The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘You sat a town hall entrance exam, though, didn’t you?’ said Miss Kennett. ‘Girls have to score eighty per cent to pass. The pass mark for boys is sixty-five.’

  ‘We really must think of a better name for ourselves,’ said Miss Lever. ‘That word “educated” must deter a lot of women. But finding jobs for educated women is what we do.’ She looked at Mary. ‘Calling ourselves “for ladies” or “for gentlewomen” would draw in hordes of the impoverished well-bred wanting to be companions – and “for women” is too general. We don’t want the factory fodder.’

  ‘We’re interested in girls like you,’ said Miss Kennett. ‘Good basic education, nicely spoken, neatly turned-out. Many girls automatically go in for shop work, never realising there are other possibilities.’

  She felt an eager flutter. ‘Does this mean you’ll help me?’

  ‘How would you like to be one of the first female librarians?’ asked Miss Lever. ‘There are several posts. We haven’t been asked to put candidates forward, so you’ll have to apply direct to the corporation. I’ll write down the details. Let us know how you get on.’

  Mary bit down on a smile so she couldn’t grin like an idiot. She was about to strike off in a new direction, she really was – and she would make the most of whatever opportunities came her way.

  Now she had to confess at home where she had been and try to talk her parents round. Dadda wouldn’t be pleased. Neither would Lilian, not to start with, but if she could get Lilian on her side, that would go a long way towards smoothing things with Dadda.

  That evening, she waited until Emma went to bed. She washed up the cocoa mugs while Lilian was upstairs, kissing Emma goodnight, then she returned to the parlour. They lived in the back room, keeping the front room for best. They even had their drop-leaf dining table in the back room.

  She settled in her usual chair. The basketwork chair was hers, and Dadda and Lilian had the armchairs.

  ‘Dadda, Mother, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Lilian uttered a tiny gasp. Mary explained quickly before she could blurt out something hopeful about having met a young man.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ Dadda declared. ‘A women’s employment agency, indeed!’

  ‘It isn’t for women in service.’

  ‘Suppose it gets out that you’ve been to an agency – no one will question what kind. You realise you’re in danger of bringing the Kimber name into disrepute? And why would you do such a thing? You’re suited where you are.’

  She said, in her most reasonable voice, ‘Mr Treadgold won’t let me move on.’

  ‘You should be flattered. He’s a splendid fellow. A female working at the town hall – that says something about you, Mary.’

  ‘She knows that.’ Lilian leant forward. ‘From what you’ve said of him, John, I’m sure Mr Treadgold is a fine man, but Mary would rather be guided by you. What do you think, love? Is she capable of more?’

  ‘No doubt she is.’

  Mary watched in admiration as Lilian twinkled – there was no other word for it – at Dadda. ‘Imagine our Mary as one of the first lady-librarians. She’d be a pioneer.’

  ‘A pioneer! I don’t want any daughter of mine setting tongues wagging.’

  ‘I only meant it would be a responsibility. Not just being among the first, but working with dignity and quiet confidence. Who better than our Mary?’

  ‘Aye, there is that. So long as she wouldn’t lose respectability.’

  He sounded gruff. Not vexed-gruff, but you’ve-talked-me-round gruff. Mary knew it was safe to laugh.

  ‘Oh, Dadda! Can you think of anywhere more respectable than a library?’

  ‘Let me see your application when you’ve written it,’ said Dadda. ‘I’ll see if it’s up to snuff.’

  The words were mildly spoken, but that was how he issued his commands. As if she couldn’t produce a decent letter unaided!

  Mary planted a smile on her lips before entering the room. Three gentlemen were crowded behind a desk. They rose, inadvertently nudging one another. When she sat, they resumed their places, with more nudging. Swallowing a desire to laugh, she placed her bag at her feet and folded her hands in her lap. Demureness was important. No decent girl wanted to be dismissed as unrefined.

  The questions were easy at first. They asked about her background, her reading habits and her present position, all questions for which she had prepared her answers. She handed over the sealed character reference Mr Treadgold had provided and watched as they passed it round. Something in their glances made a qualm twitch to life in her tummy.

