“Miss Pesel,” she began, then wondered how to go on.
“Of course, dear, I’m sorry. The last thing you need now is a lecture on irises. All right, Dorothy –” she turned to her – “you need a room for a few nights, is that right?”
Dorothy nodded.
“There are quite a number of us living here on a long-term basis, but there are some rooms let by the night. I have asked the manager, and there is a room available. It’s very small, but that means it will be less dear. Besides, you don’t have much with you, do you?” She glanced at Dorothy’s bag. “I trust you packed your embroidery!”
Violet thought she was joking, but when Dorothy nodded, Miss Pesel said, “Good. When there is an upset, there is nothing like needlework to bring calm and focus. Now, I think we should let these two get home to their beds, don’t you? I shall take you up and show you the room. I’ve got the key. Girls, you’ll be all right getting back on your own? Or shall I ask the manager to see you home?”
“We’ll be fine, thanks,” Violet replied.
Louisa Pesel was applying her broderer’s briskness to this new situation, and – to Violet’s relief – without judgement or, indeed, real curiosity as to why Dorothy needed a room. Perhaps she was just being discreet.
Dorothy got to her feet, looking brighter than she had all evening. She smiled at Gilda. “Dum spiro spero,” she murmured.
Louisa Pesel nodded. “Indeed. While I breathe, I hope. Always.”
Chapter 19
VIOLET DID NOT HURRY to Gilda’s after work the next day or the day after to see how she and Dorothy were. Doing her shopping on the High Street on Saturday, she did not dawdle or look out for her friends – though she did run into Louisa Pesel at the library, looking over the returned books. She was holding a copy of Gilbert White’s The Natural History of Selborne. “I reread this so often I should have my own copy,” she said. “I was so thrilled to move close to Selborne after knowing it so well in print for so many years. Have you read it?”
“My father did, but I haven’t. I should.”
Miss Pesel then offered unprompted that Dorothy was still at the hotel. “I’ve found her a bit of work tutoring friends’ daughters in Latin. It will do for now.”
Violet wondered what she knew about the circumstances of Dorothy’s departure from home and work. Perhaps she did not know and had not asked. Violet was grateful Miss Pesel had taken this problem case so easily in hand; it made her ashamed too at her own lack of generosity.
At Wednesday’s broderers’ meeting, Gilda appeared, looking thin and wan and tired. Taking the seat beside Violet, she whispered, “It’s just me today. Dorothy will come Mondays, when she comes. It’s best that we don’t appear together for now.” Even those brief quiet words seemed to alert the other broderers. The atmosphere in the room shifted: a few women raised eyebrows at each other, and Maureen tittered – though she subsided when Violet frowned and shook her head.
“Shall we have lunch after?” she suggested, thinking it would be easier to talk then.
Gilda nodded, and after that they kept their conversation strictly to embroidery.
“We have to be very careful,” Gilda explained as they ate their Welsh rarebit at Awdry’s. “We were so carefree before, but now … Dorothy can’t come anywhere near the house or the garage. It’s not Dad and Joe so much as the awful Olive. You’d think the baby would keep her occupied, but I catch her twitching the curtains and looking down the street, no doubt hoping to spy Dorothy lurking outside.”
“What will she do?”
“Dorothy? Start looking for a room, but without a job it’s difficult to convince a landlady she’s reliable. I don’t think she will find another teaching post in Winchester. The schools all know one another, and they talk. She may have to go further afield, to Southampton or Portsmouth or Salisbury. No one is hiring in the middle of the year, though. At best she may pick up some supply teaching, and the tutoring. Miss Pesel has been a brick, but even she can’t work miracles.” Gilda sighed, and Violet felt a pang to see the joie de vivre missing from her friend.
Afterwards Gilda went back to the garage and Violet to the office. Maureen was already there typing, her back rigid with judgement. Violet ignored her and sat down to her pile of applications. The office was cold, the heater weak; she kept her coat on.
“I saw you two in Awdry’s,” Maureen announced.
Violet continued typing without comment.
“You should be careful, Violet. People talk.”
Violet paused. “Are you threatening me?”
“No! It’s not me you should be worried about. You want to keep your position here, don’t you?”
Fear darted through Violet like an electric current. All of her hard-won independence depended on this ridiculous job typing up documents about other people’s desire for security. “Surely Mr Waterman is only concerned with how fast and accurately I type,” she declared, “not who I eat Welsh rarebit with.”
Maureen shrugged. “I’m only trying to give you advice, that’s all.”
“You are talking about a friend of mine, and I would appreciate it if you said nothing more about the matter.”
Maureen grunted. “No need to take offence.”
They turned back to their typing, frowning and blowing on their hands to warm them.
Both started when Mr Waterman appeared in the doorway. “Could you step into my office for a moment, Miss Speedwell?”
“Of course.” As Violet rose to follow him, she glanced at Maureen, expecting to see triumph that her prediction was coming to pass so soon. But her office mate looked miserable, her eyes on her hands as they rested on her typewriter keys.
“Now, then,” Mr Waterman began after he had shut the door and offered her a seat, “this is rather a delicate matter. Are you all right, Miss Speedwell? You look pale.”
