The Silent Lady Read online

  Also by Catherine Cookson

  Kate Hannigan’s Girl

  A House Divided

  The Desert Crop

  The Maltese Angel

  The Rag Nymph

  My Beloved Son

  The Love Child

  The Wingless Bird

  The Black Candle

  The Bailey Chronicles

  The Harrogate Secret

  The Parson’s Daughter

  The Bannaman Legacy

  The Whip

  The Black Velvet Gown

  The Moth

  The Golden Straw

  The Obsessions

  The Upstart

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or

  are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales

  or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Originally published in 2001 in Great Britain by Bantam Press

  Copyright © 2001 by The Trustees of the Catherine

  Cookson Charitable Trusts

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  eISBN 978-0-7432-3003-2

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered

  trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 0-7432-2761-1

  Contents

  PART ONE: 1955

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  PART TWO: 1929-1955

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  PART THREE: 1955

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue 1959

  Dedication

  This story was not meant to be written. I thought I had done my last one with The Branded Man. However, I had forgotten the machine I had set in motion fifty years ago.

  This last year has proved more than trying. My blood trouble seems to have gone wild: not only have I had my nose packed frequently, but there have been more sojourns in hospital for operations to deal with the bleedings in my stomach. I will not add to these with all the other bodily afflictions ... I was finished.

  Apparently, the machine did not hear me, for one day it presented me with a very good idea for a story. It was then I said to it, ‘How on earth shall I be able to get down a story now? First, I cannot see either to read or to write; only with guidance can I write my signature. Secondly, what time have I got? Doctors are forever coming and going; Tom is forever attending to my bodily needs, which do not stop at the end of the day; there is the post to be answered by my dictation, and the constant discussions on the phone about business and television; moreover, there is my editing of film scripts through dictation to Tom, who reads them aloud to me; also the editing through the same source of scripts ready for the printer; and so it is no wonder that exhaustion takes me into bouts of ME.’

  A part of my mind told me that I had to face up to what ‘they’ were all saying: I was old and no longer fit to carry on at this rate. And so the writing of another story was definitely off.

  But, try as I might, the old machine would not listen to me. ‘It’s a good idea,’ it kept saying; ‘different from the way you have tackled anything else. All right, but you are not going to be able to put it down; but thinking it through might help to take your mind off your miseries.’

  I must have said to it, ‘Well, what is it going to be all about?’ and the answer came, ‘Well, first, I think a good title for it will be The Silent Lady.’

  ‘What? The Silent Lady?’

  ‘Yes; and in her you have the whole story, right from beginning to end, the Silent Lady.’

  Only once before has this happened to me. The result – The Fifteen Streets. This was after the publication of my first book, Kate Hannigan. The follow-up did not suit my publishers, who wished to cut it, particularly those parts dealing with religion. I wouldn’t have it: I asked for it back.

  So there I was on this freezing cold morning, just after the war (coal rationed to a ton a year) in a freezing cold house, and I was dead cold inside, for my mind was a void - I hadn’t an idea in it.

  I was in a breakdown; I was fighting against religion - I had definitely discarded God – but there I sat, huddled in a vast cold room. I’ve never known, even now, what made me resort to my dramatic gesture: I threw back my head and looked up to the ceiling and cried, ‘If there’s anybody there, give me a story!’

  It might be unbelievable, but within an hour I had the complete story of The Fifteen Streets, right from the first line to the last, and I sat down and started on it straight away; and I did not alter one word or incident in that book over the weeks it took me to get it down in longhand.

  The whole plan came over as it had first been presented to me: every character and incident in that story now has been filmed and staged all over the country, even in small village halls.

  Well, the same thing was happening again. My mind gave me every character, every incident from the beginning to the end, and I found it to be a kind of salve: instead of my mind rambling on, always negative thinking – I had little to look forward to – it would pick up where I had left off in this story and continue as if I had never stopped.

  This went on for some months, and one day I said to Tom, when he was trying to break the sameness of my life with reading to me, ‘I have a good story in my mind, but it will always remain there.’

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Couldn’t you put it down on to tape?’

  Even to myself, my voice was cold as I said, ‘Don’t be silly. There are times when I can hardly hear my own voice. And I am no longer able to yammer into that machine.’ And truthfully, I wasn’t.

  But the damned rusty old wheel said, ‘Here I am, grinding away listening to your complaining, your criticising, and your self-pity; and I am warning you, your self-pity will take over and bottle those all up; and one day you’ll have just too much of it, when you’ll find you’re not able to think coherently. And then, what little time you have left will be wasted. And where has all the big noise gone – the one that keeps preaching “Never say die!” or “I can and I will”?’

