She made her way back to the station slowly. Her train did not leave for an hour, and as she walked she tried to make sense of it all. She walked the whole length of the promenade on the landward side, passing the hotels, the Victoria Baths and the Promenade Hospital. Then she crossed over to the seaward side, stopping now and again to gaze over the sands, the Floral Hall gardens and the lake.
And standing there in the sunshine, on a day when everything was going wrong, she made a silent little prayer and a promise. If she were not pregnant – if it were only imagination and fear that had stopped her periods – then she would work harder, save more money, sell her piano, anything, anything to keep the house for herself and Mam.
She would ask Mr Chancellor if she might help him in his charity work – anything. Anything, she prayed, only, ‘Please God, don‘t let me be pregnant.’ She crossed over to the pier entrance and walked by the flowerbeds, and then she stopped, more from habit than curiosity, at one of the snapper’s booths to look at the photographs.
Her insides did a somersault. There, in the centre of the window, was a photograph of Ray Chancellor – with his arm wrapped about Doreen’s waist. They were walking down the promenade, oblivious of the camera, of everyone, their heads together, like lovers. There was no mistake. It was Doreen. She was wearing the very chevron-striped dress Isobel had made for her wedding. It had been taken on the previous Monday, the mills’ spring holiday.
She went to the nearest bench and sat down. Then her insides did a somersault again and this time she had to run for the hedge behind her and was horribly, violently sick. This was not sickness such as she got when she had a fever. Her insides were rising up, throwing up everything she had eaten today. She was shaking and cold when it stopped. There was an iron drinking fountain nearby and she managed to get to it and rinse her handkerchief in the cold water before she could bend her knees to drink and take away the bitter bile that was burning her mouth. Then she dropped on to the bench again and wiped her face and wrists to stop herself from shaking.
She had to control herself. She concentrated harder than she ever had in her life before. Face it, Lil! she kept saying to herself. Come on, Lil! as if it were only through her old name that she could summon up her iron will. Your Mam faced it. What’s coming to you won’t pass you by! It’s how you fettle it that matters!
After a few minutes she had steeled herself. That iron will – the stubborn streak, whatever it was – had returned, and Isobel went into the kiosk and asked to buy the photograph.
‘My cousin,’ she explained as bold as brass. ‘She didn’t have the time to collect them yesterday.’ She paid the exorbitant price of three shillings and sixpence for the three photographs, and tucked them into her handbag.
That was on Monday. Today though, Magnus was outside, blowing the horn, so Isobel locked the shop and went out on to Jordangate.
Magnus poked his head out of the side window. ‘Ready? Hop in.’
Magnus made heavy weather of driving. He snatched the gear lever and made the car leap forward. ‘We’re meeting Sylvia at the fair,’ he said. Then, because she looked indifferent, ‘You want to go, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ The fair would be a way of filling in the hours until she could go home to Bollinbrook Road and ring Ray in a last-ditch attempt to get him to speak to her. If he would not see her, she would call Mr Chancellor and tell him everything that had happened.
Magnus steered down Hibel Road then along Gas Road, past the swing-boats, rifle ranges and coconut shies that were strung out under the railway bridge to the Waters where the big rides and booths were. He said, ‘You’re a bit peaky. I thought you’d be all agog!’
‘Why should I be?’
‘You haven’t seen Sylvia for ages. She’s dying to tell you her news.’ He steered past the big Hobbyhorse ride in the Waters and nosed uphill, coming to rest at the kerbside in Queen Victoria Street.
Isobel didn’t dare speak until he was safely parked. He always told her to keep quiet while he made his parking manoeuvres, in case he hit the kerb – so she waited until he pulled on the brake. ‘What news?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. It’s all a great mystery. You know Sylvia.’ He smiled in relief, having parked the car safely. He reached over into the back of the Riley for his sticks. ‘Help me, will you?’
Isobel got out and was enveloped – eyes, nose and ears – by the sights, smells and sounds of the fair. The shouts of gypsy men and the vendors were all mixed up with dozens of clashing musical tunes from hurdy-gurdies and mechanical steam organs. She took Magnus’s crutches round to his side and helped him on to his feet to totter down the cobbled hill towards the Waters Green bottom market and the fair.
