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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
After losing her family in the Great War, Nell is grateful to marry Stan Hibbert, believing she can recapture a sense of family with him. But five years on, she is just another back-street housewife, making every penny do the work of tuppence and performing miracles with scrag-end. When she discovers that Stan is leading a double-life, she runs away to make a fresh start. Two years later, in 1924, Nell has carved out a fulfilling new life for herself and her young children in Manchester, where her neighbours believe she is a respectable widow and a talented machinist. But the past is hard to run from, and Nell must fight to protect the life she has made for herself and her children.
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A Respectable Woman
SUSANNA BAVIN
To the memory of Barbara Bourke (neé Gourgian, 1922–2017), who was immensely proud that The Deserter’s Daughter was going to be published. Every time I saw her, she told me how she was going to go to the bookshop on publication day to buy the first copy; then after she had read it, she would write to the papers about it – her equivalent of posting an Amazon review. Unfortunately, Auntie Barbara died a few weeks before The Deserter’s Daughter was released; and this book is dedicated, with affection and sorrow, to her memory.
And to Kevin, my tech elf, who in the six months it took to write A Respectable Woman, took over all matters domestic and acted as cat-servant-in-chief.
Contents
Chapter One
Annerby, Lancashire, February 1922
‘Bye-bye, chick. Be a good boy for Nanny.’ Nell dropped on one knee in her mother-in-law’s gloomy hallway and Alf’s arms snaked round her neck as he put his heart and soul into hugging her. He was a loving child, just like her mock-wrestling, back-slapping brothers had been.
‘You’ll mek a mother’s boy out of that one, if you don’t watch out.’
Nell looked over the top of Alf’s sandy head at Mrs Hibbert’s raised eyebrows and downturned mouth. She didn’t want to turn her son into a milksop, but how could she resist wallowing in his boundless affection? Was she foolish to want to ward off the time, perhaps when he started school, when her snuggly embraces might no longer be welcome? If only he had his four strapping uncles to drop comradely hands on his shoulder, to tousle his hair, and teach him by example that physical contact wasn’t sissy.
‘Don’t say you haven’t been warned,’ said Mrs Hibbert.
No, indeed, that was something Nell could never say. Not about cuddling Alf, or about teaching him his ABC too young, or reading him a bedtime story instead of sending him straight to sleep. Or about wasting her time sticking her nose in a library book or wasting her money taking her knives to the knife-grinder just because he was an old soldier, instead of investing in her own knife-sharpener.
At what point had they gone from, ‘Can I give you a spot of advice, love?’ to ‘Don’t say you haven’t been warned’?
She was flaming sick of being warned.
She disentangled herself from Alf, catching his hands and pretending to gobble them up before rising to her feet. Her heart turned over as she looked at him. In his knitted pullover and grey shorts and socks, he was so appealing she could have gobbled him up for real.
Mrs Hibbert already had the front door open. ‘You’re letting the warm out, Nell.’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Shut the door, then. I needn’t go yet.’
‘You don’t want to be late.’
‘You say that every morning and I never am.’
‘Exactly.’
Nell gave up. With a last smile for Alf, she went to the door, with him pattering beside her to wave from the step. She walked a few paces, then turned to wave. She would have preferred to wave from the corner, but she had to get her wave in quickly before Mrs Hibbert could shut the door.
How had she ever imagined this old bag might take Mum’s place? Old sorrow washed through her, piercing her with sudden freshness. How could it still do that after six years? Six years, for pity’s sake. 1916 – the year her world ended. Dad was already dead; he died in the autumn of ’14, believing it would all be over in weeks and the boys would be home for Christmas. But they never came home. Nell liked to think they had all died together, the four of them, Doug, Tom, Eric and Harold, but there was no knowing, and it was probably just her being stupid.
Then Vi died. Nell had never shaken off the astonishment of Vi’s death. She was an ambulance-driver. An ambulance-driver! Stretcher-bearers and ambulance-drivers weren’t supposed to die. All Vi had wanted was to go on the stage and dance in the chorus at the music hall.
That was the end for Mum. Nell hadn’t seen it at the time, but now she knew Mum had died inside. She died for real three months later; of a broken heart, everyone said. She died even though Nell had barely left her side, even though Nell loved her and needed her and always would, even though Nell was only sixteen and not old enough to live on her own. It was hard knowing you weren’t reason enough for your mum to stay alive.
Kind neighbours took her in and she handed over her meagre wages for her board. It had been a strange existence, her whole family wiped out and her dumped in this new life that didn’t feel like anything to do with her. A new family moved into the Pringles’ house and that was hard to watch.
Then along came Stan, a good-looking soldier with his arm in a sling, who liked the look of her and persevered. Gradually, she turned to him. The neighbours encouraged it. Not that they wanted to get rid of her, but they encouraged it.
The thing about good-looking soldiers with their arms in slings was that their injuries healed and the slings came off and it was only a matter of time before they went back to France. It added a feeling of urgency.
‘Don’t let him slip through your fingers,’ warned the neighbours.
Stan was keen. Would she write? Would she be his girl? Would she meet his mother?
The morning was overcast and spitefully cold. Other folk might hunch inside their coats, with their hats pulled low over their ears, but not Nell. Wrapped inside Mum’s faithful cavalry-tweed overcoat, which she had let down as much as she could but still wasn’t long enough, she held herself tall and proud as she walked through the cobbled streets. She would pull her teeth out with the pliers sooner than let anyone see how shrivelled-up her job made her feel. Turning the corner, she walked towards the Royal Oak. It sounded grand, but it was just a backstreet pub on the corner of Starling Street and Hawk Street. The front door was on Starling Street, giving it a Starling Street address. Hawk Street would have been better, as in Hawking and Spitting Street.
She pushed open the door, bracing herself for the men’s lavs. Some blokes had revolting habits. It didn’t matter how coarse you were, everyone knew better than to pee on the floor. And it wasn’t just pee either. Her stomach curled up just thinking of it.
‘Morning, Mr Page.’
He grunted a reply. She turned to shut the door, snatching a final breath of air before she had to inhale the stench of stale beer and tobacco. It wasn’t just the smell. It was the feeling that it was creeping under her skin, into her hair, soiling her clothes.