  Tom says he has stopped being amazed at anything I say or do, because one day, only a short time after having my nose packed, I muttered, ‘Put my table so that I can handle my microphone,’ and without comment or protest, he did so. And there it began.

  I knew the story was going to be different: as a character was born I seemed to emerge from the womb of it and live its life. As in The Fifteen Streets, I knew every piece of dialogue that had to go down and every incident; and when I came to Bella Morgan, I was in her body more than I was in my own. Although, because of the comings and goings of doctors and bed attention and the like, I could put it down only in bits and pieces, with my voice often inaudible, it became something I looked forward to; in fact, I just seemed to live for the time I could return to this ‘family’ and to the Silent L
ady herself.

  Then one day, after what seemed a long, long time since I had joined them all, it was finished, and I said to Tom, ‘When did I start this?’ And he said, ‘Exactly a month ago today.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Yes,’ he assured me, ‘a month ago today! And now you are utterly exhausted in all ways, aren’t you?’

  I lay thinking: Yes, I was. I was utterly exhausted. But how could I have got all that down in just a month? And how could I say to him now, ‘There are two places where I have repeated myself, and three others that I know I must cut because the descriptions are too long’?

  He looked at me in utter amazement: ‘You can remember it all like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes; every word,’ I said.

  It went to the typist. Some weeks later I got it back – 876 pages of it.

  I do not believe in the dogma of any religious denomination but, as I have said before, I believe there is a spirit coming from some power or source that runs through all of us. In some strange way that I do not question, I have been able to tap into that source. This is what has enabled me always to say ‘I can and I will’; and it is working still and helping me through this traumatic time of illness; and sometimes so strongly that one could say I have been given the power to create little miracles for myself; and for it, I am thankful.

  So this story I dedicate to all those faithful readers who have become my faceless friends over many years, and I thank you for your loyalty to me.

  I hope you will enjoy this last effort of mine, which came as an inspiration to me when I needed it most.

  Catherine

  PART ONE

  1955

  1

  The woman put out her hand towards the brass plate to the side of the half-open door. She did not look at the name on the plate, which said, ‘Alexander Armstrong & Son, Solicitors’, but seemed to find support from it by touching its frame while she stood drawing in deep, shuddering breaths.

  When she finally straightened herself and stepped through the doorway into a carpeted hall, she made her faltering way towards the desk to the left of her, behind which stood a young woman with her mouth agape.

  The receptionist did not greet the visitor with a customary ‘Can I help you, madam?’ or ‘Have you an appointment?’ because, to her, it was instantly evident that this woman was a vagrant and had no business here; so she did not wait for her to speak but said, ‘What d’you want? I ... I think you’ve come to the wrong place.’

  When the woman answered, ‘Mis-ter Armstrong,’ the girl was again surprised, this time by the sound of the voice, for it didn’t match the woman’s appearance. Although it was only a husky whisper it had, she recognised, a certain refinement about it.

  But the appearance of the woman definitely outweighed the impression her voice made, for the girl now said abruptly, ‘He only sees people by appointment.’

  The woman pointed to her chest, then to her eyes and, opening her mouth wide, she brought out three words, ‘He see me.’

  ‘He’s – he’s very busy.’

  Again the head went back and the mouth opened, and the woman said, ‘Mrs Baindor.’

  Again the voice made an impression on the receptionist, so much so that she turned quickly and, pushing open the glasspanelled door of her office, she picked up the phone, at the same time watching the woman now turn from the counter and grope her way to a chair that was set near a small table on which stood a vase of flowers.

  ‘Miss Fairweather?’

  ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘There’s a ... a person here.’ Her voice was very low.

  ‘What did you say? Speak up!’

  ‘I said there’s a person here. She ... she looks like a vagrant but she says Mr Armstrong will see her.’

  ‘A vagrant! What makes you think she looks like a vagrant?’

  ‘Well, Miss Fairweather, you want to look at her yourself and see if my opinion is wrong.’ The receptionist was daring to talk like this to Miss Fairweather, but she felt there was something very unusual about this woman.

  ‘Did you get her name?’

  ‘Yes, but it sounded funny, like Barndoor.’

  ‘Barndoor?’

  ‘That’s what it sounded like.’

  At the other end of the phone Miss Fairweather sat pondering. Should she go downstairs and see who this person was who looked like a vagrant, or should she mention the name to Mr Armstrong to see if he knew any such person? She decided on the latter. She tapped on the door that separated her office from that of her employer and when that gentleman raised his head from reading a large parchment set out in front of him and said, ‘What is it?’ she coughed before saying, ‘Miss Manning says there’s an odd-looking person downstairs who says she wants to see you. Apparently she doesn’t seem able to get rid of her. From Miss Manning’s tone the woman appeared to think that you would know her name.’

