by Rosie Clarke
Marion cooked some cabbage and the potatoes, then mashed them with a scraping of marge, some salt and pepper and served her brothers and sisters first before sitting down to her own portion.
‘Has anyone been up to see Ma?’ she asked as she ate her meal.
‘I went up as soon as I got home,’ Robbie said. ‘She told me to go away. I asked if she wanted a cup of tea and a bit of toast. She said she wasn’t hungry and to leave her alone.’
‘I’ll go up in a minute,’ Marion said. She looked at Dickon. ‘You can help Kathy do the washing-up – Robbie will you bring in some wood and coke for me please? I’ve got some washing to do and I’ll scrub the kitchen floor if I can manage it after you’ve all gone up…’
‘I already lit the fire under the copper fer yer,’ Robbie said. ‘I knew yer would wash the clothes since Ma hasn’t…’
Marion finished her meal and got up, taking her plate to the sink. There was never any wasted food in her house, everything was cleared from the plates and she knew the lads could have done with more. She could offer them bread and jam and Robbie would probably help himself if he was hungry. As long as he left her a slice for her lunch the next day, she didn’t mind. They all knew that food was precious. You didn’t waste it and you ate only your share or someone else went hungry.
Leaving her siblings to wash the dishes and saucepan, Marion went up to her mother’s bedroom. She could smell the sourness of vomit and her stomach curdled, but she braced herself. It wasn’t Ma’s fault she was so ill. Marion didn’t know if it was her father’s either, though six children were a lot for any woman to bear and she knew of at least three miscarriages. These bouts of sickness and pain had started to happen after the last stillborn child and Marion wondered if something inside Ma hadn’t healed properly, but she wouldn’t have the doctor and, in truth, they would find it hard to pay him if he visited.
‘Is that you, Marion love?’ her mother asked weakly. ‘I’m sorry about the sausages. I only went out for a moment and the door didn’t shut…’
‘It’s the latch,’ Marion said. ‘It needs fixing…’ If her father were here, he could do it easily, but he wouldn’t bother unless his wife put herself out and that meant another row.
‘You should get someone…’ her mother’s weak voice said. ‘The sausages cost more than the price of a new lock…’
‘Not unless Dad does it himself,’ Marion said. Sometimes, she thought her mother had no grasp of what things cost these days. ‘I reckon half a crown at least.’
‘Not if you ask Mr Jackson…’ Mrs Kaye insisted. ‘Tell him what his dog did and he might do it for free…’
‘If Dan was here, he’d do it, but he’d make the neighbour pay for it,’ Marion said. ‘I’ll go around and speak to him if I get time…. there’s the washing and the floor…’
‘Leave the things to soak and I’ll try to rinse them in the mornin’,’ her mother offered.
‘I’ll see…’ Marion replied. She hesitated, then, ‘Will you have something to eat, Ma – or a cup of tea?’
‘Kathy got me a drink. I don’t want anything else – get on with whatever you need to, love…’
Marion sighed as she went down the stairs. If she left the clothes soaking, they would be there when she got home the next day. She would put them in for a while and pop round next door, see what Mr Jackson had to say, but she hoped the dog was shut up, because it was always jumping up at people and Marion was afraid it might bite.
She negotiated the back path to their neighbour’s kitchen door, avoiding a bicycle that had been parked against the washing prop but fallen down, taking the wooden prop with it, and then stepped over three pairs of working men’s boots that looked as if they needed a good clean. Mrs Jackson had a husband and three hulking great sons at work in the building trade, four daughters, two employed at the laundry, one married, and one – the pride of her mother’s life – training to be a nurse.
It was Paula Jackson, or Nurse Jackson, who opened the door to her, and Marion breathed a sigh of relief. Paula was friendly and often stopped to say hello if they met in the corner shop.
