The Penningtons (9 page)

He nodded. ‘So, Mrs Pennington, are you asking me now to visit your brother?’

‘Oh no! Not yet, thank goodness! And it may never be necessary.’

‘Let us hope not.’ He stood as a sign that the interview was at an end and Hettie withdrew. She walked out of the surgery with a spring in her step. It had been a rather uncomfortable interview but despite a few awkward moments, she thought she had dealt with it reasonably well and they were that much nearer to achieving her plan – the plan she would share with Dilys when the time was right.

While Hettie was with the doctor, Daisy was sitting in the kitchen with Monty. Each of them held a mug of hot milk which was intended to be relaxing.

Daisy said, ‘So, according to Hettie, this other woman is coming at twelve o’clock? What’s her name?’

‘That’s a good question.’ He frowned, then said, ‘Is it Bilson?’

‘It’s no good asking me, sir. It was you who answered the telephone. You spoke to your sister-in-law, not me.’

‘Well, you were nowhere to be found! Just disappeared!’

‘I was hanging up the clothes!’ Daisy protested. ‘I did a bit of washing – just essential smalls. How was I to know the telephone would ring?’

‘How was I to know that you were outside?’ he retaliated crossly.

‘Well, you think it’s a Miss Bilson and she’s coming today at twelve.’ She looked round the kitchen and tutted. ‘I’ll never get tidied in time but they’ll be sure to go round the whole house. What else did she tell you – about this woman?’

He screwed up his face in concentration. ‘Something about her age . . . fifty-five, I think. Yes, fifty-five. And she’s never married. Yes, that was it. Never married because her fiancé was killed in the war with the Boers. He was a soldier.’

‘Well, he would be, wouldn’t he!’ She grinned. ‘Let’s hope she’s a nice person and you think you will get along with her.’

‘But if I don’t like her – what then? My sister-in-law can be very forceful. I sometimes feel sorry for poor old Albert.’

And suppose
I
don’t like her, Daisy wondered. I shall have to work with her . . . unless I give in my notice or get sacked. She said, ‘If you don’t like her give me a wink when they’re not looking and I’ll try and think of something to put her off. Miss Bilson, I mean, not Hettie.’

He looked dubious. ‘What could you do?’

‘We–ell . . . I could be rude to her and then when Hettie tries to sack me for impertinence you could say that you’re my employer and you want to keep me!’

They thought about it for a moment or two but then the telephone rang and Daisy trotted off to answer it.

‘Daisy, this is Hettie Pennington. Did my brother-in-law pass on the message about the woman who is applying for the . . .’

‘Miss Bilson? Yes, he did.’

‘Bilson? No, no. It’s a Miss Willis. He must have misheard. We’re coming over tomorrow afternoon . . .’

‘Tomorrow? We thought it was today at . . .’

‘No, Daisy. Do please pay attention. I shall meet Miss Willis there at three thirty but I shall come early to inspect the house and I hope to find it in better shape than last time. Dust under the beds, dead flowers on the landing window sill . . . You must make a real effort, Daisy.’

Daisy said nothing. She was wondering how Monty had managed to forget so many details. She said cautiously, ‘So her fiancé was killed in the war. How terribly sad.’

There was a silence. Then Hettie said, ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Miss Willis’s fiancé.’

‘Her fiancé died a year
after
the war – of meningitis. Did Montague tell you all this nonsense? Tut. He really is becoming very forgetful, poor man – or else he has a lurid imagination.’

Daisy struggled to make sense of what was being said. ‘He doesn’t usually make things up,’ she stammered. ‘That is, I’ve never noticed that he is getting muddled. Mind you, my grandmother had a terrible memory all her life – even when she was younger. So Ma said. She reckoned she’d forget her own name one day.’

‘I’m not interested in your grandmother, Daisy. Just put Montague right about the visit . . .’

‘So it’s definitely not today?’

‘Of course not. I’ve just told you – it’s tomorrow. Probably Dilys will come too. I shall ring her now that I’ve spoken to you.’

The call ended abruptly and now it was Daisy who felt confused. Slowly and thoughtfully she returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s tomorrow,’ she said. ‘That gives me more time to tidy the house. I’ll beat the carpets outside while it’s dry and—’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes. And it’s Willis, not Bilson. So I must get started.’ She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Why don’t you ask Len to cut a few flowers – I’m sure he can find some late roses – and then settle yourself in the summer house and think about what you want to wear tomorrow.’ Making such decisions for himself, she had decided, would help him to feel less dependent.

