Mary's Child (17 page)

He and his wife had not slept together after the first year of their marriage – and little during it. She had submitted to his sexual demands dutifully and frigidly, but only until her miscarriage. Then her doctor, with some surreptitious prompting from a shuddering Sylvia, had declared that she would be in some danger if she attempted to bear a child again. Since then they had slept apart. That was no loss to him.

On this evening it was close to midnight when he put away his papers and books. He stood up and stretched, smiling now in anticipation, turned off the gas lamp and climbed the stairs. He paused on the landing outside his wife’s room but could see no band of light under her door. Her room, like the rest of the house, was silent. He went on.

Sylvia Forthrop was often confined to her bed with one of her many minor ailments – cough, cold or headache. On the evening of one such day, when Chrissie had been in service in the Forthrop house only a month or so, the girl entered the drawing-room and saw Max Forthrop standing behind Ruby. Chrissie halted as the big man slid his arms around Ruby to grip her breasts. Ruby did not resist but giggled and laid her head back on Forthrop’s shoulder, reached behind her to fondle him. Both had their backs to Chrissie. She tiptoed away without being seen or heard.

She was startled but neither shocked nor surprised. Chrissie, just turned fifteen, was not an innocent. She had assisted Bessie at a score or more confinements and done her share of washing and laying out the dead. And she had sat on the fringe of the circle and listened when the older women talked of men, birth and conception. So she had been under no illusions when she had heard the creaking of the stairs and the floorboards outside her room late at night.

She studied then, the only time when she could, curled up in the coarse blankets against the cold, with her nose in the book and close to the flickering candle that was her light – she was not allowed to burn the gas after ten. When she heard the footsteps on the stairs she would check her breathing and shade the candle flame with her hand so its light would not show under the door. She would lie thus until the steps had creaked past and gone.

Now this incident in the drawing-room only confirmed a suspicion that had been almost a certainty anyway. She told herself this as she lay in her bed that night and listened to the creak of the stairs, the soft squeak and click of a door opened and closed. Also that it was none of her business how Ruby behaved.

But then she thought that there were other considerations and she had to keep them in mind.

Day succeeded day of drudgery, through the long winter and into the spring. Then came summer – and the Ballantynes.

Chapter 11

August 1909

‘I’ll take a glass of wine if I may, sir.’ Jack Ballantyne sat straight as the back of the chair he occupied. He looked across the gleaming table to his grandfather sitting opposite. George Ballantyne inclined his grizzled head with a smile. Worthington, the butler, lean and cadaverous, black-coated and efficient, poured the wine into Jack’s glass and moved on.

They sat in the dining-room of the Forthrops’ house. It was only a quarter the size of that long room of George Ballantyne, but big enough. A snowy white cloth covered the table, and glasses and cutlery shone. That had meant hard work for Ruby and Chrissie. The two maids were frequently lent out to other houses for special occasions like dinner parties. In a reciprocal fashion, Sylvia borrowed extra staff when she needed them. This night she had borrowed Worthington for the dinner she and Max Forthrop were giving George Ballantyne.

The occasion was overtly social, covertly business. Overtly, this was to celebrate Sylvia Forthrop’s birthday. Max Forthrop wanted his care of his wife to be known. But at the same time, the firm of Arkenstall, Eddrington, Halliwell & Forthrop handled a lot of legal work for Ballantyne’s yard. George Ballantyne had been an occasional guest at the tables of the other partners and Max Forthrop did not want to be left out, to be seen too much as the junior partner.

A dozen of them had sat down to dinner. Both Forthrop’s partners, Ezra Arkenstall and Henry Halliwell, were there with their wives, and two major clients with their spouses.

George Ballantyne, a widower, had brought his grandson, on vacation from his public school. One was a young mirror image of the other. Both, as always, had been dressed expensively by the same tailor. Jack was a tall youth for his age, seventeen now, standing eye to eye with his grandfather and still with growing to do. His cheeks were smooth now from shaving, his unruly black hair well cut by his grandfather’s barber. He was not a handsome young man – there was too much strength in his face for that, with its wide mouth and firm jaw – but he cut a toughly good-looking figure, a man in the making, in his dinner suit and white shirt-front, and the women found him attractive.

