The Woman From Heartbreak House

by Freda Lightfoot

  And night after night Lucy would fill the house with her noisy friends so that Kate would be forced to escape to her own room with the door shut fast, hoping for a bit of peace.

  One night, after Kate had spent a blissful hour or two alone with Flora, reading to her daughter and playing games of Ludo and Snap, she opted for an early night as she felt bone weary after a hard day at the factory. She took a lovely hot bath, made herself a cup of hot cocoa in the small nursery kitchen next door, as she once used to do when Callum was small, then slipped thankfully between the sheets. She was just beginning to drift off when Lucy burst into her room, crashing back the door and switching on the light.

  ‘Get out of bed this minute!’

  Startled, Kate rubbed her eyes, struggling to wake up. ‘What’s going on? What’s happened? Is it Flora?’

  ‘Have you forgotten that we have the Blythes here for supper tonight? Didn’t I specifically remind you about them only at breakfast this morning?’

  ‘Did you? I – I don’t recollect your saying anything about the Blythes, or supper.’

  Lucy flung open the wardrobe door. ‘That is half your problem. You can never remember a thing I tell you.’

  ‘What time is it? It’s nearly nine o’clock. Isn’t it rather late for a dinner party? I’m so tired, and with an early start tomorrow. Can’t you manage without me for once?’

  ‘No, I cannot. They have already arrived and are enjoying aperitifs, wondering where the hell you are. Naturally that dreadful woman, your useless cook, is equally late with the meal, so there is still time for you to redeem yourself. Get up, get dressed and make yourself presentable. At once! Thomas Blythe is an influential man in this town, a town councillor, as well as owning a chain of ladies’ fashion shops in Manchester. You see, I do have the interests of the business at heart. Far more than you do, it seems. And at least I can remember what I’m supposed to be doing from one minute to the next.’

  Throughout this diatribe Lucy was snatching garments from the wardrobe, underwear from Kate’s chest of drawers, shoes from the shelf and flinging them on to the bed. ‘Don’t just sit there. Get up, I say!’

  Kate had no alternative but to scramble out of bed, hastily dress and hurry downstairs to endure a long and difficult dinner. Not only were the Blythes present but also several of Lucy’s more vociferous friends. Wearing as it was for her, Kate couldn’t help feeling even sorrier for Mrs Petty and Ida, working so late.

  Poor Ida looked fit to burst into tears when she very nearly dropped the soup tureen as she lifted it from the table, preparatory to taking it away. Only Thomas Blythe’s swift intervention saved them from a catastrophe.

  Lucy was furious, of course. ‘I’ll speak with you later, Ida. Tell Cook we are more than ready for the next course.’

  Ida went off red-cheeked, only too aware that the simmering rage in Lucy’s face would erupt like a volcano, the moment the guests had departed.

  Kate felt awkward witnessing the poor girl’s humiliation. Lucy was giving the strong impression that she was now mistress of Tyson Lodge and was in a position to order the servants about as she pleased. And Kate too, apparently.

  There was something about her sister-in-law’s abundant self-assurance, her assumption that she was entitled to take charge and make all the decisions, that chipped away at Kate’s fragile ability to cope and undermined her own sense of confidence.

  Lucy was currently presenting herself as indispensable, a favourite theme.

  ‘Now that my dear brother-in-law isn’t here to share the burden of running this house and the business, I do what I can to offer my support and take my share of the responsibility. As dear, darling Eliot would expect. Poor Kate certainly couldn’t cope on her own. For one thing, she doesn’t have the background to understand the finer details of society.’

  Kate could ignore the snide remarks about herself, but Lucy’s constant use of endearments whenever she referred to Eliot infuriated her, and she had to grit her teeth to prevent herself from rising to the bait.

  On the few occasions when she had attempted to stand up to Lucy’s domineering manner, her sister-in-law had wept into her handkerchief and claimed that she was only trying to help, which somehow made Kate appear ungrateful as well as incompetent.

