The following week was a fraught one, in which her father spent many hours at the hospital. Constance felt so alone, so isolated, and longed for someone to talk to. She missed Ethel and Mary so much and today had cycled to see them.
‘How’s your mum, love?’ Ethel asked as always.
‘I think I told you that the chest infection has developed into pneumonia, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, pet.’
‘Last night, when he came home from the hospital, my father said she’s hanging on, but I fear the worst, Ethel.’
‘Try not to worry. You said she’s on antibiotics so let’s hope they do the trick.’
‘Where’s Mary?’ Constance asked, suddenly realising that she wasn’t there.
‘She’s gone to the market to buy some vegetables, but I don’t expect her back any time soon. She loves talking to the costermongers and I think she walks the whole market chatting to most of them before she comes home.’
‘You both seem to have settled in well.’
‘Yes, we have. We’ve already made friends with our neighbours, and they’re a nice lot. How are you getting on with the new cook and cleaner?’
‘I only talk to Cook about menus, but with just my father and myself, they are hardly taxing. Cook is a cold fish, but the cleaner is friendlier. Not that I talk to her much either. My father doesn’t approve of being friendly with the servants, as he calls them, and has told me to keep my distance.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s a cut above the rest of us and lets us know it,’ Ethel said, her hand then flying to her mouth and her eyes widening. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Miss. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Please stop calling me Miss, and you are entitled to say what you like. After all, you no longer work for my father and are free to speak as you please.’
‘In the old days there was a sharp divide between employer and staff. When I went to work for your parents it’s what I expected so it didn’t bother me. Nowadays, though, I think youngsters are kicking against those attitudes.’
‘I used to think that my father was forward-thinking, especially when he encouraged me to go to university. I was wrong, though, his attitude was just a façade.’
Ethel nodded sagely and they continued to chat until Mary came home half an hour later, grinning widely when she saw Constance. ‘Wotcher. It’s a shame you weren’t here earlier. You could have come to the market with me. Them costers are a right laugh.’
‘Those costermongers,’ Constance corrected, then held a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mary, I had no right to correct your diction.’
‘That’s all right. I wish I sounded a bit more like you.’
‘You are fine as you are and a visit to the market sounds like fun. Maybe next time I’m here.’
‘Talking about diction,’ Ethel observed, ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when the market lot hear your voice. You’ll probably get called all sorts of things, like the Duchess, or Lady someone or other. They’re a lovely bunch so they won’t mean it maliciously, but be prepared.’
‘Thanks, I will, but I’d best be off now. I’ll call in again soon.’
‘Yeah, do that,’ Ethel encouraged.
Constance saw herself out, but as she cycled home there was only one thing on her mind again. Her mother.
The call came at one-fifteen in the morning. Charles was groggy with sleep as he put the receiver to his ear, but then he was instantly alert. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
He briefly wondered if he should take Constance, but then decided against it. If this was to be his wife’s last hour on this earth, he wanted it to be a peaceful one.
Thankfully, the telephone hadn’t disturbed his daughter and as quietly as possible Charles left the house. The streets were virtually empty as he drove to the hospital, only to be told when he arrived at his wife’s room that Hettie had slipped into a coma. He was warned that she might not last the night.
Charles sat beside her, and only fifty minutes later she died. Though he had been told to expect this, his throat felt constricted as he fought tears.
‘She’s at peace now,’ a nurse said softly.
He was only able to nod, but when he looked at Hettie he saw that she did look at peace and he could glimpse the woman she once was before alcohol and bitterness took over. ‘Thank you,’ he managed to croak to the nurse.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Once again Charles was only able to nod, and on the drive home he forced his mind to the practicalities. He’d have to make arrangements for Hettie’s funeral, but thankfully a lot of that could be placed in a funeral director’s hands. It would be a small affair, and then another thought struck him. Constance was to marry Albert Jones on the fourth of January, in under two weeks, and he didn’t want that postponed. He wanted his pregnant daughter off his hands and married and there was only one way to ensure that. He’d arrange the funeral for after the marriage, and though he would allow Constance to attend, her scoundrel of a husband would not be welcome.
