by Pam Weaver
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Bea, ‘but where do we start? The task seems enormous.’
‘Getting our ladies to do first aid would be a start,’ said Mrs Hayward pointedly.
Bea glanced down at her hands. The blue hardback book was set out as a series of lectures. She supposed the idea was to do one a week. She let it fall open and came to the fourth lecture:
Insensibility – when breathing is absent (asphyxia) . . . practical instruction – artificial respiration.
She could see the sense of it all. Right now, if she found someone who wasn’t breathing, she wouldn’t know what to do. Under those circumstances, the best she could offer was a scream for help. She still didn’t know how to administer artificial respiration, but the lessons would make her better equipped. There were illustrations throughout the book: a picture of a dislocated elbow, the St John tourniquet (a piece of webbing with a buckle and a twister) – although why on earth you would need such a thing, she hadn’t a clue – and a diagram of the circulation of the blood. It all looked rather daunting and she felt slightly queasy.
Mrs Hayward was watching her. ‘Do you think you can help us out?’
‘I can but try,’ Bea said.
‘That’s not all I want,’ Mrs Hayward said, leaning forward and resting her palm on Bea’s hand. ‘Did you know that, if war comes, the government is planning to disperse hundreds – maybe thousands – of people out of the cities all over the country?’
‘I’ve heard rumours,’ said Bea faintly, ‘but I wasn’t sure if there was any truth in it.’
‘Oh, believe me, Mrs Quinn, there is,’ said Mrs Hayward stoutly. ‘If push comes to shove, we have got to be involved. I’m trying to find out about it.’
Bea put her hand up. ‘I admire your enthusiasm, my dear,’ she said gently, ‘but one thing at a time.’
Mrs Hayward wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. ‘You are so right, Mrs Quinn,’ she chuckled. ‘I do get carried away, don’t I? First aid first.’
The manageress was hovering nearby. Mrs Hayward looked at her watch. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘it’s almost five-thirty. I think we’ve outstayed our welcome. My car is parked outside. Can I give you a lift, Mrs Quinn?’
‘That would be most kind,’ said Bea.
They gathered their things and walked from the restaurant. ‘You know,’ said Mrs Hayward over her shoulder, ‘we need as many people as we can get.’
‘I’m positive I can muster at least ten women,’ said Bea, ‘but where shall we hold the meetings?’
‘Farncombe Road,’ said Mrs Hayward. ‘St John’s have a headquarters there.’ They stepped out into the dark evening and she smiled broadly. ‘I’m so glad you’ve caught the vision, Mrs Quinn. I believe with all my heart that, between us, we could make a formidable team.’
As Mrs Hayward led the way to her parked car, Bea smiled to herself. A formidable team – she rather liked the sound of that.
Jim had decided to go and look at the sea. The guest house wasn’t far from the front, but the high shingle bank hid the water from view. It was a pleasant evening and Ruby was at her mother’s, so he pushed the wheelchair himself, leaning over the back and placing his hands on the armrests. When he got tired he could sit on the seat until he’d mustered enough strength to make his way back. He knew he had to exercise his legs, but he had also learned that if he did too much they would throb at night, robbing him of sleep, and his knees would ‘give way’ the next day. There was nothing more scary than putting your weight on a leg that suddenly wasn’t there any more. He didn’t often hurt himself badly, because the experience had taught him to go with the fall rather than resist it.
He crossed Marine Parade and found his way up a slope onto the walkway. The wind was keen but the sea sparkled. A few fluffy clouds wandered high above his head, but the sky was relatively clear. Couples strolled by arm-in-arm on the beach. A few diehard day-trippers were putting their empty flasks into their bags and making their way up the beach. Sandy-faced children, tired and complaining, followed in their wake. To his left as he faced the sea, Worthing pier with its magnificent Southern Pavilion and its newly added sun-screen reminded him of happier times, and of the summer. He recalled the day of Ruby’s birthday a couple of years back and the first tentative steps he’d made towards her on his walking sticks. Oh, he had had such high hopes of a complete recovery back then. Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Jim took a deep breath. Overhead, gulls swooped and dived, their raucous call reminding him of fishing boats and seaside photographs. He aimed for a bench facing the sea a little further along. A lone woman sat there, but the seat was plenty big enough for two people, and she might have moved on before he got there. If it felt intrusive to join her, he could always go another fifty yards and sit down on the wheelchair.
