Shadow Baby (18 page)

No one at the Fox and Hound was glad to see her. Her uncle Tom was changing the beer barrels and hardly looked up. ‘Come back, have you?’ he grunted. ‘What for? Not hoping we’ll take you in, are you?’ She said no, she was not. Then she stood still and waited, knowing he would not be able to resist passing on whatever

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malicious gossip he had hold of. The silence was long and humiliating. Evie began to cry and her uncle said, ‘Crying for her dad, is she? Then she’ll cry a long time, she can bawl her head off all day and he’ll not hear.’ Leah’s heart began to thud, fearing this announcement was the prelude to news of Hugo’s death. ‘He hasn’t come home, has he?’ her uncle went on. ‘Disappeared, that’s what, clean off the face of the earth, or Canada, any road. And in debt, as usual, owing his relatives a packet. You got yourself tied up with a rascal there, Leah, but you can’t say you weren’t warned.’ Leah turned and began to walk out. ‘Hey, where you off to without saying a word? Going to his parents? Well, they’ll give you nothing, my lass, they’re tired of him and his bastards, they’ve had enough of women knocking on their door with his babies in their arms …’

She did not hear any more. The last jeer, she was certain, was made up and thrown at her only to hurt and worry; but she had perfect faith in Hugo. It was the kind of rumour about him there had always been and she took no heed. There was no point her staying in the village any longer, but it was some hours before the coach would return to the crossroads. There was nowhere for her to go. She had no friend to visit. She had worked, she had walked and she had gone to church to sing in the choir, but otherwise she had had no life in this bleak village. She would go to the church now, not St Kentigern’s but St Mungo’s, the new parish church, where she had gone every Sunday after they closed the other. She would sit quietly there and feed Evie and eat the bread she had brought with her. She might even sleep a little and the thought comforted her. There was so much to absorb. If Hugo had vanished, leaving debts again, what did it mean for her? No more money, for sure. He would be so wretched and ashamed and this would prevent him contacting her. He would imagine she would now wish to cast him off. How, then, could she reach him and tell him this was not so, that she wanted him on any terms and could forgive him sins far worse than running up debts or failing in business? Her head ached and she longed for the soothing interior of the church.

But on the way there she was bound to pass the Hall where the Todhunters lived. Her steps slowed. She stood at the gates, both standing open, and looked up the drive. It was not a long drive and the house could clearly be seen, squat and square, with its broad oak door. Hugo had told her he was afraid of his father, who was a bully, but that he loved his mother and his sister. His mother and his sister

were called Evelyn, and Leah had taken that name for her baby, thinking to please him. She went on standing there, quite still. She imagined herself doing what her uncle had so untruthfully said many girls had done before her - walking up to that door, knocking, and presenting Hugo’s child and claiming support from his family. She would never do such a thing, of course, not even for the sake of her baby. But it seemed hard that Evie’s presence, her very existence, should remain a secret from her father’s people, some of whom, the women, might be glad to know of it. She resolved that when she had Evie baptised she would send a card to Hugo’s mother. A baptism card would surely not seem like a demand for help but a mere notification of fact.

She reached the church and sat inside for several hours and was bothered by no one. She did not sleep but nevertheless was refreshed and ready to face the long journey home. Mary was glad to see her, having feared she would not come back at all. Leah told her the truth, that Hugo could not be looked to any more and that she must provide for herself and her child as best she could. She believed that one day she would see him again but it was impossible to guess when that would be. Mary said nothing, only that Leah was a good worker and she was a good worker, and she was sure the child would in due course be a good worker; and they would manage. And manage they did.

Leah began to keep hens and grow flowers in their garden. She was given four hens and a cock by a farmer’s wife whose washing they did and they were lucky, the hens under Leah’s care were great layers. They sold the eggs and bought more hens and soon had a regular enough supply to make it worth going by cart to Carlisle market to sit at the butter women’s stalls and sell their eggs there for a good price. They sold flowers, too, bunches of lavender and carnations and, in the spring, daffodils and tulips. They paid their rent on time and had food to eat, and Mary, at least, was happy. Leah was less so. It was not that her life was hard which depressed her - it had always been hard and in many ways was not actually as hard as it had once been - but thoughts of the future, hers and Evie’s.

