by Maggie Ford
If he was there, she’d ignore him, sweep by him, but he’d only call her name. If he moved into her path she’d have to stop. Either way she’d have to introduce him. It was a pickle. It was all so plain now – robbed of a bit of fun and made a fool of that evening in April, having bumped into her again he was after revenge, to belittle her, wreck her happiness with Arthur.
Josie wished she’d never consented to see this show, wished she’d never let herself get mixed up in the first place with that dissolute crowd of socialites of which he had been one, wished she’d never been naive enough to have allowed him to see her home.
There he was, standing at the foot of the staircase, checking each face. Josie tried to make herself small, hoping he’d miss her in the crowds pouring down the stairs and out through the doors. He didn’t, not at all.
‘Hi, there you are!’
He was in front of them, blocking their way, grinning at her. Arthur pulled up, the people immediately behind coming to a temporary stop and then flowing on around them like liquid mud around an obstruction.
‘Scuse me,’ Arthur said mildly. Stepping down the last step, he was as tall as the man blocking his way. But the other stood his ground, still smiling at Josie.
‘I said I’d meet you here, my dear Josie.’
‘Wot’s that?’ Arthur’s hold on Josie tightened protectively. ‘Oo d’yer think yer talkin’ to, mate?’
‘The young lady here,’ came the easy reply.
‘Sorry, mate, yer made a mistake. She don’t know you. Let us fru.’
‘No mistake, old chap.’ People were still flowing around the hold-up. ‘I take it you don’t remember me, but the young lady does. Last April. Came back to a party with me. You went home. I did the proper thing and took the young lady home myself. And I must say she was very … grateful.’
Arthur was glaring. ‘Wot yer mean, grateful?’
‘What I say, old chap.’
‘Don’t old chap me.’ Arthur’s voice had risen. People were looking, held up by those who, seeing the rain outside the theatre, had paused. Attendants dotted around were bracing themselves for trouble.
Josie was gazing with pleading eyes from one man to the other, now realising what Nigel Hobbs was intimating, aware that Arthur knew too.
‘It’s not true, Arthur,’ she cried. He didn’t even glance at her; his glare fixed on his adversary commanding the man’s own stare. To Josie it seemed he had ignored her, believing the other man’s words and challenging him. ‘Arthur, it’s not true,’ she cried again.
‘I know.’ His glare hadn’t faltered. ‘And you …’ he said to Hobbs. ‘Yer a liar, mate. An’ I fink we’ve got nuffink ter say ter each uvver. Come on, Jo, let’s go.’
Gripping her arm firmly, he sidestepped Hobbs in the now fast-emptying foyer and led Josie away. Hobbs was left staring after them, the theatre attendants relaxing as the troublesome couple stepped out into the rainy night.
They didn’t speak at all on the short bus ride to Fenchurch Street Station. The meal at Lyons’ wouldn’t have seemed right after the incident at the theatre. Arthur’s expression looked set and Josie felt at a loss how to redeem herself if that were necessary. Had he believed her for all he’d said ‘I know’ or was that just to shut her up at the time? All the way to the station, a weight seemed to have settled beneath Josie’s ribs. She predicted that Arthur would take her to the ticket barrier and there say he wouldn’t be seeing her any more. She could hear him saying it. It made her feel as if at any moment she would be sick.
At the platform barrier, Josie got out her return ticket ready to go through. She lifted her face to Arthur’s.
‘I’m sorry about tonight.’
‘So am I.’ The tone sounded sharp, hard. Josie bit her lip, hovered.
What she felt she ought to do was turn away, go through the barrier without saying another word. But she couldn’t. She stood there looking up at him. Arthur was looking along the platform where a few people were leisurely getting into carriages; the train was not due to leave for another ten minutes. At the far end the engine was breathing gently like a slumbering giant, steam issuing quietly from beneath it. She could hear the echoing slam of doors, the hollow trundle of a half-empty trolley bearing letters and parcels ready to be sorted in the mail compartment once the train moved off.
