‘Kit! You’re looking very windswept and interesting.’
She affected a shiver. ‘Aye, it’s right back-endish, isn’t it? Oh, it’s lovely to hear your beautiful Barnsley voice again!’ She clasped the hand he offered, endowing him with a wide smile. ‘What have you been doing with yourself. Eh, I shouldn’t really be talking to you!’ She dealt him a tap of reproach. ‘Going off like that and never saying goodbye to me.’
‘Aw, I’m sorry about that, me dear!’ The man in the tweed ulster retained her hand. ‘I just couldn’t stand another minute. I would’ve been up for murder. Eh, but I hear you’re not at Postgate Park any more. I saw one of your advertisements in the newspaper. I’m so pleased you’re doing well.’ He eyed the plate of sausage and mash that had just arrived. ‘Or at least I thought you were – what did you call that when it was alive?’ This last was directed at the waiter.
Kit muttered hurriedly, ‘Don’t upset him, I’m starving!’ She thanked the offended man, who stalked off.
‘You must be to even contemplate putting that anywhere near your mouth.’ Popplewell beheld the charcoal-coloured sausages with distaste. ‘You can get me a cup o’ tea!’ he called to the waiter, then put his bowler hat on a nearby table and sat down opposite Kit, wincing as she began to eat.
‘So, what are you doing with yourself these days?’ She rolled a portion of hot sausage around her mouth, trying not to smirk at his brown wavy hair which stood on end and looked as if it were about to take flight. ‘Where are you living?’
Through a row of irregular teeth, Popplewell told her that he no longer suffered the whims of a single employer but worked on a freelance basis, serving anyone who required his expertise for an extra special dinner party or banquet. There were plenty of moneyed folk round these parts to keep him busy. He had taken lodgings in Castleford, which was in a position to suit his needs, having numerous country mansions within its vicinity. The life suited him well, lending him more time to do as he pleased.
Kit replied that she enjoyed a similar life. ‘The only thing I miss about Postgate Park is the Christmas ball and your lovely cooking. I hate having to see to meself.’
There came instant invitation to dinner. It would be a pleasure to cook for one so appreciative, he said.
Kit beamed. ‘I’d love to if it wouldn’t put anyone out. Are you married yet, Mr Popplewell?’
‘No, still single. Mindst, that’s not to say I live like a monk.’ He noted a look of dubiety flicker across her face. ‘Oh, you’ve no need to worry on that score, Kit. There’ll be no funny business.’ He smiled as she relaxed. ‘No, it’s simply that I haven’t the time to devote to a wife. It wouldn’t be fair.’
During the next half-hour they caught up with each other’s news before Popplewell had to leave for an appointment. Scribbling his address down on a scrap of paper, he asked her to come next Monday evening when his services would be at her complete disposal – that was if he had not been evicted. He had already had numerous altercations with his landlady over his violin practice.
She portrayed surprise. ‘I didn’t know you were musical.’
‘My landlady would complain I’m not.’ Popplewell gave brief explanation that he had formed a quartet. ‘I’m not professional, it’s purely for my own enjoyment. I do so like a spot of torture.’
Saying she would love to hear it, Kit allowed him to leave, both of them looking forward to their next meeting.
* * *
After enjoying a superb meal at Mr Popplewell’s lodgings, Kit returned his invitation, saying that she could not offer the same excellence, but he would be more than welcome to visit as she did not wish to lose touch again. This was accepted, Mr Popplewell adding that she must come and listen to his quartet. He would be playing at a soiree next week at a friend’s house. No one would mind if Kit came along, she would be an asset to any party.
Thus she found herself introduced to a new circle of friends and dancing partners, all of whom were invited back to Ralph Royd for games of cards or charades or whatever home-made amusement Kit, a popular hostess, could muster. This sparked off a regular routine, with Kit going to Castleford to participate in dancing to music provided by Mr Popplewell’s quartet, and the following week Mr Popplewell and his friends – most of whom were men – coming to her house. All agreed that Kit was tremendous fun with her impersonations and the rude songs she had learned in London.
