Ben’s answering smile was proud. There was a fleeting moment when he gazed on the wagon. Then he was gone. Adam waited, expecting him to show at any time. But the door remained firmly closed, and Adam grew impatient. This was Ben’s moment as well as his, and he so much wanted him to drive down the street in this wagon which had been retired since the old Mr Saxon had passed on.
Determined, Adam went to the house and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he boldly pushed open the door and called out Ben’s name. All that greeted him was a chilling silence. Anxious, yet not knowing why, he climbed the stairs. ‘Ben! Are you there?’ he called. Still no answer. With his heart beating fast he inched open the bedroom doors one after the other. Ben’s room was at the front of the house. He had gone to bed. His face was still and white, and there was a wonderful expression of peace in his features.
The doctor said he had suffered a heart attack. Adam believed his suffering was over, and that Ben Saxon had waited until the wagon was working once more. Now he could go to his father with a sense of pride instead of shame. ‘I made you a promise,’ Adam told him at the funeral. ‘Rest in peace, Ben, I won’t go back on my word.’
* * *
Two days after Ben was laid to rest, Adam received a letter from Doug telling him that his son was to be christened on 2 July, and saying that both he and Rosie would be delighted if Adam could be there as godfather.
Against his better instincts, but longing to see Rosie again, Adam lost no time in writing back graciously accepting the kind offer. Connie told him it was a mistake, but Adam wasn’t listening. This time, his heart was ruling his head.
Chapter Eight
Rosie shivered as she got out of bed. Though it was June and the sun was already shining outside, the air inside the house struck cold. Like all the other dwellings along this street, it was damp and old, and never properly warmed up until the sun had been high in the heavens for at least two hours.
Creeping about so as not to disturb Doug, Rosie threw her robe on and reached into the cot. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ she told the sleeping child. ‘You’d best come with your mammy because if you start crying for your breakfast and get him out of his bed, we’ll not hear the end of it, will we, eh?’ Doug had a nasty temper if he was woken before ten o’clock on his Saturday off.
Wrapping the infant in his shawl, she pressed him close and went out of the door. These days, with Rosie nearly seven months pregnant and with a child in arms, it was increasingly difficult to negotiate the narrow stairs so she took her time, inching her way along and being especially careful where the steps curved dangerously halfway down. Behind her she could hear Doug loudly snoring, ‘Sounds like a train in full steam,’ she chuckled.
Downstairs, she wedged the child between cushions in the corner of the settee. ‘You’ll be fine while I treat myself to a cup of tea, won’t you, darling?’ she cooed. But the infant had other ideas. In answer to her question, he opened his big eyes and began sucking on his fist. ‘Hungry are you?’ she asked, settling herself on the settee beside him. She had hoped he might allow her a few quiet minutes when she could gather her thoughts, but babies were unpredictable as she well knew. ‘All right, I’ll see to you first,’ she conceded. ‘Then I’ll make myself a cup of tea before getting your daddy’s breakfast ready.’
Undoing the front of her nightie, she lifted the child to her breast, laughing when he instantly clamped his mouth round her nipple and began frantically sucking. ‘Where are your manners?’ she teased. ‘Going at your poor mammy like a sink plunger!’ But she was never happier than when the child was feeding. Somehow she felt closer to him. While he fed, she allowed her mind to wander, and as always it wandered to the time before Doug, to the time when she and Adam had been together.
The infant was soon fed, washed and changed into his day clothes. Rosie glanced at the clock. It was already half-past eight. There was the dusting to be done, the mats to be taken out and beaten, and a pile of washing a mile high sitting in the dolly-tub. ‘No good looking at it,’ she said aloud, ‘the work won’t do itself.’
It was quarter to ten when she came in from the yard where she had been hanging out the washing. ‘That’s it for now,’ she told herself in the parlour mirror. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in. Best wash and dress. You know His Majesty moans if you’re still in your nightie by the time he gets up.’ Going to the stairs cupboard she dragged the ironing basket out and found a clean blue blouse, a straight grey skirt and clean underwear. Taking the garments into the scullery, she heated the iron and ran it over them. In no time at all she was washed, dressed, and feeling good. By the time she had finished washing herself, the water in the bowl had gone cold, and she soon discovered that there was nothing more revitalising than a rush of cold water on your skin.