  Alternatively, she would gaze upon Kate with pitying eyes and offer to fetch Mrs Petty’s elixir, or to call in the doctor. ‘You still aren’t well, sister dear, I do understand that, otherwise why would you attack me in such a heartless manner? It has all been far too traumatic for you. Many of the soldiers returning from the front are being offered psychological help to overcome their traumas, their shell-shock and the like. Perhaps that’s what you need too.’

  Kate had been shocked by the very suggestion. ‘Don’t be silly, of course I don’t. I haven’t fought in a war. I’m fine, so I am. Simply tired and a bit overworked.’

  She could have added that Lucy herself might be extremely diligent when it came to criticism but strangely absent when real work needed to be done.

  Generally though, Kate opted for the remedy of silence. It was the only way she could truly escape the bite of Lucy’s tongue. The only place where she could not be pursued. Kate could live perfectly well in her head for hours at a time, without anyone bothering her there at all. Except for Eliot, who lived in her head too, as well as in her heart, but she was content to have him there where she could commune with him in private. It felt almost as if he were still alive and had just slipped out for a moment, but left the rest of himself with her for safe keeping.

  Mrs Petty had never seen the like in all her born days: dinner parties at least once a week and often twice. She was quite worn out with all the extra work. Half the time she didn’t even know how many folk were coming as madam didn’t trouble to send out invitations, proper stiff cards as Amelia used to do. No such niceties these days, just a quick call on the telephone, mostly to men who were so in demand following the losses in the war that they either didn’t turn up at all, because they’d got a better offer, or they brought a friend along too, male or female, without any sort of warning or permission asked. It was all most vexing. Mrs Petty never knew whether she was feeding eight or fifteen.

  Such was the case yesterday evening. One minute it was to be a quiet supper with only the Blythes invited, and then suddenly it escalated into dinner for ten. Was it any wonder the meal had been late? And poor Ida was still smarting from her telling off.

  ‘I thought she were going to sack me on the spot, Mrs P. What would I have done then, eh?’

  ‘You’d have gone and got a proper job, lass, one that made you more brass and gave you less bother.’

  What was even more shocking was that more often than not, these affairs would go on for half the night, and the amount of alcohol consumed was astonishing. A vulgar display of impropriety, in Mrs Petty’s humble opinion.

  ‘I like a bit of a knees up meself,’ she told Ida in all seriousness,’ but this takes the biscuit. All these gentlemen friends of hers, pissed as newts, if you’ll pardon my French, often requiring a bed for the night because they’ve imbibed that much they can no longer stand.

  ‘Which means more work for you and me, girl. Beds to change, sheets to wash, more breakfasts to cook and so on and so forth. Bless my poor aching feet, there’s no end to it! And on these wages? It’s slave labour. I don’t know about you, Ida, but I’m on me uppers. My bunions have bunions, me feet are that bad. I might just tek it into me head to retire, and go and live with me sister Annie on the Fylde coast after all. She keeps on asking me. I would too, if it weren’t for our Kate. But somebody has to keep an eye on that poor lass, so ’oo better than us, eh, Ida? Who better than us?’

  Chapter Ten

  Kate began to doubt her own judgement even more. If she was forgetting discussions about house improvements, and dinner parties, what was happening to her? She went every day to the factory, trying to solve problems and answer queries, working herself to the point of exhaustion in the
hope that she would sleep. But there were constant interruptions from Lucy. She would bounce into the office unannounced, enquire what Kate was doing and question whatever decision she’d recently made, generally coming up with an alternative. She asked so many questions that it would feel like an interrogation, casting doubt on every decision Kate had made.

  Once, when there was a selection of shoe samples on Kate’s desk, Lucy picked one up and examined it with open contempt. ‘Why have you chosen to manufacture this particular style? Quite dreadful. Outdated. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of shoes like this.’

  ‘This is one of our standard lines, popular with the older customer.’

  ‘We must produce shoes for the bright young things, for the modern woman.’

