‘How is poor Bill? Marie asked.
‘More boring than usual,’ Jennie hissed so her mother wouldn’t hear.
‘What’s happening about the shop?’
‘I’m not out of a job. Yet! We offered to run it for him while he makes up his mind. After the funeral of course. Oh, why aren’t we rich?’ she sighed. ‘Lucy and I could buy the business if we could afford premises. I know we’d be able to buy the equipment cheap, but I haven’t a bean and neither has Lucy.’
‘I’d start looking around for another job if I were you, love. Or you’ll end up in the dreaded enamel works,’ her father teased.
‘Not on your nelly! Work in that noisy place? I’d get married first!’
‘We’re having tea as soon as the kettle boils. Will you stay?’ Belle Jones asked Marie.
‘Better not, Mam. I have to feed my lot soon.’
‘Not for me either, our Mam,’ Jennie said. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where can you find to go on a Sunday evening?’ her father asked.
‘Not church, that’s for sure,’ Jennie retorted with a laugh. ‘Hang on, Marie, and I’ll walk with you.’
She went to her room and put on a new outfit she had bought. A skirt, the length of which made her mother frown, and a Hungarian-style blouse that was alarmingly transparent. The drawer string was loosened to reveal a great deal more than the designer intended, and with nylon stockings and high-heeled shoes she couldn’t have made more of a contrast to her sister. Belle said nothing but she tutted a lot.
Jennie was silent for a while as they headed towards Marie’s home. Marie was conscious of her glancing at her from time to time and was uncomfortably aware of her over-long coat and down-at-heel shoes. She could never dress like Jennie but she wished she were more presentable.
Then Jennie asked, ‘Marie, don’t you feel uncomfortable walking the streets dressed like that? And on a Sunday too? Everyone we pass has best clothes on, and there’s you, hair hanging down like an unironed scarf, not even a bit of lipstick, a coat that’s seen better days too long ago to remember what colour it was when it started out.’
‘Who cares?’ Marie said with a shrug.
‘You should. You need to make your husband proud of you, everything doesn’t stop once you get married, you know. Men can get tired of women who don’t seem to care.’
Visions of Ivor creeping back into the house hoping no one would be aware of his overnight absence flooded through her mind. What was Jennie trying to tell her? Was Ivor seeing someone else? Had he been with a woman? Had the blood on his clothes been the result of a fight with the woman’s husband? Her imagination went wild. The fact that he still had a ten shilling note to give her made her seriously doubt the ‘card school’ story. From the rumours that reached her he rarely gave up until he was broke. She stopped and turned to her sister. ‘You know something, don’t you?’
‘Know what? That my sister is dressed worse than some tramps I’ve seen and should do something about it? I certainly know that!’
Continuing to stare at Jennie, with her glamorous golden hair and blatantly provocative dress, her carefully made-up face, her slim feet in fancy summer sandals, Marie felt drab. She forced herself to ask the question to which she dreaded to hear the answer. ‘He isn’t seeing someone else, is he?’ Her stomach lurched as Jennie looked away before answering, unwilling to meet her gaze.
‘Your Ivor? Not as far as I know. Although he did try it on with me once. I soon told him what to do with his—’
‘Jennie! You’re lying! Ivor wouldn’t. Not with you!’
‘Oh, all right, I was joking, trying to lighten your life with a laugh. You rarely smile these days and – I’m sorry, sis, but you do look a mess. Men like to be flattered. They like being proud of their women, wearing them on their arm like a trophy. And what about poor little Vi? She can’t like seeing you like this. Children can tease and for those looking for an excuse you’re a gift.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. She’s happy at school.’
‘Even if she isn’t being laughed at because of you, she’s bound to compare you with other mothers. Clothes rationing isn’t an excuse for giving up. Honestly, sis, you should look at yourself.’
