The Long Walk Home (22 page)

'Time you were in bed,' her mother said. 'We'll talk in the morning.'

'No.' Eleanor cleared her throat. 'Now. I'll never sleep otherwise. Aunt Maud said you'd heard from Simon.'

Her mother looked slightly cross. 'Yes. There was a letter waiting for me when I arrived here. Simon had written and asked your aunt to send a message to me.'

'Oh,' she said. 'So is that why you came?'

Her mother sat beside her. 'That was not the only reason,' she said. 'I had already decided to leave your father; but when Maud wrote and invited me to stay, and implied that it would be a good time for me to come, I knew that he had been in touch. I have waited and waited for a letter from him, and I always knew that he would write here rather than to home.'

She gazed at Eleanor and swallowed. 'It was an opportunity for me to do what I had planned to do for a long time, which was to leave your father.' She looked down at her lap and went on, 'I will be considered an outcast, I know, but I can't help it. I cannot live any longer as I was doing. I can't tell you how dreadfully unhappy I have been for years and years, and how much I have longed for my freedom.'

'But— Mr Walton?' Eleanor asked. 'How do you know him?'

A deep flush suffused her mother's cheeks. 'I met him in Hull,' she said quietly. 'At one of the meetings I attended. He introduced himself and we found we had a lot in common. We used to sit together, until people remarked upon it, and then we sat apart but within the same social circle. Then one evening I couldn't get a cab and he offered to walk me home. We became friends,' she said simply. 'He's a widower, a kind, sympathetic man, and I confided in him.'

She lifted her eyes to Eleanor, and it was as if she was about to say more, but then changed the subject. 'But let me tell you about your brother. He is well and living in London and apparently in a good position with a wholesale import company.'

'May I read the letter?' Eleanor begged. 'Please. It has been so long.'

'Of course.' Her mother opened her purse. 'I carry it everywhere with me.' She smiled. 'I'm so happy to know where he is.'

Eleanor opened the letter and glanced at the contents. There was no address. She scanned it through and learned that her brother was working at one of the riverside wharves in the port of London, where he dealt in commodities.

'We can't write back,' she said. 'He hasn't given an address.'

'No. That's rather strange, isn't it? But I thought that perhaps he was worried that his father might be able to trace him. However.' She fished about in her purse again and brought out a slip of paper with a name on it.
Manners Inc
. 'This was inside the envelope,' she explained. 'Whether by accident or design I can't say. But there's still no address, so I can't write to tell him.'

'To tell him?' Eleanor looked up. 'To tell him that you received his letter?'

Her mother shook her head, and now, instead of being flushed, her countenance was very pale. 'I'm sure you will be all right, Eleanor.' Her voice trembled as she spoke. 'You were always such a sensible child and your father was fonder of you than he was of Simon. He always said that I spoiled him. And there's always Maud if you should need advice.'

Eleanor was bewildered. 'Why should I ask Aunt Maud for advice? Will you not come home with me, Mama?' she said tearfully. 'I'm sure it's a mistake about Papa.'

'It is not a mistake, Eleanor,' her mother said softly. 'And I'm not coming home.' She lifted her chin. 'I'm going away. To Canada. With Mr Walton.'

Eleanor gasped. 'Oh! How can you say such a thing?' She couldn't believe that her mother would utter such a sinful statement. It was dreadful. Unthinkable. Immoral! Not her mother, who behaved with such decorum; her mother who was always so ladylike and proper; who had always insisted that Eleanor behave in a modest manner, even when she was very young, and had taught her not to show her ankles and to sit with her knees together and her hands folded neatly in her lap. And now she was saying that she was going away— with a man!

Eleanor burst into tears. 'Mama! You can't do this. Papa would divorce you.'

'I sincerely hope that he does,' her mother said calmly. 'I have found an inner strength and I cannot waste the rest of my life with a man I hate, who is cruel and unkind, when I have the chance of happiness with another.'

Eleanor sobbed and sobbed as if her heart would break. She was devastated, her desolation complete. 'You don't care what happens to
me
,' she wept. 'I shall have no one. No one! Papa will be in prison and you— and you . . . No one will ever speak to you again,' she raged. 'You'll be an outcast!'

