The Pearly Queen (39 page)

‘It appears so, sir. There'll be an inquest.'

‘If yer'll pardon me,' said Father Luke, a sincerely grieving man, ‘might we offer – well, we do 'ave some in cases of shock – might we offer Mr Andrews a drop of brandy?'

‘Yes, if that would help a little, Mr Andrews, you are most welcome,' said Father Peter.

‘Kind of you,' said Dad, ‘but no thanks.' He looked at Sergeant Harris again. ‘The funeral?' he said.

‘After the inquest, sir,' said Sergeant Harris, and grimaced. He liked the look of this man. The tragedy had hit him hard, that was obvious. Now he was going to be faced with the problem of finding a vicar willing to defy the canon and bury a suicide, if the inquest coroner returned such a verdict, which he undoubtedly would. ‘We'll be in touch, Mr Andrews.'

‘That's it, then,' said Dad brusquely.

‘We all extend our deepest sorrow and sympathy,' said Father Peter, head bowed, ‘and we are all greatly troubled by the tragedy, Mr Andrews.'

‘Yes. Right. Goodbye.' Dad shook hands with Sergeant Harris and left. He walked with his mind in pieces.

Someone called. ‘Mr Andrews?'

He turned. A woman came hurrying up. He looked at her, a lady of gentle countenance, eyes full of sorrow. ‘Yes?' he said.

‘You don't know me, Mr Andrews,' said Mother Verity, ‘I'm Miss Celia Stokes, I reside in that house. I knew your poor wife well, and want to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am.' There was something else she wanted to tell him, but she was not sure she should, or even if it was right to. She only knew that it troubled her. ‘She was a good woman, Mr Andrews, and a tireless worker.'

Dad wondered how good was good, and if this gentle-looking woman knew Maud had come to believe religion was more important than her children. ‘But what makes a good woman jump from a window?' he asked.

‘Who could know she would do that?' said Mother Verity. ‘She was a little eccentric, perhaps, but she walked happily with the Lord.'

‘Well, you look a nice woman yourself,' said Dad, ‘so don't get as happy as she did, or you might end up doin' the same thing. Walkin' like that with the Lord seems a bit fatal.'

‘That is true, Mr Andrews, as some of His disciples discovered. But will it help you to know that last evening your wife confided to me her belief that she had done you a grievous wrong?'

‘Like sayin' I wasn't her 'usband?'

‘Yes, Mr Andrews, like saying that. It really was troubling her.'

A little sigh escaped Dad. ‘Well, I like you for tellin' me that,' he said. ‘Glad I met you. But I'll get along now, if you don't mind.'

‘Goodbye, Mr Andrews.'

‘Goodbye, Miss Stokes.'

Mother Verity felt acutely sad for him.

Dad walked all the way back to the depot, trying to gather his thoughts and to decide just what he should tell the kids. At the depot, the manager told him to go home, and to take tomorrow off as well. He would lose no pay.

‘I'll see to Patty an' Cake first,' said Dad.

‘They've been seen to. Go home, Jack. There's your kids.'

Dad walked some more. Should he go to the school and collect Patsy and Betsy? No, let them spend what was left of the afternoon in blissful ignorance. He went home and made himself some hot strong tea. He thought about Edie. She had to know. He penned her a brief letter and took it to the Camberwell house in which she had a flat, where he handed it to her landlady and so escaped that which he couldn't handle at the moment, having to tell Edie in person.

Then he walked and walked, thinking of Maud and their life together, and of the time when he took a Blighty wound in Mesopotamia and how she had said it was the Lord who helped him to get better. And that reminded him of his subsequent leave at home, and how, when out walking with her, she used her umbrella to make people get out of his way. Who could say that in her own fashion she had not been a good wife, as well as a good mother, until religiousness claimed her? Because of her religiousness they had ended up with not much in common, but she had been his wife for seventeen years and given him three of the best kids a man could have.

He finally returned home at a time when he knew Jimmy would be there, as well as the girls. He began by telling them that their mum would not come home again.

‘Never?' said Patsy, and Jimmy looked hard at his dad. There wasn't a sign of his usual cheerfulness.

‘I'm afraid not, Patsy,' said Dad.

‘Don't she want us any more?' asked Betsy.

‘Betsy love,' said Dad, ‘I don't reckon we could ever say that about your mum. She did what she 'ad to do, to go an' work for the Lord, but that never meant she didn't want you.'

