‘Two pie and peas and one tomato soup for table four,’ she told Mrs Garside, and while she waited for this to be served Dena let her mind drift back.
She remembered Mam bathing them both by the fire in the big tin bath, toasting slices of bread on the long toasting fork for supper and then reading them stories while they ate it smothered in dripping, and drank their hot cocoa. They could afford milk in those days.
Alice would read from Treasure Island or the Just William books to please Pete. All of the What Katy Did books and Little Women for Dena. And sometimes from her own favourites such as Arnold Bennett or J. B. Priestley. If she came to a romantic scene there would be a long pause and she’d claim that it was a boring bit, quickly turn the page and hurry on to the next exciting part of the story. Her mam was ever the puritan, even in her younger days.
But she’d still had her hopes and dreams then, patience and love for her children, happily waiting for her husband to come home from the war. If she’d smacked them it hadn’t been out of temper but because they’d been naughty and deserved it.
But the last few years had seen a change in her. Her grief and disappointment in life had brought out all her worst faults, and she’d turned more and more to the little nips of gin and orange she allowed herself at the end of each day, until she couldn’t afford even this little treat.
Dena and her mother had never enjoyed an easy relationship. She somehow didn’t quite come up to her mother’s high ideals and Alice had ever been one to criticise her daughter and point out her mistakes, an attitude which had worsened as she’d grown more lonely and depressed, as her bitterness against life deepened.
Losing Pete was one blow too many. Dena didn’t know how to talk to her now. Mam seemed lost inside herself, and the sick feeling Dena carried deep within warned her that the entry of Miss Rogers into their lives was not going to help one little bit.
There’d been menace in the woman’s tone when she’d promised to return to ‘monitor’ their situation, whatever that might mean, and Dena feared the worst. She’d worried about it all week and was now deeply afraid, jumping at every knock on the door, even when it could only be the doctor. Folks round here generally just barged in calling, ‘it’s only me’, so a knock on the door always heralded trouble.
But this woman, poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, was like a dog with its teeth in a rat. She just wouldn’t let go and might well start asking too many questions about what exactly had happened that day down by the canal. As it was, Dena was constantly glancing over her shoulder wherever she went, fearful of being followed, worried that whoever had committed that terrible crime might strike again. And she’d vowed never to venture along the towpath ever again. If this Miss Rogers started stirring up yet more trouble for them, who knew what might happen?
They should have remained invisible after all.
‘Dena, you’re day-dreaming again!’ Belle Garside thrust two plates at her and Dena snapped to attention. This wouldn’t do at all. She really must pay attention and think about her problems later. She had work to do.
At closing time when her employer was putting up the shutters, Dena took her courage in both hands and carefully cleared her throat before making her request. She’d done a great deal of thinking and had come to a decision. Even so her voice sounded squeaky and rather breathless, the words coming out all in a rush.
‘Mrs Garside, I wonder if I could have a word. Mam’s not too good at the moment, as you know, and we could do with a bit more money coming in. I wondered if I could work the odd hour after school. We finish at four and I could be here by ten past if I ran all the way.’
Belle Garside cast the girl a sideways glance but didn’t rush to answer, considering her query in silence while she rolled down the shutters. It troubled her that Kenny was so smitten when really he could do better, look higher. She was nice enough was the lass, and showed signs of having a brain under that glorious tumble of shiny chestnut curls. And she certainly brought in the punters, as Belle herself used to do once upon a time.
Those were the days, Belle thought with a touch of nostalgia, when chaps would be queuing up for her favours instead of her bacon butties. But her own once voluptuous shape was suffering from too many of Joan’s excellent meat and potato pies, and her violet-eyed charm was losing some of its compulsion. She still had her moments, of course, although was more and more obliged to use other methods to maintain her status in the market these days.
‘How old are you now?’
‘Fourteen,’ Dena lied, crossing her fingers behind her back.
