The Buffer Girls (16 page)

‘You know Amy Clark, don’t you, Mrs Trippet?’

‘The blacksmith’s daughter? Yes, I do.’

‘She’s in the family way,’ Grace said now.

Constance’s face was at once sympathetic. There was no censure, no disgust, just as there had been none in Grace’s
when she had first been told.

‘The poor girl,’ Constance murmured. ‘Is it Josh Ryan’s child?’ She knew all about the departure of the Ryan family from the village and the reason behind it, for
it had necessitated her having to find a new cleaner to come into Riversdale House two days a week.

Grace nodded.

Constance raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m surprised at him. I haven’t a lot of time
for Martha Ryan, even though she cleaned for us . . .’ The woman’s mouth twitched
briefly with amusement. ‘I always felt she thought she was doing us a favour, but I always liked Emily and Josh.’ Her face sobered as she added, ‘And as for poor Walter . .
.’

There was a sympathetic silence between the two women as they thought of Walter Ryan.

‘In all fairness, Mrs Trippet, Josh doesn’t
know about the baby.’

Now, Constance’s neat eyebrows seemed to shoot up almost to her hairline. ‘Doesn’t know!’ She was incredulous. ‘Why ever not?’

Grace sighed. ‘Amy – and her father, for that matter – well, they’re both proud. It seems Amy had one letter from Josh shortly after they left. He’d found a job, he
told her, at your husband’s works, and he promised he would come back and
marry her once he came of age.’ Grace pulled a face. ‘Martha refused to give her consent and, as we both
know, poor Walter . . .’ She lapsed into silence, but Constance understood.

Now there was a longer pause whilst Constance remembered something that had occurred a few months earlier.

On the day that Martha had talked to Arthur Trippet about her son’s future, Constance had been sitting
on the window seat in the morning room, which faced towards the front of the house.
From time to time she looked up from the tapestry on which she was working to glance down the driveway and through the gates to the village street beyond. And then she’d seen Martha striding
away from the house, anger in every marching step, rage in the set of her head and the stiffness of her shoulders. Constance
could remember frowning. The woman hadn’t even come to see her to
collect her weekly wage. What on earth had upset Martha Ryan so much that she had forgotten to collect her money? What have I missed?

Constance missed very little about the goings on within the household or, for that matter, what went on outside its perimeters.

Her marriage was not a happy one; but she had expected no
less. An only child, she had been a moderately wealthy heiress and so had attracted in her youth a bevy of suitors, if not admirers. She
was a slim, handsome woman with even, well-shaped features and dark hair, but she was not pretty – and certainly not beautiful – in the conventional sense. But Constance wanted to be
married and bear children. She had no ambition to fight for the vote or to run
the small estate in Derbyshire, which her father owned. At the age of twenty-one, she had sought her father’s
advice on whom she should pick from amongst the six or seven young men who came calling. In Arthur Trippet, her father, Robert Vincent, had seen an entrepreneurial streak and believed that the
money and lands that he would one day leave to his daughter would be used wisely. The young
man was already learning to take over his own family’s cutlery manufacturing business in Sheffield
and Robert surmised that Arthur would wish for his son to carry on after him. He was not mistaken; Arthur Trippet had grand visions of founding a dynasty, with sons – more than one, of course
– to carry on the name of Trippet. Arthur worked hard – very hard – and, in time, became a Master Cutler,
holding the position for a year.

When, after several serious discussions with her father, Arthur’s proposal to Constance had been accepted, they both realized that neither of them was experiencing a grand passion.
Although Arthur had been attentive during his courtship, showering her with gifts, Constance had not been deceived. They were not in love with each other, although there was a
mutual respect.

‘But, Mama,’ Constance had said worriedly a few weeks before her marriage, ‘what happens if I fall in love with someone else? I mean, after I am married?’

Elizabeth Vincent had sighed softly and taken her daughter’s hand and said, ‘A good woman never does, Constance.’

And so she had been ‘a good woman’ and as constant to her husband as her name implied. Unfortunately,
the same could not be said of Arthur. And yet, her mother had warned her of this
too.

‘Your marriage is one of convenience, my dear, as are many of the marriages in middle-class society, and should your husband stray, you must turn a blind eye.’

