by Anna Jacobs
The following day she duly took the silver salt cellar into town. Outside the bank she paused for a moment, feeling nervous. She decided to wait for a gentleman who was inside to come out, but as she stood there she felt as though the bank itself was keeping watch on her through the bull’s eye glass in its many-paned bow window.
When at last the customer left, Emmy took a deep breath, pushed open the door and walked inside, trying to behave as if she had every right to be there. As she had expected, the teller stared down his nose at her but she walked to the counter with her head held high. ‘I have a message from my mistress for Mr Garrett. She’s not well, you see.’ She waved a folded piece of paper at him.
‘I can take that for you, young woman. You may wait over there for the reply.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but she made me promise to give the letter into his hands personally.’ Emmy held on to the paper tightly until he muttered something, pulled his pince-nez off his nose and vanished through a door at the rear.
John Garrett was in a good mood that day because his conservative approach to banking was paying off and he was not experiencing the same problems as some of the other small banks in the neighbourhood, so he agreed to see Mrs Oswald’s maid. When she came in he did not ask her to sit. ‘I believe you have a letter for me from your mistress?’
Emmy swallowed hard. ‘I’m afraid there is no letter, sir. I wanted to speak to you - to ask you to help my mistress - and this was the only way I could think of to do it. I’m very sorry for having lied to your teller, but please don’t send me away without hearing what I have to say!’
When he frowned, she rushed into her prepared speech. ‘Mrs Oswald has fallen on hard times and I don’t know where to turn for help for her. Please, sir!’
He waved a hand, which she took to mean she should continue. ‘Mrs Oswald has some pieces of silver which she’s been selling because she’s short of money. They’re lying in her attic and I’m terrified someone will steal them and then how will she manage? Mr Roper the pawnbroker has been cheating her, giving her far less than her things are worth. I don’t want her to deal with him again.’
Mr Garrett stared at the young maid in amazement. Mrs Oswald was not an important client, though every customer deserved the bank’s best attention, of course, but he didn’t like to think of such a frail lady being cheated. ‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. I was with her yesterday when Mr Roper offered her ten shillings for this.’ Emmy produced the salt cellar from the bottom of her shopping basket and set it on the desk. ‘I persuaded her to refuse.’
John examined the piece which was very pretty. ‘You were right. This is worth a great deal more than he offered.’ He frowned. His bank was not a charity and he was not a man of fortune with a rich family behind him but the younger son of a farmer who had done well for himself. His father had started lending money to people in the neighbourhood, and under John’s guidance they had set up a small bank. However he had to be careful what he did because if you helped too many people who were in difficulties you could go under yourself if they defaulted on payments. ‘What exactly is it you want me to do for her, young woman?’
‘Let her keep the silver here at the bank, sir. I didn’t know it was in the house - we live at the bottom end of Weavers Lane and it isn’t safe to keep it there. Mr Roper must wonder what else she has and - well, it would be very easy to rob a poor old lady, wouldn’t it?’
John Garrett inclined his head, relieved by the reasonableness of this request. ‘We’d be happy to look after it for her.’ He saw the girl still hesitating and with a wry smile asked, ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, sir. Could you please advise my mistress on how best to sell her things? Two guineas a month isn’t enough to live on, you see, even though I don’t take any wages now I know how short of money she is.’
His fancy was tickled by the courage and loyalty of this young lass who by her speech came from a humble background. Mrs Oswald’s silver would probably turn out to be mostly worthless, but it would not hurt to look at it and he could certainly help her sell it to best advantage. In fact, he would also waive his commission on the sales. That much he could do to help. He smiled at the eager young face. ‘Mrs Oswald is fortunate in her maid, I think. Ask her to come and see me at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon and we’ll take tea together while I advise her. Oh, and bring the silver. All of it.’
