Mourning Doves (21 page)

As she read her letter, Celia’s expression changed from trepidation to pleasure. She looked up at Edna, who was peeking into the oven at the side of the fire to see how dinner was progressing, and announced, ‘A friend of Betty’s, a cabinetmaker, has asked to see our furniture – he came in after I left this morning, and Betty mentioned it to him. She says he’s interested in pieces that are dilapidated but made of good woods.’ Celia’s voice squeaked with excitement. ‘He has a little furniture repair business – and she says he is knowledgeable about antiques because he does restoration work. He can alter heavy furniture to make it fit into a smaller home, and she thinks he might be interested in some of our heavier stuff.’

‘That sounds very interesting.’ Edna closed the oven door and turned round to face her sister, as she added, ‘Not much of Mother’s furniture is in need of repair, though.’

‘Betty thinks that his knowledge of old furniture might be helpful to me.’ Celia smiled down at the letter. ‘In her PS she says he’s a friendly type and that she’s known him for years. She’s arranged for him to come to their yard at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, and she hopes this is convenient.’

Edna straightened herself up. ‘It certainly is convenient. Away you go tomorrow morning.’

‘What about Mother? She’s not yet made up her mind about what she wants to sell.’

‘Just tell her that someone is coming to look at it all. If they make an offer, she can then decide if she wishes to accept it.’

Though Celia nodded, her face fell. ‘You know, Edna, it’s going to take a terrible lot of time and running about, if I have to negotiate backwards and forwards between Mother and a buyer for every piece. Unless you want to help, I don’t think I could do it. I imagine that people would want to take away immediately anything they decided to buy, wouldn’t they?’

‘They will, of course,’ Edna agreed. She hung the oven cloth on its hook by the fireplace.

‘And there’s so much else to be done. The garden is a shocking mess – and just keeping the house going from day to day without servants will keep us all quite busy – I’m tired out already.’

Edna was suddenly curious. ‘Is Mother going to give you anything for all the work you’ve done on the cottage? And for selling the furniture?’ she asked.

‘Give me something? What do you mean?’

‘Well, er – um – pay you or buy you something?’

‘I’m her daughter. She expects me to do what she wants – for love.’

‘Look here, Celia. With a lot of work and a bit of luck, you’re going to make hundreds of pounds out of that mighty pile of furniture, and you could find it less wearying, if you received a little money for the effort involved.

‘If it were auctioned, she would have to pay the auctioneer, wouldn’t she? Or if she asked a second-hand furniture shop to dispose of it for her, the shop would charge her a percentage on everything sold, probably a large percentage.’

Celia looked dumbfounded. ‘I couldn’t ask Mother for money!’

Edna could look quite ferocious at times. Now she did, as she snapped sharply, ‘Are you going to be her slave for
ever – until she dies? Well, I’m not and neither should you be.

‘And another thing, Celia. As I said, times have changed. I don’t have to worry, because Paul left me provided for. But you would be wise to learn how to earn a living.

‘I know a lot of women are giving up their jobs to go home and be housewives again, now that the war is over. On the other hand, for a lot of us there is no chance of marriage – because the men who could have married us are dead, all the young businessmen, the professional men, the sons of county people – all gone!’ She sounded bitter, as she went on, ‘I’m told that, in the north-west here, there are whole villages without a single man left between the ages of seventeen and fifty. Do you know a single aristocratic or middle-class family without someone dead or dreadfully hurt?’

Celia looked at her, appalled. Her lower lip trembled as, in answer to her last question, she agreed. ‘I don’t know anyone, not that I ever had any hope of marriage. Even in Phyllis’s husband’s family, they lost two boys – Andrew had just qualified in law and the other one was an actuary in an insurance company.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean. There’s hardly anybody left. We have to look after ourselves, particularly because Father left you nothing.’

Celia was silenced and filled with fear, as, with sudden perception, she looked down the years and saw herself, after Louise’s death, an ageing, unpaid companion at the beck and call of some lady like her mother, not much better than a slave working for roof and food – because she did not know any other way of staying alive.

She was not given to self-pity, but, in her sense of shock, a tear ran down her face, and Edna said crossly, ‘Don’t start to cry – start to plan. Look, if Mother gave you ten per cent of everything you get from the furniture, it might be enough to pay for some training, though I can’t suggest
what for – and, at twenty-four, you are rather old to start.’

Celia was so agitated that at first she could not reply. Then she blurted out, ‘I couldn’t ask her, Edna. And, anyway, she needs me at home.’

