Mourning Doves (27 page)

As they went out of the doctor’s front gate, Edna said with a gleam in her eye, ‘I told you so, Celia. Nothing to worry about.’

Celia laughed a little shakily, and agreed. ‘How kind she was,’ she said warmly. ‘I never thought of going to a lady doctor – and I simply couldn’t have talked to a man – I don’t think a man would have had much sympathy for me.’

Edna said, ‘I think she understood the kind of life you have had, and that she really wanted to help. I liked her enormously; I’d enjoy having her as a friend.’ She stopped, to fumble in her pocket for her handkerchief with which to dab her nose. Then she said, ‘I don’t really know anyone on Merseyside any more – and I miss my Portuguese friends in Brazil – and not having a place of my own.’

As they crossed Market Street, Celia replied with quick sympathy, ‘I’m sure you do. I hope you’ll make some new friends here, in time. I’ve already made a friend of Betty Houghton, though Mother thinks she’s far too common.’ She grinned mischievously as she said this, and then, as they regained the safety of the pavement, she asked, ‘Would you like to meet Mr Philpotts? His workshop is somewhere near here.’

‘Yes, I would.’

As they slowly made their way down the street, Edna went on, ‘You know, Britain has changed so much in the years I’ve been away that I feel at a loss how to proceed
in quite ordinary situations. Or perhaps I am so used to Brazil that I have forgotten what England is really like.’

Celia considered this for a moment, before replying. Then she said, ‘Everything had to change because of the war. But we all thought that, once the war finished, we would go back to our old life – as it was in 1914.

‘But we haven’t been able to, Edna. Nothing is the same. The war’s been over for nearly eighteen months, and we still seem to be in chaos. People are still distraught, still struggling because one of their number is either dead or wounded, and they have to make do in some new way. And when I do get a chance to read the newspaper, it is frightening: reports of unemployment and lack of housing – and huge war debts – and strikes threatening.’

They paused at the edge of the pavement, to allow a donkey cart out of a side alley, and the driver tipped his cap as he drove past them. Celia smiled at him, in response.

‘I’ve felt the change myself,’ Celia continued, as they crossed the alley. ‘Mother was always saying that, when the boys came home, we would be busy again, as they established careers, got married, and she had grandchildren; it seemed as if life would be more normal.’ Her voice faltered, when she went on, ‘But Tom and George never will come home, so she won’t have any grandchildren – she grieved over Rosemary, you know, and so did I – poor little lamb. I would have so enjoyed her.’

As she mentioned Edna’s daughter, she glanced at her sister. But Edna’s expression was quite blank, as if she had retreated, once more, into herself.

Poor Edna, Celia thought contritely. She’s had a rotten time, too. I shouldn’t have mentioned Rosemary.

Anxious to keep the conversation going in spite of her blunder, she changed the subject. She said, ‘Although Mother has, I believe, left a few cards with distant acquaintances round here, she hasn’t had one response, not even an invitation to an at home or morning coffee.’ She stood
aside to let an old crone wrapped in a shawl get by, and then said, ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that ladies simply haven’t the energy to re-establish their social life. Or perhaps, now she is a widow – not a couple – Mother will have to find entirely new friends amongst other widows.’

As a swarm of morning shoppers pushed between them, she paused in her chatter, and then said with a deprecating laugh, ‘I doubt if anyone is interested in three impoverished ladies living together; no hostess would want to make the awful effort of finding three matching men for her dinner table.’

Edna bestirred herself to answer. Her mind had been diverted by thoughts of little Rosemary’s lonely grave in far-away Brazil. At Celia’s mention of the probable shortage of males at a formal dinner, she was reminded of quiet, cultivated Vital; he would be a pleasant addition to any dinner table; he belonged to a society where there was often a shortage of women, because they died young in childbirth. She wanted to whimper with the pain of it all.

