by Val Wood
He seemed surprised but he nodded, touched his cap, collected his cart and, whistling, wheeled it wobbling and rattling down Parliament Street.
‘Mama!’ It was a shock to see her mother. Answering the door wasn’t something she normally did. Florrie too expressed surprise.
‘Where’s Jane, ma’am? She hasn’t left you?’
‘No,’ Rosamund said. ‘But we’re spring cleaning and I told her that I would do it. I was hoping it would be you.’ She smiled at Margriet. ‘It’s lovely to have you home again. Do come in, Florence. We’ll ask Mrs Simmonds to bring coffee and you can tell me what you’ve both been up to.’
Margriet and Florrie exchanged glances. Margriet couldn’t think of a time when her mother had been so bright and cheerful, whilst Florrie was astounded to be invited to take coffee with them. ‘I’ll go down and make it, ma’am, if that’s all right?’ she said. ‘I don’t think Mrs Simmonds will mind if she’s busy.’
‘Of course she won’t,’ Rosamund said cheerfully. ‘And ask Cook if there are any biscuits, although,’ she turned to Margriet and said pensively, ‘I don’t suppose they’ll be as nice as the ones you’ve been having in Amsterdam.’
Margriet kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Cook makes lovely biscuits,’ she said. ‘And it’s really nice to be home again.’
‘I have something to tell you, Margriet.’ Her mother lowered her voice as they went upstairs to the sitting room, even though Florrie had gone off to the kitchen. ‘William Ramsey has been here again.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Surely he wasn’t coming back? Mama couldn’t have forgiven him? She wouldn’t, would she? Questions flew around Margriet’s head, but she couldn’t voice any of them whilst Florrie was there, talking about Amsterdam: the fine old buildings, the canals, the pots and troughs and baskets of spring flowers that adorned the waterways.
‘It sounds lovely,’ Rosamund said regretfully. ‘If only I could rid myself of my great fear of crossing the water. My husband – my late husband, I mean – really wanted me to visit his country of birth.’
‘You’d love it, Mrs Vandergroene,’ Florrie said, completely forgetting that Margriet’s mother had changed her name on marriage.
Margriet and her mother exchanged glances. ‘I’m Mrs Ramsey now, Florence,’ Rosamund said. Florrie began to apologize, but Rosamund told her there was no need. ‘Sometimes I forget too, or try to,’ she said wryly.
As soon as Florrie had gone, Margriet demanded to be told more about Mr Ramsey. Rosamund took a deep breath, and nodded.
‘I had a visit from Mr Webster shortly after you left,’ she began. ‘He has been very helpful with advice and reassurance, and he warned me to expect another visit from Mr Ramsey.’ Margriet noticed that she no longer referred to him as William. ‘He told me very firmly that if he came I must send for him at all speed.’ Her mother seemed filled with nervous energy. ‘So I told Jane to fetch Mr Webster at once, without referring to me, if Mr Ramsey should call.’
Margriet was astounded. She was quite sure that at one time, confronted by such a situation, her mother would have retired to her bed whilst someone else attended to the matter. But now, of course, there wasn’t anyone.
‘And so he came,’ she prompted. ‘What did he want? Did he ask if he could stay – or I suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘I suppose he didn’t have to ask, thinking that he had every right to be here as he’s your husband?’
Rosamund shuddered. ‘He did think that, and so did I, and he sat here, very nonchalantly, in that very chair where you are now, and told me what we were going to do. He said he would leave his lodgings and we would rent a house in York because surely I could scrape some money together from somewhere, and I was still saying it was impossible when Mr Webster arrived.’ She took a moment to compose herself. ‘I can only trust that he was telling the truth when he said, before he even got through the sitting room door, that he had firm instructions from Miss Vandergroene that Mr Ramsey was not to be admitted to her property under any circumstances whatsoever.’
Margriet smiled. ‘I told him I didn’t want Ramsey in my house, but it sounds much better in legal language. And so did he leave?’
