The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  And then Gabriel sodding Linkworth had come back from the dead. He had made a last-ditch attempt to grab some money by pretending to have paid for the improvements on the cottage out of his own pocket, but now his ruse had been found out and he was left with nothing. Zero. Not a jot.

  Bloody hell. Bloody bloody hell.

  And maybe it wouldn’t end here. Maybe he would be reported to the police for attempting to gain money by fraudulent means. Linkworth hadn’t mentioned informing the authorities, but what were the odds against that old fogey law-man doing so?

  Oh, this was impossible. He couldn’t return to his ledgers and continue working as if nothing had happened. He needed to get out of this damn warehouse and consider his position. Feigning toothache, he made his excuses and departed. When had his life taken such a wrong turn? No point in dwelling on it. It had happened. Look to the future. But he couldn’t let it go. When had his life gone so drastically wrong?

  When Gabriel Linkworth came back from the dead, that’s when.

  Well, he would give Linkworth something to remember him by.

  Richard headed for Limits Lane, instinct taking him by a roundabout route. He alighted from the bus at Chorlton Green, walked past the disused churchyard and rounded the corner into Hawthorn Road, its long lines of red-brick terraced houses and corner shops stretching away before him. Down at the end, he could get onto the meadows and walk across to the slope that led up to the bottom of Limits Lane. Quite what he would do when he reached the cottage, he didn’t know. Frankly, he felt like blowing it to smithereens. After all the effort he had put into it, after all the hope he had invested in it, it stuck in his craw to think of Gabriel Linkworth living in it, benefiting from his efforts and hopes.

  He strode down the street, glancing at the corner shops: a tobacconist, a newsagent, one of those shops that sold everything from Shredded Wheat and Crawford’s Currant Puffs, to Vim and metal polish, to paraffin and night-lights. The name over the door said Trimble’s: it ought to be a confectioner’s, with a name like that. As he passed by on the other side of the road, the door opened and a fellow emerged, thin and wiry, not badly dressed but untidy.

  At the far end of the road, Richard stopped. The meadows lay before him, the air bright with the tang of grass and sunshine. Delving in his pocket for his packet of Grand Parade, he bent his head to light a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing out a stream of smoke.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Have you got a light?’

  It was the fellow from outside the shop. Close up, his wiry build had nothing puny about it and his clothes were decent enough, though they were on the way to being threadbare. There was something rumpled about him, as if he had slept badly and got dressed in the dark. If this had been first thing in the morning, Richard might have thought him hungover.

  He struck a match and the man leaned towards the flame, shutting his eyes as he drew on his cigarette.

  ‘You look like you needed that,’ Richard remarked.

  ‘Aye.’ The fellow blew out his smoke even more fiercely than Richard had. ‘Family troubles, work troubles, money troubles, you name it.’

  ‘Down on your luck?’ He knew how that felt.

  ‘Not through any fault of my own. A damn officious boss, who had it in for me. A miserable nag of a wife, older kids who won’t pull their weight, younger ones running wild. Well, I’m done with the lot of them. I’m making my own way from now on.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  The fellow eyed him; a sharp, sideways glance. ‘Troubles of your own?’

  ‘You might say that.’ Richard chucked away his cigarette, grinding it beneath his heel. ‘I must get on. Good luck to you.’ He turned away, but the man continued talking and he turned back, not troubling to hide his impatience.

  ‘’Tisn’t luck I need. It’s a few bob in my pocket so I can move away and start again. I’ve got half what I need from doing a job for… well, least said soonest mended.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

  Richard felt a twist of dislike, but the feeling untwisted and turned out to be… anticipation. Could he make use of this fellow, who sounded to be already on the wrong side of the law?

  He proceeded carefully. ‘Sounds as if a fresh start is what you need.’

  ‘Chance ’ud be a fine thing.’

  ‘If you’ve already got half the funds…’

  ‘Aye, but there’s no more where that came from. T’other fella got nabbed, didn’t he?’ He coughed, a forced sound, as if he thought he could hide his wrong-doing behind it. ‘You didn’t hear me say that.’

