Good riddance.
Ralph pondered on his father’s interest in the Widow Jenkins. Maybe Adam was right and this calamity would tip the balance in Dad’s favour. A sour taste rose in Ralph’s mouth. Would the old man really lower himself to wed a deserter’s widow? But if that was the price he had to pay for his father’s retirement, pay it he would.
Then at long last he would have the business, just as he should have when he returned from France. Just as he had assured his associates he would. When the war ended, they had agreed to bide their time while Ralph set up his auction room and established it as a legitimate business concern. The summer of ’21 was the date fixed for their enterprise to start, and here they were in the middle of 1920 and the auction room was still nothing more than an ambition.
But if the old man married his hapless widow, all that would change. Goodbye, Dad. Goodbye, Weston. How do you do, independence and wealth.
Chapter Ten
Carrie blew out a breath. It had to be done. That was one thing she had learnt when Pa died. No matter what happened, you still had to clean your step. And Mam wasn’t up to doing it, which meant she must. Would folk think her brazen for doing it? One thing was certain: they’d think her a slattern if she didn’t.
And after that she would go and get her job back. Mrs Trimble had said they weren’t going to start looking for a new girl until next week. Carrie had worked ten-hour days six days a week since she was thirteen, except for half-day closing on Wednesdays. That must count for something.
‘You won’t work once you’re married to me,’ Billy had said, and how proud she had been to think he could support a wife immediately. Most girls she knew went on working until the first baby was ready to drop.
Wrapping her pinny round her, she half-filled the bucket in the scullery and walked down the hallway to the front door, not permitting herself to pause, just opening the door and stepping outside. She put down the bucket and pulled the doormat onto the pavement. Kneeling on the mat was uncomfortable, but the prickling in her knees and shins was a good thing because it took her mind off the possibility of being watched. Not that any housewives were stoning their steps this early. Was she cowardly to do it before six?
Briskly she wet the cloth and washed the step, then set to with the donkey stone, scrubbing the light cream colour all over. Mam took pride in creating a swirly pattern, but all Carrie wanted was to get back indoors. Besides, might a pattern look frivolous?
The moment the step was finished, she gathered up her bits and darted back inside, her heart racing. Why the panic? She had more to worry about than being seen in the street. If she could get her job back, that would be a start. She wasn’t letting Mam go back to Mrs Randall, no matter what, so she needed to bring in a few bob to tide them over until Mam found somewhere else and she and Billy got wed. Would Father Kelly be able to marry them next Saturday? Would the banns still count? She and Billy loved one another, and anyroad, there was the baby.
After coaxing Mam to eat some eggy bread, she hurried through the waking streets. The shop opened its doors at six, though her starting time had always been eight. She crossed Chorlton Green, where the dew sparkling in the early sunshine took her by surprise. Things could still be pretty – she hadn’t realised that.
On the Green, she paused beside the makeshift memorial. There were going to be memorials all over the country, proper memorials made of stone with lists of names engraved on them so that no one would ever forget the great sacrifice that had been made. That would be grand and fitting, of course, but she did love this impromptu memorial with its simple vases and jam jars of flowers, several of them discreetly labelled with the name of a husband, a son, a sweetheart who hadn’t returned.
She looked for Pa’s jar. She had gone onto the meadows on Tuesday evening with Billy to pick wildflowers, though of course Billy had wanted to do a lot more than that and she hadn’t exactly protested. On their way home, she had picked some scabious, remembering how Pa had called them pin-cushion flowers, and placed them in his jam jar. Wildflowers were beautiful, but they didn’t last long once they were picked.
Where was Pa’s jar? Surely no one had moved it. No one interfered with other people’s flowers. But it wasn’t in its rightful place and there were no purply-blue flowers to be seen. Had someone thrown away Pa’s flowers? She went all wishy-washy inside.
‘Oh, Pa,’ she whispered.