‘Rubbish. She’s a perfectly capable woman, not quite fifty years old yet. I could broach the subject for you – or perhaps Cousin Albert could talk some sense into her next time he comes up to Liverpool.’ Edna’s expression relaxed, as she saw Celia’s eyes fill. ‘Cheer up, sweetie. You have to be at your best tomorrow – a business lady with something to sell.’

‘It’s almost too much for me, Edna – to face all at once, I mean.’ She could feel panic beginning to overwhelm her again.

Edna sensed her real distress, and said firmly, ‘Face one thing at a time. Go to Betty’s yard tomorrow and if this man wants to buy something, simply set the best price you can and sell it to him – and don’t worry about anything else. I’ll keep the house going. And Mother has to learn that if she doesn’t help you to sell the wretched stuff, she has to take the consequences. You are quite right that you cannot run backwards and forwards to consult her all the time.’

Celia got up wearily, Betty’s letter still in her hand. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, and summoning up a smile, she added, ‘It’s good of you to care.’ Then she said automatically, ‘I’d better make a cup of tea for Mother and wake her up.’

Edna opened her mouth to object, and then thought better of it. ‘That would be kind,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just to wash some lettuce which Mr Fairbanks gave me this morning, and dinner will be ready.’

Though still resentful at her elder daughter’s sudden insistence, that morning, that she must actually contribute some effort to the establishment of their new life, Louise felt better after her nap, and accepted the cup of tea which
Celia brought upstairs to her. After she had taken a few sips and Celia had drawn back the curtains from the bedroom window, she inquired, quite amiably, how Phyllis was.

Celia expressed her unease at Phyllis’s fatigue, and her mother responded that having one’s family was the most fatiguing period of any woman’s life, particularly if the household did not include a nanny.

Celia felt suddenly that she would rather have her own life than the hopeless one of trying to please Arthur. She did not think that it was the moment to broach the subject of her own future, so she said simply that Edna was making a salad and that dinner would be ready in a few minutes.

She left Louise drinking her tea, and went into their brand-new bathroom to bathe her face and tidy her windblown hair. The water ran hot, and she breathed a thankful prayer for such a luxury.

She felt refreshed after washing herself. As she ran downstairs, she began to anticipate with pleasure seeing Betty again.

Edna had refilled the kettle and put it on the hob. On the table steamed the chicken pie and by it lay a bowl of crisp green young lettuce.

The two young women sat down opposite each other and waited patiently as their mother plodded slowly down the narrow staircase and came to the table. Before sitting down, she gazed gloomily at the meal awaiting her, and sighed. Celia jumped up and pulled out her chair for her. Without thanking her, Louise sat down, and without a word proceeded to serve the pie. Obviously Edna was not yet forgiven for so ruthlessly driving her to action through the day.

Celia told her about the note from Betty.

‘A strange man? How will you receive him?’

‘In the barn,’ replied Celia.

‘By yourself?’

‘I will have to, Mother, unless you want to come along.’

Louise looked very disapproving, so her daughter hastily added, ‘Betty will be there. Would you like to come to meet him?’

‘Certainly not. I don’t want to have to talk to a workman, while I’m still in mourning.’

Edna interjected sharply, ‘We are all in mourning. But you can leave it to Celia and Betty Aspen – I mean Betty Houghton – I keep forgetting that she was married; they seem to get along splendidly – and they are both very sensible.’

Then, without warning to Celia, she changed the subject, and said, ‘Celia is going to have to work very hard to sell the furniture, Mother. I think she should have something for doing it. I would suggest fifteen per cent of all the money she manages to collect.’

At this suggestion, Louise’s look of alarm was almost comical, her fork with a piece of chicken poised on it halfway to her mouth. But Edna went on ruthlessly, ‘You are still very upset, I know – and naturally so. So I feel you should leave it all entirely to Celia how she does dispose of the stuff. It will all have to go – there’s simply no more room in this cottage to put anything more.’

The silence grew and Celia’s face flushed with embarrassment.

Finally, Louise asked, ‘But what does she need money for?’ She sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘I keep her – and she will have her usual pocket money, as soon as Cousin Albert arranges my financial affairs.’

Celia opened her mouth to say that she should not worry about paying her. She felt she was simply being helpful to dear Mother.

Edna sensed this and quickly broke in again.

Her tone was sharp, as she said, ‘I don’t think, Mother, that you quite realise what a difficult position Celia is in,
now that Father is no longer with us and has left her unprovided for.

