The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  ‘I appreciate it already. Stop where you are and I’ll prepare the tea. What are we having?’

  ‘The butcher let me have some bits and pieces of lamb’s liver, so I thought I’d do liver and onion.’

  Belinda fried the onions, but even before she could add the seasoning, Grandma Beattie was up and fettling. In her world, only drunks and slatterns put their feet up before the evening meal.

  A loud knocking on the door made Belinda jump and almost spill the dry mustard powder. The door opened and Mikey almost fell into the cottage. He righted himself, face flushed, chest heaving. He turned huge, frightened eyes on her.

  ‘You’ve got to come, our Bel. Dad’s gone. He’s left us.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  SIX O’CLOCK HAS come and gone. I’m still here in the bookshop. My bookshop – but I can’t afford to think of it as mine. I’ll have to sell off the stock to settle the debt on the cottage. It’s my only means of paying Richard Carson. My mouth dries; I rub the back of my neck. How much this shop and the prospect of a future as a bookseller has come to mean to me in such a short time.

  A knock at the door makes me look round. Although I have turned the key and shot the bolts, I haven’t yet pulled down the blind. A gentleman stands on the step, hands cupped around his eyes as he peers inside. He steps backwards as I approach and unlock.

  ‘Good evening.’ He raises his hat. ‘My name is Miles. I work for Mr Dawson, your landlord.’ His voice sounds as if his throat is filled with barbed wire.

  I shake hands. ‘Gabriel Linkworth. Please come in.’

  ‘Excuse my voice. I’m coming down with a bad cold.’

  ‘It sounds it.’

  ‘I was on my way home when I glimpsed movement through the window. You have taken over the shop from Mr Tyrell?’

  ‘He was my uncle.’

  ‘My condolences, sir. You will find Mr Dawson an excellent landlord. He believes in taking care of his properties. Are there any matters you wish to report?’

  It hardly seems worth it, since I am unlikely to be here for long, but the work will need doing whether I’m here or not. ‘The door at the top of the stairs doesn’t shut properly.’

  He goes upstairs and returns, making a note in a small book. ‘I’ll get Perkins and Watson round. They do most of our jobs for us. They have someone in their office until seven, so I’ll go now.’

  ‘There’s no need—’

  He smiles wryly. ‘It’s now or not until after I surface after a day or two in bed, getting over this wretched cold.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Not far. Near the station.’

  ‘Then allow me to call there and make arrangements. Give me the page from your notebook and scribble a line of authorisation.’

  I see Mr Miles on his way and walk briskly to the station. It is a pleasant evening. If I didn’t have the loss of the bookshop hanging over me, I would enjoy the walk.

  I find Perkins and Watson easily enough. There is a yard with pallets of bricks in the corner, lengths of timber leaning against the wall, and a small building. I knock and open the door. A man sits behind a desk, head bent over some papers. His hair is silver. He looks up as I enter; his face is considerably younger than his hair colour suggests. Younger than I am; maybe not even thirty yet. Did his hair lose its darkness in the war?

  ‘Good evening,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to arrange for a small job to be done locally.’

  He rises for long enough to wave me into the seat opposite him. I hand him the sheet from the notebook.

  ‘Ah yes, Tyrell’s Books. I was sorry to hear he had passed on. So was my father – they were at school together.’ He raises himself slightly from his chair, extending a hand. ‘Tom Watson, son of Thomas Watson.’

  I raise myself likewise and we shake hands across the desk.

  ‘Gabriel Linkworth. I’ve inherited the bookshop. You can do this job?’

  ‘I’ll send someone round on…’ He consults a diary. ‘Thursday suit you?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Decent old cove, Mr Tyrell. We’ve worked on his cottage as well. He always paid on the nail. Not like some.’

  ‘You mean Mr Carson paid on the nail.’

  ‘No – Mr Tyrell. He paid for everything.’

  ‘I think you’re mistaken. It was his nephew, Richard Carson, you dealt with.’

  ‘Carson: yes, I remember him; full of ideas for bringing the cottage up to snuff.’

  I lean closer. ‘Do you mean Carson made the arrangements but Mr Tyrell footed the bill?’

