Mary's Child Page 3

  She was oblivious to them, living in her own world, a solemn little girl with a thin face and wide mouth, big, soft brown eyes and brown hair with a hint of copper in it. Like all the other little girls playing in the long street with the sea at the end of it, she wore a white pinny over her dress. And like all the other little pinnies, hers was grubby after an hour or so in the street. The smoke and grime from the chimneys overhead saw to that. The air smelt of coal fires. The boys were dressed in ragged shirts and shorts. Chrissie was shod in boots that laced up above her ankle but most of the others were barefoot, because it was summer and the sun shone. There was still a haze of smoke over the river where the yards were ranked but the men weren’t working today and the hammers were silent.

  Harry Carter sat in an armchair and read the Daily Echo in the kitchen in front of the small fire which was kept going in the heat of this blazing June just to boil a kettle.

  In the front room Mary, peeping through the window to watch Chrissie, called out to him, ‘She’s quiet, but quick at picking things up! You should see her now!’

  Harry answered, ‘Oh, aye.’ But he was not really listening, intent on the paper. He read, ‘It says here that Victoria rules a British Empire that covers three quarters of the world.’

  It was Mary’s turn to reply, ‘Oh, aye.’ But she had heard and went on, ‘I’ll fetch her in now and get her ready. It’s time we went ower the watter to see the decorations.’

  Harry folded the paper carefully because it would be put away in the drawer and saved. This was the special edition marking Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee; the Widow of Windsor had reigned for sixty years.

  When the three of them set out some minutes later they walked slowly, taking their time from Chrissie’s toddling pace. They were restricted anyway by the people because this Jubilee day was a general holiday and the streets were crowded. Mary wore her best outfit – she only had two – of a white blouse fastened at the neck with a pin bearing a miniature portrait of the Queen. Her dark skirt covered her ankles and a big picture hat gave her some shelter from the sun.

  Harry sweltered in his dark blue serge suit, but that was all he had apart from the rough clothes he wore to work in the shipyard. He sported a badge in the lapel of his jacket, again with a picture of Victoria.

  Little Chrissie was also overheated in her best – and only – outfit of a jacket and a skirt that came down below her knees, stockings and button boots. A hat like Mary’s, wide brimmed and beflowered, perched precariously on her dark head. None of them was used to this weather and it found them unprepared.

  ‘By, it’s hot!’ Mary took Chrissie’s hand. They had crossed the bridge from Monkwearmouth on the north shore over the river into the town and the crowds had thickened. Flags hung from poles above every shop and building while strings of gaily coloured bunting crisscrossed the streets. Everyone they saw wore a badge or buttonhole, necktie or favour of patriotic design, red, white and blue and usually featuring a picture of the Queen.

  Chrissie demanded, ‘I want to go into Mowbray Park, Mam!’ She braced her feet on the pavement and hauled on Mary’s hand.

  Harry grinned and mopped at the sweat on his face with a red and white spotted bandanna. ‘She knows what she wants.’

  ‘Aye, she does.’ Mary agreed and then threatened, though joking, ‘And I know what she’ll get!’ But then she added with feeling, ‘Still, we’ll be able to breathe in there.’

  Jack Ballantyne dressed himself now that he was five, struggling into the white sailor suit that Jenkinson, his nurse, had put out for him. He was not long out of skirts, as was the custom of the day, and still getting used to the new arrangement of buttons. Amy Jenkinson came into the nursery in time to tie his shoelaces, her old knees cracking as she knelt in front of him. He grinned at her.

  ‘Thank you. My fingers get mixed up.’ He was a big boy, tall for his age, with the clear, pale blue eyes of his grandfather and unruly black hair that Amy dampened with water and brushed into order.

  She answered patiently, ‘You’ll get the hang of it, Master Jack. Just give yourself time.’ She had learnt patience looking after her own brothers and sisters, then put it to use caring for other infants. Amy Jenkinson had never married. There was a surplus of women and elderly spinsters were not uncommon. Over the years she had been nurse to a succession of children, some ‘right little terrors’. She had been sworn at, kicked, scratched and falsely accused of assault. She had survived it all, for twenty pounds a year and her keep. But Master Jack would be her last.

