Comfort Me With Apples Read online

  Comfort Me With Apples

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Copyright

  For my family, with all my love.

  Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love

  Song of Solomon, ii:5

  Chapter One

  The first Sunday in January 1900 was bitterly cold but the congregation streaming from St Francis Xavier’s church in Everton, Liverpool, greeted each other cheerfully with cries of ‘a happy new century’.

  Anna and Dorrie Furlong moved out with the crowd, greeting and being greeted by their many friends, and Dorrie clutched her sister’s arm.

  ‘Isn’t it exciting, Anna?’ she exclaimed. ‘A completely new century!’ Her blue eyes were sparkling and her cheeks pink with excitement as she waved and smiled around her.

  Anna looked down at her affectionately and squeezed her arm. At nineteen, two years older than Dorrie, she was completely different in looks and temperament. In contrast to Dorrie’s fashionably rounded figure and milk-and-roses complexion, Anna was tall and thin, with a pale complexion, brown eyes and smooth dark hair. She was as quiet and reserved as Dorrie was lively and outgoing and her friendships, though fewer, were deep and lasting. Dorrie had many admirers among the young men of the parish but treated all equally.

  One of these was James Hargreaves, a pale and plump young man, the only son of a possessive, widowed mother. He had admired Dorrie from afar for many years but although he saw her every week when he accompanied his mother to church he had never spoken to her.

  One memorable morning his mother was confined to her bed with sciatica and he went to Mass alone. He sat where he could look at Dorrie throughout the service and when he left Anna and Dorrie were standing in the porch, talking to the local doctor and his wife.

  ‘Good morning, Hargreaves,’ Dr O’Brien had greeted him. ‘How is your mother?’

  James had mumbled a reply and the doctor had introduced him to his wife and the two young ladies. James was scarcely conscious of the others as Dorrie smiled at him and he fell deeply and irrevocably in love with her.

  After that he felt that he only existed from one Sunday to the next, when he could see Dorrie, although he never found an excuse to speak to her again, and he had managed to conceal his love from his mother until this first Sunday of 1900.

  Anna and Dorrie had moved away from the crowd streaming towards the gates and into the courtyard to wait for a friend. As James left the church with his mother, a dumpy woman dressed in black with a jet-trimmed bonnet, heavily veiled, he saw Dorrie and eagerly raised his hat and smiled at her.

  Dorrie smiled and nodded and Mrs Hargreaves looked at her, then at her son. She immediately let her large prayer book fall to the ground and exclaimed loudly, ‘James! You are so clumsy!’ The young man, although so stolid in appearance, flushed deeply as he bent to retrieve the book.

  His face was still red as he turned away, keeping his face averted from Dorrie, and Anna was disgusted. ‘What a hateful woman!’ she exclaimed to Dorrie. ‘Her son didn’t touch the prayer book. She let it fall deliberately.’

  Before Dorrie could reply they were joined by the girl they had been waiting for, Isabel Jenson, who lived near them in Westbourne Street, and like them was the daughter of a ship’s captain. She greeted them and said she had seen the incident.

  ‘Isn’t she a ridiculous old woman? Still wearing widow’s weeds and her husband died years ago when the son was a baby,’ she said scornfully.

  Anna agreed. ‘She looks like Queen Victoria with those clothes and that sour expression.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for Mr Hargreaves,’ said Dorrie. ‘He seemed so embarrassed.’ Anna squeezed Dorrie’s arm, feeling a rush of affection for her sweet-natured sister and shame at her own sharp tongue.

  The girls were joined by Dr and Mrs O’Brien. ‘Good morning. A happy new century, young ladies,’ the doctor said heartily, as his wife murmured and smiled beside him.

  ‘A happy new century!’ they echoed.

  ‘Let’s hope it is,’ he said. ‘The last one finished badly enough, God knows. Nothing but bad news from South Africa all through December. Defeats at Magersfontein and Colenso, and Ladysmith and Mafeking and Kimberley all under siege. And by a bunch of Boer farmers! The disgrace!’

