Darkest Before Dawn (3 page)

However, there had been a query in Mrs Wilmslow's tone, so Martha decided to ignore her unchristian remark and tell her what she wanted to know. ‘Actually, Mr Wilmslow didn't tell me that Molly and Annie weren't coming in today, so I sent my daughters off to do some shopping for me,' she informed the other woman. ‘But when I heard you call, one of the customers said she'd run up and tell my husband that I needed him downstairs. He's not busy, and—'

Mrs Wilmslow interrupted. ‘I hope you've not left the shop unattended,' she said querulously. ‘I know I'm a scouser meself, but Mr Wilmslow comes from Chester and he says all scousers is thieves and vagabonds. If one of them women gets her fingers into our till . . . well, that'll be you out on your ear, Martha Todd.'

‘I left Mrs Bunwell in charge,' Martha said quietly. ‘It was either that or leave you to your own devices, Mrs Wilmslow. I didn't have much choice really, wouldn't you say?'

As she spoke, she was settling Mrs Wilmslow back amongst her pillows, wrestling with a strong desire to tell her employer's wife where she got off. But when she looked at the older woman's thin, pain-racked face, she merely gave her a cheerful smile. It was probably the pain speaking, she told herself, rearranging Mrs Wilmslow's faded pink bedjacket and preparing to carry the chamber pot through to the back yard. ‘I'll put the kettle on while Mr Todd is keeping an eye on things; then you can have a nice cup of tea.'

Mrs Wilmslow sniffed. ‘I wouldn't mind a cup of tea,' she admitted grudgingly. ‘And when them gels of yourn come back, you tell 'em they ain't to go off in future wi'out they asks permission first. Mr Wilmslow telled me what rent you pay, so I reckon we've every right . . .'

Martha gritted her teeth and sailed out of the room, feeling the heat rush into her cheeks. That's the trouble with being a redhead, she reminded herself, pushing the back door open and crossing the cobbled yard: your temper sometimes gets the better of you and you don't just blush a pretty pink when you're cross, you go the colour of a beetroot. So I'll rinse out this here jeremiah and splash my face with cold water before I put the kettle on. By the time I return to the shop, no one will guess how cross I felt.

When Martha returned to the Wilmslows' bed-sitting room, she heard her husband's deep tones mingling with those of the customers and smiled with relief. She checked that Mrs Wilmslow was all right, then went back to the shop. Harry was standing behind the counter, alongside Mrs Bunwell, writing down each item she had placed in the cardboard box and checking the shelf stickers for the appropriate price. He turned as Martha entered and grinned at her. He was a tall, spare man, his hay-coloured hair just beginning to turn grey at the temples, and he was still very tanned, his skin leathery and deeply creased from a lifetime on the canal, for Harry's father and grandfather before him had been barge masters and until three months earlier his entire life had been spent aboard the
Mary Jane
. He greeted his wife cheerfully but looked rather helplessly at the customers waiting to be served. ‘I'm afraid I'm a bit slow like, because I don't know where the things are kept,' he said apologetically. ‘But Mrs Bunwell and meself have teamed up; she fetches the items off the shelves and I write down the prices. It seems to work pretty well.'

‘Right. Well, you two get on with the orders and I'll serve customers who don't want stuff delivered,' Martha said briskly. ‘Mrs Wilmslow fancied a cup of tea so I've put the kettle on, but until it boils I'll get on here.'

The three of them worked frantically for the next twenty minutes, but as soon as a lull came Martha hurried into the tiny back kitchen, turned the gas off under the kettle – the room was full of steam though she had left the back door ajar – and made a pot of tea. She poured a delicate porcelain cup for her employer's wife and filled three chipped mugs for herself, her husband and Mrs Bunwell before carrying the teacup through into the bed-sitting room and putting it down on the bedside table. Mrs Wilmslow gave her a reptilian glance. ‘Where's me biscuits?' she rasped. ‘It's eleven o'clock, ain't it? I allus has two Marie biscuits and a squashed fly for me elevenses.'