  ‘And so we will.’ Kate indicated a selection of neat, stylish shoes, all light in weight, some with fashionably pointed toes and Louis heels, others single-barred pumps with a high-waisted heel, and one tiny covered button. This was the most popular look for everyday. And then there were high-tongued, cutaway, crossover and T-strap styles. ‘Shoes for dancing in, and for walking in the park with your young man.’ Kate smiled. ‘And in a selection of colours: leaf brown, black or patent.’

  ‘Very nice, dear, I dare say, but what we really need is something more exciting, more dashing. I’ve seen some fabulous harem slippers in rich brocades, satin, silk, and velvet with wonderful embroidery, or stitched all over with beads or rhinestones. Marvellous fun! And so Egyptian. Why cannot we make shoes like that?’

  Kate sighed. ‘Because it isn’t the sort of shoe our customers would expect, not from Tysons. We aren’t a Moroccan bazaar producing shoes for the Bohemian set. We are making stylish footwear for modern young women who wish to be smart: both practical and fashionable.’

  ‘Sounds pretty stuffy to me. And Jack tells me that some of the leather cutters are refusing to work overtime.’

  ‘That was because he ruffled their feathers by refusing to pay them the proper rate for the job.’

  ‘Nonsense! These people earn far too much as it is. They should be thankful they have a job at all, when so many are unemployed. Goodness, some of them are hobbling into the factory on sticks and crutches, which must affect the level of their efficiency.’

  Kate gritted her teeth yet managed to smile. ‘And we are all grateful for the sacrifices they made fighting a war to keep us free, particularly if they continue to work despite their injuries.’

  Even with right on her side, Kate felt worn out by the constant battling, by fighting every inch of the way. How much longer could she go on?

  ‘You need more help, that is the root of the problem,’ Lucy insisted, maintaining that her son’s contributions were invaluable and essential. ‘Put Jack on the board. He’ll sort everything out.’

  Kate disapproved strongly of Jack constantly interfering and poking his nose into matters which were not his business, loudly voicing his opinions, of which he had many, despite not yet having completed any satisfactory training himself.

  ‘I don’t think so, Lucy. Thank you all the same for the suggestion.’ And for once Kate went off feeling quite proud of herself.

  Sadly, her show of independence was dented when Jack’s intervention did indeed prove to be useful on one occasion when a young woman in the finishing room wasn’t doing her job properly. The girl had proved to be inefficient and lazy, not producing the kind of quality work Tysons were reputed for. She was also adept at stirring up trouble among the other girls and constantly bickering with her supervisor. Kate knew she should deal with the matter, nip the rebellion in the bud before it got out of hand, but the girl had lost her father during the war and she’d baulked at firing her.

  Jack had no such compunction. He sent her packing without even a warning. Lucy said this proved that Kate was losing her nerve. Perhaps she was right.

  The success of Tyson’s Shoes was based on the premise that they were a team, a family almost, who worked together taking pride and interest in the product. Everyone in the factory believed in excellent workmanship and good shoemaking. No cutting corners or making do with shoddy, inferior materials. Respect for the customer, giving him, or her, the best value for money was of paramount importance. Quality was their watchword. Yet here Kate was, slipping up and making mistakes within months of Eliot’s death.

  There were other mistakes too. She kept forgetting things, quite important things, of which Lucy was obliged to keep reminding her. This worried her so much it left Kate feeling constantly tired and depressed, and then she wouldn’t sleep properly, which reduced her level of concentration even more. A vicious circle she couldn’t seem to break out of. It was as if she’d never had the holiday at all. All the benefits of those few quiet weeks in Scarborough seemed like a distant memory.

  She could have sworn, for instance, that she’d given Jack the production schedule for the new lightweight line, with the target date for when she expected it to be in the shops. Kate felt certain she remembered telling him, ‘See that Toby gets that today, the moment he comes back from lunch.’

  But Toby had not received the schedule, consequently the work was not set in motion when it should have been and now the line would be late reaching the shops. Jack swore she’d never given him the file, and when she challenged him on the subject, went to the filing cabinet and plucked it out.

