Mourning Doves

by Helen Forrester

  She yawned again, as she opened the box and scrabbled about in it. ‘Grandpa was very fond of me and he told me I could have anything I wanted of his furniture, provided my mother did not want it.’ She looked up at her daughter, and smiled at the recollection. ‘Mother thought the stuff was dreadfully old-fashioned, but I was young and I thought it was very fine and delicate-looking – and dear Timothy, your father, though he had an excellent pedigree, didn’t have much money when we were first married, so we were both grateful for the offer.’ Her mouth quivered as she mentioned her late husband. Then she swallowed, and after a moment, continued, ‘Later on, we had everything reupholstered and refinished.

  ‘Then when your other grandfather died, he left us his picture collection, as you may possibly remember. I think the pictures are rather gloomy, but your father liked them, so, of course, we found space for them.’

  Celia glanced round the bedroom. ‘You always did have lovely taste, Mama. And you mean to say that all this stuff goes back to Georgian times – the Regency? That it is all antique?’

  Her mother glanced up from her box. She was pleased by Celia’s unexpected compliment. ‘I suppose it is. It’s certainly very old indeed. But it has been well looked after.’ She picked out a note. ‘Here is a five-pound note, dear. It’s a lot of money. Don’t lose it, and don’t spend what you don’t have to. But I imagine you may have to pay Mr Aspen something on account.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, Mama.’ She folded the note and stowed it in her own deep skirt pocket. ‘Do you have any small change, Mama – for tips? For porters. Edna’s bound to have a lot of luggage. And Dorothy and I have to carry all the cleaning stuff out to the cottage. I think that, at Meols Station, I will have to get a porter to help.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her mother took her change purse from under her pillow; Celia had crocheted it for her as a Christmas present, because one could no longer buy such a purse in the shops – housewives now used leather ones. She pulled back the rings of it, to delve amid the sovereigns in the pocket at each end, and finally gave Celia some silver sixpences.

  Celia’s hand automatically closed on the coins, but she did not thank her mother. Her mind was elsewhere. ‘You know, Mama,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘we shall have to sell a lot of furniture, because we have far too much for the cottage.’

  ‘I know. Don’t remind me.’ Louise’s voice was suddenly full of reproach, as if it were Celia’s fault that her well-kept furniture would have to go.

  ‘Some of it may be more valuable than we know. Do you know anybody who could say what it is worth?’

  ‘Celia, you really do have the most dreadful ideas. How can I take someone I know round the house to ask them that?’ There was a hint of a sob in her voice, as she complained, ‘It is bad enough that I will have to let that dreadful estate agent take perfect strangers round the house.’

  ‘Sorry, Mama.’ Celia was too exhausted to follow up the subject further. She herself longed to crawl back into bed and simply rest. But then there would be nobody to look after Mama or Edna.

  She lifted the cash box off her mother’s knees and put it back where she had found it. Then she said, ‘Perhaps, tomorrow, Mama, when you are less tired, you could look round the house and see what you want to keep. Remember how small the rooms of the cottage are.’

  Louise lay back on her pillows and pulled the bedding up round her chin. ‘I’m not likely to forget it,’ she responded huffily.

  Celia bent and kissed her and went thoughtfully downstairs to have her breakfast. For the first time in years, she really looked at the furnishings of the upper and lower halls and the staircase. Two huge chests of drawers on the first-floor landing, each with an oil painting carefully centred above it; three charming watercolours on the staircase wall; and, in the front hall, two Russell engravings, six chairs, a large hall table, two occasional tables, a hope chest, a barometer, a large hat stand, innumerable vases, candlesticks, trays, a fireplace complete with brass pokers, in one corner a huge china pot with drooping dyed seed pods in it, a brass gong on a stand – and, near the front door, a grandfather clock, which showed the times of sunrise and sunset, and struck the quarter-hours as well as the hours. And of course the carpets – they, also, were probably valuable.

  There was enough furniture in the halls alone to fill the biggest room in the cottage chock-a-block, she realised with a sense of shock.