‘Will yer be orright goin’ the rest of the way on yer own?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ she said, her tone formal.
‘Don’t want me ter see yer all the way ’ome?’ Like Nigel Hobbs had, she silently finished the sentence for him. Obviously he had believed him for all he’d called him a liar, and was now accusing her.
‘There’s no need.’ The ten minutes were ticking away. She wanted to be away too, away from all this, yet it seemed all she really wanted was to stay here with Arthur, thrash out this difference that had arisen between them. ‘Arthur …’ He looked at her, his head slightly on one side. ‘Arthur, you didn’t believe what that … what he said?’
‘No.’
It wasn’t good enough, just – no. ‘I didn’t let him touch me. He tried. I was worried about going home alone that time of night and he seemed so nice, and you had left.’
‘I fort yer’d decided to stay the night. Yer was ’aving such a good time. I fort, this ain’t fer me. She knows wot she wants.’
‘I didn’t know what to do, when you left. I was angry, Arthur. I let you go because I was angry. I thought I could look after myself. But I was wrong. I felt confused and a bit scared all alone there, and when he said he’d take me home, I thought it would keep me safe. He took me all the way home to Leigh in his car and then when we got there, he tried to … he …’
‘I don’t need ter ’ear any more, Jo. I said I know yer didn’t do anyfink yer shouldn’t of done. When ’e tried ter tell me a bloody pack o’ lies.’
‘Then why’ve you been so quiet on the bus all the way here?’ she taxed, suddenly annoyed that he couldn’t have told her this earlier instead of tormenting her that way. So much that she forgot to feel relieved.
‘Because you was,’ he said simply.
The train had started panting, getting up steam. People were beginning to stride more urgently through the barrier and along the platform. Doors closed more sharply, abruptly. A guard was walking up and down the carriages, checking the doors, a whistle poised in one hand, a small green flag in the other. Josie glanced anxiously at the train. She mustn’t let it go without her. She’d be so late home. Torn between leaving and seeking reconciliation, she put both hands on Arthur’s arm. ‘And you’re not cross with me?’
‘I’m cross with everyfink,’ he said bluntly. ‘That sod spoilt our ev’nin’ an’ I wanted it ter be special for yer.’
The ticket collector had moved towards them, He touched her shoulder. ‘Train’ll be goin’ in ’arf a minute, miss, if yer wants ter git on.’
‘Thank you,’ she rapped out. ‘Arthur …’
‘Best get on,’ he said. ‘See yer next week, same place, time …’
He deposited a quick peck on her cheek as the ticket collector all but hauled her through the barrier. She ran off along the platform to the nearest third-class carriage as the train began laboriously, slowly, to move at the shrill command of the whistle.
As she yanked open a door of a moving carriage, leaping on to the running board, she glanced back. Arthur was waving. She heard his voice float distantly towards her, only just audible above the stentorian puffing of the engine ahead, smoke from its funnel now billowing up energetically to the bevelled glass roof of the station.
‘Take yer ter see me mum nex’ week.’
In the carriage, deserted but for herself, Josie gave herself up to tears of joy. See his mum. As good as a proposal. Usually, a boy did not take a girl home to see his mum but for one purpose, to declare his intentions. Surely Arthur was no different.
Chapter Nineteen
Pam stood gazing at little Elizabeth in her cot. She’d had every
intention of calling her Peggy after Mum, who’d been so wonderful after the rift. But George had shortened the name to Beth, our little Beth, and it had stuck.
They had bought the cot secondhand from someone Mum knew. Repainted white, the covers cut and sewn from the better parts of old sheets, thinning blankets and worn coverlets given to them by her and George’s mothers, it looked as good as any bought expensively from a shop.
