Rich Girl, Poor Girl Read online

‘You poor bairn.’ Angie sounded shocked. ‘Want to come home wi’ me?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Polly said, ‘but no. Somebody’s already offered me a place to stop. I’ll go there.’ She couldn’t stop the tears or the choked voice, and Angie frowned in consternation.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘You should have asked for time off.’

  ‘And then how do I pay ’rent?’ Polly said. ‘I’ve onny my wages now that ... now that Ma’s gone.’

  Angie nodded, and then said, ‘Cover for me, will you?’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Tell ’foreman I was caught short and’ve gone to ’privy.’

  Polly nodded, and sighed. She’d have to get a grip on herself. No use crying and whining. Nobody could help her; she’d just have to help herself. But she was full of tears and sadness. Her eyes and lips felt swollen and her face was sore with weeping.

  Ten minutes later Angie came back, and the foreman hadn’t noticed her absence. ‘Here,’ she whispered, pressing her hand into Polly’s. It was full of coins. ‘One and a tanner,’ she said. ‘Nearly everybody’s tipped in a copper, whatever they could afford. I’ll ask ’foreman at ’dinner break if he’ll dib in.’

  Polly began to cry again. ‘Thank you,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so grateful. I can’t tell you how much.’

  Although it was very cold, Polly sat outside at dinner time so that she couldn’t see the other girls eating their food; one or two of them came across to her and said how sorry they were about her mother, and one of them gave her half an apple. Angie came back to her with sixpence. ‘Foreman give it,’ she said. ‘He’s not a bad sort if you treat him right.’

  It was quite unexpected and far more than Polly could have hoped for. I’ll give it to Mrs Walters, she thought. It’ll go towards tomorrow’s dinner. She counted up the money and separated the sixpence. I’ll buy some bread and a bit o’ cheese for tonight, and ’rest can go towards ’rent. It’ll buy me time to look for somewhere cheaper. I just hope Ma wasn’t in arrears.

  She thanked the foreman at the end of the day and he said gruffly that she should come to see him after the Christmas holiday and he would see about offering her extra work. Polly was grateful, but she did wonder how she could fit in any extra hours, unless she did a night shift.

  ‘I’ll have to tek time off for ’funeral,’ she said. ‘So if I don’t turn up one day you’ll know why,’ she added, mindful that he’d previously said she should have sent word of her absence.

  She walked slowly home, reluctant to return to the house. She was halfway down High Street when ahead of her she saw a familiar figure: tall, dark and with a recognizable confident posture. Suddenly she was full of anger where before she had been completely overcome by misery, and she began to run towards him.

  ‘Sonny!’ she shouted. ‘Sonny Blake!’

  He turned round. Recognizing her, he lifted his arm to greet her. ‘How do, Polly.’

  Unprepared, he was nearly knocked over as she launched herself at him, hammering her fists against his chest. ‘You –you murderer,’ she yelled. ‘You and all men. Vile murderers.’

  ‘Hey, hey!’ He grabbed her wrists. ‘Polly! Who have I murdered? Did I do it in my sleep? Cos I don’t recall murdering anybody recently. Ow!’ He jumped back as she kicked out at his shins. ‘What’s got into you?’

  Polly sobbed. ‘Don’t reckon on that you don’t know.’ She lashed out again with her boot. ‘Lecher!’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Sonny snapped. ‘Are you going to tell me what I’ve done or do I drag you home and complain to your ma?’

  Polly began to wail. She snatched her hands away and covered her face. ‘She’s dead! Ma’s dead.’

  Sonny took a step back, his face draining of colour. ‘What? How?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘No. No, she can’t be. Not Ida. Not Ida! What happened?’

  Polly swallowed and wiped her nose on her shawl. ‘She had a miscarriage. I blamed you but she said it wasn’t yours.’

  He stared at her. ‘It wasn’t mine! Why did you think — I didn’t know she was ... I’ve not seen her in months. I’ve been away. I’ve been meaning to visit since I got back, but, well, you know how it is.’

  ‘Yeh,’ Polly snuffled. ‘Other fish to fry, I expect.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. I’ve been fishing. For cod,’ he added as she cast him a look of disbelief. ‘I had the chance of a job on a trawler so I took it.’

