The Carpenter's Children E-Book

Maggie Bennett

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 504

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Ernest, Isabel and Grace Munday were blessed with childhoods full of fun and laughter, but the coming of the First World War will change their lives forever. Tom Munday, a skilled carpenter, is more than content with his lot in life: he's been blessed with a fine wife and three wonderful children. But when war breaks out, his firstborn, Ernest, is called upon to join the army. Tom's eighteen-year-old daughter Isabel finds the path of true love does not run smoothly in London's poor East End. And the youngest, fifteen-year-old Grace, wilful and headstrong, finds herself drawn down a path she never wished to embark on, and the consequences are far worse than she could ever have imagined.

Leseprobe

The Carpenter’s Children

MAGGIE BENNETT

Dedicated to my dear grandson, Owen James Hayes.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Author

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

1904

It was time to get ready for church, and Mrs Munday was bustling around the children, glancing frequently at the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘Ernest! Do stop mooning around and do up Grace’s buttons for her – and keep still for your brother, Grace. Aren’t you wearing your hat with the brown silk bow, Isabel? It matches your frock better than the straw one with the daisies – oh, all right then, as it’s a nice sunny morning.’

She called up the stairs to her husband, ‘Tom? Don’t forget to put a clean white handkerchief in your top pocket.’

Thomas Munday shouted back, ‘Yes, Vi – soon as I’ve got my trousers on!’

‘What? D’you mean to say you haven’t… Oh, go away with you, Tom, and stop your nonsense,’ she scolded as he came downstairs grinning. ‘It’s bad enough trying to get the children looking decent for church – you’re the worst of the lot!’ But her voice softened as she spoke, for the couple understood each other well after thirteen years of marriage. Tom knew how much she liked to impress their neighbours in Pretoria Road when the five of them walked to St Peter’s on Sunday mornings. She stabbed a long pin through her wide-brimmed hat, pinning it deftly to the knot of hair on the top of her head and they left the house, a typically happy family picture, or so Violet Munday liked to think they appeared.

St Peter’s was the ancient parish church of North Camp, named for a Roman settlement which had once occupied the site on the Hampshire-Surrey border and pre-dated the nearby town of Everham. Once within its thick stone walls, Mrs Munday took note of who else was there. Silver-haired Canon Harrington would be in the vestry preparing to take the service, and there was Lady Neville of Hassett Manor, with her younger son, Cedric, and her unmarried daughter, Miss Neville, sitting in their usual front pew. Sir Arnold Neville and the elder son were in the diplomatic service, currently attached to the Viceroy of India. Looking around, Mrs Munday noted the Birds with their younger son, Ted, the same age as Ernest, and the daughter, Phyllis, one of Isabel’s friends. The elder boy, Tim, must have gone out with his cycling club, she thought, but Ted still had to obey his parents. Mr Bird was a tailor, though called himself a gentlemen’s outfitter, and was also a churchwarden. Then there were the Lansdownes who owned and ran a dairy with a shop attached; they collected milk from local farmers and distributed it either in bottles or straight from the churn into the customer’s jug. Their daughter Rosie was another of Isabel’s classmates at Miss Daniells’ school. And over there were the Goddards who ran Thomas and Gibson’s haberdashery for old Miss Gibson, with their daughter Betty and son Sidney. There was no sign of the Coopers, which was hardly surprising, considering that woman’s notoriety as a drunkard, though Mrs Munday told herself not to be uncharitable, but to bask in the satisfaction of being the only family here, apart from the professionals, who were not shopkeepers. Her Thomas was a self-employed carpenter, always in demand for the high quality of his workmanship; he had even been called in by the churchwardens to inspect and advise about the woodworm in one of the choir stalls at St Peter’s, with the result that he had been entrusted with removing all the infected wood and replacing it with sound, seasoned oak. That meant of course that he had had to copy the decorative carving of the other choir stalls so that it matched them. Canon Harrington had given him high praise, and said it was impossible to tell the new from the medieval.

That’s what distinguishes Tom from any jobbing carpenter, thought his wife, for he had served his seven years’ apprenticeship and was a master of his craft; even so, he was still looked upon as a tradesman, socially inferior to the clergy and the doctor. Violet Munday wondered if ten-year-old Ernest would follow his father’s craft or go in for something of a more official nature, a junior clerk in a bank or solicitors’ office; both would offer him the prospect of eventually passing the relevant examinations to become at least an assistant bank manager or junior partner in a legal firm. He was a quiet, thoughtful boy who needed to put himself forward more, thought his mother fondly; in September he would start as a pupil at Everham Council School, four miles away from North Camp, and five-year-old Grace would begin her schooling at Miss Daniells’ Infants attached to St Peter’s Church, where Isabel was now in the third form, a pretty girl with her father’s blue eyes and straight brown hair hanging in a single plait down her back. It was Violet’s dream that Isabel would one day become a teacher; meanwhile she frowned and shook her head at dark-eyed little Grace who was trying to attract her father’s attention. Grace would do well at school, her mother was sure of it, and perhaps Miss Daniells would be able to curb that temper of hers; Grace could be very naughty when she failed to get her own way.

Morning worship proceeded and they stood, sat or knelt according to the liturgy. During the third hymn a collection was taken and Canon Harrington, in his white surplice and embroidered stole, climbed with some difficulty into the pulpit. His sermon was largely addressed to the children in the congregation, and Mrs Munday’s thoughts were soon interrupted by a tiresome whispering, rustling and fidgeting among those very children, most disrespectful to the good old canon, she thought, although admittedly he was inclined to ramble, and Mrs Munday herself had lost the thread of his discourse. This would not do, she told herself, and straightened her back in the pew with her hands in her lap, to concentrate on the sermon and encourage Isabel and Grace to do likewise. There were some parishioners who argued that it would be better if Sunday School was held concurrently with Morning Worship instead of at the Jubilee Institute on Sunday afternoons, for which Isabel and little Grace would have to get dressed up again after their midday roast dinner, while Ernest would join the boys at the Bible study group held at the home of Mr and Mrs Woodman who were very ‘evangelical’.

