‘He’s found work over at Poppleton,’ supplied Uncle Mal, leaning nearer for his white-stubbled jaw to murmur a winking addition, ‘That’s why herself is in such a grand mood, she likes the spondulicks.’
Etta smiled as her mother-in-law came back and laid a plate before her.
Her hostess returned the amiability. ‘Washing done already?’
Glancing through the window and noting the clothes hanging on the line, Etta misinterpreted this as a statement and merely nodded in acknowledgement.
Aggie looked impressed. ‘You’ll be spending the afternoon like me, then.’ She was forced to add a word of explanation to the somewhat puzzled listener. ‘Ironing! Normally I wouldn’t do it until Tuesday – it would be more sensible, I suppose, to wait until it’s cooler, but this sun’s got them dry in no time so I might as well make a start.’
‘Quite…’ Etta remained nonplussed.
‘Not till after dinner but.’ Aggie laughed and doled out a ladle of hash. ‘Here, tuck in. ’Tis only the beef left over from Sunday, but there’s plenty of spuds. Hope it’s to your liking.’
‘Thank you, I’m sure it will be,’ said Etta, even though it was obvious that the best of the meat had been consumed yesterday, the contents of her plate having a rich vein of fat.
However, the gravy was extremely tasty and after a great deal of trimming she enjoyed her dinner, during its consumption telling Aggie and Uncle Mal and the children what she had learned that morning about the tradesmen making deliveries, announcing proudly, ‘So, this afternoon I shall set about organising my own supplies of groceries and bread, etcetera.’
Aggie’s own enjoyment of the meal was fast becoming spoiled by her daughter-in-law’s finicky eating habits and the mound of perfectly edible meat that was building up on the side of Etta’s plate. Consequently the tone of her reply was distinctly unimpressed. ‘Most folk around here make their own bread.’
‘Oh…’ Taken off-guard, Etta looked crestfallen, but soon rallied. ‘Would you perhaps teach me then?’
‘On a Monday with all this washing? If you’ve a mind to be here at five tomorrow morning, maybe.’ Then, feeling churlish, Aggie reminded herself of yesterday’s resolution and added more kindly, ‘Still, you’ll have Marty to see to then. I’ll write the instructions down for you after we’ve eaten, ’tis easy enough.’
Etta thanked her, daintily speared the last few pieces of potato and duly laid down her cutlery.
‘Have you had sufficient?’ Aggie eyed the other’s leavings.
The reply was polite. ‘Yes, thank you, that was excellent.’
Uncle Mal’s clouded blue eyes were in fact as keen as a hawk’s. ‘Can I be having that if she doesn’t want it?’
Aggie responded with a terse nod, at which a bemused Etta watched the old man snatch the plate from under her nose and devour the bits of fat in no time.
Annoyed at them both – Mal for showing her up with his lack of manners, Etta for her prissy habits – Aggie finished her meal in silence, then laid down her own knife and fork and rose with a gruff command to her daughters. ‘Come on now, you’ve school to get back to.’
There was a hasty scraping of plates, which the girls then took to the scullery where Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and whispered to her sister, ‘For somebody posh she stinks awful bad.’ Both tittered as they set about washing up before going off to class.
Whilst Aggie checked her washing, Etta sat and chatted happily to Uncle Mal and the little boys, all of whom seemed to hang on her every word, much to Aggie’s disgust.
‘Now, you’ll be wanting that bread receipt so’s you can get on with other things!’ Coming back into the room, she searched for a scrap of paper and a pencil.
‘Oh, there’s no need for you to hurry,’ said Etta brightly.
‘Best I do it now so I don’t forget. I’ll just put these on to warm while I write it out for ye.’ Firm of hand, Aggie set a couple of irons near the fire and spread an old blanket over the table ready to tackle her linen, hoping Etta would take the hint.
But no, even after receiving instruction on the baking of bread, her daughter-in-law was to sit there well into the afternoon, chattering contentedly about all sorts of nonsense as Aggie herself laboured non-stop.
