The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  ‘Take us, for example,’ Prudence added. ‘The outside world thinks we run this school at your behest.’

  ‘And people probably imagine you’re pretty well-heeled,’ said Evelyn, ‘though actually you’re as poor as church mice.’

  ‘Please don’t let’s be catty,’ said Patience. It was hard work being the peacemaker. Unrewarding too.

  ‘How respectable are these reasons for not living at home?’ asked Evelyn.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Prudence, ‘we’ll enquire into each girl’s circumstances.’

  ‘It sounds dubious to me,’ said Lawrence.

  Prudence put down her cup and saucer. ‘We’re going to place an advertisement in the Evening News on Monday. I’ll deliver it to their offices personally in my dinner hour.’

  Patience felt a burst of happiness that almost made her laugh out loud. More pupil lodgers, and ones who might stay for some considerable time, depending upon how much they needed to learn. If Miss Deane and Miss Russell, staying for a fortnight, could be pretend-daughters, how much more daughterly might long-term lodgers become?

  There was no Saturday morning trip to the library. Belinda went straight to Cromwell Street. The optimism that yesterday’s promise of job security had brought might never have happened. She couldn’t think where she least wanted to be, in End Cottage or at the family home. Dad didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of finding another job now that he had punched his boss, so what was going to happen to the family? She and George were settled elsewhere and, if needs be, Sarah could move into the maids’ dormitory at the Claremont, but that still left Mum and the boys. Poor Mum. She must be tearing her hair out.

  She arrived at the house to find Dad in a sullen, so-what mood and Mum on the verge of collapse.

  ‘I’ve sent Mikey to fetch George,’ said Sarah. ‘He’s got this morning off, because of being on afternoon and evening deliveries.’

  ‘I don’t know what good you think he’s going to do.’ Dad scowled. ‘I’m the man of the house, not him.’

  Some man! Belinda concentrated on clearing away the mess of crumbs and dirty crockery and the smears of dripping that adorned the table: the boys had evidently been left to fend for themselves this morning. Annoyed as she was with them for leaving the table in a shambles, she was vexed to think that bread and dripping was all they had been offered to line their stomachs at the start of the day, though the tell-tale tang in the air said that Dad had had his usual Saturday kipper. Mum’s face was grey, apart from a hectic pink in her cheeks. She was slumped at the table, her elbows dumped in the mess left by the boys. Dad hadn’t even offered her the armchair.

  ‘What will we do about the rent?’ Mum asked. ‘We’re on a warning not to be late again or we’ll be out on our ears.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it when George gets here,’ said Belinda. ‘Mind your arms, Mum. I need to clean underneath.’

  The door was flung open and Mikey flew inside. ‘George is on his way.’

  ‘That’s all we ruddy need,’ grumbled Dad. ‘George is coming. Hallelujah. Bring out the brass band.’ He hauled himself up straighter in the armchair. ‘If he imagines he can tell me what to do, I’ll give him summat to think about.’

  ‘What’ll you do, Dad?’ asked Thad in unconcealed delight. ‘Deck him, like you decked Mr McCall? That’d be great, wouldn’t it, Jakey-boy?’

  ‘Why don’t you two get lost?’ said Belinda. ‘You’re normally running wild on Saturdays. Why should today be any different?’

  ‘Because we want to see Dad land one on our George,’ retorted Thad. ‘Lay ’Em Out Layton – that’s your new name, isn’t it, Dad? Better than Layabout Layton any day.’

  Mum clutched her hand against her mouth. Belinda felt close to despair herself. Dad wouldn’t get another job: that was the long and the short of it. No one would be mad enough to employ him after this. Lay ’Em Out Layton: she closed her eyes in shame. Dad had degraded them all – except Thad, it seemed, and Jacob. Those two young louts in the making seemed more inclined to hero-worship him. No, not hero-worship. That wasn’t what she had seen in Thad. He had sounded as if he admired Dad and was building him up, but there was derision in his manner.

  George marched in, bringing a waft of tobacco with him.

  ‘Go on, Dad,’ crowed Thad. ‘Tell George what you did.’

