The House by the Brook Read online

  The House by the Brook

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Read More

  Copyright

  The House by the Brook

  Grace Thompson

  One

  ‘I won!’ Ivor called excitedly as he walked into the kitchen that June morning. ‘Airborne won the Derby and I backed it!’

  ‘Well done, Ivor.’ Catching his excitement, Marie hugged him, and the fourteen-year-old twins Royston and Roger, and seven-year-old Violet ran to see the winning note he was holding.

  ‘What’ll we have, Dad?’ Roger asked and was silenced by a glance from his mother. ‘I mean, what are you going to spend it on?’

  ‘Well, if I can get the clothing coupons, I need a new suit. This one is getting shabby and I can use it for around the house and get a new one for work.’ He winked at Marie, then said, ‘All right, we’ll have a day at the seaside, that better?’ Cheers filled the room and Marie looked at her husband, surrounded by the excited children, and told herself how fortunate she was. A second marriage, a man who had been willing to take on her boys, who were then only five years old, and had welcomed their daughter like the gift she was, and who had created a loving relationship with them all.

  She didn’t ask how much he had won, she knew that even if it hadn’t been sufficient to take them to Barry Island for the day, he’d add to it and make sure they enjoyed every moment.

  The following Saturday, Ivor carefully selected the clothes he would wear, brushing them and pressing his trousers, as he liked everything about his appearance to be immaculate. His second best shoes were polished until they shone like glass, his socks carefully selected to match the shirt and tie Marie had placed on the washstand ready to put on. Marie smiled. His parents had taught him well, he was so particular about his appearance and noticed the slightest carelessness in others with disapproval. His manners, too, were impeccable and even her mother, who was highly critical of what she called a lowering of standards, approved of him. Marie had never met his parents, they had died when Ivor was young and he’d been brought up in a children’s home. They might not have lived to see him grow up but the rules they had set had obviously been very firmly planted in the young boy.

  He gave Marie the money to buy a bathing costume for Violet, who, at almost eight, had outgrown the one from the previous year. It meant using some of their precious clothing coupons but it would give Violet hours of enjoyment over the summer months ahead, she mused, checking how many she had left from the annual allowance.

  *

  The day was a great success, with Ivor arranging races for Royston, Roger and Violet plus other families who had settled on the sands near them, gathering children and making teams for ball games and rewarding the winners with a sweet. He broke an ancient tennis racquet playing beach tennis and later there was a dads’ race, which he won. He was laughingly presented with the prize – the racquet he had broken. It was a day when everything was fun. Marie didn’t think she could ever be happier.

  The day was pleasantly warm for early June, with practically no breeze to chill the air or disturb the golden sand. They made a table from the damp sand, covered it with the cloth Marie had brought, and ate a picnic. It had been packed into a wicker hamper belonging to Ivor, which, he had told her, had belonged to his parents.

  ‘They had a car, and we used to pack the hamper and go into the fields and woods to spend the day watching birds and admiring the flowers that my mother used to paint. She was a talented watercolourist,’ he had often told her proudly. Such a pity she had never met them, although. Marie sometimes thought his mother might not have approved of Ivor’s marriage.

  ‘I wish I’d known them – your parents sound so interesting.’ she said as she began unpacking the food.

  ‘You’d have loved them,’ Ivor said fondly. ‘I miss them so much.’

  Sitting on the beach, as the sun rose high in the sky, Marie wondered at the life Ivor had been used to and was grateful he had settled for a widow who worked in a dress shop and her two sons. From the few things he let slip, it was clear that there had been wealth in the family, but it had all been lost when Ivor’s parents had died.

  Across the breadth of the bay the sand was full of families doing the same as they were and although they spoke only to those near enough to join in conversation, walk with them to the edge of the tide where they watched the children bathing, or join in with the games organized by Ivor, she felt they were among friends. They had known the nearby revellers but a few hours and were unlikely ever to see them again, yet they were close for the hours they were there and she didn’t want the day to end.