Constance had stared at her mother’s serene face and wondered if her own father’s frequent absences to London, ostensibly on business, were,
in fact, to visit another woman.
Elizabeth was not about to confide in her daughter and she never would, but down the years Constance was to remember the conversation and draw strength from it when her own fidelity was not matched
by her husband.

‘I hope, though,’ Elizabeth had said, ‘that you will at least be fond of each other and that he will treat you kindly.’

As she’d watched
Martha Ryan go through the gates at the end of the driveway and disappear from her view, Constance had sighed. She supposed Arthur had treated her well; materially, she
had everything she needed and she had her son. She would have loved to have had more children, but after Thomas’s birth she’d suffered two miscarriages and then there had been no more
pregnancies. Gradually, Arthur had ceased to
come to her bed and she guessed then that he had acquired a mistress and she had made it her business to find out. Often, over the fifteen or so years
since then, Constance had tried to analyse her feelings, but strangely, she was unable to do so. Had she been in love with Arthur, then it would have been easy to define; she would have been
distraught and humiliated. As it was, she had to admit
that what she did feel was relief. No more would her body be wracked with the pain of childbirth or the agony of losing a baby. But she had
Thomas and, whilst she idolized him, she was also a sensible woman who, although she wanted happiness for her son above all else – even above the success that her husband craved for his son
and heir – she never spoiled him. And although it broke her heart
when Thomas left home, first to attend boarding school and then to live and work in the city, she filled the empty hours with
running the home for her husband. Embroidery, especially tapestry work, drawing and painting and playing the piano – all the accomplishments of a well-bred woman – helped to keep the
loneliness at bay. And then, her involvement in village life made her feel respected
and needed.

The recent Great War had frightened her and she could not quell the relief that her son was too young to be conscripted and that her husband was engaged in valuable war work. He would not be
called up. Arthur had not turned his works over to the production of armaments, but he did manufacture bayonet blades, trench knives and cheaper cutlery for supply to the troops. Several
of the
young men from the village had been killed or maimed and her thoughts had returned to Martha Ryan as she thought of poor Walter.

Constance set aside her tapestry frame, left the room and went downstairs to the kitchens at the rear of the house.

‘Mrs Froggatt,’ she addressed the cook, ‘I just saw Mrs Ryan leaving, but she didn’t come upstairs for her money.’

‘I think she saw
the master, madam.’ The cook paused in rolling out the pastry for a Derbyshire pie she was making for that evening’s meal.

Constance blinked. The staff never approached Arthur for anything to do with household matters and certainly never for payment of their wages; that was Constance’s domain.

Mrs Froggatt dusted the flour from her hands and stepped a little closer to her mistress. ‘Polly
–’ she nodded towards the housemaid on the far side of the kitchen –
‘said she heard raised voices in the master’s study, but I don’t know what it was all about, madam.’

Constance was annoyed with herself. She had missed that little piece of intrigue. If she’d known, she would have listened outside the door of Arthur’s study. Constance was good at
listening at doors; she learned a lot
that way. But all she said now was, ‘Thank you, Mrs Froggatt. I’ll ask the master myself.’

She’d turned and left the kitchen. Of course, she had no intention of mentioning the matter to Arthur. She would wait. She would find out eventually. Constance could be very patient.

And now, maybe she would have to wait no longer. Grace Partridge had come with the answer to the question that had
been puzzling her for months. Obviously, she had misread Martha’s
departure that day. Constance had thought the woman had been angry about something, but she realized now that she could have been wrong. She had not seen Martha’s face and maybe her demeanour
had been one of triumph. Martha Ryan had received the help she sought from Arthur, for now her son, Josh, was, according to Grace, employed
at Trippets’ works.

‘What can I do to help the girl?’ Constance asked now, breaking the silence at last.

Grace beamed at her. She’d known that she could rely on Mrs Trippet’s kindness and understanding. ‘Materially,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing, Mrs Trippet. Her
father will care for her and supply everything she needs, but you could be a wonderful help in the village.’

