Bill Bailey's Daughter

by Catherine Cookson

  With regard to Sammy, Fiona had put her foot down: he was not to be brought into the book. It was bad enough her family betting on her. Yet Sammy’s being excluded from joining the book was brought into the open at the tea table.

  The old routine of the children sitting down to tea when they returned from school had been resumed, for Bill was now much later home, and the children couldn’t be kept waiting for a meal. So here they were, all sitting round the kitchen table, including Sammy.

  Nell, who was about to leave, said to Fiona, who was pouring tea out, ‘Now look, Fiona; leave that! Mark or Katie or any of them can surely pour tea out if they want more. Go and sit yourself down.’

  ‘No, Mam, you stand up, walk about.’ Katie was laughing up at Fiona. ‘And you know why?’

  ‘Katie, stop it!’ But Fiona shouldn’t have glanced from her daughter to Sammy, for he, like all children, could interpret signals. Gulping on a mouthful of cake, he looked across the table at her, saying, ‘I know why she wants you to walk about, Mrs B, it’s so she can get her bet. Willie told me.’

  As Fiona turned to look at her son she remembered: although she had told him that in no way was she having Sammy betting on her condition, she hadn’t said that he mustn’t tell Sammy about the silly business. And she had forgotten that those two were almost soulmates.

  ‘It’s a silly business,’ she said. ‘It’ll come finished, ready, not before and not after.’

  ‘And it’ll surprise everybody.’

  They all looked at Sammy now, and it was Mark who said, ‘What do you mean, it’ll surprise everybody?’

  ‘Well—’ Still looking at Fiona, Sammy answered, ‘Babies are surprises, aren’t they? And people brag about ’em bein’ big. So yours will be a surprise.’

  Fiona smiled down at Sammy. He came out with such odd things, did this small rough child. But she was to remember his words. Oh, yes, very vividly she was to remember his words.

  Sammy was now looking at Willie and saying, ‘Mrs Fuller, upstairs, was gona have a bairn. It was the time me ma was with us an’ she said she was pig-sick of listening about it. But Mrs Fuller had three all at one go! Me ma said she should have hired a sty ’cos she’d had a litter.’

  ‘Stop it! All of you, stop it! You’ll have your teas over.’

  ‘Sammy!’ Fiona had to swallow deeply in order to keep a straight face and insert admonition into his name. And the boy, recognising this, said, ‘I never swored, Mrs B.’

  Both Katie and Mark took this up: looking at their mother and spluttering, they said, ‘I never swored, Mrs B,’ which caused Sammy to round on them. His face red, he started, ‘Aw, you lot are silly bug…’ But like a crack of the whip his name came back at him: ‘Sammy!’

  ‘Aw well!’ He tossed his head. ‘They’re takin’ the mickey.’

  ‘Only because you’re funny, Sammy.’

  Mark stretched out his arm behind Willie’s back to pat Sammy on the shoulder, saying, ‘If we didn’t like you we wouldn’t rib you.’

  ‘He’s right. He’s right.’ Willie was nodding at his friend now. ‘It’s because we like you that we can rib you.’

  ‘Well, I wish you didn’t like me so much, then I’d know where I stood.’

  It was Fiona’s turn to smile, but quietly, down on the boy. He might only be nine, the same age as Willie, but he was keen-witted, likely due to his rough upbringing. And the thought made her wonder what he would turn out to be because she couldn’t see the polish of the private school sinking deep. And perhaps, after all, that was a good thing.

  Of a sudden Katie said, ‘There’s a car come on the drive. It’ll be Dad.’

  ‘A car? I never heard a car. It must be the wind.’

  ‘If cuddy’s lugs says it’s a car, it’s a car,’ Mark said as he got up from the table.

  Before he reached the hall the bell rang and, looking over his shoulder at his mother, he said, ‘She was right.’

  When he opened the door Fiona was behind him, and on seeing Rupert Meredith standing there she paused before greeting him: ‘Oh…hello! Do come in. It’s a wild night. Take Mr Meredith’s coat, Mark.’

