Together, in the back kitchen, they assembled the tray for Patience, Clara stirring the porridge while her father talked animatedly about the fight at Craven’s the following week.
‘Samson - that pitman from Bedlington - he’s been matched with Danny Watts.’
‘Thought Watts was getting wed on Monday?’ Clara queried.
‘Aye, but he’s not fightin’ till Saturday,’ Harry replied.
‘Not much of a honeymoon,’ Clara said.
‘Seamen don’t get well paid, pet, and weddings cost money. His missus will understand.’
Clara was sceptical. ‘I’m going to have a grand wedding and a long honeymoon - touring round the country in a Riley.’
Harry laughed. ‘Well, you’ll either have to marry a rich lad, or I’ll have to win a lot more at the betting.’
‘Rich lad.’ Clara was adamant. She did not like her father betting, however small the wager. He never won on horses or dogs, only sometimes on boxers. But he claimed it was his only vice apart from the snuff and one day, he declared, he would surprise them all with a bonanza win and buy Patience a department store in Newcastle.
Harry disappeared with the tray for his wife as Jimmy came in. Clara served them breakfast and then argued with Jimmy as to who should collect their mother’s tray in a bid to escape the washing-up.
‘It’s my turn,’ Jimmy shouted. They both loved to linger in the warm bedroom with the coal fire, sprawled on the beige cashmere bedspread chatting to their mother or watching her reflection in the dressing-table mirror as she applied creams and make-up from delicate glass and silver pots.
Clara relented quickly. She did not want a moody Jimmy for the morning and it occurred to her that her mother might question her too closely about her bank holiday trip. She had mentioned nothing about Benny’s coming along with Reenie, or their hope of dancing at the Cafe Cairo on the promenade.
An hour later, Clara opened the shop as Patience appeared in a cream rayon suit with pearl buttons, opaque stockings, buckled shoes and a neat cloche hat. A waft of spicy musk followed her and Clara felt a sudden lump in her throat to see the adoration on her father’s face.
‘Isn’t your mam a picture?’ He grinned. ‘Keeps the suppliers on their toes when they see they’re dealing with quality.’
Patience pulled on her gloves with a brisk laugh. ‘And extends our credit terms.’ She kissed her children. ‘We won’t be long. Mrs Shaw’s coming in for a corset fitting at eleven, but I’ll be back for that.’
Jimmy followed them out into the street and watched them climb into the van. It was old and belched black smoke, but they were proud to have it. One day, Harry was always promising, they would drive around Byfell in a saloon car like Vinnie Craven. Patience, always the pragmatic one, assured him the van was what was needed to run a successful retail business.
The morning passed quickly with a steady stream of customers coming in to buy needles and ribbon, children’s caps and socks, and to browse the new ornaments and giftware. Clara had Jimmy up the ladder to fetch down a box of buttons for Mrs Laidlaw, who was knitting a baby coat for her newest grandchild.
‘These yellow butterfly ones are just in,’ Clara assured her. ‘No one else round here will be wearing them yet. And I can match them up with some ribbon. That pattern needs some ribbon sewn in — make it that little bit different, don’t you think?’
Mrs Laidlaw agreed. Clara knew that if you did not advise her what to do, she would be in the shop half an hour dithering over small purchases and would leave empty-handed. The woman had six children and fifteen grandchildren and was constantly unravelling old jumpers to knit new ones for the youngest. The Laidlaws were a hardened brood who readily used their fists, but Patience said even thugs needed socks and underwear. Patience knew all their names and ages, but Clara found she had to write them down in the back of her diary or else she forgot.
‘Is the christening soon?’ Clara asked. ‘Cos I’ve got just the thing.’ Before Mrs Laidlaw could answer, Clara was round the counter and leaning into the shop window, picking out a baby spoon set made of horn. ‘Aren’t they beautiful -?’
As she straightened, Clara came face to face with a man staring in at her from the pavement. The sales patter dried in her throat. He gazed with eyes that sagged behind cracked spectacles, his long face gaunt. But he was staring, not at the goods in the display, but straight at her, as if he had been waiting for her to come to the window. She felt a jolt of alarm and turned abruptly away.
Unnerved, she gabbled too much about the spoons and Mrs Laidlaw decided they were too expensive. Clara wrapped up the buttons and ribbon and took the woman’s money. She served two other customers before glancing again at the display window. With relief she saw that the man had gone. It was nothing to get fussed about. He had just been passing and happened to glance in when she looked up, that’s all.
