‘Oh, Posy, was there ever a child like you?’
‘No, because I’d need a twin sister.’
‘Put that hanky away and let’s go upstairs.’
In their room, Posy poured water from the jug into the bowl and swished the trinket box about before using her fingertip to wipe its inside.
‘Before you put owt else in that box,’ said Gran in what was for her a stern voice, ‘ask yourself: would Gran approve? If the answer’s no, don’t do it.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
Dad had put up shelves and Posy had a whole one to herself. She put the trinket box back in its place.
‘There’s not much left in the ewer,’ said Gran. ‘You’ll need to top it up – not just now,’ she added as Posy leapt to do her bidding.
Gran sat on the bed, patting the place beside her; Posy hitched herself onto the bed and sat, feet dangling. She liked sitting on the bed. She liked lying on it and in it. She liked the whole room. It was a proper bedroom, not a scullery. It bothered her that Gran might not like it as much as she did. She had heard Gran mutter something about crowded once, but Posy didn’t think the room was crowded. With Gran’s big bed and dressing table, the chest of drawers and the washstand, the hanging cupboard, the chair and the bedside table, the shelves and pictures on the wall, and the rug … it didn’t feel crowded. It felt like the room was hugging them.
‘We need to talk about Violet,’ said Gran. ‘You mustn’t put food outside any more, but we’ll see if we can give her a little summat extra in the evening; and we’ll make her box more comfy. I’ve got some old pieces of sheet that I’ve been saving for dusters.’
‘Can we make up her bed now?’
‘The pieces are in the airing cupboard. We’ll leave them be to keep warm and they can go in her box this evening when we give her your meat scraps. Give them to me and I’ll pop them in the meat safe while Ma’s busy.’
Posy hugged her. ‘Me and Violet are so lucky to have you.’
‘I’m lucky to have you an’ all, chick.’ Gran pressed a kiss into her hair. Her voice sounded thick and weepy, but that could be because some hair had got in her mouth.
‘And Violet. You’re lucky to have Violet too, while she’s still here.’
‘Aye, chick. And Violet.’
‘I can’t say I’m pleased about this, Mother-in-law.’
Posy went cold. Dad’s displeasure did that to her, even when it was aimed at someone else.
‘No need to stop what you’re doing, Hilda. Posy will clear the table and you can serve the pudding. What is it tonight?’
‘Stewed apple and custard.’ Ma’s voice wasn’t much above a whisper.
‘Good. Posy can have the skin. You like the skin, don’t you, Posy?’
Posy’s stomach rolled, but she said, ‘Yes, Dad.’
She stacked the plates, gathering the cutlery on the top one, and took them to the scullery. Violet was on the wall, gazing in. Posy cracked the door open, let Violet squeeze through, then darted into the kitchen, closing the door on Violet’s nose. Poor Violet, but at least she was indoors. Sculleries were uncomfortable places, as Posy knew better than most.
Ma served the pudding. Dad picked up his spoon and so did the rest of them. Posy stirred the skin, bunching it into a single lump.
‘Don’t pull faces, Posy,’ said Dad.
She straightened her features. They didn’t want to straighten. They wanted to stay screwed up with disgust. Her flesh felt clammy. She touched the spoon to her lips and forced her mouth to open. In went the spoon. Round went her stomach. She took the skin into her mouth and swallowed – almost gagged, but didn’t, couldn’t – Dad would be angry. Another swallow. Her gullet rippled from top to bottom. This time the skin went down. Her stomach twitched in protest. Her eyes watered. The skin stayed down.
‘As I was saying, Mother-in-law,’ said Dad, ‘I’m not pleased.’
‘Why not?’ Gran’s voice was mild but not droopy like Ma’s. Gran wasn’t a droopy cowslip. ‘I’m only going next door to spend the evening with Mrs Watson. What’s wrong with that?’
‘People might get the wrong idea. It might appear that you’re not welcome in your own home.’
‘As if anyone would think that,’ said Gran, almost but not quite laughing.
‘Since my name has recently gone on the rent book, I wouldn’t want anyone thinking anything untoward about your position in my household.’
‘Well, they won’t, because I haven’t mentioned it to anyone.’
