Mrs Wright stared at her. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Have you ever been in Boots, the chemist? They lend books out for a penny a time. With your having knocked two shops into one, you have the space for some bookshelves.’
‘There, I knew you were a clever young woman, you being able to type and all,’ said Mrs Wright, smiling lopsidedly as her face had swollen slightly.
‘Where are the books? I could look at them now. I won’t be going to sign on at the Employment Bureau until tomorrow.’
‘You can’t miss the room, it’s the last along the landing.’ Tilly went upstairs and decided to change into an older frock before looking at the books, thinking they might be dusty. But before making a start, perhaps she should pay Mrs Wright for her bed and board.
Mrs Wright was still sitting where Tilly had left her but she was not alone. She was talking to a policeman and Minnie had arrived home from school and was sitting beside her on the sofa. The girl’s eyes were on the young man, who was writing in a notebook. In fact, she was batting her eyelashes at him. Tilly hoped Mrs Wright was unaware of her behaviour and turned to go back upstairs. Only to pause when Mrs Wright spoke her name. ‘Hang on, Miss Moran. If you don’t mind, take our Minnie with you.’
‘Mam!’ protested Minnie. ‘I want to hear what happened.’
‘I’ll tell you later. Now go, go!’ Mrs Wright made shooing motions.
Minnie clicked her tongue against her teeth, got up and swept out of the room with her nose in the air. Tilly hurried after her. The girl stopped at the foot of the stairs. ‘What did you think of him?’
‘You mean the policeman?’ asked Tilly.
‘Who else?’ asked Minnie with a predatory gleam in her eye that shocked Tilly. ‘Not bad looking, is he?’
Tilly was about to say Too old for you when she remembered Don and the age difference between them. ‘He’s OK. But I would have thought he’d have no difficulty finding himself a girlfriend of his own age.’
Minnie grimaced. ‘You’re right. Thank goodness there should be plenty of lads around of my age in a few years, so I can have a pick of the bunch, although I do prefer older men. I feel really sorry for our Wendy, she’s not going to be able to pick and choose. Mind you, I doubt Mam will let her go even if someone did ask her out. Our Wendy is far too useful to her.’ Without waiting for Tilly to comment, Minnie continued up the stairs.
Tilly followed her and then, when the girl stopped outside a bedroom door, she walked past her to a door at the end of the landing. Tilly was about to open the door when she heard footsteps behind her. ‘This isn’t your bedroom? What are you doing here?’
Tilly told her. Minnie looked vaguely interested. ‘Mam would do anything to make some extra money. Do you really think your idea will work?’
‘Don’t know until it’s tried and tested,’ replied Tilly. ‘I don’t know your mother’s customers, do you?’
‘You mean are they readers?’ Minnie ran her tongue along her teeth and did not immediately answer her own question but appeared to be giving it some thought. ‘Depends on the books. Most who come in buy a newspaper, some of the women buy the Red Letter magazine. Mam reads that. I do, too, when she’s not looking. Some good stories in it. So are you going in?’ Before Tilly could open the door, Minnie flung it open for her.
The room was dimly lit because the curtains were drawn, so immediately Tilly went over to the window, avoiding the numerous books piled up on the floor, to let in some light. Then she turned and looked at the books, thinking there must be a couple of hundred there.
‘Some are thick and heavy and most don’t have pictures,’ said Minnie, leaning against the wall.
‘Most adult books don’t have pictures,’ said Tilly. ‘If you’ve looked at them, then perhaps you can tell me some of the authors.’
‘Sure. There are some popular ones. Mam would have a fit if she knew I’d read a couple of them,’ said Minnie, sounding amused.
Tilly thought that Mrs Wright sounded like Alice and for a moment shared an unspoken fellow feeling with Minnie. ‘Are there any Ethel M Dell, John Buchan, Elinor Glyn or Edgar Rice Burroughs?’ asked Tilly.
‘You mean the American who writes the Tarzan stories,’ said Minnie, referring to the last name.
‘He also writes fantasy and science fiction,’ said Tilly, kneeling down on the well-worn rug next to the books.