Instead, she turned her attention firmly to Celia, and said, with a slight shrug, ‘Our family is all upside down because we’ve had so many losses, and, as well, we’ve had to move. But you are right, dear. There are so many like us that I don’t think home life will ever be the same again.’

As they walked slowly along, Edna lapsed into silence. Then she said suddenly, ‘Eddie Fairbanks was telling me that the young men and women whom you saw cavorting in the sea with – er – nothing on – are not exceptional. He says that there is a lot of wild gaiety in London – even in Liverpool. Night clubs, drunkenness, and shocking things going on between the sexes. Not our kind of life at all. He says it’s people trying to make up for their lost youth.’ She smiled grimly. ‘I don’t seem to remember having much youth to lose myself. I was a mother at twenty-two.’

They had to stop to allow a flotilla of perambulators to pass them, and Edna made a small gesture towards the
women hurrying towards them. ‘So many people are still in mourning – it’s all blacks and greys – you can see it. So many widows’ weeds.’ She moved swiftly aside again to avoid being bumped by a pram, and added, ‘And an astonishing number of babies. Breeding troops for the next war?’

Celia was shocked. She stopped dead. ‘Edna! How can you say such a dreadful thing – there will never be another war. It’s too terrible to contemplate. We’ve finished with wars.’ She did, however, see what Edna had pointed out. Not only were the women in mourning, but they looked carelessly dressed; they did not look elegant in their blacks and greys. There was a general air of dowdiness which, at this time of year in such a well-to-do district, would have been alleviated by the sight of new spring costumes in the latest fashion, and pretty hats trimmed with bows and flowers. Some of the few men about were still in uniform, and those in civilian dress looked generally older and wore unrelieved black, including black bowler hats.

Celia sighed, and eased her sister round a corner. ‘Mr Philpotts’ workshop is just here, I think,’ she said.

The corner itself was occupied by an empty shop with windows facing both Market Street and the side road. Beyond the shop, on the side road, was a brick wall broken only by a single board door painted a dingy green.

The two women approached it doubtfully, but were reassured by a black notice board screwed to the adjoining wall, which stated in faded gold letters

Celia swallowed nervously. ‘I hope he doesn’t mind our calling on him.’

‘You’re probably more important to him than he is to you at the moment,’ Edna responded quickly, determined
that the doctor’s reassurance should not go down the drain immediately.

Celia’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘I must say I never thought of it in that way.’

She smiled, and knocked at the door.

There was no response.

‘Try again,’ encouraged Edna.

There was a sound of slow movement within. ‘Coming.’

The door swung open to reveal Mr Philpotts, looking rather different from his last meeting with Celia. He wore patched and stained overalls and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows to expose muscular forearms thatched with black hair. His wrists and hands were stained with a reddish-brown dye and he carried a grubby rag. On his head he wore an ancient peaked cap, and his face carried traces of the same stain as that on his hands.

He looked nonplussed for a moment – his clients usually sent for him rather than themselves descending on his smelly workshop, and he looked at the two women as if they were strangers. Then recollection dawned.

‘Miss Gilmore!’ he exclaimed.

Celia found her voice. She said apologetically, ‘I’m afraid we have disturbed you when you are busy. Perhaps we can come another time. I wanted to have a look at the shop and to talk to you about one or two things.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, Miss. Come in. But mind your skirts don’t brush anything. I’ve a grand piano drying out here. Follow me closely.’ He dragged himself slowly down the side of the workshop.

The place was lit by skylights and was less dark than they had expected. The grand piano shone like a new one, and Edna, who played, looked at it enviously. They followed the polisher carefully, their eyes beginning to run from the sting of the rich mixed fumes of linseed oil, varnish, furniture polish and male sweat which assailed them.

