The Penningtons (23 page)

‘Good man! Get on with it.’

‘Well, I know that there was a child that Montague Pennington knew nothing about . . . and the father is not named on the birth certificate.’

‘Exactly. Not unusual but was considered so in this particular case. The Pennington’s were, or rather
are,
very well respected in Bath. The whole family goes back a long way and has always given generously to the town’s various charities.’

‘Then presumably they were wealthy men.’

‘Oh yes, very. Some of the wealth gained at the gaming tables much earlier on and later, if my memory serves me well, there was at some time a connection with the Bath stone quarries.’ He wished Anders would stop fidgeting with his tie. It looked unprofessional. He would have to mention it some time – but not today. He did not feel up to it.

Steven asked, ‘So what exactly happened to the child? Do we know that?’

‘We do. She was adopted by a local couple who were provided with an annuity towards the girl’s keep. But they, the adoptive parents, had no knowledge of the child’s parentage although naturally the father’s name was known to the private adoption agency. The truth is to be revealed when the girl reaches eighteen – which will be shortly. I’m led to believe there is a letter to the daughter explaining the background – a letter from the mother, that is.’

‘Nothing from the father?’

‘Not that we know of. Fascinating, isn’t it?’ He put a hand to his head. ‘I’ll check through all the information we have and then Miss Field can arrange the appointment.’ His head thumped painfully and he closed his eyes.

‘Are you sure you are fit to be here, Mr Desmond? You look very pale.’

With an effort he opened his eyes to find Anders staring at him with concern. ‘Actually I do feel a little unwell, Mr Anders,’ he confessed. ‘In fact I feel slightly dizzy.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes, perhaps I should go home again and rest. Will you ask Miss Field to order a taxi.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Mr Desmond watched him go. A nice young man, he thought wistfully. He had always wanted a son but had been given two very nice daughters instead. Yes, a nice young man. Steven Anders would make a good solicitor.

ELEVEN

S
unday came and by eleven o’clock Martha was losing patience with her daughter.

‘Daisy! Stop daydreaming and set the cloth – not the checked one, the one your grandmother embroidered. It’s in the top drawer . . . and smooth it out a bit to get rid of the creases.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s up? Don’t you want him to come to dinner? You said he wanted to come. You said . . .’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just nervous, that’s all.’

‘It’ll be quite all right, Daisy. There’s nothing to go wrong. There’s a—’

‘The tart’s burnt!’ Daisy pointed an accusing finger at the tart which was cooling on the window sill.

‘Burnt?’ Martha stared at it in surprise. ‘Only a bit, round the edges. That’ll scrape off. Don’t fuss so!’

‘I thought you were making blackberry and apple.’

‘There weren’t enough blackberries. You know how they go towards the end of the season. Mushy and a bit bitter – when the witches have got at them!’

Daisy managed a laugh. ‘So they say!’

‘Anyway, apple and cinnamon’s just as nice.’

Daisy’s heart was hammering with nervous tension as she set out the knives, forks and spoons, wishing all the while that they had a canteen of cutlery like Monty with silver cutlery set in velvet instead of theirs which had bone handles and lived in a deep drawer in the dresser, mixed up with teaspoons, skewers, a wooden spoon and a cracked pie funnel.

She said, ‘Sometimes Dilys likes to have flowers on the table.’

‘There won’t be room on our table. Anyway, you’ve already put some marigolds on the dresser.’

‘Is the hen all right?’

‘It hasn’t escaped from the oven, if that’s what you—’

‘Ma! You know what I mean.’

‘Daisy!’ Her mother groaned aloud. ‘I
have
cooked a hen before! It’ll be all right. It will
all
be all right. This is just Steven Anders coming to share a meal with us. He’s not royalty or anything.’ Her voice softened. ‘This is just a friend of yours coming to meet us. He’ll get to know us and we’ll get to know him. I shall put extra butter in the carrots and add a pinch of nutmeg. I’ve covered the bird with bacon rashers and I’ve made some stuffing and I’ll do some nice thick gravy.’ She smiled. ‘It’s going to be fine . . . Let’s hope he has a hearty appetite.’

‘Ma?’

‘Now what?’

Daisy looked at her imploringly. ‘Suppose you don’t like him?’ The treacherous words burst from her.

