Pool of St. Branok

by Philippa Carr

  We rose and hurried to the room from which they came and there she stood.

  She was half poised for flight.

  I said: “Can we help you?”

  “Where’s Mrs. Frances?” she asked.

  “She’s not here at the moment. What can we do?”

  She hesitated. I saw how thin she was; she looked cold, too; the threadbare dress she was wearing was not adequate protection against the autumn dampness.

  “I … I’ve run away,” she said.

  “Come and tell us all about it,” answered Timothy. “Would you like something to eat?”

  She licked her lips.

  “Come along,” said Timothy.

  There was no soup left but we found some bread and cheese which she devoured ravenously; we found some milk for her, too.

  She said defensively: “I know Mrs. Frances.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Fanny,” she told me.

  I felt excited. This was the Fanny who had caused Frances so much concern, and here she was with us!

  “She will be in soon,” I said. “You must wait and see her. Tell us what it is that is bothering you. Perhaps we can help till she comes. We work here with Mrs. Frances. She tells us what to do and we do it. I know she wants to help you.”

  The child, for she was little more, said: “I couldn’t ’ave stood it no more. Last night he nearly killed me Mum. And when I tried to stop him he turned on me. There won’t half be a carry-on when he knows I’ve gone.” She looked frightened. “He’ll blame me Mum. I’ve got to go back.”

  “Don’t go yet,” I begged. “Wait till you have seen Mrs. Frances.”

  “We know she wouldn’t want you to go back … yet,” added Timothy.

  She nodded. “Mrs. Frances … she’s a good lady …”

  “That’s why you should listen to her,” I said.

  “It’s me Mum. It’s what he’d do to her.”

  “We’ll find some way of stopping him,” promised Timothy.

  She looked at him scornfully. “What, you? How? No one can’t. I’m frightened of him. See … he wants my money. … Every day he takes it off of me … all I’ve got, every penny. Then he’s off. It’s good when he goes. … He’s in the gin shop … and he stays there. I wish he’d stay all night. I wish he’d never come back.”

  “Where do you get your money?” I asked.

  “I works, I does. I goes to old Felberg and he gives me a tray … sometimes it’s flowers … sometimes it’s pins and needles … sometimes it’s apples. You never know with old Felberg. Then I brings back what I’ve took and he takes it and gives me tuppence back … and that’s my money, I reckon. But he don’t. He takes it off me and he’s off round the gin shop. I’m frightened of him … when he hits me … but more when …”

  She faltered and I put my hand on her shoulder. I said: “We can stop this, you know. Mrs. Frances wants you to stay here. She can do something …”

  “It’s me Mum,” she said piteously.

  When Frances came in her face lighted up with joy.

  “Fanny!” she cried. “So you’ve come. Good girl.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Frances, I was so frightened of him last night. You said come.”

  “Of course I did and at last you are a wise girl. Now then. This is your home for a while. We’re going to look after you. No harm can come to you here.”

  “I could bring me money back from Mr. Felberg.”

  “You can forget Mr. Felberg. You’re going to be here while we put our heads together and come up with something. You’re not going back, Fanny, not again.”

  Frances was a wonderful woman. I have said that many times, I suppose, and will continue to say it. I imagine that Timothy and I were rather sentimental in our approach; we wanted to fuss over Fanny, to make much of her, to compensate for the terrible life she had; but Frances was different—brisk and business-like. I could see that was what Fanny needed. She would despise our attitude. To her it would seem “soft.”

  Frances said: “We’ll get you out of those clothes … fast. We’ll get Mrs. Hope to put them on the fire. We’ll find something for you. And a good bath is what you need and your hair thoroughly washed. Then we’ll give you something to do, eh? What are you good at, Fanny? You’d like to help in the kitchen. There are lots of things to be done there.”

  I could see that that was the way to treat her.

  Timothy and I were amazed. We saw Fanny change overnight. The frightened waif became a self-important person. Fanny belonged to the streets. There was nothing soft about Fanny. Her stepfather must have been an ogre to have frightened one of her spirit. She was a cockney—shrewd, quick-witted, full of what Mrs. Penlock would have called “sauce” or “lip.”

  She adored Frances, looking upon her as some superior being. For Timothy and me she had a certain affectionate contempt, but she thought we were “soft.” “Nobs,” she called us, which meant that we spoke differently and acted in a manner unlike that of the people she had known before she came to the Mission. For some reason we had been born into soft living and we lacked the knowledge of how to protect ourselves. We had got by because we had never had to face up to what to her was real life. I am sure she felt we were in need of her protection rather than she was of ours.

  But our special place in her affections was due to the fact that when she had decided to come to the Mission we were the first ones she had seen and I do believe that we had somehow persuaded her to wait for Frances and that was at the root of her affection.

  Frances was a special person. Born a “nob” she was for all her fancy voice and high-class ways one of them.

  Fanny changed the Mission for us. She was the first one we looked for when we arrived. She would give us that rather casual greeting and smile secretly as though we amused her.