Fourteen and as pretty as a picture. Another two years and she’d be dynamite. Takings always improved on the days Dena was working, during school holidays for instance. And Belle could surely control Kenny, for God’s sake, make certain he didn’t get too involved. No doubt it was nothing more than a passing fancy and he’d be after some other bit of skirt next week. He’d never stuck with anything for more than five minutes in his entire life hadn’t Kenny.
But Belle was playing for higher stakes these days: for power. The Market Superintendent had a daughter: nice, quiet girl, very biddable, and a link between their two families would be no bad thing, no bad thing at all. It would put her in a very strong position indeed. Dena Dobson might be blessed in the looks department but she had neither money nor power, both of which were essential ingredients in Belle’s future plans.
She locked the shutters, slipped the keys into her coat pocket and prepared to depart.
‘I’d love to help, chuck, but I’m closed by five during the week, sometimes earlier if it’s quiet, so what you’re offering is no good to me. Why don’t you leave school, then you could work full time? Can’t say fairer than that.’
Dena’s hopes crashed and she could feel her cheeks start to burn as she confessed the truth. ‘I’m sorry Mrs Garside, I’m telling you a fib. I’m really only thirteen, although I will be fourteen in a few weeks at the end of March. I could happen leave school early in the summer, but only if I get a special letter from the Social.’ It would all be so much easier if she were older.
Belle shrugged, already bored by the discussion. ‘Come and see me then, love, after you’ve left. In the meantime you can carry on with your Saturday job but just remember, you turn up at nine on the dot, not when you feel like it.’
‘No, Mrs Garside. I mean, yes Mrs Garside.’
Despair hung over Dena like a great grey cloud. It was only escaping to the market every Saturday that kept her cheerful. She loved the sights and sounds of the place, the people popping in and out of the café, always with a joke or a witty comment on their lips to lift her spirits.
‘What’s up, lass?’ they’d say if she was looking glum. ‘Lost a shilling and found ‘apenny? Come on me little sugar butty, give us a smile,’ and Dena would find herself laughing, despite the worries heaped on her young shoulders.
But she really didn’t have anything much to laugh about. How on earth were they going to manage with not enough money coming in? All her mother’s savings had long since been used up and they were now living on tick, a sum that was growing daily at the corner shop on Barber’s Court, and how they could ever hope to pay it back Dena couldn’t begin to imagine.
She earned only a few shillings at the café but sometimes did quite well with tips. These she was expected to put in a jar to share with Joan and the washer-up in the kitchen, which was fair. But Mrs Garside also took a share, which Dena didn’t think was quite right at all. She was the proprietor and therefore had already taken her profit from the price of the meal.
In view of her financial difficulties, Joan had suggested a new arrangement whereby if Dena came by an extra-large tip, she wouldn’t put that in the jar but quietly share it out later among the kitchen staff.
‘Why should Belle benefit from all your smiles?’ Joan said, giving the girl an affectionate hug of sympathy. ‘And we need it more than she does.’
So when the following Saturday a com
mercial traveller gave Dena half a crown, she thanked him with a radiant smile, half glanced at the jar set on a table just inside the kitchen door but making no move towards it, slipped the coin quickly into her pocket. She might earn another shilling or two before the day was out, which would feed them for two days, if she was careful, even after she’d shared it with Joan and the washer-up. Dena gave her pocket a little pat of satisfaction.
On her way back into the kitchen carrying a tray of dirty dishes, Carl Garside stepped out in front of her and she realised with a jolt that he had been standing watching her. He must have seen everything. Dena felt her cheeks flush warm with guilt.
But then he often had this effect upon her at the best of times, the way he would hover around watching her, saying little, as if he didn’t quite trust her. And now, sadly, she’d given him proof.
‘Got an eye full, have you?’ she challenged, deciding attack was the best method of defence.
‘You could say that. What was it you put in your pocket just now?’
