A Respectable Woman

by Susanna Bavin

  Hilda was there. She knew the stairs were due to be done tomorrow, but had she spoken up for her? No, she hadn’t. There was her own mother, blushing and flustered, and she hadn’t said a word.

  Nell would have stood up for her.

  That was another thing. She had never had the guts to call her Nell in front of her family. If she mentioned her, it was, ‘Mrs Hibbert this, Mrs Hibbert that.’

  She had turned her back on her young friend today, but she had needed to escape from that conversation. How could she have been so stupid as to start laying down the law about the children carrying their toys through the streets? She didn’t want Nell to feel she was being criticised.

  She didn’t want Nell criticising her when she heard Edmund’s name was on the rent book.

  Leonie wasn’t even sure why she had permitted that, truth to tell. No – that was a lie. She had wanted to contribute to a happy family atmosphere. She wanted them to be a proper family and that meant the head of the household being accorded due respect. And she wasn’t sorry. It was right and proper; the man of the house and all that. Only …

  Only it would have been so much easier if Edmund had been more of a Hedley. Oh, if he were another Hedley, she would have offered him the rent book on a plate. She would willingly have trusted her home to his care. Herself an’ all.

  And that sounded like she didn’t trust him. Guilt thickened in her throat and self-loathing trickled down her spine, as if she had uttered the disloyal sentiment aloud. Yes, disloyal. Edmund deserved better. He was a respectable working man, who paid his bills and provided for his family. Hilda had never had to struggle without food or heat, had never had to beg for tick at the corner shop; and their Posy might not have had a proper bed before now, but she had always had underwear and a pair of shoes, which was more than many could say.

  Now Edmund was going to provide for Leonie an’ all.

  ‘I’ll pay the coal and the gas. I’ll pay the rates. Don’t worry about stretching your little pension, Mother-in-law. Leave everything to me.’

  Her muscles had weakened in relief. Losing Hedley had been hard – was still hard. He was her husband, her dear old softy and her best friend; but on a practical level, he had also been her provider. She knew widows, in their sixties like her, and even one in her seventies, who had had to look for work when their husbands died. Imagine going out charring at her age. But there was no danger of that, thanks to Edmund.

  She almost laughed. No, there was no need to go out cleaning, because he had got her cleaning at home. The cords tightened in her neck: what had got into her today? All these disloyal thoughts. She had always kept her house sparkling clean, so why should it matter if it was her sole household responsibility?

  She was thinking altogether too much since Edmund’s offer to look after her money – no, before that: since his name went on the rent book; or rather, since Hilda had suggested it. Actually, it was since Edmund passed his royal decree about the cooking and cleaning. No, it was when she gave up her bedroom … when she gave Nell a week’s notice …

  Stop!

  Leonie went up the steps into the library. She hadn’t read her library books. Her eyes had scanned every word, but nothing had sunk in. What a waste. She walked to the desk and asked if she could have books out again.

  The librarian, a woman in a dark dress with long sleeves, opened them and looked at the dates in the front. ‘Are you sure? You’ve already renewed them once. Look, here’s the R.’

  ‘Have I?’ Had she? She couldn’t recall. What a twit she must look.

  ‘Why not choose new ones?’ suggested the librarian in a kind voice.

  Leonie wandered among the shelves, trying to focus her thoughts.

  ‘Why did you push her into having new books?’ asked a soft voice on the other side of the bookcase.

  Leonie froze.

  ‘I was doing her a favour. We get these old biddies sometimes. They never learnt to read, but they borrow books so it looks like they can. Well, it can’t be good for appearances if she goes home with the same two books every time, can it?’

  Leonie’s skin felt impossibly hot. She crept to the corner of the bookcase and peered round to check the librarians weren’t looking before she scuttled to the door as fast as tiptoes permitted.

  Violet came trotting to meet her. Leonie bent down to give her a fuss and Violet danced hopefully towards the front door. Leonie’s heart sank. As the door opened, Violet pressed forwards and Leonie scooped her away with the side of her foot, trying not to hear the plaintive mew as she squeezed indoors.

