Mary's Child (30 page)

Chrissie Carter saw him and for once was sorry for him. She remembered how Mary and Harry Carter had died.

In the privacy of his room he could relax and smile. Except when he remembered how Sylvia, so frail and always ailing, had fought for her life. She had risen towards the surface again and again, and he had to drag her down, his hand locked in her skirts, again and again.

But he could put that out of his mind. It had been necessary to sell the house and the car, and his lodgings, when he found them, would be modest. It would be unseemly to make a splash straight away and have everyone talking about him spending his wife’s money. He was going to be a rich man, the wealthiest in this town, and this was another step along the way, a big one. Now he would wait a while, say a year or two, and make his plans.

His final thought before he slept, content, was that it had all been so easy. Two birds with one stone. He had rid himself of Sylvia’s vapid presence and gained her money that he needed.

He would not be so nervous next time.

Old Ezra Arkenstall sat late before the fire in his study at home. As executor of Sylvia Forthrop’s will he knew the value of the estate that had come this early to her husband. He told himself that there was no shred of evidence that – But he would not put the suggestion into words; it was nonsense. This was no mysterious death but an accident like many another on this river. It was witnessed by scores of people. No one would attempt murder – he stopped short, realising he had thought it, then went on – in such an open place and in the light of day.

No. He reasoned that the truth was that he did not like, had never liked, Max Forthrop. And for no good reason, just his instinct. And that was not infallible. There were other men he had disliked but who had proved honest, good husbands and fathers. Some people were sympathetic while others were not. Just as some became friends and others remained acquaintances. It was as simple as that. There was nothing sinister in the death of Sylvia Forthrop. So he finally went to his bed. But he did not sleep for a long time.

Dear Chrissie Carter, just a few lines to say how sorry I am. We have both lost Ted. He deserved better than that, to die so young and far away. My ship is going out to join the Mediterranean Fleet. I am not coming home before we sail so will say goodbye now.

Yours sincerely, Frank Ward.

Dear Frank, I still grieve for Ted and always will. He was such a good lad. I wish you good luck and hope you do well in the Navy. You will always be in my prayers. All my love.

Frank did not reply. She wrote to him again care of the gunnery school. The letters were not returned but he never replied.

She was mourning but she was working, partly still in pursuit of her goal – one day she would be somebody, with a place of her own and money in the bank – and partly to assuage the grief. She put in five and a half days at the Palace Hotel and spent several evenings and weekends behind the bar in the Bells. Lance Morgan had said she was making a pretty penny for a young girl and that was true. She spent little because she did not have the time – and saved a lot. Lance had also talked of her ‘bottom drawer’. That was another memory that hurt.

Then early one evening a tall, slim young man came into the Bells and smiled at her. ‘Now then, Chrissie.’ He was fair, with a straggling moustache that made him look older than his years. For a moment Chrissie did not recognise him and stared blankly. Then she burst out, ‘Ronnie Milburn! Well I never! What are you doing up here? Come to see your dad?’

Ronnie’s smile faded. ‘I’ve been round to see him but I didn’t stop long. That Agatha was there, o’ course. She didn’t offer me a drop o’ tea, never mind anything to eat. And me dad just sits in the chair looking into the fire. He doesn’t know where he is, didn’t understand what I said or who I was.’

Chrissie reached out to touch his hand. ‘Oh, Ronnie! I’m sorry. It’s a shame. Poor Daniel.’ She sighed. ‘I haven’t been to see him because I know I wouldn’t be welcome.’

‘I’m not surprised you haven’t gone there.’ Ronnie scowled. ‘That woman sold you. I had a hell of a row with her over that. I suppose that’s one reason why she treats me the way she does now, but I don’t care. To hell with her.’ He dismissed Agatha with a wave of his hand, grinned at Chrissie. ‘But how are you now? I’d ha’ thought a bonny lass like you would ha’ been married afore now. Hasn’t the right one come along?’

