by Pam Weaver
She shook her head firmly. ‘That I found someone as wonderful as you.’
Eleven
Before she’d set off to Brighton that morning, Izzie had taken the time to prepare the tea so that all she had to do was put a taper under the saucepans and light the oven. At five forty-five, Linda came in.
‘Hello.’
‘’llo,’ Linda grunted as she went upstairs.
Their father came in a few minutes later and it came as a bit of a relief to Izzie that he didn’t mention her sick friend or ask how she was. It was obvious that his mind was on other things.
‘Where’s me clean shirt?’ he said gruffly.
Oh hello, dear. And how was your day? Did you have a nice time in Brighton? Izzie thought to herself as she said dully, ‘Hanging in the wardrobe upstairs.’
He washed in the downstairs bathroom then went upstairs to change. They all sat at the table and Izzie dished up the potatoes, cabbage and a slice of pie. After her father and Linda had finished their meals and left the table, all the old resentments came flooding back.
As soon as their father had gone out, Izzie scanned the Evening News she’d bought at the station in Brighton for the jobs section. She still hadn’t actually decided what she wanted to do but it wouldn’t do any harm to see what was on offer. Mrs Shilling’s manuscript was almost finished and she’d made good headway with the book about Africa.
Her sister sat at the kitchen table, propping their father’s shaving mirror next to the tea pot as she got out her make-up bag. Izzie couldn’t help noticing that it was bulging. Where did Linda get the money to buy all that stuff? Her paper round money wouldn’t stretch that far, surely? And as for that lipstick she was using, it must have cost a fortune. Was she pinching again? After the theft of her money they’d had one hell of a row and now Izzie kept her savings in the Post Office Savings Bank. Even though her small change was well-hidden, that didn’t mean Linda wasn’t up to her old tricks again.
Izzie looked up. ‘Are you going out?’
‘I’m going to church.’
‘Church?’ Izzie said incredulously. ‘On a Saturday night?’
‘The youth club,’ Linda said with a tired sigh.
‘Oh,’ said Izzie. ‘Yes of course.’ She was surprised that her sister was still going to the church youth club. The few people she’d met from St Paul’s seemed very nice but she had been quite convinced Linda would be bored with them by now.
Izzie turned the page of the newspaper. ‘What are you doing?’ Linda asked.
‘Looking for a job.’
Linda brushed her hair vigorously. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s about time you chucked in that job with that awful family.’
Ignoring the barbed remark, Izzie carried on scanning the Jobs Vacant column.
‘They say that Mrs Shilling is as stingy as hell,’ Linda went on, ‘and yet they must be flippin’ rolling in it.’
The room remained silent.
‘Why don’t you get a job as an usherette or something,’ suggested Linda as she glanced up. ‘You could see all the best films for free.’
‘I want something where I can meet people,’ said Izzie, running her finger down the column one last time.
‘You meet loads of people in the cinema,’ said Linda, twisting up her new lipstick.
‘But you can’t talk to them,’ Izzie said, putting the paper down. She watched her sister patting her face with some Max Factor Pan-Cake and chewed at her bottom lip. Now might be a good time to tell Linda that she’d found Mum. It didn’t seem right keeping it from her. ‘There’s something I want to tell you—’ she began, but she was interrupted by a tap on the door.
‘That’s John,’ Linda said breathlessly.
‘John?’
‘My boyfriend.’
Izzie stared, wide-eyed, and Linda’s eyes flashed. ‘And before you say anything,’ Linda snapped, ‘no, Dad doesn’t know about him and you’re not to tell. Okay?’
Her sister rose to her feet and grabbed her cardigan from the back of the chair.
‘Why don’t you bring him in to say hello?’ Izzie suggested.