Minnie chuckled and knelt beside her and picked up a book from a pile. ‘Can you imagine two old spinsters reading about an ape man?’
‘Why not? He meets Jane, doesn’t he? So there’s a bit of romance,’ said Tilly, running her gaze down the spines of books. The two famous women writers she had mentioned where well represented.
‘But would they want to swing through the trees?’ asked Minnie. ‘Actually,’ she continued, ‘there are some Tarzan books here. Uncle Robbie liked reading them.’
‘But I’m sure he didn’t read this,’ said Tilly, picking up a copy of The Way of the Eagle by Ethel M Dell.
Minnie grinned. ‘Mam’s read that. She said it was rubbish. Daft of her to say that because I immediately wanted to read it.’
‘What about Wendy?’
‘She wouldn’t admit it to me,’ said Minnie. ‘I like stories about adventurous, arrogant, rich men. I’d like to marry a man like that but fat chance I’ll have of doing so. Maybe if I became a stewardess on a liner?’ she mused, scrambling to her feet. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ll go and change and then see where Mam is up to with the bobby. I’ll make the excuse that I’ve come down to peel the potatoes. See you!’ She fluttered her fingers and left the room.
For a moment Tilly did no more than kneel there, thinking about what the younger girl had said. Alice would have called Minnie a precocious little madam but only time would prove to Tilly if that were true. She could be all talk. She got on with looking at the books, setting some aside that she thought should be popular, but decided if a library in the shop was to succeed, then they would need to buy some recent titles. From what Minnie had said about her mother, Tilly was almost convinced that Mrs Wright would not be prepared to fork out on new books. It would also cost money for bookshelves and a ledger for the names and addresses of the borrowers, a date stamp and an ink pad. Maybe it would be best if she kept quiet about the idea of a library for the moment. At least until Mrs Wright brought the subject up again herself.
But Minnie’s mention of the stories in the Red Letter magazine had given Tilly an idea. She would buy a copy of the magazine, read it and try to come up with a short story that would suit its pages. Hopefully, she might be able to make a few bob that way.
Tilly went downstairs. She could hear Mrs Wright’s and Minnie’s voices coming from the kitchen and presumed the policeman had left and they were preparing the evening meal. She wondered when the boys would arrive home from school as she went into the shop. Wendy was serving a customer and Tilly waited until the other girl had finished before asking whether she had a copy of the Red Letter.
‘No. It’s not out until tomorrow and last week’s would have been used to light the fire,’ said Wendy. ‘I didn’t realise you read it.’
‘I’ve read Alice’s copy sometimes.’
‘And now you’ve got to buy your own,’ said Wendy. ‘You could always read our copy.’
‘I’ll do that, if you don’t mind.’
‘Although, it does mean you’ll have to wait until we’ve all read it,’ said Wendy.
Tilly decided that she didn’t want to do that if she wanted to refresh her memory as to the kind of stories the magazine published, but she did not say so. Instead, she thanked Wendy and went looking for Mrs Wright to hand over the money for her keep.
There was a tantalising smell of cooking coming from the kitchen and she headed for there, finding to her surprise that it was Minnie who was standing over the gas stove, frying slices of potatoes and onion. Her mother was watching her and was still dabbing at her eye but this time it was with a handkerchief and no
t the steak.
‘I’ve your money, Mrs Wright,’ said Tilly.
‘Thanks, girl,’ said the older woman, taking the money from her and placing it in the pocket of her pinny. ‘You happy with a couple of eggs tossed in with this?’
‘Yes,’ said Tilly, who was so hungry by now that bread and jam would have done her.
‘Good. I’m glad you’re not a fussy eater. I can’t abide fussy eaters,’ said the older woman. ‘You can set the table for me – that’s if you don’t mind. What with this eye.’
‘Shall I set places for your boys, as well?’ asked Tilly, glancing over at the kitchen table.
‘You might as well,’ she said. ‘Not that our Davy will be in just yet. You can bet he’ll be in the park, kicking a ball around believing he’s going to make it into the Liverpool team one day. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him to come home first and change his shoes, but will he listen?’ She shook her head and a tiny smile played round her mouth.
