‘Oh, petal,’ murmured Mr Brent. ‘You’re my best girl.’
The loving looks they exchanged made Nell’s throat ache. She wanted the moment to last for ever, for their sakes.
‘Shall we bow our heads in prayer?’ said Mr Stidson.
A few more minutes and it was over. Thanks and goodbyes were exchanged. The minister pressed the Brents’ hands warmly, then Nell handed him his hat and Edmund Tanner showed him out, returning a minute later to stand in the doorway, not speaking, but by not crossing the threshold suggesting it was time for his family to leave. Nell could have crowned him.
‘Come and sit down again, Edmund,’ said Mrs Brent.
He sat down.
‘Mrs Brent looks weepy,’ whispered Alf.
Nell kept her voice low, aware that the others could hear every word. ‘Today is a funny day, happy and sad at the same time. We’re happy because dear Mr and Mrs Brent have had such a long life together, but we’re sad too because Mr Brent is poorly.’
Please don’t ask if he’s going to die.
Alf looked at her in concern. ‘Is it reet buggeration, Mummy?’
Chapter Six
Was that …? It couldn’t be. But it was – the slender figure, that confident, chin-up walk, the elegant rig-out. Roberta.
Jim leant into the top of the ladder, pulling his cap down over his forehead and turning his face away from the women on the crazy-paving path below. Women: that was the wrong word. Ladies, with their tippy-tappy shoes and educated voices. He knew that voice – Roberta’s mother. He leant further towards the window pane. He must look like he was getting an eyeful of the Randalls’ front bedroom, but he wasn’t. He was accustomed to looking at the window, not through it.
Hearing the front door shut, he glanced down. Roberta and Mrs Fairbrother had disappeared indoors. He huffed out a breath and applied his energy to buffing up the window with his chamois. Good job this was the final window. He could be gone in a few minutes.
He descended the ladder, standing at its foot to draw it into an upright position before carrying it down the path and through the gate. His barrow was parked against the kerb. Behind it stood a motor he knew, Angus Fairbrother’s beloved old Austin. He smiled: he would bet any money Roberta had been on at her father to buy something new.
The uniformed chauffeur, leaning against the side of the vehicle, ankles crossed, smoking a cigarette, was unknown to him.
He lowered the ladder onto his barrow. ‘Smart motor.’
The chauffeur uncrossed his ankles, turning to pat paintwork the colour of port wine. ‘She’s not bad for her age.’
‘You keep her looking smart.’
‘It’s worth the effort. Cigarette?’ He pulled out a packet of Player’s Drumhead.
Ordinarily, Jim would have accepted and passed the time of day, but not this morning, not with Roberta and her mother in the handsome house behind him.
‘Thanks, but no. Mustn’t keep the customers waiting.’
He returned for his bucket, tipping the water down the drain. The windows looked good in the spring sunshine. No smears, no grubby corners. He was a good window cleaner. Conscientious. Reliable. He had built up a decent reputation. His customers would be amazed if they knew what he used to do for a living.
He skirted the side of the house to the kitchen door, which Mrs Randall’s daily had left open on this fine morning. She appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘She’s give me the money for you. There y’are – a bob.’
‘Thanks.’ He pocketed two tanners. ‘See you next month.’
He came round the corner of the house – and there was Roberta. Too late to duck out of sight: they were face-to-face. A small parcel dangled by its string from her fingers; she must have fetched it from the motor. Her free hand flew to her chest, her leather-gloved fingers spreading out in a fan, lips parting on a gasp as her eyes widened.
He touched his cap. ‘Roberta. I’d hoped to leave without being seen.’
She recovered quickly. Her hand dropped to her side. There was a flush of colour high on her cheekbones. ‘You’ve no business using my first name.’
‘I stand corrected, Miss Fairbrother, or is it Mrs?’
The flush on her cheekbones flared a fiery red. ‘It’s Miss Fairbrother.’
Still.
Oh, Roberta. She had expected the war to send back to her the same man it had taken from her in 1914 and it had hurt her terribly when she realised how he had altered … and how her future had altered as a result.
