‘I’m twenty-six! You have to marry me,’ she cried when it sank in that he meant what he said about not going through with it. ‘And you have to come back to Fairbrother and Pepperdine’s. Mummy and I have been telling people for years. What do you think you can do instead, anyway?’
So he had told her.
‘You’re going to clean windows,’ she hissed. ‘You can’t. What will people say? I forbid it.’
But cleaning windows had been right for him, giving him fresh air, physical labour, time to think or not think, time to be. There were occasions when his sense of loss and lament was overwhelming, when he thought he would die of it or run mad, but he didn’t do either. He just carried on. Loss and lament.
Mondays to Fridays he cleaned middle-class windows and shop windows, and on Saturdays he did windows free of charge for hard-up war widows and the mothers of dead soldiers. Saturdays afforded him some satisfaction, though he wasn’t sure he deserved any.
Today he had a plan, though that was rather a grand name for it. Made it sound deliberate. Well, it was deliberate. Fool others if you want, Jim Franks, but don’t fool yourself.
It was a mild spring day, perfect for the Easter weekend. He had ventured out early for a tramp across the meadows that ran alongside the Mersey. This was why he had chosen Chorlton for his home. An old, small township that was now a growing suburb, it provided him with ample work, while the meadows gave him the fresh air and sense of space he craved.
After the morning’s work, he dropped into Bradshaw’s. The plates of sausages, mince and chops were nearly empty and Betty’s pies and pasties were gone.
‘Hoping for a pie, were you?’ she asked.
‘You have to be quick off the mark to get one of my Betty’s pies,’ said Arnold.
‘I’ve still got some sausage rolls,’ said Betty. ‘Would a couple of them do you?’
‘Thanks. How did that funeral go?’
‘Funeral?’
‘When I last did your windows, there was a woman here collecting the ham. She had a couple of nippers with her that belonged to a young widow.’
‘Oh, the Brent funeral. Poor Mr Brent.’
‘I didn’t get the impression it was Mrs Brent I saw.’
‘No, that were Mrs Watson, her neighbour.’
‘And the children’s mother …?’
‘Mrs Brent’s lodger, Mrs Hibbert. What’s this about, Jim? Not like you to gossip.’
‘It’s not gossip. Mrs O’Connor from Brundretts Lane has gone to live with her eldest, so I’ve got a slot free.’
‘And you’re looking for another soul to help. You’re a good bloke, Jim. Why don’t you try Mrs Watson? She lost her Bill at Wipers.’
‘Does she live in one of Mr Dawson’s houses?’
She did, which made it easier. Dawson’s rent man, Mr Miles, knew him and had provided introductions in the past. He caught Miles as he was about to set out on his Saturday afternoon collection round and Miles took him to Mrs Watson’s house in Finney Lane.
Jim hung back discreetly as the rent man explained to Mrs Watson and vouched for him.
‘It’d save me a job.’ Mrs Watson eyed him and he touched his cap to her. ‘I take my life in my hands, sitting on that upstairs window sill to wash my bedroom window. You can start round the back and I’ll give you a cup of tea before you do the front.’
‘Deal.’
He did the back, then came down his ladder and knocked on the door.
‘It’s open,’ called Mrs Watson.
Removing his cap, he entered the scullery. In the kitchen, Mrs Watson wasn’t alone. His heart gave a leap of pleasure – Mrs Hibbert. Such beautiful eyes: the colour of smoky quartz. She wore no hat and coat this time and her hair, the same soft, warm hue as a meadow brown butterfly, was thick and shining. She wore a paper chain round her neck. Her dress flattered her tall, slender figure, though its simplicity didn’t do her justice. In a stylish gown, she would be a stunner. What was that new expression that made his young nieces collapse in giggles? The bee’s knees.
The women looked round.
‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ he said.
‘I’m just leaving,’ said Mrs Hibbert.
‘Pleased to see you again.’
Her fine eyebrows drew together in a frown.
‘This is Jim, the window cleaner,’ said Mrs Watson.
