Our Lizzie (5 page)

“If they take you on. I think your father would have preferred you to work in a shop. Well, I know he would.”

So far as Lizzie was concerned, it was all settled. And maybe, just maybe, her mother would let her keep a penny or two from her earnings. Images of buying her very own copy of
Girl's Best Friend
every week and reading it over and over made her sigh with pleasure. At the moment, she had to club together with other girls to afford it, and although she got the occasional copy back, it was always dog-eared by then.

When she went to bed, she lay staring bleakly into the darkness. The house seemed very quiet without the rumble of her father's voice from downstairs, and the murmur of her mother's answers. It wasn't fair. Why did her dad have to get killed? Who'd call her “my bonny little lass” now? Who'd care about what happened to her?

She rolled over and when Eva protested sleepily, poked her backside out so that she shoved Eva and Polly closer together. But it was a while before she slept.

Chapter Three

The next morning, Lizzie's mother put on the new black clothes again and smoothed them down self-consciously, before sighing at her reflection in the front room mirror.

Lizzie walked across to peer at herself. “I don't see why I should have to wear this.” She tugged at the black armband which had been sewn for the funeral and which her mother had handed her after breakfast.

“You'll wear that for the first month to show respect for your father!” Meg snapped.

“I don't need to show other people how I feel!” Lizzie felt the desperate need for her dad surge up again and pounded her chest. “It's inside me—all the time.”

“Don't you cheek me like that! You know your father wouldn't have stood for it.”

Meg turned away, trying to calm down, when all she felt like was rushing back upstairs to weep in private. It seemed as if she couldn't weep enough to clear her grief, somehow. That morning she had woken up alone in the big bed and felt the shock of bereavement all over again at finding no Stanley lying beside her. She had had to force herself out of bed to get the family ready for school and work.

Normally, by now, everyone was out and she could have her little sit-down, as she always thought of it. She would get a cup of tea and take a bit of time to catch her breath before the next lot of jobs had to be done. But now—now she didn't know how she would cope with everything. Lodgers would make far more work, but that was the only way she could see of earning money, so somehow she must find the energy to do it.

“Come on!” she snapped. “I don't want to take all day about this.”

She and Lizzie went first to Dearden's, walking side by side through the streets, not saying anything. Outside the big corner grocery store with its maroon paint and gold lettering they both paused instinctively.

Lizzie looked for the card to show her mother and gasped. “It's gone! The card's not there. What's happened to it?”

“They'll have taken it out of the window till they've seen us.” At least, Meg hoped that was what had happened. She squared her shoulders. “Well, let's go in, then.” She knew Sally Dearden slightly from church, but today she was here to ask a favour and felt stiff and awkward, for she hated being beholden to anyone.

They waited for Mrs. Dearden to serve a customer, Lizzie watching everything with bright-eyed interest, Meg with her shoulders slumping dispiritedly, though she didn't realise it.

Just as that customer was leaving, there was a noise outside and a motor car drew up in front of the shop. People in the street stopped to stare as a lady was helped down.

Sally moved forward at once, saying to Meg, “Excuse me. I always serve Mrs. Pilby myself.” The girl serving the other customer rushed forward to open the door and place a chair for the wife of the richest man in Overdale.

As Lizzie and her mother moved to the back of the shop, a door opened behind them and a lad peeped out. “She's got the Wolsely Cavallos today, I see,” he said to Lizzie with an air of superiority. “Do you know, they drove one of those all the way from Land's End to John O'Groats without a single engine stop? They're the most reliable cars around, they are, but I still prefer Mr. Pilby's Rover. One of those won the International Tourist Trophy last year. Wouldn't I like to see him open the throttle on it! I'm going to drive one myself when I grow up. Fast.”

Lizzie scowled because she hadn't much idea what he was talking about. She was later to find that the warehouse lad was car crazy. He left a few months after she started at Dearden's to go and work for a firm making motor cars in Manchester.

