The Lemon Tree (16 page)

Though, as a refugee, Wallace Helena had passed through Liverpool on her way to an immigrant ship to take her to the United States, she had not mixed with its inhabitants. Now, in the Lady Lavender soapery, she had come face to face with a society very different from anything else she had previously encountered. Unlike Chicago, the city had a long history and well-established customs. Her new employees were touchy about any suggestion of change. Dealing with them was stretching her quick intelligence to the utmost.

While she was going through the books, Wallace Helena sat late in her uncle’s office long after everyone else, except the nightwatchman, had gone home. She felt she needed uninterrupted quietness while she considered the ramifications of what she was looking at. Twice, on following mornings, she had ordered a spot check of a particular stock, which caused a lot of grumbling amongst employees in the particular department; they could not think why she bothered, since she was not likely to remain at the soapery; anyway, Mr Benjamin always did stocktaking.

Undeterred, she confirmed the accuracy of the records, and learned the exact duties of each employee.

She thought irritably that she could have acquired an overall view of the business much more quickly if Benjamin Al-Khoury had seen fit to be at the Lady Lavender when she arrived. As assistant manager, he could
have told her much that she had had to deduce herself. On further consideration, she concluded that, as she did not know anything about him, a personal check of the books was not a bad idea. Mr Bobsworth had been quite helpful.

Like Mr Tasker and everybody else, Mr Bobsworth seemed to have all kinds of duties.

‘With Mr James Al-Khoury no longer with us and Mr Benjamin on a special visit to Manchester, I’m hard-pressed,’ he told her, hoping she would leave him alone to get on with his work.

Though her respect for the busy accountant grew daily, Wallace Helena had no intention of going away until she was certain that the two key employees in the business were absolutely trustworthy. Young Mr Benjamin was apparently assistant manager, but she felt that Bobsworth and Tasker were the two who set the standard for the other employees.

‘Some of our customers seem to have very long credit,’ she remarked one morning; she could almost hear her father advising to collect from debtors as fast as possible and pay one’s own bills only at the last possible moment – it gave a firm a better flow of money for temporary use elsewhere. She picked up three files from the desk. ‘These firms seem to be particularly favoured.’

Mr Bobsworth answered her patiently, though his head ached abominably. ‘They’re our biggest and best customers in the Manchester-Warrington area, Miss Harding. We can’t do less for them than our competitors would. We’re having a real fight with a Mr Lever, who is marketing a soap he calls
Sunlight
– a washing soap.’

This was the first time that Wallace Helena heard the name of this formidable man, who was in the process of revolutionizing the soap industry. It was his aggressive selling practices which had sent Benjamin Al-Khoury on a special visit to the firms with whom Lady Lavender
dealt in Manchester, in the hope of persuading them that his company’s soap was far superior to anything Mr Lever could produce.

Wallace Helena had already learned from Mr Tasker that the soap industry was very competitive, and she now said, ‘Somebody mentioned that we advertise our soap and that, unlike many soap companies, we mention the name Lady Lavender, so that housewives ask for it by name.’

Mr Bobsworth’s side whiskers seemed to bristle more than usual, as he responded to the mention of advertising. He did not believe that newspaper advertising could improve sales; he thought it was a waste of money.
Women
bought soap, and how many working-class women could read? he was liable to ask.

He answered Wallace Helena primly, ‘Lines of credit were always negotiated by Mr James – Mr Benjamin does it at present. As for advertising, that is something Mr Benjamin introduced. You’ll have to ask him about it.’

Wallace Helena nodded. ‘I have not, of course, met Mr Benjamin,’ she said, and paused. Then she added slyly, to see what Mr Bobsworth’s reaction would be, ‘He must be a relation?’

Mr Bobsworth flushed. He slowly put down on her desk the purchase ledger which he had been holding. He was tired and wished Wallace Helena would invite him to be seated. Coming from a rough, frontier society, Wallace Helena had wrongly assumed that if he wanted to sit down he would do so.

