‘Nonsense. That’s a man’s wage.’
‘It’s piecework. She’ll fettle faster.’
‘And produce shoddy work and earn less, not more.’
Didn’t he want her to have enough to live on in this beloved house she had moved into as a bride? ‘She has to take care not to let her standards slip, she knows that.’
‘Even if she does rake in these riches – which I don’t expect for one moment – she’s young. She’ll marry again and then where will you be?’
Leonie pressed her lips together. She and Hedley had never thought of Nell’s getting married again. She was busy with her job and her children and that seemed to be her whole life. But she was young and attractive. Who could say?
‘Even if she doesn’t remarry,’ Edmund went on, ‘there’s this new widow’s pension starting next year. Ten bob a week, plus extra for children, so she won’t need you. It’s time to put yourself first. Let us put you first. It’s better to rely on family.’
There was a rich note in his voice and Leonie almost crumpled under the kindness.
‘That’s what you should remember, Mother-in-law. Hilda and I are the ones you can trust. We’ll always be here – won’t we, Hilda?’
‘Yes,’ said Hilda.
It felt like the moment for Hilda to come to her, put her arms round her and make loving promises, but Hilda stayed put. A pair of thin arms slid round Leonie’s neck and Posy snuggled her cheek against hers. Leonie breathed her in: Pears soap and cotton.
‘I love you, Gran.’
‘Oh, chick, I love you too.’
‘Seen and not heard, Posy,’ said Edmund.
Posy might have melted away, but Leonie pulled her down beside her on the sofa. Posy sat so close their bodies warmed one another. Would Edmund send Posy back to her seat in the corner?
‘Posy has the right idea.’ He sounded approving. ‘You need your family, Mother-in-law.’
‘Well …’ Yes, she would say it. It had caused her and Hedley heartache over the years, though they had never uttered a word of reproach. ‘We’ve never seen as much of one another as I’d have liked.’
‘Now is the time to remedy that, Mother-in-law. We could give up our flat and move in here with you, then you’d never be on your own again. What do you say?’
Chapter Seven
Saturday. The day she dreaded. Posy spent the morning being optimistic. That was her new word. She had learnt it from Miss Claybourne and now she wanted to use it as much as she could, but it was proving tricky. Not like last week’s new words: with gusto. Miss Claybourne had set the class a composition about a visit to the zoo and Posy had produced a thrilling tale of lions roaring with gusto and elephants trumpeting with gusto, and a burglar came to steal the head zookeeper’s watch and chain, so a quick-thinking girl unlocked the lions’ cage and a lion pounced on the burglar and ate him with gusto and the King awarded the lion a medal. It was a ripping story and Miss Claybourne had read it out to the class.
The expression hadn’t gone down so well at home. When Ma put a plate of bubble-and-squeak in front of her and she said, ‘Thank you, Ma. I’ll eat it with gusto,’ Dad had made her stand in the corner for being cheeky. That was the trouble with new words. You needed to use them as much as you could because they improved your brain and made the world a better place, but other people didn’t always appreciate them.
She had managed to work optimistic into a conversation – in Dad’s absence, just in case.
‘Are you optimistic that we’ll go and live with Gran?’ she asked Ma.
‘Am I what?’
‘Optimistic.’
‘Lord, Posy, was there ever a child like you? How do you know about that, anyroad?’
‘Dad said it after Gramps’s funeral. So are you? Optimistic?’
‘I don’t know, love. We’ll see.’
Ma never knew. Dad did all the knowing, all the thinking and deciding. Posy wasn’t going to get married. She was going to do her own thinking and deciding.
She had vowed today to be optimistic. It was selfish to dwell on her own fears when Gran was sad because Gramps had died and gone to heaven. Besides, with her and Ma going to see Gran this afternoon, maybe Dad wouldn’t send her to get his caramels.
But he did.
Oh, buggeration, he did.
It was the usual palaver, with Mr Bennett asking her what she wanted even though he knew perfectly well, then saying, ‘As if I didn’t know,’ with a ho-ho sound in his voice.
