‘You can’t earn three pounds and that’s all there is to it.’
‘But if I do the work—’
‘If you do three pounds’ worth of work, I’ll have to cut the piecework rates so you earn less; and I can’t cut your rates without cutting everyone else’s. So, what’s it to be, Mrs Hibbs? Do I cut everybody’s rates or will you restrict your earning?’
‘It’s a good job our Posy’s not a jealous child.’
Those were the words that tipped the balance. Leonie had struggled – oh, how she had struggled with the problem. She loved Nell and the children, but she had her own family to think of. And herself.
‘You have to think of yourself, Mother,’ Hilda had urged. ‘It’s what Dad would have wanted: all of us to be together.’
Was it? It would feel good to do what Hedley wanted. She missed him with a wild ache of fear and pain, prowling the house in the dark, unable to settle, feeling herself going slowly mad. Would things be easier if the Tanners moved in? It was hard looking after Alf and Cassie. She felt so worn down.
‘You have to think of yourself, Mother,’ said Hilda, ‘especially at your age.’
‘I might never see sixty again, but I’m not in my dotage yet.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Hilda muttered.
Leonie felt a pang of disappointment. Times were when the two of them would have roared with laughter at Hilda’s tactless remark, but not now. Hilda had been a sunny child, but in adulthood she had gone wishy-washy. Was it because of those ten childless years before Posy came along? Sometimes Leonie felt an obscure need to apologise to Edmund for being saddled with a wife who had turned out to be such a wet lettuce. Eh, he must be disappointed.
And that was another problem. Leonie couldn’t keep her mind fixed on anything these days. She had an important decision to make, but she couldn’t get her thoughts together without Hedley to support her. Not that she had been one of those wives who let the husband do all the thinking, but they had been best friends, discussing everything.
While she floundered, failing to make decisions, Hilda uttered the crucial words.
‘It’s a good job Posy isn’t a jealous child.’
Coldness spread through Leonie’s chest. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘All the attention you give those children.’
‘I look after them. Of course I give them attention.’
‘And the amount you talk about them.’
Did she talk about them more than she did about Posy, her own granddaughter? She looked away from Hilda, the coldness in her chest turning to a hollow feeling. Her own granddaughter. It wasn’t her fault the Tanners lived a tram ride away instead of round the corner. But that wasn’t the point. Her own granddaughter.
Later, before Hilda and Posy set off for home, Posy hugged her.
‘To keep you going until next time, Gran.’
Leonie caught Posy’s face between her hands. There wasn’t much of Posy on the outside. She was skinny with a pinched little face but, by heck, there was loads of her on the inside. Imagination and courage and, most of all, heart.
And just like that, as if she had rolled up her sleeves, the choice was made. She loved Nell and the children, but she loved Posy more.
Nell trudged home. Well, no – that would have meant walking slowly, and she didn’t have time for that. She had left Stan at a brisk pace and that pace had never let up. If anything, it had increased. But in her heart, she was trudging. They weren’t going to let her earn three pounds a week. They knew she could do it and they wouldn’t allow it.
She rounded the corner into Finney Lane. Would Alf still be awake? Would she have the chance of a cuddle or even a story before he snuggled down? Violet scampered beside her, darting inside as she opened the door. The pungent aroma of fried onions brought her stomach wide awake and clamouring. The kitchen door was open and Mrs Brent stood at the range, steam rising from a couple of saucepans.
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ called Nell.
She ran upstairs, shrugging off her coat. Cassie was tucked up in her drawer. Nell’s heart melted. Cassie was a little monkey when she was awake, but slumber turned her into an angel.
Alf stirred. ‘Mummy?’
She felt as if she had earned a victory lap around the playing field. ‘I’m here, chick.’
‘Good.’ He turned over and went back to sleep.
She laughed. She made herself laugh. So much for the cuddle and the story.
She hung up her things on the back of the door, tidied her hair in the speckled mirror propped up on the chest of drawers, and headed downstairs.
‘Smells good.’
