The Buffer Girls

by Margaret Dickinson

  Elizabeth Vincent had sighed softly and taken her daughter’s hand and said, ‘A good woman never does, Constance.’

  And so she had been ‘a good woman’ and as constant to her husband as her name implied. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Arthur. And yet, her mother had warned her of this too.

  ‘Your marriage is one of convenience, my dear, as are many of the marriages in middle-class society, and should your husband stray, you must turn a blind eye.’

  Constance had stared at her mother’s serene face and wondered if her own father’s frequent absences to London, ostensibly on business, were, in fact, to visit another woman. Elizabeth was not about to confide in her daughter and she never would, but down the years Constance was to remember the conversation and draw strength from it when her own fidelity was not matched by her husband.

  ‘I hope, though,’ Elizabeth had said, ‘that you will at least be fond of each other and that he will treat you kindly.’

  As she’d watched Martha Ryan go through the gates at the end of the driveway and disappear from her view, Constance had sighed. She supposed Arthur had treated her well; materially, she had everything she needed and she had her son. She would have loved to have had more children, but after Thomas’s birth she’d suffered two miscarriages and then there had been no more pregnancies. Gradually, Arthur had ceased to come to her bed and she guessed then that he had acquired a mistress and she had made it her business to find out. Often, over the fifteen or so years since then, Constance had tried to analyse her feelings, but strangely, she was unable to do so. Had she been in love with Arthur, then it would have been easy to define; she would have been distraught and humiliated. As it was, she had to admit that what she did feel was relief. No more would her body be wracked with the pain of childbirth or the agony of losing a baby. But she had Thomas and, whilst she idolized him, she was also a sensible woman who, although she wanted happiness for her son above all else – even above the success that her husband craved for his son and heir – she never spoiled him. And although it broke her heart when Thomas left home, first to attend boarding school and then to live and work in the city, she filled the empty hours with running the home for her husband. Embroidery, especially tapestry work, drawing and painting and playing the piano – all the accomplishments of a well-bred woman – helped to keep the loneliness at bay. And then, her involvement in village life made her feel respected and needed.

  The recent Great War had frightened her and she could not quell the relief that her son was too young to be conscripted and that her husband was engaged in valuable war work. He would not be called up. Arthur had not turned his works over to the production of armaments, but he did manufacture bayonet blades, trench knives and cheaper cutlery for supply to the troops. Several of the young men from the village had been killed or maimed and her thoughts had returned to Martha Ryan as she thought of poor Walter.

  Constance set aside her tapestry frame, left the room and went downstairs to the kitchens at the rear of the house.

  ‘Mrs Froggatt,’ she addressed the cook, ‘I just saw Mrs Ryan leaving, but she didn’t come upstairs for her money.’

  ‘I think she saw the master, madam.’ The cook paused in rolling out the pastry for a Derbyshire pie she was making for that evening’s meal.

  Constance blinked. The staff never approached Arthur for anything to do with household matters and certainly never for payment of their wages; that was Constance’s domain.

  Mrs Froggatt dusted the flour from her hands and stepped a little closer to her mistress. ‘Polly –’ she nodded towards the housemaid on the far side of the kitchen – ‘said she heard raised voices in the master’s study, but I don’t know what it was all about, madam.’

  Constance was annoyed with herself. She had missed that little piece of intrigue. If she’d known, she would have listened outside the door of Arthur’s study. Constance was good at listening at doors; she learned a lot that way. But all she said now was, ‘Thank you, Mrs Froggatt. I’ll ask the master myself.’

  She’d turned and left the kitchen. Of course, she had no intention of mentioning the matter to Arthur. She would wait. She would find out eventually. Constance could be very patient.

  And now, maybe she would have to wait no longer. Grace Partridge had come with the answer to the question that had been puzzling her for months. Obviously, she had misread Martha’s departure that day. Constance had thought the woman had been angry about something, but she realized now that she could have been wrong. She had not seen Martha’s face and maybe her demeanour had been one of triumph. Martha Ryan had received the help she sought from Arthur, for now her son, Josh, was, according to Grace, employed at Trippets’ works.

