Lakeland Lily

by Freda Lightfoot

  Yet today when she walked along Mallard Street, where she and Bertie had first lived, she was surprised by how remarkably clean it appeared. Every house had net curtains prettily looped or frilled, an aspidistra or pot dog reclining on the window sill.

  Turning into Carter Street she was instantly struck by the fact no filthy water ran along it. There was no mud, no rats, no men urinating, or bare-bottomed children sitting in muck. Where once it had been little more than a dirt track, deeply rutted and filled with puddles, the whole area was now a sound metalled road. A horse-bus came along, stopped to allow several chattering women to disembark before clanging its bell and starting off again. Lily could hardly believe her eyes, so entirely different was it from The Cobbles she had once known and hated. Even the children playing with hoops in the street looked better fed and clothed than in her day.

  Hot with guilt, and the long walk, she jiggled the pram to keep her son happy as she tapped on the door of number four, pausing a moment while she waited to take note of the changes here too. The door had been painted a sensible dark green, the flagstones in the back yard gleamed from much scrubbing and white stoning, and there were pots of geraniums now on the ash-pit roof.

  All was peaceful and quiet, not even a sound from the Adamses next door. But then both boys were away in the war, so how could there be?

  Lily waited with growing trepidation. What would she say to her mother? How could she explain these years of neglect? She must somehow get it across how she’d striven to be a good wife to Bertie, to keep her bargain with Edward. How she’d owed it to the Clermont-Reads to put her past behind her because of little Amy, and her regrets over her own ill-fated quest for revenge. As Lily considered the weakness of her argument, she armoured herself with a shell of defiance. She vowed not to let Arnie bully her, or her mother make her feel guilty. They didn’t have to live with Margot after all.

  Lily flinched when she heard the click of the sneck and then she was looking into her mother’s face. In that moment all her defiance melted away like snow in the sun.

  ‘Mam? Oh, Mam,’ she cried, and falling in her mother’s arms, began to weep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hannah sat rocking the child on her knee. Thomas contentedly chewed on a gingerbread biscuit, far too young to understand the undercurrent of emotion, or the questions not being asked amongst the idle comments made above his head.

  ‘He’s a fine strong bairn. Big for his age.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Bertie such a neat chap.’

  ‘Not exactly small though.’

  ‘Not got his father’s sandy hair then.’ She was fluffing up the cap of dark curls on the child’s round head.

  ‘Takes more after me, I suppose.’ Clearly a lie, Lily thought, since Thomas was so much darker.

  ‘No doubt it’ll change as he grows, as will his eyes.’

  There followed an achingly long pause in which Hannah smoothed the dark locks and smiled into her grandson’s surprisingly blue gaze while she considered her daughter. Not that this smart young woman in the fashionable double-breasted jacket and wrap-over skirt, button boots and fancy wide-brimmed hat, bore any resemblance to the ragamuffin child she’d given birth to twenty-three years before.

  ‘We’re hoping Bertie will be sent home soon,’ Lily burst out, anxious to deflect attention from her son’s looks.

  ‘Where is he then?’

  ‘They don’t say. He tried to work out a secret code in his letters and postcards home, but I know nothing about France so could never understand them. Dora would know but she’s in France too, driving an ambulance. Asked me to go with her. Did I tell you?’

  Hannah shook her head, gaze steady upon her daughter’s bright face, not saying, How could you have told me when I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in years? Yet Lily sensed it in the bleakness of her mother’s eyes, and the deep grooves drawn between nose and mouth. Hannah had recovered well from the consumption, but perhaps less so from her daughter’s neglect.

  Lily talked on, filling the silence, assuaging her own guilt. ‘I was pregnant at the time, so how could I go? Now I’m stuck at home with Margot’s committees.’ She laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

  ‘I’m sure they must keep you very busy.’

  ‘We have to supply sheets, bed socks, pyjamas and the like for the soldiers who come to convalesce at the hospital. Roll miles and miles of bandages.’

  ‘And you have the bairn to care for.’

  ‘Yes, I have this little monster.’ Lily leaned forward and tweaked the boy’s nose, making him shout with laughter.