‘Take my arm,’ she said. He would not, and Isobel admired him for the heroic effort it must take to go to work every day in such pain – and thought how unfair it was that Magnus, whose disability made him weak and dependent on others, should have such devotion in him when Ray, with all the advantages life could offer, had none.
The air thickened with the aroma of fried potatoes and waffles and the hot oil of the engines. All ranks of society crowded into the fair. There were respectable clerks, their wives and children, dirty children tugging at the skirts of dowdy women, squealing adolescents attracting attention to themselves, and ruddy-faced farmers’ lads from Wildboarclough and Gawsworth. Older men sized themselves up against the fighter in front of the boxers’ booths.
Magnus wouldn‘t be able to go on the rides but he made a great hirpling dash for the big games. There was a new game, lit up with electric bulbs and powered by a noisy generator that stood behind the tents of the freak shows. It was a big booth where a round board counter surrounded a mountain of prizes that were stacked nearly to the canvas roof. Between the prizes and the counter a gypsy man circled, taking money and handing out slips of paper, calling, ‘A winner every time! The Wheel of Fortune!’ under a great revolving drum that was covered in back-lit mirrors. A ring of players had gathered and Magnus edged in. The drum had ten facets, on which, three deep, were the names of towns.
‘Which town do you want?’ Magnus shouted above the noise. ‘Coventry!’ Isobel chose it from the few that were not yet lit up. Magnus paid over his shilling and she said, ‘It’s a lot of money. The odds are low. There’s twenty-nine people playing against us.’
Magnus was beside himself with excitement. He’d have bought every ticket if he’d been allowed to. ‘Look at the prizes! What will you choose?’
The lights flicked from town to town as the drum revolved: Coventry – Bath – Glasgow had clacked and clicked by as Isobel studied the great bank of prizes – dolls with celluloid faces, ugly plaster dogs and enormous brown-glazed plant pots. Magnus’s excitement was catching and Isobel forgot her worries for the moment. Dangling from thick elastic were furry monkeys with glass eyes. There were velvet cushions wrapped in cellophane. But at the back, on the top shelf, was a small table lamp with a china crinoline lady for a base. She’d choose that if they won. The drum was turning faster, noisily whirring in such a dizzying flash of lights she could no longer read the names.
Magnus, when he stood, transferred both crutch handles to his left hand to leave his right free. He clenched and unclenched his right hand fast as if he had a fortune invested. His face was pink, his blond hair had a life of its own, falling softly over his eye and yet standing up at the back of his head. The drum was slowing. The lighted names were coming round to their side. It stopped. They sighed. It moved again: Birmingham – Manchester – Brighton and almost stopped. Then very slowly it fell onto Coventry and finally came to rest. Isobel shouted out, ‘We’ve won!’
‘What would the lady like?’ called the gypsy man.
‘The crinoline lady lamp, please.’ She squeezed Magnus’s hand gently as they waited for the man to get the prize down.
Magnus, beaming proudly, said, ‘It’s our lucky day.’
She had taken the lamp from the gypsy when a light touch fell on
her shoulder. Isobel turned round. Then she froze as she saw the bright face of Sylvia who, dressed in a cream coloured coat and a white hat, was holding tight on to the arm of Ray Chancellor. Isobel’s knee and elbow joints went to oil as her stomach tightened into a hard knot.
‘Isobel. I wanted to tell you first!’ Sylvia let go of Ray and put both arms out to her. She kissed Isobel’s frozen face, then held her at arms’ length. Laughing and excited she prattled on, ‘Ray and I are engaged! We’ve been for the ring! It’s being altered so I can’t show it! We are on our way to Archerfield to tell Mama. Ray’s going to do all the formal stuff – asking Father for my hand. We’ll invite all our friends to a party. You’ll come, won’t you? Ray’s going to speak to Father before we announce it. I’m so thrilled.’
Sylvia chattered eagerly while Ray pretended to be the fond lover, and every time Sylvia looked away from him, Ray watched Isobel’s face intently, waiting for a sign that she might spoil his game. Isobel’s face drained of blood but with a tremendous effort of will she made all the right noises, saying, ‘What a surprise, Sylvia. I had no idea.’
