Mary's Child (6 page)

‘Then he may stay up for a little while and watch. Goodnight, Jack.’

‘Goodnight, Grandad.’

And George left him to the nurse.

Down in the kitchen the door leading to the front of the house swung wide and Parsons the butler, in tailcoat, entered with a swift, gliding stride. He took in the apparent chaos in the kitchen, ignored the din of a dozen women talking at once and saw that Mrs  Tyndall had all working like clockwork. He snapped at Betty Simpson, ‘The first guests are arriving. Two girls to serve sherry in the hall. Follow me, please.’ And he was gone through the door again.

Betty called, ‘Dora! Mary!’

A high stool stood in the corner. Mary lifted Chrissie up on to it and told her, ‘Now, you watch what’s going on but
don’t
get in the way!’ She kissed Chrissie then followed the other girl in pursuit of Parsons.

Amy Jenkinson had said, ‘Just for half an hour, mind, and no further than the top o’ the stairs.’ So Jack Ballantyne knelt on the landing in his nightshirt and dressing-gown, peeping through the banister rails as he had done many a time before. He watched the guests arrive, to be welcomed in the hall by his grandfather. All the men were in full evening dress or uniform of scarlet or blue, the women in silks and satins and ablaze with jewellery. Two maids were moving among them with trays of small glasses. He did not recognise the girls but knew some had been brought in for the evening because he had heard Amy Jenkinson discussing the dinner with Betty Simpson.

The half-hour passed quickly and then Parsons was in the hall, clearing his throat and announcing, ‘Dinner is served!’ The hall emptied as the crowd moved through to the long dining-room, and Amy Jenkinson came to take Jack by the hand. ‘Time for bed now.’

He rose reluctantly. Increasingly he was questioning her authority. Wasn’t he – just – eight years old now? Hadn’t he been given lessons by a local curate coming to the house for the past three years? And he would be going to boarding school after the summer! He protested, ‘I’m not tired. I don’t want to go to bed yet.’

But he had tried that one before and Amy had heard it from a score of infants over the years. ‘I am, and it’s another day tomorrow.’ And she led him away.

He asked, ‘Are you going to bed?’

‘That I am,’ she lied. ‘I’m dead tired.’

In truth she was weary, feeling her age now, finding that an energetic eight-year-old took too much out of her. But she was not going to bed. She stood behind Jack as he knelt and said his prayers, finishing: ‘. . . God Bless Daddy and Grandad and Jenkinson. Amen.’ She tucked him in and waited a half-hour in her own room, the door to his open, until she was sure he was asleep. Then she headed for the back stairs. The servants’ supper tonight would consist of the leftovers from dinner and her mouth watered at the thought of it.

Amy Jenkinson was not the only one to have learnt over the years. Jack Ballantyne waited, breathing regularly and quietly so he could hear her moving. Twice he almost nodded off but caught himself in time, remembered what he intended to do and was wide awake again. When her soft footfalls faded down the stairs he rolled out of bed. In the light from the glowing embers of the nursery fire, smouldering inside its guard, he dressed quickly in the white sailor suit that she had set out for the morning. Then he slipped out on to the landing.

The brightly lit hall beckoned below but maids scurried back and forth, carrying trays laden with plates and dishes. So he turned away from it and instead made his way down the narrow back stairs that the servants used to climb from the kitchen to their rooms on the top floor. On the ground floor he avoided the busy kitchen and went to a door used by the gardener. He had to struggle with the stiff bolt but he finally drew it clear and passed through. He was free.

He had done it several times before, of course. This was no lucky, fumbling first attempt. He knew his route to the outdoors.

And now? He might not go to the party but he would get as close to it as he could. He passed the kitchen, ducking below the window so he would not be seen, and went on to the big french windows that opened out from the long dining-room inside. The curtains were drawn but there was a gap an inch or two wide near the top and a tree near by. An adventurous eight-year-old could climb to a branch where he could sit and see through the gap. Soon he was straddling the bough.