Lifting the bar-flap, she walked through into the Pages’ living quarters to hang her coat and hat on the peg inside the broom cupboard. She rolled up her sleeves, put on her wrap-around pinny and tied a scarf round her hair. She called herself a cleaner, but she looked like a charwoman, and maybe she was one. How many cleaners had to scrub stinking urinals?
She returned to the bar. Tables first. The Pages didn’t even clear away the glasses before shutting up for the night. Honestly, there were times when she felt like chucking the dirty glasses at Mr Page’s head. Mrs Page was seldom in evidence at this time of the morning, or indeed at any time of the morning. Landladies didn’t soil their hands with cleaning, so she said. Lazy cat.
Onto the bar went handfuls of glasses. Washing them was Mr Page’s job, but he never did it until Nell put them on the bar. She emptied the ashtrays, swept the floor and gave the tables a wipe to get rid of the rings, then set about polishing them. When she went through to the back for her mop and bucket, she took a moment to apply hand cream.
‘Always look after your hands, our Nell,’ said Vi’s voice in her head. ‘And don’t forget to cream your elbows. To go on the stage, you need nice arms as well as smooth hands.’
Nell smiled. Recalling things the others used to say kept them alive in her heart. She must have been eight when Vi dispensed this advice and, as she wasn’t stage-struck like their Vi, it hadn’t mattered; but it mattered now. Not her elbows, but her hands and face, especially her face. She had good skin and intended to keep it that way. She made her own lotion from quince blossom and cucumber. She dreaded being old before her time, the curse of the backstreet housewife.
Not that she minded working. She came from a long line of grafters and would cheerfully have scrubbed out urinals – well, not cheerfully, but she would have done it, if it had made a difference. A proper, worthwhile difference; a new shoes and best end of meat difference; a day trip to Morecambe difference; but all her cleaning achieved was to keep their heads above water.
That was why she had her rainy-day fund. Mostly it was money from her knitting. Mrs Dillon in Pigeon Street had a front-room shop and sold Nell’s garments for tuppence in the shilling commission. Nell put some of the money into the household coffers so Stan wouldn’t suspect, but the rest she stashed in an old tea caddy at the back of the pantry. Quite why she hid it she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as though Stan raided the housekeeping jar. No, he just didn’t hand it over in the first place. He gave her enough to get by on if she was careful – and the rest he drank. He ought to be a right fat-gut, but he wasn’t. Not that that was any consolation to Nell when she was robbing Peter to pay Paul and performing miracles with scrag-end.
‘Obviously you can’t be trusted with money,’ was Mrs Hibbert’s opinion. ‘Some women are feckless.’
‘I’m not,’ Nell retorted. Mum had never had so much as a farthing’s worth of tick at the corner shop and neither had she.
‘Then why won’t my Stan trust you with money? It’s normal for a man to drink. Nowt wrong with that.’
‘But all the money he gets through—’
‘If you made his home a happier place, he wouldn’t need to go out, would he?’
Nell lugged her bucket into the bar. Mopping the floor was the finishing touch. If this was all she had to do each morning, she would be happy to come to work. She might even be proud of it.
She could already taste the bitter tang in her throat.
Mrs Stanley Hibbert, urinal scrubber.
Who was that knocking at dinner time? If it was one of those door-to-door salesmen, she would give him a piece of her mind. Nell removed the pan from the heat and took Alf to the door. The chilly morning had turned to sleet. One of the district nurses stood outside. She wore a dark-grey cloak over a grey dress with white collar and cuffs and she carried a large satchel. Her bicycle was propped up against the lamp post.
‘Mrs Hibbert?’ She smiled. She had a round face that was built to look cheerful. ‘I’ve come to see the baby.’
‘You what?’
‘The baby. I’m Nurse Beddow from the district.’
It wasn’t sleet in the air. It was little darts of surprise. ‘You’re six months early.’
Nurse Beddow looked at her blankly. ‘You’re Mrs Hibbert, aren’t you? Mrs Stanley Hibbert of …’ She pulled a sheet out of her satchel. ‘… of … oh, lummee.’
‘5 Lark Street. What’s the matter?’
The nurse laughed, an awkward sound. ‘Nothing. Um – nothing. Sorry, love, my mistake.’
‘Why am I on your list if—?’
She was talking to thin air. With a flash of leg and sturdy garter, the nurse flung herself onto her old boneshaker and pedalled furiously down the road, the bicycle bouncing on the cobbles.
‘Who was that, Mummy?’
‘That lady was a nurse.’
‘Am I poorly?’
‘Well, I don’t know, but poorly boys can’t manage toad-in-the-hole.’
‘I can eat toad-in-the-hole,’ cried Alf, darting down the hall to the kitchen.
Nell followed, smiling at his eagerness. Her Alf would walk on hot coals for a sausage. As he washed his hands in the scullery, she looked out of the window. The cat was there again. It was getting bolder. No, that wasn’t the right word. Hopeful – it was getting more hopeful. Poor cat. It would be pretty if it weren’t so scrawny. It was black, with eyes like gooseberries, and its coat was fuzzy, as if it had fluffed it up to keep warm. It gazed at her from the top of the coal bunker. She should never have started feeding it; but how could she have ignored it?
Soon Alf was at the table, face screwed up in concentration as he manipulated the child-sized knife and fork she insisted he hold correctly, even though Stan said it didn’t matter. She ate her bread and dripping slowly to fool her stomach into thinking it was more than it was. She would have her own toad-in-the-hole this evening with Stan, though her portion wouldn’t be much bigger than Alf’s.
‘What do mermaids eat, Mummy?’
While part of her brain wrestled with Alf’s question, another part dwelt on Nurse Beddow’s mistake. For someone at the district nurses’ station to draw up a journey list including a check on a baby that hadn’t been born yet was inept, to say the least; but in this case, it wasn’t inept so much as clairvoyant, because, after what happened last time, she hadn’t as yet told a living soul she was pregnant.
