For no reason that Connie could explain she was suddenly back in her granny’s cottage; Larry was crying and blue with cold as he yammered for something to eat, the newborn baby as white and cold as the porcelain dolls in the big shops in Fawcett Street and High Street West, and her granny huddled in her old shawl like a tiny wizened gnome. And her mam, oh, her mam – she had thought her mam was breathing her last. And then the door had opened and the farm boys had brought in food, armfuls of food, and coal and wood. Dan had done all that. And he’d brought the doctor too.
She made a sound like a little moan and on hearing it she said again, out loud this time, ‘None of that. You’re going to get through this, this is nothing. And he was always just a dream. At the bottom of you you knew he was just a dream.’
‘Eh? What?’ Mary emerged from under her covers like Neptune from the deep, and at the sight of her friend’s face – her eyes blinking like an owl’s and her hair sticking up in all directions – Connie couldn’t help smiling as she said, ‘Nothing, lass. I was talking to myself.’
‘Eee, Connie, first sign of madness, that is, as me mam used to tell me da when he was mutterin’ an’ carryin’ on when he’d got his linins on back to front after a night’s drinkin’.’
Mary was doing that more and more now, Connie thought to herself, returning her friend’s grin before pulling her coat round her and making her way to the kitchen. Reminiscing about her family, laughing and talking about the good times they had shared before her childhood had come to such a brutal end and the court case had ripped them apart. It seemed Wilf was working like a healing balm on the deep secret wounds, and the nice things – the warm, happy memories – were coming more and more to the fore. It was good to see. It was very good to see.
And then, as a flustered Mary came padding behind her, her bulky bedspread wrapped round her and trailing on the floor, her friend said, ‘Oh, lass, lass, I’m sorry, I am that. I dinna know what I’m thinkin’ of. It should be me lookin’ after you with yesterday an’ all. Now you get.yourself back to bed an’ I’ll bring a sup of tea, all right?’ Connie found herself smiling again.
‘No one is going back to bed, Mary. You’re going to work – they can’t get rid of you just ’cos you’re my friend – and I’m going to pay a visit to West Wear Street later.’
‘You’re not?’ Mary’s eyes were wide. ‘You’re not goin’ to the police station?’
‘I am.’ Connie was determined Mary wouldn’t see how terrified she was by the prospect of entering the grim brick building with its narrow windows and forbidding exterior. ‘I’m going to report him, lass. I’m going to make sure I’m a sharp thorn in Colonel Fairley’s side if nothing else.’
‘Eee.’ Mary was lost for words for a moment and then she clutched at her stomach, her face unconsciously comical as she said, ‘Oh, I’ve got to go to the lavvy, lass. It’s givin’ me the skitters just to think about it. You’re one on your own an’ no mistake.’
Connie was doubly glad of the resolve which had had her up and breakfasted and the living room tidied and put to rights by eight o’clock, because it was then that Lucy Alridge had called.
Mary had been gone some fifteen minutes when Connie heard the knock at the front door, and for a moment, realising she was all alone except for the old lady upstairs who was as deaf as a post and none too steady on her legs, she hesitated to answer it. It was then that she was made to appreciate fully just how much the Colonel’s attack had unnerved her, and she didn’t like the feeling of fear which had flooded her limbs making them weak. She took a deep breath, unconsciously raising her chin and narrowing her eyes as she walked into the gloomy hall, made even darker by the atrocious weather outside, and she didn’t hesitate as she opened the door.
‘Lucy!’
‘Can I come in, Connie?’ And then, as she saw Connie’s gaze move up and down the street, ‘I’m alone, there’s no one with me.’
Connie’s heart was thumping against her ribs at the sight of the woman she had come to think of as a good friend in the last eleven months. Had Lucy come to add her weight to that of her husband and Colonel Fairley? Or maybe she had been sent as a mediator to persuade her to quieten down and accept the status quo? It seemed likely and Connie really didn’t feel up to another battle so soon, but she had noticed the other woman was looking peaky and remembering that Lucy had been ill the night before Connie opened the door wide. ‘Come in.’ She stood aside to let Lucy pass her before closing the door, and then she indicated towards their living room with a wave of her hand.
