My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘Only to someone with no taste,’ replied Rachel, then winced and put a hand to her side. ‘Oh, come on I’ll have to go in, this stitch is getting worse. I hope it’s nothing to do with the baby.’

  ‘It’d be a good thing if it was,’ muttered Ella thoughtlessly within hearing range. ‘She’s had far too many.’

  ‘Did you hear what that jealous cat said?’ Rachel demanded of her husband when they were inside. ‘She’d actually be happy if something happened to our baby.’ She clutched him. ‘Oh Russ, I don’t feel at all well. I’m off to bed.’

  In the morning it became clear that this was no mere stitch and the doctor was sent for. ‘’Tis that there comet what’s done it, ma’am,’ swore Biddy, tending her stricken mistress. ‘Ye must’ve breathed in all that poisonous gas. I knew we shouldn’t ought to have watched it. ’Tis a bad influence on all the world it’s brought with it, mark my words. This is just the start.’ Russ told her not to talk so daft, she was upsetting the mistress. ‘Oh ’tis right I am, sir! You watch, there’ll be worse things happen than the mistress losing the baby.’

  ‘Ssh!’ He waved her to silence. ‘She is not going to lose the baby and I don’t want to hear you say it again.’

  But Rachel did lose the baby, and to add even more truth to Biddy’s prediction, within days the King was dead. Strangely, this was to aid Rachel’s convalescence. The monarch’s demise brought a stream of orders for black hats and drapery of a similar hue. Russ, having had the foresight to visit the wholesaler’s within an hour of hearing about the King’s passing, was now well-stocked and able to deal with the heavy demand. With her husband supplying all her requirements and the young assistant shuttling between shop and home, Rachel was soon sitting up working contentedly away and almost forgetting her own sad loss. Then of course came the Coronation and another spate of orders – this time for brighter coloured headwear. So, if Halley’s comet had brought disaster, with 1911 seeing rail strikes and disputes from sailors, firemen, miners and dockers, it had in turn granted great prosperity to the Hazelwoods, the high point of which appeared in the street in 1912.

  Biddy was cursing the children’s table manners and scrubbing for all she was worth at an area of once-white cloth with a bar of naphtha soap. ‘Ah Jesus, will ye look at that!’ she instructed the culprit. ‘’Twon’t shift at all. If the mistress sees it she’ll turn me into a stain on me own clothes. Bertie, you’re a devil for makin’ work for folk – an’ put that thing away else I’ll chop it off!’ The dirty little devil was always showing himself to his sisters. ‘Oh, what the hell is that row?’ A persistent honking could be heard from the street. Biddy wiped her hands and, children in tow, plodded from the kitchen to open the front door. The towel she held flew up to cover her mouth. ‘Holy saints deliver us!’

  ‘I thought you’d all gone deaf in there!’ shouted the driver of the vehicle parked outside. ‘Where’s your mistress, Bid?’ Not waiting for an answer, Russ flung open the door and climbed out.

  ‘Is it ours?’ asked an amazed Bertie, eyes shining.

  ‘Well, you don’t think anybody’d let your father loose in a car as posh as this if it wasn’t, do you?’

  Bertie leapt onto the running-board and leaned over the spare wheel to pump at the horn before asking what sort of car it was. ‘A Fiat,’ said his father. ‘Hop in and try it for size.’ Bertie spent a moment circling the green vehicle with its brass trimmings, then bounced into the driving seat and gripped the large steering wheel, taking lungfuls of the scent of new leather. Russ broke off from telling his son what all the instruments were for to herald his wife. ‘Ah, here’s the lady herself!’

  Rachel, as taken aback as the others, had appeared behind Biddy, whom she now elbowed out of the way in order to approach the motor car. ‘A car?’ she managed to breathe.

  ‘Aye well somebody pinched me bike clips so I had to…’

  ‘Russ what have you done?’ She strode forth, encompassing the car with agitated eyes. ‘Where did you get the money?’