Nell wrapped her arms round her body, hugging herself in delight. It was time to tell Stan he was going to be a father again and she knew just how to do it. First she would puzzle him with the tale of Nurse Beddow, then say, ‘But someone down at that nurses’ place must have a crystal ball, because Nurse Beddow was right. It was just the date she got wrong.’
Her arms tightened: soon it would be Stan’s arms round her.
Thank you, Nurse Beddow.
There was no time to tell Stan when he came in from work. He chomped his way through his toad-in-the-hole and winter greens, practically inhaled the spotted dick and custard, downed a mug of sweet tea and headed out again.
‘It’s not opening time yet,’ she protested.
‘It will be by the time I get there.’
No, it wouldn’t. Was she now to have the shame of a husband who queued up outside the pub, champing at the bit for the doors to be unbolted? The front door slammed and he was gone. Nell sewed tassels onto a scarf she had knitted for Alf, then picked up her library book, but she couldn’t concentrate. A moth blundered around the lamp – the same as her thoughts, fixed on one important thing, unable to settle elsewhere.
Her excitement at telling Stan had evaporated. Would it return when he came home? It was gone eleven when the front door opened. She snatched up some stray wool and started winding.
‘Who did you drink with?’
‘The usual fellows. Bed?’
At the foot of the stairs, he unlaced his ankle boots, placing them on the corner of the third stair up. Pairs on the stairs, a Pringle tradition. With eight people crammed into their house, every bit of space had to made use of, and shoes were either on your feet or on the stairs. Nell, as youngest, had had the bottom stair, the position currently occupied by Alf in the Hibbert household; but soon he would move up one, as he should have done a couple of years ago, only Nell had suffered a miscarriage.
That was why it had felt important to keep this new pregnancy to herself. Last time, she had told Stan and Mrs Hibbert early on and had lost the baby a fortnight later, by which time Mrs Hibbert had already informed the world and his wife, and for weeks afterwards all kinds of women were stopping Nell in the street to ask how she was and when her happy event was expected. Even now the memory of stammering to women she knew only by sight, ‘Oh … I …’ set her heart pumping and sliding.
This time she had vowed to keep quiet until the third month was behind her. The three months weren’t up yet, but today provided the perfect opportunity to deliver her news. Was she taking a chance by telling Stan sooner than she had intended? She hoped not. He had been so upset by the miscarriage that she had felt impelled to put on a good show and had crawled out of bed and donkey-stoned her front step.
‘Poor Stan has took it bad,’ said Mrs Hibbert.
‘So have I,’ cried Nell.
‘Oh, you. Nowt much wrong with you. You was doing your step the next day.’
She would have to warn Stan not to tell his mother.
She popped her shoes onto the second step, with a telltale crackle of the newspaper that lined them. Stan’s boots were silent. The man of the house, the breadwinner, must be properly shod; and so must Alf. Plenty of kids went barefoot or shared shoes, but not her son, not while there was breath in her body, a stash of coins in the old tea caddy and Cherry Blossom in the boot-box.
She changed into her nightie, turned down the bed and picked up her hairbrush. Her hair was the colour of a moth’s wings: so Stan had said when she first knew him and she had felt startled to hear something about herself that was nothing to do with loss and bereavement, something that meant life was still there, waiting for her.
She hung up Stan’s shirt and slid beneath the bedclothes. The mattress dipped as Stan plonked down on the edge to peel off his socks and pull his pyjama jacket over his vest, his shoulder muscles rippling before disappearing beneath the blue-and-white stripes. He had been thin when they met. Strong, though, in a wiry way. He had filled out since.
‘Alf been good?’ His back was to her as he did up his buttons.
‘He helped me clean out the ash pan. He looked like a chimney sweep when he’d finished.’ She smiled: it was time. ‘Something funny happened.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘The district nurse turned up, asking to see the baby, and she had my name.’
Stan looked down, checking his buttons. She waited for his reaction.
‘Just a mistake, love. A daft mistake. You’d expect better of them nurses.’
Only he didn’t look round as he said it. Nell’s skin tingled. To look round, to frown, to laugh – that would have been natural. He hadn’t even answered immediately, which you would expect him to do if he was surprised.
She stared at his blue-and-white-clad back.
Stan knew. Something was going on and Stan knew.
Nell dropped Alf off with Mrs Hibbert, then went to the Royal Oak, where she made her excuses: she needed to see the doctor. Mr Page wasn’t pleased, but she was adamant. She set off at a brisk pace. What was she was doing? She didn’t know. And why was she doing it? Same answer. Don’t know and don’t know. All she knew for certain was that she was boiling with determination as she marched across town to the district nurses’ building, known for some reason as their station, which made them sound like railway porters. When she got there, she would … well, she would see about that when the time came.
The nurses’ station didn’t look all that big from the front, but it must stretch out at the back, because the nurses lived there as well. Poor creatures. Not much chance of meeting a fellow and settling down if you had to shin down a drainpipe to do your courting. Mind you, there was a shortage of men since the war, so maybe these lasses had done well for themselves, having bed and board provided. And no husband meant no one to drink the wages.
As she went in, the smell of disinfectant swarmed up her nose. There was a long corridor, its doors closed, except for one. Nell glanced in: an office, with a woman standing behind a desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. She wore a brown costume that was lifted out of the ordinary by gold buttons and braid, and shiny brown beads, a long set that almost reached her waist. Fancy wearing beads to work!
The woman looked at her in an equally assessing way but without the admiration. ‘Can I help you?’
Nell lifted her chin. She wouldn’t get a second chance at this. ‘One of the nurses came out to me yesterday, but there was a mix-up over the address. Please could you—’
‘Your name?’
‘Hibbert, Mrs Stanley.’
‘One moment.’ The woman flicked through the pages in a large notebook. ‘Hibbert … Hibbert. Nurse Beddow was down to see a Mrs Hibbert of 14 Vicarage Lane.’
Nell’s innards froze. ‘Mrs Stanley Hibbert?’
‘Mrs Stanley Hibbert of 14 Vicarage Lane. Is that incorrect?’
She cast an impatient glance at Nell. It pierced Nell’s natural respect for authority and made her feel impatient too.
‘I’ll let you know.’