'I know, and that is why we are going to Canada. No one will know us there. Eleanor,' her mother said softly, and stroked her head. 'Please don't think that I don't care what happens to you. I do care, very much. But I am powerless. I can't take you with me. Your father wouldn't allow it. He will ban me from seeing you, just as he banned me from trying to find Simon. Even if he is imprisoned, I am not allowed to make any decision over your life. That is a woman's lot, until such time as the law is changed, and it will be,' she said determinedly. 'It will be, one day. And then women can take control of their own lives and those of their children.'

'But I won't ever see you again.' Eleanor began to weep once more.

'You will,' her mother assured her, and her eyes were wet. 'As soon as you're of age, you can come out to join me— us,' she added. 'Unless, of course, you should wish to marry and be under another man's domination instead of your father's.' She looked pensive. 'But you must be sure that that is what you want. Don't be persuaded against your will.'

Eleanor wiped her eyes. 'I won't ever marry,' she said. 'If it is as bad as you say.'

'It's not bad for everybody.' Her mother gave a hint of a smile, although she seemed very downcast. 'Aunt Maud is happy enough.'

Eleanor sniffed. 'But Uncle Morton is so very boring, isn't he?' She gave a hiccuping sob.

'Come now.' Her mother rose to her feet. 'We'll talk again in the morning about what you should do when you return home.'

But I don't want to go home, Eleanor thought as she lay in the deep feather bed. There is nothing to go home for. Perhaps Aunt Maud would let me stay here, but Papa doesn't like her so he wouldn't allow it and besides, what would I do all day? She thought nostalgically of her own room, her own haven with her books, her writing and drawing materials, the personal belongings and childhood toys which she clung to. And the servants will leave, she thought. They won't stay just to look after me, and who would pay them in any case? So I shall be quite alone.

She heard a clock strike one, and then two, and drifted off to sleep, and then she heard the strike of four and was wide awake. Why should I go home, she thought petulantly. Mama must think that she can leave the running of the house to me whilst she goes jaunting off to another country. Well she can't. But then there's Papa. Who will look after him when he comes home?

She sat up in bed. He'd get another servant, I expect, but he'd expect me to organize everything just as Mama has always done. Well I won't. Tears rushed to her eyes, but they were tears of temper and anger, not sorrow or misery at her lot. They've let me down. Both of them.

She pushed back the covers and swung her legs to the floor, searching for her slippers in the half-light of dawn. I'm leaving, she thought. Leaving before I'm persuaded otherwise. I'll go to London and find Simon. I think I have enough money left to get there. She paused. Was she being hasty? Should she ask her mother for some money? But no, she'd only be suspicious.

She washed her face and hands, quickly dressed and repacked her bag, leaving behind the things she didn't think she would need, like her extra pair of boots, which she pushed under the bed. Should I leave a note, she wondered. Will Mama assume I've gone back home and therefore not search for me? Not that I think she will, anyway, she reflected. I'm a liability to her. No, she decided. I'll just leave. The servants won't be up yet and I'll walk as far as I can and then hail a cab.

She crept downstairs, unbolted the front door, turned the key and slipped outside. It was a grey morning with a fine drizzle but she stepped out smartly, leaving the house and street behind and hoping that no one had seen or heard her go.

After a half-hour when she was beset with anxiety as to whether she was going the right way, she heard the clop of horse hooves and the rattle of wheels and turned to see a carrier's cart coming towards her. She hailed him and asked if she was on the right road to the railway station. He said that she was and asked if she would like a lift.

Eagerly she climbed up beside him and he asked where she was off to.

'I'm going to London,' she said, 'to stay with my brother.'

'Ah,' he said. 'I didn't think you were going job-hunting. Not a servant lass, I could tell that straight away. But should you be going on your own, miss?'

Eleanor wished then that she had made up a story to tell him. Suppose he called at Aunt Maud's house and told someone he had given a young woman a lift.

'I'm only breaking my journey with him,' she told him. 'Then I'm going to . . .' she sought in her head for a place name, but could find none, 'then I'm going to be a governess.'

