In fact Isabel had found life behind the post office counter far less interesting than school. Only the postmaster could deal with the business side, sorting out the letters that arrived on the early train with the newspapers, to be distributed over a wide rural area by the postman and newsboy. On certain days there were magazines and comics to be displayed, and boiled sweets and liquorice sticks were sold from large glass jars. Isabel was entrusted with these sales, though as the place was primarily a post office she was counted as an assistant rather than a salesgirl.
But now Mr Teasdale was in a quandary, with no prospect of assistance. Unless…
The door pinged, and Mrs Cooper came in, wearing her habitual anxious expression. She looked from Mr Teasdale to his tearful assistant, and having noted that she was sober, he turned to her for help in his predicament.
‘Mrs Cooper, may I ask you a favour on behalf of my…of Miss Munday? She’s…er…not feeling well, and needs to be taken home to her mother. Will you…could you possibly go with her, Mrs Cooper? She really needs a woman’s help,’ he finished lamely, spreading out his hands in a helpless gesture.
Mrs Cooper stared at them both with her washed-out blue eyes, and something like a smile softened her worried face.
‘’Course I will, Mr Teasdale, if she don’t mind. D’you want me to come home with you, Isabel dear?’
‘Yes, please, Mrs Cooper,’ sniffed Isabel, wondering how she could hide the stain on her skirt. ‘I’ll get my hat and gloves. I’m sorry, Mr Teasdale.’
‘That’s quite all right, Miss Munday. Don’t come in tomorrow if you don’t feel up to it. Thank you so much, Mrs Cooper,’ he added to the lady who had not even been served.
Outside in the street, Isabel sobbed out her trouble. Mrs Cooper listened sympathetically.
‘And I think the back of my skirt is—’
Mrs Cooper discreetly looked, and took off her own long black jacket. ‘Here, dear, put this round you, so’s people won’t see. It’s all right, I’m warm enough without it, it’s a nice May day.’
Isabel accepted gratefully, but when they arrived at number 47 Pretoria Road, Mrs Cooper said she would not come in. Isabel took off the jacket and handed it back. All of which was observed from the parlour window, and Mrs Munday then appeared at the front door like an avenging angel.
‘Isabel, come in at once! At once, do you hear me?’
Isabel obeyed, and Mrs Cooper went on her way, glad to know that she had been of some use for once, and little Isabel Munday had been so grateful, even though her mother had ordered her indoors with unspoken disapproval. Where could she go now? Back to the post office for the stamps Eddie wanted for his invoices? Yes, that’s what she would do; she didn’t want to go back to an empty house, now that Mary was working for Mrs Yeomans at the farm, and didn’t get home until six or later, and Eddie never knew how long a job was going to take, so might be early or late. Joy Cooper dreaded being alone in the house, fighting off the craving that gripped her like a physical ache, making her groan out loud and long for some distraction – anything to keep her from going to her secret hoard in the loft, the hoard which Eddie didn’t know about; he would have had a fit to see her climbing the loft ladder. Just to know that it was there helped her through the day, but sometimes the urge to take a tot of brandy was uncontrollable, and she’d promise herself that it would only be one little tot. No! She dared not go home, but retraced her steps to the post office.
‘Most kind of you, Mrs Cooper. I’m sure Miss Munday’s mother appreciated your care for her daughter,’ smiled Mr Teasdale. ‘Now, what was it you came in for?’
Having purchased the stamps, Joy Cooper forced a smile, and engaged the postmaster in conversation – anything to delay going home to an empty house and the temptation in the loft. Mr Teasdale was always happy to exchange a word or two with his customers when not under the pressure of work, as on pension mornings. The thought led him to mention Mr Cox’s absence this week.
‘Oh, I see – and you’re wondering if he’s all right, Mr Teasdale? Hasn’t his daughter been in?’
He shook his head. ‘Not a sign of either of them, Mrs Cooper.’
‘Would you like me to call on him to see if anything’s the matter?’ she asked, grasping at anything that would take up a bit more of her time.
