The Bondage of Love Page 5

  ‘Here!’ She pushed a jacket at him. ‘Get that smarmy look off your face. I’m not holding this in front of you for you to examine the lining. Get it on.’

  ‘But…but why?’

  ‘For the simple reason, if you’re wearing that and it’s buttoned up to your neck and you’ve got a foil in your hand, it helps you to bend your knees, and to know where your heel should go.’

  As he looked at her he had the strangest feeling. It was something akin to that which he felt for Sammy. In this moment he also felt he couldn’t get home quickly enough to tell both his mam and dad about her, and the things she said. In a way she could almost match Mr Love.

  Yet, it was strange: when he got home he didn’t mention their one-sided conversation; in fact, he had little to say about Daisy Gallagher for almost a year after attending this first fencing class in the Sports Centre.

  It was Katie who did the talking when they got home. She had seen a demonstration of karate and another of judo. They were different, but both were for self-defence. She was going to take up judo first, because this would teach her how to throw. Karate was supposed to be the gentler type of defence, but this required one to have very strong arms. And yet, no, she had said, as if it were she herself who had been delivering the lecture, it really depended on the swiftness and the movements of the body. You bent backwards and you brought the assailant with you. And here she had actually described what she had seen, with Sammy being a willing model on this occasion. And she had finished, ‘Everybody was so nice,’ only for Sammy to put in, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh! What about Daisy?’

  ‘Oh…yes, Daisy. I must tell you more about Daisy some time, Mam. She’s a scream. You know whom she put me in mind of?’ She now turned to Sammy. ‘Your father. When she opens her mouth, somehow you’ve got to laugh; more so when she’s angry.’

  ‘Yes, and you put your foot in it. In fact, your two feet, by laughing in the wrong places. And’—Sammy had turned to Bill—‘she called her po-face and promised to wipe the grin off her face.’ And Bill, looking at Katie, said, ‘The girl said that to you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, she did.’ Katie was laughing back at him.

  ‘And you didn’t do anything?’

  ‘No. I know when to shut up.’

  As Bill looked at her, he thought, I wish, my dear, you had learned that earlier, for then Rupert would still be a visitor to the house. Since he had gone and Davey had died it seemed that they had lost half their family. And Fiona was feeling that, too, he knew. Something was worrying her; he couldn’t get to the bottom of it. It had nothing to do with the child. Oh, no. She loved Angela as much as he did now, and was even more protective of her. But there was something; at times she acted as if she was lonely. But that was ridiculous; she had six of them to look after, besides himself. Of course, she did it with the help of Nell, who was also her close friend. And she was on excellent terms with her mother now. So what could be troubling her? Oh, well, perhaps he should take her out more; he would if he could spare the time. Well, he would just have to spare the time, and the Hunt Ball would be the beginning of it. As the saying went, ‘There’s no good in keeping a dog and barking yourself.’ And he had all those dogs on the works, and two good managers, and all his own tribe were foremen. So, yes, he would give himself more leisure in the future, and that would likely straighten everything out.

  Three

  The Hunt Ball was a great success. They were welcomed personally in the hall by George Ferndale and his wife Elsa.

  George Ferndale was a keen horseman. He was also a barrister and a member of the board of the Sir Charles Kingdom trust.

  Bill had found him a likeable enough man. He was built big and had a brusque manner to match his frame. He was what Bill called a no-nonsense fella. His wife, of course, was the opposite. She was what Bill would have termed a plastic-type model, nothing below the surface. To Fiona, she represented the High Church, good works and small, select dinners type. On the other hand George Ferndale saw Bill as an honest, hard-working climber, and in parts, a very rough diamond. And later on in the evening, after a very good meal, he wondered how the rough diamond had ever linked up with a woman such as this one? It wasn’t only that she looked a spanker, she was definitely of the middle class, and interesting into the bargain. In looks and every other way, he thought, she could knock spots off the dames sitting round the table whom he knew practically inside out, for hardly a week passed but they met up in one or the other’s house. They were a clique, he had to admit, but they all afforded him good business. Here, however, was someone, at least a pair of them, and so different in type and class that he felt he would like to know much more about them. Yes, not only her, but him.

  When, during the dancing, the four of them were left at a table, he looked at her and said, ‘How many children have you?’

  ‘Six.’ Fiona smiled at him. And at this Bill put in, ‘You’d better explain, else you’ll get a fella into a muddle.’ Then looking at George Ferndale, he said, ‘She’s got three of her own, one of mine, and two adopted.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve adopted?’ It was Elsa Ferndale asking the question now. ‘How brave of you.’

  ‘Oh, there was nothing brave about it. The little girl came to us when she was three after her parents died. They were friends of Bill’s. And then we adopted the young boy who saved Bill, you might have heard, from those two murderous individuals.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. Yes, of course, the Irishman’s son,’ put in George Ferndale. ‘Oh yes. Well now, I know something about him. Not about the boy, although the papers were full of it at the time, yes. But the father. I was in court the day he was sent up the line. It’s a wonder he didn’t get life; he had practically knocked it out of his wife’s lover. Hard case, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t a hard case.’ Fiona’s hand had gone onto Bill’s knee and pressed it hard which, in a way, said, leave this to me. And then she went on, ‘You have the wrong idea about Davey Love, I’m sorry to say, for he was a wonderful man.’

