And then the letter had come. She had been receiving letters almost every day from Dan – wonderful, thrilling letters that had her blushing as she read them – but she hadn’t recognised the handwriting on this particular envelope, and, thinking it was a communication with regard to the business, she had opened it quickly, without really concentrating. And then she had sat as though turned to stone, the blood draining from her face.
‘What is it?’
Connie tended to open the post when she gave Hazel her mid-morning bottle in the parlour upstairs – Ellen emerging from the bowels of the building for half an hour or so to help Mary in the shop and tea-rooms before disappearing back into her subterranean kingdom once Connie reappeared downstairs – but this particular day had been hectic and the post had been left until Connie had locked up and the two girls had gone upstairs with Hazel.
‘It’s. . .’ Connie couldn’t continue, handing the letter to Mary as she pressed her hand over her mouth.
‘Oh, lass, lass. Look, you’ve got to take this to the police, this is nasty. An’ the blighter didn’t have the guts to sign it!’
‘No, no I can’t do that.’
‘Why the dickens not?’
‘Because it’s from him, Dan’s brother, isn’t it. He’s trying to cause trouble. He probably knows by now that Dan asked me to marry him and this is his way of being spiteful.’
‘Spiteful?’ Mary shook her head as her eyes scanned the venom splattered over the paper in her hand. ‘This is a darn sight more than spiteful, lass. He wants lockin’ up if you ask me. And to say those things about you an’ her da. . .’ They both glanced at Hazel lying fast asleep in her crib to one side of the rocking chair. ‘If you showed this to Mr Alridge he’d get to the bottom of it – aye, an’ sort the blighter out by usin’ the law an’ all.’
‘I can’t, Mary.’ Connie held out her hand for the letter and once Mary had given it to her she ripped it into tiny pieces. ‘I’ll ignore it, that’s best in the long run. If Mr Alridge thought people were talking about us he might. . . he might take Hazel away and I promised Lucy. John’s had his say, he’ll consider he’s got his own back for yesterday. It’s finished with.’
But was it? She had seen John in action; he was unbalanced, vicious, and this was the second time he had written a series of lies about her. But he was Dan’s brother, and to report him to the police. . .
The second letter was more loathsome than the first, but it came some weeks later on the weekend Dan got twenty-four hours’ leave before he was shipped to France. He reached Sunderland in the morning and had to leave in the evening, and the day was so precious, so tender, Connie couldn’t spoil it by mentioning such obnoxious filth.
She saw Dan off at the station again, but this time they clung to each other in an agony of pain and longing, and Dan’s face was grey and stiff as he waved to her as the train departed. He was going across the water, into mayhem and confusion and death – but no, no, it wouldn’t be death, not for Dan, Connie told herself as she walked home in a maze of numbed misery. Dan would live. He would, he would live, and he would come back to her. He had to come back to her – anything else was unthinkable.
It was the middle of November when Connie and Mary were roused at four in the morning by a frantic Ellen to find the words ‘whore’s house’ daubed in whitewash on the pavement outside.
November had not been a good month. The letters had become weekly affairs that went straight into the fire without being opened, but their sinister content was nevertheless oppressive.
In the meantime, as Kitchener called for yet more volunteers and Queen Mary appealed to the women of the Empire to knit 300,000 pairs of socks for the troops, dysentery and other diseases were adding to the death toll inflicted by the battles, and more especially the trenches, on England’s manhood. Connie hadn’t heard from Dan in over a month and she was quietly desperate at what it meant. Men were dying in their thousands, often immersed in muck and freezing water so that their flesh slowly rotted on their bones. There was a stalemate amid the mud and barbed wire of the trenches, with reports from the front talking of little else but ‘alternate advances and retirements’; nobody had developed a tactic to break the deadlock.
