Читать книгу The Little Runaways - Cathy Sharp, Cathy Sharp - Страница 6

Angela yawned, coming slowly awake to a feeling of luxury and excitement. She stretched in the comfort of the soft bed and then realised that she was home in her own room. It was Christmas and Mark Adderbury was coming to spend the day with them. A smile touched her lips, because she was aware of a sense of peace. Christmas Eve at St Saviour’s had been so lovely, with the staff and children singing carols and Mark playing Father Christmas to the excited orphans of Halfpenny Street. It had been a very special time at the children’s home in London’s East End and Angela felt warmed because she knew that much of that happiness had been brought about by her efforts as the Administrator – and Mark’s too, of course. In fact all the staff had played their parts in giving the children something they would always remember with pleasure, but for Angela it had been uplifting. She really believed that she had begun to come out of that dark place to which she’d been driven by the death of her beloved husband, John Morton.

John’s death in the terrible war that was still fresh in everyone’s minds had sent Angela into a spiral of despair. Outwardly, she’d carried on at her job in the military hospital, but inwardly she’d felt the bleakness of an emotional desert. When she’d given up the job and returned home some months after the end of the war because her mother had been unwell and asking for her, Angela had felt as if she had little left to live for. Mrs Hendry had soon recovered from her chill and become her usual self and Angela felt trapped in the senseless round of entertaining and mindless chatter from her mother’s social acquaintances. She’d wanted something to do, something worthwhile that would make her feel it was worth living again – and she’d asked Mark for help. He’d suggested the post at St Saviour’s and she’d taken it instantly, and it had turned out so much better than she would have believed.

The children had touched her heart, especially one little girl called Mary Ellen and her friend, the rebellious Billy Baggins, but they all needed love and care, and Angela had discovered that she had a great deal within her still to give. Her heart might grieve for John but it was not dead. She could love the children, therefore perhaps she could find love for a man once more – know the happiness that had been hers so briefly before the cruel war had taken John from her.

For a long time she’d thought it would never happen, but recently she’d become more aware of Mark, of his strength and his generosity of spirit. In his work as a psychiatrist Mark helped his patients to recover and although Angela had never been his patient, she had learned to trust him and respect his judgement. She’d turned to him for help after John died and he’d always been there for her, as a friend; it was only recently, since she’d started work at St Saviour’s, that she’d begun to feel there might be something more than friendship between them. A certain look in the eyes, a smile or the touch of his hand – but Angela had not been certain, either of Mark’s feelings or her own. Perhaps it was still too soon – but she was happy to know that he was coming to lunch and would be with them until late afternoon, when he had to leave to visit some cousins.

She still didn’t quite hit it off with Sister Beatrice, the nun who was Warden of St Saviour’s, though they had somehow weathered the storm and were beginning to know each other a little better. Sister Beatrice acknowledged that Angela had her uses, particularly in the matter of overseeing the new wing, which would provide much needed extra space. Perhaps one day she would realise that what Angela really wanted was to help her and the children.

Hearing a crash from downstairs in the kitchen, Angela glanced at her watch and realised it was just after seven. Surely it was too early to start cooking the turkey for dinner? They would not eat their special lunch before two and it was the custom for them to get up at about eight, have a leisurely breakfast of warm muffins and jam or poached eggs on toasted muffins, when fresh eggs were freely available, and then start to prepare the turkey. So why was her mother up so early?

Dressing quickly in trousers and an old jumper, Angela went down to investigate. Slim and lithe, she had dark ash-blonde hair and eyes that someone had once said were azure. Perhaps not the perfect beauty she’d been in her twenties, at thirty-four she was still attractive enough to turn heads when she walked into a room. She discovered her mother in a kitchen that looked oddly disorganised. As a rule everything was set out neatly, but pans were everywhere, including the one on the floor that had recently been dropped.

‘You’re up early,’ Angela said brightly. Her mother had her back turned to her and seemed to be intent on whatever she was doing. ‘I’m going to help with the cooking, Mum. You don’t need to start on the dinner yet.’

