Lisa Logan

by Marie Joseph

  She leaned forward. ‘Now then, luv. What’s going on next door is between you and your mother, nowt to do with me. But I haven’t got eyes in me head and ears stuck on the sides for nothing. An’ a woman what shouts and screams herself silly when she’s by herself needs seeing to. An’ if you’ve come for advice, then that’s it.’

  ‘Seeing to, Mrs Ellis?’ Lisa frowned. ‘Seeing to?’

  ‘The doctor, luv.’ The big, square, ugly face softened with compassion. ‘Nay, there’s nowt wrong with telling the doctor what she’s like. He won’t pack her off to a loony-bin, not when he knows how she’s had to come down in the world. It’s inside your mother what’s doing the screaming. I know a bit what it’s like, because I was the same when my ’usband got killed on the Somme, leaving me with two kids to fetch up. I was screaming all right, but inside of me.’ She thumped her chest. ‘Your ma’s letting hers out, that’s all, an’ it might not be a bad thing in the long run.’

  ‘We can’t afford to run up a doctor’s bill.’

  Lisa’s eyes filled with shameful tears. It was the kindness, she told herself. The overpowering heat from the glowing fire, and the warmth in the voice of the woman regarding her steadily through the whirlpool lenses of her spectacles.

  Suddenly it all poured out. ‘We were living far beyond our means, Mrs Ellis. We must have been in debt for years. Then, on the day my father’s moneylenders were going to take legal action, he cracked up and walked out on us.’ She lifted a tear-stained face. ‘Since then the people he owed money to have never left us alone. My mother has sold everything she can to raise cash, but she won’t ask for help. She’s got it all twisted up in her mind that by refusing to accept even the smallest amount, she’s getting her own back on my father.’

  ‘How much do you earn, luv?’

  ‘Seven shillings and sixpence, but after Christmas I’m being put up to ten shillings.’

  ‘And you’ve nowt else coming in?’

  ‘No.’ Lisa blushed. ‘A friend of … of my father’s pays the rent and has coal delivered now and again, but you see, Mrs Ellis, my mother hasn’t been used to managing. We always had maids to do the work and the shopping. She never used to bother about budgeting, she just spent and spent, and even now she still expects to be able to have her drinks and her cigarettes every day.’ Lisa’s head drooped. ‘She’s so lost and unhappy. I want to help her, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.’

  Leaning forward, Mrs Ellis removed the second flat iron from the fire. This wasn’t the time to get on with her ironing, even though she’d be up till midnight with all the things she had to do. To tell the truth she was properly flummoxed. Her quick untutored brain was in a ferment. She could speak for the woman next door to one of her ladies, but it would never do. A posh lady like Mrs Logan would make her ladies feel embarrassed. Anyroad, she doubted if this child’s mother had ever cleaned a room from top to bottom in the whole of her life.

  She sighed, levering herself up out of her chair, feeling helpless and stuck for what to say. There was no solution as far as she could see, even though sympathy never came amiss whatever the circumstances.

  ‘I know what we’ll do,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a nice cup of tea. Trouble seen through the steam of a good cuppa always seems lighter.’

  Lisa was taking her first comforting sip when the knocking began on the dividing wall. It was a loud persistent hammering, almost causing her to lose her hold on the thick white cup.

  ‘I’ll come in with you, luv. Mebbe I can talk some sense into her when she won’t listen to you.’ The chair rocked of its own volition as Mrs Ellis jumped up quickly.

  ‘No! Please! I’d rather you didn’t.’ Lisa was at the door. ‘I know what to do when she’s like this. I’ll manage. Honestly.’

  ‘But you’re nobbut a lass.’ Florence Ellis followed Lisa out into the street. Her square face was puckered with the anxiety of trying not to poke her nose in where she wasn’t wanted, and yet wanting to do something to help.

  ‘It’s all right. Really!’

  Lisa closed her own front door firmly, leaving the stout little woman actually wringing her hands on the pavement. She’d die if Mrs Ellis saw her mother in one of her terrible moods, she told herself dramatically. Then, squaring her shoulders, Lisa walked through the parlour into the living-room.

  Delia Logan had been – not all that long ago – an attractive woman. But as she climbed down from the stand-chair drawn close to the wall, a long-handled hammer held in one hand, her face was wrenched into an evil shape, the mouth hanging open with saliva running from the corners.

