But that wasn’t why she felt resentful. No, the reason for the tension in her shoulders and the hot bubbling sensation in her stomach was that if they weren’t keeping the parlour for best, then why not put a bed in the corner for Posy? Only she couldn’t say so, because poor Posy would feel her gran didn’t want to share with her.
So she was lumbered with it.
Edmund took pride of place in the armchair. The front room had just the one armchair. Why splash out on a pair when the room was used only on high days and holidays? That had been Hedley’s opinion and she had agreed.
‘Far more important to have two cosy chairs by the kitchen fire,’ Hedley had said.
So, Edmund sat smoking in the armchair and she and Hilda sat on the settee, while Posy sat on the footstool, her knees bunched up since she wasn’t allowed to stretch out her legs.
‘Sitting with us before bed is how she’ll learn to make conversation,’ according to Edmund, but this apparently was to be achieved purely by listening, since the child wasn’t allowed to speak unless spoken to. Anyroad, as Leonie had learnt by sharing a room with her, Posy was nothing if not adept at conversation.
Hilda pushed the darning mushroom into the heel of one of Edmund’s socks. Leonie had undone one of Hedley’s pullovers and was knitting it up into a cardy for Posy. It had hurt to unravel something of Hedley’s, but waste not want not, and who better to rework it for than Posy?
‘Did you visit Mrs Hibbert today?’ asked Edmund.
‘Yes. She’s well; so are the children.’
‘I hope you kept yourself wrapped up warm, Mother-in-law, in that damp environment. We don’t want you falling ill.’
‘It isn’t at all bad. It’s only the front two rooms and they’re not lived in for now. The upstairs room is worse by far.’
‘I’m only concerned for your welfare.’
‘Thank you.’ She felt a pleasing inner glow. It was nice to be watched over by a man.
‘I know Mrs Hibbert had to leave here at short notice,’ said Edmund, ‘but that’s no excuse for taking her children to live in a place like that.’
‘She had no choice,’ Leonie protested.
‘I’m sorry to contradict you, but she had ample choice. I myself provided a list of rooms from the paper. Are you telling me they were all worse than the house in Wilton Lane?’
‘She didn’t try them, because Mr Miles offered Wilton Lane.’
‘Warts and all,’ said Edmund. ‘She might have done better to visit some of my places. Don’t you agree, Hilda?’
Hilda mumbled something. She held the darning close to her face, inspecting it minutely.
‘The Wilton Lane house wouldn’t do for my family,’ said Edmund. ‘It’s a question of standards.’
Leonie couldn’t let that pass unchallenged. ‘Mrs Hibbert has standards.’
‘If you say so, Mother-in-law.’
I do say so. But that would sound argumentative and what sort of example was that to set Posy? So she said nothing, but it hurt to hear her friend dismissed. Edmund had a point, though. As a responsible husband and father, naturally he was riled at the thought of someone taking their family into a damaged house. He obviously pictured it as far worse than it was. Perhaps he could be brought round.
‘I’m looking after the Hibbert children on Saturday afternoon.’
Edmund looked at her. ‘Where? Here?’
‘No, round there, to help out while Mrs Hibbert is working.’
A frown clouded Edmund’s broad brow. ‘It was one thing to mind them when they lived here – and I never approved, as you know – but it’s worse if you have to drag yourself round there. She shouldn’t ask it of you.’
‘She didn’t.’ Her knitting needles clicked more quickly. ‘I offered.’
He blew out a stream of smoke. ‘She’s taking advantage of your good nature.’
Click-click went the needles. Would he try to forbid her to go? Click-click. But she mustn’t argue in front of Posy. Even if Posy hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have argued. They were one family and they must get along. Give and take. Listen to others. Mind your manners.
‘Mrs Hibbert is an independent soul,’ she said mildly, ‘but she needs a hand with the children. I’ve known young Alf since he were knee-high to a grasshopper and I helped bring Cassie into this world—’
‘Did you?’ Posy exclaimed, entranced.