Chrissie answered, ‘Do you remember Frank Ward?’ And when Ronnie nodded, went on, ‘I was engaged to his brother, Ted. But he died in India.’

Ronnie’s grin was wiped away. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

Chrissie smiled at him. ‘Cheer up. That’s all in the past and I’m all right. How are you getting on? But I’m forgetting – can I get you something? Are you still teetotal?’ And when he nodded she went on, ‘Then what about a cup of coffee? And a bite to eat?’

‘Just the coffee, please. I had a good dinner just an hour back.’

Chrissie brought him the coffee, served a few customers and called into the sitting-room, ‘Don’t burn them and stink the place out, Mr  Arkenstall!’ That brought laughter. The old crowd from the back room of the Frigate were packed into the sitting-room of the Bells, Jack Ballantyne and Luke Arkenstall among them. Luke was cooking sausages on a shovel over the fire.

Chrissie returned to Ronnie. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘The same as I told you a few years back.’ He grinned at Chrissie. ‘I packed in the job with the motor cars and started building aeroplanes.’

She shook her head and laughed with delight for him. Lance Morgan and Millie looked round in surprise and then smiled at each other approvingly. They had not heard Chrissie laugh since the news of Ted’s death.

Chrissie marvelled, ‘I can hardly believe it.’ She had not expected the job to last.

Ronnie pulled a face. ‘Neither can anybody else. That’s the trouble. But it’s true.’

‘What do you mean – trouble?’

He said he had the chance to set up in business on his own, buying a shed as a workshop and making parts for the aeroplanes. ‘There’s room for somebody to do that. I’ve found the shed, got the work lined up, know the people in the business who will come to me. I’ve saved some money myself but I need another couple of hundred and nobody will lend it to me. I’ve tried in London and Weybridge but I’m still a stranger down there and I’m young. I came up here to see if I could get a loan but it’s the same story: I’m too young – and nobody takes the business seriously. They think aeroplanes are just a craze that’ll fade away. But they aren’t, Chrissie. I believe that in ten years they’ll be carrying three or four passengers at a time, maybe from London to Paris.’

Chrissie said politely, ‘That’s wonderful.’ She did not believe him either. Blériot had flown across the Channel three years before, but passengers?

He said bitterly, ‘It was a chance for me to be somebody, and not spend the rest of my life slogging away on the floor of some machine shop to make another feller rich.’

Chrissie could understand that, sympathised with him. She studied him, sitting glumly over his empty cup. Then the bell rang in the sitting-room and she excused herself. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ She called out to Lance and Millie, who were both already serving, ‘I’ll see to it!’ and hurried out to the sitting-room.

She took the orders, pulled the pints and poured the spirits, then she carried them through on a tray, collected payment, wiped tables, and told the young men who were now trying to bake potatoes, ‘You want your heads looked at.’ Then quietly, pausing before him, she asked, ‘Can I ask you for some advice, Mr  Ballantyne?’

He shoved away from the mantelpiece where he was leaning and followed her out of the crowd. She told him, ‘A friend of mine needs some money to start in business and I have some savings  . . .’

She did not mention any amount but Jack listened to her story. She finished, ‘I trust him but I think there should be some sort of agreement, something written down. What should I put in it?’

Jack was startled, had tried not to let his surprise show. A barmaid wanting to invest savings in a business? A young barmaid at that, not some matron in her forties who just might have managed to scrape together a few pounds after twenty-odd years of hard work. But he took Chrissie seriously, thought and said, ‘I think you should certainly have a formal agreement and I know the chap to draw it up for you.’ He called, ‘Luke! Spare a minute?’ And Luke Arkenstall shoved out of the crowd that were baking potatoes.

Next day Chrissie and Ronnie Milburn went to Luke’s book-lined, cramped and crowded little office – he was an articled clerk, learning his profession in the firm of Arkenstall, Eddrington, Halliwell & Forthrop – and signed an agreement drawn up by him. It made Chrissie a sleeping partner in Ronnie Milburn’s enterprise, taking five per cent of any profits. In return she gave him her savings of £200.

