After Hours (13 page)

Edith rose from her chair in alarm. ‘What'll we do without the yarn, Jack?'

He sneered at her. ‘What'll we do without the yarn? Close down Hosiery, of course!' He would have to lay off ten women, and that would only be the start.

‘And what will all them women do for work now?' Jess frowned as she paused to rethread the needle of her sewing-machine. Hettie had come into the shop one morning in mid-May and told her the bad news. Coopers' were laying off still more of their workforce. This time it was the hatmakers and some of the sales assistants in the shoe department, following on the heels of the hosiery workers laid off at the start of the year.

According to Hettie, they'd held off till spring to see if trade picked up, but the displays in the big plate-glass windows had failed to attract enough customers into the drapery store. Among those with money to spend, the talk was all of Selfridges in the West End, and Woolworths, whose proud boast of ‘Nothing Over-Sixpence' brought in the crowds.

Hettie sat in the sunny window seat, putting finishing touches to a peacock-blue dress. Their workroom was at the back of the shop, overlooking a long garden which at this time of year was white with blossom; a world away from Coopers' attic sweatshops. ‘A job's a job,' Hettie agreed. She thought of poor Dora Kennedy, who'd been in that hatters for donkey's years, suddenly out of work. At fifty or so, she was likely to be on the scrapheap for good.

‘It don't seem right.' Jess resumed her sewing. The steady whir of the machine had a calming effect. ‘If you ask me, Ett, Coopers' is on its last legs. I don't think they can stagger on much longer.' If the store closed down, it would leave a big gap in Duke Street; an employer of that size, even one as tight-fisted and autocratic as Jack Cooper, would be sorely missed.

‘Rob told me that was the way it looked just after Christmas. He wanted to set up some business with Edith Cooper, but she had to turn him down flat. She weren't able to help.' Hettie's needle flew in and out of the soft rayon silk.

‘No, now him and Walter have to get by with them two old cabs instead of buying new motorcars. Rob says they ain't reliable no more. They're on their last legs and all.' Jess sighed.

Not for the first time, the sisters counted their blessings in landing this little shop in Ealing High Street. They'd established a niche in the market as a high-class ladies' dressmaker's specializing in finely tailored, hand-finished articles made to a customer's own specifications. This way they could follow the latest fashion whims. Since the opening of King Tut's tomb earlier that year, it had been all things Egyptian. Now their ladies wanted tight-fitting, square-necked shifts with bold designs in turquoise and gold. They dressed their window accordingly with a fan of peacock feathers, lapis-lazuli necklaces and gold cloth to capture the mood of the Pharaoh's tomb. Jess was the one with the eye for design, Hettie the skilled seamstress who checked every detail.

Generally their customers called by appointment, and the shop space presented a quiet, exclusive air. The long glass counter displayed one or two expensive hats, a pair of kidskin shoes, good-quality accessories. The shelves were stacked with bolts of shiny cloth, the walls hung with Jess's design sketches and photographs from fashion magazines. They had a developing reputation for good work combined with flair, and were reckoned ladylike in their dealings with customers, and very fair in the prices charged.

‘What do you think of the set of this sleeve?' Hettie held up the blue dress for examination. It was part of a large, rushed order for a lady planning a spring wardrobe to take with her on a cruise ship holiday. She'd heard of the Parsons sisters by word of mouth and descended on them with a flurry of ideas and requirements.

Jess cast a critical eye-over the garment. ‘I think we need to take a bit more fullness out of here.' She pointed to tiny gathers around the shoulder arch. ‘That line over the top should be smooth as we
can make it, and all the interest comes in the trim down the front of the bodice, here.'

They were so busy discussing details that they overlooked Maurice, who'd come in the back way. It was half past two, and he'd called in on his way to work.

Their absorption in their task irritated him. He had a strong and childish notion that sewing up a piece of cloth was more important to Jess than him or anything else these days. What on earth could she find so fascinating about the set of a sleeve? He threw his hat on to the window seat and turned to look up the garden, hands in pockets.

‘I hope you remembered, you gotta take Mo to the doctor after school,' he said without preliminaries. They thought he might have a slight ear infection, and Frances had suggested they go and get it looked at.