His reply was careful. ‘Well, Mr James brought him into the business when he was about fifteen – and he knows the trade very well. He keeps an eye on Mr Turner in the laboratory, and he’s in charge of all sales.’ He stopped, and ran his finger round the inside of his stiff, winged collar as if it were too tight. ‘As to his being a
relation, you would have to ask him.’ He hastened on to explain, in the hope of diverting her attention, that the firm distributed a lot of unperfumed toilet and washing soap through middlemen, and washing soap directly to cotton mills. ‘We’ve also got three representatives, working on commission. They travel all the time in their own districts, to sell our best line, Lady Lavender scented toilet soaps, to chemists’ shops and hairdressers, even a little to haberdashers; likewise, our line of Lady Lavender perfume – Mr Benjamin wants to extend our scent sales – scent is quite a profitable sideline in some places.’

The rough gold rings on Wallace Helena’s fingers caught the sunlight, as she slowly drew on a cigarello which Alfie had brought her as a possible alternative to cigarettes. Mr Bobsworth carefully kept his eyes averted; his head enveloped in smoke, he was afraid that his expression might betray his disapproval of a female smoker, particularly in a works full of oils and fats where
No Smoking
signs were prominently displayed.

Wallace Helena let the subject of Mr Benjamin rest, and said, ‘Mr Turner mentioned, when I spoke to him in his laboratory, that a residue of soap manufacture is glycerine. He said he is experimenting with a view to producing a line of emollients for ladies’ skins? Another idea was a cream to clean delicate skins instead of soap?’

Mr Bobsworth drooped; it looked as if this interview would go on into the evening. He pulled out a chair and defiantly sat on it; he
had
to sit down.

Wallace Helena made no comment. If he wanted to sit, he was welcome. She had come to the conclusion during the last few days that Englishmen must enjoy standing, since none of them sat in her presence.

‘Is glycerine really good for skins?’ she asked.

‘I believe it can be, Miss Harding. Mr James Al-Khoury was beginning to feel that there is a market for modestly
priced products to enhance women’s skins. City life seems to ruin complexions.’ He paused, to clear his throat, and then went on. ‘The aristocracy has always used beauty aids, but he had in mind the lower classes, that he would pack creams in small tins to cost a few pence. I warned him – and I have since warned Mr Benjamin – that we have a lot of Nonconformists in Lancashire who would decry the use of emollients as vanity – some of them are against baths for the same reason. The market may not exist here, in the North.’

Wallace Helena remembered the ladies of Beirut and their proclivity for using scented unguents and she grinned. She saw in her mind Leila rubbing a mixture of flour and lard into her reddened hands, in a prairie land where everybody’s hands were work-worn. Vanity? How extraordinary.

She was suddenly very tired herself. She had had to keep up a firm façade before the men in the works; they seemed to consider that they were indulging her in permitting her to inspect her own property – her own except for the technicality of Probate.

‘Damn them,’ she muttered, as she rose slowly from her chair and began to walk stiffly up and down the dark, narrow room, to loosen her muscles.

‘You said something, Miss Harding?’

‘No.’ She blew out a cloud of smoke, and then said, ‘I believe you mentioned that Mr Benjamin will be back tomorrow morning. I’d like to see him at two o’clock.’

‘I’ll ask Mr Helliwell to put a note on Mr Benjamin’s desk to that effect, Miss Harding.’ Let Helliwell do something for his living, he thought crossly.

Wallace Helena stretched herself, and then she leaned over the desk to butt out her cigarello in an ashtray. ‘Mrs Hughes will be expecting me for supper.’

Mr Bobsworth rose, his lips even tighter. Stretching
herself in front of a man! Really, the woman had no manners. He said politely, ‘I’ll escort you home, Ma’am.’

‘No need,’ she responded lightly, as she pinned on her hat. ‘I can walk up the hill by myself.’ She took up her shawl and wrapped it round her shoulders.

‘It’s not safe, Miss Harding.’

‘I am used to lonely country, Mr Bobsworth. There are no cougars or bears on Hill Street!’

Mr Bobsworth argued politely that there were other, unspecified dangers. She countered that she had kept him so late that she now wanted him to go straight home.

The man was tired to the bone, so he suggested that Alfie might still be cleaning out the stables. ‘He usually does this job after hours, to earn a bit more. He’s very reliable. He’d take care of you.’

