It seems very little for so much work.’
‘It’ll be more than four bob with the tapes and the material,’ Mrs Clarke reminded her. ‘Give me half a bar and we’ll settle on a proper amount when I know what it’s goin’ to cost.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Knight’s right next door to you, so I dare say you’ve met her son, Derek? He’s ever so nice, everyone likes him. They call him Darky … d’you know him?’
‘I’ve seen him about,’ Patty said guardedly. Considering he was her next-door neighbour it would have been strange indeed had she not noticed him. Derek Knight had thickly curling black hair, very dark eyes and the sort of olive complexion that Patty usually associated with someone of foreign birth. He was also well over six foot tall and well built, so Patty supposed that most girls would think him good-looking, handsome even. ‘I’ve not spoken to him, mind, only seen him once or twice when we’re both coming in around the same time. I don’t believe we’ve ever exchanged so much as a “good morning”, to tell you the truth.’ She did not add, as she was tempted to do, that she had no interest in Darky Knight, no matter how handsome he might be, and what was more was equally uninterested in all young men. It might be the truth – well, it was – but it was not necessary to tell Mrs Clarke how she felt. In fact, if she thought about Darky Knight at all it was because he seemed somewhat sulky, and was definitely not at all friendly, never even smiling when they passed one another on the stairs.
Mrs Clarke chuckled. ‘I dare say you think he’s stand-offish, but you’ll get to know him better in time,’ she said tolerantly. ‘The fact is, he’s still not gorrover the death of his wife. She – and their newborn baby – both died and he’s norrover it yet though it were … let me think … yes, all of three years ago. He stayed in their place for the first year, but then …’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘then they say he tried to top hisself, so Mrs Knight insisted that he come back here to live.’ She sighed gustily, clearly enjoying the drama of her revelations. ‘I thought you’d best know, otherwise you might put your foot in it, like. Now, about them curtains; tell you what, decide what sort o’ colours and patterns you’d like for the material, write it down on a scrap o’ paper and shove it, wi’ the money, under me door. Does that suit?’
Patty began to say it would suit very well when a voice hailed Mrs Clarke in stentorian tones from the balcony below and she set off hastily towards the stairs. ‘I’ll bring the material round as soon as I’ve gorrit,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘I’m comin’, Maisie.’
Patty had returned to her kitchen, knelt on the floor and prised up one of the short floorboards. Beneath it, in an old Glaxo tin, were her savings. Now that she had a home of her own, Patty often blessed the fact that she had always been a saver and not a spender. There had been nothing worth spending money on whilst she lived in the nurses’ home and worked at the hospital, and though the nurses complained of poor wages and insufficient food Patty had always managed to put some money away each month and was glad of it now. She extracted a ten shilling note from her hoard, noticing ruefully that the amount in her tin was steadily shrinking, and pushed it into an envelope. Then she replaced the Glaxo tin and the floorboard and stood up, going over to the table where she seized a stub of pencil and wrote ‘Curtain money from Nurse Peel’ upon the envelope. Then she took it along the balcony and pushed it under her neighbour’s door.
That night was a busy one. With Merrell snugged down in her bicycle basket, Patty set off at ten o’clock to check on a first-time mother who thought her pains had started; then, later, the doctor sent a message that she was to go at once to another case to assist him with a breech birth. By
‘It’ll be more than four bob with the tapes and the material,’ Mrs Clarke reminded her. ‘Give me half a bar and we’ll settle on a proper amount when I know what it’s goin’ to cost.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Knight’s right next door to you, so I dare say you’ve met her son, Derek? He’s ever so nice, everyone likes him. They call him Darky … d’you know him?’
‘I’ve seen him about,’ Patty said guardedly. Considering he was her next-door neighbour it would have been strange indeed had she not noticed him. Derek Knight had thickly curling black hair, very dark eyes and the sort of olive complexion that Patty usually associated with someone of foreign birth. He was also well over six foot tall and well built, so Patty supposed that most girls would think him good-looking, handsome even. ‘I’ve not spoken to him, mind, only seen him once or twice when we’re both coming in around the same time. I don’t believe we’ve ever exchanged so much as a “good morning”, to tell you the truth.’ She did not add, as she was tempted to do, that she had no interest in Darky Knight, no matter how handsome he might be, and what was more was equally uninterested in all young men. It might be the truth – well, it was – but it was not necessary to tell Mrs Clarke how she felt. In fact, if she thought about Darky Knight at all it was because he seemed somewhat sulky, and was definitely not at all friendly, never even smiling when they passed one another on the stairs.
Mrs Clarke chuckled. ‘I dare say you think he’s stand-offish, but you’ll get to know him better in time,’ she said tolerantly. ‘The fact is, he’s still not gorrover the death of his wife. She – and their newborn baby – both died and he’s norrover it yet though it were … let me think … yes, all of three years ago. He stayed in their place for the first year, but then …’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘then they say he tried to top hisself, so Mrs Knight insisted that he come back here to live.’ She sighed gustily, clearly enjoying the drama of her revelations. ‘I thought you’d best know, otherwise you might put your foot in it, like. Now, about them curtains; tell you what, decide what sort o’ colours and patterns you’d like for the material, write it down on a scrap o’ paper and shove it, wi’ the money, under me door. Does that suit?’
Patty began to say it would suit very well when a voice hailed Mrs Clarke in stentorian tones from the balcony below and she set off hastily towards the stairs. ‘I’ll bring the material round as soon as I’ve gorrit,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘I’m comin’, Maisie.’
Patty had returned to her kitchen, knelt on the floor and prised up one of the short floorboards. Beneath it, in an old Glaxo tin, were her savings. Now that she had a home of her own, Patty often blessed the fact that she had always been a saver and not a spender. There had been nothing worth spending money on whilst she lived in the nurses’ home and worked at the hospital, and though the nurses complained of poor wages and insufficient food Patty had always managed to put some money away each month and was glad of it now. She extracted a ten shilling note from her hoard, noticing ruefully that the amount in her tin was steadily shrinking, and pushed it into an envelope. Then she replaced the Glaxo tin and the floorboard and stood up, going over to the table where she seized a stub of pencil and wrote ‘Curtain money from Nurse Peel’ upon the envelope. Then she took it along the balcony and pushed it under her neighbour’s door.
That night was a busy one. With Merrell snugged down in her bicycle basket, Patty set off at ten o’clock to check on a first-time mother who thought her pains had started; then, later, the doctor sent a message that she was to go at once to another case to assist him with a breech birth. By
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