The Postmistress

by Maggie Sullivan

  As if reading her thoughts, Archie stood up. He pulled himself to his full six feet and, grabbing hold of Sylvia’s blouse, lifted her off the ground, at the same time pulling her towards him so that their faces were almost touching. She felt the buttons pop and heard the silky material rip.

  ‘I’m going to a place where they serve proper food!’ He spat out the words. ‘And where there are women who appreciate a proper man,’ he added with a snarl. Before letting go he suddenly brought up his fist and aimed a punch at the side of her head. Sylvia’s instinct was to turn her head sideways and her gasp turned into a sob while her head was spinning as she crumpled to a heap on the floor. She seemed to take the full force of the blow to her eye and cheekbone but she was thankful that he had narrowly missed making contact with her nose. Black eyes healed much faster than broken noses.

  Archie didn’t wait to find out the extent of the damage. To Sylvia’s relief, he grabbed his jacket from the bannister and slammed shut the door that led into the shop. She heard the ping of the till and knew she could say goodbye to the day’s takings. They would no doubt soon be on their way into the pockets of Fred Worral, the landlord at the Stoat and Weasel, the pub across the road from the Presbyterian church which Archie had once pretended he belonged to. He often joked that he was going to visit Richard Laycock the vicar, a widower who lived in the adjoining manse with his seventeen-year-old son, Geoffrey. But Sylvia knew from experience where he would really be and that Archie would not be back until closing time.

  At the sound of the front door banging shut, Rosie went into the kitchen and came back with two well-soaked tea towels. They didn’t have an ice box like some of their neighbours so she made do with cold water from the tap. She handed one to Sylvia to put over her rapidly swelling eye while she began attacking the wallpaper with the other, trying to gather together the glutinous mess that was still dripping onto the carpet. She knew from past experience that it was best for everyone if she removed the evidence as swiftly as possible, for if her father followed his usual form, by the morning he’d be full of apologies and it would be as if the entire episode had never happened.

  Sylvia sobbed quietly as Rosie handed her the cold compress. She knew that she, too, would have to blot out the incident as soon as the swelling was under control. She was already trying to distract her thoughts from the pain of her cheekbone and the puffiness she could feel developing underneath her eye by thinking about the letter that was still in the drawer and what she might want to say about it now. She couldn’t put it off, and it was essential she responded to her sister as though nothing was amiss. Indeed, she was already thinking about how she might frame the conversation she would now have to have with her daughter, going over in her mind the actual words that would best describe the long-kept secrets she imagined she would be forced to reveal.

  Rosie had put on the radio to fill the edgy silence as soon as her father had slammed out of the house, but once the news had finished Sylvia got up and turned it off.

  ‘Aw, I was listening to that,’ Rosie complained as she wiped the last of the sauce from the wall and swept as many of the smaller chips of china that she could onto the dustpan.

  ‘Oh, were you? Sorry, but there’s something I need to talk to you about,’ Sylvia said, her mind elsewhere. ‘I was going to tell your father at the same time but …’ she shrugged, ‘under the circumstances I think I’ll save that for another time.’

  ‘What’s that then? What’s so important that you’ve got to talk about it now?’ Rosie had thrown the last of the rubbish into the bin under the kitchen sink and was now busy attacking a broken fingernail with a well-worn metal nail file. She took a chair by the table while she inspected the nail and waited for her mother to sit down. Rosie stared at her intently, her brow wrinkled.

  ‘I received a letter today,’ Sylvia said softly, followed by a pause while she tentatively dabbed the compress on her eyelid.

  ‘Yes? And? Congratulations?’ Rosie said. ‘What am I supposed to say? Should I be excited?’

  ‘I don’t know about excited, but the contents of the letter do affect you,’ Sylvia said. This was followed by another pause and Rosie looked exasperated.

  ‘Do you know, if you’re trying to get me interested in your stupid post I’m not sure this is the best time to be doing it,’ she said crossly. ‘We’ve just had a major incident here, in case you haven’t noticed. Maybe we should talk about that?’ She carried on filing her nails as if she expected that to be the end of the conversation.

