More Tales of the West Riding (25 page)

“The very minute Ronnie enters this house I'll tell him. And then we shall see.”

She wound up the flex of the vacuum and put it angrily in the cupboard, dusted the furniture and replaced it exactly in the room.

It was now time for her midday meal, but after taking out a snack of bread and cheese, she suddenly threw it back into the cupboard, finding it. impossible to eat anything which belonged even partly to Lucy. Instead, she inserted Lucy's pound notes into her purse with hands that trembled with fury, put on her hat and coat, took down her shopper from the back of the door, and left the house. As she walked down the hill to the town she went over and over again in her mind the speech she meant to make to Ronnie.

“Your wife thinks your mother stole a pound note. What do you think of that?”

Her face was crimson, her heart pounded, every fibre of her body seethed with pain.

She began to make the required purchases with meticulous care, writing down the price of each in large angry figures, opposite the items in Lucy's list.

It was when she placed her first purchase in her striped shopper, her shopping bag, that a small qualm assailed her. With the second purchase the qualm was sharper. With the third it really hurt. With the fourth it was unbearable.

The qualms were the fault of the shopper. Ronnie had given her the striped shopper a week or two ago, to replace her old basket.

“Baskets are out, Mom,” he said, laughing. “You must keep up to date, you know. You must be with it. Nylon shoppers are all the go, nowadays. Seriously, Mom,” he added, spreading the shopper's plastic handles wide to show its capacity, “this will be easier for you. Less bumpy. Lighter. More flexible.”

Always such a good son, Ronnie. Thoughtful. Observant. All that about baskets being unfashionable at the moment was nonsense, of course. He had simply noticed that her basket was growing hairy and feeble, indeed had been mended with string. He wished to replace it without wounding her pride, without appearing to give her anything. Mrs Blacker emphatically did not want her son to be always giving her things, as if she were a poor relation. Mrs Blacker's independence was, she freely admitted, quite ferocious. Yes, Ronnie was kindness itself. He really loved his mother. He would be furious when he learned of his wife's accusation. He would be furious. Yes, he would be furious. His fresh, pleasant, happy face would change, would darken and sadden, would harden and chill. For the first time it occurred to Mrs Blacker to consider, not how she would feel, but how
Ronnie would feel, when he heard of his wife's accusation. A boy so sensitive to a decrepit basket obviously felt everything very strongly. The accusation would make him unhappy. When you came to think of it, he would never be quite as happy again. Of course he wouldn't believe Lucy's accusation for a moment, Mrs Blacker was sure of that. He had been through too much with his mother, knew her too well. But what would he think of the wife who had made such a charge? He would feel deeply grieved, even angry, bitterly disappointed in any case, to be unable to trust his wife to feel as he did. Yes, bitterly disappointed to be unable to trust his wife.

And was she really planning to destroy her son's happiness in this way? Did she really intend to introduce the worm of distrust into his heart?

All these years she had worked for him, cared for him; was she now to tarnish his married happiness? From disappointment it was but a step to resentment, to feeling estranged, misunderstood. Was Ronnie's mother to—No.

“No,” thought Mrs Blacker, closing the handles of the shopper firmly as the last parcel went in. “No. Certainly
not.”

“But Lucy'll tell him,” she thought as she toiled wearily up the hill. “She'll tell him tonight, when they're alone. Well, that's her look-out. If she does, she'll spoil their marriage. I won't, choose how.”

When she reached Ronnie's house, she found the lights on, the coke fire red hot (they were in a smokeless zone), the cups and saucers on the table, and Lucy putting on the kettle. Her daughter-in-law ran to her and took the striped nylon shopper quickly out of her hand. Mrs Blacker was panting a little.

“You haven't walked all the way up the hill with this heavy bag?” exclaimed Lucy reproachfully. Mrs Blacker nodded. “But why?”

“I never thought of the bus.”

Lucy exclaimed again—but rather artificially, Mrs Blacker thought.

“How can I warn her to say nothing about the pound note to Ronnie?” she wondered, emptying the shopper. “If I say anything, she'll think I'm pleading for myself.”

Anger rose in her again at this thought, and she glanced sharply at Lucy. To her surprise, her daughter-in-law's eyelids appeared reddened, as if she had been weeping. “Maybe she's troubled too,” thought Mrs Blacker.

“You're home early,” she said in a friendlier tone.

“I came straight from school,” said Lucy, mentioning the various out-of-school activities she had skipped. “I wanted to be home for Ronnie, in case he should catch an earlier train.”

