The Seventh Day (Short Fiction)
29th January 2012
In: Short Stories
“Six days shalt thou labour, and do thy work; But the seventh day...”
MONDAY
Bert watched her polishing the bar, attacking it as though every mark and glass ring was somehow deeply offensive to her. Her thin bare arm was a blur, frantic with purpose.
“For pity’s sake, Jo — take a break for ten minutes. You’ll wear yourself out, lass!” His tone was irritable but kindly.
“Okay, Mr. Ross.” Obediently, she put the duster down then hovered, waiting for further instructions.
Bert sighed, occasionally glancing up as he checked his stock sheets, wondering about her. Not that he usually took much interest in the youngsters he employed. They rarely stuck around long. Students mostly, and not exactly known for being reliable and hard working. But this one was certainly the exception. Always on time and worked like a navvy. A bit on the quiet side for a barmaid, never saying much to the customers, but she was polite and quick. And the till was never out on her shift.
“Shall I make coffee?”
“Aye, lass. That’ud be grand. Make yoursel’ a sandwich, too, if you like. It’s lookin’ to be a slow night...”
There were only four customers in, and each sat nursing a pint. Probably just waiting for the rain to stop. According to the spirits sheet, he was a bottle of Johnny Walker short, and he’d a pretty fair idea where it went. No way of being sure, of course. Anyway, he’d already let Danny go— told him he wouldn’t be needed again— and the lad had shrugged, like losing a job was nothing. But maybe a full bottle of scotch was consolation enough.
Jo reappeared and put a mug and a plate in front of him. “I made you one, too. It’s ham and pickle...” She waited for his approval.
“That’s champion!” Bert took a large bite and nodded. She relaxed and began eating.
He studied her casually. She was barely more than a kid. A bit on the bony side, but pretty — and appealing in a vulnerable, big-eyed way. It made him feel unusually protective.
“They are all right, aren’t they?” She anxiously wiped crumbs from her mouth.
“I said so, didn’t I? In fact, I were just thinking p’raps you could help Gladys in the kitchen — y’know, when she gets pushed, like...”
Her face lit up. “When...?”
“Ee, I can’t say off-hand — but I’ll have a word ’n see what she thinks. Probably be weekend lunchtimes and evenings, I reckon.”
Her smile faded. “I can’t do Friday or Saturday nights — I usually babysit.”
Bert nodded. “Well, there’s still the lunches, if you want to earn a bit of extra...”
“Yes! — yes I would! Thanks, Mr. Ross!”
Her gratitude seemed so intense, it unnerved him. He’d thrown her a crumb and it was like she was thanking him for a feast.
It was raining when they locked up. Bert paid her wages from the till, plus a fiver for a taxi home.
TUESDAY
Jo awoke early to find frost on the inside of her window. She wanted a shower, but doubted there would be any hot water left. The tank was small and Mrs. Hooper only switched on the immersion heater for an hour each morning.
She crept along the landing to the bathroom, keeping an eye out for Clyde, her landlady’s loutish son, hoping he’d already left for work. She opened the airing cupboard and felt the tank. It was barely lukewarm. She’d be quick and risk it running cold.
Tepid to begin with, she’d hardly begun rinsing off the soap before the water became too cold to bear. She got out, fighting the shivers and towelling herself roughly. She needed to find other digs. A place where an adequate supply of hot water wasn’t regarded as wilful extravagance.
She went back to her room and plugged in her hair-dryer. When nothing happened, she checked the meter in the hall, realizing she’d already fed it her last pound coin. With her hair still damp, she pulled on several layers of clothes, stuffed half a packet of biscuits in her bag, and locked her room.
She’d almost reached the front door when Mrs. Hooper called out.
“Miss Francis — I’d like a word, please ...”
Jo gritted her teeth and turned round. “Yes? What is it?”
“It’s about your rent...”
“But I slid an envelope under your door last night — didn’t you find it?” Jo was struck by the sudden thought that Clyde might have helped himself — taken it for beer money.
“Yes, but it was twenty pounds short...” Mrs. Hooper paused, noting the look on Jo’s face. “Maybe you miscounted — or did you think I wouldn’t notice it wasn’t the full month?”
Jo stared at her, nonplussed. Was the woman trying it on, or had Clyde taken just one of the notes? Was he smart enough not to be greedy and swipe the lot? She figured he probably was.
“Well?” Mrs. Hooper prompted.
“I put a hundred in the envelope — I’m sure I did. But I can’t prove that, can I? Anyway, I’ll pay you another twenty tonight. Okay?”
“Hmm. We’ll say it’s a mistake, then. But see it doesn’t happen again. Oh, and by the way, Clyde said you used all the hot water this morning. You may have use of the facilities, but that doesn’t mean you can take liberties. It’s hard enough to make ends meet, without massive electric bills...”
Jo looked at her watch, and beat down her rising indignation. There was no point in arguing. Mrs. Hooper would have to wait for her money because she didn’t want her suspecting she kept any cash in her room. “I must go. I’ll pay you later.” She pushed past, out the door and into the bitter chill of the morning street.
Pamela Fairweather, owner of Fairweather Kennels and wife of MP Gordon Fairweather, tossed her car keys on the desk and shuffled the morning post, rooting out the junk mail.
“Jo not in yet?” She frowned at the wall clock, then across at Linda, who was watering the pot plants.
“Might have missed her bus — maybe overslept...” Linda suggested.
“Well, if she doesn’t arrive soon, you’ll have to help out with the exercising. Molly’s off sick, and if Jo doesn’t turn up either, it’ll mean we’ve got thirty dogs and only two walkers — Rachel and myself. They each need at least half an hour’s run, and some of them don’t mix well with other dogs, so they’ll have to be walked on their own. God knows how we’ll fit it all in! The vet’s due to do some routine checks, but perhaps I can put him off ’til next week...”
“It’s not that I mind the walking — but I should finish the VAT return, and there’s invoices to be sent out — we need to get some cash in.” Linda bit her lip.
“Oh, the VAT can wait! We have to see to the dogs. They’re getting impatient — Jasper was barking when I drove up. Look, I know you’re up to your eyes. Help me do the walking and I’ll give you a hand with the invoices. It might means working late. But you’ll get overtime... Well ?”