Her mother shook her head. ‘So
that’s
what this is all about!’ She drew her daughter close and kissed the top of her head. ‘If you like him, I’ll like him. If you love him then I will love him for your sake!’ Slightly embarrassed by this show of affection, she added, ‘How’s that?’

Daisy clung to her, burying her face in her mother’s familiar apron but after a moment she emerged, smiling. ‘Thanks, Ma!’ she whispered. With an effort she returned to the job in hand and reached for the cruet which had been given to her parents as a wedding present and which stood in pride of place on the middle shelf of the dresser.

When the table was set to her satisfaction her mother sent her upstairs to get ready. Once in her bedroom Daisy kissed the pink velvet mouse, attacked her ginger curls with a hair brush and coaxed them into some kind of order before tying her hair back with a green ribbon. On went her best skirt and her green sprigged blouse and lastly her best shoes which were light brown leather with a single buttoned strap.

By the time the knocker sounded on the front door she had convinced herself that she looked reasonable and flew down the stairs to find her father opening the door to their visitor.

Looking rather awkward in his Sunday clothes, Tom shook hands with Steven and said, ‘The carrots are from the garden. I like to grow a few vegetables.’

Steven said, ‘Carrots? Oh yes, of course.’

‘We’ve got decent soil here.’

‘Right.’

Martha hurried from the kitchen looking a little flushed from the heat of the oven. ‘So you’re Steven. Come in, please, and make yourself at home. We don’t stand on ceremony.’

Daisy, speechless with excitement now the moment had arrived, simply smiled and nodded.

Steven said, ‘Hello, Daisy.’ To her father he said, ‘Where shall I leave my bicycle? Will it be safe out in the front?’

‘Best put it in the shed, lad,’ her father advised. ‘Come on. I’ll walk you round the side of the house with it and you can see the garden.’

‘Thanks. I’ve just got to get something first.’ He went outside and Tom, Martha and Daisy waited.

He reappeared a few moments later with a potted geranium for Daisy’s mother and a small bag of walnut fudge for Daisy.

Moments later, watching from the landing window, Daisy saw her father and Steven chatting in the garden and let out a sigh of relief. Her ma was right, she thought gratefully. It was going to be fine.

Albert opened his eyes next morning and blinked several times in an effort to clear his sight which was always worse first thing in the morning. He sat up and at once the familiar sense of dread filled him as thoughts of Stanley rushed into his mind. He glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes to nine!

‘Better get up, old son!’ he told himself. Smiling wryly, he remembered the sound of his father’s voice when Albert was around nine years old and the greeting was always the same. ‘Better get up, old son!’

Albert had had great respect for his father – a respect which he never lost. In those days it would have been seven o’clock on the dot and the maid would be hovering in the doorway with a jug of hot water, and his father would be pulling on his jacket, preparing to leave for his short walk to the office. Before he left the room he would ruffle Albert’s hair affectionately and say, ‘Be good for your mother.’ That was what Albert had expected when Monica produced their son – a respectful boy who would run down the hall to meet his father with a smile when he came home at the end of each day.

‘But that was then!’ he muttered and sighed.

Five minutes later, still in his nightshirt and dressing gown, he entered the kitchen. He gave a strangled cry as he jumped with fright. Stanley was sitting at the table and the pistol was resting on it.

‘Morning, Father! Nice surprise, eh? Your favourite son has popped in to say “hello”!’

Albert sat down quickly before his trembling legs gave way beneath him. ‘What . . . what do you want, Stanley?’ he asked, his voice hoarse, his heart beginning to thump uneasily.

‘I want to know if you’re pleased to see me, Father? Are you?’

‘I’d be more pleased if you hadn’t brought a gun with you!’ Albert felt rather proud of these words. They had taken a considerable amount of courage – but his son looked unimpressed. In fact he looked amused by his father’s attempt at a rebuke.

‘But you see, I feel safer with the gun. Less chance of you packing me off back to Ceylon to that man you considered a friend!’

‘He is . . . was a friend! We were at school together.’ In fact they had lost touch shortly after Stanley arrived at the plantation and, unwilling to deal with the possibility of bad news, Albert had secretly been relieved. ‘No news is good news, Monica!’ had been his mantra.

Stanley raised his eyebrows. ‘He was no friend to me!’

