The Pearly Queen (38 page)

Dear Blessed Boy,

Look, it's actually happened, I've been sent here by Mummy, isn't it awful what mothers can do to their daughters, I bet your mother's not like that, I bet she wouldn't send you to a boarding-school, specially one full of soppy girls. Some of them talk so posh they sound like plum pie and custard. It was all your fault for letting your head come up and bang against that tray I was holding last Saturday. I've been here since Tuesday, and everything I want to do is against the rules. I notice you haven't written to me, I suppose you'll say you didn't know my address, but Daddy could have given it to you. You'd better write soon or I'll escape from here and saw your legs off.

Your best friend, Sophy.

Jimmy grinned.

‘Who's it from?' asked Patsy, keen to know.

‘Sophy Gibbs. She's at boardin'-school now.'

‘Crikey, fancy her writin' to you,' said Patsy, ‘'as she got it bad?'

‘Got what bad?' asked Jimmy.

‘You,' said Patsy.

‘I suppose she must have,' said Jimmy, ‘she's always tryin' to half-kill me. No, she's just a bit barmy. And she's too posh, anyway, Patsy.'

But he decided he ought to send Sophy an answer, so he did.

Dear Sophy,

I got your letter, your mum told me you were going to a boarding-school, I think she thought that was better than letting you stay at home in case you set fire to the house. I couldn't go to a boarding-school myself as my dad's not rich enough, and I've got to start my career, anyway. I'm working at your dad's factory, I'm a sawdust apprentice. Do you know about oggle boxes?

I expect you'll get to like the school soon, just sit up and pay attention in class and don't get your frocks torn. It was nice meeting you and coming to your house to work, but I suppose I'd better say goodbye to you now. I don't know if you'll have a peaceful life, but I hope you enjoy it.

Yours sincerely, Jimmy.

On Sunday morning, Aunt Edie gave Dad a real talking-to. He went out into the yard after breakfast to clean the kitchen windows, taking an old step-ladder with him to get at the top of the glass panes. Aunt Edie said the step-ladder looked as if it needed to be chopped up into firewood. Dad said it had got a few years left.

‘Well, just mind how you go with it,' said Aunt Edie.

Dad said, ‘Funny you should say that, I remember—'

‘Is this about your old sergeant-major?' asked Aunt Edie.

‘Well, as a matter of fact, it does 'appen to be about him. We—'

‘We've heard it,' said Aunt Edie, ‘just get on with cleanin' the windows, and see that that wonky step-ladder doesn't chop you in 'alf.'

Of course, as soon as Dad reached the third step of the ladder, it collapsed and he fell off. Jimmy reckoned it wouldn't have happened if Aunt Edie hadn't said anything. The noise made everyone rush out into the yard, and there was Dad lying on his back. Aunt Edie visibly paled in shock.

‘Oh, Lord above,' she breathed.

‘Dad, you hurt?' gasped Patsy.

‘You all right, Dad?' asked Jimmy, fearing the worst.

‘What 'appened?' asked Dad.

‘Oh, crikey,' breathed Betsy, ‘can't yer get up, Dad?'

‘Stone the crows,' said Dad, ‘that perishin' step-ladder, why didn't someone tell me about it?'

‘That's not funny, Jack Andrews,' said Aunt Edie. ‘You'd better be able to get up or your life won't be worth livin'.'

Dad got up and brushed himself down. ‘All over,' he said.

Aunt Edie was so relieved that her sparks began to fly. ‘Call yourself clever, I suppose?' she said. ‘I told you that step-ladder was only good for firewood, but no, you wouldn't listen, you didn't mind killin' yourself, I suppose, or givin' your girls the fright of their lives.'

Jimmy thought she was all sparks, and that her handsomeness didn't half look proud and fiery. Dad didn't seem to want to know, he wasn't even looking at her. He was gazing at the collapsed step-ladder.

‘I don't know a feller can kill 'imself fallin' six inches off a ladder, Edie,' he said.

‘Oh, you think that's funny as well, do you?' said Aunt Edie. ‘Well, I don't. I should've thought you'd had enough of riskin' your life all those years at the war—'

‘'Ere, what's goin' on?' The voice came from the other side of the yard wall, from the open back door of the adjacent house. ‘Crashin', banging an' wallopin', and now a carry-on.'

