The Stanford Lasses

by Glenice Crossland

  ‘You’re telling me that Walter Wray has a mole on his …’ He stopped, too embarrassed to say any more.

  ‘On his willie,’ Old Mother whispered. ‘So I stabbed him. Then he ran away, went home as I thought. I didn’t know I’d killed him. But I’m not sorry, only that I didn’t chop it off.’

  ‘You didn’t kill, Walter Wray, Miss Buttercup. He drowned in the river.’

  ‘So aren’t yer going to lock me up then, for stabbing him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I think anyone would have done the same in the situation you were in. Nay, my old love, I don’t think you’ll be hearing any more about it. But I thank you for solving the puzzle.’

  ‘Will yer take a glass of elderberry wine before you go?’

  ‘Not whilst I’m on duty, but I might call in later and have a drop.’

  Old Mother flopped back on to the pillow when he had gone, and knew if he came back later he would be too late. She had carried out her last good deed. Old Mother prayed for God’s forgiveness for the lie she had told, but was in no doubt that one lie against all the good she had done in her life would balance the scales of judgement in her favour. Now with relief she could give herself up to the weakness which was gradually defeating her. She sighed a deep sigh of contentment. Soon she would be with her lover and her child, and this time there would be no turning back. She saw the light coming towards her, more brilliant than the brightest sun. She held out her hands in welcome and was carried away, leaving her cottage for the last time.

  When Olive came to tell Grandma Burlington that Billy had been released she found her old friend smiling as though something was amusing her, but no one would ever know what, for Old Mother was far away, at peace with the angels, never to return.

  Olive knew what she must do. Grandma Burlington had told her. She was to look in the black tin box in the bedroom, where Old Mother hadn’t slept for months. She found the box and the envelope, on which was written Last Will and Testament. Her hands shook as she saw the box was half full of bank notes, five pounds and one pounds. There was also a book for the Yorkshire Bank. Olive locked the box carefully and carried it down the narrow, winding stairs. Then she left the cottage and locked the door.

  She ran all the way home and gave the door key to her mother, leaving Lizzie to arrange for the old lady’s laying out. Then she delivered the tin box to the tall, gabled house in the main street, with the brass plate on the door displaying the name of the solicitor. Her heart was almost bursting, since she had run the whole way, and she was relieved when the door wasn’t opened immediately, giving her time to regain her composure.

  The woman who bade Olive to enter resembled a wizened-up prune, especially as she was dressed in brownish purple from top to toe, but she seemed kind and invited Olive to be seated and indicated a high-backed leather-upholstered chair. Then she left her and entered another room with a Private sign on the door.

  Olive wondered if she had been forgotten and coughed a few times to remind them she was there. After what seemed an age she was asked to follow the prune woman into the private room.

  The solicitor was the tallest, thinnest man Olive had ever met, and the only one she had ever seen wearing gold rings. She couldn’t help staring when he walked round the desk and shook her hand.

  ‘How do you do, Miss Crossman? I trust you are well?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m very well, thank you,’ Olive replied.

  ‘Allow me to offer my condolences on the death of Miss Burlington.’ Olive didn’t know what to say to that so remained silent. ‘Are you aware that Miss Burlington was quite wealthy?’

  ‘Not until today, when I opened her box and saw all the money.’

  ‘Then it is all the more to your credit that you saw to the old lady’s needs without any expectation of gain.’ The man opened the will form and studied it silently and at length, and Olive thought that if he went any thinner he would be just a skeleton.

  ‘And now, I am happy to say that you are a wealthy young lady.’

  Olive didn’t answer.

  ‘Did you know that Miss Burlington had bequeathed her cottage to you?’

  Olive wasn’t sure what bequeathed meant and wished she had paid more attention during English lessons at school.

