A Woman's Fortune

by Josephine Cox

  Billy looked surprised. ‘Evie’s mum’s gone?’

  ‘Aye, lad, some while ago. Don’t know the details.’

  Oh no, it looked as if things were going from bad to worse for the Carters. First, that awful business with Robert, and then Jeanie leaving. What must the others be feeling? Billy knew how important her family were to Evie and he started to imagine her all alone and grieving for her brother and her mother, which – he really must stop this and behave like a rational man – was absurd.

  ‘So I don’t know quite how things are with them at the minute, Billy, but circumstances have definitely changed since Evie wrote to you at Christmas.’

  ‘What do you think I should do, Brendan? I don’t want to blunder in where I’m not wanted, but how do I even know …?’

  Brendan ordered another couple of pints and he and Billy sat thinking on a course of action.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it, so far as I can see, young fella,’ said Brendan eventually. ‘You’ll have to go down there, find Evie and speak to her. If you write, you can’t be sure she’ll get the letter, and even if she does she may not reply straight away, and in the meantime you’d be left wondering. I can see already that you can hardly live with yourself, not knowing.’ Billy acknowledged this, thinking he also had to live with his mother while he sorted this out, however long it took. At present, this was not a happy prospect.

  ‘You’re right, Brendan. I’m owed some holiday from work so I’ll take time off and sort this out. Mum wants to go to Blackpool, but she can go on her own, for all I care.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Billy, though I don’t mean about your ma.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it as soon as possible – next week, even. You’re right: if I explain to Evie, to her face, then I shall know once and for all.’

  ‘Well, I hope it works out for you, Billy, I really do. Evie Carter’s a grand girl and we were all sorry when you two fell out.’

  ‘Thank you, Brendan, and thank you for your advice.’

  Billy and Brendan chatted on, finishing their pints, then Billy took a stroll the long way home in the light June evening. When he let himself into the terraced house in Fawcett Street he could hear the sound of the radio coming from the sitting room, so he called, ‘Goodnight, Mum,’ as he passed and left Ada to her own company.

  The next morning Billy went to work early again, eager to arrange a couple of days off as soon as he could. His holiday was agreed for the beginning of the following week, and he decided to withhold this information from Ada for the time being.

  By the time he got home that evening Ada had worked out that something had happened to put Billy out of sorts, but she was at a loss to know what.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ she asked, pouring him a cup of tea.

  ‘Nowt, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, but I think there is, Billy. Is it summat I can help with?’

  ‘No, Mum. I told you, it’s nowt. Thank you for the tea.’ He took the cup of tea upstairs with him and spent the time before eating feeling both resentful and a bit triumphant at having secretly arranged his days off.

  It was a hot evening and Ada had prepared a salad of tinned sardines, which further fuelled Billy’s keenness to get away, however briefly. Ada wasn’t making much of an effort domestically these days. Billy thought she’d got used to lying in bed and out of the habit of cooking. The unappetising meal passed mostly in silence, and then Billy washed up and went up to his room.

  On the Saturday evening Geraldine Sullivan came calling after tea.

  ‘There are a whole lot of us going to the pictures this evening, Billy. Would you like to come?’

  Billy was delighted to accept – he didn’t mind what the film was – and he quickly gathered his wallet and jacket, wished his mother a goodnight and left her alone with her wireless.

  ‘Don’t wait up,’ Billy called, pulling the door to behind him.

  There! Let her spend her time in her own company. Folk who stole other folk’s letters didn’t deserve any consideration, he thought.

  It wasn’t until Sunday evening, over another dismal meal, that Billy decided to tell Ada that he was getting a train south next morning to go to see Evie. He was about to come straight out with the information when Ada started talking about her hopes for a holiday.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Billy, you’ve been looking a bit tired of late, and not quite yourself,’ she began. ‘What you need is a holiday away from here.’

  ‘I certainly do,’ agreed Billy.

  ‘Where shall we go, love? Do you fancy Blackpool again this year? Or we could go to Southport, which I always think is a bit smarter, like.’

