An exclamation from the bedroom window caused the men to look up. They were being viewed with horror by a portly lady in a nightgown and frilly bedcap. Behind her loomed another female, who was tittering loudly.
The titters did it. They turned and fled as quickly as they had come, while Celia clung to Eddie, her face buried in his shoulder as if he were her father. At the sound of his voice, she had ceased to scream, but she was still shaking with fright.
‘Come on, luv. They’ve gone.’ He felt behind his back, to open the Gilmore front gate. ‘I’ll take you in to your mam. She’ll make some tea for you. The boys don’t mean no harm – they was just teasing you, I bet.’ Holding her firmly, in case she fainted, he eased her up the garden path.
It was Edna, in a dressing gown, who opened the door to him, while Louise, wrapped in a quilt, stumped slowly down the staircase, saying crossly, as she descended, ‘Celia! What are you doing outside at this time of night?’
Eddie ignored the older woman and said to Edna, ‘She’s had a proper scare, Ma’am. Take care of her.’
‘Who were they?’ Edna asked, as quite gently, she helped a weeping Celia across the threshold, and passed her to her scolding mother.
‘They’re probably ex-servicemen, Ma’am. There is a number of big houses round here as is nursing homes, so to speak – there’s one full of blind, waiting to get into St Dunstan’s. This lot was probably mostly shell-shocked or in for treatment for illness or gas in the trenches.’ He sighed heavily. ‘There’s so many of them that it’s easy for them to get out at night, and they come out to the pubs – and people stand them drinks – and they pick up the local girls.’ He looked at the shrewd brown eyes before him, lit up by the oil lamp hanging in the hall. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I do have some idea,’ Edna responded dryly. ‘Though I cannot imagine what made Celia go out.’ She gathered her dressing gown more tightly round her thin figure, and Eddie stepped back down the step. Then he hesitated, and said, ‘Be careful of Miss Celia – she’s gone through a lot lately. And done a lot.’
‘It has been a difficult time for all of us, Mr Fairbanks.’
He was dismissed. He absently took his pipe out of his pocket, and looked at it. ‘Oh, aye. It’s a hard time for everybody. Good night.’
He plodded slowly down the path, carefully shutting the gate after him and went back to his empty house.
As he knocked the dottle out of his pipe on the top bar of the fireplace and then refilled it with fresh tobacco, he thought of the silly naked youngsters he had just told off.
‘Half crazy with what they’ve been through,’ he considered. ‘Under twenty-five, I bet, but with four years of bloody war already behind them. Hell-bent because life don’t mean much to them any more. Nerves shot; lungs ruined.’
As he tamped down the tobacco in his pipe, he sank slowly into his easy chair.
He was reminded suddenly of the earl in whose gardens he had served so faithfully. With three sons killed, when the old man died the earldom would probably die out – or go to some far-distant cousin safe in the Colonies. Proper cut up, the old earl had been. But maybe it was better than having them come back as crazy as the lads who had chased Miss Celia.
You could hate the aristocracy and the middle classes as much as you liked, he pondered sadly, but you had to admit that their families had paid a frightful price in the war – if you thought of the losses in proportion to numbers. And they were the educated, the future leaders – Eddie was very feudal in his outlook. In his book, rank had its obligation to provide leaders, as it had done since time began, and keep in line young louts like the men who had chased poor Celia.
There were thousands of working-class lads who never saw a battlefield, he ruminated – and thank goodness for that – safe in factories and works, they had been. And a tremendous number had been turned down by the army doctors as being physically unfit for service; rotten food, rotten housing, polluted rivers and air had wreaked havoc on the health of those who lived in the slums of the cities – and yet that very bad health had actually saved them from being flung into the furnace – it was strange how bad luck could become good luck, he mused.
