Читать книгу Kitty Neale 3 Book Bundle - Kitty Neale - Страница 14

Amy had dashed indoors to find her mother in the kitchen preparing dinner. She’d looked all right, albeit a bit pale, but after hearing what Amy had to say, she was now red-faced with temper.

‘Mabel had no right to tell you that I fainted!’ she snapped yet again. ‘Look at you, all upset and for no reason.’

‘Mum, I’m more upset that you won’t go and sit down. I can finish making our dinner.’

‘I don’t need to rest. I was just tired, but now I’m fine. Go and get your work clothes off and this will be ready by the time you come downstairs again.’

No matter how hard Amy tried, her mother wouldn’t give in and defeated, she went to change her clothes. It didn’t take long and five minutes later Amy was back in the kitchen where her mother said, ‘If your dad doesn’t get a move on, dinner will be ruined. I’ve only got an hour to spare before I have to leave for work.’

‘Mum, no, surely you’re not up to going out cleaning again?’

‘Of course I am.’

Before Amy could protest further, she heard her father coming in and then his voice calling, ‘Where are you, woman?’

‘Where do you think?’ Phyllis called in reply.

‘Probably in the kitchen where you belong,’ he said, grinning as he appeared in the doorway.

‘It’s a wonder you haven’t chained me to the sink.’

‘Now then, don’t go putting ideas into my head.’

Amy usually loved to hear her parents’ banter, but there wasn’t a smile on her face this time as she said to her father, ‘Mum fainted this morning.’

He frowned worriedly and asked, ‘Phyllis, what made you pass out?’

‘I was a bit over-tired, that’s all.’

‘Dad, I don’t think she should go to work tonight,’

Amy said, relieved that her dad was home to back

her up.

‘Amy’s right, Phyllis. You’d best stay home,’ he agreed.

‘Now look, I told Amy and now I’m telling you. I’m fine and don’t intend to lose an evening’s pay over nothing. Now get out from under my feet while I dish this dinner up.’

‘I’ll do it, Mum. You go and sit down.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, and you, Stan, go and have a quick wash. Your hands are filthy.’

‘Yes Boss,’ he said, disappearing.

Defeated, Amy tried another offer. ‘I’ll give Winnie her dinner if you like.’

‘Yes, all right, and tell her I’ll pop in after I’ve finished work to help her into bed.’

‘I could do that, Mum.’

‘No, love. Winnie can be a bit funny and I doubt she’ll undress in front of you. There’s her commode to sort out too so you’d best leave it to me.’

‘But …’

‘That’s enough, Amy. I said I’ll deal with it and I will. Now get this round to Winnie before it goes cold,’ she insisted, handing Amy a plate, covered with another.

With no other option, Amy did as she was told, but she was still worried about her mum and couldn’t believe that tiredness alone had caused her to faint.

Celia had seen Amy with her friend as they passed her window on their way home from work. She had held her breath, and was relieved that Amy hadn’t knocked on her door. Of course she’d told the girl that Thomas wasn’t well enough to see anyone, and thankfully it had worked.

With her son’s dinner on a tray, Celia took it up to him. Thomas’s fever had gone down overnight and he looked a lot better, but she’d insisted that he remain in bed. ‘Here you are, darling,’ she said. ‘Now do try to eat it all.’

‘I thought Amy might call in on her way home from work.’

‘I saw her passing with her friend, the two of them chatting and giggling, but she didn’t stop to ask how you are.’

Thomas looked forlorn, but Celia hardened her heart. If Thomas became serious about a girl, she wanted her to come from a good family, not unlike the Willards who lived next door. They were members of the Conservative Club too and had a daughter, Melissa, but having seen her all his life, so far Thomas hadn’t noticed that she had now grown up. Of course Melissa wasn’t a beauty, with a rather large nose and long, thin face surrounded by mousy brown hair, but she was poised and intelligent. Celia wanted to encourage Thomas to notice Melissa, and if he was well again by Saturday night, she intended to invite the Willards to dinner.

‘That’s your father,’ Celia said as she heard George arriving home. She had grown used to his irregular hours. George could arrive late if an urgent job came up, but not so this evening. She left Thomas to eat his dinner and went downstairs.

George had taken off his coat and was hanging it on the hall rack. Celia knew his routine. He would now go upstairs to have a wash and change his clothes before sitting down to dinner. ‘How’s Thomas?’ he asked.