  ‘There you are. It’s still here. You never even gave it to me.’

  It was all most troubling. Had she truly forgotten to hand it to him? If so, then why was she certain that she did? It would be easy to accuse Jack of negligence, except that he’d proved the file had never left her cabinet. It was most worrying.

  The result was that Kate began to question herself more and more. Her self-esteem, already low following Eliot’s death and her miscarriage, plummeted still further and she began to lose faith in herself even more, couldn’t be certain that her judgement was safe, that any decision she made was the right one.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all part of the grieving process,’ Toby consoled her. ‘Perfectly normal and natural. It will pass with time.’ If it hadn’t been for Toby, Kate thought she might well have gone mad.

  Aunt Vera gave Kate one of her little pep talks. ‘I know you and Lucy have not always seen eye to eye, dear, but I do believe she has turned over a new leaf. She does seem to be curbing her excessive spending, which was ever her major fault in the past, if you recall.’

  ‘What about all these refurbishments? I doubt the money is coming out of Lucy’s pocket.’

  Vera looked a touch discomfited. ‘True, but as you said yourself, the house did need modernising, and I must confess we’ve grown extremely fond of our new bathroom, have we not, Cissie?’

  ‘Indeed we have,’ Cissie agreed.

  ‘The money came from the estate for those improvements, true. Only right and proper, don’t you think?’

  ‘From my inheritance, you mean?’

  Again Vera averted her eyes. At times, Kate was very nearly her old shrewd self. It was most pleasing and yet disconcerting. Why was she so inconsistent? ‘Quite.’

  Cissie said, ‘I’m sure Lucy is trying to mend her ways. Why, she is even lecturing Mrs Petty on household thrift, would you believe?’

  Kate could well believe it.

  Mrs Petty had complained bitterly to her about how every part of the house had been refurbished and updated except for the kitchen. ‘I still have to carry coal up from the cellar, or rather Ida does, and she’s not as young as she used to be. But how else would we keep warm, cook all them meals, or get hot water, since we’ve no fancy geyser in my kitchen, nor any new-fangled gas cooker neither. I still have the old coal range to black lead every week.’

  She went on to supply an even longer list of deficiencies in her working conditions to which Kate ceased to listen, having far too many other pressing matters requiring her attention which somehow seemed more important. Yet she did promise Mrs Petty that she’d look into it, at least get her a spanking new-
fangled gas geyser for the hot water.

  She’d done nothing about it thus far because for some reason Kate felt it meant tackling Lucy on the subject first, almost as if she needed her sister-in-law’s permission. What on earth was happening to her?

  Vera was saying something along the lines of Lucy’s simply trying to make herself useful. ‘She has no desire to be a liability, which I can well empathise with, since Cissie and I felt much the same when we first came to live here, for all the number of empty rooms and Eliot’s generosity.’

  Cissie nodded vigorously.

  Kate said, ‘Except that Lucy is on at me the whole time, correcting me, criticising, finding fault. It seems to be turning my mind to mush.’

  Vera gave a polite cough. ‘I suspect that is partly your own lack of faith in yourself. And with your background, who can blame you if you feel a little ... shall we say ... inferior? But you’re really a very capable woman, Kate, we are all aware of that. Surprisingly so considering your disadvantages. But you must remember that it is only a few months since the accident and you are still grieving for your loss, not to mention the loss of your unborn child.’ She patted Kate’s hand. ‘Allow Lucy to help a little more, dear. Don’t feel you must fight her the whole time.’

  ‘And pray for guidance,’ added Cissie, grasping the hand Vera had just relinquished and giving it a little squeeze.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Vera, Aunt Cissie, I will do my best,’ Kate agreed, feeling suddenly very tired and quite unable to summon the energy to argue any further.

  Lucy’s social life was growing more hectic by the week, by the day even. Essential, in her view, if she was to find herself a new husband. It surely wasn’t too late. She was still the right side of forty, although only just, so time was of the essence.