‘He is nice, but, alas, he will probably have to leave us’
‘Oh dear,’ Miss Fairchild said politely, ‘is he going away?’
‘I’m afraid I shall have to give notice to most of my staff.’ Eliza pointed to a chair. ‘My husband didn’t leave me well off. Of course, he didn’t expect to die.’
‘Of course not.’ Miss Fairchild clucked sympathetically.
‘We have kept quite a large staff, and gradually I’ve been forced to shed them. The children must learn to become self-sufficient.’
‘Oh, I always believe in that, anyway,’ Miss Fairchild averred accepting a cake with her tea. ‘But I do hope you are not –’ she paused and searched the ceiling for the right word ‘– not in distress, Eliza?’
‘Not in distress, I assure you,’ Eliza said reassuringly. ‘But nothing is secure in life, is it? This house, for instance, does not belong to us and, although my brothers-in-law say they will give us several years, I always feel they may change their minds. You know how it is.’
‘Fortunately I do not.’ Miss Fairchild brushed a crumb from her lap. She wore a light summery jacket and skirt with a white blouse open at the neck. Her hat, secured with two large hatpins, was made of straw and had a rakish bow at one side. Her high buttoned shoes matched her bag, both shining brilliantly as though her maid had given them much of her personal attention that morning.
Miss Fairchild always looked prosperous, well turned out and, since Connie had gone to live with her, much much happier.
‘I say “fortunately”, Eliza, though I do not wish to sound smug or complacent. But my dear mother and father left me with sufficient money, as I once explained to you. I have never known want or insecurity, but’ – she stared mournfully at Eliza for a moment –‘neither have I known the blessing of a happy marriage or children. In fact, but for that singular encounter that you know about, I have never had any romantic contact with a man in my life. So, you see, money is not everything, as I expect you well appreciate. You at least were singularly blessed in your marriage to Mr Yetman.’
‘Yes, I was.’ Eliza gazed down at her own feet. If Miss Fairchild knew about Ryder she might not envy her so much. There was nothing like the pain of discovering that the husband one so loved had betrayed one.
There was a pause while both women seemed lost in their own private thoughts, and then Miss Fairchild cleared her throat and fidgeted with the large cameo brooch on the lapel of her jacket.
‘Dear Eliza ... I hope you will not mind my mentioning this ...’ she began.
‘Mentioning what, Miss Fairchild?’ Eliza felt a momentary nervousness, wondering if there were something amiss with Connie.
‘Well, it is rather a delicate thing to suggest, and I hope you will not misconstrue it, but accept it in the spirit in which it is intended.’ Miss Fairchild gave certain words emphasis, and mentally one could see them italicised as in a book.
‘Do go on, Miss Fairchild,’ Eliza said encouragingly.
‘You know that dearest Constance is my heir. She will get every penny I have when I die, in addition to my property which, though not extensive is, I believe, quite valuable. There is also what her father left her, accruing compound interest. She will be quite a wealthy young woman, and never in need.’
‘Oh, if you think I am worrying about looking after Connie ...’
‘No, that is not my thought at all,’ Miss Fairchild hastened to interrupt her. ‘But the fact is that Constance has a large house in which she does not live. It is closed and shuttered and may remain like that for years. When Constance comes of age she may wish to sell it, I don’t know; but I felt that if, in the meantime, you would like to use it Constance and I would be delighted. With the means at her disposal I’m sure that it could be made over to you legally for as long as you wish. That way you would have no worry about being ejected from this delightful place with its fond memories of your dear husband, your long and happy marriage.’
‘Oh, Miss Fairchild,’ Eliza said with a break in her voice, ‘how very, very kind of you to think of it.’
Miss Fairchild held out a hand.
‘Don’t rush. Don’t do anything you don’t want to. Think about it. After all, did you not once tell me that you believed you saved her life? I can assure you that Constance would be only too pleased to return your own goodness to her by making over to you indefinitely the use of her house.’
