More Tales of the West Riding (11 page)

All this was becoming really tiresome, for Edward's lame leg grew painful when fatigued, when suddenly things took a brighter turn.

His mother died. Edward was ashamed to regard this as a boon, but could not help doing so. She had shown him little love and much grumbling during the past few years. Edward, remembering that he was the son of the man who had been unfaithful to her, could not think this unreasonable, but she was his mother and her indifference hurt him. Its absence was a relief.

Then, Leila appeared in Southstone, really, properly, indubitably and very successfully married. She brought her husband with her, and Edward saw at once that this time the marriage would be permanent. True, Leila's husband was a foreigner and a good deal older than Leila, but he was a banker, immensely rich, handsome in a sophisticated grey-at-the-temples style, and—above all—a man of iron will. It was obvious that Leila had met her match. Her elegant black frock and hat, her superb furs, her exquisite jewellery, enhanced her fair beauty almost beyond belief.

“This is my dear brother, Edward,” she said.

Edward was pleased by this tribute and shook hands with the financier warmly.

“I'm off your hands now, Edward. André will look after me.”

“But yes,” said André with emphasis, and it was clear that he meant it.

The very next day a telegram came from Aunt Audrey saying that Uncle Gerald had passed away. Edward of course went north, arranged the funeral and settled his uncle's meagre affairs. Sitting with his aunt by the fire in the evening before he left for the south, he said to her:

“Why don't you come to Southstone, aunt? I could find you a nice little flat. Dorothy would help you to get settled. I admit frankly that it would make life easier for me, but it would be agreeable to you too, I think.”

“You're a good man, Edward,” said his aunt. “Like your father.”

Edward started a little, but laid this remark aside.

“Will you come?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

There was a pause. His aunt took up the poker and stirred the blaze.

“How is Leila these days, Edward?”

Edward gave a glowing account of Leila and André.

“It's more than your mother deserved,” said his aunt grimly.

“You're wrong there. My mother behaved like a saint to Leila.”

“What are you talking about, Edward? It was your father who was the saint in that matter.”

“I don't understand you.”

“Ah, you don't know that sad old story.”

“I know that Leila was an illegitimate child! A by-blow of my father's,” cried Edward, all the long-concealed anguish of this knowledge bursting from his throat.

His aunt's face expressed horror. “No, no, Edward! Leila was your mother's child. Don't you see? Your father discovered her betrayal—I daresay she told him, calmly and coldly. She never loved him. She married him for his money. It happened while he was on one of his business trips. Your father was a good man. He forgave her, don't you see? He never told a soul. He sent Claire away to Switzerland, and you and Annie away to Southstone, so there should be no scandal. She came back with the child, everything seemed in order. He adopted Leila, brought her up as his own child,
he wanted there to be no scandal. He was terribly sorry for Leila. It was not the child's fault, after all. Claire hated the child from the moment she knew she was pregnant with her. She could cause such a disaster, you see. Ted Milner was too rich to lose. But Ted loved his wife, you see. He forgave her. He never told a soul.”

Edward took the poker, which his aunt was waving wildly as she poured out these disjointed sentences, from her hand and laid it down.

“Then how can you know all this, Aunt Audrey?” he said sternly.

“My dear, the child was Gerald's,” said his aunt.

It was a foolish, useless, sentimental thing to do, Edward did not doubt. But all the same, before he left Hudley the following morning he sought out his father's grave, and taking off his hat, stood there for several moments in respectful, loving silence.

1903

Millie Kay was a guileless child. If she had lived a little later, she might have been described as “just out of the egg”; but at the beginning of this century she was merely regarded as a sweet little girl, very satisfying in the child image of the day.

The Kays were a happy family. There was Mr Kay, who worked at something in an office in the Hudley Town Hall. Millie did not know what, but he seemed content and had a friend there, Mr Boyd, who worked with him. (Over him? Perhaps.) There was Mrs Kay, a loving wife and mother. There was Millie's older brother, Roy. Millie adored him, and followed him in all he did. He was at times rather domineering, at times even rather
cross
, but these bouts of temper were soon over, and it was clear he loved Millie as much as she loved him, and only scolded her when she seemed likely to be straying into danger.

The Kays were a popular young couple, and at times entertained some guests. Not too many, for that would be excessive and extravagant. But there were the Royds, who had a little girl, Lydia, conveniently just the same age as Millie; there were others from the Town Hall, there were some from the tennis club. Mr Kay's glory was his proficiency at tennis; he played for the club and often won tournaments. It was understood in the family that Mrs Kay had once shone at tennis too; that was in the past, but its passing
seemed not to trouble her; she still understood everything about tennis and listened enthralled to her husband's description of his games.

A newcomer to the Kay circle was Captain Lermont. He was a soldier stationed with his regiment at the local barracks. He was young and handsome, very fair, with a moustache, and kind to a little girl, and Millie liked him. Yes, she liked him very much. He wound the spring of her mechanical cat and set it going; he swung Millie on his shoulder, he “jumped” her over pools, he laughed with her, he mended Queenie's arm (Queenie was Millie's most beloved doll) when it came out of the shoulder socket; he did not laugh when Millie cried, but sympathised. Millie liked him. Mr Kay also liked him, largely, perhaps, because he played tennis so well. They made an excellent pair, they entered tournaments together and won; they played matches together and won. But Captain Lermont was not at all conceited or difficult. Millie could not, of course, have described how his behaviour on the courts impressed her, but she knew without thinking that he regarded Mr Kay as an elder brother whose advice he respected, and enjoyed being mothered by Mrs Kay. Millie did not even know at first that Captain Lermont was a soldier, but when one day she ran down the garden path to welcome Roy coming home from school, and told him enthusiastically that father and Mr Lermont were measuring the paved backyard to see if they could squeeze a tennis court out of it, he rebuked her sternly:

“
Captain
Lermont.”

