‘A bit,’ she said, as if reluctant to admit it. ‘I didn’t want to be late.’
‘Very commendable, my dear,’ Percy said, a smile creasing his thin face. ‘But I don’t like to think of you standing in the cold waiting for me.’
He moved about the shop opening the window blinds and letting in what early-morning light there was on this dull day. Then he beckoned her to the back of the shop and ushered her through a door and into his workroom. Meg glanced about her.
The place was very untidy. Bits of fabric were scattered all over the floor. A length of cloth, marked with chalk lines, lay on the long table with a huge pair of scissors waiting to be used. A yardstick and measuring tapes were thrown down haphazardly and cottons and threads were heaped on a shelf nearby. A tailor’s dummy stood in one corner, draped with a half-finished jacket, and at one end of the table was a Singer sewing machine, the gold lettering gleaming against the black of the machine.
Before she stopped to think, Meg cried out, ‘Oh, you’ve got a sewing machine!’
‘Er – well – yes,’ Percy murmured. ‘The tools of my trade, you know.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, first of all, I must light the stove. I like it lit most days – even in summer. This is a cold building and I like my customers to have a feeling of warmth when they step into the shop.’
Meg had noticed the stove in the back corner of the shop as she had walked through. It was similar to the one at the workhouse, which she had learnt how to light and keep stoked.
‘I’ll do that for you, Mr Rodwell,’ she offered, taking off her outdoor coat.
He glanced doubtfully at the white cotton blouse she was wearing. She had ironed it so carefully the previous evening. ‘It’s a very dirty job,’ he warned.
Meg smiled sweetly at him and was gratified when Percy blinked rapidly. ‘I brought my apron just in case,’ she told him. ‘And I’ll be sure to roll my sleeves up.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, it would be a help. I have to admit,’ he confided, ‘it’s a job I hate doing. My hands get so rough and then – when I have to work . . .’ He gestured towards the table and the tailor’s dummy.
Meg nodded. ‘I understand. You must keep your hands nice.’ She glanced around. ‘Just tell me where I can find paper, kindling and coal.’
Percy gestured towards a door at the far end of the workshop. ‘That leads into a backyard, Miss – er – Kirkland. The coal store is out there and you’ll find all you need.’ He seemed about to say more, but then glanced away from her. ‘Please – er – have a look around while you’re out there. So – so that you know where everything is.’
Meg opened the back door and stepped outside. On either side high walls separated the tailor’s backyard from the next-door premises. To the left would be the ironmonger’s, Meg realized, and on the right – by the appetizing smell that was already wafting over the wall – there must be a bakery. Immediately to her left in the yard was a wooden lean-to used as a scullery. As Meg pushed open the door, it scraped on the dusty floor. The whole place wants a good scrub, she said to herself and couldn’t prevent a wry smile as she thought of Mrs Smallwood’s face if she were to see this place. Meg’s smile faded. She didn’t want to be reminded of the past – not any of it.
At the end of the yard were two doors into brick-built outbuildings and a gate in the wall, which led into the alley running between the backyards of this street and the next. One door was the coal store. The other, Meg found, was the privy. Now she understood Mr Rodwell’s suggestion that she should familiarize herself with the premises. He had been too shy to tell her directly where the privy was, but knew she would find it for herself. She smiled as she picked up newspaper, kindling and a bucket of coal and returned to the shop.
‘Find everything?’ Percy enquired, hovering near the stove.
‘Yes thank you, sir,’ she said, demurely dropping her eyes and making no reference to the delicate matter of the whereabouts of the privy.
‘Good, good,’ Percy said, rubbing his long-fingered hands together. ‘I’ll – erm—’ He paused, not quite knowing what to do with himself now that Meg had taken over his usual first task of the morning. ‘I’ll sort out the money for the drawer.’
Very soon Meg had a good fire going in the stove and the shop began to feel warmer. She washed her hands in the tiny scullery and hung up her apron on a hook behind the door, pulled down her sleeves, smoothed her hair in the cracked mirror on the wall and went back inside.