“I – I am a little cold.”
“Ah! That’s soon fixed.” He jumped up and turned the floor heater near his desk towards her.
Violet stared. One heater for two typists, she thought. One heater for one supervisor. A sudden fury rose in her and before she could stop herself she said, “It is very cold in our office, Mr Waterman, and Maureen and I have only one heater. That is why we wear our coats in the office. Might we get another one to keep us warmer?”
“Oh! Goodness, I hadn’t realised.” Mr Waterman rustled the papers on his desk and knocked over a cup of pens and pencils.
“Shall I buy one after work at Kingdon’s?” she suggested as he hurriedly scooped up the pens and pencils and stuffed them back in the cup. “We have an account there, and I could get us another Belling like this one – for three pounds, I think.” Violet had been looking at heaters for her room at Mrs Harvey’s but could not afford one. “Otherwise I’m afraid our productivity will decline for as long as this cold lasts.”
“Well, now, I – well.”
Violet waited.
“Very well, Miss Speedwell,” he said with a sigh. “You know best.”
“Thank you.” He may be about to let me go, she thought, but at least the typist after me will have a slightly warmer office. A small victory.
They sat in silence for a moment. Mr Waterman was so flustered by her request that he appeared to have forgotten that he’d called her in. “You wanted to see me?” she prompted.
“Yes. Yes. Well now, it’s about the girls you embroider with.”
Violet swallowed. Gilda and Dorothy’s story had apparently reached even Mr Waterman’s corner of Winchester. “Yes?”
“I – this is very delicate, you see. I don’t want to cause alarm, or resentment. I want to do what is right and proper.”
Violet waited.
“It seems my wife has taken a shine to the cushions you’ve been making for the Cathedral.”
“I’m glad she likes them.”
“So much so that she would like some made in that style for our dining room chairs.”
“She – she would?”
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“Yes, but she doesn’t want to ask Mrs Biggins about it. They had a falling-out, you see, over the church flowers rota. Mrs Biggins thought my wife was getting all the weeks when her garden flowers were at their best. Anyway, we thought we’d best go down a different route. So I’ve come to you. We can’t ask you or Miss Webster to make them, I’m afraid – as skilled as I’m sure you both are, it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask a colleague. But I wondered if you might recommend someone?”
This was so far from what Violet had assumed he would say that her mind froze on the thought of the two women battling over their flower-arranging rota.
“Miss Speedwell, are you sure you’re all right?”
Violet shook herself. “Sorry. I was just taken by surprise. Let me be sure I understand: you are offering to pay a broderer to make cushions for you?”
“Yes, yes,” Mr Waterman replied with impatience. “It is always about the money with you, isn’t it, Miss Speedwell?”
At that Violet almost lost her temper, but did not want to lose this opportunity for a broderer who needed to earn money. And she knew who needed it. “It is not easy living as an independent woman,” she answered as mildly as she could manage. “I’m afraid money is often uppermost on one’s mind when one has very little of it. At any rate, I know of a skilled broderer who may be able to take it on. And we needn’t involve Mrs Biggins. I can have Miss Louisa Pesel ring you to make the arrangements on the broderer’s behalf. She will have a better sense of the value of the labour.”
“Excellent,” Mr Waterman said. He seemed embarrassed at his outburst. “All right, then, Miss Speedwell. I shall expect to hear from Miss Pesel. Thank you.”
“I’ll just go and buy that heater for the office, shall I?” Violet said as she got to her feet. “If I’m quick I can get to Kingdon’s and back in the time it takes for a tea break.” She hurried away before Mr Waterman could change his mind, about either the cushions or the heater.
When she popped into the office to fetch her hat and gloves and handbag, Maureen looked up in astonishment. “He hasn’t let you go already, has he?” she wailed. “I thought he’d give you a warning, that’s all! Violet, I’m awfully sorry. Really I am. I know Gilda and Dorothy can’t help themselves. They’ve no choice, do they, with no men about for them?”
“That is not it at all,” Violet replied with vigour. “But never mind all that. We are getting heat!”
Chapter 20
ON THE FIRST WEDNESDAY in February, when Arthur would be ringing again, Violet attended an afternoon session with the broderers. When she arrived she was surprised to see that Dorothy was there instead of Gilda, working quietly in the corner. They nodded at each other, but said nothing. Indeed, Dorothy had little interaction with the other stitchers, though there was a less frosty atmosphere around her than there had been with Gilda. Gilda was popular with the other women, so there had been more of a sense of betrayal, that they had invested in someone they could no longer trust; whereas Dorothy had always been a mystery, so was harder to judge.
An hour into the meeting, Louisa Pesel appeared. Clapping her hands to get their attention, she announced, “Fifteen days, ladies. We have fifteen days to complete our work before the Presentation of Embroideries service. We have done well on the kneelers, and the alms bags are almost ready. The embroidery for six stall cushions is ready too, and just needs making up. We have progressed far on several long bench cushions, but they will not be ready for this service. No matter – there are plenty more services to come. Now, if you have work to finish, I ask you to focus on it. If you are free, see me for new assignments. Mrs Way will note down what you are doing.”
