Thank you for your custom.
She’d used much of Tobias Hoyland’s ten-shilling birthday present to buy the ingredients – a great sack of flour and a smaller one of dried fruit, a bag of waxy green Bramleys, a hessian sack of dusty potatoes, six blocks of lard, some stewing steak, pork shoulder and middle bacon, new pots of mace and allspice and a tiny bottle of anchovy essence. At Wilton’s hardware stall on Barnsley market she’d bought a crisp stack of brown paper bags and made a down payment for twelve new pie dishes, promising Eli Wilton, more in hope than conviction, that he’d have the rest of the money by the end of the week. Her pies and puddings, if bought whole, were to be sold in the dishes they’d been baked in, and her customers – if there were any, and she was by no means sure there would be – were to be asked to wash and return them. Lilly next door thought Eve should be charging tuppence, refundable on return of the dish, just to be sure they kept it safe and brought it back, but it seemed to Eve that she should at least begin in a spirit of trust, even if experience might teach her the error of her ways. Anyway, she told Lilly, she wasn’t selling to strangers; she could walk to their houses and fetch the dishes back if it came to it.
Lilly, who was a poor cook – ‘Pigswill Lil’ Arthur used to call her, though never, thank the Lord, within her hearing – had watched with studied bemusement as preparations next door reached fever pitch. She kept referring to ‘t’grand opening’ in a sardonic voice that Eve only tolerated because she needed her help with the children. Lilly regarded Anna with deep suspicion; her accent, her Slavic looks, her oddly named baby, all these things inspired mistrust, and she simply couldn’t comprehend why Eve would give them house room. But neighbours in Netherwood helped each other out – always had, always would, even when they were barely speaking to each other – so Lilly’s house was the crèche and baby Maya was round there now, sitting rather glumly in the bottom of a crate so she didn’t crawl into trouble in the kitchen. Anna, meanwhile, had pushed up her sleeves and begun scrubbing pots at Eve’s sink, a task she had done, unasked and on a regular basis, since she’d arrived. A basket of dirty linen squatted in the centre of the kitchen and when the dishes were done she would make a start on the washing. Eve, a woman of high standards and set methods, worried a little that the blouses and bloomers, socks and singlets might, after washing, show the absence of her expert hands, but she was a pragmatic perfectionist and even she acknowledged she couldn’t see to wash day at the same time as running a shop.
In any case, Anna had shown herself to be competent in every way, and cheerful too; she sang now as she worked, a Russian folk song about a dark-eyed lover, which reminded her of home, though she wasn’t melancholy. Rather, she felt more full of hope now than she had since leaving Kiev, a fact which made her feel at the same time guilty, for it implied she had always harboured a lack of faith in her future with Leo. Her thoughts wandered to him often, but the memories caused little pain; by the time he died, the process of separation was well under way. His protracted illness reduced him by degrees, taking him day by day a little further away from her. For weeks, it seemed, he was defined only by his terrible illness; what little energy he had went into simply drawing breath. Anna would never confess it, for it seemed to her a shameful emotion, but she felt unfettered now, as if Leo’s passing had not mired her in misery but released her from it.
Eve came into the kitchen from the parlour and interrupted her reverie. She gave Anna a crooked, uncertain smile.
‘Nearly time,’ she said. The clock said ten minutes to nine.
‘T’grand opening?’ Anna said, imitating Lilly, and Eve laughed.
‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘Still, we won’t go hungry.’
She nodded her head back towards their makeshift counter in the other room, which they’d fashioned out of a long board – courtesy of Amos – balanced on the backs of two sturdy chairs. It was effective, in as much as the height was perfect, but more than a little precarious; one wrong move on either side might send the display crashing to the floor. But what a display; in the past five days they had, it seemed to Anna, made enough food to feed a Roman legion. Eve, while always supposing no one would come, had nevertheless thrown herself full tilt into the task in hand. Pride played a part; she would be judged on the merit of her produce, and no one must find it wanting. She wanted to demonstrate abundance as much as quality, so a pyramid of pork pies, glossy and nut-brown, rose up at the centre of the counter and around them were arranged eight meat-and-potato pies in their dishes and an oven tray, scrubbed bright by Anna, bearing a pungent pile of knobbly round faggots. The drop scones and tea cakes were piled in baskets lined with linen cloths and in a tidy line at the back, four Eve’s Puddings – she hadn’t been able to resist – completed the collection.
