Mourning Doves

by Helen Forrester

  The red velvet curtains from the same room had been shortened by a local seamstress to fit the little windows. In the struggle to hang both pictures and curtains, the weary sisters had snapped and snarled at each other and argued with their mother.

  In one case, Louise had suddenly decided she did not like the curtains in the front bedroom which was to be hers, and they had to take them down and put them in Edna’s room. Edna did not like them either, but lost the battle.

  It had been the most tiring two days that Celia ever remembered. Her shoulders and back had ached unbearably during the night.

  By the time the three women had caught the train back to Liverpool, they were barely on speaking terms. The following morning, however, Edna, usually so silent, had asked Celia if she would rub her back with surgical spirit because it ached so badly. Celia agreed.

  When she lifted her sister’s shift in order to apply the embrocation, she had been shocked at the incredible thinness of her. Her shoulder blades stuck out and her backbone looked like a knotted cord.

  As she banged the cork back into the surgical spirit bottle, Celia asked, ‘Are you well, Edna? You are too thin.’

  ‘I am perfectly well, thank you. I am simply unused to having to work like a servant.’ The tone did not brook a response, so Celia turned away; she herself had, in the previous month, done much more than either of the other two women, but she had not lost weight.

  Now a fire, built by Celia according to Dorothy’s careful instruction, blazed in the old-fashioned cottage grate which had been well burnished with black lead.

  Dorothy is a professional when it comes to cleaning, thought Celia with a sigh, as she set out teacups on the table, and I will never be as good.

  The division of domestic responsibilities had yet to be discussed, and Celia had automatically assumed that most of the work would be piled on to her shoulders.

  ‘Dorothy’s going to come in some time tomorrow, to clean out the garden shed,’ she told Betty. ‘It’s got shelves on which we can store all the trunks.’

  ‘That’ll be a help,’ Betty replied. She wondered grimly who would be the first woman to get up the following morning and make the living-room fire. Probably poor old Celia, she decided.

  At that moment, Dorothy was busy cleaning the rapidly emptying house in West Derby, and Winnie was supervising the removers, while she also wielded a broom. Dorothy was not very happy about her new job as the only servant in a home, but she reckoned it would do until she got something better.

  She had leaped at the chance of coming out to the cottage once more. She had always prided herself on knowing a good man when she saw one, and she had welcomed the possibility of meeting Eddie again. She had told Winnie that he was elderly – but not old – and a real nice fella.

  Winnie wished her well, and wondered if the Missus would mind if she herself continued to sleep for a few extra days in her attic bedroom. After some thought, she decided that Mrs G. would probably never find out that she was there. If the estate agent called, she could always tell him that, in order to deter vandals, Mrs G. wanted her to stay until the house was sold. As she stolidly swept bare boards, ready for Dorothy to scrub them, she felt some relief at the idea of gaining a few more days’ respite from wandering the streets looking for cheap accommodation while she continued her hunt for a job.

  To this end, when packing up the contents of the pantry ready for transfer to the cottage, she had carefully segregated some of the large store of dry goods and hidden them in one of the cellars, where also lay at least a couple of hundredweight of coal which was not worth moving. If absolutely necessary, and if the house took time to sell, she could exist for a number of weeks, she planned, on porridge, potatoes, a little barrel of eggs preserved in isinglass, on bread she would bake for herself and on any scraps left over after the family had left.

  Winnie had dealt honestly with the Gilmores during all the years she had been with them. But now, deeply resentful of Louise’s indifference to the plight of her servants, she knew she must secure her own survival. If she could not get a job, her only resource would be the workhouse, and she shuddered at the very idea of being reduced to that.

  In the Gilmores’ new home, the removal men had placed the furniture under Celia’s direction. It still needed a little adjustment, but the general effect was so friendly that Betty sank into a chair with a contented sigh, and said, ‘It looks lovely, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes!’ Celia did a small dancelike twirl round the centre table, and came to rest by Betty. ‘And you did it!’ She put her arms round her new friend and kissed her.