‘He looked as though he was about to make a fuss, but then Mr Webster told him that he was following up certain information he had received regarding a Marie-Louise Ramsey, formerly Jarvis, who he had been told would testify that she was legally married to William Ramsey six years ago, resulting in four children and that she was expecting another.’
Margriet drew in a breath. ‘No! So he married you illegally. Can he go to prison for that?’
‘I don’t know,’ her mother admitted. ‘He made a very swift departure, and Mr Webster hurried off too. He said he had much to do, and his last words to me were “Don’t worry, dear lady”.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I have met this person,’ she said, ‘this Marie-Louise Jarvis, and I believe she might have been a party to this deception.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mama.’ Margriet came and knelt by her chair. ‘It means more difficulty for you.’ Scandal too, she thought. She wasn’t sure her mother could withstand the shame of it.
But Rosamund stroked Margriet’s head. ‘I shan’t mind too much,’ she said quietly, ‘if it means I can undo the mistakes I have made in my foolishness.’
They both sat mulling over the circumstances, until Rosamund remembered something and gave herself a little shake. ‘But that is not all my news,’ she said. ‘I had another visitor, the day after you left; your ships must have crossed mid-sea.’ She smiled. ‘It was Mr Hans Jansen, the son of a friend of your father’s. Do you remember him? He said you had met some years ago, when Frederik took you to Netherlands.’
‘We did,’ Margriet said. ‘And did he tell you that he is working for the Vandergroene Company in Amsterdam? His mother and sister live there now and I met them again on this visit.’
‘He was a charming young man,’ Rosamund said. ‘He reminded me of your father, not in looks but in manner, although your papa would have been older than him when he and I first met.’
‘He’ll be about nineteen or twenty, I think,’ Margriet said. ‘His sister is maybe seventeen, a little older than me.’
‘And are they a good family?’ Rosamund asked cautiously.
Margriet laughed. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘He’s the only son. Don’t start matchmaking, Mama, please! Oma Vandergroene has begun already.’
‘Has she?’ Her mother looked askance.
‘Hans Jansen, it seems, is just perfect. But you might as well know now that I don’t intend to marry. Not if I have to give everything I own to my husband.’
Margriet invited her mother to look over the clothes she had brought back from Amsterdam; it was time to explain the plans she had for the street children. ‘Except they are not children now,’ she said. ‘They are my age if not a little older, except for Jim, who’s maybe about twelve.’
‘And they live on the streets?’ her mother asked dubiously. ‘Where? They must surely have a roof over their heads?’
‘I think perhaps a doorway if they can find one, but sometimes they’re moved on. People think they make the town look untidy.’
Rosamund said nothing. That was what she had always thought when she hurried past homeless people. She had told herself that someone should do something about them, but it had never crossed her mind that it should be her. And now her daughter was considering helping them, might even be putting herself in danger by mixing with them.
‘Are you intending to wear these clothes to attract attention to their plight? I don’t see what good it would do.’
‘No, Mama,’ Margriet said patiently. ‘I’m going to try to show them a way that they can help themselves to make a living without waiting for charity.’
That night, before she climbed into bed, she hung the skirts, tops and trousers on hangers on her wardrobe door so that they wouldn’t crease. She was hoping that if her friends agreed to dress up in this way people would notice t
hem and buy from them, so that they would feel they were earning money rather than begging for it, and gain some self-respect. She was nervous, but Mrs Sanderson believed in the idea and Florrie was going to ask if she would allow them to meet at her house.
So many ideas were buzzing in her head as she planned what she would say to Billy and the girls the next day that she tossed from side to side in bed, unable to sleep. She looked at her clock and it was twelve o’clock and then it was two, and when she was finally drifting off she thought she heard someone knocking on her door. She got up and looked out on the landing but there was no one there; she listened at her mother’s door but all was silence. Then she heard the knocking again and went back to her room for her dressing robe, put it on and padded barefoot down the stairs.
‘Who is it?’ she whispered at the front door and a voice answered but she couldn’t make out what it said. She held her ear to the wood. ‘Who?’