As eleven approached, there was a lull in business and Clara dashed into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She heard the bell above the door tinkle and called Jimmy to the back shop to mind the kettle. He pulled a funny face as he came through the curtain.
‘Odd-body,’ he giggled.
Clara stepped into the shop and saw the strange man again. He took off his cap and clutched it, revealing greasy strands of receding black hair. He wore a heavy coat, though it was damp and muggy outside. The loose skin round his chin was nicked with shaving cuts from a blunt razor. She was aware that he smelled. Her insides squirmed.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, trying to hide her distaste.
He hesitated, then stepped closer, never taking his eyes from hers. His look was mystifying, as if he was sad or angry with her. But what had she done? She could not remember ever seeing him before. He licked his dry lips as if he would speak, but instead just stood there staring and shaking his head. Perhaps he was simple, she thought.
‘Are you lost?’ she asked, as if to a child.
For a moment, the trace of a smile touched his colourless lips and he did not look quite so old. Then his shoulders sagged under the weight of his oversized coat and his face tensed again.
Maybe he was a lunatic with a knife in his pocket, Clara thought wildly, an out-of-work soldier sent mad in the trenches. She dreamed up such storylines about customers for her diary, but this seemed horribly possible.
‘Would you like to speak to my father?’ she asked quickly. ‘He’s just in the back.’
The man looked aghast. Suddenly he blurted out, ‘What is your name?’
‘Clara,’ she gulped.
He shook his head again as if this was the wrong answer.
‘And your name is, sir?’ Clara asked. ‘Just so I can tell my dad.’
He grew agitated. ‘Your father - let me speak to him.’ His accent was strange — maybe foreign.
Behind them the door opened with a jangle and Mrs Shaw bustled in. Clara waved her over with too loud a voice.
‘Oh, come in, Mrs Shaw. Mam’s expecting you. Jimmy’s just making tea; would you like a cup while you’re waiting?’ She spun round, flapping at the curtain behind. ‘Jimmy! Quickly!’
A moment later, the door was jangling again and Clara turned to see the stranger bolting out of the shop, the heel of one shoe slapping loosely on the tiled floor. Her heart thumped in relief.
‘Mam won’t be long, Mrs Shaw,’ she sighed, as Jimmy appeared, slopping a cup of tea.
He grinned at her and she knew he had been listening behind the curtain.
‘And your name is, sir?’ he mimicked under his breath.
She laughed and stuck out her tongue at him, before turning to show Mrs Shaw into the tiny fitting room. There was hardly room for both her and the portly customer. Harry thought they should use the space for displaying more hats, but Patience did a steady business in lingerie among those too busy or too frugal to walk the mile up to Byker High Street or travel into Newcastle. She flattered them and listened to their worries. Corsets might have been out of fashion since the early ‘20
s, but Patience had both loyal customers and faith in corsets making a come-back. To Clara’s relief, her mother swept in to take over the sale before Mrs Shaw had a chance to derobe.
At closing time, Harry fished out half a crown from the till and told Clara to treat herself and Reenie to the best seats at the Coliseum to see the new Greta Garbo film, A Woman of Affairs, and pie and peas on the way home. Jimmy had already disappeared out to play. Clara changed into a new pink blouse and rushed round to Drummond Street to find Reenie sweeping up in the hairdresser’s. Although her friend had stayed on at school and was hoping to train as a nurse, her parents relied on her to help out on busy Saturdays. Reenie beamed at her in relief.
‘That’s grand,’ she cried, on hearing of the treat, abandoning the broom and pulling off her apron.
Marta, a small, neat woman with a cascade of dark wavy hair, appeared with a flurry of questions.
‘Clara, come in. Will you have tea with us? How are you doing in shop today? Busy, ja? Come in, come in.’
‘Shop’s been canny.’ Clara smiled.
‘We haven’t time for tea, Mam,’ Reenie said quickly, grabbing her friend by the arm.
‘But you must eat something,’ Marta remonstrated.
‘Later or we’ll miss the newsreel.’ Reenie was adamant.