  ‘You’ve missed her!’ she yelled. ‘She’s been at the bloody window again! With her curlers in and wearing that awful pinafore. She was saying how much she hated me, with her ugly fat face pressed up against the glass. Next time she does it I’ll kill her! I will, you know. She’s not spying on me, the miserable faggot!’

  ‘It’s all right now, Mother.’ Gently Lisa took the hammer from Delia’s hand. ‘Come and sit down. See, have a cigarette. I’ll light it for you.’

  As Delia inhaled, Lisa closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could shut out the sight of her mother puffing and gasping on the cigarette.

  ‘Do you know your underskirt’s showing at least two inches below your frock?’ Unbelievably Delia spoke in her normal voice. ‘We have to keep up our appearances, you know.’

  ‘Oh, Mother.’ Putting her arms round the thin shoulders, Lisa rocked her to and fro in an agony of pity, tempered with a fierce protective love.

  Five

  ‘A CUP OF Oxo’s no sort of dinner for a growing girl.’

  Miss Howarth bit into a beef sandwich. ‘Here, have one of my butties, luv. You look to me as if you need feeding up.’ She smiled, showing ivory dentures, with gums of a bright shocking pink. ‘If what’s in my butties has once looked over a gate, then it’s all right for Daisy Howarth.’ Her long face sobered. ‘It’s been awful these past few days listening to them telling on the wireless about the King’s life drawing peacefully to its close, hasn’t it? I don’t reckon Edward will make much of a king. Too fond of the women for my liking. Going out dancing down in London in nightclubs, night after night. He’s a loose liver, if you want my opinion.’

  Her pale eyes widened in surprise as she saw the way Lisa crammed the sandwich into her mouth. ‘Didn’t you have no breakfast, luv? You’ve been looking proper peaky lately. Mr Carr noticed it. “I hope we’re not overworking our Miss Logan” he said only the other day.’

  Lisa forced herself to take a smaller bite. It was now the end of January, and since Christmas she had made two journeys to the second-hand jewellers at the top of King Street. Soon they would have to start selling the last pieces of silver cutlery and more transportable pieces of furniture. Food was the immediate priority. She had become used to people staring at her darned stockings and the shrunken black jacket so washed out of shape that the collar rolled over when it should have lain perfectly flat.

  Constantly cold, constantly hungry, she saw her mother sink lower into depression. Delia sat crouching her days away in the chair by the fire, smoking precious pennies as she lit one cigarette from another, refusing to do even the smallest task, and exploding into fury when asked.

  ‘I’m not being nosey, luv, but you’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?’ Miss Howarth fiddled with her prune-coloured hair in an embarrassed way. ‘I mean, a trouble shared is a trouble halved, I allus believe, and what you tell me won’t go no further. May God strike me down dead if I breathe a word.’

  Lisa smiled brightly, averting her eyes from the greaseproof paper bag in which a left-over sandwich lay. ‘Goodness gracious, no, Miss Howarth. My mother has suffered from nervous trouble since my father … since he died, but when the better weather comes I’m sure she’ll improve.’

  ‘Ah, nerves.’ Miss Howarth nodded with understanding. ‘Give me a decent appendix or a broken leg any day. Them you can deal with. Nerves is differe
nt. Poor soul. How does it take her?’

  The shop doorbell pinged, and with relief Lisa went into the shop. How could she explain to anyone that, although Delia had stopped banging on the wall, her present mood of total apathy was almost harder to bear? The worst part was that she seemed to have lost her desire to keep up appearances. Now she only washed when told to, and Lisa’s fear of her ferocious rages was overridden by a much greater fear that her mother would go on sitting there, smoking herself potty.

  ‘Three yards of white pique,’ the woman across the counter said. ‘It’s for a dress for my daughter.’ Her eyes glowed with pride. ‘She’s seventeen at Easter and we’re taking her on a cruise. To Madeira. Like the cake, you know,’ she added, adjusting the red fox pelt round her neck. ‘I’m having the dress made up plain.’

