Mourning Doves (19 page)

Followed by her mother, Celia stumbled into the living room and collapsed. She put her head down on her knees and sobbed helplessly, while Louise stood over her and continued to storm about stupid girls who went out at night and brought all kinds of trouble down on themselves.

When Edna entered the little room, she hesitated. The oil lamp on the mantelpiece still burned, but the fire had gone out and it would take time to rebuild it in order to boil water to make tea. She went to the sideboard and, with difficulty because of lack of space, opened the cupboard door and pulled out the first bottle she could reach. She managed, also, to open the matching cupboard on the other side sufficiently to get out a teacup. She had no idea where Dorothy had put the wine glasses.

With a little shrug, she filled the richly decorated cup with white wine.

She had almost to push Louise out of the way before she could kneel down by her sister. ‘Have some wine,’ she urged. ‘It will help you.’ She put her free arm round Celia’s shoulders and pulled her a little upright.

Edna’s touch was kind and Celia made an effort to stop sobbing, as she thankfully turned towards her. She obediently swallowed some of the wine, which was pleasantly sweet. Then she pulled her handkerchief out from her sleeve and blew her nose.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, and took the little cup and
finished its contents. ‘I was just so frightened. They were naked. Lots of them, men and women in the sea!’

While Edna laughed at this, Louise stopped in the middle of her tirade, and exclaimed, ‘Women?’ Then she turned on Edna, and snapped, ‘This is no laughing matter!’

Edna giggled. ‘The men looked so funny!’

Celia put down the empty cup on the floor beside her feet. Still sobbing, she said defensively, ‘They looked horrible to me. I was frightened to death.’ She turned back to her sister, in whose eyes humour still twinkled.

‘Haven’t you ever seen a naked man before?’ Edna asked.

‘No! Of course not!’

‘Really, Edna!’ This was from Louise.

‘Well, Mother, very few men look good in their skins.’

Louise’s voice was icy. ‘This is not a suitable subject for discussion. You are not to go out alone at night in future, Celia. You would never have done it in Liverpool, and why you should do so here is beyond me.’

Celia sighed, and continued to sniffle. ‘I wanted to see the tide coming in.’

‘Well, do it in the daytime – there are two tides a day on this part of the coast. Use your common sense, girl, if you have any.’

Louise pulled the trailing quilt closer round her shoulders. ‘Now, let’s get back into bed.’

Edna got slowly to her feet. She was taller than the other two women, and suddenly, although garbed only in a dressing gown, she seemed authoritative, as she said sharply to Louise, ‘You are being too hard on poor Celia, Mother. It is not her fault if she doesn’t understand much about men. I would myself have assumed that out here in the country I would be quite safe, even at night.’

Louise was shocked at being chided by a daughter. She opened her mouth to answer indignantly, and then thought better of it; as a result of their earlier discussion that evening, it seemed Edna was likely to be a source of much
needed funds. She clamped her lips tightly. The quilt swished round her as she stalked out of the room and up the stairs.

Celia was dumbfounded at the sudden defence offered on her behalf. With her mouth half open in surprise, she slowly wiped her eyes and then rose from the sofa.

Edna said, ‘I’ll come up with you and see you into bed. You’ll be fine in the morning. You don’t have to be so frightened. I am sure they were only teasing you.’

At Edna’s unexpected kindness, Celia wanted to cry again. Instead, she took Edna’s outstretched hand and allowed herself to be led upstairs. Though the comfortable warmth of the wine was slowly spreading through her, her breath still came in small shuddering sobs.

In the bedroom, Edna quickly struck a match and lit the bedside candle. Then she shook out Celia’s cotton nightgown from the small embroidered nightie case laid on her bed, and held it while Celia shyly undressed. As soon as she had taken off her camisole and eased the straps of her vest off her shoulders, she slipped the gown over herself and modestly completed her undressing under its voluminous folds.

Edna sat down on the end of the bed, and said quite crossly, ‘I am not sure who annoys me most – Mother or my mother-in-law.’

Celia sat down by her, in order to peel off her black cotton stockings. She said in amazement, ‘But I thought you loved Mother?’

‘Well, of course I do – she’s my mother. But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t infuriating. She forgets that I’m a grown woman married for years and used to my own household. She treats me like a little girl, and you like a companion-help, who must do what she’s told or she’ll lose her job.’ As she shook her head in annoyance, her black plaits hanging over her breast swayed slightly as if they were in total agreement with her remarks. ‘Although Mother has had
enough grief to last her a lifetime, she is a very capable woman, and I’m fed up with her constant complaints; she isn’t suffering any more than millions of other women. And she hasn’t done anything much towards this move to the cottage. I am nearly as bad, because I’ve tended to sit and listen to her, partly because I am quite bewildered by my own problems and the strangeness of England. You’ve done all the work.’