  ‘You mean Davey Love was the father of the boy who…who…?’

  ‘Yes, the father of the boy who saved Bill. The same Davey Love. He was a clever man, a wise man. His temper was his only fault. Otherwise, he played the clown, one could say. He made out that he was a thick Irishman, while all the time he was a very deep and wise one. You mightn’t believe it, you know’—she was smiling into the now stiff countenance of George Ferndale—‘no, you mightn’t believe it, but in the main he was greatly loved by almost everyone he came in contact with.’ And now her smile widened as she said, ‘Except those men who would run off with his wife, and other men who had the stupidity to call him a thick Irish Paddy. Apart from that you wouldn’t find a gentler man.’

  ‘You amaze me, you know, Mrs Bailey.’ He now turned to Bill. ‘Is she right?’

  ‘Every word of it, every word of it.’

  ‘Well,’ said George Ferndale, ‘it’s good to know I’m not too old to have surprises.’

  Fiona turned to Elsa Ferndale now, saying, ‘You have a son about the same age as mine, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’ Mrs Ferndale was nodding at her. ‘Roland is just turned seventeen, and he’s got his first car.’

  ‘It’s his first, and if he’s not careful it’ll be his last.’

  They all looked at George Ferndale now as, after emptying his glass of cherry brandy, he went on, ‘They shouldn’t be allowed on the road until they are twenty, if then. Mad, that’s what they are, youngsters, when they get behind a wheel, mad.’

  ‘Well, they’re only young once.’

  George Ferndale leant towards his wife, saying slowly now, ‘That’s a stupid thing to say, Elsa. We’ve all only been young once, and in my opinion this is the time to have some sense knocked into you.’

  ‘George,’ his wife’s voice was slightly admonishing, ‘don’t you think you’ve had your quota for tonight?’

  ‘Oh, woman!’ He turned from her to Fiona, now asking abruptly, ‘Where
’s your son at school? What’s he going in for?’

  Her voice was quiet as she said, ‘He attends the Royal Grammar, but he’s hoping to go to London to start on a medical career. That’s if he passes his exams, of course, and they’re rather stiff.’

  ‘All exams are stiff, dreadful.’

  They were all looking at Elsa Ferndale again where she sat sipping at a liqueur. ‘I don’t know how they expect the young to have the brains to answer all the questions that are put to them. I think some parents expect too much of their children. And you expect too much of our children, George. I’ve said this to you before.’

  ‘Yes, dear, and undoubtedly you’ll say it to me again.’

  Fiona had the tact not to ask which school their son attended; but Bill wasn’t possessed of such reticence, and so he said, ‘Where does your boy go to, Mrs Ferndale?’

  ‘St Augustine’s Academy. It’s a very good school, highly thought of.’

  Yes, Fiona thought, for those who can afford to pay. It was known as a crammer school. Yet she recalled Mark saying there was a boy in St Augustine’s who was cramming in the same subjects as he himself was studying, and that he too wanted to study medicine.

  ‘Would you like to dance, Mrs Bailey? I think my legs will still carry me round. I said my legs, but I won’t account for my feet. So, if you find yourself suddenly on the floor, you have been warned. Your case will come up next week.’ He was smiling widely at her now and she at him. And Bill watched his wife take the floor with the big noise of the evening, and he felt there wasn’t anyone in that hall to touch her.

  He had insisted on her buying a new gown, and it was a beautiful thing; soft apple-green velvet. It had a full skirt and a low bodice and had looked as plain as a pikestaff before she put it on. But as she had said, it was the cut that made the dress. That might be so, but she was cut out for it. She looked beautiful, and he asked himself now, as George Ferndale had asked of himself a short while before, how on earth had he come to win her? He could see that Ferndale was impressed with her. And it wasn’t only Ferndale who had been impressed with her tonight. She’d had requests to dance from three men who weren’t of their table, but were apparently known to the company. All horsemen, he surmised. He started slightly, then said, ‘What was that you said, Mrs Ferndale?’

  ‘I was saying, Mr Bailey, that some men are too hard on their children. They forget they were young once themselves. And men always want their sons to follow in their footsteps, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know so much about that, Mrs Ferndale, because if I’d had a son, my own son, I would have wished him to take up whatever profession he liked, so long as he was going to be happy in it.’

  The dance finished, George Ferndale led Fiona back to their table. They were both laughing and when they were seated, George Ferndale leant across to Bill and said, ‘Your wife’s just been telling me your daughter is a Down’s syndrome child.’

  At this Bill cast a quick glance at Fiona and she smiled at him. Then he looked back at George Ferndale, who was now saying, ‘My sister has a Down’s syndrome daughter, well, she is my niece. And as your wife said, such a child brings happiness into a home, because you’ll never find a happier home than our Lorraine’s. Betsy is now fifteen. She is a lovely child. The strange thing about it, Bailey, is that these children have gifts. Do you think along those lines?’

