Fragile Blossoms (10 page)

‘Can’t,’ Julianna said last night. ‘I can’t love you.’ That shocked him and at the same time gave hope. He is not a boastful man. Willing hands and strong back is all. There are men with more with class and style. One such stood by the wall the other night. Unpaid watchman, or fool as Pa says, Luke was checking the cottage doors. It was a beautiful evening, Night Scented Stock dripping perfume and Julianna at the piano. Luke recognised the piece,
Liebestraume
it’s called,
Love’s Dream
. He knows because Ben Faulkner who plays at the Nelson told him. Ben plays jolly stuff, polkas and ragtime. The evening moves on, folks get rowdy and he switches to gentle stuff,
Love’s Dream
a favourite.

No doubt remembering her husband Julianna plays soft and sad. It’s odd that in a village known for gossip little is known of Owen Passmore. A Cambridge Don killed abroad is the general word. Now and then a gem will be added, true or false none knows or cares. ‘
I heard Mrs Dryden’s late husband was a Cambridge Don, a tall fellow, thin as a lath and handsome in an academic fashion
.’ That comment was made in the Nelson, a party of folk destined for the Big House booked a late lunch and sat talking. Busy lunchtime trade Luke was behind the bar helping. Whoever they were they knew of the cottage and its beautiful mistress.

A member of that same party stood here the other night watching the cottage and listening to her play. White tie and tails, the tip of his cigar glowing, he stood in the warm darkness. Luke wanted to shout, ‘clear off! You’re trespassing!’ This was no thief and there was no trespass, the fellow was on his side of the wall Greenfields lit up like Buckingham Palace.

Whoever he was he didn’t stay. He strolled back up the Rise likely thinking it not the act of a gentleman to spy. He’d be right. It’s Luke opinion of his own wanderings. Pa says he’s riding for a fall. It’s likely he is. The German doctor, Adelmann, is a successful man. You don’t get Meissen china fixing washers on taps. Right now Luke is in process of fixing shelves for the china. Gossip say the Cat away in Bedlam the Mice are able to play. Cruel and yet it might be so. People have needs. Julianna is a widow and no doubt the Doctor is lonely.

One terrible day Luke begged a girl for a kiss. He spent five minutes spinning a tale on how he couldn’t live without that kiss, and while spinning his beloved brother died. That day Luke came of age. Years pass and the only female kissed since then is his mother. Monk or priest every night he locks the door and lays on a pallet bed staring through a chink in the roof at the stars. A boy of twenty dove into the quarry, kicking down through filthy water he offered his life to God. ‘Keep your kisses and sins of the flesh! Let my brother live and I’ll steer clear of girls.’ A man rose to the surface with his dead brother in his arms.

Only a fool offers flesh to God. Maybe if he’d offered his soul to the Devil a life would’ve been saved. Jacky dead, and Luke loaded with guilt, the promise to God took hold. He couldn’t look at girls, couldn’t talk to them or share their warmth. The sight and sound of them filled him with rage, until now that is and Julianna. He’s still angry, more than that he’s afraid.

Every day it comes to him that the sacrifice he offered all those years ago, and the one God refused, might if that same God was feeling vengeful be asked again, and this time Julianna’s life is forfeit.

Julia met the postman at the gate.

‘Good day, Mr Brocket.’

‘Good day, ma’m.’ The postman handed the letters and then coughed behind his hand. ‘I’ve brought a cake. The missis heard you was interested in such things and sent one to try.’

‘Thank you.’ Julia opened the tin. Inside was a neat looking cake if a little scorched round the edges. ‘It smells delicious.’

‘It’s date. The kids love it.’

‘And we shall love it too, won’t we, Mrs McLaughlin. Please do thank Mrs Brocket and tell her I’ll be in touch.’

‘I will, ma’m.’

‘Well, Maud, it seems your idea has taken root. We’d better work out how much we can afford to pay. It must be worth their while as well as ours.’

‘Yes if they are going to send them. This is the only one we’ve had so far and I’ve been putting notices in all the shops and one in the church.’

‘You don’t think the ladies are interested?’

‘Country people are strange. If they like you fine, if they don’t, they never will. The other day I mentioned cakes to Mrs Cross as used to cook for you and she near bit my head off. Um, madam, are those two letters for me?’

