Strawberry Fields (22 page)
‘Ah, my dear Mr Cordwainer . . . Mrs Cordwainer, Miss . . . I was almost giving you up,’ he said with somewhat strained joviality. ‘You have been deputed to say grace, Mr Cordwainer, I was beginning to become a little anxious.’
‘Well, we’re here now,’ Mr Cordwainer said shortly. Sara saw that he had oil on his hands and a smear of it across his forehead. ‘It’s that cursed motor car – I don’t seem to be able to handle it like Robson could.’
Mr Atwell clicked his tongue, whether in sympathy or in reproof for the swear word Sara could not say, then he took her mother by the elbow and began to lead them into the marquee.
This way, Mrs Cordwainer . . . I’ve written out a grace for you to say, Mr Cordwainer, I hope you can read my writing . . . if you could walk this way . . .’
He was ushering the family into the marquee when there was a concerted gasp from behind them. Sara glanced back. A trio of small and dirty boys were hovering just outside, peering within, and for a moment Sara saw the scene through their eyes and was impressed.
The long tables were covered with stiff white damask cloths and were laden with food and fruit of every conceivable sort. The cutlery shone silver by the light of hissing oil lamps, and waiters in black and white hovered solicitously behind the guests. There were flowers, too – pink, crimson and yellow roses, long-stemmed carnations, and the blue and silver-grey cultivated thistles so beloved of flower-arrangers. The scene, glowing with colour, must seem like another world to the urchins who were gazing, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at the scene.
The Reverend Atwell glanced back too, gave an exclamation of annoyance, then smiled sweetly at the Cordwainers and pointed to three chairs just inside the entrance, at the very end of the long table.
‘There you are, I hope you won’t find the seating draughty but of course those who arrived early took the better places . . . do sit yourselves down . . . the grace is written out on that sheet of cream vellum, if you’d be so good as to run through it in your head, Mr Cordwainer, whilst I deal . . . excuse me a moment.’
He had spoken in his usual hushed, rather syrupy tones, but as he turned away from them and hurried back to the marquee entrance his voice changed completely, becoming sharp and shrewish, with overtones of bullying.
‘You! You boys! What d’you think you’re doing, eh?’
‘We’re jest lookin’, your rev’rince,’ a boy replied in a clear, piping treble. ‘It’s so grand, your rev’rince, so we was jest tekin’ a look.’
‘Well, you can clear off,’ the Reverend Atwell said menacingly. ‘Go on, clear off, we don’t want your sort here!’
‘Very true,’ muttered Mr Cordwainer, on Sara’s right. ‘Abominable urchins; they’ll probably chatter whilst I’m trying to read this confounded piece of paper and that would finish me – finish me!’
‘They’re only kids,’ Sara began, and then heard the boy’s treble raised once more.
‘Oh, but your rev’rince, there’s a deal o’ grub there – you can’t eat all that grub, surely? There might be some of them bread rolls over, per’aps . . . or an apple?’
‘This food isn’t for the likes of you, it’s for the ladies and gentlemen who come to my church,’ the Reverend Atwell said furiously. ‘Go on, get out! You’ll get nothing but a thick ear if you remain anywhere near this marquee.’
Sara turned in her seat. She could feel her face growing hot but she had to speak, she could not let such remarks go unchallenged. She cleared her throat and spoke. ‘Mr Atwell, the children are doing no harm – surely if you were to give them some fruit . . .’
Her voice was lost in the huge marquee, but her father heard. ‘That’s enough, Sara,’ he said crossly. ‘Just let me concentrate on this abominable writing, for God’s sake, or I’ll muff it, I know I will.’
‘But, Father, to deny those little boys even a piece of fruit . . .’
A gentleman sitting opposite her, wearing a dark suit and pince-nez, nodded approvingly, but before either of them could speak the Reverend Atwell was again in full flood.
‘Did you hear what I said? You’re upsetting my parishioners with your begging,’ he hissed. ‘Out, out, OUT!’
