Luckpenny Land

by Freda Lightfoot

  Kath swallowed the first bitter retort that came to her lips and turned, smiling, to Tam. ‘Thanks for seeing me safely back.’ And just to prove that she was twenty years old, twenty-one on 3 December, and could do as she pleased, she rested her hands on Tam’s wide shoulders and kissed him full upon the lips.

  And with that little show of rebellion, sealed her fate.

  The next morning Ruby was at her bedside a full twenty minutes before six-thirty, the usual time Kath was expected to rise and prepare breakfast.

  ‘Get up and put on a decent frock. No lipstick or fancy combs in your hair. Plain and respectable, no more nor less.’

  ‘Why? Is the king coming?’

  ‘I’ll take no lip, neither. I’ve had enough of your clever tongue, madam. Looking down your nose at me because I’m not so well placed as your darling mummy, and all the time walking the street with any Tom, Dick or Harry.’ Gone was the smiling, social front her aunt usually adopted. Ruby reached down and stripped the covers from the bed while Kath still lay in it, still not properly awake.

  ‘Here, what is this?’

  ‘When you’re dressed, finish stripping the bed and fold all the sheets. Then come straight to the kitchen. You can have a bit of breakfast before you go.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  ‘I’ve found you a job. You are to leave right away.’

  Kath gasped. ‘What kind of job?’

  But Ruby, having reached the end of her tether so far as this little madam was concerned, had nothing more to say. She marched from the room, glass beads clinking with indignation, and Kath had no option but to do as she was bid, anticipation and the smallest degree of disquiet beating a dull pulse deep in her stomach.

  Greenlawns showed not a speck of grass to mark its name before an austere, grey-stoned exterior. A tall, gabled house, much larger than Kath had expected, it stood on the outskirts of Liverpool. It had taken a long bus ride to reach it but Aunt Ruby had said the place was prepared to offer her work, so here she was, dressed in her best blue suit with tan shoes and bag to match.

  Kath had read in a magazine that a girl should look bandbox smart if applying for work in a city establishment. She carried only one small attaché case, Ruby having promised to send on her luggage later, on the railway.

  ‘If you like Liverpool so much, you can go and work in it,’ her aunt had said, and Kath had quickly agreed.

  ‘But how did you find out they wanted someone?’

  ‘Her next door told me,’ said Ruby vaguely. ‘I’ve given them a ring and it’s all fixed.’

  It would certainly be an improvement on that dratted mangle and the constant changing of bed linen, Kath thought, not to mention all the vegetable peeling for the boarding house guests.

  It was worth a try. A quiet clerical job would do fine. She saw herself sitting neatly at a typewriter. Not that she knew how to type, but she could soon learn. No need to mention her little ‘difficulty’, just wear a jacket all the time, or a loose blouse and a light corset. They wouldn’t be too fussy anyway, not with a war on. She could buy a cheap ring from Woolworths in case it got to be a problem.

  Then find herself good digs and enjoy city life. Just what the doctor ordered. She might even look up Jack. She should have come to Liverpool in the first place. Kath could see that now. There’d be loads of adoption societies around here. She felt quite optimistic.

  Pulling the bell pull by the great iron gates Kath waited patiently for a woman to cross the tarmacadamed forecourt and open it. She was grey haired, about sixty, wearing a sour expression and a green wraparound overall. One of the workers, no doubt.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have an appointment. To see Miss Blake.’

  Green Paint not Greenlawns would be a more appropriate name, Kath decided as she was shown in to a small office which seemed to be thickly coated from stem to stern with the stuff. But she meant not to be put off by the appearance of the place, or the stern thinness of the woman who sat behind the wide desk. At four and a half months gone she couldn’t afford to be too fussy. Work must be found. It was time to get herself sorted out.

  The woman seemed to be all spectacles, long nose and thin lips. Owning herself to be the Miss Blake Kath had been detailed to find, she started to speak. Kath was so mesmerised by her lips which hardly seemed to move, that she missed most of what was said.

  ‘…and such is the result of romance.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ It was that last word, romance, which had jolted Kath’s wandering attention.