Jess checked herself, hearing the impatience in his voice. Hettie withdrew into the shop to busy herself there. ‘Hello, Maurice! Fancy seeing you! Ain't this a nice surprise!' Jess went up to him and teased him, brushing some white petals off his dark suit. She offered her husband a kiss on the cheek. ‘'Course I remembered. What do you think I am?'

He smiled self-consciously. ‘Sorry, Jess, I never meant to snap. Will you ring me and tell me what the doctor says?'

‘The minute we get home,' she promised.

‘And can you fetch that book from the library for me? The one on aeroplanes I want to read.' Maurice had his usual subconscious reaction; the more Jess's involvement in the shop seemed to take her away from her role of housewife, the more small errands he found for her to do.

Again Jess had to bite her lip. ‘If I get the time,' she told him, then regretted saying even this.

Maurice went tight-lipped. She'd proved the point he was trying to make; running the shop got in the way of smooth family life. But he wouldn't argue about it now. ‘I'd best be off. I'll be back just after midnight.' He picked up his trilby and brushed the pile all one way with the back of his sleeve. Returning her kiss, he
strode out into the garden, up the side alley to his beloved Morris, bought that February, brand-new after all, gleaming by the kerbside. He jumped into it and glided off down the High Street.

‘Don't say nothing!' Jess warned Hettie, as her sister looked to see if the coast was clear.

‘Would I?' Hettie said sweetly. ‘You know me, Jess. I never interfere!'

Jess laughed, then sighed. ‘Maurice sees things one way, and I see them another, that's all.' They worked in silence. ‘He's got his dreams, see, and there ain't much room inside his head for other people's.'

Hettie considered this and nodded.

‘And he does love them kids. He thinks the world of them.' The sewing-machine whirred, stopped, restarted. ‘And just think, Ett, he picked me up when I was down. He took me on when Grace was tiny, and there's many wouldn't, not with a baby hanging round my neck.'

‘I ain't arguing,' Hettie repeated. ‘Only, you was down, but not out, remember! You was coping. You was more than coping!' She thought how Jess had come home to the Duke, pregnant and abandoned, how she'd held up her head and helped the family through the awful time of Daisy O'Hagan's murder and Ernie's trial. She'd been the backbone, the strength of the family, fighting every inch of the way. ‘No need to feel so grateful to him, Jess. I should think Maurice was over the moon when he found you.'

Jess blushed and laughed. ‘He was,' she admitted. ‘And so was I.'

‘Well then.'

They continued working quietly. Only, all that seemed so long ago; a different lifetime, two other people. Jess sat there, afraid of the gap opening up between her and her husband, unsure of how to deal with it. ‘If only he didn't work so late,' she put in. ‘There ain't no time to talk.'

Hettie nodded. ‘But he does, and that's that. A job's a job, remember, and Maurice is working his way right to the top.'

She should be proud. She had a dozen reasons to be grateful.
Jess snipped and tied and oversewed, willing herself to accept things as they were, thinking of the life that lay ahead for her two children; a nice house, proper schooling, summer holidays and lovely things to wear.

For Rob, the improvement in the weather as summer approached was sometimes enough to lift his spirits. They hadn't managed to scrape together the money to buy new cabs; so what? Richie Palmer worked to keep the two old Bullnoses on the road, and they could get by for a bit longer. He was thinking this as he pulled in one afternoon in late May at the new petrol pump outside Powells' ironmongers on Duke Street. He got out and lounged against the car in the spring sunshine, watching the young lad, Jimmie, work the petrol up the gauge by turning the pump-handle in big, energetic circles. Eight turns of the handle for one full gallon. Rob checked carefully. ‘Don't you go short-changing me,' he warned. ‘I ain't one of your tons who can afford to take under the gallon, you know. Top it right up.' He knew the boy's trick of flipping the pointer over the gallon mark with a quick flick of his finger.

The lad shrugged. ‘Who, me, mister?' He was all fair-haired, blue-eyed innocence. He finished turning the pump, then drew a wash-leather from the back pocket of his overalls. He set to work on the windscreen, whistling as he wiped.