‘Onion gravy. I made rissoles with the leftover cottage pie.’
Nell’s mouth watered so much she was scared of dribbling. Could she afford something more sustaining than jam in her midday barm cake? Cheese would be more filling. But she kept her own food to a minimum for a reason, and that reason was even more pressing now.
She helped dish up, then ate her meal as daintily as any fine lady enjoying afternoon tea at the Midland Hotel, but it was an effort. Every evening she wanted to fall on the food and shovel it down. Anyroad, it was better to eat slowly. It made you feel fuller longer. So she told herself.
Mrs Brent cleared away the plates and, protecting her hands with a cloth, removed a bowl from the oven.
‘Roly-poly pudding.’
‘Before you put custard on, may I cut my helping in two and save half to take to work?’
‘I’m always telling you you need more inside you at midday.’
‘What would I do without you to keep an eye on me?’
‘Get away with you,’ Mrs Brent said gruffly.
‘Did your Hilda come today?’
‘Aye, she did.’
Good. Hilda might be a drip, who hadn’t paid her parents anything like the attention they deserved during her father’s lifetime, but she had come good since his death.
‘And Posy?’
‘She took your two outside to play in the street with the other children.’
‘That was sweet of her.’
‘She’s a sweet child.’ Mrs Brent threw down her spoon. It clattered against the rim of her dish and sank into the custard. ‘It’s no use. I can’t pretend everything’s the same.’
Nell’s heartbeat picked up speed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Eh, lovey, I’m that sorry. I know me and Hedley told you to look on this as your home, but … our Hilda’s moving in with her family and so …’
You want me to move out. Nell couldn’t say the words any more than poor Mrs Brent could. She dropped her hands into her lap, clasping them together beneath the shelter of the table. She forced herself to say the right thing. She owed this dear lady so much.
‘I understand.’ A crackle invaded her throat. ‘When …?’
Mrs Brent’s eyes were swimming. She sniffed, her hands fluttering in search of a hanky. ‘There’s no hurry. I’ll tell Hilda they can’t come until you’re sorted. And I’ll still do your child-minding for you. I wouldn’t give that up for anything.’
Nell nodded. Her heart was going to explode with panic.
‘I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t certain you’ll be all right.’ Mrs Brent’s voice wobbled. ‘But with you all set to earn three quid a week … and there’s this widow’s pension starting next year …’
Another nod. The rest of her was frozen to the spot, but her stupid head nodded as if everything was fine.
What was she going to do now?
Nell spent Thursday and Friday in a haze of panic, relying on her experienced fingers to make the rayon day dresses. She spent both evenings racing round like a mad thing, trying to find somewhere to live, not even stopping to have her meal first, much to Mrs Brent’s distress, but she couldn’t have forced anything down anyway.
She gazed into every shop window where customers advertised on postcards, copying the addresses offering rooms. Some folk shut the door on her for daring
to knock in the evening. Others didn’t want a woman. ‘Breadwinners only, love.’ Some wouldn’t take children. She didn’t dare mention Violet.
On Friday night she lay awake, bouncing the curve of her knuckles against her mouth, fear pinning her to the bed.
She spent Saturday morning with the children, anxious to keep things normal for them, but that afternoon she would have to take them for a walk past the stationer’s on Beech Road in the hope of seeing some likely for-rent postcards.
As they finished their dinner, the Tanners arrived.
‘Hilda has some shopping to do, Mother-in-law,’ said Edmund Tanner. ‘Would you like to go with her?’
‘Yes, go,’ said Nell. ‘I’ll clear away. You’ll help, won’t you, Alf?’
‘So will I,’ said Posy.
‘Mrs Hibbert can manage,’ said her father. ‘You may go out to play, Posy. I’ve brought yesterday’s Evening News with me. I’ll read it in the parlour.’