The aroma of sizzling sausages and frying eggs began to fill the little house. Going into the parlour, she laid the table and checked that the baby was all right. He was fast asleep. ‘You’re a little beauty,’ she told him, tenderly stroking his face. These past few weeks he had changed. His eyes were colouring to a soft hazel hue, and his hair was deepening to a rich brown colour like his mammy’s. ‘It’s been weeks since he mentioned about you being christened,’ she said. ‘But if he thinks I’ve forgotten, he’s very much mistaken. I intend having another go at him this morning. I mean to get you christened, and I’ll fight him tooth and nail until he gives in!’
* * *
Returning to the scullery, she glanced at the calendar on the wall. ‘June the twenty-fourth,’ she said aloud. ‘Half the year nearly gone and the bugger’s still playing games!’ She was angry, frustrated, and determined that, one way or another, the christening would take place before the year was out.
She was turning the eggs when suddenly she froze. ‘Good God!’ A smile spread over her face as she perused the calendar. ‘Look at that, gal,’ she chuckled. ‘June the twenty-fourth 1949. It’s my birthday, and I’m twenty-one!’ Going into the parlour she leaned over her son to whisper in his ear, ‘Shame on you! Fancy sleeping on your mammy’s twenty-first birthday!’
She had completely forgotten that this was a special day and, for just a brief moment, there was joy in her heart. But it was soon curtailed when Doug appeared at the parlour door, dishevelled and irritable. ‘Ain’t my breakfast ready yet, woman?’
His irritation transferred itself to her. She wasn’t surprised to realise that he too had forgotten her birthday. ‘I’ve only got one pair of hands!’ she snapped. ‘Your breakfast will be on the table in a minute.’ With that she went smartly into the scullery while he seated himself at the table.
Rosie picked at her toast. After all the work she had done in the past two hours, she was famished. Now, though, her appetite had vanished at the sight of his sullen face. Her instinct told her not to broach the subject of the christening just yet. There would be time enough later, after he’d been to the betting shop, when he might come home in a better frame of mind.
‘I don’t need to ask what you’ll be up to today,’ he grumbled. ‘I expect you’ll be gadding about with that bloody Peggy.’ Viciously stabbing at his food with the prongs of his fork, he rammed it into his mouth, all the while staring at her with those odd-coloured eyes.
‘We’ll be going to the market together, yes,’ she said defiantly.
Jabbing the fork at her, he said, ‘I don’t like you going about with that one.’
‘She’s my best friend. My only friend, as it happens.’
‘That’s beside the point. You’re a married woman, and she’s not. To my mind that spells trouble.’
‘Oh? And are you forbidding me to see her?’ There was a note of warning in her voice that cautioned him. ‘And who says it spells trouble? Your mother, I suppose?’
‘Watch your bloody tongue when you speak about my mother. She’s been a better friend to you than ever your precious Peggy could be… let you move in when we had nowhere to go, didn’t she? Gives you advice on the lad
here, doesn’t she?’ He jabbed his fork again, this time towards the sleeping child. ‘And all you’ve ever done is throw it all back in her face.’
Wisely ignoring his attempt to draw her into an argument concerning his mother, she asked in a calm voice, ‘So, does all this mean you’re forbidding me to see Peggy?’
He looked at her then, at her strong brown eyes and the determined set of her pretty jaw, and he knew he was on dangerous ground. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he snarled. Picking up his mug of tea, he swilled the hot liquid down his throat. ‘Just think on,’ he warned slamming the mug down. ‘There’s folk watching you, that’s all I’m saying.’ Pushing his chair away, he left the table and went into the scullery where he quickly washed. Coming back to the parlour, he took his jacket from the nail behind the door. ‘I’m off out,’ he said, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. As he did so, a white envelope fell out of his pocket. Before Rosie could see what it was, he scraped it up and thrust it out of sight.
‘What time will you be back?’
‘When I think fit.’ Flinging open the parlour door, he went down the passage and out of the house, leaving the front door open and a chill whipping down the passage and into the parlour.