Hilda came to life. ‘What Gran means is, she opened the door to the doctor when he brought the baby in his black bag.’
‘Seen and not heard, Posy,’ said Edmund.
‘It wouldn’t be right to give them up,’ said Leonie. ‘Alf and Cassie: it wouldn’t be right.’
Edmund gazed into the fireplace, as if there were a fire crackling away and he was hypnotised by the flames. Had she won him round? Her row ended. She turned her knitting round, ready to start again. Click-click. Not so fast now.
Edmund fetched a deep sigh. His chest expanded and settled. He flicked his cigarette end into the fireplace. She wished he wouldn’t do that. Throwing cigarette ends in the fire during the winter was fine, because they got burnt up, but chucking them in the empty summer fireplace was dirty. She was surprised at Hilda for not forbidding it on day one of their married life. She would have to say summat, but now wasn’t the time, not in front of Posy, and not when she had hopes of Edmund’s feeling more kindly towards Nell.
He looked at her and shook his head. Her heart quickened. Click-click.
‘I’m sorry to say it, Mother-in-law, but I’m disappointed.’
Disappointed? Click-click.
‘I suppose it was inevitable that a loving person such as yourself would become attached to those children when they were under your roof. I warned you against it at the time, because I could see it gave Mrs Hibbert the opportunity to push her luck.’ He held up a hand. ‘Please allow me to finish. I admired your affection for those poor fatherless children, but I also – yes, I will say it – I also resented it, because it worried me that my daughter would be pushed out.’
Pushed out? Click … click …
‘Oh, Edmund – Posy …’ She looked from one to the other. Her lips moved as she struggled for the right words.
‘I thought that when we came here, Posy would get more of a chance. You were generous about letting her sleep with you and that seemed like a good start. But now …’ He shook his head again, giving her a half-smile that suggested acceptance of a sad situation. ‘I see how much those children mean to you. I just wish you’d pay more heed to your granddaughter now she’s under your roof. I thought she’d matter more.’
Her knitting collapsed onto her lap. ‘Posy …’ She could barely get the name out. There was a gurgle in her throat. Her eyes stung, but she mustn’t weep. She must be strong. She was the adult. It was her job to reassure Posy.
The child sat bolt upright, eyes wide, apprehensive. Waiting. They were all waiting. Hilda fiddled with her darning. She didn’t look up. If only Hilda’s fingers would creep across and squeeze hers. Posy shifted like a puppy that had been trained to sit and stay but was desperate to run to its master.
‘I’m sorrier than I can say, Hilda and Edmund, if you believe I’ve neglected Posy. I promise it won’t happen again.’
Edmund nodded. ‘I’m pleased to hear you say so – aren’t you, Hilda?’
‘Yes,’ Hilda whispered.
‘That’s that, then. We’ll say no more about it.’ Edmund sounded almost jovial. ‘I’m glad we’ve cleared the air. Shall we get off to a good start by saying you’ll take Posy to the park on Saturday afternoon, Mother-in-law?’
Her breath caught. Had he forgotten? He must have. Oh, lord, what was she to do?
Posy said, ‘Oh, but, Dad—’
‘Seen and not heard, Posy.’
Posy gazed at Leonie, her eyes imploring.
‘Maybe this once, Edmund?’ Leonie asked.
He granted permission with a wave of his hand.
‘I always run an erra
nd for you on Saturday afternoons, Dad,’ said Posy.
‘So you do,’ said Edmund. ‘It’s important to keep to routine. Gran can take you out another time.’
Tears welled behind Leonie’s eyes. Posy had pulled her out of a hole. The dear child. After her father had cast doubt on her gran’s love for her, she still showed love and protectiveness. Oh, Posy.
‘Are you quite well, Mother-in-law? You’ve stopped knitting.’
Click-click. Click-click.
Chapter Twelve
‘How do you like your new home, Posy?’ asked Mrs Watson, sounding all proper, as if she had never said reet buggeration in the whole of her life.
