on the shop.’ Her sneering expression made it evident that this was something which rankled in her mind.
Feeling her hackles rising Anne snapped. ‘My house has still to be paid up, and what I get from the lodgers has to feed Renee and me as well as them. I’ve had a bloody hard struggle to keep things going since Jim died, and it’ll be a lot worse without the money from the shop.’
Jenny brooded over her own trouble for a few minutes, then said, plaintively, ‘My sister in Chicago often says in her letters that she’d be willing for Peggy and me to go and live with her, but I can’t afford the fares. Could you . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry, Jenny,’ Anne said, hastily, ‘but I hardly make enough to cover my own expenses, never mind give any away.’
‘Nobody cares about me.’ Jenny sounded mournfully accusing. ‘Peggy and me could starve and nobody would worry.’
‘Oh, come on, Jenny. That’s not true.’ Anne’s sympathy, already sorely stretched, was fighting a losing battle against her impatience at her sister-in-law’s attitude. ‘I do worry, but I’m not any better off than you, you know. I’d help you if I could, but . . .’ Her hands rose in a gesture of hopelessness.
Jenny sighed. ‘That’s it, then. There’s nothing left for me to do but go on the Parish, like all the other destitute women.’ Going on the Parish was considered a disgrace, a last resort, so Anne knew that the other woman was attempting moral blackmail, trying to force her to do something, but she was in no position to help. Her own circumstances were every bit as bad, if not worse, because she’d taken on the responsibility of paying off the debt which Jenny was conveniently ignoring.
‘You could look for a job,’ she said, after a slight pause.
‘You worked in an office before you were married, didn’t you? Your wages would be enough to keep Peggy and you, I’d think.’
‘Oh Anne, I couldn’t go out to work again. My God, it’s been sixteen years.’
‘You could, if you wanted to . . . Anyway, I’ll let you know what happens about the shop.’ Anne stood up and opened the living-room door, so Jenny took the hint, and stalked out.
Everything was sold within a few days, even the errand bicycle and the van, both long past their prime. The other butchers in the city, who had known and respected Jim Gordon, had made a point of paying more for the items they bought than they were really worth, and the man who would be leasing the premises had even agreed to accept responsibility for the gas and electricity consumed since the last bills had been paid – fortunately, only a few weeks previously.
Frank Leslie was elated when he came to inform Anne of this. ‘The sausage machine, the mincer and the slicer all sold for about half as much again as I thought we’d get. And I was surprised when Jock Reid paid fifteen pounds for the van – it’s just fit for scrap, really.’
When everything was totalled up, they were only five pounds, two shillings and ten pence short of the amount due to the abbatoir, but Anne could see no way of finding the rest of the debt.
‘I can’t even buy a threepenny raffle ticket at the door nowadays,’ she observed ruefully, ‘so God knows where I’ll get five pounds odd.’
Frank looked at her sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry I can’t afford to give you anything, Mrs Gordon.’
‘No, no.’ She was appalled at the very idea of it. ‘It shouldn’t be your worry. If the meat market would let me pay up the rest a little bit every week, I might manage if I took in another two lodgers, though it’d be hard going.’
Anne was very grateful to all her benefactors, but that was nothing compared with the deep relief she felt when Frank Leslie returned that evening to tell her that the meat market had accepted the amount of money he had taken in, and had agreed to write off the balance. ‘As a mark of respect to your husband, the manager said.’
‘Frank, I can’t
Feeling her hackles rising Anne snapped. ‘My house has still to be paid up, and what I get from the lodgers has to feed Renee and me as well as them. I’ve had a bloody hard struggle to keep things going since Jim died, and it’ll be a lot worse without the money from the shop.’
Jenny brooded over her own trouble for a few minutes, then said, plaintively, ‘My sister in Chicago often says in her letters that she’d be willing for Peggy and me to go and live with her, but I can’t afford the fares. Could you . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry, Jenny,’ Anne said, hastily, ‘but I hardly make enough to cover my own expenses, never mind give any away.’
‘Nobody cares about me.’ Jenny sounded mournfully accusing. ‘Peggy and me could starve and nobody would worry.’
‘Oh, come on, Jenny. That’s not true.’ Anne’s sympathy, already sorely stretched, was fighting a losing battle against her impatience at her sister-in-law’s attitude. ‘I do worry, but I’m not any better off than you, you know. I’d help you if I could, but . . .’ Her hands rose in a gesture of hopelessness.
Jenny sighed. ‘That’s it, then. There’s nothing left for me to do but go on the Parish, like all the other destitute women.’ Going on the Parish was considered a disgrace, a last resort, so Anne knew that the other woman was attempting moral blackmail, trying to force her to do something, but she was in no position to help. Her own circumstances were every bit as bad, if not worse, because she’d taken on the responsibility of paying off the debt which Jenny was conveniently ignoring.
‘You could look for a job,’ she said, after a slight pause.
‘You worked in an office before you were married, didn’t you? Your wages would be enough to keep Peggy and you, I’d think.’
‘Oh Anne, I couldn’t go out to work again. My God, it’s been sixteen years.’
‘You could, if you wanted to . . . Anyway, I’ll let you know what happens about the shop.’ Anne stood up and opened the living-room door, so Jenny took the hint, and stalked out.
Everything was sold within a few days, even the errand bicycle and the van, both long past their prime. The other butchers in the city, who had known and respected Jim Gordon, had made a point of paying more for the items they bought than they were really worth, and the man who would be leasing the premises had even agreed to accept responsibility for the gas and electricity consumed since the last bills had been paid – fortunately, only a few weeks previously.
Frank Leslie was elated when he came to inform Anne of this. ‘The sausage machine, the mincer and the slicer all sold for about half as much again as I thought we’d get. And I was surprised when Jock Reid paid fifteen pounds for the van – it’s just fit for scrap, really.’
When everything was totalled up, they were only five pounds, two shillings and ten pence short of the amount due to the abbatoir, but Anne could see no way of finding the rest of the debt.
‘I can’t even buy a threepenny raffle ticket at the door nowadays,’ she observed ruefully, ‘so God knows where I’ll get five pounds odd.’
Frank looked at her sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry I can’t afford to give you anything, Mrs Gordon.’
‘No, no.’ She was appalled at the very idea of it. ‘It shouldn’t be your worry. If the meat market would let me pay up the rest a little bit every week, I might manage if I took in another two lodgers, though it’d be hard going.’
Anne was very grateful to all her benefactors, but that was nothing compared with the deep relief she felt when Frank Leslie returned that evening to tell her that the meat market had accepted the amount of money he had taken in, and had agreed to write off the balance. ‘As a mark of respect to your husband, the manager said.’
‘Frank, I can’t
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