The Caxley Chronicles (18 page)

The Howards had cheerful letters from Kathy now settled in Edinburgh with the stalwart Henry and expecting their first child. Henry was the only son of a fairly prosperous printer in the city, and Kathy enjoyed some social standing at the local functions. It looked as though Kathy was lost to Caxley for ever, and Bertie tried to persuade himself that it was all for the best.

His father was less quixotic about his circumstances. Young Mr Parker had returned from the war, full of zeal, and was turning North's upside down with his plans for the business. Worse still, from Bender's point of view, his wife and family had joined him and all were to live above the shop in Bender's old premises. It was some comfort to know that his children were numerous and that, for the time being, anyway, he would need all the living accommodation available. At least, thought Bender, his old drawing room would remain intact, and not house dairy equipment and rolls of chicken wire as had once been suggested.

It was in 1921 that Winnie's second child was born. Hilda had begged her to come to Rose Lodge for the confinement, but Winnie preferred to remain at the cottage attended by the local district nurse and a good-natured neighbour. Family affairs were difficult for Leslie and Winnie. The Howards always welcomed them and they visited the market square house frequently, but Bender refused to have Leslie at Rose Lodge although he wanted Winnie as often as she could manage it, and adored his grandchild, Edward. Winnie paid most of her visits home in the afternoon, when Leslie was at
work, or called at the shop to see her father whenever she was in town.

A pair of enterprising brothers had started a motorbus service from Caxley to the surrounding villages, after the war, and this proved a blessing. Winnie frequently used it to travel to Caxley, and Edna often hopped on the bus outside her door and paid a surprise visit to her mother's old cottage.

Hilda came less often. It grieved her to see Winnie living in such modest surroundings.

'You can perfectly well afford something better,' she scolded her daughter. 'Leslie's a partner now, and Howard's is an absolute gold-mine.'

'There's time enough for something bigger when the family grows,' replied Winnie. 'Besides, I love it here, and it's healthier for Edward.'

She did not add that money was not as plentiful as Hilda supposed. Leslie never seemed to have much, despite the modest way they lived, and she too had wondered if Howard's were as flourishing as local people asserted. If so, just where was the money going? It made Winnie uneasy.

All through the long hot summer of 1931 she had plenty of time to think. Leslie had never been a home-lover, and now he seemed to spend most of his evenings out. He pleaded work at the shop, but Winnie wondered. She lay in a deck chair in the shade of the damson tree in the cottage garden and tried to put these tormenting questions out of her mind, as she awaited the birth of the baby.

The heat was overpowering. Day after day of blazing sunshine scorched the grass and turned the chalky lane outside the gate into a white dust bath for the sparrows. Streams dried up,
and the Cax shrank to half its size, leaving muddy banks criss-crossed with cracks and smelling abominably.

Water was short everywhere. Wells ran dry, and water carts trundled the lanes doling out a little to each householder. People ran down their paths, buckets in hands, and watched jealously to see that they received as much as their neighbours.

Edward, now a lively four-year-old, grew fractious in the heat and demanded more attention than his unwieldly mother could give him. It was a relief to Winnie when at last her pains began and Leslie took Edward to work with him, as arranged. She knew Edward would be thoroughly spoilt and happy with his grandparents, and she was free to get on with the vital job in hand.

The birth was easy, and by tea-time Leslie was at home again with his new daughter in his arms. She was to be called Joan.

For a few months after the baby's arrival, things seemed to be happier. Leslie was kinder and more thoughtful, and Winnie began to hope that Leslie was beginning to take his family responsibilities more seriously. But, as the autumn approached, his absences from home became more and more frequent. Winnie found herself sitting by the fire, the two children in bed above, alone with her thoughts from six o'clock until eleven or twelve when Leslie returned. He was always in good spirits, with ready and plausible excuses, but Winnie was fast becoming aware that her husband was a glib liar, and that her father, and Bertie too, had known more about his true nature than she had done.

