by Polly Heron
Oh hell.
‘I’ll have to tell my parents,’ she realised. ‘Whether or not Norris actually blabbed this evening, I can no longer trust him to keep quiet, so I must tell Mum and Dad.’
Dread was sour in her mouth. What would they say? What would they think of her? Need the rest of the family know? Gran would die of shame.
Oh cripes. If she turned up at Mum and Dad’s, they would assume she was there to face the music about losing her job, whereas…
She sucked in a breath. ‘I want to tell you what I did.’
‘You don’t have to. I’m just trying to say the right things to help you through, although,’ Vivienne added with a gentle smile, ‘that might be easier if I knew what I was dealing with.’
‘I want to try it out on you,’ said Molly. ‘I’ve never told anyone apart from Norris and I need to talk about it before telling my parents.’ A fresh wave of fear shivered through her shoulders. ‘The Miss Heskeths will throw me out.’
‘Not necessarily. What did Miss Hesketh say? Common sense trumps melodrama.’
‘But morals trump everything.’
‘What’s this about, Molly? Pictures are forming in my head. You should tell me before I latch onto the wrong idea.’
Molly looked at Vivienne, but had to look away before the words would come. ‘It’s very simple. During the war, I was a driver in London. There was a soldier. He was handsome and amusing; he was good at drawing and he was interested in bats.’
‘Bats?’
‘Not cricket bats. Flying bats. He lived in an old house in the countryside, with bats in the attic. Once a year, he and his friends had a night-time picnic on the lawn and counted the bats as they flew out from under the eaves. He told me that the first time we met. I thought him quite mad.’
‘He sounds interesting. Fun.’
‘He was – both. I soon stopped thinking he was mad and started thinking,’ and her voice dropped of its own accord to a whisper, ‘he was the most wonderful man I’d ever met. I’d been walking out with Norris before the war and we’d been writing to one another. After I met Toby, I had to write to Norris and say…’ She shook her head.
‘A hard letter to write,’ said Vivienne.
‘It’s horrible to write to a serving soldier to say you’ve met someone else, but I had to do it. I wanted everything between Toby and me to be perfect. I didn’t want Norris on my conscience.’
‘You’d fallen in love.’
‘I adored him. If he had lived, I’d be his wife now and it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d come back with limbs missing, or blinded, or gassed. But he was killed going over the top and I was left behind to have his child.’
‘You had a baby.’
‘A little boy. He was perfect and I had to give him away.’
‘You poor love. Your poor baby.’
Molly roused herself. ‘But he wasn’t poor, was he? He was lucky. That’s how I’ve always thought of it.’ How she had trained herself to think of it. Forced herself to think of it. ‘He went to a decent family to be cherished and appreciated and in all probability spoilt rotten by a mother who couldn’t have children of her own. A mother with the one thing I didn’t have – a husband.’ She looked squarely at Vivienne. ‘You should understand. You said you were adopted. You know how important adoption is, how successful it can be.’
‘My parents loved me and were proud of me and the feeling was entirely mutual.’ Vivienne pressed her hand. ‘I hope your son is as content and secure with his adoptive parents as I always was with mine. I can have no greater wish for him than that – and no greater wish for you.’
A tiny squeak of a hinge made them both look up. The door, which had been ajar, opened and Lucy appeared. Her face was drained of colour and looked rather ghastly. Oh lord. Had she heard everything? Molly tried to swallow but it wouldn’t go down. Was Lucy shocked? Disgusted? Was this a foretaste of censure to come from all sides?
‘Lucy!’ Vivienne exclaimed. ‘Have you been earwigging? That’s a low-down trick. I’m ashamed of you.’
Lucy couldn’t take her eyes off Molly. ‘You had a baby? Out of wedlock?’
‘You’re not to breathe a word,’ Vivienne commanded.
Lucy’s face started to crumple. Molly was startled. Vexed, too. What did Lucy have to cry about? Molly was the one facing social ruin if her story was spread around.
Lucy said, ‘Please help me. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Whatever it is—’ Vivienne began brusquely.
