by Anna Jacobs
Percy looked up, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Yes. Oh, yes. Of course I am.”
“I thought you would be, lad.” Ben clapped him on the back. “You’re to start tomorrow. You’d better come in a suit, with a shirt and tie. They’ll try you out for a few weeks, see how you go, and if you do all right it’ll mean five bob a week more. When you’re not working in the office, Mr. Pilby has some other things he wants you to do. You’ll be a sort of assistant to him.”
Ben went back inside his little cubicle of an office and Percy sagged against the wall for a moment in relief, before straightening up and making his way to the lunch room, where, to his further relief, there was no sign of Sam.
When he told his mother about his promotion, she just stared at him and looked pointedly at his callused hands. “I’d have thought they’d want better than you in an office.”
He breathed out hard but didn’t say anything. He might have known she wouldn’t be pleased for him. “So I’ll need a clean white shirt each day. Is the ironing done?”
“Of course it’s done. I’m not a lazy slut like your sister. My husband never had to beat me.”
“Lizzie’s husband doesn’t need to beat her, either. She keeps that house immaculate.”
Meg changed the subject as she often did now, being no longer willing to listen to reason where her eldest daughter was concerned. “You’ll need to buy some new shirts if you keep on working in the office. An’ a new suit, too, maybe.”
“Yes. Well, we’ll just see how it goes for a bit before we buy anything, eh?”
Meg smiled slyly. “An’ I’ll need to buy some new clothes, too, to keep up with you. Going up in the world, aren’t we? Me an’ my clever son. Not like her.” Which was a contradiction of her earlier remarks. But when had she ever cared about logic?
He went out and left her to her mumbling and muttering, and it was inevitable, somehow, that he found his way to Maidham Street and called on Emma to tell her his news. It was good to have people who cared about you, who were pleased for you. Even if they couldn’t be more than friends. And it was a relief to be away from his mother.
* * *
At the end of his first day in the office, Percy found Sam waiting for him in the street outside Pilby’s.
“Got time for a drink, Percy lad?”
He saw a couple of workmates hovering nearby and gathered his courage together, raising his voice. “If you’ll promise not to touch our Lizzie again. I don’t drink with wife-beaters.”
Sam noticed the two men and bared his teeth at them, giving a bark of laughter as they moved hastily on, then turning to scowl at Percy. “Lizzie’s my wife an’ I do what I want in my own home. And if you don’t keep your gob shut about that, it’ll be her as suffers for it.”
“I’m too ashamed to talk about it. But don’t you think folk’ll notice the bruises?”
Sam smiled, a nasty sneer of a smile. “Not if I hit her where it doesn’t show from now on.”
“You lousy, rotten bastard!” Not for the first time, Percy wished he were taller and stronger. But he wasn’t. He’d always been a poor fighter right from his schooldays and they both knew it.
Sam feinted a punch at his jaw and roared with laughter when he ducked back. “I were trying to make peace between us. But I’m not fussed.” And he’d only done it because it’d look better if he was still friends with his wife’s brother, not because he cared owt for a weakling like Percy Kershaw. “Well, you can forget about that drink. An’ if I hear you’ve been so much as talking to Lizzie from now on, she’ll be the one as suffers.” He laughed aloud at the expression of shock on Percy’s face and strode off, still chuckling. Sam Thoxby didn’t let anyone speak to him like that, by hell, he didn’t!
* * *
One day the following week, the housekeeper came to find Polly. “There’s a fellow at the door for you. Tell him not to call here again. Mrs. Pilby doesn’t like followers.”
Polly went to the door and found Sam there, leaning against the wall. Her heart sank. Was Lizzie all right? But all she said was, “Hello, Sam.”
He straightened up and stared at her for a moment, then said brusquely, “You’re not to come round to my house again.”
Polly gasped. “Not to come round? But—why not?”
“Because I bloody say so.”