Soon afterwards Miss Fairchild left with Connie sitting beside her in the trap. As they drove out of the gates and out of sight up the hill, Eliza waved, and remained waving even when she could see them no more.
Then she wandered back along the drive and paused for a few moments to gaze at the view: the smooth lawn leading down to the river, the herbaceous borders full of bright summer flowers, the trees in full leaf and, on the other side, Wenham Wood where Ryder and his brothers used to play.
The truth was that Eliza felt at times that she was anxious to be gone from Riversmead, a place that now held few charms for her. She would never at the time of Ryder’s death have imagined that this would ever be the case, but it was.
Ever since she had known about Annie McQueen, Ryder’s memory was tainted. They’d been together fifteen years by the time he was killed, been through so much, and although no man is ever perfect, to her he nearly was. They had their arguments, their disagreements, as any couple had; but that deep bond of joys and sufferings shared, of children produced, of the terrible loss of their first-born, had seemed to her to forge their love irrevocably.
But no. The fact that he should have chosen to deceive her with a woman as notorious as Annie McQueen had sickened her then, and it sickened her still.
She had once blamed herself for the tragedy that had occurred; but there were times when she wondered if that guilt should be laid at the door of her mother. The constant warfare between her and the son-in-law she refused to recognise had led to rows between Ryder and his wife. Had it, in the end, led him to seek consolation in the arms of another woman?
Maybe what was needed was a fresh start; Miss Fairchild offered a solution and one that could be accepted with dignity. Maybe. Who knew?
Only time would tell.
19
Lally sat very stiff and correct, as she always did when she paid her quarterly visit to the Mountjoy family in Kentish Town. Quarterly, or thereabouts. The year she married Prosper she only saw her son once.
But as he didn’t know she was his mother, she assumed that Roger felt no deprivation or loss when she failed to visit him.
To Roger, as to all the Mountjoy family and their neighbours, Lally’s visits were a great talking point. They all stood gawping on the pavement and hanging out of the windows when the fine lady appeared in her carriage, which waited outside until her visit was over. Her goodness and generosity to a large family like the Mountjoys, whose father was permanently out of work, was a source of wonder. Why did she do it? No one knew. Few could recall the small baby wrapped in a shawl who had been left there many years before by Mrs Mountjoy’s sister Abby.
Edgar Mountjoy had been a railway worker and had lost a leg when a train approaching King’s Cross station ran over him while, in a moment of carelessness, he was looking the wrong way when adjusting points at the entrance to the station. Maybe he was talking, or maybe he was drunk – it was never quite decided. By that time the Mountjoys had five children. One more would make no difference, so when Abby suggested that they provide a home for the child her mistress had borne out of wedlock they agreed to take him in.
To have an extra child was no hardship, but the money, the promise of a regular income, was a great boon. Indeed, it had helped the family to survive over the intervening years when Edgar Mountjoy had not worked at all, and they all regarded Mrs Martyn as a great benefactress.
Roger was brought up without knowing that his parents were not Edgar and Dot, that his real name was not Mountjoy. At his birth he had been registered Bowyer; but he was always known as Roger Mountjoy and
he went to the local council school in Kentish Town.
In many ways Lally might have liked to forget about Roger altogether, but there was always a little nugget of affection, a modicum of mother love for the boy she had borne and also for the man she had once loved in a way she never could love Prosper Martyn.
On the occasion of this particular visit the other children, as usual, rushed forward to open the presents Lally always brought them. It was like Christmas and better, because there were never presents at Christmas time, only some nuts and occasionally a chicken and some sweets from their mother’s employers in the City where she worked as a cleaner.
Edgar Mountjoy spent much of the day at the public house at the end of the road – the Lord Raglan – resting his good leg on a bar stool. Most of the money earned by his hard-working wife or sent by Mrs Martyn ended up in the cash register of the Lord Raglan, as was quite apparent from the paucity of the furnishings, the general air of poverty and neglect about the house, which stank of the odour and dampness of other people’s washing.