The first customer of the day had entered the shop and was standing in front of the counter talking to Mr Rodwell. Meg went to stand behind the counter, keeping a discreet distance from both Mr Rodwell and his male customer. But she was close enough to do his bidding should he need her. She waited patiently until the satisfied customer left the shop, a parcel under his arm.
Mr Rodwell turned and smiled at her over his steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘Well done, Miss Kirkland.’
Meg glanced back at the fire. ‘It’s quite an easy stove to light,’ she said. ‘Not so temperamental as the one at the—’
‘Now, now, there’s no need for us to mention – ahem – where you are obliged to reside at this moment in time. No need at all.’
‘You’re very kind, Mr Rodwell.’
There was a pause before Percy added, ‘Actually, I wasn’t referring to the fire at all. No, I meant you were right to wait quietly whilst I served my customer. It was well done, my dear. Very well done indeed.’
Now Meg lifted her face and gave Mr Rodwell the full benefit of her most dazzling smile.
Seventeen
Later in the morning, when the shop was empty, Percy cleared his throat and said tentatively, ‘I – erm – heard about your loss. Your little brother. Miss Pendleton called in on Saturday and she told me. I was very sorry to hear it.’ He glanced at her, his pale eyes sympathetic behind his spectacles.
Meg wanted to ask what the matron had said about her. Had she given her a good reference? But at the mention of her brother, tears filled her eyes. She only had to think of little Bobbie and the tears came all too readily. There was no need for pretence now – her grief was all too genuine. ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily.
‘I – erm – would have quite understood if you’d needed a few more days before starting your employment with me.’
Meg shook her head firmly. ‘No – thank you – it’s very thoughtful of you, but it’s best to keep busy.’
‘I just thought that perhaps your mother might need you . . .’ Percy’s voice trailed away.
‘There are plenty of people at the – plenty of people there to comfort her.’ For some reason that Meg could not quite understand, the vision of Isaac Pendleton with his arm around her mother’s shoulders flashed into her mind. The picture made her feel uncomfortable.
Percy was nodding. ‘Quite so,’ he murmured. ‘But it’s not quite like having a member of your own family close by, is it?’
Carefully, Meg rolled fabric back onto a bolt of cloth that Percy had had on the counter to show to a customer. Meg took a deep breath. In control of her emotions once more and now pretending innocence, she asked, ‘Have you any family, Mr Rodwell?’
‘What?’ He was startled as if he was unused to having anyone ask personal questions. ‘Who? Me? Oh well, no, not really. I – erm – did have once. Of course I did. But I was an only child and since my parents died there has been no one.’
Now Meg feigned surprise, even though she knew the answer well enough. ‘You mean – you’re not married?’
Percy blinked rapidly, took off his spectacles, polished them vigorously with a tiny cloth he carried in his waistcoat pocket and then perched them back on his nose. ‘Oh, dear me, no. Certainly not. Well, that is to say, I – erm – may one day decide to – erm – embark upon the sea of matrimony.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s a big step. A very big step.’
Meg smiled coyly. ‘Well, she’d be a very lucky lady to have you as a husband, Mr Rodwell.’
Percy
blinked again.
During the hour the shop was closed for lunch, Percy explained his reasons for wanting to employ a female assistant. ‘I’ve found it increasingly difficult to do my work in the back room and look after the shop too. Interruptions, you know. If I have to stop the machine in the middle of a long seam, it can spoil it completely.’
Meg smiled and nodded. Percy Rodwell was obviously a perfectionist in his work if not in the cleanliness and tidiness of his premises. But if he let her stay . . .
He was speaking again. ‘And I want to expand – well – alter things round a bit. It was Miss Finch’s idea that I should stock women’s apparel. She suggested that I should make the right-hand side of the shop into the ladies’ section, whilst this side –’ he waved his arms about, demonstrating – ‘should stay as the men’s.’
Meg glanced around her. ‘Are you going to put a counter this side too? For me . . .’ She hesitated then, with a coy tilt to her head, went on, ‘I mean – for your assistant to serve at?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s a very good idea.’ He was all enthusiasm. ‘Miss Pinkerton . . .’ He broke off to ask, ‘Do you know Miss Pinkerton?’