It was obvious to Tilly that Mrs Wright had a soft spot for her younger son. ‘What about Peter?’
‘Oh, he’ll be in soon. It’s Scouts tonight, so he’ll be wanting to eat early and get into uniform and be on his way.’ She added, ‘Cutlery is in the left table drawer and tablecloths are in the right.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tilly, and she proceeded to take out a tablecloth and spread it over the table.
‘So, you came over here to be near your dad,’ said Mrs Wright, removing plates from a shelf.
‘That’s right.’
‘You think you’ll see much of him?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Why didn’t you set up home with him?’
Tilly looked at her in surprise. ‘He works for Mrs Black.’ She corrected herself, ‘I mean, Mr and Mrs Bennett.’
‘But he did work for her first, didn’t he? I believe they’ve known each other for years,’ said Mrs Wright, placing the plates on the table.
‘Yes. From before I was born,’ said Tilly.
‘It’s a long time and he hasn’t always worked for her, has he?’
‘No. She gave him a job and a roof over his head when he needed it.’
‘She must be fond of him to do that,’ said Mrs Wright. ‘I mean, he was in the asylum, wasn’t he?’
Tilly was beginning to feel extremely uneasy. Where were all these questions leading? Tilly thought of Alice and her feelings for both her father and Eudora Bennett. Surely there couldn’t be anything more behind her hatred for them than what Tilly had always believed: that her sister hated her father because of his violent behaviour towards their mother and herself, and disliked the former Mrs Black purely because she was a medium and healer, and their father had sought her help?
‘Yes, he was in the asylum but he’s much better now,’ said Tilly, praying her landlady would ask her no more questions.
It was a relief when the door opened and Peter entered the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, staring first at Tilly, then his mother. ‘Our Wendy said a woman attacked you. Golly, that’s some black eye, Mam! Did you hit her back?’
‘As if I would respond to violence with violence,’ said Mrs Wright, giving a sniff that was similar to the one Minnie had given earlier. ‘Not at all the way decent people should behave. Isn’t that right, Miss Moran?’ she said. ‘Doesn’t the Bible say we should turn the other cheek?’
‘Yes,’ said Tilly, wondering why it was that sometimes Mrs Wright called her Miss Moran and then at other times girl. She could not remember if she had addressed her as Tilly yet. There were definitely several sides to Wendy’s mother, she decided. Was it possible that earlier she had been hinting there was more to her father and Eudora Bennett’s relationship than that of healer and patient and subsequently employer and employee? But why should the woman be interested in their past?
‘Our Minnie would have hit her,’ said Peter, going over and peering closely into his mother’s face. ‘It’s gone all purply.’
‘She’d have deserved it,’ said Minnie, glancing over her shoulder at him. ‘Probably Mam never got the chance to retaliate.’
‘What a thing to say,’ said her mother, glaring at her. ‘I believe the law should deal out judgment and that’s why I’ve complained to the police.’
Tilly was beginning to feel really sorry for the woman and was tempted to say so but guessed she would be out on her ear if she did. Instead she asked where she would find the salt and pepper to put on the table and whether she should cut some bread.
‘You do that, girl,’ said Mrs Wright absently. ‘Bread in the crock and knife in the drawer.’
‘Is Miss Moran having the first egg?’ asked Minnie, glancing at Tilly.
‘Yes. Then Peter because he’ll be going out and you’ll need to get a move on,’ said Mrs Wright, ‘because I’ll be going out later, too, and I want to fry my steak.’
Tilly almost blurted out You’re going to eat that steak after you’ve handled it? I don’t know how many times you’ve pressed it against your face! But she remained silent, knowing that she could not behave the way she would have at home. Besides, perhaps Mrs Wright would wash the steak.
As soon as she had eaten Tilly decided she would go upstairs and see if she could come up with some ideas for a story. If not, then she would read one of the books piled up in the spare room and try and forget what Mrs Wright had insinuated about her father and Eudora Bennett.
* * *
‘Are you OK? Got everything you need?’ asked Wendy, popping her head through the half-opened bedroom door.
