Shattered Dreams (2 page)

“I don’t think that not being the same religion would stand in the way of a man in love. You’re a lovely girl and as pretty as a picture. He would have to go a long way to find someone as loving and kind as you are. I should know. I don’t know how I would have got over losing Tom, if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Oh, Aunty, that’s a lovely thing for you to say. I’m glad that Father suggested I come over to keep you company. Since Isabel got married again and moved in with us at Peartree Cottage, the place has become rather crowded, with the two children as well. But, I like being here anyway. I like living here in the country.”

“Your sister wants her bottom smacking. She’d only known that man for two minutes and now there’s a baby on the way. How your poor father puts up with that man living there, I just don’t know.”

“Father’s not in a fit state to do much about it, as you know. The doctor has told him that it will only be a couple of years before he’s totally blind. They need Isabel’s husband’s wages to keep the household going. That and what I can give them when I visit at the weekend. I’ve been thinking, Aunty, that I might try for another position at a different department store. They’ve built a Cooperative store in Grange Road and there might be a bit more pay.”

“That reminds me, I keep meaning to tell you, Irene. I got a letter this morning from your Aunty Jenny. She’s retiring from her job near Lancaster and wants to know if she can set up home with me. What do you think? We can still have a bedroom each, because we can turn the parlour into a place for her and her money will come in handy, take the pressure a bit off you and me.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful, Aunty. I remember Aunt Jenny from when I was a little girl and Father used to take me to visit her in Liverpool. Didn’t she used to drive a taxi in the Great War? I used to think she was a real pioneer. A lady driving a taxi. Father used to chuckle when he told me about her exploits.”

“Well, as you know, my sister has been working for a well-to-do family as a housekeeper. It’s time for her to put her feet up, especially as they have offered her a small pension. I’ll write back and let her know that we’ll be happy to have her company. Perhaps you could post the letter for me on your way to work.”

“I still think I’ll apply for a new job anyway, Aunty. I don’t like the way the senior buyer has been looking at me lately. Sort of leering and watching me closely when I walk by. He gives me the creeps and he’s never put my name forward for a promotion. A girl who started after me is already junior buyer on the clock and watch counter.”

J.C. sat at the kitchen table next morning eating his large breakfast of sausages, bacon and eggs. He was wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, feeling too bleary-eyed and hungover to bother yet with a wash and shave.

“Did Ellen press my good suit, Glad?” he asked, as his wife, Gladys, placed a rack of toast and a dish of marmalade before him.

“Only I’ve an appointment at the bank at eleven, bloomin’ manager wants to see me again.”

“Yes, it’s hanging up in your wardrobe if you’d been bothered to look. Johnny, you really must cut down on your drinking and I wish you would try to make yourself presentable for breakfast times. The girls have only just left for school. Anyway, if you’re going into town you may as well give me a lift. Save me waiting around for a bus in this hot weather.”

“What is it this time? Another frock, a pair of shoes? I’ve not seen you wearing the dress you’ve got on before.”

J.C. eyed his wife of twenty-five years with appreciation. Even after bearing him seven children, her figure was still slender and firm. Her glossy chestnut hair had not faded, though her once bright hazel eyes had lost the sparkle in them.

“I’m meeting Hilda. You know Charlie Pollitt’s wife from the Rotary Club? She telephoned yesterday and asked could we meet up for lunch. We may have a wander around that new store that’s just opened and I’ll open up an account with them if anything catches my eye.”

“Well, as long as you’re back before Ellen starts on the dinner. Those potatoes were a load of watery mush that she put on the table last night; she hadn’t drained them properly again. Maybe we should get rid of her and tell one of the girls to help you in the kitchen. Lord knows I’ve spent enough on my daughters’ education, for one of them to be able to cook well.”

“They’ve only been shown how to make sophisticated dishes, nouveau cuisine, or something like that, Johnny. I can’t see Sheena turning out a decent steak and kidney pudding or Caitlin wielding a rolling pin. Anyway, leave Ellen and the kitchen alone. It’s my domain is the kitchen. You just go and see what the bank manager wants you for.”