He led them across a narrow corridor into another room,
carefully closing each door after they had entered. Here lay the bones of a set of dining chairs, their seats and padded backs ripped out. Rolls of material filled shelves along one wall. Beneath them were bales of cotton and horsehair, their contents protruding slightly along the seams of the sacks. A heavy-duty sewing machine and a large cutting-out table, with a pair of shears lying on it, occupied the centre of the room. Another set of shelves held what Celia supposed were woodworker’s tools. On a wall hung several handsaws, two of them gleaming, the rest obviously rusty with neglect. A high old-fashioned bookkeeper’s desk with a matching chair stood against a wall. Above it was a small shelf holding files and account books. On the desk itself stood a spike with bills or receipts impaled upon it.

In the middle of the workroom, Mr Philpotts turned towards them. ‘I’m sorry I’ve only one chair at the moment. I’m really only just getting started again.’ He pulled the bookkeeper’s chair out from beside the desk. ‘The place was locked up for the duration when I went away – me uncle owns the property, you know. He didn’t charge me nothing in rent while I was serving. But now I’m trying to get everything on a proper footing again.’ He glanced from Celia to Edna. ‘Have a seat, Miss.’

Celia told him not to worry, that they had come only for a few minutes. As the elder sister, Edna automatically perched on the uncomfortably high chair. Celia then introduced her to him.

He immediately responded, ‘Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.’ Then he turned to Celia and asked, ‘What was it, Miss, that you came about?’

She apologised for not giving him a quicker decision regarding a possible partnership, but said that she was waiting for her father’s trustee to visit them on the following Monday. ‘My mother, Mrs Gilmore, will naturally want to consult him first.’

‘That’ll be OK. And you wanted to see the shop?’

They both smiled and nodded, and he led them back through the workshops, again shutting doors carefully after him. ‘I have to keep the furniture I’m finishing as dust free as I can,’ he explained. ‘If I keep the doors shut, I don’t get much draught blowing it around.’

The shop was thoroughly neglected, dusty and badly in need of repainting, but it was quite large, stretching back a fair distance. It had very nice corner windows.

Mr Philpotts explained his idea of showing the furniture in the window as if it were in a room. ‘Inspire them, like,’ he said.

Celia remarked that she would not be able to show all the furniture at once.

‘Oh, aye,’ he agreed. ‘There’s some old stables at the back, though, with a good stone floor – and one wide double door. If you send some of the poorer pieces, like the iron bedsteads, to the salerooms, I think there’ll be space for most of the good pieces, between the shop and the shed. Old Aspen may not mind if you continue to rent his barn for a bit, anyway. He’s a very decent fella.’

In her mind’s eye Celia saw the shop glittering with new paint and all her mother’s best pieces set out to catch the eye of the passing shoppers. She saw herself receiving customers like honoured guests, and letting them admire the furniture even if they did not buy. Life suddenly seemed to be opening out.

‘I been thinking about your safety in the shop by yourself, Miss. But I’ll be on the premises most of the time, and you could have a little handbell to press if you were uneasy. And I’d be with you as quick as I could.’

Personal safety had not occurred to her. She had simply felt shy at being in the company of Mr Philpotts all day. Total plainness and self-effacement had meant that no man had ever approached her, except with distant politeness. And no self-respecting upper-class girl considered working-class
men as anything but people who did the work you told them to do. So, in her view, poor Mr Philpotts was perfectly safe to be with. The idea of other threats to her person disturbed her; she recollected with nervous fright her encounter on the great dyke.

‘Surely I would be all right, wouldn’t I, Mr Philpotts? There are always lots of people in Market Street.’

‘On the whole, I would say yes, Miss. I’d like to suggest that you keep the silver locked in some of the cabinets at the back of the shop though. Small valuable things, like silver, would attract shoplifters.’

‘Oh, dear. Yes, we can certainly do that.’

‘In fact, I was thinking, Miss, that if the silver is high quality, you might like to put it up for auction with a real classy auctioneer, like Sotheby’s. And the same the oil paintings.’ He stopped to rub his face wearily and left another brown smear on it, as he thought for a minute.