Afterwards, Sara supposed that it had happened so quickly that only one or two people were aware of it. A subdued voice said, ‘Shame!’ – it came from the gentleman opposite – but elsewhere, the subdued hum of private conversation continued. Beside her, Mr Cordwainer muttered over the grace and her mother murmured gossip to the lady on her further side. Reverend Atwell beckoned to a waiter and several of them approached the marquee entrance whereupon the boys fled precipitately into the darkness.
Sara sat very still, shame and self-disgust flooding over her. Why had she not stood up to Reverend Atwell properly, refused to be hushed? Because she was a coward, that was why – because she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in public.
The vicar returned to the table and took his place. The waiters began to hand bread rolls, to pour wine, to bring out from some hidden kitchen heated plates. Sara took a deep breath. She could at least do something to show how she felt!
The waiter leaned over her shoulder with a round basket full of small bread rolls, a saucer of butter in the middle. ‘A bread roll, Miss? And some butter?’
‘Thank you,’ Sara said. She took the basket firmly out of his surprised hand, then stood up, pushing back her chair as she did so. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’
She carried the bread rolls and the butter out of the marquee and into the darkness of the city square. The boys had not gone far; she could see them sitting in a row along someone’s low house-wall, every face turned towards her, like hungry sparrows watching for a householder to throw them crumbs.
‘Boys, there’s some bread and butter here,’ Sara called, her voice much stronger out here than it had been in the marquee. ‘Would you like some?’
Would they! There was a stampede! The bread was taken, divided, rubbed in the little curls of butter, devoured before her eyes. And they’d not begged, and they did thank, Sara thought triumphantly, as the basket was returned, empty, in an incredibly short space of time, to a chorus of ‘Fanks, Miss, that were great . . . you are good.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Sara said. ‘Don’t go away.’
She returned to the marquee, and her place at the long table.
‘I was never so ashamed in my life! Taking great platefuls of food out to those . . . those slum kids, simply marching out with it as though you had a right to it! The Reverend Atwell didn’t know where to look . . . his wife was hissing to her neighbours . . . I’ll never be able to hold my head up again.’
Sara’s mother’s voice was shaking with rage and embarrassment and what was worse, the car wouldn’t start so here they sat for all to see whilst Mr Cordwainer, hot, grease-smeared, cross, tried again and again to turn the engine over with the starting handle – and failed.
‘I simply gave some boys some food,’ Sara said patiently, for the umpteenth time. ‘They weren’t begging, they asked very politely if there might be some over, and Reverend Atwell was abominably rude to them. So I took them a few bits and pieces.’
‘A few bits and pieces! You were offered potatoes and you took the entire tureen – the same with the green peas and the baby carrots! The waiters were sniggering, everyone was staring . . . and then you took them out a whole strawberry flan – do you know what Scottish strawberries cost, Sara?’
‘No, and I don’t suppose you do, either,’ Sara said. ‘Do stop nagging, Mother. We have so much, who are we to deny others a share?’
‘You’re nothing but a prig, a nasty little prig,’ her mother said suddenly. ‘If this is your nanny’s influence . . .’
‘Nanny Prescott has scarcely seen me for the past three years, so I don’t really see how she can be blamed,’ Sara said quietly. ‘But you are right over one thing; Nanny always tried to teach me to be generous to those less fortunate than myself.’ She paused, but reflected that so far as she could see, her mother couldn’t be angrier, so she might as well get it out of her system all at once. ‘You talk a lot about heathen in Africa and being generous to others, Mother, but neither you nor my father have ever raised a finger to help those who need help most. You give money sometimes, you sew cotton vests and gossip with your friends, but you don’t attempt to do anything to alleviate the terrible poverty on our own doorstep. Why, it wouldn’t have hurt you to keep Robson on and cut down on the money you spent on clothes and shoes, but it never crossed your mind, did it? It would have been too great a sacrifice.’
