Mary shuddered and she stumbled over the words. ‘No. No. That – that baby died. This is Walter’s child.’
‘Walter? Who’s Walter?’
‘My husband. Walter Hardcastle. I – I met him just after . . .’ Her voice trailed away, beaten and defeated.
‘You’ve been a very lucky woman to find someone to take you on. A very lucky woman.’ Bridget paused and then asked, ‘And where is this paragon of virtue? Where is Walter Hardcastle?’
Now Eveleen felt her mother sway and sag against her, so that she put her arm about Mary to support her. She faced her grandmother squarely and said, ‘My father died two weeks ago. The cottage we lived in was tied to the job, so—’
‘So you’re homeless,’ the old woman stated baldly. Her gaze returned to Mary, ‘And you thought you’d come running home.’
Eveleen lifted her chin. ‘If we’re not welcome, we’ll go. Right now.’
The old woman’s eyes were on the young girl’s face, now flushed with indignation. She smiled. ‘My, but you’ve a fiery one here, Mary.’ The smiled widened. ‘I like a girl with spirit. Maybe we’ll let you stay a while after all. I reckon you an’ me would get on together all right, lass.’
‘We aren’t looking for charity,’ Eveleen said. ‘We’ll work. All of us. My mother makes pillow lace and—’
‘Oho, so you haven’t forgotten everything I taught you then?’ Bridget’s words were heavy with sarcasm again, and Mary’s face, from being deathly white, now flushed with embarrassment.
‘No, Mother, I haven’t forgotten.’
The old woman sniffed. ‘We’ll have to see what Harry says, mind you. He’s head of the family since your father died.’
Mary asked, ‘When – when did that happen?’
‘Oh years ago,’ Bridget said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Fifteen, maybe. Or is it sixteen now. I forget.’
Eveleen was struck by the lack of emotion shown by her grandmother. There had been no show of feelings on meeting her daughter after more than twenty years and now there was not a shred of sorrow in her tone when speaking of her dead husband. Perhaps it was because the event had happened some time ago, whereas their own loss was so recent that each time she even thought about it Eveleen could feel the prickle of tears and the pain in her throat. But the woman sitting before them seemed hard and unfeeling.
What mother greets her long-lost daughter without even reaching out to touch her or rising from her chair to greet her? But this one had. Unless, of course, the hurt went so deep and the bitterness was still so strong that she could not bring herself to welcome her child back even after all these years.
Eveleen sighed inwardly. Her own mother had been right. Her family did not want them. She tightened her hold around her mother’s waist and said, ‘Mam, I think we’d better go.’
Before Mary could answer, the old woman said, ‘Now then, lass, don’t be so hasty. I said we’ll ask Harry.’ She raised her voice. ‘Rebecca, get back in here, girl, ’cos I know you’re listening at the keyhole.’ There was a slight pause before the girl opened the door and slid back into the room.
‘Did you call, Gran?’ she said innocently.
‘You know very well I did. Fetch your father across here.’
‘He won’t like being fetched from his work.’
‘Tell him I sent you.’
Eveleen hid a smile. Harry might well be the notional head of the family, but it seemed to her that, in practice, it was this spirited old lady who ruled the roost. Despite her astonishment at Bridget’s callous greeting, Eveleen could not help have a sliver of admiration for her grandmother. Now she was turning back to Eveleen. ‘And you, girl. What do you say your name is?’
‘Eveleen.’
For the first time, real emotion flickered on Bridget’s face as she looked back at Mary. ‘So, you still thought enough about us to name her after my mother, eh?’ Her mouth stretched into a wistful smile. ‘Another Irish colleen, eh?’
‘Irish?’ Eveleen blurted out before she could stop her inquisitive tongue. ‘You don’t sound Irish.’ Eveleen had only ever met an Irishman once; a travelling man who had passed through Bernby, pots and pans rattling on his carrier’s cart. There was no hint of his rich brogue in Bridget’s speech.
The old woman sniffed. ‘You should have heard my father.’ Suddenly she lapsed into such a perfect imitation of the Irish brogue that Eveleen laughed aloud. ‘His name was Michael O’Hallaran, so it was, and a foiner man you never did see. He could drink anyone under the table, so he could. God love him.’
