A Dream of her Own (20 page)
‘Yes.’ She looked surprised.
‘What has been arranged for supper?’
‘Some nice sandwiches, two kinds, ham and salmon, cut dainty, like. There was plenty left over from the wedding breakfast so there’s more than enough for the two of you. And there’s a slice or two of wedding cake. It’s all waiting on a tray with a teapot and two of the best china cups.’
‘Good. I want you to cover the tray with a clean cloth and bring it in here. You can leave it on that table by the window - it’s cool over there - and then you needn’t wait up for Master John coming home.’
‘But the tea - it’ll go cold.’
‘You needn’t make the tea yet, Polly. I’ve noticed there’s a small hob on this grate. Have you - we - got a kettle that’ll fit?’
‘Oh yes. Mrs Edington used to make tea for herself regularly when she was still able to spend her days in here.’
‘Right then. Bring everything in, as I say, and then you must go to bed. You’ve had a long day.’
Polly’s face flushed; she stared at her for a moment as if she was going to say something, but then she turned and hurried out. As the door closed behind her a gust of wind rattled the window and the russet-coloured curtains moved slightly. Constance went over to the window and moved one curtain so that she could look out into the street. There were still a few snowflakes swirling in the wind but the snow wasn’t lying. The roofs of the houses opposite glowed damply in the light from the streetlamps.
Where was John?
Frances Edington knew that her son had not come home yet. Ever since her brother had carried her upstairs and Polly had helped her to undress and get into bed, she had lain awake and tried to make out what was happening in the house around her. She was tired, exhausted even, but her mind had not allowed her to sleep.
She was becoming a prisoner in this room. She spent more and more of her life here and, when she was too tired to read, she would lie listening to the sounds from beyond her door, and try to imagine exactly what was going on.
She knew when Polly woke up and began to clean the grate in the kitchen. She heard John’s kind-hearted greeting to the girl every morning when he went downstairs for breakfast. He was always cheerful, no matter how late he had returned home the night before.
Then Frances would sit up and smile in anticipation when she heard his footsteps returning upstairs to say goodbye to her before he left for work. How eagerly she would wait to hear him returning home again. He always came straight up to see her, bringing her newspapers, magazines, perhaps a new book from the circulating library.
And then there were the sounds from outside the house. Usually she was awake in time to hear the tradespeople - the milkman and the baker - bringing their deliveries in horse-drawn carts. Then, a little later, after the men had gone to work and the children to school, the butcher and the grocer would arrive. The people who lived in this street were not prosperous, but neither were they poor, and the sounds outside were a testament to how comfortably they could afford to live.
Except for her and John. Making ends meet was as much of a struggle as it had been when Frances had eloped with Duncan and her father had refused to help. And when Duncan had left her, her father had relented - but only a little. Over the years she and John, even with the salary he earned from Barton’s, could hardly have stayed living in this house if it had not been for her brother’s kindness, and she would certainly not have been able to afford a maid.
But now John had married and things would be different. Not just because his wife would be able to help to look after her, but because John would now come into part of his inheritance. And once a child was born there would be more. Frances sighed. She knew why her father had insisted on a child before John gained his full inheritance, and she almost hated him for it.
But what of John? Surely he hadn’t married the girl simply for financial reasons? No, Constance was lovely - more than that, she was truly beautiful, and she was well-mannered and well-spoken. Surely any young man could fall in love with her, no matter what her background.
And Constance? It was obvious that she adored John. Would that love be strong enough to withstand any horror she might feel if she discovered what kind of man John’s father had been? Frances wished that John had not been so quick to assure her that Constance had no family to object to her alliance with the son of a scoundrel.
The carriage clock on her bedside table began to chime. Frances turned her head wearily. Quarter-past nine. The clock had been a present from that scoundrel - the husband she had adored. She sighed and acknowledged bitterly that now it was not her husband’s behaviour that was worrying her, it was her son’s.
This was his wedding night and where was he?
Frances began to cough. She pushed herself forward from her mound of supporting pillows and clutched at one of the clean rags left handy on the night table. She wiped her lips but, before she had time to examine the sputum by the light of the oil-lamp which was always left burning, the coughing fit worsened. The pain in her chest became so severe that she found herself gripping handfuls of the eiderdown and pulling it in towards her chest in an effort to press the pain away.
As the cough and the pain subsided she found that tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Polly stood in the narrow hallway and listened to the dreadful sounds coming from upstairs. How long had Mrs Edington been coughing like that? Until a moment ago, Polly had been in the kitchen and she wouldn’t have heard anything with the door closed. That’s why Mr Barton had had the bells installed: so that his sister could summon Polly quickly if she needed help.
The bell pull was right next to the bed. Mrs Edington hadn’t summoned her. Polly hesitated: should she go up anyway? She gripped the tray she was carrying more firmly and looked towards the door leading into the front parlour. Or should she send Master John’s new wife up? It would give her something to do instead of sitting moping by the fire ...
While Polly stood there, undecided, the racking coughs subsided and then stopped. After a moment Polly heard a half moan, half-sigh of distress and she could imagine Mrs Edington settling back into her pillows. She wouldn’t go up then. But perhaps she’d better mention it.
