Two Penn'orth of Sky (15 page)

‘I came to you two first because I’ve noticed how often you absent yourself from my classroom on the flimsiest of excuses,’ she told them. ‘And one glance at your faces when I showed you the pencil box proved, beyond a doubt, that you were the guilty parties. Tell me, why did you destroy this very pretty and useful thing?’

‘It were an accident,’ Hilda whined, glancing shiftily at Maureen. ‘I were tryin’ to get the lid off – Maureen wanted to borrow a pencil – and the perishin’ thing snapped off in me hand, honest to God it did, miss.’

‘An accident?’ Miss Lovett’s eyebrows rose dramatically. ‘And what about the pencils? I’m told they were found by the school caretaker, broken in half and with the points snapped off, lying outside the cloakroom window. How do you explain that?’

‘Dunno, miss,’ Hilda said, staring glumly at her feet. ‘It weren’t nothin’ to do with us, miss. We wasn’t in the cloakroom, was we, Maur?’

Maureen, very much a follower, muttered something beneath her breath, but turned pale when Miss Lovett said coldly: ‘Very well, I won’t question you further, but you must replace the pencil box and the pencils, which means you must go home this afternoon and tell your parents what has happened. I think a box like this one would probably cost as
much as two shillings, though you can get quite nice pencils for a penny or two.’ Both girls looked absolutely horrified, but at this point, to Miss Lovett’s great surprise, Maureen spoke up.

‘Please miss, me dad’s a joiner, ever so clever wi’ wood. If – if you’ll give me the box, I could gerr’im to mek it good as new, honest to God I could. Please miss, let me take it. Me mam’ll scalp me alive if she knows—’

Here, Hilda kicked her sharply on the ankle and Maureen subsided.

‘Very well; but remember, the box must be as good as new,’ Miss Lovett said coldly. ‘And if you get the pencil box mended, Maureen, then I think it’s only fair that Hilda should provide the pencils. New ones,’ she added hastily. ‘Is that clear?’

Both girls muttered that they would do as they had been told and left the room, with obvious relief, when Miss Lovett dismissed them.

Thankful to have got over heavy ground so lightly, Miss Lovett returned to her classroom and began to prepare the lessons for tomorrow. The fact was, this was her last year in school, since she would reach retirement age in March and meant to leave at the end of July. Already she was thinking, wistfully, of the small cottage her elder sister had bought on the Wirral, which the two women meant to share. Sarah had been a teacher, too, but she was five years older than Doris Lovett and had consequently retired earlier. Doris had rented a room in the village and had then searched diligently for a property to buy, finally settling on the cottage in its big, untidy garden the year before. It had needed a great deal of work, including retiling the roof, but because she had got it cheaply it had been possible to do all the
necessary jobs in twelve months, and now Doris meant to start on the garden as soon as spring arrived.

Because she was looking forward to retirement, Doris Lovett did not want to muddy the waters by reporting that there had been bullying in her class. She supposed, vaguely, that it happened in every class and thought it best ignored, but she had dealt with it in this case because there had been material damage done, something definite to put right, instead of the ‘she did, I didn’t’ scenario which had once caused her so much anguish, so many sleepless nights.

Looking back, she thought that perhaps she had never been the material from which good teachers are made; Sarah had become a headmistress before her retirement, but Doris knew herself to be unequal to such a task. In the early days, when she had taught the ten- to eleven-year-olds, there had been near riots in her class and she had shed many tears after school hours, but the headmistress at the time had decided she would be better off teaching the infants and she had settled down happily with the six- to seven-year-olds, who were, for the most part, eager to learn.

Of course, there were always exceptions; Hilda and Maureen had both remained with her for two years and looked like staying for a third, but at least that won’t be my problem, the teacher thought thankfully, opening the large book in which she kept her lesson plans. Someone else, perhaps someone more forceful than myself, will have to deal with those rather unpleasant young people.

Christmas at Mac’s was easily their busiest time of year, but it was also the jolliest, Emmy thought. For
a start, the staff were presented with a large box containing paper chains, tinsel, cotton wool and baubles for the Christmas tree which Mr Mac would buy on 10th December, so that it could be set up and decorated by the 12th. Freda told Emmy that Mr Mac never allowed Christmas decorations to remain up after Boxing Day, so he liked to have the tree in place in good time. ‘We water it each day, but even so, them little pine needles start to drop ’cos the place gets so hot,’ Freda explained. ‘It do have a lovely smell though, don’t it? I never know whether I love Christmas or hate it, ’cos the work’s enough to put you in ’ospital; I soaks me feet in mustard ’n’ hot water every night from the first of December to New Year’s Day, but even so I can scarce get me shoes on of a mornin’. Then, a’ course, everyone’s in a good mood, the food’s a lot simpler ’cos most folk go for a turkey dinner, an’ the tips just come pourin’ in. We all buy each other presents – just little things – an’ we gerra Christmas bonus off of Mr Mac. We buy ’is mother a big bunch o’ flowers ’cos you can’t give a feller a bouquet . . . well, you’ll soon find out for yourself whether you love it or hate it.’ She looked curiously into Emmy’s face. ‘You know that feller at the corner table . . . ?’

