The Lonely Wife

by Val Wood

  ‘Might be,’ the boy said, eyeing Laurie up and down. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I can’t tell you my name,’ Laurie said, ‘because I’ve run away from school, and I can’t pay you anything as I haven’t any money.’ He pulled out the two bread rolls from his trouser pocket lining to prove it and gave the other boy one. ‘But I need to get home.’

  ‘Toff fella, ain’t yeh?’

  ‘I suppose I am.’ Laurie sighed. ‘But I can’t help that.’

  The boy nodded and raised his eyebrows. ‘Next ’bus that comes along, just hop on, and if the conductor comes for your fare hop off again and catch the next one. They all end up at King’s Cross, mate.’

  ‘Aw, fanks, mate!’ Laurie said. ‘You’re a pal.’ He and some of his school friends had practised what they had thought was Cockney slang and he thought he’d try it out.

  The boy grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Fanks for the bread, mate. I’ll have that for my dinner.’

  It took Laurie over an hour to reach the station, which was extremely busy, and he walked along several platforms before he reached one where a train was already standing with a head of steam and an indicator marked Doncaster. He hung about until he spotted a family of mother, grown-up daughter and three children of different ages and waited until they all climbed into a carriage. He hung about a little longer until he saw the guard with his flag and whistle closing doors. Laurie looked about him as if he were waiting for someone, then jumped in with the family just before the guard slammed the door behind him.

  By the time the train reached Peterborough he was asleep, and only opened his eyes when the family got out at another stop and more travellers got on. He promptly went to sleep again, and didn’t wake until the train slowed and then stopped with a screech of metal and he saw through the window that it was almost dark.

  He sat up, wondering where he was, and heard the guard shout out, ‘Doncaster! Doncaster! Change here for Hull.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Beatrix was pacing the floor; she couldn’t concentrate on anything but Laurie and where he might be. The whole household was upset. Dora had asked if she might take time off and travel into Hull to ask at the railway station there if a small boy had been seen. Beatrix had said yes, but the maid had come back with the answer that no one had seen him. She’d explained what had happened to the stationmaster and described Laurie’s school clothes; she’d scoured the view from the train window in both directions in case he was walking, and had had the idea that perhaps they could put up posters.

  Beatrix had shaken her head. ‘He’s probably still in London, Dora. How could he possibly find his way home from there? I’m so frightened for him.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I’m having such nightmares, thinking of where he might be – and with whom.’

  She sent Dora to help the nursery maid with Alicia and Ambrose and asked Aaron to bring the pony and trap round to the front of the house; she felt that she must do something, though she didn’t know what. She set off without even thinking about where she was going, and as she might have expected she ended up at Mags’s house.

  She knocked and opened the door, calling, ‘It’s Beatrix, Mags. I’m so sorry; I think it’s your tea time, isn’t it?’

  A man’s voice called to come in and she found Luke Newby sitting by the kitchen fire in an easy chair with his legs and feet stretched out on a footstool.

  ‘Sorry I can’t get up, ma’am.’ Luke Newby’s voice was weary. ‘My legs are troubling me today. I’m in a deal o’ pain.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’ She was apologetic over bothering him. ‘Is Mags not in?’

  He shook his head. ‘She’ll not be long. She went over to our Edward’s place to tidy up. He allus tells her not to bother but she will insist.’

  She was puzzled, not knowing what he meant by Edward’s place. ‘Can I do anything for you, Mr Newby? The kettle’s simmering, I see; would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, aye, that I would, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m parched. Teapot and everything’s in ’cupboard.’

  ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve seen where Mags keeps them.’ She busied herself taking out the teapot and measuring the tea leaves into it. ‘Are your legs worse on some days than others?’

  ‘No, they’re bad all ’time these days. There’s no let-up. I can barely walk two steps sometimes.’

  She made the tea and stirred it and put milk into his cup, as she’d seen Mags do, and handed it to him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘It must be so frustrating for you. What happened? You had an accident, didn’t you, quite a long time ago?’

