Why had she never admitted to herself that the chain of the necklace had been broken when Gerald had - what had Nella said? - ‘attacked’ her? In her heart she had known it - she could even recall the pain as the chain had been pulled so tightly against her neck - but it was something she hadn’t wanted to remember so she had pushed the thoughts away.
Poor Nella, she thought. Her gift was given in love and friendship. I can never tell her what really happened that night.
‘Constance, did you hear me?’ Nella’s voice penetrated her dark thoughts.
‘Sorry?’
‘I asked you what John will hev to say about you giving away yer things.’
‘John will not mind at all; I’ve told you how kind he is. And, anyway, next time you come I’ll show you my sewing room. Soon I’m going to have more clothes than I will ever be able to wear in one lifetime!’
Constance made Nella promise to come back as soon as possible, and she watched her friend as she hurried down the path. Once she had closed the gate behind her, Nella seemed to vanish into the winter gloom very quickly and Constance was reminded of Polly’s description of her as an ugly little witch.
Poor Nella, she wasn’t really ugly. In spite of her sharp features her face could actually look appealing when enthusiasm or happiness made her open her eyes wide - blue eyes. And Nella’s hair, although not quite so golden, was soft and baby-fine. If only her bones hadn’t been twisted so cruelly, she might even have been considered attractive.
Constance closed the door and went along to the kitchen. She was surprised to find Albert Green in there with Polly. Albert was sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a piece of Christmas cake. A sprig of mistletoe was tucked behind one of his ears and he must have just said something amusing because Polly was laughing self-consciously as she sliced a loaf of bread.
Constance stared at the girl wonderingly. She looked happy and pleased with herself, and almost pretty. But surely Albert Green, with his good job at the Central Station and his sturdy good looks, could do better for himself than a mere skivvy?
Almost as soon as the thoughts had formed in her mind Constance realized their significance and she was ashamed of herself. Her own John had fallen in love with her and married her, hadn’t he? And when they’d met she’d been working in the Sowerbys’ house: a skivvy, just like Polly.
Albert saw Constance first, and got to his feet awkwardly. Polly looked up and her smile turned into a scowl. ‘You told Albert’s ma that he could come and get some of the leftovers for his bait.’
‘I know I did.’
‘Well, he’s going on the late shift tonight and I thought it wouldn’t harm if I made his sandwiches up.’
‘Polly, that’s fine. I just came along to say that I would take up Mrs Edington’s tray when it’s ready.’
‘She hasn’t rung down yet.’ Polly looked up towards the row of bells defensively.
‘That’s all right. I thought I would take her tea up, anyway, and wake her up. I don’t like the amount of time she spends sleeping.’
‘When she’s sleeping at least she’s not coughing.’
Constance ignored the rough edge to the girl’s voice because she knew how fond of Mrs Edington Polly was. ‘I know that, Polly. It’s just that I’m worried that she’s sleeping her life away...’
Her words trailed off and the three of them found that they could not meet each other’s eyes.
Albert spoke first. ‘Well, then, if Poll here sets up the tray, I’ll carry it up for you before I go.’
‘There’s no need for that—’ Polly began, and he raised a hand and smiled at her.
‘For goodness’ sake, lass, you aren’t half prickly at times. Can’t you see when folks are trying to make life easier for you?’
Frances Edington looked more frail and more beautiful than ever. But so thin. It seemed to Constance that she was fading away. It was becoming harder and harder to tempt her to eat anything. She watched while her mother-in-law nibbled at the bread and butter and sipped the beef tea that Mrs Green had sent in.
She wiped her lips when she had finished and sighed as she sank back into the pillows. ‘You are happy, aren’t you, Constance?’
Constance stared at her mother-in-law. Why had she asked that today? ‘Of course I am.’
‘John ... John is good to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know that he came into part of his inheritance when he married you, don’t you? And that this has made life easier for us?’
‘I do.’ What was John’s mother implying? That John had only married her in order to get some of his money? She would never believe that. There must be many a girl who would have been delighted to marry John; even girls who would have brought some money of their own to the marriage. He didn’t have to choose a penniless servant girl.
‘My life has become easier too, remember,’ Constance said. ‘And John has been generous and thoughtful.’
‘Thoughtful? Do you think it is thoughtful to be always working so late?’
Constance was perplexed. It was obvious to everyone how much John and his mother cared for each other and yet Frances seemed to be criticizing him. She was watching Constance anxiously, waiting for her reply.
‘John has explained how he feels that he must work hard in order to convince Mr Barton that he should be made a partner.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Yes. That is why he stays late after the shop has closed, going over the books, studying the accounts.’
‘I see.’ Frances closed her eyes and was silent for so long that Constance thought she had gone to sleep. But then she asked, ‘And tonight? Is he working late tonight?’
‘Yes, I think so. He said that he might have to stay late so I was not to wait up for him.’
‘Poor Constance.’
‘No, it’s all right, really it is. Some evenings, no matter how tired he is, we go straight to the sewing room after supper. We spend hours there together. Sometimes I have to remind him that we must go to bed. John is not just helping me to make clothes, he’s working for our future. He says that I will want for nothing—’
‘Nothing except ... except ...’