  ‘It is our task to care for the feeble-minded.’

  ‘Oh, is this a hospital?’ Kath glanced about her. That explained the rather institutional, antiseptic feel to the place.

  ‘No, not a hospital, more a kind of sanctuary.’

  Kath smiled politely. ‘I see.’

  ‘It is our duty to protect people from themselves. Many are weak creatures, with little or no control. They fall by the wayside, overcome by their passions and used by merciless hands. It is our call in life to protect their physical and spiritual needs at all cost. We are not linked to any particular church but you will find that our aims are that of charity all the same.’

  Kath was concentrating hard but still finding it difficult to follow where this long explanation was leading, being more anxious to learn about the job. ‘I’m not sure that I...’

  The woman had risen and was ringing a small tinkling handbell. ‘You will be shown to your quarters and told of the daily routine and issued instructions on your work detail. You will find it in your own best interests to settle in as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Of course, but - settle in? Am I expected to live here?’ Kath too was on her feet, smoothing her gloves in her most ladylike manner. ‘I’m not sure that I would wish to. I rather thought I’d find digs in town. Could you tell me a little about the work, so that I can judge whether it would suit? Is it clerical?’

  The woman looked irritated, as if she were unused to being questioned. ‘It might be. It might be anything. Whatever needs doing and you are instructed to do, you will do it. It is not your place to judge or make decisions.’

  ‘I see.’ Kath supposed that was the way of all employers, of whom she had no knowledge. ‘And the pay?’

  The woman’s face went blank with shock. ‘Pay?’

  ‘My wages. What am I to be paid?’

  ‘You are very lucky, child, that we do not charge you for the privilege of staying here. Though it is true that we depend upon goodwill for much of our income. However, Greenlawns was started by the Misses Harris, now sadly departed, in the early part of this century, for those girls less fortunate than themselves. They left a large trust fund to go with the property so we are largely independent.’

  ‘Trust fund? Less fortunate? I’m afraid I don’t understand. What is this place? Where am I for God’s sake?’ Kath was starting to feel a prickly heat all down her back.

  Miss Blake looked slightly taken aback and then something very close to a smirk came over her glacial features. Ah, so that was the way of it. She had seen it many times before. A family no longer able to cope with a rebellious girl, not even able to discuss the delicate matter with her. So tragic, that weakness of character could split whole families apart. In the end they were forced to call upon Greenlawns, where people of note and respectability could safely rely upon complete discretion. Greenlawns had learned such delicate skills, along with many others needed in its work, over the years.

  ‘You are, my dear, at Greenlawns Home for Wayward Girls.’

  Effie sat huddled in the bushes. Rain was drizzling down but she paid no heed to it for her eyes were fixed upon the school. Square and squat, it was surrounded on three sides by a paved playground that seemed to teem with tiny bodies. All clean and well dressed.

  Nobody had ever considered schooling necessary before. Certainly not Mam, nor any of her many ‘lodgers’. There’d been no time for learning. It had been Effie’s task to mind her younger brothers a
nd sisters while Mam slept, so she was fit to go out at night, to work, she said. No wonder she was an expert at boiling spuds and cabbage, Effie thought.

  Where her siblings went or what they got up to all day she couldn’t rightly say. Nor, apart from Jessie, the youngest, whom she’d kept with her, did she rightly care. Effie only knew that if they stayed in the house and woke Mam and her boy friend there’d be one hell of a row. And Effie was always the one who got belted, not them.

  Effie would spend hours standing on street corners begging, often getting enough to buy a stale barm cake and stave off the constant hunger. But as she’d grown older it’d got more complicated. Men seemed to think she should pay them in kind for their coin, which was not at all what she had in mind. Effie was no fool.

  Then the evacuee ladies had come round. None of her brothers and sisters was keen, but Effie had scented escape and jumped at the chance.

  So here she was, staying in this lovely place with Meg and eating regular meals now they had a full pantry to go at. If it meant putting up with queer monsters with things stuck under their bellies, and going to school, so be it. She was sure the sickness in her stomach would go in a minute.

  Effie heard a bell clang but didn’t emerge from behind the bush until all the children had lined up and started to march through the school door.