‘Marion, lovely to see you – will you come in?’ Paula invited. ‘If you can squeeze in for my monsters…’ She called her brothers names all the time but they only grinned. ‘What can I do for you? Mum said yours didn’t look so good when she saw her in the yard. They had quite a chat about that suffragette, Mary Richardson, what damaged a painting at the National Gallery, I believe…’
So, Ma had lied about only being gone a moment. Marion drew a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Paula, but do you think your dad would fix the lock on our back door please? Ma left it open this morning and a dog got in and pinched the sausages we were supposed to have for tea…’
‘That will be where the varmint got them from then,’ Mrs Jackson said, coming to stand behind her daughter. She smiled at Marion. ‘I saw it scoffing them but was too late to rescue anything. I’d take my stick to it, but these daft lumps would cry buckets…’ She jerked her head in the direction of her sons, who were eating their tea of lamb stew and mash. ‘I’ll see my husband comes round this evenin’ and does it for yer, love…’
‘Thanks, Mrs Jackson…’ Marion said and then blushed as Reggie Jackson loomed up behind his mother. He towered over them all, a tall, broad-shouldered man with nearly black hair and blue eyes.
‘I’ll do it now, Ma,’ he said and grinned at Marion. ‘It’s my dog so my fault – and I’ll be round right away, Miss Kaye…’
Marion mumbled something and bolted. If anything terrified her more than the Jackson’s dog, it was Reggie. The way he looked at her made her want to hide herself, because there was such laughter in those eyes. Ma said Reggie Jackson was too good-looking for his own sake and the plague of all decent girls and if they weren’t careful, they’d be left with the trouble and he’d be off to some fancy foreign place without a care. Ma was prone to saying such things. She was always warning both Marion and Kathy to be careful of men, but Milly was too young to understand yet. Marion and Kathy did, despite Kathy being only days off her thirteenth birthday. They knew and they’d taken the warning to heart, because neither wanted to end up like Ma.
‘Mr Jackson is coming,’ Marion mumbled as she entered the kitchen. She loaded the rush basket with more dirty clothes and took them into the scullery, dumping them into the hot water in the copper, and started to rinse those she’d already soaked in the sink, as she heard the voices in the kitchen. The lads were laughing and talking to Reggie. They liked him and he sometimes played football with them in the street, something their father had never done.
Marion delayed her return to the kitchen until good manners drove her back. The least she could do was offer a cup of tea and, of course, payment.
The lock was finished and Kathy had already made the tea when Marion returned. Her sister was smiling, clearly enjoying Reggie’s company, as were the boys.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Jackson,’ Marion said. ‘How much do I owe you please?’
‘Nothing at all, Miss Kaye,’ he replied, his grin making her stomach clench. He had no right to be so good-looking and nice and a decent girl had better be on her guard. ‘Any little jobs you need doin’ are free to you and your family – and I still owe you for the sausages.’
‘No, that is quite fair; you’ve repaired the lock,’ Marion said.
‘I bought the sausages,’ Robbie chimed in. ‘They cost me a bob…’
Reggie laughed and looked at her. ‘I dare not give you the shillin’, Robbie – but I’ll take yer to the footie on Saturday if yer like?’
‘Thanks, Reggie!’ Robbie looked at him adoringly. ‘I don’t care if yer dog did eat me sausages if I get ter go to the footie…’
‘Right yer are then,’ Reggie said. ‘Shall we take the young’un an’ all?’ He jerked his head at Dickon and Robbie frowned but then relented.
‘Yeah, all right, he can come too…’
Marion went to t
he door to look at the brand-new lock. It must have cost him far more than the sausages. ‘You had no need to do that…’ she whispered, ‘but thank you…’
‘You’re welcome, Miss Kaye,’ he said and smiled at her and something in his eyes made her heart stand still before racing on. ‘Anytime, anywhere – I’m always at your service, Miss Marion…’ The twinkle in his eyes scared her to death and she took a step back. ‘Me dog likes yer – and if he thinks yer OK, yer must be…’
The cheek of him! She caught her breath as he walked away, standing to watch despite herself. At his gate, Reggie turned and winked and then he was through and walking up to his back door.