Mary’s two brothers had joined up with the local regiment, the Durham Light Infantry, at the beginning of the month, the eldest just scraping in at an inch above the minimum height of 5 feet 3 inches, and Mary was living in fear that Wilf would do the same and was not at all her normal cheerful self. To cap it all, Harold Alridge was talking of moving away down south and engaging a full-time nanny to take charge of Hazel. This had come about just a few days ago, and Connie suspected from her ex-employer’s somewhat stiff stance when he had called to see her that he had got wind of something – a morsel of gossip, a rumour, whatever – concerning her supposed relationship with him, and moving away was the result. He had never actually got over the unease about her that the first letter had engendered and although he, of all people, knew these present rumours were untrue wouldn’t risk any slur on his good name or that of his beloved Lucy. But at least he had promised her he wouldn’t give the child to Lucy’s parents, that was something she supposed.
Connie stood, staring at the pavement, but through the shock and disgust a fortifying rage sent hot adrenalin into every nerve and sinew. Enough was enough; Dan’s brother or no, she was not going to be intimidated by scum like John Stewart for one more day.
‘I’ll clear it, lass.’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ She took the scrubbing brush and pail of hot soapy water from Ellen, her face grim and her mouth set. And she would do something else this evening once the tea-rooms had closed. She would go and see Art and Gladys and acquaint them with what had been happening. She had been holding her hand thus far because, for Dan’s sake, she hadn’t wanted to be responsible for hauling the name of Stewart into a police court. But that finished right here and now. She was going to fight this wicked and execrable persecution with every means at her disposal.
She didn’t have the power to change what was happening – or had happened – to Dan; neither did she have the legal right to prevent Harold Alridge taking Lucy’s daughter away to another part of the country, but this victimisation was different.
There was a great swelling deep inside her chest and she knew what it meant. All the worry and hurt and, yes, fear, of the past months was striving to burst forth in a flood of weeping, but she gritted her teeth as she told herself she wasn’t going to let John Stewart make her cry.
She would cry for Dan if she had to, aye, she would, and that wouldn’t be weakness. And if Hazel was taken away she would grieve for Lucy’s child because she loved the little bairn like her own and she couldn’t bear the thought of the infant growing up in a loveless environment, but John Stewart? He was scum – filth – the worst of society couldn’t hold a candle to that man, and she was blowed if he would break her. He was a devil, that’s what he was, but she was going to rise above this, and him. Or die in the attempt.
Chapter Twenty-One
The warmth of the greeting which Connie received at Art and Gladys’s that same evening went some way to easing the ache in her sore heart. She arrived at the house just as the door opened to emit a group of chattering women, and as she stood to one side to let them pass she almost turned and walked away. Almost. But she couldn’t weaken now, she told herself firmly. This thing – nasty and unpleasant as it was – had come to a head and it had to be sorted.
‘Connie?’ Gladys was right at the end of the stream of women, and as Dan’s sister-in-law caught sight of her Connie saw the blunt, good-natured face light up. ‘Connie, it is you! Oh, come away in, lass, come away in. It’s enough to freeze your lugs off out there.’
Connie found herself borne into the warm, bright parlour which was dotted with piles of material and clothing, and Gladys waved her arm at them as she said, ‘Excuse the mess, lass, it’s the sewing guild I belong to. We’re making clothes for the servicemen. You
never know, it might be Dan that gets one of our pairs of trousers or a jacket. Now, can I get you a cup of tea, lass?’
‘No, no please don’t go to any trouble.’ Connie was feeling acutely embarrassed in view of the nature of her visit and she stood in the middle of the room awkwardly, her cheeks flushed. ‘I just need a word with Art if he’s in?’
‘He’s took the bairns round me mam’s to escape this lot,’ Gladys said with a rueful glance at the bundles scattered about the room, ‘but he won’t be long. Sit yourself down, lass, and take the weight off and I’ll get that tea.’
‘Gladys?’ Something in Connie’s voice stopped the other woman’s bustling, and as they stood staring at each other Connie said quietly, ‘I’ve come about John, Dan’s brother, and. . . and it’s not very nice, Gladys, but first I wanted to ask you if you’d heard from Dan at all? He was writing every day until the middle of October, but the last few weeks I haven’t heard a thing.’
