Hurrying up Moorfield Road, he almost ran across the recreation grounds and through the gate at the far side, then sped up the ginnel that led to Rose Cottage. This was where Millie lived alone, now that Ted was dead these past two years. The house was in a tucked-away corner of Armley, and this pleased him. If he was lucky enough to become a frequent visitor, it was better that no one saw him coming and going.
After knocking several times, and getting no answer, he turned away, disappointment filling him.
Then the door sprang open and Millie was exclaiming, ‘Why, Vincent, whatever brings you to my doorstep on a Saturday evening?’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ he said, pivoting, smiling down into the warm velvet-brown eyes upturned to his, ‘I was walking across the rec when I remembered what you said to me last week, you know, when we ran into each other near the library. You told me you were getting more lonesome and blue by the day. Know something strange, Millie? So am I… so am I…’
‘Are you really, Vincent?’
He nodded, smiled his most engaging smile and leaned against the door jamb, let his eyes roam over her provocatively. He had not realized what a voluptuous figure she had. Suddenly he began to chuckle in a way he had not chuckled for years and his vivid green eyes danced.
‘I was heading for the pub to meet my brothers, when I thought of you Millicent, thought of how lonely you are, of how lonely I am.’ He paused. ‘It struck me that you might like a bit of company, and that you might be kind enough to offer a very thirsty man a beer.’
Millicent swallowed, hardly daring to believe her good fortune that he had stopped by to see her. She had wanted him for years, for as long as she could remember, even when Ted was alive. She parted her moist lips, but said nothing. She simply took him by the arm and gently pulled him inside.
‘Several beers, if you can drink them,’ she said at last, allowing her breast to brush against him, propelling him across the entrance hall.
Millie stopped abruptly, squeezed his arm and peered up into the handsome face which was now staring down at hers. A slow and languorous smile touched her lips. ‘And perhaps a spot of supper, too? You can stay to supper, can’t you, Vincent?’ Her eyes were inviting.
‘I can indeed,’ he said, throwing his shoulders back, standing up straighter, feeling like a man again.
He put his arm around her slender waist and escorted her into the sitting room. And as she nestled closer to him he knew he had nothing to worry about tonight.
***
Vincent’s daily routine did not change, even though he had plunged into an affair with Millicent Arnold.
He was discreet.
He liked Millie, enjoyed her company, basked in her affection for him, enjoyed the way she spoiled him, catered to his every need. And they found a great deal of pleasure and release in their long hours of lovemaking in her large and comfortable bed at Rose Cottage.
But it was a physical liaison, nothing more than that.
Vincent knew the relationship would not last very long, as did Millie herself, and they agreed simply to let it run its course. They had also agreed there would be no recriminations on either side when one of them ended it.
All of this apart, Vincent was too responsible a man to neglect the child he adored, or to curtail his search for work simply because of a dalliance. He only visited Millie once a week, wanting to be disciplined about seeing her, and he was circumspect: he only went to Rose Cottage at night.
He continued to plod along as he had these many months.
He looked after Christina in the morning, wheeled her down to his mother’s house around noon, where he had a lunchtime snack with her and Danny. And usually he left Christina in his mother’s care for the remainder of the day, returning for her around four o’clock.
Almost every afternoon, and without fail, Vincent scoured the city and the outlying districts, looking for work. Sometimes he was fortunate enough to stumble on an odd job, but it was only ever for a day or two at the most. Nothing permanent came his way.
And as the spring and summer slipped by, and autumn gave way to the winter months, Vincent Crowther began to acknowledge that nothing was going to turn up. The Government was in the deepest and most prolonged depression ever known. England was truly on the edge of disaster, as was the entire world, since by now the economic crisis was global. In his bones, Vincent felt they were in for a long siege, and certainly there was trouble brewing everywhere; riots and hunger marches were becoming the norm.
