Darkest Before Dawn (13 page)

Martha had given her daughter a hug and had then stepped back and smiled at her. ‘You're right and I'll do just as you suggest,' she had said humbly. ‘I've been selfish, and in a way . . . oh, a sort of show-off. But grieving comes from inside a person, not from what they're wearing. In fact . . . remember the red dress your pa bought me a couple of years ago for Christmas because he said it reminded him of holly berries? Well, I'll wear that . . . it would please Harry, don't you think?' Seraphina had agreed, with a tremble in her voice, and the next morning – Christmas morning – everyone had got up and dressed in their best.

They had all tried very hard to be jolly as small presents were unwrapped and admired, and then they had gone to church. The rector was a man of about Harry's age, his dark hair already streaked with grey, his face gentle. He had preached a lovely sermon, reminding his congregation that joyous though the Christmas season must be for all Christians, it was also a time for remembering those who were no longer with us. ‘It is easy to say that one's loved ones are with Jesus in His heavenly paradise, but the pain of loss cannot be eased by such remarks when grief is new,' he had said. ‘So temper your joy in this happiest of festivals with sympathy for those who cannot rejoice wholeheartedly, because sorrow is still uppermost in their minds.'

Now, Martha looked down at the grey and white checked dress she had put on to go to church that morning. She had worn the scarlet wool frock on Christmas Day and Boxing Day, but had changed into something more suitable for everyday wear after that. She would have done so even if Harry had been alive; one did not wear one's best dress for any but special occasions, she reminded herself.

As it was Sunday, high tea consisted of a large plate of bread and margarine, a dish of hard boiled eggs and a Madeira cake which Martha had made that morning, upon her return from church. She had always gone to church regularly, and when Harry died had at first expected to find comfort in the place he had regarded so highly. Instead, seeing someone else preaching from the pulpit simply increased her sense of loss, but she knew how it would hurt Harry if she stopped attending, so she continued to go twice every Sunday, morning and evening, and sometimes popped in during the week and knelt for a moment to say a prayer or two. She told herself that it was too early to find the comfort she sought and glanced up at the kitchen clock, hoping that the girls would be in soon from their walk, for today they would miss the evening service in order to hold their conference, and she felt half guilty, half pleased, that she would not have to go out again into the damp, grey day.

She was just wondering whether there was sufficient food on the table when she heard the clatter of shoes on the outside staircase, and presently all three girls came into the room. Seraphina looked beautiful, her rich dark gold hair misted with tiny drops and her cheeks flushed from hurrying. Behind her, Angie was taking off the blue headscarf she had tied over her pale blonde curls and, right at the back, Evie was shedding her worn navy blue coat, shaking out her damp hair and then coming over to eye the table hungrily. ‘Hey, Mam, why hard boiled eggs, why no meat?' she enquired plaintively. ‘There's a tin of Spam in the pantry, I seen it when I were getting the oats out for the breakfast porridge. And what about me mustard and cress? I grew it special and you did say we could have it for tea today, I'm sure you did.'

Martha laughed and, reaching for a towel, began to rub her youngest daughter's wet hair. Evie was a bright little thing and, knowing how tight money had become since her father's death, she had started her own small business. She had cut an old towel into six pieces, soaked each piece beneath the running tap, purchased – Martha hoped she had purchased – several packets of mustard and cress seeds from Woolworths and proceeded to grow her crop. When the mustard and cress was about three inches high, she had harvested it with Martha's kitchen scissors, tied it into penny bunches and sold it, either up and down the Scottie or in the Great Homer Street market. Of course, she then had to work very hard to remove the roots from the pieces of towelling in order to plant a fresh crop and Martha often giggled to herself over her small daughter's new hobby, if you could call it that. But she had to admire Evie's dogged perseverance and had actually suggested throwing away the old towelling and buying fresh material from the market, where a ragged towel would probably cost only a penny or two.

