Bow Belles
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Copyright
Bow Belles
Anna King
My brother Tony Masterson, my sister-in-law Pauline (nee May) and my nieces Kerry, Sarah and Hollie Masterson, with love
Chapter One
‘I don’t see why you have to take the children to the park this afternoon. Why, it’s almost winter; they’ll catch their death of cold.’
Florence Browning didn’t bother looking at, or answering, her husband. Instead, she continued to button her cotton gloves, seemingly absorbed in fastening the intricate pearl buttons.
William Browning’s florid face became even redder at the deliberate snub. He knew there was no point in further argument. If Florrie wanted to take the children out, then Florrie would take the children out, regardless of his feelings. He had known of course that his wife would do as she pleased, but his desperate longing to maintain some form of authority had forced him to object to the planned outing. And once again he had been shown that his word meant absolutely nothing. In truth, he didn’t much care whether his children went to the park or not; his argument was merely a ploy to keep his wife at home. Clasping his hands behind his back, he leant back on the heels of his highly polished black leather shoes and chewed his bottom lip, a deep anxiety mingled with fear showing clearly in his brown eyes.
At fifty-two, he was sixteen years older than his wife, a fact that over the past few years had begun to fill him with increasing alarm. He was of medium height, his portly body clothed in navy pin-striped trousers and a matching waistcoat that was struggling to remain buttoned over a high-necked white shirt – all of which had seen better days. Though he was thoroughly annoyed at having his wishes flouted once more, coupled with a growing sense of unease regarding his marital status, there was another matter, far more important, that occupied his mind. After almost thirty-five years as a solicitor’s clerk for a small family business, he was in grave danger of losing his job. Pacing restlessly around the bedroom he shared with his wife, he tried to think of something he could do or say that would shatter her indifference and make her take notice of his distress. Unfortunately neither quick thinking nor assertiveness had ever been a strong point of William’s. If he had possessed only one of these qualities he would have been able to cope with the unexpected challenge life had suddenly thrown at him.
He had started work with the solicitor at the age of seventeen and had worked himself up to the position of senior clerk. Not a great achievement, perhaps, especially as only three clerks were employed in the small, independently run practice. His title had been granted merely on long service and not merit, but that didn’t worry William, who always took great care to emphasise his elevated position.
Panic beginning to swell his already fretful mind, he silently directed his anger at a man he had never met, who in his eyes was responsible for his own predicament. Although the man in question had died in 1890, seven years ago, this was of no relevance to William, who had spent a lifetime in justifying his own shortcomings, ever ready to lay the blame for his inadequacies at someone else’s door.
The object of William’s wrath was one Christopher Sholes, who had invented the typewriting machine back in 1868 before selling the patent to the arms manufacturer Eliphalet Remington in 1873, and in the process put men like himself, who for countless years had painstakingly written out letters and drawn up complicated bills in copperplate handwriting, out of work. William had always prided himself on his penmanship, seeing himself as a craftsman in what had become almost a dying art. Old Mr Simpkins, who had founded and run the practice until his death a month ago, had steadfastly refused to purchase any of the new typewriting machines, declaring that they were a novelty and no substitute for a personally handwritten letter or document. Now, in the face of dismissal, William wondered how the old man had held out against the rising tide of progress for so long. It was over twenty years now since the machine had been introduced into city businesses, and right up until his demise Mr Simpkins had refused to allow one on his premises.
His nephew Benjamin Ellis, fresh out of law school, who was now in sole charge of his uncle’s practice, had no such qualms pertaining to old-fashioned values. Since his arrival two days after his uncle’s funeral, the vibrant young man had made it clear that things were going to be different under his leadership. Not only were the hated typewriting machines going to be installed, but there were strong indications that unless William and his two associate clerks were prepared to learn how to type, and quickly, they would be asked to leave. William’s stomach churned as he recollected the staff meeting and the ambitious young man who was now his employer. Not only did he intend his clerks to put aside their pens, he also wanted them to go out canvassing for custom. Beads of perspiration stood out on William’s forehead at the idea. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t go knocking on doors of other companies in an attempt to drum up work! The very idea made him feel ill; and as for the other matter…!
He sank wearily on to the double bed, reaching for the support of the brass headrail. He was too old to be starting again but, if he refused, then he would be out of a job. The feeling of panic rose even higher. He couldn’t cope on his own; he needed help, and the person most suited to the task was sitting only a few yards away. Resorting to his favourite method of gaining attention, he gave a heavy, long-drawn-out sigh.
Peering from beneath lowered eyelids, he looked towards his wife, hoping she might stop her blasted fiddling with her appearance and take notice of him. But for all the interest Florrie showed, he might as well not have been in the room. His forlorn expression swiftly changed to one of frustration as Florrie continued to ignore him. Her indifference, coupled with his anxiety for his job, fuelled his agitation. Whereas some husbands would never dream of worrying their wives with their work problems, maintaining that men should accept responsibility for such matters and in doing so spare their loved ones from any worry, this was not William’s way of thinking. He was suffering greatly, and was determined to be generous in passing his anxiety around. Striding over to the dressing-table where Florrie was now arranging a wide-brimmed straw hat over the blonde hair neatly plaited and pinned to the back of her head, he brought his fist down hard on its polished surface.
