Mourning Doves

by Helen Forrester

  Edna found herself facing the surprised gaze of both Louise and Celia, and she said, ‘I do not yet know.’ Her voice was calm, but her eyes spoke of despair.

  Since that seemed all that she would say, Louise, after a pause, chided her. ‘I thought we would all live together?’

  ‘Oh, Mother! We probably will. But you forget that I have been bereaved, too. I am simply in no state to make up my mind what I want to do. And Papa Fellowes has not yet settled Paul’s estate. When he has done so, I must think what I am going to do for the rest of my life.’ She sighed. ‘With no children, I feel I need to plan. But not yet. In the meantime, I want to see you and Celia happily settled.’

  Celia smiled at her sister. She was afraid to say anything, and she watched with some anxiety as Louise pushed her plate away, got up from the table, and marched back upstairs.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  That night, Louise lay on her bed and cried helplessly. She cried because her small safe world had already fallen apart and it appeared as if it might disintegrate even further. She had, she told herself, no one with any sense to turn to for help.

  Even Mr Carruthers, her bank manager, was miles away. And cruel Edna had said that she must find a new bank in Hoylake, which meant dealing with a stranger. It was all too much for her.

  Immediately after Timothy’s death, she had assumed that Cousin Albert would secure a continuation of her life as she had always known it. She expected that widowhood would be very sad; she would grieve for the loss of her husband. But the pain would lessen with time, as had the agony of losing both her boys. Safe in her lovely home with familiar servants, in her usual circle of friends and acquaintances, with Celia to organise her social life, existence as a widow would be bearable. She had realised, a little guiltily, that it would also give her a certain amount of freedom to do as she pleased; she would not have to consult Timothy all the time.

  Cousin Albert had soon disabused her of those expectations. Her cosy, wealthy world of 1914 would never return, just as her sons never would either. She and Celia would be lucky if they could make ends meet in this dreadful little cottage, round which the sea wind roared relentlessly.

  The arrival of Edna, particularly an Edna with money, had cheered her up. If Edna’s income was considerable, perhaps jointly they could afford a better house. With two daughters at home, she would not miss the servants so much; they could run the house between them.

  But Edna seemed to be coming out of her own grief now and was proving to be quite awkward; she did not seem to be at all certain that she would continue to live with her mother. She was also putting ideas into Celia’s head. Celia was a fool, but she might, with training, find a way to earn her own living – and leave home. A single woman living alone? She would be labelled a fast woman – a shocking idea.

  At the latter thought, Louise cried harder. She herself could be left alone in this cottage, with very little money, with no friends nearby, no daughter or servant to make fires, do the washing, clean the house. For the first time in her life, she was terrified.

  Loneliness gaped at her like a great, deep cavern, a future completely soundless, except for the remorseless crying wind. Not even the mewing of the cats would break the silence.

  Celia had protested at Louise’s abandonment of the household cats; Louise had simply shooed the animals out of the back door.

  ‘They’ll starve,’ Celia had lamented.

  ‘With all the mice and rats in Liverpool?’ Louise had responded scornfully. ‘They can hunt. They won’t starve. And, sooner or later, someone will find them on their doorstep and take them in. That’s how we acquired them originally. Don’t you remember? They just arrived, at different times, at the back door, and Winnie took them in to deal with the mice.’

  Louise was right. Celia, already disorientated, accepted their loss as yet another misery to be endured, and said no more.

  Wrapped in her fine feather eiderdown on her bed in her new home, Louise cried on. Nobody cared about her. Nobody understood her. She admitted that even to have Tommy Atkins to cuddle would have been comforting. But big black Tommy Atkins was probably stalking mice down the narrow back alleys of Liverpool or learning to tip the lid off a dustbin to get at the contents.

  Even cats knew everything about taking care of themselves, thought Louise angrily, as helpless grief gave way to rage at her predicament. Well-born women were not expected to be capable of facing the world outside the home.

