Ruby's War (17 page)

‘Reginald and I used the time on the drive over to discuss what we might say to Captain O'Donal and his colleague,' Mrs Prendergast said, inspecting the tiny gold watch on her broad wrist. ‘What time are you expecting them, dear? I thought we should get our heads together and remind ourselves of what we planned to say.'

‘They should be here in about half an hour. Perhaps less.'

‘I think,' Mr Prendergast said, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, ‘from what Pamela has told me, your plan for dealing with the problem is a capital one.'

At the sight of her husband's pipe, Mrs Prendergast's smooth forehead puckered.

‘Reginald feels we need to tread carefully,' she said, ‘but we must make it clear what we expect.'

‘Yes, indeed,' he said, clearing his throat and replacing his pipe and tobacco in his pocket. ‘Is the good doctor not joining us?'

‘No,' Mrs Grey said, taking another cigarette from the box on the table. ‘He's very busy, I'm afraid, poor dear. He was called out to a confinement last night and to a death the night before. Poor Mr Goodier, did you know him? Pneumonia. A blessing, really. My mother calls it “the old man's friend”. Humphrey is at the hospital today. A serious case of blood poisoning. A child, I believe. And there's talk of scarlet fever in town. So I don't expect him back until very late.'

‘I know he has quite strong feelings … It's very delicate.
Don't want to upset the Americans. Government fudged the issue, in my opinion. Dowler had the right idea. Good chap, Dowler. Sent notes to officers. Advice on how best to deal with relations with the black troops. Trouble is, can't make them available to the civilian population. Too sensitive. Might upset the Yanks. Mrs Roosevelt: very keen on the black soldier. Political factors, my dear. Very complicated.'

Mrs Grey nodded and handed the mother-of-pearl cigarette box to Ruby to take over to Mr Prendergast.

‘Dowler's notes would seem a good place to start,' she said.

‘I took the liberty of explaining to Reginald, dear, that we both think we could use the notes as a guide. Very sensible it seems, with the army base being so very near.'

‘Quite,' Mr Prendergast said, taking a cigarette from the open box.

Ruby was returning it to the table by Mrs Grey's side, when the living-room door was thrown open and Mr Rollo walked in.

‘Oh, Rollo, it's you,' Mrs Grey said, getting to her feet. ‘You're not well enough to be up, and I think I've just heard my other guests arrive.'

Mr Rollo, who was wearing a loose velvet dressing gown over silk pyjamas, took the cigarette box from Ruby and sat down next to Mrs Prendergast.

‘I've been driven down by Alice. She's banging around up there. What does she find to do that makes so much noise?'

‘Yes, I'm sure that was someone on the drive,' Mrs Grey said, looking nervously at her brother, who was swinging an embroidered slipper from a naked foot.

‘Ruby, come with me. You too, Rollo, darling. You really aren't well enough to be out of bed.'

Ruby, who was sure there wasn't anyone outside, followed Mrs Grey and her brother.

‘What are you plotting?' he asked his sister, as she closed the living-room door behind them.

In the hall, the shadows cast by the dull afternoon light from the long windows made his face look older. His skin looked dry, almost scaly, and the way he stared at his sister reminded Ruby of the look in Monty's red-rimmed eye when he was about to peck at her leg.

‘Don't be silly. I'm not plotting.'

‘Well, why didn't you ask me to stay for a cup of tea?'

‘You're not dressed for afternoon tea. Now go back to your room, darling. Please. For me?'

‘Well, what about some coffee and some more cigarettes?' he said, but as he turned to go up the stairs, they heard the sound of Alice banging somewhere above them, and throwing back his head, exposing the long black hairs escaping from his open collar, Mr Rollo started to moan.

‘Have pity, Diana,' he begged. ‘Let me stay. Get Ruby to bring me a pot of coffee. I'll sit quietly. I promise.'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake, Rollo. The coffee isn't ready. I'll send you a tray. You are ill, remember? There's the bell. My guests are here. Ruby, get the door.'

‘Some cigarettes? Get me some, or I shall have to go back in the living room and get my own.'

‘I'll send you some with the coffee. Please go. Ruby, the door, now!'