  Ivor and Royston climbed the metal ladder up the cliff to the café high above the beach and brought a tray of teas and cakes at four o’clock, Violet had two donkey rides, pretending to be scared as the patient animals walked around the well-worn track in the sand.

  Ice-cream, which had been banned during the war years, was in demand, and the three children stood in a queue for a long time as the stall-holders doled out cornets and wafers, then ran back with their tongues busily licking around their fists to catch the drips and not waste any of the precious treat.

  As shadows changed the colour of the cliffs and the tide slid quietly up across the sand, families began to disperse, they said their farewells to the friends who had shared their day and packed up to leave. Violet dragged her bathing costume off, complaining mildly about its determination to cling to her wet skin. While she rubbed herself dry, Marie held a towel to protect her from straying eyes, and the boys ran to find a suitable corner to serve the same purpose. They went home and shook the sand out of clothes and towels and unpacked the remnants of the hamper.

  They were all tired and by ten o’clock they were in bed, Marie and Ivor talking softly, laughing occasionally as they reminisced about their wonderful day. They slept in each other’s arms, content with life and aware of their good fortune.

  *

  Ivor worked in the offices of a wood merchant and although the yard and workshops were dusty places, he always wore a good suit. He was picking his way across the yard a few days later, trying not to get mud on his highly polished shoes, when a voice called, ‘Ivor? Ivor Masters? Is that you? Well damn me, it is!’

  Ivor turned slowly, dread filling his heart. He knew the harsh, loud voice instantly and it spelled disaster. The man was standing at the top of the steps near the office door. He was wearing brown overalls, dirty boots and carrying a sheaf of papers. Unless he could dissuade him and pretend not to know him, this man could destroy his life. Ruin everything he’d built. Uncover all his lies.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he asked, forcing a sharp tone into his voice.

  ‘Yes, of course you do. I’m Jinks, Jinks Jenkins. We were at school together, surely you must remember me?’

  ‘I’m not local,’ Ivor said, still coldly.

  The man stood there grinning. ‘Your mam still in prison, is she?’

  ‘You are mistaking me for someone else. My mother isn’t a criminal and she died years ago.’ He pointed to the office. ‘If it’s a delivery, ask the girl in the office to sign for it.’

  ‘It isn’t a delivery,’ the man insisted, ‘it’s a query.’ He was still wearing a wide grin, holding back laughter. ‘Ivor Masters with the potty parents.
Well, would you believe it?’

  ‘If you’d go into the office I’ll be there in a moment to help you. As for my parents, you’re mistaken, they’re both dead.’

  ‘Your old man isn’t. Saw him a few weeks ago. Your mam is probably still in prison.’

  The man refused to be discouraged, and when he eventually left, having given Ivor the address where he believed his father was living, promising to call again and bring news of him, Ivor felt sick. It was all going to blow up in his face.

  He tried to ignore what he had learned, in fact he threw away the piece of paper left by Jenkin Jenkins, who he clearly remembered from school, and who had been one of his many tormentors. Ivor had been small, skinny and, with parents like his, he had been a gift to the bullies, of whom Jinks had been one.

  He stayed in the office for longer than usual, trying to prepare himself for what was coming. Before leaving he emptied the waste bin, rescued the torn paper on which the address had been written in childish block letters, and put it in his wallet.

  Creeping through the woods and lanes, wanting to see but not be seen by his father, he was unaware that his furtive manner had attracted the curiosity of Geoff Tanner the ironmonger. Ivor found his father sitting in a woodland glade and learned that his mother – whose existence he had denied since he was twelve – was dead. Nothing would the same again – for him, for Marie or the children. By the chance visit of the hated Jenkin Jenkins, his life had collapsed like the sand castles they had built on Barry Island beach being overtaken by the tide. He needed money and he needed it fast. It was the only hope of holding on to what he had.

