The Runaway Women in London

by Lesley Eames

  Lydia could remember her father threatening her mother with that poker. He’d backed Celia into a corner and raised it over his head, but, far from being frightened, Celia had only taunted him, ‘Go on. I dare you.’

  Frank Grey hadn’t dared.

  Celia had swatted him out of the way, then jeered at him, her hands on her hips. ‘Call yourself a man? You know nothing of being a man. No wonder I have to look elsewhere for satisfaction.’

  Frank Grey had stormed out with his wife’s mocking laughter following him.

  Lydia could remember other rows too, mostly about Celia never having the clothes she wanted or being taken out to have fun.

  ‘I give you all I can afford,’ Frank had bellowed, and on one occasion Lydia recalled him shouting, “We have a child!”’

  ‘As if I could forget when she’s the reason I had to marry you!’ Celia shouted back, puzzling Lydia who didn’t understand what was meant until she was older.

  There were no photographs in the room. Not even of Frank in military uniform. Age and a problem with his feet had kept him out of the war, which was lucky for him as he’d opposed it. ‘This war’s just about the rich protecting their way of life by squandering the lives of working men,’ he’d said, though Lydia remembered reading casualty lists and thinking that young officers appeared to be faring worst.

  The photographs of Celia had been burned the day she finally left. Frank had thrown them onto a bonfire along with her clothes. Lydia had only been six, but she could recall how windy it was, and how Mrs Higgs from number three had shouted at Frank because the smoke was dirtying her washing. Afterwards, Frank had sunk a whole bottle of whisky and fallen asleep in his armchair with dribble staining his chin. Lydia had put herself to bed that night and every night since then.

  The next day, Frank’s eyes had been bloodshot and his breath had reeked of sour spirits. ‘That woman’s name isn’t to be mentioned in this house,’ he’d said.

  ‘You mean Mother?’ Lydia had been confused.

  ‘She’s no mother and no wife either. She’s a whore,’ he spat. ‘A filthy whore.’

  Lydia hadn’t known what a whore was but her tummy had begun to feel strangely hollow... ‘She isn’t coming back?’

  ‘She’s never setting foot in this house again.’

  Time had proven him right. Lydia hadn’t seen or heard from her mother in more than fifteen years. Not once.

  The room did have books on a shelf above the desk, Karl Marx’s books having pride of place. Frank Grey considered himself a political animal who championed the working man in the fight against rich oppressors, though if he’d ever taken a stand against the bosses as a foreman at Akerman’s Ales, Lydia had yet to hear of it. The neighbours called him the Ruston Bolshevik but laughed behind his back because he was all words and no action. Not that he even managed words at home. That last outburst over Celia had drained him. He’d barely spoken to Lydia since then except to tell her there was a sandwich on the table or their neighbour would look after her while he was at work.

  After a while, Lydia took her case up to her cheerless bedroom that was as unchanged as the rest of the house. She threw her few things into her drawers and stuffed the case under the narrow bed. What next? She took her latest issue of Car Illustrated downstairs and tried to lose herself in photographs of Austins, Argylls, Morgans and the incredibly lucky people who drove on the race track at Brooklands. There was nothing Lydia wanted more than to drive in races herself.

  But worry for the future crept in. Grace had encouraged all of them to save, but there was little money showing in Lydia’s Post Office savings book. She’d never wasted her wages on fancy clothes, but she’d given a large part of them to Hooper, Mrs Arleigh’s chauffeur, to persuade him to let her strip the engine, clean the parts and above all drive the Talbot when the Arleighs’ backs were turned. It hadn’t been wasted money. On the contrary, it had been money spent in bliss and the thought of neither driving nor looking after a car again was bleak. But even though Lydia couldn’t regret the way she’d spent her money she was all too aware that her lack of savings limited her chances of escaping from home again.

  Throwing the magazine aside, Lydia got up. She couldn’t face spending the day in this dump. She had to get out.

  She was a vigorous walker, though her strides had no purpose in them today and eventually they slowed. Lydia had no eye for the picturesque, but even she could see that Ruston was a blot on the landscape of Northamptonshire. There was no energy here either. No sense of adventure. She’d lived here all her life but never liked it.

