When the Clouds Go Rolling By Page 3

  ‘I think that so-called medium, Eudora Black, is Edie. I reckon she must have changed her name.’

  Clara was flabbergasted. ‘Are you sure about this? I thought she was sincere and knew what she was about.’

  ‘I can’t be absolutely sure,’ said Bernie, slurping her tea. ‘But if I’m right, then her mother used to read the tea leaves and tell fortunes. I still reckon she could be a charlatan. It was rubbish what she said about my Denny. Still, she might know where Gertie is, so all yer’ve got to do is get in touch with her.’

  Clara was exasperated by her grandmother’s presumption that she could get in touch with Mrs Black just like that. ‘You tell me how I’m supposed to do it. Anyway, I’d like to know more about Gertie before I go on what could be a wild goose chase. You told me all your daughters were dead and Dad believed that, too.’

  ‘He believed it because he was only a little boy when she waltzed off to try and make a living on the stage. She was the eldest and he was the youngest.’ Bernie frowned.

  ‘Why lie about her being dead?’

  ‘She could be dead by now for all I know.’ She sighed and her chest wheezed. ‘I hope not. It could be she’s changed her name, too. She hated the name Gertrude and said it was the kind of name yer’d give to a goat.’

  Clara was starting to like the sound of her Aunt Gertie. ‘Knew many goats, did she?’

  Her grandmother gave her one of her darkling looks. ‘Yer grandfather chose her name. He used to tell her stories about his travels. He went to sea, as yer might remember me telling yer. He probably saw plenty of goats abroad.’ Bernie bit into her jam butty.

  A giggle bubbled in Clara’s throat. ‘So why has she never been in touch?’

  Bernie spoke with her mouth full. ‘We had a terrible row. She went and that’s the last I saw of her. We were too alike, both hot-tempered. The difference between us, if I’m honest, is that she was blessed with the singing voice of an angel. Even so, I didn’t want her going on the stage. I said to her, “Why can’t yer be content with singing in church and get yerself a proper job, bringing money into the house?”’

  ‘What did she say to that?’

  ‘Told me she’d do what she bloody wanted. I gave her a right clout for that cheek.’

  ‘So she ran away,’ murmured Clara, thinking good for Aunt Gertie.

  Bernie nodded. ‘Yer wouldn’t believe the arguments we used to have. Stand up to me, she would, again and again. She started singing in the pubs for pennies when she was just a kid but kept quiet about it for ages, and then I discovered what she was up to. When I found out and told her to hand over her earnings she refused, saying she almost bust her guts singing her heart out and I wouldn’t see a penny of it.’ The old woman looked injured. ‘I beat her for that. I couldn’t have her defying me and being a bad example to the youngest two.’

  ‘I think she was brave,’ said Clara, draining her teacup.

  ‘Aye, she had guts, all right,’ complained Bernie. ‘She had the bloody nerve to give me down the banks about me drinking. I went for her.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I shouldn’t have used the belt on her. I remember me mam saying to a neighbour, “Always use just yer hand when yer hit them, because if it hurts you then yer’ve hit them hard enough. They are yer children after all and yer love them.”’

  Her words almost took Clara’s breath away. ‘How could you beat someone with a belt if you love them? Mam and Dad never laid a finger on me.’

  Bernie shifted her legs and muttered, ‘And look how yer turned out. Yer never stop giving me cheek. Still, there comes a time when yer can’t hide from the truth. I wasn’t a good mother.’

  Clara was too stunned by that remark to speak but thought too right you weren’t, you monster. She wondered what her father would have made of his mother’s confession and felt certain he would have wanted to find his sister.

  ‘I started reading the deaths in the Echo just before the war, searching for her name,’ said Bernie, rousing her granddaughter from her reverie. ‘Then I stopped when they started filling columns with pictures and names of our poor dead boys after war broke out.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ll never forget that day the telegram came telling us of my Denny’s death. We’re not alone, though, even the Proddy Bishop of Liverpool lost two of his sons.’

