Mourning Doves

by Helen Forrester

  ‘Aha! Wonderful! You can take over the cooking. Do you know how to make dumplings? They’d fill it out, too.’

  ‘No. You could get down the cookery book which Winnie packed for us,’ Celia suggested, and whipped the kettle away to put it on the fire.

  After ladling tea leaves into the pot and putting it to warm by the fire, she returned to the kitchen.

  ‘I wonder what has happened to Winnie. Has Mother said anything to you about her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know if anyone has asked for confirmation of the written reference Mother gave her?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I hope she has found a place. She was going to find a room to live in, while she kept on looking. I’d write to her, except that I don’t have an address. I gave her our address, because she told me that sometimes a new mistress likes to write directly to the old employer, in case the reference the servant is carrying is a forgery.’

  With her finger poised over a recipe for dumplings, Edna asked idly, ‘Did Mother do anything about trying to get her a position? She was with us a long time – since before I was married.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Edna put down the cookery book slowly and said, ‘I hope she did. I know I turned off my servants the day I left – but at least I knew that the next company man to be the tenant of the house would probably rehire them – and they knew it.’ She shrugged. ‘I expect she’s OK. A good cook shouldn’t have much difficulty in getting a place.’

  Celia sighed. ‘She was a good friend to me.’

  ‘Was she? You knew her much longer than I did.’

  Upstairs, Louise had taken off her dress and put on her brown velvet dressing gown. She had propped herself up on her bed with her writing case on her lap. She was chewing the end of a pencil, as Celia carefully edged the tea tray round the door. She looked up and inquired, ‘Celia, do we have the address of the School for the Blind – I’m sure there is one in Liverpool?’

  Astonished at such an odd remark, Celia put the tray down on the bedside table, and responded that she was sure they did not have it. ‘I would have kept a record of the address, if you had ever contributed to it, Mama – but I don’t think they ever solicited funds from us.’

  ‘Hmm, I wonder how I can get it?’

  Celia straightened up and winced as an unaccustomed pain shot up her back; carrying buckets of coal from the coal shed outside the back door was not very kind to backs, she decided.

  In answer to Louise’s query, she said, ‘I’m not sure, Mama.’ She stood staring at her mother’s lap desk for a moment, and then said thoughtfully, ‘I remember that I once got an address for you from the library – they have a number of reference books.’

  ‘Is there a library in Hoylake?’

  ‘Yes. I passed it yesterday.’

  ‘Well, you can walk along to it tomorrow and see if the librarian can find the address. And also the address of St Dunstan’s.’ She added testily, ‘Don’t dawdle there. Pour the tea.’

  Celia swallowed uneasily; it seemed as if her mother had revived the almost feverish activity which had always been a prelude to giving a party or organising the removal of the family to Rhyl for its annual holiday. She asked, ‘Are you having trouble with your eyes, Mother?’

  ‘No. But I want to learn Braille.’

  Very puzzled, Celia exclaimed in surprise, ‘But Braille is for blind people.’

  ‘I know that.’ Louise turned herself to face her daughter. She said, ‘Do you know, Celia, in Hoylake there is a house full of blind soldiers waiting to learn it before being discharged. If I can learn it quickly I can help to teach them.’ She sighed and turned to stare across at the open window. ‘Even worse, Celia, two of them are both blind and deaf – and the matron says that no one really knows how to communicate with them at all.’

  Celia handed her mother tea and biscuits and then sank down on the side of the bed. ‘How dreadful. Poor things!’ She was honestly shocked, and looked at her mother as if she had never seen her before, while Louise jotted something down on a list she appeared to be compiling. When her mother began to compile a list, it was certain that she was about to embark on, what was to her, a serious undertaking.

  Louise flung her pencil down on the bed. ‘Yes, Celia. Poor things indeed. Can you imagine what it would be like if one of your dear brothers had been sent home to us in such a state? Where would we begin? What could we do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mother. It would be terrible. How did you stumble on these soldiers?’