Though nothing particularly untoward went on at these parties, the succession of men who visited Kit’s house week after week, month after month, was bound to provoke gossip. Naturally, Kit was intelligent enough to realize this, but held the opinion that it was her own business, she worked hard, and would continue to reward herself in this manner as long as she chose. Not once did it occur to her that others might be sullied by the reputation she was fast earning for herself.
On Kit’s twenty-sixth birthday Mr Popplewell arranged a celebration, for which he provided both food and musical entertainment. Some months later, she in turn made him a splendid waistcoat for his fiftieth. They became even firmer friends. Yet, even after months of shared tomfoolery, she chose to ignore his insistence that she call him by his first name of George, unable to show such disrespect to one old enough to be her father. However, Kit had to agree that for one so decrepit, her friend had remarkable stamina and was more than able to keep up with this young woman, the noise from their get-togethers driving his long-suffering landlady into a fury.
Which was the reason why, when Kit arrived at his house one summer evening, expecting to be wined and dined, she found Popplewell, crimson with rage, standing on the pavement surrounded by a collection of shattered belongings.
‘The old – she’s chucked me out!’ came his spluttered explanation to Kit. ‘I wasn’t away an hour and she’s nipped in, had the lock changed and thrown all my stuff out of the window, didn’t even have the decency to carry it down the stairs. I should sue you, you old sow!’ Verging on apoplexy, he brandished his fist at the door that remained barred to him.
Kit had grown used to his tantrums, though still abhorred such unseemly displays. ‘Well, it’s no good standing here. Away, I’ll help you to pick your stuff up.’
‘And put it where?’ Saliva flew at his demand.
Kit tried to calm the little man by remaining composed herself. ‘Can you fit this in your dogcart? Well, go and get it and we’ll take it back to my house.’
He stopped ranting, though the veins in his temple still pulsated and his face remained flushed. ‘You mean, move in with you?’
‘Why not? I’d like a cook but I can’t afford one – at least, not one of your calibre. I’ll provide free shelter and buy the food in return for you cooking it.’
‘Hm, not daft, are you?’ Popplewell began to see the mutual beneficence. He studied her for a moment, then put out his hand and the deal was struck.
With his belongings heaped upon the dogcart, Popplewell drove them and his new landlady to Ralph Royd where he was given a pleasant room and the kitchen put at his disposal. Thereafter, whilst Kit spent her days at her sewing machine, catering for the gentry’s sartorial requirements, he provided for their other appetites, setting out with his dogcart heaped with culinary masterpieces for some stately home or other – but always, noted the village gossips, always returning here to spend his nights with Kit.
* * *
‘Father, where’s Sin?’ asked eight-year-old Probyn, trying unsuccessfully to flatten the unruly curl at the front of his head by plastering it with water.
Monty’s scrubbed face shot up from his newspaper, noting that his daughters had suddenly become ill at ease, only Meredith still young enough not to grasp the risqué situation. Somewhat tentatively, he asked what his son meant.
Without aid of a mirror, Probyn felt blindly to see if the auburn curl was still sticking up. ‘I heard Mrs Kelly say Aunt Kit was living in Sin – but I only saw her t’other day so she can’t have moved.’
Monty exchanged a brief b
ut telling glance with Sarah, who was washing the pots after their evening meal. This was not the first such reference to Kit. Owen had suggested their sister be taken in hand, her brothers had a duty to protect her from herself, but neither seemed eager for confrontation, hoping the situation would go away. In fact, since hearing that Kit had invested a lodger neither of them had visited at all. Monty asked his son to relate the full details of the episode.
Probyn continued to press the heel of his palm against his head, his attitude one of innocence. ‘Well, I were talking to Tommy Kelly and—’
‘Haven’t I told you about consorting with those ruffians?’ interjected his mother. She might be more polite to Mrs Kelly since Beata’s death but she still viewed the family as undesirable company for her offspring.
‘—And his mam came out and told him to get inside and I heard her say he hadn’t got to play wi’ me cause Aunty Kit was living in Sin.’