Roger was a boy of startling good looks – so startling that he was teased by his schoolmates, who nicknamed him ‘girlie’. His looks were, in fact, rather feminine. He had blond curly hair and dark violet eyes, just like his mother, and also her long dark lashes that lay on his cheeks enhancing his pink and white complexion.
‘Girlie’ he might have been called by his rough schoolmates, but there was nothing effeminate about him; even at a young age he liked the female sex, who liked him. But there was something about him that made him seem out of place in Kentish Town. Despite his upbringing, there was a lordly, even aristocratic quality about Roger that immediately singled him out as someone different from the rest.
Lally sat in the parlour, twitching her nose disapprovingly and looking about her. Then she looked at Roger, who stood in front of her, his hands by his side, his bright golden hair plastered to his head with water, his suit darned and his nose well wiped.
Peering at him closely, she tried to remember exactly when she had given birth to Guy Woodville’s son. What hopes had she not had then, foolish girl? The son of a baronet – surely that would mean something, a change in her fortunes, a foot on the ladder of respectability?
But no, it had only meant rejection, more years of deprivation, until Prosper Martyn had appeared as if by magic to give her a life of undreamed of riches and respectability.
But he had not given her a child, and although it was something they rarely spoke of, it was a source of great sorrow to them both.
‘How old are you now, boy?’ she asked Roger peremptoririly. ‘Eleven, mum,’ Roger said with an accent that made even Lally cringe.
‘I am not your mum, I am your aunt,’ Lally corrected him sharply. ‘Please address me as such.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
‘And where do you go to school?’
‘Wiv me bruvvers and sisters.’
‘Hm!’ Lally looked at him searchingly for some moments and then made a gesture of dismissal.
‘You may go now, Roger, but I shall see you again shortly. Please ask Mrs Mountjoy to come and see me.’
‘Yes, mum ... Aunty,’ Roger hastily corrected himself and slid through the door yelling ‘Muvver! The lady wants yer.’
Dot Mountjoy, looking flustered – Lally’s visits were always unannounced – came in drying her hands on her pinafore. She was pink and perspiring and her hair lay damply on her brow. Lally supposed she was not much older than herself, yet already her hair was streaked with grey and her face was deeply furrowed.
‘Oh, Mrs Martyn,’ Dot cried with a deep bob, ‘I hope as how everyfink is all right, madam. Roger has had a cold and I know he looks peaky. I ...’
‘Mrs Mountjoy, I want you to pack Roger’s clothes, and any other belongings he might have.’ Drawing a purse from her handbag, Lally began extracting notes and counting them. ‘I intend to take him with me,’ she concluded, looking sharply at Mrs Mountjoy.
‘What, today, mum?’ Mrs Mountjoy appeared horrified by the news.
‘This very day. He does not look well, but, worse, he does not speak well. His accent is quite atrocious – just like yours.’ Lally’s face expressed deep disgust. ‘Roger is, after all, the son of a gentleman, and it is time he resembled one.’
‘Well, what can you expect, mum,’ Mrs Mountjoy began to whine tearfully ‘with seven mouths to feed and a husband wot does no work?’
‘Then you should make him work, Mrs Mountjoy,’ Lally said severely. ‘Even with one leg, is there nothing better he can do than prop up the bar at the Lord Raglan? I intend to pay you ten pounds in lieu of further board and lodging.’ She carefully counted the money into the hands of the speechless woman, who had never seen such a large sum all at once in her life. ‘There,’ she said, shutting her purse again. ‘I shall send you more from time to time to show you I am not ungrateful for what you have done in the years when I was unable to provide for him. However, it is time to take Roger back with me, and make a gentleman of him.’
Lally spoke little to the shy, withdrawn boy sitting nervously by her side during the journey back to Montagu Square. A box with a broken lid tied with string and containing his few belongings had been put on the back of the carriage by the coachman who, in so far as it was his business to wonder anything, did ask himself what his mistress was about.
