by Annie Murray
They all noticed Em’s arrival.
‘’Ere’s one of mine,’ Bob said. ‘Awright, love? This is Em – ’er’s seven.’
‘Eight. Nearly nine,’ Em corrected him crossly.
‘Oh ar – so you are!’ Bob laughed. He sounded more jovial and relaxed than he had in ages. ‘I lost count!’
‘Oh, I’m sure you haven’t really!’ Mrs Dawson gave a laugh that gurgled like a stream. She obviously thought it impossible that anyone could forget their child’s age. Em found herself being observed.
Close up she realized that Flossie Dawson was shorter in stature than she seemed, as if the strength of her personality somehow added to her height. Her black hair was, as ever, tucked under the black cloche hat with its white band and narrow brim, from under which her eyes took in Em with a teasing expression. She had a healthy, pink complexion and prominent cheekbones, the left one of which was marked by a mole. Em noticed the shine on her black button-up boots, and her own scuffed, charity Mail boots suddenly felt dreadfully tatty in comparison.
‘Nice to meet you, Em,’ Mrs Dawson said, in a tinkling voice. ‘Aren’t you a pretty little girl? I’ve seen you in the baker’s shop, haven’t I?’
Overwhelmed by the woman’s vivacious attention, and her genteel accent, Em just nodded shyly.
‘Say summat, Em,’ her father urged. Em could feel the girl staring at her. It wasn’t a very nice stare. It matched her nasty hat.
‘Yes,’ Em murmured.
‘Well, this is my daughter, Daisy,’ Mrs Dawson said, her hand on her daughter’s back to propel her forward. ‘Daisy’s a bit older than you, dear, she’s thirteen. Say hello, Daisy.’
‘Hello,’ Daisy said sulkily, as if speaking to Em was completely beneath her.
Em said hello back with as little enthusiasm.
‘Goodness me!’ The woman laughed. ‘They’re not very forthcoming at this age, are they? Anyway, I mustn’t stand here idling all day. It’s been very nice to meet you, Mr Brown. No doubt we’ll meet again.’
‘Yes,’ Bob said, rather gushingly. ‘Well, yes – I hope so.’
Em stood beside him as they watched the mother and daughter walk down the street. Em looked up at her father, a question that she had never asked before forming in her mind.
‘Dad – are we poor?’
He barely seemed to hear her. ‘What?’ he asked vaguely, still staring after the shapely Mrs Dawson. Em tugged on his hand and repeated the question.
He looked down at her, trying to make sense of what she was asking.
‘Well, we ain’t living in a palace, that’s for sure.’ He stroked a hand over his stubbly chin.
‘No, but are we?’ It had felt as if Mrs Dawson was above them in some way and she wanted to know why.
‘We ain’t the poorest – not like them’s on the Parish, like, with all them Means Test meddlers coming in their ’ouses . . . I s’pose you’d ’ave to say we’re middling.’ His face, quite lit up during the conversation, clouded again and his body seemed to sag as he came back to the sorrow and worry of his daily reality. ‘You got the tea on?’ he asked.
Twenty-Three
Somehow they’d got through the next weekend. Em found herself on her own with Joyce and Sid and they went and played outside. Bob took himself off, unshaven, to the pub both days, came home and slept away the afternoon. His wife’s absence had floored him. He seemed scarcely capable of being a father to the three of them, let alone trying to be a mother as well.
On the Monday Em stayed at home for wash day. It was a cold, miserable morning and the water heating in the copper gave off clouds of steam which wafted out through the open back door. Sid was at school and Joyce had gone grizzling round to Dot’s.
‘Don’t wanna go!’ she cried. ‘Don’t like Nance, she’s nasty to me!’
‘Don’t be so silly,’ Em said, trying to sound grown-up and in command. ‘You and Nance are best friends.’
‘No!’ Joycie wailed. ‘She’s nasty – she keeps pinching me!’
Em dragged her round there all the same. These days Joyce was not the sunny little sister she remembered. Her face often wore a woeful, sulky expression and Em found more and more she was having to tell Joyce off and put up with her tantrums. What with that and Sid’s bedwetting and bad dreams, her own nerves were badly frayed. All she could think of was trying to do everything she knew Mom would want her to do, to try and keep her bereft family together.
She gathered up the clothes for washing, dragged the bedding down from upstairs. Each day now she exchanged the threadbare sheet from Sid’s bed with that of hers and Joyce’s as Sid had taken up permanent residence in bed with them anyway. Every morning they were all drenched in his urine and Joyce would scream and cry and say she didn’t want her ‘smelly brother’ in bed with them. Em bore it all quietly. There wasn’t anyone she could appeal to anyway. Her father was numb with his own misery. But the sheets badly needed a proper wash and a constant aroma of urine hung over the bedroom. Sometimes Em felt like giving up, but Mom was proud that they slept in beds with sheets on.
