Mourning Doves (10 page)

‘Some of it may be more valuable than we know. Do you know anybody who could say what it is worth?’

‘Celia, you really do have the most dreadful ideas. How can I take someone I know round the house to ask them that?’ There was a hint of a sob in her voice, as she complained, ‘It is bad enough that I will have to let that dreadful estate agent take perfect strangers round the house.’

‘Sorry, Mama.’ Celia was too exhausted to follow up the subject further. She herself longed to crawl back into
bed and simply rest. But then there would be nobody to look after Mama or Edna.

She lifted the cash box off her mother’s knees and put it back where she had found it. Then she said, ‘Perhaps, tomorrow, Mama, when you are less tired, you could look round the house and see what you want to keep. Remember how small the rooms of the cottage are.’

Louise lay back on her pillows and pulled the bedding up round her chin. ‘I’m not likely to forget it,’ she responded huffily.

Celia bent and kissed her and went thoughtfully downstairs to have her breakfast. For the first time in years, she really looked at the furnishings of the upper and lower halls and the staircase. Two huge chests of drawers on the first-floor landing, each with an oil painting carefully centred above it; three charming watercolours on the staircase wall; and, in the front hall, two Russell engravings, six chairs, a large hall table, two occasional tables, a hope chest, a barometer, a large hat stand, innumerable vases, candlesticks, trays, a fireplace complete with brass pokers, in one corner a huge china pot with drooping dyed seed pods in it, a brass gong on a stand – and, near the front door, a grandfather clock, which showed the times of sunrise and sunset, and struck the quarter-hours as well as the hours. And of course the carpets – they, also, were probably valuable.

There was enough furniture in the halls alone to fill the biggest room in the cottage chock-a-block, she realised with a sense of shock.

Before entering the dining room to ring the bell for her breakfast to be brought up, she paused and smiled at the beautiful old face of the clock. It had been her friend ever since she could remember; its firm sprightly striking had comforted her through nights when she had lain terrified in her bed or had been shut in her room by angry parents; it reminded her when she was supposed to do her routine
tasks of the day, and now, suddenly, it reminded her of her stiff, unbending father carefully winding it up each Sunday morning. He, too, had loved that clock, she guessed – the thought made him suddenly more human to her.

She smiled again. She must remember to wind it on Sunday. She would never part with it, she decided. It might just fit into the back of the hall in the cottage. She must take a tape measure to see if there was room. And she had better take pencil and paper to write down the measurements of the rooms. And a big apron to protect her tailored skirt from the dust.

I’ll never manage to remember everything, she told herself hopelessly, as she went to the side of the dining-room fireplace to pull the bell rope again. Dorothy was slow in answering this morning.

I’ve never had to remember so much in my life. I’ve just done exactly what I was told to do – no more, no less – bits of things, and be reminded about them – like Dorothy. Only, Dorothy knows more than I do.

As Dorothy rushed into the dining room with the breakfast tray, Celia seated herself at the huge table, and the harassed maid dumped the tray in front of her.

Dorothy stood back, panting a little, as she said, ‘Ethel didn’t have time to light the fire in here this morning, Miss. What with me getting ready to go to Meols, like – and she having to run down to the stables to order the taxicab for you. She done the one in the breakfast room, though – ready for the Missus getting up.’

Celia assured her that it was quite a warm morning, but that she should ask Ethel to have a good fire in Miss Edna’s bedroom by evening. ‘Could she manage to clean the room?’

‘Oh, aye. She’s quite smart, is Ethel. Which room would it be, Miss?’

‘Of course! You never knew my sister, did you? The back bedroom with the roses on the walls was always her
room. The room we put Mr Albert Gilmore in when he was here. Ask Mrs Gilmore what bedding to use.’

‘Yes, Miss. I’m to be ready in half an hour, Miss?’

Celia was cracking her boiled egg. She did not want it, but she knew she must eat something. ‘Yes, please,’ she replied mechanically to Dorothy’s question, and then she asked, ‘Have you had your breakfast?’

