Keepsake (13 page)

Etta held her breath, awaiting some stern condition as her father-in-law directed his question solely at her.

‘– on whether your relatives are as bad as ours, and whether they’ll be dropping in unannounced.’

Spotting the mischievous gleam, she chuckled with relief. ‘Whether they are or not is debatable, Mr Lanegan, but I rather doubt that any of them will be dropping in unexpectedly, next Sunday or otherwise.’

‘Thank heaven for that,’ said Red with a humorous wink at Uncle Mal. ‘Then we’ll look forward to it.’

Aggie heard Etta chuckle too, but unlike the others and despite her alcoholic intake she saw past the amusement, gauging the hurt in the girl’s response. How dreadful to be ostracised by one’s family. Aggie felt mean now at begrudging the lass a sporting chance, for wasn’t it natural that it would take Etta a while to get to grips with her new life – and there was no doubting that she held Marty in great esteem when she had given up so much to be with him. How could one deny her a bit of leeway? Aggie stumbled off to make tea, not minding so much now that Etta did not offer to help, even saying as the young couple finally departed, ‘Now remember what I said, I’m always here if you need anything.’

Marty tendered a cautious plea. ‘Er, in that case might we nab a few lumps of coal, Ma, so’s we can boil a kettle?’ Quickly taking advantage of the generous response, he went out to the yard and filled two buckets.

‘A few lumps, says he!’ observed Red to Uncle Mal when it was time for his son to leave. ‘And his arms swung low as a monkey’s under the weight of it.’

‘It’s only slack in the other!’ Marty showed them.

‘Slack’s the word,’ muttered Red.

Etta promised swiftly, ‘We’ll return it as soon as we’re able.’

‘Sure he’s codding yese.’ Aggie swiped at her husband, who smiled to show this was true.

Etta gave warm thanks as she left clutching the bag of items that her mother-in-law had supplied in response to
her list, feeling so much more confident than upon her first meeting with Aggie.

‘You were right about your mother.’ She clutched Marty’s arm fondly. ‘I think we shall be great friends.’

On Monday morning, Marty was first up again to light a fire for Etta, because despite the heat wave being unabated she would need it for all that must be done today. By the time his wife rose he had made a pot of tea and buttered some bread and had also made extra to take with him for lunch. Knowing how completely ignorant she was of housework, once the fire took hold he banked it up with slack, advising her to make sure it did not go out by adding a lump from time to time whilst he was at work.

Once Marty had gone, having swept up the crumbs from breakfast, stamped on any beetles and silverfish that happened to scurry her way, smoothed the bedclothes and filled the water jug from the tap downstairs, Etta forced herself to empty the chamber pot – a disgusting chore even though the contents were shallow. Downstairs, in the passageway to the yard she was forced to step over the landlord’s daughter who was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. The publican himself was in the taproom cleaning out the spittoon and looked up as she passed the doorway. It was hard to maintain one’s dignity when carrying a chamber pot, but Etta managed a smile and a good morning to both as if merely out on a stroll and not to the lavatory. The latter could only be accessed by passing through a urinal. Praying there would be no one in it, she
rushed through, completed the deed, then hurried back upstairs to stow the pot under the bed.

Then, in happier vein, she dabbed her complexion with rosewater, put on her hat and white gloves and went to restock provisions. During her leisurely stroll to the shops she happened to notice youths on bicycles with large wicker baskets calling at certain households, and ascertained that they were making deliveries from various trades persons. Ah, so that was what one did! She made a mental note to give regular instruction to the butcher, the baker and the grocer – though of course their commodities would still have to be turned into meals and she had yet to acquire this trick. So, heeding her mother-in-law’s previous generosity, on her way back she sought Aggie’s guidance.

Aggie was out in the yard, one sinewy arm winding the mangle, the other steering countless items between its rollers. The sun was almost to its zenith now and the yard was like a furnace, but this was one day when she would have no complaint, for the bedding that had been hanging out since just after breakfast was already dry. Shaking off the flecks of soot that had floated down from the chimneys, she removed the sheets and pillowcases from the line and replaced them with another selection of wet articles. Having pegged out the final garment she could now go in and snatch a bite to eat before an afternoon’s work. Thank heaven the girls had returned from school and could serve up dinner.

She had just mopped the sweat from her brow and seated herself with Uncle Mal and the children when a polite tap came at the open front door. Tutting, she craned her neck to see Etta there with an expectant smile.

‘You did say I could call on you should I need advice…?’

‘So I did, come in.’ Aggie rose as her daughter-in-law entered. ‘Will you take a bit of dinner with us while you’re here?’

‘I should be delighted.’ Etta dealt her a pleased smile and took a chair at the table, engaging in small talk with the others whilst Aggie fetched an extra setting. ‘Will Martin’s father not be joining us?’

‘He’s found work over at Poppleton,’ supplied Uncle Mal, leaning nearer for his white-stubbled jaw to murmur a winking addition, ‘That’s why herself is in such a grand mood, she likes the spondulicks.’

Etta smiled as her mother-in-law came back and laid a plate before her.