There was a mischievous sparkle in Bridget’s eyes, but then, reverting to her normal speech she said, ‘Now, go and fetch the boy back here. We’d best be seeing what we’re taking on.’
Eveleen gave her mother’s arm a squeeze. ‘You’ll be all right?’
‘Of course, she’ll be all right. What do you think I’m going to do to her? Eat her alive?’
Mirth unexpectedly bubbled up inside Eveleen. Her eyes sparkled and her laughter spilled over. Catching her merriment, the old woman cackled with laughter and the tension in the room eased.
‘Oh sit down, Mary,’ Bridget waved a bony hand towards a chair. ‘You make the place look untidy.’
The room, though small and cluttered with a lifetime of belongings, was anything but untidy. Eveleen settled her mother into a chair opposite Bridget. ‘I’ll get Jimmy,’ she said and hurried out of the door and along the path. As she did so, she saw a man emerge from one of the buildings. A big man with broad shoulders and strong limbs who, despite his size, seemed to spring along as he walked. Eveleen faltered a moment and paused to look at him. His gaze met hers and he frowned, his heavy eyebrows meeting across the bridge of his large nose. He had a bushy grey beard and moustache that completely hid his mouth, but his dark eyes were piercing. For a workman he was smartly dressed, Eveleen thought. A white shirt and tie and a dark suit that even had a waistcoat. On his head was a bowler hat. Irrationally at such a moment, Eveleen could not help wondering if he wore his hat when working at his machine. The picture in her mind made her want to laugh, but she kept her face straight as she returned his stare.
Behind the man, taking little running steps to keep up with his huge strides, was Rebecca.
This, thought Eveleen, must be her uncle, Harry Singleton. Now she gave an uncertain smile, but her tentative greeting was answered only by a deepening frown.
Eveleen pulled her shawl more closely about her and hurried away to find Jimmy.
Moments later they returned to the house and walked into a violent family quarrel between Harry and the old woman. Mary was still seated by the fire, saying nothing, and Rebecca was standing nervously behind her grandmother’s chair, twisting her fingers together, her dark blue eyes huge in her pale face.
Eveleen looked swiftly towards her mother. Mary’s face was ashen and the girl guessed that for her it must seem as if the intervening twenty or so years had never happened. Mary was back with her family, about to be cast out once again.
Eveleen hurried to her side leaving Jimmy standing awkwardly by the door. ‘Come on, Mam, we’re going. We’re not staying here for you to be insulted like this.’
‘Insulted, you say?’ Harry’s deep, booming voice was shouting so loudly that the ornaments on the mantelpiece seemed to dance. ‘And didn’t she insult the name of Singleton? Bringing disgrace on to this family?’
Eveleen whirled around and faced him, her fists clenched at her sides. ‘Maybe in your eyes, she did. But she’s suffered for whatever she’s done and if my father could forgive her and’ – she glanced meaningfully at Bridget – ‘take her on, then I would have thought her own family could do as much.’
She dredged around in her memory for something her mother had told her about the man standing in front of her. Then she remembered. Slowly and deliberately she said, ‘I understand you’re a chapel-goer?’ And now, latching on to the words her grandmother had used only minutes earlier, she added, ‘Well, we don’t exp
ect a fatted calf, but I’d have thought you could have welcomed her back into the family fold.’
‘Don’t you dare preach to me, girl.’ The man shook his fist in her face, but Eveleen stood her ground.
Behind them the old woman was cackling with laughter. ‘You’ve met your match now, Harry. She reminds me of myself when I was young. She even looks like me. And she’s got my hair.’ The last words were said wistfully, for only wisps of white hair peeped from beneath Bridget’s lace cap.
Eveleen was not finished yet. ‘And isn’t there another parable about the rejoicing in heaven over the sheep that was lost and is found?’
The man grunted. ‘I’m pleased to hear you know your Bible but let me tell you, the lost sheep needs to show true repentance of her sins to earn forgiveness.’
Uncle and niece continued to glare at each other until Bridget said sharply, ‘For goodness’ sake sit down and let’s talk this out calmly.’ Catching sight of Jimmy skulking in the shadows near the door, the old woman raised her shrill voice and said, ‘Come here, boy, let’s be having a look at you.’
