‘What does she mean about yesterday’s Evening News?’ Oh no. ‘Unless …’
‘What?’ asked Leonie.
‘Mrs Edge Lane’s son is a journalist. He wanted to write about that accident; and he knows my name because I teach his mother; but what could he have written that …?’ She waved the postcard. ‘This sounds disapproving.’
‘Oh,’ said Leonie.
Nell looked at her.
‘I’m sure he won’t have written owt unflattering about you. I mean, how could he?’ Leonie looked flushed. Bless her for being indignant.
There was a knock at the door. Nell opened it to find Jim. Now it was her turn to flush as her heart took the next few beats at a sprint.
‘Evening.’ He touched his cap. ‘I saw you in the paper yesterday.’
She had to know. ‘Did it say anything unflattering?’
‘On the contrary, it sang your praises. Haven’t you seen it? I’d have brought my copy round if I’d known. I’ve come to see how Mrs Brent has settled in.’
‘Come in.’ She led the way. ‘Aunt Leonie, look who’s here.’
‘Aunt Leonie?’ he questioned.
‘We’ve decided to be family.’
‘Good for you, though I shouldn’t be surprised, after that newspaper piece.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Nell.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Leonie. ‘Tea, Jim?’
‘If it’s convenient.’ He glanced at Nell, seeking agreement.
‘Have a seat,’ she offered.
‘Thanks. How are you, Mrs Brent?’
‘Oh, you know, getting used to things.’
‘Moving house is a big undertaking.’
‘And it’s not over yet,’ said Leonie. ‘Once this place has been repaired, I’ll bring my furniture – not all of it, that wouldn’t be fair on Hilda, but we’ll get this place fixed up nice.’ She poured his tea. ‘But I’ve left some things behind. Do you remember my musical box, Nell? And my pretty cake stand? Some other bits and bobs an’ all.’
‘I’ll fetch them,’ Jim offered.
Leonie bit her lip. ‘It’s not that simple. Edmund took them into safekeeping, because I sold a vase. He said it would stop me selling owt else.’
‘He took your possessions?’ Nell couldn’t believe it. Or maybe she could. This was Edmund Tanner they were talking about.
‘The vase you sold was your own property, I assume? And Mr Tanner knew it was your property?’
Suddenly they had a solicitor at their table. No longer Jim Franks, the well-spoken window cleaner, but Mr Franks the solicitor, crisply spoken, with an intentness in his eyes that showed he was taking in every word. Nell’s heart swelled … and then shrank. She had no business being attracted to the likes of him. He might be living out of his class now, but he wouldn’t stay here. She was a fool to like him in that way.
Not to mention the small matter of not being quite as widowed as she might be.
His face, which she had only ever seen genial and smiling, set in grim lines as he asked, ‘Have you requested the return of these items?’
‘Yesterday. Edmund said he would keep them for now.’
‘Did he provide a reason?’
‘He said moving out proved I were still upset.’ Leonie’s voice hitched.
‘Did he indeed?’ He came to his feet, tall and serious. ‘With your permission, Mrs Brent, I’ll pay a call on Mr Tanner and discuss the legal situation with him.’
Leonie gazed at him admiringly and Nell felt an unexpected flicker of annoyance. Yes, Jim Franks had proved himself a good friend, but that didn’t mean they should lean on him. It was different for Leonie; she had had a good husband and maybe she found it natural to depend on a man; but that hadn’t been Nell’s experience. Her marriage had taught her to stand on her own two feet.
‘I don’t think that’s the right thing to do,’ she said. ‘Sending you round is bound to cause bad feeling. Aunt Leonie doesn’t want to fall out with her Hilda.’
Leonie sighed. ‘It’s only a few things. I can live without them.’
‘Let’s you and me go and have a word,’ said Nell. ‘He won’t find it so easy to fob off both of us.’
‘Thanks, Jim,’ said Leonie. ‘I still might need your help if … well, you know.’
‘Just say the word.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know Riley’s Farm, along Beech Road? There’s a row of cottages behind and I live in the one furthest from the road. My landlady is Mrs Jeffrey. If you need assistance for any reason, that’s where you’ll find me.’