  ‘Well, what is it? I mean her name.’

  ‘It sounded to Miss Manning, so she says, like Barndoor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, that’s what she said . . . Barndoor.’

  Miss Fairweather was absolutely astounded at her employer’s reaction to the mention of this name, for he jumped from his seat and shouted, yes, actually shouted aloud, ‘Baindor, woman! Baindor! My God!’

  She saw the parchment that he had been dealing with almost slide off the back of the desk as he thrust his chair back, then he ran across the room, almost knocking her over where she stood holding the door half open.

  She had been with Mr Armstrong for fifteen years and had never seen him act like this. He was a placid, middle-aged man, strict in a way but always courteous. His excitement touched her. And now she was on the landing watching him almost leaping down the stairs.

  When Alexander Armstrong reached the hall he stood for a moment gripping the stanchion post as he looked across at the woman, her body almost doubled up in the chair. He couldn’t believe it: he couldn’t and he wouldn’t until he saw her face.

  The woman did not lift her eyes to his until she saw his legs standing before her; then slowly she looked up and he gasped at the sight of her. The face might have been that of her skeleton, with the skin stretched over it, so prominent was the bone formation. Only the eye sockets tended to fall inwards and from them two pale, blood-shot eyes gazed up at him.

  Two words seemed to fill Alexander Armstrong’s mind and body and they kept repeating themselves: My God! My God! Then, too, was added the knowledge that sitting here looking at him with those almost dead eyes was a woman for whom he had been searching – at least, for whom he and his business had been searching – for twenty-five years. No, nearly twenty-six.

  The words he brought out were in a muttered stammer: ‘M-M-Mrs Baindor.’

  She did not answer but made a small movement with her strangely capped head.

  He held his arms out to her now, saying, ‘Come upstairs with me, Irene.’

  When she made the attempt to rise she fell back into the chair and her body seemed to fold up again. At this he swung round to where Miss Fairweather was standing at the foot of the stairs and yelled at her, ‘Call my son!’ and when she answered shakily, ‘He’s out, Mr Armstrong; you know, on the Fullman case.’

  ‘Then get Taggart – anybody!’

  The chief clerk Taggart’s office was at the other end of the building, and Miss Fairweather ran back up the stairs and along the corridor. Within two minutes Taggart was standing beside his employer, saying, ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Help me to get this lady to my office.’

  For a moment Henry Taggart hesitated while he took in the lady’s garb. She was a vagrant, if ever he had seen one in his life. But he did as he was bidden. Not only did he help the weird long-coated bundle to her feet, but, seeing that she was unable to stand and there wasn’t room for three of them on the stairs, he picked up what the boss had called a lady, carried her up the stairs into the main office and laid her, as directed by Alexander, on t
he leather couch that was placed next to the long window overlooking the square.

  Then, again almost shouting at his secretary, Alexander said, ‘Make a cup of tea . . . strong, plenty of sugar.’ From a cupboard he took down off a shelf a brandy flask and poured from it a measure into the silver-capped lid. This he took to the couch and, kneeling down by the woman, he put it to her lips, saying gently, ‘Drink this.’

  She made no effort to stop him pouring the liquid into her mouth; but when it hit her throat she coughed and choked and her whole body trembled. He turned and said to the clerk, ‘Go down to the office and get the girl to phone for an ambulance.’

  It must have been the sound of the word ‘ambulance’ that roused the woman, brought her head up and a protesting movement from her hand. At this Alexander, bending down to her, said, ‘It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right. Not a big hospital ... I understand. I understand.’

  She lay back now and stared at him; then he turned quickly from her and, going to the phone on his table, he rang a number. When, presently, a voice answered him, saying, ‘Beechwood Nursing Home,’ he said curtly, ‘Get me the Matron, quick!’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Never mind who’s speaking, get me the Matron quick!’

  ‘But, sir ... !’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m Miss Armstrong’s brother.’

  ‘Oh. Oh yes, yes,’ came the reply; and then there was silence. As he stood waiting, he turned and looked at the wreckage of a life lying on his couch, and again his mind cried, ‘My God!’

  ‘What is it, Alex?’ said his sister’s voice.

  ‘Listen, Glenda. I’m sending you a patient.’

  ‘You’re not asking if we’ve got any room.’

  ‘You’d have to make room somewhere. This is important.’

  ‘I cannot make rooms—’

  ‘Listen, Glenda. Have you a room?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens I have, Alex; and may I ask what is up with you?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough. Get that room ready; there’ll be an ambulance there shortly and I shall be following it.’

  The voice now was soft: ‘What is it, Alex? You sound troubled, very troubled.’