When Day is Done

by When Day is Done (retail) (epub

  ‘At first I served their meals here, then Lottie and I had ours later on, but they said why didn’t we have ours with them. Mr Trent said it would be a shame if ours dried up before we had them.’

  ‘I’m dying to see him,’ said Josie. Kate had told her about Mr Trent and his job but they had never met.

  Kate and Lottie began to dish up the meal. The table was already laid, and as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed, Mr Culshaw walked down the stairs from the hall and greeted Josie. At almost the same moment there was a tap on the kitchen door and Mr Trent slipped in.

  Josie saw a slim young man with dark hair and eyes, and a livid scar running across his cheek. He had heard about Josie from Kate and Lottie, and when he was introduced he set out to charm her, offering condolences on Davy’s death, and asking about her job in the greengrocer’s.

  ‘Josie says the customers are miserable about the war,’ Lottie said as they gathered around the table.

  ‘What do you think about the war, Mr Culshaw?’ asked Josie.

  He looked startled, then said quietly, ‘There are rumours about a big push in the spring. That may decide things.’

  ‘At least you’re both out of it,’ Josie said to the two men. She smiled at them. ‘Not many places with two war heroes under one roof.’

  ‘There was nothing heroic about my injury,’ Mr Culshaw said quickly. ‘I was behind the lines helping wounded to a dressing station when I slipped and was run over by a gun carriage. My leg chiefly, and a rib pierced my lung, but nothing heroic, I assure you.’

  Kate expected Gordon Trent to speak of his injury, but he only smiled at Josie and said, ‘I suspect you’re a romantic, Mrs Thomson.’ Mr Culshaw left as soon as the meal was finished, but before that Josie had talked freely to him, and they had learned that he spent three evenings a week helping at a boys’ club. Mr Trent remained at the table with them, sipping tea.

  ‘D’you know,’ laughed Josie, ‘I can’t believe this. Guests eating in the kitchen. What does your aunt say, Kate?’

  ‘What can she say? We haven’t got coal for fires in the dining room or the parlour, and Mr Culshaw and Mr Trent don’t mind, do you?’ Kate appealed to Gordon Trent.

  ‘Not at all. It’s wartime and we’re fortunate to have good meals and a warm room in which to eat them,’ he said.

  ‘Imagine some of the other guests though, Kate,’ said Josie. ‘Mrs Bradley or Mr Hayman or Miss Norton. Mind you, Mr Barnes wouldn’t have minded.’ She glanced at Kate. ‘But the others! I thought they were like creatures from another planet when I came here. And that dining room. The food and all the dishes they used.’

  ‘It was another world,’ Kate agreed.

  ‘When you used to sit with them on a Sunday evening I didn’t know how you dared to eat,’ Josie said. ‘Mind you, Mrs Molesworth always said you was as good as any of them. Your mother was a Miss Green related to the Marquis of Salisbury.’

  ‘As Rose said, about forty times removed,’ Kate said.

  Trent smiled at them. ‘I’ll leave you girls to talk,’ he said, slipping away to his own room.

  ‘You’re a witch, Josie,’ Kate said when he was gone. ‘I’ve never known Mr Culshaw to talk like that. We never knew where he went at night, but he told you.’

  ‘No, we thought he was courting,’ said Lottie.

  Josie laughed. ‘And Mr Trent said I was romantic. He’s nice, isn’t he?’

  ‘He must be real good at his job,’ Lottie said. ‘The way he just slips in and out and you hardly know he’s there. You wouldn’t notice him in a crowd, would you?’

  Kate looked at her warningly. ‘Be careful, Lottie. It’s all right in front of Josie, but no one else.’

  Josie laughed. ‘I might have got Mr Culshaw to talk, but I didn’t get much out of Mr Trent, did I? Maybe they get trained to be like that.’

  In his room, Gordon Trent drew a deep breath, then let it out in a soundless whistle. That could have been nasty, he thought. That quizzing about war wounds. He’d have to do something about Josie. Make sure she didn’t chatter to her customers.

