A Respectable Woman

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘And your name, madam?’

  That brought her up short. ‘Nay, you don’t need that, do you?’

  ‘As you wish.’ Burrowing under his pocket flap, he pushed the notebook inside, then slid his pencil in his top pocket, ruffling his silk handkerchief in the process. Leonie’s hands itched to straighten it up. He raised his trilby. ‘Many thanks. Good morning.’

  ‘Wait a minute. What about your card?’

  He gave her a brilliant smile. ‘No need. You’ve been more than helpful.’

  Her shoulders gave a small wriggle of pleasure at a job well done as he walked away with a confident stride that said everything you needed to know about privilege. What a pleasant young man, hanging on her every word like that, even though he was a toff and she was ordinary. He was right: dear Nell would never have sung her own praises. How wonderful to have done her friend a good turn.

  ‘Before Posy goes on your errand, Edmund, could you spare her?’ Leonie wished she could cast a reassuring glance at her granddaughter, but she had to keep her gaze fixed on Edmund for fear of giving herself away. ‘There’s a spot of tidying that needs doing in the bedroom.’

  ‘Has she been untidy?’ Edmund’s displeasure homed in on Posy. ‘Little girls who are allowed to sleep in bedrooms should show their gratitude by keeping them clean and tidy.’

  ‘It’s nothing, really. It’s my fault, if it’s anyone’s. I thought Posy could—’

  ‘Of course, Mother-in-law. It’s good for children to be useful.’

  She didn’t wait a moment longer, but led the way upstairs.

  ‘I’m sorry if I made a mess,’ said Posy, looking round.

  ‘You didn’t, chick, but I needed to get you up here before you go for your dad’s caramels. I’m not having that stair rod—’

  ‘Gerald.’

  ‘—that stair rod used again in this house.’

  ‘I know you tried, Gran, but Dad won’t listen.’

  Leonie opened the top drawer. ‘I bought these.’

  Posy gasped at the sight of the bag. Leonie upended it on the bed, tipping out a quarter of caramels.

  ‘I know you get into trouble if there are only five.’

  ‘There were always five and it never mattered,’ said Posy. ‘Then one week there were six and after that Dad decided that if there weren’t six, I must have eaten one.’

  ‘Rubbish. They must have been smaller sweets that week.’

  Posy shrugged, dismissing the weekly beatings. Leonie felt a surge of protectiveness. Her darling little girl wouldn’t suffer like that again if she had owt to do with it.

  ‘Put one in your pocket to take with you and pop it in the bag before you get home.’

  ‘Oh, Gran you’re an angel. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

  She staggered backwards as Posy flung her arms round her. Leonie’s arms went round the child who meant the world to her and they hugged one another. Leonie could have stayed like that for hours, but she disentangled herself, holding Posy’s chin and looking deep into her eyes.

  ‘I wish I could get rid of that stair rod, but this is the next best thing.’

  ‘If you did, he’d only get another.’

  Posy’s offhand acceptance of the situation was disconcerting. Disappointing an’ all, when she had wanted to offer reassurance; but there was no time to talk about it. Posy had to go.

  Leonie decided it would be best for her to be outside when Posy arrived home. She couldn’t risk letting Edmund see her glee at Posy’s escape from the weekly punishment, so she went to Nell’s to ask about the accident, but Nell wasn’t there.

  ‘She’s at work.’ Mrs O’Rourke paused on the doorstep, shopping bag in hand. ‘She said she had to put in extra time.’

  Leonie wandered along a few roads and entries, calling Violet, until she deemed it safe to go home. In Finney Lane, several streets’ worth of girls had got together and a huge circle, joined hands held up in arches, stretched the width of the road. ‘In and out the fairy bluebells, in and out the fairy bluebells,’ sang the girls as a chain of them wound in and out of the arches. Posy was at the end of the chain. She broke away and came running, her beaming smile telling Leonie all she needed to know.

  Posy gave her a hug. ‘You’re the best gran in the world.’

  Leonie returned the hug. ‘Get back to the game or you’ll lose your place.’

  The leader of the chain stood behind a member of the circle. ‘Pat a little girl upon her shoulders …’ went the song. Posy resumed her position, patting the shoulders of the girl in front.

