Mourning Doves (17 page)

She glanced at Betty, and went on, ‘Edna’s really very odd, Betty, and I worry about her sometimes. It is almost as if she is on the edge of a complete breakdown – and she’s no flesh on her at all. I don’t know whether she talks to Mother when I’m not with them, but I find it very strange that she never talks about Paul – or even generally about her life in Brazil. You would think that she would be eager to tell us all about it – because it would be very interesting – but she never says a word to me. It is almost as if it defeated her – if one can be defeated by a country.’

‘Perhaps her loss is too great, Celia. Perhaps it is too
painful to talk about it. Not only has she lost her husband, but she has lost a country – which she may well have loved. And you said that her little girl was buried in Brazil?’

Celia nodded. She poured the tea and sat down opposite Betty. She offered her a plate of biscuits, and Betty took one. After they had eaten their biscuits, Celia continued her line of thought about Edna. ‘I keep getting the feeling that she really didn’t care much about Paul. He was a good match and she never complains about him – she just doesn’t say anything about him. She’s like someone patiently sitting in a railway station, waiting for a train to arrive.

‘It puzzles me. It’s as if his memory simply does not exist in her mind. Your David’s always in your mind. I know, because you mention him with such love all the time, that I wish I had an equivalent memory to sustain me.’ The last words were said with real longing.

Betty nodded, and then said lightly, ‘You’re young enough yet to meet someone.’ She pushed her cup across the table, and asked, with the freedom of a friend, if she could have more tea. Celia quickly picked up the teapot and refilled the cup. She then pressed more biscuits on her.

As she settled in her chair again, Celia said, ‘I don’t have a chance, you know that. Besides, who will look after Mama?’

‘She’ll be young enough to look after herself for a very long time,’ responded Betty a little tartly. She reverted to their discussion of Edna, and said, ‘This little house will, unavoidably, make you and Edna live very close to each other – and she may open up, when she gets really used to you – and you to her. Be patient with her. She’s obviously not well.’

‘Betty, you’re a saint, which I am not. But I’ll try.’

Suddenly, Louise’s voice could be heard raised high in complaint, as the new gate squeaked open. Behind her, Edna gave sharp orders to someone. A heavy weight was
dumped at the open front door. There was a sound of men’s voices, as Louise came down the passageway and into the little room.

‘Oh, tea!’ she exclaimed thankfully, and plunked down on a straight chair beside the table. The table had a plum-coloured velvet cloth on it and the pompoms which trimmed its edge got entangled in her handbag. She threatened to drag the cloth and the tea tray off the table. Celia sprang to her aid.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Aspen,’ she greeted Betty. ‘Dear me! What a knot I’m in. No place to lay down a handbag in that poky little hall. I really don’t know how we shall manage.’

Betty ignored her complaint. ‘I’m Mrs Houghton,’ she corrected her rather sharply.

‘Of course. I am so sorry, Mrs Houghton.’

As her daughter untangled her handbag from the tablecloth, Louise ordered, ‘Make a big fresh pot, Celia. We’re exhausted!’

Outside, men gasped, and shouted encouragement to each other to ‘Heave!’ and Edna admonished them to be careful of her trunks, and told them to carry them straight upstairs.

One of them stepped inside to take a look at the extremely steep staircase, and there was a stubborn male refusal, the excuse being that they would scratch the obviously newly painted walls.

‘Unpack ’em first, Ma’am. Then you can ease ’em up more careful,’ they advised in chorus.

True Merseysiders who felt they were being pushed too hard, thought Celia with a smile. She herself had come up against such an attitude more than once during the previous month, and had discovered that the working class, no matter how poor it was, had a strong sense of self-preservation. She had learned to respect it.

Edna said something in Portuguese which sounded
derogatory, and the indignant men answered her in a united rumble of defence.

Celia, having unravelled her mother from the tablecloth, ignored her request for tea, and went to see what was happening outside.

Betty rose and said she must go back to work. She wished Louise happiness in her new home, and received a tired, resigned smile in return.

Outside stood a big railway station handcart with two trunks and a large suitcase still on it. Beside the cart lay three huge steamer trunks and a couple of packing cases. Edna was carrying, one in each hand, two large travelling jewellery cases.

Celia faced two red-faced porters standing by the trunks on the path, and a very cross Edna. She said placatingly, ‘Don’t worry, Edna. We’ll manage. The trunks will have to be stored in the garden shed anyway.’

‘I won’t have handmade leather trunks stored in a place which is probably damp!’ snapped Edna in response.