But as long as he could stand up and walk, there was no excuse for an earl’s son not to fight – or, come to that, for the boys who volunteered from Liverpool offices – the work they did in banks and insurance offices, shops and professions could be done by women. Likewise, the work of men on the farms. Boys like them simply answered the call to the colours and joined the Liverpool Pals – and knew they were going out to die, like Mrs Gilmore’s boys next door, though one of them hadn’t gone to France – he’d been drowned with Lord Kitchener, Miss Celia had told him.
The thought of young George Gilmore’s drowning reminded him of the lads like his own son, merchant seamen who had drowned in thousands, sent to the bottom by submersibles – submarines, they called them now – the devil’s work.
As he remembered the expressions on the faces of the scandalous young men he had chastised, his mood lightened and he chuckled. They had looked such utter fools. How Miss Celia had panicked – and her a brave little thing if ever there was one.
Then he told himself that it was no laughing matter; despite the cold wind on their damp naked bodies, they might have managed to rape her. They’d probably leave a few babies in the district before the military got round to putting them back into barracks or into better treatment in military hospitals.
But barracks and hospitals, wherever nurses and doctors could be found, were still full of the terribly wounded, unlikely to get better – or, if they did, with lives foreshortened by years in the trenches.
And their womenfolk – how were they managing? He knew a number of mothers and wives already harried to death by the need to care for helpless, crippled servicemen – and on miserably small pensions, to boot. Or widowed with young children and no man to help to look after them. Betty Houghton was lucky that she had her father, Ben Aspen, to keep a hold on young Alfie.
He pulled himself up. ‘Tush, man. You’re getting morbid – it’s too much being by yourself,’ he chided himself. ‘Maybe it’s good that you’ve got some neighbours at last.’
He heaved himself out of his chair and went across the room to find his bottle of rum.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Followed by her mother, Celia stumbled into the living room and collapsed. She put her head down on her knees and sobbed helplessly, while Louise stood over her and continued to storm about stupid girls who went out at night and brought all kinds of trouble down on themselves.
When Edna entered the little room, she hesitated. The oil lamp on the mantelpiece still burned, but the fire had gone out and it would take time to rebuild it in order to boil water to make tea. She went to the sideboard and, with difficulty because of lack of space, opened the cupboard door and pulled out the first bottle she could reach. She managed, also, to open the matching cupboard on the other side sufficiently to get out a teacup. She had no idea where Dorothy had put the wine glasses.
With a little shrug, she filled the richly decorated cup with white wine.
She had almost to push Louise out of the way before she could kneel down by her sister. ‘Have some wine,’ she urged. ‘It will help you.’ She put her free arm round Celia’s shoulders and pulled her a little upright.
Edna’s touch was kind and Celia made an effort to stop sobbing, as she thankfully turned towards her. She obediently swallowed some of the wine, which was pleasantly sweet. Then she pulled her handkerchief out from her sleeve and blew her nose.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, and took the little cup and finished its contents. ‘I was just so frightened. They were naked. Lots of them, men and women in the sea!’
While Edna laughed at this, Louise stopped in the middle of her tirade, and exclaimed, ‘Women?’ Then she turned on Edna, and snapped, ‘This is no laughing matter!’
Edna giggled. ‘The men looked so funny!’
&nb
sp; Celia put down the empty cup on the floor beside her feet. Still sobbing, she said defensively, ‘They looked horrible to me. I was frightened to death.’ She turned back to her sister, in whose eyes humour still twinkled.
‘Haven’t you ever seen a naked man before?’ Edna asked.
‘No! Of course not!’
‘Really, Edna!’ This was from Louise.
‘Well, Mother, very few men look good in their skins.’
Louise’s voice was icy. ‘This is not a suitable subject for discussion. You are not to go out alone at night in future, Celia. You would never have done it in Liverpool, and why you should do so here is beyond me.’
Celia sighed, and continued to sniffle. ‘I wanted to see the tide coming in.’
‘Well, do it in the daytime – there are two tides a day on this part of the coast. Use your common sense, girl, if you have any.’
