A Whisper to the Living (37 page)

She wept silently into her hands, her whole body shaking with shock and humiliation.

‘And another thing,’ David continued. ‘I want Simon to choose his own friends, his own career and eventually, his own wife. History must not repeat itself. If I were you, I’d be more selective about the people you encourage to call here.’

She dried her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Susan Birchall.’

‘Susan? She’s a friend of Simon’s.’

‘Yes. A suitable friend in your book, I’d imagine. Well, her father is trying to marry her off. In fact, she’s being put up for auction by all accounts.’

‘She’s only a child . . .’

‘Ah yes, but a child with a problem. The first was the postman, or was it the gardener? No matter. She was discovered with one or the other in what is usually called a compromising situation. There was no question of prosecution – the family name and so on – I’m sure you’ll understand that aspect, Edna.’ He paused to light a cigar.

‘I’m certain none of that is true,’ wailed Edna. ‘It’s gossip – idle gossip. Susan is a lovely girl.’ She waited, teeth gritted, while he threw a spent match into the grate.

David looked her squarely in the face. ‘More recently, she was found in the summerhouse with four boys. She was entertaining them in a variety of imaginative ways. I understand that the parents are virtually keeping her under lock and key until they can marry her off. So, if she’s being allowed to see Simon, he’s obviously on the shortlist. And we don’t want a nymphomaniac in the family. What would friends and neighbours say then?’

Her mouth opened and closed, trying to frame words that her dry throat could not produce.

‘What’s the matter, Edna? You look like a gold-fish out of water. Surprised, are you? Surprised that a girl of good breeding can be so disposed? I’ll surprise you even further. That girl upstairs, in spite of her “unsuitable background”, will not be the one to introduce Simon to the pleasures of the flesh. She has a higher moral standard than you could ever imagine or achieve, because she won’t barter her virginity or go under the hammer to the highest bidder for the sake of a wedding ring. And I’d be delighted if she married my son in a few years. Because Anne Byrne will arrive clean – not necessarily virgin, but definitely clean.’

Her eyes, round with shock as she took in the news about Susan, narrowed now at the mention of Anne’s name. She rose from the chair and stood stiffly beside it, her hand straying to the edge of a table as if needing the encouragement of its inanimate stability. ‘I have several things to say to you.’ Her voice shook as she spoke. ‘I don’t believe all that about Susan. Furthermore, I will not have my standards – moral or otherwise – compared to those of that creature upstairs. And I demand to know the name of your . . . paramour.’

‘Why? Would you like a divorce? I’ll gladly get you some evidence. Certain women are happy to earn the odd hundred for the use of their names – and a little photography.’

‘I will not have a divorce! But I want her name!’

‘Really? Will you break all her windows? No, that’s too honest a response for you. You might send an anonymous letter – yes, I can imagine you pouring venom onto paper and not having the courage to sign.’

She suddenly felt afraid and powerless. He had shattered her long-term hopes for Simon and Susan. Whether or not he spoke the truth, she could not risk having the girl in the house again. And he was positively nurturing Simon’s association with Nancy Higson’s daughter. Now, finally, he was admitting that he had another woman, someone he intended to protect.

With unsteady hands she poured a small sherry, swallowing her pride as she gulped down the liquid. She had to ask. ‘Do you . . . love this woman?’

The grandfather clock at the far end of the room sang the hour in gentle Westminster chime.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I have never loved a woman, never had that rare privilege. I like and respect her, but love – according to what I’ve read and heard – has always eluded me completely. She is not in love with me either; we simply comfort one another. Now, I’ve finally found the courage to be as honest with my wife as I’ve always been with her.’

‘Do I know her?’

His eyes travelled from the top of her head right down to her feet. ‘You don’t know anybody. You measure people, judge them, use them . . .’

‘Very well then,’ she interrupted. ‘Is she among my circle?’

He shook his head slowly then stalked out of the room, slamming the door as he left. In the hallway, he leaned on the banister, his heart racing. She was going insane and she would take him with her. But there had been no need for him to lash out so viciously. It was like kicking a dumb defenceless animal with neither wit nor wisdom to protect itself. Why, after all these years, had he turned on her like that?