  Posy was in the hall, beside the staircase. Her hands were raised and she was reaching between the balusters onto the stairs. It looked like she was fiddling with something, but that made no sense. Only she must be doing something, because just look at that expression on her face: caught out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Leonie asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Let me see – Posy, what are you doing taking a stair rod?’

  For a second, the child was rooted to the spot. Then she burst out, ‘It’s loose. I’m putting it back.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Stair rods can’t come loose.’

  Hilda appeared from the parlour. ‘She’s not doing owt, Mother.’

  But Hilda wouldn’t meet her eye. Goodness, both of them looked guilty. Leonie’s frown was swept aside by a swell of protectiveness. Her two girls were upset. She couldn’t have that. Her job was to make things right.

  ‘Is that you, Mother-in-law?’ came Edmund’s voice from the parlour. ‘Hilda, kindly stop blocking the doorway. Let your mother in.’

  She walked in. The room was the same as always; Edmund was the same as always, but the atmosphere was stretched tight.

  ‘You haven’t taken off your coat and hat, Mother-in-law. Posy, come and fetch Gran’s things.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Leonie asked. ‘I know summat is.’

  ‘It’s over and done with. Posy required a small reprimand and it has been delivered.’

  Leonie looked at Hilda. Hilda looked at the floor. Through the open door, Leonie watched Posy. Her back was to the room as she did whatever she was doing with the stair rod. There were red marks on the backs of her legs and a quiver in the thin shoulders. Her head wasn’t held up with its customary eager curiosity. It was bowed.

  Oh, no. Oh, surely not.

  Leonie turned back. The room was the same: the settee where she and Hilda sat of an evening while Edmund hogged the armchair; the footstool by the fireplace, where Posy sat, learning how to make conversation.

  Edmund was the same too; a big man, a strong man. A strict man.

  Oh, no, please. Nausea unfurled in her stomach.

  Oh, it was tempting, but he mustn’t. Jim cleaned his Saturday windows on a six-week rota, so he wasn’t due at Mrs Watson’s again until next week. He couldn’t pitch up early and expect her not to notice. It was hard, though. Uncomfortable for another reason too. What he wanted was to get into conversation with Mrs Watson, knowing that a polite enquiry after Mrs Brent would lead naturally to asking after the Hibberts; but much as he longed to learn all he could about Nell, it went against the grain to do so in a roundabout way. He wouldn’t seek information via the back door. It wasn’t gentlemanly.

  Today, he was due to clean the windows of a couple of houses near Wilton Lane. And he wasn’t going to be stupid. He knew he wouldn’t see her. He knew they wouldn’t bump into one another. He wasn’t even going to hope.

  Like hell he wasn’t.

  When he finished the windows, he loaded his ladder on to his barrow. He would have to walk past the top end of Wilton Lane, but he wasn’t going to look along the street. He wasn’t going to pay attention to the loud clumsy beating of his heart.

  ‘Mr Franks! Mr Franks!’ Young Alf Hibbert burst out of a group of boys and flew towards him. ‘I’ve got a wooden ladder-monkey.’

  Jim stopped, lowering his barrow’s legs to the road. ‘Well, look who it isn’t. Have
you done a magic spell on your sister and turned her into a wooden ladder-monkey?’

  ‘No,’ cried the boy. It was delightful how he took all Jim’s daft words seriously. ‘She’s still Cassie and we have another ladder-monkey, made of wood. You should know,’ he added. ‘Mummy said it was your friend who made it.’

  ‘If Mummy said it, it must be true. Are you allowed to play here instead of staying in Wilton Lane?’

  ‘We’re being minded. Mummy’s gone to work. Are you at work?’

  ‘I’ve finished. I’m on my way home.’

  Lifting his barrow handles, he started off. Alf ran back to his game. The group broke apart with a mighty yell, boys flying in all directions, Alf among them. Jim didn’t pay attention until he heard a different kind of yell. Alf! He ran across to where the child was sprawled on the pavement and lifted him to his feet. His knees were scraped and bleeding; he was crying – shock, probably, as much as pain. Jim scooped him into his arms.