  ‘What can I do to help the girl?’ Constance asked now, breaking the silence at last.

  Grace beamed at her. She’d known that she could rely on Mrs Trippet’s kindness and understanding. ‘Materially,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing, Mrs Trippet. Her father will care for her and supply everything she needs, but you could be a wonderful help in the village.’

  Constance smiled and put her head on one side. ‘By stopping the whispering and the pointing fingers, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll do that with pleasure. And I’ll see what I can find out about Josh Ryan too, because I think he should at least be told. Leave it with me, Mrs Partridge. We can’t judge the young man for not standing by her if he doesn’t even know about the child. And it rather explains something else that happened at Christmas. Thomas came home for two nights and I know he tried to see Amy, but he came back looking rather concerned. Her father had told him – quite brusquely, it seems – that Amy had a heavy cold, was in bed and wasn’t well enough to see him. Now, I understand why she avoided him.’

  That evening, over dinner, as she always did, Constance enquired about her husband’s day at his works.

  ‘Just the usual, my dear,’ was always Arthur’s reply and this evening was no different. ‘We are slowly getting back to normal after the war, but we still miss those who volunteered and who did not come back.’

  ‘But you’ve taken on new workers, I imagine? Men who were perhaps too young at the time to go to war.’ This was leading nicely into what Constance wanted to ask him.

  Arthur grimaced. ‘Yes, but of course they take time to train up.’

  ‘How’s Josh Ryan shaping up? Is he a good worker?’

  Arthur’s head snapped up and he glared at her down the length of the table between them. ‘What are you talking about, Constance?’

  ‘Josh Ryan. He used to be the village chandler after his father came back so badly wounded from the war. But the whole family has moved to Sheffield and I understand that he’s working at Trippets’.’ She shrugged. ‘I presumed you’d helped him.’

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Constance pretended innocence. ‘I thought you would have done. His mother was a very good worker for us and her poor husband—’

  ‘“Her poor husband” be damned. I want nothing to do with that family.’ He stopped short of telling his wife that he had seen their son and the Ryan girl at the Armistice Ball entwined in each other’s arms, much too closely, for Arthur’s liking. ‘I’ll put a stop to it all.’

  He rose from his place, his pudding only half eaten. He threw down his napkin and marched out of the room.

  Constance was left biting her lip, her appetite deserting her. She was very much afraid that instead of helping Josh as she had hoped, she had only made matters worse.

  Eighteen

  As the girls left their workplace on a cold and dark January evening, chattering and laughing, their breath misty in the freezing air, Josh stepped out of the gloom near the gate.

  ‘Emily . . .’

  She turned, startled by the sound of her name being called. Pushing her way through the hurrying throng, with Lizzie following her closely, she said, ‘Josh – whatever are you doing he
re?’ He was hunched into his thin winter coat and shivering. ‘You shouldn’t have come to meet me. There’s no need. Lizzie and I walk home together so—’

  ‘I daren’t go home,’ he blurted out suddenly. ‘I’ve been sacked. I can’t face Mam.’

  ‘Sacked!’ Emily was shocked and, beside her, she heard Lizzie give a startled gasp. ‘Whatever for?’

  There was no hiding the bitterness in his tone as he said flatly, ‘Old man Trippet. He paid a visit today. I mean, he often does, but he hardly ever walks around the whole factory. Usually, he just arrives in his Rolls-Royce, spends the morning in his office with Mr Bayes and then leaves. He doesn’t concern himself with the workers. But today, he decided to visit all the workshops.’ He sighed heavily and added sarcastically, ‘To wish all his workers a happy New Year, I suppose.’

  He paused and Emily prompted, ‘And?’

  ‘He spotted me and then pointed his finger at me and said in his booming voice, “What’s he doing here?” I couldn’t hear Mr Bayes’s answer but after only a moment, Mr Trippet strode across to me and shouted, “You’re sacked” in front of everyone, Emily. I’ve never felt so embarrassed.’

  ‘But why?’

  Josh shrugged.

