A Respectable Woman

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘Alf hates me,’ she whispered.

  ‘He loves you. He’ll come round. Children are like that.’ Leonie sat down. ‘Well, the little ’uns are. The grown-up ones …’

  ‘You mean Hilda? Is that where you went?’

  ‘I told Edmund I won’t give in to his blackmail.’

  ‘Good for you. You stood up for what’s right.’

  A gleam of defiance appeared in Leonie’s eyes. ‘I were magnificent. I told my son-in-law he could stick his blackmail where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  ‘You never,’ said Nell.

  ‘I were magnificent.’ Leonie’s shoulders drooped. ‘But I’m still not back together with Hilda.’

  Walking Alf to school was one of the joys of Nell’s life, but this morning he wouldn’t let her.

  ‘Normally I’d say to give him a smack and make him do as he’s told,’ said Leonie, ‘but today I’ll take him. A day at school is what he needs. It’ll get him back to normal.’

  Nell stood on the step to see them off. Alf wouldn’t kiss her; he didn’t even wave from the corner when Leonie did. The palms of Nell’s hands felt clammy. What had she done? She gave Cassie a saucepan and wooden spoon to play with while she washed up, then tried to give Cassie her attention until Leonie arrived home, but her mind was churning. Alf. Annerby. Stan. The trial. It wasn’t a trial, but that was how it had felt. Stan’s mother wanting to welcome her back – really? She couldn’t go back, yet how could she not if Stan took the children? Why hadn’t he told her why he wanted her savings? If he had, would she have handed them over or would she have told him to get lost? Would she have stood up for what was right, like Leonie? Aye, and ended up suffering the consequences.

  When Leonie returned, Nell rushed to meet her.

  ‘He didn’t repent at the school gates, if that’s what you’re hoping,’ said Leonie. ‘The best thing you can do is keep busy.’

  Leaving Cassie in Leonie’s care, ‘helping’ her donkey-stone the step, Nell got ready in the front room. She had two new pupils coming at half-ten, friends of Annie, and this afternoon she was due at Ingleby’s. Would Alf be upset when he came home from school and she wasn’t here?

  ‘Nell,’ Leonie called.

  Outside the open front door, Leonie was sitting on her heels, donkey-stone in hand, while Cassie made squiggles with her own sliver of donkey-stone in a corner of the step. Beside Leonie stood a middle-aged woman, plainly dressed, but Nell recognised good dressmaking when she saw it.

  ‘Here’s a new pupil for you,’ said Leonie.

  ‘Mrs Hibbert?’ said the stranger. ‘I’m Miss Neville. I saw your postcard in the newsagent’s window. I’m a dressmaker. I’ve got an ancient sewing machine and I’d like to try out yours to see if it’s worth getting an up-to-date one. Could I book a couple of sessions?’

  ‘Come in and I’ll look in the diary.’

  Miss Neville hopped across the wet step and Nell showed her into the front room.

  ‘If you don’t get your own machine, you could hire mine. We could work out a suitable fee.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Miss Neville. ‘I have a friend in Fallowfield, who is also a dressmaker. If I like your machine, she’ll want to try it too.’

  Nell booked two sessions for Miss Neville, and later, when Annie’s friends had finished their lesson, she booked them in for more. One of them had three sisters who were all interested in home-sewing.

  ‘Your front room enterprise is expanding,’ said Leonie.

  Nell smiled, determined to look pleased, but would she still be here to build up her business?

  As soon as they sent for her, Nell knew. She had presented herself in the sewing department promptly at quarter to one, ready for inspection. Instead, Miss Ashton approached.

  ‘Miss Moore and Miss Collier would like to see you in the office.’

  And she knew.

  She ought to feel weighed down by impending doom, but what she actually felt was a strangely offhand sensation of getting it over with. They didn’t want her any more? Fine. She needed to get home and start drumming up more business.

  More postcards in shop windows. And she could seek out more dressmakers to the genteel poor, women like Miss Neville, who still used ancient sewing machines bequeathed to them by their mothers. The chance to use a modern machine would enable them to offer a speedier service. Her mind dashed through the possibilities, unleashing a flutter of eagerness.

