‘Good morning, Nelly.’ Mrs French came down the stairs a duster in her hand. ‘Nelly, you’re limping. What have you done?’
‘My dogs it was. Saw a cat an’ chased it, one each side of a lamp post an’ me ’oldin’ their leads. Smack I went, then fell over as one of them stopped sudden.’
‘Is it painful? Would you rather leave things for today?’ Mrs French hid a smile.
‘It’ll hurt whether I complain or not, so what’s the point makin’ a song an’ dance about it? Go straight up, shall I?’
‘Nelly, while you’re here, will you look for my purse? I’ve mislaid it. I hope it’s somewhere in the house.’
‘Oh Lor’. Much in it, is there?’
‘About two pounds. But it’s the keys I’m worried about. If I don’t find them I’ll have to have all the locks changed.’
‘Blow the keys, it would be me two pounds I’d be worryin’ about,’ Nelly muttered as she climbed the stairs with the box of cleaning materials. She never locked her cottage door. It didn’t fit well enough to allow the key to turn and even if it did she would rarely bother.
As Nelly was taking her money and putting on her coat to leave, the gate was partly opened, then closed hurriedly as the dogs began to bark furiously. Mrs French looked nervously at Nelly.
‘Who can that be?’
‘Expectin’ anyone are yer?’
‘Only Mrs Beynon for coffee. But she always comes by the front door.’
‘Yes, she would! Hang on to the dogs, I’ll go.’ Nelly opened the gate and saw a poorly-dressed man backing away, his eyes watching at ground level for the dogs. He was bearded and about sixty, Nelly guessed. His pink skin showed through the white and grey beard, as did pink lips and faded, greeny-blue eyes.
He carried a small haversack on his shoulders and from his appearance, Nelly guessed he was a tramp. His clothes, although clean, were frayed and ill-fitting. Underneath the repaired and patched jacket, she saw several layers of shirts and at least two jumpers.
Nelly turned back to Mrs French and in a whisper, that carried as well as a paperboy’s shout, said, ‘It’s one of them tramps. Got any cake, ’ave yer?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs French backed into her kitchen and handed her a tin. ‘Give him this, but tell him not to come here again.’
‘Bobby an’ Spotty won’t ’urt yer,’ Nelly reassured the man. ‘Want somethin’ to eat, do yer? Bit of cake, will that do?’
When the tramp spoke, his voice was soft, modulated and it took Nelly by surprise. ‘Are you Mrs French?’ he asked. Nelly laughed. ‘Blimey no! I’m ’er daily ’elp. D’you want to see her then?’
‘No,’ he still had an eye on the dogs, straining to investigate. ‘It’s just this.’ He held out a purse. ‘Rather foolish to have a name and an address with keys to the house, isn’t it?’
Nelly was staring at him. ‘You talk posh for a – gentleman of the road.’
He shrugged deprecatingly and offered her the purse.
‘’Ere, Mrs French, ’e’s found yer purse. The two pound’s still there.’
‘That’s very good of him.’ Mrs French didn’t come any closer. ‘Give him the money for his trouble, will you Nelly, and thank him.’
‘What, all of it?’
The tramp moved so he could see through the gate and he waved politely at Mrs French, who was standing gripping the rope leads. ‘Thank you, ma-am,’ he said.
‘Don’t mind ’er. Scared of strangers, she is,’ Nelly said in one of her hoarse whispers as she closed the gate behind him. ‘Good luck, mate.’
Nelly took the leads and prepared to go, but Mrs French called her back.
‘I have a coat here that might suit you. It’s thinner than the one you’re wearing, better for this warm weather.’ She went inside and returned with a green tweed coat which she held up for Nelly to see. ‘It came with some other unwanted clothing for the jumble, but as it’s a good quality I thought…’
Nelly held the coat against her, her dirt-grained fingers stroked the green velvet collar and she mmm’d and aahh’d with pleasure. She knew it wouldn’t fasten around her ample figure but she could slip it on, and show off to Evie and Tim. ‘Very smart. My Evie would approve of this.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs French said at once. ‘She would be so pleased to see you dressed less—’ she searched for a word that wouldn’t offend ‘less – casually. Very dress-conscious, your Evie.’