  ‘You are now the owner of Miss Burlington’s cottage, as well as a very large sum of money. No doubt you are unaware that Miss Burlington’s father, after many years of estrangement, had a change of heart, discovered the whereabouts of his daughter and bequeathed his estate to her. Miss Burlington, however, chose to invest her inheritance, except for a large amount which she has donated to charitable causes over the years. Oh, there are some formalities to be negotiated, but I think I can safely say that within a month everything will be in order.’

  Olive was speechless, as she suddenly realised what the solicitor was explaining.

  ‘Miss Burlington requires your father to be nominated as your trustee, until you come of age. Does that seem agreeable to you?’

  Olive suddenly found her tongue. ‘Does that mean the money is mine? All the money in the box?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, much more than that. And the cottage can be rented, to bring in further income, until you wish to take possession of it in the future. Of course it could be sold if you wanted.’

  Olive was shocked at the suggestion that anyone else should ever occupy Grandma Burlington’s home.

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Crossman, I can safely say that before the month is out you will be an extremely wealthy young lady.’

  ‘And can I give some to my mam and dad, and my brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Well, we shall have to discuss that with your father. I dare say an amount can be made available for your immediate requirements. Though I advise you to accept Miss Burlington’s wishes and let your father handle your affairs until you reach the age of responsibility.’

  Olive’s mind was in a whirl. She was rich, or so the thin man said.

  ‘So I will make a further appointment for you in due course. In the meantime, may I be the first to congratulate you on your good fortune and to say how much Miss Burlington valued your friendship.’

  Olive suddenly became aware that he was discussing Grandma Burlington in the past tense. The hectic events of the day had prevented it from penetrating that her old friend was dead. Now she could feel the tears welling and her throat filling as she realised she would never see her again. Then, to her horror, Olive burst into tears, right there with the thin man watching her. He came round the desk and offered her an immaculate white handkerchief and rang a bell so that the prune woman came fussing in with a tray on which she carried a coffee pot and two tiny cups. Olive had never tasted coffee and wasn’t sure she liked it, but it smelled lovely, and when she was handed a plate of chocolate biscuits the tears disappeared as if by magic. Just fancy, she thought, she could eat chocolate biscuits every day from now on if she wished. She smiled her most ravishing smile at the thin man, and he wished, oh, how he wished, that he was at least twenty years younger.

  Olive Crossman’s tears flowed profusely as Old Mother was laid to rest beside her child in the churchyard on the hill. The funeral procession was one of the largest ever to be seen in Cottenly and amongst the followers were many with reason to be grateful to Olive Burlington, either for their safe delivery into the world, or for her healing and advice whilst in it. Most mourners shed tears as they laid flowers along the grass verge of the churchyard path and everyone agreed that Olive Burlington would be sadly missed. It was all in vast contrast to the small gathering at the grave of Walter Wray. Only the family and one or two workmates and drinking pals from the Rag bothered to attend the ceremony and Ruth was saddened that her husband had commanded so little respect from the townspeople. Nevertheless, she strove to remember the man she had first known, the handsome, outgoing man who had courted her in her youth. Yet even for him she found she could shed no tears. The compassion she felt was for his elderly parents and sister, for after all Walter had been o
f their own flesh and blood. Ruth vowed that they would receive more comfort from their grandchildren than they had ever received from their son, who had brought them nothing but shame over the years.

  She wondered what she would do now that Walter was no longer bringing home a wage, for though he had given her very little the rent had been deducted from his pay every Friday and she knew it would be within the firm’s rights to insist she vacate the house now that he had gone. She pinned her hopes on the management’s being of a compassionate frame of mind when she went – as she must – to appeal for the tenancy to be signed over to her. She must stress that her son was hoping to join the firm as soon as he was allowed to leave school and had already been offered a position. Even so, Ruth was apprehensive as she waited for the interview with the manager on the day following the funeral.

  Mr Hubert Hancock was a red-faced, stocky man who seemed to have difficulty prising his body from the chair to shake her by the hand. He had heard all about the woman’s impoverished lifestyle and the brute of a husband she had had to deal with. He had sent a wreath, not out of respect for an employee but as a small token of consolation for his widow. Mr Hancock was a hardened individual who demanded sweat, and sometimes blood, from his workers. But fortunately, where a pretty woman was concerned, he was soft as a pound of putty.

