by Maggie Ford
Her eyes had turned on Pam in particular. ‘And you think you can heal twenty-four years of sweat and toil and heartbreak by gettin’ pregnant by that George Bryant? You think sayin’ you and him intend to marry is goin’ to make a speck of difference? No, my girl. I’m afraid it won’t. I’m not turning you out, Pam. But I do think it’s best you and the father of your child go and set up your own home somewhere, as all married couples do.’ She spoke with simple dignity. ‘We’ll give you a few pound, enough to find somewhere to rent. Then it’s up to you.’
‘It’s what I intended to do,’ Pam said, her voice conveying relief.
‘I know. But just one other thing, Pam. We don’t want you or that father of your child …’ To Connie it sounded disquietingly odd hearing her refer to George Bryant as the father of Pam’s child rather than by his name, as if to utter it would have burned Mum’s mouth. ‘… to come visiting.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Pam’s overt relief was now overt alarm.
‘I mean, we don’t want you to come here. Not you or the man.’
‘But the baby! When it’s born. It’ll be your grandchild.’
‘It’ll be impossible for us, me an’ your dad, to see it as that. I’m sorry, Pam. That’s how it is. You won’t really need me to help in its birth. There are plenty of people what’ll help you. There always are. But we’d rather we didn’t see you again.’
Connie heard the gasp from Pam but otherwise she said nothing, seemed incapable of saying anything.
In all this Dad had remained silent. And as Mum turned away from her daughter, he took her hand in his rough, hard, weather-beaten one and the two older people became a unit before the eyes of their stunned, silent children, the two of them united in their mutual enmity for a family whose name they still found hard to utter after all these years.
Watching them, Connie felt her own insides dry up as though she too were being cast out. It was a hateful feeling. Yet there was no doubt Pam had done what she had done with the best of intentions as well as for love, and that love can never be put down no matter the intensity of adversity. She knew that although her parents would never mention Pam or see her as long as they lived, in her Pam would have a friend and confidant no matter what they said. The worst of it was, Mum and Dad must never know of her association with her misguided sister, but Pam was her sister and she loved her.
She felt a tear trickle down her face. Josie, who had come back into the room, was crying silently, her head bent, only the crown of her fair hair visible. Danny stood by the table, a few shards of glass which his mother had not taken from him still gripped in his fist and Connie saw a thin line of crimson staining the crease of his hand just below his small finger as Pam without a word turned and went out of the room.
Chapter Ten
‘What’s the matter, Jo? Yer ‘ardly larfed once at that Laurel an’ Ardy. An’ that King o’ Jazz film … Yer didn’t even wan’ an ice cream when I ast yer.’
Josie turned a miserable face to Arthur as, blinking at the lingering glow of an April evening after the darkened cinema, having sat almost twice through the continuous film performance, they emerged from the Excelsior Kinema into a Bethnal Green Road still full of late Saturday shoppers, the air filled with the stale odour of cooked meats from butcher shops selling dripping, pigs’ feet, saveloys and faggots.
‘I’m sorry, Arthur. It just didn’t seem that funny.’
He tucked her arm through his. ‘Well, I nearly split me sides at that cartoon. But you …’
‘I wasn’t in the mood, I suppose. We’ve had such an awful upset at home all week.’
She needed to tell someone. Dangerous confiding in local friends. Too near home, it didn’t do to let them know all about your family’s business. She said as much to Arthur, who grinned, preened himself on being the one chosen as a confidant and said blithely, ‘All some people live for is ter know the ins and outs of every cat’s arse. But there ain’t nuffink yer can’t tell me what’d make me blush – or chortle. My lot’s bin all fru it in their time.’
He was a comfort, was Arthur. Salt of the earth, as they say. Pity he wasn’t the rich, well-brought-up man she still felt in her bones she was looking for, discard the idea as she might. There were times she really felt she loved him. Then he’d do something or say something, kick up his heels in a pub or come out with a swear word in public, and she’d think again of the wealthy young man of her dreams who knew how to conduct himself in society and speak beautifully without having to resort to some embarrassing epithet. She still wished for all the things those women in the heart of the West End wore: beautiful fox furs about their shoulders, slinky, backless dresses that fluttered around the calves of their silk stocking’d legs, lovely matching satin high-heeled shoes, hats whose broad brims flapped over one eye giving them a look of mystery as they hung on the arm of elegant young men in evening dress.
