The Flight of Swallows Page 36

  Charlotte put out a hand and grasped the back of the chair, defeated. ‘I’ll get my hat and coat,’ she said.

  Brooke took the telephone receiver from Mr Johnson’s hand then held it away from his ear as a shrill voice gabbled so hysterically and so incoherently that he could not make out who it was or what she was saying. It was obviously a woman.

  ‘Slow down, slow down, I can’t understand what you are telling me.’

  ‘Sir . . . gabble . . . gabble . . . come at once . . . mistress . . .’

  ‘Who is this?’ he snapped, instantly alert.

  ‘Jenny . . . Jenny, sir . . . an’ ’e’s tekken ’er.’

  ‘Jenny, for God’s sake, woman, who? What the bloody hell are you saying?’

  ‘Mrs Armstrong, sir, ’er pa come in . . .’ In her distress Jenny had reverted to the way of speaking she had done her best to eliminate, copying her mistress. ‘’E’s took ’er ter the Griffin ’Otel, she said ter tell tha’, fer a coffee.’

  ‘A coffee!’

  ‘Telephone master ter come at once, she sed ter tell tha’ . . .’

  Brooke didn’t even put the receiver back on the hook. Alarming all the servants to the extent that Nellie dropped a pan of soup all over the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, he flew to the back door, ran to the garage and jumped into the Mercedes, shouting to Percy to give the starting handle a swing. ‘In fact, get in and come with me. I might need you,’ he told the startled groom.

  ‘But I’m in me muck—’ Percy protested, for he had been mucking out the stables.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Get in.’

  The journey from King’s Meadow frightened poor Percy to death, as the master drove at an incredible sixty miles an hour racing along winding country roads through Middlestown, Horbury and thundering into Wakefield at such a rate folk on the pavements jumped hastily back in alarm. He screamed to a halt outside the Griffin Hotel, flinging poor Percy back in his seat, not even turning off the engine and leaving the motor parked askew at the front door. He ricocheted into the hotel, dodging guests and causing them to move hastily aside and porters the same, shouting after him to watch what he was doing.

  ‘The coffee lounge, where the hell’s the coffee lounge?’ he yelled at a waiter and when the man pointed a wavering hand he raced towards the open door with Percy, who had no idea what the devil was up, in close pursuit.

  She was sitting opposite her father, her face drawn, her eyes dead, leaning back in her chair with a cup of untouched coffee on the table before her while Arthur Drummond, leaning slightly forward with his elbows on the table, talked to her, expecting no answer, it seemed. He was not holding a conversation so much as giving her orders.

  Brooke’s roar of outrage lifted every head in the room and several ladies squeaked.

  In two strides he was across the room, those drinking coffee at the small tables cowering back in terror, for they thought he must be an escaped lunatic. Grabbing Arthur Drummond by the scruff of his neck, he hauled him to his feet, drew back his fist and hit him squarely on his chin. Drummond landed on his back, fortunately between two tables, and their occupants, ladies having coffee after an hour’s shopping, began to scream. But Brooke wasn’t satisfied. He wanted Drummond to stand up and allow him to hit him again and again, so when he did not he dragged him to his feet and struck him once more, this time on his nose which immediately spouted a great gout of blood.

  Charlotte, who for several moments had been paralysed with shock and fear, stood up, her chair crashing backwards into the chair occupied by a lady whose bonnet fell over her face with the impact. She was screaming Brooke’s name and attempting to get hold of him, for if no one stopped him he would surely kill her father. Percy, who had followed his master into the hotel, spreading dung on the luxurious carpet in the entrance hall, leaped across the room and tried to get a grip of his other arm, the one that the mistress could not reach. The room was in uproar. Several waiters were doing their babbling best to restore order and the manager, when he arrived on the scene, could not believe his eyes.

  ‘Sir!’ he was shouting to no avail, for it was obvious that the gentleman attacking the second gentleman was just that, a gentleman. In fact he recognised him as the wealthy and influential landowner Mr Brooke Armstrong and the one he was doing his best to smash to pieces was another, though not so wealthy nor so influential. There was a working man with muck on his boots and a lady screaming Mr Armstrong’s name and everyone in the coffee lounge was either shrieking – the ladies – or protesting loudly that they had never seen anything like it in their lives.

