A dutiful daughter, p.1
A Dutiful Daughter, page 1
A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER
EVELYN HOOD
This book is dedicated to the Paisley millworkers.
A lane was made; and Mrs Hominy… came slowly up it, in a procession of one.
CHARLES DICKENS, MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Thank you!
More from Evelyn Hood
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
About the Author
Also by Evelyn Hood
Sixpence Stories
About Boldwood Books
1
Blue and yellow gas jets flickered beneath the great vats of spitting fat as the door burst open. The April evening had turned wet and squally and the draught that caused the flames to dip and dance cooled Mirren’s swollen, aching ankles pleasantly. The crowd of noisy youths who had caused the sudden cool gust surged in, each dangling a girl from one arm as though she was a trophy.
‘Someone shut that door,’ Vanni Perrini protested from the vats as the gas flames flickered again and threatened to go out entirely. He was answered with a chorus of insults, some friendly and others not, as the lads crowded the few customers already waiting at the counter.
‘You heard the man!’ Vanni’s wife Maria had been working beside the vats, scooping the finished chips and pieces of battered fish out of the sizzling liquid fat. Now, as a handful of rain was tossed in through the doorway to spatter over the floor, she swung round. ‘Born in a back-court midden, were ye? Shut that door afore my floor gets soaked,’ she barked, impaling the newcomers on the honed points of her cold blue eyes. ‘And mind yer manners if ye want tae be served in this shop.’
The youths cowered, their bravado suddenly gone. The door was closed and their girlfriends hastily tugged them into an orderly queue while the dancing gas flames settled down again.
‘Aw, c’mon, Maria,’ someone tried to protest, but in a half-hearted way, while Vanni, turning from his work, said placatingly to his wife, ‘No harm done.’
‘Riff-raff,’ Maria snapped, ‘can find another chip shop, for they’ll no’ be served in this one!’ She gave the newcomers another icy look and most of them let their eyes flicker uneasily about the shop, while a few – the boldest – made a feeble, and futile, attempt to return her stare. Maria waited for a moment to see if anyone dared to pick up the gauntlet she had just thrown down, then, deciding that her customers had been suitably brought to heel, she ordered her staff, ‘Get them served and get them out before they give the place a bad name!’
Ella Caldwell muttered something uncomplimentary beneath her breath as she swiftly folded and tucked a sheet of newspaper over a fish supper. She handed the neat bundle over to the waiting customer before turning her tireless, wide-mouthed smile to the young people and saying cheerfully, ‘Yes, lads, what’ll it be?’
Warmed by her friendliness and emboldened now that Maria had gone back to her work, they lined the counter, spreading their elbows out to mark their territories and giving their orders in a great clutter of words piled one on top of another. Mirren, working as fast as she could, shovelling chips onto sheets of waxed paper, adding crisp brown fish, shaking salt and vinegar over them, dipping into the pickle jar when required, then wrapping the food in neatly torn sheets of newspaper before handing it over, envied the way Ella could cope with these sudden invasions. They occurred every night as Paisley’s public houses and dance halls emptied, but she herself had never managed to get used to them and always panicked when a crowd burst in through the door to fill the small waiting area with their chatter and their demands.
‘’Lo, Mirren.’ Ruby Liddell, the desk girl in Ferguslie Mills’ twisting department, where Mirren and Ella both worked during the day, grinned at her from within the circle of her boyfriend’s arm. ‘We’ve been tae the Palace. Have ye been in it yet?’
‘No.’ Mirren feverishly shovelled chips onto a square of waxed paper and shook the big heavy salt cellar over them. There had been considerable interest and excitement in the town when the Picture Palace had opened in the High Street two weeks earlier, but as she never had the money to spend on luxuries and had nobody to ‘pay her in’, now that Donald, her fiancé, was preparing a new life for them both in America, she’d had little interest in the occasion.