‘Anneliese. Open the door.’
She drew back the bolt and turned the key, opening the door a crack. Anneliese was dressed as usual in her traditional garments. ‘You’re back,’ she said. ‘I’ve been looking for you. Come along.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’ve something to show you.’
Margriet closed the door quietly behind her and followed Anneliese down the steps. The street was quiet and there were no people about, and although it wasn’t dark there was a grey mist hovering, making the street and houses shadowy, and clouds were covering the moon.
‘Where are we going?’ Margriet asked as she was led towards the top of the street, where there didn’t appear to be a way out because of the dilapidated buildings in front of them, but Anneliese put her finger to her lips. ‘Shh,’ she said. ‘Not anywhere you will remember.’
The moon suddenly appeared from behind a cloud and lit up the street. ‘It’s the Lenten moon,’ Anneliese murmured. ‘The last of the winter.’
Margriet was confused. This was her own street where she had lived all her life, but now she barely recognized it. It was smaller and narrower than it should be, and had passages and alleyways off it that she had never noticed before. ‘Where are we?’ she asked. Anneliese didn’t answer, but took her hand and led her down one of the alleyways, which led into another, both of which had buildings on each side with small yards in front and in each yard were children playing who didn’t look at them as they passed. They went up another narrow alley and came out on the road where Margriet thought the Old Dock would be. Except that it wasn’t.
‘I don’t know this place,’ she told Anneliese. ‘I’m lost.’
‘Don’t you see? Look.’ Anneliese pointed across the open space in front of them. ‘Here is where the dock will be,’ and then Margriet saw men working with picks and shovels, and wheelbarrows full of soil and debris that had come out of the earth; there were markers and ropes and fences to show where the dock would be and in the distance were allotments and trees and shrubs.
‘These gardens will be gone soon,’ Anneliese told Margriet, ‘but I’ll show you some others. That’s what you like, isn’t it? You like to see the gardens?’
‘There aren’t any,’ Margriet said. ‘There used to be.’
‘No, they’re still here if you know where to look, and allotments too where people can grow vegetables as well as flowers.’
Anneliese set off in an easterly direction and Margriet tried to make sense of where they were going. Their clogs clattered on the cobbles and Margriet looked down at her black skirt. She couldn’t remember putting it or the clogs on. She touched her head and found she was wearing one of the starched caps. Anneliese, she noticed, was wearing a white bonnet with a frill that covered the back of her neck.
‘This is the back of Land of Green Ginger.’ Anneliese pointed. ‘Look, there is Hanover Square and Manor Alley where you can get to my house, and here are the gardens where my father grows his tulips and ginger.’
And there they were. Small gardens, it was true, but they were filled with colourful red and yellow tulips and white narcissi, blue hyacinths and some bluebells too, and in between the flowers were the thin green shoots of ginger. Margriet clasped her hands together in delight. ‘How lovely,’ she exclaimed, and wondered if these were the same gardens she had glimpsed on the day she had been to the Vandergroene offices and then wandered into Anneliese’s house.
‘Have I seen these gardens before, Anneliese?’ she asked.
Anneliese shook her head and smiled. ‘No, you’re not old enough.’
‘Did you come to Amsterdam with me?’
‘Yes, of course I did,’ she said. ‘Don’t I come everywhere with you?’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The next morning Margriet’s mother came into her bedroom. She was fully dressed and had already had her breakfast.
‘Margriet, are you awake?’
Margriet turned her head and opened her eyes to see her mother standing by the bed, looking anxious.
‘Jane said you were fast asleep when she came to open the curtains so she didn’t disturb you. Are you unwell?’
Margriet pulled herself out from under the bedclothes and stared around the room, seeing the Dutch costumes hooked on the wardrobe and one black skirt half off its hanger as if put there in a hurry. She frowned. Had she worn it?
She gazed glassily at her mother. ‘Tired, I think. Am I going somewhere today?’