  ‘Mr Treadgold says he’s shocked and disappointed by your wish to leave. He says he’d placed his trust in you to remain in his department. We don’t want a fly-by-night.’

  Beast! He had dropped her right in it.

  ‘I’m hardly that, sir.’ She forced her features to remain impassive. ‘The town hall is the only place I’ve ever worked and I’ve been in Mr Treadgold’s office for seven years.’

  ‘Why have you applied for this post?’

  ‘I’d like the challenge of being one of the first women to hold such a position.’

  ‘Challenge, eh? Not very feminine.’ He scribbled something.

  ‘I’d like to work with the public. I believe …’ She stopped, as three pairs of eyes widened.

  ‘We shan’t let our lady-librarians work with the public. It wouldn’t be tolerated.’

  ‘Fancy a female librarian asking a new gentleman member for his name and address. We couldn’t sanction such boldness.’

  ‘Of course, that isn’t to say we’d never consider permitting women to work behind the counters … eventually … just to see the books in and out.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to prove myself, won’t I?’ She said it in a pleasant voice, so she didn’t appear pushy. Being demure all the time could be a right nuisance.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Maitland,’ the man in the middle said, with what she took to be an insincere smile. ‘You’ll hear from us.’

  It was unseasonably hot that Sunday as they trooped down Sandy Lane to have tea in Candle Cottage with Granny and Aunt Miriam. Candle Cottage was a pretty little house and going there ought to have been a pleasure, but Mary’s toes had screwed up in embarrassment too many times whenever Granny told someone that it was her ‘grace-and-favour residence, courtesy of my Kimber in-laws’. Honestly, didn’t she have any shame? Well, no, frankly not. The rest of the Maitlands might spend their lives tiptoeing on social eggshells, but not Granny.

  Mary drew an extra breath before stepping over the threshold, for all the good it would do. The atmosphere closed around them, thick as soup. Granny didn’t believe in fresh air. She didn’t have windows open and, with the sun beating down, she wouldn’t open the curtains either, for fear of fading the carpet.

  They all crammed into Granny’s parlour for dainty sandwiches and cake.

  ‘So, our Mary is going to be a lady-librarian,’ said Granny.

  Mary turned to Aunt Miriam, eager to share her success. ‘Why don’t you apply? You might prefer it to teaching piano.’

  ‘You’ll do nowt of the sort, our Miriam,’ Granny snapped.

  ‘You know I’ve never liked teaching the piano, Mother.’

  ‘It’s ladylike.’

  ‘But if it’s acceptable for Mary …’

  ‘Aye, well, happen she’s got a brain in her head. Not like you. If you apply, I’ll write a letter meself and tell them library people that you’re man-mad and hoping for a spot of slap and tickle behind the bookshelves, and I wouldn’t be far wrong, would I? So you can stop thinking it right this minute, lady. I’m not having you doing owt but teaching piano, us with our Kimber connections.’

  ‘Now then, Mother,’ said Dadda. ‘Related to the Kimbers we may be, but we have our livings to earn.’

  ‘And whose fault is that? If you’d gone back to using the Kimber name when they wanted you to, who knows where we’d all be now?’ Granny looked at Mary. �
��I expect them library people wanted you because you’re a Kimber.’

  ‘They have no idea.’

  ‘You never told them?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘More fool you. You should write and tell them, our John, let them know what’s what.’

  ‘I’ll do nothing of the kind.’

  ‘Then more fool you, an’ all. You do realise that if Sir Edward and that there Charlie-boy drop down dead, you’ll be Sir John.’

  ‘That’s most unlikely, Mother.’

  ‘You never know. Sir John Maitland: that’s my dream, that is. You’d have to change your name back to Kimber. That’s your real name, the name you were born to.’

  ‘May I remind you, Mother, that you were the one who changed my name to Maitland after my father died and you remarried?’

  Granny ignored that. ‘Sir John Kimber, and we could all live at Ees House. Let Lady Snooty-Nose Kimber put that in her pipe and smoke it.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Have you invited the Maitlands to Sunday lunch yet, my dear?’ Sir Edward asked.

