Mourning Doves (15 page)

Louise nodded. ‘It’s a very big company,’ she remarked. ‘You should do well.’

‘Papa Fellowes warned me that, though the company is doing extremely well now, sometimes such companies have huge financial losses, and there is no income for a while. He advised that I should save as much as I can in the good years and invest the savings conservatively, so that I will always have some income.’ She thought for a moment, and
then added, ‘He said that he will be sending me enough until the will is probated for me to live on independently, if I am careful.’

‘He really has your interests at heart, doesn’t he?’ Louise said warmly. ‘He must be very fond of you.’

‘Both Mama and Papa have always been extremely kind to me,’ Edna responded. ‘You’ll remember them quite well, of course, from when they lived in Liverpool many years ago.’ She felt a burst of guilt, as if the failure of her marriage had been her own fault and she was cheating her affectionate in-laws. She wanted to cry. Instead, she turned firmly to her sister, and said through tight lips, ‘I would like to see the cottage.’

Celia, who had been listening with envy to the story of Mr Fellowes’ generosity and good sense, was immediately alert. The request suggested that Louise had explained, as far as she was able, their financial situation and the grim necessity of selling the house. Edna had, therefore, presumably accepted the fact of her father’s bankruptcy.

Celia had begun to think of the cottage as her own domain. But if Edna wanted to live with them, then she would naturally want to see the place. She said reluctantly, ‘You could come with me – I shall go out on Monday to see Mrs Houghton and to discuss her estimates – and arrange with her for workmen to be let in. I was hoping you, Mama, would come with me – because you would have to decide if you wished the work to go forward.’

Louise’s expression was one of nervous dismay. ‘How on earth would I know what should be done – and how much it should cost?’

‘Well, Cousin Albert is not here to advise you, so I don’t know who else to ask – and it is you who will have to pay for anything which is done.’

Louise clutched at a straw. ‘What about Mr Billings?’

‘You could, of course, ask him to check the estimates,’ Celia responded. Then she added doubtfully, ‘I think he
might make a charge for doing it – and I can’t imagine his turning down estimates from a man he is obviously well acquainted with.’

Louise turned to Edna. ‘What do you think, dear?’

Celia waited to be condemned, but Edna said absently, ‘Me? I have been out of the country so long that I would not have the least idea. All I know is that everything seems terribly expensive, compared to what it was in 1913. I suppose it’s because of the war.’

Celia agreed that her sister’s observation was correct. She knew because she kept the housekeeping book for her mother and she had, as the war progressed, watched the butcher’s and baker’s bills go steadily up. Her mother had had to ask Father a number of times for an increase in housekeeping money. Then she thought suddenly, that’s one thing I know. How to keep a simple account book and file all the receipts neatly, so that Father could look at them. She told herself not to be silly – anybody could do that.

Since they seemed to have silently agreed that there was no one to make the decision about repair costs, Celia knew she would have to plunge in and accept Betty Houghton’s calculations. She deferred the debate about having a bathroom put in until Betty could tell Louise, on Monday, exactly what she envisaged.

It was agreed that all three ladies would make the journey to Meols on Monday.

Like a good chairwoman of the Knitting Committee they had belonged to during the war, Celia brought up the next subject on her agenda, by asking her mother to tell her what Mr Carruthers at the bank had had to say.

Except for payments to tradesmen, Louise had never discussed money with Celia, and she did not seem to be very keen to do so now. She did not immediately reply.

Celia urged, ‘We need to know, Mama, whether we have any immediate money to pay workmen. I still have most
of the five pounds you gave me, though I have paid the sweep.’ She suddenly remembered the plumber, and told her mother how he had come and had also promised an estimate, on Monday, for the work he could do. ‘That would be a way of checking at least part of Betty Houghton’s estimate, wouldn’t it?’

The information about the plumber was received by Louise with evident relief. In answer to the question, she said that Mr Carruthers had given her so much information about banking that her mind was quite in a tizzy. She was, however, clear that there was at least twenty pounds in her account and, in addition, she had paid in Mr Billings’ cheque for nine pounds and eight shillings.

To Celia, nearly thirty pounds, together with the remaining bit of housekeeping Louise still had for the month of March, was a great deal of money, and she said so to Louise. Her own allowance from her father worked out at less than two pounds for an entire year. If there were only the two of them to maintain, and they could move into the cottage, she knew that the money in the bank would go quite a long way.

Edna simply wrinkled her nose and said nothing. She did not want to commit herself to anything much financially, until she knew what amount Papa Fellowes was going to send her.

