Wishing Water (39 page)

Meg gazed in wonder at this girl who she’d always loved as if she were her own, even though she’d fought against it at first, fearing it would hurt too much when Kath returned and reclaimed her. In the end she’d dug her heels in, and, rightly or wrongly, had kept her. ‘You’re right. It has taken you a long time.’
 

Lissa swallowed. ‘Have I left it too late? For us to be friends, I mean?’
 

Meg felt her heart swell with happiness and pride. ‘No, my bonny lass. Never too late. I’ve picked up and started again more times than I care to count. It’s the way of the world between mothers and daughters. It’s what binds us together. It’s called love.’
 

Then Lissa was putting her arms about Meg and they were hugging and laughing and crying together, wiping each other’s tears away, drawing closer than they ever had before.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Meg said, patting Lissa’s back as if she were a small child again. ‘You’ll see. It’ll be all right. Never say die, eh?’
 

And somehow Lissa knew that it would be. She did have the love of a mother. She’d had it all along and never realised.

The winter following was long and cold and filled with a million pinpricks of frustration. Lissa longed to spend every spare moment in the shop. She wanted to make frequent trips to wholesalers to buy stock, but was afraid to arouse Philip’s curiosity.

Hilary’s committee and voluntary work proved to be the perfect alibi.
If Philip believed her to be thoroughly involved with charity, the less suspicious he’d be of
how she spent her time. Even so, Lissa was made constantly aware that he kept a close watch on her activities, his dark eyes often fixed upon her with disappointment and concern.

‘I may wish to keep in Don Cheyney’s good books, but you mustn’t overdo it, my sweet. I need my wife at home.’
 

Lissa wheeled the library trolley around the wards of the Cottage Hospital. She attended at least two coffee mornings a week for some charity or other, and her expertise at pricing bric-a-brac for a jumble sale became legendary. And in between, she dashed down to work in the shop, or to see a supplier. The feeling that she walked a tight rope grew with each passing day.

Philip must not discover her secret until she was ready. And that couldn’t happen until she had proved the business to be a success and secured independence for herself and her children.

The twins were her delight, her joy. It was as much for them that she worked so hard, and planned with such care. It was for their sake that she still occupied his bed each night.

Philip was stern and firm, but did not ill treat them. What kind of father he would be when they began to show a will of their own, however, when they in turn became rebellious adolescents, she dare not imagine. He may be all outward gloss and charm but beneath lay a determination to control and use people on a whim, with no thought for the consequences. Would there be room for them to grow in this house?

Beth and Sarah were babies still, only four years old. Philip loved to see them dressed in their pretty frocks and shiny shoes, with ribbons in well-brushed hair. He loathed sticky fingers and grubby knees, washing soaking in a pail, toys in the living room, or even to find them not in bed when he arrived home from work. He did not see them as real children, but as pretty toys to decorate his beautiful home, and prove what a fine chap he was.

He expected the same high standards of her. ‘You are learning to manage so much better,’ he told Lissa, fondly patting her cheek as if she were a pretty child.

She managed by getting up at dawn. By the time Philip had showered and come downstairs to eat the breakfast she’d cooked, Lissa had cleaned through the ground floor rooms. After breakfast she played with the twins for a while, then hurried to meet Renee at the shop where they were in the process of scouring, scrubbing, cleaning and redecorating. At the end of each session she had to make sure that she left not a scrap of paint on herself.

In the afternoons she fulfilled her voluntary work obligations and later, after she got home, worn out and ready to drop, she would smile at her darling babies, freshen herself with a quick sip of tea and then take them for a walk by the lake or to play in the park. It was the best part of her day, The only time she dared relax. Then it was back to the house and the strain of continuous deceit

But Lissa had not taken into account how exhausting subterfuge could be. And the girls were no longer babies and growing increasingly demanding.

‘You bath us tonight, Mummy.’

‘Make French toast for tea.’