Hurrying up the passage, Rosie closed the door. ‘HEATHEN!’ she called after him.
Suddenly a smile lit her face. ‘Why, Rosie darling,’ she mimicked his voice perfectly, ‘isn’t it your twenty-first birthday today?’ Pursing her lips she feigned a kiss. ‘Now then, sweetheart, where would you like to go? We can get the old battleaxe to babysit if you like? How about an evening at the Palais? Or we could go to that nice little restaurant on the corner of Dewhurst Street. I’ll buy you a nice big box of chocolates afterwards… or a bunch of flowers. Or would you prefer a pretty silk scarf? No? What then? Oh! I know. Of course, why didn’t I think of it before… a diamond ring! That’s what I’ll get you, sweetheart… a beautiful diamond ring. And a new dress! After all, you deserve the very best.’
She smiled and she cooed and she pranced up and down the passageway, fancying herself in this and that, holding out her work-work fingers to admire the diamond ring. ‘My! See how it glints and sparkles!’ she exclaimed with big surprised eyes. Sweeping into the parlour, she fell into the nearest chair and laughed until she cried.
The stain of tears was still under her soft brown eyes when the knock came on the door. ‘Who the devil’s that?’ she muttered, going up the passage and hoping it wasn’t Doug come back.
It wasn’t Doug, nor was it the devil. It was Peggy. ‘Took your time opening the door, didn’t you?’ she remarked, following Rosie into the parlour. ‘Anybody would think I were the rentman.’ The two often laughed at how Peggy’s mam had occasion to hide from the rentman some years back, and one of her indignant brood told the visitor through the letterbox, ‘If you’re the rentman, our mam says she ain’t here!’ To which he promptly yelled back, ‘You tell your mam who “ain’t here” that I’ve been called some things in my time, but never a rentman. You tell her I’m from the Widows’ and Orphans’ Charity, and I’ve brought her a free sack of firewood. But if she “ain’t here” I’d best take it to some other deserving case.’
Before he’d even finished speaking, Peggy’s mam flung open the door. ‘Get inside, you!’ She clipped the foolish boy’s ear and sent him scurrying to the back room. ‘And as for you,’ she addressed the young man, ‘you’ll not find a more deserving cause than me in the whole of Blackburn, so kindly drop the sack of firewood on the step and bugger off!’ Instructing the driver to offload one sack of firewood from the wagon, he doffed his flat cap and bade her good morning, and was still laughing as he climbed back into the cab. The incident had been a source of amusement ever since. After that, whenever she found the need to hide from the rentman, Peggy’s mam bundled the children behind the settee with her.
Remembering the occasion, Rosie chuckled. ‘I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,’ she apologised. ‘I thought it might be Doug coming back for something, that’s all.’ Realising Peggy was intently studying her face, she said hastily, ‘I’ll make us a brew, eh?’
Peggy shook her head. ‘No, thank you all the same. I’ve just had my breakfast. But you can tell me why you’ve been crying.’
Seating herself opposite her observant friend, Rosie feigned surprise. ‘What makes you think I’ve been crying?’
‘Oh, nothing much… just the time it took you to open the door, and your eyes, all red and swollen.’ Peggy would not be put off. ‘Then there’s your frantic hurry to get into the scullery and make a brew, when you know very well I always make you one since you’ve got big with child.’
‘You’re too clever for your own good, my girl,’ Rosie said light-heartedly. She knew there was no use trying to hide anything from Peggy. ‘Anyway, I might be “big with child”, but I’m not an invalid.’
‘Come on. Out with it.’
Rosie sighed wearily. ‘It’s nothing. Honest.’
‘Liar!’
‘I had a set to with Doug, that’s all.’
‘Oh? What about?’
‘This and that… his mother mostly.’ Rosie thought it might sound childish to say she was peeved because he’d forgotten her birthday.
‘Has the old cow been interfering again?’
‘She thinks our friendship is bound to cause trouble, what with me being married and you being single.’
‘I’ve a bloody good mind to go and have it out with her!’
‘Not a good idea.’ All the same, the thought of Doug’s mam and Peggy going at it hammer and tongs on the street tickled Rosie’s imagination.
