A young widow. She almost believed it herself. Mrs Stanley Hibbert, runaway wife of that bigamous cheat, was another person. She was Mrs Nell Hibbert now, hard-working widow, and Respectable was her middle name.
She turned back to her machine. Let alone she couldn’t afford the fine should she be caught nattering, she was on piecework. As she fed the bodice pieces through, the polka dots blurred into pinstripes. She was a skilled machinist, having taken to machine-sewing as if she had been born to it. She loved the fabrics, the serviceable flannel and supple wools, silky rayon and light-as-air Crêpe de Chine. She was even trusted with velvet and the best satin.
Miss Lockwood, who had been the overseer in this workshop since dinosaurs roamed the earth, thought highly of her.
‘You’re one of the best girls I’ve ever had,’ she had said: you could be sixty and you’d still be a girl if you worked a machine.
It was high praise, but you were only as good as your last garment and Nell put all her concentration into every one of hers. She was a Pringle and the Pringles were grafters.
Sometimes she wished she had changed her name back to Pringle when she arrived in Manchester. If Alf had been younger, she might have; but he had known he was a Hibbert. As loving and amenable as ever, he didn’t seem to have suffered through not having a father, for which Nell was grateful every time – God forgive her – Alf told someone his daddy was dead.
It had been the only way. How else was she to explain Stan’s absence? To start with, Alf had accepted that the adventure was just for the two of them – plus the cat.
Two years ago, she had bumped along to the station on Charlie Fry’s cart, boggling at the spur-of-the-moment idiocy that had made her adopt the stray and wishing it would scrabble from underneath the basket lid and leap away into the early twilight; but the cat, its belly full of Stan’s mince, and probably as close to warm as it had been since the previous summer, had stayed put.
Her spur-of-the-moment idiocy had turned out to be a master stroke. Alf was enchanted.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Her name. She hasn’t got one.’
‘Violet,’ said Alf.
‘What?’
‘She’s called Violet. She told me. Like Auntie Vi. We’ve got a cat called Violet Pringle.’
If nowt else, it showed that telling him about his uncles and auntie had sunk in. But Vi would be turning in her grave, wherever it was.
A few weeks later, snuggling down in the bed in which she would later join him, Alf whispered, ‘Can Violet stop being Violet Pringle and be Violet Hibbert, so she knows she’s ours?’
‘I think she knows that already.’ The cat knew when she was well off. She had slept almost non-stop for a week beside Mrs Brent’s kitchen range when they moved in.
‘Good,’ said Alf.
And, simple as that, he had gone to sleep. Had he been worrying about the blessed cat’s place in the household? Better that than worrying about Stan’s being dead or the long hours she had to spend at work.
Forty-eight hours a week. Forty-flaming-eight. Eight till twelve and one till half-six, and seven o’clock on Fridays. Fridays were the worst, because you worked later, then had to queue up in your own time to collect your wages. Her heart broke in frustration and longing every Friday evening. On Friday evenings, she hated Stan for condemning her to life as a working mother.
She didn’t hate him the rest of the time. To hate someone, you had to think about them and she didn’t waste her time. Life was hard but it was good. She was proud of her work. How had she ever tolerated the Royal Oak?
The hooter sounded for dinner. Nell felt a thrumming vibration in her bones as the whirring sound around her intensified as the women finished their seams. Then chatter filled the room as they pulled out their pink tickets. You bought your tickets on Monday, tuppence each, to exchange during the week for mugs of tea. This was Nell’s last week of having tea until the autumn. Starting next week, she would bring a bottle of cold tea or lemonade. Any saving helped when you had to make every penny do the work of thruppence.
‘How are your lads getting on at work?’ she asked Elsie, putting down her barm cake between bites to make it last. Wish sandwich, Dad had called it, spread with jam or Marmite that you wished was chicken or ham.
Elsie munched a mouthful of pasty. ‘They’ll each get another sixpence a week when they turn fifteen.’
‘Riches! What will they do with it?’
‘Give it to me. It’s about time they paid their way. And two weeks after the boys turn fifteen, the girls are fourteen.’
