A Respectable Woman

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘You’re a good sort, Mother-in-law.’

  Edmund’s voice was rich and kind. It was good to have a man in the house. It made her feel secure.

  ‘Posy, let’s put the kettle on. Those men will be gasping when they’ve brought your mum and dad’s bed inside and put it together in their new room.’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ said Edmund. ‘Before they bring it in, don’t you think they should move yours?’

  ‘Mine?’ What was going on?

  ‘I thought it was understood.’ He frowned but looked genial at the same time, as if it was amusing that a mistake had been made. ‘The married couple should occupy the master bedroom. It makes sense, don’t you think, Mother-in-law? Two adults in the bigger bedroom, one in the smaller.’

  Well, put like that … ‘I suppose so.’

  Edmund placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘You don’t sound sure. You have to be sure.’

  How could she? No one had said owt to her about giving up the bedroom she and Hedley had shared. But that was the point, wasn’t it? A big room like that was meant to have two people in it. The least she could do was give it to Edmund and Hilda, show them how welcome they were.

  ‘A room that size isn’t meant to have just an old biddy rattling around in it.’

  Edmund threw back his head and laughed. He had a rich laugh that made you think he must have a wonderful singing voice. ‘And we’d better stop talking as if the back room is poky. It’s not that much smaller. Goodness, you had a whole family living in it until this morning.’

  Leonie went to make tea. What had just happened? She had given up her bedroom and acquired a bedfellow and it was barely half past twelve. And didn’t that make her sound like a grumpy old so-and-so? It had grieved her for years that Posy didn’t have a bed. She should be grateful to do summat about it. But she felt all prickly and bothered. This morning, she had been mistress of the house. Now Hilda and Edmund were here and she had been relegated to the back bedroom, the granny sharing with the little ’un to save space.

  ‘What’s that cat doing here?’ Edmund sounded vexed. ‘Throw it out.’

  Leonie banged the kettle down on the range in her haste to leave the kitchen. Posy darted into the hall. Leonie glimpsed a black blur flying upstairs. Edmund’s hand was clamped onto the rounded top of the newel post, his foot on the bottom step.

  ‘That’s Violet, the Hibberts’ cat,’ said Leonie.

  ‘Posy, put it out and shut the door.’

  ‘She won’t know where her new house is,’ Posy protested, distressed.

  ‘It’ll find it soon enough when it’s hungry. Do as you’re told.’

  Leonie stepped forward. ‘Violet is stopping here for now, Edmund. The Hibberts’ house has problems with damp, so they need to have the windows open as much as they can. They can’t have Violet yet, because of her getting out.’

  ‘It’s a cat. It’s meant to be out.’

  ‘Only when she knows where to go home to. I promised to keep her here. You wouldn’t want me to break a promise.’

  ‘Well, keep it out of my way.’

  ‘Violet’s a she, Dad, not an it,’ said Posy.

  ‘Cats are it. And don’t get smart with me.’

  ‘Posy, why don’t you bring Violet down to the kitchen?’ Leonie struggled to keep her voice normal. Her heart was beating hard. ‘There’s a good girl.’

  Posy scampered upstairs. Leonie returned to the kitchen. She should get on with making the tea, but instead she sank onto a chair. What with one thing and another, her new life hadn’t got off to the best start. Losing her bedroom, gaining Posy in her bed – not that that was a bad thing, but it was unexpected – and now Edmund not wanting Violet. But things happened in threes, didn’t they? And that was three difficult things over and done with in one go.

  Everything was going to be fine from now on.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nell could barely believe it. Since starting at the factory, she had lurched out of bed every morning at ridiculous o’clock and stumbled back to bed at half-past shattered. In her new job, she had time in the mornings. She could even take Alf to school if she wasn’t expected at Ingleby’s first thing. She had time of an evening too; time to be with her children, time to play with them, feed them, wash them and put them to bed. It was the best gift anyone could have given her – and it came courtesy of her job. Imagine that.

  The cherry on the cake was that she loved the work. She enjoyed the variety of being sometimes in the shop but mostly in ladies’ homes and she discovered an aptitude for teaching. She planned a series of six introductory lessons. Ingleby’s expected the customers to have one lesson a week, but at the end of Nell’s first week, one of her ladies, Mrs Liversedge, asked for two.