  ‘I hope I’m not intruding. Is it meal time?’ He looked at Mark, and the boy answered, ‘Oh, we’re finished, sir. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Well…’ He looked at Fiona, and she said, ‘Yes, he would. Would you see to it, Mark?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Mam.’

  ‘Come into the dining room; there’s a proper fire in there. Bill hates artificial logs. He’s going to have the sitting-room fireplace out, he says. But I like my artificial logs; I can switch them on any time I’m feeling cold.’

  Rupert stopped just within the doorway of the dining room and, looking towards the table, he said, ‘Oh, I am intruding; you’re all set for dinner.’

  ‘It’s only for Bill and me. You see, he’s rarely in nowadays before half past six, and of late it’s been sometimes nearly eight. So we’ve had to go back to our old system of feeding the tribe at teatime. We tried for a while to have our meal as a family but they got so hungry they kept stuffing themselves while they waited.’

  ‘I like this room,’ he said, looking about him. ‘It always appears to me very cosy. The dining room at Brookley Manor is a fine room, but it’s much too big for the three of us. It’s different when the family come.’

  ‘Do sit down.’ She pointed to a winged upholstered armchair to the side of the fire; but he declined, saying, ‘No, no; you take that seat. It looks so comfortable.’

  ‘I prefer a straight-backed one.’ She smiled at him and turned one of the dining-room chairs round towards the fire. ‘It’s easier for me to get up…and down.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Well, very well, extremely so.’

  ‘That’s good. I told Lady Kingdom I might look in after I left Newcastle, and she wishes me to convey her best wishes to you and hopes that you are not feeling too uncomfortable. Those were her words. Apparently, from what she says, she had a very bad time with all her children. And as Sir Charles pointed out, he’s had a very bad time with them all since then. You know Sir Charles!’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Oh, he seems to have got a new lease of life. I think it’s the interest engendered by the site. He trots down every possible opportunity. I think the men must sometimes imagine he’s snooping to see if they are working or not; but he seems to have caught your husband’s enthusiasm and excitement. He really is much better than he’s been for years, I should say. In fact, this time last year he wouldn’t have thought of travelling to Scotland, but that’s where they’re off to at the end of the week. His younger brother is in rather a low state and apparently they’re worried about him at yon end. So he feels he must go. And he might stay over Christmas, that is if he can get round Lady Kingdom. He just does not enjoy the Christmas gatherings at home. As you know, he has a horde of grandchildren and, like all children, when space offers they run wild. For my part I look forward to their coming.’

  ‘Why have you never thought of marrying?’

  Almost as she was saying this she was chiding herself for probing. Yet the question had been on her mind for some time: here was this man, on thirty years old, handsome, because that was the word for him, and charming, and he had the kindest manner; the kindness was expressed in his eyes, deep brown like the colour of his hair. He wasn’t all that tall, about the same height as Bill, five foot ten. And so, when she received no answer to her question and saw that his gaze was now levelled towards his crossed knees, she said, ‘I’m sorry. If that wasn’t impertinent it must at least have appeared nosy. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, no, no. Please don’t be sorry; and you would never be impertinent. But to answer your question: I have thought of marriage, very, very often, but there’s…well, an impediment. I’ll tell you about it some time. Now I’m going to be sort of impertinent when I say may I call you Fiona? It’s a lovely name, Fiona. And my name is Rupert, as you k
now.’

  Oh, dear, dear, dear. There was a little hammer hitting her on the head, saying, ‘Bill. Bill. Bill. You must understand it means nothing; we’ve known him for months; it’s natural that we should be on more familiar terms.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should not have asked.’

  ‘Oh yes. Don’t be silly. Well, what I mean is, we’ve known each other for some time now and quite candidly, I don’t like the sound of Mrs B…Ah!’ She paused and looked towards the door. ‘Mark with your tea; and all set out on a tray I hope you’ll notice.’

  ‘I do indeed. And some cake too. Thank you very much, Mark.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too thankful for the cake, sir; it’s a bit dry.’

  As Rupert laughed Fiona said, ‘I suppose you have noticed by now that I have a very frank and outspoken family.’

  ‘Yes, and I find it very refreshing.’