Carl Garside was taller than his younger brother, broad-shouldered and with powerful muscles, presumably from all the lifting he did in his job delivering fresh produce to the various Manchester markets. She often saw him bullying Kenny, shoving him around, barking out orders or complaining about something or other that he’d done, or failed to do. She felt quite sorry for Kenny at times.
But Carl was undoubtedly the better looking of the two, disturbingly so, having rather an Italian look about him with that smooth Mediterranean olive skin and black, curly hair. He might even have been called handsome, were it not for the insolent twist of his mouth, the flared nostrils, and the fact that his dark blue eyes would so often glare unnervingly at her. As they were doing now.
‘It was only my hand, what else would it be?’
‘You had something in it, I saw that quite clearly.’
Guilt made her cheeks fire up all the more but Dena stuck her head in the air and sailed right on past. She’d faced up to bullies before, and certainly had no intention of allowing this one the satisfaction of an explanation.
Chapter Seven
The tall, angular figure of Miss Rogers turned up on their doorstep one Sunday in late February when they were least expecting her. It was still bitterly cold with rain and snow sleeting against the windows. Dena quickly closed the door after the social worker to keep out the wind and prevent a puddle from forming on the clean lino.
‘I wasn’t sure if I’d catch you in. Thought you might be at chapel, or visiting family for your Sunday dinner?’
Dena shook her head and went on with dishing out a warming stew for her mother. It comprised largely of potatoes, carrots and barley with the odd scrap of bacon that Mr Ramsay the butcher had given her to add a bit of flavour. There wasn’t really enough for two servings, it being left over from the night before.
Not that it mattered. Strangely, Dena seemed to be losing her appetite although Mam’s had certainly not been diminished by her grief. Rather the reverse. Sitting about the house all day seemed to provide ample time for her to think about food and she would enquire when tea would be ready the minute Dena stepped over the threshold.
She’d managed to eat most of the bacon hot pot Dena had made for them last night, not that Dena minded as she herself always got a good dinner every Saturday at the café. She looked forward to it all week and yesterday’s meal had been excellent: one of Joan’s best minced beef pies with a great dollop of mash and buttered carrots. She could still savour the taste of the rich gravy.
Dena now served her mother the largest portion, as usual, then set a plate over the pan to keep the remainder warm while she poured Miss Rogers a cup of milkless tea.
‘Still monitoring?’ Alice tartly enquired before spooning hot potato into her mouth.
The woman looked at the brown tea, and Alice, with distaste. ‘I certainly am.’
‘Our Pete was a monitor once but that involved handing out ink pots, not poking his nose into other folk’s business. But then he had manners, our Pete, not like some folk I could mention.’
‘I’m sorry if my presence disturbs you Mrs Dobson, but I’m concerned about your daughter. It surprises me that you aren’t equally worried. Look at her, all skin and bone. Have you so much as got off your backside and cooked a meal for her since I was last here?’
Alice flushed a deep crimson, then slammed her spoon down upon the table. ‘Get out! I’ll not sit here and be insulted in my own home.’
‘Ah, but it isn’t your home, is it?’ Miss Rogers very reasonably pointed out. ‘You only rent it, and although that sum is covered by your late husband’s service pension, you would surely starve if it weren’t for your daughter. I suspect though that she is half starved and I really don’t think that I can allow this situation to go on for very much longer.’
Alice glared across at Dena and opened her mouth as if about to accuse her of bringing this trouble to her door but then closed it again, thinking better of it. ‘We manage to get by, as we must, since this fancy new welfare state isn’t interested in helping working-class folk like us.’
Miss Rogers was quite unmoved by the waspish remark. ‘You could always go to the labour exchange. I’m sure they would help to find you employment, Mrs Dobson. There are still factories taking on operatives at the moment, though admittedly not too many of them are women. Did you do any factory work during the war? Have you training of any sort?’