Behind Celia, Betty, trying to get out, edged round another big trunk which had already been dumped in the lobby. ‘Hello, Freddy – George,’ she greeted both men. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fellowes.’ She cast a critical glance over the trunks and said, ‘With respect, Mrs Fellowes, the size of these really is too big for you to get them up the stairs, I am sure. They may get wedged – and almost certainly the staircase wall will be scratched. The men are simply being careful.’

The porters immediately relaxed and looked very self-righteous.

Edna had already met Betty on several occasions and had learned to respect her quick mind. She therefore accepted this professional estimate of size, and, with an effort, controlled her irritation. She said politely, ‘Thank you, Mrs Houghton.’

She made way for Betty to get on to the pathway, and
then stepped round the trunks and into the house. Betty gravely winked at the porters and touched Celia’s arm gently in acknowledgement, as the younger woman whispered a heartfelt ‘Thank you.’

After Betty had marched down the red-tiled garden path, her black skirt swinging, her sensible shoes crunching the ever-present sand, the porters lifted the remaining luggage off their handcart. An unsmiling Edna thrust a sovereign into the hand of one of the men, and said, ‘You may go.’

Without thanking her, the porters, wooden-faced, pushed the clumsy vehicle into the lane. After struggling in a muddy puddle, they managed to turn the handcart round. Celia watched them, as they followed Betty towards the main road.

Their good neighbour, Eddie Fairbanks, had cut the front hedge for them, and the cottage now had a view of a patch of rough green grass with a few trees and, at some distance, the thatched roof of the cottage where the fishing family lived. The whole area was so quiet that Celia concluded that the tide must be out. She had not yet had time to walk down to the sea.

The tiny front garden was a trampled mess after the constant comings and goings of workmen and movers, but, in an untouched corner, a rambler rose which Eddie had left unsnipped clung to the hedge and was putting out leaves.

Comforted by the sight of it and by a warm sun, Celia reluctantly turned to face the problems within the house.

The first evening of the family’s residence in their new home began peacefully, despite the muddle of clothes hastily unpacked from the trunks and dumped on to beds, and an argument about what to do with the trunks themselves. The trunks were eventually left by the front steps because no one could suggest where to put them, except in the garden shed, which was still awaiting Dorothy’s ministrations. Tired out and aching everywhere, Edna mentally abandoned them; what were trunks anyway?

Since Edna and Louise both declared themselves exhausted, Celia laid the table for dinner. She had, some hours earlier, placed the casserole, which Winnie had made for them, in the oven of the range in the living room, to heat up. Now, she put out some bread and butter and made a pot of coffee.

Louise, who had given little thought to the need to eat that evening, looked at the single big dish in the middle of the table, and asked, ‘Is that all that Winnie prepared? She said she was going to make dinner for us.’

‘She put everything in one big dish, Mama – for simplicity.’

‘No soup? No dessert?’

Celia pulled out a chair and sat down; Edna was already seated. She unfolded her linen table napkin and laid it across her lap.

‘No, Mama. She simply made lots of meat and vegetables.’

Since her mother made no move to serve, though Celia had set three plates in front of her, she asked, ‘Shall I serve?’

‘Please.’ The reality of her new life struck Louise forcibly. No one was going to cook for them or serve them; they would have to do everything themselves. She sulkily passed the little pile of plates to Celia.

Edna inquired, ‘Shall I cut some bread, Mama?’

‘Please.’ Louise’s little mouth was clamped closed. What had she come to? Looking round the cosy little room and then at the sparsely laid table, she again wondered bitterly why Timothy had had to die in the prime of his life – and leave her to rot in a place like this.

Edna sawed three thick slices of bread from the last loaf Winnie would bake for them, and then lifted up the wooden bread board with both hands, to offer pieces to her companions.

As she took a slice, Celia cast a quick, thankful glance at her sister. Now she was installed in the cottage, would she help her?

Louise ate slowly. The casserole was delicious. Celia knew it, but Louise grumbled throughout the meal. She felt terribly confined in the tiny room, she said – they could barely move around in it. She had banged her leg on the metal corner of one of her trunks and it was hurting. Going up and down stairs into freezing bedrooms had given her a chill, she was sure of it – everything was so draughty. ‘Perhaps one of you girls would make a fire up there for me?’ she whined hopefully.

Neither daughter answered because neither of them wanted to set a precedent. Most people managed without them – with hot water bottles in their beds, Celia finally reminded her.

Edna said wearily that she had a hot water bottle with
her, and that perhaps dear Mother would like to borrow it tonight. She could buy one for herself tomorrow in the village.

