The Letter, page 32
‘She knows that. I think she’s having fun, though. She deserves that. She likes to have her own money, so I reckon she’ll get it finished soon, and, anyway, Bobbie will make sure she does.’
With a smile, Bella got up to disturb Thomas, kissing the top of Alice’s head as she passed.
Slow William was blamed for the fire at the Three-Mile Bottom. Someone had to be blamed – people always had to find a scapegoat – and Slow William was easy to accuse and hard to defend, having no family to support him and few words in his head. He could try to say what he liked, but the authorities had already made up their minds and weren’t listening. Poor old William Gladstone was expendable.
Iris Cook had tried to intervene and explain that William was a harmless sort, whom she could vouch for, but the police dismissed her as a do-gooder and a busybody housewife with time on her hands. It was better that the crime was solved than not, and the local constabulary could not begin to imagine how so intense a fire had burned up to an inferno in the empty kitchen in the early hours of the morning and consumed Richard Fairbanks and Jane Regan to ashes. Far easier to take note that some folk had seen William Gladstone at the inn not many days before then and he had not been made welcome. He had a motive for a grudge, he had no words in his defence, and so the investigation had a neat solution.
‘Mam’s really down about William being sent to prison,’ said Edwin one Sunday in September, as he and Millie rowed the Hope and Peace along to Baybury on a flat, calm sea.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Millie. ‘I like your mum. She’ll have to find someone else to work on the compost heaps and rid the allotments of rats.’
‘What about William?’ asked Edwin. ‘I thought you were friendly with him. Don’t you also feel sorry he’s in prison, and for a long time? Arson and manslaughter are very serious charges. I doubt he’ll ever see freedom again, he’s so old. It’s the only reason they haven’t hanged him, I reckon: that he’s old and daft.’
‘You’re right, and I don’t like him being blamed for the fire at the inn, but I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about it, even though it wasn’t his fault.’
Edwin looked carefully at Millie. ‘Millie, you don’t know who did set the fire at the Three-Mile, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it sounds as if you definitely know it wasn’t Gladstone.’
Millie shrugged. ‘Well, your mum knows it wasn’t Slow William – have you asked her if she knows who it was?’
‘Don’t be soft, lass. Of course Mum doesn’t know. It’s just that you sounded so sure it wasn’t Gladstone and I thought you … you might have heard summat.’
Millie rowed a few strokes, her face set with misery. ‘I would say if I knew. I wouldn’t let Slow William take the blame if I could set things right, but … I’m glad Fairbanks and Mad Jane are dead. I loathed them both.’
Edwin looked at her, seeing her unhappiness. He stopped rowing so she had to, too.
‘Millie? Promise me you didn’t do owt.’
‘I promise, Edwin. I hated them so much that I wished they would die, but it was a wish, in my head, and nothing more. Surely you’ve hated someone that much?’
‘I can’t say I have. I’m not much of a hater. I’d prefer it if you weren’t either. There are always going to be folk you dislike, but you have to shrug them off and choose others to keep you company.’
‘It’s hard to do.’
‘You were a bit the same about Mrs Hailsham and her daughter dying in that awful house fire. Another fire … You didn’t seem to care much about them either. Sometimes, Millie, I think you would be nicer if you showed a bit more humanity.’
‘Thanks a lot, Edwin,’ said Millie crossly.
‘C’mon, let’s row back to Theddleton jetty,’ Edwin said, suddenly fed up with her.
‘But I thought we were going to Baybury. That’s what you said.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. And I’ve remembered, I said I’d be back in time to give Mam a hand with the compost heaps at the allotments.’
‘So you’re the new Slow William, are you?’ said Millie mockingly.
‘I’m glad to help Mam, if that’s what you mean,’ said Edwin. ‘Now, just shut up and row.’