Her hostess returned the amiability. ‘Washing done already?’

Glancing through the window and noting the clothes hanging on the line, Etta misinterpreted this as a statement and merely nodded in acknowledgement.

Aggie looked impressed. ‘You’ll be spending the afternoon like me, then.’ She was forced to add a word of explanation to the somewhat puzzled listener. ‘Ironing! Normally I wouldn’t do it until Tuesday – it would be more sensible, I suppose, to wait until it’s cooler, but this sun’s got them dry in no time so I might as well make a start.’

‘Quite…’ Etta remained nonplussed.

‘Not till after dinner but.’ Aggie laughed and doled out a ladle of hash. ‘Here, tuck in. ’Tis only the beef left over from Sunday, but there’s plenty of spuds. Hope it’s to your liking.’

‘Thank you, I’m sure it will be,’ said Etta, even though it was obvious that the best of the meat had been consumed yesterday, the contents of her plate having a rich vein of fat.

However, the gravy was extremely tasty and after a great deal of trimming she enjoyed her dinner, during its consumption telling Aggie and Uncle Mal and the children what she had learned that morning about the tradesmen making deliveries, announcing proudly, ‘So, this afternoon I shall set about organising my own supplies of groceries and bread, etcetera.’

Aggie’s own enjoyment of the meal was fast becoming spoiled by her daughter-in-law’s finicky eating habits and the mound of perfectly edible meat that was building up on the side of Etta’s plate. Consequently the tone of her reply was distinctly unimpressed. ‘Most folk around here make their own bread.’

‘Oh…’ Taken off-guard, Etta looked crestfallen, but soon rallied. ‘Would you perhaps teach me then?’

‘On a Monday with all this washing? If you’ve a mind to be here at five tomorrow morning, maybe.’ Then, feeling churlish, Aggie reminded herself of yesterday’s resolution and added more kindly, ‘Still, you’ll have Marty to see to then. I’ll write the instructions down for you after we’ve eaten, ’tis easy enough.’

Etta thanked her, daintily speared the last few pieces of potato and duly laid down her cutlery.

‘Have you had sufficient?’ Aggie eyed the other’s leavings.

The reply was polite. ‘Yes, thank you, that was excellent.’

Uncle Mal’s clouded blue eyes were in fact as keen as a hawk’s. ‘Can I be having that if she doesn’t want it?’

Aggie responded with a terse nod, at which a bemused Etta watched the old man snatch the plate from under her nose and devour the bits of fat in no time.

Annoyed at them both – Mal for showing her up with his lack of manners, Etta for her prissy habits – Aggie finished her meal in silence, then laid down her own knife and fork and rose with a gruff command to her daughters. ‘Come on now, you’ve school to get back to.’

There was a hasty scraping of plates, which the girls then took to the scullery where Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and whispered to her sister, ‘For somebody posh she stinks awful bad.’ Both tittered as they set about washing up before going off to class.

Whilst Aggie checked her washing, Etta sat and chatted
happily to Uncle Mal and the little boys, all of whom seemed to hang on her every word, much to Aggie’s disgust.

‘Now, you’ll be wanting that bread receipt so’s you can get on with other things!’ Coming back into the room, she searched for a scrap of paper and a pencil.

‘Oh, there’s no need for you to hurry,’ said Etta brightly.

‘Best I do it now so I don’t forget. I’ll just put these on to warm while I write it out for ye.’ Firm of hand, Aggie set a couple of irons near the fire and spread an old blanket over the table ready to tackle her linen, hoping Etta would take the hint.

But no, even after receiving instruction on the baking of bread, her daughter-in-law was to sit there well into the afternoon, chattering contentedly about all sorts of nonsense as Aggie herself laboured non-stop.

Halfway through the first stack of ironing, her brow dripping, Aggie paused to brew tea. Only at this point did it occur to Etta that perhaps she had been there long enough, though she did not actually leave until having partaken of a cup; after all there was nothing other to do at home once she had spoken to the tradesmen but to wait for her husband to return. ‘Thank you for the bread receipt,’ she smiled at Aggie upon exiting. ‘I shall certainly try it out tomorrow.’

Aggie made sure her daughter-in-law had gone before spluttering her objection to Uncle Mal. ‘Wouldn’t you think she’d at least take it upon herself to mash a pot of tea! Letting me wait on her hand and bloody foot, and me with all this ironing, the dilatory biddy. I don’t know what she expected marriage to be. Did she imagine she’d sit on her arse all day playing madrigals?’

The old man’s watery blue eyes turned to slits, his laughter rattling up from deep within his chest. ‘Looks like it’ll be lean pickings for poor Marty.’

‘Puh!’ Aggie seized a fresh iron, aiming a contemptuous spurt of saliva that evaporated with a hiss. ‘He’s too besotted to notice she isn’t feeding him – but he
needn’t think he can come round here every Sunday for a decent meal.’ She dashed the hot iron at another pile of linen, working it into pleats and tucks. ‘I’ll put up with it for so long whilst she sorts herself out, but I won’t run around after them forever. He’s made his bed, he can lie on it.’