‘And was he able to give you the name of a solicitor?’ Celia asked.

‘Yes, indeed. He very kindly took me down the street to introduce me.’ Louise’s voice rang with approbation. ‘Mr Little of Hart, Howard and Little. Such a handsome young man. Like George, he served in the navy and was actually once sunk by a submarine. He has only been home for a year. He was most sympathetic about dear George and Tom.’

Celia hoped that the young man’s law was as good as his looks. I don’t care if he looks like a Gorgon’s head,
she decided, if only he will keep us from falling into some unexpected abyss.

Her mother continued. ‘He says I must never sign anything without first showing it to him.’

‘Sensible advice,’ remarked Edna to no one in particular.

‘What does he charge?’ asked Celia.

‘Oh, I could never be so vulgar as to ask a gentleman, such as he is, what he charges! He will no doubt send us a bill.’

Though she felt that some snaillike progress had been made, Celia had a strong desire to scream. She was deadly tired from the long day; and her mother’s silly attitude towards the lawyer added to her underlying fear that she would never manage to get her safely into a new home.

The silence which fell between the three women was broken by the sound of Dorothy banging the hall gong, to indicate that it was time to dress for dinner.

Edna rose with obvious relief. She looked down ruefully at her skirt, which, after being so damp, would certainly need pressing. She wondered if she could push her ironing on to the washerwoman, who, she had learned from Ethel, came to the house on Mondays; the woman could do it while they were in Meols. Ethel had murmured shyly that she would probably expect to be paid a bit more for the extra work, and Edna had accepted this suggestion.

Louise looked up at her and then at Celia, who had also risen. ‘Will the estate agent expect tea when he comes tomorrow?’ she asked, with a quaver in her voice.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Celia, who felt she could face no more.

Three weeks later, a triumphant Ethel gave three days’ notice, packed her small tin suitcase with her few belongings and, on the third day, went home to her mother, to spend a little while with her, before starting her new job as nursemaid.

Louise was very resentful of such short notice. ‘Such impudence!’ she exclaimed. ‘She was smirking all over her face, as she told me. I felt like refusing to pay her her last week’s wages!’

Amid the chaos to which the dining room had been reduced, they were carefully wrapping crockery in newspaper before laying it in wooden barrels ready for the movers. Celia paused, a huge gravy boat in one hand. Shocked, she exclaimed, ‘You didn’t actually do that, did you, Mama?’

Her mother bridled. ‘No, but I threatened to – and it frightened her. I can’t stand impudence.’

‘Her mother depends on her sending most of her wages home,’ Celia said unhappily. ‘I am sure she was scared.’

‘Well, I finally gave it to her. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’

Celia thought of the warm friendly youngster who had cheerfully done all the rough work of a big house. Was that all the thanks you got when people did not want you any more?

She shivered at the idea, and then slowly placed the gravy boat in a barrel, which would be stored in the Aspen barn
until its contents were sold. What would three women do with twelve place settings of Crown Derby – in a cottage? she had asked her mother.

‘We may have important visitors,’ declared Louise loftily.

In despair, Celia expostulated, ‘But we are already taking three sets of six with us!’

Louise agreed to the china being stored. ‘But not sold, mind you!’

‘It’s a good thing we’ve got the barn,’ Celia remarked. ‘The workmen are still in the cottage, because they’ve yet to paint the parlour – though Betty persuaded Mr Aspen to do a fast job for us, specially.’

‘A fast job sounds most unladylike.’

‘That’s what Betty called it.’ Celia’s lips compressed tightly, as she swallowed her irritation.

‘And really, dear, I don’t think you should be on first-name terms with a workman’s daughter.’

Celia longed to snap back that Betty was proving to be an excellent friend, but restrained herself. It was useless to debate the matter; Betty was indisputably working-class.

As they packed, upstairs in her bedroom Edna wrote to her father-in-law in Southampton to notify him of her impending change of address. As she sealed the letter, she thought about writing to Vital. They had said farewell in the belief that they would never get the chance to meet again. It was wiser to leave it thus, she knew; and yet, the real pain inside her swelled at the idea of becoming lost to him for ever if he had no address for her.

She seized another sheet of paper and quickly scribbled a few lines on it to say that she expected to live with her mother for the time being and gave the cottage address. She added that she would be grateful if he would send on any letters addressed to her Brazilian home. That, at least,
she thought, was a reasonable request, should anyone else chance to see the letter. She flung herself on to her bed; she did not cry – she was past that. She reached for her cigarettes.

