Patience hardly seemed to notice Dolly, but Clara could not bear to listen. She went to her room and pored over her diary, yet could not bring herself to write in it. The last entry had been the night before her hike to the Roman Wall. She kept herself busy by cleaning; obsessively scrubbing, sweeping, dusting and polishing. While the flat had never been so pristine, the shop below gathered dust.
Vinnie helped them plan the funeral. He suggested a service at St Michael’s, but Patience doubted the vicar would allow it. ‘Might be problems with burying him in holy ground — the way he died,’ she said bitterly.
They decided Harry would be cremated in a quiet ceremony, just family and close friends.
‘I’d like some of my lads to carry the coffin.’ Vinnie said. ‘A mark of respect from me, like.’
Patience was pathetically grateful, but Clara worried about the cost. ‘Will we have to pay them, Mr Craven?’
Vinnie looked offended by the idea. ‘Course not. I’ll see to that. And we’re more than happy to hold the wake at ours, aren’t we, Mother?’
Dolly nodded and blew out smoke. ‘I’ll get caterers in.’
‘No, thank you,’ Clara said firmly. ‘We’ll manage here, won’t we, Mam?’ She shot her mother a nervous look. Patience seemed a world away and might agree to anything. But Clara was certain they could not afford caterers and her father would not have wanted to be beholden to the Cravens.
‘Are you sure?’ Vinnie said, his look almost challenging.
‘Quite sure.’ Clara held her ground.
The day before the funeral, Clara steeled herself to go into the shop. She took Jimmy with her.
‘We need to take the money from the till to pay the undertaker and buy food for the party.’
It was eerily quiet, the hats suspended in the window like stuffed birds in a museum. Jimmy switched on the light. With a deep breath, Clara crossed the room, avoiding a glance at the door to the closet. She opened the till. It was empty but for a handful of copper coins. She spread them out on the counter. One and a ha’penny.
‘Jimmy, have you been—’
‘No! I’m not a thief,’ he said hotly.
‘Sorry … it’s just... on that last Saturday there was over five pounds.’
Jimmy grunted. ‘Remember Dad went out that night and got himself in a right state.’
Clara’s heart sank. ‘Mam keeps a secret supply in a box in the closet,’ she said tensely.
‘Do you want me to look?’ Jimmy asked.
Clara shook her head. It would be just as traumatic for her brother to go back in the room. She must not be a coward. She walked towards it, swallowing bile. The smell hit her: a fusty mix of clothing, sweat, dust and a trace of her father’s odour. She clamped a hand over her mouth while frantically grabbing a box from behind a roll of material. When she tipped it open, a tangle of hairpins and ribbon fell out. At the bottom was a cloth drawstring bag. Clara threw it at Jimmy by the door and bolted from the room.
‘Open it,’ she gasped, taking deep gulps to calm herself.
Jimmy loosened the tie, pulled it open and delved inside. ‘Nowt,’ he said.
Clara grabbed it off him and shook it upside down. It was empty. At that moment, Patience walked in, arms clutched round her, shivering in her dressing gown. She glanced between them and at the bag.
‘He stole it all, didn’t he?’ she croaked.
Clara felt panic rising. ‘What about the bank? You’ve got an account, haven’t you?’
Patience gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Haven’t used it for months — never anything to put in it.’
Clara licked dry lips. ‘Well, at least the funeral costs are covered by insurance. Dad always talked about his burial fund.’
They searched the shop and turned the flat upside down looking for the insurance policy but could not find it.
‘We must have it to pay the undertaker,’ Clara cried.
Patience, galvanised by her daughter’s alarm, got dressed and went to visit the broker who had taken their payments. She returned, looking drained.
‘Your father cashed it in three months ago,’ she said, sinking into a chair.
Clara was stunned. Why had he never said things were so bad? ‘We need to buy food for tomorrow, Mam,’ she fretted. ‘What’ll we do?’
They stared at each other in silence.
‘Gan to the pawnshop,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘There’s plenty of fancy things in the shop we could sell.’