Anna dried her hands on the teacloth and together they walked into the parlour. ‘In Ukraine, at New Year, we would make feast like this, with table bearing good food. But different food, like blinis and kulich. And not pig pies. These I don’t know.’
‘Pork,’ said Eve. ‘Say pork, not pig.’
‘Yes, pork,’ said Anna. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Never mind,’ said Eve. ‘My Russian lets me down sometimes. Right, shall we get it over with?’
She edged around the counter and stood at the front door, taking a moment to smooth her apron and pat her hair. And though it was more out of nerves than vanity, she tutted inwardly at herself, fussing and preening as if she was about to walk on to a stage. Just open the ruddy door woman, she said to herself, there’ll be no one there anyroad.
So she did, and she was wrong.
Samuel Farrimond had done Eve one last favour before returning to Grangely. After leaving Anna and Maya with her in Beaumont Lane, he had driven the pony and trap the short distance to the home of his friend and Wesleyan colleague Wilfred Oxspring, where he was to spend the night. The two men had much to discuss, and they chatted companionably over a supper of bread, cheese and Mrs Oxspring’s famous piccalilli. But after the Oxsprings had retired, Reverend Farrimond stayed up and at a neat little roll-top desk he wrote, on paper he had begged from Wilfred, just short of four hundred announcements that home-made produce would be available for sale at number five Beaumont Lane from 9am on Monday. It was a laborious task, scratching away with pen and ink by the light of an oil lamp in a room which grew chillier by the minute, and by the time he felt he could write no more, he owed his friend two new nibs and three pots of black ink. He went to bed for a brief interlude, before rising early and delivering his homespun leaflets through the letterboxes of 394 sleeping households. His task complete, he headed through Netherwood to Sheffield Road, the hooves of his pony clipping and the wheels of his trap clattering along the quiet streets, and he wished only that he had written twice as many notices. Three times as many. No, four. He sent up a prayer to the Lord, to somehow help him spread the word and to make Eve’s business a success.
So either God spoke to the people or the leaflets served their purpose, because when Eve opened her front door as the town clock struck nine, she found a queue of customers, wrapped up against the rain and snaking almost as far down the street as the corner with Allott’s Way. She gaped at them for a brief, unfortunate moment, so that Meg Pickles, at the head of the line, said, ‘Shut thi mouth, Eve Williams, or tha’ll catch a fly,’ which was embarrassing but at least had the effect of bringing her to her senses. She snapped her mouth shut and gave a bright smile.
‘Morning!’ she said. ‘What can I get for you?’
By a quarter to ten the queue had been dealt with and a lull descended.
‘Well,’ said Eve. She looked at Anna, who was in from the kitchen again because it was dull in there at the dolly tub, and exciting in the parlour. Anna grinned gleefully and danced a spontaneous little jig. In that moment she looked more child than woman, and she reminded Eve of Eliza, who could never express joy in words alone, but always had to skip or spin as she delivered good news. Behind them the counter was much depleted; six whole pork pi
es had gone, and all of the meat-and-potato pies. The faggot mountain was diminished, but not so much as to seem unappealing, and Eve set to improving their appearance further by making strategic, swift adjustments to their position on the tray, picking up the rear guard and pushing them forwards to make them as tempting as possible.
Clem Waterdine appeared at the open door.
‘Now then, young Eve,’ he said. ‘’Ow’s it goin’?’
‘Nicely, thank you,’ Eve said. ‘Can I ’elp you?’
‘Time was when your cookin’ came free,’ said the old man. ‘I’ve never paid thee for owt before.’
‘First time for everything’, Clem,’ said Eve. ‘This is my livin’ now.’ Because Arthur’s dead, she added, but to herself.
‘Aye, well,’ said Clem, who was thinking the same, and feeling ashamed. After all, he had the same ten-shilling bonus as everyone else and all he’d bought so far was a packet of Woodbine; he could take a few drop scones and a slice of pork pie, and still have plenty left. He placed his order, and watched as Eve cut him a generous piece of pie and wrapped it in waxed paper.
‘Tell Amos ’e mun get crackin’ in that veg plot,’ he said.
‘I shall do no such thing,’ said Eve. ‘Amos and Seth know what’s what, an’ Amos only gets there after a full shift down t’pit. I shan’t be meddlin’.’