‘Oh Izzie, you are so square.’ Linda snorted. Stuffing her arms into the sleeves of her cardigan, she grabbed her handbag and swept out of the room, leaving behind nothing more than a whiff of Evening in Paris perfume in her wake. Izzie listened to their hushed voices in the hallway as Linda opened the door to let him in and he helped her on with her coat. A few moments later the front door slammed. Rushing to the sitting room window, Izzie pressed herself against the wall and moved the lace curtain slightly to look outside. Her sister was walking down the street with a tall languid looking fellow dressed in a long jacket and very thick soled shoes. He looked a bit like one of those Spiv types but his heavily Brylcreemed hair was cut in the fashionable DA style at the back. She’d read in the paper that they called it that because it looked like a duck’s bottom. She caught in her breath noisily. He didn’t look like the sort of boy who went to church, and did he realise that Linda was only fifteen? What on earth would Dad have to say if he knew she was going out with a boy who looked like that?
*
When Izzie returned to work the next morning, Mrs Shilling wasn’t very well. She had been listless for a couple of days but when she complained of a headache and that the vision in her left eye was blurred after her lunch time nap, Izzie went to tell Muriel Shilling. It was unusual for her to be in during the day but all morning Cook had been baking for England as young Mrs Shilling was having what she called a ‘soiree’ this afternoon. The doorbell had been ringing nonstop for the past half an hour.
Hearing the buzz of happy voices, Izzie knocked lightly on the sitting room door.
‘Yes, come in.’
Izzie pushed the door open. As she stepped into the room, every eye turned in her direction. For a brief moment she was dazzled by the spectacle before her, a sea of beautifully dressed women sitting elegantly on chairs or standing around in small groups. They were obviously enjoying afternoon tea. The table by the window was overladen with cakes although nobody seemed to be eating them. Mrs Shilling stood near the French windows, a cigarette in a long ivory coloured holder in one hand and a dainty triangle shaped sandwich in the other. The buzz of conversation faded.
‘This is the girl helping my mother-in-law with her book,’ Muriel announced to the assembled company. Addressing Izzie, she said, ‘What is it, dear?’
Embarrassed, Izzie blushed. ‘May I have a word with you please, Madam?’
‘Can’t it wait?’
Izzie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
With an exaggerated sigh, Muriel Shilling put her sandwich down onto a plate on the top of the piano. ‘Do excuse me for a moment everybody.’ She walked towards Izzie and grabbed her arm, pulling her from the room. ‘What is it?’ she snapped in a hissy whisper as she pulled the door closed behind them. ‘I told Esther I wasn’t to be disturbed.’
Izzie blinked in surprise. ‘I think Mrs Shilling is unwell.’
‘You think?’ Muriel said. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake girl, use your brain if you’ve got one. Call the doctor.’
Izzie turned to go.
Muriel paused, her hand still on the door knob. Her mind was in a whirl. Although most people used the new National Health Service, she had persuaded her husband to stay private. Muriel had no desire to sit in a waiting room with the more common of society – you never knew what they might have – and though Doctor Kearney charged a pretty penny for a home visit, Muriel deemed that it was worth it. The thing was, why incur the extra expense for her mother-in-law? ‘No, wait,’ she said, glancing up at the grandfather clock in the hall. ‘The nurse will be here in less than an hour. Just put her to bed and tell the nurse when she comes. And don’t come back unless she’s …’ Mrs Shilling hesitated. ‘Well, I’ll leave it to you but I really can’t be interrupted again.’
She waved her hand irritably, indicating that Izzie should leave, and then pushed the sit
ting room door open. ‘I’m so sorry about that,’ she exclaimed in an exasperated tone as she closed the door again. ‘Really, what would they do without me?’
Furious, Izzie walked back to the old lady’s room. How could young Mrs Shilling be so uncaring and heartless? The old lady was already on her bed so Izzie covered her over with a blanket and tried to get her to sip some water. Mrs Shilling seemed unresponsive and drowsy so Izzie sat beside her and spent a very worrying hour until the nurse came. After giving her an examination, the nurse went downstairs to telephone for the doctor but when she came back her face was flushed and angry.
‘I picked up the telephone but her daughter says there’s no need. She insists that Mrs Shilling has simply overdone things and all she needs is a day or two in bed.’
‘But you think it’s more than that?’ Izzie pressed.
The nurse nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with the doctor when I get back.’
