The Carpenter's Children (23 page)

‘Good God, Eddie, what a terrible blow for the girl! Whatever did she do?’

‘She told Betty she couldn’t bear it, and got herself out of the house before she broke down an’ cried – that’s when she went round to the Goddards an’ told Betty, seein’ as she hadn’t got anybody at home to talk to. Her mother’s pinin’ for the boys, and won’t speak a word or eat a morsel. Bird keeps the shop goin’, but it must be like a morgue round there.’

Tom was shocked, picturing Ernest or Mark Storey in such circumstances.

‘Is there any chance o’ young Hickory improving and getting his hearing back?’ he asked. ‘And his memory, maybe?’

‘Dunno. How can anybody tell? His poor mother fusses over him as if he was a baby, and won’t have him upset by anybody, not even Dr Stringer – not that
he’d
be much use in a case like that. I reckon we can only wait an’ hope, but I can’t see him marryin’
Phyllis or any other girl, as he is now.’

Tom shook his head and when he spoke again it was to say to Eddie what he could never say to his wife.

‘Y’know, Eddie, when you think about the Bird brothers and the Hickory boy, it makes you wonder how many homes there must be, up and down the country, waiting for telegrams to say that their boys are dead, or missing or wounded. I can’t see that our lives are ever going to be the same again – how can they be? How much longer can it go on till some sort of an agreement has to be made with the Germans? And when you come to think of it,
they
must be getting a bit of a pasting, too – the women and kids left behind while the men march off to get killed, likely as not.’ He sighed heavily. ‘My son could be killed at any time, Isabel and her baby could be killed by a bomb, and God only knows about Grace. I might not ever see her again.’

Eddie Cooper stared at his friend and could think of nothing to reply. He could hardly say that the war had at least brought together his wife and daughter, so long estranged, and that the Goddards had decided reluctantly to accept Mary and her baby. The marriage had done Sidney no harm; on the contrary, it had made a man of him. The Yeomanses, however, could not forgive Mary for marrying their indispensable stockman whilst carrying Dick’s child, and old Yeomans had told Sidney in his surliest tones
that they wouldn’t be visiting the young Goddards until after the baby was born – ‘to see who it looked like’.

Mrs Moore did not send Grace another client for Number Four in the next two weeks, though Madge Fraser entertained several while Grace went out with other ‘Dolly girls’ in foursomes to supper, gaining experience of a wide variety of men in the armed services. She was then introduced to Stanley, a sergeant who had served abroad and was about to return to the front; he had no illusions about life.

‘Soon as I saw you, I thought what a pretty little kid, lucky for me to get such a – how old are you, sweetheart? Seventeen, and on this game? Does your mother know what you’re up to?’

He didn’t wait for answers to his questions, but went on talking non-stop, commenting on their surroundings, and much impressed by room Number Four, with its clean bedlinen and champagne.

‘Blimey, this is posh! I haven’t been to many places as swanky as this – in fact I haven’t been to any places like this in England, only abroad, where you don’t know
what
you’re getting, and half the time they can’t speak English. D’you want me to open the bottle? Whoosh, watch out for the cork! I’ll have summat to tell the lads when I get back
to…to…yer mustn’t blame me for wanting this, Gracie – that
is
your name, isn’t it? I reckon I’ve earned it after what I’ve seen and been through – terrible – couldn’t tell anybody at home. Come on, give us a kiss, dear – what a little darling you are, you remind me of another girl I once knew, that was before all this bloody war started. Proper little beauty, she was.’

Grace forced a smile and poured herself another glass of champagne.

‘That’s right, darling, you drink up. I’d better not have any more. To tell you the truth I’m feeling a bit shy, which isn’t like me, I’m usually as cheeky as a vicar’s parrot!’ He laughed, and seized her round the waist. ‘It must be ’cause you’re so pretty an’ young an’ sweet – come here, Gracie, let’s get ’em off! Kiss me, dear, hold me tight, let me forget, Gracie,
make me forget
!’

Lying on the bed, Grace obediently held Sergeant Stanley in her arms and let him lie between her thighs until his talking turned to gasps and groans, and finally to heaving sobs. She wondered uneasily if it always ended like this; his weight flattened her uncomfortably, and made breathing difficult, let alone speaking, but she endured it without protest until he became calmer, and rolled off to lie beside her.

A valuable service to the nation
. That was what Mrs Moore called it, according to Madge, and Grace
thought she was learning how to do it, adapting her speech and manners to the kind of man she encountered, and giving him what he needed before facing death and danger in the trenches.
Surely
it couldn’t be wrong!

