The September Girls (9 page)

There were noises outside and she swung her legs out of bed and went over to the window. It had snowed a little during the night and a crowd of people were walking past: a man and woman and half a dozen children carrying brightly wrapped parcels, all looking incredibly happy and singing as they went: ‘Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head . . .’

‘. . . The stars in the bright sky, looked down where he lay,’ Eleanor sang softly, her face resting against the velvet curtains, ‘the little lord Jesus, asleep in the hay.’

‘Ah! You’re awake, I see,’ a voice said from the door, ‘
and
on your feet. There’s a turn-up for the books.’

‘Marcus!’ She turned swiftly, stumbling in her haste. ‘You didn’t knock,’ she said accusingly.

‘You’re my wife, Eleanor. I didn’t see the need to knock.’

‘Where’s Nurse Hutton?’

‘Looking after our daughter, perhaps, seeing as her mother has no idea how to do it.’ His lip curled like an actor in a film. She half expected him to caress the points of his moustache and leer. He was immaculately dressed in a dark-grey suit with a faint stripe, grey silk waistcoat and snow-white shirt. Ruby cufflinks glinted on his wrists and his tie was secured with a matching pin - they’d been her mother’s gift to her father on their wedding day. The recollection made her want to weep.

‘I’ve been unwell, Marcus,’ she stammered.

‘But now you seem much better. I think I could hear you singing when I came in. I take it we can expect you down to dinner? The Manns and a chap called Thomas Percival are coming.’

‘Thomas Percival? You mean Uncle Thomas.’ She felt both delighted and surprised. ‘I thought he was in India?’

‘Well, now it would appear he’s back,’ Marcus said shortly. ‘He rang the other day and virtually invited himself, said he was an old friend of the family.’

‘He and Daddy were best men at each other’s weddings. We always used to have Christmas dinner together until he lost wife and daughter on the
Titanic
and went to live abroad.’

Marcus shrugged, disinterested. ‘Perhaps you might care to go down to the kitchen and see how the meal is progressing?’

‘I will when I’m dressed.’

He left and her shoulders sagged with relief. She went over to the wardrobe and took out a plain morning dress - she’d change into something grander for dinner. In the small bathroom that adjoined her room, she washed and examined her face in the mirror: skin like wax and completely colourless due to the lack of fresh air and sunshine. And her thick, pale-brown hair was limp and lifeless, yet there’d been a time when everyone used to tell her how pretty she was.

She exhausted herself by giving her hair a good brushing and had to sit on the edge of the bath, breathless from the effort. As soon as Christmas was over, she’d go to Frederick & Hughes and get her hair cut, one of those new, short styles that were all the rage, and buy a frock, the very latest fashion, with a daring calf-length skirt.

But what was the point? What was the point of
anything
when she was married to Marcus who made her so unhappy all the time? It didn’t matter in the slightest how she looked or even if she was the prettiest woman alive. She might as well take to her bed and stay there for the rest of her life.

 

Nancy had gone to Rochdale to stay with her father and wouldn’t be back until the day after Boxing Day. Eleanor hadn’t seen much of Nancy since Sybil was born. Nurse Hutton would frown and sniff disapprovingly whenever the housekeeper came into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the patient’s bed ‘ready for a natter’, as Nancy called it.

‘Mrs Allardyce isn’t very well today, Miss Gates’ or ‘Mrs Allardyce has just taken a pill and needs her sleep,’ the nurse would say, and Nancy would make a face that only Eleanor could see, and leave. Some nights, she’d slip upstairs while Sybil was being bathed and they’d have a little chat. Nancy had told her all about Brenna Caffrey whom she’d befriended.

Phyllis’s sister, Gladys, filled in when Nancy was away. When Eleanor went into the kitchen, the smell of roasting turkey made her feel slightly nauseous - in her younger days she’d used to love Christmas smells, particularly mince pies. Today, she wasn’t sure if she could face one, or even the dinner itself, with memories surfacing of old festive dinners when her father was alive and had invited loads of guests, not just the Percivals. She could only faintly recall her mother who had died when she was four and Nancy had taken her place.

‘Good morning, Mrs Allardyce,’ Gladys said sourly. She was a tall woman with an unnaturally long face and iron-grey hair, the stiff waves kept in place under a hairnet. Like her sister, she rarely smiled.