Marion returned to her work. She wanted to get all the clothes rinsed and hanging up to dry in the scullery before she went to bed – and it didn’t look as if she would have time to do the floor…
3
‘Will you be working late again this evening?’ Beth Burrows asked her husband Jack as she reached for her warm coat and pulled it on that morning in mid-March. The wind still had a bite in it even though Mr Marco had dressed Harpers’ windows with spring clothes, daffodils and Easter bunnies. They were a colourful sight and had already brought customers in looking for the new hats, but she wasn’t ready to give up her winter coat just yet.
‘I should think so,’ Jack said and kissed her briefly, looking distracted. As part owner and manager of a hotel, he was always working extra hours to make it profitable and she knew things had improved since he’d made lots of changes to the way things were done and improved the décor. It was now producing a reasonable profit, though not enough to make anyone rich. Beth sometimes wondered if he’d jumped in too soon, but he seemed pleased with what he was doing, so she didn’t say much, even though she regretted her husband’s long hours. ‘Don’t wait supper for me, love. I can grab something at the hotel…’
‘Yes, I know…’ She smothered a sigh because this wasn’t how she’d imagined it would be. Jack had spoken of running a hotel that they could live in and manage together. Now Beth spent most of her evenings at home with Jack’s father Fred Burrows and saw her husband for a few hours at the weekend. ‘I might go to a meeting with Rachel Craven…’
‘Those women’s suffrage things…’ Jack frowned at her. ‘I would never deny you anything, Beth, you know that – but all that marching and demanding equal rights for women… well, it isn’t going to happen. It would be better if you stayed away. I don’t want the police throwing you in prison…’
Beth moved towards him, half curious, half annoyed. He’d known she was a member before they married and she wasn’t going to let him get away with that remark. Other husbands might forbid their wives to be members or take part, but Jack should know better and respect her views. ‘Would you disown me if it happened?’
‘No! You know I wouldn’t,’ Jack said genuinely horrified. Yet it was happening in homes all over Britain. Working men were some of the worst and they bullied their wives to try and stop them joining the suffrage movement, but since the death of Emily Davidson, more and more women of all classes had joined, and quite a few men too. The way the suffragettes were being treated, force-fed in prison and beaten when arrested, was terrible, and Beth knew Jack was only concerned for her, even though pride had driven her to ask. Jack looked down at her and smiled. ‘You know I love you, Beth, and I agree that women should have the vote if they want it – why not? I can’t see things ever being equal in the workplace, the men just won’t stand for it, but you should all be paid a fair wage and treated decently.’
‘So that’s why I married you,’ Beth teased and kissed him again, relieved that he wasn’t going to start laying down the law the way many husbands did. ‘You don’t mind if I go then?’
‘Of course, not – but get a taxi home, love. We can afford it and I don’t want you running the risk of being set on by louts…’ He smiled and reached out to touch her cheek. ‘I’m only concerned for your safety…’
‘I’ll probably walk to the bus stop with my friends, but if there’s no bus, I’ll take a cab,’ Beth promised.
She understood why Jack worried, because feelings against the Women’s Movement were running high. The militants had angered many, both in government and out, and a lot of men simply did not see why their wives, daughters and sisters were shaming them by speaking out in support of such disgusting behaviour. Men with money took care of their womenfolk, some even went so far as to grant them an allowance that made them almost independent, but they still considered that the feminine mind and body was too weak to be considered as an equal to men. Only very special men understood that women could be as strong and determined as they were themselves, that they didn’t want to be petted and treated as fragile beings but as intelligent humans with minds of their own.
Beth smiled as she followed her father-in-law out to the bus stop. Fred Burrows had once been the headmaster of a boy’s school. He’d fallen out with the governors because he refused to use the cane in his school and because of that he’d been asked to resign and had ended up working at Harpers as the goods manager, seeing that all the stock reached the department it was intended for. Beth was happy that he’d resigned rather than give into bullying for two reasons: one, because it showed the kind of man he was and, two, because she’d met her husband through him.
‘Feeling a bit down in the dumps, love?’ Fred asked, glancing at her face. ‘You should put your foot down, Beth; tell Jack you want to go somewhere nice – to the theatre or the pictures…’
‘He took me dancing for my birthday,’ Beth said, smothering a sigh. ‘Jack wants a better future for us, Dad, so how can I complain?’ She smiled at him with affection, because he was a lovely man and she was so fond of him.