She carried the bag home. Perhaps there would be six today. Don’t ever let it be said that Posy Tanner didn’t make full use of her optimism. Six caramels. Please let there be six.
Out they tumbled onto the green oilcloth. Six, please, six. One, two, three … six, please, six … four, five—
Dad gave the bag a shake, as if trying to dislodge a sixth caramel. Nothing fell out. Of course not. He was only doing it for show.
‘How many are there, Posy?’
Five. Her throat closed. The word got stuck.
‘I said, how many?’
‘Five.’ A tiny croak.
‘I didn’t hear that.’
‘Five.’
‘Are you certain? Count them. Let me hear you count them.’
‘One, two, three, four … five.’
‘And how many should there be?’
Five! There should flaming well be five, because that was what Mr Bennett had measured out.
‘Six,’ she whispered, hating herself, hating him, hating Rupert.
‘You never learn, do you? Every week, you think you’ll get away with it.’ He breathed in through his nose. His nostrils flared and his chest expanded. ‘Fetch Rupert.’
Posy’s knees turned to blancmange, but somehow she walked across the room. She looked at Ma, but Ma was bent almost double over her darning. She willed Ma to look. Even a sympathetic glance would help, but Ma kept her head down. Posy opened the door and stepped across to the side of the staircase, reaching between the balusters. With clammy fingers, she prised the stair rod free and carried it to Dad. He stood there, big and relaxed, letting her offer it until it suited him to take it.
‘Turn round.’
She obeyed, locking her knees so they couldn’t buckle. Then it came. A sharp swish cut the air and a hefty clout slammed into the backs of her legs, nearly knocking her off her feet. She staggered forwards, but righted herself at once. The pain plunged deep, a hard, full, rounded pain with a cruel, biting edge to it, as he administered six of the best, pain that would linger for hours in the depths of her muscles and bones.
He held out the stair rod. ‘Say thank you to Rupert.’
‘Thank you, Rupert.’ She dropped a trembly kiss on the stair rod. She had once tried to kiss the air above it instead, but Dad had punished her again. Now she kissed Rupert even though it made bile rise in her throat to do so.
‘You may put Rupert away.’
She was weak all over, but she knew better than to let Rupert slip through her fingers. She was dislocated from the world around her, but it was important to walk steadily so as not to be accused of being dramatic. She headed for the door.
Look at me, Ma. Look at me.
But Ma was engrossed in her darning.
‘There’s no need for you to leave just because Hilda’s come,’ Gran assured Mrs Hibbert, but Mrs Hibbert was already leaving the kitchen table.
‘I’m sure you’ve got family things to talk about,’ she said. ‘We’ll go upstairs and Cassie can have a nap while Alf and I play happy families. Would you like that, Alf?’
Posy was impressed. No one ever asked her what she wanted. Dad said Mrs Hibbert was an idiot who spoilt her children, but Alf and Cassie weren’t spoilt.
‘Does Posy enjoy playing cards?’ Mrs Hibbert looked at Ma. ‘Would she like to join us?’
‘She’ll be fine down here, thank you,’ said Ma. ‘She ought to be with her gran.’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Hibbert gathered up her children and d
isappeared.
‘Don’t you want to sit down, Posy?’ asked Gran.
‘I like standing.’ The backs of her thighs were giving her gyp. ‘Where’s Violet?’
‘Upstairs,’ said Gran.
‘Is she still on heat?’
‘Posy!’ Ma exclaimed. ‘That’s not polite conversation.’
Gran did funny things with her mouth, like she was stopping a smile breaking out. ‘We don’t think so, but we’re giving it another couple of days to make sure.’
‘Honestly, Mother, you encourage her.’
Gran squeezed Posy’s hand. Posy slipped her arm round Gran’s neck, her heart overflowing. Gran was special. She and Posy were linked together in a way that didn’t need words.
‘If we moved in with Gran, you could see Violet every day, Posy,’ said Ma. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Have you given it any more thought, Mother?’
‘There’s a lot to think on.’
