The Carpenter's Children (12 page)

‘Oh, Mark, I love you.’ Words from the Song of Solomon came to her mind:

His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me
.

He felt himself becoming aroused; his heartbeat drummed in his ears, and his breathing quickened,
though he checked himself from making any sound. She gave a little moan, and closing her eyes, she slowly began to pull up the nightgown, higher and higher until he could lay his hand on the soft fuzz of hair between her thighs and that secret place where no man had ever been. She too felt her heart racing, and caught her breath; she made no attempt to remove his hand, but spread out her legs and gave his forefinger entry, sighing as she felt it move inside her. There was one sharp stab of pain which made her gasp momentarily, but it was quickly overcome by an overwhelming sensation of pleasure as he put a second finger inside. She felt it as exquisite beyond description, this special bond between Mark and herself, between a wife and her husband.

My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door… I rose up to open to my beloved
.

She writhed from side to side as a wave of pleasure swept over her, followed by another and another – and then a climax that tingled and shivered throughout her whole body; she found that she was sobbing, but whether crying or laughing she could hardly tell. And then Mark was kissing her, thanking her, murmuring words of love as their shared passion gradually subsided. After a few minutes she gave a long, contented sigh and drifted into sweet, deep sleep. She did not see Mark attending to himself with the handkerchief, or know of the relief which swept over him – for it
had been a beautiful shared experience, untroubled by the possibility of conception, for which he knew he would be censured by his father, her parents and most of all by himself. She was safe from his lust, and if it meant another two years to wait for parenthood, so be it. And so he slept beside her, having breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks.

Grace Munday was feeling distinctly out of sorts. She had received one postcard from Nick at what they were calling ‘the front’, which had told her very little about where he was or how he was, just that he was looking forward to seeing her again, but no indication of when that would be. Her work at the Railway Hotel continued to be demanding, and worst of all, Mr Coggins had summoned her into his office to ask if she had met any of their patrons, especially those in the armed forces, out of working hours. At first she had firmly denied it, but he looked unconvinced.

‘I’ve told you already, Miss Munday, that I can’t be responsible for your safety if you’re foolish enough to meet anybody outside. If anything untoward happened – and I’m sure you know what I mean – the Railway Hotel and its staff would bear the brunt of the blame, myself in particular. So I’m asking you again, have you met that lieutenant, what was his name, Nick somebody – or any other o’ the military who come in here?’

Grace burst into tears, and fished out a handkerchief to hold to her eyes.

‘It’s true that I met him once or twice, but he’s an officer and a gentleman, Mr Coggins!’ she sobbed. ‘And now he’s gone to fight for his country, and I miss him so much!’

The sight of her tears moved Mr Coggins, who coughed and told her not to cry.

‘Only just don’t let it happen again, Miss Munday – Grace – because if I hear of it, you’ll be dismissed without notice, do you understand?’

Full of apologies and promises, Grace persuaded Mr Coggins that he could rest assured it would not happen again. He told her to run along, and encouraged her to hope that Nick would come home safe and sound. She thanked him and left the office determined to find out which snake in the grass had been telling tales about her. It must be that sly blonde bitch Madge Fraser who was jealous because Nick hadn’t looked at her. Yes, that would be it – and everybody knew Madge was carrying on with a sergeant from South Camp who’d already got a child by a housemaid at Hassett Manor. Wait till I get her alone, thought Grace, I’ll have her guts for garters!

But Madge soon answered her back in no uncertain terms. ‘Don’t start getting’ on at me, Grace Munday, I’ve already ’ad a dressin’ down from the boss. ’E says I’ll be sacked on the spot if ’e ’ears I bin meetin’ Sergeant Samms again!’

‘What, you as well?’ Grace stared back at her, open-mouthed. ‘Where did you meet him?’

‘On that bit o’ waste ground be’ind the ’Ippodrome.’

‘Did anybody see you?’

‘Nobody who’d bother about it. That boy Coggins got from the Union, ’e might’ve seen us, but ’e wouldn’t say nothin’ –’ardly ever opens ’is mouth.’