He stared up at the chandelier, his eyes narrowing against a thousand shards of reflected light as if he might find a solution in these insubstantial splinters. Dear God, if she ever found out that his source of comfort was part of her bridge four, then her world would collapse. Yet he knew that Edna had not the courage to pursue the issue, that she would nurse it within herself where it would fester like a gangrenous sore.

His friendship with Sarah Pennington had always been easy and necessary to both of them. She, a widow with a young family and a vast inheritance to protect from fortune-hunters, he, with a dead marriage and a son who would surely have suffered had his father found a permanent new mate. For a brief moment, David saw Clive’s young face, watched the train pulling out of Trinity Street, heard his dead friend calling ‘Look after Sarah.’ Clive had become one of the few to whom so much would be forever owed, shot down over Germany. Of course, Edna had soon tired of caring for Sarah and her children. He smiled to himself, knowing somehow that Clive would have approved of his way of ‘looking after Sarah’.

But David would never forgive himself for what he had done to Edna this evening. He had behaved stupidly, irrationally, like a spoiled brat. But whichever quality might be required to make him return to the drawing room and apologize, explain, negotiate – whatever he needed to find within himself to put things on a better footing, smooth things over, make some kind of order – eluded him completely. Life, from now on, promised to be completely unbearable.

Meanwhile, Edna sat in a stupor, her second sherry already consumed, a third in her glass. She would, she concluded, do nothing – simply because she could do nothing. She didn’t want divorce, abhorred the concept of scandal, was not equipped for ‘scenes’ of any kind. The name of the woman was not important. Things could continue the same on the surface – nothing would change. And she was far too busy for such trivia. Tomorrow was bridge day, she had baking to do, standards to uphold. She drained the glass. David could find his own way to the devil.

The house was situated on a new council estate in Breightmet, on the hem of Bolton’s ever-spreading outskirts. It was one of many such concrete and pebble-dashed buildings that were springing up to replace decaying or bombed-out row houses and to accommodate the post-war explosion of population.

Dolly Nelson’s was an end house, edged on two sides by open fields, the front facing the blind end of another corner house across the way. Dolly hated it. For a kick-off, it was back to front. Whoever heard of a back kitchen at the front of a house? If she stood at the sink all day and looked out of the small window, she could stare, if she chose, at a blank wall or if she craned her neck to the point of pain, she could just about see up the avenue. There was nothing worth looking at, few buses, no cars, no late-night revellers rolling home from the pub. The flaming bus came only twice an hour and what with the pram to push, she’d managed the six-mile round trip to town just once since she moved in. Aye, and she’d not forget that in a hurry, meeting Nancy Higson and her stuck-up kid.

The ‘front room’ was at the back of the house, running its full width with two large windows looking out on to a garden. Beyond the garden were fallow fields and the only passers-by she’d seen so far were a stray cow and a couple of dogs from the estate. She was bored out of her mind.

Dolly stubbed out her Woodbine in a cracked saucer and lifted Johnny from his pram. He never cried, didn’t Johnny, not like the other four little buggers who’d woken up screaming every day and gone to bed in the same state. Their Johnny was an angel, the only thing left to brighten her days since Maggie went off. ‘If she thinks t’ middle o’ Bolton’s paved wi’ gold, she’s another think comin’, she ’as,’ announced Dolly to the placid child while she fiddled with her buttons. Obediently, the baby accepted the breast, his unwavering deep-set stare fixed on Dolly’s face.

He was a bonny lad and no mistake, with peach-tinted cheeks and eyes of a blue so dark that it bordered on violet. Like Eddie’s, thought Dolly to herself. Yes, he was very like his dad, quiet and still most of the time. She wondered if Eddie had got the letter she’d finally scraped together on a bit of paper out of their Stevie’s homework book. Aye, she’d tried to let him know about his lad. She hoped they’d sent it on from the sanatorium to Prestwich Mental Hospital. Funny, that. She’d never heard of anybody being treated for TB in a loony bin before. Still, that sanatorium had likely driven him daft. Aye, and the bloody Higson woman was having a right good time now by all accounts, going dancing, buying new frocks, taking in lodgers now Eddie was out of the road. Alright for some, it was, made up to foreman, going about with nice-looking fellers, putting shows on with the formation team.

