‘For goodness sake, stop messing about, you stupid fool. I’ve had enough of your nastiness. I can see you think it’s all some sort of joke, but to me it’s really rather upsetting.’
‘Ooh, really rather upsetting, is it? I’m weeping for you. Poor little bastard!’
Harriet swallowed her fury and got on with the washing up, determined to ignore him, but even then he wasn’t done. As she moved back and forth in the small confines of the back kitchen, drying dishes and putting them away, Grant constantly blocked her path, teasing and mocking her till her temper flared to boiling point and she almost felt like cracking a plate over his head.
‘For heaven’s sake get from under my feet or you’ll feel the back of my hand, even if you are bigger than me.’
‘Now that I would like to see. Could be fun though, a real David and Goliath battle, and who do you reckon would win? Of course, if my attentions are so unwelcome . . .’
‘Obscene,’ she spat at him.
‘. . . then the solution is in your own hands. All you have to do is pack your bags and leave.’
‘This is still my
home
. I’ve as much right to be here as . . . ‘
‘. . . as me? I don’t think so. What was it Mam called you? A by-blow, but I call you nowt but a bit of muck from the gutter found on the heel of someone’s shoe.’ His dark eyes glittered with menace and Harriet shivered, despite the heat in the small kitchen.
She said nothing more, simply revealing in her glare all the loathing that had built up inside her towards this alleged brother of hers over the years. She remembered the times he’d bullied her, when he’d torn up her books, spoiled her jigsaws, knocked over the water jar when she was painting in her colouring book, or broken her favourite doll. He even once tied a tin can to the tail of her cat who had run off and never returned. Now she no longer needed to feel guilty about hating him so much. Now she understood.
Head high, Harriet stormed past him to go to her room, the sound of his cruel laughter echoing chillingly in her ears. And for some reason she couldn’t rightly explain, she stuck a chair under the door handle of her room that night and slept not a wink.
Chapter Six
It was the following day and every chair in the salon was occupied with the ladies of Champion Street Market in a fever of preparation for Patsy Bowman’s wedding. Dena Dobson had her head in the sink while Harriet rubbed it vigorously with lemon-scented shampoo. Belle Garside and Clara Higginson were both tucked under the dryers, thankful that the noise meant they didn’t have to engage in conversation with each other. Joyce herself was trimming Winnie Holmes’s grey locks, more usually tucked inside an old woolly bobble hat.
Winnie, who ran the fabric stall, knew everything that was going on around the market. ‘Anyroad, she’s pregnant again is young Amy George, and Chris is walking around like a dog wi’ two tails.’
Joyce tutted. ‘What unfortunate timing. I thought she was to be a bridesmaid at the wedding on Saturday?’
‘Oh, she don’t show much yet, always was a skinny little mite. It’ll be a Christmas baby, I reckon. I should think you’ll be looking forward to being a grandma yourself soon, Joyce, now your Harriet is walking out.’
‘Walking out?’ Joyce glanced sharply across at Harriet who, blushing furiously was rinsing off the shampoo, pretending not to hear.
‘Aye, isn’t she doing a bit of courting wi’ that Steve Blackstock who works for my Barry? Lovely lad, I couldn’t have chosen better myself. And it may be none of my business but Joe Southworth and his wife Irma look like they’re coming to the end of the line at last. But then he’s never been backward at coming forward where other women are concerned, has he? Madam over there were quite cosy with him once.’ She indicated Belle Garside who was blithely unaware she was being talked about beneath the noisy hum of the dryer. ‘Eeh, poor Irma. It’s a miracle she hasn’t done him in before now.’
Pursing her lips, Joyce tugged at the curly grey locks as she rapidly snipped. ‘It certainly isn’t any of your business. You’re a vicious old gossip, Winnie Holmes.’
‘Eeh, don’t I know it, but what else is there to do round here? And how are you holding up, Joyce love? I were talking to your mam last night about your dear departed. A lovely man, though none of us saw much of him since he were cut down by the war, just like my Donald. Bit of a rogue in his day, eh, which my dear husband never was, bless him. Anyroad, you have my deepest sympathies.’
