A Child's Voice Calling (30 page)

Then a knock on the door brought her to her feet with a sudden smile that lit up her face. She jumped up to let in Harry Drover and glanced shyly from him to the doctor. ‘Dr Knowles is here, Harry. He’s ever so sorry to hear about the Rescue.’

Harry smiled politely. “Aft’noon, doctor. Er, I been shoppin’ at Lipton’s, Mabel, an’ brought yer some Lyons chocolate cake, an” – he searched in his string bag –’ah, here it is, some o’ that Cheshire cheese yer like, about three-quarters of a pound.’

‘Oh, Harry, ye’re too good to us – yer shouldn’t spend yer money like this; what would yer mother say? But thank yer, oh, thank yer, dear Harry!’

Knowles tactfully looked away as she threw her arms round her young man’s neck. Heaven only knew what lay in store for these two, he thought, or how many years would have to pass before they could be together in a home of their own. Would Mabel ever realise her dream of caring for children in need? If there was any justice in life she should. Yet his expression softened at the sight of them: he felt privileged just to witness the love on their young faces. Meanwhile it was a matter of honour that he should find a way for Mabel to earn some money without tiring herself out, now that she had to be breadwinner for them all.

He lost no time on this resolve and surprised Mabel by returning that same evening. ‘Mabel, my dear, I have this patient, an elderly lady who lives on Bromfelde Road with her daughter and sister,’ he began, as if about to ask a favour of her. ‘Mrs Goring is a doctor’s widow and has sadly lost her memory, and Miss Goring teaches music at Carlyle College. They live in, er, reduced circumstances because of an unwise investment, and poor Miss Goring has to support both her mother and her aunt, Miss de Lisle, so life isn’t easy for her.’

He paused and glanced at Mabel who sat waiting for him to come to the point, unable to see what this strange-sounding household had to do with her own
problems. He cleared his throat. ‘And Miss Goring is looking for a suitable person to go in each day to keep an eye on things while she’s at college.’

Mabel suddenly understood and sat bolt upright on the sofa. ‘D’ye mean
me
, Dr Knowles? What would I have to do?’

He explained that Mrs Goring needed a little assistance with washing and dressing, and Miss de Lisle’s sight was poor, so she liked somebody to read aloud to her. ‘And if you could prepare a light midday meal for them, Mabel, and keep the place reasonably tidy – it wouldn’t be hard work, not like the Rescue, and the pay would be about the same. They’d need you from eight each morning till Miss Goring gets home at around five. What do you think?’

He smiled, but Mabel felt nervous and uncertain. Still reeling from the events of the past ten days, she was unable to see herself as a daily housekeeper, nurse and cook. Knowles saw the weariness in her eyes and the droop of her shoulders; what this poor girl needs is a holiday, he thought sadly, not another new job to worry about. ‘If I couldn’t get away before five, I wouldn’t be at home when Daisy and George get in from school,’ she murmured, thinking aloud. ‘Though I s’pose I could ask a neighbour to take ’em in for an hour.’

‘I’ll have a word with Miss Goring and see if something can be worked out about that,’ said the doctor. ‘Shall I speak to her and arrange for you to meet?’

In other circumstances Mabel would have been highly diverted by the sight of Mrs Goring sitting majestically on the commode-chair, discussing the
shortcomings of servants she no longer kept, and the reminiscences of Miss de Lisle who wore a feathered toque at all times and had been an intimate of Mrs Patrick Campbell. Mabel often thought wryly of how she would have amused her mother with her stories about the two old ladies, but in her present anxious state they sorely tried her patience. No sooner did she start preparing a meal or dusting a room than Mrs Goring would pull imperiously on the bell rope, or Miss de Lisle would ask her to read aloud from
The Times
. Mrs Goring had to be sat on the commode every couple of hours if accidents were to be avoided and neither sister had any sense of time. They lived in a past world and looked upon Mabel as a servant with no life of her own, while she fretted about Daisy and George, wondering how they were coping with school and longing to see their faces each evening.

Miss Goring, a pleasant but harassed woman of about forty, arranged for a nearby friend to go to the house on Bromfelde Road at four o’clock on most days, so that Mabel could hurry home in time for George’s and Daisy’s return from school.

Alice arrived about an hour later, usually complaining that she was tired out after a busy day at the post office, and grumbled when asked to help prepare supper or do the ironing. ‘I’m on my feet all day and then come home to wait on ev’rybody,’ she said crossly. ‘And then yer ask me to give up all my wages – it’s not fair!’

