In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  “But you do like women?”

  Defensively: “Yes. I do.”

  “And have you slept with a woman?”

  “Oh, hundreds of times. We had to stick together in the war to keep out the men.”

  “No, seriously Dora, you know what I mean.”

  “I said people have such dirty minds.”

  “So you’re not going to answer?”

  “No I’m not.” Her voice suddenly sounded drowsy. “I’m beginning to feel awfully sleepy, Jean. Good night.”

  “Good night, darling,” he murmured, relishing the moment, wondering if this was the closest he was ever going to get to her and, leaning towards her, he kissed her cheek. Dora gave a grunt of pleasure and snuggled up against him like a cat, her body pressing against his. He could feel her warmth seep through him and he put his arms round her tightly and hugged her.

  But inside he could have wept.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The jeweller leaned over the counter, eyepiece in his eye, examining the ring very carefully. He turned it this way and that, held it up to the light, then the shade, and could find no flaw.

  “It is a very fine piece of jewellery,” he said scrutinising it again with the utmost care. “I would say made in Holland, maybe,” he put his head on one side, “eighty, a hundred years ago. It has all the hallmark of Amsterdam.” He removed his glass and looked curiously at the woman who had brought it in. Past her prime he would have thought, though maybe younger than she looked; certainly down on her luck with worn shoes and an extremely ill-fitting coat. The anxious expression on her face seemed to betray a nervousness that alarmed him.

  “May I ask how you came by this piece of jewellery, madam?”

  “Is it any business of yours?” Elizabeth asked brusquely, to which the jeweller replied:

  “Well madam, yes, it is. Please don’t misunderstand me but ...”

  “It’s not stolen if that’s what you mean!” Elizabeth exclaimed angrily. “It is an heirloom. I was left it by ... by a rich uncle.”

  “I see. I see.” The jeweller stuck his glass in his eye and once again revolved the ring between his finger and thumb. “Well, what do you intend to do about it, madam? Do you wish merely to value it for insurance or do you wish to sell it?”

  “I want to know how much it’s worth. How much I’d get for it, that is if I wished to sell ... a hundred pounds?” she added breathlessly.

  The jeweller gave an amused smile. “Much more than that.” He went on revolving the ring and then he looked across at his customer noting that the degree of her unease seemed to have increased and she kept glancing anxiously at the door. “If you would leave it with me for a day or two I would be in a better position to let you have a more accurate valuation. I might then be able to make you an offer to purchase it.”

  “Cash?” Elizabeth said quickly.

  “If that’s what you wish, madam.” The jeweller drew up a pad and began to scribble on it. “Might I have your name?” he said looking up.

  “Why?” she demanded aggressively.

  “So that I can give you a receipt. If I didn’t you would have no proof that you had left this valuable ring with me, and might never see it again.”

  Elizabeth leaned across the counter and rapidly gave him her name and address.

  “I’ll write to you in a few days.” The jeweller carefully put the ring – one of the finest he had seen in many a long year – back in its box. “Good day, Mrs Sprogett. Thank you for coming.”

  Elizabeth walked down the hill, dragging her feet like an old, or very weary woman. She was not old, but she was indeed very weary. She hated to part with the ring, but to her money was more important than possessions. Money gave one independence, pride, because she so hated acknowledging the fact that her marriage to Frank was a failure; that he was a sick man, rendered useless by the effects of the war. And sickness had made him selfish, boorish. Their life together was hell on earth.

  It would be very easy to throw up everything and go back to her mother. Her parents knew something of her difficulties, but she tried to minimise them. She visited them, rather than let them visit her; but her mother came into Blandford every week for market day, and Beth Yewell was no fool. She knew quite well what was going on and longed to be able to help her stubborn, wilful daughter.

  Elizabeth Sprogett was an unhappy and discontented woman. She felt she had been born to better things, and life had disappointed her. Consequently she nursed a deep grudge against humanity. She had always been capricious, ambitious too to enjoy the finer things of life, to rise higher than her parents who were servants, her sister Jenny who was the wife of a farmhand, and her brother Jo who worked in the flour mill at Wenham.

