house of women (3 page)

that the only hope he was left with was that Emma Funnell would make her demise at an early date. But now, at seventy-four, she continued to disappoint him because she was more alert than her daughter or even her granddaughter. His wife he considered to be spineless.

And here she was now, at this moment, facing him across his desk, and he greeted her in his usual fashion by saying, "What is it now? I have work to do. Mine doesn't stop at five, you know."

Lizzie said nothing, but she continued to stare down into the face that she had come to hate. In spite of the broadness of his body, his face was thin, his chin almost pointed. His hair was sandy and of the texture that couldn't be brushed flat: it sprang out from the back of his head and sometimes from above his ears, no matter how he plastered it down. She had soon become aware of his reason for marrying her; and in her own way she had gloated, and still did, over the fact that his plan had misfired and that his position today wasn't that of running the works, as he had expected it to be, for he was still in the

showroom and sales department, with the glorified title of manager.

The real managers of the business were Fred Cartwright and his

assistant, Henry Brooker.

As she looked into his cold gaze she thought, as she had so often done.

If only he had loved me a little, been kind. But he had no kindness in him. He had no real friends, not even amongst those at church, or at the youth club. The only reason he took that over was to give him a place to exercise his power. She wondered if he loved anyone but himself. But why was she asking that? He loved Peggy . well, if he had any feelings at all they were for his daughter. And now she closed her eyes and muttered to herself. Oh my God! How am I going to put this?

"What's the matter with you?"

"There's nothing the matter with me." Her voice was as loud as his own; it was that bawling that did it. She could stand up to him when he bawled. She'd had to learn this defence or he would have bawled her down on every occasion. That was one part of him her granny had been unable to subdue, his voice. And now, for a moment, she felt a sort of pleasure touching on impish delight in contemplating the words she was about to deliver to him.

"I would hold tight on to something if I were you."

He sat back in the chair.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing's up with me, but there's something up with our daughter."

He slowly rose to his feet, pushing the chair back with a thrust of his foot and, after staring at her for

a moment, he said, "You're taking a delight in this, whatever it is, aren't you?"

"Oh yes' her head bobbed up and down 'great delight, great delight; I've always wanted to be a grandmother: there's not enough of them in this house."

His lower jaw was thrust out, his eyes narrowed. He turned his body slightly away to the side while still looking at her before he said,

"What are you saying?"

"Well, you're not dim, are you, Leonard? You've always pointed out to me how quick on the uptake you are, that you know what people are thinking before they open their mouths. It's a bone of contention with you that people don't understand how bright you are."

It was she now who half turned from him; her mind was jumping to his defence: Why was she going for him like this? She knew what the news would do to him; and, in his own way, he certainly had something to put up with in this house.

As if in one movement he sprang round the desk and was now standing close to her, his face only inches from hers. Spittle on his lips, his nostrils wide, spluttering at her, he said, "She isn't ... she's not?

She couldn't be! Not her."

Her defence of him was gone. Her voice was even calm as she said, "Why not? she's female."

She watched his eyes widen, his brows lift; she saw his hand come up slowly past his face and his fingers raise the front of his hair until it matched the back. She thought he looked like a porcupine on the defensive. But the yell he now emitted showed that he certainly wasn't on the defensive but on the attack.

"Fetch her! Fetch her in here! My God! I'll ... I'll ... " Yes, what are you going to do? Kill her? "

"Fetch her! And shut that taunting mouth of yours."

She was about to say, "Why don't you come out into the hall or into the kitchen; there'll be more room there to knock her about," but she thought better of it and walked purposely slowly from the room.

As she crossed the hall towards the stairs her mother and grandmother came from the dining room, and her mother called to her, "Did you move my indigestion tablets, Lizzie?" But before she could answer, her grandmother, on a laugh, said, "I saw the cat running off with something," and added, "You and your indigestion tablets. If you did a little more bending you wouldn't have indigestion. That dining-room hasn't had a good polish for weeks. Now get at it tomorrow and you'll find you'll be able to eat your dinner without indigestion ... 32.

tablets! " Mrs. Funnell had moved from her daughter towards Lizzie and stopped her as she mounted the third stair, saying, " Something the matter? You are as white as a sheet. You feeling bad? "

"No, Gran; I'm not feeling bad."