‘In the nature of things, she will not always be able to depend upon you. She needs to learn a way to earn her own living, as many other women out there will have to do.’

Louise looked bewilderedly at her elder daughter, as she slowly put the piece of chicken into her mouth. Then she said disparagingly, ‘What can a girl like Celia do? She is not a working girl – she is a refined upper middle-class girl.’

‘What do you expect her to do, when you die?’ asked Edna icily, while Celia, shocked, murmured, ‘Edna!’

‘Well, I haven’t thought about it. I have had enough to cope with since your father’s sad passing, without thinking about Celia when I die.’ She slowly put down her fork, and added with more certainty, ‘I would have thought she could live with you. And she would have half the Birkenhead property from me, which would give her pin money. The other half would, naturally, go to you.’

‘I certainly would not let her starve,’ responded Edna tartly. ‘But she does need a life of her own – as do I.’

The idea that Edna wanted to do anything other than stay with her shook Louise. She had just picked up her fork again and now she dropped it on to her plate with an alarming clatter. ‘What are you thinking of doing?’

Edna found herself facing the surprised gaze of both Louise and Celia, and she said, ‘I do not yet know.’ Her voice was calm, but her eyes spoke of despair.

Since that seemed all that she would say, Louise, after a pause, chided her. ‘I thought we would all live together?’

‘Oh, Mother! We probably will. But you forget that I have been bereaved, too. I am simply in no state to make up my mind what I want to do. And Papa Fellowes has not yet settled Paul’s estate. When he has done so, I must think what I am going to do for the rest of my life.’ She
sighed. ‘With no children, I feel I need to plan. But not yet. In the meantime, I want to see you and Celia happily settled.’

Celia smiled at her sister. She was afraid to say anything, and she watched with some anxiety as Louise pushed her plate away, got up from the table, and marched back upstairs.

That night, Louise lay on her bed and cried helplessly. She cried because her small safe world had already fallen apart and it appeared as if it might disintegrate even further. She had, she told herself, no one with any sense to turn to for help.

Even Mr Carruthers, her bank manager, was miles away. And cruel Edna had said that she must find a new bank in Hoylake, which meant dealing with a stranger. It was all too much for her.

Immediately after Timothy’s death, she had assumed that Cousin Albert would secure a continuation of her life as she had always known it. She expected that widowhood would be very sad; she would grieve for the loss of her husband. But the pain would lessen with time, as had the agony of losing both her boys. Safe in her lovely home with familiar servants, in her usual circle of friends and acquaintances, with Celia to organise her social life, existence as a widow would be bearable. She had realised, a little guiltily, that it would also give her a certain amount of freedom to do as she pleased; she would not have to consult Timothy all the time.

Cousin Albert had soon disabused her of those expectations. Her cosy, wealthy world of 1914 would never return, just as her sons never would either. She and Celia would be lucky if they could make ends meet in this dreadful little cottage, round which the sea wind roared relentlessly.

The arrival of Edna, particularly an Edna with money, had cheered her up. If Edna’s income was considerable, perhaps jointly they could afford a better house. With two daughters at home, she would not miss the servants so much; they could run the house between them.

But Edna seemed to be coming out of her own grief now and was proving to be quite awkward; she did not seem to be at all certain that she would continue to live with her mother. She was also putting ideas into Celia’s head. Celia was a fool, but she might, with training, find a way to earn her own living – and leave home. A single woman living alone? She would be labelled a fast woman – a shocking idea.

At the latter thought, Louise cried harder. She herself could be left alone in this cottage, with very little money, with no friends nearby, no daughter or servant to make fires, do the washing, clean the house. For the first time in her life, she was terrified.

Loneliness gaped at her like a great, deep cavern, a future completely soundless, except for the remorseless crying wind. Not even the mewing of the cats would break the silence.

Celia had protested at Louise’s abandonment of the household cats; Louise had simply shooed the animals out of the back door.

‘They’ll starve,’ Celia had lamented.

‘With all the mice and rats in Liverpool?’ Louise had responded scornfully. ‘They can hunt. They won’t starve. And, sooner or later, someone will find them on their doorstep and take them in. That’s how we acquired them originally. Don’t you remember? They just arrived, at different times, at the back door, and Winnie took them in to deal with the mice.’

Louise was right. Celia, already disorientated, accepted their loss as yet another misery to be endured, and said no more.

