“You’ll pay, for the room?”
“The same as I’m paying Kath Thomas, how’s that?” He mentally reduced the amount by three shillings, promised her an afternoon out in Swansea to celebrate, and Gaynor finally agreed.
Peter hadn’t appeared by lunchtime and Jack walked down the country lane to Mill House to see him. Sometimes there were things Peter wanted him to attend to. If not, he was usually glad for someone to talk to for half an hour. Jack smiled. He’d be able to tell him about his plans to move in with Gaynor and her idle husband. Peter was the only one who knew about his affair with Gaynor.
He could see something was wrong as soon as he reached the gates. His first thought was that Peter was being rushed into hospital again, as the doctor’s car stood near the front door, which stood wide open.
He hesitated, wondering whether to leave and come back later, but decided to knock in case Harriet was alone. He tapped on the heavy front door and saw Charlotte hurrying to answer.
“Is it your uncle?” he asked.
“No, although he’s in a terrible state of course. It’s Brian, Rhoda’s husband. Killed this morning in an accident.”
“What?” Jack stepped back, involuntarily moving away from such unbelievable news. “Oh Charlotte. what awful news. I’m so very sorry. Can I help? Shall I go and find the vicar? Or sit with Peter perhaps? I can ring the factory and tell them I won’t be back.” He walked into the house which already seemed to have accepted the hush of a funeral.
“Stay with Uncle Peter, will you?” Charlotte said. “Mam is prostrate on the bed, the doctor’s with her. I have to go to Rhoda. It happened this morning but she’s only just phoned us.”
Jack went to the phone and made three calls, one to the factory and one to the Vicarage. Then he phoned Joe.
“Brian dead. Harriet unconscious and Peter quite ill. Miranda is managing the little ones but I think you should come and keep an eye on your Charlotte,” Jack advised. “You know what this family is for leaning on her.”
Harriet spent the rest of the day in blissful unconsciousness. Jack stayed with Peter, and Charlotte, with Joe for support, went to stay with a distraught Rhoda.
“We’d quarrelled,” was all Rhoda would say. She repeated it over and over again. “We’d quarrelled. For the first time ever. I know I’m to blame for him driving too fast. I nagged him, you see, demanded so much. I’ve just been sitting here since the police came and told me, thinking about how horrid I’ve been and how I killed him.”
“Rhoda, love, you can’t think that.”
“There was plenty of time to get everything ready for the baby. Months we had. But I kept on and on, and we quarrelled. He left the house still angry with me. Oh, Charlotte, what will I do?”
Charlotte made soothing sounds, Joe made tea. Charlotte did some telephoning to let people know and it was Joe who attended to the undertakers when they called. Somehow the terrible day was lived through and Charlotte went home to Mill House to see what she could do for her parents. Joe stayed with Rhoda, who refused to leave her home until the following day.
“I have to stop here tonight, I feel that Brian is around and he needs to know I’m here,” she said. “Have to stay here and try to let him know I’m sorry.”
The following day an almost continuous stream of people walked to Rhoda’s house near the river to offer their condolences. Finding the house empty they went across the road bridge and up the hill to find her with her mother. Charlotte made tea for them all, glad of something to do, using the ritual to evade thoughts of what would happen to her sister without Brian to look after her.
Forebodings in which she saw herself looking after Rhoda as well as her mother grew over the days approaching the funeral when Rhoda admitted that she knew nothing about Brian’s business affairs, had no idea even how their bank balance stood and didn’t even know how to write out a cheque.
It was Joe who went with her to see the bank manager and a solicitor. Joe who guided her through the difficulties of probate. He even lent her money to see her through the first weeks until money became available to her. Charlotte was grateful but found that jealousy crept into her heart when Joe no longer came each day to see her, and was sometimes absent when she popped into the bicycle shop to see him.
Her jealously was increased by Auntie Bessie Philpot’s remarks when she came to clean one morning.
