The Surplus Girls' Orphans Page 12

  Jacob had spent much of his school life at the front, in the bad boys’ desks. Not that he had ever kicked up a stink in class, but no one was prepared to take a chance on Thad Layton’s brother. But with Thad gone, Jacob had been moved to the middle. No longer viewed as bad, and neither clever nor a dunce. Just one of the crowd. A nothing. A nobody.

  This being Cuffy’s birthday, Cuffy stood on the form while sixty voices sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and roared out three cheers. Then Miss Kirby invited Cuffy to the front of the classroom. Miss Kirby had retired, but Miss Fowler was off sick so Miss Kirby had been asked back. She was as old as the hills. She had taught Jacob’s oldest sister Belinda in the olden days before the war.

  The teachers had two chairs. There was the tall one behind the raised-up desk and an ordinary one. Miss Kirby sat on this and waved the birthday slipper. Leaning over, Cuffy balanced his stomach across Miss Kirby’s knees, his legs wobbling on mid-air.

  ‘Ready,’ said Miss Kirby. ‘And…’

  The class bellowed out the numbers as Miss Kirby gently spanked Cuffy once for each year of his life, plus one extra.

  ‘…ten…eleven…twelve, and one for luck, THIR-TEEN!’

  A rosy-faced Cuffy righted himself and returned to his place, soaking up the applause. Some of the kids came from pretty awful families and the birthday slipper was the only acknowledgement their birthdays received, but Cuffy was one of the lucky ones. He had been given a bag of marbles and his mum had made ginger biscuits.

  Cuffy’s birthday spanking lifted Jacob’s spirits, protecting him until afternoon playtime from the inevitable school-day dread of what might happen on his way home. He hadn’t clapped eyes on Shirl since last week. Might Shirl have lost interest in him? Forgotten him? It was stupid to let hope flutter in his belly, but he couldn’t help it. He was a nobody at school now. Why couldn’t he be a nobody outside school an’ all?

  But on the way home, Shirl fell in step beside him and the flutter twisted into a tight knot. Of course Shirl wasn’t going to let him off the hook. He had been a twit to imagine it even for a second.

  ‘How are you, Jemima? Keeping your pecker up?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ He tried to sound off-hand, as if he and Shirl were mates, as if Shirl’s company didn’t put him in danger of pissing himself.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ On his chin Shirl had an angry red spot with a juicy yellow centre that begged to be squeezed. ‘Not had any more mad ideas about leaving our happy band, eh?’

  ‘Course not.’ He tried to laugh. It came out as a feeble croak.

  ‘Good for you, Jemima. I’m glad you’ve seen sense. Only, you know what happens to them what walk away, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you knew. Let me tell you. You know that lad what got hit by a tram?’

  ‘Aye. He didn’t go to our school, but we had an assembly about not larking around on the roads; and Mrs Rostron at the orphanage had a go at us an’ all. Why? Was he one of your gang?’

  ‘Yep, he were one o’ mine until he decided not to help out no more. And then…’ Shirl drew the side of his hand across his throat.

  ‘What? Nah…’ Nah was one of Thad’s words. When Thad said it, it was defiant and scornful. Emerging from Jacob’s suddenly trembling lips, it sounded like a fart gone wrong. ‘You mean, you…?’

  ‘Me? Did I say it were me? Don’t you go making accusations, Jemima, or you’ll get yourself into trouble. Just take it as a friendly warning. Now listen. I’m a reasonable bloke. The people I work with are reasonable. I’ve told them you want to part company with us and they’re sympathetic.’

  ‘But you just said—’

  ‘You’re not paying attention. I said that lad decided to leave, without permission. That in’t allowed. But you’re being given the chance to leave, only you have to give us summat, as payment, like.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘It’s dead easy. There are plenty of kids in that orphanage. We need another recruit. You find me a new lad and maybe you’ll be allowed to leave.’

  ‘Maybe? But you said—’

  ‘If you don’t find me a recruit, you’d best watch out for yourself in traffic. Ta-ta, Jemima.’