  ‘The girls don’t want to talk about the war,’ said Mrs O’Brien. She explained to the girls, ‘He worries because his nephews are in South Africa with the army,’ and glanced fondly at her husband.

  ‘The Irish regiments have done well though,’ he said. ‘Even Queen Victoria spoke about “her brave Irish.”’ O’Brien was a big red-faced Irishman and looked more like a farmer than a doctor but the girls knew his bluff manner concealed sensitivity and compassion for all his patients.

  As he spoke he had been constantly raising his top hat to the many people who greeted him and, still doing this, he said, ‘Well, things will be better now that Bobs will be taking charge. We’ll soon hear better news.’

  ‘Bobs, doctor?’ Dorrie said enquiringly and he replied, ‘Lord Roberts, my dear. The best soldier in the British Army.’

  ‘And an Irishman, of course,’ his wife teased him.

  They all laughed and Dr O’Brien said heartily, ‘A pity you were not able to attend the Midnight Mass on New Year’s Eve, Miss Anna. You’d have enjoyed the music.’

  ‘Yes, I hoped to go with the Deagans from next door, but… it wasn’t possible,’ Anna said quietly.

  She said nothing about the scene with her mother, who had declared that her nerves would be unable to stand Anna ‘wandering the streets at that hour’ and Dr O’Brien said, ‘Pity. You’d have appreciated the music.’

  ‘It was wonderful,’ said Mrs O’Brien. ‘At the stroke of midnight Fr Hayes came on to the high altar to start the Mass and the choir burst into the Gloria.’

  ‘And sang magnificently throughout the Mass,’ the doctor said. ‘They finished with “The Heavens are Telling” from Haydn’s Creation. Wonderful! I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘We went into church in one century and came out in another. So exciting,’ his wife said and the doctor added, ‘The moon was shining and I looked up at it and thought how many centuries it had looked down on this old earth and seen mankind making the same mistakes over and over again. Perhaps this century will be different. With all these new ideas and cures found for illnesses, perhaps at least disease and war and poverty will be banished from the earth.’

  ‘We must pray for that,’ said Mrs O’Brien. She shivered suddenly and her husband looked at her with concern. ‘Are you cold, my dear?’ he asked but she shook her head. ‘No. A goose walked over my grave as my grandmother used to say. She believed in the second sight.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘We’d b
etter move anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s too cold to stand about.’

  The group moved away, disappointing several young men who were hanging about hoping to walk home with Dorrie. Mrs O’Brien walked ahead with Dorrie and Isabel, asking about Isabel’s father, who was due home, and Anna followed with Dr O’Brien.

  ‘I hoped to see your mama at church,’ the doctor said. ‘The Cullens offered seats in their carriage for your mother and aunt, y’know.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Anna said quietly. ‘Mama felt faint this morning and Aunt Clara went to eight o’clock Mass.’

  ‘Well, well, perhaps when your father is home,’ the doctor said.

  ‘That won’t be for several months,’ Anna said. ‘They’re still trading along the China coast.’

  ‘The weather should be better then anyway,’ said Dr O’Brien. ‘That will encourage your mama to leave the house.’

  They had reached his home and surgery in Shaw Street and the three girls said goodbye and walked up to Westbourne Street, Isabel and Dorrie chattering and laughing, but Anna very silent. It was clear to her that the doctor thought her mother should be trying to live a more normal life.

  After the birth of Dorrie Mrs Furlong had borne five more daughters, all of whom had died at birth or soon afterwards. Captain Furlong’s mother died soon after the death of the fifth baby, leaving his only sister alone in the family home in Hull.

  He had arranged for the house in Hull to be closed and his sister, Clara, to come to live with them as a help and comfort to his wife while he was at sea. Unfortunately he had not consulted his wife or his sister and the arrangement had been a disaster.

  Under a veneer of sweetness there was a state of war between the two women and as Anna and Dorrie grew up they were often unwillingly involved in it.

