Through Glass Eyes (6 page)

Lucy shook her head. No, he hadn’t told her. Perhaps because he knew she didn’t like him playing on the rubble where the old mill used to stand.

The cries were louder as the group of children came into sight.

‘Penny for the guy!’ yelled James.

Lucy smiled tolerantly. Her son’s hands and knees were filthy. He was wearing his cap cocked on the side of his head. The old muffler, wrapped around his neck, was tied under his chin and tucked into the front of his shirt, but he was wearing no jacket. He looked like a waif.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ she asked.

‘Not me!’ he said, beaming proudly at the group of smaller children circled around him. ‘Penny for the guy?’ he crowed.

Lucy looked down at the cart and exploded. ‘What do you think you are doing with that?’

‘With what?’

‘With that doll!’

James looked from his mother to the guy perched on the pile of sticks, its head poking from the neck of a child’s threadbare overcoat, its legs buried in a pair of short trousers. ‘That’s Guy Fawkes!’ he announced scornfully.

‘No it is not!’ Lucy yelled, grabbing the doll in one hand and her son in the other. ‘Inside this minute, James Oldfield! That is not yours and you had no right to take it!’

‘But, Mum—’

‘Inside!’ she yelled.

‘But it’s just an old doll,’ he whined. ‘Look at it. It’s got hardly any hair and it looks like a boy. It makes a great Guy!’

The gentleman standing on the doorstep had a healthy colour in his cheeks. He spoke with a refined accent, was smartly dressed and carried a walking cane with a silver
collet.

‘You are Miss Lucy Oldfield, are you not?’

‘Yes,’ she said, cautiously wondering who the man was and the purpose of his call. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

‘No, on the contrary,’ he said smiling. ‘But I see you do not recognize me, though I remember you quite clearly.’

‘I am sorry but—’ As she studied his features she had some recollection of the face. But from where?

‘Edward Carrington,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘It is several years since we met. You were travelling to Skipton. We shared the same compartment on the train.’

Lucy inclined her head as she tried to gather the scant memories of that day, a day she had often wished to forget.

The man continued, ‘You may think this very presumptuous of me, but may I come in and speak with you for a moment.’

Lucy glanced up and down the street. A woman standing at the washing-line with a peg poised in her hand, quickly looked away.

‘Please do,’ she said smiling. ‘It will give the neighbours something to talk about.’

After taking Mr Carrington’s coat, she cleared a pile of linen from the sofa and invited the gentleman to sit down. Drawing up a straight chair for herself, Lucy asked him if he would care for some tea.

‘No, thank you’ he said, pausing to clear his throat. ‘I find this a little embarrassing as I feel you do not remember what we spoke of on the return journey. Thinking back, it was probably a little unfair of me to speak to you at that time. I recollect you were grieving the loss of your mother.’

Lucy nodded. ‘It was not a good day for me. You will have to remind me of our conversation.’

The man spoke quietly, his eyes fixed on Lucy. ‘You told me your mother had died and that you were on your own. You mentioned that you were unhappy and wanted to get away from here. You also said you had been in service at an estate in North Yorkshire.’

Lucy felt embarrassed having to admit she could not remember telling him all those things. ‘Please continue.’

‘Because you were so forthright, I found it easy to talk to you and relate the problems which were confronting me at the time. I explained that I was looking for a suitable companion for my wife, who had suffered an accident and was bedridden.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘Although we had only met that very day, I took the liberty of asking you if you would consider the position. Do you remember?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Carrington, but my memory of our conversation is very vague. I had a lot of things on my mind that day. However, I do recall that you brought me home and were concerned for my welfare. But one thing puzzles me,’ she said. ‘It’s eight years since that train journey. Why have you waited all this time to contact me?’

He sighed deeply. ‘My wife deteriorated rapidly and died a few weeks later. I found myself at a low ebb and decided to return to India where I had spent most of my early life. My father was a colonel in the army, you see.’

Lucy listened with interest as he became more relaxed.

