He supposed that one day he would forget the horror of those last moments … The strange thing was that part of him yearned still to be in the sky. Was it because he missed the companionship, friends of his own age, united in a common cause? He missed not only the dead (Rattler, survivor of the war, shot down over Petrozavodsk, fighting with the North Russian Expeditionary Force), but the living too. He had been to stay with Snelgrove just after Christmas. Snelgrove’s father wanted him to work in a bank. ‘A bank, Dicko, for God’s sake … At least old Rattler was doing something useful, ridding the world of Bolshies … What about a flying circus, old chap? Joy rides at bazaars, fêtes, that sort of thing? Hell of an excitement for them and at least we get to fly. The Aircraft Disposal Board, they’ve some Avros on hand. God knows, we know what to do with those.’
Or what about a commercial air service. ‘Handley Page converted double-engine bombers and supplied them to Imperial Airways for the London-Paris venture. It’s not doing badly. Bit weather dependent, but definitely the thing of the future.’ In March he’d come over to Thackton. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Dad became quite excited by the idea of a Vickers ‘Vimy’, a much smaller machine with two Rolls-Royce engines, very suitable for conversion. But it all came to nothing. Dad saying only, ‘Enough talk of madcap ventures. A family firm needs family.’
And then came the business of Maria. Early in the year she’d seemed, if not physically sick, then sick in soul. She had walked about hunched, complaining of the cold. At Easter she’d stayed on at Middlesbrough, Aunt Dulcie with her. Peter, back from Rossall, was edgy and semi-defiant about something.
It had been Dad who told him the facts. It seemed to Dick the most appalling mess and wickedness: he didn’t like his father’s man to man approach, didn’t like the plans they had made to solve the problem. Eleanor so noble, Eleanor taking on the child. He would like to have heard from her own lips of this plan to leave Maria in Italy while pretending she was in London, with Ida. (Oh, what a tangled web …)
Peter, tackled about it, had said only, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, brother?’ No one but Dad, he told Dick, had the right to ask him anything. Impossible to speak of it to Maria. He could only suffer for her. (What dream world had he been in while all this was going on? He who had never seen her as anyone but a sister. A beautiful sister.)
The week before Eleanor and Maria left for Italy, he was sent to Bradford for a few days. The work was to do with people – more human contact than casting. The programme left him quite a lot of free time. He took a tram out of the town and walked at his own pace. The weather was bracing, with April gusts that threatened to turn into showers.
By half past three on the last day he had finished his appointments. Stepping off the tram in the centre, he noticed the darkening sky. A chill wind, the sooty air smelling suddenly of a winter afternoon. He turned down a side street, crossed Westgate and into Barry Street. Already lamps were going on. He discovered a sudden need for a steaming pot of tea and buttered teacakes – now.
Down another street, round a corner, past some offices, a cutler’s, a draper’s, and then: a café. The Adelphi Tea Rooms. Half-nets hid the interior from view. Inside was quite small with dark oak furniture. It smelled of the tea he now longed for. A waitress, small and pale with a spotty face, hurried by, her tray piled high with teacakes and currant loaf. He sat at one of the round tables and tried to attract her attention. ‘I’m that rushed,’ she told him.
He studied the menu. York ham and salad, plaice and chips, potted shrimps … tea, cocoa, Horlicks. He looked up.
‘Well, if it isn’t!’ exclaimed Nurse Ackroyd. ‘Our birdman –’
She stood beside him, pencil and pad pulled up ready from her white apron. She was dressed in plain black with a frilled head band, the same as the young girl.
‘You’d best give your order quick,’ she said, smiling. ‘There’s a real rush on this afternoon. I don’t know what’s come over folk.’
‘It’s wonderful you remember me,’ he said, feeling the blood rush to his face. ‘All the chaps you must have nursed.’
‘Get away, Lieutenant Grainger – I never forget a name … Give your order, there’s a love. The girdle scones are homemade, I’d go for those. And the potted shrimps, they’re from my cousins in Morecambe. They’re good.’