  Yet Jenny’s husband was prosperous as farm workers went. He had a good boss, they had a nice cottage on the farm estate, and two children who were healthy and well cared for. And Jo, also married but as yet with no children, had expectations one day to run the mill. He, too, lived in a neat little cottage not far from his parents in Wenham, and his enterprising wife baked bread from the special, finely ground mill flour and sold it at a good profit to local bread shops.

  So Elizabeth, who hoped to outshine the rest of the family had, in fact, drawn the short straw, moved lower down the scale and had been reduced to taking in washing and cutting down the family rations until they existed on a very meagre subsistence indeed. All because she was proud; would not take family charity or help from strangers.

  When Elizabeth got home she could hear voices and stood by the door listening. In the background the baby grizzled away. For once she had left the children in her husband’s care while she transacted her business with the jeweller, and her only hope now was that no harm had befallen them. She flung open the door and found Frank, face chalkier than usual, looking angrily at a man who stood with his back to the door, and who turned round when it opened.

  “Ah, Mrs Sprogett,” the man said, with relief in his voice.

  “I’m very glad to see you.” Producing a handkerchief he mopped his brow.

  “Oh?” Elizabeth closed the door examining him suspiciously. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m from the brewery, Mrs Sprogett.” The man’s expression was cheerful, but his faltering voice betrayed his unease. “I’ve been trying to explain to your husband ...”

  “We’re to be flung out,” Frank cried. “Flung out into the street.”

  “It’s not that at all, Mrs Sprogett,” the man protested. “I was merely telling your husband that the brewery has, in fact, been very good. It is three years since the war ended and we have allowed you to live in this house which in fact belongs to us, and which we need, despite the fact that your husband is an invalid and cannot work.”

  “Very good!” Elizabeth exclaimed, removing her hat and tossing it into a chair. “Huh!”

  “Betsy’s wet, Ma,” Mary informed her, finger in her mouth.

  “Then she’ll have to stay wet,” Elizabeth retorted, turning her attention to the man from the brewery, whose name she did not know.

  “You consider you’re very good, do you Mr ...”

  “Kemp, Mrs Sprogett, Roylston Kemp.”

  “What a very fine name, Mr Kemp. Roylston, indeed.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Sprogett.” Mr Kemp, even more ill at ease, shuffled his feet.

  “And do you have a nice house, a family perhaps?”

  “I have a house owned by the brewery like you, madam. Only I still work for the brewery, and Mr Sprogett unfortunately, through no fault of his own, does not.”

  “Exactly!” Elizabeth took off her coat and threw it on the same chair as the hat, only with a little more force. The baby, obviously in discomfort, bawled even more loudly, and a disagreeable odour emanating from her pram slowly permeated the small front room. Elizabeth ignored it, metaphorically rolling up her sleeves for a fight as she looked at Mr Kemp.

  “And were you in the war Mr Kemp?”

  “Ah, mmm ...” Mr Ke
mp cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Unfortunately I was not fit.”

  “Oh, not fit!” Elizabeth mocked, hands on her hips and, tossing back her head, uttered a raucous laugh.

  Mr Kemp looked aggrieved. “I have a weak heart and poor eyesight. I would like to have served my country ...”

  “Well, my husband did serve his country,” Elizabeth bawled, leaning forward, “and he lost his health and his wits doing it. He’s good for nothing, unemployable, and not a penny does he get for it save what the army welfare lets him have. These men were called to give their lives, they did it willingly – Frank was one of the first in these parts to volunteer – and now the country doesn’t want to know and I, Mr Kemp,” she emphasised her point by stabbing her finger at her breast, “I have to keep this household fed and take in washing and ... oh my God, you people make me sick. You and others like you!” She swept over to the door, flung it open and shook her hand at him. “Now get out and stay out, and you can tell your masters that if they want to get me and my family out of here they’ll have to call the undertaker. Feet first it will be. Feet first.”