‘Why, yes, if you’d be so good, Mrs Cooper, and I’m sure he’d be glad to see you,’ said the postmaster, who had been wondering if he should check on Mr Cox. ‘I expect there’s some perfectly good reason for him staying away.’
‘Very well, Mr Teasdale, I’ll go round there and let you know if there’s any sort of trouble,’ she promised.
But by the following morning all of North Camp knew that old Mr Cox had suffered a stroke, and had lain on his kitchen floor all day. His daughter Mrs Blake found him at five o’clock, having spent the day shopping in Everham with her sister. When Joy Cooper arrived she found that the old man had regained consciousness, but was unable to speak or use his right arm and leg. Mrs Blake was hysterically accusing herself of not having checked on her father that morning, and Mrs Cooper calmed her as well as she could, saying that she would go at once to Dr Stringer. Mr Cox was taken to Everham Hospital where after three weeks he had recovered sufficiently to be allowed home under the care of Mrs Blake, helped by the district nurse and Mrs Cooper who promised to look in on him every day, privately thanking God that Mr Cox’s misfortune had turned out to be her salvation.
‘How very unfortunate that this should come on while you were at the post office!’ exclaimed Mrs Munday in a tone of mixed annoyance and self-reproach. ‘So embarrassing for you, dear, with only Mr Teasdale there. I’m very sorry that it’s happened this way.’
She had made Isabel strip off her clothes and put on a wool dressing gown. The stained garments were soaking in a pail of cold water, and a white-faced Isabel sat with a folded linen square between her legs, secured by safety pins to a narrow cotton belt; so now she knew what wearing a diaper felt like.
‘But it was lucky that Mrs Cooper was there to bring me home and lend me her long jacket, Mum,’ she pointed out. ‘I don’t know how I’d have got home else, with that awful bloodstain at the back.’
‘Yes, well, it was unfortunate,’ repeated her mother with a frown. ‘And…er…I suppose you knew where the blood came from…comes from, Isabel? You do understand that this is your first monthly period, and it means that your body is ready – it means you’re a woman now,’ she added awkwardly, annoyed with herself for blushing.
‘Yes, Mrs Cooper told me that on the way home, and said that when it comes again next month I’ll be prepared for it, with a diaper and safety pins.’
‘I’m sure there was no need at all for Mrs Cooper to talk to you in such a way, Isabel – that’s my duty, not hers, and of course I’ll see that you’re prepared for it next time,’ said Mrs Munday, ignoring the fact that Isabel had been entirely unprepared. ‘I didn’t think you’d start so soon. I…er…I suppose other girls at school talk about it sometimes, don’t they?’
‘Yes, Betty Goddard and Phyllis Bird have already started, and they’re more or less the same age as me,’ replied Isabel. ‘Betty’s mum told her about it before, and made sure she had a…a diaper with her for when it started.’
‘Yes, well, we won’t go into details, it’s not a very nice subject to talk about, and in any case I think it’s up to your teachers to warn you girls about it – I mean the lady teachers of course,’ said Mrs Munday, not noticing the inconsistency of this assertion. ‘Now then, dear, you’re going to rest on your bed, and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea. You look a bit pale.’
Violet Munday felt thoroughly put out, and tried to justify herself in her own mind. After all, her mother had never told her anything, and she’d learnt from two older sisters about their various bodily changes. And she didn’t blame her mother because – well, she’d found out how difficult it was to talk about periods and things, it was too personal, and she’d never sha
red her memories of her own courtship with her daughters. After all, it was nothing to do with them.
