by Annie Murray
The mangle was a stiff old thing and Em was already exhausted. Trying to work it on her own was nigh-on impossible. She could not hold the wet garments and sheets off the ground as well as turn the handle and the ends kept dropping in the dirt so she had to rinse them all over again. The third time she saw a sheet fall to the filthy ground, she sank onto her knees, buried her head in the wet cotton and burst into tears of desperate frustration.
‘I’ll never get it done!’ she sobbed. ‘I’ll be here forever and ever.’
Dot’s face appeared over the wall. ‘Eh, bab, what’s up? Oh you’re not trying to do all that on your own are yer, yer silly sausage! You should’ve come and got me – you can’t do all that without someone else. No wonder you’re getting in a mess! And you’re dripping wet, look at yer!’
Dot was round in a trice and soon they had her first lot of washing on the line. As it was now a sunny day, Em knew with pride that though it was cold, at least the washing would probably dry, as, eventually, would her own clothes.
She put more washing into the copper, topping up its grey contents with a bucketful of clean water, and started all over again. The morning flew by and she had no time to miss being at school or her friends, or even to think about the dreaded knock on the door from the School Board man. If he came, she told herself, she’d hide down in the coal cellar, even though it frightened her to death down there because she was afraid of the dark and of rats and roaches and anything whatsoever that might be lurking down in the sooty darkness. Even they weren’t as frightening, though, as the official man who might come knocking for her.
Once the last wash was done, and Dot had come back to help her mangle it and it was all hanging out, Em’s arms and shoulders were aching, her legs weak from all the effort. Dot went home, telling her to make herself and her mother a bite to eat. Before she left, she helped Em cut some slices of bread and smeared them with margarine.
‘And try and see she eats some of it, eh? I must go and finish my own wash now, bab. I’ll see yer later on.’
Em cut a piece of cheese and wolfed it down with the bread. Then she took a similar plateful up to her mother.
Cynthia was still lying there, staring at the ceiling. Em saw that she had used the chamber pot but apart from that it was as if she had barely moved. Half the tea remained undrunk. Em took the chamber pot downstairs to empty, then slipped back into the room.
‘All the washing’s on the line,’ she reported, standing timidly by the bed. ‘And it’s a nice day.’
Cynthia turned her head, her brown eyes searching her daughter’s face. As if summoning her strength, she said, ‘You’re golden, Em. You’re a good girl. Sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to be nasty.’
‘S’all right,’ Em said, tears prickling in her eyes.
‘Has Dot been back?’
‘Yes. She gave me a hand.’
‘I’m sorry, love.’ Cynthia’s eyes filled. Em’s stomach tightened with dread. She wished Mom wouldn’t keep saying sorry. ‘You should be at school with yer pals. I just can’t seem to help myself.’
‘Never mind, Mom, you just get a bit of rest,’ Em said, feeling very grown-up. ‘You going to eat summat?’
Cynthia shook her head, glancing down the bed to where Violet was still on the go. ‘Can you take her off me for a bit?’
‘Yes, Mom.’
She picked up her wriggling sister from the bed and carried her downstairs and out into the yard. Next door, Dot was still hanging out her washing. She waved, seeing Em in the yard with Violet in her arms.
‘You all right, bab? Washing’s drying nicely! Yer a good’un!’
Em smiled and waved, feeling proud of herself. But soon a cold, sinking feeling came over her. At first it had just been the odd day she’d had to stay off school – to help on wash day, or if Mom was feeling especially bad – but now it was getting to be all the time. She hadn’t been to school for a full week now and, when she stopped for long enough to think, she felt lonely and frightened. She just wanted Dot, or someone, anyone, to come and take over everything, to look after them all so she could go back to school, see her friends and stop being a mom and housekeeper at the tender age of eight.
Tipcat
Thirteen
It was late afternoon and school was out. Em answered a knock at the door, holding a grizzling Violet.
‘You coming out?’ Katie asked. She wrinkled her nose at the grimy state Em was in, and Violet burped up some milk which trickled over Em’s wrist.
‘I dunno,’ Em said helplessly. She could see Sid tearing up and down the horse road and she ached to be out there with everyone. She’d got all the washing in and minded Violet all afternoon and she was fed up with the game of housekeeping. ‘I’ll go and ask.’
Cynthia told her she could go out so long as she kept an eye on Sid and got on with the cooking in time.
‘Your dad needs his tea soon as he gets in, so don’t be out too long. Dot’ll help you.’
Em handed Violet back and tore downstairs and out into the street, released. It was a chilly but fine evening and there were games going on everywhere. Sid was swinging from a rope tied to the lamp post and he swung himself at her as she came along, his feet, clad in his heavy Birmingham Daily Mail boots, almost kicking the side of her head. The boots were issued as charity by the local paper to those considered the deserving poor.
‘Gerroff, Sid!’ Em said crossly.
Sid thumbed his nose at her and ran off.
‘Hello, Em!’ Mrs Button hailed her from the door of her shop. ‘How’s yer mother?’
‘All right,’ Em said.
‘She looking any better?’
Em shrugged. She didn’t understand what the matter with Mom was so it was hard to say if she was looking better. She just wanted her back, singing and cooking and bustling around downstairs.
