Delighted, Tom slipped off his father’s knee to accept the penny.
Albeit enchanted at the way his wife played the game, Marty wished she was not so free with their funds.
Aggie, too, deemed it most extravagant, though she told Tom to thank his benefactor before leading him from the room. ‘Better come and put it in your moneybox, so it’ll be safe.’
And, under his mother’s careful instruction, Tom went to the understairs cupboard and inserted his penny in the gas meter.
Redmond maintained the conversation with his daughter-in-law, an engaging smile on his frail countenance as he puffed on his pipe. ‘So, and how are you managing with your new life, Etta? I expect you find us a strange lot.’
‘Not at all, Mr Lanegan,’ Etta assured him, noting that Jimmy-Joe had sidled up to kneel at her feet, and she quickly moved her tasselled shoes out of temptation. ‘I’m managing very well. It’s very good of you to ask, and so kind of you to invite us to luncheon – Martin, we must return the favour.’
Re-entering with Tom, Aggie pursed her lips at the way this was delivered, as if Etta were dealing with some mere social contact. ‘It wasn’t done out of politeness. This is Marty’s family, and yours too now.’
It held the slightest barb but Etta caught it. Mrs Lanegan had not yet forgiven her. Very well, if she wanted to be so petty, Etta would turn that last statement to her advantage.
‘You’re so kind. In that case, might I perhaps borrow one or two items until Martin and I have found our feet?’ She produced a scrap of paper and began to recite from it.
Recognising that she had brought this on herself, Aggie was magnanimous. ‘I expect I can provide them before you go.’
‘Thank you,’ smiled Etta. ‘And you really must come to tea with us one afternoon – perhaps next Sunday?’
‘Us too?’ came ten-year-old Maggie’s eager query.
Marty leapt in. ‘Maybe just the grown-ups for now, Mags, we haven’t room for everyone.’
Etta sought to appease the crestfallen girl. ‘But you and Elizabeth are welcome to call through the week whenever you like. I should be glad of the company whilst your brother is at work.’
‘We’ve got school through the week,’ provided a sulky Elizabeth.
‘Afterwards then.’ Etta looked envious. ‘Oh, I should love to have had an education but my parents didn’t see the need.’
‘You can go in my place,’ came the suggestion.
‘Enough of that,’ scolded Red. ‘An education is important if you’re to get anywhere in life.’
‘Some of us still end up doing the washing-up,’ muttered Elizabeth.
But Maggie had taken to her sister-in-law and also to her clothes. ‘I love that dress, Etta.’
Red assured her, ‘You shall have one like it yourself some day.’
‘So may we expect you on Sunday?’ Etta asked her mother-in-law.
Aggie nodded. ‘Thank you, we’ll arrange what to –’ She broke off as a familiar couple passed the window and a tap at the door quickly ensued. ‘Oh, there’s only one reason she’s here!’
Nobody rushed to respond for now, Marty explaining in a whisper to Etta, ‘Aunty Joan and Uncle John. We don’t see them very much, Aunt Joan’s a bit…’
‘More than a bit,’ came Aggie’s sour interjection. ‘Sure, I wondered how long the news would take to reach her.’ She grimaced at Redmond who seemed none too keen on the visitors either, but, as the front door was already ajar because of the heat and signified that the family was at home, he had no option but to shout, ‘Come in, we’re open for public viewing!’ Though the look on his face belied his cheery invitation.
Mr Lanegan’s brother seemed inoffensive enough, if anything a little reserved. His wife too appeared quite timid, everything about her being mouse-like, from the colour of her hair and her tiny pointed chin to her dainty feet, but it quickly became evident why she was unpopular. Etta sensed embarrassment from everyone as, ignoring them, Martin’s aunt came directly to her with an ingratiating display that almost bordered on genuflection.
‘We’re so privileged to meet you!’ beamed the mousy woman with a hushed, reverential tone, her Yorkshire accent polished around the consonants though not the vowels. ‘We’ve heard so much about you – how fortunate our nephew is!’
Etta replied politely, ‘I assure you I am the fortunate one, Mrs Lanega –’
‘Lane!’ corrected the other quickly, whilst maintaining her fawning stance.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lane.’ Etta looked to her husband for explanation.