Florrie didn’t even flinch. Fixing the last long hat pin, she picked up her black beaded purse and made to move past him, but instead found herself held in an iron grip. Calmly she glanced first at the restraining hand, then up into his angry face, lifting her eyebrows disdainfully.
William stared into her lovely face, his resolve faltering at the contempt he saw in her green eyes. His hand fell woodenly to his side, only to come up again to his forehead as if suddenly struck by a blinding headache in a last-ditch attempt for sympathy.
Florrie had seen the same performance too many times to be impressed. Sweeping past him, she had reached the door when his voice, high-pitched with fear, filled the room.
‘Damn
it, Florrie, you can’t treat me like this! I’m your husband. I deserve some respect.’
With her hand on the doorknob, Florrie finally spoke, but her words did not provide the reassurance William had been hoping for. ‘Respect has to be earned, William. It isn’t a God-given right, much as you would like to think to the contrary.’
Hurrying over William laid his hand over her small gloved one. His eyes pleading for understanding, he cried. ‘Please, Florrie, we have to talk. I could lose my job any day, and then what will we do? We can’t expect Alex to support us. After all, he’s a grown man; he’ll probably be wanting to find a place of his own soon. I can’t understand why he’s stayed as long as he has, not when he has to travel all that way to the docks every day. He could easily get a room nearer his work; in fact he was only saying last week he was thinking of enquiring about rooms in Wapping or near by. And Kate’s wages wouldn’t go far; why, they would barely cover the rent. We have to sort something out, Florrie… We have to!’
Her eyes fixed on the hand covering hers, Florrie spoke calmly. ‘When you say we, what exactly do you mean, William? Can I take it you have any suggestions to offer, or do you expect me to sort it out for you? Maybe you’d like me to go down and have a word with Mr Ellis on your behalf? Is that what you think I should do?’
His cheeks flaming with self-righteous indignation, William fought to retain some semblance of dignity.
‘No… No, that isn’t what I meant. I…’
Flinging off his hand, Florrie shook her head in sympathy.
‘That’s exactly what you were hoping for, because you’ve neither the courage nor the initiative to face Mr Ellis yourself and tell him how you feel. I suppose you’ve already agreed with his instructions on how to modernise the company?’ When William’s eyes flickered and he stared at his shoes, Florrie nodded. ‘I thought so. Well, there’s nothing I can do to help you now. You should have spoken your mind when you had the chance. It might not have saved your job, but at least Mr Ellis would have had respect for your forthrightness.’
At the look of abject despair on her husband’s face, Florrie groaned. Why couldn’t he show some pluck for once? He could at least have tried to conform to his new employer’s wishes; after all, how difficult could it be to use a typewriting machine? As for the business of canvassing for work… Well! She admitted that she herself wouldn’t like to go knocking on strangers’ doors, but if her job depended on it, then she would have steeled herself to the task. But not her husband. He just wanted all his problems to disappear, to have things back as they used to be, and that was never going to happen. The late Mr Simpkins had been content with his few, longstanding clients, happy to earn enough to keep his business ticking over, but his nephew was altogether a different kettle of fish. From what William had told her, the young Benjamin Ellis was ambitious, and looking for partners to help his firm grow into a viable concern. He didn’t sound as if he were the kind of man to keep long-standing employees on out of loyalty. Suddenly she felt tired. They had been having the same discussion ever since William had learned of the proposed changes at his office, and she was heartily sick of it.
Knowing he wouldn’t give her any peace, she repeated what she had said in the past. ‘We’ve been having this same conversation for weeks and getting nowhere, because you don’t want to listen; you don’t really want my opinion; you want me to do something to sort out your life for you… And you can huff and puff all you like, we both know it’s the truth. So, for the very last time, I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do. You should start looking for another job immediately. It won’t be easy, I know, not at your age, but prospective employers aren’t going to come looking for you.’
‘But where will I look?’ William wailed, his sense of inadequacy threatening to overwhelm him. Hearing his own piteous voice, he felt a stirring of shame, and to cover it he quickly changed his attitude to one of belligerence. Puffing out his chest, and in a tone that suggested his predicament was of Florrie’s doing, he began to bluster, ‘Seeing as how you’re so clever, you tell me where I’m going to look for all these jobs! Well… Well!’
Florrie turned away, sickened by her husband’s weakness. She couldn’t take much more of living like this; she just couldn’t. ‘I’ve had enough, William. You don’t need a wife, you need a mother, and have done since the day I married you. But it ends here. I’m sick of having to look after you. It’s time you learnt to stand on your own two feet. You’re on your own now, you can do as you please. I simply don’t care any more. As for me… Well, as soon as I get Billy settled into school next Monday, I’m going to go up to the City and look for work. Maybe I’ll ask at Marshall & Snellgrove – they might take me back, even if it has been five years since I last worked for them. If there are no vacancies there, I’ll look elsewhere, but I will find a job. I realise I won’t be earning much at first, but with my money and Kate’s wages, we’ll manage. We did before, when I had to give up work after having Billy, and we can do it again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my children are waiting to go to the park.’
