She went inside, set the kettle on the fire. There was more than that to it, she thought as she lowered her bones into a chair. It was something to do with his dead brother, something very sad. This place was Tom’s birthright, yet he seemed to hate it with a passion he had never shown before. He was mild mannered, sensible and kind. But in this beautiful part of the world, a memory plagued him, made his eyes dark and his soul uneasy.
She dozed off, slept till Sally came home.
‘You should stay here for ever, Granny Ivy,’ said the child in the grass-stained frock.
‘Why? And where’ve you been to get so mucky?’
‘In the fields with a girl from school. You look a lot better than you did at home.’
‘Don’t change the subject till you’ve changed your frock and put that one in soak. And Rosie’s coming down with Ollie. He’s gone funny.’
Sally bit into a red apple, looked at her grandmother with large and innocent eyes. ‘He’s never made me laugh,’ she said.
‘Not that sort of funny, Sal.’
‘Oh.’ Sally chewed, swallowed, considered all she remembered about the folk next door. ‘He’s always been the other sort of funny, Gran.’
‘I know. But he’s worse.’
Sally grinned. ‘This place will put him right,’ she declared happily. ‘It’s put you right, hasn’t it?’
‘Get that frock in soak, lady.’
‘Right, Gran.’
Tom marched through the corridors of the Bolton Infirmary, a large bunch of summer flowers clutched in a damp hand. He was nervous, easily as scared as he had been before sending ‘his’ boys on a mission. A bomb was going to be dropped in the next few minutes. Having piloted a fighter, he was less than thoroughly conversant with the positioning of larger missiles.
He stood at the door of a ward, waited with ten or twelve others who were visiting the sick. They were an impatient lot, moaning about the delay, shuffling their feet, fidgeting. But none of them had come to offer a diamond to a woman who wouldn’t be able to wear it until burns had mended. He needed this time, needed to stand still and be calm until the sweat on his brow had evaporated . . . ‘Mr Goodfellow?’
Tom looked over his shoulder, saw Lottie Crumpsall’s dreadful sister. ‘Mrs Simpson?’
She nodded, allowing him a better view of hair streaked with many shades of brown. ‘I’m going to see my Bert. He’s got a terrible stomach. Doctor told him he’s digging his grave with his teeth, you know. Ulcers, I think.’
A reply was expected. ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Mason.’
‘Aye,’ she said, her tone softer. ‘Terrible thing, that were. They lost the whole shop, you know. My husband were very upset with it. That’s what started his stomach off, when he heard about that Irishwoman getting burnt. I’ve not seen him in this state since the war finished.’
Tom suddenly saw the woman in a different light. She was ill-dressed, heavily made-up, but she seemed softer, gentler than the female who had come to ‘snatch’ Sally. ‘I do hope your husband will recover, Mrs Simpson.’
‘So do I.’ She shuffled nearer to Tom, placed her mouth near his ear. ‘Is our Sally all right? She’d never let me visit, you know. Our Lottie, I mean. It’s not like I weren’t interested, only our Lottie never spoke to me for years. Then that letter come out of the blue, like.’
Immediately, Tom was on his mettle. ‘I presume she is well enough.’
‘And her gran?’
‘Again, I have heard nothing to the contrary.’
Gert pulled herself up to full height. ‘Just make sure they stay that way,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t forget, I’m that little girl’s auntie and I mean her no harm.’ Worthington just wanted the Simpsons to get the kiddy away from Ivy, but Gert was convinced that her own motives were more honest. ‘And watch out for Worthington,’ she added.
Before Tom could stop her, Gert was clattering up the corridor with her bag of apples.
Tom was borne on a tide of humanity into the ward that contained Maureen. He passed several beds, recognized none of the occupants. Well, that was a good sign. Sicker people were stored nearer to the sister’s office and nearer to the door in case they needed wheeling out for treatment or for . . . for cold storage.
She was in the last bed on the left, her beautiful black hair uneven and patchy against a mound of pillows. He smiled encouragingly, kept his eyes averted from bandaged hands the size of footballs. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I brought you some flowers.’
Maureen looked at him steadily. He had come out of pity, no doubt. No-one could possibly take an interest in a woman with burnt hair. And no member of the gentry would allow himself to love a poor Irish girl who was no longer a girl.