Marty used his eyes to warn her not to say more. He would have to tell her later: whilst Redmond Lanegan celebrated his Irishness, the bigotry of others had scarred his brother John, who preferred to Anglicise his surname and temper his accent, which was how he had acquired his snob of a wife.
‘But you must call me Aunt, now that we’re related,’ Joan told Etta, her perky rodent face beaming.
‘How are you, Aunty Joan?’ Marty conjured a smile but was granted the briefest of acknowledgements, her sights fixed solely on Etta, guzzling every detail of the lilac and cream silk dress, every tuck, ribbon, pleat and sprig of lace.
‘What an exquisite gown!’ she breathed. ‘Such a shame you’ve nowhere more decent to wear it.’
Stunned by such rudeness, Etta sought to defend her hostess. ‘Martin’s mother cooked a wonderful luncheon.’
Joan beheld her pityingly. ‘You must come to us next time.’ Then her eye was briefly drawn to the hostess’s outfit, which she eyed with an enquiring smile. ‘Is that a new dress, Agnes?’
Aggie seemed mildly surprised that Joan had noticed. She looked down at herself. ‘Aye, I got the stuff in Hardings’ sale – two and eleven.’
Joan reached over to rub the material between her fingers as if admiring it, then said quietly, ‘Yes, it is a bit cottony, isn’t it – nice though.’
Aggie looked at her son with an expression that asked why had she fallen for it? The only reason she suffered Joan was because of her marriage to Redmond’s brother.
But Etta saw the hurt face and, feeling sorry for her mother-in-law, enquired admiringly of Aggie, ‘Did you make it yourself? How clever. I could never hope to achieve your expertise, nor match your cookery skills. I don’t know how I shall compete next Sunday, or any other come to that.’
Aggie was grudging. ‘Ah, well, I’m always here if you get stuck.’
Somehow – possibly on purpose – Etta mistook this offer of assistance as a regular invitation to Sunday dinner. Aggie could not say in front of Joan that this was not what she had meant at all. Feeling trapped and more agitated than ever, she excused herself, ostensibly to put the kettle on; in reality to take a calming glass of sherry.
Joan hardly missed a beat. ‘So, erm, tell me, Etta, when shall we meet your family?’ She perched genteelly beside her, desperate for an invitation to what must be a grand house.
‘Regretfully, never, Mrs Lane,’ replied Etta sadly. ‘My elopement with Martin put paid to further contact.’
Her hopes dashed upon learning that Etta had come here with nothing, Joan clutched the pearl brooch at her throat. ‘So, you weren’t able to bring any servants? Oh dear, but I must lend you mine!’ Never in her dreams had Joan hoped to make such a statement to so illustrious a person.
Redmond glanced at Marty, both inwardly cringing for the husband, though mild-mannered John barely flinched.
Aggie came back just in time to catch Joan’s offer. It was obvious to Marty that his mother had been at the sherry, for her cheeks had that telltale flush and her voice was bolder. ‘And how long have you had a servant?’ she demanded of her sister-in-law.
The latter smiled condescendingly. ‘You know very well Edith’s been with us for ages!’
‘Oh, you mean the lodger.’ Aggie sniffed and handed a cup to Marty, who caught the glint of malice in her eye and tried to hide a smile.
Joan was huffy. ‘Well, of course she lodges with us, servan
ts do lodge with their employer.’
Aggie merely nodded, though the action was loaded with disbelief. It seemed not to dampen Joan’s enthusiasm, for she continued to fawn over Etta throughout the afternoon, and as the hours progressed it became obvious that both parties were intent on stopping for tea. It would have been bad enough having to cope with her sister-in-law at the best of times, but with Red succumbing to one of his bouts of narcolepsy in mid-sentence and Etta here to witness everything and think them all crazy, the pressure began to build. There was a limit to how many times one could keep disappearing to the kitchen for alcoholic support, but her disapproving husband was unconscious, and besides, there was justifiable reason to bring out the liquor.