They looked at him aghast. The Magees were the ones who had given credit to their poorer customers. They had never had to stoop to using the pawnshop. Clara had never been inside one in her life.
‘We can’t; that’s stock,’ Patience said in agitation. ‘Some of it’s not paid for yet. And we’ve got creditors; we have to keep the shop going.’
Clara steeled herself. ‘Our things then,’ she said. ‘You can have my silver brooch and christening mug.’
‘And there’s all that junk in me bedroom,’ Jimmy reminded her. ‘Caps that Dad bought years ago.’
Clara watched her mother struggle with the idea. ‘It’s so shaming,’ she whispered.
‘It’s just temporary,’ Clara said gently. ‘We’ll soon get the things back when the shop’s open again.’
Eventually Patience nodded. She stood up. ‘Your father’s things go first. He’s got us in this mess, he’ll bail us out.’
She strode into her bedroom and pulling open his wardrobe began to fling clothes on to the floor. His best suit, two white shirts, collars, studs and ties, an old Homburg hat that Clara had never seen him wear, his dressing gown, pyjamas, socks and shoes.
Patience whipped off the bedcover and bundled everything inside it. She marched to the washstand and picked up his brush and comb, a button hook and a shoehorn and threw them into the pile.
Clara had never seen such white fury on her mother’s face. ‘Mam, you don’t have to get rid of it all.’
‘Oh, yes I do!’ she hissed. ‘I don’t want to see any of it again as long as I live.’ She gathered the corners of the cover, yanked them into a tight knot and hurled the bundle at the open door. ‘Go on; take it down the pawn shop and good riddance!’
Clara threw Jimmy a warning look and pushed him out of the room, dragging the bundle behind her. She closed the door. Behind it, they heard muffled sobbing and Clara imagined her mother crying into the stripped bed. She wanted to rush back in and comfort her, but her mother had been so angry she feared she would make things worse.
‘Help me with this lot,’ she murmured to her brother. ‘Let her alone for a bit.’
Brother and sister carried the bundle between them down the street, praying they would not meet too many people they knew. They chose a pawnshop on the edge of Byfell, away from the High Street and shops where they were known. Clara dumped down the parcel, out of breath.
The pawnbroker was not interested in most of the goods, but he saw the tears in Clara’s eyes and relented.
‘I’ll take the brush set and the suit for six pounds,’ he offered.
‘Six pounds? But they’re silver!’ Clara cried. ‘Please, Mr Slater, we have to pay for me father’s funeral as well as eat. I cannot go back without ten pounds or me mam will be ill. It’s hard enough for her having to part with her dear husband’s cherished possessions.’
‘Eight,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Take the hat too,’ Clara pleaded, ‘and the shirts are best quality. Ten pounds for the lot.’
He agreed with a sigh. ‘Ever thought of coming to work for me?’
She watched tensely as he counted out the money. She pocketed it, then reached for the bedcover. The pawnbroker put out his hand to stop her. ‘I’ve paid for that; you said the lot.’
Clara decided not to argue. She could not risk the man changing his mind. Back outside she slipped her arm through Jimmy’s.
‘Not so bad, eh?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Clara sighed. ‘But I’d hate to do this week in week out like some folk
.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ Jimmy promised.
‘How you so sure?’
‘Mr Craven won’t let it — he’ll look after us.’
Clara faced him. ‘Jimmy, why should he? The Cravens aren’t even family.’
‘Aye, but they’re as good as,’ Jimmy answered. ‘Mr Craven’s told me not to worry. He’ll do anything for Harry Magee’s family, that’s what he said.’
Clara gave an impatient sigh. ‘It might have been better if he’d tried to help Dad while he was still alive.’
Jimmy scowled. ‘Dad wouldn’t let him. He was too proud.’
‘Well so am I.’ Clara was short. ‘I’ll not be beholden to the Cravens, no matter how well-meaning they are.’
They walked home in silence.