‘Good morning, Gladys. How are you getting on?’ Oh, she was useless with servants, didn’t know how to be firm. Marcus accused her of treating them as equals. ‘There’s no need to say “please” or “thank you” to someone whose wages I pay,’ he’d thundered once, and had told her not to be stupid when she’d replied it didn’t hurt to be polite. Daddy, a self-made man who had known what it was like to be poor, had always made friends with the servants. He didn’t care if his daughter spent time in the kitchen helping Nancy prepare the food.

‘Well, Miss Gates left everything ready,’ Gladys admitted reluctantly, as though she’d sooner claim all the credit for herself. ‘The turkey was already stuffed and the pudding made. There hasn’t been much more to do than prepare the veg. Our Phyllis is giving the dining room a last dust over before she sets the table. She’ll be back in a minute to give us a hand.’

‘Good,’ Eleanor said awkwardly. It would seem the household could run smoothly without her.

She wandered back upstairs. The house seemed smaller than it used to be, and darker, the shadowy corners hinting at menaces unknown. It was also far too warm: Marcus badly felt the cold and insisted on huge fires in his bedroom and all the downstairs rooms. Dare she escape and go for a walk? She longed for the feeling of cold air on her cheeks, but Marcus was bound to find something wrong: she was neglecting her duties, neglecting her children, neglecting
him
, as if he were keen on having her company.

Talking of children! Eleanor steeled herself and opened the door of Anthony’s room. He looked up immediately, his face, as usual, vacant of expression. His lovely golden eyes were always the first things that met her whenever she went in. He was sitting at the desk that he himself had turned to face the door - originally, it had been placed against the wall. He was the most beautiful child, rosy-cheeked with butter-blond hair and skin as smooth as an angel. In the summer, when he’d turned five, Marcus had insisted he go to school and had carried the child, screaming, out of the house that he was terrified of leaving, into the Wolsley, and taken him to see the headmaster of the small, private establishment that Marcus had attended himself. An hour later, they were back.

‘They won’t have him,’ Marcus snarled when Eleanor asked what had happened. Anthony had scampered like an animal upstairs. ‘The head didn’t put it into words, but he obviously thinks the boy isn’t right in the head.’

‘We’ve always known he was - different, Marcus,’ Eleanor said carefully.

‘Different’s one thing, being a bloody lunatic’s something else. What’s going to happen now? Will the boy stay in his room for the rest of his life?’ He stamped into his study and was in a filthy mood for the rest of the day.

‘Happy Christmas, darling,’ she said now when she encountered Anthony’s golden eyes. ‘Would you like to come downstairs later? We have some lovely presents for you.’

The child just grunted something unintelligible and bent over the desk. Eleanor approached and gasped. ‘Oh, what a beautiful painting!’

It was the scene from his window at dusk. The dark sky slashed with brilliant dashes of orange and purple, and houses opposite barely visible in the shadows, a smudge of yellow indicating the position of the windows. Gas lamps shone hazily in the passage below. The perspective, difficult from such an awkward angle, was perfect. She’d always found it hard to believe there could be something wrong with a child who was such a brilliant artist. Even when he was younger, he had impressed people with his crayon drawings. He could walk at twelve months, was physically strong, ate well and adored his picture books. Once shown, he could do anything: wash and dress himself, ride his little three-wheeler bike in the hall downstairs, play with his train set, even tie his laces, which Nancy said was remarkable for someone so young. So how could he possibly be a ‘bloody lunatic’, as Marcus claimed?

She stroked his head, but he didn’t move, just continued painting, adding dashes of grey to the sky that had looked perfect before, but now looked even more so. He never responded to her, to anyone’s, touch. He’d never kissed her, put his chubby little arms around her neck, said mummy or daddy. Indeed, he’d never spoken a word that could be understood: just made funny, strangled noises that didn’t make sense. He was remarkably self-reliant and never seemed to need company, just wanted to be left alone with his paints and books and toys. He even ate in his room: tasty little meals prepared by Nancy who thought the world of him. Eleanor always sensed her presence was unwelcome and he was wishing she would leave.

Dr Langdon had examined him several times and judged him a slow learner, but could offer no explanation as to why Anthony was good at so many things. ‘It’ll all come right eventually,’ he usually said, rather patronizingly, Eleanor thought.