“I was supposed to be going out tonight...” Linda began, when Jo burst through the door, redfaced and panting.
“Sorry I’m late — the bus lost a wheel — would you believe! Came clean off and rolled across the road. No one hurt, though. Anyway, I started walking, then I got a lift...” She began taking off her coat.
“No, keep your coat on and get Jasper’s lead. He’s already kicking up and starting the others off. Rachel should have finished hosing out the runs, so she can take Findlay and that dalmatian — Chester — brought in yesterday. They seem friendly enough. Come on, chop chop!” Pamela reached for the phone, adding “We’re short staffed, so can you do a few extra hours? — Overtime rate — plus I won’t dock your wages for being late.”
“No problem!” Jo brightened, thinking of the twenty pounds she had to pay Mrs. Hooper.
“So, you won’t need me, after all...” Linda commented as Jo rushed out.
“Probably not.” Pamela pressed re-dial, but the vet’s line was still busy. “Pay Jo’s overtime out of petty cash — put it down to travel expenses or something — I’ll sign the chit.”
That evening, Jo knocked on Mrs. Hooper’s door and counted four fivers into her hand. The TV was on and she saw the back of Clyde’s head. Engrossed in the football, he didn’t turn round.
WEDNESDAY
Beesley’s Taxi Hire was a shoebox-size office on the corner of Orchard Street and
Station Road. It also rented out videos. Jo worked on the desk from two o’clock until six, Wednesdays and Fridays. It gave Cynthia, Harry Beesley’s wife and business partner, time off to shop and spend their profits.
There wasn’t a lot to do, but someone had to be there to answer the phone, keep radio contact with the drivers, and check the videos in and out. Harry’s stock of films was old, the cases cracked and chipped, and he rarely forked out for new releases. But his rates were cheap, so there was a trickle of regular customers who seemed content enough to watch the limited selection of films over and over. Musicals and westerns; war films and Disney movies; Hammer horror and grainy black and white thrillers from the Forties... Jo had the titles filed in a new card index within a week of starting the job. Harry let her organize the system, glad she’d taken such an interest.
The afternoon slump in trade was fairly typical. Rather than be idle, she decided to dust the shelves. She had her hands full when the phone went at the same moment the street door opened. With her back to it, she didn’t see who had walked in.
“Yes... yes, we do... And we have Calamity Jane, too... Yes, Mr. Woods — I can put them by for you until Friday. No problem.” She replaced the receiver and turned round. Linda stood the other side of the counter, and they stared at each other for a moment, both slightly taken aback.
Linda spoke first. “Well, fancy seeing you here! — I thought you’re at college when you’re not working at the kennels...”
Jo thought quickly. She shrugged “Oh, I’m filling in for a friend — just temporary, y’know — until she’s well again... So, did you want to book a taxi?”
“Yes. My husband has to get to the airport early tomorrow. Our address is 25 Lansdowne Road. Pick up time 5 am — No later. You know the name...”
“Uh-huh.” Jo carefully wrote out a booking slip to pin on the board.
“Right — See you, then.” Linda walked slowly towards the door. She glanced back at Jo, her expression speculative, before she went out.
THURSDAY
Working the unpopular early morning shift at Parson’s Pickle factory could be deadly, but the money wasn’t bad, and at least the manager always seemed glad to see her. Jo had a flexible attitude — did as she was told and didn’t moan about everything. He made it clear that, as far as he was concerned, she could cover as many shifts as she liked.
She didn’t usually have much to say to the other women, as they assembled boxes and packed jars. The easy listening music playing over the tannoy helped drown out their chatter, allowing her to daydream as she worked.
Once clocked off, she bought a cheese roll in the works canteen, and ate it walking through the industrial estate on the way into town.
The Job Centre was quietly depressing. The cards up on the boards seemed the same as when she’d checked last week, and most advertised hours that clashed or overlapped with those she was already doing elsewhere. Filling the gaps in her week was getting more difficult. Maybe she’d have to drop one or two jobs in favour of something better paid, or offering longer hours. Perhaps she should quit the kennels now that Linda suspected she also worked at Beesley’s. But the dogs were fun, and any casual work that still paid cash in hand was getting rare...
“Hi ya!”
Jo was startled by the voice at her shoulder. “Oh! — Hello Danny.” She laughed awkwardly.
“You still working at The Feathers, then?”
“Yeah... Well, for now, anyway...” She wouldn’t ask why he’d left. She had a good idea already.
“So, what you looking for?”
“Um... Just checking to see if there’s anything new in. But it doesn’t look like it... You?”
“Just showin’ me face. I’m on Job Seekers, so I have to look like I’m tryin’
to find somethin’.” His jauntiness suggested he was quite happy being unemployed.
“Job Seekers can’t pay much ...” Jo fished, interested to know, in case she might ever need to claim it.
“Nah, it doesn’t... But my uncle’s got a fruit stall in the market, and I help out, now and again. Not regular hours — that’ud be a dead give-away — I just do a bit of loadin’ and unloadin’, fetchin’ and carryin’... He’s grateful — gives me ‘birthday money,’ we calls it.”
“Sounds good. I quite fancy working on a market stall...”
“I could put a word in, if you like. There’s usually one of the traders wantin’ extra help — ’specially Sundays.”
“Yeah? ” Jo didn’t let herself sound too excited. Danny might forget.
“Give us your number — so’s I can let you know.” He passed her a job enquiry form to write on.
Jo began scribbling, then stopped. “I was gonna give you my landlady’s number. Trouble is, she’s dead nosy, and I don’t really want her knowing my business...”
“Fair enough. How about comin’ along to the market on Sunday mornin’? — You could meet my uncle, an’ suss things out for yourself.”
“Could do... What time?”
“About eight-ish. That’s when we start settin’ the stalls up.”
“Okay.” She smiled, glad now to have bumped into him. “Well... Guess I’d better be off. See you Sunday.”
“Right.” He grinned, glanced over towards the desk, then back to the vacancies board.