"Well, what is it? What happened over at May's?"

"You'll know soon enough. Oh, yes, you'll know soon enough."

"That isn't good enough for me; tell me now."

"I won't tell you now.

Gran, you'll wait. And you won't have to wait long if you stay there.

"

Lizzie now ran up the remainder of the stairs.

When she pushed open the bedroom door she saw her daughter sitting at the foot of the bed, and for a moment she wanted to rush to her and pull her into her arms because she didn't look a sixteen-year-old, but more like the child who had stood before her in her new school uniform, how many years ago? She was still in her school uniform, but she was pregnant, and before this year was over she'd be a mother. Oh dear Lord! Lord! Why had this to happen? And in this house. But it

wouldn't happen in this house, she'd be married. Oh, yes, yes, her mind emphasised this. Whoever it was would be brought to book and she'd be married. If it was the last thing she did in her life, she'd see that she was married and had a place of her own. But where?

Who would provide that? He was likely just a bit of a lad.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and, looking at the bowed head, she said, "How old is he?"

"Seventeen."

"And still at school?"

"Yes."

"What's his name?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter?"

The yell startled Peggy and the look on her mother's face frightened her, and she stammered, "Andrew Jones."

Lizzie drew in a long and calming breath and, putting out her hand, she jerked Peggy from the bed, saying, "Come on downstairs. You've got to face him."

"I'm ... I'm frightene -1 ... Mam."

"I'll be with you." Lizzie wasn't at all surprised, when they reached the hall, to see her granny standing near the drawing- room door, but when she lifted her hand, finger wagging, saying plainly Wait, she saw surprise come over the old lady's face.

She had to push Peggy before her into the study, then she quickly closed the door behind her. And when she saw the look on her husband's face she

said quickly, "Don't you try any rough stuff." Then, "We're going to talk."

"Shut up! And you come here." His index finger formed a crook; but Peggy remained where she was by the side of her mother; only for a moment though, for in two lightning strides he had her by the

shoulders, pulling her towards the middle of the room, crying as he did so, "You dirty little slut! Whoring! Whoring! Who is he? Who was it?"

"Dad ... Dad." The words came out with each shake of her shoulders; and when Lizzie, gripping his arm, cried, "Give over! Give over!" he kicked at her shins, causing her to let out a high yell and stumble backwards.

Just as his shaking hands moved over his daughter's shoulders towards her neck, Emma Funnell rushed in like a soldier on a bayonet charge, except that she didn't carry a gun but a walking stick. Quickly

reversing her hold from the handle to grip the bottom and, thrusting it wildly out, she did something she had wanted to do for years and used physical force on Leonard Hammond. But it was he who was clutching at his throat and trying to release himself from the handle of the walking stick. And when, stumbling sideways, he slid from its hold he dropped on to one knee, where he remained gasping and staring up at the

formidable woman bending over him. Then he was on his feet, his

fingers stroking his neck as he cried, "What do you think you're doing, woman?"

"The same as you were doing to her." Mrs. Funnell pointed to where Peggy was leaning over the desk;

then looking towards Lizzie, who was rubbing her shin, she demanded,

"Now tell me what this is all about."

"Oh, you don't know?" Leonard Hammond was still fingering his neck.

"Fancy anything happening in this house that you don't know. Well, as I understand it, my daughter is pregnant."

In the silence that followed this announcement, Mrs. Funnell looked at the schoolgirl, and from deep inside herself she wanted to cry, "Ah, no! no! Not Peggy. No!" She loved Peggy as she had never loved her own daughter, because Victoria had been a sickly specimen since birth, a whinging kind of child and then a more whinging woman. Victoria's daughter Lizzie had been different. She liked Lizzie, she was fond of Lizzie, but that was as far as it went:

but where love was concerned she had given it to Lizzie's child.

