When the Clouds Go Rolling By

by When the Clouds Go Rolling By (retail) (epub)

  Clara gave her a droll look and thought it made a change for her gran to be nice to her. For once they were in agreement; she did deserve a day out, away from work and her grandmother. So far, she had not even managed that trip to the cinema with Jean. And she desperately wanted to be united with the family she had never known. They were tied to her by blood. She thought about how she had managed single-handedly to cope with her grandmother, with only occasional offerings of help from the neighbours. She missed her parents. Her mother, Eileen, had been strict but good-natured and fair. She had come from the west coast of Scotland and her family had been connected with shipping, but they had not been in touch since Eileen’s death. Clara sometimes thought it would be interesting to know more about the Scottish branch of the family, but it was too late for that now. Instead, all her hopes were pinned on being united with her Aunt Gertie and her family.

  * * *

  ‘Wait until you read this,’ said Alice, her eyes sparkling with annoyance as she tossed a sheet of paper onto her sister’s lap.

  Tilly yawned. She had only just returned from a day out in New Brighton with Alice’s two older children and was feeling worn out. ‘I presume it’s from Seb’s mother. Does she say that she’s glad he’s alive – but sorry she can’t come and visit?’

  ‘That’s it in a nutshell. Isn’t she the most selfish woman you’ve ever come across?’ fumed Alice. ‘I wish Seb had never talked to the children about her, telling them what a good storyteller she was and how she had been in pantomime when she was young, about those gorgeous macaroons she used to make.’

  ‘Hanny told me about the macaroons,’ said Tilly, suddenly aware she was hungry. ‘Are you going to write back and tell her what you know of Seb’s injury and give her the address of the hospital? It’s possible she’ll say more to him about why she doesn’t come and visit you and the children than she does to you.’

  ‘You really think so?’ asked Alice in doubtful tones. ‘She’s only been here once in the last four years.’ She fiddled with a reddish gold curl and sighed. ‘I will write, but there’s not that much I can tell her. I wish Seb hadn’t insisted on my not attempting the journey to see him. All the things he says about it being difficult are true, but I keep thinking there’s something he hasn’t told me. His last letter sounded so cold and distant.’

  ‘But he’s not writing them himself, is he? He might be embarrassed, asking someone else to write about his deep feelings for you,’ said Tilly sensibly.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Alice flopped onto the sofa and gazed moodily at the garden through the open french windows. She was still worried, knowing only that an American photojournalist had found her husband half-buried during the German’s spring offensive and that Seb had nerve damage to his right arm, which affected movement. He’d already had some kind of operation. ‘Perhaps I should ignore what he says and make the effort to go and see him.’ She would have to go up to the attic and find something else to pawn to pay for a train ticket, but as long as he didn’t ask her where she had found the money, what did it matter? ‘I’m going to go. He might be cross because I’ve disobeyed him but I’m desperate to see him.’

  ‘Like you say, everything he said about the children and the difficulty of rail travel, and the scarcity of petrol if you thought of going south by car, really does make sense. But I understand why you feel the way you do,’ said Tilly.

  ‘I’m hurt because I thought he’d be mad to see me.’ Alice toyed with her fingernails. ‘That’s why I feel there’s something he’s not telling me.’

  ‘He’s been through a terrible time. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No.’ Alice could feel the beginning of a headache and rubbed her forehead. ‘I will write to his mother again, although it’s possible he might have sent a letter to her, himself. He did ask after her.’ She rested her head on the back of the sofa and, closing her eyes, wished she could afford the luxury of a bottle of sherry. Her mother had signed the Pledge as a girl but Alice never had. ‘Maybe he’s told his mother more than he’s told me about the state he’s in.’

  ‘Did you tell him about Hanny having the baby?’

  ‘Mmm! He was really pleased. Have you heard from Freddie lately?’

  ‘Yes. He believes the tide of war has turned now the Americans have joined the fight in greater numbers.’ Tilly frowned. ‘This war always seems to be about large numbers.’ They were silent, thinking of the millions dead or wounded on both sides of the conflict.