So far Beth was proving a good baby, thank God. She slept all night and most of the day and stayed quite content except when hungry. Then Pam would sit in the old fireside chair with a cup of tea, the baby at her breast. She would stare into space while the baby suckled, thinking of things: of Mum coming round after what had at one time struck Pam as unresolvable, unending, although Dad, still in hospital convalescing, knew nothing of Mum’s decision to make up; of George, in work at last, in a boat chandler’s as an odd job man, with luck a long term thing where he might learn a bit. It wasn’t good pay but it fed them if little else. Compared to what she’d been through Pam was beginning to think they’d struck lucky at last. Perhaps one day they’d move, live better, one day be rich …
Such dreams of what she’d do if she ever got rich would drift through her mind as little Beth drank her fill, and after dozing off Pam would come to herself again, the cup of tea stone cold and Beth fast asleep, the nipple having slid out of the tiny mouth to drip milk on to the little face, the rosebud lips a tiny O as if still attached to the breast. The other side would be full still, unused, that too oozing nourishment on to the shawl in which Beth lay wrapped. The breast would later have to be expressed to relieve the hardness, because she was making far more milk than one baby needed. At the turn of the century, Pam mused, still not yet fully awake, she would have made a jolly good wet nurse, earning good money for it.
Today people frowned at the idea of someone else’s breast being stuck in the mouth of their darling baby. Baby milk was bought from stores instead, and God knows where that came from. In hospital the nurses had come round with basins calling out, ‘Dairy time! Anyone needing to express?’ She always had enough left to fill her basin for babies whose mothers could not feed.
Beth started to stir, whimpered. Pam lifted her out and set to work changing the nappy, washing the tender little bottom with warm water already poured from the kettle into a tin bowl, by which time the round blue eyes had screwed themselves up again in a fit of crying to be fed. Beth was a chubby baby who enjoyed her nourishment, but was easily satisfied, and absolutely adorable.
‘All right, little one,’ Pam crooned, clutching the now-clean Beth to her as she sat herself in the chair and pulled aside her cardigan and yanked up the old jumper underneath. October had grown cold and the heating here was never sufficient, so even Beth had to be clothed in three little knitted jumpers and a cardigan to keep warm. Pam presented a heavy breast to the urgently nuzzling mouth.
George wouldn’t be home yet. After feeding Beth she’d put her down and start getting his tea. He had sandwiches at midday, so his tea was more a dinner – today sausages, mashed potatoes, baked beans, and the remains of yesterday’s jam roly-poly pudding warmed up, with a bit of custard over to make it moist again. She’d eaten hers at midday. Settling down, she wasn’t prepared for a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she called, getting ready to take Beth off the breast and cover herself. She remembered the door was not locked after she had gone down to fetch water from the landing tap. Just a minute.’
But the door was opening. Taken off guard with Beth still feeding greedily, Pam swung round to see her in-laws standing there.
‘Coo-ee! All right to come in?’ But they were already in, advancing on her. It would have been an obvious show of over modesty to have dragged Beth away from her feeding and she’d only have created at being deprived and have to be presented to her grandmother in a fit of rage. And after all Mrs Bryant had suckled kids of her own. But to Pam’s horror it was Mr Bryant who came forward first.
‘God, Pam, she’s really growing, ain’t she? Likes her food, don’t she?’ With that he bent forward, ignoring Pam’s bared breast, and planted a kiss on his grandchild’s forehead, his bristly moustache actually brushing Pam’s flesh before he stood back once more.
Pam’s felt her cheeks grow hot. It had been a simple gesture of love for the baby, but Pam couldn’t help feeling it was something more. In fact the words flew through her head: ‘You dirty old man.’ But for all her insides cringed she found herself smiling sociably up at him, knowing it would have been imprudent to make a fuss. It was his wife who made the fuss, her voice shrill and censuring.
‘What in the good Lord’s name, Dick, do you think you’re doing? Let the baby feed in peace. You’ll get time to hold her before we go.’ Not criticising him for his impropriety but merely for his interference. Pam felt near to hating them both. Yet they had done as much as they could for her and George, more than her own had done, until now.