‘What about the waistcoat with the brass buttons?’

‘That’s nice. Whatever you’ll feel comfortable in.’

He nodded. ‘What’s for tea?’

‘Egg and cress sandwiches and some of Ma’s rock cakes.’

His face brightened. ‘I’ll go and find Len.’

Daisy watched him go with a feeling of unease. Then, with an effort, she pushed the worrying thoughts from her mind, and hurried inside to find the carpet beater.

The man watched them from behind the shrubs. He was bent over to reduce his height and aid his concealment. He saw the old man talking with the gardener as the two men wandered through the small but neat area behind the house – a small terrace, a strip of lawn, a flower bed with roses and a few shrubs. The old man was very unsteady on his feet and once or twice he clutched his companion’s arm to steady himself. Occasionally they stopped to cut flowers although it was October and most of them were finished and would offer no decent blooms until the following summer.

The watching man muttered under his breath about the gardener’s laziness – taking his time and thus wasting his employer’s money. ‘You wouldn’t get away with it if I was your master!’ Mind you, some people had no idea what real work was like, he argued silently. If the gardener had been through what
he
had experienced, he’d understand the meaning of hard labour.

Growing stiff from his bent position, the man shuffled sideways to hide himself behind the trunk of a large chestnut tree and the gardener caught the sound and turned towards him.

Damn! He ducked down, holding his breath. If they spotted him, he’d run.

‘Thought I ’eard something,’ the gardener told his companion and took a few steps forward, peering into the foliage half-heartedly.

The old man said, ‘You can’t be too careful these days, Len. My brother was startled by an intruder a few days ago. Not in the house, but trespassing in the garden, bold as brass.’ He tapped his head. ‘Bit strange, apparently.’

‘Soldier back from the wars, maybe,’ said the gardener, abandoning his suspicion. ‘Some of the poor blighters come ’ome with their wits ’alf gone. No good to anyone. My aunt’s stepson was like that. Drowned ’isself in the end. Best thing he could ’ave done, she said. Wore ’er down with ’is antics.’

The watching man studied the house, nodding as vague memories surfaced. One window was the bathroom . . . the rest bedrooms. It all seemed a long time ago – which it was. There was a pretty little maid then. He must have been about sixteen and he had designs on her. Ivy. That was her name. He grinned at the memories. She was willing, too, until he went too far and then the stupid little thing betrayed him. Ran screaming to his uncle who told Father who tried to give him a bit of a thrashing . . . His mouth tightened. ‘Big mistake!’ he muttered. Father got more than he bargained for including a black eye. After that, there was a family decision and the son was packed off abroad as violent and unmanageable.

‘Bastards!’ he whispered.

The two men were now making their way back to the house. Time to go, he told himself – but he’d be back.

FIVE

A
t half past ten the next morning Mrs Gray arrived. Daisy looked at her with astonishment. The woman reminded her of a wrestler – a wrestler wearing an apron over a coarse dress. She had huge muscular arms, a large body and fat face, scrawny hair straggling loose over her shoulders – and a pair of men’s boots which peeped from beneath her skirt!

‘Mrs Gray. Heavy work!’ she announced without preamble. ‘Mrs Maynard sent me. I’m to help you get ready for someone’s visit – a new housekeeper, I believe – and then you might give me a job for a few hours each week. Please yourself.’

She swept past Daisy and said, ‘Where’s the kitchen?’ but set off unerringly towards it without waiting for directions. ‘Best start with the kitchen floor.’ She stood, arms akimbo, looking at the tiled floor with disapproval. ‘Any laundry to do? I’m told you’re all at sixes and sevens here!’

Daisy stammered, ‘There are a few pillow cases and some towels and maybe—’

‘Get the fire going under the copper.’ She looked round the kitchen. ‘Where is it? In the outhouse?’

Daisy nodded.

‘Right then, put the laundry in to soak. I’ll deal with it later. Mangle outside, is it?’

‘In the yard.’ Wrong-footed, Daisy trailed behind her. She said ‘Er . . . I think . . .’ and then ran out of words.

Already the woman was rummaging under the sink where she immediately found a bucket and scrubbing brush.

‘Er . . . just sheets and towels, Mrs er. . . . I did some hand-washing . . .’

