Wait For the Dawn (28 page)

‘In any case,’ Lydia said, ‘there’s still the shame it would bring, not only on me but on my father. He would never recover, I know it.’ In her mind’s eye she could see the desperate scenario. ‘No,’ she added, ‘he’d never get over it – and he would never forgive me for it either.’

‘He would forgive you, in time. Your father would forgive you anything.’

Lydia sighed. ‘Don’t be so sure.’

The silence fell again. Back and forth, before their eyes, the occasional townspeople went by. Lydia was not aware of them. At last she turned and said to Evie, ‘What
am
I going to do?’

Evie hesitated then said, ‘There is another way, of course.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Well – you haven’t
got to have
the baby.’

Lydia frowned. ‘I know what you are thinking.’

‘There are ways, there are means – of course there are.’ Evie was looking closely at her, searching her expression. Lydia said nothing.

After a moment Evie went on, ‘There’s a woman right here in Merinville. I know that for a fact. And you’ve got money. You’ve got the money from Guy’s mother.’

‘I wouldn’t use that,’ Lydia said at once. ‘I’d never use that.’

‘Well, whatever. . . I’m just telling you that there’s a way
out. You’re not that far along, so it probably wouldn’t be so bad. I don’t doubt you’d soon recover.’

‘Do you – know anyone who’s had it done?’

‘No, I don’t but. . .’

Lydia gave a little shudder. ‘Oh, what a dreadful thought.’

‘I don’t know whether much pain is involved,’ Lydia said, ‘but girls have it done all the time. We all know that.’

Lydia said, ‘It’s not the – the pain, the discomfort. It’s also the fact that it’s – well – it’s getting rid of a life.’

‘Yes,’ said Evie. ‘I never said the decision was easy.’

Lydia thought, in her silence:
How can this be – this conversation? We’re sitting here in the afternoon sunshine, talking about ending a life that is only just beginning, putting out a flame that is hardly more than a spark
.

Evie studied Lydia’s face for a moment or two, then said, ‘I’m not suggesting you do it, you understand. I’m just telling you that it’s something that can be done. You have got a choice. Of sorts.’ With her last words she reached out and briefly pressed Lydia’s hand.

Grateful for the touch, Lydia gave a little nod, then said, ‘Yes. Yes, I know.’

Two pigeons flew down and began to strut about the ground, pecking amongst the cobbles. Lydia watched them for a few seconds then drawing up her breath, said:

‘This woman you said you know of. . . You say she’s here in Merinville.’

‘That’s right. I don’t know her address, but I can get it.’

‘And – can you get it soon?’

‘As soon as I get back home. My mother will know it.’

‘Do you know how much the woman charges?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I haven’t got all that much,’ Lydia said. She paused, then added, ‘So you’ll get it for me, will you? The woman’s name and address?’

‘I’ll write to you with it straight away.’

‘Your mother – she won’t mention it to anyone else, will she?’

‘No, of course not!’

‘If it should get out, and get back to my father. . .’

‘Don’t worry, Lyddy. Don’t worry.’

Lydia nodded, relieved. They remained there on the bench, neither one speaking. There seemed to be nothing left to say. After a time, Lydia said dully, looking at the ground, ‘What time is your coach?’

‘I promised Hennie I’d be on the five o’clock. She and Mam are going to meet me at the Rising Sun.’

‘You’d best be off, then.’

‘I s’pose I had.’

‘You don’t want to miss it.’

‘No.’

And still Evie sat there, as if loath to leave her friend in her unhappiness. The moments ticked by. Lydia gave a sigh as if it were drawn up from her soul. ‘Go on home, Evie,’ she said. ‘Go on back to Hennie. I won’t come with you to the coach if you don’t mind.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I’ll sit here for a minute, and then I’ll go and get my train.’

Lydia nodded, moved close to Evie on the bench and put her arms around her. ‘You’re a good friend,’ she said.

Evie pressed her closer in response. ‘I’ll try to write to you tonight,’ she said.

She gave Lydia’s hand a last squeeze and got up, the movement sending the pigeons flying up. The two young women wished one another goodbye, and then Evie left, stepping away over the cobbles.