‘I’m having a baby.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
ALTHOUGH SHE DERIVED a great deal of satisfaction from imparting her knowledge to her pupils, Prudence always experienced relief when Patience saw them out at the end of the evening’s teaching. The business school provided a useful, not to say essential, service to this new breed of surplus girls, who would benefit from being able to apply for jobs of a superior nature to those they were already in. Not to mention the essential service the school performed in enabling her and Patience to remain here in the home they had lived in all their lives, the home indeed that she viewed as being morally theirs, even if the law thought otherwise; but all that didn’t mean it wasn’t tiring. To work all day in the office and come home and teach all evening was a lot to ask of anyone. Not that she ever complained. She wasn’t the complaining sort. Besides, what choice was there?
Patience sighed as she closed the front door. ‘Another evening over with. Come and sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’
Patience was a fusspot, a looker-after, but at the end of a long day, it wasn’t disagreeable to receive a bit of cosseting – again, not that Prudence would ever admit it. A quiet thank-you sufficed. And it made Patience feel better to be permitted to indulge her. After all, what did Patience do all day but look after the home? And her contribution to the business school, important as it was that the pupils practised their telephone skills, could hardly be compared to the intricate knowledge of typewriting and book-keeping, invoices and minutes, filing and letter-writing, that formed Prudence’s contribution to their endeavour.
No sooner had she sat down in her armchair than the door opened and all three girls not so much came in as crept in, looking subdued, and Lucy looked positively wretched. She tried to hang back, but Mrs Atwood urged her in. They all sat down, squeezing together onto the sofa, glances flickering between them like a bunch of inexperienced office juniors who had made a terrible blunder that she would have to sort out. It was all she could do not to tap her foot. It was vexing enough to feel like this at work; she didn’t expect to face it at home.
‘Lucy has something to tell you,’ Mrs Atwood said, not seeming at all like an office junior. She had a composure, a quiet authority, that inspired confidence. ‘But before she does, we ought to wait for Miss Patience.’
Prudence eyed Lucy sharply. The girl hung her head.
‘Are we about to get to the bottom of what really brought you here?’
‘Please,’ Mrs Atwood murmured, ‘if we could just wait for Miss Patience.’
Of course. Wait for Patience, the kind one, the soft-hearted one; the one who would pour oil on troubled waters and leave it to her older sister to make the difficult decisions and say the things that needed to be said.
As Patience manoeuvred the door open, a tray in her hands, Miss Watson got up to help her.
‘Thank you, Molly dear – oh. You all look very serious. Has something happened?’
‘I rather think it must have,’ said Prudence. ‘Lucy apparently has something to tell us.’
‘Should I pour first?’ asked Patience.
‘No.’ Prudence wished she didn’t sound quite so snappish. ‘Sit down and let’s hear what Lucy has to say.’
But it was Miss Watson who sat up straighter. ‘Would you hear me out first?’
‘Really, Miss Watson, it’s our niece we wish to hear from.’ A thought occurred to Prudence. ‘I hope you don’t have something to add to what you told us on the
subject of why you were dismissed from your job.’
The girl flushed. Not the prettiest sight, given the colour of her hair. The blush made it look brassy.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s…something else.’
‘Tell us, Molly dear,’ said Patience. ‘You’re among friends.’
‘I hope I still will be when I’ve told you.’ Miss Watson rubbed her palms on her thighs. ‘It’s difficult for me to tell you this, but, as my landladies, you’re entitled to know, because – because you may want me to leave immediately.’
‘Heavens,’ breathed Patience. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘If nothing else, you’ve given yourself a dramatic build-up,’ Prudence said. ‘Now kindly tell us without beating around the bush.’
‘Very well.’ The girl lifted her chin. She had rather fine cheekbones. ‘During the war, I was away in London.’
‘Doing your bit,’ Patience said approvingly.
‘Doing my bit. I met a soldier, a very nice chap, and we became…involved. When he returned to France, he was killed.’
Patience breathed a soft ‘Oh’ of sympathy.
‘And I was left on my own and…in trouble.’