  Lady Kimber dropped her gaze. No, she hadn’t sent the dratted invitation yet, and if she had her way, it wouldn’t go at all. It wouldn’t be so bad, playing host to her husband’s lower-class relations once a year, if it weren’t for that frightful harpy of a grandmother, drooling over the Sheraton and asking impertinent questions.

  She composed her features to meet her husband’s dark eyes across the snowy linen and Rockingham china adorning the breakfast table.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Maitland’s a decent chap. I know his mother’s a trial, but don’t forget his father was a Kimber – my Uncle Martin.’

  ‘Your Uncle Martin must have been the biggest fool ever to walk the earth. Fancy being taken in by a common shop girl.’

  ‘Poor fellow. I know he lived to rue the day.’

  ‘At least he died young. That must have made it easier to ignore the widow he left.’

  ‘But there was still his son, d’you see? John was a Kimber by blood – and by name in those days. He and I were lads when Martin died, and my father said we must do the right thing by John, so long as we kept the mother at bay, of course. Then she remarried and changed his name to Maitland to spite us. If she hadn’t done that, he would have the family name to this day, and so would his daughters.’

  Lady Kimber shuddered. Profound as her loathing was of Mrs Maitland senior, at least the old hag had, albeit in a fit of pique, removed the ancient name of Kimber from her descendants.

  ‘At any rate, we must have them,’ said Sir Edward. ‘See to it, will you, my dear?’

  She gave a tight smile. Lifting the tea-kettle off the stand beneath which the little heater burnt, she topped up her cup.

  ‘More tea?’

  She reached for his mug. The Kimber breakfast china was one of the joys of her life, but Sir Edward insisted upon a gaudy mug with A Present from Colwyn Bay painted on it. Men!

  He glanced through the post. ‘Here’s one from Charlie.’

  Dear Charlie. ‘Does he say when he’s coming?’

  ‘Indeed, he does. He’ll be here after midsummer.’

  ‘After the Maitlands’ visit, then. That’s good. We wouldn’t want Maitland skeletons clanking out of the family cupboard in front of visitors.’

  ‘Charlie isn’t a visitor. He’s our nephew – well, he’s my cousin’s son, whatever that makes him.’

  ‘Nephew.’ Their marriage might not have been blessed, but Sir Edward had drawn children to him, claiming the closest possible connection to them. So Charlie was his nephew and Eleanor his beloved daughter.

  ‘Charlie’s father was the same relation to me that John Maitland is, except that Charlie’s father married a suitable girl. Most important of all, Charlie’s my heir. Why not invite your Aunt Helen while he’s here? Bury the hatchet once and for all, eh? It’ll be lonely for her without Judge Rawley. Or perhaps just call on her – that might be easier, less of an occasion. It’s a pity Eleanor had that invitation to go away with the Rushworths. I’m sure she’d have liked to go with you to see Miss Rawley.’

  Of course she would, which was precisely why Lady Kimber had sent her away. Taking Eleanor to the funeral had been a mistake. Not that she could have been left behind, not at her age. Naturally, she had been intrigued to see her unknown great-aunt. Lady Kimber had seen, too, the longing in Helen’s face when she looked at Eleanor.

  You needn’t think you’re getting your claws into her. Not after what you did to me.

  The evening after the funeral, the Kimbers had dined with the Rushworths, who were about to set off for the Lakes. Lady Kimber had deftly wangled an invitation for Eleanor, to remove her just when she might want to see her great-aunt. When Eleanor returned, there would be another matter to occupy her.

  ‘What are you smiling at, my dear?’ Sir Edward asked.

  ‘I was thinking of Eleanor.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to have her back. No one butters my toast as well as she does. I hope she doesn’t meet anyone on this jaunt.’

  ‘Goodness! What put that in your head?’ Had he somehow picked up her thoughts?

  ‘She’s that sort of age. Call me a foolish old papa, but I’m not ready to part with her.’

  How tempting to show her hand, but she hugged her hopes close. Yes, Eleanor was precisely that age. And Charlie, who hadn’t seen her in two or three years and undoubtedly still thought of her as a timid little miss barely out of the schoolroom, was going to get his socks knocked off.

