Walter held the door for her, then smiled at Nell. ‘She’ll be disappointed. It’s the butcher with a question about chops.’ He nodded at the sewing machine. ‘You work for Ingeleby’s, don’t you?’ He sat on the arm of a chair, throwing his forearm across the back and mussing up the antimacassar. ‘I’m a writer – a journalist. Always on the lookout for a good story that will have Fleet Street begging for my services.’
‘I hardly think sewing lessons would make a good story.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll leave you to it. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Hibbert.’
As she got up to take another piece of cotton out of her bag, her gaze fell on a magazine, folded open on a side table. Beneath a wordy advertisement for Cyclax beauty preparations were some small ads.
Supposing she advertised her services.
Don’t be daft. What, her, a girl from the backstreets, pushing herself forward like that, daring to suggest her services were worth paying for?
But they were. Ingleby’s thought so; so did Mrs Liversedge and another couple of ladies who had asked for extra lessons. If she advertised – and it was a very big if – and some ladies took her up on it, it could give her more possibilities, such as going part-time at Ingleby’s, if they would let her. At the moment, if she wasn’t out demonstrating the use of the machines, she was in the shop. Might it be possible to give up the shop hours? Always supposing, of course, that she could find enough private teaching. If she could – if – she might have more flexibility regarding her hours, which would make life better for her children.
Could she carve out a future as a sewing teacher?
Leonie spent the afternoon on her hands and knees, wiping the skirting boards. She heaved furniture out of the way and shoved it back again. She was achy and unpleasantly warm, but she wasn’t about to stop.
‘You shouldn’t be doing that, Mother,’ said Hilda.
She sat back on her heels. Hilda rubbed her hands together like she was washing them. Her clouded eyes and downturned mouth gave her a dissatisfied expression and Leonie felt a flash of vexation. If anyone should be dissatisfied round here, it was her, not Hilda. Then she felt guilty. Hilda wasn’t dissatisfied: she was anxious. Leonie sighed and something inside her crumpled. It wasn’t Hilda’s fault. She was just doing as she was told by Edmund. As for the skirting board marathon, Leonie was doing it on purpose to get her dander up, because then she could tell herself it was the disagreeable task she was hot and bothered about, and not … and not the money.
Why was she het up about it, anyroad? It was her money. No one could take it off her, not even to look after it for her, not if she didn’t want them to.
Another sigh. She was meant to be pleased with herself for selling the green vase. Instead, walking home with her plump purse had stirred up worries about Edmund’s offer to look after her money.
‘Put the kettle on, Hilda. Let’s stop and have a drink.’
Let’s stop – as if the pair of them were fettling. The hardest Hilda had worked today was mashing the potato topping for the shepherd’s pie.
But she wasn’t going to get riled about that. It wasn’t Hilda’s fault that Edmund had divided up the household tasks the way he had; and it wasn’t Hilda’s fault her mother had elected to get all hot under the collar over the skirting boards.
Leonie hadn’t given Edmund an answer to his offer. She didn’t want to cause upset, but she couldn’t bring herself to hand over her money, little as it was. Yet why not? He was the man of the house. If she gave him control of her money, wouldn’t it bind them together more closely as a family?
She pushed herself to her feet and wiped her hands on her apron, feeling twinges deep inside her muscles and joints. She followed Hilda to the kitchen and took her place at the table. It didn’t feel right, not being the one to make the tea. It made her feel like a visitor in her own house.
But that was the point, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just her house. It was their house.
‘Edmund suggested looking after my money. Did he tell you?’
The tiniest pause. ‘He mentioned it.’
‘What do you think?’
Hilda poured boiling water into the teapot, then stirred the pot in a way guaranteed to stew the tea in two minutes flat.
‘Stop faffing, Hilda. Sit down and tell me what you think.’
Hilda froze like a child playing statues. She transferred the pot to the table and sat down.
‘It’s up to you, Mother.’
‘I’m asking what you think.’
‘Edmund’s good with money. He’s never kept me short.’
