It was back in 1895, and Victoria Beaumont was still living at home with her parents in this narrow little brick house on Portland Street in Hucknall. She was already twenty-five, which lots of people thought made her an old maid. But honestly when she looked in the mirror she still looked pretty nice I think. She had nice chestnut hair that shone in the gaslight kind of like wood that’s been polished up, big hazel eyes with long dark lashes, a mouth that smiled a lot, and her figure stayed nice and slim even though they didn’t eat fancy food and she was always sewing and mending stuff.
She helped her mother do dressmaking jobs like fixing hems or turning collars or adding lace to nice Sunday tops for the colliery managers’ wives. In the evenings she’d read novels she borrowed from the Mechanics’ Institute library or just walk along the quiet lanes past the pit heads. But inside she felt really restless all the time, like something was missing but she didn’t know what to call it.
The town didn’t have any men who really interested her. The ones who came round were boring or too pushy, and her dad watched everyone like a hawk so nothing much happened. At night in her little attic room with the iron bed she’d lie there and sometimes her hand would slip under her chemise in the dark, trying to feel better, but it never really worked and afterwards she just felt even more wanting for real touch, for someone to whisper things and bodies that weren’t ashamed.
Right next door at number 12 lived Mr Edmund Hargreaves and his wife Lydia. Mr Hargreaves was fifty-six and used to be a sergeant in the Engineers until he hurt his knee bad and had to leave the army. Now he did bookkeeping for a little foundry over in Nottingham and he had this quiet way about him like someone who’d been places. Mrs Hargreaves was fifty-two but still looked really nice with black hair that had some silver in it done up in a soft bun, stormy grey eyes, and a nice figure under those high-necked dark dresses. They didn’t have any kids so the house was just for them, with nice rugs from Turkey, a pianoforte in the parlour, and books with leather covers on the shelves.
They were always kind to Victoria. Like leaving jam on the step at Christmas or asking her over for tea when her mum had bad rheumatism, or just smiling and nodding in the yard. Victoria liked them a lot. They actually talked to her like what she thought mattered.
Then one Saturday in October when it was all damp and grey, Mrs Hargreaves knocked on their green door with a little basket lined with cloth. “Victoria dear,” she said, “could you come over for half an hour maybe? The picture rail in the back bedroom fell loose and Edmund’s shoulder hurts from the wet weather, we just need someone to hold the ladder steady while he fixes it. I’ll make tea and seed-cake after, I promise.”
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