Through Glass Eyes (13 page)

Lucy nodded.

‘And when I’m away, will you take care of Constance for me? After all she was yours in the first place.’

‘Of course,’ said Lucy, indicating the empty chair near the window. She can sit there, and when you’re gone, when I look at her uniform it will remind me of you.’

Alice smiled. ‘And will you look after Mum too? She’s not as strong as you and I’m afraid she will get hurt if she’s not careful.’

Lucy hugged the girl she loved. ‘I promise I will do my best.’

Stanley Crowther visited Pansy every Saturday and Sunday. He always arrived mid-morning and stayed until after tea. He was also on her doorstep early on the mornings she did not work. Occasionally Lucy saw him outside with Timothy but she hardly ever saw him working. It was hard for her to say nothing, but she made a point of never asking Pansy what Stan was doing there. Pansy in turn never mentioned him. Though they lived in adjoining cottages, the two women, who were once close friends, saw little of each other.

Sometimes Lucy wondered if she was jealous. Not of Pansy’s relationship with Stan, but of her having a man around the house. It was years since she had enjoyed a man’s company, and her experiences had been both brief and disastrous. She had never considered her friendship with Edward in that regard. He’d always been kind and considerate. Like a father. Never a lover.

As the months rolled by, Lucy tried to be polite to Stanley, but something about him still rankled her. If they passed on the lane, his tone was brash and cocky, his friendliness affected. Whenever she saw him, he always reminded her of Arthur Mellor. His swagger. The way he turned his head. His false smile. Reminded her how gullible she had been, how vulnerable to his smooth talking and suave mannerisms. Reminded her how she had been used. She hoped Pansy would not suffer a similar fate.

‘Can you lend me a few shillings?’ Pansy begged. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks streaked where she had rubbed them with smutty fingers.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Lucy asked.

‘I owe Stan some money and he says he wants it. He’s coming back on Saturday and he says if I don’t have it he’ll find some other way of getting it. Lucy, I know I shouldn’t ask but you’re the only one who can help me.’

‘Come in. Sit down. Now tell me, how much do you owe him?’

‘He says I owe him fifteen pounds.’

Lucy’s jaw dropped. ‘How much!’

‘Fifteen pounds,’ she said meekly.

‘My goodness, Pansy!
How on earth can it be so much?’

‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought he visited because he liked me but it seems he’s been keeping a tally book. He’s written down all the times he’s been here, right from the start, and listed all the odd jobs he says he never got paid for. Now he tells me I must have been barmy if I thought he was doing it all for nothing. He says I can well afford to pay him because I ain’t got no rent to pay, and ’cause I got my own wages, and the money Alice has been bringing home since she’s been working on the munitions.’

‘Have you got any money put aside?’

‘He’s had it all. Every last penny. Always nice-talking me and bringing us rabbits and things. I thought he liked me, Lucy, honest I did.’

Lucy shook her head. ‘Pansy, I wish you had listened.’

‘I knew you would say that,’ she said, screwing her hands together. ‘What do I do, Lucy?’

‘Well, you don’t pay him another penny! And next time he comes, tell him you don’t want him stepping over your doorstep ever again.’

‘But how can I tell him that. He’s always so nice.’

‘Don’t open the door. Keep it shut!’

‘But I can’t’

‘Well that’s up to you, Pansy Pugh, stop right now, or he’ll be the death of you!’

Lucy trudged slowly back from the village. It was all uphill and her bag of shopping was heavy. As she turned the corner of the lane she saw Crowther’s old bicycle leaning on the limestone wall by Pansy’s gate. With no sign of the man, it was obvious he had wheedled his way back into the house. Lucy shook her head. There was nothing she could do about it. Pansy had made her bed and now she must lie on it. And, Lucy thought, it was quite likely that Stan Crowther was on it with her at that very moment.

Before she reached the gate she heard the rumble of a motor bike driving up the hill. Apart from the milk wagon, few vehicles ventured up the lane. When the engine rattled to a stop, Lucy turned. The driver was wearing a postal worker’s uniform. Lifting his goggles to his forehead, he pulled an envelope from the small leather pouch around his waist.