  ‘Hard work for a change, was it?’

  ‘Look, Poll,’ he said softly. ‘I’m really sorry about Ida, and I know how bad you must feel, but don’t take your anger out on me. I’ll do what I can to help if you’ll let me. When did it happen?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Last night! Oh,’ he exhaled. His eyes flickered. ‘It’s Christmas. Where is she?’

  ‘At home. I’m just going there now. But I daren’t stop,’ Polly choked. ‘I’m that frightened. Mrs Walters said she’d try to get somebody to sit wi’ her. And she said she’d mek ‘arrangements for burial.’

  Sonny pondered. ‘I’ll come and sit with you tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t tomorrow as I’ve made other plans. But tonight, Polly, it’s Christmas Eve. You should be there.’

  ‘I know.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘That’s why I feel so bad. I know I should be with her. She’d have been there for me.’

  ‘All right. You go home now and I’ll be along in half an hour. Trust me, Polly.’ He gazed down at her. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Her mouth trembled. ‘Thanks. I’m – s-sorry that I blamed you, Sonny.’

  He gave a ghost of a smile. ‘You just needed somebody to blame and I happened to come along?’

  ‘Yeh, that’s right.’ She made a brave attempt to smile back. ‘I feel better now. I was full o’ guilt at being so scared.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks again. ‘How could I be scared of my own ma?’

  He gently patted her cheek. ‘Shan’t be long.’

  Mrs Walters was sitting on the doorstep waiting for her. She had her shawl over her head and was chewing on an empty clay pipe. ‘Guessed you’d gone to work,’ she said. She screwed up her wrinkled face. ‘Can’t get anybody for tonight, Polly. Folks are a bit superstitious about spending ’night wi’ – you know – on Christmas Eve. Tomorrow night’ll be all right and Boxing Day night, and then I’ve booked ’burial for ’day after. Is that all right?’ she added anxiously.

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ Polly said. ‘And somebody said they’ll sit wi’ me tonight, so ... so she won’t be by herself.’

  ‘Good.’ Mrs Walters eased up off the step. ‘So we’ll see you tomorrow for Christmas dinner?’

  Polly nodded. ‘Yes. Thanks.’ Impulsively she gave the old woman a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  She took her place on the doorstep to wait for Sonny, but after ten minutes got up and went inside and slowly climbed the stairs to their room. She pushed the door open and stood looking. There was a calmness in the room which hadn’t been there earlier. She stepped inside and went towards the mattress in the corner.

  ‘I miss you, Ma,’ she whispered. ‘I never said afore what I felt and it’s too late now. If I’d known that you’d be gone so soon I would have told you what you meant to me. We had such laughs, didn’t we, you and me? It was good wi’ just ‘two of us and no man to tell us what to do. You never told me about my da or who he was, and I was never bothered about knowing. I had you and that was what was important.’

  She knelt down and took a breath and lifted the sheet to see her mother’s face. She gave a little smile. ‘You look beautiful, Ma.’ Her eyes were awash. ‘Really beautiful.’

  She heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Sonny at the door. ‘I was just telling Ma,’ she whispered, ‘I was just saying to her how beautiful she looks.’

  He knelt down beside her and put his arm round her waist and she leaned her head against his chest as she wept. ‘You’re quite right, Polly,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘She does. Mo
re lovely than I’ve ever seen her.’ Gently he put the sheet back over Ida’s face. ‘Let her rest now.’ He swallowed hard and led Polly away. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought us a treat.’ He picked up a paper bag that he’d left by the door. ‘Where can we sit? Here by the window?’

  Polly nodded without speaking and pulled two wooden chairs towards the window. Sonny opened the bag. ‘Got any plates?’

  She nodded again, went to the cupboard and brought out two cracked plates. She felt unable to speak, she was so choked with emotion, but her eyes opened wide when he brought out a roast chicken, two hot potatoes and then a bottle of red wine. She had never drunk wine before.

  ‘No glasses,’ he said with forced cheer, ‘but I thought you wouldn’t mind sharing a bottle.’

  He drew the cork and lifted the bottle in a toast towards the bed, saying softly, ‘To you, Ida,’ before handing it to Polly.

  She hesitated a second, and then she took a deep gulp and then another, and gave it back to Sonny.

