Truth Will Out

by Pamela Oldfield

  Maude’s startled gaze took in the pan full of sausages, the bubbling saucepan and the pile of shredded cabbage on the board on the table. Was her aunt preparing lunch at this hour of the morning? She said gently, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting lunch, of course. I thought it was about time we had some decent food. A few potatoes and some cabbage – and I’ll make some gravy, of course. You need feeding up, Maudie love, after what you’ve been through, and I said to myself—’

  ‘Aunt Biddy, that was months ago. I’ve put all that behind me.’ She looked around in despair. There was a sheet of rolled pastry on the board. ‘Are you making a pie? Something for pudding?’

  ‘A pie? No. I’ve made a rice pudding the way you like it.’ She smiled, turning the sausages as she spoke. Moving nearer, Maude saw that they were burnt. ‘Aunt Biddy, it’s . . .’ She stopped. Her aunt was obviously totally confused. Was it helpful to draw her attention to the fact that she was preparing a meal at least six hours too early?

  Aunt Biddy wiped her forehead with a corner of her apron. ‘I hate this climate. Summer is so humid!’

  With a sinking heart, Maude sat down, her mind working overtime, but it was hard to see a way out of this without upsetting her aunt. For a moment she found herself longing for Alice’s comforting presence, but that part of her life was over, she reminded herself. Perhaps they should sit down and eat the meal when it was ready . . . But it might happen again. Biddy needed medical help, she admitted to herself reluctantly. She had suspected this was coming for some weeks but had not wanted to face the truth. The traumatic episode with Lionel and Alice had exacerbated her aunt’s earlier vagueness and tipped it over into serious confusion.

  She said, ‘I was thinking of popping in to the doctor’s, Aunt Biddy, just for a check-up. I thought we could both go. We’ve rather been through the mill, over the last six months.’

  Her aunt added the cabbage to the pan of boiling water and put the lid on, half tilted to let the steam escape and stop it boiling over.

  Biddy glanced up. ‘I’ll come with you if it makes you feel any better.’ She smiled. ‘Poor Maudie. You always were a worrier.’

  The following afternoon Derek Jayson arrived with an invitation. ‘We’d love you both to come to the Romilees for Christmas Day and Boxing Day – as our guests. We don’t like to think of the two of you rattling around here on your own. You’ll be surrounded by unhappy memories and we can’t have that.’ He looked at her eagerly. ‘What do you say Mrs— Oh sorry! You’re not Mrs Brent, are you? I never know what to call you these days.’

  ‘You can call me Maude if you wish,’ she suggested.

  His eyes widened. ‘Really? Oh, that’s wonderful . . . Maude!’ He positively beamed. ‘Then please call me Derek.’

  Maude smiled but then hesitated. ‘Certainly I will, but as to your kind invitation . . .’ Briefly she explained the problems that Biddy was experiencing. ‘She has become rather unreliable in her behaviour and I certainly wouldn’t want to give you or your sister any more problems. The doctor has suggested that I employ a nurse to keep an eye on her and I’m looking for someone. He thinks it might be the beginnings of senile decay made worse by the trouble we have been through, which caused her great anxiety – but, of course, I cannot bear the idea of Aunt Biddy going into a nursing home. Not while I can care for her here, where she feels safe.’

  Disappointment was etched in his face and Maude felt for him. She sensed that he was possibly becoming fond of her but could not respond in any way while her feelings were still so raw. She grieved for so many things – the loss of Alice’s affection, the shock of losing her way of life as a married woman, the depth of the deception and the sense that she had been diminished by what had happened. The truth was that currently two strategies dominated her life – one was the concern for her aunt, and the other was a fierce desire to forget Lionel and the callous way he had played havoc with her emotions. The latter depended on her own efforts and Maude tried hard to close her mind to anything that threatened to remind her of Lionel Brent, and that included Alice. The former strategy was more complex; Maude had discussed Biddy’s prognosis with the doctor and knew that if the disease continued its rapid rate, the vagueness would become a serious problem as Biddy’s grasp on reality grew less. Her behaviour was already more erratic and the doctor warned that in the worst scenario, Biddy might even become violent. Maude’s heart ached for her but she knew there was little to be done to arrest the progress of the illness. There was no cure for the condition but Maude was determined that her aunt should stay at Fairways for as long as possible and while it was still safe for her to do so.