Arthur didn’t own any evening dress, wouldn’t have been seen dead in one, would say he wasn’t no bleedin’ pansy toff. She could almost hear him saying it. And yet even in his cheap pinstripe suit and his trilby he was so handsome. In expensive evening clothes (and with a nicer way of talking) he’d be a knock-out. She’d be so proud. But he would have laughed like a drain at the notion that he should try to better himself, and she wouldn’t dream of stooping to mention such a thing because it would be insulting to him.
‘So wot’s the trouble at ’ome?’ he asked as they made for the bus to take her to Fenchurch Street to catch her train home. He would leave her there; she always insisted she was safe enough on a train, not only because he’d have to go all that way back home, but to let him accompany her would be a declaration of something she wasn’t yet prepared to declare, that he was her steady and that she was putting behind her all her dreams of something better than Arthur could give. It wasn’t something she was happy to acknowledge for it made her out in her own eyes to be a gold digger, playing a decent man along just for her own aims, probably to ditch him were that dream ever realised. She hated herself, but there it stayed in the back of her brain like a little black imp.
But she would tell him about the trouble at home, even though the mere effort made her voice tremble dangerously and her nose tingle with the tears she fought to hold back.
‘My sister Pam’s got herself into trouble,’ she began, startled when he chuckled.
‘Oh, that’s all.’
‘No, Arthur,’ she corrected hastily, angrily, wishing she hadn’t embarked on this. But she wasn’t going to have him sneer at something he didn’t as yet understand. ‘That’s not all. She did it deliberately.’
Arthur’s dark eyes were turned to her with interest, and she went on to explain all that had happened. She saw his expression grow awed and sympathetic as his arm tightened against hers.
‘Cor, that’s a bleedin’ ’orrible shame fer your mum an’ dad,’ he said when she finally finished, the bus pulling up outside Fenchurch Street. ‘What the bloody ’ell’s your sister goin’ ter do?’
‘I don’t know.’ She was no longer thinking of Pam, but the thought of going home to a house full of downcast faces made her heart sink. As they got off the bus, she turned to him, suddenly smitten by a small bolt of rebellion.
‘I don’t want to go home yet, Arthur. I’ve had enough of it, all the squabbling and nastiness. Mum’s long face and Dad you can hardly say a word to without him getting all uppity. My brother Dan’s out every night and isn’t bringing his young lady home any more. My sister Connie sits all quiet on her own upstairs writing letters to her fiancé. Pam’s gone, taking all her clothes with her, and we’ve not heard a thing from her since to say if she’s all right or not. Connie keeps in touch – knows where Pam is but hasn’t said where. Not that Mum and Dad ask. But she says Pam’s all right and her boyfriend has got her a room which he’s paying for. She says they’re getting married by some special licence in a registry office next week. But it’s so miserable at home with all that hanging over our heads.
I just don’t want to go home yet. It’s only just gone seven. Another couple of hours won’t make any odds.’
Arthur looked worried. ‘How yer goin’ ter let yer parents know?’
‘I don’t care. I’ll just be late that’s all. Let them stew.’
‘Yer making an ’eap of trouble fer yerself,’ he said. ‘It ain’t right, wot wiv them already worried.’ Then he laughed. ‘Don’t want ter see anuvver one of yer slung out of the ’ouse.’
Josie didn’t laugh. ‘Look, it’s still early. Let’s go to the West End for a couple of hours, wander around Piccadilly Circus and watch the crowds.’
He looked at her. ‘Well, if yer fink that’s orright. I can get yer straight back ter Fenchurch Street an’ yer can catch the ten-fifteen. It’ll be dark by then but your ’ome’s only a couple of minutes from the station.’
‘Then let’s do it!’ She grasped his arm with renewed joy.