  ‘I’m in a bit of a hole, myself, as it happens, so I’m in no position to judge.’

  Another of those sideways glances. ‘It happens to the best of us.’

  ‘Indeed it does.’ Should he, shouldn’t he? Go on. Take the chance. ‘If your friend hadn’t got himself nabbed, what were you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know as I should say.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘Two strangers passing the time of day. We’ll never cross paths again.’

  A long pause. A blackbird sang in a nearby bush. Was the fellow cursing himself for getting embroiled in this conversation?

  ‘We’d have done another job or two and I’d have got enough money together.’

  ‘Enough to…’ He was about to say disappear. ‘…start again elsewhere.’

  For answer, the fellow dragged deeply on his cigarette, his gaze roaming over the meadows, as if he and Richard were nothing to do with one another… which, of course, they weren’t. That was the beauty of it.

  ‘What if I give you the chance to earn what you need?’

  No reply beyond a quick glance.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Richard, ‘but it sounds as if the job you and your unfortunate colleague undertook wasn’t legal.’ He waited. ‘As I said, correct me if I’m wrong.’ He wouldn’t utter another word until this man had admitted it.

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ The fellow sounded sullen.

  ‘Good. Then we understand each other. I’m prepared to pay you the sum you require if you’ll undertake a small commission on my behalf.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’ll pay you to do a job. I want you to burn down a cottage.’

  The man bridled. ‘Never!’

  ‘It’s empty, I swear, and it stands on its own, so there’s no danger of the fire spreading. I want it done tonight.’

  Now the fellow looked at him, eyes narrowed, interest piqued. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Not far from here. Do you know Limits Lane?’

  ‘I know the name, though this isn’t my usual stamping ground.’ He frowned. ‘Limits Lane: someone mentioned it at home recently.’ His mouth tugged this way and that. ‘I dunno. Boys fighting, women gassing: who listens? Not me.’

  ‘The cottage is the last one in the lane, just before it slopes down onto the meadows. I want you to provide sufficient paraffin, rags and matches to get the job done. You can purchase what you need at that shop you went into a while back: Trimble’s. The cottage is thatched. If you can get the thatch ablaze, that’ll do the trick. There’s a wooden shed right next to it; that’ll go up like a firework.’

  The fellow gazed at his feet. Richard let him mull it over.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘It has to be tonight,’ he said, ‘and tomorrow you can be on your way to start your new life. Do we have an agreement?’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  LOCKING THE SHOP on the dot of five, Belinda waited for Mikey to emerge from Brown’s and they hurried on their way, separating when they reached Stretford.

  ‘Go straight home and tell Mum to start packing,’ she said. ‘You all have to help, including Thad. I’m going to see Mr Harrison in his yard.’

  Would Mr Harrison be able to help at such short notice? Her original idea had been to ask him today if he could do it tomorrow, but now that the bailiffs were coming tomorrow, their moonlight flit had had to be brought forward to tonight.


  Their moonlight flit: her chest tightened. They had done a moonlight flit once before, years ago, so long ago that she could almost pretend it had never happened. Now once again the Layton family would disappear into the darkness, leaving their rent unpaid. And it was her idea. Not her fault, though. The fault lay squarely with Dad, wherever he was.

  A tall wooden fence surrounded the rag-and-bone yard. There were two big gates for the horse and cart, but these were securely fastened. Close by, a door was set into the fence. She had to pick her feet up as she stepped through, because there was a plank of wood across the bottom. The yard was piled high with items of all kinds – sticks of furniture, cracked basins, wheels, the empty case of a grandmother clock. Under shelter, boxes were stacked, containing goodness knows what.

  Mr Harrison appeared from behind an old washing copper.

  ‘If you want another lend of the hat and coat, you’ll have to talk to the missus.’

  ‘It’s not that. I’ve come for your help.’ Shame clogged her throat and she had to force herself to continue. ‘It’s my family – not the Mrs Sloans. My mum and my brothers and sister have to move house urgently and we need a cart for the furniture.’