‘Shall I leave them here?’ He waved the spray of carnations and long-stemmed roses, pointed to her locker.
‘Yes.’
He found a chair, drew it near to the bed, wished that he could hold her close and tell her that she was beautiful.
‘Tell everyone my hands are all right, will you? It’s just the top layer of skin that got damaged.’ She waved the unwieldly wrappings. ‘A precautionary measure, they said. To stop infection.’ After a pause, she went on, ‘My hair is burnt at the back. I’ll have to get it cut.’ As if this were the final straw, she burst into tears. ‘It’s vanity, I know that for certain sure. But I’ve had long hair since I was a child.’
‘Short will suit you,’ he told her. ‘Don’t cry, Maureen. Please don’t cry. Your hair will curl if you have it shortened.’ He didn’t know where to start, whether to start. But he had to start in order to finish, and he had to finish because he was taking the Blunts back to Hampshire soon and—
‘Why did you come?’ she asked, a padded hand mopping up the tears.
‘To see you. To visit the Heilbergs and to take Rosie and Ollie back to Hampshire. Ivy ordered me to take them, because I refused to bring her with me, you see.’ He paused, licked drying lips. ‘It’s important that no-one finds out where Sally and Ivy are. Mrs Simpson and her husband wanted Sally and—’
‘And they’re working for Worthington. I hear they’ve a cottage near Worthington House.’
Tom sat awhile and allowed the light to dawn fully in his mind. Bert Simpson was in a ward just along the corridor. He had become ill after hearing about Maureen’s plight. Bert Simpson worked for Worthington. Worthington, having failed to acquire the recreation ground during the war, would go to any lengths to hurt Joseph Heilberg. The same man wanted to damage Ivy, too. ‘My God,’ said Tom.
‘What? What is it?’
He sat bolt upright. ‘The face you saw – could it have belonged to Bert Simpson?’
She pondered. ‘It could have been the devil himself, because it all happened at the speed of lightning. No, no, I’ll never be sure. Staring eyes.’
‘Bulging? Like Andrew Worthington’s?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
No, it wouldn’t have been the mill owner. Tom was convinced that Worthington had paid someone else, a man of poor character who needed money. ‘We’ll talk about other things,’ he told Maureen. He looked over his shoulder, made sure that no-one else was listening. ‘I had to see you.’ The words sounded clumsy. ‘I just had to come.’
‘Why?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘I missed you.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart was pounding like the big bass drum at a brass band concert. ‘It was . . . quiet with you and the Crumpsalls gone,’ she said. ‘And without the noise of the birds.’
‘But your washing should be cleaner.’
‘Yes.’
She was going to be no help at all. He couldn’t go down on one knee, not in a hospital. Apart from anything else, his leg was playing up again. And he couldn’t offer her an engagement ring while her hands were mummified. ‘You know about my title?’
‘Yes.’ She scoured her mind for something intelligent to say, came up with nothing.
‘I don’t want it. I never wanted it, Maureen. Since the Great War, I’ve seen very little of the ancestral home and its occupants. But my older brother died, you see. There’s a sister – she is older, too. Anyway, I am left with the house, the farms, the tenants and the livestock. First, I must find Patricia.’
‘Your sister?’ At last, she had managed two words.
‘In Africa. I shall ignore the title and revert to the old family name – Marchant. Then, if Patricia agrees, Goodfellow Hall will become Marchant House, and that will be used as an orphanage.’ His mind took a brief detour, wondered whether Goodfellow Hall might sound more cheerful, welcoming. Perhaps the silly name could serve a purpose after all.
She smiled at him. ‘You always were a good man, Tom.’
Tom got up, walked to a window at the side of Maureen’s bed, looked down into the hospital grounds. ‘Not good enough for my father, I’m afraid. My father was not unlike Andrew Worthington. He saw what he wanted, took what he wanted and made few apologies. Jonathan was the same.’
‘Oh.’ Maureen was back to monosyllables. She pushed herself to say more. ‘Sit down, please. My neck is aching from twisting to look at you.’
He sat, touched a bandaged hand. ‘Are you in pain?’
