Hello! Here is todays chapter of The Lifewatcher, in it, Bernard Tilley, who is Martha Clarkes brother, is working in the pie shop he owns - I modelled this shop of an actual pie shop in Reading, UK, one that I used myself! In this chapter, he worries about his niece, Frances because she is imagining her two dead sisters are around because she is misses them. Also George Clarke, and his two sons are threatened with being put out of work and is is very angry. It does not help that his wife Martha is being talked to about womens suffrage by the wealthy lady Elizabeth Adams. This is hurting her husbands pride. Hope you have a successful day! CHAPTER FOUR Bernard Tilley, Marthas older brother, stroked the smooth crown of his head where once stood neat rows of thick stalks of sturdy brown hair. His small, button brown watery eyes swam amongst the folds and mounds in a face that resembled a puff pastry pie, which was apt as he was the proprietor of a pie shop. He was deciding whether to close the shop early. The sky sagged with snow over the rooftops and the silver chill that pervaded the air gave him good reason to presume that the snowfall was imminent. ‘What to do?!’ he mused, reaching down under the counter, and bringing up a bottle with a label on the front declaring that the innards held Blair’s Gout Pills. He swallowed two without water, gulping as they caught in his throat, while simultaneously rubbing one foot against the other, to let them know help was on its way. Custom had dried up as the impending bad weather threatened to enfold the town, and a growing, rumbling sound from deep within his belly, hidden under an apron, made the decision of whether to close or not easier. ‘That’s it for today!’ he declared, loudly. Tom and Walter, his young assistants, grinned, unable to hide their delight at closing early. They toppled downstairs to the kitchen below, to gather up the necessary equipment for cleaning the counters. The cookery staff, who had been on the premises since five o’clock that morning, had already left, each with a couple of pies tucked under their arms. Bernard sighed with contentment; another day put to bed. He retreated into his office at the back of the shop, and closed the door over for privacy, even though the top half consisted of a clear pane of glass. He took out a ham and cherry pie from the pouch in the front of his apron, which he had been holding back for a pre-dinner snack. In the right hand drawer of his desk, Bernard felt about until his hand appreciatively wrapped around a small flask of rum. Only the Lord knew how much he deserved these little treats that enabled him able to continue to stumble along the long and weary path of life, Bernard reflected. The pie was scrumptious, and the rum touched his heart, then spread out to every nook and cranny of his body until he was so pleasantly warmed and cheered, he could have sat there till the next morning. Walter popped his scruffy head around the door. ‘We’re all done Mr B. Everything’s spick and span!’ ‘Good lads! Off you go now, and take a pie each home to your mothers.’ Another head appeared, much further down the door with smaller hands and tidier, slicked-backed hair. This belonged to Tom, who was a year younger than Walter. ‘Thanks Mr B,’ both boys chimed. There was genuine affection in their faces as they said goodbye to their boss and slid a pie each into their jacket pockets. They knew how lucky they were to have a boss like him. Tom thought of his mother, so proud and grateful to her son for providing food for the family table; it made him feel taller in stature, the nearer he got to his house to hand over the pie. Bernard knew he was an old fool, giving pies out like that, putting a dent in his profits. He vowed to change his ways, but it was the same vow he made every day anew, as he could never bring himself to carry out his threat. It occurred to him that he was probably giving away more pies than he sold. Bernard recognised that he could have been quite a man of means if he’d put his mind to it. Then of course, he had mouths to feed at home, as well as everywhere else. Nine children under thirteen hed fathered! He shuddered and reached for his flask of rum. Such noise! He saw his large brood clustered in the kitchen, ravenously eating their way through everything put before them, only stopping at the wood of the table. Mrs T, his good wife, insisted upon giving them as much food as they could eat, to keep up their strength. Bernard imagined them lifting up a row of houses between them, with the amount they ate. Then there were the clothes! Mrs T demanded that they look well dressed. She said it was important for their social standing, or the social standing she wished they had. Such a list of rules and regulations she gave those poor children, no wonder they were so rowdy. No swearing, proper manners at the table, reading for at least two hours in the evening to improve their minds, no playing in the street because apparently there were bad influences out there on the public pavement. The consequence being there was not a minute’s peace to be had in either house or garden. Bernard rocked thoughtfully, backwards and forwards in his chair. If truth be told, he didn’t really like any of his children. Oh, he loved them, in his own way, and would stand by them and take care of them to his dying day, but in all honesty he was relieved to be away from them in the day. It was a welcome relief from their greedy, self-serving requests of him. Now little Frances, his sister Marthas daughter, was a child with whom one could live peaceably. Bernard shook his head and smiled at the thought of her, such a quiet, interesting little child, and she played so nicely by herself, barely a sound out of her. She was full of odd notions, though. When he had visited the previous week with a couple of unsold pies, she had followed him out of the house and asked him if he could see them. Well he had looked around him, but all that he found in the vicinity was that great blessed Hydrangea the family were so proud of, the one that George had planted when theyd moved into the little property in 1893. ‘You mean the flower, my dear?’ Bernard had asked. ‘No, not the Hydrangea, I’m talking about my sisters, Josephine and Ruby.’ Bernard pretended to look about him. Poor child must still be grieving, he thought, but he couldn’t lie to her, it wouldn’t do any good. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ ‘That’s because they haven’t come yet, they’re waiting.’ Frances had then stood looking at him patiently, to hear what his thoughts were on the matter. Play along Bernard, he’d thought to himself. ‘What are they waiting for, my dear?’ ‘They’re waiting until I need them really quickly, because something terrible has happened, and I can’t go on any longer without their help.’ After offering this explanation, she had smiled calmly and gone back into the house. He had no idea what to make of it, but to be fair, the dear girl didn’t have an easy life; she always seemed apart from goings-on in the house. Bernard had never seen any member of her family talk to her, unless they wanted her to do something for them. Losing both the twins had hit George and Martha hard, he knew, and having such a sickly child as Robert, but still, he felt sorry for Frances, and always made a point of having a little chat with her. When hed first arrived, the week before, Martha was not in her usual place in the kitchen. Instead, hed found George on the edge of her armchair, not exactly poking the fire, more attacking it. ‘Hello George. Didn’t expect to see you here at this hour.’ He had popped over on a Wednesday afternoon, which was early closing day in the shop, partly to see Martha, Frances and the boy, and partly to put off going home to his own rabble. As usual, he found young Robert sat opposite his mother’s chair wrapped in a blanket, his breathing so feeble and weak it made Bernard ache with pity. Frances was sitting on the floor near the dresser, playing with her doll. It was amazing how much entertainment she got out of that little thing, Bernard marvelled. He made a note to bring a board game for the two children next time, something to cheer them up. ‘It’s very good to see you children!’ ‘It’s very good to see you Uncle Bernard,’ Frances told him solemnly. Robert tried valiantly to speak. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said with sincerity, before lapsing back into the chair. ‘If you’re looking for Martha, she’s out!’ George declared belligerently to Bernard, who was putting two pies on the table. George watched him, suddenly feeling guilty for having been so sharp with Martha’s older brother, who was good enough to bring food to their table. ‘Those pies are very welcome,’ he said contritely. ‘Oh it’s nothing at all!’ Bernard informed him. He sat down at the table and George, taking the hint, told Frances to make some tea, before sitting opposite him. ‘Me and my boys are on short time from the factory, that’s why I’m at home. There’s talk of lay-offs.’ ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ Bernard’s hand massaged the top of his head as he spoke. ‘If you need any money, I’ll try to help as much as I can. I haven’t much to spare, what with family and such, but I’ll do what I can.’ ‘You have enough with your own children, besides, you bring us the pies. I’ll only ask if we get desperate.’ Bernard felt sorry for George; he was a proud man. To be stuck at home and not to be able to properly provide for his family would hurt him more than most. Now that they were talking again, he asked after Martha. George got up and resumed his stabbing movements into the embers of the fire. ‘With that bloody know-it-all woman!’ Bernard was perplexed; he must be talking about their mother, Phyllis, he thought. He would have thought George would have been well used to her ways by now. George must have read his thoughts. ‘Elizabeth Adams!’ That surgeon’s wife!’ ‘Oh, the one she makes clothes for.’ ‘And the rest of them, she’s making stuff for half the toffee-nosed women in the town!’ George brooded. Bernard glanced at the two children, disturbed at how George’s ill temper increased Robert’s distress, and caused Frances to slide back down behind Marthas chair next to the dresser after she had made their tea. ‘Martha could be the bread winner in this house, but I’m not having that, she has her place here, looking after the family!’ George sat down again and drained the tea, then pushed it away in disgust. Bernard considered how best to answer him; he was not good with emotional problems. ‘I could end up being the wife, at this rate!’ George ranted. Bernard noticed poor Robert clutching his blanket closer to him with his weak fingers, like a shield. ‘If that wasnt hard enough to take, that Mrs Adams is putting bad notions into her head!’ ‘What bad notions?’ asked Bernard in surprise. He could no more picture Martha doing ill to her family than conceive his own ever sitting quietly. ‘Women’s suffrage!’ ‘Ah!’ Bernard relaxed. He had at the very least thought that Martha had been encouraged to go for her moody husband with the frying pan. Bernard’s reaction puzzled George and immediately calmed his nerves. If Bernard was so casual about it, perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all. He was a clever man; he read the newspapers from cover to cover. George wanted to believe that his life wasn’t crumbling around him, so anything that could offer hope was welcome. ‘That’s nothing to upset yourself over!’ Bernard cried, rummaging in his coat pocket until he found what he had been looking for. He got out a flask of rum that he kept for what he called emergencies. Based on the number of times he took a nip, an observer would have said there must have been an awful lot of emergencies in Bernard’s life. Bernard poured generously into two glasses taken from the dresser and placed one in front of an indebted George. He noticed too that Robert was smiling out of the corner of his eye while Frances peaked out from behind the chair. ‘You have to understand, these well-off ladies have a lot of time on their hands, then they start thinking about things, never a good idea in my opinion, especially if you’re a woman.’ Bernard tried to get Mrs T’s shrill voice out of his head at the very idea. Here, let me top that glass up for you,’ he said to George. George was feeling much better now; the world was starting to make sense again. ‘You need to keep a woman busy, then she can’t get into any mischief. Look at my wife: not a minute to call her own, with all those children. Why, if some lady came to the door talking about women’s suffrage, I swear, by God, she would take to them with her broom!’ Bernard declared. George’s face lost its anguish as the solution to his family problems dawned on him. ‘A baby, that’s what this is all about!’ George said, his face lighting up as he downed the remainder of his rum. Bernard suddenly realised he had said too much; he had only meant to divert George’s attention, not condemn his poor sister to more drudgery. ‘Martha needs another baby!’ George continued. I may not be of much use to her in any other way, but that is one thing I can give her!’ Bernard gulped down the last of the rum, heartily wishing he had another flask concealed about his person.
Posted on: Thu, 10 Jul 2014 14:30:53 +0000
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