‘Of course, it might not happen,’ he reminded her. ‘Ingleby’s might reinstate you.’
‘Fingers crossed.’
She held up her crossed fingers, but she didn’t cross them very hard. She might feel differently later, but just now she didn’t want to be reinstated. She wanted to meet the challenge of working for herself. Was she having a mad moment or could she really give it a go?
Had it been respectable, she would have squeezed Jim’s hand. ‘You’ve been so kind.’
‘I’m not doing it out of kindness,’ he said. ‘I’m doing it because—’
‘Oh, listen.’
Her face swung towards the bandstand, where the musicians had struck up ‘Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty’. Nostalgia swelled inside her and her throat clogged. She could almost hear Vi’s clear voice singing the words.
‘It’s not easy, is it?’ Jim said softly.
His compassion, his understanding, curled around her heart. She wanted to speak of her lost family, but the pain in her throat made it impossible.
‘Mummy.’ Alf appeared at her side. ‘Can we—?’
‘Come on, kids.’ Jim jumped to his feet. ‘Bet you can’t catch me.’
He jogged away, with Alf in pursuit and Josie helping Cassie to toddle after him. And this man said he didn’t act out of kindness. He was the kindest person she knew.
The music finished to warm applause and was followed by—Alf’s face turned to hers in astonishment and joy and Nell’s heart responded with a beat of pure happiness. Her son’s pleasure meant more to her than her own. ‘Oh, Oh, Antonio’. She jumped up and caught his hands, dancing him in a circle as they sang along. She had lost so much, but that made what she had now all the more precious.
‘Then UP will go Antonio and his ICE-CREAM CART.’
Miss Moore and Miss Collier squeezed side by side behind the desk. Nell stood in front. The least they could have done was provide her with a chair; or maybe she didn’t deserve one because she was about to be sacked. She composed her features into what was intended to be a pleasant but non-committal expression and folded her hands in front of her.
‘You let us down, Mrs Hibbert,’ said Miss Collier. ‘You took advantage of your position and we can no longer trust you to visit customers’ houses.’
Nell’s fingers twisted tighter. Dismissal, then.
‘You will tutor for Ingleby’s here in the sewing department,’ said Miss Moore. ‘You’re a good teacher and we’re prepared to give you a chance. Besides, your friend might run to the newspaper if we dismiss you. Ingleby’s Sacks Accident Heroine. We can’t have that.’
Nell stared. ‘Mrs Brent wouldn’t do that.’
‘On the contrary, it seems entirely likely she would do something similar again.’
‘You’ll run our classes,’ said Miss Collier, ‘which will provide you with regular work, though not to the extent of employing you full-time.’
‘We provide up to four classes per week,’ said Miss Moore. ‘These are held between two o’clock and four. You will start at one. It will be your duty to prepare everything and greet the pupils. Afterwards you will answer questions and advise on purchases, for which you will receive no commission. You will then tidy up and finish at five.’
‘Four hours,’ said Nell, ‘four afternoons a week.’
‘Up to four afternoons,’ Miss Moore corrected her, ‘and some weeks there may be none. You will receive ample notice of the lessons and you will not be excused from attending.’
‘And the rest of my time?’ asked Nell.
‘What you do with that is up to you. We assume you’ll teach privately, in which case you may say or do nothing to suggest those lessons are connected to Ingleby’s.’
‘And,’ added Miss Collier, ‘you may not offer lessons to ladies whom you taught previously for Ingleby’s; neither may you offer lessons to ladies you teach here in the department. Moreover, should your private work in any way bring discredit upon yourself, this will result in your instant dismissal.’
So many conditions. So much control. And no time for her to take it in.
‘We have two lessons for you to teach this week, on Thursday and Friday afternoons. We will expect you here at twelve forty-five on Thursday, ready to start at one. Good morning, Mrs Hibbert.’
Nell untangled her fingers to open the door. Her head was spinning. She hadn’t been sacked, but she had hardly any hours left. Sixteen in a good week. And all she had in her diary was lessons for Miss Vine; and, after she had sent the postcard making arrangements, Miss Vine’s friend, Mrs Fairbrother, but that wasn’t until Thursday of next week.
