the day of rest. Only a few leaves, whipped up by a sudden wind, lay on the pavement ahead of them and there was an eeriness about the row, as not everyone lived in the rooms above, using them mostly for storage.

  Lily was now worked up like a spring, having gone over a hundred times in her mind what she was going to say when she first set her eyes on her daughter. She was put on the back foot when, after her continual knocking , the young man – the cause of all the problems with her and Isabel’s relationship – came bounding down the stairs with a cautioning finger to his lips.

  “Shhh,” he said, not in the least surprised when he saw who was standing there, having peered through the window and then opened the shop door. “We’ve just got ‘er off, had a bugger of a night with ‘er crying.”

  ‘Er’ seemed to be directed to a pram, which had been placed in a corner of the alteration shop.

  “I beg your pardon, young man,” Lily managed to gasp, not expecting to be greeted in that manner, nor even to be setting her eyes on him just then. “We’ve come to see Isabel. Kindly advise her that her parents are here.”

  “If she’ll see yer.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, kindly.”