  ‘A moonlight flit? Nay, don’t go all hot and bothered. You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last.’ Mr Harrison frowned. ‘You didn’t mention your dad.’

  ‘He’s gone. Left us.’

  ‘Nay, he never has. That’s a bad business. When is it to be, this moonlight flit? Soon, I expect.’

  ‘Tonight. I’m sorry for the short notice.’

  ‘Moonlight flits are like that. Don’t fret, lass. You tell me when and where and I’ll be there.’

  She scrabbled inside her handbag. ‘I haven’t got much, but I’ll pay what I can.’

  ‘Keep your money, lass. I’ll help thee without that. If your dad’s cleared off, your family needs all its coppers.’

  Oh, the relief that something was going right at last. She went home, stopping to smooth her features before entering End Cottage.

  Presently, the three of them were tucking into rollmop herrings. Well, Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie tucked in while she tried to look equally keen. As they ate, she explained – lied – about the move.

  ‘Now that Dad’s gone, Mum and the kids have to move, so I’ll go round there after tea to help pack. I’ll stay overnight.’

  ‘Eh, your poor mam,’ said Grandma Beattie. ‘If you fetch back a couple of her dishes, I’ll do her vegetable stew and an apple pie.’

  ‘Where are they moving to?’ asked Auntie Enid.

  ‘I don’t know the details. It’s all happened so quickly, with Dad doing his disappearing act.’

  She pretended not to see the look that passed between Grandma Beattie and Auntie Enid; a look that suggested they had already had plenty to say about Denby Layton and that after she had gone, they would say it all over again.

  When she started washing up, Grandma Beattie gently pushed her aside.

  ‘Off you go, love. Your mam needs you.’

  Gathering her night things, she kissed them goodbye and rushed along Grave Pit Lane, her heartbeat detonating inside her ears. Entering the house in Cromwell Street, she found their two rooms in a state of quiet chaos and her heart cracked open with anguish at how Mum must be suffering. Her early married years, before Dad’s working life started going down the drain, must seem like heaven on earth compared to this.

  ‘Mikey!’ she exclaimed at the sight of fresh purple bruising around his eye-socket. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s Thad’s idea of being the man of the house,’ said Mikey. ‘But I never hit him back. I know how important it is for us to get packed.’

  Aye, and wasn’t it a pity they couldn’t leave Thad behind? That boy was nowt but trouble. The thought of taking him into their temporary home made Belinda’s blood run cold, but what choice did she have?

  She and Sarah stripped the beds. Mum emptied out the chest of drawers and the hanging cupboard, then the clothes and linen were bundled inside a sheet. Cutlery went inside one pillow-case, the clock and ornaments from the mantelpiece in another, packets of Oxo and Cooperative Tea and tubs of Bisto and cocoa in a third. Mikey stacked the saucepans and crockery on the table and Jacob wrapped the plates in newspaper.

  Thad took down the curtains, complete with brass rings.

  ‘Those curtain-rings aren’t ours,’ said Mum.

  ‘They are now. Give me a minute and I’ll have them curtainpoles off the wall too.’

  ‘Thad,’ Belinda objected, ‘we aren’t thieves.’

  He gave her an insolent look. ‘I could take the doors off the hinges in two ticks.’

  ‘Mr Harrison is a law-abiding citizen. If he thinks anything is stolen, he won’t help us.’ Would that be sufficient to keep Thad in order? ‘Jacob, put the brushes and the fire-irons in the pail. Mum, is the fender ours?’

  Darkness fell and Mum lit one of the gas-lamps. It came to life with a soft pop.

  At last, they heard the steady clop-clop of hooves coming down the street and stopping outside their house. Belinda went to let Mr Harrison in. He looked round at their piled-up possessions.

  ‘We need this door and the front door propped open, preferably with summat that won’t go clang boom crash if someone knocks it. We’ll get the furniture loaded first, then the small stuff. I’ve brought a couple of tea-chests. If the girls get them filled, me and the lads can do the furniture.’

