A Mother's Love (13 page)

‘Can’t?’

‘Perhaps he’s not … well, capable. You know. You can hardly call him … manly looking. Not like Will was. Mind you, that one was a bit too much. Howsoever, that’s another matter,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Nevertheless, there’s men and
men
, if you take my meaning. Far be it from me, Mary, to put a down on a person, but, surely, a wife as pretty as Harriet … She hasn’t exactly got a face like the back end of a dustcart. Though sometimes, with that down-in-the-mouth expression she’s been adopting lately … No, I’m sure there’s something not quite right with them two. Something that we don’t know about.’

Mary’s back was still rod straight. ‘It sounds as if you’ve already made up your mind something’s not right. Anyway, it’s early days yet, and all I can say is we’ll find out in time if everything’s all right in that department when Harriet tells us she’s expecting.’

‘Let’s hope,’ Sarah concluded, undaunted, ‘it won’t be too long.’

Autumn moved into winter, and by the time Christmas was upon them, Sarah found that hope becoming ever more empty.

‘Doesn’t look too good, does it?’ she said darkly to Mary, who gave a sniff and changed the subject, saying she had enough on her mind worrying about having the family for Christmas as usual. Not that there were many this year: it was Annie and Clara’s turn to spend it with their husbands’ people. But it seemed that Matthew and his own people, whom none of the Wilsons, including Harriet herself, had yet met, weren’t the sort to honour Christmas with family gatherings. So he and Harriet and little Sara spent Christmas with Mary and Jack.

And again, as 1896 began leaving ’95 well behind, Sarah commented with monotonous regularity: ‘Still no signs yet.’

Again and again Mary chose to shrug it off, but others too were taking note of Harriet’s continuing lack of fruitfulness.

Mrs Hardy was one such, relaying her concern to Mr Hardy one Saturday evening in April as she joggled the now two-year-old Sara on her lap.

‘Odd, ain’t it? Ain’t no signs of any little additions to that family yet. And she ain’t pregnant yet – I can stake me life on that.’

Bert Hardy humphed awkwardly and rustled his
Evening Star.
Talk of women’s conditions always bored and embarrassed him.

‘Poor little mite,’ Emma went on, gazing down at her charge. ‘She don’t ’ardly ever see them two. Always orf somewhere togever, they are. Even went owt on ’er little birfday last week, poor little mite. I know they bought ’er some nice presents, but it ain’t the same. Pity they don’t get tergever at nights an’ sort owt a little bruvver or sister for this poor little’un.’

Bert turned noisily to the sporting page to see if the horse he’d laid out on had come in. It hadn’t. He girded himself for more regalement on the Craigs’ problem, as Emma termed it, but Emma had realised it was time to get tea and, having popped the Craig child into the old cot she kept for that purpose, was making her way downstairs to the kitchen.

‘I did say, didn’t I?’ said Annie to her husband. ‘I always said that marriage wasn’t a love match. Marriage of convenience, I said, didn’t I? She only married Matthew for his money. Now didn’t I say that?’

‘I believe you did,’ Robert murmured absently, his thoughts on one of his underlings at the bank. The man had been late on two occasions that week and absent on Tuesday the week before, blaming a heavy cold. But the branch manager was sure the man had skived off for the day and had charged Robert, promoted the year before to assistant under-manager, with the task of conveying a severe warning on his behalf to the man that the next time it would be the Manager’s Office itself and possibly his being handed his notice. Robert liked the man and wasn’t relishing the prospect one bit.

‘So I’m being proved right, aren’t I?’ Annie hurried on.

‘Yes, dear, I think you are.’

Annie tackled Clara over tea and cakes in a teashop on one of their weekly shopping trips up Oxford Street. ‘I did say, didn’t I?’

‘She might not be the sort to fall easily,’ Clara excused as she stirred her tea thoughtfully, but Annie’s tongue clicked impatiently.

‘She fell easy enough with Sara.’

‘Perhaps it’s Matthew. Perhaps he’s … sort of barren?’

‘Don’t be silly. Men can’t be barren. And Harriet’s certainly proved she can bear children. No, it was a marriage of convenience. She knew where her bread was buttered, that one did.’

‘That’s cruel, Annie. Whatever she got from marrying Matthew, don’t you think she deserved it, after losing Will so tragically?’