Resigned to the inevitable, Wallace Helena agreed to Alfie, if he could be found. She sat down again in her chair, while Mr Bobsworth went to collect his top hat and cane and then find the youngster.

Wallace Helena was interested in the patient mulatto, who bought tobacco and cigarellos for her from sailors’ shops in the Goree Piazzas. If she had had a child, she considered, he would probably look very like Alfie – though not so crushed.

A very bewildered Alfie, cap in hand and smelling distinctly of horse manure, knocked at the office door.

Wallace Helena rose and picked up her reticule. ‘Come in, Alfie,’ she said gently.

The following morning, Wallace Helena sent for a hansom cab and went to see her uncle’s lawyer, Mr Benson, at his office. She was immediately seated in a leather chair by the window of his room. Mr Benson was holding a weighty tome on the laws of succession and this he placed on his desk, as he sat down before it. He assumed that she had come to see how the matter of Probate was proceeding. This had not been her intention, but she let him talk about it.

‘The Court will not be long now,’ he assured her. He thoughtfully twirled the end of his neat moustache, and then continued, ‘I felt, as Executor, that such an excellent little business should not be wound up or sold, until you were consulted, though I always presume that you will put it up for sale.’

Wallace Helena ignored the question of selling, and asked a little absently, ‘What exactly is Probate, Mr Benson? I am not at all clear. When Mama and her husband died of smallpox, I was fortunate in finding a lawyer who had come west to work with the Oblate Fathers in St Albert, on the subject of Metis land claims. Father Lacombe recommended him to me. I was so upset, as you can imagine, that I left everything to the lawyer, and I’m not sure what he did. But he worked so well that I ended up with thirty-six square miles of good farm land and timber.’ She smiled at the lawyer, and added, ‘I thought I
would never manage to pay his bill – cash is in short supply out west!’

At the disclosure of the size of her land holding, Mr Benson looked surprised. She must already be a well-to-do woman, despite her remark about a lack of cash.

In reply to her question regarding Probate, he said, ‘The Court has to be assured that the Will is genuine and that it is the last Will made by the deceased. They then have to ensure that the Estate is handed over to the right person.’

‘Was it difficult in my uncle’s case?’

‘It has not been simple, but, despite a lengthy search and much advertising, no other Will has come to light – in any case, it was likely that Mr Al-Khoury would have asked me, as his lawyer, to make it for him. I held only the Will made when he was a young man.’

‘Then you had to find me?’

‘That wasn’t difficult. Mr Helliwell had your address; he said he had posted boxes of books to you from Mr James Al-Khoury. The problem was to prove that your dear mother was Mr
Charles
Al-Khoury’s sole legatee; secondly, that her Will leaving everything to you was in order, and, thirdly, that you were indeed Helena Al-Khoury, and not, perhaps, a daughter of Mr Harding by an earlier marriage.’

He was surprised to see Wallace Helena’s firm mouth trembling; she looked as if she might burst into tears. He went on hastily, ‘You were able to provide me with all the necessary addresses, and, though you had no birth certificate, there were several people still in the Hudson’s Bay trading post who were able to confirm that you had arrived with your mother, and that Mr Harding had no known daughters. We found other confirmation in letters from you and your mother, written at Fort Edmonton, amongst Mr James’s correspondence.’

‘Good,’ Wallace Helena muttered, and blew her nose
hard. Mama, Mama, her heart cried, why did you have to suffer so much?

‘I must tell you that I did mention, once or twice, to Mr James that he should update his Will,’ the lawyer added. ‘But he always seemed in good health and said he would do it some time; we none of us expect to be taken suddenly in middle life.’

He realized that she was no longer listening and he coughed to draw her attention. She turned to him, her eyes so full of pain that he was shocked. Like Mr Helliwell, he began to realize that this rather irritating, forward woman had undergone some very harrowing experiences in her life, experiences still in the forefront of her mind. She looked haunted. He wondered if she had known
any
happiness in her life; frontier life, such as she now led, was not, presumably, very easy.