  ‘Soft article! It’s proceeds from the business. I reckoned it was time an important man like me got his due.’ This was not the only thought Russ had had recently. Whilst undertaking routine accounts, his eyes had settled upon the fictitious Mr Cranley. For nine years he had been paying out good money to someone who, for all he knew, might well be dead – after all, he had heard nothing from South Africa. That money could be better spent on his own family, to pay for a car, perhaps. Why should he have to fork out for the rest of his life for someone who meant nothing to him? Surely after this many years he had done sufficient penance? Hadn’t he been fairer than a lot of men in his position? Considering this to be so, he had decided that he would continue the payments up until the end of the year, just to round off the account, so to speak, and then all dealings with Mr Cranley would cease.

  After a further period of twittering inspection, Rachel gave a cursory nod of her head, announcing, ‘You’re quite right!’ making him grin at his children. She took a step back to examine the shiny green vehicle as a whole, then clapped gleeful hands to her white-muslined bosom. ‘Oh, won’t the Daws’ noses be put out of joint! Ella will be greener than that car.’

  ‘Eh, now, I don’t want you to go taunting them with this,’ Russ warned. ‘They’ll be scratching my bodywork. Anyway, am I going to hear what you think to this here car? Is it befitting of an esteemed councillor?’ Both he and Jack had been re-elected for a further term.

  ‘I think it was very sneaky of you to take money from the business without consulting me,’ she scolded, but without conviction for she smiled almost instantly. ‘But as it’s such a splendid car I’ll let you off this time – only don’t think I’m condoning such extravagance. How much will it take to run per week?’ When he told her she was horrified. ‘That would keep us in jam for a month!’

  ‘Aye well, I’m sorry I can’t make it run on jam – forget about the cost for once, lass! Come for a ride with us.’

  She didn’t take much coaxing, squeezing into the back beside the girls. ‘Away, Biddy, you an’ all!’ shouted Russ to the forlorn-looking specimen on the doorstep. ‘We might as well ruin t’springs completely.’

  Biddy seized the nearest girl and swung into her place, child on lap. The car was only intended to seat four but somehow they all managed to pack themselves in. Rachel begged her husband to fold down the canvas hood so that everyone could see them. With a laugh he unclipped the leather straps that secured the hood and wound it back. After a few sharp twists of the starting handle, the car began to chug. To cries of delight, Russ took his seat at the wheel and performed a three point turn. Biddy and some of the girls screamed as it appeared to be rolling back into the iron railings but Russ just laughed and sent it flying down the street. Lyn sounded the horn incessantly until her brother knocked her hand away to take over. The odd net curtain was hoisted and neighbours’ heads revolved to watch its passage. Rachel waved to all delightedly. But for her, the best moment came when the car turned the corner and who should she see coming up Queen Victoria Street but Jack Daw and Wife.

  ‘Looks like they’ve been campaigning again,’ murmured Russ. On drawing nearer they could read the placards carried by the couple: What Price Your Coal? and Support The Miners.

  ‘Give them a honk, Robert,’ cued the boy’s mother as the car neared the couple. ‘Oh go on, let him!’ she urged Russ at his look of smiling reproach.

  Bertie hooted long and loud as the car sailed past the astonished pair. Rachel craned her smiling face back over the folded hood, instructing the children, ‘Wave, wave!’ and felt the glee bubble up inside her at the look on her neighbours’ faces.

  Chapter Seven

  The fact that Russ was in possession of the automobile did nothing for his lapsed friendship with the Daws. Over the next year the ferocity of his neighbours’ antics burgeoned. Jack’s endeavours saw the formation of the NUR, whilst Ella’s earned her a term of imprisonment. This followed a demonstration in London sh
ortly after the terrible Derby Day occurrence when Emily Davison had thrown herself under the King’s horse.

  ‘Of course,’ opined Rachel sapiently, ‘it’s all because she’s got no children – too much time on her hands,’ she elaborated for a confused Russ as they breakfasted this crisp October morning. ‘And I mean, that husband of hers actually encourages her! You’d think he’d be embarrassed at having a jailbird for a wife but no, he laps it up. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been thrown off the council after this last episode.’ Russ said that no one on the council was aware of Ella’s imprisonment as far as he knew. ‘Well, at least it hasn’t got into the local papers. I’d never live it down, having folk know I’ve got a criminal for a neighbour. It’d bring the price of our house down, you know.’

