A Mother's Love (33 page)

‘Depression!’ echoed Sarah, as the others drew in their breaths. ‘If any depression has been caused, we know who has caused it.’

‘Be that as it may,’ the doctor went on, now aware of the events leading up to Mary’s stroke from what Mrs Morris had related. ‘What’s needed now is complete rest, and for your sister to be afforded every assistance and understanding. I’m sure she’ll recover and be as good as ever she was.’

But Mary Wilson was never again to be as good as ever she was. Though able to get about, hers became a shuffling gait; she needed the use of a stick, and the left hand was no good to her at all.

Harriet visited her mother more frequently now, the events of that terrible day somehow causing her not to resort to her medicine quite so often. Whenever she saw her, she felt tears prick her eyes and anger fill her heart against her sisters. Not so much against Clara, who was easy-going like Father had been, but against the waspish Annie who, even though she saw the damage she had caused, refused to shoulder blame, happy to quote the doctor’s words of no one thing being responsible, relayed to her by Clara, who had received them from Matthew in his effort to reunite his wife’s family.

‘I’ll never forgive Annie,’ Harriet said furiously.

Annie had abandoned her legal battle. Thompson, Greave & Sillitoe’s fee had been paid, and the papers filed away in their crypt until the yellowing correspondence would one day be dragged out and disposed of as so much waste paper.

But all the filing away and disposing of paper would never, as far as Matthew could see, fade the memory of that letter arriving at the house of a harmless elderly lady in Approach Road, or its results.

The journal was doing well, though not well enough. Moving into the City had drained Matthew’s resources, which were stretched to the limit, repaying the bank loan, and paying the wages of a much larger staff both there and at the printing works in Cambridge Road. The machines were becoming outmoded with the newer and faster methods used by the large newspaper companies and a growing number of high-quality magazines. The
Freewoman
was beginning to look sadly old and Victorian. It would mean borrowing still more for new machinery. And following his father’s advice, Matthew’s venture into bringing in shareholders hadn’t taken off as he had hoped, because he had not paused to think it out as carefully as he should.

The bit of advice he should have taken heed of – to get himself a better accountant – he had managed to ignore, and he was left wondering why he had overlooked something of such importance, the very thing that would have kept him on course. Too late, he realised his accountant had been an idiot, a smalltime dolt; his advice on setting the price of shares quite off the track. Few took up the offer. To attract more custom, again on his accountant’s advice, the dividends had been made far too generous; Matthew, fool that he’d been, had followed the man’s recommendations to the letter before realising his advice had been erroneous. In panic, he took on board his father’s own accountant, in a firm down in Hampshire, which meant costly discussions over the telephone and irregular and time-consuming meetings, the price of experience all helping to drain dry the coffers.

But it wasn’t only the journal that was draining him. Puffed up with earlier success, Matthew had bought the lease of the house the year before; and the bank, glad to lend him the money at five per cent while his repayments remained regular, was now clamouring to have its loans met in a more businesslike manner. What with repayments on the City premises, the need to buy more up-to-date equipment, and repayments on buying the lease of his house, Matthew found himself falling dangerously behind. By the May of 1909 he was at his wits’ end how to cope with it all.

There was no use in trying to talk to Harriet. She had no head for business and would panic at the least mention of financial worries. Nor did he dare confide in his brothers-in-law. What, and lose prestige in their eyes? His own brother, Richard, had no interest in him. He hadn’t heard from Richard or his sister’s family in over two years. That was how it was with his people, paddling their own canoes, minding their own business, and to hell with anyone else’s problems.

There was only one ear he could confide in. Fifteen now, Sara was a beautiful, intelligent but serious young woman. About to study for her matriculation next spring, she would pass with flying colours and he was proud of her. He also knew that he loved her, with a gentle, caring love of which he told himself he did not feel ashamed. He would sit with her, tell her of his problems. She would give comfort if not answers.

Sara looked forward to Saturdays. It was like a breath of fresh air being away from school and doing something she had grown to love.