‘Please, Mr Deakins,' called Betsy, ‘Dad fell orf a ladder.'

‘What, on a Sunday mornin'?' Mr Deakins couldn't be seen, the brick wall was six feet high, but he could be heard. ‘That don't make sense, not on a Sunday mornin'. Is 'e all right, shall I come round?'

‘He's all right, thanks,' said Jimmy, and Aunt Edie marched stiffly back into the house.

‘No bones broke?' called Mr Deakins.

‘Me pride's been injured, that's all, Bill,' said Dad.

‘Makes a bloke feel sore, that does, when 'is pride's injured,' said Mr Deakins.

A little later, Patsy said to Jimmy, ‘Lor', didn't Aunt Edie give Dad a talkin' to?'

‘That's because he gave her the fright of her life as well as us,' said Jimmy, who was beginning to wonder exactly what Aunt Edie's real feelings were towards his dad.

‘It turned out a bit of a laugh, really,' said Patsy, ‘but not to Aunt Edie.'

‘No, not to her,' said Jimmy.

Monday turned out to be the worst day of Dad's life.

When he got back to the depot from his morning round, his foreman asked him to go to the manager's office. The manager, Mr Edwards, was patently unhappy. With him in his office were two uniformed policemen, a sergeant and a constable.

‘What's up?' asked Dad.

‘It's not good, Jack, and I'm sorry,' said Mr Edwards.

‘Are you Mr Andrews of Manor Place, sir?' asked the police sergeant, his expression very sober.

‘Yes, I'm Jack Andrews.'

‘Is your wife's name Maud, sir?'

‘Hold on,' said Dad, ‘are you goin' to tell me she's been arrested?' He could visualize that swinging umbrella of hers landing her in trouble with the law.

‘I'm afraid it's a little more serious than that,' said the sergeant. ‘We found her private address in her handbag, and a neighbour of yours informed us where you worked.'

‘What d'you mean, you found 'er private address in 'er handbag?' asked Dad.

‘I'm afraid, sir, there's been an accident.'

‘To Maud?' Dad's stomach turned over. ‘What kind of accident? Where is she?'

‘Mr Andrews, I'm sorry, that's a fact I am,' said the sergeant, ‘but I have to tell you it was a fatal accident.'

‘Fatal?' Dad hardly recognized his own voice.

‘I'm afraid your wife's dead, sir.'

‘Oh, God 'elp us,' said Dad, and sat down heavily.

‘It appears, sir, that she fell from a bedroom window of a house in Bloomsbury, where apparently she resided with some members of a religious sect. Well, as I understand, sir.' The sergeant went on to say that the police had been called to the house by a distracted man that morning. In the large yard at the back of the house was the body of a woman, her neck and back broken. She lay directly below the window of a bedroom she shared with another woman. It would be appreciated if Mr Andrews could accompany them to Bloomsbury and identify the body. Would he be kindly obliging and come now?

Dad was too numbed to do other than nod. All the way to Bloomsbury his mind was trying to accept the unacceptable. Maud dead? Maud, who had been sweet and pretty as a girl, and ardent in no uncertain terms while they were courting? Dead? It wasn't believable. Those had been their best days, their courting ones, with her cousin Edie often around to add to the laughter they enjoyed. It wasn't until after Patsy was born that Maud let religion begin to take its hold on her. And what had it led her to in the end? A kind of craziness, a craziness that looked as if it might have been responsible for her death. He remembered what he had said to the kids when they told him she'd gone off to Bloomsbury weeks ago.
That's mortal, that is
. He'd said it jokingly. He'd felt sick, but he'd had to make a joke of it, he hadn't wanted to upset little Betsy by getting worked up.

He wished now he hadn't said mortal. Had Maud fallen from her bedroom window or had she jumped? Numbly he put the question to the police sergeant.

‘We'll talk to you when we get to the house, sir.'

The Temple of Christian Endeavour was a place of shocked silence, the women in distressed retirement in their rooms, trying to come to terms with tragedy. One had departed in shock, saying she could never come back.