‘Well then, tell her to piss off and mind her own business!’ ‘Oh, don’t you worry. Soon as ever I get the chance, that’s exactly what I’ll do.’
‘Good for you!’ Getting out of the chair, Peggy asked coyly, Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m not at work this morning.’ Going along with her, Rosie put the question. All right then. Why aren’t you at work this morning?’
‘Because our mam’s thinking of decorating the parlour and she wants the furniture moved. I told her we could do it tomorrow, but she said not on the Sabbath. Anyway, you know what our mam’s like. Once she’s made up her mind there’s no changing it. I was due a Saturday off, so I thought I might as well get the agony over with. As it is, there’s not much hope of that trip to the market this afternoon. I’m sorry.’
‘Do you need any help? Though I won’t be any good at shifting the heavier stuff.’
‘You’re a mind-reader.’
It took fifteen minutes for the two of them to clear away and wash the breakfast things. After which Rosie put the child in its pram and the three of them made their way to Peggy’s home.
Peggy’s mam was waiting, and so were the children, all standing round the table which was laid with a white cloth, a mountain of home-made goodies, and a round cake in the centre, with icing that spelled out her name. Rosie was completely taken by surprise.
‘Well? Ain’t you got nothing to say?’ Peggy laughed. ‘Surely you didn’t think I’d forget me best mate’s twenty-first?’ Taking the child from Rosie’s arms, she sat him in the deep armchair and grabbed Rosie in a great big hug. ‘Happy Birthday, sunshine,’ she said, and the tears ran down Rosie’s face.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered through her tears. ‘I was sure nobody would remember.’
‘Well, you were wrong, weren’t you?’ Peggy chided. And without further ado, she fetched a box of matches for Rosie to light the candles on her cake. ‘You ain’t getting any younger, gal,’ she teased. ‘There’s all twenty-one there, so you’d best take a deep breath and blow them all out together.’
Most of them went out in one blow, but it took two more little tries to extinguish them all; at which point a loud cheer went up and the party began. Twenty-one balloons, blown up the night before by Peggy and the children, were set loose across the room, with the young ones scrambling to pop them before they stuck to the ceili
ng. The children squealed and laughed and filled their bellies with jelly, cakes, cheese butties, and finally a large wedge of birthday cake, which Rosie vowed was, ‘The most delicious I’ve ever tasted.’
‘I’ve allus been known for my cakes,’ Peggy’s mam boasted, and Peggy laughingly told her not to get a big head. Rosie gave the kindly woman a heartfelt kiss, and she blushed a warm shade of pink. ‘Why’s our mam gone all red?’ piped up a little voice, and Peggy’s mam playfully clipped him round the ear.
By midday, the food was gone and so were the children. ‘Gone out to terrorise the neighbourhood,’ Peggy joked. The three women set to and tidied up, but when Rosie offered to help wash the dishes, Peggy’s mam told her, ‘You’re a good lass, Rosie Selby, and you’ve been a good friend to my lass. I’m ashamed to say there have been times when I’ve been a sour-faced old sod, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t need no asking twice when our Peggy said she was planning a party and needed my help. I’ve been glad to do it, and now I’ll be glad to wash up.’
‘Come on, gal,’ Peggy said. ‘You look worn out. Put your feet up, and I’ll do your hair for you… a special birthday treat, you might say.’
Rosie was tired and couldn’t deny it. Her feet ached, her face was flushed and the unborn child inside her felt like a ton weight. Easing herself into the standchair by the table, she watched as Peggy went to the sideboard and took out a shoe-box. ‘What are you up to?’ she asked suspiciously when Peggy put the box on the table; she was visibly startled when her mam charged in from the scullery, crying, ‘It’s bad luck to put a shoebox on the table!’
‘You mean shoes!’ Peggy corrected.
‘You keep shoes in that box, don’t you?’ her mam argued. ‘So do as you’re told and get it off the table.’
Placing the box on a nearby chair, Peggy took out a bowl and another small box. Inside the box was a sachet of dark liquid, a wad of cotton wool, and a small comb. ‘I’m going to turn you into a raving redhead,’ she told Rosie.
More Than Riches Page 13
