house of women (13 page)

Before Mrs. Funnell could question her she was out of the room, flying across the hall, out of the

house, and through the grounds into the wood from where she could hear the sound of laughter. And, standing outside the circle, she spoke to no-one in particular when she repeated what she had said to her

grandmother. Within seconds everyone was on their feet asking

questions and she spread her hands wide and flapped them, saying, "I can't tell you anything. I'm going to the hospital. I'll see you when I get back."

"Will I come with you. Lizzie?" It was Frank Conway asking this, and she said, "No, Frank;

thank you very much, but I'll manage. Go on with your tea. Go on now;

you can't do any thing anyway. "

She turned and ran back to the house; then, ignoring speed limits, within five minutes she was driving through the hospital gates. Three minutes later she was standing outside a long ward, and a nurse was saying, "He's in emergency, mind; you mustn't stay long."

Lizzie looked at the bandaged head and face and an arm encased in plaster, the other having a tube attached with blood flowing through it. She bent over the bed, saying softly, "Henry. Can you hear me?

It's Lizzie. "

She had to say her name three times before his eyes opened, and then, his mouth twisted, he whispered, "Lizzie."

"Oh, my dear, my dear. Don't try to talk, don't;

there'll be plenty of time. Just lie quiet. " As if he could do anything else. But what did one say?

She sat down on the chair by the bedside and stroked the fingers of the hand that lay spread out on the counterpane with the tube attached just above his wrist. After a moment his mouth opened again and he said something.

"When ... when?"

"Don't talk, my dear. You can tell me when it happened, later. Don't try to talk."

She herself could hardly speak now for the tears running down her face.

She felt she had to let them run or she would choke.

She didn't know how long she had been sitting there when a nurse came in and said, "I think you should go now. In his present state, visitors will only disturb him. Come back in the morning; he'll likely be much better," and she drew Lizzie up from the chair and led her out of the ward.

A policeman was standing by the door.

"Are you a relative of Mr. Brooker?" he asked her.

"No; but he's a friend and he manages our firm, Funnell Cars," she said.

"Oh. Aye, yes." The policeman nodded.

"Nasty business. We thought he was a goner. If he hadn't got to the phone he would have been, because it got very cold during the night, as it often does, you know, after a hot day." He again nodded at her.

"Was it robbery?"

"Oh, yes, pure and simple. His money was gone;

we found his empty wallet near the gate. But what's puzzling is that the fight or whatever happened took place outside. I think he must have disturbed the intruder as he came indoors and was then hit with a blunt instrument. And it must have been a blunt instrument, for his head was in a mess, his arm was broken and his body battered from top to bottom, all for a few quid. It's amazing what these fellas will do, and the risks they run. They would earn as much, likely, by doing an honest week's work. But that isn't their style. "

She nodded in assent, then walked slowly away. If Henry were to die what would there be left in life for her? She wouldn't love again, not like this. She had never loved before like this. There would be Gran, and her mother, and Peggy, and the baby, not forgetting Andrew, and Len. Oh no, not forgetting Len. She wouldn't be able to go on. She'd put up with this life for nearly eighteen years, but she couldn't go on for another eighteen, not another eight months, not even eight weeks, if anything should happen to Henry . They were all waiting for her when she got back and she told them the little she knew. And Frank wondered why it was always the decent blokes that were let in for it; he had known Henry Brooker for years and there wasn't a nicer fella walking.

It was just on ten o'clock that evening when she heard Len come in.

She heard his key in the door, then the door bang. She heard him going up the stairs and his bedroom door bang.

He was back again and immediately the atmosphere in the house

changed.

It was well after twelve o'clock when she left the sitting-room and went upstairs, but she couldn't sleep. It was three o'clock before she dozed off. It was seven o'clock when she woke, seven o'clock on Monday morning: Monday, when the week's routine started. There'd be a cold breakfast this morning, just cereals and toast, because it was

wash-day. Her mother would go round collecting all the dirty linen, making the same comments as she did every week. Though not quite, for recently one had been dropped: Why had Peggy to change her underwear every day? When she was younger it had been once a week, except when they were going somewhere special, and then they all put on a clean vest and knickers. However, the comment that never varied concerned Len: why did he wear a clean shirt every day, sometimes two: Mondays and Fridays, when he was going to the Boys' Club, he always changed his shirt in the evening.