‘There are several corner tables in the dining room,’ Emmy said, then spoiled it by adding, ‘What about him?’

Freda giggled. They were standing side by side at the enormous kitchen sink, diligently peeling a sack of potatoes since they were on earlies this week and, at Christmas, two waitresses could deal with the coffees whilst the rest of the staff threw themselves into preparations for the noonday rush. ‘If you don’t know which one I mean . . .’ she began, then changed
tack. ‘But you do know, o’ course. It’s the chap what watches you all the time an’ keeps givin’ you the eye. I dunno ’is name but I reckon you do.’

‘Oh, you mean Mr Spelman,’ Emmy said, trying to look surprised. ‘He’s a neighbour of mine, or was, rather, in Lancaster Avenue. We usually have a word or two when he comes in but other than that I scarcely know him. To tell you the truth, I know his mam better than I know him; she’s a nice woman.’

Freda nodded. ‘Oh aye? But he likes you, don’t he? I seen the tips he leaves, stickin’ out from under his puddin’ plate. He left you a bob last time, didn’t he?’

‘You nosy blighter!’ Emmy said, with pretended indignation; everyone was interested in tips. ‘I dunno what he left last time, but it might have been a bob.’

Freda narrowed her eyes. ‘If he leaves you a bob every time he comes in for his dinner, an’ he comes in every day, that’s five bob a week,’ she said, her voice reverent. ‘Five bob! He must be rollin’ in it, queen.’

Emmy laughed. ‘If he left me a bob every day, it would be grand,’ she agreed. ‘But sometimes it’s only twopence and sometimes, of course, it’s nothing at all. And then there’s other times, when he’s at someone else’s table. And there’s times when I’m on earlies or lates . . .’

‘Awright, awright, you’ve made your point,’ Freda grumbled, ‘but I bet he’ll pay up handsome come Christmas. They all does.’

‘And we share it out, so no one’s any better off than anyone else,’ Emmy reminded her. She fished in the bag for another potato and began to peel once more, thinking about Mr Spelman as she did so. He was, she supposed, in his mid-thirties, though he
might be younger for he had a long, serious face, pale brown hair cut very short, and rather watery, nondescript eyes. His long, lean figure always seemed to be clad in jackets several inches too short in the arm and trousers several inches too short in the leg, yet his suits were clearly expensive and he was otherwise always immaculately turned out. Emmy knew he had a good job with a firm of insurance brokers; he had mentioned the name of his firm once, when he had come in earlier than usual and requested that his meal should be served immediately, since the staff of Huxtable & Bracket were holding a meeting early in the afternoon. Although Emmy had no interest whatsoever in Mr Spelman, she walked past the office of Huxtable & Bracket every day, on her way to catch her tram, and had noticed that they were insurance brokers.

‘He’s keen on you, ain’t he?’ Freda said bluntly, realising, apparently, that Emmy was not going to offer any other information. ‘Has he asked you out yet?’

‘No, of course he hasn’t. Freda, you may have forgotten it but I certainly haven’t. It’s – it’s not six months since my husband died. I wouldn’t dream of accepting anyone’s invitation to go out, not even if they were . . . well, a good deal nicer than Mr Spelman.’

Freda sniffed. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, queen,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re bringin’ up that kid as well as you can an’ doin’ your best; Beryl often says you’re doin’ it well, an’ all. But it’s a big responsibility, an’ one you ain’t used to. If the right feller comes along, it don’t matter if it’s six months, six days or six years. It’s your bleedin’ duty to take him serious, that’s what I say.’

Emmy finished peeling the last potato and turned the big brass tap so that water gushed. She knew Freda meant well and supposed, rather dismally, that the older woman was right. She was finding it incredibly difficult to manage her affairs without Peter’s guiding hand, and though he had been away for long periods she found herself missing him every single day. There had always been letters, full of advice and comfort, and there had been Lucy. Now she had to cope with everything on her own. When the butcher sold her tough, stringy chops or half a pound of mince that was mostly fat, she had to do her own complaining and it never got her very far. Beryl always advised her to take the meat back, but it was usually too late. She and Diana had meat on a Sunday, and then again on a Wednesday, and by the time Emmy discovered it was of poor quality it was cooked and on their plates.

