The Carpenter's Children (7 page)

Having administered the chalice to Ernest, Mr Storey turned next to the beautiful young girl who had so captured his heart. His hands had begun to shake as he held the cup and the square of white linen used to wipe the rim between each partaker. A priest is instructed to look straight into the eyes of the communicant as he murmurs the
time-honoured exhortation, but Mark’s throat was suddenly constricted and speech deserted him. Not only his hands shook, but he trembled from head to foot, almost spilling the wine, as he stood before the girl who filled his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams; only he – and he presumed God – knew of the times when he had given way to unlawful thoughts of her, and now here she knelt before him in all her purity and innocence. He could not look into those clear blue eyes; his head bowed over the chalice and he feared he was about to disgrace himself and his office in front of her and her family and everybody present. Mr Saville was looking at him in frowning concern: what could he do? Oh, merciful God, what was he to do?

Then Isabel Munday lifted her head, a sweet smile on her lips as she held out her hands to take hold of the chalice; and he found himself answering her in the words he had been saying to each communicant.

‘The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life…’

She took the chalice between her hands, and their fingers briefly touched.

‘Amen,’ she replied, and he passed on to Grace who had not missed a moment of this little scene acted out beside her.

On the way home Mrs Munday remarked that the curate had not looked well.

‘Did you see how he stood there as if he didn’t know where he was? I thought he was going to faint,’ she said. ‘I wonder how Mrs Saville feeds him? He’s out such a lot, I expect he gets warmed-up leftovers half the time.’

Grace smirked, but otherwise there was no reaction. Tom Munday had seen the curate’s strange behaviour, and had drawn his own conclusions. He thought of Eddie Cooper’s dilemma over Mary, how Eddie was unable to talk to her; it could be difficult for fathers of daughters, but his Isabel was a good, sensible girl, conscious of her parents’ love for her, and likely to be much less of a worry than Grace.

After Sunday dinner had been cleared away and Ernest had left for the Bible study group, Isabel put on her flowery hat and said she was going to see Betty Goddard, which pleased her father; a good talk with a friend of her own age would probably be the best thing for her.

It wasn’t a downright lie, but only half a one; Isabel knew that Betty was likely to be visiting her grandmother as she usually did on a Sunday afternoon, but she called at the Goddards just to make sure, and was thankful that nobody appeared to be at home. Oh, how she longed to get right away from everybody and walk as far as she could, alone with her own tumultuous thoughts – a mixture of hope, apprehension and sheer joy; for when Mr Storey had hesitated in front of her at the altar
rail, and she had raised her face to him and smiled, holding out her hands for the chalice, some wordless message had passed between them, and she had at last acknowledged what was in her own heart. It was as if a jigsaw puzzle had finally fallen into place, and whereas before she had imagined what it must be like to be married to a clergyman, now she acknowledged the truth: she was in love with Mr Storey. She could tell nobody, certainly not her parents, for they would neither believe her nor approve; they would point out that she was only just sixteen, as if she didn’t know.

She hurried out of the village and made her way down to the meadowlands on the near side of the Blackwater river, where a clump of trees stood on what was still common land. Here she could hug her secret to herself, and she twirled round and round, holding her hat by its white ribbon and laughing at herself.

And that was how Mark Storey came upon her, for he too was out walking on this late summer afternoon, alternately rejoicing for love of Isabel Munday and then accusing himself of weakness on account of it. He was thankful that Mr Saville had merely asked, ‘Are you all right, Mark? You looked a bit pale during Communion.’

‘I’m all right, thank you, Mr Saville. I just didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.’

‘Yes, it’s this heat. A good dinner will put you to
rights. Would you care for a glass of sherry before we sit down?’

As soon as he could possibly excuse himself after the Sunday roast, Mark had put his straw boater on his head, and strode forth, deciding to make for the Blackwater meadows and lose himself among the trees. Yes! As long as nobody else knew of his secret, life could go on as usual, worshipping her from a distance. Or so he thought.

And then he saw her, like a vision conjured up from sheer longing. He stood stock-still at first, watching her until she caught sight of him and at once stopped twirling; she put her hat back on, and for a long moment they stared at each other.

Then he spoke. ‘Isabel.’

It was only one word, her Christian name instead of
Miss Munday
. But it was enough. They began walking towards each other as if impelled by some force beyond themselves, and she held out her hands as she had held them out for the chalice that morning. He folded his arms around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder. Released from its pins, her hair tumbled down over her shoulders; he thought he had never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful. For a while there was silence, and then he spoke quietly and clearly.

