The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  Was she daft to feel disappointed? She had wanted to discuss the surplus girls. She had never given the future any thought, other than to boggle at the way all her hopes and plans had been wiped out the moment the telegram arrived. For the past four years, she had lived a day-by-day existence, dressed in black, being accorded the status of widow by Ben’s mother and grandmother. For a long time, that had been sufficient; but recently her youthful spirit had reawakened… only to find herself facing life as a surplus girl. What had Miss Kirby said? Something about fending for themselves… and what education, what training, do they have under their belts to equip them for that?

  A dart of fear passed through her.

  ‘I don’t blame you for wanting summat better, Sarah. It’s what I want an’ all.’

  But if she couldn’t get an office position, how would she make her way?

  *

  Patience did some light dusting, which was all the housework she ever did on a Saturday. Catching sight of Prudence walking through their garden gate, she returned the duster to the housemaid’s box and opened the front door.

  Prudence looked decidedly pleased. Healthy too, with an unaccustomed rosiness in her normally pale complexion. Colourless, they had been called all their lives. Washed-out. Other girls had been blessed with pretty curves, golden curls and properly blue eyes, but the stick-thin Hesketh sisters had straight hair of the palest fairness and their blue eyes were closer to grey. In middle-age, their fairness hadn’t changed to silver but to faded pewter. Still, what did it matter? Two old spinsters: who cared?

  Patience cared. She always had. Which just showed how silly and superficial she was.

  Having shed her outdoor things, Prudence walked into the sitting room.

  ‘It’s our lucky day,’ she announced. ‘I found a typewriter in the second-hand shop on Beech Road. A bit battered, and the Z is wonky, but how often does one require a Z? They’re delivering it later. And I asked at the post office about a post office box, but we have to go to the big post office on Wilbraham Road for that.’

  ‘You’ve been busy and all I’ve been doing is dusting.’

  ‘I called in at Brown’s as well and bought a new typewriter ribbon and a dozen sheets of carbon paper. That’ll get us started. And I asked about putting a postcard in their window, advertising our services.’

  ‘They said yes?’

  ‘Naturally. They don’t care what the postcard says – well, as long as you aren’t advertising anything indecent or illegal.’

  Patience squeezed her fingers into fists. ‘Is what we’re doing quite legal?’

  Prudence pulled down the corners of her mouth thoughtfully. ‘This house may not be ours legally, but it is ours morally and we’re not going to stand by while Lawrence marches in and lays claim to it. I’ll take postcards round all the newsagents when I sort out our post office box.’

  A movement outside caught Patience’s eye. ‘It’s Lawrence’s motor.’

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ said Prudence. ‘Is Evelyn with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here’s what we do. Be polite, let their words wash over us, then wave them on their merry way.’

  Unfastening her apron, Patience went to open the door. Evelyn, looking smart and expensive in a calf-length, rustcoloured coat with a whole family of foxes dangling from her shoulders, beamed at her from the path.

  ‘You look like an old family retainer, opening the door as we arrive.’

  ‘It’s the least she can do after slamming the door in your face last time,’ scowled Lawrence, waving Evelyn across the threshold ahead of him.

  ‘I apologise for that, Evelyn.’ Patience tried not to sound humble. ‘It was a difficult situation.’

  ‘It’s all forgotten.’

  Evelyn turned her back and started to shrug her coat off. It was tempting to let it fall to the carpet, but Patience caught it and hung it in the cloakroom, then moved swiftly away before Lawrence could require the same courtesy. There were limits to what this old retainer was prepared to do.

  In the sitting room, Evelyn sat down, Lawrence remaining on his feet. Patience sat, but Lawrence stayed standing; so he hadn’t been courteously waiting for her, he wanted to lord it over them. He planted himself with his back to the fireplace. He cut a fine figure in his dark blue suit and striped silk tie.

  ‘I am most displeased—’ he began.

  ‘Patience has already apologised for slamming the door,’ cut in Prudence.

  ‘I’m referring to the manner in which you took it upon yourselves to upbraid Wardle in the street. Disgraceful! I know it was you, Prudence, rather than Patience. Carrying on like a common fishwife, and in public too.’