  Hannah’s face was thoughtful and again the silence grew awkward between them. Lily struggled to find something to say. ‘How are the boys?’

  ‘Doing well in the Navy. They visit whenever they can get leave.’ Again the implied criticism.

  ‘And our Liza and Kitty?’

  ‘Kitty’s ten. Liza’s sixteen, and courting young Joe Broadley.’

  ‘Oh, lord, that makes me feel old.’

  They talked of the war, of campaigns lost and won, of which family in the street had suffered a casualty or the ultimate tragedy. Lily longed to ask if Hannah ever heard any news of Nathan, but daren’t risk it. At last the words burst out. ‘I would’ve come sooner only…’

  Hannah stiffened. ‘No need to explain. I’m sure you had your reasons. Though I would’ve enjoyed being there when this little chappie came into the world. A mother likes to be with her daughter at such times.’

  ‘Oh, Mam, I wish you could have been too. Margot wouldn’t ... I didn’t like to...’

  ‘Nay, don’t tell me she’s got the better of you at last? Who’d’ve thought me own daughter would ever admit such a thing.’

  Lily might have taken this as jest, were it not for the condemnation on her mother’s face.

  ‘I wasn’t in a position to argue.’ She gave a sheepish smile. ‘Margot was very much in charge.’

  ‘I dare say she was.’ Hannah didn’t ask why Lily hadn’t brought her newborn son to see her as soon as she was recovered, or at any other time in the two long years since. She didn’t need to. The question hung between them, held by that deafening silence. When she could bear it no more, Lily fell on her knees before Hannah and gathered her mother’s work-worn hands in her own.

  ‘Mam, I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant to hurt you. Can’t we be friends, like we used to be? With Bertie gone, I can’t bear to think of us like this.’

  Hannah stiffened. ‘That’s what this visit is all about, is it? You might be about to lose a husband so thought you’d best make it up wi’ your mam, eh?’

  Lily’s face paled. ‘No, that’s not true. I’ve hurt you, I know I have. But I feared for my child, after Amy… I was only thinking of Thomas ... Of disease and…’

  ‘Plenty of babies survive here now.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised how much it had improved.’

  ‘You never came to find out.’

  Again the guilt bit deep. She’d needed to live entirely in her new world and abandon the old. But how could she explain this without its sounding as if she were ashamed of her own parents? And she’d been afraid to risk her mother guessing of her affair with Nathan.

  There was a moment in which Hannah considered her daughter’s very real distress, seeing there were secrets held back and wondering at them, yet trying to put herself in Lily’s place, stuck in a fancy house with Margot Clermont-Read and that superior daughter of hers - Selene, wasn’t it? Criticising Lily at every turn, no doubt, making her feel inferior because she’d been born the wrong side of the blanket and the wrong end of town. Drat the pair of them for driving this wedge between Lily and her family!

  But this was her lass and she loved her, so she would forgive her. Hannah opened her arms and gathered Lily close, holding her lovingly as she used to do when she was a child.

  ‘You’re here now, that’s all that matters. Let’s put the past behind us, eh? We’ll set t
he bairn down for a nap while us’ll have a cup of tea and a bit o’ crack. What d’you say?’

  ‘Oh, Mam. That’d be grand.’ Lily’s face was awash with fresh tears and Hannah smoothed them away with the blunt tips of her rough fingers. Kissed her daughter’s cheek.

  ‘Five minutes in your old home and you’re talking as bad as ever. What happened to the elegant Mrs Clermont-Read?’

  Lily shook her head. ‘She’s still your Lily underneath.’

  For the first time, Hannah smiled. ‘Well, I’m right glad about that, lass. Right glad. And he’s a bonny wee bairn.’ No matter who his father is, her eyes said.

  When it was time to leave, Hannah rested a hand upon Lily’s arm, her eyes on the child. ‘You’ll come again soon? When your dad’s in next time. He’s missed you.’

  Lily nodded, her eyes again filling with tears. ‘I will, don’t worry. I don’t care what the Clermont-Reads say, I’ll not stay away.’