Chapter 9
Despite the family’s attempt to have a quiet funeral, dozens of people turned up to pay their respects to Harry at the simple service. Vinnie organised where people sat and he and Dolly walked in with the family behind the coffin. Jimmy helped carry it, along with Clarkie and two others from the boxing hall whom Clara knew by sight. She glimpsed the Lewises near the back, but Patience had baulked at the suggestion that they should greet mourners at the door, so there was no chance to thank them.
Back at the flat, there was a modest tea laid out in the dining room. The Cravens donated two bottles of sherry and one of whisky, which Vinnie dispensed to the handful of guests: a few neighbours and shopkeepers who had been specially asked by Patience. Clara surveyed them. Which of them had gossiped to the reporter? she wondered.
At least Reenie was here to keep her company, she thought gratefully. Together they handed round homemade scones and sponge cake. Patience had not wanted the Lewises invited, but Clara had been stubborn in her insistence that Reenie come. Of all their neighbours, the Lewises had been the kindest, leaving plates of food at the door, and little notes of encouragement. Clara wished Reenie’s brothers were there too, but she put on a brave face and kept busy seeing to the guests. Patience sat in a corner, handkerchief in hand, while people approached her in ones and twos to give their condolences.
Eventually, Reenie said, ‘Sorry, Clara, but I have to go. I’m on night shift.’
Clara went downstairs with her friend. ‘Thanks for coming. Don’t think I’d have got through the afternoon without you.’ She looked at Reenie forlornly. ‘I still can’t believe Dad’s gone. It’s the daft little things I miss, like him sneezing in the morning. If I hear someone sneeze in the street, I look out to see if it’s him.’
Tears welled in her eyes. Reenie hugged her.
‘Come round when you want; Mam would like to see you.’
‘I’d like that too,’ Clara sniffed. ‘Please thank her for all the food — and the lads for the flowers — they’re still lovely.’
They said goodbye and Clara steeled herself to return upstairs. She glanced into the dining room to see Jimmy playing cards with Clarkie and his friends. In the sitting room, Dolly sat with Patience. Vinnie was holding court among a small group of businessmen reminiscing about Harry and what a popular man he was. Their laughter grated on Clara’s nerves. She wondered how much money they owed to the people in the room. Her father had always done the bookkeeping, leaving the ordering to Patience. Tomorrow or the day after, she would have to sit down with her mother and sort out their finances. Was there a will? Patience had refused to talk about such things.
Clara walked back out again. She sat on the kitchen step watching the sun inch its way across the yard until it was all in shadow. It grew quiet upstairs. Eventually, Jimmy found her.
‘What you doing here? We’ve been worried.’
‘I couldn’t stand being jolly any longer. Have they all gone?’
‘Aye. Mam’s lying down.’
Clara stood up and made for the stairs. She was clearing the plates when a noise behind startled her. Whipping round, she saw her father sitting in his large armchair, his dark head just visible over the top. She felt winded.
‘Dad?’ she whispered.
The man stood up and in that instant she saw it was Vinnie. She had not noticed how alike the two men were from the back.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ Vinnie smiled.
‘That’s Dad’s chair,’ Clara said angrily.
He raised his hands in apology. ‘My mistake. Forgive me.’
She did not believe it was a mistake. He knew it was Harry’s chair and for some reason this offended her.
‘Why are you still here?’ she demanded. ‘Jimmy said everyone had gone.’
He came towards her. ‘Wanted to make sure you were all right — and your mother. It’s been a tough day for both of you.’
‘Yes,’ Clara agreed. She took a deep breath to calm down. He was trying to be helpful, that’s all. He meant nothing by sitting in the chair. She forced herself to add, ‘Thanks for all you’ve done today. Mam appreciates it.’
‘It’s no bother,’ he said, leaning close. ‘I’m here to help whenever you want me.’
He smelt of musk, of hair oil. The way he looked at her made her nervous. She nodded and stepped away.
Vinnie went. Clara cleared away and washed up the dishes. She took a glass of water in to her mother, but she was sleeping so soundly, Clara left it and tiptoed out. She went to bed early and lay listening to the sounds in the street below. She worried about what tomorrow would bring and how they would cope. She wondered if Vinnie wanted her mother to be more than just his friend’s widow. He was being very attentive. Before she could work out if this would be a good thing or a bad thing, Clara fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next day, she galvanised her mother into addressing their future. Patience remembered Harry talking about a will. They went to the bank, which had always dealt with the legal side of the business too. The manager, an old boxing friend of Harry’s, sat them down.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Mr Hopkins said, ‘but Harry died intestate.’
