The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  My teacher said I would suit office work and she explained about starting as an office junior. I am a quick – no, an attentive learner and would work hard to give satisfaction.

  Was it long enough? Did it say all that needed saying? Was it – her heart executed a little flip – was it good enough to pass muster in the office of Grace, Wardle and Grace?

  Early next morning, in their walk through the bone-chilling darkness to the tram-stop, she dropped her letter in the pillarbox. She wanted to pause before letting go of it, to savour the moment, but she mustn’t vex Auntie Enid. If only Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie understood how much this mattered to her.

  Her heart might live in the past, but the rest of her was in the here and now. Surely it wasn’t wrong to want to make the best of it?

  Chapter Four

  PATIENCE PADDED DOWNSTAIRS, carrying her bedside lamp, its flex neatly coiled. At the foot of the stairs, she passed the ornately carved monk’s bench and opened the cupboard under the stairs to place the lamp on the shelf. The cheerful clink of milk bottles on the step drew her glance to the front door, but she didn’t open it. Bolting the front door last thing at night and unbolting it in the morning was Prudence’s job, self-appointed many years ago, and Pa had never minded.

  Darling Pa. Patience’s heart trembled with sorrow. Pa had lived his life immersed in his scholarly books and papers, surfacing occasionally for a toasted tea-cake, and with no more than a vague and, if she was honest, peevish awareness of mundane matters like how full the coal-scuttle was and whether the butcher’s bill had been paid.

  ‘Good thing we called you Prudence, eh?’ he had been saying to Prudence for as long as Patience could remember, whenever a pipe burst or a tile blew off the roof; and true to her name, Prudence would set about dealing with the problem with calm efficiency. Patience had longed as a little girl, and as an adult too, for Pa to say to her, ‘Good thing we called you Patience,’ but he never had, even though she had never been anything but patient when he chopped and changed his mind about rollmop herrings or sardines, and when he let his cocoa get cold because he was reading and then blamed her because… well, because he just did.

  So what if Pa had been querulous? At heart, he was gentle, with an old-fashioned gallantry, and that was what counted. Was it silly to imagine that his gentleness had permeated yesterday’s funeral? For Prudence and Lawrence to be in the same room without arguing was unprecedented. Lawrence had always thrown his weight around, ever since they were children, and over the years he had become increasingly condescending towards her and Prudence. Because they weren’t married? Probably. The world looked down on spinsters. But it wasn’t just that. Lawrence had risen in the world. He was a successful businessman and Evelyn revelled in her role as his perfectly groomed wife.

  Was yesterday’s courtesy and forbearance a sign of things to come? How wonderful if Pa’s death had brought them all together.

  She got the fire going in their little breakfast room before Prudence could come downstairs and say it wasn’t worth it, with them going out straight after breakfast. She opened the curtains in here and the kitchen, letting in the thin, grey winter morning, and filled the kettle in the scullery. There was ice on the inside of the scullery window. In the kitchen, she reached for her apron and put the kettle on the gas, glancing at the fireplace where she had laid a fire last night. She couldn’t justify a kitchen fire, any more than she could a sitting room fire. The house would be freezing to come home to later on. Her bones creaked just thinking of it.

  ‘Good morning, Patience.’

  Prudence came in, carrying the milk bottles. They always had two pints on Thursday, because it was rice pudding day.

  ‘Good morning, Prudence.’

  They were both in their funeral garb again, as befitted the reading of the will. Patience’s eyes fell on the oval cameo brooch at Prudence’s thin throat. That showed how important today was. Prudence wasn’t one for jewellery and while it was only right and proper that Pa should have presented her with Mother’s brooch, her being the elder daughter, it was rather a waste as well. Had he seen fit to give it to Patience, it would have seen the light of day far more often.

  Breakfast didn’t take long without Pa wanting a second cup of tea. In any case, Prudence had one eye on the clock.

  ‘…though why we have to trail all the way into town, I don’t know,’ she fumed, evidently finishing a thought.

