Before the war, nature had been little more than a flower in his buttonhole and an account at the florist’s so he could send bouquets to Roberta, but now he derived satisfaction from working the vegetable patch at the back of Mrs Jeffrey’s cottage. He had learnt how to thin out young shoots, how to tend the strawberry plants, spreading short straw beneath them to keep them clean and covering them with it at night until all danger of frost was over. Turning over the soil, with the pungent aroma of earth filling the air and a brave blackbird diving for worms practically at his feet, was an unexpected joy. Whatever decisions he made concerning his future, he intended to continue gardening.
Not far now to Mrs Fielden’s house, which was next door to Mrs Marsden’s, another of his customers, just a few doors along from Mrs Randall’s. Was he daft to want to duck out of sight as he passed Mrs Randall’s? A grin tugged at his mouth, but it wasn’t funny, not really. Seeing Roberta had been unsettling – probably more for her than for him. Poor girl.
Arriving outside Mrs Fielden’s, he lowered the barrow’s handles so the wooden uprights touched the ground. Taking his bucket from its hook, he walked between the ornamental-topped stone-clad gateposts and went round the rear of the house to ask for water. He started at the back and worked his way round to the front. When he finished, he stowed his gear and collected his money. As he went through the gate, someone emerged from the gate next door. He was about to touch his cap to Mrs Marsden, should she wish to notice him – his heart caught – Nell Hibbert.
He covered the ground between them in a few strides.
‘Afternoon.’ He raised his cap. She was lovely, and entirely unaware of it, which made her lovelier still.
‘Were you working next door? Daft question.’
‘Then we’re both daft. I was about to ask you the same thing. You’ve been teaching Mrs Marsden?’
Her polite smile built to something warmer. ‘How kind of you to remember what I do.’
Kind? Was that what she thought? He remembered every word she had spoken, every nuance of emotion in her face, the questioning frown, the relaxed smile, the steady determined eye, the glow in her cheeks as she watched her children … the cool politeness when he told her about his friend’s wooden toys and she thought he was offering to pay for one.
A smartly painted cart drew up. The driver reined in the horse and called to them.
‘Marsden residence?’ He jumped down. ‘I’ve got their new sundial. I’ll go and see where they want it.’
He couldn’t let the interruption end their meeting. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’ She made a move.
‘And the children?’ That would detain her.
‘Doing well, thank you. Alf loves school.’
‘Long may it last.’
She had innate grace. He had known girls who had attended dancing lessons, deportment classes, the whole works, without achieving what Nell possessed. There was a woman coming along the road – a lady, rather – whose blue and cream ensemble was probably the height of elegance, but she was no match for Nell in her plain black with the striking jacket. The stranger’s little girl, dressed in a confection of frills, trotted beside her, patting a hoop along with a stick striped like a barber’s pole. The hoop wobbled, but kept going, just about.
Nell followed his glance. ‘She needs to hit it a lot harder than that.’
‘She needs your Cassie to show her how it’s done.’
Little Cassie Hibbert had more gumption in one hand than this frill-bedecked child had in her entire privileged body. As if his thoughts had conjured up Cassie’s energy, the girl delivered an almighty thwack, sending the hoop bouncing along. With a delighted cry, she ran in pursuit.
A motorcycle-and-sidecar was coming along the road, its throaty engine loud in the peaceful afternoon. The waiting horse shifted, its harness jingling; a hoof struck the road: the horse needed reassurance. Jim took an instinctive step towards it. There was a sharp tap as the child hit the hoop again.
‘Look, Mummy! It’s getting away!’
The hoop veered along a curving course, bouncing off the pavement onto the road in front of the horse at the same time as the motorcycle-and-sidecar chugged alongside. The horse reared – Jim dived for the harness – a cry – a crumpled heap of frills. A strangled scream from the mother. Nell darted into the road to kneel beside the child as Jim caught the harness, his arms being yanked upwards before his muscles gauged the power needed to bring the situation under control.
‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’ Nell’s voice was urgent but quiet. ‘Can you speak to me?’
‘Melissa! Oh, Melissa!’ The mother threw herself on her knees beside her child. ‘Is she all right? Is she—?’
‘She’s not quite conscious,’ said Nell. ‘Try to stay calm. Talk to her.’ She looked up at him, her eyes huge and unusually dark, belying the assured manner. ‘We need a doctor – or an ambulance. Mrs Marsden has a telephone.’
The delivery man appeared. Jim left him to see to his horse, which seemed recovered from its fright. He sprinted to the front door, ringing and knocking at the same time, pushing his way past the maid.
‘There’s been an accident. Where’s your telephone?’
She gaped at him, but a nattily dressed young man appeared in a doorway.
‘This way. What’s happened?’
Jim ignored the question. The telephone stood on a desk in a room that would be a lot brighter if someone would dispense with the net curtains.
The young man got there first. ‘Shall I make the call for you? No offence, but …’
‘None taken.’ Jim lifted the mouthpiece and made the call. Window cleaners might not be au fait with the use of telephones, but former solicitors were.
When he went back outside, the child was still on the ground, Nell’s jacket folded beneath her head. Nell sat on her heels beside the child, her attention fixed on her, her voice low and steady. The mother knelt on the girl’s other side, holding her hand, breathing raggedly but striving for calm. There were a couple of neighbours; another joined them, offering a blanket. The delivery man stood by the horse’s head – and the natty fellow was engaging him in conversation. Seeking the juicy details, presumably. Jim felt a twist of distaste.
A motor car pulled up on the other side of the road and a gentleman climbed out. He hurried across.
‘I’m a doctor. Do you need assistance?’
‘An ambulance is on its way,’ said Jim.
‘Right-o. Let me take a look. Are you the mother? What happened?’
The young fellow appeared at Jim’s side. ‘Yes, what happened? Are you a witness?’
‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Journalist. Shocking accident and all that, but I need the story. What’s your name?’
‘Not now. Let’s make sure the child gets off to hospital.’
‘And then you’ll talk to me?’ Without waiting for a reply, he pounced on another potential witness.
Jim edged away. The doctor had taken charge and – yes – here came the ambulance.
Time to disappear.
Nell wanted nothing more than to go home and hug her children. That poor little girl, getting knocked down like that. Chills helter-skeltered down her spine. The poor mother too. It just showed. Money protected you from a lot, but it couldn’t protect you from honest-to-goodness accidents.
As the child was lifted into the ambulance, the mother turned to her. ‘Thank you so much for helping my daughter.’
‘I really didn’t do anything.’
‘Oh, you did. Just being so calm helped tremendously. You’re a heroine.’
That was the emotion talking. ‘I hope she recovers quickly.’
The mother followed her daughter into the ambulance. Nell stepped away, aware of someone hovering close by. She looked round, expecting to exchange glances of compassion with one of the neighbours, but it was Walter Marsden.
He held her jacket. Instead of passing it to her, he said, �
��You saw what happened.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You must have. The mother called you a heroine.’
‘You’ll have to ask someone else. Thank you,’ she added, looking at her jacket.
He held it up for her to slip into, but she took it from him, looking round for the bag she took to lessons. It was by the Marsdens’ garden wall, where someone had put it out of the way. She walked purposefully away. Would Walter Marsden take it into his head to come after her? She walked faster.
She arrived home, hoping Mrs Brent would be there with Violet, but there was only Mrs Dunnett, finishing some work on the sewing machine. Hiring out her machine was going well. Everyone was keen to learn how to use it and happy to pay the small sum she charged.
‘That’s the quickest sides to middle I’ve ever done,’ said Mrs Dunnett. ‘Our Ida was saying as she wants to turn her sheets an’ all, so I’ll tell her about your machine, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course.’ She helped Mrs Dunnett fold her sheet. ‘Will your Janey be home this evening? Would she sit with my two while I pop out? Our cat’s gone missing and I need to look for her.’