  Eventually Mrs Furlong had decided to retire to her sofa to cultivate ill health, leaving her shrewish sister-in-law to take charge of the household.

  Now the three girls had reached the Jenson house in Westbourne Street, where a row of little boys in sailor suits stood looking out of the parlour window. Isabel laughed. ‘I’ve told them Papa can’t come home yet. Told them about the tides but they won’t leave the window.’

  She and Anna and Dorrie smiled and waved at the little boys and Dorrie said wistfully, ‘It’s so pleasant to see such affection, Isabel. They’re lovely little boys.’

  ‘They’re all so excited, yet they’ve been as good as gold, except Wilma. She’s so different to the boys. She never stops crying,’ said Isabel.

  ‘Better now than when your father arrives,’ Dorrie consoled her and Isabel laughed and ran lightly up the steps of the house. She was the eldest of a family of six boys and a baby girl and she stayed at home to help her mother.

  As they stood with Isabel, three of the Deagan family from next to the Furlongs had passed, Jim and Luke raising their hats and Norah smiling at the girls. Anna was relieved that she had not offended them by refusing their invitation on New Year’s Eve.

  The Deagans were a large family of three sons and three daughters and a widowed mother. The eldest girl, Maggie, was married, but the others, although much older than Anna and Dorrie, were single, living happily at home. They had always been kind to the two small girls next door and when they discovered that Anna shared their love of music Jim and Norah began taking her to concerts.

  Now, as Anna and Dorrie left Isabel and walked along Westbourne Street, Dorrie said gently, ‘Is something wrong, Anna? Don’t you feel well? You’re very quiet.’

  Anna smiled bitterly. ‘Nothing wrong with my health, Dorrie,’ she said. ‘In fact nothing wrong with me at all, except I’m ashamed to say I’m envying Isabel her happy home.’

  Dorrie sighed. ‘I know. She’s very fortunate,’ she said. ‘But who knows, Anna? Things might be different at home in the new century.’

  Anna laughed and squeezed Dorrie’s arm. ‘Always the optimist, Dorrie,’ she said. ‘But as you say, who knows? Miracles can happen, I suppose.’

  Now, as they entered their house, they could hear their aunt scolding the girl who helped in the kitchen and they turned into the parlour where their mother lay on a sofa before a blazing fire. Coming in from the frosty morning, the room seemed unbearably hot to the girls but Dorrie sat down beside her mother.

  ‘How do you feel, Mama?’ she asked gently.

  Her mother sighed. ‘Dreadful, dearest, dreadful. My poor head aches so and Aunt Clara has been so obnoxious. Bathe my head, Dorrie.’

  Dorrie took the eau de cologne from a side table and Anna stood up. ‘I’ll go to help Aunt Clara, Mama,’ she said. ‘It sounds as though I’m needed.’

  ‘She has young Ada,’ her mother said peevishly. ‘But she makes a difficulty of everything. She doesn’t think the girl should do anything for me.’

  Anna said nothing but went upstairs and covered her Sunday dress in a large holland pinafore before going to the kitchen.

  She was greeted with a storm of complaints from her aunt, a thin woman with a sour expression and grey hair drawn back tightly in a bun. ‘Too much is left to me. I can’t do everything. Bad enough that this girl is so slow but your mother keeps ringing for her to make up the fire or make her a drink. How does she think the dinner will be cooked?’ she demanded.

  ‘Tell me what’s to be done and I’ll do it,’ Anna said, managing to smile at the girl behind her aunt’s back. Ada, who had seemed tearful, looked more cheerful and Anna followed her muttering aunt into the dining room and began to lay the table.

  ‘My brother would be horrified if he knew how I am put upon. How much is expected of me,’ Clara Furlong complained.

  ‘You can tell him when he comes home,’ Anna said dryly but then, fearing the sulks which would result, she added, ‘Captain Jenson’s ship docks today. The little boys are very excited. They were standing at the parlour window, waiting for him.’