‘Oh yes, from outside the butcher’s.’ She gave him a nod. Something inside him yearned towards her, but already she was turning to Mrs Watson.
Desperate to grab her attention, he said, ‘I like the paper chain.’ God, what a stupid thing to say.
She looked bewildered, then glanced down and laughed. ‘Are you poking fun at my family heirloom?’
‘Make sure you take it off before you go,’ teased Mrs Watson.
Mrs Hibbert smiled. ‘Thanks for helping out. I always seem to be putting on you.’
‘It’s what neighbours are for, love.’
She left. Wasn’t she aware of him? Evidently not.
‘Poor lass,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘She’s having a rough time. She’s got to quit her lodgings by this day week, which won’t be easy with two little ’uns. She’ll be back in a mo to drop them off.’
‘So she can look for a new home?’
‘A new job—Hush. Here she is.’ Mrs Watson put on a jolly voice. ‘Where are my two pie-cans?’
‘Forget the tea,’ said Jim. ‘You’ll have your hands full.’
He carried his ladder along the back entry and round to Finney Lane where he propped it up before starting on the downstairs window.
‘Hello, mister. Is that you again?’
‘It was last time I looked.’ He smiled at Alf’s earnest face.
‘Can I help?’
‘You can stand at the foot of the ladder and hold it steady when I’m up it. You have to make sure I don’t fall off. But most of all, you have to stop your pet monkey climbing up.’
Alf’s face screwed up. ‘I haven’t got a monkey. We’ve got a cat.’
‘You had it with you last time. It climbed up my ladder.’
‘That wasn’t a monkey. That was my sister.’
‘Sisters can’t climb like that. It was a monkey. It was a ladder-monkey.’
‘Cassie’s a ladder-monkey,’ cried the child, his solemn face bright with glee.
Jim had a job not to laugh. It seemed he had won over this little lad, but what were his chances of being noticed by Alf Hibbert’s lovely mother?
Nell sucked in a deep breath before walking into Ingleby’s. The ground floor sold ready-made garments for the well-to-do middle class: pretty day dresses and smart evening wear, warm coats for motoring and cool linens for sports; the sort of garments Nell made at the factory, fine fabrics and attractive styles that weren’t for the likes of her. A notice on the wall informed her that Drapery and Haberdashery were to be found on the first floor. Below it, another notice invited her to visit ‘our new Sewing Machine Department’.
Beside a caged lift stood a uniformed lad, but today of all days was a time for sticking with what she knew, so she went up the stairs into an Aladdin’s cave of ribbons, braids, beads and buttons. It would be a joy to linger and explore, but she saw a sign for the Sewing Machine Department and wove her way towards it, her heart speeding up.
Several sewing machines sat on their custom-built tables. Along one wall was a line of chairs where two women sat looking stiff and nervous. Two middle-aged women, wearing smart black shop dresses, were on their feet. One had faded red hair and a beaky nose, the other was willowy with an oval face and silvery hair.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Nell. ‘I saw the advertisement. Have I come to the right place?’
‘Yes,’ said the redhead. ‘What’s your name and address?’
Nell gave her details and sat down. She and the other women glanced at one another but didn’t speak. Another applicant arrived, then another.
‘It’s three o’clock,’ said the silver-haired
woman. ‘I’m Miss Collier and this is Miss Moore. The advertisement gave no instructions as to where to present yourselves, so how did you come to be here in our department?’
Nell frowned. Was it a trick question?
‘It was the obvious place,’ said one of the candidates.
‘How did you find it?’
‘I saw the notice on the ground floor,’ said Nell.
‘I asked a sales assistant downstairs,’ said someone else.
‘Good. We’re looking for initiative and common sense.’
‘Excuse me.’ A young woman in a pillar-box-red coat approached. ‘Is this the right place for the sewing machine demonstrators?’
‘It is,’ said Miss Collier. ‘Are you an applicant?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled winningly.
‘The advertisement stated three o’clock. Thank you for coming, but I’m afraid you won’t be suitable. We require our employees to be punctual and reliable.’