Mrs Grey took the two officers back with her into the
living room, and as Ruby hurried to the kitchen to make the coffee, Alice appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Ruby, put the water on,' she called. ‘I'll come down to make the coffee.'

When Ruby carried the tall silver coffee pot in to the guests, they were chatting about the weather. The afternoon light had almost gone, and before she served the sandwiches, she put on the table lamps, closed the curtains and poked the fire. As she lifted the tarry mass gently with the brass poker, the coal sighed and orange flames began to leap, adding to the room's soft yellow glow. Then she served the visitors tea and coffee, sandwiches and cakes, all the time listening, hoping to find out something about the planned dance that she could report back to Sadie and Lou.

‘Tell me, Captain,' Mrs Grey said, as Ruby waited for Captain O'Donal to help himself to the paste sandwiches, ‘how are your men settling in?'

‘Oh, very well, ma'am. People have been very kind. They appreciate the welcome.'

‘I'm so pleased to hear it. We wanted to discuss plans for Christmas,' she said, holding up her cup for Ruby to fill. ‘We want the men to feel at home and we thought it would be best to try to coordinate our celebrations.'

‘It's the little touches, don't you think, that can make the difference,' Mrs Prendergast said, waving away the sandwiches and selecting a cream-topped cake from the cake stand. ‘Touches can mean so much and … customs … recognising our different customs is important.'

‘There's the question of how the celebrations should be
organised,' Mr Prendergast added. ‘How best to organise the religious services and … dances and such … in a way that would make the men feel at home. All the men must be included, of course.'

‘The men won't expect … They're used to separate facilities …' Captain Leary said, turning to choose a cake. As he took a small cake, decorated with a sliver of candied peel, Ruby caught the fluted cake stand on the edge of the table. The noise startled Mrs Grey, who put down her cup.

‘I think we can serve ourselves, Ruby,' she said. ‘Will you pour a cup of coffee and ask Alice to take it up to Mr Rollo?'

Reluctantly, Ruby poured out the coffee, and as she closed the door, the conversation started again.

When she got to the kitchen, she was surprised to see Holt sitting opposite Dick and Alice at the table drinking tea. Under the soft kitchen lights, Holt's dark skin had a damson's sheen, and she noticed that he was shivering.

‘They left him outside in the cold, so I brought him in,' Alice said. ‘What's this?'

‘Madam said you were to take it up to Mr Rollo.'

‘Ill, he's supposed to be. Out at all hours. You get on with that washing-up, and then we can have a bite to eat.'

‘Young chap, here, tells me he knows your grandpa,' Dick said, as Holt grinned at her across the table.

‘He does,' Ruby smiled. ‘Michael's helped him with his motorbike.'

‘What they up to in there?' Dick asked, refilling Holt's cup and pouring one for her.

‘It's all about parties for Christmas. I promised Sadie I'd listen and let her know what they was going to do, but Mrs
Grey sent me out with the coffee. So I don't know. They'd only just got started.'

‘Going to be a grand Christmas. I've heard all the kiddies are going for a party at the camp,' Dick said.

‘Is that at your place, Michael?' she asked.

‘I … I don't …' Holt struggled to imagine children in the damp collection of huts that made up the camp. ‘I don't rightly know,' he said.

‘Well, your captain is here, but I suppose it might be at the place the other chap comes from.'

‘If they're going to be some time, I'll show Michael, here, my greenhouse. Get us from under your feet. He's been telling me all about growing cotton, and all sorts of things. Fascinating. His granddad was a gardener. Had a hundred men working under him.'

Late that same afternoon, as Con was heading back to the camp, he felt edgy and decided to drop off in the village.

‘I need some cigarettes,' he told the truck driver. ‘I'll hitch a ride back.'

Almost unwillingly, his legs took him from the village shop over the two railway bridges. He hoped Henry would be home and invite him in for a drink and a chat, but when he knocked at the door, the cottage was empty. He wandered on down the little lane. He'd reached the stone bridge when he saw Mrs Bland coming towards him, pulling a tree branch behind her. The branch didn't look very big, but the old lady, who was tugging it with one hand, looked out of breath.

‘Oh, good afternoon,' she said. ‘Con, isn't it?'

