The Carpenter's Children (11 page)

Miss Munday quickly became an object of interest to her little pupils who saw her as a beautiful lady who spoke kindly to them and listened to their stories; in return they gave her their attention, and made varying progress with learning to read and write, and doing simple sums of addition and subtraction. In spite of Mrs Clements’ predictions, Isabel told her fiancé that children were the same everywhere, and her pupils were at heart no different from the ones she’d taught at Miss Daniells’ church school in North Camp. And she loved them.

Ernest knelt beside his parents and Grace in church and tried to pray; it was the first Sunday in September, and there would be no cycling that afternoon with Aaron who had gone to visit his parents and family in London. Ernest knew that he should be praying for peace in Europe and for Aaron’s family, and yet he found himself asking that Aaron might not decide to leave Everham and join them. He knew that Mrs Pascoe and the children were miserably homesick for Elberfeld, but Mr Victor Pascoe had gone out determined to find employment, and found it in a small Jewish family tailoring establishment where the hours were long and the standard of work was high.

‘I am learning how to be a tailor instead of a man
of business,’ Pascoe had told his son. ‘It isn’t easy, but a man must live and feed his dependents.’

Since Aaron had confided this to Ernest, the fear of losing his friend was constantly on Ernest’s mind, and he was thankful that Mr Schelling urged Aaron to stay in Everham rather than swell the already crowded conditions in Tamarind Street; but was it right for a Christian to pray that he might not lose his Jewish friend, for purely selfish reasons? Surely there was no harm in praying for the Pascoes and their children, now starting at a new and unfamiliar London Board school.

While these thoughts troubled Ernest’s mind, his sister Grace peeped through her fingers at Philip Saville, the vicar’s sixteen-year-old son who, having been educated at a public school and therefore out of sight during term time, had suddenly turned from a freckled schoolboy into a handsome, golden-haired youth as tall as his father. Grace wondered idly if he had kissed a girl yet, and her mouth curved in a satisfied little smile as she remembered Nick’s kisses when they met at the Everham crossroads on her way home. She stood her bicycle up against the ancient oak tree there, and took her place beside it for ten delicious minutes or more to enjoy Nick’s kisses and his increasingly bold hands – she almost gasped aloud at the memory, but checked herself in time. Oh, what would she do after he was sent to France?

Beside her Tom Munday echoed Mr Saville’s prayers for peace. The news of a battle on the river Marne sounded confused and indecisive, though it seemed that this time the Germans were in retreat; but the shock of Mons lingered in the minds of the public, and Tom Munday was becoming less sure of an early victory as the days went by. A hundred thousand men had enlisted to fight for their king and country, yet the recruitment campaign went on, and Lord Kitchener was demanding a hundred thousand more, which surely meant that he must be expecting a longer war than had been predicted. Suppose, just suppose that Ernest was persuaded – or compelled – to join the army and be sent to France to halt the German invasion, and suppose…but no, Tom could not allow such hideous thoughts space in his brain. He simply commended his wife and three children to the Lord’s care.

Violet Munday also prayed for peace in the world, especially in Europe. How tiresome this war was, just as Isabel was about to be married, the first of her circle of friends! Their neighbours would stare at her clergyman bridegroom, whose father was also a man of the cloth, and as the bride’s mother, Violet would reflect her share of the glory.
But
… Violet had been truly shocked on her one visit to Bethnal Green and Mark’s East End parish. What a dirty, disreputable place for her daughter to live in, with people like that rattletrap Mrs Clements whom Violet had disliked
on sight. The mean streets, the pubs and pawnshops – and that ugly school building where Isabel taught, though the girl insisted that she loved her work – had upset Violet and brought back her earlier doubts; now her chief hope was that Mark would soon be transferred to a more respectable parish. Old Mr Storey seemed to think it likely, though he’d gently reminded her and Tom that Christ came into the world to save sinners, and that Mark must answer that call. Mrs Munday had agreed, but was glad the wedding was to be held here at St Peter’s, so nobody need see where Isabel was going.

On Sundays the bar of the Railway Hotel opened at three in the afternoon, with the man known as Tubby in charge; Charlie Coggins did a little under-
the-counter
selling of pies and pasties, as the restaurant had to be closed all day. The undersized young man who usually assisted at the bar was allowed Sundays off, and with the surge of uniformed men seeking refreshment, Tubby resented the extra work involved.