She sorted the dark clothes from the white ones. She was just about to plunge the whites into the hot water when she heard a timid knock at the door. On her hands and knees in the scullery she hesitated, her heart beating faster. It wasn’t Dot’s knock – she always came straight in, ‘cooee-ing’ as she did so. And it didn’t sound like the School Board man either; he knocked as if he had a right to come in.
She crept to the front and peered out. Molly was on the doorstep. Em breathed out with relief and opened up.
‘What’re you doing here?’
Molly was looking nervously up and down the street. ‘Can I come in?’
Em stood back to let Molly in and quickly shut the door. ‘Why ain’t you at school?’
Molly’s face so often wore a blank, self-protecting expression, but now she looked hunted. ‘Our mom doesn’t know I’m ’ere . . . I didn’t want to go to school.’ Now she looked upset. ‘Can I stop ’ere instead?’
‘Won’t your mom find out?’ The thought of Iris Fox in a rage was something Em found terrifying. But she found she wanted Molly to stay. She was glad of the company.
Molly shrugged. ‘Not if you don’t tell ’er. You doing the washing? I’ll help yer.’
Suddenly the thought of the long, lonely day didn’t seem so bad. The girls rolled up their sleeves. Molly was wearing a thick brown skirt that was too long for her and got in the way so she tucked it up, pushing the hem up inside her bloomers, and the two of them got to work with the dolly and maiding tub and mangle. Em found that Molly was surprisingly strong and they managed to get the washing done without flooding the place as much as Em did on her own. Some of the time they laughed and joked or sang snatches of songs. They played a guessing game, ‘Guess what I’m thinking of: is it animal, vegetable or mineral?’
‘When’s yer mom coming back?’ Molly asked while they were pegging out clothes across the yard in the cold wind.
‘Dunno. Soon.’ Em tried to sound nonchalant, reaching up to peg out Bob’s shirt. ‘She’s gone to stay with her sister for a bit, for a rest.’
‘Our mom says your mom’s a loony and ’er’s never coming back.’
Blood rushed to Em’s cheeks. ‘No, she’s not!’ she shouted, on the point of hurling the rest of the pegs in Molly’s face. ‘Don’t you say nasty things about my mom! You say that again and I’ll slap yer!’
Molly looked genuinely taken aback. ‘I dain’t mean to be nasty – that’s what Mom said, that’s all.’
‘She doesn’t know anything. She’s a fat cow!’
‘Don’t call my mom a cow!’
‘Well, she is – she’s a fat, soppy, ruddy cow!’ Em felt a strange exaltation at the language she was using. If Mom could have heard her she’d have been for it all right! ‘And you can bugger off home – I don’t want your help. I never asked you to come, did I?’
Molly threw to the ground the pegs she was holding
and disappeared inside. Em stared after her, close to tear, her chest heaving. How dare Molly say that – and her horrible bullying mother? She wanted to roar and shout and hit something. But the anger quickly passed; and now that Molly had gone and she was alone, the tears washed down her cheeks. She dropped the peg bag and went and slid down against the rough brick wall, curled up so that her arms were clutched round her legs, head leaning on her bony knees.
‘I hate her!’ she raged against Molly’s mother. ‘She’s a cow, a fat stupid cow!’
The sobs were wrenched out of her and for once she gave in to them. She seldom cried, because most of the time she was trying so hard, doing everything, trying to be a mom to Sid and Joycie and look after her dad, who was not the big strong man she had always thought he was, but fragile as a paper flower. That was as frightening as all the rest of it.
At last she raised her head, coming back out of her darkness with her face pink and stained. Startled, she realized that Molly was squatting beside her, looking at her with sad, bewildered eyes.
‘You thought I’d gone home, but I can’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t go now – Mom’d beat me. What’s up, Em? I’ve never seen you cry before.’
Em could hardly trust herself to speak, but Molly had seen her crying already and the truth poured out. ‘I j-just w-want everything back how it was. I want my mom . . .’ More tears ran down her cheeks though she tried to stop them.
Molly moved closer and sat right up close. Even with her blocked nose, Em caught a whiff of her, like the smell of Sid’s sheet. But it was comforting, her sitting there like that.
‘I’ll stay with yer,’ was all Molly said. ‘I’ll be your friend.’
Em looked at her and solemnly nodded.
Molly fumbled in the pocket of her once-white blouse.
‘D’yer wanna play?’
On her hand lay five stones. Em nodded again.
Molly stayed all day while the washing dried slowly in the cold. Sid came back from school, quiet now, not roaring in through the door shouting ‘Mom – what’s to eat? Can I have a piece?’ Normally he could be sure that Cynthia would send him out again with a ‘piece’ – a slice off the loaf with a scraping of margarine and, if it really was his lucky day, a sparse sprinkling of sugar as well.