‘Yes.’

Julia took her letters to the garden. The first was from John Sargent. Courteous as ever he wrote to tell of a showing of his work at a Festival of Art, Sandringham, and to invite her to a viewing. The second was from Daniel Masson; he was sorry they didn’t have a chance to talk in London and that he hadn’t forgotten her promise to sit, ‘
because there’s not a face in the world I’d sooner set to canvas
.’ He concluded by saying he was in the neighbourhood and hoped to call. The third letter was from Freddie. He writes almost every day, ‘
Come back, Ju-ju. I miss you, your loving friend, Freddie
.’ There is never a note from Evie and never one expected.

The wind blew the washing. Mrs Mac scuttled across the yard to gather it in. A thought crossed Julia’s mind regarding letters from Russell Square with what felt like coins inside. Why is Evelyn sending Maud money? Is it belated wages and if so what service is being performed?

Julia is beginning to think Mrs Mac indispensable. She’d like to like her more but is put off by an air of secrecy. The girls too are always whispering behind doors. It is the way of servants. The Rectory had its share of kitchen intrigue, Mother ever seeking to throw bread on troubled waters. The problem here is Maggie. She’s always missing when you want her or like a squirrel in winter stowing mouldering food under the bed. Maud says Susan Dudley can manage herself but Julia worries. Maggie’s influence can’t be good

Tuesday a gentleman knocked on the door. Thin-faced with cardboard in his shoes and a strong smell of alcohol to his clothes Benjamin Faulkner plays piano at the Nelson and is suggested by Albert Roberts as a possible tuner.

A superb ear Ben pitched the piano to perfection. ‘It’s a first-class instrument,’ he said. ‘I’d give my eye-teeth to own such a thing.’ Mrs Mac having prepared a delicious
tarte au gratin
, and he so undernourished, he was invited to share with the maids. In appreciation he played the first movement of the Tchaikovsky piano concerto, B-flat minor chords thundering through the house. This brought Matty running and then three choruses of
Polly-Wolly- Doodle.
Matty likes to play the piano. Julia tries to teach him but thinks he will respond better to a man.

‘A love of music runs in the family,’ said Ben. ‘Your late husband had a decent treble as a lad.’ It seems Ben knew Owen from college days when he played the chapel organ and Owen sang in the choir. It was a pleasant afternoon. When offered a fee Ben bowed. ‘This afternoon has been a gift to me,’ he said, his long tobacco-stained fingers stroking the keys.

‘Do you teach piano, Mr Faulkner?’

He grimaced. ‘Any musical bent of mine is purely incidental. I am, excuse me, I
was
a teacher. What I am now is a man fallen on hard times.’

Mr Faulkner, or Mr Doodle as he is now known to Matty, left agreeing to try his ‘rusty tutorial skills’ next Tuesday and every Tuesday following.

‘On trial I think Mr Faulkner,’ said Julia, not sure of the smell of alcohol.

He lifted his hat. ‘Indeed so madam. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Early next morning Julia was woken by a bumping noise in the hall and hurried down to investigate. The girls were out the back Maggie polishing the grate and Susan at the sink peeling carrots.

‘What was that noise?’

‘I dropped the coal scuttle, madam,’ said Maggie.

Susan was wiping her eyes and sniffing.

‘Are you crying, Susan?’

‘No, madam, it’s the onions.’

Julia took Susan aside. ‘Have you thought of visiting your mother? I’m sure she’d be pleased to know she’s to be a grandmother.’

‘She’s already got my sister’s children. She won’t want mine.’

‘You have sisters? Do they know of your situation?’

‘Joan, my eldest sister does.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Cherry Hinton.’

‘And your mother is close by?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cherry Hinton is close to where Matty and I used to live. Would you like me to write to your mother and tell her how you’re managing?’

‘My mother’s not good with letters but Joan can read.’

‘Alright then we’ll do it this evening.’

Joe Carmody laid the flowers on the table. ‘There you are, ma’m. There’s more if you want them. I’ve a whole bush of Hebe needs thinning. ‘

‘Thank you, Joseph.’ Julia kept the flowers in water. Time allowing she’ll take them to the Nelson. It was Nan’s birthday yesterday. Julia called with a gift but was told she as in the cellar with the brewery chap and couldn’t come.