At that moment Marty was wishing fervently that he was in that very bed, cuddled up beside his heavenly wife instead of in a bleak railway station being aggravated by the inane cooing of soot-covered pigeons. The morning had been another complete disaster; not a penny had he made. One small mercy: still in possession of her own money, it had not occurred to Etta to ask him yet how much he had earned, but that time would surely come. How could he admit that his retort to Pybus Ibbetson about being able to look after her had been an empty boast? The pittance he had acquired would not even keep himself, let alone a wife. What kind of man would she think he was? It was the thought of Etta’s disappointment that inspired him to take a drastic step. There was no alternative but to risk the other barrow boys’ wrath and muscle his way in.

Alas, lack of muscle was part of the problem. He had tried to push to the front before and all it had earned him was a blow to the kidneys from the man nicknamed Custard Lugs. Knowing that in addition to his fists the latter also used a life preserver, and having seen the damage it had inflicted on others, did not bolster Marty’s confidence either. But he was not without guile, and during his hours of boredom he had noticed a nice little hidey-hole from where one might make a sudden dash – so long as the station master who enforced the rules was otherwise engaged. Being an affable sort, Marty had previously tried to curry favour with the head man, confiding his newlywed status and his lack of funds, but, though gaining sympathy, it had not done him much good in the short term for the other had
said there was no way he could help unless Marty had a licence.

In desperation, he decided that the time had come for ambush. Keeping alert to the position of his rivals and to the whereabouts of the bowler-hatted station master, he hid himself away to await the next train.

Upon an echoing announcement from the loud-speaker, Marty tensed himself for action and, with the subsequent rumble of an approaching engine, made ready to bolt. The train ground to a halt, doors were thrown open, the porter stepped forth to assist the alighting passengers and raised his hand for a barrow boy. This was the signal for which Marty had been waiting and he shot from his hiding place as if from a canon, hurling his barrow before him, its wheels rattling fit to fly off as he pelted forth, his face a picture of joyful expectancy.

But another had set his sights on this customer too, and with neither being willing to give way it became horribly apparent that there was to be a collision of barrows. Marty flinched as he saw it was Custard Lugs, but there was no backing down now. Urged on by thoughts of Etta, face displaying his determination to his opponent, he injected every ounce of energy into his limbs, but at the last minute, when his barrow seemed set to collide with the other, he performed the most daring of moves, halting stock-still as if to allow Custard Lugs past, but instead, with a deft flick of his barrow, sweeping the man’s feet from under him and sending him tumbling with a violent clatter, at which point he propelled himself forth again, slewing around the obstacle and continuing his sprint, to arrive triumphantly before the customer, who placed a shiny reward into his hand.

With his most violent rival nursing an injured kneecap it was to be the first of many rewards that afternoon as Marty hurtled his barrow frantically to and fro. So hard won, this chance was not to be wasted. Initially he had
proposed to throw the money on the table in a theatrical gesture of largesse, smiling to himself as he pictured Etta’s happiness and admiration in his enterprise. But then, sense prevailed. Once this cash was spent there was no guarantee of more, for Custard Lugs would soon be on his feet again and seeking retribution; whereas if he bought a licence – and there was enough in his pocket now to do so – this would ensure future earnings without him having to fight for it. Pleased with himself for such a mature decision, he set about acquiring the means to a brighter future.

All this was relayed to Etta at the end of a very eventful day, but he confessed between chuckles and kisses that, ‘Custard Lugs has marked my card, though, you can expect me to come home with an egg on my skull when he’s fit enough to catch me.’

She frowned. ‘He throws eggs?’

‘No, you clot!’ He kissed her, laughing. ‘I mean a bump from his cosh.’

‘Oh, goodness!’

‘Don’t worry! He’s not up to your father’s standards of violence – sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,’ he added hurriedly upon seeing her hurt expression and kissing it better. ‘It was thoughtless of me, I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter – but he won’t really hurt you, will he?’ She was greatly concerned.

‘Nah! I’ll keep out of his way. He can’t do much to stop me earning money now I’ve got a licence, so things are looking up, me darlin’.’ His happy smile convinced her. After a few more kisses, he said, ‘Will we eat?’ And he let go of her, rubbing his palms together and looking around the room to see if anything was different, his eyes settling on the weak glow of embers in the grate. ‘I expect you’ll have had a busy day yourself.’

‘A busy afternoon, certainly.’ Briefly, she showed him how far her embroidery had progressed, then put it aside to attend to the tea. ‘The fire made me so hot during the
morning that I was forced to leave the house. Once the sun moved around it wasn’t so bad but even with the window open I was stifled. I did heed your advice about adding the occasional lump of coal, yet I was also conscious of the need to conserve our little bucket of fuel. That’s why the fire’s so low, if you’re wondering.’ There had never been a fire in summer in her parents’ drawing room, but now she recognised that perhaps the servants must have had to suffer one in order to boil a kettle. Using a poker to swing her own kettle off the embers and a rag to hold its handle, she proceeded to brew a pot of tea, which Marty had shown her how to do.