Gull Island (20 page)

She glanced around the room, wondering idly which of his needs it might be. His tobacco? His favourite pipe? Certainly not his sandwiches or his drink. She had seen to them herself as she always did.

When she opened the door it was a neighbouring farmer and he was covered with the snow that was falling fast and silently from the night sky. She was surprised to see the snow. The farm was so isolated that the special muffling effect that was so noticeable in built-up areas – the low purring sound of cars, the whirring of wheels and shouted instructions around
vehicles
that were stuck – didn’t disturb them here.

‘Mr Brackley? Come in. What a night! Come in quick and warm
yourself
by the fire. I didn’t know the snow had begun again. What can I do for you?’ She turned after closing the door behind him, wondering why he hadn’t spoken. ‘What is it? If it’s Graham you want he won’t be in till morning. Up in the fields with his flock he is.

‘Graham is … outside,’ the man said.

‘Outside? Why doesn’t he come in?’ She stared unseeing into the
darkness
. ‘Come back for his pipe, I bet.’ She tutted impatiently. ‘Tell him to come in before he catches his death. What is it?’ she asked, alarmed by silence of the solemn-faced man, who was clutching his hat in gnarled hands.

‘I – I found him down at the bottom of the
cwm
, missus. Taking a lickle short cut I was, see. He went over the fence at the top by the looks of things.’

‘What are you telling me?’

‘Missus, sorry to my heart I am to tell you, your man is dead.’ He explained how he had run for help and with the aid of his sons had brought the body home.

‘The doctor’s on his way, missus. Be here in less than an hour for sure. Now once he’s been, how about you and the girls coming back with us for the night? The missus and I will be glad if you’d come. You don’t want to be on your own. Not tonight.’

Numbly Barbara shook her head. She was trembling, her arms shaking up and down. Her face had dropped, aged, and she had the look of a stranger to her daughters when they were woken and brought down to be told the news.

‘Then my missus will come and stay with you, that’ll be best,’ Mr Brackley said, his voice stronger now the news had been told. He whistled through the doorway and called his sons to fetch their mam. But Barbara protested.

‘No. Thank you, Mr Brackley, but no. I only want the girls,’ she said. ‘But tell them to come in and have a hot drink before walking back home.’ She made them drinks with hands that were still shaking, and sat wrapped in silent, disbelieving shock while they drank it and left.

The rest of that night was simply hours to be got through. Marking time, watching the journey of the clock hands, waiting until people could be told, the arrangements made. There was no thought of the future, just the present, the unbelievable present. In her numbness came bursts of anger. Graham had let them down, leaving them all alone to cope. Why hadn’t he been more careful? He had left them all alone and for the sake of a ewe and her lamb.

Kate and Hattie seemed dazed and after being told the news just sat and stared at the walls, then at each other, holding hands and saying nothing. Barbara knew the tears would come and all the questions and
recriminations
, but she said nothing to encourage them. She had to give herself time to get strong so she could support them fully when the time came.

The deep snow made everything doubly difficult but somehow the news was spread and the arrangements made for the funeral. Neighbours dealt with the animals and offered help in any way it was needed. Numbly, Barbara wrote to tell Rosita that her stepfather had died then, even at such a time she remembered the lie and re-wrote to the matron stating that Rosita’s dear Uncle Graham had sadly died.

It was only two days before the news reached Rosita that her ‘Uncle Graham’ was dead.

‘Your aunt wrote to me too and she sounds very distressed,’ Matron said kindly. ‘She wonders if you might like to go and stay with her for a while? I think she needs some extra family around her.’

‘I’ll go at once, if she needs me.’ Was there sarcasm in the girl’s words? Matron couldn’t be sure but she was puzzled by the harshness in Rosita’s tone.

‘Don’t worry about your work, my dear. I’ll let everyone know you won’t be in for a few days.’

Rosita packed her bag and left the place that had been her home since the age of five, and didn’t look back. Today she was leaving but wouldn’t be going to comfort her mother and those half-sisters of hers who hadn’t come to see her once during all the years she’d been away. She was heading for the town and a life of her own.

