Saturday's Child (36 page)

White sheets, father shouting, that woman holding the newborn. White sheets stained, red flowing, pumping as if some mechanism stronger than a human heart drove it onward, outward until it
filled the room, flooded the house, poured and poured and the scream would not stop.

She raised her hands, covered her ears, she was Helena, was Nellie, was two people. Lace at the windows, lace on the sheets, white lace edging pillow cases, lace in an upstairs room at home,
Prudence Street. Lily. Where was Lily? That thin scream, baby crying, cover those ears tightly, do not hear. Deaf. The colour of deafness was solid red, darkening, closing in, no more birdsong.

Father slammed the door in Helena’s face; Nellie left the headmistress’s study. A clock chimed. ‘I can hear,’ she said aloud, just to make sure.

They came for her then, Dot Barnes-as-was, Peter Smythe, the head of the school, Lily Hardcastle, her forehead lined deep with worry. There was a fuss, a cup of sweet tea, the faces around her
were kind. But it was over.

‘Miss Hulme,’ Martha Earnshaw touched the stricken woman’s arm, ‘would you like to go home? I can arrange transport.’

‘No. Thank you, but no. I have come to see my friend’s daughter in the play. Yes, my voice is strange, but I was profoundly deaf until some months ago.’

Dot, Peter and Lily glanced at each other. ‘Are you sure you want to stay?’ asked Lily eventually.

Nellie nodded. Oh, yes, she was determined to stay. She handed cup and saucer to the headmistress, smoothed her hair, picked up her bag. Then, in a voice that was unusually clear, she dropped
her bombshell. ‘My name is Helena and this was my house.’

Mother was cast out without a penny to her name. But she did not go quietly. Just before she died, she gave me the silver-headed cane which has become a part of my uniform.
The spherical handle is worn now, but the crest remains partly visible, while the initials of my father, BM, intaglio and partially erased by time, seem as clear to me as they did then, just days
before her death.

Katherine shifted uneasily, the slight movement causing her to wince. Peter Smythe had stated earlier in the work that he had deliberately returned to the scene of his male parent’s
misdeeds, that his original intention had been to register his claim against any estate. But, as he had also said, how could he prove paternity? And why was her skin crawling so?

With that cane, Mother smote the man who had so mistreated her, then she kept it as a souvenir, a memento of her life with the man who had introduced her to the fruits of Bacchus. Then she
moved to Northampton where, rejected and neglected by friends and family, she gave birth to me.

Our life was not unhappy. Mother taught sons and daughters of the rich, dragging me in her wake wherever she went. Thus I gained my knowledge and my love for the English language, for the
classics, for paintings and music. I learned languages modern and ancient, mathematics, geography and history, all at differing levels dependent on the age of her pupils on any given day.

I was lucky. My education was wide and varied, while my mother encouraged me to read anything and everything within reach.

Her drinking worsened until we reached a point where she could no longer work. Even then, she would imbibe infrequently on weekdays, saving the more glorious moments for weekends.

Glorious moments became spectacularly bad. Her skin yellowed and became an outward advertisement for the state of her liver. As she lay in her bed during those final weeks, I became her
nurse, her companion, her comforter. Realizing only too well that she was the architect of her own doom, she apologized repeatedly, sobbed in my arms, told me that she loved me and that I had been
the light of her life.

She had but two days to live when, her mind as clear as a bell, she summoned me to her bedside. In a steady voice, she told me who I was, identified the man who was my father. It transpired
that she had taken a job in the north of England, a governess’s position that was residential. Her charge was a young girl whose mother had died in childbirth, an only child who needed a
sensible woman in her life. Judged as sensible, Mother moved into the house and took responsibility for the child’s educational and emotional welfare.

Mother’s employer plied her with gifts, with hints of marriage, courted her so determinedly that she succumbed to him. The drinking began then, while the man attempted to persuade
Mother to abort me. But she refused to listen to him, refused to go into the exclusive clinic where certain secret procedures were executed.

Finally, he turned on her. She packed her belongings that night, fought him off, beat him across the head with the very cane I carry on a daily basis.