  Betty said firmly, ‘No. I didn’t. I simply encouraged you and Mrs Gilmore.’ She smiled up at Celia. ‘All the pair of you needed was confidence. Between the two of you, you put it all together; and Dad won’t send his bill until the end of the month – I’ll see to that!’

  Celia laughed; she was worried about money, but was sure that, once the Liverpool house was sold, everything would be all right.

  Betty asked, ‘What about Mrs Fellowes?’

  Celia sighed. Before she answered, she took the lid off the teapot and took down a tea caddy from the mantelpiece. As she carefully measured the tea into the pot, she said slowly, ‘Well, Mother has encouraged Edna to come to live with us. So she’s going to have the back bedroom, next to the bathroom – and we have put into it most of the furniture from the bedroom she had as a girl. Her own furniture will arrive eventually from South America – all beautiful and hand-turned, according to her – so, if Mr Aspen is agreeable, we’ll put that into your barn until she is certain about where she will live.’ She reached for the kettle which had come to the boil and poured the water on to the tea. Then, as she stirred it, she considered her sister.

  She glanced at Betty, and went on, ‘Edna’s really very odd, Betty, and I worry about her sometimes. It is almost as if she is on the edge of a complete breakdown – and she’s no flesh on her at all. I don’t know whether she talks to Mother when I’m not with them, but I find it very strange that she never talks about Paul – or even generally about her life in Brazil. You would think that she would be eager to tell us all about it – because it would be very interesting – but she never says a word to me. It is almost as if it defeated her – if one can be defeated by a country.’

  ‘Perhaps her loss is too great, Celia. Perhaps it is too painful to talk about it. Not only has she lost her husband, but she has lost a country – which she may well have loved. And you said that her little girl was buried in Brazil?’

  Celia nodded. She poured the tea and sat down opposite Betty. She offered her a plate of biscuits, and Betty took one. After they had eaten their biscuits, Celia continued her line of thought about Edna. ‘I keep getting the feeling that she really didn’t care much about Paul. He was a good match and she never complains about him – she just doesn’t say anything about him. She’s like someone patiently sitting in a railway station, waiting for a train to arrive.

  ‘It puzzles me. It’s as if his memory simply does not exist in her mind. Your David’s always in your mind. I know, because you mention him with such love all the time, that I wish I had an equivalent memory to sustain me.’ The last words were said with real longing.

  Betty nodded, and then said lightly, ‘You’re young enough yet to meet someone.’ She pushed her cup across the table, and asked, with the freedom of a friend, if she could have more tea. Celia quickly picked up the teapot and refilled the cup. She then pressed more biscuits on her.

  As she settled in her chair again, Celia said, ‘I don’t have a chance, you know that. Besides, who will look after Mama?’

  ‘She’ll be young enough to look after herself for a very long time,’ responded Betty a little tartly. She reverted to their discussion of Edna, and said, ‘This little house will, unavoidably, make you and Edna live very close to each other – and she may open up, when she gets really used to you – and you to her. Be patient with her. She’s obviously not well.’
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  ‘Betty, you’re a saint, which I am not. But I’ll try.’

  Suddenly, Louise’s voice could be heard raised high in complaint, as the new gate squeaked open. Behind her, Edna gave sharp orders to someone. A heavy weight was dumped at the open front door. There was a sound of men’s voices, as Louise came down the passageway and into the little room.

  ‘Oh, tea!’ she exclaimed thankfully, and plunked down on a straight chair beside the table. The table had a plum-coloured velvet cloth on it and the pompoms which trimmed its edge got entangled in her handbag. She threatened to drag the cloth and the tea tray off the table. Celia sprang to her aid.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Aspen,’ she greeted Betty. ‘Dear me! What a knot I’m in. No place to lay down a handbag in that poky little hall. I really don’t know how we shall manage.’

  Betty ignored her complaint. ‘I’m Mrs Houghton,’ she corrected her rather sharply.

  ‘Of course. I am so sorry, Mrs Houghton.’