‘Having recently returned to England, I again find myself in need of assistance, but this time it is I who need someone to look after me.’ He was quick to clarify what he was saying. ‘A housekeeper. Not a companion. I have tried to obtain the services of a suitable woman through the usual channels, but I find most of the applicants are too officious and I do not want to be subjected to a regimented lifestyle in my own home. You, however, appear to have an understanding nature and I don’t doubt, with your years in service, you could contend with one quiet English gentleman.’

‘Your offer of employment is attractive, but I already have a secure job,’ she said, sliding the kettle onto the heat, ‘and since we met on the Skipton train my circumstances have changed. I now have a son to care for.’

‘Ah, you must pardon me,’ he said, standing as if preparing to leave. ‘I did not realize you were married. Your title—?’

‘No, I’m not married,’ she said without embarrassment, ‘though some folk address me as missus out of politeness.’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘Then please hear what I have to say. You do not have to answer immediately. I own three small cottages in the village of Horsforth just outside Leeds. You may know it.’

Lucy shook her head.

‘On the day we met, I was travelling to Skipton to collect the title deeds from my solicitor. But that is not important. Currently I am living in one of the cottages while the other two remain vacant. My proposition is, if you are interested in keeping house for me, cleaning and preparing some meals, I can offer you one of the cottages rent free. And I will pay you a small wage beside.’ He appeared embarrassed. ‘Though they are quite old, the cottages are pleasant with a small garden at the front and a larger one at the back, where you could grow your own vegetables. And there is a school in the village.’

Lucy thought for a moment before replying. ‘Mr Carrington, your offer is indeed appealing, but as a mother with the sole responsibility for my son, I must be practical. Presently I have secure employment – a job which I’ve had for eight years, a fair wage, and, though the housing in this street is not ideal, it suits me and my son. I believe your offer is honest and genuine but I would hate to
jeopardise
what I already have.’

‘Then I shall press you no further. You must excuse me for taking up so much of your valuable time. But if for any reason you should change your mind—’ As he got up, he pulled a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Lucy. ‘Here is the address, should you wish to contact me. Now if you will excuse me.’

From the doorstep, Lucy watched as her visitor strolled down the street, his cane tapping on the pavement. Behind her in the kitchen, the kettle was spluttering.

The flames from the bonfire lit up the dark sky and the guy, made from a pillow-case stuffed with straw and rags, burned bravely. When his wooden chair finally toppled, a shower of sparks shot high into the black November night and the children cheered. Lucy watched from a distance, listening to the shrieks, mostly of laughter but occasionally of pain, as bubbling sap from a fallen branch burnt a child’s finger.

Almost a hundred people were congregated on the site where the old mill had previously stood. There were folk from the rows of houses Lucy had never seen before. Neighbours who emerged on May Day, or New Year’s Eve, or occasions like this to mingle and chatter like old friends, but for the rest of the year kept themselves strictly to themselves. Lucy wandered amongst them, exchanging pleasantries, but by eight o’clock was weary.

‘Don’t be too late,’ she said to James who was helping to distribute the hot potatoes, roasted almost black in the bonfire ash. ‘Come back with Mrs Swales.’

Walking home alone down the dark street, Lucy thought about Mr Carrington, the man who had visited her that morning. He appeared well mannered, pleasant and polite, but at first Arthur Mellor had seemed to be all those things too. She was conscious of her responsibilities, and though she liked the gentleman’s offer, she felt it sounded too good to be true.

Sliding the large key into the door lock Lucy glanced sideways to the windowsill and the wooden box her mother had once grown daffodils in. Now it was warped and empty.

It would be nice to have a garden, she thought.

Chapter 5

Horsforth

It was the burglary at the antique shop which upset Lucy and brought about her change of mind. It wasn’t because the shop was broken into or that a constable was sent to the house to question her about her acquaintances, her family and her financial situation. That was disturbing enough, even though the officer assured her it was just a formality. What was far worse was that three weeks after the break-in, old Mr Camrass suffered a heart attack and died. Some said it was due to the stress he had suffered, others blamed January’s bitter chill. No one mentioned the fact that he was in his ninety-second year.

