by Nancy Carson
He abruptly shoved her out of the way and lifted the boy from his seat. But, as he held him, little Benjie turned, his arms outstretched poignantly towards his mother. His big blue eyes were wet with tears and his pretty, girlish face contorted with anxiety. Aurelia held out her arms in turn to take him back, to comfort him, but Benjamin robustly resisted.
A mouse suddenly appeared from a tiny hole in the skirting board near the base of the fire grate and scampered, unseen by Aurelia, across the hearth to disappear into another tiny hole. But Benjamin saw it.
‘If I were you, Aurelia, I’d get a cat.’
‘A cat? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘A mouse has just run across your hearth.’
At this, the boy was diverted. He ceased crying and looked wide-eyed towards the hearth. The mouse had disappeared, however.
‘Come, Benjie,’ he said smoothly, modulating his tone to reassure the child. ‘The little mouse is hiding. Daddy’s taking you home. Nanny’s waiting for you, and the garden is lovely for playing in. I’m going to buy you a rocking horse as well. Not only that, but there are builders there, so there’s a huge pile of sand you can play in. There are painters, decorators and carpenters as well. It’ll be such fun helping them.’ He turned to Aurelia. ‘Would you please be so good as to get his things ready, or do I have to send for the bailiffs?’
Benjamin won. Of course, he won, and he parted little Benjie, noisily wailing, from his weeping mother. In her immediate grief, Aurelia was tearful but silent as they walked through the door into the sunshine. Little Benjie’s wailing awoke Christina, and Aurelia was suddenly torn between tending to her and her departing son. Because she had no idea when she might see him again, she decided that Christina must wait. Instead, she followed in Benjamin’s wake as he strode triumphantly, vindictively down the entry and onto the street to his gig, carrying her beloved son away.
Listening to the cries of little Benjie as Benjamin drove off tore Aurelia apart. She stood and watched, trembling and helpless, as the gig and its precious little passenger disappeared. Back inside the house, she slumped into the chair in which she was sitting before Benjamin arrived. Inconsolably, she wept, her head in her hands. The childish drawings Benjie had created still lay on the table. She picked one up and gazed at it through watery eyes. It depicted a house, a yellow egg with spidery legs that was the sun, and three simplistic figures. She lifted the sheet of paper and kissed it, before putting it down and continuing to weep. Tears fell onto the writing paper on which she intended to pass on her condolences to Clarence Froggatt.
Meanwhile, Christina was still clamouring for attention. Aurelia dried her eyes, went up the narrow, twisting staircase, lifted Christina from her cot and hugged her.
‘Nobody’s going to take you, my angel,’ she whimpered softly to the child. ‘Nobody.’
She carried Christina downstairs and sat for ages in the armchair on the hearth, holding the baby protectively. If only she could glean some clue as to when she might see her son again. There must be some way, even if it meant sneaking into Holly Hall House when Benjamin was not there.
Aurelia was drained of emotion. She stood up, still holding Christina, and caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Her eyes were puffy and she thought she looked dreadful. Nor did she feel like writing. The sheet of writing paper as yet bore only the date, her address and the telltale mark of tears shed. On it she wrote Buy mouse traps.
Clarence Froggatt would have to wait for his letter. After all, his loss was no greater than hers.
* * *
Chapter 29
The hearse arrived at The Larches at eleven o’clock sharp to convey Harriet Froggatt, née Meese, to her final resting place. Dr and Mrs Froggatt accompanied Clarence, having stayed the night sleeping in a new bed, with new sheets and blankets, in a room that was strange to them. George remained in the tender care of a wet nurse, who was making a decent fist of weaning the baby.
One of the pall-bearers, dressed in black with a shining black top hat, drove them to the church in a shining black victoria, drawn by a well-groomed pair of shining black horses. The pristine equipage followed the hearse, adorned with wreaths, for the long haul to St Michael’s Church in Brierley Hill.
For the sake of convenience, the Meese family, rather than first having to make their way to The Larches, arranged to meet the hearse at the church, so promenaded, heads bowed, from their home on Brierley Hill’s High Street. The group’s solemnity was a signal to all passers-by of the collective grief of losing one so young, one who had held the world and all its myriad delights and comforts at her fingertips.