  As her daughter untangled her handbag from the tablecloth, Louise ordered, ‘Make a big fresh pot, Celia. We’re exhausted!’

  Outside, men gasped, and shouted encouragement to each other to ‘Heave!’ and Edna admonished them to be careful of her trunks, and told them to carry them straight upstairs.

  One of them stepped inside to take a look at the extremely steep staircase, and there was a stubborn male refusal, the excuse being that they would scratch the obviously newly painted walls.

  ‘Unpack ’em first, Ma’am. Then you can ease ’em up more careful,’ they advised in chorus.

  True Merseysiders who felt they were being pushed too hard, thought Celia with a smile. She herself had come up against such an attitude more than once during the previous month, and had discovered that the working class, no matter how poor it was, had a strong sense of self-preservation. She had learned to respect it.

  Edna said something in Portuguese which sounded derogatory, and the indignant men answered her in a united rumble of defence.

  Celia, having unravelled her mother from the tablecloth, ignored her request for tea, and went to see what was happening outside.

  Betty rose and said she must go back to work. She wished Louise happiness in her new home, and received a tired, resigned smile in return.

  Outside stood a big railway station handcart with two trunks and a large suitcase still on it. Beside the cart lay three huge steamer trunks and a couple of packing cases. Edna was carrying, one in each hand, two large travelling jewellery cases.

  Celia faced two red-faced porters standing by the trunks on the path, and a very cross Edna. She said placatingly, ‘Don’t worry, Edna. We’ll manage. The trunks will have to be stored in the garden shed anyway.’

  ‘I won’t have handmade leather trunks stored in a place which is probably damp!’ snapped Edna in response.

  Behind Celia, Betty, trying to get out, edged round another big trunk which had already been dumped in the lobby. ‘Hello, Freddy – George,’ she greeted both men. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fellowes.’ She cast a critical glance over the trunks and said, ‘With respect, Mrs Fellowes, the size of these really is too big for you to get them up the stairs, I am sure. They may get wedged – and almost certainly the staircase wall will be scratched. The men are simply being careful.’

  The porters immediately relaxed and looked very self-righteous.

  Edna had already met Betty on several occasions and had learned to respect her quick mind. She therefore accepted this professional estimate of size, and, with an effort, controlled her irritation. She said politely, ‘Thank you, Mrs Houghton.’

  She made way for Betty to get on to the pathway, and then stepped round the trunks and into the house. Betty gravely winked at the porters and touched Celia’s arm gently in acknowledgement, as the younger woman whispered a heartfelt ‘Thank you.’

  After Betty had marched down the red-tiled garden path, her black skirt swinging, her sensible shoes crunching the ever-present sand, the porters lifted the remaining luggage off their handcart. An unsmiling Edna thrust a sovereign into the hand of one of the men, and said, ‘You may go.’

  Without thanking her, the porters, wooden-faced, pushed the clumsy vehicle into the lane. After struggling in a muddy puddle, they managed to turn the handcart round. Celia watched them, as they followed Betty towards the main road.

  Their good neighbour, Eddie Fairbanks, had cut the front hedge for them, and the cottage now had a view of a patch of rough green grass with a few trees and, at some distance, the thatched roof of the cottage where the fishing family lived. The whole area was so quiet that Celia concluded that the tide must be out. She had not yet had time to walk down to the sea.

  The tiny front garden was a trampled mess after the constant comings and goings of workmen and movers, but, in an untouched corner, a rambler rose which Eddie had left unsnipped clung to the hedge and was putting out leaves.

  Comforted by the sight of it and by a warm sun, Celia reluctantly turned to face the problems within the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The first evening of the family’s residence in their new home began peacefully, despite the muddle of clothes hastily unpacked from the trunks and dumped on to beds, and an argument about what to do with the trunks themselves. The trunks were eventually left by the front steps because no one could suggest where to put them, except in the garden shed, which was still awaiting Dorothy’s ministrations. Tired out and aching everywhere, Edna mentally abandoned them; what were trunks anyway?

