Kitty Neale - Sins of the Father

Emma stared at her reflection in Alice’s mirror, hardly able to believe her eyes. Her lank, dull blonde hair was now shining, and sat on her shoulders in a profusion of waves. She still had her old clothes on, but she intended to alter Alice’s skirt as soon as she went upstairs.

‘Oh, Alice, I can’t believe it’s me,’ she cried, her eyes fixed on the mirror.

‘You’re not just pretty, Emma, you’re beautiful, just like your mum,’ Alice said, her eyes suddenly moist. ‘I was going to suggest a bit of make-up, but with such lovely skin you don’t need it. A touch of lipstick is enough. Blimey, anyone would be mad not to give you a job now.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Emma said, finally tearing her eyes away from the mirror.

James and Archie had been so good, but were now demanding Alice’s attention.

‘They want their lunch,’ Alice said. ‘They never stop eating. My Cyril thinks they’ve got hollow legs.’

‘I’m sorry, Alice.’

‘Sorry! What have you got to be sorry about? It’s a pleasure to see them stuffing their faces. I just wish this flaming food rationing was over with. It’s a bloody disgrace. It’s years since the war finished. Anyway, pop into the bedroom to get your things, and don’t forget the underwear. I might have another skirt–I’ll dig it out–but for now I’d best sort these two lads out.’

Emma smiled her thanks, and left Alice’s clutching her new clothes. She couldn’t help thinking that their own flat looked so bleak in comparison to Alice’s, but sat on a stool, relieved that she had enough cotton left on the reel to complete the alterations to the skirt. The fire was still partly alight, enough to heat the iron. After pressing the hem, she put the skirt on, tucking the prettier of the two blouses inside.

There was no mirror to see how she looked, but Emma felt sure she was smart enough to get a job now. It was only when putting on her shoes that a frown creased her forehead. Worn down at the heels and scuffed, she knew they spoiled the outfit, but they were the only pair she had, and would have to do.

Her heart felt lighter and excitement mounted. It was after one o’clock, but she’d walk to Clapham Junction. There were loads of shops there. Surely one of them would have a vacancy.

Emma was about to leave when the door opened, Susan walking slowly into the room.

‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at school?’

‘I’ve been sick and my teacher sent me home.’

Emma felt Susan’s forehead, and for once believed her. She felt hot, her skin clammy. ‘All right, love. Let’s get you into bed.’

‘You look nice, Emma. Where did you get those clothes?’

‘Alice gave them to me.’

Susan was about to speak again, but then her hand flew to her mouth as she retched. In a flash Emma rushed her over to the sink, her nose wrinkling as her sister emptied her stomach. At least, Emma thought miserably, none of her sister’s vomit had marked Alice’s clothes.

Emma bathed Susan in cool water and then put her to bed where she fell asleep almost immediately. By the time Luke and the others came home from school, she was a lot better, but still lying lethargically on the mattress.

Emma came down the ladder. ‘Susan’s in bed.

She’s been sick and was sent home from school.’

‘Serves her right,’ Luke said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When we pass the market on the way to school, she’s always scrounging stuff. She puts on a sad face, tells the stall-holders her mum’s dead, and nine times out of ten they give her an apple or something.’

‘She does what?’ Emma was horrified. ‘But an apple wouldn’t make her sick.’

‘I know, but she’s done it so often that I think the stall-holders have got wise to her. She didn’t get anything from them this morning so she tried it on with the butcher. He was just opening up, and when she pulled the stunt he shoved a pie into her hand. She stuffed it on the way to school and the greedy cow wouldn’t even give us a bite. Still, she got her comeuppance. I reckon it must have been bad.’

Emma still couldn’t believe her ears. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Since just after Mum died. It started when Charlie asked us how we were doing and it was obvious he felt sorry for us. He gave us an apple each and it must have given Susan the idea.’

‘I’ll give her a piece of my mind when she gets up,’ Emma said, but then heard a knock on the door. She went to answer it, her face paling when she saw the landlord.

Mr Bell was in his mid-forties, tall and thin, with a shock of dark, wiry hair. To Emma he was a toff, well spoken, well dressed, and he always carried a briefcase.

He gazed at her for a moment, his eyes puzzled, then said, ‘Is that you, Emma? I hardly recognised you. You seem to have grown up overnight.’

She felt gauche, unsure of herself and stammered, ‘My…my dad isn’t home from work yet.’

‘Didn’t he leave the rent with you?’

‘No, but he’ll be here in a couple of hours.’

The man sighed heavily. ‘Very well, I’ll be back later.’

‘Thank you, Mr Bell.’ Emma said, relieved to close the door on the man and the predatory look she had seen in his eyes.

An hour passed and when Dick came home, his eyes widened. ‘Blimey, Em, you look nice,’ he said, passing her a bag of vegetables.

‘It’s down to Alice,’ Emma told him, eyeing with appreciation the carrots, onions and potatoes. ‘There’s plenty here for another stew tomorrow. It’s really good of Charlie to give you the leftovers.’

‘They’re too soft to put out again tomorrow, and they’d only be chucked away. Anyway, don’t change the subject–why are you all dolled up like a dog’s dinner?’

‘I was going out to look for a job again but Susan was sent home from school.’ She then went on to tell him why, his disgust equalling her own.

‘Well, stone the crows,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a few words to say to that little madam.’

‘Me too,’ Emma said, relighting the fire to finish off the dinner.

Another hour passed, one in which they both gave Susan a telling-off, and then Emma looked at Dick worriedly. ‘Mr Bell is sure to be back soon and I don’t think I’ll be able to fob him off again. I hope Dad isn’t blowing his wages in the King’s Arms.’

Dick’s expression soured as he rose to his feet. ‘I’ll drag him out of there if I have to.’

As Dick made his way to the pub, he found himself thinking about his boss. Charlie Roper was the antithesis of his father, and a man he respected. Charlie had never married and, as far as Dick knew, had no family, but he had taken him under his wing, treating him almost like a son. Yes, he was a hard taskmaster, but he expected no more from anyone than he did from himself.

Charlie liked the occasional pint but, unlike Dick’s father, he knew when to stop. The man was hard-working, up at the crack of dawn every day, in all weathers, but never complained, despite the cold affecting his arthritic fingers. Charlie had fought in a war too, albeit the first one, and he’d had it rough, fighting in the trenches and telling Dick stories of rats the size of cats. Yet unlike his father, Charlie never bemoaned his fate, or used it as an excuse to drown his sorrows in drink. Dick scowled, hating his father’s weakness, determined never to follow in his footsteps.

When Dick reached the pub, he flung open the door, searching for his father through a fug of stale cigarette smoke. An old boy was pounding out a tune on a wonky piano, the melody unrecognisable to Tom, and at a couple of tables he saw men playing cards. He pushed his way forward, finding his father standing at the bar, lifting a pint of beer to his lips.