Thomas Munday glanced at Ernest who, though sitting still, was clearly not listening to the canon. That boy’s a dreamer, thought his father, and should have been sent to the council school a year ago; it was high time he left that dame school and walked the four miles each way to Everham. It had been Violet’s idea to send the children to Miss Daniells for the first five years because of its convenience and good reputation. Half a crown a week was not unreasonable and Tom Munday thought it ideal for the girls, but Ernest needed the discipline of rubbing along with older children. Tom had tried to teach him the basics of working with wood, but he doubted that the boy would follow the trade of his father and grandfather. Too booky!

He turned his attention to the sermon. Poor old Harrington was becoming as forgetful as he was deaf, and really wasn’t fit to continue as priest-in-charge at St Peter’s, but he had been the incumbent for as long as anybody in North Camp could remember, while curates had come and gone. Tom Munday had been doing some carpentry at the rectory, making two separate commodes disguised as ornamental cabinets for the canon and Mrs Harrington. She, poor old soul, had lapsed into senility, and in Tom’s opinion the old man was going the same way. What on earth was he saying now?

‘I’m sure that all you good children know how fortunate you are to be living in Great Britain,’ boomed the canon. ‘Our country stands at the head of the greatest empire the world has ever known, and our beloved king and queen, anointed by God to rule over it, have every right to expect our complete allegiance.’

Our beloved King Edward thinks more about horse racing and chasing pretty women by what I’ve heard, thought Tom Munday with a faint grin as he listened.

‘And just as we must show loyalty and obedience to those set in authority over us, so must you good children show the same respect to your parents,’ went on the canon. ‘For example, I’m sure that you always stand up when your father or mother come into a room where you are idly sitting.’

Isabel Munday caught her father’s smile. ‘We don’t, do we, Daddy?’ she whispered, and was immediately shushed by her mother. Even so, a ripple of surprised amusement passed over the congregation, and Tom grinned back at his eight-year-old daughter. How sweet his little girls looked in their wide hats and white pinafores over their Sunday frocks; Grace was already a dark-eyed charmer, and Tom remembered with pride how they’d all gone to St Peter’s for a special service on the day of Queen Victoria’s funeral three years ago, just as her subjects all over the country had done. Everybody had been expected to wear black, but Grace had been less than two years old, and Violet had settled for pale mauve dresses for both girls. Tom thought they had stood out from the black-clad gloom and bitterly cold weather like a pair of pretty spring crocuses. What a time of national mourning that had been, and it had nearly been followed by another royal funeral, for the new king had almost died of appendicitis and his coronation had had to be postponed for two months.

Canon Harrington was now leaning over the side of the pulpit and shaking a forefinger at the front pews, which included Lady Neville and her son and daughter.

‘I call upon you all – all you subjects of our king and emperor, all of you in our overseas dominions and colonies – I call upon you all – call you one and all – all of you, all, all—’

And with this incoherent exhortation, the canon slumped over the side of the pulpit, his face contorted, his eyes staring, mouth gaping.

A gasp rose from the congregation and many rose to their feet.

‘A doctor! Is there a doctor here?’ called churchwarden Mr Bird. ‘Dr Stringer – is he here?’

The local general practitioner came forward hastily, and with the help of some adult choristers lifted the inert, unwieldy body and set it down on the carpeted chancel floor.

Mrs Munday prodded her husband’s side. ‘You’d better go up and see if there’s anything you can do,’ she said, thoroughly shaken by the canon’s dramatic collapse in front of his parishioners.

‘I reckon there’s enough o’ them up there,’ he replied quickly. ‘No, you take the children home and I’ll follow when they’ve decided what to do with him. They could use Lady Neville’s carriage to take him over to the rectory, it’s only across the way.’

‘Ought we all to join together in a prayer for the poor canon?’ she asked rather helplessly.

‘That depends on whether anybody’s willing to stand up and lead the rest, and I can’t see Bird doing that, can you? Oh look, there’s old Woodman, he’ll take charge of any praying to be done, but they’d better get the poor old chap out o’ the church first. Go on, Violet, take the children home, there’s nothing here for them to see.’

Tom Munday rarely gave an order, but when he did, his wife and children invariably obeyed.

The year was passing and it had been a beautiful summer. September came in with continued warm sunshine, and Mrs Munday said it was a continuation of August except for the days getting shorter. Walking to school along country lanes with berried hedgerows on each side and by footpaths through the fields, Ernest Munday thought September’s mellow glow quite different from the blaze of high summer. Whatever the season, it was always Ernest’s favourite until the next one followed, but this September was different, for it marked a great change in his life. He had reluctantly said goodbye to Miss Daniells and must now make his way to Everham and back each day, to join his class of ten- and eleven-year-old boys and girls. Most of them had come up from Everham Infants, a separate but adjoining building, to the Big School, as it was known, where the minimum leaving age was fourteen, though the headmaster Mr Chisman encouraged the brighter pupils to stay another year if they were not needed to start earning to augment their families’ incomes. Here Ernest mixed with a variety of children who lived in and around Everham, villages like North and South Camp and Hassett. Everham boasted two churches, Anglican and Methodist, and a whole high street of shops. It also had a hospital with twenty beds where local general practitioners carried out minor operations and delivered a few babies from mothers who had been sent in with complications. A handful of medical cases, mostly elderly, with failing hearts or inoperable growths, languished in the rest of the beds, though if nothing more could be done for them their relatives were expected to care for them at home, to make room for new admissions.

The stark brick walls of Everham Council School loomed above Ernest as he joined the others going through the boys’ entrance and down the corridor to their cloakroom. He had at first expected to walk to school with Tim and Ted Bird, but they had spent only two years at Miss Daniells’ before joining the infants’ school at Everham. Ted, the younger and the same age as Ernest, was now also a beginner at the Big School, but was one of a group of boys he had already got to know, and Ernest preferred to walk alone than to be constantly teased by Ted’s mates. Likewise Sidney Goddard avoided Ernest in case he got ridiculed by association, though Betty Goddard and Isabel were friends, and in another two years would follow their brothers to the council school.

‘Hey, look who’s here, it’s our friend Fuzzy!’ shouted a boy, for Ernest’s curly hair had earned him the nickname.

