Lights Out Liverpool (21 page)

‘I should have far more than this,’ she protested.

‘Did you put the money in the till?’ sneered Veronica.

Jessica looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘When you’d sold the goods, who was it put the money in the till?’

‘You did, but only after I’d made the sale.’

‘It’s whoever puts the money in the till that gets the commission.’

‘But that’s not fair!’ Jessica said indignantly. ‘I was wrapping things up and you came out and took it.’

‘It’s sod your luck, then, isn’t it? You’ll just have to be a bit quicker off the mark next time.’

Since then, there was a tussle whenever a sale was being completed, with Jessica trying to get the customer to pay before she put the goods in a bag, and Veronica emerging from her eyrie in the back like a great black eagle, ready to pluck the money out of the customer’s hand before Jessica could get to it.

What made Veronica’s behaviour all the more hypocritical, thought Jessica, smarting with a sense of real injustice, was that the bloody woman had a little font of holy water attached to the wall of the stockroom, and she came swooping out making the sign of the cross, as if expecting Old Nick himself had come in to buy a pair of knickers.

There’d been few customers this particular morning and Jessica stood behind the counter, feeling bored. If Veronica had been a different kind of person, she could have sat on one of the rickety chairs in the stockroom and chatted to pass the time, but there was no way she would share air space with that woman if she could avoid it, apart from which, you could hardly breathe, Veronica sprinkled herself so liberally with cheap lavender water. Even in one of her rare friendly moods, all she went on about were her three late husbands, all of whom had been considerably older than herself, describing their various deaths in gruesome and unpleasant detail. Jessica glanced at her watch and sighed. Another hour and a half to go.

‘Not keeping you, am I?’

Jessica jumped. Veronica was watching from the back, her horrible black eyes gleaming spitefully.

‘I was merely wondering what time it was,’ Jessica said coldly.

‘Idle hands make the devil’s work.’

‘What do you expect me to do? I can’t sell things if there are no customers.’

‘You could tidy up a few drawers, instead of standing there like a pill garlic.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘All right. You’ve only got to ask.’

None of the drawers needed tidying, but Jessica dutifully began to straighten up the contents. It was better than doing nothing. If only she could get another job, but there was little else she could
do
! Once she’d earned enough to pay for the alterations, she’d leave and take up something more befitting a woman of her background, voluntary war work, for instance. If she stayed much longer, she’d end up a nervous wreck.

A customer entered and bought two liberty bodices for her daughter. Jessica managed to snatch the ten shilling note out of her hand just as Veronica reached for it. The customer gone, she made a note of the sale on a piece of paper beside the till with an air of quiet triumph.

There was no time for further hostilities, because almost immediately the door opened again and a stout, middle-aged woman entered, carrying two loaded shopping bags and perspiring profusely.

‘I’d like to see your range of corselets, please.’

‘What size, Madam?’ Jessica enquired courteously.

‘Mrs Bingham!’ Veronica came leaping into the shop making the sign of the cross and bowing obsequiously. It seemed this customer, who was undoubtedly better dressed and better spoken than the usual clientele, merited her oiliest and most servile manner. ‘I’ve got a new range in. Let me show you.’

Jessica shrank back, relieved. She hated selling corsets. Customers usually tried them on in the curtained alcove behind, and she was expected to go in once they had the garments on and help pull laces and fasten hooks,
which
made her flesh crawl.

Mrs Bingham chose three pairs of corselets to try on, and she and Veronica went into the back where they remained for nearly half an hour. In the meantime, Jessica sold two long-sleeved vests to a woman with rheumatism in her elbows, and a pair of rayon stockings to another. She was making a note of the sales on the paper beside the till when Veronica emerged and flung two pairs of corselets on the counter.

‘Sort these out and put them away,’ she snapped. ‘She’s having the pair she’s got on now, the dearest ones.’

Nose wrinkling, Jessica picked gingerly at the laces of the violent pink brocade garments which had touched another woman’s sweaty flesh. Veronica was grinning to herself and nodding her head repeatedly like a gaunt yellow donkey, waiting for the customer to get dressed.