  Before entering the dining room to ring the bell for her breakfast to be brought up, she paused and smiled at the beautiful old face of the clock. It had been her friend ever since she could remember; its firm sprightly striking had comforted her through nights when she had lain terrified in her bed or had been shut in her room by angry parents; it reminded her when she was supposed to do her routine tasks of the day, and now, suddenly, it reminded her of her stiff, unbending father carefully winding it up each Sunday morning. He, too, had loved that clock, she guessed – the thought made him suddenly more human to her.

  She smiled again. She must remember to wind it on Sunday. She would never part with it, she decided. It might just fit into the back of the hall in the cottage. She must take a tape measure to see if there was room. And she had better take pencil and paper to write down the measurements of the rooms. And a big apron to protect her tailored skirt from the dust.

  I’ll never manage to remember everything, she told herself hopelessly, as she went to the side of the dining-room fireplace to pull the bell rope again. Dorothy was slow in answering this morning.

  I’ve never had to remember so much in my life. I’ve just done exactly what I was told to do – no more, no less – bits of things, and be reminded about them – like Dorothy. Only, Dorothy knows more than I do.

  As Dorothy rushed into the dining room with the breakfast tray, Celia seated herself at the huge table, and the harassed maid dumped the tray in front of her.

  Dorothy stood back, panting a little, as she said, ‘Ethel didn’t have time to light the fire in here this morning, Miss. What with me getting ready to go to Meols, like – and she having to run down to the stables to order the taxicab for you. She done the one in the breakfast room, though – ready for the Missus getting up.’

  Celia assured her that it was quite a warm morning, but that she should ask Ethel to have a good fire in Miss Edna’s bedroom by evening. ‘Could she manage to clean the room?’

  ‘Oh, aye. She’s quite smart, is Ethel. Which room would it be, Miss?’

  ‘Of course! You never knew my sister, did you? The back bedroom with the roses on the walls was always her room. The room we put Mr Albert Gilmore in when he was here. Ask Mrs Gilmore what bedding to use.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I’m to be ready in half an hour, Miss?’

  Celia was cracking her boiled egg. She did not want it, but she knew she must eat something. ‘Yes, please,’ she replied mechanically to Dorothy’s question, and then she asked, ‘Have you had your breakfast?’

  Dorothy was grateful for the unexpected inquiry. ‘Oh, aye. Had it an hour ago, at six o’clock.’ She smiled, as she went out of the room. She was certain that the Missus would never have bothered to ask such a question.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dorothy had been both excited and scared to find herself riding in a taxicab, a mechanically propelled vehicle which actually did not need a horse to pull it! She had seen cars and lorries in the town – but to be really riding in a car was a thrill indeed. She had never crossed the river by anything but a ferryboat before, and it was with similar excitement that she trotted beside Celia down a long passage and steep staircase to the underground electric train. She was glad that she had agreed to accompany Celia. What a wonderful morning!

  The guard stored the clumsy trunk in the guard’s van at the back of the train, and, when they had to change to the steam train at Birkenhead Park, he called a porter to transfer the trunk to the other guard. Celia shyly parted with sixpences as tips and all the men looked quite happy.

  At Meols, the porter was busy with a s
eries of first-class passengers and took no notice of their beckoning fingers. So, between them, they lugged the straw trunk down the long sandy lane from the station to the cottage, and thankfully dropped it on the doorstep. They were giggling and gasping like two schoolgirls who had been racing each other.

  ‘I bet we been quicker than waiting for that porter to finish with the snobs,’ Dorothy said unthinkingly, as Celia found the key for the door.

  Celia smiled to herself; she had bought third-class tickets for the sake of economy; they had always gone first class when her father was alive. Was one really a snob if one bought first-class tickets? she wondered.

  As they inspected the ground floor of the interior of the cottage, Dorothy followed Celia very closely and very quietly. It was Dorothy’s opinion that one should be careful of ghosts in a house left long empty. They did not, however, seem to disturb anybody – or anything.