  Since Edna and Louise both declared themselves exhausted, Celia laid the table for dinner. She had, some hours earlier, placed the casserole, which Winnie had made for them, in the oven of the range in the living room, to heat up. Now, she put out some bread and butter and made a pot of coffee.

  Louise, who had given little thought to the need to eat that evening, looked at the single big dish in the middle of the table, and asked, ‘Is that all that Winnie prepared? She said she was going to make dinner for us.’

  ‘She put everything in one big dish, Mama – for simplicity.’

  ‘No soup? No dessert?’

  Celia pulled out a chair and sat down; Edna was already seated. She unfolded her linen table napkin and laid it across her lap.

  ‘No, Mama. She simply made lots of meat and vegetables.’

  Since her mother made no move to serve, though Celia had set three plates in front of her, she asked, ‘Shall I serve?’

  ‘Please.’ The reality of her new life struck Louise forcibly. No one was going to cook for them or serve them; they would have to do everything themselves. She sulkily passed the little pile of plates to Celia.

  Edna inquired, ‘Shall I cut some bread, Mama?’

  ‘Please.’ Louise’s little mouth was clamped closed. What had she come to? Looking round the cosy little room and then at the sparsely laid table, she again wondered bitterly why Timothy had had to die in the prime of his life – and leave her to rot in a place like this.

  Edna sawed three thick slices of bread from the last loaf Winnie would bake for them, and then lifted up the wooden bread board with both hands, to offer pieces to her companions.

  As she took a slice, Celia cast a quick, thankful glance at her sister. Now she was installed in the cottage, would she help her?

  Louise ate slowly. The casserole was delicious. Celia knew it, but Louise grumbled throughout the meal. She felt terribly confined in the tiny room, she said – they could barely move around in it. She had banged her leg on the metal corner of one of her trunks and it was hurting. Going up and down stairs into freezing bedrooms had given her a chill, she was sure of it – everything was so draughty. ‘Perhaps one of you girls would make a fire up there for me?’ she whined hopefully.

  Neither daughter answered because neither of them wanted to set a precedent. Most people managed without them – with hot water bottles in their beds, Celia finally reminded her.

  Edna said wearily that she had a hot water bottle with
her, and that perhaps dear Mother would like to borrow it tonight. She could buy one for herself tomorrow in the village.

  Louise responded savagely that, somewhere amid the furniture on its way to Aspen’s there were probably umpteen hot water bottles. If not, she doubted if she could afford a new one after all the expense of setting up the cottage and moving into it.

  Celia said soothingly that she would look for an old brick or a stone to put in the back of the oven to heat for her – wrapped in a towel, it would keep her feet warm in bed. ‘Winnie used to have bricks in the back of the oven all the time, to heat the servants’ beds,’ she informed her mother.

  ‘Servants!’ exclaimed Louise. ‘They take all kinds of liberties!’

  ‘Well, you will be saved from that in future!’ remarked Edna with unexpected acidity.

  Louise’s answer was icy. ‘I am aware of it,’ she almost snarled.

  Edna helped herself to butter, and Celia asked if anyone was ready for coffee.

  ‘We could have coffee in the front room,’ Louise pointed out.

  ‘There isn’t a fire there, Mama. It may be rather chilly. And, as yet, there are heaps of boxes piled up in the middle of it. We have to get it tidied up by tomorrow, so that Mr Aspen’s man can finish painting it.’

  Celia hastily poured the coffee and handed her mother a cup, before she could reply. ‘Would you like to sit closer to the fire, in here?’ She pointed to her mother’s favourite easy chair, carefully installed at the side of the fireplace so that she would be warm, and yet leave a little space to walk round the table. Louise squeezed round Edna’s chair and plunked herself down in it.

  She waited for Celia to hand her her coffee and then complained that she had nowhere to set it down.

  ‘Mr Fairbanks always puts his cup down on the flat top of his brass fender,’ Celia told her with determined cheerfulness.