‘Yeah,’ grinned another. ‘Ol’ clever clogs Munday goes to pray on Sunday – oh, haven’t you met Miss Daniells’ pet?’

Ernest ignored the jeers, for to answer back would lead to further confrontation, and to cry would be a disaster; he hung his cap on its hook and went to join the whole school in the assembly hall. Mr Chisman led them in Our Father, then read a few prayers for the school, the nation and the British Empire; they sang a hymn, accompanied on the piano by a lady teacher, and then were dismissed to their various classes where boys and girls studied arithmetic, English grammar, history and geography together in the mornings, and after their packed lunches they separated, the girls to cookery and needlework lessons, the boys to do woodwork, at which Ernest was expected to excel, but regularly failed to do so; then there was what Mr Chisman called ‘sport’, which meant cricket in the summer and football in the winter, both played on the same uneven field of flattened grass which was inclined to develop potholes in bad weather. Singing, drawing and play-reading, usually an expurgated work of Shakespeare, each had one weekly hour in the timetable, and at four o’clock the bell rang to signal the end of lessons for the day.

Ernest’s steps on his homeward journey were more eager than in the morning, and his heart correspondingly lighter at having left Everham Council School behind for sixteen hours.

For he loathed it.

North Camp Church of England Infants’ School had been opened in the mid-1880s by Canon Harrington who felt that the younger children of the area should have an alternative to the free education available at Everham Council School. He and interested residents petitioned the bishop and the church commissioners for a school to be attached to St Peter’s with the canon as governor; the request was granted, the building was completed, and a suitable lady teacher was installed. It was said that Miss Daniells had been engaged to a young man who’d died of a fever in the West Indies, but this was never confirmed; she was a local farmer’s daughter with the responsibility of elderly parents who would need looking after at some future time, and she had set about her duties with single-minded enthusiasm, and over the past decade she had built up a good reputation for ‘Miss Daniells’ School’, as it was generally known by the parents who willingly paid the weekly half-crown.

September brought a new influx of pupils whose fifth birthday fell in the present year, and they included little Grace Munday, trotting in with her sister Isabel, her wide eyes taking in the big room with its raised platform at one end, on which Miss Daniells sat at a wide desk. An upright piano stood at one side of the platform, and a tall cupboard on the other; in the centre of the hall stood a coke-burning stove with a black flue that went up through the ceiling, and a circular fireguard around it.

There were four rows of desks, large or small according to the size of the occupant, with the little ones at the front and the older ones behind them. At the back the nine- to twelve-year-olds sat at two trestle tables, girls at one and boys at the other.

Isabel took her seat halfway back, and Grace stood up in front with two other new ones, a weeping boy and a scared-looking girl; even at five Grace knew the value of contrast, and smiled sweetly at the curious eyes fixed upon her.

‘And this little girl is Grace Munday,’ announced Miss Daniells, ‘the sister of Isabel and their brother Ernest who has now left us for the council school, so we lose one Munday and gain another. Welcome, Grace! You may take a seat in the front row just there.’

Grace marched to her very own desk with satisfaction, soon to be joined on either side by the other two newcomers, somewhat emboldened by her example. Her education was about to begin, and she was eager to show what she could do.

Miss Daniells sat down at the piano to play the opening hymn.

‘Jesus loves me, this I know,

For the Bible tells me so –

Little ones to Him belong,

They are weak, but He is strong!

Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me!

The Bible tells me so!’ chorused the children for three more verses. Miss Daniells then said a prayer for all the children at the school, and those who had left; she prayed also for their families, asking that they might always follow Jesus and put their trust in Him at all times.

‘And now, Lord, we pray for dear Canon Harrington, founder of our school, laid low by a stroke and unable to rise from his bed. We pray also for his wife Mrs Harrington, that they both may find comfort in knowing that Thou carest for them in their affliction, O Thou who didst heal the sick who came to Thee. And Lord, we ask Thy blessing on the Reverend Mr Saville who has come to care for the parish of St Peter’s. Grant unto him wisdom and strength, and always to put his trust in Thee.’

‘Amen,’ answered the children, and then recited the Lord’s Prayer; thus began the day’s lessons, with only Miss Daniells to teach them all. She was pleasantly surprised to discover that little Grace Munday knew her alphabet and could string a few three-letter words together, as well as write her own name clearly. As the youngest of three she had been able to learn from her brother and sister, especially Isabel who loved playing at being a teacher, with Grace and two reluctant cats as her pupils.

At playtime Isabel came to her sister’s side with a paper packet containing two cheese sandwiches and two apples. She introduced Grace to other third-year girls and to her friend Mary Cooper, a pale girl whose hair hung loose instead of being tied back, and whose pinafore had an egg stain on it. Isabel took out a comb and a length of blue ribbon from her pocket to smooth Mary’s hair back into a single plait hanging down her back.

A grinning boy approached them as they sat on a bench seat in the playground.

‘’Allo, you little girls! Wonder ’ow ol’ Ernie’s gettin’ on at the council school, eh? If ’e’s tellin’ ’em ’ow ’e’s been saved by ol’ Mr Woodman, they won’t ’alf give ’im a thrashin’!’

Isabel stuck her nose in the air and went on talking to Mary, refusing to be drawn; Grace, however, stared hard at the boy.

‘I know who you are, you’re the boy my daddy caught stealing apples from our tree. You’re a thief, and ought to go to prison!’

The boy stared back at her and was about to deny the charge indignantly, but several children had gathered round and were laughing at the accusation. He knew he would be in trouble if he raised a hand against any girl, let alone this little new one, so he contented himself by sticking out his tongue as far as it would go, and sauntering away, making derogatory remarks about ‘them daft Mundays’.

At half past three Miss Daniells ended the day’s lessons with another hymn and the Lord’s Prayer; she smiled upon them as they trooped out, but then sat down wearily and laid her head upon the desk. More and more she wondered how long she would be able to continue to teach these dear children without any help; at present she knew of no local girl of school-leaving age with the necessary requirements to be an assistant teacher, but trusted that the Lord would send one in His own due time.