Mrs Tibby was so surprised by what Emmy had done she could not speak for a minute or two, then grew very agitated. ‘Oh, dear! James was always the one who dealt with banks. I shan’t know what to say if we’re to discuss my finances. And I’m sure Mr Garrett will not want to look after my little bits and pieces.’
‘I’ve already explained to him how matters stand. Please, dearest Mrs Tibby, come and see him. We can take all your good silver with us to put in his vault. It really isn’t safe to keep it here.’
‘Well - you won’t leave me alone with him?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
After much brow-wrinkling and sighing, Mrs Tibby decided that dear James would want her to do this and Emmy breathed a sigh of relief.
The following afternoon Mrs Tibby dressed in her Sunday best, a gown that was worn and old-fashioned but not yet patched. Emmy fetched the silver down from the attic and wrapped it all up in old rags so that it would not chink and betray what it was. The now-unused best cutlery service was heavy and had its own wooden box, and it surprised Emmy how many other bits and pieces there were. She had already arranged with the neighbour’s lad, who made coppers here and there by offering his services pushing a small hand-barrow, to trundle the things into town for them for sixpence.
‘And how about a kiss as well?’ he asked Emmy.
She drew herself up. ‘Certainly not! Who do you think I am, you cheeky thing?’
‘You’re the prettiest girl in Weavers Lane, that’s who.’
‘Well, I don’t kiss anyone, so tell me if you want the job or not, and don’t you ever talk to me like that again.’
When they arrived at the bank, the teller came out to help Emmy carry the silver inside, while Mrs Tibby gave the lad his sixpence, her last coin and one which Emmy had ‘found’ on the mantelpiece.
‘If you would care to take a seat, ma’am, I’ll inform Mr Garrett that you’re here,’ the teller said, his manner quite different from yesterday. ‘He is expecting you.’
Emmy went to stand behind her mistress, whispering, ‘See. I told you.’
When the teller came back to ask Mrs Oswald to follow him, she took Emmy’s arm and insisted her maid come too. She was faint and quivery, seeming overwhelmed by the situation, and Emmy just hoped Mr Garrett would understand what a timid lady she was outside her own home.
He did. There was no mistaking it when someone’s face was white with nervousness or their hand shook in yours. He looked at the maid, saw how she was standing behind her mistress with one hand unobtrusively on a trembling old shoulder, and thought again how lucky Mrs Oswald was to have her.
He had intended to conduct their business, such as it was, rapidly but politely. Instead he found himself saying, ‘Perhaps you’d like your maid to stay?’ When he received a nod, he went on, ‘Now, my dear Mrs Oswald, let us see how best to help you. That’s what banks are for, you know, to look after our customers’ financial interests. Indeed, you should have come to me for help sooner.’
She shed some tears and thanked him with a voice so muffled by her handkerchief that only a few words escaped, among them, ‘So kind ... no wish to be troublesome ... dear husband always ...’
But John Garrett became his usual shrewd self when he examined the pieces of silver. ‘These are very fine. Not large, but well-crafted pieces. Your husband had excellent taste.’
Mrs Oswald cast a quick relieved glance over her shoulder at Emmy then nodded. ‘Dear James was very fond of a fine piece of silver. He said they were pleasures as well as investments.’
In the end it was decided that Mr Garrett would lend her some money, using the silver as surety while he sold some or all of it. ‘You must take your time to decide what you wish to keep and what you wish to sell, my dear lady. Afterwards, we’ll deposit the rest of your money in a savings account for you. That way you will gain interest on your principal, so it will last you longer.’
She nodded, but Emmy could see that her mistress did not really understand what he was talking about beyond knowing she would have some money again. Well, Emmy didn’t understand either. She asked him to explain about interest: ‘—so that my dear mistress can be sure she’s understood you correctly.’
Their eyes met and he smiled in a way that said he realised who needed to understand everything. As he explained how banks paid interest on deposits, his attention was mainly on the girl. When she’d nodded to show she understood, he turned back to her mistress. ‘I’ll send you a letter once I know how much your possessions are worth, Mrs Oswald, but in the meantime,’ he pressed an envelope into her hand, ‘this is an advance payment on account.’