*
Across town, Brenda Sayers turned the open sign to closed in her haberdashery and wool shop and pulled the blinds down. It had been a good day in the Woolly Lamb. She’d sold a fair bit of stock and put several bags of wool in layby. It was a good system. When she took over the shop she realised that most of her customers who wanted to knit a jumper or something for their babies didn’t have enough money to pay for all the wool at once. As she didn’t want to lose their custom, she agreed to let them buy a couple of balls at a time while she put the rest of the wool they needed in a bag with their name on it and kept it for six weeks. That way all the balls would have the same dye number so there would be no risk of their garment coming out in stripes. The idea was popular with her customers because it was affordable.
There was a bit of stock-taking to do then Brenda settled down for a cup of tea before she began the long walk home. She loved it here and in some ways she knew she’d been luckier than most. The shop was doing well and she enjoyed chatting to her customers. ‘When you’re on your own, as I am,’ she used to tell them, ‘there’s nothing like a friendly natter.’
She’d been here since 1943. She loved the area and the people. In fact the only fly in the ointment was the discovery that Doris Baxter lived only six hundred yards down the road. They avoided each other, of course, but it rankled every time she saw the woman walking past the shop. What an irony. You couldn’t make it up. Two friends, one dead child, an investigation which went on for weeks, then moving away to make a new start only to find that they were practically neighbours!
When Doris had gone missing, Brenda was almost glad. If someone had asked her, she would have told them she’d hoped Doris had found a fancy man and run off with him. At least that would have meant she wouldn’t be coming back. However, it did make her feel a bit uncomfortable when she heard them say Doris had been found but that she’d been declared insane and taken off to the lunatic asylum. Although she still blamed her one-time friend for what had happened to Gary, Brenda wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy. In her mind’s eye she could see Doris now, standing in the witness box and trembling like a leaf. As she put the kettle on, Brenda shook the memory away.
When the postman had called this morning he’d brought three letters. Brenda hadn’t had time to look at them so she’d propped them up on the shelf in the kitchen. Two were bills but the other had a London post mark and she could tell from the handwriting that it was from her sister. It began with the usual dull chit-chat but Thelma ended with,
I’m worried sick about Ray. He’s a good boy but he’s got in with the wrong crowd. You know what kids are like. They don’t seem to worry about ending up in trouble. As if I haven’t got enough to worry about with Lennie getting into trouble with the police, and now Ray’s been hanging around with that Charlie Davenport.
Brenda frowned. He was always trouble, that boy. Not like her Gary. She sighed. She didn’t wish her nephew harm, but could somebody please explain to her, why was it that only the good died young?
The long walk home gave her time to think. She and Thelma had always been close. Thelma had been an absolute marvel when Gary died. Brenda was convinced that she would have topped herself if it hadn’t have been for her. Maybe now it was her turn to help Thelma. Ray was probably a bit of a handful but only because he’d got in with the wrong crowd. What if she offered to have him here for a little break? He’d behave himself then, wouldn’t he? Of course he would. There was nobody around here to lead him into trouble. As she put her key in the door Brenda had decided. She would write to Thelma tonight inviting Ray to come to Worthing and post the letter in the morning. It would probably do them both good and it would be nice to have a little company again.
Twelve
Mrs Shilling had only made a slight recovery when Izzie turned up for work the next day, nevertheless, she wanted a blow-by blow account of Izzie’s meeting with her mother. They both giggled when she told her employer about her mother spotting her notice wrapped around her fish and chips. Mrs Shilling seemed very tired and her speech was a little strained but she didn’t complain of anything other than a headache. Esther told her that the doctor had come soon after Izzie had left the day before. According to Mrs Dore, he had said she may have suffered a slight stroke but he’d only prescribed bed rest. She shook her head. ‘Poor old soul.’
Half expecting Muriel Shilling to seek her out and tell her what had happened to her mother-in-law, Izzie went straight to the garden room to carry on with the manuscript. She was left alone all morning. At lunch time, Izzie offered to take her employer some lunch. Mrs Dore had prepared a small plate of scrambled egg with bread and butter but Mrs Shilling only managed a few mouthfuls. She seemed very tired. Izzie didn’t bother her about the manuscript but helped her to the toilet then covered her over in bed again.