‘What do you know of cooking?’ Her mother turned round, staring at her in what Angela thought a strange, almost truculent, manner. ‘I cook dinner almost every day of the year. Why should I need your help today?’

‘Because Christmas is special. We always do it together – and you used to have help in the kitchen and with the cooking sometimes.’

‘Mrs Downs decided not to come in any more,’ Mrs Hendry said. ‘If she hadn’t I would have sacked her. She was rude and lazy – and I don’t need her help. I don’t need anyone’s help.’

Angela was puzzled. Her mother seemed angry, resentful, and she couldn’t think why. ‘Are you upset about something? Have I made you cross?’

‘Have I made you cross, she says …’ Her mother’s eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, then she blinked and said, ‘You know very well what you did, Angela. I begged you not to go away, but you had no consideration for me. Oh no, my wishes did not even enter into the equation. I am not cross but your obvious lack of interest in my opinion hurt me.’

‘If I hurt you I am very sorry,’ Angela said. ‘It was simply that I couldn’t bear the emptiness of my life. You have such a good life, Mum, with your friends, your entertaining and your committees for the Church. You couldn’t know how bored and empty I felt with nothing worthwhile to do.’ She moved towards her mother and kissed her cheek. She seemed to smell very heavily of some expensive scent, and since she was wearing a very old dress covered by a pink and white spotted apron it seemed a little odd that she’d splashed herself so liberally with French perfume. ‘Sit down and let me make you a lovely cup of coffee. I’ll toast the muffins and then we can have some of that lovely jam we made in the summer.’

‘If you insist. I’ll have the Victoria plum jam – and a drop of cream and brandy in my coffee.’

‘Do we have cream?’ Angela investigated the contents of the large pantry. It made her shiver, because it was as cold as any refrigerator and kept even cream and butter really well. She found two glass jars of thick cream, which came from a local dairy farm and would be delicious with puddings and mince pies, also a jug of thinner cream, which she brought to table. ‘Are you sure you want brandy this early?’ she joked. ‘We don’t want to end up stuffing the turkey with the pudding instead of—’

‘Please credit me with some sense,’ her mother said sharply. She got up and fetched a brandy bottle from the dresser, and when Angela placed the beautiful French earthenware coffee bowl in front of her, she poured a liberal measure into hers and offered the bottle to Angela.

‘No, thank you,’ Angela said, smiling as she shook her head. ‘Not this early. I want to enjoy my dinner. I’ve been looking forward to this – I can hardly believe we’ve actually got a turkey this year. It seems ages since we could find one.’

‘Suit yourself,’ her mother said, and left the bottle on the table in front of her. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘Just until tomorrow after lunch.’

‘Hardly worth the bother coming down,’ her mother muttered. She tasted her coffee and then drank it all, but she didn’t touch the lovely golden muffin that Angela placed in front of her, even though it sizzled with fresh farm butter and there was a dish of plum jam set before her. ‘You eat it. I’m not hungry.’

‘Why don’t you sit and relax in the other room for a while?’ Angela looked at her mother, noticing that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes a little red. ‘Are you feeling a bit feverish, Mum?’

‘I’m perfectly all right, but I’ll go upstairs and get changed – if you insist on taking over.’

‘I’ll do the vegetables and various bits,’ Angela offered, but her mother wasn’t listening.

She frowned as she put an apron over her clothes. Going back into the pantry she saw that everything had been bought in preparation for this day, but although she noticed some sausages and jars of mincemeat, none of the usual Christmas fare had been prepared. It looked as if she was going to have to make a few things for after lunch herself. First she would get the vegetables done and make the stuffing for the turkey, which they had received as a gift from a grateful farmer her father had helped with a legal problem. At least there were plenty of ingredients and the turkey looked lovely.

She set to with a will and peeled, chopped and sorted the vegetables; then she made the stuffing and prepared the turkey for cooking. She had everything well underway when her father entered the kitchen. He looked apprehensive but his frown cleared as he saw that Angela was in charge.