‘Thank you.’ Lucy preceded her into the room, glancing swiftly at the blazing fire in the shining, blackleaded grate and the warm rosy glow from the curtains and cushions, before she turned to Connie saying, ‘This is lovely, so bright and cosy.’
‘Thank you.’ Connie’s voice, like her face, was stiff, but then in the next moment she was blinking hard, her face suffused with colour, as Lucy put out a gentle hand and touched her bruised cheek, saying, ‘Did he do that? The beast! Oh, the beast. I wish Harold was here to see it, but I made him stay at home. I thought after yesterday that he was one of the last people in the world you would wish to see this morning.’
‘You. . . you believe me then?’ Connie couldn’t accept what she was hearing and her face reflected this.
It caused the older woman to take both of Connie’s hands and draw her over to the saddle which had been placed at an angle before the fire; Lucy pulled Connie down beside her before she said, her voice husky, ‘Of course I believe you, dear. And I told Harold so when he relayed what had happened.’ Here Lucy paused.
She loved her husband, she loved him very much and she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Connie of the fierce quarrel that had taken place when she had heard of his cavalier treatment of their assistant housekeeper. Of course the trouble was that Harold had a blind spot where Reginald was concerned. It came from the Colonel’s kindness to him when Harold had been suddenly orphaned at the age of twelve. Although left financially secure Harold had found himself alone in the world save for one aged grandmother and spinster aunt and Reginald – a second cousin twice removed or some such thing on his mother’s side. The women had been chary of taking on a lively youngster in the holidays but Reginald, having recently left the army and with time to kill, had made a home for the grieving boy as well as visiting him in term time, first at boarding school and then at university. She couldn’t deny that Reginald Fairley had been good to Harold, but that didn’t blind Lucy to the Colonel’s shortcomings. The man was a lecher. She had had occasion to think so in the past and this with Connie confirmed all her worst misgivings.
‘Connie, dear, I have to ask – as a friend and not in my position as Harold’s wife – did the worst happen?’
‘The worst?’ And then Connie’s face turned a bright scarlet. ‘No, no. I managed to get away before. . . No, he didn’t. . .’
Lucy gave a great sigh of relief, slumping slightly in her seat as she fiddled with the silk scarf at her neck before saying, ‘Could I have a glass of water please, Connie? I confess to feeling a little faint.’
‘Of course.’ Connie fairly flew into the kitchen, returning almost immediately, and it wasn’t until Lucy had taken several sips of the water that Connie said, her voice concerned, ‘You shouldn’t have come, you’re not well.’
‘I’m a little indisposed, that’s all.’ Lucy hesitated. She had only told Harold the news last night. And that in a fit of rage when she had shouted at him – yes, she had actually shouted that she wouldn’t be able to bear giving birth to a child whose father had been responsible for such a severe miscarriage of justice. She had regretted that later. Especially when Harold had actually wept with joy that she was going to have a baby at last after their ten years of marriage. ‘I’m expecting a child,’ she said shyly.
‘Oh Lucy, that’s wonderful. I’m so pleased for you.’
‘Yes, it is rather wonderful but a little frightening too.’ Lucy suddenly leant fo
rward, gripping one of Connie’s hands and her voice no longer sounded like that of a thirty-year-old woman but of a young, nervous girl as she said, ‘That’s one of the reasons why I don’t want to lose your friendship, but only one. There are many more. Connie, I don’t presume to judge your mother –’
‘She did what she had to do.’ It was short and final and indicated that Connie wasn’t going to apologise for her mother now or at any other time.