Clem sniffed. Eve popped four drop scones into a bag and handed it over.
‘Thruppence,’ she said. ‘You can ’ave t’bag for nowt.’
He handed over the coins, still warm from his pocket, and she dropped them into her cash tin. Lilly walked into the parlour, coming in through the back. Her pinny was splattered with grease and her stockings formed fat wrinkles around her bony shins. She had Ellen by the hand and Maya on her hip. The baby, almost asleep, lolled her head as if it was impossibly heavy then, as if someone unseen had poked her, she jerked it back and the shock of it made her cry.
Clem regarded her, and sniffed. ‘Babbies all speak t’same language then,’ he said. Like everyone else in Netherwood, he knew that Arthur Williams’s widow had a foreign woman and her bairn living in. Gossip spread effortlessly here, running like water from the source to the sea, because everyone had an opinion, even those – and they were many – who had yet to lay eyes on Anna.
She came in now, wiping her hands on the rough wool of her skirt, and they looked red raw from the hot water. Still, she was smiling as she took Maya from Lilly, and thanked her. Lilly managed an ungracious nod. Clem stared rudely.
‘I put her to bed,’ she said, and then, to Ellen: ‘You want come help?’
The little girl nodded yes, and trotted off upstairs with Anna. Lilly watched them go then turned back to Eve. ‘You be careful. She’s got ’er feet right under your table,’ she said tartly.
‘Aye, she ’as,’ said Eve. ‘An’ long may they stay there.’
Chapter 19
The days were consistently warm and there were bluebells underfoot in the woods by the time Eve paused for breath. At least, it felt that way to her, swept as she was on a tide of industriousness, buying supplies, baking half the night, selling her wares by day. There was barely time for grieving, though she did that too, in the privacy of the early hours when she should have been sleeping but often, instead, gave way to tears for Arthur. Eve wasn’t inclined to self-pity, and it wasn’t for herself that she cried; it was for her husband, who could no longer carry his children on his broad shoulders, or take quiet pride in their achievements, or marvel at how they grew. If Arthur came back now, she thought, if he walked back into the kitchen at the end of his shift, he would see that Seth was already an inch taller than he had been when he last bid him goodnight. She missed Arthur for herself, too, but that seemed the lesser grief to her than all he would now never see.
She wondered what he would make of this new life of hers. More than anything, she wanted to tell him about it: about the triumph of that first day, when the children had come home from school to find the shop sold out and Eve and Anna toasting their success with a mug of strong, brown tea; about the pride she’d felt as they had counted their takings and, as each day passed, had added to the sum total, so that when the bailiff’s man came for the rent it was there, in the old tobacco tin, just as it always had been. She wanted to tell him about the stir she’d caused in Netherwood just by selling his favourite food, and how Everard Holt at the Co-op, recording her purchases in the society ledger, had joked she’d be retiring on her divi by the end of the year. All of these things she longed to share with Arthur, knowing full well that if he was here to tell, none of it would be happening.
She could tell Reverend Farrimond, of course. He called in when his duties in Grangely allowed, and he took a quiet, avuncular pride in what Eve was doing. And Amos took a friendly interest, asking Eve questions about the business with his serious brown eyes fixed on her face, as if her answers were of the utmost importance. He was a regular at her door, buying himself a slice of something on the way home from the pit. He had never passed much through Eve’s mind before, except as a character sketched for her by Arthur: tough as old boot leather, quick-witted and sharp-tongued, and as reliable in his time keeping as the town hall clock. His only complaint about Amos had related to his politics which were too defiantly left wing for Arthur’s tastes; he often said that Amos worked at the wrong colliery – no use getting angry with a boss that played fair, was Arthur’s view. But socialism wasn’t a mortal sin, and Eve had some sympathy with Amos’s views. The day he told her that the Grangely miners were back at work on exactly the same terms they’d walked out for, she gazed at him, appalled.
‘It were all for nowt, then,’ she said.
‘Aye, for them,’ said Amos. ‘But there’s a bigger picture, an’ if we keep chippin’ away we’ll get there. Things are changin’, Eve.’
‘Well I ’ope you’re right, but if Arthur were ’ere, you’d’ve just found yourself an argument,’ said Eve.
‘Aye, well.’
