‘Regrets?’
‘Reservations.’
‘So what should I do about Mr Stidson?’
‘What’s he going to do?’ Mrs Brent gave a sheepish half-smile. ‘I were too het up to listen properly.’
‘He’ll say a few words about long marriages, then he’ll bless yours. Do you think that might make up a little for not getting wed in church?’
Mrs Brent deflated again. This time Nell held her as she wept.
‘Your parents are what?’
Wrapped in her blanket in the scullery, Posy sat up, the better to earwig. Something was going on. Ma had been to see Gran and Gramps today and Posy had arrived home from school to find her looking frowny and nervous.
‘They’re going to have their marriage blessed,’ said Ma.
‘They’re what? Why?’
A tiny silence: Posy imagined Ma pressing her lips together. ‘Well, they never had a church wedding, so …’
‘Codswallop! A blessing, my foot. About forty years too late, wouldn’t you say? What made them think of that?’
‘It was Mrs Hibbert’s idea.’
‘That woman! She should keep her nose out.’
Posy squirmed on Ma’s behalf. Even when something wasn’t your fault, Dad could make you feel like it was.
‘It’s this Saturday. Mother would like us there so it’s a proper family occasion.’
‘And will that lodger be present?’
A pause. ‘I think so.’ Which meant yes.
‘Then it won’t be a family occasion, so there’s no need for us to put ourselves out.’
‘Edmund, please. It means a lot to them.’
‘We’ll have to see.’
Which meant he wouldn’t decide until the last minute. Or rather, he might have made his mind up already, but he wouldn’t say owt. He would keep them dangling. Keeping them on their toes, he called it.
Posy lay down, wriggling to get as close to comfortable as she could. The evening gloom was deepening. Behind her head, the curtain shifted in the draught from the tiny hole in the window. Propping herself on one elbow, she pushed a fingertip of curtain into the hole, then settled down again. The copper across from her was a deeper shape of darkness. The scullery had the sharp tang of soda crystals but sometimes, like today when Ma had washed the front room curtains as part of her spring-cleaning, it smelt of soapsuds, which was a much nicer smell. Clean but kind.
What was this blessing Gran and Gramps wanted? That was the trouble with listening in. You couldn’t ask questions afterwards. Perhaps Ma would tell her in the morning.
But Ma said nowt on the subject, not the next morning after Dad had left, nor when Posy came home from school that afternoon. Perhaps some encouragement wouldn’t go amiss.
‘Please may I go round to Gran and Gramps’s this weekend?’ Posy asked, then fastened her mouth tight shut. Don’t say more. Don’t say too much.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ma. ‘Ask nearer the time.’
Why couldn’t she say, ‘They’re doing summat special on Saturday and they want us there, but it’s up to your father’? Posy wasn’t stupid. She knew not to say owt to Dad.
Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Ma.
Dad arrived home and Ma hurried to put tea on the table. Tripe and onions tonight: was she trying to butter him up?
‘Our Posy was asking about going to see Gran and Gramps on Saturday,’ said Ma.
Not on Saturday. She deliberately hadn’t said Saturday. Posy’s throat closed, trapping food in her mouth. Eyes down, she continued chewing, willing herself to swallow, willing Ma to correct the mistake.
‘Really?’ said Dad and Posy felt his gaze on her. ‘And how does she know about Saturday? Did you tell her?’
‘No,’ said Ma. ‘She wants to see them, that’s all.’
‘And she happens to want to go on Saturday.’
The food in Posy’s mouth was a tasteless wodge. Her throat relaxed and she made herself swallow. Her stomach twitched a protest that brought tears to her eyes, but the food settled.
Dad didn’t say anything else. Was she safe? You never knew.
Ma took the plates to the scullery and fetched the lemon pudding, its sharp-sweet aroma wafting across the table.
‘It’ll only take a minute to do the custard,’ she said.
‘I wonder if Posy deserves pudding,’ said Dad.
The kitchen went quiet. Ma didn’t move. Then she opened the cupboard and took out the box of Bird’s Custard Powder.
‘Look at me, Posy.’
The custard powder was in between the Green’s Blancmange Powder and Chivers Jelly Crystals. Next to the jelly was a gap where the Criddle’s Black Treacle was meant to be. Ma had better get that replaced quick smart and hope Dad didn’t fancy any gingerbread in the meantime.