  Celia, left to herself, even if she could earn a living, might get entangled with a man – though she was, of course, quite old and plain – and make a fine mess of her life. Louise remembered the soldiers playing in the sea and had a horrifying thought of facing an illegitimate grandchild, if Celia was ever let off the leash. At all costs she must remain with her mother, no matter what Edna said.

  With this determination and the justification that only Celia knew her taste in library books or could do all the mending and darning thrown at her, Louise stopped crying and, shortly after, fell asleep, exhausted.

  It seemed no time at all before her younger daughter was gently shaking her awake and presenting her with early morning tea.

  As Louise struggled to sit up, she noted that Celia was already dressed to go out, her hat pinned on her head. She lacked only her outdoor jacket.

  As she took the teacup from Celia, she asked sulkily, ‘Are you going to Hoylake to see Miss Aspen’s man friend?’

  ‘Mrs Houghton’s,’ corrected Celia nervously. ‘She’s a widow.’

  ‘Humph.’ Louise sipped her tea.

  ‘Yes, Mother. I have to be there for eleven o’clock. I thought I might walk over, because I haven’t had any fresh air for days.’ She stood uneasily by the bed watching her mother sip her tea, and then said anxiously, ‘If he wants to buy something, I think I must agree immediately, don’t you? If the price seems reasonable? I can’t very well come all the way back here to ask you if you are agreeable to it.’

  ‘No. You can’t. I can see that. I am not stupid.’

  Celia sighed, and assured Louise that she was far from stupid.

  ‘How will you know what to charge people? We can use every penny, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘I do have some idea about prices, Mother.’ Celia’s voice held no hint of the indignation that she felt, and she continued firmly, ‘You remember that I went to see a friend of Mrs Houghton’s who owns an antique shop in Liverpool, and she gave me quite a lot of information on antique furniture and showed me round her shop and told me the prices she expected for each article. She was tremendously kind and gave me some idea of the likely value of our dining-room furniture, for instance.’

  Louise was draining her cup and did not reply, so with a gulp, Celia added, ‘Edna says that you do not have to shop for food today – there’s enough in the house. And Mr Fairbanks is going to ask the fish and chicken lady to call on us every week – to save our having to go to the shops all the time – he says her stuff is very fresh – better than the shops’. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to Betty’s office?’

  Louise sniffed. ‘I could not bear to,’ she asserted forcefully. ‘All my lovely things in a dusty barn!’

  Celia’s face softened, and she said with contrition, ‘I’m sorry, Mother. It must be very hard for you to face.’ She took her mother’s empty cup from her. Then she leaned forward to kiss her cheek. ‘I hope to be back by lunch time, but don’t wait for me.’ In a more cheerful tone, she said, ‘I’ve had my breakfast, but Edna will have hers with you.’

  Celia waited for an answer, but none came. She slipped nervously out of the room.

  Downstairs, Edna, still in a dressing gown, was warming her backside by the fire which she had made. She inclined her head towards the staircase. ‘How are things up there?’

  ‘Not too good.’

  ‘I can cope with her. You go now. Don’t walk. Take the train to Hoylake Station – I think it puts you down quite close to Betty’s place, doesn�
�t it? Then you’ll have time to take a quiet look at the furniture before he comes.’

  Celia reluctantly agreed.

  When she arrived, the builder’s yard seemed full of lorries, two belonging to Mr Aspen; one was being loaded with bricks and another with lumber. A third vehicle was delivering large boxes. There was no sign of the car which Betty’s husband had built. Celia presumed that it had been sold.

  Celia now had her own key to the barn and she walked straight over to it and opened it up. She decided on a number of pieces which might benefit from being made smaller. Then she walked leisurely back to the gate and Betty’s office. Betty was at her desk and looked up with a cheerful grin. ‘Good morning, Miss Gilmore,’ she said teasingly.

  In a shadowy corner a man rose and, tweed cap in hand, emerged into the sunlight pouring through the doorway.

  Nervously, Celia turned towards him.