Jimmy looked harder at his dad. ‘Dad, why'd you say it like that?' he asked.

‘Well, Jimmy, and you, Patsy, and you, Betsy, we've got to face up to the fact that the Lord's claimed your mum.' That was the kindest way Dad could think of to break the news. ‘That's why she won't ever be home again. She's with the Lord.'

They could have made it much harder for him than they did. Betsy cried, of course, and he took her up and cuddled her. She clung sobbing to him. Patsy was very quiet for a few minutes, then went up to her room without saying a word. Jimmy took it stoically, but Dad knew his son was going to ask him questions.

Patsy came down after a while, her eyes red. She kissed her father. ‘I won't make no fuss, Dad,' she said, swallowing, ‘and it's all right, you still got us, and we've all still got each other.'

‘Never mind supper,' said Jimmy, ‘I'll make a pot of tea. Betsy can help, can't you, Betsy?'

‘I don't want no tea,' whispered Betsy.

‘Well, lovey, see how you feel when it's been made,' said Dad.

Betsy had a cup when the teapot was brought to the table. Then Patsy asked if Mum had died of an illness. Dad said yes, it was the kind of illness some people did die of.

Jimmy answered a knock on the front door. It was Aunt Edie, and Aunt Edie was looking stunned. ‘Jimmy, is it true?' she asked in a strained voice.

‘I don't think that's a very good question, Aunt Edie,' said Jimmy, ‘and how did you know?'

‘Your dad sent me a note. He told me not to come, but I 'ad to. Can I talk to him in the parlour for a bit? Jimmy, oh, I'm so sorry for all of you, I must speak to your dad.'

Dad had another private conversation with her in the parlour. He was sombre, she was distressed. He told all that he knew from his visit to Bloomsbury and how it pointed to the fact that Maud had committed suicide.

‘Because of her conscience?' said Aunt Edie, pale of face. ‘Because she realized what she'd done to you and the fam'ly, and worse, that she realized she'd said to you, in front of everybody there at the time, that you weren't 'er husband, that she didn't even know you? Lord 'elp us, Jack, there'll be an inquest and that'll all come out and be in the papers.'

‘I'm goin' to 'ave to let Betsy and Patsy stay away from school for a while,' said Dad.

‘Yes, you've got to, or they'll be tormented by all the schoolkids, and kids can be cruel,' said Aunt Edie. ‘I'll come and look after them, I'll take me summer 'olidays, which I 'aven't had yet.'

‘Kind of you, Edie, but no,' said Dad.

Aunt Edie sat heavily down. ‘You don't deserve a blow like this, Jack,' she said, ‘you've got to let me come and look after the house and Betsy and Patsy.'

‘It won't do, Edie love,' said Dad quietly, ‘not a single woman like you. There'd be tongues waggin' all round us, there'd be people sayin' Maud committed suicide because of you and me. I think you can see that.'

‘Yes, I can see. I could say I wouldn't care, but I would, because of you.' Aunt Edie drew a sighing breath. ‘I've got a weight on me own conscience, and I don't like what it's doin' to me. Just recent, I've wished Maud dead. All these years she's 'ad you, and only ever been half a wife to you. I could 'ave married. I had a lover, Jack, and he wanted to marry me. Just before the war, it was. But I kept sayin' no, I kept tellin' myself there was always a chance Maud might get carried off by influenza, and that would let me in on your life. And this last month I've wished 'er dead. 'Ave I already said that?'

‘Don't upset yourself, Edie,' said Dad. ‘Most of us 'ave wished someone dead at times.'

‘They say some women are saints, Jack. I'm not one of them. All these weekends I've done me best to take you and your fam'ly over, to make you feel you don't need Maud, that you could 'ave me even if you couldn't marry me. Now I feel like one of them witch doctors that stick pins into dolls made up to look like someone they want to get rid of.'

Dad put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him. He dredged up a smile. ‘That's a sad song, Edie love, but it don't apply,' he said. ‘What 'appened to Maud is nothing to do with you, so don't sing it again. You've been the best thing that's 'appened to this fam'ly all these weekends. We both know, don't we, that if Maud walked in now we could look 'er in the face?'

‘I don't know that I could,' said Aunt Edie.