Dad’s fist crashed onto the table. Posy jumped. So did the table.
‘Look at me when I tell you.’
The air tightened around her.
‘You listened in. You had your ear pressed to that door. Well – didn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Fetch the candle.’
She got up. Her legs wobbled and she almost had to sit down again, but you didn’t disobey Dad. Even useless legs didn’t disobey Dad.
The candle was on the shelf next to the range. Without looking, Ma pushed it nearer and Posy picked it up. It wasn’t much more than a stub, glued to its saucer by wax. Dad took a box of Swan Vestas from his pocket. He slid it open and removed a match, holding it ready to strike. Ma stirred the custard. She kept her back to them. Dad struck the match. There was a brisk fizz and the sharp smell as the flame flared and settled.
‘You listened at the door, didn’t you?’
She was for it, whatever she said. No got the candle. Yes admitted to lying. Which was worse? She gazed at the flame and her courage failed.
‘Yes,’ she breathed.
‘Speak up. I can’t hear you.’
‘Yes.’
Ma stirred, her back to them. Nowt to do with me, said her back. Nothing’s happening, said her back.
Dad’s eyes gleamed. ‘First she says no, now she says yes.’ He sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘Which is it? Yes, you did or no, you didn’t?’
She couldn’t go back to no. ‘Yes.’
‘And how am I to tell when you change your answer?’ He indicated the candle with a jerk of his big square jaw. ‘You’re saying yes? Hold your hand over the flame. If you’re telling the truth, you won’t get burnt.’
Ma stirred the custard.
Chapter Five
Would Hilda show her face? When Nell asked, Mrs Brent said, ‘Oh, yes, love. Of course she’ll come, if she can,’ and Nell had wanted to send her arm snaking all the way to Heathside Lane in Withington to give Hilda a good slap. If she could, indeed! Didn’t she understand how much this mattered? But that was Hilda Tanner all over, as much use as the skin off last week’s custard.
Mr Stidson was due at three. Nell took Cassie next door to Mrs Watson at half-two. At that age, Alf would have watched with big round eyes, happy to be quiet as long as he could sit cuddled on his mummy’s knee, but Cassie was independent, determined, a wriggler. Nell still boggled at how different her children were. She and Alf had always been so natural together that he felt like an extension of herself, but Cassie seemed to think that a name like Cassandra gave her a lot to live up to and there was no harm in starting now.
‘Eh, give her to me, the little lamb,’ said Mrs Watson.
The little lamb toddled purposefully over the threshold and bolted down the hallway, leaving Nell to hand over a bag of building blocks that Alf used to use for building but which his sister used for banging, throwing, kicking, anything you could think of other than building. With luck, Cassie would make too much racket to notice any undesirable vocabulary Mrs Watson let slip.
Nell went home. Mrs Brent was at Mr Brent’s bedside, and Alf was with them. Should she take more chairs up in case Hi
lda’s family came? They were cutting it fine if they were coming. But if she provided chairs and they didn’t come, it would look bad.
She had just sat down on the chair between the bed and the wall, and was lifting Alf onto her lap, when the front door opened. Mrs Brent perked up.
‘That’s Hilda. Hedley, our Hilda’s come. I knew she would.’
Footsteps on the stairs, lots of them, then the bedroom door opened and Hilda’s family entered. Nell came to her feet. She was pleased to see Hilda – not Hilda personally, but she was glad for the Brents’ sake. Edmund Tanner stood in the doorway, filling it. Not that he was tall, but he filled the space, filled the room. ‘Brick shithouse,’ Doug said in Nell’s head. Built like a brick shithouse. Wide shoulders, big chest. Big, square jaw.
‘You sit here,’ Nell offered Hilda. Holding Alf’s hand almost over his head, she shuffled behind him, squeezing along the gap, anxious not to bump the bed.
‘Yes, Hilda,’ said Edmund Tanner. ‘You sit beside your father.’
He looked at Nell. She glanced away quickly enough – she hoped – that it didn’t look like she was dodging a staring contest.