Millie made little effort with her oars, leaving Edwin to do nearly all the work. She said nothing, but her face showed intense anger. Within a couple of minutes, a squall blew up out of nowhere, impeding progress, the wind gusting and buffeting, and the waves billowing up around the little boat. Millie, sitting in the bow, started laughing, enjoying the rough ride and her hair blowing about her face. She looked as if she were in her element, while Edwin struggled with the sail, hot and tired by the time he manoeuvred the boat alongside the jetty at last, and tied it up safely.
‘I enjoyed the ride home,’ said Millie, stepping carefully out of the boat. The wind had dropped as quickly as it had got up.
‘I’m sure you did, as you made no effort to help,’ said Edwin, flexing his tired arms, his hair wet with salty water. ‘Right, I’m off now.’ He turned away and began walking as quickly as his tiredness would allow, along the wooden jetty towards the top of the beach.
‘See you soon,’ said Millie, but Edwin didn’t answer.
She watched him go. Why had she said she’d see him soon? She knew she wouldn’t. After she’d drawn the picture of Edwin in the Hope and Peace, with which Iris had been so pleased, all those months ago, Millie had tried to replicate it, but to include herself in the boat. But however hard she tried to make the second figure the image of Millie Boyd, her hand drew Pam Braithwaite. Edwin was not fated to share his journey with Millie. Better to set him at a distance, put a stop to her growing affection now, than risk heartbreak. Besides, she wasn’t sure her future was here in Theddleton. She couldn’t see the way forward yet. There was something she had to do – a promise she’d made to herself – and then all might become clearer. She wasn’t ready yet, but she would be soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Some months later
FOR MONTHS, MILLIE had waited to fulfil the promise she had made to herself in her cold, dimly lit bedroom in Beaucroft Road, Blackburn: that Uncle Frank and Aunt Mona would get exactly what they deserved.
Uncle Frank would pay for making Nanette’s life such a misery that she had preferred to attempt to run away when she was little more than a child rather than put up with his bullying. When that failed and she had been forever scarred in the ensuing violence of Frank’s temper, she had left as soon as she was old enough to take responsibility for herself. It was time to pay back Frank, both for that and for the relish with which he had wielded his whippy ruler and the flat of his hand against Millie herself, years later.
Aunt Mona would also pay for her cruelty, for her meanness of spirit, her sly violence, her coldness of heart. The Blackburn Marchants had only pretended to want to give a loving home to their orphaned niece, where a child was much longed for but had not been granted to them. What they had really wanted was a victim, an outlet for their cruelty. They were clearly incapable of being loving parents.
Millie had despised them too much to wreak the havoc she wished on them without a sound plan in place. And it had been vital to get away from them first. Now, a year older, as a precocious young woman who had left childhood behind, with her own money in her pocket, plus the confidence that – and the growing success of her painting – gave her, she knew her moment had come. It was as well she had waited. She was ready now. She would light the blue touchpaper, then enjoy the fireworks.
One Saturday morning in spring, she left the cottage in Theddleton early, taking with her a letter she had typed in secret on Thomas’s typewriter. It was only short but, even so, it had taken her a couple of attempts to type it without mistakes. She set out quickly for the station. It was barely light, and the birds were singing joyfully. She had told neither Bella nor Thomas where she was going, just left a note on the kitchen table that said she’d be back later.
As she reached the end of Chapel Lane, she heard quick footsteps behind her, and there was Edwin, on his way to work at the bakery.
‘Millie.’
‘Edwin.’
‘You all right?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine.’
‘I see you around – of course I do; we live next door to each other – but I can’t believe we’ve barely spoken more than “Hello” since that day last autumn. I’m glad I’ve seen you now.’
‘Well, I expect you’ve been busy. I certainly have,’ said Millie.
‘So, where are you off to so early, if you don’t mind me asking? I seem to think you aren’t generally a lark.’
‘Nor an owl. I like a comfy bed. It’s a good place to think things through. But I’ve got some business in Lancashire today, and I want to catch an early train.’
‘Oh, aye? Painting, are you? Going to shake up the art world of Manchester?’
‘Shake things up,’ mused Millie, smiling. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, Edwin.’