FRIDAY
The Laburnums was a substantial Victorian house at the end of Gilbert Crescent. Jo had answered an ad in the free newspaper asking for domestic help, and the woman she’d spoken to on the phone had sounded quietly desperate. The fact Jo said she could start immediately had been the deciding factor in getting her an interview.
So now she stood on the worn step and rang the bell, peering past faded blue damask curtains into the gloom of an empty sitting room as she waited. Eventually, she heard a key being turned in the lock, and the door was opened by a small woman who Jo momentarily mistook for a child. Until, that is, she saw the anxious face tilted up at her was lined behind its wide-framed spectacles, and grey roots showed from beneath a wild frizz of dyed auburn hair.
“Hello. Are you Miss Gillman? — I’m Jo — Jo Francis.”
The woman’s expression cleared, relief flooding across her pinched face.
“Oh good! Come in, come in...” She stood back and Jo walked past her into an narrow vestibule. Miss Gillman quickly locked the front door again. “It’s all right, dear,“ she patted Jo’s arm lightly, “I have to keep it locked because of my sister, Lydia. She wanders off, you see...”
Jo nodded, not really sure she did see, but hoping for enlightenment. She followed Miss Gillman through the hallway into a warm, untidy kitchen. It had an immediate cosiness that encouraged Jo to relax. Amongst the cluttered surfaces, Miss Gillman located a kettle and filled it. Then she began searching for the tea caddy.
“I know the advertisement said domestic help,” M
Jo considered this briefly, then shook her head. “No, not really. So, what is the job, exactly?”
“Well, it’s quite simple, really — it’s a case of needing another pair of hands. It’s a big house to look after. Then there’s the garden, and shopping to get... Lydia does absolutely nothing to help and she can be very demanding. Sometimes she wants company — someone at her beck and call — other times she wants to be on her own. We have no routine because she is so impulsive and undisciplined. She gets me up in the middle of the night, often for no good reason. She can only think of Art and her own needs. She doesn’t think of others, you see.”
“So, it’s mainly housework and errands, then?”
“Well ...yes.” Miss Gillman hesitated, staring into her empty cup. “And it would be so good to have someone else to talk to...someone else in the house after all these years. We — well, it was me actually— thought we might possibly consider having someone live in. After a trial period, of course. There’s three spare bedrooms and it seems a waste, somehow...”
“Really?” Jo’s hopes leapt, envisaging possible escape from Mrs. Hooper’s end-of-terrace ice box.
Miss Gillman smiled encouragingly. “You seem a sensible enough young woman, Jo. Let me show you round, introduce you to Lydia, and then you can decide if you still want to start. How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
Out in the hallway, the sound of singing wafted down the stairs. An operatic voice warbled unsteadily, then stopped. After a brief silence, a voice called out. “Rose? Rose — have you got someone with you? Oh, answer me, damn it!”
“We’re just coming, Lydia...” Miss Gillman gave Jo a conspiratorial look and whispered, “Don’t let her bully you. She’s bound to show off and be bossy to begin with. It’s just the way she is ... Ignore any insults and agree with whatever she says. All right?”
Jo nodded. She felt nervous but intrigued.
Later, on her way to the taxi office, Jo thought about Lydia. How she’d felt an immediate empathy with the woman. She was sure Lydia had felt something, too, expressing it gruffly when she hoped Jo would soon feel at home. As though it had already been decided she would be staying.
But that would mean giving up the pickle factory and the kennels, and almost certainly the taxi office, too. Maybe she’d still find time to do a stint at the pub on Mondays, and babysit for Dr. Morris and his wife on Friday and Saturday nights. Taking on a Sunday market job was doubtful now Miss Gillman — Rose — had asked her if she’d consider keeping as eye on Lydia, so she could attend morning service. But it all meant making choices. And Jo was struggling to come to any decisions.
After finishing at the taxi office, she had more than an hour to kill before she was due at Dr. Morris’s house. Loathe to dawdle in the cold street, she went into a launderette on the pretext of asking if there were any vacancies. There weren’t, but the woman attendant seemed keen to chat anyway, and gave Jo a coffee from the vending machine. It was warm in the laundrette, and sweet-smelling from all the fabric conditioner, so she lingered, listening to the woman’s anecdotes about customers, and bizarre items of laundry found abandoned in the dryers.
By the time Jo got up to leave, they were on first name terms, and Betty said she should pop in again and check — they quite often had vacancies and, she joked, there were far worse places to work. Jo said she’d do that, then felt bad, knowing almost certainly that she wouldn’t.
Doreen, Dr. Morris’s wife, answered the door, and told Jo the children were already in bed and being read to by their father.
“Go up and say good night to them, if you like...” Mrs. Morris suggested, busy brushing dog hairs from her husband’s overcoat.
“Thanks.” Jo slipped past her and up the stairs. She tapped on the bedroom door before going in. “Hi, kids!” she whispered, then perched on the corner of Katie’s bed, while Dr. Morris continued to read Thomas The Tank Engine.
Jo noticed Stephen’s eyelids were already drooping, his baby blond lashes fluttering against his cheeks. By the time their father had read the last few sentences of the story, he was asleep. Katie was also drowsy, but managed a goodnight hug before Jo followed Dr. Morris back downstairs.
“Shouldn’t think they’ll give you any trouble,” he smiled affectionately. “Right. Our taxi should be here soon, and we’ve booked one to pick us up at eleven — so we shouldn’t be back too late. Help yourself to drinks and something to eat — you know where everything is. My mobile number is on the board, should you need to get in touch... All right?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Better get my jacket on, then.” He grinned, his dark hair flopped forward over one eye and, for a moment, he looked tousled and boyish. Jo grinned back, liking him, and imagining how different things might have been if her dad had ever taken the time to read to her.
She stood at the door and waved them goodbye, then went into the living room and turned on the TV.
Jo woke to hear a car engine outside, a key in the lock, then several voices in the hall. Guessing they had brought friends home, she quickly got up, stretching and yawning as she grabbed her bag.
“Everything all right?” Dr. Morris came in, followed by an important-looking man.
“Yes— they’re both still asleep.”
“Good. Well, thanks very much, then.” He pressed the three five pound notes discretely into Jo’s hand. “Now, the taxi’s still outside — he’s been paid to take you home, so you don’t have to worry... And we’ll see you again tomorrow evening.”