‘Ta, dearie. You’re good to me. Proper lady you are.’
Mrs French smiled. ‘Just see that you wear it – to please Evie.’
Nelly stroked the coat again. ‘Green’s me favourite colour an’ perhaps I’ll get used to showin’ a bit more leg, eh?’ She laughed her harsh laugh and went through the high gate, almost running as she tried to keep up with the enthusiastic dogs. Once the gate was shut and she was out of sight, she stopped, and rubbed her leg, and walking more slowly, went home.
* * *
Prue finished polishing the brass pokers and placed them in the tiled grate. Taking off the gloves she wore for dirty work, she washed them, hung them out to dry then went into Harry’s office. She was having a late coffee with Monica French to discuss some ideas for the next social evening, but there was time to do some work on the books first.
Although Harry had been home most evenings since she had taken on the task, there was no change in the amount of time he gave her, she thought with a tightening of her lips. She would go to bed alone and lie waiting, hoping he would come to her, willing him to want her as he had done when they had been first married. Her thoughts increased her desire, but every night she slept alone, asleep long before Harry turned off the lights and climbed the stairs to sleep in the back bedroom.
Before she began work, she made a list for shopping. She would buy something specially good for his dinner. He loved his food and something with onions always made him feel content. Her mother had told her that years ago.
‘Forget fancy undies and scent,’ she had said firmly, ‘fried onions is the thing for putting a man in a good mood.’ Prue smiled at the memory, but it was worth a try.
She worked steadily at the books for an hour, then something puzzled her. The copper pipe used in a house improvement did not have an invoice. She searched but it was not there. She made a note to remind her to ask Harry about it, and went on. But the item continued to make her curious, she half-remembered something similar with plaster-boards, and she began to look through other jobs, starting from the invoices, in case the pipe had been entered in another place by mistake. Instead, she found more sheets on which goods had been used, but not entered in as being bought.
Carefully she went through the invoices and noted the purchases of copper tube and fittings, and plaster-boards. There were too few for the work being done. She sat and thought for a while, then tackled the mystery another way. The work Harry had done for Amy would be a simple one to check. She had helped with the estimate and had suggested a few ideas herself, like the new sink-unit. Plumbing goods had been used for the extended heating too, both in the shop and upstairs.
Getting the relevant files, she found the pages referring to the shop and to her surprise and growing alarm, saw it entered as a small repair job. There was nothing about the materials supplied, except for a few bags of cement and plaster and the items associated with them.
She sat looking around her at the rows of box-files and paper files and envelope files which lined the walls in front of her. Harry had covered the expense of Amy’s work, but what else besides? Her mouth curled with resentment when she thought of her sister. Why did everyone want to help Amy? She’s an immoral woman, Prue thought, her jaw tightening. Two children, no hint of who had been the father. Dressing like a sixteen-year-old, all that sparkling jewellery, obviously common, yet Harry had taken a risk and altered the books to give her the work for virtually nothing.
She left the books where they were and walked upstairs. From the landing window she saw Nelly leaving, limping she guessed from h
er fall earlier. She saw there was a green coat across her arm. More excuses to go into town and buy drink. She thought it very wrong of Monica; perhaps she ought to have a word with Evie about it.
She touched up her makeup and prepared to go to Monica’s. She had never felt less like going out. She wanted to tear down the files and go through them with her accountant’s eye, search them for what else she didn’t know about Harry. To think he could be dishonest. And to help Amy of all people.
She drank a glass of cold water, trying to calm herself. Should she talk to Harry? Tell him what she knew? She shook her head as she washed the glass and replaced it on the cupboard shelf. Best to do nothing hasty. Tomorrow, while Harry was out, she would do a bit more digging in the files including the ones Harry kept locked away. She had a key, not used for years, but it was still tucked away with the other keys of the house cupboards and drawers.
Stepping out through the front door, she looked back, then went inside again, and tidied all the papers before going to talk to Mrs French.