  ‘By the way, Mam.’ Mark was looking at his mother now. ‘Sammy is about to take his leave and he wants to say goodbye, or so long, or ta-ra. You may take your choice. He has to get home and set the tea for his father.’ This last was addressed to Rupert, and he, looking at Fiona, said, ‘Does he come every day?’

  ‘Most days. But he’ll always be welcome.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘Let him come in before he goes,’ she said to Mark.

  ‘Will do.’

  When they had the room to themselves again, she looked at her visitor and asked, ‘Does Sir Charles ever hear of Mrs Brown?’

  ‘Yes; he hears of her but not from her; nor does he want to. But I do know he wrote her a very severe letter—I typed it—and it was to the effect that she should be serving a sentence of eight years alongside her two stooges. And it went on to say, he never wanted to set eyes on her again and that if she attempted to come back into this country he would put the police on her. It took a great deal for him to dictate that letter. But I put it down word for word as he said it. It was sent to her London agent, for he would likely know where to send it. But it was strange, when I was up in town a few months ago, I called on him with the intention of trying to find out if she had really tried to come back into this country, because there was really nothing to stop her, no warrant was out for her arrest and those two villains had kept quiet as to who was paying them to ruin your husband’s business. But the fellow had moved. Still, Sir Charles will be ever grateful to your husband for not pressing the case against her, because if she had to go to prison I’m sure it would have had a dire effect on him; he had been dotingly fond of her; as Lady Kingdom had said more than once, he thought more of her than he did of his own daughters, and all because he considered she’d had a dirty deal in having to marry Brown.’

  Fiona did not remark on this, thinking, and naturally as she knew Bill would have done, that of the two Browns he was more to be pitied. Although he was an objectionable creature and had had it in for Bill, she doubted if he would have dared go to the lengths that she had, simply because her overtures had been spurned, yes, and that was the right word in both cases, overtures and spurned, by a man like Bill.

  When there was the sound of a commotion in the hall she thought with something akin to panic, Oh dear, no, not Bill, and him here!

  But it was Bill. The door opened slowly and he walked in slowly, and on his appearance Rupert stood up, saying, ‘Here I am again, scrounging tea.’

  ‘Aye, I see that.’ Bill now walked towards Fiona, but, as would have been usual, he didn’t bend and kiss her; instead, sitting on a chair near her, he said, ‘Windy outside.’

  ‘Yes; it’s been blowing a gale all day. I’ll go and get you a cup of tea.’

  He put out his hand and stayed her movement, saying, ‘It’s all been put in order; they’re seein’ to it. Well—’ he looked at Rupert, who was now seated again, and asked, ‘And what are you doin’ with your life these days?’

  ‘Oh, much the same as usual: ferrying my boss, doing his mail, running errands, the same routine.’

  ‘Good life if you can get it.’

  Rupert reached out now, picked up his cup and drained it; then putting it back on the tray, he said, and in a voice from which all pleasantness had disappeared, ‘It isn’t the work I would have chosen, but circumstances in some cases take no account of desires. Well—’ his tone changed slightly as he got to his feet and, looking at Fiona, said, ‘I must be off, but I’ll be able to tell Lady Kingdom that you’re still feeling well. Goodnight, Fiona.’

  She did not rise as she said, ‘Goodnight…Rupert.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ said Bill.

  ‘There’s no need; I can find my way. You must be tired after your day’s work. Goodnight.’

  When the door closed on him, there was silence between them, until Fiona burst out, ‘How could you, Bill!’

  ‘How could I what? Come in here and find you tête-à-tête, that’s the term isn’t it, tête-à-tête? All cosy an’ nice, and now on top of that it’s Fiona and Rupert. It was Mrs B last time, if I remember, and Mr Meredith.’

  ‘Well, now it’s Fiona and Rupert as you say; so what do you make of it?’

  ‘What I’ve made of it afore, just that he doesn’t come here to convey messages from Lady Kingdom to you, or from you to her; he comes to see you and you’re pleased to see him.’

  ‘Yes, Bill, yes, let’s face facts, I’m pleased to see him.’