‘Oh, it’s lovely!’ Ruby’s eyes glowed. ‘When ye step in from the street the floor’s all marble, laid out in black and white squares. Then further in there’s this great big place with carpets. They’re going tae have chairs there for folk tae sit on while they wait tae go in tae see the films. It really is like a palace! Ye walk through there and up the stairs tae get tae where they show the films…’
‘…and the walls at the entrance are all panelled and there’s a place where ye can buy chocolates and cigarettes,’ one of the other girls chimed in. By now even Maria was interested.
‘And there’s going tae be a tea room upstairs too, looking over the High Street.’ Ruby glared at her friend and snatched the story back. ‘And while ye’re watching the films ye sit in soft chairs with seats that fold up when ye stand, tae let folk get past.’
‘Only Jean’s so skinny that her chair tipped up with her still in it,’ Ruby’s escort claimed and the entire group, with the exception of Jean, howled with mirth. The noise was enough to snap Maria back to the present.
‘That’s enough! This isnae a howff; it’s a respectable shop. Get your orders and get out,’ she snapped, and Ella and Vanni, who had slowed down to listen, hurtled back to work.
‘We saw Tarzan of the Apes, with Elmo Lincoln.’ Ruby enunciated each syllable of the outlandish name proudly. ‘He was lovely! All muscles.’
‘If it’s muscles ye want, hen, I’m the man,’ her companion told her, squeezing her waist tightly. Ruby’s excited squeal was hastily bitten back as Maria whirled.
‘If it’s mussels ye want,’ she said coldly, ‘go down tae the seashore and look underneath a rock. We don’t stock shellfish.’
As Mirren handed over the packets of chips, Ruby snatched hers and tore it open. ‘I’m starvin’!’ Jean, about to follow suit, hesitated, glancing slyly up from beneath pencilled eyebrows.
‘There’s no oose got ontae these chips, is there?’
‘Cheeky bitch!’ Ella flared back at her. Jean worked in the mill’s offices and the office staff considered themselves superior to other workers, because at the end of the working day they left the mill with their clothes as neat as when they arrived, whereas the machine workers were covered in ‘oose’ or ‘caddis’ – the fine clumps of cotton that clung to anyone who went near the machinery in the manufacturing flats.
Jean smirked, but unfortunately for her, Maria had overheard. ‘What did ye say?’ She rounded on the girl, who took a step back, clutching at her greasy packet of chips.
‘It was just a j-joke,’ she stuttered, while the rest of her party, cowed again, fell silent.
‘Joke, is it? I’ll have no jokes about the cleanliness of my shop or my staff, ye cheeky wee madam!’ Maria’s hand shot out. ‘Ye can just give back these chips!’
Jean’s fingers flew into the packet’s steaming depths and reappeared with a chip. As she hurriedly bit it in half, her lipstick – probably only just applied – came off on the uneaten half of the chip. Mirren had already been finding the smell of the fat and the fried chips and fish difficult to handle, and the obscene crimson smear against the pale interior of the cooked potato was almost too much.
‘I’ve started it now, so ye can’t get it back,’ Jean said indistinctly. ‘Andy, pay the money, for I’m keepin’ these.’ The chip was roasting hot and she had to eat it open-mouthed, sucking in air to cool it. Mirren closed her eyes against the sight as Maria stormed round the edge of the counter.
‘Out ye get, all of ye,’ she ordered, throwing the door open. ‘Out and don’t bother comin’ back!’
‘Maria…’ her husband remonstrated as the party fled, some squealing with nervous laughter, others cowed and embarrassed. Maria slammed the door shut behind them.
‘We don’t need their custom!’ she snapped at Vanni. ‘And if ye were half a man ye’d not have left it tae me tae deal with them!’
Mirren snatched up a cloth and made a pretence of wiping down the counter, breathing in deeply in an attempt to calm her queasy stomach, while Ella offered to make tea for the four of them.