  He looked in the mirror at his scar, and smiled cynically as he thought of her assuming that he was a war hero, and her face if she knew how quickly he had deserted after being conscripted. It had been all right at first. His pals in London had kept him hidden until the fight with the Naylor gang. One of them had carved him with a cut-throat razor, but he had done his share of carving too. Too bad one of them was Naylor’s nephew, so now the Naylors as well as the military police were out to get him. Oggy and Ginge were probably after him too, because he’d scarpered with their share of their last haul as well as his own.

  He looked round the small, dark room. This was as good a place as any to lie low for the time being. He didn’t need to do another job for a while, and those two stupid women had swallowed his story and were eating out of his hand. Something would have to be done about that Josie, though. A blabbermouth if ever he saw one, but he’d try talking first. No point taking more chances than need be.

  He lay back on his bed and thought over the conversation. It confirmed what he’d seen in a quick shufti round the house. The furniture was all good stuff, solid mahogany mostly, and plenty of cut glass and silver in the dining room, carefully laid away now. The two canaries in the front room were loaded. Plenty of cash and knick-knacks. Jewellery. He needn’t go empty-handed, even if he left in a hurry.

  He could afford to wait, see how things worked out. Good pickings here, and the old aunt must be loaded too. He liked what he saw of the local prospects and he’d put a few feelers out when he was sure he was safe, maybe do a few jobs single-handed. Plenty of big houses about. He looked at his watch and got up and sluiced his face, then went back to the kitchen.

  The three girls were sitting round the fire, and he hesitated on the stairs from the hall, but they welcomed him and Kate offered a cup of tea.

  ‘I’m going in a minute,’ said Josie, and Gordon Trent said eagerly, ‘That’s really why I came down. I’d like to escort you home if I may, Mrs Thomson. It’s foggy, and with the blackout as well it’s not safe for ladies to be out alone.’

  Josie was flattered to be described as a lady, and Kate was enthusiastic about the plan. ‘It’s very good of you, Mr Trent,’ she said. ‘I was worried about Josie going home on her own. You’re right – it’s not safe the way things are.’

  As they walked home, Trent skilfully questioned Josie about Kate, and Josie chattered freely about her.

  ‘Kate’s too nice for her own good,’ she said. ‘The charwoman who used to work there, she said Kate was born to be put on because she thought everyone was as decent as herself. She got the dirty end of the stick when her mam died. The other sister got took off to live in a big house with their rich aunt, and Kate got brought here by the missus to be a drudge. Yet she wanted Kate to be posh as well because she was her niece. Mrs Molesworth said she made Kate neither fish nor fowl so it spoiled her for going out with lads.’

  ‘Does Kate see much of her rich relations?’ asked Trent.

  ‘Not as much as she used to because the missus has fell out with her sister, but Kate goes to see Rose and her Aunt Beattie. Beattie thinks the world of Kate. She used to be always slipping her sovereigns and other presents, and she gave her a purse with five sovereigns in it one Christmas. The missus made her put it in the bank,’ Josie said indignantly.

  Before they were halfway home, Gordon Trent had learned all he needed to know about Kate’s background, and he turned the talk to Davy and to Josie’s own affairs. After he had left her at her door, Josie realised that he had told her nothing about himself.

  She felt uneasily that there was something odd about him, and hoped that he was not becoming too interested in Kate, much as she longed to see Kate courting. Perhaps she had talked too much.

  The following day was Sunday. It was the sort of mild day which sometimes comes in February as a foretaste of spring, and Josie felt more and more unhappy and restle
ss as the day passed. She had slept badly, disturbed by Trent’s questions about Davy, and finally she went out and walked through Grant’s Gardens and sat down on a seat.

  She had never felt able to talk about her grief for Davy. So many of her neighbours had lost sons or husbands at sea or in the trenches, and when they talked of them Josie felt an outsider. ‘At least your man died in your arms in his own bed,’ several of them had said. ‘Not like my poor lad,’ and Josie felt she had no right to grieve.

  Kate would have been a sympathetic listener, but Josie was unwilling to burden her with her sorrow. Kate had such a miserable life, although she never seemed to think so, and at least Josie had known happiness and fulfilment with Davy.

  The mild day was fading into a cold grey evening, and Josie became aware that the man at the other end of the seat was in deep distress. His head was bent, with his hands covering his face, and his body was shaken by silent sobs.