A big bass drum boomed inside her chest.
14 Vicarage Lane.
Her feet took her through the market square and over the bridge. Courtesy of the dye-works, the river was running blue today, not a natural water-blue, but the colour of peacock feathers. Right colour, wrong shade. Like yesterday with Nurse Beddow. Right name, wrong address.
14 Vicarage Lane.
‘Oh, lummee,’ said Nurse Beddow’s voice in her head.
Vicarage Lane. It conjured up a picture of a winding path and butterflies dancing among the cow parsley, windows thrown open to the sunshine beneath a row of thatched roofs. Mind you, anyone might think the same of Lark Street. Vicarage Lane was pretty much like Lark Street, two long rows of old terraces, though the Vicarage Lane dwellings, being nearer the bottom of the hill, were older and smaller. Lower ceilings.
She ground to a halt at the corner. She wanted to dash home and hide. She wanted to march up Vicarage Lane and demand to know what the ruddy hallelujah was going on. She wanted to pretend Nurse Beddow had never come round, her and her ‘Oh, lummee’. She wanted to confront Stan, because he knew. Whatever it was, he knew. She wanted it to go away. She wanted it never to have happened.
Anything she wanted had flown out the window when Stan didn’t turn and look at her last night.
She forced her feet to take her to number 14.
Except for the number, it might have been her own front door. The same dark green. Someone walked over her grave. Even now it wasn’t too late to run away. Yes, it was. The moment Stan didn’t turn and look her in the eye last night, it was too late. She rapped hard on the door. A sound on the other side sent a sheen of fear blooming across her skin. The door swished open and there was an answering swish in her stomach.
She looked down at a fair-haired young woman. That was nothing new: she had been looking down at the other girls all her life. This stranger had the soft-edged plumpness that said a baby had recently been born. The tiredness in the face said the same thing, a blissful tiredness that hadn’t yet reached the exhausted stage.
Nell peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth. ‘Mrs Hibbert?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Are you married to …?’ Her voice failed her.
‘To Stan.’
Stan. Nell went trembly all over, as if she was about to crumple on the step.
The other Mrs Hibbert’s eyes widened. ‘There’s never been an accident at the works, has there?’
‘No, no.’ Was she actually reassuring this woman? ‘Does he work at the furniture factory?’
‘Aye, he’s an upholsterer.’
‘Do you work there too?’
‘Nay, I’ve not worked since we moved in here.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I say I haven’t, but running round after a two-year-old is harder than working on the factory line any day.’
A two-year-old? A two-year-old!
‘Who are you?’ asked Stan’s other wife. ‘Why are you asking after my husband?’
He’s not your husband. He’s my husband. Go on, say it. But she couldn’t. Didn’t want it said out loud, because that would make this situation real. And then it became more real than she could ever have imagined. A small child trotted down the hall to cling to his mummy’s skirt, thumb plugged into his mouth. A two-year-old with sandy hair and blue eyes like Stan.
Sandy hair and blue eyes like Alf.
Chapter Two
By the time Nell had walked up the hill, her marriage was over. No confrontation was needed, not with Stan’s fancy piece and not with Stan. There was nowt to say. Well, there was plenty to say, obviously, preferably while chucking the fire irons at Stan’s treacherous head, but what was the point? The marriage was over. She had to make plans.
She didn’t go into the house the front way, not wanting to be spotted by neighbours who would wonder what she was doing home at this time. Instead she sneaked up the back entry, lifting the latch on the wooden gate. The brown paint was peeling and now she knew why. The stray cat appeared from nowhere and tried to wind itself round her ankles, but she stepped away. A hopeful cat was the last thing she needed.
What she needed was a foolproof plan. What she needed was money. What she needed was a trustworthy husband, who could keep the family jewels inside his trousers.
She stopped dead, right there between the privy and the coal bunker. The world tilted up and down, side to side, forwards and backwards, all at the same time. Forget morning sickness. This was full-blown seasickness. Stan wasn’t having a fling. This was a long-standing relationship. With a house. And children. Children – plural. Another marriage. Another Mrs Hibbert, who was a housewife, if you please, while the real Mrs Stanley Hibbert waded through phlegm and vomit and excrement and scrubbed out stinking urinals in a backstreet piss-house, and that was bad language, and that was wrong even if it wasn’t out loud. Sorry, Mum.
She lurched to the back door, her knees as feeble as underdone rice pudding. She bent to retrieve the spare key from under the flowerpot. The cat appeared and she swatted it away, though not hard. She couldn’t abide cruelty or bullying. Thank goodness she had her gloves on. Bare fingers might have felt how cold the cat was. She couldn’t be responsible for it.
She let herself into the scullery and leant against the sink. Through the window she saw the back gate, brown and peeling. Her heart froze.
‘That back gate could do with a lick of paint,’ she had suggested shortly after Stan had painted the front door. ‘There’ll be enough left over from the front.’
‘Nice idea, love, but there isn’t enough paint.’
‘Is that you trying to get out of doing a job, Stan Hibbert?’ She slid her arms round his waist and snuggled close. Sometimes Stan took a bit of persuading.
‘Nay, love, there isn’t enough.’
And there wasn’t, either. Later, she found the tin on a shelf in the cellar and prised the lid off with a screwdriver, and Stan was right. The tin was almost empty. She must have been mistaken. It was the only explanation.
No, it wasn’t. It was merely the obvious explanation. More obvious than Stan buggering off down the hill to tart up his other front door.
Bastard.
‘Bastard,’ she whispered.
Terrible word. Their Doug had said it once and Mum had washed his mouth out with soap. There was no stopping Mum when she was riled and never mind that Doug was a strapping fifteen-year-old bringing in a wage.
Talking of wages, Stan’s clearly hadn’t all gone across the bar at the Royal Oak. All this time, she had marvelled that the man who could drink the brewery dry didn’t have a vast beer gut. Now it turned out that he was just a common or garden cheating husband.
Well, no, not a common or garden cheat. A full-blown bigamous cheat with another wife and family and a second rent book. That was where the money had gone. That was why she had had to go out to work, to scrape by in Lark Street while Stan supported Vicarage Lane. The other Mrs Hibbert didn’t go out to work. Talk about adding insult to injury.