  ‘And who is this?’ Miss Shaw smiled down at her. ‘It’s Effie Putnam, isn’t it?’

  Effie nodded. ‘Yes, miss,’ she said, remembering what Meg had told her.

  ‘Come along inside and I’ll introduce you to everyone.’

  Taking Effie’s hand, she led her into a long room filled with wooden desks and laughing children. Above the teacher’s high desk was a picture of Jesus. Effie guessed it was Him because he had a beard like in the Bible Meg had at Broombank. He had loads of children around his knee. The place seemed overrun with them too.

  There were other pictures around the panelled walls, of children picnicking or playing with dolls. Things Effie had never done in her life. There was a big round clock with cardboard hands and a fire burning brightly in a corner grate, surrounded by a mesh fireguard on which hung an assortment of the children’s hats and scarves, steaming in the heat.

  ‘Take off your coat, Effie.’

  She did so but didn’t rightly know what to do with it so dropped it in a corner.

  ‘There’s a hook with your name on it in the cloakroom,’ Miss Shaw told her.

  Effie, heart pounding, went to look at the gummed squares stuck on the panelled walls. They might have been Greek for all the sense they made to her. A group of children, hanging up their own coats, started to giggle. Effie began to feel quite hot around her middle.

  ‘Go on. Don’t be shy,’ said Miss Shaw kindly. And, never one to allow herself to look a fool, Effie thrust her coat on the first hook she could find.

  A great guffaw of laughter erupted from behind. ‘She’s put it on John Buxton’s hook, miss.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Miss Shaw, looking suddenly concerned. ‘We can sort it out later. Come along, Effie. You can sit next to Susan and Jeffrey. Quiet, children. This is Effie, our new evacuee.’

  Silence fell and Effie was aware of all eyes drawn towards her, as if they’d never seen such a creature in their lives before. In a way they hadn’t. Poor as these rural children were, they were scrupulously clean, secure in their little world, and knew what was what. Here, to their delight, was someone who didn’t seem to know anything.

  Effie began to feel hot and uncomfortable, sure that at any moment she would disgrace herself and pee down her legs. She glared back at them, scowling furiously.

  All the girls were dressed in warm jerseys and neat wool skirts in blue, brown or check. They had socks and shoes, and ribbons in their hair. The boys had the same sort of jerseys which they wore over grey trousers that came to their knees. None of the clothes had holes in, as her own brothers and sisters had, though some sported patches on elbows, or neatly darned squares.

  Embarrassment washed over her in a great scalding wave. Meg had done her best from a limited range of garments. She had shortened a navy blue skirt for her. Even so, Effie was aware that it swamped her skinny figure, and was so big at the waist that it had to be gathered in with a belt from an old mackintosh. Over the skirt she wore one of Sally Ann’s old cardigans that had shrunk and felted in the wash. It hung unevenly over a thin cotton blouse that had several buttons missing which meant that if Effie pulled back her arms you could see bits of liberty bodice over her flat chest.

  On her feet were a pair of clogs. Meg said they had once belonged to her brother, Charlie, when he was small. Effie had been proud of the clogs, for they made a grand clopping noise across the yard and she could make sparks with the iron bottoms on the stone cobs. Now she wriggled her bare toes within them and squirmed with agony.

  Miss Shaw was staring at these items as if they offended her, and it was evident that her embarrassment was as deep as the child’s. ‘If we wear clogs to school, we usually leave them in the cloakroom.’

  ‘I’ve got naught else to put on.’

  ‘Haven’t you brought any pumps, in a little bag, Effie? We’ll be having country dance later and I’m sure you would like to join in.’

  Effie shook her head. The only pumps she knew about stood in a back street, and you yanked the handle up and down to get water in your bucket.

  She looked up into the teacher’s kind, flushed face. Then at all the curious faces gathered about her. She could see the other girls in their smart jerseys, with their hands squeezed over their mouths to smother their laughter, the glee bright in their eyes. She hated them, instantly and intensely.

