‘If you’re away from the law for too long,’ said Don, ‘you won’t be able to get back in.’
‘I keep up,’ he said mildly.
‘That’s not the same. Do you want to clean windows for the rest of your life? You could end up with no choice if no law firm will have you.’
‘There’s your family responsibilities too,’ said Patsy, ignoring Don’s frown. ‘We’ve stood by you, which is more than Roberta and her family did. Now it’s time for you to consider us. Harriet and Marguerite start at Oaklawn in September. It would be a good thing all round if they didn’t have a skeleton in the family cupboard.’
Both men laughed.
‘Not a window-cleaning skeleton, at any rate,’ said Don. He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Whisky?’
‘Mrs Garbutt is bringing tea,’ said Patsy.
Don spoke over his shoulder from the sideboard. ‘You pour the tea, I’ll give him whisky and we’ll see which one he drinks.’
‘You’re dreadful,’ Patsy scolded.
‘You don’t want a martini, then?’
Jim lifted his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t it sherry for the ladies any more? What would Mother say?’
‘You’re behind the times,’ said Don. ‘It’s martini or gin and it these days. Another reason for you to get back into society. I bet you can’t dance the Charleston either.’
Jim accepted his brother’s joshing with good grace, but later, as he made his way home, he considered matters. Was it time to leave his humble life? It had only ever been intended to be temporary. Did he still need it? If he was honest, no. He had only ever needed … time. Time to think, to remember, to heal; time to come to terms, in so far as anyone could, with slaughter and destruction on such a massive scale.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps the simple and unutterably complex fact of realising that he would never fully heal was what he had needed to face. The guilt had faded, the guilt of being alive, being spared, being whole. When he first came home, he had felt like Marley’s ghost, dragging his chains and padlocks and cash boxes behind him; but link by link, the chains had dropped away until now he was aware of this phase of his life reaching its natural conclusion.
Not that he could return to his old life in the fullest sense. He couldn’t walk away from his present circumstances without a backwards glance. He would carry part of it with him always, not just in his heart and his mind, but also in his professional life. He hadn’t thought it through fully as yet, but he had an idea of providing legal advice at a peppercorn rate to the lower classes alongside the lucrative work that would provide comfort and security for …
For his wife and family.
He had always assumed he would marry and become a father. For a long time, Roberta had been his chosen bride, his future, but now he would have to start again and find another future.
No – not find one. He had already found it.
If Patsy wasn’t keen on his window cleaning, what would she make of Nell?
Chapter Fourteen
Monday was washday in normal households and Nell was determined that hers would be a normal household. She didn’t have to leave for her first appointment until half past nine. Usually this meant taking Alf to school, dropping Cassie at Annie’s on the way back; but today she had taken both children to Annie’s early and Annie would take Alf to school. Was she a bad mother, dumping her kids elsewhere so she could get some housework done? It wasn’t easy being a working mother with no Mrs Brent to manage the house.
Anyroad, she was going to put the washing in the copper to soak, ready to do tonight after the children were in bed; and she should have time to give the windows a going-over before she had to set off for her first lesson.
Before she could empty the linen basket, there was a knock at the door.
‘Sorry, love, I know it’s a bit early.’ Mrs Brent sounded cheerful, but there was an odd edge to her tone. ‘But you said as you were going to get your outsides done and I couldn’t let you do that on your tod.’
‘You’re going to stand underneath, are you, and catch me if I fall? Come in.’
‘I thought we’d have a cuppa and a natter an’ all. I miss our chats.’
‘Don’t you chat with your Hilda?’
‘Aye, but I miss chatting with you and I’ve only got the washing to tackle if I go home.’
Nell thought of her own washing, then set the thought aside. If this dear lady wanted a spot of company, the least she could do was provide it, after everything Mrs Brent had done for her. They gathered what was needed and went upstairs into the empty front bedroom. Had the water stain faded? One thing was certain. That hole in the ceiling spewed out dust faster than she could sweep it up.