‘You’re doing well, I hear,’ he went on. ‘Fine folk asking you to paint their portraits. I’m glad you’re making a go of it. You’ve got a real talent, anyone can see.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mam still treasures that drawing you did of me in the Hope and Peace, last year … when we were still friends.’
‘We are still friends,’ said Millie, looking into his face. ‘I can’t even remember now why I was cross with you.’
‘Nor can I, but I’m glad you’re not cross any longer. Strange how that wind got up, kind of matching your mood, I remember. Weird, like you’d conjured it. I couldn’t stop thinking of it.’
Millie shrugged. ‘So how is Pam? I gather you are to marry,’ she said.
Edwin’s face lit up at the thought of his fiancée. ‘She’s grand. You know, she’s forever grateful that you told her about the job at the bakery.’
‘Ha, one of my rare good turns,’ said Millie. ‘I’m not usually so nice.’
‘Go on with you, you daft lass,’ said Edwin fondly.
They were outside the bakery on the High Street now, and he stopped to knock to be let in.
‘Have a good time in Manchester,’ he said.
Millie smiled. Let him think she was going there if he wanted. ‘I’m pleased to have seen you, Edwin,’ she said.
She hurried on to the station, where she bought a return ticket to Blackburn.
Blackburn looked exactly as it had that day Millie had left it. It was even raining just the same, although now Millie had both a hat and an umbrella of her own to keep the wet off.
When she left the station, she turned left, taking the route towards Beaucroft Road, but then veered off before she got to the park and walked along to some streets of tiny terraced houses. The roads were cobbled and the houses had no gardens, the front doors opening straight onto the street. People turned in interest to see a stranger. It was the kind of area where everyone knew each other and their lives revolved entirely around these streets.
Millie looked for the numbers, remembering when she had been here before, when she had lived with Uncle Frank and Aunt Mona. Then she had come just to look and to learn. Now she was intending to use what she had found out that day.
She stopped at the house she was seeking, remembering the number – remembering her conversation with the woman in the house next door but one, who had provided some very helpful information – and relieved to recognise the dark red paint of the front door. She had been anxious that she might not find the place again, but this was definitely the right house. She pulled the letter she had typed out of her bag. She just hoped the woman was in. Her whole plan rested on everyone being at home.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was no answer.
She waited a couple of minutes, fighting down impatience and disappointment, then knocked again.
After another minute, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door opened.
A young woman peered out. She was in her twenties, thin and a little tired-looking. A very sturdy toddler was clutching her skirt, a toddler with a large head and a very large hooked nose.
‘Hello.’
‘Good morning. Mrs Marchant?’ asked Millie.
‘That’s right.’
‘I have a message from you. The gentleman asked me to deliver it to you by hand.’
She offered the envelope to the woman, whose name was typed on the front.
The woman took the envelope and looked at it as if she might somehow discern the contents without opening it.
Millie waited. However keen she was to get her plan underway, she had to stick to her role of messenger. If she betrayed any impatience, she might make the woman suspicious.
It was a relief to Millie when Mrs Marchant opened the envelope and read the letter. Millie, of course, knew exactly what it said.
My dear Gloria,
I have good news! I have found a new home for us. The address is 20 Beaucroft Road. This young woman from the estate agent will bring you to see it this morning so we can look round together. Bring the lad with you. I am waiting there now.
Frank
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Millie. ‘Mr Marchant seems very keen on the house.’
‘I’m wondering, why has he sent me a letter – a typed one, at that – and not come himself, like? It seems a bit queer.’ Mrs Marchant’s face was puzzled but also hopeful. ‘Why wasn’t he here with us, if he’s in town now?’
Damn. Millie had hoped the woman would just grab her coat and the child and set out for Beaucroft Road.
‘I typed the letter, Mrs Marchant. It was dictated to me down the telephone. But the gentleman is at that house now with the estate agent I work for. If he left to come here, he’d then have to make an appointment to view the house again another day. It’s nearby, so you can be there in a few minutes.’
