The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  She had to type; she couldn’t afford to sit there in silence. Besides, if she could finish the next invoice and letter, she could go to Mr Tyrell for his signature. Thank heavens she hadn’t asked for permission to sign the letters herself. But this customer, curse him, had requested a whole stack of books and what if typing the invoice took longer than Richard’s visit?

  Her hand trembled as she turned the knob that rotated the drum and fed the finished letter out of the machine. Her heart took several beats in a rush, going so fast it stumbled over the next few. She breathed steadily, trying to calm herself.

  She took the letter to the alcove, her heart hammering as she saw Richard, appreciating his dark brown eyes and straight nose. She cleared her throat, or tried to. She tried again.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Tyrell. Could you sign this, please?’

  They looked at her. Richard smelled of tobacco and lemons – hair oil or cologne? Heat flushed through her. Please don’t let her blush.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘Saturday help,’ said Mr Tyrell.

  Belinda waited for him to add her name, but he didn’t. With a wave of his hand, he signalled to his nephew to turn round so he could use his back as a writing surface. Richard gave Belinda an amused smile and she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to stop herself beaming back like an idiot. She couldn’t be so forward as to introduce herself, but since his uncle clearly wasn’t going to do the honours, maybe Richard—

  The bell danced as the door opened and a well-dressed couple entered the shop. Mr Tyrell thrust the letter into Belinda’s hands and she reluctantly withdrew into the office. Would Richard follow while his uncle was greeting the customers? She prepared a smile – friendly but not excessive. Then she fussed with the stack of waiting books before looking round, ready to… her smile wasn’t needed. He hadn’t followed.

  The shop door opened again and in came a man, who held it open for two women who arrived behind him. Just when she needed the place to be empty, the shop was fuller than she had seen it before. She couldn’t stand here gawping; she had to get on with her work. Each time she finished typing a book’s details, she looked into the shop, hoping to see Richard. The bell jingled a couple of times; someone left, someone else came in. Finishing the list gave her an excuse to stand up and move around, gathering what she needed to make up the parcel, but she didn’t glimpse Richard.

  When at last all the customers had departed, she waited breathlessly for Mr Tyrell to resume his conversation with Richard, but he got on with his work in silence. Somehow Richard had left without her noticing. Disappointment dried her mouth.

  But he would visit the shop again – wouldn’t he?

  It hadn’t been until she was on her way home that she realised she could have approached him while Mr Tyrell was busy. ‘Excuse me. Are you Mr Lomax? There’s a book waiting for you in the office.’ Simple as that.

  Maybe next time.

  There would be a next time, wouldn’t there?

  Thinking about it had kept her awake ever since. She ought to be bog-eyed and exhausted, but instead she felt alert like never before. Her senses sang as they embraced the world. The tiny flowers on the shepherd’s purse that grew in Grave Pit Lane had never been whiter and the groundsel’s flowerheads were fluffier than ever, like miniature shaving brushes. Everything was better.

  ‘You’re looking well, Belinda,’ Auntie Enid commented. ‘All this business work must suit you.’

  ‘It does,’ she whispered.

  What would Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie say? They would be devastated.

  What would Ben say? She picked up his photograph with its poppy sewn into the black sleeve. Dear Ben. He had occupied her heart for so long. She had never thought to replace him. Goodness, that was why she was attending the business school: because she had expected to support herself for the rest of her life.

  Had she replaced him? Did this wild awakening of emotion constitute replacing him? Or would it take an actual relationship to do that? She had never considered the possibility of another relationship. Was she considering one now, based on having seen Richard once? Surely not: she might never see him again. And yet…

  What would Ben say? Would he mind? People always said of the departed: ‘He would want you to be happy’, but did they really mean that or was it merely a convenient way of justifying what you wanted to do? Auntie Enid hadn’t said, ‘Ben would be proud of you,’ when she started to have ambitions about her work. Auntie Enid claimed Ben would be ashamed to think of his darling girl having to work for a living. By that token, would he prefer her to find another husband?

  Another husband! Hark at her. She had seen Richard only once and they hadn’t exchanged a word.

  But they had exchanged a smile. Her heart pounded. Would he come back to the shop? Would she see him again?

  Patience hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since Mr Morgan had attacked them on their way home from church. Poor Miss Layton: did everyone think her a slum girl? Their other pupils were obviously middle class, with their stylish clothes, while Miss Layton made the best of herself in an ancient coat and hat that presumably she shared with an older relative of a larger size. Neither did she have that confident spring in her step that the better-off sort of girl had.

  And it wasn’t just Mr Morgan. No one else had said anything, but Patience had been on the receiving end of some tight-lipped glances. Neither was it just the people in Wilton Close. She had caught whispers behind her back in the butcher’s and the fishmonger’s. Only this morning, a woman whom she knew by sight had stopped her on the library steps to demand, ‘Is it true? I’ve heard about your school for husbandless girls. Is it true you’re taking in drabs and draggletails from the slums? Send ’em back to the gutter, that’s what I say.’ And she had marched on her judgemental way, head held high, leaving Patience too upset to change her books.

  ‘I’m tempted to knock on Mr Morgan’s door and ask where he got his information,’ Prudence said at the table.

