The Carpenter's Children (3 page)

‘Yeah – but he could’ve done with a bit o’ help from a woman, Vi. It was pretty embarrassing, to say
the least, ’cause
I
couldn’t very well help him clean the poor woman up.’

There was a short silence, then Mrs Munday said in a somewhat subdued tone, ‘Well, if ever Mary needs somewhere to go, I’d be willing to have her round here.’

‘That’s good o’ you, Vi,’ he replied gravely. ‘None of us know when we might be in need of a friend – and that woman needs a friend now, if anybody does.’

Violet did not attempt to answer, feeling herself rebuked.

Up in the bedroom shared by the girls, Isabel was becoming irritated by Grace’s persistent questions about the strange and very rude lady in their garden. Why was she trying to get into Daddy’s shed? And why did she wee in the cabbage patch? And why was Mummy so angry about her?

‘Oh, go to sleep, Grace, I’m tired,’ snapped Isabel. Their mother had told them not to talk about what had happened, and to forget all about it. Yet Isabel sensed that she would never forget the sight of Mary Cooper’s mother who, Isabel now realised, had been drunk – which was something that only happened with men, or so Isabel had thought until now. Something of her mother’s shock and disgust had been passed on to her, and she knew that she would be haunted
by Mary’s mother, like a grotesque picture in her memory that would never quite go away. And what she would remember above all was the lost, bewildered look in the woman’s eyes.

On returning from school Ernest at once realised that something bad had happened, something that the girls had been ordered not to talk about. If he knew his little sister Grace, she would find an opportunity to whisper it to him sooner or later, whether he wanted to know it or not. There were many other matters on Ernest’s mind, and lying in his bed that night he recalled the unthinking cruelty of his classmates, and how he was learning to endure their sometimes obscene taunts by keeping quiet; he was getting better at meeting ridicule with a bland silence that hid his inward distaste.

But not on Sunday afternoons. Ah, not at Mr Woodman’s Bible study group for boys. Though one of its youngest members, Ernest’s opinion was often invited, and he could freely share his thoughts on the matters under discussion: the dictates of conscience and the path of duty; God’s judgement, and also His mercy, His constant love and forgiveness – all the things Ernest had to keep to himself at school. He was especially devoted to Paul Woodman, the elder son, aged about eighteen and intending to train for ordination. Paul’s
conversation was precious to Ernest, for he could tell him almost anything without being made to look foolish; the jeers and taunts of the boys at Everham Council School were mere pinpricks when placed against the thoughtful, courteous words of Paul Woodman.

With his mentor’s face in mind, Ernest smiled and drifted peacefully to sleep.

‘Old Mr Cox hasn’t been in for his money today, Miss Munday. Have you seen him at all?’

‘No, Mr Teasdale, nor his daughter,’ answered Isabel, looking up briefly from counting stamps.

‘And he wasn’t in with the others yesterday, though he’s usually outside waiting for me to open up on pension days!’

And the other old people aren’t far behind, thought Isabel, for the ten shilling weekly pension introduced two years ago was an enormous help to the elderly and their relatives. She closed the folder of unsold stamps. ‘Shall I make a cup of tea, Mr Teasdale? It’s nearly four o’clock.’

‘That would be very nice, Miss Munday, thank you.’ He shot her a look of fatherly concern. ‘You’re rather pale today, if I may say so, Miss
Munday. Are you not feeling so well?’

‘Yes…I mean no, I’m quite well, thank you, Mr Teasdale,’ she answered, not quite truthfully, for she had developed a cramp-like pain at the bottom of her tummy – her mother disliked the word belly – and felt slightly sick. A cup of tea might do her good, she thought, and set about putting the kettle on to boil in the little kitchenette behind the office. The door pinged as a lady customer came in, and Mr Teasdale put on his usual polite smile to attend to her.

While she waited for the tea to brew, Isabel sat down on the hard wooden chair, feeling peculiar in a way she could not understand. She wished she was at home; Mr Teasdale was a pleasant enough man who always addressed her properly as Miss Munday, but he was still a man, and Isabel felt the need for a woman’s reassurance. As she sat there, she was suddenly and alarmingly aware that something was happening: she was leaking! She jumped to her feet and hurried out to the lavatory which, like the Mundays’ own, had to be entered from outside. Something felt wet and warm between her legs, and she pulled up her long skirt and petticoat; when she took down her drawers, she nearly fainted with shock at seeing the blood on them, and…oh, heavens, it had leaked through to her skirt while she’d sat on the chair. In utter dismay she realised that this must be the start of her
periods
, which her mother had never mentioned to her, but Betty Goddard and Phyllis Bird had whispered about
their own experiences, so Isabel was not entirely unprepared for this first visitation. Whatever was she to do? She must go home at once, but how to explain to Mr Teasdale?

Pulling up her soiled clothes with trembling hands, she smoothed down her skirt and returned to the post office.

‘Mr Teasdale, I’m sorry, but—’ she began, thankful at least that there were no customers in at present.

‘Why, Miss Munday, whatever is the matter?’