‘I’ve just realised we haven’t toasted the bride and groom,’ announced Aggie, going to a cabinet that held glasses, Marty’s new wife being the first to be asked, ‘Would you care for a sherry?’
Etta showed misgivings over the size of the tumbler in her mother-in-law’s hand, but, not wanting to offend, replied, ‘Thank you, perhaps a smaller glass.’
Aggie stiffened at the implication that she did not understand etiquette. ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking to offer you it in this! We might be poor but we do have the correct receptacle. This is for those who prefer beer.’
Feeling that she could do nothing right, Etta apologized. Unobtrusively, Marty gripped her fingers in a gesture of support as his mother took a selection of glasses to the scullery.
‘Can I carry anything, Ma?’ he called in afterthought.
‘No, stay there!’ her voice came back. Measuring out a glass, she threw it down her own throat – her fifth today – before pouring some for Etta and Joan, overfilling the glasses and transporting these gingerly to the front parlour.
Marty beheld his mother, saw that a film of inebriation coated her eyes, and rose to take one of the glasses for Etta. Aggie made to hand the other to Joan, but as she went so carefully forward she lurched, and, by accident or design, half the contents of the glass were spattered down her sister-in-law’s blouse.
Joan squeaked and demanded her husband’s handkerchief with which to mop frenziedly at the brown stain.
‘Oh dear.’ Aggie swayed tipsily. Her glazed eyes looked at the glass in her hand and saw that it was not quite empty – and she knocked back the remaining dregs before asking Joan, ‘Would you care for another?’
‘I think I’ve had sufficient,’ mumbled the victim, still dabbing. Totally humiliated before the guest, she and her husband were immediately to depart.
The others managed to stifle their merriment until they were out of earshot, Uncle Mal wheezing and mopping his eyes, the children giggling into their chests, Etta looking first unsure, then joining in.
‘– so, all in all I think I prefer the subtle approach.’ Redmond woke as abruptly as he had dropped off, finishing the remainder of his sentence as was common to these episodes.
Marty laughed outright, braying to Etta, ‘I think Aunty Joan would have preferred it too!’
Retrieving his pipe from his chest, where it had singed yet another hole in his waistcoat whilst he slept, a bemused Redmond looked round. ‘They’ve gone then? Thank Christ. God knows what my brother sees in that woman. But then love knows no bounds, as they say.’ He grinned at Etta and puffed happily to reignite the pipe, before noting with a frown of disapproval that there was alcohol about. ‘Where did that spring from?’
Her attention drawn to the glass of sherry in her hand, Aggie manufactured surprise. ‘This? Oh, ’tis that bottle I’ve had since Christmas.’ In fact it was the third this year, provided by a relative who worked for an unsuspecting wine merchant.
Marty covered for his mother. ‘Ma was very kindly just about to toast me and Etta, Da.’
Redmond eyed his wife’s florid countenance, but made no recrimination. ‘Well, as you know, I’m not a drinking man, but I will wish you both good health and a thousand blessings – not all of them children I hasten to add.’ He smiled at his daughter-in-law.
Glasses were raised. Unable to avoid it, Aggie said to her son, ‘I suppose you’ll be stopping for tea?’
In view of the meagre pickings at home, Marty hastily accepted. ‘That’ll be grand.’
‘But you really must allow us to entertain you next Sunday afternoon,’ Etta reminded her in-laws.
‘Oh, that we will!’ Sick of being taken for granted, Aggie spoke assuredly. ‘Won’t we, Red?’
Her husband seemed dubious, shaking his head as he weighed the matter. ‘Well now, that rather depends –’
Etta held her breath, awaiting some stern condition as her father-in-law directed his question solely at her.
‘– on whether your relatives are as bad as ours, and whether they’ll be dropping in unannounced.’
Spotting the mischievous gleam, she chuckled with relief. ‘Whether they are or not is debatable, Mr Lanegan, but I rather doubt that any of them will be dropping in unexpectedly, next Sunday or otherwise.’
‘Thank heaven for that,’ said Red with a humorous wink at Uncle Mal. ‘Then we’ll look forward to it.’