‘She’ll be glad to. Give us a knock.’
Nell didn’t want to tell the children about Violet if she could help it. Annie wasn’t expecting her to collect them yet, because by rights she should have gone from Mrs Marsden’s to Ingleby’s to finish her working day with an hour there; but the accident had eaten so much time that if she had trailed into town, she would have had only fifteen minutes at work. She was due in the shop tomorrow morning, so she would make her excuses then.
Right now she had some unexpected free time, so she searched the neighbouring streets and entries, starting with Finney Lane, but there was no sign of Violet.
Later, when the children were in bed, she knocked for Janey Dunnett, then returned to Finney Lane. Hilda had said she would look in the backyard, but what if Edmund Tanner answered the door? Nell baulked at the thought. How could she ask the brute who had chucked the cat out to check round the back?
She went down the entry to the back gate. Taking hold of the ring-handle, she turned it and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She tried again. It was locked.
It was never locked.
She looked round. Someone had dumped a wooden box along the entry. She set it down in front of the gate and stood on it, placing her hands on top of the gate and lifting herself on her toes to look over. She couldn’t see Violet but called her anyway. The back door opened and Edmund Tanner emerged.
‘What d’you think you’re doing? What’s wrong with knocking on the front door like a civilised person?’
‘If I knock, will Violet answer?’
‘If you’re referring to that flea-bitten animal of yours, you had no business leaving it here.’
‘Violet has never had fleas.’
‘I’ll remind you that you don’t live here any more and you have no right to enter my premises. It’s a good job I took the precaution of locking the gate. I don’t like trespassers.’
‘I can see the cat’s not here, so I’ll search elsewhere, but if I can’t find her, I’ll be back, because this is where she knows; and if she’s in yon yard and she doesn’t jump over the wall when I call her, I’ll come in and fetch her and if that means shinning over the wall, so be it.’
‘You set foot in my yard and I’ll call the police.’
‘I’ll save you the bother. I’ll bring a copper with me.’
He thrust out his chest. ‘The law is on my side in this.’
‘It wasn’t the law I had in mind. You get a bobby knocking on your door and the world and his wife will want to know the reason why. I don’t think you’d like that, would you?’
Chapter Seventeen
Leonie walked home with the paper bag deep in her pocket. It was a sunny morning, but she didn’t feel sunny. She felt cloudy and defiant. And rather scared, if she was honest.
Children played in the street. Three little girls sat squeezed on a doorstep, playing at school, with the ‘teacher’ standing in front of them on the pavement. Further down the road, a boy dashed out of hiding, yelling, ‘Kickstone, one, two, three,’ as he reached the pillar box. Down this end, Posy darted about in a game of ticky-it. Eh, she had said it before and she would say it again: that child was fleet of foot.
It was tempting to call Posy indoors with her, but she mustn’t do anything differently. As she went inside, Hilda called to her from the kitchen, offering a cup of tea.
‘I’ll just take my things off.’
She shut the bedroom door before removing the paper bag and transferring it to her top drawer, as if the door might burst open behind her and she would be revealed in her secret activity. Edmund was out for his Saturday morning walk, but she still felt jumpy. Once the bag was stashed away, it was safe to go down to have tea with Hilda. It ought to feel cosy and mother-and-daughtery, but it felt stilted. There was so much they couldn’t discuss, so many subjects that were out of bounds. Housework. Herbs. The possessions that had been taken upstairs, and those in safekeeping. And now Violet.
And Gerald.
Why not smack Posy if she needed it? Or send her to bed without any supper. But to beat her with a stair rod? That was plain horrible. When she found out about the stair rod, she had exclaimed against it, begged Edmund not to use it, poured out a dozen reasons why it was wrong, while Hilda alternately fluttered and drooped in the background.