‘Pity young Ratty can’t come in an’ lend a hand, CC,’ he grumbled to the boss who had come to help serve at the bar.

‘The poor lad’s got to have some time off, same as the girls,’ replied Coggins, giving out two pints of bitter with a pork pie. ‘They work jolly hard, do Madge and Grace, and keep the place cheerful!’

‘Huh! They certainly do their job well, when it comes to keeping the lads entertained,’ returned Tubby spitefully. ‘’Specially that one from North Camp – I s’pose you know she meets ’em after hours?’

‘Does she? Are you sure o’ that, Tubby? Have you caught her at it?’

‘Don’t need to, I ’ear ’er layin’ ’er plans – “see yer by the usual tree”, that sort o’ thing. And mark my words, when she gets knocked up, it’ll be your fault, my fault, anybody’s fault ’cept ’ers. Ye’re too trustin’, CC.’

‘And
you’d
better watch your mouth, Tupman, with ears open all around,’ answered the boss sharply, distancing himself by giving the man his proper name, which infuriated the barman.

‘Couple o’ sluts,’ he muttered under his breath, wiping a glass so vigorously that it broke in his hand and cut his thumb. ‘Bugger!’ he said aloud, to the amusement of the young servicemen waiting for their drinks; they were new faces, for Grace’s lieutenant Nick had been sent to France.

Charlie Coggins privately decided to have a quiet talk with the two girls at some time during the coming week, but he suspected his barman of jealousy rather than true moral indignation.

The October wedding more than fulfilled Mrs Munday’s expectations, and gave North Camp a
midweek treat to take their minds off the war for one afternoon. The sky was clear, and a mild autumnal sun shone down on Isabel in her virginal bridal gown and veil, accompanied by her sister Grace in pink, clutching a garden posy of Michaelmas daisies and bestowing her merry glances on all and sundry.

St Peter’s Church was well filled, and Violet Munday’s heart swelled with pride when the bride arrived with her father in Lady Neville’s own carriage, lent for the occasion by that beneficent lady who arrived at the church with her daughter a full quarter of an hour early, and then despatched the carriage to 47 Pretoria Road. Tom Munday had done some intricate woodwork in the drawing room of Hassett Manor, and this was his reward. Mrs Goddard would never be able to match
that
when Betty married, thought Mrs Munday, giving her neighbours a condescending nod. On the groom’s side of the aisle sat Mark’s parents and his sister Mrs Reynolds with her husband and four children; they had offered the couple the use of the bailiff’s cottage on their farmland for a two-night stay after the wedding, and this had been gratefully accepted.

The service opened with the Twenty-third Psalm, and when the time came for Mr Saville to ask, ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’ Tom Munday, who had held his daughter’s arm tightly on their walk up the aisle, now led her forward to stand beside Mark Storey in his black cassock and surplice,
an ordained priest in the Church of England. Both bride and groom made their vows clearly in the silence that fell upon the packed congregation, and as Mrs Munday wiped away a tear, Tom felt a tremor go through him, a moment of apprehension, almost of fear, for the future of this beautiful woman who was his daughter, leaving her parents’ home for whatever her husband could provide for her.

When the couple had been legally joined in matrimony, and signed the parish register, their radiant faces as they progressed down the aisle were a measure of reassurance to Tom. To the strains of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ they looked upon a sea of faces, all beaming goodwill towards them, from Lady Neville to Mary Cooper who sat with Mrs Yeomans on the groom’s side of the church, the bride’s side being filled to overflowing. Mr and Mrs Eddie Cooper and their little boy sat at some distance from Mary, with the Birds, Lansdownes and Goddards, and Miss Daniells was given a place of honour beside the gentry. Ernest, dressed in a well-cut grey suit made by Mr Bird, was grateful for Aaron’s presence at this Christian ceremony; Mr and Mrs Schelling had sent their polite regrets, but a pleasant surprise awaited Ernest when Mr and Mrs Woodman entered with their son the Rev. Paul Woodman and his wife, daughter and young baby, all the way from Bristol. There were smiles and handshakes, and Ernest reflected on his past devotion to Paul which
had led him eventually to Aaron, and was happy to see the two of them talking in a friendly way.