A knot of girls stood at the gate of the Mundays’ garden, still full of summer flowers. Phyllis Bird and Betty Goddard could hardly part from little Grace who bestowed her winsome smiles on them both, while Isabel stood waiting to go indoors. Then they saw Mary Cooper running up Pretoria Road towards them.

‘I can’t find my mum anywhere,’ she said anxiously. ‘And Dad must be out on a job somewhere. Can I come in with you, Isabel, just until Dad comes home? Your mum won’t mind, will she?’

This was difficult. Isabel knew that her mother disapproved of the Coopers, for some mysterious reason that was only whispered about. When she hesitated she saw Mary’s eyes fill with tears, and she looked at the other two girls. Betty shook her head, but Phyllis rolled her eyes and shrugged.

‘You can come home with me, Mary. Just until your mum and dad turn up,’ she said. ‘Come on, my mother’ll be wondering where I’ve got to!’

Isabel gave her a grateful nod, and led Grace round through the side gate to the back garden; but before they reached the kitchen door, they saw a sight that stopped them in their tracks.

A red-faced woman with loose, untidy hair was groping at the door of Tom Munday’s tool shed, called by his wife the holy of holies, and always kept locked.

‘They’ve shut the door,’ muttered the woman, turning round and catching sight of the two girls. She lurched against the tool shed, and put out a hand to steady herself, almost falling over. She gave a loud hiccup.

‘Whoops! Sorry, little girls, but your lav’s locked up, an’ I can’t hold it in – I’ll have to go here among the cabbages,’ she said in a slurred voice that filled Isabel with a nameless revulsion, and to their horror she began to pull her skirt up, fumbling with her petticoat.

‘Whoops, can’t get me drawers down, an’ it won’t wait – whoops!’ she giggled, squatting down and urinating copiously. ‘Tha’s better – can’t get me drawers down, gotta wet ’em!’

When she’d finished and tried to rise to her feet she toppled over backwards and lay full-length in the cabbage patch, her skirts pulled up and showing her soaked underwear. She closed her eyes and passed into semi-consciousness.

Isabel tugged at her sister’s hand. ‘Come on, Grace, let’s go in and find Mum – quick!’

In through the back door they went, and Isabel called through the house.

‘Mum, where are you? Come quickly, Mary’s mum’s in our back garden!’

Violet Munday came hurrying from the front parlour.

‘Heavens above, Isabel, what are you shouting about?’

Grace spoke up excitedly. ‘There’s a lady been weeing in our garden and it went all over her clothes – and now she’s gone to sleep with her head on a cabbage!’

‘Good gracious! Merciful heavens!’ cried Mrs Munday. ‘You stay indoors, you two, and I’ll see what’s going on.’

When she found Mrs Cooper lying dead-drunk in the cabbage patch, snoring heavily, she gave a horrified exclamation and hurried back indoors, her face pale with shock.

‘Go and fetch your father, Isabel, he’s working at the rectory. Tell him to come home at once – at once, do you hear?’

Off went Isabel, and Mrs Munday told Grace to stop asking questions, while muttering under her breath, ‘Of all the…what a disgrace…never seen anything like it…oh, my God!’

When Tom appeared, out of breath and alarmed, his wife told him firmly that he must find Cooper at once, and tell him to remove his drunken wife from their garden.

‘She was trying to get into your tool shed, Tom, must’ve thought it was a lavatory – oh, what a degrading sight for our two little girls to see!’

Tom Munday went out to investigate, and came back looking grave.

‘Thank heaven it’s nothing worse, Vi, I thought one o’ the children had been hurt. Can you give me a hand with her?’

‘What? Certainly not, I couldn’t touch the creature,’ his wife replied with a shudder, leaving Tom to rack his brains as to what he should do without causing a public fuss. Eddie Cooper was a house painter, and Tom had no idea where he was working that day. Could he ask Bird to help him move the woman? No, Bird wouldn’t want to leave his shop, and was likely to be shocked, churchwarden or not. Goddard? He could leave his wife in charge of the haberdashery, but she was such a tittle-tattler. Lansdowne? Yes, he’d ask old Bert Lansdowne who’d be finished in the dairy, and could bring his milk cart round.

‘Isabel, go and ask Rosie Lansdowne’s dad to come round here, will you? And don’t say anything to anybody else, d’you hear me?’

Off went Isabel again, and Mrs Munday locked the front and back doors to keep Grace in the house and to prevent that dreadful creature from reeling round trying to get in.

As soon as Bert Lansdowne heard the message he got out his horse and cart and came round to the Mundays’. When he saw the state of Eddie Cooper’s wife, he whistled, nodded and buckled down to the job.

‘You take her head an’ shoulders, Tom, an’ I’ll take the bottom half,’ he said, and together they lifted her up and carried her through the side gate to the front. ‘She’s shit an’ all,’ he remarked. ‘Nobody about, come on, let’s get the sleeping beauty on to the cart.’

When this was done, Bert asked about Mary Cooper. ‘We mustn’t let the poor kid see her like this, Tom. Is she with your missus?’

Tom had gathered from Isabel that Mary had gone home with Phyllis Bird.

‘Good, we’ll tell Mrs Bird to keep her until poor old Eddie can call for her.’ Bert glanced at the lifeless form in his cart, and shook his head.

‘You hear about drunken husbands, but it’s the other way round here, ain’t it?’

The two of them got on the cart, took Mrs Cooper home and carried her round to the unlocked back door, where they laid her on the kitchen floor.

‘Thanks a lot, Bert. You get on home now, and tell the Birds that Eddie’ll call for Mary later. I’ll wait for him here,’ said Tom, who was in fact quite shaken by the situation, feeling embarrassed on Eddie Cooper’s behalf when the man came home and found an almost apologetic Tom Munday waiting for him. Tom heated some water in a large pan while Eddie undressed his wife, washed her and put a clean nightgown on her. Together the two men carried her upstairs and laid her in the matrimonial bed.

Tom then went to fetch Mary from the Birds’ home in Rectory Road, telling them there had been a slight accident, nothing to worry about; and when he eventually got home he forestalled his wife’s righteous indignation.

‘Just let’s be thankful we’re not in that tragic case, Vi. If I was Eddie I don’t know how I’d cope. The poor devil blames himself.’