* * *
Nelly bought fish and chips on the way home and sat outside eating them out of the paper, sharing them with the dogs, and the hens, and the robin who ignored the dogs and hopped along to share her feast. The gate creaked and they all looked up, and Nelly groaned with dismay.
‘’Ello, Evie. Never expected you today.’
‘Mother, why are you sitting on the ground?’
‘Can’t eat standin’ up; that wouldn’t be proper,’ Nelly grinned.
Evie dragged the gate closed and came to examine the grease-stained paper. ‘What is it?’
‘A feast, dearie. Fish an’ chips an’ a slice of ’ome made bread. No butter ’cos me ration’s finished. A glass of stout to wash it all down and I wouldn’t call the king me uncle. I’d ’ave waited if I’d known you’d come.’
‘I’ve eaten, thank you, Mother. I know better than to expect a decent meal here.’
Nelly opened her mouth to reply but she burped instead and covered her mouth with her hand.
‘Mother!’
‘I wish you’d call me Mum like you used to. I suppose “Mother” is modern. Can’t take to nothin’ modern I can’t.’ She mmm’d her way through the last mouthful. ‘Lovely that was. Come fer anything special, ’ave yer?’
‘Yes. Timothy and I – we aren’t too happy about the way you live. He thinks you should move from this place and come and live with us.’
Nelly fell back onto the ground and roared with laughter. ‘Drive you both to drink in a week!’ She felt in her pocket for a handkerchief, couldn’t find one and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
Evie remained cool, ignoring the display. ‘At least for a while. Until we can decide what is best for you.’
The laughter drained from Nelly’s face. ‘Evie, I —’
‘Timothy is willing for you to have the back bedroom all to yourself. It’s completely furnished so there’s no need to bring anything. You’ll be cared for properly. You’ll be ill if you stay here.’
‘I couldn’t be ’appy away from this place. An’ as fer bein’ ill, well, ’eaven knows when I last saw a doctor. Not since you ’ad measles. An’ then I gave ’im some of me ginger wine fer ’is stomach and ’e didn’t make no charge.’ Her hand went involuntarily to her painful hip. Netta Cartwright thought it might be arthritis, but Nelly had no intention of seeing the doctor. She didn’t believe in doctors. ‘This place,’ Evie went on. ‘Just look at it!’
Nelly stared sadly at her daughter, wondering how she could have lived for a while in a beautiful place like the cottage, and turn out the way she did. ‘Smashin’ it is.’
‘It’s a mess, mother. And you don’t have proper meals. You spend too much on drink for there to be enough for good food. You fell this morning on your way to Mrs French.’
‘How did you know that?’ Nelly thought for a moment, then said triumphantly. ‘That nosy bleedin’ parker Prue Beynon – may her nose drop off!’
‘And your clothes. Just look at that coat you’ve thrown on the ground! It’s a disgrace.’
‘Keeps me best fer goin’ out. Not fer work,’ she said reasonably.
‘What happened to the dress I bought you?’
‘Up in me trunk with me best coat,’ Nelly said. ‘Want to see me best coat? I’m wearing them both when I go down to Netta’s to listen to the Coronation.’
Nelly stood up trying not to show how painful her leg had become. It had been a mistake to sit on the floor; the stiffness was worse now. As long as Evie didn’t notice. No point givin’ her more excuse to come and interfere.
She went into the cottage confident that Evie would not follow. On the rare occasions Evie had entered, she had stood as near the door as possible, obviously wanting to leave as soon as she could. Nelly slipped on the coat Mrs French had given her and went out again with a smile and a haughty expression. The result was comic but Evie did not smile.
Nelly thought of the scrawny scrap that had been Evie, full of cheek, and a confidence far beyond her years. And how, after just one year in Hen Carw Parc, she had blossomed and filled out and had become even more ladylike.
‘Did my best for yer,’ she shouted after Evie’s retreating figure. ‘Got you out of that awful room and brought you to this place, didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’ Evie stopped and glared back at her mother. ‘Then you spoilt it, by coming here yourself!’