‘No. The burns looked worse than they actually were, and my coverings come off later today.’ She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to see those scarred fingers ever again. ‘It’s my own stupid fault,’ she added. ‘Instead of running out, I think I picked up a doll and a statue and put them on the counter. Then I must have collapsed and been carried outside. I even sent the ambulance man and a fireman back into the shop for those things. Would you ever believe that, now? There were those poor men risking life and limb for a couple of broken items.’ She sniffed back another tear. ‘My hands got a bit scorched. And my hair is frizzled. However, I’ll know the worst this afternoon, though everyone’s sure that my hands will heal in time.’
‘Then I shall come back this evening.’
Maureen studied him closely. ‘The thing you have to speak of is best dealt with now. You’re like a cat on a hotplate, so get it done with.’
He thought for a moment, wondered whether either of them was ready for the sombre tale. But he was here, had come here to talk, so he must get the whole thing straight before returning south. ‘After the Great War, I went up to Oxford. When I was on leave at the end of one term, I returned home. Often, I stayed with friends or at college, because I could not bear to share space with my father.’
She nodded. ‘Isn’t that often the case? You grow up with your parents and you love them. But when you become an adult, then you see them in a different light altogether:’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I always detested my father, Maureen. My mother died young because of his philandering. It was her money that allowed me to break free. After years of gambling and roaming about, I came to Bolton intending to study, then to publish a thesis and gain my doctorate. Instead, I diverted in to pigeons.’
She laughed out loud. ‘Well, you won some prizes.’
‘Yes.’ It was his turn to search for words now. ‘I went home that one time many years before living in Bolton, found that my brother was in the same mould as my father. He . . . Jonathan attacked the daughter of an earl. He had no control over his baser instincts, so I knew that my father had been born all over again. It was the drink that finished Jon. Had he been sober, he would have chosen a different victim.’
‘Please don’t punish yourself with these memories.’
He looked straight at her. ‘I must. You told me to get it off my chest, so I’m doing just that.’ He took a deep breath, continued. ‘Even in drink, Jonathan knew he had gone too far with Lady Sarah. He threw her into the lake, then overbalanced and fell in after her.’ For a moment, he was back there, could see Sarah flailing in the water. ‘He could not swim at all. I was and still am a poor swimmer. The decision made itself, really.’
Maureen stared hard at him. ‘You saved her and let him drown.’
His head jerked quickly, caused a painful crick to send red-hot fingers of pain leaping into his skull. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I guessed,’ she replied softly.
‘My father was furious,’ said Tom. ‘The news that his older son had died was not too disturbing. His main concern was the fact that Sarah was still alive. “She will tell the whole bloody county,” he screamed at me. “He should have used one of the servants.” My father had used servants, you see. So had Jonathan. I knew all about that, tried to forgive myself for leaving a brother to drown. But I could never forgive my father.’
Maureen sighed, blinked as if to clear vision and mind. ‘And what happened to Sarah?’
‘She killed herself eventually. Her father died soon after the suicide. He left me money.’
Blood money
, said a little voice in Tom’s head.
Blood money because you left your own brother to die. That act proves that the bad blood is in you, too, Tom. Bad blood will out
. . .
Tom leaned forward, placed his mouth near Maureen’s ear. ‘I never married because I didn’t want children. The blood is tainted, you see. I could not contemplate the idea of fathering a Goodfellow.’
‘That’s rubbish,’ she answered calmly. ‘Children are not made of blood alone. Where they live matters. How they are loved and cared for, how they are educated. Blood is only a part of it.’
He studied her wonderful green eyes, admired the flawless complexion, the shock of black hair that made the Irish skin even paler, more translucent. ‘Marry me,’ he mouthed.
She closed her eyes, remained silent for what seemed like ages. ‘I want children. Even if my hands are no good, I want to be a mother. Thirty-five, I am now. There isn’t much time for me. Without children, there is no marriage.’ The eyes flew open, seemed to scour his soul. ‘I’m a Catholic. That doesn’t mean I need the pomp and Latin, doesn’t mean I have to marry in my own church and drag my family screaming up the aisle every week to Holy Communion. But it indicates that the basic principles of the oldest Christianity are part of who I am. The prime reason for marriage is to create children.’
‘Maureen, I—’
‘No, Tom. Marriage is important to me. But it is a foundation for family life. Two people do not make a family.’
He drew back. ‘Then I am sorry for disturbing you at this difficult time, Maureen. We shall forget that this ever happened. It would be a pity to lose a good friendship because of my clumsy behaviour today.’