‘I may not declare myself to you, Isabel, so young as you are, not without your parents’ knowledge. There would be a fearful scandal if…if…’ 

‘Then we won’t tell anybody, dear Mr Storey,’ she replied, lifting her head and looking full into his face. ‘Nobody but ourselves will know, and it will be a secret, won’t it? And then…oh,
then
if you have to leave North Camp and be sent to another parish, we two would still
know
, wouldn’t we?’

‘Yes, my love, and I’ll wait for you until you’re eighteen, or older – I’ll wait for you as long as I have to, Isabel.’

‘And I’ll wait too, dear Mr Storey!’

‘Call me Mark, Isabel.’

‘Mark,’ she murmured, and then more clearly, ‘Mark!’

Their first kiss was no less loving because it was gentle and chaste, but they both knew that a bridge had been crossed and there could be no going back.

‘We’d better go back to the village, my love,’ he said at length. ‘I won’t take your arm, much as I’d like to. In fact, it would be best if you walk on ahead, and I’ll follow.’ He felt that he had to be careful of her good name, and so with a last tremulous kiss, and enveloped in a mutual intensity of emotions, they returned separately to North Camp.

But they had been seen.

‘I saw you lingering back along Bent Lane, with your young man following on behind,’ announced Grace as soon as her sister had stepped over the threshhold. Isabel coloured and frowned.

‘Don’t be silly, Grace, Mr Storey is just a nice man
who’s very good at his – at his work,’ she replied, though unable to hide her blushes and shining eyes, for it was not in her nature to deceive. Grace laughed.

‘And the band played, “Believe it if you like!” Come off it, Izzy, he’s crazy about you, anybody could see that in church this morning!’

Poor Isabel. Poor Mark Storey, a serious-minded man wanting to do the right and honourable thing, decided against secrecy after all, and confided in the Rev. Mr Saville that same evening, who passed it on to his astonished wife. The bishop was speedily informed, and before the end of September Mr Storey had been transferred to a parish in the East End of London. Isabel wept bitterly at his departure, confirming Tom Munday’s suspicions that Storey’s love for her was returned, and he could only commend the curate’s honesty. Violet on the other hand was pained by what she saw as Isabel’s deception of her parents, and the curate’s perfidy.

‘Don’t be annoyed with them, Vi,’ Tom counselled her gently. ‘Just thank heaven that Isabel’s a good girl, not one to bring shame on her family – which is more than can be said for some I could mention.’

Tom quietly let Isabel know that she and the Rev. Storey could correspond, not oftener than once a month, and that he must see all the letters that came and went. She vowed again that she would wait until she reached an age when she’d be considered old
enough to become a clergyman’s wife. Tom privately considered that one or other of them would grow tired of waiting. And there the matter had to rest.

At Schelling and Pascoe’s smart new office in Everham High Street Ernest Munday was thankful beyond words that he had at last found his niche in life, for his employers were delighted with him. Mrs Munday had at first been shocked and sorry to hear that the Schelling family were
Jews
, but her son was so obviously happy with them and so highly commended by Mr Schelling that she ceased to mention it, especially to their neighbours in North Camp. After only a month Ernest was entrusted with charge of the office on Saturdays, the Jewish Sabbath, and conforming to national practice they closed on Sundays. Mr Schelling was a jovial,
thick-set
man with a wife and two daughters, and Rachael Woodman was the daughter of his brother. Mr Aaron Pascoe, the son of a Schelling sister, was a thoughtful young man who enjoyed discussing social and international issues with Ernest. He also hinted at unrest in Germany, which was why he had left his childhood home and come to England.

‘Our race has always had to be ready to break camp and move on to other pastures,’ he told Ernest with a smile and a shrug. ‘We have to stand with our lamps lit and our loins girded, ready for an exodus.’ He had eagerly accepted a junior partnership with
his uncle who treated him like a son, having none of his own.

Getting to know and respect this Jewish family, Ernest sometimes felt puzzled. While they did not acknowledge Jesus Christ as their Saviour, but were still awaiting the coming of their true Messiah, they were strict in the observances of their religion, which made them no less considerate or good-humoured. Ernest felt no missionary zeal to preach the Gospel to them as if they were heathen, and had no wish to damage the cordial relationship he had with them. He wondered how they had reacted to Rachael’s conversion to Christianity, and one day when talking with Aaron, he asked him tentatively about the matter.