She needed heaps more private work, and quickly.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Fairbrothers’ front door stood beneath a protruding porch at the top of a flight of stone steps. To either side was a vast bay window, above each of which was another bay; and above those was a floor with ordinary flat windows. You could get the population of Wilton Lane in this house and still have room to wriggle.
Nell knocked. The door was opened by a maid wearing a black dress not unlike an Ingleby’s dress, only she had a bibbed apron over it, and a white cap.
‘Good morning. Mrs Hibbert to see Mrs Fairbrother.’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ was the blunt reply.
Be professional. Nell kept her smile in place. ‘She’s expecting me. I have an appointment.’
‘I’ll see if madam is home. Wait here … please,’ she added at the last moment, and flounced away.
Ridiculous. As if she didn’t know whether her mistress was in. Nell turned to admire the garden. Imagine having a garden that size. It must be a lot of work, but the Fairbrothers wouldn’t care about that. They would employ a gardener. The lawn was a square with four paths leading into the middle, creating four smaller squares. In the centre was a fountain, with spray spurting from a fish’s mouth. Sunshine caught the water, transforming it into a shower of diamonds.
The door swished and she turned back to the maid.
‘You’re here to see madam’s lady’s maid, Miss Preston. Round the back.’
The door shut, leaving her stranded. No point being vexed. No time either. Her appointment was for ten o’clock and if she didn’t find this Miss Preston in two minutes flat, she would be late. She ran down the steps and found her way to the back door. It was standing open on this fine June morning. She knocked and walked in.
‘… the front door, bold as you please, and asked for madam herself – oh, look who it isn’t. Visitor for you, Miss Preston.’
‘Thank you, Daphne.’
A middle-aged woman with an oval face above a double chin rose from the pine kitchen table. She wore black with white collar and cuffs – did everyone in the lower orders wear black with white? It was the uniform of the respectable working woman; Nell had run up a black-with-white dress for herself. Miss Preston wore a narrow black belt and Nell caught a flash of silver hanging from it that brought to mind housekeepers in novels, who carried the keys of the house about their person, before she realised the objects included a pair of scissors and a small box, like a cigarette case, only it must contain pins and needles.
‘Mrs Hibbert? How do you do? I am Miss Preston, lady’s maid to Mrs Fairbrother. I’m sorry about Daphne’s manners. She picked up some unfortunate ways in the munitions.’
She gave Daphne a look; Daphne gave her one right back.
Miss Preston led the way upstairs by a back route into a room with a child’s bed – but what a bed! A four-poster, only not a four-poster; a two-poster, if there was such a thing, with an arch of delicate voile over the head of the bed; and a coverlet that cascaded in lacy frills to the floor. Nell would have given five years of her life for Cassie to have a bed like that. Mind you, the little minx would probably use the posts for climbing practice and build a nest in the fabric at the top. Even then, it would be worth it. Any mother would think so.
‘This used to be the nursery,’ said Miss Preston.
>
‘Used to be?’ Nell wrenched her gaze away from the fairy-tale bed.
Miss Preston sounded amused. ‘Miss Roberta hasn’t slept here for a long time.’
What did she have now? A real four-poster? With a wooden chest at the foot, crammed with toys and puzzles and dolls with real hair and eyes that shut when you laid them down?
‘Here comes Miss Graham, who is Miss Roberta’s maid.’
Nell exchanged nods with the newcomer. The young miss was grown-up enough for her own maid. Sixteen? Seventeen?
‘You’ll be teaching both of us,’ said Miss Preston.
‘I see,’ said Nell. Start the way you mean to go on: by making money. ‘If you’re both to have supervised practice, our sessions will have to be longer.’
‘That will be satisfactory,’ said Miss Preston.
‘Shouldn’t you ask Mrs Fairbrother?’
Miss Preston’s eyes showed understanding. ‘Please don’t worry about your bill not being paid.’ She said it kindly, not as a put-down.
