Chrissie's Children Page 2

  A smile twitched her lips then, remembering. Jack caught that smile as he entered. He was tall and lean in a dark blue suit and white shirt with a starched collar. There were flecks of grey now at the temples in his thick, black hair. He dropped a briefcase, bulging with work he had brought home the previous night, on a vacant chair and asked, ‘Penny for them?’ But Chrissie pressed her lips together and shook her head, eyes laughing. As he passed behind her chair he touched her shoulder and she shivered and leaned back into his hand for a moment.

  He moved over to the sideboard, greeting the boys as he went: ‘Morning, Tom, Matt. Where’s Sophie?’ though he guessed the answer to that.

  Tom, a sixteen-year-old copy of his father with the same black hair and neat in a dark blue suit, but dark eyed, answered, ‘Morning, Dad. I think I heard her. I expect she’s busy with something in her room, be down shortly,’ making an excuse for his sister, as usual.

  Jack did not believe him and cocked a cynical eye at Chrissie, but accepted the explanation. ‘Hum.’ He picked up a hot plate from the sideboard and helped himself to eggs, bacon and sausages from the dishes there. He said again, louder, ‘Good morning, Matt!’

  His younger son was not quite sixteen, lanky in baggy grey flannel trousers and a white cricket shirt open at the neck. His sandy hair was unruly and growing down to his collar. He turned from staring vacantly out of the window and blinked vague light blue eyes at his father. ‘Sorry. Good morning.’

  ‘Dreaming again,’ Jack said half affectionately, half irritated, then shook his head and sat down opposite his wife.

  Betty Price, the maid, a rosy-cheeked country girl smart in black dress, white apron and cap, bustled in with fresh coffee and toast. She set them on the table then whisked up Chrissie’s and the boys’ emptied plates and carried them out. Chrissie automatically watched to see it was done properly, as she supervised all the work of the house. She had done it all herself in her time.

  Now she handed the letter to Tom, asking him, ‘Pass that to your father, please.’

  Tom obeyed and Jack took it, brows raised, then read as he ate. Chrissie followed the example of the boys and buttered toast, going over the contents of the letter in her mind. Elsie Massingham had written from California that her husband Phillip had lost every penny he had in the Wall Street crash of 1929 and two years later was sacked from his job as a film director. Since then he had failed to find work. Elsie wrote: ‘It seems he antagonised the studio bosses, refusing to abandon his principles and do as he was told.’ Now he had suffered a nervous breakdown and run off. He had left a note saying that he would not be a burden and would rather live the life of a tramp.

  Chrissie had invested her money in Phillip’s company, Massingham Films, when he was a near-penniless, crippled ex-officer. She was desperately sorry for him and his family now. ‘I wish we could do something for him, Jack.’

  He shook his head and sighed, ‘That isn’t possible because we don’t know where he is. Hollywood has closed its doors to him so he won’t be able to work in films. It will be impossible for an Englishman to get any other kind of job. He’s one of eleven million unemployed in the States right now. Five thousand banks collapsed and nine million savings accounts went down the drain. There are all kinds of men, lots of them professionals, tramping the streets or riding boxcars on the railways, all looking for work. Hoboes they call them. But –’ and he tapped the letter, ‘– we can send a cheque to his wife.’

  Chrissie nodded, ‘We’ll do that.’ It was something, but she left the toast, not wanting it now.

  Matt had eaten two slices with marmalade after a plateful of eggs and bacon. He now said, ‘You look like a bookie’s clerk in that suit, Tom.’

  His brother only grinned at the intended insult. He wore the suit because this was the day he was starting work. He had wanted to work in the shipyards almost from the time he could walk. Chrissie wondered, not for the first time, at the coincidence that Tom was the spitting image of Jack. Matt on the other hand had Jack’s pale blue eyes – or had they come from his grandmother, Hilary? Matt would have Jack’s height when grown, and was tall as Tom now, but skinny as a beanpole.

  Now Jack spread marmalade on toast and said, ‘Car, Matt.’

  ‘Right!’ For once Matt moved quickly, and was out of his chair and the room in a few long strides.