  ‘Steady on. I’m not suggesting anything improper. Mr Tyrell was in possession of his faculties and was happy for the work to go ahead.’

  ‘And he paid for it?’

  ‘Yes. Look, what’s this about? This is a reputable firm. Everything we do is above board.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ My heart beats faster. Could it be…? ‘Carson wrote to you recently, didn’t he, asking you to confirm that he arranged for the work to be done at Mr Tyrell’s cottage in Limits Lane?’

  ‘Aye.’ His voice is cautious. He wonders what I’m driving at.

  ‘But he didn’t ask you to state that he paid for the work?’

  ‘Of course not. He didn’t pay and we’d never have said he did.’

  What a rat. What a devious, manipulative rat. My muscles tense, but the anger comes and goes in a moment, swept aside by elation and relief. I will keep the cottage after all and that means I will keep the shop and be a bookseller. A dream come true. A recent dream, but a deeply rooted one.

  Any sympathy I might have entertained for Richard Carson’s disappointment fades like morning mist as his deception sinks in.

  What a rat.

  Followed by Mikey, Belinda rushed into the kitchen-sitting room, stopping dead with a suddenness that took away what little breath she had left. It was no good being quick in this crowded space. You had to move carefully or everything went flying.

  Mum sat at the table. She was shaking but not with sobs: she was just shaking. Jacob hovered anxiously, the cockiness he copied from Thad quite gone. He looked like the kid he was. And Thad – well, wouldn’t you know it, Thaddeus Edward Layton was sitting, no, lounging in Dad’s armchair, a smug expression plastered across his face.

  Belinda pulled a chair close to Mum’s, its legs scraping the floor. Sitting, she put her arms round Mum, wanting to scoop her into a safe, warm cuddle, but maybe she should have stayed on her feet to do that, given that her five foot two was a good three inches less than Mum’s height.

  ‘Mum, what happened?’

  ‘Didn’t Mikey tell you? He were s’posed to tell you.’

  ‘I want to hear it from you. All Mikey knows is that he came home to hear an almighty row going on, so he scarpered for a while and when he came home, Dad was gone.’

  Mum dissolved into tears. ‘He’s not coming back. He said – he said… He’s took the money an’ all. He said he were sick to death of having all of us hanging on his coat-tails and we can fettle for ourselves in future.’

  A knot tightened in Belinda’s tummy. ‘Are you certain he’s not coming back?’

  ‘Positive. He wrapped all his stuff in a sheet. He said he’d a friend who’ll let him bunk down for a night or two and then he’d just… go.’ Mum lifted dazed eyes. ‘Oh, Bel, what are we to do?’

  Think, think. ‘Well, the rent is paid up till Saturday, so we’ve got a few days. What?’

  Mum froze, then wriggled free, turning her shoulder on Belinda so as not to meet her gaze. Mikey and Jacob had gone dead still as well.

  Chill trickled through Belinda’s veins. ‘Mum, you and I went to the Bucket of Blood last Thursday especially to get half Dad’s money. I told you the rent had to be paid.’

  ‘Aye, but your dad took the money out of the jar on Friday and he were out God knows where all day Saturday. When the rent man came on Saturday afternoon, the boys were out; Mikey were in Chorlton with you; and me and Sarah had to climb ou
t of the bedroom window to get away.’

  ‘You had to escape from the rent man?’ Shame tingled under her skin.

  ‘He’s got keys to all the rooms, so we had to climb out the back.’ Mum’s voice faded to a whisper. ‘I spent most of today trailing round the shops so as not to be here.’

  ‘You must be worn out.’

  ‘Aye, and not just because I’m tired.’ Mum perked up, eyeing Belinda sharply. ‘Can you, George and our Sarah help out again?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, we can’t. I’ve got next to no money and George and Sarah – well, their money is their business. Even if we did pay this week’s rent, there’d still be another week due on Saturday.’

  ‘Mikey and Jacob will have their wages by then.’ Mum gave her a pained stare.

  ‘That’s nowhere near enough.’

  ‘Then George will have to come home.’