Constance smiled
and put her head on one side. ‘By stopping the whispering and the pointing fingers, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Oh, I’ll do that with pleasure. And I’ll see what I can find out about Josh Ryan too, because I think he should at least be told. Leave it with me, Mrs Partridge. We
can’t judge the young man for not standing by her if he doesn’t even know about the child. And it rather explains
something else that happened at Christmas. Thomas came home for two
nights and I know he tried to see Amy, but he came back looking rather concerned. Her father had told him – quite brusquely, it seems – that Amy had a heavy cold, was in bed and
wasn’t well enough to see him. Now, I understand why she avoided him.’

That evening, over dinner, as she always did, Constance enquired about
her husband’s day at his works.

‘Just the usual, my dear,’ was always Arthur’s reply and this evening was no different. ‘We are slowly getting back to normal after the war, but we still miss those who
volunteered and who did not come back.’

‘But you’ve taken on new workers, I imagine? Men who were perhaps too young at the time to go to war.’ This was leading nicely into what Constance
wanted to ask him.

Arthur grimaced. ‘Yes, but of course they take time to train up.’

‘How’s Josh Ryan shaping up? Is he a good worker?’

Arthur’s head snapped up and he glared at her down the length of the table between them. ‘What are you talking about, Constance?’

‘Josh Ryan. He used to be the village chandler after his father came back so badly wounded from the war. But the whole
family has moved to Sheffield and I understand that he’s
working at Trippets’.’ She shrugged. ‘I presumed you’d helped him.’

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. ‘I did no such thing.’

‘Oh.’ Constance pretended innocence. ‘I thought you would have done. His mother was a very good worker for us and her poor husband—’

‘“Her poor husband” be damned. I want nothing to do with that family.’ He stopped
short of telling his wife that he had seen their son and the Ryan girl at the Armistice
Ball entwined in each other’s arms, much too closely, for Arthur’s liking. ‘I’ll put a stop to it all.’

He rose from his place, his pudding only half eaten. He threw down his napkin and marched out of the room.

Constance was left biting her lip, her appetite deserting her. She was very much afraid
that instead of helping Josh as she had hoped, she had only made matters worse.

As the girls left their workplace on a cold and dark January evening, chattering and laughing, their breath misty in the freezing air, Josh stepped out of the gloom near the
gate.

‘Emily . . .’

She turned, startled by the sound of her name being called. Pushing her way through the hurrying throng, with Lizzie following her closely, she said, ‘Josh – whatever are you doing
here?’ He was hunched into his thin winter coat and shivering. ‘You shouldn’t have come to meet me. There’s no need. Lizzie and I walk home together so—’

‘I daren’t go home,’ he blurted out suddenly. ‘I’ve been sacked. I can’t face Mam.’

‘Sacked!’ Emily was shocked and, beside her, she heard Lizzie give a startled gasp. ‘Whatever for?’

There was no hiding the bitterness in his tone
as he said flatly, ‘Old man Trippet. He paid a visit today. I mean, he often does, but he hardly ever walks around the whole factory.
Usually, he just arrives in his Rolls-Royce, spends the morning in his office with Mr Bayes and then leaves. He doesn’t concern himself with the
workers
. But today, he decided to
visit all the workshops.’ He sighed heavily and added sarcastically, ‘To wish all
his workers a happy New Year, I suppose.’

He paused and Emily prompted, ‘And?’

‘He spotted me and then pointed his finger at me and said in his booming voice, “What’s
he
doing here?” I couldn’t hear Mr Bayes’s answer but after
only a moment, Mr Trippet strode across to me and shouted, “You’re sacked” in front of everyone, Emily. I’ve never felt so embarrassed.’

‘But why?’

Josh
shrugged.

‘Didn’t Trip put in a word for you?’ Lizzie put in. ‘After all, he helped get you the job, didn’t he?’

‘He wasn’t there. He works in another workshop, so I don’t know if he even knows about it yet.’

‘Didn’t you go and find him? Get him to reason with his father?’

‘Huh! There’s no reasoning with a man like Arthur Trippet.’

‘That’s true, Lizzie,’ Emily said quietly.
‘His word is law, and, after all, it is his factory.’ She slipped her arm through Josh’s. ‘Come on,
let’s go home.’