The Buffer Girls

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘He must live and work with my employees. It’s the best way for him to learn – just as I did. There’ll be no favouritism.’

  Reluctantly, Constance had agreed and Arthur had breathed a sigh of relief. Thomas would soon forget the girl once time and distance were between them. But the wretched mother had brought them to the city and now here was Emily, as bold as brass, dancing in his son’s arms and smiling and laughing up at him. And was the Ryan boy here too? His glance scanned the throng and then he saw Josh. Arthur’s eyes narrowed. He’d have to see what he could do about this. Somehow he would have to find out where they were both employed and pull more than a few strings. Arthur turned away with an angry movement. There was nothing he could do tonight, but tomorrow he would make enquiries.

  Blissfully unaware of his father’s gaze upon him, Trip led Emily into another waltz. His arm tightly about her waist and his mouth close to her hair, he whispered, ‘You look lovely, Emily. I wish tonight could go on for ever . . .’

  But of course it could not and when they reluctantly parted in the early hours of the morning, all Trip said was, ‘Meet me in the park on Sunday afternoon, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Emily said and then she was being dragged away by Lizzie and Josh to walk home through the darkened streets. But not one of them minded the long walk. The music, the laughter and the chatter still rang in their ears and Emily imagined she could even now feel the warmth of Trip’s arm around her waist.

  Sixteen

  ‘Well, we can’t expect much of a Christmas this year,’ Martha said the following morning, casting a resentful glance at both Josh and Emily. She begrudged them the fun they’d had at the ball and seemed determined to bring them back down to earth with a bump. Although Emily had had an increase in her wage now that she had become a proper buffer girl, it was still not enough to help support the four of them. Josh, it seemed, could not expect any kind of a rise in his pay.

  ‘I’ll have to ask Bess Dugdale if she can get me on the file cutting,’ Martha added, trying – and succeeding – to make her son and daughter feel guilty. Emily cast an anxious glance at her father. ‘You couldn’t do that sort of work in here, Mam. It’d make Dad even worse.’

  ‘Mebbe Mrs Dugdale can find me work across the yard.’

  ‘You couldn’t leave Dad on his own for hours on end. You know you couldn’t. He’s all right for an hour or two while you go shopping or to church, but he can’t be left for a whole day.’

  Martha turned away, unwilling to grumble any more for she knew exactly what her daughter would say if she did – what she always did: they shouldn’t have come here!

  On Christmas Eve – an unusually mild evening for the time of year – a knock came at their door. Emily opened it to see Mick standing there. She gasped in surprise as she saw beyond him. Lighted candles dotted around the courtyard, casting a gentle glow that softened the harsh poverty of the yard. Rosa and her mother-in-law were standing outside their house, with the two little girls, gaping in wonder as Bess and Lizzie carried a trestle table into the centre of the courtyard and spread a white cloth on it. Ruth – the missus – and Billy emerged from the corner house carrying plates, glasses, cups and saucers.

  ‘Hello, pretty Emily,’ Mick said. ‘Come and join us. We’re having a party. And bring your mam and dad too. Tell ’em to wrap up warm. And where’s that rogue of a brother of yours? I need his help.’ Without waiting for an answer, Mick raised his voice. ‘Josh, come out, wherever you are. I need your strong arms to help carry a crate of beer.’

  ‘Oh Mick – we couldn’t. We – we’ve nothing to bring. We—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, lass.’ Mick leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Do you reckon poor Rosa has owt to contribute? You just bring yourselves. This is on me.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Mick. I don’t know if my dad’s up to it, though.’

  ‘I’ll bring a chair out for him and some blankets. Let him come, if he can. It’ll do the poor old feller the world of good.’

  Mick’s thoughtfulness touched Emily and she pressed her lips together to stop the tears. Emily Ryan rarely cried. Hardship or quarrels only made her tougher or more determined, but a happy event or a generous act of kindness could leave her weeping. The only time she could remember being really heartbroken was when her father had returned from the carnage of the trenches, a broken and damaged man, a sharp contrast to the proud, upright man who had gone to war.

