The Silver Ladies of London

by Lesley Eames

  ‘Of course not.’ Alice had misunderstood. Jenny wasn’t blaming her mother. It was Jonas who was at fault.

  ‘Then what is it? You don’t like him sharing the house? Or you don’t want me to be happy?’

  ‘I do want you to be happy, Ma.’

  ‘You’ve a fine way of showing it. Well, I won’t have you spreading these lies. Do you hear me? I won’t have it.’

  With that, Alice ran up to her room. An hour passed before she had returned.

  ‘Ma,’ Jenny began, anxious to try to explain more clearly where the fault lay, but Alice put up her hand for silence.

  ‘I’m going to make allowances, Jenny. It can’t be easy seeing another man in your father’s house. But Jonas is a good man and in time you’ll understand that. Until then we won’t speak of this again. Is that understood?’

  Jenny had understood then that any criticism of Jonas would be seen as an attack on Alice and the life she’d built. Could Jenny risk crumbling the fragile walls of Alice’s happiness and sending her spiralling back into that dark pit of depression? She couldn’t. Jenny had sighed and said, ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘You should have told me you had the day off, love,’ Alice told Jenny now. ‘I’d have baked a cake.’

  ‘It isn’t a day off, Ma. There’s been trouble.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A necklace belonging to Mrs Arleigh went astray.’

  Alice worked it out slowly. ‘She blamed you for losing it?’

  ‘She blamed me for stealing it.’

  Alice’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Not me in particular,’ Jenny explained hurriedly. ‘All of us. Lydia, Grace, Ruth and me. It’s nonsense, of course.’

  ‘I’ll say it’s nonsense!’

  ‘I’m not dishonest, Ma.’

  Jenny regretted her choice of words immediately for they made her mother stiffen, doubtless remembering calling Jenny a liar that day.

  ‘This tea is lovely,’ Jenny said, to move them past the awkwardness, and Alice relaxed.

  ‘Maybe the necklace got lost,’ she suggested.

  ‘It seems not.’

  ‘Then someone else must have taken it. Don’t worry, love. You’ll soon find another job. No one can dress hair like you and you’re so clever with a needle.’

  ‘It won’t be easy because Mrs Arleigh isn’t giving us references.’

  ‘Well, there’s no rush. You’ve a home here as long as you need it. Jonas will say the same.’

  Jenny smiled tightly.

  ‘Take your things upstairs when you’ve finished your tea, then come down and help me with the cooking,’ Alice suggested. ‘We’re having steak and kidney pie as it’s Jonas’s favourite. There’ll be more than enough for three.’

  Up in her childhood bedroom, Jenny saw her chair had gone. Had it been returned to the boys’ old room where it had lived before she’d taken it under the pretext of liking to sit by her window to sew?

  Tiptoeing to the boys’ room, she found the chair and carried it to her own room so she could wedge it under the door handle later in lieu of a lock. She’d first used the chair to keep Jonas out the day he’d trapped her in the pantry. He’d been quiet all evening, watching Jenny and Alice as though waiting to see if they’d spoken about what he’d done.

  Nothing happened that night and Jenny began to hope that he’d realised he’d gone too far. But the next day his cockiness returned. Perhaps Alice had mentioned Jenny’s complaint and assured him she knew there was nothing in it. Or perhaps Jonas had realised that Alice would never believe Jenny no matter what she said against him.

  That night Jenny heard shuffling out on the landing. She held her breath as her door handle turned, only to encounter resistance from the chair. Jonas muttered an oath and returned to the room he shared with her mother.

  Jenny had wedged the chair under the door every night after that and taken care never to be alone with Jonas during the day. Fortunately, the job at Arleigh Court had opened up just a few weeks later. Since then she’d rarely spent the night at home, finding every excuse to avoid it, helped by her friends who were happy to fib on her behalf if it kept her safe. Jenny felt sick at the thought of playing a cat and mouse game with Jonas again.

  Shaking the creases out of her clothes, she put them into the closet and drawers. Jenny loved pretty clothes and had far more of them than Grace, Lydia or Ruth. It wasn’t an extravagant collection because she’d made them herself, but she still wished she’d saved more of her wages. Without money or a job, she might be trapped here indefinitely.