  ‘I shall send for the constable,’ he cried, doing his best with the man in working clothes to hold back Mr Armstrong, but by now it seemed the white-hot rage that was consuming Mr Armstrong, whatever it was about, was cooling, owing to his wife, the one who owned the Carpet Shop across the Bull Ring, dragging him, soothing him, pleading with him to come away or he would be arrested.

  Dazed and bleeding, the second gentleman was helped to his feet, his face a mask of hatred. The thought passed through the manager’s mind that if the look directed at Mr Armstrong by the bloodstained gentleman had been hurled at him he would have been exceedingly frightened. His lip was curled back in a snarl, rather like that of a wolf ready to attack. He could barely stand and a couple of waiters held him, one on each arm, for though he was the one who had been attacked there seemed to be a chance he might retaliate.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, I beg you,’ the manager began, but Arthur Drummond, who had been taken completely by surprise by Brooke’s appearance and attack – in fact he had been feeling particularly jubilant at his own success in cowing Charlotte – was in a rage so great he almost hit the man who held him. She had agreed to visit him at her old home, or ‘call on him’ as he had put it, in the manner of their class, but they both knew exactly what that entailed. She would persuade her husband to dine with him and to invite him to dine at King’s Meadow. They were to put on a front to ensure that their mutual friends would be made to realise that their feud had been forgotten. They were to be ‘friends’ in fact, and he would rather enjoy riding with her on her husband’s acres, he had told her and if her husband proved awkward then Charlotte was to let him know that Ellie would at once be brought back to live with him at the Mount. And then there was the question of his own grandchildren: what were their names? Ah yes, Lucy and Toby. He might like to have them brought over to the Mount now and again, just to make sure Charlotte was not allowing them to become undisciplined. She had been known to be indulgent with her brothers, particularly Robert. He wanted all this to be plain to them both so that when he kept his appointment with his lawyer he could tell him that all was now settled. Sir Clive could visit his granddaughter whenever he wished, either at the Mount or at King’s Meadow. All he wanted in return for this perfectly reasonable request was that Charlotte and he would be friends again!

  It was at that moment Brooke Armstrong had slammed across the coffee lounge and, if Arthur was not mistaken, broken some of his teeth.

  ‘I want this man arrested,’ he hissed through his bleeding lips, taking the white napkin the manager held out to him and putting it to his face. ‘I think I have enough witnesses to prove that I was sitting here talking peacefully to my daughter when he—’

  ‘My wife!’ Brook bellowed. ‘And I dare say he would not be willing to repeat what he was saying to her. Demanding of her. He is a bastard, a bloody pervert . . .’

  ‘Brooke, darling, please . . .’ Charlotte was doing her best to draw him away from the shocked and silently staring crowd of onlookers, some of the ladies beginning to whimper, for in their sheltered lives they were not accustomed to hearing such language nor to seeing such violence. Brooke wanted nothing more than to have another go at smashing Drummond’s face in but the touch of his wife’s hand, the sound of her voice calmed him and he was not to know that she was beginning to regret the telephone call she had asked Jenny to make. But she had been fearful of what her fat
her might do: lure her into his carriage which waited outside the shop, or drag her somewhere down a ginnel at the back of . . . God knew he was mad enough, and she had panicked. And now look what had happened!

  She had been prepared to agree to anything her father demanded of her, no matter how humiliating. She had sat and listened to his whispered ultimatums, nodding her head as though she were willing to give in to them. She had kept her eyes averted so that he would not see the loathing in them and the growing, secret determination to deny him what he wanted. She would never become his ‘friend’ – dear sweet Jesus, she knew exactly what that meant – she would never, never give Ellie over to him nor let him have any input on how she reared her own children even if she had to persuade Brooke to move away and hide these precious children from him. Her own brothers had come for Christmas as they had done ever since she had married Brooke and though they appeared to have overcome their strict, no, cruel upbringing she would not under any circumstances permit her own children, nor his, to be treated as she and her brothers had been. He would never be allowed across her doorstep and she would not call on him at the Mount, she vowed silently. Sir Clive, if he wished it, though he had shown no sign of it so far, might come and visit his granddaughter at King’s Meadow. Besides, she knew Brooke would agree to none of his demands. He’d kill him first. Dear God in heaven, help me, help me . . .

