Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

Jess put her cup of coffee on the bedside table and ran a critical eye over Alice. Some colour had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were definitely brighter. ‘I’m just happy you’ve recovered so quickly. I was really worried about you this morning.’

Alice took Jess’s hand and smiled at her. ‘I’m just happy that you’re here with me and not stuck with that pig of a boyfriend.’

‘He was great about the extra time I’m spending here, actually, Nana. He quite surprised me.’

‘He’ll want something in return,’ Alice scoffed. ‘Men always do.’

‘Shall I read some more, Nana? I’m really engrossed in this. You should bring the book out under your own name. I’m sure it would sell well.’

‘Oh, I’m not bothered about selling the story. I just wanted you to know what happened, and why things happened the way they did. You can have the fame and glory. I wouldn’t want it anyway. I wrote the memoirs to remind myself what life was like back then, but as the years passed, I came to realise that I needed to share those events with someone who might show a sympathetic attitude, someone not likely to make a hasty judgement. I’m not really a selfish person, Jessica. Decisions were forced on me.’

‘I don’t think you were selfish, Nana. As you said, events determined your decision making. Attitudes are changing now, thank goodness.’

‘They aren’t changing fast enough,’ replied Alice. ‘Take your Calvin as a case in point.’

Jess sipped at her cold coffee and pulled a face. She picked up the first volume again and began to read.

Chapter 55

June 1938

On Friday mornings, Barney, and a random fellow worker, took a leather bag full of money, cheques, postal orders and any other payment the farm had received during the week, and deposited it at the bank.

The bulk of the money the farm earned came from the harvest and the sale of animals, but during the spring and summer, we catered for half a dozen shops and wholesalers who bought an assortment of vegetables from us. In winter we switched to broccoli, kale, winter cabbage and Brussels sprouts. We also sold raw milk to local people, but the bulk of it went to a dairy on the outskirts of the town, where our supply topped up their own. The milk was processed, bottled, and delivered to doorsteps in milk floats.

Barney had been nominated by my father as a trusted person before I was born, and in all his years of performing the task, he had never once had a problem with the officious manager, who had been at the bank longer than Barney had been at the farm.

When the bag of takings had been counted and entered onto the farm’s account ledger, Barney would hand over a sheet of paper with a list of notes and coins that we needed to make up the wages. I used to sit at the kitchen table, work out what each worker had earned, and slip the money into four-inch, square, brown paper packets, with the employee’s name written in ink on the front. I made up my own wages this way too, just so that the men could see we were all in it together. After making up the packets, I filed in our own cash ledger, adding the wages to any other outgoings we may have had during the week.

I used to enjoy filling in the incoming and outgoing columns and totting them up at the end of the week. I tried to teach Miriam how to do them once, but numbers were like a foreign language to her.

At twelve o’clock, the lads would form an orderly queue outside the back door and step inside one by one to receive their wages. They touched the peak of their cap as a mark of respect, then they would scan the front of the packet, open it, and check the contents before they left. Now and again there was a query regarding the amount someone had received, but the issue was always resolved quickly and without argument. I got my own wages wrong once and walked around all week thinking I’d lost a ten-shilling note. I found it in the cash bag as I loaded it up for Barney, the following week.

Every week, I would take five shillings from my wages and put in a porcelain piggy bank that had a slot in the top but had to be opened with key that I didn’t possess, at the bottom. When it began to feel heavy, I’d take it up to the Post Office, where they would open it, count it, and pay it into my savings account. The cashier wrote the new total into my Post Office savings book, and I’d walk away feeling as though I had done something worthwhile. I had no idea what I was saving up for. I had no rent or expenses to pay out of my wages, so I mainly spent it on clothes, more recently, larger sized clothes. I didn’t go for the actual maternity outfits as they were priced at ridiculous levels.

One Saturday afternoon, accompanied by Amy, we went to the Post Office to have my piggy bank emptied, before taking a walk through the town. As we were passing Stan’s Bargain Emporium, Amy stopped dead and pulled me back by the collar of my baggy jumper.

‘Look!’ she squealed.

I looked, and squealed at an even higher pitch.

In Stan’s window, was a beautiful, wind up, portable gramophone, in an almost unmarked, blue case. The lid was raised, showing the famous HMV terrier, Nipper, listening to a wind-up phonograph. It had a shiny, chrome plated, playing arm and a similarly finished winding handle which was sitting in its cradle, in the lid of the box. It was love at first sight. I didn’t even notice the price tag that had been tied to the leather finished case handle, with string.

We rushed through