‘Your mother not down yet?’

‘She had coffee but went back to her room to get changed.’

‘Have you everything you need? I did the shopping this year, because Phyllis didn’t have time. Have I forgotten anything?’

‘I don’t think so. I wondered why Mum hadn’t made any mince pies or sausage rolls – though I see there is a trifle on the shelves.’

‘Yes, a friend of mine made that for me as a gift,’ her father said. ‘Your mother was annoyed when I brought it home yesterday, but I said it would save her work – it is a sherry trifle and I know it will be delicious.’

‘It does look lovely,’ Angela said. ‘Do you know if Mother made any Christmas puddings this year?’

‘I believe she said she couldn’t get the ingredients.’

‘Then we shall have the trifle after dinner instead of a pudding. No one ever wants any tea anyway, just a few mince pies.’ She put down her knife. ‘Would you like some breakfast, Dad?’

‘I’ll have one of those muffins, but I can toast it myself; I often make my own breakfast these days. Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ he asked, and then frowned as he saw the brandy bottle on the table. ‘You didn’t use this best brandy in the mince pies, I hope?’

‘No, of course not. Mother had some in her coffee.’

He nodded, seemed about to say something and changed his mind. ‘Well, it is Christmas. I’ll make a cup of tea while you finish what you’re doing …’

Angela went back to making pastry. She watched him, a little surprised at how easily he seemed to toast his own muffin and make a cup of tea. In the past her mother had always done everything, except when they had a housekeeper.

‘Why did Mrs Downs stop coming in? I remember her as being a pleasant woman.’

‘She was – is,’ he said, looking up from spreading butter on his muffin. ‘She and Phyllis had words, I’m afraid, and Mrs Downs wouldn’t stay.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Angela wondered why it had come to that. ‘Unfortunate. You need to get someone else, Dad. I think the housework is too much for Mother with all the other things she does.’

‘Yes …’ Once again he hesitated, seeming as if he wanted to say more, but then he just shook his head. ‘Is there anything I can do to help – what about the washing up?’

‘Yes, all right, if you like,’ Angela said. ‘I want to prepare these ready for cooking. I see we have some nice dripping for the potatoes – did you get that too?’

‘Oh, a friend of mine got it for me from her butcher,’ her father said, rising to gather the various pots and tins she’d been using in her cooking. ‘I’m lucky in this village; there are a lot of people I count my friends.’

‘Yes, I know. You’ve helped many of them with small legal problems without charging them huge amounts of money.’ Angela had worked as a secretary for her father before the war, until she’d started her job at the military hospital, and she knew he made less money than he might have. His practice was successful, but he worked long hours and wasn’t the kind of man who wanted or set out to make a fortune.

‘It’s what life is all about,’ her father said. ‘Doing what you can for your friends – and I’ve been lucky. I’ve done well enough. We have a decent life, I think, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, wondering at the look in his eyes. ‘I never wanted more. I didn’t marry John for money. I had no idea his family were wealthy when he asked me.’

‘Comparatively wealthy,’ her father said with a wry smile. ‘Your mother hoped you would marry into the aristocracy and be really rich, Angela.’

‘I would only ever marry for love. I’m sorry if I let Mother down.’

‘You didn’t let me down. I only want you to be happy, my love.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Angela sighed with pleasure as she saw the tins filled with mince pies and sausage rolls ready for cooking. ‘All done, I can stop now and go up and change. Mark will be here in a few hours.’

‘Yes, you go, Angela. I’ll pop in and see how your mother is. She may have one of her headaches.’

Angela came downstairs after she’d changed to discover that her mother was in the kitchen and seemed more like her old self. She was just about to put the turkey into the oven.

‘Do you think it needs to go in yet?’ Angela asked. ‘It’s not nine o’clock yet and the turkey isn’t that big, Mum. Mark won’t be here until just before one and we want time for a few drinks first.’

‘Allow me to know my own cooking methods,’ her mother said, giving her an annoyed glance. ‘Where have you put the brandy bottle? I usually put a little in my mince pies.’