There was a moment of shocked silence and then Mrs Cordwainer began to cry. Between wails, she asked God what she had done to deserve such a child, one who actually dared to criticise her own mother, one who made trouble for her parents, made them look ridiculous, wore on her back sufficient clothes to pay a chauffeur for six months, yet blamed an entire congregation for not letting slum children take the food they had paid for from the harvest supper . . .
‘Letty, if you don’t stop I’ll go mad,’ Mr Cordwainer said. He pulled open the door of the car, walked round to the passenger side, and almost dragged his wife on to the pavement. ‘It won’t start and I, for one, have had enough. I’m getting a taxi. Are you coming, or do you prefer to walk?’
‘Adolphus, speak to Sara! She’s done our reputation more harm in the last hour than I would ever have believed possible! We shall be laughing stocks . . . and what is more, I’ll never dare show my face in church again, not until she’s apologised to Reverend Atwell and promised on her word of honour never to do such a thing again.’
Mr Cordwainer turned wearily to Sara. For the first time it struck Sara that he looked rather ill as well as bad-tempered.
‘Well? Are you going to do as your mother says?’
‘No,’ Sara said firmly, though with fast-beating heart. ‘I don’t think I did wrong to give the children some of the food, so I can’t say I’ll never do such a thing again. And I thought Mr Atwell behaved extremely badly – he made a laughing stock of himself, I didn’t have to do a thing.’
A taxicab, cruising past, was hailed and came over to the kerb. The driver leaned out.
‘Yessir?’
‘The Towers, Aigburth Road, my man,’ Mr Cordwainer said briskly. ‘Come along, Letty, in you get. We’ll sort it all out under our own roof.’
Mrs Cordwainer, still protesting but with increasing feebleness, got into the taxi but when Sara would have followed her, her father held out a restraining hand.
‘No, Sara. Will you apologise to Reverend Atwell and promise never to behave in so common and blatant a way again?’
‘No, I won’t,’ Sara said immediately. ‘I told you, Father, that I thought . . .’
But she was talking to thin air. Her father jumped into the cab and banged on the glass and the cab drove off, leaving Sara standing on the kerb staring foolishly after it. The last she saw was her mother’s face, spiteful, triumphant, as the vehicle rounded the corner of the square and disappeared into the night.
It was late, and because the car had been so difficult the Cordwainers had been the last to leave – or to attempt to do so, at any rate. The Reverend Atwell had taken himself off very much earlier, without so much as a glance in Sara’s direction, and the rest of the congregation, though they had called goodnight and appeared at least not hostile, had gone long since. Now, Sara stood hugging herself in her thin silk coat and wondering what on earth she should do. It was miles to walk home and besides, she guessed by her father’s attitude and that last glimpse of her mother that if she did walk home she would find the house barred against her. But what to do? She had no money, of course, so she could not hail a taxi even if there was one passing, nor could she catch a tram. Her beautiful black patent leather shoes with the thin little ankle straps were not practical for walking anyway and . . . she glanced upwards . . . it was going to be a very cold night. The sky was clear, the stars twinkled and a moon lurked behind a chimney pot. She would have to keep moving or she’d freeze.
Accordingly, she took a few steps along the pavement, and stopped again. The paving stones were very uneven; perhaps she had better walk in the road? But cobblestones, she soon discovered, were worse to walk on than the most uneven paving, so she returned to the side walk and then went over and sat on the wall where the children had sat earlier in the evening. She had best orientate herself. She would go to Kirkdale, of course, and knock her grandmother up, but previously she had always either caught the tram or been taken to Snowdrop Street by car. Which way should she begin to walk?
After some thought she turned her steps towards the direction in which she seemed to remember St George’s Hall lay. If she could find that, she could make her way home quite easily.
She had been walking for no more than ten minutes when she realised that she had thought of Snowdrop Street quite naturally as her home. Well, so it is, she thought defiantly, plodding along with increasing difficulty and clutching the silk coat close to her throat. It was more like home than the house on Aigburth Road, even though she had been brought up there. Number three Snowdrop Street was home to her because her grandmother loved her, had looked after her with tender care. Under no circumstances could she imagine Gran simply deserting her in the street at dead of night!
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