Leeds, like the other great industrial cities, was acutely hit. The Salvation Army opened soup kitchens, other charitable organizations provided clothing and boots for the children who needed them, and also helped those who wished to leave the depressed areas to do so.
Vincent had never seen so many men on the streets—queuing up at the Labour Exchanges, loitering outside the bookies’ offices and the pubs, or simply standing about in groups on street corners, looking glum and disgruntled, commiserating with each other. And there was an air of doom hanging over them all. As he looked around him, Vincent shoved aside the feelings of hopelessness that frequently invaded him these days, and dug deeper into himself for inner strength. He knew he had to keep going no matter what, that he must not let his problems eat away at him like a canker, that he must keep his spirits up as best he could.
Although Vincent had never wanted Audra to go to work, he now thanked God that she was a nurse at St Mary’s. He was also grateful that other members of the Crowther clan were still working; it was a consolation to know that his parents were better off than most.
His father was with the transportation department of Leeds Industrial Co-operative Society, where he had worked for a number of years, and his job appeared to be secure. Bill was a librarian at one of the public libraries, and Jack, who was studying landscape gardening at night, had a job with the Leeds City Parks Department. Even Maggie had managed to find work in a tailoring shop in Armley, doing buttonholes on men’s jackets.
These three did not earn as much as their father by any means, but their combined wages added up to more than most people had to live on. And so there was always plenty of good nourishing food on his mother’s table, and coal in her cellar, and Vincent knew that whatever happened Audra and Christina would never go cold or hungry as many folk did in these terrible days.
***
As Christmas of 1932 approached, Vincent doubled his efforts to find employment, desperately wanting—and needing—to provide something for his little family over the holidays. He wanted to be able to buy a gift, however small, for Audra, a toy for Christina, and put a few luxuries on their table.
There were several big snowstorms in the early part of December and the snow settled. Many of the driveways were blocked, and late one Friday afternoon Vincent finally hit it lucky and got himself a job shovelling snow at one of the big houses nearby. Since it was already growing dark, the housekeeper told him to come back the following day at nine o’clock.
Saturday morning dawned bright but bitterly cold and there was a biting wind. But Vincent did not care. He was so excited about earning a bit of money, nothing was going to deter him. Audra, who had the weekend off from the hospital, insisted he wrap up well. She made him put on two pullovers under his sports jacket, and, as he buttoned his overcoat, she tied a thick woollen scarf around his neck, handed him his woollen gloves.
He kissed her cheek, then said, ‘It shouldn’t take me more than three hours at the most to clear the drive at Fell House, so I’ll be back in time for lunch, love.’
‘I think I’ll make a large pot of soup today, you’ll be needing something like that after being outside in this weather,’ she remarked, walking with him to the door. The icy blast hit her in the face as he stepped out, and she shivered. ‘I’m not going to take Christina for a walk this morning, it’s far too cold.’
‘No, I wouldn’t, if I were you. Ta’rar, love, see you later.’ He strode off down the path, turned and waved. His mood was ju
bilant.
Audra was very busy all that morning, looking after Christina, making the vegetable soup, doing her household chores. The time sped by.
Before she knew it, the clock was striking twelve. After setting the table for lunch, she turned on the wireless, took Christina in her arms and sat down by the fire to feed her.
When Vincent had not returned by one o’clock Audra began to wonder what had happened to him; by two she was truly concerned. He could be tardy when he went to the pub with his brothers and friends, but never when he was working. He always came straight home from work for a cup of tea or a snack, and to change his clothes if he was going out later.
After putting Christina back in the small cot she kept in the parlour-kitchen, Audra poured herself a cup of soup, but discovered she was not very hungry.
From time to time she went to the window, parted the curtains and peered out, but there was no sign of him.
It was almost three o’clock when she heard the sharp, metallic ring of his boots on the path outside.
‘I was getting dreadfully worried,’ she said, as he walked in and closed the door behind him. ‘I couldn’t imagine what had happened to you.’