  Now she smiled at Mick. ‘I’ll try,’ she promised.

  But her mother, when she heard what was happening, was adamant. ‘He can’t go. I don’t want the whole court laughing at him.’

  ‘They won’t, Mam. Everyone in this court knows what the war’s done to folks, if anyone does. The missus has lost her husband and two of her sons. Rosa’s lost her husband, and her kiddies, their father. There’ll be nobody laughing at anyone.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Josh asked, arriving downstairs. ‘What’s Mick shouting his head off about?’

  ‘He’s organizing a party in the yard and he wants you to give him a hand.’

  ‘Right-o. Are we all invited?’

  ‘Yes, but Mam doesn’t think Dad ought to go out there.’

  Josh glanced at Walter. ‘Why ever not? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Dad?’

  They all looked at Walter, who blinked and then appeared to nod, although it was difficult to tell what he was trying to indicate.

  ‘We’ll wrap him up well and take a chair out. Mick’ll help me.’ Josh was suddenly unusually decisive. Martha merely shrugged and waved her hand as if relinquishing any responsibility.

  ‘I’ll go and see what help Mick wants first,’ Josh said. ‘You get Dad dressed warmly, Em.’

  When the Ryan family stepped out of their house, a merry scene met their eyes – one they had never thought to see in the dismal court amongst the city back streets. Flickering candles illuminated the long table set now with what seemed like a mountain of food: dishes of steaming potatoes, Brussels sprouts, roasted parsnips, stuffing and cranberry jelly. And in the centre of it all sat a plump, roasted turkey. There was enough food to feed all the inhabitants of their court for a week, Emily thought, her eyes widening in wonder.

  Bess hurried up, her face flushed from the cooking she must have been doing all day to prepare such a feast. ‘Come on, luv,’ she said, taking Walter’s arm and leading him to a chair at the head of the table. ‘You must have the place of honour.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think . . .’ Martha began, but Mick had moved to Walter’s other side and he and his mother helped Walter to the chair and settled him gently into it and then solicitously wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and another over his knees.

  ‘Bring that paraffin stove nearer Walter, our Mick. Don’t want him catching a chill.’

  Mick placed the heater just behind Walter’s chair. ‘Be careful, mind,’ he laughed. ‘We don’t want to have to call the fire brigade out on Christmas Eve.’

  It was a wonderful evening – the best they’d had since they’d left Ashford. After the turkey and all its trimmings, there was plum pudding and brandy sauce.

  ‘Has Mick done all this?’ Josh asked Emily in a low voice.

  ‘So he said, and besides, I can’t think of anyone else in the court who could afford to do it,’ she murmured.

  ‘What’s he do? For a job, I mean.’

  Emily frowned. ‘I don’t know. That’s what worries me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a feeling I’ve got, that’s all.’

  ‘What sort of a feeling?’

  They were standing together, apart from the others, on the edge of the shadows, each with a glass in their hand and watching Rosa’s children playing with Billy, who was leading them in a noisy game of tag.

  ‘Just that –’ she took a deep breath – ‘it’s perhaps not all honestly come by.’

  ‘Oh,’ Josh murmured and then, as understanding filtered through his mind, ‘ah.’ But
he made no further comment as if not wishing to question their benefactor.

  But Emily was not so willing to let the matter go. ‘He seems to be at home at all different times of the day. He’s always dressed smartly. You never see him in working clothes.’

  To her surprise, Josh muttered, ‘Drop it, Em. We don’t want to cause trouble.’ And to stop her carrying on, he moved away and walked across to where Lizzie was standing. The girl’s face lit up as he approached and Emily groaned inwardly. Then she glanced about her. She was feeling comfortably full. Her father had eaten quite well for him, for his appetite was now birdlike and Martha’s face was wreathed in smiles as she sat chatting to Mrs Nicholson. Rosa sat watching her children with her mother-in-law beside her. They’d probably been fed this night the best they’d been for weeks – months, even. And this was all Mick’s doing, Emily told herself. She sighed. Not only were the Ryans even more in debt to the Dugdale family, but also so too were all the inhabitants of the court.

