The Caxley Chronicles (45 page)

Maisie had enjoyed refurbishing the fine old rooms. The great drawing-room, with its three windows looking out upon the market place, was painted in the palest green, a colour which would show up well the mahogany pieces which she had bought at the sales. It was a splendid room, high and airy. Bender North had always appreciated it, admiring its fine proportions and its red plush furnishings, after a day in the shop below. Now his grandson would find equal domestic pleasure in the same room.

On the same floor, at the back of the building, were the dining room and kitchen, overlooking the small garden and the river Cax. Above them were three bedrooms and a bathroom, while on the top floor, in the old attics, Edward's flat remained much as it was, except that his sitting-room had been converted into a nursery for the newcomer.

'You'll have to put the window bars back again,' said Uncle Bertie when he inspected the premises. 'There were three to each window when I slept there. You took them out too hastily, Edward my boy!'

Edward and Maisie spent the last weekend in January at Rose Lodge. She was to see the furniture in on the Monday, with Winnie's help, while Edward would return to the flat to arrange things at that end. It was bitterly cold, and as she and Winnie directed operations on Monday morning, and dodged rolls of carpet and bedsteads, Maisie was thankful that they had
faced the expense of central heating for the house. With the open market square before, and the river Cax behind, it had always felt cold. Now, with new warmth, the house seemed to come to life.

She took a particular interest in the larger of the back bedrooms, for here she planned to have the baby. She was determined that it should be born in the old house in the market square, and ha:d already engaged the monthly nurse who was to sleep in the bedroom adjoining her own.

The view from the windows on this bleak January day was grey and cheerless. The pollarded willows lining the Cax pointed gaunt fingers towards the leaden sky. The distant tunnel of horse chestnut trees made a dark smudge above the river mist, but Maisie could imagine it in May when the baby was due to arrive. Then the willows would be a golden green above the sparkling water. The chestnut leaves would be bursting from their sticky buds. The kingfisher—harbinger of good fortune—should be flashing over the water, and on the lawn below the window the crocuses, yellow, purple and white, would be giving way to daffodils and tulips.

It was past nine o'clock when Edward arrived. Both of them were excited but exhausted, and went early to bed in the bedroom overlooking the market square. Maisie fell asleep almost immediately, but Edward lay on his back watching the pattern on the ceiling, made by the lamps in the market place.

Now and again the old house creaked, as wood expanded gently in the unaccustomed heat. Someone crossed the cobbles, singing, pausing in his tune to call goodnight to a fellow wayfarer. There was a country burr in the tone which pleased Edward.

How often, he wondered, had Grandfather North lain in this same room listening to the sounds of the square by night? He thought of Uncle Bertie and his own mother, sleeping, as children, on the floor above, where soon his own child would be bedded. It gave him a queer feeling of wonder and pride.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he must wake early and go downstairs to the restaurant and then across to the bakery. He was a market square man now, with a reputation for diligence to keep up! Smiling at the thought, he turned his face into the pillow and fell asleep.

Caxley watched Edward's progress, in the ensuing weeks, with considerable interest. On the whole, his efforts met with approval. He was applying himself zealously to the new work, and people were glad to see a young man in charge.

The assistants in the shop and restaurant spoke well of him, and the grape-vine of the closely-knit little town hummed busily with day-to-day reports—mainly favourable. Young Edward was taking on two new counter-hands. He was going to enlarge the storage sheds at the back of the bakery. He was talking of keeping the restaurant open later at night. He was applying for a liquor licence. Think of that! The more sedate chapel-goers could imagine Sep turning in his grave at the thought, but the majority of Caxley's citizens approved.

Edward himself was beginning to enjoy it all enormously. The years of solitary living, which had been all that he desired after the break-up of his first marriage, were behind him. He began to flourish in this new gregarious life and found pleasure in joining some of the local activities and meeting boyhood
friends again. The Crockfords, grandchildren of the famous Dan who had painted Edna Howard so long ago, lived within walking distance and were frequent visitors. William Crockford, the present owner of the family mill which supplied Edward with much of his flour, introduced him to the Rotary Club and Edward became an energetic member. He also took up cricket again. He sometimes went dutifully with Maisie to concerts at the Corn Exchange which she, who was musical, thoroughly enjoyed, while Edward, who was not, leant back and planned future business projects while local talent provided mingled harmony and discord.