‘My aunt was very distressed about her daughter’s marriage at first, and said she wouldn’t attend the wedding in a Methodist church,’ Aaron answered. ‘But my uncle took the view that they must never disown Rachael, and I think Paul did a lot towards encouraging her to stay in touch with her parents, and well, being such an obviously decent fellow, they couldn’t fail to like him. And then when Lucy was born - well, you know what women are like with babies – my aunt succumbed, and there was reconciliation of a sort. And of course Paul and Rachael live quite a distance away from the family.’

Hearing this, Ernest still wondered how Paul had persuaded Rachael to forsake the religion of
her race; was it that she genuinely came to believe that Christ was her Saviour? Ernest concluded that she had, though a part of him suspected that she must have been passionately in love with Paul, and determined to marry him in defiance of parents and grandparents.

Just as he himself would have married Paul if either of them had been a woman.

Tom Munday sat reading the monthly letter his daughter Isabel had written to the Rev. Mark Storey, the newly inducted vicar of St Barnabas’ Church in the East London borough of Bethnal Green. Each month Tom felt more uncomfortable about this censorship of their letters. The one-time awkward, well-meaning curate now had charge of a rough, sometimes dangerous parish, and the shy girl dreaming of love in a vicarage had become a capable young woman of eighteen, as pretty as ever, and much loved and respected at Miss Daniells’ school. And she remained as unwavering in her attachment to Mark Storey as his for her. They had served almost two years of enforced separation from each other, during which time they had not once met, for when Mark had invited Isabel and her parents
to attend his induction earlier in the year, Tom had given way to his wife’s insistence that they should decline. A complete separation decreed by a bishop should be strictly observed, she argued, though Tom was not as convinced as she was, and now regretted their decision. For one thing, it would have given Isabel an opportunity to compare the relatively rural life of North Camp with the poverty and hardship of an East London parish, a life that she might be required to share in due time.

Tom sighed, and reread the letter, imagining what she might have written if her words had been for Mark’s eyes only.

I was interested in all that you said about the Settlement that has been such a help to the young people, and the football team for the boys. You describe it all so vividly that I feel myself actually there, and I only wish that I were. It has been so long.

(That means ‘I long to see you and share your life,’ thought Tom.)

Life at school goes on as usual, the children are happy and learn well on the whole. I often think of the poor, ragged little souls that you tell me about who have no chance to learn to read and write. They come to mind when I am teaching my little ones to say their ABC, and my heart goes out to them. It seems so long since you used to come on school inspections for Mr Saville.

(‘How I should love to teach your poor,
barefooted
urchins, and welcome your inspections to see what progress I have made! Your smiles and commendations would be all the reward I needed.’)

Mr Saville preached a very solemn sermon last Sunday about the unrest in Europe, and he obviously doesn’t admire the kaiser, though our late King Edward VII was his cousin, and they seemed to be friendly. My father agrees that this trouble in the Balkans could be a threat to peace in that part of the world, and may spread to Germany and Austria. The newspapers contradict each other, and I find it all quite bewildering. Here we have lovely spring weather, and when I get time to walk in the Blackwater meadows, thoughts of war seem very far away. The trees look so beautiful in their new green foliage, and yesterday I heard a cuckoo calling. That place holds happy memories.

(‘I felt as if I were walking again with you in that place where we first declared our love. If only we could be together again, I wouldn’t be bothered by these rumours from abroad, whatever Mr Saville says.’)

Tom Munday folded the letter and put it in its envelope, ready for posting. And at that moment he made up his mind to discontinue this censorship of their letters. His daughter and Mark Storey had proved the enduring nature of their love, and had earned the right to privacy. It had been two years,
for heaven’s sake, and as far as Tom Munday was concerned, the couple could meet and make plans for their future.

Stepaside was a high-class tea room in Everham, known for its excellent home-made cakes and atmosphere of quiet refinement; it was situated conveniently for lady shoppers, and Lady Neville always took refreshments there when she came to Everham on business or shopping. It was run by a Mrs Brangton and her daughter Miss Brangton, and when an advertisement appeared in the
Everham News
for a suitable young lady to work as a waitress and assist in the kitchen at Stepaside, Grace Munday saw it and begged her father to let her apply, even though she had not yet had her fifteenth birthday, and was still a pupil at the council school. When approached Mr Chisman made no objection, and Grace, overjoyed at the prospect of escape from boring lessons and spiteful teachers, attended an interview with Mrs Brangton, where her pretty manners and dimpled smiles won her the place. Overnight she turned into Miss Munday, a young lady dressed in a long black skirt and high-necked white blouse, who earned her own living and travelled daily on the horse-drawn omnibus between North Camp and Everham. Her parents had mixed feelings at first, but she settled well, and her obvious happiness reassured them.