What a generous man he was. A true gentleman, decent and considerate and ready to do the right thing. If she had found a husband like him, how different her life would have been.
‘Thank you,’ she said, careful to be cool. ‘I’ll see you out, then I’ll pop next door and ask Mrs O’Rourke to sit with the children.’
In a few minutes, she and Leonie were on their way to Finney Lane, taking a roundabout route in the hope of spotting Violet. The lingering warmth made it a pleasant evening, or would have done. Honestly, Edmund Tanner was the limit.
With a nod of encouragement for Leonie, she knocked on the door. Hilda answered it. Good. She would be on her mother’s side, wouldn’t she?
‘Evening. Me and your mum—’
‘You! ’ exclaimed Hilda. ‘I don’t know how you have the brass neck to come here.’
Nell caught her breath. Was this because she had peered over their back gate?
‘Hilda, what’s the matter?’ asked Leonie.
‘As if you didn’t know.’
‘Hilda, who is it?’ Edmund Tanner appeared. He stepped into the doorway, but instead of squeezing Hilda aside, he put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t know how you have the nerve.’
‘What’s this about?’ Nell asked.
‘I’m not addressing you,’ he replied contemptuously. ‘You’re the one who has come between my wife and her mother. I’m speaking to my mother-in-law. I hadn’t read the Evening News when we saw you yesterday, but I’ve read it since and I’m disgusted. Flaunting your admiration for this creature for all of Manchester to read about, and never mind what you owe your family.’
‘Edmund—’ Leonie began.
‘What was it you said? She’s another daughter to me, wasn’t it?’
‘I never … did I?’
‘You were quoted and poor Hilda can’t hold her head up again in public. Go away, the pair of you. Come inside, Hilda. They’re not worth it.’
Usually Nell enjoyed walking along Market Street first thing in the morning when she started her working day at Ingleby’s. The road was quiet apart from shopworkers like herself; and the early sunshine glinted on the vast windows behind which wares were tastefully displayed. There was no end of red, white and blue at present, because of the British Empire Exhibition down in London; but she didn’t waste time admiring anything. She wanted to reach Ingleby’s early, as evidence of her keenness to explain to Miss Collier why she hadn’t come yesterday at four. She didn’t know what Miss Collier would say about the piece in the paper. Jim had called it flattering, but perhaps Ingleby’s took exception to an employee appearing in print. She would have to make it clear she hadn’t sought the publicity.
She was vexed with Walter Marsden for cornering Leonie and asking questions, and she wasn’t best pleased with Leonie for answering them, though she hadn’t had the heart to say so to her friend. Poor Leonie had been beside herself last night.
‘I never called you a second daughter. It would be disrespectful to Hilda. I’m sure I didn’t say it.’ But her fidgety hands and wrinkled forehead showed she wasn’t certain. ‘Edmund sounded so sure.’
‘We need to read that article for ourselves.’
Nell had knocked on one or two doors where she knew they took the evening paper, but each time she got a similar response before she could ask.
‘Are you still looking for your cat? We’ve looked in our coal hole and she’s not there. Sorry w
e can’t help.’
She hadn’t liked to ask for the paper after that in case it looked like she didn’t care about Violet.
‘Aunt Leonie.’ She had felt rotten for asking when Leonie was preoccupied and distressed, but she needed to know. ‘What else did you tell Walter Marsden?’
‘Nothing you should worry about. It was all good.’
‘I’m sure it was, but it would help me to know before I see Miss Collier.’
Leonie sighed. ‘About being my lodger, and working at Ingleby’s, that sort of thing; and how much I admire you. But I’m sure I never called you a second daughter. I’ll never forgive myself.’
That was as much as Nell had been able to glean. It didn’t seem to warrant that disapproving postcard; or had it been disapproving? Had she mistaken professional formality for censure?
She turned down the side street that provided access to the backs of the row of shops. The doorman let her in. There were various cloakrooms. Which you used depended on whether you were male or female and how important you were. Nell hung up her jacket and hat and stowed her handbag inside her small cupboard, taking out her shop shoes. As well as the shoes Ingleby’s had provided for her to wear while out and about, they had also given her – sold her – a pair to wear inside the shop.