Charles arrived home exhausted and went straight back to bed. Sleep was impossible, though, as memories of his marriage rose to the surface. In the early days there had been a few good times, but even then he had experienced Hettie’s coldness in bed. She had been the perfect wife in other ways; the house ran faultlessly and she had been charming when they entertained guests. Yet as the years went by it became a façade, their marriage in name only, so was it any wonder he had taken a mistress?
It was Jessica on Charles’s mind now, not his wife, as he at last drifted into sleep.
Constance came downstairs on Friday morning to find her father already up and standing in the drawing room doorway. She frowned. He looked dreadful, grey and tired and somehow older.
‘Constance, come and sit down.’
Instantly alert, she asked, ‘Why? What is it? Is it Mummy?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Now sit down.’
‘I don’t want to sit down. Just tell me.’
‘Very well. I’m afraid your mother died in the early hours of this morning.’
Constance sat then, almost fell onto a chair, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I wanted to see her, to tell her how sorry I am, but it’s too late now.’
‘Your mother was in a coma so I doubt she’d have heard you.’
‘She might have. I read somewhere that hearing is the last thing to go,’ Constance cried.
‘I wanted her ending to be a peaceful one, and I doubt hearing you bleating in her ear would have made that possible. Now I’m going to my study to make arrangements for the funeral. I’ll eat my breakfast in there so tell Janet to bring me a tea tray with some toast and marmalade.’
Constance wiped her eyes, blinking more tears away as she said, ‘I … I’ll talk to Albie, tell him that the wedding will have to be postponed.’
‘You will do no such thing. I’ll arrange the funeral for after your wedding, which will go ahead as planned.’
‘But, Daddy, you can’t expect me to marry Albie before my mother’s funeral.’
‘I can, Constance, and I do. I want you married and out of my house. I’ll allow you to attend your mother’s funeral, alone. It will be the last time I want to set eyes on you,’ and with that he walked out of the room.
Constance was left sobbing, crushed. She knew that with Christmas so close, it would never be the same again for her. Instead, it would always be a reminder of her mother’s death. When Janet came nervously into the room, her sympathy was too much. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Constance. I couldn’t help overhearing that your mother has passed away.’
With a sob Constance jumped to her feet, ran to get a coat and fled. She grabbed her bicycle and pedalled furiously until she reached her haven.
In the light of what Constance told her, Ethel thought their bright Christmas decorations and twinkling fairy lights on the tree seemed garish and inappropriate. She closed her eyes, searching for words, and said, ‘Now then, come on, dry those tears. If you keep crying like this you’ll make yourself ill.’
‘Oh, Ethel. It’s monstrous. How can I marry Albie knowing that a few days later, or even less, I’ll be attending my mother’s funeral?’
‘Well, love, I must admit, it’s going to be hard for you, but if your father insists on it, I don’t think you’ve any choice.’
Sniffing and snuffling, blowing her nose into her handkerchief, Constance sounded muffled, but Ethel caught her words. ‘Now you listen to me, my girl. You did not cause your mother’s stroke. All right, she overheard you telling me about the baby, but the clot must have already been there, travelling to her brain.’
‘Clot?’
‘Yes, love. I should have said something at the time, but I’m sure it’s a blood clot that causes a stroke, not a shock.’
Constance stared at Ethel, wide eyes that were wet with tears, but showing a glimmer of hope. ‘So … so I didn’t cause it.’
‘No, darlin’. Now come on, dry those eyes.’
‘So … so why is my father being so cruel? Why won’t he let me postpone the wedding?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’
‘He … he said he just wants me married and out of his house.’
‘It could be that he’s ashamed you’re pregnant with Albie’s baby.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right.’
‘Albie may be working-class, but you’ll find he’s kind, and caring. He used to worry so much about my swollen legs and was always nagging me to retire. I wish he could see me now, me and Mary in our own little place and my legs improving every day.’
‘I’ll tell him. He took me to meet Dora and I … I like her.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Ethel said and meant it. It was going to be hard enough for Constance to get used to living in her daughter’s tiny terrace, but if she and Dora got on it would make it a bit easier.
‘My father said that I can go to my mother’s funeral, but without Albie.’
Ethel bristled. Mr Burton Blake was being unnecessarily cruel to Constance by shunning Albie, but there’d be another Jones at the funeral. She would go, even if she had to slip in and sit on a pew at the back. She’d be there if Constance needed her, whether Mr Burton Blake liked it or not.