  Timothy and I talked of her a great deal when we were alone and wondered what Frances would decide about her future. Frances had said that, so far, she was unprepared to make a decision.

  “The girl’s still frightened of that terrible man,” she said. “She’s aggressive, isn’t she? I know what that means. She’s telling herself she’s strong. She’s got to be because somewhere in her mind she is afraid she is not finished with him yet. She is trying to tell herself she can stand up to him. She must never go back.”

  “Good Heavens, no,” said Timothy.

  “It’s risky. I suppose he’s legally in the place of father. He will know where she is. He’d guess. I’ve tried to get her away from them before. … We’ll have to watch for him. I expected to hear from the mother. Strange I haven’t.”

  “Do you mean she will try to get her back?” I asked.

  “She wouldn’t want to. She knows it’s best for the girl to get away. But he wants the pennies she earns. He can get drunk at the gin shop on Fanny’s few pennies. There is something else. The mother hinted. … You know what I mean.”

  “You did mention it,” said Timothy quietly.

  “I’ve got to stop that. These people are capable of descending to the very depths of depravity. Their lives are so empty. They go to the bottle and then they lose all sense of decency. You get someone like Billings … no sense … no morals … nothing. I’m sorry for him in a way. I don’t know what his life has been. How can one judge? But I know, I’ve got to keep Fanny here. I’ll find something for her soon. I’d like to get her into a nice home. She’d make a good parlormaid … with training. But just now she isn’t ready. I want her to stay here for a while.”

  “She’ll stay. She adores you,” I said.

  “I hope she will. I can’t hold her against her will … yet I want to fight for her.”

  “Why should she want to go?”

  “Who knows what Fanny thinks? She has this feeling that she has to protect her mother. That’s what has kept her in this wretched hovel so long. I should have had her here weeks ago. Well, at the moment I’m holding everything as it is … It all depends on what happens. You two have don
e a good job with her. She’s quite fond of you.”

  “I think she despises us sometimes. She thinks we’re soft.”

  “That’s her way. She’s fond of you all right. And she trusts you. That means a lot with Fanny.”

  As the weeks passed the change in Fanny was miraculous. She did odd jobs about the Mission. Frances gave her a small wage which she hoarded with delight. I believe she felt she was rich. Her hair, now that it was washed, was glossy and fell in soft curls about her face; her small dark eyes were clear and alert; they darted everywhere as though she were afraid she was going to miss something; her skin had lost that pasty look and although she was still pale she looked far from unhealthy. I gave her a ribbon for her hair. She treasured it and said she would save it for Sundays.

  Timothy and I looked upon her as our protégée. We talked of her constantly; we watched her progress, marveling. One day we went out and bought a dress for her. When we brought it back to the Mission she stared at us in amazement.

  “It’s not for me,” she said. “It can’t be.”

  We assured her it was.

  “I ain’t never had nothing like that in my life before,” she said.

  “Well, it’s time you did,” Timothy told her.

  She looked at us and said, “Well, I dunno. … You two … I reckon you are a pair of old softies.”

  That was thanks enough.

  One of the jobs which gave her most pleasure was to go to the market and buy provisions for the Mission. This had been one of the tasks allotted to Timothy and me and we had always enjoyed it. She accompanied us once or twice and was scornful of our achievement.

  “Tell you what,” she said when we returned to the Mission. “They see you two coming and up goes the price.”

  “Surely not,” I said.

  She looked at me derisively. “You don’t know nothing,” she said.

  She told Frances that she could shop cheaper than we could and Frances, who was always eager to help Fanny prove herself, immediately complied with her request that she should do the shopping herself; and from that moment Fanny brought in the bargains. It was a great game to her.

  “I got him to knock three farthings off that for you,” she would announce proudly. We always marveled at her bargaining skills.

  “You’re saving us pounds, Fanny,” Frances told her.

  This state of affairs went on for three weeks and during that time Fanny emerged as herself.

  Then one day, she disappeared.

  She had dressed herself in her blue merino and tied the red ribbon in her hair, and gone off to the market as she did every morning.

  At first we thought the shopping had taken her a little longer than usual and we were not unduly concerned; but as the time began to pass we grew anxious. Then we found the shopping bag which she usually took with her and with it the money she had been given to shop with; so we knew her departure was intentional.

  Frances was bitterly disappointed.

  “What did we do?” I cried.

  “I think it must be her mother,” said Frances. “She’s gone back to her.”

  “But the stepfather …”

  “Fanny is a girl who has a strong sense of right and wrong. She may have got that from her own father. You see, she takes the dress and the ribbon—they are hers. She has taken the wages she has earned; but she leaves the shopping money. How many girls in her position would have done that?”

  “But what are we going to do?” asked Timothy.

  “There is nothing we can do. I can’t storm her home and take her away. She’s gone back to them of her own accord. I’m sorry. It’s disheartening, but there is nothing we can do. It is just another of those cases which didn’t work out the way we wanted it to. There are many of them.”

  I realized how much our concern for Fanny had drawn Timothy and me together. We had shared our delight in her progress and now our sorrow and disappointment at her departure.