He was at ease in these surroundings, not over-awed, because he had accompanied his grandfather on more than one similar occasion. He was able to enjoy his meal, eating heartily and sitting quiet, keeping his ears and his mind open, speaking when spoken to – which was often. During dinner the talk was of books and the theatre and he was able to answer intelligently when questioned, but he was looking forward to later.

At one point Ezra Arkenstall commented, ‘What about this chap Blériot flying across the Channel? We’re not so much of an island now.’

Halliwell gave a derisive snort of laughter. ‘That’s all very well. I take my hat off to him, but we can still put our trust in the Navy. Anybody who wants to try to invade in those flying machines – one at a time – is welcome to try.’

There was laughter and Ezra said, ‘My boy Luke wants to go down south to some place called Weybridge to try it – flying, I mean.’ He glanced across the table. ‘How about you?’

Jack grinned at him. ‘I know Luke is keen. I’d like to try a flight, too, but I think I’ll stick to building ships for a living.’

More laughter.

Chrissie did not look up from serving vegetables but she had overheard the exchange. She had been amazed at the news of Blériot’s flight, also by a postcard from Ronnie Milburn and postmarked Weybridge. He wrote occasionally, as he had promised. On the card he said excitedly that he was no longer working on motor cars but had got a job at a place called Brooklands, helping to build aeroplanes. Chrissie wished him well but doubted if he would have much of a future there.

George Ballantyne kept an eye on his grandson but still had time to note that the elder of the two maids who served them, a buxom young woman, slid sideways glances at young Jack when she thought she was unobserved. George smiled to himself. The other girl, much younger but deft and quick, concentrated all her attention on the work in hand. Her sideways glances were reserved for Worthington, watchful for any instruction, any hand signal he might make. She was small for her age, had to be fourteen to be at work but looked younger. She was small boned though filling out now, thin faced and big eyed. He thought that she might be a pretty girl one day. She reminded him of someone  . . .

Jack was aware of Ruby’s speculative stares, and of the younger girl. He remembered her, how she had come to his rescue when he was attacked by the three louts. He wondered if she would recognise him, but she never lifted her gaze from her work, not noticing this well-dressed young man.

Ruby giggled as both of them laboured back to the kitchen under trays loaded high with plates and dishes. She said, ‘I bet he’d be a handful if he got a girl on her own!’

Chrissie panted, ‘Who?’

‘The young feller, o’ course! Here! I saw him watching you a minute back!’

‘He wasn’t.’ Chrissie denied it, but uncertainly, looking behind in case Worthington was following them. Then she remembered that he would be circulating with the wine.

‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ Ruby shouldered through the door into the kitchen then held it open with one foot.

Chrissie slid through the gap. ‘Who?’

‘That’s the Ballantyne boy. And that’s his grandfather with him, that owns the Ballantyne yard. It’ll all come to that young feller one day. You could do worse.’

Mrs Garrity, sweating in the heat of the kitchen, caught that last and demanded, ‘Worse than what?’

‘Worse than taking up with that lad Jack Ballantyne.’ Ruby banged down the tray and started emptying it with a clash and clatter of china.

Mrs Garrity glared at her. ‘Don’t go putting daft ideas in the girl’s head.’ The glare shifted to Chrissie and she warned, ‘You keep clear of him and his kind. When they’ve had what they want they’ll get rid of you!’

Ruby laughed. ‘Mebbe. But take your fun where you find it, I say. There’s not all that much to be had.’

Chrissie was embarrassed by Mrs  Garrity thinking she was setting her cap at the young Ballantyne, also because she knew where and how Ruby took her ‘fun’. She protested, ‘I wasn’t—’

But then Worthington hurried into the kitchen and snapped, ‘Dessert! Where is it?’