  ‘This Mr Wardle must be Lawrence’s solicitor,’ said Patience, ever the peacemaker. ‘I suppose he automatically made arrangements with his own man instead of Pa’s.’

  ‘Automatically threw his weight around, you mean.’

  So much for lasting forbearance.

  They cleared away and Patience washed up, looking at her hands before she dried them. She got through lashings of hand lotion but, honestly, there was no disguising an ageing hand.

  She put on her faithful wool overcoat, its tailored lines proclaiming its pre-war origins. Her wide-brimmed hat was pre-war too. Winding her scarf round her neck, she tucked it inside the front of her coat, checking her appearance in the mirror that hung between the front door and the deep alcove of the cloakroom.

  Prudence produced a long, thin envelope and folded it into her ancient leather handbag.

  ‘Pa’s will. It’s a good thing we’ve got it. I don’t suppose Lawrence took that into account when he made the appointment with his Mr Wardle. For all he knows, the will could be lodged with Pa’s solicitor.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I’ve half a mind to leave it behind. That’d teach him.’

  ‘Oh, Prudence.’ Patience felt that horrid flutter that had upset her ever since childhood. She hated it when the other two did battle.

  ‘Don’t panic. I wouldn’t stoop so low… however much Lawrence deserves it.’

  Usually, when she walked along Market Street, Belinda enjoyed gazing in the shop windows, but today all she cared about was finding the turning into Rosemount Place. At last she found it, a quiet haven with what looked like a row of handsome houses, except that each one had a brass name-plate beside the gleaming black front door.

  You could have been an office girl.

  She was here. She was really here. She didn’t know whether to be excited or frightened to death. She would lose a day’s pay and if Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie were right, it would be for nothing, but, give her her due, Auntie Enid had agreed to tell Mr Butterfield she was poorly. Without that, she couldn’t have come.

  She had arrived early, in her borrowed coat and hat, kindly loaned by Mrs Harrison from up Grave Pit Lane. Mrs Harrison was the rag-and-bone man’s wife and the garments had been cast out by someone with, as Grandma Beattie roundly declared, more money than sense. Old they might be, but there was wear in them yet. Belinda felt smart and trim and, if it didn’t sound stupid, business-like; and she must have looked the part because the gentleman who arrived just as she was anxiously checking the names on the brass plate, said courteously, ‘After you.’ She had a fleeting glimpse of a narrow face and a splendid overcoat with a fur collar as he ushered her up the steps. She didn’t want to go inside this early but didn’t feel she had a choice. She knocked on the door.

  ‘It’s unlocked. Go straight in,’ said the gentleman.

  At the same moment, the door was opened from within, sandwiching her between the tall, lean gentleman behind her and a grand frock-coated gentleman in front. He was bald on top but sported mutton-chop whiskers to make up for it.

  ‘Mr Hesketh, sir. I saw you from the window. Come in, sir. A chilly morning.’

  There was nothing like being overlooked, was there? Mr Mutton-Chop clearly recognised quality when he saw it, and the gentleman was quality and she wasn’t. Simple as that. She slid aside.

  ‘Morning, morning, Hathersage. How are you this fine morning?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, sir. Mr Wardle asked me to show you upstairs immediately, if you’d care to follow me.’

  The two of them disappeared up
a handsome staircase with a dark-blue runner. The spacious hallway smelled of beeswax. Three wooden chairs stood to attention against the wall on the left. Over to the right, a door stood open. Belinda glanced in, trying to be casual. The office! Her gaze ran over a vast desk with an ornate tray with glass ink-bottles and a stamp-box laid neatly on top of it and glass-fronted bookcases standing behind. Next to the bookcases was a table with decanters and a water jug and glasses. There was even a rug on the floor.

  She hovered near the front door beside the umbrella-stand. Mr Hathersage returned, pausing on the staircase, as if no ticing her for the first time, before joining her in the hall.

  ‘Good morning. May I be of assistance?’ His tone was faultlessly polite but there was a flicker in his eyes that suggested she was in the wrong place.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I’m here for an interview. My name is Belinda Layton.’

  ‘Really?’ Another flicker. ‘You’re older than I was expecting. You do realise we are seeking an office junior?’