‘You’re still cleaning windows, I see.’ Her voice was brittle.
He smiled. ‘As you see.’ He spread his arms, inviting her to look at him in his shirtsleeves. ‘You’re looking well, Miss Fairbrother, if I may say so.’
‘Don’t make fun of me.’
‘It was intended as a compliment. I apologise if I spoke out of turn.’
It wasn’t what he had wanted to say, anyway. He wanted to tell her how swish she looked, all decked out in a peachy-pinky colour that you would have to be female to know the name of. Jacket, dress, hat, even the tongues of her shoes were the same hue. The jacket was almost long enough to be a coat and had heaven alone knew how many minuscule buttons down the front: it must take five minutes to fasten all that lot. He could imagine her standing there while her maid did the necessary. She would consider it time well spent.
Her hat was one of those cloche things that looked like an upside-down flowerpot and it sported a colossal felt flower on the side. Only the tiniest bit of her hair showed, so she must be wearing it pretty short these days. Pity.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t look for compliments from window cleaners.’
She marched indoors. Would she tell her mother about the encounter? Tell her friends? Would she laugh and say, ‘I had such a lucky escape,’ and shake her head in relief?
Or would she keep silent about it, as if it had never happened?
Jim’s next calls were some corner shops in the backstreets. He liked doing them, liked to feel a shining window would tempt customers inside. Before the war, he had never set foot inside places like these, but now he had nothing but admiration and sympathy for the shop owners. A twelve-hour day was nothing. Sixteen hours was normal to many of them.
He did the tobacconist’s, then moved along to Bradshaw’s, the butcher’s on the next corner. As well as chops, sausages and joints, they did tasty pies here. Betty Bradshaw was a dab hand with pastry.
The shop door stood open. He stuck his head inside.
‘Save me a meat and tater pie, will you? I’ll collect it when I finish my morning round.’
‘Will do, Jim. Now shove out o’t road and make room for a real customer. Morning, Mrs Watson.’
‘Sorry.’ Jim stepped aside to let a woman in. She had two young children with her, her grandchildren, probably.
‘Ta, love. You got the Brent ham, Arnold?’
‘Coming right up.’
‘Here’s your water.’ Betty came round the counter, hefting his bucket.
He took it from her and went outside. The ladder was already in position, but he was going to start at the bottom and work up. With his drying-leather tucked in his belt, he dunked a cloth and set to work.
‘Are you a window cleaner?’ piped up a voice beside him.
He looked down at the little lad. ‘My secret is out. What gave me away?’
‘We’ve come for the ham.’
‘So I gather.’
‘It’s special ham called buried-with-ham. You have it at funerals. But,’ he confided, ‘it doesn’t mean you put ham in the coffin.’
‘No, that would be an odd thing to do.’
‘My daddy was buried with ham, but I’m not old enough to remember.’
‘People set store by being buried with ham.’
‘What does set store mean?’
‘What do you think it means?’
The boy tilted his head to one side. ‘Does it mean people think it matters?’
‘You’re a clever lad. What’s your name?’
‘Alf, and my little sister is Cassie.’
‘That’s a fancy name.’
‘It’s short for Cassandra.’
‘That’s even fancier. You don’t get many Cassandras to the pound.’
The boy frowned, unsure, then carried on. ‘Mummy wanted Violet, but she couldn’t have it because the cat got it first.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Buggeration!’ It was the woman who had brought the children for the ham. ‘What’s that child doing now?’
Jim turned round, thinking Alf was about to get it in the neck for interrupting him, but instead found the little girl was partway up his ladder. Dropping his cloth, he covered the distance in a single stride. She was at chest-height, a little dot of a thing. He couldn’t help admiring her spirit. He plucked her from the rungs and swung her high in the air. Her chubby face was filled with glee and he grinned back. She might be more adventurous than was good for her, but she was a sweetheart.
‘What are you doing with my daughter? Put her down this instant!’
