The Girl From Penny Lane (10 page)

‘This is disgraceful,’ Lilac said shortly, not bothering to hide her annoyance. ‘Mrs Matteson is an invalid, cook; we are supposed to tempt her appetite. Do you remember what the doctor told you when he first employed you?’

‘He never told me no jumped up orphing from a ’sylum ’ud be ’titled to order me about,’ the cook muttered rudely. ‘Tek it or leave it, Miss.’

‘Mrs Matteson will leave it, because it’s badly cooked and stale-looking,’ Lilac said firmly. ‘Get the bread and butter out, please. I’ll make her a few sandwiches – if you haven’t ruined the rest of the food in the pantry, that is.’

The cook snorted; her big, work-roughened hands went behind her to untie her apron.

‘Do it yourself,’ she snapped. ‘I’m orf.’

‘You aren’t due to leave for another hour and a half,’ Lilac said. ‘What do you think Dr Matteson will say when he sees what you’ve prepared for him and his wife?’

The cook continued to shed her apron, then snatched her coat off the back of a chair where it had plainly been hung ready for her departure.

‘Don’t care what the ’ell ’e finks,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a new place waitin’ for me, unlike some. I’m orf now and I won’t be back. Put tharrin your pipe an’ smoke it, you snotty bitch.’

Lilac, fairly trembling with rage, cleared the tray of the greasy, rapidly cooling food and threw the dying rose into the bin. Then she watched as the older woman struggled into her coat and jammed a felt hat down over her greasy hair.

‘So you don’t even intend to work out your week! Well, good riddance to bad rubbish is what the Mattesons will think,’ she said to the cook’s back as the woman headed for the kitchen door. ‘Now that you’ve gone, and your nasty, lazy habits with you, perhaps I can get my poor mistress a meal that’s halfway decent for once.’

Mrs O’Malley did not deign to reply but sniffed scornfully, then slammed the kitchen door resoundingly behind her, just as Lilac filled her lungs for another blast of truthful abuse. Seeing that she would be talking to herself, Lilac began to scrabble round, preparing a tray from scratch since there was nothing whatsoever left to hand once the original plateful had been consigned to the bin.

As she worked, she wished she could have got word to Nellie, to say she would be late. She guessed Nellie wouldn’t start the meal without her and poor Stuart would be hungry as a lion by the time she had finished here. The Mattesons knew that she had to find a new place and had told her, with all their usual sympathy and understanding, that she might have as much time off as she wished provided Mrs Matteson was never left alone, but tonight she had the cook’s job to do as well as her own and was bound to be very late indeed arriving at Penny Lane.

However, wishing was not much use and working hard was likelier to shorten Stuart’s wait. So she ran into the back garden and found a beautiful white rosebud, just unfurling. She picked it, put it in the silver vase which she had already wiped clean and polished with a duster, then she went into the pantry. Looking round her, she realised that cook had been steadily using up all the available food and not bothering to spend the housekeeping money she was given to stock up again. A very small pat of butter, a tin of sardines in oil and another of ham in jelly, together with a heel of bread met Lilac’s eye. The bread was stale, she could see that at a glance, and Mrs Matteson did not care for ham. She opened the meat safe, expecting to find the rest of the mutton reposing therein, but it was empty. What cook had done with the mangled remains of the joint she could not imagine, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Still, they say, necessity is the mother of invention. Lilac cut two thin slices of bread and toasted them, mashed the sardines with a little vinegar, salt and pepper, and spread the resultant savoury paste on the toast. Then she covered the fish with thin slices of tomato and ran into the garden again to pick some parsley, which she chopped and scattered over the food. She lit the gas-grill and slid the toast under it, then got a bottle of white wine out of the sideboard in the dining room and poured her mistress a modest half-glass. She deserves something to help that down, though it’ll be tastier than the muck cook had prepared, she told herself grimly, putting the hot food onto a warmed and clean plate and setting it carefully on the tray, with matching cutlery beside it and the glass of wine beside that.

Upstairs, Mrs Matteson’s eyes brightened at the sight of the tray.

‘Looks – n-nice,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Pretty. Ooh, wine!’

‘Her speech is improving,’ Dr Matteson had said to Lilac earlier in the day. ‘With peace and quiet and no worries, and with me on hand all day, she’ll make a complete recovery, I’m sure of it.’

