The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  Belinda swallowed her frustration. ‘No, Mum.’ She hated to wash the family’s dirty linen in public, but it had to be done. ‘George has his eye on a girl and he needs to save up to get married. If he was already married, with a house, maybe there’d be room for you; but he can’t support you at this stage, or he’ll never get wed. Maybe one day, when I’ve got a better job and can afford a room, you can live with me, but that’s some way off, and you’d still have to go out to work.’

  ‘Mothers aren’t meant to go out to work. A mother’s work is in the home.’

  ‘It’s not as though there are any children at home now,’ Belinda said gently. ‘There’s nothing wrong with going out to work. Look at Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie; they’ve worked all their lives. Miss Hesketh goes to the office every day and she and Miss Patience teach in the evenings.’

  ‘I can’t cope with all this,’ Mum whispered.

  ‘You used to cope,’ said Belinda. ‘I remember us having a nice little house and you keeping it spick and span.’

  ‘I were younger then.’

  ‘You cared how you looked and you cared how we looked and how we behaved.’

  Mum glared from beneath lowered lids. ‘Not in front of the ladies, Bel.’

  She reached for Mum’s hand. ‘You’ve been so unhappy and ground down for such a long time that you’ve forgotten what you used to be like, but I remember.’

  ‘I may have the answer,’ said Miss Hesketh. ‘You require an income and a roof over your head, Mrs Layton. You have years of experience of looking after a home. I wonder if Mrs Morgan would be interested.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Miss Patience was all smiles. ‘She’s our neighbour across the road. She used to have a live-in maid before the war. Their house is much grander than ours; the same size, of course, but a great deal smarter, and,’ she added impressively, ‘they have a vacuum cleaner.’

  ‘Imagine looking after a posh house, Mum,’ said Belinda. ‘Imagine all the nice things Mrs Morgan must have.’

  ‘You want me to clean for her?’ said Mum.

  ‘It would be housework, not charring,’ Miss Hesketh said, ‘and if you show yourself willing, there might be the chance of cooking too.’

  Miss Patience sat forwards. ‘If it helps you decide, our daily once told me that when you have regular work cleaning a house, you come to feel in a way as if the house is yours.’

  ‘Would you like me to put a word in for you?’ Miss Hesketh asked.

  To Belinda’s dismay, tears welled up in Mum’s eyes. ‘All I ever wanted were a family and a home to take care of, and when I got it, Denby went and ruined everything.’

  ‘He’s gone now,’ said Belinda. ‘You deserve a fresh start, but turning up on George’s doorstep isn’t the way. You’ve spent years complaining about Dad. Now you have to set the family a good example. Show us what you’re made of. What do you say?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  GABRIEL VOWED TO concentrate on packing up the books. It would distract him from thinking about Miss Layton – Belinda. Some hope. She was in his thoughts the whole time. He was torn in two. He had to leave the shop, but when he did, he would never see her again. She didn’t want him, so he would be better off not seeing her. So he told himself.

  Maybe she wouldn’t require a new job. Was this the moment when Richard Carson scooped her up and put a ring on her finger? Did she still feel the same about Carson after his financial skulduggery? Surely not. And yet… that starry-eyed look she had bestowed on him…

  Gabriel kept a discreet eye on her over the next day or two. She looked pale and tired. He knew she was running around like a mad thing after work, walking Mikey from Brown’s to the orphanage at five o’clock, then scooting round to Wilton Close to knock on the back door of the house where her mother had been taken on, to have a few minutes with Mrs Layton before going home; and then this evening, Friday, she would walk back to Chorlton for her lesson at the business school.

  And if he happened to be strolling along Edge Lane this evening on his way to Limits Lane, and if it happened to be around the time when Belinda might be coming to Chorlton, who was to know what a prize ass he was, other than himself?

  He walked briskly to start with, eager to see her, then slowed for fear of reaching Limits Lane too soon. Even so, he arrived at the corner without seeing her. As he hovered at the top of the lane, a woman emerged from the first cottage. Judging by her worn, lined face, she could have been anywhere from forty to seventy.