The sash window squeaked and rumbled as Nell eased it up. Turning her back to the open space, she found the sill with her hands and pressed her legs against the wall beneath the window before sitting and shuffling her bottom further outside. She blew out a breath: nerves weren’t allowed. Mrs Brent drew down the sash. Nell’s breath caught. Some women did this every week. Could you really get used to seeing the window close in front of your eyes, with you stuck on the wrong side of it?
Leaving the window partway up, Mrs Brent bent down, then handed Nell the wet cloth. The sharp tang of vinegar-water invaded her nostrils. Mrs Brent pulled the sash down as far as it could go without chopping her legs off, then pulled the chair closer and sat bunched up, plastered to Nell’s legs, her arms winding round the backs of Nell’s knees.
Raising the cloth, Nell commenced wiping the glass. Vinegar-water trickled down her arm, wetting her sleeve and tickling her skin. She reached higher, her stomach swooping as her body automatically tilted back. On the other side of the window, Mrs Brent’s grip tightened.
She pressed on, then dropped the cloth on the ledge and clung on with her fingertips to the window frame. The warm pressure around her legs vanished as Mrs Brent stood to raise the sash. The window didn’t budge. A streak of panic speared through Nell. Then, with a soft protest, the sash moved. Mrs Brent lifted it enough to thrust out some screwed-up newspaper, which Nell grabbed. Mrs Brent drew in the cloth, pulled down the window and resumed her position clamped round Nell’s legs.
Nell buffed up the glass. She might be using less elbow grease than if falling and breaking her neck wasn’t a consideration, but she gave the window a good polish. When she finished, Mrs Brent threw up the sash and hauled her inside.
‘To think some women do that while gabbing to the woman at the next-door window.’ Nell stamped her feet on the floorboards as if she had spent a week at sea and was grateful for dry land. ‘How does it look?’
‘Fine; and even if it isn’t, you’re not going out there again. My heart couldn’t take it. You should get a window cleaner.’
‘Oh aye, and a char, and a nanny. Mind you,’ and she made sure she was picking up the bucket, with her back to Mrs Brent as she said it, ‘if Jim Franks needed the work, I’d employ him, after the good turn he did us when we moved here.’
‘I don’t know how he’s fixed, though he can’t be on his uppers, because he does his Saturday jobs for nowt.’
‘He used to be a solicitor before the war.’
‘Then he can’t be short of a bob or two in’t bank. Good for him, is what I say, if he helps the poor one day a week.’
‘Oh.’
She hadn’t thought of it like that. Helping her to move house hadn’t been a special thing. He would have done it for anybody. She had told him it was what her brothers would have done, but of course her brothers wouldn’t have picked and chosen the folk they helped. They would have helped any decent individual. Just like Jim Franks had done for her.
Mind you, it was a good thing he hadn’t intended anything special. It would be playing with fire to encourage him. Stan might have done the dirty on her, but she was still his legal wife.
She carried the bucket to the back bedroom to repeat the window-cleaning process.
‘At least here my fall will be broken
by the coal bunker.’
‘Better than the privy,’ said Mrs Brent and they laughed.
When the window was sparkling and Nell slid back inside, she felt quite an old hand. Funny how you could get used to something. Like being a widow.
She wasn’t a widow.
Mrs Brent looked round. ‘Eh, it’ll be grand when the repairs are done.’
‘Aye. The children are desperate for Violet to come home.’
‘I meant having two bedrooms.’
‘Two bedrooms but one bed. I’ll need a bed of my own soon, or a mattress at least. I don’t want the children looking back in years to come on us squashed three in a bed. It’s one thing for children to share, quite another to shove the whole family in together, even if it’s a small family like ours. My mum would have called that proper poor.’
‘Nay, proper poor is the whole family sleeping on the floor of the one and only room they have to live in, and there were plenty of that round our way when I were a lass. Don’t do yourself down. You work hard for them children. Speaking of which, where’s Cassie?’
‘At Annie’s.’ Nell laughed. ‘Imagine her seeing me sitting out doing the windows. She’s adventurous enough without getting new ideas.’