  Patience looked at her plate. She had come to the table with little appetite for the stuffed chicken thighs she had prepared, but even that appetite fled at the thought of Prudence striding into battle. ‘Please don’t. We don’t want to cause trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got more sense. We can’t have people thinking we’re ashamed or unsure of what we’re doing. Besides, if, as I suspect, Mr Morgan’s information came from our dear brother, I have no doubt Lawrence will have covered his tracks.’

  ‘But after those pieces in the papers, and the article in Vera’s Voice, he can’t denigrate the school. I thought that was the whole point.’

  ‘He can’t denigrate it publicly, but who’s to say what holeand-corner nonsense he can get up to?’

  After tea, Patience cleared away before joining Prudence in the sitting room.

  ‘Did you find the letter? I see you did.’

  Prudence had the bulky envelope in her hands. ‘I thought I’d wait for you before I opened it. It’s addressed to us both.’ Inside the envelope was another envelope. ‘It’s addressed to The Hesketh Business School, ℅ Vera’s Voice. How interesting.’

  Prudence opened the inner envelope and read its contents; then she looked up and smiled. It wasn’t the wide smile you might get from someone else, but a relaxation of the lips and a brief softening about the eyes. That was as far as Prudence went.

  ‘It’s from two young women – I assume they’re young – who saw the article about us in Vera’s Voice and wish to sign up with us.’

  ‘How splendid.’

  ‘But they don’t live in Manchester, so they want to know if we provide bed and board.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Not a shame, Patience – an opportunity.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  SATURDAY. AT LONG last, Saturday. Belinda felt like singing as she hurried to the bookshop. Secretly, in the dead of night, she had dug out the rose-patterned material from the back of her
cupboard and cut out and sewn two simple pieces, which she had smuggled out of End Cottage today, waiting until she had nearly reached her destination before slipping the band around the crown of Mrs Harrison’s old hat and sliding the matching scarf underneath the back of the coat collar and tying it loosely in the region of her breastbone, a splash of colour on this early spring day. Just in case.

  When she reached the shop, her foot was already on the step and her thumb was pressing down the brass lever to lift the latch as she saw the Closed notice. Closed? Mr Tyrell had said nothing last week. Even if he didn’t require her, she should still let him know she had come, to show she was reliable. She knocked on the glass pane in the door, imagining his ‘huh’ when she disturbed him.

  She caught a movement inside the shop and a figure came towards the door. Richard! Her breath hitched as he shot back the bolts and turned the key. She smiled up at him. The blank look he gave her might have crushed her, but then he nodded and all was right once more.

  ‘Oh – the Saturday help. I forgot you were due.’

  So he hadn’t spent the week dreaming of seeing her again. He hadn’t arranged to be here at exactly the right time. Had her smile slipped? She heaved it back into place. He would notice her today, with her pretty hat band and scarf, he was bound to.

  And this was the perfect opportunity to introduce herself. ‘The Saturday help – otherwise known as Belinda Layton.’ Look: a nice smile and a sense of humour, not to mention a stylish dash of colour.

  ‘You’d better come inside.’

  He stepped back to let her in. Her skin quivered at his nearness. Behind her, he shut the door and locked it. She looked round for Mr Tyrell, but there was no sign.

  ‘I’m Richard Carson, Mr Tyrell’s—’

  ‘Nephew. Yes, I know.’ Did she sound too keen? Did he know his uncle hadn’t told her who he was? Oh, heck.

  ‘You’d better sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Was Mr Tyrell ill? Poor fellow. She could offer to help Richard look after him. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation. She wanted to grasp Richard’s lapels and demand, ‘Tell me.’

  With a courteous wave of his hand, he let her precede him into the office. Automatically she removed her coat and hat, then realised she was keeping him waiting and sat down, her coat folded across her lap.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Miss Layton, but my uncle – well, a couple of days ago he unexpectedly passed away.’

  Patience stood beside Prudence, looking at Pa’s old bedroom. He had occupied the largest room, as befitted the master of the house. The handsome suite of bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table, all made from beautifully carved walnut, shone from regular polishing.

  ‘If we put your bed and mine in here for the new pupils,’ said Prudence, ‘we’ll be left with Pa’s bed to share.’

  ‘It would have to go in your room. It wouldn’t fit in mine.’

  ‘It’s hardly convenient. It’d be a damnable squeeze in my room and there’d be a big empty space in yours.’ She made a brisk making-up-her-mind movement. ‘These two girls are obviously friends, so we’ll leave the double bed where it is and they can share. I’ll write to say we’ll put them on our waiting list, but if they don’t mind sharing, they can join us at once.’

  ‘What if they say no?’

  ‘Then we’ll lose two potential pupils, but I think they’ll jump at it. Either way, you and I will keep our own beds in our own rooms. If we’re going to take in paying guests, that’ll be important.’

  As Prudence was writing the letter, the evening paper was pushed through the letter-box.

  Patience fetched it from the hall floor. ‘You read it and I’ll take the letter to the pillar-box. It should catch the teatime collection.’