As Jo was about to leave, Mrs. Morris came out of the kitchen with another woman, who stopped dead with surprise. “Hel-lo! — Fancy seeing you! I’d no idea you know Roger and Doreen...”
Pamela Fairweather stared at her expectantly. For a moment Jo floundered, reaching for her coat and avoiding looking at anybody. “I just babysit...” she mumbled, concentrating on her buttons and moving towards the door.
“Rachel’s our regular babysitter,” Dr. Morris cut in. “So, how do you know her, Pam?”
“Jo works for me at the kennels... but you just called her Rachel... so, what’s going on?”
All their attention now focused on her, Jo yanked open the front door. “I’m sorry — I have to go!” Clumsy with panic, she banged it shut behind her and ran to the waiting taxi.
“80 Tallybridge Road, please...” Her voice shook and, as the driver glanced up to check his mirror, she recognised him. “Oh, it’s you, Ted! Small world!”
The light was still on in Mrs. Hooper’s living room, and she could hear voices arguing. It was, she gathered, all about money. Clyde was throwing a tantrum, his mother complaining shrilly about bills. There was the sound of something breaking, and Jo held her breath as she crept past.
Back in her room, she found a note had been pushed under her door. It informed her that her rent was going up from next month.
SATURDAY
Although she had nowhere already in mind to go, Jo left the house early, determined to steer clear of the Hoopers and their squabbles.
She sat in a café, listening to the conversations of lorry drivers and night shift workers. A couple of male nurses from the local hospital were ridiculing the latest NHS policy, and easy banter flowed between customers and the cheerful waitress who seemed to know them all by name. Jo envied them all their confidence. They had proper jobs — careers, even — and likely had homes where they felt comfortable. More importantly, perhaps, they had names linking them to a true identity. And real lives that touched and fitted closely with other lives. Her part time jobs were like a patchwork of a life loosely tacked together, the overall shape constantly changing, ragged and coming undone. And now she’d lost two of those patches — because there was no way she could face Dr. Morris, and she felt bad about that. It had been a small deceit — borrowing Rachel’s name and references to get the job — and she’d meant no harm. It wasn’t as if she’d stolen anything, or not looked after the children properly. Now, thanks to Pamela Fairweather turning up, she definitely couldn’t go back to the kennels, either. All of which meant she’d have a serious hole in her income. More serious since Mrs. Hooper was about to increase the rent. Jo sipped her cold coffee and decided to call in at The Feathers nearer lunchtime. Meanwhile, she used the pay phone, and nervously called Dr. Morris’s mobile number. He didn’t answer so she left an apology on his voice mail service, saying she hoped he’d be able to get another babysitter by tonight.
Gladys didn’t seem overjoyed to see her. “Bert never said you’d be coming in,” she observed, bluntly.“ He’s down in the cellar changing a barrel...”
“Oh, I only dropped in on the off-chance. Mr. Ross mentioned you get busy at weekends and might need some help...” Jo paused, watching Gladys’s face.
“Did he, now.” Her voice was non-committal as she topped a meat and potato pie with freshly-rolled pastry, trimmed it, and pinched the edges together with a floury thumb and forefinger.
Jo sensed she was a woman who wouldn’t be rushed.
Gladys sighed wearily as she brushed the pastry with egg yolk. “If you want to make yoursel’ useful, you can start by buttering that sliced loaf for sandwiches. Go easy on the butter, mind. Then there’s salad to wash... Oh, and rinse your hands first.” She pointed to the sink. “And there’s a spare apron behind the door...”
Jo was kept busy all afternoon. Gladys hardly spoke except to give terse instructions, and the long silences in-between made Jo feel tense. A couple of times, Bert walked through the kitchen and out to the back yard, but he barely looked at Jo. She wondered if she’d upset him by jumping the gun. Maybe he thought she’d been pushy, just turning up like that.
Then, as they were clearing away, Gladys put out a plate of pie and told Jo she should sit down and have her tea before she went. “Bert said you’re a good worker — and he’s not wrong.”
It was a generous portion — like Gladys had decided she needed feeding. It was also very good, so she took time to savour the pastry’s crumbly homemade texture, spooning up the meaty gravy as she wondered how to fill the rest of the day.
SUNDAY
The house was quiet as she slipped out. It held that uneasy quietness like the false moment of calm before a storm breaks. Clyde was home all day on Sundays and, once awake, his overbearing presence vibrated throughout the place. The effect reminded her of her father — the low boom of his voice travelling through walls and ceilings, keeping her anxious, haunting her still.
At the end of the road, she hesitated, debating whether it would be worth checking out the market, half-expecting Danny wouldn’t be there anyway. It was only just after seven, too cold to hang around, and there was no one else about except an over-burdened paperboy plodding his way uphill to the private estate at the top.
Gilbert Crescent was a good hour’s walk away, and she wondered which church service Rose wanted to go to. Should she pass an unvandalized telephone box on the way, she might call and ask her. She set off at a brisk pace, avoiding making any definite decisions until the last possible minute...
The curtains were still drawn, and Jo saw them twitch as she waited on the doorstep. Moments later, Rose opened the door.
“I really didn’t expect you to come... I had hopes, of course, but I thought Lydia might have frightened you off... You wouldn’t be the first!”
They went through to the kitchen and Rose reached for the teapot. The room held a pleasant, homely fug and Jo took off her coat.
“What time is your church service?”
“Eleven o’clock. There’s plenty of time. You can join us for breakfast — Lydia should be down soon.”
“Can I help?” Jo put down her cup, expecting to be put to work.
“It’s all right, dear — I can manage. I quite enjoy cooking. You just sit and finish your tea.”
Jo relaxed and looked around the untidy room. “What should I do while you’re at church? I mean, I could start with dusting... or hoovering...”
Rose gave an amused little laugh.“Good Heavens — you’re keen! But it’s Sunday — you know — the day of rest? Besides, chatting to Lydia, or rather listening to her, will keep you busy enough!” She turned the bacon she was frying, and cracked three large eggs into the pan. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Lydia swept in wearing a vibrant yellow wrap patterned with poppies. She beamed at Jo. “Ah, you decided to come, then... Of course, I told Rose you would!”
