The Surplus Girls' Orphans Page 6

  But it was the smaller Layton brother who caused Aaron more concern – young Jacob. There was something vulnerable about him. But Aaron knew he had to be careful. Since taking up his post here after the war, he had interested himself in the daily life of St Anthony’s above and beyond his duty as caretaker, something that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Mrs Rostron.

  ‘It’s one thing to take a group of children to the rec for a game of rounders, Mr Abrams,’ she had cautioned him, ‘quite another to take a personal interest. Children are quick to perceive – and resent – any suggestion of favouritism. For a member of staff, personal involvement in a child’s life is not appropriate and I will not permit it.’

  A couple of times since then, he had had to pull himself back from getting involved in a tragic case. Mrs Rostron wouldn’t thank him for overstepping the mark – or, more likely, her ‘thanks’ would take the form of dismissing him.

  But it didn’t hurt to chat to the kids, did it, as long as he didn’t single out one in particular. He often exchanged a few words with one child or another, or with a group of them, as they were clattering about after breakfast, getting ready to set off for school. The Laytons set off earlier than everyone else, because, while all the other St Anthony’s children went to school in Chorlton, Mikey and Jacob had previously lived in Stretford and Mrs Rostron had elected to leave them at their old school until the end of the school year, which was just a few weeks away.

  Finding Jacob Layton – yes, all right, having gone looking for Jacob Layton, Aaron spotted him, cap on, ready for school, hovering by a door that was open onto the playground. Cool air streamed in, summoning up a tingle in Aaron’s bloodstream. He much preferred being outdoors to inside.

  ‘Waiting for your brother?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Settling in here? Making friends?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full, sir. Well, what answer had he expected to such a bland question? ‘Are you any good at cricket? I have a bit of a knock-about sometimes of an evening with the boys.’

  ‘I’m not much good. I can’t catch.’

  ‘It just takes practice. I take a group to the rec now and then. You might like it. Sometimes I organise rounders and the girls come too.’

  ‘Girls?’

  ‘Aye, and they’ve been known to slaughter the boys. I know it’s tough moving into a new place, but you’ll soon be part of the furniture…if you make an effort.’

  That got the boy’s attention. He jammed his elbows into his sides, as if to make himself as small as possible. ‘I’m trying, sir, just like Mrs Rostron said.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Aaron said gently. ‘I only meant that settling in properly is partly a matter of attitude.’ But here was a chance to refer to Jacob’s wider situation and he took it. ‘I know about your other brother, the one who was sent to the reformatory, and I know you’re under orders to mend your ways or else Mrs Rostron will send you there too. A piece of advice. You want to follow a big brother’s lead? Follow Mikey’s – Michael’s. He’s a good sort.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The lad started to roll his eyes, then thought better of it. His face closed up. He had probably heard that particular piece of advice a hundred times recently, from his mum and his oldest siblings, who were out at work and fending for themselves, probably from his teacher and headmaster as well. Most impressive of all, he would have heard it from Mrs Rostron.

  Mikey Layton came running downstairs, face cheerful beneath his school cap.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ said Aaron with a grin. ‘Off you go, lads.’

  Watching them hurry away, Aaron couldn’t help linking Jacob Layton to Danny Cropper. Two troubled boys. Should he encourage a friendship between them? Or might that lead to more problems? Wouldn’t he do better to leave well alone? Mrs Rostron would warn him off, and quite rightly.

  But nothing would stop him wanting the best for every child or looking for ways to achieve it. That was how he coped with the war, with what he had seen, what he had done – what he had been obliged to do. He had experienced the world at its worst and the only thing that could possibly make sense of what he and hundreds of thousands of ordinary men like him had seen and done was to make the world a kinder place for the children growing up in it.

  He could have returned to his old job as a carpenter, and done well from it, but that was no longer enough. Some might see his role as caretaker of St Anthony’s as a step backwards for a skilled craftsman, but he didn’t view it like that. To his mind, it was a way to contribute to the well-being of the next generation, especially here, in this environment, where the children had already lost so much.

