Chrissie's Children (17 page)

Sophie’s lips twitched but she answered solemnly, ‘Yes, Mummy. I’ve heard of it. Over in Monkwearmouth, isn’t it?’ She recalled the startled look on Helen’s
face that evening in the Frigate when she saw Sophie in the dress she had borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe, but she kept her face straight and went on, ‘You’ve told me all
about that before, Mummy. It’s history.’

Chrissie thought that young Sarah Tennant had worked since she was fourteen and cared for her ailing mother, while Sophie was only interested in her music and dreamed of being a singer, like her
grandmother, Vesta Nightingale. Chrissie had received love and care not from Vesta Nightingale, her natural mother, but from Mary Carter, who had adopted her when she was abandoned by Vesta. And it
was Mary’s upbringing that had set Chrissie on the path in life that would lead her to success and a happy marriage with Jack Ballantyne. Chrissie was determined to give the same love and
care to her own children – but now was not the time to labour the point. She sighed. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ This time Sophie blew a kiss from her long fingers and Chrissie went away somewhat comforted.

She slept alone and not well. Jack had not written for a week and they had parted coldly.

Jack Ballantyne had difficulty keeping his eyes off Angélique. Her dark eyes had cast him smouldering looks all through dinner. Her jet-black hair was expensively
coiffed, her body expensively clothed. The silk gown was cut low to show off her full breasts and fitted her haunches like a second skin. The skirt flared out but its fullness still clung and
moulded itself to the long, slender legs. She knew the effect she was having and smiled.

Her husband did not seem to notice. He was a shipowner, with nearly a dozen vessels in his fleet, and Jack was trying to sell him another. Jean-François sat gaunt and drawn at the head of
the table, a frail old shadow of the lusty man Jack had once known. His young wife of barely two years was seated at its foot. Jack sat halfway down the long table and tried to share his gaze
equally between them. The three servants, all elderly men, moved soft-footed and silent around the room and Jack never saw a change of expression on any of their faces. Jack remembered all of them
from his previous visits, but he had not met Angélique before.

The house stood between Cannes and Nice on the Côte d’Azur, because Jean-François had substantial interests in both places. It was palatial, built on a hillside, and this huge
dining-room looked out over the Mediterranean.

Dinner was over and the servants cleared the table. Jean-François never talked business during a meal but now he said, ‘I am tempted to give you the contract for old times’
sake.’ Ballantyne’s yard had built several ships for him. Then he went on, ‘But our own French yards need the work and they are cheaper.’

Jack knew why they were cheaper: because of the subsidies they were paid they were always able to undercut his price. He said nothing of that – had learnt never to complain when bargaining
– and Jean-François knew of the subsidies anyway. Instead Jack smiled easily and said, ‘Of course I appreciate that, but there is also the question of workmanship.
Ballantyne’s can match anyone in the world there. And then there’s delivery. We can guarantee . . .’ As he talked, one of the servants re-entered the room and murmured into
Jean-François’ ear. He nodded and held up a bony finger, its joints misshapen. The servant stepped back a pace and waited behind his master’s chair.

Jean-François let Jack make his points and finish, then nodded his appreciation of the arguments put forward and said, ‘I will sleep on it. Now I have a visitor.’ He nodded
and the servant left the room. Jean-François inclined his head again, this time to his wife, and suggested, ‘Perhaps you would like to entertain Jacques with coffee and cognac on the
terrace. Henri Dupuis has come up with some papers I asked for. I’ll see him in here.’

The servant returned then, ushering in a man in his thirties wearing a neat, dark business suit and carrying a briefcase. Jean-François introduced him: ‘Henri’s father was my
lawyer and good friend for many years. Now his father has died and Henri has taken over the task.’

Henri smiled a wide smile, thin moustache over thin lips. ‘No burden; a pleasure.’ He turned the smile on Angélique. ‘Madame.’ She only nodded, and did not glance
his way.

She was already rising, one of the servants snatching away her chair. ‘Shall we, M’sieur Ballantyne?’