‘I know I’m a mess,’ she retorted, fighting back tears. ‘There’s no need for anyone to tell me that! I’ve no money for clothes, even if I had coupons to spare. It’s all I can do to manage to keep our heads above water. I work all day at the shop selling beautiful clothes, and when I get home I take off my best things and change into these. Clothes for working. I spend evenings and weekends decorating other people’s houses, not going to dances and having fun. So what chance do I have of looking like you?’
‘Sorry, Marie. I really am. I thought I was being helpful. I thought you hadn’t realized how you’ve let yourself slip. Are things really that bad?’
‘Worse than you know.’
They were approaching Steeple Street where Geoff Tanner’s warehouse-cum-shop filled both angles of the corner. Marie had known Geoff all her life and had recently become a regular customer, buying paints and wallpapers and all the etceteras for her second job.
Geoff was washing his van as they passed.
‘I’ll be calling in the morning on the way to work to put an order in, Geoff,’ Marie called. ‘I’m papering a bedroom for Mrs Ricky Richards.’
‘Good luck, then. You’ll need it. Never pleased, that one, whatever you do for her.’
‘Another happy social evening. I wonder should I wear my fur?’ she whispered to her sister. She was self-conscious as she passed Geoff, Jennie’s words reminding her harshly of the contrast between her dowdy self and her glamorous sister. Just this once she wished she had worn her best coat, the one she wore to work.
She would have been surprised to know Geoff Tanner’s thoughts as they passed by. He saw Jennie as a flighty, over-dressed woman who was too old for the clothes she wore and the men she spent time with. Too much make-up gave her a harsh, almost brazen look, and many accused her of being worse than she actually was.
To his eyes, Marie was beautiful. Kind, caring, her expression was soft and gentle. She had a full, generous mouth that was always ready to smile – a smile that lit up her eyes. Yet, in repose, he could also see the sadness there. One lived her life for fun, the other had discarded all hope of fun when she had tied herself to a man who had become a gambler and a cheat.
*
The police were searching for the vehicle that had hit Emily Clarke, and two constables went to the woodyard where Ivor worked and asked to examine the firm’s fleet.
‘Fleet?’ Ivor laughed. ‘One ancient van and two decrepit lorries.’ He pointed across the muddy yard to where men were loading the lorry with lengths of two-by-two timber. He glanced at his watch. ‘The second lorry will be back in about twenty minutes, fancy a cup of tea?’
The constables examined the van, taking photographs and measurements. Doing the same to the lorry, it was sent on its way. After they had drunk their tea the other lorry returned and was given the same treatment. Ivor explained that the lorries were used for heavy loads, and the van was a runabout, taking small orders and sacks of sawdust to the local butchers for them to use on their floors.
‘And you drive the van, Mr Masters?’
‘Sometimes, when I need to see a customer. And I move it around the yard when the lorries need a bit of space.’ That information was written down with the rest. After a thorough search they went away, giving instructions that the van was not to be touched until it had been properly examined. An anxious Ivor checked his keys and wondered whether the person responsible could possibly have been driving that scruffy old van.
He’d heard the engine and his blood chilled as he remembered it revving up before the squeal and the awful thud when the woman had been hit, but apart from guessing it hadn’t been as heavy as a lorry he had no idea what kind of car it had been. But surely not the firm’s van? It didn’t look reliable enough. And with the w
ire fence and the gate it wasn’t possible for someone to have stolen it and returned it without someone seeing them. There would have been better choices on any street.
*
As soon as Marie reached home after seeing Jennie to the bus stop she searched again for the bloodstained jacket, but it was gone. A bonfire in the garden smouldered and when she investigated she recognized part of the sleeve that hadn’t burned away. Harris tweed that jacket had been. Good enough for quite a few more years. Ivor was proud of it, so why had he burned it? She was frightened by the implications of his uncharacteristic act.
Honesty was something she had always taken for granted, hardly needing to give it a thought. But the new Ivor seemed to lie as a matter of course, and now this. Disposing of evidence, wasn’t it? Evidence of what? A fight? He showed no bruises. An involvement in something worse? A road accident and the death of a young woman?