  ‘Rosemount Place is hardly the most public place,’ Prudence murmured.

  ‘It’s a place peopled by gentlemen of standing and means. What if your behaviour had been witnessed by somebody who knew you to be connected to me? I’m ashamed of you.’

  Patience glanced at her sister, but Prudence’s features had been wiped clean of all emotion.

  ‘You might as well know,’ Lawrence continued, throwing out his chest, ‘that I asked Wardle to produce a written account of the rash and unladylike haranguing to which he was subjected, and you know what that means, don’t you? It means I have an official record of what you did.’

  He whipped out an envelope from his inside pocket and waved it under Prudence’s nose. Patience held her breath, but Prudence remained impassive, though her pale eyes glittered.

  A slash of colour appeared across Lawrence’s high cheekbones. ‘That’ll teach you to make a spectacle of yourself,’ he jeered.

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ Prudence asked, her voice tight.

  ‘Almost. I’ve come to give you notice to quit the house.’

  ‘Oh!’ Patience couldn’t help it. The cry slipped out.

  ‘In spite of Prudence’s tantrum in the street, I’m here to do the decent thing and give you until the end of the month.’

  ‘The end of the month?’ Patience’s heart thudded. If their plan failed, then at the end of January…

  ‘And this is the decent thing, is it?’ said Prudence.

  ‘It is indeed. You’ll receive an official letter from Wardle early next week.’

  ‘But out of the goodness of our hearts,’ said Evelyn, ‘we couldn’t let that be the first you heard of it. We couldn’t subject you to that shock.’

  There was a burning sensation in Patience’s eyes and she steepled her hands in front of her lips. How could Pa have done this to them? How could Lawrence?

  ‘Don’t imagine you can extend your occupancy beyond that. My coming here today to tell you in person goes in my favour. It demonstrates how tolerant I’m prepared to be even after you treated my good self and my lady wife, not to mention my solicitor, so shabbily.’

  ‘Lawrence, please,’ Evelyn murmured. ‘I’m sure they understand what’s expected of them.’ Again, that beam. She smoothed the skirt of her crêpe-de-chine dress, spreading her fingers on her knees with a flash of precious stones. ‘Obviously we’ll leave you alone as much as we can to get your packing done, but you won’t mind if we pop in to do some measuring, will you?’

  ‘And to label the items that are to stay.’ Lawrence rocked to and fro on his heels. ‘We wouldn’t want there to be any unfortunate misunderstandings.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Prudence, ‘I believe you walked off with our fish-knives the last time you were here. Could I trouble you to return them since they weren’t Pa’s personal property?’

  ‘Well, really,’ said Evelyn. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But feel free to hang onto the epergne. Horrid old thing – I never did like it.’

  ‘Finished gallivanting, have you?’ Mum demanded the moment Belinda and Sarah walked through the door. ‘Leaving me to work my fingers to the bone as usual, our Sarah. Well, I’ve left you a pile of darning, so you needn’t kid yourself you’ve got off scot-free.’

  ‘Mum, I wo
n’t be home before midnight…’ Sarah began.

  ‘I’ll make a start on it,’ said Belinda. She had intended to walk Sarah to the bus stop, but she would have to forego that.

  Sarah had only a few minutes before she had to hurry on her way, flinging goodbyes over her shoulder. Belinda sifted through the darning. Boys’ socks, mostly. Wouldn’t life be simpler if boys were taught to sew? She rifled around in Mum’s sewing-box and found the darning mushroom and some wool.

  But instead of being pleased, Mum was nowty. ‘I don’t know why you have to help our Sarah when I’m here peeling carrots and chopping swede for a whole family.’

  ‘If our Bel had been here to do the dinner, at least our Sarah would have set off for work with a hot meal in her belly,’ growled Dad.

  And that was all it took. Next moment, they were shouting at one another. Belinda felt her customary wretched hollowness. Fingers brushed her arm and, with a jerk of his chin, George signalled they should leave their parents to it. He handed her her shawl, took his coat from the back of the door and led her outside.

  ‘Why have we come out here?’ she asked. ‘We could have sat in the bedroom.’