Hugo was becoming a dream from which she had woken up with feelings of bitterness she had never thought to have. She had been a fool, to trust him as she had done. She did not blame him nor did she think he had acted at the time of their loving with any deliberate

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deceit. She quite believed his love for her had been real and his intentions sincere, but what she ought to have seen was his inability to carry them out - that was where her faith had been misplaced. His own parents had had to learn the same lesson and though he had instructed her in how they had learned it, she had not heeded him. She had given way to her own strong desires and had believed in the power of love to solve all problems. And now she had to pay for her folly.

But what disturbed her most was how she seemed unable to stop herself blaming Evie. Leah had loved her unborn baby fiercely, and continued to love her while she was still sure of Hugo; but increasingly now she had come to see Evie as a constant reminder of her own stupidity and Hugo’s weakness. By the time Evie was two, Leah had to force herself to hold her in her arms at all - Hugo’s eyes, in Evie’s face, were an affliction and his hair, framing the child’s face, made her want to cut it all off and burn it. Evie was all her father - the eyes, the hair, the skin, the small ears, and it was agony to see this. It troubled Leah deeply to feel anything other than love for her child, and she hoped she never betrayed her lack of it, but she could not control her sense of a shocking alienation. It was a relief, always, when Evie was not with her. Poor Evie, poor Evie, she said to herself, the saddest of refrains running constantly through her head, but her pity combined with guilt to intensify her bitterness towards the child. Mary, old Mary, was the one who gave Evie affection. It was a touching sight to see the child on her knee, being sung to, or holding her hand and staggering (both of them) round the garden. Evie called Mary ‘Grandma’ and Leah did nothing to correct her. It seemed natural that Mary should regard herself as grandmother to Evie. Once, Mary told her, she had had her own little girl, her own baby, but she would not tell what had happened to her.

From the little girl’s own grandmother there had been no sign, though Leah had sent Mrs Todhunter a baptismal card. In some vague attempt at continuity she had taken Evie back to Caldewgate to be christened in the same church, Holy Trinity, where she knew herself to have been christened. But she had regretted this. She ought to have taken Evie to Wetheral church, which she now attended every Sunday and where she sang (though not in the choir). Wetheral was her home now and except for the weekly trips to Carlisle market she did not suppose she would ever leave it. She

was only nineteen but her life seemed mapped out for her, at least until Evie was grown up, and probably for ever.

Others did not think so. Mary saw how the men ogled Leah and knew it was only a matter of time before she was made an offer it would be absurd to refuse. She dreaded the day when Leah would capitulate and kept an eye out constantly for threatening suitors. There were plenty. Even the curate was smitten, though fortunately he realised, as Mary did, that he had no hope. Leah had not a single good word for any of them. Men fell over themselves to please her and she took no notice. Mary knew Leah believed herself no longer attractive since the birth of Evie had thickened her waist and left her heavier, but she was wrong. Her figure was all the more pleasing since it had filled out, at least to the men it was. Mary knew Leah also thought the severity of her dress and the way she wore her hair made her ugly, but it did not. The lack of adornment, the blonde hair pulled tightly into the nape of the neck, the dark brown dress all accentuated her beautiful complexion, the translucent quality of her skin. Even her reserved manner and her lack of conversation made her appealing, gave her a quality of mystery. In the market especially, Mary noted the looks. Among the ruddy-cheeked, weather-beaten faces of the butter women, Leah’s stood out, a pale flower amid the florid colour. Her composure, as she sold her eggs, contrasted with the laughing, restless energy of the other women who twisted and turned to talk to each other all day long. It would have taken a blind man not to notice Leah Messenger in that setting, and the men in Carlisle market were not blind.

Henry Arnesen, though not blind, was severely short-sighted. He had struggled for years not to give in to the wearing of the eyeglasses he hated, but it was impossible for him to follow his trade as a tailor if he could not see clearly. Twice, at fairs, he had paid good money to people who claimed to be able to cure poor sight and twice he had been made a fool of. Now he wore his spectacles - two pairs, one for close work and one for distance - with resignation, goldrimmed ones, as light and invisible as they could be made. He was sure they made him look old and unattractive, but in this he was mistaken. The glasses did not detract from the pleasantness of Henry’s features and they magnified his striking blue eyes - ‘Too beautiful for a lad,’ his mother had always said. He had thick brown hair and a splendid bushy moustache, and he was tall and well built

- he was, without realising it, a handsome man.