  ‘He’s a canny little bairn. Quick-tempered little divil sometimes but no viciousness in him.’ She had cared for his father, Mr Richard, and his uncle, Mr Christopher, that was killed in the yard. And their father, the old man himself, George Ballantyne, had promised her a pension that would be enough for her to live on. When Master Jack went to boarding school in a year or two she would go to live with her widowed sister.

  She did not complain. ‘If I’d got wed I’d have had bairns o’ my own, mebbe, and mebbe a man that punched me round the house every Saturday night when he came home drunk.’ She had the example of another sister there.

  Now she took young Jack for his walk. He trotted ahead of her or dallied behind as she left Richard Ballantyne’s house and strolled along the tree-lined streets to Mowbray Park. On the way they passed George Ballantyne’s house and Jack ran into the drive, staring up at the tower pointing at the sky like a finger. Amy called him, ‘Where do you think you’re going, Master Jack?’

  He squinted into the sunlight, peering up at the tower room. ‘I’m looking for Grandad!’

  ‘You might see him tonight. Mr George is coming to your house for dinner. Now you come out o’ there and behave yourself or you go home.’

  Jack obeyed in the face of this warning and they walked on. There were several strollers, although most people who passed rode in open carriages driven by coachmen. The gentlemen wore top hats and the ladies held parasols to protect them from the sun. Amy and Jack caught glimpses of the beflagged buildings of the town but did not go down into its crowds and turned instead into the park.

  Jack ran along the paths in the cool shade cast by the trees and clambered over the old cannon captured in the Crimea. Amy grabbed him when he slithered off the barrel that had been polished by the trousered behinds of thousands of boys. Then they walked around the pond with its ducks. A low, colonnaded wall ran along the side of the pond, with stone lions mounted on it at intervals. Jack scrambled up and sat on the back of one of these while Amy rested on a bench a few yards away.

  After a minute or two he looked down and saw a small girl in a big hat and button boots staring up at him out of dark eyes. They looked at each other for a moment then Jack asked, ‘Do you want a ride?’

  Chrissie nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  Jack swung one leg over to join the other and slid down the smooth stone side of the lion to land beside her. Chrissie put up her arms but was too short and Jack said, ‘I’ll push you up.’ So between them, Chrissie grabbing at handholds and Jack shoving with his two hands on her bottom, she wriggled on to the back of the lion then sat up astride it.

  She sat there catching her breath, but only for a moment. Mary Carter came hurrying and demanded, ‘What are you doing, climbing about the place in your good clothes?’ And as she saw the water of the pond, an inch or two deep on the other side of the lion: ‘Suppose you fell in?’ She thrust past Jack and whisked Chrissie off the lion, set her on her feet and shook down her skirt.

  Harry Carter soothed, ‘She was only having a ride and not doing any harm.’

  But Mary was adamant. ‘She shouldn’t be climbing about when she’s out dressed. Now come on.’ She took Chrissie’s hand and led her away.

  Jack watched her go, saw her turn once to look back at him, then she was gone. He scrambled back on to the lion and forgot about her.

  Later that afternoon, Mary Carter sidled past Reuben Ward, her upstairs neighbour, who sat unshaven and unwashe
d on the front doorstep, sunning himself and grinning drunkenly. His wife was not to be seen, hiding inside the house and not showing her face. Mary had glimpsed her earlier and seen one slitted eye peering out from a black-bruised cheek.

  Mary held Chrissie by the hand and saw the Ward children, Ted, Frank and their sister Ida, running ahead. Chrissie wore her best again but the Wards, like most of the other children they found waiting in a crowd outside the National School, wore patched dresses and pinnies, ragged shirts and shorts. Nearly all were barefoot in the heat.