One afternoon, just before Christmas, Hilda was busy decorating the Christmas tree at Rose Lodge. She was alone in
the drawing room. On the table beside her was the box of bright baubles which had appeared annually ever since her marriage. Here was the spun glass bird with the long red tail which was Bertie's favourite. She hung it carefully towards the front of the tree. Here was a tiny silver lantern made by Winnie as a child. If only they were all young again! How they had always enjoyed dressing the tree! Now she was doing it alone. She threaded the little lantern on to a dark branch. The broken needles of fir gave out an aroma in the warmth from the crackling fire. At that moment the door opened, and Winnie appeared with the baby in her arms and Edward beside her.

'What a lovely surprise!' cried Hilda. She settled Winnie by the fire. The girl looked cold and shaky. Edward made straight for the box of bright decorations. Hilda removed it hastily, and then began to take off the baby's shawl.

'We'll have tea now, dear,' said Hilda. 'You look tired. Vera's here this afternoon, polishing the silver ready for Christmas. I'll get her to make it.'

'I've got a lot to tell you, mamma,' said Winnie. Edward's bright eyes were fixed upon her hopefully. 'But little pitchers you know...'

'Edward, you can have tea with Vera in the kitchen,' said his grandmother promptly. 'Come along, and we'll see her.'

Ten minutes later, while the baby slept on the sofa, and Winnie neglected her tea, the tale unfolded. To Hilda, it came as no great surprise, but she grieved for Winnie telling it with a stony face.

She had taxed Leslie last night with his neglect of her and the children. Without a trace of shame he had admitted that
there was another woman and that he fully intended to leave home to live with her.

'His actual words,' said Winnie bitterly, 'were: "I owe it to her. She was always first with me." He goes there today.'

'Very nice!' commented Hilda drily. 'I suppose it's the woman at Bent?'

Winnie nodded. Her hands turned her teacup round and round ceaselessly. A little muscle twitched by her mouth, but her eyes remained dry.

'Well, this has shown him in his true colours,' said Hilda grimly.

'For God's sake don't say "I told you so!",' cried Winnie. 'I don't think I could bear it! The thing is—what happens to me and the children?'

'You come here,' said Hilda promptly.

Winnie shook her head.

'It would never do, mamma, and you know it. Father might not say anything in front of me, but I should know he was thinking about Leslie. It's not fair to either of you. Besides there's not enough room.'

'What would you like to do?' asked Hilda. 'Are you prepared to have him back if he can be persuaded?'

'He won't be. He said so, and he means it.'

There was silence. A robin outside whistled in the grey afternoon and the fire rustled companionably.

'Do the Howards know?' asked Hilda.

'I've no idea. I doubt it. But I shall tell them, of course. Tomorrow probably. I can't face much more today.'

'You must stay the night here. Tomorrow too. For as long as you like, my dear. This is your home.'

'No, mamma, it isn't,' replied Winnie gently. 'The cottage is my home, even if Leslie's left it. I must go back.'

'Not tonight,' said Hilda with all her old authority. 'This has been a terrible shock. We'll look after the children, and you must have an early night.'

'Very well,' agreed Winnie, in a low tone. She passed her hand across her face, with the same gesture as her father's when he was worried and bemused.

Hilda began to stack the tray. Before it was done she looked across at Winnie. The girl lay back, eyes closed, as white as death and as quiet as the baby asleep nearby.

Hilda lifted the tray and crept stealthily from the room.

But the Howards knew already—at least Sep did. At about the same time as Winnie's arrival at Rose Lodge, Sep and Leslie were alone in the bakehouse.

'You may as well know, Dad, that Winnie and I have parted company,' announced Leslie. He was wiping shelves and kept his back carefully towards his father.

Sep stood stock still by the great scrubbed table. Had he heard aright?

'Whose idea is this?' he asked.

'Well, mine I suppose,' said Leslie with assumed lightness.

'Am I to understand,' said Sep thunderously, 'that you are seriously proposing to leave your wife and children?'

Leslie continued to rub at the shelves. For once he was silent.

'Face me!' commanded Sep. Obediently, Leslie turned. He was a child again, caught Out in some misdemeanour, and
awaiting retribution. Sep, filled with righteous wrath, commanded respect, despite his small stature.

'What lies behind this? What has happened?'