‘So you think I should give him mine?’
Hilda milked and sugared the cups. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘You really aren’t helping.’
‘What did you and Dad do with money?’
‘Dad handed his wages to me every week.’
‘Me and Edmund aren’t like that. He’s always done the money side.’ Hilda reached for the teapot. ‘He’d give you pocket money, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Pocket money? Pocket money! Like a child getting weekly spends. Not on your nellie.
Although … would it be such a bad thing? Might it be the magic detail that would make everything fall into place? She had swallowed so many changes in the hope that each would be the one to bring about the most important change of all, the one that would create the easy-going atmosphere of her longings.
If Edmund looked after her money, would that transform this house into a truly happy and comfortable home?
Leonie held the teapot under the tap and directed a quick squirt of water into it, then took the pot outside, swilled the water round to catch all the used tea leaves and chucked them down the drain. Violet was lying on the path, stretched out in the early evening sunshine. Posy stood in the doorway, the damp tea towel hanging from her hands.
‘Should we bring her in so she can lie on the kitchen rug?’
‘She’s fine where she is,’ said Leonie.
‘But she needs to be indoors as much as possible because of going out at night.’
‘I know, chick, but she’s happy outdoors just now.’
‘She won’t be happy when she gets put out at bedtime.’ Posy ducked back inside.
Leonie followed her in. They joined Hilda and Edmund in the parlour.
‘Well, Mother-in-law,’ said Edmund.
Instant panic. Had Hilda told him of their conversation about money? Surely Hilda wouldn’t drop her in it like that?
‘Hilda and I have been admiring how well our things look in here. Thank you for allowing some of your possessions to be moved upstairs. That was generous of you.’
His voice was warm and rich. She relaxed. When he used that tone, she always felt better.
‘Pleasure,’ she said. ‘I should have moved them sooner.’
‘Don’t apologise or I’ll feel bad for mentioning it. There’s nothing wrong with your possessions. You understand that, don’t you, Posy? Gran’s things aren’t less important than ours. It was just a matter of, as Gran says, making room.’
‘Yes, Dad.’ Posy directed a happy beam at Leonie.
‘In fact,’ said Edmund, ‘why don’t you go and fetch one of Gran’s special things, Posy? The green vase: fetch that. Carefully, mind. Gran can tell you about it and about your great-grandmother, who gave it to her.’
‘This is good of you, Edmund,’ said Leonie. And it was. It was more than she deserved after yesterday evening’s fiasco. Why had she sold the vase? Blasted thing. She had hated it all these years and now it had caused dismay and embarrassment, not to mention Posy’s distress.
‘Poor Posy,’ Edmund had said yesterday evening. ‘She’s the one who chose it to have the honour of going in your bedroom. How must she feel?’
She couldn’t have felt any worse than her gran. Oh, the humiliation, the shame.
‘If we’d known, Mother-in-law, that you didn’t like it, we’d never have let Posy choose it.’
There was a saying about wanting the ground to open up and swallow you. That was how she had felt. There she had sat, squirming in the middle of it all – Edmund being understanding and forgiving, Hilda burying herself in her darning, Posy sitting pencil-straight, sniffing back tears – knowing she had made the worst mistake of her life.
But now, twenty-four hours later – what a difference. Edmund had invited her and Posy for a walk.
‘Is Ma coming?’ Posy asked.
‘She has things to do. Besides, I wouldn’t have enough arms.’ Edmund jutted out his elbows invitingly. ‘A beautiful young lady on each side.’
‘Gran’s not young.’
‘I’m sure she was always young and beautiful in Gramps’s eyes,’ said Edmund and Leonie looked at him in surprise. Fancy him realising. She squeezed his arm.
They walked to Chorlton Park, where Posy went on the swings and then Edmund pushed the roundabout at top speed, to squeals of delight from half a dozen children. Was this the same man who beat his child with the stair rod every Saturday? Watching him, it was hard to believe. In spite of herself, Leonie began to feel at ease with the world. And it was all because of the green vase. Edmund had never suggested a walk before. Clearly he wanted to make her feel better. Could it be that that horrid old vase had provided the piece of magic she had longed for?