  For all of them, the glow of that Christmas Eve celebration lasted throughout the following days, even over New Year and into the beginning of 1921, and when the girls returned to work after the brief holiday, the memories of the glittering ball in November were still the topic of conversation.

  ‘We all saw you with Thomas Trippet,’ they teased Emily, who couldn’t hide her blushes. ‘And you with Josh, Lizzie.’

  ‘Are you walking out with him now?’

  ‘He’s a handsome lad, Lizzie, much better-looking than that Billy who’s always making eyes at you.’

  ‘Ssh,’ Lizzie said swiftly, putting her fingers to her lips. ‘Don’t let the missus hear you. Billy’s her son.’

  But, Emily noticed, she made no effort to dispel the rumours that she was now courting Josh. Emily wondered if anything had happened between them on the night of the ball. It certainly had between her and Trip. At the end of the evening he had pulled her into the shadows, had kissed her tenderly and whispered, ‘You’re my girl now, Emily Ryan, and don’t you forget it.’

  But now Emily felt a pang of guilt. In all the excitement of the ball and then Christmas she had scarcely given a thought to poor Amy and, what worried her even more, was the thought that neither had Josh.

  Seventeen

  Christmas in Ashford had been different for Amy and her father too. Outwardly, nothing had changed. They attended all the usual Christmas services at church and Amy wore a heavy, voluminous cloak to hide her growing bulge. By early in January, however, Amy’s condition could no longer be kept secret, but she had a stalwart champion in Grace Partridge, who, whilst ordinarily not above a bit of gossip, spoke loyally of the girl she had helped to raise from birth.

  ‘It’s that young rascal Josh Ryan who’s to blame,’ she told the other women in the village, ‘but he’s gone off to the city to seek his fortune.’

  ‘By all accounts,’ Mary Needham said, as the two women stood on the corner outside the village shop. ‘His mother was behind all that. She’s a pushy one, is Martha Ryan. Always thought she was too good for the rest of us.’

  ‘It was poor Walter I felt sorry for. He was a lovely feller. I set my cap at him, y’know, when we was all youngsters in the village,’ Grace confided. ‘He was a fine figure of a young man then – but Martha got her claws into him and that was that. Mind you, I wouldn’t change my Dan for the world now.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to Amy, poor girl? Is she going away?’

  ‘Lord, no!’ Grace was scandalized at the suggestion. ‘Her dad’s standing by her – and so am I.’

  ‘So, it’s likely that my services will be needed in a few months’ time, then.’ Mary Needham acted as the local midwife and had been present at many a home birth for those who could not afford to pay for professional help.

  ‘I expect so, Mary, yes.’ Grace’s tone hardened as she added, ‘Amy’s like a daughter to me, Mary, and I won’t let anyone say a word against her – not in my hearing anyway.’

  Mary Needham took the hint, promising herself silently that she would pass the word amongst the other women in the village for she knew that Grace would likely have another formidable ally – Constance Trippet. Although there was a difference between their stations in life, the two women were firm friends and Grace was Constance’s ‘conduit’ to village affairs. Constance was a generous benefactor to the locals. If anyone was ill, she would send a hamper and the children could always rely on a small gift at Christmas and a card on their birthdays. She never forgot anyone. She had her own little car – a royal-blue and black, open-topped Richardson Light Car manufactured in Sheffield – and she could often be seen driving herself around the village or into Bakewell or Buxton, dressed in a fitted coat with her hat kept in place by a silk scarf tied over it. Whilst she was regarded as the ‘lady of the manor’, Constance was approachable. And so when the news of Amy’s predicament began to become common knowledge, Grace visited Riversdale House, the square, ivy-clad home of the Trippets, ostensibly to discuss society matters, but in truth to impart the latest news.