Evie, however, would not take what she plainly considered to be the easy way out and besides, she was somewhat shy of market stallholders at the moment. By a great piece of misfortune she had been standing in Great Homer Street, selling her penny bunches, without realising that similar bunches were being sold for tuppence by a fat and dirty woman in a man's cloth cap, who stood close by. The woman had had the bunches on a tray round her neck – Evie's were carefully displayed in a shallow cardboard box – and when she pounced on her, giving her a good clip round the ear and telling her that she was ruining her trade, Evie had been both shocked and frightened . . . at first, that was. Martha had been indignant when Evie had told how she had got her bruised cheek, but Evie had shaken her head. ‘No, Mam, she were right. If some little kid had fetched up along o' me selling bunches for a ha'penny, I'd ha' give her a clout meself an' sent her on her way. We've all got a living to make, d'you see? Why, when spring comes, I'm going into the country on Sundays to cut watercress from a running stream, 'cos the old feller what sells ducks' eggs and trussed chickens and bags of corn for popping says folk are so fed up eating nothing but sprouts an' winter cabbage that they'll pay threepence a bunch for watercress, if it's fresh, that is.'

‘But if you pick it on a Sunday an' sell it the following Saturday, it won't
be
fresh,' Angela, who had been listening to the conversation with some amusement, had remarked.

She clearly thought she had put her little sister in her place, but Evie was having none of it. The little girl had sniffed scornfully. ‘I shall keep it in the sink, in a big bowl, and water it every day and I shan't take the roots off till the Sat'day morning,' she had announced, giving her sister a withering glance. ‘I'm not daft, Angela Todd.'

And she was most definitely not daft, Martha reflected now as Evie fished a bowl out from under the sink and placed her mustard and cress triumphantly on the table. Martha was proud of Seraphina's beauty and brains, and proud of Angela's creativity, for her middle daughter sketched and painted very well indeed and her dressmaking was so good that she could have taken it up as a career. Martha also admired Angela's soft, appealing prettiness and the way she stuck to her work at Bunney's even though she found it hard, but most of all Martha admired little Evie. Her small monkey face could never be described as pretty, and no matter how well fed she might be she remained skinny and scrawny. She was not clever, her schoolwork being merely average, but she was quick-witted and hard-working and would, Martha found herself thinking, do very well in whatever career she decided to take up, even if it were only growing mustard and cress or running a stall at the Great Homer Street market.

Martha bustled over to the stove where the teapot waited to be filled with water from the hissing kettle. She made the tea and poured four mugs of it, then added conny-onny and handed a mug to each of her daughters, taking the last one herself. As she handed Evie hers, it occurred to her for the first time that in the old days she had always made four cups of tea and a smaller one, of milk and water, for Evie. Ever since Harry's death, however, Evie had insisted upon drinking tea and now Martha realised that this was another example of Evie's thoughtfulness. It would have been horrid to pour only three mugs of tea, because it would have been yet another acknowledgement that her dearest Harry had gone for good.

‘Who's saying grace?' Seraphina said, as they settled themselves round the table. Harry had insisted that, as soon as a child was old enough, they should take a turn at saying grace before each meal.

Martha looked round the table, trying to recall who had said grace at breakfast, but Evie was before her. ‘It's me, which is really lucky since it's my mustard and cress,' she said proudly. ‘Mam, when I grow up, I'm going to buy a farm. Then I'll be able to send you all the eggs you want and butter instead of margarine, and lovely fresh veggies and things. Or p'raps you could give up your job with Mr Wilmslow and come and live with me? That 'ud be nice, wouldn't it?'

‘Very nice; but right now you might remember that no one can start until you've said grace,' Martha reminded her.

Evie heaved a dramatic sigh but closed her eyes, clasped her hands and spoke rapidly and in none too pious a tone. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful, amen,' she gabbled. Then she opened her eyes. ‘Wharrabout the Spam, Mam?' She giggled at the rhyme. ‘Though I suppose eggs an' cress go better together than Spam 'n' cress.'

Martha reached across the table and began helping herself to bread and margarine, motioning her daughters to follow suit, and presently there was silence save for munching noises and requests to pass the salt and pepper. However, by the time the worst of their hunger was satisfied, the girls were chattering once more. ‘I met me pal Percy on the way back from church,' Evie remarked presently. She glanced, diffidently, up at her mother. ‘I – I know you don't want to talk about it, Mam, but times is awful hard for them, with their dad in prison and no proper money coming in. Mrs Baldwin takes any job she can get, but Percy was saying folks won't give her a job because of what Mr Baldwin did.' Martha noticed that the colour had risen in her small daughter's cheeks and that her eyes were very bright, and guessed she was holding back tears. ‘That ain't right, is it, Mam? Pa would have said about the sins of the fathers . . . you know.'