She came out of Anthony’s room and stood at the top of the stairs. All of a sudden, her head felt as light as air and there was buzzing between her ears. Somewhere in the house was her husband: unapproachable, unfriendly, hating her. Her son was unlike other children, an oddity, and she had no idea what would become of him. Another woman was looking after the daughter she’d been too ill to look after herself. Eleanor’s feet edged forward until only the heels were touching the top stair. It was Christmas Day, but there was no gaiety, no merriment in the house and, visualising the long years ahead, she couldn’t imagine any change. This was how it would always be and she couldn’t stand it any more. She swayed and the stairs, magnified and threatening, loomed up to meet her. She imagined tumbling down, head cracking, limbs snapping, and lying in a broken heap at the bottom, hopefully dead or, if not, terribly injured.

Somewhere, a door opened, and a horrified voice, Nurse Hutton’s, gasped, ‘
Mrs Allardyce
!’

Eleanor grabbed the banisters, just in time. There must be a better way out.

 

Nancy was back when Eleanor went down to the kitchen the day after Boxing Day. A fire roared in the grate, the kettle was on the stove and she was standing in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, looking annoyed. ‘That Gladys,’ she complained, ‘always leaves things in the wrong place. Where’s the roasting tin, I’d like to know?’

‘Why do you want the roasting tin now?’ Eleanor enquired.

‘I don’t. I just want to know where it
is
.’ She opened the oven door. ‘Here it is! Silly woman, it should go under the sink.’ She put the tin in its proper place. ‘You look well,’ she remarked, glancing at Eleanor’s smiling face. ‘It’s nice to see you up and about again. How did Christmas go? Sit down, pet. I was just about to make a cuppa.’

Eleanor seated herself at the table on the same chair in the same spot - at the end nearest the fire - where she’d sat for as long as she could remember. She felt a glow of familiarity: she’d badly missed her little chats with Nancy. ‘Dinner was nice - but not as nice as it would have been if you’d made it,’ she added hastily. ‘Uncle Thomas came and brought me the most beautiful shawl - do you remember him?’

‘Of course I remember Uncle Thomas. He was your dad’s best friend. I thought he lived in India.’

‘He does, but he’s back in England for a month, mixing business with pleasure. He’s staying at the Adelphi for a few days before going to London, and has invited us to tea this afternoon at three o’clock.’

‘Us?’ Nancy raised her thick eyebrows.

‘Us,’ Eleanor said firmly. ‘You and me. He was upset you weren’t here. He looks upon you as part of the family. Oh, and he brought Anthony a lovely clockwork toy that he’s played with ever since. And Marcus had invited an American couple, the Manns, to dinner. They’re on a three-month tour of Europe and Marcus is hoping Mr Mann will buy brake and clutch linings from the factory for his car plant in Pennsylvania. They have three children, all grown up, and Mrs Mann said that she was in bed for six months after the first: twice as long as me. She was anaemic, whatever that means.’ Eleanor had felt quite smug at the time. It would seem she wasn’t the only woman in the world who took to her bed after having a baby. ‘Anyway, the meal went very well, much better than I’d expected.’

‘What did you do yesterday?’ Nancy sat down and shoved a cup of tea and the sugar bowl in her direction.

‘Marcus spent all afternoon in his club. There was a chess tournament or something followed by a dinner - men only - so Nurse Hutton and I took Sybil for a walk. Anthony wouldn’t come with us. When we got home Gladys and Phyllis had gone, so we made ourselves tea and ate down here. I quite enjoyed myself.’ She could tell by Nancy’s face that the inference she had enjoyed herself because Marcus wasn’t there hadn’t gone unrecognized. They never discussed him. Eleanor never complained and Nancy never criticized, although it was obvious she disliked him. ‘I missed you, Nancy,’ she said warmly.

‘And I missed you, pet. I kept thinking about you all the time.’

‘How’s your father?’ she asked politely.

‘Old and curmudgeonly.’ Nancy grimaced. ‘The neighbours came on Christmas Day and we had a singsong. Yesterday, we went to a whist drive and he won a basket of fruit. Soon as we got home, he ate the whole damn lot and spent the night in the lavvy at the bottom of the yard. He was still there when I left, silly old sod.’ She smiled affectionately all the same. ‘Do you mind if I do something light for lunch, like cold turkey, pickle and bread and butter? I’d like to pop round and see how Brenna’s getting on before we set off for the Adelphi. I didn’t have a chance to tell you before, but she’s got a house, a lovely little end terrace in Shaw Street and her husband’s got a job at last. I bet they had a real, rip-roaring Christmas over there.’