  For once, Belinda was grateful that Thad was a big brute in the making. He and Mr Harrison moved the bulky pieces and Mikey and Jacob helped get them into position on the cart. Then it was time to take the smaller pieces and the family ferried everything outside while Mr Harrison loaded up. Out and in, out and in they crept, like a line of ants.

  When they finished, Belinda put the keys on the mantelpiece and shut the door behind her.

  Thad was sculling eagerly around the front of the cart.

  ‘Nay, lad.’ Mr Harrison spoke softly but with authority. ‘Yon hoss has enough to pull without lugging a squad of healthy boys an’ all. The missus can sit up here with me and you young ’uns can walk behind.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Yeah, our Bel, where are we off to?’ Thad demanded and was met by a chorus of shushes from all sides. ‘You’ve got no business not telling us.’

  ‘If no one knew, no one could let it slip out.’ She felt a thrill of fear. What she was about to do was inappropriate, to say the least. She desperately hoped her family wouldn’t let her down. ‘We’re going to my boss’s cottage in Limits Lane – just for a day or two while I sort out something else.’

  ‘Really? That’s generous of him,’ said Sarah.

  Belinda turned to Mr Harrison. ‘We’d best get moving.’

  ‘Here, missus, let me give you a hand up.’

  Mr Harrison helped Mum onto the seat and they set off. The boys tried to ask Belinda about the cottage, but she dodged their questions by reminding them to keep quiet. By the time they reached Limits Lane, they were all flagging. Mr Harrison drew in the horse while he set a flame to a couple of lanterns to make up for the lack of street-lamps.

  The cart halted by the garden gate and Mr Harrison helped Mum down.

  ‘It’s good of Mr Linkworth to give permission for us to stay here,’ she said.

  It was time to own up. ‘He hasn’t. Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly?’ said Mum. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means not at all,’ Thad crowed. ‘It means our Bel is the biggest liar and cheat of us all.’

  ‘I am not,’ she hissed.

  ‘Oh no?’ Thad retorted. ‘That’s what you’d have called me if this had been my idea.’

  ‘It’s only for a few days while I find something permanent. Now listen. If anything gets broken in the cottage or goes missing,’ she stared at Thad, his face devilish in the mixture of lamplight and shadow, ‘I’ll end up losing my job and then we’ll be in an even wo
rse position than we are already; so you must all treat the cottage and everything in it with respect.’ She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off her tiredness. ‘There’s a shed our furniture can squeeze into. I suggest we take only our bundles of clothes and food indoors. Mum, you put the food away while Sarah and I make up the beds. Boys, help Mr Harrison stow the furniture. And after that, you must all go to bed.’

  ‘You an’ all,’ said Mum.

  She nodded, but she didn’t mean it. She was far too edgy to sleep, so when they had said goodbye to Mr Harrison and the boys disappeared into one bedroom, under pain of death if they dared to fight, and Mum and Sarah went to bed in the other, she crept downstairs under the pretence of locking the door.

  She ought to feel triumphant for having rescued Mum and the children from the bailiffs, but bringing them here to Gabriel’s cottage weighed heavily on her. It was wrong, whichever way you looked at it. Should she have sought his permission? But that would have involved telling the truth about Dad and the rent and the means test and the bailiffs, and she could never do that. She had only told Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie because it would have been impossible not to. Besides, what if Gabriel had refused? Then she would not only have shamed herself in front of him, but she would still have needed to find somewhere for her family. No, doing it on the sly was the only way.

  A lump filled her throat. On the sly was the only way: what did that say about her? She wasn’t a bad person, she really wasn’t. She was just trying to do her best for her family. Anyroad, what was done was done. She needed to concentrate on what was coming next. She must look in the Evening News for a job with a better salary; and somehow she must find a new home for her family. It wouldn’t be easy without a man’s wage coming in, but there must be so many widows these days in need of homes. Surely landlords were used to totting up a family’s combined wages and seeing what they came to.

  A wave of tiredness engulfed her. Sitting at the table, she laid her head on her arms. She would rest her eyes for five minutes. Just for five minutes.