by Polly Heron
Prudence arrived home from the office with a frown on her face. There was nothing unusual in that. Frowning was pretty well her normal expression.
When they settled down to eat their buttered leeks, Patience was all set to explain – and, yes, show off a little – about her lesson preparation when Prudence announced,
‘The Corporation has received an anonymous complaint about missing documents.’
‘Oh dear. Important documents?’
‘The simple fact that they’re missing makes them important. I don’t know what they are. That hasn’t been stated. The thing is…’
She shifted in her seat. Patience felt a frisson of fear. Prudence was never uncomfortable. Discomfort was for people who made mistakes. Discomfort was for people who did something wrong. Neither of those descriptions could ever be applied to Prudence Hesketh.
‘…what if it’s the old invoices and delivery notes I brought home?’
‘It can’t be. You said they were finished with.’
‘And they were, or I wouldn’t have dreamed of taking them. I think it best I own up tomorrow.’
‘Own up? That makes it sound as if we’ve done something wrong.’
‘Thank you for saying “we”, but the fault, if any, is mine, however unintentional.’
Patience put down her knife and fork, then picked them up again. Prudence wouldn’t thank her for getting in a state.
She saw Prudence off to work the next morning, wanting to wish her well but knowing Prudence wouldn’t like any fuss.
‘I hope things turn out satisfactorily.’ It was the least fussy thing she could think of.
She kept herself occupied during the day, but her insides felt wobbly, as if she needed to tighten her corsets. If she felt like that, what must it be like for Prudence? She was such an upright person. Integrity was her middle name.
That evening, she was on watch in the bay window and rushed to open the door as Prudence came stalking along. Her face was grim, but that needn’t mean anything. Prudence wasn’t one for smiles.
Patience tried to assist her off with her mackintosh, but she shrugged free of the helping hands.
‘Don’t fuss. You know I can’t bear a fuss.’
‘What happened?’
‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’
Patience felt a click of annoyance. Honestly, Prudence treated her like a child at times.
In the sitting room, they took their customary places.
Prudence looked her straight in the eye. That was Prudence all over: she never shirked anything.
‘Yes, the missing documents were indeed the invoices and so forth I’d taken.’
‘Oh, Prudence.’
‘My explanation and apology were accepted by Mr Donnington, together with my assurance it won’t happen again.’
‘Oh, Prudence.’
‘Kindly stop saying “Oh, Prudence”. I had the foresight to think of what I would say to reprimand a junior colleague in the same position and made sure I said all those things before Mr Donnington could.’
Oh, Prudence. But she didn’t say it aloud.
‘I promised to destroy all the paperwork, so we’ll have to devise our own in future, but that’s easily done. It’ll also give us the opportunity to incorporate errors for the girls to identify, so it’ll work out rather well.’ She sounded cheerful, but Patience wasn’t fooled. This had hit her hard.
‘Thank goodness you owned up before—’
‘Quite so. Mr Donnington was sympathetic in view of my honesty and it isn’t going to be put on my record.’
‘That’s excellent news. You always said he thinks highly of you.’
‘This isn’t thanks just to his good opinion. Apparently, the complaint was made, not to him, but to Mr Mansfield, who is his opposite number in a different department, and Mr Mansfield had taken pleasure in bringing the complaint to him. Fortunately for me, Mr Donnington was more annoyed with Mr Mansfield’s crowing than he was with my conduct.’
‘Who made the complaint?’ Patience asked. ‘And why make it to Mr Mansfield if it didn’t involve his department?’
‘It was made anonymously.’
‘How cowardly. How hole-and-corner.’
‘Possibly. Or… convenient.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘We know Miss Layton told Lawrence about her lessons, including the use of invoices,’ said Prudence. ‘What if she told him we use real invoices?’
‘You mean, Lawrence..? He wouldn’t…’
‘Wouldn’t he?’
Chapter Thirteen
‘WHAT D’YOU MEAN, you’re not being paid to work in that shop?’
