The Ugly Sister (28 page)

‘Not in the immediate future.'

‘You have become,' he hesitated, ‘so much better-looking as a result of what you've had done – but in a strange way, Emma. I think probably it will seem strange only to those who knew you before. I don't know.' He stared at me. ‘It's really very …'

‘Strange?' I suggested.

He laughed for the first time. ‘I never knew you well. While we were young I was much away, and when I came home you always seemed to be in the shadow of your sister or your mother. I'm glad that we've had this meeting now. And I'm glad that you can in all probability look forward to a normal life.'

‘Do you think so?' I said. ‘I rather have my doubts.'

T
HE LAST
letter from Charles Lane had been sent from Bristol. For a year he had been involved in Brunel's great new project, the building of a paddle wheel steamship which could carry sufficient fuel and provisions to steam across the Atlantic to New York. The ship must be large enough to accommodate all this and to carry enough passengers to make the voyage pay, and it must be seaworthy enough to combat the giant waves and gales that sometimes might beset it. Well, last year, according to
The Times
, it had all happened. The
Great Western
, as it had been called, had extended the railroad not merely from London to Bristol but from Bristol to the New World. Regular sailings were promised.

I had not heard since, but as I had the time I decided to make the westward trip via Bristol. The railway lines so far laid and open did not yet join up to make a continuous line, so rather than be constantly changing transport I took the old-fashioned coach which now, pressed by formidable new competition, did the journey in twenty-four hours.

Sally Fetch, who had never really taken to the continental life, visibly brightened as we proceeded west. The air was different and better, she said, the light brighter, the fields greener. She was – eventually – going home! We stayed at Mead's, a new hotel at the time, and once settled in, I took a cab to No 47 Robertsbridge Street in Clifton, which was the address at the head of his last letter. This was in a suburb about a mile from the hotel, and was a newly built street of small Georgian-type houses. I walked up the short pebbly path, and pulled at the bell. After a few moments the door was opened by a medium-sized but stocky girl with bright blue eyes and straight fair hair worn shoulder length.

‘Is Mr Charles Lane at home?'

She was taking me in, as I was taking her in. ‘ Er – no. He's probably at the Docks …'

‘Oh … D'you mean in the centre of the town?'

‘Yes.'

‘He – lives here?'

‘Oh, yes. I'm his wife.'

‘Oh, thank you.'

A hesitation, then, as I was about to turn away. ‘Shall I tell him who called?'

‘Emma Spry,' I said. ‘Your husband and I have met once or twice in Cornwall.'

‘Oh … Oh, yes.' Her startled eyes travelled over my dress. ‘He's mentioned you. I – er – don't know quite what the time is, but I
am
expecting him back for dinner. Will you come in and wait?'

‘Oh, no thank you. I was in Bristol and thought to look him up. I have no – special business with him. It was just a call.'

She had a West Country accent and a slightly protruding bottom lip that made a slurring of some of her words. She looked very clean, but her hair was untidy and she wore a black apron over a cream dress. Most men, I'd think, would not have called her pretty but she was wholesome-looking.

She said sharply: ‘Do come in, Miss Spry.'

‘Thank you … I …' Hard to escape the challenge in her voice. ‘Thank you.' I went in.

A cosy cottage-type of house: as he was moving around so much this was probably rented. I did not know what his tastes were; he said he had begun life as a bricklayer, but since Brunel took him on he must have moved in all sorts of society.

I sat down in the front sitting room, and she went to stand by the window with a finger pulling back the lace curtain to see if he was coming.

I had told the cab to wait at the end of the street.

I glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf. ‘It's only just noon,' I said. ‘Do you dine so early?'

‘It depends on how his work goes. He was away all last week, but today he expects to be home. He said so when he left that I could cook for the both of us.'

‘Then I'm interfering with your preparations.'

‘No, no, I have Susie who will look to the joint for me. Can I get you some refreshment, Miss Spry?'