‘What, young Ratty? Did
he
see you? Good heavens, Madge, that horrible Tubby’s obviously been using the snivelling little beggar to spy on us! I can see it all now, Tubby’s never liked me.’

‘So there’s nothin’ we can do, Grace – he’s got us over a barrel, ain’t ’e?’

‘Don’t worry, Madge, I’ll find a way to stop his tricks.’ Grace’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Only you’d better not have any more hanky-panky behind the Hippodrome if you want to keep your job.’

Madge grimaced. ‘No fear, not with ’
im
on me tail.’

‘Tell you what, Madge, let’s both do ourselves up this evening, as if we were going out to meet somebody – and we’ll meet
each other
behind the Hippodrome, say at half past six.’

‘But what good will that do?’

‘Just an idea. Meet me there at half past six, right? I’ll come a different way.’

And it was as Grace had suspected: when she met
Madge at the specified time and place, she saw a small figure lurking in the shadows of the Hippodrome’s stage door, quite clearly on the lookout.

‘There he is, the little weasel – Ratty! Watch me, Madge!’

She strode towards the boy and grabbed him by the collar. ‘Why, if it isn’t our little friend Ratty! Have you come to meet Madge, by any chance?’

‘No, miss, I ain’t!’ he muttered, vainly wriggling in her grasp, for she now seized his bony shoulder. ‘Lemme go, I ain’t done nothin’!’

‘Oh, yes, and where will you go, Ratty? Back to the Railway Hotel?’

‘Yeah,’ answered poor Ratty, for it was his only home since leaving the Union, as the Everham workhouse was called.

Grace took a long shot. ‘Tell me, Ratty, how much does Mr Tupman give you for spying on us?’

‘’Alf a crown,’ he gasped, falling into the trap.

Grace loosened her grip on his shoulder. ‘Well, I doubt if he’ll give you half a crown when you go back and tell him who we met tonight. Go on, be off with you!’

‘Poor little bugger,’ she remarked to Madge as he took to his heels. ‘He’ll more likely get a clip on the ear from old Lardyface.’

‘My, ye’re a sly one, Grace,’ said Madge admiringly. ‘Tubby won’t ’alf be mad when ’e ’ears we know what ’e’s up to. ’E won’t send Ratty to spy on us again!’

‘No, and he’ll be scared stiff that we’ll report him to CC,’ said Grace with a grin. ‘We’ve got
him
over a barrel this time!’

When Grace went into work the next morning, Madge was at the bar assisting Tubby whose face showed a mix of aggression and puzzlement. There was no Ratty to wash glasses and wipe tables.

‘Good morning, Mr Tupman!’ said Grace cheerfully. ‘Where’s Ratty?’

‘He’s not here,’ said Madge with a significant look.

‘Little bastard’s upped an’ run off,’ muttered Tupman sourly. ‘No great loss.’

‘D’you mean he didn’t come back last night?’ asked Grace, and Madge shook her head. ‘’E’s just disappeared,’ she said in an undertone.

Grace began to feel anxious. The boy had looked so terrified when she’d let him go. Where had he gone, if not to the Railway Hotel, the only home he knew? Had he slept out in the open on a cold October night? Or… Grace suddenly pictured the dark Bridgewater river as it flowed through Everham, and fear clutched at her heart.

‘I’m going to speak to CC, Madge,’ she said in a low voice.

‘What? Yer can’t do that, Grace! Everything ’ud come out, an’ we’d be in Queer Street,’ whispered Madge. ‘Ratty ain’t our, er, resp…respiration, is ’e?’

‘Responsibility,’ Grace corrected her. ‘But maybe he
is
, Madge. We were the last to see him…’ Her voice faded, unable to utter the word
alive
. ‘It’s no good, Madge, I’m going to own up,’ she said, and to the barmaid’s alarm, she went straight to Mr Coggins’s office. He frowned at her.

‘Well, what is it, Grace? I’m busy.’

‘It’s about Ratty, Mr Coggins.’

At once he was all attention. ‘D’you mean you might know where he is? Nobody else has any idea.’

‘Have you spoken to Mr Tupman, sir?’

‘Yes, and
he
doesn’t know anything. Why d’you ask?’

Grace took a deep breath and recounted the events of the previous evening, which meant she had to tell of Madge’s meetings with Sergeant Samms.