Tilly looked up from the book she was reading. ‘I’m fine. You finished in the shop?’
‘Yes. I’ve closed up. Is it all right if I come in?’
Tilly put down her book on the bedspread. ‘Of course.’ Wendy closed the door behind her and came further into the room. ‘Bed comfortable?’
Tilly nodded and glanced at her bedside clock. ‘You’re late closing.’
‘It’s Mam who sets the hours and she thinks we can catch the late evening passing trade if we stay open. I wonder if it’s worth it on any night other than Friday and Saturday.’ Wendy yawned and pulled out the chair from the desk and sat down. ‘So what do you think so far? That woman hitting Mam hasn’t put you off living here, has it? That’s never happened before.’
‘No,’ said Tilly, smiling. ‘There was a time in Chester when members of my family were staring down the barrel of a gun.’
Wendy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking!’
‘No. Swear it on the Bible,’ said Tilly, placing her hand on hers at the side of the bed.
‘It must have been terrifying,’ said Wendy.
‘It was for Freddie and Clara and Dad,’ said Tilly, settling herself to tell the tale. As she talked she remembered how her father had been the hero of the hour, risking his life to save his granddaughter from being kidnapped. It had been the first time Tilly had met her father and what daughter could not have been impressed by his bravery, especially as he lay bleeding on the ground?
‘You seem to have gone off in a trance,’ said Wendy, stirring Tilly from her thoughts. ‘So what finally happened to Bert?’
‘Well, you’ve heard the saying He who lives by the sword, shall die by the sword}’ said Tilly.
‘Yes,’ replied Wendy, her eyes wide. ‘Are you saying?
‘He was shot with his own gun and died.’
‘Blooming heck!’ Wendy smiled and said solemnly. ‘So should all baddies perish.’ She got up from the bed and went over to the window. ‘Do you want your curtains closing? It’ll help shut out some of the noise of the traffic.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tilly.
Wendy drew the curtains and then glanced down at the typewriter on the desk. ‘Have you done any writing this evening?’
‘No. Too many things on my mind.’
‘I wish I could type,’ said Wendy wistfully, touching the keys.
‘It’s not that difficult if you put your mind to it and concentrate - and prac
tise, practise, practise. You can always have a go when I’m not here,’ said Tilly, ‘as long as you don’t waste too much paper.’
Wendy’s face lit up. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,’ said Tilly, smiling. She got up from the bed. ‘I’d better go the lavatory before I settle to sleep.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Wendy.
As they went downstairs together, she said, ‘Fancy a cup of cocoa?’
‘Don’t mind if I do but only a small cup,’ said Tilly, thinking of the trek from her bedroom to the outside lavatory during the night. There was so much she was going to have to get used to living here. Hopefully, in time, she would settle down and build a new life for herself.
Chapter Seven
‘What would you do with this weather?’ asked Tilly of no one in particular. She’d had such a strange dream last night and, what with it being her birthday and having only the one card from Kenny and Hanny, she felt out of sorts.
‘You’re not going out in it, are you?’ asked Wendy, glancing over to where Tilly stood just inside the shop doorway, gazing out at the pouring rain.
‘I have to. I need to go into town to register at the Employment Bureau.’
‘Why don’t you hang on for a bit? It’s only early and you don’t want to get caught up in the parades.’
Tilly came back into the shop. ‘What parades?’
‘It’s the Twelfth of July. Orangemen’s Day. Surely you’ve heard of it, even in Chester?’
‘Of course, I have. I just forgot.’
‘They’ll be crowds in town. It’s a shame about the rain because the procession is worth seeing if you’ve never seen one before. The men will be wearing all the regalia of the various lodges and the women and kids will be dressed in pretty frocks. A couple will be dressed as William and Mary with long curly wigs and costume of the times. Then there’s the bands. They play some really stirring music. “Sons of the Sea and We’re all British Boys” is one. Very patriotic.’ Wendy sighed. ‘The poor kids! All their pretty dresses will get soaked – but at least the rain should dampen the ardour of any troublemakers.’
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