  They slowly climbed the stairs and went into the front bedroom, which was about as big as Louise’s dressing room in her present home.

  Dorothy folded her arms across her stomach and considered the grubby, forlorn-looking little room. Her nose wrinkled. ‘Where’ll I start, Miss?’

  Celia laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. ‘I don’t know, Dorothy,’ she admitted. ‘I must go into the village to see a man who does repairs, and try to find a sweep to sweep the chimneys. So don’t bother about cleaning windows today – the sweep is bound to spread soot, no matter how good he is.’ She looked around the stuffy room, and said, ‘I noticed, as we came in, that Mr Billings has had the glass replaced in the single room over the hall – and he’s taken the boarding down from the downstairs windows – so at least you can see to work.’

  ‘Suppose I start with all the hearths, Miss – get them clear so the sweep can work,’ Dorothy suggested, as she slowly drew the hatpins out of her big black hat. ‘Then I could give the whole place a good sweep with the hard broom we brought. Get rid of the litter, like?’

  Celia gratefully agreed to these suggestions. ‘The single bedroom doesn’t have a fireplace, so you could clean that room thoroughly. If the linoleum on the floor looks very damp, you could pull it up in strips and throw it out; I think we shall have to buy new. Then scrub the wooden floor underneath with disinfectant. When it dries we can see if we have to replace the planking.’

  As they moved out of the bedroom and down the precipitous little staircase, Dorothy nodded. ‘You said the pump didn’t work. Where would I get water, Miss?’

  ‘I’m going to ask Mr Fairbanks, next door, if you could draw a few bucketfuls from his pump.’ She sighed. ‘That’s another person I have to find – someone who will say whether the well is usable – and will mend the pump.’

  Since there was no clean place on which to lay it, Dorothy stuck her hat back on her head, rather than putting it on the hall floor while she struggled with the knots of the rope round the trunk. She laid the broom handles on one side, and pulled off the lid. Very carefully, she took out a neat brown paper parcel and handed it to Celia. She smiled up at her, and announced, ‘Lunch!’

  The deep lid of the trunk made a clean receptacle in which to deposit hats, coats, gloves, purses and the precious food. Both of them shook out the sackcloth aprons, which lay on top of the cleaning materials, and wrapped them round their black skirts.

  They looked at each other, and, for no particular reason, they laughed. ‘We look as if we’re going hop-picking,’ remarked Dorothy. She was glad to see Celia laugh, and she said, ‘Would you like to go and see the fella next door about water, while I begin on the living-room fireplace?’

  Celia agreed.

  Feeling very shy, she walked down the tiled path, the sand squeaking under her boots, round the high privet hedge with its new green buds, to Mr Fairbanks’ nicely varnished front gate. Before opening it and entering the garden, she hesitated nervously, and then, before her courage failed her, she unlatched it and hurried up the path.

  She knocked timidly at his black-enamelled front door. As she looked at it, she wondered if she would ever reduce next door to comparable orderliness.

  From his front room window, Eddie Fairbanks had seen her coming, so the door was opened immediately, and she was greeted like an old friend. In her sackcloth apron, she looked even smaller and frailer than when he had first seen her, and he said warmly, ‘Come in, Miss. The wind’s cold this morning.’

  As he led her into the cosy back room which she remembered from her previous visit, and sat her down in the same nursing chair, she was shivering, partly from chill and partly because she had to deal with a man alone in the privacy of his own home.

  While she settled herself in the chair, he turned the hob with its black kettle on it over the fire. ‘Will you be having some tea with me?’ he asked.

  His amiability gave her confidence. She smiled quite sweetly at him, and said not just now, because she had to set the maid to work and then go to Hoylake and from there to Liverpool to meet her sister, who was coming up from Southampton. And would he be so kind as to let her maid draw some water from his kitchen?

  ‘Oh, aye. When she’s ready for it, she should come and tell me, and I’ll carry it in for her. Would she be liking some tea?’