Father Peter, darkly grieving, and Father Luke, agitated, were present. So was a plainclothes detective-sergeant, whose name was Harris. The dead woman lay on a mattress in the Chapel of Penitence. She was covered by a sheet. Sergeant Harris drew it down to expose her face, and Dad looked down at his dead wife. Her eyes were closed, her skin waxy. She was very dead. Dad was tough, physically and mentally, however much his cheerfulness hid this. But moisture pricked his eyes. When all was said and done, Maud had been a good mother, and for four long years of war she had had to be both mother and father to their kids. What if she had lost her way a bit in the end? She didn't deserve to be lying here dead, not when she'd been in the prime of life at thirty-six. God help her. Rest in peace, love.

‘Mr Andrews?' Sergeant Harris was gentle. ‘This is your wife, sir?'

‘Yes.' What else could he say, what else was there to say? And how was he going to tell Betsy and Patsy?

The sheet was drawn over the lifeless face again. A police surgeon came in with two men and a stretcher. Sergeant Harris touched Dad's arm and Dad went with him and the uniformed men to a reception room. Father Peter and Father Luke followed. In the reception room, Mother Joan was waiting. She was pacing about. She was not a woman who could sit still under these kind of circumstances. She pulled up and looked at the man whom Mother Mary had disclaimed.

Her breeziness absent, she said, ‘You really are her husband?'

‘This is Mr Andrews, yes,' said Sergeant Harris.

‘God, I'm sorry,' said Mother Joan, ‘what a terrible tragedy for you, Mr Andrews. Shall I explain, sergeant?'

‘Are you all right, sir?' asked Sergeant Harris.

‘Let her go ahead,' said Dad, his thoughts now on Betsy, Patsy, and Jimmy.

Mother Joan said that when she retired to her bedroom last night, the one she shared with Mother Mary, she found the window open.

‘If you'll pardon me, madam,' said Sergeant Harris, ‘you'll have to refer to people's legal names.'

‘Yes, quite so, quite understood,' said Mother Joan, and went on to say she assumed Mrs Andrews had opened the window earlier to let in some fresh air. The night was dark, she did not look out of the window, it did not occur to her that there was any reason to do so. She closed it and drew the curtains. She had had a long day, and went straight to bed, expecting Mrs Andrews to appear any moment. Mrs Andrews had gone up some time beforehand, to see Father Peter, Mr Wilberforce. Father Peter nodded in silent assent at this point.

Mother Joan said Mrs Andrews had something on her mind, that she wanted to go up and see Mr Wilberforce and ask him to hear her confession.

The three policemen looked wooden-faced at this. Dad came out of his racked world to say, ‘Confession?'

‘Father Peter – Mr Wilberforce – takes confession,' said Mother Joan.

‘That is so, Mr Andrews,' said Father Peter, his grief visibly haunting him. ‘It's a responsibility I took on with many self-doubts but with a belief that the Lord would approve.'

Dad, whose own belief was that everyone in this place was a religious crank, gave the dark brooding eagle a straight look. ‘What did my wife confess?' he asked.

‘Sir, I would not normally break so holy a confidence—'

‘I think you can repeat what you told us, Mr Wilberforce,' said Sergeant Harris. ‘We've established you're not ordained.'

‘I am, nevertheless, a true servant of the Lord,' intoned Father Peter. ‘However, because of the circumstances, I will answer Mr Andrews. His wife came up to see me last night and begged me to hear her confession. I did so, I could not refuse her deep wish to unburden herself. She confessed that when Mr Andrews called here a little while ago, asking that she return home, she denied that she was his wife and that she even knew him. It lay heavily on her conscience. I told her I was sure the Lord would pardon her, particularly if she made amends and did as her husband wished by returning home. All members of the League residing here are free to come and go. Mrs Andrews was still very unhappy with herself, very distressed, and it distressed me, too, that she seemed unable to believe the Lord would forgive her. I spent some time trying to reassure her, but when she left to go to her room, she was still an unhappy woman. I am inconsolable at what happened subsequently, and tormented by a feeling that I failed her.'

‘No, of course you didn't, Father,' said Mother Joan, ‘it was her state of mind, poor woman. Dear God, to think she was lying out there all night. When I woke up this morning, it was obvious her bed hadn't been slept in, and as she didn't appear at breakfast, we all assumed she had gone home last night. Not because we knew of her confession, but because some of us do go home for a while from time to time. But after breakfast our cook, Mrs Murphy, went out to the yard, to the dustbins. She discovered your unfortunate wife, Mr Andrews, lying on the ground below our bedroom window.'

Dad was silent for a few moments. Then he looked at Sergeant Harris and said, ‘Suicide?'