‘Sorry, Mrs Wilmslow,' Martha said with forced cheerfulness. Why couldn't the woman simply ask for the biscuits? She must know very well that it was Mr Wilmslow who normally brought her elevenses. She went into the kitchen and flung open the pantry door. She found the biscuits in a tin and put three on a plate, carrying them back into the bed-sitting room and placing them tenderly alongside the cup of tea. Mrs Wilmslow reached out a trembling hand and took one of the Maries. She held it close to her eyes as though she suspected it might be a fake, then took a very small, very unenthusiastic bite. Crumbs cascaded down the front of her cotton nightdress and she chumbled the small mouthful half-heartedly, then returned the biscuit to the plate and picked up the squashed fly, submitting it to the same inspection as the first. ‘They're perishin' well stale,' she muttered. ‘I'm a sick woman, I don't have much pleasure out of life an' he saves all the stale biscuits for me elevenses. Why, you could bend them Maries into a hoop if you'd a mind.'

Martha longed to tell the other woman that if the biscuits had been truly soft she would not now have crumbs all down her front, but knew better than to say so. Instead, she turned away, saying over her shoulder: ‘I must fly. The shop bell has pinged twice since I came to get your tea; we don't want to lose customers, do we?' She did not wait for a reply but returned to the kitchen, snatched the three mugs of tea and went back into the shop with an inward sigh of relief. What a wretched, miserable woman Mrs Wilmslow was! The local nurse came in three times a week to ‘see to her' as she put it and had given Martha to understand that the job was one she did not relish, but this was the first time Martha had been called upon to ‘see to' Mrs Wilmslow herself and she understood completely how the nurse must feel.

Back in the shop, which was quiet for a change, the three of them sipped their tea. Martha was just beginning to wonder whether her employer's frequent nastiness could be laid at his wife's door when Mr Wilmslow staggered into the shop, his arms round a large sack which he deposited on the floor with a hefty thump. He was as tall as Harry, but pale as milk, with a fringe of gingery hair round a monastically bald pate, a long spade-shaped chin and a Roman emperor's nose. His eyes were a very pale brown; Martha thought them angry eyes, as though their owner had a grudge against the whole world. He did not greet them, or even look at them properly, merely saying in a high, nasal voice: ‘Fetch in them sacks what's piled up on the cart outside and gerra move on. I hired the cart and the driver by the hour, so the sooner it's unloaded the better I'll be pleased.'

Martha half expected Harry to tell Mr Wilmslow that he would do no such thing, was not his employee, but though she saw a slight flush rise in his tanned cheeks he merely gave an almost imperceptible shrug and went briskly out of the shop. Mrs Bunwell gave Martha a gap-toothed grin but stayed where she was. ‘I'll mind the till,' she said genially. ‘I ain't humping sacks for that old skinflint what won't even give me a word o' thanks for helpin' out this morning, lerralone a couple of loaves of bread or a few pennies for me trouble.'

Martha pulled a wry face; she knew it was true. Mr Wilmslow grudged parting with so much as a penny and would claim that, since he had not personally authorised Mrs Bunwell's assistance, any money – or goods – given to her must come out of Mrs Todd's own pocket. Martha needed every penny she earned, for though Harry's job as a warehouseman was well paid they had had a good few expenses when they moved into the flat. They had had to buy beds, chairs, a couple of tables and even linoleum for the floors, for Mr Wilmslow had taken everything out, even the curtains, and anything he could not use in his new quarters he had sold down at Paddy's market, though his new tenants would have willingly bought such things from him.

Martha reached the cart just as her husband strode past her with a heavy sack over each shoulder. He caught her eye and slowed. ‘Get back to the shop, love,' he said quietly. ‘I'll not have you straining your back trying to cart these things. It's man's work . . . and besides, there's only half a dozen left.'

Martha knew better than to argue, but as she turned back into the shop she said under her breath: ‘You shouldn't be doing it either, Harry. Why, he never even asked you to give a hand and I bet he won't thank you either. Dump those two and then get back to the flat; you're supposed to be off sick.'

Harry did not reply, and Martha returned to the shop in his wake to find Mrs Bunwell about to depart. Mr Wilmslow was shrugging himself into the brown overall which he wore for work and taking up his position behind the counter once more. Mrs Bunwell addressed him, her tone firm. ‘I been workin' here for the past half-hour, Mr Wilmslow, givin' Mrs Todd there a hand, 'cos there weren't no one else who could help out. I dare say you won't want to pay me, bein' as you didn't ask me yourself, but I'll take two tins of conny-onny and a small loaf and we'll call it quits, awright?'

