Mourning Doves (14 page)

Betty paused to look again at Celia. ‘My goodness! You’ll have enough to stock a shop.’

Celia giggled. ‘That’ll be the day,’ she said disparagingly. ‘I’m not trained for anything.’

‘Nonsense,’ responded Betty with unexpected briskness. ‘Women can do lots of things, if they have to. I never saw a woman ploughing, for instance, until the war began and there was no ploughman to do it.’

‘That’s true. I remember Great-aunt Blodwyn complaining
that she had lost her ploughman to the army. His wife ploughed for her.’

‘And Dad’s training me to be a builder’s clerk and maybe run the business one day when he feels too old – because it’s going to take time for little Alfred to grow up and be able to do it.’

‘Ah, but you’re clever, Miss Aspen – and capable.’

‘Tush, I didn’t know anything much till Dad took me into the office, to fill in until he could get another man – and then found there were almost none left of the right age and experience. You could learn anything, if you set your mind to it.’ Her eyes danced as she said this, as if she were suggesting something naughty.

‘Well, thank you.’ Celia felt hugely gratified at the compliment.

Although the plumber from the village, when he arrived, was shown politely round the cottage and asked for an estimate, Celia knew in her heart that Betty had impressed her so favourably that she would give the work to the Aspens. She already sensed that, in Betty, she had made a real friend.

That night, as they sat round the kitchen fire drinking their bedtime cocoa, Dorothy told Winnie, who was nursing Tommy Atkins on her lap, that she had never before seen Miss Celia look so happy.

‘Then why is she up in her bedroom crying her eyes out?’ asked Ethel in surprise. ‘I saw her, when I went up to put the hot water bottles in the beds, just now. She were lying on her bed. But I could hear her when I were in the passage – and I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone in, Ethel. You should know that by now.’

‘I thought maybe she hurt herself. Banged her head on something perhaps. How was I to know?’

‘She was probably just tired out. It’s not our business,
Ethel. In service, you got to keep your eyes down and mind your own business.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Ethel replied sullenly, and returned to sipping her cocoa.

Dorothy said, ‘Maybe her mam or Miss Edna has been at her again. It’s a pity, because, you know, it were as if that Miss Aspen put new life into her,’ she said.

‘One of the few times she’s been out of her mother’s sight, I’d say. Most times, she’s never had a chance to be herself,’ responded Winnie dryly.

When Celia and Dorothy had returned from Meols at about five o’clock, Ethel had told them that the Missus and Miss Edna had gone to see how Mrs Woodcock was.

While Dorothy clattered downstairs to the basement kitchen, Celia took off her outer clothes and went into the sitting room, where a good fire blazed.

Though Celia would herself have enjoyed visiting Phyllis, she was relieved that her mother had kindly performed this duty, and that, though she should go soon, it did not have to be that particular evening. She badly needed time to talk over with her mother her ideas regarding their new home, and to hear what the bank manager had said to her.

She was also anxious to know what plans, if any, Edna had for her future. Would she want to live with her mother and herself ?

Celia dreaded the answer to this question. Secretly, she chastised herself for not longing to share her home with her poor bereaved sister. You are supposed to love your sister – want to help her whenever she needs help, she told herself again and again. But, on Lime Street Station, she had felt the sting of Edna’s remarks, though they were not much different from snubs she had received from Edna ever since she could remember.

Angrily, she asked herself, why doesn’t she show me some affection? And promptly blamed the lack on her own shortcomings, that she was dull and stupid and not worthy
of love. That Edna’s attitude towards her might have been automatic, learned long ago from their mother, did not occur to her. She tried to comfort herself by remembering how Edna had held her hand in the taxi.

Without being asked, Winnie sent her up a tray of tea. It was brought upstairs by Ethel, who carefully put it down on a side table within reach of Celia. ‘Dorothy’s just getting washed and changed into her afternoon uniform, Miss,’ she said, as she took the lid off the pot and gave the contents an energetic stir. ‘So Winnie said to me to bring it up to you.’

‘Thank you, Ethel.’ Celia forced her thoughts away from Edna, and inquired, ‘How did you get on at your interview yesterday?’

‘I won’t know for a day or two, Miss. The lady has one or two others to see – before she makes up her mind, like.’

Since Celia seemed interested, she felt encouraged to go on. ‘You see, Miss, I haven’t any official experience with children – that was the trouble. But I’m the second one in a family of thirteen.’ She laughed. ‘Coming to work for Mrs Gilmore was the first time I haven’t been knee-deep in kids – and truth to tell, it feels lonely without them.’

‘It might be a little different dealing with children in a house in West Derby,’ Celia warned. It was a wealthy neighbourhood with a very different standard of living from that of Ethel’s family in the north end of the city.