‘All right, all right, no need to make a meal of it!' Rob cuffed the back of Jimmie's head and tossed a penny for him to catch.

The boy grinned. He'd secretly flicked the gauge,
and
earned a penny tip. He was well on his way to another night out at the picture-house.

Rob climbed back into, the car, easing his leg sideways. Up and down Duke Street, taxicabs were on the lookout for passengers. Suddenly his mood swung the other way. ‘This game ain't worth the candle,' he told himself as he joined the flow. ‘Leastways, it's getting that bleeding way, unless Walter and me come up with something new.' The truth was, money problems kept him working from dawn until well after midnight, then kept him awake at night. For months he'd set his nose to the grindstone and not noticed
much of what went on around him. Any time he took off work, he drove up the West End and took Amy out. This was getting by by the skin of his teeth, he realized. Still, it was no worse than for anyone else, except perhaps lucky sods like Maurice.

Think of Annie. She had to come up the court each day, call in on Wiggin to sort out his food, his coal, his cooking. Then she would carry on up to the Duke to work behind the bar. Just who was married to who was the cause of much comment in the pub, after Dolly Ogden had first put two and two together and identified Annie's old husband, Wiggin.

‘No wonder Annie's moved out!' she declared to an astonished Arthur. ‘When you think about it, her and Duke, they've been living in sin!' She laughed uproariously.

Arthur sniffed. ‘No they ain't, you silly cow. They tied the knot in good faith, didn't they? Just because Wiggin turns up out of the blue shouldn't mean she gets turfed out of here, does it?' He spoke in a loud voice, above the hum of voices in the pub. Duke overheard and moved away.

‘Hush!' Dolly hissed. ‘You'll get us chucked out if you're not careful!'

Rob was looking daggers at them. ‘It ain't funny,' he warned.

‘No, it ain't,' Dolly agreed, overtaken by decency. She coloured up. ‘No offence, Rob. Only you gotta admit, it
is
a turn-up for the book!'

After a time Rob had got used to the gossip and learned to ignore it. Opinion was strongly on the side of Annie and Duke continuing to live together as a married couple. Only Mary O'Hagan told her daughter, Katie, that she could understand their dilemma. They would hear Wiggin crashing into things and fighting his invisible devils in the room below, and they would admit that as long as he was alive and kicking, there was not much that Duke and Annie could do. Tommy overheard and put in his two ha'porth. ‘I don't know about
alive
and kicking,' he said with a sour look. ‘But the sooner he kicks the bucket, the better.'

Mary said a quick Hail Mary an her son's behalf. But Tommy
said it was a common opinion. ‘The old scoundrel ain't worth wasting your breath on,' he insisted.

Because of work and worry, Rob didn't spend too much time trying to work out his family's problems. If the present arrangement between Annie and Duke held up, that was enough. Who could expect a trouble-free life these days? He had noticed that things had cooled off between Walter and Sadie, but it drew no comment. Again, that was their business, so long as Sadie behaved herself, and he had no evidence that she wasn't.

Deep in thought, Rob swung the car down Meredith Court, its tank newly full. There, at the fringe of his vision, standing on the pavement outside the Lamb and Hag, were two figures, a man and a woman. They'd just come out of the pub and paused to kiss goodbye before heading their separate ways. Rob had passed well down the street before it clicked; that was Sadie in her new cream-coloured jacket and skirt, and she was with Richie Palmer. He flashed a look in his mirror. They were gone.

Thumping the steering-wheel with the heel of his hand, Rob pressed on. He slammed on the brakes in the depot yard and hauled himself out of the car. Tact wasn't part of his make-up; he'd go in and let Walter know the score, and they could have it out with Richie when he next showed up.

Walter saw that somethings was eating Rob as soon as he put the telephone on its hook and looked up.

‘I just seen Sadie with Palmer!' Rob came in and slammed the office door. ‘And they was more than just good friends, I can tell you!'

Walter steadied himself by placing his palms flat on the desk. ‘I know, Rob. No need to shout.'

It stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘You know? What the bleeding hell's going on round here?'

‘Me and Sadie's broken off, in case you hadn't noticed.'

Rob grunted. If two people broke off, it was up to them. ‘It ain't because of Palmer, is it?'