Mary's Child (39 page)

It was two days after Martha Tate called that Arkley put his head around the door of the office and said, ‘There’s a gentleman here. He says you wanted to see him.’

Chrissie nodded. ‘I think I know who it is. Show him in, please.’

The young man who limped in was in his late twenties, thin faced and slight. His grey suit was cheap but neatly pressed, his shoes polished. He paused on the threshold and asked, tone rising with doubt, ‘Miss Carter?’

‘That’s right.’ Chrissie smiled at him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I got this note yesterday.’ He held it out to her. ‘It’s from you?’ The doubt was still there.

Chrissie assured him, ‘I sent it.’

‘Oh.’

‘You seem surprised.’

He confessed, ‘When I heard you ran this place I expected someone older.’

Chrissie grinned at him. ‘You could come back tomorrow. I’ll be older then.’

He laughed. ‘Sorry.’

Chrissie said, ‘And you are Captain Phillip Massingham?’

He said wrily, ‘No, just plain Mister. Regular officers keep their rank when they retire but I was just a “temporary gentleman” for hostilities only.’ He laid the note on the desk. ‘You asked me to call but I couldn’t come sooner. And you say “it might be to our mutual advantage”?’

‘I’ll explain.’ Chrissie came around from her desk and indicated one of the armchairs then asked him, ‘Can I get you a drink, Mr  Massingham?’

He did not answer that, nor did he sit down. Instead he said, ‘I trust this isn’t about some fly-by-night scheme for me to invest the bit of money the Army gave me. Because that has gone.’

Chrissie felt her face grow hot and she answered, ‘No, it is not. I’m not a swindler, Mr  Massingham.’

Now he was embarrassed and apologised. ‘I’m sorry. But I know a few chaps who’ve lost their pension money that way, and now, besides being crippled, they’re paupers.’

‘It’s not like that.’ Chrissie indicated the chair again. ‘Please? And the drink?’

He was still uncertain for a moment but then found some reassurance in her smile. He lowered himself into the chair, one leg stretched out stiffly in front of him, and said. ‘A scotch with water, please.’

She saw him settled with the drink and took the other chair herself. ‘I hear you’ve started a company to make pictures and you’re looking for capital. Is that right?’

Phillip Massingham stared at her over the rim of his glass. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Never mind. Is it true?’

He said stiffly, ‘I’ve set up a company. I’m not
looking
for capital, but, of course, a little extra does give one more flexibility.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Were you thinking of investing?’

Chrissie thought he didn’t want to seem desperate for money. She asked, ‘Suppose I did – what would I be putting my money into? I mean, what assets and prospects have you?’

He swallowed a mouthful of whisky and water and began cautiously. ‘I have a guarantee of distribution for a start. That’s important because it’s no good making pictures if no one will show them.’ Chrissie nodded and he went on, ‘I have a studio I’m renting, a lot of equipment, several actors lined up and plenty of good scripts. And, most important of all, I know what I’m doing. I’ve worked with cameras since I was at school and I was a cameraman in the business for three years before the war.’

He paused then and Chrissie put in, ‘And on the debit side?’

He said reluctantly, ‘I need a little cash for more equipment and to pay staff.’

‘How much?’

‘I’m sure that in a week or two I’ll be able to raise—’ He stopped then and asked, ‘Why are you shaking your head?’

‘Because I think you’ve tried already and nobody will lend you any more – not at a reasonable rate of interest, anyway. And I imagine your salary goes to keeping your wife and child while the rent for the studio is eating away at what capital you have.’

He set his glass down and asked, voice harsh, ‘Who told you all this, Miss Carter?’

‘Never mind. Mr  Massingham I’m on your side.’ And as he still glared, ‘I haven’t been prying. I learnt all this by accident and now I’ve met you I want to help. Now, how much money do you need?’

He ran a hand through his hair, then sighed. ‘Well, I’ve been trying to raise another six hundred.’

‘And that would be enough?’

‘I think I could just about manage with that, but – is this your money? Or are you representing some financier?’