  ‘Eh, I hope she behaves herself in the future,’ sighed Russ, turning a page of his newspaper. ‘I’ve read they do all sorts of unpleasant things to these lasses in prison, shoving tubes down their throats and whatnot when they go on hunger strike. She didn’t look too well to me when she came home.’

  ‘It’s no more than she deserves, the silly woman.’

  He laid the paper to one side. ‘Eh, that’s a bit catty, isn’t it, Rache? I mean, she’s doing it for you.’

  ‘Doing it for me?’ She was astounded enough to stop spreading marmalade on her toast. ‘And did I ask her to? Did the sane and rational women of this country ask that stupid hussy to throw herself under the King’s horse? That poor animal – and they have the audacity to claim that they’re doing it in the name of the women of Britain! Well, if this is an example of the sort of people who’d be in power if women had the vote then I for one would sooner be without it. The system has worked perfectly well up to now. In any case, Russ, politics isn’t a fitting occupation for a woman. They’re better suited doing what they were meant for, which is having children and keeping house for their husbands. And that of course is where the trouble stems from; most of them are unmarried or childless – no man would have them… Anyway,’ she brought her incisors together in a delicate crunch, and brushed the crumbs from her fingers, ‘let’s not pursue this dreary topic when we’ve more important things to discuss.’ An intoxicated grin. ‘Only a couple of weeks now, Russ!’

  ‘Eh, I wish you wouldn’t go on as if it’s all in the bag,’ he chivvied. ‘There’s no guarantee.’ The election for the post of Lord Mayor was looming. As in other years, the vote would merely be a formality; the candidate had already been selected. This year’s Lord Mayor Elect, Councillor James Ridsdale, had confided to Russ that the latter was the prime runner for Sheriff. Alderman Anthony Carr was to move that Russ be appointed and the motion would be seconded by Councillor John Spring. Rachel had gone wild at the news and to mark her husband’s promotion had taken to employing the best dining table in the front parlour for her meals and generally acting the lady even more than was usual. ‘It’s always the same, you convince yourself that there’s no hurdle then when one comes up – bang! down you go for days.’

  She tossed her long hair over her shoulder. ‘Tsk! What could happen?’

  ‘Anything… Carr could change his mind about putting me forward, the Council might not carry the motion, I could have an accident or something…’

  She exclaimed at his pessimism. ‘I could kill you!’

  ‘There you are, you see – anything could happen.’ Russ grinned and reached over to grip her arm. ‘I just don’t want to see you disappointed, that’s all, lass.’

  ‘I won’t be, because you’re going to be the next Sheriff of York and that is that!’

  For reply he offered a smiling shake of his head and shortly went off to work, while Rachel summoned Biddy to clear the pots. She herself brushed and pinned up her hair then set about forming the hat of the next Lady Mayoress, whose custom she had just managed to acquire. Though she had many other councillor’s wives on her books, this was the most important of them… until next year’s elections, of course. She worked until ten when she took an interval for a cup of tea. At the same time, Ella Daw paid an unexpected visit. ‘Biddy, fetch another cup for Mrs Daw,’ she instructed as her neighbour limped to a chair, and to the latter, ‘Ella, what have you been doing with your foot?’

  ‘I haven’t been doing anything,’ grumbled Ella. ‘Some silly little devil left a toy on the pavement and I went flying over it. I’ve wrenched my ankle – just on my way to work an’ all. I could hardly put my foot to the ground, it was agony. So… I had to hop back home. I’d best have it seen to, it might be broken – look how it’s swelled up.’ Rachel expressed concern at the ballooning ankle. ‘That’s why I came round; I thought Russ might run me down to the hospital when he comes in for his dinner. I wouldn’t ask but I couldn’t even make it to the tram stop. It’s taken me all my time to hobble round here – ooh, you’re an angel, Biddy!’ She accepted the cup from the maid.

  ‘I’m sure Russ won’t mind,’ said Rachel, then thought to add a little taunt for her neighbour’s previous disdain of the car. ‘You see – these fancy automobiles can come in useful after all.’

  Ella took the rebuke with dignity. ‘Aye, I have to admit you’re right, Rache. We’ll probably have to have one ourselves shortly.’

  ‘They’re very expensive, you know, Ella.’ Then Rachel’s ears pricked in alarm and she rested the cup and saucer on her brown tweed skirt. ‘What would you be needing one for?’ She knew as soon as she said it, knew by Ella’s casual air, that a bomb was about to explode.