  Josie felt unable to walk away, so she slid along the seat and touched his arm. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked gently.

  He lifted his head and wiped his hands over his tear-streaked face. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he said in an Irish brogue. ‘Sure, ye have your own troubles,’ looking at Josie’s mourning clothes.

  ‘Have you lost someone?’ Josie asked, expecting to hear of a relation killed in action, but he nodded then burst out, ‘Me little sister.’ Tears ran down his face again, but he wiped them with a bandanna handkerchief. ‘The baby she was, a little dote. She died far from us all in the Infirmary here. I’m after coming over to take her body home to be buried.’

  Josie’s soft heart was touched, and she wept with him, but soon he blew his nose and sat up straight. ‘It’s ashamed I am,’ he said. ‘It just came to me that she’d be wanting her mammy, but sure, so many have sorrow now. Husbands and fathers dying far away in foreign lands or on the sea. I’m ashamed to be crying here like a child.’

  ‘It doesn’t make it any better for you that other people have troubles,’ Josie said. ‘How old was your sister?’

  ‘Eighteen years old, ma’am,’ he said. ‘She came over with another older girl that had a job here, but Maeve met a man from Hull and went off to be near him, and Noreen was all alone here.’

  ‘Was she ill for long?’ asked Josie.

  ‘Only the two days, ma’am, with the fever, and before we knew it she was gone,’ he said. ‘Mammy and the girls are broken-hearted. There’s seven of them. I’m the only lad, but Noreen was ever the little dote for all of us.’

  He swallowed, and Josie said sympathetically, ‘There must have been a lot to arrange – for you to take her home, I mean.’

  ‘Ah, sure, Father Donachy at home did all that for us with a priest in Liverpool here,’ he said. ‘From St Sylvester’s parish. Father Burke. He’s been very good, so.’

  It was growing dark, and Josie said gently, ‘I think we’ll have to go. They’ll be closing the gates soon.’

  He stood up immediately. ‘It’s thankful I am for your kindness. Sure, I shouldn’t be burdening you, and you with your own troubles, I can see.’

  He was calmer now but he looked so wretched that Josie said impulsively, ‘Would you like to come home with me for a cup of tea? At least I was at home with friends when I lost my husband.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said simply.

  It was only a short distance to Josie’s house, where she stirred up the fire and put the kettle over it. ‘Have you got far to go when you get home?’ she asked.

  ‘Only Wicklow, ma’am, not far from Dublin we are,’ he said, and Josie saw how he gripped his hands together at the thought of the journey to come.

  ‘Please don’t keep calling me ma’am,’ she said quietly. ‘My name’s Josie,’ and he stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘Mine is Michael. Michael Malloy,’ he said.

  Josie had not lit the gas, and the little room was dark except for the light of the fire. It was easier for them to talk that way, and Michael told her more about his sister then he asked her about Davy. He seemed to assume that he had been a soldier, until she told him that Davy had died at home of consumption.

  ‘That’s why I understood what you meant when you said you were ashamed to grieve when other people had relations dying abroad. People round here think I shouldn’t cry because at least Davy died at home, but I’ve lost him just the same as they’ve lost their husbands. I’m on my own as much, even more because there’s so many of them.’

  Once she began to speak of Davy, it was as though the floodgates were open and all that had been dammed up inside her poured out. All her loss and grief and the guilt she felt because someone had said that marriage might have shortened his life. Michael listened without interrupting her, and now it was his turn to offer comfort.

  ‘And if it did shorten his life, sure, wouldn’t that be the way he wanted it? Ye gave him years of happiness instead of a longer life of misery, that’s all, and ye were his comfort to the end,’ he said.

  He talked of his own guilt that he had let his little sister be influenced by the older girl into going to England. ‘We all blame ourselves,’ he said. ‘But she was so set on it, and as Mammy said, hadn’t we ever given her her own way? Her being the baby and the little dote that she was.’

  The kettle had boiled while Josie was talking about Davy, and Michael had quietly drawn it on to the hob, but now Josie placed a pan on the fire instead. ‘We’ll have a drop of soup first,’ she said. ‘Only vegetable, but I work in a greengrocer’s so I can get plenty of those, and I got bones from the butcher’s.’

