A Daughter’s Disgrace. Kitty Neale

clothing and bolts of material, and she couldn’t help but be drawn to one of them. ‘Morning, Hazel,’ said the stallholder. It was Joe Philpott, who’d known her family for years. ‘Is the good news true, then? You and Neville are getting hitched?’ He was a big man with a round face, and she’d never seen him anything other than smiling. How he did it, she couldn’t imagine, standing out here in all weathers, dealing with grumpy customers, half of which were always trying to get something for nothing. It was bad enough in the café but at least you were indoors, and always had the kitchen to escape to. Out here, there was no avoiding anyone.

      ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He popped the question and I said yes.’

      ‘Has he given you a ring then?’ Joe wanted to know.

      ‘Not yet, we’re going to choose something together,’ Hazel said hurriedly. She didn’t want anyone thinking Neville was too cheap to buy her one. ‘He didn’t want to risk getting the wrong size. I’d have been really disappointed if he’d done that.’

      ‘Quite right too,’ Joe agreed. He stamped his feet on the cold ground. ‘Will you be looking to do a spot of dressmaking before the day itself? Who’s doing your dress? Are you having bridesmaids?’

      Hazel bit back her irritation at his persistence. She was careful to keep her temper in check in public and liked to present a respectable front. There was no point in being rude to Joe, particularly if she might have to come to him for cut-price material in the near future. She desperately wanted a proper long white dress from a shop but since Alison had failed to get that blasted job, letting them all down, she knew it might not happen. Yet again she cursed her sister for being so useless.

      ‘Not sure yet,’ she said blithely. ‘We only just got engaged. We haven’t decided on many of the details. But I expect we’ll be needing something. Will you keep your eyes out if anything good comes along?’

      ‘It would be my pleasure,’ Joe assured her, smiling more widely than ever. He watched as Hazel turned and made her way further along the market. What a fine-looking young woman she was. That Neville was one lucky sod. He’d better treat her right. God knows that family had been through terrible times when the girls were little. Still, look at Hazel now. It just showed that even if life dealt you an unfair hand, you could still come out fighting. That’s what he believed himself. It’s what kept him coming back to his stall on the coldest days of the year.

      Hazel paused at the hardware stall, trying to remember if her mother needed anything for the kitchen. A familiar face looked at her and she had to think for a moment who it was. Then it came to her – it was one of Neville’s colleagues from the paint factory. Bill, that was his name. ‘Hello,’ she said.

      ‘Congratulations, Hazel,’ said Bill, putting down the toolkit he’d been inspecting. ‘Good to know you’re making an honest man of that Neville at last.’

      ‘Someone’s got to do it,’ she said. ‘Not at work today, then?’

      ‘I’m on the late shift,’ Bill explained. ‘Pay’s better. Not so many distractions either. Cuts into your social life but I reckon it’s worth it.’

      ‘Good idea,’ said Hazel. She pushed back a wave of her auburn hair. ‘Neville’s going to do more late shifts and overtime so we can save up.’

      ‘Yes, he told me he was thinking of doing that,’ said Bill. He glanced at his watch. ‘Nice to see you but must be going.’ He waved and moved on. If he had a woman like Hazel to go home to he wouldn’t be working lates. Neville must be mad, leaving a bird like that to amuse herself every evening. Still, it wasn’t his worry.

      Hazel noticed a set of knives going cheap and reached across to take a better look at them. They seemed like decent quality for the bargain price and she knew their old ones at home were in a sorry state, with loose handles and blades worn thin from years of sharpening. She’d take them back as a peace offering to her mum for having lost her temper in front of her niece. She was sorry about that now, and hadn’t wanted to frighten the little girl. Bringing these home would show she could think of others, not just of herself. Pleased at having such a clever idea, Hazel got the stallholder to round the price down still further and set off back to the café, carrying her bargain.

      Someone pushed open the door to the shop and set the bell ringing. Cora hurriedly looked up from the counter, where she’d been reading the Daily Mail. She’d been enjoying the story of the new princess in Monaco. She’d always been a Grace Kelly fan and now the former film star had a daughter who was born a princess. Sighing, Cora put from her mind her worries about her own family.

      Then she realised she recognised the figure who’d just walked in.

      ‘Fred Chapman!’ she exclaimed. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. Where’ve you been hidin’ yourself?’

      ‘Cora Butler, as I live and breathe,’ said Fred, wheezing as the warm air hit him. He was a short man with a balding head and a face red from the chilly January weather. His hands were large and coarse, from heavy lifting and hard work, but his smile was genuine and lit up his plain face. ‘Didn’t realise you worked here. You don’t look a day older than when I last saw you.’

      ‘Couldn’t have been that long ago then, Fred.’ Cora gave him a straight look. ‘But how have you been keeping? Have you still got that butcher’s shop on Falcon Road? And how’s your mother?’

      Fred’s expression changed. ‘That’ll be why you haven’t seen me in a while,’ he said. ‘Mother died last year and I’ve been trying to get things sorted ever since. It hasn’t been easy, what with it being just me to do everything and keep the shop going too. But she hadn’t been well for ages so I couldn’t have wanted her to go on the way she was.’

      ‘A blessing, then,’ said Cora. Privately she thought it was just as well. Old Mrs Chapman had been a proper harridan, bullying her mild-mannered son and taking out her disappointments on anybody stupid enough to go near her. Cora remembered many years ago, when her husband had still been alive, going round to the flat above the shop and getting her head bitten off for nothing more than saying hello. Jack Butler had been good friends with Fred Chapman before the war, despite being a few years older, but that had made no difference to the spiteful old woman. Looking at Fred, she wondered where the time had gone, realising that he must be in his early forties now.

      ‘Maybe,’ said Fred, rubbing his hands and looking around. ‘So how long you been here, then, Cora?’

      ‘The job came up just when me back got too stiff to take in the laundry, and I have to say it suits me down to the ground,’ beamed Cora. ‘And how’s business these days?’

      ‘Not so bad,’ said Fred, who was never keen to talk shop when he was away from work. He didn’t like to blow his own trumpet for fear it would change his luck – his business had flourished in the years since rationing ended. The reason he was away from the premises now was that he was having some new fridges installed, the very latest models, but he didn’t imagine anyone would be very interested in that. ‘You should stop by sometime, Cora. Are you still getting your meat from the market? You should come to me instead. I won’t charge you the earth, you being an old friend and everything.’

      ‘That’s very kind of you, Fred,’ said Cora, delighted at the thought of a bargain piece of good-quality meat. ‘My girls eat me out of house and home. I’ve got a day off early next week so maybe I’ll come and see you then.’

      ‘I shall look forward to it.’ Fred reached into his pocket for his change. ‘I only came in here for a pack of Lucky Strikes. So bumping into you again is an unexpected bonus.’ He took the cigarettes and offered one to Cora.

      ‘No thanks, can’t stand the things,’ she replied. There had been no money for luxuries like tobacco for many years and now she’d got out of the habit. Besides, she didn’t want to end up wheezing like Fred. Shaking her head as he went through the door, she wondered how someone as sour and bitter as Mrs Chapman could have such a friendly son. Pity he looked the way he did. Then again, she should know all about children who