  What could be more important than finding ways to make these children’s lives a little easier?

  Dressed as he was, Aaron couldn’t knuckle down to work properly, but there was some measuring he needed to do and he got on with that until it was time to set off for Upton’s and return the money. Then Danny’s misdemeanour could be forgotten. The lad deserved another chance. He was another one going through a tough time.

  The shop-bell jingled above Aaron’s head as he walked into the shop. Sweetness smacked him in the face. He caught the succulent aromas of butterscotch, boiled sweets, treacle toffee and fudge, together with a waft of mint and aniseed, beneath which lurked the darker scent of liquorice. Behind the counter, the girl from yesterday was up a wooden stepladder, examining the quantities of sweets in the row of glass jars on the top shelf, while an older man with thin, oiled hair and a grey moustache, presumably Mr Upton, jotted in a notebook.

  They both turned to look at him. The girl’s hair swung at chin-length, an unusual colour, not fair, not red. Her eyes were an unusual colour too. They were hazel, but not the usual brown-hazel, more of a greeny-hazel, and her skin was creamy-smooth. She was still young enough to be referred to as a girl, though a chap of the same age would flatten you for calling him a boy. That bibbed white apron was unflatteringly bulky, but it nipped in where it was tied, showing how trim her waist was. Aaron’s heart bumped.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mr Upton. ‘What may I get you?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve come with an apology.’ He looked up at the girl. He had an odd hollow feeling in his chest.

  Her eyes widened in surprise – and then narrowed accusingly. ‘It’s you.’ With a toss of her chin, she directed her gaze on Mr Upton. ‘This is the man I told you about from the other sweet shop.’ She clattered down the stepladder.

  Mr Upton frowned. ‘I don’t recognise you, sir.’

  Aaron addressed the girl. ‘So that’s why you were upset yesterday.’ He smiled at her. This was going to make the explanation easier, friendlier. He wanted her to feel friendly towards him. ‘I don’t have a sweet shop. My name’s Abrams. I’m the caretaker at St Anthony’s.’

  ‘But you had that penny tray.’

  ‘I’d just been up the road and bought it.’

  ‘The entire tray?’

  ‘I knew one of the collecting-boxes had gone astray—’

  ‘Been stolen,’ said Mr Upton.

  ‘I didn’t want the children to miss out, so I bought a penny tray. When you bumped into me, I was taking it to the kitchen for the children to have later. It wasn’t my intention to upstage you.’

  ‘I see.’ Discomfort stained her face, highlighting her fine cheekbones. ‘Then I’m the one who ought to apologise.’

  ‘Not at all. An easy mistake to make.’

  ‘I hope Miss Watson didn’t speak out of turn to you,’ said Mr Upton.

  Aaron didn’t deign to reply to that. Fancy talking about her as if she weren’t present. ‘I’ve brought this for you.’ He took the drawstring bag from his pocket, holding it out to her. ‘It’s the money from the collecting-box.’

  Mr Upton’s hand snaked across and grabbed the bag, leaving Aaron’s hand and Miss Watson’s reaching towards one another. The shopkeeper scrabbled at the drawstring fastening and up
ended the bag. Coins tumbled out, clashing and bouncing on the counter.

  ‘Is it all here?’ he demanded.

  ‘All of it.’ Including the coppers Aaron had put in to cover what Danny had used to get himself to town. That seemed to be all Upton cared about.

  ‘Did you get it back off Daniel Cropper?’ asked Miss Watson.

  Aaron looked her straight in the eye. ‘Danny isn’t your thief.’

  Yesterday he had taken Danny from Victoria Station straight to school, telling the headmaster the same tale he later told Mrs Rostron; that on his way to the ironmonger’s, he had come across the Cropper lad playing truant. ‘He’s worried about his dad. You might cut him some slack.’ But of course neither of them had. Mr Bertram had caned Danny and Mrs Rostron had given him the strap. He would probably get a clip round the ear from the local bobby as well, for wasting police time.

