‘Aye, early and hungry,’ he replied. ‘It smells good. But you ought to be outside enjoying the sunshine, not stuck in here cooking.’
‘Well, I thought it would give Marigold a chance to get out into the garden and the sunshine. It’ll do her no harm.’
‘Maybe we should get a couple of servants,’ he suggested. ‘Somebody who can cook. We can afford it now.’
‘I’ll have no truck with servants, our Algie,’ replied Clara predictably. ‘I can cope with a bit of cooking.’
‘Yes, and what about the washing, the ironing, the cleaning, and looking after our Rose here? This is a big house, Mother. You and Marigold need help to run it.’
‘Whether or no, I wouldn’t thank you for servants. I didn’t like the last lot what was here.’
Algie knew what she meant. ‘The last lot’ belonged to another life, another time, for Algie and his mother had lived in this house before, and left it, driven out by the shenanigans of her late second husband. Since then it had become part of his unwanted inheritance. For many months there had been no buyer, so Clara deemed it a fitting place for Algie and his new wife and child to inhabit, so they moved back in. After all, the family was likely to expand. Furthermore, it occupied a fine spot in the old parish of Kingswinford, far enough away from the industrial miasma that putrefied the Black Country…It was also ready furnished. Algie, however, would not hear of moving there unless his widowed mother accompanied them.
Algernon Stokes, known to all as Algie, was twenty-four. His upbringing had been conscientiously accomplished by a strict yet fair father’s influence, endorsed and abetted by his mother. Prior to marriage, his view of the world had become tainted by its pretence and callousness. Life had already doled out its share of disappointments, including the ordeal of his father’s sudden death. Marriage to Marigold had been his saviour, however, and he looked forward to all that it offered. He was now largely content, and he had been enterprising enough to start his own business.
‘I agree with your mother, Algie,’ Marigold chimed in, going over to the range to shift a pan of cabbage that was boiling over and sizzling on the great hob at the side of the fire. ‘We don’t need servants. We can manage well enough, can’t we, Clara? I ain’t no better than a servant anyway.’
‘Marigold,’ Algie pronounced reprovingly. ‘Never put yourself on a par with servants. Put yourself on a par with Aurelia. She’s got servants.’
‘Yes, I know – a maid and a nanny,’ Marigold asserted. ‘But I always feel as if they’m looking down on me, servants. Mind you, Aurelia soon puts them in their place.’
‘Well, that’s the way you have to be with servants when they get above themselves, ain’t that right, Mother?’
‘You have to let ’em know who’s gaffer and no two ways, else they’ll do hell and all to get the better of you. What I particularly don’t like about servants, though, is the way they carry tittle-tattle. Your life’s never your own. Before you know it, the world and his wife know your business.’ She bent down and opened the oven door to a sizzling of fat and a rejuvenated aroma of the roasting mutton. Using a folded rag, she pulled the meat dish out carefully. ‘It’s done now, our Algie. Are you going to carve it?’
‘When I’ve changed out of these working clothes, Mother.’ He carefully handed Rose to Marigold.
‘Shall we take a cup of tea up to Daddy while he changes?’ Marigold suggested to the child.
‘Have we got any beer instead?’ He turned to look at her. ‘I’d rather you bring me a glass of beer.’
* * *
‘Let’s sit in the back garden,’ Algie said that same evening when the meal and the washing-up had been done, and Rose put to bed. ‘It’s a grand evening. Are you coming, Mother?’
‘I want to tidy my bedroom up a bit, our Algie,’ Clara replied. ‘There’s all sorts of clutter about, and I wouldn’t want our Rose to pick up anything as might hurt her. I’ll be back down in a bit.’
Algie nodded. ‘Keep your ear tuned for her then, eh? Just in case she wakes up.’ He turned to Marigold. ‘Come on then, flower.’
From the table, Marigold picked up the mug containing the tea she’d half-finished, and followed Algie through the hallway to the back door. The low summer sun had infused the wisps of high cloud with flushes of gold that toned Marigold’s creamy complexion and reflected in her blue eyes.
Much of the garden, by this time in shade, was still an informal arrangement of unkempt grass, with randomly spaced apple and damson trees fruiting promisingly, planted many years earlier. Marigold had set herself the task of converting this meadow into a more formal affair, but while she had made a valiant start she still had a great deal to do.
She stopped at one of the trees to inspect the fruit that was ripening, and took a drink of tea, tepid now.
‘It looks like we’ll have plenty damsons, Algie.’
‘All well and good. But what d’you propose to do with ’em?’
‘Make jam,’ she said simply. ‘Or chutney. My mother can have some next time she comes. She’ll be able to pass some of it to the other narrowboat folks. Apples as well. Have you seen how many apples we got? I could make cider. Me and me dad used to make cider.’ She finished off the tea. ‘Oh, look!’ she suddenly exclaimed with a childlike whoop, pointing. ‘There’s a hedgehog over there.’
She handed Algie the empty tea mug and held her long skirt against her legs to stop it rustling as she crept towards the hedge at the bottom of the garden where she’d spotted her quarry. The animal rolled itself into a ball and remained still as it became aware of her approach. Marigold stooped down and stroked it gently.
‘It’ll prickle you.’
‘Course it won’t.’
‘You’ll pick up flees. It’ll be crawling with flees.’
‘Oh, look at the poor little thing, Algie,’ she cooed, ignoring his cautions. ‘Keep your eye on him while I fetch him some bread and milk. I bet the poor thing’s hungry.’
Algie smiled indulgently. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, and ambled back towards the house. He loved this gentleness, this girlish sentimentality his wife always exhibited towards lesser entities. Such an endearing characteristic, which bemused him and yet delighted him too.
He returned with a saucer of milk and a thick slice of bread he’d hacked off the loaf. Marigold, meanwhile, was still trying to coax the bewildered creature into giving her some attention. Algie stooped down beside her. He placed the saucer of milk near the living ball of spikes and broke the bread into chunks.
‘Let’s leave him be,’ he suggested. ‘Let him find the bread and milk for himself.’
Marigold turned and smiled, and he thought how delightful she looked, her skin caressed and tinted by the low golden sun. He stood up, took her hand and led her away from the hedgehog.
‘Sometimes,’ he said slowly, deliberately, ‘I look at you, and at our Rose…and I see this house…and…’
‘And?’
‘Well…’ He shrugged, hardly able to express himself adequately. ‘I ask myself whatever did I do to deserve it all?’
‘Oh, Algie,’ she softly sighed. ‘You daft thing.’
He squeezed her hand and turned to look at her. ‘I suppose I’ve got Aurelia to thank in the first place. It’s a good job she and I knew each other. I mean, if it hadn’t been for her going to stay at your Aunt Edith’s at the same time as you were there having our Rose, we might never have found each other again, had we?’
‘I know,’ she answered dreamily. ‘I thought I’d lost you forever.