  Brooke allowed his wife to draw him away. He was nearly out of his mind with fury but was sensible enough to know that if the manager called the police they would be forced to make some sort of enquiry. He might be taken to the police station and where would that leave Charlotte and the children? Unprotected, that’s what!

  ‘Come, darling, come,’ Charlotte was murmuring softly as though she wanted no one but him to hear. Her father was still shrieking that he would have justice but he too was beginning to realise that this public display of his family’s affairs was doing his own cause no good. He wanted Charlotte to fall in with what he had whispered in her ear but not for the whole world – their world – to know about it.

  Reluctantly but quietly, much to the relief of the manager, Mr Armstrong let himself be led across the lounge and through the entrance hall into the street. Holding her tightly to him he crossed the Bull Ring and entered the Carpet Shop. Percy followed respectfully, wondering what the hell was to happen next. The motor stood idling by the front door of the hotel, the engine still running, surrounded by a group of awed spectators, small boys trying to get up the courage to touch the shining machine, a policeman moving slowly towards them, for the sight of one of these incredible machines impressed them all. Not many were seen in these parts. Obviously whoever owned it would not like a bunch of youngsters climbing all over it; besides, it was causing a bit of a traffic hold-up.

  ‘We won’t be long, Constable,’ Brooke said firmly from the doorway then, turning to Charlotte, told her to get her hat and coat.

  ‘I’ve got them on.’

  ‘Right then, whatever else you may want to take home.’

  ‘I’m not going home, Brooke. He—’

  ‘You are coming home, Charlotte, and you are staying there until this bloody matter is resolved. Hurry up, or the constable will—’

  ‘I can’t just leave.’

  ‘You can and you will. You will stay where you are safe under the protection of the men I employ. I was mad to let you come here,’ sweeping his arm round the shop as though they were in the wilds of the new world surrounded by savages. ‘No wonder he just walked in and forced you to accompany him wherever he fancied taking you. Thank God it was only into the coffee lounge. God alone knows what you would have done if he had demanded you get in his carriage.’ His voice almost broke and he took her roughly in his arms to the embarrassment of Jenny and Mr Joseph. ‘My darling, do you know how precious you are to me, how fine. I love the very bones of you, and our children, and if I have to keep the lot of you safe by chaining you in the cellar I’ll do it. Now then, come home.’

  Still she resisted. ‘Jenny cannot manage here on her own.’ Her face was muffled against his chest. ‘I cannot run it from—’

  ‘Then we’ll shut the blasted place. I mean it, Charlotte. I’ve allowed it because—’

  She dragged herself out of his sheltering arms, her face bright with indignant pride. ‘Allowed it! Brooke, Queen Victoria is dead. Women are fighting for the vote. We are independent or wish to be and most have husbands who are in charge of them as though they were children who could not decide for themselves. My love’ – as he pulled away from her, as indignant as she was – ‘you are not one of them and I know it is only this present danger that made you speak as you did, but I cannot just close the shop and—’

  ‘Charlotte, how can you ask me to let my wife be threatened as your father threatens you? He is not in his right mind, you know that, and is unstable and the devil knows what he will do next. The children are not safe even in the confines of the garden. The men do their best but he is unpredictable, clever in his own mad way and I dare not, will not take the chance that he will trap you in Wakefield. I have nothing with which to go to the law in order to protect you. He is, so far as they know, a respectable, law-abiding citizen and it is your word only—’

  ‘And Kizzie’s.’

  ‘Kizzie is not of his class and her word would not count against his. You must see that.’

  She sighed and turned away. ‘Very well, I will stay at home and do my best to keep the place running under Jenny’s guidance. We can communicate by telephone if there are any problems and Mr Joseph is experienced in the manufacture of carpets. He will do the buying, I suppose, but . . .’