  Shirl strode away, which was just as well because Jacob couldn’t have carried on walking beside him. His knees had turned to blancmange. Had Shirl’s gang really shoved that boy in front of the tram? He couldn’t believe it. But what if it was true? He trailed miserably to St Anthony’s. He ought to be planning what to do, but his head was packed tight with fog and terror.

  As he went indoors, he saw Daniel Cropper. Cropper would sell his grandmother’s soul to get to Southport. He had run away and been dragged back several times. His problem was that to reach Southport, he needed money. If he had that, he could run away properly. Would he mind how he came by the money? Not if he was desperate.

  ‘Cropper! Daniel Cropper!’ Jacob started after him. ‘Hang on a mo. I’ve got summat to ask you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  WHEN THE MISS Heskeths invited Molly back to their house a few days after her interview, her heart soared when they confirmed she could have a room, only to plummet into her shoes a moment later when Miss Patience explained, ‘It’s rather small, I’m afraid, not even a bedroom, really. It’s the box-room, but if you don’t mind having limited space, you’re welcome.’

  From one windowless box-room to another. Was it worth it? Yes. She needed independence and Mum and Dad would never agree to her moving into a soulless bed-sitting room. Neither would she wish to. She had read about the dreaded phenomenon of bedsit-itis in Vera’s Voice, the loneliness endured by surplus girls who had no family to live with and, on women’s wages, no spare money to put towards building a social life.

  Maybe something showed in her face, because Miss Patience said in her kindly way, ‘You can’t decide without seeing it. Let me show you.’

  Molly trailed upstairs behind her. All the doors were shut, unlike at home where the Watsons automatically left doors a few inches ajar. Miss Patience opened a door and stood aside.

  ‘We recently had the idea of turning the box-room into a bedroom for a pupil-lodger and I’ve made it as pleasant as I can.’

  Molly peered in, expecting to see a replica of her own room.

  ‘It has a window,’ she exclaimed. She felt a rush of ridiculous excitement. A box-room with a window, and a decent-sized window at that, with two panes, one that was fixed and one – oh bliss – that opened.

  Miss Patience looked crestfallen. ‘I thought you might comment on the bedspread or the pictures. We even managed to squeeze in a dressing-table, so you can have a proper looking-glass. Of course that means there’s no room for a hanging cupboard, but there are hooks and hangers behind this curtain.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Molly assured her.

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  Molly took a chance. ‘Was the dressing-table your idea?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was. My sister thought a hanging cupboard would be more practical.’

  Prudence the practical and Patience the dreamer. That seemed to sum it up. Miss Patience had gone to some trouble to fix up the new bedroom. In its days as a box-room, it certainly wouldn’t have contained those floral curtains or that rug. It was all a bit of a squash, admittedly, but it was appealing – and it was hers.

  ‘I’d love to take it. I don’t want to be cheeky, but would you mind if I had shelves put up? It would be at no cost to you. My dad runs a building company. He or my brother would be happy to do the job.’

  ‘I see no reason why not, but we’ll have to ask my sister.’

  Another door opened and Mrs Atwood appeared.

  ‘Do you like the room? It’s rather darling, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m taking it.’

  ‘Mrs Atwood, might I prevail upon you to entertain Miss Watson for a few minutes?’ asked Miss Patience. ‘Just while I ask my sister about the shelves,’ she explained to Molly before she
headed downstairs.

  ‘Come and see my room,’ Mrs Atwood offered.

  It was the large bedroom at the front of the house. It had a bay window and was handsomely furnished with matching bedstead, wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing-table. The bed was a double. Crikey. Mrs Atwood had made the room her own by throwing a fringed shawl over the back of a wicker chair, adding a set of china trinket-dishes to the dressing-table and standing a row of books along the back of the chest of drawers. A teddy bear and a formally dressed doll with real hair perched on one of the pillows. Were the art nouveau pictures hanging from the picture-rails hers too?

  ‘It’s a beautiful room,’ said Molly.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m showing off by dragging you in here when you’ve just been offered the old box-room.’

  ‘Not one bit. I’m just glad there’s space for me. But this is rather splendid.’

  ‘It belonged to the ladies’ late father, I believe. He passed away not so long ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s it like living here?’

