Keepsake (12 page)

‘Are you a fairy?’ enquired four-year-old Tom, who had been dying for confirmation since the young woman’s last visit.

Etta chuckled delightedly and said, ‘A mere mortal, I’m afraid.’

Tom gave a disappointed nod. ‘I thought you were too big to fit in the clock.’

Seeing his daughter-in-law perplexed, Redmond explained as he reached for a pipe. ‘We have the little people living in our clock, don’t we, Uncle Mal?’

‘We surely do, Red,’ grunted old Malachy, sharing a pouch of tobacco with him.

Etta caught the barely perceptible wink. ‘How wonderful! And what are their names?’ she asked Tom.

The little boy listed them. ‘I’ve never seen them, but Daddy has, haven’t you, Daddy?’

Redmond nodded and, glowing pipe in mouth, dragged Tom onto his bony knee. ‘And very good-looking they are – that’s why the lad thought you must be related.’

Etta thanked him, both fascinated and envious at the ease with which father and child related. Never had she sat upon her father’s knee, not even as an infant.

Aggie came back in then.

‘We were just telling Etta about our little people,’ divulged Redmond.

‘Were you indeed?’ Aggie wondered how he could find conversation so easy with the girl. She herself was struggling.

‘Sometimes they leave me money when one of my teeth falls out,’ said Tom, then gave a theatrical sigh of disappointment and surveyed Etta from beneath long eyelashes.

Interpreting the hint, and remembering how she herself had received monetary gifts from visiting aunts and uncles, a smiling Etta delved in her pocket. ‘Well, it’s a curious thing but last night a fairy came to visit me,’ she saw the little boy’s face light up as she proffered a coin, ‘and she
asked that, should I happen to see a boy named Tom, I pass this on to him.’

Delighted, Tom slipped off his father’s knee to accept the penny.

Albeit enchanted at the way his wife played the game, Marty wished she was not so free with their funds.

Aggie, too, deemed it most extravagant, though she told Tom to thank his benefactor before leading him from the room. ‘Better come and put it in your moneybox, so it’ll be safe.’

And, under his mother’s careful instruction, Tom went to the understairs cupboard and inserted his penny in the gas meter.

Redmond maintained the conversation with his daughter-in-law, an engaging smile on his frail countenance as he puffed on his pipe. ‘So, and how are you managing with your new life, Etta? I expect you find us a strange lot.’

‘Not at all, Mr Lanegan,’ Etta assured him, noting that Jimmy-Joe had sidled up to kneel at her feet, and she quickly moved her tasselled shoes out of temptation. ‘I’m managing very well. It’s very good of you to ask, and so kind of you to invite us to luncheon – Martin, we must return the favour.’

Re-entering with Tom, Aggie pursed her lips at the way this was delivered, as if Etta were dealing with some mere social contact. ‘It wasn’t done out of politeness. This is Marty’s family, and yours too now.’

It held the slightest barb but Etta caught it. Mrs Lanegan had not yet forgiven her. Very well, if she wanted to be so petty, Etta would turn that last statement to her advantage.

‘You’re so kind. In that case, might I perhaps borrow one or two items until Martin and I have found our feet?’ She produced a scrap of paper and began to recite from it.

Recognising that she had brought this on herself, Aggie was magnanimous. ‘I expect I can provide them before you go.’

‘Thank you,’ smiled Etta. ‘And you really must come to tea with us one afternoon – perhaps next Sunday?’

‘Us too?’ came ten-year-old Maggie’s eager query.

Marty leapt in. ‘Maybe just the grown-ups for now, Mags, we haven’t room for everyone.’

Etta sought to appease the crestfallen girl. ‘But you and Elizabeth are welcome to call through the week whenever you like. I should be glad of the company whilst your brother is at work.’

‘We’ve got school through the week,’ provided a sulky Elizabeth.

‘Afterwards then.’ Etta looked envious. ‘Oh, I should love to have had an education but my parents didn’t see the need.’

‘You can go in my place,’ came the suggestion.

‘Enough of that,’ scolded Red. ‘An education is important if you’re to get anywhere in life.’

‘Some of us still end up doing the washing-up,’ muttered Elizabeth.

But Maggie had taken to her sister-in-law and also to her clothes. ‘I love that dress, Etta.’

Red assured her, ‘You shall have one like it yourself some day.’

‘So may we expect you on Sunday?’ Etta asked her mother-in-law.