Shaking the ashes with a stick to encourage the fire to revive and burn what was left, she went inside. She wouldn’t say a word. Tomorrow she would shovel up the bonfire ashes and carry them to the far end of town and put them in someone else’s ashbin. Ivor couldn’t have been involved in Emily Clarke’s death; she couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it, but she knew she had to cover his tracks in case she was wrong. She had to protect him and their family.
*
Jennie and Lucy had had what some would call a ‘good’ war. Plenty of young men around to partner them at dances, men far from home and grateful for someone to talk to and flirt with, and even, when they were in a mellow mood, someone to listen to them as they talked about their families and the girls they loved. With a camp not far away, there were still servicemen around the town. These young soldiers didn’t have much money, but a ticket to a local dance costing a shilling or two gave Jennie and Lucy enjoyable evenings, a few kisses, and a feeling of youth and desirable beauty.
Marie’s only benefit from the war years was more recent. The loss of local decorators who had been conscripted into the forces, some killed, others returning with plans to build a different career, had created a need and now gave her opportunities to earn money to compensate for Ivor’s inability to support them.
Geoff Tanner found work for her and promised to help if ever she was in difficulties. He had been widowed several years before and filled his time helping out wherever he found a need. She had thanked him but had no intention of accepting his help, although there were times when she would have been glad of it. Rushing from one job to another, fitting in housework and shopping when she could, she wondered how long she could keep it up.
The paint and paper she had ordered from Geoff Tanner were delivered to Mrs Ricky Richards and she went there as soon as tea had been eaten and supper prepared. Two coats of paint and the wallpapering meant at least three visits and she knew that Mrs Richards would find an excuse to delay payment and argue about the previously agreed sum.
Ivor wasn’t in when she got home. Violet was in bed and a surly Roger was sitting beside the fire. ‘It’s not fair, our Mam,’ he began.
‘When is it ever?’ she said with a sigh. ‘Did your father bring in some firewood ready for tomorrow?’
‘No, I did,’ he said, as though the task was huge. ‘He said that as we weren’t working we ought to help him.’
‘Help him? What about me?’ She laughed then. Tiredness and the futility of expecting anything better overcoming her anger.
She went to the sideboard, where the payment books were kept, intending to put the money into the insurance book ready for the collector the following morning, but she noticed the books had been rearranged. Staring in disbelief she saw that the books were all empty. Money for the gas and the electricity, the coalman, the milkman, the baker, it was all missing. There should have been more than one pound and ten shillings there.
‘Roger, have you touched these books?’
‘No, Mam. Not me, honest.’
‘But you know who did?’ It took a long time but Roger finally admitted that Ivor had ‘borrowed’ the money, ‘just till pay-day’.
Marie set her alarm for six o’clock. She might be able to do the second coat of paint before work. That way she could hang the wallpaper that evening if she was careful. The money would be paid a day sooner and might just save them receiving a final demand. She hated those, shaming they were.
She wondered why she didn’t hate Ivor. She longed to leave him, forget she had ever been his wife, but hate was never in her thoughts, even at times like this. Just disappointment. ‘For better or for worse’ had been the only time in her life she had gambled, and she had lost.
Three
Marie had been to her parents’ to collect her daughter, but they didn’t go straight home. She had a small job to finish at a house in Steeple Street and, giving Violet a bag of chips to ease her hunger, even though she had eaten with her grandparents, she worked until the job was finished. Sizing the walls ready for papering and painting the skirting boards with primer were tiring tasks, and her muscles were stiff with fatigue when they reached home at nine.
Marie had promised herself that, if she could stay awake long enough for the washing boiler to heat the water, she’d have a soak in the bath before bed. She filled the boiler and lit the gas under it, and dragged the galvanized bath from where it hung on the coalhouse door. Fighting sleep she sprinkled some scented crystals into the bath and prepared to wait. As she walked through the hall with her night clothes and a towel, an official-looking letter on the hall table caught her eye. It must have come by second post. She was curious but she settled Violet into bed and dealt with the dishes before sitting down to read it. The contents made her gasp. The rent was in arrears and if they weren’t cleared in four weeks they would lose their tenancy.
