The Sixpenny Cross Collection

by Victoria Twead

  Christine waited, expecting a reaction, but although Bella stared at the blue paint, she didn’t complain.

  Christine clenched her fists. Bella was supposed to cry. Christine wandered off to cause trouble elsewhere, but she kept looking over her shoulder at Bella.

  A little later, the teacher went to see how Bella was getting on with her picture. Bella was still working hard, oblivious to the children milling around her, her tongue clenched between her teeth in concentration.

  “You’ve been busy,” her teacher said. “What a lovely picture and what a lovely blue sky. Tell me who you’ve drawn.”

  So Bella explained about her mother and father, Willy the worm, Hattie the cat with the limp, the rabbits, guinea pigs, mice, rats and budgerigars.

  “Gosh,” said her teacher. “What a lot of animals you have! When you’ve finished that beautiful picture, do you think you could sort out the box of farm animals for me?”

  Bella nodded.

  “Then tomorrow, we’re going to make animals out of plasticine.”

  Bella rarely cried at school again.

  When the mayor of Yewbridge visited Sixpenny Cross village school, he toured the classrooms. He was ushered into Bella and Christine’s class, and smiled at the children. Christine Dayton narrowed her eyes, already aware that this was an authority figure, the type of person her parents had taught her to hate. Bella was standing close by, fascinated by the important visitor with the shiny gold mayoral chain around his neck.

  “Hello, little girl,” he said, patting Bella on the head and ignoring Christine. “Would you like to be a mayor when you grow up?”

  “No thank you,” said Bella. “I’m going to be a vet.”

  Nobody was surprised.

  Sometimes it seemed as though the Tait family was dogged by bad luck. It was always a struggle to pay the mortgage on the cottage, but other events occurred over the years, each one making it necessary to raid the Italy fund again and again.

  “We’ll get there one day,” Donald said to his wife when their ancient boiler broke down and no amount of tinkering would fix it.

  “I know,” smiled June sadly, “but we need to buy a new boiler first, there’s no question about that. Italy will have to wait.”

  “Well, I’ve just filled out this week’s football coupon. Perhaps we’ll get lucky this time and win the pools!”

  But bad luck was always waiting around the corner.

  With Bella at school, June took on a part-time job which certainly helped bolster the family finances. For a few hours a week, she helped Jayne Fairweather in the village shop and Post Office, and the Italy fund slowly began to swell again.

  “Oh, I can almost smell the lemon groves,” said June as she helped Jayne stack cereal packets on the shelf. “And I can imagine the sea, with little boats bobbing about. My grandmother came from a fishing village, you know.”

  “It sounds just wonderful,” said Jayne, leaving to answer the phone.

  She came back white-faced. June straightened up and stared at her.

  “Jayne? Whatever’s the matter?”

  5

  Jayne Fairweather reached out and grabbed June’s hand.

  “It’s Yewbridge Hospital. They want to speak to you about Donald.”

  The colour drained from June’s face. She flew to the telephone. She heard a woman’s voice answer when she spoke into the receiver.

  “Am I speaking to Mrs Tait?”

  “Yes,” June replied, her heart pounding.

  “This is Sister MacArdle at Yewbridge Hospital. Your husband, Donald, had an accident at work but it’s nothing to be alarmed about. A car he was working under fell on him and broke his leg. We’re putting his leg in plaster before sending him home.”

  June breathed a huge sigh of relief. It could so easily have been a lot worse than just a broken leg.

  An ambulance brought Donald home when his leg had been set in plaster. The hospital lent him a wheelchair and a pair of crutches. Bella was the first to scrawl her name on her father’s cast, and then set to work drawing all the animals in the house.

  “Does your leg hurt, Daddy?”

  “No, la mia bella Bella, it doesn’t hurt now, but it feels a bit itchy. They showed me the x-ray, and it was quite a clean break. They made sure that the bones were in the correct position, then they set it in plaster to stop it moving about.”