  ‘Well, if our Jack’s in line for Mayor he can hardly perform all his civic duties on a bike – eh, this blasted foot!’ She screwed up her face in discomfort.

  ‘Lord Mayor?’ responded the other loudly, almost knocking the cup over in her lap.

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Ella eased her ankle into a more comfortable position, still grimacing. ‘I thought Russ would’ve mentioned it.’

  ‘But James Ridsdale is going to be Mayor!’

  ‘Is he now? I think there’s a little matter of an election to be disposed of first.’

  Slight relief – it wasn’t definite then. Rachel’s voice was a little calmer. ‘But, Ella, I think you’ll agree that Mr Ridsdale is the obvious candidate.’

  ‘I wouldn’t agree at all. I’d say it’s about time this city had a Labour Lord Mayor.’

  Good grief! That would mean Ella would be Lady Mayoress – no, don’t think about it! Rachel urged herself. ‘But how would you cope?’

  ‘There’d still be one of us working. I get plenty of overtime. I think it’s worth the sacrifice for one year… oh, I see! You weren’t referring to the job not carrying a salary – you mean, how will two peasants like us fit into all that splendour.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that at all.’ Rachel buried her acute dismay in her teacup.

  ‘Oh well, you needn’t worry yourself on that score, Rachel. I doubt we’ll be spending much time in the Mansion House. Jack doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. He won’t be wearing any fancy necklace neither.’ The cup was lowered, Rachel’s chocolate-drop eyes questioning. ‘Being the Lord Mayor isn’t just an opportunity to dress up and give parties, you know, Rachel. It’s chance to put this city’s priorities in order, which in Jack’s case would be the citizens – the working citizens.’

  Rachel could not countenance such a viewpoint. To act so disparagingly in the face of so noble an office verged on infamy. She was unable to speak for fear of losing her temper.

  ‘I know what you’re worried about,’ Ella’s voice roused her. ‘Jack told me that Russ was banking on being made Sheriff. Well, don’t concern yourself any more, love. I’m sure Jack wouldn’t disappoint an old friend, he thinks very highly of Russ’ administrative capabilities however he might scorn his politics. I’m certain his Sheriff’s job’ll be safe.’ She shuffled her buttocks onto the edge of the chair.

  With a lame mutter of thanks, Rachel put her empty cup aside and rose to take Ella’s. ‘I’ll call Biddy to see you home.’

  Ella hoisted her
self and stood with her weight on one leg whilst Biddy was summoned. ‘So shall I come round later then?’

  ‘Pardon?’ came Rachel’s vague answer. ‘Oh… no, I’ll send Russ the minute he gets in.’

  Ella said to let him have his dinner first and draped an arm round the solicitous Biddy. ‘Eh, I’ll look good like this at the investiture, won’t I? Cockling along Coney Street with a big plaster on me foot and a Biddy under me arm!’

  Rachel managed a weak response. ‘I’m sure it’ll be sorted out by then.’ It will if I get my way, she thought darkly.

  There was no more work to be done that morning. Nothing would go right. She kept pricking her finger or sewing the wrong decoration on the wrong hat. Until Russ came home, Biddy was the main recipient of her wrath. Even so, when he finally did arrive the frustration was in no way dissipated.

  ‘I know! I know what you’re going to tell me!’ He raised his hands to ward off the outburst before it became fully fledged. The set of his features showed that he too was aware that the Mayoral position was to be contested.

  ‘If you knew you might have spared me the humiliation!’

  ‘I didn’t know until an hour ago,’ was his helpless protest. ‘Till Ridsdale came into the shop and brandished the press report under my nose.’ He waved a morning paper at his wife, a different publication to the one they took. ‘He’s mad as hell that it’s been leaked.’

  ‘He’s mad!’

  ‘Aye… it must’ve been upsetting for you – but there you are, this is just what I was warning you about. I’m disappointed as well, you know, I was looking forward to being Sheriff.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no call for you to disappoint yourself on that score!’ she dealt cuttingly. ‘Ella has very kindly said that her husband never forgets his old pals, the job’s yours if you want it.’

  His expression turned to one of interest. ‘She said that, did she?’