‘Yes, of course.’ If Lucy had been truthful at this point it would certainly have heralded the end of their friendship, because what she was thinking was, No one has to do that, no one, there are always other means to make a livelihood. However, she was wise enough to keep such thoughts to herself, and she said instead, ‘But whatever happened with your mother is in the past after all. Harold told me about the letter last night’ – and as Connie raised her eyebrows – ‘I didn’t know until then, he had kept the matter from me because I’ve been feeling unwell. It . . . it accused you of certain impropriety too. It was hateful.’
‘I gathered that.’ It was somewhat dry, and their eyes held for a moment before Lucy rose distractedly, placing the glass of water on the mantelpiece before turning back to Connie.
Lucy was feeling awkward, very awkward, and more than a little guilty. Although Harold had been aware of her friendship with their assistant housekeeper he had thought it much more impersonal than it was, and there she had deliberately misled him. No, not misled exactly, Lucy corrected in the next moment. She just hadn’t divulged the depth of it, that was all. Harold was a stickler for convention and she had known it would trouble him if he’d thought she was making a confidante of one of their staff. But Connie was different. She was, she was different, but it would have been difficult to explain that to Harold with his prejudices. But she was making excuses for herself here. The plain truth of the matter was that if she had imparted some of the things Connie had mentioned in the past – her love of books and her literary knowledge and intelligence, her strong ethics and moral beliefs, and the specific fact that she had never had so much as a gentleman caller or man friend in the whole of her life – her husband might have reacted differently when he had first received that dreadful letter, or at least questioned its validity with regard to Connie herself. Of course there was Connie’s mother – she had to confess she had found that shocking, she could still hardly believe it – but she had never approved of the bigoted axiom of the sins of the fathers. Or in this case the mothers. . .
Lucy breathed in and out deeply twice before she said, ‘Connie, I have spoken to Harold and he now understands how wrong he was. Truly he does.’
‘Does he?’ Connie would have liked to have been able to accept Lucy’s words at face value, but a part of her – she wasn’t sure if it was intuition, cynicism or quite what – was saying, No, he wants you to believe he feels that way because you’re expecting his bairn and he doesn’t want you upset about me. The damage had been done as far as Harold Alridge was concerned. He would always be waiting for her to fall, to show herself in what he considered were her true colours.
‘Yes, yes, dear.’ Lucy now reseated herself on the saddle before continuing rapidly, ‘After Harold and I had spoken last night he went to the Colonel’s room and told him he was no longer welcome at the hotel. I understand Reginald, Colonel Fairley, is going to leave for Europe later this morning. He was going to go anyway at the end of the month, he’s just brought the date forward a few weeks. He . . . he won’t be returning. And the matter of Mrs Pegg and the keys has been dealt with. She has received her notice this morning and she won’t be given a reference. Harold would like you to assume the position of housekeeper if you feel able to return to the hotel?’
The last was spoken in the form of a plea, and it moderated Connie’s tone, putting what could be described as a sad note in her voice when she said, ‘You’re asking me to keep my mouth shut, to let the Colonel get off scot free.’
‘No. . . No.’
Aye, she was right enough, even if Lucy didn’t realise it herself. Mr Alridge was fond of his relation, everyone knew that, and that’s why the female staff had put up with the sly nips, suggestive remarks and familiar slaps on the backside the Colonel had indulged in on his visits. There were fifty – a hundred – ready to step into each pair of shoes should anyone be dismissed, and all the cards were stacked on the side of the gentry. The hotel wasn’t different to the rest of the world in that respect, Connie thought bitterly. The poor were expendable.
Look at what had emerged from the enquiry into the terrible loss of life when the Titanic had sunk over twenty months ago now. It wasn’t the wives and bairns of the millionaires and upper crust lying at the bottom of the North Atlantic, was it. And the verdict of negligence didn’t explain why the managing director of the owners, White Star Line, got away in the first lifeboat when only twenty of the hundred and eighty Irish passengers were saved. She could remember a Southwick man who had been visiting his granny in the workhouse at the time saying, his tone morose, that the owners had been Argus-eyed in making sure they got the best deal from the Sunderland Forge and Engineering Company who had supplied the electric winches to the doomed liner, but his neighbour who lived in Vena Street and who’d worked as a greaser in the engine room had told him – being one of the few working-class men to survive – that they hadn’t been so vigilant in kitting the ship out with adequate lifeboats.
