A Sister's Duty Read online

  Maggie’s expression was ugly and for several moments she did not speak. Then her features relaxed. ‘Well, you are in a paddy. I’d have had a smack around the chops if I’d dared speak to my elders and betters like that. But maybe yer get yer temper from me. I used to enjoy a good barney and so did Walt, but I can’t take it the way I used to. Let’s be forgetting what we’ve both said. You make a cuppa and we’ll have a tin of tongue from the box.’ She limped out of the shop. ‘Luv!’ she muttered. ‘What does someone your age know about life and luv?’

  ‘More than you,’ called Rosie. ‘And I want to give Dotty some cookies,’ she said firmly. ‘And Aunt Amelia a tin of salmon to help with the wedding breakfast.’

  ‘A tin of—’ Maggie clamped her mouth shut, then cleared her throat. ‘So yer mam was married to the Yank?’ she said. ‘Well, I suppose in that case her side of the family’s entitled to something. Yer’ve a kind heart. But the next time that Yank calls on that boyfriend of yours, tell him he’s welcome to visit here. I’d like to pay my respects.’

  Over my dead body, thought Rosie, eyeing her grandmother with suspicion. She would stowaway to Canada first.

  Chapter Nine

  Amelia shuffled forward along the wooden strut, the beam of her torch lighting up the tea chest wedged next to a box of yellowed, dog-eared copies of Lady and Queen magazines. She thought of how her mother had shown her the illustrations of fashionable Edwardian ladies when she was a girl and had told her about her own wedding day.

  Agnes Needham had been a June bride in 1907, and once upon a time Violet and Amelia had dressed up in Agnes’s old clothes and played Let’s Pretend. Violet had been six years older than her sister, their mother having suffered three miscarriages in the years between the births. Amelia had adored her elder sister in those days. She had been so full of life and laughter – it had not struck Amelia then that it was generally at someone else’s expense.

  Even so, when her sister had gone off with Joe, she had left a space which not even Iris had been able to fill. She had been too young to have shared in her elder sisters’ activities in the years just after the Great War when they had lived in the rooms over the shop. It had been a different kind of life altogether there with the streets as their playground and lots of other children to play with. From babyhood, Iris had been spoilt and their mother over-protective and Amelia had carried on where Agnes had left off. Now she realised that perhaps Iris had missed out on something important: seeing how the other half lived. It would have been interesting to observe how she managed Babs and Harry. One thing Violet had never been was a snob.

  Amelia sighed. Pulling herself up, she balanced precariously on the beam as she flashed the torch into the tea chest. Peter might not be her Prince Charming but she would be damned if she didn’t make the best of her big day. She stuck the torch down the front of her blouse and delved into the chest, carefully peeling back sheets of tissue paper interleaved with crumbling sprigs of lavender to reveal fold upon fold of ivory-coloured crêpe-de-chine, which she knew to be trimmed with yards of lace made by Irish nuns. Her mother had been an accomplished needlewoman and had made the gown herself, although before marrying William Needham she had earned her living as a typist in a shipping office down by the docks. An avid follower of fashion, she had made her own ‘waists’ from muslin and broderie anglaise, which she had worn with long black serge skirts to the office.

  Amelia held the gown against her. It was cut in a waterfall style, with tucks around the hips. The skirts brushed the dusty rafters of the loft as she swayed, humming a Viennese waltz. Then she sobered and stood perfectly still, head bent, wondering whether she was a fool for wanting to wear such a gown. A quiet wedding with a few carefully selected guests, they had both agreed. It was, after all, only a few months since Tess’s death. A neat little lavender suit had been her original choice, having found such an outfit among Violet’s clothes. But yesterday Amelia had found herself rebelling. She was getting married and wanted to celebrate climbing down from the shelf. She was fed up of people calling her a spinster. She wanted to knock them all dead!