As he got closer, she looked familiar. Closer still, he realized it was Edith Gressenhall. Her head was bent low and she seemed deep in thought.
‘Hello, Edith.’
She looked up and he was startled to see that she’d been crying. She wiped her eyes quickly and blew her nose. ‘Hello, Jim. How nice to see you.’
He sat on the other end of the bench, slightly embarrassed, and wondered what to say next. ‘Are you all right, love?’
To Jim’s consternation, Edith burst into tears.
Jim froze. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She stood up. ‘No, no, don’t go, Edith. Is there any way I can help?’ He saw her hesitate. ‘Please sit down again. Tell me.’
She lowered herself onto the seat and wiped the end of her nose with her already sodden handkerchief. Jim fished around in his pocket and handed her his freshly laundered one.
Edith took it gratefully and, shaking it out, dried her eyes and blew her nose again. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said brokenly.
Oh God, he thought. She’s going to tell me there’s something up with her marriage. ‘I’m not as clever as Ruby,’ he began.
‘I can’t pay the rent,’ she blurted out.
He stared at the top of her bent head. Oh dear. She must need some lessons on looking after money. Funny, he’d never had her down as a girl who was frivolous with her money.
She opened her bag. ‘I went to the fishmonger to buy a mackerel for Bernard’s tea and tried to pay him with this.’ She handed Jim a five-pound note. ‘I wanted the change, do you see? I’ve got the rest of the rent money in the book, and I planned to come to your place to settle up. Save Ruby a journey. Only Mr White, the fishmonger, says this is a forgery. And now I can’t pay the rent.’
Jim examined the note. He’d never seen a forgery before and he’d only ever seen a couple of five-pound notes, but somehow this one didn’t feel right. He held it up to the light, but it seemed normal. He studied it more carefully. Was he missing something? Britannia was on the left-hand side at the top. The numbers were repeated on the note twice: A 223 and 03016. He’d have to check the numbers with a bank to be absolutely sure, but if the fishmonger had spotted something, then – without being offensive – it had to be something a little more obvious. The signature of the Bank of England’s Chief Cashier looked fine: K.O. Peppiatt; and the note promised to ‘pay the Bearer’ and all that. But then he saw the glaring mistake: the date written on the cheque was February 29th, 1933. He pointed it out to Edith.
‘It’s the date,’ he said. ‘This must have been what Tobias White noticed. 1933 wasn’t a leap year. That was 1932, and then again last year. Where did you get it?’
‘Bernard gave it to me.’
‘And where did he get it?’
‘I think it was from the man who bought one of his model engines,’ said Edith. ‘He paid him with three of them. Bernard will be heartbroken.’ Her husband had been making model engines for some time as a hobby. Everyone agreed that he was very skilled, and each engine took the best part of a year to make.
Jim raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘You should take them back,’ he said. ‘You’ll ha
ve to tell the buyer they were dud notes.’
‘What if he doesn’t believe us?’ said Edith. ‘We’ve got no proof they came from him.’
‘If the chap can afford to pay fifteen pounds for a model engine,’ said Jim, ‘he can afford to put it right.’
‘And if he won’t?’
‘Then you and Bernard need to go to the police.’
Edith nodded dully. ‘In the meantime, what am I going to do about the rent? I know you and Ruby are our friends, but I don’t want to take advantage.’
‘You say you’ve got some of it?’ said Jim.
‘We pay monthly,’ Edith explained. ‘I’m one pound ten shillings short.’
‘Give me the book and what you’ve got there,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll put the one pound ten shillings in when I get back home. You can pay me back as and when.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘Oh, Jim,’ she said, her fingers trembling over her mouth, ‘you would really do that?’
He put his hand out for the rent book and she handed it to him.
‘Ruby always signs it for us,’ said Edith.
‘Ruby is out at the moment,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll tell her you came and that you’ll stop by for it tomorrow.’
Edith regarded him gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
He stood to go.
‘Would you like me to push you back home in the chair?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be all right,’ said Jim. He took a few steps, then looked back. ‘By the way, this is just between you and me, right?’