‘Blames himself? Why on earth should he think that?’ asked Mrs Munday, none too pleased by the suggestion that Tom could be Eddie, which was like comparing herself with Eddie’s wife.

‘Yes, he blames himself, though it was more the fault o’ that fool of a doctor when she had Mary,’ said Tom, deeply saddened by what Eddie had told him. ‘You remember how she had a very bad time, and was in bed for weeks afterwards, couldn’t feed the baby and her mother had to come over to look after them – it was a rotten time, after looking forward to the baby.’

‘Yes, I remember, but she got over it, didn’t she? She’s not the only woman to have a bad time birthing, and at least she didn’t lose her life, like that poor girl over at Hassett last year,’ replied Violet. ‘And when I had Ernest, you may recall that—’

‘But you got over it, an’ had two more children, an’ she couldn’t have any more, that’s why there’s only Mary. Eddie says she went into a melancholy state, couldn’t do anything at all, so Eddie called that doctor back to her. He advised her to take a glass of brandy each night, to make her sleep and cheer her up. So Eddie did what he said, an’ it got to be a habit. She couldn’t break out of it, no matter how hard she tried. He says she does her best to keep it under control, but sometimes it gets the better of her, an’ she takes to the bottle again. Sleeps it off indoors, mostly, but today was bad.’ Tom shook his head and repeated, ‘Yeah, today was pretty bad.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly done everything a friend and neighbour could do,’ said Mrs Munday.

‘Yeah – but he could’ve done with a bit o’ help from a woman, Vi. It was pretty embarrassing, to say the least, ’cause I couldn’t very well help him clean the poor woman up.’

There was a short silence, then Mrs Munday said in a somewhat subdued tone, ‘Well, if ever Mary needs somewhere to go, I’d be willing to have her round here.’

‘That’s good o’ you, Vi,’ he replied gravely. ‘None of us know when we might be in need of a friend – and that woman needs a friend now, if anybody does.’

Violet did not attempt to answer, feeling herself rebuked.

Up in the bedroom shared by the girls, Isabel was becoming irritated by Grace’s persistent questions about the strange and very rude lady in their garden. Why was she trying to get into Daddy’s shed? And why did she wee in the cabbage patch? And why was Mummy so angry about her?

‘Oh, go to sleep, Grace, I’m tired,’ snapped Isabel. Their mother had told them not to talk about what had happened, and to forget all about it. Yet Isabel sensed that she would never forget the sight of Mary Cooper’s mother who, Isabel now realised, had been drunk – which was something that only happened with men, or so Isabel had thought until now. Something of her mother’s shock and disgust had been passed on to her, and she knew that she would be haunted by Mary’s mother, like a grotesque picture in her memory that would never quite go away. And what she would remember above all was the lost, bewildered look in the woman’s eyes.

On returning from school Ernest at once realised that something bad had happened, something that the girls had been ordered not to talk about. If he knew his little sister Grace, she would find an opportunity to whisper it to him sooner or later, whether he wanted to know it or not. There were many other matters on Ernest’s mind, and lying in his bed that night he recalled the unthinking cruelty of his classmates, and how he was learning to endure their sometimes obscene taunts by keeping quiet; he was getting better at meeting ridicule with a bland silence that hid his inward distaste.

But not on Sunday afternoons. Ah, not at Mr Woodman’s Bible study group for boys. Though one of its youngest members, Ernest’s opinion was often invited, and he could freely share his thoughts on the matters under discussion: the dictates of conscience and the path of duty; God’s judgement, and also His mercy, His constant love and forgiveness – all the things Ernest had to keep to himself at school. He was especially devoted to Paul Woodman, the elder son, aged about eighteen and intending to train for ordination. Paul’s conversation was precious to Ernest, for he could tell him almost anything without being made to look foolish; the jeers and taunts of the boys at Everham Council School were mere pinpricks when placed against the thoughtful, courteous words of Paul Woodman.

With his mentor’s face in mind, Ernest smiled and drifted peacefully to sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

1911

‘Old Mr Cox hasn’t been in for his money today, Miss Munday. Have you seen him at all?’

‘No, Mr Teasdale, nor his daughter,’ answered Isabel, looking up briefly from counting stamps.

‘And he wasn’t in with the others yesterday, though he’s usually outside waiting for me to open up on pension days!’

And the other old people aren’t far behind, thought Isabel, for the ten shilling weekly pension introduced two years ago was an enormous help to the elderly and their relatives. She closed the folder of unsold stamps. ‘Shall I make a cup of tea, Mr Teasdale? It’s nearly four o’clock.’

‘That would be very nice, Miss Munday, thank you.’ He shot her a look of fatherly concern. ‘You’re rather pale today, if I may say so, Miss Munday. Are you not feeling so well?’

‘Yes…I mean no, I’m quite well, thank you, Mr Teasdale,’ she answered, not quite truthfully, for she had developed a cramp-like pain at the bottom of her tummy – her mother disliked the word belly – and felt slightly sick. A cup of tea might do her good, she thought, and set about putting the kettle on to boil in the little kitchenette behind the office. The door pinged as a lady customer came in, and Mr Teasdale put on his usual polite smile to attend to her.

While she waited for the tea to brew, Isabel sat down on the hard wooden chair, feeling peculiar in a way she could not understand. She wished she was at home; Mr Teasdale was a pleasant enough man who always addressed her properly as Miss Munday, but he was still a man, and Isabel felt the need for a woman’s reassurance. As she sat there, she was suddenly and alarmingly aware that something was happening: she was leaking! She jumped to her feet and hurried out to the lavatory which, like the Mundays’ own, had to be entered from outside. Something felt wet and warm between her legs, and she pulled up her long skirt and petticoat; when she took down her drawers, she nearly fainted with shock at seeing the blood on them, and…oh, heavens, it had leaked through to her skirt while she’d sat on the chair. In utter dismay she realised that this must be the start of her periods, which her mother had never mentioned to her, but Betty Goddard and Phyllis Bird had whispered about their own experiences, so Isabel was not entirely unprepared for this first visitation. Whatever was she to do? She must go home at once, but how to explain to Mr Teasdale?

Pulling up her soiled clothes with trembling hands, she smoothed down her skirt and returned to the post office.