‘You could keep your little pension. Edmund would be the man of the house; he’d pay the rent and the bills. Just imagine saving your pension.’
Gran put her cup to her lips, but that was for show. Her eyes were thoughtful. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live with her now she was all alone without Gramps? But underneath Posy’s pleasure was a niggle she couldn’t ignore. It sounded perfect: live with Gran and have all the family together.
Perfect.
No, it wasn’t.
‘Miss Lockwood, might I have a word? It’s these skirt lengths. They seem a bit on the short side.’
Miss Lockwood stopped beside Nell’s machine. ‘I might have known you’d notice, Mrs Hibbert. It’s next season’s fashion, and that won’t be the end of it. I was informed by one of the buyers that skirt lengths will get shorter still. Most unseemly, if you ask me.’
Was that a shudder of disapproval? As an overseer, Miss Lockwood wore a plain black dress, with fresh white collar and cuffs every day. Her skirt length was still pre-war. She was that kind of age. Older ladies still favoured ankle-length or even floor-length skirts and probably would until their dying days.
Nell was doing her best to work more speedily so as to increase her wages, but it wasn’t always possible. Hurrying could be disastrous if you were doing fur trimming or putting the tiniest of pleats into silk. Skilled work earned a higher rate but also took longer.
As well as working faster wherever feasible, she tried to work extra in other ways. When the hooter sounded for breaks, you had to finish the seam or detail you were in the middle of. While others around her stood up and started chatting, Nell kept going a bit longer, finishing what she was on and then starting the next bit, which meant finishing it too.
Dinner hours were purgatory. She didn’t need an hour. She didn’t even need half an hour. While everyone else gossiped over their barm cakes, she had to sit with her back to the clock or else she couldn’t wrench her gaze away from it.
Miss Lockwood didn’t stop for dinner until she had finished checking the morning’s output. Nell excused herself to the other women and returned to the workroom.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Lockwood, but I’ve a favour to ask.’
‘I hope it’s not more time off.’ She made it sound like Nell had gone to Rhyl for a fortnight, not taken half a day for a funeral.
‘I was hoping you’d let me work longer.’
‘You’re already full-time.’
‘Could I work from half-twelve till one each day? You wouldn’t have to supervise me. You know I’d get on with it.’
‘No one has asked that before. I’ll have to find out.’
A flutter of hope lifted Nell’s spirits. It would do wonders for her earnings.
That afternoon, when her colleagues were filing out for their tea break, Nell carried on for an extra few minutes, pushing the additional time as far as she dared.
Miss Lockwood appeared at her side.
‘I took your request to the office and it was refused. You’re not allowed to work more than forty-eight hours. Don’t be too long finishing that sash. Everyone else has gone.’
‘Yes, Miss Lockwood.’
Left alone, Nell finished the waterfall effect. She could murder a drink of tea, but these days she was providing her own refreshments. She went to the back of the room to the shelf where they were allowed to put the bottles of cordial or cold tea they brought from home. Hers was the only one left.
‘There you are, Mrs Hibbert.’
Mr Flynn appeared. She knew what was coming next.
‘Can I help you, Mr Flynn?’
‘Well, now you mention it.’ He always made it sound like he had never asked before.
She was tired and gasping for a drink, but Mr Flynn had that panicky look in his eyes. Suppose her brothers had survived and one of them had come home unable to cope with even the smallest amount of pressure. It might have happened to Tom; he had always been a bit of a dreamer; or maybe to Harold. He was big and steady and reliable, but you never knew. She would want her afflicted brother to receive kindness and support.
‘It’s next week’s rosters.’ Mr Flynn waggled his clipboard. ‘I’ve made a start.’
Made a pig’s whisker, more like. Nell looked through the orders. ‘This one’s substantial.’
‘You remember those flower-printed dresses we did in March? It’s a similar order, but bigger. We’ll be working flat out, only I can’t quite …’
‘Put that order in this workshop and get next door to do the underwear and the children’s coats …’
In two minutes she had sorted out the lot and sent Mr Flynn on his way. The flutter of hope she had experienced earlier returned, this time settling into a glow of inner calm. That big order would be a doddle. Unfitted bodices, low-waisted straight skirts, scooped necklines with casual collars: she could churn them out in her sleep. If she was ever going to make three pounds, next week was the week.