MONDAY
Bert watched her polishing the bar, attacking it as though every mark and glass ring was somehow deeply offensive to her. Her thin bare arm was a blur, frantic with purpose.
“For pity’s sake, Jo — take a break for ten minutes. You’ll wear yourself out, lass!” His tone was irritable but kindly.
“Okay, Mr. Ross.” Obediently, she put the duster down then hovered, waiting for further instructions.
Bert sighed, occasionally glancing up as he checked his stock sheets, wondering about her. Not that he usually took much interest in the youngsters he employed. They rarely stuck around long. Students mostly, and not exactly known for being reliable and hard working. But this one was certainly the exception. Always on time and worked like a navvy. A bit on the quiet side for a barmaid, never saying much to the customers, but she was polite and quick. And the till was never out on her shift.
“Shall I make coffee?”
“Aye, lass. That’ud be grand. Make yoursel’ a sandwich, too, if you like. It’s lookin’ to be a slow night...”
There were only four customers in, and each sat nursing a pint. Probably just waiting for the rain to stop. According to the spirits sheet, he was a bottle of Johnny Walker short, and he’d a pretty fair idea where it went. No way of being sure, of course. Anyway, he’d already let Danny go— told him he wouldn’t be needed again— and the lad had shrugged, like losing a job was nothing. But maybe a full bottle of scotch was consolation enough.
Jo reappeared and put a mug and a plate in front of him. “I made you one, too. It’s ham and pickle...” She waited for his approval.
“That’s champion!” Bert took a large bite and nodded. She relaxed and began eating.
He studied her casually. She was barely more than a kid. A bit on the bony side, but pretty — and appealing in a vulnerable, big-eyed way. It made him feel unusually protective.
“They are all right, aren’t they?” She anxiously wiped crumbs from her mouth.
“I said so, didn’t I? In fact, I were just thinking p’raps you could help Gladys in the kitchen — y’know, when she gets pushed, like...”
Her face lit up. “When...?”
“Ee, I can’t say off-hand — but I’ll have a word ’n see what she thinks. Probably be weekend lunchtimes and evenings, I reckon.”
Her smile faded. “I can’t do Friday or Saturday nights — I usually babysit.”
Bert nodded. “Well, there’s still the lunches, if you want to earn a bit of extra...”
“Yes! — yes I would! Thanks, Mr. Ross!”
Her gratitude seemed so intense, it unnerved him. He’d thrown her a crumb and it was like she was thanking him for a feast.
It was raining when they locked up. Bert paid her wages from the till, plus a fiver for a taxi home.
TUESDAY
Jo awoke early to find frost on the inside of her window. She wanted a shower, but doubted there would be any hot water left. The tank was small and Mrs. Hooper only switched on the immersion heater for an hour each morning.
She crept along the landing to the bathroom, keeping an eye out for Clyde, her landlady’s loutish son, hoping he’d already left for work. She opened the airing cupboard and felt the tank. It was barely lukewarm. She’d be quick and risk it running cold.
Tepid to begin with, she’d hardly begun rinsing off the soap before the water became too cold to bear. She got out, fighting the shivers and towelling herself roughly. She needed to find other digs. A place where an adequate supply of hot water wasn’t regarded as wilful extravagance.
She went back to her room and plugged in her hair-dryer. When nothing happened, she checked the meter in the hall, realizing she’d already fed it her last pound coin. With her hair still damp, she pulled on several layers of clothes, stuffed half a packet of biscuits in her bag, and locked her room.
She’d almost reached the front door when Mrs. Hooper called out.
“Miss Francis — I’d like a word, please ...”
Jo gritted her teeth and turned round. “Yes? What is it?”
“It’s about your rent...”
“But I slid an envelope under your door last night — didn’t you find it?” Jo was struck by the sudden thought that Clyde might have helped himself — taken it for beer money.
“Yes, but it was twenty pounds short...” Mrs. Hooper paused, noting the look on Jo’s face. “Maybe you miscounted — or did you think I wouldn’t notice it wasn’t the full month?”
Jo stared at her, nonplussed. Was the woman trying it on, or had Clyde taken just one of the notes? Was he smart enough not to be greedy and swipe the lot? She figured he probably was.
“Well?” Mrs. Hooper prompted.
“I put a hundred in the envelope — I’m sure I did. But I can’t prove that, can I? Anyway, I’ll pay you another twenty tonight. Okay?”
“Hmm. We’ll say it’s a mistake, then. But see it doesn’t happen again. Oh, and by the way, Clyde said you used all the hot water this morning. You may have use of the facilities, but that doesn’t mean you can take liberties. It’s hard enough to make ends meet, without massive electric bills...”
Jo looked at her watch, and beat down her rising indignation. There was no point in arguing. Mrs. Hooper would have to wait for her money because she didn’t want her suspecting she kept any cash in her room. “I must go. I’ll pay you later.” She pushed past, out the door and into the bitter chill of the morning street.
Pamela Fairweather, owner of Fairweather Kennels and wife of MP Gordon Fairweather, tossed her car keys on the desk and shuffled the morning post, rooting out the junk mail.
“Jo not in yet?” She frowned at the wall clock, then across at Linda, who was watering the pot plants.
“Might have missed her bus — maybe overslept...” Linda suggested.
“Well, if she doesn’t arrive soon, you’ll have to help out with the exercising. Molly’s off sick, and if Jo doesn’t turn up either, it’ll mean we’ve got thirty dogs and only two walkers — Rachel and myself. They each need at least half an hour’s run, and some of them don’t mix well with other dogs, so they’ll have to be walked on their own. God knows how we’ll fit it all in! The vet’s due to do some routine checks, but perhaps I can put him off ’til next week...”
“It’s not that I mind the walking — but I should finish the VAT return, and there’s invoices to be sent out — we need to get some cash in.” Linda bit her lip.
“Oh, the VAT can wait! We have to see to the dogs. They’re getting impatient — Jasper was barking when I drove up. Look, I know you’re up to your eyes. Help me do the walking and I’ll give you a hand with the invoices. It might means working late. But you’ll get overtime... Well ?”
