Read Online God Is an Englishman by R. F. Delderfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. F. Delderfield
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the dinner party. From the cupboard, where her dresses hung, she dragged out a small basket-trunk full of odds and ends and emptied them on the floor and after that the carpetbag holdall Mrs. Worrell had loaned her to carry discarded clothes to the needy. Recalling its purpose, and the patronage with which she had filled it, she thought of herself as far needier at this moment than the most impoverished family she had visited in the company of the curate, Mr. Burbage. She was deficient in many things, including advice, money, and, above all, a plan, but there was no time to isolate any need beyond one to put distance between herself and Makepeace Goldthorpe. It did not occur to her to consider the prospect of staying on and defying her father, for no one had ever successfully defied Sam Rawlinson. A man who could hold a town to ransom through a long summer drought would make light of a locked bedroom door, or tears, or threats of suicide, or anything that she could do to divert him from the course he had decided. Men like Cromaty and McShane, the strike leaders back in the town, understood that and that was why they had put a torch to the mill, and now, she supposed, they would all end their lives in gaol on that account. But Cromaty and McShane had offered her a loophole for in these circumstances he was unlikely to return to the house before morning, and this gave her a minimum of eight hours to circle the town to the west, reach Lea Green, and catch a train to Liverpool where regular packet boats were said to leave for Ireland. She would be miles away, and perhaps even at sea, before a search could be mounted, and it would be some time before anyone thought of asking Mrs.
Worrell where she might have gone.
She wondered, as she began to stuff underclothes and toilet bag into the trunk, whether even Mrs. Worrell, the only person in her life who qualified as a confidante, would recall telling her those stories about her mother’s family in Kerry.
Her father, if he had ever heard of them, had surely forgotten them long ago.
Months might elapse before in quiries could be pursued across the Irish Channel and at the moment she could only think in terms of hours. It struck her then that GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 34
3/27/09 5:13:12 PM
Fugitive in a Crinoline 3 5
perhaps this flight was not a spontaneous idea after all and might have been dormant in her mind for a long time, or why else was the name and address of relatives she had never seen rooted in her memory? Uncle and Auntie O’Bannion. Shaun and Dympna O’Bannion. Briar Cot tage, Ballynagall, County Kerry, Ireland. The words jingled like bells promising laughter and protection, so that she saw her unknown uncle as the traditional stage Irishman, with gap-toothed smile, and her aunt as a woman with a shawl over her head and kind, deepset eyes that would light up with pleasure when a fugitive niece came knocking on the door of Briar Cottage, Ballynagall.
When the basket-trunk was full, and fastened with a girdle, she began putting things into the holdall: shoes, a needlework bag, an extra pair of drawers, one or two pieces of trumpery jewellery, a nightgown, and a half-emptied box of toffees bought when she went into the town to collect the dress. On second thoughts, recalling that she liked toffees, she stuffed the tin under the girdle where it would be handy. Then she turned out her purse on the bed. There was a shill ing and a few coppers, enough to buy a railway ticket from Lea Green to Liverpool but certainly insufficient for even a deck passage to Dublin. She put the small change back in her purse and the purse in her reticule, and then, gathering up basket-trunk and holdall, she opened the door and listened.
The prattle of the maids rose from the hall via the stairwell. The staff would continue to relish the drama until Mrs. Worrell descended on them from somewhere, and Mrs. Worrell was surely to be avoided as the one person in the house with authority to detain
Worrell where she might have gone.
She wondered, as she began to stuff underclothes and toilet bag into the trunk, whether even Mrs. Worrell, the only person in her life who qualified as a confidante, would recall telling her those stories about her mother’s family in Kerry.
Her father, if he had ever heard of them, had surely forgotten them long ago.
Months might elapse before in quiries could be pursued across the Irish Channel and at the moment she could only think in terms of hours. It struck her then that GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 34
3/27/09 5:13:12 PM
Fugitive in a Crinoline 3 5
perhaps this flight was not a spontaneous idea after all and might have been dormant in her mind for a long time, or why else was the name and address of relatives she had never seen rooted in her memory? Uncle and Auntie O’Bannion. Shaun and Dympna O’Bannion. Briar Cot tage, Ballynagall, County Kerry, Ireland. The words jingled like bells promising laughter and protection, so that she saw her unknown uncle as the traditional stage Irishman, with gap-toothed smile, and her aunt as a woman with a shawl over her head and kind, deepset eyes that would light up with pleasure when a fugitive niece came knocking on the door of Briar Cottage, Ballynagall.
When the basket-trunk was full, and fastened with a girdle, she began putting things into the holdall: shoes, a needlework bag, an extra pair of drawers, one or two pieces of trumpery jewellery, a nightgown, and a half-emptied box of toffees bought when she went into the town to collect the dress. On second thoughts, recalling that she liked toffees, she stuffed the tin under the girdle where it would be handy. Then she turned out her purse on the bed. There was a shill ing and a few coppers, enough to buy a railway ticket from Lea Green to Liverpool but certainly insufficient for even a deck passage to Dublin. She put the small change back in her purse and the purse in her reticule, and then, gathering up basket-trunk and holdall, she opened the door and listened.
The prattle of the maids rose from the hall via the stairwell. The staff would continue to relish the drama until Mrs. Worrell descended on them from somewhere, and Mrs. Worrell was surely to be avoided as the one person in the house with authority to detain
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