Dorothy was grateful for the unexpected inquiry. ‘Oh, aye. Had it an hour ago, at six o’clock.’ She smiled, as she went out of the room. She was certain that the Missus would never have bothered to ask such a question.

Dorothy had been both excited and scared to find herself riding in a taxicab, a mechanically propelled vehicle which actually did not need a horse to pull it! She had seen cars and lorries in the town – but to be really riding in a car was a thrill indeed. She had never crossed the river by anything but a ferryboat before, and it was with similar excitement that she trotted beside Celia down a long passage and steep staircase to the underground electric train. She was glad that she had agreed to accompany Celia. What a wonderful morning!

The guard stored the clumsy trunk in the guard’s van at the back of the train, and, when they had to change to the steam train at Birkenhead Park, he called a porter to transfer the trunk to the other guard. Celia shyly parted with sixpences as tips and all the men looked quite happy.

At Meols, the porter was busy with a series of first-class passengers and took no notice of their beckoning fingers. So, between them, they lugged the straw trunk down the long sandy lane from the station to the cottage, and thankfully dropped it on the doorstep. They were giggling and gasping like two schoolgirls who had been racing each other.

‘I bet we been quicker than waiting for that porter to finish with the snobs,’ Dorothy said unthinkingly, as Celia found the key for the door.

Celia smiled to herself; she had bought third-class tickets for the sake of economy; they had always gone first class
when her father was alive. Was one really a snob if one bought first-class tickets? she wondered.

As they inspected the ground floor of the interior of the cottage, Dorothy followed Celia very closely and very quietly. It was Dorothy’s opinion that one should be careful of ghosts in a house left long empty. They did not, however, seem to disturb anybody – or anything.

They slowly climbed the stairs and went into the front bedroom, which was about as big as Louise’s dressing room in her present home.

Dorothy folded her arms across her stomach and considered the grubby, forlorn-looking little room. Her nose wrinkled. ‘Where’ll I start, Miss?’

Celia laughed, but it was not a happy laugh. ‘I don’t know, Dorothy,’ she admitted. ‘I must go into the village to see a man who does repairs, and try to find a sweep to sweep the chimneys. So don’t bother about cleaning windows today – the sweep is bound to spread soot, no matter how good he is.’ She looked around the stuffy room, and said, ‘I noticed, as we came in, that Mr Billings has had the glass replaced in the single room over the hall – and he’s taken the boarding down from the downstairs windows – so at least you can see to work.’

‘Suppose I start with all the hearths, Miss – get them clear so the sweep can work,’ Dorothy suggested, as she slowly drew the hatpins out of her big black hat. ‘Then I could give the whole place a good sweep with the hard broom we brought. Get rid of the litter, like?’

Celia gratefully agreed to these suggestions. ‘The single bedroom doesn’t have a fireplace, so you could clean that room thoroughly. If the linoleum on the floor looks very damp, you could pull it up in strips and throw it out; I think we shall have to buy new. Then scrub the wooden floor underneath with disinfectant. When it dries we can see if we have to replace the planking.’

As they moved out of the bedroom and down the precipitous
little staircase, Dorothy nodded. ‘You said the pump didn’t work. Where would I get water, Miss?’

‘I’m going to ask Mr Fairbanks, next door, if you could draw a few bucketfuls from his pump.’ She sighed. ‘That’s another person I have to find – someone who will say whether the well is usable – and will mend the pump.’

Since there was no clean place on which to lay it, Dorothy stuck her hat back on her head, rather than putting it on the hall floor while she struggled with the knots of the rope round the trunk. She laid the broom handles on one side, and pulled off the lid. Very carefully, she took out a neat brown paper parcel and handed it to Celia. She smiled up at her, and announced, ‘Lunch!’

The deep lid of the trunk made a clean receptacle in which to deposit hats, coats, gloves, purses and the precious food. Both of them shook out the sackcloth aprons, which lay on top of the cleaning materials, and wrapped them round their black skirts.