For there was, indeed, a great deal to plan. Edward, the product of two business families, saw clearly the possibilities of the future. Times were becoming more prosperous after the lean forties. People were buying more, and demanding more luxurious goods. Caxley families were prepared to dine out in the evenings. Caxley business men took their lunches in the town much more frequently. What is more, they brought their clients, and talked over deals at Howard's Restaurant.

There were more cars on the road, more wayfarers travelling from London westward, and from the midlands southward. Caxley was a convenient stopping-place, as it had been in the days of the stage-coach. The restaurant trade was booming. It could become even more thriving with judicious re-organisation.

Edward was so engrossed with his present commitments and his plans for the future that a letter which arrived for him one April morning came as a bolt from the blue. He could hardly believe his eyes as he read the document.

It was from the managing director of a firm of departmental
stores well-known to Edward. They were proposing to set up several more branches in provincial towns. The two sites belonging to Edward would be suitable for their purpose. The larger site would be used for their drapery and furnishing departments. Their Food Hall would probably be accommodated on the present bakery site. Perhaps Mr Howard would consider taking up a position of responsibility in this department, the salary to be arranged by mutual agreement? Naturally, there was a great deal to consider on both sides, but his firm had in mind the sum of—(here followed a figure so large that Edward seriously wondered if a nought or two too many had been added) and their agents were Messrs Ginn, Hope & Toddy of Piccadilly who would be glad to hear from Mr Howard if he were interested.

Edward handed the letter to Maisie in silence.

'Well?' she said, looking up at last.

'Some hopes!' said Edward flatly, stuffing it in his pocket. 'This is ours. We stay.'

As a matter of interest he showed the letter to the family before replying to it. As he expected, Bertie whole-heartedly agreed with his decision, but Kathy and the two ladies at Rose Lodge had doubts. This surprised Edward. The two properties had been their homes and livelihoods for so long that he had felt sure that they would be as forthright in their rejection of the offer as he was himself. How strange women were!

'It's such a lot of money,' said old Mrs North. 'After all, with that amount you could start up another business anywhere, or go back to the plastics place, dear, couldn't you?'

'Or simply invest it, and have a nice little income and a long holiday somewhere,' said his mother. 'There's no need to feel
tied to Caxley simply because the business has been left to you.'

'But I
want
to be tied to Caxley!' Edward almost shouted. 'This is
our
business—the
Howard
business! Dammit all, it's the work and worry of three generations we're considering! Doesn't that mean anything?'

'Really,' tutted Mrs North, in some exasperation, 'men are so romantic about everything—even currant buns, it seems!'

'All we're trying to say,' said Winnie, more patiently, 'is that we should quite understand if you felt like accepting the offer, and I'm sure the rest of the family would agree.'

'Well, I don't intend to, and that's flat,' retorted Edward. He had not felt so out of patience with his womenfolk for years, and took a childish pleasure in slamming the front door as he departed.

He walked back through a little park, and sat down on one of the seats to cool off. Beds of velvety wallflowers scented the evening air, and some small children screamed on the swings, or chased each other round and round the lime trees. A few middle-aged couples strolled about, admiring the flowers and taking a little gentle exercise. It was the sort of unremarkable scene being enacted a hundred-fold all over the country on this mild Spring evening, but to Edward, in his mood of tension, it had a poignant significance.

Here, years ago, he had swung and raced. Before long, his own children would know this pleasant plot. These people before him, old and young, were of Caxley as he was himself. They all played their parts in the same setting, and with their neighbours as fellow-actors. And the centre of that
stage was Caxley's market square. How lucky he was to have his place so firmly there—his by birthright, and now by choice as well! Nothing should make him give up this inheritance.