‘I love it, thank you,’ said Posy and squeezed Gran’s hand. She was a big girl now and didn’t need to hold hands, but holding hands with Gran was to do with treasuring one another and feeling warm inside. ‘I like sleeping in a real bed, and having a cat, though she’s not really ours, just on loan because of the damp, and having Gran there all the time.’
‘Having Gran there is good, is it?’
‘It’s more than good, since you ask,’ said Posy. ‘It’s good with gusto, if there is such a thing.’
‘School is good an’ all, isn’t it, Posy?’ prompted Gran.
‘Yes.’ It was the expected reply. Grown-ups were like that. They picked on something you were doomed to do, then asked whether you liked it. She had made some friends, but Mr Allan wasn’t like Miss Claybourne. He was more interested in noses to the grindstone.
‘Is Posy helping you with the shopping this morning?’ said Mrs Watson.
‘No, our Hilda does the shopping,’ said Gran. ‘We’re going to the meadows to find flowers to press. Posy has never pressed flowers before.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘I won’t keep you.’
They set off. The mild day was warming up. As they crossed Chorlton Green, the pungent scent of freshly cut grass filled Posy’s heart. That was what optimism smelt like. It was a perfect May morning, except for the fact that Saturday morning was followed by Saturday afternoon. Earlier this week, she had rescued Gran from a tricky situation by reminding Dad of her Saturday errand and she couldn’t regret it. If she hadn’t saved the day, Gran might have had to give up minding Alf and Cassie this afternoon. Gran loved the Hibbert children, but that was all right because Posy trusted Gran to love her best. Besides, if Gran was safely out of the way, she wouldn’t see what happened on Saturday afternoons. She had to be protected from that.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have gone to the park and played on the swings?’ Gran asked.
‘I like the swings and the roundabout when I’m with my friends,’ said Posy. ‘I’m a bit old to want you to watch me play. Anyroad, if I’m playing, we can’t talk and I like talking.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘Dad doesn’t like Violet, does he?’
A pause. Gran might have thought she didn’t notice things, but Posy had ears like a hawk, supposing that hawks had ears.
‘Some folk aren’t fond of pets,’ said Gran. Grown-ups found wishy-washy ways of saying things, as if children weren’t perfectly well aware of the truth.
‘Violet isn’t just a pet,’ said Posy. ‘She’s a mouser, so she earns her daily bread … daily piece of pluck.’
‘I know, chick, but Dad isn’t keen on her, so we have to keep her out of his way.’
They walked down the wide part of the road, where grand metal gates stood on either side between stone pillars. Both pairs of gates were open, giving access to long driveways, leading to handsome buildings. The local toff family lived in one and the other was a hospital.
‘I hope you’ll enjoy pressing flowers, chick.’
‘I like new things and even if I don’t, I’ll still like it because I’m doing it with you.’
A few more minutes brought them onto the meadows. Posy’s eyes prickled and so did her nose. She sneezed, then her eyes got used to it and her nostrils cleared.
The grass was dotted with yellow.
‘Buttercups. Stand still, Gran. Let’s see if you like butter.’
Gran lifted her chin and Posy held a flower beneath it. A faint glow appeared on Gran’s skin.
‘Yes, you do. Do I?’
‘You do too,’ said Gran. ‘That’s a relief.’
‘There are more flowers here.’ Posy stopped to examine a cluster of yellow flowers that drooped instead of standing up straight. ‘Are they primroses?’
‘Primroses hold their heads up. These are hanging over, so they’re cowslips.’
Gran showed her how to remove one of each flower. ‘That’s all we need. We’ll build up a scrapbook and one day you’ll show it to your grandchildren and say, “I did this with my gran.” I’ll be their great-great-grandmother.’
‘I won’t have grandchildren, because I’m not getting married. I don’t want a husband telling me what to do.’ She was a primrose, holding up her head. Ma was a droopy cowslip. ‘Let’s try the hedgerow.’
They found white campion, all starry flowers and soft, fuzzy leaves, and cow parsley, its teeny-tiny flowers massed together into umbrella-shaped flower heads.
‘Everything is white or yellow,’ said Posy.