‘I’ve made them and put them in the pantry to keep cool until I cook them last thing,’ Angela said. ‘Dad thought perhaps you might have a headache? I think he took the brandy.’

Her mother made a rude sound that might have been laughter or derision. ‘What your father thinks and what he says is not always the same, believe me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Never mind. I dare say he hid the brandy. He’s rather greedy with it and won’t let me use it in the cooking. We’ll have a sherry instead.’ She crossed to the dresser and picked up the sweet sherry, pouring two large glasses, which she brought back to the table.

‘Happy Christmas, Angela. I am glad you could spare the time to visit – even though you seem to feel others need you more.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ Angela said, and took a tiny sip of her sherry. She noticed the strong smell of French perfume again. ‘That’s a new scent, isn’t it? Not your usual …’

‘It was expensive, too expensive for me as a rule. I was lucky to get it …’

‘On offer?’ Angela pulled a face. ‘You were lucky. There is so little decent stuff in the shops yet – those that do have any charge the earth for it. If it wasn’t a luxury in the first place the Government would fine them for profiteering.’

‘You can afford it; John left you well off, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but I’ve invested my money for the future – or Daddy did for me.’

Her mother sniffed. ‘You could quite easily marry again, Angela. Your in-laws would gladly introduce you to their friends, if you would give up this foolish job of yours and go to stay with them.’

‘I love my job – and I have no wish to live with John’s parents. I am not sure I shall marry again, but if I do it will be because I can love again, not for position or money.’

‘Well, if you’re looking after the dinner I shall go down the road and have drinks with some friends of mine. Your father doesn’t want to come – but there’s nothing to stop me.’

Angela watched as her mother left. She wasn’t sure anyone would want visitors at this hour of the morning, because even her mother’s friends had dinner to cook, and excited grandchildren who would be opening their presents.

Angela noticed that her mother had drunk the large glass of sherry, but she wasn’t interested in hers. Placing it on the windowsill out of the way, she made a pot of coffee and took it through to the sitting room. Her father was reading a magazine but put it down as she entered. They sat in comfortable silence enjoying their coffee until she returned to the kitchen.

Angela was busy looking after the dinner most of the morning and hardly noticed that her mother was absent. Peeking in the oven at a quarter to one, she saw the turkey looked beautiful, golden brown but not burned; the pastries she’d made were cooked and ready and she was just putting the vegetables on when Mark arrived. He came into the kitchen, bearing gifts and a bottle of champagne, which he placed on the dresser.

‘Your father said you were busy cooking so I thought I would offer my services, Angela.’

He looked so handsome, dressed casually in light slacks, shirt and a V-neck sweater that her heart caught with pleasure when he smiled. She’d begun to like Mark more and more and it was good to have him here on this special day, not just as a formal guest, but as one of her family. He had a glass of sherry in his hand, which he sipped before placing it on the table. It was almost as if they lived together. Rather than having to leave everything to take formal drinks in the parlour, he was here offering to help – just as if he was her husband.

‘Well, I should like someone to lift the turkey out in about twenty minutes and set it to rest on the board. I’ve put the plates to warm and I’ve made some little starters of salmon mousse with cucumber salad. I had to use some of the tinned salmon you gave me to bring home. It wasn’t possible to buy fresh, but they taste nice just the same.’

‘Your father said you’ve had a lot to do, Angela. Apparently, your mother hasn’t been too well – a headache perhaps?’

Mark looked at her oddly. Angela wondered about that expression, because it made her feel that he was keeping something back; like the similar look in her father’s eyes earlier it aroused her suspicions, but she was too busy getting the food ready to pursue it. Her father came into the kitchen and was given the task of carrying the starters through to the dining room.

‘I hope Mum is ready for her dinner,’ she said. ‘If you’ll bring the turkey through when we’ve eaten the first course, Dad, I’ll fetch the rest.’

‘Your mother isn’t down,’ her father said, and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Angela. She promised me it wouldn’t happen today but …’

‘What do you mean?’ Angela asked. ‘Is she lying on the bed?’

