The Penningtons

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me but she left a will that was to be read at the end of 1902. It’s always been a bit of a mystery.’

  Daisy stared at him. ‘But that’s quite soon! It’s 1902 and almost November.’

  ‘Is it? Are you sure?’

  ‘I tell you it is!’ She darted to the calendar which hung from a hook on the dresser. ‘There! This is the last week of October – the twenty-fifth, in fact. Only a few more days and it will be November and then December.’ Her face fell. ‘Will I still be here then? Suppose the new housekeeper doesn’t like me or . . . or says she can manage without me?’

  ‘I’ll tell whoever it is that you go with the job!’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘So don’t think about marrying that young man – at least not yet!’

  ‘Marrying him? Good heavens! It never entered my head. I hardly know him.’ In case her expression betrayed her, Daisy fussed over the boots and then handed them back to their owner. ‘You see? Now you must let them dry.’

  She turned away, reached for a wiping-up cloth and started to wipe the clean washing up which was stacked on the draining board.

  Monty looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Cressida used to say that women were harder to understand than men and prone to making rash decisions. The heart ruling the head. That sort of thing. She was a deep thinker. Took life very seriously.’ He sighed.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  Monty settled the boots in his lap. ‘It was an accident – some time after she came back from Switzerland. She’d been staying with an aunt over there, an aunt who had no one and was in rather desperate straits. Very depressed. A clinical depression – that’s what Cressida called it. She was there for ages – four or five months . . . I missed her terribly.’

  ‘It was very kind of her, wasn’t it.’ Daisy tried to imagine herself as a selfless heroine. ‘She must have been a very caring sort of person to go all that way, and live in a cold place surrounded by all those mountains and things. Very different from Bath I should think. Mountain goats and pine trees and all that snow!’

  Monty nodded. ‘When she came home I could see a change in her. She was very quiet and withdrawn. I suppose that’s the best word for her mood. Living with a depressed aunt would be awful for her. She was naturally a sunny soul.’ He smiled at the memory.

  ‘Had the aunt recovered, then?’

  ‘No but she was going into a clinic and didn’t need Cressida.’ He frowned. ‘My poor wife was badly affected by that stay. I should never have allowed her to go but she insisted. She wouldn’t talk about it when she returned. Said it preyed on her mind and she would rather not think about it. I thought she would eventually get over it but she didn’t. It changed her somehow. One day while I was out she must have tripped at the top of the stairs and banged her head on the way down. That’s what the doctor thought had happened.’

  ‘Was she still conscious? I mean, did she know you?’

  ‘No. That was the dreadful part of it. She was already dead so we had no time to say our “goodbyes” the way you can if you know the end is near. Poor Cressida.’

  ‘It must have been awful for you.’

  He nodded, saying nothing, then began to polish one of the boots.

  Daisy said earnestly, ‘But you have to tell yourself that she had a happy life and a happy marriage to you. You were everything to her, Monty. I’m sure you were and that must be comforting.’

  ‘I see that now but at the time there seemed no way to gain any comfort. Our whole life together ended – just like that!’

  He was becoming saddened by the memories, thought Daisy and searched for a more cheerful subject without being too obvious. ‘At least you had your family to support you.’

  After a moment he said, ‘They weren’t as supportive as I would have expected, to tell you the truth. Hettie had always been jealous of Cressida because she was so beautiful and had such a sweet nature. Her hair was her crowning glory – deep auburn waves. Of course she wore it up most of the time but when she was ready for bed, in a white nightdress, with her hair down over her shoulders . . . she always reminded me of an angel.’

  ‘An angel? Goodness!’ Daisy was impressed but she, too, was aware of a twinge of jealousy and wished that her own ginger hair was instead a deep auburn, and that the bouncy curls were gentle waves. No one could accuse her of looking angelic, Daisy reflected. She was also beginning to see that the wonderful Cressida had not entirely endeared herself to her sisters-in-law . . . but through no fault of her own.

