Mary's Child (13 page)

Andrew answered laconically, ‘Twelve,’ though he had landed in Australia nearly two years before that. He had come out from England as a seaman in the fo’c’sle of a battered old tramp steamer that should have gone to the breakers. When she berthed at Sydney he had laid out the bullying first mate with a blow from a shovel and jumped ship. He had spent the intervening two years in the goldfields, where he had made the money that bought his thousand acres and stocked them with sheep.

Now he said, ‘O’ course, I’ve worked a bit.’

The lawyer chuckled. ‘I know that for a fact.’ He also knew that Andrew Wayman was a survivor. The hell ship, the loss of the first fortune he made in the goldfields, and the death of most of his sheep during one year of appalling drought; after all of these Andrew Wayman had bounced back with a grin.

He said, ‘So what about this property of mine?’

The lawyer leaned forward over the desk and mopped at his face with a handkerchief. ‘Have you ever thought of making a will? To clarify who should inherit the property if—’ He broke off as Andrew gave a bark of laughter.

He shook his head, still chuckling, and said, ‘To hell with that! Who would I leave it to? One o’ the jokers who work for me?’ He stood up and reached for his hat, the interview over as far as he was concerned. ‘No. When I turn up my toes you can all fight over it.’

The lawyer stared at him and asked, ‘You have no family?’

Andrew Wayman shook his head definitely. ‘Nobody.’

And so he believed.

Six months later and twelve thousand miles away another lawyer stood up from his paper-covered desk in his office at the bottom of the High Street, and stretched. Ezra Arkenstall had been bent over his work for two hours and now he paced to the window to take his eyes from the close work and ease stiffened muscles. He was older but had not yet shrunk with age, still filled out his good dark grey suit, though his hair was greyer and he stooped a little more. He stood at his window on the top floor of the building and stared out over the intervening roofs at the distant view of the river. Its yards swarmed with men along each bank, ships lay by the quays loading or being fitted out, and the puffing tugs scuttled downstream or puffed up against the current. And circling over all were the wheeling gulls.

He thought that the summer was nearly over. He could see no flowers from his window, only an occasional patch of sooty grass. The wind off the sea was merely boisterous, still mild, and a weak sun blinked through holes in the overcast of clouds and smoke, but there was little warmth in it now. A month before, its heat had melted the tar on the few roads that were asphalted. The urchins living in the cramped and teeming slums down by the river had dug the soft pitch off those roads and rolled it in their palms to make marbles. Those days were gone for another year.

He turned as there was a tap at his door and called, ‘Come in!’

Max Forthrop entered, smiling as always. Some months ago Arkenstall’s partner, Henry Halliwell, had come into this office when Ezra was working late and said, ‘We can’t cope with all the business we have these days. We’ll have to take in another partner, Ezra.’

Arkenstall had a son, Luke, at boarding school with young Jack Ballantyne. He hoped his boy would follow in his footsteps, become a partner in the firm and ultimately take over from himself. But all that was in the distant future. He had answered Halliwell, ‘I think you’re right.’ Halliwell had found Max Forthrop, now the junior partner.

He asked, ‘Can I request a favour?’

Arkenstall waved him to a chair before the desk while he sat down behind it again. ‘Of course.’

Forthrop hitched at the knees of his trousers and sat. His suit was a sober dark grey but well cut and expensive. He was tall and smoothed a wide, silky moustache with thick fingers, a florid, fleshily handsome man in his late twenties.

He explained, ‘My wife and I have made our wills. A sensible course, I think.’

Arkenstall inclined his head. ‘It prolongs life. Or so I tell my clients.’

Forthrop laughed. ‘Quite so. But we wondered, would you be prepared to act as executor?’ He added, ‘They are fairly simple wills: we’ve each of us left all we have to the other.’

Arkenstall agreed. ‘I will act, of course, though I would hope and expect that the pair of you will see me out.’ He smiled; he was some thirty years older than Forthrop. Then he went on, tactfully, ‘You can make provision for any children as they come along.’