‘Mr Teasdale, I’m sorry, but—’ she began, thankful at least that there were no customers in at present.

‘Why, Miss Munday, whatever is the matter?’

‘I shall have to go home straight away, Mr Teasdale. I-I…’ And poor Isabel burst into tears in her shame and humiliation; she dared not turn round because of the stain on the back of her skirt.

This put the postmaster in a dilemma. He felt fairly sure of the reason for his young assistant’s distress, and that this was an emergency. The only thing he could do was to take her home at once, but he could not leave the post office unattended, and there was no available female he could call upon to escort Miss Munday. He had a telephone, but nobody else in the village had one apart from the doctor and the vicar.

Isabel had left Everham Council School at Easter. Miss Daniells looked forward to having her as a pupil teacher, but not until she was fifteen. It was Mrs Munday who had obtained the place for her as post office assistant, though Mrs Goddard had offered her work in the haberdashery.

‘I’m not having a daughter of mine working as a shop girl, ordered around by the likes of Mrs Goddard!’ Violet Munday had declared. ‘Nor is she going into domestic service.’ The post office was a good compromise, though Mrs Munday could have wished that there had been a postmistress instead of Mr Teasdale.

‘Still, he’s a respectable married man, and won’t stand for any nonsense from customers,’ she told her husband, ‘and she’ll learn how to deal with people and improve her arithmetic.’

In fact Isabel had found life behind the post office counter far less interesting than school. Only the postmaster could deal with the business side, sorting out the letters that arrived on the early train with the newspapers, to be distributed over a wide rural area by the postman and newsboy. On certain days there were magazines and comics to be displayed, and boiled sweets and liquorice sticks were sold from large glass jars. Isabel was entrusted with these sales, though as the place was primarily a post office she was counted as an assistant rather than a salesgirl.

But now Mr Teasdale was in a quandary, with no prospect of assistance. Unless…

The door pinged, and Mrs Cooper came in, wearing her habitual anxious expression. She looked from Mr Teasdale to his tearful assistant, and having noted that she was sober, he turned to her for help in his predicament.

‘Mrs Cooper, may I ask you a favour on behalf of my…of Miss Munday? She’s…er…not feeling well, and needs to be taken home to her mother. Will you…could you possibly go with her, Mrs Cooper? She really needs a woman’s help,’ he finished lamely, spreading out his hands in a helpless gesture.

Mrs Cooper stared at them both with her washed-out blue eyes, and something like a smile softened her worried face.

‘’Course I will, Mr Teasdale, if she don’t mind. D’you want me to come home with you, Isabel dear?’

‘Yes, please, Mrs Cooper,’ sniffed Isabel, wondering how she could hide the stain on her skirt. ‘I’ll get my hat and gloves. I’m sorry, Mr Teasdale.’

‘That’s quite all right, Miss Munday. Don’t come in tomorrow if you don’t feel up to it. Thank you so much, Mrs Cooper,’ he added to the lady who had not even been served.

Outside in the street, Isabel sobbed out her trouble. Mrs Cooper listened sympathetically.

‘And I think the back of my skirt is—’

Mrs Cooper discreetly looked, and took off her own long black jacket. ‘Here, dear, put this round you, so’s people won’t see. It’s all right, I’m warm enough without it, it’s a nice May day.’

Isabel accepted gratefully, but when they arrived at number 47 Pretoria Road, Mrs Cooper said she would not come in. Isabel took off the jacket and handed it back. All of which was observed from the parlour window, and Mrs Munday then appeared at the front door like an avenging angel.

‘Isabel, come in at once! At once, do you hear me?’

Isabel obeyed, and Mrs Cooper went on her way, glad to know that she had been of some use for once, and little Isabel Munday had been so grateful, even though her mother had ordered her indoors with unspoken disapproval. Where could she go now? Back to the post office for the stamps Eddie wanted for his invoices? Yes, that’s what she would do; she didn’t want to go back to an empty house, now that Mary was working for Mrs Yeomans at the farm, and didn’t get home until six or later, and Eddie never knew how long a job was going to take, so might be early or late. Joy Cooper dreaded being alone in the house, fighting off the craving that gripped her like a physical ache, making her groan out loud and long for some distraction – anything to keep her from going to her secret hoard in the loft, the hoard which Eddie didn’t know about; he would have had a fit to see her climbing the loft ladder. Just to know that it was there helped her through the day, but sometimes the urge to take a tot of brandy was uncontrollable, and she’d promise herself that it would only be one little tot. No! She dared not go home, but retraced her steps to the post office.

‘Most kind of you, Mrs Cooper. I’m sure Miss Munday’s mother appreciated your care for her daughter,’ smiled Mr Teasdale. ‘Now, what was it you came in for?’

Having purchased the stamps, Joy Cooper forced a smile, and engaged the postmaster in conversation – anything to delay going home to an empty house and the temptation in the loft. Mr Teasdale was always happy to exchange a word or two with his customers when not under the pressure of work, as on pension mornings. The thought led him to mention Mr Cox’s absence this week.

‘Oh, I see – and you’re wondering if he’s all right, Mr Teasdale? Hasn’t his daughter been in?’

He shook his head. ‘Not a sign of either of them, Mrs Cooper.’

‘Would you like me to call on him to see if anything’s the matter?’ she asked, grasping at anything that would take up a bit more of her time.

‘Why, yes, if you’d be so good, Mrs Cooper, and I’m sure he’d be glad to see you,’ said the postmaster, who had been wondering if he should check on Mr Cox. ‘I expect there’s some perfectly good reason for him staying away.’

‘Very well, Mr Teasdale, I’ll go round there and let you know if there’s any sort of trouble,’ she promised.

But by the following morning all of North Camp knew that old Mr Cox had suffered a stroke, and had lain on his kitchen floor all day. His daughter Mrs Blake found him at five o’clock, having spent the day shopping in Everham with her sister. When Joy Cooper arrived she found that the old man had regained consciousness, but was unable to speak or use his right arm and leg. Mrs Blake was hysterically accusing herself of not having checked on her father that morning, and Mrs Cooper calmed her as well as she could, saying that she would go at once to Dr Stringer. Mr Cox was taken to Everham Hospital where after three weeks he had recovered sufficiently to be allowed home under the care of Mrs Blake, helped by the district nurse and Mrs Cooper who promised to look in on him every day, privately thanking God that Mr Cox’s misfortune had turned out to be her salvation.