The woman nodded.

Daisy stammered, ‘I’ve forgotten your name. I’m sorry . . .’

‘Gray but call me anything you like. Now who’s this cluttering up the kitchen?’ She glanced up at Monty and began to fill the bucket with hot water from the kettle.

Monty hesitated in the doorway, his waistcoat held up for inspection. ‘There’s a loose button,’ he told Daisy, eyeing Mrs Gray nervously.

Before Daisy could reply the new arrival said, ‘I bet you could sew it on better than any woman.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘My old man was a dab hand with a needle and cotton. Learned it in the army.’

‘Did he now?’ Monty glanced at Daisy for help. ‘The fact is . . .’

In the silence that followed, Mrs Gray began to grate hard soap into the water in the bucket then rolled up her sleeves. ‘Out!’ she ordered, addressing them both. ‘Come back in fifteen minutes and it’ll be dry enough to walk on. First thing a housekeeper will look at is the kitchen floor. Second thing is a line full of fresh washing – even if it is Thursday.’

She was already down on her knees, making a start on the neglected tiles of the floor. Daisy led the retreat, taking Monty with her.

‘Your sister Dilys sent her,’ she explained. ‘Might as well humour her. She’s also going to do some washing for us.’

‘Bit of a bruiser, isn’t she?’

Daisy grinned. ‘I wouldn’t like to meet her in a dark alley, would you?’

He shook his head.

‘I’ll find you the sewing box, sir,’ said Daisy, hiding a grin. ‘And you can make a stab at that button while I tidy your bedroom and stow a few odds and ends in the spare room cupboard.’

The house became a hive of activity as Mrs Gray organized the mini spring clean. Daisy gave in gracefully and allowed her to take over. Two and a half hours later a pleasant smell of soap and polish permeated the house, the kitchen floor almost sparkled and the washing fluttered on the line, blown by the wind which had recently replaced the rain.

Daisy was exhausted but Mrs Gray was not even puffing with the effort, and had to be persuaded from starting to explore the attic quarters which she suggested probably needed a ‘doing over’. She turned down the offer of a cup of tea and hurried away, after explaining that Mrs Maynard had already paid her for her work.

Monty sank into a chair in the sitting room and sipped his tea.

‘A bit of a battleaxe!’ He grinned.

‘But a good worker.’

‘She said I made a good job of that button.’

‘Did she? Praise indeed!’ Daisy sat thoughtfully for a moment.

He said, ‘Did you like her?’

‘I’d like her energy!’

‘It would only be for, say, three hours a week. Daisy, I’ve been wondering if we could do without a housekeeper. I know my sister and Dilys seem set on finding a replacement for Miss Dutton but . . .’ He regarded her anxiously. ‘Without a housekeeper it might be too much for you, Daisy. What do you think?’

‘I think they will think it rather improper for me to permanently stay overnight. And my father would—’

‘But you’d be safe with me!’

‘It might not look right. You know how people gossip.’

He looked outraged at the suggestion. ‘Nobody gossiped about me and Miss Dutton.’

‘You may think so but Pa heard things in The Pig and Whistle.’

‘Really?’ Shocked, he thought about it and then smiled. ‘Me and Miss Dutton! At my age?’

‘Anyone would think you were on your last legs, sir!’

‘I’m sixty eight, Albert is sixty and Dilys is fifty-six. We used to call her the baby. She hated that when she was a little girl. Now she boasts of being younger than “the boys” as we were always called. She adored me then but always has found Albert difficult. He teased her a lot. He was a moody child. Very jealous of me. Always was . . . and I dare say he still is.’

Daisy listened, fascinated. As an only child she found it hard to imagine how it was to share the parents’ affection and attention. If she had had an older brother, would she have been jealous of him, she wondered. ‘So there were eight years between you and your brother,’ she said.

‘There was another boy. He died when he was three. A freak accident. Nobody was to blame. He fell off the rocking horse and hit his head on the edge of the coal scuttle. There was blood everywhere. I’ve never forgotten it.’ He stared sightlessly over the rim of his teacup, revisiting the drama in his imagination. ‘My mother went into hysterics, sobbing and screaming and it was left to Nanny to send for the doctor.’ He frowned. ‘He never regained consciousness, poor little lad.’

‘How terrible to lose your brother!’

‘You get over it eventually.’ He sighed.

‘I’ve got nobody except my parents.’