Priss, statuesque in a black satin dress and veiled bonnet to match, ambled deferentially alongside her mother and father. Her five sisters, also clad in shimmering black, walked silently in their wake. Although it was not entirely common practice for women to attend funerals, the Meese girls were sufficiently defiant of accepted convention to wish to do so. Only the servants remained behind, preparing sandwiches and other delicacies for the sustenance of those mourners who wished to return with them afterwards.
They all remained silent as they walked up the steep, broad path to the church and lined up behind the coffin, Clarence and the pall-bearers, exchanging tearful glances. Priss rushed to Clarence, and they embraced in mutual consolation, inducing a fresh flow of tears from both. A growing number of folk who had known and liked Harriet were standing and watching, lining the paths and the periphery of the churchyard. Among the gathering onlookers, many a handkerchief wiped many an eye.
Soon, Cuthbert Delacroix appeared, looking suitably mournful in his long black cassock as he came to meet the cortège. On hearing the news of Harriet’s death, he was adamant that he should conduct the funeral service, having officiated at her marriage to Clarence. In an exchange of letters, the vicar of St Michael’s agreed. Cuthbert shook hands with Clarence, clasped his arm, and quietly stated how desperately sorry he was for his sudden and unanticipated loss, a loss which all who knew and loved Harriet would most certainly feel acutely. Then, with a signal that the service should begin, he turned around, and the coffin and the cortège followed him up the aisle of the church to the accompaniment of soft chords flowing gently from the organ.
The church was full of Harriet’s friends, more relatives, members of the Amateur Dramatics Society – old and new – customers of Eli Meese, as well as regular members of the congregation paying their respect for the unstinting time Harriet had given to St Michael’s. As he followed the cortège with misty eyes, Clarence noted Algie Stokes standing reverentially with head bowed, Marigold at his side, and Aurelia Sampson, unashamedly holding the child she’d had by Algie Stokes, standing next to Marigold. Even in his grief, it struck Clarence what a peculiar arrangement the trio must endure between them, how tolerant Algie’s wife must be, being fully aware of the erstwhile affair between her husband and her half-sister.
‘We brought nothing into this world,’ Cuthbert recited dolefully as he promenaded slowly, ponderously, hands clasped before him, towards the chancel steps, ‘and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord…’
The service progressed very solemnly to sniffs and frequent whimpers from the Meese family. After appropriate hymns, readings and Cuthbert’s eulogy, it was time to lay Harriet in her final resting place.
Back outside in the exposed churchyard. a stiff breeze had got up as usual, blowing in cooler air. The treetops rustled, and flowers on surrounding graves swayed and spun as if in sympathy with these more recently bereaved. Priss and all her sisters stood together, arms linked, overlooking the precisely cut rectangular hole in the hallowed ground, and shivered.
‘And she never even knew her baby,’ Priss said softly to herself. ‘Never so much as held him for a moment.’
Her sisters heard the heart-rending comment, and the two on either side of her simultaneously put their arms around her waist,
as aware as anybody how close she and Harriet had always been. Priss wept silently, surprised that she still had tears left to cry. Why had this dreadful thing happened, she pondered in her grief? Was there really a God? If there truly was a God, a benign God as she had always believed, why had He allowed poor Harriet to die, good and kind soul that she was? Why had He allowed Harriet to die and never know her child, when He spared so many brigands and rotters?
‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed,’ Cuthbert droned, ‘we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life…’
As the sandy earth thudded onto the lid of the coffin, Priss swayed against Emily, who held on to her steadfastly. Clarence felt the arms of his father clutch him comfortingly around the shoulders. This was the closest either would be to Harriet again. It crossed both their minds that from this moment, she was being left to moulder in her shroud, to rot to slime and ultimately to dust, to be irrevocably consumed, unyielding, by the earth.