  She flung the gown over her shoulder and delved into the chest again, searching for the undergarments that Agnes had worn beneath her wedding gown that never-to-be-forgotten day in June. If she was going to fit into the dress, she would need the corset and petticoats to go with it. She would also need someone to help her dress and supposed it would have to be her eldest niece in the absence of her sister. She had never made another friend as close as Tess. She needed to get in touch with Rosie anyway. Two letters had arrived yesterday from Canada. One was from Iris, addressed to herself, and the other was for Rosie and presumably from Babs. Amelia only hoped it said all the right things to reassure her prickly niece that all was well with her brother and sister. She would redirect it tomorrow and ask Rosie to visit on Sunday.

  Amelia gripped the board at the bottom of the bed and held her breath as Rosie pulled the corset laces tighter. ‘Can you still breathe?’ she asked, enjoying having been given permission to perform what she could only think of as torture on her aunt.

  ‘Just about,’ gasped Amelia, slowly exhaling. She felt as if she was encased in steel. Beneath the corset she wore a chemise tied with a drawstring ribbon over her bustline. ‘I’ll just have to starve myself from now to the wedding.’

  ‘Why are you doing it?’ asked Rosie, finding it hard to equate this woman with the aunt she had clashed with so often over the past few months. ‘The pair of you aren’t exactly love’s young dream, are you?’

  ‘You don’t have to remind me,’ said Amelia, frowning at her own reflection. ‘And that’s cheeky. Why is it the young think they’re the ones with a monopoly on love? Pass me that camisole and tell me, are you happy now you’ve had a letter from Babs? Iris wrote to say that they’re settling in very well.’

  ‘She would, wouldn’t she?’ said Rosie, picking up a pair of knee-length drawers trimmed with ribbons and lace. ‘Grownups always see things differently from children.’

  Amelia turned round slowly. ‘You mean, Babs says they’re not?’

  Rosie felt uncomfortable with her aunt staring straight at her because her own emotions had been in a turmoil ever since she had received the letter from her sister. It had been full of the exciting life she and Harry were leading, telling of shopping expeditions for clothes, toys, books, and about how spacious the house was and how plentiful the food. Rosie could not understand her own feelings because the letter had made her feel miserable instead of relieved that they weren’t pining away for her and Liverpool. She did not know how to answer Amelia, not wanting to admit that perhaps she had done the right thing in sending them away. So instead she held up the drawers.

  ‘Are you going to wear these? You’ll have a job going to the lavatory if you do.’

  Amelia continued to give her one of her basilisk stares but did not repeat her question. The girl’s silence told her all she wanted to know. Suddenly, she felt sorry for Rosie, knowing what it felt like to be left behind.

  ‘I’ve got a perfectly decent pair of cami-knickers,’ she said, fastening the last button on the camisole with difficulty over breasts which were pushed upwards and out by the corset. She felt like an opera singer: all bosom. ‘Petticoats?’

  Rosie recovered her composure and picked up a blue taffeta one off a chair. There was also a white cotton one trimmed with blue bows and a red silk. ‘All the sewing that must have gone into them,’ she marvelled. ‘And think of the ironing and washing!’

  ‘They didn’t wash everything. And those who had money, like Lord and Lady Sefton, for instance,’ gasped Amelia, resting a hand on the back of the chair while she hoisted the petticoat over her hips, ‘had servants to look after their clothes. Your grandmother told me white silk was never washed but cleaned by rubbing it with bread crumbs. And to get stains out of some materials, a mixture of Fuller’s earth, ammonia and benzine was used.’

  Rosie grimaced. ‘They must have smelt pre
tty awful!’

  Amelia managed a laugh. ‘You can say that again! Mother said they’d hang the clothes out in the fresh air afterwards, but I should think the smell would still linger.’ She straightened, breathing out cautiously then in again. ‘Now help me with the gown.’

  Almost reverently Rosie lifted the wedding gown from its hanger, trying to imagine the first time the dress had been worn. ‘You’re going to roast if it’s a hot day,’ she murmured.

  ‘If Mother could do it, so can I,’ said Amelia, as between them they eased the dress over her hips. She slipped her arms into the three-quarter-length sleeves, frilled at the elbows with lace. The neckline was high and had a mandarin-type collar. ‘Now button me up.’

  ‘This is some job,’ said Rosie, starting on what appeared to be a couple of dozen tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. Every now and again, she peered over her aunt’s shoulder into the mirror. When she had finished, neither of them spoke for several seconds.

