The Carpenter's Children (6 page)

Mark took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, my lord,
I-I’d prefer to stay in North Camp for a while longer if you will allow me.’

‘Good! Then I take it that you’ve answered my question,’ the bishop answered kindly. ‘Mr Saville speaks very highly of you, and if there were any, er, obstacles in your path, I know that you could safely confide in him. Right, my boy, let’s get back to sampling Mrs Saville’s delicious scones!’

Ernest’s last term at college was clouded with growing anxiety about his future. Since disappointing his father’s hopes that they would work together as partners, he had taken a good deal of money from that father, with no foreseeable prospect of paying it back. He searched the local and county newspapers in vain for a suitable opening, and began to think that he might, after all, have to go to London to find work, which would mean finding lodgings there, as Ted Bird had done. Ted had become a junior assistant with an exclusive London tailoring establishment patronised by the nobility, and in the course of time he would return to Birds’ Gentlemen’s Outfitters in North Camp, to be his father’s successor. Thinking about Ted led Ernest’s thoughts to Phyllis Bird, now working in the post office in place of Isabel, and quite unmistakably smiling in Ernest’s direction. It was she who had told him about the tennis courts, newly built beyond the North Camp cricket pavilion, and the jolly young people who gathered
to play tennis in the long, light evenings.

‘It’s such a beautiful summer,’ she said, looking up at him shyly, having learnt from Isabel that he played tennis at Guildford. ‘It seems a pity not to take advantage of it while you’re at home at the weekend. We’re a very friendly crowd, and you’ll know most of them – Cedric Neville’s home from Cambridge, and he came over from Hassett one evening last week with another fellow from his college, to play a couple of games. Why don’t you give it a try?’

She was a pleasant girl, and their families knew each other well. There was no good reason to refuse, and Ernest accordingly accompanied her to the courts one Saturday evening, where his skill surprised everyone, Phyllis included. He had walked her back to her home in the twilight, and parted with her on the doorstep with smiles and thanks for a delightful evening. She was a nice girl, he thought, from a family much like his own, and a few more evenings on the courts might well lead to a
good-night
kiss, though the idea alarmed him, having had no previous experience, and if he was honest with himself, no real inclination to kiss Phyllis Bird. In the end he decided that the cycling club held more appeal for him than the mixed membership of the tennis set, and in any case the pressing need to find himself suitable employment drove other thoughts from his mind.

Mr Chisman’s interview with her parents had thoroughly shaken Grace Munday, and their severity with her was worse than she’d expected, especially from her father who was not to be won over by tears and protests to ‘dear Daddy’ that she had never meant any harm, and had been sadly misunderstood by her class teacher Miss Forster who had never treated her fairly.

‘Stop that whining, my girl, and think yourself lucky you weren’t expelled!’ he said sharply, and she drew back, her dark eyes wide; tears began to flow again, but Tom Munday hardened his heart, and told her that she had shamed her whole family, especially her mother who had been deeply distressed. He demanded her promise that in the time remaining to her at school she would endeavour to be a credit to her parents, and not a disgrace. She had sobbed bitterly, and promised not to cause any more trouble at school, ‘no matter how unkindly they treat me, Daddy!’ – but inwardly she made up her mind that if Ernest
did
go to London, she would join him there, just as soon as her fourteenth birthday freed her from that rotten school. She’d get a job in a music hall, and progress from the chorus to being a star turn like the beautiful, daring Marie Lloyd; she too would become famous and wear elegant, expensive outfits – and she’d visit North Camp and Everham to show herself off, and all the girls would envy her. Oh, yes, Miss Grace Munday would show old man
Chisman and that bitch Miss Forster how mistaken they’d been about her!

But meanwhile she kept her pretty little nose down and her eyes lowered; right now she needed to get back into her parents’ good books.

Tom learnt that the Mundays were not the only family to have problems with a daughter. As he talked with Eddie Cooper over a pint at the Tradesmen’s Arms, he heard the latest about Mary, now living at Yeomans’ farm, so her father rarely saw her. When the farmer had asked him to repaint the dairy throughout, he had eagerly accepted, and put Yeomans at the top of his order list, thinking it would give him a good opportunity to see and speak to his daughter.