Louise pulled the trailing quilt closer round her shoulders. ‘Now, let’s get back into bed.’
Edna got slowly to her feet. She was taller than the other two women, and suddenly, although garbed only in a dressing gown, she seemed authoritative, as she said sharply to Louise, ‘You are being too hard on poor Celia, Mother. It is not her fault if she doesn’t understand much about men. I would myself have assumed that out here in the country I would be quite safe, even at night.’
Louise was shocked at being chided by a daughter. She opened her mouth to answer indignantly, and then thought better of it; as a result of their earlier discussion that evening, it seemed Edna was likely to be a source of much needed funds. She clamped her lips tightly. The quilt swished round her as she stalked out of the room and up the stairs.
Celia was dumbfounded at the sudden defence offered on her behalf. With her mouth half open in surprise, she slowly wiped her eyes and then rose from the sofa.
Edna said, ‘I’ll come up with you and see you into bed. You’ll be fine in the morning. You don’t have to be so frightened. I am sure they were only teasing you.’
At Edna’s unexpected kindness, Celia wanted to cry again. Instead, she took Edna’s outstretched hand and allowed herself to be led upstairs. Though the comfortable warmth of the wine was slowly spreading through her, her breath still came in small shuddering sobs.
In the bedroom, Edna quickly struck a match and lit the bedside candle. Then she shook out Celia’s cotton nightgown from the small embroidered nightie case laid on her bed, and held it while Celia shyly undressed. As soon as she had taken off her camisole and eased the straps of her vest off her shoulders, she slipped the gown over herself and modestly completed her undressing under its voluminous folds.
Edna sat down on the end of the bed, and said quite crossly, ‘I am not sure who annoys me most – Mother or my mother-in-law.’
Celia sat down by her, in order to peel off her black cotton stockings. She said in amazement, ‘But I thought you loved Mother?’
‘Well, of course I do – she’s my mother. But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t infuriating. She forgets that I’m a grown woman married for years and used to my own household. She treats me like a little girl, and you like a companion-help, who must do what she’s told or she’ll lose her job.’ As she shook her head in annoyance, her black plaits hanging over her breast swayed slightly as if they were in total agreement with her remarks. ‘Although Mother has had enough grief to last her a lifetime, she is a very capable woman, and I’m fed up with her constant complaints; she isn’t suffering any more than millions of other women. And she hasn’t done anything much towards this move to the cottage. I am nearly as bad, because I’ve tended to sit and listen to her, partly because I am quite bewildered by my own problems and the strangeness of England. You’ve done all the work.’
Celia did not reply. She got up slowly and hung her stockings on the back of a chair with her other clothes. Edna, she thought, had been very kind this evening. As she pulled back the bedclothes, she said, ‘Perhaps Mother will change, as she gets used to having you near her again as an adult.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Edna gloomily. She rose from the narrow single bed, so that Celia could get into it. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, as she added, as if forcing herself, ‘I am sorry I haven’t been much help to you. I’ve also had a great deal to do which has involved a lot of correspondence with Papa Fellowes – and all the time I’ve had to think carefully what I am to do – because my life, like Mother’s, has been reduced to chaos. There is nothing left of my married life – no home, no servants; and a very difficult change of country, with no one here to depend upon except Papa Fellowes – he really is doing his best to order my financial affairs for me.’
Her face pinched and white against her pillow, her fright forgotten, Celia was astounded as Edna looked down at her and asked, ‘Do you think you will be all right now?’
‘I think so,’ Celia replied. She snuggled down under the bedclothes. ‘Thank you, Edna. I’m so grateful. We’ll talk some more tomorrow. I tend to forget your loss, but I am sorry about it; you must be feeling absolutely awful. And Mother is still very upset after losing Father – it takes time.’
Edna’s responding smile was a little grim, but she bent down to kiss Celia on her forehead. ‘Shall I blow out the candle?’