Louise responded savagely that, somewhere amid the furniture on its way to Aspen’s there were probably umpteen hot water bottles. If not, she doubted if she could afford a new one after all the expense of setting up the cottage and moving into it.

Celia said soothingly that she would look for an old brick or a stone to put in the back of the oven to heat for her – wrapped in a towel, it would keep her feet warm in bed. ‘Winnie used to have bricks in the back of the oven all the time, to heat the servants’ beds,’ she informed her mother.

‘Servants!’ exclaimed Louise. ‘They take all kinds of liberties!’

‘Well, you will be saved from that in future!’ remarked Edna with unexpected acidity.

Louise’s answer was icy. ‘I am aware of it,’ she almost snarled.

Edna helped herself to butter, and Celia asked if anyone was ready for coffee.

‘We could have coffee in the front room,’ Louise pointed out.

‘There isn’t a fire there, Mama. It may be rather chilly. And, as yet, there are heaps of boxes piled up in the middle of it. We have to get it tidied up by tomorrow, so that Mr Aspen’s man can finish painting it.’

Celia hastily poured the coffee and handed her mother a cup, before she could reply. ‘Would you like to sit closer to the fire, in here?’ She pointed to her mother’s favourite easy chair, carefully installed at the side of the fireplace so that she would be warm, and yet leave a little space to walk round the table. Louise squeezed round Edna’s chair and plunked herself down in it.

She waited for Celia to hand her her coffee and then complained that she had nowhere to set it down.

‘Mr Fairbanks always puts his cup down on the flat top of his brass fender,’ Celia told her with determined cheerfulness.

‘Humph.’ Louise’s grunt conveyed all too well her opinion of Mr Fairbanks’ habits.

Louise’s remark that she probably could not afford a hot water bottle had reminded Celia that they had to discuss money matters, and also domestic duties. And who was to care for the garden?

At the thought, she felt a little sick inside, but after she had served coffee for Edna and herself, she turned her chair so that she could see the faces of both the other women, and bravely opened up the subject, by saying, ‘I imagine, Mama, that you and Edna have discussed what she should contribute as her share of the expenses?’

Without waiting for a reply, she added to Edna, ‘When we were talking about your furniture being put in the barn, you told us that you will be receiving funds from Paul’s company, so I imagine you will be able to help Mama – at least a little bit. Especially until the house is sold and Cousin Albert has arranged for Mother to have an annuity from that.’

Up to that moment, Louise had not thought that Edna should contribute to the household; she still thought of her as the dependent young girl she had been before her marriage.

‘She’s my daughter!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t expect any money from her! Any more than I do from you.’

Celia’s pale face flushed. She wanted to say indignantly, ‘But I earn my food by running after you like a slave. And mighty little thanks, never mind money, I get for it. And ever since she came home, I’ve been at Edna’s beck and call, too.’ But wisdom prevailed, and she simply hung her head.

Edna stirred sugar into her coffee. ‘Of course I shall contribute a share to the housekeeping, as long as I am
living here,’ she said indignantly. ‘Now we’re settled in the cottage, I would myself have brought the matter up tomorrow. I got a letter from Papa Fellowes yesterday, and he has arranged to send me a cheque each month. He has advised me to open a bank account nearby. The first cheque should arrive in a day or two.’ She glanced resentfully at her mother. ‘Up to now I have had only the money which Paul and I were carrying with us and a little which Papa Fellowes gave me – to help. He is very kind.’

She looked suddenly very forlorn. To comfort her, Celia impulsively put out her hand to cover her sister’s shrivelled yellow one. She was rewarded by a wry smile, as Edna withdrew her hand to pick up her coffee cup and sip the cooling drink.

After she had dabbed her lips with her table napkin, Edna went on, ‘There is also a thing called a letter of credit, which Paul used to transfer his savings from Salvador – but that’s part of his estate, Papa Fellowes said, and it will be some time before that money comes to me. He recommends that, when he is able to cash it for me, I should bank it for emergencies.’

Louise had listened with rapt attention. ‘It sounds as if you will be quite well off.’

‘I don’t know yet. I certainly won’t starve.’ Edna moved uneasily in her chair, as if agitated by the comment, and then added with real bitterness, ‘As yet, I have no idea what I shall be able to do.’ How could she say to this self-centred mother of hers that all she wanted to do was to be with Vital. Yet, if she went back to Brazil and married him, people would immediately begin to gossip – and they could both be ruined socially, even if they could find enough money to live on.