  Alice told Jonas about Jenny’s dismissal the moment he returned from work. He was outraged. ‘Our Jenny a thief? Never! That Arleigh woman should be taken to court for slander.’

  Alice beamed at her daughter. This was what she wanted – a loyal and loving family. Mother, stepfather and daughter, all happy together. ‘I’ve told Jenny she’ll soon get another job.’

  ‘That she will,’ Jonas agreed. ‘She’ll be a treasure to anyone.’

  He sat at the table and patted Jenny’s hand. But then Alice turned to the stove and the patting became stroking. Jonas’s breathing changed and his mouth slackened.

  Jenny pulled her hand away, revulsion rippling through her stomach. ‘Let me help you with that, Ma,’ she offered, getting up.

  ‘Jenny knows she has a home with us for as long as she needs it,’ Alice said.

  ‘My two favourite girls under one roof,’ Jonas approved. ‘Perfect.’

  Alice laughed. ‘You’re such a flatterer, Jonas. I’m no girl. I’m more than forty.’

  ‘You’re beautiful to me. You’re both beautiful to me.’ His gaze slid to Jenny, sly and disgusting.

  How could Alice be so blind?

  Jenny couldn’t come back here to live. She just couldn’t. But for all her kindness, Grace had no room for her and neither did Ruth or Lydia. Where could Jenny go?

  Five

  Ruth had trudged on to Crane Street alone, guilt and trepidation feeling far heavier burdens to her than her luggage. Reaching her parents’ house, she hid her case behind the privet hedge, then took a deep breath and entered through the kitchen door.

  Her mother’s head turned, sharp eyes ready to scour the intruder for one fault or another – unless it happened to be one of her darling sons. Seeing Ruth, she sneered, ‘Isn’t this just typical? I suppose it was too much trouble to let me know you’d be calling. Well, I’ve no extra food in to feed you, and I shan’t be going to the shops today.’

  ‘Hello, Mother.’

  Ruth knew better than to try to defend herself or pacify Eunice. It was simpler to endure. Besides, there would be plenty of food in the house with four grown sons still at home. Ruth had even contributed to its purchase. She might have boarded out at Arleigh Court, but she’d still been required to hand her mother a substantial portion of her wages though it was never acknowledged let alone appreciated.

  Ruth glanced at the man who sat at the table in a wheelchair, his legs lost in an explosion in the munitions factory where he’d been working in 1917. ‘Father.’

  He nodded curtly. Bert Turner was a bad-tempered man and always had been.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Eunice scolded Ruth. ‘There’s ironing needs doing.’

  There were always jobs that needed doing by Ruth. She went into the hall to fetch the ironing board from the cupboard under the stairs. An envelope lay on the front doormat. Picking it up, she was surprised to see it was addressed to Ruth Turner in an untidy scrawl. No Miss Turner or other courtesy. No stamp either, so the postman hadn’t delivered it. Who would—?

  Suspicion crept over her. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure she was alone, then tore the envelope open and drew a note out. No greeting; no signature. Just: You didn’t see me.

  ‘Don’t take all day about it!’ Eunice shouted through to her.

  Sick at heart, Ruth stuffed the note back into the envelope and hid it in her pocket. She carried the ironing board into the kitchen, th
en put the irons into the fire to warm. No one noticed the small burst of flame that came when she put the envelope in after them.

  Ironing shirts was thirsty work and Ruth would have welcomed a cup of tea when she’d finished, but it wasn’t to be.

  ‘I’m making shepherd’s pie for your brothers’ dinner so I need potatoes peeling,’ her mother said. ‘Peel plenty because they’re bound to be hungry after working all day.’

  Only the boys’ work counted for anything in the Turner household, though that wouldn’t soften Eunice’s fury when she heard of Ruth’s dismissal. Putting off the awful moment, Ruth fetched potatoes and an old newspaper in which to wrap the peelings. Last week’s Woman’s Weekly was in the paper box. Ruth had asked her mother to save old magazines for her, but Eunice never went to any trouble for a mere daughter.