Posy knew what Dad and Ma were up to. No, it was difficult to imagine Ma getting up to anything; she was just following orders.
‘Did you say what I told you to say?’
That was the moment when Posy knew. She was lying on her board over the sink, rolled up inside her blanket, and Dad’s question floated through the closed door.
‘Did you say what I told you to say?’
And Posy knew. All those considerate things Ma had said to Gran since Gramps died hadn’t been said out of the kindness of her heart. She had said them because Dad told her to. He had thought them up and she had done as she was told. All that about Dad supporting them and Gran saving her pension … having company all day because Ma didn’t go out to work … watching Posy grow up …
Posy knew what had been said, because school had broken up for Easter on Wednesday instead of Friday because of burst pipes; and she had gone with Ma to visit Gran each day. How proud she had felt of Ma for paying Gran so much attention, for being worried about her now she was on her own without Gramps. Posy had thought it was all real, everything Ma said. Did Gran think it was real too?
If she let them move in, she would live to regret it.
Everyone lived to regret it where Dad was concerned.
Chapter Eight
Nell blessed Mr Flynn’s fractured nerves as she worked through the order of day dresses. They were a pleasure to make. Not long ago, the machinists used to groan at being told to make up an order in rayon, but already it was being made to a higher standard.
‘Art silk, they’re calling it now,’ said Mildred Shaw with the air of one in the know.
‘Aye, them with nowt between their ears,’ scoffed Elsie. ‘Art silk only means artificial, you daft ha’porth.’
‘I know that,’ sniffed Mildred.
‘Eh, you two,’ chimed in another voice. ‘Stop your bickering and eat your butties.’
Nell joined in the laughter. She felt light-hearted and fired up in a way she never had before. Ambition: that was what it was. She had never had an ambition before. Well, she had in a general way �
�� do her best for the children, that kind of thing – but this time she had a specific aim to earn three whole pounds in one week. Today was Wednesday: she knew she could do it.
‘Aye-aye,’ said Elsie. ‘Here comes her ladyship. Who’s for it this time?’
Nell was as surprised as anyone when Miss Lockwood stopped at her side. She hadn’t fudged any of her garments. She knew she hadn’t – had she? Her cheeks tingled as she followed the overseer. Miss Lockwood stopped in the corridor.
‘You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re one of the best girls I’ve ever had, and certainly the quickest.’
Relief brought words flooding out. ‘I need to earn three pounds a week. I managed two pounds sixteen and eight last week.’
‘I’m aware of what you earned last week and so is Mr Cooper. He’d like a word, but don’t worry. I’ll be with you.’
Worry? Why would she worry at being congratulated by the boss? She trotted up the stairs behind Miss Lockwood, who knocked on the office door and led her inside. Mr Cooper, a paunchy man with a serious air, sat behind the desk, Mr Flynn standing by his side.
‘This is Mrs Hibbert, Mr Cooper,’ said Miss Lockwood.
‘Ah – yes. You earned a substantial sum last week.’ He held up his hand and waggled his fingers.
‘Two pounds sixteen and eight,’ said Mr Flynn.
Nell beamed. ‘I’m determined to make three pounds this week, sir.’
‘Ah – yes. The thing is, it won’t do, Mrs Hibbs, d’you see?’
Mr Flynn cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Hibbert, sir.’
‘What? Yes, yes. We can’t have you earning that much.’
‘Why not, if I produce the work? I don’t skimp, sir. Miss Lockwood will tell you my garments are of the highest standard.’
‘My good woman, you’re missing the point. I can’t pay a female worker that much. That’s what a breadwinner earns.’
‘I’m a breadwinner. I’m a widow with young children.’ She darted a look at Mr Flynn. How many times had she helped him out? But he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
A Respectable Woman Page 7