The Pool of St. Branok (49 page)

“I’ll call on you, never fear. Angelet, you have been thrown in at the deep end, as they say. If it hadn’t been for all this blowing up this morning, I could have shown you round properly.”

“Don’t worry about that. I want to see how everything works. I’m getting a real insight.”

“The carriage is coming for you at four, I believe.”

“Yes, they insisted.”

“Quite right, too. You’d never get a cab here.”

“Had I known I would have taken you home,” said Timothy Ransome.

Frances answered for me. “Another time, Tim. I feel sure Angelet will come again.”

“I shall,” I said. “Perhaps on Friday if Rebecca goes to Morwenna.”

Timothy Ransome said: “And on Friday I shall be here. I’ll see that you are returned safely to your home.”

Frances beamed on us both.

“Very well. I shall see you on Friday. I promise I shall find plenty for you to do.”

I had been going to Frances’ Mission twice a week—on Wednesdays and Fridays. Frances was delighted and I always found plenty to do. I learned things about other people’s lives which were so different from my own; I was appalled, shocked and at the same time exhilarated because I felt I was doing something worthwhile.

I was becoming very friendly with Tim Ransome, who also appeared on Wednesdays and Fridays. The carriage would take me there and he would bring me home.

Aunt Amaryllis said how delighted she was that I was helping Frances and Peterkin. Frances had told her all about it and how useful I was making myself.

“It’s such good work,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Uncle Peter says it is just what you are needing. He gives a lot of money to the Mission.”

I nodded, remembering Frances’ comments that he made sure that his gifts were noted, but that she was grateful for them all the same.

I heard from the servants that Ben had called on one or two occasions. “He seemed most put out, Madam, that you were not at home.”

Frances made a point of sending Timothy and me on errands of mercy. She would not let me go out alone and he was always my escort. We took clothes and food to the sick and needy, and I became fairly familiar with the neighborhood. We would be sent to shop in the markets for the stores needed in the Mission and this I greatly enjoyed. The stalls would be piled up with merchandise of all descriptions and the noisy costermongers would shout their wares in audacious cockney … often using the rhyming slang which was quite unintelligible to me without Timothy’s translation.

It was natural that our friendship grew quickly in such circumstances.

I knew him for a man who had never really recovered from the loss of his wife; he was fond of his children but they could not compensate him completely. He was fortunate he told me: his elder sister was unmarried and devoted to him and the children; she lived in his country house and looked after his home.

“I should be lost without her,” he said. “And the children are very fond of her.”

Frances must have told Amaryllis of my friendship with Timothy and as a result he was asked to dine at the house in the square.

This he did on one or two occasions and it was clear that they liked him.

Grace was a guest on one occasion. She said what a charming man he was, and smiled significantly. It was the first indication that it might seem that there was something serious and special about our relationship.

I had seen Ben once or twice—usually when others were present. There had been few opportunities of speaking together alone. I did not seek them, but I believe he did.

He said to me once: “I hear that you are devoting yourself to good works.”

“You mean the Mission.”

“Yes. They tell me you attend regularly.”

“I like to feel I am doing something.”

“I wish I could see you sometime.”

We were at a dinner party at Matthew’s and Helena’s and the men had just rejoined us after dinner. It was just a snatched conversation.

I did not answer. I looked across the room to where Lizzie was sitting trying to make conversation with the middle-aged gentleman seated beside her; and the effort was making her miserable. Grace was there, talking brightly to a young man. She looked over and saw us, and in a few moments she was making her way towards us.

She talked brightly to Ben of the constituency to which he had been elected as candidate. I was surprised how well informed she was.

I took the opportunity of slipping away.

There were a great many dinner parties—either at the house in the square or Matthew’s and Helena’s house.

Helena said, “There is a feverish expectancy in the air. I call it the electoral disease.”

“Do you really think there is going to be an election soon?”

She nodded vigorously. “I can see the signs. Disraeli can’t hold out. He’ll have to go to the country.”

“And then?”

“Who can say? We’re hoping he’ll get back. But, of course, Ben has other views.”

“It is strange to have such divergence in a family.”