‘I shall have to go home straight away, Mr Teasdale. I-I…’ And poor Isabel burst into tears in her shame and humiliation; she dared not turn round because of the stain on the back of her skirt.

This put the postmaster in a dilemma. He felt fairly sure of the reason for his young assistant’s distress, and that this was an emergency. The only thing he could do was to take her home at once, but he could not leave the post office unattended, and there was no available female he could call upon to escort Miss Munday. He had a telephone, but nobody else in the village had one apart from the doctor and the vicar.

Isabel had left Everham Council School at Easter. Miss Daniells looked forward to having her as a pupil teacher, but not until she was fifteen. It was Mrs Munday who had obtained the place for her as post office assistant, though Mrs Goddard had offered her work in the haberdashery.

‘I’m not having a daughter of mine working as a shop girl, ordered around by the likes of Mrs Goddard!’ Violet Munday had declared. ‘Nor is she going into domestic service.’ The post office was a good compromise, though Mrs Munday could have wished that there had been a postmistress instead of Mr Teasdale.

‘Still, he’s a respectable married man, and won’t stand for any nonsense from customers,’ she told her husband, ‘and she’ll learn how to deal with people and improve her arithmetic.’

In fact Isabel had found life behind the post office counter far less interesting than school. Only the postmaster could deal with the business side, sorting out the letters that arrived on the early train with the newspapers, to be distributed over a wide rural area by the postman and newsboy. On certain days there were magazines and comics to be displayed, and boiled sweets and liquorice sticks were sold from large glass jars. Isabel was entrusted with these sales, though as the place was primarily a post office she was counted as an assistant rather than a salesgirl.

But now Mr Teasdale was in a quandary, with no prospect of assistance. Unless…

The door pinged, and Mrs Cooper came in, wearing her habitual anxious expression. She looked from Mr Teasdale to his tearful assistant, and having noted that she was sober, he turned to her for help in his predicament. 

‘Mrs Cooper, may I ask you a favour on behalf of my…of Miss Munday? She’s…er…not feeling well, and needs to be taken home to her mother. Will you…could you possibly go with her, Mrs Cooper? She really needs a woman’s help,’ he finished lamely, spreading out his hands in a helpless gesture.

Mrs Cooper stared at them both with her
washed-out
blue eyes, and something like a smile softened her worried face.

‘’Course I will, Mr Teasdale, if she don’t mind. D’you want me to come home with you, Isabel dear?’

‘Yes, please, Mrs Cooper,’ sniffed Isabel, wondering how she could hide the stain on her skirt. ‘I’ll get my hat and gloves. I’m sorry, Mr Teasdale.’

‘That’s quite all right, Miss Munday. Don’t come in tomorrow if you don’t feel up to it. Thank you so much, Mrs Cooper,’ he added to the lady who had not even been served.

Outside in the street, Isabel sobbed out her trouble. Mrs Cooper listened sympathetically.

‘And I think the back of my skirt is—’

Mrs Cooper discreetly looked, and took off her own long black jacket. ‘Here, dear, put this round you, so’s people won’t see. It’s all right, I’m warm enough without it, it’s a nice May day.’

Isabel accepted gratefully, but when they arrived at number 47 Pretoria Road, Mrs Cooper said she would not come in. Isabel took off the jacket and
handed it back. All of which was observed from the parlour window, and Mrs Munday then appeared at the front door like an avenging angel.

‘Isabel, come in at once!
At once
, do you hear me?’

Isabel obeyed, and Mrs Cooper went on her way, glad to know that she had been of some use for once, and little Isabel Munday had been so grateful, even though her mother had ordered her indoors with unspoken disapproval. Where could she go now? Back to the post office for the stamps Eddie wanted for his invoices? Yes, that’s what she would do; she didn’t want to go back to an empty house, now that Mary was working for Mrs Yeomans at the farm, and didn’t get home until six or later, and Eddie never knew how long a job was going to take, so might be early or late. Joy Cooper dreaded being alone in the house, fighting off the craving that gripped her like a physical ache, making her groan out loud and long for some distraction – anything to keep her from going to her secret hoard in the loft, the hoard which Eddie didn’t know about; he would have had a fit to see her climbing the loft ladder. Just to know that it was
there
helped her through the day, but sometimes the urge to take a tot of brandy was uncontrollable, and she’d promise herself that it would only be one little tot.
No
! She dared not go home, but retraced her steps to the post office.

‘Most kind of you, Mrs Cooper. I’m sure Miss
Munday’s mother appreciated your care for her daughter,’ smiled Mr Teasdale. ‘Now, what was it you came in for?’

Having purchased the stamps, Joy Cooper forced a smile, and engaged the postmaster in conversation – anything to delay going home to an empty house and the temptation in the loft. Mr Teasdale was always happy to exchange a word or two with his customers when not under the pressure of work, as on pension mornings. The thought led him to mention Mr Cox’s absence this week.

‘Oh, I see – and you’re wondering if he’s all right, Mr Teasdale? Hasn’t his daughter been in?’

He shook his head. ‘Not a sign of either of them, Mrs Cooper.’

‘Would you like me to call on him to see if anything’s the matter?’ she asked, grasping at anything that would take up a bit more of her time.