There was little to see after the first triumphant, intent minutes; he had seen it all before. A table set with silver and candelabra stretched the length of the room from front to back of the house. There were ladies and gentlemen eating and talking, maids swarming, serving or clearing away. A great, glass chandelier hung from the ceiling and picked up the glow from the fire and the colours from the dresses and uniforms.

After a while Jack became bored, cold and hungry, climbed down from the tree and went back to peer in at the kitchen window. Its warmth was out of bounds to him and its food out of his reach. The kitchen table was loaded with it. There was a constant traffic of maids entering with half-empty dishes or piles of used plates, leaving with hot, clean ones and full dishes. He saw his nurse, Jenkinson, sitting on a straight-backed chair by the kitchen range, but set to one side so she would not be in the way of the cook while waiting for her supper. And in one corner a small girl, dark haired and dark eyed, perched on a high stool. She seemed to droop, the corners of her mouth down.

Chrissie was bored. She had been ignored ever since Mary Carter lifted her on to the stool, everyone in the kitchen being too busy to stop and talk to her. The evening had faded into monotony after starting so excitingly, with a promised visit to the big house, the chance of seeing rabbits – and a fox. Now she wondered  . . .

She would not be missed, not for just a few minutes. She got down from the stool and sidled through the bustle around the table, remembering Mary Carter’s warning and being careful not to get in anyone’s way. She eased open the door a few inches and slid sideways through the narrow gap, closed the door behind her and took a step or two. After the light in the kitchen, and because of that spilling out from the window now, the garden in contrast lay in pitchy blackness. There might be rabbits, or a fox out there, or . . . Her imagination took hold as branches waved overhead on a gust of wind and some creature squeaked among the trees. Then  . . .

‘Hello!’

Chrissie squeaked in fright. The voice came from only inches behind her. As she yelped she jumped forward and turned, then hesitated before running when she saw the owner of the voice, silhouetted and half-lit by the glow from the kitchen window. The boy wore a white sailor suit and was a head taller than she. Her yell had caused him to recoil so there was a yard between them. His chin was on his shoulder as he peered back at the kitchen window, but now he faced her again and said, ‘It’s all right. They didn’t hear you. Why did you shout like that?’

‘Because you scared me! That was a daft thing to do!’ Shame at him seeing her frightened stoked Chrissie’s anger.

It did not impress Jack, who asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

Chrissie answered, ‘My mam’s in there, waiting on. I came out to see the rabbits.’ Then she countered, ‘What are
you
doing here?’

Jack answered with the confidence of ownership, ‘I live here.’ Then he asked, ‘What rabbits?’

‘My mam said I might see rabbits – or a fox.’

Jack shook his head. ‘Not in this garden. But there are some just over the field. Higgins showed me where.’ Higgins was the gardener, and a poacher on the side. But now Jack turned to more important business: ‘I’m hungry.’

On that they agreed. Chrissie admitted, ‘So am I.’

‘You go in and fetch some food out. There’s lots and they probably won’t see you.’

She stared at him, shocked. ‘That’s stealing!’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s mine.’

Chrissie saw his point. If this was his house . . . But in that case: ‘You go, then.’

‘I can’t. I’m not allowed in the kitchen. Besides, I’m supposed to be in bed.’ Jack was becoming impatient, his mouth watering as he saw the big kitchen table, already crowded, now being loaded with the dishes of half-used jellies and other desserts. He challenged, ‘You’re scared again!’

Chrissie lied, ‘No, I’m not!’ But she was hungry, watching as he was, and her mother had said they would have their supper in the kitchen, as much as they wanted. So it wouldn’t really be stealing  . . .

Jack wheedled, ‘I’ll take you to see the rabbits afterwards.’

Chrissie hesitated, tempted, but still shook her head. ‘No.’

Jack had seen that hesitation and realised she was wavering. Then he heard the music strike up inside the house and he guessed what might appeal to a girl: ‘I’ll take you where you can see the dancing.’

