‘What are you talking about? Ruin us?’ Winifred clung to the bannister. ‘And what’s it got to do with the shop?’
‘Reputation – yours – ours. The shop depends on it. I won’t have it…’ Ethel glared at her.
In the silent struggle, Winifred met her mother’s eyes. For a moment she thought she saw an emotion there that she couldn’t put her finger on. But then it was quickly replaced by anger.
‘Dad!’ She appealed to her father.
He watched, helpless against the fury of his wife. ‘Sorry, love…’
‘You will be.’ Ethel glared over her shoulder at him, still pushing at Winifred. ‘If you interfere… I’m telling you, you will be.’ She was breathless, her words coming out in harsh gasps. ‘I’m warning you, madam. You need to watch your step or you’ll be out on the streets. Now…’ She thumped Winifred’s back. ‘Get up those stairs. You’ll stay in your room until I say you can come out.’
Winifred fell to her knees. ‘You can’t make me stay in my room. That’s ridiculous. I’m nineteen—’
‘And you live under our roof. Under our protection—’
‘I don’t need your protection. I’m a grown woman.’ Winifred pulled herself upright by the bannister and held on to her skirt to stop herself tripping on it as she allowed herself to be shoved up the stairs. There was no point in struggling against her mother when she was like this. But still she said, ‘And it’s nineteen-eleven, Mother, not eighteen-eleven—’
‘I don’t give a fig what year it is, my girl. You’ll do as I say.’
In the darkness, Winifred lay on the bed, her fist clenching the covers. One day, she’d escape from this place for good. One day she’d find a way to live her own life.
Chapter 13
May 1911
‘Have you come to your senses?’ Ethel stood in the doorway of the bedroom with her hands folded in front of her.
‘Are you going to let me out of here?’ Winifred said, still angry. She sat with her back to the iron bedframe and looked at her mother.
‘You’re needed in the shop.’ Ethel crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains with an impatient tug of both hands. The dazzling daylight revealed small particles of dust flying from the material and floating around in a haphazard pattern. The sudden brightness made Winifred blink. ‘And that’s as far as you’ll be going, as well.’
‘I’m not a child to be ordered around anymore, Mother.’
Ethel sighed, standing with her back to the window, meeting Winifred’s stare. In the long silence it was as though her mother wanted to say something. When she did eventually speak it was with hesitancy.
‘I know we don’t talk; you’ve always been your father’s daughter—’
‘I won’t be stopped, Mother. You have no idea—’
‘And you have no idea, either, miss.’ Her voice returned to its usual sharpness. ‘Don’t you see? Women will never be as free as men. Men can walk away anytime they like. Women are stuck with the lives they are given—’ She stopped herself before saying, ‘We deal with our lives as best we can.’
And in that moment Winifred thought she understood her mother at last. ‘Is that what you do, Mother? Deal with your life as best you can? By the way you are with Dad and me?’
Ethel took a step forward. Winifred thought she was going to slap her again. She braced herself to move out of the way.
Instead Ethel stood still, her hands linked in front of her. She opened then pressed her lips together in a tight line and lifted her chin. ‘Don’t you ever listen to what customers say in the shop?’
Still shocked by her mother’s previous words, Winifred wasn’t prepared for the change of subject. ‘The customers? Of course I do.’ Some days she was sick of hearing the gossip. But she was surprised by what she said next.
‘I mean really listen.’ Ethel crossed her arms. ‘About what’s going on beyond these four walls? My goodness, girl, I wish you would understand what I’m trying to say.’ She let her arms drop to her sides. ‘It’s not just that I think that girl and her tinker friends are ignorant, common trash…’ she stopped. ‘Which they are, of course.’
So we’re back to this, Winifred thought. ‘You are such a snob, Mother.’
Ethel shrugged and repeated, ‘They’re not only trash, they are also dangerous with their marching and fighting. These so-called Suffragettes are mainly the Irish and—’
‘They’re not!’ Winifred remembered the cultures tones of the woman on the stage at that meeting, of the voices of the women around her that day, of Dorothy, the vicar’s daughter.
