Believing in Tomorrow, page 18
Suddenly aware that he had been holding her gaze too long, he nodded, forcing a smile as he said, ‘I hope you’re right, Miss McKenzie.’
Once on the landing he went first into Angeline’s room, and in a repeat of the night before read to her before tucking her up in bed with her toys. This time she lifted her face for his kiss, and on the landing again he had to take a minute to compose himself and wipe his eyes. Then, steeling himself, he opened the door of his son’s room. Oliver looked up from his book, his face changing and taking on the blank mask he often presented when in his father’s company.
‘I’ve come to say goodnight.’
The boy made no reply, merely staring at him with narrowed grey eyes.
He walked across to the bed and sat on the end of it, glancing down at the fort and soldiers as he said, ‘That’s quite an elaborate set-up you’ve done there – I’m intrigued. Is it a battle of some kind?’
Oliver shrugged, still making no reply.
As it always did in his son’s presence, John’s temper rose before he reminded himself to take it easy. Keeping his voice offhand but pleasant, he said, ‘Your Uncle Lawrence and I had a fort when we were young and used to enact all kinds of battles with our soldiers. It was a fine fort with inside rooms you could get to by taking the roof off, and battlements and so forth.’
He saw a flicker of interest on his son’s face. After a moment, Oliver said, ‘What happened to it?’
‘The fort? Well, when your uncle and I were away at boarding school our mother got rid of it, along with some other toys she considered needed to go, as she wanted to redecorate the nursery.’
‘Without asking you?’
He nodded. ‘I was very upset at the time.’
‘What about Uncle Lawrence?’
‘He didn’t mind too much but he’s a few years older than me.’
‘How old were you?’
‘About your age.’
‘I wouldn’t like it if you got rid of any of my toys.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of doing that, Oliver. They are your toys to do what you want with. Maybe you will want to keep them and pass them down to your own children in the future.’
Oliver stared at him as though he was trying to work something out. ‘Would you have liked to have done that? With – with me?’
‘Very much. You’re my son and I love you. I would have enjoyed seeing you play with my toys.’ He found he was holding his breath as he waited for Oliver’s reaction to the words ‘I love you’.
The moments stretched silently on and John could almost see the cogs whirring in his son’s little head. ‘Mama gave Angeline some dolls she’d had when she was a girl,’ he said after another few seconds. ‘She said she had saved them specially in case she had a daughter.’
Immediately, John wondered if Christabel had insinuated that he, the boy’s father, hadn’t cared enough to do the same; but perhaps he was being paranoid? ‘Like I said, I would very much have liked to do that too but I’m afraid my mother disposed of everything, even my books, when I was away at university some years later. Your grandmama liked things just so.’ In fact, he had long since realized that his mother was the type of woman who should never have had children to mess up her perfect home and interfere with the serenity she liked to create around her. She and Christabel had got on like a house on fire from day one; maybe that should have told him something about his wife?
Oliver frowned. ‘That wasn’t very kind, was it.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘Didn’t she care about your feelings?’
He thought about lying for a moment, passing the question off and changing the subject, but instead found himself saying, ‘I don’t think she did, Oliver.’
‘And your papa?’
His father had always been too busy to take an interest in his sons. As the thought came, it hit him like a ton of bricks that the same charge could be laid at his feet. ‘Your uncle and I never saw much of either of our parents when we were young – the nanny and nursemaid took care of us.’
This time the silence was even longer but something told John not to break it. At the end of it, Oliver said flatly, as though he was expecting a rebuff, ‘You can always play with my fort and soldiers when you want to.’
Swallowing against the lump in his throat, John said quietly, ‘I would like that if you’d play with me.’
Oliver eyed him warily and John could see the child was trying to work out if he really meant it. ‘All right.’ He nodded, and in an offhand manner, added, ‘Angeline isn’t very good at war games.’
‘Girls aren’t,’ John said solemnly. ‘So, is this a battle of some kind?’
Oliver nodded again. ‘It’s the defence of Rorke’s Drift.’
They spent the next few minutes discussing wars and battles, and John had to keep reminding himself that this was Oliver talking, his son who previous to this night had barely said two words to him except in anger.
Eventually he stood up and extinguished the oil lamp, saying it was time for sleep, and as the boy settled down under the covers everything in John wanted to gather up the small thin body and tell him he loved him again, but he knew it was too soon for that. Instead, he contented himself with bending and depositing a swift light kiss on the top of the black hair and then exiting the room with a ‘Goodnight, son.’
It was a start, he told himself as he walked down the stairs to the drawing room where Molly was waiting. It was a start and more than he deserved.
PART FOUR
The Real Miss Molly McKenzie
1914
Chapter Seventeen
Just over four years had elapsed since Molly had arrived at Buttercup House, and they had been ones of mixed blessings. After a few weeks of her living there John had insisted they do away with the formality of ‘Dr Heath’ and ‘Miss McKenzie’ and that they address one another by their Christian names. She had found this uncomfortable at first, partly because she felt it had introduced an intimacy into their relationship, but one that merely blurred the edges. She was neither fish nor fowl, as Enid would have put it. But then would she ever feel entirely comfortable living in close proximity to John Heath? He was a man of many contradictions. Compassionate, warm and highly intelligent on one hand, and narrow-minded, reserved and stubborn on the other. She knew he thought she was too outspoken and strong-willed for a woman because he had told her so in one of their disagreements. She hadn’t taken offence at the outspoken and strong-willed part – she regarded such attributes as virtues rather than shortcomings – but the qualification that because she was a woman these were unacceptable had made her furious at the time.