Mr Wilmslow opened his mouth to object, then seemed to think better of it. ‘One tin of conny-onny,' he said briskly. He turned to Martha. ‘And since your gals were supposed to give a hand today, you can pay for the bread.'

‘My husband has also been helping out, Mr Wilmslow,' Martha said coldly, choosing a small loaf and wrapping it in tissue paper before handing it to Mrs Bunwell. ‘I think you could say his time – and strength – is worth rather more than the price of a small loaf.'

Mrs Bunwell smothered a chuckle as she let herself out of the door, holding it open for Harry, who was carrying the last sacks into the premises. ‘That's right, luvvy,' she said, giving Martha a broad grin and a wink as she spoke. ‘An' don't forget, if them gals of yours had helped out, they'd have wanted more'n a word o' thanks. Gals these days . . .'

But at this point a group of housewives entered the shop, and Martha, smiling despite herself, moved forward to serve the first of them whilst her employer, rubbing his long, big-knuckled hands together as though he were trying to remove something sticky and disgusting from his fingers, asked the next customer what he could get her. Business resumed. Harry returned to the flat and Martha continued to serve the remaining shoppers and to sip her cooling tea whenever she had a free moment, though she had heard Mr Wilmslow mutter that it were too bad; he only had to turn his back and not only did his assistant help herself to a hot drink, but she handed cups of tea round to all and sundry. Martha decided to ignore the remark. For the time being at least, she had little choice. She thought she could have got a better paid job almost anywhere but the flat was cheap and convenient and she had no desire to start yet another search for accommodation. So she continued with her work in silence and presently Mr Wilmslow said, irritably, that he supposed they had both better go and get themselves something to eat. ‘I'll only have a sandwich though, since we're short-handed, so don't you be long, Mrs Todd,' he said, crossing the shop and twisting the ‘Open' sign to read ‘Closed'. ‘If Molly and Annie were here there'd be no need to close, but I dare say you'll want to feed that husband of yours, and them gals too, if they've deigned to come home by now.'

‘That's right,' Martha said shortly. ‘See you later, Mr Wilmslow.' She was not sure whether he expected her to cut short her own dinner hour, too, and did not intend to enquire. Instead, with an inward sigh of thankfulness, she left the shop and headed for the flat.

Harry was at the cooker when he heard his wife come running up the outside stairs. He was more than capable of toasting cheese on four rounds of bread, for anyone living on a canal barge had to be able to do all the various tasks necessary for the smooth running of the vessel, and Harry had frequently cooked the meals whilst his wife went shopping in the nearest village, or foraged in woods and fields for nuts, fruit, mushrooms or berries, whichever was in season.

When Martha entered the kitchen he swung round to greet her, noting her flushed cheeks and the angry sparkle in her eyes. He wondered how long it would be before she lost her temper and told Mr Wilmslow what to do with his job, for though she had frequently called her employer mean and crotchety Harry had not personally had anything to do with the man until today. Having seen Mr Wilmslow in action, if only for a few moments, he realised how selfish and demanding the other man was. Martha was a hard worker, as were all the women on the canal, but she had never worked for someone else before. He thought she would have taken to it well enough had her employer been a pleasanter person, but he doubted her ability to put up for much longer with an ungrateful, greedy old man, who despised his employees and did everything he could to reduce their wage at the end of every week.

Martha, however, greeted him cheerfully and began to set the table, saying as she did so: ‘I'm taking an hour off for my dinner whatever that old devil downstairs says.' She reached up and put an affectionate hand on the back of her husband's neck. ‘Bless you, Harry. There's nothing I like more than toasted cheese with some pickles. I don't know whether the girls will be in, but if they are they can make their own food.' She walked across to the larder and presently emerged with two large ripe tomatoes. ‘I'll fry these up and we can have them on the side. And we'll have a nice piece of apple pie for afters – I baked yesterday.'

Harry nodded. Since moving into the flat, Martha had had to bake in the evening, since Mr Wilmslow kept her busy during the day. Harry was an easy-going man in many respects, but he would not have dreamed of allowing his wife to work on the Sabbath. He was usually preaching at one church or another in the city, but when he was at home he spent the time reading the Bible or writing sermons.