  Sylvia ignored her. She turned the cold compress over, pressing the cooler side to her inflamed eye. ‘How would you feel about having someone come to stay with us?’ she said eventually.

  Rosie frowned. ‘What, with stuff like this going on?’ She indicated her mother’s face.

  Sylvia didn’t want to admit that that had been her first thought when she had read the letter. ‘I’m sure things like this would stop if there was someone else in the house,’ she said instead. ‘You know how charming he can be around strangers.’

  ‘What? You think it might put an end to it once and for all if there was someone else here living with us full time? Then maybe we should have taken on a lodger years ago.’

  ‘You never know,’ Sylvia said with a sigh. ‘After all, it doesn’t happen very often that he loses his temper like that – and there’s usually good reason when it does happen.’

  ‘What, like tonight?’ Rosie said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Then I’d rather you tell him about this amazing person who’s going to change his behaviour than me.’ Rosie gave a wry laugh.

  ‘I will. If I can catch him at the right moment.’ Sylvia spoke with more confidence than she felt. ‘But I want to know how you’d feel about it first.’

  ‘It would depend on who it was and how long they wanted to stay,’ Rosie said. ‘But hang on a minute, where would they sleep?’ She went over to the couch and picked up one of the cushions, showing Sylvia where the flattened stuffing was beginning to push its way out through several places with torn stitching. ‘This old thing has seen better days. They wouldn’t last long, kipping out on this.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Sylvia gave a little laugh. ‘She’d have to double up with y—’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Rosie exploded before Sylvia had finished the sentence. ‘Me, share my bed with a complete stranger?’

  ‘It’s not really much different from you sharing with Violet when she stops over,’ Sylvia said defensively.

  ‘It’s very different! She’s my friend.’ Rosie frowned at Sylvia. ‘We grew up together.’

  ‘Do you know it’s not that long ago that stagecoach travellers on long journeys had to share a bed with folk they’d never set eyes on before, when they stopped at coaching inns,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Then all I can say is thank goodness we’re living in the twentieth century,’ Rosie said. ‘But why would anyone want to come voluntarily to somewhere like Greenhill? There’s nothing much goes on here. And once the war starts there’ll probably be even less.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s the point,’ Sylvia replied. ‘That’s exactly why people would count themselves lucky if they were evacuated to a place like this. Compared to the large towns and cities they’d be coming from, this place would be so quiet.’ She hesitated before deciding to go on. ‘It’s not likely to be a target for German bombs,’ she said at last.

  Rosie gasped. ‘Do you really think that’s what’s going to happen if there’s a war? They’ll be dropping bombs on us?’

  ‘That’s what most folk round here reckon will happen. Otherwise why else would the likes of you need to be working in a munitions factory?’

  Rosie looked stunned, as if she had never considered such a thing.

  ‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Greenhill wasn’t on the list as a place to try and evacuate children to, particularly if the authorities want to get them out of London. I mean, it’s surrounded by countryside where they could run around freely but it’s near
enough to a big city like Manchester so they wouldn’t feel totally cut off. I bet there’s lots of families round here would be willing to open their homes to city kids if the council or whoever asked them. Particularly if there’s money involved.’

  ‘Is that where this mystery person comes from? London?’

  Sylvia nodded.

  ‘But this isn’t an official request, from the authorities or anyone?’ Rosie was puzzled.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. This is personal.’

  ‘When are you going to tell me who it is? It can’t be a complete stranger or else how would they know to write to you? Is it someone we know?’

  ‘It is someone I know, well … partly. You don’t know them at all.’

  Rosie put aside her nail file. ‘This is beginning to sound more and more strange. Do you mind telling me what’s going on here? Who are we talking about?’

  ‘We’re actually talking about your cousin Claire.’

  ‘My cousin? I didn’t know I had any cousins. Claire who? And where’s she suddenly sprung from?’

  ‘I’m not sure of her surname; there was talk of them changing it.’