  ‘He can’t support a whole family.’ Not without making himself poor for years to come, and it would put paid to his hopes regarding his young lady. ‘Come and sit in the armchair, Mum. Thad, shift yourself.’

  ‘Not likely,’ Thad crowed. ‘The man of the house has the best chair and the best of everything, and that’s me now Dad’s gone.’

  ‘You?’ Belinda stood up. ‘You’re the one member of this family that doesn’t bring in any money. You know what that makes you? A scrounger.’

  Thad came to his feet so quickly that the armchair shunted backwards and hit the cupboard behind it. He glowered at Belinda. She steeled herself. She couldn’t have him throwing his weight around.

  Before she could say anything, George walked in.

  ‘George!’ Mum cried, as if her saviour had arrived.

  ‘My landlady said our Jacob had been round. Is something wrong?’

  Belinda watched incredulity take possession of her brother’s face as the situation was explained to him.

  ‘So you’ve got to come home and take care of us, George,’ said Mum. ‘We need you.’

  ‘No.’ Determination made Belinda speak loudly. ‘I told you before, George. I’ll sort this out.’

  ‘You?’ Thad curled his lip.

  ‘I’ve got an idea. It’ll tide us over for a few days while I find something better. I can’t say more than that in front of you, George, because it’s best if you don’t know, you being a public servant in a responsible job.’

  For all her fine words, she quivered inside. It was a daring plan. Would it work?

  A note from Gabriel awaited her when Belinda let herself into Tyrell’s Books. He would be out all morning and possibly all day: good. Much as she longed to be close to him, she had far too much on her mind at present. If he were here to witness her worry and distraction, he might decide she wasn’t worth her salary.

  That was yet another worry, on top of all the rest. It would slice her heart in half to give up working for Gabriel, but she urgently needed a better-paid job. Would the Miss Heskeths consider her sufficiently well trained to recommend her? And would her salary contribute a large enough amount to the rent on somewhere suitable for her family? She had to continue paying for her bed and board at End Cottage as well – or would she not be able to afford both? Might she have to leave End Cottage in order to do the right thing by her family?

  Panic swelled inside her at the enormity of the responsibility she had taken on. She had to find a new home for her family that was affordable on what she and Sarah earned, plus what Mikey and Jacob could contribute. What were the chances of Thad being shamed into helping out? But before any of that, she had to get the family out of that fleapit in Cromwell Street.

  The morning passed in a blur. She made some silly mistakes in her typing and had to force herself to concentrate. She closed the shop for dinner and went upstairs to eat the egg barm cake Grandma Beattie had provided, then, unable to settle, she paced the floor – well, in so far as you could pace a floor that was cluttered with bookcases and boxes.

  There was a loud knocking at the shop door. She went downstairs and looked across the shop.

  ‘Mikey!’

  She hurried to unlock the door and pull him inside. Nothing else could have gone wrong, surely. But Mikey’s wide eyes and heaving chest said otherwise.

  ‘I skipped school dinners and went home. Mum’s in a right state.’

  ‘The rent man never caught her, did he?’

  ‘No, but the truancy officer did.’

  ‘Oh no, not Thad again.’

  ‘Aye, but, worse than that, someone from the means test came round.’

  Horror poured through her. Only the most wretched got swooped on by the means test. It was among the most shaming things that could happen. The proud poor were forced to sell their few precious mementoes to qualify for assistance and disabled soldiers were labelled work-shy. And now, her own family…

  ‘Who brought them in?’

  ‘Dunno. Mum reckons it were one of the neighbours. None of ’em wants to live under the same roof as Thad; and with Dad gone, it’s a chance to get rid of us. But that’s not the worst. The rent man came—’

  ‘You said Mum avoided him.’

  ‘She did, but he let himself in and left a note to say the bailiffs are coming tomorrow.’

  ‘The bailiffs!’ That was even worse than the means test.

  ‘He wants this week’s rent in full, plus next week’s up front, or the bailiffs will take all our stuff.’

  ‘They can only take goods to the value owed.’

  Mikey dealt her a pitying look, as if she was too simple to understand the ways of the world. ‘They don’t care about that. What are we going to do?’