Dad’s voice rose and Belinda’s heart quaked. She hated the perpetual squabbling and sniping in Cromwell Street. The only thing worse than being forced to be the audience was being on the receiving end. Why did she have to explain herself all the time? Why couldn’t Dad take a friendly interest? A fatherly interest. Some hope. His only interest lay in what he could get out of her.
‘Mr Tyrell is employing me so that I gain relevant experience.’
‘Employing you?’ Dad gave a bark of laughter. ‘If he was employing you, you’d get paid.’
Oh yes, and he’d know all about that, wouldn’t he? He had lost more jobs than he’d had hot dinners. But she had to keep the peace.
‘Miss Hesketh says it’s an investment in my future.’
‘Oh, Miss Hesketh says, does she?’ But a sullen tilt about Dad’s mouth said he was backing down. He might resent the Miss Heskeths, but he was in awe of them too. They were quality.
‘If you get another job and leave the mill,’ Sarah piped up, ‘you’ll put in a word for me so I can be a tenter, won’t you?’
She smothered a sigh. Even Sarah’s principal interest in her ambition was centred on what she hoped to get out of it. Not that Belinda blamed her. Sarah worked God-awful hours at that hotel. But it would mean a lot if someone in her family would give her genuine encouragement. Or was she being soppy?
‘If you leave the Claremont, you’ll lose the extra coppers you get for working difficult hours,’ Dad told Sarah.
‘Exactly,’ said Sarah. ‘Coppers.’
‘It all mounts up,’ said Mum.
Sarah tossed her head. ‘In the long run, I’d earn more at the mill.’
‘You’re too old to start at the bottom,’ said Mum.
‘If our Bel can be an office junior, I can be a tenter.’
‘Don’t answer back, young lady.’
And they were off. Belinda spoke loudly to make herself heard.
‘Time for me to go. I’ve got an early start again tomorrow.’
‘For all the good it does your family,’ Dad muttered.
‘You tell her, Dad.’ Thad gave her an impudent grin.
‘If you want more money coming in, Dad,’ said Belinda, ‘why don’t you get the boys working half time? If Thad was out at work in the afternoons, it might buck his ideas up.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Thad demanded.
‘It means you need taking in hand. I remember how you knocked Miss Kirby down in the market – and I remember why you were running like mad an’ all. And Mum told me how you chopped up the garden gate for firewood and sold it.’
‘The garden gate!’ Thad made a great show of laughing out loud. ‘Hark at her. Garden gate, my eye. You’ve got to have a garden to have a garden gate.’
‘It’s a good job there isn’t a garden,’ she snapped, ‘or you’d probably have stolen all the flowers as well.’ She looked at Mikey. ‘You should be working half time too. I surprised at you for not bothering.’
Mikey tossed his head. ‘Who says I didn’t bother? I tried getting a job as soon as I turned twelve, only no one will take me on, because I’m his brother.’
Thad smirked. ‘You’re too rotten useless, more like.’
‘Is this true, Thad?’ Belinda demanded. ‘Is your reputation really that bad?’
Thad
thrust out his chest. ‘I don’t know. Why not ask the nosy cow who wants to know what happened to the garden gate?’
‘Don’t call me names,’ Belinda cried.
‘Or what?’ sneered Thad.
‘I’ll give you a clip round the ear. You see if I don’t.’
‘You lay one finger on me and I’ll crack you so hard, you’ll be flat on your back.’
‘Dad, are you listening to this?’ said Belinda.
‘Aye, and I don’t appreciate you coming round here, telling me how to run my family. If that’s what they’re teaching you in that fancy business school, I’ll have you out of there before you can say knife, and don’t kid yourself I won’t.’
Belinda stared in disbelief.
‘Didn’t you say summat about being on your way?’ asked Thad.
She pressed her lips together, breathing in sharply through her nose. She hated to let Thad get the better of her, but there was nothing to be gained by staying.
‘Walk up the road with me, Sarah.’
She said stiff goodbyes and pulled on her shawl.
‘You see what I have to put up with, living here,’ Sarah said.
Belinda stopped on the step and turned to her. ‘You never used to answer back. You mustn’t become like them.’
‘That’s rich coming from you, after the fight you just got into.’