‘There’s no need to keep it a secret,’ said Dad. ‘I’m the man of the house now in every way and it’s right the neighbours should know.’
‘Fine. I’ll tell Mrs Watson.’ Gran added in a peacemaking voice, ‘I can’t not go. It’s arranged.’
‘Very well.’ Dad was like a king bestowing a gracious favour on his humble subject. ‘But after this evening, perhaps you should wait a while before you do it again.’
‘Well …’
‘For appearances. We don’t want to be talked about.’ He smiled. ‘Humour me, Mother-in-law. I want everyone to see us as the perfect family.’
That won Gran over. ‘Very well.’
Dad and Ma disappeared into the parlour to await their tea. Posy cleared the table and helped wash up. They let Violet into the comfort of the kitchen. When Posy carried the tray to the parlour, Gran opened the door for her, called, ‘See you later,’ and shut it quickly.
‘You may sit in Gran’s place,’ said Dad, so Posy sat next to Ma on the settee. Ma didn’t budge up closer like Gran would have, or give a welcoming smile. She carried on sewing.
Presently Posy remembered she was supposed to top up the bedroom jug. She wasn’t allowed to speak unless spoken to, so she half-raised her hand. She didn’t like doing that because it felt like being at school, but it was the only way.
‘Yes, Posy?’ said Dad.
‘Gran wanted me to put more water in our jug. May I do it now?’
Dad made a tsk sound, like he was hissing at her. ‘Very well, but don’t let it happen again. Evenings are for family, not for jobs.’
She left the parlour, shutting the door behind her. Dad didn’t like doors left open. She fetched the ewer, but when she touched the kitchen doorknob, she heard a mew from the other side. She couldn’t open the door: Violet would be upstairs before you could say Jack Robinson and Dad would skin the pair of them.
She returned the ewer to the bedroom. Gran would understand.
Downstairs, she paused outside the parlour door. Dad was saying something about a green vase.
‘It’s hideous.’
‘It belonged to my grandmother – Dad’s mother,’ said Ma. ‘She gave it to Mother, but Mother hates it, always has.’
‘I don’t see why she should foist it on us, if she doesn’t care for it. Put it in her bedroom.’
Nothing important, then. Not about Violet. Posy opened the door and went in.
‘Ma and I think it would be nice for Gran to have some of her special things upstairs,’ said Dad. ‘It can’t be easy for her, having to share with a child …’
Oh no. They weren’t going to put her back in the scullery, were they?
‘… and it would make the room feel even more her own. That’s important, because this used to be her home.’
‘It still is,’ said Posy.
‘Of course it is, but we all live here now and we want to make her comfortable in her own room. Having her things round her will do that. Shall we take some things upstairs for her? That will be a surprise when she comes home. What about this figurine? What do you think, Posy?’
She swelled with pride. ‘It’s so pretty.’ It was a girl with a straw hat, a wicker basket over her arm. ‘I’d love to wake up every morning and see it; and if I’d love it, think how much more Gran would. If the girl goes upstairs, the boy has to as well. They’re a pair.’
‘Good girl for noticing.’
She almost burst with happiness. D
ad’s praise, Gran’s forthcoming delight: what more could she ask? All she needed was for Violet to stay in at night and life would be perfect.
They chose a few more things.
‘Anything else, Posy?’ asked Dad.
She bit her lip. Gran might not be fond of the green vase, but choosing it would please Dad … or would he somehow twig she had been listening at the door?
‘What about the vase?’
‘Oh, that. What do you think, Hilda? I’m not keen on it myself, but if Posy thinks Gran would like it upstairs …’
Up went the selected items and down came some ornaments from the mantelpiece in Ma and Dad’s bedroom.
‘That’s better,’ said Dad. ‘Some of Gran’s things, some of ours, all together in the parlour. That’s fair, isn’t it, Posy? Not a word to Gran. Let’s see how long it takes her to notice.’
When Gran returned, Posy nearly exploded with excitement. Would she notice immediately?
‘Did you have a nice chat, Mother?’ asked Ma.
‘Aye. Mrs Watson says you should come an’ all next time.’
Ma bent over her sewing as if she had suddenly gone near-sighted.