  Equally, Ruston had little tolerance for her. She wasn’t clever and diplomatic like Grace. She wasn’t charming and creative like Jenny. She wasn’t even a dogged worker like Ruth. Lydia was too churned up inside to suffer fools and her temper was shocking. All in all, it boded ill for future employment.

  *

  Frank Grey grunted when he returned from work to find Lydia installed. It was the closest he ever came to a greeting.

  ‘I’ve been dismissed,’ Lydia told him. ‘One of Mrs Arleigh’s necklaces went missing and she decided one of us must have stolen it. We’ve all been dismissed.’

  ‘Damned bosses. That’s why we need a revolution. Like the Russians. They know how to run a country.’

  With that, the Ruston Bolshevik sat down, lit a Woodbine and turned to Karl Marx. Could he have persuaded Mrs Arleigh to reconsider? Almost certainly not. But it hadn’t even occurred to him to try to fight her corner. Frank Grey’s revolution lay only between the pages of his books.

  Lydia went back upstairs and sat on her bed. On impulse, she opened the top drawer of the nearby tallboy and felt under the lining paper for the photograph. On the day Frank had burned Celia’s things, the wind had caught this photo before it reached the flames and sent it swooping to the ground near Lydia’s feet. Busy fending off their neighbour’s complaints about smuts on her washing, Frank hadn’t noticed when Lydia had picked the photo up and put it in her pocket. That night, she’d hidden it in this drawer and it had lived here ever since.

  The photo showed a woman with dark hair like Lydia’s own, but there the similarity ended. Instead of Lydia’s scowl, this woman had knowing eyes and a bold smile. Her nose was sharper than Lydia’s too. That sharp nose had given Celia grief. Lydia could remember Celia touching it in front of the mirror and grimacing. Celia’s hairline was different too, having a distinctive dip in the middle that made her face look heart-shaped, though it was hard to think of a heart in relation to Celia Grey. Not a soft heart anyway.

  Had Celia thought of Lydia at all in the past fifteen years? Had she wondered what sort of person Lydia had become? Whether she was happy, sad, contented, worried?

  Oh, what did it matter? Who was Celia Grey except a stranger?

  Cursing, Lydia shoved the photo back under the lining paper and slammed the drawer shut. The photo meant nothing to her and she’d get rid of it one day.

  Just not today.

  Three

  Grace had worried about Lydia as she’d watched her stride away, head high as though marching into battle. Lydia could be hostile, rude and lazy when it came to things that didn’t interest her, but Grace liked her. Admired her too. Lydia was a loyal champion to her friends.

  Unfortunately, she was also her own worst enemy in being unable to admit that she needed friends as much as everyone did.

  ‘Do you think she’ll come to the fete?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘We’ll call at her house if she doesn’t.’

  Grace trudged on with Jenny and Ruth until it was Grace’s turn to turn off. She hugged Jenny first. ‘Come to me if Jonas tries anything,’ she urged.

  ‘I will,’ Jenny agreed.

  But would she? Soft-hearted Jenny was in a difficult position. ‘Anything at all,’ Grace added, and moved on to hug Ruth. ‘You should come to me too if things become impossible.’

  Both Jenny and Ruth were wan with strain. At least Grace was assured of a warm, safe
welcome at home even if her problems were more acute in other ways.

  Five minutes later, Grace reached Cutler’s End. This was the worst part of town and Cutler’s Row was in the heart of it. Grace looked up at the building which housed her home with an emotion that might have been despair if she hadn’t determined long ago to fight back against adversity.

  Cutler’s Row hadn’t always been a slum. It had started life as a parade of respectable shops with accommodation above. Decay had set in long before Grace’s birth, but she could still remember when some of the shops had been open. She could recall jars of barley sugar in the grocer’s shop beneath their flat, earthy potatoes in the greengrocer’s next door, and rabbits hanging from hooks in the butcher’s shop further along the row.