‘Mrs Oldfield?’ he enquired.

Lucy’s heart almost stopped. She knew it was a telegram and a telegram could only mean bad news.

Chapter 12

The Legacy

Without waiting for a reply, the rider touched his cap, smiled sympathetically and pulled the goggles over his eyes. After kicking the machine back into life, he turned the throttle. The engine revved and backfired blasting black smoke from the exhaust pipe. Driving off in a hurry, the back wheel spun in the dirt sending a shower of grit over Lucy’s feet. Within a few seconds, bike and rider had disappeared from view.

Lucy’s hands were trembling when she walked inside. She didn’t wait to take off her hat and coat before opening the envelope.

The sheet of paper bore only three lines:

  Sorry to advise Edward Carrington died Thursday

  Funeral Monday

  Wainwright

As she caught her breath, Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. Fully expecting to read the news that James had been killed, she felt relieved, almost elated, but at the same time she was shocked and confused. Her dearest friend Edward was dead – but how and why? She realized she hadn’t heard from him lately, nor had she written. That made her feel guilty. Perhaps he had been ill for some time and she’d not known about it.

She wondered if she should attend the funeral but decided against it. It was too late to organize the journey to Tunbridge Wells and besides she had heard the trains were packed with soldiers. After making a drink, she sat down and wrote a long letter to his brother-in-law, Wainwright, expressing her sympathy, telling him how attached she had been to Edward and how much she would miss him. Though she had never met Captain Wainwright, she felt an empathy with him and concluded the letter by asking after his wife, Lydia. She did not expect to get a reply.

It was not until the following morning Lucy realized the full consequences of Edward’s death. Not only had her source of income come to an end, but her rent-free tenancy at Honeysuckle Cottages was over. She hoped she would be allowed to stay on until the cottages were sold and perhaps even continue as a tenant with the new owner, whoever that may be. If that wasn’t possible, then both she and Pansy would need to find new accommodation, and she would have to find a job so she could afford to pay rent for a house or rooms elsewhere.

‘What!’ Stan Crowther yelled. ‘When you said you didn’t pay rent, I thought you owned this house. You never told me some old bloke from the south let you live here for nowt. I’d like to know what you did for him to get that sort of arrangement.’

Pansy was hurt. ‘It’s not what you think! Edward Carrington was a dear kind man and he was good to Lucy and me.’

‘So he had the pair of you, did he?’

‘Get out, Stan! Get out of here!’

‘I’ll get out if you pay me the money you owe me.’

‘I don’t have any money and if I did, I’d not give you a farthing of it!’

‘Bugger you!’ he yelled, before banging the door. ‘And bugger you too!’ he shouted, directing his abuse towards Lucy’s cottage. ‘I’ll be back!’ he yelled, from the gate. ‘And I’ll get what you owe me, one way or the other. That’s a promise!’

‘What did you say his name was?’ the constable asked.

‘Crowther, Stanley Crowther.’

‘Not Stanley Green or Stan Blenkinsop? Are you sure it wasn’t either of those names?’

Lucy and Pansy both shook their heads.

‘Well from your description I’m certain it’s the same fella. Bit of no good, he is. Been known for quite some time. Preys on women who live on their own. And with so many men folk away at the war, right now he’s having a birthday.’

‘Where does he come from?’ Pansy asked.

The old constable shrugged his shoulders. ‘Gypsy-type I gather. Has an old caravan somewhere on the moors, though he spends most of his time hanging around the towns. Once he gets a women’s sympathy, he wheedles his way into her life. He sometimes works two or three different houses at the same time. Hangs around one area for a while, usually till he gets found out, then moves on. He’s done the rounds in Halifax and Knaresborough and, before he came here, he was over in Ilkley. I reckon his moral values are lower than a snake’s belly!’

‘Is there anything we can do if he comes back?’

‘Apart from kicking him out, I don’t know. I can tell you ladies, we’d love to get our hands on him but somehow he manages to keep himself clean. He sweet-talks his way into free food and lodgings, and somehow picks up enough money to pay for his bets and whisky. What we need is something criminal to pin on him, like if he stole something. Then we’d come down on him like a ton of bricks. Trouble is, he’s as slippery as an eel. But don’t worry, ladies, we’ll get him one of these days.’