Vanni brightened at the suggestion but before giving permission, Maria, who hated to see her staff enjoying a break, studied the empty area on the other side of the counter carefully, as though making quite sure that no hungry customers lurked unnoticed.
‘I suppose ye…’ she began just as the door opened to admit a harassed woman towed by three children clamouring for ‘a poke o’ chips!’
The newcomer looked as exhausted as Mirren felt. ‘Mary hen…’ she hooked herself on to the counter by two bent elbows ‘…for any favour give these weans some chips and give me some peace!’
Maria, who had started life in Wellmeadow Street as Mary McGurk and altered her name on marriage to a man born in Scotland but of Italian descent, gave the woman a sour smile. ‘Ella, serve Mrs Ogilvie. And ye might as well get some more potatoes peeled, Mirren.’ Clearly, there was to be no tea.
By the time the children and their mother were served more people had come in, and customers continued to arrive in ones and twos until closing time was signalled by the arrival of Gibby, a head-scarfed woman as broad as she was high and the best cleaner in Paisley. Tonight she wore the army greatcoat she had acquired from a relative on his return from the Great War.
‘Christ, it’s raw the night,’ she boomed as she swept round the counter and into the back shop to take off her outdoor wrappings and collect her mop and bucket. ‘Ye’d never think the winter was past.’
Maria, impatient to close the shop and get home, hurried Mirren and Ella out as soon as they had bundled their coats on. As they left, Vanni, defying a glare from his wife, managed to slip two parcels of freshly cooked fish and chips into their hands. Then the door slammed shut almost on their heels as Gibby began swishing her mop over the floor.
Both girls had a walk ahead of them, for the shop was at the centre of the town, near the junction of Canal Street and Causeyside Street, while they lived at the west end, Mirren in Maxwellton Street and Ella in Well Street. As the door clanged shut at their backs they paused to pull their scarves up over their heads and turn up their coat collars against the persistent rain, which threatened to creep behind collars and down necks.
‘Our Mary gets worse every week.’ Ella opened up her package as she walked. ‘Her temper seems tae rise hour by hour.’
‘At least we usually get something home with us.’
‘That’s thanks tae Vanni, not tae her!’ Ella said scornfully. ‘If she could find a way of estimating just how many chips and how many pieces of fish would be bought every day, she’d not let that poor man fry one sliver of potato more. Then we’d not get anything. Are you not eating yours?’
‘I’m not hungry.’ The queasiness had eased but after spending an entire evening working with fish and chips and breathing in the smell of them, Mirren had no appetite.
‘Keeping it all for Robbie again?’
‘Lads are always hungry at his age. And mebbe Mam’ll fancy a bit of fish tonight.’
‘How is she?’
‘Just the same. I wish the weather would get better. She might feel cheerier then.’
Ella finished her food, rolled the paper into a ball, shied it at a passing cat, then slipped a hand through Mirren’s arm. ‘Ye could do with some yerself. Ye looked awful tired tonight.’
‘I’m fine,’ Mirren said automatically.
‘Why don’t ye come with me tae this new Picture Palace on Saturday? It sounds grand and it’d cheer ye up tae have a peek at Tarzan’s muscles,’ Ella coaxed, and sighed when Mirren shook her head.
‘You know that I can’t afford it.’
‘That older brother of yours should be putting something into the house. After all, your mam’s his as well,’ Ella said as they cut through Wardrop Street and along George Street.
‘He says he can’t spare it. Anyway, I’d as soon not be beholden to him.’
When they reached the foot of Lady Lane, where they usually parted company, Ella said, ‘I’ll just go on tae Castle Street with ye; it’s as easy tae walk home from there as from here. If your Donald sends for ye tae go tae America,’ she went on as they resumed their walk, ‘your brother and his wife’ll have tae see tae your mother, whether they want to or not.’
‘You know fine that I couldn’t leave Mam. And Donald knows it too.’
