Darkest Before Dawn (17 page)

Seraphina did not hesitate. ‘Yes please,' she said. ‘But – but what about uniform? If you are thinking that I might use Miss Nugent's dress, I don't think it would do at all. I'm a lot taller than her and a lot thinner as well.'

Mr Grundy smiled indulgently. ‘We have a stock of newly laundered uniforms in almost every size,' he said confidently. He got up from behind his desk and went across to the door, gesturing for Seraphina to follow him. ‘Miss Peabody is deputy manageress and a kind and capable person. She'll provide you with clothing and put you in the charge of one of the senior girls who will tell you exactly what to do.'

Twenty minutes later, Seraphina checked her appearance in the long mirror by the door of the staff room to which she had been led. The uniform had indeed fitted, and she thought she looked both neat and efficient. Miss O'Donnell, into whose care she had been given, smiled at her through the looking glass. ‘You look as if you've been waitressing all your life,' she said cheerfully. ‘But all you'll do for now is fetch and carry for me and a couple of the others; we won't let you take orders until you've had a bit more experience. All right? Ready to go?'

‘Yes, I'm ready,' Seraphina said. She had got a job and would be earning a weekly wage, and right now that was the only thing that mattered. Smiling, she followed Miss O'Donnell out of the staff room and into the restaurant.

By the time winter had changed into spring, the Todd family were beginning to settle into their new lives, Martha thought, as she stood in the kitchen, ironing Evie's new blouse. Seraphina had to work shifts but admitted that she really enjoyed the job, though it was undoubtedly extremely hard work. She had begun to have quite a social life for she was often invited out both by the other waitresses and by the young men who frequented the Lyon's Corner House. Angie sometimes went with her and was always much admired, but she was a quiet girl and seemed to have very little interest in young men. Seraphina, on the other hand, enjoyed the dances, visits to the cinema, and trips out on her day off. She still talked about going back into teacher training in the autumn but Martha secretly doubted whether her gay and ebullient daughter would actually do so when the time came. She thought Seraphina would find a classroom full of children dull work after the rush and excitement of being a nippy in a very large restaurant, particularly since, as Mr Grundy had anticipated, she always ended each day with her apron pocket full of tips. Martha looked wistfully towards the window. Outside, a gentle breeze ruffled the leaves which were just beginning to appear on the only tree within sight and she could not help thinking, longingly, of her old life on the canal. In April, there would be primroses and violets on every bank. The grass would be thrusting new shoots, bright and luscious, and the quickthorn hedges would be bursting into vivid green leaf, whilst in those same hedgerows songbirds would be courting, trilling, building their nests. Over the water meadows cuckoos, returning from their African winter, would be swooping on any insects which had emerged into the sunshine, lambs would be frisking in the pastures, and rabbits would be bringing out their young from the darkness of their burrows into the bright spring sunshine.

Dreamily, Martha allowed her mind to wander back, to imagine waking as the sun rose, blinking the sleep out of her eyes and lighting the stove in order to boil a kettle so that they might enjoy a cup of tea with their breakfast. Once she was dressed and the kettle was boiling, she would open the doors at the end of the cabin and glance around, seeing cattle knee-high in white mist, and Gemma, cropping the long grass, turning her great head and greeting her mistress with a gentle whinny. Gemma had known the routine as well as her mistress. Martha would return to the cabin and fetch out a piece of bread, a wrinkled apple or a carrot, and then she would jump off the
Mary Jane
and walk along the towpath to where Gemma was tethered. The great black horse would bend her neck to take the titbit and as she crunched would thrust her head against her mistress. Martha could feel the warm satin skin, the horse's soft, whiskery lips on the palm of her hand; for a moment, she could even breathe the clear fresh air of early morning, hear a distant cock crow and the muted sounds of water lapping against the hull of the
Mary Jane
.

‘Mam? Do you want me to start the porridge?' Evie's voice brought Martha back to the present with much the same effect as a dousing from a bucket of cold water. She gasped and jumped, eyeing her daughter reproachfully.