‘Most wives would,’ Fred replied and grinned at her. ‘Don’t let the fun go out of your lives. Make sure he takes you somewhere at the weekend…’
‘Yes, I shall,’ she said and touched his arm in gratitude as their bus arrived and they jumped on. Fred was the first to get his money out and paid for both their tickets. ‘I shan’t be home for supper this evening…’
‘I’ll buy a pie and a pint, mebbe see Harold down the pub. He likes a chat and a game of darts now and then…’
‘Yes, that would be nice – give him my regards,’ Beth said, grateful to the ex-Scotland-yard detective who had solved the mystery surrounding her aunt’s so-called accident, when she’d been pushed down the stairs and died in hospital of her injuries. She looked at him curiously. ‘Have you ever thought about getting married again, Fred?’
‘No, never,’ he said and sadness passed across his face. ‘I was happy in my marriage and I could never replace my wife… Besides, I’ve got you, Jack and Tim… and your friend Miss Gibbs comes to tea sometimes. I’m happy to work overtime at the store when I’m needed and I’ve a few friends I see when I want…’
Beth nodded. ‘You didn’t mind my asking?’
‘I know you’re wondering if I’ll be lonely when Jack finally finds you somewhere to live nearer the hotel…’
‘Yes, I was,’ Beth confessed. ‘I suppose that’s silly really. You lived alone for much of the time before I moved in…’
‘The lads were at school during term time and then working, Jack on the ships and Tim now in the Royal Flying Corps – but I served my time in the army as a youngster and I think you learn to be independent there…’
‘Yes, I expect so…’ She hesitated, then, ‘Is it because you served as a soldier that you think there will be a war?’
‘No, it’s what I read in the newspapers,’ Fred said seriously. ‘It might be just a skirmish and over in a few weeks, but it’s been brewing for a while out there in the Balkans. It will only take one spark to set the whole thing off…’
Beth was silent. Fred was very fond of reading The Times, which had just announced it was going to cut its price in half, to one penny. She sometimes picked up the papers her father-in-law abandoned and she’d read about the troubles in Ireland, wi
th Ulster teetering on the brink of civil war only last month as the British government dragged their feet over the Home Rule Bill. Even though she looked mainly for news of the suffragettes, one of whom had slashed a famous painting in the National Gallery in January that year, which Beth thought foolish and unnecessary, she had noticed all the reports of unrest in various parts of Europe. One paper insisted that the arms race was becoming dangerous and lambasted the British government for sitting on its hands while Wilhelm II, Kaiser and Emperor of Prussia, prepared for war. Most people scoffed at such reports, believing it was warmongering and foolish, but she knew that Fred took it seriously. Mr Churchill certainly did, demanding a larger budget for the navy than ever before, which brought accusations from the opposition that he was risking national security by angering neighbours across the Channel.
It seemed to Beth that the German ruler was a hard man with no feelings. He’d gone so far as to ban a dance called the tango for his troops, because it was said to be too intimate. He’d even called on people to shun those who continued to perform what was a popular dance. What kind of a man would do that? Beth loved to dance. Jack had taken her a few times, though they mostly stuck to the waltz or the two-step, but she would have loved to do the more daring tango if she’d known how.
‘If war did come,’ she said slowly, looking at Fred, ‘would Jack have to go – and Tim?’
‘Jack wouldn’t be the first to be called on as he’s married,’ Fred said, ‘but Tim certainly will be in the thick of it. He’s already been flying over German factories and shipyards, helping to take pictures. My son is excited to be flying and nothing would keep him out…’
‘Maybe it won’t happen,’ Beth said hopefully as the bus slowed to a halt and they descended into the rush and noise of Oxford Street. A small crowd was gathering round Harpers and pointing at the windows. It was one of the new displays for the second anniversary of opening day, and there was a display of glass and china, some of which was advertised as being a free gift to the first six customers to spend thirty pounds in the china and glass department. ‘Oh, look what Sally has done…’ She frowned thoughtfully, ‘Do you think anyone has that much to spend all at once?’