Mrs Brent gathered him to her, raining kisses into his neck, making him chuckle in spite of himself. He pretended to try to squirm away, but really he was squirming closer.
‘You still love us, don’t you?’ His voice was muffled against Mrs Brent’s shoulder.
She cast an anguished look at Nell. ‘Of course I do.’
‘But you want us to go.’
‘I don’t want you to, but things change when someone dies and people sometimes have to live somewhere else. Like when your daddy died and you and Mummy came here.’
‘And Cassie,’ said Alf. ‘Do you love Posy more than Cassie and me?’
‘I love all three of you, but Posy is special because I’m her gran.’
‘I haven’t got a gran.’
Olive Hibbert.
Usually, when Alf remarked on not having grandparents, it was Mum and Dad who sprang to mind, but today Olive Hibbert arrived plonk in the middle of Nell’s head. Olive Hibbert, crabby mother-in-law and not exactly the most loving grandmother ever to walk the earth. Or was she? Just because she was different to how Mum and Dad would have been didn’t mean she wasn’t loving in her own way. How had she felt when Alf disappeared? Or had those extra grandchildren down the hill made up for the loss?
‘Will you be my gran?’ Alf whispered. ‘Cassie hasn’t got one either.’
Nell laid a hand on his shoulder. She couldn’t have him putting Mrs Brent on the spot. ‘See if Cassie is still asleep.’
He scampered away and she sagged into a chair, feeling as if she’d gone twice through the mangle. ‘That was building up all afternoon, I think, ever since …’ Yes, she would say it. ‘… since Mr Tanner said they’re moving in next Saturday.’
Mrs Brent looked uncomfortable. ‘I know it doesn’t give you much time, but Edmund said he’d given you some for-rents to follow up and there’s Posy’s schooling to think of. If they come next weekend, she can start school here on the first day of term.’
Rubbish. Posy was nine years old, not a School Certificate candidate. It didn’t matter in the slightest when she changed schools.
‘Anyroad, I’m sorry about Alf. I don’t know what you must have thought when he came flying in like that.’
‘I thought – nay, it doesn’t matter.’
Nell’s flesh tingled. ‘Go on.’
‘I wasn’t going to say owt, but, well, I thought he were upset about the cup.’
‘The cup?’
‘My teacup.’
The precious harebell teacup. It sat on the table in front of her. Nell went cold.
‘What about it?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, really, just the tiniest chip, and it’s not on the side I drink from, so it’s silly to care …’
Nell picked it up and, yes, a minute chip had been knocked out of the rim. It hadn’t happened when Alf dropped it. She knew it hadn’t.
‘So I thought that’s what Alf were in a state about,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘I thought if he’d helped you wash up, and the cup got dropped …’
Had Edmund Tanner chipped the cup? She would stake her life it hadn’t happened when Alf dropped it.
‘Did Mr Tanner tell you that?’
Mrs Brent frowned. ‘Why would he? I didn’t even find the chip until a few minutes ago.’
Oh, that was clever. Mr Brick Shithouse had chipped his mother-in-law’s beloved cup, then taken his family home, leaving her to find the damage later.
There was nothing to link Edmund Tanner to it, aside from Nell’s suspicion, and what could she hope to achieve by speaking out? Best if she took it on the chin.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brent. I know how much you love that cup.’
Mrs Brent waved her apology aside, but Nell wasn’t fooled. She could see the hurt in Mrs Brent’s eyes.
‘It’s just that my Hedley bought it for me and I’ve kept it safe all these years. But it’s only a cup. It’s not as though owt important has happened.’
There was a golden tinge to the late afternoon light that spoke more of June than April, but Jim couldn’t spend the evening walking across the meadows, followed by enjoying a pint at the Horse and Jockey. He had a plan. As he pushed his barrow home, some scruffy lads, all holey clothes and scraped knees, were playing football in the road, their ball a bundle of rags. Parking his barrow at the kerb, he plunged into the match, causing hoots of excitement. He darted around, careful how he tackled, aware of his sturdily shod feet in a game where several boys were barefoot.