  ‘I fancy neither,’ said Billy.

  ‘Oh …’ Ada was put out. ‘But we always go to the seaside. I thought you liked Blackpool.’

  ‘I shan’t be going anywhere with you, Mum. You go anywhere you fancy, but you can leave me out of your holiday plans because I’ve made plans of my own.’

  ‘What? Billy! You might have said. I’ve been looking forward to my holiday.’

  ‘Well, as I say, Mum, you can go on your own. Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘But, Billy, where …? What …? Oh, I can’t believe you’ve made plans and not even told me.’

  ‘And why can’t you believe it, Mum? It’s the truth. After all, you took Evie Carter’s letters and didn’t tell me, and that’s the truth, too.’

  Ada looked flabbergasted. For a moment she sat there with her mouth opening and closing and no sound coming out at all.

  Billy was grimly satisfied. If, for even a moment, he had thought his mother could possibly be innocent of the theft of the letters, her reaction was proof of her guilt. He sat waiting to see what she would say.

  ‘I … I never—’

  ‘Oh, but you did, Mum, didn’t you?’

  Silence.

  ‘How else did they get into the sideboard? Hopped in there by themselves, did they?’

  Ada was backed into a corner. ‘Well, I was only protecting you, Billy, love. That girl showed her true colours at Geraldine’s party and I didn’t want you to be hurt by her any more. Those Carters are unreliable folk and Evie’s plainly as bad as her father.’

  ‘It’s not your place to steal my letters and make decisions about my life,’ snapped Billy, his voice rising.

  ‘It’s my place when I can see you coming to harm, Billy.’ Ada’s voice was getting louder, too. ‘It’s a mother’s role to keep her child from being hurt.’

  ‘I’m a grown man and I can make my own mind up. I don’t need you poking your nose in where it’s not wanted and keeping me from the girl I love.’

  ‘Love? I didn’t see much return of love when that little madam went off back down south and didn’t write for weeks, leaving you miserable. I decided then that if she could treat you like that it was better you didn’t know her.’

  ‘You decided? What right had you to decide? Don’t you reckon I’m old enough to make up my own mind? You’d already taken against her before then. I haven’t forgotten you wouldn’t even welcome her as a guest in our home, and I’m downright ashamed of that. So you couldn’t let us make up our differences – you had to stick your spoke in. You say you didn’t want me to be hurt – well, how hurt do you think I feel to learn that Evie’s little brother died, and she wrote to tell me and I didn’t even know? How hurt do you think I am to discover that Evie wrote to make up our quarrel and I didn’t know that either?’

  ‘I only meant it for the best, Billy, love.’

  ‘You meant to keep Evie and me apart because, you say, you don’t like her father.’

  ‘But can’t you see it’s over between you now? She’s miles away and she’s got her own life to lead down south now. She’s never coming back here. You’ll be hurt some more if you try to take up with her again. And leopards don’t change their spots, son: she’ll always be Michael Carter’s daughter. She’s hurt you once and she’s shown herself to have a nasty temper—’

  ‘No
w you really are talking rubbish. The real reason you don’t want me to be with Evie is because you’re afraid I’ll leave and go south and you’ll be left here on your own. That’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I’ve told you—’

  ‘And I’m now telling you. You were never so against Evie when she lived in Shenty Street, but when you thought there was any chance I might one day go to be with her and not be here all the time, looking after you when you take to your bed for days, taking on the chores when I come home from work, listening to your moaning—’

  For a moment Ada looked stricken but she had gone too far to retreat.

  ‘I was ill, Billy. It’s time for you to move on, find a new girl, someone who suits you better.’

  ‘Someone who suits you, you mean. You just don’t understand, do you? This is the girl I hoped one day to marry. I’ve booked a couple of days off work. I’m taking the train tomorrow morning. I only hope I’m not too late. And if I am, it’s all your fault, Mum, and I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive you.’

  ‘Billy, don’t speak to me like that,’ lamented Ada. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Well, Mum, you might just have to “bear it”. Because you’ve brought it on yourself.’