‘Except there won’t be a next time … just yet,’ said Dad.
‘I know,’ said Gran. ‘I won’t let you down, Edmund. Anyroad, me and Posy have a job to do.’
Violet! Posy jumped up. ‘May I be excused?’
‘Of course, if Gran wants you.’
Chuckling, they fetched the pieces of sheet from the airing cupboard. Some of Posy’s chuckles were because of the surprise Gran was going to have, but she managed not to blab. They managed to get into the kitchen without releasing Violet. Violet yowled and tried to push past.
‘We’ll sort out her box,’ said Gran, ‘then you can give her the scraps.’
But when they opened the back door, the box was gone.
Gran went to the parlour. ‘Someone has stolen Violet’s box. Of all the things to take.’
Dad puffed out smoke. He leant forward to tap the ash off his cigarette, then leant back again, resting his head against the back of the chair. It was a good job antimacassars had been invented.
‘Nothing to worry about, Mother-in-law. I rid us of that box earlier. We can’t have our premises cluttered with rubbish like that. This is a respectable house, not a rag-and-bone yard.’
Chapter Fifteen
If only Hilda had said something instead of letting Edmund shift her bits and pieces around. Leonie didn’t doubt he was behind it, and that made it sound like she was blaming him for doing summat bad, and you couldn’t call it that. It was only right that her knick-knacks should give way to Hilda’s. Share and share alike, and that meant sharing space. As Edmund had pointed out, it was Posy who had chosen the pieces to go upstairs, so she had had to tell Posy what a clever girl she was and how she had made the perfect choices. She wouldn’t dream of hurting Posy’s feelings.
And now she was stuck with the new arrangements. The others were happy and they thought she was an’ all. She felt tired, but not I’ve-worked-hard tired, not satisfied tired. It was a deep-down inside tired … defeated tired.
That was enough of that! Defeated tired – what twaddle. Pulling her spine straight, she looked round her bedroom. So what if it was smaller than her old room? Hilda and Edmund needed the bigger room. So what if she shared with Posy? She loved Posy. And so what if it was a squeeze? She was lucky to stay in her old home. Plenty didn’t.
Anyroad, it was selfish of her to harp on about herself all the time. She had a bigger problem to think about: that stair rod. Hilda refused to discuss it; not that she could have done owt about it. And Edmund … well, he wouldn’t be swayed. Leonie fetched a deep sigh. It felt like barbed wire being pulled up her throat.
Her gaze roamed the room. Her bud-vase and the china cat playing the accordion were on a shelf, with some of Hedley’s books on the shelf below. Was this why Edmund had put up the shelves? The green vase was on the shelf with the books. Well, she wasn’t having that. She seized the vase and opened the hanging cupboard, intending to shove it to the back.
Wait. Why not sell it? If Posy noticed, she would say it was on top of the cupboard in the box of old letters and postcards. Hilda was out shopping for chops and cabbage. Could she get out and back before Hilda returned? And why should it matter if she didn’t? She could come and go as she pleased. Besides, she had to go this morning, because it was half-day closing and the shops would be shut this afternoon. Now that she had decided, she couldn’t hang on until tomorrow.
She took her coat from the back of the bedroom door. When it was just her and Hedley, she had hung her coat in the hall, but now there wasn’t room. She didn’t mind. It made sense for the others to keep their coats downstairs, because … she couldn’t call to mind why, but there had been a good reason at the time, so of course she hadn’t minded. Like she didn’t mind swapping bedrooms or sharing with Posy. Or agreeing not to pop out of an evening or that there was no point in keeping the herbs.
She was flaming sick of not minding.
Half-day closing was the best thing that had ever been invented. It applied to Nell even when she wasn’t in the shop; so on Wednesday mornings she felt extra chipper. It was like having a tiny weekend in the middle of the week. This morning she had two new ladies to call on, one in Urmston, the other in Chorlton. Including travelling time, that was her morning’s work spoken for.