How soon could she go to the hospital? she wondered. The wards were always very busy first thing, but she could phone.

She phoned, to be told Mr. Brooker had spent a comfortable night.

What did that mean?

Breakfast over, her mother was in the utility room sorting the washing.

She herself was washing up the breakfast things when Victoria came to the door saying, "What do you make of that?" She was holding out one of Len's shirts.

"You know. Lizzie, I starch all the cuffs and the collars of Len's shirts every week without fail. I've done it for years and when I haven't you have, but look at that: that cuff's stiff and that one's limp; it's been washed. Look! part way up the sleeve it's been

washed. Now why should he do that? He's been up to something when he's been away. And he left cuff links in another shirt. That's not like him. But why should he wash one sleeve?"

"Likely because it was dirty."

"How do you get one sleeve dirty?"

"You ask me; or better still, you ask him, Mother. But what does it matter?"

Nothing mattered, except getting to the hospital and seeing Henry again. Before she went, however, she would have to go to the Works.

Last night she had phoned Joe Stanhope and told him what had

happened.

He had been shocked and said, "Don't worry, Mrs. Hammond, things will carry on as usual. At least I'll do the best I can."

And she had no doubt they would all do the best they could; except Len, of course, who would be gloating, and waiting now, desperately waiting to see if he would at last be given his due:

there was no better worker than Joe Stanhope, but where management was concerned he was virtually inexperienced.

At half past eight she crossed the yard and went to the side door of the annexe. She never used the communicating door inside the house because she felt strongly that they both must feel it was their house and so was private.

Peggy was concerned not only for Mr. Brooker, but also for the way her mother was reacting. It was as if Mr. Brooker was a relation or

something.

"It's a pity Mr. Brooker isn't there this morning," she said, 'because Andrew's taken his poster in. Gran saw it last night and thought it was excellent. She thought up a slogan for it and is going to have it printed and stuck along the bottom. It's alluding to the girl on the bonnet and it says simply, "It's what's under the bonnet that counts"

She's going to pay him for it. "

"Where are they going to put it? In the showcase outside?"

"Oh no; I think it's going in the showrooms."

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Now it was Lizzie's turn to say, "Oh no!" Then, "Len isn't going to like that, and that's putting it mildly."

"It's only a poster."

"But it's his showroom; and you know what he thinks of ... of Andrew."

"Well, it's gone now." Peggy pursed her lips.

"He'll have to make the best of it."

"It was quite big. How on earth did he manage that on his bike?"

"He didn't take his bike; his father picked him up in the old banger.

Oh, it's a wonder that car doesn't set itself on fire. Anyway, they put it on the top. Andrew had packed it in cardboard ready.

I .

I thought his using all those parts to form a frame was very good, didn't you? "

"What? Oh yes, the tools. Oh yes; I thought they were very good, very good."

Parts forming frames, posters, Len going mad when he knew who had done that poster. Henry lying in hospital battered to bits, her mother worrying why Len had washed one sleeve of his shirt. Yes, why had he washed one sleeve of his shirt? Oh, what did it matter? Nothing

mattered. She must get to the Works.

Willie Anderson, looking at the six foot by four poster, commented,

"Eeh! that's grand. By! you

shouldn't be greasing, you should be painting. "

"I will one day." Andrew preened himself.

"Quite an artist, aren't you?" This from Ken Pickford, who was standing to the other side of the poster which had been placed for inspection against the boot of a car. You should take it up full-time.

"

"I'm going to night-classes now to keep my hand in. It was my subject at school."

"I'd say!" Ken Pickford jerked his head to the side;

then, poking his neck out, he said under his breath, "But how d'you think Hammond will take your efforts, lad, eh? He seemed to hate your guts."