  The days were noticeably drawing out. The spiky golden flowers of next door’s forsythia arched over the garden wall and carpets of anemones were starting to unfurl their blooms in several of the gardens she passed.

  Patience returned home, feeling pleasantly invigorated, to find Prudence sitting bolt upright with the newspaper standing to attention in her hands, as if it didn’t dare relax and let its corners flop over.

  Patience sank onto the settee. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An attack on me. According to what the writer is pleased to call “a source close to Miss Hesketh”, my years of office experience apparently make me (quote) “an inspiration” to my pupils.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it? Wait. Inspiration? Didn’t Miss Layton—?’

  ‘Tell us she had said that to Lawrence? Yes, indeed. There’s more. It mentions how I declined to give up my post to a returning soldier—’

  ‘But you didn’t have to. It was your job all along and we needed the income.’

  ‘There’s no mention of that, though it does say I’m believed to be in favour of paying women the same rate men receive.’

  ‘Ah.’ Except for the fact that she had been taught to sit up straight, Patience would have sunk deep into the cushions. ‘I’m afraid I may have said something of the kind to Miss Layton.’

  Prudence gave the newspaper a sharp flick as if the pages needed straightening.

  ‘I’m sorry, Prudence.’

  Prudence blew out a derisory breath. ‘You didn’t write this article.’

  ‘What else does it say?’

  ‘It saves the best till last. If I am an inspiration, the parents of the girls who attend our school are entitled to know what kind of inspiration. Will their daughters go home believing they should be paid more? Should there, God forbid, be another war, will they hang onto their jobs regardless of the needs of returning heroes?’

  ‘But the last time they wrote about us, it was flattering.’

  Prudence pulled the paper onto her lap and looked at her. ‘Lawrence is trying to squeeze us out of business. Well, let’s turn the tables. As far as the world is concerned, he is the real force behind our endeavour and we’re merely the obedient and grateful sisters putting his plans into effect. So.’ She drew the word out thoughtfully. ‘We’ll write a letter, saying how distressed we are on behalf of our dear brother, whose good name may be tarnished as a result of this article. We’ll say I’ve been in office work since I left school. Regarding the returning soldier, we’ll say that even back then, our dear brother, with extraordinary foresight and social conscience, was already in the early stages of devising the idea of the business school, and therefore it was with his blessing that I continued working. He knew that my continued office experience would be essential to the success of his fledgling plan to help unfortunate surplus girls.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Patience. ‘After that, Lawrence will have to be publicly on our side about your keeping your job. What about the matter of women earning the same as men?’

  ‘It’s probably best not to mention it as such.’

  Patience thought furiously. If she was going to put her name to this letter, she jolly well wanted to share its composition. ‘We can say how concerned Lawrence is for these poor girls facing a lifetime as breadwinners. We’ll call it a breadwinner’s wage.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Prudence. ‘There’s something else we should do, though you won’t like it. I’m afraid we may have to throw Miss Layton to the wolves.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. She is the person who started this off by talking so freely to Lawrence and providing him with all this ammunition.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain.’

  ‘She said she told him about using paperwork and behold, an anonymous complaint is made about documents missing from work. Need I continue? That word “inspiration” was hers.’

  ‘You’ve made your point. What do you mean about throwing her to the wolves?’

  ‘It won’t be as bad as it sounds, I promise. But there is one piece of damage done by Lawrence that we haven’t addressed.’

  ‘The missing paperwork, keeping your job… Oh.’

  ‘Oh, indeed.’
/>   ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Patience.

  ‘Ask what Miss Layton is going to do.’ Prudence elongated her back and her neck so she could peer through the window without standing up. ‘Talk of the devil.’

  Patience came to her feet. Miss Layton was coming up the path. There was something different about her, though it took Patience a moment to put her finger on it. Yes – a dash of colour. About time, too.

  She went to the front door, opening it before Miss Layton could ring the bell.

  ‘Come in. We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Really?’ Miss Layton looked at her. ‘You’ve heard, then?’

  ‘Heard what?’ Goodness, what now? ‘Let me take your coat and we’ll go into the sitting room. That’s a pretty scarf.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But the compliment didn’t seem to give her any pleasure.

  ‘I’m glad to see you, Miss Layton,’ said Prudence. ‘Take a seat. We need to ask you something.’

  ‘Prudence.’ Patience injected a warning into her voice. ‘I think Miss Layton has something on her mind. What is it, dear?’

  Miss Layton looked from one of them to the other. ‘I don’t know if you already know.’

  ‘Know what?’ asked Prudence. ‘Don’t beat about the bush.’

  ‘I went to the bookshop earlier on as usual and… Mr Tyrell has died. His nephew told me.’

  ‘Gracious,’ said Prudence. ‘No, we hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Poor old gentleman,’ breathed Patience. ‘Though he wasn’t as old as all that. Sixty-something, I suppose. And what a shock for you, my dear, turning up as normal and…’ She wanted to enfold Miss Layton in a hug.

  ‘You say there was a nephew there?’ said Prudence.

  ‘Yes. Richard Carson.’

  ‘It is proper to say Mr Richard Carson.’

  ‘Prudence!’ This was hardly the moment to correct the poor girl.