Wouldn’t he?
Nell pinched the bridge of her nose. She kept her back to the kitchen table, where Stan and Leonie were sitting.
‘Bad head?’ asked Stan.
She placed the kettle over the heat, faked a smile and turned.
‘I’m fine.’
Fine? When she had to look at her son standing pressed close to his father? At least Cassie wasn’t impressed by this stranger. When he picked her up, she had let out an almighty roar and wriggled until he put her down.
‘Dad’s taking me to look for Violet again,’ said Alf. ‘When did you last look for her, Mum?’
‘You mum’s been working hard,’ said Leonie. ‘She hasn’t had time.’
‘Dad’s got time.’
‘Now then, son,’ said Stan. ‘No answering back. Be polite to your mum and Nana Leonie, you hear?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
Nell didn’t know whether to be furious or humiliated. Her smile dropped. She hoisted it back into place.
‘Is Violet really lost?’ asked Alf.
‘You know she is,’ said Nell.
Alf shrugged. ‘You said Dad was dead.’
‘Violet’s lost,’ said Leonie. ‘It’s not your mum’s fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, because I should have fetched her here the moment I knew Mr Tanner didn’t want her.’
‘Isaac Tupman in my class has a cat and she had kittens and Isaac’s mum drowned them. That’s what you do with kittens, his mum said.’ Alf looked straight at Nell. ‘Did you drown Violet?’
‘Lovely day for it, isn’t it?’ Jim had heard the words a dozen times. He even used them himself as a conversational opening to a smiling couple whom he stood beside during the PT display.
‘Have you got daughters here?’ they asked him.
‘I have nieces starting in September.’
‘So you have plenty of these garden parties ahead of you. This is our last.’
The gardens of Oaklawn School were busy with parents and girls enjoying the convivial atmosphere as they waited for the country dancing display to begin. A plump man with a fiddle under his chin struck up a jolly tune and led a crocodile of young girls onto the lawn where they formed a circle, ready to start.
Jim and Don picked up the twins so they could see better.
‘That’ll be you this time next year,’ said Jim.
At the end of the display, the audience clapped and Miss Martindale walked into the centre of the circle. ‘Thank you, girls. We’ll allow some time for everyone to enjoy refreshments, then our older pupils will perform extracts from Shakespeare.’
Jim and Don put the girls down and they skipped off to play at country dancing.
‘Don’t look now,’ said Patsy, ‘but I spy Roberta and Mrs Fairbrother. Lord, I hope this isn’t going to be embarrassing.’
Jim felt a rush of pleasure. ‘On the contrary.’
She gave a little gasp. ‘Don’t say you two have made it up, and after the way you threw her over.’
‘I didn’t throw her over. She called it off.’
‘If you say so. Look, they’re coming over.’
Among all the prettily dressed women, Roberta cut a dash in a turquoise dress with matching shoes and a lacy parasol with a turquoise ruffle. Greetings of the ‘You remember So-and-So’, variety were exchanged. Mrs Fairbrother engaged Don and Patsy in conversation; she had always liked them.
‘What brings you here?’ Jim asked Roberta.
‘I’m an old girl. They like us to come back, preferably with fee-paying daughters, but you can’t have everything. That wasn’t a dig at you, however it sounded.’
‘Believe me, I have a dig at myself every time I see my nieces.’
‘Really?’ She tilted a glance at him, but all she said was, ‘Speaking of children, I’m organising a project to provide clothes of good quality to the poor. Just in a small way, you understand. I can’t claim to be solving the nation’s problems.’
‘If enough people worked in a small way …’
‘I knew you’d be pleased. Mummy’s given me some advice; she used to serve on the old Deserving Poor Committee before the war.’ Roberta twirled her parasol. ‘But it was you who provided the inspiration. Daddy said you’ve helped various lower-class people with legal advice, and now you’re involved in this case, and it made me think. I’d like to make a difference in my own small way.’