‘Evie, how you startled me! Can you open the window, love? It's awfully stuffy in here and I was just thinking back to a year ago.' She sighed. ‘It's the spring, I suppose. The flat's been cosy during the winter, but now spring is here . . .'

Evie, busy mixing water and oats, nodded. ‘I know what you mean, Mam; we all does,' she said. ‘The canal is so beautiful at this time of year, with all the country for us to enjoy. But I try not to think about it because it makes me think about Dad and that just makes me miss him worse.'

Martha smiled at her youngest but shook her head. ‘No, no, you mustn't ever stop thinking about your father. I certainly shan't. Living with him, talking to him, being loved by him, was the best thing that ever happened to me. I remember him every day, but not with sadness, because that's pointless. We had wonderful times, Evie; d'you remember how your pa used to get me to put up a picnic and take us all off to fish at a little lake he knew of, or to go nutting in the woods? And he loved to help at haymaking, though I know you children hated it at harvest time, when the men clubbed the rabbits for the pot. You mustn't forget times like that, nor let them make you sad, because good memories should be treasured and taken out often, like old photographs, so you can get pleasure from reliving them.'

Evie stared dreamily down at the pan she was stirring for a moment, then nodded briskly. ‘You're right, Mam. But when I'm grown up I shan't stay in this place, because I want to make more memories of my own; country memories. I'll go and get a job on a farm or – or marry a farm worker – but I shan't stay in the city.' She must have read her mother's pained and guilty expression, for she said quickly: ‘Oh, I know Pa had to bring us here to live so that Fee could go to college and you could save up enough money to buy a cottage in Burscough for your retirement; I understand that, truly I do, but I remember you telling us how cross your mam and dad were when you went and married Pa, and that means you made your own life, doesn't it, Mam? So I'm going to make my own life, one day, and it'll be a country life, no matter what.'

Martha couldn't help laughing at her daughter's expression, which was a mixture of anxious apology and grim determination. Poor kid, she thought, torn two ways. She wants to show me that she understands why we took her away from the life she loved and stuck her down in a big city, far from the countryside which was her birthright. And she also wants me to understand that she means to go back to it as soon as she's old enough. Well, good for her! And if I'm ever in a position to go back myself, I'll do just that. The thought of living above the shop and slaving for old Wilmslow for the rest of my life does not appeal. Aloud, she said: ‘You're absolutely right, Evie; everyone has to live their own life and you and your sisters were brought up in the country and have good reason to want to go back when you're able. Or at least, that is the way you feel, but I don't know about Fee and Angie. Fee has a great many friends, both girls and young men, and she enjoys dances, theatres, nice restaurants and so on. I think she might find the country boring now. As for Angie, she never took as much interest in the countryside as the rest of us. She's a real domestic body; she loves housework, sewing, cooking, all that sort of thing. Angie will make someone a wonderful wife, but whether she will choose a countryman or a city dweller I wouldn't like to have to guess. Now how's that porridge coming on?'

She folded the last garment and switched off the iron. It was an electric one, brand new, and Martha's pride and joy. She reckoned she could do double the amount of ironing in half the time it had taken when she had had to use flat irons, heating them before the fire and having to abandon them to be reheated after only ten minutes or so. If they had still been on the barge, of course, there would have been no question of such luxuries as electric irons, electric lights or, indeed, a gas stove, which was the next thing she intended to invest in. Mr Wilmslow had one in his back scullery, and lately she had used it quite often since her employer frequently asked her to go through to the back and cook something for himself and his wife. Since it made a pleasant change from serving in the shop and she was paid just the same, Martha always agreed and really enjoyed using the wonderful gas cooker.

However, she had learned to grow wary of being in the scullery when Mrs Wilmslow was dozing or engaged with a friend, since Mr Wilmslow had taken to ‘popping in', ostensibly to see how she was getting on. In the shop, he treated her as he had always done, snapping and snarling if he was in a bad mood, criticising the way she stacked the shelves and arguing that there was no need to be friendly with the customers, though one must not of course ever be rude. If he was in a good mood, he chatted quite amiably, telling her anecdotes about his younger days or about his parents, who had died many years ago. He never attempted any sort of intimacy, never called her by her first name, never asked questions about her life on the canal, or how the girls were getting on, and the same rules, it seemed, applied in the back rooms – except for the scullery.