While Mrs. Pilby was tasting a piece of the new cheese, Mrs. Dearden turned to frown in their direction and Fred disappeared smartly through the door. Lizzie and her mother hovered at the back, trying not to look as if they were listening to what was being said, but listening avidly, all the same. Everyone in town knew the people from the big house, by sight at least, especially “the second Mrs. P” as Sam had called this one the other day, rolling his eyes to indicate his scorn for her fancy ways.

Lizzie agreed with him. She had seen Mr. Pilby's second and much younger wife riding around in her swanky motor car, looking down her nose at people on foot. Like many other children, Lizzie had pulled faces at the car as it passed and had minced along the street more than once, holding a stick and mocking the way Mrs. Pilby tapped her long-handled parasol on the ground as she strolled through the town centre.

She looked at the lady's wide-brimmed hat with its heaped feathers and flowers, wondering what kept that huge edifice sitting so straight and steady on her head. Her mother's elbow jabbing into her ribs made her realise that she was staring, so she turned round and examined the display of teas on the shelves at the rear. She hadn't realised there were so many sorts of tea, or that you could pay so much for a packet of the fancy stuff.

It was a further fifteen minutes before Mrs. Dearden was free to attend to the Kershaws, by which time Mrs. Pilby had considered several items but had made only a couple of personal purchases, for Mr. Dearden visited her housekeeper every week for the grocery order.

Lizzie edged a bit closer as Mrs. Pilby stood up to leave. If I was rich like her, I wouldn't look so sulky, she thought. What's
she
got to be miserable about? I bet she has cream cake every day for tea an' she can buy all the comics she wants.

When the lady turned and picked up her parasol, Lizzie saw that the girl behind the other counter was just cutting a pound of butter and had her hands all greasy, so she hurried forward to open the door, though she received not a word of thanks for doing so.

But Sally noticed and nodded to herself. Good manners. It all helped. “Well, then, Mrs. Kershaw, you'd better come through into the back before anyone else wants serving.”

Behind the shop was a long narrow L-shaped room, built on a few years previously to connect the warehouse which lay across the back yard with the shop. It provided a packing space to divide the bulk deliveries into more manageable amounts. Here, the lad who'd peeped out at the car was weighing sugar and putting it into blue paper bags, then folding the top of each down neatly.

“Smarten up, Fred Ross!” Mrs. Dearden snapped as they passed him. “I thought you'd be on to the currants by now. An' who asked you to peep out when Mrs. Pilby came in, pray?”

“I just wanted to see the car, Mrs. D.”

“You and your cars!” But it was said without any real heat. “Just make sure you give full measure. We don't want the inspector to find our stuff underweight.”

“Right you are, Mrs. D.”

“But don't be over-generous, either. We're not here to give stuff away.”

Lizzie watched Fred pour sugar on to the scales, then use the narrowed end of the brass weighing pan to pour it into a bag, spilling some as he did so. He's all fingers and thumbs, that one, she thought scornfully. I could do better than that. She followed her mother into the office in the corner, standing beside her as the two women sat down to discuss details.

“I've decided to give your Lizzie a month's trial,” Mrs. Dearden announced. “The pay's five shillings a week, for half days and all day Saturday, and she'll get a cup of tea and a bun mid-morning or mid-afternoon, whenever there's a free moment, and dinner at mid-day on Saturdays, though she'll have to eat it quickly whenever there's a lull. Oh, and your family gets ten per cent off any groceries bought here and first chance to buy damaged stuff cheaply. But if the lass breaks or spills things by handling them carelessly, the cost will be docked from her wages. Accidents happen and you can't prevent them, but I will not have any fooling around in my shop.”

“That's very kind of you, Mrs. Dearden,” Meg said, in her best accent, the one she had learned to use as a maid. “I'm sure Lizzie will do her very best.”

“If she doesn't, she won't be staying.” Sally fixed the girl with an eagle eye and noted with interest that she didn't flinch or look cowed. In fact, she liked the way the lass held her head up and looked you straight in the eyes. She wouldn't hire an assistant with shifty eyes, no matter how sorry she felt for the family.

