A Daughter's Shame

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘Home. I couldn’t stand another minute up there.’ She waved her arm in the direction of Lindow. ‘With all those weeping people who weren’t there when my mother needed help.’

  ‘Oh no … !’ He took her hands and held on to them. ‘Your mother? Is it your mother who is in a coma? I can’t leave you here like this, Isobel. I lost my own dear mother, and now–’ Tears welled in his greeny-grey eyes. He blinked rapidly, clenched his jaw, then smiled and said, ‘Dad said he was going to a funeral. Isobel, I’m sorry. I didn’t connect you with the Elsie Stanway Dad and Mother spoke about.’ He led her round to the passenger side of the Delage. ‘Get in. I won’t go to Archerfield. It was only an impulse visit. I like to keep up the friendship my mother had with the Hammonds. I’ll take you home.’

  Isobel got in gratefully and leaned back against the deep blue leather while Ray closed the door and went to the driver‘s seat.

  ‘Home first – or would you feel better if I took you for a short drive?’ he asked.

  ‘A short drive, please.’ A drive would help her to stop thinking and worrying about facing her stepfather.

  ‘Then we’ll drive up into the hills. I’ll take you to Buxton and I’ll have you back in Macc before the mills come out.’ His face was all concern. ‘Throw your hat in the back. There’s a ladies’ scarf if you need something for your hair. It’s a bit breezy.’

  Isobel threw the hat in and shook her hair out so that the wind might blow through it.

  They were travelling fast, heading for Macclesfield along the road from Manchester, and the fresh wind was catching her hair over the split glass windscreen that had chrome catches and all sorts of clever devices to open and hold and wipe the glass. Ray pointed them out to her as he drove. ‘The windscreen glass is hinged,’ he said. ‘See the Jaeger instrument panel?’

  ‘Yes. All those clocks and dials. How do you know what they are for? It’s a quiet engine,’ she added. ‘I can hear everything you say.’

  ‘It’s a four-thousand cc engine, designed by Maurice Gaultier,’ he said, and he was laughing at her questions, showing off about his beautiful motor car. Passers-by were stopping to stare because most people had never seen anything half as grand. ‘French, of course,’ he said. ‘I drove it home from Paris. The Delage showroom is on the Champs-Élysées.’

  They had gone under the bridge in Waters Green and were heading up the steep Buxton Road, into the hills. Ray was delighted with himself, impressing her with technical talk. ‘She can do eighty-six miles an hour with ease,’ he said, and he laughed and put his foot down so they went skimming forward, faster than before.

  ‘It’s lovely inside,’ Isobel ventured and, away from Macclesfield, she smiled, and not least for the sudden impression she had that she was sitting next to a peacock, or a red-bellied stickleback.

  ‘Should be! Fernandez et Darrin coachwork,’ he said. Then, seeing her face, ‘You’re not pulling my leg, are you?’

  ‘No. Honestly! It’s just that I can’t help smiling all at once.’ She should feel guilty, enjoying herself today. ‘Tell me more!’

  He laughed and put his foot down hard. ‘All right. She’s got coil ignition on a straight eight engine. One-hundred-and-eighteen BHP produced at three-thousand-eight-hundred rpm, with a Smith Barraquand carburettor …’

  Isobel was laughing as they bowled along the empty road, heather-clad moorland either side of them and the wild scent strong in the air. Her hair blew across her face and trailed out behind. She thought his profile was so like his mother’s. She said, ‘And … ?’

  He said, ‘And? If you don’t stop looking at me with those smouldering eyes, Isobel Leigh, I will halt this magnificent car and take you into the heather and ravish you!’ Then he must have seen that his words, instead of delighting her, had dispelled her light mood, for she stared, stony cold, at the road ahead. ‘Don’t talk that way,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, softly. ‘I didn’t mean it. I wanted to tell you that you’re an extraordinary person. The prettiest girl in Macclesfield.’

  He said that to all the girls but she was sure he hadn’t meant to upset her. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I won’t take offence.’