‘They’re all July birthdays, aren’t they? My Alf will be six in July.’
‘Six? And the little ’un not much more than a baby. You’ve years to go yet.’
‘It can’t last long enough for me,’ said Nell.
‘I couldn’t wait for mine to grow up.’
‘Well, twins twice, a year apart …’
‘The ruddy powers that be didn’t help. Putting the school leaving age up to fourteen: what was the point of that? And then stopping twelve-year-olds working half-time – I ask you. How are families supposed to manage?’
‘You’ll soon have all four of them working. You won’t know yourself.’
‘I know this much. My lasses start work the day after school finishes; and the day after that, I’m cutting my hours here.’
‘I wish I could cut mine. I’d love to spend more time with the kids.’
‘I thought you was happy leaving your nippers with your landlady.’
‘Don’t get me wrong. The Brents are kindness itself, but it isn’t easy knowing that another woman gets to spend all day with my children.’
‘You know what you need,’ said Elsie. ‘Another husband.’
People said that to widows. She had had to get used to it. She never responded.
She finished her barm cake and licked her fingers. She couldn’t afford to waste even a smear of food. Providing for the children included going without herself. It was summat mothers got used to.
‘Actually,’ said Elsie, ‘what you look like you need is a good night’s sleep. Your Cassie keeping you up, is she?’
‘Mr Brent’s poorly. I’ve been staying up nights so Mrs Brent can sleep.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
A hot fist tightened in Nell’s belly. ‘It started as pleurisy, then turned to pneumonia.’
‘Poor old boy. Is he getting over it?’
‘The doctor told Mrs Brent …’ A lump filled her throat.
‘Eh, chuck, what is it?’
‘The doctor says …’ She had to swallow. ‘… heart failure. He already had it, apparently, and without the pleurisy, he might have lasted who knows how long.’
‘But the pleurisy and pneumonia have buggered him up good and proper.’
‘Looks like it,’ said Nell.
‘Any children?’
‘A daughter.’ And a right waste of space she was an’ all.
‘So, she’ll take her mam in afterwards and that’ll leave you right up a gum tree. I’ll keep an eye out for cheap lodgings, but you won’t have much choice. You did well for yourself when you got took in by them two. Luck like that doesn’t come along twice.’
Nell had no intention of waiting for luck to come her way. She had taken charge when she left Stan and now she had to take charge again. It all came down to money. Her piecework earned her two pound ten a week, give or take. Over time, as the trust and affection between herself and the Brents had grown, she and Mrs Brent had reached an understanding whereby she handed over two quid a week, all-in – for the room, contributions to the food, coal and gaslight, and the child-minding Mrs Brent did. With the ten-ish bob she had left, she paid a shilling each into the boot club, burial insurance and the Hospital Saturday Fund; and she always saved summat, even in the leanest week when all she could put by was a few farthings. When she left Stan, she had felt rich with all that money in her pocket – rich and scared, because she had to g
et fixed up before the money ran out. She still had two guineas of that money tucked away against dire emergency, along with what she had saved since.
Dear heaven, please guard her against dire emergency.
Forget dear heaven. It was her job to guard against dire emergency.
And she knew how she was going to do it.
The first thing Nell saw as she turned the corner into Finney Lane was the depressingly familiar sight of cats outside their house, two black-and-whites lounging in the road, a ginger practically on the doorstep. Violet in season was the last thing they needed. Would Mrs Brent have been too preoccupied to notice the tomcats lurking outside?
She let herself in, experiencing the usual lurch of disappointment. She wanted her children to come running to meet her, but they were tucked up in bed. If only she didn’t have to work such long hours. She ran upstairs to the back room, where the children were slumbering: Alf was in bed, Cassie in her drawer on the floor. She had started life sleeping in a drawer from Nell’s chest of drawers, then the Brents had lent a larger drawer; but Cassie couldn’t stay in it much longer, not without stunting her growth.
Violet, curled up at the foot of the bed, got up and stretched, no doubt flinging come-hither fumes in all directions. Not a care in the world. In danger of landing them with half a dozen kittens, but not a care in the world.