It was easier than she had imagined to change from Rosita Jones from the home to Miss Caroline Evans, a smart young woman with a future. She went first to a hairdresser and had her long hair cut into the fashionable shingle. The difference was startling. Her eyes looked huge and her face had a chiselled look that went well with the rather haughty expression she habitually wore. The hairdresser helped with some advice about make-up and Rosita went into a chemist and bought eye shadow, face cream and powder, and some lipsticks. To her utter joy she also bought soap that wasn’t carbolic and smelled wonderful.

With the rest of her meagre savings she bought a calf-length skirt, a richly embroidered Hungarian blouse and a long jacket. The outfit was unsuitable for January and she would have to keep the awful coat the home had supplied and the even more awful black lace-up shoes Matron had lent her, supposedly for the funeral. But at least she felt different.

She caught sight of herself in a café mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She looked older, no longer a child needing to be looked after. She bought a packet of cigarettes although she made no attempt to light one. Just having them in her handbag added to her new sophistication. For the first time she was going to be herself, but with a new name. Miss Caroline Evans. How wonderful was that?

Boldly, she applied for a job in a dress shop. Making sure she hid the awful brown coat, she walked confidently in to see the manageress, a Miss Grainger, wearing her new clothes. She carried herself proudly. She was careful about her diction and after a few preliminary questions, which Rosita answered with a mixture of truth, exaggeration and downright lies, she was told she could begin the following day.

Rosita walked around for an hour but the day was chilly. Snow banked up all along the pavement was crisp with the onset of the night’s frost. Knowing that a night sleeping outside was impossible to consider, she went back and asked Miss Grainger if she could help her find a room.

The manageress looked surprised to see her back and even more surprised at her request. Looking older than her early forties, she stood behind her desk, tall, elegant, wearing a polite half-frown. Her mid-brown hair was curled into a neat bun, her face was serious but by no means harsh, and there was a gentility about her that Rosita thought she could manipulate.

‘I’m from out of town, you see, Miss Grainger. The lady I intended staying with, a dear friend of my mother, has been taken ill. In hospital she is and I’ve wasted a lot of time visiting her and giving comfort. Now I’ve left it rather late. Tomorrow there will be no problem. I have plenty of friends who will help, but tonight, I wonder, could you find me a room?’

Miss Grainger was half annoyed and half amused by the girl’s
impertinence
but seeing the smile and the confident assurance on Rosita’s pretty face, she said quietly, so the other members of staff couldn’t hear, ‘A little short of money, are we, Miss Evans?’

‘Yes, but only until for now. Tomorrow I’ll contact my friends and it will be all right.’

‘If it’s for one night only, I will allow you to use my spare room. But please, don’t tell any of the staff – they will think it very odd.’

They walked back to the house where Miss Grainger had lived with her mother until the old lady had died, and which, she told Rosita, now rattled around her like an over-large cage. She showed Rosita into a cosy bedroom the like of which she had never seen. Rugs on the floors, a thick eiderdown on the single bed and velvet curtains across the window that looked out on a view of the docks.

Miss Grainger watched as Rosita unpacked her few belongings, taking in the carefully mended lisle stockings and the minimal amount of
underwear
, and offered kindly to lend her a nightdress, dressing gown and towel.

‘The rest is following on. I had to wait until I was sure of an address, you see,’ Rosita explained in her new, carefully modulated voice, accepting with some trepidation the cigarette Miss Grainger offered. It was foul and she thought her throat was on fire, but she determinedly tried to appear nonchalant and took a second and third puff but soon placed it on an ashtray, and there it stayed.

‘If there’s anything else you need, please ask,’ Miss Grainger offered. She stood for a long time wondering if she had been foolish to invite the unknown girl into her home. It was obvious she had run away from someone, but it wouldn’t hurt to give her a few days and see how things went. She could always tell her to leave if she caused any worries.