Jimmy came forward reluctantly and stood before her. Bridget glanced from one to the other of her new-found grandchildren. ‘Are you twins? Now I see you properly, you look very alike.’
Jimmy stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and muttered, ‘No, she’s a year older ’n me.’
Bridget laughed. ‘So she thinks she can boss you about, eh?’ Then her laughter faded and she nodded thoughtfully, but her steady gaze was still on the youth’s face. ‘But you’ll not be told what to do for much longer, though, will you, boy?’
Listening, Eveleen marvelled at the old woman’s shrewdness. Jimmy had never been easy to control, even as a child, and Bridget had summed him up in seconds. For a brief moment, Eveleen wished they were staying here. She knew she would have a strong ally in her grandmother. Yet she could not allow her mother to be treated so shabbily by her family. ‘Well, he’ll have to do as he’s told for a while longer.’ She turned to her brother. ‘Go and ask Bill to turn the dray round.’
‘Now, now, girl, sit down, I said. You too, Harry. Rebecca, make these poor folks a cup of tea. It’s the least we can do.’
Eveleen glanced at the girl, who was already scuttling away to do her grandmother’s bidding. ‘Please could you take some tea out to Bill? We’ve come a long way.’
Rebecca nodded and disappeared.
‘Now then,’ Bridget began when everyone was seated. She did not intend to mince her words as she said, ‘You hurt us all badly, Mary, but we never wanted you to leave home.’
Eveleen saw her mother glance at Harry, but she lowered her gaze again without saying anything. Bridget too had seen the gesture, but went on, ‘To run off without a word to any of us. That was almost worse than getting yourself pregnant with the likes of Brinsley Stokes. Your poor father went to his grave not knowing whether you were alive or dead. That was cruel, Mary. Cruel and thoughtless.’
Mary looked up at last. ‘I thought you wanted me gone. You made my life hell on earth after you found out. All of you. Not one of you had a word of understanding for me. Telling me that he wanted nothing more to do with me. That he’d gone away. If only I could have seen him, talked to him, just one more time . . .’ Her voice trailed away as Mary relived the misery.
Now Eveleen noticed a quick glance pass between Bridget and her son.
‘You think you could have persuaded him to marry you, eh?’ Bridget was leaning forward. ‘The daughter of a humble stockinger. His sort don’t marry the likes of us.’
Eveleen shuddered. The words echoed those her mother had used to her only a few short weeks ago.
‘His father could have ruined all of us,’ Bridget went on. ‘Don’t forget, he was the bag man.’ The phrase mystified Eveleen, but now was not the time to ask questions.
Bridget went on. ‘Your father went to see him.’
Now Mary’s head shot up. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, he did and was told in no uncertain terms that if the lad married you he’d be cut off from his family without a shilling. The Stokeses were well off by our standards even then and now they are partners in a factory in Nottingham.’
‘So,’ Mary said, not really taking in everything her mother was telling her. She was still lost in her own bitterness. ‘Brinsley chose to cut me off instead?’
‘He was only eighteen.’
‘Nineteen,’ Mary said softly.
‘Nineteen, then. But he’d still have needed parental consent to marry you. And Herbert Stokes was never going to give that. Never in a million years. Herbert Stokes was determined to rise in the world. And he did, but he didn’t want his son to make an unfortunate marriage and hinder his grand plans.’ Bridget’s voice dropped and she reached across to touch Mary’s hand. ‘Didn’t you love Brinsley enough to want what was right and best for him? Never mind what it did to you? Did you really want to ruin his life, because that’s what it would have done?’
Tears spilled over and ran down Mary’s cheeks. ‘I thought he loved me.’
‘I’m sure he did . . .’
Mary finished the rest of Bridget’s sentence. ‘But not enough.’
Eveleen pursed her lips, forcing herself to remain silent. It was not her place, she knew, to say anything, but she felt revolted at what these people had done. They had obviously made life so unbearable for Mary that she had run away. She had given birth in the dark and the cold in a ditch and it had almost been the death of her. If it hadn’t been for the kindly and, to Eveleen’s mind, truly Christian Walter Hardcastle, Mary might well have died along with her child.
