‘What in God’s name possessed the man?’
Annie had never seen Uncle Eb look so distraught. He paced back and forth in front of the fire in the back room, one hand raking his bushy hair until it stood on end. They were all trying to come to terms with the evening’s bizarre events.
‘So he just went away again?’
‘He . . .’ Aunt Hatt seemed close to tears. ‘Well, it was terrible. He looked terrible. As if someone had hit him. He just took his flowers and . . . Like a whipped dog . . . Annie was a bit harsh with him, but . . .’
‘What was I supposed to say?’ Annie protested. She had her arms folded tightly, still feeling shaken herself. She did regret being quite so brutal with Herr Schmale now – for her uncle’s sake, at least. ‘That I’d marry him? He’s out of his mind.’
‘No, wench.’ Uncle Eb sank down on to a chair. ‘Of course not. I just can’t imagine what got into him. He’s engaged to some woman – Hilda, wasn’t it, Hatt?’
Aunt Hatt shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
‘I can’t believe it really,’ Georgie said, standing in the corner near his father. He had been in the workshop and not witnessed these events. ‘It doesn’t sound like the same man.’
Eb shook his head, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, one hand still raking through his hair. ‘The feller must be off his rocker, as you say. I wonder if . . .’
Annie could see he was thinking about his deal with Herr Schmale, the costly brooch they had all rallied round to make as fast as possible. Would Freddie Small cancel the order now?
‘I’m sorry this has happened,’ Uncle Eb said. He looked up at Annie. ‘I mean, last night when he was sat here, he seemed normal enough, dain’t ’e?’ He rubbed his head again for a moment. ‘Well – can’t be helped. We’ll just have to wait and see.’ He straightened up, giving Annie a sudden mischievous grin. ‘You sure yer don’t want to marry ’im?’
‘Uncle!’ Margaret protested, shocked by his sense of humour.
‘Ebenezer Watts, for heaven’s sake!’ Aunt Hatt said.
Annie could not hide her scorn. ‘Quite sure,’ she blazed at him. ‘I don’t want him anywhere near me after that. Or anyone else, for that matter.’
Herr Schmale appeared the next morning, every line of his body expressive of abject apology. He seemed altogether smaller.
‘Vere is your sister?’ he asked Margaret when he appeared in the front office.
‘She’s out – working,’ Margaret told him warily. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him where. ‘She has a job.’
‘A chob?’ He turned the word about as if this was a new concept. His dejection increased. Aunt Hatt, who had let him in, placed herself behind her desk with quiet tact. Susan sat and Bridget stood, both very still, as if worried that if they attracted attention they might be asked to leave the room.
‘I am ze vorst kind of fool,’ Herr Schmale said. ‘I am ze lowest of vorms, of stupid beetles . . .’
Margaret was not sure if she was supposed to contradict him. She indicated a chair for him, but he shook his head.
‘No – I must stand. I want to offer Miss Annie my heartfelt apologies. I was for one night a man who had lost his senses, his bearings.’ He looked solemnly round at the three of them, then shrugged, as if to say, Well, here goes.
‘You see, my fahter introduced me to my fiancée. He feels it is high time – high time, you say zis? – zat I vas a married man. And Hilde is a fine woman, her family very vealthy in making soap powders. Soon vill be our marriage.’ He spoke in tones of gloomy inevitability. ‘Hilde is one year older than myself. But . . . When mine eyes fastened on to Miss Annie, oh . . .’ He clasped his hands together. ‘So fresh, so full of passion . . . My heart sprang up and said, Yes! Zis is the lady viz whom you must join your life! Zis lady is perfect, if only she vill agree to be my vife!’
He smiled round at them, though his eyes were large and sad. Margaret felt truly sorry for him.
‘I’ll explain to her,’ she said gently. ‘We realized that you were not feeling quite yourself.’
‘Ah!’ He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately I vas more myself in that hour than I have ever been. But I see zat Miss Annie does not vant me.’
‘She’s only seventeen, sir,’ Margaret said.
He looked astonished, but seemed a little reassured by this explanation. ‘I see. So young. I had not realized. She is a small lady – but so much fire.’
‘Will you still be wanting the brooch, Herr Schmale?’ Aunt Hatt stood up. ‘I believe it is almost ready.’
He hesitated, then nodded with resignation. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you. You have been to a great deal of trouble for me.’
Aunt Hatt gave a formal nod. ‘It’s been an honour,’ she said pleasantly.
Annie had hurried to work at the factory, feeling as if the previous night’s events had been a dream. Sometimes she cursed having a pretty face. Their mother, Leah, a much plainer woman, had said to her daughters more than once, ‘A pretty face can lead to a hard life. Looks aren’t everything.’ Somehow, Annie thought, men don’t seem to look beyond.
She was still thinking about this when she got to her workplace amid the women’s morning chatter while they waited for the bell to ring. Lizzie was already there and when Annie surfaced and looked round, she saw that Lizzie’s pale face was lit up with excitement.
‘Annie,’ she hissed. ‘Guess what – my dad came home last night!’
‘Did he?’ Annie was astonished. ‘Well, that’s a nice surprise, Lizzie. How is he?’
Lizzie’s face clouded a little. ‘I don’t really know yet. He’s never been right since the accident. But he’s here – and he says he’s going to go and get a job! Mom’s ever so pleased.’
‘Of course she is,’ Annie said.
‘Will you come and say hello to ’im? I want you to meet ’im.’
‘Well, not today, surely?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘Today’s all right. Why not?’
Annie was just about to ask about little Ada when the work bell rang. She swivelled on her stool, picked up her strip and fed it into the press.