When he set up a goal for one of the youngest boys to score, he scooped the lad onto his shoulder and jogged around, starting a cry of ‘Champion, champion’, and the others joined in the chant. When he set down the skinny goalscorer, the boy’s face was shining.
Jim gave him a pretend clip round the ear. ‘See you next time.’
He went on his way. Oh, the temptation to buy these kids a proper football, but even providing a second-hand one would be inappropriate. He had arrived among these folk as a window cleaner. His educated voice marked him out as different, but his Saturdays spent helping the hard-up widows and mothers of soldiers had given out a general idea of his having had a bad war and his choice of job was accepted. Had he had a bad war? Christ, everyone had. His was no worse than anyone else’s and better than most. He hadn’t been gassed; he had come home with his limbs intact. That was as much as you could ask.
Halfway along Beech Road, opposite one corner of the hedge surrounding the rec, was Riley’s Farm, a small place round the back of which was a row of old cottages. He pushed his barrow along the path past the line of kitchen doors to the far end.
He went in through the back door, stepping across the minute scullery with its slop-stone, into the kitchen, crossing it in zigzag fashion to avoid cracking his head on any of the saucepans hanging from the low beams or getting a faceful of dried herbs. Mrs Jeffrey might not have much space to call her own, but what she did have, she made the most of.
She stood at the range, stirring a pot, the spoon sticking out awkwardly from her arthritic fingers. The mingled aromas of onions and fresh bread made Jim’s mouth water.
‘Smells good in here, Mrs J. I know what that means. One of your stews, with a crusty loaf to mop it up.’
‘It’s ready when you are.’
He glanced at the bucket next to the range. ‘I’ll fetch water while you dish up.’
Collecting the second bucket from the scullery, he went outside to the pump to fill them, then stood one bucket beside the shelf he had rigged up in the scullery, with a bowl on it for washing up. He couldn’t have Mrs Jeffrey using the slop-stone on the floor. What he really wanted was for her washing-up bowl to be in the kitchen, but the suggestion had appalled her. Kitchens were for cooking and eating and living in. Dirty dishes and soiled clothes went in the scullery.
‘Sit thee down,’ said Mrs Jeffrey.
It was all he could do not to hold his breath as her deformed hands transferred the dishes one at a time, each one landing on the table with a clatter but no spillages. He tucked in. Mrs Jeffrey was a good plain cook and kept him well fed. He downed the stew, using hunks of bread to clean his plate, an aspect of lower-class life that, as a hungry working man, he heartily approved of.
‘You off out this evening?’ asked Mrs Jeffrey.
‘Shortly. I’ll have a wash first.’
‘I’ll boil some water for you to tek upstairs.’
Armed with the kettle, he thanked her for the meal and opened the door to the stairs. The day he came here to see the room, he had been startled when his prospective landlady seemed to walk into a cupboard before he realised it was an enclosed staircase, with horribly steep steps that even now put him in mind of broken necks.
The whole of the upstairs was his, such as it was. He used to have one room, but when the other lodger left, he had taken over the front room as well, so now he had a bedroom and a sitting room. Very grand. He smiled wryly. The entire first floor could fit inside Roberta’s mother’s drawing room with space
to spare. Was it hypocritical of him to have two rooms? A real window cleaner would be grateful to have one to himself.
This evening, he was going to step back into his old life, something that was normally reserved for Sundays, when he joined his brother’s family after church. Putting down the kettle on the scarred wooden washstand, he peeled off his clothes before pouring hot water into the bowl, topping it up from the china jug. He worked up a good lather on his flannel and gave himself a strip-wash. Before the war, his idea of luxury was the best seats at the Free Trade Hall, listening to the Hallé playing ‘Fantasia on Greensleeves’, followed by a late supper at the Midland Hotel. These days, luxury meant a double session in the public baths.