  Mr Kemp’s attitude was now reduced to that of a small rabbit on whom a large, ferocious domestic cat was about to spring. He looked right and left but there was no escape. He hastily made his way towards the door. Then he paused:

  “I must tell you, Mrs Sprogett that my superiors will not take kindly to this. I have been asked to give you notice, and I now hand you this.” He thrust a set of papers he had produced from his pocket at her, keeping at arm’s length. “My superiors have been generous, having in mind the circumstances and the service provided by Mr Sprogett in the past. Three months, Mrs Sprogett, three months they are prepared to grant you, after which –”

  “GET OUT!” Elizabeth screamed, moving menacingly towards him as, panic on his face, he turned and rushed out into the street, hotly pursued by his tormentor. “Don’t come back,” she cried after him as lace curtains were hastily drawn aside and curious faces appeared at the windows of neighbouring houses, “or if you come back don’t forget the hearse. I say: don’t forget the BLOODY HEARSE.”

  But by this time Mr Kemp was well out of earshot.

  Face flushed, trembling from her efforts, but well pleased with their effect, Elizabeth returned triumphantly to the house. “There, I told him, the bugger,” she said. “He won’t dare come here again in a hurry.”

  “It’s pointless,” Frank looked at her sullenly. “You’ll only get his back up. I was trying to speak to him reasonably, plead with him, appeal to his better nature, and then you burst in and start behaving like a fishwife.”

  “Then I am a fishwife,” Elizabeth snarled, “and get that stinking baby out of here, Mary, and change her nappy, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Mary, who was only four, yet older than her years, pushed the pram out of the room, kicking the door shut behind her.

  “No need to shout,” Frank grumbled, pausing to roll a cigarette which he lit with trembling fingers. “We’ll have to go, Elizabeth. I reckon you’ll have to go and see your mother.”

  “And what do you expect my mother to do?”

  “Maybe they can help. Mrs Yetman –”

  “Mrs Yetman has got enough to do; besides I don’t want to ask my parents for help. I’ve told you that before, Frank. I’ve got too much pride, which is more than anyone can say of you.”

  “Then it’s the workhouse for us,” Frank moaned. “We’ll be split up and separated. The children taken from us. Will that make you happy?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said sitting down and wiping her hair away from her face with an air of complete exhaustion. “Yes it will. Very happy. I’ll have no more responsibilities. I’m sick of battling with the world, Frank Sprogett, without any help. Now the world can do what it likes. See if I care.”

  But Elizabeth did care. She was stubborn and she was proud. She was not a woman to give in; it was against her nature. When she was small she used to imagine herself as a fine lady, like Lady Woodville or Mrs Heering, people who had money, class, power. Even Sarah Jane Yetman was someone to emulate, despite the fact that she was a farmer’s daughter and her husband had been a builder; not what you’d call quality, not what you’d call class, but better than her. She fantasised all the time about what might be.

  Once when she’d worked on a farm, Carson Woodville had tried to proposition her, made advances, until her father found out and banished her to Blandford where she had become a maid at the Crown Hotel. But for that she might have become Lady Woodville, mistress of a fine house ... well, fanciful the idea might be, but stranger things had happened. While a maid at the Crown she had waited on Mrs Agnes Gregg, who later married Sir Guy ... which brought her back to thinking why he had left her a hundred pounds and the ring she was trying to sell.

  During the days that passed after the visit of Mr Kemp, Elizabeth waited anxiously to hear from the jeweller while plotting in her mind what she might do with a large sum of money. Maybe it would be enough for her to take off and begin a new life, somewhere overseas, as Mrs Gregg had told her she had, entertaining her with glamorous stories about far distant places.