In the hope of amusing her a little, he began to talk of her uncle’s early days in Liverpool. ‘Mr James was a very enterprising man, as you may know. He began boiling soap in his landlady’s cellar wash boiler. What gave him the idea, I have no notion, except that the use of soap was becoming common. He peddled the soap from door to door. Then he found a tumble-down cottage with a similar boiler. He rented this, and was able to keep his store of fat and so on in it – I imagine much to his landlady’s relief!’ He smiled at his client and the haunted look began to fade from the enormous brown eyes. ‘Then he met Mr Tasker, a real Liverpool character. Together, they found a large shed which is now a part of the present soapery, and it was at that point that he came to me, because he wanted to understand exactly the terms of the leasing of the property – and his English was not too good – and, for some time, I vetted every agreement he signed.’

Wallace Helena forced herself to pay attention. ’is Mr Tasker a partner, then?’

‘No, he has always been an employee – a very trusted one, I may say.’ The lawyer smiled again at her, as he saw the sorrow fade from her face. ‘I’ll always remember Mr James and Mr Tasker as being so exuberant and cheerful. Mr Al-Khoury always said, however, that family were the most important people in a man’s life; without family a man was lost. In the early days, he spoke several times of his hope that your father, Mr Charles, would join him, and he was greatly distressed when Mr Charles died – and even more so when he discovered that your mother had married again and had taken you to live in a part of Canada almost unexplored. He couldn’t believe it.’

‘Why didn’t he get married himself?’ inquired Wallace Helena, trying to turn the conversation towards her original reason for calling.

‘I’m not sure. He mentioned once a desire to return to Lebanon, when it became more peaceful – he always said it was the most beautiful country in the world – and he missed the perfume of the fruit trees.’

‘That’s strange. I do, too. I sit and dream of the smell of lemon tree flowers, sometimes.’

‘Do you really? He may have thought that an English wife would not want to live there – and there are few prospective Lebanese wives in this city.’ He stopped abruptly, as if he had intended to say more and had then thought better of it.

‘I don’t suppose there are any Lebanese here, male or female,’ Wallace Helena suggested.

Feeling that it was time to terminate the interview, Mr Benson got up from his desk and returned the book on succession to its shelf. Across his stout stomach, the seals on his watch chain tinkled. Then he considered that he should ask her precisely what her intentions were concerning the Lady Lavender, so he sat down again and put the question to her.

Wallace Helena’s long eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve not yet made a decision,’ she replied cautiously.

Mr Benson nodded understandingly, but did not reply. He sensed that she had more to say.

She stared out of the window at the tiny cobblestone court and watched expressionlessly as a man relieved himself in a quiet corner of it. Then she said, ‘It would be nice to live in a lively city, like Liverpool – to be able to buy books and listen to music – and wear pretty clothes.’ She smiled ruefully at her feminine desire expressed in the last words. Then she said, ‘And you cannot imagine how wonderful a water tap is, particularly one which produces
hot
water! We have a well, which is better than having to haul water up from the river – but it’s still very inconvenient, particularly in our climate.’

‘Indeed,’ he agreed, and waited.

As if she had made up her mind to trust him, she went on, ‘I believe I could run the Lady Lavender, with the aid of Mr Bobsworth and Mr Tasker. I have, however, a homestead – a large one – and obligations in the Territories. So I must consider carefully what I am to do.’ She gave him a bright, artificial little smile.

She seemed to have finished her confidences, so he said diplomatically, ‘Well, it is not essential that you make a decision until Probate is received. I think it would be wise to be ready to decide immediately after that. Businesses do not thrive on indecision.’

‘Indeed, they do not,’ she agreed.

He went on to warn her about taxes that would have to be paid in connection with the transfer of the company to her. ‘You’ll need cash,’ he warned. ‘Mr Al-Khoury did have a small personal bank account, and, as you know, the Lady Lavender account has funds in it – but these will be needed for the day-to-day workings.’

Wallace Helena mentally saw the last really fine
necklace that her mother had left her vanishing into the hands of moneylenders or a purchasing jeweller to cover taxes, but she answered smartly. ‘Perhaps the company would be allowed to pay in instalments?’ she suggested.

‘Possibly,’ he agreed.

A sudden thought struck Wallace, and it brought her to the real point of her visit. ‘Who paid Uncle’s funeral expenses?’

Mr Benson hesitated. ‘They were initially paid by one of Mr Al-Khoury’s friends.’ He shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I’ve since refunded the money from his Estate.’