She carried the bucket downstairs, emptied it, then fetched the chair.
‘Do you need to go?’ asked Mrs Brent.
‘Not quite yet.’ There was time to put the wash in to soak, but she knew Mrs Brent wanted to sit and talk. ‘I’ll put the kettle on – if you’ve got time.’
‘All the time in the world. I’ll only be cleaning once I get back.’
‘Thanks for helping with the windows.’
‘Hanging onto you dangling outside made a change.’
‘Then I’m glad I got your day off to a good start,’ laughed Nell.
‘Owt else you need, just say. I could nip down the butcher’s for you while you’re at work.’
Pity lanced through Nell. Poor Mrs Brent was desperate to break her monotonous routine.
‘What if you bumped into your Hilda round the shops? It’d look odd, you doing my shopping. I’ll tell you summat you can do. Bring me cuttings from your herbs.’
Instead of looking pleased, Mrs Brent glanced away. ‘If you must know, I haven’t got them any more.’
‘Why not? You always cook with them.’
‘But I’m not cooking any more, am I?’
Lord, she hadn’t parted with them in a fit of pique, had she? No, she was too sensible, but on the other hand, that bitter note in her voice …
Nell said lightly, ‘Who’s got them now?’ Was it presumptuous to feel miffed that she hadn’t been the recipient? She poured milk and tea and pushed a cup towards her friend.
Mrs Brent looked at it. Then she looked at Nell. ‘Edmund got rid.’
Nell froze, teacup halfway to her lips. ‘That’s disgraceful.’
Mrs Brent looked flustered. ‘It makes sense when you think about it. Our Hilda doesn’t use herbs because Edmund isn’t fussed about them, so why keep them?’
‘But—’
‘There were bound to be changes when they moved in. This is a change, that’s all. I’ll get used to it – like the cleaning. It doesn’t matter.’
Nell felt hot with indignation. ‘What other changes have there been?’ She only meant to express her displeasure, but Mrs Brent squirmed in her chair like a naughty child. Nell put down her cup. ‘What?’ she asked quietly.
‘It’s Violet. We put her out at night now.’
She was careful not to show her annoyance: this wasn’t Mrs Brent’s fault. ‘She never goes out at night. She had enough of being outdoors when she was a stray.’
‘Everyone puts cats out at night.’
‘I’m not everyone – and neither were you when we lived with you.’
Mrs Brent looked hurt and Nell felt a stab of guilt. This was Edmund Tanner’s fault. ‘Brick shithouse,’ murmured Doug in her head. She injected an airiness into her voice that she was far from feeling.
‘I’ll just have to fetch Violet here now.’
Mrs Brent blushed. ‘You can’t do that. What if she got out before she learnt this is her new home? And it’s not cold and wet, so it’s not as though she’s suffering. Me and Posy have put a wooden box in the backyard, with an old piece of towel in it, so she can get cosy if she wants to.’
‘Well, maybe if she stays a bit longer …’
‘Good.’ Mrs Brent nodded crisply. ‘After all, she’s only a cat.’
Tuesday meant it was meat, boiled potatoes and carrots. Or you could say it the other way round: meat, boiled potatoes and carrots meant it was Tuesday. Or Thursday. School dinners were the same, week in, week out, and you could tell today was Tuesday because Tuesday pudding was prunes and rice and Thursday’s was tinned peaches and custard. Surely you were meant to have peaches with cream, but custard was obviously considered suitable for schoolchildren. They were given it on Fridays with their tinned pineapple too. Would Violet like custard?
The school hall was filled with noise as the children chattered their way through dinner. The sound of cutlery bashing and scraping mixed with protests from the wooden floor as chair legs grated against the floorboards. Posy slid the trinket box out of her pocket under the table. She eased off the lid, glancing round casually. It was the job of those parts of her above the table to hide what was happening below by being ordinary. She was sitting at the end of a table, which was jolly good luck because you didn’t get to choose where you sat. You just filed in and stood behind the next empty place and waited to say grace.