  ‘No chance of being overheard out here.’ He popped his tweed cap onto his head, his fingers brushing his moustache, which was still new enough that he couldn’t leave it alone.

  ‘Not much chance of it in the bedroom, the way they’re yelling,’ said Belinda. ‘Anyroad, what have you got to say that’s so private?’

  His expression changed subtly. The muscles tightened around his jaw, hardening the youthful lines of his face. He wasn’t a boy any more. He would be nineteen this summer. He had fought for his country.

  His gaze locked on hers and she felt a tremor of apprehension.

  ‘I’ve got a new job.’

  Surprise made her laugh. ‘Congratulations! Why so serious?’

  ‘You think me getting a new job is a joke?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She felt slapped down. ‘I didn’t know you’d applied for something.’

  He shrugged. ‘No one does. Only you.’

  She ought to feel honoured, but her skin prickled. ‘What are you going to do?’

  He drew himself up, his face lapsing into boyishness. ‘I’m joining the post office. I’m going to be a postman. You know what that means? I’ll be a civil servant.’

  ‘Oh, George. That’s summat to be proud of, that is.’ She immediately pictured Ben as a postman, which was wrong and selfish when George was all puffed up with excitement, but she couldn’t help it. She tried to make amends by making a fuss of him. ‘You’ll wear a uniform and have your own round. You’ll be in charge of all those letters and postcards.’

  ‘It’s a responsible job. Folk rely on their postman.’

  ‘It’s more than a job, George. It’s a proper, dignified occupation. Oh, let me give you a hug.’ She threw her arms round him for a moment, then stepped away, feeling warm and relaxed, close to him in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. ‘My brother the postman. And I’m the first to know. I’m honoured.’ She was too. How stupid to have felt wary.

  Delving in his pockets, George produced a packet of Lagoons and drew out a half-smoked one, popping it between his lips as he fiddled with a box of Swan Vestas. The tip of the cigarette glowed as he inhaled. He threw back his head, exhaling a stream of smoke into the air.

  ‘I’ll be leaving home an’ all.’

  She frowned. For a moment, all she could think of was the attic dormitory in the Claremont Hotel. All the chambermaids and kitchen-girls slept there – all but Sarah.

  ‘Do postmen have dormitories?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but you remember Harry Phelps? We were mates at school.’

  ‘You were more than that. As I recall, you ran off together to join up.’

  God, what a scare that had given everyone. Auntie Enid had received the telegram about Ben in the January and, a few weeks later, George and Harry had lied about their ages and joined the army. Hadn’t Ben’s death taught them anything? As for the authorities who turned a blind eye to lads telling blatant lies…

  But George and Harry had both come home, that was the main thing.

  ‘Harry’s auntie is looking for a lodger to help make ends meet, so that’s where I’ll be living. It’s all arranged.’

  ‘And you’ve not told Mum and Dad?’

  ‘I thought I’d tell you first so you can start packing to come home.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard. You was quick enough to bugger off when you got engaged, and you stayed buggered off after Ben copped it, but with me moving out, you’ll have to come back. Mum will need your money.’

  There was a heavy weight in her chest; she had to push her breath past it. ‘I’m not coming back here.’ She couldn’t. Her skin crawled.

  ‘I’ve done my fair share, Bel. Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘Belinda Layton! How could you?’

  Grandma Beattie’s voice, sharp and vexed but with an edge of hurt, suggested she wanted to come pounding down the stairs, but instead she had to creak her way slowly down, same as always. She reached the bottom and stood there, feet planted apart, eyes hard as flint, mouth bunched up. Belinda left off blackleading the range, getting up off her knees and scooping an errant lock of dark hair away from her face.

  ‘What’s wrong? Have I done summat?’ Then she saw what Grandma Beattie had in her hand. Oh, heck. It was difficult not to slump with guilt; but she hadn’t done owt wrong, she hadn’t.

  Would Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie see it that way?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Auntie Enid. She had just come in with their shopping and was putting their Sunday chops in the meat-safe.