  Eagerness? She was about to be kicked out of a semi-regular job and the rent man wouldn’t wait while she built up her private work.

  But even so – eagerness. She could do this. She could make a success of it.

  If she was still here. If Stan hadn’t dragged her back to Annerby.

  For a child who loved to make mud pies, Cassie was a fastidious eater. As long as you cut everything up for her, you could safely leave her to get on with it. Nell gave her daughter a few words of encouragement and ruffled her fine brown hair, then tucked into the poached egg on toast Leonie had put in front of her.

  ‘How did they know?’ Leonie’s face darkened. ‘That young journalist wasn’t at court yesterday, was he?’

  ‘It hasn’t been in the paper, thank goodness. It was Miss Ashton who told tales. Her brother is out of work and he passes his time by following cases in court.’

  ‘I see. Mind you, his sister could have kept her trap shut.’

  Nell shrugged. ‘It’s to do with Ingleby’s reputation.’

  ‘Talking of reputation, Mrs O’Rourke wanted a word with me. She overheard you and Stan on the doorstep yesterday.’

  Nell’s heart dipped. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’ Leonie’s voice sharpened. ‘Don’t look so scared. You aren’t the first round here to have scandal attached. When Ivy Arthur at the sweet shop found out her husband was getting cosy with another woman, she grabbed a bottle off the shelf and pelted the pair of them with gobstoppers; and we’ve had our fair share of so-called premature babies; not to mention that family what used to live next door to Mrs Clancy.’

  ‘You told Mrs O’Rourke everything?’

  ‘I laid it on with a trowel, all about your courage in the face of heartbreak. Now get next door and open your heart to her. Before you know it, the whole neighbourhood will be on your side. I told Mrs Watson an’ all; I wanted her to hear it from me, and d’you know what? Her first question was, if you go piking off up north, what’s going to happen to me? And she offered me a home with her. Eh, you find out who your friends are, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘You get round to Mrs O’Rourke’s and I’ll fetch Alf.’

  ‘I thought I’d collect him.’

  ‘And what if he’s still in a strop? You don’t want that in public.’

  ‘Surely he’ll have calmed down by now?’ She had pictured him running to her across the playground.

  ‘Let’s not put it to the test, eh?’

  So when Leonie and Cassie set off to fetch Alf, Nell knocked next door.

  ‘I’ve come to apologise for letting you think I was a widow.’

  ‘I take it kindly that you’ve come to say so. Come on in, love.’

  Leonie had prepared the ground well. All Nell had to do was expand on a few details and soon Mrs O’Rourke was her staunch supporter.

  She excused herself so as to be in when Alf came home. She stood on the doorstep, her eyes glued to the corner. Alf appeared at a run, spinning round to look back the way he had come.

  ‘I won,’ he cried.

  Nell’s hands trembled. Bless Alf’s good nature, and bless Leonie for giving him a spot of fun. But the person who came round the corner next wasn’t Leonie. It was Stan.

  Jim mopped up the last of Mrs Jeffrey’s Irish stew. To most people, the stew might not be a patch on the breast of lamb with mint stuffing followed by orange fool, not to mention the fine wine and twelve-year-old port
that he had savoured last night at Mrs Fairbrother’s table, but to him, after a long day’s work in the fresh air, it was every bit as delicious.

  ‘Rice pudding for afters,’ said Mrs Jeffrey.

  He wished he could tell her about yesterday’s meal, but it would make her feel awkward. When he returned to his old life, would it be possible to remain on genial terms with her? He was fond of her, even felt a certain responsibility for her. It would be a shame not to see her again.

  He knew what Patsy would say. ‘James, you can’t be serious. Not the old duck in the cottage.’

  He loved Patsy dearly, but their social ideas didn’t coincide any more. Or maybe he should follow her lead. If he were to return successfully to his old life, he had to have the right attitude. It wasn’t as though Nell would be part of his life.

  He had to see her this evening. He would make it brief. No point in lingering with an unattainable woman.

  When he knocked on her door, he took a step backwards, keeping his distance. Nell answered the door, a bright smile on her face. It vanished at the sight of him.