  “Just like Hattie’s cast?” Bella was fascinated by anything medical.

  “Exactly like Hattie’s cast.”

  “Will you have a limp like Hattie?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’m going to have to stay at home for a long time. I can’t go to work until the cast comes off.”

  Bella was delighted and didn’t catch the worry in her father’s eyes. Seeing more of her father was very good news. But Donald knew no work meant no pay, and life was going to be tough for a while, even if they claimed unemployment benefits.

  As father and daughter chatted, they didn’t see the small, pale face hovering at the window, spying on them.

  Donald’s leg didn’t heal well, and weeks, then months, passed and the bills piled up. Once again, June and Donald were forced to dip into the Italy fund.

  Christine couldn’t remember her father ever having a job. She knew he got something called ‘Benefits’ and she knew that their money came from ‘the Social’.

  “Mary, and you, Christine, if anybody ever asks about your dad’s back, you tell ’em it’s really bad,” their mother frequently told them.

  “Why?” asked Christine. “Dad ain’t even got a bad back, ’as he?”

  “’Course he has! That’s why he can’t work. If the Social don’t believe us, we’ll lose our benefits. So you make sure you tell ’em about how bad his back is.”

  So their father continued to loaf around the house, usually with a beer in his hand. He rarely went out, unless it was to the pub.

  Christine, young as she was, was left to her own devices. Bored, she discovered she could sneak out of the house and go wherever she pleased. Nobody noticed her absence and nobody ever missed her.

  Small for her age, and light on her feet, she developed the knack of blending into the shadows, unseen and unheard. She peeped into homes. She spied on her father drinking in the Dew Drop Inn. And she watched the vicar through the vicarage windows.

  But most of all, Christine followed the movements of Bella Tait and her family.

  And the more she stared through the windows of Bella’s cottage, the more her eyes narrowed and her heart hardened.

  Eventually, Bella’s father was pronounced fit and he returned to work. Both he and June sighed with relief, as it meant he was earning again.

  Around that time, Bella found a tiny fledgling in the garden. She knew that one should never interfere with fledglings because their parents were usually close by, feeding them and teaching them how to fend for themselves.

  Bella shut Hattie into the house, and watched from a distance. No parent bird turned up and the tiny fledgling didn’t move. Occasionally it cheeped, and its beak gaped, but no mother came to feed it.

  Bella approached it, but the baby bird didn’t hop away. She stooped down and carefully picked it up.

  “Oh, you poor little thing! You’ve got a broken leg!”

  It was so light in her hand she felt nothing at all except the tiny beating heart.

  “Don’t be frightened,” she said, “I know exactly what to do. Hattie had a broken leg, and so did Daddy. We have to make sure your leg is very straight, then put on a splint to keep it like that until it mends.”

  She took the little bird inside and showed it to her mother. Together they made a miniature splint from a matchstick, but it was Bella’s deft, confident fingers that straightened the leg, applied the splint and fixed it in place with sticky tape.

  She had successfully treated her first patient.

  “Good job, la mia bella Bella!” said her father, admiring her handiwork. “Good job!”

 
Christine, at the window, watched and her hands balled into fists.

  Christine hardly heard the shouting matches between her mother and father any more. They happened so frequently, they were almost a nightly affair. It often ended with her mother being slapped about. But that’s what husbands did, didn’t they? Then her father would collapse into his favourite chair in front of the TV, a bottle of beer at his elbow, and shout abuse at her mother who was preparing his dinner in the kitchen.

  But one particular night it ended differently.

  Her father swayed up their path, then hammered on the front door with his fist.

  “Where are you, woman?” he bawled, “let me in!”

  “Eh, ’old your horses! You’re ’ome early, ain’t you? Did you drink the Dew Drop dry?” asked her mother, opening the door.

  “Woman, you won’t believe what’s ’appened,” he said, standing unsteadily over her in the hallway.

  “What?”

  “They barred me! I ain’t allowed to drink in there no more!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. They’ve barred me from the Dew Drop!”