‘I shall discipline my daughter in any way I see fit, Mother-in-law,’ Edmund had informed her. ‘If Posy behaves as she ought, there’s no call for it. In the end, it’s Posy’s choice, not mine.’
Except on Saturday afternoons.
Well, not any more.
There was a cheery rat-tat on the front door as Leonie came downstairs and she opened the door to a smiling young man dressed in a blue-grey jacket and dark-blue flannels. What was the likes of him doing here?
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Good morning,’ he said in an educated voice, raising his trilby to her. His shoes were two toning colours of leather an’ all. Blimey. ‘Have I come to the right house? Does Mrs Hibbert live here?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name’s Marsden. I’m a journalist. I’m writing a piece about the accident yesterday afternoon on Edge Lane.’
‘Accident?’ Heartbeats skittered across her chest. But Nell hadn’t been injured, because she had climbed up to peer over the back gate yesterday evening; and she wouldn’t have done that if anything had happened to the children.
‘Yes, she was quite the heroine – and a modest one too, if she hasn’t talked about it. May I enquire, are you her mother?’
‘No.’
‘No, you’re not or no, I mightn’t ask?’ He made it sound like she had uttered a wonderful witticism.
‘Why do you want her?’
‘To talk about the accident. She did something special, and those are the injured girl’s mother’s words, not mine. A reassuring presence, is what I was told. I can report the accident as a series of bald facts or I can make it into a heartwarming story that will make readers appreciate what a remarkable person your … daughter is.’
‘I’m not her mother. I was her landlady.’
‘Will you fetch her? I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find her. I was at Ingleby’s as the doors opened and persuaded a sweet young lady to give me Mrs Hibbert’s address.’
‘She may have been sweet, but she wasn’t efficient. Mrs Hibbert doesn’t live here any more.’
He whipped out a notebook and a pen – no, a silver propelling pencil. ‘Can you furnish me with her new address?’
Furnish? What was wrong with plain old give? ‘Have you got a card I can pass on?’
‘If you insist; but please tell her this needs to be done while the story is fresh. You’d like her qualities to be recognised, I’m sure.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me a lit
tle about her, just to get me started.’ He leant forward confidingly. He was good-looking. ‘We both know she isn’t one to blow her own trumpet.’
That was true. Leonie warmed to him. ‘I’m not surprised she was a support to the injured girl and her mother, because she’s a wonderful mother herself.’
‘That comes as no surprise. Names and ages?’ Scribble, scribble in the notebook. ‘What job does Mr Hibbert do?’
‘Mrs Hibbert’s a widow, which makes her all the more remarkable in my book. Better fetched-up children you won’t find anywhere, and her a working mother, an’ all.’
‘Indeed. My own mother is one of her pupils.’
‘Really? Then she can vouch for what a good teacher Mrs Hibbert is. So can any number of women round these streets.’
He quirked his head on one side. ‘How so?’
How agreeable to be listened to so attentively. ‘She teaches private as well as for Ingleby’s. Initiative, it’s called.’ Edmund had used that word, only he had said it in a sarky voice. ‘She used to slog God knows how many hours a week at a garment factory in town. She works less hours for Ingleby’s and she uses her extra time partly to be at home with the children, because they always come first with her, and the rest for teaching privately.’
‘You mentioned the neighbours.’
‘She teaches them an’ all, and then they hire her sewing machine.’
‘Most enterprising.’ Scribble, scribble.
Enterprising: that was a good word. If Edmund was sarky again about initiative, she would counter with a calm remark about enterprise. She drew a breath, filling her lungs with satisfaction.
‘She’s a good girl, is my Nell. I couldn’t have wished for greater help when my late husband was poorly.’
Scribble, scribble. ‘So it comes as no surprise that Mrs Hibbert put herself out to assist at the scene of an accident?’
‘Not one bit.’
A Respectable Woman Page 19