‘I want pancakes.’

‘Read us another story.’
 

‘Play jig-saws, Mummy.’

‘Want a drink of water.’
 

Even when she had handed them over to stiff-backed Nanny Sue, Lissa must rush about giving the bedrooms a sketchy dust, and twice a week run round with the vacuum cleaner. Then there was still the evening meal to prepare, herself to make beautiful with Philip’s bath run and his drink poured. Just as if she had been there all day, waiting for him to come home.

It was all too much and the strain began to tell. She forgot to eat, lost weight, got too tired to sleep, fell prone to constant colds and infections. And was sure that Philip watched her with his keen, inscrutable gaze.

Sometimes she took risks, cut corners by hiding dirty laundry in cupboards, resorted to tinned soups and sliced bread though she knew he hated both and would give her a long lecture on good housekeeping. But Lissa scented freedom and had no intention of letting anything stand in her way. This was the sixties, for God’s sake, time for women to make a stand. And one day she would summon the courage to face him with her plans, she really would.

Her one relief was that he made surprisingly few demands on her sexually. Lissa decided it must be pressure of work as he often seemed preoccupied with concerns of his own. Sometimes he sat up for hours in his study, working at his desk. Such nights were bliss for she could stretch out in the wide bed and catch up on some much needed sleep, undisturbed.

But one evening she felt so ill from the tension and exhaustion that she tried one more appeal to improve her situation.

‘I did wonder, Philip, about employing a cleaner? It’s such a big house and I don’t seem to have the same time for it, now I’m doing so much voluntary work with Hilary.’

‘I do believe you have forgotten my gin and tonic.’
 

‘Goodness, I’m sorry.’ Rushing to pour it out, afraid of any little slip that would make him investigate her life too closely. ‘And the twins are so much more demanding these days. I thought perhaps if I had a little more help? Not a whole battery of servants as Mrs Fraser had, but one woman would be a help.’
 

He looked up at her sharply. ‘What do you know of Mrs Fraser?’
 

‘I met her once. Didn’t I tell you? At The Birches nursing home when I was standing in for Hilary.’
 

‘She told you about her servants?’ He sounded so startled that Lissa had to laugh.

‘She told me about her darling papa and her beloved Charles. Poor old lady, mind quite gone.’
 

He was frowning at her again, dark eyes narrowed with displeasure. ‘You do too much.’ The telephone rang and he went to answer it. ‘It’s for you.’ He sounded surprised, as if she had no right to have telephone calls.

‘Who was it?’ he asked when she returned, flushed and trying not to look as if she wanted to rush off and solve this latest problem which had arisen.

‘Only Renee, asking how I am.’

‘You’re not still seeing that foolish girl?’
 

‘Haven’t seen her for ages,’ Lissa lied. ‘That’s probably why she rang. To see how I was.’
 

All business calls were directed to Nab Cottage but there were times when Renee felt the need to call her at home if some emergency had cropped up. As now, with a firm having difficulties with a delivery date. Even so, Lissa decided she must speak to Renee, ask her not to take the risk again.

Dark eyes were considering her, as if trying to read the thoughts in her head. In the ensuing silence Lissa could hear her heartbeat, loud and hard rattling against her breastbone.

‘Ice?’ Philip asked, making her jump.
 

‘What?’
 

He waved his glass at her. ‘Will you fetch it or do I have to do it myself?’

She did not raise the subject of a cleaner again.

Chapter Twenty

1964

Life wasn’t running too smoothly at Nab Cottage either. Renee’s two menfolk were not hitting it off at all well and she was beginning to feel more like a referee at a cock fight than a wife and landlady.

‘I can’t stop here arguing with you two. I’ll be late for work.’
 

‘I’m waiting for him to tell me if it’s true,’ Jimmy roared, waving the newspaper in Andrew Spencer’s face. ‘Does the Water Board mean to flood Winster valley or not?’
 