  ‘You’re young Mr Tyrell, aren’t you?’

  ‘My name is Linkworth, but, yes, I’m Mr Tyrell’s nephew.’

  ‘We’ve got some of your things in our place. After you collapsed, us neighbours saw there were nowt to be done for the cottage, so we rescued what we could from downstairs.’

  ‘I had no idea or I’d have come sooner.’

  ‘We’ve all got stuff, all us cottagers. Crockery, ornaments, pictures. She loved her figurines, did Mrs Tyrell. And some bits and pieces of furniture an’ all, though the upholstery stinks summat dreadful from the smoke. We’ve had to keep it outside. It’s a mercy it hasn’t rained.’

  ‘That’s very good of you all. I’ll arrange for everything to be collected.’ Was Belinda on her way? He wanted to look over his shoulder, but couldn’t be so rude.

  ‘Come and see what we’ve got.’

  Nothing would satisfy her but that he should knock at every door to thank each family personally. Being familiar with the standard of comfort his uncle had enjoyed, it was sobering to see how humble the other cottages were, not even boasting proper floors downstairs, just compacted dirt. Aunt Victoria’s beloved figurines looked like priceless ornaments in such settings.

  He would hang onto a couple of ornaments as keepsakes, but he didn’t want to cram his lodgings, or his house when he eventually got one, full of them. Carson had intended to sell them, hadn’t he? Perhaps that wasn’t a bad idea. Properly boxed, they could be stored alongside the book stock… when he had somewhere suitable to keep them.

  ‘If the furniture is of use to you, please keep it or pass it on to someone in need,’ he told the cottagers. The kitchen table, the armchairs, the sideboard, the cupboard with glass doors, would make a difference to these folk.

  With good wishes ringing in his ears, he took his leave, cheered by the cottagers’ decency and kindness. Their humble dwellings had brought home to him just how much he had, in spite of what he had lost. He still possessed the wherewithal to stock a bookshop, and once he had found work and got some savings behind him, he would be able to look for a shop to rent.

  The cottagers had done him another favour too. They had prevented him from making a jackass of himself over Belinda Layton.

  Patience made their nightly Ovaltine and carried the tray to the sitting room. They mulled things over while sipping their bedtime drinks.

  ‘I hope we’ll be able to help Miss Layton,’ said Patience. Their working-class pupil had become the most dear of her pretend-daughters.

  ‘She was foolish to take on a temporary post in the first place.’

  ‘I do think you were a little harsh with her this evening. She only asked for a character reference and a testimonial as to her office skills. There was no need to say we couldn’t magic up a job for her like we did for her mother.’

  Prudence shrugged. ‘It’s preferable for people to know where they stand.’

  With a quiet sigh, Patience let it go. Nothing was going to soften Prudence’s judgemental nature this late in life.

  ‘Might there be vacancies in the Corporation typing pool?’ she ventured.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if there are. I can’t put Miss Layton forward. Imagine what poisonous remarks Lawrence would drop in the ears of anyone who would listen. Business School Pupils Given Corporation Posts by Tutor – that’s what the papers would say. Meanwhile Lawrence would be giving interviews left, right and centre, apologising for his foolish sister who has brought his business school into disrepute and
the only honourable course of action is to close it down.’

  Patience shivered. Minuscule ripples passed across the surface of her drink. ‘It’s beastly having to think of Lawrence’s likely response every time we want to do something.’

  ‘We’re managing pretty well. The school seems safe enough for the time being.’

  ‘And we’ve got Mrs Atwood coming soon.’

  Another pretend-daughter, and one who would be living with them for some time to come while she attended the school on a once- or twice-weekly basis. A vase of fresh flowers on the chest of drawers would be a welcoming gesture.

  And if things went well with their new lodger… why, only this morning she had stood in the box-room doorway, considering the possibilities. A single bed with a rug beside it; pretty curtains… well, why not?

  ‘I saw Mrs Morgan this morning,’ she told Prudence. ‘She’s delighted to have live-in staff again.’

  Prudence snorted. ‘Live-in staff! She’s lives in Wilton Close, not Tatton Hall.’

