And that was yet another thing: the caramels. Now Posy wasn’t allowed to go to Gran’s, there were no more caramels. It had been a wonderful plan while it had worked … which made it sound as if it had worked for months when really it had hardly happened at all.
Poor Gran. She had done her best, but nothing helped. There were no caramels and there was still Gerald – or Gerald the Second. Posy had been the first to notice Gerald’s disappearance. She hadn’t said a word, because of getting Gran into trouble. Then Dad saw. He froze and his face darkened. He looked at her and she had nearly wet her knickers in pure terror, but he must have known she would never dare hide Gerald.
Would he storm round to Wilton Lane and give Gran what for? But he never said a word and in due course, a new stair rod appeared. With hatred and curiosity vying for position inside her, Posy waited to see what its name would be, but Dad called it Gerald, as if the real Gerald had never vanished.
And today was Saturday; and this afternoon she would get a clobbering.
The Finney Lane kids were preparing for the Paris Olympics by running races up and down the road.
‘What about doing the long jump down the entry?’ suggested Lyddie.
Posy and Lyddie each slung an arm around the other’s shoulders and they walked round, singing, ‘Hands in the band for long jump, hands in the band for long jump …’ Others joined on before they broke the line and ran round to the entry.
Some boys from Brundretts Lane were further along, clustered together, laughing but not in a nice way.
‘Ignore them,’ said Lyddie. ‘We’ll do our long jump up here.’
Horace used a twig to draw a line across the path. ‘That’s where you jump from.’ He walked back and drew another line. ‘Here’s where you start running. I’ll be umpire and mark where everyone lands.’
Posy joined the line waiting to jump, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the Brundretts Lane lads. They were up to summat. You could always tell, even though they were facing the other way. A couple of them broke away and picked up stones. What was going on? Amidst more laughter, they started chucking the stones, but Posy couldn’t see who their victim was. All at once the boys broke ranks and, with yells and whoops, started running. Posy bounced on her toes, anxious to see what was happening. Would their victim escape? Bullies!
A small black blur leapt onto Mrs Watson’s back wall and the hairs on the back of Posy’s neck stiffened. Violet!
She darted forwards, cinders sliding beneath her feet. ‘They’re attacking our cat! Come on!’
Leading the charge, Posy belted down the entry. The Brundretts boys were bigger, but they were outnumbered. With laughter and taunts, they ran away, but in an easy, loping way to show they weren’t scared.
Posy skidded to a halt where Violet had gone over the wall. She opened the gate and went in. Violet was on the wall between here and Posy’s house, her gooseberry-green eyes enormous as the children burst into Mrs Watson’s backyard, then she jumped down the other side. The children surged back into the entry. Posy called, ‘Be quiet! You’ll scare her,’ but they were making too much noise to hear. It was the locked gate that stopped them. Dad had never unlocked it. He said Mrs Hibbert might come back and he wasn’t having her trespassing on his property.
‘I can get over the gate dead easy,’ bragged Jimmy. ‘Give us a bunk up, Horace.’
‘No,’ said Posy. Dad would go mad if hordes of children appeared. ‘You boys, stop here and watch for Violet. Maggie and Joan, go round the front and ask my Ma to look in’t back. Me and Lyddie will run to Wilton Lane.’
It was a good job they had done their Olympics training. She and Lyddie hared off, arriving breathless on Gran’s doorstep. They hammered on the door, surging forwards as Mrs Hibbert opened it, looking vexed at the racket.
‘It’s Violet,’ cried Posy. ‘She’s in our backyard. Some boys were throwing stones.’
Mrs Hibbert didn’t need telling twice. She shouted over her shoulder, ‘Aunt Leonie!’
Aunt Leonie! Posy banked that to think about later.
‘Violet’s in Finney Lane.’ And Mrs Hibbert ran off.
Gran appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Violet? What’s happened, Posy?’
‘She’s in our backyard. Are you coming, Gran? Lyddie will mind the children.’ Posy shoved her friend over the threshold. ‘Come on, Gran.’