It seems the whole of Baker’s is abuzz with news of the tea-shop. People stop and stare. So far no one has actually called to ask how things are progressing, which is odd when you think about it. You’d think they might call if only out of curiosity especially with the front parlour looking so pretty, the wicker tables and chairs sprayed with gilt and glistening in the sun.

Maggie was at the dresser lining the cutlery drawers. ‘Mr Roberts reckons we shouldn’t bother with linen. We should leave the tables bare.

‘If we leave the tables bare the glass will be scratched.’

‘He says it’s the fashion nowadays.’

‘Does he indeed? Well I’m afraid we’re to be backward in fashion and stay with starched linen.’

‘I like Mr Roberts. He was kind to me at the Nelson. Nicer than his missis.’

‘Ah, you’re speaking of
Albert
Roberts! Yes, he is an amiable man. On the subject of not so amiable when did Mr Luke Roberts say he would finish the shelves? We need them so we can... Oh, Maggie, be careful with that cake-stand! It’s Meissen china and very old and very fragile.’

‘It’s alright!’ Hands steady as a rock Maggie stared. ‘I’m not about to drop it. I worked three years at the Nelson and never so much as cracked a glass.’

I must stop this, thought Julia hurrying away. It is this man Luke Roberts. He is a preoccupation. I hear his name and am distracted. I look for him everywhere. If he’s working here I’m wishing he were not and if he’s elsewhere I’m wishing him here. I must keep busy. I’ll write to John Sargent accepting his invitation to the Arts Festival. Who would not want to see inside Sandringham? Matty can come with me. He loves such a thing and John was ever kind.

Julia took Polly and the pony-cart to the village. Parked she went to the side door of the Nelson and rang only to be only to be told Mrs Roberts sends her apologies. ‘She can’t see you now, madam. She’s laid up in bed with the curtains drawn and cloth on her head on account of a fearful head-ache.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Julia offered the Hebe. ‘Do please give her these and my wishes for a speedy recovery.’ She turned to go and then with a question turned back to find the maid grinning. Discomforted she hesitated then, not knowing what to do continued. ‘Is it something Mrs Roberts ate?’

The maid red-faced but still grinning shuffled her feet. ‘I couldn’t say.’

Unaccustomed to traffic Julia thought the best thing to do was go back the way she came and going to the end of the Market Place did a U-turn taking the trap back down the High Street passing as she did Nan who was at the side door in conversation with the maid. Julia waved but dropped her hand when with a twitch of skirts both mistress and maid darted indoors.

‘Oh, I see, she whispered, not sure what she did see only that it hurt to see it.

The rest of the day passed in a daze. Luke arrived to fit the shelves. Taking a leaf from his mother’s book Julia pleaded a headache and left him to it.

‘Don’t let it be that,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘Don’t let her not want me as friend.’ Hoping the slight imagined she waited but no one came with a message of thanks for the flowers. It must be faced, Nan didn’t have a headache nor was she busy yesterday in the cellar with a man from the brewery. She didn’t want to see Julia. It hurt! Her friend, Nanette Roberts, the straight-talking Yorkshire woman who dealt in honesty and warned of people who would help and people who wouldn’t is turning her back on the N&N!

Five o clock the hurt doubled when a package was brought to the door, the blue cashmere shawl plus a cursory note. ‘
Thank you for the flowers and the loan of this shawl. But on reflection, Mrs Dryden, I think the colour is too bright for me
,
regards, Nanette Roberts
.’

*

They are writing a letter to Susan’s mother. It is a slow process. They worked on it all of yesterday and today. Now the maids are in bed and it’s late but Susan has suddenly decided she wants her mother to know and can’t rest until she does. ‘It’s her grandbabby after all.’

‘Yes so it is.’ Julia is perched by the bed and whispering, Maggie asleep in the other bed. ‘Are you happy with that? Does it say what you wanted to say?’

‘That’s alright, madam. You’ve told her now.’

‘She will be glad eventually. Every mother worries about her child no matter how grown they are.’ Eyes big and bruised and a belly too big for a little girl Susan nodded. ‘Will it be posted today, madam?’