Wrapped in her fine feather eiderdown on her bed in her new home, Louise cried on. Nobody cared about her. Nobody understood her. She admitted that even to have Tommy Atkins to cuddle would have been comforting. But big black Tommy Atkins was probably stalking mice down the narrow back alleys of Liverpool or learning to tip the lid off a dustbin to get at the contents.

Even cats knew everything about taking care of themselves, thought Louise angrily, as helpless grief gave way to rage at her predicament. Well-born women were not expected to be capable of facing the world outside the home.

Celia, left to herself, even if she could earn a living, might get entangled with a man – though she was, of course, quite old and plain – and make a fine mess of her life. Louise remembered the soldiers playing in the sea and had a horrifying thought of facing an illegitimate grandchild, if Celia was ever let off the leash. At all costs she must remain with her mother, no matter what Edna said.

With this determination and the justification that only Celia knew her taste in library books or could do all the mending and darning thrown at her, Louise stopped crying and, shortly after, fell asleep, exhausted.

It seemed no time at all before her younger daughter was gently shaking her awake and presenting her with early morning tea.

As Louise struggled to sit up, she noted that Celia was already dressed to go out, her hat pinned on her head. She lacked only her outdoor jacket.

As she took the teacup from Celia, she asked sulkily, ‘Are you going to Hoylake to see Miss Aspen’s man friend?’

‘Mrs Houghton’s,’ corrected Celia nervously. ‘She’s a widow.’

‘Humph.’ Louise sipped her tea.

‘Yes, Mother. I have to be there for eleven o’clock. I
thought I might walk over, because I haven’t had any fresh air for days.’ She stood uneasily by the bed watching her mother sip her tea, and then said anxiously, ‘If he wants to buy something, I think I must agree immediately, don’t you? If the price seems reasonable? I can’t very well come all the way back here to ask you if you are agreeable to it.’

‘No. You can’t. I can see that. I am not stupid.’

Celia sighed, and assured Louise that she was far from stupid.

‘How will you know what to charge people? We can use every penny, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘I do have some idea about prices, Mother.’ Celia’s voice held no hint of the indignation that she felt, and she continued firmly, ‘You remember that I went to see a friend of Mrs Houghton’s who owns an antique shop in Liverpool, and she gave me quite a lot of information on antique furniture and showed me round her shop and told me the prices she expected for each article. She was tremendously kind and gave me some idea of the likely value of our dining-room furniture, for instance.’

Louise was draining her cup and did not reply, so with a gulp, Celia added, ‘Edna says that you do not have to shop for food today – there’s enough in the house. And Mr Fairbanks is going to ask the fish and chicken lady to call on us every week – to save our having to go to the shops all the time – he says her stuff is very fresh – better than the shops’. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to Betty’s office?’

Louise sniffed. ‘I could not bear to,’ she asserted forcefully. ‘All my lovely things in a dusty barn!’

Celia’s face softened, and she said with contrition, ‘I’m sorry, Mother. It must be very hard for you to face.’ She took her mother’s empty cup from her. Then she leaned forward to kiss her cheek. ‘I hope to be back by lunch time, but don’t wait for me.’ In a more cheerful tone, she
said, ‘I’ve had my breakfast, but Edna will have hers with you.’

Celia waited for an answer, but none came. She slipped nervously out of the room.

Downstairs, Edna, still in a dressing gown, was warming her backside by the fire which she had made. She inclined her head towards the staircase. ‘How are things up there?’

‘Not too good.’

‘I can cope with her. You go now. Don’t walk. Take the train to Hoylake Station – I think it puts you down quite close to Betty’s place, doesn’t it? Then you’ll have time to take a quiet look at the furniture before he comes.’

Celia reluctantly agreed.

When she arrived, the builder’s yard seemed full of lorries, two belonging to Mr Aspen; one was being loaded with bricks and another with lumber. A third vehicle was delivering large boxes. There was no sign of the car which Betty’s husband had built. Celia presumed that it had been sold.

Celia now had her own key to the barn and she walked straight over to it and opened it up. She decided on a number of pieces which might benefit from being made smaller. Then she walked leisurely back to the gate and Betty’s office. Betty was at her desk and looked up with a cheerful grin. ‘Good morning, Miss Gilmore,’ she said teasingly.

In a shadowy corner a man rose and, tweed cap in hand, emerged into the sunlight pouring through the doorway.

Nervously, Celia turned towards him.

He was much more gentlemanly-looking than she had expected. His black hair was neatly cut and, under heavy brows, eyes as blue-grey as the sea weighed her up. He was short, though heavy-set. Betty introduced him formally
to her as Mr John Philpotts, repairer of fine furniture. Celia put out her hand and it was shaken firmly by a very strong one.