Forthrop’s smile faded and he answered, ‘There will be no question of that. Sylvia had a miscarriage soon after we were married. Now she is unable to have children.’

Embarrassed, Arkenstall said, ‘I see. I’m sorry.’

‘It is a great sadness to both of us.’ Forthrop’s smile returned, though faintly. ‘But we have each other.’

A few days later Arkenstall went along to Forthrop’s office at the young man’s invitation. He found Sylvia Forthrop there, and as Forthrop rose from his chair, smiling, Arkenstall bowed to Sylvia. ‘Good morning, Mrs  Forthrop.’

Sylvia answered wanly, ‘Good morning, Mr Arkenstall.’ She was five years older than Forthrop, pallid and plain, fragile. Arkenstall thought her an odd partner for the flamboyant, full-blooded Forthrop.

Forthrop called in a couple of clerks to witness his and Sylvia’s signing of the wills. When she had scrawled her name and the clerks had appended theirs in neat copperplate and gone, she sank back in her chair with a sigh and said with relief, ‘Thank Heaven that’s done. All these legalities just make my head ache. My uncles used to deal with them for me. I’m lucky to have someone like Max now, to organise these things for me.’

Arkenstall knew, had learned when Forthrop and his wife had come to his house for dinner, that Sylvia had lost her father, a widower, not long before she was married. And he had deduced from her casual comments that she had also been an heiress. He suspected that it had been her money that bought Forthrop his partnership in the firm and a house in the expensive neighbourhood of Ashbrooke.

Max Forthrop had already pounced on both wills and tied them with red tape. He said with satisfaction, ‘We’ll keep them here in the office safe.’

Arkenstall left them after a few minutes, making the excuse: ‘I have some work I must complete.’

Forthrop put in quickly, smiling, ‘So must I. But first I’ll see Sylvia to her motor car.’

But Arkenstall did not go at once to his office. Instead he stood at a window looking down on the busy high street and watched Sylvia climb into the Vauxhall, with its chauffeur holding the door open for her, and be driven away. He guessed that her money also paid for the motor car; he knew very well how much money Forthrop received as a partner. He might have private income of his own, of course  . . .

He stared out at the cabs and carts rolling by, pulled by trotting horses, their iron tyres bouncing on the cobbles of the street. The bell of a tram clanged in the distance and the riveting hammers in the yards kept up their never-ending racket. The coals in the grate behind him settled, hissed and spat. There was a brief smell of coal as a down-draught from the chimney blew smoke into the room. He was aware of none of these things.

He told himself his fears were irrational, illogical. The man was good at his work and had come with excellent references from his previous employers. Yet Ezra’s instincts told him there was something not right about Max Forthrop. It did not enter his head that the man could pose a fatal threat to the child Ezra had seen but once and more than ten years ago. Why should it?

But Arkenstall was uneasy.

He was not the only one.

Chapter 9

August 1908

Chrissie also had cause to be uneasy, but not at first.

Daniel Milburn, in his good blue suit and with a white silk scarf knotted around his neck, brought home his intended bride before the end of the summer. Bessie had not been dead a year when he fulfilled her prophecy: ‘He’s a man that needs a woman.’

He ushered her in at the kitchen door and introduced her: ‘Now then, Chrissie, this is Agatha.’ She was a woman in her forties, sharp featured and quick eyed, prim in a dark grey costume and starched white blouse.

Chrissie dipped in a curtsy and held out her hand, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She wore a clean white pinny over her best dress, for the visit was expected, had been arranged. Daniel had warned her a week ago and she had known of the affair almost since it began at the start of the summer.

Agatha’s gloved hand shook the tips of the proferred fingers and she smiled without showing her teeth. ‘And pleased to meet
you
, I’m sure.’

Chrissie said breathlessly, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She moved it from the hob to the coals and then busied herself with the final preparations for tea.

The three boys still at home, and the five lodgers, were introduced. All were in their suits and wore collars and ties, their faces fresh shaven and hair neatly brushed. The two married sons were not present. They and their wives considered Daniel should have waited longer before seeking another wife. There had been a bawling, shouting row that had left Chrissie, a spectator, trembling. It ended when Daniel told them, ‘It’s got damn all to do with you! You’ve made your own beds! Now lie in ’em and keep clear o’ me!’