‘Oh, aye. I’d have to bath the little terrors every night, no doubt – and be for ever changing nappies – much more than me mam and I could do for our kids. It took Mam all her time to feed them, never mind anything else.’

‘How many children did this lady have?’

‘Just had her second – she’s got a two-year-old as well. She’s hardly got started yet.

‘And, Miss, there’s a day nursery and a night nursery. And, you know, Miss, I’d sleep in the same room as the babies and it would be warm because there’d be a fire to
keep the babies warm. And I wouldn’t have to clean – other help is kept.’ She paused for breath, and finished up by saying wistfully, ‘I hope I get it, Miss.’

Suddenly aware, from Ethel’s remark, that there was no heating in the bedrooms of the Gilmore servants, Celia said, ‘I hope you do, Ethel. I am sure Mother will give you an excellent reference.’

Through the open door into the hall, Celia glimpsed a neatly uniformed Dorothy run to answer the front door. As soon as she opened it, there was a flurry of wet umbrellas being shaken and voices protesting a sudden shower.

Ethel turned guiltily.

‘The Missus! And me talking like this!’ She slipped out of the room as quietly as a cat, and Celia doubted if Louise even noticed her as she passed through to the basement stairs.

Celia smiled as she poured out her tea. She took a quick sip, and then went into the hall to greet her mother.

Both ladies were struggling out of damp jackets and hats; Edna was saying that the veiling and satin trimmings of their hats were ruined by spots of rain. Dorothy was putting their umbrellas into the umbrella stand. She promised, at the same time, to take the hats and coats downstairs to be dried in the kitchen. But Edna handed Celia her hat, and said, ‘Put this somewhere to dry. Lay it on its crown to keep the crown flat.’

Celia looked at it, and said, ‘I’d better take the veiling off and spread it out. I think it will have to be restiffened with a little gum water.’ Her response to her sister’s request had been automatic, and she immediately regretted it. She wanted to say, ‘Do it yourself, when you are pressing your dresses.’ But her courage failed her.

‘I don’t know how to do it,’ Edna was continuing to Celia.

Her unthinking mother chimed in, ‘Oh, Celia is very
good at such things. Would you iron mine at the same time, dear?’

The memory of her interesting and satisfying day was wiped out. Seething with indignation, she obediently took her mother’s bonnet as well as Edna’s hat, and said, ‘I’ll put them in the laundry room downstairs, and deal with them tomorrow.’ And I’ll deliberately forget about them, she thought angrily.

In the unlit laundry room, however, she stood and cried. Then she blew her nose and went back upstairs, to find her mother demanding more tea from Dorothy, and Edna saying that it had been a horrible visit; Phyllis’s house looked positively unkempt and it stank of babies.

In the middle of the chaos, Phyllis had been lying on her unmade bed with a baby at her breast and a little boy howling beside her.

‘And she didn’t even get Lily to make a cup of tea for us,’ added Louise. ‘It’s a good thing her mother is arriving tomorrow to help her.’

Celia was outraged. She forgot her tears, and said maliciously to Edna, ‘I hope that you took little Eric up and comforted him and, at least, made her bed comfortable for her.’

Edna was seating herself by the fire and spreading out her damp skirt round her to dry. She froze for a moment, and then, as if she had not heard Celia’s remark, she said, ‘I think I had better go up and change immediately we have had tea.’

‘Celia!’ Her mother’s voice held a warning note. ‘If Phyllis needs more help, it is up to Arthur to provide it. It is not for us to imply criticism of the family’s arrangements by offering to help.’

‘But, Mama …’

‘That’s quite enough. I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

‘Very well, Mama.’ Though the tea tray that Ethel had
brought her had been removed, her full cup still stood on the table next to Edna’s chair. With trembling hands, she picked it up and walked over to the window, to stare at the rain-dashed panes while she drank the cold tea.

As she slowly put the cup and saucer down on a table crowded with family photographs in silver frames, Dorothy arrived with a larger tray, which she laid on the tea table beside Louise, and all three women remained quiet until she had left the room. Celia wondered if Louise and Edna had made up their quarrel over smoking the previous evening.

In the same strained silence the women sipped tea and nibbled scones, until Louise, anxious that her girls should not quarrel, introduced the reason for their visit to Phyllis, which was not really to inquire how the new mother fared.

‘That awful estate agent man called this morning, to say he was bringing a lady from Manchester, who had need of a large house in which to set up a nursing home. He apologised for rushing us, but he wanted to add this house to the list of those he proposed to show her this afternoon.’ Louise fumbled for her black handkerchief again. ‘Of course, I said no. It was too sudden.’

‘He’s not a very easy man to deny,’ interjected Edna reflectively. ‘I didn’t like him.’ She ached to smoke, and wondered how soon she could run up to her bedroom for a quick puff.

