A Respectable Woman

by Susanna Bavin

  Stan didn’t look impressed. What did he expect? He should be ruddy impressed. She had fed, clothed and housed his children for two years on a woman’s wage.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Her voice was dull. So was her heartbeat, and her brain. She had to pull herself together. Stan had the upper hand, taking her by surprise and getting into her house. She mustn’t let him win.

  Win? Win what?

  ‘There was a newspaper article,’ he said. ‘It even said which road you lived in – well, the one you used to live in.’

  ‘What do you want?’ No: the question gave him control. She had to fight back. Something stirred in her blood. ‘Does your other wife know you’re here? Did you tell Mrs Vicarage Lane you were coming?’ Or was she Mrs Lark Street now? Had he moved her into their old house?

  A dull flush crept into his face. His hands fisted, then loosened. ‘If I can explain—’

  She surged to her feet. ‘If? That’s a bloody big if. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear about her and them, your other children, your other family. Weren’t we enough, me and Alf? Even if you couldn’t keep it in your trousers, even if I weren’t enough … Your own boy, your own son: wasn’t he enough?’

  She grabbed the shears off the shelf, her fist closing round the handles, knuckles hard and white. The blades glinted. Stan’s mouth fell open. He retreated a step, holding up his hands.

  ‘Nay, lass, nay, Nell. This in’t like you.’

  ‘Isn’t it? What am I like? Cleaning the pub: is that me? Swilling out stinking urinals: is that me? While she sits indoors like Lady Muck.’

  ‘Don’t call her that. She has a name—’

  ‘Don’t you dare say it – unless you want your ear sliced off with these scissors, and don’t kid yourself I wouldn’t. You have no idea what I’m capable of. What I’ve gone through these past two years, what I’ve done, what I’ve achieved – you know nowt about me. Nowt!’

  ‘I know what a success you’ve made of yourself. I read that piece in’t paper, remember.’

  A thud of resentment stiffened her body. ‘How did you get hold of it?’

  He shrugged. ‘One of Mother’s friends. Her son is a porter at the station. Someone came on the train from Manchester and left it on’t seat. He gave it to his mum and she saw the bit about you and …’

  Oh, perfect. So Olive Hibbert had read it an’ all.

  Stan took a piece of newspaper from his pocket. He unfolded it and ran his gaze over it. ‘Aye, it makes interesting reading.’

  Her hands itched to snatch it from him, but she couldn’t bear him to know she hadn’t read it.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ said Stan, ‘Mother’s reet impressed. She’s never took to—’

  ‘Don’t say her name, not in front of me. I mean it.’

  ‘Anyroad, Mother’s never got along with … She’s always took your side.’

  Well, that was a turn-up. Not that she wanted Olive Hibbert’s support. Mrs Hibbert had had plenty of chances to make her feel loved and wanted when she lived in Annerby; but once she had married Stan, Mrs Hibbert’s goodwill had soured.

  ‘In fact,’ said Stan, ‘she even used this newspaper piece to taunt—’

  Nell crashed the shears onto the shelf. ‘Taunt who? Your fancy woman? Your tart? Your bit on’t side? Except she wasn’t on the side, was she? She was all fixed up in a nice little cottage in Vicarage Lane. She could spend all flaming day polishing her horse-brasses while some of us went out cleaning urinals.’

  ‘Will you stop going on about urinals? It in’t ladylike.’

  ‘It were ladylike enough for me to clean them when we needed the money. And what did we need the money for? Remind me. Oh, I know: to support that female in Vicarage Lane, her and her ruddy front door.’

  ‘Her what?’

  ‘You heard. I know how you used our paint on her front door, leaving my back gate peeling.’

  ‘Well, if that’s all you care about—’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s just easier to think of that than – than those children. Oh, Stan, how could you? You had two of us expecting at the same time, and not just the once neither. Can you imagine how I felt? I’ll never forgive you. Never.’

  He pulled himself up straight, lifting his brows and tilting his head, for all the world like a man who had been on the receiving end of an unreasonable onslaught but had taken it on the chin, like the good fellow he was. Nell clenched her fists.

