Abby stared at her mother. James had come for her. When he had come back from the war he had come for her and her mother had told him she was married. It was unbelievable that someone could do such a thing. But then her mother was capable of anything. She had always known that.
Wilbert was staring aghast at the woman still in his grasp and behind her Abby could hear Ivor cursing. Apart from this the room was utterly silent, all eyes trained on Abby and her mother. Nora was quite still now, her eyes fastened on Abby. Unconsciously Abby drew herself up, her expression carrying scorn and distaste in equal measure and her voice quiet and strangely without a tremor as she said, ‘I had eight wonderful years with the kindest, best man in the world and I have two healthy and happy sons. I am content, Mother. Whatever you sought to do, it failed.’
She saw the words register in her mother’s change of expression but didn’t wait for the outburst she knew would follow. Signalling with her head to Clara she said, ‘Come on, we’re leaving.’
There was a commotion behind her but she didn’t pause, and then she was outside in the street, almost falling down the step in her haste to get away.
She walked a few paces before she leaned against the wall of a neighbour’s house and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply in an effort to combat the giddiness in her head. Clara clutched her arm, her voice shaking as she said, ‘Abby, oh Abby, I can’t believe it. How could she have done such a thing? You were right, we should never have come. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right.’ She opened her eyes as she spoke and saw Jed was beside them, his young face anxious as he hovered in the way all males do when they don’t know how to handle an emotional situation. And then Lucy came running out of the house after them, and again Abby said, ‘It’s all right.’ Wilbert’s wife was obviously very upset.
‘Abby, I’m so sorry about all of this, she’s a dreadful woman.’ Lucy glanced back to the open front door as the noise within the house rose. ‘Do you think she really saw James Benson and told him you were married?’
Abby nodded. She found she wanted to get as far away from Rose Street as she could. James, oh James. What must he have thought of her? How would he have felt, after all he must have been through? She’d heard of other men wrongly reported killed in action when in fact they had been either badly wounded or captured.
‘It’s just that . . .’ Lucy paused, as if unsure whether she should continue. Then she said all in a rush, ‘I work for an accountant, as you know, and there are gettogethers, seminars and things where they all meet up and chat and that. Most of them belong to the Gentlemen’s Club . . .’ She shook her head at herself. ‘You don’t want to know about the Gentlemen’s Club. What I’m trying to say is that James left his father-in-law’s firm at the same time he got divorced. It was something of a major scandal in those circles at the time.’
Abby stared at Wilbert’s wife. ‘James isn’t married any more?’
‘No.’ Lucy didn’t mention here that if half the rumours were true, James Benson was doing very nicely with the ladies without being constrained by the bonds of matrimony.
‘Do you know where he works?’
Lucy and Clara both looked taken aback, and it was Clara who said, ‘Where he works? What do you want to know that for? You’re not planning to go and see him, are you? Not today?’
‘I can’t go home until I do. I . . . I owe him that at least. We were
engaged
, Clara.’ She thought of the little bonfire she had made the day after she and Ike had returned home after their marriage. The chocolate box, photograph and letters had burned to ash in seconds. She hadn’t known quite what to do with the brooch and watch he’d given her, and the engagement ring. In the end she had decided that out of sight was out of mind and had put them in a box which she had stuffed under the eaves, telling herself she had to forget about it. And she had. Mostly.
‘James has his own business now.’ Lucy’s voice was hesitant and Abby had the feeling she was regretting saying anything. ‘Just a small place in Holmeside, but Mr Ramshaw thinks very highly of him. He’s even put one or two clients Mr Benson’s way, folk who were more suited to a small practice. I’m not quite sure of the number of the building but I know it’s close to the Regal, and it’s above Winterspoon, the jewellers.’
‘I’ll find it, and,’ Abby patted Lucy’s arm, ‘thanks, lass.’
‘I don’t think this is a very good idea.’ Clara was looking anxious.
‘Good idea or not, I’m going,’ said Abby, forcing a smile to soften her words.
Clara recognised defeat. ‘I’m coming in with you then.’
‘You are not! This is something I have to do by myself. Anyway, he may not even be in this afternoon.’
‘There’s another thing, Abby,’ Lucy said. ‘There was an accident a few years ago, a car accident. Both his parents died.’
Abby stared at her aghast.
Jed broke the silence. ‘I’ll take you both in my car if you like. Clara can wait with me while you see Mr Benson.’
Abby smiled her thanks as Clara said animatedly, ‘You have your own car, Jed?’ Clearly he had gone up a notch or two in her estimation.
‘Aye, Morris Minor.’ Jed tried unsuccessfully to appear offhand about his pride and joy. ‘She’s one of the first models so she’s getting on a bit, but she drives well. Me an’ Da did a bit of work to her when I got her last year, and we all used to go for a run in the country on a Sunday afternoon, me, Da and . . . and Mam.’ Jed’s face changed on the last word and for an awful moment the three women thought he was going to cry, but after swallowing hard he turned away. His voice thick, he said, ‘I had to move her up the road a bit this morning with the funeral cars coming but come and have a look if you want.’
‘You go, Clara. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Abby pushed Clara after Jed and turned back to Lucy. ‘Jed will tell you how we get on,’ she said quickly, ‘but Clara and I won’t come back again to the house. Give Wilbert my love and tell him I’ll write soon. I’m sorry about all this, lass, with you having worked so hard to put a good spread on and everything.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Abby, it was your mam’s. She’s a perfectly horrible old woman. It just amazes me that you and Clara and Wilbert are so lovely. You must take after your da.’