‘Wish ’er well from me,’ Mrs Button said.
Further along there was one of several games of tipcat in progress. The game involved hitting a ‘tipcat’, a piece of wood just a few inches long and sharpened to a point at each end. With a bat the player hit the tipcat while it was on the ground to send it flying into the air, to be hit with the bat as far as possible. The next player was supposed to guess how many jumps or hops it would take to reach the tipcat and award points accordingly. If the first player didn’t think the score was high enough they would hop the distance to check the points. The player with the most points was the winner.
Em saw Molly standing by one group of players, trying, as always, to edge her way into the game.
‘Why did old stinky come to your house this morning?’ Katie asked.
Em was about to answer when Molly caught sight of them and came trotting over.
‘You allowed out, then, Em?’ she said in her plaintive way that made Em feel both sorry for her and intensely irritated at the same time. She didn’t really want Molly around but couldn’t bring herself to be nasty to her the way Katie could, so she just nodded.
She and Katie were quickly absorbed into the game, as popular members of the street groups, while Molly was still left out. Em was too desperate to play and forget all her duties at home to notice and before long she was holding the bat and whacking the tipcat as hard as she could along the street, all thoughts of cooking tea or keeping house chased from her mind. Katie, who was missing her at school, was pleased to be out playing with her and soon they were laughing and joking as usual.
Em was so taken up with the game that she didn’t notice the sun sinking down, the chill fingers of smoky autumn mist reaching along the road. She was catching up on the school gossip and company.
Suddenly, though, she froze. Looking along the road she saw Bob heading towards them, on his way back from work.
‘Is that the time already?’ she gasped. ‘I’ve gotta go!’
Without further explanation she tore off along the road and into the house. She looked round in utter dismay. She’d worked so hard that day and thought she had
left everything in order, but what a mess it all looked now! There were piles of the clean washing she’d brought in from the line on the table and chairs, the copper was still full of scummy water, the floor was muddy and there were unwashed pots from last night that she’d completely forgotten about washing. And on top of that she hadn’t even begun on the cooking!
What should she do? She was supposed to be boiling potatoes. Water – that was what was needed! She scrubbed out the biggest saucepan and filled it with water to put on the range. It was only then she realized that the worst disaster possible had happened. She had let the fire go out!
She was standing staring in horror at the lifeless range when the door juddered open and her father came in. He hung his coat and cap on the back of the door then turned to face the darkened room.
‘It’s dark as the grave in ’ere,’ he complained, going to light the gas. ‘How’s yer mother?’
‘In bed,’ Em said carefully.
Just then Sid came bursting in through the door with Joyce.
‘What’s for tea?’ he yelled with his usual exuberance.
Em saw her father taking in the state of the room.
‘Tea nearly ready?’
Tremulously, Em said, ‘The range’s gone out, Dad.’
He stood very still for a minute, then suddenly hurled himself into action, grabbing the bundles of washing from the chairs into one big heap on the table.
‘Get rid of this lot for a start!’ he roared. ‘There’s nowhere even to sit down. And where’s my bloody tea, eh? D’yer mean you haven’t even started? I’ve ’ad enough of this – the whole bloody thing. Her lying about up there . . .’ He stormed up the staircase.
Joyce and Sid stood cowering and all Em could think of doing was moving the washing out of the way. She couldn’t think where to put it and in her panic decided to run upstairs and take it to her bedroom. It took her two journeys and as she passed Mom and Dad’s room, where the door was slammed shut, she heard him shouting and her mother crying.
‘I’ve had enough of this! You’ve got to get yerself up. Lying around here all day while the place is going to rack and ruin . . . It were all very well after the babby but ’er’s weeks old now and yer still ain’t pulled yerself together. For God’s sake, what’s the matter with yer, woman? Look at me when I’m talking to yer! You’re no bloody good to anyone, that you’re not. I’ll ’ave to go out and get us some dinner – it’s too late to start it now.’
As Em crept down after depositing the second load of laundry on the bed she heard, ‘I want you back to normal tomorrow or there’ll be trouble, that there bloody will. Call yerself a wife! I’m not sticking around to be treated like this, like I don’t exist, that I’m not! And you’d better be able to hear what I’m saying, yer useless cow.’
Bob came down and said furiously, ‘Fetch us a basin, Em. I’m going out to get us all some dinner.’
He returned later with a basin of steaming faggots and peas. Bob sent Sid up to his mother with some food, then they sat at the table in a strained silence. Em tucked in, realizing suddenly how hungry she was, but she could see Joyce just playing with her food, casting fearful looks at their father. He shovelled his portion down then went and put on his coat again.
‘Get them to bed,’ he said to Em in a horrible clipped voice that she wasn’t used to. ‘I’m going out. And make sure this place is cleared up by the time I get back. It looks like a pigsty.’
And he was gone, slamming the door.
Bob stormed along the road towards his favourite watering hole, head down, his collar up against the cold wind. Inside he was a tangle of frightening feelings. The most immediate were anger and resentment at being so disregarded. Here he was, a working man, the breadwinner, and not a crust on the table to greet him when he arrived home! He was worried about Cynth, of course, and his worry translated into more anger. What the hell was the matter? Why couldn’t she pull herself together and get on with it like other women did – like Dot, for example? Dot had always been a ball of fire, and no mistake!