Nell’s heart swelled for the young woman, whose face had turned as red as her coat. She left and Nell was aware of the remaining candidates, including herself, sitting up straighter.
‘How did you make your way up here?’ asked Miss Moore.
‘I used the staircase,’ said the woman next to Nell.
‘So did I,’ said Nell.
‘I came up in the lift,’ said another.
‘The lift is for the benefit of our patrons,’ said Miss Collier, ‘not for our employees or those seeking employment with us. I’m sorry, Miss Peyton, but you are unsuitable. Thank you for attending.’
Miss Peyton slunk away. Nell shifted on her chair. So much for thinking she could do this job standing on her head.
‘Please hang your coats over there,’ said Miss Moore, ‘then sit at the sewing machines and thread them.’
They sewed seams, attached a sleeve, sewed an inset pocket, did gathers and pleats, and attached the fiddliest braid known to man. Working her treadle at a steady pace, Nell refused to be put off when Miss Collier or Miss Moore looked over her shoulder.
When everyone had finished, Miss Moore and Miss Collier had a whispered conversation. Then one of the candidates, a middle-aged woman with roses in her cheeks, was asked to leave, though this was done more kindly than the blunt way in which the others had been rejected.
‘Your skills aren’t up to our standard, Mrs Kennedy, but should they improve, come back and try again.’
There were three of them left now.
‘Unthread your machines, please,’ said Miss Collier. ‘Miss Ashton will join us. She, Miss Moore and I will play the part of customers learning to use the machines.’
Nell found herself ‘teaching’ Miss Moore, correcting her deliberate mistakes and fielding a stream of questions, some of which were downright stupid. She remained patient and polite and at the end congratulated Miss Moore on being a good pupil.
Miss Moore and her colleagues disappeared through a door. A few minutes later, Miss Ashton came out, whispering, ‘Well done, all of you,’ as she left.
Miss Collier appeared. ‘I’m pleased to say you’ve all impressed us. You’ll now be interviewed. Mrs Hibbert, would you come first?’
Nell followed her into a small office. Miss Collier squeezed behind the desk beside Miss Moore.
‘Have a seat,’ said Miss Moore. ‘You’re obviously an experienced machinist.’
Nell explained about her job. ‘So I’m also familiar with using a range of fabrics. Miss Lockwood, my overseer, trusts me with anything tricky.’
‘I hope you’re not exaggerating, because we’ll require a reference from her. Let me tell you about the work we’re offering. Our dressmaking service will continue, but we also wish to support the customer who invests in her own sewing machine.’
‘I’d like to help your ladies learn to use their sewing machines.’
It was the right thing to say. ‘And we believe you’d be good at it. Sometimes we’ll require you here in Ingleby’s, but mostly you’ll be visiting our customers in their homes. Your travelling expenses will be met, naturally.’
Travelling around? She liked the sound of that. Something different.
‘Every customer receives six lessons. You’ll take with you a variety of threads, ribbons and so on and will receive a small commission on anything you sell, which might be worth an extra two shillings a week.’
‘And the hours?’
‘If you’re required here, you must arrive for an eight-forty-five start. We open our doors at nine and close them at six. The departments have to be tidied before the staff may leave, but tidying may be started before six if there are no customers present; and of course, nowhere should ever be untidy in the first place.’
Getting here by quarter to nine would be dead easy after having to clock in before eight under threat of forfeiting a half-hour’s pay if she clocked in even a minute late.
‘And if I’m out and about?’
‘We wouldn’t expect a morning appointment to start before ten and afternoon appointments must finish by five. The lady of the house needs time to prepare for her husband’s return.’
‘At the moment I work a forty-eight-hour week. This sounds less.’
‘It is. Our employees work a forty-hour week. In the shop, that means five days, with a dinner hour. You would have to be flexible, spreading your hours over six days if necessary. This post requires someone who will put the customer’s convenience first.’
‘Is travelling time counted as work?’
‘It is.’
‘May I ask about the salary?’
‘One pound eighteen a week. Being a superior establishment, we pay more than other shops.’