  Amelia, who was breathing shallowly in case any of the buttons should pop, was stunned by the vision which was herself. Rosie was equally impressed. ‘You look . . .’ She searched for the right word.

  ‘Not a bit like myself?’ murmured her aunt.

  ‘No,’ said Rosie frankly. ‘You’ll need to do something with your hair to match the look, though. Will you wear a veil?’

  Amelia toyed with a loose strand of hair, wondering what Peter would make of her appearance. Probably think it too much, perhaps, but she did not care. ‘No, I’ll wear Mama’s hat. It’s that pale straw.’

  Rosie picked up the hat, the brim of which was covered in artificial gardenias and cream roses. She was about to place it on Amelia’s head when there was the sound of footsteps on the path below, then a rattling of the letter box.

  ‘See who that is,’ said Amelia, taking the hat from her.

  Rosie went over to the window. ‘It’s Mr Hudson.’

  ‘Oh – bother!’ The words burst from Amelia and she dropped the hat. ‘He can’t see me like this. Rosie, undo me.’ The girl came over to her. ‘No!’ Her aunt warded her off with a hand. ‘You’d best let him in, in case he goes away again. We need to talk. Then come up here straight away and get me out of this dress. No lingering, and no making eyes at him,’ she said rapidly.

  Rosie gave her a look. ‘I do not make eyes at men old enough to be my father,’ she said in as dignified a manner as she could.

  Amelia gave a strangled laugh and clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, yes you do! And you’re very pretty and I’m not blind. I remember your mother at your age, testing her charms on a friend of Father’s before she met Joe.’

  That was news to Rosie and it annoyed her. She had not needed to know that. Her eyes glinted. ‘Don’t start on Mam! You know how I feel when—’

  There was another banging at the door. Amelia shoved her in the direction of the landing. ‘Don’t you start! He’ll go away and I’ve told you, I need to talk to him. Hurry or he’ll think I’m out.’

  ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ muttered Rosie, scowling as she left the room.

  Peter was turning away even as she opened the door. ‘Hello, Mr Hudson. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Rosie.’ He gave a hint of a smile as he stepped over the threshold. She thought he looked harassed. His hair was untidy and he was not wearing a tie. ‘I take it your aunt’s around somewhere?’

  ‘Upstairs, trying on a frock.’ She twinkled up at him, knowing just how to get back at Amelia for starting on her mother. ‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea. She won’t be long.’

  ‘Good! I was dreading her not being in. I’ve left the twins playing out and I never know what they’re going to get up to. Last week they put a ball through one of the neighbour’s windows.’

  ‘Chris at work?’ She put on the kettle and leant against the sink.

  ‘At this time of year he seems to work all the hours God sends.’ Peter fiddled with a knife on the oilclothed table top. ‘I don’t know where he gets it from, wanting to work on a farm.’

  ‘Nobody in your family in farming?’

  He hesitated. ‘Generations ago in Ireland. But that wasn’t so unusual in the days before the Industrial Revolution. It was Tess’s idea, though. Which surprised me because I thought she’d want him following in her footsteps.’

  Rosie prodded him gently. ‘In what way?’

  ‘She studied for her secondary certificate, just like Lee. I thought she’d have wanted him to be a pharmacist.’ He rasped a finger across his chin. ‘But perhaps she knew what she was about after all.’ His tone had altered.

  ‘Is that how your wife met Aunt Amelia?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Yes. They should have been awarded their certificates in Pharmacy at the Apothecary Hall in Colquitt Street.’

  ‘Your wife finished the course?’ She flushed when he did not answer. ‘Sorry. I’m being nosy. I know Aunt Amelia didn’t because of family reasons.’

  ‘Strong sense of duty, Lee,’ he murmured. ‘It wasn’t easy for her breaking off her engagement, but your mother had married Joe, their mother was dead and Iris was only eight. But in the end I reckon she had a lucky escape.’

  Curiosity overwhelmed Rosie. ‘Did you know—’ She clicked her tongue against her teeth, making out she had forgotten the fiancé’s name when she had never known it. ‘Whatshisname?’