  ‘We must send a couple of lines to Mr Linkworth to say how sorry we are about his cottage.’

  ‘One feels one ought to offer assistance, but what could we possibly do?’

  ‘He went straight back to work, you know. Miss Layton told me. She said he has eyes for nothing but the books.’

  ‘Like Mr Tyrell before him,’ said Prudence.

  ‘Miss Layton seemed dismayed by his dedication to his work.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s an admirable trait.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Patience, ‘she’s worried about her own position. The harder he works on packing up the shop, the sooner it will close. He wants to put the books in storage, apparently, and start up again when he has earned some money.’

  ‘Where will he store everything?’ Prudence sat up straighter. ‘Maybe we can assist him after all. Our cellar is spacious, dry, ventilated – and empty. He can use it, for a peppercorn rent.’

  ‘What if Lawrence finds out?’ asked Patience.

  ‘You saw the piece in the Evening News. Mr Linkworth carried one boy downstairs through thick smoke, then went back for the other. Just you wait. Lawrence will tell his cronies how he has used his premises to assist a local hero. We’ll call at Tyrell’s Books tomorrow and make the offer.’

  By half-seven in the morning, Gabriel was at Perkins and Watson’s yard, where two or three fellows were getting ready for work, including, he was pleased to see, Tom Watson, who greeted him with a cheery wave and walked across to him.

  ‘Would you take a look at the cottage,’ he said, ‘and let me know the cost of clearing the land?’

  ‘Is it covered by insurance?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘Tell you what. Tell the folk in Limits Lane it’s all up for grabs.’

  ‘They’ve already saved the small possessions and the furniture.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean bricks, doors, window-panes, the kitchen range, the slop-stone. You’d be surprised what people can make use of; and what they can’t use, they can sell. It’s Easter next weekend. Tell them they’ve got until close of play on Bank Holiday Monday. After that I’ll give you a price to clear what’s left.’

  Gabriel cut along to the shop and got to work boxing up books. At nine, he lifted the blind on the door and turned the sign to Open. He had barely returned to his packing when the bell jingled, summoning him to greet his customers, a pair of faded-looking ladies, who looked the same… only not quite the same. One was taller, all angles, straight and sharp; the other had a gentler face.

  ‘Good morning, ladies. May I help you?’

  ‘Mr Linkworth?’ enquired the sharp-looking one. ‘As a matter of fact, we may be able to help you.’

  By the time they left, his head was whirling. How good people were. The Limits Lane folk had rescued his belongings; Tom Watson had come up with a way to cut the cost of clearing the land; and now the Miss Heskeths had offered to store his books.

  The bell rang again and William Turton walked in, genial and smiling.

  They exchanged greetings, then Turton said, ‘I’ve brought a proposition for you to consider.’

  ‘Come and sit in the office.’

  Turton removed his bowler, unfastened his double-breasted overcoat and sat in the chair Belinda used when she typed. Gabriel leaned against the wall.

  ‘Mr Sowerby informed me of your plan to clear the land in Limits Lane. A worthy endeavour, if I may say so.’

  Gabriel inclined his head. Turton was building up to something.

  ‘And you won’t be able to keep the shop on. A shame.’ It was said in a matter-of-fact way, proffering neither censure nor pity: Gabriel liked him for it. ‘Would I be correct in supposing you find yourself in need of a job?’

  Surprise made him laugh. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I may have found one for you. Clerking work with one of the principal landlords in town. They’ve been clients of ours for years and will accept you on our recommendation.’

  ‘That’s jolly decent of you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. When are you due to quit the shop?’

  ‘Mr Dawson called personally yesterday. Out of respect for my late uncle, he’ll let me out on a week’s notice.’

  ‘Has Miss Layton had any luck finding employment elsewhere?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. I told her, of course, as soon as I knew I wouldn’t be keeping the shop, so she is aware her days here are numbered.’

  ‘As indeed they were all along,’ Turton reminded him.

  Gabriel’s pulse slowed. It really was going to happen. The shop would shut and she would disappear from his life.