Nell crammed her hat and coat onto the crowded pegs on the back of the door and slid out onto the landing before Violet could get any ideas. The door to the front bedroom stood open. She peeped in. Mr Brent was sleeping, Mrs Brent at his bedside, her spine a curve of desolation.
Nell said cheerfully, ‘I’m home. How is he?’
Mrs Brent’s spine sprang to attention. ‘Oh, there you are, love. He had a bad coughing fit earlier, which wore him out, but he’s sleeping now.’
‘I’ll make tea and bring it up.’
‘Aye, love, you do that.’
That in itself spoke volumes. When it was pleurisy, even when it was pneumonia, Mrs Brent would have said, ‘Nay, you’ve been at work all day. You stop with him and I’ll pop down.’
Nell brought the tea, skirting round the bed into the strip where they had pulled it away from the wall. It made everything easier, that gap did – moving and washing Mr Brent, adjusting the bedding and sitting either side of him.
‘Has he been awake much?’
‘He was earlier. We had a good old chat. He can always make me laugh, can my Hedley.’ Tears welled in Mrs Brent’s eyes, blue blurring to grey.
‘He doesn’t sound as wheezy.’
‘His lungs have mostly cleared up.’ There was a rattle of china as Mrs Brent put down her cup and saucer. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. ‘Ten days since, I thought pneumonia were the worst that could happen, but now …’
‘You’re caring for him beautifully. No one could do more.’ And talking of not doing more: ‘Did your Hilda come today?’
‘For a while. She left to get Edmund’s tea.’
‘Posy’s old enough to do that.’
‘Edmund likes her to be there to put his meal on’t table. You know how men are.’
Stuff that. If she had still been wed to Stan, and her dad had been on his deathbed, she would have told Stan to get his meals off his mother while she took their Alf and went home. But if Mum and Dad had still been alive, would she have married Stan? It was the anguish of multiple bereavements and the huge swell of loneliness that had grown inside her like a new organ that had propelled her into Stan’s arms.
‘Did Mrs Watson have the children again?’ she asked. That was another worry. Mrs Watson next door had a heart of gold, but she also had a colourful turn of phrase and Nell didn’t want the children picking up any fruity expressions. Besides, she ought to offer Mrs Watson something for her trouble, but money for child-minding was wrapped up in what she gave Mrs Brent every week. She couldn’t ask for some of it back, not with Mrs Brent heartbroken over her failing husband.
‘Is that our lovely lodger?’ Mr Brent’s voice was frail. The face he turned towards her was thin and grey, the skin sunken into the crevices of his skull.
‘I see you’ve not forgotten how to flirt,’ Nell managed, though cords of anguish tightened in her throat.
‘I’ve only ever flirted wi’ one lass.’ He looked at his wife, lifting a shaking hand from the bed for her to clasp. ‘The most beautiful girl in the world.’
‘Get on with you,’ said Mrs Brent.
‘You’ll always be my pretty, dark-haired lass.’
‘Look at me now, grey as can be.’
‘Salt-and-pepper,’ said Nell.
‘Same blue eyes an’ all.’ Mr Brent turned to Nell. ‘I’m sorry you lost your husband, lass. There’s nowt better than a long marriage and you’re young to go through life with that regret.’
‘Don’t fret about me.’ She felt a complete heel. She wasn’t just a lodger to this darling couple. They had drawn her into their hearts and she knew how valued and trusted she was. Trusted. And they believed her to be a widow.
Everyone believed she was a widow – including her own children.
‘Do you have any regrets, love?’ Mr Brent asked his wife.
‘Well, I’d have liked more children.’
‘I know, but having just our Hilda made the money stretch further. A man wants to do the best he can for his family.’
‘What about you, Mr Brent?’ Nell asked. ‘Any regrets?’ She immediately knew she had said the wrong thing. A sort of flutter passed between the couple. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘It’s all right, lass. It’s no secret. My Leonie has always known.’
‘Me and Hedley had to get wed because our Hilda was on the way. We’d have got married anyroad, of course, but we needed to do it quicker, only my sister—’
‘Who were a reet spiteful so-and-so,’ put in Mr Brent.
