by Mia Dolan
‘Just leave me alone, you stupid bitch! Do you hear me? Just leave me alone!’
She suddenly realised that she was holding the collar of Jane’s overall so tightly the girl’s face was turning pink.
Marcie came quickly to her senses, instantly regretful of what she had done. She released the stiff collar, flattening it with both hands – as if that was going to make any difference to someone like Jane Gale. Neither did her apology.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, quickly coming to. ‘You took me unawares.’ The sound of running water took her attention back to the sink where she’d swilled her face. She’d left the tap running and the water was beginning to spill over the edge.
Before she had chance to spring for the tap, Jane bounced back, her face contorted with a sickly grin. ‘Poke, poke, poke!’ Each word was accompanied with a jab of her finger.
This was too much! Marcie reached for the tap with one hand; with the other she grabbed Jane by the nape of the neck and ducked her head in the water.
Just seconds – that was all it was – but Jane came up dripping.
Marcie left her there.
‘You wait, Marcie Brooks!’ Jane shouted after her. ‘I’ll tell on you. You just wait. I’ll tell on you.’
Marcie shook her head and couldn’t help smiling because Jane sounded so juvenile, just like a schoolgirl threatening to tell teacher. The problem was this was more serious. Marcie hadn’t meant to lose her temper but she was tired and she’d had enough of Jane’s bullying. She consoled herself with the thought that Jane was really the one at fault. She had as much right to complain about Jane as Jane had to complain about her. All she hoped was it wouldn’t come to that, after all, Miss Pope was bound to side with her niece.
For the rest of that day she kept her nose to the sewing machine. Watching the stitching grow down each boring seam was monotonous but also strangely mesmerising. Jane was put out of her mind, at least for now.
Miss Pope did not ask to see her. Nobody mentioned anything having happened in the ladies’ cloakroom. Nobody even seemed to notice that Jane’s thick fringe was wet or that her eye make-up was smudged into a murky sludge colour.
The day ended as it always did, with the day’s work being folded and put away, and the machines switched off. All is well, Marcie told herself.
The next morning Marcie walked past Jane with a spring in her step, confident that nothing had been said and nothing would be said.
Jane didn’t say a word and Marcie said nothing either. Nose in the air she collected some work and went straight to her machine.
It wasn’t until mid morning that a sudden cloud appeared. Miss Pope said she wanted to have a word with her.
That bitch Jane Gale! Had she done for her after all?
She looked in Jane’s direction. Her machine was standing idle, her seat empty, a pillowcase clamped in place ready for sewing.
She could be in the ladies’ cloakroom. Or she might already be with Miss Pope making good her story.
It was difficult not to be nervous, but she determined to stick up for herself. Jane had kept on and on until she’d retaliated. What else was she supposed to do?
Neatly folding her work, she noted where her stitching had got to so she could easily return to it and switched off the power supply.
They wouldn’t sack her for dipping Jane’s face in the water surely? She couldn’t have been immersed for more than three seconds – not long enough to drown her.
If all else fails I’ll have to apologise again, she said to herself. It wouldn’t be easy but she’d do it if she had to.
She walked to the door, certain she could feel the eyes of the other seamstresses burning into her back. She knew the other girls whispered that she was a bit standoffish but she couldn’t help that. Keeping slightly aloof was the strategy she’d adopted for keeping her unmarried mother state a secret. They’d understand that if they knew, but they didn’t know.
A nervous feeling knotted and bent and twisted itself around in her stomach.
Mouth dry, tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth, she followed Miss Pope into the tiny office where interviews were carried out and forms filled in.
Miss Pope had a kindly face, pink cheeks and rustcoloured hair turning grey at the roots. She didn’t resemble her niece in any way whatsoever. Seeing as Jane’s sewing wasn’t that brilliant, Marcie had no doubt that Miss Pope was being kind giving the girl a job. Just like me being kind to Garth, she decided. With a sudden pang of guilt she reminded herself that she hadn’t seen poor Garth for ages and neither had she sought him out. But I will do, she told herself, and at that moment in time, she really meant it.