Celia did not reply. She got up slowly and hung her stockings on the back of a chair with her other clothes. Edna, she thought, had been very kind this evening. As she pulled back the bedclothes, she said, ‘Perhaps Mother will change, as she gets used to having you near her again as an adult.’

‘I doubt it,’ replied Edna gloomily. She rose from the narrow single bed, so that Celia could get into it. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, as she added, as if forcing herself, ‘I am sorry I haven’t been much help to you. I’ve also had a great deal to do which has involved a lot of correspondence with Papa Fellowes – and all the time I’ve had to think carefully what I am to do – because my life, like Mother’s, has been reduced to chaos. There is nothing left of my married life – no home, no servants; and a very difficult change of country, with no one here to depend upon except Papa Fellowes – he really is doing his best to order my financial affairs for me.’

Her face pinched and white against her pillow, her fright forgotten, Celia was astounded as Edna looked down at her and asked, ‘Do you think you will be all right now?’

‘I think so,’ Celia replied. She snuggled down under the bedclothes. ‘Thank you, Edna. I’m so grateful. We’ll talk some more tomorrow. I tend to forget your loss, but I am sorry about it; you must be feeling absolutely awful. And Mother is still very upset after losing Father – it takes time.’

Edna’s responding smile was a little grim, but she bent
down to kiss Celia on her forehead. ‘Shall I blow out the candle?’

‘Yes, please. And I’m sorry, Edna, that I was such an idiot.’

Unexpectedly Edna laughed. ‘It is not you who are the idiot,’ she assured her, and went quietly to her own room, leaving a bewildered, but not unhappy, Celia to a night of disordered dreams.

Celia had forgotten to set her alarm clock and when, the next morning, she dragged herself out of bed, put on her grey woollen dressing gown and went downstairs, she found Edna ineffectually trying to build the living-room fire.

She was not having much success because she had not yet shovelled out yesterday’s ashes from underneath the grate. Celia went through to the kitchen and brought a bucket and shovel and an old newspaper.

Still in their dressing gowns, they spread the newspaper over the hearth rug and side by side they kneeled down before the cold hearth, while Celia passed on the lessons on fire-making given her by Dorothy.

They sat back on their heels to watch the wood begin to crackle under the coal. Then, covered with dust from the removal of the ashes, they finally got up triumphantly, as the coal caught and began to blaze.

Celia went to fill the kettle. ‘Better take Mother up some tea,’ she said, as she turned the hob over the lighted coals and laid the kettle on it.

Though she agreed, Edna’s voice held doubt. She said, ‘Be careful what you do today, because you’ll set the pattern for the future.’ She paused, while, with her hands, she brushed down the front of her dressing gown. Then she went on firmly, ‘Don’t take Mother’s breakfast up to her, for example. She’s not an invalid, and there is no reason why she should stay in bed for breakfast.’

Weary as she was from her adventure of the previous night, Celia had taken it for granted that carrying her mother’s breakfast up to her bed was precisely what she would have to do every day of her life. At her sister’s advice, she gulped. ‘I’m sure Mama will be awfully cross,’ she said apprehensively.

‘If you’ve any sense, Celia, she’s going to be a lot angrier before you’ve finished.’ Edna paused to look her sister up and down, and then went on, ‘You look just about as ill as anyone could look and still be on their feet. You should see a doctor. I never could understand why you let Mother walk all over you.’ Her voice rose. ‘Your life isn’t worth living – and it won’t ever be unless you do something about it.’

This sudden outburst from her strong-minded sister surprised and confused Celia so much that she could not reply. She was trembling as she went back into the little kitchen to wash her hands again under the kitchen tap, before laying the table for breakfast.

Edna followed her, her own grubby hands held loosely in front of her, while she awaited her turn at the tap. She went on, ‘Since coming home, I’ve been so upset myself that I’ve tried to keep out of things between you and Mother. But after being away for seven years and then seeing you, it hit me like a hammer. Though you’re a grown woman, you still fawn around her – and cringe when she shouts at you. I know I’m tactless, and I’ve found myself ordering you around just as she does; then I feel so cross when you obey me, instead of telling me to get up and do it myself. But, as I said last night, my own life has been torn apart – and I’m not finding widowhood very easy.’ Her lips quivered, and she sounded suddenly tired and dispirited.

‘Even my servants aren’t around me any more,’ she continued. ‘I’ve been used to having servants at my beck and call all the time – and I tend to expect somebody else to
do everything for me. I don’t even have a home of my own,’ she finished up unhappily. She stood chewing her lower lip, as if she might say more about her predicament, but had thought better of it and remained silent.

