When Day is Done

by When Day is Done (retail) (epub

  ‘Do you still sell to the market stall?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I don’t. Magdalen does all that. She pays for the seed and stuff for the garden, and the hens’ feed, and after that the money’s her own. She’s been selling apples and pears from the orchard too, and the windfalls and the house peelings to a pig keeper in return for sausages and a bit of pork and such. She’s a good businesswoman,’ said Essy.

  ‘Does she keep all the money?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Yes, so she’s not going to walk away from that, or do anything to make me get rid of her, is she?’ Essy said triumphantly.

  Kate gazed at her with awe. ‘You know, Essy, I was afraid you were being put on, but you’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? Everything planned.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve always looked out for myself,’ said Essy. ‘Had to because I’ve no one belonging to me. There’s not many people reach their three score years and ten like it says in the Bible, but I’m already six years past it, and I’m as well as many a younger woman.’

  ‘You are,’ Kate agreed. ‘Although people are living longer – but not as long as you,’ she added hastily when she saw Essy frown. ‘I’ve heard of several people dying in their sixties lately. When I was young people were reckoned to have done well if they were fifty or so when they died. It must be all the new medicines.’

  ‘Yes, and you should be thinking ahead about what’ll happen when you’re too old to work. How old are you now?’ said Essy. ‘About fifty-seven?’ Kate nodded, and Essy went on, ‘Plan your life, Kate. Do what’s best for you. You’ve always let yourself be pushed from pillar to post. Never weighed things up and done what was best for you.’

  ‘But I’ve been very lucky, and people have always been good to me,’ Kate protested.

  Essy snorted. ‘That’s what you like to think,’ she said. ‘The way I see it, you’ve always got the dirty end of the stick and your sister’s had it easy. Mind you, it hasn’t stopped her feeling sorry for herself, and she never keeps a friend, does she? Or lasts long on those committees she’s always getting herself on.’

  Kate smiled and changed the subject. She knew it was no use arguing with Essy about Rose, whom she still implacably disliked, but as she walked home she thought about Essy’s words. It was true that Rose was unhappy. She had seemed to have found her niche in the WVS, and had been useful and successful, but after the war another woman was offered a senior position which Rose felt was her due and she resigned.

  Since then she had served briefly on many committees and become interested in various causes, but always something happened to make her feel slighted or misunderstood and she left. One permanent grievance was that though several people she knew had become JP’s, she had never been asked to serve on the bench.

  ‘I know what it is,’ she told Kate. ‘It’s because they have letters after their names and I haven’t, but that’s not my fault. I was denied my chance when I was young.’ Kate suspected that the JP’s had been selected because they had worked hard for many years for various causes, but she only said soothingly to Rose that she might be approached at a later date.

  Rose hoped that John would go to university, as many ex-servicemen were doing, but John had other ideas. He was twenty-four years old when the war ended and had made many friends from Commonwealth countries while in the Commandos. He decided to see something of the world before settling down, starting with Canada, where a friend’s father offered him a job in his logging business.

  After he was demobbed he came home to Liverpool before setting off on his travels. Rose was tearful when he told them of his plans, but Robert approved. John had been able to tell them something of the Commandos’ exploits now that the war was over. He described the raid on the Lafoten Islands and other missions which he seemed to have enjoyed but which horrified his parents. They were glad they had not known at the time of the risks he was taking.

  Robert told Rose that John’s plan to work his way around the world was just what he needed. ‘It’d be hard for him to settle down to a steady job straight after that Commando stuff,’ he said. ‘Now is the time to get all that out of his system while he’s still young, with no commitments,’ and Rose had to agree that he was right.

  John spent six months in Canada, then moved to Australia, then to New Zealand. He sent letters home regularly, and wrote from New Zealand that he would like to go to Spain but not while Franco was there. ‘I may go back to Canada for a short time to see Dave, then on to the Continent,’ he wrote in 1950. ‘See how things are there now.’