  She was taken aback. Should she refer the question to Miss Collier? But here she was, in Mrs Liversedge’s back room, with its opalescent glass lampshades and wooden Venetian blinds, and Mrs Liversedge was looking at her expectantly.

  Well, the customer was always right. ‘I’ll be glad to come twice a week. I suggest lessons two or three days apart so you have time to practise.’ She produced her diary. Already it was the most important tool she possessed. ‘I can come next week on Tuesday and either Thursday or Friday.’

  ‘What if I want more lessons after I’d had the six?’

  ‘I’ll enquire for you when I go to Ingleby’s this afternoon.’

  Later she put the question to Miss Collier.

  ‘We’re going to start lessons for small groups of ladies in the sewing department,’ said Miss Collier. ‘How to sew a collar or an inset pocket, that kind of thing. Mrs Liversedge is welcome to put her name down.’

  ‘What about further lessons in her own home?’ asked Nell.

  ‘No. We include six lessons in the cost of the machine and that’s all.’

  How would Mrs Liversedge take the news?

  When Nell saw her again the following Tuesday, she was annoyed.

  ‘Really, I expected better of Ingleby’s.’

  ‘We don’t have the staff to provide unlimited lessons,’ Nell said politely. ‘You’d be welcome at the group lessons. If you like the way I teach, I’ll be taking some of the sessions.’ Was that big-headed? If you like the way I teach, indeed.

  ‘What I was hoping for was some long lessons, say three hours each. I want you to guide me while I make my first dress, starting with cutting out the pattern. Do you do private lessons? Please say you do or my lovely material will stay in the cupboard until it rots.’

  Private lessons? She was about to say no, but if it didn’t impinge on her Ingleby’s hours, why not? Providing furniture had eaten into her savings. It would be good to get more money behind her. She flicked through her diary, giving herself time to think. She wasn’t working on Saturday. As for the fee, Ingleby’s were going to charge five bob for a two-hour lesson. That was half a crown an hour, while she earned less than a shilling an hour. But if the likes of Mrs Liversedge were happy to cough up two and six an hour for lessons in the shop, then …

  ‘I charge one and nine an hour in the week or two shillings an hour on Saturdays. I can come this Saturday at half past one and stay until half past four. Will that be satisfactory?’

  ‘So, I’m teaching a private lesson on Saturday afternoon.’ Did she sound conceited? But Mrs Brent looked pleased and impressed and Nell felt a glow of pride.

  They were sitting in her kitchen at her new – new to her, but old as the hills – kitchen table. It hadn’t been the best in the second-hand shop. It was scuffed and a boy called Tommy had carved his name on it, but her Pringle heart had yearned for its large size, just right for a family crowd.

  ‘I hope you’re going to ask me to mind the children,’ said Mrs Brent.

  Should she say it? Could she? The hurt it would cause Mrs Brent made her pause, but her first duty was to her children. Over her dead body would they set foot in the house where Edmund Tanner lived. She couldn’t send Alf there, not even for an afte
rnoon.

  ‘This isn’t easy to say, so I’ll just say it straight out. We love you, the children and me, we all love you; but Alf is frightened of Mr Tanner.’

  ‘What’s Edmund ever done to him?’

  ‘Nowt. Alf’s scared: that’s all there is to it.’

  Dipping her chin, Mrs Brent broke free of Nell’s gaze. When she looked up again, her eyes were bright. ‘Things have changed, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but we’re still friends. I don’t know what I’d have done without you and Mr Brent when me and Alf arrived here. I’ll always be grateful.’

  She reached across and Mrs Brent’s hand grasped hers in a warm squeeze.

  ‘Why don’t I come here to look after the children? I’d hate never to be run ragged by Cassie again.’

  Nell laughed. ‘That’d be perfect. Thank you.’ Her shoulders relaxed. ‘Things are different, but we still have one another.’

  ‘Aye. It’s a credit to you, what you’ve done with your new home.’

  ‘And I bet you love having the Tanners with you.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  But. There it was in Nell’s head. But.

