Mary's Child (2 page)

Arkenstall came in the evening, walking down the hill towards St  Peter’s church but turning off into one of the streets. Darkness had fallen some hours ago but he could see at the end of the street the glint of the sea under the moon. A ship was coming in between the enclosing arms of the two piers, steaming up the river towards the docks. The wind coming off the sea drove up between the rows of houses and snatched at the tails of his dark woollen overcoat. There were few people about but those who saw him stared curiously because they did not see many of his kind down there.

He was in his forties, with a pointed beard and wire-rimmed spectacles, vigorous but with the slight stoop come from long hours at a desk. The overcoat covered a well-cut suit and his boots were expensive and highly polished. He had money. He was a solicitor, senior partner in the firm of Arkenstall, Eddrington & Halliwell, though Wilfred Eddrington had died of consumption three years before.

He stopped at a front door, closed against the wind but not yet bolted for the night. He opened it without knocking because that was unnecessary in these streets. He closed the door behind him, took off his bowler hat and walked along the uncarpeted passage to the kitchen door at the rear. This time he knocked and waited.

The midwife opened the door to him and his nostrils twitched at the stale smell of cooking but he asked, ‘May I see Miss Tate, please?’

Aggie led him through the kitchen, its table laden with dirty dishes, into the bedroom. A small table stood beside the bed, holding a pack of cards, a hand of them face down, a scattering of small change, two empty bottles of stout and two half-full glasses. Martha Tate laid her own hand of cards face down on the coverlet when she saw Arkenstall and said, ‘Oh, it’s you again. I’ve been expecting you but not this quick. How did you know?’

He answered, ‘That is my business.’ He turned to the midwife and asked, ‘Will you excuse us, please?’ He watched Aggie’s back as she flounced out of the room, and saw that the door was closed behind her. Then he swung back to face Martha Tate.

Twenty years separated them but the gap seemed narrower. The woman was darkly attractive with a wide mouth, full breasts and long legs that showed through the sheets, but there was a hardness about the fine-boned face that added years. Arkenstall thought, The face of a fallen angel, then chided himself for being melodramatic.

He looked around the room and said, ‘Where is the child? Have you found it a home?’

Martha answered, ‘I have. I didn’t want her, couldn’t drag her round the halls, could I? She’s gone to a couple up the street: Carter, downstairs at number eight.’

‘A girl, then.’

‘That’s right. Now let’s get on with it.’ Her tone was brusque.

The solicitor’s lips tightened in anger but he said, ‘When I called on you a month ago it was because you had obtained an interview with my client at which you stated that you had met his son when you were appearing at the Empire Theatre here—’

Martha broke in, ‘That’s right. I’m billed as Vesta Nightingale, vocals and dance. But we’ve been through all this before.’

Arkenstall nodded. ‘But I want to ensure there is no mistake nor misunderstanding. To go on: you further alleged that the young man was the father of the child you were carrying.’

‘So he was.’

The solicitor said, ‘He has been dead for six months now and cannot deny the charge or admit it. His father does not believe it to be true.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t. But I’m telling you the truth.’ Martha Tate was defiant. She looked him straight in the eye but he was not impressed. In the courts he had seen that same direct gaze from guilty men trying to brazen it out.

He said, ‘Nevertheless, you cannot prove his paternity and my client refuses to accept liability on his behalf.’ He held up a hand as Martha opened her mouth. ‘Wait, please. Let me finish. A month ago I said my client, though denying any liability, might as an act of charity be prepared to make a once-and-for-all payment to cover the expenses of the confinement. I can now say that he is prepared to do this, provided you sign a disclaimer to the effect that his son was not the father of your child.’

Martha sneered, ‘He’s trying to buy me off!’

Arkenstall kept a hold on his temper. ‘The father is still mourning and does not want the boy’s name sullied.’ The young man had been killed in an accident in the shipyard, slipped and fallen from the deck of a ship under construction. Arkenstall wondered briefly how he would have felt in the father’s place. He himself had married late in life and his own son was barely two years old. The mere thought of losing him was horrifying. His fingers fumbled as he took the paper from his pocket. ‘I have the disclaimer here.’ He handed it to Martha and she took it but did not read it.

