There had to be thousands of people who were stuck in jobs they hated. How did they keep going while the tedium ate away at Lydia until she exploded?
Hearing a cough, Lydia saw Grace standing at the alley entrance. Wonderful. An audience.
‘Have you left any belongings in the bakery?’ Grace had asked. ‘A coat perhaps? I could fetch it for you.’
The urge to repel came automatically. ‘Don’t bother.’
Grace had only smiled. ‘It’s just that I left the baker shaking crumbs out of his hair. He might not let you back in for fear of flying meringues and jam tarts.’
Lydia had kept her glare in place for a moment, then saw the absurdity of the situation and laughed. ‘The man’s a nag,’ she’d said. ‘“Two twists to fasten the paper bag, Miss Grey”,’ she mimicked. ‘“Tempt the customers, Miss Grey. Tell them how soft the bread is under the crust.” It’s just bread, for pity’s sake!’
‘He’s running a business.’
‘Does that mean he has to be pernickety?’
‘He has a family to provide for,’ Grace had pointed out reasonably, and Lydia knew the fault lay with her own rotten temper. Again.
‘I’m Grace Lavenham,’ the girl said.
‘Lydia Grey.’
‘What are you going to do next? Try a different shop?’
‘I’ve already worked in three and hated them all.’ Lydia had walked out of one and been fired from two.
‘What would you prefer to do for a living?’
Lydia had hesitated, remembering the mockery she’d encountered when seeking the sort of work she wanted when she first left school. But instinct told her Grace Lavenham would neither laugh nor lecture.
‘I’d like to work with cars. Learn to drive them, look after them, sell them, or all three.’ There. Lydia looked at Grace, relieved to see that the other girl appeared to think there was nothing at all ridiculous about a woman working with cars.
‘Women proved they could work with motors in the war,’ Lydia continued. ‘They drove lorries and ambulances, and kept them running too. But what happened when the war was over? Women had to give up the good jobs and go back to domestic drudgery.’
‘You’ve been turned down for motoring jobs?’
‘Plenty. Men are such idiots! One manager told me it wouldn’t be worthwhile teaching me to drive because I’d only go off and get married. Another said it wouldn’t be fair to have me on the delivery staff because the lads would feel obliged to help me with loading. Or I’d distract them with my feminine charms. As if I’m not as strong as an ox and couldn’t slap down any man who tried to get fresh! A man in a salesroom told me his customers wouldn’t buy cars from a woman. And a man in a car-hire place said his customers would be embarrassed to be driven by me. What a pathetic bunch!’
It’s an unfair world,’ Grace had admitted. ‘But it’s beginning to change. The suffragettes finally won women the right to vote. Some of them anyway.’
‘Only those over thirty with property. Not young, poor women like us.’
‘It’s a step in the right direction. So is the way Parliament is going to consider changing the law so women can divorce men for adultery the same way men can divorce women. Every step is small, but given time…’
Lydia had guessed that Grace was another like herself who found the world restricting, though her air of mature and steady determination made her better able to cope with it.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you find work with motors,’ Grace went on. ‘But there’s a vacancy where I work. A housemaid’s job. I won’t pretend it’s exciting and the housekeeper isn’t an easy woman. Neither is Mrs Arleigh, but—’
‘Mrs Arleigh? Of Akerman’s Ales?’
Grace had nodded.
‘My father’s a foreman at Akerman’s Ales.’ Again, Lydia had hesitated, but again she’d sensed that Grace Lavenham wouldn’t mock. ‘He’s got a reputation around here because he fancies himself a socialist.’
‘The Ruston Bolshevik?’
‘Mmm. Though there’ll never be a revolution left to him.’
‘If you took this job, you’d have to brace yourself for nagging from Mrs Preece and condescension from Mrs Arleigh, but as long as the work gets done you won’t see a lot of them. Hooper, the chauffeur, isn’t a bad sort. He might let you look at the Arleighs’ car sometimes. And you’d like the others.’
‘The others?’