‘Yes, yes. All that. And a pot of tea. Strong, please. Only what in heaven’s name are you doing here? You can’t be just a waitress. I mean, not after …’
She touched his shoulder. ‘Other folk are waiting.’ (Memories of hospital. How many times had she not touched him, and sped away from his bedside?) She added: ‘It’s my place. I own it and run it. Anything wrong with that, now?’
She was gone before he could answer. He watched her take three other orders, then run to the telephone by the pay desk where an elderly woman sat.
At the table next to his were a mother, father, and small girl. The girl was in outdoor clothes: large blue hat and thick buttoned coat. The mother placed a white napkin under her chin. Dick watched fascinated as she crushed, in strong little hands, fingers of buttered toast. The butter ran down her hands and on to her coat cuffs. Her father slapped her, then, buttery from touching her, began licking his fingers. The mother said, ‘You’re disgusting.’ The little girl let out a thin scream of frustration. ‘I said not to bring her,’ the father said, ‘she’s not like the others, she’s not reasonable …’
His tea came. There was a tiered stand with an assortment of cakes, creamy and plain. Gwen said, ‘The madeira cake’s homemade.’
He said, ‘When can I talk to you?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think just now,’ she said, disappearing almost at once.
As he sipped his tea, he decided what her story must be. Her husband had fallen on hard times – perhaps had had Spanish ‘flu and not recovered properly? His earlier image of her: home-maker, sitting comfortably by the fire, one or even two children, gone up in the world a little … Anything but this.
His thirst was even greater than his appetite. He emptied the teapot and the hot-water jug, and asked for more. Then he ate his way through girdle scones, bread and butter, potted shrimps, both slices of madeira cake.
She came over when he hailed her. He hated doing that. ‘Have you had enough, do you want your check?’ But he told her, ‘I’m not going. Not till we’ve talked. A surprise like that, an old friend, and you think I’d just come in and stuff myself and leave.’
‘That’ll be ninepence,’ she said laughing, handing him the check. ‘I’d like old friends to have it on the house, only … You can have another pot of tea, though.’
‘I’m stopping here until we can talk,’ he said. ‘I can sit somewhere else if you need the table.’
‘Listen, Lieutenant Dick, you’d never do what you were told on the ward, would you? Go away now and come back about half seven – We eat then before clearing up.’
He had a ticket for the Alhambra that night. He took it back for resale. At the hotel he put in a call to Middlesbrough and reported to Dad about the day’s meetings.
The café door was just being locked as he came back. Gwen was standing there with the little waitress – he hoped she wouldn’t be staying. But she said goodbye almost at once, hurrying out into the dark street. Inside the lights had been dimmed except for the corner by the kitchen. The elderly woman from the pay desk was sitting already at a table.
‘We’re just getting our tea,’ Gwen said. ‘Are you ready to eat again?’
There were plates of ham and salad and slices of already buttered bread. He was surprised by his sudden sharp hunger.
‘I’ll just get it,’ she said, leaving him alone with the elderly woman. He asked her, ‘Are you Nurse Ackroyd’s mother?’ feeling foolish as soon as he’d said it. Nurse, indeed …
‘I am.’ She said it with finality, closing her mouth firmly after speaking. She ate with a fine appetite, occasionally glancing over at the curd tart lying waiting at the end of the
table. ‘Where’s our tea, then? Didn’t Gracie mash it before she left?’
Gwen asked him what he was doing now, and why was he in Bradford? ‘You never live here by any chance?’
I wish I did, he thought suddenly.
He knew the time would come when she would ask him about his limp. She said:
‘That leg, the one that didn’t quite, does it trouble you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When they sent you home, I thought maybe it’ll not be quite right. You were lucky as anything – keeping it.’
‘I know my luck. Don’t think I don’t.’ He felt bitter once more for others. ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘the one who came to see me – you won’t remember – he was killed in Russia.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not admitting if she remembered or not. Her mother tut-tutted.
‘It’s for you to answer questions now,’ Dick told her. ‘Why here, why a café? What happened? You were going to have a family … Your husband – What happened?’
She said, ‘He got killed. That’s what happened.’ The slice of bread she’d just taken up remained in her hand. ‘All those months in the trenches, safe. He was just unlucky, you see – he got that staff job – but then this castle, château place they were in, it got a direct hit. Cyril died at once.’