Stepaside opened at midday, but behind its
genteel frontage the morning activity in the kitchen was intense. Miss Munday arrived at eight, donned an overall and tied a triangular white square around her head, to assist both ladies in their tasks. Miss Brangton baked the cottage loaves which went into the oven at nine, having been ‘proved’ and rekneaded since the dough was made at seven. Mrs Brangton made the cakes of all kinds – fruit, chocolate, coffee and walnut (a great favourite), and sponges plain and flavoured, halved and filled with buttercream. While she wielded her wooden spoon and poured the mixtures into baking tins, Miss Brangton sliced vegetables for soup, simmering them with ham or beef bones, and Miss Munday had to assist both ladies who frequently needed her at the same time. At half past eleven she sat down to a delicious bowl of freshly made soup and a slice of home-baked bread, still warm from the oven, and at five to twelve she put on a frilly white apron with a matching cap, ready for her duties as waitress, in which she was joined and supervised by Miss Brangton. A stout woman called Mrs Hodge arrived to do the washing up; she stayed in the kitchen, while Mrs Brangton disappeared into an inner sanctum to do her accounts, issuing forth from time to time to greet her customers and exchange a word here and there – as if she hadn’t been working her socks off all the morning, thought Miss Munday admiringly.

Lunches consisted of the delectable soup and
bread, with the addition or alternative of something on toast – poached or scrambled egg, cheese or grilled tomatoes. Miss Brangton prepared these, and kept two big kettles on the boil for tea. Lunches continued until two o’clock when there was a lull before teas began at three and continued until half past five. This was the busiest time, when the afternoon shoppers arrived for their usual treat, tea at Stepaside. Miss Munday welcomed all the ladies and the occasional gentleman, usually a husband, with smiling deference, taking their orders and dealing with each one promptly. She loved it.

But one afternoon there was a difficulty. Mrs Bentley-Foulkes, a very elegant lady and regular patron, arrived with a female companion and demanded her usual table beneath the window. Miss Munday took their order, tea for two and lemon cake. When she brought the tray with two generous slices of lemon cake, Mrs Bentley-Foulkes regarded it with a frown.

‘I ordered a teacake, toasted and buttered,’ she said. ‘Mrs Whittington ordered the cake. Please change it.’

‘But madam, you ordered lemon cake for both of you – didn’t she, Mrs…er…’ protested Miss Munday, turning to the other lady for confirmation.

‘Don’t you answer back at
me
, my girl,’ retorted Mrs Bentley-Foulkes in indignation. ‘Take that slice of cake away
at once
, and bring me what I ordered.’

‘I’ll change it for you, madam, but you definitely ordered cake,’ insisted Miss Munday, quickly removing the offending slice and returning with a teacake, hastily toasted by Miss Brangton; she set it down without a word.

When Mrs Brangton emerged from her office to speak to her customers, she returned looking very grave, and beckoned to Miss Munday.

‘I’m appalled to hear that you were insolent to one of my most valued customers, Miss Munday,’ she said. ‘You will have to go and apologise to Mrs Bentley-Foulkes at once.’

‘But she distinctly asked for lemon cake in the first place, and then said she hadn’t, Mrs Brangton!’ protested Miss Munday, reddening. ‘She was in the wrong, and as good as called me a liar!’

‘Hold your tongue, Miss Munday, and don’t ever raise your voice to me again, or you will be dismissed without notice!’ Mrs Brangton told her, also reddening. ‘Stepaside has a reputation as a
high-class
tea room, where the customer is
always
right, and don’t you ever forget that. Now go and apologise to Mrs Bentley-Foulkes and her companion –
at
once
, Miss Munday!’

Grace Munday drew several deep breaths and adjusted her face to one of pained submission as she went over to the table and muttered, ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Bentley-Foulkes.’ The lady nodded in frosty acceptance, and Miss Munday went to take an order
from another table. It isn’t easy to be subservient to one you regard as a stuck-up, overdressed Lady Muck, and a seed of rebellion was planted.