‘Oh, shut up, Alice, and do yer share,’ snapped Mabel whose head and feet were aching. ‘What d’ye think I do with
my
wages? I don’t spend a penny on meself.’

‘What about that money Grandmother gave us?’ demanded Alice. ‘Ye’ve kept
that
, I notice.’

‘That’s put by for a rainy day,’ answered Mabel. ‘An’ she said she wasn’t goin’ to pay any more rent for this house, so we may need it for
that
if we run short.’

Alice stuck out her lower lip and Daisy looked troubled at hearing this sharp exchange between her sisters. Mabel missed Albert’s abrasive wit, for even her devoted Harry seemed unable to lighten the gloom of the motherless household.

However, with his usual perception he saw what was needed and called on Ada Clay to ask her to visit Mabel. ‘She needs a woman friend to talk to, Miss Clay,’ he said earnestly. ‘So could yer go on yer own, like, without Arthur?’

Ada readily agreed and was received with joy one Saturday afternoon, demanding to hear about Mabel’s elderly charges. The little house soon rang with her laughter.

‘Each of ’em tells me stories about the other one, Ada. Miss de Lisle wears this peculiar thing on her head with a long feather that waves up and down as she walks – I think she must wear it in bed, ’cause I never see her without it – and she comes along shakin’ her head and says Mrs Goring used to be completely under her husband’s thumb and never had a thought of her own. “That’s why her brain’s failed now he’s gone –
and
she’s lost control o’ her bladder!”’

‘Is that what she says? Did yer ever!’ Ada giggled.

‘Yes, an’ then Mrs Goring’s sittin’ there on the commode, shakin’
her
head an’ whisperin’ in me ear that Miss de Lisle was disappointed in love and has been jealous o’ Mrs Goring all her life. “Ever since she was my bridesmaid, the poor woman’s envied
my status as a wife, you see!” I tell yer, Ada, I can hardly keep a straight face!’

The sight of Ada convulsed with mirth and holding a handkerchief to her streaming eyes was a much-needed tonic for Mabel, but the smiles disappeared when Daisy rushed in, flushed and triumphant, with Mabel’s shopping bag which she put down on the table. ‘There y’are, Mabel, sausages for tea an’ a loaf o’ Nevill’s bread!’

‘Daisy! Where’d yer get this?’

‘Hemmings’ bakers in Queen’s Road and that smarmy ol’ butcher – off o’ his delivery van.’ Daisy’s dark eyes gleamed as she spoke.

‘What d’ye mean? Where’d yer get the money for ’em?’ demanded Mabel, at which the little girl faltered and glanced at George. ‘George, did
you
give Daisy the money to buy these?’

George reddened and shook his head, and Daisy spoke up defiantly. ‘Yer said yer hadn’t got enough money, an’ . . . an’ . . . yer said yer had to pay the rent, an’ yer never spent anythin’ on yerself, Mabel. Don’t be cross with me!’

Mabel could have wept as she led her little sister upstairs to talk with her alone. ‘Daisy, dear, just tell me the truth an’ I won’t be cross, I promise. Did yer take the bread an’ sausages without payin’ for ’em?’

Daisy hung her head and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Nobody saw me, Mabel, so don’t say any more!’ she pleaded.

‘Yer
poor
little thing,’ whispered Mabel, horrified and touched at the same time. ‘But yer know that stealin’s wrong, an’ yer must never do it – yer do know that, don’t yer, Daisy?’

‘Oh, Mabel, I only did it for you!’

‘I know, I know, dear, but it’s still wrong. The
food’ll have to be paid for and yer must say ye’re sorry to Hemmings’ and Mr Ashworth. I’ll come with yer, an’ we must go straight away.’

Mabel’s heart sank at the thought of the shame they would both have to face, but it had to be done in order to teach poor Daisy a lesson for life.

But fate was kind on this occasion. At the very moment that the two sisters were setting out on their errand of humiliation, Harry Drover turned up in his bandsman’s uniform on a quick visit. His eager smile faded at the sight of their faces, and Mabel’s voice shook as she explained where they were going and why. ‘Then I’m comin’ with yer,’ he stated firmly. ‘Yes, Mabel, don’t argue, I’m comin’ and I’ll listen while Daisy tells ’em she’s sorry – they won’t say too much to her with me standin’ there in me uniform – and I’ll pay for the stuff.
Yes
, Mabel, yer heard what I said, an’ now let’s get goin’!’