  ‘But…’ Miss Watson looked a little dazed. ‘He was here in the shop. A group of children comes in every Monday. They lark about, but there’s no harm in them. Daniel Cropper was here at the same time. After they’d all left, the collecting-box had gone.’

  ‘Why blame him?’ He hated to mislead her, but he had to protect Danny.

  ‘Well…’ She rubbed her chin. ‘He didn’t spend anything.’

  ‘The orphans aren’t given pocket money.’

  ‘And he was hanging about outside when we opened.’

  Aaron shrugged. ‘Playing truant.’

  Miss Watson pressed the flat of her hand to the snowy bib of her apron. ‘I was so sure. I described him to Mrs Rostron and she said he was a runaway.’

  ‘Aye, a runaway. That doesn’t make him a thief.’

  He edged towards the shop door. Hell, this was vile. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard. After telling all these lies on Danny’s behalf, he was in danger of believing them himself.

  ‘I hope you’ve learned a lesson from this, Miss Watson.’ Behind the counter, Mr Upton moved about fussily. ‘You’ve been wrong about everything. You’ve wrongly accused a boy of theft and wrongly assumed this gentleman was a rival shopkeeper out to do us down. The next time you have one of your clever ideas to help someone in need, kindly keep it to yourself.’

  Chapter Six

  MOLLY LOVED WALKING on the meadows that ran alongside the River Mersey, Lancashire this side, Cheshire over yon, and now that the evenings were drawing out, Norris was happy to oblige. Had he brought her here to please her – or because it wouldn’t cost him anything? Or, since she was happy to do it, didn’t that matter? She had asked herself this question many times, as well as that other question, the disloyal question, the one no loving fiancée should ask. Was she the only one to notice that he never willingly stumped up for anything?

  Other questions had arisen too. After the war, she had been deeply grateful to Norris for his kindness and understanding, but she accepted now that at times his kindness weighed her down – and sometimes it didn’t feel entirely kind. What he had said to her after they had left Dora and Harry’s fish supper hadn’t been kind. Oh, on the surface it had. On the surface, it had been a well-intentioned reminder of his reliability and devotion. It was a reminder he had delivered once or twice during their engagement and previously it had made her gratitude surge up with such force that it left her muscles weak and trembly.

  But it hadn’t had that effect last Saturday night. It had made her feel – trapped. That was a strong word and it had taken her a few days to face up to it. What had, those previous times, felt like a reaffirmation of love and security had seemed last Saturday to hold the hint of – of a threat.

  It was a lot to take in and she had questioned her own judgement, her own instincts, more than once. She needed time to think things through. For now, it was best to carry on as normal.

  As she and Norris walked across the meadows, the piquant tang of earth and greenery did Molly good. Her shoulders relaxed. Here and there were tall lady’s smocks with their flowers of palest lilac, and pretty clumps of cowslips with their clusters of drooping yellow blooms.

  She told Norris about Mr Abrams from the orphanage buying an entire penny tray so the children wouldn’t be disappointed. It felt important to talk about money. She had to prove she wouldn’t be silenced.

  ‘He must have money to burn,’ said Norris. ‘Who is he, anyway?’

  ‘The caretaker.’

  Norris issued a snort of laughter. ‘I hope he takes better care of that building than he does of his bank account.’

  Unhooking himself from the hand Molly had looped through his arm, he stooped to pick a stem of speedwell, its tiny flowers the bluest of blues. He reached towards her, smiling, and tilted her hat. Molly grabbed it and pulled it straight.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Putting this behind your ear.’

  She took it from him. ‘I’ll look tipsy if my hat is skew-whiff.’

  She slipped her left hand through his arm, which bent to receive it. He looked smart in his blazer. ‘It must be spring,’ she had teased when he turned up at her house wearing it instead of his faithful tweed jacket. As they continued walking, nodding to an old boy and his dog, she breathed in the fresh green scents.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Norris, ‘that sort of fellow probably doesn’t have a bank account. He probably keeps his money under the mattress or stuffed in an old sock.’