Rosita was not allowed to approach the customers at first. She had to watch and learn from the other sales girls. She also had to spend time getting to know her stock. When a customer came in for a particular item, she had to have a clear and accurate picture in her mind of all they had to offer.

In the showroom were rails of coats and suits, skirts and dresses. In special glass-fronted showcases on the sales floor there were some beautiful evening gowns displayed with glittering hairbands, evening bags and jewellery. In a corner there were delicate evening shoes, sheer silk stockings, fur stoles and wraps. One gown, Rosita was surprised to see, was in black velvet with a startlingly low front and, from the waist up, no back at all! Some of these special dresses cost fifteen guineas so the cases where they were displayed were kept locked and Miss Grainger had the keys.

In the stockroom below the sales floor, an alteration hand sat at her sewing machine with dozens of cottons and assorted pins and needles, and took in and let out and shortened hems and let them down. There were other rails down there, covered with sheeting, and from these the displays were refilled after sales had been made. It was here, too, that purchases were wrapped.

Rosita had to recognize each material, learn about the latest fashion and be able to discuss the rights and wrongs of dress for every occasion. At first she thought it would be boring but Miss Grainger was encouraging and helpful and her newest assistant soon became fascinated by the variety of both garments and the customers who came to buy. Miss Grainger noted approvingly how quickly she learned and how well she dealt with customers.

The ‘stupid’ label still hovered around her though. She occasionally
brought the wrong garment to the wrong customer and once handed the purchase to the wrong person. The incidents were covered each time by amused laughter but Rosita saw Miss Grainger watching and in her anxiety to please her, made other, less serious errors.

The accommodation problem seemed in abeyance. Miss Grainger had surprised her on the second day after her arrival by saying, ‘If you wish, Caroline, you can stay a few more days, just until you find something more suitable.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ Rosita said in her new voice that went with her new self.

‘And,’ Miss Grainger added with a chuckle, ‘you can stop pretending to smoke!’

A few days drifted on and although Rosita had found a place where she could stay cheaply and which was not far from the shop, she waited until Miss Grainger told her she must leave. At the end of two weeks, she had handed all her small wages to her.

‘For my bed and board, Miss Grainger, and thank your for you
kindness
.’

It was a tricky moment, an opportunity for Miss Grainger to remind her the few days were over, but instead, she handed back two of the seven shillings and said nothing.

Rosita had a way with people that her mother would never have believed. Like Matron and several others if they had been brutally honest, her mother would have described her daughter as an ill-tempered,
ungracious
character. But in her role of junior sales assistant, she was patient and very polite.

She was only allowed to approach those customers that were considered time wasters, just come to look and finger and dream of owning such
beautiful
clothes. And at lunchtime, when the staff was reduced, she was occasionally allowed to hone her skills. She encouraged those who came in to try on garments that appealed instead of just looking and sometimes flattered them into buying more than they intended. But Miss Grainger was curious, she knew something was wrong.

‘Caroline, dear, why didn’t you return the smile when Mrs
Prichard-Jones
came in just now?’ she asked, when that lady had turned away embarrassed at having her smile ignored.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Grainger, I didn’t see her.’

‘Well, just go and speak to her, will you? Just a polite good morning, mind. Don’t involve your betters in conversation, that won’t do,’ she reminded her.

Miss Grainger watched in surprise as Rosita walked to a woman
standing near the rail of winter coats before realizing her mistake and walking back again to the counter, where Mrs Prichard-Jones was looking at fur wraps. She frowned and wondered if the girl was perhaps a bit stupid, as the others believed. Such a pity if she were; she was pretty enough and the customers liked her.

She began to watch Rosita more carefully and suddenly the reason for her apparent vagueness came to her. As they walked home together, the rest of the staff now knowing of the friendship between them, she pointed to a hoarding across the road.

‘Look, there’s a circus advertised. I love a circus. When does it say it’s coming?’

Rosita ran across the road and read the notice. ‘It’s an old one, I’m afraid. It was here months ago.’