The headmistress and staff were sorry to see young Mrs Storey leave Barnett Street School at half-term, the reason for which was ‘beginning to show’ as the women said among themselves, and there was much speculation about when the baby was due. Soon afterwards Mrs Clements had a fall while standing on a chair to reach a packet of sugar from a high shelf, and fractured her tibia, or as she said, broke her leg. She had to go into the London Hospital in Whitechapel, where Isabel visited her and found her blaming herself bitterly, wondering how young Mrs Storey would manage without her help in the vicarage; she was full of dire warnings.

‘Don’t go out after dark for any reason at all,’ she said, ‘specially on these cold winter nights. No respectable woman’s safe round ’ere, so don’t stop an’ talk to a woman unless yer know her, ’cause she’ll be a streetwalker, likely as not. Mind yer lock an’ bolt the doors at night, an’ close all the winders.’

‘I’ll carry out all your instructions, Mrs Clements,’ said Isabel, smiling, torn as usual between gratitude and exasperation at the woman’s anxiety over her.

‘Well, mind yer do, ’cause I lay awake ’ere at night worryin’ about yer. And don’t let ’em ride over yer roughshod at that Mothers’ Union,’ continued the lady, sitting up in bed wearing the mud-coloured cardigan that did duty as a bedjacket. ‘Some’ow or other ye’ll ’ave to carry on without me while I’m laid up ’ere, and don’t let that stuck-up schoolteacher worm ’er way in to bein’ the leader – though I can’t think of anybody who’d be best to do it. It’s no good, I can’t think straight. I’m sorry, Mrs Storey, I’ve let yer down!’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear,’ said Isabel patiently. ‘There’s no need at all for you to worry. As a matter of fact,
I
shall take over as leader until you’re well enough to come back. The lady treasurer can be temporary secretary, and her work can be taken over by Mrs Tanner who’s very good at figures.’

‘
What?
D’yer mean that Sally Tanner? Yer can’t put ’er in charge o’ the money, she
drinks!
’

‘Not any more, Mrs Clements. She’s changed her ways, and is a very useful member of the Mothers’ Union, and of the parish.’

‘That’s as maybe, Mrs Storey, but don’t go lettin’ ’er into the vicarage, whatever yer do. Take the money ’ome with yer, and put it in Mr Storey’s safe, or ye’ll rue the day, I’m tellin’ yer!’

Isabel stifled a sigh. There were times when Mrs Clements’ dedication could be extremely trying, but her concern was genuine, and Isabel leant over to kiss her when the visitors had to leave, and promised to come again soon.

Her spirits were low as she returned to the vicarage, dark and silent in the fading light of a February afternoon. There was no light on in the study, and the curtains were open, a sign that her father-in-law had fallen asleep in his chair. Poor old Pa, she thought, living apart from his wife in this cheerless place, endeavouring to cope with his son’s parish; he was looking frailer these days, six months after his arrival, and Isabel secretly feared that he might not live to be reunited with his wife in their little country cottage. Heaven only knew when this hateful war would end.
Oh, Mark
, she thought,
when shall I see you again
?

She gave herself a mental shake, and put her key in the lock – and suddenly, as she stepped inside, a dark figure emerged from the shadows and pushed her forward, slamming the door shut. She was seized round the waist from behind, and a hand was clamped over her mouth. She was too terrified to struggle, and thought she was going to faint: she drooped in the grip of her captor who shook her roughly.

‘Listen, missus, I need two things, grub an’ cash, an’ if yer know what’s good for yer, do as ye’re told,’
he growled. ‘Come on, missus, where’s the larder?’

She pointed a shaking finger towards the passage that led to the kitchen, and he hustled her along it. When they got there, he banged the door shut behind them, and she thought of her father-in-law: surely the noise would wake him up. The intruder took his hand from her mouth, and gripping her right arm, made her lead him to the bread bin which stood on the stone floor of the larder; on a shelf above it was a bowl of beef dripping. He tore off a hunk of bread, rubbed it in the dripping and ate it ravenously, tugging at the crust with his teeth and grunting from the sheer relief of assuaging his hunger.

She heard the doorbell ring, and he looked up sharply. ‘Don’t answer it, an’ they’ll go away.’ When it rang again, Isabel thought she heard her
father-in-law’s
chair creak, followed by the faint sound of his slippered footsteps crossing the hall. Evidently the intruder didn’t hear, gorging himself on bread and dripping, and drinking milk straight from the jug, but she made an effort to speak, to cover the sound of the front door opening. Oh, let it be a man or somebody to rescue her!