Eight-thirty each Saturday morning found her sitting primly behind a desk in the front office of Matthew’s fine first-floor suite off Fleet Street. Matthew would drive her there in his new Vauxhall car. They would enter beneath the name, the freewoman, embossed upon the stonework above the front entrance. It had once been an ordinary shop front, but Matthew had had considerable alterations done after he had acquired it and the first-floor offices. A smaller door next to it led up to offices above, belonging to some half dozen other businesses, but none as big as the
Freewoman.
Matthew was proud of his achievement, although lately Sara had thought he looked worried.

It was Friday, another school week over. Sara, gone to bed, sat with a book on her lap, the small oil lamp on her bedside table low. But she wasn’t reading. She thought instead of tomorrow, Saturday, of being grown up for a day helping Matthew run his journal.

She wondered if he might come in to say goodnight. He did on occasion, would stay awhile, perhaps an hour, talking to her of his plans, his hopes and dreams. Mother never listened to him; had little interest in his ideas, he said, somewhat sadly, she thought. But Sara loved having him sharing them with her, having him near her, that special hour theirs alone, for the first time in her life feeling loved and needed. He was always so tender, so understanding.

Lately, though, she’d become aware of great changes in her body, and some inner voice seemed to be telling her that these visits of Matthew’s were not quite the right thing for him to do. Yet she couldn’t tell him so because she loved his visits – the only true comfort she’d ever known anyone to give her, and she adored him for it.

Her heart would leap to the soft tap on her door and she would whisper for him to come in, oddly excited by that need to whisper. As he sat at the foot of her bed, as he had done this past twelve-month, she would push back the coverlet, place her feet on the floor as she had that first time, and come to sit by him.

This was their secret, and that fact added to her sense of expectancy. Her mother, asleep in her own lonely room, knew nothing of the visits; the staff had gone to bed; the house would be silent. Matthew would talk and she listen, their bodies close, sustaining an unspoken need to be loved, sharing this special kind of oneness in each other.

She knew now that Matthew’s need of affection was as great as her own. But sometimes she sensed something oddly disturbing about that need to be so close, though what it was she could not tell. At fifteen Sara had no knowledge of what passed between man and woman, yet this longing to be closer than they were already without knowing why confused her. She was happy, proud that he should want to be with her; felt protected and wanted, felt loved, yet her heart would feel so heavy as she gazed into that fair, handsome face, at times like an ache.

Whatever it was, it seemed to affect him too. Lately, as his lips touched her cheek after talking awhile, he would tremble quite suddenly, his arm about her shoulders tightening, and she would be sure he was going to seek her lips. She in turn wondered what it would feel like, his lips on hers, but always he would draw away and leap up hastily, almost pushing her backward on to the bed. Saying he had something to attend to in a most hoarse tone, he would hurry away, not stopping to tuck the coverlet around her as he used to, leaving her to wonder for half the night what she had done or said to upset him so. All she knew was it was happening more and more and that each time she felt more and more hurt, loving him so and wanting not to cause him annoyance.

It was at these times that the dread of rejection assailed her. Why did he become so abrupt? What was it that turned people – her mother, girls at school, now Matthew – against her? Though he would always return another night, it hurt when he pulled sharply away from her. If she knew what it was she might have been able to rectify it. But when she attempted to ask, he would brush aside her question, almost angrily, leaving her to lie awake trying to find some cause. But she never could.

Last year, 1908, they had spent their summer vacation in France: a few days in Paris, then on to Brittany for the remainder of the ten days. This year, to Jamie’s exasperation, they were taking in Paris yet again. As if they’d not had enough of it.

Jamie hated Paris, hated wandering around museums and things. He trailed after them, his fair skin flushed by the stifling city-enclosed heat of late August, his face purposely drawn down in a picture of misery.

Harriet had constantly to warn him that he would get lost if he did not keep up with them but her warnings fell on stony ground. He was almost twelve years old. Even in a strange city he was sure he’d come to no harm if he did get lost. With his excellent command of French – surpassing his French master’s every expectation at school – he was fully confident that he could enquire his way back to their hotel. He let his feelings be known in no uncertain terms, but his mother wasn’t having any of it.