Constance did not discover what Frances Edington had been going to say next for, after a soft sigh, she seemed to drift off to sleep. It was unfair of her to criticize John, Constance thought. He was sweet and kind to her and so gentle. If married life was not quite what she had expected she was prepared to accept that it was her own foolishly romantic dreams that had been at fault. Dreams in which she saw herself and John spending endless love-filled days in each other’s company. But real life wasn’t like that.
Nella had imagined it the height of happiness that her friend would no longer be at anyone’s beck and call, that she would be mistress of her own house. Well, yes, she was enjoying that role in spite of Polly’s awkward ways. John’s mother was too ill to want to run the household any longer and John seemed grateful to leave most of the housekeeping decisions to his new wife. But if only he would spend more time at home with her, and not just in the sewing room ...
She thought about her childhood at Lodore House. Her father had worked long hours too, and her mother had spent many an evening alone. But they had been in love and happy together. Constance was certain of that.
John was working hard, just like her father had done. She must try to conquer these feelings of dissatisfaction. No ... she had nothing to complain about ...
Chapter Twelve
Frank stood at the window and looked out over the Haymarket. It was not even five o’ clock but the sky was dark. There were plenty of people about. No doubt many of them were working people finding time to spend the Christmas boxes given them by their employers the previous day. They hurried across the thoroughfare; dark huddled figures silhouetted by the warm inviting glow of the shop fronts.
It was a good day for trading, not just for the shopkeepers but for the Alvinis too. The coffee shop below the restaurant had been busy since it opened at seven o’ clock this morning, first with the early workmen and the tradespeople and then, as the day drew on, with women shopping: women with their friends, with children, or even with their husbands, who might be taking an extra day off work.
But by now the clientele would be changing again. A few office workers, let out early and taking the opportunity to have a hot drink and read the newspaper before setting off for home, and, as usual, the theatregoers. Those with tickets arriving early and waiting for their friends, those without tickets fortifying themselves with hot coffee and, perhaps, a brandy before joining the queue.
And tonight, when the show at the Palace was over, those members of the audience who could afford the boxes, the dress circle and the stalls might round the day off by coming to the restaurant upstairs. Not so many would do this while this particular show was playing, though. A pantomime was a family entertainment and Alvinis was not a restaurant where men brought their families. Frank frowned. He wished it wasn’t so but he didn’t see how he could change things. A certain reputation had been established while he was still a child and people had long memories.
He moved back from the window; the glass was cool and, no matter how the lights of the city sparkled, the scene outside was cold. He longed for warmth. He had never been to Italy, neither had his mother, but she often joked that they were not meant to live in this cold northern climate. Their very bones craved the sun of the land of their ancestors.
Frank pulled the curtains closed and faced the room. He had cleared his medical books from the table in time for the family’s evening meal. The chenille cloth had been covered by one of white linen and his brother, like a child, was helping his mother set out the cutlery. Valentino was smiling and eager to please, and tonight, in his new suit, he looked more handsome than ever.
Maria looked handsome too. She was wearing black, as she had ever since she was widowed. The dress was not new, but the bodice was well tailored and every seam was boned, which made her waist look impossibly tiny. The pointed front of the bodice and the leg-of-mutton sleeves were a trifle out of date, but the touch of creamy lace that softened the high neckline was a recent addition, and the cameo brooch at her throat was matched by her small pendant earrings. The jewellery made from carved shell and mounted in silver had been a gift from her husband when they married. Alfredo Alvini had had them sent from Italy.
While Frank watched, his mother hurried through into their small kitchen. When she reappeared, she had put on a white apron and she was carrying a large soup tureen. Frank moved towards her. ‘Let me take that.’
As he placed the tureen on the table he wondered, not for the first time, why his mother insisted on always cooking herself. It would have been so easy to have meals sent up from the restaurant, and they would be of the highest quality, but she would not hear of it. He watched her fondly as she tied a napkin around his brother’s neck and ladled out the soup for all three of them.
She must have sensed that he was watching her for she looked up and smiled. ‘What are you looking at, Gianfranco?’
‘You, Mamma. You’re beautiful.’
She laughed. ‘And you are clever and Valentino is handsome. Yes, we are a remarkable family! Now perhaps you will sit down and we can begin. After the soup we are having cold meats and salad. I want to be quick tonight.’
‘Of course. We mustn’t make you late for the theatre.’
Frank sat at the table and, as his mother broke her bread, she said to him, ‘Frankie, why don’t you come too? There will be room in the box.’
‘But surely one of us should be here - for the restaurant?’
‘Mr McCormack will be here,’ his mother answered. ‘You have often said yourself that he is quite capable of running the place without you - you and Valentino, I mean.’ She glanced at her elder son but he went on eating, making no indication that he was following the conversation.
‘That’s true,’ Frank said, ‘but I have another reason.’
‘Don’t tell me. Your books! You want to read your books and do your learning here on your own while Valentino and I are out.’