Beyond a Misty Shore Page 12

  ‘Will you give the girl a chance to get her coat and hat off ?’ Lizzie scolded.

  Sophie sat down beside her sister and tore open a pale blue envelope, which Arthur noted was of good quality paper.

  She scanned the lines of neat copperplate writing and then smiled. ‘It’s from a Miss Henrietta Foster. She would like me to call to see her with a view to having what she calls “some afternoon dresses” made.’

  ‘Sounds a bit old fashioned, where does she live, Sophie?’ Lizzie asked, placing a bowl of soup in front of her niece and trying to scan the contents of the letter over Sophie’s shoulder.

  ‘Number five Laurel Road,’ Sophie supplied, looking questioningly up at her aunt.

  Lizzie frowned, trying to think.

  ‘If I remember correctly, it’s about twenty minutes or maybe half an hour away – walking, that is,’ Arthur informed them. ‘I’m not sure if it’s still classed as Stanley Road or if it’s off Hawthorne Road. It’s a quiet area. It used to be quite affluent at one time, I believe. I walk a great deal when the weather is fine,’ he added rather self-consciously.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Chatsworth. Quite big, rather posh houses they are, or used to be,’ Lizzie added.

  ‘That sounds very promising, Sophie,’ Maria enthused. ‘Does she say when she wants you to call?’

  ‘Saturday afternoon, if it’s convenient, at three.’ Sophie bit her lip, thinking that even if the snow was a couple of feet thick she would have to get there somehow, she couldn’t let down this, her first prospective customer. She opened the second letter and scanned the lines. ‘This is from a Mrs Henderson of fourteen Walton Park; she would like me to call on Saturday too. I can’t see me making it to see both of them – and where is Walton Park anyway?’

  Everyone looked mystified, including Arthur Chatsworth.

  ‘Maybe Jim will know. They shouldn’t be long now, they’re nearly an hour later than usual,’ Lizzie stated, looking anxiously at the clock on the mantel.

  Neither Jim nor John Quine could enlighten Sophie when they finally arrived home, cold, wet and tired, having had to walk most of the way.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Uncle Jim, Arthur said if you didn’t know he would look it up in a copy of Kelly’s Street Directory, they have one at the library,’ Sophie said.

  Jim nodded wearily, wondering how she was going to get to either address if the weather didn’t let up.

  When Frank arrived home it was to find both Nellie and Nora in the kitchen, which was decidedly unusual, and the sight of them gave him no pleasure at all. Despite the fact that he was cold and hungry, the stuffy, dirty and malodorous room was far from welcoming. Nellie was stirring something in a pan and Nora was sitting at the table amidst a variety of dirty dishes, flicking through an old magazine. Of Bertie there was no sign and Frank realised he was probably propping up the bar of some pub – as usual, snow or no snow. He turned away, intending to try to find some peace and quiet in which to nurse his feelings in the room he shared with Nora when her derisive laughter stopped him.

  ‘I heard they send that old feller down ter the tram stop ter meet her now. So that’s put a stop to your little game, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Shurrup, Nora! You’d start a row in an empty ’ouse,’ Nellie muttered, glaring at her.

  Nora ignored her mother’s instruction. ‘Maybe now yer’ll get it into yer thick head that she’s not for you, an’ remember just who you’re married to! Although from the carry-on out of her the other night, she’s far from “pure as the driven snow”!’ Nora laughed cuttingly, thinking her remark very witty and apt considering the weather.

  ‘There’s not much chance of me forgetting, is there? And don’t talk about her like that. You’re not fit to wipe her boots and never will be!’ Frank snapped back. The fact that Nora had heard that Arthur Chatsworth now met Sophie each evening made the fact somehow even harder to bear.