Celia slowly dried her hands on the towel, while Edna washed hers. She was suddenly frightened by Edna’s reference to seeing a doctor, but there was no doubt that her sister meant well.

Finally, she responded timidly, ‘You’re being so thoughtful of me, Edna, that I almost want to cry. Until last night, I had no idea that you felt like that. And the loss of Paul must be dreadful. I am so sorry – I’ve thought only of Mother, and not much about you.’

She handed the towel to Edna. At the same time, her old terror surfaced, that she was in some way physically handicapped or mentally ill and had never been told about it. ‘Do you really think I’m ill?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I think you are probably very run-down – you look it. I think you need a good holiday – away from Mother.’

Celia laughed. ‘That’s impossible. Mother would never allow it – she would say she could not spare me.’

‘Well, I’m here for the time being. And we could get a woman to come to clean the floors, to help out. I think it could be done.’

Celia sighed. ‘I don’t have any money to see a doctor – or go on a holiday.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I assumed Father had made you a reasonable allowance, since he kept you at home. Or had, at least, made some financial arrangement, like insurance, an annuity, or something – kept separate from his business debts – to cover you when he and Mother died. He must surely have thought about you.’

‘He gave me pin money – the same amount as he paid Ethel.’

‘The skivvy?’ Edna asked, as they moved slowly back into the living room.

‘Yes. Mother always bought my clothes – out of her dowry money.’

Edna made a face. ‘They look like it!’ she replied.

As she picked up a teapot and went to make her mother’s tea, Celia glanced down at her old-fashioned black skirt, which lay on the back of a dining chair. She had brought it downstairs to sponge and press it. It was good wool and warm, she had always told herself. She had had it since before the war; it would never wear out.

While Celia made the tea, Edna laid the table, her mouth clamped shut very like her mother in a temper.

‘I’ll put some water on to boil eggs, and I’ll make some toast,’ she said. ‘It’s an easy breakfast.’ And, as Celia carefully carried a cup of tea towards the hall and staircase, she added, ‘And don’t say anything to Mother about what we’re going to do today.’

Celia paused. Mystified, she asked, ‘Why not?’

‘Because I’ll make sure that Mother shops for food and cooks the dinner. It won’t hurt her; she won’t have to carry anything – the shops will deliver. She has to wake up and begin living again.’ She shrugged a little hopelessly. ‘You and I can’t do everything. And it’ll give you a chance to go this afternoon to see Phyllis.’

‘Oh, Edna! Could you arrange that? I do want to see Phyllis. I must also go to Hoylake to see that the furniture in Mr Aspen’s barn is all right. Betty says I should advertise it in the local paper.’

Edna said grimly, ‘Betty’s right. Getting all that collection sold is going to take time, too. You leave Mother to me.’

It was a fairly silent breakfast, except for a monologue delivered by Louise. When Edna had called up the stairs to say that breakfast was ready, Louise had descended slowly. She was still dressed in a bedcap and dressing gown,
and her first complaint was that there was no hot water coming out of the bathroom tap. How was she to have a bath? And she felt almost too tired to get up for breakfast, she announced dolefully; Celia should know very well that she had to eat before she got out of bed.

A little scared, and anxious to placate her, Celia swallowed a spoonful of egg, and ignored the complaint about breakfast. She told her, ‘The fire takes some time to heat the water in the big boiler behind the fireplace, Mama. In about an hour, you should be able to bath.’

‘It was always hot when I was ready to get up in the old house.’

Before Celia could reply to this, Edna said smartly, ‘And Ethel got up at five thirty to make sure that it was hot for you.’

‘Humph.’ Louise could not answer the implied reproof, so she ignored it. ‘The toast is burned round the edge and you haven’t trimmed the crust off it,’ she fretted as she looked at it with disgust.

Edna picked up the toasting fork, and stuck a slice of bread on to its prongs. She handed the fork to Louise, and said with glacial sweetness, ‘Make another slice yourself, Mother, and then you can be sure it is exactly as you like it.’

Celia closed her eyes in anticipation of an explosion, but her mother stared at Edna with shocked amazement and then, when she found her voice, responded with resignation. ‘I suppose this will do.’ She ate the offending toast with every indication of acute distaste. She then asked for another cup of tea and, with this in hand, once again retired to her bedroom.

As soon as her back was turned, Edna gravely winked at her sister.

‘Oh, Edna, you are cruel!’

‘Cruel to be kind,’ was the unrepentant response.