Dolly was in trouble. Any money from the sale of her old house had disappeared now, squandered on cheap sticks of splay-legged furniture, a television set, some gilt-framed convex mirrors, contemporary paper on her fireplace wall and a load of that nice Skaters’ Trails carpet that was all the rage. ’Course, things for the baby had cost a bob or two and all.

She shifted the child to the other milk-swollen breast. Aye, there was plenty for him, but what about herself and the other three? Eric’s money still came regular, but it was hardly enough to pay for rent and electric and she couldn’t do without her fags and her stout, what with her bad nerves and needing fluids to keep the milk coming in. She looked at the dozing infant. Them new doctors down the clinic were on about his development, talked as if there were summat up with him. And she was sick of folk looking in the pram and saying about his unusual eyes. He was beautiful, their Johnny. Nowt up with him – they could all say what they liked.

Still, it wasn’t right, none of it. Except for Eddie Higson, she’d still be up Long Moor with her job at the pictures and folk to talk to. Aye and their Maggie would likely have stopped at home instead of legging it hell for leather. She’d been a good help, had Maggie, what with her wages and giving a hand in the house. The oldest of the three boys was but thirteen and lads weren’t the same, you couldn’t expect them to wash pots and sweep carpets, could you? And the way Maggie had left too, never a note nor nothing, just a postcard a few days after with a photo of the Town Hall clock and a line to say she was alright.

Dolly placed the sleeping child over her shoulder and reached to flick through the pages of an old
Reveille
, the wrapping from last night’s chips. Aye, that was a laugh and all, the chip shop ten minutes away and having to warm them up when you got them home stone cold and stuck to the paper.

A car drew up outside, but Dolly remained where she was. It would be nowt to do with her. Then the front door opened and a familiar voice cried, ‘Dolly? Dolly Nelson? You in there?’

Dolly hastily dropped the paper, fastened her frock and was just placing Johnny in his pram when Bertha Cullen walked in.

‘Tha’d best sit thisen down, Dolly. It’s not good news I’ve fetched.’

‘Why? What’s up?’

‘Come on, lass. We’ll sit at t’ table.’

The two women lowered their not insubstantial bodies onto frail metal-framed dining chairs.

Bertha leaned forward. As was the custom with most of her generation when speaking of something unsavoury, she mouthed half her words as if the whole world might be listening. ‘I’ve knowed all along as it were summat ter do wi’ your Maggie, our Martin leavin’ ’ome an’ splittin’ up wi’ Annie. Common knowledge it is now, as your Maggie were givin’ our Martin a good time – if yer get me drift?’

‘So?’ Dolly bristled.

‘Well, it weren’t just our Martin. An’ it weren’t just fer free, like.’

‘Stop messin’ about in t’ bushes, Bertha Cullen. Get it spit out!’

‘It’s not me what’s been messin’ about in t’ bushes, Dolly. It’s tha daughter what’s been up ter no good.’

‘Oh aye? An’ what bloody business is it o’ yourn?’

‘I don’t like seein’ a young girl puttin’ ’erself about. ’Er’ll end up in t’ courts afore she’s much older.’

Dolly leaned back on to the chair’s yellow plastic cover. ‘Like I said, spit it out afore I lose me patience!’

‘T’ doctor’s fetched us – Dr Pritchard. Yer see, Dolly, I caught sight o’ your Maggie a few times toutin’ fer business outside o’ t’ wine lodge. I knew I’d never manage ’er on me own, so I got t’ doctor fer t’ come down in ’is car ter pick ’er up. I ’ad fer t’ drag Maggie by the ‘air into t’ car. It were all done fer t’ best, Dolly.’

‘Where the bloody ’ell is she?’

‘Outside wi’ Dr Pritchard.’

‘Then tha’d best give over wastin’ time an’ fetch ’em in!’

Dolly waited in the hallway, arms folded as far as they would reach across her huge chest. As soon as Maggie appeared between the two escorts, Dolly pulled her inside the house. ‘Get up them dancers this minute, Maggie Nelson! I’ll deal with thee after.’

As soon as the girl had reached the landing, the three adults made their way into the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry about all this, Mrs Nelson,’ began the doctor. ‘Margaret has taken a room in Sherwood Avenue where I have several elderly patients. Of course, I visit regularly and I knew that your daughter was having . . . men calling on her quite frequently. But Mrs Cullen brought things to a head this lunchtime and . . . well, here we are.’