After Evie had disappeared from her sight, Lydia turned on the bench and looked up above her at the clock on the little tower of the old corn exchange. A quarter to
five. Her train was not due to leave for another forty-five minutes. She lowered her glance and leaned forward, head bowed, closing her eyes, her hands clasped on her knees. If Evie was true to her word, then she would write at once with the details of the woman who could help. The thought of it, that ‘help’, brought the sweat breaking out on her palms. There had been so many wretched stories of girls who had found themselves in unfortunate situations and who had sought such assistance from women who made their living operating in the cities’ back streets, girls who had suffered most dreadfully, and not rarely, from death by blood-poisoning. Lydia dreaded the thought of the ordeal before her, dreaded the thought of joining those legions of desperate young women, but what choice did she have?

Suddenly, with no warning at all, something touched at her clenched hands, making her start. She opened her eyes and saw before her the black, wet nose of a dog. With a start of alarm she drew back and saw the animal looking up at her with an eager, expectant gaze. Then, almost in the same moment, she realised the identity of the creature.

‘Tinny!’ She breathed the word, and the dog enthusiastically wagged its tail. ‘Tinny, what are you doing here?’ Reaching out, she patted the dog’s head, stroked its back, the soft hair, and heard a voice as its owner rounded the corner of the building.

‘So there you are, Tinny.’ And then, in a tone of greater surprise, ‘Miss Halley? Is that you, Miss Halley?’

She looked up at the man as he came towards her, and straightened, forcing a smile she was far from feeling.

‘Mr Canbrook, hello.’

‘Well, hello to you, Miss Halley! What a pleasant surprise!’ He looked at the dog and shook his head in a little gesture of wonder. ‘Tinny must have picked up your scent,’ he said, grinning. ‘He’s a clever little tyke, that one, he is
indeed. I couldn’t think where he was going to, trotting off like that, and look where he was heading – for
you
.’ He stood before Lydia, looking down at her. ‘So, what brings you to Merinville on a Sunday afternoon?’ he asked.

‘I came to meet a friend of mine who was coming in from Capinfell.’

‘Ah, yes. You’re not living in Capinfell any more, are you?’

‘No. No, I’m not.’

‘No.’ He nodded. ‘I saw your friend from Capinfell the other day when she came into the shop. The young woman. I asked after you and she said you’d moved off, to live and work in Redbury. I couldn’t understand it. That’s the way of it, is it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m living in Redbury now.’ As she spoke the dog remained at her side, and absently she stroked and patted him.

‘Where are you working in Redbury?’ Mr Canbrook asked.

‘At Seager’s department store.’

‘Oh, you’re a sales lady, are you? I’m sure you’re very successful.’

‘No, I’m not on the shop floor; I work in the office, in the postal order department.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘And d’you enjoy it?’

‘At times. It’s a living.’

He said with a smile, ‘If it’s just a living you wanted, I’m sure we could have found something for you here in my shop. Canbrook’s doesn’t have quite the floor space of Seager’s, but still we do our best to be of service.’ When she did not respond to this, other than with a half-hearted smile, he said, ‘Are you going back to Redbury this evening?’

‘Yes. My train leaves at half past five.’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’ve just come in to get
something from the shop,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come in? I’ll make you some tea before you get your train.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain, anyway, and any second now. You can’t stay out here.’

As he finished speaking the first drops came down, and Lydia felt them on her forehead, on her bare wrist. She had brought no umbrella.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Come inside. I’m not going to bite you.’

As she hesitated more drops fell, and more strongly, the spots darkening the dust on the cobbles around her feet. ‘Yes, very well,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ He was a kind man, she thought; he had always appeared so, and the falling rain left no time for hesitating.

In seconds the rain was falling harder. She got to her feet, and he waited as she stepped to his side, then turned and started off smartly around the corn exchange. Tinny walked beside them. On reaching the shop’s entrance the man had his keys out ready, and in seconds he had turned one in the lock and pushed open the door. He stood aside and urged Lydia to enter.

‘Please. . .’

She stepped into the shop, the dog following. Mr Canbrook closed the door behind them, and turned to her. ‘We’ll go on through into the back. This way.’

She had been inside the shop numerous times in her life, but she had never seen it as it was behind locked doors. How strange it appeared. Everything was covered, the reels of cotton, the pins, the needles, the laces and the ribbons, the rolls of silk and linen, everything lay under coarse cotton covers, waiting for the morning when all would be revealed again for the day’s shoppers.

Mr Canbrook led the way through the shop into a smallish room, with a worn sofa along one wall, and a table and several old chairs of unmatching designs. The window
looked out on to a paved yard on which the rain appeared to be falling a little more heavily.