This seemed to have the desired effect.
Gloria said, ‘Wait there, please. I’ll just get our coats and my handbag.’ She disappeared into the house and returned within moments, buttoning her coat. The little boy was already wearing his, and a stout pair of shoes that were rather too big for him.
‘C’mon, Frankie,’ said his mother.
So, Uncle Frank had named his son after himself. Well, that was no great surprise.
They set off, Millie sharing her umbrella with Gloria. Gloria chatted about her life as the wife of a travelling salesman who was so rarely at home but doted on his son.
‘’Cept when he’s cross,’ interrupted the little lad. ‘Then I’s get a smack.’
‘Shush now, Frankie. Only if you’re naughty. You know to be good when your dad’s home, don’t you?’
Frankie nodded solemnly. Millie felt sorry for him. She didn’t have to imagine the scenario.
By the time they got to Beaucroft Road, she was almost feeling sorry for Gloria, who turned out to be both blameless and a decent woman, just wanting the best for her son, with his father so often absent. It was a shame to have to sacrifice the future happiness of these two innocents, but, Millie reflected, that was life. People just got caught up in matters that were not their fault. The thought of William Gladstone, languishing in prison for the rest of his life, passed through her mind …
Millie was almost certain that Uncle Frank and Aunt Mona would be in, as they were creatures of habit and stuck to rigid routines. There were no surprises in their lives – apart from Gloria and Frankie, who were about to be a very big surprise indeed, as Millie could hardly wait to see.
She knocked on the door, then stood well back to allow Gloria and Frankie to occupy the centre ground.
After a few seconds, Uncle Frank opened the door. His jaw dropped open and his face turned completely white. He was literally speechless. He didn’t seem to notice Millie, standing to one side, so astounded was he to see his other wife and their son.
‘Frank, I got your note,’ said Gloria, but, seeing his face, she was already beginning to falter. ‘You said we was to come straight away.’ She clearly hoped to overcome the awkwardness by keeping talking. ‘And I’ve brought Frankie, see? So, this is the house, then? C’mon, love, are you going to let us in for a look?’
By then, Frank had gathered himself sufficiently to regain the power of speech. ‘Gloria, what are you doing here? With him?’ He pointed a trembling finger at little Frankie, so obviously a two-year-old version of himself.
‘Who’s there?’ said Aunt Mona’s voice from inside. ‘Frank, who is it?’
‘Oh God,’ said Frank desperately, as Mona emerged to stand beside him on the threshold.
‘Frank? Who’s this?’ She caught sight of Millie. ‘And what’s she doing here?’ Then she looked properly at the child and her eyes grew huge and round with shock. ‘And who the hell is he?’
‘This is your doing, Millie Boyd, isn’t it?’ gasped Frank.
‘I thought it was time the truth came out, yes,’ said Millie.
‘But who is this woman?’ asked Gloria, indicating Mona. ‘And why is she questioning me? And where’s the estate agent?’
‘Estate agent?’ asked Frank. ‘What are you talking about, woman?’
Gloria’s voice completely betrayed her draining confidence now. ‘You know, the one you told me about. Aren’t you wanting to buy this house?’
‘This is our house,’ barked Mona. ‘I don’t know who you are, but I reckon I can guess. How dare you, Frank? How dare you bring your hussy here? And with a child! Oh, how could you do this to me?’
‘Just a minute,’ said Gloria, rallying at what she saw as the unfairness of this. ‘Who are you calling a hussy, you sour-faced old baggage? This is my husband’ – she pointed a trembling finger at Frank – ‘and little Frankie is our son.’
‘Aah! Your wife! Your son! And you’ve even called him Frank! Oh, you … you bigamist! You monster!’ Mona raised her hand and gave Frank’s face a furious slap. ‘Hateful! Horrible! Your wife! Was I not a good wife to you? Did I not try to give you everything I could? And now you repay me like this? It wasn’t my fault we had no children of our own.’