  ‘Yes, sir. If I could explain—’

  He held up a hand. ‘Wait for your interview, if you please. Kindly take a seat over there.’ He indicated the wooden chairs. ‘You’re rather early, but never mind.’

  Sitting on the chair felt like waiting outside the headmaster’s office. Presently another girl arrived and then a lad, neither of them more than sixteen. The boy’s suit had a certain middleclass smartness and the girl’s coat boasted a velvet collar and cuffs. Belinda stopped feeling business-like. She felt dowdy in her borrowed togs. Was coming here a colossal mistake?

  A young fellow with cheeks with the colour and texture of boiled ham appeared in the office doorway.

  ‘Miss Ainsworth, please.’

  The girl stood up, smoothing her coat, and went into the office. The young man shut the door. Belinda’s heart beat as hard as if it were her interview. She sat up straighter, clutching her handbag on her lap, her fingers wrapped tightly around the handles. The boy placed his hands on his knees. His gloves were leather. Hers were knitted.

  But this wasn’t about being smartly turned out or middle class. Who was she trying to kid? Of course it was. Everything was about being smartly dressed and middle class.

  No, it wasn’t. That was why the scholarship existed – so poorer children had a chance of a better education. Ah, but she hadn’t sat the scholarship, had she? A lot of poor children didn’t because their families needed them to work.

  You could have been an office girl.

  Miss Kirby believed in her. She must focus on giving the best interview she could.

  Miss Ainsworth was shown out of the office and, with polite goodbyes, left the building. The boy, Mr Unwin, was called in. More waiting. When he emerged again, Belinda stirred and was half-standing before the young clerk said, ‘Mr Hathersage will be with you shortly,’ and retreated. She sank down again, trying to look as if she hadn’t got up in the first place.

  The front door opened and a pair of middle-aged ladies walked in – sisters, obviously; both thin and pale, but one had a sharper face and keen eyes while the other, lacking the angles and planes of her sister’s face, looked softer.

  Mr Hathersage appeared by magic. ‘Miss Hesketh and Miss Patience Hesketh? My name is Hathersage. Mr Wardle is expecting you. May I show you the way?’

  Hesketh. Presumably they were connected to the leanfaced man from earlier, but whereas Mr Hesketh’s bonhomie suggested roast beef dinners with whisky to follow beside a roaring fire, his relatives had an impoverished look and probably lived lives of good works and church flowers, getting by in reduced but infinitely respectable circumstances, poor old loves.

  She pulled her gaze away. She mustn’t be caught gawping. Surely it would be time for her interview when Mr Hathersage came back downstairs. Had she got what it took to work in a high-class place like this?

  Mr Hathersage opened a door and Patience followed Prudence inside. The office was a large square, with a high ceiling and long sash-windows, its walls lined with row upon row of old books with identical spines. Pa would have loved it. There was an imposing desk twice the size of their kitchen table, with a smart desk-set complete with ink-bottles and pen-cradles, and a leather blotter, its blotting-paper pristine. Over by the fireplace, two button-upholstered armchairs, very gentlemen’s club-looking, faced one another, each with a small circular table by its side. Just the right size for a brandy, which was a bizarre thing to think because Patience didn’t know the first thing about brandy. Pa had been a port man and the most she had ever had was a sweet sherry.

  Seated in the armchairs were Lawrence and a tubby gentleman, looking very comfortable in one another’s company. The men politely came to their feet.

  ‘Here they are at last,’ Lawrence said jovially.

  ‘You make it sound as if we’re late.’ Prudence pointedly did not look at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  Lawrence made a play of digging beneath his jacket and removing his silver hunter from the small pocket in his waistcoat, flicking open the cover to study its face. He gave Prudence an approving smile that Patience knew would irritate her far more than a sarky reply would have, then flipped the watchcase shut and returned it to his pocket.

  Lawrence performed the introductions, then Mr Wardle ushered them to his desk, where two chairs stood ready. Where was Lawrence going to sit? But he remained standing. Looking down on them.