The other Mrs Hibbert stopped at home with her children.
She barged through the kitchen into the parlour, throwing her coat over the back of the armchair. First things first. She couldn’t do anything without money – no. That wasn’t first. She pounded upstairs into their bedroom. Her ears were crammed with the banging of her heart, but when she stood in front of the chest of drawers, the world fell silent, as though she had fallen into a snowdrift. She took out her little wooden box with the carved top. Grandpa had made it for Nan when they were fourteen. Inside lay Mum’s wedding ring. Nell twisted her own ring. She meant to remove it slowly, deliberately, in a moment of deep significance, but it stuck. Fury gripped her and she wrenched it off, almost taking the skin off her knuckle with it. It had meant the world to her, but Stan had rendered it worthless. But she still had a ring that meant the world. Her heart folded in half as she slipped on Mum’s ring. This was her wedding ring now – no, her respectability ring. Proof of widowhood.
She looked at her old ring. She felt like chucking it down the privy, but she wrapped it in a handkerchief and took it downstairs. Now for the money. She opened the sideboard drawer and slid her hand under the linen, feeling for the old frayed envelope containing a week’s spare rent, just in case. Stan didn’t know about it or about the Mazawattee tea tin at the back of the pantry, where she kept the odd coppers she saved. When your husband didn’t hand over his full pay packet, you learnt to hoard, sixpence here, tuppence there. Even a farthing made a difference. Occasionally, she emptied the tin and stashed the money in her post office savings account.
Then she opened the cupboard under the stairs, ducking her head so as not to crack it on the underbelly of the staircase as she reached for the old carpet bag. She took it into the parlour and dumped it on the table. The candlesticks, the clock: they must be worth summat. She stood them beside the bag. Her blue-and-white vase. Her heart gave a sharp creak inside her chest. The vase used to be Mum’s, and before that Nan’s. When Nell was a lass, Nan had kept it on a high-up shelf and Nell had gazed up at it, loving it even then. Her heart said not to part with it, but what did her heart know? Her heart had said to marry Stan.
What else? A couple of brass ornaments; a stack of sheet music from inside the piano stool. The framed studio portrait of her and Stan on their wedding day, herself skinny with grief but with hope shining in her eyes, Stan handsome in his uniform, and his mother on his other side. Honestly, who had their mother-in-law in their wedding photograph? But she had loved Olive Hibbert every bit as much as she had loved Stan back then.
‘Olive Hibbert, widow’, was how Mrs Hibbert had introduced herself when Stan had presented Nell to her.
Was she meant to say, ‘Nell Pringle, orphan’? That was what she was. Orphaned, everyone dead, her world blown apart. The bleakness had overwhelmed her and she dissolved into tears. Olive Hibbert took her into her arms. Stan put one arm round her, the other round his mother; and Nell had felt safe and loved and wanted in a way she had thought was lost to her for ever. Something stirred inside her broken Pringle heart and she knew she was going to be a Hibbert.
She turned the frame over to unclip the back and flipped the photograph out, depositing it – face up, face down, she didn’t look – on the mantelpiece before she reassembled the frame and popped it on the table. From the sideboard drawers she took the boxed set of fish knives, her table linen and spare antimacassars; from the cupboard underneath came the glass bowl she used for her Christmas trifle. How proud she had been to place a trifle on the table for the first time. How married she had felt.
Had Stan dreaded her trifle, her Christmas pudding, her tin of mince pies, knowing he would have to force down the same things all over again in his other house? How long had his so-called wife been in residence in Vicarage Lane? That little boy was two, so say Stan had met her a year before – that would have been almost as soon as he came home for good in 1919. That couldn’t be right. She must be mistaken.
But the child’s age proved it.
Nell dropped onto the wooden chair next to the sideboard. Two years ago, she had suffered her miscarriage. Stan had been expecting two children at the same time and she had lost hers. No wonder he had been stunned. Was it guilt that had floored him? Now he had done the double again, only this time he didn’t know about her baby. And never would. She would put his name on the birth certificate because she and the baby were entitled to that, but that would be the beginning and end of Stan’s involvement in this child’s life.
When she was gone, he and Mrs Vicarage Lane could have a dozen sandy-haired miniature Stanleys for all she cared, but her Alf would never know.
Dumping the carpet bag behind a crate in the yard round the back of the Royal Oak, Nell went round the front and let herself in. The tables wanted polishing, the floor hadn’t been swept, the ashtrays overflowed.
Mr Page was behind the bar. ‘There you are at last. Take your coat off and get fettling.’
‘I can’t. I’ve took bad ways.’
‘You look all right to me.’
‘I need medicine. Otherwise you won’t see me for a week, like as not.’
‘A week? You can’t be sick that long. Who’ll do the cleaning?’
‘If I get medicine, I’ll soon be back, but I can’t get it without my wages.’
‘I s’pose I’ve got no choice. You’ll not get nowt for today, mind.’
‘I wouldn’t expect it.’ Not from him, the old skinflint. Do someone a good turn? Henry Page? You must be joking.
The drawer of the cash register flew open and he pawed through the little boxes. ‘There y’are.’ He clattered a handful of change on the counter.
‘It’s a bob short.’
‘I’ll add it to your next pay.’
‘I’ll have it now, if it’s all the same to you.’
He slapped a shilling on the counter. ‘And who’s going to do the cleaning while you’ve took to your sickbed?’
‘Ask Mrs Page.’
Mr Page’s mouth dropped open. Mrs Page, with her swaying hips and powdered face, wouldn’t recognise a mop if one got up and bit her on the bum.
Nell left, letting the door swing shut behind her. She collected the carpet bag and headed down the hill, using the back alleys, praying no one she knew would see her skulking down to town. The backs of her eyes stung. Oh, the shame. She had never in her life set foot inside the pawnbroker’s. Mum must be turning in her grave.
Emerging into the market square, she held her head high, as if carrying a carpet bag was a perfectly natural thing to do, then dived into the side street where the three balls hung over a door. With a final glance round to ensure she wasn’t being watched, she went in.
