by Annie Murray
‘I can’t.’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘I just can’t move. I feel so . . . terrible . . .’
Then the tears started up again and rage shot through him like electricity. He jumped out of bed.
‘That’s it, then. Summat’s got to give ’ere, Cynth. You’ve got to get yerself sorted out cos you’re neglecting your family. The place is going to rack and ruin.’ He stood over her, hands on his hips, and inspiration struck him. ‘I know what – you go and stay with that sister of yours for a bit. Why shouldn’t she do summat to help us? We never hear a word from ’er from one year to the next.’
‘Olive?’ Cynthia looked appalled. ‘I can’t just go and park myself on her! We’ve never been close.’
‘Well, my girl . . .’ Bob bent over and pushed his face close to hers. Cynthia winced at the stench of stale beer on his breath. ‘You’d better sort it out and get yerself over there. Because if you don’t get out of ’ere for a bit and try and pull yerself together it’ll be me going – and for good. Got it? This is your last chance – you’re no bloody good to anyone as you are!’
Sixteen
Three days later Cynthia sat squeezed into her seat in the trolleybus as it growled its way from Nechells into Birmingham. It was very crowded, but a man had given Cynthia his seat, seeing that she was carrying a small infant. She slid in gratefully beside the grimy, steamed-up window, pushing her little bag in at her feet.
She had begged and begged Bob not to send her away. Every nerve in her body was screaming that she didn’t want to go, leaving home and her other children, but she knew there was no choice. Bob had made that abundantly clear. Now she was on her way to Olive’s neat little terrace in Kings Heath, a suburb south of the city.
Olive’s letter had come by return of post, brisk and chilly as ever, in reply to Cynthia’s enquiry.
‘Bob thinks I should get away for a little while. I haven’t been quite myself since the last child . . .’ Bob had hurried off to post it for her, as if he couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.
‘You’d better come, then, if you must,’ her younger sister had written in her stiff, copperplate hand. ‘If that’s how it is. But I’m not offering charity, you’ll have to pay your keep. Don’t come Wednesday, I won’t be in. Sincerely, Olive.’
She and Olive had never seen eye to eye. Cynthia had always far preferred their brother Geoff, three years her senior. You could laugh and play with Geoff, a boisterous, wholehearted boy, whereas Olive had always been prim. Geoff had gone to war and was killed in 1917 when Cynthia was thirteen. She had broken her heart over it, and still did now, whenever she thought back to that day when they heard the news.
Beside her on the seat was a large, talkative lady who was twisted round, holding forth to the woman behind her. To make sure no conversation was demanded of her, Cynthia pulled the brim of her hat down a fraction and kept her gaze fixed on her baby, tucking the shawl round her.
‘At least you’re here with me,’ she whispered. ‘You’re a good girl.’ She was grateful that Violet had been sound asleep all the way. Her shredded nerves could not have stood a crying baby on the journey. It was bad enough having to make her way through Birmingham on her own. Since having her family her life had revolved round a few streets. And she scarcely went anywhere by herself. Even when she walked to the nearest shops in Nechells, she and Dot nearly always went together. Now here she was, surrounded by strangers, all giving off a humid fog of sweat and neglect and unwashed clothing on a day so rainy it made her heart sink even further.
The tram along the Moseley Road was less crowded but, with every mile it travelled, Cynthia felt more torn apart at the thought of it carrying her further and further away from home, from the little ones and Dot and everything familiar. She had been wrenched away that morning, early, without saying goodbye to them. Bob had thought it for the best.
It won’t be for long, she told herself as the tears rose once more in her eyes. I’ve got to get better somehow. As she sat holding Violet, though, the sight of her brass wedding ring twisted her heart even more. The day came back to her, nine years ago, when Bob slipped that ring onto her finger, his eyes alight with love and happiness. They had both felt so blessed to have found each other. How full of hope they’d been, both of them having lost their mothers so young, that they could make a family and give their children all the love and stability that had gone missing in their own childhoods. Cynthia had saved herself for her wedding night, and it had been in some ways a fumbling, shy experience, neither of them practised at love-making, but it hadn’t seemed to matter. Again, it was Bob’s face which was her most precious memory, the tenderness, the look of rapture as he gazed down at her once they were tucked up in bed together for the first time. Soon after, when they found out Em was on the way – how happy he’d been! Her husband was so good at appreciating life, she knew, treasuring the simple things so many other people took for granted, because of all he had lost and all those loveless years in the Boys’ Home.
