The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  ‘He only said it to frighten you.’

  ‘I wanted to sneak out and telephone you. I thought you’d be permitted a personal call under the circumstances; but I didn’t dare leave the house.’ It sounded stupid now. ‘I thought Lawrence might be round the corner, waiting for me.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t telephone,’ Prudence said grimly. ‘I would have gone straight back to Rosemount Place and given Mr Wardle a piece of my mind. In fact, that’s what we must do tomorrow.’

  ‘We won’t get an appointment.’

  ‘We’re not going to ask for one. I’ll go into work and arrange to be absent for a while; then we’ll simply turn up in Rosemount Place.’

  Patience tried to ignore a faint tightening in her chest. ‘Oh, Prudence, are you sure?’

  Prudence had no interest in lily-livered dithering. ‘Either Mr Wardle agrees to see us immediately or we insist upon seeing one of his colleagues. That will muddy the waters, mark my words. In fact, I’ve a better idea. Either Mr Wardle sees us or we make our way to the newspaper offices on Deansgate. Neither Mr Wardle nor Lawrence will want that. If he is ever to rise to the rank of alderman, Lawrence can’t afford to have the slightest question mark over his character.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Never mind “oh dear”. This has to be done – unless you fancy repelling him and Evelyn again tomorrow. Now, let me get my coat off. What’s for tea?’

  Patience had meant to go to the fishmonger to purchase coley, but had ended up cowering inside the house, so there were no fishcakes this evening. Instead she had sacrificed the cooking apples that had been destined for tomorrow’s apple pie and had made curried apple soup. As she heated it, worries fluttered round her. Pa, how could you?

  The next morning, Prudence set off for the office as usual. Patience followed her later, meeting her near the corner of Rosemount Place at ten o’clock.

  ‘You do realise today is Friday the thirteenth,’ Patience said.

  ‘It certainly is for Mr Wardle.’

  ‘What if they don’t let us see him?’

  Patience almost had to break into an unseemly trot to keep up with her sister. Prudence marched round the corner – and there, heading for the black door to Grace, Wardle and Grace, was Mr Wardle himself. Prudence put on a spurt and overtook him, flinging herself up the front steps before he could mount them, with Patience pattering behind.

  His mouth tightened, but he shifted his briefcase to his left hand and raised his bowler. ‘Good morning, ladies. Might I trouble you to stand aside?’

  ‘Not until I’ve said my piece,’ replied Prudence.

  ‘If your piece, Miss Hesketh, appertains to your father’s will, you had ample opportunity to say it yesterday. May I remind you that you were the one who cut short our meeting? Now if you would kindly step aside…’

  Prudence stayed put. ‘Are you aware that my brother turned up at the house yesterday to remove the best furniture?’

  ‘No, I was unaware of that, but had you stayed to hear the full contents of the will, you would know that your father’s personal possessions now belong to him.’ Mr Wardle took a step forward as if expecting Prudence to melt obediently aside.

  Prudence did no such thing. ‘The things Lawrence wanted belonged to my mother.’

  ‘Wedding presents, no doubt, and therefore also the property of the late Mr Hesketh.’ Mr Wardle took another step forward; Patience could have told him he was wasting his time.

  ‘On the contrary, they’re all items Mother inherited from her family. I believe you’ll find she came into possession of most of them before she married my father.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s different – assuming you are correct.’

  ‘I make a habit of being correct, Mr Wardle. So in fact Lawrence was attempting to steal what is rightfully ours.’

  ‘I’d be careful of making accusations if I were you, Miss Hesketh. How could your brother, who was a small child when his father remarried, be expected to know the provenance of every stick of furniture?’

  ‘As his solicitor, I suppose you’re obliged to spout claptrap in his defence.’

  Mr Wardle’s throat bobbed above his starched collar. ‘Miss Hesketh, I do not conduct business in the street. If you hadn’t flounced out of my office yesterday, not only would you have heard the full contents of the will, you’d also have been offered your own copy.’

