‘There’s a postcard from Evie,’ said Imogen.
A postcard from Evie.
He was thrown back in time to that other postcard. In prison – sorry. Doing well. Chronic bronchitis but doing well. There: Evangeline Brewer summed up in a couple of scrawled lines, dashed off no doubt in a flurry of glorious pride. Oh, Evie. Always so full of energy. She could have used that energy at home helping make Ma’s life easier, but she was full of the crusading spirit, and off she had gone on a jaunt to London to attend a women’s rally and simply neglected to come home again.
It had hit Ma hard. Aunt Louise had muttered darkly about ungrateful girls flying the nest, while Gran’s knitting needles had clicked ever more rapidly.
He had grown up in a house of women. Dad died when he and Evie were small, and thereafter Ma and Aunt Louise worked all the hours God sent. Gran kept house and earned a few bob from unravelling second-hand woollies and knitting them into new garments.
They lived carefully. Things would have been easier had Ma used Dad’s money differently.
‘That’s Nathaniel’s education money,’ she insisted.
He wouldn’t be a doctor now but for Ma’s determination. The young Evie had resented it passionately.
‘I’m Dad’s child as much as you,’ she used to flare.
Poor Ma, she was shocked speechless the first time Evie was arrested. Evie didn’t get a sentence that first time, but she got a couple of days the second time, and longer the third time. That was when she sent the infamous postcard. Chronic bronchitis but doing well. Nathaniel could have crowned her for that. Ma had been eaten up by worry and shame.
Now here was another postcard.
Lost my job. Bolt-hole needed. Arrive tomorrow. Hope all well. E.
‘Let me look at you, love. Eh, don’t you look bonny – doesn’t she, John? Doesn’t she look bonny?’
Mary watched as Dadda smiled approvingly at Emma. Today was her first day at work. Gone was the pinafore in favour of a neat black dress with white collar and cuffs that marked her out as a shop girl in a better class of establishment. Her dark hair was plaited, as per the instructions of Mrs Price, the owner of the dressmaking business and the shop, who had said she might wear her hair up when she turned sixteen.
Dadda had arranged to go in late to the office in order to walk Emma to work on her first day and formally hand her over. How proud Dadda and Lilian were today of Emma. So was Mary, but there was a voice inside her muttering something ungracious about being proud of Emma simply for starting work when there was no pride in her achievements as a writer.
Her revised Happy Evenings article had been accepted by Vera’s Voice and the deputy editor, L. Newbold (Mrs), had written that she would be interested to see another piece.
‘Quick! Get something written,’ said Angela.
She had used her idea about ways for women to increase their chances of better jobs. When she sent it in, submitting it to Mrs Newbold personally, she signed herself Mary Maitland (Miss), though she still used her pen name on the article. When she received a letter by return, her heart sank: an instant rejection! But Mrs Newbold had written to say it was desirable to give F. Randall a first name. She suggested Fay – quite a new name, and one which suits the modern tone of your work.
Her gut reaction was to reach for a pen and insist upon Florence, but second thoughts stilled her hand. Fay had been chosen specially for her. Besides, using Florence would look like out-and-out defiance at home.
Not that Dadda was likely ever to know. Her writing successes since that first article – not just the piece in Vera’s Voice, but an article about the sweated industries that was turned down by the Manchester Evening News but accepted by the Stockport Echo and Cheshire Daily Echo – had gone virtually unnoticed at home. As a matter of principle, she had informed her parents of each success, doing so when Emma wasn’t present so she couldn’t be accused of leading her astray; but Dadda had done nothing more than grunt and there was no knowing what Lilian thought.
Arriving at the agency, she unlocked the front door and the door at the top of the stairs. She generally arrived first, though she never said so at home, fearing a repeat of Lilian’s cry of ‘Dogsbody!’
She busied herself on the card index she was compiling. When the door opened, she looked up with a smile for her colleagues, and found herself bestowing a welcoming smile on a young man. A handsome young man: dark hair, dark eyes. He responded with a smile of his own and she toned down her own from friendly to professional.