  ‘Bernard Rossiter? Oh yes, I knew him all right,’ he said grimly. ‘He used to come into the Post Office where I worked. He was a salesman for one of the big pharmacy suppliers in town; believed himself God’s gift to women.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  Peter did not answer but rose abruptly. ‘What’s Amelia doing up there? Trying on her whole blinking wardrobe?’

  Blast! thought Rosie. I’ve annoyed him now. And completely forgotten Aunt Amelia. She dashed out of the kitchen and flew up the stairs.

  ‘I could slay you,’ said Amelia, eyes smouldering as she turned from the bookcase in the corner. ‘Get me out of this quickly!’

  ‘Sorry, Aunt Amelia. I didn’t do it on purpose,’ said Rosie, starting to undo buttons. ‘We just got talking and I was so interested I forgot all about you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You think Peter’s a bit of all right, don’t you? That’s why you lingered. If it wasn’t that you sorted out that business of Dotty for me, I’d find someone else to fill your bridesmaid’s shoes.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me.’ Rosie shrugged. ‘I wonder, should I leave you in the corset?’

  ‘Don’t push me too far! I have enough on my plate at the moment without you getting even more uppity than usual. Now hurry up before I faint.’

  Rosie grinned. She began to unlace the corset. ‘What happened to your ex-fiancé?’

  ‘He married someone else within the year,’ muttered Amelia. Then she tried to twist round. ‘How d’you know about him? Have you been talking to Peter about me? Or did our Violet tell you about Bernard?’ She glanced over her shoulder at the girl. ‘No, she wouldn’t, not having an ounce of shame.’

  Rosie’s eyes glinted. ‘Mr Hudson seems to think you had a lucky escape.’

  ‘Mr Hudson would.’ There was a flush on her cheeks. ‘Hurry up, Rosie. He’s waiting.’

  Rosie took her time, humming a martial air.

  Amelia simmered but at last she could breathe freely and told Rosie to get out while she changed. ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘you can go back to your grandmother’s and leave us in peace.’

  Rosie did not need telling a second time; there was a look in her aunt’s eye that told her she was in danger of exploding.

  Amelia found Peter in the garden, seemingly fascinated by a huge clump of sage. She felt vexed with him for having discussed her and Bernard with Rosie but tried not to show her annoyance. ‘Do you know there’s an old wife’s tale that where sage flourishes the woman rules the roost?’ Her tone belied her mood.

  ‘Is that what this is?’ He touched the plant with
the toe of his shoe.

  ‘Yes.’ She gazed at him. He looked dishevelled and tired. Her annoyance evaporated. ‘What’s wrong?’

  A dimple in his cheek made a brief appearance. ‘Tess always said you were perceptive.’

  ‘Not always perceptive enough, wouldn’t you say?’

  He stared at her. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘In what way?’ She laced her fingers behind her back, wanting to know what he had told Rosie about Bernard, but uncertain how to bring the subject up. ‘I really should get Chris to come and help me with this garden,’ she commented. ‘The weeds are getting out of hand.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll help. Rosie and I were talking about him. Do you know why Tess encouraged him to become a farm labourer?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘I believe you discussed me and Bernard with her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a discussion,’ he said, frowning. ‘She asked did I know him. I said he used to come into the Post Office.’

  ‘You told her I had a lucky escape.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ he said harshly, digging his hands in his pockets. ‘I hope you’re not still carrying a torch for him, Lee. Because if you are, we might as well—’

  ‘How can you think that after what happened?’

  ‘OK! Forget I spoke. Anyway, we’ve more important things to talk about.’

  ‘You’ve changed your mind about us getting married?’

  ‘No! Would I have said what I’ve just said if that was it? It’s Tess’s clothes. I have to get rid of them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I’m starting at the Post Office in Tuebrook on Monday. It’s not what I want but it’s what I know.’ His eyes, dark as rain on slate, rested on her face.

  She was aware of a restlessness in him. ‘What do you want?’ she said softly. ‘I know the war’s caused lots of people to want things different.’

  ‘I’ve responsibilities. I have to earn a living the best way I know how. The boys’ stuff!’