Mary Poole seemed a changed woman. When Annie walked into the house with Lizzie, she found Mary with her hair combed and fastened back instead of hanging in rat’s tails round her face. The dismal little room had been tidied and there was a tasty smell of meat cooking and an air of celebration. By the smell of things they had blown all Lizzie’s wages on a ‘welcome home’ feast.
‘Mom – I brought Annie in to say hello to Dad,’ Lizzie said.
Annie saw the lank brown hair at the back of a man’s head as he sat on the chair closest to the fire. Den was sitting on the floor opposite the man, watching him, an intense expression in his eyes. Little Ivy was on the peg rug in the middle. There was no sign of Ada.
‘Oh, Miss Annie,’ Mary Poole greeted her, her eyes more full of life than Annie had ever seen them. ‘Wilf – this is the lady who’s been helping us. She’s been ever so kind. And now he’s back, ain’t yer, Wilf?’
Her husband did not get up. Annie walked round and saw a gaunt, pale man. His hair hung in greasy hanks round his neck and he was very dishevelled and dirty-looking. He was in stockinged feet, with white-potato heels and toes, and by the hearth sat a pair of black boots whose uppers had almost completely cleaved away from the soles. As he looked up at her she saw a face with grey eyes like Den’s and which looked both very young and very old all at once. Unlike Den’s piercing gaze, Wilf Poole’s appeared vague and distracted.
‘How do you do,’ Annie said, holding out her hand.
‘All right?’ Wilf Poole raised a gaunt arm and gave her hand a limp shake. ‘The missus says you’ve been helping ’er.’
‘Just a little,’ Annie said.
‘’Er’s been marvellous,’ Mary said. She seemed full of animation and anxious to be hospitable. ‘’Ave a cuppa tea with us, will yer, bab?’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Annie said, feeling it would be bad manners to refuse. Mary seemed so happy to be able to do something for her.
‘Sit down,’ Lizzie said, suddenly a host. She pulled a chair out from under the table. Annie could feel Den watching her.
‘I see you’re better, Den – and Ivy, aren’t you, dear?’ She smiled at the little girl. ‘Where’s Ada, Mrs Poole?’
‘Oh – ’er’s upstairs,’ Mary Poole said. ‘’Aving a bit of a sleep.’
Annie felt a clutch of worry inside her. The little girl had been sick for what felt like a very long time now.
‘Is she no better?’ she asked, trying to contain her worry.
‘She is a bit,’ Lizzie said. But her eyes were worried. ‘’Er’s not being sick any more. But . . .’ She whispered, ‘’Er messes ’erself.’ Lizzie, too, slept in that crowded bed. ‘If she has anything at night, to eat, like.’
‘Oh, I think ’er’s on the mend,’ Mary said. ‘She’s ’ad milk. ’Er likes ’er milk.’
‘May I go and see her?’ Annie asked cautiously. ‘I won’t wake her if she’s fast asleep.’
‘If you want,’ Mary said as Annie headed for the stairs. ‘I’ve got yer a cuppa tea ’ere, bab.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment.’
The dark, mouldy house oppressed her more than usual today. The wall beside her had a clammy feel and the distemper was crumbling off it. She heard someone following her up the stairs and saw a flickering light and turned to see Lizzie behind her carrying a candle. The girl gave her a solemn look, communicating more worry than she had admitted to downstairs.
Annie pushed open the door to the children’s room. A rank smell was the first thing in evidence.
‘She keeps messing herself,’ Lizzie whispered again, in apology. ‘In the night, I mean. It’s all sort of watery – it’s hard to clean up the bed.’
Lizzie held the candle up and in its light, Annie saw Ada lying amid the muddle of bedding, looking very small and alone. She leaned down to touch the little girl’s forehead, hoping she would wake so that she could see how she seemed and question her. With a shock, expecting feverishness, or at least warmth, she felt an unnatural coldness.
‘Oh, no.’ Frantic, Annie pulled back the covers. ‘Oh, Lord in heaven, no!’
‘What’s happened?’ Lizzie cried, almost throwing the candle down on to the chair. ‘Ada? Ada, babby, you got to wake up now.’ Her arms made helpless movements. ‘What’s up with ’er, Annie?’
Annie felt frantically for Ada’s wrist, hardly able to believe the child’s stillness, the cold desolation of that little body. She lay her head on the fragile chest, listening for the beat of her blood, but there was nothing, only a terrible silence. There was no rhythm of life left in her.
‘No . . .’ she could hear Lizzie saying over and over. ‘No – Annie, make ’er wake up. Ada – wake up, babby!’
She came and knelt on the bed and snatched Ada from Annie’s grasp, pulling her sister into her arms. ‘Ada!’ Sobs wrenching from her, she shook the little girl’s body. ‘You got to wake up now – Ada! Please, oh, please . . . You can’t . . .’
‘Lizzie, no, stop it!’ Annie grasped her shoulders. It was terrible to see her shaking the little girl. ‘Stop – Lizzie, please!’
At last Lizzie heard her. She held Ada pressed to her for a second, then, as if taking in that she was holding something dead, something foreign to her, she let her go, pushing her back on to the bed, and put her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking.
Annie reverently lay Ada’s body straight. She had ministered to the dead before, but this time she had a terrible feeling of unreality. Her hands trembling, she hesitated before covering the little girl’s face, as if it was the wrong thing to do, as if Ada might at any moment open her eyes. The only sound in the room was Lizzie’s quiet weeping.
There was no sheet and she chose the softest cover, a threadbare candlewick counterpane, and lay it softly over Ada as she lay there, still as stone. At last she stepped back, whispering the first words that came into her head.
‘The Lord bless thee, and keep thee: the Lord make His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’
As she ended with an ‘Amen’, she heard Lizzie softly join in. Then Lizzie looked up at Annie, a terrible expression on her face, and said, ‘Who’s going to tell our mom?’