‘How very unfortunate that this should come on while you were at the post office!’ exclaimed Mrs Munday in a tone of mixed annoyance and self-reproach. ‘So embarrassing for you, dear, with only Mr Teasdale there. I’m very sorry that it’s happened this way.’

She had made Isabel strip off her clothes and put on a wool dressing gown. The stained garments were soaking in a pail of cold water, and a white-faced Isabel sat with a folded linen square between her legs, secured by safety pins to a narrow cotton belt; so now she knew what wearing a diaper felt like.

‘But it was lucky that Mrs Cooper was there to bring me home and lend me her long jacket, Mum,’ she pointed out. ‘I don’t know how I’d have got home else, with that awful bloodstain at the back.’

‘Yes, well, it was unfortunate,’ repeated her mother with a frown. ‘And…er…I suppose you knew where the blood came from…comes from, Isabel? You do understand that this is your first monthly period, and it means that your body is ready – it means you’re a woman now,’ she added awkwardly, annoyed with herself for blushing.

‘Yes, Mrs Cooper told me that on the way home, and said that when it comes again next month I’ll be prepared for it, with a diaper and safety pins.’

‘I’m sure there was no need at all for Mrs Cooper to talk to you in such a way, Isabel – that’s my duty, not hers, and of course I’ll see that you’re prepared for it next time,’ said Mrs Munday, ignoring the fact that Isabel had been entirely unprepared. ‘I didn’t think you’d start so soon. I…er…I suppose other girls at school talk about it sometimes, don’t they?’

‘Yes, Betty Goddard and Phyllis Bird have already started, and they’re more or less the same age as me,’ replied Isabel. ‘Betty’s mum told her about it before, and made sure she had a…a diaper with her for when it started.’

‘Yes, well, we won’t go into details, it’s not a very nice subject to talk about, and in any case I think it’s up to your teachers to warn you girls about it – I mean the lady teachers of course,’ said Mrs Munday, not noticing the inconsistency of this assertion. ‘Now then, dear, you’re going to rest on your bed, and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea. You look a bit pale.’

Violet Munday felt thoroughly put out, and tried to justify herself in her own mind. After all, her mother had never told her anything, and she’d learnt from two older sisters about their various bodily changes. And she didn’t blame her mother because – well, she’d found out how difficult it was to talk about periods and things, it was too personal, and she’d never shared her memories of her own courtship with her daughters. After all, it was nothing to do with them.

And yet… Violet’s eyes softened as she turned back the years to that long-ago summer at Hassett Manor, where she had been an eighteen-year-old housemaid and Tom, a year younger, was starting his seven-year apprenticeship with his own father, old Fred Munday, who still did jobbing carpentry and gardening in Hassett, carrying his worn toolbag from place to place. She remembered how Tom had come into the kitchen and asked for a drink of water for his father and himself – and the cook had nodded in the direction of the new maid. Tom later told her that he never forgot his first sight of the rosy-cheeked girl with curly hair and dark eyes that had smiled shyly into his – which was why he’d gone back again and again to ask for more water; it was a very hot day, and he and his dad were thirsty, he’d told her. That had been back in 1884, and the attraction had been mutual. Seven years later, when Tom’s apprenticeship was done, he had saved enough, with his father’s help, to put down payment on a tiny cottage for himself and his new wife Violet Terry. In those days young couples had expected to wait until they could afford to set up house – although Violet did not let her memory dwell too long on certain moments in those seven long years when she had walked out with her young man in the woods around Hassett Manor, and their longing for fulfilment had sometimes been almost unbearable. She remembered how he had slipped his hand inside her blouse and felt her nipples, sending a thrill like lightning throughout her whole body, and she had become aware of the hardness through his trousers, and heard his sharp intake of breath – and their kisses! It was just as well that she’d had to be in by nine o’clock on her one free half-day each week. But it was all a long time ago, and was a secret never to be spoken of, just as her present lawful union with Tom Munday was a very private matter, and nothing to do with her daughters.

She wondered about Ernest; had Tom said anything to him about growing up? For seven months now they had worked together as master and apprentice, and she supposed that Tom must have had some sort of man-to-man talk with his son when a suitable opportunity arose.

Ernest was wondering how much longer he could go on pretending that he wanted to follow his father’s trade as a carpenter and joiner, whether self-employed like Tom or with a builder’s firm such as Harry Hutchinson’s, who employed a bricklayer, carpenter, plasterer and painter, and towed his sacks of sand and cement on a trailer attached to his Ford Model T, the wonder of North Camp. Tom Munday had advised his son to choose the latter course, because he was clearly never going to be up to his father’s standard of craftsmanship, and the boy felt this; he suspected that Dad did not even like to see his precious tools being used, or rather misused in Ernest’s uncertain hands. Tom Munday’s toolbag was his trademark, and he carried it with pride; it was cut from leather instead of the usual strong calico, and when opened it was in the form of a circle with pockets for the various kinds and sizes of tools, the hammers and chisels, bradawls and screwdrivers. It folded in half and was tied with sturdy tapes, with leather carrying handles. Larger tools like planes were kept in a separate bag, as were the saws, their teeth protected by narrow wooden shields into which the blades slotted; everything was cleaned and polished to shining perfection. The tool shed was Tom’s own creation, built from elm, its roof sealed with pitch and its window kept as sparkling as those of the house. Shelves lined the walls, holding tins of paint, creosote and varnish; brushes were graded according to size, and cleaned with white spirit. There were small wooden boxes with a variety of nails and screws, and a locked cupboard where he kept his paperwork, the invoices and receipts; here too were his carpenter’s pencils, rulers, tape measures, set squares and compasses. Nobody was allowed in the tool shed, which was kept locked; Mrs Munday called it the holy of holies, and Ernest never felt comfortable in it. He dreamt of books and of writing poetry – which he did, secretly in his room, and sometimes in his head while working, to the detriment of his concentration.