  ‘And she lives in London?’

  Sylvia nodded. ‘At the moment.’ She looked away; she was finding it hard to meet Rosie’s astonished gaze.

  ‘And how old is this Claire?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘You were born round about the same time, so around twenty, though I’ve never actually met her.’

  Now Rosie’s mouth opened wide in surprise. ‘But you’ve known about her all this while? How come you’ve never mentioned her before?’

  Sylvia pursed her lips and didn’t respond, but that didn’t stop Rosie asking more questions. ‘So that means you’ve got a sister or a brother somewhere that I don’t know about? I’m guessing in London?’

  Sylvia nodded again. ‘Yes, I’ve got a sister.’

  ‘Are there any other relatives lurking about that you’ve kept from me?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘No. And I’ve not kept them from you, it’s just that it’s never come up, that’s all,’ Sylvia said. She was stung by what Rosie might be implying but she knew she could never let her read the entire letter.

  ‘Then tell me more about your sister and this Claire. Where do they live in London? Not that I’ll know the place, never having been allowed to go there.’

  ‘No, it’s unlikely you would have heard of it. It’s a village on the outskirts of the city called Cricklewood. As I remember it, it’s quite posh – or at least it used to be. They’ve got quite a fancy house. Much posher than this.’ Sylvia found it hard to suppress the feelings of inadequacy that suddenly overwhelmed her, even after all these years. They were the same feelings she always felt when she thought of her older sister’s life compared with her own and they lodged deep in the heart of her very being.

  ‘Let me get this straight: your sister suddenly wrote to you out of the blue asking if her daughter could come here to stay?’ Rosie still looked puzzled.

  ‘That’s about it,’ Sylvia said, relieved that the worst of that particular conversation was over.

  ‘Blimey!’ Rosie said. ‘She’s got a bit of a nerve after all this time. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I can understand how she feels,’ Sylvia said. She felt the need to defend her sister. ‘She sounds genuinely worried that London is going to be bombed.’

  ‘When was the last time you heard from her?’ Rosie wouldn’t let it go.

  Sylvia shrugged.

  ‘Does she know about me?’

  ‘Yes, she knows about you. We both—’ She stopped suddenly, angry that she felt she had to justify herself to her daughter.

  ‘And how long does this Claire want to stay for?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sylvia admitted. ‘I suppose it depends how long a war would last. A couple of months?’

  ‘That long? So who’s going to pay for her? We can’t afford another mouth to feed, not on the old man’s wages.’

  ‘Don’t be so disrespectful of your father!’ Sylvia snapped, though she hated to admit Rosie was right. ‘But I can’t see that being a problem. Hannah said she would cover Claire’s expenses and I’m sure she’ll be good for the money. I don’t think she’s expecting to put any financial burden onto us.’

  ‘I still think it’s a bloody cheek, to drop it on us like that, out of nowhere.’

  ‘Oh Rosie, I do wish you wouldn’t swear like that,’ Sylvia complained. ‘It’s so unladylike.’

  Rosie rolled her eyes heavenwards.

  ‘But whichever way, I don’t think you should dismiss this idea out of hand. I think Claire could be doing you a favour if she came,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘How do you work that out?’ Rosie said. ‘She’d be doing you the favour if he learned to keep his hands to himself while she was here.’ She jerked her thumb in the direction of the door.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of that; I was thinking more that I could get her to help out in the shop, now that you’ve got your job at the factory. I’m sure that would be a very satisfactory solution that would suit everybody.’

  ‘I still don’t like it, the idea of having a stranger in my bed,’ Rosie grumbled.

  ‘Suppose it was the other way around?’ Sylvia countered. ‘How would you feel if the boot was on the other foot?’

  ‘What? Would you really expect an aunt I’ve never set eyes on to take me in?’

  ‘Why not? It’s family. Where else should she go?’ Sylvia challenged Rosie.

  Rosie shrugged. ‘Now all you’ve got to do is convince my father,’ she said quietly under her breath.