‘There was a lot of snow to shovel,’ he said, pulling off his cap, unwinding his scarf, slowly removing his gloves, which were hard with frozen snow. ‘More than I’d bargained for… the front driveway, two long terraces, the path down between the lawns, and the back yard.’
‘You must be exhausted, Vincent, and you’re blue with cold. Come to the fire and get warm.’
‘They didn’t even offer me a cup of tea at twelve—’
‘My God, what kind of people are they!’ She stared at him aghast, sat down heavily in the chair.
He did not answer her.
As he came towards the fire, Audra saw something in his face that alarmed her. ‘Vincent,’ she began and hesitated. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, watching him carefully.
He remained silent, stood with his back to the fire, warming himself. After a moment he put his hand in his pocket, brought something out. He turned a pinched and tired face towards her and opened his trembling hand.
‘This is what they paid me,’ he said in a voice that rang with bitterness, showing her the coin in his palm.
For a moment Audra could not believe her eyes. ‘Sixpence!’ She was horrified. ‘They paid you sixpence for six hours’ work. But that’s outrageous… those people…’ She could not go on; her anger choked her.
‘Yes…’
Audra took a deep breath, steadying herself. ‘Oh, Vincent, Vincent dear…’ She leapt to her feet and hurried to him, her face grave with concern. She took hold of his arm in the most loving way. ‘I’m never going to let you do anything like this again. Never.’
He shook his head, glanced away, blinked. After a minute or two, he turned to her. His eyes were bleak.
‘There’s a blight on this land,’ he said.
CHAPTER 26
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Mam, happy birthday to you.’
The second she had finished singing, Christina flew across the room, hurled herself bodily against Audra, almost knocking her over, and hugged her tightly.
Then she looked up at her mother, said, ‘We’re giving you a birthday party, Mam, we planned it all by ourselves, and it’s just for the three of us. It’s a surprise.’
Audra smiled down into the small, bright, eager face lifted up to hers. ‘Why, how lovely, darling,’ she said, brushing a strand of hair away from the six-year-old’s forehead, thinking how much she looked like her father today.
Although Christina had her hair and her colouring in general, she had inherited Vincent’s finely-chiselled features, Laurette’s smoky grey eyes. She’s certainly more of a Crowther than a Kenton, at least in her appearance, Audra thought yet again. This resemblance had always been marked, but it seemed more pronounced than ever lately. Christina had recently shot up, and she was going to be tall; this was another Crowther characteristic.
‘Happy birthday, love,’ Vincent said, walking over to her, kissing her on the cheek.
Audra said, with a faint laugh, ‘And I thought you’d forgotten it.’
He grinned, took a puff on his Woodbine. ‘How could we? You’ve dropped enough hints lately,’ he teased.
‘Mam, please… come on, come on! In here!’ Christina cried, catching hold of her hand, pulling her away from the front door of the cottage in Pot Lane. ‘You’ve got to come in here, into the sitting room, you too, Daddy. Oh please come on!’
Laughing, Audra placed her handbag on the small table near the door, allowed herself to be dragged across the floor and into the next room by the surprisingly strong and determined little girl.
‘There,’ Christina said, giving her a very gentle push, ‘sit there, Mam, on the sofa, and you, Dad—’ she glanced over her shoulder at Vincent, added, ‘can sit in that chair.’
‘Right you are.’ As an aside to Audra, he said, ‘I think we’ve got the makings of an army general in this one.’
Audra nodded, amused. She sat back, smoothed the skirt of her summer cotton frock and looked across at Vincent, expectantly.
He gazed back at her poker faced; his expression revealed nothing.
Christina darted to the antique chest in the corner and returned with a number of envelopes. ‘Here are your birthday cards, Mam; the postman brought them just after you’d gone to the hospital this morning. I’ll give them to you one by one.’ She handed Audra a card, then leaned forward slightly, peering at her mother, trying to see the card she held. Unable to conceal her curiosity any further, Christina asked, ‘Who’s it from?’