‘You said you were meeting those children. Margriet, I’m having second thoughts about this. Perhaps you should cancel the arrangements; you don’t seem yourself.’
Margriet threw back the sheets and swung her legs out of bed. ‘I’m not unwell, Mama. I – I had a restless night, that’s all. I’ll be all right as soon as I’ve had breakfast. May I have coffee and Oma’s poffertjes?’
‘What? What are they?’
Margriet huffed out a breath. ‘Sorry! I’m still half asleep. Oma gave me little pancakes for breakfast and that’s what she called them. I’ll have porridge as usual, please. I’ll be down in ten minutes, Mama. I’m perfectly all right, really.’
She hadn’t meant to sleep so late and still felt tired and headachy, her mind hazy with something only half remembered. Did she really go out walking with Anneliese in the dead of night? She drew back the curtains and looked up and down Parliament Street. It looked the same as usual and yet she remembered – what? A different street from this one; much older, with dilapidated buildings and no way through to the dock. But there was no dock, there were no ships.
She sat on the edge of the bed. What’s happening to me? Why does Anneliese take me on these journeys? Her comprehension, now that she was no longer a child, told her that she was imagining these things, and yet she was loath to lose her friend, real or not. She could see her so clearly; she had grown up with her.
Cook had said that the porridge was now cold and not worth eating, so she’d prepared some rashers of bacon and lambs’ kidneys which were hot and waiting under a dish on the dresser.
‘I asked Cook about the pancakes,’ her mother told her, ‘and she says she’ll make some for tomorrow’s breakfast.’
‘Really?’ Margriet was once more surprised that her mother had taken the trouble over what was probably a sudden and obscure whim on her own part. ‘Thank you, Mama.’
Just before noon, Margriet packed the Dutch garments and white caps into two parcels and set off for Market Place. I hope they all come, she thought. What if they didn’t? What if Billy thought she was just playing a game and didn’t bother to tell the others? Maybe he thought she was just a rich girl with nothing better to do.
But he was there, with Jim, Betty and Mabel, all waiting by the church gate or sitting on the low wall. Margriet approached them diffidently. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said. ‘I hope you think it’s a good one. It’s to help you earn a living. Or at least, it’s a start, and it might lead to better things.’
‘I’ve got a job,’ Billy said. ‘I’m me own master. Don’t have to kowtow to anybody except ’customers.’
> ‘You mean like carrying people’s luggage or looking after somebody’s horse and carriage and hoping you’ll be given a copper or two?’
‘Yeh,’ he said defiantly. ‘Just like that.’
Margriet nodded. ‘Then I think you could be put in charge of this plan and make it work, because I can’t, not without you.’ She turned to the girls. Betty was concentrating on biting her nails and Mabel was sitting on the church wall idly swinging her legs. ‘Not without any of you. Oh, and the other thing is that we can talk about it at the Sandersons’ house.’
Instantly they were alert and ready to go. ‘Is Sandy in on this then?’ Billy asked eagerly. ‘Cos if she is then it’ll be all right.’
‘She doesn’t know all the details yet, but yes, she approves.’
They were ready to move off immediately, and Margriet wondered if they were motivated by the prospect of food at the Sandersons’. Billy offered to carry her parcels, and she handed them over to him. ‘Don’t drop them in a puddle, Billy, whatever you do.’ Then she asked him if his handcart would be available.
‘Aye, it will be if ’wheel doesn’t drop off,’ he said. ‘Why? Will there be summat to carry?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There will be, but I think the cart will need a lick of paint first.’
‘Oh, I can do that,’ he said, ‘except that I’ve no money for paint.’
‘All right. We’ll have to make a list of what we need, but we’ll go over everything once you’ve heard about the plan. If you don’t like it, well,’ she gave a little shrug, ‘it will only be a pipe dream.’
Billy looked sideways at her as they walked along Whitefriargate. ‘This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’ His forehead wrinkled as he considered. ‘Are you doing this just for us?’
‘I think I’m doing it for myself as well, Billy. For all of us.’