J.C. already knew what Mr Martin, the bank manager, wanted him for. It was about the loan that he had asked for to fund these new properties he wanted to build. J.C. couldn’t see a problem. Let’s face it, the building trade was in his very veins. Wasn’t he descended from the family who had founded the biggest property company in the district? The Sheldon Property Company: started in 1849 by his Aunt Maggie and still going strong.

J.C. forced down the resentment that always appeared when he thought of the family history. A resentment learnt from an early age at his mother, Hannah’s, knee. His Uncle Michael had diddled his half sister Hannah out of a fortune because of her illegitimacy, leaving J.C.’s father, Eddie, to struggle on and begin a rival firm. Eddie had been successful, but never as successful as his brother-in-law had been, finally passing on his business to his four grown-up sons. In time the business had come to J.C., when his unfortunate brothers had died on the Somme. Now he also had four sons to pass the trade onto, but lock, stock and barrel would go to his eldest son.

Eddie had his head under the bonnet of the lorry. He was stripped to his vest, whilst sweat poured down his legs underneath his cavalry twill trousers. Damn the thing! It had been tearing along quite happily from Buckley where he had been loading up the bricks and then the engine had conked out again.

Drat. This copper must be stalking him, Eddie could hear heavy footsteps a few yards away from him.

“Morning, lad. Broken down again, have yer? When’s yer father going to get a new lorry; this one’s only fit fer scrap as far as I can see.”

“Morning, Officer.” Eddie sighed and turned to look at the police constable. “Dad doesn’t want to listen as long as the lorry’s bringing him the loads.”

“Well, I think we’ll make him listen, young sir. This vehicle is dangerous. I’ve told yer before about it. Not only are the tyres bald, your back lights don’t work and it’s not up to carrying heavy loads. Look at that back axle, looks warped ter me and the hinges on the tipper are corroded. This time I’m going to talk ter my sergeant about you getting a summons. Being in charge of a dangerous vehicle will be enough ter do it and you’ll have to appear in the County Court.”

“But Officer, that’s not fair. The lorry belongs to my father. I’m just his driver. Why are you going to summon me?”

“Because you, young man have been entrusted with the vehicle and it’s up ter you to refuse to take it out if it’s not fit for the highway. Now tell your father this and maybe he’ll cough up for a new lorry. Now do yer want a push, we can jump start it down the hill?”

Irene was late again for work next morning, due this time to having forgotten to iron her white blouse the night before. She had watched her bus disappearing down the hill. She decided to walk. It was a pleasant sunny day, though there was a promise of another hot one if the lack of clouds above were anything to go by, but if she hurried she could be in time to catch the Crosville coach that passed along the bottom road. Irene found she was in luck and sat back breathlessly after she had paid her fare.

“I thought it was you, Irene.”

She turned to see a pleasant faced young woman sitting on the seat behind her. It was Josie, a friend of her sister’s: newly married and living out in the country, or so Irene had heard. Josie came to sit beside her.

“I haven’t seen you for ages, Josie. We used to have a lot of fun when you came over to ours.”

“No fun now, Irene. I’ve been married to Lennie for three months. In fact this is my last week working. I’m picking my cards up on Friday. Lennie says I’ve not to work anymore.”

“Oh, is that because of the rule that married women have to give up working?”

“Not really. The manager said I could stay as long as I want to because they’re a bit short of typists where I work. But Lennie says I should be expecting by now and it must be because I’m rushing off to work every day that I’m not. Anyway, he’s put his foot down. Master in his own home and all that business. How’s life treating you, Irene, and how is Isabel, to change the subject? What are you doing so far from home?”

Irene explained that she was keeping her Aunt Miriam company because her uncle had died recently. She went to work every day from Irby, where before she used to travel from Wallasey. That she had met a young man who lived locally and she hoped to marry him one day and Isabel had divorced her husband and was seeing another man.

It appeared that Josie earned her living as a typist and Irene asked if typing was difficult to learn and were there better wages to be had? Better than a shop wage had been the reply, though boring as hell as Josie was a copy typist and you had to go to night school to learn the skill.