Meg shook her head.
‘She’s a dressmaker and milliner. She lives in a little cottage just by the church, near where I live, actually. Well, she has always made garments for Clara – Miss Finch – and my fiancée has persuaded her to make dresses and costumes – even coats – to order for me.’
‘And hats?’
‘Oh yes, eventually, hats too, I’m sure.’
‘Ladies like nice hats,’ Meg volunteered and again Percy’s pale eyes rested thoughtfully upon her.
About mid-afternoon, a woman entered the shop. Meg looked up and smiled, ready to offer her services and eager to show Mr Rodwell what she could do. But Percy hurried forward at once, his hands outstretched towards the woman. ‘My dear, I’m so glad you’ve called. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ He put his arm around the woman without actually touching her, but shepherding her towards the counter, where Meg was standing. ‘My dear, this is Miss Kirkland. She’s – erm – on trial for a month and I am proposing to train her to serve the – erm – ladies’ items I am planning to stock.’ Now he smiled at Meg. ‘Miss Kirkland, this is Miss Finch.’
Meg smiled and bobbed a respectful curtsy. In a quiet, demure voice, she said, ‘I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Miss Finch.’ So this, Meg was thinking, is Miss Clara Finch, Mr Rodwell’s fiancée and Miss Pendleton’s friend. Meg had expected Mr Rodwell’s fiancée to be a pretty young woman, slim and dressed in fashionable clothes with a sweet smile and adoring eyes when she looked up at her intended. But the woman before her was nothing like Meg’s romantic imaginings. Clara Finch was thin and angular with cold grey eyes, a beak-like nose and a small, pursed mouth. She was dressed in a dark purple costume that admittedly was well made and expensive, but it was drab and unbecoming. The woman – she must be forty if she’s a day, Meg thought – carried her hands folded neatly in front of her at waist height. Meg felt Clara’s hard gaze appraising her. When she spoke, Clara’s tone was shrill and sharp, her words clipped. ‘I don’t know why you wanted a woman working here at all, Percy. Haven’t I promised to help you out now and then if you need it? And you most certainly don’t want –’ she nodded at Meg with a swift pecking movement of her head – ‘a young girl and one from that place.’ The last two words were spoken scathingly.
Meg felt the colour rising into her face, but defiantly she lifted her chin. Though her green eyes sparked with anger she kept her tone submissive and courteous. ‘My family have fallen on hard times, ma’am, through no fault of their own.’
Mentally, she crossed her fingers, praying that Miss Finch did not know the truth about their misfortune. But Mr Finch was a crony of Mr Smallwood’s. They went to the race meeting together . . .
Meg’s heart fell as she saw the gleam of malice in Miss Finch’s eyes. ‘Indeed?’ Clara said, her tone laced with sarcasm. ‘That’s not what I heard.’
Beside her, Percy began to fidget. ‘Oh, now come, my dear, all that is merely idle gossip and speculation.’
Clara whipped round to face him, making Percy blink rapidly. ‘Percy, I have never indulged in idle gossip. You should know me better than that.’
‘Of course, my dear. I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply—’
A little mollified, she nodded. ‘Very well.’ Then she turned her attention back to Meg. ‘Your father, girl, brought shame to a decent, well-brought up young woman, Alice Smallwood, besides causing his family to become an expense on the parish.’ She leant across the counter, closer to Meg. ‘Your father, girl, should be horsewhipped.’
Meg stood her ground and returned the woman’s gaze steadily. ‘I entirely agree with you, ma’am. And I’d cheer on any person who cared to do it.’
Now it was Miss Finch who looked startled and, for a brief moment, nonplussed. But she recovered herself quickly and took refuge in finding fault. ‘You are too bold, miss. You have too much to say for yourself.’ She turned to her fiancé. ‘If you want my opinion, Percy, you’d do better to look elsewhere for your counter assistant. Someone more mature would be far more suitable.’
‘Oh, but Clara – my dear – Miss Pendleton herself recommended the girl. I thought – she being your friend – that you would approve.’