Aggie heard Etta chuckle too, but unlike the others and despite her alcoholic intake she saw past the amusement, gauging the hurt in the girl’s response. How dreadful to be ostracised by one’s family. Aggie felt mean now at begrudging the lass a sporting chance, for wasn’t it natural that it would take Etta a while to get to grips with her new life – and there was no doubting that she held Marty in great esteem when she had given up so much to be with him. How could one deny her a bit of leeway? Aggie stumbled off to make tea, not minding so much now that Etta did not offer to help, even saying as the young couple finally departed, ‘Now remember what I said, I’m always here if you need anything.’
Marty tendered a cautious plea. ‘Er, in that case might we nab a few lumps of coal, Ma, so’s we can boil a kettle?’ Quickly taking advantage of the generous response, he went out to the yard and filled two buckets.
‘A few lumps, says he!’ observed Red to Uncle Mal when it was time for his son to leave. ‘And his arms swung low as a monkey’s under the weight of it.’
‘It’s only slack in the other!’ Marty showed them.
‘Slack’s the word,’ muttered Red.
Etta promised swiftly, ‘We’ll return it as soon as we’re able.’
‘Sure he’s codding yese.’ Aggie swiped at her husband, who smiled to show this was true.
Etta gave warm thanks as she left clutching the bag of items that her mother-in-law had supplied in response to her list, feeling so much more confident than upon her first meeting with Aggie.
‘You were right about your mother.’ She clutched Marty’s arm fondly. ‘I think we shall be great friends.’
6
On Monday morning, Marty was first up again to light a fire for Etta, because despite the heat wave being unabated she would need it for all that must be done today. By the time his wife rose he had made a pot of tea and buttered some bread and had also made extra to take with him for lunch. Knowing how completely ignorant she was of housework, once the fire took hold he banked it up with slack, advising her to make sure it did not go out by adding a lump from time to time whilst he was at work.
Once Marty had gone, having swept up the crumbs from breakfast, stamped on any beetles and silverfish that happened to scurry her way, smoothed the bedclothes and filled the water jug from the tap downstairs, Etta forced herself to empty the chamber pot – a disgusting chore even though the contents were shallow. Downstairs, in the passageway to the yard she was forced to step over the landlord’s daughter who was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. The publican himself was in the taproom cleaning out the spittoon and looked up as she passed the doorway. It was hard to maintain one’s dignity when carrying a chamber pot, but Etta managed a smile and a good morning to both as if merely out on a stroll and not to the lavatory. The latter could only be accessed by passing through a urinal. Praying there would be no one in it, she r
ushed through, completed the deed, then hurried back upstairs to stow the pot under the bed.
Then, in happier vein, she dabbed her complexion with rosewater, put on her hat and white gloves and went to restock provisions. During her leisurely stroll to the shops she happened to notice youths on bicycles with large wicker baskets calling at certain households, and ascertained that they were making deliveries from various trades persons. Ah, so that was what one did! She made a mental note to give regular instruction to the butcher, the baker and the grocer – though of course their commodities would still have to be turned into meals and she had yet to acquire this trick. So, heeding her mother-in-law’s previous generosity, on her way back she sought Aggie’s guidance.
Aggie was out in the yard, one sinewy arm winding the mangle, the other steering countless items between its rollers. The sun was almost to its zenith now and the yard was like a furnace, but this was one day when she would have no complaint, for the bedding that had been hanging out since just after breakfast was already dry. Shaking off the flecks of soot that had floated down from the chimneys, she removed the sheets and pillowcases from the line and replaced them with another selection of wet articles. Having pegged out the final garment she could now go in and snatch a bite to eat before an afternoon’s work. Thank heaven the girls had returned from school and could serve up dinner.
She had just mopped the sweat from her brow and seated herself with Uncle Mal and the children when a polite tap came at the open front door. Tutting, she craned her neck to see Etta there with an expectant smile.
‘You did say I could call on you should I need advice…?’
‘So I did, come in.’ Aggie rose as her daughter-in-law entered. ‘Will you take a bit of dinner with us while you’re here?’
‘I should be delighted.’ Etta dealt her a pleased smile and took a chair at the table, engaging in small talk with the others whilst Aggie fetched an extra setting. ‘Will Martin’s father not be joining us?’
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