  ‘Thank you for attending, ladies,’ Mr Wardle began. ‘We are here to read the last will and testament of Mr Edwin Lawrence Hesketh, the father of Lawrence from his first marriage and Prudence and Patience from his second.’

  ‘I have it here.’ Prudence drew her handbag onto her lap and opened it.

  ‘No,’ Mr Wardle said in a measured voice. ‘I have it here.’

  Prudence pulled out the envelope and removed Pa’s will, thrusting it across the desk.

  Mr Wardle examined it. ‘This is indeed a will made by your late father, Miss Hesketh, but it isn’t his last will. This, which I personally drew up,’ and with a smooth wave of his hand, he indicated the document lying before him, ‘is his last will. A new will, properly drawn up and witnessed, automatically takes the place of any and all former wills.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Prudence. ‘Are you saying that my father—?’

  ‘The old boy made a new will,’ Lawrence cut in impatiently. ‘Read it, Wardle.’

  ‘But I had no idea…’ began Prudence.

  ‘He wasn’t under any obligation to inform you,’ said Lawrence, ‘no matter how much you may think he was.’

  ‘I never thought any such thing.’

  ‘Just as well, since he obviously didn’t want you to know.’

  Mr Wardle cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we should proceed with the reading. It’s very straightforward. To summarise, the house in Wilton Close is left to Lawrence Hesketh—’

  ‘To Lawrence?’ Prudence burst out.

  ‘Lawrence?’ Patience echoed. ‘Oh, my goodness.’ There was ringing in her ears. She couldn’t breathe.

  As if from a distance, she heard Prudence say, ‘He can’t do that.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Lawrence, ‘he could and he did.’

  How? As a loving father – how? Patience stared at her clasped hands. Her eyes filled; her lashes felt spiky and sticky.

  ‘What I mean,’ Prudence snapped, ‘as you know perfectly well, Lawrence, is that the house belonged to our mother – our mother, not yours.’ She started to point to the old will lying on Mr Wardle’s desk, but dropped her hand almost at once. Was it shaking? ‘Pa left the house to Patience and me. He couldn’t leave it to you. It came from our mother’s family.’

  ‘It’s true that the property once belonged to Mrs Florence Hesketh,’ Mr Wardle said, ‘but she left it to her husband, with no conditions attached. She might, for example, have bequeathed it to him on condition he left it to you and your sister, but she didn’t.’

  ‘Which means Pa was free to dispose of
it as he saw fit,’ Lawrence gloated. ‘It’s appropriate that he should leave his property – his property, note – to his son.’

  ‘Mother would never have left the house to him had she thought for one moment—’ Prudence began.

  ‘Then it’s fortunate for me that she didn’t think.’

  They were arguing again; they were always arguing. Childhood anxieties reared up in Patience’s chest. ‘Is there anything we can do?’ She could barely get the words out; her mouth was dry.

  ‘We’ll contest the will,’ Prudence declared.

  ‘That’s your prerogative, of course,’ said Mr Wardle.

  ‘Assuming you can afford it,’ said Lawrence.

  ‘But I must advise you that the will is watertight,’ Mr Wardle finished. ‘It won’t do you any good.’

  Patience’s hand crept across, seeking her sister’s. Prudence grasped it in a fierce, painful squeeze that seemed to run all the way up Patience’s arm and into her chest, where it wrapped itself around her heart. How could Pa have done this to them? How could he?

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The others were talking. What had she missed? ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘Mr Wardle is about to explain how such a palpably unfair will can possibly be watertight,’ said Prudence.

  ‘Ah, but it isn’t unfair, Miss Hesketh. The late Mr Hesketh knew that you and your sister are provided for. As well as owning the house in Wilton Close, your mother also had an annuity, which automatically passed to you and your sister upon her death. Because you were children at the time, arrangements were made for your father to have the use of the money to meet the expenses associated with your upbringing and care until you married or achieved the age of twenty-five, whichever came first.’

  Whichever came first. Just think. There had been a time when she had expected marriage to come first. Oh, how young she used to be, how naive, how romantic… how foolish.