When the sound of their mother’s footsteps on the stairs
had died away, Edna said, ‘You go and get washed quickly before she gets into the bathroom. And go to Hoylake. You could go straight from there to Liverpool to see Phyllis, if you like.’

‘Would it be all right?’

‘Of course it would, you idiot. These things have to be done.’ Edna looked around the little room, which, by this time, was rather untidy. ‘I’ll wash up and make this room respectable, and each of us can keep our own bedrooms clean and tidy.’

Celia leaned back in her chair. ‘You’re wonderful,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t dare suggest that to Mother.’

‘Well, if her room becomes a mess, that’s her headache. I’m not going to make her bed or clean the room for her – and neither should you have to.’

Celia hastily wiped her mouth with her serviette, folded it and put it into the silver ring her Great-aunt Blodwyn had given to her at her christening. Then she eased herself round the table, planted a shy kiss on Edna’s cheek and fled quietly upstairs, to get washed and to count her last remaining bit of pocket money to see if she had the train fare to Liverpool and then enough for a tram out to West Derby. She still had a couple of pounds given to her by Louise, to cover her various expenses while she had been travelling backwards and forwards from West Derby to the cottage; it never occurred to her to use any of it for a personal expedition, like going to see Phyllis.

She was so filled with hope and her wonderment at Edna’s outburst that she forgot, for the moment, the sickeningly unpleasant encounter of the previous evening. As she quickly combed her hair into a neat bun at the back of her head, she said, in astonishment, to her reflection, ‘Edna cares about you. I really believe she does.’

Less than an hour later, she was greeted enthusiastically by Betty Houghton, who slid down from her high stool behind the rough wooden counter of her father’s office.
She closed an account book, before she took Celia’s hand, and said, ‘Everything looks all right. I don’t think any of the furniture was damaged. The movers had it all wrapped in padded quilts. Come and have a look.’

She took down a key from amongst a number hanging near her desk, and together they walked briskly across the yard. It was busy, and Betty explained that her father had recently acquired a good sub-contract to build city housing in Birkenhead that summer.

‘He’s looking for skilled craftsmen, but they’re hard to find. There’s a lot of men looking for jobs, but they’re not skilled – and it looks to me as if a lot of them ought to be in hospital still. He wants at least four brickies and some hod carriers.’

‘Brickies?’

Betty laughed at her bewilderment. ‘Bricklayers. He’d a nice young man here today, but he looked like a ghost. Though he said he’d done six months of bricklaying, before he joined the army. Dad couldn’t even offer him a labouring job – he said he’d never stay the course, he was too run down.’

‘Poor soul.’

‘And as for hod carriers – you’ve got to be as strong as an ox to carry hods of bricks and mortar up to a brickie all day,’ Betty informed her, as she unlocked the great barn.

The residue of Celia’s home looked very forlorn. All the piled-up furniture had a veil of dust on it. Dismantled bed frames from the guest rooms had been leaned against the walls; their horsehair mattresses had been laid on the tops of tables and sideboards and against the fronts of chests of drawers to protect them from being scratched. Pictures of all kinds had been laid face to face on top of the mattresses. Rolls of rugs, barrels of china and ornaments and packing cases of unwanted kitchen equipment lay, as yet unopened, along the back wall.

Celia looked at the mighty pile in some despair, and
exclaimed, ‘Phew! I’ll never manage to sort it all out, never mind sell it.’

‘I think you will sell it and at decent prices, if you advertise it in the Hoylake paper – and, say, in the
Evening Express
.’ With a chuckle, Betty flung out her arms as if to a waiting audience and declaimed, ‘“For Sale. Handsome fruitwood furnishings, many Georgian pieces. Sale includes fine china, ornaments, carpets, etc., also some kitchen equipment.” That should do it.’ She drew a happy face in the dust on what had been Timothy Gilmore’s desk. ‘What bothers me is how you are going to price it – I’m sure some of it is valuable – and I’ve no idea about the pictures, for example. Have you?’

‘I’ve been worrying about that. Your friend Mrs Jowett helped me a lot – she was really sweet – but I’ll still be guessing. I thought the first thing I could do would be to look in the very good furniture shops in Liverpool and see their prices for new things. I’m going over to Liverpool to see Phyllis Woodcock this afternoon. I could take a quick peep in that nice furniture shop in Bold Street, before catching the tram out to West Derby.’

‘Well, at least you’ll know that your price should be lower than theirs – though I’m not even very certain about that – those chairs are very fine; if they are antiques they may be worth more,’ Betty replied, pointing to a neat line of refugees from the Gilmore dining room. She turned and smiled a little wryly at her friend. ‘We’re both out of our depths on this.’