  ‘I thought you were Alf. Stan’s got him.’

  ‘I assumed Mr Hibbert had gone back to Annerby.’

  ‘I don’t want him here. I’ll ask him when he’s leaving.’

  ‘Don’t say anything that could be construed as encouragement to find a new house.’

  ‘He wants the children to get to know him. He’s taken Alf to look for Violet. Come through.’

  ‘Aye, come in, Jim,’ called Mrs Brent. ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘I won’t, if you don’t mind. I can’t stay. I’ve come to tell you I spent yesterday evening with Mr Fairbrother and the best advice we can give is to continue living a respectable life.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Mrs Brent, ‘Nell’s been sacked.’

  ‘Ingleby’s got wind of the case,’ said Nell.

  ‘Concentrate on building up your private work. That’s all you can do. Now I must go.’

  He had never been in and out so quickly. He strode away, needing to get clear of Wilton Lane and its complications. It was time to forget Nell Hibbert. Maybe she would end up making the best of things with her husband. Why else would she permit him to take Alf out looking for the cat? Was she starting to accept what looked like being the inevitable outcome?

  He felt a pang of guilt at not having found Violet himself. But he had no reason to find her now, other than as an act of kindness to a lost animal. There was no benefit to be had in terms of gaining acceptance by the Hibbert family. Well, he had already gained it from Mrs Brent and the children. It was Nell’s acceptance he had craved. Had. But no more.

  Acceptance was a funny thing. How easily he had slid back into favour with the Fairbrothers. That had surprised him, warmed him too. It was thanks to Roberta, of course. Had she objected to his presence, the evening would have been very different. As it was, they had all enjoyed a pleasant time and he had stayed longer than he had expected to.

  Back at home, he sat at his schoolmaster’s desk, opening it to extract a sheet of paper to write his bread-and-butter letter to Mrs Fairbrother. He thanked her and made a couple of flattering but not sycophantic remarks about her hospitality; then he sat back, tapping the end of his pen against his teeth.

  … seeing you again? Or … seeing all of you again?

  Why not?

  I hope to have the pleasure of seeing all of you again—

  He pulled his hand away before he could add the full stop. Should he, shouldn’t he?

  soon.

  Other children were out playing after tea, but Posy was out for a walk with Dad and Ma. Dad liked to do that sometimes. ‘It’s good to be seen out together,’ he said. Sometimes, as he ushered them out, he said something about going out with his two best girls, which made Posy stand up straighter. How she would love to be Dad’s best girl. Then he would never again make her hold her hand over the candle to test her truthfulness and he would never again send for Gerald.

  They walked along with Dad in the middle. Up ahead, a child emerged from an entry. Alf! Was he with Gran? When Gran had come round yesterday evening, Posy had come over all optimistic, but after Gran spoke to Dad, she had marched off without so much as a goodbye.

  Later, Posy had crept downstairs to do some honest-to-goodness eavesdropping. She had heard Dad say, ‘Your mother seems to attach more importance to her precious possessions than she does to you and Posy.’

  Posy’s fists had clenched and if she had had any nails to speak of, the palms of her hands would have been torn to shreds. She had run back upstairs, determined not to hear any more, because it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Gran loved her and she loved Gran. Always and for ever.

  Alf turned to watch the person he was waiting for. Please be Gran.

  A man. As they grew closer to Alf and the stranger, Alf slipped his hand inside the man’s. Ma and the man exchanged glances. The man touched his hat to her.

  ‘Evening.’

  ‘Who’s this?’ Dad asked.

  ‘He came to our house a while back, looking for Mother because he wanted Mrs Hibbert’s address.’

  Alf beamed his head off. ‘This is my dad.’

  ‘Your dad?’ said Posy. ‘But—’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ said Alf. ‘Mum thought he didn’t love us any more, so she ran away, but she was wrong.’ He curled his lip. ‘Mum’s stupid.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nell gave Miss Preston and Miss Graham their separate lessons, coaching them in the sewing of the plumpest velvet and the slipperiest silk; then a tray of sandwiches was brought in.