‘Our vicar was a strict sort and my sister took it on herself to tell him I were in the family way, so he refused to marry us. He said he didn’t marry sinners. I knew my sister was waiting for us to go traipsing round all the churches, begging to get wed, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. We went down the registry office and got wed there.’ There was a glint in Mrs Brent’s eyes and a certain tilt to her chin. A glimpse of the spirited girl from years ago? ‘And that were good enough for me, but I’ve always known my Hedley wished for a church do. I’m sorry, love. I put my fight with my sister in front of what you wanted. If I could take it back, I would.’
And Nell knew exactly what she had to do.
‘You did what?’ Mrs Brent jostled the milk pan as she turned in surprise. She steadied it over the heat before confronting Nell, eyes snapping. ‘You’ve arranged for us to get married? I’ll have you know me and Hedley have been legally wed forty years come August and our Hilda turns forty in November. Or are you one of them as doesn’t believe in registry office marriages? Have you got the brass neck to stand in my kitchen, telling me I’m not a respectable married woman?’
‘Of course you’re married. I didn’t make myself clear. It’s not a wedding, it’s …’ There didn’t seem to be a word for it. Certainly Mr Stidson hadn’t known one. ‘The minister said he would do a ceremony for you.’
Mrs Brent’s eyes narrowed. ‘The minister?’
‘Mr Stidson from the chapel.’
‘We’re not chapel-goers.’
‘I know, but the vicar said no.’ Actually, he had said she was barking mad, but never mind that now.
‘Anyroad, Hedley can’t go anywhere, not in his state. I don’t know what you was thinking.’
‘Mr Stidson says he’ll come here.’
‘Then it won’t be a wedding, will it? Even I know that, heathen that I am with my registry office marriage.’ She tossed her head, her words loaded with scorn.
‘Mrs Brent, hear me out – please. I know I took a liberty, but it was done in good heart. There’s no question that you’re married, but when Mr Brent said about hi
s one regret—’
‘And you’ve took it on yourself to set right what I did wrong nigh-on forty year ago.’
‘You didn’t do owt wrong—’
‘Oh, but I did.’ Mrs Brent splayed her fingers over her stomach as if warding off sickness; her wedding band glinted under the gas lamp hanging from the ceiling. ‘When our vicar turned us down, I were that riled with our Martha I went straight up the registry. I wouldn’t even wait for the banns: I had a special licence. Ha! That were one in the eye for Martha.’
The fight drained out of her and she deflated. Her face sagged and her shoulders rounded. Nell tried to hug her, but with sudden spirit she danced away.
‘Nay, don’t mind me.’ She plonked herself in front of the range, seizing the wooden spoon to stir the milk. ‘I’m just the daft old bat who got wed up the registry to spite her sister.’ She stirred the milk so vigorously it threatened to stream over the sides.
Nell was struggling to keep up. ‘But I thought it was what you wanted.’
‘Oh aye?’ Mrs Brent picked up the milk pan and crashed it down on another part of the range. She faced Nell. ‘You think I wanted to get married up the registry? You think it were my girlhood dream? Well, it wasn’t. I wanted a proper dress and my mother’s veil and a lend of my cousin Molly’s cream-coloured shoes what she had dyed for her own wedding. But I forgot all that, because I were too busy spitting feathers.’ She stopped. Her chin dropped onto her chest. When she raised it, her eyes were sombre. ‘You don’t make vows in a registry office: did you know that? I didn’t. You say summat and you sign summat and that’s it. The registrar said, “You may kiss the bride,” and I wanted to say, “What about us vows?” but I couldn’t, could I, not with me being the one what had insisted. So I put on a brave face and told our Martha to put that in her pipe and smoke it. But I’ve always been sorry we never made vows. I wouldn’t have minded the registry if they’d had vows.’ She wet her lips. ‘I’ve never told anyone else and you’re not to say a word.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Especially not to my Hedley. He’s always accepted the registry office because it was what I wanted. He’d be upset summat dreadful if he knew I had …’
A Respectable Woman Page 4