Sarah gasped at the irony of it – the Kellys looking down on them! ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ she snapped at her husband, her Welsh accent becoming more pronounced with her excitement. ‘You’ll have to tackle her. It’s all round the village.’
‘What is?’ asked Probyn.
‘Coal dust!’ evaded his mother and wiped her hands on a towel, leaving Wyn to dry and put away the pots. ‘Where’s that Alice got to? I told her to be in before I set off for Mothers’ Night.’ She was inspecting her agitated appearance in the mirror over the hearth when Alice came in. ‘Where have you been, young lady?’
Alice flushed. ‘You said it was all right for me to go to Eddie’s house if his mam was there.’ Eddie was her young man – a clerk at the glass factory. They had in fact not been at his house where there were too many prying eyes, but in the woods. ‘Sorry, if I’m a bit late. I just popped in at Aunty Kit’s on me way back.’
‘Yes, well, I think we’ll have to stop all this popping in,’ said Sarah firmly, ready to go.
‘Why?’
‘Never you mind! Monty, I’m off, see you at half-past eight.’ Her tone implied that there would be something to discuss when she got back from chapel.
And there was. His wife expected him to go round and confront his wayward sister that very same evening.
The objection that Kit might be in bed cut no ice. Sarah pointed out that to delay might result in his own daughters being polluted. He must order Kit to change her ways or else.
* * *
It was still light as Monty travelled down the incline and along Main Street, the pleasant summer’s evening jarred slightly by the sound of ranting from the wooden mission hall. Yet, his brother’s voice had a certain eloquence as it overrode the blackbird’s evensong, a mixture of politics and prayer.
‘We asked the Lord for a check weighman to stop the bosses cheating us, and did He give us it? He did, bless Him. I’ll serve Him till the day I die. We asked Him to make our Yorkshire brethren see sense and join us in our fight against oppression, and He sent His guiding light to steer us together in the Yorkshire Miners Association. By His blessed mercy our number now stands at three thousand!’ There came gruff shouts of support. ‘Three thousand, mindst – but there are sixty thousand hearts out there still to conquer. Men who grab the benefits we’ve won for them without lifting a finger, nor parting with a penny. Lord, we’re not expecting Thee to do this all on Thy own, we’re just humbly asking Thee to fill their ignorant hearts with Tha’ compassionate love. Give us t’soldiers and we’ll provide the battle. And united in Thy glorious cause we’re going to get that minimum wage and an eight-hour day, let them bosses see if we don’t!’
Owen’s voice fading behind him, Monty plodded on to his sister’s cottage, wondering just how he was going to broach such an indelicate topic.
Kit was surprised to see him at such an hour, for although it was light Monty would normally be in bed by nine. Guessing his visit must mark something of import, she made an excited assumption. ‘Has she had it?’ Rhoda’s baby was expected at any time. Monty had been pleased as punch to learn that he was to become a grandfather; Kit too was delighted at the prospect of becoming a great-aunt. ‘What did she get?’
‘It’s not about that,’ said Monty.
Kit sensed then that he was troubled. ‘Oh, you’d best come in then.’
He refused. ‘I’m not stopping, I just came to tell ’ee—’ He broke off, looking uncomfortable, then almost vomited his frustration in an ill-considered rush of words. ‘We don’t think you’re a good influence on the girls, spending all that money on fripperies and whatnot. Besides, there could be anything going on here, they could walk in and see things – so I just came to tell ’ee that we’re not cutting you off, you’re still welcome to call at our house but, well, you’re not to expect any more visits from us.’ He ended with an abrupt nod.
Kit appeared stunned. ‘But what have I done?’
Monty made furtive glances round his sister’s outline as if to see into the room behind her, as if someone else might be lurking. ‘Do you honestly not know? Are you deaf to all the talk that’s going round the village about the man you got living here?’
Kit laughed. ‘Mr Popplewell? For goodness’ sake, he’s my cook!’
‘A male cook,’ corrected Monty. ‘Kit, an unmarried girl can’t bring a man into her house and expect nobody to say aught – and if it’s so innocent, why didn’t you mention anything about it to us?’