History speaks for itself. The man who fathered me, who abandoned my mother, raged his way to death by the very same means which abbreviated the life of my adored and wonderful mother. He
drank away all his possessions and was laid to rest many years ago.

Thus I find myself . . .

The story continued, his life on the road, rejection by the army because of a spinal curvature, his eventual arrival at the place where he was conceived.

Katherine Moore closed the book. There remained no vestige of doubt in her mind – Peter Smythe was her half-brother.

The play was a roaring success.

Beth, hilarious as the villain, stalked about the stage, trained her young pickpockets, even sent some of them into the audience, where the screams of parents and siblings made the occasion all
the funnier.

It was a clever piece of work, one that underlined the high standards of Chedderton Grange academy. In the interval, a string quartet played, delivering pieces whose excellence was certainly
upheld by girls almost too small to control their instruments. This was clearly the place for Beth to be, thought Magsy as she enjoyed the talent on display.

Paul dug her gently in the ribs. ‘Nellie looks a bit fussed,’ he whispered.

Magsy glanced across to where Lily and Nellie sat together. Nellie’s face was flushed and she seemed not to be concentrating on the events that surrounded her. Perhaps her hearing was not
quite right yet. Nellie Hulme had been forced to learn everything all over again and had possibly experienced difficulty while interpreting noises delivered by the lightweight voices of young
girls. But Magsy noticed that Lily, too, seemed slightly out of order, eyes sliding sideways towards her companion, hands picking nervously at the scarf in her lap.

As this was the interval, several people were milling about and talking quietly, voices muted so that the playing of the excellent string quartet would not be drowned. Magsy rose from her seat,
caught Lily’s eye and beckoned her to the rear of the hall.

Lily told Nellie that she intended to get some refreshment, then she joined Magsy at the back of the room. ‘Dear God,’ she muttered, ‘I don’t know whether I’m
coming or going.’

Magsy pulled her old neighbour out into the foyer. ‘What’s wrong?’

Lily’s eyebrows shot northward as if they intended to disappear into her hairline. ‘What’s wrong? What’s right would make a shorter list. I’d want a bloody crystal
ball to work out what’s gone on here tonight. I don’t know where to start.’

‘Just tell me. Come on, Lily, it’ll be the second act in a minute and my Beth will get her comeuppance – I can’t wait to see it. And you’ll want a cup of tea to
take back to Nellie.’

Lily swallowed hard. ‘Well, it’s this way. You know how Nellie goes on about red and screams and birds singing?’

‘Yes.’

‘All them years when she couldn’t hear nowt except when she were asleep?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘It were here, Magsy. It were here. This is where she comes from. It’s this house what were in her dreams. She knew where the bedroom was – well, it’s not a bedroom now,
it’s like an office. Her mam died here, I think. Ooh, I don’t know. I mean, I think I know, but I’m not sure.’

Magsy’s thoughts were all over the place, bouncing about like a ball in a game of O’Leary. ‘But she might have dreamt about a house similar to this.’

Lily nodded quickly. ‘Then why has she got a newspaper cutting, a photo of this house left in Prudence Street by her mother? By Mrs Hulme, I mean. I recognized it right off tonight when we
got here, knew them lions near the front door and that there fancy fountain.’

Magsy chewed on her lip. ‘The dreams could have come from the photograph. We may have this all the wrong way about altogether. She saw the picture and it sat deep in her mind, coming out
only when she was asleep.’

Lily disagreed. ‘That photo were years in yon cupboard, Mags. You know the state that place were in till she kicked off sorting it out. I were there when she started on her mam’s
sewing cupboard. I can tell you now that nowt had been disturbed on them shelves for many a year. Then there’s that other photo, the one she says is her real mam and dad. I know it’s
very old and brown, like, but why was that there? I can tell you now, there’s a look of Nellie round that woman’s face, and I can tell you why that photo’s there and all.
It’s there because Mrs Hulme knew who Nellie really were.’

Magsy’s left hand found its way to her throat. Surely not? Surely—

‘She’s from money,’ continued Lily. ‘She still gets money. Not a lot, but enough to keep body and soul together. The rest, the lace money, she saves. Aye, it’s very
fishy, is this.’ She dropped her voice even further. ‘I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more. There’s summat about Nellie Hulme, summat as was there even when
she were filthy. It’s called class. Her’s a lady, Mags. And she’s as rich as bloody royalty, thousands in the bank.’