‘Evie!’
‘Happy it was, without you dragging me down.’
‘So was my life ’appy ’til you came, so piss off back to London why don’t yer, and take that Tedious Timothy with yer.’ Nelly’s voice rose until she was shouting ‘Young Ollie’s the only one with any laughter in ’im, an’ you an’ Tedious Timothy’ll soon ’ave him as stiff an’ unbendin’ as a rusty bed-spring!’
‘You leave Oliver alone! I don’t want him influenced by someone like you. Dirty Nelly. Yes, I know what they call you.’ Evie’s voice had sharpened to match Nelly’s.
Nelly allowed a silence to develop, then said softly, ‘Oo, Evie, you don’t ’alf sound common.’ Evie ran up the path and along the lane, and as she disappeared from sight, Nelly’s fat shoulders began to shake with sobs.
Evie walked home, thinking of the homes her mother had provided for her. First the dark, damp room high above the London streets, which meant a climb up sixty stairs and along corridors where paint peeled in strips off mildewed walls. Where every drop of water had to be carried up and, when dirty, carried down again to be emptied away down the drain in the communal yard.
When the war had begun, it was an escape for Evie. She, like all her friends, had been evacuated to places where they would be safe from the bombing. That first year in Hen Carw Parc, Old Deer Park, was perfect. She had been able to invent a previous life, and beautiful parents.
Then Nelly had decided that if her daughter needed a place of safety, then so did she. Arriving in the village and renting that tumbledown hovel had ruined everything. As soon as she could, Evie had left home and went again to live in London.
Working in a cafe where the students from the nearby college frequently ate, she had met Timothy. They had been attracted at once and as soon as he had qualified, they had married. He had changed schools several times and somehow, had gradually moved nearer to Wales. Most of the schools were large and she had not expected Timothy to even consider a tiny village school.
Now, because of his insistence on taking the position of Headmaster in Hen Carw Parc, she was stuck with the daily horror of having Nelly and her exploits on her doorstep. Why hadn’t she held firm and insisted Timothy had refused the promotion? No money was worth having Nelly call her ‘daughter’.
Chapter Nine
Timothy watched his wife walk past the school on the way home and felt uneasy. She had been to see Nelly and he wondered what had happened. It was lunchtime and he thought he might go home and find out. But he was delayed, first by a parent calling, then the telephone and eventually he abandoned
the idea. Bad news will keep, he decided.
When the children began to gather back in the playground for afternoon school he was still looking out of the window. He saw a knot of boys near the wall and noticed that Oliver was amongst them. He was curious. Pieces of paper were being surreptitiously handed to the boy and he seemed to be explaining something before handing them back.
He was pleased that Oliver was more popular, but his curiosity made him call the caretaker.
‘Those boys, what are they doing, do you know? My son seems to be in demand. Some new game, is it?’
Mr Evans looked uneasy. ‘Not sure, sir.’ Timothy looked at the grey-haired man and shook his head.
‘I think you do. Come on, I’m not going to murder them. What are they up to?’
‘Well you’d better come around here and have a listen.’ He led the headmaster through a gate and along the walls until they were close to where the boys stood.
‘My dad wants to know if this is right; fourteen shillings and sixpence,’ one of the boys was saying.
‘Tell me the prices again,’ Oliver asked.
‘What are they doing?’ Timothy whispered.
‘Young Oliver is checking the betting slips for the boys’ dads, sir.’
When the two men walked back into the school building, Timothy looked puzzled.
‘How can he? He must be making it all up. He’s slow at maths and can’t add two and two and be certain it’s four.’
‘Tell him it’s a two to one winner at a stake of sixpence and he’ll work it out like a shot, sir. Hundred to eight, odds on, he knows the lot, as long as it’s racing.’
Timothy walked through the milling children, ducking flying balls and flaying skipping ropes and children involved with whips and tops and all the other games of skill the playground nurtured. He beckoned his son.
‘Oliver, where did you learn to work out complicated sums like that?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I don’t want to say, father.’
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