And yet… Violet’s eyes softened as she turned back the years to that long-ago summer at Hassett Manor, where she had been an eighteen-year-old housemaid and Tom, a year younger, was starting his seven-year apprenticeship with his own father, old Fred Munday, who still did jobbing carpentry and gardening in Hassett, carrying his worn toolbag from place to place. She remembered how Tom had come into the kitchen and asked for a drink of water for his father and himself – and the cook had nodded in the direction of the new maid. Tom later told her that he never forgot his first sight of the rosy-cheeked girl with curly hair and dark eyes that had smiled shyly into his – which was why he’d gone back again and again to ask for more water; it was a very hot day, and he and his dad were thirsty, he’d told her. That had been back in 1884, and the attraction had been mutual. Seven years later, when Tom’s apprenticeship was done, he had saved enough, with his father’s help, to put down payment on a tiny cottage for himself and his new wife Violet Terry. In those days young couples had expected to wait until they could afford to set up house – although Violet did not let her memory dwell too long on certain moments in those seven long years when she had walked out with her young man in the woods around Hassett Manor, and their longing for fulfilment had sometimes been almost unbearable. She remembered how he had slipped his hand inside her blouse and felt her nipples, sending a thrill like lightning throughout her whole body, and she had become aware of the hardness through his trousers, and heard his sharp intake of breath – and their kisses! It was just as well that she’d had to be in by nine o’clock on her one free half-day each week. But it was all a long time ago, and was a secret never to be spoken of, just as her present lawful union with Tom Munday was a very private matter, and nothing to do with her daughters.
She wondered about Ernest; had Tom said anything to him about growing up? For seven months now they had worked together as master and apprentice, and she supposed that Tom must have had some sort of man-to-man talk with his son when a suitable opportunity arose.
Ernest was wondering how much longer he could go on pretending that he wanted to follow his father’s trade as a carpenter and joiner, whether self-employed like Tom or with a builder’s firm such as Harry Hutchinson’s, who employed a bricklayer, carpenter, plasterer and painter, and towed his sacks of sand and cement on a trailer attached to his Ford Model T, the wonder of North Camp. Tom Munday had advised his son to choose the latter course, because he was clearly never going to be up to his father’s standard of craftsmanship, and the boy felt this; he suspected that Dad did not even like to see his precious tools being used, or rather misused in Ernest’s uncertain hands. Tom Munday’s toolbag was his trademark, and he carried it with pride; it was cut from leather instead of the usual strong calico, and when opened it was in the form of a circle with pockets for the various kinds and sizes of tools, the hammers and chisels, bradawls and screwdrivers. It folded in half and was tied with sturdy tapes, with leather carrying handles. Larger tools like planes were kept in a separate bag, as were the saws, their teeth protected by narrow wooden shields into which the blades slotted; everything was cleaned and polished to shining perfection. The tool shed was Tom’s own creation, built from elm, its roof sealed with pitch and its window kept as sparkling as those of the house. Shelves lined the walls, holding tins of paint, creosote and varnish; brushes were graded according to size, and cleaned with white spirit. There were small wooden boxes with a variety of nails and screws, and a locked cupboard where he kept his paperwork, the invoices and receipts; here too were his carpenter’s pencils, rulers, tape measures, set squares and compasses. Nobody was allowed in the tool shed, which was kept locked; Mrs Munday called it the holy of holies, and Ernest never felt comfortable in it. He dreamt of books and of writing poetry – which he did, secretly in his room, and sometimes in his head while working, to the detriment of his concentration.
‘Ernest! What the devil are you dreaming about now?’ his father would ask with increasing exasperation as the months went by and Ernest seemed as slow to learn as when he’d begun. Worst of all, he showed no pleasure in woodwork, no keenness to improve.
Violet Munday sensed the lack of camaraderie that ought to exist between father and son, and renewed her suggestion that Ernest should be sent to the commercial college at Guildford to learn basic office skills that would stand him in good stead as a junior clerk with a legal firm or bank. At first Tom had disagreed with her, but now that Ernest was almost eighteen and was clearly never going to be a practical man, he began to wonder if she was right. What he dreaded most was to hear his son spoken of disparagingly, as not being up to his dad’s standard, not a chip off the old block; Tom thought he would feel the shame of it perhaps more than his son. But commercial college would have to be paid for, and the boy would need to get lodgings in Guildford, a good fifteen miles away, and there was as yet no regular railway service from North Camp. Ernest would have to cycle to Everham Station to board the Guildford train, and Tom pointed this out to Violet who disliked the idea of her boy living in lodgings.
She frowned. ‘He’s very young, Tom.’
‘Good heavens, there are boys of eleven or twelve working in mills up north where every penny counts for families living in poverty, they’ve got no choice. What that boy needs is to start fending for himself and learning a bit of independence.’