They looked at each other, and, for no particular reason, they laughed. ‘We look as if we’re going hop-picking,’ remarked Dorothy. She was glad to see Celia laugh, and she said, ‘Would you like to go and see the fella next door about water, while I begin on the living-room fireplace?’

Celia agreed.

Feeling very shy, she walked down the tiled path, the sand squeaking under her boots, round the high privet hedge with its new green buds, to Mr Fairbanks’ nicely varnished front gate. Before opening it and entering the garden, she hesitated nervously, and then, before her courage failed her, she unlatched it and hurried up the path.

She knocked timidly at his black-enamelled front door. As she looked at it, she wondered if she would ever reduce next door to comparable orderliness.

From his front room window, Eddie Fairbanks had seen her coming, so the door was opened immediately, and she was greeted like an old friend. In her sackcloth apron, she
looked even smaller and frailer than when he had first seen her, and he said warmly, ‘Come in, Miss. The wind’s cold this morning.’

As he led her into the cosy back room which she remembered from her previous visit, and sat her down in the same nursing chair, she was shivering, partly from chill and partly because she had to deal with a man alone in the privacy of his own home.

While she settled herself in the chair, he turned the hob with its black kettle on it over the fire. ‘Will you be having some tea with me?’ he asked.

His amiability gave her confidence. She smiled quite sweetly at him, and said not just now, because she had to set the maid to work and then go to Hoylake and from there to Liverpool to meet her sister, who was coming up from Southampton. And would he be so kind as to let her maid draw some water from his kitchen?

‘Oh, aye. When she’s ready for it, she should come and tell me, and I’ll carry it in for her. Would she be liking some tea?’

‘I’m sure she would. She had her breakfast awfully early.’ What an old dear he was, she considered, as he looked kindly down on her. She stopped shivering.

While weighing her up, he rested his shoulder against the mantelpiece and waited for the kettle to start singing. She looked so careworn that he said cautiously, not wanting to offend her, ‘I think – I think you’d better have a cuppa before you go to Hoylake, Miss. While I make it, you go and tell your maid what you want done and that she’s to come over when she wants some water. Then both of you come and have a quick cup. How about that?’

She hesitated, and then said, ‘Very well. You are most kind.’ She found it strange to be treated with consideration – only harried Phyllis seemed to treat her similarly – or Winnie, when Louise was out.

When she told Dorothy about the invitation, Dorothy
said promptly, as she continued to rake out the cinders and ashes from the front room fireplace, ‘That’d be nice. But you open that lunch right now and eat some of it – sandwiches – because otherwise you won’t have time.’

It seemed odd to be given an order by the house-parlourmaid; Winnie was the only servant who had ever ventured advice, and she usually addressed herself to Louise.

Celia took out a sandwich and hastily consumed it. As she brushed the crumbs off her black blouse, Dorothy got up from her knees to take the bucket of ashes outside, and said, ‘There’s a packet of biscuits. You take it and you can eat them on the train, to keep you going. There’s lots else for me.’

‘Are you sure?’

Dorothy grinned at her. ‘Winnie told me that I had to see that you eat – so you better had, or I’ll be in trouble.’

‘That’s very nice of both of you.’

There was something quite different about this morning, she considered, as the pair of them tramped round to Eddie’s house. I am not only doing different things, but people are behaving differently, too. This thought stayed with her as, twenty minutes later, she set out for Hoylake.

She had been armed by Eddie Fairbanks with the name of a sweep, which would save her time hunting about when she reached Hoylake village. ‘Go and see this chap before you go to see Ben Aspen,’ he advised. ‘Ben’ll keep you talking for hours, if you don’t watch. If you tell him you must catch a train, it will help to stop the flow!’

She smiled, as she hurried through the sandy lane and then on to the tarmac main road. Ben Aspen must be quite a well-known character.

While en route to the sweep’s house, she found the notice board of a plumber on a cottage gate. A plumber might know about wells and pumps, she thought, and promptly knocked on his door.

