Queenie watched the procession of mourners follow the hearse up the road towards the church on the hill. It was a paltry gathering. Cyril had insisted that all the King workers be forced to attend, but Queenie had refused to allow this. First of all, they would lose a day’s work and earnings if all their workers were off. Secondly, she knew none of them cared for Ralph King and it would be a spectacle of falsehood. And she couldn’t abide false things, lies and mendacity of any sort. Her son was disliked and that was the truth. Nobody would weep for him or even honour him.
She’d loved her son once, but even she had trouble mourning the man he’d become. By the time her husband had passed on more than two decades before, she had grown completely cold towards him. And now for her son, she felt the same. Sadly, Ralph King Junior was a small-minded, self-centred and cruel man, with little natural intelligence. Left to him the King fortunes and name would dwindle to nothing. The best thing that could be said about him was that he lacked the appetites of the flesh that his father had been so prone to. He made a hash of everything he involved himself in, even this, his death, dying before her. The doctor had said it wasn’t the gout that killed him as such, but that his overindulgence in food and wine had put such pressure on his liver and other organs, that the unwholesome mixture had poisoned his blood and caused his body to give up the ghost.
Yet there was a small part of her buried deep that had looked upon her dying son in his sickbed and had mourned the baby she had once doted upon. He was a fat, jolly infant and she had adored him so, especially after losing her twin baby daughters to consumption before him.
She was glad he had died before Margaret and Beatrice arrived. Queenie would not want them to have to see him as he was in his last days. That was no way for a man to be remembered. Especially for Beatrice. Ah, Beatrice! she thought, and sighed contentedly as the procession reached the churchyard. The pall-bearers, including Cyril, were gathering to carry the coffin inside. But Queenie’s eyes were seeking out her great-granddaughter and there she was, standing demurely beside her mother, watching the proceedings with interest. I wonder what she makes of us? thought Queenie. As the thought entered her mind, she was surprised at it. She never gave a damn what anybody thought of her personally. It was the King reputation that was crucial and must be protected at all costs. But suddenly, at this late point in her life, this pretty little half-French thing had entered stage left and Queenie could think of little else. Beatrice was in her house and in her life now and Queenie could not be more delighted with her. She watched her now and tried to get the measure of her.
Beatrice was standing with her mother near to the church door. Her hands were demurely folded before her. Her eyes glanced down from time to time, showing she was a little reserved, and she also looked to her mother for reassurance often. But she was nothing like Margaret had been as a young person, desperately shy to the point of infuriating Queenie. With Beatrice it seemed more a kind of watchfulness, taking it all in and working on it in her mind. There was something very intelligent in the girl’s eyes.
Now the girl was looking at Benjamina, her step-grandmother. Beatrice had a weakness for fashion, that was clear. Her outfits were a little fussy and flouncy for local tastes; it must be the French influence. Beatrice seemed to be looking at Benjamina’s vulgar black creation today with interest. She wore a frilly black bonnet with a veil, a lacy mantle and embroidered gloves. The grieving widow, thought Queenie wryly, inspecting Benjamina. Ha!
She remembered her own relief when her cruel husband had passed. But this one was still young – by Queenie’s standards anyway. Benjamina had been seventeen when Ralph had married her and now she was free and rich at only forty-two, with no children to encumber her. Queenie wondered what she would get up to next. Let us hope she finds another wealthy fool and leaves us alone, thought Queenie. She had noticed in the past few days that Beatrice, despite liking Benjamina’s clothes, soon ran out of conversation with her. Benjamina was tedious and had little to discuss other than fashion and dogs.
Queenie looked away from her in disgust and focused back on Beatrice. Something else had caught the girl’s attention now; Cyril was taking the coffin on to his shoulders, but was saying something, loudly.
‘Watch out, there!’ he cried, in his petulant voice. The King family butler, Busby, shouldered the opposite corner to Cyril. The coffin swayed dangerously and tipped, but was soon righted by the butler who kept his decorum at all times, unlike the idiot Cyril, who huffed and puffed and shot evil glances around, blaming everyone but himself, as usual. Queenie looked back at Beatrice, who actually grimaced and looked away. Queenie could see from the first day that Beatrice was repelled by Cyril. What an excellent judge of character the girl must be. Each passing day, Queenie grew more and more fascinated by her.
There was a tap on her arm and Queenie’s reverie was interrupted. It was her faithful lady’s maid, Jenkins, who nodded her head towards the church. Queenie acquiesced. Jenkins could always be relied upon to keep her eyes and ears open. She entered the church, Jenkins leading her to her place of honour in the front row. Queenie watched as the coffin bearing her son’s corpse was lifted into place before the meagre congregation. I wonder if he’ll haunt me, like the other? she thought.
*
Later, at the wake at Southover, Queenie’s feet were beginning to ache after all this standing about.
‘We sincerely commiserate with you for your great loss at this difficult time.’
I wonder if they know how much I disliked my own son, thought Queenie, but said aloud instead, ‘Thank you most kindly.’