  Lisa stared into the glass eyes of the small pointed furry head, pitying the small creature which had once raced free through fields, its bushy tail streaming behind. She adjusted her smile. ‘It would smarten the dress up if you added a woven canvas belt, something like those over there.’ She pointed to a display. ‘One in red, white and blue would look lovely, especially if you added a small silk scarf at the neckline.’ She reached for a box underneath the counter. ‘These are the very latest. I saw Lady Astor wearing one in a copy of The Tatler the other week.’ Draping one round her own neck she tied it in a neat knot, pulling it to one side with the same flair her mother had once shown by adding accessories to a plain dress. ‘See? Like this.’

  Richard Carr’s watchful eyes missed nothing. When the woman left the shop carrying a belt and scarf in addition to the dress material, he moved round to Lisa’s counter.

  ‘A very good piece of salesmanship there, Miss Logan.’ He fingered his fair moustache. ‘Those scarves have been sticking for a long time. Maybe we’ll drape a few over the materials in the window.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Did you really see a similar one on Lady Astor in The Tatler?’

  ‘Either that or Country Life.’ Lisa busied herself rolling up the bolt of white cotton pique, seeing in her mind’s eye the coffee tables at The Laurels piled with glossy magazines.

  She wished Mr Carr would go away, but there he stood, staring at her with his head on one side. Since coming to work at the shop she had discovered three things about Richard Carr: he was ambitious, he was a snob, but in spite of this he was basically a kind man. He was experienced in retailing, with a keen eye for what would sell. Making a go of the shop was his chief purpose in life as far as she could make out. Miss Howarth had confided that Mr Carr was a widower with a six-year-old girl, looked after by a housekeeper in a nicely set-up house out on the Chorley side of the town.

  For a while now Lisa had been formulating an idea in her mind. It would mean even longer hours and harder work, but hard work could usually be translated into money, and without more money to spend on food both she and her mother would never survive. It was as simple as that.

  She leaned forward, eagerness lighting up the sad contours of her pale face. ‘A lot of women come into the shop to look at curtain material, then tell me how they dread having to make them up themselves.’ She paused. ‘They will pay a dressmaker to sew skirts, blouses and dresses, but curtains, well, they seem to begrudge paying what they call good money to a dressmaker for running up straight seams and inserting rufflette-tape.’

  ‘And?’ Richard regarded her intently. He was, in fact, more than intrigued. He never remembered coming across a girl with as much spirit and direct enthusiasm as his little Miss Logan. Employing her had been one of his better moves and, just as he had predicted, her accent and self-possession had proved a decided asset.

  Lisa turned on the charm. ‘I’ve heard there’s a shop in Manchester which makes up curtains free.’ She let this sink in. ‘So, you see, Mr Carr, if we offered a similar service we would be bound to sell more material. So, in the long run, it would all be to our benefit. And since they finished the alterations to the Market Hall, there’s a stall set up calling themselves “Lace Curtain Specialists”. We’ll have to watch them!’

  Conscious that he was hesitating, half turning away, she spoke up. ‘I know you’re thinking that paying the wages of a machinist would kill any profit, but I would do the sewing myself. There’s the machine in the back hardly ever used, and if you paid me a small commission on any orders which included making up, we’d both be more than satisfied.’ Her eyes dared him to refuse. ‘I know I’m right, Mr Carr. Within six months I expect a lot more women will buy their curtain materials from you, simply because they’re getting them made up free.’

  ‘And the tape?’ Richard tapped the side of his nose. ‘They’d have to pay for that.’

  ‘Of course. They would be buying that anyway.’

  ‘And overtime? I put you up at Christmas, you know.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Lisa spoke quickly, sensing she was winning. ‘Not until it’s proved to be working. Just the commission, like I said.’

  Richard was stroking his moustache now with nervous strokes of a long finger. He recognized that this young girl was in a strange way his equal when it came to business acumen. He had seen her sweet-talk a hesitant customer into buying and, what was more remarkable, he had seen her change a customer’s mind for her when she chose, in Lisa’s opinion, a colour or type of material that would do nothing for her. And, anyway, not only was what she was suggesting a viable proposition, it could lend tone to the business. It might even double his sales of curtain material.

  ‘So I take it you agree, Mr Carr?’ As the door pinged open, Lisa’s manner was brisk.

  ‘We could give it a try.’ Richard stepped back, seeing how Lisa’s smile widened to welcome the potential customer.