“I was supposed to be going out tonight...” Linda began, when Jo burst through the door, redfaced and panting.
“Sorry I’m late — the bus lost a wheel — would you believe! Came clean off and rolled across the road. No one hurt, though. Anyway, I started walking, then I got a lift...” She began taking off her coat.
“No, keep your coat on and get Jasper’s lead. He’s already kicking up and starting the others off. Rachel should have finished hosing out the runs, so she can take Findlay and that dalmatian — Chester — brought in yesterday. They seem friendly enough. Come on, chop chop!” Pamela reached for the phone, adding “We’re short staffed, so can you do a few extra hours? — Overtime rate — plus I won’t dock your wages for being late.”
“No problem!” Jo brightened, thinking of the twenty pounds she had to pay Mrs. Hooper.
“So, you won’t need me, after all...” Linda commented as Jo rushed out.
“Probably not.” Pamela pressed re-dial, but the vet’s line was still busy. “Pay Jo’s overtime out of petty cash — put it down to travel expenses or something — I’ll sign the chit.”
That evening, Jo knocked on Mrs. Hooper’s door and counted four fivers into her hand. The TV was on and she saw the back of Clyde’s head. Engrossed in the football, he didn’t turn round.
WEDNESDAY
Beesley’s Taxi Hire was a shoebox-size office on the corner of Orchard Street and
Station Road. It also rented out videos. Jo worked on the desk from two o’clock until six, Wednesdays and Fridays. It gave Cynthia, Harry Beesley’s wife and business partner, time off to shop and spend their profits.
There wasn’t a lot to do, but someone had to be there to answer the phone, keep radio contact with the drivers, and check the videos in and out. Harry’s stock of films was old, the cases cracked and chipped, and he rarely forked out for new releases. But his rates were cheap, so there was a trickle of regular customers who seemed content enough to watch the limited selection of films over and over. Musicals and westerns; war films and Disney movies; Hammer horror and grainy black and white thrillers from the Forties... Jo had the titles filed in a new card index within a week of starting the job. Harry let her organize the system, glad she’d taken such an interest.
The afternoon slump in trade was fairly typical. Rather than be idle, she decided to dust the shelves. She had her hands full when the phone went at the same moment the street door opened. With her back to it, she didn’t see who had walked in.
“Yes... yes, we do... And we have Calamity Jane, too... Yes, Mr. Woods — I can put them by for you until Friday. No problem.” She replaced the receiver and turned round. Linda stood the other side of the counter, and they stared at each other for a moment, both slightly taken aback.
Linda spoke first. “Well, fancy seeing you here! — I thought you’re at college when you’re not working at the kennels...”
Jo thought quickly. She shrugged “Oh, I’m filling in for a friend — just temporary, y’know — until she’s well again... So, did you want to book a taxi?”
“Yes. My husband has to get to the airport early tomorrow. Our address is 25 Lansdowne Road. Pick up time 5 am — No later. You know the name...”
“Uh-huh.” Jo carefully wrote out a booking slip to pin on the board.
“Right — See you, then.” Linda walked slowly towards the door. She glanced back at Jo, her expression speculative, before she went out.
THURSDAY
Working the unpopular early morning shift at Parson’s Pickle factory could be deadly, but the money wasn’t bad, and at least the manager always seemed glad to see her. Jo had a flexible attitude — did as she was told and didn’t moan about everything. He made it clear that, as far as he was concerned, she could cover as many shifts as she liked.
She didn’t usually have much to say to the other women, as they assembled boxes and packed jars. The easy listening music playing over the tannoy helped drown out their chatter, allowing her to daydream as she worked.
Once clocked off, she bought a cheese roll in the works canteen, and ate it walking through the industrial estate on the way into town.
The Job Centre was quietly depressing. The cards up on the boards seemed the same as when she’d checked last week, and most advertised hours that clashed or overlapped with those she was already doing elsewhere. Filling the gaps in her week was getting more difficult. Maybe she’d have to drop one or two jobs in favour of something better paid, or offering longer hours. Perhaps she should quit the kennels now that Linda suspected she also worked at Beesley’s. But the dogs were fun, and any casual work that still paid cash in hand was getting rare...
“Hi ya!”
Jo was startled by the voice at her shoulder. “Oh! — Hello Danny.” She laughed awkwardly.
“You still working at The Feathers, then?”
“Yeah... Well, for now, anyway...” She wouldn’t ask why he’d left. She had a good idea already.
“So, what you looking for?”
“Um... Just checking to see if there’s anything new in. But it doesn’t look like it... You?”
“Just showin’ me face. I’m on Job Seekers, so I have to look like I’m tryin’
to find somethin’.” His jauntiness suggested he was quite happy being unemployed.
“Job Seekers can’t pay much ...” Jo fished, interested to know, in case she might ever need to claim it.
“Nah, it doesn’t... But my uncle’s got a fruit stall in the market, and I help out, now and again. Not regular hours — that’ud be a dead give-away — I just do a bit of loadin’ and unloadin’, fetchin’ and carryin’... He’s grateful — gives me ‘birthday money,’ we calls it.”
“Sounds good. I quite fancy working on a market stall...”
“I could put a word in, if you like. There’s usually one of the traders wantin’ extra help — ’specially Sundays.”
“Yeah? ” Jo didn’t let herself sound too excited. Danny might forget.
“Give us your number — so’s I can let you know.” He passed her a job enquiry form to write on.
Jo began scribbling, then stopped. “I was gonna give you my landlady’s number. Trouble is, she’s dead nosy, and I don’t really want her knowing my business...”
“Fair enough. How about comin’ along to the market on Sunday mornin’? — You could meet my uncle, an’ suss things out for yourself.”
“Could do... What time?”
“About eight-ish. That’s when we start settin’ the stalls up.”
“Okay.” She smiled, glad now to have bumped into him. “Well... Guess I’d better be off. See you Sunday.”
“Right.” He grinned, glanced over towards the desk, then back to the vacancies board.
FRIDAY
The Laburnums was a substantial Victorian house at the end of Gilbert Crescent. Jo had answered an ad in the free newspaper asking for domestic help, and the woman she’d spoken to on the phone had sounded quietly desperate. The fact Jo said she could start immediately had been the deciding factor in getting her an interview.
