the stew for us to have tomorrow … save you cooking, won’t it? … and get meself a bag of chips on the way home.’
Save her cooking? What a laugh! Save him the bother of preparing a meal himself, Aidy thought. Men! What would they do without a woman in their lives, to fetch and carry for them?
Arch heard a door opening and closing. It sounded like the parlour door to him. It had a peculiar squeak to it which, despite his oiling it, would not go away. Bertha was returning. He was quite fond of the old girl and got along with her well enough, but tonight he could just about cope with comforting his wife in her grief. He didn’t need her grandmother too. He was like most men: not much use around wailing women. They made him feel uncomfortable. He preferred to come to terms with his mother-in-law’s death in his own way. Over a pint at the pub.
He scraped back his chair and stood up, saying, ‘I’d better get to the chip shop before it shuts.’
Aidy too had heard the parlour door announce its opening and knew her grandmother had finished her task and was now on her way to join them. It was besides a lame excuse he’d used to make his escape as Hattie Cheadle who operated her fish and chip business from her front room, taking orders and handing them over through the open sash window, wouldn’t close up until she was absolutely positive there were no more customers to be had that night, needing every penny as she did to support her invalid husband and ten children. But Aidy fully understood her husband’s need to make an escape. Very few men were of use in emotional times like this, and all the rest merely looked on helplessly, not knowing what to say or do, and generally getting under the women’s feet. Before he left she would have liked a comforting hug from him, but men like her husband did not make displays of emotion in public. The most Arch would do if others were around was give her a peck on her cheek.
He gave her a hurried one now and then shot out the back door.
Bertha looked surprised to find her granddaughter alone when she arrived a moment later. ‘I thought I heard voices?’
‘You did. It was Arch. I’ve packed him off home.’
‘Best place for him. There’s n’ote he can do here. I’m just glad word hasn’t got around yet about Jessie. I couldn’t be doing with people calling tonight. They’ll be around in droves when word does get out, though. My daughter was a popular woman.’ Bertha looked searchingly at her granddaughter. Aidy looked liked death. For Bertha herself losing a daughter was bad enough, but Aidy had lost her mother, and so unexpectedly, with no chance for a goodbye. Without a word, Bertha headed off into the pantry, returning moments later with a bottle in her hand. Selecting a pot cup from several that hung from hooks under a shelf on the wall, she bustled back to the table, put the cup down on it, uncorked the bottle and poured a generous measure of greenish-looking liquid into it. She forced the cork back into the bottle, then picked up the cup and thrust it at Aidy. ‘Drink that,’ she ordered.
Aidy looked dubiously at it. ‘What is it?’
‘Summat that’ll do yer good.’
She took a sniff, grimacing. ‘God, that smells vile.’
‘How many times have I told yer? The worse it smells, the better it is for yer. It’s one of me potions for soothing upsets. Now get it down yer.’
‘Where’s yours then?’ Aidy challenged her.
‘I had a draught earlier. Now, for God’s sake, will you do as you’re told?’
Aidy knew she might as well get it over with as her grandmother would stand over her until she did. In truth, though, she could do with something to lift, even a fraction, her misery for the loss of the woman who had meant so much to her. She knocked back the thick liquid in the cup, giving a violent shudder. It tasted even worse than it smelled.
Handing the empty cup back to her grandmother, she looked at Bertha hard. She was worried about the old lady who looked as if she had aged ten years during the past couple of hours, though that wasn’t surprising considering the shock she’d received.