‘But I wasn’t so pleased, Tom, when I went into the kitchen and found her, all smiles and rosy cheeks, in the middle of half a dozen clodhoppin’ farm-hands, in for their bread and cheese. “Mornin’, Mary,” I said, lookin’ pretty straight at her, and she started tryin’ to explain, said that Mrs Yeomans was busy with the baby cutting his teeth or somesuch, and she was takin’ her place in the kitchen. They found their manners when they heard her call me Dad, but I made up my mind to have a word with her, soon as they’d gone back to the fields.’

‘And did you get a chance to speak to her, Eddie?’ asked Tom.

‘More than enough,’ came the terse reply. ‘When
I went back mid afternoon I found her laughin’ and gigglin’ with that oaf Dick Yeomans – you know, the son – and he was ticklin’ her with his great hands and tryin’ to kiss her, if you please!’

‘The devil he was! I’d’ve given him a clout, Eddie! What did you do?’

‘It’s not that easy, Tom,’ said Eddie with a sigh. ‘Mrs Yeomans has been good to Mary, and given her a better home than she’s ever had before, but the girl’s never crossed our threshold since Annie had the baby. I couldn’t very well go for that lout in his own kitchen, so I just grabbed hold o’ Mary, and said, “Here, that’s enough o’ that, my girl” – and told him to take his dirty paws off her, or I’d be lettin’ his father know. He turns round and says somethin’ about who the hell are you, this isn’t your house – but when he sees I’m her dad he looks a bit sheepish. Mary just looked down at the flagstones, and I felt that helpless, Tom, I didn’t know what to say to her, so in the end I just told her that if she wanted me at any time, she knew where I was.’

‘And what did she say to that, Eddie?’ asked Tom, wondering how he would have reacted if it had been his daughter Isabel. Or Grace.

‘She nodded and muttered something, and then said, “Excuse me, I can hear the baby crying” – and off she went.’

‘Must be rotten for you, Eddie – put you in a bit of a spot, didn’t it?’ said Tom, knowing of the dislike
between stepmother and daughter. Everybody knew that Mary had not once visited her little half-brother, and most felt sorry for Eddie who’d patiently endured years of worry with his first wife, and yet had looked after his daughter as well as he could.

‘They just don’t get on, Tom, Annie and Mary, and that’s the top an’ bottom of it,’ said Eddie, shaking his head. ‘Means I worry over Mary and that damned Yeomans boy, and there’s nothin’ I can do to look out for her. Been through a lot together, Mary an’ me.’

Tom Munday looked at him with real pity, but had no useful advice to offer. ‘So will you have a word with Yeomans?’

‘Yeah, but I’ll have to go carefully. Don’t want a quarrel, and Mary losin’ her job. There’s nowhere else for her to go,’ answered Eddie flatly.

‘Just a quiet word with him, then, that should do the trick,’ said Tom, trying to sound encouraging. ‘You could ask him to speak to his wife about it – she’d be the best one to look after Mary.’

‘You won’t say a word, will you, Tom? Not to your missus?’

‘’Course I won’t,’ Tom assured him, adding to himself, especially not to the missus. Poor old Eddie, stuck between two women who couldn’t get on, and a daughter facing temptations that could ultimately ruin her life; he, Tom Munday, could only be thankful that he had no such anxieties.

That was until he walked into the parlour one afternoon when Violet was out visiting Mrs Bird, and stopped in his tracks at what he saw. Grace was parading in front of the mirror, wearing her mother’s best hat trimmed with silk roses and an ostrich feather; she gestured with Isabel’s parasol and winked as she sang to an imaginary audience.

‘If I show my shape just a little bit –

Just a little bit, not too much of it –

If I show my shape just a
little
bit,

It’s the little bit the boys admire!’

The song was cut short as Grace became aware of her father’s reflection in the mirror, standing behind her. She spun round to face him, her dark eyes pleading.

‘I just found this copy o’ Marie Lloyd’s songs, Daddy, and thought I’d try to sing—’

‘Hand me that rubbish at once, my girl,’ he ordered sternly, taking up the sheaf of music that lay on a bookshelf. ‘And get those clothes o’ your mother’s back into her wardrobe straight away, before she gets in.’

‘Yes, Daddy, o’ course, Daddy, I’m sorry, I was only trying to…’ Grace began, putting down the parasol and taking off the hat in preparation for another angry reprimand and no doubt punishment from her father.

But Tom Munday did not feel equal to a confrontation just then, and having confiscated the
Marie Lloyd songbook, he dismissed Grace without another word. He decided against telling Violet, it would only kick up a further rumpus. But he wondered, like Miss Daniells, what the world was coming to.