At both his house and that of the sweep she found herself dealing with their wives. Both of them laboriously wrote down with the nub of a pencil on a scrap of paper her name, her address and the address of the cottage.

Once the plumber’s wife had taken the address of the cottage, she said, in surprise at Celia’s request that her husband should look at a well and a pump, ‘There’s mains water down there. What you need is to have it connected and turned on, and have a modern set of taps put in. And there was a sewer laid down as well, as I remember.’

Celia was doubtful that a woman would know about waterlines, so she responded, ‘Mother only said it had a well.’

‘Well, I never! Well, let Billy come and look at it for you. Tomorrow morning, aye?’

As she turned away from the door, Celia was suddenly wild with hope. If the woman was right, a colossal load of work would be saved. With running water, they could have a water closet – if there were drains nearby, of course – and even, perhaps, a bath with taps. That would make Mother happier, though it might cost a great deal.

I don’t care what it costs, she thought. I really don’t want to spend my life carrying big ewers of water up and
down stairs for Mother’s bath. I don’t want to try to keep a stinking earthen lavatory from smelling because she will perpetually complain about it – or even one with a bucket, which has to be emptied and the contents buried each day; I doubt if I have the strength even to dig a hole.

She had rarely felt such a strong sense of revolt – but as her father’s affairs had been dealt with, she had watched with growing apprehension. Because Cousin Albert had left Louise alone, to deal with her domestic affairs, and Louise had done nothing, all the responsibility was being pushed on to herself. There was no one else, now Paul had been taken by the flu – and to the best of her limited ability, partly out of a sense of self-preservation, she was indeed tackling the situation.

As she waited for the sweep’s wife to answer her knock, she felt angrily that it was not that her mother was truly incapable – the birth of little Timothy George had proved that she had plenty of energy, despite her bereavement, when she was interested enough to use it.

The sweep’s wife, a waif with a baby at her breast, promised that her Henry would be there that afternoon. She kindly directed Celia to Mr Aspen’s domain across the railway bridge at Hoylake Station. ‘And follow the lane, like you was goin’ back to Meols. You can’t miss it.’

Hanging on to her hat, Celia battled her way up Market Street against a salt-laden breeze, climbed the pedestrian bridge over the railway, and turned into a country lane where a freshly green hawthorn hedge, curved landwards by the sea winds, sheltered a few violets and one or two primroses.

A few more minutes’ walk took her to a fenced compound with two huge gates which were wide open. To her left, just past the open gate, lay a small shed marked
OFFICE
.

Celia had never in her life faced, alone, so many strangers in one day, and she was surprised and relieved to find
herself again talking to a woman instead of to Ben Aspen himself.

Behind the office counter stood a handsome, fair-haired woman about her own age. Her snow-white blouse with its black bow tie made her look plumper than she probably was. Her tanned rosy face was surrounded by carefully arranged tendrils of golden hair; the remainder was swept into a large bun at the nape of her neck and secured by a big black bow of ribbon.

On seeing Celia, a pair of cobalt-blue eyes twinkled amiably, and the woman picked up a pen and dipped it into a bottle of ink. She held the pen poised, ready to write, as she asked, ‘Can I help you?’

Celia explained her business, that she had been sent by Mr Billings and needed some painting and small repairs done to a cottage.

‘Me dad’s got someone with him, but if you’d like to have a seat there, I’ll go and tell him you’re waiting.’

She went outside, and, as Celia sat gingerly down on a dusty bench, she heard her calling across the yard to her father. Through the office door, she observed stacks of wood in neat piles, wheelbarrows and ladders, sacks and boxes the contents of which she could only guess at, a mountain of discarded old bricks and rolls of tar paper.

Near to the office door stood a car and by it lay a big tarpaulin, as if it had just been removed from the vehicle. Though the car was dusty, the sunlight caught its brass and black enamel and made it look new. A boy about eight years old wandered in through the gate, and surveyed it. With great care, he drew a round smiling face in the dust on the door.