As they made their way home, she stepped lightly.
‘Go and get ready for bed, Posy,’ said Hilda the instant they walked through the door. Leonie felt a clip of annoyance. Not ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’ Not ‘Where did you go?’
Posy kissed them all goodnight and pattered upstairs.
‘We had a lovely walk, Hilda,’ Leonie said pointedly.
‘Indeed we did,’ said Edmund. ‘Come and sit in the parlour so Hilda and I can talk to you.’
A flutter inside her. ‘That sounds serious.’ She said it in a jokey way to show she didn’t really expect it to be serious.
‘It is and it isn’t. We’re concerned on your behalf. We only want what’s best for you.’
Oh, lord, they hadn’t bought back the green vase, had they?
Edmund held open the parlour door. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Do you notice anything different?’
What was this about? She looked round. The green vase was gone. So were the boy and girl figurines; Hilda’s shepherdess stood in their place. Hedley’s Charles Dickenses – they were on the shelf upstairs. Her Toby jug wasn’t there – wait a minute. The Toby jug wasn’t upstairs. And her ornamental fan – that was missing an’ all. Her gaze flew round the room. The musical box, the candlesticks, her mother’s spills-jar … all missing.
‘It’s for your own good, Mother-in-law. We can’t have you feeling you must sell your precious things, so we’ve taken them into safekeeping.’
‘You mean … Hilda … while we were at the park …’
‘I hold myself to blame,’ said Edmund. ‘I should have realised how worried you were about money.’
‘I’m not worried.’
‘You obviously are, or why would you sell your treasured possessions?’
‘That vase wasn’t—’
No. Stop. She mustn’t say it. After Posy had selected it as a special item; after Posy had been upset and confused at its being sold; how could she say that, far from being treasured, she had been glad to see the back of it? Posy would be hurt all over again.
‘Wasn’t what, Mother-in-law?’
She ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip. ‘Nothing.’
‘Selling your vase – dare I say it? – wasn’t rational. You’ve suffered a bereavement and people do odd things in that state, especially women who aren’t as young as they once were. I invited you once to put your money into my hands and I make the offer again.’ He held out his hands, palms up. Did he expect her to whip out her purse from up her knicker-leg? ‘If you don’t trust me …’
‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Then you’ll place your money in my keeping? I’m pleased to hear it – pleased and honoured.’
Wait a minute. All she had said was … That didn’t mean …
‘And your ornaments and what-have-you will remain in safekeeping. I think we all agree it’s for the best. We want Hilda and Posy’s heirlooms safe from being sold, don’t we?’
Leonie came to her feet. It was too much. How had she got into this fix?
‘Where are you going, Mother-in-law?’
‘I’ll let Violet in for a while.’
‘Violet?’
‘The cat.’ Why must he pretend not to know her name? ‘It’ll give her a chance to have a snooze indoors before she gets put out.’
‘There are no cats in this house.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That animal doesn’t come in my house again. It doesn’t get fed; it doesn’t get somewhere to snooze. If you had spent less time fussing round that creature, and more time concentrating on your family, you wouldn’t have sold the vase, you wouldn’t have upset Posy, you wouldn’t have embarrassed Hilda and me, and we wouldn’t have had to take your things into safekeeping. You’ve brought it all on yourself; but please don’t worry. We forgive you and we’ll do our best for you.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘And you’ve waited until now to tell me?’ Nell’s chair scraped as she pushed away from the kitchen table. She glared down at her friend. ‘You even let me waste time making a cup of tea.’
‘I’m sorry,’ cried Mrs Brent. ‘I couldn’t come any sooner. Hilda wanted Posy to get off to school without any upset.’
‘You could have come after she’d gone – and don’t say I’d have been out taking Alf to school. You knew I’d be in the house till nigh-on half-nine before I had to take Cassie to Annie’s.’