Her son’s wake was nearly over, thank heavens, but there was still a good deal of tasty food remaining, so some of the greedier guests continued to gobble it down. Queenie nodded politely as the wife of a local tile manufacturer wittered on about the cost of black silk these days. These types of people were the only reliable ones they could find to attend Ralph King’s funeral, business associates of his – mostly of Queenie’s to be frank as Ralph was never any good at running the business. He was the male figurehead of the King fortune, but everyone knew that it was herself who ran it all and had done for twenty-odd years. Her grandson Cyril had done his bit, visiting the works from time to time and chivvying on the foreman and suchlike. He wined and dined the other brickmasters and made connections in the counties beyond with other industrialists. But he had no true business acumen. It was Queenie alone who ruled the King businesses and she did so with an iron fist.
The wife was still talking to her and Queenie was nodding sympathetically and hoping she wouldn’t be required to respond to any particulars, as she hadn’t heard a word of it. She was watching Beatrice again, who was now standing near to the window and gazing out of it, with rather a lost expression. The poor girl must be bored to tears and feeling very alone at this gathering of strangers, all from England, from Shropshire, speaking of things Beatrice knew nothing about, and gathered for a man Beatrice had never known.
‘Mrs Elkin,’ Queenie interrupted the wife who stopped abruptly, mid-flow. ‘Have you met my great-granddaughter, Beatrice?’
‘I have not had the pleasure,’ simpered the Elkin woman, while Queenie swept past her, gesturing her to follow. She advanced towards Beatrice by the window, who turned to notice her approach. Queenie was greeted by a dazzling smile, which delighted her.
‘Beatrice, this is Mrs Elkin.’
‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ said the woman.
‘And I too am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Beatrice.
The girl speaks well, thought Queenie. More than well. Her English is excellent.
‘May I offer my condolences for the passing of your . . . grandfather?’
‘Yes, my grandfather. Thank you. I never had the fortune to meet him, but I understand he was a great man.’
Queenie raised her eyebrows a touch. She was impressed by Beatrice’s diplomacy. How many girls her age would be arch enough to play that game so well? But Queenie was eager to steer clear of discussing her son.
‘Beatrice, I should explain that Mrs Elkin’s husband manages a decorative tileworks along the river.’
‘Decorative tiles?’ said Beatrice to the wife. ‘Are they very pretty?’
‘Oh, yes! Very pretty they are. I cannot pretend to understand the business itself, but I know a pretty thing when I see it. These decorated tiles are the latest thing. We have them all over the front of our house. It is like a show house, you see, to show off our wares. You must come to see us one day for afternoon tea, Miss Beatrice.’
‘I would love that,’ said Beatrice. Queenie’s pleasure at the girl’s social skills grew with every word. She could not be more different from her mother at that age, who had always cowered and hidden from every social opportunity.
‘Oh and this is my husband now,’ said Mrs Elkin, gesturing to a short man of broad girth who had manoeuvred past a range of snacking guests to appear at his wife’s side.
Introductions were made and Queenie continued to watch as Beatrice responded to this dull couple so deftly.
Beatrice said, ‘I understand you make beautiful tiles, Mr Elkin.’
Husband and wife smiled at each other and Mr Elkin attempted to laugh it off, but was clearly charmed.
‘Well, I say, I find them so, as does my wife. Just recently, my tileworks has specialised in producing a range of encaustic tiles, with elaborate designs. Quite lovely. Exquisite, some might say.’
‘And where do you sell such lovely things?’ said Beatrice. ‘We all know the world needs bricks, but where do you find your customers for such fancy work?’
‘Why, all over the country, Miss Beatrice. All over the world, if I have my way! We do such fine work, it is a joy to behold. Very attractive. The ladies love it. You must come and see our house.’
‘I said the very same thing, Edwin,’ added Mrs Elkin. ‘We’d be delighted to have you, my dear.’
Queenie watched Beatrice as she went on with the conversation, talking with these two stuffed shirts as if she’d known them for years. The girl had managed to flatter them, appear interested and even knowledgeable about a business she surely knew nothing about and had garnered an invitation to tea from both husband and wife in just a few utterances. Queenie was delighted her first impressions of the girl had been correct, that she was not shy but instead watchful with a busy mind. Her company was as lovely as her appearance, an excellent coupling in society. But she was no mere society belle, practised in the art of small talk. She showed real interest in Elkin’s business. They were talking of which clays they used in its manufacture now. Queenie stared at Beatrice as she negotiated each turn of the conversation with ease, and at that moment, Queenie made a decision. She vowed that she would take the girl under her wing, introduce her successfully into society and teach her about the business. Her son Ralph and grandson Cyril had been such disappointments when it came to running the King businesses, whilst her one hope, Margaret, had run off with an artist and forfeited her place. Now here was a bright young woman who possessed a true spark of life. This girl would be her protégé and Queenie couldn’t wait to get started on her. With the right influence Beatrice might even one day lead the King family.