  “Well, perhaps that ain’t such a bad thing…”

  Upstairs, the listening child held her breath. It wasn’t wise to cross her father when he came back from the pub. Everybody knew that. Booze always made him angry. Christine crept out of her bedroom, knelt down and peered through the bannister at her parents below.

  “What did you say?” he asked, menace in his voice.

  “I just meant we’d ’ave more money perhaps if…”

  “What?”

  “I just meant that you don’t need to go to the pub every night…”

  But her mother had gone too far.

  Her husband’s hands were already balled. He swung back and slammed a hard fist into her stomach. Christine heard a little “ouf” as her mother exhaled and crumpled into a pile on the floor, her head hitting the hall stand as she went down.

  “You stupid woman,” he slurred, kicking her unconscious body. “I ain’t staying around ’ere. I should ’ave stayed in Yewbridge. This place is like a bleedin’ morgue.”

  He slammed the front door behind him and staggered back down their path.

  It was the last time Christine saw her father in Sixpenny Cross.

  6

  Christine’s stomach was growling. She was hungry, and there was nothing in the pantry. Her sister, Mary, was out somewhere, and her mother was snoring on the couch, her mouth hanging open.

  “Mum! Wake up, I’m hungry! Can I go and buy some bread?”

  Her mother slowly opened her eyes and groped for the cigarettes next to the overflowing ashtray. Coughing, she pulled one out of the pack and stuck it between her lips, reaching for the matchbox with a shaking hand.

  “I need money to buy some food,” said Christine.

  “Do you think I’m made of money? For gawd’s sake, we ain’t got any, and that’s that. You can blame your stinking father for leaving us.”

  She blew a smoke ring into the air and closed her eyes. As Christine left the room, she heard the glug of liquid being poured into a glass. Her mother was on the sherry again, and there was no point talking to her when she was drunk.

  Christine’s stomach growled again.

  I’ll just have to do what I usually do. Steal some food.

  It was easy really. Nobody in the village of Sixpenny Cross locked their back doors. All Christine had to do was watch and wait until a kitchen was empty, then she’d sneak in and help herself to whatever was on the table or in the fridge.

  She almost drooled at the memory of the pie she had stolen from the pub pantry, and the freshly baked scones she’d snatched from the policeman’s house. Haha! Very satisfying stealing from the police. And it was very funny when the policeman’s wife blamed first her husband, and then blamed Stan, their grown up son.

  Christine knew where she was guaranteed to find food.

  Bella Tait’s house! Mrs Tait is always cooking that Italian stuff for Fat Belly Bella and ’er dad. No wonder Bella’s so fat! Why, I’d be doing her a favour if I stole some of Bella’s food!

  The row of terraced cottages that Bella lived in backed onto fields. Hugging the hedges, Christine made her way towards Bella’s cottage, then hopped over the low fence. Success. She entered the backyard, crept past Donald’s shed and up to the kitchen window. Even before she peeped inside, the delicious cooking smells made her stomach flip.

  The kitchen was brightly lit, and June Tait hummed to herself as she drained spaghetti. She gave the sauce a final stir with a wooden spoon. Steam and the scent of herbs and tomatoes filled the little kitchen.

  “Don, Bella, tea’s ready! Sit up, I’m bringing it in.”

  She heaped steaming spaghetti onto three plates, then spooned the sauce over.

  “Tut, tut, I’ve made too much again,” she muttered and carried the laden tray out of the kitchen to her waiting family.

  Christine quietly opened the back door and let herself in. There was plenty of spaghetti and sauce left. All she had to do was help herself. Quickly. She grabbed a bowl from the side and began ladling spaghetti.

  “Christine?”

  Christine spun round, hunger gnawing at her insides, furious at being caught.

  Bella’s eyes flicked from Christine to the food.

  “Here,” she whispered, “use this plastic bowl, it won’t be missed. Take as much as you like, but hurry up!”