The dark-suited pawnbroker stood behind a glass-topped counter, beneath which lay trays of medals, jewellery, cutlery, trinket boxes, christening spoons, you name it. Behind the counter were racks of clothes as well as shelves housing a mishmash of larger items, stuffed animals, wax fruit, boots, hat boxes, vases, kettles – kettles? How could anyone pawn their kettle? She couldn’t manage without hers.
‘I’ve a few things I’d like to … hand in.’
She emptied the carpet bag, putting her items on the counter, where the pawnbroker spread them out. She must look like a travelling pedlar.
‘Your husband’s suit. I normally take those in on Mondays, not Fridays.’ Did he think her another scrimping housewife, pawning the old man’s suit till Saturday afternoon, ready for church on Sunday? ‘… Fish knives, ivory-handled, velvet-lined case … carriage clock, eight-day movement … sheets, pillowcases … more of the same …’
‘Some of the sheets have been turned sides to middle, but there’s plenty of wear in them.’
‘The shroud-maker is always interested in decent sheets … assuming you don’t redeem them.’
How did he know? ‘How much will you give me?’
‘For the clock, twelve shillings; the candlesticks, ten shillings for the pair; the photograph frame, half a crown; with a redemption date of three months. I’ll write slips for these items while you unfold your sheets. I need to see their condition.’
‘I told you: sides to middle.’
‘I wish to see they’re unstained and free of holes. Don’t take offence, Mrs …?’ He must have caught her hesitation. ‘It’s seldom advisable to give the wrong name and address to the pawnbroker.’
‘Hibbert,’ she whispered. ‘Mrs Hibbert. 5 Lark Street.’
‘Now if you don’t mind …’
Unfolding her sheets when anyone might peer through the window made sobs rise in her throat, but she held them clenched there, determined not to give in.
The horrid business dragged on, her skin prickling as the slips mounted up.
‘And finally.’ He reached for the blue-and-white vase.
‘No!’
Her hand snaked along the counter to snatch it back. Pure instinct. Pure stupidity, more like. She needed the money. She needed every penny – every farthing. But she couldn’t part with Nan’s vase.
‘I’ve changed my mind.’ She stowed it inside the bag. ‘But there is one more thing.’
She gave him the handkerchief, watching as he unwrapped the gold ring. He glanced at her and she wanted to rip off her glove and cry, ‘That’s not my ring – this is my ring,’ just so he would know she was decent and respectable and not in need of pity.
Anger swelled inside her. Damn Stan. She had known he wasn’t the best husband in the world; his so-called drinking had brought her down to earth long since; but she had never deserved to be dragged down like this. The anger evaporated, leaving her cold and small. She felt no satisfaction as the pawnbroker counted out the money into her hand. She wanted to run and hide and wake up when everything had returned to normal.
‘Mrs Hibbert,’ he said as she turned to leave. ‘You’ve forgotten your slips. A word to the wise,’ he added when she made no move to take them. ‘If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, you should leave them in a prominent place in 5 Lark Street, as proof you haven’t stolen these articles.’
Stolen? Stolen? If Stan should dare lay any blame on her, after what he had done—
She stuffed the slips in her pocket and marched out.
‘You’re late. Where the heck have you been?’
Charming. Nell walked into her mother-in-law’s hallway, outwardly composed, inwardly – well, never mind. She was ignoring the inward things now. It was the only way to cope. She threw her arms wide as Alf ran to greet her, hugging him tighter than she had ever held him before. From now on, he had only one parent. She was filled with an acute sense of resolve. She would never let him down.
‘Nanny says you’re late.’
‘Just a bit.’
‘Nanny says it’s rude to be late.’
‘Does she?’ She looked at Mrs Hibbert. How many times had this battleaxe put her in her place?
Mrs Hibbert bridled. ‘Well, it is.’
‘Almost as rude,’ Nell said quietly, ‘as telling a little lad his mummy is in the wrong.’ Turning away from the gawp of astonishment, she released Alf. ‘Fetch your things, pie-can.’
Soon they were on the pavement. Mrs Hibbert stood on her step.
‘Thank you for looking after him,’ Nell said for the final time.
Mum would have said, ‘No thanks needed. He’s a little love.’
Mrs Hibbert said, ‘Aye, well.’ Nell had never worked out what that meant, only that it made her feel beholden.
‘Give Nanny a big hug.’
Hug him, hug him, you stupid woman. This is goodbye. You’ll be sorry in days to come that all you did was pat his head.
Or maybe not. She would be too busy blaming Nell.
Nell and Alf walked home, hand in hand, and went in. Would he notice the missing things? No, but he did notice the carpet bag.
‘What’s this for, Mummy?’
‘It’s a secret for now.’
‘Can I have three guesses?’
His excitement sent a wave of guilt washing over her. How could she take him away? He worshipped Stan.
She prepared dinner. It was meant to be mince and vegetables for Alf, and the same in a pie this evening for herself and Stan. Instead she made a pie for herself and Alf, and pasties for the journey. There was still mince left. Leave it for Stan? Not while there was a more deserving cause. She opened the door. The stray appeared, prancing on tiptoe. She put the plate down.
‘Make the most of it, cat. Muggins won’t be here to feed you tomorrow.’
It was time to get ready. Her heart turned over.
‘We’re going on an adventure,’ she told Alf.
‘Is Daddy coming?’
‘No, just you and me. Do you think you could wear your other jumper on top of this one? It’s a special way of packing, so you take as much as you can. And we’ll each have a blanket round our shoulders over our coats.’
‘Like cloaks. Can I bring the sword Daddy made me?’
It was extraordinary how you could tuck your life inside a carpet bag. Extraordinary and pitiful and scary. Stan deserved to rot in hell. Clothes. Knife, fork and spoon each; plates. A towel. The sheet from Alf’s bed – and he could carry his pillowcase with some things inside. Knitting needles, some things from her sewing box. As much food as she could cram into her shopping bag. Tins of sardines and peaches. Marmite. Evaporated milk. Bread and cheese wrapped in a tea towel. The tea caddy.