  ‘Aye, see you don’t. We all have to stick together these days.’ She helped Lily tuck Thomas into the big black pram and stood at the yard gate to wave to him.

  Then before Lily set off she asked the question that had burned in her head all afternoon, as casually as she could. ‘Do you ever hear anything of Nathan Monroe? You remember, your old lodger?’

  A pause before Hannah answered. ‘Aye, I remember. No, I’ve heard naught. Is it true that he’s to marry Margot’s daughter?’

  Lily swallowed, her throat gone suddenly dry. ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  ‘Well, fancy that. Rumours have been flying for years about one thing or t’other. Not that I let on to your father what I hear. He sets great store by a person’s good name.’

  Lily looked into her mother’s knowing eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose he does.’

  Hannah said, ‘I couldn’t quite tek it in though. What a pair they’ll make! Chalk and cheese, eh?’

  Lily kept her voice carefully neutral. ‘Margot would’ve preferred him to be richer, but she was so worn out by Selene’s fussing that she soon agreed. Anyway,’ she said, looking anywhere but into Hannah’s eyes, ‘he’s doing well for himself - or at least he was before the war - and afterwards no doubt he’ll carry on where he left off before...’ Her voice faltered as she wondered if that was quite true, if he’d even return.

  ‘He was a good friend to your Bertie.’

  ‘He was, still is.’

  ‘Does he write to you?’

  ‘He used to.’

  ‘Not heard from him lately then?’

  ‘No.’ Struggling to keep her voice normal.

  Hannah sadly shook her head. ‘These are terrible times we live in, lass. His housekeeper used to hear from him regular, but she was telling me she’d heard naught for weeks. I hope he’s all right.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lily politely. ‘So do I.’

  By Christmas 1917, war weariness was rife. In Margot’s opinion the government had no right at all to ration food or restrict any facet of civilised life. Wasn’t it difficult enough with one’s servants having joined up out of patriotic fervour, leaving her with only one young housemaid and Betty to run Barwick House? Unthinkable before the war. The sooner it was over the better. Even the King had asked them to eat less bread. The very idea! Margot chose to ignore this particular request as hysterical nonsense. Would it put any more food in the mouths of the so-called poor, or hasten the end of this ridiculous war if she half starved herself? And no one could accuse her of being selfish. Hadn’t she worked unstintingly for the hospital committee since the war began? At great sacrifice to her own social life.

  Fortunately Betty was proving to be a most capable girl. With the advantage that she was no oil painting so unlikely to catch a beau, even if there were one around. Margot had instructed her in cooking and personally dispatched several Christmas puddings to Bertie, determined that at least one of them should reach him.

  So in view of the difficulties, she saw no reason why Edward shouldn’t take his three womenfolk to the Marina Hotel to celebrate the festive season. At least that establishment would not be short of local produce.

  They dined in fine style on turbot and roast duck, followed by a raspberry and redcurrant tart, and, as luck would have it, met up with the Kirkbys. Margot had been reliably informed of the couple’s recent move into the area and had been dying for exactly this opportunity.

  ‘Who are they when they’re at home?’ Edward mumbled, as she prepared to make herself known to them.

  ‘Mr Marcus Kirkby has taken that big new white house by the golf club - Rosedale Lodge. Quite charming. He owns a munitions factory in Liverpool, I believe.’

  Edward sat up a little straighter, even took the cigar he’d been about to light from his mouth. He’d taken a few too many losses recently. Exports were almost at a standstill and he wondered sometimes where his next shipload would come from. A new contact might be useful. Lily had persuaded him to run the Faith as an extra ferry for people, at weekends at least, when he was home. Not that Edward ever minded an excuse to go out in his lovely boat but Lily wouldn’t hear of taking much money off the locals who used her, so more often than not he was out of pocket after he’d bought the coal. As always with one of Lily’s deals. But she often came along too, happy to stoke for him since George had been called up. Not minding when she got her cheeky face all smutty. Though how much longer he could continue to be so generous was a worry. ‘He’ll be comfortably off then?’