The Manchester man dabbed at his mouth, buttered a second slice of bread to accompany his last slice of bacon and seemed to consider whether or not to answer the question. ‘I’m not the person to ask. Most folk seem to know more about what’s going on than I do, certainly the local paper thinks so.’
 

‘Then it’s just another rumour?’
 

‘There’ve been so many.’ He waved the bread about, almost apologetically. ‘We must have more water, you can’t ignore the fact. And Manchester Water Board aren’t all bad. Look how they built a school for the children of the workers on Thirlmere.’ He laid the bacon on the slice of bread and bit into it.

Jimmy looked stunned, his face turning dark purple. ‘That was last century. What’s it got to do with things as they are now?’
 

‘I’m pointing out that the Board do try to be reasonable and considerate.’
 

‘Like hell they do!’

Renee touched her husband’s arm. ‘Calm down, Jimmy lad. Don’t get so worked up.’
 

‘Worked up? Manchester Water Board is God’s gift to hear this chap talk. They threaten to ruin the boating and the tourist industry, put a reservoir in one of Lakeland’s loveliest little valleys, right in the middle of the National Park, and you tell me to calm
down?’
 

‘The engineers are very skilled. They’ve already built underground aqueducts from Haweswater by way of the Marsdale tunnel to the Stockdale siphon in Longsleddale and then on to Garnett Bridge. As well as the Winster reservoir, they hope to build a brand new conduit right through Longsleddale till they can carry all the Lakeland water they need, by gravity, right to the Manchester taps. A wonderful feat of engineering,’ Andrew Spencer proudly announced, as if he were responsible for building it with his own hands.

‘And ruin another dale in the process?’
 

‘It’s called progress. The Electricity Board have put many of their cables underground to reach the farms in those dales, haven’t they? There’ll be little sign of the aqueduct, once it’s built, though admittedly it’ll take a few years and there’ll be pumping stations, that sort of thing, but all the concrete will be underground.’
 

‘Ruining the land,’ growled Jimmy. ‘If you think we believe you can hide all your mess, then you must think we’re daft.’
 

‘You’d imagine, wouldn’t you,’ Renee said, ‘that if man can fly to the moon, he could make better pumps on the tunnels you do have? To make more water come through, I mean.’
 

They both looked at her in surprise. ‘Aye, she’s got a point there.’
 

‘I really couldn’t say.’
 

‘So is it Winster or somewhere else you’re after? Good farming land. Just so industry can take hundreds of millions of gallons of water that’s too good for them in the first place!’

Andrew Spencer wagged his sandwich. ‘Now you are quoting rumour again.’
 

‘Then why don’t you tell us what you’re really up to, and put an end to rumour?’
 

‘Because decisions have not yet been made.’ Looking more pompous than ever as he lifted the sandwich to his mouth.

Jimmy snatched it from him, leaving his mouth hanging open in mid-bite. If Jimmy hadn’t been so fired up, Renee might have roared with laughter at the man’s shocked expression. Wisely, she kept quiet.

‘Come to my next meeting. You’ll hear more then.’ The water consultant closed his mouth, eyes still riveted on the sandwich.

‘Happen I will,’ said Jimmy. ‘There are other ways. Desalination of sea water for one, the Morecambe Barrage scheme for another.’

‘Ah, but are they economic? Are they viable? It’s my job to consider all sides of the case.’
 

‘And money is more important than land, and people?’
 

‘Everything must be taken into account. I do listen to everyone’ point of view, Mr Colwith, but it is only my job to suggest a suitable site. I leave arguing on policy to the politicians. I haven’t put in my final report yet, but when I do, it will be when all relevant factors have been considered. We all have our own personal problems. I for one have a sick mother to consider, requiring day long care. It’s human nature to want to do what’s in our own interests in the end.’ Then retrieving the sandwich, he filled his mouth with bacon and bread, as if afraid he might have said too much.