‘Oh … a cordial would be very nice.' I had noticed some on a side table. Wondering how best to make my excuses. Stupid ever to have come.

Charles, she said, was at present working with the chief engineer on the
Great Western
. He had been with the ship on its maiden voyage across the Atlantic to New York. At present it was anchored off Avonmouth, but Charles was at the Town Docks today on some other business. Mr Brunel was now designing a still larger liner built all of metal and driven by screws instead of paddle wheels. It would cost some huge sum, and there were many critics who said Mr Brunel was overreaching himself and that such a huge vessel could only be run at a loss.

‘Where did you meet your husband?' I asked.

‘At a church fête at Ashburton. I was looking after a biscuit stall; he came to buy a tin of short-breads for his mother.'

‘I was born near there.'

‘Near Ashburton? I thought you were Cornish.'

‘My father was. My family is. So you have known Charles a long time?'

‘About seven years. He is from London.'

‘He came to dinner at my grandfather's house near St Mawes. Mr Brunel was with him. That was – oh, about eight or nine years ago.'

There was a pause, each waiting for the other.

‘You are dressed very smart, Miss Spry. That's something else I didn't expect.'

‘Pray forgive me. I was just travelling. I should have given you notice.'

She let the curtain fall. ‘ You know that I shall never give him up.'

I stared at her. She had gone a brick red. ‘Charles? Your husband? Why should you?'

‘Not to you,' she said, ‘nor to no one else!'

‘I – I don't quite understand. You're
married
to him.'

‘I know. And marriage is binding, isn't it? There's no way out.'

‘I still don't understand.'

She put her hands up to her cheeks, as if aware of their colour. ‘I suppose I shouldn't ever have spoken. It just came out – seeing you here.'

‘But I am a
friend
of Mr Lane's! You cannot surely begrudge him having
friends
! We mean nothing to each other on any other – other level.'

‘Charles isn't that good-looking,' she said. ‘But women take to him. He mixes with many sorts and kinds in his work, and I've seen them make a great fuss of him.'

I took a breath. ‘ Oh, perhaps. Oh yes. But you surely do him a terrible injustice if you feel – suspect … I don't know him well, but I should have thought him one of the most steadfast of men. I do not think, having taken his marriage vows to you, he would ever
allow
himself to be attracted elsewhere – at least not in the way you are meaning.'

She said passionately: ‘Not to a pretty face, perhaps, but mebbe to a lady with a damaged face!'

‘D'you mean me?'

‘Yes, I mean you, Miss Spry, for I see he has been lying to me too about how bad your face was—'

‘I had it operated on last year! But what I cannot understand is how you should think he has some attachment to me over and above a normal friendly relationship—'

‘Because he told me.'

I took another deep breath, or tried to.

‘Oh, come. I'm sure you are—'

‘Before we married, before he asked me to marry him, he told me how he felt about you. He thought you was out of his reach. He thought you was too good for him. He told me this, but I loved him and said I didn't mind. No more do I; no more do I, but I cannot let you suddenly turn up in our lives to put a sort of – a sort of dark stain on our marriage, like. It isn't fair!'

My hand was trembling as I put the cordial glass down. ‘The
last
thing I want to do, Mrs Lane, is to upset your marriage. The very last. I'm
astonished
at what you've just told me! … But that was
before
your marriage; it's unlikely he feels the same now – if he ever did. You mistook him! You know how—'

‘I didn't mistake him at all! I couldn't have. Besides, you have written – and he has written. I know when a letter from you has come: he's different after—'

‘Have you read any of my letters?'

She flared up. ‘How dare you! I don't look in my husband's pockets—'

‘I wish you had! Then you would know they contain no endearments whatsoever. There's nothing in them to suggest there was anything between us in the way you imply! Nor was there ever! Nor is there. Nor will there ever be. I am fond of Charles, and if he thinks he is fond of me in another way he is quite mistaken to suppose I return it. So your fears are quite unfounded. Now I'll go.'