Her half hour break at lunchtime found Irene in a long queue at the Employment office in Hamilton Square that day. Full of hope that she could be directed to a new job with better pay had spurred her to scurry along the high street, eating the sandwich that her aunty had made as she ran.

“Do you have qualifications?”asked a superior young female clerk, glancing over her spectacles at Irene, as they faced each other through the glass panel later. “Did you pass your Matriculation? Speak a foreign language? Employers are being rather choosy at the moment. We are starting to have a worldwide depression as you probably know.”

Irene didn’t know, although the signs were there to see if she looked around for them. There were more men hanging around on street corners, the bus that brought the workers to the flour mill opposite her house wasn’t as full as it had been and Saltbury’s, being a department store that sold a lot of luxury items, wasn’t very busy either.

The clerk suggested that she looked for a different kind of shop work. It was said that the new Co-op was incorporating a food department and, if she still wanted to improve her future prospects, there was always night school, though it didn’t come cheap.

Irene left the place feeling quite despondent. She blamed her mother for her lack of qualifications, not having the good education that her sister had had at the convent, when her father had been made redundant at the nearby shipyard called Cammell Lairds.

Eddie’s mother, Gladys Dockerty, sat with her friend, Hilda, in the restaurant at Saltbury’s department store. They were drinking coffee from dainty china cups and chatting about mutual friends from the Rotary Circle. Both women wore expensive coats trimmed with fur tippets, over smart ankle-length dresses and T bar shoes. Their shingled hair was covered with neat cloche hats and both wore gloves on their manicured hands.

“My dear Gladys,”said Hilda, elegantly dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a snowy white napkin.“How are the plans for the wedding progressing? You were telling me last time we met that it was to be held at St. Winefreds in Neston and afterwards at the Victoria Hotel.”

“Yes, that’s right, Hilda. Of course it is too early to put the invitations in the post, but naturally you and Charles will be there.”

“A wedding is so exciting. Have you decided on what you will be wearing? It is so important, isn’t it, when you are the mother of the bride? I can’t wait for Emily to find herself a beau. What about Eddie, your eldest? Is he walking out with a young lady yet?”

“I have heard from one of my daughters that he is seeing one of the shop assistants that works here.”

Gladys lowered her voice and looked around in case someone could hear.

“Hardly marriage material. She’s not a Roman Catholic and Eddie is only nineteen, whilst she is twenty-one. Rather young I think to be settling down. I’m going to invite Marjorie Buckley around for Sunday tea as soon as I can get around to it. You know her father, Alfred Buckley, don’t you? One of the leading lights at the Amateur Dramatic Society and a member of the Rotary. She is a lovely girl, educated with my daughters at the convent and pronounces her words so beautifully, puts my Welsh inflection to shame.”

“Oh, Gladys, I think your accent is enchanting and you’ve managed to hold on to it all these years. Now shall we order some little sandwiches? They’ll put us on until supper time.”

The shop assistant to whom Eddie’s mother had been referring was on her way back to her post on the hosiery counter. She had been given the job of counting stockings, then neatly folding them back into the wooden trays. Sarah Petey, who had been promoted to assistant buyer, though she had started her apprenticeship after Irene, was nowhere to be seen. It had been arranged that the two girls would liaise at one’ clock to see if more stock was required.

Irene stood behind the counter waiting patiently. There was only so many times one could count stockings; she had already tidied the new fangled brassieres and the glass shelves were gleaming from when she had dusted them before. She kept her eye out for the floor walker. He was known to tattle tale to management if he thought a girl was not doing her share.

Boredom began to set in. There were no customers to be served and the girl from the millinery counter opposite was busy arranging her merchandise on the wooden hat stands. Irene stared glassy eyed towards the window. Was this what she was going to have to do for the rest of her life? Standing for ten hours a day, watching the minutes on the department clock tick by. Even if she did apply for a job at the new Co-op, would her day be any different? She could still be watching the clock in another store up the road!

Oh, where had Sarah got to? At least counting stockings in the girl’s company would alleviate the boredom and they could have a laugh together as Sarah usually had a joke to tell. Finally Irene decided to go to the senior buyer’s office. Mr Fielding would know where Sarah had got to.