Now, Lilac arranged Mrs Matteson’s pillows so that she was sitting upright, cut the hot toast into small squares, and sat down beside the bed.

‘The doctor won’t be long, now,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You eat up, Mrs Matteson, and think how pleased hell be to see a clean plate when he gets back!’

‘Umm,’ Mrs Matteson said. She picked up the wine glass, her hand shaking, and carried it to her lips. She drank, then replaced the glass. A smile curved her lips. ‘Nice,’ she said again.

‘Yes, it’s a good wine I believe,’ Lilac said. She had never tasted wine, but she knew what Dr Matteson would have said. ‘Can you manage the toast?’

‘Umm. Oo-oh, sard . . . sa . . .’

‘That’s right, sardines. Do you like them?’

‘Mmm!’ A vigorous nod of the head accompanied the hum. ‘N-nice.’

Lilac sat by the bed, watching for the first sign of tiredness, for the fork to drop from Mrs Matteson’s thin, nervous hand, but all went well. Apparently sardines on toast were a treat to someone who habitually tackled a heavy cooked dinner at night – particularly heavy lately, since Mrs O’Malley believed in sending up large helpings as a method of disguising her inability to present palatable food. And presently Lilac hurried down the stairs with an empty tray, and carried up the only dessert she could find: a helping of raspberries, sugared and topped with thick cream.

Coffee followed that and Lilac tried very hard not to think how time was flying by, nor how late Dr Matteson was. Indeed, when his step sounded on the stair she did her best to stand up casually, as though she had all the time in the world.

‘Evening, doctor. As you’re late, should I bring your meal up on a tray? Then you can sit with Mrs Matteson whilst you eat. Your wife has only just finished!’

‘Excellent,’ Dr Matteson said heartily. ‘Many thanks Lilac – what has cook prepared for us tonight, then?’

‘Nothing. She’s done a bunk,’ Lilac said briefly. ‘Good riddance, I say. The pantry’s bare, but I can do you toasted ham sandwiches with mustard, and there are raspberries and cream to follow.’

‘
Toasted
sandwiches? Why not plain old bread sandwiches?’ Dr Matteson said, tiredly sitting down in the chair Lilac had just vacated. ‘Anything will do, my dear . . . and I’ll have a glass of wine, too.’

‘The bread’s stale,’ Lilac said. ‘It toasts fine, though. Shan’t be a tick, sir.’

But she was, of course. The doctor didn’t need a rose on his tray but Lilac knew he would like a clean tray-cloth and she had to make up fresh mustard. The tin of ham was easily opened and despite Lilac’s suspicion of tinned meat, proved to be fresh enough. But by the time she had found another tomato and sliced that as a garnish on the side of the plate, poured the wine, changed her mind and put the bottle on the tray, sugared the raspberries . . . goodness, it’s going to be dark before I get there, Lilac told herself, dismayed at the way time was flying.

As soon as the meal was served she hurried up to her room. She changed with great rapidity into a light green skirt and white blouse and donned a pair of neat black shoes with a medium heel. She brushed her hair, coiled it round her hand and wedged it on top of her head with a number of hairpins, snatched up her jacket and headed for the attic stairs.

On the first floor, she remembered the tray. Damn! She fetched it, the doctor having cleaned both his plates and emptied the bottle, and hurried down the two flights of stairs into the basement kitchen. And though it wasn’t her job to wash up she had best do it rather than have the poor doctor go down later to make his wife’s hot milk and find the kitchen in disarray. The washing up was done at speed, Lilac snatching crocks in and out of the water and slapping them on the dresser without pausing for breath. When it was done she looked round the kitchen, decided it would have to do, and headed for the front door, making a lightning decision as she went.

She would go to Nellie’s by cab!

She descended the steps and stood on the pavement, looking about her. There was a cab rank outside the Philharmonic Hall and it wasn’t far to the Philly, she would simply turn to her left and walk up Rodney Street until she reached the crossroads, then turn right along Hardman Street, past the School for the Blind and St Mary’s Church and there you were, with the bulk of the Philly to your right and cabs lined up against the pavement waiting for fares.

But she was in luck. She had scarcely walked more than ten yards on her way when a cab came towards her with its flag up; cruising for fares, no doubt, possibly having just dropped someone off further up Rodney Street. As she stepped into the cab, having told him Nellie’s address, she heard a shout. She looked round, the vehicle already on the move, and saw a skinny child waving at her from the pavement.