She barred my way, anger ebbing. ‘I'm sorry. I've said too much. It has been so much in my mind and in my heart that when you turned up unexpected I—'

‘Thank you for inviting me in. Perhaps this will have helped to reassure you.'

‘Stay till he—'

‘Of course not! And do not tell him I have been. It will be much better that way.'

S
ALLY
F
ETCH
could not know – and could not be told – why I was so upset. Nor did I actually know the extent myself. It meant a complete break with an old friend, that was upsetting enough. But all that went with it left me depressed and tearful. And I am not a tearful woman.

We were leaving by the noon coach on the following day and would spend a night in Exeter. But Thursday dawned so bleak that I would probably have changed our booking for a later date, had it not been for my encounter with Effie Lane. I couldn't be out of the city soon enough.

A high wind blew in from the Bristol Channel, and sheet-curtains of rain fell almost horizontally across the town. Looking from my bedroom window I saw people in the street below being almost blown over by the wind. One tall strongly built young man was holding onto his hat, and his coat tails were flying as he turned in at the door of the hotel. A panic feeling.

I went across to the mirror staring at my still-marked face, hastily brushed hair over from the temple to hide it. Fetch in the doorway.

‘If you please, ma'am, a gentleman to see you. Mr Charles Lane.'

I stared back at her. ‘Is there anyone in the upstairs sitting room?'

‘Dunno, miss. Not likely at this time of the morning, I s'pose.'

‘Ask him to wait in there.'

Take a little time. Powder over the imperfections. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, one could not but try to look one's best.

He was standing by the window, hands behind back. In the low room he looked very big. There was a wizened old woman in a seat by the fire. Knitting.

He looked at me, face flushing. Some of his hair was wet. He glanced at the old woman.

‘Emma,' he said carefully. ‘I felt I had to see you, as you called yesterday.'

‘I met your wife.'

‘She told me.'

‘Did she tell you of our conversation?'

‘Yes.'

The old lady looked up from her knitting, then the needles began again.

‘How is Mr Brunel?'

‘Greatly stressed. Working sometimes twenty hours a day. But very successful now, in spite of so many setbacks.'

‘Your wife tells me you crossed the Atlantic.'

‘In the
Great Western
, yes.'

The wind gusted against the windows, beating the rain before it.

‘Her last voyage,' said Charles. ‘It was a race. The London and Liverpool merchants did not want the
Great Western
to be the first steamer to cross to New York. They felt it would re-establish Bristol as the major port, as in the old days. So they chartered the
Sirius
which was being built for this crossing and she left the Thames four days ahead of us.'

‘So what – how did it turn out?'

‘They beat us by a short head. But their voyage had taken nineteen days, ours only just fifteen: and while they were almost out of coal when they reached New York, we arrived with 200 tons to spare. In the end it was a great triumph.'

‘Mr Brunel would be pleased.'

‘Unfortunately he was injured in an accident aboard the
Great Western
just before we sailed so he was not able to come with us. Emma, is there somewhere where we could talk privately?'

‘Is there any need?'

‘I feel there is.'

The knitting needles stopped clicking and then began again.

He said: ‘ Your face. Your eye, Emma. What has happened?'

‘I had an operation.'

‘It makes you look different.'

‘My mother says it makes me look harder.'

‘Oh, I don't think so. Not at all—'

‘I
am
harder, Charles. I am sure you chose wisely in your wife.'

‘I did not know there was another choice open to me.'

‘Nor did I.'

‘I thought you were out of my reach.'

‘So I am – now.'

The knitting needles stopped. The old lady said: ‘I will leave. You wish to talk in private?'

‘Not at all,' I said.

‘Yes please,' said Charles.

It seemed to take an age for her to gather up her knitting, her jacket, her stick, stand up, balance herself, narrow her old eyes to look at us, then totter towards the door. Charles gratefully opened it for her, and presently we were alone.