Dressed in trousers and vest, he used the last of the hot water to have a shave. Not that he specially needed one – he had never been prone to five o’clock shadow – but it was an automatic part of stepping back into his old life. Look your smartest at all times. He drew on his shirt. In went the gold cufflinks that had once been his father’s and he slipped the sleeve-garters up his arms. As he attached his collar and inserted the studs, he felt an unaccustomed squeeze around his neck: he had got used to dressing casually. He slipped into his waistcoat and jacket, then slid his fingers beneath the leather strap attached to the back of his hairbrush and tidied his hair. His only looking-glass was his shaving mirror, but he didn’t need a full-length reflection to show him how he looked. He could feel it. He was no longer Jim the window cleaner. He was James Franks, professional gentleman, solicitor. Former solicitor, anyway, though he kept abreast of changes to the law, hoping it would deal more kindly with the working man who had served King and country.
He ran downstairs.
‘I’m off, Mrs J.’
She turned, her motherly smile transforming into a distant expression. Nothing quite like appearing in your landlady’s kitchen dressed as a toff to throw up the barriers.
He set off. Mr Dawson lived near Longford Park in a handsome three-storey house. Did he own it or did he, the well-heeled landlord who lived off the rents of scores of humble properties, rent his gracious home off an even better-heeled landlord?
He checked the time before ringing the bell. If the Dawsons were going out, or hosting a dinner party, Mr Dawson could fit him in first – or so he hoped.
He was in luck.
‘Good of you to see me,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘A few minutes of your time is all I ask.’
‘More than a few, if you want them,’ was the genial reply. Dawson was every inch the prosperous gentleman. ‘Have a seat.’
Mr Dawson waved him towards a wing-back armchair, one of a pair in front of the splendid fireplace with its three overmantel shelves and attached candelabra. Jim sat down, his hard-worked muscles urging him to sink back into the upholstery and relax with his feet up.
Mr Dawson stood at the sideboard, decanter in hand. ‘Scotch?’
‘Please.’
‘Dare I hope from your get-up that you’ve returned to a proper way of life?’
‘I’m hardly going to present myself here in my window-cleaning gear.’
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Jim took a sip, gaining himself a moment. He and Mr Dawson knew one another from way back. Jim had started his career in the offices of Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks, where Mr Dawson was a client. Since Jim had landed up in Chorlton after the war, Dawson had never snubbed him and had benefited from off-the-cuff legal advice as a result. Would he help out now?
‘I’m in search of a favour.’
‘For yourself?’
‘For an acquaintance. Hardly that, really. Someone I know of, who is in a fix. A widow in need of a new home by this time next week.’
‘Pretty, is she?’
Heat etched his cheekbones. ‘It’s nothing like that. I’m not setting up a mistress. She barely knows I exist.’
‘One of your war widows, is she?’
‘No, just someone who needs a good turn, her and her youngsters. I heard of her plight from a woman who lost her son in the service of his country. Will you help?’
‘Have you got a name and address for me? I’ll get Miles to look into it.’
‘Quickly – if you’d be so kind.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Chapter Ten
Posy drew a flower in each corner of the page and coloured them in carefully. Then she reread her letter. She didn’t need to read it, because she knew it by heart, but she still wanted to.
Dear Miss Claybourne,
Thank you for being my teacher. I will never forget you and I will do everything with gusto and an optimistic heart.
Yours sincerely,
Posy Tanner (Miss)
Was there time to deliver it? Did school have a letter box? If she slid it under the front door, would it vanish under the mat, never to be seen again?
‘What are you doing, Posy?’
‘Nothing, Ma.’ She folded the letter. It was private.
‘Have you packed your clothes?’
‘And my jigsaw and my plasticine.’
Thwack! She jumped out of her skin as Dad’s hand slapped down on the table.
‘That’s no way to speak to an adult. The correct answer is Yes, Ma, not I’ve done this and that as well. That’s answering back and I won’t have it.’
The shaking started as a distant hum that expanded to a deeper vibration that made her innards go higgledy-piggledy. She tried to keep the shaking on the inside, but her body trembled and the table vanished in a blur of tears.
‘What do you say to your mother?’