  They sped through the wild moors until they pulled up at last in front of the Cat and Fiddle, reputed to be the highest public house in England. And she went laughing from there because the sheep on the moors were so tame that they pestered people for titbits and scraps, and all at once Ray became agitated, shouting, ‘Watch their feet! They’ll kick the paint off my bodywork!’ … angry with the sheep as if they could help being tame – and as if by watching them, Isobel could help where they put their feet.

  Later, they had tea in a cafe and Ray made her feel, for the first time in a year, that she was interesting and attractive. He asked her questions and she told him what she’d want a stranger to think. She didn’t feel free, as she had with Ian, to tell all. But she was at ease and Ray was charming and flattering. Only mildly flirtatious, he’d say things like, ‘Oh, those eyes, Isobel Leigh. Little sparks and golden flames are burning in the ashes.’ And, ‘I’ll dream about your eyes tonight.’

  He drove her home fast so that they should arrive before the mills closed. He said, ‘We don’t want anyone to see us – or we’ll set tongues wagging.’

  ‘Not on this of all days,’ Isobel said quietly, because her spirits were sinking the closer they got to Bollinbrook Road.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he said. ‘Keep it to yourself. I’ll go the back way.’

  It was the wrong thing to say if he’d meant to sound considerate. It sounded more as if he had something to hide. But when they reached the house and had not seen anyone in particular he placed his hand on the back of her seat and, very gently, kissed her cheek.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Like a gentleman he leaped out of the car and opened her door. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘Oh no! Don’t!’ Isobel blurted out, and felt her face growing red.

  ‘Then, for now, goodbye,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye!’

  In the house, the telephone rang before she’d taken her coat off. The sound echoed through the uncarpeted hall in the empty house. Ian’s voice came hurling down the line. ‘Isobel? I’ve just heard. What can I say?’

  Hope and longing welled up. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Edinburgh. I have five minutes before I go on duty at the Infirmary. How are you?’

  He sounded so near she’d believed he was in Macclesfield. Now she was cast down again. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ll find a job.’

  ‘What about your future? University?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My stepfather. I don’t think he can pay for Mam,’ was all she could say. How could she tell the boy she loved that there was no money for school or university? There was no chance for her to go onwards and upwards as he and Rowena were doing. And how could she say, to such a boy, that they were, with the lowest of the low, in debt? She said, ‘I’m going to earn money.’

  There was a moment’s silence before, ‘Isobel, it’s presumptuous of me – and possibly in bad taste – but can’t you ask your grandmother for help? There must be money put aside for you.’

  It was presumptuous. She was offended, but she answered, ‘Mam would never ask Nanna. Neither will I. I’ll earn my own money. Grandpa hadn’t much to leave – only Lindow and whatever he had in the bank. Nanna is going to need security.’

  ‘Go to see a lawyer tomorrow. The money for your education should be in trust for you. If your mother dies intestate your stepfather is entitled to it all. House. Money. Everything.’

  How could Ian say such a thing? Her throat was tight as she blurted out, ‘Mam’s not dead! I’m going to visit her in half an hour. Grandpa was buried today! Don’t ask me to fight for my rights.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ian sounded sorry this time. ‘But try to think this out. The most importan
t thing is that you go to university. Finish your education. Your stepfather adopted you. He must act in your best interests. And Isobel …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me if I can help?’

  She wanted to cry, to shout, ‘Don’t advise me! Come for me! Save me!’ But she couldn’t. She needed to see him, touch him. She needed a protector. She needed him now and she needed to hear him say, loud and clear, that she was his girl. If he didn’t speak she’d know he didn’t care.

  There was a long silence.

  Then he said, in a softer voice, ‘Are you there, Isobel?’

  He had not said the words she wanted to hear. She was talking to a stranger. She did not answer, and after a few moments he said, ‘See a lawyer. Speak to my uncle about your legal position. I’ll ring tomorrow. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ she said, in a cold little voice. She could not tell anyone anything. Especially she would not tell Mr Hammond about Mam’s debt. It was part of her burden of shame.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elsie came out of blackness as hands pulled her into a sitting position. She opened her eyes. A nurse’s bosom – a crisp white apron, starched and smelling of carbolic – reared up in front, then slowly moved away from her face. She was in hospital. Voices came from a long way off.