  Monty said, ‘Hettie came to the funeral dressed to kill! She had obviously spent a fortune on new clothes and had had her hair newly styled. Everyone was looking at her. She looked quite . . . Well, almost smug.’

  ‘Hettie did? Oh how awful!’

  ‘Yes, smug. That’s the word exactly. I think she felt that with Cressida lying in her coffin, Hettie could finally shine.’ His tone was bitter. ‘She seemed to flaunt herself, even Albert could see what she was doing. He was embarrassed. I’ve never forgiven her . . . You could say it was Cressida’s day but Hettie stole it.’

  Daisy hid her sense of shock. ‘What a pity you had no children,’ she said desperately. ‘They would have supported you.’

  ‘But then when Cressida died they would have lost their mother and that would have made the tragedy even worse!’

  ‘I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  After a long silence he made an effort to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Well now, Daisy, I’ve finished the shoes. If you have no other little tasks for me I think I’ll finish my newspaper. I’ll be in the sitting room.’

  ‘And you’ll want a pot of tea.’

  ‘Yes please.’

  She watched him go, thinking about the long-dead Cressida and the abrupt end to their marriage. There was no way she could undo the past but perhaps she could cheer him up. She took the biscuit tin from the cupboard and picked out a selection of his favourite biscuits – two garibaldis, one chocolate wafer and one with pink icing. She then weakened, popped the pink one into her own mouth and replaced it with a custard cream.

  Albert awoke the next morning to the sound of rain pounding the roof of the garden shed. ‘Sunday,’ he muttered. ‘A day of rest!’ He laughed bitterly then was immediately seized with a feeling of panic. Hettie was gone to stay with Dilys and he was alone in the house. Somehow he must force himself to get out of bed and go downstairs and see if Stanley had visited him during the night. To see what if anything was missing or damaged. And if it were so, what would he do? Alert the police? At least he had not been murdered during the hours of darkness – or even attacked. He had heard no windows being smashed . . . but he was a sound sleeper and anything might have happened of which he was unaware.

  ‘If nothing’s happened, Hettie will look such a fool!’ he muttered as he pushed his feet into his slippers and reached for his dressing gown. He would take it carefully, he told himself, just in case Stanley had found a way in and was waiting for him – lurking round a corner or hiding in the shadows. He picked up the poker on his way to the bedroom door and stepped out on to the landing. His throat was dry as he waited for a sound that might indicate the presence of someone else.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called, in what was meant to be a strong voice but which came out with a tell-tale tremor.

  There was no answer which was a relief – except that it meant if Stanley were to be present, he must be hiding. Albert moved slowly towards the top of the stairs, throwing open each bedroom door as he passed it, and casting a quick, anxious glance inside. No sign of anyone.

  With several cautious glances behind him, Albert moved down the stairs. He might be in the sitting room, he thought and imagined his son relaxed in an armchair, his intentions hidden behind a smile. What should he do, Albert wondered, if he did find his son on the premises? He could rush from the house, screaming for the police – but how stupid that would look to an outsider! The neighbours would think he was mad to be
afraid of his own son.

  The sitting-room door creaked as he pushed it open but a quick survey of the room disclosed no occupant. He uttered up a silent prayer and began to feel a little more hopeful. Another positive sign was that there seemed to be no signs of disruption and no hint that anyone had been in the house. Furniture, cushions, pot plants – all seemed to be exactly as they had been when he went to bed the previous night.

  At the very moment that Albert decided he had been spared an unwelcome visit he felt the first flutter of pain near his heart. It came and went. He closed his eyes thankfully and made his way into the kitchen. The pain came again but briefly and he instinctively put a hand to his heart. The sun was streaming through the large kitchen window as he sank gratefully on to a stool.

  ‘Fright!’ he said aloud. ‘Panic. Nothing more.’ He wondered whether to make a pot of tea or to go back to the sitting room and pour himself a whisky. He had just decided that alcohol would be the best stimulant when he caught his breath in alarm. A letter lay on the kitchen table. For a moment he froze. Stanley had come and gone!