When they reached the house and a liveried footman ran down the steps to help Lally out of the carriage, Roger hung back, conscious of his threadbare suit, his scuffed and down-at-heel boots, and the fact that he had just had a cold and his nose was red.
He wiped it with a grubby handkerchief put in his hands at the last minute by Mrs Mountjoy (who took it from the pocket of a customer’s shirt she had been washing at the time) as the footman, in response to something his mistress had said, looked into the interior of the coach and barked: ‘Come out, boy.’
Roger stumbled into the house. By town house standards it was not a large one but, to someone used to the dimensions of the railwaymen’s cottages in Kentish Town, it appeared vast. Brightly polished woodwork, soft luxurious carpets, sumptuous furnishings and quantities of flowers glowed in the summer sunshine.
‘Take the boy up to his room, Roberts,’ Lally told the footman.
‘Which room, madam?’ the footman asked politely.
‘Any room.’
‘The servants’ quarters, madam, I presume?’ Roberts said loftily.
‘No, not the servants’ quarters. This boy is my nephew – left by his mother in sadly reduced circumstances, as you can see. Kindly give him one of the spare rooms for the time being and then we shall see what we shall see. I shall probably send him to a boarding school in September.’
‘Yes, madam.’ Roberts’s attitude towards the stranger, while still distant, was a shade more polite.
‘Come with me, young man. Have you a valise?’
‘Just me box,’ Roger said, passing a finger across his nostrils.
The footman, who had heard many rumours regarding his mistress’s origins and her rise to riches, could not wait to discuss this latest development with his peers below stairs.
He showed Roger to a comfortably furnished but not luxurious room at the back of the house and then, shutting the door, he left.
Roger felt completely disorientated by this experience and was not at all sure that he welcomed it. He had been wrenched away abruptly from what, to him, was a large jolly family despite the frequent drunken outbursts of his adoptive father. He had not even been allowed to say goodbye.
Roger looked at the pathetic bundle of belongings which was all he had in the world and, flinging himself on the bed, boots and all, he gave himself up to an orgy of weeping such as he could not remember since Edgar Mountjoy had last tanned his hide when he returned home one night drunk as usual.
The memory of that night seemed to give Roger pause and he sat up.
Much as he loved the other children, fond as he was of his oppressed, downtrodden
, overworked adoptive mother, Edgar Mountjoy he had hated. The whole family was frightened of him. It was easy to remember the good things and forget the bad. But there had been many bad times, and they were mostly associated with Edgar and his beatings.
Roger gazed round the room, which contained a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a washstand with a basin and jug on it, as well as a bookcase and two easy chairs. It looked like a room kept for not very important guests, but Roger wasn’t to know that. To him it was luxury.
He had only ever seen books at school and had never been encouraged to linger over them for long. Certainly if a school book had ever been brought home it was used the following day as fuel for lighting the fire.
Roger was curious about books and the world outside generally, but his horizon was limited not only by what he could see but by what he was shown.
It was a very narrow view of life.
Outside he looked on to a small garden, little better than a yard – albeit a well-kept one, and not hung with washing and filled with litter – which, in turn, looked out on to the back of the house on the other side.
It was not an attractive view; it was a confined glimpse of the London skyline, quite common even in the better parts of London. Land was at a premium as London grew in prosperity.
A grey tabby cat sat on the high wall, its front paws tucked under its chest, and it gazed at Roger in a manner that, though aloof, was not altogether unfriendly. Roger was quite used to the undernourished cats with their ribs showing who jumped about the roofs and walls of Kentish Town scavenging for any little bits, however unappetising, that were thrown out by harassed housewives.
This was a well-formed, well-nourished, even aristocratic creature, and suddenly Roger thought that, one day, he might have a cat like that for his very own, one he could cuddle in bed. Maybe he could also have a puppy on a lead, like those he used to see being walked by people of affluence in Parliament Hill Fields.
He gently opened the window and, putting his arm tentatively out, tried to entice the cat towards him. The cat looked interested, but remained unmoved, merely blinking its eyes once or twice.
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 43