Putting on the Style

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I weren’t lusting after her. I like her that’s all. Any quarrel I had with Pete has nothing to do wi’ Dena. Our Carl can’t - couldn’t - stand him neither. But I could help you this morning, if you’d let me,’ Kenny offered, judging it wise to change the subject. He didn’t care to have his personal feelings picked over by anyone, least of all by his nosy mother.

  Belle was outraged.

  ‘I’ll have no son of mine waiting table in a miserable market café, nor plunging his hands in washing-up water. That’s not why I work my fingers to the bone every day of my life.’

  Kenny snorted with laughter, knowing this for a wild exaggeration of the truth. Belle’s fingers, tipped with long pointed fingernails and painted pillar-box red had never risked so much as a chip to her perfect nail varnish which she carefully renewed ever day. But he couldn’t accuse her of not being a worker. She was usually at the café by six-thirty at the latest, ready to serve breakfast to the early workers by seven, rain or shine, every single morning, winter and summer.

  Her first task each day was to supervise the preparation of the morning’s baking, carried out by the ever reliable put-upon Joan assisted by various part-time girls during the course of a week. But they’d all know about it soon enough if the produce didn’t reach Belle’s stringent standards.

  Not a scrap of dough or pastry ever tarnished his mother’s lovely hands. She could occasionally be seen wielding a frying pan or kettle but, generally speaking, Belle preferred to confine her role to pouring out the odd cup of tea, flirting with her customers and relieving them of their hard-earned brass. And, of course, looking decorative and glamorous.

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong in me helping with the washing up, just till Dena shows up,’ Kenny said. He’d do anything for the chance of seeing her, even resort to this most hated of tasks.

  Belle slapped two fried eggs and a couple of bacon rashers onto a plate already well loaded with sausages, tomatoes and fried bread, and with a wiggle of her comfortably rounded hips, placed it before Alec Hall who was taking his usual morning break from his music stall.

  ‘There you are chuck, don’t say I don’t spoil you.’ She leaned over his shoulder as she put down the plate, bestowing upon him an alluring smile while allowing ample time for him to appreciate her cleavage. I want that Guy Mitchell record, She Wears Red Feathers, ooh, I love it, don’t you? I’ll pick it up next time I’m passing.’

  ‘I’ll have it wrapped ready for you, Belle.’

  ‘With me usual discount, I hope.’

  He winked at her. ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement that suits us both.

  ‘Cheeky monkey!’

  Task completed, the smile instantly vanished as she returned to berating her son, who was being uncharacteristically helpful this morning when usually she couldn’t get him to lift a finger. Which brought to mind her elder son, with whom she had no problems in that direction. A real worker was Carl, ambitious, with very firm ideas on how things should be done.

  ‘Where’s our Carl? Don’t just stand there like a lump of cold porridge, go and find him. Get yourself out of here and do some proper work for a change, why don’t you? Man’s work. I wasn’t brought in with the morning fish, I know why you hang around the café all the time, for all you might protest your innocence.’

  Kenny looked instantly sheepish and half turned away so his mother wouldn’t see the warm flush he could feel creeping up his neck. ‘All right, all right, I was going anyway.’

  ‘I’ll let you know when she turns up.’ Belle smirked, knowing she really shouldn’t tease the poor lad.

  ‘It don’t matter. I’ve no reason to hang around, no reason at all,’ and Kenny slunk away, hands in his pockets, all gangly-limbs and hunched shoulders.

  But he didn’t get far. As he turned to leave the market hall just by Winnie Watkin’s fabric stall, he saw her. Something lurched inside him, filling him with a wave of nervousness that made him feel quite sick. She was so lovely he couldn’t imagine ever growing tired of looking at her. Her cheeks were all pink, her shiny chestnut brown curls tousled by the wind. She was dressed in a grey skirt and white blouse, and her old navy school cardigan with the sleeves pulled up to hide the holes in the elbows. He saw Winnie put out a hand to offer a word of sympathy as she passed by.