‘NO! No, I say. I forbid it!’ William sprang towards her, his face livid with rage. Seizing her by the shoulders, he shook her violently. ‘You’re my wife and you’ll do as I say, and I say you’ll stay at home in your rightful place. I made the mistake of allowing you to go out to work once; I’ll not let you do it again. If I lose my job, then it will be up to Alex to support us, not you. Do you hear me, woman?’ His eyes bulging, he continued to shake her until a high voice coming from behind the closed door called out.
‘Mum! Mum, are you all right?’
His daughter’s question brought William back to his senses. With a strangled cry, he flung himself from the trembling body of his wife and collapsed into the winged armchair by the side of the double bed.
Shaken and angered by the assault, Florrie glared across the room at him for a long hate-filled moment before opening the door to her daughter.
Kate Browning stood on the landing, her green eyes full of anxiety. At seventeen, she was a mirror image of her mother. Her long golden-blonde hair, framing a heart-shaped face, fell in soft waves around her shoulders. She was dressed for her outing in a heavy brown skirt that stopped short of her ankles, and a pink woollen jumper. Over her arm she carried a navy single-breasted coat, and she held a matching cloth bonnet. ‘Mum!’ Her eyes darted past her mother to the dejected figure slumped in the armchair.
‘It’s all right, Kate.’ Florrie tried to speak normally. ‘I’ll be down in a minute. Are your sisters and brother ready?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Kate’s eyes never left her father. ‘They’re waiting downstairs.’
‘Off you go, then, I’ll be down shortly. Go on, Kate. Do as I say.’ A note of impatience entered Florrie’s voice.
Without a word, Kate turned and walked stiffly down the landing.
Shutting the door, Florrie turned back to her husband, her lips clamped in a hard line of rage. ‘So… Now you think Alex should support us, when not ten minutes ago you were saying that we couldn’t expect him to. You’ll twist and bend your moral values whenever it’s convenient for you. And you have the nerve to talk to me about respect. God, you’re pathetic! But there is one thing I agree with you on, and that’s about Alex leaving to find a place of his own. It’s not right that the rest of the children should all have to share one room. Kate’s almost a woman; she needs a room to herself. So when you next see your son, you can tell him to start looking for somewhere else to live, regardless of whether you lose your job or not. I want him out as soon as possible, and if you don’t have the guts to tell him, then I will.’
Pulling on a pale blue calf-length coat, she stood in the open doorway, a feeling of pity suddenly stirring in her at her husband’s distress. Although still angry at William’s rough treatment, she acknowledged that he couldn’t help the way he was. Modifying her tone to a kinder pitch, she said, ‘Look, there’s no reason why we can’t live together in some kind of harmony. No
t just for our sakes, but for the children. I can’t remember the last time we spent an evening together without arguing, and it has to stop. We don’t know what damage we might be causing the children with our endless bickering. I know it’s as much my fault as yours, but I’m willing to try, if you are. Things will never be the same as they once were, but as long as we both know where we stand, we…’
‘I’ll not stand for it, Florrie. I’m warning you. I’ll not stand by and see my son thrown out of his home. Nor will I tolerate being supported by my wife; I couldn’t bear the shame.’
Florrie tightened her hand over the brass clasp of her bag, grinding her teeth in frustration. He hadn’t listened to a word she’d said. Drawing a deep breath, she spoke carefully. ‘You really don’t have any say in the matter, William. Not any more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my children are waiting for me.’
‘This was Alex’s home long before you came here. You were grateful enough then, weren’t you, Florrie? You couldn’t wait to get out of that hovel you were living in when I met you. Oh, no, you were eager enough to get a wedding ring on your finger then. And you’re right – I am a fool. A fool to have married the likes of you… Florrie… Florrie…’
The door closed firmly, leaving William talking to an empty room. His face crumpled. What was he going to do? He had known for years that Florrie no longer loved him – indeed had she ever loved him? But she had always been kind, until the day she found herself pregnant with Billy. Squeezing his eyes tight, he fought back the tears that threatened to flow.
He had been a widower with a ten-year-old son to take care of when Florrie had entered his lonely life, and despite the difference in their ages they had been happy in their marriage. He cast his mind back down the years, squirming at the memory. His relationship with his wife had begun to deteriorate soon after their daughter Sally had started school. Terrified of losing Florrie, he had deliberately set out to make her pregnant, thinking that another child would bring them close once more. Instead, it had virtually destroyed them. His premeditated action almost six years earlier had led to the hostility that now existed between them. He sat in the armchair, a solitary figure crushed and defeated by the unfairness of life. But, deep down in his soul, where the truth could not be hidden or denied, he finally faced the truth about himself, and the revelation was too painful to be borne. Even more frightening was the knowledge that he was incapable of changing, and that hurt more cruelly than any words Florrie could fling at him. Dropping his head in his hands and without benefit of an audience, he began to weep: for the man he was, and the man he would always be.
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