If Mr Wilmslow came into the scullery when his wife was occupied, he would be a little too friendly, a little too jovial, and the fact that he expressed this in an undertone made Martha uneasy. He never attempted to touch her, the way he had done in the shop three months before, but Martha thought he only held back from any such gesture because of his wife's nearness. Once, Martha had been bending over the oven to take out a meat pie which she had just cooked for the Wilmslows' supper. She had been using a folded tea cloth to prevent her fingers from being burned, and with the pie halfway out the tea towel had slipped sideways. Martha had squeaked with pain and snatched her hand away, and Mr Wilmslow, who had been standing by, holding the plate upon which she would place the pie, had reached forward to take it from her, telling her brusquely to go and run the scorched finger under the tap, ‘else it'll blister and you'll be no use for a couple o' days.'

As he took the pie dish from her, his hand had brushed against her arm and he had given her a very strange look from under half-lowered lids whilst his mouth had curved in a small smile. He had started to whisper something but had scarcely got more than two words out when his wife's voice had come, shrilly, from the other room. ‘Arthur! Nurse has just left and the shop bell's tinkled twice. If it takes two of you to get me dinner out of the oven, then things have come to a pretty pass, and you've lost us a customer . . . that bell tinkled twice . . .'

Mr Wilmslow had shot out of the scullery like a scalded cat and Martha had gone on preparing the meal, telling herself that nothing would have happened even had Mrs Wilmslow not called out, but in her heart she was not so sure. She thought her employer a nasty, mean old man, yet she had to admit that he had a pretty miserable sort of life. Mrs Wilmslow nagged and moaned and criticised and Martha knew that their married life, for want of a better term, could not be what she would call normal. She supposed, vaguely, that this might be hard on any man, even one as pernickety and miserable as her employer.

‘The porridge is ready, I reckon, Mam. I'm going to have golden syrup on mine,' Evie said. Martha had already laid the table with four porridge bowls, spoons, a loaf and a packet of margarine. Now, Evie staggered across and began ladling porridge into the four dishes. She splashed a good deal about, for the pot was heavy, but Martha thanked her and began to clear up the mess with the dishcloth whilst Evie carried the now empty pan over to the sink and ran water into it.

Martha was beginning to slice the loaf when the kitchen door opened and Angie and Seraphina came into the room. Both girls were ready for work and took their places at once, beginning to eat whilst Evie poured water from the hissing kettle into the teapot, made and poured the tea, and then took her place at the table. Martha glanced at the clock on the mantel and began to eat her own porridge as fast as she could. Seraphina started work at nine, as did Angie, but Mr Wilmslow liked his assistant to be on the premises by half-past eight at the latest, since a good few of his customers came in early when they had unexpectedly run out of breakfast cereals, bread, or ‘something to put in his butties', such as a small tin of sardines or a pot of meat paste.

Martha finished her porridge, drained her mug of tea and stood up just as Seraphina did the same. However, Martha only had to descend the stairs and she was in her place of work, whilst Angie and Fee had to walk to the tram stop, get aboard a vehicle crowded with other workers, and make their way into the city centre. So now she watched as the girls donned coats and hats and prepared themselves for the day ahead. Seraphina got at least two good meals at the restaurant but Angie usually took a couple of sandwiches – cheese for her lunch, jam for her tea – which Martha prepared for her before breakfast. Now Angie snatched up the greaseproof package, thrust it into her black shoulder bag, and leaned over to kiss her mother on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Ma, for making my sarnies. You are good,' she said, as she said every working day. ‘C'mon, Fee. If we miss the next tram, the one after will be so crowded it might go straight past the stop.'

‘All right, all right,' Seraphina said, standing on tiptoe to check her reflection in the glass face of the clock. ‘See you tonight, Ma; be good, Evie.'