  ‘Can’t hardly remember.’ He gazed into the low fire. ‘Got completely knocked out by ’cattle, but at least I’m still alive. Not like old Josh Atkins. That’s ’last thing I remember, trying to heave him over ’fence. I wonder sometimes if it was me that killed him. Broke his back when he landed, poor old fella, or so it was said; he onny lasted a month after. Shock, I expect, and ’pain. He was a grand old man, still working even in his seventies.’

  He sipped his tea and then asked Beatrix if she’d pass him a box from the top of the mantelpiece. He opened it and took out two tablets, which he popped in his mouth and swallowed with a mouthful of tea.

  ‘I heard there was a stampede. Does that often happen?’ she asked. ‘Or were the cows disturbed by something?’ She was thinking of their own herd.

  ‘It can, especially if they have young with ’em, which these did.’ He hesitated. ‘It was probably unintentional, but as I say, I recall little about it. Seemingly there was a group of youngsters larkin’ about; Uncle Nev was right upset about it.’

  She gave a little nod at the affectionate term that everyone gave the old man. ‘He saw what happened, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ Edward had come in unnoticed by Beatrix or Luke, who both looked up. ‘Da was working for Nev Dawley. He and another man were repairing the fence.’ His voice was like steel. ‘It was Nev’s cattle that ran amok, and one of Charles’s friends ran to tell Uncle Nev and fetch help. I was pottering about in the stables and I went to get Ma.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s enough about that.’ Mags had come in behind her son. ‘Ah, you’ve had a cuppa tea. Did you manage to do that, Luke? Well done.’

  ‘Nay, lass, course I didn’t,’ Luke began, but Beatrix interrupted.

  ‘I made it, Mags. I hope you don’t mind? We were both parched, weren’t we, Mr Newby?’ Her voice cracked and broke. ‘I needed to get out and talk to someone. Dora and Mrs Gordon are so helpful, but—’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Edward broke in. ‘Something has!’

  ‘I should be getting home,’ she muttered. ‘Instead of being out hiding from what I fear.’

  He took a stride across the small kitchen and took hold of her by her elbows. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Tell me and I’ll fix it. Is it Charles up to his tricks again?’ He looked so angry that even Mags seemed alarmed.

  ‘No,’ she wept. ‘It’s Laurie. He’s run away from school and I don’t know where he is.’

  Mags and Edward insisted she sat down and finished her cup of tea and she told them about the telegram from Charles. ‘He – Laurie – had been upset that he hadn’t been allowed home for the half-term holiday; my parents had visited him and he’d told them.’ She began to weep. ‘He must have felt that we didn’t want him; my mother said he seemed very low-spirited, which is not like him at all.’ She stood up. ‘I must go home. There might be a message waiting for me.’

  ‘I’ll take you.’ Edward stood up too.

  ‘No,’ she mumbled. ‘Thank you, but I’ve come in the trap.’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ he said again. ‘I can walk back.’

  There was no denying him, so she said goodbye without achieving what she had come for: a chat; a chance to spill out all her fears to Mags.

  She could have talked to Edward, but she didn’t; she didn’t want to tell him about her terror of losing her son, or any of her children.
Did Charles really mean what he’d said? Surely he didn’t – how could he? But at least Alicia and Ambrose were safe for now. What was it Mrs Stokes had said – or was it Rosie who said it, or was it even Charles, when he warned her that she might lose her children, that they were not hers after they had passed seven? But right now all her fear was for Laurie.

  Edward pulled in at the same spot where she had stopped to look over the meadows towards the estuary, and put his hand over hers.

  ‘You can tell me anything, Beatrix,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me what you’re afraid of and I’ll try to resolve it. I said once before that if you were ever worried or unhappy you should come to me.’

  I want to, she thought. I know I can trust him. She heaved in a breath and nodded in reply. I know that he wants more than I can give, but he won’t ask, and I hope he doesn’t for I can’t trust myself to be strong.