While Celia strove to complete the packing of the best china, her thoughts turned to her old friends in the kitchen. Dorothy would not start her new employment as a cook-general with a family across the road for a day or two, so she had been glad, Celia knew, to stay on. She hoped that Louise would manage to pay any wages due to her, though the woman would probably be thankful enough just to be fed and housed until she started her new job.

It left only Winnie. What was the old cook going to do?

Perhaps she’ll stay with one of her sons, Celia thought.

Long before the war, she remembered, Winnie, widowed when young, used to go on her days off to her own mother’s house to see her boys. They were being brought up by their grandmother while Winnie went out to work to earn the money to feed them.

Celia made up her mind that when they had completed packing the contents of the china cupboard, which led off the dining room, she would go down to the kitchen to inquire what the elderly cook’s plans were.

Winnie had been a tremendous help. She had picked out what she considered to be a reasonable set of kitchenware for a small kitchen, and it had been sent by carrier to the new home, together with boxes of food staples from the pantry. Large pieces of coarse crockery, like bread bowls, had been packed for storage, except for a few utensils for use in their final days of residence.

‘Do you know it Winnie has found a position yet, Mama?’

Her mother was lifting a heavy silver basket out of the sideboard drawer. She said, ‘I think we should take the
silver out to Meols ourselves.’ Then, in answer to Celia’s question, she replied, ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to ask her – I’ve been quite worn out.’

Though Celia answered in her usual gentle way, ‘I know, Mama. The last few weeks have been very stressful,’ Louise sensed a lack of sympathy, and, as she put the heavy basket of cutlery on to the table, she looked hard at her daughter.

Ever since dear Timothy had passed away, Celia had definitely not been herself.

Louise decided that the girl was getting above herself. That was it. Without her mother’s permission, she had authorised all kinds of repairs to the cottage; she would never have dared to do that, if her dear father had been alive. And she had taken Dorothy down to the cottage for days at a time, so that there had been no one to answer her bell when she rang. Eventually – very eventually – she considered bitterly, Ethel or Winnie had come panting upstairs – but it was not the same. She had also been inconvenienced by the fact that Celia herself had not been in the house to do the innumerable small tasks that were required of her, as cupboards and drawers were cleared out. She had even found herself having to reply to late-arriving condolence letters, which had made her cry. It wasn’t fair. And, though she had been told to do it, the girl had done nothing about notifying friends and relations about their change of address.

With the West Derby house not yet sold, the financial worry had been quite appalling – when she had written to Cousin Albert about it, he had replied by return of post that she could probably get a small loan from the bank on the strength of the pending sale of the house.

Ask Mr Carruthers for a loan? It was a shocking thought. Really, Cousin Albert was being no help whatever. What use was he as an executor? Nevertheless, pushed by Celia, she had obtained from Mr Carruthers a loan to help out.
Because she trusted him, she had blithely signed for it without first consulting her new solicitor and had never asked about the rate of interest that would be charged.

In her confusion she had no idea that Cousin Albert, terrified of a female invasion of his quiet home, was doing exactly what the law demanded of an executor – attending to the deceased’s estate, or lack of it. He was determined not to become involved in Louise’s financial troubles. As her husband’s cousin, he had, he felt, given her sound advice; it was up to her to take it. He had, out of a sense of duty to his cousin’s wife, set in train for her the sale of her house and would see that she bought an annuity from the proceeds. Other than that, he kept his head down and communicated only with Timothy’s solicitor, Mr Barnett, and with his elderly clerk, whose salary he was temporarily paying himself, since he had to have someone in Liverpool to help him deal with angry creditors.

On top of Cousin Albert’s callousness, here was Celia worrying about servants, thought Louise savagely – when she should have been concerned about her poor mother’s dreadful state.

Her feeling of neglect surfaced, and she snapped, ‘Servants are supposed to look after themselves. She probably has expectations somewhere.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

After seven huge barrels lacking only their tops, which the removal men would nail on, stood in a neat line in front of the divested sideboard and china cupboard, Louise allowed herself to be installed in a chair by the morning-room fire to rest.

A troubled Celia slipped down to the kitchen to see her old friend.

Winnie was preparing dinner and was just putting a chicken into the oven to roast. As Celia edged round the big kitchen table to stand by the fire to warm her hands,
grubby from the packing she had done, the cook straightened up and closed the oven door.