‘Alfie! Leave it alone!’ shrieked the lady clerk, as she came running back to the office. ‘You know you mustn’t touch anything in Grandpa’s yard. Come here! Better not let Grandpa see you near that.’

She turned to Celia as she came up the office step. ‘I’m
sorry, Miss. Father won’t be a minute. They was just getting the car out of the barn before you came. They want to sell it.’ She paused before entering the office, to look at the car, her expression stricken. ‘Me hubby built it,’ she explained. ‘He loved mechanical things.’

Celia nodded and said, ‘He must be a brilliant mechanic.’ Then she added shyly, ‘I’ll only take a few minutes of Mr Aspen’s time.’

The boy had followed his mother into the office. He paused to stare at Celia. She smiled at him and, after a moment, he grinned back. ‘Have you just come from school?’ she asked, trying hard to appear friendly.

He nodded. ‘I come to have me dinner with Granddad and Mum.’

His mother seemed a little confused by this baring of her domestic arrangements, and said sharply, ‘Now, Alfie, don’t you go bothering the lady. Go in the back room and start your dinner. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

As the boy wandered round the counter and disappeared through a doorway, his mother said to Celia, ‘Me dad’s short of men at the moment, Miss. So I’m filling in in the office.’

‘That’s very clever of you,’ Celia replied with genuine admiration.

‘Well, needs must. I learned a lot from me hubby. He was me dad’s clerk of works, and he always kept the books and did the estimating and ordering for Dad – he could estimate, real accurate – he were a first-class builder’s clerk. That’s how I met him, ’cos he was working for Dad.’ She paused, and to Celia she suddenly looked old. She said flatly, ‘He died at Messines Ridge in 1917.’

‘Oh, how terrible!’

‘I thought I’d die myself,’ the woman admitted baldly. ‘But I’d got young Alfred to think of – and me dad needed help – working for him has kept me going. Dad wants Alfie to have the business when he retires. It does mean that
Dad’ll have to continue to work a lot longer than he would’ve done though.’

Celia’s heart went out to the woman. She said compassionately, ‘You have my deepest sympathy.’ Then, feeling that her remark was too formal, she added, ‘I think you are being very brave.’

The woman made a wry face. ‘There’s a lot like me. You’re not married?’

‘Me? Goodness me, no.’ Celia shrugged her shoulders and made a small deprecating gesture with one hand. ‘We did lose George, though, at Scapa Flow, and Tom in France – they were my brothers.’ She looked down, and then out at Ben Aspen who was coming across the yard. ‘I do miss them,’ she said sadly. She turned her eyes back to the clerk, who was knocking sheets of paper into a neat pile on the desk. ‘But it’s not like losing a husband, I am sure.’

‘I don’t know, Miss. It seems as if everybody lost someone, doesn’t it? And I worry about Alfred growing up without a dad – though his grandpa keeps him in line.’

‘I am sure you do worry.’ Celia rose from her dusty bench, as Mr Aspen himself came up the step, and took off his bowler hat.

Celia’s first thought was that she had never seen quite such a huge white beard – it stuck wildly out in all directions, nearly obliterating the old man’s face. A red nose peeped through an unkempt moustache. Huge white eyebrows bristled above eyes identical to those of his daughter. A pair of very red ears made brackets round the whole. He wore a brown velvet waistcoat over a striped shirt, and his baggy trousers were held in at the knee by pieces of string tied round them.

His voice was very deep, like that of a younger man. ‘You wanted some repairs, Ma’am? Betty here said Mr Billings sent you?’

Very diffidently, afraid she might make a fool of herself, Celia explained that she needed someone capable to look
over the cottage to see what repairs were necessary – chimneys, downpipes, etc. The structure needed its external woodwork painting, and, in addition, she went on bravely, she would like to know what it would cost to paint the interior – just plain white would do – something inexpensive.

Ben scratched his bird’s nest of a beard and looked her over. Not much money, he deduced – but a lady. ‘You know Eddie Fairbanks, by any chance?’ he asked. ‘He lives in a cottage, which I think is the one next to yours.’