  *

  It was the third week in August 1946, eleven weeks since Ivor’s life had fallen apart. A few days later, both Ivor and their daughter Violet would celebrate their birthdays. Ivor would be thirty-eight and Violet would be eight. Marie had planned a surprise party, although she wondered whether Ivor – this stranger who was her husband – would even be aware of the special days. She glanced at the clock for the fourth time in as many minutes. It was still only five minutes to five and there was half an hour yet before the the ladies’ gown shop closed its doors and she could leave. Then she’d have to dash home to prepare a meal for Royston and Roger, collect Violet from her parents and set off for Mrs Founds’s house, where she had promised to paint her kitchen. It was Saturday, and while other assistants in the small dress shop looked forward to a leisurely weekend, she faced an evening and a Sunday of hard work besides preparing a birthday tea for Violet and a supper for Ivor and a few of their friends. Avoiding the beady eyes of Mr Harries, the shop manager, she took out her notebook and went over the jobs she had arranged to do. Paint the outside lavatory and coal house door in Blake Street; she should finish that tomorrow lunchtime. Paint and wallpaper another bedroom. That would take all tomorrow and two evenings besides, she thought with a groan. And she’d fit another job in between, staining a living room floor for old Mr Greaves while she waited for paint to dry. What a life! Since that wonderful day out in June, when their lives had been so perfect, everything had inexplicably changed: Ivor was no longer a loving husband and devoted father. He was a man she didn’t know.

  Something had happened but he refused to tell her what had changed him. Another woman? He was unhappy with his family, so wasn’t it possible he wished to be somewhere else or with someone else? He rarely spoke and stayed out most evenings. Gambling was no longer a bit of fun, it had become an obsession, and most of his wages were gone before they reached the house.

  She went through the materials she would need, making a mental note of what she would take with her to each job, then sighed. If only Ivor would help. A small man but strong, and a fast worker when he was involved with something, but as much use as a mouldy loaf. Help? Not Ivor! He’d be sitting in his chair browsing through the evening newspaper, pretending not to be searching the runners for Monday’s races and probably hiding the fact that he’d once more lost most of his wages to the bookie’s runner who collected bets from the wood yard where he worked. Yesterday had been Friday, pay day, only she hadn’t seen a penny, her own few pounds being all she had to pay rent and feed them all. Both Royston and Roger had left school the previous Easter but no job they’d taken had lasted longer than a couple of weeks.

  ‘Something wrong, Mrs Masters? Are we keeping you from something important?’ Mr Harries asked sarcastically. ‘If you could concentrate on what you’re paid for it would be nice. It looks so bad when customers came in and see my assistants standing about. The stock room needs sweeping, the alteration hand never does a proper job, does she?’

  Marie put away the notebook and went to brush the floor of the stock room – a task she had already done and which hadn’t needed doing the first time. ‘Mr Harries is always on my back,’ she muttered to Judy Morris, as she reached for the brush, the bristles of which were flattened and divided into a V, like a giant moustache.

  ‘He fancies you, that’s why,’ Judy whispered in reply. ‘Fancies you rotten he does.’

  ‘He’d be lucky! Ivor is enough for me, thank you.’ Marie grinned and added, ‘Too much, in fact. I’d have sent him back to his mother long ago but she won’t have him.’

  ‘Someone in his family’s got some sense then.’ They joked, both believing Ivor to be an orphan, who had been brought up in a children’s home.

  ‘I don’t understand what went wrong. How could such a kind, loving man suddenly become a selfish stranger?’

  Judy didn’t reply. She thought it best not to add an opinion or to criticize, she wanted to be there when Marie needed someone to talk to, and criticizing a loved one, even one who was out of favour, was a certain way to damage a friendship.

  *

  As Marie approached 41 Hill Crescent, the noise met her before she reached the gate. The twins were arguing again and in between their raised voices she heard the louder, angrier voice of Ivor trying to calm them. She increased her speed and pushed in through the back door, her voice shrill above the rest. Violet was crouched in a corner, pale and frightened, and when she saw her mother she jumped up and ran towards her. ‘Mam, stop them. I don’t like it,’ the little girl wailed.