One of the happier results of working for John was that through her input his relationship with his children was much improved. Father and son still clashed now and again, but mainly because they were so alike. Oliver had baulked at being sent to a boarding school where he’d be away for months at a time when he turned eleven, and so on her prompting Mr Newton had recommended a good public school in Durham from where the boy could return home each weekend, an arrangement that had worked out very well. Angeline now attended a small and very select establishment for young ladies in Morpeth as a day student and was happy there. She liked coming home each night and seeing her two cats, Mops and Minty, and would play with them for hours with their toys. Unlike her bright and quick-witted brother, Angeline was no academic. Her chief interests seemed to be the latest fashions and hairstyles and spending time with her friends. Oliver had labelled his sister a flibbertigibbet, and John and Molly had to admit the boy was spot on.
Molly’s savings had grown substantially over the years. Her wage was a generous one and apart from clothes and the occasional personal item she had little to spend it on. She’d opened a bank account shortly after arriving at Buttercup House and continued to put money away for the future. What this future would entail she hadn’t been sure about, not until fifteen months ago when an unpleasant incident had occurred which prompted her to begin making plans.
It had happened at Angeline’s eleventh birthday party. A number of guests had been invited, including Angeline’s best friend, Rebecca Havelock, and her family. The Havelocks could loosely be termed neighbours, having a large estate on the edge of Longhorsley as well as a London residence. John knew them fairly well both socially and professionally. When they were in residence at the estate, which was a large amount of the year, he was often called to attend Rebecca’s grandmother. The woman fancied herself an invalid, although John thought she was as fit as a flea. Nevertheless, the old lady was approaching eighty and had been thoroughly cossetted all her life, so he indulged her hypochondria. As he’d remarked to Molly, the autocratic matriarch wasn’t going to change at this late stage of her life.
The October day had been an unseasonably warm one and the country had been in the grip of an Indian summer. After a fine lunch, the guests had spilled out into the grounds at the front of the house. The ladies had sat under their parasols, big hats shading their delicate complexions, and games had been organized by the men. Molly had gone along to the kitchen to thank Mrs McHaffie for the excellent food and ask Lotty to take jugs of lemonade outside for the women and children, and beer and cider for the men, and was just crossing the hall when Cuthbert Havelock, Rebecca’s father, waylaid her.
‘There you are. I’ve been looking out for you,’ he’d said, his smile showing stained teeth, probably because of the amount of red wine he’d poured down his throat with the meal.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Havelock?’ she’d asked pleasantly, although she couldn’t stand the man. He had a way of looking at her that made her skin crawl, and whenever he came to the house she tried to make herself scarce.
‘Now that’s an offer I’ve been waiting for.’ He’d grabbed at her, making a clumsy attempt to kiss her, but she’d extricated herself and stepped away, saying sharply, ‘Don’t do that.’
He’d grabbed her again and this time she had slapped his face hard, but it hadn’t seemed to deter him. He’d stood grinning at her, rubbing his cheek. ‘Like to play hard to get, do you, my beauty?’ he’d drawled. ‘Well, that’s all right, I like the chase as much as the next man.’
‘I think you’ve had too much to drink,’ she said icily, turning away, but he’d caught her arm and swung her round.
‘Don’t play the injured innocent – we both know what you are,’ he’d said thickly. ‘I’m only asking for a bit of what you give John readily enough.’
‘I’ve no idea what you are talking about, Mr Havelock, but I suggest you go back to the others now.’ She had jerked her arm free as she’d spoken, her eyes blazing.
‘My, we can put on the airs and graces when we want, can’t we, but you needn’t keep up the pretence with me. Everyone knows you serve old John in more ways than one, m’dear.’
The words had hit her like a blow to the solar plexus and for a moment she was unable to speak. Whether Cuthbert had taken this as compliance she didn’t know, but when he had lunged at her for the third time she had pushed him so violently he’d gone sprawling backwards, landing in an undignified heap on the floor.
She had gone into the morning room, locking the door and standing with her back to it, trembling from head to foot. She had half expected him to bang on the door and try to enter but when all was quiet, she had sunk down on the chaise longue. So everyone had assumed she was John’s mistress? Did John know what people were saying?
She covered her face with her hands. She would die if he knew. It was bad enough that she was attracted to him. But that was all it was, a physical attraction, she told herself in the next moment. It didn’t mean anything. And she sensed he liked her in that way too but he had never said or done anything to make her think he felt anything more. It was unfortunate that he was the only man she had ever met who could make her heart beat faster even when he was at his most annoying, but she could cope with that. And thinking about it, she doubted if even Cuthbert Havelock would presume to suggest to John that she and he were lovers. John could be very much the autocrat when he wanted to be and he had a natural reserve that discouraged familiarity.
