Page 33

Chapter 33

February 1931

The post was lying behind the front door when Ann got back from the greengrocer, basket in hand.

She wrestled with the key, gave the heavy front door a mighty heave and stumbled forward with the momentum of her efforts as it opened.

She made a mental note to write GET DOOR FIXED on her list of things that needed to be repaired.

If it wasn’t written down, it wouldn’t get done.

Two items. A leaflet about the census, and an upside-down envelope.

She nudged them aside with her shoe so they didn’t get crumpled by the draught-excluding brush which was fixed to the bottom of the door.

Her basket was heavy; as well as vegetables, she had bought flour and butter, and a quarter-pound of acid drops from the confectioners.

Her treat for later.

She bent down to pick up the post and smiled as she saw the familiar cursive script in black ink.

A letter from Isobel.

It had been a while.

Ann was good at deferred rewards.

She took the letter to the kitchen and put it on the table next to her knitting.

The kitchen, and indeed the whole house, was cold.

She had gone out early before relighting the range, but the fire was set, a criss-cross of twigs and newspaper, ready for her return.

She tried not to light the big black-leaded monster in the morning unless she was sure she would be in for the day.

Occasionally, if she had an afternoon errand, she would let the coals die down to just embers, and put the heavy fireguard over the firebox, and then stoke it back up on her return.

It was risky to leave it burning when she went out, even with the guard firmly fastened to the hooks she had screwed into the wall, but since the range also heated the water in the tank above, it was a fine balancing act between safety and practicality.

She lit the single gas ring in the scullery, purchased after speaking to the decorator two weeks earlier, and put the kettle on to boil.

The house was silent apart from the ticking of the kitchen clock, and her own voice.

She barely went into the rooms upstairs any more.

They were clean enough, but living alone had meant making changes.

The bedroom doors were left closed and the parlour unused, and she lived downstairs where there was everything she needed.

The drawing room could substitute for a parlour if she ever had need of such a thing, and the old dining room with its glazed double doors opening onto the garden was now her bedroom.

She had positioned a bird table outside and she could see the house sparrows and starlings clustering around it when she opened the curtains in the morning.

Often, she got back into bed and watched them, just for the joy of it.

The big table in the kitchen was her office and her knitting station and her bakery.

It suited her well enough to live this way.

She could manage, financially.

Her inheritance, and the recent sale of her father’s business, had seen to that.

She wasn’t wealthy, but she was careful.

Even with the depression, the interest on the capital sum meant that the bills were paid comfortably with funds left over to be invested, and she could always moderate the coal and the gas if required.

The small pebble in the base of the kettle rattled against the sides to let her know that the water was boiling.

She filled the teapot, and turned it three times to the right, three times to the left and then three times again to the right, before pouring the tea into her cup.

Finally, before sitting down at the table, she put a couple of lumps of coal on top of the kindling with the tongs and struck a match.

At last, she picked up the envelope.

Part of the fun of getting a letter was the investigation before it was opened.

The stamp, the postmark, the bent corners and, on high-quality paper, the water marks.

Sometimes the ink on the address had run from where the envelope had fallen on a wet pavement, making new colours where the pigments had separated and then dried.

‘Finlay could explain that to me,’ she said out loud into the space in the air that had been largely empty for the two years since Ursula had died.

Seven years since Father had passed away.

Fifteen since she had heard Finlay’s voice.

She lifted the breadknife and sliced open the flap.

Dear Miss Ann,

I hope this letter finds you well.

She lifted her cup and took a sip of tea before continuing.

I am afraid I have bad news.

Ann felt her heart begin to race.

The family I am employed by have decided they can manage without me.

It is completely outwith my control, unfortunately.

This happened at the start of January, just after the turn of the year.

I am sorry for not writing before now, but there has been so much to do, and I was unsure about my situation here.

They have been kind, and have given me time, but I need to look for another place and there is not much in this area.