‘I can’t believe what Dad lets Thad get away with.’
‘Oh aye,’ came George’s voice from the empty gateway. ‘What’s he been up to now?’
‘He’s given our Bel some almighty cheek, that’s what.’ Sarah’s voice rose indignantly.
George chucked his spent cigarette on the path and ground it out beneath his shoe. ‘It’s better than thieving, I suppose.’
‘How can you sound so casual about it?’ Belinda demanded.
He shrugged. ‘It’s nowt to do with me any more, now I’ve moved out.’
‘That’s what you should do, Sarah,’ said Belinda. ‘Move into the hotel dormitory.’
‘Dad won’t let me.’
‘Don’t give her ideas,’ said George. ‘Things will be even harder for Mum if Sarah ups sticks… unless you were thinking of moving back in, our Bel? I meant what I said. It’s your turn. Me and Sarah have put up with things getting worse, while you have it easy in Grave Pit Lane.’
‘I wouldn’t call losing my fiancé easy.’
‘I never said it was, but he’s been gone a long time. Ben’s mum and his nan aren’t your family. You’ve done your bit for them. You’ve stopped on with them and helped them through the worst of their grief. Don’t you think it’s time you came home and did your bit for your own folks now?’
‘Oh, please, not another fight,’ begged Sarah, catching hold of George’s arm. ‘I’m glad you’ve come… but only if you’re going to be pleasant to everyone.’
A reluctant smile tugged at George’s mouth. ‘Even Thad? I don’t think I can manage that, even for you.’
He dropped a kiss on Sarah’s head and Belinda felt a pang of envy. He didn’t do that to her. She was out of favour because of not coming home. Uncertainty shook her. What sort of person didn’t want to be with their own family?
As she walked home, she felt ruffled and out of sorts, but she hoisted a smile into place as she opened the door.
‘How’s the family?’ asked Auntie Enid, glancing up from knitting for the poor.
Belinda shot her a quick look, trying to read her mind. A simple polite enquiry, requiring nothing more than a ‘Fine, thank you’ in reply? Or – after Dad’s refusal to give parental consent, followed by his coming here to lay the law down and take her home – an invitation to spill all the juicy details about the Laytons’ sordid way of life?
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘How’s Sarah?’ asked Grandma Beattie. ‘She doesn’t have it easy, trailing to town and back at all hours.’
‘She hopes I’ll get her a mill job if I move on, but I don’t want her working for Mr Butterfield.’
Auntie Enid laid her knitting in her lap. ‘Do you think I want you working for him? It’s the way of the world, love.’
‘At least at the mill, it’s only him,’ added Grandma Beattie. ‘There’s a lot more scope for that kind of nonsense in a hotel.’
She had never thought of that. ‘You mean, because there are more male employees?’
‘And guests.’
‘Sarah has never said anything of the kind.’
‘Have you ever told her about Mr Butterfield?’
‘Of course not.’ It wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about to your little sister. She wanted to protect Sarah from that kind of knowledge; but maybe Sarah didn’t need telling because she had already found out the hard way.
The thought stayed with her at work, making her resent Mr Butterfield even more. When she did her Saturday cleaning, she stuck like glue to Annie as much as she could and held her breath while Butterfingers paid her. If she could hold her breath for that amount of time, if she didn’t breathe the same air as he did, then having to submit to being touched by him wouldn’t be so bad.
Yes, it would.
Horrible man.
She hurried home to change into her office clothes. It was a shame having to pile on the second chemise before she slipped on her cream blouse, and a further shame to smother it beneath a warm cardigan. She felt more like a polar explorer than the smart office girl she aspired to be. But it was nearly the end of February. Give it a few weeks and she could shed her additional garments.
When she entered the shop, Mr Tyrell was with a customer. She crept through to the office, removed Mrs Harrison’s coat and hat and settled down to work. Mr Tyrell had left two piles of books for her to list; and a couple of times, he came in with a pile of books with a letter protruding from the top one. She made out the invoices and typed the accompanying letters. Before making up each parcel, she took the letter to Mr Tyrell for his signature.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Tyrell, but would you mind..?’