And the important things: Nan’s blue-and-white vase, Mum’s pitifully small collection of letters from the boys – dear heaven, what was she doing? She couldn’t leave. How would the boys find her if they came home? She had to be here.
But they would never come home. Neither would Vi. She knew it in her head. She wasn’t stupid. But her heart was stupid. Oh, her heart was stupid.
‘Mummy, the rag-and-bone man’s here. Is this it, Mummy? Is this our adventure?’
‘Yes, pie-can. Go and have a wee, please.’
She bustled him to the back door. Her heart was building up to exploding. She must be mad. Pulling on her coat, she drew the pawnbroker’s slips from the pocket and placed them on the mantelpiece, where the clock used to be.
‘Mummy, there’s a cat asleep on the coal bunker.’
‘It’s got a full tummy, that’s why it’s asleep. Coat, scarf, gloves, please.’
‘And my sword.’
‘And your sword.’
‘How do you know the cat has a full tummy?’
‘Now, please, Alf.’
She didn’t want to leave a note, but the slips weren’t enough. She wanted Stan to know. On the back of a slip, she wrote 14 Vicarage Lane and left it on the top of the pile.
‘Oh, lummee,’ said that damn nurse’s voice in her head.
‘Who does it belong to?’
‘What?’
‘The cat.’
‘Nobody.’
‘Then who fed it?’
‘I did.’
‘Will Daddy feed it while we’re having our adventure?’
‘Time to go. Mr Fry is taking us to the station.’
‘We’re going on a train?’
Charlie Fry took their meagre luggage, then lifted Alf onto the seat. Nell climbed up beside him.
‘Ready, missus?’
‘Yes—wait!’
She jumped down. It was a stupid idea. She had far too much else to worry about. She fetched her wicker basket, opened one side of its lid and lined the inside with a hand towel. Damn cat. She should never have fed it. She opened the back door.
‘Hey, cat.’ She stroked it gently. She hadn’t touched it before, not on purpose. ‘Do you want to go on an adventure?’
Chapter Three
Manchester, March, 1924
Posy dreaded Saturdays. You were meant to love them, to spend all week at school looking forward to them. And today was sunny and fine, which should make it better, but didn’t.
She spent the morning playing out. ‘Don’t come back till dinner,’ Ma had instructed, same as every other mum in their road, in the whole country, probably. Mums were always sending you out to play – well, except for Mrs Hibbert. She was different. She spent loads of time indoors playing with her Alf and Cassie, even though Gran said she worked all the hours God sent. Sometimes Gran called Alf and Cassie ‘them poor little mites’, because their mum had to go out to work, her being a widow. Being widowed young was reet buggeration, as Posy was well aware, having heard Mrs Watson next door to Gran say so.
Eh, she did like Mrs Hibbert. Fancy a mum playing with her nippers. She was careful not to say so at home, though.
‘Spoilt brats,’ was Dad’s opinion of the Hibbert children. ‘A nancy boy and a little madam in the making.’
Dad didn’t like Mrs Hibbert. He grumbled about her having her feet under Gran’s table, though at other times he would tell Ma, ‘That Hibbert female is lucky to have a roof over her head, Hilda. The least she can do is fettle for your parents and save you traipsing over there all the time. Your place is here, looking after your husband and home.’
And daughter. Posy had waited for him to say ‘and daughter’, but he didn’t. Maybe that was what grown-ups meant when they said eavesdroppers never heard good of themselves. Not that she was an eavesdropper, as such. Eavesdroppers listened on purpose, but she couldn’t help it. With Dad and Ma sitting in the armchairs by the kitchen range, and her sleeping in the scullery, she couldn’t help overhearing. It wasn’t her fault if they assumed she fell asleep the instant she put her head down. Frankly, she wished she could. It wasn’t any great pleasure lying on the board Dad had made to go over the sink, with her legs on the wooden draining board, even though she had a cushion to go under her head and a blanket to wrap herself in.
Whatever Dad thought of Mrs Hibbert, Posy thought she was wonderful. Imagine it – a mum who had been known to play out with the children. She would never have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes one Saturday when she was at Gran and Gramps’s. All the kids in Finney Lane were playing out as usual and Mrs Hibbert had played cricket with them; and by crikey, could she bowl. Afterwards, at the tea table, she had said summat about growing up with older brothers.
Mrs Hibbert was the biggest kid of the lot, according to Gran, though she never said so in front of Dad; but Gran knew she could say it to Posy. She and Gran understood one another. She wished she lived closer to Gran and Gramps instead of a bus ride away, especially now Gramps was poorly.
If only they had enough room to bring Gran and Gramps to live with them, but they had only the downstairs – the front room, which was Dad and Ma’s bedroom, the kitchen and the scullery. The house belonged to Mr Warren, who lived upstairs – well, it didn’t belong to him, as in owning-belonging. He rented it and he did something called subletting the downstairs to Dad.
Dad didn’t like living under another man’s roof, but he liked it that Mr Warren had put a runner down the hall and up the stairs.
‘It shows the neighbours we’re better than they are,’ he said, as though the strip of carpet was his personal property.
He liked to go for a walk on a Saturday morning too, just in case anyone forgot that he finished work on a Friday, unlike Mr Unwin and Mr Rutledge who worked in shops, and Mr Greaves and his son who were road menders, and Mr Grey who worked in the sorting office. He never actually said that was the reason for his weekly walk, but from the way he puffed out his chest, Posy knew.
That was where Dad was now, having his Saturday morning strut.
Saturday.
Posy dreaded Saturdays.
Posy’s throat hurt, as if the tough bristles on the clothes brush were lodged in her gullet, making it difficult to eat, even though it was potato rissoles, which was one of her favourites, especially the way Ma made them, with the green bits off the spring onions, the way Gran had taught her. Gran was the best cook in Lancashire, according to Gramps.
She forced in another forkful and tried to chew, but it felt rubbery in her mouth. She ended up chewing too much and it went mushy and tasteless and she didn’t want to swallow it. She dipped her head down so Ma and Dad wouldn’t see her pulling faces.
‘Eat up, Posy.’ Ma sounded more fretful than encouraging. ‘Dad wants his pudding.’