So now she stood on the worn step and rang the bell, peering past faded blue damask curtains into the gloom of an empty sitting room as she waited. Eventually, she heard a key being turned in the lock, and the door was opened by a small woman who Jo momentarily mistook for a child. Until, that is, she saw the anxious face tilted up at her was lined behind its wide-framed spectacles, and grey roots showed from beneath a wild frizz of dyed auburn hair.
“Hello. Are you Miss Gillman? — I’m Jo — Jo Francis.”
The woman’s expression cleared, relief flooding across her pinched face.
“Oh good! Come in, come in...” She stood back and Jo walked past her into an narrow vestibule. Miss Gillman quickly locked the front door again. “It’s all right, dear,“ she patted Jo’s arm lightly, “I have to keep it locked because of my sister, Lydia. She wanders off, you see...”
Jo nodded, not really sure she did see, but hoping for enlightenment. She followed Miss Gillman through the hallway into a warm, untidy kitchen. It had an immediate cosiness that encouraged Jo to relax. Amongst the cluttered surfaces, Miss Gillman located a kettle and filled it. Then she began searching for the tea caddy.
“I know the advertisement said domestic help,” M
Jo considered this briefly, then shook her head. “No, not really. So, what is the job, exactly?”
“Well, it’s quite simple, really — it’s a case of needing another pair of hands. It’s a big house to look after. Then there’s the garden, and shopping to get... Lydia does absolutely nothing to help and she can be very demanding. Sometimes she wants company — someone at her beck and call — other times she wants to be on her own. We have no routine because she is so impulsive and undisciplined. She gets me up in the middle of the night, often for no good reason. She can only think of Art and her own needs. She doesn’t think of others, you see.”
“So, it’s mainly housework and errands, then?”
“Well ...yes.” Miss Gillman hesitated, staring into her empty cup. “And it would be so good to have someone else to talk to...someone else in the house after all these years. We — well, it was me actually— thought we might possibly consider having someone live in. After a trial period, of course. There’s three spare bedrooms and it seems a waste, somehow...”
“Really?” Jo’s hopes leapt, envisaging possible escape from Mrs. Hooper’s end-of-terrace ice box.
Miss Gillman smiled encouragingly. “You seem a sensible enough young woman, Jo. Let me show you round, introduce you to Lydia, and then you can decide if you still want to start. How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
Out in the hallway, the sound of singing wafted down the stairs. An operatic voice warbled unsteadily, then stopped. After a brief silence, a voice called out. “Rose? Rose — have you got someone with you? Oh, answer me, damn it!”
“We’re just coming, Lydia...” Miss Gillman gave Jo a conspiratorial look and whispered, “Don’t let her bully you. She’s bound to show off and be bossy to begin with. It’s just the way she is ... Ignore any insults and agree with whatever she says. All right?”
Jo nodded. She felt nervous but intrigued.
Later, on her way to the taxi office, Jo thought about Lydia. How she’d felt an immediate empathy with the woman. She was sure Lydia had felt something, too, expressing it gruffly when she hoped Jo would soon feel at home. As though it had already been decided she would be staying.
But that would mean giving up the pickle factory and the kennels, and almost certainly the taxi office, too. Maybe she’d still find time to do a stint at the pub on Mondays, and babysit for Dr. Morris and his wife on Friday and Saturday nights. Taking on a Sunday market job was doubtful now Miss Gillman — Rose — had asked her if she’d consider keeping as eye on Lydia, so she could attend morning service. But it all meant making choices. And Jo was struggling to come to any decisions.
After finishing at the taxi office, she had more than an hour to kill before she was due at Dr. Morris’s house. Loathe to dawdle in the cold street, she went into a launderette on the pretext of asking if there were any vacancies. There weren’t, but the woman attendant seemed keen to chat anyway, and gave Jo a coffee from the vending machine. It was warm in the laundrette, and sweet-smelling from all the fabric conditioner, so she lingered, listening to the woman’s anecdotes about customers, and bizarre items of laundry found abandoned in the dryers.
By the time Jo got up to leave, they were on first name terms, and Betty said she should pop in again and check — they quite often had vacancies and, she joked, there were far worse places to work. Jo said she’d do that, then felt bad, knowing almost certainly that she wouldn’t.
Doreen, Dr. Morris’s wife, answered the door, and told Jo the children were already in bed and being read to by their father.
“Go up and say good night to them, if you like...” Mrs. Morris suggested, busy brushing dog hairs from her husband’s overcoat.
“Thanks.” Jo slipped past her and up the stairs. She tapped on the bedroom door before going in. “Hi, kids!” she whispered, then perched on the corner of Katie’s bed, while Dr. Morris continued to read Thomas The Tank Engine.
Jo noticed Stephen’s eyelids were already drooping, his baby blond lashes fluttering against his cheeks. By the time their father had read the last few sentences of the story, he was asleep. Katie was also drowsy, but managed a goodnight hug before Jo followed Dr. Morris back downstairs.
“Shouldn’t think they’ll give you any trouble,” he smiled affectionately. “Right. Our taxi should be here soon, and we’ve booked one to pick us up at eleven — so we shouldn’t be back too late. Help yourself to drinks and something to eat — you know where everything is. My mobile number is on the board, should you need to get in touch... All right?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Better get my jacket on, then.” He grinned, his dark hair flopped forward over one eye and, for a moment, he looked tousled and boyish. Jo grinned back, liking him, and imagining how different things might have been if her dad had ever taken the time to read to her.
She stood at the door and waved them goodbye, then went into the living room and turned on the TV.
Jo woke to hear a car engine outside, a key in the lock, then several voices in the hall. Guessing they had brought friends home, she quickly got up, stretching and yawning as she grabbed her bag.
“Everything all right?” Dr. Morris came in, followed by an important-looking man.
“Yes— they’re both still asleep.”
“Good. Well, thanks very much, then.” He pressed the three five pound notes discretely into Jo’s hand. “Now, the taxi’s still outside — he’s been paid to take you home, so you don’t have to worry... And we’ll see you again tomorrow evening.”