‘Jenny and Ruth. We all live in together. I should have said that the job involves living in. Would your father object to that? Perhaps you keep house for him?’
Everyone knew the Bolshevik’s wife had run off with a fancy man.
‘My father wouldn’t notice I’d gone,’ Lydia had said.
She’d never considered going into service as it sounded dull and demeaning. She’d never thought to have friends either as she’d always been on the outside of the giggles and confidences shared by girls at school. But Grace Lavenham wasn’t as irritating as most people and Lydia needed a job. If that job could get her away from Meadow Cottages, all the better.
So it was thanks to Grace that Lydia had gone to work at Arleigh Court and thanks to Grace, Jenny and Ruth that she’d managed to stay there for almost three years.
Now Lydia was alone again. She’d struggled to get work even before her dismissal. Who on earth would employ her now she had a stain on her character?
Without work she’d have to stay at home and keep house for her father. What a slow death that would be. But she couldn’t expect the others to come to her rescue again. They had problems of their own.
Seven
Anxiety for the others took Grace to the fete early. It was her fault they’d been caught up in the allegations over the necklace because it was her fault they’d been working at Arleigh Court.
Grace had been friends with Jenny since their days at Ruston Elementary School, an enjoyable if not particularly stretching experience for Grace, but a difficult one for Jenny. Not because she was slow, but because the other girls resented her golden loveliness. Grace hadn’t cared about being cast into the shade by Jenny’s beauty. Her priority had been to do well at school so she could move on to a good job and provide for Gran. She’d been glad to take Jenny under her wing. Naturally, they’d talked about their futures as they grew. ‘I’m going to take a correspondence course in shorthand and typing, so I can become a secretary,’ Grace had confided.
She’d never wavered from that ambition, so Jenny had been puzzled when Grace left school to work as a chambermaid at the Ruston Lodge Hotel, a tired establishment on the outskirts of town that catered for commercial travellers.
‘I need to be able to use a typewriter to pass my diploma and there’s a typewriter in the office,’ Grace had explained.
‘You’ll be allowed to use it?’
‘Not yet, but give me time.’
Grace had made a bargain with Mr Collins, the manager. If she showed him how to reduce the hotel’s expenses by at least a hundred pounds each year, he should let her practise on the typewriter in her off-duty hours.
Three weeks later, she’d presented him with her plan. ‘He’d been using the same suppliers for years and they’d grown complacent with their prices,’ she’d explained to Jenny. ‘Laundry services, cleaning and catering supplies… it was just a case of negotiating better prices and discounts or moving to new suppliers.’
Jenny had looked impressed. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said I could practise on the typewriter whenever I liked.’
Grace had remained at the Rutland Lodge even after she got her diploma, but working in the office instead of on the domestic side. With some experience under her belt, she’d moved on to the job with Doctor Arleigh, intending to it to be a stepping stone to other opportunities. But Gran’s health had worsened and Doctor Arleigh had been willing to treat her for free, so Grace had continued working for him, tolerating the domestic duties his wife imposed occasionally to keep Grace in her place.
Jenn
y had apprenticed herself to a dressmaker on leaving school, lured by the promise of promotion to partner one day. When the promise had proven empty, she’d become lady’s maid to a Mrs Macauley, thinking she might enjoy creating ensembles of clothes, hair and accessories. But Mr Macauley invested his money unwisely and eventually Jenny’s services could no longer be afforded. As Mrs Arleigh’s maid was leaving to get married, Grace had suggested Jenny apply for the position. ‘Mrs Arleigh is an unpleasant woman and the housekeeper’s no better, but living-in will get you away from Jonas and it’ll be nice for us to work together.’
Jenny’s application had been successful and Grace had thoroughly enjoyed working with her despite the awfulness of Mrs Arleigh and Mrs Preece. Until the current catastrophe.
Grace had got to know Ruth because Doctor Arleigh tended Bert Turner’s leg wounds and prescriptions for him were either collected by Ruth or delivered by Grace. While Eunice was known throughout Ruston for the lash of her tongue, Ruth was the sweetest of girls – polite, helpful and eager to please, but hounded mercilessly by her mother.