‘Why, yes, if you’d be so good, Mrs Cooper, and I’m sure he’d be glad to see you,’ said the postmaster, who had been wondering if he should check on Mr Cox. ‘I expect there’s some perfectly good reason for him staying away.’

‘Very well, Mr Teasdale, I’ll go round there and let you know if there’s any sort of trouble,’ she promised.

But by the following morning all of North Camp knew that old Mr Cox had suffered a stroke, and had lain on his kitchen floor all day. His daughter
Mrs Blake found him at five o’clock, having spent the day shopping in Everham with her sister. When Joy Cooper arrived she found that the old man had regained consciousness, but was unable to speak or use his right arm and leg. Mrs Blake was hysterically accusing herself of not having checked on her father that morning, and Mrs Cooper calmed her as well as she could, saying that she would go at once to Dr Stringer. Mr Cox was taken to Everham Hospital where after three weeks he had recovered sufficiently to be allowed home under the care of Mrs Blake, helped by the district nurse and Mrs Cooper who promised to look in on him every day, privately thanking God that Mr Cox’s misfortune had turned out to be her salvation.

‘How
very
unfortunate that this should come on while you were at the post office!’ exclaimed Mrs Munday in a tone of mixed annoyance and
self-reproach
. ‘
So
embarrassing for you, dear, with only Mr Teasdale there. I’m very sorry that it’s happened this way.’

She had made Isabel strip off her clothes and put on a wool dressing gown. The stained garments were soaking in a pail of cold water, and a white-faced Isabel sat with a folded linen square between her legs, secured by safety pins to a narrow cotton belt; so now she knew what wearing a diaper felt like.

‘But it was lucky that Mrs Cooper was there to
bring me home and lend me her long jacket, Mum,’ she pointed out. ‘I don’t know how I’d have got home else, with that awful bloodstain at the back.’

‘Yes, well, it was unfortunate,’ repeated her mother with a frown. ‘And…er…I suppose you knew where the blood came from…comes from, Isabel? You do understand that this is your first monthly period, and it means that your body is ready – it means you’re a woman now,’ she added awkwardly, annoyed with herself for blushing.

‘Yes, Mrs Cooper told me that on the way home, and said that when it comes again next month I’ll be prepared for it, with a diaper and safety pins.’

‘I’m sure there was no need at all for Mrs Cooper to talk to you in such a way, Isabel – that’s
my
duty, not hers, and of course I’ll see that you’re prepared for it next time,’ said Mrs Munday, ignoring the fact that Isabel had been entirely unprepared. ‘I didn’t think you’d start so soon. I…er…I suppose other girls at school talk about it sometimes, don’t they?’

‘Yes, Betty Goddard and Phyllis Bird have already started, and they’re more or less the same age as me,’ replied Isabel. ‘Betty’s mum told her about it before, and made sure she had a…a diaper with her for when it started.’

‘Yes, well, we won’t go into details, it’s not a very nice subject to talk about, and in any case I think it’s up to your teachers to warn you girls about it – I mean the lady teachers of course,’ said
Mrs Munday, not noticing the inconsistency of this assertion. ‘Now then, dear, you’re going to rest on your bed, and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea. You look a bit pale.’

Violet Munday felt thoroughly put out, and tried to justify herself in her own mind. After all,
her
mother had never told her anything, and she’d learnt from two older sisters about their various bodily changes. And she didn’t blame her mother because – well, she’d found out how difficult it was to talk about periods and things, it was too personal, and she’d never shared her memories of her own courtship with her daughters. After all, it was nothing to do with them.

And yet… Violet’s eyes softened as she turned back the years to that long-ago summer at Hassett Manor, where she had been an eighteen-year-old housemaid and Tom, a year younger, was starting his seven-year apprenticeship with his own father, old Fred Munday, who still did jobbing carpentry and gardening in Hassett, carrying his worn toolbag from place to place. She remembered how Tom had come into the kitchen and asked for a drink of water for his father and himself – and the cook had nodded in the direction of the new maid. Tom later told her that he never forgot his first sight of the rosy-cheeked girl with curly hair and dark eyes that had smiled shyly into his – which was why he’d gone back again and again
to ask for more water; it was a very hot day, and he and his dad were thirsty, he’d told her. That had been back in 1884, and the attraction had been mutual. Seven years later, when Tom’s apprenticeship was done, he had saved enough, with his father’s help, to put down payment on a tiny cottage for himself and his new wife Violet Terry. In those days young couples had expected to wait until they could afford to set up house – although Violet did not let her memory dwell too long on certain moments in those seven long years when she had walked out with her young man in the woods around Hassett Manor, and their longing for fulfilment had sometimes been almost unbearable. She remembered how he had slipped his hand inside her blouse and felt her nipples, sending a thrill like lightning throughout her whole body, and she had become aware of the hardness through his trousers, and heard his sharp intake of breath – and their kisses! It was just as well that she’d had to be in by nine o’clock on her one free half-day each week. But it was all a long time ago, and was a secret never to be spoken of, just as her present lawful union with Tom Munday was a very private matter, and nothing to do with her daughters.