  He was much more gentlemanly-looking than she had expected. His black hair was neatly cut and, under heavy brows, eyes as blue-grey as the sea weighed her up. He was short, though heavy-set. Betty introduced him formally to her as Mr John Philpotts, repairer of fine furniture. Celia put out her hand and it was shaken firmly by a very strong one.

  In a voice with a tinge of Welsh in it, he announced that he was pleased to meet her.

  After a few pleasantries, the three of them went over to the barn. The building did not have any lighting, so they pulled the doors open as wide as they would go. The contents could then be seen clearly in the daylight.

  ‘Phew!’ exclaimed Mr Philpotts, his face breaking into a smile as he viewed the cornucopia within. He turned to Celia, and said, ‘To look at this will take some time. Do you mind if I go through it rather carefully?’

  With her hands clasped tightly in front of her, Celia assured him that he could take all the time in the world, if he was interested, and Betty said that, in that case, she would go and make some coffee and bring it over.

  At Betty’s request, the furniture removers had banked as much furniture as possible against the walls and then made a pile in the centre, leaving a narrow passageway through which Celia and John Philpotts slowly made their way.

  The furniture repairer had brought a notebook and pencil, and after asking permission, he paused, from time to time, to carefully turn a chair upside down to examine it, or open drawers and cupboard doors, to gaze at finishings and joints and hinges or knobs. Once or twice, he asked the origins of a piece, and all the time he made notes. When he wanted to handle a piece, he tucked the pencil behind his ear and put his notebook into his side pocket, so that he did not mislay either of them amid the jungle of furniture. Celia kept her usual silence; she was anxious not to offend him in any way.

  When Betty brought a tray of coffee, she suggested that they should all sit down and drink it while it was hot. Mr Philpotts gallantly undertook to lift down three chairs for them, so they sat in the sun in the doorway and watched the busy builder’s yard. When they were settled and the women were politely sipping their coffee, Mr Philpotts sat down, and, cup in hand, chewed the end of his pencil as if it were a cigar which had gone out. He seemed deep in thought, but occasionally he would get up and go back down the passage to look again at something. Celia noted that he dragged one foot, as if he lacked strength to put it down straight on the ground.

  Though Celia maintained her nervous silence bordering on reverence in the presence of a man, his old friend, Betty, asked him, after a minute or two, whether he had seen anything he was interested in. He replied unexpectedly promptly that he was interested in a lot of it, and he named several of the big pieces which Celia had earlier earmarked. He turned to Celia, and assuming that she was basically a dealer, remarked, ‘You have a beautiful stock, Miss Gilmore.’

  Celia smiled and replied, ‘Didn’t Mrs Houghton tell you? It’s all from my parents’ home.’

  The man’s rather grim, deeply seamed face broke into a surprisingly cheerful grin. ‘Betty did say that, but looking at it, I didn’t think it could have all come from one family home. There’s enough to stock a shop.’

  He went on to tell her that much of it was rather big for apartments and the smaller, lower-ceilinged houses of the present day. He could, however, often make sideboards, like the three she had, smaller by taking out the centre cupboard. ‘And, of course, tables like the big dining table at the back can have all their extra extensions taken out and be shown as much smaller. I would like to buy the extension pieces and make them into hall tables, parsons’ tables, et cetera. And there’s another sideboard there that does not seem to match anything else – the big one made of oak. I could take out the centre cupboard and make a useful cupboard for odds and ends, and then join the two ends together to make a handsome, but small, sideboard again. I am sure I could find markets for them.’

  ‘How clever of you!’ exclaimed Celia.

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised what you could do with this lot. Betty said that you had some china, too?’

  ‘Seven barrels of it.’

  ‘Complete sets?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Philpotts. There is one service with twelve settings and all the bread and butter plates and vegetable dishes – and three different sizes of meat dishes. It’s Crown Derby.’

  ‘Well, well!’ He surreptitiously rubbed his left thigh, as if it hurt – and, indeed, it did hurt. With an effort, he got up again, and asked of Celia if he might look further.

