The Carpenter's Children (20 page)

Not many letters passed between Isabel and her parents; her father did not want to worry her with her mother’s melancholy state over Ernest, though he felt obliged to let her know of Grace’s latest scrape, trying to make light of it and his hope that his younger daughter would eventually find her niche in life, and stay in it.

When Grace Munday cycled home to North Camp to tell her parents that she was no longer a cadet nurse at Everham General, she was shocked by their chilly reception of the news. Her mother looked thin, pale and drawn, and hardly seemed interested in her daughter’s confrontation with Mrs
Bentley-Foulkes
.

‘I might have known you wouldn’t last long there,’ she said dully. ‘You’ve been thrown out of that cafe and the Railway Hotel and Hassett Manor, and now this. Well, don’t expect any fussing over from
me
, I’ve got worries enough over my son, facing death every day in those horrible trenches.’ And she turned
away from her errant daughter in a way that was worse than loud anger and accusation.

When Tom Munday came home to find Grace there with her story, he sighed heavily. ‘You might have given a bit of thought to your mother, my girl. She’s making herself ill with worry over your brother, and you might have thought about that before defying this woman. All I can suggest is that you go back to the hospital and apologise.’

‘Oh, Dad, I
couldn’t
! Not after what happened today, I couldn’t possibly!’ pleaded Grace, horrified at the mere thought of crawling to Mrs
Bentley-Foulkes
and saying she was
sorry
for what she’d said that morning. ‘I just couldn’t do it, Dad.’

‘Look, if you ever thought about the trouble you’ve caused ever since you were at school, Grace, you’d put your pride in your pocket and go and see the matron, tell her you regret what you said and beg her to keep you on as a ward maid or whatever you are. Otherwise I don’t know what you can do, apart from going to work in a munitions factory – they’re always advertising for more girls, though the work’s hard and not without its dangers. I’m sorry, Grace, but I can only say again, go back and see the matron.’

Grace’s spirits were at a very low ebb when she cycled back to Everham in the afternoon, and presented herself at the door of Matron’s office, bracing herself to apologise, and ready to face a serious reprimand.

But Matron turned out to be unexpectedly sympathetic. ‘I’m very sorry about what has happened, Miss Munday, and the patients on Princess Alexandra ward will miss you, I know. I would have been prepared to give you another chance, but I’m afraid the damage has been done. Your defiance towards Mrs Bentley-Foulkes was so public, witnessed by the ward sister and staff, and of course the patients. It can’t be hushed up, on the contrary, it’s already a nine-day wonder, and you have alienated Mrs Bentley-Foulkes beyond apology. I’m truly sorry, but regretfully I can’t keep you on.’ She looked Grace in the eyes, and repeated, ‘I can’t keep you on, Miss Munday.’

There was nothing more to be said, except ‘Thank you, Matron,’ and Grace left the office and made her way up to her room. She took a large leather suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe, and packed her clothes and the few other belongings she had kept here; she counted the money in her purse: enough to pay for a one-way ticket to Waterloo Station, tip a porter and hire a cab to take her to the address that Madge Fraser had given her.

‘A couple o’ girls share lodgin’s with me, but we could make room for one more little’un – it’s the best life I’ve ever ’ad, Grace!’

‘I’m on my way, Madge,’ murmured Grace as she stood on Everham Station platform. ‘Because it’s certain nobody wants me
here
!’

‘I don’t know which was worse, Annie, the Yeomanses or the Goddards,’ said Eddie Cooper, sitting down wearily and taking the mug of tea from his wife’s hand. She waited for him to continue.

‘Ol’ Yeomans is as surly as a man can be, and
she’s
not interested in the farm and wants Mary indoors to help her with the house and little Billy – which is hard on Mary who’s wanted just as much outdoors. And she looks awful, does my poor girl.’

Annie Cooper refrained from making any comment on her stepdaughter, having long given up trying to win over the girl. ‘So, come on, what did they say to the idea?’

‘He said he’d take on anybody who’d do a day’s work, but he didn’t want no young fool in a suit – them were his exact words. Mary told him it
was worth a try, at least, but he didn’t show much interest. Trouble was, Tom Munday was goin’ to see the Goddards, but he’s that frantic over Grace disappearin’, and his missus pinin’ away before his eyes, can’t eat, can’t sleep – he’s at his wit’s end, poor ol’ Tom.’