Everyone dispersed. Nell took her children into the scullery to wash up. When they finished and were putting things away, Edmund Tanner, newspaper under his arm, appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Built like a brick shithouse,’ said Doug’s voice in Nell’s head. Standing in front of the wall cupboard where the crockery was kept, she made a point of adjusting the small stack of plates, just to show she wasn’t fazed.
Cassie came toddling through from the scullery, clutching Mrs Brent’s saucer.
‘Thank you, chick.’ Nell took it from her.
‘Here’s the last one, Mummy.’
Alf appeared, Mrs Brent’s harebell teacup half-wrapped in the tea towel. At the sight of Edmund Tanner, he stopped dead. For a breathless moment, the cup got tangled in the tea towel before slipping through and dropping to the tiled floor. A musical ting bounced into the air, mixing with the sharp-sweet aroma of the spicy apple pie Mrs Brent had baked that morning.
Nell swooped. Please don’t let it be broken. It wasn’t. She expelled a huge breath, but her relief was swept aside as the sight of Alf’s huge eyes made her heart turn over.
‘Don’t worry. It isn’t broken – look.’
‘Let me see.’ Edmund Tanner’s voice was hard. Disbelieving, accusing.
She stood up straight. ‘No need,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s fine – but it’s been on the floor, so it needs washing again, doesn’t it, Alf? Come and help me.’
‘You’ve no idea how to bring up a boy.’ Edmund Tanner’s voice was loaded with scorn.
Shepherding her children into the scullery, Nell tried to make light of washing the cup, but Alf had sunk into himself. Cassie didn’t care. Nothing bothered her. She watched and listened and took everything in and one day she would kick the Edmund Tanners of this world where it hurt.
Nell washed the cup, but Alf wouldn’t dry it or carry it into the kitchen.
‘You should make him do as he’s told,’ Edmund Tanner remarked as she put the cup away.
‘Do you want something?’ she asked, her voice carefully controlled.
‘You can make me a cup of tea.’
‘You what?’
‘Milk, two sugars, and make sure it’s properly brewed.’
I’ll do no such thing. Bugger off. How dare you scare my son? I’ll set my brothers on you.
But maybe he was entitled to ask since Hilda and Mrs Brent were out.
‘Well, put the kettle on,’ he said.
Nell balled her hands into fists at her sides, but she had no choice. He was Mrs Brent’s son-in-law and he was entitled to be here. She pulled her shoulders back: she was entitled to be here an’ all.
For now.
She put the kettle on, smiling at the children, keeping her face averted from Edmund Tanner. She might be obliged to make his dratted tea, but she wouldn’t acknowledge him in the process.
‘I want you out of this house by midday next Saturday.’
Whump. She felt it as a punch in the stomach. ‘Mrs Brent said I could take as long as I needed.’
‘My mother-in-law has just lost her husband of forty years. You can’t expect her to think rationally. If you take your time, who knows how long you might spin it out? My family takes up residence here next Saturday, so I will require you and your brood to be out by midday.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t forget to allow time to give your room a thorough spring-clean.’
‘Mr Tanner—’
‘You can bring my tea to the parlour. After that I’ll take a stroll with Posy to find the nearest sweet shop. Oh, and you can have this.’ He threw the newspaper her way. It landed on the floor, its pages fanning out across the tiles. ‘Pick it up, boy.’
Alf flattened himself against her legs. Nell picked up the paper and dropped it on the table.
‘I’ve circled some rooms for rent,’ said Edmund Tanner. ‘Just in case you need helping on your way.’
After she had made this horrible bully his tea, Nell took the Manchester Evening News upstairs, cut some pages into strips and set the children making paper chains. Alf was meticulous about it, while Cassie cheerfully slathered herself in flour-and-water paste.
Nell read the small ads, fighting to keep her spirits up as the locations of the rooms for rent sank in. Fallowfield, Levenshulme, Gorton … Oldham. The thought of moving so far made her want to weep, but it was no use getting upset. She brushed her hand across her eyes and looked again at the paper, but she had lost her place and found herself scanning the jobs. A boxed advert headed INGLEBY’S caught her eye.