‘Looks as if there could be civil war in Ireland over this Home Rule business,’ said Ernest Munday, looking up from his newspaper.

‘Hm!’ grunted Aaron Pascoe, biting into his cold roast lamb sliced with unleavened bread. They were sitting at the wooden table in the yard at the back of Schelling and Pascoe’s offices, taking advantage of the midday sunshine while keeping an ear open for the doorbell.

‘All very well saying “Hm!” It could be a dangerous game if we have to send troops over there,’ said Ernest reprovingly.

‘My dear old chap, there could be far more dangerous games ahead if this trouble between Serbia and Austria goes on and develops into outright conflict,’ said Aaron, looking so serious that Ernest glanced up sharply from his paper. He had never been able to take a real interest in events happening in a distant part of the world, and the Balkans, though not as far away as India or Africa, seemed particularly remote. Oddly, the great Dominions of the British Empire, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, seemed nearer because of their close historical links with Great Britain, while the United States of America, though independent for well over a hundred years, spoke the
same language and could still be called cousins of their country of origin. Serbia and Croatia, Turkey and those eastern European countries with their incomprehensible languages and current stirrings and rumblings, held far less importance in Ernest’s view than, say, an upheaval in a part of the Empire, such as India which had had its uprisings and rebellions, but which was now peacefully governed by the viceroy and a network of district commissioners like Sir Arnold Neville. Ernest thought back to the great durbar of 1911 when the king and queen had visited India and been proclaimed emperor and empress, among scenes of magnificence and rejoicing among their loyal subjects there. How could local squabbles in the far eastern end of Europe compare with such strength? And yet there was a warning note in his friend’s unexpectedly solemn voice.

‘Truly, Aaron, do you believe that there could be real danger from Serbia?’

‘Certainly, if Germany gets involved, as Austria already has,’ replied his friend in the German accent that Ernest found so engaging. ‘I have written to my parents in Elberfeld to suggest that they come over with my younger brothers and sisters, and hope that my father will take heed.’

Aaron’s father was English, though known as Herr Pascoe in Germany; his mother, a Schelling sister, enjoyed a comfortable life in Elberfeld, and wanted Aaron to return to what she called his home.

‘Why? Do you mean for safety’s sake?’ asked Ernest incredulously. ‘Surely that’s being overcautious! Why not wait to see how things turn out? These rumblings may die down in another year or two.’

‘Ah, Ernest my dear friend, you English can seldom see in front of your noses, and you have been caught unawares in history before now,’ said Aaron, shaking his head but softening his words with a wry smile. Ernest caught his breath at the words, ‘my dear friend’, an unusual way for one young man to address another, and Ernest put it down to the warmer terms and phrases used by Europeans. And over the past two years, working together, cycling together over Surrey’s open heaths and Hampshire’s rounded hills, by farms and orchards, by ancient village churches, by river banks and stretches of open water like Frensham Pond where they had swum and then sat in the shade – they had become close friends. Ernest privately marvelled at the fact that they had been unwittingly brought together by Paul Woodman, simply because he had married a Jewess; they had another child now, a son they named David, and like his sister he had been baptised as a Christian in the Methodist tradition. Ernest no longer attended Mr Woodman’s Bible study groups, for after attending church with his family on Sunday mornings, he was off on his bicycle with Aaron. This was the most beautiful summer he could remember, and the call of the open air had never been stronger than now,
sharing it all with Aaron. A bond had grown between them that could only be broken by the marriage of one or the other, though this was never mentioned. Or rather, it had not yet been mentioned.

One Sunday afternoon, resting near St Catherine’s Chapel, looking across to the Hog’s Back, that great chalk ridge that rises between Farnham and Guildford, and gives a wide view of peaceful Surrey countryside, now shimmering in a heat haze, Aaron lay on his back, gazing up through the thick branches of a yew. Ernest produced a stone jar from his backpack, removed the cork and offered Aaron a gulp of water from its narrow neck.

‘Mmm, that’s good! Amazing how the stone keeps it cool – thanks.’

He passed the jar back to Ernest, and suddenly it seemed a right moment to broach the subject which Ernest had been turning over in his mind for some time, but which he had been half-afraid to mention to his friend. Now he could; now he must.

‘Aaron, may I ask you a question?’ He spoke quietly, but his heart beat fast.

‘Hush, you’re disturbing the silence of a perfect summer afternoon,’ teased Aaron. ‘Go on, then, ask your question, only I hope it isn’t deeply philosophical.’