A young woman hurried across the street with the light of battle in her eyes. She was tall and had a natural grace that was unimpeded by the cobbles, a full shopping bag and her haste. She wore a cavalry-twill coat that had seen better days and a simple, small-brimmed burgundy hat that revealed frank features and clear skin. Her hair, fringed and bobbed, swinging at a length between chin and shoulder, was the same colour as the crackly brown of autumn leaves.
‘Put her down!’
Jim set Cassie on her feet. She immediately set off in the direction of the ladder. He caught hold of her by the woolly bobble on top of her bonnet. She stopped, looking up and turning in a circle, trying to see what was impeding her progress.
‘She were halfway up yon ladder,’ said the older woman. ‘You can’t take your eyes off her for one minute without her climbing aboard the tram to Blackpool. She’s a little terror, is our Cassie.’ She beamed down at the tiny girl, wagging a finger that gave no indication of annoyance.
‘This man rescued her.’ Alf ran to his mum. ‘He’s a hero.’
The young woman’s gaze flicked in his direction. There was a trace of awkwardness in the glance, but she raised her chin at the same time. ‘Maybe I were a tad hasty, but any mother would have reacted the same.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘Ooh, don’t he talk fancy for a window cleaner,’ cried the older woman.
Catching hold of Cassie’s hand, the young mother gave Jim a brief half-smile that combined thanks with dismissal. He nodded, stepping back to the window, but he was reluctant to let the moment go. That young woman had something about her. Having seen Roberta less than an hour ago, it was impossible not to compare the two, and Roberta won on every count: beauty, clothes, poise and that certain something that came from a life of ease and privilege. But even so, this young woman had something about her.
He dipped his cloth in the water and continued with his work.
‘I’ve got the loaves and butter – and tomatoes – and tea – and more sugar, just in case – oh, and a jar of that extra-strong piccalilli that were Mr Brent’s favourite, though whether anyone will fancy it is another matter, but Mrs Brent insisted.’
‘Eh, love, you’ve done all that and all I’ve done is fetch the ham and lose your Cassie up a ladder. Let’s get on home and get these butties made. Mustn’t be late for’t funeral.’
Jim turned round. ‘I hope it goes well – as well as these things can.’
She looked at him, right at him, as if those other glances hadn’t really seen him. Her eyes were hazel, a light amber colour. He saw cleverness in them. Not shrewdness, not calculation, but honest-to-goodness intelligence and good humour. His heart bumped.
He didn’t want her to go.
Was she still Mrs Hedley Brent? Or did his death make her Mrs Leonie Brent? What it made her was a smaller person, a lesser creature, that was for certain. Her and Hedley, they had been inseparable. Childhood sweethearts, they had spent their entire lives together. Without him, she was less than she was meant to be. Diminished. It felt like she was fading away.
Eh, but she had given him a good send-off and that was summat to be proud of. A fancy hearse with glass sides, pulled by black horses with black plumes, the undertaker walking in front with his top hat and his cane: you didn’t get more special than that.
‘You’ve done him proud,’ the neighbours said, igniting a fierce glow of satisfaction inside her.
She caught a few murmurs about how much extra the Brents must have stumped up for their burial insurance. She had been allowed to cash in part of her own policy to contribute to Hedley’s funeral, but this was a secret. Should she have told Hilda? But Hilda would have told Edmund and he might not approve and she really couldn’t be doing with him laying down the law, not just now, not in connection with Hedley’s funeral. Hedley’s funeral had to be perfect.
And it had been.
What was she meant to do now? Her parlour was full of neighbours and she was sitting in the middle, feeling excluded, separate … alone. Organising the funeral had kept her going, given her something to focus on, one last thing to do for Hedley; but now it was over and she couldn’t think what she was meant to do next.