“Oh, it is all very friendly. It is, you know, in the House. It has often struck me that members of the same party are more venomous towards each other than to those of the opposition.”

“I suppose that is because they are reaching for the same prize. With the other side … well, they are not rivals in the same way.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, it is rather exciting.”

“Yes, if it doesn’t get too serious.”

She was right about the electoral fever.

It was October. Cool winds were blowing across the parks and the ground was carpeted with red and bronze leaves. Excitement was in the air and people were saying that Disraeli’s ministry could not carry on as they were. They must go to the country.

I was often at the house in the square. Ben was there, too, so we saw each other frequently … but never alone. Timothy was often asked. Frances and Peterkin came rarely. They pleaded too much work.

I found the conversation stimulating.

There were discussions between Uncle Peter and Ben which I thought must be worthy of the House itself—Uncle Peter supporting Disraeli and Ben, Gladstone. The rest of us joined in but those two were the main speakers.

“You’ll have to get busy down at Manorleigh, Ben,” said Uncle Peter. “How is it going?”

“Very well indeed.”

“You think you’re going to manage it?”

“I know I’m going to manage it.”

“Voters are unpredictable creatures, Ben. You’re going to find it hard to convince them that Gladstone’s a better bet than Disraeli.”

“I happen to think otherwise and I shall persuade my constituents to do the same.”

Grace addressed Uncle Peter. “I think, Mr. Lansdon, that the voters of Manorleigh are beginning to like their new candidate.”

She looked at Ben with an almost proprietorial air.

“So you have inspected the territory, have you, Grace?” said Aunt Amaryllis.

“Oh yes. I went down with Ben and Lizzie last week-end. Lizzie and I went to some shops and talked to them, didn’t we, Lizzie?”

Lizzie mumbled that they had.

“It was so exciting. I think we made some impression.”

“That’s what gets the voters,” commented Uncle Peter. “Never mind the policies. Just show them that you are a good family man, your wife beside you, and they’ll put their crosses by your name.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” said Grace. “Lizzie is going to be a great help.”

“I … I … Grace helped me,” said Lizzie.

“Oh, come, Lizzie, you did your part.”

They talked about the chances of either side but I rather thought Uncle Peter was of the opinion that it would be a victory for the Liberals—which he was certainly not hoping for. But I saw him glance often at Ben with something like pride and amusement.

After dinner I had a word with Uncle Peter.

“I find all this parliamentary talk very interesting,” I told him.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Do you really want the Conservatives to win?”

“My dear Angelet, I’m a staunch supporter of the Party.”

“But there is Ben.”

He sighed. “Oh, he’s set himself on the other side of the fence.”

“Do you think he’ll get in?”

“Of course he’ll get in. They won’t be able to resist him. I wish …”

I wanted to hear what he wished. But he said: “She’s right, you know … Grace. It’s the happily married man they like. Helena’s always been an asset to Matthew … and then of course her brother marrying Frances and that Mission. Good stuff.”

“It’s good for a lot of people as well as Matthew, Uncle Peter.”

“Oh yes. You’re one of them now, aren’t you? Nice fellow … that Timothy Ransome. Seems steady … and comfortably off.”

“Have you been investigating?”

“Naturally I investigate all friends of my family.”

“Uncle Peter, you are incorrigible.”

“Yes, I am. Always was and always will be. Never mind. Put up with me, will you, my dear?”

I smiled at him. “Willingly,” I said.

It was about a week later when Fanny came into our lives.

Timothy and I had done our usual stint at the soup counter; the empty bowls and cauldrons had been taken back to the kitchen; everyone seemed to be intent on something or other. We were in the little room next to that where the soup was dispensed, and we were talking, as we usually did, about certain cases which had struck us as particularly sad or interesting, and a little about ourselves, when we heard the door being opened. We paused to listen. Then we heard stealthy footsteps.

We rose and hurried to the room from which they came and there she stood.

She was half poised for flight.

I said: “Can we help you?”

“Where’s Mrs. Frances?” she asked.

“She’s not here at the moment. What can we do?”

She hesitated. I saw how thin she was; she looked cold, too; the threadbare dress she was wearing was not adequate protection against the autumn dampness.