* * *
Piccadilly Circus in the fading evening light held a magic brilliance, though not yet in full flood with the April sky still streaked translucent green and vivid crimson. Once that faded and the sky grew pitch black, Piccadilly’s lively electric signs would blaze out in their full exhilarating glory.
‘This is lovely,’ Josie gasped as she always did when they came here. The air smelled of taxi fumes and eating places and of those warm wafts of perfumed dust from foyer carpets as theatre doors opened and closed. The brightly lit theatres confused her eyes. ‘I’d really love to see a show.’
Arthur looked dubious. ‘It’s three hours and you’d never get home at anything near a respectable time.’
Above her the shimmering electric sign announced Private Lives with Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence. ‘Oh, Arthur!’ Josie grabbed his arm, bringing his attention to it ‘I’d just love to see that.’
Arthur pulled a face. Slapstick comedy was more his taste than clever plays. ‘If we went, it’d ’ave ter be up in the gods. I ain’t got enough money fer anyfink posher. An’ anyway, it’s too late finishin’. An’ look at the queue. The doorman’s ’and’d come down long before it’s our turn ter go in.’
Seeing her crestfallen look, he squeezed her arm. ‘’Ow abart next week? We could do a matinée next Saturday an’ ’ave a bite t’eat after.’
Josie knew his bites to eat – a portion of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and a cup of tea in a café to wash it down. But that faded into paleness against a chance to see a good witty play. ‘Could we?’
‘Means linin’ up and takin’ a chance. But if we get there early.’
‘Oh, yes, please,’ she burst out, loving him with all her worth.
It did occur to her to suggest meeting tomorrow, Sunday, maybe in Southend, but if he spent too much money coming to see her in dreary old Southend, dreary compared to London, he mightn’t have enough to take her to a proper London theatre next Saturday. On what she earned as a part-time waitress at the Cliffs Hotel, it wasn’t easy forking out the fare to London if she suggested meeting him there.
Not only that, if it rained tomorrow, and Dad had said it looked very much like it would, Arthur would have to spend more hard-earned money on some indoor activity which always cost.
Best really to bide her time until next Saturday. Then, wearing the dress she intended to make for the occasion, spending out on a couple of yards of crepe-de-chine – green she thought, to show off her fair hair – she’d look as stunning as any of the rich people in the dress circle or the theatre boxes.
That week she cut it out, carefully, on the dining table, usifig a Vogue pattern she’d found in the material shop in Leigh. The very latest fashion, the dress called for far more material than would have been needed only a year ago’ when the rage had still been for those silly shapeless Charleston frocks. This was figure-hugging, and her figure was just made to be hugged by a slinky dress; the back cut as low as she dared, an evening dress with narrow straps and two tiny sequinned clasps which she also intended to buy – yet another expense. She was glad she hadn’t tried to afford more train fare on the Sunday.
On Mum’s old treadle sewing machine she ran the garment up and hung it in the wardrobe she shared with her sisters. Or sister now. Both had plenty of room with only the two of them sharing the one room.
It was odd lying alone in a bed once shared by another. The bed felt vast, less cosy, and all those sounds that had once gone unnoticed, the soft breathing of the other girls, the odd mumble and rustle as Pam or Annie in the other bed turned restlessly, now remembered and missed. She lay in her lonely bed, Connie in hers, listening to all the sounds outside: a train rattling by not far away, the light wind that had got up in the night, the distant slap of rigging against the mainmasts of moored sailing boats. A lonely, deserted sound.
The whole house, once full of the bustle of a large noisy farnily, now had the same deserted air with Annie and Pam gone. The only advantage it had brought was that she and Connie had become closer than ever before when the other two girls had been here. As she lay in her bed, Connie in hers, there was more opportunity to talk, exchange confidences, their voices murmering into darkness, stygian in this bedroom. No street light burned in the back alley and the sea was black as pitch.