  ‘Not fit ter wipe her boots, my arse! She’s no better than me, hanging around your neck like that . . .’ Nora’s jealousy had had plenty of time to grow and each time she remembered that little scene on New Year’s Eve, albeit her recollection of it was somewhat hazy, her hatred for them both increased. He’d shown everyone that he loved Sophie Teare and cared nothing for her. She’d told herself firmly that she didn’t care, that there were plenty of other men who were only too interested in her charms, happy to spend money on her and show her a good time. She was more than over her ‘romance’ with Frank Ryan. All those years ago she had thought she loved him; she had wanted to marry him so much that she’d lied to him. She’d wanted to be Mrs Ryan with a home of her own and, in time, children, but she’d soon found that wasn’t going to happen. She swore to herself now that it hadn’t been ‘love’ at all, just a stupid infatuation, and she didn’t care if he had affairs too, not even with the likes of Sophie Teare, but she couldn’t keep the jealousy at bay. Her mam said she was just being a dog in the manger about it all. She didn’t want him, but she didn’t want anyone else to have him either.

  ‘Shurrup, Nora! I’m bloody sick of listening ter yer going on about it, you’re like a cracked bloody gramophone record,’ Nellie yelled.

  Frank turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. He’d get no damned peace in this house at all; he knew Nora of old – she’d follow him and pursue the argument. Snow was still falling relentlessly and it was too cold to walk the streets or even take refuge in a pub, not that he felt like the company of those diehards such as his father-in-law.

  He put his cap back on. Surely his mam wouldn’t turn him away on such a night as this? But then he remembered that Martha had been angry with him over Sophie. Still, he had to try; he couldn’t stay here and listen to Nora, he felt too miserable and humiliated. If he could just sit for an hour in his mam’s clean, warm, comfortable kitchen and talk to her and his da he could get through tonight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  IT WAS PAT WHO opened the door. His brows rose in surprise at finding his eldest son standing on the doorstep with snow covering his cap and dusting the shoulders of his jacket.

  ‘Da, can I come in for just an hour, please? I can’t stay over there another minute, Nora’s being her usual bloody-minded, foul-mouthed self and I can’t walk the streets in this and . . . and I desperately need to talk to you,’ Frank pleaded.

  Pat nodded. ‘Come on into the kitchen, you must be frozen.’

  As soon as Martha saw him she frowned and started to get to her feet.

  ‘Now, Martha, luv, we can’t turn him away on a night like this and he wants to talk to us.’

  ‘If it’s about Sophie he can save his breath,’ came the sharp reply.

  ‘Sit down, lad, and take off those wet things,’ Pat urged.

  Seeing she was wasting her time and also privately concurring with her husband about the weather, Martha picked up her knitting again. ‘I suppose you’ve realised that Mr Chatsworth now meets Sophie?’

  Frank nodded, holding his hands out to the warmth of the fire. He hadn’t needed reminding.

  ‘And he’s investing some money in the business she’s starting up. Lizzie was telling me all about it today. If she makes a go of it, and I just know she will, then she’ll be moving. She’ll need proper sewing and fitting rooms – there’s no room to swing a cat next door. Lizzie said there were two replies to her advert in the post today, so that’s a good start.’

  Frank hadn’t known any of this and his spirits plummeted further at the news that Sophie intended to move. ‘What am I going to do with my life now?’ he muttered, half to himself.

  Pat leaned forward, his hands on his knees, a frown of concentration etched on his face. He was worried about Frank, although he said little to Martha. He was afraid that the lad’s despair would reach such proportions that he would do something stupid. ‘I’ve been giving that a bit of thought lately, Frank. There’s nothing you can do about either Nora or Sophie. You’re in a right mess, there’s no two ways about it, but things could b
e a bit easier for you—’

  ‘How, Da?’ Frank interrupted but without any real enthusiasm in his tone.

  ‘What if you went back to sea? I don’t mean the Royal Navy, but the Merchant Marine. There are enough shipping companies in Liverpool and you’ve a trade and experience. You’d be away from Nora, you wouldn’t be bumping into Sophie—’

  ‘And you wouldn’t have to spend much time in that pigsty Nellie Richards calls a “home”,’ Martha interrupted, wondering why Pat hadn’t mentioned this to her or why neither of them had thought of this before. If Frank was away at sea he would at least be decently fed, clothed and looked after and he’d have company. It would be a better life than he had now.

