The Most Precious Thing (40 page)
Olive did not consciously think here that Margaret was frightened of her, but the thought that followed flowed from the belief. Give it a day or two for her to settle in and she’d find out what Margaret knew about Alec and Carrie. Because there was something there, she’d swear it. Now that the possibility of Matthew being Alec’s child had reared its head, so much fitted into place. Carrie had always tried to keep Alec away from the bairn, fearing, no doubt, that David would cotton on he wasn’t the father. She was a loose piece all right. Olive pursed her lips. Renee was bad enough but there was something about Carrie that had spelled trouble from the first time she’d laid eyes on her. Even as a bairn she’d had the menfolk buzzing about her like bees to a honeypot. Men were such fools.
In all the time that Alec and Margaret had lived in the better part of Hendon, Olive had been invited only twice - once for Christmas five years before and again when a large party had been organised by Margaret for her father when he reached the grand age of sixty-five. The occasion had not been a success. Margaret had been fraught with anxiety and she had communicated her tension to her guests, with the result that the party had been awkward and strained.
It was quite dark by the time Olive walked through the tall iron gates set in a high stone wall bordered by laurel. She was panting heavily now with the weight of her bag, and as she marched up the long drive she was hoping Margaret’s father was not visiting. She had been disappointed in him when she’d met him on Alec’s wedding day, and her opinion of him had not improved on the two subsequent occasions she’d been in his company. Olive considered him to be coarse and abrupt and not at all as someone in his position ought to be. This opinion was heavily flavoured by the fact that Arthur Reed did not suffer fools gladly and had made his opinion of Olive blatantly obvious. Since Margaret’s mother had died a few years before, he had become even more taciturn with people he did not like, and he definitely did not like Olive.
When Olive knocked on the big oak front door set in the middle of the large double-fronted house, it was opened almost immediately by a tall thin woman of middle age or beyond. She was dressed in a light grey dress with sparkling white collar and cuffs. Olive knew her to be the housekeeper, Mrs Browell, and as though she was a daily visitor, she said, ‘Where’s the maid? Surely it’s her job to see to the door.’
Freda Browell peered at her for a moment. ‘Mrs Sutton? Madam has not informed me you were expected.’
Olive did not reply to this until she had stepped into the wide spacious hall. She stood for a moment, glancing round at the thick wall-to-wall carpeting and expensive embossed wallpaper. Then, planting her bag firmly on the floor, she said, ‘No, she wouldn’t have, Mrs Browell,’ before repeating, ‘where’s the maid?’
‘Gone to work in a munitions factory like all the young things.’ It was said with unconcealed disapproval. ‘One just cannot get the staff since this wretched war, Mrs Sutton. Madam has advertised for weeks now since the agency were unable to help but all to no avail, and what can you expect when bits of girls can earn more than they ever dreamed of a year or two ago? I said to madam the other night, what are we going to be left with when the war is over? Once a young lass’s head is turned, it stays turned, and I can’t see the majority of them returning to work in service. Even the nurse has taken herself off this week.’
Olive did not care what the housekeeper could or could not see and her tone made this perfectly clear when she said, ‘Kindly take my bag to one of the spare bedrooms, Mrs Browell. Is Mrs Sutton in the drawing room?’ On her first visit to the house she had made the mistake of calling this room the sitting room and it had been the housekeeper who had corrected her, albeit tactfully. But Olive did not forget a slight and that was what she considered Mrs Browell’s correction to be.
‘Madam is in the dining room. I was just about to serve dinner.’ Freda Browell had stiffened in both voice and manner.
‘I’ll join her.’
Olive watched the housekeeper’s eyebrows give the slightest movement upwards. But Freda Browell had been in service since she was thirteen years old and she wasn’t about to argue with her mistress’s mother-in-law, even if she did privately consider her to be an upstart who was as common as muck under her airs and graces.
‘Very good, Mrs Sutton.’
Very good, Mrs Sutton. Olive didn’t move until Mrs Browell had picked up her bag and begun to walk up the stairs which were situated halfway down the hall. Thinks she’s the real mistress here no doubt, Olive thought sourly, what with Margaret forever taking to her bed. Olive had heard Alec expounding the housekeeper’s virtues on more than one occasion, saying she ran the house like clockwork and that since Margaret’s own mother had died his wife relied on Mrs Browell more and more. Well, those days were finished if she had anything to do with it. She had blamed Alec for not having her to live with them when Ned skedaddled, at least at first, but the more she’d thought about it, the more she had been convinced it was Mrs Browell and Mr Reed bringing their influence to bear. Neither of them liked her and she knew why - they thought she was too close to Alec, had too much of an influence on him. And it was true he had always listened to her - would he be where he was now but for her guidance when he was a lad?
Olive squared her bony shoulders and brought her sharp chin up. With Lillian bombed out and Carrie having told her she wasn’t welcome under David’s roof, Margaret couldn’t refuse her a bed. And if Walter and Renee were mentioned, she would make it quite clear she wouldn’t dream of soiling her conscience by living under that baggage’s roof. Those McDarmounts, she had known there would be nothing but trouble when her lads took up with them.
The dining room door opened. Margaret froze when she saw her mother-in-law in the hall, and the chaffing she had been about to voice to Mrs Browell at the delay in dinner being served died on her lips. For a moment she couldn’t believe her eyes, and then Olive marched up to her and said briskly, ‘And how are you this evening, Margaret?’
‘Fairly well, thank you, Mother-in-law’, she managed to respond. ‘But . . .’ She hesitated. ‘What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t nice to see you of course, but I had no idea you were coming. Have you eaten?’
‘Mrs Browell is serving dinner for two.’ Olive managed to make it sound as though it was the housekeeper’s suggestion.