‘Good morning. May I help you?’
‘Miss Kennett and her chum not here?’
He was nattily dressed, trouser creases and turn-ups sharp as knives, the band on his boater matching the gold silk of his tie. His tiepin caught the light and winked at her.
‘Not at present, but they will be shortly. Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Now there’s an offer I shan’t refuse. A cup of tea would go down a treat.’
She had him pegged now. A friend. A well-to-do young gent with an interest in the lower orders. ‘Are you Ophelia’s brother?’
‘Sorry to disappoint. What a lovely name: Ophelia. I bet you have a lovely name too.’
‘Sorry to disappoint. My name’s ordinary: Mary.’
‘Splendid name. Traditional.’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Gallant of you.’
‘Does my gallantry earn me a cup of tea?’
‘Possibly. No sugar, though. You’re tongue’s sweet enough already.’
Josephine breezed in and was already saying, ‘Angela, look who it is,’ before Angela followed her in, swinging a satchel onto her desk and approaching the young man with hand outstretched. He raised it to his lips, making her laugh.
‘As you see,’ he said, ‘I took you at your word. Here I am.’
‘You’re an early bird.’ Josephine glanced at the clock. ‘You’ve discovered our dark secret. We slope in late, knowing everything’s taken care of.’ She smiled at Mary.
The young man smiled at her too. ‘Mary looked after me beautifully.’
Warmth crept across her cheeks. ‘I was about to put the kettle on.’ She bustled into the kitchen.
Josephine squeezed in after her. ‘There’s no reason why you should always do it.’
‘I don’t mind.’
Josephine glanced over her shoulder. ‘Chum of Bobby’s. We didn’t know he was going to pop in so early or we’d have been here, but you obviously managed all right if you got as far as first names.’
‘Oh. We didn’t exactly – I mean, I don’t know his name.’ She fussed over the tray. How could she have been so forward?
‘He’s Charlie Kimber. You know, the Kimbers of—’
‘Ees House.’ She stopped moving; her muscles were squishy. Charlie Kimber. The heir. And she had practically flirted with him. Oh, dear heaven.
‘Kettle’s boiling,’ said Josephine.
‘You go. I’ll do this.’
When she returned to the office, she concentrated on the tea tray, determined not to give herself away by even the smallest clink of china. The others were seated on the sofas. She set down the tray.
‘Shall I be mother?’ she offered. Too brightly?
Charlie Kimber – or should she think of him as Mr Charlie Kimber? – was describing his recent trip to London to watch the Olympic Games, which had started some weeks ago and would carry on until October.
‘I’d rather they’d been held in Rome, like they should have been.’
‘It’s such a fag when a volcano ruins your plans,’ Josephine mocked. ‘I’m always finding that.’
Mary listened with half an ear. She had to tell Charlie Kimber who she was. Imagine if he returned to Ees House and mentioned dropping in to see Kennett’s sister and her friend and, oh yes, there was another colleague, a girl called Mary … and then at some juncture, she was revealed as Mary Maitland, poor relation. She couldn’t let that happen.
Charlie looked at her. �
��I didn’t realise there were three of you here. Kennett said it was his sister and her friend.’
‘It is,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m only the clerk.’
‘Only?’ said Angela. ‘She’s a wizard for efficiency. You should have seen us bumbling along before she came.’
‘Not to mention she’s a dab hand at writing,’ Josephine added. ‘See these?’ She plucked some leaflets from the table. ‘They’re now highly readable, which they never used to be.’
‘And she’s been publ—’
Mary slopped her tea. It was all she could think of to do. Dadda would give her a roasting if word of her articles got back to the Kimbers. ‘Butterfingers.’
They all leant forward to rescue the books and leaflets. Charlie’s fingers brushed hers and she moved her hand away.
‘I’ll fetch a cloth.’ Angela stood up.
Josephine held up a stack of leaflets. ‘We don’t want these getting spoilt. They’re for our next meeting.’