  ‘One was awarded two Victoria Crosses,’ said Clara, remembering that Captain Noel Chavasse had been a medical officer. Her father had so admired him. She returned to the subject of her aunt. ‘But Gertie could still be alive.’

  ‘Yeah, girl, she could.’ Bernie brightened up. ‘Could be alive and with kids and grandchildren of her own, maybe.’

  Clara stretched her arms and yawned. ‘I shouldn’t imagine she’d be able to make a living on the stage if she had kids. Did she act and dance, as well as sing?’

  ‘She could act all bloody right. Was forever pretending to be somebody she wasn’t – wanted to be a cut above, if yer ask me.’

  ‘Well, if that’s so and she’s alive and done well for herself, then she won’t want anything to do with you,’ said Clara with a sigh.

  ‘Yer don’t have to be so bloody honest,’ growled Bernie. ‘Even if yer right, I still want to know if our Gertie is alive or not. Surely to God, a daughter would take pity on her sick old mother and come home to see her before she dies.’

  ‘Who said you’re dying? It’s me whom you think is going to die,’ said Clara. ‘But I’m all in favour of finding Aunt Gertie. If by some miracle she might want to make up your quarrel, then it’s possible she might be prepared to help look after you. But how are we going to find her? Any ideas?’

  Bernie’s rheumy eyes gleamed. ‘What about starting with that Mrs Black, and the nice lad who brought me home in the motor?’

  Clara’s heart seemed to give a funny little jump. ‘What about them?’

  ‘They might know where Gertie is and ask her to come and see me.’

  Her grandmother’s reasoning gave Clara cause for thought. ‘You’re so sure that Gertie and Edie would still be in touch? You’re talking about forty years since you last heard of them being friends.’

  Bernie toyed with a piece of bread. ‘It’s possible. If Mrs Black isn’t Edie, then I’ll accept that she does have a gift. How else would she know my son’s name if she wasn’t genuine? I’d also like to know what was it he wanted her to do.’

  ‘It wasn’t Dad, it was the spirit with him that wanted something from Mrs Black,’ said Clara patiently. ‘I remember those people in the wings mentioned the possibility of it being someone called Bert and that he had it in for Mrs Black.’

  ‘You’re sounding like you believe in spirits getting in touch now,’ said Bernie, chortling.

  Clara smiled. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’ She paused before adding, ‘So you’re expecting me to find Mrs Black and ask her about Aunt Gertie?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult for a clever girl like you,’ said Bernie, giving her a sly look.

  ‘You don’t have to bother with the soft soap, Gran. I suppose I could ask the manageress at the theatre for her address.’

  ‘There yer are! I said yer were clever. I have a feeling, too, you fancied that lad,’ said Bernie, smirking. ‘Not that you’d have a chance with him, girl…’

  Clara felt her temper rising and interrupted her grandmother before she could finish. ‘You can push me too far, you know. If you want my help then keep your thoughts to yourself. I will write to Mrs Black if I can get her address. I’ll ask point blank if she knows Gertie O’Toole and where we might find her. If my aunt’s dead, then perhaps she’ll arrange a séance for you.’

  ‘I don’t know how the spirit world works but I don’t see why not,’ said Bernie, sounding almost happy as she threw back the bedcovers. ‘Now yer can give me a hand up. I need to dress and go down the yard to the lav.’

  Later that afternoon, Clara put on her best coat and hat and went along to the theatre, only to find it closed. She read the notice of events for that evening and
the coming week on the board outside and decided to return later, when there would be a concert to raise funds for treats for the wounded men home from the Front.

  She thought of Mr Kirk saying he was in the merchant navy and wondered if he had returned to sea. She hoped he had not been killed. And what of his sister? She remembered they had mentioned another woman and, not for the first time, thought back again to that evening. The name Alice popped into her head and she thought again of Alice in Wonderland, thinking it was interesting how, subconsciously, one made connections with this and that. The sister had wanted her brother to ask Mrs Black to get in touch with someone for this Alice. Perhaps he was a missing sailor or soldier. She imagined with all the thousands of men killed in the war so far, that would be quite a job.