He nodded his head but asked her no more and dropped her within a ten-minute walk of the railway station.

The booking office didn't open for another hour and so she sat and waited. It was cold on the concourse and she was hungry and beginning to wish that she had waited until after breakfast and slipped out then. I was hasty, she thought, but making my own decisions is all new to me so I expect I will make mistakes. She thought of her brother and how she would find him.

I expect the London docks will be much bigger than the ones in Hull, she mused. But everybody will know everybody else, so I'll soon be able to find this Manners company where he works. She took a breath. At least I hope so.

The London train, when it eventually arrived, was very slow and stopped at almost every station, but when Eleanor stepped on to the platform at her destination she was overwhelmed by the number of travellers, so many more than in Hull or Nottingham, all pushing and shoving and talking and shouting until she wanted to shut her ears.

She found a policeman and went up to him. 'Excuse me,' she said, looking up at him. 'I've come to see my brother and I've lost his address. He works at the wharves. Do you know how I would set about finding him?'

The policeman pushed up his helmet and laughed. 'Do you know how many wharves there are in London, miss?' When Eleanor shook her head, he bent towards her and said, 'Over two hundred to my knowledge. What kind of business does he work in? Specialist or general?'

Eleanor bit her lip. How stupid she was. She should have known better. She should have had more information. 'Commodities, I think,' she said.

'Mm,' he said. 'You've got a job on, miss. Commodities go from the Pool of London right the way to Greenwich. There's the Free Trade wharf, Butler's wharf, that's the old one, Hay's wharf, that's the new one . . . there's any amount of wharves. Don't you know the name?'

'Manners,' she said miserably.

'What?' He frowned.

'Manners Incorporated, that's what it's called. I think,' she added.

He gave her general directions towards London Bridge, but told her that she should catch a horse bus. 'You can see the wharves along both sides of the Thames, but they're difficult to get at because of the warehouses behind them, and they might not let you on, o' course,' he said. 'They don't like strangers pottering about.' Then he grinned. 'Not that you look like a villain up to no good, miss. Ask another copper if you see one,' he added. 'They might be able to put you right.'

By now it was well after midday and Eleanor was fainting with hunger. There was a pie and pea stall outside the station and she put her pride in her pocket and bought a portion and wolfed it down. She gave a great sigh. How good that was. How dreadful, she thought, to be always on the verge of hunger. She saw several children, barefoot and thin, hanging about the station and many were begging.

I'd give them something if only I dared, she thought. But I don't have very much money and if I don't find Simon today, I must keep something for a bed tonight. She was in a situation totally unfamiliar and strange, and was gradually realizing that she had no knowledge or comprehension of how she would obtain suitable accommodation where she would be safe.

She stood for a few moments looking about her and wondering where she would get a horse bus. Everyone seemed to be bustling about as if they knew where they were going, and she was hesitant about asking for directions. But she plucked up courage and spoke to an old woman.

'Cross the road, dearie,' the woman said, when Eleanor asked the way to the Pool of London, 'and catch a bus to London Bridge. Best view in all of London that is.' She had a funny kind of accent, Eleanor thought, and was dressed completely in black. Black skirt, black coat, black hat with a bedraggled feather in it. She was carrying a shopping basket containing limp cabbages and black-spotted carrots.

Eleanor hopped on the next omnibus to come clattering towards her with a sign for London Bridge on the side. She felt nervous but excited; perhaps after all it wouldn't be long before she found Simon and then he would take charge. She would be able to stay with him, and she supposed she would have to find some kind of employment. I can't really expect him to finance me. But we'll be able to discuss the situation and decide what to do for the best. When I explain about our father, Simon will be on Mother's side of course and will have no sympathy with Papa at all.

'London Bridge. Pool of London,' the conductor called out as she was busy meditating and gazing out at the busy streets; at the tall new buildings which were being built not just in brick but in glass and iron and stucco, with marble façades; at the hundreds of people who were scurrying along the pavements, the horses and carts, the omnibuses, the waggonettes and carriages; such a noisy bustle as she had never seen before. Hull was a mere little town in comparison.