‘Right,’ she smiled.
Ruby was late getting the tea ready. She had decided to have sausage and mash, Jim’s favourite. As she’d come up the road she had seen Jim leaning over the back of the wheelchair on his way to the postbox with another batch of letters and crosswords. He was getting a steady stream of acceptances now. Last week he had made almost five pounds. That was more than Eric next door made at the railway depot.
Ruby had visitors staying, but they would be out until late – a family wedding. That meant it was just her and Jim for dinner. By the time Jim got back, the sausages were in the pan waiting to be cooked and Ruby was chopping up some onions. Jim loved fried onion. All she had to do now was put a light under the potatoes and greens and she was well on her way. Jim walked in the door just as Ruby blinked back another tear. Not only was she upset about the baby and Bob, but it had just dawned on her that she’d left her Christmas shopping at the printer’s. Would Bob recognize it? Had she left anything inside the bag that would bring him to her door? Oh God, she didn’t want him turning up with it. She had no reason even to be in the shop.
‘Won’t be long,’ she said cheerfully. She stopped to blow her nose. Biscuit rubbed himself around her legs and she pushed him away crossly with her foot. ‘Stop it, Biscuit, you silly old cat.’
Jim took off his coat and hung it up. He kicked off his shoes. ‘What’s wrong?’
Ruby looked up. ‘Wrong?’ she said innocently. ‘Nothing. I’m peeling onions, that’s all.’
‘You’re pregnant,’ he said quietly. The atmosphere in the room became suddenly charged with electricity.
Ruby’s jaw dropped. ‘How . . . how did you . . . ?’ The words died on her lips.
‘I’m not a fool, Ruby,’ he said. ‘I hear you being sick every morning; you’re tired; you don’t like doing cooked breakfast; and you’re always in the toilet. You’re having a baby, aren’t you?’
She pressed her hand over her mouth. Her throat felt as if she’d swallowed a whole orange. ‘Oh, Jim,’ she squeaked.
He lowered himself onto the chair opposite her. He couldn’t meet her eye. His hand trembled slightly as he put it to his forehead and rubbed it, as if trying to remove the worry lines. ‘Are you going to leave me?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no.’
He seemed relieved, which made her feel guilty again. ‘I only did it the once, I promise,’ she said, quickly hanging her head. The silence between them grew.
‘Whose is it?’ he said eventually.
‘Please don’t ask me that, Jim,’ she said. ‘He means nothing to me.’
Silence again.
‘Have you told him?’
She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know.’
The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder by the minute.
‘So,’ said Jim, looking up at her for the first time, ‘what happens next?’
‘I guess that’s down to you,’ she choked. Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘I’ve reached the end of my options, and I have nowhere to go.’
For a split second she thought he was going to reach out to her, but he simply stared. ‘Do you want him?’ Jim’s face was expressionless.
Ruby shook her head again. ‘No – a thousand times no.’
He said nothing for several minutes, so she said, ‘It was a God-awful stupid mistake. I’m so, so sorry. I went to see Mrs Pickering,’ she blundered on, ‘but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it, either. I’m too scared. I’ll go away if you like, Jim. We’ll make something up. I’ll have the baby and I’ll give it up for adoption.’ She was crying now, hot miserable tears that ran off the end of her chin.
‘But you want children,’ he said.
‘I wanted your child,’ she said desperately.
‘And I can’t give you one,’ he said.
They sat in silence again, then Jim said, ‘Have the baby here, Ruby. We’ll tell everyone it’s mine.’
She gulped audibly and, wiping her eyes, stared at him in disbelief. Her head began to spin. She felt dizzy with joy. ‘Oh, Jim . . . I don’t deserve you.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he said, standing to his feet. ‘But we tell no one, right?’
‘Right,’ she said breathlessly.
He shuffled towards the door but, on reaching it, turned round again. ‘The bloke,’ he said, ‘does he look anything like me? Will people think it’s my baby?’
She hesitated for a second, then she said, ‘I suppose he does look a bit like you, Jim.’
‘Then we’ll say no more about it,’ he said, leaving the room.
