Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge T. Belshaw (good books to read for beginners txt) 📖

‘I assume he’s sleeping in the barn. Why isn’t he staying at his mother’s?’

‘She’s ill by all accounts and to be honest, I don’t think he can face her to explain what went wrong between us. I think he knows she’ll accuse him of deserting me and Martha, but he knows I don’t want him anywhere near us, so he’s between a rock and a hard place really.’

‘Good. I wish I was holding the rock,’ said Amy.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with Edna, but she looked all right when she was here for Martha’s birth.’

‘I’ll find out. I’ll get the undercover crew on the case,’ she replied.

Miriam flitted in and out, between upstairs and down. She had her Friday night bath, and sat with us while she dried her hair, then she set up the ironing board and pressed the clothes she was going to wear to the tea dance on Saturday afternoon. My mother’s wardrobe was being well serviced. She watched over Amy as she fed Martha a bottle for the first time. Amy made coo and squee, noises all the way through the experience.

Our gas cooker had been plumbed in earlier in the week. It was green, with a white oven door and grill chamber. It had a plate warmer, drying rack at the top, and sported three burning rings with the grill underneath, and an oven with a thermostat that regulated how much heat the oven lost. You could set the temperature on the knob and forget it until the item you were cooking was ready. All you had to do was keep your eye on the big clock on the wall. Miriam was so used to the range oven, that it took her a while to get used to the idea, and she ruined three or four cakes by continually opening the oven door, to see if her creation had risen. She warned me on more than one occasion when I opened the back door, thinking that I was letting all the heat out of the room.

I fell in love with the cooker almost as soon as it had been connected to the gas main. It meant I could warm up milk for Martha, boil a kettle and make a slice of toast at the same time. How does that saying go? Something like, necessity is the mother of invention? It was surely a mother who invented this type of cooker. Men haven’t got a clue how to do more than one thing at a time.

On Saturday night, after yet another tea dance and fish and chip supper by the boating lake, Miriam announced that she had been invited by Mr Hart, to accompany him on a weekend trip to Southend on Sea, over the late August bank holiday weekend. I was so excited for her. Things were moving on, it seemed.

‘I won’t go if you need me here. I know it’s three days, well, it isn’t actually as we won’t be leaving until Saturday afternoon; because Michael has to sort out his work books in the morning. Would it be too long a break?’

I rubbed my chin as if I was thinking hard about it.

‘Of course, you can go, Miriam. You can take the whole week if you want. You haven’t had a holiday in years.’

‘Would it, I mean… I know I only usually borrow your mother’s clothes for the tea dances, but would it be all right to pack a few things. I promise to look after them.’

‘They’re no longer my mother’s clothes, Miriam. They’re yours. Use them whenever you like. My mother would be delighted, I’m sure. And…’ I paused for effect. ‘If you look in the drawer of my bedside cupboard, you’ll find a little bottle of Orchidée Bleue, Eau De Cologne. That’s yours too. Don’t take the Tabu from my dresser though, that’s my extravagance. Frank says it makes me smell like a tart so I wouldn’t be without it now.’

Miriam looked at me strangely, obviously wondering why I’d want to smell like a tart, but after reassurance from me, she ran upstairs to find the spray bottle I had given her. She came down sniffing the back of her hand with a smile like she’d just won the football pools.

‘Does it suit me? I’ve never had perfume before.’

I sniffed at her hand.

‘It suits you perfectly, Miriam. It doesn’t smell that good on me, I tried it.’

‘What’s it called again? In case anyone asks me?’

‘Orchidée Bleue,’ I said. ‘It’s French.’

‘Oh, I say. Aren’t I getting above my station? Me, in French perfume and fine clothes. My children wouldn’t recognise me if they saw me out.’

‘You deserve every bit of happiness, Miriam. I hope you have a lovely weekend,’ I said, as she hugged me.

On Tuesday, the man from the Imperial Insurance Company arrived bang on time and by eleven o’clock, he had written and signed a cheque in my name, and set up my own personal policy that would pay my nominated next of kin, one-hundred pounds, on account of my death. My subscription would be collected by a local agent who would call to pick up the money, every Friday evening.

When he had gone, I asked Barney to accompany me to the bank, as he was on good terms with the manager. The cheque had been made out to cash and I know I, as a mere woman, would have had a problem cashing it. With Barney there to vouch for my identity (although the manager knew exactly who I was), life would be much simpler.

Once the formalities were dispensed with, I asked the clerk to write out a bank cheque to Messrs. Wilson, Kendall and Beanney, Solicitors, for the sum of one-hundred and ten pounds, thirteen shillings and ninepence. The rest of the money, I took in cash. It would go in the safe along with what remained of my mother’s insurance money.

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