‘Are you actually saying that Tupman was paying that boy to spy on you both?’ asked Coggins incredulously.

‘Yes, half a crown, Mr Coggins.’

‘Are you sure of this, Grace? Ask Madge Fraser to come to my office at once.’ When Madge’s story matched Grace’s in every detail, Coggins reached out to his telephone. ‘Get me Everham Police Station,’ he told the operator.

They heard that Ratty had returned to the Union where he had spent a loveless childhood; Coggins was called to see him there, and noted how the boy
cowered with fear at the thought of facing Tupman again. Coggins assured him gruffly, but not unkindly, that there would be no need for that, and took him back to the Railway Hotel where he was sent up to his bed while Tupman was interviewed. Grace and Madge exchanged significant looks at the shouts and obscenities from behind the closed doors of Coggins’s office, and saw the man leave, sacked and disgraced. And vowing to get his own back on the snivelling little bastard and the two sluts who had brought about his undoing.

Coggins said no more to Grace or Madge, and another barman was found; Ratty, from henceforward to be called Rob, was allowed to stay, and from then on he worshipped Grace and Madge with dog-like devotion. And he began to smile.

The evenings were drawing in, and it was getting dark at six o’clock when, after a busy day, Grace mounted her bicycle to pedal the four miles from Everham to North Camp. Tom had fixed a battery-driven light to the handlebars, and a thin beam showed Grace the way ahead. As always she felt a pang when she reached the crossroads and the oak where she and Nick… There had been no further postcards from him, and the lists of dead and wounded grew longer each week.

What happened next took less than ten minutes. A dark figure leapt out from behind the oak and
Grace felt two rough arms around her body, hauling her from her bicycle which fell over in the road. She was thrown to the ground and a hand was clamped over her mouth so brutally that she bit her own tongue. Her assailant’s other hand tugged at her skirt, pulling it up over her hips, and grabbing at her drawers and suspenders.

I’m going to be raped,
she thought, and struggled fiercely: her hands clawed at the wrist of the hand over her mouth, but it only clamped down harder, so that she could scarcely breathe. Grace did not lack courage, and terror sent a wave of strength through her frame; she kicked furiously with her legs as her stockings and underwear were ripped from her, but her kicks met only the air, cold upon her exposed flesh. She could see a faint glint of two eyes in the darkness, but his face was covered with something black. A bolt of pain tore through her as he brutally handled the soft, tender flesh, and a knuckled fist punched between her thighs. A finger was brutally thrust inside her, followed by another, then a third pitiless finger violated the place where no man had been. The pain was excruciating, and Grace could not utter a word, let alone scream.

The man had indeed intended to rape this girl he loathed and yet lusted after, but found it impossible to perform the act upon a fully conscious and fiercely resistant woman; to knock her senseless would spoil the satisfaction for him, so to assault her violently
with his free hand was the most he could do to take his revenge. He did not speak, but panted and grunted his wordless fury.

Grace felt her strength failing for lack of air, and as she weakened, he removed his hand from her mouth and the other from between her legs. He stood up and gave her a savage kick, then turned and left her lying on the ground, bruised and bleeding.

Eventually she managed to sit up and then, painfully, to stand. Her mouth was bleeding, and a trickle of blood coursed down her legs. Leaving her tattered underwear, she pulled down her skirt and with an effort bent down to pick up the bicycle. Wheeling it and leaning on it like a crutch, she limped along the dark and winding lane, not meeting another soul, or seeing so much as a rabbit or a hedgehog scurrying across her path. Half a mile from North Camp she saw a flickering light ahead, which turned out to be a lantern held by her father; her brother Ernest came towards her on his bicycle, calling out her name. He dismounted, and shouted back to her father who began to run; and a minute later she collapsed into their supporting arms.

The man was never found. By the time the police were alerted he was on his way to London to enlist in the army, and besides, Grace had no way of proving his identity, not having seen his face or heard his voice.