  The party had been organised for children of the neighbourhood by local businessmen and their ladies, to celebrate Victoria’s Jubilee. When the doors of the school were opened at last the children elbowed their way in to see tables piled with plates of thickly sliced bread and butter, slabs of cake. They were marshalled into place and held their hands together as the grace was spoken. Then they gorged themselves, sat solemnly still as the businessmen delivered patriotic speeches, then cheered ‘Her Majesty’. Every child was given a Jubilee mug bearing a picture of Victoria and all those of school age were presented with a Jubilee medal as well.

  Afterwards there were games like Oranges and Lemons, and dancing to a piano and a fiddle. Chrissie stayed by Mary, watching the games solemnly, until Frank Ward ran out of the crowd, grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

  He called to Mary, ‘I’ll look after her, Mrs Carter!’

  Mary hesitated but let him take Chrissie into the crowd. She watched and saw Chrissie skipping, still solemn, between Frank and Ted Ward, then suddenly laughing, her face alive. Mary smiled just to see her.

  And when Mary put her to bed that night Chrissie murmured sleepily, happily, ‘It was a lovely party, Mam.’

  Little Jack Ballantyne did not have a party. His grandfather came to visit him in the nursery with the brightly daubed, long-tailed rocking-horse and the coal fire crackling brightly inside its guard of iron and polished brass. George Ballantyne stayed for a few minutes, after Jack had eaten his supper with Amy Jenkinson and before he went to bed. She had told him, ‘You can stay up a little bit tonight because your grandad is coming to fetch your mammy to his party.’ That was good enough for Jack. He had grown up not expecting to see much of his father. Richard Ballantyne spent most of his time travelling the world hunting for orders for the yard. When he was home he saw his little son for only a few minutes each day. Jack was much more familiar with the older, stern-faced George.

  Richard was away now and George had come this evening to take his daughter-in-law to the Jubilee party he was giving at his own house. There would be some sixty guests for dinner followed by dancing to an orchestra. Most of the guests were local dignitaries and their wives, with a sprinkling of officers from the local garrison.

  As usual, George brought a present for Jack. This time it was a box of lead soldiers. The old man sat on a straight-backed chair by the nursery fire and Amy stood by the door, both of them watching as Jack played, fighting imaginary battles, until Hilary Ballantyne, tall, slender and full-breasted, entered and said, ‘I’m ready.’

  She was a beauty, dressed in a silken gown that showed off her bosom and the long line of her legs. She carried a cashmere shawl in case the evening became chill and pulled on long silken gloves as she stood in the doorway. ‘Give me a kiss, Jack.’

  He went to her obediently and smelt the heady fragrance of her as she stooped, pecked quickly at his cheek and said, ‘There, off you go.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mama.’

  But she had already gone, leaving him standing by the open door. Amy pulled him aside so George Ballantyne could pass. He ruffled the boy’s hair as he did so. ‘Goodnight, Jack.’

  ‘Goodnight, Grandad.’ He moved forward to watch them go down the stairs but Amy Jenkinson took over then and shut the door, cutting them off from his sight.

  ‘Time for bed now, Master Jack.’

  As George paced along the hall at Hilary Ballantyne’s side he asked, ‘Have you heard from Richard?’

  She answered vaguely, ‘I had a letter some time this last week. He’s in Rio de Janeiro or some such place.’

  George supplied gently, ‘Buenos Aires.’ Richard wrote a business report to him at the end of each week.

  ‘As you say.’ Hilary closed the subject carelessly and said, ‘Thank you, Simpson,’ as the maid bobbed in a curtsy and opened the front door. As Hilary walked down the steps to George Ballantyne’s waiting carriage she flipped her shawl around her shoulders, but not because she was cold: she was shivering with excitement.

  The nursery was on the top floor of three and at the front of the house. Jack woke some time after midnight when the carriage returned. As the rattle, squeak and jingle of it ceased he could hear the soft snoring of Amy Jenkinson. The old nurse slept in the next room with her door open an inch or two. Jack got out of bed in his nightshirt and crept out to the head of the stairs. From there he saw the front door opened by Betty Simpson, the only servant left awake, and that for the purpose of attending the mistress of the house on her return.