‘I’ll fetch more chairs,’ she said. Alf clung to her hand, moulding himself to her leg. ‘Stop here with Mrs Brent,’ she whispered. Alf was scared of Edmund Tanner. The man had never done anything to him, but he was still scared. Mind you, there was summat about Edmund Tanner. Broad and handsome he might be, with his dark eyes and his black hair, but there was nowt to warm to.
‘I’ll do it.’ With a glance at Alf that bordered on a sneer, Edmund Tanner left the room.
He returned with a single chair. He put it at the foot of the bed and sat down. Nell smiled, pretending it didn’t matter.
‘What about a seat for Mrs Hibbert?’ asked Mrs Brent.
‘Oh, is she stopping? I thought this was a family matter.’
Mr Brent stirred. ‘We want her here.’
‘It were her idea,’ added Mrs Brent. ‘She should be here.’
‘Very well.’ But he didn’t get up immediately.
‘No need,’ said Nell. ‘I’ll fetch my own chair.’
She stepped forward, or tried to. With Alf clinging, it was like having a wooden leg. She had to unpeel him. Behind her was the dressing table. Her chest tightened at the sight of Alf’s pleading eyes, but she placed him by the dressing table, catching the hands that scrabbled to keep hold of hers and attaching them to the smooth curve of one of the legs. She turned to leave the room. Edmund Tanner’s broad back overlapped the spindled back of his chair. Didn’t he realise she needed him to move? Well, she wasn’t going to squeeze past.
‘Excuse me, please.’ She kept her voice cool and polite. ‘Shift your ruddy arse,’ said Tom in her head.
As she ran downstairs, a rat-tat took her straight to the door to admit Mr Stidson.
‘Thank you for coming. It’s upstairs, the front room.’
Posy appeared on the stairs. ‘I’ve come for the footstool.’
The bedroom was going to look like a rag-and-bone yard at this rate. ‘Shall I bring you a chair, Mr Stidson?’ Nell offered.
‘I’ll carry one up for myself.’
‘It’s no trouble, honestly.’ She couldn’t have the minister fetching and carrying. It wasn’t respectful.
‘I insist.’
So she led the way up, followed by Mr Stidson with a chair and Posy with the footstool from the parlour. Edmund Tanner was obliged to shift his arse once more and, in the bustle of introductions and arranging the furniture, Nell stood in front of the dressing table, at the rear of the proceedings, holding Alf’s hand.
She waited for Hilda to call Posy into the gap by the wall, but Hilda said nothing, so Nell said quietly, ‘Here, Posy, pop the footstool next to me.’
Posy gave her a beaming smile. ‘Would you like to sit on it, Mrs Hibbert?’
‘It’s a bit low for me, but thank you for asking. Mr Stidson, would you like me to take your hat?’ She put it on the dressing table.
The minister sat down. He had placed his chair at the foot of the bed at an angle so that he could easily look round and include those at the window end of the room.
‘Shall we begin? This is a special occasion, not just for this family but also for me. I’ve never been asked to do this before and I’ve been reflecting on what an honour it is. I have married many young couples in my time. They come to me, full of love and hope, and I join them in wedlock; but today I have the pleasure of meeting Mr and Mrs Brent, who are not at the beginning of life’s journey together, but who have been married for … how long?’
‘Forty years come August,’ said Mrs Brent, ‘and we was childhood sweethearts before that.’
‘A lifelong love,’ said Mr Stidson. ‘Usually I officiate at marriages by talking about what lies ahead, but today we celebrate this marriage by looking back. Mr Brent, do you feel strong enough to say a few words about your childhood sweetheart?’
Mr Brent’s worn face softened and his hand wriggled across the eiderdown to wrap itself round his wife’s. ‘Eh, she were the bonniest lass in our street. Blue eyes and long dark hair and the tiniest waist you ever saw.’
‘Not like that now,’ said Mrs Brent.
Nell smiled. She might have laughed but felt constrained from doing so. Edmund Tanner remained impassive and Hilda sat quietly, eyes downcast. She should be looking at her parents.
‘You’ve always been a beauty in my eyes,’ said Mr Brent. ‘I can see thee now, running down our street with a hoop and stick, your hair flying behind you. You could keep that hoop going all the way to the gasworks and back. I knew then you were the lass for me.’
‘You fell in love with Gran because she were good with a hoop?’ said Posy.