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But it was true, all the same, that, at the age of thirty, he was not only unmarried but had never gone courting seriously. His mother, anxious for grandchildren (Henry was her only child), complained about it. Henry’s excuse was that he worked too hard to have the time for courting. This was partly true. He did work hard in his modest premises in Globe Lane. His father, also a tailor, had set him up there when he was twenty-one, and Henry had since repaid the investment many times over. When his father died Henry had taken on his regular clients too and had been supporting his mother ever since. Not only did he cut and sew clothes, made to measure, but on Saturdays he had a stall in the market selling material. Saturday was the busiest day at the market, when all the country people came in to sell their produce and, with any profit they made, might treat themselves to a length of fabric for a dress. Henry had a good eye for what these women liked and stocked his stall accordingly. Sometimes he made as good a profit on a Saturday as he had all the rest of the week. Besides, Henry liked his Saturdays. They were relaxing. He didn’t have to wear his spectacles, because there was no need to see clearly. True, things were a bit hazy but he could manage perfectly with a little care.

He first saw Leah through a haze. He was standing behind his stall during a momentary lull and, staring across the sprigged cottons, he saw her pale, delicate face among the row of red ones. It seemed so still and pure among the tossing and turning of other heads, and he fumbled for the correct pair of spectacles and put them on. Leah’s face sprang sharply into focus, a sad, quiet face with downcast eyes and a mouth closed and firm. But nothing could conceal the perfection of the skin, nor could the serious expression rob the face of grace and natural refinement. Henry kept his glasses on and watched Leah all the rest of the afternoon. He saw her leave with an old woman who was carrying a child. The child must be this younger woman’s, which disappointed him. She was almost certainly married, then. He took his glasses off and sighed. It was always the way. Any woman who caught his attention was invariably married. Probably she was a farmer’s wife, in from the country with her butter and eggs and about to be collected by the farmer in his cart. He thought he would just check to see, but his mother, who was usually on hand to look after the stall while he took a break, was indisposed that day and he was on his own.

But the following week his mother was there and so, he saw, was

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the woman with the pale, delicate-boned face. He waited all day, observing her closely, and when the other, old, woman arrived with the child, as before, to collect her, Henry was ready, and he followed. He saw them go out of the back entrance and down towards the sands where they got into a large cart, already full of women, and off they went. It proved nothing. All farmer’s wives, all going to the same village, likely. But the absence of a particular man and his individual cart gave Henry a small scrap of hope. The following week he left his stall half an hour before the general packing-up time and went down to the sands where all the carts were waiting. He recognised the cart he had seen the week before by its extra large, muddy, red-painted wheels and approached the driver. Henry was direct, seeing no point in subterfuge. ‘Where are you going to?’ he asked. The driver barely looked at him. ‘Wetheral and parts,’ he said, ‘and no room for any more, like.’ Satisfied, Henry went back to the market. Wetheral wasn’t far. Five miles or so. He had occasionally taken his mother there and rowed her across the river Eden to Corby. Very occasionally. So occasionally he couldn’t remember the last time. She would be delighted if he suggested such an outing now.

It was foolish, of course. Henry knew this perfectly well but nevertheless he drove his mother to Wetheral in his smart little pony trap - only recently acquired and a source of great pride - and once there the two of them walked round the village green and down to the river and sat watching the salmon leap. Henry had not expected to see the woman who intrigued him parading around Wetheral for his delight, so he was quite philosophical when she did not put in an appearance. But every Saturday thereafter when he saw that pale face on the far side of the market he derived some curious pleasure from knowing she came from Wetheral. It gave him an advantage, he felt, though it took him a long time to put this to any kind of use. He noted that the woman sold flowers as well as eggs and he began to buy them from her for his mother. Every week he bought two bunches of whatever the Wetheral woman had, taking care, Carlislefashion, to betray not the slightest interest in her. Only when this transaction had been going on for twenty-five weeks - he had counted - did he chance any attempt at conversation and even then he limited himself to pleasantries, all of which were responded to with similar ones. After almost a year, he was quite pleased with how things were going and was working himself up to bolder action,