Emmy heard it chink and guessed it contained coins. She could not help beaming at him for his tact and understanding, and was surprised when he winked at her.
After they’d left, John Garrett sat pondering Mrs Oswald’s problems. He knew she was related to the Armisteads and after some thought decided to write to the family to ask if they were aware of the extreme hardship their elderly relative was experiencing.
However, when he went home that night he found his wife seriously ill of an inflammation of the lungs. For weeks her life was feared for and he completely forgot about Mrs Oswald’s problems.
In November of that year the Staleys were settling down to their evening meal, the children whispering to one another as their mother dished up the food. Jack watched them fondly, pleasantly tired after a day spent mostly out of the office. Thinking he heard a faint sound he looked round. No, he must have been mistaken.
Then it came again, someone at the door. It’d be a neighbour wanting to borrow something. A lot of that went on in the middle of the week.
When he opened the door he found a woman there, clutching a baby, a big bundle at her feet. He didn’t recognise her at first. Then she lifted up her eyes and said, ‘Jack!’ in a faint, wheezing voice and crumpled at his feet.
He managed to prevent the baby from falling, but didn’t manage to catch the woman as well.
‘Mam, come here!’ he roared at the top of his voice.
There was dead silence behind him, then a clatter of footsteps as the whole family came running out to see what was making their Jack yell like that, something he rarely did.
He shoved the baby into the arms of the first one to arrive. ‘Look after it!’ Then he bent to pick up his sister. ‘Bring her things in, Shad!’ As he carried Meg into the house, he could not believe how light she was. She was as pale as a corpse, even her lips seeming colourless. He laid her down on the rug in front of the fire, tears coming into his eyes to see what a terrible state she was in. Her clothes were ragged and dun-coloured, her legs bare of stockings and so blue-white she must be chilled through. The leather soles of her ill-fitting shoes had worn through in places and were soaked, while the tops were held together by frayed string. She had left Northby properly clad and shod, married to a man able to earn a decent living if he stayed off the ale. What had happened to her? Had Ben Pearson caused this by going back on the drink? Because if so, he’d have Jack to answer to.
He reached out to smooth a lock of damp hair from Meg’s clammy forehead. She did not stir and her breathing was so shallow it barely lifted her chest. ‘Eh, she’s in a bad way. Someone fetch me a blanket, quick!’ He heard the faint gasping cry of a sickly baby from behind him. ‘Can you tend to the babby, Mam? It sounds hungry.’
She nodded. ‘It’s nobbut a few months old, but I can try it with some warm milk. I doubt she’ll have any, the state she’s in.’
Jack wrapped his sister up in the blanket, then sat with her on the rug, holding her in his arms as if he could transfer his own warmth and energy into her. He watched with relief as her cheeks took on a faint pinkish tinge from the heat of the fire and at last her eyelids fluttered open. She looked up at him, whispered his name then closed her eyes again. Tears trickled out of them.
‘Man’s getting the babby some milk, Meg,’ he said gently. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Nelly.’
‘How long is it since you’ve eaten?’
‘Can’t - remember.’
‘Well, you just lie here in the warm and we’ll get you some of Mam’s good broth. You can tell us what’s happened later, when you’re feeling better.’
His mother beckoned Ginny across. ‘You hold the baby while I’ll get the milk and broth ready.’
Meg nestled her head against Jack’s chest and began to speak in a faint voice. ‘I thought I’d never get here. I walked over the tops from Rochdale. No one would stop to give me a ride.’ She sobbed suddenly. ‘He’s dead, you know. My Ben’s dead. Fell off a cart and hit his head. When they brought his body home, I thought I was going to die too. The baby was only two weeks old then. I tried to find work, but no one would take me on for more than an odd job here and there, and it was hard to look after Nelly properly. The Relief gave me some money at first to tide me over, then the man said I had to go in the poorhouse but I wouldn’t. Not till I’d seen you, asked you to help me. They take your babies away from you in that place and she’s all I’ve got now.’