  “Bella, did you find the parmesan?” June’s voice sailed in from the next room. “It’s just on the side.”

  “Got it!”

  Bella and Christine evacuated the kitchen at the same time, Bella with the parmesan, Christine with her spoils. She closed the back door quietly behind her.

  As she sat in the bus shelter, using her fingers to devour the delicious food, she seethed with embarrassment. She was mortified that Bella, of all people, had not only caught her stealing, but had given her food.

  Who did that fat Bella think she was? Miss ’igh and Mighty would probably snitch on her, tell her parents, which meant another visit from that stupid policeman.

  But Bella didn’t breathe a word about Christine’s clandestine visit to her parents, or anybody else.

  Was Christine grateful?

  She was not.

  Instead, the humiliation of being discovered by Bella festered in her soul. If she disliked Bella before, she hated her now.

  Why should Bella have everything? It’s so unfair!

  “I’m going to teach that fat lump a lesson,” she vowed.

  “Miss, my mum put a piece of chocolate cake in my satchel, and now it’s gone. I saw Bella eating chocolate cake at break time, I bet she was eating mine.”

  The teacher looked at Christine in surprise.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes, Miss, quite sure.”

  “Bella, come here a minute,” called the teacher, beckoning to Bella who was busily working at her desk. “Did you take some cake out of Christine’s satchel?”

  Bella’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. She stared at Christine, who refused to make eye contact. There was a long pause before she spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. I’m sorry, Christine. I shouldn’t have taken it, and I won’t do it again.”

  If Bella thought she was doing Christine a favour, she was mistaken. Christine ground her teeth and redoubled her efforts to make Bella’s life difficult.

  If Bella’s homework was lost, or her pencils broken, or her work messy, Christine was usually responsible. But Bella never retaliated or complained.

  England went crazy when their team won the football World Cup in 1966. That year the Beatles released their album, Revolver, and both Bella and Christine celebrated their eleventh birthdays. It was time to move on from the homely environment of Sixpenny Cross village school.

  Bella had done well. The teachers were kind, and the classes small, so Bella felt secure. She didn’t make friends easily, but that d
idn’t concern her. She was content with just her father, mother and her pets.

  Next term she’d catch the bus to Yewbridge High School, with the other Sixpenny Cross kids. But today had been the last day at the village school and she bid her sad farewells.

  “Goodbye, Bella,” said her teacher, handing over her end of term report. “Good luck at Yewbridge High.”

  “I’m so proud of you, la mia bella Bella,” said her father when he read the report. “With results like these, you’ll be accepted into a university to train as a vet one day.”

  Bella radiated happiness.

  That evening, June served one of Bella’s favourite dishes, homemade ravioli, as a treat to celebrate her school report. Bella had three helpings.

  In the council house on Springfield Road, Christine tore open the brown envelope containing her school report. She scowled as she read it.

  Huh! It was her worst report yet, but it didn’t matter. Her mother would never think to ask for it, so she’d never see it. Christine was accustomed to forging her mother’s signature. No problem.

  That September, when school began again, everything changed.

  From inside the Post Office, Jayne Fairweather watched with interest as the kids began to gather at the school bus stop outside. She knew them all.

  She saw skinny, defiant little Christine Dayton who lived with her mum and sister in Springfield Road. Christine’s mum was a regular visitor to the shop. She cashed in her weekly welfare cheque at the Post Office counter and then spent a good proportion of her money on beer or cheap sherry. Her husband had vanished a long time ago. It was little wonder that young Christine was allowed to run wild. And, if the rumours were to be believed, Christine’s big sister, Mary, was pregnant, and had moved back to Yewbridge.

  Jayne’s favourite was Bella Tait. A sweet child, well-mannered and earnest. A real animal lover, too. Shame that June was such a good cook really, because Bella would be stunning if she wasn’t so plump. With that dark Italian skin, brown eyes and glossy black hair, she would be a beauty if she shed a few pounds.