  ‘I already know, thank you,’ George said stiffly. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

  She sat up, straight as a pencil, and nodded, her features a clump of hopelessness, then she crumpled again.

  ‘The rent is the first problem,’ said Belinda. ‘Mum says it hasn’t always been paid on time, so now the landlord says it has to be paid promptly every week.’

  ‘The rent’s been late?’ snapped George. ‘But I’ve been helping with money. So’s Bel, as well as what you get off Sarah. There’s always been rent money, Mum.’

  Mum’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Tell your father that.’

  George heaved a sigh that lifted his shoulders. He didn’t look at Dad. ‘How much do you need to make up the amount, Mum?’

  ‘All of it,’ Mum whispered.

  All of it! Belinda’s head snapped up.

  ‘Dad were sent packing with no pay,’ said Mikey.

  A charged silence thundered round the room. Belinda and George looked at one another.

  ‘Well then,’ said George, ‘me and the girls will stump up – just this once,’ he added as Dad perked up.

  ‘A whole week’s rent?’ squeaked Sarah.

  ‘All twelve shillings.’ The quiver in Mum’s voice told of long-held shame. You had to be pretty badly off if twelve bob was all the rent you could afford. Poor Mum. What a dance Dad had led her, led them all, over the years.

  George muttered under his breath. He glanced at the girls. ‘We’ll discuss it outside.’

  A brisk March breeze caught at Belinda’s hair as they walked through the gap where the front gate used to be. She expected them to stop there on the pavement, but George stalked up the road and round the corner, as if Dad, or possibly Thad, would catch every word if they held their council of war outside the house.

  George’s normally good-natured face was set in grim lines. ‘This is the last thing we need, Dad losing yet another job and for flooring his boss, if you please. It reflects badly on all of us, especially on me as his oldest son.’

  ‘We can’t have Mum worrying about being evicted,’ said Belinda.

  ‘If we pay it this time, Dad will expect it every time,’ said Sarah.

  ‘This once and that’s all,’ said George in a voice that said he wouldn’t look kindly on disagreement.

  ‘I won’t be able to contribute much,’ said Belinda, ‘but you can have everything I’ve got. How about you?’ She looked at Sarah.

  ‘I’ve got a tin of money in my locker at work. Don’t look so surprised. It’s not as though I can leave it safely at home.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go into town and fetch some of it,’ said George, more gently this time. ‘If you girls can pay half between you, I’ll stump up the rest.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to pay most of our half,’ Belinda told Sarah.

  ‘I thought your fancy new office work was meant to pay better.’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ve had enough of that from Mum and Dad as well as at End Cottage. I’m not having it from you an’ all.’

  ‘Well, I can’t get my money today.’ Sarah looked mutinous. ‘I’m not back at work until tomorrow. I’ll fetch it then.’

  ‘You’ll fetch it today,’ said George, ‘and we’ll take it round to the rent man before I go to work this afternoon, all three of us, then we’ll know it’s been paid.’

  Poor Mum. How demeaning, her children paying the rent behind her back instead of giving it to her to pay. But George was right. They couldn’t risk handing over the money at home.

  ‘George, this must be the end of your involvement,’ said Belinda. ‘You’re a postman now, a p
ublic servant. It would look bad at work if anyone found out, so after today you’re to keep well away. It’ll be my job to sort it out.’

  ‘Oh aye, and what do you think you can do?’ Sarah challenged her. She was in a right nowty mood this morning.

  ‘I’ll think of something. I have to, because George has to be kept out of it, and you’re too young.’

  She wanted to travel into town with Sarah, but her contribution to the rent would be meagre enough, without frittering away a few more coppers. She went back with Sarah to fetch Sarah’s handbag, then walked her to the tram stop, waving her on her way when she climbed aboard. Then she headed back to Mum’s, squaring her shoulders before she went inside. She had promised George she would take on the responsibility for sorting things out, so she had better get started.

  ‘Back again like a bad penny,’ groused Dad.

  ‘I want a word with the boys. They need to get themselves sorted out with jobs.’

  ‘You what?’ demanded Thad. ‘Who the hell d’you think you’re bossing about?’