  Even then, other shops had been boarded over, and one by one the remaining shops had closed. Now the buildings were dark with soot and enshrouded in the dank stench of an unused section of the Ruston canal that ran along the back. Only two flats remained occupied. The windows of the others were mostly broken, so wind whistled through them on blowy days. The guttering above what had been the greengrocer’s shop had broken too, spilling rainwater down the front of Gran’s flat.

  Demolition couldn’t be far away and that meant eviction couldn’t be far away either. But despite her hard work and best efforts at frugality, Grace had reached the age of twenty-one having saved little. Gran’s infirmities meant she needed a fire on all but the warmest days, so coal was a big expense. Then there were the costs of Gran’s medicines and the small payment Grace made to their neighbour, Mattie Simms, who kept an eye on Gran when Grace was at work. A kindly woman, Mattie was a godsend.

  The loss of Grace’s job was a disaster but she would find a way to survive somehow. She had to.

  The flat was accessed by crumbling stairs at the rear of the building. The rains had swollen the stagnant waters of the canal and the smell was vile. Grace never got used to it.

  She forced some cheer into her voice as she let herself in. ‘Only me,’ she called, because Gran’s eyesight was poor these days.

  The flat comprised a kitchen-cum-parlour and one tiny bedroom. The lavatory was in the yard, so Grace had bought a commode for Gran who now had her bed in the parlour to be near the fire. Mattie had already been in to light it. Only a small fire, because Mattie knew coal was a luxury. Even so, she’d left a note behind. Need more coal.

  Ignoring the note for the moment, Grace went straight to Gran whose hands felt distressingly cold despite the fire. Gran wasn’t seventy yet, but ill health had aged her prematurely.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you.’

  Gran was used to Grace turning up at odd times. It wasn’t unheard of for Grace to get up before dawn so she could hurry into Ruston to see Gran, then rush back to Arleigh Court in time for work. She never considered it troublesome because she could never repay Gran all she owed her. Grace’s mother had died bringing a stillborn son into the world and her father had died from pneumonia soon after, so it was Gran who’d brought Grace up.

  ‘Let’s have tea,’ Grace suggested, hoping to put some warmth into Gran’s veins.

  She set the kettle to boil on the fire. The stove would be quicker, but Grace was keen to save on the cost of gas.

  ‘How’s Mattie?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Her Sally’s expecting again.’

  ‘Another grandchild. How lovely.’

  Grace kept the conversation going until the tea was ready. She carried the tray to the small table next to Gran’s bed and sat down beside her.

  ‘I thought I’d make a stew for supper. We need to use up those carrots.’

  Gran patted Grace’s hand. ‘I’m not going to press you to talk, Grace. Just tell me what’s happened when you’re ready.’

  Grace hadn’t meant to tell Gran about her dismissal until she’d looked into finding another job. She should have known Gran would guess something was wrong.

  ‘I may be old and infirm, but a problem aired is a problem shared,’ Gran continued. ‘Getting a trouble out into the open means you can look at it from all sides and start thinking about how to move around it.’

  ‘I’ve lost my job.’ Grace admitted.

  ‘That’s bad, love, but not as bad as losing your health.’

  It was typical of Gran to put it into perspective, though it only helped a little.

  ‘I’ve lost my good name too because Mrs Arleigh won’t give me a reference.’

  As Grace told the sorry story of the necklace, Gran’s paper-dry fingers stroked comfort into the back of her hands.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend it isn’t a blow,’ Gran finally said. ‘And I’m not going to say you shouldn’t worry. That would be foolish. But I will tell you to have faith in yourself. You may be a slip of a thing, Grace Lavenham, but you’re strong.’

  Grace smiled. Gran was always a comfort. ‘I’m like you, Gran.’

  ‘You’ve more brains than I’ve ever had. Doctor’s Arleigh’s going to find it hard to replace you, but don’t expect help from that quarter. He’s not the man to humiliate his wife by taking you back.’

  ‘No,’ Grace agreed.

  ‘You need to find another way through this.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I just wish I weren’t such a burden.’

  Grace wasn’t having that. ‘You’ll never be a burden, Gran. I’ll find another job.’

  She needed to find it urgently. With neither money nor health at her disposal, Gran’s way of helping might be to turn her face to the wall and give up on life in the belief that she’d be freeing Grace from caring for her.