  Mother and daughter exchanged a speaking glance. ‘We should welcome them into the locality, do you not think?’

  Margot hurried over the introduction of Lily, calling her ‘my poor little daughter-in-law’, thereby stamping her firmly with the appropriate credentials. Selene she kept to last, delighted to see how Marcus Kirkby lingered over her hand. When the introductions had been completed to everyone’s satisfaction he suggested they all adjourn to the lounge, for coffee.

  Lily, to Margot’s very great relief, excused herself on the grounds that she must hurry home to care for Thomas.

  The fact that Kirkby possessed a wife already was undoubtedly a disappointment. She would not have been against finding a better match for her darling Serene. However, Margot decided the woman must have connections, for all she looked as if she dined on cold gruel. Margot settled her increasingly corpulent frame into an easy chair and prepared to be agreeable. These were not people to offend.

  The ladies were soon exchanging the usual pleasantries while Edward and Marcus fell into deep conversation about who was winning the propaganda war, what would be the outcome of revolution in Russia, and the many difficulties Marcus experienced in getting his supplies delivered. ‘You’re in transport, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘So you’ll understand.’

  Edward, well warmed by brandy, concentrated hard. ‘Freight. I own a modest fleet of merchant ships. Move stuff from A to B, don’t you know?’ He wished now that he hadn’t taken that third glass as he became suddenly aware of an opportunity he really shouldn’t overlook. He sat up straighter. ‘Perhaps I can be of service? If you need supplies fetching, I’m your man.’

  Marcus looked doubtful, even embarrassed at finding himself cornered. ‘You misunderstand me. I am the supplier. I manufacture arms for which I have my own transport. It would be far too risky to use anyone else.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Edward’s disappointment was all too evident and Marcus, considerably sharper at the best of times, and having been far more abstemious with the alcohol at luncheon, wondered at it. Edward Clermont-Read might be a bumbling old fool but he was not without substance. A fine house together with the usual accoutrements of the well-to-do, warehouses in both Manchester and Liverpool, plus his merchant ships.

  And a daughter.

  He glanced again at Selene, now quietly engaged in conversation with Catherine, her whole body poised in a way which revealed her awareness of him. His interest quickened. Who knew what the future might hold, or when an acquaintance or friend might prove useful? Selene Clermont-Read
, for one, showed undoubted promise.

  Clearing his throat Marcus Kirkby directed a polite smile at her father. ‘I shall remember your offer, though. I like a man of enthusiasm and, should I find myself hard pressed or in need of transport, it might be useful to know of a service I can trust.’

  Edward, who had slumped back in his chair, hastily searched for his cigars and offered one to Kirkby. ‘Just say the word, old chap.’

  As Edward went through the ritual of clipping and lighting the two Havanas, describing the many attributes of his fine ships, Marcus shifted his gaze to find Selene openly considering him across the table. A half smile played about her lips and then, quite provocatively and infinitely slowly, she slid out a pointed pink tongue and licked them. He almost burst from his chair in excitement. He could have taken her there and then, amongst the coffee and petits fours.

  Selene turned to Catherine and casually remarked upon the exquisite style of her gown. With very little more flattery, she had elicited an invitation to come to dinner at their charming home the very next Saturday.

  ‘’I thought three of my bridesmaids should wear pink, and the other two a deep burgundy velvet.’

  ‘Dear heaven,’ replied Edward, brow furrowing deeply. ‘Five bridesmaids? There is a war on, drat it.’

  Selene paused briefly to kiss the top of his head as she flounced past him to stand before the oval mirror above the fireplace and tease her curls into place. ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Pa. You know that my fiancé and I have decided not to marry until the war is over. So you have plenty of time to prepare.’

  She never called Nathan by his name, only ever by his status in her life, as if he should have it emblazoned on his hat badge like a military honour. Or perhaps she saw him as a prize she’d won for her trophy shelf. Selene had heard no word from him for months, but refused to give credence to rumours he was dead. She was quite certain that he would be at her side when required. For the moment it was pleasant to enjoy the kudos of being engaged without suffering the irritation of having to do anyone’s bidding but her own.