‘A little better,’ she replied, her back stiffening at his terse tone and lack of greeting. There had been a time when George would kiss her on his return home, but those days were long gone. They were now like cold acquaintances, Celia thought as she walked through to the kitchen.

By the time George came downstairs again, Celia had their dinner on the table, and pulling out a chair he sat down, looking at his food as he said, ‘I’ll be going out again in an hour or so.’

‘What, again? You’re out more evenings these days than you are in.’

‘It’s work, Celia, I’m not going to turn it down.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ she conceded, ‘and no doubt your profits are up?’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘In that case, I’d like to buy a new dinner set. Last time we had a meal with the Willards, Libby was showing off her recently acquired Crown Derby. It’s our turn to entertain them on Saturday and I’d like to have something equally nice.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the stuff we have now.’

‘George, it’s cheap rubbish in comparison to Libby’s china.’

‘Celia, I’m sick of hearing about Libby Willard and the things she’s got. You wanted a television as soon as they got one, then it was new crystal glasses, and now you want another dinner set. I don’t know why you think you have to keep up with the woman. It’s getting bloody ridiculous.’

‘And I’m sick of hearing your bad language!’ Celia snapped, her temper rising.

With that George reared to his feet and leaning across the table he hissed, ‘Well you won’t have to hear it any more, Celia. I’m going out!’

‘Good! I’ll be glad to see the back of you,’ she shouted in reply.

‘And I’m glad to hear you say that,’ George said enigmatically before marching off, the front door slamming behind him while Celia was left to ponder on his words.

George wished he had kept his mouth shut and as he walked down the hill to the bottom of the Rise he was kicking himself. He wasn’t ready to make his move yet and hoped he hadn’t given the game away.

It was only six thirty, too early, so with half an hour to kill he headed for the pub. A few blokes were propping up the bar, but George wasn’t in the mood for chatting so after ordering a pint, he sat down at a table. He took his time, just sipping the beer, after all, he didn’t want to arrive tipsy and ruin the evening.

At seven fifteen the door opened and Stan Miller limped in. George wasn’t surprised, the man was a regular, and spotting him Stan called, ‘Watcha, George. Can I get you another pint?’

‘No thanks, mate. I’m only having this one then I’m off.’

‘Yeah, you don’t want to upset the wife. Mine’s gone off to work so I’m all right.’

George had heard that Phyllis Miller did evening cleaning at a local factory and cynically he wondered if Celia knew how lucky she was. Since their marriage he had been the provider and she’d never had to work, yet despite that Celia had become more and more demanding. It was one thing after another, new this, new that, while he had to work his guts out to provide them.

Stan had gone to the bar, and was soon chatting to another bloke, while George continued to think about Celia. It really riled him that she looked down on people, especially the Millers. Stan had been reduced to poorly paid factory work since he’d been wounded during the war, and Phyllis had to work to supplement their income, yet Celia had never taken that into consideration.

A grim smile of satisfaction crossed George’s face. If things worked out the way he hoped, Celia had a shock coming. He finished his pint and rose to leave. It was time for his next port of call, and he couldn’t wait to get there.

Stan lifted his arm to wave to George as the man left the pub, feeling sorry for him. Fancy having to go home to a wife like Celia Frost, he thought, old frosty knickers. Stan frowned as a thought crossed his mind. It was Rose’s night off. Was George going home to his wife, or was he headed in the other direction? No, surely the bloke wouldn’t be daft enough to get mixed up with Rose. If he was going to have an affair, it wouldn’t be so close to home – at least Stan hoped that was the case, especially as Amy was still seeing Tommy.

Stan had never been tempted by another woman, not that a nice pair of legs didn’t catch his eye. His thoughts turned to Phyllis and despite her saying she was fine, he couldn’t help worrying a bit about what had made her pass out. It wasn’t like Phyllis. She was usually as tough as a horse and the cleaning jobs had never over-tired her before. Of course she was now looking after Winnie Morrison too; mornings, lunchtimes and after work she’d sort the old girl out, getting her to bed before coming home. Winnie wasn’t a relative, she was just a neighbour, and it wasn’t as if Phyllis was getting paid to look after her.