  Mrs Atwood smiled. ‘Pretty formal, but you’ll get used to it. Miss Hesketh is a stickler for full decorum. I think she finds it hard having p.g.s. She’s not the sort to unbend, so the atmosphere can be rather stuffy and topics of conversation are decidedly safe – books, the weather – in Miss Hesketh’s presence, I mean. When it’s Miss Patience on her own, things ease up.’

  A wave of emotion passed over Molly. It was going to be a big step to leave home, to leave the place where she had always felt so comfortable, not just because Mum made the house attractive and cosy, but because the family got on so well. Living somewhere where decorum was the order of the day promised to be a considerable change.

  But she knew it was the right thing to do.

  *

  At home, Mum helped her pack.

  ‘Clothes and a few knick-knacks,’ said Mum. ‘Everything else will be waiting for you when you come back.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Just make sure you do well in your studies, so you fly through the course and come home soon. I’ll miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too. Thanks for letting me do this.’

  ‘You’re over twenty-one. I can’t stop you.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I – I need some breathing space.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel you need to leave,’ said Mum.

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ Molly reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Everything’s topsy-turvy at the moment. This will help it settle down.’

  ‘It’ll get you away from everyone trying to make you change your mind about Norris, you mean.’

  ‘That’s part of it, yes,’ Molly admitted, ‘but it’s exciting too. It’s time I had a change.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Mum adopted a mock-offended voice.

  ‘Not from you.’ Molly gave her a hug. ‘I never want a change from you.’

  Mum returned the hug. ‘Make sure you tell your dad that an’ all.’

  They finished the packing and went downstairs, leaving the suitcase on the bed for Tom to bring down. Dad stood up as Molly entered the parlour.

  ‘Well, lass, I have to say this isn’t how I pictured you leaving home.’

  ‘It’s only while I do this course and I’ll be popping round to see you. You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

  Dad took her hands. ‘I used to think I’d stop worrying about my children once they grew up, but I never have.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: this has made me the biggest worry of all.’

  ‘Getting wed is what girls are meant to do, Molly, but,’ Dad went on with a wry smile, ‘you’re not a giddy youngster with nowt between her ears. Work hard at your course and make Mum and me proud, and then come home to us, eh? Back where you belong.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ She tried to blink back the tears as Dad enfolded her in his strong arms.

  Tom appeared, dumping the suitcase on the floor. ‘Is this a private hug or can anyone join in?’ Crossing the room in two strides, he threw his arms around the two of them, not spoiling the emotion of the moment but adding to it with his sturdy good humour. ‘Come on, Mum, you too.’ He drew her into the family embrace. ‘Let’s send our Molly on her way with a big hug.’

  At the office, when Molly handed in her change of address, it wasn’t long before Mrs Wardle, silk blossom swaying on her hat, pounced on her.

  ‘There you are, Miss Watson.’ Mrs Wardle made it sound as if Molly had just crept back in after a disgracefully long dinner-hour, when in fact she had been at her desk almost all day. ‘I’m disappointed that you failed to see fit to inform me personally of your new address, but I suppose the lapse is no more than I’ve learned to expect from you.’

  Concern flickered inside Molly. Should she have told Mrs Wardle? Or was Mrs Wardle simply taking the opportunity to have a dig at her?

  Mrs Wardle sighed dramatically. The blossom shimmered. ‘Evidently an apology is too much to hope for. Ah well. Since you are now residing under the same roof as Mrs Atwood, I no longer deem it appropriate for the two of you to work closely together. In future, until you can be trusted to work alone, assuming that time ever comes, you will accompany me.’

  Molly smiled. It wasn’t easy. The muscles around her mouth felt like stone.

  ‘I look forward to working alongside you, Mrs Wardle.’

  Mrs Wardle frowned and shook her head. Blossom fluttered. ‘Really, Miss Watson, you shall have to learn to speak more clearly. For a moment, it almost sounded as if you said you were going to work alongside me, whereas, as you are fully aware, you shall be working under me.’

  Oh, how true that was! Accompanying Mrs Atwood on her visits had been a pleasure. Working alongside – sorry, under Mrs Wardle was very different. When Mrs Wardle said ‘under’, that was precisely what she meant. Mrs Atwood had, while providing guidance, treated Molly as an equal, asking her opinion and providing her with the necessary background information before they went anywhere, enabling her to contribute effectively to the visit. Not so Mrs Wardle. She shared nothing in advance, which made Molly feel rather a twit in front of the people they went to see.