‘Seen and not heard, Posy,’ said Edmund Tanner without looking round.
‘It’s as good a reason as any.’ Mr Brent chuckled. It turned into a cough that crackled in his throat. He regained control, eyes watering, his thin chest heaving.
‘Have some water.’ But Mrs Brent’s hand was too trembly to hold the glass to his lips.
For heaven’s sake, why didn’t Hilda—?
‘Shape yourself, Hilda,’ ordered Edmund Tanner and Hilda fluttered to life, leaning forward to assist. Nell wiped her face clean of expression. She were nowt a pound, that Hilda.
‘Should we stop for a few minutes?’ asked Mr Stidson.
Mr Brent waved a feeble hand. ‘Nay.’ He made circles with his hand. ‘Keep going.’
‘Very well.’
The minister talked smoothly about long marriages and Nell blessed him for giving the Brents time to recover. Then he looked at Mrs Brent.
‘Would you care to tell us how you knew this was the boy for you?’
‘That’s easy, that is. He started out in the cats’ meat shop, this one did. Left school at twelve and became the cats’ meat lad. My mother weren’t best pleased that I had my eye on him, but he promised me he’d make summat of himself, and he did. When he were fourteen, he got took on as an apprentice by the Corporation and I knew we’d be set for life.’
‘It’s important for a man to provide for his family,’ said Mr Stidson.
‘He’s been a good provider, has Hedley.’ Mrs Brent’s voice rang with pride. ‘I’ve never had a moment’s worry on that score.’
‘Would you like to say something about your parents, Mrs Tanner?’ asked Mr Stidson.
Hilda looked flummoxed. ‘Well … they’ve been a good mum and dad to me …’
Beside Nell, Posy sat forward. Hilda clearly couldn’t think what to say. Well, what a surprise.
‘May I say something?’ Nell volunteered.
‘Family first,’ said Edmund Tanner. ‘Go on, Hilda. What have you got to say?’
‘Um … I’ve finished.’
‘And very nice it was, love,’ said Mr Brent. ‘No parents could ask for more than to be thought well of by their family.’
Would that inspire Hilda to flights of deathles
s prose? Apparently not, but Nell smiled at Posy as if her mother had delivered a wonderful speech.
‘Can I say something about Gran and Gramps?’ asked Posy.
‘May I, not Can I,’ said her father. ‘And no, you may not. Children should be seen and not heard.’
The moment wobbled on the brink of being spoilt.
‘Then …’ Mrs Brent looked expectantly at Nell and Mr Stidson turned round with an encouraging glance. Even Edmund Tanner felt obliged to look over his shoulder.
‘I’d like to thank Mr and Mrs Brent for taking in me and my Alf when we was in need,’ Nell began.
‘And Violet,’ Alf piped up.
‘I thought the baby’s name was … Caroline … Catherine …?’ said Edmund Tanner. Was he interrupting on purpose?
‘Cassie,’ said Nell.
‘Violet’s the cat,’ said Mrs Brent.
‘The cat? I thought that animal was yours.’
‘Nay. She came here with Mrs Hibbert.’
‘She’s an all-of-us’s cat,’ said Alf.
‘Never forget, Posy,’ said Edmund Tanner, ‘that children should be seen and not heard.’
Nell felt her cheeks darken. ‘Anyroad, we couldn’t have found a kinder or better landlord and landlady. It takes a special kind of person to accept a widow and a child. The Brents wanted a male lodger, so that tells you how good they were to take us.’
Mrs Brent gazed at her, her eyes shining. She had such kind eyes. You could tell a lot about a person from their eyes, so Mum used to say. You could see the fun in Eric’s, the serious thoughts in Harold’s, the wry humour in their Vi’s.
The emptiness in Mum’s after they all quit this world.
‘Would anyone like to say more?’ asked Mr Stidson.
No one answered, then Mrs Brent sat up straighter. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got summat to say, summat I’ve only realised these past few days.’ Turning to her husband, she reached for his hands and gazed at him as if he were the only other person in the room. ‘You and me didn’t make vows, love, because of not marrying in church, but this I do know: the way we’ve treated one another and looked after each other and done us best for each other – we might not have said vows under God’s roof, but we’ve lived us lives as if we had.’
A Respectable Woman Page 5