Mrs Watson leant towards her, her face creased into compassionate lines. Her voice sounded kind, but it was difficult to concentrate on the words. Leonie returned her neighbour’s smile with a little grimace, then pretended to let someone else catch her attention. The brass candlesticks on the mantelpiece had a good gleam on them. She had never been scared to use a bit of elbow grease. Hedley liked things to look their best and she had been proud to keep their home sparkling. Someone pressed a cup and saucer into her hand. She put it on the table beside her. It wasn’t her cup and saucer. Hers had harebells round the rim, but everyone had mucked in with a lend of their crockery, and this cup and saucer, with its red and gold pattern, belonged to Mrs Foskett.
That green glass vase in the corner – she could get rid of it now, if she wanted. Years ago, Hedley’s mother had taken it off the top of her own cupboard and handed it to her. ‘For your new home, chuck,’ she had said, which sounded like a generous gesture, but Leonie had sensed that Hedley’s mother was passing it on just to get rid, because she hated it.
Leonie hated it an’ all. It was plug-ugly. The glass was knobbly and the sides were straight. Vases shouldn’t be straight. They should be curved and elegant. But she had never been able to say owt, because of it coming from Hedley’s mother. She could get rid of it now, though, if she felt like it; only she didn’t feel like it. Her limbs felt like dead weights. Her heartbeats were heavy and slow, but at the same time there was something inside her that was pitter-pattering in panic.
Folk were getting up to say goodbye. They pressed her hand and said kind words. She tried to hold onto their fingers, but the hands slipped away. She wanted them to stay and talk about Hedley, to give her a few more minutes with her darling chap, that sweet boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago. Why hadn’t she made more effort, paid attention, listened, talked, instead of feeling lost and alone? A fist squeezed inside her chest and her breathing stopped. Raw fear streamed through her.
She wasn’t alone. Don’t be stupid. She had Hilda and their Posy. Oh yes, and Edmund. And the Hibberts. She wasn’t alone.
Yes, she was. Always and for ever.
‘Well, that’s over.’
Edmund’s voice was full-throated and he made the most of it, as if he expected everyone to pay attention because he was worth listening to. He stood in the middle of the room, the better to have all eyes on him. Hilda sank into the armchair. It had been pushed out of the way to make space, so Hilda seemed tucked out of the way too. Posy, dear little Posy, looking pale and washed out in black, sat quiet as a mouse in the corner.
‘It went well,’ said Edmund.
‘Aye,’ Leonie began, glad to ta
lk about it and keep it happening, to keep that precious link with Hedley.
‘Now we need to decide what’s best for you, Mother-in-law.’
Her mind went blank. She had thought they were going to relive the funeral, wringing every last detail out of it, every possible crumb of solace, but instead Edmund—what did he mean, what was best for her?
‘This is a big house for you on your own.’ He made it sound like she lived in Longford Hall.
‘I’m not on my own. There’s—’
‘Yes, yes, the lodger and her offspring. You can’t rely on her. She didn’t even stay for the wake.’
‘She had to get back to work. She took the morning off to do the shopping and get the food ready and attend the service. She can’t take the afternoon off an’ all.’
‘I noticed she left her children behind for someone else to look after.’
‘Well, she can’t take them to the factory, can she? Mrs Watson’s Annie came round special to sit with ’em next door, and I bet they’ve been as good as gold.’
‘The point is, Mother-in-law, how are you going to manage without Father-in-law’s work pension from the Corporation?’
A chill uncurled in her belly. ‘There’ll be a small widow’s pension from’t Corporation. I’ve got to apply.’
‘I’ll do that. That’s my job now, to take the worry off your shoulders. You’re lucky the Corporation hands out pensions to its widows – isn’t she, Hilda?’
Hilda looked up. ‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know anyone else who gets a widow’s pension from their husband’s work. Of course, it won’t be anything like as much as Father-in-law’s pension was. You’ll find it hard to manage.’
‘There’s the rent from Mrs Hibbert,’ said Leonie.
Edmund laughed. Hedley not cold in his grave, and Edmund stood there and laughed. It wasn’t decent. ‘That won’t go far,’ he said.
‘She says if she works extra hard, she can maybe earn as much as three pounds a week.’
A Respectable Woman Page 6