  Hilary Ballantyne appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps and turned then to say, ‘Thank you,’ to her father-in-law. ‘I’ve spent a most pleasurable evening.’

  George Ballantyne answered, ‘I hope that chap Davenham didn’t make a nuisance of himself. The Careys asked if he could come with them. He’s some distant relative of theirs. I don’t know much about him except that he has pots of money. But I gather you’ve met before?’

  Slim shoulders moved under the cashmere shawl as Hilary replied casually, ‘At the Careys’. I had tea with them one day and he was there.’ She laughed. ‘He was becoming tiresome this evening but I was civil because I thought he might be a business acquaintance you were fostering.’

  George Ballantyne shook his head. ‘Not likely. That young man’s only business is pursuing a life of pleasure.’ Then as his daughter-in-law shivered, ‘But you’re feeling a chill now. Better get inside. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, and thank you again.’ Hilary stepped back with a wave of the hand. Betty Simpson closed the front door and Jack heard the crunch of hooves and wheels on the gravel as his grandfather’s carriage rolled away, puzzled by what he had heard.

  Hilary Ballantyne let the shawl slip down to hang over one arm and smiled at the maid. ‘That will be all, Simpson. I have one or two things to do, but you can go to bed.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. Goodnight.’ Betty Simpson ducked in another curtsy and then walked off with a rustle of skirts to the rear of the house and the back stairs leading up to the servants’ rooms under the roof. Hilary Ballantyne watched her go but stayed in the middle of the hall directly under the light.

  Jack wondered vaguely if there was going to be another party, but this time in the house below? He yawned, shuddered as he felt the night’s coolness on his bare legs. And his knees were beginning to ache with his weight resting on them so he stood up, about to go back to bed. It never occurred to him to go down to his mother. If he needed comfort he would call for Amy Jenkinson.

  But something held him then as he stood peering through the banister rails. Was it the silence of the house so he could hear clearly the slow ticking of the clock down there in the hall? Or Hilary Ballantyne’s stillness as she stood facing the door now, with head lifted and slightly turned as if listening – or waiting?

  Jack heard no sound outside but then there came the softest tapping at the front door, that only came up to him because of that silence, that stillness. And now Hilary Ballantyne moved, quickly, her hand reaching up to the thin chain dangling from the gaslight. She tweaked it and the light faded and died. Jack blinked, then saw a strip of grey light from outside as the door was opened by his mother. That light was almost blotted out at once as someone came in and the door closed again, softly.

  He could see nothing now in the sudden darkness, nor could those in the hall below. He heard the rap as a shoe kicked against a chair, then whispers soft as a breath and the slightest
creaking of the carpeted stairs. As they came closer, up to the floor below his, he could hear the silken sliding of the dress, see the gleam of a white shirt-front hovering like a ghost in the gloom. The door of his mother’s room opened. Simpson had lit the light in there when she heard the carriage turn into the drive, and Jack saw the figures of his mother and the tall man with her outlined against that rectangle of light. Then the door closed behind them and he was left in darkness again.

  Jack decided there was to be no party. He turned and padded quickly back to his bed, huddling down into the warm nest he had made for himself. He had not seen the man’s face but it had not been his grandfather. He could see the box of soldiers Grandad had given him; Amy Jenkinson had let him bring them in to lie by his bed through the night. He would be able to play with them in the morning.

  He drifted off to sleep. Neither he nor anyone else heard Guy Davenham leave before the dawn, creeping down the stairs and letting himself out of the front door. He left Hilary Ballantyne sleeping and sated. Across the river Chrissie slept in the cot in the corner of the front room while her parents were in the bed.

  Next day Chrissie did not remember the boy she had met in the park. Jack Ballantyne remembered her and reminded Amy Jenkinson, ‘I helped that little girl up on to the lion.’

  ‘Did you, Master Jack? You were a good boy. Now eat your porridge.’

  He remembered his mother’s homecoming, too, but for some reason did not ask about that, and forgot it in a day or two. He was simply bewildered when she disappeared from his life a month later.