  Leonie felt ready to burst with happiness. Eh, but she could wind her way in and out of that circle herself, the way she was feeling. Nell would have: she was a big kid at heart. What a splendid day. She had saved Posy’s neck and done Nell a good turn. Now all she had to do was find Violet. Well, why not? Things were meant to go in threes.

  As she went indoors, Hilda appeared with her shopping basket.

  ‘I won’t be long. Edmund’s going out shortly to play bowls.’

  It was all Leonie could do not to throw her hat in the air. She was going to have the house to herself. Guilt dumped itself on her, pinning her to the spot. She was disloyal. Ungrateful. She loved Hilda and Posy, and Edmund wasn’t so bad, not really. It was just that his ways were different to Hedley’s.

  The parlour door was open. She glanced in as she passed. Edmund was reading the paper. Her movement made him glance her way, but she didn’t stop. Upstairs, she took off her coat and hat, then came downstairs to the kitchen. This was where you were supposed to live, not in the parlour. She checked the teapot. The old leaves were still inside. She poured in some water and swilled them round, then opened the back door to pour the leaves down the drain – and there was Violet.

  The cat’s tail went up and she trotted forward. Leonie bent to stroke her – was she thinner?

  ‘Good girl. Wait there. I’ll fetch you summat and then we must get you to your new house.’

  She hurried indoors, dumping the teapot and gathering scraps with fingers that fumbled. With the side of her hand, she swept the scraps onto a saucer and went back outside. Violet bumped her head against her before raising herself on her hind legs, sniffing and mewing. Her face was in the saucer before it touched the ground. Poor mite. When did she last eat? There was some ham in the meat safe. Would Hilda notice if a tiny bit went missing?

  ‘Wait there,’ she told the cat.

  Violet followed her to the door. It was shut. Leonie turned the knob, but nothing happened. She tried again: nothing. She hadn’t shut it when she came out – had she?

  But it was shut now.

  And locked.

  It was an ordinary thing to do, wasn’t it? Neighbourly. Of course he should pop round and ask after Nell, following the accident yesterday. To knock on her door on his way to clean Mrs Watson’s windows: what could be more natural? Jim was certain Nell was fine. She had been level-headed and useful during the event and it was impossible to imagine her falling to pieces afterwards; but his heart wouldn’t stop nagging him to make sure. Not that he needed much persuasion. It was only the concern about what the neighbours might say that gave him pause. He hadn’t forgotten the nudge-nudge remarks made by the friends who cleaned her house when she moved in. It would take just one clever-clogs to give her a sideways glance and say, ‘Jim came round to give you some legal advice, did he?’ and she would shut the door on him for ever.

  Word had spread quickly about his background. Mrs Watson’s Annie was evidently as skilled at sharing other people’s business as her mother. He had already been asked a couple of times for advice; he had even been asked to tell off a lad who had broken a window, rather as the local bobby might be asked to do. He didn’t mind his knowledge being sought. He just wished he had offered it sooner.

  In Wilton Lane, he parked his barrow and knocked on Nell’s door. The door opened to reveal a stranger with apples in her cheeks.

  He touched his cap. ‘Is Mrs Hibbert at
home?’ At home? Hark at him.

  ‘She’s working. You’re the window cleaner what fettles for war widows, aren’t you? I’ve seen you about.’

  ‘Yes. Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Nay. I just know I have to get my sewing finished by half-past because that’s when Clarrie Dunnett’s hour kicks off.’

  He flexed his hands inside the roomy leather gloves that became more comfortable the more he wore them, grasped the handles of his barrow and set off for Mrs Watson’s. He filled his bucket in her scullery and set to work. He did the front first, then hoisted his ladder onto his shoulder and walked along Finney Lane, round the corner and into the entry that ran between the backs of Finney Lane and Brundretts Lane.

  Mrs Watson’s gate creaked open. If she had a spot of oil, he would see to that for her. Setting his ladder against the wall, he climbed up with his bucket, hanging it on the metal hook at the top. He dunked his chamois and reached across.

  A movement in the next-door backyard caught his eye, but he affected not to see. He wasn’t the nosy type and Mrs Brent wouldn’t appreciate being watched on her way to the privy. But when he finished the window, she was still there and she didn’t appear to be doing anything, just wandering about, forearms across her stomach, elbows clasped.