“There’s lucky that sister of yours is,” she said, her beady-bright eyes watching Charlotte’s reaction. “All the help she’s getting from Joe. Such a kind boy, my Joe. Stays there for hours he does so she isn’t frightened being in that big ol’ house on her own.”
“Joe is very thoughtful,” Charlotte agreed. Bessie rolled her eyes then stared contemplatively at the ceiling. “Thoughtful? Well, I dare say that is one way of putting it.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Nothing. Thoughtful, yes, that’s what he is, your pretty sister widowed and missing all her husband’s… care.
“Where have you been all day?” Charlotte asked Joe when she met him as he was closing the shop. “Twice I called this morning but your famous ‘Back in Ten Minutes’ notice was on the door. My sister bothering you again?”
“No. This time it’s the estate agent. That bloke who’s supposed to be buying the shop. Another delay now. He says there’s some trouble with the buyer of his house. Damn it all. I could have been in the new place for the start of summer. I’m losing some of the best months. He’s looking for a new buyer now and I’m hoping we don’t lose the butcher’s shop. Specially after all the work we’ve done there.”
“We haven’t seen Rhoda all day.” Charlotte told him. “She’s accepting what’s happened and starting to get used to living alone, at least until the baby’s due. She’s slept in her own place for three nights now. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly alone,” Joe said. “I expect you’ll be told soon enough by Kath Thomas or one of her cronies. I’ve been sleeping there. On the couch mind! Just to help her get used to the empty house.”
“Is that wise, Joe?” she asked. “You’re right about my being told, but it was your Auntie Bessie who gave me the news, a bit unhappy she was and understandably too. Can you imagine what people will say?”
“Sorry you didn’t hear it from me.”
“She told me this morning that you’ve been helping Rhoda. Just giving me the hint that my pretty sister would be lonely.”
“Sorry Charlotte. You’re ‘my pretty’ and always will be. And I should have told you before.”
“Doesn’t matter.” she lied. As casually as she could she asked, “Will you be staying tonight too? I wouldn’t mind going out somewhere. I’ve been tied to the house listening to the same old thing from dozens of lips. I could do with a break.” She tried to keep the petulant tone from her voice, but failed. Why, she wondered, did she always come so low down in order of importance?
“We’ll go out. I’ll call for you at seven and we’ll walk over the hill and along the river. We could stop in The Swan and have a drink. Right?”
“Right.” She smiled, and went home reasonably content. But the contentment faded when she saw the apologetic expression on Joe’s face when he arrived at seven with an elegantly dressed Rhoda.
“Sorry my pretty, but I cou1dn’t leave her on her own, not with the funeral tomorrow. We’ll go for a walk then I’ll take her back home. Tomorrow will be a terrible day for her.”
“Terrible for us all,” Charlotte reminded him. “Look, I’m busy getting food ready for tomorrow so why don’t we leave it and go tomorrow instead. Glad of a breath of air we’ll be then.” She watched as the couple walked back down the hill. Joe’s hand ready in case Rhoda faltered. Charlotte had the feeling that she was watching Joe step out of her life and regret, not anger, was her strongest emotion. She was filled with the belief that somehow, she and Joe had missed their moment, that it wouldn’t ever come right for them again.
The evening was warm, the light
far from fading and she stood at the gate for a while, unwilling to go back inside the over-full house; there she would have to deal patiently with her father’s silent regrets and her mother’s tears.
Watching Joe and her sister walking down the hill made her feel unimportant and alone. Her patience was teetering on the edge of an explosion. Ashamed of her anger, only hours before her brother-in-law’s funeral, she nevertheless felt it was high time that life gave her more than the job of picking up other people’s pieces.
A man crossed the bridge and paused for a moment to talk to Joe and Rhoda before continuing up the hill. She waited, curious to know who it was this time, bringing talk of deaths past and present, and Rhoda’s bravery. Some friend of Brian’s probably, everyone who called at Rhoda’s house was redirected here.