  ‘Where’s he being minded?’ he asked the others, who were flocking round him.

  ‘Mrs Lipton’s.’

  A couple of lads ran ahead to bang on the door. A woman in her forties, with a wrap-around pinny over her dress, opened the door.

  ‘Hey up, Alf, have you had a tumble? Bring him in here, will you?’ She addressed the swirling mass of boys. ‘Where’s Cassie? Fetch her in an’ all.’ She led the way into her kitchen. ‘Pop him down there.’ She pulled out a chair and knelt in front of the child. ‘Let’s have a look. Goodness me, Alf, are you trying to paint your legs red?’

  She commenced a cleaning-up operation, her manner kindly and efficient.

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ said Jim.

  ‘More times than you’ve had hot dinners, love, though not for a good few years. Mine are all out at work now and my oldest gets the key of the door next week.’

  ‘I’m Jim Franks.’

  ‘Mrs Lipton.’

  ‘I know. The boys outside told me.’

  ‘I know who you are an’ all. You do my mum’s windows: Mrs Watson in Finney Lane. I’m not often called Mrs Lipton. Mostly I’m Mrs Watson’s Annie. There.’ She smiled at Alf. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Jim. ‘You’ll soon have some gigantic scabs to pick.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Would you like a cup?’

  ‘I’d better be on my way,’ said Jim.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Alf announced.

  ‘Your mum will be back soon, pet,’ said Annie.

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind a cup.’ God, could he be any more obvious? But Annie didn’t appear to notice.

  Soon they were sitting at the table, with Cassie on Annie’s knee. The children had beakers with a drop of milk. Annie poured Jim tea, the strength of which would do an army cook proud. How long before Nell arrived?

  ‘The price you pay for the tea,’ said Annie, ‘is to tell me everything about yourself. My mum won’t forgive me if I don’t get every last detail. I have to say, you don’t sound like a window cleaner.’

  Jim smiled. ‘Before the war, I was a solicitor. After the war – well, I didn’t feel able to walk back into my old life.’

  ‘You’re lucky you had the choice,’ said Annie dryly. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘I’d heard of you before my mum got her hooks in you. You help war widows and women what lost their boys. I like that. We lost our Bill. He were a good brother, but far too young to die.’

  ‘They were all far too young to die.’

  They chatted on until a knock at the door brought on an answering banging in his chest. Annie disappeared and came back, talking to Nell.

  ‘… he carried your Alf in when he fell over.’

  Nell walked in, wearing what must be her work dress. It was simple and plain, but she had an innate elegance that made the garment beautiful. She gave him a swift ‘Thank you,’ before she bobbed down in front of her son.

  ‘I hear you’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘Mr Franks was in the real war,’ said Alf.

  ‘Sit yourself down for five minutes,’ Annie invited her and proceeded to tell Jim’s story.

  He was taken aback, but only for a moment. This was what he wanted: for Nell to know about him.

  ‘… and he’s going to use his legal brain to help my cousin Matt with a bit of advice,’ finished Annie. ‘I told Matt he were making a mistake when he didn’t take one of the Dawson houses and now he’s stuck with a landlord what’s out for every penny he can get. Say what you like about Mr Dawson, he’s a fair man.’

  ‘The Rental Act,’ said Jim when Nell looked at him. ‘It was passed to stop landlords putting up rents to ridiculous levels. If it helps,’ he told Annie, ‘I’ll accompany your cousin to see his landlord. I can’t abide unfairness.’

  ‘Hark at him,’ said Annie. ‘Can’t abide, indeed. Not that I’m complaining. Use all the fancy words you like. I don’t suppose you can help it, but you’re a decent bloke and that’s what counts.’

  ‘One thing I’ve learnt in recent years is how little access people in the lower levels of society have to the law.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll offer advice to others as needs it?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Yes. I make a point of keeping abreast of legal developments.’

  ‘Gather your things, children,’ said Nell. ‘Say thank you to Mrs Lipton.’

  ‘My knees are stiff,’ said Alf.

  ‘They’ll loosen up,’ said Nell.

  ‘Will they bleed again if I move them?’