‘Oh yes, your meetings,’ Charlie said. ‘All right if I potter along?’ Mary felt his eyes on her. ‘Do you attend the meetings as well?’
She nodded, taking the cloth from Angela and mopping up. The door opened and a woman entered. Angela and Josephine excused themselves and went to her.
‘Must be getting along.’ Charlie downed the last of his drink. ‘You make a splendid cup of tea.’
She loaded the tray, aware of him picking up his boater and following her up the room. She dumped the tray beside the sink and heard him say his goodbyes, then the door opened and shut.
She flew after him.
‘Mr Kimber!’
He stopped on the stairs, looking up at her with a smile that crinkled his eyes. He started to retrace his steps, but she ran down to meet him, wanting to push him out into the street, wanting to push him all the way back to Ees House.
‘Mr Kimber—’
‘That’s very formal. What do you call Kennett?’
‘Bobby.’
‘Well, that makes me Charlie if I’m to come to these meetings.’
‘I’m Mary Maitland.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mary Maitland – oh. Maitland.’
There was nothing else to say. She ran upstairs, catching the glances Josephine and Angela shot her way before they turned back to the new client.
When the woman left, Angela asked, ‘What was that about?’
She didn’t pretend not to understand. ‘My father and Sir Edward Kimber are cousins.’ She ignored the raised eyebrows. ‘I had to make sure Mr Charlie Kimber knows who I am.’
‘You never said you’re related to the Kimbers,’ said Josephine.
‘We don’t trade on it.’
‘Of course not,’ said Angela. Then she exclaimed, ‘I know who you are! Wasn’t there a scandal years ago? A younger son ran away with a shopkeeper’s daughter.’
‘That was my grandmother.’
‘I say, I do apologise. Rather tasteless to blurt it out like that.’
She lightened her tone. ‘You can see why I needed Mr Kimber to know.’
That was the difficult bit over with. No, it wasn’t. Now she had to go home and tell Dadda. Oh, crumbs.
But when she and Emma arrived at the gate, the front door was thrown open and Lilian came hurrying out.
‘Now you’re not to worry,’ she said and burst into tears.
Imogen met Nathaniel at the front door, her brow wrinkled with concern. ‘She’s here. She’s—well, she looks rather the worse for wear.’
‘Bad journey?’ He entered the front room, but the greeting died on his lips as shock clobbered him. ‘Evie! What happened?’ The doctor in him leapt to the fore. ‘Let me see.’
She sprang up and dodged away.
‘What happened?’ He experienced a surge of horror and protectiveness. ‘You look like you’ve had seven bells knocked out of you.’ Suddenly she was his little sister and it was his job to look after her.
Evie touched her face, the left side of which was heavily bruised, the delicate skin stretched to snapping point to accommodate the angry purple and yellow swelling. She parted her lips, but no sound emerged. She shut her eyes, clearly forcing herself to swallow; he swallowed too, as if he could swallow for her.
She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips and said – or rather, croaked – ‘Prison.’
Prison: that would be – what? – her fourth time? He recalled the weary Not again feeling he had experienced last time, but he had no such feeling now.
‘They beat you?’
She shook her head.
‘Then how? Was it accidental or on purpose?’
‘Bit of both, I suppose.’
‘Evie, open your mouth. Let me see.’
She clamped it shut.
‘Have you lost a tooth?’
‘Two, actually.’
‘Your face is battered and you’ve lost teeth—’
‘Could have been worse. Might have been the front ones.’
‘How?’
She shrugged. ‘They didn’t mean to, but I fought back.’
‘Fought back? For pity’s sake, just tell me.’
‘Forcible feeding.’ Her eyes dulled. ‘They force-fed me.’
The undamaged side of her face went white. He was just in time to catch her as she crumpled into a dead faint.
The hospital building was a colossal structure, with a grand frontage that made Ees House seem plain. How strange that they had made a workhouse look so ornate. That was what the place had been originally. There was talk of changing its name to Withington Hospital. Mary hoped it would be changed. There was something shameful about being in a place that still bore the old name.