‘I’ll show you the basics of the machine and we can talk about what you want to make.’
‘We shan’t be making clothes,’ said Miss Graham in a snooty voice.
‘Mrs Fairbrother and Miss Roberta are dressed by Mademoiselle Antoinette,’ Miss Preston explained.
‘Mademoiselle Antoinette’s is one of the most exclusive salons, if not the most exclusive, in all Manchester,’ added Miss Graham.
‘I see,’ said Nell. ‘So you’ll be …?’
Did Miss Preston smother a sigh? ‘In the attics, there are trunks upon trunks of old garments of the highest quality but hopelessly out of date. Mrs Fairbrother wants to adapt some of them into new garments.’
‘It was Miss Roberta’s idea,’ said Miss Graham. ‘She thinks that because styles today require less fabric, it shouldn’t be difficult to make use of the old stuff.’
Really? This young girl was dressed by Mademoiselle Antoinette, and she still wanted more clothes? Miss Roberta was beginning to sound like a spoilt brat. Just wait until she got home and told Leonie.
‘We know how to mend and do alterations,’ said Miss Graham. ‘All we need from you is a lesson on how to use this machine.’ She eyed the Singer with dislike – and wariness. Another of Miss Roberta’s ideas?
‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,’ said Nell. ‘You have to know how to use it for different fabrics. I used to work in a garment factory and believe me, you wouldn’t set a beginner to work on velvet. But don’t worry: there’s nothing to be scared of.’
‘I’m not scared.’
But she was. Nell had seen the uncertainty in her eyes.
One thing soon became clear. Teaching the two ladies’ maids side by side was a clumsy arrangement.
‘Instead of longer shared lessons,’ she said, ‘I suggest separate sessions.’
Miss Preston agreed. ‘Could you do two two-hour lessons next time? We’d provide luncheon, naturally.’
‘I have my diary with me.’ Nell spoke calmly, though fireworks were going off inside her. What a start to her venture.
Nell left the Fairbrother residence as soon after midday as she could without looking like she was rushing, but she was actually in a tearing hurry. She had to get to Ingleby’s for a one o’clock start, which meant presenting herself promptly at twelve forty-five, having changed into her shop dress. If she was lucky, there would be time for a bite to eat as well.
Just before quarter to one, she headed upstairs. As she opened the door, footsteps came running upstairs behind her. She waited, holding the door open. Matilda Pugh rounded the bend and flew up the last few steps.
‘Here.’ She thrust something into Nell’s hand. ‘For you.’
And in she went.
Nell’s fingers clutched an envelope. ‘Wait,’ she called and would have said more, but Matilda raced back.
‘Hush, you fool, or we’ll both be for the chop. Put it in your pocket and forget about it till later.’
Nell did as she was bid, weaving her way between the counters of haberdashery, feeling bewildered and curious; but she had to push it to the back of her mind and concentrate on her work.
The moment she sat down on the bus to go home, she pulled it out. Who could be writing to her?
It was from Mrs Liversedge, who wanted to see her and could she possibly call tomorrow morning? Indeed she could. It would be an Ingleby’s afternoon, but her morning was free.
Horribly free. She needed more clients.
And, as she discovered, Mrs Liversedge intended to be one of them.
‘I’d be delighted to come back to you,’ said Nell, ‘but Ingleby’s say I can’t teach anyone I met through them.’
‘Fiddlesticks! I had my six lessons off them and it’s none of their business what I do now. I went to such trouble to track you down. My friend has just got a sewing machine and is having her six lessons from that new girl with the frightful hair. I’ve told her that as soon as her six lessons are over, she has to call you in.’
‘That’s good of you,’ Nell began.
‘So don’t tell me you’re not allowed to teach me.’
Nell remembered Jim’s advice. ‘I can’t give you an answer today. I’ll have to refer the matter to my solicitor.’
‘You have a solicitor?’ Mrs Liversedge’s surprise might have been insulting if it hadn’t been comical.
‘Of course. Everyone in business should.’ How Leonie would laugh when she heard that. ‘I wonder, since you’re pleased with my work, if I could ask you for a reference.’