  ‘Thad! Language,’ said Mum, but as tellings-off went, it was pretty feeble.

  ‘It’s not a question of bossing about.’ Belinda looked Thad in the eye. When had he grown so tall? ‘It makes sense. Dad hasn’t got a job and the family needs money, so everyone has to do their share. You and Mikey should be working half time anyway, at your ages. It’s only Jacob who isn’t old enough.’

  ‘I tried to get a job last July the day after I turned twelve,’ said Mikey. ‘I tried at the grocer’s and the fishmonger’s, but they wouldn’t have me because of Thad’s reputation and they said it wouldn’t be worth trying any other shops. So then I went to the timber merchant, but they said a lad had acted as look-out when there was a theft and they couldn’t prove anything, but they didn’t want Thad Layton’s brother working there.’

  Her shoulders stiffened in shock. ‘I didn’t know any of this.’

  ‘It’s not the kind of thing you shout about, is it?’ muttered Mum. Belinda stared at her. What had gone wrong with this family? How had Mum and Dad managed to raise three decent, hard-working children in herself, George and Sarah, and then gone so horribly wrong with Thad? Or would Thad have been trouble, no matter what?

  ‘Well, you’re going to have to try again,’ she said. ‘Who teaches your class?’

  ‘Mr Harvey,’ said Mikey.

  She didn’t know Mr Harvey. He had started after she left. ‘Ask him to write you a character reference.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Thad bullied his way in. ‘Ask him to write a letter saying he’s nowt like his good-for-nothing brother, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, I do mean,’ said Belinda. ‘You let us all down, the way you carry on.’

  ‘Pardon me for breathing,’ he sneered. ‘What a shame we can’t all be jumped-up typists like you. You’ve forgot where you come from, our Bel. You think we’re better than we are.’

  ‘I’m a darned sight better than you, Thad Layton, and don’t speak to me like that. Show some respect. I’m nearly twentyone and you’re still a kid at school.’

  ‘Show some respect,’ Thad mocked in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘You tell her, Thad,’ Jacob encouraged him.

  ‘And you can mind your manners an’ all.’ She flung a look at her parents. They should be supporting her, pulling the boys into line, showing the right way to behave. But Mum looked exhausted and defeated and Dad – well, Dad just sat there in his flaming armchair and let them get on with it. He would only get involved if they bickered so much that he lost his rag and then his contribution to the discussion would be to shout the place down and chuck the boys outside.

  ‘You can mind your manners,’ parroted Jacob in a sing-song voice, trying to copy Thad.

  Belinda wasn’t having that. It was bad enough taking cheek from Thad, but she couldn’t have young Jacob thinking he could get away with it. She clipped him smartly round the ear. He yelled, more for effect than from pain, and clutched the side of his head.

  ‘Mum! Did you see what our Bel did to me? Mum!’

  ‘Pipe down,’ said Mum. ‘My head’s pounding.’

  ‘Listen to me, you boys,’ said Belinda. She tightened her fists, hiding them in the folds of her skirt. She had to look confident and in charge. She had to look as if she expected to be obeyed. What on earth had made her take on the responsibility for sorting out her dreadful family? ‘This family needs money. Mikey, ask Mr Harvey for a reference. Jacob—’

  ‘I can’t work half time,’ Jacob said at once. ‘I’m not twelve till July.’

  ‘No, but you can get a paper-round or run errands.’

  ‘Where’s the point in that?’ jeered Thad. ‘He’ll earn next to nowt doing that.’

  ‘But he’ll earn something,’ said Belinda. ‘You’ve all got to earn something, even you, though it has to be honest work, Thad.’

  Thad grinned. ‘Nah. There’s no money in that.’

  What now? Her name was mud in End Cottage. How could she have been so stupid as to forget to remove her scarf and hatband? More to the point, how could she have been so deceitful? She had never intended to be deceitful; she had wanted to protect Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie. The upset over the mauve fabric a few weeks ago was nothing compared to their devastation at the rose-printed cotton.