A neighbour greeted Bob as he strode along Kenilworth Street but he passed without noticing, scowling into the darkness.
Nothing could happen to Cynth – for God’s sake, she was his earth, sun and stars! Ever since he’d seen her that day on the tram everything had felt right. Cynth had healed the ache, the thirst in him that had lingered ever since his mother died, shortly followed by his father, both of influenza. He and his brothers had gone into the Boys’ Home on the Vauxhall Road. They had each other, of course, and the company of other lads. They’d been fed and clothed, and the Home had helped them into the adult world of work so that most of them could fend for themselves. But nothing could ever fill the void of love that they’d lost. They were special to no one, nobody ever looked into their eyes with love or put their arms around them. All the longing of Bob’s scarred childhood had found fulfilment in Cynthia. His Cynth, his kids – they were his everything! Without them nothing made any sense. And now, look what was happening to her! She’d left him as surely as if she’d packed a bag and walked out of the door, slamming it behind her. When she lay with that blank expression as if something in her had died, or gone far, far away from him, he wanted to get hold of her and shake her, to make her come back to him. The feeling frightened him to death.
‘’Er’d better be all right tomorrow or there’s no telling what I might do,’ he growled to himself. ‘This is no way for a wife to go on.’ He stopped abruptly in the street as tears welled in his eyes. There was a tight feeling in his chest and his throat ached. For God’s sake, what was the matter with him?
Dashing the tears away furiously with the back of his hand he hurried the last few steps to the Crown and pushed open the door into a refuge of light, the familiar smells of ale and smoke, sodden sawdust on the floor and the talk and laughter of other men.
Fourteen
Em sat on the second stair from the top, rocking back and forth, her fingers rammed into her ears. Her old grey skirt was spotted from crying, her vision blurred by more tears welling in her eyes. Behind the bedroom door, Mom was crying and Violet grizzling. The sounds tore at her and she tried to plug her ears even harder. But she couldn’t seem to move away.
It was a week since that terrible night when she had let the range go out so she couldn’t cook Dad’s tea, and in that time she had been to school only once.
Cynthia felt very bad in the mornings.
‘You’ll have to stay at home, Em. I can’t manage, just can’t . . .’ she’d say, in the flat, hopeless tone that Em had come to dread as much as the blank look in her eyes. ‘You’re the eldest and you’re a good girl. I need you to help.’
Staying at home spelled another lonely day of pounding at pails full of washing, black-leading the range, scrubbing and cooking. She didn’t do the outside jobs like washing down and whitening the front step, or going to the shops, because she was afraid of the wag man seeing her. She stayed hidden inside. Dot popped in whenever she could but she was overstretched herself and now had Joyce to mind as well. By the afternoon Cynthia sometimes felt a bit better and could drag herself down and cook Bob’s tea. She would move round the house as if in a trance, and quite often sink into a chair when in the middle of something and just leave off, forgetting what she was doing. Frequently she was so irritable that Em could do nothing right, and both of them would end up in tears. Other times she was childlike and pathetically gentle, wanting Em to do everything for her. And she was so frightened. She thought all the neighbours were watching her, talking about her. They were talking about her, of course. Some were spiteful, others kind and neighbourly, but everyone knew by now that Dot was helping out because Cynthia Brown had been taken bad after the babby and wasn’t herself.
Things had been looking up this week to begin with. On the Saturday, Bob had sent the three of them out to the Penny Pictures on Nechells Park Road and given them enough to get some pork scratchings before the butcher’s closed on the way
back. And Em was allowed to play out – until Bob sloped off to the pub again, that was. And yesterday Cynthia had a better day. Em had been downstairs, bossing Sid into his little ragged shorts and shirt for school, envious of him for being able to run, carefree, out of the door. Suddenly Cynthia had appeared, already dressed and holding Violet. Em’s heart had lifted. Mom was up and about – maybe she was better!
‘Go on, Em,’ Cynthia had said bravely. ‘Get your things together and get yourself to school.’
Em’s freckled face had lit up. ‘Can I, Mom? Are you sure you can manage?’
‘I said so, dain’t I? Go on, before I change my mind.’
Em had almost danced out of the house, running to catch up with Katie and the other girls, so excited to be allowed back to school. But the day had been a bitter disappointment.
‘Is your mom better now?’ Katie’d asked, turning for a second from her conversation with another girl.
‘Yeah, think so!’ Em had beamed, wanting it to be true. But the smile had faded from her face. She had wanted Katie to be more pleased to see her. Instead she hardly seemed to care if Em was there or not.
But Miss Lineham had demanded to know why she hadn’t been there.
‘I’ve been poorly, Miss.’
‘And what, exactly,’ her tone had been heavy with sarcasm, ‘has been the matter with you?’
‘Had a pain in my tummy, Miss.’
‘Hmph.’ Miss Lineham had stared stonily, but Em was looking convincingly pale and drawn after the strain of the last days.