Gran gave her a nudge. ‘Down there.’
It was the bluest blue she had ever seen.
‘Speedwell,’ said Gran.
‘You’re so clever. How do you know all the names?’
‘Some I’ve always known and some Mrs Hibbert told me. She used to live on the moors.’
‘Was she a shepherd?’
‘Not on the moor, but in a town on the moor.’
‘Oh.’ That wasn’t half so exciting.
‘We’ve got five flowers now. Let’s take them home and start pressing them. I don’t want to keep Mrs Hibbert waiting and you don’t want to be late doing your Dad’s errand.’
Posy stopped in the hall on her way back from the outside lav. Gran had gone to Mrs Hibbert’s and Ma and Dad were in the parlour. Posy had just had to visit the lav for the second time in fifteen minutes. Saturdays were like that. The parlour door was closed. It was only now that they weren’t living in the flat any more that she realised how much listening she used to do. Not that she had crouched at the door with her ear glued to the keyhole, but she had heard an awful lot through the scullery door.
Now she stood in the hall and listened. On purpose.
‘Oh, Edmund …’ said Ma, sounding like a droopy cowslip.
‘It will be better coming from you than from me; easier for her.’
Was she being sent back to sleep in the scullery? Posy’s bones ached in protest. Then she thought of Violet, who was also doomed to sleep in the scullery now. They could console one another.
‘If you say so,’ said Ma.
‘I do say so. It will be better for all of us if my name is on the rent book.’
‘Yes, Edmund.’
So she wasn’t being consigned to the scullery, after all. That was something. Not enough to stop her tummy doing its Saturday somersaults, but something.
She looked at the staircase. She hated him – it – even more than she had hated Rupert. Leaving Rupert had been one of the best bits about moving house. Leaving Rupert had put optimism in her heart that he wouldn’t be replaced. Gerald was worse, because she had tasted freedom from Rupert.
On a surge of pure hatred, she spat at Gerald. Then she went to say goodbye to Ma and Dad before going to the sweet shop.
Nell’s sewing machine stood towards the back of the parlour, well away from the water damage. Her machine, in her house. She felt like shouting it from the rooftops. Her fingers wandered over its smooth curves before lightly turning the handle, setting the needle whirring with the sound of the garment factory. No, the factory sound had been loud, forty machines in her workshop alone. This machine whispered by comparison. Her machine, her business partner.
Her feet settled on the treadle underneath, finding a comfortable position and taking over from her
fingers on the handle. Oh, it was bliss. She slowed and stopped, her gaze roaming over the table with its two sets of drawers, far enough apart to allow ample legroom for working the treadle, and – how clever – the flap that lifted up at the side and fastened underneath to give extra space.
She wasn’t alone in worshipping at the shrine. All afternoon, women dropped in, curious to see a real sewing machine. The neighbours came, as did women from streets further away, and after they left, they came back with friends and sisters and daughters-in-law. Mrs O’Rourke brought her teapot round and spent the afternoon brewing tea alternately in Nell’s pot and her own. Neighbours lent cups; wooden chairs were ranged around the machine. Mrs Clancy up the road, who had enjoyed a private viewing this morning, looked after Alf and Cassie.
For some, it was a sightseeing trip, coupled with the chance to find out the latest about Minnie Wentworth’s twins and that female from’t greengrocer’s, who was no better than she should be; but plenty wanted lessons and the chance to use the machine to run up a pair of curtains or a new skirt or a First Holy Communion dress out of a tired sheet.
When Nell closed the front door on the last of her visitors, she flopped against it, palms flat on the wood. It was happening. It was really happening. She went into the kitchen. Her wonderful neighbours had washed up and returned the borrowed crockery and chairs. There was nothing for her to do except collect her children.
‘How did it go?’ asked Mrs Clancy. ‘Come in and tell me what I missed.’
The children rushed to meet her and she hugged them before settling Cassie on her hip and following Mrs Clancy into her kitchen to tell her about her successful afternoon.
A Respectable Woman Page 13
