After he’d finished his third cup of tea, Albert said – ‘Can I go up and see my babies, my bairns, Cissy? It’s been a long time.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ she retorted lightly. ‘But yes, of course, Albert. But no sound … I don’t want them disturbed.’
Noiselessly, the two went upstairs and Cecilia ushered Albert into the children’s room. As Albert gazed down, his eyes filled with tears.
‘Our bairns are gifts from God, aren’t they, Cissy?’ he whispered. ‘Little Joe has grown so big … he’s going to be strong like his dad!’ And after a moment – ‘He and Phoebe are so alike, aren’t they, with their cute little noses and brown curly hair … and just look at our Lexi! Was there ever a more beautiful child in the whole world, Cissy?’ He paused for a moment. ‘There’s always been something about our Lexi … sharp and quick as a knife, and so determined. You can see it in her face, even asleep, that firm little chin …’
‘Lexi is a wonderful child to me, Albert,’ Cecilia said. ‘Always so helpful and lovely with the younger ones, especially when I’m trying to finish something I’m making, and time and money are short.’ Cecilia didn’t want to prick Albert’s conscience by saying too much about her own way of life and what it entailed. After all, by accepting it, she had sealed her own fate, hadn’t she?
‘Of course, Lexi finished school at the beginning of the year,’ Cecilia went on. ‘She insisted on it, even though I would have liked her to stay on.’ Cecilia sighed. ‘She is so determined to find work, to try and make her way in the world, young though she is. She has got a little job at the sweet shop.’
‘Ah well, then, our Lexi is special,’ Albert said, ‘I always knew it. And she’s going to do well in life, isn’t she … do something out of the ordinary. You just wait and see.’
‘If you say so, Albert,’ Cecilia said. ‘But in our world she’s going to need a miracle, or the luck of the Irish for that to happen.’
They left quietly, and as they reached the other bedroom Cecilia opened the door and nodded. ‘I … we … have a room to ourselves now, Albert,’ she said.
He smiled down at her with that familiar, dark, sensuous smile she knew so well. Then he yawned, slipping his arm around her waist. ‘Sure, and isn’t it time for us to warm that bed?’ he murmured. After all, a man had certain rights.
Cecilia shook her head firmly. ‘You get ready for bed, Albert,’ she said, ‘but I have to pluck and draw that chicken if we’re going to have it for our dinner tomorrow.’
They went downstairs to the scullery where Albert washed himself at the sink while Cecilia sat at the table and started on the chicken. As he went past her, he touched her shoulder.
‘Don’t be long,’ he said.
Although it was now very late Cecilia took her time over the task. She was in no hurry to be a wife to Albert tonight, and anyway, he’d be asleep before she went back upstairs. He’d obviously had a few pints that evening.
She finished what she was doing, then stood and glanced at herself in the small mirror above the sink. She breathed in slowly. She was 42 years old, and looking about 60, with her brown hair going rapidly grey, her face which had once been thought attractive becoming lined, the dark shadows under her eyes making her look permanently tired.
As she stared back at herself, Cecilia recalled Albert’s words about Lexi. About her being, or doing, something special. But it was a pointless thought, a complete waste of time. Everyone knew there was little hope for women. For most, their lot in life was to bear children, keep their men happy, and do housework.
Cecilia paused before going upstairs. It was all very well her husband turning up unexpectedly like he had, but she did not want any more babies. Thankful though she was to have her three healthy children, they must be enough. She could not cope with another mouth to feed, another little one to provide for. And if the worst happened after Albert’s flying visit, she knew she could definitely not cope with the deadly process of trying to interfere with nature …
Upstairs, Cecilia went into the bedroom noiselessly and looked down at her husband. He was lying straight as a rod with his eyes closed and Cecilia smiled – the rhythmic snoring from his partly open lips reassured her that he would not wake easily, and that nothing more would be required of her that day.
The following Saturday evening, Reynard McCann drew himself up to his full height and regarded his appearance in the long mirror with curt satisfaction. He liked clothes and he liked dressing well, and tonight he had chosen dark trousers, a formal shirt with winged collar, and a plain narrow tie. His new waistcoat, in an expensive dark blue brocade, completed the ensemble. As it was a rather cold evening he would be wearing one of his half-length, fur-collared overcoats. Then, lastly, his shoes – perhaps his favourite item of clothing – his boots with the white uppers. His father, also called Reynard, had always insisted that you could tell the quality of a man by what he had on his feet.
Reynard hadn’t slept well the previous night; in fact he rarely had a good night’s sleep. It seemed that his brain could never rid itself of all the teeming thoughts, the schemes, the stresses of a highly successful working life, the memories, and, yes, the regrets, too. He sometimes thought that if he could turn the clock back, just once, he would be a happier man. He pulled himself up. Perhaps a few brandies at the club later might help him have more than his usual three or four hours of restless slumber.
As he stood silently in front of the mirror, Reynard McCann realized that he always avoided actually looking into his own eyes, as if afraid of what he might see there. He looked everywhere else – at his broad forehead, his long, straight nose, and at his full moustache which he regularly fiddled with when concentrating. But he rarely smiled because he didn’t like his teeth which, he felt, could sometimes make him look faintly sinister.
He was well aware what people called him because the boys had heard it in the playground often enough.
It seemed that he was known as Foxy.
Foxy McCann.
When he’d first heard of it, this information hadn’t upset him. In fact he considered it a compliment. The fox was a beautiful creature, sleek-coated, swift-footed, surviving on its wits to fend for itself and its family. Man seldom got the better of the fox unless it was by grossly uneven means.
He went into the wide reception area and from the hallstand in the corner he selected one of his many walking canes, picked up his soft, felt Homburg, opened the heavy front door and left the house.
He decided not to take the car, but instead to walk the three quarters of a mile to his destination – even though the residual pain in his right leg had been giving him trouble recently, making his limp more pronounced. Reynard wished he didn’t have that limp but there was nothing that could be done about it. And it was all thanks to his youthful, hot-headed decision to volunteer to serve in the first Boer War. He’d thought the uniform was extremely smart and would suit him well, but he’d paid a heavy price for his vanity because he’d been injured within two months of the conflict and invalided out, the legacy being the tedious limp which was to go with him for the rest of his life.
Reynard McCann didn’t go to many social occasions, but members of his club had been asked to attend tonight because someone important was to be their guest speaker. Reynard found it hard to relax in company – unless it was work-related. Work had always been his sole motivation in life, thanks to the influence of his father who had drummed into his son from an early age that there was no room for sentiment in business. Business was hard, and you had to work hard – and be hard – to stay on top. And you must always work alone, be ruthless, determined, and utterly self-interested.
Reynard senior had done extremely well in the property market in the east end of London – where his son had been born and raised – but had