‘I wasn’t absolutely sure myself. Ray has been saying for years, “Sylvia Hammond is the only girl I’d dream of marrying!”’ She switched those dazzling blue eyes onto Ray. ‘I thought he’d never ask! I’ve been in love with him for absolutely ever, of course.’
If she confronted Sylvia with the truth about Ray – if she opened her handbag and showed Sylvia the photographs of her betrothed, arm in arm with Doreen – would it make the slightest difference? Isobel could do nothing. She was rooted to the spot.
Ray took Sylvia’s hand, lifted it to his lips and gave Isobel a knowing look as he said, ‘The only person who won’t be pleased, darling, is Magnus.’
Magnus’s face was taut. His knuckles were white where he gripped on to his crutches. ‘Isn’t that right, Magnus? You’ve been doing your best to keep us apart. We’ve had to do all our romancing in secret.’ He kissed Sylvia’s hand.
Sylvia’s silvery laugh rang out and her eyes shone with happiness as she said, ‘You’re delighted as well, aren’t you, Magnus?’
Magnus’s face was drawn and white. He said, ‘I think you should speak to Father before you announce it.’
Ray shot a warning glance at Isobel and said, ‘Don’t say a word, any of you, until I’ve plucked up my courage. Gone down on my knees.’ He put his head back and laughed as if it were all a great joke. ‘I shall beg very humbly for his daughter’s hand.’
Seeing him take it all so carelessly, ruthless seducer that he was, Isobel felt her knees go. She had a few seconds’ presence of mind, when she shoved the china lamp at Magnus and said, ‘Take it. I feel a bit …’, before she slumped on to the dirty old cobblestones of the Waters.
Magnus cried out as she fell, ‘Help her! For God’s sake!’ and they were all, all at once, alarmed. Ray pulled her up on to her feet and Sylvia touched her face, all concern, saying, ‘Why, Isobel, you’re as pale as death!’
Magnus was frightened, frightened for Isobel whose eyes opened and closed again as if she were dizzy and her world was spinning. He said, ‘Hold on to her. I’ll get the car and take her home. I’ll get the doctor to her.’ He went lurching on his sticks, twisted to one side with the lamp tucked under his armpit, through the crowd to get to the Riley. And every step was agony, hurting his hip, his ankles jerking and turning on the cobbles. What was he to do? He’d not known that Sylvia and Ray were having a secret courtship. What could he do? He reached the Riley, put the lamp in the back and took out a rug. Then he opened the door wide as they half carried, half dragged his darling up the hill and lifted her into the passenger seat. Magnus could hear their voices as he pulled the car away from the kerb and headed uphill towards Mill Street.
‘Take care of her!’ Sylvia called.
Ray shouted, ‘I’ll call in tonight, Isobel. On my way home.’
Magnus glanced at her. Her eyes were open and she was blinking to get them back into focus. ‘I’m all right, Magnus. I don’t want to go home,’ she said. ‘Can you drive to the hills? Let me get a breath of air.’
Magnus saw his own face in the driving mirror, tight with anxiety, as he drove down the steep, cobbled Mill Street. He reached the wide square of Park Green before he could speak, then he pulled up. ‘I can turn up Park Lane. I’ll take you home to Lindow if you’d rather.’ He could be at Archerfield before Ray and Sylvia got there. If he went now he could tell Father why Ray and Sylvia must not marry. He would have to tell Father the conclusion he’d drawn from the letter. The dreadful secret would be out. And what would Father say? He would think him a traitorous son.
He looked at his darling again. Her eyes were closed and the lashes were wet. She said, with a great effort. ‘Please drive out of town and find somewhere quiet; I’ve something to tell you.’
The Riley jumped forward again. ‘We’ll go to Wincle.’
She leaned her head back against the leather and pulled the rug closer about her knees. They had been going for a few minutes before he saw that she was holding back tears that were brimming in her grey eyes. She said, ‘Can you drive in a state of shock?’