She removed the apron she wore at home to protect her Ingleby’s uniform of plain black dress with detachable collar and cuffs. Honestly, all she needed was a frilly cap and apron and she could serve afternoon tea at the Midland Hotel. Ingleby’s had provided her with work shoes, which she was paying for out of her salary and which she was required to polish every night; and she had made herself a hip-length, edge-to-edge jacket, which was the most agonised-over garment she had ever produced.
First, there was the colour.
‘Black,’ said Mrs Brent.
‘With the black dress, I’ll look like I’m going to a funeral,’ said Nell. Also, it would make her look … subservient, as if colours weren’t allowed.
‘Navy,’ suggested Mrs O’Rourke. ‘You can’t go wrong with navy.’
‘Not with black. I’d look like I’d put it on by mistake instead of a black one.’
‘Red,’ said Mrs Clancy, causing a gasp to whistle round Nell’s kitchen. ‘Why not? It’s cheerful.’
Red and black would be dramatic, but it would take only one of her ladies to make a sniffy remark to Ingleby’s and she could be out on her ear.
‘Red’s pushy,’ said Mrs O’Rourke.
‘What about fawn or beige?’ said Mrs Dunnett. ‘There’s nowt pushy about them.’
But set against black, either would look drab. Dressing appropriately was one thing, but she couldn’t bear to be drab. Why must working-class women dress soberly? Her time in the garment factory, handling fabrics in a glorious variety of hues and modern patterns, had fed her need for colour. Now she yearned for it.
‘Ask Ingleby’s,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘They’ll tell you.’
That was what she was afraid of. They were bound to say black. But she would be wearing the jacket when she represented them, so they ought to be consulted.
‘Forest-green,’ said Miss Collier after consideration. ‘Deep enough to look businesslike but striking enough to form an elegant though not inappropriate contrast to your shop dress.’
‘Linen,’ added Miss Moore, removing the next question from Nell’s mind.
After that, there was the style.
‘Something plain, obviously,’ said Miss Collier.
Why obviously? ‘But not too plain,’ said Nell. ‘I want to tell the customers, “You’ll be able to make something like this,” so they have to find it pleasing.’
Miss Moore and Miss Collier exchanged looks. Had she gone too far?
‘That’s a good point,’ Miss Moore conceded.
‘Show us the pattern before you take i
t home,’ added Miss Collier.
Nell spent a happy dinner hour sifting through pattern books before presenting her chosen pattern for inspection.
‘It’s a modern look without being fancy and it’s straightforward to make. I’ll take the pattern picture with me to show clients what can be done when they’re more experienced.’
So here she was in her work rig-out, ready to set off. First, she let in Mrs O’Rourke, who was hiring the sewing machine to make a skirt for their Josie; then she left. It was a bright May morning. Actually, it was cloudy, but she felt bright inside and that was what mattered. She caught the bus to Urmston for her first lesson, then returned along the same route for her second. Mrs Marsden lived on Edge Lane and, as she descended from the bus, Nell was pleasantly aware of being halfway home.
Mrs Marsden’s house had a rockery in the front garden and snowy nets at the windows. If you were lucky enough to have a garden, why would you blur your view with net curtains? Inside was smart but tired-looking. A few home-made cushions would cheer it up no end, but Nell knew better than to say so. Middle-class ladies might be discovering the pleasures of dressmaking, but make their own soft furnishings? Never! The only thing Mrs Marsden would ever do to a cushion cover with her own fair hands was embroider forget-me-nots on it.
Nell demonstrated how to thread the machine, then unthreaded it and stood aside to let Mrs Marsden take her place while she guided her through the process; then she resumed her seat behind the machine to show how it worked. She had just got the treadle moving when there was a loud ringing sound. Cold water poured through her – the machine had gone horribly wrong. But the sound was coming from elsewhere.
‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Marsden didn’t merely smile, she smirked. ‘I must answer my telephone.’ The ringing cut off. ‘Someone has answered on my behalf. I’ll be fetched if I’m needed.’
The door opened and a dark-haired young man wearing a yellow silk tie beneath a knitted pullover sauntered in. ‘You’re wanted on the blower, Ma. Excuse the interruption,’ he added with a nod for Nell.
‘Thank you, Walter.’ Mrs Marsden rose. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Hibbert. It might be an acquaintance about social arrangements.’
A Respectable Woman Page 17