‘What time is the nurse coming?’ Izzie asked Esther and Mrs Dore when she took Mrs Shilling’s tray back to the kitchen.
‘Usual time, I suppose,’ said Mrs Dore.
‘I’m quite worried about her,’ Izzie confided. ‘I know Mrs Muriel doesn’t seem very bothered but I think she really doesn’t look at all well.’
They heard the sound of a footfall by the kitchen door. The door burst open and an irritated voice said, ‘And that is your medically qualified opinion, is it?’ It was Muriel Shilling.
Amid the sound of scraping chairs, they all rose to their feet and Izzie blushed profusely. ‘No Madam. Sorry Madam.’
‘I should think so,’ Muriel snapped. ‘How much more of that typing have you got to do?’
‘It’s almost done,’ said Izzie. ‘I’m on chapter thirty-one and there are thirty-six altogether.’
‘Then I suggest that you stop wasting your time gossiping about me and get on with it!’ Muriel hissed. ‘Esther, I’ve been ringing the bell for ages. There’s no salt in the salt cellar.’
Izzie made her way back to her typewriter while Esther hurried to fetch fresh salt and followed Mrs Shilling back into the dining room.
By Thursday, Izzie had done everything she needed to do. She had checked and re-checked it and was satisfied that the manuscript was the best it could possibly be.
‘Shall I put it in the post for you?’ she asked her employer. Old Mrs Shilling waved her hand wanly and nodded but Izzie wasn’t too sure that she had understood what she had said. However, she tidied the manuscript anyway and wrapped it securely in brown paper and string, before dropping sealing wax onto the knots. All that remained was to ask Mrs Shilling’s daughter-in-law for the money for the postage. She did and it was given, if grudgingly.
‘After you’ve brought back the receipt and the change,’ Mrs Shilling said icily, ‘you can take the rest of the day off.’
‘Thank you, Madam,’ Izzie said, but a glance up at the grandfather clock in the hallway told her it was already three-forty. By the time she’d got to the Post Office and back, she would probably only have fifteen minutes working time left.
As it turned out, there was a queue a mile long at the Post Office and as she wa
s walking back upstairs to say goodbye to her employer, the clock in the hall was already striking five. ‘See you on Monday, Mrs Shilling,’ she called cheerfully from the door. The old lady gave her a half smile and laid her head back on the pillow.
*
The weekend promised to be good fun. Izzie was going to the pictures with Patsy on Friday and the two of them had arranged to meet Esther outside the pier pavilion on Saturday. This would be the last time the three of them would get together for a while because Esther was off to Peto House, Oxford Street in London on the following Monday. She would be living there for thirteen weeks while she did her basic training at the Police Training School in Hendon.
Patsy had got tickets for a fashion show. The three friends met outside the pier pavilion and joined the snaking queue outside. It took a while to get in and then they struggled to find three seats together. A long wooden ‘runway’ went out from the stage into the audience. As soon as the first model came on, she walked along the runway, pausing every now and then for the audience to admire what she was wearing. Everything was very chic and colourful with bold geometric designs. Izzie, Esther and Patsy loved it.
After the interval, there was a slot for local talent and to Izzie’s immense surprise one of the models for the St Paul’s sewing group was a very familiar face. She gasped. ‘That’s my sister!’
Her two friends gaped in surprise as Linda walked purposefully down the ramp before posing with her hand on her hip. She was wearing a red and white polka dot dress with a halter neck and a very full skirt. As she twirled towards them, her layers of petticoat peeped from beneath the hem of her dress. To complete the ensemble, Linda wore red high heel shoes and red clip-on earrings. Her accessories were a small straw bucket bag and a matching wide-brimmed straw hat. The level of applause grew louder as the girl who had designed and made the dress, Ruth Squires, took a bow by the curtains. Izzie was left speechless.
‘She was amazing,’ Patsy said with a gasp.