‘Ernest! What the devil are you dreaming about now?’ his father would ask with increasing exasperation as the months went by and Ernest seemed as slow to learn as when he’d begun. Worst of all, he showed no pleasure in woodwork, no keenness to improve.

Violet Munday sensed the lack of camaraderie that ought to exist between father and son, and renewed her suggestion that Ernest should be sent to the commercial college at Guildford to learn basic office skills that would stand him in good stead as a junior clerk with a legal firm or bank. At first Tom had disagreed with her, but now that Ernest was almost eighteen and was clearly never going to be a practical man, he began to wonder if she was right. What he dreaded most was to hear his son spoken of disparagingly, as not being up to his dad’s standard, not a chip off the old block; Tom thought he would feel the shame of it perhaps more than his son. But commercial college would have to be paid for, and the boy would need to get lodgings in Guildford, a good fifteen miles away, and there was as yet no regular railway service from North Camp. Ernest would have to cycle to Everham Station to board the Guildford train, and Tom pointed this out to Violet who disliked the idea of her boy living in lodgings.

She frowned. ‘He’s very young, Tom.’

‘Good heavens, there are boys of eleven or twelve working in mills up north where every penny counts for families living in poverty, they’ve got no choice. What that boy needs is to start fending for himself and learning a bit of independence.’

And to get away from your mollycoddling, he added to himself. Much as he loved his only son, he occasionally felt like giving him a boot up the backside, and it would be good for him to get out from under the too comfortable parental roof.

And so it was decided. Mrs Munday made an appointment for Ernest to attend an interview with the superintendent of the college, and she accompanied him. They learnt that Ernest would be enrolled as a student for a one-year course in business studies, commencing in September. He would become proficient at typing and Pitman’s shorthand, bookkeeping and accountancy, together with basic French and German. It was pointed out that male students were outnumbered three to one by their female counterparts, but the numbers evened out in the more advanced subjects. Mrs Munday had no criticism to make about this, and her husband thought it a definite advantage, for Ernest was not a good mixer; Tom had become aware of the opposite sex at an earlier age than Ernest, and a year later had set his eyes on pretty Violet Terry; it was high time for Ernest to wake up and start to use his eyes and ears.

The college bursar, having taken the enrolment fee, recommended a Mrs Green who took student lodgers, and on leaving the college they went to call on her.

‘She seems a clean, respectable sort of woman,’ Mrs Munday reported to Tom. ‘She only takes young gentlemen, and I made arrangements with her for Ernest to take up residence when the new term begins. I told her he’d be coming home at weekends.’

‘Mm. Do him a world o’ good to stay in Guildford, Vi.’

‘There’s something I’d like to mention, Tom,’ she went on, sitting at her dressing table, brushing her long hair. ‘Have you had a word with Ernest, I mean about…well, the things he ought to know about growing up? Isabel had rather a shock when her first, er, period came on, and I don’t want that to happen with Grace – well, she’ll find out from Isabel, of course, with them sharing the same room. But what about Ernest? Have you spoken to him at all?’

‘Mm. Boys don’t have periods, do they?’ he said with a flicker of amusement that irritated her.

‘Don’t be tiresome, Tom. You know perfectly well what I mean. Ernest is old enough to…er—’

‘To clap his eyes on a pretty girl, you mean, like I did, remember?’ He grinned as he pulled back the eiderdown for her to get in beside him.

‘No, I’m quite serious, Tom. It’s your duty to speak to your son, and warn him about the…the ways of the world, especially if he’s going into lodgings, the temptations that await him, like—’

‘Like meeting a saucy little minx with bold black eyes and a come-hither look?’

‘Oh, you’re impossible! No, take your hand away. Will you just answer my question, Tom Munday, whether you’ve had a talk with Ernest or not?’

‘Violet, my love, I did try when he was in his last year at school, but we didn’t get very far. He went as red as a beetroot, and said he’d never joined any of the other boys when they, er, played around.’ It was Tom’s turn to feel awkward.

‘Played around? What, like football or something?’

‘No, Vi, I’m sorry to say that some boys have a habit of playing with themselves – and each other – in the school lavs, you know, erecting their cocks for the…just to be rude. I’m sorry, but that’s what some o’ them get up to on the quiet, and Ernest said he’d never had anything to do with such, er, immature fellows. And that was as far as I got, I’m afraid.’

After an initial gasp of disbelief, his wife was too shocked to answer, and to Tom’s relief she plumped her two pillows, turned over and went to sleep.

But poor Mrs Munday was in for another and worse shock. The following day she took Grace aside in the front parlour, intending to have a private talk. Her youngest child was now a high-spirited eleven-year-old who loved looking in the mirror at her pretty little face.

‘Sit down, dear, and listen to me carefully. I expect you’ve noticed that Isabel has started her periods – that’s something that happens to all girls when they become women. Do you know what I mean, Grace?’

‘Oh, Mum, I knew all about those before Isabel started hers,’ answered naughty Grace in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘It shows she’s ready to have a baby.’

‘Oh, my goodness, not yet!’ exclaimed her mother, taken aback by her younger daughter’s knowledge. ‘We’ll talk about babies later, when you’re older. We’ll just talk about periods this morning, and what happens when the, er, flow of blood occurs.’

‘But Mum, we all know that it’s when the womb gets ready to catch an egg on its way down, and if it doesn’t grow into a baby, it comes out with the blood, and that’s a period,’ said Grace with deliberate casualness, knowing that her mother would be horrified. ‘And some o’ the big girls told us what makes an egg grow into a baby,’ she added slyly, with a sideways look at her mother to see how this was received.

Violet Munday’s jaw had literally dropped. ‘Who told you this? Tell me at once!’ she ordered.

‘Oh, Mum, the big girls talk about it all the time, and we all know how it’s done!’ protested Grace, rather alarmed at her mother’s reaction, for Mrs Munday had turned quite white as she continued her questioning.

‘But which of them told you, Grace, things you’re not nearly ready to know yet. Who was it told you?’

‘There was a crowd o’ them stood at the back o’ the girls’ cloakrooms, and we could hear what they were saying,’ replied Grace, beginning to wish that she had not spoken so boldly.