Her memory ran over the years of their marriage, the birth of their children. Cynthia kept her face turned to the window, her tears flowing, and it was all she could do to stop herself breaking down at the bittersweet thoughts that coursed through her mind. It had been good, her marriage, bolstered by her friendship with Dot, who had always been there like a big sister to her, the two of them helping each other through so many of the daily ups and downs, the childhood illnesses, the domestic hiccoughs.
‘You got any flour to spare, Dot? I’ve clean run out.’ Her lips turned up for a second at the memories of visiting Dot’s door, so often with scrapes she had got herself into, and Dot could always help her out. Dear old Dot, always there, full of beans, keeping those kids of hers in order like no one else in the street.
She wiped her eyes on a scrap of rag and pushed it back up her sleeve, trying to calm herself, but more tears came. It felt as if everything was slipping away from her, her family, her marriage and happiness. Even her wedding ring could slide so easily from her finger now, she was so scrawny. It was all her fault! She didn’t want to spoil anything. It was horrible the way she felt, the way she’d gone to pieces. Who was she becoming? How did it happen that she’d lost her grip on life?
‘I can’t help it, I can’t!’ she murmured desperately. Yet she had to get better for everyone’s sake. She knew really that Bob was right to send her away, however much it hurt. But still his harsh words echoed in her head, words from a Bob she hardly recognized either: This is your last chance, Cynth. Don’t come back until you’re better – because you’re no bloody good to anyone the way you are.
She put her hand over her face for a moment. ‘God help me . . .’
And although it came out as a quiet whisper, it was a cry deep from the heart.
Seventeen
‘You get yourself off to school today.’
Em had stared warily at her father that same morning as he came into the bedroom to wake his three drowsy children.
‘Why – is our mom better?’
‘Don’t keep pestering me with questions,’ he growled. ‘Just do as yer told and get yourself ready.’
Em didn’t argue. She never knew what mood Dad’d be in these days. She was still smarting from the way he yelled at her the other night when Mom had blood all over her face.
He looked in at the door again. ‘And you can play out tonight, there ain’t no hurry to come home.’
Em frowned, her feelings a mixture of excitement and dread. Of course she wanted to go to school and to play tipcat and tag and all the other games, and no more dodging the wag man! But school was not the reliable thing it used to be. What if none of her friends wanted to know her any more, and she couldn’t keep up with any of the lessons?
Heavy-hearted, she got ready. Sid roared off out of the front door as usual, to find the other lads, but Em followed at a much more cautious pace, with butterflies in her tummy.
‘Em!’ Katie was coming along as Em came out of her door.
‘You coming to school?’
Em’s spirits lifted immediately as Katie linked her arm through hers and chatted away to her about school gossip. She was hurt that Katie had never come to see her again in all this time, but she told herself it was better that way. Mom hadn’t wanted anyone else in the house and Em would have been ashamed to let her in. Em glanced at Katie’s dark-eyed, pretty face as she chattered away. Katie seemed distant, as if from another world, and she never asked Em another thing about herself. But it would be all right later, Em thought, when she’d been back a while. It was just that they hadn’t played together for a long time. She laughed at Katie’s tales of the classroom, trying to join in.
It was lovely to be out amid the bustle of the morning street, Mrs Button’s door already open and the aroma of fresh bread drifting into their nostrils, delivery boys out on their bicycles, the milk dray arriving and all the children heading for school. The sun was trying to peep out from behind the clouds and she was arm in arm with Katie, even if she couldn’t join in any of the school gossip. They didn’t run into Molly Fox so she didn’t have to try and pretend to be nice to her. As they turned the corner of Kenilworth Street and walked along towards the school Katie was telling her all about a new girl called Lily Davies who’d arrived in their form, and about Lily’s older sister, Jessie, and how pretty she was.