‘And, in Ireland, there has always been trouble. Didn’t you hear Mr Wright the other day, telling us that there are riots and bombs and murders over there? Do you really want to be part of all that?’
‘I’m not. It’s not the same thing. Mr Wright doesn’t know everything, Mother. Just because he works for a local newspaper—’
‘The Morrisfield Times—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake; it’s a little local newspaper.’
‘I’m not arguing, Winifred. That girl, those women—’
‘The Suffragettes.’
‘Those women are dangerous. The Irish are dangerous…’ Her mother was spluttering as though searching for words. ‘It’s dangerous. You could be… you shouldn’t…’ She stopped, her chest heaving. ‘Your reputation will be ruined.’
‘My reputation? Your reputation, you mean. Even the shop’s reputation. You said that last night. But it’s not that, is it Mother? What you said before about men and women—’
‘I forbid you to have anything to do with those women.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can. So it will be better for you if you promise to stay away from those people.’
‘Or what, Mother?’ Winifred could scarcely believe she was defying the woman who’d ruled her life for so long. She kept her voice even. ‘I am sorry, I really am. But I can’t, won’t, promise. I believe they’re right. I believe women – me, you, all – women should be able to vote.’
Her mother gave a scornful laugh. ‘And what would I do with a vote, madam? What use is a vote to me?’
There it was again; that resentful note in her voice. ‘You could help to make things better for all women.’ Winifred met Ethel’s stare.
‘Why would I want to do that? Especially for that Irish trash and her disgraceful friends?’
‘Like me, you mean, Mother?’
They kept eye contact for a while. Then Ethel marched to the door.
‘Well, on your own head be it. You and I have nothing else to say to one another on this matter.’
Winifred sank back against the iron bedstead. For the first time in her life she’d caught a glimpse of the real woman inside her mother. The flash of sympathy that followed the unexpected understanding stunned her.
Chapter 14
May 1911
‘That’ll be ninepence.’ Bill placed three apples into a brown paper bag and swung it over and over between his fingers, twisting the corners. He winked at the middle-aged woman who flushed and frowned but couldn’t help a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Giving him a short nod she turned away.
He noticed the girl behind her in the queue grinning and he raised his cap. ‘Yes, miss, and what can I get for you today?’ He clapped his hands, rubbing them together, thinking for the umpteenth time how much he enjoyed working on this veg and fruit stall. The pay wasn’t so good but he always managed to take home something that was left at the end of the day.
And he loved the outdoor market with the rows of canvas-covered stalls, set on the large cobbled square in the middle of town. He enjoyed wandering around the aisles; looking at the colourful piles of cotton and wool material, touching the soft white net curtains, gently wafting from the poles fastened to the frames of the stalls, buying a bag of broken biscuits from the old baker on the corner stall.
As soon as he became part of it, the market had resurrected an el
usive memory; Saturday outings with his mam to some market or other. Of her telling him to hang on to her skirt because she needed her hands to choose and carry the food she bought. He remembered being terrified of losing her among all the other skirts and legs that squashed against him; the relief when the shopping was finished and they’d sit on a bench eating meat and potato pies, so hot they burnt the inside of his mouth even as he relished the taste. Bill smiled; a good memory.
So, yeah, he reckoned he could carry on working on the market; settle in Huddersfield. The small room he had in the house on Archer Street wasn’t much, but it was his for as long as he paid the rent and he had his privacy. He shared the kitchen of the house with the five other blokes who lived there as well. But they kept their noses out of his business and he left them alone, other than the odd greeting.
Taking the penny from the girl and dropping two pounds of potatoes into her basket he looked around to check where his boss was. Seeing Ernie Bolton deep in a chat with the man on the hardware stall in the next aisle, he took an apple from the barrel and pushed it into her hand. ‘Little present. And what are you doing tonight?’ he said, grinning.
‘She’ll be ’ome wi’ me.’
Bill looked up at the burly man who appeared at the girl’s side.