“But—”
He leaned across, pushing his face close to hers. “Lizzie doesn’t want to see you any more, that’s why not. She doesn’t want to see any of her family. Her an’ me like to keep ourselves to ourselves. It’s a bloody cheek expecting us to have you for a full day every month, just because your batty old mother don’t want you at home. You Kershaws are a right funny lot, an’ me an’ Lizzie will do better without you. An’ tell that snooty sister of yours the same goes for her. If she sends another of those letters, I’ll chuck it on the fire.”
He turned and walked off before she could say anything.
Polly went to weep in a quiet corner. Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong.
On her next day off, she went round to Bobbin Lane, braving her mother’s hostility to find out what was happening. When Percy explained, she sat in stunned horror. “Poor Lizzie!” she whispered at last. “Oh, poor Lizzie!”
Meg tittered. “She’s gettin’ what she deserves. Maybe he’ll knock a bit of sense into her.”
Polly bounced to her feet. “You’re a wicked old woman, you are! Downright wicked. You’re no mother of mine from now on.”
Meg gave a scornful laugh, admiring her reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece. She’d always looked good in yellow. “Who cares? I shan’t be sorry if I never set eyes on you again. Or on those two sisters of yours. An’ your father would agree with me if he were still with us.”
With tears in her eyes, Polly put on her coat and hat.
Percy saw her to the door. “If you like, love, we could meet next month on your day off, go for a walk together, have a cup of tea somewhere. We needn’t stop seeing one another.”
“Yes.” But it was Lizzie she wanted to see. Polly was worried sick about her. Every time she’d visited Maidham Street, Lizzie had looked thinner, more nervous, and had only relaxed when Sam left the house.
Polly had been puzzling for a while about how she could help. There must be some way. Only, how was she to arrange a meeting with her sister without Sam finding out? That was going to be the problem.
Chapter Nineteen
Summer 1914
As the year passed, Lizzie was more aware of the struggles of the suffragettes than she was of the approach of war. In the mornings, after Sam had gone to work, she would do the main housework tasks, then sit down and read yesterday’s newspaper from cover to cover, looking first to see what those brave women she so admired were doing. Sam might scoff at the idea of women getting the vote, but Lizzie had given it a lot of thought—what else had she to do nowadays but think?—and had come to the conclusion that women were just as sensible as men. Only men were stronger, so they stopped most women joining in. Or doing anything interesting.
She often saw mention of troubles in Ireland, too, but couldn’t understand all the ins and outs of that. Except it seemed to her that if the Irish didn’t want the English running their country, then the English should stop trying to boss them around. Lizzie could sympathise with anyone who got bossed around, that was certain.
Most of all she loved to read about the cinema stars and their doings, and she missed going to the cinema quite desperately. Once or twice she had begged Sam to take her for a treat, but he wouldn’t, not even on her birthday. In fact, her birthday didn’t seem special at all, because Sam didn’t remember it, let alone buy her a present. She was so unhappy—and about other things besides the way he hit her. In fact, she had never been so unhappy in her whole life.
In April, she began to suspect she might be pregnant and Sam, who kept a careful eye on her monthlies, commented one night, “You’re a week overdue.”
> “Yes.”
He looked at her in a gloating way. “So you might be expecting?”
“It’s early days yet.”
“But you might.”
“Yes.”
For a while, he didn’t hit her much, apart from a rough shove or two when she didn’t do what he wanted as quickly as he expected, and he was gentler in bed—though he still demanded his rations nearly every night.
When she got up one morning and had to run to the bathroom to be sick, he was triumphant. “You are expecting!”
“Yes, I think I must be.”
“When?”
“I don’t know exactly. About November or December, I think.” If she’d had a mother who didn’t walk past her in the street like a stranger, she could have gone and asked her how to work it out.
“You should go and see a doctor, find out exactly.”
“It’s a bit early for seeing doctors.”
He didn’t press the point, for once.