‘Yes, she got what she deserved all right,’ Annie said primly and took a vicious bite of her cream bun.

Mary discussed the matter with Jack, worried now at the passing of time and nothing yet to show for it. In his down-to-earth way, Jack said it was best to let time sort itself out.

‘But they’ve been married a year, or almost, and there’s no sign of her being anything near … having something interesting to tell us. It’s not Harriet, obviously, so it must be Matthew.’

Young Violet came into the room at that moment, bringing tea and scones on a tray. She couldn’t help hearing what her employers were saying and immediately put two and two together, particularly since their conversation suddenly went dead – until she absented herself. She couldn’t wait to get down to the basement to tell Mrs Cullen what she suspected.

The woman kept her fleshy face directed at the suet pastry she was rolling. The master loved his meat puddings, even though it was May and such fare was better reserved for winter meals. Sleeves rolled up, her thick arms wielded the rolling pin back and forth with unusual vigour.

‘You’ve got big ears for a small girl, Vi. Too big.’

‘No one couldn’t ’elp over’earing when it comes out in front of them. I can’t put a cloth over me ears when I goes into the parlour, can I?’

Mrs Cullen stopped her rolling to regard Violet with steady blue eyes. ‘Don’t be saucy! What you heard’d better not go outside these four walls, that’s what I say. Can’t have half the street knowing our employer’s business.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of breathin’ a word.’

‘And you’d better not. If it was to get back, you’d be the first to be suspected and lose your position. And so would I lose mine for listening to your gossip. That’s what it is, Vi. Gossip. Remember that and keep your lips shut tight about what’s said in this ’ouse.’

‘Yes, Mrs Cullen,’ said Violet, chastened by the sharpness of her superior’s warning. But from then on she looked upon her employer’s son-in-law with great disillusionment. Hitherto she had been wont to dream herself to sleep in her bed under the roof with the handsome Mr Matthew Craig as her bedfellow, his gentle way of speaking translated into the whispering of sweet nothings into her ears. Now she had second thoughts about that gentleness. What if … It didn’t bear thinking about. Poor Mrs Craig.

Matthew felt he could not handle this situation much longer. He felt alone, isolated, with not a soul to turn to for advice. What a confession for a man to have to make: that after twelve months his marriage was still no marriage at all, that in all that time he had not once made proper love to his own wife, with her still behaving in bed like some coy maiden who’d never in her life seen a man half-naked, much less had one in bed beside her. At a loss to understand her, he could almost hear the echo of disbelief were he to confide in someone, imagine the sidelong glance that would speak volumes on a fellow so lily-livered as to let a wife dictate to him in the conjugal bed. There were times he himself began to wonder.

He needed advice, but whom could he trust? Doctors? He had considered them – impartial men who wouldn’t bat an eyelid – but their imperious regard would make him feel a fool. His friend David Symonds, who had also acted as groomsman at his wedding? But he hadn’t seen him in months, although he still resided in Queensbridge Road, now a junior partner of Peeker, Stymes & Symonds, solicitors.

Solicitors were hardly the people to consult in matters of this sort. But it was desperation that finally led Matthew to seek out David, going to his flat one Sunday morning rather than formally to his office on a weekday with other clients hovering for attention.

David welcomed him in, still bleary from sleep, but delighted to see him. Helping Matthew out of his wet ulster, David vigorously shook off the raindrops before hanging it on the hallstand.

Chatting amiably as though it were only yesterday that he’d seen Matthew, he led the way to the tiny sitting room that overlooked Haggerston Park. Only in the brighter light from the window did he become aware of Matthew’s tense expression.

‘God, man, you look as though you’ve done a murder. What’s up?’

Indicating a leather easy chair to one side of the empty grate, he poured Matthew a fortifying whisky, and came to sit opposite him.

‘I take it that the look on your face is the reason for your call.’

Matthew nodded. With no idea how on earth to begin this delicate and personal subject, he found himself idiotically bursting out: ‘If I don’t confide in someone, I shall end up throwing myself under a brewer’s dray.’

David’s lips quirked to one side, giving his rounded features the appearance of a music hall comedian. ‘A bit drastic, old man. I shall do my utmost to prevent that ultimate happening. Now settle yourself and tell me the problem – it’s deep-rooted by the look of it.’