‘You spoiling for a fight, pal?’ The man scowled.
Bill held up his hand. ‘No offence, mate,’ noticing too late the wedding ring on the girl’s finger. ‘Only joking.’ He picked up a bag of onions and waved them above his head. ‘Last of the onions today,’ he shouted. ‘Only penny ha’penny a pound.’
Relieved when the couple moved off, he dropped the bag onto the stall and took off his cap to wipe his face. It had been a warm day before but that little do hadn’t helped; the last thing he needed was any trouble.
‘You get off now, lad.’ Ernie Bolton rested a hand on Bill’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done a grand job today but I’m packing up early.’ He handed a couple of bags to Bill. ‘Help yourself to owt you want.’ He watched as Bill chose some carrot, potatoes and onions. ‘Making a stew?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I reckon.’ Bill stopped what he was doing, all at once wary. ‘Everythin’ all right, Mr Bolton?’
The man looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s like this, son. My brother’s daughter’s fifteen now and needs a job…’ He twisted his mouth and lifted his shoulders as an apology. ‘Family has to come first. You know?’
Bill wiped his hand over his mouth, pushed away the cold sudden panic. ‘I know. There’s nowt you can do about that, Mr Bolton.’ He gestured to the bags in his hands. ‘I can still tek these?’
‘Oh aye.’ Ernie Bolton put his hand into his money belt and taking out a shilling, shoved it at Bill. ‘Just to keep you going like. Reckon that’ll help.’
‘It will. And thanks.’ Ashamed, Bill knew he was near to skriking. Just as he was starting to feel good about everything, shit happened. And what the hell was he going to do for brass now? ‘I’ll be off then.’ Abruptly shaking hands with the man he left before he showed himself up, he weaved his way through the stalls.
‘Hey, hang on a minute.’
The shout halted Bill as he waited for the double decker tram to pass on the edge of the market ground. He looked behind him. A woman in a black dress and headscarf waved to him. When she stood by him she pressed her hand against her throat, breathing rapidly. ‘By, you walk quick for somebody with a limp,’ she said.
He waited, shrugging his bag further on to his shoulder. ‘What?’ Bells started a peal in the church across the road. A horse, startled by the sudden sound, reared up in front of them almost tipping over the small empty cart it was pulling and causing the man holding the reins to stand, cursing.
The woman looked up at him, rolled her eyes. ‘Fine time for them to start their practising,’ she yelled. ‘Hang on while I get my breath.’ She grabbed his arm and pulled herself up straight. ‘I just heard what Ernie said. I’m on the crockery stall behind his. My brother, he’s a fishmonger, has just lost the lad what helped him in his shop in Morrisfield. He asked me to keep an eye out for someone who was a good worker. I’ve been watching you. If you’re interested…’
Chapter 15
June 1911
He missed working outdoors. He missed the noise, the colours, the smells of the market. Sometimes, as Bill swept the blood-swirled scalding water towards the central drain in the floor or gathered up the discarded dead-eyed fish heads, he even missed the mines.
The feeling, the memories of the shared camaraderie between the miners, took him by surprise. He’d thought he’d never want to work underground again. But, as the months passed, he’d realised that it was the mine owner he’d hated and the way he’d been treated by him after the accident that had soured him.
Still, he’d needed to get away from that part of Yorkshire and Morrisfield was new and welcome territory for him.
The first time he saw the girl she was with an older woman, a sour-faced old bitch. The two didn’t speak to one another, didn’t discuss the fish laid out in neat rows on the white slabs and divided by the lines of parsley. They just stood side by side. And then chose some fish each; a piece of cod for the girl, half a dozen herrings for the woman.
Cleaning the shelves and floors at the back of the fishmongers in Morrisfield he’d watched her, his heart thumping. It was a long time since he’d been so nervous in front of a girl. She was small, pale under that big hat. He couldn’t tell what colour her hair was but she was lovely; small mouth and nose, high cheekbones. Her dark blue eyes slanted upwards when she smiled at Bertie Butterworth. He couldn’t tell what her figure was like under all those layers of clothes but she looked slim and had lovely ankles and little feet. Being a small chap himself he liked small women; they didn’t make him feel daft about his size.