Aggie nodded. ‘Thank you, we’ll arrange what to –’ She broke off as a familiar couple passed the window and a tap at the door quickly ensued. ‘Oh, there’s only one reason
she
’s here!’

Nobody rushed to respond for now, Marty explaining in a whisper to Etta, ‘Aunty Joan and Uncle John. We don’t see them very much, Aunt Joan’s a bit…’

‘More than a bit,’ came Aggie’s sour interjection. ‘Sure, I wondered how long the news would take to reach her.’ She grimaced at Redmond who seemed none too keen on the visitors either, but, as the front door was already ajar
because of the heat and signified that the family was at home, he had no option but to shout, ‘Come in, we’re open for public viewing!’ Though the look on his face belied his cheery invitation.

Mr Lanegan’s brother seemed inoffensive enough, if anything a little reserved. His wife too appeared quite timid, everything about her being mouse-like, from the colour of her hair and her tiny pointed chin to her dainty feet, but it quickly became evident why she was unpopular. Etta sensed embarrassment from everyone as, ignoring them, Martin’s aunt came directly to her with an ingratiating display that almost bordered on genuflection.

‘We’re so privileged to meet you!’ beamed the mousy woman with a hushed, reverential tone, her Yorkshire accent polished around the consonants though not the vowels. ‘We’ve heard so much about you – how fortunate our nephew is!’

Etta replied politely, ‘I assure you I am the fortunate one, Mrs Lanega –’

‘Lane!’ corrected the other quickly, whilst maintaining her fawning stance.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lane.’ Etta looked to her husband for explanation.

Marty used his eyes to warn her not to say more. He would have to tell her later: whilst Redmond Lanegan celebrated his Irishness, the bigotry of others had scarred his brother John, who preferred to Anglicise his surname and temper his accent, which was how he had acquired his snob of a wife.

‘But you must call me Aunt, now that we’re related,’ Joan told Etta, her perky rodent face beaming.

‘How are you, Aunty Joan?’ Marty conjured a smile but was granted the briefest of acknowledgements, her sights fixed solely on Etta, guzzling every detail of the lilac and cream silk dress, every tuck, ribbon, pleat and sprig of lace.

‘What an exquisite gown!’ she breathed. ‘Such a shame you’ve nowhere more decent to wear it.’

Stunned by such rudeness, Etta sought to defend her hostess. ‘Martin’s mother cooked a wonderful luncheon.’

Joan beheld her pityingly. ‘You must come to us next time.’ Then her eye was briefly drawn to the hostess’s outfit, which she eyed with an enquiring smile. ‘Is that a new dress, Agnes?’

Aggie seemed mildly surprised that Joan had noticed. She looked down at herself. ‘Aye, I got the stuff in Hardings’ sale – two and eleven.’

Joan reached over to rub the material between her fingers as if admiring it, then said quietly, ‘Yes, it is a bit cottony, isn’t it – nice though.’

Aggie looked at her son with an expression that asked why had she fallen for it? The only reason she suffered Joan was because of her marriage to Redmond’s brother.

But Etta saw the hurt face and, feeling sorry for her mother-in-law, enquired admiringly of Aggie, ‘Did you make it yourself? How clever. I could never hope to achieve your expertise, nor match your cookery skills. I don’t know how I shall compete next Sunday, or any other come to that.’

Aggie was grudging. ‘Ah, well, I’m always here if you get stuck.’

Somehow – possibly on purpose – Etta mistook this offer of assistance as a regular invitation to Sunday dinner. Aggie could not say in front of Joan that this was not what she had meant at all. Feeling trapped and more agitated than ever, she excused herself, ostensibly to put the kettle on; in reality to take a calming glass of sherry.

Joan hardly missed a beat. ‘So, erm, tell me, Etta, when shall we meet your family?’ She perched genteelly beside her, desperate for an invitation to what must be a grand house.

‘Regretfully, never, Mrs Lane,’ replied Etta sadly. ‘My elopement with Martin put paid to further contact.’

Her hopes dashed upon learning that Etta had come here with nothing, Joan clutched the pearl brooch at her throat. ‘So, you weren’t able to bring any servants? Oh dear, but I must lend you mine!’ Never in her dreams had Joan hoped to make such a statement to so illustrious a person.

Redmond glanced at Marty, both inwardly cringing for the husband, though mild-mannered John barely flinched.

Aggie came back just in time to catch Joan’s offer. It was obvious to Marty that his mother had been at the sherry, for her cheeks had that telltale flush and her voice was bolder. ‘And how long have you had a servant?’ she demanded of her sister-in-law.