Halfway through the first stack of ironing, her brow dripping, Aggie paused to brew tea. Only at this point did it occur to Etta that perhaps she had been there long enough, though she did not actually leave until having partaken of a cup; after all there was nothing other to do at home once she had spoken to the tradesmen but to wait for her husband to return. ‘Thank you for the bread receipt,’ she smiled at Aggie upon exiting. ‘I shall certainly try it out tomorrow.’
Aggie made sure her daughter-in-law had gone before spluttering her objection to Uncle Mal. ‘Wouldn’t you think she’d at least take it upon herself to mash a pot of tea! Letting me wait on her hand and bloody foot, and me with all this ironing, the dilatory biddy. I don’t know what she expected marriage to be. Did she imagine she’d sit on her arse all day playing madrigals?’
The old man’s watery blue eyes turned to slits, his laughter rattling up from deep within his chest. ‘Looks like it’ll be lean pickings for poor Marty.’
‘Puh!’ Aggie seized a fresh iron, aiming a contemptuous spurt of saliva that evaporated with a hiss. ‘He’s too besotted to notice she isn’t feeding him – but he needn’t think he can come round here every Sunday for a decent meal.’ She dashed the hot iron at another pile of linen, working it into pleats and tucks. ‘I’ll put up with it for so long whilst she sorts herself out, but I won’t run around after them forever. He’s made his bed, he can lie on it.’
At that moment Marty was wishing fervently that he was in that very bed, cuddled up beside his heavenly wife instead of in a bleak railway station being aggravated by the inane cooing of soot-covered pigeons. The morning had been another complete disaster; not a penny had he made. One small mercy: still in possession of her own money, it had not occurred to Etta to ask him yet how much he had earned, but that time would surely come. How could he admit that his retort to Pybus Ibbetson about being able to look after her had been an empty boast? The pittance he had acquired would not even keep himself, let alone a wife. What kind of man would she think he was? It was the thought of Etta’s disappointment that inspired him to take a drastic step. There was no alternative but to risk the other barrow boys’ wrath and muscle his way in.
Alas, lack of muscle was part of the problem. He had tried to push to the front before and all it had earned him was a blow to the kidneys from the man nicknamed Custard Lugs. Knowing that in addition to his fists the latter also used a life preserver, and having seen the damage it had inflicted on others, did not bolster Marty’s confidence either. But he was not without guile, and during his hours of boredom he had noticed a nice little hidey-hole from where one might make a sudden dash – so long as the station master who enforced the rules was otherwise engaged. Being an affable sort, Marty had previously tried to curry favour with the head man, confiding his newlywed status and his lack of funds, but, though gaining sympathy, it had not done him much good in the short term for the other had said there was no way he could help unless Marty had a licence.
In desperation, he decided that the time had come for ambush. Keeping alert to the position of his rivals and to the whereabouts of the bowler-hatted station master, he hid himself away to await the next train.
Upon an echoing announcement from the loud-speaker, Marty tensed himself for action and, with the subsequent rumble of an approaching engine, made ready to bolt. The train ground to a halt, doors were thrown open, the porter stepped forth to assist the alighting passengers and raised his hand for a barrow boy. This was the signal for which Marty had been waiting and he shot from his hiding place as if from a canon, hurling his barrow before him, its wheels rattling fit to fly off as he pelted forth, his face a picture of joyful expectancy.
But another had set his sights on this custome
r too, and with neither being willing to give way it became horribly apparent that there was to be a collision of barrows. Marty flinched as he saw it was Custard Lugs, but there was no backing down now. Urged on by thoughts of Etta, face displaying his determination to his opponent, he injected every ounce of energy into his limbs, but at the last minute, when his barrow seemed set to collide with the other, he performed the most daring of moves, halting stock-still as if to allow Custard Lugs past, but instead, with a deft flick of his barrow, sweeping the man’s feet from under him and sending him tumbling with a violent clatter, at which point he propelled himself forth again, slewing around the obstacle and continuing his sprint, to arrive triumphantly before the customer, who placed a shiny reward into his hand.