She was brought to face Leonard Hammond once more for he was bawling again: "Well! this is the finish. I'm putting my foot down. I've stood enough. She's not staying here. Whoever gave it to her can have the responsibility of her. She's not staying in my house!"

He knew immediately he had made a mistake, for the bark that Emma Funnell now let forth almost lifted them all up off their feet: "Your house! Your house!"

The word 'house' seemed to have come out of the top of her head and its echo floated away before she added, "This is something new: your house.

Let me tell you, you little insignificant nincompoop, this is my house.

Always has been and always will be; even when I'm gone you'll have no share in it. I've seen to that. Now, as for warning your daughter to get out, your daughter stays here as long as she likes. But if you want to go and take your wife with you, you are quite welcome, any time. In fact, I think, after living rent free, and food free, all these years, it's about time you found a place for yourself, isn't it, Mr.

Hammond?"

Leonard Hammond stared back at the woman who topped him by inches and who at this moment he would have struck, even strangled, if only he dared. She meant what she said: she could put him out tomorrow. And what then? Probably a life in a council house with Lizzie.

He forced himself to turn away, to turn from her, to grope towards the desk, around it and into his chair, and there, placing his elbows on it he dropped his head into his hands. And from this position he did not see them leaving the room; he heard only the padding of their steps on the carpet. But wit the clicking of the door he raised his head an looked towards it and then, taking the blotter i his hand, he slowly picked it to bits; he did not tea it, he just picked bits out of it as if he were pluckin a chicken . alive.

"I don't want to go, Mam."

"You've got to go. He's got to face up to his responsibilities; he's got to marry you."

Peggy flung round from the window, crying, "I don't want to marry him, Mam. I don't want to have anything to do with him."

"You should have thought of that before, girl, then we wouldn't have had this trouble, would we? And it's no good bowing your head like that. You've got to see him and his people; they've got to take the responsibility."

"I can take the responsibility. I can go out to work and ... " Don't be silly, girl. And anyway, I'm not thinking so much of you now but of the child. Have you any idea what it's like to have an illegitimate child? The proper name for one is a bastard. D'you hear that? a

bastard. There's one halfway along this lane. She was made to feel different from when she first went to school. And her mother is known as a bad lot. Whether she is or not I don't know, but her neighbours fight shy of her. Years ago they even tried to get her out of the house. But her mother owned it and now she owns it, and she defies them. Perhaps you've seen her strutting down this road dressed like a peacock. Her girl is eighteen now. They say she's very bright, but what's she doing? She's in the packing room at the factory. She's likely stamped because she can't have a proper birth certificate, though why they should want a birth certificate for that, I don't know.

She'll find it difficult to get a decent man to marry her though. "

"Perhaps she doesn't want to marry. I don't want to marry anybody. Do you hear? I don't, Mam, never!"

"Don't talk stupid, girl." Lizzie turned away, and pointing to the wardrobe, said, "Get your hat and coat on."

"I don't, Mam. Do you hear? I don't."

Slowly Lizzie now turned about and looked at her white-faced, wide-eyed daughter, and she said quietly, "You don't know what you're talking about. You haven't even started to live yet. You've tasted something that'll be a torment to you in a very short time, and without marriage you won't be able to have it, unless you become a loose woman. So shut up! girl." Her voice had risen now, and she ended, "No more talk.

Get your things on and come downstairs."

"I... I won't. I'll go and see Great-gran. She'll ..."

"Huh!"

Lizzie stood holding the door and looking sadly at her child as she interrupted her, saying ruefully, "Your great-gran might be more up-to-date than next year's newspaper, but where respectability comes in, let me tell you, your dad doesn't hold a candle to her. If you want to know, it's her express wish that you get married and as quickly as possible."

"T'isn't. She wouldn't, not ... not Great-gran."