“I … I’ve run away,” she said.

“Come and tell us all about it,” answered Timothy. “Would you like something to eat?”

She licked her lips.

“Come along,” said Timothy.

There was no soup left but we found some bread and cheese which she devoured ravenously; we found some milk for her, too.

She said defensively: “I know Mrs. Frances.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Fanny,” she told me.

I felt excited. This was the Fanny who had caused Frances so much concern, and here she was with us!

“She will be in soon,” I said. “You must wait and see her. Tell us what it is that is bothering you. Perhaps we can help till she comes. We work here with Mrs. Frances. She tells us what to do and we do it. I know she wants to help you.”

The child, for she was little more, said: “I couldn’t ’ave stood it no more. Last night he nearly killed me Mum. And when I tried to stop him he turned on me. There won’t half be a carry-on when he knows I’ve gone.” She looked frightened. “He’ll blame me Mum. I’ve got to go back.”

“Don’t go yet,” I begged. “Wait till you have seen Mrs. Frances.”

“We know she wouldn’t want you to go back … yet,” added Timothy.

She nodded. “Mrs. Frances … she’s a good lady …”

“That’s why you should listen to her,” I said.

“It’s me Mum. It’s what he’d do to her.”

“We’ll find some way of stopping him,” promised Timothy.

She looked at him scornfully. “What, you? How? No one can’t. I’m frightened of him. See … he wants my money. … Every day he takes it off of me … all I’ve got, every penny. Then he’s off. It’s good when he goes. … He’s in the gin shop … and he stays there. I wish he’d stay all night. I wish he’d never come back.”

“Where do you get your money?” I asked.

“I works, I does. I goes to old Felberg and he gives me a tray … sometimes it’s flowers … sometimes it’s pins and needles … sometimes it’s apples. You never know with old Felberg. Then I brings back what I’ve took and he takes it and gives me tuppence back … and that’s my money, I reckon. But
he
don’t. He takes it off me and he’s off round the gin shop. I’m frightened of him … when he hits me … but more when …”

She faltered and I put my hand on her shoulder. I said: “We can stop this, you know. Mrs. Frances wants you to stay here. She can do something …”

“It’s me Mum,” she said piteously.

When Frances came in her face lighted up with joy.

“Fanny!” she cried. “So you’ve come. Good girl.”

“Oh, Mrs. Frances, I was so frightened of him last night. You said come.”

“Of course I did and at last you are a wise girl. Now then. This is your home for a while. We’re going to look after you. No harm can come to you here.”

“I could bring me money back from Mr. Felberg.”

“You can forget Mr. Felberg. You’re going to be here while we put our heads together and come up with something. You’re not going back, Fanny, not again.”

Frances was a wonderful woman. I have said that many times, I suppose, and will continue to say it. I imagine that Timothy and I were rather sentimental in our approach; we wanted to fuss over Fanny, to make much of her, to compensate for the terrible life she had; but Frances was different—brisk and business-like. I could see that was what Fanny needed. She would despise our attitude. To her it would seem “soft.”

Frances said: “We’ll get you out of those clothes … fast. We’ll get Mrs. Hope to put them on the fire. We’ll find something for you. And a good bath is what you need and your hair thoroughly washed. Then we’ll give you something to do, eh? What are you good at, Fanny? You’d like to help in the kitchen. There are lots of things to be done there.”

I could see that that was the way to treat her.

Timothy and I were amazed. We saw Fanny change overnight. The frightened waif became a self-important person. Fanny belonged to the streets. There was nothing soft about Fanny. Her stepfather must have been an ogre to have frightened one of her spirit. She was a cockney—shrewd, quick-witted, full of what Mrs. Penlock would have called “sauce” or “lip.”

She adored Frances, looking upon her as some superior being. For Timothy and me she had a certain affectionate contempt, but she thought we were “soft.” “Nobs,” she called us, which meant that we spoke differently and acted in a manner unlike that of the people she had known before she came to the Mission. For some reason we had been born into soft living and we lacked the knowledge of how to protect ourselves. We had got by because we had never had to face up to what to her was real life. I am sure she felt we were in need of her protection rather than she was of ours.