A Dream of her Own Read Free

on the Occasion of the Royal Jubilee Exhibition in Newcastle 1887.’
     
    ‘I’ve seen you linger and glance up when you are dusting.’ She frowned. ‘But I cannot imagine why. This photograph must have been taken before you were born. Dr Sowerby is in the front row, of course ...’
     
    So he was, along with some of the most influential men in the city, and that obviously gave his wife much satisfaction. When the Royal Victoria Infirmary was finally officially opened by King Edward and Queen Alexandra in July of this very year, 1906, Mrs Sowerby had bought a dozen each of the postcards in the series that Valentines had issued to commemorate the event.
     
    She sent one to every single person in her address book, telling them all about the royal visit to Newcastle and being sure to add that she and Dr Sowerby had been guests at the civic banquet given for Their Majesties in the Assembly Rooms.
     
    Vexation hardened Violet Sowerby’s features even further. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’
     
    ‘No.’ Constance was composed now, and she stared back steadily. She had no intention of telling this woman, now or ever, that the tall handsome man standing in the back row of the photograph - at that time, one of the richest manufacturers on Tyneside - was Richard Bannerman, her father.
     
    ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ Violet Sowerby exclaimed, and, for a moment, Constance thought she was going to strike her. But they were interrupted.
     
    ‘Let the girl alone, Mother. She’s leaving us in the morning to marry the little shopkeeper and you don’t want to be the subject of malignant gossip amongst the tradespeople, now, do you?’ Gerald’s amused tones came from the doorway.
     
    Violet Sowerby turned towards him but he moved aside into the hall. All else forgotten, his mother swept out of the room. Constance followed her. While they were talking, she would slip away.
     
    ‘Gerald, I’ve been waiting to see you on your own. Are you going out?’ Mrs Sowerby’s voice had softened; she was almost pleading.
     
    He was standing in front of a gilt-framed mirror and he concentrated on adjusting his wing collar and his white evening tie. ‘Would I be dressed like this if I were going to endure another interminable evening at home with you and Father?’
     
    ‘But, Gerald, you spend so little time with us these days ...’
     
    ‘Do you blame me? In this house I meet with nothing but disapproval.’
     
    ‘Not disapproval - your father and I have been worried that you may be neglecting your studies - and perhaps that is because of the influence of some of your friends who have no need to earn a living ...’
     
    ‘I’ve already had to suffer one lecture from Father on that subject tonight. You both seem to forget that I am a grown man and that, thanks to Grandmother, I am financially independent. Save your breath, Mother. I’m going out.’
     
    All the time he had been speaking he never once looked round. Now, he stared into the mirror with self-absorbed concentration as he smoothed his thickly waving red-gold hair. When he was satisfied, he looked to one side and spoke to Constance’s retreating reflection. ‘Pass me my overcoat, there’s a good girl.’
     
    She had almost reached the door at the end of the passage and she stopped and cursed herself silently for not having been quicker. Gerald raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you hear me?’
     
    Constance hurried back and reached for the overcoat, from where he had tossed it over the carved wooden post at the bottom of the stairs. After handing Gerald the coat she tried to slip away again, only to earn a rebuke from his mother.
     
    ‘I do not remember saying you could go.’
     
    She turned once more and waited, keeping her eyes down. She thought it best not to betray her impatience or Mrs Sowerby would only harangue her the longer.
     
    ‘Oh, let her go to bed now, Mother.’ Gerald had put on his coat and was adjusting the ends of his silk