When she explained how the ladies’ maids had been allocated the job of cutting down old dresses to provide fabric, he had to chew the inside of his cheeks to stop himself smiling. Roberta evidently meant it when she said she was doing the organising. Clearly the donkey-work had been delegated. Then he lost the desire to smile. Who was he to criticise? He might have helped a few folk with advice, but it hadn’t involved any effort on his part. He looked at Roberta with kinder eyes.
The others’ conversation ended. It was time to part.
He didn’t want to.
He took out the postcards he had intended to give to Patsy. They had been in his desk since the day Nell had told him the devastating truth about her past; but now, if she were to have any hope of making a good impression on Mr Aitcheson, she needed all the help she could get.
He offered half the cards. ‘Roberta, would you give these to your lady’s maid? It’s a woman from Chorlton who teaches the use of the sewing machine. I believe she’s rather good.’
Roberta took them. ‘Graham and Preston have a woman who teaches them, but they’ll know of any other ladies’ maids who need lessons.’
With parting smiles, the Fairbrothers moved off. Jim affected not to see Patsy’s eyes, packed full of meaning.
‘May I give some cards to you?’ he asked.
She took them, glancing at the wording. ‘What’s she to you, this Mrs Hibbert?’
Not so long ago, he would have blessed her for asking. ‘She’s someone I know from my window cleaning.’
‘Respectable or backstreet?’
‘Both.’
‘That sounded rather sharp. Have I touched a nerve?’ Her eyes widened. ‘You’ve not got yourself entangled with her, have you?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Her gaze followed Roberta. ‘There’s a far more appropriate entanglement to be had.’
Jim went down on one knee and held out his arms to Marguerite and Harriet as they ran to him.
‘Uncle James,’ said the one with the pink ribbons.
‘If you marry that lady with the parasol,’ said the one with yellow, ‘can we be bridesmaids?’
Posy bounced on her toes, awaiting her turn. As she neared the front, she did her serious preparation, jogging on the spot. Miss Claybourne had called it limbering up. This coming Saturday, she would be limbering up for real at the sports jamboree in Chorlton Park. All the schools were attending. But today she was the champion of the England Rounders Team and the world championship depended on her performance. The judges were watching. She glanced at where Ma was chatting with some other mothers. Ma wasn’t looking at her, but she would when it was Posy’s turn, wouldn’t she?
Posy took her place in front of Lyddie, who was back-stump, and prepared her bat, shaking her arm and extending it, fist clenched, tucking in her thumb. As Jimmy bowled, she kept her eyes on the ball, drew back her arm and thwacked with her curled fingers. She didn’t look to see how far the ball went: she ran. First base was easy. She skidded round and pelted for second. The air streamed past her ears. Mike was second base. He jiggled on the spot, ready to catch the ball. He leapt up, but the ball went over his head and a dozen fielders piled on top of one another. Posy darted past and made it to third base. Now for the fourth – she was going to do it. She hurled herself forwards. Success!
Her team jumped up and down, cheering. Posy looked at the mums. Ma had her back to the game, but maybe she had watched Posy’s glorious rounder and then returned to her conversation.
Dad came round the corner and Ma broke away and went inside. Soon
the game ended as children were called in for their tea. Posy usually stayed out until the last minute, but today she wanted to find out if Ma had seen her rounder.
She went in. Dad and Ma were in the kitchen, talking, so she waited. You didn’t interrupt grown-ups. Rupert had taught her that.
‘The others are getting at me,’ said Ma. ‘They know about Mrs Hibbert’s court case. If she gets sent back to her husband, what happens to Mother? I know Mrs Watson has offered, but everyone thinks she should come back to us.’
‘Really? You can tell “everyone” to mind their own business.’
‘I wish me and Mother hadn’t fallen out.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Hilda. If the Hibbert woman leaves, and your mother moves in next door, she’ll be close enough to keep an eye on, but at a distance so we don’t tread on one another’s toes. I’m sorry to say it, Hilda, but she wasn’t good at coping in a family household.’
Posy squeezed her mouth tight shut to hold in the indignation. It wasn’t fair to talk about Gran like that. Creeping back along the hall, she opened the front door and shut it with a bang.
