Read Online Second Chance by Sian James - Free Book Online

me a first-class hoover but I can’t see to use it properly.’
    â€˜We haven’t got a hoover,’ I said. I didn’t even know what a hoover was, but I liked the sound of the word.
    â€˜I can do hoovering,’ my mother said, the words pelting out of her. ‘I used to do hoovering at the shop before I got married.’ She turned to me, ‘It’s a big, noisy thing on wheels and you have to walk it about very carefully without bumping it into the furniture.’ She turned back to Mrs Bevan. ‘Oh, I can do hoovering. And I can make the beds and empty the slops and dust the ornaments on the dressing table. I used to do all that when I worked for Mrs Harrison when I first left school. I’ll come tomorrow, Mrs Bevan, nine o’clock sharp. And thank you.’
    â€˜Oh, I can do hoovering,’ she kept telling me all the way home. ‘And Ted is always saying I should have a little job.’
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    I was afraid that she might have changed her mind by morning, but she was up before me, dressed in her best silk dress and ready to start. ‘You must have tea and toast first,’ I said. ‘You must be strong to do a morning’s work.’
    â€˜Yes, we’ll both have our breakfast first. There’s plenty of time.’
    She was beginning to take charge.
    By the end of the first month with Mrs Bevan, she was a different person, bossy like other mothers, sending me to bed and cleaning my shoes for the morning, though I’d always cleaned my own before, and hers as well.
    By this time, Auntie Jane had resumed her Thursday visits, but Uncle Ted was still coming up in the evening to bring the groceries which she wasn’t yet strong enough to carry up from the bus stop in the village. And his hour-long visits seemed always timed to coincide with my bedtime.
    Now, she wanted nothing more to do with him. ‘He’s your Auntie Jane’s husband,’ she said, as though she’d only that minute worked it out. ‘And I won’t have him coming here and making sheep’s eyes at me. When he comes tomorrow night, you’ll have to wait outside and tell him we’ll be getting our own groceries from the village shop from now on. He’ll take it better from you.’
    I was nervous about my task, though anxious to get it done. When I came home from school, I practised at the bottom of the garden. ‘My mother is now working mornings for Mrs Bevan, Garth Wen, and is learning to manage on her own.’ ‘My mother is now quite recovered and doesn’t need your help.’ ‘My mother and I... well... we don’t want you to come here any more.’
    At eight o’clock I was standing outside ready, but when I heard the car coming up the lane, I ran into the house and locked the door after me. ‘We’ll turn the light off and keep very quiet,’ I said.
    We both expected him to stay for ages, banging on the door and shouting, but he accepted his fate very meekly. Within a couple of minutes we heard the car driving away and I was able to creep out to get the box of groceries from the front step. Was that going to be the end of Uncle Ted? It seemed too easy.
    We stopped whispering and put the wireless on. ‘Pity about the chocolates too,’ my mother said.
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    My mother loved Mrs Bevan and except for Thursday when Auntie Jane visited, she stayed with her until I came home from school. She talked about her in a hushed voice as Christians talk about the saints. Mrs Bevan perfectly understood what she’d suffered after my father’s defection, how she’d let herself go, not able to go out or talk to anyone. Mrs Bevan quite understood about headaches and sickness and forgetfulness and being frightened of strangers. Mrs Bevan – and this is what we heard most often – thought she’d come through with flying colours and was now set to make something of her life.
    â€˜And how much a week does