  They devoured the chicken and the potatoes and Polly felt she hadn’t eaten so well in her life. She began to feel warmer and more relaxed. Sonny handed the bottle to her again.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Polly,’ he said quietly. ‘Finish it off. There’s not much left.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Sonny.’ She turned to where her mother lay. ‘Happy Christmas in heaven, Ma,’ she said. ‘God bless.’ She finished the bottle and put it down on the floor. ‘I feel sleepy,’ she confessed.

  ‘Then close your eyes,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep watch.’

  She took a blanket from the back of a chair and curled up on the floor. Sonny waited until she had dropped off into a deep wine-induced slumber and then rose and went towards the bed. He lifted the sheet again and looked down at his former lover.

  ‘God bless you, Ida,’ he said softly. ‘We had some good times together and you taught me to be a man; and, although we’d agreed to go our separate ways, I’m sorry I wasn’t with you at the end.’ He bent and kissed her cold cheek. ‘But I’ll keep a lookout for your Polly. And that’s a promise.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Because of Mrs Kingston’s prominence in the town a notice of her death was rushed through. Mr Fellowes had called at the local newspaper office and an obituary was to appear in the Hull Advertiser that very evening, though he deemed it insensitive to inform The Times before Rosalie’s father received the news.

  By early evening, Rosalie was seated in the drawing room, dressed in dark clothing, though not in black as she was only a minor, waiting for any callers who might wish to pay their respects and offer condolence. Mr and Mrs Fellowes sat behind her, ready to introduce her to friends and acquaintances of theirs and her mother’s.

  The first people to arrive were the vicar and his wife. Mr Fellowes had already been to see him in order to arrange a funeral service, and now he was here to offer Rosalie comfort. Unmoved, she listened to him as he droned on about being safe in the garden of heaven in the arms of Jesus, and heaved a sigh of relief when he went upstairs to pray at her mother’s bedside, where Mrs Dawson was in attendance.

  I’d rather Mama were here safe at home with me, she thought. Why did she have to die? She was not yet forty. Rosalie sighed again. Had her mother really wanted this baby, or had she had no choice in the matter?

  Two ladies arrived together, both wearing black sashes over their cloaks and black spotted veils on their hats. One of them delicately placed a lace handkerchief to her nose and murmured, ‘So sorry,’ whilst the other patted Rosalie’s hand and said softly, ‘Too young to be taken; she was only a year older than I, and I am certainly not ready. You must come to me if there is anything I can do for you.’ She leaned forward and whispered discreetly, ‘Anything you might wish to ask. Anything at all; you must not be embarrassed. I recall how bewildered I was at your tender age. I will leave my card at the door.’

  ‘So kind.’ Rosalie, stony-faced, bobbed her knee, and considered that if the woman was referring to female bodily functions, then she probably knew as much as her visitor did about the subject. She had started her flux three years ago and had made it her business to find out what it was all about.

  Neighbours, those who had heard of the death, also called. Few of them knew Mark Kingston as he was seldom at home, whereas Mrs Kingston had been born and brought up in Hull: her father had been a successful businessman in the town until his early death, which was followed by that of his wife a year later.

  Rosalie’s father had been born in North Yorkshire; he and his brother were brought up by elderly childless relatives whilst their parents were abroad. After leaving school Mark followed his father into the army whilst his brother Luke went back to run the family estate with his uncle.

  Rosalie knew nothing of her paternal grandparents. Her mother had never met them, or her husband’s brother. ‘Nor,’ she had once said, when Rosalie had curiously asked if she had any relatives, ‘do I wish to. Your father and his brother haven’t met in years. I understand that they have nothing in common. And their parents did not come to our wedding, or even send greetings.’

  By eight o’clock, Mr and Mrs Fellowes had decreed that no one else would come. ‘It would not be proper to do so, so late in the evening,’ Mrs Fellowes said. ‘Even in the present circumstances.’ Again she urged Rosalie to accompany them home and spend Christmas Day with them. Rosalie graciously refused and thought she saw a hint of relief in both the Fellowes’ expressions. It wouldn’t be fair, she thought. My presence would only put a damper on the day. They would be conscious of sparing my feelings.