She knew Ingleby’s – didn’t everyone? It was a big shop on Market Street, endlessly fascinating to anyone interested in needlework and dressmaking, with its vast array of fabrics and everything a dressmaker could possibly need, including accessories – hats, gloves, brooches – to wear with what you made, though plenty of their customers patronised their famous dressmaking service.
Ingleby’s wanted women who could demonstrate how to use a sewing machine. Nell sat up. She could do that standing on her head. Interested parties were invited to present themselves this afternoon at three o’clock.
This afternoon!
Her heart thumped. She should be out looking for a new home, not dashing off in pursuit of a new job. Yet she needed another job too, one with more favourable hours. Finding a new home close by had so far proved impossible, which in turn meant Mrs Brent wouldn’t be able to look after the children. The thought of new child-minding arrangements set her instincts ringing alarm bells and demanding she didn’t work such punishing hours. It was one thing to entrust the children to Mrs Brent’s care for forty-eight factory hours plus travelling there and back. She couldn’t countenance leaving them all that time with a new person, no matter how kind or loving.
A job with shop hours would make a significant difference to her circumstances. Did she stand a chance?
Chapter Nine
Saturday. Best day of the week. Jim felt he was doing something worthwhile, repaying a fraction of the debt he could never pay back. How did you repay the world for your life when unimaginable numbers of men had perished? And for some unfathomable reason, he had survived. It hadn’t felt like surviving at first. How could it, when, instead of a soul, he now had a pit of loss and lament? How did you repay all those bereaved families? How did you justify your own existence? That was why he lived this outdoor life. Being outside, working at a job that was all physical, no brainwork required, helped him, though dashed if he could explain how.
All he had known when he returned from the war was that he couldn’t step back into his old life. God knows, he had tried. He had returned to the offices of Fairbrother and Pepperdine, in Rosemount Place off Market Street in the middle of town, and stood in his old office doorway, looking into his well-appointed room, with his oak desk with the maroon inlay. It was his … yet not his.
Mr Fairbrother had slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Fairbrother, Pepperdine and Franks: how does that sound, my boy? I’ll have the brass plate changed while you’re on your honeymoon
.’
Roberta had the wedding dress ready – dress, veil, pearls, going-away costume. A something-borrowed bracelet, a something-blue pair of sapphire earrings. God, the trouble she had gone to. And who could blame her? She had spent years planning this. Her mother had drawn up the seating plan in 1915.
‘Of course, there have been some amendments,’ said Roberta, oblivious to his silence. ‘Uncle Rodney and your parents passed away, and poor Cousin George … well. You know.’
Well. You know. That was one way of putting it. Perhaps they should have used it on the telegrams. WELL STOP YOU KNOW STOP. Because everyone had known, all the wives and mothers and sweethearts at home, hoping and praying for their boys. They had seen the telegram lad and they had known.
He had tried explaining to Roberta what was inside him, but how could words express deep-rooted loss and lament? She understood … up to a point; was sympathetic … up to a point. But she had waited for a long time and she wanted everything she had waited for. The smart wedding, a home of her own, and darling James working alongside Daddy; the life that, as daughter of Angus Fairbrother, she was entitled to.
They had been engaged since early ’14. If she had wanted back then to marry him before he went off to war, he would have agreed, but she hadn’t wanted it – then. She had wanted the perfect, polished wedding of her dreams, not some rushed affair with a couple of dozen hastily assembled guests.
As the war dragged on, she had changed her tune, angling for a wedding while he was on leave, but now it was he who refused.
‘Suppose I don’t come back?’
‘All the more reason to get married.’
Was it? Many a wartime marriage had been undertaken in that spirit, but to him, it hadn’t felt right. Marriage was a celebration of the future and, this time next week, he would be back in a world of death and destruction. He couldn’t marry her.
So Roberta had waited … and waited. They had got engaged on her twentieth birthday and she had turned twenty-six before he came home in the spring of 1920 after volunteering to work as a medical orderly during the influenza epidemic.
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