She turned back to the mother. “You have to get a paper from the school to say it's all right for her to work here half-time.” She frowned to see Mrs. Kershaw's thin white face and hear her rasping breath. Not a strong woman, and not the sort to cope well with adversity, she decided. Got a die-away air about her already. Well, the lass doesn't breathe funny, at least, though she has the same thin face and dark hair, but her eyes are green, not washed-out blue. And life hasn't hit her so hard yet. It will, though, it always does. There's few of us come through unscathed. She thought of her own husband, with his chest getting worse by the year. He no longer had the stamina to stand on his feet all day. If she hadn't been around to take over the front shop, she didn't know what they'd have done—though her son, Peter, was starting to shape up now.

“I'll supply the pinnies,” she said, turning to practical matters once more. After all, she had a pile of aprons left from when her niece had worked in the shop, though Helen was married now with a baby on the way. Providing the aprons would be a way of helping the widow without seeming to offer charity. “You'll wash them yourself,” she added firmly, “and I expect them to be properly starched and ironed, mind. You'll need a clean one every day, child, an' you'd better keep an extra one here as well, in case something gets spilled.”

Lizzie nodded eagerly, her smile lighting up her face like a beacon. “When can I start?”

*   *   *

At the works that morning, Sam stopped next to Percy. “How's things going at home, lad?”

“All right. Mam coped this morning without getting too upset an' I put a notice in Minter's window on my way here, offering lodgings. Let's hope we find someone soon.” That would, he hoped, take his mother's mind off her loss.

Sam looked at him thoughtfully. Mrs. Kershaw would suit the Harpers much better than Mrs. Blackburn did. He'd speak to them. It tickled him that two fine ladies should rely on him as they were doing. But it'd been a profitable connection so far and who knew what it'd do for him in the future? “Need any help moving your stuff up to the attic?”

“No. There won't be much an' our Lizzie's stronger than she looks.”

“Need any more furniture?”

Percy shrugged. “We'll see how we go. I'll put up some hooks in the attic for me an' Johnny to hang our clothes on. An' we'll manage with a mattress on the floor for now, just get a new one for the lodgers. We have to watch our pennies.” Percy cleared his throat and said huskily, “An' I'd just like to thank you for being such a good friend to me.”

Sam shrugged, feeling a brief trickle of guilt about taking the purse, then telling himself not to be so bleedin' soft. He clapped Percy on the back. “Well, if you can't help a mate when he's in trouble, who can you help? I'll come round to see your mam tonight about that job for Lizzie.”

Percy blushed bright red.

Sam stared at him, eyes narrowed. “What's up?”

“She's—um—found herself another job, at least we think she has. Mam's gone over to Dearden's with her this morning. They want a half-timer in the shop.”

“Oh, do they?”

Percy laid his hand on his friend's arm. “Mam an' I both appreciate what you tried to do, but I don't think Lizzie would fit in here at Pilby's. The work's not all that interesting, an' when she's bored, she can be a young devil. So I reckon it's best if she goes to Dearden's. She won't have time to be bored there. I hope you won't take offence? I mean, it was very kind of you to—”

The foreman strolled over. “Nothing to do, Percy lad?”

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Symes.”

Sam moved on, whistling through his teeth, and Ben Symes stood watching him, a frown on his plump face. He was sorry to see Percy Kershaw taking up with that one, but there was no accounting for friendships. Even he tried to avoid outright confrontations with Thoxby, though he'd never admit that to anyone. There was something about him that made you feel nervous, something just a bit threatening underneath all those easy smiles.

*   *   *

Both the Kershaws stopped dead by unspoken consent at the school gate, Lizzie to scowl at the building where she had spent so many unhappy hours, Meg to catch her breath.

Mr. Dacing, the headmaster, looked out of the window and saw them coming, so stripped off his sleeve protectors and left his class to the next-door teacher's supervision. As the classroom was right next to his office he had no worries about the pupils misbehaving. Which was more than could be said for young Lizzie. He'd lost count of the number of times she'd been in trouble, though mostly just from high spirits or boredom. She wasn't a sly or nasty child.