With his most violent rival nursing an injured kneecap it was to be the first of many rewards that afternoon as Marty hurtled his barrow frantically to and fro. So hard won, this chance was not to be wasted. Initially he had proposed to throw the money on the table in a theatrical gesture of largesse, smiling to himself as he pictured Etta’s happiness and admiration in his enterprise. But then, sense prevailed. Once this cash was spent there was no guarantee of more, for Custard Lugs would soon be on his feet again and seeking retribution; whereas if he bought a licence – and there was enough in his pocket now to do so – this would ensure future earnings without him having to fight for it. Pleased with himself for such a mature decision, he set about acquiring the means to a brighter future.
All this was relayed to Etta at the end of a very eventful day, but he confessed between chuckles and kisses that, ‘Custard Lugs has marked my card, though, you can expect me to come home with an egg on my skull when he’s fit enough to catch me.’
She frowned. ‘He throws eggs?’
‘No, you clot!’ He kissed her, laughing. ‘I mean a bump from his cosh.’
‘Oh, goodness!’
‘Don’t worry! He’s not up to your father’s standards of violence – sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,’ he added hurriedly upon seeing her hurt expression and kissing it better. ‘It was thoughtless of me, I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter – but he won’t really hurt you, will he?’ She was greatly concerned.
‘Nah! I’ll keep out of his way. He can’t do much to stop me earning money now I’ve got a licence, so things are looking up, me darlin’.’ His happy smile convinced her. After a few more kisses, he said, ‘Will we eat?’ And he let go of her, rubbing his palms together and looking around the room to see if anything was different, his eyes settling on the weak glow of embers in the grate. ‘I expect you’ll have had a busy day yourself.’
‘A busy afternoon, certainly.’ Briefly, she showed him how far her embroidery had progressed, then put it aside to attend to the tea. ‘The fire made me so hot during the morning that I was forced to leave the house. Once the sun moved around it wasn’t so bad but even with the window open I was stifled. I did heed your advice about adding the occasional lump of coal, yet I was also conscious of the need to conserve our little bucket of fuel. That’s why the fire’s so low, if you’re wondering.’ There had never been a fire in summer in her parents’ drawing room, but now she recognised that perhaps the servants must have had to suffer one in order to boil a kettle. Using a poker to swing her own kettle off the embers and a rag to hold its handle, she proceeded to brew a pot of tea, which Marty had shown her how to do.
‘Ah! Well, concern yourself no more, I ordered ten stone of coal on my way home and it’ll be here tomorrow. Mr Dalton’s promised to section off a corner of his shed.’
Etta gave a nod of pleasure. ‘Splendid. Should I pay the man?’
‘Yes, one and fivepence. So, you’ll have all the fuel you want for boiling kettles and the odd pot of stew – well, let’s be having that tea!’
‘Very well, my lord!’ Tripping happily to the table, she whisked aside a tea-cloth to reveal a dainty arrangement. ‘Cucumber sandwiches – and I bought some little buns too.’
Gazing upon the offering, her young husband’s smile barely faltered. ‘Great, I’m famished.’ And he sat down to eat.
Next evening there were sandwiches again, this time made with bread from Etta’s own sweet hand. But pride soon turned to disappointment.
‘Sorry, it’s a little crisp,’ she sought to warn him as he was about to bite into it.
‘That’s all right, I don’t like it soggy.’ This was just as well, for he almost broke his teeth in an effort to tear off a chunk.
‘I don’t know what went wrong,’ said Etta rather indignantly. ‘I followed your mother’s receipt to the letter. Perhaps she omitted an ingredient. I shall have a word with her tomorrow.’
Unable to speak whilst gagging over a mouthful of what felt like stiff cardboard, Marty just nodded until he was capable of swallowing, at which point he told Etta, ‘Tis fine enough for me.’
That was just as well for this menu was to be repeated the next evening. ‘It’s far too hot for anything else, isn’t it really?’ opined Etta.
Unaware that she herself had enjoyed dinner at his mother’s house for the past couple of days, Marty readily agreed, even though he did not see the logic for there had always been a cooked meal on the table at home whatever the weather.
However, after coming home to this same fare on Thursday evening, having eaten it for breakfast and pack-up too, he was to voice a hint: ‘Let’s pray for cooler weather soon. I love a good stew.’