In the three years since entering his father’s profession he had begun to show a tendency to rotundity, although the restive joviality Matthew remembered from their Oxford days was in no way diminished; if anything it served to instil confidence – certainly enough to prompt Matthew into a halting account of his marriage so far.

‘You possibly deem me a weak thing,’ he ended ineffectually.

David had remained professionally friendly during the story, leaning forward in his easy chair to take in every word. He had twice refilled Matthew’s glass from the decanter on the small table at his elbow while he listened, but had taken only one himself. Now he leaned back, the chair leather creaking, to regard Matthew as he debated his own thoughts.

The hiatus drew itself out. From Haggerston Park Matthew could hear the distant squeals of some children playing. From somewhere nearby pigeons were cooing to one another, a hollow, haunting warble.

His thoughts snapped to attention as David spoke, his tone taking on a legal ring.

‘You do realise, your Harriet is a woman who has a natural need to be dominated, and, as with such women, when she senses a weakness in the master of the house, she’ll take advantage of that.’

‘That’s not Harriet,’ Matthew broke in, but David gestured his interruption away with a chubby hand.

‘She obviously doesn’t realise it. I’ve seen it many a time in this business – the little woman, subservient to husband or employer, if given the chance, becomes herself a tyrant at the first opportunity.’

‘Harriet’s not like that,’ Matthew defended heatedly. ‘She’s one of the mildest …’ But he remembered Harriet’s occasional outbursts and changed the word hastily to ‘… meekest of people. Nor do I see why women must be browbeaten into submission by their husbands.’

David’s round face grew sombre, the perfect legal man. ‘The trait isn’t confined only to women. Men too will take advantage the second they are let off their employer’s tight leash, turning on them or on weaker beings. Little fish eat smaller fish, to coin a phrase.’

He ended with a chuckle – at himself rather than Matthew, but Matthew didn’t share his amusement.

‘She isn’t like that, David.’ He put his glass down on the small oval table beside him, a signal that this interview was going nowhere, and half rose to go. But David was ahead of him. He leaped up and placed a hand on his shoulder, bearing him sternly back into his chair.

‘Now listen to me, Matthew. You’re a gentle person, and obviously a most caring husband. But a little dominance wouldn’t do any harm. That’s all I have to say. Now, how about a cigar, old man?’

Matthew put down his pen and read what he had written. A page of the usual: how was his father faring? Was Mother in reasonable good health? That his own health was fine; the journal doing well and picking up satisfactorily; all else fine … He stopped short of mentioning Harriet by name. He wished them continuing good health, closed with
God bless you both
, and then sealed the letter into an envelope.

Two months had passed since his last letter to them – unanswered, of course – and over two years since he had set eyes on them. One day there had to be an answer. He was their son. One day they must surely come round to wanting to see him again. He only hoped it would not be bad news that prompted them to write. But his worst fear was that even with, God forbid, dire news, a sudden death, neither of them would see fit to tell him, their minds wiped utterly clean of his existence.

‘The morning post, sir.’

At the breakfast table Henry took the four letters from the salver Honeyford held and sifted through them.

‘One here for you, Eleanor.’ He laid the letter aside for Honeyford to take to her for opening. ‘Two for me.’ The remaining letter he placed back on the waiting salver. ‘This one you can get rid of, Honeyford.’

Eleanor was gazing towards him, her narrow features oddly stiff. He looked down at his plate while Honeyford moved towards her with her letter placed carefully to the front for her to take.

Laying her fork down beside her plate of kedgeree, Eleanor took the letter, and as she did so, recognised the handwriting on the other.

‘Henry?’

‘No, my dear,’ he growled without looking up.

But there was something about today. She couldn’t have said what, but it was a day for disobeying her husband’s most express command. Prompted by this inexplicable something, Eleanor plucked the second envelope up and, before he could bellow out a warning, had torn the flap open with her thumbnail.

‘I’m sorry, Henry,’ she said to his as yet unspoken reprimand though she saw anger brighten that square face; saw the broad hands ball into fists on each side of his plate. ‘It’s gone on long enough. It’s making me ill.’

‘You
are making you ill!’ he thundered, finding his voice. ‘Can’t you get it into your head, Lean, that it’s
all finished with
?’