  ‘Fiona!’ He was standing in front of her. ‘I told you afore we married, didn’t I, what would happen if anybody came between us, ever, didn’t I? And I wasn’t shoutin’ me head off when I told you. When I’m really serious about anything I never shout, and I’m not shoutin’ now.’

  As she stared up into his face she knew a moment of fear. No, he wasn’t shouting and she knew he meant what he said. Her voice was trembling now as she answered, ‘That being the case, you must tell him not to visit here any more.’

  ‘No, not me, but you. You must tell him.’

  Her throat was tight; the muscles in her stomach seemed to be throwing the child from side to side. She cleared the restriction in her throat before she said, ‘I never thought I would say this to you, Bill, but at this moment I don’t like you. I still love you but I don’t like you.’ And at this she pulled herself up from the chair and, almost thrusting him aside, she went from the room. And he didn’t stop her.

  It was only a matter of minutes later when Katie came into the room and stood by the chair in which he was sitting, his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire.

  ‘Mam’s crying…Did you hear what I said, Dad? Mam’s crying.’

  He pulled himself upright. ‘Yes, I heard what you said, Katie.’

  ‘Why have you made her cry?’

  ‘It was something you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Oh yes, I would, and I do.’

  He turned his head sharply and looked at her, and she went on, ‘It’s because you found Mr Meredith here, isn’t it? You’re jealous because he’s different from you.’

  ‘Katie. Now mind. You can go so far.’

  ‘But it’s the truth, isn’t it? I’m not a little girl, Dad. Well, I mean I am, but you know I was here when you first came and we all loved you and we still love you…more. And Mam loves you. But even if her stomach is sticking out a mile, she’s still attractive, and you don’t like that, do you?’

  He now dropped his head on to his chest and moved it slowly.

  ‘Don’t be mad at me.’

  He was looking at her again as he said, ‘I’m not mad at you, lass, I’m only amazed that you seem so grown up and so different from the little girl I knew when I first came into this house. Well, this being so, and being observant as you are, you know me, so you’ll know that I can’t change. I am what I am, brash, loud-mouthed, ambitious, but protective of me own. Aye, those are the words. I read them somewhere, but they apply to me. I’m protective of me own. And Katie’—he put his hand out now and laid it gently on her shoulder—‘I know something that you don’t know, as yet. I k
now men and the workings of their minds. Sometimes I’m wrong, but not very often. Ninety-five to five, I’d say.’

  Katie’s eyelids were blinking rapidly, and in this moment she looked very much like her mother as she said, ‘Go on up and tell her you’re sorry.’

  ‘No, pet. I’ll go up, aye, and tell her I love her, but not that I’m sorry for what I said, for if he comes here again I’ll give him the same cool reception, colder, being me, you know.’ He smiled grimly now.

  Reaching up, Katie placed her lips on his stubbly cheek, saying, ‘You’re a funny man, Bill Bailey, but I love you.’

  He put his arms about her and held her close for a moment, then said, ‘Go and see to the dinner. I’ll bring her down.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll like it on a tray. She may have gone to bed.’

  ‘Aye, she might. A tray would be fine.’

  She had hardly left the room when Mark came in and, purposefully but in a low voice, said, ‘Dad, Mum’s gone into her room. She’s crying.’

  Bill’s voice was louder now. ‘Yes, Mark,’ he said, ‘I know your mother’s gone into her room cryin’. And I’m cryin’ an’ all inside. So what does a man do when he’s cryin’ inside, can you tell me? Now your sister Katie who’s grown up…Oh, yes, she is. Don’t shake your head like that. She’s very much grown up. Her remedy for cryin’ is to say you’re sorry. What’s your remedy?’

  It seemed a long moment before Mark said, ‘Well, you sort of have to arrange things and your life and that so you never have to say you’re sorry.’

  ‘Oh my God, boy!’ Bill gave him one hard slap on the back. ‘You’re goin’ to break under the lessons you’ve got to learn, whereas Katie, she’ll ride the waves. But don’t worry, for as the sayin’ goes, it’ll all come out in the wash. Now go and help Katie put out the dinner for us. Tell her I want two trays upstairs, and you give her a hand.’