  ‘Then you’ll be glad to see the back of me, I reckon,’ he said.

  ‘Too bloody right I will. Too bloody sodding right.’

  Her language made him jerk his head back, but his shock was quickly replaced by a set jaw and a steady eye. ‘You want rid of me and I’ll go gladly, but not until you’ve heard why I’ve come.’

  ‘I don’t care why you’ve come. All I care about is that you go – and don’t come back.’

  ‘Oh, I’m going – but I want money off you first.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You’re doing well for yourself. A sewing machine, a job, extra work on’t side. You’re bringing in enough to rent a house: how many women on their own can say that? I want your savings.’

  Nell gasped. His brass-necked cheek poured down her throat into her lungs, threatening to choke her.

  ‘You’ll soon build up more,’ said Stan. ‘You always were a grafter.’

  ‘You’ll get nowt from me.’ In her head she was shouting from the rooftops, but all that crept out of her mouth was a whisper.

  ‘What’s your reputation worth? I’d say it’s worth your savings. You can keep your savings or you can keep your good name, but not both. That shop you work for, and them ladies you teach: how pleased will they be to employ a runaway wife? Your neighbours won’t be best pleased neither. Want to be the talk of the wash house, do you?’

  Nell flinched. ‘If you dare …’ Her eyes were brimming and she had to wipe her nose. God, how pathetic. She pulled herself up as tall and straight as she could. She had walked out on this man. She had made a life for herself and her children. She wouldn’t back down now. ‘Having two wives is against the law. You’ve got comfortable with your bigamy. Your neighbours in Annerby have chosen to look the other way, so you think you’ve got away with it. Your mother disapproves, but she hasn’t done owt about it. But I will. I’m known as a respectable widow here. You do anything to damage my reputation and I’ll get you sent to prison.’ She marched past him and threw the door open. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’

  He walked out – no, he stopped right beside her in the doorway. She felt hemmed in, but she wouldn’t duck away. If he touched her, if he laid one finger on her, she would scream the place down.

  He was going to speak. Well, let him have the last word, for all the good it would do him. She didn’t care. She just wanted him gone.

  ‘You think it’s so simple.’

  She looked into his face. How had she ever loved this man? ‘Things are simple when you’re respectable. You just do the right thing.’

  He bent his head closer. ‘Well, in that case, you’ve done the wrong thing. The right thing would have been to give me the money. I hope for both our sakes you don’t live to regret it.’

  Jim did a deal with old Mr Pomeroy in the cottage next door. He couldn’t use his vegetables as trade because Pom’s vegetable patch was less of a patch and more of a flourishing garden; but old Pom was fond of his pipe, so Jim had purchased a few ounces of Golden Virginia.

  ‘You’re a gentleman,’ said Pom, accepting it.

  ‘And you’re a fine gardener. I hope you’ll give me some of those tall daisy plants in exchange.’

  ‘Marguerites,’ said Pom. ‘You didn’t need to give me the baccy to have ’em. Not that you’re getting it back.’ He clutched the tin to his chest with a mischievous gummy grin.

  Jim used his pen-knife to cut some marguerites, fastening them into a bunch with a piece of twine, wondering that such a simple offering should please him so much.
Then he dug out Tuesday’s Evening News and set off.

  A bunch of daisies and an out-of-date newspaper. Roberta would have chewed his head off.

  With a light heart, he strode through the evening streets in the direction of Wilton Lane. Would Nell realise that bringing the newspaper was the act of a man desperate to see her? Or would she think it just a neighbourly gesture?

  He wanted to speak out. He wanted her to see his interest. And yet he couldn’t be interested in her. He mustn’t. They were poles apart socially, and it wasn’t as though he was going to stay in this lower-class life indefinitely. He knew he had recovered, as much as any man could, from his experiences and the time was approaching for him to resume his old life and social position.

  But how could he leave Nell Hibbert behind?

  He knocked on her door. He sucked in his cheeks, pulling his smile under control. God, he’d got it bad. As the door opened and he saw her, he couldn’t help letting his smile widen – until he caught the barely controlled anger in her face.