‘Mrs Bingham’s husband is the Town Clerk,’ she hissed boastfully. ‘Her son went to university and got a degree. He’s a teacher at a grammar school in Waterloo.’ She nodded again, as if to say, ‘There now!’ and waited for Jessica’s protestations of incredulity.

‘So what, my husband’s got a degree,’ said Jessica.

‘Y’what!’ Veronica’s mouth fell open, revealing scraps of food wedged between her teeth. Jessica winced delicately. ‘What are you doing here, then?’

Jessica didn’t reply. Instead, she wondered what
was
she doing there? Why was she re-lacing corselets off fat sweaty women when her husband had a degree? She hadn’t thought about it before, but Arthur could get a job on the strength of his qualifications. There was no need to drive a lorry when he had a BA with Honours in Archaeology. He too could work in a grammar school. With so many teachers being called up, there was a shortage. Her heart began to dance. They could escape
from
Bootle. She could tell Veronica what to do with her job. She’d have a word with Arthur the minute he got home that night.

Mrs Bingham emerged, fully dressed. As she rooted in her capacious bag for her purse, she smiled at Jessica. ‘That’s a pretty pendant you’re wearing. What is it, mother of pearl and marcasite?’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t very expensive. My husband bought it for me in Paris on our honeymoon.’ All Jessica’s good jewellery had been sold to help pay their debts.

‘Paris!’ Impressed, Mrs Bingham leaned across and examined the pendant closely. Then she handed Jessica a pound note. ‘Nineteen and eleven, isn’t it? Oh, I tell you what, to save going through this again in a few months’ time, I’ll take two pairs.’

Jessica took the second proffered note and rang up 39/10d on the till, crowing inwardly. A whole shilling in commission, and she hadn’t lifted a finger!

‘Paris, eh!’ Mrs Bingham said thoughtfully. She regarded Jessica critically, taking in her fashionable, expensive clothes. The woman was obviously down on her luck, otherwise she wouldn’t be working here, but even so, she was outstanding in her way, and someone who’d been to Paris would be quite a catch to show off to her friends – and she’d probably be grateful for some civilised company. ‘Perhaps you and your hubby would like to come to dinner one evening?’ she suggested.

‘It’s kind of you to ask,’ murmured Jessica politely, sensing she was being patronised, ‘but I’m afraid my hubby is far too busy at the moment. He has business meetings every night of the week.’ Two years ago, the Lord Mayor of Liverpool himself had been sick in the downstairs toilet in Calderstones, so she was less than
impressed
with the wife of a mere Town Clerk.

‘Well, never mind,’ Mrs Bingham said, clearly disappointed. ‘Maybe you could come one morning for coffee?’

‘That would be lovely, but as you can see, I work mornings.’ Jessica did her best to look apologetic.

‘Y’can always take the morning off,’ chipped in Veronica, anxious to please the wife of the Town Clerk, even if her assistant wasn’t.

‘I couldn’t possibly leave you to cope on your own right before Christmas, not with your veins the way they are,’ Jessica said virtuously. ‘Perhaps after the holiday …’

She bestowed a brilliant smile upon the somewhat bemused Mrs Bingham, who left with the uneasy feeling that she’d just been heartily snubbed by a part-time shop assistant.

‘Arthur,’ Jess began the minute he set foot in the house. ‘Why don’t you get a job as a teacher?’

She was entirely devoid of guile, thought Arthur Fleming. Any other woman would have left it until he’d finished his meal, waiting for the right moment before broaching a particularly sensitive subject. But not Jess. She plunged in tactlessly, because she had no regard for other people’s feelings. His, in particular.

He didn’t answer, but hung his overcoat and scarf in the hall, knowing she was hanging on tenterhooks for his answer.

‘Because I don’t want to,’ he replied eventually. He sat in front of the blazing fire and opened his copy of
The Times
, knowing full well she wouldn’t be satisfied with his answer. The argument could go on all night, or at least until he went out to the King’s Arms.

‘But Arthur, I only thought about it today, teachers earn quite high salaries. Not so much as we were used to, of course, but far more than you get now. We could move to Crosby or Southport. We could possibly afford a car.’