  ‘Then we’ll come inside now and get one.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for one to be posted to you at the office’s earliest convenience.’

  ‘We wouldn’t dream of putting you to such trouble, Mr Wardle, would we, Patience? We’ll come in now and collect it.’

  ‘It will have to be prepared.’

  ‘No, it won’t. You’ve just said you were going to give it to us yesterday.’

  Prudence marched inside, Patience behind her. Patience looked round for the kind girl from yesterday: she would help them for certain but, no, there was sign no of her, just Mr Hathersage coming to his feet, a look of surprise on his face.

  ‘We’ve come for a copy of our father’s will, which was prepared for us to take yesterday,’ said Prudence. ‘Could you fetch it, please?’

  ‘This is most irregular,’ Mr Hathersage began.

  ‘And here is Mr Wardle to vouch for us – isn’t that so, Mr Wardle?’

  Mr Wardle didn’t actually growl, but looked as if he would like to.

  Fifteen minutes later, having been obliged to sign receipts in triplicate, Prudence was in triumphant possession of Pa’s will. Patience didn’t feel triumphant. The whole business was shabby and upsetting.

  ‘Do you think Lawrence really thought those things were his?’ she asked as they walked away. They should be mourning Pa, not fighting one another.

  ‘Of course not. He was trying to get his hands on the good stuff before we could pack it away, should we move out.’

  Would it really come to that? Yet how could it not, with Lawrence so determined, and the law on his side?

  The last thing Patience felt like was entertaining – well, you could hardly call it that when it was an hour with an old friend once a week for a chat and perhaps a couple of hands of whist. Miss Kirby always came to their house. Goodness knows, they weren’t well off, but dear Miss Kirby barely had sixpence with which to scratch herself. She had been a schoolmistress, responsible for her invalid mother. When old Mrs Kirby passed away and there were no more doctors’ bills to pay, just when things might have become easier for Miss Kirby and she could have spent a few final years at work building up a nest-egg, she was required, because of her age, to surrender her post to a returning soldier. Life could be hard for women. Miss Kirby would spend the rest of her life feeling the pinch.

  Patience wished she could invite her to have her tea with them on Fridays, but Prudence had vetoed the idea.

  ‘If we have her to tea, she’d feel obliged to invite us back and she can’t afford it.’

  ‘If we made it clear a return invitation wasn’t necessary…’

  ‘Then our invitation would be charity and you can’t have charity between friends.’

  So every Friday evening, Miss Kirby came to their house; and if Patience happened to have made some gingerbread or a cherry cake that afternoon, that wasn’t charity, it was good manners and hospitality.

  Anxiety twisted inside her. If Lawrence got his way and they had to leave this house, they would never be able to afford somewhere as comfortable – and it wasn’t just physical comfort. There was social comfort too. This address gave them a certain standing.

  When the doorbell rang, she hurried to admit their friend. Soon the three of them were settled around the fire.

  ‘Thank you for attending the funeral,’ said Prudence. ‘We appreciated your support.’

  She didn’t thank Miss Kirby for her letter of condolence: that would be acknowledged by post. Oh, the rules they lived by! What Patience wanted was to envelope her old friend in a hug and thank her for the kind letter
that had brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘You’ll miss him,’ said Miss Kirby. ‘I know how long it took me to get used to being without Mother.’ She glanced at Pa’s empty armchair. ‘The house will feel strange for a long time.’

  Would Prudence confide? They could trust Miss Kirby to keep their family troubles to herself.

  ‘I regret to say that we might not be here to make that adjustment.’ Prudence explained about Pa’s will and Lawrence’s determination to take possession of the house.

  ‘Goodness me, what a shock,’ said Miss Kirby. ‘Your lovely home. Whatever shall you do?’

  Prudence’s jawline hardened, squeezing her narrow lips into a white gash. ‘It hardly seems possible that Lawrence can require us to leave, but we have to face it.’

  Patience slipped her hand into her pocket for her lace-edged hanky and sniffed delicately, though what she really wanted was a jolly good blow, but ladies didn’t honk into their hankies.