  It was a smile compounded of triumph and the thrill of achievement. Lisa knew she had won. Alone she had placed her cards on the table to see them snatched up by a man who had forgotten for a moment that she was merely a young girl turning on the charm.

  Lisa Logan had pulled off her first business deal, and the sensation was one of pure joy, and a pride that lifted her way out of the over-cluttered shop into a situation where, as her imagination soared, she told herself that never again would she feel hungry, or have to storm at her mother for smoking their food money away.

  ‘Well, yes, madam,’ she told her customer. ‘But I think you’ll agree that this slightly more expensive velvet drapes much better? Also, the shade has that subtle difference which shows good taste. I expect your carpet is patterned? Yes? So naturally you want that to be the focal part of the room, making the curtains merely an understated influence?’

  The woman gaped. How did this young girl, who looked as if she’d not long left school, know she had a patterned carpet? And what was she doing standing behind the counter of a shop talking posh like that?

  ‘Velvet is so hard to make up, isn’t it?’ Lisa carefully measured the yardage against the brass rule, folded the material and took up the large shears. ‘Would you like me to cut it into two lengths to make it easier?’

  ‘Please.’ The woman leaned closer. ‘To tell the truth I’ve put off buying new curtains. My husband bought me a new Singer sewing machine last year and now he expects me to make everything with it. Curtains really get me down. And they’ll have to be lined, won’t they?’ She pulled at the finger of a leather gauntlet glove. ‘Oh, dear. I’d just as soon have made do with the old ones, but we’re having the decorators in and I can’t for shame put the old ones back up. The linings are all shredded.’

  Lisa felt as suddenly alert as if someone had prodded her hard in the small of her back. ‘Oh, didn’t you know, madam? Mr Carr will make the curtains up free. It’s a new innovation.’ She said the word in a firm, clear voice, actually tasting the feel of it on her tongue. ‘If you will let us have the exact measurements of your windows we can have them ready by the weekend.’

  Two round eyes narrowed into calculating slits. ‘Free, did you say?’

  ‘Excluding the tape and the cotton, of course.’ Lisa
smiled. ‘With a 6-inch, hand-sewn hem, I’d suggest. In case of shrinkage.’ She fingered the soft material. ‘And, yes, you’re right about having them lined. Stops them fading if the room is south-facing.’

  ‘An’ I thought there was no money about!’ Miss Howarth came round to peer over Lisa’s shoulder as she wrote down in a neat hand the orders for three pairs of curtains. She perched herself on the high stool, only for use when the shop was empty. ‘Fancy you telling her Miss Muffet Print at sixpence a yard will make nice bedroom curtains. That’s a new one on me. Miss Muffet Print’s only for frocks, I would have thought.’

  ‘Why?’ Lisa licked the end of her pencil. ‘If the colours are right and it’s gay and colourful, what does it matter? It’s for a child’s bedroom, anyway, and with a pink carpet this fresh green sprigged should look lovely. See, there’s a trellis of pink here and there. It should pick up the colour of the carpet beautifully.’

  ‘Well I never!’ Miss Howarth stared at Lisa in amazement. Who would have thought a slip of a girl like Lisa would know anything about soft furnishings? You could work in the trade all your life and still get no further than being able to measure a yard without having to resort to a rule.

  ‘You’ve got a proper gift, luv. Did you know that?’ she asked smiling, and if there had been as much as one jealous bone in her body Daisy Howarth would have turned bright green. ‘When are you going to make a start on them?’

  ‘This afternoon,’ Lisa said promptly. ‘It’s half-day closing. I’ll ask Mr Carr for the key.’ Her face lost its bright look. ‘I’ll have to go home to see my mother has her lunch, but I’ll come straight back.’

  ‘And see you get some dinner yourself. You look half clemmed to me.’

  Lisa nodded. Because it was Thursday she had exactly six pennies in her purse. There had been a jumble sale at the Methodist Chapel the previous Saturday and Mrs Ellis had been entrusted with two whole shillings to spend on her behalf. Now Lisa was the proud possessor of a pair of black court shoes, which, lined with cardboard insoles, fitted perfectly. Into the neck of a black jumper shrunken in the wash but costing a mere twopence, Lisa had tacked one of Delia’s white lace collars.