Aware of someone close by, she went rigid. She glanced round, then checked herself, frightened of who it might be. Someone who knew about Pa? The person – oh, goodness, the person responsible for chucking away his flowers? She scurried off, her feet automatically carrying her alongside the graveyard wall and into Hawthorn Road, a long street of red-brick terraces, giving off on to similar streets, and several corners boasting a shop.
She had always been proud to work at Trimble’s. She loved the hard-working couple and their open-all-hours, we-sell-everything shop. She had never received anything but approval from them, so as she entered the shop, with its Brasso, Cherry Blossom and tonics for brain-fag and anaemia near the door, and food behind the counter, she expected at least a kindly smile, if not an exclamation of surprise. There was surprise all right in Mr Trimble’s eyes, but he looked away.
She tried telling herself he was simply paying attention to his customer, Mrs Bradshaw from round the corner, but she didn’t believe it. Mrs Bradshaw left, not without a quick glance at her, but Carrie had to walk right up to the counter before Mr Trimble would look up and acknowledge her.
He cleared his throat. ‘Well, lass, we weren’t expecting thee.’ Turning to the bead curtain through which lay the living quarters, he shouted, ‘Mother! Carrie’s here. We’re reet sorry to hear of your family troubles, lass,’ he added as his wife appeared, her lined face showing surprise and concern – and was that wariness?
‘Thank you. I was hoping I could have my job back, being as the wedding’s postponed.’
‘Postponed?’ questioned Mrs Trimble. ‘That’s not what I heard.’
She held her head up. ‘I hope to get wed next Saturday instead. You said you wouldn’t be looking for a new girl just yet, so I thought maybe I could come back for another week.’
‘Aye, well,’ said Mr Trimble, ‘thing is, we’re already fixed up.’
‘You are?’ said Carrie.
‘We are?’ His wife looked at him.
‘We are. That is, we’ve decided who we want and we’re asking her later today.’
‘Oh,’ said Carrie. ‘Well, if she’s working, she’ll need to give notice, so if I come back, you’ll have help until she starts.’
‘You don’t want to do that, lass,’ said Mr Trimble. ‘Think how folks’ll stare.’
‘Whisper an’ all,’ added his wife.
‘I can’t afford to mind. So can I come back? Just for the week.’
The answer was there in the way they glanced at one another. She bit down on a pang of humiliation.
‘Thing is,’ said Mr Trimble, awkward but resolute, ‘we can’t have your family troubles in’t shop. Not good for trade.’
‘There’s many a war widow and orphan round this way,’ added Mrs Trimble. ‘Folks might take their custom elsewhere and we can’t have that.’
‘I’d best go.’ Carrie turned away, then turned back. They were sagging with relief, but she had to pretend not to see. ‘Who are you offering the job to? Anyone I know?’
‘Letty Hardacre.’
‘Letty? My Letty?’
‘A good lass is Letty, an’ you’re always saying as how she hates that laundry. It’ll be a good job for her and they need the money in that house. Letty and her mam and their Joanie have it all to do, what with poor Ernie Hardacre leaving his legs behind in Flanders. He’s a real war hero, if you ask me. Unlike some, no names mentioned.’
‘Shall I tell you what’s happened? You and your secrets.’ Evadne’s voice was cold. It was the only way she could cope. Dear heaven, what had happened to her life? ‘Th
anks to you, I’ve lost my job and my home. All you had to do was tell me the truth when first you knew it, then I could have moved away. The school governors informed me this morning that my services won’t be required next term; and Miss Martindale has advised me to seek accommodation elsewhere. You may well look stricken, Mother. It’s all very well, you slouching here at home, but you aren’t the only one affected.’ Her conscience prickled, but she couldn’t afford to soften. ‘At least you have a roof over your head and a job to go to. Why aren’t you at Mrs Randall’s?’
Mother flinched. ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve the rent to pay. Where’s Carrie?’
‘Gone to get her job back.’
‘I’m glad one of you has a sense of responsibility.’
‘What will you do?’ Mother whispered.