  There was silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the flames in the hearth as Pat and Martha looked anxiously at Frank, who was staring into the fire, thinking about his father’s suggestion. It wouldn’t solve the problem completely: he would still be tied to Nora and could never be with Sophie. Yet if he could go away for long trips – months at a time – it would certainly be better than living at Nellie’s and everything it entailed and Sophie . . . well, if his mam was right, Sophie would be moving. He hadn’t minded being at sea and he knew that there was a great camaraderie on merchant ships, just as there had been on HMS Kestrel. Then he frowned as a thought occurred to him.

  ‘My trade won’t be much use to me. They all carry engineers and some carry electricians, but hardly any carry joiners. I’d have to sail as a steward or a waiter, or maybe even a deck hand.’

  Both his parents sighed with relief that at least he was considering it.

  ‘Would that be so bad?’ Martha queried. ‘The tips can be quite good on the big liners.’

  ‘Some of the smaller coasters carry a ship’s carpenter,’ Pat reminded him.

  ‘Aye, just the one, and openings are few and far between. Blokes stay in those jobs for years. No, I’ll have to take whatever I can get. As soon as the weather gets better I’ll go down to the “Pool” and see what there is on offer.’ Maybe he’d be lucky and he could get a ship going to South Africa or even Australia or New Zealand.

  Martha laid aside the sleeve of the jumper she was knitting for Robbie. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll do you a couple of sausages, a fried egg and a slice of fried bread. I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to eat?’

  Frank smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, Mam.’ He’d almost begun to feel as though there was some point to his life now.

  By Friday the snow had almost disappeared, turning first to slush and then to dirty puddles of water, which Lizzie declared made more mess than the snow. Sophie was feeling a little nervous as she got ready to go to meet Miss Foster on Saturday afternoon. She had decided, after discussing the matter with Arthur Chatsworth, that she would write to Mrs Henderson, suggesting she call later in the afternoon than the time suggested as she had a full day of appointments. This was stretching the truth rather but they both agreed it sounded better than saying she couldn’t be in two places at once. He had found out where Walton Park was and had also found out the best and quickest way for her to get there and back.

  ‘If you go to see her after Miss Foster you can get home here more directly,’ he’d advised.

  She had dressed plainly but she hoped smartly in her navy and white checked dress trimmed with a white piqué collar and navy braid, her good dark blue coat and a small felt hat of emerald green, borrowed from Maria, who had insisted on pinning the leaf-shaped brooch that Ben had given her at Christmas to the lapel of the coat.

  ‘It just finishes it off, without looking fussy,’ she’d stated. ‘And good luck, Sophie. I just know you’ll get good orders, it’s the start of a new career for you, and then we can both look forward to moving and having a home of our own.’

  Sophie had put a sketch pad and two pencils, some paper patterns and her price list into the leather briefcase Arthur had insisted on lending her and which Lizzie declared made her look very “professional”, and she gripped it tightly as she got off the tram and walked in the direction of Laurel Road. Her aunt had been right, she thought, as she looked around. Although it wasn’t all that far from Harebell Street, it was a much quieter neighbourhood. The houses were what were termed Victorian “villas”. Red-brick, four-storeyed terraced with bay windows, steps up to the front doors and neat little front gardens enclosed by a wall. Decorative brickwork and plasterwork embellished the tops of the bays and they all appeared well cared for.

  Number five had thick, cream-coloured cotton lace curtains at the windows, she noticed as she opened the front gate. There was a little patch of lawn and a narrow border containing rose bushes, all bare now. She took a deep breath and pressed the bell, wondering what kind of afternoon this would turn out to be. Successful, she hoped.

  The door was opened by a small, slim old lady who was obviously in her late seventies. She had silver hair that was cut short and waved in a style fashionable in the 1920s. Her clothes, too, reminded Sophie forcefully of that era.

  ‘Miss Henrietta Foster?’ she enquired, feeling a little dispirited.

  ‘And you must be Mrs Teare. I didn’t expect you to be so . . . young, but you are very punctual. Do come in.’

  Sophie stepped into a wide hallway half covered in Anaglypta painted cream, above which was brown and cream patterned wallpaper. A runner of brown carpet covered the floor and prints of hunting scenes in heavy frames adorned the walls.