  Minutes later Jack drained his coffee cup and stood up. Chrissie and Tom followed him out into the hall. Pearson, the young footman, waited there with Tom’s suitcase. All the other servants, the two maids and the cook, were there to see off Tom. Only the part-time gardener was missing. There were no longer a butler and the dozen or so servants that had been in the house ten years ago. The vacuum cleaner, electric cooker and central heating – its boiler stoked by Pearson – had replaced them.

  ‘’Bye, Tom!’ Sophie leaned over the banister at the head of the stairs, making nonsense of Tom’s excuse for her absence. She was still in pyjamas, blonde hair tousled. She was just short of fifteen years old now and still a schoolgirl, but the body inside the pyjamas was that of a young woman.

  Young Pearson stared woodenly to his front, embarrassed, and Chrissie snapped, scandalised, ‘Get dressed!’

  Tom added, teasing, ‘Really, Sophie!’

  She grinned at him, ‘Don’t you start!’ Normally she and her brothers gambolled and scrambled like three puppies. Now she called, ‘Good luck!’ and meant it, and blew him a kiss. Then she slid a sideways glance at Pearson and Chrissie’s lips tightened. Sophie saw that and scurried away.

  Outside on the drive sat the car, a black Ford V8 saloon – the Rolls was only used now for special occasions, just for show. Matt had driven the Ford round from the garage, the former stables at the back of the house. Now he got down and Chrissie took his place, Jack at her side and Tom in the rear. Benson, the chauffeur, had retired years ago and had not been replaced, just one of many economies. As Chrissie steered the car down the gravelled drive the house spread wide in the rear-view mirror, the tower lifting high at its centre.

  She drove down into the town, stopped at the station and got down with Tom. Jack slid over behind the wheel as Tom hauled his suitcase from the car.

  Jack held out a hand. ‘Be careful. And good luck.’

  Tom shook it, smiling, excited. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Then he looked down at the folded pound note in his palm, laughed and said again, ‘Thanks!’

  Jack drove away, smiling, but still felt a twinge of worry. Tom was a young man now, serious and responsible, but he was going out into the world and a shipyard could be a dangerous place, hence the warning to him to be careful. Jack had drummed that into him over the years, but a reminder did no harm. And Tom would not be kept out of the yard, that had always been clear. The same could not be said of Matt, unfortunately . . .

  A frown creased Jack’s brow for an instant, but then he was turning the Ford in at the big, open gates of the Ballantyne yard and the frown faded as he felt the surge of pride that always came over him as he entered. His great-grandfather had started the yard back in the 1850s. Jack was the fourth generation to build ships here. The frown returned as he wondered bleakly if he would be the last.

  ‘You will be careful?’ Chrissie repeated the warning. She had been brought up alongside the yards and heard all the stories of men falling from staging, being crushed, drowned or their skulls cracked by dropped tools.

  Tom promised patiently, ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘And send me a postcard tonight to let me know you’ve settled into your lodgings all right.’

  Tom would not yet be working at Ballantyne’s. He had said, ‘I don’t want to start as the boss’s son,’ so Jack had found him an apprenticeship in a yard on the Tyne and Tom would be living in lodgings close by. That, too, had been Tom’s idea, and he had said it was to be near his work, though he could have travelled there daily by train in little more than a half-hour. But it was also to prove to himself that he could manage on his own. Chrissie had guessed that last
and accepted it.

  Now she was not finding it easy.

  On the opposite platform stood a little group of men in their suits and carrying cases, their wives holding on to their arms. They were waiting for the southbound train to go looking for work because their yards had shut down. Chrissie’s fears for Ballantyne’s returned, a spectre that had haunted her for twelve years.

  She watched and waved as Tom’s train took him from her, he leaning out of the window and flapping a hand. Then she walked out of the station and across the road to the Railway Hotel.

  She pushed through the swinging doors into the foyer and started across the deep-pile carpet with its scattering of leather armchairs and small, light oak tables. She caught the scent of the flowers in the vases on the tables and glimpsed her reflection in the huge mirrors set in the panelled walls, a slender, long-legged woman in her early forties. Her dress was rayon and expensive and her hair with a tinge of copper had been washed and waved by a hairdresser.