  * * *

  ‘A telegram’s come for you,’ said Tilly Moran, hurrying into the drawing room where her older sister was sewing.

  Alice Bennett’s face, with its well-defined cheekbones, was drawn; now all the colour seemed to drain from her cheeks. ‘What does it say?’ she croaked.

  ‘I haven’t opened it.’ Tilly held out the envelope with a trembling hand.

  Reluctantly, her older sister took it from her and, taking a deep breath, tore open the envelope. It seemed ages to Tilly before her sister lifted her eyes from the paper and she saw that they were full of tears.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘No, no. It’s good news.’ Alice put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes and then opened them again. ‘At least it’s not the worst news I could have. Seb’s alive! I knew it would be wrong to ask Mrs Black to try and get in touch with him. God speaks out against it in the Bible and you know I’ve always disapproved of that woman. At least she’s a subject that both Seb’s mother and I can agree on, even if we don’t agree on anything else.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Tilly, sounding relieved. ‘But is he all right? Or is he injured?’

  ‘Wounded, but I don’t know how badly,’ said Alice, pressing the telegram against her chest. ‘All this time waiting to hear and they’ve given me so little news. It says he’s in a hospital in Oxfordshire and that’s all it says.’

  ‘You’ll want to go and see him,’ said Tilly, getting to her feet.

  ‘Of course. If I can.’ Alice stared at her sister and thought how grateful she had been for her company in the last few months, helping out with the children and in the house and garden. She considered how much prettier her younger sister was, even though they shared the same red-gold hair and heart-shaped faces. Right now, Tilly’s delicate features were flushed with exertion and damp tendrils of hair hung about her face, for she had been working in the garden in the sun. She was wearing a cream cotton blouse with a mandarin collar and a floral patterned green and red skirt with a flounce at its hem, and looked much more mature than her fifteen years. She felt a rush of love for Tilly, knowing she would not have coped without her support or that of their older half-brother Kenny and his wife Hanny. Not once had either of them told her she was a fool to carry on hoping that her missing husband was alive. She must tell them the wonderful news.

  Alice rose to her feet. ‘Will you keep your eye on Georgie?’

  ‘Of course.’ Tilly smiled. ‘You’ll want to tell Kenny and Hanny the good news. I wonder where Seb’s been all this time.’

  ‘Only God knows! But I don’t care. He’s alive! That’s all that matters.’ Alice’s voice broke on a sob and she rushed from the drawing room.

  She had been so down in the dumps that to be lifted out of them so suddenly made her head whirl and she had to pause on the front doorstep to collect herself. She closed her eyes, picturing her husband. She imagined Seb breezing into the house in that confident, smiling way of his, lifting her off her feet and kissing her, before asking how her day had been. Then he would shout for the children and the two older ones, James and Flora, would come running. Seb had never seen Georgie, the youngest. He was the result of their passionate lovemaking the last night they had spent together before he had left for France. She remembered how it had torn her apart to see him leaving, knowing they might never see each other again.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away with her sleeve. She must not give way to her emotions but pull herself together before facing Hanny and Kenny. There had been a brief, shaming moment, after Seb had left for France, when she had resented them for not having to suffer the anguish of parting. Yet both of them had suffered their share of grief in the past, and a lot of it had been due to Hannah’s swine of a brother, Bert. Whoever he came into contact with, he harmed, and Kenny’s crippled foot was a permanent reminder of his evil.

  Alice hurried down the drive between beds of radishes, spring onions and herbs, only to hesitate at the gate, uncertain as to where she might find Kenny and Hanny at this time of day. They could both be at the motor repair yard, situated near the Shropshire Union Canal, the other side of Chester. But it was just as possible that they would still be at home, just a few doors away, in the house that belonged to Mrs Black and had been her previous residence. Alice gnawed on her lower lip, still surprisingly reluctant to set foot in that woman’s house, despite her no longer being in residence there. It seemed stupid to feel the way she did when she had such stupendous news to tell the two people who had been closest to her since childhood.