‘Wait – I’ve got caramels—’
‘We need to go now,’ Posy insisted. Who cared about caramels? She tugged Gran outside, almost dancing round her in frustration at her slower pace as they returned to Finney Lane.
There was no sign of Mrs Hibbert, but Maggie and Joan ran to meet them.
‘Your ma said the cat weren’t in’t back; and when Mrs Hibbert knocked, your dad told her to sling her hook.’
‘Where is she now?’ asked Gran.
‘Up the entry.’
Gran knocked and Dad opened the door.
‘Not you as well, Mother-in-law. As I’ve already told your Nell, the cat is long gone.’
‘I’d like to see for myself, if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind, as it happens. I mind very much that you’re publicly doubting my honesty. Not content with snuggling up to the Hibbert woman and casting aside your own daughter—’
Gran crumpled. ‘Edmund! Please, not in front of Posy.’
His head swivelled and his gaze bore into Posy. ‘Inside.’
A chill speared through her stomach. She wanted to say goodbye to Gran. It would be rude not to, but with the look on Dad’s face—
Posy went in. The door clicked shut behind her, a tiny click but a sound of doom all the same. She wanted to keep walking, down the hall, through the kitchen and the scullery, out the door. Walk walk walk. Keep going. Leave trouble behind. Don’t get blamed.
‘Posy.’
She turned round. You had to do as Dad said.
‘You went to Gran’s house.’
He strode past her into the parlour, his bulk brushing against her, making her stumble.
‘Bring Gerald.’
One thing Jim would be glad to return to when he resumed his old life was indoor plumbing. A daily strip-wash did the job, but not with any sense of luxury, especially in winter. On Wednesdays, Mrs Jeffrey went next door for an evening with Pom while he had a bath in front of the kitchen fireplace; and on Saturdays after work he took his wash things to the public baths.
He strode along Beech Road with his towel rolled under his arm, heading for home. Sparrows chirped in the privet that surrounded the rec and the fresh aroma of newly mown grass filled the air. He felt cautiously hopeful. If Nell could establish herself as sewing tutor to the middle-class, this would bring her a step closer to him socially … wouldn’t it?
He had some of Miss Quinn’s postcards, which he planned to give to Patsy tomorrow in case any of her friends had sewing machines.
‘How come you’re handing these out?’ Patsy would ask. ‘What’s this Mrs Hibbert to you?’
‘She’s someone I met on my window-cleaning travels,’ he planned to say, followed by a brief outline of Nell’s circumstances; and that would tactfully introduce the idea of Nell into the family.
He turned into the path at the side of the farm and there she was, coming towards him. His heart gave a bump of delight. Surprise too.
‘I was thinking of you,’ he called.
Her face was pale, her expression unreadable.
He walked up to her, anxiety sharpening his voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You said—you offered help.’
Gratification warmed him. ‘Come to the cottage.’
‘Can we talk privately?’
‘There’s a patch of garden in the front.’
They walked up the path. Mrs Jeffrey’s kitchen door stood open; she was across the path in the vegetable patch, picking runner beans from a wigwam smothered in red flowers and dainty but vigorous tendrils.
She smiled at Nell. ‘You found him, then?’<
br />
‘Mrs Hibbert needs a spot of business advice,’ said Jim. ‘We’ll sit in the front garden.’ To Nell, he said, ‘I’ll pop my things upstairs.’
He deposited his towel and washbag in his room and ran down again. Picking up a folding chair from behind the back door, he ushered her round the side of the cottage into the small, cheerful garden, if ‘garden’ was the right word for something not much bigger than a handkerchief. It could do with tidying up and cutting back, but not too much. He liked the casual abundance. He set the chair down for Nell in the ankle-deep grass in front of a plant with plentiful tall stems adorned with small trumpets the colour of apple blossom. If he had hoped to please her, she didn’t notice, any more than she seemed to notice Pom’s marguerites nodding next door.