Evadne didn’t reply. The truth was that this could turn out to her advantage, but she couldn’t say so after she had just ranted about how vile things were and how it was all Mother’s fault. She couldn’t say so, even if she hadn’t ranted. This was her secret. The hot anxious hope that had nourished and tormented her through the years was her secret.
It was inconceivable that Grandfather Baxter, with his proud military bearing, would permit her to suffer like this. He had never approved of his daughter-in-law’s second marriage. Evadne could remember living with her grandparents in their smart Victorian villa in Parrs Wood after Daddy died and before Mother threw herself away on a nobody from Chorlton. After Mother married Pa, there had been monthly visits to the Victorian villa for Sunday tea. Proper afternoon tea, too, all dainty and formal, not the hearty high tea that filled lower-class bellies. She remembered butter knives and snowy linen and dishes of preserves – or jam as she, infected by plebian ways, had once called it, only to receive a look of such shocked distain from Grandmother that she nearly died of embarrassment.
Grandmother passed away when Evadne was twelve and she had fantasised about Grandfather taking her to live with him, but he didn’t. He paid for her to stay at school until she was fifteen, then paid for the inoculations she needed to be a pupil-teacher and found her a place in Oaklawn School, where she had been ever since. Not that she had anticipated such a long-term arrangement; no one had. She had regarded it merely as a stopgap to be tolerated until she married.
Not that that had happened.
Yet.
She closed her eyes. Her lashes brushed her high, elegant cheekbones. She willed the fear away.
Yet.
Oh, please let this scandal be the catalyst that would prompt Grandfather to take her under his wing, and more to the point under his roof. She imagined him escorting her to his solicitor to see about changing her name back to Baxter, and took heart.
A brisk rat-tat at the front door had Mother’s hands snaking out to grab Evadne’s best skirt, which she had spent hours on, taking in the seams to give herself an up-to-date silhouette, and worn today in honour of visiting Grandfather. With a small cry, she prised the fingers away.
‘Leave it. Don’t answer it,’ Mother begged.
‘Pull yourself together,’ Evadne ordered, going to the door.
She was expecting a neighbour, but instead it was an older man, his appearance crisp and pressed but somehow not perfect. Her swift eye went to his shoes. You could tell a lot about a person from their shoes, and this fellow wore short boots. Pre-war. The width of his trouser legs said the same. Yet nothing about him suggested hard times. He was thin, though by no means underfed, and the set of his shoulders spoke of confidence.
This must be the antique shop fellow whose eye Mother had caught these past few months.
He raised his bowler. ‘Good morning. Joseph Armstrong, here to pay my respects to Mrs Jenkins.’
‘My mother is indisposed.’
‘I heard about her trouble. I came yesterday, but there was no answer. I hoped she might see me today.’
She was about to dismiss him, then changed her mind. Dealing with her unwanted suitor might provide the jolt Mother needed to resume her responsibilities.
‘My mother will be available at half past one. Good morning.’
She closed the door on his response.
Chapter Eleven
Ralph was particular about the customers for whom he opened the door as they left. Never for a gentleman: he wasn’t a butler. Not for a couple, either: that was the man’s job. But for a lady he would, especially when, as now, the lady had just coughed up nearly seventy pounds for an ebony and ivory chess set and a variety of china and cut-glass knick-knacks.
As he saw her out, Dad crossed the road, raising his bowler to her as she departed.
‘The widow still barricading herself in?’ Ralph spoke off-handedly. Don’t look keen. Don’t look as if it matters.
‘One of the daughters was there – the older one. Didn’t take to her, I must say. The young one’s a sweetheart – I’ve met her a couple of times – but this one’s a stuck-up crow. Looked straight down her nose at me, she did. Still, she’s letting me in to see her ma, and that’s what counts.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon, my boy.’ He twirled his bowler. ‘Half-one sharp.’
‘You can’t. Weston’s not here,’ Ralph objected, ‘and I’m off out at two to do an evaluation.’
‘So shut up shop. Who knows, today could be the day. She’s a lady in need of protection and when she sees what I can offer …’
And there it was. At the very moment when he should be all fired up with anticipation because his father was going to swan off into genteel retirement with the new Mrs Armstrong, at the very moment his plans for the auction room should be dancing before his eyes – there it was, that sudden unease.