‘I’m representing nobody but myself. And it is my money.’

He hesitated again, then said, ‘Look, Miss Carter, if you were speaking on behalf of some financier with pots of money who could afford to gamble, I would grab this chance. But as it’s your money there’s something else you should know. This wouldn’t be regarded as a safe investment by a lot of people. They say that moving pictures are just a fad that will pass. I don’t think it will, but if it did, you would lose your money. Leaving that aside, I don’t know when you would see a return on your investment or how much that would be.’

Chrissie nodded. ‘I understand that.’ She got up and went to her desk, wrote out a cheque and brought it to him as he stood up. ‘There you are. You can let me have shares in your company in exchange for that.’

He glanced down at the cheque, swallowed and said huskily, ‘This is for seven hundred pounds.’

‘A little bit extra – to give you that flexibility you were talking about.’

He saw she was laughing and he blinked at her and smiled. ‘I can’t believe this. Why? I mean, why did you decide to help me, a stranger?’

‘Because the money wouldn’t have done me any good.’ Martha Tate had put her curse on it while it was in Chrissie’s hands. She laughed now, though, because while she knew Martha Tate was capable of evil Chrissie did not credit her with the powers of a witch. She gave him the true answer. ‘I thought you deserved it.’

He was silent for some seconds and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. ‘Thank you, Miss Carter.’

Chrissie thought she saw tears in his eyes. Now she was embarrassed and wanted to get away. She said quickly, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to visit the kitchen now.’ So she was able to hurry off and leave him to make his way, dazed, out of the hotel.

Barely a week had passed when another young man walked into her office. For a moment she did not recognise him, then stared in disbelief. ‘Ronnie Milburn!’

He grinned at her. ‘Hello, Chrissie.’ She had not seen him for four years, since April 1912. He had put on weight, was not fat but no longer the skinny, restlessly energetic Ronnie. And the uniform changed him. He wore the ‘maternity jacket’ of the Royal Flying Corps.

Chrissie said, ‘You’ve joined up.’ And at once she was afraid for him. She had known too many young men killed in these last two years of war.

Ronnie shrugged, ‘I was in a reserved occupation, but I got fed up with people asking me why I wasn’t in uniform. So I signed on a month ago and I’m off to France next week. I came up to see you before I go.’

She settled him in the armchair where Phillip Massingham had sat and brought him a cup of coffee. Then she sat opposite him and asked, ‘Have you seen your family?’

‘Aye, I’ve been round to all o’ them.’ He sipped the coffee and said, ‘My dad died a couple of years back.’

Chrissie nodded, ‘Yes, I heard.’

‘I didn’t get up for the funeral because I never found out till after he was buried.’ Ronnie’s tone was bitter. ‘Agatha wrote to me then. She only told my brothers on the day he was buried. None of them were living at home by then because they’d all left to get away from her. They hardly had time to buy a wreath. She took everything, o’ course, but I hear she’s been spending it.’

Chrissie had heard rumours that Daniel’s money was being squandered on expensive clothes, drink and gambling.

Ronnie went on, ‘Me old dad might have left a few quid but it won’t last for ever. Then she’ll be up to her old tricks.’

Chrissie asked, ‘What do you mean?’

Ronnie avoided her gaze. This was a delicate subject for him to discuss with a young woman. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Well . . . I only got to know a year or so ago. Wilf wrote to me.’ Wilf was his elder brother. ‘It seems that before she married me dad, Agatha used to be a midwife, but if any lass got herself into trouble and went to her, Martha would – help her out.’

Chrissie said bluntly, ‘You mean abortion.’

Ronnie admitted, ‘Aye. She was just lucky she was never summoned.’ He drank the coffee as if to wash away a sour taste in his mouth. ‘Anyway, I didn’t come all this way up here to talk about her. It’s that money you invested with me.’

Chrissie said quickly, ‘Don’t worry about that.’

