The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  ‘That’s years off yet. You’re not twenty-one till June. Eh, fancy that, my baby girl turning twenty-one.’ Mum sounded nostalgic, but then the corners of her mouth turned downwards. ‘You don’t know what it’s like for me.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She sat on the bed, holding out her hand. It looked like Mum would ignore it, then she accepted it and sat beside her.

  ‘We used to have a good life. Do you remember? Me and your dad and three kids in a house of us own. Denby was a warehouseman in them days. It was perfect. Food on the table, the rent book up to date, a little girl for me, a little lad for Denby, and another girl to make the family complete. We were so lucky – and I never took it for granted. I felt like I had to hold our life carefully so it didn’t get broken. Only I can’t have held it carefully enough.’

  ‘More likely Dad broke it.’

  Mum shrugged. Somehow the shrug lifted her hand out of Belinda’s. ‘Aye, he did, time and again. It’s rough, Bel, being married to a man who lets you down. It were a good job, being a warehouseman, but he lost that; and then he was a drayman – or was he a cask-washer next? I forget. And then those other jobs, and now he’s a street-sweeper, a rotten street-sweeper.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, Mum.’ Or there wouldn’t be if Dad had been proud to work for the Corporation and serve the public; if he had been the best street-sweeper a man could be… if he hadn’t been a skiver. Layabout Layton was his nickname, according to Thad. Whether this was true, or something Thad had made up, Belinda couldn’t say. She dreaded its being true; but she also dreaded Thad’s being so openly insolent.

  ‘All those jobs, all those nights down the pub. My life is nowt but being tired and ashamed and knowing I’m better than this but I’m the only one who remembers it.’ She sighed. ‘You aren’t old enough to remember your grandparents, but they’d be ashamed – and I’m talking about your dad’s parents, as well as mine.’

  ‘Mum,’ Belinda said gently, ‘if you would just—’

  ‘Just what? Pull myself together? That’s a fine way to speak to your mother.’

  ‘If you’d take pride—’

  ‘In other words, pull myself together. Do you think I don’t know that? I know if I took pride, if I could rise above the cheerlessness of it all, things would be better, and sometimes I make up my mind to do it – but what’s the point? I’d still be here in this dump and I’d still be stuck with a no-good husband who’s gone right down in the world and dragged me along with him.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’

  ‘He’s probably going to sink further before he’s finished an’ all.’ Mum came to her feet. ‘Let’s get this bed done.’

  There was clean bedding for Mum and Dad, but not for the boys or Sarah. When the double bed was made up, Mum tied the bundle of washing and thrust it into Belinda’s arms.

  ‘Put that by our Sarah’s mattress. She can take it down the wash-house in the morning.’

  Belinda felt like dumping it onto the floor. Would Mum never listen? But there was no chance to try again, because the door opened and George stuck his head in.

  ‘Evening, Mum. Put the kettle on, will you? I’m gasping.’

  ‘George! Oh, love, thank you for popping round.’ Mum bustled out.

  ‘What did your last servant die of?’ Belinda asked.

  ‘Hoity-toity. You do it if you don’t want Mum to.’

  She started to sigh, then changed it to a smile. She didn’t want to be at loggerheads in front of the others, especially as everyone knew why there was friction between them. Dad would love to pounce on that, and how Thad would crow.

  She needn’t have fretted. The resident Laytons provided plenty of friction to keep themselves occupied, not least the beginnings of a punch-up between Thad and Mikey that saw George getting between them and shoving Thad into the hallway, slamming the door on him. The door shuddered as Thad banged his fists on it and, a moment later, the house shook as the front door crashed shut.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done, George.’ Mum wrung her hands. ‘Lord knows what he’ll get up to out there, and as for when he’ll come home—’

  ‘Good riddance,’ snarled Dad.

  When Belinda got up to leave, George said, ‘I’ll walk you home, Bel.’

  An olive branch? Or an opportunity to have another go at her? The moment he shut the front door behind them, she spoke up.