‘Arthur didn’t see it like you do. Nobody ever ’eld a boss in more esteem. And,’ she added, speaking for Arthur, knowing what he would have said, ‘t’earl’s always treated ’is men well, you among ’em.’
‘Aye, but it’s all in Teddy ’oyland’s gift, isn’t it?’ said Amos. ‘’E still gets to choose what ’e gives and when. An’ we’re meant to be doffin’ our caps and bein’ grateful for anythin’ chucked our way.’
His face, thought Eve, was suited to anger, hard and unyielding. When it was coal-black like today, it could have been chipped from the seam he’d just been working. He prodded at the air between them as he spoke, as if it were a rally of miners before him, not his friend’s widow.
‘There should be rights for every miner, wherever he works, to be paid a decent wage for t’hours ’e works an’ get sick pay when ’e can’t work. An’ I’ll tell yer summat for nowt – the day of reckoning will come. I just ’ope to God I’m still ’ere to see it when it does.’
Just listening to him was exhausting. Out of respect for Arthur, Eve changed the subject. And, out of respect for Arthur, Amos let her.
Lew was a regular visitor at the front door too, though Eve made him stand well back from the produce if he hadn’t been home for a bath. There was too much of him, and he loomed over the table like a hungry gorilla. The injuries caused by the accident were long healed but his face was always recovering from its latest bout in the ring. Eve hoped Warren was splitting the winnings fairly, at least. You wouldn’t want to look like Lew and have nothing in your pocket to show for it. She felt sorry for him; he had a kind heart, but not much sense. Most folk were sharper than Lew and he was, she imagined, easily codded. It’d taken him weeks before he was able to stand before her in anything other than abject apology for being alive, and she’d finally dealt with his discomfort herself, catching up with him in the street one day and telling him outright that she bore him no ill will.
‘I’ve never wished it was you an’ not Arthur,’ s
he had said, speaking without preamble. ‘The pit took ’im, not you.’
Lew, speechless, had simply nodded and watched Eve go on her way, but the next day he’d appeared at the shop, clutching the necessary coins in his fist like a boy with pocket money, and had bought a bag of drop scones which he devoured there and then, one after the other. Feeding time at the zoo, thought Eve, watching him. He shook the crumbs from the bag directly into his mouth, fully absorbed in the task in hand. Then he balled up the paper and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
‘Grand,’ he said.
‘It’s up to you, like,’ said Eve. ‘But most folk take their cakes ’ome.’
Lew tapped the side of his nose, conspiratorially. ‘Destroyin’ t’evidence,’ he said. ‘Mi mam’ll bray me for buying your scones when she ’as ’er own at ’ome.’
Eve laughed. She considered alerting Lew to the crumbs lodged securely in the stubble round his mouth, but thought better of it. Let him feel the sharp side of Edna Sylvester’s tongue. Big daft lump. She watched him amble off towards home. It wasn’t true, of course, what she’d told him; she had hated Lew when it first happened, fervently, pointlessly, wishing Arthur had been in front of him when the roof gave way. She wondered still whether her husband had delayed his own escape in pushing Lew to safety; some instinct told her that was probably the case, knowing Arthur and knowing Lew. But she wouldn’t release that thought, wouldn’t speak it out loud, because to do so could bring no relief, so she held it in and offered, instead, a comforting lie. Since Lew was still alive, it seemed kind to bring him ease of mind.
Anyway, she thought, Lew knew the truth. If his conscience was burdened with responsibility, then that was punishment enough for any man.
Eve was thinking of diversifying. She was bored, she told Anna, of making the same things week in, week out. It was late evening; the girls were playing out on the street, and baby Maya was asleep upstairs. Seth was at the allotment, as usual. He only came home after school for as long as it took him to wolf down his tea, then he was off. His talk was all of pricking out and potting on, which was all a bit foreign to Eve though she enjoyed his enthusiasm. She had yet to see much evidence of his labours, though much was promised, but she was happy and grateful that her serious little son had a project. It stopped him brooding, kept him busy. And, if she was honest, it kept him away from Anna, to whom he could still be less than civil. Time, Eve was sure, would cure this, as it cured most things. And Anna was very clever at ignoring his rudeness; she planned to win him round by being consistently, though not excessively, pleasant. It was the best way with Seth, thought Eve; let him think it’s his idea to like Anna, not hers.
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