Miss Pope was watering a spider plant when Marcie entered. She didn’t look up.
‘Sit down, Miss Brooks.’
Marcie nervously obeyed, rehearsing in her mind what she would say in her defence for dunking Jane like a biscuit.
She could still see Jane spluttering soapy water and wanted to laugh out loud at the thought of it.
The little watering can Miss Pope was holding so delicately between finger and thumb made a tinny noise as she placed it on top of a metal filing cabinet. She cleared her throat and folded her thick tweed skirt beneath her as she seated herself in the wooden swivel chair behind the desk. Her overall, Marcie had noticed, was hung up behind the door.
A buff-coloured folder sat on the blotting pad in front of her. A notepad sat on top of that. Something was noted on it; Jane’s claim to be an innocent victim no doubt.
Believing herself to be in the right, Marcie decided to come clean and explain what had happened before being accused of anything.
‘I can explain what happened. It wasn’t my fault,’ she blurted.
Miss Pope jerked her head up to face her. She looked quite stunned.
‘Miss Brooks! It really does not matter who is to blame for your position. That really is nothing to do with either me or the hospital board. The plain fact of the matter is that it is not our policy to employ women with children in this department. The fact that you are not married is neither here nor there as far as I am concerned. However, there are some elements on the hospital board to whom it does matter – it matters a lot. It is best for everyone here that you leave now before you are asked to leave. Your wages and all other monies due will be paid forthwith. I’ve asked the wages department to see to it straight away.’
Marcie sat stunned. This was not at all what she’d been expecting. Her pink lips stayed parted as she took it in. She’d been sacked! Not because of anything Jane had reported, but because someone – perhaps someone in the sewing room – had found out about her and passed the information on.
This was not the first time Miss Pope had had to let a girl go because she was pregnant, getting married or, like Marcie, unmarried with a child. If she had the choice she’d keep the girls on. But it wasn’t up to her. Some people on the board who held great sway with the decision making were very narrow minded.
She could see that Marcie was shocked.
Sighing, she clasped her hands before her, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned slightly forwards, her heart aching because of what the poor girl was going through.
‘Are you alright?’
Marcie’s face was very pale.
‘Would you like a cup of water?’
Marcie nodded. She felt devastated and betrayed. OK, she wasn’t keen on the work here. Hemming hundreds of bed sheets was mind numbing, but the pay was regular.
Strangely enough she was quite calm about leaving, about not having to come back here to work. She’d made no friends here, only worked to survive. There was only one question she badly wanted answered before she left.
Raising her eyes to meet those of Miss Pope, she asked, ‘How did you find out?’
‘We had a letter.’
Marcie knew it wouldn’t be answered, but she asked the obvious question. ‘Who was it from?’
Miss Pope shook her head. ‘I’m not allowed to say. Do you
deny the letter’s contents?’
Looking down at her tangled fingers, Marcie shook her head. Her fingers seemed to untangle by themselves, an after-effect of a great burden having been lifted. The truth was out.
‘Johnnie – my fiancé – got killed. He was riding a motorcycle. A lorry turned across his path.’ She shrugged. ‘We were going to get married.’
There was a moment of silence, the only sound the ticking of the blue plastic clock on the wall. It had gold-coloured hands that quivered as it marked off each second.
‘I’m sorry. I realise you’re a willing girl and in our judgement – mine and Miss Gardner’s – your work was exemplary.’
‘Unfortunately that’s not the sort of judgement that seems to matter here!’
She made no attempt not to snap or be polite. This woman was not to blame, but the hypocrisy of people! How did they expect her to live? Granted she had her sideline with Angie Babbington, but they weren’t to know that. Luckily Angie didn’t seem to care what Marcie got up to as long as the dresses kept coming.