She looked across the gap to the next table. There was an invisible line across the floor and she was right beside it. Some of the girls would fake a squeal if they had to sit next to the line, because across the invisible border were the tables for the free school dinners, where the poor children sat. Posy wasn’t worried about her secret activities being observed by them. This was their first, if not their only, meal of the day and they put their heads down and shovelled.
Shepherding the peaches to one side of her dish, she took a spoonful of custard. With her other hand, she drew the trinket box close to her tummy, then lowered the spoon, keeping her head up so as not to draw attention by looking down. She was so busy missing the edge of the table with her spoon that she wiped it on herself. Rats! The spoon clinked against the china trinket box. With her finger, she scooped custard off one into the other. On went the lid and she returned the spoon to her bowl, licking custard off a sticky finger.
She slipped the trinket box back into her pocket and was about to pull out her hanky when its lumpy feel reminded her about the bits of meat wrapped inside it. She scoffed some pudding left-handed so as to look normal, while her right hand fiddled about until she had separated her hanky from its contents.
Pulling out the empty hanky, she wrapped it like a bandage round her pointing finger and dipped it in her glass of water.
‘Ugh! Look what Posy Tanner’s doing – dipping her snot rag in her drink.’
‘I’m telling on you, you dirty cow. Miss! Miss!’ Up shot a hand.
One of the dinner ladies came over. She was old with a face full of lines. All the dinner ladies were old with faces full of lines.
‘What’s going on here? Stop screeching, Doris Eckersley.’
‘Please, miss, Posy Tanner’s sticking her dirty hanky in her water and then she’s going to drink it, miss.’
Posy looked daggers at Doris. Looking daggers was an interesting way of glaring. Miss Claybourne had once given the words their very own tick in one of Posy’s exciting compositions.
‘Please, miss,’ said Posy, ‘my hanky isn’t dirty. It hasn’t been used.’ As if she would wrap Violet’s food in a snotty hanky. But she couldn’t say that, even though it was her best defence.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded the dinner lady.
‘Please, miss, I spilt custard down my front and I were going to clean it.’ More daggers flew in Doris Blabbermouth’
s direction.
‘Ugh, a dirty dress for a dirty bugger.’
Posy joined in the collective gasp that hissed round their table. Low voices expressing shock and delight started up on neighbouring tables, but no one spoke on Posy’s. No one cared any more if she was a dirty cow. They were too busy watching Doris Eckersley being pulled by her ear to Mr Dickinson’s office to be given the strap.
Posy skipped home with her spoils in her pocket. The front door was unlocked and she went to the kitchen to say hello to Ma. It was important to do everything as normal when you were up to secret activities. Putting food out for Violet to have at night had been easy the first few times, because she had done it under the guise of watering Gran’s herbs, but then the herbs had vanished.
‘Gran didn’t want them any more,’ Ma said when Posy had asked.
She slid into the backyard, which was half in the sun, half in shadow. Violet’s wooden box stood against the back of the house. Dropping to her knees, Posy took out the trinket box and upended it beside the box, scooping out the custard with her finger.
Behind her, a flush sounded, the lav door creaked open and Gran’s voice asked, ‘What have you got there, Posy? That looks like … custard.’
‘It’s for Violet tonight.’
‘Silly girl. You can’t leave it there. We’ll get rats.’
‘I didn’t know rats like custard.’
‘And what’s that it was in?’
Posy held out the trinket box. ‘It’s not one of yours.’
‘Gramps and me gave you that as a christening present, and you’re putting custard in it.’
Remorse – that was a good word – consumed her. ‘I’ll give it a good wash, I promise.’
‘You certainly will.’ Gran smiled. ‘I’ll help. We’ll do it upstairs in the washstand so Ma needn’t know.’
‘You’re a brick, Gran.’ Some people called you a brick for the smallest reason, but not Posy. She used the word only when there was a particular reason. ‘What about Violet’s meat?’ She produced her lumpy hanky.
A Respectable Woman Page 16