There were common rooms on the other side of the corridor. Most people would be having a final sit-down and a chat before presenting themselves at eight forty-five sharp in their various departments for their appearance to be inspected and the day’s duties to be allocated, but Nell went in search of Miss Collier, knowing she and Miss Moore would already be in the department.
She found them deep in conversation over some paperwork, but not so deep that they didn’t glance her way. They didn’t acknowledge her, just carried on talking, making her wait. Keeping her in her place.
When Miss Moore moved off, Nell approached Miss Collier.
‘Good morning, Mrs Hibbert. You’re late.’ Miss Collier lifted the gold timepiece pinned to her blouse. ‘Sixteen hours and thirty-five minutes, to be precise. I expected you yesterday at four.’
‘I’m sorry, but I wasn’t in when your postcard arrived. I didn’t see it until after five.’
‘You were out all afternoon?’
Her heart bumped. Was this the moment to confess?
‘Were you by any chance teaching a private pupil?’
Nell’s cheeks burnt. If only she had spoken up instead of hesitating. Now she looked deceitful. Well, she had been deceitful, hadn’t she?
‘I don’t expect to read about my sewing machine demonstrators in the newspaper. I particularly don’t expect to read about the private work they are doing. I take it from your silence that what I read was correct.’
‘I haven’t read the article myself, but if it referred to private teaching, then … yes.’
Miss Collier withdrew to the office, signalling her to follow. Miss Collier took a seat. There was another chair but Nell wasn’t offered it. It was like being hauled into the headmaster’s office.
‘Tell me,’ snapped Miss Collier.
Nell gave details of the additional teaching she had provided for which ladies, but she didn’t mention Miss Vine. She was in enough trouble already without admitting to this fresh way of branching out.
Miss Collier made a note of the ladies’ names, as if they too would be sent for to have their knuckles rapped. ‘Unfortunately, nowhere in your contract does it say that you may not take on private pupils; though, believe me, any future contracts for demonstrators will say so. You will work here in the department, demonstrating the use of the sewing machine and teaching this week’s workshops. If you’re not needed, work will be found for you in the back, tidying or stocktaking. The lessons you are due to teach in customers’ homes will be taken by another demonstrator. Your pupils will be informed that you are indisposed.’
Nell clasped her hands together. At least she hadn’t lost her job. Just the part of it she loved best.
‘May I ask if this is a permanent arrangement?’
‘It is for the remainder of this week,’ said Miss Collier, ‘while we decide what to do with you.’
Leonie sighed – again. She had spent the whole day sighing. She sounded like a train blowing off steam. How could she have hurt Hilda like that? She had gone round to Finney Lane this morning, but Hilda had already gone out.
Or maybe she was in. Just not answering the door.
Leonie had been consumed by an absurd compulsion to call through the letter box, but she restrained herself. She needed to find someone with a copy of Tuesday’s Evening News, but she was too ashamed. She wanted to hide in the coal bunker and never come out.
She couldn’t face going round the shops in case word had got round. She had intended to buy chops today, but they would have to make do with whatever she had to hand. Potato rissoles; she could do those, but it would have to be with onions instead of spring onions. ‘The green part of the spring onions, not the white,’ she had taught Hilda years ago, and now here she was, making potato rissoles with ordinary onions because she was too ashamed to show her face.
It was an exhausting day. Her head was crammed full of what she had done and so was her heart.
As home time approached, she watched the clock, anxious to see Posy, but Alf walked in on his own.
She looked past him. ‘Didn’t Posy see you home?’
‘She saw me to the corner. She’s not allowed to come here.’
The pain that caused was so huge, she didn’t know how her skin held it in, but she mustn’t show the children how distressed she was.
When it got to the time for Nell to come home, there was a knock at the door. Leonie walked down the hall. Nell must have her hands full. Maybe she had brought some shopping home. It would be just like her to realise Leonie had cowered indoors all day. She was so considerate.