They were climbing, pulling uphill towards Wincle, the local beauty spot, a hamlet high in the hills that had a clutch of stone cottages, farms and the ancient Ship Inn. Magnus had to concentrate on steering up the narrow, rough road. He could not look at her. ‘How will you shock me, Isobel?’ There was nothing she could do or say to shock him. He loved her so much. If she had murdered someone, he would hang for her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Isobel felt her mouth pulling down at the corners, like a child who is trying not to cry. She closed her eyes and said in a miserable voice, ‘I don’t know if I’ve been raped. Or seduced. But I’m going to have a baby, Magnus.’
She let the words hang in the air for a second or two. ‘I don’t want a baby. I wish it had never happened. Don’t hate me. Help me, please.’
She didn’t want to see the hurt and pain on Magnus’s face, so she put her head back, hoping to hang on to her self-control. But now that she had told him, said the words she’d been frightened to say, a change was coming over her. The hopelessness was slipping away. She was filling with sadness and a lonely understanding that she must never say those words again.
For she didn’t mean it when she said, ‘I don’t want a baby.’ She’d told Magnus of her trouble but in the moment she spoke she knew that she wanted her baby. She had always wanted children. And if no man would marry a girl with a baby, then this might be the only child she would ever have. As she came to this realisation, slow, steady and silent came rolling tears under her closed eyelids, while at the same time she recognised a steely resolve that was hardening in her. She would see it through as Mama had. She didn’t want a thing from Ray.
It took twenty minutes of driving on narrow, rough lanes where every turn of the road revealed a breath-taking vista of hills and meadows, but at last they had reached Wincle.
Magnus was silent. His fine-featured, sensitive face had an angry flush, his eyes were narrowed and his mouth tight in concentration. His bony hands on the wheel were white-knuckled and clumsy. She had shocked him and angered him, but he didn’t speak or look at her until he drove the Riley into the little flagged courtyard behind the Ship Inn where he braked and switched the engine off. His eyes were full of pity as he leaned over and took her cold hand in his. ‘Who’s responsible, Isobel?’
Isobel said, very fast, ‘I’ll never tell! I wish I hadn’t let it happen but it’s my secret. And that’s how it’s going to be. Don’t ask me.’
He drew in his breath. ‘You asked me to help. You can keep the name of the father a secret. But you can’t hide the fact that you’re having a baby.’
She took her hand away and stared through the windscreen at the steep green hill behind the inn. ‘Don’t worry about me, Magnus. I’ll survive. I come from a long line of determined women. There’s nothing I can’t do if I set
my mind to it.’ The painful lump was still lodged in her throat but she meant every word. ‘Nanna will stand by me.’
Magnus’s eyes were full of tears. He whispered, ‘Marry me?’ and when she made no answer he said it louder. ‘Marry me. You could always marry me.’
Love and hurt had made him offer. Isobel must be careful, so she said, very softly. ‘I know you mean it, Magnus. And I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. I don’t want pity.’ She couldn’t bear to see him cry, so she looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. ‘I wish I hadn’t told you. But you’re the only person I know who …’
‘You don’t love me? Not a little?’
Her throat was hurting from the effort to control herself, but she kept her gaze steady as she told him the truth. ‘I do love you, Magnus. But I never loved you in that way. The way a wife should love her husband.’
‘I love you in that way.’
Her self-control was slipping, and yet she tried to be practical and sensible and honest and look him in the eyes while she said, ‘I know you do. I’ve known for a long time. But if we married, I’d be cheating. You deserve better than that.’
She remained looking at him and heard helplessly the throaty swallowing and saw tears come rolling down his thin cheeks, under the sharp jaw, dripping inside his hard, white collar. Strange how she noticed every little detail, the solitude and silence all about them, the smell of the leather upholstery, the windscreen going cloudy, the river of warm tears sliding down Magnus’s bony nose that was bright pink at the tip. Isobel fished her handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at his face, but he grabbed it and pulled away from her, swallowing fast to get a grip on himself, turning his face to the side window so that she shouldn’t see his distress. Then, choking back tears, in a desolate voice he said, ‘I can’t live without you. I love you. It isn’t pity. You are the love of my life. I’m no use for anything else but loving you.’
A Daughter's Shame Page 39