  Fear threatened to overwhelm her. She pushed her shoulders back.

  ‘We’ll have to put our plan into action tonight instead of tomorrow.’

  Sowerby can’t apologise enough. Hands clasped behind his back, he marches up and down on the red-and-blue patterned carpet in his office, huffing and puffing. ‘Carson has made fools of us all. Well, not you, Linkworth, but you’re the only one.’

  ‘I found out purely by chance.’ A shiver feathers its way from my core through all the layers of my skin, leaving a scattering of goose pimples across my flesh. If Miles hadn’t been going down with something… if the door hadn’t needed fixing… if I hadn’t spoken to Tom Watson…

  Turton and I have spent the morning visiting the other tradesmen who worked on Mr Tyrell’s cottage. They all said the same as Tom Watson: Carson arranged for the work to be done and Mr Tyrell paid the bills. No doubt about it. Every time.

  ‘So cunning,’ fumes Sowerby, ‘to get the tradesmen to scrawl a line on his own letters to them. All they were in fact agreeing to was that he instigated the work, whereas if they had written letters of their own, they would have expanded on the details and said who paid. As it was, we made the natural assumption. A devilish cunning fellow.’

  He has chuntered on in this vein for some time. I cut in.

  ‘What happens next?’

  He pauses mid-stride, as if I have posed a conundrum.

  ‘We have to collect written statements from all the builders. What a schemer that young man is – and when I say “schemer”, I mean, of course, out-and-out liar. First, he pretends not to know you – and at this stage, I am positive it was sheer pretence – thus obliging us to prove your identity; and now we have to prove that Mr Tyrell paid these bills. We shall expedite matters to ensure you come into your inheritance as soon as possible.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you know where Carson works?’

  After all the trouble he has put me to, I have a fancy to be the one to tell him his scheme has failed. Revenge? Why not? I have earned it.

  Armed with the address of Carson’s employer, off I go. He works in one of the vast warehouses on the Manchester Ship Canal; great, grim buildings, with banks of small, dark windows. As I approach, I bump into a young lad, an apprentice, probably, and ask for Carson. I don’t give my name and the boy is too inexperienced, or possibly too shy, to ask for it. He runs ins
ide and, as I wait, I feel my shoulders relax for the first time since this mess began. A smile tugs at the side of my mouth, but I pull my lips into a straight line. I mustn’t be grinning like an idiot when Carson sees me.

  The door opens and he steps outside. I see the exact moment when his expression changes from dark-eyed curiosity to annoyance and distrust. He isn’t quite such a handsome blade any more.

  I’m going to enjoy this.

  Bloody hell. Bloody bloody hell. He had lost it all. From the moment Uncle Reg told him in a letter to the trenches that Gabriel Linkworth had been posted missing in action, Richard had hoped; and when, in the subsequent letter, missing had been bumped up to missing, presumed dead, his hopes had been bumped up into solid expectation. That was the moment when he knew, he knew, he was going to survive this blasted war. How could he not, when he had so much to look forward to? Not riches, no, but a cottage, a small pot of money and the contents of a bookshop, which he would soon convert into more money. Independent means: the holy grail to a shipping clerk such as himself, with years of toil ahead and no useful family connections to give him a leg-up.

  Once he returned from the war, he had done his level best to persuade Uncle Reg to change his will and eliminate Gabriel Linkworth, but to no avail; though Uncle Reg had been most amenable to the idea of having the cottage improved.

  ‘I’m my own landlord,’ he said with a chuckle as he signed a cheque for a magnificent sum after the new water pump had been installed, ‘and a jolly good landlord too.’

  Richard had watched with well-concealed proprietorial satisfaction as his future cottage was updated and brought into the twentieth century.

  When Uncle Reg died, he had felt a pang of sorrow, but it was soon lost in the swell of complacency at coming into his inheritance at a considerably earlier date than he had dared contemplate.

  He had known exactly what to do: quit his lodgings and move into the cottage, sell the books and build up a nest-egg; and that would be him set up for a comfortable future. Lord above, he had even taken on an employee to help him get rid of the books and Aunt Victoria’s knick-knacks. How confident he had been.