  ‘At least he’s working towards home, away from the wide-open spaces,’ said Robert. ‘Perhaps he’s getting ready to settle down.’

  ‘I wish one of them was,’ Rose said. ‘It’s time Richard was thinking of marriage. He’ll be thirty this year.’

  ‘He just hasn’t met the right girl yet,’ Robert soothed her. ‘Don’t forget, dear, he’s had very little time for social affairs during the past few years. It’s been hard turning the business back to peacetime work, and he’s borne the brunt of it and made a success of it too. I don’t know what I’d have done without him.’

  Rose laid her hand on his. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘He’s a good son and I’m grateful to him for the way he’s spared you. I was terribly worried about you at the end of the war. I’d just like to see him married and perhaps with children before I go.’

  Robert looked at her in alarm. ‘What do you mean, dearest? Is something wrong? Do you feel ill?’

  ‘Nothing more than usual,’ Rose said with a sigh. ‘You know my health is not good, Robert, at any time. That’s why I’ve had to resign from some of my committees.’

  Robert was relieved. He knew, although he would never have admitted it, that Rose had resigned either because younger members thought her outdated and snobbish in her ideas, or because active working members were required and she was unwilling to endure hard work or discomfort.

  ‘She’s been spoiled,’ Essy told him when he visited her. ‘First by madam and then by you, and Kate’s always doted on her too. That’s what’s made her so dissatisfied.’

  ‘You only see one side of her character, Essy,’ said Robert. ‘If I’ve spoiled Rose I’ve been happy to do so because she’s so lovable and warm-hearted. That early disappointment about her career has affected her, and I know I’m no Prince Charming – she could have done better, such a lovely girl – but she’s never complained. I don’t deserve her but I’ll always love and cherish her, Essy. I wish you could see her as I do.’

  ‘She’s the lucky one to have a husband like you and two good sons,’ Essy said implacably. ‘What about Kate, if you’re talking about disappointments? She’s had nothing else. No comfort, nothing but hard work badly paid, and always on her own. Never anyone to care about her, but you don’t hear her whingeing.’

  ‘Nor do you hear Rose,’ Robert said with a flash of anger, and Essy quickly changed the subject.

  Richard had almost completely taken over the running of the family business and Robert spent only a day or two each week there now, although he was always welcome. Richard still lived at home, and discussed business matters with his father, and Robert declared that he had the best of both worlds. All the interest of the business and none of the worry.

  He looked ten years younger and his doctor was very pleased.

  Although Robert had told no one, the doctor had earlier warned him that his heart would not stand the strain on it for much longer, but now he had a new lease of life.

  After the warning by the doctor, Robert wondered whether he should tell Rose and Kate that he was Kate’s landlord and that he intended to leave her the house in Laurel Road, but he had done nothing about it. When Richard came home he consulted him about it. ‘I’d really like to make it over to Kate now in case she’s worrying about the future,’ he said, but Richard advised against it.

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything to Aunt Kate,’ he said. ‘You know how independent she is. If she was short of money it’d b
e different but she can easily manage that tiny rent. She thinks it’s protected by law so she’s quite happy.’

  ‘I told her that when I told her about the flat,’ Robert said. ‘The firm who collect my rents queried it but I told them it was in order and must stay at that amount. It doesn’t matter to them as long as it’s authorised. You’re sure you don’t think I should make it over to Kate now, Richard?’

  ‘No. I think the responsibility might worry her and it’d mean you’d have to tell her about owning the house and why she’s been paying so little. Might hurt her. She’s very proud for all she’s so quiet.’

  Robert sighed. ‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘I did it with good intentions but I’d hate Kate to think I’ve been deceiving her all these years.’

  ‘She won’t, Dad,’ Richard said. ‘I’m probably wrong about how she’d feel. I know she’s very fond of you and she’d just think you’d been good to her, but if the present system’s working, why change it? She may never need to know who owns the house.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Robert.