And to get away from your mollycoddling, he added to himself. Much as he loved his only son, he occasionally felt like giving him a boot up the backside, and it would be good for him to get out from under the too comfortable parental roof.
And so it was decided. Mrs Munday made an appointment for Ernest to attend an interview with the superintendent of the college, and she accompanied him. They learnt that Ernest would be enrolled as a student for a one-year course in business studies, commencing in September. He would become proficient at typing and Pitman’s shorthand, bookkeeping and accountancy, together with basic French and German. It was pointed out that male students were outnumbered three to one by their female counterparts, but the numbers evened out in the more advanced subjects. Mrs Munday had no criticism to make about this, and her husband thought it a definite advantage, for Ernest was not a good mixer; Tom had become aware of the opposite sex at an earlier age than Ernest, and a year later had set his eyes on pretty Violet Terry; it was high time for Ernest to wake up and start to use his eyes and ears.
The college bursar, having taken the enrolment fee, recommended a Mrs Green who took student lodgers, and on leaving the college they went to call on her.
‘She seems a clean, respectable sort of woman,’ Mrs Munday reported to Tom. ‘She only takes young gentlemen, and I made arrangements with her for Ernest to take up residence when the new term begins. I told her he’d be coming home at weekends.’
‘Mm. Do him a world o’ good to stay in Guildford, Vi.’
‘There’s something I’d like to mention, Tom,’ she went on, sitting at her dressing table, brushing her long hair. ‘Have you had a word with Ernest, I mean about…well, the things he ought to know about growing up? Isabel had rather a shock when her first, er, period came on, and I don’t want that to happen with Grace – well, she’ll find out from Isabel, of course, with them sharing the same room. But what about Ernest? Have you spoken to him at all?’
‘Mm. Boys don’t have periods, do they?’ he said with a flicker of amusement that irritated her.
‘Don’t be tiresome, Tom. You know perfectly well what I mean. Ernest is old enough to…er—’
‘To clap his eyes on a pretty girl, you mean, like I did, remember?’ He grinned as he pulled back the eiderdown for her to get in beside him.
‘No, I’m quite serious, Tom. It’s your duty to speak to your son, and warn him about the…the ways of the world, especially if he’s going into lodgings, the temptations that await him, like—’
‘Like meeting a saucy little m
inx with bold black eyes and a come-hither look?’
‘Oh, you’re impossible! No, take your hand away. Will you just answer my question, Tom Munday, whether you’ve had a talk with Ernest or not?’
‘Violet, my love, I did try when he was in his last year at school, but we didn’t get very far. He went as red as a beetroot, and said he’d never joined any of the other boys when they, er, played around.’ It was Tom’s turn to feel awkward.
‘Played around? What, like football or something?’
‘No, Vi, I’m sorry to say that some boys have a habit of playing with themselves – and each other – in the school lavs, you know, erecting their cocks for the…just to be rude. I’m sorry, but that’s what some o’ them get up to on the quiet, and Ernest said he’d never had anything to do with such, er, immature fellows. And that was as far as I got, I’m afraid.’
After an initial gasp of disbelief, his wife was too shocked to answer, and to Tom’s relief she plumped her two pillows, turned over and went to sleep.
But poor Mrs Munday was in for another and worse shock. The following day she took Grace aside in the front parlour, intending to have a private talk. Her youngest child was now a high-spirited eleven-year-old who loved looking in the mirror at her pretty little face.
‘Sit down, dear, and listen to me carefully. I expect you’ve noticed that Isabel has started her periods – that’s something that happens to all girls when they become women. Do you know what I mean, Grace?’
‘Oh, Mum, I knew all about those before Isabel started hers,’ answered naughty Grace in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘It shows she’s ready to have a baby.’
‘Oh, my goodness, not yet!’ exclaimed her mother, taken aback by her younger daughter’s knowledge. ‘We’ll talk about babies later, when you’re older. We’ll just talk about periods this morning, and what happens when the, er, flow of blood occurs.’
The Carpenter's Children Page 3