  He loosened her hands and picked up the reins again and sat for a moment, then he turned to her and gently kissed her cheek. She felt her heart pound and she gazed at him, her eyes moist. She didn’t speak; she couldn’t tell him that what he wanted she wanted too: to be in his arms where she knew she would be safe, and loved. But right now she wanted her son home and unharmed.

  He smiled and she gave a trembling smile back. It was enough, for the moment; it was enough, just to know.

  The stationmaster’s wife sat Laurie by her fire and brought him a cup of cocoa and a warm scone. He thanked her and said yes, he was very hungry, in answer to her question, and thanked her again.

  ‘So where are you off to, dearie?’ she asked, sitting down opposite him. Her husband had asked her to find out what she could. ‘Running away from home, are you?’

  He licked his lips of crumbs and swallowed. ‘No! I’m running towards home! I’ve run away from school; just for a few days,’ he added in mitigation. ‘It’s not that I don’t like it, but I miss home – and,’ he said tearfully, ‘I miss my mother, and my brother and sister; they’re all at home, you see, and I’m not.’

  ‘And your father? Where’s he? Or perhaps you haven’t got a father?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I have a father, but I don’t know him very well. He lives in London and comes to see us sometimes. It was my father who said I had to go to school in London.’ He pressed his lips together, suddenly aware that he might be saying too much.

  ‘Perhaps he wants to see more of you?’ she suggested.

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I think he doesn’t want my mother to see me.’

  The woman brought him a cushion and a blanket and said he could curl up on the chair and have a sleep if he wanted, for there wouldn’t be any more trains until early the next morning.

  ‘Poor little chap,’ she said sotto voce when her husband came in and she told him what the boy had said. ‘I think you should send him on the first Hull train in ’morning. He could mebbe get off in Brough; I gather he lives somewhere round there. Near the estuary, he said, though he didn’t want to give too much away.’

  ‘Aye, he does,’ her husband agreed. ‘I telegraphed London and they’re aware of him. He lives in North Ferriby, according to his schoolmaster, and a message has come down the line that he’s asked if we can make sure he gets safely home, and not to send him back to London. We’ll have him dropped off in Brough and have someone take him from there.’

  It was a very excited young boy who rolled up at Old Stone Hall’s front door next to the driver of a Black Maria, the only vehicle that the local police station could spare that morning.

  His mother, looking out of the window on hearing the clatter of hooves and wheels, was instantly terrified by the sight of the black vehicle and its uniformed driver, and fearing the worst drew in a sobbing breath. Then she saw Laurie sitting next to the driver and waving to her. She tumbled down the stairs and dragged open the door and saw the policeman help her son jump down, and Laurie ran into her arms.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Charles slept late and blamed Maria. ‘Why didn’t you wake me? You knew I had to catch the early train.’

  ‘So it is my fault?’ she said incredulously. ‘Have I to do everything?’

  ‘Yes, you damned well do.’ He washed his hands and splashed water over his face. ‘Well? Are you getting up?’ She was still under the sheets. ‘I’d like my breakfast before I leave, if you don’t mind,’ he added sarcastically.

  She sighed and rolled out of bed, and rubbed her back. ‘You kept me awake all night,’ she grumbled. ‘You were dreaming.’

  He didn’t answer her. It was true he hadn’t slept well. His mind had been a jumble of thoughts and most of them were unpleasant: the school that he had hated, the pressure from his father to work harder at the bank; and the suitable marriage that he had made to become responsible as a family man according to his great-uncle’s directives: the great-uncle who had considered him unworthy of inheriting the estate because of a schoolboy prank.

  It had been his father who had convinced Neville Dawley that Charles would eventually become a responsible adult, and to this end he had contrived to search out a malleable young woman for him: someone innocent and well bred, who would look elegant by his side and overlook his other romancing proclivities; and, most important of all, would provide him with a son and heir who would fulfil the dictates of the Will; and then she would become superfluous, being there only to give Charles an air of respectability.

  Neither Charles nor his father had reckoned on the strength of character that Beatrix had, innocent and well bred as she was, so that in a remarkably short time she had not only proved to be an asset to the estate but made it more prosperous and profitable than ever before.