‘Nay, why should you go into the poorhouse when you’ve allus got a home with us?’
She looked up at him and gave a long, shuddering sigh. ‘What would we do without you, Jack? You’re the best brother in the whole world.’
He had to swallow hard or he’d have been weeping with her.
His mother knelt beside him with a bowl of broth containing small pieces of bread. ‘You hold her up, Jack, an’ I’ll spoon some food in.’ As her daughter’s eyes closed again, she shook the thin shoulder. ‘Stay awake, Meg. You’ll not get better if we don’t get summat down you.’ After a few spoonfuls she looked across at Ginny, who was feeding the child, and said, ‘Your babby’s supping its milk. Were you still feeding it yoursen?’
‘No. My milk dried up.’
As Netta glanced back towards the baby, she frowned. Nelly was not taking her food with any great enthusiasm and she had a frail air to her. ‘How old is she, then?’
‘Five months.’
Netta didn’t say it, but Nelly was so small she was amazed to hear she was that old.
It wasn’t for a few days, until his sister’s fever had subsided and the baby had picked up a bit, that Jack realised he had yet another burden to carry now. But he could never have turned Meg away.
6
One day in December John Garrett was looking out of the window of the bank, feeling pleased that his wife was now well again, when he caught sight of Mrs Oswald in the street. She was leaning heavily on her young maid’s arm and walking slowly and awkwardly, as if her hip pained her. Guilt flooded through him. He had not written to the Armisteads about their elderly relative and had done nothing about the rest of the silver, either. He must have it valued. Though maybe that would not matter so much if the Armisteads could be persuaded to do their duty.
He went straight back to his office and composed a suitable letter, sending it off within the hour by messenger since the Armisteads lived only an hour’s drive away. Then he settled to work with all the satisfaction of a man who had done his best to help someone weaker than himself.
The Armistead family usually took luncheon together at Moor Grange when they were all home, as they were today. Claude was not in the best of humours, having just spent some time talking seriously with his son. He looked across at Marcus with a frown as they sat down. He found his only child both an exasperation and a disappointment, for although the family was rich enough that Marcus need not work for a living, Claude did not li
ke to see a young man living in idleness or - which was more likely with his son - getting into mischief with women, since he seemed hell-bent on proving that his small stature did not imply a lack of virility.
But Marcus had not settled well into the family business, wanting to take wild gambles by sending dubious merchandise to the colonies - something Claude did not approve of. He had built his own reputation as a prosperous Manchester merchant on sound goods and practices, enjoying the challenge of finding markets for Lancashire goods around the world and making his profit by acting as a middleman.
The maid brought in a note just as they were finishing the meal and he stared at it in surprise, for his correspondence usually went to his business chambers in Manchester. Who would be having notes hand delivered to a house in such an isolated situation on the edge of the moors? He used his butter knife to open it, read it once, then a second time more slowly.
‘Did you realise my sister Matilda’s husband had lost all his money before he got himself murdered?’ he demanded of his wife, though there was no reason why Eleanor should know that, any more than he had. They had simply assumed when they heard of James Oswald’s death that he would have provided properly for his widow. She certainly hadn’t tried to contact them since. He tapped the letter sharply. ‘It appears that all she has to live on is a tiny annuity which William set up before he died. This letter is from the bank owner who pays her the money, suggesting we help her. She’s penniless, selling her possessions to put bread on the table apparently!’
His son and wife were both staring at him in amazement.
‘Why did she not ask us for help?’ Eleanor frowned as she licked butter delicately off one plump fingertip. ‘Marcus, pray pass me the gooseberry conserve.’
‘Perhaps she thought I would follow my father’s example and refuse to acknowledge her.’