‘In…? Oh!’ Patience coloured deeply.
Prudence’s heart beat hard and slow. Memories piled up in her head. ‘What happened?’
Miss Watson blinked several times and sniffed; Mrs Atwood thrust a hanky into her hand. Miss Watson pressed it to her nose and discreetly wiped.
‘I, um, I had the baby adopted. It was a boy. I gave him away.’
Oh, the shame. Deep down inside Prudence was cold as ice, but at the same time heat raced around her body. An unmarried mother. An unwanted child – or perhaps not unwanted, though that was immaterial. The shame, oh, the appalling shame.
Patience looked at her, waiting for her to speak. When she didn’t, Patience said, ‘This has come as a great shock to us. I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m sorry if you feel I came here under false pretences,’ said Miss Watson. ‘I’ve kept it a secret all this time and tried to put it behind me, but…I think the secret may now be out and I wanted to be the one to tell you. I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to bring shame on you.’
‘What should we do?’ Patience looked at Prudence.
They all looked at her, awaiting her judgement. She was known for being the first to wade in with her opinions and her criticism.
‘Before you consider that,’ put in Mrs Atwood, ‘perhaps you should listen to Lucy.’
Lucy promptly burst into tears.
Dear heaven, had there ever been an evening like it? And had there ever been a more impossible girl than Lucy? Why wouldn’t she tell them who the father was?
‘You have to tell us,’ Prudence insisted as the discussion dragged on long into the night while rain beat against the windows and the temperature dropped. ‘How else are you to marry him?’ Horror washed through her. ‘He’s not a married man, is he?’
‘Of course not,’ Lucy cried indignantly. ‘What sort of girl do you think I am?’
Prudence lifted her eyebrows. ‘That’s a dangerous question to ask, considering that you’ve got yourself into trouble.’
‘Prudence, please,’ Patience murmured. ‘You’re not helping.’
‘Aren’t I? I beg everyone’s pardon, but it seems to me that the person who isn’t helping is Lucy. Here she is, enceinte, and refusing to name the father. Good lord, it isn’t the window cleaner or some such, is it?’
‘Aunt Prudence!’ It was almost a shriek.
‘Well, what are we supposed to think?’ she demanded.
‘Lucy.’ Mrs Atwood stuck her oar in. ‘Will you explain to us why you won’t name the father?’
Lucy looked away, sighed, fiddled with her bracelet. Patience stirred, about to speak, but at a signal from Mrs Atwood, she subsided.
‘I…I don’t love him. I mean, I like him. I’m awfully fond of him, but I’m not in love.’
‘I think the time has passed for that to be a consideration,’ said Prudence.
‘Has it?’ Having spent most of the evening not meeting anyone’s gaze, Lucy swung round to face her. ‘Have I got to get married because of one mistake?’
‘When the mistake has these consequences,’ Prudence said, ‘yes, absolutely.’
‘Does he know?’ asked Miss Watson.
‘No.’
‘You haven’t told him?’
‘No. If I did, he’d want to do the decent thing, obviously.’
‘Then why not let him?’ asked Miss Watson. ‘If you’re so fond of him, and he’s a good sort, what’s the problem?’
‘The problem,’ Lucy insisted, ‘is that I’m not in love with him.’
‘Then how come…?’ asked Miss Watson. An indelicate question, but Prudence wanted to hear the answer.
Lucy shifted uncomfortably – not easy, given how crushed together the three of them were on the sofa. ‘It’s as I said. I’m very fond of him, always have been, and it’s entirely mutual. In fact, I think it might be more than that on his side.’
‘You mean he loves you?’
‘That’s what made me realise. If he loves me and we get married, he’ll get everything he wants; but I…I won’t, will I? I’ll be married, but I won’t be in love with my husband.’ As Prudence leaned forward, Lucy hurried on. ‘Please don’t say it’s a bit late to think of that now.’ Good heavens, did Lucy just dare to forestall her? ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Lucy, dear, what choice is there?’ asked Patience. ‘As a respectable girl, you have to do the right thing.’
‘Marry a man I don’t love?’