“Why?”

“He's a soldier. That's his rank.”

“He doesn't wear a soldier's uniform,” objected Millie.

“He's off duty now for the day.”

“Oh, I see.”

She did not see, of course, but accepted a senior's dictum, as children do.

Millie having now reached the age of discretion, was sent to a small private school founded by some friends of Mrs Kay. The school, a private house, stood only a few hundred yards away from Roy's Grammar School, so he was able to drop her there in the mornings, and he or Mrs Kay picked her up at noon. Millie went to school joyously, and was happy there. It was fun to have other children to play with. Lydia Royd was there. Millie had known Lydia and all the Royds, all her life; Mr Royd was, it gradually made itself known to her, in a sense Mr Kay's boss. Everyone knew that Lydia's mother was a beauty; very blonde with large blue eyes and slender waist. Lydia was like her, with the same long rippling blonde hair; her eyes were grey, but thick golden lashes accentuated their size. Lydia led and Millie followed.

A new girl now appeared. Her name was Dot Green, which Lydia (and so Millie) thought not very pretty. And Dot herself was (thought Lydia) not very pretty either. She was rather plump, with short thick dark curls and a round, rosy face. She smiled a good deal, and sometimes even laughed aloud.

It turned out that Dot was clever. Her sums were always right, her handwriting was clear and firm, she always knew the answers to the teacher's questions. Now Lydia, unfortunately, was not very clever. She couldn't help that, of course, reflected Millie, but she didn't even try to learn, and would even dash her pencil angily across the page when the answer wouldn't come out. There was no help from Lydia, obviously. Dot, on the other hand, would often break off her own work to explain to Millie exactly what the arithmetic book meant. The strange thing was that Millie always understood her explanations.

“Dot really
is
clever,” said Millie to Lydia in a tone of admiration.

“With a name like that you have to be something,” sneered Lydia.

“I expect her name is Dorothy really,” suggested Millie mildly.

Lydia gaxed at her with contempt.

“Of course if you like her best,” she said.

“Oh, I don't, I don't,” disclaimed Millie hastily.

A few days later, however, it seemed vaguely to occur to her that perhaps she did. She broached the matter to her mother.

“Can I ask Dot Green to tea?” she said.

Mrs Kay hesitated. She was a good and nice woman, rather less narrow-minded than some, and she found it impossible to explain to such a young child that in politics, religion, income, class and indeed almost everything else, Mr Green and Mr Kay were poles apart. She temporised, and mentioned the matter to her husband.

“I really don't like to—” she concluded.

“Leave it a while, leave it a while,” urged Mr Kay. “See what happens. Friendships are too rare to break.”

“You're so wonderful, James,” said his wife, admiring.

Days went on, Mrs Kay said nothing. Nobody at school asked anybody to tea. It was disappointing. Lydia became more and more capricious and exacting, though sometimes delightful and amusing. Dot maintained a lower level, but was much more cheerful as a companion. Then one morning Millie made up her mind and summoned up her courage. (After all, one cannot play any game well without some nerve, some dash, and Millie was Mr Kay's daughter.) In break-time she walked up to Dot and said quite firmly:

“Can I come to tea at your house?”

Dot coloured and looked surprised, but replied:

“Of course. I'll ask Mother.”

At noon Millie ran gleefully to Mrs Kay.

“Dot Green has asked me to go to tea this afternoon,” she said.

Mrs Kay sighed and looked at her husband. “I have another invitation for you—I'd rather you were going—” she began. A glance from Mr Kay stopped her. “Well, perhaps—in view of what you said, James—”

“Let her go to Dot's,” said Mr Kay sharply, shaking out his newspaper.

“Do you know where Dot lives?”

“Oh yes. It's not far from school.”

Accordingly shortly after lunch Millie set off gleefullly to go to the Greens'. It was a beautiful summer's day; the sky was high and blue, the leaves shiny and green; Millie wore a clean dress and clean socks, and her hair, though not either blonde or dark in an exciting way, was smooth, well brushed. The year being what it was, Millie wore a hat, a round straw curving up all round, with a broad black ribbon round the crown, and a narrow elastic to hold the hat on, under her chin. This elastic was apt to become very much knotted in order to cope with the perpetual pressure of the West Riding wind, but as it chanced, Mrs Kay had stitched in a new elastic the night before, and Millie was proud of this.

She took all the right turnings and arrived rather early at the highly respectable terrace where the Greens lived. She trotted joyously up the garden path and rang the bell on the front door.

There was no reply.

She rang again. And again. And again. With polite pauses between.

Her heart, which had sunk very low, rose with a bound when it occurred to her that bells sometimes went out of order!

She knocked.

There was no reply.

She knocked harder.

No reply.

Now in spite of herself tears began to fill her eyes. The corners of her mouth turned down.

Setting her lips firmly, she stood on tiptoe and banged on the knocker with no thought of politeness, but only an overmastering need.

Suddenly the door of the next house in the terrace bounced open, and a round, plump, greying West Riding housewife stood on the step.

“If it's the Greens you want, they're out, love,” said she, advancing to the hedge with this pronouncement.

“Out?”

“That's right. They've gone to their chapel bazaar.”

“Out?” repeated Millie, utterly dismayed.

There was a pause.