  She checked in her stride as Susan Dobson, the receptionist, smiled and said, ‘Good morning, Mrs Ballantyne. There’s a young lady who would like to see you.’

  The girl had been sitting by the desk, stiff and straight, her hands in her lap, feet tucked under the chair. Now she stood up quickly. The print of her cotton dress was faded and Chrissie guessed it had been made from another; she had experience of that. She thought this slight girl was younger than her own daughter, and seemed frightened. Chrissie smiled and asked, ‘You are . . .?’

  ‘Sarah Tennant, miss – Mrs Ballantyne.’ Spoken in little more than a whisper – and still remembering her school manners.

  Chrissie thought she knew why the girl was there and sighed to herself, but she said, ‘Come along, then,’ and led the way into her office.

  3

  Chrissie’s office was comfortable with thick carpeting and a rug before the fireplace, which was covered by an attractive floral screen in this summer weather. A big window let in sunlight which reflected from the polished desk. Behind the desk was a swivel chair and before it two armchairs. Two more stood on either side of the fireplace.

  Chrissie sat behind her desk and gestured to Sarah to take a chair before it. Sarah complied but only perched on the edge of it. Chrissie asked, ‘So what did you want to see me about?’

  ‘My mother thought you might give me a job. She worked for you years ago: Isabel Tennant?’ That ended as a question. Did Mrs Ballantyne remember?

  Chrissie did. Isabel Tennant had been a good worker, and she had been a grown woman and familiar with the workings of a hotel. But Chrissie had no vacancy for her now, while this girl . . . She asked, ‘What can you do?’

  Sarah answered quickly, ‘Anything.’

  Chrissie suppressed a sigh again and changed the question. ‘Have you worked in a place like this before?’ When Sarah shook her head she went on, ‘Have you worked anywhere before?’

  ‘No, Mrs Ballantyne.’

  Chrissie looked down at the desk, not wanting to meet that pleading gaze. She could have taken on a dozen girls like this every week if she had the work for them. But she ran a business that employed over thirty people – so long as it was profitable. It had to stay in profit or none of them would work, and that meant she could not pay passengers.

  Chrissie asked absently, remembering the Isabel Tennant of all those years ago, ‘What is your mother doing now?’

  ‘She’s poorly.’ When Chrissie looked up Sarah went on, ‘The doctor says it’s consumption. She can’t get out now.’

  Chrissie knew about tuberculosis, the disease that carried off so many. She was silent a moment then asked, ‘Who looks after her?’

  Sarah said simply, ‘Me.’

  ‘I mean when your father is at work.’

  ‘Dad died when I was two years old.’

  Chrissie probed, ‘How long has your mother been ill?’

  ‘Over a year now.’

  ‘And you’ve kept up with school.’

  ‘I’ve never been absent.’

  ‘And the housework?’

  ‘I do it all. Mam used to try to dust round a bit but it just made her cough so she had to stop. I do all that, and the cooking and the washing.’

  Chrissie thought, So she’s not without experience of a sort. But there still isn’t a vacancy . . . She recalled the girl saying gamely that she could do anything. She was just a little slip of a thing. Chrissie had been about her age and size when she boldly asked for a housekeeper’s job with Lance Morgan who kept the Frigate public house. Her lips twitched, picturing that girl of nearly thirty years ago, her impudence. But she had needed that job desperately at the time, to get away from a man who was a threat to her. And she had got it.

  Chrissie came back to the present, realised the long silence that had drawn out as she thought back. She looked across at Sarah, saw her wide eyes and drooping mouth. She smiled at the girl and said, ‘I can use you in the kitchen, helping Cook. Do you think you could do that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, miss – Mrs Ballantyne.’ Sarah’s face lit up in a smile and she shifted in the chair as if eager to go.

  Chrissie asked, ‘When can you start?’

  Sarah offered, ‘Now?’ afraid that if she hesitated she might lose this chance.

  ‘Have you brought an overall or apron with you?’

  The girl’s smile slipped away. ‘No, Mrs Ballantyne.’