‘If you’d bothered to visit me once in a while I’d have introduced you. Come and meet him now. I’ll call him down, he’s only just gone to bed.’
Monty reddened and muttered, ‘Don’t mention such a word. It ain’t proper.’
Hurt by his attitude, Kit urged her brother to come in and he would find everything was above board. She was to be further bruised by his refusal.
‘And what about all the other men who come here?’ he continued. ‘What reason are we to give our neighbours for their visits?’
Anger joined the hurt. ‘You can tell them that if I choose to entertain my gentleman friends it’s none of anyone else’s business.’
‘It is if you’re bringing our good name into disrepute.’ Monty did not raise his voice, his anger as ever restrained, but Kit was left in no doubt as to his feelings.
‘How can anybody object to a game of charades and a few songs?’ she demanded.
‘Are the gossips to know that? All they see is a load o’ men going into your cottage and they make their own minds up.’
‘Then they’ve got mucky minds,’ retorted Kit.
‘Have you never given a thought to what your family has had to put up with because of you? Now, I’m not telling ’ee how to live your life – much as I detest the path you’ve chosen – but I won’t have my children subjected to such behaviour. Right, I’ve said my piece, I’m going home.’ In dignified manner, he turned and walk off.
Shocked, Kit paused to watch his tall retreating figure for a moment before closing the door. When she turned back into the room a fully dressed Mr Popplewell had come downstairs.
He looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help hearing it all, your voices came drifting up through my bedroom window. Do you want me to leave?’
‘No, of course I don’t.’ In low spirits, she parked her wide beam on a chair and sighed. ‘I should have known I couldn’t enjoy meself round here without some nosy devil putting their oar in.’
Popplewell showed his maturity. ‘You’re young, Kit, but an old fellow like me should have given a bit more thought for your reputation. I don’t want to upset your family. I’ll leave.’
‘No, you won’t,’ insisted Kit. ‘I’m blowed if I’m cooking for meself just because they’ve got dirty minds. You’re staying put and so am I.’
* * *
At first, Kit was able to maintain her resolve, for even though she was denied the children’s company at her own house she was still permitted to see them at Monty’s so there was little hardship involved. But with the announcement that Probyn had been t
aunted by some older boys about his aunt running a knocking shop, and the consequent enquiry over what this might be, Kit decided that it would be best for all if she temporarily removed herself from the gossips.
Hence, she went to visit Amelia in York, whom she had not seen since Christmas.
Forewarned of Kit’s arrival by a letter, though as yet ignorant of the true reason behind her appearance, Amelia already had a little room prepared in her own quarter of her employers’ house. Escorting Kit to it, she bustled about in her maid’s uniform, smoothing and tugging at covers and curtains, taking over her sister’s unpacking.
‘Sorry about the awful stink!’ she said. ‘They haven’t been to water the roads in ages and we’ve had no rain to speak of to clear the drains. Come on then, let’s go see if Albert’s made that cup of tea and you can tell us all the news from home. I know our Rhoda had a little boy! Have you seen him?’ All the way down the stairs they discussed the new arrival.
Then, seated affectionately next to her husband, Amelia was given a report of recent happenings at Ralph Royd, Kit beginning with the least devastating snippet. ‘Our Ethel’s got a new job in Leeds. You’ll never guess what it is – well, you might, ’cause she’s had it written all over her since she was a bairn.’ Kit looked impish. When both sister and Albert failed to get the correct answer she blurted, ‘Prison wardress!’ And broke into giggles.
Amelia laughed heartily too, then, name by name, went on to ask after almost every person in the village. ‘How’s Mrs Feather? ’Cause she were poorly last time I heard.’
‘Gone for a slow walk and a cup o’ tea.’ Kit sampled her own beverage. ‘Went last Friday. Just on her way to deliver Mrs Kelly’s forty-ninth bairn – or whatever – and she dropped dead in t’street.’
Amelia looked at Albert and voiced sadness. ‘I’d’ve gone to pay me respects if I’d known. Was it a nice do?’
A Sense of Duty Page 39