A very old man shuffled up to Edward's bench and sat down gingerly. His pale blue eyes watered, and a shining drop trickled down his lined cheeks into the far from clean beard which hid his mouth and chin.

His clothes were shabby, his boots broken. Edward guessed that he was making his way to the workhouse on the hill. He held a paper bag, and thrusting a claw-like hand inside, he produced a meat pasty. He gazed unseeingly before him as he munched, the pastry flaking into a shower of light crumbs which sprinkled his deplorable beard and greasy coat.

But it was not so much the old man who engaged Edward's attention as the blue and white paper bag which he held. It was very familiar to him. He had seen such bags since his earliest days-bright and clean, with 'Howard's Bakery' printed diagonally across the checked surface. Tonight, the sight of it filled him with a surge of pride. Here he was, face to face with one of his customers, watching his own product from his own paper bag being consumed with smackings of satisfaction! Who would give up such rewards? He felt a sudden love for this dirty unknown, and rising swiftly, fumbled in his pocket and pressed half a crown into the grimy paw.

'Have a drink with it,' he said.

'Ta, mate,' answered the tramp laconically. 'Needs summat to wash this muck down.'

Edward walked home, savouring the delicious incident to the
full. It warmed the evening for him. It added to his growing zest for life in Caxley, and to the enjoyment he felt, later that evening, when he pulled a piece of writing paper towards him and wrote a short, polite, but absolute rejection of the store's offer.

It was dark as he crossed the square to post it. He balanced the white envelope on his hand before tipping it, with satisfaction, into the pillar box. Now it was done, he felt singularly light-hearted, and walked jauntily back across the cobbles, smiling at Queen Victoria's implacable bulk outlined against the night sky.

At his doorway he turned to take a last breath of fresh air. The moon slid out from behind a ragged cloud, and touched the market square with sudden beauty.

Edward gave the scene a conspiratorial wink, opened his own door, mounted his own stairs and made his way to bed.

I
T WAS
six o'clock on a fine May morning.

The market square was deserted. Long shadows lay across the cobblestones, reaching almost to the steps of St Peter's church. At the window of his bedroom, in a crumpled suit, and with tousled hair, stood Edward. It had been one of the longest nights that he had ever known, but now peace, and the dawn, had arrived.

The monthly nurse, Mrs Porter, had been in the house with them for eight days. That she was expert in her profession, Edward had no doubt, but as a member of the household he had found her sorely trying. Her shiny red face and crackling starched cuffs and apron dominated every meal. She ate very slowly, but needed a large amount of food to keep her well-corseted bulk going, so that Maisie and Edward seemed to spend three times as long at the table.

Maisie was worried because the baby was overdue. Nurse Porter added to her anxiety by consulting the calendar daily and talking gloomily of her timetable which might well be completely thrown out by Maisie's tardy offspring. Her next engagement was in a noble household in the shires, a fact which gave her considerable satisfaction.

'And the Duchess,' she told Maisie daily, 'is
never
late. The two little boys arrived on the dot, and the little girl was two
days early. You'll have to hurry up, my dear, or the Duchess will beat you to it.'

But yesterday, when Edward returned from the shop after tea, Maisie and the nurse were in the bedroom, and all, according to Nurse Porter was going well. Maisie's comments, in the midst of her pains, were less euphemistic.

'Shall I stay with you?' asked Edward solicitously.

'Good heavens, no!' exclaimed Maisie crossly. 'It's quite bad enough as it is, without having to put a good front on it. Go a long way away—to Rose Lodge or somewhere, so that I can have a good yell when I want to.'

Thus banished, Edward took himself to the restaurant below, and pottered aimlessly about. Thank God, he thought honestly, Maisie was not one of the modern brigade who wanted a husband's support at this time! Although he intended to stay with her had she so wished, he was frankly terrified of seeing her in pain, and squeamish at the sight of blood. Dear, oh dear, thought Edward, rubbing his forehead anxiously, what poor tools men were when it came to it!