Martha sighed and got to her feet, beginning to clear the table. ‘You've jumped the gun a bit, love, because it's a matter for our family conference,' she said. ‘Still, we'll get this lot cleared away and then get down to business.'

Presently, the four of them took their places once more at the cleared kitchen table and Martha began to speak. She explained what the girls probably already knew: that without their father's salary coming in regularly, things were going to be very difficult; Seraphina would not be going back to teacher training college when term commenced. It was not solely that they could not afford the fees; they needed the extra money Seraphina could bring in if she took paid work. ‘I feel awful about asking you to give up your training,' Martha said, apologetically, to her eldest daughter, ‘but although we aren't at war and I hope to God we never will be, there is a factory in the city making uniforms for the armed forces and another making munitions. They pay very good money and if you were fortunate enough to get a job at either one of them, I think we could manage fairly well.'

Angela leaned forward. ‘But Ma, why shouldn't I try to get a job in a uniform factory?' she said eagerly. ‘I could earn much more than they pay me at Bunney's, I'm sure. And I know I could do the work. If I was earning more, wouldn't that mean Fee could stay on at the college? Only, as you say, it does seem a shame to waste her cleverness on factory work.'

Martha smiled affectionately at her second daughter. ‘I don't think I actually did say that, my dear, but I expect I implied it.' She paused, not wanting to pour cold water upon Angela's idea, and whilst she hesitated Seraphina broke in.

‘It's all right, Angie. I realised weeks ago – well, when Pa died – that I shouldn't be able to continue at college. Mr Quennell, the principal, realised it as well, so he called me to his office.' She turned eagerly to her mother. ‘I didn't say anything at the time because I thought you might decide to go back aboard the
Mary Jane
, but you've made it pretty clear over the past few weeks that you don't mean to do that.'

‘We couldn't manage aboard the
Mary Jane
without your father's strength and knowledge, and besides, I couldn't do that to Hetty and Jim – take away their livelihood, I mean,' Martha said. ‘Oh, I know we all miss the canal and the barge most dreadfully, but your father decided on a life ashore for good, practical reasons and I'm sure we all agree that Pa never acted rashly, so we'll continue to follow the path he chose for his family.' She turned to Seraphina. ‘Well, dearest? Just what did your principal say?'

‘He said there are things called bursaries and grants which are available to intelligent young people who want to teach but cannot afford the fees,' Seraphina said, blushing brightly. ‘I told him I didn't think I'd be able to apply for such a grant because you need the wages I would bring in if I got a job, but he's most awfully sensible, Ma, and really very nice. He suggested that I should leave the college now and reapply next year, putting in for a bursary at the same time and explaining our changed circumstances. He says he's certain there is a war coming and, when it does, everything will change. All the young men will go into the forces so if they are to keep the college open they will need girls to train up as teachers more than ever.'

Martha reached across the table and clasped her daughter's hand tightly. For a moment she did not trust her voice; dear Seraphina! Some girls might have insisted that they be allowed to continue their training, particularly since a grant would presumably pay for most, if not all, of her fees. But Seraphina was generous and understanding. Martha realised that when the family had first settled round the table to have their conference, she had felt sure she was the unluckiest and unhappiest woman in Liverpool. Now, she knew she was one of the luckiest, to have three such wonderful daughters. She knew there were folk on the canal who had thought that she and Harry were overindulgent parents, giving their daughters not only love and support, but also all the material possessions they could afford. They had gone out of their way to see that the girls attended school every day during term time, even though it meant sometimes travelling quite long distances, morning and evening. Homework was always done, even though the teacher who handed it out might not see the work for two or three weeks, and whenever they were moored in a big city, Harry and Martha had seen to it that the girls visited museums and galleries – even theatres, if the money would run to it – and had introduced them to the joys of really good libraries.