Jack followed her out to the terrace where they were served with coffee. He refused cognac at first, wanting to keep a clear head for one last attempt to obtain Jean-François’
signature on a contract on the morrow. Angélique pouted and complained, ‘Must I drink alone?’ so he accepted the glass and they talked, looking out over the sea far below. She
questioned him about his wife and then summarised his answers: ‘So your wife has three nearly grown-up children and she is a woman of business. But what business is she up to now, while you
are away?’ Jack smiled politely and she laughed, held out her glass for the servant behind her to refill. It was her third.

A staircase at each end of the terrace led to another terrace above. The bedrooms up there also looked out to the sea. Jack’s was one of them and now he saw the lights go on in another.
That was Jean-François’ room and he saw the shipowner’s bent frame moving against the lights before a servant drew the curtains.

Angélique had seen this, too. She drawled, ‘We live very quietly here. My husband, as you know, is an old man. The house is full of old men, even the chef is over sixty. I have my
maid, of course.’ Her eyes slid to Jack as she murmured, ‘I’ve sent her to bed.’ She sipped her cognac then said, ‘He is interested only in ships. But not
yours.’ She laughed.

Jack said, ‘I think he will be interested,’ although he thought nothing of the sort. ‘He said he would sleep on it.’

Angélique laughed again, unpleasantly, and waved a hand dismissively at the servant, who had stood like a statue in the shadows, blank faced and eyes distant, ignored. Now he turned and
walked silently away. Angélique gulped another mouthful of cognac and said thickly, ‘He will sleep, yes. You understand, I am just a chatelaine, a housekeeper for him. He retires
early, his servants put him to bed and he takes sleeping pills.’ Jack knew it was to kill the pain of arthritis that made all Jean-François’ waking hours a torment. His wife went
on, ‘He will be unconscious now. And I think it is time we retired.’ She drained her glass and stood up, smoothing the thin dress down her body, licking her wet lips that were curved in
a smile of invitation and hunger. She said, ‘Do not concern yourself for your ship. I will speak to him. He listens to me.’

Jack saw that the lights were out in Jean-François’ room, and elsewhere in the house, except on this terrace on which he stood, and one faint glow that marked
Angélique’s room on the terrace above. All the servants had vanished. He and the woman were alone.

Jack followed her as she slowly climbed the stairs, knowing that she knew he was watching her body, and that he could not help it. The french windows opening on to her room stood open and she
turned into it. Jack caught a glimpse of the single small light by the big bed, saw that there was no maid and that Angélique was alone, standing before the light so he could see her body
through the dress.

‘Good morning, Sarah!’ Sophie smiled brightly. ‘Have you met my big brother, Tom?’ She was passing through the foyer of the Ballantyne Hotel with Tom,
who had come home from Newcastle for the weekend. She had spoken tongue in cheek, knowing full well that the two had met before, and seen each other, although only in passing, on several of
Tom’s weekend visits. Sarah, stepping out of the lift with a sackful of linen, busy servicing her rooms on the floor above, knew she was teasing. Sarah also knew that Sophie had guessed that
Sarah was fond of her brother, and blushed accordingly.

Only Tom did not see what was going on and answered politely, ‘We’ve met. Hello, Sarah.’ He thought she was a nice enough kid. A bit shy, though, turning red like that every
time she met someone. He asked, ‘Is Mrs Ballantyne about?’

Sarah answered, ‘I think she’s in her office,’ then she hurried away.

Tom and Sophie found Chrissie there. She asked, ‘What are you two up to?’

‘I’ve come into town to buy some books and thought I’d look in and see you,’ Tom replied. ‘You’d gone out before I got up this morning.’

Sophie said, ‘I’ve come in to do some shopping as well.’

Chrissie said, ‘Oh, yes?’ and waited, but Sophie did not ask for a loan. Chrissie wondered about that, not knowing that Sophie still had in her purse most of the ten shillings she
had won. She said, ‘I’m glad to see you’re managing your allowance better.’

Sophie only smiled, but Tom had looked more closely at Chrissie and now asked, ‘Are you worried about something, Mother?’

Chrissie blinked at him, startled, and instinctively denied it. ‘No! Why?’

‘You’re looking tired.’

Sophie glanced from one to the other, surprised that Tom had seen something she had missed, but now she said, ‘That’s right, Mummy. You look worn out.’