'Well, Winnie and I haven't seen eye to eye for some time. She's been off-hand most of this year. She—'

'She has been carrying a child,' Sep broke in.
'Your
child. What do you expect?'

Leslie flushed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sep was first.

'There is another woman.' It was a statement not a question. Leslie nodded, eyes cast down.

'The one at Bent?' asked Sep, his voice dangerously calm.

'Yes, dad.'

There was a dreadful silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of the older man. His hands were clenched on the surface of the table. 'Then you did He to me. I feared it.' Leslie threw up his head. Now he was angry, with the anger of a cornered animal. He shouted wildly.

'So what? Why shouldn't I He? I was driven to it, in this bible-thumping house—and so was Jim, if you did but know it! He wasn't the stained-glass saint you tried to make out!'

'You'll do no good trying to blacken your dead brother's name,' cried Sep. 'Answer for yourself! What hold has this woman on you?'

'She's got my child—'

'Winnie's got two of your children.'

'She came first. She always did. We suit each other. And now her husband's left her. I've got to help her.'

Suddenly, the younger man crumpled, slumping on to the
wooden stool by the table. Sep, standing, surveyed him grimly.

'You knew your responsibilities before marrying Winnie North. You've wrecked her life, and this woman's—and her husband's too. No good ever came of giving way to sin.'

Leslie raised his head from his arms.

'It's too late for chapel talk now,' he said bitterly.

'It's never too late for true repentance,' said Sep gravely. 'You must think again. Don't break up your marriage. Go back to Winnie. She'll forgive you. Break with this woman for good. If she knows there is no chance of seeing you, their marriage may be mended. For pity's sake, Leslie, think about it!'

'I have thought. I will never go back to Winnie. She'd never forgive me. At heart she's her father all over again. I'm starting afresh, and taking Milly with me. I should have married her years ago.'

Sep began to pace the bakehouse.

'I'm not going to discuss it with you further today. Go home and turn over my advice. Think of Edward and Joan. What sort of life will they have without a father? And tomorrow we'll talk again. I shall say nothing to your mother about this.'

Leslie struggled to his feet.

'Whatever you say, dad, will make no difference. I'll see you tomorrow morning as usual. But there's no hope, I tell you.'

'There's always hope,' said Sep soberly, as his son went through the door.

There was little sleep for Sep that night, while Leslie packed
his bags in the empty cottage and Winnie tossed and turned under her parents' roof.

The next morning father and son faced each other again. Leslie's expression was mutinous.

'I've nothing to add,' he said with finality. His jaw was set at an obstinate angle.

'But I have,' responded Sep. He leant across the table and spoke firmly. 'If you have decided to go forward with this wickedness, then you must leave the business and leave your home too.'

Leslie looked up, startled.

'I won't have you setting a bad example to the workmen or to young Robert. You know my views. I won't countenance such behaviour. Finish the week here, and meanwhile look for another job.'

'But, dad—' began Leslie.

'I am putting a hundred pounds into your bank account today,' went on Sep. 'Our partnership will be dissolved. You must make your own way. Don't appear here for help if you find yourself in a mess. You've chosen your own road—you must travel it alone.'

Later that evening he had to break the news to Edna and face the expected storm. She could not believe that Leslie had behaved so badly. It would pass. This other woman could be paid off. Why didn't Sep think of it? After all, lots of boys had these passing infatuations. The war had unsettled poor Leslie.

Sep let her ramble wildly on for a time, and then spoke sternly. Leslie was a man. He knew what he was doing. He, as his father, was not prepared to connive in such despicable
conduct. He had his duty to Robert, to his wife and to his work people. Leslie must go.

Edna looked up at him with wet eyes. Another thought had flitted through her head.

'What will happen to poor Winnie and darling Edward and the baby? How will they live if you've stopped Leslie's wages? Why should they suffer?'

'I have thought of that,' replied Sep. 'They will be looked after.'

Unable to bear more he made his way upstairs to the peace of the bedroom. In the market square they were erecting the town's Christmas tree. The season of peace and goodwill towards men, thought Sep bitterly, and he had just banished a son!