  ‘Horribly,’ said Jim. ‘All over Mrs Lipton’s clean floor, which is why I’ll ferry you home on top of my barrow. Hup you come.’

  He lifted the boy beneath one arm. Alf yelled with delight to find himself dangling.

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Nell began, but he was already on his way out.

  He dropped Alf on the barrow and scooped up Cassie, who was clamouring around his knees, and deposited her beside her brother.

  ‘And the luggage,’ he said, taking Nell’s bag from her. ‘Where to, madam?’

  He delivered them to their door. Would she invite him in? Of course not. He had had his time sitting with her at Annie’s house. What more could he want?

  Quite a lot, actually.

  Jim walked out of church into bright sunshine. The mild early morning had blossomed into a warm midday. He threaded his way towards his brother. Don, Patsy and the girls stood near the wall, where overhanging trees lent some shade. They were adorable, his nieces, and one day he might even be able to tell them apart. It didn’t help that Patsy dressed them alike. There they were, hair shining beneath daisy-trimmed hats, forearms protruding from slits in the front of their capes, hands lost in the depths of fluffy muffs.

  He shook hands with Don and kissed Patsy on the cheek she presented, then pretended to look round.

  ‘Where are the girls today? Don’t tell me they’re sick in bed.’

  ‘We’re here, Uncle James,’ said one of them. They giggled and gave one another the tiniest of nudges. In years to come, these two would be picture-perfect, not a hair out of place, even after a rousing match on the lacrosse field.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ he said. ‘I thought you were a pair of princesses.’

  Compared to the kids in the backstreets, they were princesses. They didn’t know how lucky they were, but he knew and felt a rush of gratitude.

  Patsy beamed at him. The way to her heart was definitely through admiration of her daughters. Don wasn’t immune either. His transparent pride in his beautiful, fashionable wife and their twins dealt Jim an unexpected pang. If he had stuck to his prescribed path in life, he too could have had a wife and children by now.

  He accompanied them home to their bay-windowed Victorian villa. The front garden was glossy and cool, with shrubs surrounding a pristine lawn that made him want to build a swing there and then and push the girls as high as they could go.

  As
they walked into the chessboard-tiled hall, he inhaled a delicious mixture of aromas.

  ‘Is that ginger … and something appley?’

  ‘I can tell you’re hungry,’ said Patsy. She turned her back to Don so he could help her off with her jacket. She removed the girls’ capes and sent them upstairs to play before leading the way into her elegant drawing room, all cream and blue, with pieces from Jim’s parents’ house mixed with modern items, and all of it glowing in the brilliant light from the south-facing windows. ‘Mrs Garbutt is roasting the lamb in ginger, honey and cider. We’re trying it out on you.’

  He knew what that meant. A successful dish would be served at her next dinner party – to which he wouldn’t be invited. Poor girl. He was a trial to her. She wouldn’t have minded half so much had he become a lowly clerk or a penniless poet.

  She settled herself on the striped-silk sofa. ‘Ring for tea, will you, darling?’

  Don reached for the bell. ‘I saw Mr Winterton the other day.’

  ‘How is he?’ Jim felt a stirring of pleasure. He had started his working life in the offices of Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks. ‘Retired?’

  ‘Still in harness, though he must be the best part of seventy.’ Unfastening his jacket, Don leant back comfortably in an armchair. ‘He asked after you. Offered you a job, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Did he really?’ Patsy’s response came even more quickly than Jim’s.

  ‘Seriously? He offered me work?’

  ‘More or less. He said he’d be glad to discuss it with you, anyway. His godson had a bad time in the war and hasn’t been the same since, so he has a certain sympathy with why you elected to duck out of your proper life.’

  ‘Temporarily,’ added Patsy. ‘Oh, Mrs Garbutt,’ she said as the door opened. ‘Could we have a pot of tea, please?’

  Mrs Garbutt, a stout individual whose flushed cheeks suggested she had plenty to do in her steamy kitchen without fooling around with a tray of tea, withdrew before she had got fully in.

  Patsy turned to Jim. ‘It’s worth considering, James.’