It was his turn to say, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be,’ Mrs Ackroyd said. She spoke with a dull anger, though continuing to eat. She reached for the curd tart: ‘My lass’s life in ruins. Five weeks wed only. Then we’d trouble at home. She’s not said, has she? We lost Father, lost Mr Ackroyd, Christmas 1918. He left nowt. A good man like that – nowt. Only owing. And our two lads, gone. It looked as if we’d maybe to be beholden. But then our Gwen had her idea –’
She told him how they’d bought the tea rooms, of how Gwen cooked and baked for it. In the summer Gwen had made icecream, the two sorts: it had been really popular. Another eighteen months and they’d be out of debt. ‘A year ago Friday week, we opened. It’s been hard. And’ll be hard again, I don’t doubt.’
Gwen said, ‘Don’t mind her. She grumbles. Always has.’
Gwen didn’t grumble. She glowed. Not as he remembered her after the honeymoon – there were dark lines under her eyes now, something dark behind the eyes too – but with the glow of achievement.
‘So you’re the manageress, the owner?’ he said. ‘You don’t dress like one.’
‘It puts folk off. Too stiff. This way, they tell me their troubles.’
‘I wonder you’ve the time. You’d none for me, today.’
‘Hark at him!’ And she began to reminisce about No. 4 General. Telling her mother stories of how the boys behaved. Reminding Dick of the elocutionist and his dreary monologue.
‘You see, you remember us all,’ he said triumphantly.
‘Of course I do –’
It was time for him to go. He saw Mrs Ackroyd grow restless, pouring the dregs from the teapot but not refilling it. He didn’t want to outstay his welcome. (And it had been a welcome, had it not?) He wanted to ask Gwen, ‘When can I see you again?’ But somehow he couldn’t.
‘You’ve done wonderfully,’ he told her. ‘It’s a fine place.’
‘When you’re next in Bradford you’ll know where to come for your tea, won’t you?’
Walking back to his hotel, it was as if he trod air. The limp was there, but didn’t matter. As he closed the door of his small bedroom, he stood a moment looking at the narrow white-covered bed. He wondered if she slept in one like that. Alone.
A princess, he thought. The Adelphi Tea Rooms, Bradford. Run by a princess.
8
‘Are you sure you’re warm enough, dear?’ Eleanor asked. ‘You’re not worried – about going on the sea? Not frightened?’
It seemed to Maria that ever since they had left Eleanor had been fussing, showing concern, when all she wanted was to be left alone. This morning she’d been sick, waking up in the small London hotel, nauseated and frightened.
She wasn’t afraid of Italy. Or was she? This strange northern Italy where she was to be left, in its own way a foreign country compared with Sicily. And she would be alone. All the faces that since 1915 had grown familiar would be absent.
The sea crossing. Sitting up on deck, thoughtfully wrapped in a rug by Eleanor, staring at the grey choppy waters of the Channel. A chill April day. Five years ago next month, death has chased her across the deck of the Lusitania. And Uncle Eric had rescued her.
He had not come to her rescue this time. No one had. She could not call it rescue, what they were doing to her now. And Uncle Eric: she’d scarcely been able to look at him, so certain had she been of his anger, his disappointment. Those terrible weeks when, Peter back at school, she’d thought she could bury the horror deep inside her. Forget, she’d told herself from one dread day to another, forget. But of course buried deep inside had been, not the awful memory, but a baby.
She knew too much, she seemed always to have known too much. Her body, now heavy, now light, but always different, spoke to her. Running errands for Aunt Maimie, helping Aunt Dulcie with her war wounded, she moved as if sleepwalking. It was a nightmare from which she couldn’t, however hard she tried, wake. Then suddenly it was the third month and still nothing had happened. She knew she would have to speak.
Not to Aunt Maimie. Never Aunt Maimie. (The nausea she’d felt when, taking her hat from her, she had caught that unmistakable sour stale smell. Aunt Maimie and the Black Book …) Watching Dick’s kind face at the supper table, she’d thought: I wish I could tell him. He had looked at her and smiled and said that she was very quiet these days. ‘Winter’ll soon be over,’ he said.