‘Auntie Laurette and Uncle Mike.’ Audra showed her the card. ‘Bluebirds sitting on a branch. Isn’t it pretty?’
Christina nodded. ‘If you give it to me, I’ll put it on the mantelshelf… oh thank you, Mam.’ She offered Audra another envelope. ‘Open this next…’
Audra noted the Australian postmark, recognized William’s handwriting. ‘Well, we all know exactly who it’s from, don’t we?’ she exclaimed with a little laugh.
‘May I see it?’ Christina came to Audra, stood with one small hand resting on her mother’s shoulder, looking at the card with her. ‘This one’s pretty too, Mam, but there’s lots more yet.’
The cards were slowly handed over, opened, exclaimed about and lined up with care on the mantelpiece. There was another one from Sydney, from her brother Frederick and his wife Marion; others from various members of the Crowther clan, and one from Gwen.
The last of the pile was presented with something of a flourish by the solemn child who was so intent on making this a special day for her mother. ‘It’s from us,’ she whispered leaning closer to Audra, touching her cheek lovingly. ‘Dad picked it really, but he took me to the shop with him and I helped.’
Audra ripped open the envelope and pulled out the birthday card. It was the most expensive of the lot, made of glossy paper, with a yellow silk cord slotted through it and tied around the spine. The picture on the front was a bowl of yellow roses standing on a table near an open window, and fluttering above the bowl was a red butterfly.
‘It’s just beautiful,’ Audra said, before looking inside the card and reading the short, printed verse. Vincent had written underneath this: Wishing you many happy returns of the day, with lots of love from your dearest husband and daughter, and he had signed his name, and Christina had added her own signature. ‘Thank you, it’s the loveliest birthday card I’ve ever had in my whole life,’ she told them, looking up, smiling first at Christina, then at Vincent.
They beamed back at her.
Christina said, ‘I’ll get your present, Mam.’
She flew to the chest, took a package from a drawer and carried it back to her mother. ‘This is from Dad and me,’ she said, smiling gravely, handing Audra the gift.
Audra slipped off the ribbon and paper, wondering what they had bought for her, filled with
swelling happiness that they were making such a fuss over her birthday. She was so very touched she could hardly speak for a moment.
She found herself holding a framed watercolour. As she turned it slightly, the better to see it, her eyes widened and she caught her breath in surprise and delight. The painting was of a summer garden at sunset, and the scene was filled with golden light and there were raindrops caught on a cluster of leaves, as if there had been a brief shower before the artist had picked up the paintbrush.
The watercolour was small, but quite lovely, even though it was flawed in parts and needed much more work; one side of it was unfinished and amateurish, and yet there was something distinctive about the scene, something that caught and held the attention. How fascinating, Audra thought, her eyes narrowing as they lingered on the painting. It looks curiously like my father’s work.
But Audra knew that Vincent had not managed to find a very early watercolour by Adrian Kenton.
Christina’s name was boldly and clearly written in one corner, but even if it had not been, she would have recognized this as her daughter’s creation. As awkward as certain aspects of the painting were, and child-like, Christina had managed to do one thing—capture light on paper. She had sometimes shown this ability in the past and it was no mean feat. With this new piece of work she had demonstrated just how much she had developed lately. The girl had displayed a remarkable talent for drawing and painting since she was four years old, but her latest endeavour proved that she was much more than merely talented. She was extraordinarily gifted. Audra felt a sudden tingle of excitement at this discovery, and she filled with immense pride in her child.
Lifting her head, she found herself staring into a pair of large grey eyes worriedly fixed on her face.
‘Don’t you like it, Mam?’ The child’s lip quivered.
‘Oh Christie, I do! I really do! It’s simply beautiful, darling. Thank you so much.’ Audra brought the little girl into her arms and held her close. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say so immediately, I was far too busy admiring it, I’m afraid.’
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