  ‘I know you want me to move back in, but can you really blame me for not wanting to?’

  He stopped to light a cigarette, then set off. ‘Yes, I can. It’s your turn. But at the same time, no one in their right mind would choose to live there. I resented you before because you could come and go while I was saddled with it, but now that I’ve left, I understand even more why you stay where you are. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me back.’

  Gratitude expanded inside her. ‘Does this mean we’re friends again?’

  He glanced sideways at her. ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  She punched his arm. ‘You’d better make up your mind quick or I’ll withdraw the offer.’

  George grabbed her and swung her round and, just like that, they were back to normal. When she righted herself, she slipped her hand through his arm.

  ‘I’ve got my eye on a girl, Bel.’

  ‘You’re walking out?’

  ‘Only as friends. I want to get some money behind me to show I’m going to be a good provider.’

  Her heart went out to him. ‘Not like Dad, you mean.’

  ‘It’s my greatest fear, turning out like him. Don’t say owt to anyone. I haven’t told the family about her and I won’t until it’s official.’

  ‘I won’t. How are your new digs?’

  ‘Comfortable. Quiet.’

  ‘Is Harry’s auntie a good cook?’

  ‘The best, though I have to say she seasons everything with salt, pepper and fart-powder.’

  ‘George!’

  They laughed and kidded all the way to End Cottage. Belinda could have waltzed down Grave Pit Lane. It was such a relief to be back on friendly terms with her brother. They had grown apart when she left home at such a young age, but George had always been there in the background, her beloved childhood playmate all grown up; a steady, loved figure in the landscape of her life.

  She was still feeling chirpy as she walked to the bookshop the next morning, the birdsong and the scents of spring adding to her sense of well-being. Would Richard notice and ask why she was happy? After confiding in her about the will, why shouldn’t he look for confidences in return? Might they be on the brink of drawing closer?

  Richard, however, didn’t arrive before mid-morning. She broke off from typing the endless inventory to turn towards the door, smiles at the ready, only for him to clump straight upstairs, looking distinctly peeved, but it was only to be expected when you considered what he had to come to terms with, poor fellow. It would be harder for him to get married if he didn’t have the cottage.

  Presently the door opened again. She was between two of the bookcases, a pile of volumes balanced against her hip, ready to take to the office. Richard had attached a notice to the shop door to say they were no longer open for business, but they still had to leave the door unlocked in case anyone returned something they had previously purchased. Sometimes customers came in without bothering to read the notice, expecting to browse.

  She was well-versed in what to say to either type of visitor, but when she saw Gabriel Linkworth, she was lost for words.

  He smiled. She stared back and his smile slipped.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She hadn’t intended to be rude, but she wasn’t sorry. This was the non-blood relation who had swanned in at the last moment to scoop up Richard’s inheritance. Let him taste her disapproval.

  ‘I was hoping to see Mr Carson. Is he here?’

  ‘I’ll see. He might be busy.’

  ‘Thank you. May I lend a hand with those books? They look heavy.’r />
  ‘I can manage, thank you.’

  Resentment pricked her. She didn’t want him to be polite. He was the enemy. Setting down the books, she went upstairs, her footsteps tapping out the beat of her annoyance.

  Richard stood at the window, looking out at Beech Road, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. It was a casual pose, but the set of his shoulders spoke of a crowded mind.

  ‘Mr Linkworth is here,’ she said. ‘Well, the man who says he’s Mr Linkworth.’

  ‘I saw him crossing the road. Say I’m busy.’

  She retraced her steps. Determination flared inside her. If Richard didn’t feel up to facing Gabriel Linkworth, she would do it for him.

  Mr Linkworth looked up expectantly. He was a good-looking chap, she’d give him that. His eyes were a soft hazel colour, serious and kind. His jacket hung well on him, suggesting wellused muscles in his slim frame.

  ‘He doesn’t want to see me, eh?’

  She had wanted to be the one to say this. ‘Mr Carson is occupied with checking the stock.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll come back another time. I’d hoped… Never mind.’