‘Oh, lass.’ Gladys took Connie’s hands in hers and squeezed them as she said, ‘Don’t worry, lass, don’t worry, I’m sure he’s all right, but we haven’t heard nothing neither. Mind he wasn’t writing every day to us’ – she said this with a smile and Connie smiled weakly back – ‘although it must be difficult depending where they are. Likely they had to move or something.’
‘Aye, I suppose so.’
‘An’ this is the ring then? By, it’s a beauty, lass. Me and Art were tickled pink when we heard.’
‘Were you?’ There was the faintest edge to Connie’s voice, and in answer to it Gladys said, her face solemn now and her hand still holding Connie’s left hand up in front of her eyes, ‘Aye, we were, I’m telling you straight, lass. You’re the one for him, there’s no mistaking it. Fair worships the ground you walk on, does Dan.’
‘Oh, Gladys.’
And then it all came pouring out in a flood of emotion which wasn’t at all how Connie had planned to impart the matter of the letters and the incident of the morning, and she found herself divulging far more than she had intended – the manner of her departure from the Grand, John’s visits to her at Walworth Way and the shop, the way he had spoken to her.
At some time during the discourse Gladys drew her over to the sofa and they sat down, and then, when Connie finished speaking, there was silence for a moment or two before Gladys said, ‘And you didn’t tell Dan about the letters when he came home on leave that time, or John bothering you?’
‘How could I, Gladys? There he is miles and miles away; it’d just worry him sick, and his brother, his own brother. . .’ The two women stared at each other for a moment or two.
‘By, he wants seeing to, that one,’ said Gladys. ‘He’s always been that way inclined with women, the dirty so-an’ -so. Art’s told me a few things about when they were sharing a room back in Ryhope Road and I bet he don’t know the half of it. Pity they can’t do the same operation as they do to the bullocks on blokes like him.’
Gladys had spoken perfectly seriously but her indignant expression combined with her naturally comical face brought a smile to Connie’s solemn countenance, and then both women were laughing helplessly for some long moments.
‘Come on, lass, come on through to the kitchen and we’ll have that cuppa,’ said Gladys when they had both dried their eyes. ‘There’s something I need to put to you and it’ll be better with a cup of tea inside us.’
‘His mother?!’ They had drunk two cups of tea and eaten a shive of sly cake each, and now Connie sat back in her seat at the kitchen table and stared at Gladys who was nodding her head.
‘Aye, aye that’s my theory for what it’s worth. The words on the pavement is John to a T, mind, and him trying it on figures; his poor wife has had a raw deal all her married life from what I can make out. His lad hates him leastways, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. But the letters . . . Now that smacks of a woman to my mind, and it’d be just up Edith’s street. She’s a nasty piece of work is their mam.’
When Art arrived home half an hour later he agreed with his wife and his voice was both ashamed and weary. ‘I’d say it’s the pair of them involved in this, Connie,’ he said quietly. ‘My mother can be a mealy-mouthed woman when it suits her, but other times she’s worse than a fish wife. I don’t understand her and John, I never have, but there’s something in both of them . . .’ His voice trailed away and then he straightened, his hand going across his face as though to brush something away. ‘Do you want me to talk to them and sort this out?’
Connie looked away from them both for a moment before she said, ‘If I’m being honest, Art, there’s nothing I would like more, and if it was just John I would ask you to come with me to see him, but. . .’ She paused, then taking a deep breath said, ‘I have to go and see your mother myself, she needs to know I mean business, and if things are as you and Gladys suspect then John will do what he’s told, don’t you think?’
Gladys had made a quick urgent movement of protest as Connie had spoken, and Art glanced at his wife before he said, ‘You don’t know what she’s like, lass,’ his tone expressing far more than the actual words.
‘I’m beginning to.’
‘Well, let me come along with you then, eh? For moral support. Dan would expect that.’
‘I think it’s better I go alone,’ Connie said gently.
Gladys’s face was very troubled. ‘Connie, she’s got a tongue that would cut steel.’