  ‘I have to decline your kind offer,’ she told Derek, ‘but if you and Alison wish to pop over to Folkestone – maybe for an hour or so on Christmas Eve – we should be delighted to see you and it would give us an excuse to open a bottle of wine. Aunt Biddy will almost certainly bake something for us to nibble. When she is cooking I can still see the real Biddy Cope!’ She smiled at him. ‘Do come. It would be something to look forward to.’

  It was agreed.

  Biddy sat up in bed with a pencil and tried to bring her diary up to date. She had said her prayers, kneeling by the bedside, had brushed her greying hair fifty times and had carefully rubbed cold cream into her hands. These lifelong habits gave her bedtime ritual a feeling of order which she increasingly craved. The disastrous events concerning Lionel and Alice had played havoc with her mind and sometimes she realized this with something approaching dread. Now she frowned, trying to concentrate on the task in hand, while her cup of Ovaltine grew cold on the table beside her.

  December 15th. I think. Maude will know. So nearly Christmas. We had a shock today and it has upset poor Maude. Alice is having a baby. At least she says she is. I don’t trust that girl. It doesn’t matter. DC Fleet came in person to tell us the shocking news and we all give thanks to God, amazed at how well he is recovering from his injuries. But his news has upset me. That Alice is having Lionel’s baby even though he is dead and buried! Yes. It is definitely the 15th because it is Friday and we are having fish for lunch. And poor Maude is not at all strong and so she is going to find another companion with nursing experience . . .’

  In the next room Maude reread the application letter from a woman called Ivy Benn who had trained as a nurse, worked in the Buchanan Hospital in Hastings for seven years and then given up to care for her mother who had recently died. It was the third application but the previous two were from younger women and Maude felt that as her aunt deteriorated, an older, more experienced woman would be preferable.

  She had pretended that her own health was causing her concern. That way she felt sure that her aunt would not protest about the intrusion into their lives.

  Maude was trying hard not to think about Alice and the child she might be expecting and outwardly maintained an air of disinterest on the matter, but secretly she wondered how Alice felt about it. Was she delighted to be carrying Lionel’s child or sickened by it? The defence lawyer was trying to negotiate an early release on compassionate grounds and Maude hoped that, if granted this release, Alice would have the sense to leave Hastings and take her child away to a part of the country where she was not known. A fresh start. Maude had wondered whether to write a letter to Alice pointing out the advantages of such a move but after some reflection she had changed her mind. A letter might invite a reply and she had no desire to begin a correspondence.

  ‘Leave well alone, Maude!’ she had counselled herself and was satisfied she had behaved sensibly.

  TWELVE

  Thursday, July 3rd, 1930

  As the taxi drew to a halt outside the Barlowe Gallery, Derek reached for the door handle and stepped out on to the pavement. As arranged the taxi driver helped him to carry three paintings into the gallery where a smiling Mrs Thomas Marley, once Jane Dyer, held the door open for them.

  It was becoming obvious, he thought, that she was expecting a child and no doubt she wou
ld soon be giving up her job to become a full-time mother.

  ‘I’m sure you have time for tea and biscuits, Mr Jayson,’ she said with a smile as they rested the paintings against the wall. ‘Mr Barlowe’s on the telephone but I’ll make a tray for three.’

  She had grown in confidence, he thought with pleasure, and was already wondering what sort of replacement they would find for her.

  ‘How’s Mrs Jayson?’ Jane asked. ‘And your daughter?’

  Derek hesitated. ‘My wife is well enough but her aunt’s death just before Christmas has depressed her. It’s depressed all of us, in fact. Our little Amy is still very quiet. Biddy was a very important member of the family.’ That was an understatement, he thought ruefully. Their daughter, never very outgoing at the best of times, had retreated further into her shell with the trauma of her great-aunt’s death. ‘She adored Biddy and sobbed her heart out at the funeral. I wish now that we had refused to let her attend but she wanted to be there and we thought . . .’ He shrugged. ‘She’s nearly five and she understands death and, since it was her wish, my wife felt we should allow her to be there.’