‘It’ll go first thing. You should get into bed now. You look very tired.’

‘I’ve got the bellyache.’

‘Bellyache?’ Julia was alarmed. ‘Surely it’s too soon for the baby?’

‘It’s not the baby. It’s that burnt cake we had for tea. Maggie says it’s poison.’

‘Did she?’

‘Yes and when I was doing the washing up she said if I get wet when I’m washing pots I’ll marry a drunk. My sister Joan works in a kitchen. She’s always wet and her husband Burt is always drunk.’

‘I’m not sure it signifies.’

‘I don’t want to marry a drunk. I want to marry a nice gentleman.’

Sighing Julia got to feet. ‘I think we’d all like a nice gentleman.’

Susan pulled the bookmark from under the pillow. ‘I want this man. He can sing and play the paper and comb. He sang the day the baby was born. You know,’ She covered her mouth with her hand, ‘when he kissed me.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘It made me laugh.’

Julia could only shake her head.

‘Can I sing that song to you, madam?’

‘It’s very late.’

‘Oh go on! Just one verse!’

‘Alright then.’

Susan climbed out of bed and standing with her hands clasped under her chin began to sing. ‘
Oh where has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where, can he be? With ears cut short and his tail cut long, oh where, oh where is he
.’

Julia crouched on the stairs. It was bad enough when Susan sang, the bump protruding from her nightdress, but then Maggie woke and must join in, the two of them holding hands and the angel behind their faces so visible.

‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why must these things happen? Why couldn’t Susan have her nice gentleman and be happy? Why must she be alone?’

There was no sitting up after that and no playing piano. Julia could only think of Owen and how much she missed him. This morning Matty spoke of him.

‘Papa came last night.’

‘What do you mean came?’

‘He sat on my bed. Kaiser saw him and wagged his tail.’

‘That’s nice. Put your boots on, dear heart, it’s going to rain.’

‘Did the rain man tell you that, Mumma?’

‘Mrs Mac told me.’

‘How does she know? Did the rain man tell her?’

‘No her bunions told her.’

‘Oldie Hubbard has bumps on her feet.’

‘Matthew! What did I say about Mrs McLaughlin not to be called Oldie?’

‘But she is Old Mother Hubbard!’

Julia tried changing topic. ‘What did Papa say?’

Matthew sulked. ‘Secret, shan’t tell!’

On the way home from Cambridge the other night Luke Roberts asked if she had loved Owen. Julia did love him but like Susan was always busy looking for a nice gentleman. How blind can you be! She had the nice gentleman but didn’t recognise him.

Late that night alone in her room Maud McLaughlin pushed her box under the bed and put Milady’s latest letters to the candle flame. She didn’t want them lying about. You never know who might read them. That Maggie’s not above sneaking into a person’s room.

It’s late and Maud needs to finish her letter for first post tomorrow. These days she’s got the daily bulletin down to a fine art leaning on details of house-cleaning rather than Madam’s private affairs, that way she hopes the letters to Russell Square will soon be considered a waste of time.

Oh she wishes she didn’t have to do it, but at forty-four, a liverish stomach, a weak bladder and only a few coins in her box, she felt she had little choice.

Milady Carrington’s instructions along with the ink-carrying pen were clear. ‘
Mrs Dryden is my friend. A young widow alone and with a sick child one worries how she’ll cope. You can be her guardian angel. A diary of daily events sent here to Langora will ensure my assistance long before she needs it. Do this and for your time and care I shall offer a token of appreciation
.’

Pen scratching Maud wrote of polishing silver, of china dinner services and of making table cloths out of sheets. The month of August was mentioned as a Gala Opening of the tea-shop. Maud told how people in the village were sure to come and how she, Mrs McLaughlin (not Mrs Mac of the pissy-drawers as Milady liked to say) was in charge of the maids. She mentioned Ben Faulkner, the new tutor, a strange sort of fellow and yet a gentleman. She told how she helps Master Matthew, who she loves very much, how they play with Kaiser the dog and the kittens. She told of her room, how she sits with Joey, her cockatiel, and is cherished by Madam as her right-hand.