  With huge dignity Billy got up, scraped the remains of his lunch into the kitchen bin and went upstairs to pack a few things into his duffel bag.

  The next morning Billy was still seething with anger, which fuelled his energy to be gone. He gathered the remainder of his belongings for the journey in his bag and put on his jacket.

  There was no sound from Ada’s room. Should he knock and say he was going now? He didn’t fancy renewing the argument this morning, or listening to Ada’s self-pity that she would be left alone. He wouldn’t be gone long, anyway. That was a comfort: one way or another, this would be sorted out very soon.

  He left the pot of tea he’d made under the tea cosy for her. Then he called up the stairs, ‘Bye then, Mum. See you soon.’

  When there was no reply he guessed she was sulking and he wasn’t going to waste time dealing with that.

  He closed the front door carefully on the silent house and set off to find Evie.

  The bell tinkled merrily at G. Morris as Evie entered the shop.

  ‘Morning, Evie. My word, you look a picture in that striped cotton,’ beamed George, coming round from behind the counter to greet her with a handshake, holding on to her hand a little longer than necessary.

  Over the past weeks Evie had become a regular at the smart draper’s shop and she and George were now very friendly. Evie sent her clients here if they wanted to choose their own fabrics, and she came here to choose them herself if the client preferred.

  ‘Thank you, George. It’s come out well, hasn’t it? Stripes are always fun to work with.’

  ‘Show me the back, then,’ George asked, and Evie did a twirl to show off how she’d worked the stripes on the back of the bodice. ‘Very nice indeed. So how are you, dear? And how is Mrs Goodwin?’

  ‘We’re both well, thank you, George. It’s better for Grandma’s eyes in the summer when the light is brighter.’

  They exchanged more pleasantries and, as there were no other customers in the shop, George brought out a tray of tea from the back room, and a plate of biscuits. Then they began the business of the day, Evie perched on a stool while George unfurled bolts of fabric and cards of trimmings to show her what was new while she drank her tea. Other customers came and went but although George served them all with his full attention and courtesy, no one else was privileged to the special treatment he offered Evie.

  Evie chose some pretty prints for a summer two-piece and a blouse commissioned by Mrs Smedley, a client who was fast becoming a favourite: easy to fit, choosy but not fussy, and, best of all, she paid top price on delivery. This meant that Evie and Sue had money in hand to buy more fabrics, and so the small business ran smoothly. They made payment on delivery the rule now, having learned a lesson about that early on.

  There had been an awkward business with Mrs Smythe, who had said she’d settle the invoice at the end of the week ‘as is the usual way’, and had shown Evie to the door of her house without paying. Evie had had a sinking feeling about this and she knew Sue would have demanded the money there and then, but maybe this was the way better-off folk did things. A fortnight later Mrs Smythe had still not paid and Evie had had to telephone to remind her.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were so in need of money, dear,’ said Jean Smythe, implying nastily that they were on their uppers, which, of course, they were.

  ‘And I didn’t realise it would be a problem for you to pay,’ replied Evie, who’d rehearsed what she might say. ‘You can always pay in instalments, if that would make it easier for you.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘That will not be necessary,’ Mrs Smythe said haughtily.

  ‘Then I shall expect the cheque in tomorrow’s post,’ said Evie. ‘The address is on the invoice, or would you like me to remind you of it?’

  ‘No thank you. I have it here.’

  ‘Good. Then you have everything you need and I shall expect the cheque tomorrow,’ finished Evie, and put down the phone. Her heart was thumping. What an awful woman Jean Smythe had turned out to be.

  ‘She won’t order anything more, I reckon,’ she said to Sue, who had heard Evie’s side of the conversation.

  ‘Do you know what, love? I don’t care,’ Sue had replied. ‘There’s a name for those what take and don’t pay and it’s not a nice one.’

  ‘Oh, I expect she’d have paid eventually.’

  ‘We don’t need clients like that, love. No use working and not being paid.’

  The cheque had duly arrived the next morning.