  ‘I think you were right, Mr Jayson. Tears shed are healthier than tears repressed. My mother has always believed that. She says that children worry more about what they don’t understand and shouldn’t be kept in the dark.’

  At that moment Frederick Barlowe came out of his office and made his way slowly down the stairs. He now suffered from rheumatism when the weather was damp and 1930 had produced a rather disappointing summer.

  The two men shook hands as Jane hurried to put the kettle on. A client came in and chatted to Mr Barlowe for a few minutes then left, promising to bring his wife back after lunch to see the three newly arrived paintings.

  Derek wandered round the gallery inspecting the works of art but his mind was elsewhere and his face was set in unhappy lines. Amy had almost died at birth after a difficult delivery but Maude’s devoted care had ensured that she survived. She was a fragile child, however, and very shy. Maude had been convinced that she needed a brother or sister but the longed-for second child had never materialized.

  ‘Here we are!’ Jane set down the tray, which contained three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘I’m afraid they’re not home-made,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t have much spare time these days.’

  Barlowe joined them and they chatted until the last biscuit had been eaten. Jane hurried the tray into the kitchen and returned to her own desk to type up the last three letters of the day.

  Sitting on the train on his way back to Folkestone, Derek suddenly remembered that tomorrow was Amy’s fifth birthday and that Auntie Alison was giving her a birthday party in the hotel. He smiled suddenly, oblivious to the curious looks from the passengers around him. It was a smile that brought a gleam to his eyes. Derek knew he was a lucky man. He had a devoted wife whom he loved to distraction. He had a beautiful daughter who was a constant delight. Thirdly, he had a happy life. No man should ask for more. He knew that Maude didn’t like to dwell on the past but he saw things in a more positive way. From all the traumas of eight years ago something good had emerged. He and Maude had met and, eight years later, they were married with a lovely daughter. Without the intervention of Lionel and Alice Brent he and Maude might have remained comparative strangers. Fate works in a mysterious way, he thought, and his smile broadened.

  At the moment that he smiled, his wife was answering the door to a complete stranger who stood on the step holding the hand of a young girl.

  ‘Mrs Jayson?’ The woman looked about fifty, heavily built and wearing unbecoming clothes that did not flatter her.

  ‘Yes?’ Maude glanced at the child, confused.

  ‘I’m Eleanor Surridge. That won’t mean anything to you.’

  ‘It doesn’t, I’m afraid . . . So what exactly are you doing here?’

  The child, a girl, watched her intently. Maude guessed her to be a few years older than Amy. Seven, probably, or eight. She had curly blonde hair and hazel eyes and was neither pretty nor quite plain but had a healthy glow to her complexion and a ready smile.

  Maude regarded them curiously but also with some caution. Somehow, for no good reason, the sudden appearance of the woman and child disturbed her and she hesitated. Good manners required her to ask them in but she was reluctant to do so.

  Mrs Surridge waited but the child said, ‘Please can we come in?’

  The woman said, ‘Maggie! That’s very rude. Say you’re sorry to Mrs Jayson.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jayson.’ She fixed Maude with a pleading look, which the latter found hard to resist.

  Maude opened the door wider and said, ‘Of course.’

  Closing the front door, she led the way into the sitting room and invited her visitor to take a seat. The girl moved to the window and stared out at the front lawn through the net curtains.

  Maude said, ‘My husband will be home soon. He’s been to London for the day.’

  ‘It’s you I have to see.’ The woman fumbled in her large handbag and handed Maude a letter. ‘We had a housekeeper but she has died.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘She contracted diphtheria – no-one quite knows how – and it closed her throat. The struggle for air weakened her heart and eventually it failed.’ She shuddered. ‘I did not visit her in the hospital because of the risk. Diphtheria is highly contagious. In ten days she was gone. Poor soul died all alone.’ She nodded towards Maggie and mouthed the words ‘her daughter’.

  The girl must have heard and understood everything Mrs Surridge said but she made no comment. Instead she said, ‘There’s a big ginger cat running across your grass.’

  Nobody answered her.