  ‘I dun’t like dancing. Anyroad, I’m not bloody stoppin’ here.’ Satisfied by the sensation she had caused, she turned and ran out of the room, sparking her clogs all across the school yard just to show how little she cared.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The dull days of November were upon Lakeland. The birches and wild cherries, sycamore and oak, stood naked with their feet in a mire of dead leaves. Only the red-barked yew and the tall spires of Norway Spruce stood green against the cloud dark sky. The deer had withdrawn to their winter quarters, the red squirrels were hibernating and most birds had followed the north-south axis of the dale and headed for warmer climes.

  At Broombank, rain ran from the roof into the barrel and overflowed to swill over the slate paving stones and wash down the lane, soaking anyone who ventured out even for a moment. On this day Joe chose to call.

  ‘Right then. Let’s be having you. We’ve had enough of this nonsense.’

  ‘What nonsense is that, Father?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me. Pack your bags and come home. Farming is a serious business, not for schoolgirls.’

  Meg drew in a slow, deep breath. ‘I’m not a schoolgirl. I’m twenty-one if you haven’t noticed, and can please myself what I do.’ Then, feeling a wash of compassion for him, standing on her doorstep stiff with pride, Meg reached out a hand. ‘Why don’t you let me show you round and tell you of my plans?’

  ‘Plans!’ Joe snorted. ‘Selfish dreams more like. It’s time you thought about someone else beside yourself for a change. Get your coat on. Sally Ann isn’t well. We need you at home.’

  ‘Oh no, what’s wrong with her?’ Meg was upset, filled with a sudden shaft of guilt to think Sally Ann might need her and she’d been too busy to notice.

  ‘She’s far gone in her pregnancy and can’t get through the work she normally does.’

  Meg stiffened. ‘That’s all you want from your womenfolk isn’t it? Work. Well, I’ll call on Sal and see if there’s anything I can do, but for her sake, not yours.’

  He glared at her. ‘Get along then.’

  Meg didn’t move. ‘I’ll call tomorrow.’

  Joe looked as if he might drag her from her own doorstep there and then so furious was he at this show of stubbornness. ‘You’ve gone soft in the head if you think you can ma
nage this place on your own. And that lad o’yourn won’t thank you. Why don’t you do yourself, and him, a favour and let Mrs Bradshaw sell it like she wants to.’

  ‘So you can have it for Dan?’

  ‘He’s a man. He needs his own place.’

  ‘Then give him Ashlea.’

  Unusually, Joe looked uncomfortable. ‘Ashlea needs to be bigger if it’s to keep us all.’ On a sudden burst of anger he thrust a finger at her. ‘And thee have it in your power to help us, your own family.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ She stood in wretched misery, watching him storm away.

  Will Davies harnessed the reliable Arlott and went through twelve acres as if it were butter and Meg duly collected the grant of two pounds an acre. It was her job, assisted by Effie, to take off the stones and pull up the rushes and thistles first, a task that left them both speechless with exhaustion.

  Will also brought down her sheep with his own autumn gather so that she didn’t need to call upon her own family, which proved a relief in the circumstances. Not that she had many sheep to gather in, she discovered. Lanky’s flock was in a very depleted state and building it up again would be her major concern.

  Every Saturday morning Meg and Effie stood the free farmer’s market selling eggs, butter, milk, bundles of kindling and any number of cabbages. She’d called on Sally Ann the day after Joe’s visit, and regularly every Wednesday afternoon since. Her sister-in-law seemed a bit sickly, which she supposed was normal in this stage of the pregnancy. Meg could do little but offer moral support.

  ‘I wish I could do more.’

  ‘You have enough on your plate, Meg, I’m all right. I’ll get Dan to help.’

  ‘See that he does.’

  Hetty Davies showed Meg how to pluck the geese and turkeys ready for market.

  ‘Don’t scald them,’ she warned, ‘or you’ll have pink meat. Best to dry pluck for pure white meat. Takes a bit longer but it’s worth it and you get a better price.’

  And indeed they did. The remainder of the rent was raised by selling three of the fat geese and all the turkeys at one shilling and threepence a pound on Christmas Eve. A good price which pleased her. Meg paid her first quarter’s rent with an immense sense of achievement.