Just like when Dad knew about Molly.
The old bitterness came surging back. There was something going on here and it was just like last time.
Last time.
It had been Dad who had unwittingly alerted him. Dad had suspected, had seen something, had guessed. Ralph had had no idea. Why would he? He had loved Molly. He had trusted her. And she had loved him too.
Or she said she did. Afterwards – a long time afterwards – he had wondered about that. Had she truly loved him? If she did, how come she had looked at another man? How come she had looked at his bloody brother?
And he hadn’t realised – until something in Dad’s manner prompted a gut reaction, an unthinking certainty that something was wrong.
Molly loved Adam.
If Adam had seduced her, if he had tempted her away, that would have been bad enough, but nothing like as bad as the excruciating truth that she didn’t want him any more. She wanted his brother.
And here it was again, that same gut reaction, that instinctive knowledge that danger lay in wait.
What the hell was going on? Instinct screamed at him not to trust the old bugger.
The morning passed. Ralph sold a musical mechanical piece of a monkey artist painting a landscape, and a set of gilt-bowled fruit spoons in a velvet-lined case, but all the while his senses were on the alert.
At midday, he turned the sign to CLOSED and locked the door. Upstairs, Mrs English served fish-and-spinach pie, and almond tart. Ralph ate automatically. Food was fuel and fuel kept you on top form.
‘What’s going on, Dad? You’ve got something up your sleeve.’
‘Wait and see.’
Just before one o’clock, as Ralph was about to head downstairs to reopen, Dad stopped him beside the hallstand on the landing near the top of the stairs that went down to the rear of the shop.
‘Do my back for me, will you?’
Ralph took the clothes brush and dealt with his back and shoulders.
‘When will you be back?’ he asked.
‘After I’ve called on Mrs Jenkins, I’m going straight to Adam’s do at Brookburn, so you’ll have to hang on to your curiosity till then.’ He chuckled. ‘All will be revealed.’
Ralph felt like swiping him
round the back of the head with the clothes brush, something Dad had done more than once to him for cheek years ago. He dropped the brush on the shelf and ran downstairs, leaving the old man faffing with his cuffs.
He flicked the sign to OPEN and unlocked the door. He was behind the counter looking at paperwork when his father appeared; but once Dad had clapped his bowler on his head and gone whistling out of the door, he moved swiftly to one of the windows to watch him swagger down Wilbraham Road. The sight of that swagger made his hands clench. Should he, shouldn’t he? Damn right he should.
Seizing his homburg, he locked up and set off after him, keeping a careful distance, ready to duck into a doorway should the old man glance back. Senses sharp, he kept pace behind his father, footsteps light, nerves raw, muscles ready to respond.
Presently he was hanging back from the corner of Wilton Lane, watching as, along the line of two-up two-downs, Dad stopped, shifting his wiry shoulders inside his jacket before he knocked. The door opened. Not the widow; a young woman, tall and thin, and even the merest glimpse took in the haughty demeanour. Stuck-up, Dad had said, and he wasn’t wrong. She allowed him to enter and a minute later the door opened again and she reappeared in a hat and jacket and walked briskly up the road. Ralph turned away, hunching over the lighting of a cigarette, and her footsteps tap-tapped past him.
He walked down Wilton Lane, glancing at the number on the Jenkins’ front door, then cut down the entry to find the back gate. No stopping, no pausing, he kept walking, took himself off to Chorltonville to do the evaluation. It was a good piece, a handsome table with an inlay of tortoiseshell, and he could think of a couple of customers who would be interested. Oh, for an auction room! Never mind any other use it would have, it would also be an asset to the legitimate side of the business. He agreed a price and said he would arrange collection, cursing Dad in his heart at the thought of the horse and cart when what a modern business cried out for was a motor van.
Business concluded, he slipped back to Mrs Jenkins’ house.
The Deserter's Daughter Page 8