‘So you went and spoke to the Goddards yourself, then?’ prompted Annie. ‘How did Sidney take it? And Mr and Mrs?’

‘Not too badly, considerin’ they’ve been snubbed by all o’ North Camp ’cause o’ Sidney not bein’ over there with the other lads. Ol’ Goddard ain’t been so well lately, she thinks he’s got an ulcer, and they both look under the weather. Sounds as if the daughter Betty has taken over servin’ in the shop.’

‘Well, go on, then,’ said Annie with interest. ‘Did you see Sidney? He’s the one to say yes or no. Which was it?’

‘He’s startin’ work there first thing on Monday. Says he doesn’t know how he’ll take to it, but anything ’ud be better’n the cold-shoulderin’ he’s had from folks round here.’ He sighed. ‘The lad ain’t got much gumption – looks like an owl, standin’ there squintin’ through them round spectacles.’

‘Poor Sidney. I s’pose he’s never had to get his hands dirty.’

‘Well, he’s goin’ to get more’n his hands dirty lookin’ after cows an’ pigs. Makes me wonder if I ought not to have interfered – I’m not so sure
whether this was a good idea o’ Tom Munday’s.’

‘Don’t be daft, Eddie. There’s two possibilities, ain’t there? Either he’ll settle down to it or he won’t. At least he’ll be hidden away from all the jibes. By the way, have
you
got anythin’ on this weekend?’

‘Not really. I thought I’d go over and give ’em a hand on the farm again.’

Annie shrugged, guessing that he was worried over his daughter. ‘That’s good o’ you, Eddie, seein’ as I don’t s’pose old Yeomans pays anythin’ for your trouble.’

Eddie didn’t answer, because she’d guessed right. Apart from providing a midday dinner, old Yeomans didn’t pay him a penny.

The days were drawing in, and the hay was cut, dried, collected and made into haystacks within the barn, old Yeomans’ expertise aided by Sidney Goddard’s efforts to heave the bales on top of each other and secure them with ropes. Dust and specks of straw flew around, getting under their clothes and making young Goddard itch all over as he tried to follow Yeomans’ shouted orders; the man seemed to be in a permanently bad temper. The two land girls had tried to initiate him into the skills of ‘udder-plucking’ as they referred to milking, having themselves been instructed by Mary Cooper, and which Sidney found as difficult as it was unfamiliar. Pails were kicked over, spilling the precious milk, milking stools were
overturned, sending Sidney sprawling, just as the cow raised her tail to rid herself of a steaming heap of dung. Caring for the pigs was relatively easy at this time of year; there were two sows in one sty, alternately giving birth to a litter of squeaking piglets, sired by a boar who lived in a separate sty and was as ill-tempered as the farmer; one sow at a time was allowed to keep company with him daily in the small apple orchard until it was obvious that he had done his duty by her. All the animals needed feeding, and their sties and sheds cleaned out regularly; both cow and pig manure were used as fertiliser to spread on the fields of turnips, mangolds and swedes used to provide winter feed for the cows, while the pigs lived on offal and kitchen scraps, with extra milk and whey for farrowing sows. There were no bulls on Yeomans’ farm, and a business arrangement was made with a farm at Hassett where a huge and terrifying bull obligingly served the cows that were led to him.

Sidney Goddard was regularly cursed by old Yeomans, and teased by the land girls for his clumsy lack of expertise. By the end of each day he was too exhausted to do anything other than climb into his bed and sleep until woken by the dawn chorus and the lowing of the cows in their byre, waiting to be milked; but he no longer had to face the contempt of North Camp neighbours, being mercifully out of their sight.

After morning milking Mary served porridge and
bread and cheese in the farm kitchen; she took a tray to Mrs Yeomans and little Billy; the boy saved his mother from giving way to helpless grief for Dick, and she fussed over him accordingly, though she failed to notice Mary’s pallor and the dark circles under her eyes. She had no idea of the stomach-churning nausea that Mary felt when serving breakfast to old Yeomans, Sidney and the land girls, and it was only when the girl fainted and fell on the kitchen floor that Mrs Yeomans realised what Mary now knew for certain: that she was carrying Dick Yeomans’ child, and was now over three months into her pregnancy.