  ‘Everything all right?’ She pushed the plate of home-made gingerbread closer to her visitor to show it was a casual question.

  Mrs Brent’s hand hovered as if she were about to take a slice, then dropped away. ‘Oh, it’s nowt. Just me being an old fusspot.’

  ‘If you can’t tell me, who can you tell? You’ve seen parts of me seen only by the midwife.’

  That made Mrs Brent laugh. Good. Would she share what was mithering her?

  ‘It really is nowt. Edmund suggested me and Hilda divide up the jobs, one of us to do the housework and one to do the cooking.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with him how you organise yourselves?’

  ‘He wanted to help us.’

  Wanted to boss them, more like, but Nell kept her mouth shut.

  ‘Anyroad, he suggested I do the housework and Hilda does the shopping and the cooking, because the shopping is heavy.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Nell dryly, ‘and cleaning isn’t heavy at all.’

  ‘I’d far rather do the catering.’

  ‘Did you say so?’

  ‘How could I? It would have looked like I thought our Hilda can’t cook.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. Have a word with her. Share all the jobs. That’s fairest.’

  Mrs Brent frowned. ‘Hilda wouldn’t go against Edmund.’

  ‘It isn’t going against him. Besides, what does he care? His job is to bring in the money and yours is to run the home – yours and Hilda’s.’

  ‘Edmund isn’t like my Hedley. Hedley left the domestic side of things to me, but Edmund is … well, he’s more in charge, if you know what I mean.’

  Nell was all too afraid she did know, and she didn’t like it. She composed her next words with care and spoke them gently. ‘It’s your house, remember.’

  ‘It’s theirs an’ all now. They’re family and they’re entitled to make decisions.’

  ‘I’m sure your Hilda wouldn’t want to do that at the expense of your peace of mind.’

  ‘Anyroad, that’s enough about me. I want to hear about you. How are the children?’

  ‘Fine. They’re playing in the front room. Mr Franks unfolded one of the cardboard boxes for them and Alf pretends it’s a raft and sails all over the world on it.’

  ‘He has a way with children, yon window cleaner,’ said Mrs Brent.

  ‘He left a couple of boxes too, which they use for boats and caves and goodness knows what.’

  ‘As long as the damp doesn’t get onto their chests.’

  ‘The chimney stack was mended as soon as the damage was found, so no rain has got in since then. Besides, Mr Miles sent the coalman round to fill the bunker. He said I had to keep the house warm. I felt rotten bringing the children to a damaged house, but it’s far better than I thought.’ She gave Mrs Brent a nudge. ‘Do you want to hear something exciting? I’m getting a sewing machine.’

  ‘Nay! You’d never afford it, lass.’

  ‘Not to buy; to hire. I’m going to give lessons to backstreet women, then they can pay to use the machine when they need it. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mrs Brent sounded huffy. ‘All them women traipsing through the house.’

  ‘They won’t be traipsing. You know they won’t.’

  ‘Of course I do, love. I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of sorts because of things at home, but I’m glad for you. You deserve to do well. Lord knows, you work hard enough. I wish you well, I really do.’

  ‘Thanks. That means everything to me.’

  Excitement bubbled up inside her. She, Nell Hibbert, the girl who got safely married, unlike her sister, who had gone off to drive ambulances; the downtrodden wife who was betrayed in the worst possible way; the sewing-machinist who wasn’t allowed to earn the salary she was capable of … she was going to forge her own path. She was going to make something of herself.

  How could she have been so mean? Leonie’s throat thickened with shame. Women traipsing through the house, indeed. As if Nell would do anything iffy. She was the most respectable person Leonie knew. But oh, the bitterness she had felt in that moment. Jealousy was meant to stab you, but hers had burnt. Her chest had felt hot and raw. Imagine being jealous of a friend, and such a dear friend at that.

  And she wasn’t jealous, not really. It had been a momentary aber-aber-whatever the word was: she knew what she meant. Nell deserved all the good luck she could get and Leonie was delighted for her, but she couldn’t pretend that surge of envy hadn’t happened, that knowledge that her old lodger, who had spent the past two years being beholden to her, was on the up, while she … wasn’t.