  He said, ‘Oh God!’ but dared not touch the letter. He read the word scribbled on the envelope.

  FATHER. The letters were heavy and uneven and written in black ink.

  He sank down on to a chair, his heart pounding in earnest now and the pain returning. ‘Damn you!’ he muttered. ‘Damn you to Hell!’ He looked round the kitchen wondering how Stanley had gained access to the house. And what had he done while he was in the house and Albert was asleep? Had he stared down at him as he lay defenceless? Had he toured the house, maybe taking small items, the way he had done with Dilys?

  With shaking fingers he opened the envelope and drew out a single sheet of expensive cream paper which matched the envelope. The bastard has used my own notepaper! He swore under his breath and then repeated the word aloud. There were five words on the sheet, written in the same fierce, unsteady hand:

  THERE WILL BE A RECKONING!

  ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he whispered. But he knew the answer. He had buckled under the pressure of his wild, unmanageable son and had sent him as far away as possible. ‘Hoping never to set eyes on you again!’ he told his absent son. He had sent him away against the wishes of his wife, having persuaded her that he was trying to give Stanley a fresh start in life.

  The truth was he had craved a fresh start in his own life, without the overwhelming pressure of failed attempts at discipline, breakdowns of communications, screams of recriminations and regular outbursts of furious, sometimes frightening temper – his own and his son’s.

  ‘You had to go!’ he whispered. The boy had been a threat to his marriage and there had been no one to advise them. No one to turn to. Montague had found their rare visits unsettling and quickly realized that they could offer no help. Dilys had been frightened of her nephew and kept her distance. The last straw had been a manic outburst on the boy’s part in public and the police had been called. Stanley should have been up before the magistrate on charges of ‘wounding with intent’ but, ‘to protect him’, Albert had had Stanley shipped abroad.

  ‘There will be a reckoning!’ There was no sense of shock. Albert had felt for years that his betrayal of his son would one day come back to haunt him. That day was dangerously close.

  Stanley sat outside Sally Lunn’s Refreshment House listening to the church bells and watching the people hurrying past on their way to church. He sat with his back to the wall and patted the dog he had borrowed from another homeless man for the price of a sixpence. It was well known that, for a beggar, the addition of a sad-eyed dog would soften the hearts of passers-by and open the purses of kind-hearted matrons busy about their shopping, or younger women on their way to meet friends and chat over tea and cakes in the Pump Room.

  Stanley was hungry but he felt relaxed and almost cheerful as he considered his recent adventures. He had put the fear of God into his family and had now sent a chilling warning to his father. He had no doubt that, alone in the house, Albert Pennington would be frightened by the note he had left the previous night. Now the problem was to decide what to do about it. He rather drew the line at murder although he had once killed a man but it had been an accident – a drunken fight soon after he reached the plantation and started the job which was meant to be the making of him! Instead it had undone him totally. Ironic, that.

  ‘Eleven years for manslaughter!’ he muttered and his face crumpled into a twisted smile. ‘Did you ever know that, Father?’ Of course you didn’t. Because you didn’t make contact. Because you didn’t want to know what happened to me. I was nineteen years old, Father, and sick in my mind. ‘Only nineteen.’ He glanced at the dog – a rough-haired mongrel – and it cocked his head on one side as though it was listening. ‘He didn’t try to find out what was happening to me once I had been spirited away out of sight.’ No doubt he breathed a sigh of relief, thought Stanley, and carried on happily with his own life while I languished in prison doing hard labour and fighting my corner day after day, week after week, for what seemed an eternity!

  A well-dressed woman stopped and eyed him sympathetically. ‘Are you ill?’ she demanded. ‘You look ill.’ She was very overweight, her ankles swollen over her shoes, her powdered face plain.

  ‘Ill?’ he replied. ‘I’m dying, ma’am. Slowly but surely.’ That was true. Everyone on the planet was heading towards their death.

  ‘Dying? Oh dear! What is your ailment exactly?’

  ‘It’s a foreign disease. I’ve been working abroad in Ceylon.’