  Grace’s love for Gran burned fiercely. She couldn’t let that happen.

  Four

  Nausea had rippled through Jenny’s stomach as she’d walked on with Ruth. Jonas would be at work until evening, but sooner or later he’d come home and then—

  Jenny shuddered.

  ‘You’ll come to the fete?’ Ruth asked anxiously when they reached Jenny’s turn-off.

  ‘Definitely.’ Jenny squeezed Ruth’s arm, then turned away and headed for the neat little house on Fitton’s Lane, dread settling deeper inside her with every step. Arleigh Court hadn’t just been a job to Jenny. It had also been a sanctuary.

  Alice Mallory – Alice Cartwright now she’d remarried – smiled when Jenny arrived. ‘What a lovely surprise. Come in and get dry, love. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  It was typical of Alice not to question the significance of Jenny’s luggage. Jenny had realised long ago that her mother’s brain wasn’t sharp.

  Leaving her cases in the hall, Jenny followed Alice into the kitchen, hung her coat over the back of a chair, then sat in another chair to await the tea. It was a cheerful room with colourful rugs on the floor and willow-pattern pottery on the dresser. Everything glowed with warmth and care, and once upon a time, Jenny had felt happy here. Safe. Those days were long gone.

  For Jenny that was. Alice looked radiant, utterly transformed from the faded and joyless woman she’d become after losing all her menfolk in quick succession. Bill Mallory, her kindly, cheerful first husband and father to her children, had died in 1917, succumbing to an infection that started with a simple splinter though, as a carpenter, he’d had hundreds of splinters over the years. Then eldest son, Jack, had fallen at Passchendaele and younger son, Archie, had died of wounds suffered in the Battle of Bapaume. Jenny had loved her father and brothers dearly and their loss had hit her hard but Alice had spiralled into a deep depression and might have stayed there if Jonas Cartwright hadn’t begun to pay court to her. Jonas had brought Alice’s pretty looks and sparkle back, and Jenny had been glad of it – until she’d discovered her new stepfather had another side to his character.

  Looking towards the pantry, Jenny shuddered as she remembered the day three years ago when he’d trapped her in there. Jenny had offered to clean the pantry while Alice went to the shops. Having emptied the contents onto the kitchen table,
she was wiping the pantry shelves when she realised Jonas was standing behind her. Turning, she was disconcerted to find him only inches away. ‘Did you want something?’ she asked.

  ‘Just being friendly.’

  He was smiling, but she’d seen that expression on his face before when Alice hadn’t been looking. It was the sort of expression that was more suited to a predator stalking prey than to a man chatting with his stepdaughter.

  ‘You’re a pretty girl,’ he said, and she cringed as he reached up to stroke her cheek, his lips growing slack and his breathing turning shallow.

  ‘Thank you.’ Jenny stretched away from him. ‘Now, I really need—’

  ‘A very pretty girl indeed.’

  He stepped even closer until Jenny could smell his hot, foetid breath. Disgusted and alarmed, she tried to back away, but came up hard against the shelves.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she cried, as his wet lips had touched her cheek.

  ‘Be friendly,’ he murmured, but there was nothing friendly about the way he pounced on her, grasping her arms and pressing his mouth against hers.

  Jenny struggled to get free, but the pantry was small and with her arms pinned to the shelves she could neither push him away nor strike him. She was trapped. She couldn’t breathe. Panic roared inside her.

  Then someone knocked on the kitchen door. Jonas lifted his head but held Jenny fast for a moment longer before it appeared to occur to him that the caller might move to the window and see him.

  ‘I was just being friendly,’ he said, stepping away to answer the door.

  Jenny fled upstairs and didn’t come down until Alice returned. Not that Alice believed a word when Jenny told her what happened.

  ‘Jonas is friendly, that’s all. He’s trying to be a good stepfather, though I don’t know why he bothers if this is all the thanks he gets!’

  ‘It was more than friendliness.’ Jenny cringed at the thought of his wet mouth and –

  ‘Do you think I’m being disloyal to your dad’s memory? Is that why you’re making up stories?’ Alice’s voice had grown shrill.