  ‘Well, I for one will miss coming here. Such a pleasant home; and… it sounds foolish, I know, but whenever I come here, I indulge in a little day-dream.’ Miss Kirby’s cheeks went pink. ‘I spent my working life standing up in front of classes of sixty, remember; and I always thought, wouldn’t it be wonderful, wouldn’t it be a privilege, to teach a small class, just a few children, and really bring them on.’

  ‘What has our house got to do with that?’ asked Prudence.

  ‘I can’t help imagining your sitting and dining rooms as two little classrooms. There, I told you it was foolish.’

  ‘They would be very little classrooms,’ Prudence observed.

  Patience jumped in. She often did when Prudence sounded dismissive. ‘A harmless day-dream, not foolish at all. Naturally you see places through a teacher’s eyes.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Prudence. ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Having a school here – not for children, but for adults; young women who want to work in offices. You sometimes see advertisements in the newspaper for a series of evening classes where you can learn to use a typewriter. Why not a series of classes to learn filing and letter-writing and… reading and writing invoices and delivery notes? I have years of experience.’

  ‘What about Lawrence?’

  ‘If we think this through carefully, he won’t have a choice.’

  Chapter Six

  BELINDA TIPTOED AROUND the ridges of mud at their end of Grave Pit Lane, jumping with relief onto the cinder path and setting off with a cheerful swing in her step, her bag of library books bumping against her leg. It was another bitingly cold morning, but the January skies, overcast for so long, were a vivid blue and the sunlight had a dazzling edge. It was her first Saturday morning off after weeks of cleaning duty in the mill and it felt like a treat. Mind you, getting out of the cottage, with its air of I-told-you-so, would make anyone feel better.

  After her disastrous interview, so disastrous that she hadn’t even had an interview, Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie had tried not to gloat, but Auntie Enid hadn’t tried very hard, her crossed arms and tilted head, even the way she rocked on her heels, expressing in no uncertain terms her satisfaction that Belinda had come a cropper.

  ‘I don’t mean you no ill, lass, you know that,’ she said after her smugness had a chance to subside, ‘but this is where you belong, and I don’t just mean here in End Cottage. You can’t climb out of your life. Everyone has their rightful place.’

  Was her rightful place to dress in black for the rest of her life, endlessly mourning with Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie until they passed away and she was the only one left? That was what they thought, just as they thought her rightful place was in the mill. In the mill, and in black.

  Were they right? Was this the way her life would always be?

  She dashed the thought aside. Nothing must be allowed to spoil this morning of fresh air and freedom, made all the more enjoyable because she was meeting Sarah. She emerged from Grave Pit Lane to see Sarah coming towards her, her green shawl wrapped warmly round her and her sandy hair, several shades lighter than Belinda’s, swinging loose.

  ‘We were meant to meet outside the library,’ said Belinda, linking arms as they set off together.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Thad’s being a right so-and-so and Jacob’s just as bad. Mikey’s been saving up his pocket money for summat-or-other, and it’s gone missing, so he accused Thad, and… oh, you don’t want to hear the rest. It’s bad enough living there without talking about it as well.’ Her pretty mouth formed a pout. ‘You’d think being so close in age would make Thad and Mikey close, but they hate one another.’

  ‘It’s because of being in the same class,’ said Belinda. ‘You aren’t old enough to remember, but when they were tiny boys they were fine together, but being born in the same school year meant they had to be in the same class and people thought they must be twins. Thad hated that. That’s how the bad feeling started.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about them.’ Sarah squeezed her arm. ‘We haven’t had a Saturday morning together for ages. I have to be at work by one, so let’s make the most of it.’

  They went to the library first. Sarah only ever borrowed one book at a time, which she kept inside her pillow-case, but she was happy to help Belinda choose.

  ‘Let’s go for tea and a bun,’ said Belinda when they came out. ‘My treat. I’ve still got some of what I earned last Saturday.’

  ‘Mum didn’t fleece you out of it, then? I know Dad tried to get his hands on it.’