  Would she leave her children? Well, she’d miss Jack. He was an engaging little fellow, as good as gold. Mary was always whingeing, her nose was always running, the baby always screaming. She knew that she was a conscientious but impatient mother, and an indifferent wife. She lost her temper with the children and she despised her husband. She had married Frank for better or worse and she was not true to her marriage vows. But she felt that life had dealt her a bad hand of cards and she deserved better, or she deserved at least to do as well as Jenny or Jo, who lived in nice houses, were properly fed and clothed, and had money to spend.

  So Elizabeth began to plan what she might do with the money she got from the ring, and the daring idea gradually formed in her mind that, perhaps, she would abandon her family altogether and set off for pastures new, just as Agnes Gregg had, returning a rich woman.

  Several days passed and Elizabeth heard nothing more from the jeweller, so she resolved to go and see him. She got through the morning’s washing, changed the baby, wiped Mary’s nose for about the twelfth time and was standing in front of the mirror pinning on her hat when there was a knock at the door. With an exclamation of irritation she hurried over and threw it open thinking it might be Mr Kemp and preparing, with some relish it must be said, to give him another piece of her mind.

  However, in front of her stood a broad-shouldered policeman, and his expression was not friendly.

  “Mrs Sprogett?” he enquired, consulting a notebook in his hand.

  “Yes, what is it?” she asked sharply, having as little respect for the law as anyone else who crossed her path.

  “Could I come in and have a few words, madam?” Without ceremony he pushed past her and stepped inside looking round.

  “Is this your property, Mrs Sprogett? Is Mr Sprogett about?”

  Elizabeth closed the door and came slowly towards him. “Who sent you?” she asked.

  “I am not at liberty to say that at the moment, madam.”

  “The brewery was it? Being thrown out, are we?”

  “Oh!” The policeman who, with a tall helmet on his head, nearly touched the ceiling, consulted his note book again. “This house belongs to the brewery does it?”

  “Yes it does, as you probably know, and so do all the other houses in the row.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Sprogett, I am obliged to you for that information.”

  “Well now you can get out.” Elizabeth pointed towards the door.

  “Now just a minute, madam, just a minute. Not so fast, if you please. I am here on another matter.” The policeman cleared his throat and fixed her with a still unfriendly eye. “It concerns a valuable diamond and sapphire ring which you gave to Harris the jeweller for valuation. Can you tell me how you came by that ring madam?”

  “I certainly can,” Elizabeth retorted ang
rily. “I was left it.”

  “Oh! May one ask by whom?”

  “No you may not. It was part of a bequest, and it’s none of your flaming business.”

  “I see.” The policeman put his notepad in the pocket of his tunic and fastened the button. “In that case I must ask you to accompany me to the police station, madam, and if you refuse you will be taken there by force.”

  “But you have no right ...”

  “I have every right,” the officer of the law put his hand firmly on her arm. “Is your husband at work madam?”

  “No he’s upstairs. He’s an invalid.”

  “Then may I go up and advise him?”

  For the first time Elizabeth’s aggression disappeared and an expression of fear came into her eyes, her attitude changing from defiance to supplication. She laid a hand on the policeman’s arm. “No!” she said sharply. “I don’t want him to know about this. I’ll go and tell him to look after the children. I’ll come with you. It can all be explained. I came by the ring quite legally, but I don’t want my husband to know about it. That’s all.”

  Mr Temple of Parson, Wilde and Brickell looked apologetically at Elizabeth. It was afternoon and she had been in the police station, virtually in detention as a thief, since morning. She had been served lunch in a cell and although she hated the location she was grateful for the food, and ate up every scrap. The solicitor had been unavailable, attending a client in another part of the town, but when he returned to his office and was given the message he hurried over and almost at once cleared Elizabeth of the charge of theft.

  She had left the police station accompanied by Mr Temple without a stain on her name, but she felt humiliated and angry. Mr Temple had taken her to his office, which was quite near the station, and given her a cup of tea. He then went and recovered the ring from the jeweller and they now sat with it in its box on the table between them.