Quickly swallowing the fear, confident there had been a mistake, she went to the sideboard to find her rent book – the book she left on the window sill every week for the rent collector to take the money and mark the book. Nothing had been paid for weeks. Foolishly she never checked the book for receipt and signature. Someone must have taken the money before the collector arrived.
‘Ivor!’ she said aloud. The twins wouldn’t dare. Not the rent. Only Ivor would be foolish enough to believe he could gamble with it and return it before it was missed!
What could she do? There was no spare money to clear it. There was barely enough to pay the weekly bills. She would have to take time off work and go to the town hall and plead for an opportunity to pay off the arrears week by week. There was no sign of either the boys or of Ivor and, turning off the gas and forgetting about her luxurious bath, she ate a sandwich of marmite and drank a cup of cocoa and went to bed.
She couldn’t sleep, her mind was too active, stimulated by all that had happened. Several times she went down to see if the boys were home. She tried not to think of where Ivor might be. Spending their rent money on another woman? Visions of a young woman, a cross between her sister and Rita Hayworth, came to mind but somehow it no longer hurt. She had to get away and make a home for herself, the twins and Violet. She knew the twins wouldn’t want to go with her. They were not yet fifteen and to them Ivor, with his easygoing ways, was sure to be a more attractive prospect than her with her apparently futile attempts at guidance.
She had to face the fact that, if she decided to leave, Royston and Roger would almost certainly choose to stay with their step-father. These days he seemed to take a pride in their idleness and consider their escapades a joke, convinced they were nothing more than childish devilment. He often said that he couldn’t criticize them as he had been worse at their age. It had been a joke, given the comfortable life he had led until the death of his parents, a privileged life. He’d have had no need to steal or poach fish. But perhaps Jennie was right, and he would change if the finances became his own responsibility. The thought of leaving was frightening. She knew the twins would give her a hard time, and how could she leave the home where she and Kenneth, her first husband, had been so happy, the hous
e in which the children had been born?
She gave a huge sigh that seemed to come from the very depth of her being. It was hopeless. Leaving her home and starting again without Ivor was nothing more than a foolish dream. How could she leave, wash her hands of him and pretend not to care? ‘Better or worse’ wasn’t a mindless promise, no matter how many times she pretended that it could be broken. Besides, with no money and in debt how could she begin to look for a fresh place to live? What landlord would trust her?
She heard the boys come in at eleven o’clock and went down to see them. ‘Where’s your father?’ she asked, the oft-repeated phrase seeming to echo in the air around them.
Both boys shrugged. ‘We had a row and went out, he was here then.’
‘What did you row about? You haven’t lost your jobs again, have you?’
They looked at each other rather sheepishly and she demanded to know what had happened. ‘The day can’t get much worse, so tell me.’ They glanced at each other again but still said nothing. ‘I worked all day and then most of the evening,’ she told them then. ‘I came home to find the house empty, no note to tell me where you were. No idea where your father is, and then I found that the rent money has been stolen. Not just this week, but for more than six weeks. So come on, let’s have it. Nothing you can tell me can be worse than all that.’
‘We got caught shoplifting,’ Royston said.
‘It’s not fair,’ Roger predictably wailed, tears not far away. ‘We were only looking.’
Marie sank into a chair and stared at them.
‘Fool, wasn’t I, to think it couldn’t get worse. Well swallow this, you stupid, stupid boys. Two weeks and we’ll be homeless. And that, with all the hours I work…’ she said glaring at Roger, ‘is definitely not fair!’ She walked around the small room, pushing chairs under the table, bringing them out again. ‘And where’s your father?’ she demanded again of no one in particular.
The House by the Brook Page 6