  He opened the door. The bell jingled. She stared at his back, wishing him on his way. If her will-power had had anything to do with it, he would be halfway up Beech Road by now.

  He turned back. ‘If you’ve no objection, I’ll stay.’

  ‘Mr Carson is very busy.’

  ‘I’d like to look round, if I may.’

  No, you may not. She clamped her lips shut.

  He came across the shop floor. He didn’t smell of cologne, as Richard did. He smelled of soap and fresh air. He planted himself in the middle of the shop and turned slowly in a circle. Then he caught her gaze on him and gave her a rueful smile.

  ‘I hoped something might jog my memory.’

  ‘Maybe you never came here before.’ Maybe you’re here only to inherit.

  He frowned. ‘I must have done – surely. I knew Mr Tyrell well enough that he made me his principal heir.’

  ‘If you are who you’re supposed to be.’ There: she had said it, but instead of making her feel courageous and vindicated, she felt mean.

  He looked amused. Cheeky blighter. ‘I think we can safely say I’m Gabriel Linkworth. Even if I don’t remember, the army does.’

  She was fascinated in spite of herself. ‘Do you truly not remember anything?’

  ‘Not a jot.’

  ‘That must be hard.’

  ‘I can’t say it’s something I’ve ever got used to, but I try to get on with things.’

  Yes, like waltzing in at the crucial moment and bagging someone else’s inheritance. She mustn’t feel sympathetic about his memory loss. She gave him the polite farewell smile she saved for customers, but it didn’t work.

  ‘Don’t let me take you away from your duties, Miss..?’

  ‘Layton, Belinda Layton.’

  ‘I assume you worked for Mr Tyrell.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ That was an expression she had picked up from Miss Patience. So then she had to explain about the business school and the Saturday hours to gain experience.

  ‘It sounds a jolly good idea. What sort of work did you do for Mr Tyrell?’

  In the next few minutes, he asked her more questions than Richard ever had – no, she wouldn’t think that way. Did Gabriel Linkworth imagine he could get round her? She pushed back her shoulders. But it had been pleasant to be paid attention to.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She injected a note of finality into her voice. ‘I have to get on.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He smiled and it would have been churlish not to smile back, but instead of leaving, he took a step towards the bookshelves. She retreated to the office and resumed typing. Ought she to pop upstairs to tell Richard that he was still here? Or was that too flimsy an excuse? Besides, if Mr Linkworth twigged that she had disappeared upstairs, it might give the impression that Richard was hiding from him and she was reporting back.

  ‘You’re lucky to work here.’ Mr Linkworth stood in the office doorway, a book open in his hands. ‘Surrounded by books all day, all those stories, all that knowledge, and with the company of other book-lovers as they come into the shop.’

  She couldn’t help smiling: there was something almost boyish about his pleasure. ‘Are you a book-lover?’

  ‘I think I must be.’ The grave hazel of his eyes seemed brighter.

  ‘You’ll have to join the library. That’s where I get all my books.’

  ‘What do you enjoy?’

  ‘Stories. My favourite book is Persuasion.’

  ‘Jane Austen.’

  ‘You remember that, then.’

  He nodded. ‘Now I think of it, I know Jane Austen wrote Persuasion, Dickens wrote The Pickwick Papers and Alexandre Dumas wrote The Count of Monte Cristo.’

  She was on her feet. When had she stood up? She placed her hand on the table to remind herself not to step closer to him. Closer? Don’t be daft. Why would she do that?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m interrupting your work.’

  He disappeared into the shop and she sank onto her chair. Good riddance.

  If only Richard would chat to her like that. She sat up straight, as Miss Hesketh had taught her to, and positioned her fingers. Richard had so much on his mind.

  But maybe Gabriel Linkworth wasn’t so bad after all.

  Maybe.