  But it was better to have it out in the open – or it would be once the fuss died down. Her abrupt recovery from her infatuation, together with knowing her position at Tyrell’s Books was secure for now, had given her a strong sense of a fresh start. Was it too much to hope that Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie’s knowing she had broken her mourning could be a part of her fresh start? It didn’t feel possible at the moment. They had been distraught yesterday evening and she had lain awake in the dead of night, tortured by the sound of their muffled weeping, longing to go to them but knowing she was the last person able to offer them comfort.

  Did she get it from Dad? He had let down his family repeatedly. Was she going to follow in his footsteps? Surely not. In fact, absolutely not. She might carry Denby Layton’s name, but that was the only thing they had in common.

  She marched home to End Cottage, almost running down the final stretch of Grave Pit Lane. She felt so energised and filled with resolution that when she opened the door, it was almost a shock to see everything the same as normal. Nothing ever changed in End Cottage. Not Grandma Beattie, in her black clothes and her black lace cap, standing at the range, stirring the stewed apple. Not Auntie Enid, fitting in a quick half hour of knitting for the poor after her Saturday morning housework. Not the long strip of black crêpe that hung from the front of the mantelshelf, just as it had done every day since the arrival of the telegram. Not the smell of beeswax that lingered regardless of what other aromas might be present. Not the black marble clock ticking away the sombre hours.

  The place looked dark and grim and pathetic. Spotlessly clean. Tidy. You couldn’t fault it on those counts. But dark and old, as if the world inside End Cottage had stopped.

  Well, it had, hadn’t it? Ben had died and the three of them had gone into mourning and Auntie Enid and Grandma Beattie had never come out of it.

  But Belinda had.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Grandma Beattie looked up from her stirring.

  ‘I’m going to return Mrs Harrison’s coat and hat. I want to apologise to you again for the scarf and the hatband.’

  ‘Apologies don’t butter no parsnips,’ muttered Grandma Beattie. ‘That were downright deceit, that were.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ she agreed. ‘I want you to understand that I did it because I hated to hurt your feelings. I know what your mourning means to you.’

  ‘We thought it meant the same to you an’ all,’ said Auntie Enid.

  ‘It did – it does. But I’m young and I like pretty things. I just wanted to have a bit of colour. It doesn’t mean I think any less of Ben. I cherish his memory every bit as much as you do and I’ll regret his death until the day I die – but I don’t wa
nt to dress in black from head to foot any more. You can understand that… can’t you?’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MONDAY: A BRAND-NEW week, and she still had her job. Whatever upsets the weekend had doled out, it was time to concentrate on work. Belinda was preparing to resume work on the inventory when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs and Richard walked in, a cardboard box in his arms.

  He stopped, then smiled. ‘I thought I might get in and out before you arrived.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m not the heir, so it’s time to bow out gracefully. I’ve come to collect a few bits and pieces I left here.’

  It would be a relief to see the back of him. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Return to my work and my old life… minus expectations.’

  Was he sorry for himself? Bitter? He sounded off-hand, though it was difficult to believe that was how he felt, but it really wasn’t her business.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Layton.’

  ‘Before you go: you owe me last week’s wages.’

  ‘So I do.’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘I employed you in anticipation of inheriting my uncle’s estate. Now that I’m no longer his heir…’

  Did he expect her to forego payment? ‘I need the money.’

  ‘Aside from not needing you, I can’t afford you, Miss Layton. Perhaps Linkworth can give you an advance on your wages.’

  The palms of her hands felt sore where her nails were digging in. The door opened and the bell jingled. Drat! Now she would lose her chance to get paid.

  Gabriel Linkworth walked in, accompanied by Mr Turton.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Layton, Mr Carson,’ Mr Turton greeted them. ‘I see you’re removing your possessions, Mr Carson. Good, good.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Linkworth?’ Richard asked. ‘Didn’t you dare come without reinforcements?’

  Mr Turton said mildly, ‘I insisted upon coming with Mr Linkworth this morning. I wished to make sure you had received the letter from Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks and that you had acted on it.’ He nodded at Richard’s box. ‘It appears that you have.’ He stood aside. ‘We won’t hold you up if you’re ready to leave.’