  ‘Working abroad’ sounded respectable, he thought, and it was the truth. Working in a prison gang would certainly classify as work by anyone’s standard.

  Their conversation was attracting attention and a middle-aged man carrying a silver-topped cane also paused to examine him through narrowed eyes.

  Stanley picked up his tin mug and rattled it hopefully but the man ignored it and asked suspiciously, ‘What sort of foreign disease would that be?’

  ‘Something like malaria – only much worse. Gets into the bones and then you’re done for! You can never get rid of it.’ Stanley prayed silently that the man was not a doctor.

  The man said, ‘Being ill doesn’t mean you can’t get your hair cut and have a wash, does it. You look disgusting. A disgrace to the town of Bath!’

  The woman bridled. ‘The poor man obviously doesn’t have any money! How can he afford a barber? He may not even have a home!’

  ‘He can afford a dog!’

  Stanley said, ‘I’m looking after it for a friend.’

  The man sniffed to indicate his disbelief in Stanley’s story, rolled his eyes then walked on, swinging his cane.

  Stanley muttered ‘Stupid old fart!’ but only the dog heard his words. He barked in reply and Stanley grinned and patted him.

  The woman hesitated, not wanting to admit that she had been affected by the man’s hostile attitude. After a moment’s thought she went into Sally Lunn’s bakery and came out with a paper bag. Opening it she offered one of the two teacakes to Stanley and then began to feed the second bun to the dog!

  She was feeding the damned dog! Stupid, ugly, fat old woman! With difficulty Stanley resisted the sudden familiar urge to scream the words aloud and hurl further abuse at her. He wanted to wipe the silly smile from her fat face and force the bun down her throat until she choked. Clenching his fists he closed his eyes as his head began to throb with the familiar pain as his anger sparked and flickered and a bitter resentment deepened, hurtling into hate. He was overcome with panic as his rage surfaced but a small voice within him warned that he dare not give way to his instincts – and certainly not here in the town, where his behaviour would be observed and reported to the authorities. Hold back! the small voice urged. If he laid so much as a finger on the wicked old crow he would almost certainly be arrested and then his long awaited chance for confrontation with his father would be gone.

  Wrestling inwardly with his ungovernable temper, S
tanley watched through half-closed eyes until the woman walked away then breathed deeply until she disappeared into the jostling crowd of passers-by, and he was able slowly but surely to control his emotions and to force his thoughts back to his father.

  He could threaten to somehow reveal his father’s callous behaviour . . . or blackmail him for a large sum of money . . . or insist on moving back into their home. A thin smile touched his gaunt face. That would put the frighteners on Hettie but would that be quite fair since she had not been around when it happened and his mother was long gone and cold in her grave.

  ‘Mother did try to help me,’ Stanley whispered, clutching for a small grain of comfort. She had tried to persuade his father to seek medical help for their difficult son – to no avail. ‘But she wanted to help me.’

  Swallowing hard, he brushed tears from his eyes. The dog was licking up the last of the crumbs as his real owner ambled up to collect the animal, elbowing his way through the narrow street, whistling aimlessly.

  Maybe, thought Stanley, he would give his father another thrashing and leave it at that . . .

  Daisy was delighted that she and Monty were alone again and she sensed that he, too, was relieved that his sister had moved out after a brief stay. He sat on a chair by the window of his bedroom while Daisy stripped the sheets from the bed and eased the pillow cases from the pillows.

  She said, ‘Wash day again. I’ve always hated Mondays. The smell of the soap and the steam and everything.’

  Monty was in a world of his own and made no answer but finally he said, ‘Dilys is a decent sort although I loathed her when we were children. Come to that I hated Albert, too. It’s not easy being the first child in a family. The others come along and steal the limelight.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have a family,’ Daisy retorted, pulling the linen into a bundle to be taken downstairs and soaked. ‘It’s not easy to be the only child, I can tell you. Because you’re so important to your ma and pa and they’ve no one else to think about. If anything, you get too much attention.’