  Bill, now full of enthusiasm, said, ‘Yes. Yes, I do indeed. Our Angela can sculpt practically any animal she looks at, in plasticine, of course.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Well, Betsy now, she cannot talk as distinctly as one would wish, but she can sing. And when she sings, really it’s delightful to listen to her. And dance…well, I’ll tell you something in confidence—’ His voice dropped as if it were meant only for this corner of the table, yet there were other ears cocked in his direction as he said softly, ‘Lorraine had lost four babies through miscarriages, and she was on the point of losing her husband. Oh, yes. Yes, she was. Hugh is not a very patient fellow at any time, but you know, from when that child came on the scene, you wouldn’t believe it, you would have thought they had just been married and life was a bed of roses. It was, wasn’t it, Elsa? Wasn’t the house different?’

  ‘As you say, George, as you say, it was different.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course, it was different.’ His voice was raised now. ‘It was a happy home.’ He looked at Bill again. ‘They take her everywhere with them, and she’s always welcome.’

  He liked the fellow. Yes, indeed, he liked the fellow. Bill was practically nodding to himself now, and for the rest of the evening he nodded to himself, and all the way home in the car, he nodded to himself. And when he reached the house, the first thing he said was, ‘I like that fella Ferndale.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Well, as long as you like him for the same reason.’ He leaned forward and kissed her, and she said, ‘Shh! You’ll wake the house.’

  They were making for the stairs when the drawing-room door opened and a sleepy-eyed Mark said, ‘You’ve got back then?’

  ‘Mark! Why on earth have you stayed up? What’s the matter? Anything wrong?’

  ‘No. No, of course not. I just wanted to know how it went. Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘It was lovely. Lovely.’

  ‘She made a hit.’ Bill pushed Fiona before him into the sitting room, then closed the door softly behind him. ‘You should have seen them, Mark: you would have wanted to punch their noses; they were all after her.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot. But’—she looked at Mark—‘it was a nice evening. And I learned a lot, and I met a lot of nice people; some not so nice; but none to compare with my family and friends.’

  ‘Well, your friends, namely Mr and Mrs Bert Ormesby, were up till after twelve o’clock with their wonderful son, ’cos he was howling his head off.’

  ‘He’s teething. By the way,’ Bill dropped into a chair by the side of the dying fire, asking as he did so, ‘d’you know anything about Roland Ferndale?’

  ‘You mean the barrister’s son? The one who gave you the invitation?’

  ‘One and the same.’

  ‘Not much, only that the girls make a beeline for him, and he can pick and choose where he likes, I think. Because, well, he’s very good-looking. Blond, tanned skin, the lot.’

  ‘He’s just your age, isn’t he?’

  Mark looked at his mother and said, ‘Oh, a bit older, I think. Looking back, I recall he couldn’t get into R.G.S. nor Dame Allan’s. Supposedly he didn’t want to be in either, but that’s all my eye and Betty Martin, as our dear Nell would say, because he’s at a crammer, isn’t he? St Augustine’s.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he’s there.’

  ‘What about him? What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’ Both Bill and Fiona spoke together. Then Bill, pursing his lips, said, ‘Except that I don’t think he comes up to his father’s expectations. But then, which son ever does, natural or step? You never will. Going to be a bloomin’ doctor.’

  ‘Surgeon.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, surgeon. Who wants to be a surgeon? There’s no money in that.’

  ‘Oh, yes there is, Dad. There’s a lot of money in cutting up, so I’m given to understand.’

  ‘Yes, but what if there’s a lot of you aiming to cut up, and there’s only one poor bugger lying on the shelf there waiting?’

  Fiona almost jumped from the couch. She made a gurgling sound in her throat, then said, ‘You two can stay here and discuss bodies on slabs waiting to be cut up until the cows come home: here’s somebody going to bed. I’m going to dream of a fairy prince who took me to a ball, and his name certainly wasn’t Bill Bailey. You could never have a prince called Bill Bailey, now could you?’

  As she marched out of the door Mark grinned at Bill and said, ‘Has she had a drink?’

  ‘Just a glass of wine and two small liqueurs. But I’ll know what her medicine is in future, a glass of wine
and two small liqueurs. Come on, lad, let’s get to bed.’ He put his arm around Mark’s shoulders, and, like father and son, they went from the room.

  Four

  During the following months the house seemed to return to its more normal routine. In the main, things were harmonious. Bill had made a point of taking Fiona out to a good restaurant at least every other week. They had also met up with the Ferndales again, quite by accident, at the very fashionable country hotel on the outskirts of the town. This hotel sported a small orchestra and an equally small space for dancing, and the food was considered first class. For some reason that she couldn’t quite fathom, Fiona hadn’t enjoyed that evening so much. Yet everything was provided for a most enjoyable night out; even the moon had shone as they sat on the terrace indulging in their coffee and liqueurs.