Through the Storm (17 page)

Xavier Mahon was in the army and had been posted somewhere up in the wilds of Scotland. According to Sheila, Brenda had decided she and her daughters, Muriel and Monica, could live quite well without him. Xavier was no longer welcome in Pearl Street when the army allowed him leave.

‘I’ll have your coat ready by the end of next week.’ Brenda patted the collar. ‘Pop over for a final fitting on Monday.’

‘Ta,’ Kitty said gratefully. ‘It means I can wear it for
Gone With the Wind
. I’m going a week on Saturday with a couple of women from the hospital.’

Brenda turned briskly to Jessica. ‘Now, what can I do for you, Jess?’

‘I just want this suit and the two dresses bringing up to date, the shoulders squared and the hems taken up a bit. And perhaps you could take a bit of material out of the skirts so they’re not so full.’ Fashions were becoming more utilitarian and less feminine. Frills, flounces and bows were considered a waste of material. Straight skirts were ‘in’, as well as tailored suits and neat, unadorned blouses. Although Jessica preferred the old, more glamorous, styles to the new, she couldn’t stand the idea of looking old-fashioned.

She wondered where the money would come from to pay Brenda. Sadly, she supposed it would have to come from Arthur, who’d already sent a cheque, though she’d not banked it yet. There was only about ten pounds left from the housekeeping, and half of that would go when she paid Rita Mott tomorrow – and pay Rita Mott she would, on that she was determined, despite the fact she’d already said on several occasions to leave the rent
till
business picked up. ‘It’s nice having you here just for the company.’

Jessica was not prepared to trail all the way up to Linacre Lane every morning just to keep Rita company. Somehow, she had to make that garage work.

Each day, Jessica found herself closing the place down earlier than the day before as there seemed little point hanging on. Penny, normally so good humoured, was becoming tetchy by then and in need of a proper nap somewhere more comfortable than the pushchair.

By Friday, she was about to lock the doors at half past four, her coat on ready to go home, when a little battered Austin Seven drove onto the forecourt and stopped by the pump. Jessica almost contemplated turning it away, the profit on a couple of gallons of petrol was scarcely worth putting herself out for, when she remembered something her father used to say all the time. ‘Look after the pennies, girl, and the pounds will look after themselves.’

She approached the pump and was surprised when the driver got out of the car and turned out to be a woman, a tall emaciated woman of about fifty in rimless glasses with short untidy brown hair turning grey. She wore an expensive fawn trenchcoat over some sort of uniform, a green and white striped frock.

‘Just a gallon, please,’ she said in a pleasant, well-modulated voice, ‘and a tin of engine oil, if you’ve got any.’

‘I’ve one tin left.’ She’d sent off to the supplier for another dozen tins but had no faith that she would get them. Jessica had no faith in anything to do with garages at the moment.

After putting in the petrol, she screwed the cap back on, and went into the workshop. The woman followed.

‘You’re Jess, aren’t you?’

Jessica stopped short as she was reaching for the oil. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said politely. ‘Do I know you?’

The woman laughed engagingly. ‘Not from Adam. Kitty Quigley told us all about you this morning. I work with her at the hospital. My name’s Harriet Mansell.’

‘I think she mentioned you last night.’

‘According to Kitty, you’re an emancipated woman. I thought it only proper that I purchase my final gallon of petrol from someone who’s fighting for our cause.’

The mention of emancipation and causes made Jessica’s lip curl. She wanted no truck with such left-wing rubbish. Like her father, she’d voted Conservative all her life and would never vote anything else. Nevertheless, this was a customer and she didn’t want to rub her up the wrong way.

‘I’m not fighting for a cause,’ she said lightly. ‘I just want to fix a few bloody cars.’

Harriet Mansell recognised a subtle snub and her brown eyes danced with amusement behind her glasses. She put out her hand for the oil and Jessica noticed she was wearing a pair of beautiful pale kid gloves.

‘I’ll wrap it in a bit of newspaper,’ she said, ‘else it might stain your gloves.’

‘Thank you.’

There was an awkward silence as Jessica searched for paper. She racked her brain for something to say. ‘Why is this your final gallon of petrol?’ she asked eventually.