‘Well, queen, if that Mr Spelman is real keen on you, you want to think serious about givin’ him a bit of encouragement. His clothes are good, he’s free wi’ his money . . . you could do worse.’

‘No I couldn’t, or perhaps I could, but I’m not going to,’ Emmy said, rather confusedly. She swung round to face Freda, looking the older woman straight in the eye. ‘Could you bring yourself to go to bed with Mr Spelman, Freda? It ’ud be like climbing in beside a great knobbly skeleton. No, being on your own isn’t so bad. Remember, my Peter was a seaman, sometimes away for months at a time, but marriage with him was fun. I couldn’t possibly marry someone I didn’t both love and respect – or someone who didn’t make me laugh.’

Surprisingly, Freda gave her a great, broad grin. ‘I dare say you’re right,’ she admitted cheerfully. ‘Me
old feller is fat and bald and boozy, but when I married ’im he’d got a great thatch of brown hair, a waist what I could get me arm round and a laugh you could hear right across to the Wirral. He’s still gorra great laugh and though I
know
he’s bald and fat and boozy, inside me head he’s still the feller I married . . . if you know what I mean.’ And then, for some inexplicable reason, Freda grabbed hold of Emmy and gave her an enormous hard hug. ‘You were right an’ I were wrong,’ she declared. ‘Just you wait, though. Mr Right will come along one of these days, you mark my words.’

Christmas, when it came, was as mad as Freda had warned Emmy it would be. Not being a great believer in mustard baths, Emmy simply staggered home each evening, flopped on to the sofa, and got Diana to put her little stool and a cushion under her feet. Mrs Lambert, a retired nurse living in the court, had advised Emmy to do this and it certainly seemed to help. At least when she left for work each day her feet felt comfortable and normal, even if by the time she returned home they were swollen and throbbing.

‘But everyone’s in such a good mood and so cheerful and happy,’ she told Beryl. ‘And the tips are absolutely marvellous. Oh, I know we share them at Christmas with the kitchen staff and all the temporary waitresses, but even so, we’ll all do pretty well. I’m going to buy Diana a warm coat with my share, because she’s grown out of the one we brought with us.’

‘Go to Paddy’s Market,’ Beryl urged. Because of the pressure of work at Mac’s, they scarcely saw each other at present, but this was Sunday, when the dining rooms were closed. The two women were planning
to share their Christmas dinner on the day itself, with Beryl making the Christmas pudding, the mince pies and the Christmas cake, whilst Emmy had undertaken to roast the bird and the potatoes in her wonderful gas oven.

Despite Beryl’s help, Emmy was still no cook, but she told herself – and anyone else who would listen – that she worked hard and was entitled to buy in bread, cakes, biscuits and pies, which a more provident housewife would bake herself. Diana never complained, though when Emmy was working a late shift the child usually had her tea at the Fishers’ and sometimes commented, enthusiastically, on the delicious food which Beryl put before her family. Once, when Emmy had been rather scathing about Mrs Telford’s housekeeping, Diana had looked at her sadly and had reminded her that they, too, ate bought cakes and pies. Poor Emmy knew she had flushed to the roots of her hair and had muttered, feebly, that she did not mean . . . had not meant . . .

Diana had smiled gently and Emmy had thought how her daughter was changing. The little girl who lived in Lancaster Avenue would never have made the connection which Diana had just made, nor would she have tagged along to the shops with either Wendy or Charlie, learning how to bargain, how to pick out the best items of fruit, the freshest bread. I suppose it’s a good thing, Emmy had told herself, a little doubtfully. After all, unless my circumstances change, Di and I are going to need to manage for ourselves.

Diana awoke with that tingle of excitement which she had felt every Christmas, as long as she could remember. The room was still dark but there was light coming in round the edge of the curtains, and
when she looked towards the foot of her bed, she saw the filled stocking. It
was
Christmas morning, then! Diana surged down to the bottom of the bed, heaved the stocking off the bedpost and took it back beneath the covers, for it was an extremely cold day. In other years, she had taken her stocking through to her parents’ room before even glancing at the contents, but not today. Mam had had an exhausting Christmas Eve, not leaving work until seven in the evening, and she had begged Diana to let her lie in on Christmas morning. ‘The staff are getting a longer holiday this year, because of Christmas Day being on a Friday,’ she had explained. ‘Saturday is Boxing Day and we’re off anyway on the Sunday, so we’ll get three days’ holiday in a row and I mean to make the most of them. So if you don’t mind, darling, you can open your own stocking when you wake and bring it through to me later. Much later,’ she had added, after a moment’s thought.