‘Did you see me score my rounder, Ma?’
Not that she needed to ask.
It would be wonderful if Gran lived next door. It would be sad too, because it would mean the Hibberts had moved away, but would that be altogether bad, given how Dad disliked them? If Mrs Hibbert left, maybe he would like Gran more.
Mrs Hibbert wanted to stay, but Alf wanted to leave. He was going round school, saying he couldn’t wait. He had even said he didn’t care if his mum went. That shocked Posy. Ma might be a droopy cowslip, but you didn’t turn your back on your mum.
But Ma had turned her back on Gran – or had she? Did she want Gran back? It had sounded like it yesterday after the rounders, or had that just been because some of the neighbours had had a go at her?
This evening, Dad sent Ma out to Mrs Watson’s Annie’s house, where a gang of knitters got together every Friday. Ma hadn’t been before because Dad had never let her. Not that Ma had ever said she wanted to go, but somehow they all knew she wasn’t allowed.
Until this evening, when Dad suggested it, but instead of jumping up and racing gleefully out of the house before he could change his mind, Ma – wouldn’t you know it? – had hedged.
‘What if they have another go at me about Mother?’
‘Say she was difficult to live with.’
‘I can’t say that.’
‘Then you’ll have to let them have a go at you.’
Ma picked up her knitting bag and left.
‘Go to bed, Posy,’ said Dad. ‘I fancy an evening on my own.’
‘May I read in bed?’
‘You may.’
Posy raced upstairs, gave herself a lick and a promise, and threw on her nightie. It was a warm evening and still light. She left the curtains open and pushed the sash up further before climbing into bed with Just William. She hadn’t read more than a few pages when a creaky sound caught her ear and she slid out of bed to peep outside. Dad was opening the back gate. Good! It was a nuisance, having it locked all the time.
He did more than unlock it. He left it standing open and returned to the house. Posy ducked back in case he looked up. When she heard the back door shut, she looked again.
After a while, a man came along the entry. Mr Hibbert: he must be looking for Violet. But when he reached their gate, he came inside. Was he a burglar, taking advantage of an open gate? Pulling on her cardy, she crept onto the stairs. Voices came from the kitchen, not loud, angry voices, not Dad demanding to know what the heck Mr Hibbert was doing, but ordinary talking voices.
Posy sat on the stairs, pressing herself against the balusters.
‘We want the same thing,’ said Dad. ‘You want your wife back and I want her gone from here.’
‘It looks like the magistrate will order her to come home, but she’s determined to stop here if she can.’
‘That’s why she needs to be persuaded,’ said Dad. ‘It has to be impossible for her to stay.’
‘I’ve been thinking.’ Had they talked about this before? ‘A few words from me to the newspaper would ruin her professionally, then she’d have to come back.’
‘That’s your idea of persuasion, is it? She’d hate you for ever. It needs to be something she can’t trace back to you.’
‘What about damaging her sewing machine?’
‘She’d still have her other teaching, which in any case earns more. Besides, the sewing machine isn’t hers. She hires it. If it gets damaged, the repairs will have to be paid for and, as the husband, you’ll be liable for the debt.’
‘I suppose that means damaging the house is out of the question an’ all,’ said Mr Hibbert.
‘Theft of money: that’ll do it,’ said Dad. ‘Take away her money and Bob’s your uncle. She’ll have to accept that she can’t stay. Where does she keep it?’
‘Dotted around the house, knowing her. She used to have a Mazawattee tea tin that I wasn’t meant to know about.’
‘And my mother-in-law keeps her money in my father-in-law’s fireproof tin box, with birth certificates and whatnot. If her money vanishes too, she won’t be able to help out. But the tin box will have to be found later. I won’t be forced to have her back here because she’s destitute. When her money is returned, she’ll move in next door with her head held high; and you, my friend, will have a wife with a crushed spirit, plus a wallet stuffed with money, which is rightfully yours anyway, as her husband.’