In a voice with a tinge of Welsh in it, he announced that he was pleased to meet her.

After a few pleasantries, the three of them went over to the barn. The building did not have any lighting, so they pulled the doors open as wide as they would go. The contents could then be seen clearly in the daylight.

‘Phew!’ exclaimed Mr Philpotts, his face breaking into a smile as he viewed the cornucopia within. He turned to Celia, and said, ‘To look at this will take some time. Do you mind if I go through it rather carefully?’

With her hands clasped tightly in front of her, Celia assured him that he could take all the time in the world, if he was interested, and Betty said that, in that case, she would go and make some coffee and bring it over.

At Betty’s request, the furniture removers had banked as much furniture as possible against the walls and then made a pile in the centre, leaving a narrow passageway through which Celia and John Philpotts slowly made their way.

The furniture repairer had brought a notebook and pencil, and after asking permission, he paused, from time to time, to carefully turn a chair upside down to examine it, or open drawers and cupboard doors, to gaze at finishings and joints and hinges or knobs. Once or twice, he asked the origins of a piece, and all the time he made notes. When he wanted to handle a piece, he tucked the pencil behind his ear and put his notebook into his side pocket, so that he did not mislay either of them amid the jungle of furniture. Celia kept her usual silence; she was anxious not to offend him in any way.

When Betty brought a tray of coffee, she suggested that they should all sit down and drink it while it was hot. Mr Philpotts gallantly undertook to lift down three chairs for
them, so they sat in the sun in the doorway and watched the busy builder’s yard. When they were settled and the women were politely sipping their coffee, Mr Philpotts sat down, and, cup in hand, chewed the end of his pencil as if it were a cigar which had gone out. He seemed deep in thought, but occasionally he would get up and go back down the passage to look again at something. Celia noted that he dragged one foot, as if he lacked strength to put it down straight on the ground.

Though Celia maintained her nervous silence bordering on reverence in the presence of a man, his old friend, Betty, asked him, after a minute or two, whether he had seen anything he was interested in. He replied unexpectedly promptly that he was interested in a lot of it, and he named several of the big pieces which Celia had earlier earmarked. He turned to Celia, and assuming that she was basically a dealer, remarked, ‘You have a beautiful stock, Miss Gilmore.’

Celia smiled and replied, ‘Didn’t Mrs Houghton tell you? It’s all from my parents’ home.’

The man’s rather grim, deeply seamed face broke into a surprisingly cheerful grin. ‘Betty did say that, but looking at it, I didn’t think it could have all come from one family home. There’s enough to stock a shop.’

He went on to tell her that much of it was rather big for apartments and the smaller, lower-ceilinged houses of the present day. He could, however, often make sideboards, like the three she had, smaller by taking out the centre cupboard. ‘And, of course, tables like the big dining table at the back can have all their extra extensions taken out and be shown as much smaller. I would like to buy the extension pieces and make them into hall tables, parsons’ tables, et cetera. And there’s another sideboard there that does not seem to match anything else – the big one made of oak. I could take out the centre cupboard and make a useful cupboard for odds and ends, and then join the two
ends together to make a handsome, but small, sideboard again. I am sure I could find markets for them.’

‘How clever of you!’ exclaimed Celia.

‘Oh, you’d be surprised what you could do with this lot. Betty said that you had some china, too?’

‘Seven barrels of it.’

‘Complete sets?’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Philpotts. There is one service with twelve settings and all the bread and butter plates and vegetable dishes – and three different sizes of meat dishes. It’s Crown Derby.’

‘Well, well!’ He surreptitiously rubbed his left thigh, as if it hurt – and, indeed, it did hurt. With an effort, he got up again, and asked of Celia if he might look further.

‘Of course you may. Take all the time you want.’

Betty gathered up the cups and said she must go back to the office. Her father’s lorries, gears grinding, went out of the gate, and suddenly the place was quieter. Celia continued to sit in the sunshine. She was excited, but tried not to show it. Mr Philpotts looked so respectable and the sunshine was so pleasant that she wished her mother had come with her. But Mother would have condescended so much to a tradesman that she would probably have offended him, so perhaps it was as well that she was alone, despite the awful responsibility.

Still carrying his empty coffee cup, Mr Philpotts eventually returned and sat down in front of her. He laid the coffee cup under his chair, and then took his notebook out of his pocket and laid it on his knee.