‘Darling, yes, and consider yourself lucky that he’s happy to do right by you. You make him sound a pretty good sort.’
‘Such a good sort that he has taken advantage of a young girl,’ said Prudence.
There was a spiky silence in which the others looked away from her frank stare.
‘He didn’t take advantage.’ There was an underlying note of sulkiness in Lucy’s voice. ‘It was both of us. We got carried away.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Prudence. It was a novel experience not to be able to get to the bottom of something. Her incisive mind and famous determination usually got her the answers she required. ‘What are we going to do? You can’t stay here, Lucy. I have to protect the good name of this house.’
‘I won’t go home,’ Lucy retorted. ‘Daddy will make me tell.’
‘Someone has to.’
‘If we fail to tell your parents about this, if we simply keep you here as if nothing has changed,’ Patience said more gently, ‘they’ll never trust us again. You know how difficult things are between Daddy and us. Keeping you here wouldn’t help us in the long term, I’m sorry to say.’
‘So your precious business school matters more than I do?’
‘That’s unfair, Lucy.’ It was unusual to hear Patience speaking so firmly. ‘You know how much you mean to us. You must do or you wouldn’t have come here when you needed… I’m not sure now what you needed.’ Her voice slid into a sad monotone.
‘I think you came here to hide, didn’t you, Lucy?’ said Mrs Atwood. ‘You’re hiding from your parents so they don’t find out; hiding from the whole situation, trying not to think about it, wishing it had never happened.’
‘But it has happened,’ stated Prudence, ‘and we have to face it.’
‘I’m not going to name the father,’ Lucy said softly.
‘Perhaps Evelyn will have an idea who it is,’ suggested Patience.
‘No!’ cried Lucy. ‘You mustn’t ask her.’
Mrs Atwood looked at Prudence. ‘What are you going to do?’
Cheek! As if it was any of her business. Prudence made a point of addressing Patience.
‘The child looks done in. I’m sure you can be relied on for Ovaltine and tucking-in duties. Tomorrow I’ll start making arrangements for Lucy to go away – not back to Lawrence and Evelyn,’
she added more loudly as Lucy started to protest, ‘though, goodness knows, that could come back to haunt us. When you came here, Lucy, Aunt Patience and I promised to take care of you and this is how I propose to do it.’ She turned to Mrs Atwood. ‘Tomorrow, at work, please could you find the whereabouts of a respectable home for unmarried mothers?’
‘A bad girls’ home?’ Lucy burst out. ‘You can’t send me to one of those. They’re horrible places and the girls are treated abominably. Everyone knows that.’
‘As I was saying,’ Prudence resumed, ‘I should be grateful, Mrs Atwood, if you’d locate a private home, one where families of the better sort send their daughters in this situation. If Lucy intends not to name the father, she needs to face up to the alternative. I think you were right when you said she came here to hide. Well, the time for hiding is over. When I go to the office tomorrow, I’ll explain that I have a family emergency to deal with and arrange to take a day off, so that I can take Lucy to the home. If I find it to be clean and comfortable, and if the girls seem reasonably content and well cared for, then I’ll leave her there.’
Aaron had long since given up trying to sleep. Lying on his settee, with his knees hooked over the arm and his feet dangling, was hellishly uncomfortable. Maybe he would suggest swapping round tomorrow night, so he could have the bed while Danny had the settee. The lad wouldn’t mind, he was sure.
In fact, the idea of camping downstairs might cheer him up a bit. He needed it, poor chap. Aaron had overheard one of the nursemaids whispering that she didn’t see why Cropper should have taken his dad’s death so hard.
‘The father was in that sanatorium for almost a year. That’s a heck of a long time in a young child’s life.’
Never mind that it wasn’t the caretaker’s job to take issue with the nursemaids, Aaron had stopped and said, ‘Just because young Cropper hadn’t seen his dad in months doesn’t mean he should be unaffected by his loss. Just because all of us adults weren’t surprised when Mr Cropper died doesn’t mean Daniel expected it to happen. Anyway, he had seen his dad, hadn’t he? Miss Watson took him.’