  ‘I’ll say one word to you,’ Mrs Atwood whispered. ‘Post-trolley!’

  Molly remembered Mrs Atwood intercepting the post. ‘And I’ll say one word to you. Diary!’

  Sneaking looks at Mrs Wardle’s leather-bound diary that lay importantly on her desk meant she could ask Mrs Atwood or look up information that would enable her to be of use.

  Not that Mrs Wardle gave her many opportunities.

  ‘Observe and learn,’ was Mrs Wardle’s customary command, generally followed by a weary-sounding, ‘in so far as you’re capable.’

  Molly fumed, but kept her frustration to herself. Even Mrs Wardle couldn’t keep her as a trainee for ever. The more she held her tongue, the sooner she would be set free to work independently.

  Keeping quiet wasn’t easy, though. When she accompanied Mrs Wardle to see Mrs Fletcher, she was appalled by Mrs Wardle’s attitude, which was a mixture of patronising and dismissive.

  ‘My good woman, what a stroke of luck for you that your appearance before the Panel had to be postponed.’

  ‘Postponed?’ Molly hadn’t known that.

  ‘Indeed, yes. Two of the members were unable to attend as they were invited to lunch with the Lord Lieutenant.’

  ‘I assume these two members are former Guardians,’ said Molly.

  ‘Naturally. Board of Health people are hardly likely to receive the honour of such an invitation.’

  ‘Neither would they be able to abandon their work responsibilities if they did.’

  Mrs Wardle gave her a hard look. So, it seemed, did her glassy-eyed fox-fur. ‘What a nasty little mind you have, Miss Watson. I despair of teaching you anything. Mrs Fletcher, you know perfectly well that the Panel will take a dim view of your owning this photograph. I instruct you to sell it.’ Her beady eyes skimmed the damp room with distaste. ‘D
o you have any other possessions that the Panel should know about? Speak up! It won’t go in your favour if you keep secrets.’

  Mrs Fletcher’s fingers tangled together. ‘Mrs Atwood said—’

  ‘Oh – Mrs Atwood. I shouldn’t pay attention to her, if I were you, Mrs Fletcher. I have had this kind of authority for many years and she’s a beginner, and a flighty one at that, full of her own ideas. These modern girls! All I can say is, it’s a great pity her husband died. Taking care of a husband and children would have kept her busy and out of the workplace, leaving those of us with years of charitable experience to deal with the poor and destitute.’ An elaborate sigh. The buttercups on her hat trembled. ‘As I was saying before you interrupted me, Mrs Fletcher, that photograph has to go.’

  ‘But it’s a picture of Mrs Fletcher’s former employer’s mother,’ said Molly. ‘It has great sentimental value.’

  ‘If Mrs Fletcher had wanted to indulge in sentiment, she should have made a better choice of husband. Mrs Fletcher, do you have other possessions of which the Panel should be aware?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Don’t beat about the bush. It will go badly for you if you withhold information.’

  ‘I have a brooch,’ Mrs Fletcher whispered.

  ‘A brooch? Was it your intention to hide this from me? Sell it.’

  ‘Mrs Wardle,’ said Molly, ‘with the greatest respect, your advice to Mrs Fletcher overturns what Mrs Atwood and I agreed to do last time.’

  ‘Miss Watson, you forget yourself. Firstly, I do not give advice to these people; I issue instructions. Secondly, you personally agreed to nothing because you have no authority; and thirdly, Mrs Atwood is a bleeding-heart social reformer, who views these people through rose-tinted spectacles instead of seeing them for what they really are.’

  ‘What they really are is decent folk in need of a helping hand.’

  ‘A helping hand? A firm hand. First and foremost, a firm hand and a stiff talking-to. Only after that should they be given assistance, on the strict understanding that it will be removed if they don’t prove themselves to be clean, sober, hard-working and grateful. Or perhaps you think cleanliness, sobriety, diligence and gratitude are old fashioned.’