‘I’m trying my best,’ said Etta, somewhat crossly, sawing at the flat round loaf, which might have been better employed as a discus on the sports field.
‘Aw, I know that!’ Immediately he reached out to pat her.
‘I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.’
‘It could be something wrong with Mrs Dalton’s oven,’ he said kindly.
‘Everyone else seems to cope. No, I’m forced to admit, the fault is all mine.’ She sighed, though she did not sound too unhappy, as she added, ‘Oh well, I shall have to buy it from the shop tomorrow. Your mother will no doubt frown upon that, but some of us are just not cut out for baking.’
Dispensing with the need for food, Marty hauled her to him, his expression one of cheerful lust. ‘I know something you are cut out for, though – ooh, but put that bread knife down first!’ He carefully removed it from her hand before transporting her to the bed and slaking his hunger in a much different fashion.
Perhaps he should have been grateful upon receiving edible bread the following night, but as it arrived yet again in the form of sandwiches, Marty determined to ask his mother if she would teach Etta how to cook.
There was another matter he had been wanting to broach too. ‘Etta, love, I don’t like to mention it, but, well, my shirts are getting a bit mucky. Might you be able to wash one tomorrow? And maybe some pants and socks?’
Her face showed that it had not even occurred to her, but she had been wondering over the grubbiness of her own attire and responded willingly. ‘Certainly! Just show me what to do and I’ll oblige.’ She turned rather bashful. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about it.’
‘Neither have I,’ he admitted. ‘But I think you’re supposed to do it on a Monday, that’s why I lit the fire for you, to heat the water…’
Etta remembered the lines of laundry in Aggie’s yard and uttered a murmur of recognition.
‘Never mind, me mother’ll tell you what to do, I’m sure.’
She bit her lip. ‘How embarrassing to have to make such an admittance, though.’
‘No! She understands that you come from a different world.’
‘I confess there must be a thousand things I took for granted – but I’ll learn, truly I will. I so want to be a good wife.’
‘I know! Mother will teach you, she’s very patient.’
To Etta that sounded as if she was just being tolerated and this caused slight offence. There were plenty of things she could teach Martin’s mother, though she chose not to say this to hi
m. A moment of contemplation occurred; then a solution. ‘I know! Just for this week I shall pay Mrs Dalton’s maid for the task.’ She quickly soothed his worried expression. ‘It’s not being wasteful, I shall use the opportunity to spy on her so that I can learn how things are done, and next week I’ll be able to do it for myself!’
Marty projected admiration, but privately hoped Etta would not make a habit of this and he began to see that he had to get her away from the pub, or in one way or another she might eventually end up handing all his hard-earned cash to Mrs Dalton. Not understanding Etta’s reluctance to enlist his family’s help, he asked, ‘Why pay when Mother will show you for free?’
‘Because she’ll think me a fool,’ said Etta firmly.
Marty assured her this was not so, but with his wife insistent on her plan, as usual he acquiesced. However, this would not prevent him from seeking his mother’s guidance on the other important matter, and he decided to call there on his way to work the next day.
Aggie showed no surprise at his request that she teach Etta to cook. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better before you fade away to a shadow,’ she told her son, looking him up and down as if for signs of malnutrition and smiling wryly at Uncle Mal.
Marty felt he ought to stick up for his wife. ‘Oh, I’ve never gone hungry! But you see it’s difficult for Etta without her own oven.’
‘Ah, so that’s why she’s turned up here every dinnertime this week.’
At his mother’s words, Marty looked nonplussed.
Aggie’s face turned crafty. ‘She didn’t mention it, then?’
Marty shook his head. No wonder Etta had been satisfied with sandwiches for tea. Though slightly miffed, he was quick to provide another reason for her regular visits. ‘Maybe she’s lonely on her own all day.’
Aggie pooh-poohed the lame excuse. ‘She wouldn’t have time to be lonely if she were doing her job. Look at the cut of ye!’ She poked him in the ribs. ‘Sit down and have breakfast.’
The Keepsake Page 14
