The Rainbow Years

by Bradshaw, Rita

  Wilbur made a sound in his throat which was somewhere between a growl and a sigh but did no more to break the silence which followed as everyone began eating again. Amy wasn’t tasting her food. She’d done it. Her legs felt trembly with reaction. And without anything like the scene she’d imagined on the way home, thanks to her Uncle Ronald.

  Exactly a week later, on Saturday morning, Amy received a letter from Mr Callendar asking her to call in and see him ‘on an urgent matter of some importance’. The letter burned a hole in the pocket of her skirt all morning as she blackleaded the range, scoured the kitchen flagstones with soda, whitened the front doorstep and bleached the pavement and went about the hundred and one jobs her aunt had lined up for her.

  She waited until she and Kitty were seated on the tram into Bishopwearmouth later in the day before she showed her the letter. ‘Do you mind if I go there first before we go to Gran’s?’ she asked when Kitty’s eyes had scanned the couple of lines of writing.

  ‘Aye, you go, lass.’ Kitty tried to hide her disquiet. ‘Mam’s asked me to pick up a pound of scrag ends and some rabbit pieces from that butcher she likes in Crowtree Road. She’s got it in her head some of the others aren’t above trying to pass off the odd dead cat and worse, and she might be right at that. You don’t see as many moggies round here as you used to. Anyway, I’ll be thereabouts when you’re done or waiting outside. And don’t worry, I’m sure it’s something and nothing.’

  Amy nodded but she felt there was something ominous about the letter and she sensed Aunt Kitty thought so too.

  There was a small group of men on the other side of the road opposite Central Station when they alighted from the tram, some leaning against the wall, some with their hands in their pockets. Amy knew without looking that they were out of work. There were men at most corners these days, caps and mufflers on and boots patched and shined. They all had the same dead look in their eyes. She always found it painful to see them but today, with the letter in her pocket, it was worse. She didn’t know what she’d do if something had happened to stop her working at Callendars, and Aunt May had already written an apologetic note to Mrs Tollett.

  The café seemed busy when she pushed open the door although the tea shop was only half full from what she could see. She was about to approach one of the waitresses when Mr Callendar himself walked through the far door at the back of the café. She watched him hesitate as he caught sight of her and then he was walking towards her, a smile on his face. ‘Miss Shawe.’ He extended his hand and shook hers, saying as he did so, ‘Thank you for responding so promptly.’

  ‘You said it was urgent, Mr Callendar.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He let go of her hand, glancing around him. ‘Let’s go to my office, it’s quieter there.’

  He was embarrassed. As Amy followed him across the café, the butterflies which had been fluttering in her stomach since she had first read the letter were now doing a fandango. Was he going to sack her before she had even started the job? What had she done wrong?

  Mr Callendar opened the door into the corridor and then stood aside for her to precede him, before leading the way up the stairs to his room on the first floor of the building.

  ‘Please be seated, Miss Shawe.’ He gestured to the chair in front of his desk and only sat down once she had. Then it seemed as though he didn’t know how to begin. He stared at her before reaching into one of the drawers in the desk and bringing out an envelope.‘Before I show you this I would like to assure you that no one else but myself has read it.’

  His words were meant to reassure Amy but they had the opposite effect. ‘What is it?’

  In reply he pushed the envelope across the desk. ‘This must have been slid under the door sometime on Tuesday night because I found it when I arrived Wednesday morning. Fortunately I’d come in very early to clear some paperwork so no one else knows of its existence.’ The name and address on the envelope had been put together using pasted letters cut from a newspaper, as had the message on the single piece of paper inside.

  Dear Mr Callendar,

  I understand you have recently taken a Miss Amy Shawe into your employ as a waitress. I wonder if she told you the truth about her background, namely that her mam was nothing more than a common prostitute who wasn’t married to Miss Shawe’s father. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is this really the type of person you want working for you? I would have thought your customers have the right to expect better. Because you are not from these parts I wasn’t sure if you knew the facts, but believe me, everyone else does. It wouldn’t reflect well on your establishment if the news got around that it was being used for immoral purposes, and I have reason to believe that Miss Shawe is certainly her mother’s daughter in this respect.

  It was signed simply, ‘A wellwisher’.

  Amy’s mouth had fallen open slightly as she read the poison. She could hardly take it in for a second and then her head snapped up, her breathing sharp. ‘This isn’t true,’ she declared hotly. ‘My mam wasn’t a - what this letter says. She wasn’t. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Please don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘She wasn’t married when she had me but that wasn’t her fault. He, the man, strung her along and . . . and . . .’ No, she couldn’t cry. Please, please, don’t let me cry. She swallowed against the massive lump in her throat. ‘He did die in the war like I told you,’ she said, her face burning, ‘and it was only then my mam found out he was married. But she never went with anyone else. That’s all lies.’