  Eagerly now, Louise described her morning. She finished up by saying, ‘I feel an urgent need to help if I can.’

  Celia nodded. She did understand. It was yet another shocking revelation of young men’s suffering in a merciless war.

  She sat quietly for a moment or two. It looked as if her mother might be in the process of casting off the role of impoverished widow, which Celia had imagined she would play for the rest of her life. Was she reverting to that of a society woman who knew that rank had its obligations, a person who knew exactly how to plan a charity ball or banquet and had the strength to do it? Perhaps it would not be the best of roles, but at least it might put some life back into her. Most of her mother’s acquaintances in Liverpool had a pet charity to which they contributed money or voluntary work.

  Celia recalled that when Phyllis’s baby had arrived so precipitously it had revived her; she had become the domineering matron who had been the scourge of less efficient Red Cross volunteers during the war. More shrewd than Celia, Edna had remarked only a few days earlier that their mother was a perfectly capable woman if she would only bestir herself.

  And here she was, trying to bestir herself to some purpose on behalf of two ordinary soldiers, as if they were her own sons.

  As she remembered her two brothers, Celia wanted to burst into tears. She had always recognised her mother’s grief over the loss of them.

  She made herself smile at Louise. Wounded soldiers in their helplessness could, indeed, be cared for as if they were Tom and George. At least it was worthwhile giving them a hand, if it could be done; it would also make her mother focus on a definite goal instead of drifting miserably from day to day. Celia forgot, for the moment, her own problems, the greatest of which was the unexpectedly dedicated lady reclining beside her, and said with real enthusiasm, ‘Mother, I think you’re wonderful! I believe the library is open in the evenings. I can try to get those addresses tonight.’

  Her mother’s face glowed at the unexpected praise.

  ‘May I tell Edna?’ Celia asked. ‘I should go downstairs to help her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Downstairs in the living room, Edna received the information with a very startled expression.

  She slowly dropped a handful of chopped carrots into a saucepan on the fire. Then she grinned mischievously and gave a derisive hoot, as she stirred the mixture of vegetables and leftover chicken.

  ‘You mean to say that Mother has found a cause, a real honest-to-goodness cause?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  Wooden spoon poised over the pan, Edna stood rubbing her chin thoughtfully with her other hand, and left a long smudge of flour on her face. Then she said slowly, ‘It’ll be the making of her, if she can do it. I wonder if she realises what a huge undertaking it will be?’ She looked disparagingly down at the chicken stew she had concocted, and added ruefully, ‘She’ll have no time for matters domestic – we’ll get that job.’ With a dripping wooden spoon, she gestured round the little room. Gravy flew from it and hissed as the liquid hit the hot range. The smell of burning was added to the stuffy atmosphere.

  Celia laughed a little helplessly. ‘I suppose we’ll manage somehow. She doesn’t do anything much now. Frankly, I think we should encourage her as much as possible – because it is a very real cause, Edna,’ she said, and went to wash the lettuce brought in by their neighbour.

  She fe
lt very tired and wondered how many more responsibilities she could undertake. Edna had said that she would try to get the garden cleared of its overgrowth for her – but that was only the beginning. It had to be planted, weeded, raked, hedges cut. How could she do it? Tend a shop? Help Edna with the washing, ironing, cleaning, shopping, cooking, et cetera, and, on top of all that, do all the errands that Louise would now expect her to do in connection with this new interest. Edna could not do everything at home – and, in any case, Edna had hinted that she might set up a home of her own, once Paul’s will had been probated. If she did that, the work for Celia would be overwhelming.

  As she spread the cloth on the table, she wondered wistfully if she would ever have any leisure, even for a walk or to read a book. Or to visit Phyllis Woodcock.

  It was almost certain that Louise would, indeed, use her as her secretary in her new endeavours, much as she had done during her father’s lifetime – and how could she refuse when the need of the men her mother had met was so acute?