Tonight, unable to sleep for the thoughts tomorrow’s trip to a London West End theatre were generating in her head, Josie’s mind was mostly on Arthur. Where were the pair of them going? Did she really love him or was she still using him for her own ends? One thing she did know: when such questions arose, guilt followed, and self-derision; who did she think she was that some wealthy, handsome young man-about-town would look her way with any more than that one brief appreciative glance? Yes, she was still aware she could draw such looks, but one glance didn’t make a love affair; didn’t promise inclusion into that social whirl she so coveted. It remained just a lovely dream. The trouble was, the dream was getting in the way of reality, her feelings for Arthur that were beginning to persist above all else, try as she might to stifle them. They’d have grown even stronger by now if it wasn’t for the way he spoke and his amusing (to everyone) but embarrassing (to her) moments of exhibitionist clowning whenever they were in company. He’d do something crazy, she knew he would, as they entered the foyer of the theatre for tomorrow’s matinée, do a silly little jig waving the tickets in her face in triumph at having got them, or something equally stupid to make her cringe before the well-dressed people going up the wide, thickly carpeted staircase to their Grand Circle and Royal Boxes. It did occur to her that few such people would attend a matinée, but some might, and what a fool she’d feel with Arthur making an idiot of himself.
Kept awake by all the guilty thoughts, Josie wondered if Connie had yet fallen asleep. After all, it was said that sharing a problem was halving it. Josie stirred restlessly. ‘Connie? You asleep?’
Connie’s mind snapped back from wrapping itself around Ben and the wedding in five weeks’ time. Tomorrow morning, five weeks from now, she’d be getting up, hopefully to a sun-filled morning and the house full of bustle and excitement. It seemed hardly possible. Months and months of waiting, preparation, planning, and now it was almost here. Looking back, the time had gone so quickly and was still rushing by, flying towards the day. Four Saturdays to go; with so much still to do, would it all get done in time for her to walk down that aisle in her beautiful dress of clinging white satin, her lovely short veil and her huge bouquet of pink roses and white mock orange?
At Josie’s whispered query, Connie stirred and made an appropriate grunt to signify she was still awake. She didn’t want her thoughts interrupted but it seemed unkind to pretend to be asleep, judging by the diffident tone Josie had used. Something was worrying her.
Connie turned fully to face the other bed, only dimly seen even though her eyes had by now become accustomed to the darkness. She could see nothing of Josie until the girl propped herself up on her elbow, and then only to become an indistinct shadow.
‘What is it, Jo?’
‘J
ust that I’m worried. I’ve been worried for months.’
The worst came to Connie’s mind, a thought she tried to brush away. Yet she still felt it must be probed. ‘Jo, you’re not …’
‘Oh, Con, no! If that’s what you’re thinking.’ The tone had come sharply but now moderated again. ‘Connie, it’s about that Arthur Monk I’ve been going out with in London.’
‘What about him?’ She wanted to get back to thinking about her wedding. There was so much still to be done. She would see Ben tomorrow, travel up to London and stay overnight at his parents on the sofa in the living room. Ben and his three brothers shared one of the two bedrooms of the tiny flat in Bethnal Green.
She and Ben would spend the day looking around for cheap furniture to fill the flat they had put down their first rent on two weeks ago, a two-bedroomed one in Wilmot Street, just off Bethnal Green Road, very near to the shops, and one street away from his parents and in the same Waterlow Buildings, but a top flat on the fifth floor. Lots of stone stairs to climb, especially when a family came along. By then they might have to move to a lower, more accommodating flat when one came up, so a pram wouldn’t have to be pulled up so many stairs. But for the moment this had some lovely views across London on a clear day, if smoke from countless chimneys didn’t obscure it all. She would gaze out of the bedroom window across London’s roof tops whenever they went to inspect their new haven, see the distant tower of Big Ben and the huge dome of St Paul’s dominating everything. From the front could be seen Victoria Park, with its trees making it look like a little bit of the countryside. No sight of the river though, that side of the letting, as flats were called, adjoining the wall of the one next door.
Connie wondered vaguely if she would miss the wide horizons Leigh presented, and the refreshing breath of its salt-laden air. Would she ever get used to living in London and the smell of chimney smoke in her nostrils? She guessed she would. In time everyone gets used to an enforced new environment, and being in love went a long way towards helping.