‘Maybe you behaved badly – the way you did at home.’ Now Albert desperately wanted to know what exactly
had
happened out in Ceylon but he was afraid to ask because that would mean facing up to an unpleasant truth. Maybe it was best that he did not learn the truth because it might be unbearable. He had managed to stifle his conscience over the intervening years and he now felt too old to cope with unpleasant revelations and consequent guilt.

Now he said, ‘We thought it for the best, Stanley. You know what you were like – quite unmanageable. Your poor mother was afraid of you, to be frank.’

‘And now
you’re
afraid of me! I like that!’

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Albert lied, ‘but I am fearful for you. I don’t know what sort of havoc you intend to create, apart from what you’ve already done. It was heartless to frighten your Aunt Dilys.’

Stanley shrugged. ‘Just her bad luck to be born a Pennington. We’ve not been blessed as a family, have we.’ It was not a question.

Albert regarded him with growing despair. ‘If you think I deserve to die then shoot me, Stanley, but you will pay for it with your own life and I should not care to have that on my conscience.’

‘On your conscience?’ The question was a sneer. ‘If I shoot you, you will be dead and will no longer have the luxury of a conscience!’

Albert shook his head. He wanted this encounter to end but he saw that it could only end one way and he felt obliged to make a last desperate attempt to justify his actions. ‘I’m truly sorry it turned out this way, Stanley. I thought that the discipline of life abroad would help you. I was at my wits’ end.’

‘That made two of us!’

‘I wanted to send you away to school earlier but Monica refused to even consider the idea.’

‘It seems that your one aim was to get rid of me. Out of sight, out of mind!’

‘No!’ cried Albert although he knew in his heart there was a germ of truth in Stanley’s interpretation. He stiffened as Stanley picked up the gun, studied it almost absently, then dropped it back on to the table. ‘But Mother thought I needed
understanding
,’ he reminded his father. ‘I heard her say so. She wanted me to see a doctor but you refused.’

‘I thought they might lock you up in a mental home!’

‘I expect they hoped to set my head to rights but you couldn’t face the shame, could you, Father? The humiliation! Friends and family whispering behind your back. Because you’re a weak man.’

‘I was strong enough to get my own way!’ Albert snapped. ‘Strong enough to send you away!’ He took a deep breath, regretting the harsh words. He must not let Stanley upset him, he told himself. He must stay calm and in control. Lowering his voice a little he said, ‘You must recall how you were at that time. Out of control and possibly dangerous. You fired an arrow through the neighbour’s window! Poor Mrs Gladwell. You might have killed her. No wonder she took against you. It’s a wonder she didn’t report you to the police, then and there.’

‘She shouldn’t have called me a hooligan.’

‘You broke a bough off her cherry tree!’

‘It was overhanging our garden! Mother asked her to trim it back but she refused.’

Albert sighed. ‘Monica thought you would end up in prison!’

‘I did end up in prison – but not in this country! But you don’t want to hear about my problems, do you, Father?’ He leaned forward. ‘But you have to, because here I am with no money and no home and no job – and with a gun which I intend to use . . . on my ever-loving father!’

Albert heard the words with a weary acceptance. He had somehow known for so many years that there would be what his son had called ‘a reckoning’. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he didn’t. But it was coming. Albert told himself he would not utter a word of pleading. He would not give Stanley that much satisfaction. He looked his son in the eye and said, ‘Go ahead. Do it. It might make you feel better to know that you have revenged yourself.’

‘Oh I will – go ahead, I mean! I don’t need your permission!’ He reached for the gun and levelled it at Albert’s head. ‘Head or heart?’ He said. ‘You can choose.’

‘Don’t play games, Stanley. It’s cheap!’ His voice shook but he kept his gaze fixed on his son’s face.

‘But that’s fitting, Father, because I am cheap. Dirty, starving, shabby, worthless. Can’t get cheaper than that!’ He glanced round the room. ‘Maybe you should kneel on the floor . . . or stand against the wall over there! Yes!’ He pointed with the gun. ‘On your feet, Father! Stand over there. And close your eyes.’

‘No! I won’t close my eyes! I need to see you pull the trigger!’ He stood unsteadily and stumbled forward to take his position against the wall, his arms held stiffly by his side. Please God, send me a heart attack! he begged silently. Then whatever happens, my son will not be hanged for murder!