Clara sniffed dismissively. ‘Letitia Pendleton would like to class herself as my friend, but I have no wish to be associated with such a person. She has tried before to ally herself to my family. But it won’t work. Oh, dear me, no. No, Percy, be guided by me. The ladies you hope to attract to your establishment would much prefer an older person to serve them and someone more refined. This girl was nothing but a milkmaid. What can she hope to know about fine fabrics and the kind of garments that ladies wear?’
Percy blinked. He glanced in embarrassment towards Meg and then took hold of Clara’s arm and drew her away from the counter. He leant closer to her to whisper, but Meg’s sharp ears still caught his words. ‘But my dear, the child has suffered most grievously. The family was turned out of their home. Oh, I know, I know, he – the father – no doubt deserved it, but it is hardly his poor wife’s fault, is it? And certainly this girl is not to blame. You’ve heard for yourself how bitter she is. And worse than that, the mother lost the child she was expecting and only this week the little boy died in the – in the – in that place.’
Clara’s eyes shifted towards Meg and then widened. ‘What of?’
‘What?’ Percy was mystified.
‘What of? What did the boy die of?’
Percy shrugged. ‘I don’t know . . .’ Now they both gazed at Meg.
Meg bit her lip. She knew only too well that her brother had died of diphtheria, but would Miss Pendleton and her brother want the fact known? An epidemic in the workhouse was something to be feared. Already there were two more suspected cases amongst the children, but the matron had isolated them at once and Dr Collins visited daily. But Meg didn’t want Mr Rodwell or Miss Finch to hear about it any more than Isaac wanted it known beyond the workhouse walls. She faced them squarely. ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask the doctor – or the matron.’
‘Well, I hope it was nothing infectious, girl,’ Clara said and took a step backwards. ‘I think I’ll be going, Percy. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Thank you, my dear. I shall look forward to it.’
‘Don’t be late. Theobald hates unpunctuality.’
As the shop bell tinkled at her departure, Meg busied herself with tidying the shelves. She could not trust herself to meet Percy’s eyes. She knew her runaway tongue was in danger of saying far more than it ought to.
The work was not as physically hard as farm work and yet, for some reason, Meg found it very tiring. Maybe it was having to be quiet and polite all day long, with a smile permanently plastered on her face. She was constantly alert, trying to anticipate Mr Rodwell’s every need. There was so much to learn, much mor
e than she had ever dreamed. All the different garments, the different sizes, different fabrics and qualities. And when the new stock began to arrive – stock that was new even to Percy and something of a mystery to him – Meg was busier than ever. He was already looking to her to take charge of it. To price it and put it away. Even to display it, although he was still embarrassed to have ladies’ undergarments on show. A new counter had been installed on the right-hand side of the shop and all the drawers and shelves behind were given over to women’s wear. Meg lost count of the number of times she climbed the stairs to the cluttered rooms above the shop to dump piles of men’s vests, long johns, socks and shirts to make room for the ladies’ garments. But at least now she could see the rooms on the first floor for herself. She had been right; they were only used as storerooms and untidy, higgledy-piggledy storerooms at that! They weren’t even proper stockrooms, Meg realized. Oh, she’d taken plenty of old stock up, but she had never once seen Percy bring anything down into the shop. The rooms were just a dumping ground for rubbish, she was sure.
She would ask him, Meg determined, if she could tidy the rooms out, give them a good clean and sort out all the stock. If she worked hard and pleased him, he would take her on permanently as his assistant and then she could ask him if she and her mother might live above the shop. She would tell him how much better it would be to have someone living on the premises. She could light the stove before he even arrived. She could sweep and dust and clean the shop after it closed. He wouldn’t have to stay late at night to do these tasks, as she knew he often did.
Percy was speaking to her, dragging her back from her plans. ‘When you serve the customers, Miss Kirkland, you must let them know – delicately, of course – that we now stock such – erm – items.’ He waved his hand towards the drawers containing ladies’ underwear.
Meg smiled to herself and was crafty enough not to explain every little detail about the new stock to her employer. The less he knew about ladies’ apparel the more he would need to rely upon her.
Without Sin Page 12