Chrissie took a breath, then: ‘All right.’

‘I’ll wait here.’ Jack urged her towards the door in case she changed her mind and almost pushed her through the gap as she opened it.

Chrissie drifted up to the table, heart thumping and furtive, but no one noticed. Mrs  Tyndall was busy at the kitchen range. Amy Jenkinson was talking to her, the backs of both turned to Chrissie. Maids were coming and going but none questioned her; Mary Carter was on duty at the front of the house. Chrissie stretched on her toes to reach up to the table and took a dish that held half of a jelly. She added a random selection of carved meats then topped it with a handful of roast potatoes. Holding it in both hands, she scurried across to the door.

It was opened by Jack who had watched her, peeping in at a corner of the window. As she passed through he closed the door behind her and breathed, ‘
Bravo!
’

Chrissie beamed at the praise and apologised, ‘I could only carry the one dish. Sorry.’

‘You did jolly well. Come on!’

Their heads bent over the dish. Chrissie had briefly forgotten her hunger but now it reminded her. Jack had never lost his. They ate with their fingers, companiably, working through the potatoes to the meat then sideways into the jelly. They both paused, mouths full, as they heard the faint sound of carriage wheels crunching on the drive at the front of the house. Then that ceased and they grinned at each other and went on with the feast.

They cleaned the bowl, licked their fingers and Chrissie said, ‘The dancing, you promised to let me see it.’

‘Righto!’ Jack led her to the tree and pointed to the branch: ‘Up there.’

Chrissie put down the bowl and climbed, Jack behind her, hissing, ‘Put your foot there – no,
there
!’ And his hand guided her boot into place, until they both sat astride the branch. Chrissie caught her breath, then held it, awed, as she stared through the gap in the curtains.

The table had been pushed back against one wall and now a string ensemble played at one end of the long room. Chrissie did not know the name of the piece they played – ‘The Blue Danube’ – but she would always remember the lilt of the music. The light from the huge glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling reflected from the polished floor.

The men in their black and white, the officers in scarlet, dark blue and gold, the women in their silken gowns that reached the floor but barely covered their breasts, all flowed and swirled. The stately dancers circled the room, spinning and sweeping gracefully in time to the music. The light glinted on jewels; flowers in head-dresses and corsages added to the blaze of colour.

Chrissie held Jack’s hand in hers and watched open mouthed. She had never seen a sight like this before, would never forget it to the end of her days.

In the kitchen Mary Carter put down a loaded tray and looked around her, saw Chrissie had gone from the stool and looked again, anxious, demanding loudly, ‘Where’s Chrissie? My little lass?’

Betty Simpson said, ‘I saw her go out about ten minutes back. I thought you knew.’

Mary hurried to the door and flung it open, stepped outside. A pathway of light swept out from beneath her feet, reaching into the darkness. She peered, eyes searching and head turning from left to right. Then she saw another, thinner strip of light escaping from the gap in the curtains of the long room. It lit, though dimly, her daughter and a small boy. They sat astride the branch of a tree and at its foot lay an empty dish.

Mary ran to the tree and saw that the two small faces turned down to her were smeared with jelly. She demanded, ‘
Come down!
’

Chrissie, startled, swayed and almost fell, but Jack’s hand in hers steadied her. They descended from the tree as they had climbed it, Jack showing the way.

Mary grabbed Chrissie with one hand, the dish with the other. ‘How dare you? Who said you could take this?’

The boy answered, ‘I did.’

Mary flared at him, ‘And who the hell d’you think you are?’

And Amy Jenkinson said behind her, ‘Oh, my God! It’s Master Jack!’

Amy took him up the back stairs, berating him all the way. ‘What your grandad will say, I daren’t think. I reckon it will be the strap for you, my lad, and no treats for a long time. Suppose you’d fallen out o’ that tree and split your heid?’ She had got his account of that out of him. ‘You could ha’ laid there all night.’