He leant against the hip-high garden wall, crossed his ankles and folded his arms.
‘Is there a problem at Ingleby’s?’
‘No – well, yes, but that’s not why I’m here.’ Her shoulders sagged and she let out a sigh that sounded almost painful. ‘I’ve been summoned to appear at the magistrates’ court.’
Ankles and arms uncrossed of their own accord and he stood upright. ‘Why?’
‘A complaint has been made against me.’
‘By Ingleby’s?’ Preposterous.
‘By …’ She covered her mouth with her hand, then let it drop uselessly to her lap. Rising, she turned her back to him, then swung round again, her glance briefly brushing across his. ‘By my husband.’
‘Your husband!’
A dozen conversations replayed in his head. Alf’s voice: ‘My daddy was buried with ham.’
Her lips pressed together so tightly they had gone white. Jim leant against the wall again. He rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn’t breathe.
‘I thought you were a widow.’
‘Everyone thinks I’m a widow.’
Half a dozen bees concentrated their efforts on the fuzzy purple flowers of the lavender bush.
‘If you want my help, you’ll have to be more forthcoming.’ He spoke more crisply than he had intended. Intended? He didn’t know what he intended, not now she was married. My daddy was buried with ham, but I’m not old enough to remember. No wonder. There had never been a funeral.
‘He’s a bigamist. I found out about the other wife and I left him.’ She lifted her chin and there was defiance in her eyes. ‘Do you blame me?’
Shock rolled through him. ‘A bigamist? Are you certain?’
‘Oh aye. I saw his other son. Sandy hair and blue eyes: does that remind you of anyone? So I ran away. I brought Alf here and made a new life; Cassie was born a few months later.’
‘How did Mr Hibbert find you?’
‘Through that newspaper article.’
‘What does your husband want?’
‘Don’t call him that! He isn’t my husband.’
‘If he married you first and the other woman second, then he is your husband. I repeat: what does he want?’
‘He turned up a fortnight ago, demanding money. The article made me sound successful. He wanted my savings.’
‘Is the magistrates’ hearing to do with money?’
‘I don’t know. It just said I have to answer his complaint. Here, read it for yourself.’ She pulled out a letter.
He read it, then continued staring at it. She was married. She had captured his heart and she was married. She had let him believe she was a widow. She had let everyone believe it, including her children.
‘Can you help me?’ she asked.
And, God help him, he didn’t want to. He wanted her to go away and leave him to get to grips with what she had done and to nurse his injured heart. But he cared about her and nothing could change that. Of course he would help. But … but he wouldn’t hope any more. He would help her because she was in a bad situation and the original fault wasn’t hers.
But the ensuing fault was hers. The lies about being widowed.
Put that aside. Be professional. Treat her as a client. That was all she could ever be from now on: a client.
‘I’ll accompany you to court and represent you. I also need your permission to confide—’
‘You can’t tell anyone,’ she cried.
‘I was going to say I’ll confide in an old colleague, but if you imagine this is going to remain a private matter, I think you’ll be disappointed.’
She sank onto the chair. The colour had abandoned her face, leaving a grey tinge. That was the despair, but he couldn’t afford to soften.
‘Do you have a copy of your marriage certificate?’
‘I left it behind when I ran away.’
‘Where did you live? I’ll write to the registrar to request a copy, and also a copy of your husband’s second marriage certificate. Before you leave, you must furnish me with all the relevant information, names, dates, addresses.’
‘I don’t know when he married … her.’
‘I’ll ask for a search to be done for the second certificate.’
‘Why do you need it?’ she asked.
‘To prove the bigamy. Whatever your husband’s complaint against you, this is going to put the court on your side, but we have to prove it.’
‘I see.’
While he thought it through, he placed his hand over the lower part of his face, drawing his fingers and thumb together, pushing in his cheeks and squeezing his mouth. Then, with a sigh, he let his hand drop. ‘Unfortunately, there isn’t time for us to receive the certificates before you have to appear in court, especially as there has to be a search for the second set of marriage lines.’