  Mrs Surridge sighed. ‘You should read the letter. She wrote it three days before she died and said I should bring it to you. I said I’d send it but she was adamant.’

  ‘Bring it to me? But how could she . . .?’ Maude stared at the envelope.

  Mrs Surridge said, ‘Tell her to keep away from the shrubbery.’ She smiled. ‘That was her message for you. Poor thing. I think she was delirious!’

  Already a suspicion had entered Maude’s head. ‘What was her name, this housekeeper?’

  Mrs Surridge lowered her voice slightly. ‘She told us she was an unmarried mother but we gave her a chance and she never let us down. Worked hard, bless her, and was very willing. Nothing too much trouble. And she could cook. A dab hand with puddings, especially Bakewell tart, which pleased my husband. No truck with young men, either. Nothing like that, thank goodness. She said she’d learned her lesson. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say. Her name? Oh sorry! It was Alicia Brand.’

  Alicia Brand. Alice Brent. Very similar . . . Maude began to pray that Derek would be home on time. Occasionally he caught a later train but today his wife was feeling the need of his support.

  Maggie said, ‘Mum’s name was Alicia Dora Brand and mine is Margaret Ann Brand. I was going to be called Maude but then she changed her mind. I’m glad she did because I like Margaret better.’ She smiled at Maude.

  Mrs Surridge rolled her eyes. ‘That’s enough from you, Maggie. What have I told you?’

  ‘Speak when you’re spoken to!’

  She had a cheeky grin, thought Maude. So was this Alice’s child by Lionel? Was it her imagination or did her own heart now beat erratically?

  As Maude began to tear open the envelope there were footsteps in the hallway and Amy came into the room. The contrast between the two children was immediately apparent. Beside sturdy Maggie, Amy was a feather-light girl with long fair hair and blue eyes. Seeing the visitors, Amy at once reached for her mother’s hand and, half hidden behind her mother, managed a nervous smile in Maggie’s direction.

  Maude said, ‘Amy, this is Mrs Surridge and Maggie who is . . . a friend of hers. Say hello, darling.’

  ‘Hello.’ She eyed them uncertainly.

  Primmy trotted in, wagging her tail, and made her way over to Mrs Surridge who obligingly pa
tted her. The dog was ageing and had lost her boisterous ways.

  Maggie looked at Amy. ‘Is that your cat out there?’

  Amy’s hand tightened in Maude’s but she said nothing.

  Undeterred, Maggie persisted. ‘The big ginger one. He’s sitting in the middle of the grass, washing his paws.’ She laughed. ‘Come and look.’

  To Maude’s surprise, Amy slowly released her hand and crossed uncertainly to the window. ‘Yes.’ She whispered.

  ‘So what’s his name?’

  ‘Foxy.’ She didn’t look directly at Maggie but kept her eyes on the cat.

  ‘That’s a good name because foxes are a bit gingery. Did you choose the name?’

  ‘Mummy helped me.’ At last she glanced up at the older girl. ‘He was my Christmas present. Father Christmas brought him and he had a blue bow round his neck. That’s Primmy, our dog, but she’s an old lady dog and we have to take care of her.’

  It was quite a speech for Amy and, although pleasantly surprised, Maude was still anxious and said desperately, ‘You haven’t finished your rest, Amy. Perhaps you should—’

  ‘I know but I heard voices, Mummy, and I’m not sleepy.’ Amy smiled shyly at the older girl.

  Maggie said, ‘I can do cartwheels. I might be an acrobat when I grow up and join a circus. I could show you but we have to do them on the grass otherwise we might hurt ourselves.’

  Mrs Surridge returned to her earlier explanation. ‘We’ve got a man coming tomorrow from the council about the orphanage. It’s sad but these things happen, don’t they? It’s not ideal but she won’t be the first child or the last to find herself in such a place.’ She shrugged helplessly.

  Amy crossed the room to stand by Maude and tug at her sleeve. ‘Can we go out on to the grass, Mummy?’

  ‘But I thought I’d come here first,’ Mrs Surridge continued, ‘since Alicia was so insistent. She wouldn’t tell me what was in the letter but she said you’d understand.’

  ‘Mummy? Please.’