‘What if he lied at his army medical so he wouldn’t have to be conscripted? Is that criminal?’

Surprised by her question, Lucy and the constable both looked at Pansy.

‘What are you getting at, luv?’

Pansy spoke cautiously, ‘Well, he told me he failed the army medical.’

‘So?’

‘He told the medical board he couldn’t see, but I know he can hit a rabbit between the eyes across the meadow. And he’s threaded many a needle for me. I’d say Stan Crowther has better eyesight than all of us put together.’

The constable took her words down in his notepad then flipped it shut.

‘Leave it with me, ladies. The right words in the right ears can work wonders. Don’t hold your breath though. Nothing’ll happen immediately, but I’ll guarantee you this, if the army gets their teeth into him, they won’t let go in a hurry!’ The constable winked at the two women. ‘Mr Crowther, cum Green, cum Blenkinsopp, could be in for a rude awakening.’

The two envelopes in Lucy’s hand looked almost identical. The stationery was the same, as was the handwriting. Both were stamped with the Skipton postmark, but while one was addressed to her, the other bore the title, James Harrington Oldfield Esq. Lucy was puzzled as she examined them. The only two people she knew from the Wharfedale town were Arthur Mellor and the man called Harry Entwhistle, whom she had presumed was Arthur’s father. Surely after twenty-one years neither of those men would be renewing acquaintance with her, especially as in all those years Arthur had never once enquired after his child.

 Taking a deep breath, she sliced the knife blade along the envelope bearing her name. The embossed gold letters printed along the top of the page shone in the light from the window. Proctor and Armitage, Solicitors and Barristers, Main Street, Skipton, West Riding of Yorkshire, it read. She knew it must be important.

Dear Mrs Oldfield

It is our sad duty to inform you of the death of our client, Mr Edward Carrington of Tunbridge Wells. As executors of his estate we advise that under the terms of his last will and testament you are one of the beneficiaries.

As Representatives of this estate, Proctor and Armitage are under strict obligation to distribute the funds to the correct beneficiaries and require satisfactory evidence of the identity of the persons involved.

As there are certain conditional clauses to address, we feel it would be in your best interests to visit our offices to discuss the matter further.

We look forward to hearing from you in the near future.

Yours sincerely

J. Cranford Proctor

For Proctor and Armitage

In James’s absence, Lucy opened the letter addressed to him. As she expected, apart from the addressee’s name, the content was identical.

Lucy had listened carefully to the information as it was presented to her in legal jargon, but she was still confused. ‘What does it all mean?’ she asked the two rather elderly gentlemen sitting at the opposite side of the heavy walnut desk.

‘What it means,’ said Mr Armitage said slowly, ‘is that under the terms of Mr Carrington’s will, two of the cottages, commonly known as Honeysuckle Cottages, have been left to you. The third cottage, the one which our client occupied until he took up residence in the south, has been left to your son, Mr James Oldfield.’

It took a moment for Lucy to catch her breath. ‘Can you explain what you mean by conditional clauses you mentioned?’ 

Mr Proctor answered. ‘When the title to the two cottages is transferred into your name, the lease agreement, held over the property currently occupied by Mrs Pansy Pugh, will come to an end. However, when we last spoke to Mr Carrington, which was some two years prior to his death, he made certain requests which he asked us, as his representatives, to outline to you.’

Mr Proctor took off his spectacles and laid them on the desk. ‘I may say that Mr Carrington held you in very high regard.’

Lucy acknowledged the compliment with a nervous smile.

‘He also had faith in your
judgement
and felt you would handle the lease of the tenanted cottage in a fair and proper manner. He did, however, express the hope that you would
honour
the current lease arrangement with Mrs Pugh. But, naturally, as the new owner, you are at liberty to demand a reasonable rent for the cottage and by this means you could provide yourself with a weekly income.’ The solicitor paused, allowing Lucy the opportunity to absorb the information.