On the fourth Sunday of each month, the morning service at St Peter’s was followed by the sacrament of Holy Communion to those members of the congregation who wished to receive it. Mrs Munday decided that it was a good time for the whole family to partake of it, Grace having been confirmed at Easter; both she and Ernest might obtain benefit from it, their mother thought. Accordingly they all stayed behind and moved up to the altar rail where they knelt with about a score of others while the Rev. Mr Saville recited the prayer of consecration, and the bread and wine having been blessed as representing Christ’s body and blood, he moved along the line of communicants, administering a small cube of bread into the cupped hands of each, uttering the traditional words over them. He was followed by Mr Storey, holding the chalice from which each communicant took a sip of wine. Ernest said his ‘Amen’ with fervour, for his thoughts were in such a turmoil of anxiety that he did not notice the slight disturbance when the curate moved on to Isabel who knelt next to him. His college days were over, and he was qualified and unemployed. What was he to
do? His mother was now advising him to take any job on offer, no matter how menial, while waiting for something better to come up. For instance, Mr Graves needed somebody to keep a watchful eye on his coal yard, and deal with the orders that came in to his grimy little office. Ernest shuddered, but now was no time to be choosy; he would go and see Mr Graves tomorrow.

Meanwhile it was a hot August day, and after the usual Sunday roast dinner, Ernest walked to the Bible study group at Mr Woodman’s. Should he ask them to pray for him at some point? To pray that he might be shown the path he was to take, both now and in the future?

When the Reverend Paul Woodman opened the door to him, Ernest felt his heart leap at the sight of his mentor, the young man for whom he’d felt such gratitude and affection as a boy. He knew that Paul, now in his late twenties, was an ordained Methodist minister, and that he had married; could there still be the old special understanding between them?

‘Ernest!’ cried Paul, taking his hand and shaking it warmly. ‘How good to see you! I’m visiting my parents – it’s my mother’s birthday, so I’ve come over with Rachael and our little daughter. You must meet them. But how are you, old chap? And what are you doing now?’

Before Ernest could answer, Mr Woodman came into the hall. ‘Come in, Ernest, come in!’ he beamed.
‘We shall be holding our study group this afternoon as usual, but with the pleasure of having Paul with us. It will be just like old times!’

But not quite, thought Ernest, putting on a cordial expression and saying how happy he was to meet Rachael, a dark-haired young woman who greeted him with sharply observant eyes. A little girl of about two clung to her mother’s skirts and hid her face in their folds when Ernest awkwardly bent over to speak to her.

‘Rachael is not from a Christian family, but praise be to God, she has accepted Christ as her Saviour,’ said Paul, looking tenderly at her. ‘Lucy has been baptised in the faith, and we pray constantly that Mr and Mrs Schelling and Rachael’s brothers and sisters be brought to the foot of the Cross in the course of time.’

Ernest nodded, wondering if Rachael was a Roman Catholic; but no, they called themselves Christians, even though sadly misguided.

‘You may possibly meet some of them soon, Ernest, because Rachael’s uncle and another relative—’

‘His sister’s son, Aaron,’ Rachael put in.

‘That’s right, her uncle and his nephew, they’ve left London and have come to start up a business in Everham,’ continued Paul. ‘They’ve been working for an insurance firm in the city, but Mr Schelling feels that the time has come for him to start his own business. He’s bought up the old bakehouse at the
end of the high street, and is having it turned into an office. They’ll deal with house and fire insurance, and expect to do quite well with the farmers.’

‘They’ll be known as Schelling and Pascoe,’ said Rachael with a little nod.

‘Yes, and all they need now is staff – reliable trained staff with good accountancy skills and some knowledge of German, if that’s possible, as Mr Pascoe has recently come over from Germany and isn’t very fluent in English yet,’ explained Paul. ‘Father says it’s asking rather a lot in a place like Everham, but Mr Schelling will offer a very good salary to the right—er, I say, Ernest old chap, are you all right? Your jaw has dropped nearly to the floor!’

Ernest nodded but could not trust himself to speak, so full was he of incredulous amazement. He had come to Mr Woodman’s Bible study group that afternoon with the intention of asking for prayer that he might be shown the way forward in his life and work. And it seemed that his prayer had been answered, even before it had been offered up.