  ‘You have been so very kind and thoughtful,’ she said, and meant it. They had spent most of the afternoon with her, and Mr Fellowes in particular had been very considerate. ‘But I would prefer to be at home where I can reflect on my position.’

  After they had gone she called Martha upstairs. ‘I’ll be staying at home tomorrow,’ she told her. ‘I’ll attend church in the morning so will have a light early breakfast. Was Cook planning to cook a goose for midday?’

  ‘Yes, miss. It’s been in ’cold larder since yesterday morning when ’butcher brought it, along wi’ two pound o’ sausages and a leg o’ pork. She’s got two lots o’ stuffing prepared, forcemeat and chestnut, and ’plum pudding’s been bubbling away all afternoon.’

  What a great deal of food, Rosalie thought, and as far as I know Mama wasn’t inviting anyone else.

  ‘In that case I’ll eat at one o’clock. But I won’t need anything else until about six when I’ll have a plate of cold pork and apple sauce.’ She looked up at Martha. ‘I shall pass the afternoon quietly so you and Cook may spend the day as you wish.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Martha dipped her knee. ‘Thank you, miss. Is there anything I can get you now?’

  ‘Just a hot posset and a slice of bread and butter, please, Martha.’

  Martha smiled. ‘Like you used to have when you were little and had a cold?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosalie felt her eyes prickle. It was the remedy her mother had been given when she was a child, and she used to ask Cook to prepare it for Rosalie if she was unwell.

  ‘Would you like it made with ale or brandy, miss?’ Martha asked.

  ‘Ale, please, and piping hot, and – and I’ll have it in my room. I think I’ll have an early night.’

  ‘You do right, Miss Rosalie. You’ve had a hard day. I’ll bring it up and I’ll put a warm brick in ’bed as well.’

  ‘Thank you. That will be lovely.’ What Rosalie wanted most of all was some comfort. She wanted to feel warm and cared for, but there was no one to care for her now but the servants, and then only if she asked them.

  She was woken the next morning by the sound of church bells heralding Christmas Day and for a second she was unaware of what had happened. Then, as she remembered, she felt a cold chill of unhappiness spreading over her. I’m alone, she thought. My first Christmas without any company. On other Christmases, neighbours had been invited in for glasses of sherry and
mince pies. Her two best friends, who would have called after church to exchange small gifts, had both gone away for the Christmas holiday and were not due back until the end of January.

  Martha tapped on the door and brought her a tray of tea and bread and butter and wished her the season’s greetings. ‘I won’t say happy Christmas, Miss Rosalie,’ she said, ‘cos I know it won’t be, but I hope you’ll get through ’day as best you can.’

  ‘Thank you, Martha. And I hope you and Cook will make the most of the day.’

  Martha nodded. ‘Cook’s hopping mad cos scullery maid hasn’t shown up again. She didn’t come yesterday either. She must be sick,’ she mused, ‘cos she’s not asked for her wages.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rosalie said, wondering if that meant she would have to hire someone else. I don’t know how, she thought. Mama did all of that. She thought of how cosseted she had been; she had no conception of how to run a household. How could I? I don’t know how to order groceries or what to tell Cook. How can I live alone? Papa! He’ll have to come home. Will he want to stay here or will he shut up the house and take me back with him?

  The enormity of her situation suddenly overwhelmed her. Up to now she had been numbed by the sudden and unforeseen death of her mother. Now she began to shake as she realized that the normality of her life was gone and from now on it was going to be quite different.

  In church she sat and heard not a word of the vicar’s sermon. She stood and mouthed the words of the hymns but no sound came out, and after the service, as she walked out of the doors, the vicar’s wife stopped her and said gently, ‘I’m so very pleased that you came this morning, Miss Kingston. It was very brave of you, and I do hope you found some solace in being in God’s house.’

  Rosalie shook her head. ‘I did not,’ she whispered. She glanced round at the congregation, who were standing chatting or calling out greetings to each other. They were a mixed bunch of people; some she knew by sight as regular worshippers but others were strangers who were there because it was Christmas Day. There were also people standing by the gate who, she thought, had probably not been inside for the service. They were poorly dressed, the women in worn shawls with children clinging to their dingy skirts and the men, caps in hand, tipping their foreheads when given a coin.