The man looked familiar and she frowned, wondering where they had previously met. Then she remembered. He had been the walker who had asked about the mills and with whom she had spent a pleasant afternoon.
“Hi yer,” he said. “Glad to see you again. I want some information, but not about windmills this time.”
“How can I help?” she asked, taking in the corduroys and the thick “cowboy” shirt and the heavy walking boots. His eyes were brighter than she remembered, blue like the sky and sparkling with pleasure so she felt herself blushing under his gaze.
“I’m looking for someone called Eric. He has some children with him I believe.”
“He’s moved in with us,” she explained. “Their mother died and we are giving them a home until something can be decided about their future.”
“They’re my half-brother and -sisters. Gloria was my Mam,” he said. “Me and Miranda, we lost our father during the war. This – Eric, is father to the rest, including baby Matthew, whose birth killed her.”
“You must be Danny, Miranda’s brother?” Charlotte said. “I am sorry about your mother. Eric is my father.”
He held out his hand. “Danny Saunders.”
“Charlotte Russell. Next week,” she said, bold suddenly, “I’d love to show you more of the countryside. It’s very beautiful.”
“So are you.” he said. He spoke factually with no hint of artificial flattery.
He turned to wave several times as he walked back down the hill and she stood, leaning on the gate, looking down the road long after he had disappeared from her sight.
* * *
After the funeral. Charlotte cycled back down the hill and let herself into Rhoda’s house. Her sister needed looking after that evening. No lights showed and she stood in the dark hallway and listened. One of the relatives from the funeral was staying the night; where would the cousin be sleeping? She didn’t want to wake either of them if they were sleeping. She opened the bedroom door and was about to call her sister’s name when she heard a sound which she realised was muffled sobbing. Sighing with the thought of a long, sleepless night, she went into the bedroom and saw Rhoda lying on the floor. She had no medical knowledge but as she touched the switch and light flooded the room she knew that her sister was losing her baby.
Joe arrived at the same time as the doctor.
“Joe. what are you doing here?”
“I was worried.”
“I said I’d come.” she said.
“I thought the Dragon might have changed your mind for you. I had to be sure she was all right.”
Joe and Charlotte sat with Rhoda all night. Joe gathered up the toys, baby clothes and the newly purchased cot and with Charlotte’s help packed them away in the loft.
“You’re a lovely, caring person, Joe,” Charlotte whispered as the loft door was closed.
“Let me care for you, my pretty.”
Charlotte felt a slight resentment. She didn’t want caring for, she wanted to be treated like an equal partner. When he kissed her the magic wasn’t there. They had missed their moment all right and, from the look in Joe’s eyes, he knew it too. Their parting the following morning was tender but without the tightly reined passion of recent weeks.
Chapter Eight
Lillian Evans knew she was slow. She had heard people say it often enough but she couldn’t understand how the word related to her. She knew she wasn’t fast. Everything she did took a long time, but she always finished what she began, and what was so terrible about taking a long time? So why did people shake their heads and sigh and say she was “slow, poor dab”, as if being slow was some awful disease?
And why didn’t anyone stop and talk to her? A nod was the most she ever had. Old Ebenezer Daniels was slow, he walked with two sticks and took forever to cross the road, but people stopped and talked to him. So why didn’t they ever talk to her?
It was the day after Brian’s funeral and she was walking along the bank of the river towards town. In her hand was a florin, worth two shillings and something she had to hold very tight, her mother told her. A florin was enough to buy potatoes and cabbage for a week and too much to lose.
Bertha had sent her to buy the week’s sugar ration in advance of Friday, making her chant the message, repeating it until Lillian was word perfect. “Mammy says, can we have a bit of sugar, from Friday’s ration, for to make a bit of cake.” she muttered, her lips moving exaggeratedly as she concentrated on the words.
She stopped and looked down into the water, sluggish now, as the tide, flowing in a few miles away, held it back. Catching sight of some small, brown, speckled fish, she knelt down to look at them. Fascinated and with her errand forgotten, she stretched out on the fresh grass and gazed with admiration at their movements as, to her contented eye, they seemed just to enjoy themselves in the warm, shallow water near the bank.