CHAPTER 21
Rivka managed to find a few moments’ peace and quiet between serving the courses. Her employer was a hard woman and, since she’d had the German girl in her employ, she’d had Rivka in tears more than once. Although Mrs Hobden had a reputation for wonderful Christmas parties and lavish gifts, that day – and, for that matter, the week leading up to it – hadn’t been very enjoyable for Rivka.
‘Of course, you being Jewish, you don’t celebrate the season, do you?’ Mrs Hobden had said. ‘There’s little point in buying you a present.’
Rivka didn’t much care about presents, but she did care that Mrs Hobden had her on the go from six in the morning until gone midnight.
‘For heaven’s sake, girl, put your back into it. At this rate you’ll never get all the silver polished by four.’ ‘Rivka, where are my red slippers?’ ‘No, not the brown coat, stupid girl. Can’t you see I’m wearing my best hat!’
Mama and Papa never treated our servants so shabbily, Rivka thought ruefully. Furthermore, she was doing the work of three people. And there was so much to remember: small white apron when people came in the afternoon; washing on Monday; ironing on Tuesday. It was a good job she wasn’t expected to do the cooking as well. A cook-housekeeper came in most days, but she was a sullen woman who said as little as possible.
Rivka had been working for Mrs Hobden for nearly nine months and she was desperately lonely. The only joy in her life came when Ruby wrote to her. At first Ruby had written two or maybe three letters a week. They had tailed off now, probably because Rivka could only manage to reply once or twice a month. It took her so long to compose a letter, and there was very little spare time. Ruby’s letters didn’t tell her much, but they were most welcome. It was comforting to know that at least one other person in the world was thinking of her. Ruby had even sent her a Christmas card. Inside she had written, ‘I hope you have a w
onderful first Christmas in England.’ She meant well, but the hopelessness of the sentiment made Rivka cry.
It was when Mrs Hobden had dinner guests that she hated it the most. Cook prepared everything beforehand, so all she had to do was put the meal in the oven at the right time, but her workload almost doubled. Not only did every room have to be spotless, but she had to lay the table with the best china, and wash everything up and put it away before she was allowed to go to bed. It wasn’t easy. She was at her employer’s beck and call the whole time: ‘Rivka, more coffee.’ ‘Put more coal on the fire, Rivka.’ ‘Where are the clean stem-glasses, girl? We can’t drink out of tumblers.’
If the guests stayed until midnight, Rivka had to be available and, when they had gone, there was still all the clearing up to do. The next day Mrs Hobden would have a lie-in, but there was no lie-in for Rivka. Even if she’d gone to bed at two in the morning, she still had to be up at six to see to the fires and get breakfast.
Today was Christmas Day, and her employer had been more exacting than ever. Rivka was homesick and exhausted. She was in the middle of washing up the dinner plates when she heard a footfall behind her. A middle-aged man holding a large cigar in one hand and a half-full whisky glass in the other swayed in the doorway.
‘Is there something I can get you, sir?’
‘Toilet,’ he slurred.
The toilet? What on earth was he doing looking for the toilet downstairs in the kitchen? Rivka dried her hands on the tea towel and went to the doorway. ‘This way, sir.’
The man didn’t move. For some reason, Rivka felt a little uneasy. She recalled Ruby’s cautionary tales and realized that she couldn’t get past him without touching his portly belly. ‘Never allow yourself to be compromised,’ Ruby had warned her. ‘Be polite, but always keep your distance. Remember: some men take advantage, and if you are seen in an awkward situation, a man is likely to blame you, to save his own skin.’
She took a step back. ‘It’s down the passageway and to the left,’ she said, indicating with her arm.
The man touched his forelock and grinned. As he turned to go, she heard a quiet burp. He walked unsteadily down the corridor and Rivka went back to her dishes. The saucepans were kept on the high shelf and, as she reached up to place one above her head, she felt a hand on her breast. The pan landed on the shelf with a clatter, and Rivka cried out in shocked surprise. The man pushed himself against her, pinning her to the edge of the draining board. She tried to hit him away, but his hands were all over the place, and from that moment it seemed like he had the strength of ten men. One minute he was tugging at her dress, and the next she felt his hand on the inside of her bare thigh and moving towards her crotch.