  Michael took out his watch and said uneasily, ‘Sure, I think I should be going. Nine o’clock. Ye have to think of your good name with the neighbours,’ but Josie laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘Sit down and have some soup.’

  As they ate she told him of her good meal the previous night, and about Kate and Lottie and the guesthouse, and he talked about his family, but his mind was never far from his dead sister.

  ‘Mammy is from the west,’ he said, ‘County Galway, but me da, Lord rest him, was a Dublin man. A Dublin Jackeen he used to say, but he was a grand farmer. He could always make two blades of grass grow where one grew before. I used to help him, and when we’d be coming home down the boreen Noreen would be running to meet him. I can see her now, her little fat legs and she yelling because she couldn’t reach him quick enough. Tired as he was, Da would break into a trot. “The secret of life,” he’d tell me. “Meet people halfway.” Sure, he was great gas always.’

  Before they ate, Josie had lit the gas mantle, and after having a cup of tea he said diffidently, ‘Would you ever write down your name and address, ma’am? I’d like to write to thank you for your kindness to me.’

  ‘There’s no need. You were welcome,’ Josie protested, but she willingly wrote down her name and address. ‘I hope everything goes right for the boat home for you,’ she said, and Michael gripped her hand.

  ‘Ye’ve been kindness itself to me,’ he said. ‘May your sorrow grow less and your life be easy, ma’am.’

  He went and Josie sat down again by the fire, feeling a sense of release from the burden of unspoken sorrow she had carried. She told Kate and Lottie about him on her next visit, and Kate said, ‘Poor man. What a sad journey for him,’ but Lottie was shocked.

  ‘You took a chance, Josie,’ she said. ‘He could have been a murderer.’

  ‘I knew he wasn’t,’ Josie said. ‘He was a real nice man and so easy to talk to. I hope he does write to me.’

  Kate was pleased to see Josie looking happier. Her own life was easier now that Mildred kept to her room except for a rare outing to the Mission, and there was less worry about food. She had framed the snapshot and put it beside her bed, and as the weeks passed, although she still read down the casualty lists in the Echo every night, she felt more confident that Henry would survive. Since her visit to his home she had allowed her mind to dwell on her memories of him more and
more, feeling that she was doing nobody any harm.

  She was often conscious of Gordon Trent gazing at her, but he said nothing and she told herself that she was imagining that he was interested in her.

  Less than a week later, Josie came in great excitement to tell Kate that she had received two letters from Ireland, one from Michael, and the other from his mother, thanking her for her kindness to her son. ‘She says she has no schooling but she got her daughter to write to me because she said her heart had been scalded not only for the child she had lost but for her poor son going among strangers in his grief. She said she remembered me in her prayers and God would bless me for my kindness to Michael. Don’t you think that’s lovely, Kate?’

  Kate smiled at Josie’s sparkling eyes and broad smile. ‘I do, Josie,’ she said. ‘And I agree with them. I think you’re a good, kind girl, and you had the courage to do a kind deed, and I’m glad it’s appreciated.’

  Letters passed back and forth between Josie and Michael, and then one day Josie appeared at the guesthouse with a large ham. ‘A man off the Irish boat brought me this,’ she said. ‘He said his second cousin was married to one of the Malloys and Mrs Malloy had asked him to bring me this.’

  She insisted that Kate used it for dinner, saying that she had no pan large enough, and she came for the meal of pea soup, ham, potatoes and cabbage the following night. ‘Food fit for a king,’ Gordon Trent said.

  Kate was not surprised when Michael returned to see Josie in March, nor when it was decided that he would come again to take Josie to Ireland to meet his family. The greengrocer refused her time off but she went anyway, saying that she could easily get another job later.

  She came back two weeks later ecstatic about the welcome she had received. ‘His mother’s lovely, very gentle, and so are his sisters. There are six left now. Two nursing in Dublin, two married. One in service in a big house in Howth, and Maggie, who’s still at home. They couldn’t do enough for me, Kate. And they seem to be related to half the village and they all invited me in for tea. I’ve never drunk so much tea in my life.’