  ‘Well, Mrs Wray, do sit down.’ He indicated a chair opposite his where he could admire her at close range.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘May I offer you my condolences at this tragic time?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve come for your husband’s outstanding wages.’ He opened a drawer and took out a wage packet which he placed on the desk.

  ‘Oh, no, sir. I didn’t know he had any money due to him. No, sir, I’m here to ask you for the tenancy of the house. I won’t fall behind with the rent and I’ll keep the place clean – you can inspect it if you wish. Only if you decide to evict us I don’t know what will become of us, the children and me.’ Ruth hadn’t intended to cry but suddenly the worry of it all became more than she could bear, what with her beating, Billy’s arrest and the funeral. It had all been bottled up inside her and now she could no longer control its release.

  ‘Oh, my dear Mrs Wray.’ Hubert Hancock never could abide to see a woman in tears, especially a lovely, feminine creature like Ruth Wray. He hurried towards her, went down on his knees and spread his arms round her. He couldn’t help but compare her warm softness with the stiff, corseted figure of his wife. Ruth’s breasts, heavy and swollen with milk, were only inches away from him. It was almost more than he could bear. He dabbed at her cheeks with an initialled hanky, devouring the beauty of her large, sorrowful eyes, and the lips which seemed to be inviting his own to caress them. He withdrew hastily, ashamed of the desire rising within him. ‘My dear Mrs Wray, please don’t distress yourself. It grieves me to see a woman cry.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It is unforgivable of me to behave in such a manner.’ Ruth managed a weak smile. ‘You are very kind, Mr Hancock, sir.’

  ‘Not at all. Now I’m sure we can arrange a transfer of tenancy, particularly as your son will be joining our firm in the near future.’

  Ruth was lost for words. She stared at the man with large, unbelieving eyes. ‘You mean we can stay in the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, sir, you won’t regret your kindness, I’m sure. Our Billy’s ever such a good worker, I promise.’ She rose to her feet.

  ‘No, I’m sure I won’t regret it.’ Mr Hancock took her hand in his, a fat, sweaty hand, but Ruth shook it warmly. ‘Don’t go without the pay packet. I’m sorry it’s not more, but Mr Wray had been absent from work for two days the week before he died, you understand.’

  ‘I know.’ Ruth blushed and then thought how mean it was to stop two days’ wages from a dead man. But she had the house and, to Ruth, a roof over the heads of her children was all that mattered. She would worry about the rent money later. ‘I’m so grateful, Mr Hancock, sir.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome, Mrs Wray. Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon, and thanks again.’ She almost skipped out of the office but knew he was watching her as she walked across the yard and out of the gates. She realised it was her slim figure and decent looks which had appealed to his better nature and wondered why she felt so uneasy. She told herself she was imagining things, but remained unconvinced as she hurried back to Wire Mill Place. Suddenly, however, she experienced a feeling of freedom, for the first time since moving into Wire Mill Place. Freedom from fear, freedom to laugh, to sing and look pretty, freedom from the jealousy and brutality that had filled the house since the day she had been fool enough to marry Walter Wray.

  Chapter Five

  For the first time ever, as far as Lizzie could remember, Olive was causing mayhem in the house, with her sulks and tantrums. She would start as soon as she rose in the morning and as soon as she arrived home in the evening. Not that it was for her own benefit that she was nagging away at George. All she wanted was to be allowed to spend some of her inheritance on other people. First of all she wished to buy her mother a lovely new dress she had seen in Caroline Swann’s window. Then she decided her brothers and sisters should all have a bicycle like their Joseph’s. It was only when she began going on about having her beautiful long dark tresses cut and permed in a hideous new style like one of the girls from the mill that George put his foot down.

