Mary's Child Read Free

and counted the money, licking her finger to flick over the notes. Then she tucked the envelope away under her pillow and Arkenstall said, ‘When you register the birth – the certificate asks for the name of the father.’
    She shrugged, ‘I’ll leave that empty.’
    ‘And the child – have you given her a name?’
    Martha smiled mockingly, ‘Yes, I have. She’s Chrissie.’
    Arkenstall froze in the act of putting the disclaimer in his pocket and glared at her. She smirked up at him, enjoying his anger. Then he swallowed it and buttoned his overcoat, picked up his hat. ‘Let me know when you are leaving. I will meet you at the station.’
    ‘I’ll do that, never you fear.’ She was still grinning as he let himself out of the bedroom.
    He crossed the kitchen and the midwife held that door open for him. He paused a moment then and said softly, ‘I paid the messenger you sent to say the child had come, but this is in case he cheated you.’ He shoved a folded pound note into her hand and walked out on her muttered thanks.
    In the street he took a deep breath, glad that the worst was over.
    He walked up the street to number eight. All the houses were the same but this one had a front doorstep a shade whiter than most, a passage scrubbed cleaner. Letting himself in, he walked down the passage to the Carters’ door. He took off his bowler and knocked at the kitchen door again. The young woman who opened it was dark-haired and slim, a white apron knotted about her trim waist. She smiled as she peered up at him, his face in shadow from the gaslight in the passage behind him.
    He asked, ‘Mrs  Carter?’
    ‘Yes.’ The smile faded a little as she became wary and realised he did not belong there.
    He said, ‘My name is Arkenstall. I am a solicitor. I understand you have a child here and I would like to talk to you about her.’
    ‘What about her?’ The smile had gone now. Mary Carter’s hand had tightened on the door, ready to slam it in his face, but then she decided that would not do. Reuben Ward, father of the family who lived upstairs, might come home drunk, staggering up the passage, at any time now. She did not want him to see this man at her door. Nor did she want to answer Arkenstall’s questions there.
    She opened the door wider and said reluctantly, ‘You’d better come in.’
    Arkenstall entered and noted the scrubbed table, the oven that gleamed from black-leading and the clean linoleum on the floor. A stocky young man got up from an armchair beside the fire, a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms, and Arkenstall said, ‘Mr  Carter?’
    Harry’s answer was a guarded: ‘Aye.’ He, too, was suspicious of this well-dressed stranger.
    Mary would not be thought ill-mannered and asked, ‘Would you like to sit down, sir?’ She indicated the other armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace.
    ‘Thank you.’ Arkenstall sat, bowler held on his knees, but the young couple stood, looking down at him.
    Mary came straight to the point and demanded again, ‘What about Chrissie?’
    Arkenstall blinked at that use of the name, silently cursed Martha Tate, but said evenly, ‘Are you aware of the claims made by the child’s natural mother as to her parentage?’
    Mary’s lips pursed. ‘That I am. She didn’t give any names but I know the young feller left her in the lurch.’
    Arkenstall detected her hostility but went on, ‘I represent the father of the young man accused. My client does not believe his son was responsible, nor does he accept any liability, but he wishes to ensure the child is properly cared for. He recognises your taking the child as an act of kindness and instructs me to tell you that you will never want.’
    Mary asked, narrow eyed, ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I mean that he is prepared to pay a reasonable allowance to cover the cost of raising the child.’
    ‘No!’ Mary almost shouted the word. Harry, startled, laid a hand on her arm. She took a breath, steadied herself and went