By the end of May, Lizzie was feeling very pulled down and was sick most of the morning, right through until the early afternoon. One day, fed up of this, she went to see a doctor in her end of town, a new woman doctor, who confirmed that she was pregnant and gave her instructions about resting more and eating well. The doctor also commented on the big bruise on Lizzie’s thigh.
“Bumped into the table,” she said hurriedly, but she could see the doctor didn’t believe her.
Sam wasn’t pleased about this visit. “A woman!” he said scornfully. “What does a woman know about doctoring?”
“Dr. Marriott has done just the same training as a man and she’s very well thought of.”
“Huh! She’s not well thought of by me.” He frowned and sat breathing loudly, as he always did when he was thinking.
Lizzie cleared the tea things away as quietly as she could.
“We’ll wait another month or two, then you can go and see Dr. Balloch. He’s a proper doctor.”
“Oh, Sam, I liked Dr. Marriott. Please let me stay with her?”
“Don’t you cheek me! You’ll do as I tell you.”
She subsided into a chair and hid behind a book, feeling wretched. After a while, she got up. “I think I’ll go to bed early, Sam. I’m always tired lately.”
It was heaven to lie in bed on her own, and for once he didn’t wake her when he came up.
* * *
That same week James Cardwell paused by Emma’s desk. “Can you stay behind for a cuppa after work?”
She nodded. They were doing this quite often now and she was a bit worried that people might talk, though no one could see them from the street when they sat in his office or at the kitchen table. Blanche hadn’t said anything, but Emma knew her sister suspected her feelings and had even asked if she wouldn’t like a change of job. A suggestion she had dismissed, of course.
When everyone had gone home, Emma and James went and sat out in the back yard with their cups of tea. It had been another fine, sunny day. The best summer for years, people were saying.
“Have you been following the news from Europe?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
“I reckon there’s going to be a war.”
“Oh, surely not? I mean, this is the twentieth century. It’s all just—just posturing, I’m sure it is. It’ll settle down gradually. The government will sort it out.”
“I don’t reckon so.” He sighed and sat staring into the distance before jerking back to the present. “But most folk think like you do. The thing is, if we’re at war, the building industry might not be so lively. Well, not my end of it, building houses. I might even have to go away and fight.”
“You? But you’re nearly forty! They’ll want the younger men to do the fighting, won’t they?”
He grinned. “I’m in the Army Reserve, love, joined the Overdale Volunteers in my youth. Stupid thing to do, really. But now, well, I reckon those of us with some experience will be the first to be summoned to fight for our King and Country, even if it’s only to train the new recruits. Well, it stands to reason they won’t expect old fellows like me to go into battle.”
Emma sat frozen in shock, her heart thudding slowly in her chest at the thought of his going away. Not to see him every day, chat to him, laugh with him, think over their encounters while she lay in her lonely bed. She realised he was speaking again and forced herself to pay attention.
“And going away would have its good side, think on. It’d get me away from Edith for a while. I doubt she’d miss me.” He cocked one eyebrow at her. “Would you miss me, Emma Harper?”
She stared down into her cup. “We all would.”
His voice was soft in her ear. “That’s not what I asked, lass.”
She flushed. “I can’t answer that.”
He took her cup and set it down beside the bench, then pulled her towards him, staring into her eyes. “I know I’d miss you. A lot. And it galls me that I can’t do anything about the way I feel for you.”
For a moment she sagged against him, weary of controlling her feelings, of being always alone and unloved. “Oh, James.”
“Emma, my lovely Emma!” he groaned and pulled her against him. “You don’t know how often I think of you, how I’ve grown to hate Edith and her carping ways. I haven’t touched her for years, you know.” And he hadn’t touched Emma, either, because it wouldn’t be fair to her.
She gulped back a lump in her throat, unable to speak, unable to pull away. Just once, she wanted to feel what it was like to be in his arms. Just once.