  ‘I mean you may outlive Aunt Kate, but if you don’t I’ll explain it all to her. Don’t worry,’ said Richard, and Robert was relieved to leave this responsibility too to Richard.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After the war Agnes and Paul Vetch resumed their travelling abroad. In 1949 they had been for some months in Italy, where there was a small colony of English people. In late August Agnes died suddenly of a heart attack. Paul wrote to tell Charles. The funeral had taken place within forty-eight hours, so it had been impossible for her son to be present.

  Charles felt more upset than he expected at his mother’s death, and sorry that they had not been closer. He felt that during his early years the grim figure of his maternal grandmother had come between them, and after her death his mother’s marriage and his own move to boarding school had meant that they saw little of each other.

  He and Margaret had sometimes taken her grandchildren to visit Agnes, but the visits had not been a success. The children had been nervous, afraid to move and damage the fragile ornaments, and Agnes, although she loved them, had been stiff and formal with them. She and Paul had always spent Christmas abroad and they had only twice visited the farm, so she was almost a stranger to the children.

  Charles felt grateful to Paul, who had been a good and loving husband, and wrote asking him to stay with them. Paul replied with thanks but said that as he had no other relations he intended to stay in Italy, where the climate suited him and he had many friends. He also said that he would return to England to arrange his business affairs and sell his house, and he hoped to arrange a memorial service in Shropshire for his wife.

  It was arranged very swiftly, and after the service Paul asked Charles and Margaret to return to his house. ‘Before I sell up I want you to choose anything that you can use,’ he said to Charles. ‘Items of your mother’s, of course, but also anything else, furniture and such, as much as you can. You would be doing me a favour.’

  ‘I’d like a trunk of my father’s papers that’s in the attic, if I may,’ said Charles. ‘And any family photographs.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t know it was there,’ said Paul. He went to a cupboard and took out a box of photographs. ‘These are from before our marriage,’ he said. ‘Many of you as a child, and of your parents before they were married.’

  ‘I don’t remember ever seeing them,’ Charles said, opening the box eagerly. There were photographs of him with his mother and some with his grandmother, but it was the earlier ones that interested him most. Photographs of his parents on their wedding day, both looking very solemn, and snapshots of his mother with a group of ladies wearing sashes.

  ‘They were women who campaigned for women’s rights, your mother said once,’ Paul told him. ‘Not Suffragettes. She was a great admirer of Eleanor Rathbone, MP.’

  ‘My father was involved too,’ Charles exclaimed, picking up another snapshot of a group of ladies without sashes and several young men.

  ‘That was another group who did philanthropic work, I think. Christmas hotpots for poor children and so forth. They held bazaars and other functions to raise money for the work,’ said Paul.

  He looked over Charles’s shoulder. ‘Your mother took an interest in the young girl standing beside her. She was the niece of the owner of the guesthouse where your parents lived before they were married. The young man who owned the camera belonged to that group,’ he added, but Charles scarcely heard him.

  ‘Was her name Kate?’ he asked eagerly. ‘The young girl?’

  ‘I think so,’ Paul said. ‘Your mother taught her to read and write, she said, and took her to meetings as her protegée.’ Charles turned the snapshot over. On the back was written ‘Christmas Bazaar. Agnes, Henry and Katherine Drew’. He looked again at the snapshot. Agnes and Henry looked solemn, as people did on photographs then, but Kate was smiling shyly. She was tall and thin, wearing glasses, a long coat and a large hat. Agnes wore similar clothes but looked more elegant. Her coat had a fur collar.

  Paul went to a cabinet and took out a cut-glass tumbler. ‘These were a wedding present from that young girl,’ he said. ‘Only four left, I’m afraid, but they’re good quality.’

  ‘I’m interested in that family,’ Charles said. ‘Could you tell me anything about them? The aunt’s name, for instance?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘We only spoke of that time on rare occasions. When Eleanor Rathbone was in the news, for example, or when your mother spoke about the glasses.’