The nagging didn’t affect Ruth’s nice nature but it did crush her confidence, especially as it was reinforced by criticisms of her appearance. ‘It must be cold outside judging from Ruth’s big red nose,’ Eunice had said one day when Grace had dropped in with a prescription just as Ruth had returned from running yet another errand for her shrewish mother.
Another time Grace had heard obnoxious Percy Turner mock his sister’s size by calling her the runt of the litter.
It was ridiculous. Ruth’s nose wasn’t big at all and she was petite rather than stunted. And even if she wasn’t quite a beauty, she was very pretty indeed with those soft brown eyes and gentle smiles.
Deciding Ruth needed to escape while she still had some chance of happiness, Grace had seized the moment when another vacancy opened up at Arleigh Court to urge Ruth to apply for the position, catching the shy, nervous girl when she’d come to pay a doctor’s fee. ‘If you’re going to be treated like a servant, you might as well be paid for it,’ she pointed out.
Ruth had looked a little scared at the open criticism of her parents but she’d never given the impression of being stupid and she made no attempt to pretend she was treated well. ‘My family says I’m needed at home,’ she’d said instead.
Ruth had only been eighteen but Grace guessed her future had already been mapped out. She was to be the spinster daughter who stayed at home to look after her ageing parents and be at the beck and call of her brothers’ families. Doubtless it was with a view to keeping Ruth on this path that Eunice – usually a money-grabbing sort of woman – had foregone the financial contribution her daughter could have made by working elsewhere.
‘Your four brothers share a bedroom, don’t they?’ Grace had asked. ‘Tell them one of them can have your room if you live in at Arleigh Court. That’ll get them on your side. And tell your parents your father might get better care if you’re working for Doctor Arleigh.’
Ruth’s brothers had soon seen the benefit to their own comfort, especially as their mother was still fit enough to cook and clean for them. And Eunice liked to indulge her sons even more than she liked to thwart Ruth.
‘I’ll want some of your wages, though,’ she’d warned Ruth. ‘And if I say you’re needed at home, you come home.’
Fortunately, Eunice never had wanted Ruth at home. Instead she’d been glad to take Ruth’s money and save up chores her for to do on her weekly visits. It had delighted Grace to see Ruth’s personality emerging once she’d got away from Eunice. She had a natural merriness that was deeply endearing.
Lydia had been Grace’s last recruit. Proud and prickly, Lydia was hard to help and Grace feared she’d simply drift back into isolation. But it was Lydia who arrived at the fete next. Grace saw her in the distance and felt enormously relieved. Despite the gravity of their situation, she also felt a moment’s amusement.
By rights, Lydia should have looked exactly what she was – a girl who’d made no effort with her appearance. Hatless, she’d shoved her hands into the pockets of a longline grey jacket that hadn’t been pressed and, though she carried a bag, it swung from her wrist in careless disregard.
In reality, Lydia looked as elegant as a drawing in one of Jenny’s fashion magazines. Partly this was due to nature’s gift of long straight limbs, a slender neck and a beautifully shaped head that the shining black bob outlined to perfection. But it was also due to the haughty way Lydia held herself, appearing to notice no one as she strode disdainfully across the field.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ Grace smiled.
Lydia shrugged. ‘Nothing else to do.’
‘How did your father take the news?’
‘With a grunt. But he didn’t have to dwell on it. Karl Marx was waiting.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It means I’m free from any ties. Unlike the rest of you.’ With that, Lydia dipped her head towards the bustling activities. ‘What’s here?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only just arrived too.’
Glancing round the common, Grace saw a wide circle had been roped off in the middle. Here the fancy dress parade would take place and there’d be presentations of prizes for vegetables, flower arrangements, baked goods and crafts. Surrounding the circle were stalls, games, a tent housing competition entries and another tent offering teas. Colourful bunting had been strung between the trees and a brass band was playing a rousing march.
‘We might as well walk round now we’re here,’ Lydia said.