Ann knew what was coming and was already nodding her head before the question on the page was posed.

I know it is a terrible imposition, but I wondered if you might have need of a maid for a while, just until I manage to find a new position.

I would not be any trouble and I have a little money saved.

Perhaps there are jobs in the house you need help with?

I will manage, because we have to, don’t we?

I am sorry to ask, but I cannot think of another way.

It is not a good time to be searching for work.

It seems a lot of families have stopped having live-in domestic help, and that only leaves shops and factories.

There are so many men who are looking for employment now, and each and every one of them will be taken on before me.

I do understand if it is not possible, so please don’t say yes out of pity.

I am sending my very best wishes for your health and well-being,

Yours,

Isobel

Ann went back to the beginning and read the letter again.

She calmed down and started to talk to the empty room, a habit formed in the two years of living alone.

‘Where will she sleep? She can’t go back up to the maid’s room, that’s totally inappropriate for a woman of her age.

’ Ann opened her diary to a page at the back and lifted one of the freshly sharpened pencils from the jam jar which lived within easy reach on the big table.

‘I wonder if she has furniture. How might that be transported?’

She wrote:

ISOBEL

Furniture?

Move?

Which room?

When?

‘There are enough beds and wardrobes here in the house. Maybe we could both move upstairs. Isobel could have Finlay’s room.

’ She shook her head immediately, rejecting that particular option.

‘Or maybe my old room? And we might be needing a dining room again eventually. I suppose I could have the main bedroom, although not right away.’

She retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk in her room and came back to the kitchen table to write.

My dear Isobel,

What dreadful news.

You may, of course, come back here.

This is a generous house for one person.

I didn’t tell you before, but I came close to selling it last year.

So much has happened since I last wrote properly in November, and there wasn’t space to squeeze it all onto your Christmas card.

As you know, Ursula and I kept Black’s running with a manager in place until she died, but it was very difficult.

Even with legal help, finding a buyer for the company and dealing with the sale was exhausting, despite being very necessary.

I simply couldn’t continue with it any longer.

Father had always hoped that Finlay would come back after university and take over the reins.

Ursula and I did our best as his substitutes, but the wholesalers didn’t want to deal with women, no matter how competent, and by October last year I had come to the decision that it was time to close the doors.

The sale finally went through last month.

It was a sad day and I’m not sure quite what I will do with my time but I confess that I am relieved.

It has been hard to manage everything alone, these last two years.

My solicitor told me that in the current economy, it is not a good moment to try to dispose of a large house either, so after reading your letter today, it seems fortuitous that I listened to his advice and stayed here at number 25.

You must come back as soon as possible.

If Ursula were still here, I’m sure she would agree with me.

Please use the enclosed to buy your train ticket.

And if you need to arrange for furniture and other things to be moved then let me know.

Yours,

Ann

She opened the drawer in the dresser where the ledgers were kept and lifted out the household cashbox.

Inside, the coins were stored in little cloth bags, separate ones for sixpences and farthings and threepenny bits, and all the other denominations.

A selection of bank notes from different Scottish banks in various colours and values were kept in the compartment below.

She could remember Father meticulously examining each design with a professional jeweller’s loupe whenever there was a new issue.

‘Will ten shillings be enough?’ There was no answer from the absent voices.

‘A pound,’ she decided.

‘I don’t want to embarrass Isobel by sending more.

’

Ann kept ￡100 in the box, more or less; she disliked going to the bank and preferred to be more self-contained.

She rifled through the notes and chose a Royal Bank of Scotland one-pound note with the bank’s headquarters in St Andrew’s Square on the reverse.

‘A little bit of home,’ she pronounced, as she closed the box and put it away.

Although she didn’t like leaving the house with a fire burning, she put on her coat for the second outing of the day.

‘If I run to the post office instead of walking, it won’t take me long to get there and back.

This needs to be sent without delay,’ she said, as she fixed the fireguard back into place.