  ‘You know Amy Clark, don’t you, Mrs Trippet?’

  ‘The blacksmith’s daughter? Yes, I do.’

  ‘She’s in the family way,’ Grace said now.

  Constance’s face was at once sympathetic. There was no censure, no disgust, just as there had been none in Grace’s when she had first been told.

  ‘The poor girl,’ Constance murmured. ‘Is it Josh Ryan’s child?’ She knew all about the departure of the Ryan family from the village and the reason behind it, for it had necessitated her having to find a new cleaner to come into Riversdale House two days a week.

  Grace nodded.

  Constance raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m surprised at him. I haven’t a lot of time for Martha Ryan, even though she cleaned for us . . .’ The woman’s mouth twitched briefly with amusement. ‘I always felt she thought she was doing us a favour, but I always liked Emily and Josh.’ Her face sobered as she added, ‘And as for poor Walter . . .’

  There was a sympathetic silence between the two women as they thought of Walter Ryan.

  ‘In all fairness, Mrs Trippet, Josh doesn’t know about the baby.’

  Now, Constance’s neat eyebrows seemed to shoot up almost to her hairline. ‘Doesn’t know!’ She was incredulous. ‘Why ever not?’

  Grace sighed. ‘Amy – and her father, for that matter – well, they’re both proud. It seems Amy had one letter from Josh shortly after they left. He’d found a job, he told her, at your husband’s works, and he promised he would come back and marry her once he came of age.’ Grace pulled a face. ‘Martha refused to give her consent and, as we both know, poor Walter . . .’ She lapsed into silence, but Constance understood.

  Now there was a longer pause whilst Constance remembered something that had occurred a few months earlier.

  On the day that Martha had talked to Arthur Trippet about her son’s future, Constance had been sitting on the window seat in the morning room, which faced towards the front of the house. From time to time she looked up from the tapestry on which she was working to glance down the driveway and through the gates to the village street beyond. And then she’d seen Martha striding away from the house, anger in every marching step, rage in the set of her head and the stiffness of her shoulders. Constance could remember frowning. The woman hadn’t even come to see her to collect her weekly wage. What on earth had upset Martha Ryan so much that she had forgotten to collect her money? What have I missed?

  Constance missed very little about the goings on within the household or, for that matter, what went on outside its perimeters.

  Her marriage was not a happy one; but she had expected no less. An only child, she had been a moderately wealthy heiress and so had attracted in her youth a bevy of suitors, if not admirers. She was a slim, handsome woman with even, well-shaped features and dark hair, but she was not pretty – and certainly not beautiful – in the conventional sense. But Constance wanted to be married and bear children. She had no ambi
tion to fight for the vote or to run the small estate in Derbyshire, which her father owned. At the age of twenty-one, she had sought her father’s advice on whom she should pick from amongst the six or seven young men who came calling. In Arthur Trippet, her father, Robert Vincent, had seen an entrepreneurial streak and believed that the money and lands that he would one day leave to his daughter would be used wisely. The young man was already learning to take over his own family’s cutlery manufacturing business in Sheffield and Robert surmised that Arthur would wish for his son to carry on after him. He was not mistaken; Arthur Trippet had grand visions of founding a dynasty, with sons – more than one, of course – to carry on the name of Trippet. Arthur worked hard – very hard – and, in time, became a Master Cutler, holding the position for a year.

  When, after several serious discussions with her father, Arthur’s proposal to Constance had been accepted, they both realized that neither of them was experiencing a grand passion. Although Arthur had been attentive during his courtship, showering her with gifts, Constance had not been deceived. They were not in love with each other, although there was a mutual respect.

  ‘But, Mama,’ Constance had said worriedly a few weeks before her marriage, ‘what happens if I fall in love with someone else? I mean, after I am married?’