In the end it had been Aunt Dulcie she told. Finding her alone, sorting a pile of linen, she stammered it out, wanting to weep, but not able. ‘Something awful’s happened.’ Saying it twice, then blurting out the truth: ‘Expecting, you call it, don’t you? I think I’m expecting…’ The shock and horror on Aunt Dulcie’s face – and all that before any questions about the father. ‘Peter and mine, it’ll be … Peter’s the father.’ And then, oh horror, Aunt Dulcie, her eyes filling with tears: ‘Maria, how could you, darling?’ Maria had known then that she had done wrong, that the shame she felt was real. She would have explained, but no words came. ‘He did it to me,’ was all she could think of, but even that she couldn’t manage. By now Aunt Dulcie was really crying. She threw her arms round Maria. ‘So young, both of you, it’s …’ Then: ‘Leave it all to me,’ she said, ‘let me worry, Maria dearest …’
The next morning Maria began a heavy cold. Aunt Maimie fussed, as if Spanish ‘flu lingered still, and told her she was to stay in bed. Aunt Dulcie came and sat on her bed, saying: ‘Sleep and rest. We shall think of something.’
The third day she was downstairs early. Uncle Eric and Dick had already left. Aunt Dulcie said, holding her hand tight: ‘Eric is staying home this afternoon. He wants to speak to you while Maimie’s out at whist.’
His face wore an expression she had never seen before. He told her to sit on the leather sofa. He remained standing by the fireplace. Aunt Dulcie, in one of the armchairs, looked at her hands. He said, his voice almost breaking, ‘Maria, Maria, what have you done?’
She was silent. He went on: ‘The shock. It’s been terrible. I can hardly bring myself … I was over at Rossall yesterday, where I spoke to Peter.’
She said, without looking up, her first moment of hope, ‘You know, then?’ It was as if the curtain parted and light flooded in, ‘He’s told you what happened?’
‘To my everlasting regret, yes – I wish I hadn’t to hear it. He said …’
She could not believe it. She hadn’t been able, had not dared, to tell the real truth. But this – this travesty … That he should suggest she had been the wicked one. She muttered in a voice small with desperation, ‘Is that what he says?’
‘It is.’ He said gently, ‘Have I to suspect my own son of fibbing? I’d to drag it fr
om him. I wish it weren’t so.’
Weights dragged her body, head, hands, down, down.
‘He’s to blame, is Peter. It takes two. He’s heard from me about that. But to have led him on… You’ve disappointed us so terribly. A girl we took into our home and trusted.’ She heard his voice through a black fog, could smell the blackness.
‘We’ll continue to love you, of course. Even if it weren’t our duty, we’d do that. We’ll continue to love you, but we can’t forget … We’d expected a lot from you, Maria. But it seems – and I blame myself, that blood will out. Latin, Mediterranean, whatever …’
A stone, lying stuck in her throat. ‘I didn’t –’
‘Didn’t what?’
She was silent. No tears were possible. All of her rock hard. Her mouth tightened. She longed suddenly with a great intensity for Mamma. For her childhood. The past. Not safe perhaps, but shared.
She remembered little of the next few weeks. A visit to the doctor with Aunt Dulcie. Later in Thackton, again with Aunt Dulcie, a special visit to Miss Dennison who was to help them. She realized they had made their plans without consulting her. Sitting up in Miss Dennison’s bedroom, she heard what was to become of her – and the child.
Miss Dennison was gentle with her. ‘I shall never at any time reproach you. What’s done is done. And for the girl, it is always worse.’ She told her, ‘You and I are going to be a long time together – I should like you to call me Eleanor.’
At Moorgarth, Elsie, who had been told only that Maria wasn’t well, plied her with food. Maria was two weeks there, going over to Park Villa almost every day. Mrs Dennison asked her, ‘What do you think, my dear, of my daughter’s sudden urge to travel?’ It was assumed she was teaching Eleanor Italian.
Letters, winging to and fro. In Middlesbrough it was given out that Maria would leave to do secretarial training in London. She would live with Ida.
The Golden Lion Page 11