  She turned and moved towards the small, glassed office at the back of the shop to which Jenny and Mr Joseph had tactfully removed themselves. She spoke to them briefly and though Brooke could not hear what she said he could see them turn to look at one another in consternation. Then briefly they nodded. Charlotte returned to him and with obvious reluctance took his hand and moved with him out of the shop and into the Mercedes. Percy had not dared to climb into it as he waited for his master and mistress but stood at attention as though guarding it from the slack-jawed onlookers who were not only astonished by the machine but by him, who looked what he was. A working man who was more used to mucking out stables than riding in a motor car.

  Thankfully he climbed into the back seat when told to do so by Mr Armstrong and with great relief, at least on his part, they headed for home.

  It worked in a fashion. Charlotte spent some time in the workshop at the Dower House, for Wallace Chapman continued to send abused and injured girls to her, most of them for a rest before moving on.

  ‘I have no space for any more, Wallace,’ she told him, ‘nor the work. I can give them some place to recover from their injuries, that I promise, but unless I extend the roof space in the workshop there is not room for them all. Kizzie keeps them busy and Miss Seddon at the village school is always glad of a bit of help, though without pay, I’m afraid. I know they will probably return to their profession . . . oh, really, it is too awful what men do to women and what women put up with. D’you know I’ve half a mind to join the Huddersfield branch of the Women’s Suffrage Society. Women’s suffrage knows that the lot of women will not improve until politicians are made accountable to a female electorate—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa.’ Wallace laughed. ‘You sound like my wife and if you feel as you do why don’t you come to one of her meetings? Someone like you could have much influence with a husband as liberal as yours.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had one. A meeting, I mean.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t approve of a militant organisation like Mrs Pankhurst’s, at least not at the moment but they seem to be getting nowhere whatever their beliefs. Anyway, this isn’t solving your problem, which is that of your father’s determination to disrupt your life as much as possible.’

  ‘If there was something you could do . . .’

  ‘I never see him now, my dear. He has r
ecovered from his . . . ’er, injuries and no longer needs my attention.’ He stood up and made his way towards the door. He had been checking on Hetty and her newborn son and he liked to look in on all the girls who had passed through his hands.

  ‘What you do for these young women is very worthwhile, Charlotte. I know it must seem like a drop in the ocean to you, as it does to me, but it is all we can do. Now, I must go. I am due at the Clayton. I have a colleague interested in neurology – medicine of the mind, he calls it – or a new word, schizophrenia. I believe it means a mind that is split but I am no expert in the field. Now if there is anything I can do let me know.’

  She sat for an hour in the drawing room after Wallace had gone, pondering on the possibility that what he had said might have some bearing on the state of her father’s mind. He seemed perfectly normal to other people, to his friends, those with whom he dined, but he had this fixation on her, his own daughter which, if they had known of it, they would not believe.

  She stood up and moved to the window to look at the children and the dogs romping on the lawn under the watchful eye of two gardeners and one of the men who carried rifles broken over their arms. He was almost hidden on the edge of the treeline beyond the lake, since he did not wish to frighten the children who were not really old enough to understand anyway. Toby was walking quite steadily now but without taking his eyes from the ground so that he would not miss the smallest object. A daisy, a beetle, a scurrying line of ants, a coloured stone, any of which would stop him and instantly absorb his baby interest. As she watched he crouched down, his head between his plump knees, then, leaning forward, he trapped whatever it was between his thumb and finger. His tongue protruded from his mouth and as babies had done from the beginning of time he put whatever it was in his mouth. Aisling let out a cry and ran forward, picking up the child, for he had been known to crunch a snail between his teeth. Prising open his mouth, much against his will, she scraped it out, ignoring his indignant cries. Taddy bounded exuberantly across the grass and ran full tilt into Aisling and knocked her and Toby over but they were both laughing by now and when she stood up the nursemaid threw Toby into the air and caught him expertly, then ran down the garden followed by Lucy and Ellie, begging to be told what it was Toby had eaten this time.