In her gloved hand, Priss was already holding a small lace handkerchief. She lifted her veil and dabbed at the hot tears that were once more stinging her eyes, and felt another squeeze of sympathy from Emily. From this elevated place, she looked out across the churchyard, across the miles, across the headgear of the coal mines, across the kilns and cones of the brickworks, the potteries and the glassworks, across the ironworks, the red-brick chimneys that even now were streaming plumes of grey smoke into the hazy blue sky. With all this human activity so evident in the broad landscape, one thing was obvious: life goes on.
Clarence was standing morosely on the opposite side of the grave, hands held in front of him. When the ceremony was over, Priss picked her way over the grass and stood with him.
‘Well, she’s gone, Clarence,’ she said softly, and with infinite compassion.
Clarence nodded gloomily. ‘Aye, she’s gone.’ He felt the comforting pat on the shoulder from his father who tactfully turned away, leaving his son to talk. ‘I feel robbed, Priss…Robbed…We had such a short time together.’
‘Yet never to be forgotten,’ Priss suggested.
‘Never to be forgotten indeed,’ he sighed.
‘I find it inconsolably sad that little George will never have known his mother.’
‘I know,’ he replied with a shake of his head.
‘How’s the poor little chap today?’
‘Shaping up, Priss, thank God. We’ll rear him. He’s all I have of her now.’
‘He’s all every one of us will have. But you see, Clarence, in the midst of death there is life after all. And one thing’s for certain – the child is blessed with plenty of aunts who’ll look after him. We’ll all do our bit.’
‘Oh, I know you will,’ he agreed, wiping away a tear. ‘And thank you. I couldn’t have wished for a more caring family for my son to be born into. I only wish—’ He broke down, and Priss held him supportively as his shoulders shook with the bitter agony of loss.
Everybody witnessed his pain, including Algie, Marigold and Aurelia, who were watching from the sidelines.
‘Such a damn shame,’ whispered Marigold sincerely. She was holding Christina at this time to give Aurelia’s arms a rest. ‘Nobody deserves what Clarence must be going through.’
‘I agree,’ conceded Algie, for once feeling pity for this man against whom he harboured grievances.
‘We all experience grief at some point,’ Aurelia declared, thinking of her own recent loss of Benjie. ‘And it can come from any direction, from what I can see of it.’
‘And so suddenly, sometimes.’ Marigold reached out for her sister’s hand and gave it a momentary squeeze. ‘I reckon you’m right, Aurelia. I reckon it can.’
‘I wrote to Clarence, you know. At first I didn’t, because I was too upset when Benjamin took Benjie away. After a day or two, though, when I could think more clearly, I wrote, just offering my condolences, that’s all. After all, we were engaged to be married once – we were very close. I feel so sorry for him now…’
‘Anyway, you two,’ Aurelia said in a tone that meant she was about to change tack, ‘why don’t you come back with me to my humble little abode for a cup of tea? God knows I could murder one. On the way we can buy some fresh cakes from Mills’s.’
‘If you like,’ Marigold answered. ‘Algie’s not seen your house yet, have you Algie?’
‘No. All I know is that it’s in Talbot Street. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Talbot Street even. Anyway, I fancy one of Mills’s egg custards.’
‘This afternoon,’ Aurelia went on, ‘after you’ve gone, I’m bent on going to Holly Hall House. I’m determined to see Benjie, and I’m pretty certain Benjamin won’t be there.’
‘What if he is?’ Algie asked.
‘Well, if he is, he is. It makes no difference. I’m determined to see my son. I want to know how he is, if he’s being well-cared-for.’
‘I can stay and look after Christina for you, if you want, eh? Algie will go to work, I expect.’
‘Would you really, Marigold? I’d be so grateful.’
‘Course I will.’
* * *
One person not at the funeral was Benjamin Sampson. While Aurelia was visiting Holly Hall House that same afternoon, he was in London, paying court to Kate Stokes and growing more disconsolate. The carts of two tradesmen were on the drive. The horse of one had its head in a nosebag; the other was chomping at the fresh grass of the lawn, which was in need of attention. At the side of the stables a pile of broken bricks and plaster lay in a heap, alongside lengths of old splintered timber, close to where a carpenter was sawing.