  And now, he had thought as he tossed about, Laurence was lost who knew where. He would be heading for home, that Charles was sure about, but how would he find his way?

  Maybe he is too young to be so far from home, he had admitted during his sleepless hours. Maybe he is too young to break the ties with his mother. I should have waited a couple more years, perhaps; sent him away from her when he was ten or eleven.

  But he was determined that Laurence and eventually Ambrose would attend his old school. He was set on making a good impression there; he had decided that he would endow a scholarship or a bursary or something of the kind, so that his name, Charles Neville Dawley, would be set upon a board in the Great Hall and the humiliation of his own time there would be wiped off the slate.

  It was unfortunate that Stephen Robinson-Gough’s brother was headmaster, and unless Charles could discover something about him that would cause him to lose his position he would be there for a long time; after all, he wasn’t much more than a few years older than he was.

  He left without breakfast. ‘Don’t bother,’ he told Maria. ‘I haven’t time to wait now.’

  She was cooking eggs and laying out slices of ham but he needed to blame somebody for the lateness of the hour; she would consider the rejection a punishment and try to make it up to him when he returned.

  ‘I’ll be away for a few days.’ He shrugged into his coat and turned to pick up his hat from the hat stand.

  ‘Don’t you want your beaver? I’ll get it for you.’ She put down the knife she was holding and prepared to run upstairs.

  ‘No! Don’t fuss, this one will do.’ He patted the top of his hat and turned to go; then, relenting, turned back and kissed her cheek. ‘Have you got money? Do you want some?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘I will manage,’ she said in a small voice, so he put his hand in his pocket and drew out some coins.

  ‘Buy yourself some flowers,’ he said, and was gone.

  He didn’t go directly to the station; there wouldn’t be another train for over an hour, so he headed towards Paul’s house, which was a fifteen-minute walk away in the same direction. As he put his hand on the knocker the door opened and a young woman came out. She dipped her knee and said good morning, and he gave her a knowing glance. Her face flushed, and he guessed that he had c
aught her leaving, having been there all night.

  ‘You’re a lucky beggar,’ he said to Paul, who was still in his dressing robe. ‘Pretty young thing you’ve just deflowered, I’d guess.’

  ‘No,’ Paul said, yawning. ‘She’s a regular. Needs the money.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that I might buy another house.’ Charles sat down on the sofa. ‘My father knows about Judd Street, and about Maria, damn his eyes. If I bought another I’d keep it for myself, and not let anyone move in permanently.’

  ‘Not tired of Maria!’ Paul shifted on his chair. ‘You can’t throw her out; not after such a long time!’

  ‘No, of course I wouldn’t. But she’s getting older and I’d quite like a bit more excitement in my life. And talking of which …’

  He told him about Laurence running away from school, and that he was on his way north to look for him. ‘It’s Beatrix’s fault,’ he said sulkily. ‘She’s making him into a pampered mother’s boy. I’m going to have to do something about her. She has too much influence over him.’

  Paul frowned. ‘You’re not thinking of divorce? That would ruin her, and you too, financially. The costs are tremendous, so I hear. It seems a terrible waste of money. And can you be sure that she has committed adultery? That is the only reason for divorce, you do realize? For you, of course; not for her.’

  Charles fidgeted. Maybe he hadn’t considered it fully. ‘I’m not thinking of just yet, more in the future. Just working things out.’

  ‘I’d leave it if I were you,’ advised Paul, who seemed to have more of a grasp on the situation. ‘It won’t look good for either of you; you’d both be named in the press. They’d chase you and probably find Maria and that wouldn’t be good for your reputation; and,’ he went on, ‘have you thought that if you told Beatrix to leave you’d need someone else to run the estate? Keep a tight grip on the reins, that sort of thing.’ He laughed, and Charles thought that it wasn’t in the least funny when he went on, ‘That will cost you the salary of a general manager. Your wife presumably does it for nothing but a few gewgaws?’