  Turton came to his feet. ‘Will you accept a word of advice from a fellow who has been happily married for over twenty years? Tell her how you feel.’

  ‘I – what?’ He stood up straight.

  ‘Your face fell a mile at the thought of her leaving here. Talk to her.’

  ‘She likes someone else.’

  ‘And has that someone else put a ring on her finger? Then what are you waiting for?’ Turton fastened the buttons on his overcoat. ‘I loved another girl once, not Mrs Turton, I mean. My feelings for her were real enough, but then I realised what had been in front of me all along.’ He put on his bowler. ‘My point is, Linkworth, that you may not be Miss Layton’s first love, but what of it, so long as you are her lasting love?’

  It wasn’t until a customer alerted him to the time that Gabriel realised he had stayed open beyond midday. He rang up the gentleman’s purchases and closed the door behind him. His eyes felt gritty. He hadn’t slept well recently, his brain too busy turning over a lifetime of memories. Awarding himself an extra-long dinner hour, he wrote Back at 2 o’clock on a piece of card and propped it in the window beside the door.

  He chose a couple of barm cakes in Richardson’s and went to the rec. Sitting on a bench to eat, he wrote a letter in his head to Cousin Irene. They had spent a couple of hours together at the end of his day in court. She had wanted to tell him about his family, but hearing about his parents and his brother had been profoundly unsettling and he had encouraged her instead to speak of her children and her late husband. Now, though, he was eager to see her again and have a proper chinwag about old times; about attending the village school and flicking ink pellets at one another behind the teacher’s back; about her wedding and Auntie Mabel, who had got drunk and danced on the table; and about Great-Granny Linkworth, who had gleefully celebrated her hundredth birthday with all her descendants around her, only for her to pass away the following year, leaving behind family papers that showed she had in fact been a stripling of ninety-two.

  Should he tell Irene about the fire and the destruction of his hopes? No, not the destruction; far too dramatic. Postponement: that was better. He wanted to be open with her, but what if, hearing of the fire, she offered up her inheritance from his father? He couldn’t have her falling on her sword. Neither did he want to reassure her – again – that he wasn’t after his fathe
r’s money. To do so might give the impression he wanted her to be grateful – again. He didn’t want her feeling beholden.

  He glanced round the rec. A group of children ran about, playing tag with much squealing; older boys were playing cricket. A woman trotted along the path with her shopping basket, probably hurrying home to get the dinner on the table; and over by the rose-beds that flanked the bowling green on three sides were… Belinda and her family.

  He sat up. ‘Tell her how you feel,’ said William Turton’s voice in his head. He got up, stuffing the paper bag that had held his lunch into his pocket, and headed in their direction.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ He raised his homburg to Belinda and her mother. ‘I haven’t seen you since the night of the fire, Mrs Layton. I hope you’re recovered.’

  ‘Yes, thank you; and thank you for what you did that night. You saved all our lives.’

  ‘I gather you’ve made arrangements for your children and yourself.’ He knew from what Belinda had said and, more to the point, what she hadn’t said, that Mrs Layton leaned heavily on others. If Belinda walked out with him, giving her mother a helping hand would become part of his life.

  ‘But we’ve all been separated,’ said Mrs Layton.

  ‘Only for now,’ said Belinda.

  ‘Have you settled in at the orphanage?’ he asked Mikey.

  ‘It’s takes a bit of getting used to, mister, but we’re all right, aren’t we, Jacob?’

  ‘I miss Thad,’ said the younger boy.

  ‘Aye, like a hole in the head,’ said Mikey.

  Gabriel didn’t know all the ins and outs, but he remembered Belinda referring to Thad as a ruffian. ‘Do yourself a favour, son,’ he advised Jacob, ‘stick with Mikey. He’s a good lad.’

  Mikey stood taller at the praise. ‘Have you got the time, mister? Dinner is at one o’clock on Saturdays and Sundays and we have to be back in time to wash our hands and line up.’

  ‘You’d better scoot, then,’ said Gabriel.

  Mrs Layton’s face crumpled, then she put on a smile. ‘I’ll walk down the road with you.’