‘I know. I have had some experience of her in the past, remember?’
‘Oh, lass.’
Connie spent another hour with Gladys and Art and she left promising she would return the following Sunday afternoon with Hazel. It was only a ten-minute walk from St George’s Square along Park Lane to Holmeside, but the November night was raw and cold with a stinging icy rain and keen wind, and when Art insisted on accompanying Connie home she protested until she realised he and Gladys were not going to take no for an answer.
‘Dan would do the same for Gladys.’
‘But I’ll be fine, really.’
‘Aye, that’s as maybe.’
There was genuine warmth in the goodbyes of the two women, and once she and Art were walking along Park Lane, Connie said, ‘Gladys is a grand lass, Art. You’re a lucky man.’
‘Aye, I know it, and the same could be said for our Dan.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I mean it, lass, and don’t you worry, you’ll be hearing from him someday soon and then you can set about making your wedding plans, eh?’
Connie glanced at the big figure next to her. ‘Do your mother and John know he has asked me to marry him?’
‘Put it this way, lass, I haven’t told ’em. It’s up to you and Dan to tell who you want to, and as far as I know he’s said nowt to anyone but Kitty and me and Gladys. Speaks volumes about our family, doesn’t it,’ he added a trifle bitterly.
Connie nodded but said nothing; there was nothing to say after all, and as Art glanced at the slim young girl at the side of him he found himself praying he was right about them hearing from Dan, and it wasn’t all to do with concern for his brother. This young lass had had a raw deal – whichever way you looked at it she’d had a raw deal and his family had started the ball rolling; it was time she had a bit of happiness. Although happiness and his mam didn’t go together. He frowned at the thought. He didn’t like the idea of her going to see his mother – it smacked too much of sending a lamb to the slaughter-but he had to admit there was a well of strength in Connie Bell that you didn’t suspect when you looked at the ethereal beauty of the outside, and maybe she’d be a match for the woman who tried to rule all their lives. He hoped so. He did hope so.
It was another three days before Connie made the visit to Ryhope Road.
She had returned home from Art’s house on the Tuesday evening determined to go first thing the next day, but on walking into the parlour she had found Mary in floods of tears and Wilf sitting in abject misery at the side of her, his head drooping.
‘He’
s enlisted.’ Connie had barely got through the door when Mary flung the words at her, her face blotchy and red. ‘Just because one or two have bin makin’ remarks he’s had to go an’ enlist.’
‘Remarks? What sort of remarks, Wilf?’
‘’Bout him bein’ lily-livered an’ gutless an’ the like,’ Mary said before Wilf could open his mouth. ‘It’s her that lives next door to him that started it; her lad bought it first week he was in France an’ now she’s determined every other poor devil’ll get the same.’
‘It wasn’t Mrs Trotter, not really,’ Wilf protested, a trifle weakly. There had been feelings of patriotism there too, along with growing frustration about his relationship with Mary. It was one step forward, two steps back all the time as far as he was concerned; he’d lost count of how many times he’d asked her to marry him since that first time at the beginning of September when he’d decided – what with the war and all – that he couldn’t wait until he was well set up as he’d originally planned. She had made every excuse under the sun except the real one – that she was frightened of him. That was it at bottom. Oh, he knew she’d gone to hell and back with what her uncle and his friend had done to her when she was a little bairn, but surely she knew him well enough now to know he would never do anything to hurt her? At least he’d thought so, before the war had prompted him to find out different. And he’d been getting more and more angry and confused, and he didn’t want to feel like that, not about Mary, so . . . he’d escaped the situation, he’d enlisted. It might not have been the brightest thing he’d ever done but it would have had to have happened sooner or later; this war clearly wasn’t going to be the short, hard slam at Kaiser Bill that they’d all been led to believe. So, with things as they were, it might as well be sooner. That’s how he felt about it.
By the time Wilf had left that night Connie had persuaded Mary to spend the next day with him before he departed for training camp, and to try and get things sorted out, and then the two girls had sat up half the night talking.
Ragamuffin Angel Page 33