She had stayed in the morning room for some time and when she had emerged most of the guests, including the Havelocks, had left. She hadn’t mentioned the incident to anyone but from that day forth she’d made herself scarce if Cuthbert called to see John, letting Lotty wait on them. Mrs McHaffie had told her that there were over twenty inside servants at Havelock Hall and more outside, and that Christmas, when the cook was a little tipsy after freely imbibing the cooking sherry, she’d confided that at least two maids had been dismissed in the past for being in the family way.
‘The word is that they both blamed the master, Havelock, for their condition but he denied it, of course. The lassies got packed off to the workhouse and that was that. Same in all these grand houses, isn’t it, lass. The master thinks he owns his servants body and soul. Meself, I’d never work for such as Havelock. He thinks he’s special and that the good Lord Himself placed him where he is. Never mind his ancestors were the same as all the upper class – traitors, thieves and murderers, most of ’em – but they’ve got the money and power now and the rest of us are scum to them.’
Molly had agreed with Mrs McHaffie in principle. She didn’t know about the masters in all the grand houses but she did know Cuthbert Havelock, obnoxious, nasty little man that he was.
But that incident on the day of Angeline’s party had had a profound effect on her. In her naivety, she’d imagined that the veiled glances from some folk in the village and the conversations that stopped at her approach were because the villagers on the whole saw her as different to them. She was a servant but she dressed and spoke like someone from another class. It had taken Cuthbert to awaken her to the realization of the gossip that she was the doctor’s mistress.
For some time after the truth had dawned she’d avoided the village, but then her natural fighting instinct had kicked in. Embarrassment had been replaced with a sense of injustice and a determination to ‘show them’. To that end she’d held her head high and started to go about her business as usual again. People would always gossip and assume the worst, and what they didn’t know for sure they would make up. She didn’t intend to have her freedom curtailed by such nasty little minds.
At the same time she had started to think seriously about her future. Oliver and Angeline were growing up fast and she wasn’t needed in the same way she had been. The house ran on oiled wheels and, with a little input from John, could continue to do so even if she wasn’t around. The assistant he had taken on at the practice two years ago was a nice young man and had proved to be a great help. Although John was still busy, he no longer worked all hours and had every other weekend off.
That was what she told herself in the cold light of day. At night it was a different matter. Lying awake for hours on end she was forced to face the fact that she would find it hard not to see him every day, to sit and share dinner and discuss the events of the day. Even the arguments they frequently had she’d miss, she realized, but that was silly. He persisted in seeing women as delicate flowers to be protected and wrapped up in cotton wool, grown-up children if you like. And she didn’t like. One thing was for sure: now she had found out what folk were saying, everything was different.
It was at the beginning of that new year that the idea had come to her, and through Lotty of all people. The maid had returned from a visit to her mother on her half-day in tears. It appeared her father was ill and the family were in danger of being thrown out of their tied cottage. As in Ellington, the Ashington Coal Company owned the Linton colliery where Lotty’s father worked, and the company had built rows of houses for their employees as they were doing in Ellington. The first coals from the pit had been drawn some eighteen years before and Lotty’s father had been one of the miners who’d gone down then, but that meant nothing to the company. No work, no pay. No pay, no rent money. No rent money, no home.
‘It isn’t as if the houses are anything much,’ Lotty had sobbed. ‘They’re infested with black clocks.’ She’d gone on to explain that what they called black clocks were big shiny black beetles that loved to hide in the cupboard next to the fireplace, ugly great things with a hard body armour that made a crunching noise when stood on. ‘Me mam has a constant battle with them with sprays and powder but no sooner are they gone than they come back and bring their sons and daughters and aunts and uncles and anyone else who wants a warm home,’ Lotty said with unconscious humour. ‘They come out at night an’ many a time me da’s come home after working the night shift and they’ve bin everywhere. Still, home’s home, isn’t it.’
Molly had agreed, home was home, and she knew that several of Lotty’s brothers and sisters were still at school and money was always tight. She’d told John about the possible eviction of Lotty’s family and he had immediately gone to see the manager at the Linton mine, who lived in a nice cottage some distance from the rows of colliery houses. He had attended the man’s wife when she’d had complications giving birth to a long-awaited child six months before, and the manager had been fulsome in his praise when John had saved mother and baby. The upshot of that conversation had been that the manager had agreed to keep Lotty’s father’s job secure, and until Lotty’s father had recovered from the severe bout of pleurisy that had brought him low, John had paid the family’s rent and provided food and free medicines.
Months had passed by, but the whole episode had set Molly thinking. In the past she’d considered eventually using her savings to buy a property by the sea, a fine house that would be conducive to taking in paying guests and thereby providing an income for herself. But the plight of folk like Lotty’s family had struck a chord. The mine-owners and landed gentry were ruthless landlords. Whether their workers were miners grubbing away under the earth or labourers working on the estates and farms, the same rules applied. If the rent wasn’t met for whatever reason, families would be evicted be it summer or winter, leaving them with the choice of living rough or the workhouse.