She demanded, ‘How much?’ Then added quickly, muttering, eyes sliding to the door, ‘Keep your voice down.’

Arkenstall said softly, ‘One hundred pounds.’

Martha licked her lips. That was more than some men earned in two years in the yards. She asked, ‘What if I don’t sign?’

Arkenstall said flatly, ‘You get nothing.’

She glared at him, ‘Suppose I took him to court or told the papers? There’s one or two reporters would love a story like that from Vesta Nightingale.’

Arkenstall would not be moved. ‘They might. But would they pay you a hundred pounds?’

Martha tried a different tack, smiled and wheedled, ‘Make it two hundred.’

But Arkenstall shook his head and said with distaste, ‘My client made it clear he would not bargain. That is his final offer.’

Martha sighed, put a hand to her brow in a theatrical gesture of weariness and gave in. ‘What can a poor girl in my position do? I’ve got to get to London to work. I’ll sign it.’

Arkenstall had one of the newfangled fountain pens in an inside pocket but he did not offer it. Martha Tate leaned out of the bed to reach a chest of drawers and took from one of the drawers a pen and a bottle of ink. Arkenstall glimpsed a packet of cheap stationery in the drawer. The letter to his client had been written on similar paper – and probably on the table in the kitchen next door.

He held up a hand, ‘One moment.’ He took the disclaimer from her and folded it so only the foot of the sheet showed, with the spaces for signatures. He opened the door and saw the midwife rising from her chair – or, he wondered, sinking hastily into it? But he called her, ‘Will you come in, please?’

Martha scratched her signature at the foot of the sheet and Aggie added hers as a witness.

Arkenstall said, ‘Thank you.’ He waited and Aggie took the hint and left the room again. When the door was closed he took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on to the bed. ‘There are fifty pound notes in there. I will give you the balance at the station.’

Martha snatched up the envelope and counted the money, licking her finger to flick over the notes. Then she tucked the envelope away under her pillow and Arkenstall said, ‘When you register the birth – the certificate asks for the name of the father.’

She shrugged, ‘I’ll leave that empty.’

‘And the child – have you given her a name?’

Martha smiled mockingly, ‘Yes, I have. She’s Chrissie.’

Arkenstall froze in the act of putting the disclaimer in his pocket and glared at her. She smirked up at him, enjoying his anger. Then he swallowed it and buttoned his overcoat, picked up his hat. ‘Let me know when you are leaving. I will meet you at the station.’

‘I’ll do that, never you fear.’ She was still grinning as he let himself out of the bedroom.

He crossed the kitchen and the midwife held that door open for him. He paused a moment then and said softly, ‘I paid the messenger you sent to say the child had come, but this is in case he cheated you.’ He shoved a folded pound note into her hand and walked out on her muttered thanks.

In the street he took a deep breath, glad that the worst was over.

He walked up the street to number eight. All the houses were the same but this one had a front doorstep a shade whiter than most, a passage scrubbed cleaner. Letting himself in, he walked down the passage to the Carters’ door. He took off his bowler and knocked at the kitchen door again. The young woman who opened it was dark-haired and slim, a white apron knotted about her trim waist. She smiled as she peered up at him, his face in shadow from the gaslight in the passage behind him.

He asked, ‘Mrs  Carter?’

‘Yes.’ The smile faded a little as she became wary and realised he did not belong there.

He said, ‘My name is Arkenstall. I am a solicitor. I understand you have a child here and I would like to talk to you about her.’

‘What about her?’ The smile had gone now. Mary Carter’s hand had tightened on the door, ready to slam it in his face, but then she decided that would not do. Reuben Ward, father of the family who lived upstairs, might come home drunk, staggering up the passage, at any time now. She did not want him to see this man at her door. Nor did she want to answer Arkenstall’s questions there.