In the dusk, Con thought for a moment that he could
see a child or a doll swinging limply from her free arm, but when she changed hands and adjusted the bundle, he could see it was the body of a dead rabbit dangling from the crook of her elbow.

‘I wonder if I could prevail upon you to help me back to the cottage,' the old lady said. ‘I'm afraid the branch is much harder to carry than I first estimated. I have been checking my traps, you see. Quite a poor haul, I'm afraid,' she said, handing over the branch and taking the dead creature by its ears, ‘but I was fortunate enough to find some wood.'

‘Does the stream have fish in it?' he asked, carrying the bough, which was ungainly rather than heavy, over the little bridge.

‘Some of the smaller pools, possibly, but the stream as it goes by the cottages doesn't, I'm afraid. Although I'm sure it must have done. Sadly, it's very polluted. It's the cotton industry, you see. Originally, the stream would have been the main reason the factory was sited here. Water power and then steam, of course. Must look very small to you. Detroit, isn't it, where you come from? A majestic river. The first settlers must have been amazed, don't you think? Just imagine, the great river and then the lakes.'

‘Do you want me to chop this up for you?' he asked. ‘I can do it now, if you have an axe.'

‘Well, that would be awfully kind, and then you must let me offer you some refreshments. I'm afraid it will be dark soon. Will you be able to see?'

‘Oh, it won't take long, ma'am.'

Con put the meagre pile of wood in the coal bunker at the back of the tiny cottage.

‘Come through,' Mrs Bland called, from the door of the poky wooden lean-to that served as her kitchen and held a sink, a cooker and two battered cupboards. ‘I've made us a cup of tea. Would you like to stay and eat with me?' Inside the living room, the rabbit's corpse lolled on a rough wooden table between a dainty china tea set and a pile of carrots.

‘No thank you, ma'am,' he said, looking at the soft creamy fur on the animal's chest and the tiny thread of blood hanging from its mouth. ‘I'll be expected back at the camp. I stopped by in the village to buy some cigarettes.'

‘It is rather chilly in here,' the old lady said, pushing up the sleeves on her worn coat and picking up one of the carrots. ‘Still, the winters must be much colder in Detroit.'

‘Yes, ma'am, but not so damp,' he said looking at the listless fire. ‘The air there is drier, somehow.'

‘It was the damp climate here that made this area ideal for cotton. Needs to be damp for the thread. Vital. The first mill owners built the mills by the water. Had to. They used it as a source of power. In those days, there wasn't a village here. The place would have been quite isolated. They needed workers, of course, and they solved that problem by using orphaned children from the workhouses. No one would have complained. They brought the children here. Appalling conditions. They slept under the looms. If the mill failed, the children were left to wander the countryside and starve. Cotton has a cruel history. The conditions in the Manchester slums shocked the world. Money makes men cruel, and smug,' Mrs Bland said, tugging open the table drawer and taking out a broad knife. ‘Took their own families out to the clean Cheshire air,' she added, slicing off
the rabbit's head with one blow, and with barely a flash of the blade, quickly unzipping the creature from its brindled fur. ‘Pass me that bowl from the dresser would you, dear? But the people … the working people of Lancashire, now they were a different breed. The American Civil War is a case in point. They felt a common fellowship with the slaves. In the face of the blockade, the Lancashire workers were very brave, stoical. Sent messages of support to Lincoln, even though they were starving, while their masters held bales of raw cotton in their warehouses, speculating on the increase in the price.'

Con sipped the pale tea and watched as Mrs Bland chopped at the peeled carrots, as if each represented the tender parts of a despised cotton master.

‘My grandma was from the South,' he said. ‘Moved north in her twenties. She was brought up on a plantation. Educated with the daughters of the owner until she was fourteen.'

‘What happened then?' Mrs Bland asked, pulling the naked carcass towards her. ‘Was she sent to the fields?'

‘No,' he said, as the rabbit's inquisitive eye peered at him around the floral cream jug. ‘Her family had always been indoor servants. In fact, she looked down on the field hands.'

Con eased his chair back, avoiding the gobbets of sleek, purple wetness splashing into the bowl at his elbow.

‘Divide and rule,' Mrs Bland said, dropping the carrots into a blackened saucepan and hacking at the pink rabbit flesh.