Out of deference to her altered situation, Aurelia pulled on the front door bell. A workman answered it, wielding a broad paintbrush bearing pale blue paint.
‘Yes, miss?’ he greeted, as if impatient at being interrupted from his work. He looked her up and down.
‘Good afternoon,’ she replied with a smile meant to enchant. ‘I’m Mrs Sampson. Or, rather, I’m the ex-Mrs Sampson. I’ve called to see my son.’
‘Mr Sampson ain’t ’ere, miss.’
‘Well, I didn’t think he would be.’ She smiled again, wide-eyed. ‘I prefer to come when he’s out. Maybe if you could get Jane, the maid, or Joyce, the nanny.’
‘There’s on’y a maid ’ere, miss. Ne’er a nanny so far as I know. Yo’d best come in and I’ll fetch ’er for thee.’
‘Thank you.’
She stepped inside. The first thing she noticed was that the balustrade that ran up the stairs was different; something exceedingly more exquisite stood in its place, wearing a coat of pale blue. All the doors off the hall were new. They were open and she could see sheets draped over floors and furniture, ladders and stepladders formed triangles with walls. When the workman disappeared Aurelia craned her neck to see into the drawing room. It housed a new, exotic-looking fireplace to which no awful swags could be attached. New wallpaper adorned the walls, bright, fresh and cheery. Unable to resist, she ventured in and lifted a corner of one of the protective dust sheets. A new armchair lay beneath it. Why couldn’t he have done this for me? she asked herself. Then she heard voices, one of which was Jane’s. Immediately she stepped back into the hall.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ Jane greeted, with barely a smile.
‘Good afternoon, Jane. Thank you so much for seeing me. I know I’m not…I called on the off-chance of seeing little Benjie.’
‘Your son ain’t here, Mrs Sampson.’
‘Oh, what a pity,’ she sighed. ‘Out with his nanny, I suppose?’
‘Shall we go into the small sitting room, Mrs Sampson?’ Jane suggested. ‘At least that room is finished…and we can talk,’ she added in a whisper.
‘Very well.’
Jane followed Aurelia into the sitting room, where she invariably used to spend her mornings and entertain visitors. Th
e room was newly decorated, pleasantly so, with elaborate and very stylish new curtains at the windows, and a new carpet. There was new furniture, and everything smelt pristine and freshly painted. Aurelia took in the changes as Jane closed the door behind her.
‘Everything’s different, Jane.’
‘As you say, Mrs Sampson.’
‘Shame the place wasn’t renovated like this years ago.’
‘Maybe so,’ Jane said. She hesitated, and suggested Mrs Sampson sit down.
Mrs Sampson felt slightly awkward having been given permission by the maid to sit, but suspected the maid felt just as awkward, having to contend with the ex-wife of the man who employed her. After all, her loyalties must lie entirely with him now.
‘So is my son likely to be away long, Jane? I can wait.’
‘I’ll get into trouble if Mr Sampson finds out I’ve allowed you in the house.’
‘Well, don’t worry, Jane, I won’t tell him.’
‘I understand, you see, that since your divorce, Mr Sampson has custody of Benjie, and he says you are not allowed to see him.’
‘Is he here?’ Aurelia asked, challenging Jane’s earlier assertion.
‘No, Mrs Sampson. I expect you might know where he is, though. Mr Sampson has a woman, I believe. I believe she used to be employed here as nanny, before I was employed here.’
‘Yes. Maude Atkins. So what about Joyce, the child’s nanny now?’
‘Joyce was dismissed, Mrs Sampson.’
‘Dismissed?’ she queried with horror.
‘The day after you left this house for good, Mr Sampson dismissed her.’
‘So now, Benjie is being looked after by Maude Atkins? All the time?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Have you seen Benjie here since I first took him away?’
‘No, ma’am. I expect that woman’s got him all the time, since you ain’t.’
‘Was he dissatisfied with Joyce’s work, Jane?’
‘That I don’t know. Even though we both lived here under the same roof, she kept herself to herself, but she seemed capable enough. We had little to do with one another…But…’ Jane looked into her lap as she sat.