  ‘I did give her some, but only a shilling.’

  ‘Only! And that’s on top of what you give her anyroad out of your regular wages. I bet she tried to get more than a bob an’ all.’

  Belinda felt a stab of shame. Mum could be money-grabbing these days. ‘I’d spent some of it already.’

  ‘What on?’ Sarah asked eagerly.

  Talking about other people’s purchases was often the closest they got to shopping; but it wouldn’t be right to tell Sarah before she had told Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie.

  ‘Just some fabric from the market.’

  Uncurling her arm from Sarah’s, she pushed open the door to the tea-shop they frequented. It had seen better days, but then, had it been a top-notch establishment, they wouldn’t have been able to afford it.

  ‘A bun each today,’ she whispered. ‘A pot of tea for two, please,’ she said as the perky young waitress appeared at their side, pencil poised over her notebook, ‘and an Eccles cake and…’

  ‘A lardy cake, please,’ said Sarah, her lips twitching into a sunny smile. ‘Thanks.’

  Belinda returned the smile. ‘If I can’t treat my little sister.’

  ‘Don’t you get fed up of handing money over to Mum? You must have to tip up at End Cottage an’ all. It isn’t fair on you.’

  She shrugged. ‘I can’t see my family going without, especially when I’m lucky enough to live at End Cottage. It used to be easier giving Mum money when the boys were smaller and…’

  ‘…less objectionable,’ Sarah finished. ‘I’d be much better off if I was allowed to live in at the hotel. I’d have to pay bed and board and I’d still give Mum summat, obviously, but I wouldn’t have to pay my fares every day. That’s where all my money goes – all that I’m allowed to keep, that is.’

  ‘Same here.’

  If only Ben had come home and they had got wed, her financial situation would have sorted itself out naturally. She and Ben would have taken care of Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie as and when they needed it, and she would have slipped Mum a bit now and then; but she and Ben would have had their own home and their own family, both of which she would have put first, and no one would have expected otherwise. As things were, she was caught in a financial trap and she would never have any money of her own.

  What had Miss Kirby called girls like her? Surplus girls. No husbands and no training. Just a lifetime filled with responsibilities
.

  The waitress returned. She put down the teapot and milk jug. ‘One lardy cake… and one squashed flies cake.’ With a cheeky smile, she headed back to the counter.

  Sarah bit into her lardy cake. ‘Mm, this feels like a celebration.’

  ‘It might have been, if this week had happened differently. Have you heard of surplus girls?’

  ‘No. What are they?’

  ‘Not “they”, Sarah. We are surplus girls. The men we could have married died in the war.’

  ‘Well, Ben, yes, but I didn’t have a fellow. I wasn’t old enough.’

  ‘Think of all the men who died. Some of them were little more than boys. What if one of them was meant to be for you?’

  Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘You make it sound like there are no men left.’

  ‘There’s not nearly as many as there should be.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll meet someone.’

  ‘I hope you do; but plenty won’t. Without husbands to support us, we’ll have to spend a whole lifetime at work, so…’ She took a breath. ‘I applied for a post in an office.’

  ‘You want to leave the mill?’

  ‘I want a better-paid, more interesting job that I’ll be happy to do for the rest of my working life.’

  ‘You’re a two-loomer, aren’t you? If you leave, one of the tenters will be made up and that’ll make room for a new tenter. Mrs Sloan helped you get took on as a tenter. Do you think she’d do the same for me?’

  This wasn’t the way she had expected the conversation to go. ‘You don’t want to go there. It’s hard work.’

  ‘Well, you try cleaning for ten hours a day. That isn’t exactly a picnic.’

  ‘You go deaf and lots of weavers have bad teeth.’

  ‘The hours are regular. No starting at five in the morning, no working till midnight. Do you know what it’s like for me, getting to and from work at those hours? Do you know how often I have to walk because there’s no buses or trams? Please say you’ll help me get took on.’

  ‘I didn’t get the office job, so it’s beside the point.’