  ‘I’m sure she would. She had her breakfast awfully early.’ What an old dear he was, she considered, as he looked kindly down on her. She stopped shivering.

  While weighing her up, he rested his shoulder against the mantelpiece and waited for the kettle to start singing. She looked so careworn that he said cautiously, not wanting to offend her, ‘I think – I think you’d better have a cuppa before you go to Hoylake, Miss. While I make it, you go and tell your maid what you want done and that she’s to come over when she wants some water. Then both of you come and have a quick cup. How about that?’

  She hesitated, and then said, ‘Very well. You are most kind.’ She found it strange to be treated with consideration – only harried Phyllis seemed to treat her similarly – or Winnie, when Louise was out.

  When she told Dorothy about the invitation, Dorothy said promptly, as she continued to rake out the cinders and ashes from the front room fireplace, ‘That’d be nice. But you open that lunch right now and eat some of it – sandwiches – because otherwise you won’t have time.’

  It seemed odd to be given an order by the house-parlourmaid; Winnie was the only servant who had ever ventured advice, and she usually addressed herself to Louise.

  Celia took out a sandwich and hastily consumed it. As she brushed the crumbs off her black blouse, Dorothy got up from her knees to take the bucket of ashes outside, and said, ‘There’s a packet of biscuits. You take it and you can eat them on the train, to keep you going. There’s lots else for me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Dorothy grinned at her. ‘Winnie told me that I had to see that you eat – so you better had, or I’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘That’s very nice of both of you.’

  There was something quite different about this morning, she considered, as the pair of them tramped round to Eddie’s house. I am not only doing different things, but people are behaving differently, too. This thought stayed with her as, twenty minutes later, she set out for Hoylake.

  She had been armed by Eddie Fairbanks with the name of a sweep, which would save her time hunting about when she reached Hoylake village. ‘Go and see this chap before you go to see Ben Aspen,’ he advised. ‘Ben’ll keep you talking for hours, if you don’t watch. If you tell him you must catch a train, it will help to stop the flow!’

  She smiled, as she hurried through the sandy lane and then on to the tarmac main road. Ben Aspen must be quite a well-known character.

  Chapter Seventeen

  While en route to the sweep’s house, she found the notice board of a plumber on a cottage gate. A plumber might know about wells and pumps, she thought, and promptly knocked on his door.

  At both his house and that of the sweep she found herself dealing with their wives. Both of them l
aboriously wrote down with the nub of a pencil on a scrap of paper her name, her address and the address of the cottage.

  Once the plumber’s wife had taken the address of the cottage, she said, in surprise at Celia’s request that her husband should look at a well and a pump, ‘There’s mains water down there. What you need is to have it connected and turned on, and have a modern set of taps put in. And there was a sewer laid down as well, as I remember.’

  Celia was doubtful that a woman would know about waterlines, so she responded, ‘Mother only said it had a well.’

  ‘Well, I never! Well, let Billy come and look at it for you. Tomorrow morning, aye?’

  As she turned away from the door, Celia was suddenly wild with hope. If the woman was right, a colossal load of work would be saved. With running water, they could have a water closet – if there were drains nearby, of course – and even, perhaps, a bath with taps. That would make Mother happier, though it might cost a great deal.

  I don’t care what it costs, she thought. I really don’t want to spend my life carrying big ewers of water up and down stairs for Mother’s bath. I don’t want to try to keep a stinking earthen lavatory from smelling because she will perpetually complain about it – or even one with a bucket, which has to be emptied and the contents buried each day; I doubt if I have the strength even to dig a hole.

  She had rarely felt such a strong sense of revolt – but as her father’s affairs had been dealt with, she had watched with growing apprehension. Because Cousin Albert had left Louise alone, to deal with her domestic affairs, and Louise had done nothing, all the responsibility was being pushed on to herself. There was no one else, now Paul had been taken by the flu – and to the best of her limited ability, partly out of a sense of self-preservation, she was indeed tackling the situation.