‘Oh, I see. How . . . nice. But with the weather so inclement . . .’ Margaret’s voice drifted away.
Olive said evenly, ‘Mrs Browell has taken my bag to one of the spare rooms, Margaret. I may as well tell you that Carrie has made it abundantly clear I am not welcome with them any more, and as you know, Lillian is staying with them for the present. With Renee being Carrie’s sister I obviously can’t go there.’
‘You . . . you mean . . .’ Margaret took a deep breath, her sallow, thin face flushed with nervous colour. ‘You want to stay here?’
‘I understand the maid and nurse have both left to do war work.’ Olive seated herself at one end of the large dining table which was set for one with silver cutlery, fine glassware and a damask linen cloth of exquisite design. ‘Poor Mrs Browell is having to run this house and look after you single-handed.’ Again she made it sound as if it was the housekeeper who had suggested she stay. ‘It seems a good time for me to help out, don’t you think?’
Margaret felt the trembling inside communicate itself to her hands and she tucked them in her lap. ‘But, Alec . . . I mean, it would be up to him.’
‘Alec is not here, Margaret.’ Olive spoke in a tone that suggested she thought Margaret was dense or confused. ‘But I am sure he would want his mother to look after his wife in such difficult circumstances. We’re family, aren’t we? And at times like this, family should look out for one another. Who knows what tomorrow could bring, what with the raids and all? I’m sure his mind would be put at ease if he knew I was here.’
Margaret wondered what her mother-in-law would say if she knew her son had stated he would rather cut his own throat than have his mother live with them. But Alec wasn’t here, and she couldn’t stand up to this dreadful woman by herself.
‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Olive gave a twist to her lips which could have passed for a smile. ‘I’m more than happy to stay for a while so don’t you worry your head about it a minute longer.’
Margaret was saved having to make a response to this by Mrs Browell, who entered the room without any ceremony and laid another place at the table in front of Olive. Then she left the room again. The door had barely closed behind her when Olive said, ‘That woman takes liberties, Margaret. You really ought to be firm with her.’
‘Mrs Browell?’ Margaret was stung into rare retaliation. ‘She’s a friend, not just a housekeeper.’
‘Ah, well, there’s the root of the problem, if you don’t mind me saying so. If you let servants think they’re in with the door shut, it breeds over-familiarity.’ Olive spoke as though she was used to dealing with a whole household of servants.
A familiar wave of weakness came over Margaret; it always assailed her in Olive’s presence, and she knew she wasn’t strong enough to tell Alec’s mother to leave. She glanced down at the white damask tablecloth helplessly. What was she going to do?
It was now three days since Olive had come to stay and Margaret thought she was beginning to go mad. Of course there were those who said she was mad already, what with the injections for her nerves and the treatment she had undergone at private clinics in the last few years. But she had known she wasn’t all mad, even in the worst of her depressions. But now . . .
She glanced across at her mother-in-law who was seated on the other side of the roaring fire in an armchair identical to the one she herself was sitting in. Olive was doing her best to alienate Mrs Browell, and if the housekeeper left, Margaret knew she wouldn’t be able to go on. If only her father wasn’t in bed with this wretched influenza, she could have asked him to call and take care of things. There wasn’t a man or woman alive who could intimidate him. He would soon tell Olive Sutton she was taking too much on herself.
As though her mother-in-law had picked up her thoughts, Olive now said, ‘You should have listened to me this afternoon when that little madam called, Margaret, and refused to allow her over the doorstep. Daring to come here bold as brass when she threw me out of her house. And why would any of them think I’d want to go and stay with Walter and Renee?’
‘I thought it was kind of Carrie to come here and tell you what had been proposed.’
‘Kind?’ Olive sat up straight, her back tight against the chair. ‘I can see she’s took you in, girl. If Walter and Renee are so keen to have me with them, why didn’t they come themselves and suggest it? Eh?’
‘Carrie said Walter is working extra shifts and Renee is ill in bed with the influenza.’
‘So she expects me to go there and keep house while that big fat lazy sister of hers lies on her back all day? I wasn’t born yesterday, whatever Carrie McDarmount might think. I’ve got her measure all right.’
‘I’ve always found Carrie to be most pleasant,’ said Margaret stiffly.
‘Oh aye, she can be pleasant, especially with the men, if you get my drift.’ Olive raised thin eyebrows meaningfully. ‘But she caught her toe when she found out she was expecting Matthew. But with David in the wings offering to marry her she knew she was all right. It’s not many men that’d take on a flyblow but perhaps he thinks the boy is his, although I doubt it. Matthew and David have never got on, but then you know that.’
‘I . . . I didn’t.’ Margaret was highly embarrassed and it showed.
‘No? You surprise me. I thought it was obvious to everyone. The boy has nothing in common with him, that’s the thing. Nothing at all.’ Olive paused a moment but when Margaret said nothing she continued, ‘But like I said, if Matthew isn’t David’s, it’s not surprising they don’t see eye to eye on anything.’
Margaret’s brow wrinkled. She was aware Olive was putting a wealth of meaning into her voice but she really didn’t see where this distasteful conversation was leading. She cleared her throat. ‘This is really none of my business,’ she said feebly.
‘Of course it is, you’re Alec’s wife, aren’t you?’ And then Olive shut her mouth with a little snap, only to open it again to say, ‘Oh dear, I’ve said too much. It was that glass of wine at dinner. I’m not used to alcohol. But I’ve always maintained that blood outs in the end.’
Margaret had a puzzled little frown between her eyes.
For crying out loud, thought Olive, do I have to spell it out for her? Plain as a pikestaff and as thick as two short planks. Alec certainly didn’t marry her for her looks or her brain.
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