  Nathaniel changed into his professional clobber as if he were dressing for battle. Damn Barnaby Clough. It had been yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir, while Judge Rawley was alive, but now Clough wanted to drop the project like a hot potato. For two pins, Nathaniel would have returned the favour by dropping Clough, but he and Alistair needed Clough’s godforsaken building in Moss Side.

  ‘You won’t get anything out of Clough without my help,’ Judge Rawley had warned them. ‘He doesn’t give two hoots for the poor, but he’d sell his own mother to be an alderman. I shall, in one breath, discreetly give him to understand that I’ll support him in his ambition and, in the next, remark upon my interest in your proposed clinic.’

  Sure enough, when Nathaniel and Alistair had approached Clough, he had been only too willing to grant them free rein with his building. Furthermore, in his anxiety to fawn all over Judge Rawley, he had agreed to meet the cost of refurbishment.

  But no sooner had Judge Rawley passed away than Clough changed his mind.

  Nathaniel lifted his chin to attach his collar. Fresh starch chafed his neck as he slotted modest mother-of-pearl studs into place. Fastening his bow tie, he caught his expression in the mirror. His mouth, with no waxed moustache to soften it, was set in an uncompromising line. He ought to smooth his expression before meeting Clough, though it wouldn’t be easy. The man was a toady and a social climber of the first water. Hence his doctor’s garb today. Nathaniel was certain his professional regalia would create an impression. So, here he was in his frock coat with silk-faced lapels, grey-and-black striped trousers, waistcoat of white pique and black bow tie. His black silk topper was downstairs on the hallstand, though he drew the line at carrying a cane.

  Downstairs, Imogen appeared, clothes brush at the ready. She kept his clothes in tip-top condition, so why she needed to brush his shoulders every time he was about to set foot outside, he didn’t know, but he submitted without a murmur. She was a good little woman.

  ‘I’m not sure how long this will take,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m making a stew that will bubble away nicely.’

  She presented her cheek for a kiss. He caught a whiff of the lavender water she always requested for her birthday.

  Soon he was running up the front steps of Clough’s house. A maid showed him into the sitting room. ‘Overstuffed’ was the word that sprang to mind – just like its owner. Plump upholstery was buttoned as if to stop horsehai
r bursting forth and the cushions were padded so thickly they looked ready to pop. Even the antimacassars were crocheted from something closer to wool than fine cotton.

  Clough lumbered to his feet, thrusting out fingers like sausages. He was one of those buffoons who thought it manly to squeeze hard.

  ‘Good of you to see me,’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘Pleasure, m’dear fellow,’ said Clough: Nathaniel hadn’t been a dear fellow without his frock coat. ‘Take a seat.’

  He placed his topper on a table beside an armchair, taking a malicious pleasure in flicking out the skirts of his frock coat as he sat down.

  Clough sat opposite, flabby thighs squashing into the arms of his chair. He wore a colossal handlebar moustache, possibly to compensate for the scarcity of oiled strands plastered across his bald pate.

  ‘What can I do for you, Doctor Brewer?’ Clough chuckled. ‘As if I didn’t know.’

  ‘I’m here concerning the property in Moss Side. You assured Judge Rawley of your cooperation.’

  ‘But he has passed into the great hereafter and my circumstances have altered accordingly. One has to have one’s own interests at heart.’

  ‘What about the interests of the less fortunate?’

  ‘The poor are feckless and work-shy.’ Clough puffed out his paunch, increasing the strain on his waistcoat. ‘Well-known fact, sir, well-known fact.’

  Oh, the temptation to say: You’re a pompous, self-serving idiot and I’d like to boot you up the backside.

  He said, ‘I’ve no intention of wasting my time or yours. I know Judge Rawley was prepared to put in a word for you in the right places, but wouldn’t you rather earn your place in society?’ No, obviously not. ‘Look here, Clough, I can’t propose you for membership of a smart club and I don’t have the mayor’s ear, but I have access to certain charitable committees. What d’you suppose their reaction will be when they hear you’ve dropped out?’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Brewer?’

  ‘Not at all, but you’ll put me in a dashed awkward corner if I have to explain your change of heart. Think of it this way. I’m in a position to sing your praises to the Lady Chairmen of half a dozen committees. You know the stratum of society these charitable ladies inhabit.’