  As promised, Celia went to the library that evening, and came home with a number of addresses of organisations which might help the deaf and another list of charities interested in the blind, but nothing in connection with those doubly handicapped.

  Within the next two days, Louise wrote letters of inquiry to all the addresses provided by the librarian, seeking a clue to any charity which might know how the deaf-blind could be helped. Was there a form of signing, she inquired, for the deaf-blind, similar in principle to that used by the deaf?

  She also received a further letter from Cousin Albert to say that he would arrive at the cottage on the following Monday and would stay at least three days, while he dealt with the estate agent selling her house and with the affairs of Timothy’s estate.

  It caused no little turmoil in the cottage, when Louise insisted that Celia double up with Edna. She was to remove her clothes from the small wardrobe in the hall bedroom and see that everything was clean for her second cousin.

  ‘Mother!’ wailed Edna. ‘Can’t he stay in a hotel in Liverpool?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Louise snapped back. ‘He’s probably trying to save himself expense.’

  Celia did not say anything. She did not want to offend her mother before discussing Mr Philpotts’ offer with her.

  She had not yet found an opportunity to broach the subject; it seemed as if Louise was either closeted in the tiny front sitting room writing, or had gone to Hoylake.

  Much to Edna’s annoyance, and adding to Celia’s sense of being besieged by work, Louise had demanded that a fire be lit in the, as yet unused, front room, and that her lap desk be brought down and put on the tea table there.

  Edna fought a noisy battle about the cost and work of making two fires each day – and lost. Louise was adamant that the work she was about to do was a priority over everything else.

  Even Edna never considered telling her that if she wanted a fire in the room, she should make it and clear it up herself. Neither sister could visualise Louise doing such a menial task.

  The same postal delivery that brought Cousin Albert’s letter also brought two letters from Brazil for Edna.

  Louise picked them up from the hall floor as she came down for breakfast, and she scanned the envelopes with some curiosity before handing them to Edna.

  She seated herself at the table and began to open Cousin Albert’s letter. ‘Who are your letters from?’ she asked. ‘This one is from Albert.’

  ‘Just friends,’ Edna replied and slipped them both, unopened, into her skirt pocket. Inwardly, she steamed with irritation. Mother had no right to inquire who her correspondents were. She was a widow and entitled to her privacy. Celia was still a spinster and subject to her mother, but not Edna.

  The inference of Edna’s casual reply was not lost on Celia, who was quickly eating her breakfast egg, and she felt a pang of envy. It must be wonderful to be free, she thought.

  ‘Edna, you’d better see that we have enough food in the house to feed Albert, in addition to us,’ Louise ordered, as she put Albert’s letter back into its envelope.

  ‘Do you have any money?’ Edna inquired quietly.

  Louise looked startled. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I’ve a little left over from the rents which Mr Billings sent me.’

  Since moving into the cottage Edna had found herself paying for almost all their day-to-day needs and she felt that this was the moment to bring it home to Louise that she must pay her share. Her inquiry made Louise bite her lip and then promise to give her something for groceries.

  The discovery that it would probably cost all Louise had in her purse to feed an extra mouth strengthened Celia’s idea that, if permitted, she should try to earn enough to contribute to the housekeeping. She would delay no longer. She would, that evening, talk to Mother about it.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Carrying a brass coal hod of additional coal for her mother’s fire, Celia knocked tentatively at the sitting-room door and was told in a querulous voice to come in.

  Louise was running her hand along the large bookcase which took up one wall of the tiny room. She glanced round at her whey-faced daughter, and asked, ‘Do you know where your father’s books by Philip Oppenheim are? The boys apparently like his novels.’

  ‘Yes, Mother. They’re in a box in Betty’s barn. We decided we would never read them again.’ She squatted down on the hearth rug and, with the aid of a pair of tongs, added a few lumps of coal to the fire.

  ‘Well, bring them back. I need them.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ The thought of carrying baskets full of books back from Hoylake made her back ache even more; Oppenheim was a very prolific writer.