  ‘Didn’t Trip put in a word for you?’ Lizzie put in. ‘After all, he helped get you the job, didn’t he?’

  ‘He wasn’t there. He works in another workshop, so I don’t know if he even knows about it yet.’

  ‘Didn’t you go and find him? Get him to reason with his father?’

  ‘Huh! There’s no reasoning with a man like Arthur Trippet.’

  ‘That’s true, Lizzie,’ Emily said quietly. ‘His word is law, and, after all, it is his factory.’ She slipped her arm through Josh’s. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

  Still Josh was reluctant. ‘What will Mam say?’

  ‘Oh plenty, I’ve no doubt, but we’ll have to face it sooner or later, so best get it over with.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Lizzie said. ‘Let’s go back in and have a word with the missus. She’s not left yet and she might be able to help.’

  Josh and Emily turned towards her.

  ‘How?’

  ‘What can she do?’

  In the light from the street lamp, they saw Lizzie tap the side of her nose and smile smugly. ‘There’re things I know that not many others do. Oh, I can keep my mouth shut when it suits me.’ She giggled. ‘Though you wouldn’t think so.’ She leaned a little closer and lowered her voice. ‘Bess Dugdale and Mr Crossland are – well, you know – friendly, shall we say.’

  Mr Crossland was the foreman at Waterfall’s.

  ‘Are they?’

  Lizzie nodded confidently. ‘Oh yes. Haven’t you noticed him visiting every Saturday night when Billy goes out with his friends?’

  ‘You mean – Billy doesn’t know?’

  ‘Oh, I think he knows all right, but I expect his mam and Mr Crossland want a bit of time to themselves.’ She winked and chuckled, then, all seriousness again, she linked her arms through both Josh’s and Emily’s and said determinedly, ‘Come on. No time like the present.’

  By the time the three of them walked home, Josh was feeling a little more hopeful. He hadn’t exactly got himself another job – or rather, Lizzie hadn’t quite managed to secure it for him yet – but they were all optimistic. Mrs Nicholson had promised to talk to Mr Crossland on their behalf. ‘Though he’ll want to know how you came to lose the job at Trippets’,’ Ruth had said. ‘But he knows George Bayes. Maybe he’ll have a word with him and then we’ll see, eh?’ She’d looked Josh up and down as if assessing him for herself. Then she’d smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can do. If you’re anywhere as willing and able as your sister, then you’d do for me.’ She’d leaned closer to Josh and in a loud whisper had said, ‘But don’t tell her I said so.’ Then she’d patted the young man on the shoulder and said, ‘You run along home and leave it with me.’

  Outside their home, Josh had hesitated. ‘Emily – you tell Mam. I – I just daren’t.’

  Emily took his hand and Lizzie gave him a gentle push. ‘I’ll come in as well. Maybe she won’t fly off the handle if I’m there too.’

  But Martha Ryan’s anger was not tempered by their neighbour’s presence. When the three of them entered, closed the door quickly against the cold night air but still stood ranged in front of it, Martha looked up sharply from the hearth, sensing at once that something was amiss. She straightened up slowly and glanced from one to the other, her gaze coming at last to rest on Josh. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  Behind her, in his chair, Emily noticed that Walter began to shake as if fearing trouble. Still, Josh made no move to enlighten his mother. With a slight sigh, Emily said, ‘Mam, Josh has – has been sacked. It was—’

  ‘What?’ Martha shrieked. She moved with a suddenness that startled them all and slapped Josh soundly across the face. At once Emily grasped her mother’s arm and pulled her away and Lizzie stepped protectively in front of Josh.

  ‘You stupid fool! What have you done? Haven’t we uprooted ourselves, dragged your poor father here, all for your sake, just so that you can better yourself? And now you’ve thrown it back in our faces! Oh, I see it all,’ Martha sneered. ‘You thought if you got yourself sacked, we’d go back to Ashford – back to that little trollop, Amy Clark. Well, you can think again, m’lad. We’re here and we’re staying here, so you’d best get yourself out first thing in the morning and find another job.’

  Josh stood with his shoulders hunched, his eyes downcast, but still he said nothing.