  ‘Miss Shawe, I never expected anything else. A letter of this type,’ he nodded to the paper which Amy had dropped as though it was burning her, ‘is always the same. A tissue of lies with just the merest touch of truth to give it some credence. However, I felt you should be informed of it if only to warn you that someone . . .’ a slight hesitation, ‘someone doesn’t seem to like you very much. Have you any idea who could have written this?’

  One name sprang to mind even as her whole being cried out, no, no, he wouldn’t do that to her, not Perce. They had grown up together, he said he wanted her to be his lass. Surely he wouldn’t do something as horrible as this. But who else was there? And he had been furious she was going to work here.

  ‘Miss Shawe?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  Charles Callendar stared at the arrestingly lovely face in front of him. This little episode had the stamp of jealousy all over it. Probably one of her pals who knew about her beginnings had tried for a position as waitress here and had been turned down. Women, girls, could be the very devil when their noses were put out of joint. But to suggest that this poor girl who was little more than a child was in any way corrupt would have been laughable if it wasn’t so dreadful. She had innocence written all over her. Gently he said, ‘Have any of your friends applied for a job here that you know of?’

  Amy shook her head. Her hair was in its normal thick plait at the back of her neck today, and she was unaware of how young and defenceless she appeared. ‘I don’t know of any,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like me to take this matter further?’

  ‘Further?’ The colour had come and gone in Amy’s face several times throughout their conversation and now she looked ill.

  ‘It’s not unusual in matters of this nature to inform the police.’

  The police? Her heart was pounding against her ribs. She glanced at the piece of paper lying curled on the desk so the pasted letters were obscured, but she could still see every mean little word in her mind’s eye. She had never felt so alone or ashamed in her life. And for this man to know, this handsome nice man who spoke so posh and everything . . . She kept her eyes on the letter and he had to lean forward to hear her when she said under her breath, ‘I don’t want anyone else to read it.’

  ‘They are very discreet in such matters.’

  It was the sympathy and kindness in his voice that enabled her to raise her head and meet the deep brown eyes. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said again
. ‘You . . . you don’t know what they’re like round here.’ How could he, coming from where he’d come from and being one of the upper class and all? How could he understand about the gossip which spread from backyard to backyard like wildfire? And there didn’t need to be any truth in it, that was the thing. There was always some old wife who would justify the backbiting by nodding her head and saying,‘There’s no smoke without fire, now is there? You answer me that.’ And they would agree and continue with their sport.

  Why, just a few weeks ago the new priest who had taken over from Father Lee on his retirement had stopped doing home visits, and she had heard Aunt May whispering to Uncle Ronald that it was because some of the lasses who were no better than they should be were always hanging around him. The fact that the new priest was young and good-looking had made the bishop worried for him because of the ‘talk’. And her uncle had shaken his head and said grimly it was coming to something when a man of God couldn’t go about his business without them getting their fangs into him.

  If they were like that with a priest, what would they say about her?

  ‘Well, it’s up to you, of course.’ Charles Callendar admitted to a feeling of relief. It wouldn’t have been the most auspicious of starts to the business to have to call in the local bobby but he would have done so if the girl had wanted it. ‘Perhaps it’s better to treat such rubbish as just that - rubbish, eh?’

  Amy nodded.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Again she nodded.

  ‘Then we’ll dispose of it accordingly.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a box of matches. He put the letter into a large heavy ashtray at the side of the desk and said, ‘Here goes.’ The sheet of paper blackened at the edge and caught fire, and within moments it was nothing but ash. ‘There.’ He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Don’t give it another thought.’

  Amy thought that was a silly thing to say. Her face must have given her away because the next moment he shook his head. ‘I know, easier said than done,’ he said ruefully. ‘But try anyway. Now,’ his tone became brisker, ‘I mustn’t keep you any longer. It’s not as if you work here yet, is it?’ he added with an attempt at lightness as he rose to his feet.

  He was saying she could still have the job? As Amy followed him across the room she wanted to ask to make sure but she didn’t know how to put it. They went down the stairs and he opened the door into the café for her.

  ‘We’ll see you in a couple of weeks then, Miss Shawe,’ he said, ‘and please don’t let this unfortunate incident dwell on your mind. Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon and th-thank you, Mr Callendar.’ Suddenly she felt painfully shy.

  He had been about to say ‘My pleasure,’ but realising this wasn’t exactly appropriate in the circumstances, he changed it to, ‘Not at all.’ He shook her hand and remained in the doorway as Amy made her way out of the building.

  When he re-entered his office he didn’t immediately apply himself to the list of urgent matters requiring his attention. Instead he sat down at his desk, his fingers idly toying with the thick glass ashtray as he stared at its contents. Damnable thing, this. His finely sculpted lips pursed as he leaned back in the chair. Left a nasty taste in the mouth. A lovely girl like that and someone wanted to do her harm. He didn’t understand the sort of mentality that could lend itself to doing something as low as that letter.