‘Yes …’

‘Another headache? Poor Mum. Is she coming down at all?’

‘I don’t think so. We’ll see later. We’ll eat our starter and then I’ll check if she wants to come down – or I can take her a tray up.’

‘I’ll do that. Mark, I’ll take Mum her starter up first and then we’ll eat …’

‘No, Angela,’ her father said, and touched her arm. ‘Leave it for now.’

‘Why …’ Angela looked from one to the other. ‘What do you know that I don’t? Please, tell me. I have to know.’

Her father glanced at Mark, then, ‘She’s right. I wanted to tell you before – oh, months ago, when it first started, but she begged me not to. It wasn’t so bad then, but recently it has got so much worse.’

‘Her headaches? Has she seen a doctor?’

‘Phyllis refuses all help. She will not admit there is a problem.’

‘What kind of problem? This is ridiculous. I’m not a child – I want to know what is going on. Please tell me.’

‘Mark thought you were too wrapped up in your grief and we shouldn’t worry you. And she seemed better for a while after you came home from Portsmouth …’

‘Angela …’ Mark looked at her uncomfortably. ‘You were so unhappy. I thought it might be more than you could bear …’

Angela was about to ask him what he meant when the door of the kitchen opened and her mother walked in. As she saw the lipstick smeared over her mother’s face, her hair all over the place and her crumpled dress, she started forward, hands outstretched.

‘Mum, what’s the matter?’

‘Who sh-haid anything whass the matter?’ her mother demanded in a belligerent tone. ‘Whass going on here? Let me through, I’ve got to dish-h up the dinner …’ She took a step forward, crashed into the table and then crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Angela stared at her father and then at Mark. The looks on their faces were identical: guilty but not surprised. ‘She’s drunk. How long has this been going on – and why haven’t I been told about it?’

‘You were still grieving,’ Mark said. ‘I didn’t want to put more pressure on you, Angela.’

‘Your mother didn’t want you to know, love,’ her father said. ‘It has been happening for some months, but she controlled it in between bouts of drinking, and I didn’t guess how bad it was until a few weeks ago, when things suddenly got much worse.’

‘Why did no one tell me?’ Angela felt anger mixed with sympathy for him and a kind of anguish that she couldn’t name for herself. Why did Mark think she was so fragile that she couldn’t face the truth? ‘If I’d been here perhaps I could have helped her.’

‘She wouldn’t let you. Besides, you have your own life, Angela. This is my problem. She’s my wife and I’ll cope with it.’

‘Mark – surely you could have given me a hint?’ Angela looked at him in reproach as her mother stirred and promptly vomited on the floor.

‘I’ll clear that up,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could get Mother to bed between you – and then we shall have dinner. I’ll put some aside for her if she feels like it later.’

For a moment they both stared at her, and then Mark bent and lifted Phyllis in his arms. ‘I’ll carry her up and then you can look after her, Edward. I’m sorry, Angela. If I’d thought this would happen I would’ve warned you …’

‘Forgive me,’ her father said after Mark had left them. ‘There’s a lot more to tell you and to show you – but it will keep until Mark has gone. You shouldn’t blame him, Angela. She talked to him about it and I suppose he didn’t want to betray a confidence, though she isn’t his patient.’

‘Yes, I understand that,’ she said, but, left to herself to repair the damage and sort out the dinner she’d prepared so carefully before it ruined, Angela knew that she understood too well. Mark had been more concerned for her mental state than worried about giving her a hint of her mother’s failings. She had been close to despair at times during the years since her husband’s death – but surely Mark could see that she was much stronger now?

If he couldn’t see her for the woman she was, how could he respect her? She wasn’t some fragile flower that would bend in the wind, she was a strong woman who had known devastating grief and come through it.

Angela would rather have known the truth. She might not be able to do anything, but the last thing she wanted was to be treated as someone who couldn’t face reality. John’s death had devastated her, but the fact that her mother was an alcoholic was another matter – one that she was strong enough to accept.