  ‘Let’s hope they have some discipline from him. Mrs Jenson spoils them,’ Clara said.

  Anna made no reply and when she had finished laying the table she returned to the kitchen but her aunt told her crossly she was only in the way so she went back to the parlour.

  Her mother appeared to be sleeping so she joined Dorrie, who was sitting nearby. Any handiwork was forbidden on a Sunday so they whispered together for a few minutes, Anna saying that her aunt had refused help. ‘Determined to be a martyr,’ she said.

  Mrs Furlong opened her eyes. ‘Tell Aunt Clara I’ll have a tray today, Anna, but you must prepare it. I don’t want to cause her any more work.’

  Anna gave her mother’s message to her aunt, who snorted and said spitefully, ‘I know why she wants you to prepare it and so do you. I’m not daft.’

  Anna said nothing but replaced her pinafore and picked up the carving knife and fork. A sirloin of beef had already been taken into the dining room and she went to the sideboard to carve a generous helping for her mother. Then Ada began to carry in tureens of vegetables and Anna filled her mother’s plate from them.

  ‘The tray’s ready in the ’all,’ Ada whispered. ‘I done a separate jug of gravy for it.’

  ‘Thanks, Ada,’ Anna said, smiling at her, then she took the well-filled plate to the tray and quickly carried it to her mother before her aunt could see it. When she returned to the kitchen her aunt was ordering Ada to take the roast potatoes through and Anna was told to start carving.

  Aunt Clara bustled about, closing dampers and moving the kettle, while Anna went to the dining room. She was met at the door by Ada with some roast potatoes on a small plate. ‘The missis didn’t get no roasts,’ she whispered and Anna slipped back to the parlour and handed the plate to Dorrie at the door.

  ‘Better late than never, I suppose,’ she heard her mother complain before she returned to the dining room. As she rapidly carved the joint Anna reflected bitterly that even Ada was aware of the charade that revolved around her mother’s meals.

  When Adelaide Furlong had first taken to her sofa Anna or Dorrie had p
repared trays laden with generous meals for their mother. Later, when Clara had taken complete charge, the kitchen had been forbidden to them so their aunt prepared the trays.

  She had astounded Adelaide by serving her a tiny portion of steamed fish, a coddled egg or other invalid fare instead of the well-filled plate of meat and vegetables she was accustomed to. ‘Much better for you while you are so inactive,’ Clara said sweetly.

  Clara continued to cook tasty meals for herself and the girls, carefully leaving the kitchen door open so that appetising smells drifted through the house. After a short spell of this Adelaide decided that she would force herself to sit at the table for her meals. She was unwilling to make more work for dear Clara, she said.

  Now only on Sundays, when the girls were allowed to help in the kitchen, could she indulge her wish to have a tray brought to her sofa, knowing that her daughters would ensure that she received enough to satisfy her hearty appetite.

  It’s like a war, Anna thought now, and about food. It’s so degrading. She said so to Dorrie when their mother and aunt were having a nap after dinner and they were able to escape to their bedroom.

  ‘I suppose food becomes very important to an invalid,’ Dorrie said doubtfully. ‘The days must seem long to Mama.’

  ‘But Dr O’Brien seems to think Mama could do more if she wished, Dorrie,’ Anna said.

  ‘Perhaps she would if Aunt Clara wasn’t here,’ said Dorrie. ‘You know how she likes to be in charge in the kitchen.’

  ‘And everywhere else,’ Anna said bitterly. ‘Oh, I detest her. She can’t say a good word about anyone. Even when I spoke about the Jensons she said the children were spoilt.’

  ‘But they’re lovely children. Everyone says so,’ Dorrie said indignantly.

  They were silent for a moment then Anna suddenly burst out, ‘Oh, Dorrie, I hope I don’t grow into a bitter old maid like her.’

  Dorrie put her arm round Anna’s shoulders. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said affectionately. ‘You could never be like her and, anyway, you’re bound to marry, Anna.’

  Anna smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not so sure. Not much sign so far, is there?’ she said.