Polly balanced her tray and knocked on the front-room door. Barely waiting for an answer she hurried in to find Mrs John, as she wanted to be called, sitting staring miserably into the fire. Poor little thing, to be kept waiting like this on her wedding night, Polly thought, but she stopped herself feeling too sorry for her. After all, she reminded herself, there she is, sitting by a nice warm fire giving orders like Lady Muck, while I’m skivvying, fetching and carrying just like I always do. But it was nice of her to say I could go to bed now. Perhaps she’ll be all right when she’s settled in a bit.
Polly put the tray on the table by the window as she’d been instructed and then hurried back to the kitchen to fetch the small kettle. Master John’s wife looked up and smiled weakly when she returned. Polly took a fire iron and pulled the hob forward before placing the kettle on it.
‘There,’ she said. ‘The water’ll heat up nicely, and when Master John comes home you can push it back and boil it up.’
‘Thank you, Polly. Now off you go. I won’t need you any more tonight.’
‘Right oh. But ...?’
‘What is it?’
‘Mrs Edington, she’s been coughing.’
‘Yes, I heard her. I thought that you must have gone up to her.’
‘No. I was going to but then she stopped. If she’s sleeping I don’t want to disturb her.’
‘I understand. Don’t worry, I’ll listen out for her.’
Polly hesitated. ‘Her medicine’s on the table. But will you be able to ...? I mean have you ever ...?’
‘I’m used to invalids, if that’s what you mean. My mother died in the wor—I mean when I was younger.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Polly started to walk towards her but Mrs John shook her head and waved her away. The poor lady obviously didn’t want to be reminded. ‘Right, then. Good night, Mrs John.’
‘Good night.’
Once back in the kitchen, Polly pulled the truckle bed out from under the table, and tugged the chain that turned off the gaslamp. She knew it was daft but she never took her clothes off until the room was dark. At home there were so many brothers and sisters that modesty required all kinds of shifts and turns, but here there was no one to spy on her or make cheeky comments and yet she still could not bring herself to strip off with the light on.
Not that she stripped off exactly. She didn’t own a nightgown so she slept in her underwear and, if it was cold like it was tonight, she kept her woollen stockings on too. Then, the same as every night, she hung her dress over the back of a chair and slipped beneath the blankets on the truckle bed which she’d pulled right across in front of the fire.
Usually she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the black and white striped ticking of the pillow, but tonight she found that her head was spinning with strange thoughts.
She couldn’t help thinking about Master John and his pretty little bride and what they would be doing tonight when he came home. Polly squirmed as she felt a stab of feeling at the pit of her stomach. It didn’t hurt but it was uncomfortable and yet strangely pleasant. Polly knew what men and women did - she couldn’t help knowing, growing up the way she had, with her mam and her dad and all her brothers and sisters sleeping so close together shared out between two tiny upstairs rooms.
When her oldest brother, Geordie, got married and brought his lass, Ida, home, they’d had to share with the younger children until they got a couple of rooms of their own. But by the time that happened, Ida was six months gone.
Master John would be no different from her dad or Geordie, she supposed. And that was probably why he hadn’t come home yet. No doubt he was out on the town with that swell friend of his, getting drunk as a boiled owl.
Polly was glad that she wouldn’t have to deal with him if he did come home blotto. She could stay here until the morning, warm and snug in her own narrow bed, with the kitchen smelling pleasantly of good food and the glow from the hearth to comfort and reassure her.
Yes, she worked hard but life here was good compared to the life of her sisters and her mother. Perhaps she would never get married. It might be better to remain an old maid rather than have to be some man’s drudge and be worn out having baby after baby year after year.
But if she didn’t get married she wouldn’t be a bride, she wouldn’t have a wedding day. She could imagine herself walking down the aisle of the church carrying a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Just before she drifted off to sleep, Polly sighed as she found that the young man waiting for her at the altar was Albert Green ...
waited until the sound of regular breathing from the other bed told her that Alice was asleep. Then, pushing the bedclothes back, she swung her feet over the lumpy mattress on to the bare wooden floor. It was cold, the draught under the door was like a howling gale, and Nella reached for her shawl and pulled it over her shoulders.
The Sowerby house might be grand, Nella thought, but these flamin’ attics are like the most miserable hovels on earth. In summer it’s boiling hot up here under the eaves and in winter it’s like ice.
In the cold light coming through the dormer window Nella glanced at her new roommate. Alice was sleeping like a baby. Well, she was a baby, wasn’t she? And that was probably why she had cried herself to sleep. Nella had heard the muffled sobs but she had lain still, pretending to be asleep. She could have comforted her, Constance would have wanted her to, but she had something else to worry about.
Now, satisfied that the new skivvy was sleeping the blessed sleep of exhaustion, Nella moved her aching limbs painfully across the floor towards the chest of drawers. She groped for the matches, pulled the candle in the saucer forward and lit it. The flame wavered and then steadied; Nella turned to see if the slight scraping noise the match had made had woken Alice but it hadn’t.
Nella’s clothes were hanging over the rail at the bottom of her bed. She reached into the pocket of her dress and took out the small golden coloured heart. She held out her hand and examined the heart in the light of the candle. There they were, the two letters engraved on the front, C and N entwined. The first letters of their names. This was the wedding gift she had given to Constance.
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