A new year was beginning, and Tom Munday was thankful that Christmas was out of the way. Far from being ‘over by Christmas’, the news from the front continued to worsen, and the whole nation was shocked by the mounting death toll. Tom knew that Ernest was deeply troubled, plagued by conflicting thoughts, and though he never spoke of his feelings at home, Tom rightly guessed that Aaron Pascoe was confidant and confessor to his son, sharing their mutual unease at the exhortations to join up and defend their country, knowing their detestation of killing – and yes, their natural fear of facing danger and death. Tom’s heart ached for his son, but he said nothing, knowing that the two friends would have to solve their problems in their own time and in their own way. He neither encouraged nor discouraged
Ernest to ‘join up’, although Violet scarcely let a week go by without begging their son to be sensible and stay at home and in employment with Schelling and Pascoe, with good prospects.

And then of course there was that dreadful business about Grace, which had left both her parents shocked and distraught. Tom had simultaneously sent for Dr Stringer and for the local police after he and Ernest had carried her upstairs to her room. The doctor had examined her in her mother’s presence, and seen the bruising and swelling of her female parts; he had asked her a number of searching questions, and finally gave his opinion that she
might
have been raped, though from her own confused and tearful description of what had happened, it was more likely that her assailant, holding one hand over her mouth while she kicked and struggled, had brutally violated her with his other hand, not actually raping her. The police officer’s questions failed to gain more information, as Grace repeated that she had neither seen her attacker’s face nor heard his voice, so was unable to identify him. Later the police questioned her employer Mr Coggins who told them that Miss Munday had always been a good worker; when questioned about the other staff, he named Tupman as having being recently sacked for bullying the young pot boy. The man’s present whereabouts were unknown, he told them, though he had spoken of joining the army. Coggins avoided any criticism of
his two young female staff members, having no wish to create a scandal around the Railway Hotel.

And there the trail had ended, and because the Mundays had told nobody else about it and no proceedings could be taken against an unknown person, the incident was mercifully kept out of the
Everham News
, much to Violet’s relief.

Tom, however, was unsatisfied, and knowing his daughter Grace, suspected that she was hiding something.
Had
she in fact known the man who attacked her, and arranged to meet him at that particular corner by the oak tree? Tom could not bring himself to ask her, for that would be to accuse her of lying, but the man must have had
some
motive for committing such a crime – and
had
she been actually raped? When Violet, weeping with relief, told him that Grace’s monthly period had returned as usual, Tom closed his eyes and thanked God. They had kept her at home with them for the rest of the year, but now she was clamouring to get back to work to earn some money. When she mentioned the Railway Hotel, Tom put his foot down and absolutely forbade it.

‘You’re never going back there, my girl. I blame myself for allowing it in the first place. There’s to be no more serving of drink to men in a public house – not for any daughter of mine!’

Grace knew that he meant it, and resentfully waited for an opportunity to strike out for freedom
again. She’d had a wretched Christmas, with nothing more exciting to do than attend St Peter’s with her parents and Ernest; she had no idea whether Nick was alive or dead, or had completely forgotten about her. Madge Fraser had promised to keep any postcards that arrived at the Railway Hotel for her, but Grace had heard no more; she longed to see Madge and exchange cheeky jokes with her instead of moping around at home, where she grew sulkier each day.

From Ernest and Grace the carpenter’s thoughts turned to his precious Isabel, whose absence from the Christmas dinner table had left a great emptiness. Tom had to remind Violet that Isabel could hardly leave Mark to conduct the Christmas services without his wife at his side to help him with all the extra duties involved at the festive season. Isabel’s letters were full of enthusiasm for her parish work and Barnett Street School, where she had organised a nativity play. She wrote of Mark’s unfailing kindness and the happiness of their marriage, to her father’s great relief, but even so, he missed her more than he could express.

‘I can’t send Annie to school, missus,’ said Mrs Plumm defiantly. ‘I need ’er ’ere at ’ome, wiv four little’uns to look after, and
’im
laid up, coughin’ ’is ’ead orf! Besides, she ain’t got no decent boots.’

The vicar’s wife nodded sympathetically, and the woman continued, ‘’Sall very well for that Miss
Wotsername sayin’ she should be learnin’ ’ow to add up sums – my Annie already knows ’ow to make a little go a bit further. Miss Whosit ain’t got seven mouths to feed, an’ nor ’ave
you
, missus.’