  Sylvia caught her words but didn’t respond. She knew she still had one more enormous hurdle to jump because Archie had never met Claire. But that would have to wait for another day. And who knew how he would take the news. She was hopeful that it could all work out in her favour. Archie might choose to spend more time than usual down at the pub but she was certain he wouldn’t want to be shown up by behaving badly in front of a stranger. For now, she considered it a success to have convinced Rosie. She stood up slowly, relieved that her head had stopped spinning and went into the scullery to wash what was left of the dirty dishes.

  Rosie waited until Sylvia came back into the living room. ‘So?’ she said after a few minutes. ‘Are you going to tell me more about my long-lost relatives? Are there any more surprises in store?’

  Sylvia could feel both her cheeks burning now as she thought about the letter once more. It was a good job Archie was out, she thought, for even he didn’t know the whole story and she didn’t know how much she would end up telling Rosie now. ‘Depends how you look at it,’ she said.

  ‘Why did this aunt – what did you say her name was? – why did she go to London in the first place?’

  ‘Hannah didn’t go to London from here,’ Sylvia began, ‘it was the other way round. I came here from London after I met your dad.’

  ‘How long did you live in London?’ Rosie sounded really curious now and Sylvia didn’t know whether to be glad or worried that she had finally piqued her interest.

  ‘I grew up in London. I went to school there.’

  Rosie looked surprised. ‘I always assumed you came from Manchester.’

  Sylvia didn’t respond for a moment, then she shook her head and instantly regretted it. She steadied it in both hands until the pain stopped. ‘We lived in London,’ she said, though she realised that she still couldn’t tell Rosie the whole story.

  ‘Do you remember much about London?’

  ‘Of course I remember it. I lived there till I met your dad.’

  ‘Does Dad come from London, then?’ Rosie sounded incredulous, as though she could never imagine such a thing. ‘He doesn’t sound like he does.’

  ‘No, your dad’s from round here. But he was working down south for a while. That’s where he began selling shoes. He was working for the same company he does now. He was just starting out but then his mother got sick and he had to come back. The c
ompany carved out an area in Derbyshire for him.’

  ‘How did you two meet, then?’

  ‘We met at a dance hall. There was one in Shoreditch – I forget what it was called. They used to have special dances with one of the jazz bands playing every Wednesday and Saturday night.’ Sylvia’s eyes unexpectedly misted over as she recalled the early days of their courtship and the lead-up to their marriage. ‘He was a good dancer, was your dad, and everyone used to say what a handsome couple we made. I spent ages practising the steps on my own so’s he’d think I was better than I was.’ Sylvia couldn’t help smiling at the memory. ‘I must admit I enjoyed showing off a bit.’ She sighed. ‘We hadn’t been courting that long when he asked me to marry him. Times were hard; it was soon after the Great War so we were well-placed with him having a job. It seemed like a good idea to come to live up here though, because property was so much cheaper up north. I’d been living in digs on my own; I had one room in an old Victorian house that had been split up so I was glad to leave it. And he had no one down south to stay for. Besides, his plan was for me to take over his mother’s shop at the time. She’d been poorly and she was getting to be quite frail by then so it did seem to make sense.’

  ‘And didn’t you mind leaving your family?’

  ‘My mother had died already. She got TB. Consumption, they used to call it. But Hannah and me … well, we didn’t see eye to eye. She was already married and we didn’t see that much of each other. To come up to Manchester … for me was like a big, exciting adventure.’ She sat back on the couch and closed her eyes while she lifted one of the loose cushions and rested her head. Instantly, images of Archie Barker swam into focus. She’d been totally smitten by him but that wasn’t something she felt she could say to her daughter. It was hard to believe now, but back then he had been a really good-looking man, before the beer had over-reddened his cheeks and bulged out his belly well beyond the constraints of his belt. She was the envy of most of the girls at the dance hall as any one of them would have loved to hang up her hat with him and they were green at the gills when he came to pick her up at the sweatshop where most of them worked. Hadn’t they been jealous when he’d asked her to get wed?