  Chrissie thought, And you’re wearing your best dress. She said, ‘Never mind. I expect we can find something. Come on.’

  Outside they met Dinsdale Arkley, her manager, limping across the foyer; he had lost a leg in Flanders in the Great War. Chrissie greeted him: ‘Good morning, Arkley.’ Years ago when they had both worked for Lance Morgan in the Frigate he had told her, ‘Nobody calls me Dinsdale except me mother.’ She introduced him to Sarah and he took a note of her address; Chrissie knew the neighbourhood. Later Arkley would enter Sarah in the wages book – she would be paid seven shillings and sixpence a week – and see to her insurance.

  Chrissie led Sarah on but paused before entering the kitchen to warn her, ‘Don’t be frightened by the chef. He’s really very kind and you’ll find him fair.’

  Sarah blinked apprehensively but nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Ballantyne.’

  In the kitchen Chrissie said, ‘Mr Kincaid, this is Sarah Tennant, starting as an assistant for you.’

  Jock Kincaid, ramrod straight, glowered down from his height of six foot four, extended another eight inches by his chef’s white hat. His mouth was set like a trap in a bony face. He had gone to sea as a boy and went on to cook on merchantmen and then liners. Ten years ago he had ‘swallowed the anchor’ and come ashore to work in the Railway Hotel. He said Chrissie Ballantyne was the best skipper he’d ever had. His voice was a bass rumble that growled over his kitchen like the contented humming of bees or the menace of thunder. But now he only said neutrally, ‘Oh, aye?’

  Chrissie asked, ‘Can you find an apron for her?’

  Again the rumble: ‘Oh, aye.’

  Sarah blinked up at him, awed, but she could see beyond him the assistant cook, the two kitchen maids and the kitchen porter, all of them seeming cheerful. So she concluded this must be a kindly giant and smiled up at him.

  Chrissie left Sarah then, returned to her office and plunged into her work.

  Chrissie told Jack after dinner that evening as they walked in the garden at the rear of the house, ‘I took on another girl today.’

  ‘Yes?’ he answered absently, head turned to watch Matt who was stooped over the open bonnet of the Ford, tinkering with its engine.

  ‘She comes from the street next to where I was born.’

  He grinned at her. ‘She’ll know about you, then, “Chrissie Carter that was”.’

  She returned the smile, accepting the truth: people talked. There would obviously be gossip, some of it malicious, about a girl from that neighbourhood who married a Ballantyne. She said primly, ‘She won’t know all about me.’

  �
�I would hope not.’ And they laughed together.

  Then Jack said, ‘I’ve got to have another word with Matt. It really is time he made up his mind about a career, had an objective in life. He’s just drifting.’

  Chrissie defended her son: ‘His last school report wasn’t bad.’

  ‘It wasn’t good, either. The only good marks he got were for art. On the last report he did well at literature, but not this time. He told me that was because he wasn’t too keen on the books they studied this term. And that’s it: he won’t apply his mind, just flits from one subject to another as the fancy takes him. And that applies outside of school as well. He likes to fiddle with the car but he doesn’t want to be any sort of engineer. He takes no interest in the yard. When I was his age—’

  ‘Jack!’ Chrissie laid a hand on his sleeve and stopped him. ‘He doesn’t take after you. Tom does and he will be going into the yard, no doubt of that. Just be grateful for him.’

  ‘That’s true. Strange, though,’ Jack mused, ‘him being just like a real Ballantyne.’ He went on, ‘That still doesn’t excuse Matt. He will have to earn his living one day.’ He halted in his strolling. ‘I’ll tell you who he’s like: my mother. You’ve seen her picture.’

  ‘There’s a resemblance,’ Chrissie had to admit it. Hilary Ballantyne was a tall, slender woman, blonde where Matt was sandy haired, but there was no denying the likeness.

  ‘And not just physically,’ Jack said grimly. ‘She was a dreamer, never did a hand’s turn and walked out on my father and me when I was five years old.’ Hilary Ballantyne had run off to the South of France with another man. ‘I never missed her. Old Amy Jenkinson, my nurse, was a mother to me, both before and after my real mother left. I don’t want Matt turning out like her.’