Just before they reached the school gates, Katie interrupted herself and called out, ‘Lily, over here!’
Em saw a girl with frizzy ginger hair and a pale, oval face turn round and smile shyly. Katie loosed Em’s arm and ran to the girl, linking arms with her instead. Em thought she was going to bring the new girl back to meet her and that they’d all walk to school together, but instead Katie forgot all about Em and marched in through the gates still arm in arm with Lily, chattering away to her. Em watched them, cut to the quick. Dragging her feet, she followed, her hope shrinking away. Some other girls from their class came along and said, ‘Hello, Em – you back, then?’ They seemed happy to see her but they were all in their little world, giggling together.
Em trailed into the school in their wake. When she got to the classroom, she found that Lily Davies had been given her place in the desk beside Katie, another reason why they were becoming such bosom pals. The only spare seat, up until then, was in the desk next to Molly at the front on the left and Miss Lineham ordered her to sit there.
Molly beamed with delight and made a great show of welcoming Em into her seat and leaning close to her. Em’s nose wrinkled at the smell.
‘It’s nice, you’re sitting by me,’ Molly said fawningly. ‘We can play out after, can’t we? And I can help you if you can’t do the sums.’
Em nodded, a lump in her throat. She had realized, to her surprise, that Molly was quite good at sums, better than her these days, in fact. The morning only got worse. She loathed sitting beside Molly, assailed by the smell of urine and Molly’s constant fidgeting as she scratched her scaly, eczema-scarred arms under her blouse. So many of the lessons felt hard now and she was slipping right down the class. Though Em escaped a caning, Miss Lineham was mean and sarcastic to her and she felt outside everything that was going on. In the playground the people it was easiest to play with were Molly, who of course homed in on her immediately during the morning break, and a timid little girl called Doris, with a bad squint and bluish lips, who’d also been absent for a time, suffering from severe asthma.
‘What shall we play?’ Molly demanded aggressively, vying for Em’s attention. ‘We’ll play pretend – you can be the mom, Em, and I’ll be the dad.’ Molly organized them, bossing them around. But then she changed her tone completely and became fawning again. ‘You be in charge, Em,’ she said. ‘You’re better at everything. Tell us what to do!’
Em’s heart was heavy as lead. ‘Go on, then,’ she shrugged, one eye watching Katie and Lily, thick as thieves over on the other side of the playground. Unshed tears sat like a lead weight in her chest. Behind them somewhere, a chant had started up:
Long-legged Italy
Kicked poor Sicily
Right in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.
‘You be the dad,’ Molly was saying to Em. ‘I don’t wanna be the dad.’
Em thought of Molly’s father, sitting there helplessly by the fire.
‘Nor me, and I don’t wanna be the mom neither,’ Em said. ‘You be the dad, Doris.’
‘I ent got a dad,’ Doris whispered.
‘I’ll tell you a secret instead,’ Molly whispered, beckoning them to her. She seemed to be bursting with the news. ‘I’ve got a little kitten. I’m keeping it in the brew house.’
Doris, who also lived on a yard, looked unimpressed.
‘You can’t do that. Someone’ll let it out.’
‘No they won’t,’ Molly said triumphantly. ‘I’ve hidden it.’
By the end of the school day Em was utterly dejected. The only good thing she could think was that at least maybe Mom was getting better and that’s why she was at school. Dad had given them the money for school dinner so she had not been home. As soon as the last bell rang to release them in the afternoon, Katie went off with Lily Davies and she was left to walk along with Molly. She was even grateful to find Molly at her side outside the school gates. At least someone wanted to be her friend. Even Joyce spent most of her time with Nancy Wiggins these days. Molly prattled at her all the way along the road about the kitten.
‘I found her, see. She’s called Sooty, cos she’s black, ’cept for a little white patch by her nose. Our mom wouldn’t ’ave it in the ’ouse. She says cats are dirty but I don’t think so.’ She spoke very fondly. ‘D’yer wanna come and see her?’