‘I earn over two pounds where I am now.’
‘You also work eight hours longer. Perhaps you should discuss it with your husband.’
‘I’m a widow.’
‘Have you any children?’
‘I have two young children whose child-minder is also our landlady, so you needn’t worry about my being unreliable.’ How true would that be this time next week?
‘We have two posts,’ said Miss Moore, ‘one to cover the area to the south of town, one for the north. The other two candidates both live to the north, so we’re pleased to offer you the position covering the south, subject to satisfactory references. We’ll provide you with a letter to hand to your overseer, and we also require a personal reference. Perhaps your landlord?’
‘He passed away recently. I’m sure my landlady would oblige.’
Miss Collier and Miss Moore looked doubtful, as if Mrs Brent’s word carried less weight, which made Nell all the more determined to ask her.
‘Are you on a week’s notice?’ Miss Collier asked. ‘You could resign on Monday – no: it’s a bank holiday. You could give notice on Tuesday. They’d probably let you leave on Friday and start here a week on Monday.’
‘Mrs Hibbert hasn’t accepted the position yet,’ murmured Miss Moore.
They looked at her. Nell performed violent mental calculations. A lower wage … but with some commission. Fewer hours. More time with the children. Even with less child-minding to pay for, they would be hard up.
But – more time with her children.
Could she afford it?
‘Mummy, what did Mr Tanner mean about moving in? Is he coming to live here? In our house?’
A knot tightened in Nell’s stomach. Had Alf been fretting all this time? Cassie, after a hectic afternoon running Mrs Watson ragged, had climbed into her drawer, flung her arms round Violet and plunged into sleep with the same single-minded determination she applied to everything else, but Alf was a worrier underneath. He sat next to Nell on the bed. She had got him cuddled up close to share her news and instead he wanted to know about Edmund flaming Tanner. The thought of that man coming to live here probably terrified him.
‘Oh, chick, have you been worrying about that?’ She hugged him tighter. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been upset.’
‘Is Mr Tanner coming to live
here?’ Alf persisted.
‘Yes.’ Her heart twisted as he flinched. ‘But you mustn’t worry, because … we’re going to live somewhere else.’
‘We’re leaving? But this is our home.’
She was doing this all wrong. ‘Since Mr Brent died, Mrs Brent has felt lonely and unhappy, so she wants the Tanners to live with her.’
‘She’s got us.’
‘She loves us, but they’re her family.’
‘I don’t want to leave.’
‘There isn’t room for all of us.’
‘But why do we have to go? Why can’t they stop where they are?’
‘They want to live with Mrs Brent and look after her.’
‘We can look after her.’
Nell rubbed the back of her neck. Alf was the most amenable child in the world – but not today, not over this. She injected a bracing note into her voice. ‘I’d like nothing better than for us to stop here and take care of Mrs Brent, but the Tanners are moving in, so we have to leave. Try not to worry, pie-can. We’ll find a comfy new home—’
Her arms were suddenly empty as he wrenched himself free. He stood on the rug, facing her, eyes bright with tears.
‘I’m not a pie-can and I don’t want a new home. I want this one!’
He was out of the room before she could grab him. He clattered downstairs with her flying after him. He hurled himself through the kitchen door, already bawling at a startled Mrs Brent, seated at the table with a cup of tea.
‘I don’t want to move out and I hate you!’
Nell grasped his shoulder and he flung himself round, burying his face in her skirt and sobbing as though his heart was falling to pieces.
‘I’m sorry.’ Nell looked at Mrs Brent. ‘I’ve just told him …’
Mrs Brent released a shaky breath. ‘Poor little chap. I wish there was a way …’
Nell spoke brightly, fixing Mrs Brent with a meaningful look. ‘I think we should be cheerful, don’t you?’
Mrs Brent sat up straighter. ‘Where’s that boy of mine? Alf, you’ve squashed Mummy half to death, hugging her so hard. I wish I had someone to hug me.’
‘I will,’ cried Alf, launching himself at her.
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