That thought led to another, and though it hadn’t crossed his mind before, he wondered if Winnie stumped up anything towards the meals that Phyllis provided.

He’d have to find out, have a word with Phyllis, because there was no way he was going to fork out for Winnie Morrison too. As it was, he handed over Phyllis’s housekeeping money every week, and with her two cleaning jobs, she always seemed to manage. The rest of his wages he kept as spending money, enough to ensure that he could buy a few pints of beer most evenings.

Frank Cole came in and went to join the darts team, while Stan ordered another pint, his mind still on Phyllis. He was still worried about her fainting and he began to fret. He’d have to put his foot down about Winnie, tell Phyllis that the old girl would have to find someone else to look after her. After all, he didn’t want Phyllis becoming so worn out that she had to give up one, or even both of her cleaning jobs. That would mean stumping up more housekeeping money and Stan really didn’t want to do that.

Mabel had seen George Frost earlier, illuminated by a street light before he passed her window. She’d been puzzled. He wasn’t in his van so he wasn’t working, and it had seemed a bit early for him to be going out. Maybe he’d had words with his stuck-up wife and was going to the pub to drown his sorrows. She’d tell Phyllis about it in the morning, but to make it interesting she’d have to weave it out a bit.

She had seen Phyllis leave for work, followed soon after by Stan, limping down the Rise en route to the pub. He did this most evenings while Phyllis was at work and Mabel hadn’t really thought about it before, but this time she’d felt a surge of anger. He must have seen how worn out Phyllis looked. Instead of putting money over the bar, he could increase Phyllis’s housekeeping money so she could cut down on the hours she worked.

Mabel turned away, her eyes settling on Jack, her husband. He was a good provider, didn’t drink, never had, and he worked as a guard on the railway. It was shift work, but this week Jack was on normal hours. He’d been a quiet man when she married him, and he still was, but since they had lost their son all those years ago, he’d also become morose. The only thing that interested him was history books – he always had his nose stuck in one.

Mabel looked outside again, but there was nobody about. It was dark, cold, and there weren’t any children playing outside now. She had seen some earlier, playing marbles in the gutter, their fingers blue with the cold which Mabel thought disgraceful. If her son had lived she’d have made sure he was well wrapped up before letting him play outside.

With nothing to see now, Mabel moved away to sit down opposite Jack. The silence of the room was only broken by the ticking of the clock, and for want of some sort of conversation she asked, ‘What are you reading now?’

There was an audible sigh before Jack looked up, but he finally answered, ‘It’s a history of Battersea.’

‘What on earth do you want to read that for?’

‘It’s interesting.’

‘Why’s that?’ Mabel asked shortly, hoping to draw Jack out.

‘Because Battersea wasn’t written about until the end of the seventeenth century, and it was a lot different then.’

‘In what way?’

Jack flicked back a couple of pages and said, ‘For instance, in those days, Battersea Park was just marshland. It goes on to describe gentle slopes leading up to Lavender Hill that gave way to untamed heath, sweeping away to the wilds of Surrey.’

‘It’s all built up around here now and I just can’t picture it,’ Mabel said, surprised to find that she was interested. ‘It must have been like living in the country.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Jack said, ‘and in eighteen forty-six, Battersea Park was known as Battersea Fields. It was fertile land where crops were grown, such as carrots, melons and lavender. Not only that,’ he continued, his voice animated, ‘where Battersea Power Station stands now, there was a bawdy pub called the Red House Tavern, patronised by Charles Dickens. Now what do you think of that?’

‘I still can’t picture it, and bawdy? What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.

‘Rough and rowdy I should think,’ Stan said as he lowered his eyes to the book again.

Mabel knew the signs. She wasn’t going to get anything else out of him, and her thoughts turned to Phyllis again. She was fond of her friend, but secretly envied her too – envied that she had a happy marriage, and though he was a drinker Stan was always laughing and joking. Maybe Jack would cheer up a bit if he had a few pints of beer instead of his nose stuck in books.

In truth though, the thing that Mabel envied most was that Phyllis had a daughter. In fact nearly everyone in the street had kids. Daphne Cole had three, two sons and her flighty daughter, Carol.

Mabel felt a surge of deep sorrow. She tried to hide it, buried her unhappiness in gossip, but in reality her life felt empty, meaningless, and she had felt like this since the day her son had died.