The latter smiled condescendingly. ‘You know very well Edith’s been with us for ages!’

‘Oh, you mean the lodger.’ Aggie sniffed and handed a cup to Marty, who caught the glint of malice in her eye and tried to hide a smile.

Joan was huffy. ‘Well, of course she lodges with us, servants do lodge with their employer.’

Aggie merely nodded, though the action was loaded with disbelief. It seemed not to dampen Joan’s enthusiasm, for she continued to fawn over Etta throughout the afternoon, and as the hours progressed it became obvious that both parties were intent on stopping for tea. It would have been bad enough having to cope with her sister-in-law at the best of times, but with Red succumbing to one of his bouts of narcolepsy in mid-sentence and Etta here to witness everything and think them all crazy, the pressure began to build. There was a limit to how many times one could keep disappearing to the kitchen for alcoholic support, but her disapproving husband was unconscious, and besides, there was justifiable reason to bring out the liquor.

‘I’ve just realised we haven’t toasted the bride and groom,’ announced Aggie, going to a cabinet that held glasses, Marty’s new wife being the first to be asked, ‘Would you care for a sherry?’

Etta showed misgivings over the size of the tumbler in her mother-in-law’s hand, but, not wanting to offend, replied, ‘Thank you, perhaps a smaller glass.’

Aggie stiffened at the implication that she did not understand etiquette. ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking to offer you it in this! We might be poor but we do have the correct receptacle. This is for those who prefer beer.’

Feeling that she could do nothing right, Etta apologized. Unobtrusively, Marty gripped her fingers in a gesture of support as his mother took a selection of glasses to the scullery.

‘Can I carry anything, Ma?’ he called in afterthought.

‘No, stay there!’ her voice came back. Measuring out a glass, she threw it down her own throat – her fifth today – before pouring some for Etta and Joan, overfilling the glasses and transporting these gingerly to the front parlour.

Marty beheld his mother, saw that a film of inebriation coated her eyes, and rose to take one of the glasses for Etta. Aggie made to hand the other to Joan, but as she went so carefully forward she lurched, and, by accident or design, half the contents of the glass were spattered down her sister-in-law’s blouse.

Joan squeaked and demanded her husband’s handkerchief with which to mop frenziedly at the brown stain.

‘Oh dear.’ Aggie swayed tipsily. Her glazed eyes looked at the glass in her hand and saw that it was not quite empty – and she knocked back the remaining dregs before asking Joan, ‘Would you care for another?’

‘I think I’ve had sufficient,’ mumbled the victim, still dabbing. Totally humiliated before the guest, she and her husband were immediately to depart.

The others managed to stifle their merriment until they were out of earshot, Uncle Mal wheezing and mopping his eyes, the children giggling into their chests, Etta looking first unsure, then joining in.

‘– so, all in all I think I prefer the subtle approach.’ Redmond woke as abruptly as he had dropped off, finishing
the remainder of his sentence as was common to these episodes.

Marty laughed outright, braying to Etta, ‘I think Aunty Joan would have preferred it too!’

Retrieving his pipe from his chest, where it had singed yet another hole in his waistcoat whilst he slept, a bemused Redmond looked round. ‘They’ve gone then? Thank Christ. God knows what my brother sees in that woman. But then love knows no bounds, as they say.’ He grinned at Etta and puffed happily to reignite the pipe, before noting with a frown of disapproval that there was alcohol about. ‘Where did that spring from?’

Her attention drawn to the glass of sherry in her hand, Aggie manufactured surprise. ‘This? Oh, ’tis that bottle I’ve had since Christmas.’ In fact it was the third this year, provided by a relative who worked for an unsuspecting wine merchant.

Marty covered for his mother. ‘Ma was very kindly just about to toast me and Etta, Da.’

Redmond eyed his wife’s florid countenance, but made no recrimination. ‘Well, as you know, I’m not a drinking man, but I will wish you both good health and a thousand blessings – not all of them children I hasten to add.’ He smiled at his daughter-in-law.

Glasses were raised. Unable to avoid it, Aggie said to her son, ‘I suppose you’ll be stopping for tea?’

In view of the meagre pickings at home, Marty hastily accepted. ‘That’ll be grand.’

‘But you really must allow us to entertain you next Sunday afternoon,’ Etta reminded her in-laws.

‘Oh, that we will!’ Sick of being taken for granted, Aggie spoke assuredly. ‘Won’t we, Red?’

Her husband seemed dubious, shaking his head as he weighed the matter. ‘Well now, that rather depends –’