Even though he hated the stink of the place, he stayed on at the fish shop so he could catch a glimpse of her when she came in each Friday. The days she didn’t come into the shop he went back to his room in Archer Street in a sour mood. The days she did, he cursed himself for the humiliating heat that rose from his throat to his face, the way his hands shook, his inability to bring himself to look fully at her in the way he would any other woman, with a cheeky wink. And, because it was always bloody Bertie who insisted on serving them, there was no way he was able to speak to her. Even if he could have thought of anything to say.
Then, one day, she noticed him as she’d glanced over Bertie’s shoulder while paying him. Holding the white-parcelled Finny Haddock, she called out ‘Goodbye’ to him. Stupidly he’d grinned, dipped his head and pulled on the neb of his flat cap. Only afterwards did he realise he’d walked backwards into the bucket of fish heads and slopped it all over his clogs. He couldn’t get the stench from them and got curses for stinking out the house for days.
But she’d noticed him. That night, on his way home, he couldn’t stop grinning.
‘How do you fancy a bit of time on the market? Wednesday?’ They’d just opened the shop and Bertie was washing his large red hands under the cold-water tap at the sink. ‘I’ll pay you.’
Bill didn’t get paid for the day the shop was closed, when Bertie took his fish to Lydcroft. He resented that. And he did fancy some time on a market again. Still, he weren’t going to do it if it wasn’t worth his while.
‘How much?’
‘Tuppence. On top of your wages for what you get here, it’s not bad pay. It’ll give you more experience.’
‘I’m not for doing this forever.’ Bill was indignant; he didn’t intend to work in a fish shop all his life. ‘It’s just ’til I sort stuff out.’ He saw the look of disappointment on the man’s face and knew that the fishmonger, not having family of his own, had been thinking of training him up for the job. So when Bertie answered in a testy voice he wasn’t surprised.
‘I know that, I’m only asking. There’s plenty others on the street who’d jump at the chance.’ Bertie slapped a large haddock onto the wooden bench and began gutti
ng it, his veined cheeks flushed as he worked.
‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’ Bill watched the man’s bloodied hands pull at the fish’s insides and drop them towards the bucket under the bench. It seemed to him that he deliberately missed and the guts splattered on the floor. More shit to clean up, he thought. But then he was diverted by the man’s next words.
‘And that lass you fancy? Winifred Duffy? She lives in Lydcroft.’ Bertie’s smile was sly. ‘Thought you might like to know that?’
Bill grinned, surprised he’d been found out. But it soon vanished as the man added, ‘Mind, she’d never look at the likes of you; her father owns the grocery shop in the village. She’s a cut above you.’
It was then that Bill knew he’d stick around. One way or another he’d prove Bertie wrong. He already was wrong, in a way; more than once, Winifred Duffy had smiled and nodded at him. Perhaps, working the market, he’d get the chance to chat with her. So long as the mother wasn’t there to glare at him.
He remembered his mam often telling him he was as good as any other boy. ‘And better than some,’ she’d add, kissing him, when he came home bruised and bloodied; when he’d been jeered at and knocked about by other boys for having only clogs to wear instead of shoes, or the backside hanging out of his short trousers, or frayed cuffs on his jumpers.
One way or another he’d drag himself up by his bootlaces and get Winifred Duffy to take him seriously. No bugger was going to tell him he wasn’t good enough.
Chapter 16
July 1911
Honora’s dark hair hung wild around her face as though she’d been running. She looked near tears.
Winifred gave her father a sideways glance. He didn’t look up from the bacon slicer, concentrating on lowering the thin slices of meat onto the greaseproof paper.
‘Where’s your ma?’ Honora’s voice wobbled. She peered over Winifred’s head.
‘Out.’ Winifred shrugged. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’ll be gone all afternoon.’ Her father didn’t lift his head when he spoke.
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