  He called, ‘Mrs Brent, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, fine.’ She turned away, then swung back. ‘No, I’m not fine. It’s so stupid. I—I’m locked out.’

  ‘Not to worry. I’ll come down.’

  When he went into the entry, she hadn’t opened her gate for him and when he tried it, he found out why.

  ‘I thought you meant you were locked out of the house.’

  ‘I am.’

  So she was stuck in the backyard. Odd. ‘That’s a pickle.’ He kept his tone cheery. ‘Is the front door unlocked?’

  ‘If it isn’t, the key’s on a string through the letter box.’

  ‘Do I have your permission to enter the house?’ asked the solicitor in him.

  ‘Yes – please.’ The crack in her voice pulled at his heart.

  ‘We’ll have you inside in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

  He strode round to Finney Lane and tried the front door. It was locked.

  ‘Hey – that’s our house. What are you up to, mister?’

  He turned to face a group of children of assorted ages, headed by a thin girl with pale fair hair the colour of buttermilk. Her face was narrow and her chin jutted out in a challenging point.

  ‘Are you a burglar?’ demanded a ginger-headed lad.

  ‘Don’t be soft.’ The girl kept her gaze trained on Jim. ‘A burglar wouldn’t try the door with all of us here. Are you a spy?’

  ‘I’m the window cleaner. You can ask Mrs Watson if you like. Sorry to disappoint,’ he added as there was a collective falling of faces. ‘I know who you are. You’re Mrs Brent’s granddaughter, Posy. I’ve heard about you from Mrs Watson.’

  ‘If you want my dad, he’s out. So’s Ma, but Gran’s in.’

  ‘Your gran is stuck in the backyard. The gate’s locked and so is the back door.’

  ‘The back door’s never locked during the day unless everyone’s out.’

  ‘Well, your gran can’t budge it, so I said I’d try the front, but your dad must have locked it when he went out.’

  ‘No, he didn’t, not with Gran at home and me playing in the road.’

  ‘See for yourself.’ He stepped aside.

  ‘Maybe you didn’t use enough gusto.’ Posy tried the door. ‘It’s locked.’ She didn’t sound surprised so much as indignant. She lifted the letter box flap and pulled out a length of string … with nothing on the end of it.

  ‘It must have fell off,’ said Carrot-Top.

  Jim looked up. ‘The bedroom window is open. I’ll get my ladder.’

  There was a surge of interest behind him.

  ‘I’ll shin up and climb in,’ said Carrot-Top.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Posy. ‘It’s my house.’

  ‘And it’s my ladder and no one goes up it but me,’ said Jim. He started off down the road, only to discover how the Pied Piper felt. He turned round. ‘You lot stay here and guard the house. You can come with me,’ he said to Posy, ‘because it’s your gran we’re rescuing.’

  She trotted alongside him. He liked her. She was a sparky little thing. At the end of the entry, she ran ahead to her back gate.

  ‘Are you there, Gran? I’m going to help the man rescue you.’

  Jim retrieved his ladder from Mrs Watson’s backyard, stopping briefly when Mrs Watson popped out to tell her what was happening.

  ‘Ready, Posy?’ He settled the ladder on his shoulder. He seemed to have a dent where it fitted.

  ‘Don’t be scared, Gran,’ the child called. ‘Rescue is at hand. Keep an optimistic heart.’

  ‘You make it sound like she’s fallen down a mineshaft,’ said Jim.

  Round the front once more, he positioned the ladder. As well as the children, various adults had come to watch. He climbed up, grasped the lower edge of the window frame and pushed it upwards. It resisted, then slid up with a shudder. There was a cheer from below.

  ‘What the hell—heck’s going on here?’ came a loud, angry voice.

  Jim looked down to see a stocky man pushing his way to the front. He lifted his face, revealing a strong, square jaw and a broad brow beneath the shadow of his homburg.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He shook the ladder; Jim made a grab for the window frame. Two or three people stepped forward. A young man in his shirtsleeves took the man’s arm and tried to pull him away but was shaken off.

  Voices were raised in explanation.