They passed a hoopla, a coconut shy and a game which involved throwing wet sponges at a volunteer who pushed his head through a hole in a board. A guess-the-weight-of-the-cake stall came next. Two women were looking after it, but seeing Grace and Lydia approaching, their smiles died and they exchanged scandalised glances.
‘They know,’ Grace realised in dismay. ‘They know about the necklace.’
‘Mrs Preece wasted no time spreading malice,’ Lydia agreed.
Grace didn’t care how the gossip started. What mattered was how far it had spread.
Turning, she saw Mrs Walker, a member of her church congregation. Mrs Walker saw her too and, flustered, suddenly changed direction.
Dread sank through Grace’s body. It would have been hard enough to find work without references, but it was going to be almost impossible if the whole of Ruston believed them to be thieves.
Eight
The pretence started the moment Jenny got up.
‘Good night’s sleep?’ her mother asked, and Jenny felt forced to lie.
‘Yes, thanks.’
The truth was that she’d lain awake for most of the night, though she must have dozed eventually because she’d been startled awake by a rattling sound. It hadn’t been Jonas, though. Perhaps he’d seen that she’d taken the chair back into her room and decided there was no point in trying to get in. The rattling had been just the milkman passing in his cart. Realising it, Jenny had settled back against the pillows and stayed in bed until Jonas left for work.
‘How about eggs for breakfast?’
Jenny shuddered at the thought of food, though, naturally, her mother put the shudder down to other causes. ‘You don’t need to worry about getting another job yet, Jen. It’s lovely having you home again. Jonas thinks so too, and look.’ There was a pile of coins on the table. ‘He left money for you to treat yourself at the fete. Wasn’t that kind?’
Jenny smiled faintly, ate her eggs and helped about the house until the time came to get ready to go out. Her dressing-table mirror showed a tired face when she checked on the angle of her hat. Perhaps Jonas would lose interest if her looks faded due to exhaustion and strain. Then again, perhaps not.
‘I’ll be along with Jonas soon,’ her mother told her. ‘He finishes work at twelve today.’
Jenny breathed out thankfully when she saw Grace and Lydia. She ran straight into Grace’s arms.
‘I managed to keep Jonas out of my r
oom,’ Jenny said, though it was surely only a matter of time before he got to her somehow.
Lydia snorted. ‘You should tell your mother what a filthy old goat he is.’
‘You know what happened last time I talked to her.’
‘Then tell him you’ll report him to the police if he even looks at you the wrong way.’
‘He’d know I wouldn’t mean it.’
‘I don’t see why your mother’s happiness should be bought at the expense of yours,’ Lydia said.
Grace’s smile was more sympathetic. She’d known Alice in the dark days of her depression and understood Jenny’s reluctance to push her mother back into that bleak place even if she didn’t agree with it.
‘How are you two?’ Jenny asked, and sensed from their silence that something bad had happened.
‘Cat’s out of the bag about the necklace,’ Lydia told her. ‘Preece got the gossip going and the public decided we’re guilty as charged.’
‘We don’t know it was Mrs Preece,’ Grace reasoned.
‘Who else would it be?’
For a horrible moment Jenny wondered if Jonas were to blame. ‘We won’t breathe a word,’ he’d promised, but the more obstacles he could put in the way of Jenny finding work, the longer she’d have to stay at home where, sooner or later, he’d get to her.
But he hadn’t had time to tell anyone. He’d stayed at home all evening and gone straight to work this morning.
Grace’s gran could be trusted and Lydia’s father was a solitary sort of man as far as Jenny knew. In any case he worked for Akerman’s Ales so it wouldn’t be in his interests to complain openly about the Arleighs. Perhaps someone in Ruth’s family had talked?
Jenny dismissed that notion too. The Turners would happily throw Ruth to the wolves, but they wouldn’t want their family name besmirched.
Lydia was probably right. Afraid that people might suspect her of plotting the dismissal in order to give jobs to her nieces, Mrs Preece must have attacked before she could be called on to defend.
The Silver Ladies of London Page 5