  ‘Do follow me, Mrs Teare, I’m quite eager to see if you can be of assistance to me.’

  The room Sophie was ushered into was what Lizzie would have termed the “back parlour”. Again the décor was of brown and cream, the furniture old fashioned and heavy but highly polished. It seemed that every surface was covered with bric-a-brac – cut-glass vases and bowls, ornaments, figurines, artificial plants and flowers – which made it appear cluttered. She sat down on a brocade-covered sofa next to Miss Foster, glancing quickly at the array of photographs on a side table, and opened the briefcase.

  ‘You said in your letter that you required some “afternoon dresses”,’ she said tentatively.

  The old lady smiled. ‘I do indeed, the ones I have are really very shabby but it’s almost impossible to get what I require these days. Firstly there was the war and so many establishments were destroyed in the Blitz, and now all the styles I see are just too modern for my taste.’

  Sophie smiled. ‘We might still have a problem with the shortages.’

  ‘Oh, no, my dear, that’s not a problem. I have the material, I’ve had it all for years. Ada, my sister, always believed in keeping a good stock of materials in. She bought them as remnants, end of roll or discontinued lines; she believed in getting a bargain.’

  ‘And will your sister require anything?’ Sophie asked hopefully.

  ‘Sadly not. Poor Ada died, three years ago now, and our brother Harold died before the war broke out. Of course he was that much older than us.’

  ‘I’m sorry. So you live here alone now?’ It seemed a big house for just one small old lady.

  ‘I do but I am friendly with some of the ladies from church, which is why I require some dresses. I feel so awful having to wear the ones I have over and over again when I’m asked out for tea or entertain here. We take it in turns, you see, once a fortnight.’

  Sophie thought that despite the six years of war Miss Foster seemed to live in a different and rather old-fashioned world. She smiled. ‘Perhaps if you could let me see the materials and the style of dress you’d like me to make, we could progress from there.’

  She was quite astonished at the variety of material Miss Foster produced. There were lengths of tweed and gabardine, fine wool crêpes, floral cottons, brocade and velvet, crêpe de Chine and lawn, and it was all of excellent quality. Much better than anything you could buy in the shops now, even if you had the coupons. The style of dress the old lady produced wouldn’t present her with any problems, she thought, as they discussed which materials would be suit
able and Sophie suggested trimmings.

  Reluctantly declining the offer of tea, bearing in mind that she had to get to Walton, Sophie made notes and took measurements and they agreed a price for two dresses. Miss Foster had wanted to order four but Sophie insisted that she make just two to start with.

  ‘That way I can be sure you are completely satisfied with my work, Miss Foster,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Hetty. Do call me Hetty. I like you, Mrs Teare, and I’m sure everything will be excellent.’

  Sophie smiled; she had taken a liking to the old lady too. ‘I’ll have them ready for the first fitting next Saturday. Now, I’m afraid I really must go, I have an appointment in Walton.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing you next Saturday, Mrs Teare, and then perhaps you can tell me a little more about yourself. You’re not a Liverpudlian, I know that.’

  ‘No, I’m Manx, and please do call me Sophie. I’ll be here at three on the dot,’ she promised.

  It was almost six o’clock when she finally returned to Lizzie’s. She hadn’t liked Mrs Henderson. The woman had kept her waiting for twenty minutes and had then dithered over whether or not to order a skirt. She had, in the end, decided to go ahead, but Sophie had felt it wasn’t really worth her travelling so far. Still, it was better than no order at all, she told herself. She had to be thankful for everything.

  Both Maria and Katie were in from work and both were going out later that evening, although Maria said she didn’t really feel like going to a dance as she’d been on her feet all day. In fact she was trying to avoid seeing Ben Seddon so much lately.

  ‘I thought you’d have been back earlier . . . Oh, look at this: it’s not going to go very far. I’m sick to death of this blasted rationing,’ Lizzie said, contemplating without much pleasure the small amount of meat she had been able to purchase in the butcher’s for the Sunday lunch.