Isabel smiled. ‘That’s quite true, Mrs Plumm – and looking at your family here, I can see you do a very good job with so many difficulties.’

She looked round the room at the pale little faces; the two eldest recognised her as the nice lady who taught the ‘little’uns’ at school, but wondered what she was doing coming into their home and asking their mum questions.

Isabel was getting used to the squalor of the slum dwellings around Old Nichol Street, and was sadly aware that she could do very little to relieve the miserable conditions of the poor, especially on cold, dark January days when the windows had to be kept shut to avoid losing what little heat there was from a small, smoky coal fire. This place had the familiar smell of poverty, a mixture of dirt, grease, damp walls, and today being Monday, wet clothes hanging on a rope across the room. Isabel had taken it upon herself to visit the homes of pupils, though at first she met with suspicion: the Rev. Mr Storey had a seat on the Board of Guardians which dealt with parish relief, and they thought she might be spying on them to see if they really needed the ‘outdoor relief ’ of a basic weekly ration of bread and a small allowance to help pay the rent. This was eagerly accepted, but ‘indoor
relief ’ meant the Union, or workhouse, which was definitely not.
That
was the notorious last refuge of the old, sick and unwanted, the bastard children, the feeble-minded, the crippled. Mrs Plumm’s thoughts must have led her to this subject, for she raised her voice and glared at the visitor.

‘We ain’t goin’ to no Union, missus! I’d starve afore I let me fam’ly be broke up an’ sent in there – it’d be the death of ’em!’

‘Oh, no, no,
no
, Mrs Plumm, that’s not my idea at all. I’ll let my husband know about your difficulties, and he’ll try – I know he’ll
try
to ask the Guardians for a little more, er, money.’

‘Thanks, missus, though I can’t see that
tight-fisted
lot givin’ anythin’ more to an ’ungry family. They wouldn’t give nothin’ to poor Ethel Taylor, ’cos ’er ’usband drinks an’ wallops ’em reg’lar, it ain’t their fault but they gets blamed for it. An’ I’m supposed to manage on six shillin’s a week for rent an’ everythin’ else.’

‘I’ll tell Mr Storey about Mrs Taylor too, Mrs Plumm. I can’t promise anything, because there are some, er, unsympathetic minds on the Board.’

‘Tight-fisted buggers the lot of ’em,’ agreed Mrs Plumm with a grimace, ‘’cept for your ’usband, o’ course – everybody likes ’
im
– but thanks all the same.’

Isabel’s face was grave as she walked home to the vicarage; it was already dark, and Mark had left a
note to say he’d been called to a sickbed, and didn’t know when he’d be back. Isabel sighed. Even on Christmas Day he had been sent for as soon as the morning service was over, and had been two hours late for his dinner. Mrs Clements had come fussing over, and to Isabel’s annoyance she’d told Mark that his young wife looked very tired, and warned him not to overwork her.

‘Mrs Clements means well, I know, Mark, but she’s no right to interfere between us!’

‘As if anybody or anything could come between us, Isabel,’ he’d replied, putting his arms around her from behind, and nuzzling his lips against her neck. ‘Oh, my dearest, the difference you’ve made to my life and my work! – but don’t mind Mrs Clements, she’s kept house for me these two years and more, so why don’t you make her happy by letting her go on doing it, while you teach and do your parish visiting? You’re such an asset to me, Isabel. Women feel that they can open up to you more than to a man, and everybody likes you – loves you! But Mrs Clements is quite right, dear, you
do
look tired, and that’s my fault.’ He raised his head and turned her round in his arms so as to look into her eyes. ‘And this hateful war looks like going on for longer than we thought at first. When it’s over, and you’re a year or two older, we can make other plans for our future, can’t we?’

The last sentence was whispered very softly,
and Isabel knew that he meant having children. Dear Mark, how good he was! She thought of the harassed women she saw in the parish, worn out with childbearing before they were thirty, and losing many of them to infectious diseases like measles and whooping cough – and the dreaded diphtheria which almost always killed its victims. How different it was for her, thanks to Mark’s carefulness and
self-restraint
. She now understood how he prevented a too-early pregnancy by using his fingers to penetrate her and a handkerchief to attend to himself. His love-making never failed to make her happy, but she could not be sure if he too was satisfied. She didn’t ask him, because she knew he’d say yes, of course he was. How blessed she was in being adored by such a man! She would not have changed places with the queen.