  ‘Eh, Mrs Sloan, you won’t believe it,’ said Grandma Beattie. She rounded on Belinda. ‘I weren’t checking up on you. I weren’t nosing. I was just putting new lavender sachets in your hanging cupboard and one of ’em slipped through my fingers and when I picked it up…’ She stopped, her breathing harsh. ‘Oh, Mrs Sloan, you’ll never guess what our girl’s done behind us backs.’

  Auntie Enid’s gaze flashed from Grandma Beattie to Belinda and back again. ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘The sachet fell behind summat at the bottom of the cupboard – a brown paper parcel. I never opened it on purpose, but when I fiddled around to get the sachet, the parcel fell on’t floor and…’

  Belinda’s neck shrank into her shoulders.

  Grandma Beattie brought out the piece of mauve material, waving it accusingly. ‘You never said owt about wanting to break your black.’

  Oh, why hadn’t she been brave enough to tackle the conversation, preferably before she had bought the wretched stuff? ‘I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you.’

  Grandma Beattie might be riled up to boiling point, but Auntie Enid looked pale and perplexed, which was somehow worse.

  ‘Oh, Belinda. Why, love?’ Auntie Enid looked like she might collapse in tears. ‘I thought… I mean, the three of us… Our Ben…’

  ‘It’s only a piece of mauve fabric,’ Belinda said gently. ‘I wanted to wear a bit of colour. It’s been four years…’

  Auntie Enid plonked down at the table, as if her legs had given way. ‘I thought… Nay, I can’t say it. Things will never be the same again if I say it.’

  ‘Things ’ull already never be the same again,’ snapped Grandma Beattie.

  Anguish chilled Belinda’s blood. ‘If you mean that maybe I don’t love Ben any more…’ She clapped her hand to her mouth to stop a desperate keening pouring out.

  ‘How can you want to leave him behind?’ Auntie Enid whispered.

  ‘I don’t. I’m not. I only want to wear a little colour.’

  Grandma Beattie flung the offending material on the table. ‘I wish I’d never found it.’

  They all stared at one another. Belinda was the first to look away. If they were this upset about the mauve, what would they be like when they saw the pink? Maybe they never would. Maybe she wou
ld never be brave enough to show them.

  In the end, they all returned to what they had been doing before, because what else were they to do? It didn’t matter how distraught you were five minutes ago. There were still lavender sachets to be popped in to drawers and cupboards; still turnips and potatoes to be tipped into the vegetable box; still a socking great range to be blackleaded.

  Belinda rubbed vigorously at the smooth old surfaces. She was awash with grief and regret, but there was frustration and anger too. Wanting to add mauve to her black didn’t mean she had forgotten Ben. Trying for an office job hadn’t meant she was getting above herself. She felt hemmed in by other peoples’ expectations. George said she had to move home – well, who was he to boss her about?

  A knock at the door jolted the strained, busy silence. Belinda answered it. Miss Kirby stood outside, wrapped up in an overcoat, her hat pulled down over her ears against the cold.

  ‘Miss Kirby! What brings you here?’

  ‘I went to Cromwell Street and your mother gave me this address. I’ve something to tell you, following on from what we talked about last time.’

  ‘You mean office work?’ Oh, heck. Today of all days. She was tempted to grab her shawl and march Miss Kirby along the lane, but there had been enough secrets for one day.

  ‘Who is it?’ Auntie Enid came up behind her.

  ‘This is my old teacher, Miss Kirby.’

  ‘Where are your manners?’ said Auntie Enid. ‘Invite her in. How do, Miss Kirby. I’m Mrs Sloan, Belinda’s honorary mother-in-law.’

  ‘Please sit down, Miss Kirby,’ said Belinda. ‘May I take your coat?’

  ‘No, thank you. I shan’t stay long.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Grandma Beattie laboured down the stairs.

  ‘It’s Miss Kirby,’ said Belinda. ‘She’s the teacher who—’

  ‘Who wanted to send you to high school,’ Grandma Beattie finished. From her tone, Miss Kirby might have wanted to send Belinda to the sewage works.

  ‘What brings you here, Miss Kirby?’ Auntie Enid asked. Was her voice a trifle more refined?

  ‘I met Belinda recently and we talked about—’

  ‘Office work,’ said Grandma Beattie. ‘Aye, we know. Filling her head with nonsense…’