‘Do you want me to wash and set it on rollers or not, Winnie?’ Joyce snapped, without any pretence at politeness.
‘Nay, don’t waste yer time. Who’d notice?’
‘We all would, if you’re going to attend this wedding on Saturday. Come on, stick your head in the sink. I’m sure you can afford a proper shampoo and set for once, and you don’t want folk talking about
you
, now do you?’
Winnie groaned but did as she was told, knowing you didn’t argue with Joyce Ashton. Moments later while pink sponge rollers were wound into place the old woman again glanced across at Harriet, and, raising her voice against the general din of gossip and machines, shouted across to her. ‘Are you working here now, chuck? I thought you were training to be a secretary.’
‘She is,’ Joyce answered before Harriet had time to speak for herself. ‘I mean her to do well, come what may, but I’m a bit hard pressed at the moment, what with the wedding and everything, so she’s helping out. She has to earn her keep somehow or other.’
‘Course she does.’
Harriet sat Dena back in the big leather chair and began to towel dry her hair. ‘Actually, I’m thinking of giving up on the secretarial course. I don’t think it’s quite me.’
‘Eeh, now there’s a turn-up for the book. So what have you got in mind instead, chuck?’ Winnie asked.
‘Well, I could go and work for Lizzie Pringle selling chocolates, or perhaps on Bertalone’s ice cream stall. Or I could always go and join Maureen down by the arches. I’m sure she could find me a bit of business that’d make me much more money than being a secretary. My
mother
reckons that’s just about where I belong. What do you think, Winnie?’
Winnie looked into Joyce’s livid gaze through the mirror set above the sink before her. ‘I think your mam is going to make me look a right bobby-dazzler.’
Later that same morning while Harriet shampooed Joan Chapman, Joyce slipped out and made a beeline for Barry Holmes’s fruit and vegetable stall.
‘One pound of granny smiths please, and no bruised ones.’
Steve grinned up at Joyce as he dropped the apples one at a time into a brown paper bag resting on the big iron weigh scales. ‘I’d never do that to you, Mrs Ashton. Anyway, I know you’d only fetch ‘em back.’
‘Quite right too. And I’ll take three pounds of Jersey potatoes too please, and half a cabbage,’ she asked, in the clipped, over-polite tones she generally used when she was trying to sound all proper. ‘Not too big mind, there’s only the four of us, remember. And an onion or two.’
‘The onions are big. Are you sure you don’t want me to cut one of them in half as well?’
‘Don’t get smart with me, lad, I’m by far the sharpest knife in the drawer.’
‘I’m sure you are, Mrs Ashton.’ Secretly pleased that he’d ruffled her out of her self-imposed posturing, Steve calmly weighed the onions and dropped them into her bag, then decided to risk a question. ‘How’s Harriet? Is she feeling any better? I know she’s been really cut up over her dad’s death.’
‘I should think you’ve had ample opportunity to ask her that yourself, since you and she are walking out. Or so rumour has it.’
Joyce gave him a tight little smile, watching with interest as a hot tide of colour stained the young man’s neck. It was true then what Winnie had told her. The lad was soft on the girl. It irked her to imagine the pair of them in love. Not that it would do the lass much good. Being in love certainly hadn’t led to a happy-ever-after ending for Joyce, so what right did Harriet have to be happy? No right at all after the way her father had behaved.
‘We always were close and I suppose we do see quite a lot of each other, that’s true,’ Steve was saying, fidgeting with discomfort as he weighed the potatoes. ‘I’m not sure you’d call it walking out exactly.’
‘What would you call it then? Getting yer leg over?’
He drew in a sharp, surprised breath, his sensitive young skin now draining of all colour. ‘It’s not like that, not at all. I respect Harriet too much to try anything on. We’re just good friends. Anyway, we’re a bit young to start getting serious. You can trust me, Mrs Ashton.’
Joyce laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that chilled him. ‘I wouldn’t trust owt in a pair of trousers, which is where most men keep their brains.’
Then setting aside any attempt at polite interest, she allowed the intrinsic bitterness that was so much a part of her character to bubble to the surface as she leaned closer, hissing like a snake in his ear. ‘You’ll stay away from her in future, do you understand? I don’t want Harriet bringing no trouble home. There’s bad blood in that girl. Mark my words she’ll come to a sticky end if she’s not careful. Anyroad, aren’t you off to college in the autumn?’