Tom Munday occupied the usual family pew in St Peter’s Church and followed the service of morning prayer, sitting to listen to the readings and the sermon, kneeling when prayers were offered up, and standing for the Gospel and the three or four hymns. He was alone, his three children far away from North Camp, and his wife unable and unwilling to accompany him: he had left her in bed after a disturbed night. In her dreams she invariably saw Ernest lying dead on the field of battle; the certainty of his death was fixed in her mind, and she was mourning for him already, before the dreaded telegram arrived, and would not be persuaded to believe otherwise.

Tom’s thoughts were centred more on his daughter Grace, and he blamed himself bitterly for the unkind words he had spoken when she’d arrived home from
Everham General on that fateful afternoon. Now he would give all he possessed to have her back again, but he had no idea of her whereabouts. He had written to the management of the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly, asking if a chambermaid by the name of Grace Munday was employed there, and mentioned that she was a friend of Marjorie Fraser, known as Madge, also on their domestic staff. He enclosed a stamped, self-addressed envelope for a reply, and when it reappeared on the front door mat, he seized it and tore it open; his hopes were immediately dashed, for the brief typewritten letter informed him that neither of the two names he had mentioned had ever been on their staff in any capacity. He told Violet as gently as he could, but all her thoughts were fixed upon Ernest; and in church on this Sunday morning Tom prayed earnestly for his three children, Ernest in the trenches of France, Isabel in London without Mark to protect her, and Grace wherever she was and whatever she was doing. Tears came to her father’s eyes when he remembered how he had rebuffed her plea for sympathy.

And on the following morning – oh, what joy, what thankfulness! – his prayers were at least partially answered, for there on the doormat was a picture postcard of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament with a message from Grace to her parents. She was living in lodgings with Madge Fraser, she told them, and ‘We’ve both got good jobs and there’s no
need to worry about me.’ She sent them her love and promised to keep in touch, though she gave no address.

‘She’s alive and still cares about us, Violet,’ he said. ‘We must thank God for that much, and trust that she’ll come back to us when she’s ready. We’ll have to be content with that.’ He leant over his wife’s chair to kiss her, but she drew away.

‘
I’d
rejoice and be thankful if we could only hear from Ernest, but Grace has given us nothing but trouble. God knows what she’s up to, a girl of seventeen adrift in London – I never liked the sound of that Madge, who’s obviously a liar, because the Ritz Hotel has never heard of her.’

Violet Munday had lost all patience with her daughter Grace, but the following morning it was her turn to rejoice, for there on the mat lay a crumpled postcard from Ernest! Violet seized and kissed it, and they both eagerly read the message.

‘My dear parents, I can’t tell you where we are, but we are together and sharing everything, our thoughts, our parcels from home, our life-saving friendship. We send our love to both our families, and we are full of hope. Ernest and Aaron.’

Now Violet returned her husband’s kisses, began to regain her appetite, knelt beside their bed at night to give thanks, and slept with the postcard under her pillow. She caught the bus to Everham and went to visit the Pascoes and old Mr and Mrs Schelling,
taking them a fruit cake she had made and two jars of her own raspberry jam. Her former antipathy towards the family was forgotten.

‘Ernest and Aaron share everything with each other,’ she told them, ‘so it’s only right that we should share, too.’

It was like the lifting of a cloud, but Tom was wary of rejoicing too soon. The war was by no means over.

Eddie Cooper had long believed that the Yeomanses had taken Mary for granted, expecting her to work long hours in the house and on the farm, with hardly any time off and scarcely more than her bed and board in payment. Since the news of Dick’s death the pressure on her had increased, and the addition of Sidney Goddard to the farm workers had not made life any easier for her, as far as Eddie could see. In the Yeomans’ sorrow over the loss of their son, Mary’s own grief had hardly been considered, and on those weekends when Eddie went to lend a hand, it irritated him to see his sad-faced daughter constantly at the beck and call of both husband and wife, without the spirit to answer them back or in any way to stand up for herself.