Posy struggled on. Afterwards there was treacle pudding to plough through. Any other day, she would have emptied her bowl, but not today. After dinner, she sat at the table while Dad and Ma had a cup of tea. At last Ma removed the cups and Dad held out a ha’penny on the palm of his hand. Posy always felt as though her hand would vanish inside Dad’s, because his were big and square. He was a big man, was Dad, which was odd when you thought about it, because other dads were taller.
Off she went. Other kids were emerging from their houses; so were those who wouldn’t have had a meal because there wasn’t the money, but they went indoors anyroad for the sake of appearances. Games of marbles and hopscotch started up. A couple of lads walked up and down, arms slung round each other’s shoulders, singing, ‘Hands in the band for staggy … hands in the band for staggy …’ It wouldn’t take long for others to join in. Posy was good at staggy, darting about, keeping out of the way of getting caught; and when she was caught, she was good at running with her partner to catch others. Fleet of foot, Gran called her, which made it sound like her feet were in the navy, but Posy knew what Gran meant.
She had to pass three corner shops before she arrived at the sweet shop. Inside, it smelt of wooden floorboards and sweetness, sugary, fruity, sharp. You wouldn’t think there could be so many kinds of sweetness, but there were. The smell of the sweet shop used to make her mouth go moist with anticipation. Now it made it go dry.
Two youngsters were oohing over the penny tray with its array of sugar mice, bootlaces, shrimps, blackjacks and fruit salads. Lucky beggars. The glass jars of sweets were all very well, but everyone knew the penny tray was the best thing in the shop.
All too soon it was her turn.
‘What would you like?’ asked Mr Bennett. ‘As if I need ask,’ he added in a jokey voice.
‘A quarter of caramels, please.’
He took the jar from the shelf. Positioning himself behind the scales, he put the weight on one side and tipped the jar over the dish until the two sides were level.
How many? Please, please.
He returned the jar to its place between the rhubarb and custards and the lemon drops before flicking open a little cone-shaped white paper bag and holding it against the pointy end of the weighing dish. Posy raised herself on her toes, trying to count as the sweets tumbled into the bag. She tried every week, but she never managed.
Mr Bennett folded the top of the bag. ‘A ha’penny, please.’
Posy handed him the coin and then took the bag. It was crisp in her fingers. She said thank you and left the shop.
She carried the bag with care, not so loosely that she was in danger of dropping it, but not tightly for fear of crumpling it. She suffered the weekly temptation of opening it, but if she did, the folded-over top would lose its sharp edge. Her fingers twitched, wanting to feel the caramels through the paper, but the bag must get home in pristine condition to show she hadn’t tampered with it.
When she arrived, Dad was reading the paper and she had to wait. Her legs felt hollow and her brain buzzed. At last Dad stood up. He held out his hand, as big as a spade. Goosebumps chilled Posy’s arm as she gave him the bag. The look he gave her nailed her to the floor. He went to the table. A dark green oil cloth covered the table between meals. A glass vase with silly little pretend-handles that you would be lucky to get a finger through stood in the middle, filled with daffodils. The paper cone rustled as Dad emptied it, letting the caramels in their see-through wrappers slide out, each one landing with a tiny tapping sound.
Here they come, one two three, please please, four five, please please …
Buggeration.
Not six, not six. Not not not six six six.
Dad looked at her and she knew how it felt to be a caramel, because when you popped one in your mouth, it went all soft and melty and you could use your tongue to stretch it. That was how the bones in her arms and legs felt now, soft and waxy and incapable. She would never be able to move again in her whole life.
‘Five caramels. When will you learn? Rupert should know what you’ve done. Go and fetch him.’
And even though her legs were soft and melty, even though she couldn’t move, Posy went.
Chapter Four
‘Nell Hibbert! Why do you do that? You want your bumps feeling.’
With a glance after Mr Flynn’s stooped figure as he loped away, and another to ensure Miss Lockwood had her back to them as she scrutinised Mildred Shaw’s seams, Nell looked across the aisle to where Elsie Jones sat behind the next sewing machine.
‘Keep your voice down.’ Her fingers hovered over the polka-dotted navy cotton, ready to feed it through the machine the instant they finished their illicit chat.
‘You carry that bloke, you know you do. You know it, he knows it, we all flaming know it. Without you handing him the work rosters on a plate, he’d end up getting the sack.’
‘And then I could step into his job, I suppose.’
‘You’d be a darned sight better at it than he is.’
‘Except I wouldn’t get it, would I? It’d go to another man.’
Why did the world assume it was just men who needed good jobs? Yes, Mr Flynn had a wife and family to support, and yes, he had left his nerves behind in Flanders, but she had responsibilities too. A young widow with children needed a decent income every bit as much as a family man did.
A young widow. She almost believed it herself. Mrs Stanley Hibbert, runaway wife of that bigamous cheat, was another person. She was Mrs Nell Hibbert now, hard-working widow, and Respectable was her middle name.
She turned back to her machine. Let alone she couldn’t afford the fine should she be caught nattering, she was on piecework. As she fed the bodice pieces through, the polka dots blurred into pinstripes. She was a skilled machinist, having taken to machine-sewing as if she had been born to it. She loved the fabrics, the serviceable flannel and supple wools, silky rayon and light-as-air Crêpe de Chine. She was even trusted with velvet and the best satin.
Miss Lockwood, who had been the overseer in this workshop since dinosaurs roamed the earth, thought highly of her.
‘You’re one of the best girls I’ve ever had,’ she had said: you could be sixty and you’d still be a girl if you worked a machine.
It was high praise, but you were only as good as your last garment and Nell put all her concentration into every one of hers. She was a Pringle and the Pringles were grafters.
Sometimes she wished she had changed her name back to Pringle when she arrived in Manchester. If Alf had been younger, she might have; but he had known he was a Hibbert. As loving and amenable as ever, he didn’t seem to have suffered through not having a father, for which Nell was grateful every time – God forgive her – Alf told someone his daddy was dead.
It had been the only way. How else was she to explain Stan’s absence? To start with, Alf had accepted that the adventure was just for the two of them – plus the cat.