‘I know it’s boring for you, dear. But we have to keep together.’

Her parasol held daintily to shield her from the strong sunlight, she looked sweet and petite and very cool in white muslin, an enormous pleated hat of white silk perched precariously on top of her head. Jamie often wondered how ladies ever managed to keep such great big silly hats in place on top of their mounds of hair. Her grey eyes regarded him, her small oval face as stern as she could make it.

‘It’s only two more days, dear. Then we’ll be on the train to Brittany. You liked Brittany last year.’

He couldn’t wait to get to Brittany, that quaint little fishing village of Carnac they’d discovered last year with its swarthy yokels speaking funny French; to play on the fine sands and chase around the rocks with the local boys, his French far superior to their rustic accents; splashing about in a sea where one could wade out for dozens of yards without going out of one’s depth. Sometimes, they almost had the small beach all to themselves, apart from a few local people. He longed to get there, longed for Paris to end.

‘Oh, do come along, Jamie!’

‘James!’ This from his father as he lagged behind once more. ‘Try to keep up, lad.’

‘I’m tired.’ The Arc de Triomphe seemed miles away, the trees in full leaf lining the length of the Champs Elysees doing little to combat the heat. ‘It’s hot. Can’t we ride?’

‘We’ve been riding. Now we’re walking.’

His sister gave him a slow glance, reflecting their father’s rebuke, pretending to be grown up, just because she was nearly as tall as him. In pale blue, her mass of dark hair tied back with a blue ribbon, with net gloves and white stockings, she looked elegant, he had to admit it. He poked his tongue out at her and she turned away, walking next to their father.

After the suffocating heat of Paris, Carnac was cool by comparison with Atlantic breezes wafting off the sea.

His mother sat under a sunshade, hardly doing anything but looking or reading. Father would put on a bathing costume and come in for an occasional dip. Sara would go for long walks on her own. Sometimes Father would go with her after asking Mother if she wanted to come. But she always shook her head, saying she had come here to rest, not to walk her legs off.

Jamie was glad. He didn’t like walking either. It was so boring, gazing at headlands and picking flowers – weeds, really, as far as he could see. While Mother remained behind, so could he, which suited him, because often Father and Sara would be away for ages and ages. What they saw in it, or what they found to do, he didn’t know, certainly didn’t care.

Sara lay in the long grasses that rose like a fence all around her and gazed up at the sky, such a sky as she felt she could have swum in; warm and deep, it surrounded her.

Matthew sat beside her, his arms hugging his drawn-up knees, his fawn check jacket on the ground beside him, fawn-striped collarless shirt open at the neck, the hard celluloid collar in the jacket pocket for safekeeping.

Sara turned her eyes towards him. He looked completely relaxed, gradually cooling down after their long stroll under the hot Brittany sun. He was looking back at her and as their eyes met, he smiled, his lips beneath the fair moustache curving gently at the corners.

‘You look so beautiful there,’ he murmured. But he had said this many times before and always just afterwards would become hard and tight-lipped, destroying the happiness his comment always brought. He said she was beautiful and she knew she was because he said it. Then he would take it all back by hurrying away from her without any explanation as to why. Now she did not return his smile, instantly on the defensive.

‘You know that’s not true! I’m not beautiful at all.’

For answer, he turned his attention to plucking a stem of seeding grass and, with a low, relaxed chuckle, proceeded to torment the tip of her nose with it.

Sara turned her face away from the tickling, trying to evade the tormenting seedhead, laughing now, her defences down. Everything was all right. This was a happy time. Matthew ceased trying to pursue her with the grass stem and she turned back to find him grown sombre, his handsome face above her composed, his brown eyes regarding her.

‘You are beautiful, Sara. The loveliest creature I have ever seen, and … I love you. I’ve always loved you.’

She knew immediately what would happen; steeled herself for it. For a moment he stared down at her while she lay very still beneath the gaze, waiting for the warmth to leave his eyes. She saw him lean forward for a moment, his hand moving to hover over her as if to touch her, then he was on his feet, grabbing his coat up from the grass beside him.