There was a man outside, a stranger. He lifted his cap to her. Blue eyes, sandy hair. Something vaguely familiar, though she had never seen him before.
‘Evening, missis. I was sent here by a woman in Finney Lane. Is this where Mrs Nell Hibbert lives?’
‘Who are you?’ After getting into hot water for talking to that journalist, she was never going to spill information again.
Before he could answer, she noticed Nell coming along Wilton Lane. The man turned, following her gaze. She expected Nell to smile or quicken her pace if she knew him.
But she stopped dead.
Chapter Twenty
You were supposed to sit down after a shock, weren’t you? Mum used to say that and she was right. Your legs gave way under you. Nell was lucky she didn’t plonk down right there on the pavement. Somehow she managed to walk towards her house. There was a buzzing in her ears and her skin was slick from scalp to soles with a cool beading of sweat. She didn’t want to move; she didn’t want to come face-to-face …
He had found her house. Her children were inside. Leonie was on the doorstep. She couldn’t let Leonie find out who he was. Sickness rose inside her. Had he already told Leonie?
She halted a few feet away. He seemed so big. Had she forgotten his height, his size? In her thoughts, in her memories, she hadn’t allowed him to intrude much, not as a person, two arms, two legs. It was his actions that had mattered, that had created the thoughts: who cared what he looked like? But here he was now and his looks startled her. Sandy hair, blue eyes, an oval face. His physical presence, after two years of nothing, two years of unwelcome memories that she had learnt to dismiss, shocked her to her core. She wanted to grab Leonie’s arm, drag her indoors and shoot the bolt.
‘Nell, are you all right? Look at you, you’ve got no colour.’ Leonie reached out to her, then instead clapped her hand over her own mouth. ‘Is this – this is never one of your brothers that’s meant to be dead?’
Her throat closed, hot and tight. Not that she wanted to speak. Once she spoke, goodness knew what would be unleashed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘aren’t you going to
introduce me?’
She couldn’t make it unhappen. Her knees felt like beaten eggs.
‘This is …’
Saying it would make it real. It was already real. 14 Vicarage Lane and a little lad who was the spit of her son.
‘I know who you are.’ Leonie clapped her hands together and Nell’s insides turned to ice. ‘I knew you put me in mind of someone. It’s young Alf, isn’t it? You have a look of him about you – or he has a look of you, I should say.’
Stop it, stop it, don’t say it, don’t realise. Too late. Leonie had already realised.
‘You must be … his uncle? His late dad’s brother? No wonder Nell looked so shocked, you turning up out of the blue. He’s your brother-in-law, isn’t he, love?’
His gaze was on her face. Would he let her get away with it? She swallowed. And nodded.
Leonie smiled, delighted. ‘I knew it. Pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs Brent. I live here an’ all.’
He shook her hand, then looked at Nell. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
The skin on her face felt stretched tight. She didn’t want him in her house, but if she didn’t agree, would he announce his real identity? ‘Would you keep the children busy in the kitchen?’ she asked Leonie. ‘We – we haven’t seen one another for a long time and …’
Leonie disappeared indoors. Nell went in too, slipping sideways through the door. Not that walking in forwards would have put her in danger of touching him, but she went sideways, anyroad.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Harold in her head.
‘I’ll wash your mouth out if you’re not careful,’ said Mum.
Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. Sorry, Mum. But, honestly – bloody hell.
Nell sat on the chair they used for the sewing machine. She had worked jolly hard to get that sewing machine, had been so proud of her achievement, but Stan had tracked her down. Her muscles had turned to putty and any minute now she might slither to the floor.
Stan stood there. He had paced the room. There wasn’t much to see. The sewing machine and chair. A second-hand bookcase with deep shelves, which they used for putting sewing things on, bobbins, pieces of fabric, big dressmaking shears, pincushions. Some of the neighbours kept their works in progress on the bottom shelf. That was it, really, apart from a second chair for the next woman in the sewing queue to sit on while she waited, and a pair of figurines and an ornamental dish of Leonie’s that they had put on the mantelpiece to brighten the room. Oh yes, and the shadowy remains of the patch where the water had caused damage.
A Respectable Woman Page 23