  *

  I could talk to her all day. When she forgets she doesn’t like me, her face relaxes, her eyes grow warm and she is friendly and appealing. Interesting, too. She clearly loves going to the business school. Good for her. She has her future sorted out. I wish I could say the same. That sounds mawkish, doesn’t it? It isn’t meant to. I’m careful never to say such things out loud in case I sound self-pitying. It isn’t self-pity: it’s a statement of fact. I wish my future was clear to me.

  Perhaps it is.

  I can see myself as a bookseller. It delights me to be among these books. Did I visit Mr Tyrell here? Did I love the books back then? Is that why he made me his heir? Was it planned between us that I would one day give up teaching rugger and long jump to young lads, and become a bookseller?

  The typewriter clicks away in the background as I move along the shelves. I remove my gloves so my fingers can wander along the spines of the books. I recognise authors, titles. Three Men in a Boat – I enjoyed that: I laughed out loud at the Hampton Court maze scene. I stand still. A piece of myself has returned.

  The beginning of remembering? I must not allow myself to hope. (And yet – the beginning of remembering?)

  I look round the shelves, all those spines facing me, tempting me. Might I take over the shop and succeed Mr Tyrell as the local bookseller? It would make a safe retreat for a man with no memory, but I do not want it for that reason. Want it? Have I gone so quickly from Might I? to I want? Yes, I have. This would suit me. It would be fulfilment of a kind.

  Quiet certainty creeps into my heart. After more than three years of not knowing, of wondering about myself, of constantly asking questions for which there are no answers, finally I know something.

  I’m going to be a bookseller.

  I walk back to the office doorway. At least she hasn’t shut the door on me. While she finishes the line she is typing, I look at the curve of her cheek, the way her eyes dart aside to check the words on the book cover without any need for her fingers to pause. Her hands are small; she is a small person, a breath above five foot. When I first saw her, I thought her hair was black, but now I think it’s brown, but brown in the way mahogany is brown, so deep and dark that it’s as good as black. Her eyes are the blue of forget-me-nots. How do I know the precise blue of forget-me-nots? For me, of all people, to know the colour of forget-me-nots!

  She finishes her line and looks up. She doesn’t want to be disturbed, I can tell. It is there in the quickness of her glance before her expression subsides to a polite near-blankness. Or maybe she does not want to be disturbed
by me. She is loyal to Richard Carson. Lucky Carson!

  ‘May I help you?’ she offers.

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye. But I have one final question, if you don’t mind.’

  Clasping her hands in her lap, she looks at me expectantly.

  ‘You told me you came here to gain experience as a typist.’

  ‘That’s right.’ A tiny smile tugs at the sides of her mouth: she is proud of her work.

  ‘On Saturday afternoons. So what brings you here in the week?’

  ‘I’m employed here now.’

  ‘Mr Tyrell took you on?’ It pleases me to think that my unknown uncle liked her and found her a good worker.

  The tip of her tongue runs across her top lip. She has a sweet mouth, sweeter still when she smiles. I know she doesn’t wish to smile at me, but she has smiled once or twice all the same. When she smiles, her cheeks plump up and her eyes show the true kindness that lies within.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Mr Carson employed me,’ and she lifts her chin, ‘to assist him in winding up the estate.’

  ‘I see.’ But I’m not sure I do, not entirely. I say gently, ‘You understand that I’m Mr Tyrell’s heir?’

  ‘I know it’s going to court.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re not sure of the reason for that.’

  ‘It’s to ascertain your true identity.’

  She doesn’t understand. She thinks she does, but she doesn’t. Has Carson not troubled himself to explain? Given that she works here, she is entitled to know.

  ‘There is no doubt that I am Gabriel Linkworth.’

  She cocks her head, not believing me. ‘Then why is it going to court?’

  ‘Because Mr Sowerby of Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks believes in dotting every I and crossing all the Ts. There is no doubt as to who I am, but because Mr Carson, who might be supposed to recognise me since presumably we met at our mutual aunt’s funeral some years ago, did not recognise me, and because he is named in Mr Tyrell’s will, it’s in everyone’s interests to have my identity proved in front of a magistrate. Mr Sowerby insists upon it.’