  ‘Look, Olive, you would never have had the money at all if it hadn’t been for Old Mother, and now you are not even respecting her wishes. Do you think that’s fair?’

  ‘Grandma Burlington wouldn’t mind me buying a few things.’

  ‘Oh yes she would. The inheritance is for your future. She deliberately requested that I should take care of your interests until I think you’re responsible enough to handle them, and the way you’re acting at present you’re not in the least responsible.’ Olive coloured at his words. ‘Look, love, if Old Mother could see you now, do you think she’d be pleased by your tantrums, or that you were going against her wishes?’ Olive said nothing but George could see her lip trembling. ‘Do you know what I think, Olive love?’ She looked at her father questioningly. ‘I believe Old Mother can see you now. I don’t think you go away just because your body isn’t here any more. I think Old Mother will be watching over you, guiding you, until you’re a little bit older at least. So why don’t you prove you’re worthy of her money? The money she worked hard for all those years. Surely you don’t wish to squander it all away? It wouldn’t be fair. I think she meant you to carry on in the way she had taught you, but not just yet. You’re fourteen, love. Give it a year or two, and then we’ll invest in your future. In the meantime, sell your scents and potions to the girls at work, anywhere you like, see how well they go, and I promise you, if you still wish it, in two years’ time I’ll have some of the money released to set you up with a stall, not in Cottenly but in Sheffield market, where you’ll be inside, protected from the weather.’

  Olive’s face radiated happiness and her eyes glistened, ‘Oh, Dad! Do you really mean it? A stall in Castle Market?’

  ‘I mean it. So now, can we have a bit of peace and quiet? And let me tell you a secret.’ Olive listened eagerly. ‘They are all having a bike for Christmas. I’ve already arranged it, out of the rise I was given on my promotion. I’ve been paying so much a week into the savings club, but don’t you be letting on.’

  Olive giggled. ‘I won’t, Dad, honest. Oh, and Dad, I won’t mention the money again.’ She wrapped her arms round his neck, happy that they were friends again, because she did love her dad, and he was right about Grandma Burlington being here. Olive could sense her, especially when she went to the cottage where she was busy making packets of pot pourri and mixed herbs. She had also almost perfected a cough mixture which Grandma Burlington had started to concoct before she died. Sometimes Olive would be unsure how much ginger or lemon to add to the mixture and it would come
to her out of the blue, just as if her old friend was whispering in her ear. She knew help would always be at hand, as long as there was work to do, and she was determined never to let Old Mother down. She would be a herbalist – maybe part time at present, but as soon as she was sixteen she would be a full-time one on a stall in Castle Market. Her dad had promised.

  Alice and Joe proved to be worth their weight in gold to Ruth after the funeral. Joe arranged for her to receive the widow’s pension of ten shillings, as well as five shillings for Billy and three shillings for the others. Alice also promised to care for little Margaret if Ruth wished to find employment, rather than take in washing. She also visited the pawnshop and retrieved the canteen of cutlery and other bits and pieces pawned by Walter. Ruth shed more tears at the kindness of her friends and family than she had shed on the death of her husband, and she actually felt a sense of guilt at the relief she experienced now she was free of his fearsome presence. Even the children seemed more relaxed, and Ruth endeavoured to make up for the unhappiness of the past years. Mrs Armitage kept an eye on her and presented her with a sum of money she had collected from neighbours and members of the chapel, and another sum donated by the girls from the umbrella mill where Ruth had once been employed. ‘No point in buying flowers, yer can’t eat them,’ she told Ruth, reducing her once more to tears as she realised some of the contributing neighbours were probably even poorer than herself.

  ‘Come on, lass, there’s nowt to cry about. You’ve a future ahead of yer, four lovely kids, and things can only get better.’

  ‘I know. I’m not miserable – it’s the kindness that makes me cry, folks I never thought would care. I know I’m daft but I can’t help it.’

  ‘Perhaps yer don’t feel miserable, but all the same yer need something to buck yer up.’