People huddled outside the ward, waiting to be admitted. Mary had taken the precaution of bringing Lilian and Emma early, so Lilian perched one of the few wooden chairs. Mary and Emma had given up their seats to a pair of older women with tear-streaked faces and the faded look of the genteel poor.
‘I’m sorry to be so weepy,’ said Lilian. ‘I should be the one looking after you girls.’
‘It’s the shock,’ Mary soothed her.
‘It was a shock for you, too, but you’ve stayed calm. You’re a good girl, Mary. I’ll be all right now. What about you, Emma? We mustn’t weep all over Dadda.’
A bell rang and the ward door opened.
‘Maximum of two per bed,’ announced the nurse.
‘You go first,’ said Mary.
As they disappeared, she let her smile drop. Down-to-earth, reliable Lilian had fallen to bits when she heard of the accident. Poor Dadda had tumbled down the stairs at the town hall and broken his leg.
When Lilian and Emma came out, Mary went in. Dadda’s face was pale, but he gave her a nod and a smile. She didn’t waste her precious few minutes repeating the conversation he must already have had. Besides, small talk wouldn’t settle her butterflies.
‘I’ve been thinking, Dadda. With you off work, we’ll have to tighten our belts.’
‘Charming,’ he said drily. ‘What happened to “How are you?”’
‘How are you?’
‘Aching like billy-o, but I’ll be better for a good night’s sleep.’
‘Good. Dadda, can we talk about money?’
He flapped a hand to silence her. ‘Keep your voice down.’
‘I’m sorry, Dadda, but we must discuss it. You won’t get paid while you’re off work. I’ve been thinking—’
‘Well, stop. There’s no call for you to worry. I’ve already told your mother. I have savings.’
‘I want to help.’
‘You and Emma already hand your keep to your mother. That’s all you need do.’
‘Please listen. I earn less at the agency than I did at the town hall.’
‘It’s a bit late to realise that.’
She bit back a sharp reply. ‘What I realise is that I didn’t think twice about taking the job. The lower salary didn’t worry me because we’re comfortably off, and that’s thanks
to you.’ She held his gaze. ‘Now it’s my turn. I’ll give Mother my writing money.’
‘We’ll live off our savings.’
‘That’d be daft when we don’t need to.’
‘Calling me daft, are you?’
‘Of course not.’ She took a moment to ensure her face had a pleasant expression and her voice was quiet. ‘It makes sense, when you think about it.’
‘Not when I think about it.’
‘Dadda, please. I know you don’t approve of my writing, but I can help the family. I’m not suggesting I can support us, but I’ll spend all my spare time writing and contribute as much as I can. Surely that’s preferable to digging into your savings.’
How demeaning it was to beg for permission to do someone a favour. If he climbed off his high horse and agreed, he would be the one conferring the favour on her.
‘I’ll give it my consideration,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Dadda.’
Chapter Nine
Arriving at Mr Clough’s house, Mary felt the blood coursing through her veins and imagined it carrying words round her body. There was a lot riding on this article. Although she had sold a few pieces, her last two had been rejected, which was a severe blow with the Maitland household hard up.
She had given a couple of friends her rejected work to look at.
‘What am I doing wrong?’
Katharine Fordyce looked thoughtful. ‘Your other articles had something extra. In the Happy Evenings one, you wrote about special friendships between the different ages. In these, there’s nothing extra, if you understand me.’
After the meeting, Katharine took her aside.
‘My uncle’s an alderman. He knows a fellow who wants to be one and is getting involved in good works to help his cause. Do you remember my mentioning a clinic? This Mr Clough is involved with that. I’ll get Uncle Oswald to arrange an interview.’
So here she was at the home of Barnaby Clough. She was shown into an extravagantly furnished room that said more about money than good taste. Mr Clough was a portly gentleman with protruding eyes. Fat fingers enclosed her hand. She was glad of her glove.
‘A lady journalist, eh? Couldn’t believe my ears when Alderman Fordyce told me. Still, we must move with the times.’
The Poor Relation Page 8