"He can't do much about it; Mrs. Funnell likes it;

she paid me extra for it. "

"She didn't!"

"Oh yes, she did. She gave me five quid."

"Well, well. Anyway, it can't remain here. Look, Willie'he turned to one of the men' you give him a hand to take it into the showroom. And mind, you'd better do the talking to Mr. Hammond, 'cos, I understand, he hasn't opened his mouth to you, has he?" He was addressing Andrew, and Andrew said, "No, he hasn't opened his mouth to me, but I haven't missed anything he's had to say. Anyway, whether he speaks or not doesn't affect me; I know where I stand." He looked from one to the other knowingly, and the two men exchanged glances and, nodding, said together, "He knows where he stands."

And Willie Anderson added, "Lucky lad who knows where he stands at seventeen."

"I'm eighteen next week."

"He's eighteen next week." Again they had spoken together; then laughing, Ken Pickford said, "Get on with it! Forward into battle, idiots and fools first."

Both Willie Anderson and Andrew were still laughing as they carried the wooden-framed poster through the workshop, not without drawing some comments, then across the forecourt, past the main entrance that led to a small hall and the offices, to the double glass doors of the

showroom.

The showroom was a large one. It could take ten cars comfortably, styled. Leonard Hammond's of fice was at the far end of it. It, too, was glass-fronted, so he had an open view into the showroom itself, where the cars were so arranged that his view could take in the main doors and any customer entering.

He had been sitting in his office for the last fifteen minutes. He had a ledger in front of him and a pen in his hand, but he hadn't written anything or even turned a page. He had already been along to the main office and seen Joe Stanhope ensconced in the managerial chair and had been told that Mrs. Hammond would be along later to see to things.

He'd had to curb his desire not to reach out and drag the fellow across the table and fling him to the floor . Mrs. Hammond would be along later to see to things. Yes, Mrs. Hammond would be along later to see to things, and he would see to Mrs. Hammond. If it was the last thing he did, he would see to Mrs. Hammond. His mind seemed to be red hot.

He could practically see inside his head, and it was flaming. His temples were bursting. It was when he lifted his eyes and looked towards the door that he saw the two young men easing something into the showroom.

When the nearer one turned his face and recognition came, it was as if he had been startled by a loud report, so quickly did he spring up and lean across his desk and stare through his dividing glass panel, to see Alee Fox, the chief salesman, walk towards the two, and Pat Kenyard, the second assistant, come from behind the car and join them.

He watched them talk for a while; then Alee Fox looked towards the office and him before pointing to a wall where there hung two framed photos of cars. He was further incensed when Fox took down the photos and beckoned the two carrying the poster towards him.

Now he was out of the office and striding towards them, the impeding cars increasing his anger as he cried, "Hold your hand a minute! Hold your hand a minute! What's this?"

"Apparently Mrs. Funnell said this has to go up in the showrooms,"

Alee Fox said.

"Begod! it has. Mrs. Funnell said, did she? Now get that out of here before I put my foot through it."

"Better not do that."

Slowly he turned his head and looked at Andrew. The boy's face was red, the lips of his wide mouth pushed out.

"I've done that, and Mrs. Funnell paid me for it and says it's got to hang in here. So hang in here it will."

"Get out! you scum. Get out!"

For a matter of three seconds no-one moved;

then Pat Kenyard said, "Look, Mr. Hammond, let's talk this ... " Shut up! you, you fathead . So you won't get out and you won't take that with you. Well, I'll show you what I'll do with it. " Like lightning he swung out an arm towards a stand and grabbed up the metal vase holding artificial flowers and hurled it at the poster, and it went through it as if it were tissue paper. What followed next no-one was later able to explain: whether it was Len Hammond who sprang forward on the boy, or the boy sprang forward on him, with three men aiming to separate them. When they did, Hammond screamed, " Get him out! Get him out! " with Andrew yelling back at him, " You'll not push me out, or anybody else. I'll be here when you're gone . I'll take your