Now, she thought, I can broach the subject of Benjamin Al-Khoury – at last. She took a cigarello out of her reticule, together with a box of matches, and lit up, while she looked shrewdly at her embarrassed lawyer.

She leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘A lady friend?’ she asked finally.

Mr Benson rubbed his neat grey beard, and blinked as the smoke got in his eyes. A most peculiar young woman, he considered, before he answered, ‘Yes. It was a friendship of long standing.’

‘She’s not mentioned in his Will. I would have thought he would have left her at least some small remembrance?’

‘Well, his Will was old. He was a young man when he made it …’

‘Father Lacombe’s lawyer wanted me to make a Will, but I couldn’t afford any more on his bill!’ She laughed, and looked round for an ashtray. Mr Benson hastily offered her his. She smiled her thanks.

Mr Benson bent his head slightly in response and wondered who her beneficiary would have been. ‘Very wise to make a Will, Miss Harding. Very wise.’

Wallace Helena drew on her cigarello and her mind wandered for a moment. ‘If I die,’ she thought, ‘will Joe get all I possess? If the new railway brings in a lot of
immigrants and there is a real demand for land, he could be a very rich man.

‘He wouldn’t really care about that,’ she considered dispiritedly. ‘He’s happy. As long as he has familiar people around him, a good horse under him and something to eat, he’d be content.’ In this she underestimated Joe Black; he appreciated the power of money, but he wanted it to ease the life of his treasured Wallace Helena.

As her lawyer watched the play of expressions across her face, it suddenly lit up with a mischievous smile, as she imagined what he would do if he suddenly found himself with a soap works.

‘What? Me?’ he would splutter. ‘
Women
make soap!’

Mr Benson saw the smile fade. Again she looked tired and grim. He had heard from an irate Mr Bobsworth how hard she was working. ‘She ignored Sunday!’ he had complained. ‘I never got to Mass at all and the wife was furious.’

Wallace Helena realized with a jolt that there had been silence in the book-lined room for at least a minute. She remembered the question she wished to ask.

As if preparing to get up and leave, she picked up her gloves with studied leisureliness, and then inquired casually, ‘Has Benjamin Al-Khoury anything to do with Uncle’s lady friend? When I tried to ask Mr Bobsworth where he fitted in, he evaded the question. I need to know, because he’s coming to see me this afternoon.’

Mr Benson suddenly saw the reason for the protracted interview. It had taken her a long time to get down to the real reason for it. ‘He’s her son,’ he replied uncomfortably.

‘I see. And she is known, perhaps, as Mrs Al-Khoury?’

Mr Benson’s face went suddenly pink above his beard, as he answered her frankly, ‘Yes, Miss Harding.’

‘But she’s not Mrs Al-Khoury?’

‘No.’ He hesitated, and then explained, ‘I went to see
her to confirm it, because if she was married to Mr James, she would have certain dower rights – and Mr Benjamin, also, could have claims against the Estate.’

At Mr Benson’s obvious discomfiture over such a delicate subject, Wallace Helena repressed a smile, and inquired gravely, ‘So like a good Lebanese, he saw that her son had a decent job?’

‘Yes, Miss Harding. I understand that he was sent to a good grammar school – and when he was fifteen Mr Al-Khoury took him into the business. Mr Tasker and Mr Bobsworth think very highly of him. I’ve met him, and he is a pleasant young man. Business associates – and the employees – fully expected that he would inherit the Lady Lavender.’ He looked down at his hand lying on his desk and then tapped his fingers gently along the wooden edge. ‘Be patient with him, Miss Harding. Not only has he lost his father, but he has been sadly humiliated publicly.’

‘Because he is illegitimate?’ she asked baldly.

‘Yes. He could only inherit if his father had specifically willed the business to him.’

‘I see.’ She rose to leave. ‘I’m glad you have been frank with me; it has confirmed what I believed before I left Canada. But I had to be sure.’ She pulled on her gloves and held out her hand to the lawyer. ‘Leave the matter with me. I will be careful with him. I naturally want to meet my only blood relative.’

Mr Benson had not considered that she might welcome a relation, and he shook her hand warmly with relief. Her attitude might at least mitigate a clash between their very strong characters.