‘Nellie has worked hard and she has saved,’ replied Magsy.

Lily fished around in her mind, could not lay her tongue across the words she needed. It wasn’t the money, wasn’t this house, wasn’t anything tangible. The fact remained that
Nellie Hulme was set apart, was different from the normal run of folk. Lily wished that she had time to read more, to learn the words she needed to express herself, but lacemaking, collecting items
for the stall, placing orders among homeworkers – all these tasks required time and concentration.

They collected cups of tea and hurried back to their seats. The curtain rose, Beth O’Gara sobbed her way through Ferocia’s downfall, Olivia Tangle was saved and all was well with the
story.

When the applause died down, Paul and Magsy rose to leave. ‘What was all that about in the interval?’ he asked.

Magsy sighed. ‘I have no idea. But I suspect we have some interesting days ahead of us.’

They went to collect Beth, found her in the changing room with her nose buried in Keats. They congratulated her, kissed her, shook their heads when she returned to ‘Ode to a
Nightingale’. ‘Come on,’ tutted Magsy, ‘we’ve to take Lily and Nellie back with us, it’s getting very late.’

Beth turned a page and sighed, the wig slipping as she raised her head. ‘Miss Hulme’s with the head upstairs, says she’ll be ten minutes. Mrs Hardcastle went up with her, so
we’ve got to wait.’

‘Ah.’ Magsy lingered, expected further information, got none. She took her husband on one side. ‘Wait here with madam, would you? I’ll just see if I can find out
what’s what.’

Lily was seated on a chair in the corridor, her hands twisting in her lap. Magsy joined her, sat beside her on a second chair. ‘It feels as if we are waiting to be punished by the head
teacher, two naughty girls about to get the cane,’ she whispered.

‘Eh? Oh, hello, Magsy.’ Lily shook her head resignedly. She didn’t understand what was going on, but she was ready for her cocoa and her bed. ‘I don’t think
we’ll be coming back with you. Miss Earnshaw said summat about one of the teachers taking us home in a car. Nellie’s a bit shaky.’

‘Ah.’

‘So she wants to go straight home.’

‘I see.’

The older woman reached across and touched Magsy’s hand. ‘Tell your Beth she were magic. If there hadn’t been all this carry-on,’ she waved a hand in the direction of
Miss Earnshaw’s firmly closed door, ‘I reckon I would have been laughing me head off.’

Nellie emerged from the office, stood still for a moment, her eyes flicking from Magsy to Lily. Her skin, always pale, was now whiter than ever, while a nervous twitch had developed in her left
eyelid. It was plain that she was distressed, though she said not a word as Miss Earnshaw followed her into the corridor.

Magsy jumped to her feet. ‘Nellie?’

Nellie raised her hand. It was plain that she had nothing to say, so the other three women followed her down the stairs. Whatever had happened in that office, the two women who had met in there
were remarkably subdued.

As the teacher’s car pulled away, Beth expressed everyone’s disappointment. ‘I was looking forward to them staying.’

Magsy said nothing, but her bones spoke loud and clear. There was something afoot and her unease was deep.

Dot and Peter made their way homeward, each enjoying the crisp night air and that companionable silence that was so much a part of their life together. Dot, who had endured
enough noise to last a lifetime, was glad of the peace. Peter, a loner, a man who had travelled several decades in his own company, could not have endured the company of a mindless chatterer. He
had found the ideal soulmate and was glad to have her.

‘It were good,’ she said when they were halfway home. ‘You don’t expect kiddies to be as clever as that, do you?’

‘My mother would have,’ he replied after a few moments’ thought. ‘My mother expected excellence and accepted nothing less. The school may be unusual in its approach, but
it works.’

Dot had known from the start that this second husband was a clever man. He knew the proper Latin name of every weed, every plant, every bush and tree. He could grow just about anything from seed
or cutting, read books on remote subjects like psychology, fine art and philosophy, was always learning something new. Peter was of the opinion that everyone should learn as much as possible, that
each man had a duty to expand his brain.