But on this particular Saturday morning when he met old Yeomans in the yard, the farmer gave him an oddly hesitant look, almost as if he felt embarrassed.

‘Ye’d better step into the house and have a word with that girl o’ yourn.’

‘Why, what’s up?’ asked Eddie, alarmed. ‘Is she ill? What’s happened?’

‘Ye’d better step in and speak to the missus,’ replied old Yeomans, and disappeared behind the hay barn.

Eddie entered the kitchen by the back door, where to his amazement a red-eyed Mary was sitting by the oven in a wicker chair, and Mrs Yeomans was washing the breakfast bowls at the stone sink.
This
was something new, thought Eddie, and went straight to his daughter’s side.

‘What’s up, Mary?’ he asked, but it was Mrs Yeomans who answered.

‘Your girl says she’s expectin’ Dick’s baby.’

‘Oh, my God – oh, Mary!’ gasped Eddie, and took hold of both Mary’s hands in his. ‘You poor kid – why didn’t you tell me? You’ll have to come home now…’

‘She’s stayin’ here, Cooper,’ said Mrs Yeomans firmly. ‘We’ve looked after her these five years or more, and now she’s carryin’ our grandchild and we’re standin’ by her – so here she stays.’

‘But she’s my daughter, and it’s my grandchild, too!’ cried Eddie.

‘Didn’t you hear me, Cooper? She’s stayin’ here.’

Throughout this exchange Mary had not spoken. Eddie now turned to her, still holding her hands. ‘Is this true, Mary?’

She nodded slowly, her eyes lowered. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should’ve told you, but – the fact is they’ve given me a home here, and I can’t very well leave now. And your wife won’t want me.’

‘Good heavens, Mary, if you’d only give Annie half a chance, she’s always been willin’ to…to be a mother to you.’

‘She’s not my mother.’

‘Well, a friend, then. Come home with me, Mary.’

‘No, Dad, not with your wife and son there.’

‘That’s enough from you, Eddie Cooper,’ said Mrs Yeomans, turning round to face him squarely. ‘She’s stayin’ here, and that’s that. You can go any time you like.’

‘You’d better go, Dad.’

‘All right, Mary, I’ll go, but you know where you can find me if you need me.’ He leant over the chair and kissed her. ‘My poor girl,’ he murmured softly, then got himself out of the kitchen before he broke down. And I’ll be damned if I ever do a day’s work for old Yeomans again, he told himself, crossing the yard and making for the gate that led into the lane. It also led past the pigsties, and he caught sight of a young man raking out the dung and piling it on to a wheelbarrow; he had a bale of clean straw ready to replace it. He looked up and saw Eddie who hadn’t recognised him in his filthy grey shirt and trousers.

‘’Morning, Mr Cooper!’

‘Oh…er…Sidney, g’mornin’. How’re you doin’? Looks like hard work.’

‘It’s hard going, but anything’s better than having to face people in North Camp. Thanks for…er… suggesting it.’

‘It was Tom Munday’s idea, to be honest.’ On an impulse Eddie stopped and crossed the path to speak quietly over the stone wall of the sty. ‘Look here, Sidney, keep an eye on my daughter Mary, will you? And if they ain’t treatin’ her right, let me know. D’you understand?’

‘Er…how exactly do you mean, Mr Cooper?’ asked Sidney, scratching his head and realising too late that his hands were smeared with pig muck.

‘I mean they’ve worked her like a bloody galley slave for years, an’ now she needs to rest more – so keep an eye on her, will you?’

Sidney was surprised at Cooper’s vehemence. ‘Er…yes, I’ll try.’

‘Well, mind you do, then. Good mornin’ to you.’ And Eddie strode away abruptly, thinking what a booby the Goddards’ son was.

When he got home, Annie asked why he hadn’t stayed to ‘lend a hand’, as he’d intended.

‘I don’t feel inclined to go on slogging my guts out for ’em any longer – and I got somethin’ to tell you, Annie.’

When Annie Cooper heard how things stood at the farm, she shrugged sympathetically. ‘Poor Mary,
she won’t be the only girl left in trouble after a young fellow’s marched off to war and got killed – but she’s got the Yeomanses to look after her and their grandchild, so she’s better off than most.’