Mrs Biggins had already said much the same thing at the start of the meeting, but the broderers took it much more to heart hearing it from Miss Pesel. A queue quickly formed to see her, with Mabel Way at her side holding a clipboard. Violet had no need – she was still working on the second side of the alms bag, and would need advice only when she was about to sew them together.
When she went to the cupboard for more purple wool, she met Dorothy there, looking at needles. They said hello but their eyes did not meet.
“It seems I have you to thank for work making cushions,” Dorothy said as she took two needles from an embroidered case and held them up to compare sizes. “Paid work.”
“No need to thank me – I was glad to do it. Did Miss Pesel negotiate for you?”
“Yes. I think the Watermans don’t quite understand how much time it takes to make a cushion. But she is going to simplify the designs so the work goes faster. Besides, now I no longer have to mark translations, I have much more time in the evenings.”
“Are you all right at the hotel?”
“For the moment.” Dorothy put the needle case back on a shelf in the cupboard, gave her a brief smile and slipped past her to join the queue for Miss Pesel. Although Violet found encounters with Dorothy awkward, she also felt hurt that she had been somewhat dismissed. Gone was the expectation that she would solve Dorothy and Gilda’s problems. Real life had intruded.
After the meeting, she slipped into the Cathedral to attend the brief weekday Evensong, but hopeful too that she might run into Arthur. She had not seen or heard from him since New Year’s Eve, and had spent much of her spare time scolding herself for thinking of him.
Since she was early she stopped in to the Fishermen’s Chapel. There was often someone else there, usually an angler paying his respects at Izaak Walton’s tomb. This time, to her surprise, it was Arthur, sitting on one of the small benches that faced a stained glass depiction of Christ on a throne, surrounded by saints. She almost called out his name, but stopped herself, and instead sat down next to him, the bench creaking under her. He turned to look at her, but to her surprise he did not smile. His face was drawn.
“Arthur, whatever is the matter?” Violet whispered.
There was a long pause.
“Hitler,” he replied, not bothering to keep his voice low. “Hitler is the bloody matter.”
He was not the swearing type. “What do you mean?” she wanted to say. “What does he have to do with anything that is important?” But Violet cared too much about Arthur, and about what he thought of her, to answer so rashly. She gave herself a moment to think. She had heard on the wireless that Hitler had become Chancellor of Germany two days before, after weeks of political machinations that she had not followed closely. Someone had been manoeuvred out, she recalled.
“Do you think he will last?” she asked, because that much she did know – that people were predicting such a divisive leader of a minority party would not remain in power for long. How could someone with such strong, radical opinions lead a country effectively?
“That he has made it this far attests to his staying power,” Arthur answered. “The Germans are looking for an answer to the economic hole they are in – a hole we have helped to dig with our punitive treaties and plans. We have been very stupid, focused on post-war revenge rather than fixing the problem so that the same thing doesn’t happen again. Their pride was also wounded by the War, and we have given them no way to regain self-respect. They have been driven to extremism, and we will pay the price.”
“Are you suggesting—” Violet stopped, because she did not want to say it. Because when you have been through it once you can never imagine going through it again.
“Hitler’s values are not British values, whatever the Mail says,” Arthur declared. “If the Germans take to him, nothing will depose him but war.”
Violet shuddered. She was thinking of Eddie. He was only seven, but wars had a way of eating the young. Thank God they’ve had another girl, she thought. Tom and Evelyn’s new daughter had been born two weeks before. They had given her the middle name Violet, which Violet felt honoured by – though it was coupled with the ungainly first name of Gladys.
She wiped away a tear, and then she realised Arthur had placed his hand over hers. A surge of joy swept through her that washed away Gladys and
Eddie and Hitler and war. She turned her palm over and laced her fingers through his. Despite the chill of the Fishermen’s Chapel, his hand was warm.
It felt so good to have her hand in his that Violet wanted to cry out. She steadied herself by studying the stained glass in front of them. Under Christ and the saints there were various biblical sayings to do with water or fish: The Lord sitteth above the water flood, Bring of the fish which ye have now caught, I will make you fishers of men. The religious sections were handsome enough, but her favourite parts were two portraits in the lower left and right corners of Izaak Walton himself, in puritan black with a white collar and black hat. In both he was sitting by a winding river, with his fishing rod and basket. In one he was with another man and a picnic; under them read, In everything give thanks. In the other he was alone, reading a book, the fishing rod unused; underneath were the words Study to be quiet.
“I have always loved that Walton is not actually fishing in these windows,” she said now, nodding at them. “He would have been very amused by that. The stained glass designer had a sense of humour.”
Arthur gave her a sideways look. “Have you read The Compleat Angler?”
“Yes, when I was younger.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who has read it.”
“It was more like dipping in and out of it rather than reading it straight through. It was to please my father.”
“Did he fish?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Of course. The River Test has the best fly-fishing in the country. One cannot live near it and not partake – though I am not truly a Brother of the Angle. I fish when I want to escape for a few hours and there are no bells to ring.”
“Father always said fishing is about not fishing as much as fishing.”
“Indeed. And about not thinking. We all need to do things that take us out of ourselves.”
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