  ‘Have I called at an inconvenient time?’

  ‘No. I thought you were someone else.’

  Edmund Tanner? Had there been more trouble?

  ‘I come bearing gifts. Flowers for Mrs Brent in case she’s in need of cheering up, and the paper with the piece that mentions you. I can hand them over and go away or …’ Please, please.

  ‘Come in. Aunt Leonie will love the flowers and you ought to give them to her yourself. I’ll be interested to read that article and see what caused all the trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  She shrugged it off, calling, ‘Aunt Leonie, you’ve got a gentleman caller bringing you flowers.’

  Mrs Brent looked round, puzzled and then transparently pleased as he entered the kitchen.

  ‘How lovely. Are those for me?’

  He presented them to her, wishing a fabulous bouquet of roses and baby’s breath had been appropriate, though her delight couldn’t have been any greater had he offered her the florist’s finest.

  ‘To bring a smile to your face,’ he said.

  ‘They’ve certainly done that. Look, children.’

  Alf’s eyes widened. ‘Giant daisies. Are they magic?’

  ‘No, they’re just giant daisies,’ said Jim, ‘but think of the size of the daisy chain.’

  ‘Look at this, Aunt Leonie.’ Nell held up the newspaper.

  Mrs Brent’s breath caught. ‘Let me see what—’

  ‘We’ll read it later,’ said Nell. ‘For now, let’s enjoy your flowers.’

  ‘They’re marguerites,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘Can you say marguerite, Cassie? Mar-guer-ite.’

  ‘Mar-geet.’ Cassie reached for a flower head.

  Jim settled into the family atmosphere. ‘I have a niece called Mar-geet.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Alf. ‘Even though Mar-geet is a made-up word because Cassie can’t say mar-guer-ite.’

  ‘My mistake. She’s Marguerite. Marguerite is a girl’s name as well as a flower, the same as Daisy.’

  ‘Plenty of flowers are girls’ names,’ said Nell.

  Alf’s face screwed up thoughtfully. ‘Is there a Cassie flower?’

  ‘If there isn’t,’ said Jim, ‘there jolly well ought to be.’ He scooped up the little girl, lifting her high in the air, confident she would laugh out loud. He settled her on his hip; it felt right and comfortable to do so. He had loved holding his nieces when they were tiny – when he was allowed to. Patsy had teased him that it wasn’t the done thing to elbow Nanny out of the way: a joke, but a warning as well.

  Had he overstepped the mark here? He blew a raspberry on the child’s forehead and popped her on her feet. She grabbed his trouser leg for support, then waddled off.

  ‘No, you don’t, miss.’ Nell swung her up into her arms. ‘It’s way past your bedtime.’

  ‘We’re running late because of having a visitor – not you, Jim,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘Earlier on.’

  ‘Not in front of the children.’ Nell looked off into space, as if this would prevent the children from hearing.

  ‘I don’t see why not, but you know best.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Nell shut her eyes for a moment. ‘Sorry to snap, but I’ve already told you, I don’t want certain people to know.’

  ‘Don’t want certain people to know what?’ asked Alf.

  Nell threw Mrs Brent an exasperated look.

  Jim stepped in. ‘That I’m looking for Violet this evening.’

  ‘You, young man, are going to have a wash and go to bed,’ said Nell. ‘Cassie too. Fancy her being up at this hour. Disgraceful!’ But she said it in a way that made the children laugh. ‘Aunt Leonie, could you see them to bed and we’ll look for Violet.’

  Jim’s heart leapt. Courting Roberta had involved elegant dinners and trips to the theatre and here he was, grateful to look for a lost cat.

  Leaving her to say goodnight to the children, Jim waited outside. Who had come visiting to cause such a stir? Someone Nell didn’t want the children knowing about; and yet Mrs Brent clearly didn’t understand the fuss. He wanted to ask, to offer help, if needed. He wanted to trounce the fellow who had ruffled Nell’s calm. But if she was in the mood to snap at the woman she loved enough to adopt as her aunt, she would undoubtedly bite the head off a mere window cleaner if he dared pry.