  ‘Do you miss Freddie?’ asked Alice. ‘I mean, from the moment you were born you were in and out of the Kirks’ household until it broke up. He was like a big brother to you.’

  Tilly chuckled. ‘Of course I miss him. I miss the way he makes me laugh. He’s bossy at times but I can forgive him that because he’s good-looking and takes me seriously when I say I want to follow in Kenny’s footsteps and be a writer. He knows I want to get myself a career, enjoy myself and see a bit of the world once the war’s over.’

  Alice thought of all of the young men who had been killed and decided that, sadly, it could be just as well her sister did want a career. ‘What’ll you do for money? The business hasn’t been doing well, as you know, and we don’t have the kind of money in the bank that’ll run to trips abroad.’

  ‘I’ll work, of course,’ said Tilly promptly. ‘Then when I’ve earned enough I’ll travel, writing about my experiences here, there and everywhere.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I might even write novels to rival Conan Doyle or H Rider Haggard.’

  Alice was amused. ‘You’re a dreamer. Anyway, who’s H Rider Haggard?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of him?’ Tilly looked amazed. ‘You must have. He wrote She and King Solomon’s Mines.’

  ‘I don’t have time to read books, although I have read a few.’

  ‘But not H Rider Haggard,’ teased Tilly.

  ‘I know who Conan Doyle is. He wrote Sherlock Holmes,’ said Alice, smiling.

  ‘That’s right. He’s good. I borrowed him and HRH from the library. The book I’ve just read is She.’

  ‘What a funny name for a book written by a man,’ said Alice, wondering with half a mind what she could hock from the attic.

  ‘Not really. It’s set in unexplored East Africa and is a really good adventure story,’ enthused Tilly. ‘She who must be obeyed. Her name is Ayesha and she’s a queen, who’s discovered the secret of everlasting life.’

  Alice said, ‘I thought Jesus did that.’

  ‘This is fantasy. I decided to read the book after seeing the film. Are you listening to me, Alice?’

  Alice gave her full attention to her sister. ‘Tell me a bit more. I like films. Who did you go with to the picture house?’

  ‘I went with Hanny. Ayesha’s a really strong woman, who orders the men around. If they do things she doesn’t like they get the chop. She could teach Mrs Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel a thing or two about equality of the sexes and women having power.’

  Alice’s face showed dismay. ‘She doesn’t sound a nice person. I’m sure you shouldn’t be reading books like that.’

  ‘Hanny and Kenny have read it and it’s more fun than reading Elinor Glyn,’ retorted Tilly. ‘Although, now she’s a war correspondent in France—’

  She was cut short by a gasp from Alice. ‘You’ve not read Elinor Glyn? That woman’s immoral.’

  ‘Have you read Three Weeks?’ asked Tilly, with a great show of interest.

  ‘I certainly have not,’ said Alice indignantly, ‘and you shouldn’t have either, especially at your age.’

  ‘Well, I have,’ said Tilly boldly. ‘You do make a lot of fuss, Alice. I do need to learn about It so that I’ll know what not to do if faced with a handsome British lord on a tiger skin. Although I’m not looking to marry a lord but I might marry Freddie if he’ll wait for me.’

  ‘Now stop that,’ scolded Alice, thinking her younger sister was far too knowing for her years. Probably that was due to Kenny and Hanny giv
ing her so much attention when she was growing up, educating her from books that she would not have read at school. She put it down to them having been childless for so long.

  Tilly shook her head. ‘Please, don’t. I enjoy reading and we all have to find a way to escape the horrors of the war, sister dear.’

  Alice’s expression was austere. ‘You could find a more useful way of doing so. If you care about what I think at all, don’t be reading any more of that woman’s books.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said meekly.

  Alice was not deceived but decided to drop the subject. ‘I must write to Seb and tell him I’m going to visit him. I need to know what he’s hiding from me.’

  The teasing light in Tilly’s eyes died. ‘You’re wise. It doesn’t always do to turn up somewhere unannounced.’

  Alice couldn’t agree more.