‘And what could you have done if you had known, eh?’ Mrs Brent asked with spirit. ‘You’d still have needed to get to your appointment.’
‘But I’d have known; and right this minute, I’d be out looking for her instead of—’ She threw up her hands, then brought them down in a sharp slap on her thighs. ‘We need to fetch her. With luck, she’ll be hanging about. She must be starving hungry.’
She swept down the hallway, with Mrs Brent scuttling behind.
‘I’m that sorry, and after you trusted me with her an’ all.’
Nell swung round to face her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Tell Alf and Cassie.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That was a horrid thing to say. I know it’s not your fault. But throwing her out were downright cruel. It’s got me all het up.’
‘He didn’t throw her out exactly; more, won’t let her back in.’
‘Same difference. Come on. I need to bring my cat home.’
As they turned the corner into Finney Lane, Nell felt a flurry of anticipation, but there was no sign of Violet and she pressed her lips tight to contain her disappointment.
‘She could be in our backyard,’ suggested Mrs Brent.
Hoping for summat to eat. Distressed because she had never gone hungry since she arrived here. Nell swallowed. She should have seen this coming. She should have fetched Violet the minute she heard about her being put out at night.
‘Shall we go down the entry?’ she said.
‘What for? It’s quicker to walk through the house.’
‘Aye, and I can imagine your Hilda telling you-know-who that I came storming through.’
‘Nay, she wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, she would. I know she’s your daughter and I shouldn’t speak ill of her, but her middle name is Doormat.’
Mrs Brent’s face stilled and she looked away. Nell experienced a sinking feeling. She had held her tongue on her opinion of Hilda Tanner for over two years and now she had blurted it out.
Mrs Brent said, ‘Well, I’m going in the front. Are you coming or what?’
As they walked in, Hilda came downstairs. Most women at this time of day would have an apron on or a wraparound pinny, but Hilda Tanner di
dn’t do housework, did she, so there she was in a drop-waisted brown dress. She had never had her hair cut short, but that bun, worn low, wasn’t flattering. She should wear it higher; that would lift her hair clear of her cheeks.
‘Don’t mind us, Hilda,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘We’re going through to see if the cat’s there.’
Nell followed her into the kitchen. The table was covered with a dark green oilcloth. A glass vase with decorative handles, filled with lily-of-the-valley, stood in the centre. Mrs Brent marched through the scullery and opened the door.
‘Violet,’ she called.
Nell joined her in the backyard, but no fuzzy black shape emerged from behind the mangle, tail erect in greeting. Nell strode to the gate and stepped into the entry, looking up and down and calling. There was no answering mew, no rush to greet her. She went back in and shut the gate. Hilda stood in the doorway, looking fretful. The flaming doormat couldn’t even bring herself to set foot in the yard to help Violet.
She addressed her friend. ‘Thanks for helping. I’m sorry I were sharp earlier. I have to get to my appointment now.’
Mrs Brent’s face softened in sympathy. ‘Far away?’
‘Edge Lane. The lady I went to on Wednesday.’
‘Her with the telephone that made you jump? You get along. I’ll walk round a bit and see if I can find Violet.’
Nell turned to Hilda. ‘Thanks for letting me look. If your mum doesn’t find her, I’ll try your backyard again later.’
Hilda shifted awkwardly. ‘Just give us a knock and I’ll look for you.’
And risk Mr Brick Shithouse telling Mrs Doormat to say the cat wasn’t there? Not likely.
The foliage overhanging the garden walls on Edge Lane was young and fresh. Jim pushed his barrow, enjoying the variety of greens shifting in the breeze, the deep green of the horse chestnut complete with its candles of white flowers, the glossy green of the laburnum with its fluid tassels of golden blooms, and the bright green of the good old beech. That exhausted his knowledge of trees. He ought to learn more, just as he had learnt the names of the wildflowers on the meadows. Living this simpler life had given him the time to discover an interest in nature.
A Respectable Woman Page 18