‘Connie, please, I want you to come back.’
‘I can’t. I really can’t, Lucy.’ Whatever happened now her time at the Grand was finished, she had known that when she’d awoken that morning.
‘The housekeeper’s job is yours, I mean it, and it would be twice the wage you are getting now.’
‘I don’t want it.’ Had she just said that? Connie asked herself with something akin to amazement. She had just turned down over a pound a week – she must be mad.
Lucy Alridge didn’t speak for a moment, but she held out her hand to her and when Connie took it she said quietly, ‘I have no right to ask this of you, no right at all, but. . . but I’m going to ask it anyway. Colonel Fairley is going away this morning and Harold has made it abundantly clear that there is no question of him returning at any time in the future. It hurt Harold very much to have to do that. Oh, I know’ – she flapped her other hand as Connie straightened and went to speak – ‘I know the Colonel has brought all this on himself, but he was very good to Harold at a time when no one else was there for him. He really isn’t all bad, and this, you standing up to him, has taught him a lesson, Connie.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me if I find that hard to believe just at the moment.’
Connie’s voice had been tight, and Lucy nodded. ‘You have every reason for saying that of course, but –’ She stopped, and then said in a rush, ‘I’m asking you not to take this matter any further, for Harold’s sake.’
She had known that was what Lucy was going to say but it still hurt and Lucy must have been aware of this because she continued quickly, ‘I’m sorry. Oh, I am sorry, but Reginald is the only family Harold has and. . . But that’s not a good reason, not for you after what the Colonel put you through.’
Had she purposely chosen those very words? Connie stared at the beautiful face in front of her and Lucy’s eyes, luminescent in their appeal, gazed back. ‘The only family Harold has.’ How could she fight against the shaft of pain that had penetrated her heart at those words? She had suffered enough from losing everyone she held dear. She didn’t want to be the means of making another suffer. But this was different, oh, it was. And the Colonel and Harold were two grown men, not bewildered little bairns. Nevertheless, the empty desolation she had felt standing at the graveside and knowing they were gone from her as she heard the clods falling on the coffins was as real in this moment as when it had happened. She could actually smell the fresh hewn earth, feel the scented warmth of the bright summer’s day and hear a bird singing high in the thermals.
She wanted to bend forw
ard, to wrap her arms round her waist and squeeze tight, but instead she swallowed deeply and her words were precise and to the point when she said, ‘I’ll hold my hand, but for you, Lucy, not Mr Alridge. I can’t pretend.’
‘Oh, Connie.’ Lucy had no voice with which to continue, and after gulping in her throat she lowered her head for some twenty seconds before she raised it to say, ‘In case. . . in case you felt you couldn’t return Harold has made some financial provision. It might take you some time to find another position and this is the least, the very least, we can do. He will write a reference today and you’ll receive it tomorrow. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my dear. I wouldn’t have had this happen for all the world.’
‘I know.’ Lucy’s words, said with such deep sincerity, eased the pain in her heart and brought a lump to her throat, but it was all too much. She just wanted to be left alone now.
‘We can remain friends?’
There was urgency in Lucy’s tone and Connie forced a smile, taking the sealed envelope Lucy proffered as she said, ‘Of course we can.’
‘I don’t have many friends. My childhood was not conducive to it, and although I have social acquaintances –’ Lucy’s voice ended abruptly and she rose from the saddle, turning blindly towards the sitting room door and, after opening it, walking the two or three steps which took her to the front door. Here she turned, saying, ‘Next week? Could we meet for tea next week? Perhaps Tuesday afternoon at say three o’clock at Binns?’
Connie moved her head in an uncertain movement. ‘Won’t Mr Alridge mind?’
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