‘I’m laying my car up for the duration this weekend. It seems the patriotic thing to do, let the RAF have the petrol instead of me. I understand you need a drop of engine oil in each cylinder.’

‘That’s right.’ The paper found, there was another silence as Jessica wrapped up the tin and Harriet Mansell rooted through her leather handbag for her purse. ‘Do you live far?’ Jessica asked.

‘In the wilds of Ince Blundell, I’m afraid, down a long winding lane far off the beaten track.’

Ince Blundell! That meant the garage was miles out of her way. Jessica wondered if she’d made a special journey as a tiny gesture of support. She felt her conscience prick. ‘Do you know the proper procedure for laying cars up? It’s rather complicated.’

‘More or less. You’re supposed to drain the radiator, aren’t you, and mount the car on its axles on blocks of wood?’

‘Yes, and let the tyres down to half pressure, then remove them.’

‘Bloody hell! That sounds a bastard to do, though I’ll manage it somehow. If a man can do it, I can do it, too.’

Jessica blinked. She agreed with the sentiments expressed completely, but Harriet Mansell didn’t look the sort of woman who swore.

‘How are you going to get to work without a car?’ she asked.

‘I’ve bought a bicycle. Had a helluva job finding one, though. I suppose everyone’s after bikes these days. I shall cycle as far as the station and leave it there.’

Penny had been tucked in her pushchair in the corner of the workshop all this time expecting to be taken home. She was hungry, cold and tired, and began a cry of protest, quietly at first, swiftly raising the tone until it became a bawl.

‘You poor dear child, I didn’t notice you there!’ Harriet Mansell’s face broke into a wide smile of delight. ‘What a beautiful little girl! Kitty didn’t mention you had a baby. How brave you are, struggling to get a business going with a child to take care of at the same time.’

She chucked Penny under the chin and said soothingly, ‘Don’t cry, love. Mummy’ll be taking you home soon.’ Somewhat surprisingly, Penny stopped crying immediately. Harriet looked at Jess. ‘How many children do you have?’

‘Just the one. How about you?’

‘I’m not married. I suppose it must have felt like a miracle, having a first child at your age.’

Jessica had a secret dread that one day someone would assume she was Penny’s grandmother. It was almost as bad to be told it was a miracle she’d had a child. ‘I’m only thirty-nine,’ she lied stiffly.

But Harriet Mansell didn’t appear to notice Jessica’s ruffled feelings. ‘I tell you what,’ she cried. ‘I’ll give you a lift home. After all, I’ve held you up all this time.’

She positively refused to take no for an answer. They said little to each other on the short journey home, Jessica appeared lost in thought and merely pointed out which way to turn when asked.

‘There’s no need to come down the street, it’s a cul-de-sac and you’ll have difficulty turning round,’ she said briefly when they reached the King’s Arms.

Jessica was just about to open the door of number 10, when she glanced sharply back to see if the car was still there. She couldn’t remember whether she’d thanked the woman or not. But the car had gone.

‘Damn!’ she muttered, irritated at her own rudeness.

The trouble was, she’d just had the beginnings of another great idea.

Jack Doyle had never wanted anything more from life than to earn a decent wage for himself and his family, which was the basic right of all men throughout the world. He’d fought for his country during the First World War, the war to end all wars – so it was said at the time – and was lucky enough to emerge unscathed. He then proceeded to fight for the rights of his comrades on the docks, to gain for them what it was only proper every man have; sufficient wages to pay for a decent roof over your head, food for your table, clothes for your back, and the same for your wife and children.

It riled him to the point of apoplexy on occasion that there were a handful of people who seemed to think it acceptable that a large mass of the population went without the basic necessities of life, the roof, the food, the clothes, and equally acceptable to rake in massive profits from their sweated labour. Not only that, they were happy to see a million men go without a job at all so they could have their pick of a dispirited and servile workforce.

But that was before the war. Now, there were more jobs than men to take them. The boot was on the other foot for a change, which made Jack Doyle a happy man.