  Alice decided to try the house first. She found the door ajar and, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped inside the hall and gazed about her. When Hanny and Kenny had first moved here she had been delighted to have them living so close by, but she wished they could have chosen another house in the crescent as their home. This one held too many painful memories for her. It was here that her father, Mal Moran, had come to receive healing and spiritual counsel from the woman of whom she so disapproved. And her father had caused her nothing but anguish since she was little. He was another who had brought pain and suffering into the lives of those about him.

  Still, she was here now and could hear piano music coming from the front room of the ground floor, which was rented by two elderly spinster sisters who taught music.

  She placed a foot on the first step of the stairs and then called up, ‘Hanny, it’s me, Alice. OK, if I come up? I’ve some good news about Seb.’

  There was no answer but she heard a noise coming from the first floor, so she hurried on up the rest of the stairs and headed for the back of the house, overlooking the River Dee. She pushed open the door but stopped short when she saw a dowdy, squat woman sitting on the sofa. She appeared to be basket weaving. It was Hannah’s mother, Susannah Kirk, who had once believed she had good reason to hate Alice, but now the expression of the woman staring back at her was blank. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  Relief flooded Alice. It seemed that whatever treatment she had received in the lunatic asylum before Hanny removed her it had helped her to forget past resentments. Perhaps she and the old woman could start again with a clean slate.

  ‘Is Hanny around?’ asked Alice.

  ‘I was to tell callers that she’s gone to the yard,’ said Susannah.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Susannah smiled and, lowering her head, carried on with what she was doing.

  Alice lingered a moment, thinking that, except for the colour of her hair, which was now completely grey, Mrs Kirk’s appearance had scarcely altered over the past years. She experienced a moment of deep sadness. Mrs Kirk had once been a sensible, neighbourly woman and a good friend to Alice’s mother before her death, but between them, Alice’s father and Bert had changed all that.

  Seb, Seb! Her heart lifted as if it had taken wing. Her husband was alive and, God willing, she would see him again soon. She must find out the extent of his injuries. She felt certain Tilly and Hanny would take care of the children between them while she visited him. A cold shiver trickled down her spine. What if his injuries were life threatening? But they had not hinted at that in the telegram. She prayed fervently that they were not serious, but bad enou
gh for him never to have to return to the Front again. But then she felt guilty at the thought of wishing any injury on her husband. She must continue to be optimistic; the last few weeks, hoping he would be found alive whilst struggling against fearing the worst had been dreadful and she pitied those who had to face up to loss.

  She made for the Queen’s Park footbridge, singing ‘The Boy I Love’ in an undertone, then hurried across the Dee and up through Grosvenor Park and along the busy city streets, rejoicing that the weather matched her mood. She found Kenny and Hanny in the office at the repair yard. He was eating a sandwich, whilst Hanny’s flaxen head was bent over a rebuilt Remington No. 7 typewriter. Alice remembered her sister-in-law ordering it from Gamage’s catalogue for Kenny’s thirtieth birthday; a fitting gift to celebrate his growing success at writing articles and short stories for the local press. It had cost a whole ten pounds! If they had known that war was about to break out and the automobile business would suffer, then perhaps they would have been more careful with their money. As it was, the machine had well earned back that initial outlay.

  ‘Alice, are you OK?’ asked Kenny, his hazel eyes filled with concern as he limped towards her.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled and for a moment could not continue, as emotion clogged her throat. Then she threw her arms round him and hugged him. ‘Seb’s wounded but he’s alive,’ she cried.

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Hanny’s attractive, fair-skinned face shone with delight.

  ‘It’s more than wonderful,’ said Kenny, kissing his half-sister on both cheeks. ‘It’s marvellous news.’

  The pair of them drew apart and smiled at each other. ‘It’s wonderful, marvellous and unbelievable that I feel I can look to the future again. That the children will have their father back,’ said Alice.

  ‘Do you know how badly hurt he is?’ asked Hanny.

  ‘No. Only that he’s in hospital in Oxfordshire. I presume they’ll get in touch with me again with more news.’

  ‘Let’s hope so… and that his wounds aren’t too serious,’ said Kenny, brushing back a hank of light brown hair from his forehead with an unsteady, slender hand.