‘He’s the tenant of the other house – they are semi-detached. Mama and I met him when we went over our house earlier this week.’

She waited, while he thought. He said finally, ‘Oh, aye, I know the property all right, though I’ve not been down there for a while. Trouble is I’m short of skilled men, especially them as can estimate.’ He turned to Betty, who had stood quietly by her counter, while he dealt with Celia. ‘Do you think you could take a look, Bet, and do the estimate? I can tell you what to look for.’

Betty’s expression which had been rather sombre lifted considerably. She smiled at Celia, and said, ‘I think so. When would you like me to come?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon? I’ve a plumber coming in the morning.’

‘We’re not usually open Saturday afternoon. But in the morning, you could talk to the plumber while I go round the place. I wouldn’t be able to give you a price until I’ve had a chance to work it out, anyway – it would be Monday for that.’

Considering his reputation for talk, Ben Aspen was quite quiet. He confirmed Betty’s promise of a price by Monday, and, as Celia left him, politely said good afternoon to her.

As she turned at the bottom of the office steps, she saw him go through the office, presumably to join his grandson
for lunch. She heard him say heavily, ‘I’m sorry to sell the car, Bet. But we’ll never use it – and it’ll deteriorate. It’s already sat there five years.’

Before she went out through the great gates which opened on to the lane, Celia stopped to put on her gloves, and looked back into the builder’s yard. The car gleamed outside the office door, but her eyes were on the barn at the back of the yard.

Its doors had been flung wide open and a boy was slowly sweeping it out – it looked as if it had a stone floor. It must have belonged to a farm at one point, she deduced. It looked weather-beaten, but the car which Betty said had been in it showed no sign of rust, so it must be fairly watertight.

There was plenty of time before the arrival of the train for Liverpool, so she walked leisurely back to the railway station. She found herself enjoying the country view. To her left, she looked out over a small ploughed field. Beyond it was open land, incredibly green already, leading her eyes to misty, low hills. She basked in the quietness, broken only by the distant sound of sawing from the direction of Ben Aspen’s yard and the chatter of sparrows in the hedges. She felt relaxed, at peace, for the first time since her father’s death.

At the sight of the railway station, she was quickly brought back to the fact that she had another onerous task to fulfil, before she considered anything else, and she dreaded it. She must meet her elder sister at Lime Street Station. More grief. More comforting to be done.

She thrust other considerations out of her mind, while she went into the little red brick station to buy a train ticket to Liverpool.

She and Edna had never been very close. Edna had been sent as a boarder to a finishing school. After she was twelve, Celia had been withdrawn from Miss Ecclestone’s Day
School for Young Ladies to help her mother at home, her place in life already decided upon by her parents. The explanation given to the little girl was that she could not learn much more at Miss Ecclestone’s and that she was too delicate to be sent away from home. The fact that she and Edna had gone through the usual cycles of ill health together did not occur to the child – they both had had chickenpox, measles, mumps and the dreaded scarlet fever at about the same time, when these diseases swept through the neighbourhood. Influenza, colds and gastritis had struck both of them no more than other children.

The very idea that she was delicate, something wrong with her, something that her parents had not divulged to her, still fed her panic attacks as she grew older.

At the finishing school, Edna had learned to dance and to paint with watercolours, to deport herself with dignity and some grace, to play the piano and to make polite conversation. She had learned a smattering of French, and more arithmetic, history and geography than Celia had. She copied the attitude of her mother towards Celia, regarding her as stupid, disobedient to their parents, an irritating younger sister who was always crying about something.

At the coming-out dance which her mother arranged for her, Edna met Paul Fellowes, the son of one of her father’s friends. He was a self-assured, handsome man ten years older than she was and already well established in his father’s company. Six months later, she became that magical person whom every girl dreamed of, a fiancée with a diamond ring on her finger. She flaunted the ring at every opportunity as a symbol of her supreme success.