  Homely magazines costing a couple of pennies a week were far more enjoyable to Ruth than the grander Vogue on which Jenny lavished one and six each month, having asked the newsagent to stock it especially for her. Ruth had enjoyed reading about the Duke of York’s marriage to Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon in last month’s Vogue, but mostly she liked to read about domestic issues and everyday fashions.

  She supposed it was odd to be a homely sort of person considering her life at Crane Street wasn’t happy, but Ruth could imagine nothing more likely to bring her contentment than to fall in love with an ordinary man and settle down with an ordinary family in an ordinary little house. Just the thought of it made her feel cosy inside.

  Not that she had a clear impression of the sort of man she might fall in love with beyond the certainty that it wouldn’t be one of her brothers’ friends, who were just like her brothers in being a swaggering, insolent lot. And not that she thought it likely to happen anyway, considering she was too plain and shy to attract the attention of decent men. Still, just imagining a cosy future helped to lift her mind above the awfulness of home.

  Despite her daydreaming, Ruth peeled the potatoes quickly. ‘Enough?’ she asked eventually.

  Eunice made a dismissive sound that passed for a yes from a woman who refused ever to praise her daughter. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten you’re due to settle up.’

  Ruth fetched two ten-shilling notes from her purse and handed them over. Then she took a deep breath and asked the question she’d been dreading. ‘Might I stay for a while?’

  ‘Stay?’ Eunice made it sound as though Ruth were imposing.

  ‘Live here again. Just until I’ve made other arrangements.’

  ‘You haven’t lost your job?’

  Ruth nodded.

  ‘Isn’t that typical? Did you hear that, Bert? Ruth’s lost her job and now she expects us to support her.’ The withering eyes turned back to Ruth. ‘You don’t know what hard work is, that’s your problem. I’ve got a house and five men to look after, but you only ever think about yourself.’

  The words stung even though Ruth knew they were unfair. ‘I was good at my job, Ma.’

  ‘People who are good at their jobs don’t get sacked.’

  ‘There was a misunderstanding. A necklace went missing and Mrs Arleigh thought—’

  “You were sacked for thieving? Better and better!’

  ‘I didn’t actually take the necklace.’

  ‘No, you haven’t the brains. But that Grey girl…’

  ‘Lydia didn’t take it either.’

  ‘Someone did.’

  Victor Rabley did, though Ruth couldn’t share that information with her mother or anyone else.

  ‘So you’re expecting us to keep you on your dad’s pension, are you?’ Eunice appeared to have forgotten that only three years ago she’d resisted Ruth going out to work, preferring to keep her tied to the home as the family skivvy. ‘Don’t think your brothers will help. They’ve got their own futures to think about.’

  And ale to sup at the Blacksmith’s Arms. ‘I’m not expecting anyone to support me,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Come into money, have you?’ Eunice mocked.

  Ruth hesitated, but there was never going to be a good time to deliver her news. ‘Actually, yes.’

  Surprise reduced her mother to rare silence but not for long. ‘Have you been keeping back money that’s due to the family? Because—’

  ‘I haven’t any savings.’ How could she save when she gave so much to her mother? ‘The money’s coming from Aunt Vera.’

  ‘My sister’s giving you money?’

  ‘She died, Mother.’

  ‘Died? Why wasn’t I told?’ Eunice was affronted rather than grieved.

  ‘She didn’t want… She wanted a quiet funeral, apparently.’

  ‘But she left money in her will? How much money?’

  ‘Nearly fifteen hundred pounds.’

  Eunice’s mouth opened and closed several times before she got her words out. ‘Hear that, Bert? Our Vera’s left us fifteen hundred pounds! I can’t say I always saw eye to eye with my sister, but she’s done the decent thing in the end. We can buy this house now. Or a different house. Just think. We Turners, living in a house of our own instead of paying rent to that good-for-nothing landlord. There might be enough for the boys to get their own houses too, or at least put down deposits.’

  ‘Aunt Vera left the money to me,’ Ruth said gently.

  Eunice’s skinny arms went to her hips. ‘Don’t go getting uppity. You’re part of a family and you can share with your family.’

  ‘I can’t, Mother. It says so in the will.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. Just because your name’s in the will, it doesn’t mean you keep all the money.’