  ‘Now, Evie,’ said George, parcelling up the fabrics in brown paper, ‘I was wondering if … if you weren’t too busy … and I can quite understand you might be … if, well …’

  ‘Yes, George?’ asked Evie. What on earth could he be trying to say?

  ‘Well, that is … I was wondering if you’d care to go out to tea with me on Sunday? There’s a little place that serves tea in the park, but the main draw is that there’s a bandstand on Sunday afternoons in summer.’

  ‘Oh, George, what a lovely idea.’ Evie was delighted. ‘Thank you for asking me. I’d be really pleased to go with you. I haven’t had a day off for ages.’

  George looked relieved. ‘I’m so glad. I’ll meet you at the station if you telephone me which train you’ll be on. The music usually starts about three o’clock, but people come and go all the time.’

  ‘I think we should try to get there at the start,’ said Evie.

  ‘I agree.’

  She paid for the fabrics, put them carefully in her basket and, with a merry wave and a big smile, went to the door.

  ‘I’ll look forward to Sunday. It’ll be a proper treat.’

  ‘Goodbye, Evie, dear.’

  George quickly went to open the door for her, then stood on the doorstep watching her walk over the cobbles and into the marketplace. Evie Carter really had got the prettiest smile …

  Evie hadn’t seen her mother in weeks so she decided to drop in. As always when she approached Frederick’s tall pretty house down the tiny Midsummer Row, she remembered the first time she had come here with her mother, and how that awful woman had stomped shouting down the steps. How much had happened since then! On this glorious June morning, the square was peaceful and the garden in the middle blossomed with flowering shrubs.

  Evie rang the bell and Jeanie opened the door, looking beautiful but a bit flushed.

  ‘Hello, love, how lovely to see you. You scrub up well,’ she said, indicating the striped dress as Evie went inside.

  ‘A Goodwin and Carter special, Mum,’ laughed Evie. ‘I’ve just had Mr Morris admiring it, too.’

  ‘I reckon that draper’s soft on you, love.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mum. He must be three times my age. He likes to see a nice bit of sewing, th
at’s all,’ laughed Evie.

  ‘Ha, it’s all right, I’m teasing. Now come downstairs and I’ll make you some lunch.’

  It seemed her mother was more comfortable down in the kitchen than the posh parlour, Evie pondered. She wondered how happy her mother really was.

  ‘Thank you, Mum, I’d like summat to eat, though we’re that busy now, I’d better not stay too long. Any news?’

  ‘I do have some, but it’ll wait until you’re sitting down.’

  All the way from Bolton to Manchester, and then again from Manchester to Redmond, Billy thought about what he would say to Evie. The quarrel between them was as nothing compared to Ada’s thieving of his letters, and Evie had done her very best to make amends anyway. Billy acknowledged that it was he who had done badly: not writing to Evie last year to make up the quarrel but expecting her to make the first move – which, of course, she had – and then not writing when he heard about Robert’s death last February. But by then he thought Evie had washed her hands of him, he reminded himself. The whole situation was a muddle. But now he meant to make it right.

  Billy’s train pulled into Redmond station in the early afternoon. He knew he had to get a bus from here to the village of Church Sandleton and that the bus ran from the market square, which would likely be in the middle of town.

  The market square was easily found, and the bus stop for the south-travelling buses displayed a rather complicated timetable in very small print. Eventually Billy decided he had half an hour before the bus was due and standing there waiting wouldn’t make it come any quicker. Better to get something to eat. He looked around and spotted a café that served plain food, and he went in and sat down near the window.

  As he sat drinking his tea, he idly watched the people of Redmond passing by. They looked pretty much like Bolton folk, but no one here was shuffling down the street in carpet slippers and a pinny. He noticed a man, very tall and lean, with hair that fell into his eyes and a fine scarf knotted round his throat. He was very good-looking, kind of like a film star, for all his jacket was so crumpled. And the young woman on his arm was his equal in looks, with her pretty hair, cut short, and a stylish striped frock that showed off her slim figure, and sandals with heels.