He grinned at her, ‘I won’t. You needn’t, either. I never sent you any share of profits because there weren’t any. Every spare penny, after I’d taken out my rent and grub, I ploughed back in. I had to. The government was clamouring for aeroplanes and the contracts for work were flooding in. So I bought more plant, rented more workshop space, took on more people.’

Chrissie asked, ‘So what will happen to this business now?’

‘It’s being taken over. One of the big manufacturers is giving us shares in their company in exchange for the business as it stands. I’ve been to see old Arkenstall, the solicitor. I couldn’t see Luke because he’s away – in the RFC, like me, only he’s an officer. Anyway, Arkenstall has looked at the deal and put a note on the papers for you. Here  . . .’

He fumbled a thick, folded document from an inside pocket of his tunic and passed it across to Chrissie. ‘It needs your signature in front of a couple of witnesses, then I’ll take it back when I go down south again tomorrow.’

Chrissie scanned the papers, read Ezra Arkenstall’s note and said, ‘That looks all right.’ She glanced up at Ronnie, ‘You’ve done very well.’

He shrugged, ‘So have you, boss of this place.’ He whistled and laughed. ‘A long way from driving a cart round the town selling taties and greens!’

Chrissie laughed with him, but corrected, ‘All I have is a job, though. I don’t own the place. But this—’ She waved the papers at him. ‘You’re a successful businessman!’

Ronnie tapped his uniformed chest with one finger. ‘Not now. I’m an engine fitter in the RFC.’

Chrissie called Arkley and the receptionist into the office to witness her signature on the contract. Then she and Ronnie talked for more than an hour, of old times and old friends, with some laughter and some sadness. Once he asked, ‘That other chap who was there that night you asked Luke Arkenstall about coming in with me – what was his name?’

‘Jack Ballantyne.’ Chrissie felt her face reddening and was annoyed with herself. Jack Ballantyne was nothing to her.

But Ronnie did not notice, lost in thoughts of the past. He said, ‘He seemed a straight gent, not like some o’ them. And I’ve met a few down London way and up here.’

At length he stood up and jerked down his tunic to pull the wrinkles out of it. ‘I have to go. But it’s been grand having a crack wi’ you again, Chrissie.’

She went to the station to see him off, now a familiar, hated ritual. Then she went back to work.

The workload increased as time went on. In the next year and a half conscription took more and more men for the army and women stepped into their jobs. Chrissie was hard pressed to keep what staff she had and she could rarely replace any she lost. Lance Morgan was gradually losing his ability to cope and Chrissie had to help Millie to run the Bells.

Young Jimmy Williamson was both the bright spot in Millie’s life and a constant source of worry to her. She looked for a letter from him every day and fretted when none arrived. The colour would drain from her face when she saw a telegraph boy on his bicycle because they brought the telegrams reporting the death of a man at sea or in the trenches.

There were many telegrams.

One came to old George Ballantyne on the last day of March 1918. The following morning he showed it to his old friend, Ezra Arkenstall, then later he took the train to Newcastle. He hired a taxi at the station and the driver found the address without difficulty. It was a small detached house, neat and well kept, in a quiet, tree-lined street.

George rang the bell and took off his top hat as the door was opened by a tall, handsome woman of forty-odd. She stared at him, puzzled for a moment, but then he said, ‘I am George Ballantyne. Mrs  Youill?’

‘Yes.’ Sally Youill wondered why  . . .? Then she guessed and her hands flew to her mouth. George reached out to take her arm, steadying. He said, ‘I’m afraid it’s Richard. May I come inside?’

He walked with her along the short hall and into the front parlour. There were armchairs and a settee, a polished table in the window bearing a huge vase of flowers, a piano standing against one wall, and a glass-fronted case crammed with books against another. George thought it a comfortable room. There was a photograph of Richard on the mantelpiece but his gaze flinched from that.

He sat with Sally Youill on the settee and told her what was in the telegram: ‘. . . lost at sea’. And he explained that Richard had sailed for America on business and the ship he was in had struck a mine. George held her then as she cried.