  Pushing back his shoulders and flicking back the untidy thatch of fair hair that fell over his brow, of which he was inordinately proud, Kenny casually sauntered over. ‘Hello, Dena.’

  She looked suddenly flustered. ‘I know, I know, don’t tell me, I’m late.’

  ‘No, it’s not that, I were just . . .’

  ‘Don’t go on at me please, Kenny, I’ve enough on me plate right now. Sorry Winnie, I’ll have to run. Talk to you later.’

  ‘Rightio, love - and remember – I’m here if you want me. Keep your pecker up, girl.’

  Dena didn’t even glance his way as she dashed past, too concerned with the reception awaiting her at the café no doubt, bracing herself to face his mother. Kenny felt a kick of disappointment deep in his belly. So far he was getting nowhere with Dena Dobson, but he meant one day for his luck to change. He meant to make her his.

  Dena had scarcely noticed him. She was still haunted by the moment when she’d gazed upon the white face of her dead brother. After this most unpleasant duty had been carried out, the kindly sergeant had held her head while she vomited down the police station toilet, telling her what a brave girl she was, and how no young lass of her age should have to go through such a nasty experience.

  Dena felt she hadn’t had any choice but to be brave. If her mother refused to identify Pete, who else was there?

  Mrs Emmett from next door had very kindly accompanied her to the police station, and seen her safely home again afterwards, weeping all the way. But Dena had gone alone into that awful room to view the body of her brother, save for the sergeant.

  The moment seemed to mark the pattern of her life from then on. Whatever it was that needed doing, Dena was always the one to do it.

  Alice seemed to withdraw from the world, spending most of her time sitting in her chair staring silently into the fire, although there were many days when she didn’t bother to get out of bed at all. And her stillness was unnerving. Apart from her hysterical outburst on the day the police called with the dreadful news, from which Dena still bore the bruises, she hadn’t shed a single tear.

  Dena was dreading the funeral, had put proper notice in the paper, believing it only right and proper that some effort be made to tell her mother’s family, who might not even know they had grandchildren, let alone that one of them was dead.

  She’d tackled Alice about this. ‘Do you know where they live now? Would you like me to write, or to go and find them. They’re still family, after all?’

  ‘I have no family.’

  ‘Yes, you have, Mam. I remember you telling me all about them once. You always said that you got on with your brother best of the lot. He must be me Uncle Eric. Wouldn’t you like to see him again, at least?’

  ‘Don’t call him that. He’s no uncle to you. My so-called family have never shown any interest in either me or my children, so they can stay out of my life,’ Alice snapped, and there was an end of the matter.

  Alice Dobson had come down in the world and married beneath her, so far as her family were concerned. At turned twenty-eight she’d almost given up all hope of marriage when she’d fallen in love with a plumber’s mate some years younger than herself, not even properly qualified when she’d first met him. Alice had never regretted her decision because he’d made her happy.

  Maurice Dobson had been a loving husband and a good provider and she hadn’t felt in the least bit deprived. Later, he’d joined the Merchant Navy and done quite well for himself. But her family had written her off, and made no contact with her since, not even by letter.

  There had been a time when Alice had longed to have her mother by her side, when she’d given birth to Dena for one, and in those f
irst difficult months following with a new baby. She’d sent a card announcing the birth but had received no reply, which had caused much heartache and tears.

  Now she had no idea whether her parents were even still alive, and probably that was for the best. They’d only find fault and say she’d got what she deserved.

  She would have preferred to have started her married life in a large comfortable terraced house in John Street, but had to settle for a two up and two down on Duke Street where they were bombed out back in 1941 during the Christmas Blitz. They’d been lucky to escape with their lives, being in the air-raid shelter on Lower Byrom Street at the time. Since then they’d flitted from house to house, each one cheaper than the one before.

  But with her husband away at war Alice had somehow learned to cope alone, a skill she’d perfected in recent years.