Chrissie had not slept well and knew why, but she lied, ‘I’m not worried. It’s just that I’ve been working pretty hard since the old place burned down to get this hotel
opened. I’ll have to take things a little easier now – and I should be able to.’ Secretly she thought, If only I had some word from Jack.

Jack and Jean-François had breakfasted on the terrace, just the two of them, then repaired to Jean-François’ study at his suggestion: ‘One does not
speak of everything in front of the servants, though I have few secrets from them.’ Jack’s suitcase had been taken down to the car by one of the servants and the big Renault waited now
for him. Jack was tired, had seen the dawn come up. He thought that Jean-François looked even worse than he had done at dinner the night before. The morning light showed the deep grooves
that pain had carved into his face and heightened its bloodless, yellow tinge.

Jean-François said, ‘You have a saying in England: “No fool like an old fool.” Yes?’ When Jack nodded, he went on, ‘Angélique told you she would
persuade me to give you a contract to build a ship. She makes that kind of offer to every man who comes here. Most of them grab it. You did not.’

Jack shoved up in his chair, angry. Last night he had said, ‘Goodnight, madame,’ then walked on to his own room, closed the french doors behind him and jammed them shut with a chair.
But how . . .

Jean-François held up a knobby, skeletal hand. ‘I did not spy on you. There was no need because Angélique is transparent. Her bad temper when I looked in on her this morning
told its tale. At other times, with other men, she has quietly gloated.’ He shook his head. ‘An old fool. She is beautiful, of course, and I thought she loved me, because she wanted me
to think that, but once we were married . . .’ He took a breath and for the first time he smiled. ‘But I must not burden you with my problems. What time is your train? You will be happy
to be going home.’

When the Renault carrying Jack drove away Jean-François waved from the terrace.

Chrissie woke at midnight to see a towering figure standing over her. Then Jack shed the last of his clothes and slid in beside her. His arms around her and his body on hers he
told her, ‘I got the contract with Jean-François,’ then he closed her mouth with his.

It was a premature celebration.

December 1936

‘We’ll have to swim for it!’ Peter shouted as the rollers crashed against the sea-wall and exploded in spray. The spray drove in on the wind across the wide
promenade, mixing with the fine rain that was falling, and ran down their faces so they could smell and taste the salt sea.

‘We’ll have to run!’ Sophie countered as she grabbed Peter’s hand.

He broke into a lope alongside her, but demanded, ‘Why? There’ll be another tram in a minute.’

‘I have to catch this one. I’ve got to get home by ten.’ He understood that. It was common for girls to have to be home by that time or earlier.

Peter had been courting Sophie for some months now. She would meet him at the Wheatsheaf corner where she had waved to him at the end of their first meeting. Then they would go walking, often
down the long road to the sea and then along the promenade. Sometimes it strained Sophie’s patience, as she would have prefered to go for a coffee somewhere but she was fond of him.

They took the steps up from the promenade two at a time, crossed the road and ran along past the Italian ice-cream parlour and the other shops and cafés they never entered because Peter
did not have money to spare for ice-cream or coffee. There were few people about on this midweek winter’s night, though the cafés would be full at the weekend. The few in there now
peered out through windows misted with steam at the young man and the girl running hand in hand.

They jumped aboard the tram, panting and laughing, as it started to pull away, and climbed to the top deck. When the conductor came for their fares Sophie asked, as usual, for ‘Fawcett
Street, please.’

Peter said, ‘Make that two.’

Sophie glanced at him, startled, because she had persuaded him right from the start of their courtship that they would part at the Wheatsheaf: ‘It’s too far for you to have to come
back when you need to get up for work the next morning.’ Up to now she had not met him at weekends.

He saw that glance, and as he took the tickets from the conductor he said, ‘I just want to make sure you get back all right. We’ve got some dark nights now we’re into the
winter. I’ve felt a bit guilty letting you go home on your own this last month.’

Sophie thought of trying to dissuade him, then decided she probably could not. Besides, it might lead to an argument and Peter’s bewilderment – and curiosity. She did not want him
probing into her background, so she remained silent but thought rapidly – and came up with an answer. They got down from the tram together in Fawcett Street and Sophie led Peter round the
corner into the High Street then across the road to the Ballantyne Hotel, where she knew her mother was working late that night. She stopped outside the swing doors and said, ‘Here we
are.’