She opened the door wider and said reluctantly, ‘You’d better come in.’

Arkenstall entered and noted the scrubbed table, the oven that gleamed from black-leading and the clean linoleum on the floor. A stocky young man got up from an armchair beside the fire, a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms, and Arkenstall said, ‘Mr  Carter?’

Harry’s answer was a guarded: ‘Aye.’ He, too, was suspicious of this well-dressed stranger.

Mary would not be thought ill-mannered and asked, ‘Would you like to sit down, sir?’ She indicated the other armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

‘Thank you.’ Arkenstall sat, bowler held on his knees, but the young couple stood, looking down at him.

Mary came straight to the point and demanded again, ‘What about Chrissie?’

Arkenstall blinked at that use of the name, silently cursed Martha Tate, but said evenly, ‘Are you aware of the claims made by the child’s natural mother as to her parentage?’

Mary’s lips pursed. ‘That I am. She didn’t give any names but I know the young feller left her in the lurch.’

Arkenstall detected her hostility but went on, ‘I represent the father of the young man accused. My client does not believe his son was responsible, nor does he accept any liability, but he wishes to ensure the child is properly cared for. He recognises your taking the child as an act of kindness and instructs me to tell you that you will never want.’

Mary asked, narrow eyed, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that he is prepared to pay a reasonable allowance to cover the cost of raising the child.’

‘No!’
Mary almost shouted the word. Harry, startled, laid a hand on her arm. She took a breath, steadied herself and went on, quieter now but still definite, ‘Not a penny! We want nothing off you! If that young fly-by-night’s father has something on his conscience he can pray! He’ll get no help from us in easing it!’

Harry squeezed her arm and said gruffly, ‘Go canny now, lass.’ But the gaze he turned on Arkenstall was just as hostile as hers.

Mary put a hand over Harry’s. ‘All right, all right. But that young feller took advantage of that lass, promised her the moon then left her when she fell for the bairn.’ She eyed Arkenstall and went on, ‘My Harry’s not a boozer like some, and I’m a good manager. The bairn is ours now, with a decent home and a decent life in front of her. The rest she can leave behind. All we want from you is to get out of here and leave us alone.’

Arkenstall stood up. ‘Very well.’ They stepped aside to let him pass but he paused then and asked, ‘May I see the child?’

Mary hesitated, suspicious again. ‘She’s just been fed. I was going to put her to bed now.’ She hesitated still, but then decided, ‘I can’t see any harm in you having a look at her. Let him see, Harry.’

So Arkenstall stepped forward and peered down at the small pink face, the eyes closed, a wisp of dark hair. He did not see any resemblance to the alleged father of the child but she was only a couple of days old. As for any likeness to the mother, Martha Tate .  . . ? He decided there was not. There was only innocence in this small face. But maybe that would change as she grew – to be what?

Mary said defensively, ‘She’s clean, well fed and healthy.’

Arkenstall smiled at her. ‘I’m sure she is. But I can see that.’ He moved on to the door and opened it. He paused again for a moment then, hat in hand, to glance once more around the kitchen, comfortably warm with the fire in the grate compared to the chilly bareness of the passage. He knew that providing linoleum for the passage would be an expense shared with the family living in the three rooms above, and if they would not or could not pay . . . He said, ‘I think the child will do well with you. Good night.’

As the door closed behind him Mary moved into Harry’s encircling arm, so he held her and the child. He stroked her hair and soothed her. ‘There now, he’s gone. Calm down.’

She looked up at him, defiant. ‘I’m not sorry. I meant every word and I stand by what I said. That lass was badly done by.’

‘I believe you.’

‘You would if you’d listened to her, like I did.’

‘All right, you’ve sent him off.’ He was silent a moment, then added, ‘Mind you, one o’ these days we might wish we’d taken that money he offered.’

‘Never!’ She pushed away so she stood at arm’s length. ‘If we took that money then in a few years the father might try to claim the bairn back, and if he could show he’d paid for her keep all along because he’d meant to have her, then they might give her to him.’