Patience looked at him blankly.
Clara asked, ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means there is no will. I was always on at him to make one. You will have to apply as his nearest beneficiary, Mrs Magee. We can arrange a solicitor to handle it all if you like.’
Clara looked at her mother and then at Mr Hopkins. ‘Can we afford one?’ she asked, feeling awkward.
Mr Hopkins cleared his throat. ‘Judging by your bank account, no. But there will be other assets, I assume. Stock, personal goods, insurance policies, perhaps?’ When they did not answer, he ploughed on, ‘Well, Harry owned the lease on the shop, I know that.’ He attempted a sympathetic smile. ‘I know this is hard to talk about at such a time, Mrs Magee, but there is much to sort out. Of course you can handle matters yourself, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Probate can be a complex matter.’
‘Probate?’ Patience echoed in bewilderment.
‘You have to list Harry’s assets and his debts before you can claim the remainder as yours. Then you apply for a grant of probate.’
‘How long will that take?’ Patience asked.
‘If he had made a will, it could all have been sorted out in a couple of months. But it may take considerably longer.’
‘Months?’ Patience gasped. ‘But I’ve a family to keep.’
The manager’s look was pitying. ‘Would you like me to appoint a solicitor?’
‘Aye, a cheap one,’ she answered bitterly.
The following day, they reopened the shop. Some of their regular customers called in to give a word of encouragement, but nobody was buying.
‘It’ll pick up,’ Clara reassured her mother, ‘once word gets round we’re open for business again.’
But the rest of the week was almost as bad. By Saturday, they had taken only four pounds six shillings and threepence ha’penny. It was barely a fortnight since Harry had died and no one was demanding money from them yet. The landlord’s agent, Mr Simmons, had told them they could leave payment till the end of the
month. Yet they needed money from somewhere. Jimmy was sent back to the pawnshop twice more with clothing and china.
On the Sunday, Clara and Jimmy tried to persuade their mother to take a walk in the park, but she would not leave the flat. The blinds remained drawn and she stayed in her room. Jimmy disappeared off, Clara did not know where, but she stayed to keep an eye on Patience. For the first time in two weeks she wrote up her diary, pouring out her feelings of loss for her father and his senseless death. She lay on her bed crying quietly and thinking of Reenie and her brothers hiking somewhere up country in the mellow September sunshine. If only she could turn back time two weeks and prevent her father’s suicide. She would never forgive herself for walking out that morning and leaving him to face his final day without her.
Her tortured thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door below. Looking out, she saw Vinnie’s gleaming black car parked in the road. Her heart sank, and she dodged out of sight. Perhaps her mother would answer. He knocked again, louder this time. She waited. Of course her mother would not answer; she was unable to face anyone in her present state of mind. To Clara’s shock, she heard the downstairs door open and Vinnie’s heavy tread coming up the stairs. The cheek of it! He was coming in uninvited.
‘Anyone at home?’ His deep voice rumbled along the corridor.
Clara’s heart thumped. Should she pretend to be asleep or face up to him?
‘Patience? Clara?’ he called, walking into the sitting room.
Annoyance flaring, Clara strode out of her room to confront him. ‘Mr Craven, what are you doing here?’ She meant to sound cross but her voice came out croaky after all her crying.
‘Wanted to make sure you were all right,’ he said in concern. ‘You’ve been crying.’ He whipped out a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She hesitated. ‘Go on, take it, please.’
Clara blew her nose. The handkerchief smelled of starch and cologne. She noticed the monogram, VC, embroidered in dark blue thread.
‘Thank you,’ she said, handing it back.
‘Keep it.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve plenty others.’
A HANDFUL OF STARS An enthralling story of poverty, passion and survival: one of the Tyneside Sagas Page 9