‘It’s a great pity that you and your brother Logan couldn’t be melted down and stirred round, then remade, like soap. Then he might get some of your kindness and you might get some of his selfishness.’
‘He’s not being selfish; he’s just being… like a man.’
‘If you ask me,’ Ella said darkly, ‘it was men who started that story just tae give them the right tae be selfish.’ She stopped at the junction with Castle Street, ‘Well here we are. It’s me for Spinster Castle.’ Since being orphaned as a child she had been raised by three maiden aunts in their small flat in Well Street. ‘Are ye sure ye’re all right on yer own?’
Mirren freed her arm. ‘On you go home and don’t be so daft. I’m old enough to walk home by myself.’
‘I’ll see ye tomorrow, then.’ Ella waved, and went swinging off up Castle Street while Mirren continued along George Street, which stretched from east to west through Paisley, keenly aware – now that she was alone – of her muscles and bones feeling weak and rubbery.
There wasn’t far to go now but she hadn’t realised until then just how much she had been relying on Ella’s strong arm linked through hers and on Ella’s chatter to take her mind off her own exhaustion. On the day Mirren had first started work in Ferguslie Mills’ twisting department Ella had taken her under her wing and had even, when she discovered that Mirren was the sole support of a schoolboy brother and an invalid mother, persuaded Maria and Vanni Perrini to employ her for four nights every week. Ella herself worked there on two nights and on the other two evenings Mirren’s colleague was a morose older woman. Mirren dreaded those nights, because as often as not it was Ella’s cheerfulness that kept her going.
The junction with Queen Street was terrifying; she stumbled down the kerb and set off across a cobbled desert, foot before foot before foot for an eternity, before finally tripping and almost falling up the opposite kerb. It was hard to believe that anyone could feel so tired and yet still be alive. She wondered muzzily if it would help to eat a chip or two. It had been a while since she had last eaten; her mother had taken longer than usual to settle earlier, and Mirren hadn’t had much time for her evening meal. She contemplated stopping to rest against a building while she opened the parcel she carried, then decided against it. Once halted she might not be able to get started again. So she plodded on, counting the mouths of the closes, since the space between lamp posts was too vast to be contemplated, concentrating on placing one scuffed boot before the other with dogged determination. Passers-by were strangely blurred, their voices echoing from far away.
The next junction was Maxwellton Street, where she lived. Unfortunately it sloped down from Broomlands, an extension of the High Street, to George Street, which meant that a gentle rise had to be mastered before she reached the tenement building where she lived. Glancing longingly at the building on the opposite corner of the junction, she saw warm, welcoming light in the windows of the flat where her aunt Catherine Proctor lived, and half thought of crossing over to take refuge there for five minutes before facing the final few yards home. Then, realising that once she sat down she would not be able to get up again, she turned her back on the lit windows and began to struggle up Maxwellton Street.
The lamplighter had been round and the single mantle near the street opening gave the interior of the narrow close a warm golden glow. At the far end, stone steps soared up into darkness. These, she knew, she could never negotiate on her own, so there seemed little sense in trying to reach them. Instead she let her aching knees fold, lowering her body down to sit on the cold outer step, then leaned back against the wall and waited for Robbie. Sooner or later he would realise that she was late and come looking for her. The best nights were when he walked right to the corner to help her the rest of the way.
Waiting, she slipped into a pleasant dream world where she was dancing, whirling round and round in strong supportive arms, laughing, dressed in something soft and gauzy that lifted and moved with her. A dancing girl in dancing clothes. It was a wonderful dream, and when the chill of the step beneath her and a spattering of rain on her face roused her, she was so disappointed that hot tears began of their own volition to gather beneath her eyelids and spill down her cheeks. Crying was a luxury that had never been allowed in the Jarvis household, and for a moment Mirren, alone and unseen, revelled in the pure joy of letting her emotions go for once. Then she scrubbed the back of one hand over her face as she heard a door opening upstairs and feet clattering down the stairs.