She walked back across the bridge over the river to the Bells with a feeling of relief. She had divested herself of the money saved for her ‘bottom drawer’. Now the memory of that would not nag at her. She did not need a dowry now because she was not going to marry for a long time. She could save again. She did not think of the money as invested but as a gift because she did not expect to see it again. She had simply nodded acceptance of Luke’s suggestion that she should have five per cent, partly because she trusted him, mainly because she did not care. Five per cent of profits? What profits? She had never seen an aeroplane.

Chrissie stood again on a station platform later that day. This time she waved farewell to an excited and grateful Ronnie Milburn. As the train pulled away he shouted, ‘Thank you, Chrissie! You won’t regret it, I promise!’

She called, ‘You just look out you don’t hurt yourself with those machines!’ Then she walked back to the Bells to start work there.

That evening she told Jack Ballantyne, ‘Thank you for helping. Mr  Arkenstall did everything properly for us.’

Jack asked carefully, ‘You know this chap Milburn pretty well, then? I mean, to trust him with your savings  . . .’

Chrissie gave a careless shrug. ‘Oh, aye. But anyway, it was money for my “bottom drawer” and I won’t need it now. I won’t be getting married, you see.’

Jack thought he saw.

A week later he left with his father for the United States and South America.

Chrissie saw little of him in the next two years. She knew that was not surprising, that they came from two different worlds, he wealthy and travelling widely, she serving behind a bar, bent over ledgers or scrubbing floors.

He returned after six months but only to leave again very soon, this time for the Continent. Whenever Chrissie did see him on one of his short visits home in those two years, he was always escorting a different girl. Chrissie told herself that was nothing to her. His reputation was established now, not as a rake – he did not gamble and drank little – but as ‘one for the girls’.

That did him an injustice because he more than pulled his weight for the Ballantyne yard. From the many times his father and grandfather had taken him to the yard as a small boy, and through the ensuing years, he had soaked up knowledge. He talked with George and Richard now as an equal and worked as hard as they, knowing that one day he would have to run the yard.

The only friction came from old George Ballantyne, critical of the succession of girls. He and Jack had more than one clash, all of them ending with a glower and a growl from the old man: ‘Don’t disgrace this house!’ and Jack stalking away. But the rows passed and within the hour the pair would be working together again.

Chrissie also worked hard, most of her waking hours, at the Palace Hotel or the Bells, and her savings grew rapidly again. It was not a natural life for an attractive young woman but her ambition drove her.

Max Forthrop also had ambitions and their fulfilment would not lie in a prosaic solicitors’ office. He wanted money and power, would use the former to purchase the latter. And he wanted revenge on the girl, Chrissie Carter. He would wait a year or two until he was ready to seize all three objectives. There was pleasure to be had from anticipation. Meanwhile he affected hardly to notice the girl.

Then at the end of those two years and in a summer of blazing heat, life took a savagely different turn.

Chapter 18

April 1914

‘Martha Tate! What are you doing here?’ The man’s voice was lifted to carry across the foyer of the Palace Hotel. Chrissie, recognising his voice lifted her head from her books to glance at him, though incuriously at first. She knew that he occasionally came from Newcastle on business and lunched at the Palace. He was stocky, stout, red faced and smirking wet-lipped at the woman now.

She answered, in a conversational tone but in a voice trained to reach the distant recesses of a theatre, an attribute of her profession. ‘Herbert! Fancy meeting you! Well, I usually work the halls in London and round the south, but I had a few weeks free so I took on this touring show. I’ve got a week at the Empire here.’ She was one of the ‘theatricals’, the cast of the show currently playing at the Empire Theatre in the town. Whatever show it was, the principals at least always stayed at the Palace and were always known as the ‘theatricals’. She was tall for a woman, long legged and high breasted, wearing the make-up and lipstick of her trade.