‘Don’t you want to change?’ Clara asked, regretting her friend’s haste. She did not care much for the news and could not understand why Rennie and her brothers found it so interesting. She craned now for a glimpse of Benny or Frank over the partition that divided the small booths of the hair salon from the even smaller barber’s. But all she could see was Oscar Lewis’s bald head bobbing up and down as he limped around tidying his shop. He was a quiet man with one leg shorter than the other, which was partly compensated for by wearing a large, specially made boot. He was dextrous with scissors and often cut the hair of women customers too. Oscar caught sight of Clara and nodded with a cautious smile, then carried on with his task.
‘Bye, Papa!’ Reenie called out as she pushed Clara to the door. ‘Bye, Mam.’
Marta pursued them into the street. ‘I’ll keep something hot for you. Behave yourselves and don’t talk to strange boys, ja?’
‘No, Mam,’ Reenie agreed, adding under her breath, ‘not strange ones.’
Clara suppressed a laugh as arm in arm they hurried towards the High Street. They chattered about their day.
‘I hate having to wash their hair.’ Reenie grimaced. ‘One woman had lice, but Mam wouldn’t let me say anything in case she got offended and didn’t come back. I think she should be told, then she can do something about it. Now her whole family will have them.’
‘Yes, Nurse Lewis,’ Clara grinned.
‘Well, you’re all right,’ Reenie snorted, digging her in the ribs, ‘you have nice things to sell - useless but nice.’
Clara bridled. ‘What do you mean, useless?’
Reenie smirked. ‘Who needs a set of frosted cocktail glasses or a jug in the shape of a fat monk?’
‘Who needs a permanent wave?’ Clara sparked back.
Reenie coloured and laughed. ‘Some of us want to look good for the Revolution.’
‘Is that why Benny is growing a little beard like that Russian on the film — what’s his name?’
‘Trotsky.’
‘Aye, him.’
Reenie gave Clara a sideways look. ‘So you’ve noticed our Benny’s new look. That’ll please him.’
It was Clara’s turn to blush. ‘Why should it?’
‘Cos he’s got a soft spot for you. Haven’t you noticed how many collar studs he’s been buying from your shop lately?’
Clara shrugged. ‘He does seem to lose them easily.’
‘Aye, right.’ Reenie laughed, her blue eyes teasing. ‘He’s got a drawer full of them.’
‘Give over!’ Clara gave her a shove. She felt a nervous thrill despite her embarrassment. It made her feel grown up to hear that Benny Lewis fancied her.
Still laughing, they rounded the corner into the High Street, two blocks down from Magee’s. Under the romantic cinema posters of John Gilbert embracing Garbo, a queue was growing for the early evening performance. Just as they were about to cross the road, Clara stopped and gasped.
‘What’s wrong?’ Reenie asked.
Clara’s insides clenched. ‘Over there. It’s that man again.’ She recognised the scruffy coat and the strangely shaped cap, not a style they had ever sold. He was eyeing the queue from a shop doorway as if watching out for someone. He had not yet seen them.
‘What about him?’ Reenie asked impatiently.
Clara would not move. ‘Today. He was staring into the shop at me - then he came in.’
‘And?’ Reenie demanded.
Clara felt foolish. ‘He asked me my name. Didn’t buy anything.’
Reenie rolled her eyes. ‘What a little capitalist. It’s not a crime to look in a shop and buy nowt. Look at him; he’s just down on his luck. Probably wanted a cup of tea.’
Clara felt a pang of guilt. ‘Aye, probably.’
‘Haway,’ Reenie said, steering her off the pavement, ‘leave the poor man be.’
They crossed the road and joined the queue, shuffling forward with the others. Clara determined not to look towards the stranger, though all the time she stood waiting she had the overwhelming feeling that she was being watched. It made her spine prickle. She was relieved when they reached the top of the steps and entered the large red and gold painted doors. Her spirits lifted in anticipation of the film ahead, the plush seats and the creamy block of ice cream between wafers they would treat themselves to with the pie money.
But she could not resist a last glance behind. Her stomach lurched. The strange man had moved away from the shop door and was standing at the bottom of the steps, looking up. Looking directly at her.
She wanted to tell Reenie, pull her back and show her how the man was staring. But her friend was already inside the foyer. Well, he looked too poor to be able to follow her inside, she told herself, quelling her panic. Then she felt bad about such a thought. He was harmless, and besides, he was watching everyone go in, not just her.
Quickly she turned away and escaped inside.
Janet welcomes comments and feedback on her stories. If you would like to do so, you can contact her through her website: www.janetmacleodtrotter.com
THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love Page 89