  ‘It’s the window cleaner. He’s only trying to help—’

  ‘Poor Mrs Brent’s stuck in yon backyard with no way in or out—’

  ‘D’you think we’d all be stood here watching someone break in? Do us a favour.’

  Jim descended and faced the angry man.

  ‘I take it you live here?’

  ‘I certainly do and I don’t take kindly to finding a stranger on the verge of breaking in.’

  ‘He weren’t breaking in,’ said a couple of voices.

  Jim’s eyes narrowed as he assessed his opponent – yes, his opponent.

  ‘Sir, you are entitled to be surprised under the circumstances, but you are not entitled to be unreasonable. Several people have attempted to explain the situation, but since you appear not to have heard, I’ll explain again. Mrs Brent is locked in the backyard and I sought to gain access so as to let her in.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘I do say. Furthermore, Mrs Brent will say so too, since I sought her permission before I acted. My actions have been observed by Posy, Mrs Watson and, from the looks of it, by half of Finney Lane. Any attempt on your part to cast aspersions on my intentions or my integrity will be met by the strongest refutation.’

  ‘Watch it, Tanner,’ called a man’s voice. ‘He was a man of the law before the war did for him.’

  ‘Dad.’ Posy appeared at Tanner’s side. ‘We can’t get in. The key’s not on the string.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. I have it here. I took it to get a copy cut.’ He looked at Jim. ‘Stand aside.’

  Jim didn’t want to give ground to this overbearing man, but he had no option. At the same moment that he stepped aside, Tanner pushed forwards as if to shove him out of the way. Brute. Tanner unlocked the door. He went inside and turned. Everything in his manner, in the set of his shoulders, in his deliberately casual actions, said this was a fag and a nuisance: Jim’s senses spiked.

  ‘Posy!’ Tanner’s voice was unnecessarily loud. ‘Inside.’ He didn’t even look at her. You wouldn’t speak to your dog like that.

  Posy scuttled to obey. Her father’s gaze swept over the onlookers.

  ‘Thank you all for your concern. I’ll see to my mother-in-law now.’

  He swung the door shut in Jim’s face.

/>   What a mess today was. Nell should have worked at Ingleby’s until one and had made arrangements accordingly with Annie; but because of yesterday’s events, she had ended up owing time in the sewing department. Annie couldn’t keep the children into the afternoon, so Nell had had to dash down the road yesterday evening to prevail upon Mrs Clancy’s good nature. Dear Mrs Clancy had cheerfully agreed to take over after Annie’s stint. Farming her children out to two minders in one day made Nell feel like a bad mother, and an even worse one when Alf, the moment they came home from Mrs Clancy’s, clamoured to have the bathtub out in the backyard so they could play seasides.

  ‘I’m sorry, pie-can, but we have a job to do – all three of us.’

  ‘This isn’t job time now. It’s playtime.’

  Nell sat at the table, lifting Cassie onto her knee. The normally wriggly child was happy to be held: had she spent the day missing her mummy? Nell swallowed another dose of bad mother medicine.

  ‘I wish it could be playtime, but …’ She had hoped they would never need to know, but after failing to find Violet yesterday evening, she had to tell them. ‘Something has happened to Violet. She’s not hurt, but she’s got lost, so we have to find her.’

  ‘Vi’let.’ Cassie nestled her head under Nell’s chin. ‘Vi’let.’

  Alf frowned. ‘If she’s lost, how do you know she’s not hurt?’

  Crikey. ‘I don’t, not for certain; but cats are clever at looking after themselves, so we have to tell ourselves she’s all right.’

  ‘Even though she might not be.’

  ‘If we’re going to do a proper search, we need clear heads. It’s no use getting upset about something bad that might not have happened. Can you do that?’

  He nodded. ‘How did she get lost?’

  Because a horrible flaming brute chucked her out of the house, that’s how. ‘Brick shithouse,’ murmured Doug in her head. Mr Brick Shithouse versus defenceless cat: no contest.

  ‘Maybe she went out to play and wandered too far because she was having so much fun.’

  ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Giving Cassie one last squeeze, Nell set her down. Cassie wobbled and clung. Nell’s heart turned over, but then Cassie sprang to life, detaching herself and making for the door. Nell couldn’t help smiling. She had never been as fit in her life as she had since she started running round after Cassie.