After the funeral, it was obvious young Mr Camrass was lost without his father. He found it hard to cope in the shop and it was not long before his own health began to deteriorate. Lucy had not known there was yet another Mr Camrass, Mr Jacob Camrass, a great-nephew of the deceased. He arrived a few weeks later in mid-February to take over the business, supposedly on a temporary basis. Lucy found him knowledgeable about antiques, and efficient, but aloof and unapproachable – very different in nature from the two elderly gentlemen who had been her employers for the past eight years. Under the new management, the atmosphere in the shop was entirely different, and the work, which Lucy had enjoyed and taken pride in, became a chore. But, despite the change in her feelings and the nature of the proposition Mr Carrington had made, Lucy valued the position she held and was not prepared to give her notice until she had taken a train ride to Horsforth.

 It was a fair walk from the station and uphill most of the way. By the time Lucy reached the outskirts of the village, the country road was skirted by fields and farms, but the dry-stone walls on either side of the lane blocked Lucy’s view. With no sign of the cottages, she wondered if perhaps she was going in the wrong direction. Feeling weary, and on the point of turning back, she heard the
clip-clop
of horse’s hoofs and the rumble of a wagon coming up the hill. As the farmer drew closer, he slowed his horse, tipped his cap and enquired where she was heading.

‘Mr Carrington’s cottages?’ he replied. ‘They’re just around the next bend and up the rise. No more than fifty yards. You can’t miss ’em.’

Relieved, she thanked him. As the horse walked on, with the row of empty milk churns rattling on the back of the wagon, Lucy followed in the same direction.

When she rounded the bend, she caught her first glimpse of Honeysuckle Cottages and felt elated. The three adjoining cottages, set back only a few yards from the lane, had been freshly painted. The plum-coloured doors and windows contrasted warmly with the whitewashed stone walls. The low-pitched shingle roof appeared blue-grey. The building looked very old, but it was quaint and cosy.

The three small front gardens were enclosed behind a low stone wall with tangled branches of climbing roses spilling over into the lane. How lovely they would look in full bloom, Lucy thought. How sweet the scent would be as it drifted through an open window.

A short pathway of crazy-paving led from each paling gate to the three front doors. The cottages were identical apart from the addition of a porch at the first one. A twisted vine covering it cascaded down in a profusion of new leaves and early flowers. Lucy could smell the honeysuckle from the lane.

At the far end, the third cottage was almost smothered under the outstretched arms of a huge old horse-chestnut tree. Before bursting skywards, a family of crows announced their presence in the uppermost branches. For a while, the large black birds circled noisily, before flying away.

Lucy wasn’t sure what she had expected, but the sight of the cottages made her pray that the gentleman’s offer was still open. The thought of returning to the row of dowdy smoke-blackened brick terraces made her shudder.

Standing beneath the scented vine at the first cottage, Lucy knocked on the door. There was no answer. She checked the other two cottages, but they appeared empty. Wandering around to the back of the building, she wondered if she would find the gentleman there.

The back gardens were bigger than those facing the lane. Another dry-stone wall enclosed them, separating them from a broad meadow. It was evident someone had been working outside. A fork was angled in a patch of freshly turned soil, a rake resting on a pile of leaves, a pair of Wellington boots standing on a worn mat outside the door.

From the back gate, Lucy gazed across the field to a row of trees and a small copse perched on the rise. The meadow was lush, rich with spring flowers. She could hear bees working busily, birds twittering. Why had she waited so long?

Beneath the twining branches of the honeysuckle, Lucy re-read the letter she had written that morning. Satisfied with its wording, she slipped it back into the envelope, slid it through the letter box and heard it drop in the hallway. If Mr Carrington’s offer was still valid, she would give her notice at the antique shop and move to Horsforth, but not before.

‘I am not going!’ the boy said defiantly.

‘James! It’s all organized!

‘I don’t care! I’m not going with you!’

‘You are being silly and I don’t like to hear you talking like that.’ Lucy lowered her voice. ‘You will like the new house. There is a garden and a meadow.’