And yet – Eveleen had to be honest – perhaps they had been right. Perhaps the marriage between two young people of very different backgrounds would not have worked. And Mary had carried those instincts into the upbringing of her own daughter when she had vehemently opposed Eveleen’s association with Stephen Dunsmore.
And she had been right. So heartlessly had Stephen – just like Brinsley Stokes before him – proved her mother right.
Seventeen
‘So, are we going or staying?’ Jimmy piped up. ‘’Cos Bill says he wants to get unloaded and find himself lodgings afore it gets dark.’
‘You’re staying,’ Bridget said firmly, glancing at Harry as if daring him to defy her. ‘And they can live with you, Harry. There’s only you and Rebecca in that end house. Plenty of room for three more. And this feller, Bill, whoever he is, he can bed down for the night too.’ She turned to Mary and Eveleen. ‘I’ve got lodgers who work for us. This place is full, mi duck, else I’d have you here.’
Suddenly Mary smiled. ‘Eh, I haven’t been called that for twenty years. Mi duck.’ And she actually laughed. ‘Now I know I’m home.’
They moved into the end house with Harry Singleton and his daughter, Rebecca, and slipped into a routine remarkably quickly, although the phrase “settled in” hardly applied. Eveleen felt far from comfortable in the strict, dour atmosphere of her uncle’s house and Jimmy grew more truculent and difficult with each day. As for Mary, she was a bundle of nerves, jumping every time Harry spoke. Her anxiety to please him was pathetic.
They had been given the attic bedroom. Eveleen and her mother would share the double bed while Jimmy had a straw-filled mattress on the floor under the steeply sloping ceiling.
‘Huh,’ Mary said as she hauled herself up the steep, narrow stairs. ‘My old room back. I haven’t even graduated to a proper bedroom.’
‘I’ll have to tidy it up a bit. We haven’t had any lodgers recently,’ Rebecca explained apologetically.
They pushed their tin trunks into one corner beside a box of Rebecca’s old books and discarded toys. Eveleen picked up a small school slate and touched its cool, black surface, evoking poignant memories of her father. She smiled wistfully, remembering her own childhood as she glanced at the toys: a game of draughts, a set of quoits, the coloured rings piled on to the wooden peg, and a child’s cricket bat.
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‘Don’t bother on our account,’ Mary said stiffly to Rebecca. ‘We won’t be staying long.’ She went to the marble-topped washstand under the window and laid out her hairbrush and comb. There was a rose-patterned ewer and bowl and beside them, a linen towel edged with lace. Mary picked it up and fingered the lace, examining it closely.
‘Fancy,’ she murmured, ‘this is one of mine.’ She replaced the towel and turned to the bed, running her palm across the patchwork quilt. ‘And Mother and I made this together when I was about twelve.’ She glanced around the room, shaking her head in wonder. ‘It’s not changed in all this time.’
Secretly Eveleen was quite impressed with the house. It was much smaller than the farmhouse they had lived in, but the parlour of her uncle’s house, overlooking the yard, seemed to her to be well furnished. The black-leaded range where all the cooking was done dominated the room. In front of it a pegged rug covered part of the brick floor and to one side was set the master’s chair, a high-backed wooden Windsor. To the right of the range, set in the alcove, were cupboards and on the left-hand side, beneath the window, was a table covered with a plush gold-coloured tablecloth. Pictures adorned the walls and one, Eveleen noticed, was a portrait of a sweet-faced woman who looked very much like an older Rebecca. Eveleen presumed it to be her mother.
In the far corner of the room stood an organ and beside it a small table covered with a lace cloth. Standing in the centre was a blue and white bowl holding a fleshy-leafed aspidistra. Beside that was a brass-faced grandfather clock that ticked solemnly and struck loudly every hour.
Behind the parlour, with a window facing out on to the street, was the kitchen. A shallow stone sink drained to an outside gutter, although all the water had to be carried into the house from the pump in the yard and heated on the range. Beneath the stairs leading to the two upper floors was a small pantry.
As they had climbed the narrow stairs on their way to the attic room, Eveleen peeped into the two bedrooms on the first floor.
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