  I was trying not to think of Ben, working hard in Manorleigh for the coming election.

  Timothy came again to dine at the house in the square. He was about as different from Uncle Peter as a man could be, but they liked each other. I knew what Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis were thinking. They were fond of me, concerned for me, and they were weighing up Timothy as a possible husband for me. Aunt Amaryllis in particular believed that the married state was ideal for every woman. Uncle Peter took a more practical view. He would like to see me settled and he had obviously decided that Timothy’s background, financial standing and character fitted him for the role of husband.

  I saw through them, of course. But I did not want to think beyond the present which Timothy was making tolerable for me. Yet again and again my thoughts went back to Ben.

  I heard from the family that his campaign was being successful and he was making a very good impression on the voters.

  One evening when I was having a talk with Uncle Peter, Ben was mentioned.

  “I feel sure he is going to win,” he said. “It’ll be an achievement. It’s been a Tory stronghold for a hundred years. I don’t think it will be a big majority … but comfortable enough. It will be a feather in his cap.”

  “Do you really think he’ll win?”

  Uncle Peter looked at me and smiled. “I have reason to say that I think his opponent is getting rather rattled.”

  “How is he doing it?”

  “Oh, you know Ben. It’s that vitality. A certain power. A determination. He believes he’s going to win and he gets everyone else believing it too. I flatter myself that he gets that from me. His grandmother was a fighter too. She was a milliner.” He smiled, looking back. “I came near to marrying her. I couldn’t though. It wouldn’t have done.”

  “You mean …”

  “Just not quite right …”

  “Yet you were in love with her.”

  “I have always been able to regulate my emotions.”

  “They didn’t stop your having an illegitimate son.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I set her up in her own shop in Sydney. I sent her money. She got on very well. We were in a way two of a kind. She understood how it was. What I am telling you is that Ben gets his fighting spirit on both sides.”

  “You must have had a very eventful life, Uncle Peter.”

  “I think life should be eventful. Ben will make his so and I am pretty certain that before long he’ll have a place in the House.” He was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said: “It’s a pity he married Lizzie. She’s not the wife a politician needs.”

  “I think she appears with him, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, but there is more to it than that. Grace is with them. Now she knows it all. I believe she is quite an asset. But it is not the same. It should be the wife who is there.”

  “I know Grace helps Lizzie quite a lot. Lizzie herself said so.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Lizzie should be doing all this. She shouldn’t need prompting. It doesn’t go down so well. No, I’m afraid Lizzie is a bit of a handicap for a man like Ben.”

  “A handicap!” I cried. “Where would he be without her? She brought him the gold mine, didn’t she? Without her help he would still be scrabbling for gold in Golden Creek.”

  “You are very vehement, my dear.”

  “Well, it is true. I hate all this talk about Lizzie’s being a handicap when it is only because of her that he has become in a position to do all he is doing.”

  Then he said a strange thing. He put his arm about me. “I, too, wish it had been otherwise.”

  “What do you mean?” I stammered.

  But he just smiled rather sadly at me and I knew that Uncle Peter was aware of my feelings for Ben … and his for me.

  We had betrayed ourselves in some way.

  There was a letter from my mother.

  My darling Angelet,

  Amaryllis tells me how hard you are working at Frances’ Mission and finding it so rewarding. I am glad. I told your father that you neede
d something like that. It must be interesting and harrowing too, but Amaryllis tells me that Frances is delighted to have you there and what a great help you are to her.

  We miss you very much and I have written to Amaryllis telling her that I should love to come up … just for a few weeks. Your father can’t leave the place at this time, nor can Jack. But I feel I want to see you. I want to hear all about the work you are doing and see for myself that you are well and getting happier.

  Everything here goes on much as usual. And how is darling Rebecca? It is wonderful for her to have Pedrek to play with. And Morwenna is so close and you help each other with the children, so giving you those opportunities to go to the Mission.

  Josiah Pencarron tells me that Justin is doing a fine job in London and he wonders why he did not think of opening the office up there years ago.

  So everything seems to be going well.

  I shall see you soon.

  Much love,

  Mother

  I knew what this meant. Aunt Amaryllis had reported my growing friendship with Timothy Ransome, and my mother wanted to know how far it had progressed.

  I wished that they were not so interested in my affairs. Of course, it was all for my benefit. There was a hint of seriousness in my friendship with Timothy. I was aware of that in Timothy’s manner.

  But I did not want to think of it. I liked him. I enjoyed his company; but I did not want to go farther than that. My heart was in Manorleigh. There was nothing I should have liked better than to take part in that campaign and everything else seemed only a makeshift and a poor consolation.

  Now that Fanny had gone, Timothy and I returned to our old task of shopping in the markets for the provisions. We did so in a somewhat disenchanted mood having been told by Fanny that we were not much good at it.

  We had lost the excitement we used to have in the project, perhaps because it reminded us of Fanny.

  One day we set out. I was telling him that my mother was coming to London for a short stay and he was saying how pleased he would be to meet her.