As Jo was about to leave, Mrs. Morris came out of the kitchen with another woman, who stopped dead with surprise. “Hel-lo! — Fancy seeing you! I’d no idea you know Roger and Doreen...”
Pamela Fairweather stared at her expectantly. For a moment Jo floundered, reaching for her coat and avoiding looking at anybody. “I just babysit...” she mumbled, concentrating on her buttons and moving towards the door.
“Rachel’s our regular babysitter,” Dr. Morris cut in. “So, how do you know her, Pam?”
“Jo works for me at the kennels... but you just called her Rachel... so, what’s going on?”
All their attention now focused on her, Jo yanked open the front door. “I’m sorry — I have to go!” Clumsy with panic, she banged it shut behind her and ran to the waiting taxi.
“80 Tallybridge Road, please...” Her voice shook and, as the driver glanced up to check his mirror, she recognised him. “Oh, it’s you, Ted! Small world!”
The light was still on in Mrs. Hooper’s living room, and she could hear voices arguing. It was, she gathered, all about money. Clyde was throwing a tantrum, his mother complaining shrilly about bills. There was the sound of something breaking, and Jo held her breath as she crept past.
Back in her room, she found a note had been pushed under her door. It informed her that her rent was going up from next month.
SATURDAY
Although she had nowhere already in mind to go, Jo left the house early, determined to steer clear of the Hoopers and their squabbles.
She sat in a café, listening to the conversations of lorry drivers and night shift workers. A couple of male nurses from the local hospital were ridiculing the latest NHS policy, and easy banter flowed between customers and the cheerful waitress who seemed to know them all by name. Jo envied them all their confidence. They had proper jobs — careers, even — and likely had homes where they felt comfortable. More importantly, perhaps, they had names linking them to a true identity. And real lives that touched and fitted closely with other lives. Her part time jobs were like a patchwork of a life loosely tacked together, the overall shape constantly changing, ragged and coming undone. And now she’d lost two of those patches — because there was no way she could face Dr. Morris, and she felt bad about that. It had been a small deceit — borrowing Rachel’s name and references to get the job — and she’d meant no harm. It wasn’t as if she’d stolen anything, or not looked after the children properly. Now, thanks to Pamela Fairweather turning up, she definitely couldn’t go back to the kennels, either. All of which meant she’d have a serious hole in her income. More serious since Mrs. Hooper was about to increase the rent. Jo sipped her cold coffee and decided to call in at The Feathers nearer lunchtime. Meanwhile, she used the pay phone, and nervously called Dr. Morris’s mobile number. He didn’t answer so she left an apology on his voice mail service, saying she hoped he’d be able to get another babysitter by tonight.
Gladys didn’t seem overjoyed to see her. “Bert never said you’d be coming in,” she observed, bluntly.“ He’s down in the cellar changing a barrel...”
“Oh, I only dropped in on the off-chance. Mr. Ross mentioned you get busy at weekends and might need some help...” Jo paused, watching Gladys’s face.
“Did he, now.” Her voice was non-committal as she topped a meat and potato pie with freshly-rolled pastry, trimmed it, and pinched the edges together with a floury thumb and forefinger.
Jo sensed she was a woman who wouldn’t be rushed.
Gladys sighed wearily as she brushed the pastry with egg yolk. “If you want to make yoursel’ useful, you can start by buttering that sliced loaf for sandwiches. Go easy on the butter, mind. Then there’s salad to wash... Oh, and rinse your hands first.” She pointed to the sink. “And there’s a spare apron behind the door...”
Jo was kept busy all afternoon. Gladys hardly spoke except to give terse instructions, and the long silences in-between made Jo feel tense. A couple of times, Bert walked through the kitchen and out to the back yard, but he barely looked at Jo. She wondered if she’d upset him by jumping the gun. Maybe he thought she’d been pushy, just turning up like that.
Then, as they were clearing away, Gladys put out a plate of pie and told Jo she should sit down and have her tea before she went. “Bert said you’re a good worker — and he’s not wrong.”
It was a generous portion — like Gladys had decided she needed feeding. It was also very good, so she took time to savour the pastry’s crumbly homemade texture, spooning up the meaty gravy as she wondered how to fill the rest of the day.
SUNDAY
The house was quiet as she slipped out. It held that uneasy quietness like the false moment of calm before a storm breaks. Clyde was home all day on Sundays and, once awake, his overbearing presence vibrated throughout the place. The effect reminded her of her father — the low boom of his voice travelling through walls and ceilings, keeping her anxious, haunting her still.
At the end of the road, she hesitated, debating whether it would be worth checking out the market, half-expecting Danny wouldn’t be there anyway. It was only just after seven, too cold to hang around, and there was no one else about except an over-burdened paperboy plodding his way uphill to the private estate at the top.
Gilbert Crescent was a good hour’s walk away, and she wondered which church service Rose wanted to go to. Should she pass an unvandalized telephone box on the way, she might call and ask her. She set off at a brisk pace, avoiding making any definite decisions until the last possible minute...
The curtains were still drawn, and Jo saw them twitch as she waited on the doorstep. Moments later, Rose opened the door.
“I really didn’t expect you to come... I had hopes, of course, but I thought Lydia might have frightened you off... You wouldn’t be the first!”
They went through to the kitchen and Rose reached for the teapot. The room held a pleasant, homely fug and Jo took off her coat.
“What time is your church service?”
“Eleven o’clock. There’s plenty of time. You can join us for breakfast — Lydia should be down soon.”
“Can I help?” Jo put down her cup, expecting to be put to work.
“It’s all right, dear — I can manage. I quite enjoy cooking. You just sit and finish your tea.”
Jo relaxed and looked around the untidy room. “What should I do while you’re at church? I mean, I could start with dusting... or hoovering...”
Rose gave an amused little laugh.“Good Heavens — you’re keen! But it’s Sunday — you know — the day of rest? Besides, chatting to Lydia, or rather listening to her, will keep you busy enough!” She turned the bacon she was frying, and cracked three large eggs into the pan. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Lydia swept in wearing a vibrant yellow wrap patterned with poppies. She beamed at Jo. “Ah, you decided to come, then... Of course, I told Rose you would!”