Miss Pope sighed and looked away. ‘No wonder some girls end up on the streets. Who can blame them if they haven’t got a job?’
The legs of the chair scraped the tarnished brown linoleum as Marcie leaped to her feet.
‘Never mind, Miss Pope. Don’t you worry about me,’ she exclaimed, her head high, her tone strident. ‘Bugger the hospital! Bugger the bloody job! And bugger all them bloody sheets!’
Chapter Eleven
ROSA BROOKS WAITED until Marcie had gone to bed before talking to her husband. Her family knew she talked to him on occasion, but she did so only in private. She did not speak to him when the family was around. After all, they were still man and wife despite the fact that he’d crossed over into the spirit world years ago.
Her mouth never opened and closed when she spoke to him. Neither did any sound escape her lips. The words were in her head – or were they in her heart? Wherever they were, it didn’t really matter. She knew when Cyril was near. She heard him when he spoke to her.
Cyril had been serving in the Royal Navy when she’d met him. He’d been stationed on Malta, his ship anchored in Dockyard Creek close to the Royal Navy bakery and the treasury next door.
She’d been standing on the waterfront close to Victoria Gate staring at the water when he’d first set eyes on her. He’d been coming down in the lift from the city of Valletta which towered overhead. He’d obviously been drinking somewhere along The Gut with his seafaring mates. They’d been singing and shouting and swearing like drunken sailors do.
It was after midnight, a time when no respectable girl would normally be out. So, of course, the drunken sailors presumed she was not respectable.
For her part she’d barely heard their comments. Her eyes were misty and salt tears were running down her face to join the gentle waves lapping against the crumbling steps. One step and she would be in the water. The water was black and peppered with the odd orange light from the city above. It looked welcoming, so much more so than this life she was presently leading.
She had been about to jump when one of the sailors had put his arm around her.
‘Come away from that water.’
Cyril had been very persuasive. In all their married life he’d never asked her why she’d been standing at the water’s edge that night. And she’d never imparted the information. But he knew now he was on the other side. He knew everything now.
‘God bless our granddaughter,’ she whispered at the same time crossing her chest in the time-honoured way. ‘She will do great things. We will be proud of her,’ she said softly. She said it convincingly because she knew it was the truth. No matter what her family did, she would always be proud of them.
* * *
Marcie lay awake for a long time thinking of what her grandmother had said to her. ‘When one door closes, another opens.’
Rosa Brooks hadn’t reacted to the news of her being sacked in the way she thought she would.
‘Everything happens for a reason.’
She was reeling them off one after another – useless sayings that might or might not be true. They were probably invented to make people feel better, thought Marcie. Useless, stupid sayings. They weren’t really working, but then they didn’t need to. She’d left the hospital feeling surprisingly elated. She’d worried about meeting the orders when Angie Babbington had ordered extra dresses. She hadn’t counted on her designs getting this successful this quickly. It was like reaching a fork in the road. Should she opt for the security afforded by a regular job and a weekly wage, or jump off into the unknown and go into business for herself? As long as the proper job was there she would have held on to it. But she hadn’t held on to it. She’d lost it. There was no longer a choice – or rather, there was only one choice. Whoever had sent that letter had done her a favour. But who had sent it? Perhaps she would never know.
Chapter Twelve
MONDAY MORNING WAS a good day to deliver the black and white dresses to the shop. The day was bright – the sun was doing its best to break through the low-lying cloud – though judging by the wind direction it would rain later.
Although having recently lost her job, Marcie was feeling good. Making up the dresses had taken most of the weekend. It had been hard work but she consoled herself with the fact that now she was home it would no longer be such a chore. She’d finished pressing them that very morning using an iron heated on the gas ring and two or three damp cloths.
The dresses were enclosed in a polythene cover that her grandmother had acquired from a friend at the dry cleaner’s. The package was bulky, bouncing over the side of her arm, but her shoes had low chunky heels so she managed fine.