Alice glared at the woman. ‘I had my children to look after. I worked as a shop assistant, part-time, in some of the better class establishments. But I’ll have you know that I’ve never sunk to working in a dirty mill or factory in my life, and never will. I’m not just some bit of muck carried in on a pair of clogs. I have my standards. My father was a bank clerk, and my mother . . .’
‘Indeed?’ Miss Rogers interrupted, perking up. ‘And what do they have to say about all of this? Are they willing to help? Would they take Dena for a while till you got back on your feet?’
Alice shifted her gaze and picking up her spoon gave a loud sniff of disdain. ‘I haven’t asked them. I have my pride.’
Dena hastily butted in. ‘We’re not sure where they live any more. We haven’t heard from them in a long time, d’you see?’
‘Yes, I do see.’ Miss Rogers thoughtfully replied. She saw a great deal, had years of experience dealing with the misery families heaped upon themselves. She got to her feet. ‘I’ll leave you to your meal and to think over what I have said but I give you fair warning, Mrs Dobson, that if there is no improvement by the end of the month, I shall have no alternative but to relieve you of your responsibilities.’
‘Isn’t that what we’ve been asking for?’
‘I mean,’ Miss Rogers enunciated carefully, ‘that I will be compelled to take Dena into care.’
Dena jerked in terror and looked across at her mother, expecting her to jump to her feet, to spring to life at last and angrily protest that she couldn’t possibly bear to be parted from her daughter, not for the world. But she only turned her face away with a dismissive snort and muttered something under her breath.
‘What did you say, Mrs Dobson? I didn’t quite catch that?’
‘I said do as you please. See if I care.’
Dena was shocked to the core. She could hardly believe her own ears. Her mother never swore. Not once in all her life had she ever heard blasphemy come from those lips. Criticisms, complaints, endless moans and groans but never a single blasphemy. Mam had always claimed she would sooner die than use foul language. This fall from grace only proved how very much she hated her, how she blamed Dena entirely for her son’s death. She didn’t even care if she was taken away; didn’t care what happened to her.
Faced with the evidence of this woman’s deeply held resentment towards her own daughter, Miss Rogers was likewise stunned into silence. It had its roots in the loss of the son, if her instincts were correct, and they generally were where family relationships were concerned. She was b
laming the girl entirely for the tragedy, but it wasn’t, in her opinion, any fault of the daughter’s at all.
Turning to Dena, Miss Rogers quietly handed her a card. ‘If you should need me, give me a ring. You do know how to use a telephone, I suppose?’
‘Course I do!’ Even in the depths of her misery Dena felt slightly insulted that the woman should think her so dim she couldn’t carry out such a simple task, yet she could find no words to defend herself. She felt too stunned, too startled and dismayed by her mother’s reaction. Dena put the card safely in the dresser drawer and instantly forgot all about it.
When Miss Rogers had gone and Dena had quickly shut fast the door against the bad weather, Alice grabbed her by the arm and yanked her about to face her.
‘Now Madam, what’ve you been saying to her? Spinning some yarn about how cruel your mam is to you, is that it?’
Dena’s eyes grew round with shock. ‘No! How can you even think such a thing? Course I haven’t. I don’t want her poking her nose in any more than you do.’
‘I don’t believe a word you say. How can I ever trust you again after what you did to my darling boy? Get off to bed with you. No, leave your supper where it is. You don’t deserve any tonight. That’ll learn you for mouthing off about your own mother. Go on, get off with you, afore you feel the back of my hand.’
Dena went. She ran upstairs and flung herself down on the bed in a flurry of tears. Oh, what a mess! What on earth would happen now?
Life did not improve in the coming weeks. Despite Miss Roger’s threats, Alice made no effort to find a job and return to work, nor even to get off her backside and make a cup of tea once in a while for her hard-working daughter.
Most days she sat at home bemoaning her lot, complaining that they didn’t have enough food in the house, that they were running out of coal and she was cold, which wasn’t surprising considering how much she used each day. Dena was driven to picking over the spoil-heaps like some sort of street urchin to keep her mother’s fire blazing.
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