‘All right,’ Em said. She might as well.
They walked along Kenilworth Street, dodging out of the way of a flying tipcat from the games already in progress along the street. As soon as they turned down the entry into the back court where Molly lived, Em wished she hadn’t come. There were the slimy green walls of the entry, then the cheerless yard where the high wall of the cycle works reared up on the right, dwarfing the decrepit-looking cluster of houses. Scummy puddles lay in dips in the uneven blue bricks and the whole place was filthy.
‘Come on,’ Molly whispered, pulling on Em’s arm. ‘We don’t want my mom seeing us.’
Ducking past the windows of number four, they dashed to the brew house at the end of the yard, next to the row of toilets.
‘Phwoor,’ Em said, before she could help herself.
‘Yeah, they’m stink, don’t they?’ Molly agreed mat-ter-of-factly. Cautiously she tried the handle of the brew house, opening the door a crack. Immediately Em heard a pitiful mewing.
‘Where is it?’ She waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. Little bits of coal crunched under their feet and the place smelled of a mixture of smoke and soap.
‘In the copper!’ Molly announced excitedly. ‘I knew no one’d use it today! But I’m gunna put her in a box for tomorrow.’
She lifted the heavy wooden lid off the copper and the mewing grew louder. Upturning a pail, Molly stood on it and reached down inside.
‘There yer go, no don’t wriggle. I can’t pick yer up if yer carry on like that!’
The cat was panicking and Molly just managed to hold on to it. She got down off the bucket, hugging the scrawny little scrap to her chest.
‘See – ain’t she lovely? She’s my little poppet.’ Molly kissed the cat’s head, squeezing her tightly until she mewed even more pitifully. ‘I’m gunna dress ’er up and look after her . . .’
‘You can’t just keep her in there, though, can yer?’ Em objected. ‘It ain’t nice for her, and anyway, some-one’ll find her.’
‘I’ve got an orange box,’ Molly said dreamily. She obviously hadn’t thought this through; she was just besotted with the cat. ‘She can ’ave scraps from my dinner and from the miskins, and most of the time I’ll—’
‘Molly!’
Both of them froze as a rough, blaring vo
ice interrupted from outside. Em went cold with fright at the sound of Iris Fox’s bullying tone. Molly went to fling the cat back into the copper but it was too late. Iris was already opening the door, blocking out the light with her ample body.
‘I saw yer go ducking past the winder! What’re yer playing at, yer sneaky little cow? And who’s that with yer?’ Iris’s eyesight wasn’t the best even in full daylight when she was sober. ‘Get out ’ere where I can see yer!’
Em went out, followed by Molly. Iris was a massive, big-boned woman. She was wearing a tight black dress which hugged her rolls of fat and accentuated a vast, aggressively jutting bosom. On her feet were sloppy old black shoes, collapsed at the back, and her tar-coloured hair was scraped up, as usual, into a little topknot. From her puffy, narrowed-eyed face her gaze bored down into her daughter.
‘What’re yer doing? You’re up to no good if yer creeping about . . .’ It was then she noticed the cat. ‘WHAT’S THAT THING?’ she roared. Most of her communications were at full volume.
Em had been surprised at Iris noticing anything Molly was doing. Mostly she didn’t seem to care. But she could smell the fumes of alcohol coming to her from Iris and realized she was spoiling for a fight, even if she had to box her own shadow.
‘What’re yer doing with that filthy bloody vermin?’ Iris shouted. Em saw another woman come and stand at her doorway, watching.
‘It’s not filthy,’ Molly said, hugging the poor cat even more tightly. ‘It’s my little cat. Oh, can I keep ’er, Mom, please? I won’t bring ’er in the house. ’Er can stay out ’ere and I won’t give ’er any of our food . . .’
‘NO, YER WON’T!’ Iris bawled. ‘Cos it ain’t gunna be anywhere near the place.’ She advanced on Molly, who was cowering, and whipped the cat away from her by the scruff of its neck.
‘Don’t, Mom!’ Molly started to sob. ‘Don’t hurt her!’