  ‘Of course you may. Take all the time you want.’

  Betty gathered up the cups and said she must go back to the office. Her father’s lorries, gears grinding, went out of the gate, and suddenly the place was quieter. Celia continued to sit in the sunshine. She was excited, but tried not to show it. Mr Philpotts looked so respectable and the sunshine was so pleasant that she wished her mother had come with her. But Mother would have condescended so much to a tradesman that she would probably have offended him, so perhaps it was as well that she was alone, despite the awful responsibility.

  Still carrying his empty coffee cup, Mr Philpotts eventually returned and sat down in front of her. He laid the coffee cup under his chair, and then took his notebook out of his pocket and laid it on his knee.

  After a minute or two, he began, ‘Before I make an offer for the articles I mentioned, may I ask you a personal question, Miss Gilmore?’

  Celia nodded nervous acquiescence.

  ‘Are you simply disposing of this surplus furniture because, perhaps, you have no room for it in your new house? Or do you need to really make a solid sum of money out of it? Or are you thinking, perhaps, that you will begin a business buying and selling second-hand furniture, with this as your first stock?’

  Celia’s surprise at the last question was apparent to the man before her. He said hastily, ‘I hope you’re not offended?’

  ‘Oh, no. The idea of a business had not occurred to me.’ She went on to tell him that the furniture was her mother’s, and she was sure Mother would be grateful for as much as she could obtain for it. ‘As for my running a business,’ she finished up with a shy laugh, ‘I have no experience at all – of anything.’

  He smiled slightly, and then asked, ‘May I tell you what struck me when I saw some of the pieces that you have?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘They are beautiful,’ he said flatly. ‘But they will take time to sell. And those that are big will have to be shown in a way to indicate that they would fit into a modern home. Hence my interest in making small pieces out of larger ones.’

  Celia nodded, and waited for him to explain further. Before he did so, he shifted uneasily in his chair, and inquired, ‘Did Betty tell you anything about me – or my business?’

  ‘Only that you repaired furniture.’

  ‘Well. I’ve only recently been demobbed after serving for four years, and I don’t have much of a business yet. But I did finish my time as a journeyman – and I worked for furniture makers subsequently. I always did furniture repairs at home on the side, even tackling
antiques, which demands a fair knowledge.

  ‘When I came home six months ago, I began to do repairs again, and I’m earning fairly steadily – but I’ve no capital.’

  He looked at Celia slantwise. She was all attention. He said, ‘I’m telling you this because I have an idea which may benefit both of us. But you should know my background first. I should mention, too, that I am still under treatment for the wound in my leg – and I can’t stand for long. So I have to find ways to supplement what I can manage to earn at my old trade by selling pieces like parsons’ tables which don’t have an immense amount of work in them.’

  Celia was suffering from nervous strain. Please, Lord, she prayed, let him come to the point. Aloud, she said with real sympathy, ‘I hope your leg doesn’t hurt very much.’

  He shrugged. ‘I have my good days and my bad days,’ he told her with a grin. ‘Do you want to know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I do.’

  ‘Well, you have a lot of fine furniture and need some money. I’m a skilled craftsman with a tiny shop just off Market Street – it’s got a nice front window facing Market Street. Though I don’t need the shop, except to show my tables occasionally, I need the work rooms behind it. I want to suggest to you that we team up. You have the shop and I’ll continue in the back. We share the rent. It will mean that we both have low overheads.’

  Celia’s expression was rapt, as if she had suddenly seen sunlight after days of storm, but the word ‘overheads’ puzzled her and she frowned.

  ‘Overheads means rent, taxes, lighting. Things like that.’

  The frown cleared, and she nodded.

  Emboldened, he went on. ‘To give you some money to begin with, I would like to suggest that we sort out all the workaday stuff you’ve got in there – kitchen tables, older beds – anything that is not of much real value. Send the lot to a saleroom. An auctioneer will at least get something for it.’

  ‘Yes?’