Louise was contrite. ‘I’m sorry, dear. I should not have asked about your affairs. It is kind of you to offer to contribute to the housekeeping – and I must say that I shall
be very grateful for it, since I have to keep two people.’ She glanced towards Celia.

Celia flushed even more deeply with embarrassment. She summoned up a smile for Edna, however, and echoed Louise’s thanks.

Louise heaved herself out of her chair, leaving her coffee cup resting on the flat surface of the brass fender. ‘Well, I suppose I must go upstairs and put away my clothes,’ she said wearily. ‘It is going to be terribly cold up there. I must put on my velvet jacket.’

Celia got up, too, and mechanically went into the hall to find the velvet jacket and help her mother into it. As the cold silk lining touched her, Louise shivered dramatically, and said, ‘Really, Celia, I think you should have lit more fires.’

‘It has been a very busy day, Mama, and it
is
the end of April!’ Dear God, how am I ever going to cope? she asked herself, and went back into the living room.

Edna had already piled the dishes together, and she said, ‘You wash and I’ll dry.’

Celia’s spirits rose a little. She had earlier put the kettle on the fire, and when it had boiled, had set it on the hob to keep warm for washing dishes.

When she poured the water into the kitchen wash basin, set in a brand-new sink, she suddenly realised that it had two taps. She put down the kettle on the draining board, and there was an immediate hiss as its hot bottom scorched the wood. She snatched it off before it did any real damage, and with a laugh, said to Edna, ‘I’d forgotten that, when Mr Aspen put the boiler in, it would be linked to the kitchen sink as well as the bathroom! Like an idiot, I’ve been running upstairs when I wanted hot water or I’ve been boiling it. Isn’t it wonderful – we’ve got hot water upstairs and downstairs!’

‘It will be a real help,’ agreed Edna. ‘Where are the tea towels?’

‘I suppose Dorothy put them in one of the drawers.’

Though Edna was not very cheerful, she was at least company, thought Celia, and she had volunteered to help. As she inexpertly washed the dishes and handed them to Edna to dry, she ventured a question.

‘Did you have many servants in Brazil?’

‘I had six indoor ones, and two peons for the garden – and a housekeeper called Conchita.’

‘That must have been nice.’

‘It was in a way – but it could be terribly boring; they often quarrelled amongst themselves, and then I had to sort them out. And that wasn’t everybody. Paul had a Brazilian live-in male secretary, Mr Vital Oliveira; he was very helpful, particularly when I first arrived and could not speak any Portuguese. He would translate for me, and he explained about local customs.’ At the latter recollection, she smiled softly down at the saucer she was drying. ‘Then there was a chauffeur who lived over the garage – there was a car for city use – these two men were company employees, not mine.’

She put the saucer carefully down on a side table, and took another one from Celia. She continued, ‘Paul was away quite a lot of the time, up in the hills to see how the dam was going on – that’s how they were going to get electricity, though I must say I don’t understand these things. His senior works people and a translator – and the chauffeur – went with him. The chauffeur was in charge of the horses and stores that they had to take along.’

In the weeks that Edna had been at home, this was the longest response that Celia had got to a question, and she realised that it was the first time that she had been alone with Edna. Quite often, after a meal, Edna would vanish off to smoke in her bedroom or, if the weather was fine, into the narrow town garden behind the house. Conversational exchanges, when they occurred, had been between Louise and Edna; if Celia had been in the room, she had
been ignored or sent away to do some errand for one of them. And, of course, she told herself, she had been away at the cottage much of the time.

‘How did you fill your time?’ she asked Edna, and Edna described a round of visits to other English women – and some Brazilians. ‘When I first arrived, I had a Portuguese lesson each morning.’

‘Can you speak it?’

‘Yes – I think reasonably well now.’

‘How clever of you!’ Celia’s admiration was genuine. ‘What else did you do?’

‘Sometimes there were festivals, like Christmas and Easter. And they were rather keen on saints’ days. The churches had processions, which we used to watch from somebody’s balcony. And there were musical evenings …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I was ill a great deal – I seemed to catch every germ you can imagine, especially after little Rosemary died.’

‘That must have grieved you very much.’

‘It did. I refused to have any more children until we returned here.’

‘How could you refuse? Phyllis says they come every year, once you’re married.’

‘There are ways.’ Edna laughed a little cynically. ‘And I just said no.’

The implications of the latter remark were lost on Celia, but she said, ‘I wish you would explain that to Phyllis. She has already four little ones, and she looks so ill because the strain of it all is too much for her. I worry a lot about her – I simply must go to see her again soon.’