When she eventually walked on, her dress spotted with mud from the water’s edge, she left the florin in the grass. She was frowning as she went into the grocer’s shop and the frown deepened as she waited amid the other shoppers for her turn to be served.
“I want some off Friday’s ration.” she said, stuttering in her anxiety. “Mammy says – can she have – for Friday.”
“What is it she wants? Can you remember?” Betty Beynon asked, a slight edge of irritability in her voice.
“I think it was cake.” Lillian frowned.
“Cake isn’t on ration!” Betty tutted. Other shoppers laughed, good-naturedly, but it was enough to throw Lillian into complete panic.
“It was for tea,” she said, meaning the cake her mother was making was for their tea.
“A packet of tea? Right then, here you are, I’ll put it on her bill but you’ll have to tell her shes started on next week’s tea ration with this mind! There’s none left for Friday.” Pushing a bag containing the silver-foil packet into Lillian’s hands, she noted the purchase in her book and turned to the next customer.
Bertha was angry when Lillian returned with tea instead of sugar and without the change from the two shilling piece. When the girl admitted she had lost it, she punished her.
“For being so careless you won’t feed the hens tonight.” she said. “You’ve got to learn, Lillian. If you do what you’re asked straight away you manage fine. It’s when you dawdle you get forgetful. If only you’ll learn not to linger and daydream, you wouldn’t lose the money or forget messages.”
Tearfully, Lillian went to her room and gave a tea party for her dolls. If only her father would come home. She just knew everything would be all right if only he’d come back. He’d talk to her, she was sure of that. Perhaps tomorrow he’d come. She looked out of her window and saw her mother walking down with the bucket of mash for the hens and wished she could feed them. It was one of her favourite tasks.
* * *
Harriet was unnerved by the presence of Eric. She had expected him to be apologetic and after his first regrets he was not. She had presumed he would creep around the house trying not to intrude too greatly into her life but he walked around the house that had been his home with as much ease as she herself did. She behaved in a haughty manner but he seemed not to notice and when he spoke to her to
ask for yet another favour there was not the slightest hint of humility.
Mill House, being large, had been easily separated into “hers” and “theirs” and apart from the kitchen, which they used by rota, they hardly needed to cross paths. The hall was the dividing line, rooms on the town side were for Eric and his “waifs and strays”, as Harriet referred to them, the rest for herself, Peter and Charlotte. There was even a spare room, which Harriet insisted Eric’s brood did not invade.
“It’s as if I’m a landlady with paying guests,” she said to Kath one morning when they sat in Vi and Willie’s café. “He doesn’t consider himself a part of our family, yet he treats me like a wife in some ways.”
“Not in that way?” Kath queried with a grin.
“Indeed not!” Harriet was outraged. “Not that he hasn’t tried, mind,” she lied. “I’ve had to make it quite clear on several occasions that there was no return to that sort of relationship! Good heavens, the nerve of the man!”
The truth was that Eric had treated her with kindness and utter politeness, nothing more. And although she knew that after his cruel treatment of her she couldn’t ever allow him back into her life to that extent, there was an insult implied in his lack of trying.
She had been startled by her reaction to his presence in the house. In spite of all the hurt she still loved him. She waited for some overture to a new beginning but there was none. Brushing past him in the kitchen when he helped Miranda prepare food, she expected a touch, or a look of returning interest, but he was never more than polite and friendly. Seeing him playing with the children in the garden made her ache with regret and a loneliness she thought time had healed.
She had been so desperate to forget the ending of their plans for a large family. A frantic social life seemed the only way to drown out the heartbreak and the emptiness of the house on the hill. She had been unaware she had ignored the children; she had grieved for those she would never see. She was unaware, too, of Eric’s equally painful grief, his need to stand still, resign himself to his loss. In her unhappy mind she was the only sufferer.
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