  ‘It wasn’t his fault, Mam,’ Emily began. ‘Mr Trippet visited the factory today and when he saw Josh, he went straight to him and told him he was sacked.’

  For a brief moment, Martha was unable to hide the expression on her face, but it was a look that mystified Emily and it was gone in an instant. Had she imagined it or, with the mention of Arthur Trippet’s name, did her mother now understand why Josh had been dismissed?

  ‘We’ve already spoken to Mrs Nicholson, Mrs Ryan,’ Lizzie said calmly, ‘to see if there are any jobs going at our place. She’s going to speak to Mr Crossland on Josh’s behalf.’

  ‘That’s good of you, Lizzie,’ Martha said stiffly. ‘We’ll have to wait and see, but – thank you.’

  She turned away and went back to the hob where a stew bubbled. ‘You’d better sit down and get your tea – the pair of you.’

  Lizzie smiled up at Josh, patted his arm and whispered, ‘Good luck.’

  Little was said as they ate. Emily, as usual, sat with her father and tried to feed him but the stew trickled down his chin.

  ‘Don’t waste it. If he can’t eat it, let him be.’

  ‘But he ought to eat something, Mam. He’s thin enough as it is.’ Emily smiled encouragement at her father, but his whole body only shook even more.

  Martha glanced at her husband and then looked away again. Little conversation passed between the family that evening and soon after they had eaten, Josh helped his father up the stairs to the bedroom.

  ‘Emily,’ he said, as he went back downstairs, ‘that bedroom is freezing. Can’t we light a fire up there for him?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much coal left. Mam says it must be kept for the range and the copper and I suppose she’s right. If we run out completely, there’ll be nothing left to cook or wash with.’

  Josh sighed heavily and made a futile gesture with his hand.

  ‘You go to bed,’ Emily said, trying to sound soothing and reassuring at the same time. ‘You’re best out of Mam’s way tonight.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll go up whilst she’s still busy with Dad.’

  Emily shook her head sadly as Josh crept quietly up to the attic.

  ‘Where is he?’ was Martha’s first question when she came down.

  ‘Gone to bed. He’s upset.’

  ‘Upset? I should think he is. After all I’ve done . . .’ She glared at Emily. ‘This is all your fault, you know.
’

  Emily looked up swiftly. ‘Mine? How come?’

  ‘You’ve taken up with Thomas Trippet again, haven’t you?’

  ‘I – I don’t understand. What’s that got to do with Josh?’

  Martha moved closer and almost spat in her face. ‘Everything.’

  ‘But – but it was Trip who got him the job in the first place. Sort of.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  Her mother was talking in riddles. Emily frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Martha took a deep breath. ‘When I told you that Mr Arthur Trippet had promised to help find Josh a job – that he hadn’t any positions in his own factory, but that he’d recommend Josh to his colleagues, well –’ she hesitated briefly before saying in a rush – ‘that wasn’t the truth.’

  Emily gasped and her eyes widened. She was shocked. She’d never known her mother to lie deliberately. They’d always been in such trouble as children if they’d told even the tiniest fib.

  ‘When I asked him to help,’ Martha went on, ‘he sent me off with a flea in my ear. Said that we’d be better staying in the village. That it’d be better for your father and that Josh had a nice little cottage industry going.’

  Boldly – perhaps rashly – Emily murmured, ‘I’d agree with him there.’

  Martha flashed a resentful look at her. ‘Oh yes, you’d see him trapped in a little job, wouldn’t you, and tied to that little trollop who lived next door to us?’

  ‘He could do worse,’ Emily muttered, her mind flitting to Lizzie. It seemed Martha was also thinking of Lizzie, but in a very different vein as she said, ‘He’d do better to marry Lizzie. I can see she likes him. And she’d be a better helpmate to him than ever Amy Clark would be.’

  For once, Emily found it impossible to disagree. Lizzie had already been so helpful and they were depending on her yet again to help Josh secure other employment. Now, Emily’s thoughts turned back to her mother’s accusation. ‘I still don’t understand why I’m to blame.’