Abby forced a smile. ‘He was a grand man,’ she said softly.
‘I don’t know how much longer I can stand her, to be truthful, but Wilbert won’t see her put in a home. And it’s not as if he even likes her.’
‘I don’t think any of us ever have.’
The two women looked at each other, pity for the other’s plight in their faces. After hugging Lucy, Abby turned and walked to where Clara and Jed were waiting by the car.
Chapter Twenty-seven
J
ames Benson leaned back in his comfortable leather chair and stretched his legs. He glanced at his gold wristwatch. It was getting on for four. Damn it, where had most of the afternoon gone? It didn’t seem a minute or two since he’d sat down after lunch and started work again. He still had a couple of urgent matters which needed prompt attention; tonight would be another occasion when he wasn’t home till eight or nine o’clock. But he couldn’t complain, not when the business was doing so well and he was looking to hire another junior accountant within the month.
He’d decided to branch out by himself at just the right time, he thought, his mind flicking back over the last years. The postwar housing crisis had produced a host of enterprising private contractors keen to satisfy the demand for houses, and new homes needed new furniture, which in turn saw fresh modern firms springing up to meet the need. It was all good business for him. He nodded to himself. One thing everyone who was starting out needed was an honest, reliable accountant who wouldn’t charge too much but would do a good job. He was building his name with such folk and it was proving lucrative.
He rose to his feet to relieve the touch of cramp his gammy left leg was disposed to, automatically flexing his left arm as he did so. He could manage to hold a fork or other light objects with his left hand now and to all intents and purposes appeared fine to a casual observer, but the arm would take no weight of any consequence and his fingers were still inclined to be stiff and cumbersome first thing every morning. But this was a small price to pay for still being alive.
He walked round the large mahogany desk that dominated the room, the available space made narrow by filing cabinets along one wall. He peered through the glass panel above the four-foot partition wall and looked into the outer office. His young assistant who had yet to take his accountancy examinations had his head down and was working hard, but his secretary was on the telephone. She caught his eye and smiled. ‘Time for a cuppa?’ she mouthed, to which he replied with a thumbs up before returning to his desk. Instead of immediately taking his seat he stood looking down into the busy street below for a moment or two.
A good part of the view was obscured by the awnings stretching out in front of shop windows, and as always James found himself clucking in irritation. He could understand the need for the sheets of canvas on hot sunny days when they provided welcome shade for shoppers and protection for some of the consumable goods on show, but a drop of rain never hurt anyone and it had only been drizzling all day. Then he caught himself, shaking his head slightly as he continued to stare down into the street. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t carp on about such trivialities only yesterday and here he was doing it again. He’d turn into a cranky old man long before he should if he didn’t take himself in hand. He refused to acknowledge here that his whole life was an irritation for a good part of the time. To do so would mean digging deep to the cause of his dissatisfaction and that was forbidden territory.
A car stopped just in front of the jewellers above which James rented his three rooms, the third being divided into a tiny kitchen and separate cloakroom with a toilet and washbasin. His gaze idly followed the young man who leaped out of the vehicle and folded his seat forward to allow his passenger in the back to alight. It was a sombrely but well-dressed woman, the sort of client the jewellers were used to. Just before the woman crossed the pavement to the shop, she glanced upwards and he caught a fleeting glimpse of the face the dark hat had been hiding.
He took a sharp step backwards as something like a blow in the solar plexus hit him. The breath left his body in a whoosh of shock and he sat down heavily in his chair. For a moment he was quite still. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth, angry to see it was shaking slightly. Damn it, but the woman had reminded him of Abby so strongly. He stood up again and peered cautiously through the window. The car was still there but the woman was nowhere to be seen.
He raked his hair back from his brow, more shaken than he would care to admit. He wasn’t going to start the old trouble again, was he? Seeing her in every woman’s face, hearing her voice at odd moments and, at his worst, actually watching her walk towards him and reaching out to her, only to find there was nothing and no one there. The doctors had assured him eleven years ago when he was recovering from his breakdown that his mind wouldn’t play such tricks on him again, and he didn’t think he could stand it if it did. But no, he was running away with himself here. He forced himself to sit down and pick up his pen. People the whole world over were reminded of other people they knew in strangers’ faces. It was natural, normal. It happened. It didn’t mean a thing. And he had work to do.
As he ran his eyes over the row of figures in front of him he heard the door to the outer office give its customary loud creak which was better than any bell, and then the sound of voices. Sitting as he was now he couldn’t see out through the glass panel, but he had a four o’clock appointment and assumed it was old Fairley arrived early. On his desk were Fairley’s company books, tied up and waiting for him. The old man had a tiny locksmith’s business involving just him and his son, but as he was barely literate and his son wasn’t any better, bookkeeping was beyond them. Fairley was one of what Mrs Howard, his secretary, called his ‘wing and a prayer’ cases because he charged them only a tiny fee and ended up doing more work than was financially sensible. But he liked the oldtimer and his son very much and had plenty of cases which did bring in the bread and butter, not that Mrs Howard accepted this as a reason to work for next to nothing.
The very able lady in question now knocked on his door and opened it. James waited for her to announce Mr Fairley - she always gave him his full title even though she strongly disapproved of him. Instead she came into the room and closed the door behind her, her voice low as she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Benson, but there’s a lady who wishes to see you. I’ve explained you have an appointment at four o’clock but she, well, she’s most persistent.’