  Following Maurice’s tragic death in 1943 while she was pregnant with Pete, their situation had worsened considerably. For the first time in her married life, Alice had been forced to seek employment to supplement the inadequate widow’s pension. Even so, she’d only ever worked part time, helping out in various shops over the years, and always choosing the smartest in St Anne’s Square, King Street, or the better part of Deansgate. It was her way of hanging on to her precious respectability.

  With a father who was a bank clerk, and a mother on every charity committee in Chorlton, not for a moment did she want her employers to know how far down the social ladder she had fallen.

  Alice had once dreamed of getting full time work in Pauldens, or perhaps at Kendals the famous department store, selling hats, or shoes, or else serving on the perfume counter. She’d applied for several advertised positions but never struck lucky.

  And with a new baby and a young child to care for, a war still raging across Europe, life hadn’t been easy.

  Now they were reduced to this miserable hovel in Barber’s Court where she was forced to share a bed with her daughter and Pete had used a put-me-up in the kitchen.

  Even after the war hopes of securing a better job that would enable her to take her family out of Barber’s Court, perhaps into one of the new council houses or flats starting to be built on blitzed sites, never quite materialised. Once the men had come back from their war service, jobs seemed harder to come by, and Alice had rather lost heart.

  Naturally, as soon as they were old enough the children had helped family finances by taking Saturday jobs on Champion Street Market. It was never really enough and she would certainly miss Pete’s contribution.

  Now, sadly, all of Alice’s dreams were as dead as her beloved son. No priority would be given to a widow with only one daughter, not with the current housing shortage. She’d been let down by everyone and really had nothing left to live for; didn’t care any more what happened to her.

  Pete was given a miserable funeral with the rain sheeting down and pitifully few wreaths on his small cheap coffin. Not a single member of Alice’s family turned up. No letter, no card of condolence, not even a bunch of flowers.

  Alice stood silent and grim-faced throughout the painful ceremony, entirely without emotion, frozen in shock, aware of her daughter sobbing but quite unable to respond to it. Weeping wouldn’t bring back her darling Pete, would it? Besides, Dena was alive, so what did she have to complain about?

  And wasn’t it all her own fault? Hadn’t the stupid girl failed to look after him? Hadn’t she been told to always keep a careful watch over her younger brother? Clearly she hadn’t done so, and now he was dead. Alice found that very hard to forgive.

  So if that knowledge brought the girl pain and suffering, or meant that she’d have to work a bit harder to make up for his loss in future, what of it? Wasn’t it only what she deserved?

  Chapter Three

  Dena didn’t need her mother to blame her for Pete’s death, she’d already taken full responsibility for the tragedy, making no allowances for her own youth and physical inadequacy against the gang. The thought of her failure to protect her brother tormented her by day and kept her awake half the night.

  If only she’d gone the long way round, walked home along Liverpool Road and kept to main thoroughfares where there were at least lamps lit. The fact they’d run down that ginnel, along the towpath and under the canal bridge a dozen times a week for as long as she could remember seemed no excuse at all to her young logic

  She was consumed by guilt, not only because she was alive and Pete was dead, but also for all the times when she’d spoken sharply to him, when she hadn’t had the patience to endure his stupid jokes and silly teasing. Why hadn’t she shown him more affection, made it clear how important he was to her, how very much she had loved him.

  It felt for a while as if her tears might never stop, her anguish never ease but there did finally come a day when Dena felt she’d run dry of all emotion and had no more tears left to shed. She was exhausted by her grief and although the pain remained deep inside her, she felt the need to return to some sort of routine. Anything to focus her mind away from that burden of guilt and loss. Besides, they still needed to eat, to wash their clothes and keep clean. And Mam was making no effort at all.

  It was perfectly clear that from now on if something needed doing, Dena would be the one to do it.

  She would get up every morning, see to the fire, sweep and tidy up then take breakfast and a mug of tea up to her mam in bed, knowing it could still be there when she got back from school.