  ‘She’s come round again.’ The nurse leaned over. ‘Can you hear?’

  ‘Mmm …’ She could hear. She couldn’t talk. Her tongue stuck like a lead weight in her mouth. There was something painful at the back of her throat and high in her nose. She put a hand to her face and felt soft rubber tubing coming from her nostril, taped to her cheek. If they would give her a drink of water …

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Mrs Leigh. We’re feeding you …’

  Another nurse was holding Elsie’s arms tight to her sides. Elsie tried to struggle. The stout one took the rubber tube, held it down on her lap, took out the stopper and attached a steel injection. Those plunger things – what were they called? The last thing she remembered was Howard standing over her, plunging the needle in so hard and she wanting to say he’d got it wrong. She didn’t need the insulin. She needed something sweet.

  Elsie stopped struggling. It was no use. The nurse’s arms gripped like a vice. The steel plunger thing was being pushed in and she felt the liquid run light and tickling and warm into her stomach.

  ‘You’ll start to feel better in a minute.’ The nurse filled the syringe again from an enamel mug. ‘You’re coming round now, Mrs Leigh.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Her head was clearing. There was a jug of water at her bedside and fruit in a bowl. Grapes. Oranges. A banana. The nurse loosened her grip and let Elsie’s shoulders sag against the pillows. It felt good. Her head was fuzzy, but now she didn’t want to sleep.

  The stout nurse fixed the rubber piping somewhere to the back of and above Elsie’s head. ‘There’s a bell pull, Mrs Leigh. You might feel better sitting up.’ The nurse drew back the curtains. It was a big room. Twenty or more beds. She reached for the banana but her fingers were weak. The banana was heavy. She dug her fingers through the skin, split it, put it to her mouth and sucked. Then she tore back the peel and stuffed the fruit greedily into her mouth. It was manna from heaven – that was what Dad called it – manna from heaven. Her tongue was working. There was a rumbling in her stomach. Now, a drink of water.

  ‘Let me …’ Frank’s voice.

  ‘S’a’right …’ But he had his arm about her shoulders and was holding the glass to her lips. And the cool, sweet water was running over her tongue and down her throat.

  ‘You’re better!’ Frank’s beloved face, relieved and pleased as he laid her back against the pillow’s. ‘When did you come round, love?’

  She opened her eyes. ‘Long I been – here?’

  ‘Best part of a week.’ He was dressed in a dark suit. Black tie.

  The older nurse was back and saying, ‘She’s talking.’ Then, to Frank, ‘This is the first time she’s spoken.’ The nurse, who evidently did not know who he was, was officious. ‘Are you a relative?’

  Elsie smiled. ‘S’a’right. Good friend.’

  ‘Five minutes. That’s all. Don’t want Mrs Leigh to overtire herself.’

  Elsie could not help it that her words were slurring. It would pass. It happened when she had too much sugar. This time she’d had too much of the other. Insulin. It was all coming back to her. She said, ‘Where Hah-d? Is – bel? Where’s ee?’

  ‘At Lindow. I left after the funeral service.’

  ‘Funeral? Who funeral?’

  ‘Your dad. It was his funeral today.’

  ‘Dad?’ Her voice cracked and broke. She sat bolt upright, and felt the blood draining from her face. Then she fell back against the pillows and clapped her hands to her face. ‘Killed him! I kill …’ She wailed and rocked herself back and to against the pillow. ‘Dad! Dad …’

  Frank looked at her in horror. ‘It’s not you, Elsie. It’s not your fault. He was an old, old man.’

  And Elsie heard her own screams coming from a long way off … Screaming, terrible, agonising screaming. Nurses were running, holding her up. Frank was crying, begging …

  ‘What’s wrong, Elsie? Oh my God. What’s gone wrong? Get the doctors. Quick. She’s in pain.’ But they were dragging Frank away and pulling curtains round her bed and holding her down until at last she went under, into the merciful black state of unconsciousness.