Posy pulled up her knees into a protective huddle. Mr Hibbert was indeed a burglar.
No – wait.
‘There’s a sports event on Saturday for the local schoolchildren,’ said Dad. ‘You must take your family. Before you go, make sure the back gate is unlocked; also, leave the scullery window open. Spend all afternoon with your family. That’s your proof you were nothing to do with the theft. And while you’re at the park …’
Silence.
Posy nearly wet herself. What was Dad going to do?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘I don’t want to go with you,’ sulked Alf. Nell’s erstwhile sunny little boy looked like he might dash out of the back door and run away at any moment.
‘Don’t be silly, pie-can.’ She kept her tone light. ‘Of course we’re going together, you, me, Cassie and Nana Leonie. We want to see you in the egg-and-spoon race.’
It was Josie O’Rourke who had told her about Alf’s race. He hadn’t uttered a word. It was all Nell could do to hang onto the pieces of her heart.
‘Don’t want to go with you,’ Alf muttered. He stood on one foot, swinging the other, the swings getting bigger and bigger. Any moment now he would kick the table leg. Would he really push things that far?
Patience hadn’t worked. It was time to be firm. ‘Alf, I’ve had enough. I know how upset you are, but it’s time to be sensible. You know how to behave properly and that’s what I expect you to do.’
His eyes welled up; her heart did too. Were they about to be reunited? But with a roar of anger and distress, he broke away and pounded upstairs.
Nell pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to compose herself. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she told Leonie. ‘I wish I’d never lied.’
‘But if you hadn’t, what would you have said instead? A small child, knowing you’d left his dad, would have blurted it out all over the place, and you couldn’t have had that.’
‘You’ve changed your tune. It’s not long since you were shouting the odds at me for lying to you.’
‘If I’d kept my mouth shut instead of yakking to that journalist, none of this would have happened, but you haven’t once said you blame me.’
‘It never occurred to me.’ Nell kissed her. Leonie smelt of rosemary and lemon.
‘Tell you what,’ said Leonie. ‘You don’t blame me for tattling and I won’t blame you for keeping secrets.’
Part of Nell’s burden lifted, but she still felt guilty about Leoni
e’s precarious future. Mrs Watson was a true friend to offer her a home, but it would make Leonie beholden in a way she wasn’t here in Wilton Lane, where she enjoyed the position of honorary aunt and grandmother, an altogether different situation to being the homeless friend.
Footsteps thundered downstairs at the same time as there was a knock at the door. Nell found Alf trying to open it.
‘It’s Dad,’ he yelled and there was only one way he could have known that. He had looked out of the front bedroom window, which meant he had been close to the water damage, an area he knew was off-limits.
She reached over his head to open the door. He flung himself at his father. Nell’s muscles tightened in jealousy.
Stan laughed. ‘Steady on, young fella. I hear there’s some sports going on in the park this afternoon. Are you taking part?’
‘I’m in the egg-and-spoon race,’ said Alf. ‘Are you coming to watch? You can take me and bring me back.’
‘I’ve already told you,’ said Nell. ‘I’m taking you.’
‘Listen to your mum, son. She knows best.’ Stan crouched down. ‘I want to have a talk with her, but I’ll see you later, eh?’
‘Are you going to tell her to let me go with you?’
Nell glared at Stan, daring him to undermine her. How could he be so cheery when she was struggling to control her son?
‘Like I say, Mum knows best.’
It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.
‘Go to Nana Leonie,’ said Nell, but it wasn’t until Stan nodded that Alf went. ‘What do you want? I’m busy.’
‘Too busy to talk to your husband?’
‘You stopped being my husband the moment the door to 14 Vicarage Lane opened.’
Even that didn’t rile him. ‘You aren’t doing yourself any favours. You know you’ll have to come back to me.’
She wanted to say, ‘Not in a million years,’ but if Mr Aitcheson handed over the children, what choice would she have?
‘We need to get on better,’ said Stan, ‘for Alf’s sake.’
A Respectable Woman Page 32