So now only two of the boys living at home worked with Daniel. Ronnie was at Ballantyne’s yard, but still talked to Chrissie of going south to work. The three of them in the upstairs front room did not approve of the match either, but they, too, had been told the options by Daniel: ‘Shut up or get out!’ They needed a roof over their heads – and the work.

They sat down to tea. The best cloth, washed and ironed by Chrissie, was on the table, with the best crockery and cutlery. She had washed and polished all of it. There were plates of cold meat – sliced ham and pork – and jars of pickles.

Ronnie said, ‘Chrissie baked all this lot, the bread, cakes and the tarts.’ Besides the fruit cake there were two kinds of tart, one meat and one apple. Chrissie blushed, but she was proud of the spread. She had pinched and scraped on the housekeeping to put a bit by for just such an occasion.

Agatha smiled again. ‘Very nice, I’m sure.’ She examined the bread and butter and asked, ‘Can you cut me a thin slice, please?’

‘Oh, yes! I’m sorry.’ In a house full of men Chrissie was not used to this. She got up quickly, flustered, and shaved from the loaf a paper-thin slice that fell apart as she tried to lift it with the knife.

Agatha took the pieces between finger and thumb with a fixed smile. ‘That’s all right, dear. It’ll do.’

She ate little and daintily, smiling the while, agreeing with whatever Daniel or the other men said or keeping silence when they disagreed among themselves, taking no side. She ate little but the bread and butter, did not touch the tarts Chrissie had baked and when offered the cake, asked, ‘Only a small piece, dear. I don’t like anything too heavy but I’m sure it’s lovely.’

After the meal she insisted on helping with the washing up, taking the drying cloth. She passed several items back to Chrissie, up to her elbows in suds, with a smiling, ‘I think that could do with another rinse, dear.’

Then she left for her home with Daniel in the dusk, one arm in his, the other hand reaching out to pat Chrissie’s cheek. ‘I’ve had a lovely tea, thank you. I think you do very well for your age and you’re a clever little girl.’

That was the first of a succession of visits that only ended with the wedding in October. Chrissie went to church with Daniel and Agatha to hear the banns read. She worked for a week preparing the food for the reception and Agatha told her, ‘You’re so busy, with such a lot to do.’ So she asked a cousin to come from Newcastle to be her bridesmaid. Chrissie was only a spectator at the wedding.

The celebrations lasted all through the afternoon and evening and ended at midnight when the happy couple retired to their bed in the front room. The boys and the lodgers climbed the stairs, singing with the beer they had drunk. Then Chrissie locked the doors of the house, front and back, banked the fire, washed up and cleared up the debris of the party.

Finally she climbed the stairs, tiptoeing through the sleeping house, and got into bed at one in the morning. She was tired but content. The reception had been a great success. Everyone had said so: ‘A real good do.’

Well, not everyone  . . .

On Monday morning Chrissie ran downstairs only to find Agatha, in a brand new white apron, already at the kitchen range with the frying pan sizzling on the coals and the kettle hissing on the hob. She smiled thinly at Chrissie. ‘Having a little lie-in, dear?’

Startled, Chrissie blinked up at the clock but saw the hands standing at the usual time of seven. She started, ‘No, I—’

But Agatha cut in, ‘Never mind, dear. I’ll be cooking the breakfast from now on. You just set the table and start making the beds, then later you can wash up.’

So while Chrissie was making the beds, Agatha ate her breakfast with Daniel, the boys and the lodgers, then went out into the yard to see Daniel off on his round.

That was the beginning. In the days to come Agatha would assemble the washing, but it was Chrissie who lit the fire under the boiler in the washhouse to heat the water, wielded the poss-stick to thump the clothes in the tub of hot, soapy water, then scrubbed and scrubbed. Agatha fed the wet clothes into the wooden rollers of the mangle but Chrissie heaved on the handle to turn those rollers and squeeze out the water.