As if they had never had a cross word between them, Louise turned to her gratefully, ‘Neither do I, dear. He’s too forward.’ She turned back to Celia. ‘He said, however, that your father’s lawyer had impressed on him the need for speed. And he insisted that time and tide wait for no man – and that the lady was a very likely purchaser. But she had to return to Manchester tonight.’ She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘So I gave in.’

‘And we went to see your friend, to get out of his way.’ Edna’s expression as she looked into her empty teacup was
sour, as if something unpleasant was passing under her nose.

‘And because it was my duty to visit Phyllis, particularly as she is calling the baby after dear Timothy,’ added Louise virtuously.

Celia realised that her mother was doing her best to keep the peace between Edna and herself, just as if they were still small girls quarrelling in the nursery. She picked up the olive branch. ‘You were enormously kind to her, Mama, when the baby came so unexpectedly. I am sure she will feel a lifelong obligation to you.’

Louise actually smiled at her younger daughter. She said primly, ‘I don’t know what else we could have done.’

‘Well, you did everything so graciously.’ Celia felt she could say this honestly; and then she asked, ‘When will the estate agent let you know what the result of the visit was?’

‘He left his card with a note on it to say he would call on us tomorrow afternoon, just to give us the Manchester lady’s reactions.’ She sighed. ‘On a Sunday afternoon!’

‘It’s not very nice, is it?’ This from Edna, who had not enjoyed her practically smokeless day while enduring her mother’s fairly constant laments.

‘We shall have returned from church, at least,’ said Celia, trying to comfort her mother about using the Lord’s day for selling houses. She decided that the estate agent’s insistence on speed opened the way for her to tell her mother about her discussions with Betty Aspen and the plumber. This she did, while Edna listened with some interest.

‘A real bathroom? Like we have here?’ exclaimed her mother. ‘That would be wonderful. Oh, what a relief!’

‘Well, perhaps not quite as grand as we have here, Mother. But Miss Aspen – I keep forgetting that she’s a widow and her real name is Mrs Houghton – assured me that it would be quite nice-looking. And less likely to freeze up in winter than an outside water closet would. She has
promised an estimate on Monday – she’ll leave it at the cottage.’

‘How shall we pay for it?’ Louise asked helplessly.

‘If Cousin Albert agrees, we might pay for it out of the money we’ll get from this house. Otherwise, Mrs Houghton suggested that we could pay monthly to her father until we have paid it off.’

Edna opened her mouth to say kindly that she had a little ready money, but Celia cut her off by telling Louise about the barn, the rent of which Betty would also let her know on Monday.

‘You see, Mama, if it does not cost much to store the furniture so close to the cottage, you can take your time in deciding, finally, what you would like to retain – and if something does not fit, we have somewhere to put it until it can be sold.’

Edna interjected that she had furniture coming from Brazil, which would arrive in about three months’ time. It would be coming in on a freighter bound for Liverpool. ‘I shall need somewhere to store it, if I remain up here – though Papa Fellowes has offered me a home with his family. The barn would be convenient for me, too.’

Louise leaned across the fireplace to take Edna’s hand and squeeze it. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘you know that I would wish you to be with us.’

Celia dutifully echoed this, though she felt that life with Edna could be miserable. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, as she sought to control her feelings. She had, of course, no inkling of the turmoil of emotion through which Edna was going.

‘Perhaps you and Mama could share the rent of the barn, and that would make it very inexpensive, I am sure,’ she suggested.

While her mother nodded agreement to it, Edna considered the suggestion. Then she said reluctantly, ‘I don’t think I have to worry about small expenses. Papa Fellowes
had the will which Paul made when we were married. He never changed it; he left me everything that he possessed. He was his father’s junior partner and it means that money will come to me from the company.’

And thank God for that, she told herself; if she was never able to see Vital again, it was some comfort that she would be financially independent – simply because arrogant, self-centred Paul had never dreamed of dying young; he had made the original will only after his father had suggested it.

Her mother gave a sigh of relief. ‘I am so thankful, dear, that Paul took care of you so well. We would have shared what we have with you. But it gives you much more freedom if you are independent.’

Celia opened her mouth to snap that she had absolutely nothing to share. She did not, however, want to upset her mother again, so she compressed her lips, kept her hands in her lap and said no more. A woman can learn, said Betty Houghton, who was well on her way to holding down a man’s job. But where could she herself start to learn anything that would give her a chance of freedom?

Edna agreed dully that she was fortunate. She shifted uneasily in her chair, and sighed. She said slowly, ‘I have no idea, as yet, what my income will be. Papa Fellowes has promised to send me a cheque each month until Paul’s will has been probated. After that, I shall be considered a shareholder in the company, and I will be sent dividends according to the profits made each year.’