‘I’m s-sorry, Ma.’
‘What do you say to your mother?’
Panic panic panic.
‘I’m sorry and I w-won’t do it again.’
‘What do you say to your mother?’
Panic panic panic. How was she supposed to know if he didn’t tell her? Panic panic – stillness as she sensed the change. He wasn’t looming over her any more. What did that mean? Inside her head was a white swirl of panic panic panic. He heaved out a breath, not a real one, a pretend one, as if it made him sad to punish her, but it didn’t. He liked being angry.
‘New home, new school … same stupid Posy. I think Rupert will have something to say about this.’
A flutter across the room made Posy dart a glance that way, but Ma was heading for the door. She was never there when it happened. Even if she was in the room, she wasn’t there. Posy’s tummy curled up tight, squeezing hard on her breakfast, threatening to send it scudding up her gullet to explode out of her in all directions, from her mouth, down her nose.
‘Morning! Removal men are here.’
A knock, a door opening – the front room. Then another knock and the kitchen door opened to reveal a burly fellow with a weather-beaten face.
‘Sorry to barge in, but the front door was open.’
‘Good morning,’ said Dad. ‘I propped it open so it won’t swing shut while you’re at work.’
‘I see you’re ready to go.’
‘Indeed we are. I want to arrive on the dot of twelve, not a moment later. I hope you can oblige.’
How did he do it? She was sick and trembly and probably as pale as someone on their deathbed, yet he could instantly change and be all hail-fellow-well-met, friendly and in charge at the same time. Bonhomie, he called it. Posy wasn’t sure what bonhomie was, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t want to use the word anyhow.
‘Can you start in the bedroom?’ said Dad. ‘I’ve something to attend to in here.’
Something to attend to. So she wasn’t to be reprieved.
‘Fetch Rupert.’
She dragged herself into the hall. Her fingers were greasy with fear, but she managed to unclip Rupert and take him – it – to Dad.
Ma delved into a box of crockery. The newspaper wrapped around each piece rustled as her fingers poked about. Posy yearned for Ma to look her way. Even a glance would help, but Ma wouldn’t even provide
that.
Posy braced herself, fastened her mouth shut, held her breath; but after the first couple of blows, snot spurted from her nostrils and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Her mouth flew wide open, the breath bursting out of her at the same time as she tried to suck in air to hold her steady. She choked, automatically bending forwards, and received a blow to her back that nearly felled her.
‘Stand up straight,’ Dad barked.
She lurched upright, staggered, brought herself back into position. You had to stay in position. It was worse if you didn’t.
It finished.
Funny how you could feel shrivelled and enormous at the same time. Shrivelled, because you made yourself as small as you could, even if it was only on the inside; but huge as well, because that was what a thrashing did to you. It left you feeling puffy and swollen and bloated to twice your size. It made you feel surprised to look down at yourself and see you were the same size you always were.
‘Kiss Rupert and say thank you.’
A trembly kiss. ‘Thank you, Rupert.’ And may you rot and burn in hell.
‘What’s this?’
Dad picked up her precious farewell letter to Miss Claybourne. Posy’s heartbeat turned to sludge. Would she get into trouble for writing it? But Dad didn’t unfold it, didn’t read it, just gave it to Ma.
‘Something for the dustbin, Hilda.’
The pain from the beating went numb. Miss Claybourne would never know she had wanted to say goodbye, would never know she was going to keep on using her best words.
‘Kiss Rupert goodbye, Posy.’
She wanted to mourn Miss Claybourne, but there wasn’t time. Kiss Rupert goodbye? Well, that was one good thing, at least. Rupert wasn’t moving house with them.
A glimmer of optimism stirred in her heart.
Jim slept with his window open and his bedroom was bright with the fresh green scent of a rain-washed morning. Beneath his dormer window, the soil in his vegetable patch was dark with moisture and the field beyond glistened. A few years ago, someone standing here would have seen more fields beyond, but now, beyond Riley’s field, were the backs of a road of red-brick houses.
A Respectable Woman Page 10