  He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and drew out a half-full bottle of whisky and a small glass tumbler. He poured himself a generous measure and swallowed it in one gulp before pouring another and putting the bottle back. He emptied the ash from the ashtray into the waste-paper basket and then ripped the envelope into small pieces and disposed of that too, finishing the second tumbler of whisky. The neat alcohol burned a path down his throat and into his stomach, creating warmth where there had been emptiness.

  There was something about Amy Shawe that reminded him of Priscilla although he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He shut his eyes against the pain which always accompanied thoughts of his late wife, even now, some two years after her death. If only he could picture Priscilla other than how she had looked that last night, lying in an ocean of blood with the tiny still body of their newborn son beside her. He opened his eyes and stared round the room. But he couldn’t. He could stare at their wedding picture for hours on end but that other image was superimposed on their smiling faces. Would she have rallied round in spite of the haemorrhaging if the child hadn’t been stillborn? No one could give him an answer to that.

  He raked a shaking hand through his thick hair before rising abruptly and beginning to pace the room. He needed another drink. Hell, how he needed another drink. But he knew that the way he was feeling, it wouldn’t stop at one. Better to wait until he got home - if you could call that miserable box of a flat he was renting home. Still, it was somewhere to lay his head and prepare himself for the struggle of getting through the next twenty-four hours. And then the next twenty-four and the next.

  He walked over to the window and looked down into the busy street below but he didn’t see the crowded pavements and Saturday bustle. ‘A day at a time,’ he murmured to himself.

  That was what the doctor he’d consulted a few months ago - when he’d finally admitted he couldn’t sleep since Priscilla’s death - had said. Take it a day at a time, Mr Callendar. Don’t try to look ahead.

  He swung round, flinging himself back into the chair and dropping his head in his hands. Work can be an excellent panacea against brooding too much. That had been another of the doctor’s little gems. Charles’s mouth twisted. Maybe a new venture or something of that nature would help. The man had been full of platitudes, and all the time the gold-framed photograph of the good doctor’s plump wife and four smiling children had looked down at them from the wall of his office.

  But something had come from the meeting, although it had been a few days before he acknowledged that the germ of an idea had taken hold. In the following weeks he had sold his portion in the family engineering businesses to his elder brother, much to his mother’s dismay. She had insisted his late father would have wanted the two brothers to run his small empire together. He had cashed in some bonds his grandmother had left him, along with what remained of his stocks and shares after the Wall Street crash two years ago. With the over-valued pound, trade recession and world Depression, his overall lump sum hadn’t been as much as he had expected, and he had lost more money when he had sold the house he had bought with Priscilla shortly before their marriage. But this had not concerned him; he’d just wanted to get right away from the south and do something new.

  A knock on his office door brought him out of his reverie. He put the tumbler away with the bottle of whisky before he called, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is everything all right, Mr Callendar?’ Robin Mallard poked his head round the door. ‘I thought I saw the young lady who came for an interview last week back here again. I didn’t think she was starting with us until Easter week.’

  ‘She isn’t.’ Charles Callendar found he didn’t want to say anything more. He had told the girl no one but he knew about the contents of the letter, and this was true.To mention it now in any connection whatsoever would be a betrayal. He didn’t know why he hadn’t mentioned its existence to his manager. He had certainly been about to more than once in the last day or two, but then the recollection of a young, beautiful but strangely lonely face had stopped him. He looked the other man straight in the eye as he said smoothly, ‘I think she must have been a little overcome last week and she couldn’t remember one or two points you discussed with her. She called in to see you and clarify these and I happened to catch sight of her so I took care of it.’

  ‘I see.’ Robin Mallard’s stiffness expressed his disapproval that his employer had so far forgotten his position as to concern himself with one of the least of his staff.

  Charles was aware of the nature of the man’s thoughts and he found he was amused rather than
annoyed. He was such a stuffed shirt, Robin, but damn good at his job which was all that mattered in the long run. If the business was going to sink or swim on what he himself knew about running a restaurant, they would soon be in the red, that was for sure. That was why he was paying Robin double what he’d get elsewhere, even in London. To humour him, he said, ‘I know how busy you are on a Saturday, Robin, so I thought I’d help out. I trust that’s all right?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ The manager unbent a little. ‘It’s just that the restaurant world is such an enclosed community. It wouldn’t do for Chef or one of the senior waiters to get the idea a waitress had your ear.’

  Quaint turn of phrase. Charles kept a straight face with some difficulty. ‘The pecking order, you mean?’ he asked gravely, dismissing the mental picture of Amy Shawe holding his severed ear aloft.

  ‘Quite so, Mr Callendar.’

  ‘I think people are protective of their position in all walks of life, Robin.’

  ‘Maybe so.’The manager cleared his throat. ‘But the young lady is quite fetching, as are all our waitresses, of course, which can be a two-edged sword in my experience. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll just see how things are shaping up for the dinner dance later.’