And yes, she would ask Mrs Clements to go on looking after the vicarage as well as the church, where that good lady polished the brasses, dusted the pulpit and lectern and laundered the altar cloths and surplices, all for the love of God and the Reverend Mr Storey!

By New Year, Grace had reached breaking point, and begged to be allowed to get a job, any job locally, shop girl or housemaid, anything but being cooped up at home.

‘Dad, I’m completely well, and I simply
must
find
work again! I want to do my bit for the war effort!’ she wailed, using a current slogan to emphasise her patriotic zeal, and Tom realised that life at home must be boring for a girl of her nature. And then he had an idea: he had recently been repairing skirting boards for Lady Neville, and noticed that Hassett Manor had lost menservants to the army, like the gardener and a young stable hand, leaving the female staff to take over their work where possible. A housemaid had left to marry a young man going out to join the troops at the front, and Lady Neville had little hope of replacing her missing staff. Tom Munday saw a possibility.

‘Look here, Grace, you’re not yet sixteen, but maybe you could help out at Hassett Manor for a while. Lady Neville’d be glad to have you.’
And
you’d be looked after and supervised, he thought, by a sensible woman. The only remaining man on the staff was an ancient butler that Lady Neville kept on out of the goodness of her heart. Grace would surely be safe there.

Seeing that there was no alternative, Grace shrugged and agreed to accompany her mother to an interview with the lady everybody respected, and by mid January she had become a general housemaid and kitchen assistant, resident at Hassett Manor but allowed to go home on Saturday afternoons, returning on Sunday evenings.

It was certainly a change. The other staff
consisted of stout Mrs Gann the cook, Flossie the other housemaid, old Mr Standish the butler and a worried-looking woman who came in to help with the heavy scrubbing and sweeping. Grace was not required to sleep in the attic, but shared a
second-floor
room with Flossie, a plump country girl who slowly and painstakingly read romantic stories, and frequently sighed for the absent Mr Cedric – ‘’E’s ever so nice, Grace, we don’t ’alf miss ’im!’

Her lament reflected the general atmosphere of Hassett Manor, with Sir Arnold and young Mr Arnold Neville away in India, Cedric at the front, and only Miss Letitia and four regular servants left. A few rooms had been closed and the furniture covered with sheets – like shrouds, thought Olivia Neville with a shudder. Shocked by the long lists of dead and wounded, she visited not only the homes in mourning, but also those with a family member at the front, such as Mr and Mrs Bird, both of whose sons were away. She shared with them her own fears for Cedric, and encouraged them to be hopeful. Partly to ease her own loneliness, she made an effort to draw closer to her remaining servants, and in response to Flossie’s oft-repeated sigh of ‘It ain’t ’alf quiet ’ere now’, her ladyship invited them to join her and Miss Letitia in the drawing room after dinner each evening. Accordingly, Mrs Gann, Mr Standish, Flossie and Grace sat in a half-circle, facing the mother and daughter.

‘It’s important that we all keep our spirits up,’ she told them. ‘Miss Letitia is happy to play the piano for us, so perhaps some of us would like to sing to her accompaniment. If any of you volunteer, I’m sure the rest of us would enjoy it.’

Her ladyship and Miss Letitia led the way with a duet, ‘Where E’er You Walk’, and Grace had to bite her lips to stop the urge to giggle. After a while she joined in the singing of ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’, and ‘Home, Sweet Home’. Lady Neville complimented her on her clear soprano voice, and asked what else she would like to sing. ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ was thought to be more suitable as a marching song than for a musical evening, and Grace knew better than to suggest any of Marie Lloyd’s ditties; she chose ‘A Wand’ring Minstrel, I’ from Mr WS Gilbert’s largely unsuitable repertoire, but felt her talents to be wasted on this audience, though Flossie was quite overawed and breathed, ‘I say, Grace, you ain’t ’alf clever!’