‘I’m quite happy where I am,’ he said contentedly, pretending to read the paper. ‘I like this house and I like my job. I like the folks in Bootle. They’re friendly and unpretentious.’ Although this was true, the contented air was put on. Inwardly, he was fuming. So, she’d ‘only thought about it today!’ In other words, she’d entirely forgotten he had a degree. Archaeology had been his passion as a boy and going to university the culmination of a lifelong dream. He’d visualised a life spent roaming the ancient sites of Greece and Italy and Egypt, earning his living from writing articles and books. Instead, he’d met glorious Jessica Hennessy, impetuous and totally selfish, who’d captured him, heart, body and soul – she still had him clutched somewhat painfully in her long white avaricious fingers – and, somehow, he’d ended up in charge of a transport company he was incapable of running. He had no head for business and had never claimed otherwise. He’d tried to tell her father that, and later, Jess herself. Neither was interested. It didn’t cross their minds that he might want to do something else – archaeology, for instance! For twenty unhappy years, he’d tried to cope. It wasn’t so bad whilst Bert Hennessy remained in charge. Arthur had merely done as he was told. Then Bert died and the old drivers, loyal to the firm, had carried him for a while, but most were near retirement age. They left, new drivers came, and Arthur was on his own. Failure became inevitable. Over all that time, Jessica had remained indifferent to his misery – no, not indifferent, Jess wasn’t an unkind woman, ‘unaware’
described
it better – too busy climbing up and up the social ladder to notice how much he despised her worthless aspirations.

‘But Arthur …’ she began again, accusing him of not giving two hoots for her happiness.

‘Did you ever give two hoots for mine?’

She stared at him, nonplussed. ‘I always assumed you were happy.’

‘You never asked.’

‘Well, no, but …’ She paused.

‘But what?’ he demanded.

‘You never said anything,’ she finished lamely.

‘I did, actually. It’s just that you affected not to hear.’

‘But what was there to be unhappy about, Arthur? We were well off. We could afford to buy anything we wanted.’

Arthur shrugged and didn’t answer, wondering if she would ever understand that money wasn’t everything. That being able to ‘buy anything you wanted’ wasn’t the be-all and end-all of existence.

He watched his wife covertly over the newspaper. She was biting her lip and staring into the fire, as if she’d found their recent exchange perplexing. He could sense her frustration and sympathised. This was the first time
she
was reliant on
him
for financial support. He knew he was being awkward over the teaching, but didn’t care. Perhaps it would make her understand how he’d felt all those years. Of course he could take up teaching! It was one of the first options he’d considered when the business went for a burton, along with any self-confidence he still had, but he didn’t feel up to the responsibility, not yet. There’d be plenty of time for that in the future. For the moment, he liked driving a lorry and being told what to do and where to go and given a wage at the end of the
week
, without having to take a single decision of his own accord. It was the first time since he’d left university that he had a sense of self-respect and worth. He was happy! Of course, he would have liked Jess to be happy, too, but he couldn’t change her personality, make her see that there were more important things to life than the acquisition of material goods.

He watched her still over the paper. He had to give it to her, she’d taken their reversal of fortune much better than he would have expected, revealing an unexpected strength of character. Another woman might have walked out and left him to clear the mess up on his own, but not Jess. She’d ranted and raved, called him weak – which, he conceded, he was when it came to business – but she’d stood by him and hadn’t shed a single tear. She’d seen the bank manager, sorted out their finances, then gone out and got herself a job, determined to bring the house up to the standard she considered she deserved. Out of sheer perversity, he kept back most of his wages. Looking at her now, leaning with one elbow on the table, pouting slightly and plucking at her red curls, he felt a twinge of conscience and wondered if he should let her have more. She could no more help being selfish and insensitive than she could help looking like a model for one of Rembrandt’s most glorious paintings. Perhaps if he approached it tactfully, he could offer something towards the alterations she so desired without letting her think she’d won a victory over him.

‘To change the subject,’ he said conversationally, ‘I thought you were planning on getting a new stove?’

Of course, Jess spoiled things straight away by saying irritably, ‘I thought men were supposed to take those sort of decisions.’

‘That’s news to me,’ he replied, managing a grin. ‘If I
remember
rightly, you bought everything for our old house. I don’t recall my opinion being called for.’