When he gently raised her chin and said, “If I don’t kiss you, I think I’ll die on the spot,” she smiled at him, all her love showing in her eyes, she was sure. He had warm lips, surprisingly soft. They moved, devoured, took possession of her. It felt so good, so very good, that she had wrapped her arms round his neck before she had realised what was happening and was kissing him back with everything that was in her. When he pulled away, she laid her head against his shoulder and they simply stood there for a while, heart beating against heart.
It was he who broke the embrace in the end, he who pulled away. “I promised myself I’d never touch you. I love you too much to treat you like a loose woman.”
“Love me!”
He nodded and his voice was surprisingly diffident as he asked, “Do you—think the same of me? I’m not mistaken, am I?”
Emma shook her head. “No. You’re not mistaken. I do love you, James.”
Silence hung between them like a gauze curtain, then he said harshly, “Oh, hell, Emma, get yourself off home quickly before I do something we’ll both regret.”
She hesitated, then managed to find the strength to go inside. There, she had to lean against the wall, drawing in one shuddering breath after another, because her legs felt so unsteady. But she didn’t allow herself to stay there for long. He was right. She had to leave quickly, because she would definitely regret it if they—She cut off that thought abruptly. He not only had a wife, however much of a shrew she was, but he had two children and Emma would never, ever, do anything that might hurt them.
She walked home slowly in the drowsy warmth of late afternoon, answering greetings from acquaintances automatically, staring unseeingly at the fine display of flowers in the council gardens near the Town Hall. Her thoughts were a whirl of emotions and desires, mingled with cold reason and shame. How could she feel this way for a married man? And yet—how could she not when that man was James Cardwell? She had worked for him for—what?—four years now, and had grown to respect him, as well as love him. He was a fine upright man, a good employer, a builder of integrity and imagination. He was—just James. And that was enough.
And as for her—well, she was clearly doomed to be a spinster for the rest of her life. She just had to face up to that and stop wasting her time on foolish dreams.
* * *
On 28 June, the Archduke Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, and his consort, Sophia, Duchess of Hohenberg, were assassinated
at Sarajevo and suddenly the word “war” was on everyone’s lips. But though the possibility was much discussed, the general consensus was still that it wouldn’t come to actual fighting. It was a load of fuss and botheration, but it was all happening a long way away from England, where folk had a bit more sense in their heads than to assassinate royalty.
The Government would sort it all out. Reason would prevail. In England, at least.
“It just goes to show,” Sam said scornfully one evening, tapping his newspaper, “that you can’t trust foreigners. Can you imagine anyone assassinating our King?” He was always surprisingly patriotic. “No!” He thumped the table and answered his own question. “No, you bloody can’t. Because if anyone tried it, every Englishman nearby would step forward and prevent it. That’s what.”
Lizzie realised he was staring at her, expecting an answer. “You’re right,” she said placatingly, hating herself for being so cowardly. She had stopped defying him now and lived in absolute terror of him thumping her, doing something to hurt the child. And she worried, sitting here alone in the house, about after it was born—about trying to bring up a child with such a father. What sort of a life would that child have? A life of bullying and thumping like she did, that’s what.
Unfortunately, this was one of Sam’s more argumentative evenings. He’d had words with the foreman at Pilby’s and for once had not been able to cow Ben Symes into backing off. In fact, Ben had warned him that they were getting tired of this sort of aggressive behaviour at work and he’d better pull his socks up. For reasons Sam couldn’t understand, things were slipping and he didn’t seem to be able to regain his old position of ascendancy and freedom from the rules at Pilby’s.
“What do you know about it?” he asked Lizzie scathingly, slamming his cup down on the table. “Make yourself useful for once and fill that!”
She got up and went over to the kettle, slipping it on to the burner and praying that it’d boil fast. But the gas was low that night, for some reason, and it took ages. She glanced sideways at him once or twice and her heart thumped in her chest when she saw he had left the table and was sitting scowling into the fire. He hadn’t hit her lately, well, not much more than a quick tap, but tonight he had all the signs of a man itching to vent his anger on somebody.