  As Celia rose stiffly from the hearth rug, Louise returned to the littered tea table. She sat down in front of it and scanned the list of things she felt she had to do, which seemed to be constantly beside her and never to grow any smaller. She did, however, now cross off Oppenheim.

  Celia carefully placed the coal hod beside the end of the fender, clasped her hands tightly in front of her over her grubby apron and turned towards Louise.

  ‘Mother, I need to talk to you about Mr Philpotts and the furniture.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. I must let Mr Philpotts have an answer to a suggestion he has made.’ Celia stood woodenly before her, hoping that she herself wouldn’t break down with sheer fright. Two days’ contemplation of Mr Philpotts’ offer had convinced her of the common sense of it. And with a little money, she could be independent, even if she was a spinster.

  Louise asked impatiently, ‘Well?’

  Celia had rehearsed very carefully what she would say, and she explained quite clearly what the idea was. She finished up by saying, ‘The crux is that all the furniture is yours, not mine, and if we go into a modest partnership, such as Mr Philpotts has suggested, there should be some kind of written agreement that I may act for you – unless you would like to start a business yourself, of course.’

  ‘Tut! I shall be much too busy. In any case it would be totally infra dig.’

  Celia gritted her teeth. ‘Very well, Mother. When I spoke to Edna about it, she suggested that you might allow me to own the furniture – as the capital, so to speak, to start a business in antiques and collectibles. I would hope, Mama, to make enough, in the long term, so that you did not have to keep me; I could contribute regularly to the household, and then you would reap a financial benefit from the investment.’

  Too terrified to go on for the moment, she paused as she saw the gathering storm in Louise’s expression. Then she added uncomfortably, ‘Edna says it is essential that I learn to earn my living – because I shall be alone when you … er … pass on.’

  ‘Keep a shop!’ Louise was trembling with affronted dignity – and with an underlying fear that she would lose her hold over Celia, who would be most useful, not only at home, but as a general runabout in connection with the work Louise was undertaking. ‘How insulting that this man should suggest
it – and who is he, anyway, to interfere in our affairs?’

  ‘He’s just a small businessman. Basically, he has floor space to let in front of his workshop – and he’d like to share the rent with someone.’

  Inwardly Celia prayed, God don’t let me panic until I’m through this. She took a big breath, and went on determinedly, ‘As I said, he’s a furniture repairer and French polisher, and his kind of clients are likely to be people who appreciate good furniture; they may be interested in what we have for sale.’

  Louise’s chest swelled with indignation. She slammed down her pen and a blot of ink flew on to the carpet. She replied furiously, ‘I’m surprised that you did not dismiss him on the spot. I won’t hear of it. My good name – your father’s good name – on a shop? A most repellent idea!’

  Patiently Celia fought back. ‘The shop does not have to have our name on it, Mother. We could call it something neutral, like Hoylake Fine Furniture.’

  ‘I won’t have it. Edna is quite wrong to encourage you. No girl of mine is going to serve in a shop. Anyway, you aren’t capable of running anything.’

  The latter remark stung.

  The insult quelled Celia’s panic. It was replaced by honest rage.

  ‘Mother! You’re most unfair,’ she almost shouted. ‘Who fixed up this cottage? Who found workmen and made it habitable? Who arranged the removal – and did most of the packing?

  ‘I did, without much help from you. Who is going to have to plant the garden and make it decent? I shall – because you won’t.’ Her voice rose to a shriek. ‘I know that the ex-soldiers need your help – but I need an atom of help, too. I know you’re in mourning – and Edna and I have done our best to help you. But there’s a limit.’ She unclasped her hands and banged them flat on the table. ‘You’d like to keep me tied to your apron strings until you die – and then you won’t care what happens to me because you’ll be dead and won’t have need of me any more. Mr Philpotts and Edna have suggested a future for me and an investment of your discarded furniture – that’s all.’