  Her stepfather must have come home late in the night. Early next morning Isobel heard him, clattering about the kitchen. She would wait until the front door slammed before going down for breakfast.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. Isobel held her breath, waiting for him to pass the door. Instead, to her alarm, she saw the door knob turn, the door open slowly, and in he came, dressed only in striped pyjamas, carefully holding a cup and saucer and a plate of biscuits. He came right up to her bed.

  ‘Here you are, Isobel,’ he said, and flashed his teeth at her.

  She sat, pulling the sheet up to her chin so he could not see down the sweetheart neck of her nightdress. ‘What’s all this?’ she said. ‘You don’t allow breakfast in bed.’

  He held the cup out and Isobel had to let go of the sheet to take it. ‘A fresh start,’ he said. ‘For both of us.’ He leered, ‘Isobel, we have to live together, my dear. May as well be nice to one another.’

  She handed the tea back. ‘I don’t want it. Leave my bedroom.’ Smiling eerily, he placed the tea things on the chest of drawers and, looking pleased with himself, came and sat on the bed. ‘Now then, Isobel. I am your father.’

  ‘You are not! You adopted me. That’s all.’

  ‘I am your father. Your father in the eyes of the law. I have rights!’ He flashed his teeth again and the voice went high and wheedling as he asked, ‘And if you play ball with me – I’ll play ball with you.’

  ‘Play ball? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that you will not go back to school. I cannot pay the fees. You will remain here, in your father’s house. And I will make a home for my little Jordangate Lily.’

  ‘Mam’s house! Mam’s and mine!’ Isobel heard herself shouting.

  ‘Mine.’ His voice was hard. ‘The house is mine. The shop is mine. You are mine. Your mother will have to go to the Institute of Guardians. I cannot pay for expensive hospitals.’

  ‘Mam’s getting better. She will never go into the workhouse.’ How could he be so cruel? ‘Have you no heart? No feelings?’

  He came to sit close beside her and put his hand over the back of her neck. And as a knot tightened in her stomach and her legs trembled with fright he let his hand slide slowly down the front of her nightdress. She tried to raise her left hand but his arm was in the way. Her right arm was immobilised by the weight of his body as he pressed closer to her. And Isobel knew in the few seconds all this had taken that she had to fight him. He pulled back a little way, looking for approval. Not taking her eyes off his face, she let her head drop forward. Her cheek brush
ed against his forearm and he wiggled his fingers playfully on her bare breast.

  Then, quick as a python striking, Isobel darted her head down to close her teeth on the loose skin over his thin wrist. He yelped but she held fast like a terrier on the neck of its prey, and the weight had gone from her arm as he tried to pull himself upright and bring his other hand up under her chin to push her head away. But this increased the twist on the skin and nerves of his wrist.

  He screamed in agony, ‘Get off, bitch!’, while he tried to force her head back, but Isobel held on and fetched her hand up, clawing for his eyes. She let go as soon as she drew blood, tasting it salt and sticky on her tongue. Then she spat it out fast and straight into his face and watched it run, saliva streaked red, down his face.

  ‘Get out of my room. Get out! Get out!’ she shouted.

  He went, gripping his injured wrist, staggering to the bathroom.

  She leaped out of bed and shoved the chest of drawers in front of the door. Then went back to lie on the bed, gasping for breath, faint with fright and anger. Would she have to fight him off again and again? What was it that drove a man to terrify a girl? Isobel lay there thinking desolate thoughts of what her future held. She could not tell anybody about this. Only Mam’s presence had protected her.

  Frank woke at five o’clock in the morning and went to stand by the window that overlooked Park Lane. Outside it was pouring with rain. The shiny wet pavement under the lamp post reflected light into the deserted street. There was no use trying to get back to sleep. The house was quiet. His ma, who sometimes rambled around in the night, had been in bed for hours. Ray slept as sound as a bell. Frank put on his dressing gown and went downstairs to the silent kitchen.

  The fire was laid. He would not go up the back stairs and wake the kitchen girl who slept in the attic. He struck a match and held it to the paper in the grate. He dragged forward a kitchen chair and watched the fire while he thought about this impossible situation. His women belonged to Leigh and despite all he knew of Leigh’s enormous debts he must assume that the man was looking after them well but that Elsie and Isobel were proving an expensive pair to maintain.