‘Huh.’
He plucked his pen from his inky top-pocket and, leaning the letter against a book, scrawled his signature across the bottom of the sheet. Would he ever instruct her to sign on his behalf? Should she suggest it?
‘Mr Tyrell.’ Would he complain to Miss Hesketh that she was getting above herself? ‘The next time a letter needs signing—’
The door opened and the bell jingled. Mr Tyrell made a move as if to shield her from the newcomer’s eyes, but not before she had glimpsed the most handsome man she had ever seen and her heart practically leaped out of her chest.
Patience fiddled around the back of her neck, fastening the clasp on her modest string of pearls, which she wore every Sunday. Leaning towards the dressing-table mirror, she ran her fingers down the line of her throat. Her neck wasn’t as firm as it used to be. Oh, the small sorrows of growing older without the joys and compensations that went with a family of one’s own. Goodness, what a ninny she was. She was not going to get upset by a saggy neck. She certainly wasn’t going to sob her heart out like she had when her monthlies had dried up. She should have been glad to see the back of them but instead she had cried her heart out for the children she had never had. What a nincompoop.
Downstairs, Prudence was vigorously brushing her coatsleeves and shoulders with the clothes brush. Soon they were ready to go. The mild morning brought a smile to Patience’s face. Spring was her favourite time of year. The buds on the drumstick primulas were plump and ready to open. She felt a bit like that herself. Not plump, of course, she was as thin as a stick, but ready to open.
‘After last week’s service, Mrs Milton told me that her widowed sister might be interested in attending our school,’ said Prudence. ‘Maybe she’ll have news for us today.’
But when they lingered outside St Clement’s after morning service, the oddest thing happened. Mr and Mrs Holborne, with whom they normally passed the time of day, plunged deep into conversation with another co
uple; and Mrs and Miss Wentworth hurried out of the gate; while the Randalls, who lived in one of the big houses on Edge Lane, hurried straight past them.
Prudence turned her back on the remaining members of the congregation. ‘We’ve been sent to Coventry,’ she breathed.
‘Let’s go home,’ Patience whispered.
They walked in silence. Patience could imagine Prudence’s mind seething with thoughts; her own mind didn’t seem able to pin down a single idea. Even her senses were stunned. The sweet-fragranced promise in the air that she had relished earlier had dissipated.
As they turned the corner into Wilton Close, Mr Morgan from across the road was on his way out. Instead of raising his hat to them as he went on his way, he headed straight for them. Patience felt pleased – but only for a second. There was a purposeful rigidity in his shoulders and a glassy expression in his eyes.
‘Good morning, Mr Morgan,’ said Prudence.
‘Is it?’ he demanded. ‘I’ll tell you what would make this a good morning, Miss Hesketh: your assurance that you aren’t teaching lower-class types in that school of yours. It’s all over Chorlton that you’re training girls from the slums.’
All Belinda could think about was next Saturday. She could barely sleep for thinking about it… about him, about Richard. She had heard Mr Tyrell call him that, and she had heard Richard call him Uncle. Richard Tyrell. Well, he might not be a Tyrell; he might be the son of Mr Tyrell’s sister. It didn’t matter. Knowing he was Richard was enough.
Last Saturday afternoon her heart had filled with a golden, pulsating warmth that slowed her breathing and scattered her delighted senses. Richard had joined his uncle in one of the alcoves formed by bookcases, making it impossible for her to see him from the office where she had been obliged to retreat when he arrived, her mind clutching at the image of his figure; the dark hair that was revealed when he removed his trilby to shake hands; his dark eyes, oh, and that flash of smile. The thought of that smile had made her heart flip as if the smile had been for her.
She had sank down at the table that served as her desk, flexing her fingers as if about to start typing, but making no attempt to work. Instead she got up and moved the chair to the other side of the table, turning the typewriter and the pile of books to face the other way. Now she could see him when he emerged from the alcove. She strained her ears, but caught only the murmur of low voices. Mr Tyrell apparently had more than ‘huh’ to say to his nephew.