Puzzled, the glanced about, because the child couldn’t possibly be waving to her, she didn’t know the girl. The street was empty though, so perhaps the kid just thought she recognised Lilac. Or was her skirt caught in the door? It had happened, Lilac knew, and could result in a nasty mark on a precious garment. She checked, but her skirt was all in the cab with her and very nice it looked, spread out on the cracked red leather seat. And presently, as the cab made its way towards Penny Lane, she forgot about the child and began to think about the steak and kidney pudding she would presently enjoy, and Nellie’s wonderful lemon chiffon pie which would follow. How odd it is that this evening I’ll be eating a much better meal than the Mattesons, who are very rich compared to Nellie and me, she thought. What a topsy-turvy world it is – money can’t always buy you the best. And she decided to get Nellie some really good chocolates as a thank-you present, to eat on the journey down to the snooty south of England.

Kitty had walked up as far as Leece Street and bought herself an enormous bowl of pea and ham soup and a wedge of bread at the refreshment rooms opposite St Luke’s Church. Considerably heartened by this repast, she bought two blackjacks for a farthing from Thomas Henry’s, a very superior sort of provisions shop, and decided to save the sticky sweets for the long watches of her second night under the stars. Not knowing quite where to go, she then returned to Rodney Street. It was quiet, the lamplighter had not yet been along and the sky was a peaceful greenish blue, deepening to red-gold along the western horizon. No one was about, so she found a house with deep steps, under which was a dry, cave-like hidey-hole. She clambered into it and stared out down the street.

A door opened somewhere, then shut with a sharp snap. High-heeled shoes clack-clacketed down steps and along the pavement. A woman, quite young, Kitty decided drowsily. Wonder what she’s doin’ out at this hour, when everyone else seems to be settled indoors?

The woman came into view. Only it wasn’t a woman, it was a girl and a very pretty one, too. With renewed interest, because the pretty girl looked somehow familiar, Kitty eased herself out of her hiding place and stood up, then her heart gave a great bound in her skinny chest.

It was her! The girl from Penny Lane! And she was walking swiftly and confidently along the pavement, any moment she would be on a level with Kitty!

She’ll help me, Kitty thought unhesitatingly. She will, she’s a real lady, Mrs O’Rourke said real ladies were always willing to help. I’ll ‘splain about me mam and the trimmin’s and all that, she’ll tell me what to do and where to go.

She moved hesitantly forward just as a car came past and the girl gestured to the driver, who pulled over and stopped by the kerb. Kitty waited; she would speak to the girl from Penny Lane just as soon as the cab had driven on. How lucky it was that she had chosen a Rodney Street doorstep for her bed! But it seemed her luck had run out, for the girl from Penny Lane said something to the cab driver, then opened the door of his vehicle and jumped inside. Kitty ran forward, waving, calling, desperate that her one hope of help should not disappear. In fact she pursued the cab all the way down Rodney Street, turned the corner onto Hardman Street at such speed that she burnt the side of her bare foot, and saw with real dismay that the driver was accelerating and would presently outstrip her.

Kitty ran on, but she knew it was useless, and presently, sobbing with effort and with a hand to the stitch in her side, she slowed to an amble and then a walk. She would never catch up, not if she ran and ran, and even if she’d had the money to get into a taxi herself and shout ‘Follow that motor!’ she would never have the nerve. Why, for all she knew, Penny Lane might be miles and miles away.

She had been shuffling along the pavement, intermittently sobbing and hiccuping, whilst tears spilled down her cheeks, but now she stopped short and stared sightlessly at the building ahead of her. Penny Lane! Her new friend was the girl from Penny Lane, they had said so in the milliner’s shop. So all Kitty had to do to find her friend was to find Penny Lane!

‘Lilac! Well, our kid, you had us well worried!’ Stuart gave his young sister-in-law a friendly hug and drew her into the small, square hallway. ‘My lady-wife was all for calling out the scuffers to search for your body, but I told her you were probably working late and would arrive in time for the meal if we hung on a bit.’

‘Oh Stu, you didn’t wait supper for me? I couldn’t help it, honest . . . that wretched cook I told you about left without warning and I was landed with gettin’ Mrs Matteson her tea and cookin’ for the doctor . . .
how
I wished you were on the telephone, so I could have let you know I was going to be late.’