A family group photograph was taken by a professional man from Everham, and the wedding reception was held at the Jubilee Hall, North Camp’s recognition of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897; it was used for assemblies of all kinds: weddings, funerals, parties and public meetings, though as church property it was not hired out for dances, only such dancing as might end a private party like this. A substantial cold buffet was laid out, at its centre a two-tier cake made by Mrs Munday and decorated by Mrs Lansdowne with edible white roses made from icing sugar and inedible silver leaves arranged round a silver horseshoe. Isabel and Mark were assured that this was North Camp’s wedding of the year, and their parents were congratulated, though Mr and Mrs Storey senior were gazed upon with a certain amount of awe. Grace stood at the centre of a group of young people that included handsome young Philip Saville, clearly impressed by her looks and pretty manners. (And now that Nick had gone to fight for his country, where was the harm in a little innocent flirtation?) Tom noticed that Eddie Cooper had left his wife and son for a few minutes’ talk with Mary and Mrs Yeomans, and hoped that it might be the start of a reconciliation.

When it was time for the bride’s father to give a speech, Tom’s was brief but straight from his heart,
referring to the ‘precious treasure’ that he and his wife had today given in marriage to a worthy husband. When his voice began to shake a little, he sat down abruptly to loud applause. The bridegroom’s speech fully echoed this sentiment, and Mark said that the Lord had blessed him indeed. Making reference to the two-year separation required of Isabel and himself, he said that it had only served to deepen and strengthen their love, culminating in this day of days. There were enthusiastic nods of agreement and more applause.

At five o’clock the newly-weds left for their brief honeymoon, travelling with the Reynolds family in their open carriage. Taking leave of their daughter, Mr and Mrs Munday kissed her, and Tom silently echoed the words of the psalm sung at their wedding:
Thy loving kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
. Let it be so for them, O Lord, let it be so!

Daylight was fading on their arrival at the farm, situated between Hook and Dogmersfield in the quiet Hampshire countryside. The cottage usually occupied by the farm bailiff and his wife was a quarter of a mile from the farmhouse, and Sylvia Reynolds unlocked it for her brother and sister-in-law.

‘There’s a fire laid ready to be lit, and the bed’s aired,’ she told them. ‘There’s bread, milk, butter, bacon and eggs in the larder for your breakfast, and
you can come up to the house any time you like,’ she said with kindly tact.

‘Good old Sylvia, she knows we want to be left alone!’ said Mark, smiling.

‘Yes, alone together at last, dearest Mark!’ Isabel exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘Husband and wife!’

He held her close, and kissed her forehead. ‘Dear wife, your happiness is everything to me. Your father gave me a charge, to…to care for you as he has done, and to make you happy.’

She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Dearest Mark, I’ll be happy as long as we’re together – you need have no doubts about it, you solemn old thing!’ She smiled up into his worried eyes. ‘Let’s have supper – bread and butter will be fine, and I’ll light the fire and get a kettle on the hob. After that, we’ll be ready for – well, it’s been a long day, and…’ Somehow she could not bring herself to utter the word
bed
, though she longed to lie in his arms and yield herself to him completely.

And Mark knew that it could not be. He knew her to be a virgin, like himself, and that she might not expect their marriage to be consummated on this first night, but sooner or later she would wonder why he did not possess her fully as his wife. She was so innocent and trusting, and he could not bear to lose even a part of that trust; he thought of her father and the practical counsel his own father had
given him, but was fearful of upsetting or offending her. He tried to pray for guidance, but it didn’t seem a proper subject for prayer, and the words wouldn’t form in his head.

And yet his plea was answered, above all that he could hope for or imagine.

They agreed that they didn’t want any supper other than a cup of tea, and took to the large, downy feather bed in which the bailiff and his wife usually slept. Mark caught his breath at the sight of her lying there in her white nightgown, her hair spread out on the pillow. He wore a new nightshirt, one of three that his mother had made for him, with the unusual feature of a good-sized pocket. With the nightshirts had come the gift of a dozen large white handkerchiefs, one of which now resided in the pocket.

He lay down beside her and put his left arm under her shoulders; she snuggled close to him, and with his right hand he stroked her body, marvelling at the beauty of her firm breasts under the cotton nightgown, the softness of her belly, the curve of her hips, thighs, knees, feet…