Chrissie followed him and Ruby back to the dining-room, leaning back under the weight of another heavy tray. The warning from Mrs  Garrity had echoed the words of Mary Carter burnt into her mind: ‘. . . have nothing to do wi’ that sort. They use you, then toss you away.’

Now she was conscious of the tall youth, never looking at him directly but always aware of him. So at the end of the meal as she collected empty plates she felt as much as saw his blue eyes on her. She felt the heat of the blood rising to colour her cheeks and was glad to hurry out of the room with her work there done.

And now she recalled his face. He had been the boy attacked by the three roughs, taller and older now by two years. His face had been muddied and bloodied then; no wonder that she had not recognised him now. He was also the small boy who sat with her in the tree to watch the dancing. She had never known his name, only that he came from the Ballantyne house, but now she did.

Jack Ballantyne.

She remembered when she had taken the whip to the thugs who attacked him, how afterwards he said he had not needed her help. Well, she didn’t want anything to do with him, either.

Jack had seen her quick flush and looked away. He thought that he had embarrassed the girl and was sorry. She had changed little, was still small and thin . . . but growing bigger. He grinned to himself at that. And he remembered her seeming to stand tall on the cart as she came to his rescue with that curling, cracking whip. A real little spitfire.

Now the meal was over and he stood with the rest of the men as the ladies retired to the drawing-room. He sat again with his grandfather and the others, gathered at one end of the table as Worthington served the port and brought round the box of cigars. This was the time he had waited for, when his elders talked business. Most of it concerned ships and shipping because the town lived by them.

Dry-as-dust Henry Halliwell, just returned from a working trip to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, put in: ‘While I was in London I visited a music hall one evening. One of our local girls was appearing there: Vesta Nightingale. Quite a performer. She’s going great guns, coming top of the bill or near it, wherever she appears.’

Jack saw his grandfather’s easy smile turn to a glare that hardened his eyes and set his mouth tight as a steel trap. Then it was gone and the smile was back. No one else had noticed and Jack tore his gaze away, stared down at the table lest his grandfather saw that he had caught that swift change of expression. What had caused it? The talk was of music halls and a Vesta Nightingale. Jack could see no reason for his reaction.

Max Forthrop clipped the end from a cigar. ‘She must be making a lot of money.’

Halliwell answered drily, ‘And spending it. I saw her at a supper party afterwards. I was in the same restaurant but not with her group, thank God! I wouldn’t have liked to pick up the bill for that shindig!’

Forthrop shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose she did.’

Halliwell agreed, ‘No, some young titled chap was coughing up. But she’s spending her own money like water: rents a house in Mayfair, runs a motor car and a chauffeur – and a French maid.’

Forthrop was keenly aware that his wife’s money to a large extent funded his business, and that he was the poor man at this, his own table. George Ballantyne was the prime example for comparison, drawing a salary of two thousand pounds a year out of the yard, to say nothing of the income from his huge invested capital. Max Forthrop rankled under what he saw as an injustice and he planned to correct it. Now he spat out, ‘Earned as much by her body as her singing!’

Halliwell chuckled. ‘Envious, Max?’

Forthrop hid his anger behind a guffaw. ‘But you can’t help feeling the money would be spent better in other hands.’

George Ballantyne said grimly, ‘Like those of some of the men in this town at present.’ And when they all looked at him, he explained, ‘The men in the yards earn two pounds a week or more – better than they’d make working on the Clyde or anywhere else building ships in this country. But that’s when they have a job. Three years ago there were thirteen thousand men working in the yards along this river; last year there were barely four thousand. That meant nine thousand of them walking the streets looking for work.’

Ezra Arkenstall asked sombrely, ‘How is it now? And what of the future?’

George answered, ‘We’re crawling out of a pit of depression. There’s a ship still on the stocks but she’ll be launched in a month or so. After that I’ll try to keep all the men on while she’s fitted out but when that’s done—’ He shook his head. ‘At present we have no order to build another ship. Richard is racing about the Continent now, trying to remedy that.’ He smiled wryly at Jack. ‘That’ll be your job one of these days.’