  ‘Afterwards we’ll show you some of the garments we’ve brought down from the attics,’ said Miss Preston. ‘We’d value your opinion as to how we might use them. They’re hanging in the old schoolroom.’

  ‘I’d be happy to make suggestions,’ said Nell.

  ‘I’m the best judge of what suits Miss Roberta,’ said Miss Graham.

  Stroppy so-and-so. But if Miss Graham thought she was giving Nell a hard time, she should come to Wilton Lane and take lessons from Alf.

  Having only ever been inside a classroom for sixty, Nell was intrigued to see what a schoolroom for one looked like, but it was impossible to tell. It had been transformed into an Aladdin’s cave of silks and satins, velvets and furs, poplin and lace.

  ‘You can’t cut these garments down,’ she exclaimed. ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘They’re also old-fashioned. If we don’t use them, they go back into the attic.’

  Nell drifted round the room, touching with reverent fingers as she went from a golden-brown floor-length coat with enormous leg-o’-mutton sleeves; to an off-the-shoulder evening creation of shimmering forget-me-not silk with the bunched-up layers and flounces of the bustle at its biggest; to a colossal crinoline that made her think she could curtain her entire house.

  Daphne came in. ‘Good, you’re here. Miss Roberta asked me to check. She’ll be up in a minute.’ She disappeared.

  ‘Should I leave the room?’ asked Nell.

  ‘No, stay,’ said Miss Preston. ‘Miss Roberta may wish to speak to you.’

  ‘She’s Miss Fairbrother to you,’ said Miss Graham.

  Nell wasn’t sure she could bring herself to address a young girl in such a formal way, but there was no choice. The door opened and she just had time to wonder if Miss Roberta had a glamorous young stepmother before the two ladies’ maids murmured, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Roberta,’ and dipped little curtsies.

  Roberta Fairbrother had started off in her imagination as a sweet little girl with a fairy-tale bed; then she had grown into a pushy sixteen-year-old; and here stood a woman a few years older than herself. She was beautiful in a sharp-edged way, high cheekbones, crisp chin, lean arms, her slender figure highlighted rather than disguised by the smooth lines of her loose-fitting dress. And what a dress! Minute pin-tucks edging the boat-neck; narrow clinging sleeves with a sudden flare at the wrist; low-waisted straight
skirt of devastating simplicity: if that was a Mademoiselle Antoinette day dress, what must their evening gowns look like?

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Even her voice was sharp. Not nasty-sharp, but brisk. Her gaze landed on Nell. ‘This must be the person teaching you the mysteries of the sewing machine.’ A brief dazzling smile. ‘I’m anxious to see what can be done with all this old stuff.’

  ‘We’re about to discuss that,’ said Miss Graham, ‘if you would like to hear some ideas.’

  ‘Not today. I’ve come to heap more work on you, I’m afraid.’ Dazzle, dazzle. ‘There are masses of day dresses upstairs, aren’t there? I’d like to help the poor clothe their children better. If there are garments in appropriate fabrics that can be cut up, and if there are simple patterns … Goodness knows how many little dresses could be made out of a crinoline. Please find some suitable garments and I’ll make arrangements.’

  Dazzle, dazzle; and she left.

  ‘Well!’ said Miss Graham. ‘I hardly think that’s fit work for a lady’s maid. Perhaps it’s more suited to Mrs Hibbert, given her background.’

  A dig at her working-class roots? ‘If you mean—’

  ‘I was referring to your experience as a seamstress. What did you think I meant?’ She gave her version of her mistress’s smile. Not so much dazzle, dazzle as brittle, brittle.

  Nell addressed Miss Preston. ‘I’d be happy to assist. Shall we put some dates in the diary?’

  More hours, and doing what promised to be an agreeable task. This time last week, she would have been thrilled. This time last week, she had her hours at Ingleby’s. This time last week, Stan was a bigamist.

  This time last week, her son loved her.

  Oh, the temptation to tell Alf about Stan and Mrs Vicarage Lane, but of course she would never crush him like that. Let him think she had made a foolish mistake. Let him punish her. Better that than tell him about the other family. Alf was hurt now and taking it out on her; but he would come round and give her his trust again.