‘A testimonial? Happy to. I’ll write it now – and you can look at that piece of sewing and work out what I’ve done wrong.’
‘Happy to.’ She would take her time, allowing Mrs Liversedge ample scope to dream up suitable phrases.
Mrs Liversedge slipped the paper in an envelope and handed it to her.
‘Thank you,’ said Nell, ‘and thank you for recommending me to your friend. Might I give you this postcard of my details to pass on to her?’
‘So you’re going to teach her?’
‘If she requests it. She has come to me by word of mouth, not via Ingleby’s.’ Or would Ingleby’s not see it like that, given that Mrs Liversedge was an Ingleby’s connection? How complicated.
‘But you’re not necessarily going to teach me?’
‘I hope I will.’
When could she see Jim? More to the point, how could she? If she went to his cottage, it might look like something a respectable widow had no business doing. She would have to take Leonie with her; and the children. But if she turned up with a posse, it wouldn’t look businesslike. In fact, she might look like a widow dangling her family hopefully in front of a marriage prospect.
Suppose she got Alf to write thank-you notes to Mrs Jeffrey and Pom for coming to their picnic and bringing food. She always had a few sheets of good paper in the house. As Mum used to say, ‘Being working class doesn’t stop you being writing class.’
Taking the thank-yous round would be a legitimate reason to go. Wasn’t her work a legitimate reason? But she still had to obey the proprieties. Her respectability was even more important now she was working for herself.
On her way home that evening, she made a detour down Finney Lane and its entry, hoping to see Violet. The little corner of her heart where she kept her worry for the cat nudged an inch closer to despair, but she put on a cheerful face when she reached home.
As she opened the door, a buttery, herby smell wafted out. The children ran to her. She hugged and kissed them, then chased them down the hall to the kitchen, where she kissed Leonie too.
‘That smells gorgeous.’
‘Get changed and it’ll be on the table when you come down. Oh, there’s a letter for you, with a typewritten address, no less.’
‘It’s probably from Miss Quinn. She said she’d send a list of her rates in case I wanted more typing.’
She took it upstairs and threw it on the bed while she got change
d and freshened up at the washstand, then she sank onto the bed and picked up her letter. It was hardly worth opening. She was a long way off needing anything else typed, but she opened it anyway.
Cold hit her right at the core of her being.
It was a letter from the magistrates’ court. She had to attend – summoned was the word they used – to answer her husband’s complaint against her.
Early in the morning, Posy reached across the bed to the empty space where Gran used to be. She wished Gran hadn’t gone. No, that wasn’t it. She wished Gran hadn’t needed to go, wished they could all have lived together as one happy family, but that wouldn’t ever be possible with Dad, would it? Now she wasn’t allowed to go and see Gran, because Ma was upset with her. Posy wasn’t meant to know why, but she did. She wasn’t just an eavesdropper; she was now a reader of secret things. Maybe she could be a spy when she grew up. Not that a newspaper could be considered to have secret information, but it had apparently never occurred to Ma that Posy would see that bit about Mrs Hibbert and the accident when she made paper chains.
She had heard things too. She had heard Dad saying, ‘We always knew your mother was altogether too fond of the Hibbert woman, but this is a great blow, to us as a family.’
Another time, he said, ‘I know how distressing this is, Hilda, but you must put a brave face on it. Otherwise we’ll look like fools.’ He didn’t say it in a snappy, bossy way either. He said it in his kind voice that wrapped itself round you and made you want to please him.
Posy watched Ma after that to see what her brave face looked like, but it didn’t seem any different to her normal face. Maybe she was being brave on the inside, though that seemed unlikely. More likely she was pretending it hadn’t happened, the way she pretended not to see when Dad sent for Gerald.
That was another thing. Gerald had vanished. It happened the day Gran moved out and it was obvious she had taken him – it. Did she think that would end the beatings? No, she wasn’t stupid. Besides, she had promised caramels every Friday, which proved she knew the beatings would continue.
A Respectable Woman Page 26