  She joined him outside.

  ‘Shall we start in Finney Lane?’ he suggested.

  She fell in step beside him. ‘Violet’s been gone a fortnight now.’

  ‘Perhaps this will be our lucky evening. Did Mr Tanner return Mrs Brent’s belongings?’

  ‘Oh, that. I’m sorry; I’m a bit distracted today.’

  Should he? Shouldn’t he? ‘The visitor you mentioned?’

  ‘Yes; and no, we haven’t got Aunt Leonie’s things back. I’m not sure we will, the way things stand at the moment.’ She spoke with a note of finality.

  Down Finney Lane, there was a tabby on a window ledge and a black cat with white socks lazing on a doorstep, but no little black cat. They turned the corner to try the entry.

  ‘I hope it was all right that I picked up Cassie and flew her around,’ said Jim.

  ‘She loved it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean whether she minded; I meant whether you did. I don’t want to overstep the mark.’

  ‘I didn’t mind,’ said Nell, ‘or I’d have said. The children like you. You’re a friend of the family. Like now, looking for Violet.’

  He couldn’t contain it any longer. He had to tell her. He had to pour out his hopes and promises. It ought to be done somewhere appropriate, somewhere romantic, somewhere as beautiful as she deserved, but so what? Here and now, social differences be damned. Here and now, he could wait no longer. With brick walls and wooden gates on either side, he stopped and turned to her. The cinder path crackled beneath his boots. It was a warm evening. The entry was half in sun, half in shade. She stood in the shade, tall and slender. With the evening sun in his eyes, he couldn’t see her face, couldn’t read her expression, her eyes.

  But he didn’t need to read her eyes. If he could look into them, there would be no spark of hope or interest, no answering glow. The words died in his throat. He was a fool to think they could ever be spoken.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Serves her right, getting caught out,’ Nell heard a voice say as she pushed open the door to the women’s lavatories. She caught the door before it could open further and give her away. ‘If someone gave me a jammy job like that, I wouldn’t take advantage.’

  She closed the door and scurried away, giving the gossipers time to disappear before she returned to the Ladies’ to get changed. Yesterday Miss Collier had had her dusting various cupboards, so this morning she had brought an old skirt and blouse with her, and a headscarf to cover her hair. The look on Miss Collier’s face when she said she was going to get changed!

  Soon she was busy giving the sewing department’s stockroom a severe bottoming. If Miss Collier imagined this was a
form of punishment, she was sorely mistaken. Bashing about with mops and brooms was precisely what she needed to let off steam. Now that she had emerged from the fog of shock, she was furious with Stan. How dare he demand money? How dare he appear on her doorstep? She was angry with Walter Marsden too, for pouring personal details into that article. It had been more about her than about the injured girl. Mrs Nell Hibbert of Finney Lane, Chorlton-cum-Hardy, indeed!

  Jim had been right: the article was nothing if not flattering, and it was doubly flattering to know that dear Leonie, the aunt of her heart, was the one to have made these remarks about her, only she hadn’t had a chance to say so last night. Leonie was preoccupied with the words that had upset the Tanners.

  ‘I didn’t call you a daughter. See?’ But triumph was quickly replaced by a weighty sigh of doubt. ‘But I did call you my Nell. I wish that young man hadn’t written that.’

  ‘I wish he hadn’t written any of it.’

  ‘I should never have spoken so freely. Look at the trouble it’s caused. I wonder what the next thing will be. Things always happen in threes. There’s your trouble at Ingleby’s and mine with Hilda. I wonder what the third will be.’

  Nell had stayed up half the night, thinking about the third thing: Stan.

  Anger built up inside her now and she had to leave the stockroom and march away, because if she stayed, she would scoop everything off the shelves onto the floor and jump on it. There were so many thoughts crashing around in her head, she didn’t know where to start. Oh, heck. She couldn’t afford to be away from her work. She was in enough hot water already.

  Turning on her heel, she bumped into a woman emerging from a back room. Thirties, reddish hair, a smattering of freckles. Nell knew her – no, she didn’t – yes, she did.