‘I’ve got a big beef casserole at the back of the oven,’ Winnie said. Her voice was strained and weary. ‘It can go over to the cottage with the furniture tomorrow and be a good dinner for you. Your mam won’t want to cook on her first day in her new house.’

She turned to the table and sat down by it. Swiftly, she began to peel potatoes which she had already washed.

‘You are very kind, Winnie. That’s most thoughtful of you.’ Inwardly, she wondered if her mother would agree to cook at all. Then she explained the reason for her visit to the kitchen.

‘Well, Miss Celia, I haven’t got nothing yet. But I’m registered with Grey’s Domestic Staff Registry and I’ve answered a couple of ads in
The Lady
. I’m hoping something will turn up.’ She dropped a potato slowly into a pan of cold water, and then picked up another one.

‘Do you have anywhere to stay while you’re waiting?’

‘Not really, Miss.’

‘I thought you had sons?’

‘Oh, aye, I had two. One emigrated to Canada. He’s a miner in a place called Yellowknife. And the other one went to sea as a ship’s cook.’ She sighed, and her paring knife stopped its rapid run round the potato as she looked up at Celia. ‘He married a Corpus Christi girl – an American – and sailed out of there for years. He seemed to forget about his old mam. Then, one day, I got a letter from his wife saying that he had been drowned when the Jerries torpedoed his ship.’

‘Oh, how terrible! I never knew that,’ Celia exclaimed.

The paring knife was slowly put back to work and another potato plopped into the pan, before Winnie could answer. She said, ‘Your mam knew. It were a dreadful shock. I loved my boys and I always hoped he’d bring his
girl over here to settle, and that I could live with them when I couldn’t work no more.

‘A good granny can always make herself useful,’ she finished up a little piteously.

‘Oh, Winnie. I had no idea! You poor thing.’

‘Your mam probably kept it from you, so as not to upset you,’ Winnie replied, putting the kindest interpretation she could on Louise’s lack of communication.

Celia glanced round the kitchen, as if searching for inspiration. The big underground room already seemed deserted, its shelves practically empty. No Ethel at the kitchen sink patiently washing dishes. No sound of Dorothy’s quick feet thudding down the stairs; she was out at the cottage, giving the kitchen a final clean and unpacking kitchenware already sent out. Not even a bell ringing for service upstairs.

‘What are you going to do after you’ve done the final cleaning of the house? Mother said she had asked you and Dorothy to do this. This house’ll be empty by tomorrow night, and she assumes you will have everything tidy by the day after – and be on your way.’

‘I’ll find a room somewhere. The Missus says she’ll tell the removal men not to take the beds from me and Dorothy’s bedroom – she says they can be abandoned – they’re not worth moving. She wants Dorothy and me to clean up down here, after everything that’s supposed to be moved is moved. She said that, if necessary, I can stay over a day or two to finish the cleaning. There’s food left over for us in the pantry, and she’ll pay me by the day.’ She dropped another peeled potato into a saucepan. ‘Is the house sold yet, Miss?’

‘Not yet. There are two people considering it – a man who wants to make apartments out of it; and you saw the lady who wants to have it as a nursing home – she’s still thinking about it. I believe the estate agent is bringing her tomorrow to look at it again – when it’s empty.’

‘Oh, aye. She can judge better then.’ Winnie’s voice seemed lacking in real interest. Then she roused herself to say, ‘With so many wounded and not having enough hospitals, they got to have places to put them – those as will never get better, I mean.’

‘Yes. It’s very sad.’ Celia paused, and then said wistfully, ‘I wish you could come with us, Winnie. But now that Edna has come home, and one of the bedrooms has been made into a bathroom, the cottage won’t hold anybody else.’

‘I realise that, Miss. Our Dorothy told me all about the cottage.’ She smiled slightly, and said formally, ‘I hope you’ll be happy there, Miss.’

‘Thank you, Winnie. Will you write to tell me how you get on? I do hope you find a place soon.’

‘Thank you, Miss.’ The cook got up and took a small notebook from the mantelpiece. It had a pencil on a piece of string dangling from it. ‘Could you write down your address, Miss?’ she asked shyly. ‘Because I may need to give your mam’s name to a new employer. She’s given me a good written reference to carry with me, but sometimes they like to write direct to your old employer – to make sure the reference is genuine, like.’

‘Of course.’ The address was carefully printed out. Then there did not seem to be anything more to say.

Celia put down the pencil, and turned to the cook. She bent over her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Winnie.’ Then she put her arms round the old woman’s shoulders and hugged her. ‘We’ve been good friends, haven’t we?’