  Marie dropped the shopping bag she was carrying and swung her leather handbag, catching first Royston then Roger a heavy clout across the head. As she swung the bag back for a third swipe, it caught Ivor and he grabbed the bag roughly and threw it down. ‘Calm yourself, Marie, I’ve got everything under control. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all, mind. Calm yourself and leave this to me.’

  She looked at the room, in which a serious fight had clearly taken place. A vase and several cups and saucers lay broken on the floor, cushions were torn, furniture awry. Her shoulders dropped as she hugged the tearful little girl.

  ‘Why aren’t you with Nana and Bampy?’

  ‘Sent me home they did. Said they were going to the pictures.’ She stifled a sob. ‘Mam, they frightened me.’

  All this, Marie thought, and I have to go out and work for at least two more hours. It just isn’t fair. Although it was futile, she asked herself again, what had gone wrong? Whatever had happened to Ivor had changed them all. The boys fighting – that never used to happen – and Violet frightened in her own home.

  She had changed, too, now the lack of money had forced her to find extra work to keep them solvent, juggling all the things she had to do, never having time to listen, and losing patience too easily. And things were getting worse, not better. They seemed to be even more desperately short of money, yet Ivor was still employed at the wood merchants, and she worked all the hours she could. Where was the money going? It couldn’t be only gambling, no one gambled away everything their family needed.

  ‘Right then,’ she said firmly as the boys stood shame-faced near the door. ‘This is your mess and you’ll clear it up. I have to go to work to pay for the damage. Come on, Violet, lovely, we’ll leave them to it.’

  ‘But, Mam, we’re starving hungry,’ Royston compl
ained. ‘What’s for our tea then?’

  ‘Whatever you can find!’ Trying to hide her tears from her small daughter, she led the child out to the shed, where she picked up the paint and brushes and cleaning materials she would need and, still shaking and distressed and with an overwhelming feeling of helplessness, of being caught in a cruel trap from which there was no escape, she went to start on Mrs Founds’s kitchen.

  ‘We’ll have some chips, shall we? Just you and me?’ Then she remembered Ivor throwing her bag down. She’d left it there, and even if she turned and went back now this minute her wages would almost certainly be gone.

  Mrs Founds might let her have a couple of Coppers in advance, especially if she explained that it was for Vi. She was a kind lady and always gave her a little more than the agreed price for the work she did.

  When she accepted the ten shillings Mrs Founds gave her, and returned from the shop with chips for Violet, she saw Mrs Founds watching her and at once jumped as though caught out. ‘I won’t be a minute, Mrs Founds. I’ll just get Vi a drink of water then I’ll be back on the job.’

  ‘My dear girl, don’t rush so. You know you shouldn’t be be doing this on a Saturday evening. After a full week at the shop you should be relaxing, having a bit of fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ Tears slipped out of Marie’s eyes as she thought of the mess at home where her sons had been ‘having fun’.

  ‘You’re worth more than this, dear. You really are.’

  It was almost ten o’clock when Marie returned to the house, dragging a sleepy Vi and carrying the remnants of the materials and tools. The house was in darkness and she wondered whether that meant Ivor and the twins were asleep or out somewhere spending money they didn’t have.

  Ivor was asleep in the chair, the fire was out and when she tried to light the gas she found that the fragile mantle had been broken, probably in the fight. She fumbled in a drawer and found the new mantle, silky in its packet, and fixed it to the lamp jutting out of the wall on its arched stand. She lit a match and waited while the mantle blazed then calmed to its clear light, spreading before her the chaos, which was exactly as she had left it. No attempt had been made to clear up the mess. In fact there was more: the table had been carelessly cleared by pushing things to the floor and a meal had been eaten. A loaf was down to its crust and an empty jar of fish paste with its lid and fastening band beside it.