  * * *

  Clara’s thoughts were running along similar lines to those of the two sisters. She had written to Mrs Black but not had a reply, so could only hope the medium had received her letter and was expecting her. She had taken the ferry and it was a relief to be away from the hustle and bustle of the city. She walked jauntily, swinging the bag containing a picnic of brawn butties and bottle of dandelion and burdock. She left the Mersey behind and passed an inn called The Eastham Ferry. She noticed a signpost, one arm pointing to Eastham Village and another to Eastham Woods. She remembered her grandmother’s mention of courting and found it difficult to imagine the raddled-faced, overweight Bernie as a young, pretty girl. Clara’s grandfather had died at sea before she was born so she had never known him. Idly, she wondered how the pair had met, but soon her thoughts drifted back to the present and finding Mrs Black’s house.

  It took her twenty minutes or so to reach the village. An attractive place with a number of sandstone houses, it was dominated by a church that looked very old. Women gossiped to their neighbours in their front gardens and children dressed in their Sunday best appeared to be making for the church. She passed a couple of old men with fishing rods. It was a peaceful scene and a wave of unexpected happiness swept over her. It was such a different world from the one she normally inhabited and she remembered her mother was fond of saying that a change was as good as a rest. But none of the houses appeared to be as large as the one she imagined belonging to Mrs Black. The last time Clara had spoken to the manageress at the Theatre Royal, she had distinctly described the house as very large and standing in its own grounds. It even had a name: Fair Haven.

  Her grandmother had thought it a fancy name for a house and Clara had not argued with her, carrying an imaginary picture in her head of its likely appearance. She decided to ask for directions to Fair Haven. Noticing an elderly man, carrying a pair of shears, come out of a gate, she walked over to him. ‘Excuse me, sir, could you tell me the way to a house called Fair Haven?’

  He stared at her from faded blue eyes and let out a cackle. ‘You another fool?’

  She was taken aback. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m looking for my aunt and I believe the owner will help me find her.’

  ‘Going into detecting work now, is she? Well, if you’re so bent on wasting your money – see that bloke a few yards ahead?’

  Clara looked in the direction he was pointing and spotted a man with carroty hair straggling from beneath a cap. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a grey jacket and his head drooped as he shambled along a few yards ahead of them. He seemed to be heading for a footpath slightly to the right.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He lives in the gatehouse. One of my neighbours reckons he’s a loony but he hasn’t done anyone any harm yet so you should be safe following him.’ He chortled to himself and snipped the air with his shears within inches of her nose before turning towards the hedge.

  Clara stepped back, thinking he seemed a bit of a loony himself. She hurried away in the direction of the other man, intent on keeping her distance. She had come this far and it would be stupid not to carry on.

  The footpath was just a track, hemmed in by flowering willow herb, bindweed and brambles thick with blackberries. She decided that on the return journey she would pick some berries, thinking they would make a nice pie. She remembered blackberry-ing with her parents as a child on the country lanes leading to Lord Derby’s Knowsley estate. They had taken along a couple of neighbouring kids who would have eaten more berries than they put in the basket if her parents had not been strict with them.

  She avoided a pothole in the path and thought again of that evening in April, wondering whether her father had really been trying to get through to her. She had no idea what his thoughts had been on the supernatural. Perhaps she should avoid mentioning him to the medium. After all, her object in coming here was to discover her aunt’s whereabouts so that she could get in touch with her.

  Suddenly a voice roused her from her reverie and Clara realised that the man in front had stopped and was staring at her. ‘What is it ye wants with me? I wouldn’t hurt the bairns even though they threw stones at me as if I were a rabid dog,’ he said.

  Clara stared at him with a certain amount of pity because his expression was one of abject misery. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister,’ she said, thinking she could use her bag as a weapon if necessary as she walked cautiously towards him. ‘It’s just that I’m going the same way as you.’

  ‘Are ye sure about that? Ye no’ trying to trick me?’ He had a Scottish accent.

  ‘Why should I? I don’t know you from Adam. I just want to speak to Mrs Black.’

  He stared at her. ‘Yer skin’s a strange colour, lass. How did it get like that?’