‘Yes, please. And I’m sorry, Edna, that I was such an idiot.’
Unexpectedly Edna laughed. ‘It is not you who are the idiot,’ she assured her, and went quietly to her own room, leaving a bewildered, but not unhappy, Celia to a night of disordered dreams.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Celia had forgotten to set her alarm clock and when, the next morning, she dragged herself out of bed, put on her grey woollen dressing gown and went downstairs, she found Edna ineffectually trying to build the living-room fire.
She was not having much success because she had not yet shovelled out yesterday’s ashes from underneath the grate. Celia went through to the kitchen and brought a bucket and shovel and an old newspaper.
Still in their dressing gowns, they spread the newspaper over the hearth rug and side by side they kneeled down before the cold hearth, while Celia passed on the lessons on fire-making given her by Dorothy.
They sat back on their heels to watch the wood begin to crackle under the coal. Then, covered with dust from the removal of the ashes, they finally got up triumphantly, as the coal caught and began to blaze.
Celia went to fill the kettle. ‘Better take Mother up some tea,’ she said, as she turned the hob over the lighted coals and laid the kettle on it.
Though she agreed, Edna’s voice held doubt. She said, ‘Be careful what you do today, because you’ll set the pattern for the future.’ She paused, while, with her hands, she brushed down the front of her dressing gown. Then she went on firmly, ‘Don’t take Mother’s breakfast up to her, for example. She’s not an invalid, and there is no reason why she should stay in bed for breakfast.’
Weary as she was from her adventure of the previous night, Celia had taken it for granted that carrying her mother’s breakfast up to her bed was precisely what she would have to do every day of her life. At her sister’s advice, she gulped. ‘I’m sure Mama will be awfully cross,’ she said apprehensively.
‘If you’ve any sense, Celia, she’s going to be a lot angrier before you’ve finished.’ Edna paused to look her sister up and down, and then went on, ‘You look just about as ill as anyone could look and still be on their feet. You should see a doctor. I never could understand why you let Mother walk all over you.’ Her voice rose. ‘Your life isn’t worth living – and it won’t ever be unless you do something about it.’
This sudden outburst from her strong-minded sister surprised and confused Celia so much that she could not reply. She was trembling as she went back into the little kitchen to wash her hands again under the kitchen tap, before laying the table for breakfast.
Edna followed her, her own grubby hands held loosely in front of her, while she awaited her turn at the tap. She went on, ‘Sin
ce coming home, I’ve been so upset myself that I’ve tried to keep out of things between you and Mother. But after being away for seven years and then seeing you, it hit me like a hammer. Though you’re a grown woman, you still fawn around her – and cringe when she shouts at you. I know I’m tactless, and I’ve found myself ordering you around just as she does; then I feel so cross when you obey me, instead of telling me to get up and do it myself. But, as I said last night, my own life has been torn apart – and I’m not finding widowhood very easy.’ Her lips quivered, and she sounded suddenly tired and dispirited.
‘Even my servants aren’t around me any more,’ she continued. ‘I’ve been used to having servants at my beck and call all the time – and I tend to expect somebody else to do everything for me. I don’t even have a home of my own,’ she finished up unhappily. She stood chewing her lower lip, as if she might say more about her predicament, but had thought better of it and remained silent.
Celia slowly dried her hands on the towel, while Edna washed hers. She was suddenly frightened by Edna’s reference to seeing a doctor, but there was no doubt that her sister meant well.
Finally, she responded timidly, ‘You’re being so thoughtful of me, Edna, that I almost want to cry. Until last night, I had no idea that you felt like that. And the loss of Paul must be dreadful. I am so sorry – I’ve thought only of Mother, and not much about you.’
She handed the towel to Edna. At the same time, her old terror surfaced, that she was in some way physically handicapped or mentally ill and had never been told about it. ‘Do you really think I’m ill?’ she asked anxiously.
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