There was not the same crush of shoppers as there was on a Saturday so she made good time, getting there by one o’clock.
The door bell jangled merrily above her head as she entered. She bobbed her head above the racks of clothes.
Angie saw her. ‘Marcie! More frocks,’ she said excitedly.
‘More frocks! Two frocks,’ Marcie said.
They both laughed because they’d used Tony’s word for dresses. Using the word themselves had become something of a light-hearted joke.
Something – or rather someone – moved just behind Angie’s shoulder. It was Rita Taylor.
Rita’s small blue eyes went straight to the two dresses. Angie had removed their covering and hung them up high enough for her to inspect before accepting them – though that’s what she would most definitely do.
It had been some time since Marcie had seen Rita; in fact she’d purposely kept out of her way. There were three reasons. The first was that as a new mother they really wouldn’t have much in common. Rita was still footloose and fancy free. Secondly her generosity in supplying her with birth pills had been an outright sham. It was partly her fault that Marcie had got pregnant. The third reason was that Rita’s father had done her a lot of harm. OK, he’d fetched her from the home for unmarried mothers, but she couldn’t forget that he’d raped her. She knew that wasn’t anything to do with Rita but even so. In her heart forgiveness towards either of the Taylors would be a long time coming.
Rita’s eyes were narrowed. Her small mouth was pursed like a squashed rosebud.
Marcie managed to say hello, though it was guarded, not at all like the exuberant greeting of the past before everything had changed.
Rita returned the greeting, but that was it. She moved in on the dresses, contemptuously fingering the hems.
‘New stock?’
Unaware of the bad vibes flowing between these two, Angie answered exuberantly, ‘They are indeed! And very sought after. Miss Brooks designs and makes them for us. Would you like to order one for yourself?’
Marcie knew instinctively what would happen next.
Rita turned up her nose. ‘Humph! I don’t think so. Luckily I’ve got the money to purchase better quality gear from proper designers and boutiques in the King’s Road. Sorry.’
She attempted to brush past, leaving Angie with her mouth hanging open.
Marcie stopped her. She smiled sweetly as she eyed Rita up and down from her blonde bob to her short skirt and plump legs. ‘I don’t think I could accommodate Miss Taylor anyway. I haven’t enough material to make something in that large a size!’
It wasn’t in her nature to be so cutting about anyone’s shape, but this girl had done her so much harm. She couldn’t help it.
A puce-coloured blush spread from Rita’s cheeks all the way down her neck. Marcie almost expected steam to come rushing down her nostrils. Luckily the moment when they might have fallen into a cat fight passed without incident – except for the doorbell. Rita slammed the door so hard that it fell from its spring and hit the floor, rolling over and over, its clapper clanging all the while.
It suddenly came to her that she might have done the wrong thing in upsetting Rita. After, all she was a customer of Angie’s.
‘Angie, I do apologise. She’s a friend of mine. Correction, a former friend of mine.’
Angie gave her a direct look. ‘I’m glad you said former friend. If she’d been a true friend I’d have advised you that you had no need of enemies. And think nothing of it. I can do without customers like her.’
Talk of fashion and future orders took their minds off the incident. Angie wanted more of Marcie’s designs. ‘Could you manage to make three a week? I’d prefer four, but I know it’s a lot when you’re holding down a job as well …’
‘It’s fine,’ Marcie said brightly. ‘I gave up the job. I’ve decided to work for myself so four should be no problem.’
Angie’s eyes lit up. ‘That is absolutely great. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind me showing these to a London friend of mine. She’s got a boutique in Chelsea … would you mind?’
Marcie could hardly believe her ears. Would she mind? Of course she wouldn’t mind! In fact she almost cried with joy, and also with laughter. Angie asked her what she was laughing about and she just had to tell her what was going through her mind. There was Rita, cow that she was, boasting that she bought all her clothes in the King’s Road. Well, watch out for me, Rita Taylor. You might well be buying one of my dresses anyway.