  On her way home she would pick up a few essentials from the corner shop: bread, potatoes, milk if she could afford it. They lived largely on bacon and mash, vegetable soup and dripping butties. Finding anything decent they could afford to eat was becoming a serious problem as there was barely any money coming into the house now that her mother had given up work.

  Alice was entitled, as a war widow, to a small pension, which covered the cost of the rent but little else, beyond putting the odd shilling or two into the electric metre. Could Dena even hope to provide the rest from what she earned working on the Saturday market?

  She wondered if should look for another job in the evenings to earn a bit more, once she felt up to it. But then who would make tea for Mam and keep her company, help her get ready for bed and make her cocoa? She couldn’t ask too much of her neighbour, Mrs Emmett, kind as the old woman was. She had a sick husband to care for. Besides, Dena also worried about how she would ever find the energy on top of all the washing and other chores that she had to do of an evening?

  It was no comfort that she didn’t have to tidy up after her little brother any more, messy child that he was. Oh, wouldn’t she welcome tripping over his football or picking up his dirty socks? How she missed his cheerful face, even his daft pranks. She’d give anything to find a frog in her bed or her shoe laces in a knot, a couple of his favourite tricks.

  And even if her mother did little herself about the house, she was quick to spot any flaws in Dena’s routine.

  ‘Have you donkey-stoned that doorstep?’

  ‘Yes, Mam.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget to wipe down those window-sills.’

  ‘I’ll do them tonight, Mam.’

  ‘I can hardly see out of these windows, they’re that mucky.’

  ‘I did them only last week, but I’ll do them again if you like, Mam.’

  ‘Get off to school, don’t stand about here all morning, arguing and wasting time. I hope you’ve got clean underwear on. I don’t want you shaming me if you fall under a bus and have to be taken to hospital.’

  ‘No, Mam. I mean yes I have, Mam. I’ll ask Mrs Emmett to look in at dinner time.’

  ‘Nosy old git!’

  ‘I don’t know what we’d do without her. I’m off now, all right?’

  ‘I told you to go ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Ta ra then.’

  Mrs Emmett met her at the door as she was leaving. ‘Don’t worry chuck. You’re a good lass, you. And your mam’s a survivor, make no mistake about that. She’ll come out of this.’

&nbs
p; Dena gave a wan smile. ‘I’ve left some soup on the stove but I doubt she’ll be bothered to warm it up. She’s no appetite at all.’

  ‘Don’t you fret. I’ll make sure she eats something and check she doesn’t want for anything. I shall enjoy a bit of a camp over a nice cup of tea.’

  Dena went off to school content that she’d done all she could. But how to get her mother back to work? That was the biggest problem.

  Her one other source of support, in addition to old Mrs Emmett, proved to be Barry Holmes for whom her brother had worked so diligently on his fruit and veg stall. He was there at her brother’s funeral, of course, had given her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze and offered to help in any way he could.

  One afternoon after school, feeling particularly low, Dena decided to take him up on his offer. Rain was sheeting down and the prospect of returning home to precious little food in the larder and her mother’s endless complaints all suddenly seemed too much to bear. She needed a friend in that moment, someone who had known and loved Pete as much as she did.

  She ran through the streets, splashed uncaring through puddles as thunder clapped and lightening rent the air. Dena was soaked to the skin by the time she arrived at the outside market where Barry had his stall, but would readily have gone through brimstone and hell-fire for the sight of a welcoming face at the end of it.

  He didn’t see her at first as he stood beating his arms with his gloved hands and stamping his feet in a bid to keep warm as he stood under the dripping canvas; the sound of the rain hammering on the cobbles blotting out her approach.

  When he did see her, his round homely face lit up. ‘Dena, what the hangment are you doing here? You look like a drowned rat, or more likely a stray kitten dragged out of the cut.’

  Dena chuckled. ‘I reckon I come pretty close to both.’

  He was at once all action. ‘Here, give us an hand. I were planning on packing up anyway. Who is going to come looking for tatties and beetroot in weather like this, eh?’