That evening, after George and Daisy were in bed and Alice out visiting an old school friend, Harry Drover called again. It was nearly ten o’clock, but the sky was still light after a warm, sunny day. She let him in and made room for him beside her on the worn sofa. ‘I’ll never be able to thank yer for what yer did for Daisy today, Harry – and for me.’

His eyes glowed in the fading light. ‘Then give us a kiss, Mabel,’ he said, unusually bold.

Her arms went round his neck and her lips pressed upon his for an exquisite moment. ‘Ye’re my tower o’ strength, Harry,’ she told him softly, and he kissed her again, more fervently, his mouth lingering on hers as if to draw the sweetness from her, like a bee hovering over a flower. As his arms tightened
around her he gave a sigh that was almost a groan: he felt his body’s instant response to her closeness.

Mabel also experienced a tremor of desire, a quickening of her heartbeat and breath. It was as if their bodies carried on their own unspoken exchange, quite independently of their minds, ignoring the restrictions of convention, the dictates of prudence. I want you, said his flesh to hers, and her body softened and relaxed in response.

But caution prevailed. Mabel drew apart from him and rose trembling from the sofa. ‘I . . . I think Alice’ll be in soon,’ she said shakily. ‘Would yer like a cup o’ tea, Harry?’

A cup of tea was the last thing young Drover wanted at that moment, but he sighed and nodded reluctantly. Then she turned back and leaned over him to kiss him again. And then once more, holding his face between her hands. It was a wordless exchange between lovers, full of promise for the future.

But it would be a very long time indeed before they were so close again.

The fatal day came without a hint of warning.

Mabel was hurrying down from the sedate residential avenues of north Clapham to the humbler area off the Wandsworth Road where Sorrel Street lay. As soon as she saw number 12 her heart seemed to miss a beat: the door was open and Daisy cowered outside, her face full of terror. A man’s voice could be heard within, slurred and shouting incoherently.

‘Mabel, Mabel! He’s in there with George!’

‘All right, Daisy, all right – listen, go to Mrs Bull’s an’ stay there, d’ye hear? Don’t cry, just hurry off to her house – go on, be a good girl,’ panted Mabel,
already breathless from running most of the way home. Then she braced herself to enter the house.

Even on the threshold she picked up an ominous smell, a mixture of whisky and stale, unwashed clothing . . . and fear. She heard another shout, a thud and then a sound of impact: a hard object meeting something that broke with a sickening crack.

At the door of the living room she stood and watched as her father’s body fell, first across the table and then slithering off and hitting the floor, dragging the red chenille tablecloth down with him and lying quite still, with one leg awkwardly bent beneath the other. His face was towards her, his eyes open and staring without sight. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. Mabel knew instantly that he was dead.

Her brother George stood beside the table, still clutching the thick glass vase that had delivered the fatal blow. The marguerite daisies it had contained were strewn over the table top and floor, and water dripped off the side of the table on to the crumpled body on the hearthrug.

As when she had seen the body of her mother in the public mortuary, a wave of horror and nausea swept over Mabel, but this time she did not cry out as she looked up and met her young brother’s stricken gaze. She realised that if ever she had to keep her head it was now, because George’s whole future could depend on her reaction. She took a deep breath. ‘Put that vase down on the table, Georgie,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘And tell me exactly what happened.’

The twelve-year-old boy shuddered violently and she reached out to enfold him in her arms. ‘’E was ’ere when we came ’ome –’e was drunk an’ ravin’
about our mum, ’ow ’e never meant to ’urt ’er, never wanted ’er to die – all that sort o’ rubbish.’ His face crumpled and he began to sob.

‘Sh, George,
sh
, there’s no time for that. Did he hit yer?’

‘No, ’e was talkin’ all this stuff about Mum an’ I couldn’t stand it, Mabel, I couldn’t
bear
it – so I picked up the vase o’ flowers orf the table an’ ’eld it upside down with both me ’ands, an’ . . . an’ . . . I brought it down on the back of ’is ’ead. There was a crack—’

‘Yes, George, I heard it. Now listen to me, I’m goin’ to send for Dr Knowles, ’cause if anybody can help us he can. I’m goin’ to tell him that Dad fell downstairs.’ Mabel tried not to pant as she spoke. ‘Go up to yer room an’ stay there. Whatever yer do, don’t come down, d’ye hear me?’

She gently took his arm and led him out of the room; she helped him up the first few stairs, then left him to climb the rest. There was not a moment to lose, it was essential to act quickly and she closed her mind to everything other than what had to be done.