  ‘That’s an unkind thing to say.’

  ‘What’s unkind about it? He’s a caretaker, for pity’s sake. We’re not talking about the intellectual elite.’

  ‘Well, I think it was generous of him,’ said Molly.

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly. The man has a good heart, I’ll give him that. But what do you suppose his wife said when he went home and told her? I wonder how she’s feeding her family this week.’ Norris’s left hand reached across his body to press the hand he held in the crook of his elbow. ‘I’ll never do anything like that to you, you may be sure. I’ll never fritter my money away.’

  ‘Our money,’ she said mildly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our money. “With all my worldly goods I thee endow.” So it’ll be our money.’

  His arm moved and her hand fell away.

  ‘You are a tease, Molly Watson. Haven’t I said it before? You are a tease.’

  He caught her hand and swung it between them as they walked, as if she had made a grand joke and her light-hearted mood had infected him. Molly didn’t exactly stop him swinging, but she put the brakes on, so the swing became less ebullient and gradually stilled.

  ‘Seriously, Norris, it will be our money, won’t it? You shall view it that way, shan’t you?’

  ‘What a strange question. It’ll be my duty to provide for you – and my pleasure. You’re going to have a vacuum cleaner and a woman to do the rough; and you won’t have to battle with one of those vast old kitchen ranges with a mind of its own. You can look forward to one of those modern contrivances and a tin of Kleennoff.’

  ‘Don’t forget the bar of Dairy Milk every Saturday.’

  Norris laughed. ‘By Jove, you aren’t going to let me forget that, are you? Very well. I did promise and I always keep my promises. A bar of Dairy Milk every Saturday it will be, my girl.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. Shall you regard your wages as ours?’

  ‘Everything I earn will be used for the good of our household. What’s brought this on? You don’t usually give me such a grilling. You’re normally too busy looking forward to all the domestic advantages marriage with me is going to bring.’

  Strictly speaking, it was Mum and Gran and Auntie Faith and Mrs Upton, and all the women they gossiped with, who were eagerly anticipating Molly’s gas cooker and her piano and her stair carpet. Molly had looked forward to them as well, to start with. At what point had she realised that, for all his fancy talk about future domestic wonders, Norris was deeply reluctant to put his hand in his pocket in the here and now? She had once said something along these lines, but he had countered by tellin
g her how hard he was saving for their future, how seriously he took his responsibilities; how, in years to come, when other women’s husbands were drinking half their wages and buying on hire purchase, she would be grateful to have such a reliable husband. Which had made her question seem mealy-mouthed and selfish.

  There was a golden glow around the clouds. The evening sky had deepened from blue to violet, edged with pink.

  ‘Red sky at night,’ said Norris. ‘It’s time I took you home.’

  He started to turn round, but Molly stopped.

  ‘Let’s walk via Chorlton Green and Beech Road.’

  ‘It’s longer that way.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  Was it daft to want to walk near the orphanage? To imagine going there in an official capacity, like Mrs Atwood? It wasn’t as though they would pass the building. All they would do was cross over Church Road at one end, and St Anthony’s was at the far end. Definitely daft.

  ‘What would you say if I got myself a new job?’

  ‘But you’ve been at Upton’s since you were a lass.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time for a change.’

  ‘You’ll have enough of a change when we get married. There’s no need for my wife to go out to work. You’ll be the queen of our little household. I’ll always take care of you, Molly.’

  ‘Don’t you want a clever wife?’

  ‘Of course I do. A wife who knows precisely how I like my eggs boiled and who knows not to put marzipan on the Christmas cake.’

  ‘And who’ll manage the housekeeping efficiently.’

  Norris beamed. ‘Goes without saying. I’ll furnish you with a proper little accounts book and you can have different pages for the butcher and the grocer and incidentals.’ He chuckled. ‘Not too many of those, if you please. Not too many incidentals.’

  He stopped and turned to her, his face shining with love. He did love her, she knew he did.

  ‘Does that mean you’ll hand over your wage-packet to me every Friday?’ she asked.