‘W-where have you come from?’ she asked.

‘Out o’ the army,’ he muttered between mouthfuls, and Isabel guessed he must be a deserter.

‘Why did you come here?’

‘It’s a church ’ouse, innit? I’ve begged ’ere before,
an’ got a dry crust an’ a penny. Well, missus, I’m gettin’ more ’n a penny orf yer today. Blimey, it’s too dark to see. Can yer light the gas mantle?’

‘We don’t have gaslight in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘But I’ll light the oil lamp.’

As with trembling fingers she put a match to the lamp and turned up the wick, she strained her ears to hear what was being said at the front door, and made out the old man’s voice, speaking low and rapidly. She would have run out of the kitchen, but the man kept a grip on her right arm.

‘Before yer scarper, missus, I need a bit o’ the ready. Where’d yer keep it?’

The church funds were stored in a safe in the study, and the key was in a desk drawer; by now Isabel was finding her courage and ability to think quickly.

‘There’s very little money in the house,’ she said. ‘My, er, husband takes it to the bank regularly.’

‘Ah, yeah, he would, I dare say. Nice easy job e’s got, stayin’ at ’ome while there’s men out there who—’

‘My husband’s in France, an army chaplain, so he’s got a good idea of what it’s like,’ she said sharply.

‘Yeah, an’ so ’ave I, missus – that’s why I can’t go back to it – sooner be shot for cowardice.’

Isabel turned and looked at him full in the face, and saw the blank despair, the haggard eyes in his thin face; and as she looked, she felt her fear
melting away, to be replaced by deep pity.

‘I can let you have a little money,’ she said, ‘and you can take what food you can carry. There’s the last of the Christmas cake in a tin.’ She saw his eyes gleam, and realised that the man was truly starving.

‘Yeah, I could eat a bit o’ cake, missus.’

But before Isabel could reach for the cake tin on its shelf, the kitchen door was flung open, and Sally Tanner appeared, eyes wide with astonishment. Mr Storey, white-faced, stood behind her.

‘Bloody ’ell, what’s goin’ on? What’s ’
e
doin’ ’ere? ’As he ’urt yer, Isabel?’ demanded Sally, forgetting to say Mrs Storey.

‘No, Sally, no,’ answered Isabel quickly. ‘He hasn’t harmed me or anything. He’s deserted from the army, and has nowhere to go, and starving.’

‘Maybe so, but ’e can’t stay ’ere, Mrs Storey. Poor ol’ Mr Storey was frightened out of ’is wits – ’e woke up and ’eard this goin’ on in the kitchen, an’ when ’e opened the door to me, ’e said God ’ad sent me, but in fact it was Mrs Plumm who’s ’ad a summons, an’…but what’re yer goin’ to do with ’im?’

‘I’m going to send him on his way, and pray for him,’ said Isabel quietly but firmly. ‘It’s not our place to condemn a man who can’t face this dreadful war any longer.’ Taking down a teapot from the shelf above the oven, she took out a half-crown piece. ‘Here you are, then – and here’s the cake tin, and I’ll put the bread in with it, and some biscuits, but you
must leave now. Goodbye, and God go with you.’

‘Thanks, missus. Cheerio,’ muttered the man as he left by the kitchen door, pointedly held open by Mrs Tanner who looked on in utter disbelief at such misplaced trust, but Mr Storey put a hand on Isabel’s shoulder and said, ‘Thank heaven for a good woman.’

After this incident, Mr Storey had a frank talk with his daughter-in-law, and said there would have to be changes.

‘A clergy house is vulnerable at the best of times, and I’m an old man and you are expecting a child, my dear,’ he reminded her. ‘We must advertise for a reliable resident housekeeper who will also be a companion for yourself. I shall go to the office of the local newspaper tomorrow.’

But no advertisement was necessary. When Isabel asked Sally Tanner if she would care to give up her job and move into the vicarage on a very small wage, the answer was so emphatic that no further discussion was needed.

‘Sybil Moore’s got big ’opes for yer, Gracie! She’s savin’ yer for the posh ones!’ laughed Madge, whose patrons far outnumbered Grace Munday’s. Mr Dean frequently chose Grace for the supper foursomes, introducing new ‘Dolly’s girls’ to the sort of light-hearted companionship expected of them, and to yield gracefully to the final kiss and
cuddle in a taxi that ended the evening.