‘I hope to train as a teacher, yes.’
‘Well then, it wouldn’t please your parents, would it, to see you getting yourself mixed up with some cheap guttersnipe.’
Steve drew himself up straight on a sharp, intake of breath. ‘I’d rather you didn’t call Harriet such names, if you don’t mind, Mrs Ashton. And I do assure you, my parents aren’t snobs.’
Joyce smirked. ‘That’s not what I heard. Well brought up lad like you with a father who’s something important in the bank. Your mother would have fifty fits at the very idea of joining her one and only son with a bastard. She’ll have you lined up for a conservative with a double-barrelled name, I shouldn’t wonder. If I were you, I’d find some other girl to dangle on your arm in future.’ And slamming the coins down on the stall in front of him, Joyce spun on her heels and walked away. Steve watched her go with eyes clouded with worry.
Joyce didn’t go straight back to the salon. She lit up a cigarette and scanned the market for the person most on her mind, Joe Southworth, with whom she was also anxious to have a word following Winnie’s gossip. She caught sight of him up by the market hall wrestling with some trestle tables. Glancing quickly about to make sure she wasn’t being watched, Joyce hurried over, and wasting no time came straight to the point.
‘Is it true that you and Irma are finally splitting up?’
Joe looked up, startled to find himself so unexpectedly accosted about his private life while in the middle of this steady job. ‘Hello, Joyce, and how are you this fine morning?’ he pointedly enquired.
She sucked hard on her cigarette. ‘Don’t mess me about.
Are
you?’
Joe scratched behind one ear with the screwdriver he’d been using to fix the trestles, and frowned. ‘Someone’s been talking, have they?’
‘Winnie, who else?’ Joyce had been engaged in an affair with Joe Southworth for the better part of six months. Not that Irma, his wife, knew anything of this, any more than Stan had, or so Joyce believed. ‘You’ve told her then?’
‘Not yet,’ Joe informed the legs of the trestle table as he again applied the screw driver to the task in hand, just as if the question she was asking was of no concern to him at all.
‘So when do you intend to?’
Joe knew Joyce wasn’t one to let go till she had her answer and stood up, easing the stiff muscles in his aching back. ‘Oh, pretty soon, but not today. She’s put a lot of work into this wedding. Let’s get that out of the way first, shall we? Anyroad, what’s the big hurry? Your Stan is barely cold in his grave.’
‘He never was
my
Stan, and you were happy enough to enjoy my favours while the warm blood was still flowing through his veins so why not now he’s dead and gone?’
‘Respect, Joyce. We need to show a bit of respect. Let some water flow under the proverbial before we push the boat out.’ He grinned at her, as if he’d made some sort of joke.
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’ Joyce was close to losing control. Everything was going wrong. She’d felt nothing but relief when she’d found Stan dead in his bed that morning. All she’d been able to think was that her sentence, her long term of punishment was finally over.
If she’d wept, it had surely been out of nostalgia for lost dreams, for the romantic young fool she’d once been, certainly not from grief. Even her mother spilling the beans over the big family secret hadn’t greatly troubled her. She’d have told Harriet the truth herself pretty soon anyway, although not quite the whole of it, naturally.
But if Stan’s death didn’t make it any easier for her and Joe to spend more time together, where was the point in being free?
Joyce cast him her most beguiling glance. ‘You’ll tell her soon though?’
‘All in the fullness of time, Joyce, all in the fullness of time.’
‘Make it soon, I don’t care to be made a fool of.’
And as she rushed back to the salon, tossing the half-smoked cigarette aside in a show of temper, Joe twirled the screwdriver in his hand with a thoughtful frown. He had the strangest feeling he was getting in over his head with this one.
It had been Joyce’s friend, Eileen, who’d invited her to the party. It was the end of September, right at the start of the war, three weeks after Stan had departed for his naval training, and she’d heard not a word since. Not that she’d expected him to write. Joyce’s foolish pride had prevented her from revealing her address, so how could he?