‘I'd stand with you on it,' said Dad. He was not a subtle man, but he did have an acquired maturity and he knew something about life and its pitfalls. He knew what made sense and what didn't. He knew his feelings for Edie weren't new, they'd been there for years, waiting to come to life. Maud was gone, Maud who'd been a faithful wife at least, and a good mother, all in all, but he couldn't honestly say he'd been able to stay in love with her. All the same, what would Jimmy and the girls think if they knew what his feelings were for their Aunt Edie when their mother wasn't yet cold?

‘You're right, aren't you, Jack?' said Aunt Edie. ‘It won't do for me to be here, will it? It wouldn't look good, it wouldn't even look decent.'

‘I'll be in touch,' said Dad. ‘D'you want to have a few words with Jimmy an' the girls before you go?'

‘I couldn't go without seein' them,' said Aunt Edie, and went through to the kitchen, where she comforted Betsy and spoke to Patsy and Jimmy. She did her utmost to be consoling and to let them know they could come and see her whenever they liked. She stayed quite a while, and then left.

After she'd gone, Betsy said, ‘Ain't she goin' to come an' stay a bit, Dad?'

‘Not just now, Betsy.'

‘But she could come round a bit, couldn't she?' Betsy was tearful.

‘We'll see, love, we'll see,' said Dad.

‘We'll manage, Dad,' said Patsy.

Jimmy sat thinking.

Alf Roberts, the box factory foreman, placed a sympathetic hand on Jimmy's shoulder. Jimmy had arrived at work on time and given the foreman the news of his mother's death.

‘I'm sorry, young 'un, and I mean sorry. We can all put up with a lot, but losin' yer mum like that, well, I know 'ow yer feel. I lost mine before I was twenty and it was like losin' me right arm. Yer needn't 'ave come in, lad – 'old on, I'll 'ave a word with the guv'nor, 'e's in 'is office. ‘Old on now.'

‘I think I'm better workin', Mr Roberts,' said Jimmy.

‘You 'old now,' said Alf, and went to see Mr Gibbs. Mr Gibbs called Jimmy into his office and regarded the boy with great sympathy.

‘What can I say, Jimmy, what can anyone say? Would you like to tell me exactly what did happen?'

Jimmy recounted the details given to him by his dad. Mr Gibbs read it as suicide.

‘She hadn't been very well lately,' said Jimmy. ‘Well, not herself, sir, if you know what I mean.'

‘Yes, I know, Jimmy.' Mr Gibbs reflected. There had been a report in the papers about a woman being found dead in Bloomsbury yesterday morning, with an implication that it was a case of suicide. Poor young devil. ‘Is there anything I can do? Would it help if you went home?'

‘Honest, Mr Gibbs, I'll be better if I'm workin'. Dad's home, lookin' after my sisters.'

‘See your point, Jimmy. I think I'd feel the same. But if you want to go off early this afternoon, just let Alf know.'

‘Thanks, Mr Gibbs, I've got to say you're a kind boss.'

‘Oh, I'm tough as well, Jimmy. Take it easy now.'

Mother Verity was preparing to vacate the Temple of Endeavour and to resign from the League. Father Peter was endeavouring to dissuade her.

‘Sister, I'm most distressed—'

‘We're all distressed, Mr Wilberforce.'

Father Peter shook his head sadly at not being addressed by his religious name. And it surprised him, the little element of steel that had surfaced in this charming woman. He was not to know that a man called Will Fletcher so exemplified courage and fearlessness for her that he had inspired courage in herself. She had watched him deal with brawny Henry Mullins of Whitechapel, and had known him remove a ragged and hungry child from a drunken father. He was a man who had had nothing except bitterness and contempt for the world as he saw it, and in that bitterness and contempt he had assaulted her lips, not once but several times. Yet he'd been that child's affectionate protector. In her new-found courage, Mother Verity was determined not to let him go out of her life.

Father Peter said, ‘I'm distressed by the tragedy, sister, yes, and I'm further distressed that you should be leaving us.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Mother Verity, who had found she did not like the minister, ‘but I did tell you days ago that I'd be moving to Bethnal Green, to carry on my work there with the help of the vicar.'

‘True, true,' said Father Peter, ‘but to have you resign from the League is a hard blow. I must endure it, however. I shall miss your presence, your valiance and your serenity. We all will. And at a moment like this, when tragedy has struck, unity is so important. It's a time for standing together and renewing our faith. Alas that one of us should already have abandoned the cause, that her strength of purpose failed her and us.'