He stood and briefly held out his arms. ‘And so welcome to the inner sanctum! The part that no customer ever sees.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, truly welcome, Miss Halley. Sit down, make yourself at home.’

Lydia looked around her and then took a seat on the sofa. It was old, of faded green velveteen. ‘Yes, the sofa will do,’ Mr Canbrook said. ‘It’s seen better days, mind you, but that goes for me as well.’ He bent to the dog which stood wagging its tail. ‘Ain’t that so, Tinny?’

Mr Canbrook turned to Lydia again. ‘I’d like to offer you some tea,’ he said, ‘but there wouldn’t be time to get the stove going if you’ve got to go and catch your train.’

‘No, please,’ Lydia said. ‘You mustn’t go to any trouble on my account.’

He smiled at her. ‘My dear, nothing done on your account would be too much trouble.’ He turned and took a step across the room. ‘I tell you what, I’ll do what we often do during the day when we’re rushed – nip along to the teashop and get some tea. How would that be?’

‘No, really,’ Lydia said. ‘It’s quite all right. Besides, you’ll get so wet.’

‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll dodge between the spots.’ He moved across the room and took up from the table a small, round tin tray and two mugs. ‘And you,’ he said, speaking to the dog, ‘you stay here and keep our guest company.’ He turned back to Lydia. ‘Tea with milk, yes?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Right, tea with milk it is. I’ll only be a minute.’

And he was gone.

Lydia sat there, waiting, and Tinny came to her and rested his head in her lap. ‘Yes,’ she murmured as she stroked him, ‘it’s easy to make some creatures happy.’

There was no sound in the room but the ticking of a clock
on the mantelpiece and the increasing sound of the rain on the window pane. Lydia looked across and saw how the rain lashed down. She thought of Mr Canbrook, dashing along beside the square to the teashop. Then, after what seemed only a short time, there came the sound of the main door opening and closing and then footsteps as he came back through the shop and into the room.

‘Here we are!’

He came in holding before him the tray bearing the two mugs, now full. ‘Hardly anybody in there,’ he murmured. ‘Business is always slower for them on a Sunday.’ The shoulders of his jacket had been darkened by the rain.

‘But you’re so wet,’ Lydia said. ‘You shouldn’t have gone.’

‘No, no, I’m all right.’ As he set the tray down on the table he shook his head. ‘A bit of rain never hurt anybody.’ He took off his hat, shook the moisture from it, and hung it on a hook beside the door.

‘Now. . .’ He stepped back to the table and picked up one of the mugs of tea, ‘Would you like sugar in it? We’ve got some somewhere. At least I can offer you that.’ He snapped two fingers and shook his head again. ‘Darn it,’ he said, ‘I should have asked you if you’d like a pastry or a slice of cake. They keep a nice selection there most of the time. Would you like something to eat? It’ll only take me a minute to pop back.’

‘No, really, thank you,’ Lydia said, ‘the tea will be fine, and it’s very welcome.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. . .’ He looked down at the dog which sat looking beseechingly up at him. ‘No, I’m sorry, Tinny,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t get anything for you. You’ll have to wait till you get home.’

The spindly-legged table stood next to one end of the sofa, its surface marked with rings left there by excessive moisture and heat. Mr Canbrook put down the mug. ‘Here
you are,’ he said, ‘though I’m sorry it’s not the best china. Still, it’ll do.’ Gesturing towards the table top, he added, ‘It can’t hurt it. It was ruined years ago.’ His own mug he took up and sipped from, then set it back down on the tray. Then he pulled up one of the upright chairs and sat down.

‘Well, here we are,’ he said, smiling at Lydia. ‘Who would have thought it?’

Lydia, unable to meet his eyes with equanimity, did not know what to say, and sat there feeling awkward and self-conscious. The only sounds were the clock and the rain. ‘Listen to it,’ Mr Canbrook said. ‘It’s a good job you’re not out in that now. You’d be wet through.’

‘Yes, I should be,’ Lydia admitted.

‘I can’t tell you,’ Mr Canbrook said after a few moments, ‘how pleased I am that you’re here.’ He gave a wondering little chuckle. ‘Honestly, it’s like some dealing of fate. I’ve wanted to talk to you for weeks, and now here you are, sitting in our little back room.’ The dog moved to him and lay down at his feet. ‘What about that, Tinny, eh? That’s a wonder, isn’t it?’