‘Will that matter?’
‘It won’t stop me accusing your husband of bigamy, if that’s what you mean. That’s what I don’t understand. He must know that you’ll counter any complaint by revealing his bigamy.’
‘I told him that when he demanded my savings.’
‘Yet here he is, taking you to court. He must believe he has good reason. Is there anything you have neglected to tell me?’
‘Of course not.’
His eyebrows climbed up his forehead. ‘Of course not? After two years of pretending to be a widow, I don’t think you’re in a position to be indignant.’
Her glare collapsed into bewildered blinking. Jim scrubbed his face with his hands.
‘I apologise. That was uncalled for.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I’m sure you won’t be the only one to throw it in my face.’
Quietly he asked, ‘Is there anything you can think of to explain this summons?’
‘No … honestly.’
He nodded. He felt stunned, but he had to ignore that. ‘If you’ll excuse me a minute, I’ll fetch a pen and paper and you can give me the details I require.’
When she had written them down, he took the sheet from her without looking at her, then he stepped back and waved her ahead of him out of the garden. She walked away down the path to Beech Road. He didn’t watch her go. He went upstairs into his small sitting room. He had a schoolmaster’s desk, a battered old piece with a lift-up lid. He couldn’t manage without a desk and this one had seemed in keeping with Mrs Jeffrey’s humble home.
He lifted the lid, took Miss Quinn’s postcards from the shelf above and placed them inside the desk, right at the back under a couple of books.
Then he closed the lid and went downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nell stood outside the magistrates’ court. Jim had offered to call for her, but she had refused. No one in Wilton Lane knew where she was and she wanted it to stay that way. Being exposed as a bigamist would put paid to Stan’s scheme, whatever it was, and no one else need ever know.
A black motor car drew up and Jim climbed out. He was dressed in a well-made suit and the discreet gleam at his collar was undoubtedly repeated at his cuffs. How handsome he looked. Nell felt warm inside, but the warmth was quickly swamped by a chill as his smart appearance brought home to her the seriousness of her situation.
He leant across t
o pay the driver, then joined her, awarding her an approving glance. She was wearing her smart black work dress with her forest-green jacket. She had taken the precaution of substituting her white collar and cuffs with cream, so her dress looked less of a workwear garment.
‘I thought I’d try it out,’ she had told Leonie – another lie to add to the list.
‘How are you?’ Jim asked. ‘Nervous?’
She waited for him to add, There’s no need, but he didn’t.
‘When we tell the court about Stan’s bigamy—’ she began.
‘Let’s hope so.’ He opened the door for her. ‘We won’t be in court as such. I’ve managed to get the matter heard in one of the rooms.’
‘That’s good.’
‘The price we pay is that certain formalities have been set aside.’
She let out a breath. ‘Better and better.’
‘One of which is that I haven’t been informed of the nature of your husband’s complaint.’
‘All I care about is the privacy.’
‘The room will still be open to the public.’
‘Who will want to see? Nosy parkers who come here to gloat over the burglars and vagrants won’t care. They’ll want to see the good stuff in the courtroom.’
‘Or the attempt at privacy could make your matter more intriguing. I’m sorry, but it’s my duty to warn you.’
She said lightly, ‘You aren’t being very reassuring.’
‘I should have thought you would find it reassuring to be told what to expect. Would you prefer me to pretend you have nothing to worry about?’
She felt a sting of vexation, underneath which swished something scary. She wasn’t in the company of Jim Franks any longer. It was more than the absence of the cloth cap and the working man’s boots. Gone was the good-hearted friend who would do anything for anyone, replaced by a keen-eyed, superbly tailored professional gentleman. She had glimpsed James Franks the solicitor that time in her kitchen when he had advised Leonie. Now she was seeing the real thing.
He took her across the lofty foyer, their footsteps ringing on the tiled floor. There was a wide staircase with shallow treads. At the top, Jim escorted her along a couple of door-lined corridors.
A Respectable Woman Page 27