  ‘I should have asked her myself,’ said Charles, ‘but somehow it was never the right moment.’ He smiled ruefully.

  Margaret had brought in coffee and Paul asked her to decide about the contents of the house. She shook her head and said firmly, ‘I don’t think you should make any big decisions now, so soon after bereavement. If you decide to come back to England to live, you can always buy another house, but you’ll want your own things round you.’

  ‘I won’t come back,’ Paul protested. ‘I found the English winters very trying during the war, and my health is much better in Italy.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Margaret insisted, ‘anything can happen. I suggest we store all your stuff – we’ve got plenty of room in our attics – and it’ll be there if you need it.’

  Paul seemed relieved to have matters settled for him, and it was arranged that Agnes’s desk, dressing table and wardrobe and the furniture from his own bedroom should be sent to Charles, as well as some glass and china of his mother’s. The rest of the contents of the house would be packed up and delivered to the farm for storage in the attics. Charles put the trunk and the box of photographs in his car.

  They all went to a nearby hotel for a meal, then parted with regret and promises on both sides to keep in touch and visit when possible. ‘A good man,’ Charles said as they drove away. ‘I’m glad Mother had him to look after her. I think she was happier with Paul than she would have been with my father if he’d lived.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Margaret agreed. ‘She and Paul were well suited. Judging by his diary, your father seemed a very different personality from your mother.’ Charles said nothing. He knew that although there had been no animosity between his wife and his mother, Margaret had found Agnes intimidating.

  When they reached home he lost no time in searching through the box of photographs, but there were no others of Kate, although many of groups of young people. Later he and Margaret sorted through the trunk and put the papers in order. They found a bundle of receipted bills which gave them the address of the guesthouse and were signed by M. J. Williams (Mrs). On the back of one of them Henry had written, ‘A rent book would be more convenient but too common for the Dragon Lady. She prefers to present her guest with a monthly bill she says. Snob!!!!’

  ‘I wish I’d looked through these more closely when I found the diary,’ Charles said. ‘But I was never alone in the house, and I didn’t want Mother to know I was rooting about up there
.’

  He was constantly stopping to read different items, and it was Margaret, swiftly and neatly sorting the papers, who made the most exciting find. It was a large brown envelope under a pile of boys’ adventure stories, and it contained Henry’s Army papers. There were various official forms and leaflets, and inside a booklet with details of his Army service filled in with fading ink, there was a flimsy envelope.

  ‘Charlie, here’s your father’s Army papers!’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s a letter here too.’

  The envelope was addressed in careful copperplate handwriting and contained a single sheet of notepaper. ‘It’s from Kate!’ Charlie exclaimed when he drew it out. He scanned the page eagerly.

  Dear Henry,

  Thank you for your letter which I was so pleased to receive.

  I suppose that in the heat of battle there is no time to think, but in the rest camp you have time to consider how wrong and pointless this war is. I have thought so for a long time. You say that when you look up at the stars none of it seems to matter and I can understand that. Keep up your heart, Henry. I am glad that your memories comfort you. It comforts me too to remember the guesthouse and to think of you, and to think also of all the other brave men who are fighting for us. I pray every night for your safety and happiness.

  Yours faithfully,

  Kate.

  ‘What a good letter!’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Yet your mother had to teach her to read and write. She must have been a good teacher.’

  ‘Yes. I’m impressed with the technical side, the handwriting and the construction of the sentences, but it’s more the content. What comes over from it. She sounds such a nice person,’ said Charles.

  ‘I wonder why the papers were in the trunk,’ said Margaret. ‘You’d think they’d be precious to your mother.’

  ‘I think my grandmother packed that trunk,’ Charles said. ‘The way the things were tipped in higgledy-piggledy. It wasn’t my mother’s style and she’d have had more care for my father’s things anyway. I suppose Grandmother Tate threw the envelope in without even looking through it.’