  Clara had not thought it was that bad, but what with there being a milk shortage she had given up washing her face in the liquid. ‘It’s the chemicals in the munitions factory.’

  Understanding showed in his eyes. ‘Dangerous places, factories. The doctors said that the lead in the shot factory affected ma brain. But I’m no’ so bad now and Eudora Black has provided me with a roof over ma head.’

  ‘You live in the gatehouse?’ said Clara, her sympathy deepening.

  ‘Aye. There’s a wee place at the bottom of the drive and I have that to meself. I’ve started doing odd jobs for her, mending things, scything the grass and the like. With the young men away at the war, I can be useful to her.’ He smiled hesitantly. ‘It makes a change having a job to do, and she trusts me.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re content there,’ said Clara.

  He nodded. ‘I am. Although I’d like to see ma children, but Eudora says I have to keep ma distance.’

  ‘Are they in Scotland? My mother came from Scotland.’

  He shook his head. ‘No-oo! It’s a long time since I left there. They live in Chester. One lad and two lasses. I’d best be getting on ma way.’ He turned away and carried on walking.

  Clara walked with him and in a few minutes the path came to an end. There was a grassy opening that led to two gateposts but there was no gate. She presumed the metal had gone towards the war effort. A sandstone lodge stood nearby and the man turned to her and said, ‘This is ma place. If ye carry on up the drive, ye’ll come to Eudora’s house.’

  She thanked him and was aware of his gaze following her as she strolled past him and up a sloping drive banked by laurel bushes. She came to a sandstone house with mullioned windows that gleamed in the sun. She gazed about her at the sweep of lawn and flower-beds. ‘Goodness,’ she murmured, wondering if Mrs Black would consider her good enough to invite inside her house or whether she would be kept standing on the step before being told she was not welcome.

  She walked up to the front door, which appeared to be made of solid oak and had iron studs on its surface. The wood showed signs of there once having been a knocker, but now there was only a letterbox. Feeling nervous, she took a deep breath before lifting the flap and letting it drop several times. The noise echoed inside the house and, after a minute or two, there was the sound of approaching footsteps.
The door opened to reveal a young woman enveloped in a white apron. She had curling brown hair, a plump face and brown eyes that surveyed Clara with interest. ‘You must be Clara O’Toole,’ she said.

  Clara sighed with relief. ‘Mrs Black received my letter, then.’

  The woman’s cheeks dimpled in a smile. ‘Yes. She’s expecting you. I’m Joy Kirk. Come inside and I’ll tell her you’re here.’

  ‘I remember you speaking to me at the meeting in April, and you have a brother who’s a sailor.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Joy. ‘Freddie. He’s back at sea.’ Clara stepped inside and Joy closed the door behind her. ‘You’ll be wanting to know about your dad and for her to do something about your rash, no doubt?’ she added.

  ‘Actually, I didn’t come for those reasons but I’m willing to listen to her advice.’ Clara touched the rash on her chin. ‘I’m not sure what’s causing this.’

  ‘It could be scurvy if you’re not eating enough citrus fruit and vegetables. We all know there’s a shortage of oranges, lemons and grapefruit but blackcurrant juice or rosehip syrup are just as good for it. Mrs Black will be able to help you there. She’s read up about nutrition and knows a lot about herbal medicine. She’s no quack.’

  ‘I didn’t think about her being a healer.’

  ‘Oh yes. We get as many people wanting healing as we do needing some assurance about their loved ones who’ve passed over.’ She led Clara into a room situated to the left of the hall and told her to make herself comfortable while she let Mrs Black know she had arrived.

  Clara perched on the edge of a rich plum-coloured velveteen sofa and gazed about her. She noticed a framed poster on the wall and rose to her feet and went over to have a closer look at it. She saw that it was dated 1885 and advertised a show at the Rotunda Theatre, Liverpool. A baritone had top billing but further down it said Eudora Rogers, the Girl in Touch with the Spirit World, and just below that was written Gabrielle O’Toole, the Liverpool Songbird with the Voice of an Angel.