  How could Ruth explain without causing offence? Perhaps she should let Aunt Vera speak for herself. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Retrieving her case from behind the privet, she took out the copy of Aunt Vera’s letter that the solicitor had given her and passed it to her mother, bracing herself for fury.

  Ruth had read the letter many times on the bus back to Arleigh Court. She knew the words by heart.

  Dear Niece,

  If you’re reading this, I’m dead. It’s strange to be writing a letter that won’t be read until after I’m gone, but the doctors said I should put my affairs in order.

  I’ve done pretty well for myself over the years and I’ve spent most of my money. Why not? I had little enough growing up in dreary Ruston.

  I suppose if I’d been a better aunt I’d have written before. With my sister for your mother, your life can’t have been a bed of roses. Eunice was a vicious, shrewish sneak when we were young and she grew into a vicious, shrewish woman. I don’t reckon much to the man she married either. He was a surly man even before he lost his legs.

  It’s only the boys that count in your family. Leastways, that’s the way it was when I was last in Ruston fifteen years ago. It was obvious even then that you weren’t going to count for much with your mother. Or your father.

  Well, I’ve got to leave what’s left of my money to someone and I’ve decided that someone is you.

  Don’t get excited. It won’t make you rich, but it will give you a start. There’s one condition, though. You don’t give as much as a brass farthing to your brothers, your father and especially not your mother, otherwise you’ll forfeit the money and it’ll go to helping fallen women.

  I won’t sign off as your loving aunt because a loving aunt would have done something for you long ago. But I will wish you luck. This money is your chance to have fun.

  Your soon-to-be-dead Aunt Vera.

  Ruth’s mother scanned the first lines rapidly, but then she made a choking sound and put her hand to her chest. Finally, she sank into a chair, scarlet-faced and bristling. ‘Of all the wicked, deceitful… She’s cut us out, Bert. She’s not giving us a penny. I always said our Vera was a bad ’un and this proves me right.’ Rounding on Ruth, she spat out venom. ‘I suppose you’re behind this. Been writing to your aunt, have you? Currying favour?’

  ‘I’ve never written to her.’

  ‘But you’re enjoying
this. Glad to have all that money to yourself. It’s an injustice, that’s what it is. We should go to the law to put things right.’

  ‘We’ve no money to go to the law,’ Bert Turner pointed out.

  Ruth’s mother tore the letter into pieces and threw them at Ruth. ‘That’s what I think of my sister. Where did she get the money from anyway? Not from living a decent life, that’s for sure. Always did have the morals of an alley cat. Well, we’ll not have you lording it over us. You can get started on those onions. I hate to think what your brothers are going to say.’

  Ruth hated to think of it too.

  Six

  Frank Grey was staring at a milk bottle when Lydia went downstairs the following morning. ‘Milk’s off,’ he said.

  He’d taken a tin of pilchards from the cupboard. Lydia’s stomach recoiled at the thought of watching him eat fish at this time of day. Irritation was nibbling away at her because she hadn’t slept well again. Perhaps the best thing would be to take her mood outside.

  ‘I’ll go to the shop. Do we need anything else?’

  ‘Eggs,’ Frank said. He took a pound note from an old tea caddy. ‘You could get fags too.’

  Lydia strode to the shop and stuffed her purchases into a string bag but felt in no hurry to return home. Frank would drink his tea without milk.

  She walked down to the canal instead. Lighting a cigarette, she scowled at the distant roof of Akerman’s Ales.

  The rainclouds of yesterday had blown away leaving fine weather for the Ruston Fete. Doubtless, Grace, Jenny and Ruth would gather there to make plans for their futures. It was Lydia who was the no-hoper. She’d never have got the job at Arleigh Court without Grace.

  They’d met by chance when Grace called into the bakery on Green Dragon Road just as Lydia was throwing a macaroon at the baker and yelling that he could keep his lousy job. Tugging her apron off, she’d thrown that at the baker too, then swept through the door, making Grace jump aside to avoid a collision. Storming to the end of the row of shops, Lydia had turned into an alley to get away from curious eyes. Then she’d groaned and raised her hands to her head. She’d done it again. Lost her temper and lost a job.