  She had accepted the new bedroom arrangements with good grace in the interests of getting them off to a good start. But then Edmund had stuck his nose into the running of the household, giving Hilda the best job and reducing her to the rank of cleaner. Not that there was owt wrong with cleaning. She had always kept her house spick and span, but she wanted to do more than clean.

  Nell said it wasn’t up to Edmund and, sitting in Nell’s house, Leonie had thought so too. She vowed to tackle Hilda the moment she got home. They would soon sort it out. Honestly, she was so silly. She had blown the whole thing out of proportion when all it needed was a couple of women to put their heads together.

  She opened the front door to the aroma of frying onions and boiled bacon, but without the accompanying scent of herbs, even though Hilda had learnt her cooking from her. It didn’t smell like her house any more. She hung up her outdoor things and went into the kitchen, her skirt swishing round her ankles. She had never shortened her skirts. It was all very well for young women to flash their ankles, and more than their ankles these days, but at her age, she had more dignity, not to mention more sense.

  Hilda looked up from stirring onion round the frying-pan. ‘All well in Wilton Lane?’

  ‘Aye. They’ve settled in nicely.’

  She would have loved to say more; she would have loved to take Hilda with her when she went to Nell’s, but Hilda and Nell, though they were civil, had never hit it off, even though Nell had made friendly advances back when she first moved in here. In those days, when Leonie had realised how much she liked her young lodger, she had treasured visions of the three of them clustered round her kitchen table, enjoying a good natter. Wouldn’t that have been grand? Almost like having two daughters.

  Hilda tipped the onions into a saucepan and sprinkled salt and pepper. Leonie itched to help as Hilda added milk, flour and mashed potato, mixing it all together to make a creamy sauce.

  ‘I’d pop in some sage, if it was me.’ She smiled to show she was being helpful, not critical.

  ‘This is how Edmund likes it.’

  And that was the end of that suggestion. The man of the house, the breadwinner, got to make all kinds of decisions, including, it seemed, what seasoning was allowed. Hedl
ey had never had opinions like that. His only opinion about her cooking had been how delicious it was. Maybe other husbands weren’t so easy.

  ‘Do you like cooking?’ Leonie asked.

  ‘You know I do.’

  Stupid question. She should have come straight out with it. ‘I miss it now we’ve divided up the housework.’

  ‘Mother, it’s only been a few days.’

  Right. This time she really would come straight out with it. Nell had said, ‘I’ll just say it straight out.’

  ‘What would you say to changing jobs?’

  ‘What, you do the cooking and me do the cleaning?’

  ‘No.’ Cautious hope made her bite her lip. ‘Let’s go halves.’

  Hilda gazed fixedly into the saucepan. ‘I don’t know. Edmund …’

  ‘What’s it to him?’ she asked cheerfully.

  ‘Let’s leave it as it is, shall we? For now.’

  For now? Did she mean that or was she just saying it? And how much did it matter, anyroad? The last thing Leonie wanted was to upset Hilda. She tugged her earlobe, doubt creeping through her.

  ‘Don’t say owt to Edmund, will you?’ said Hilda.

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘He’d be upset if he thought we didn’t like how he organised us.’

  He shouldn’t care. Hedley had never laid the law down. He had gone out and earned their daily bread and left everything at home to her and that had suited them both. Their Hilda had grown up with that as an example of how to live together as man and wife, but she now accepted a different set of rules. Would Leonie have to accept these rules an’ all? It looked like she would, if she intended them all to live in a happy home.

  It was difficult not to feel resentful. Leonie forced a smile. No one liked a sour face and it would set a bad example to Posy. Besides, what if anyone realised why she was vexed? Posy would be dreadfully hurt and she couldn’t bear the thought of causing that.

  But Edmund had specifically said that Posy couldn’t have a bed in the parlour because of keeping it for best. Yet here they were, sitting in the parlour in the evening, and it wasn’t for the first time either. They had done it on the Tanners’ first evening here, because Edmund said it was a special occasion, and then they had carried on doing it and now it was part of the routine. What must the neighbours think? She quaked every time someone walked past the window. She dreaded being saddled with a reputation for getting above herself. Living in the parlour, indeed. Very swanky.