“Ah,” said Mrs Blacker, nodding thoughtfully. “Now for it,” she told herself. “This is the best chance you'll get.” She summoned all her courage, raised her head, and gazing straight into Lucy's fine grey eyes, said meaningfully: “Ronnie.”

Into her glance, her tone, she threw everything she had ever felt or meant—Jim, Ronnie as a baby, a boy, a lad, a man, her love for him, her hopes and fears for his future, his need of silence. “Ronnie,” she said again.

“Ronnie,” repeated Lucy, returning the look.

Her voice was very soft.

An immense relief flooded through Mrs Blacker's whole body.

“She won't tell him. She believes it still and it will always be between us, and she'll put it between me and the children too, when they come. But never mind, she's conquered her anger and made up her mind not to tell, for Ronnie's sake. It won't spoil things for Ronnie.”

The two women were sitting over their cups of tea and trying to reduce their agitation to more normal level when
hasty steps sounded outside the house and Ronnie rushed into the room. He was flushed and laughing.

“Ronnie!” they both exclaimed.

“I've got it!”

“No!”

“Yes, yes indeed! It was my references, I expect—I don't know—the questions that selection committee asked—I thought they'd go on for ever. I saw the school in the morning—it's splendid, splendid! Quite new! Everything you could wish for the children! I've got it, I've got it!” cried Ronnie.

Seizing his wife in his arms, he danced her round the room, pulled his mother up from her chair and swung her round too.

“Your first application, Ronnie?” cried Lucy, admiring.

“Yes! What do you think of that? When I first got there my confidence was pretty low, I can tell you. There was a man—”

“Sit down and tell it all from the beginning, Ronnie,” urged Lucy.

“Yes, do, love—I'll get you something hot to eat,” said Mrs Blacker rising.

Popping back and forth between table and stove, Mrs Blacker heard scraps of narrative of the most encouraging description.

“It was no use trying to please them—I just said what I thought—new buildings—more than eight hundred kids—mixed, of course—very good drama work—lots of posts going in the town for you to choose from, Lucy.”

Mrs Blacker brought him sausages all a-sizzle, and he calmed a little and ate ravenously.

“Well, how have things been with you two today, girls?” he said at length.

This was like Ronnie; he was never one to focus all interest on himself.

There was a pause.

“Oh, just as usual,” said Lucy quietly.

“As usual,” repeated Mrs Blacker.

“Good.”

“Have some more sausages, Ronnie,” urged his mother, rising and stretching out her hand for his plate. “There's plenty in the house, I bought two pounds this afternoon.”

“Well! I think I will,” said Ronnie, laughing and passing his empty plate. “Oh, by the way—that reminds me.” He reached into his pocket. “Here's the pound note I took out of your drawer this morning, Lucy. I thought I might need it for taxi transport, but I didn't. The school was quite near the station, so I walked. No time to tell you, this morning. I only just caught the train.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy in a casual tone.

She took the note and placed it in safety beneath her saucer. Then looking up at Mrs Blacker with a strange glowing expression of mingled love and remorse, she took her mother-in-law's outstretched hand between her own, and gently kissed its wedding ring.

“You're a good girl, Lucy,” said Mrs Blacker.

“You're both good girls,” said Ronnie happily. In point of fact, they were all good people.

Phyllis Bentley was born in 1894 in Halifax, West Yorkshire, where she was educated until she attended Cheltenham Ladies College, Gloucestershire.

In 1932 her best-known work,
Inheritance
, was published to widespread critical acclaim and commercial success. This was in contrast to her previous efforts, a collection of short stories entitled
The World's Bane
and several poor-selling novels. The triumph of
Inheritance
made her the most successful English regional novelist since Thomas Hardy, and she produced two more novels to create a trilogy;
The Rise of Henry Morcar
and
A Man of His Time
. This accomplishment made her a much demanded speaker and she became an expert on the Brontë family.

Over her career Bentley garnered many awards; an honorary DLitt from Leeds University (1949); a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (1958); awarded an OBE (1970). She died in 1977.

Discover books by Phyllis Bentley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/PhyllisBentley

A Man of His Time
A Modern Tragedy
Crescendo
Gold Pieces
Inheritance
Love and Money
More Tales of the West Riding
Noble in Reason
Ring in the New
Sleep in Peace
Tales of the West Riding
Take Courage
The Adventures of Tom Leigh
The Partnership
The Rise of Henry Morcar

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain 1974 by Victor Gollancz Ltd

Copyright © 1974 Phyllis Bentley

All rights reserved
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The moral right of the author is asserted.

eISBN: 9781448214068

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© 1968 Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.