Mrs Bryant went to the little stove and lifted the kettle to gauge the amount of water it held. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea, dear. I’ve brought some milk. What time’s George home? I’m glad he’s got a decent job. You might both get back on your feet now. For heaven’s sake, Dick, stop hovering around the baby and sit down. What time did you say George’ll be home?’
Pam could still feel the heat in her cheeks, glad as George’s father did as he was told, rather like a small dog coming to heel. ‘In about fifteen or twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘I’m doing sausage and mash for him.’
‘I’ll do that for you, dear. That’s what we’re round here for, to help.’
They did this often, popping in unannounced, his mother going down the shops to save her having to go out, offering to look after Beth while she and George went out, which they only did to go for a walk to get out of the poky flat for a while. His income came nowhere near meeting the expense of a proper evening out, except maybe for one drink in one of the nearby pubs. Pam was alternately grateful and irritated, feeling she was quite well enough to do for her and George; yet it was good of them to put themselves out. She didn’t go round to their home much. In the first place there was a tiny sense of disloyalty to her own family, in spite of the way she had been served. Also she never felt at home at the Bryants’. He would ask after her dad as if the accident had been solely his fault, which in a way it probably had been.
‘All right if I smoke me pipe?’ Bryant asked. His wife swung at him.
‘Not with the baby in the room. Go out on to the landing.’
He got up and went out and Pam felt her entire being relax. By the time he came back, Beth would have been fed and she would be in a state of decency, as far as he was concerned. But the sense of having been somewhat outraged hung on for the rest of the evening long after George had come home.
‘I wish they wouldn’t come barging in without telling us they’re coming.’ She and George sat one each side of the fire. Beth was asleep. She mostly slept right through to morning now, to Pam’s relief.
‘How d’you mean?’ George murmured. He had his nose in a boat chandler’s catalogue picked up at work, which would help him to know everything they stocked so he would not have to keep asking the proprietor if something was in stock and if so where it was kept. He meant to hang on to this job. He could see prospects in it.
‘I mean like today.’ Pam, her head bent over some darning, did not look up. ‘They just walked in. And there was me feeding the baby. I felt really embarrassed.’
‘No reason why you should be. Mum fed all her kids herself.’
Pam forbore to mention the episode of his dad. ‘It’s just I never know when they’re coming. They just walk in.’
‘Wasn’t the door locked?’
‘No. I’d just been down to get some water to wash Beth. I wasn’t expecting them. It’d be nice if they’d tell me when they’re coming!’
He looked up sharply at the tone of her voice. ‘So what d’you suggest – they telephone us? Send a t
elegram? One of ‘em come round to say they’re coming round?’ It sounded sarcastic.
‘There’s a telephone downstairs.’
‘Which Mrs Whatsername owns and won’t let anyone use except for emergencies. You call Mum and Dad coming round an emergency?’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, George!’ Her voice had risen. ‘I’m only saying …’
‘That you don’t want them round here,’ he misinterpreted, putting down the catalogue. ‘They’ve done a lot for us, Pam, since we got married. More’n your lot’s ever done. You ain’t forgotten how they threw you out?’
‘Don’t say that!’ she railed at him. ‘Since Beth was born, my mum’s been here once a week regular. And she brings things. For us, for the baby.’
‘So she should, after all them months ignoring you like you was dirt.’
‘Don’t talk about them like that, George,’ Pam cried, throwing down his sock, her face beginning to crease up. ‘You know how deep that trouble went between our families, and it was your dad’s fault as much as mine. But because of me and the baby, it looks like it all might clear up one day. And it was my idea in the first place, remember, to have a baby and try to bring everyone together. And all you can do is put my family down. And me. It’s unfair!’
‘Then don’t talk about mine as if they was interfering. They’ve done all they could for us, and Dad not far from poverty street himself.’
‘It’s your dad I’m talking about,’ she burst out before she could stop herself.
George leaned forward. ‘What’s wrong with my dad?’
‘The way he acts.’ Embarrassment, uncertainty how to finish what she had started, calmed her, moderated her tone. George was looking at her, his blue eyes challenging.