He was also an uncomplicated man. He’d taken the death from breast cancer of his wife, Mollie, with quiet stoicism. These things happened. Not every couple were destined to grow old together. Eileen and Sheila were of an age when they could look after him and little
Sean
, who was only two at the time, as good daughters should. Life had a pattern; babies were born, they grew, got married, had children of their own and one day they died. One day, their children would die, and so on. The day would come when Jack would die, something of which he was unafraid, because it was all part of the pattern. It was nowt to do with God or religion, neither of which he believed in. He believed in simple truths which you didn’t need to learn from a catechism or a Bible; goodness, being straight and honest, standing by your mates and helping your neighbours out when they were in trouble.

Sometimes things went wrong, spoilt the pattern, like his Eileen getting stuck with Francis Costello who’d turned out to be a bad ’un, but now Eileen was all right, married to Nick. Sheila had a dead good bloke in Calum Reilly, and his Sean would be getting married soon to Alice Scully.

There were events outside your control, such as wars, which in his case meant the death of Tony, the dearest grandson a man could have, as well as the loss of his good friend, Jacob Singerman. But even these tragedies Jack accepted as unavoidable and therefore exterior to the course of his own destiny.

So why then, with the pattern of his own life rolling so smoothly before him, did he feel so agitated and on edge?

If he believed in being straight and honest, then he should be straight and honest with himself, Jack thought drily. It was Jessica Fleming who’d disturbed his uncomplicated life, turning up when he thought he’d never see her again, filling his head with all sorts of disturbing nonsense which made him feel ashamed.

As long as he lived, he would never forget the night he’d gone into number 5, and there she was standing in the bath in front of the fire, red hair streaming down her back, and without a stitch on. When she saw him she
held
out her hand, inviting him to take it. He’d struggled with himself for what seemed like eternity at the time, willing himself to resist the hand, to turn on his heel and go. But something within him, some wicked imp in his brain, wouldn’t let him. He took the hand, then he took the woman, and the memory made him shiver with a mixture of disgust and a terrible desire to do it again.

It was better than it had ever been with Mollie, wild and uninhibited, which made him feel like a traitor. He’d kissed Jess … Jack caught his breath when he remembered where he’d kissed her whilst she cradled his head in her strong white hands. Moll would have been sickened if he’d done anything like that to her.

Now, when he thought there’d merely been a little crinkle in the pattern, Jess was back. She’d left Arthur, and although she hadn’t made any sign, always treating him coolly and politely when they met, he had a feeling she was waiting for him to make some sort of move.

And did he want to make that move?

Christ Almighty, yes! There were nights when he was doubled up in agony in the bed where he’d slept alone for sixteen years, thinking about the soft body that could be his. He imagined exploring it with hands, putting his …

‘Jaysus!’ he groaned.

‘What’s the matter, Grandad?’

Jack felt his sleeve being tugged. He looked down. His grandson Niall was looking at him strangely. ‘What made you think there was something the matter?’ he asked. Even to himself, his voice sounded as if it came from somewhere far away.

‘You made a funny noise, like you were snoring.’

‘Perhaps I’d gone asleep. This match is bloody boring.’

He’d entirely forgotten where he was, which seemed to be happening quite often lately. He stamped the earth
with
his size twelve boots, as if trying to re-establish contact with reality. It was Saturday morning and they were at Linacre Lane football ground where Dominic, Sheila’s eldest lad, was playing in some sort of match, an important one according to Jimmy Quigley. If they won, St Joan of Arc’s would go into the quarter finals. Jimmy was running up and down the edge of the field like a maniac yelling instructions to Dominic. You’d never think he’d needed two sticks to get as far as the King’s Arms less than a month ago.

‘Shoot, lad,’ Jimmy screamed. ‘
Shoot!
’

There was an appreciative burst of applause from the small crowd lining the pitch, composed mainly of other lads from the two schools concerned and quite a few parents, as well as half a dozen of the nuns from St Joan of Arc’s. One of them was waving her fists and jumping up and down like a Jack-in-the-box which had gone completely crazy.

‘Did it go in?’ Jack asked vaguely. He’d already begun to return to the world occupied only by himself and Jessica Fleming.

Niall said scathingly, ‘Of course it went in, Grandad. That means we’re winning three–one.’

‘Good.’