But today he came in quietly and said sullenly, ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Have these,’ Em said, giving him some broken biscuits Dot had bought for them from the Bull Ring. ‘Say ta!’ she said crossly as he snatched them from her and crammed them into his mouth, disappearing through the door again to the playground of the street.
Dot had taught her how to make stew and she had it all ready by the time Bob was due home. Molly had slunk off home to pretend she had been at school all day. ‘I’ll come another day,’ she said.
While she was frying up an onion, Em caught her right index finger on the scalding side of the pan and a blister came up which she wrapped in a piece of rag, feeling sorry for herself. Once the stew was bubbling on the range she went to the window, still nursing her throbbing finger. It was time Joycie came home, and Dad.
Pushing aside the greying net curtain she looked out. Her attention was drawn immediately by a smiling couple just along the street. It took her seconds to realize that the man, looking vivacious in a way he never did at any other time now, was her father and the lady was Mrs Dawson. This time there was no sign of snotty-faced Daisy. Bob and the woman seemed to be deep in conversation. Mrs Dawson was smiling. Raising a hand she fiddled with the band on her hat. Em saw that her lips were painted red, not glaringly, but you could see there was lipstick. Em noticed she had nice even teeth. She watched her father’s face. He was transformed by the woman’s company. His smiles made Em go cold inside, though she couldn’t have said why. Grown-up ways were hard to understand. But there was too much in Mrs Dawson’s manner and in his smile for polite conversation.
A few moments later they parted, Bob raising his cap and nodding. Flossie Dawson fiddled coquettishly with her hat again and turned back along Kenilworth Street with her brisk, graceful walk.
‘Got the dinner on?’ Bob greeted Em as he came in, humming a tune and hanging up his cap. The smiles had gone but something of his cheerfulness lasted for a time. ‘Smells a bit of all right, wench. Is it ready? I’ll get that down me – then I’m off to the Crown.’
Twenty-Four
All that week, Em kept asking Bob when their mom was coming home, when they could go and see her. In the end he said wearily, ‘Look, I’ll go and see your mother Sat’dy. Now stop keeping on.’
On Saturday after dinner he made the journey over to Kings Heath. Em was hardly able to wait until he came back. Maybe Mom would come as well? She’d be better, she and Dad would come in laughing through the door with Violet, and everything would be all right.
Bob came back just as the light was beginning to fade. Sid was outside but Em and Joyce heard the door open and ran into the front room.
‘Dad!’ Joycie cried, rushing to him as he limped into the house, his whole body sagging with dejection, and pulled at his coat, wanting his attention. Only Em knew that he had been to see their mother.
Em’s leaping heart at the sound of the door plummeted into disappointment. No Mom, no Violet. And her father’s demeanour prevented her from going to him. She stood in the doorway, shivering at the cold air which gusted into the room with him, and sick at heart at the way he pushed Joyce aside with a curse.
‘Leave us, will yer!’ He sent Joyce flying back into Em and tore off his coat, flinging it over the back of a chair. Joyce started to cry.
Em felt herself flare with rage. ‘What did you push her for?’ She put her arms round her little sister. ‘You’re nasty, you are! You don’t care about us!’ She was amazed at herself. She’d never have said that to Dad before!
‘And you can button yer lip an’ all!’ Bob yelled at her, striding through to the back room. ‘Sodding kids, keeping on. You’re a bloody nuisance, the lot of yer! You’d better not’ve let the fire go out or I’ll tan yer backsides for you an’ all!’
Realizing that the range was still burning well he quietened down and flung himself into his chair.
‘Em, make us a cuppa tea.’
Em obeyed mutinously, while Joyce crouched in the hearth, sniffing dejectedly. Bob lit a Woodbine and sat silently smoking it. Em was biding her time. She brewed her father’s tea and stirred in his three spoonfuls of sugar, quietly handing it to him.
‘Ta,’ he muttered.
‘Dad . . .’
‘What now, wench?’ He still sounded ready to explode.
‘Is Mom better now?’
He made a sudden movement and Em flinched, expecting him to shout again, but instead he bent down to rest his cup and saucer on the floor. Leaning forward, he rubbed his hands over his face, gave a long, ragged sigh and without looking up, said, ‘I don’t know what to say. I wish I could tell yer she was, love. God knows, I do.’
The next Monday, a dismal, rainy day, Em started on the weekly wash, half hoping that she might hear a knock at the door and Molly would come instead of going to school. But Molly didn’t come, and Em toiled all morning at the washing as the rain tippled down outside, and she saw no one except Dot.
The rain had let up when school was over and the puddle-dotted streets filled with children. Em, arms and shoulders aching, her hands raw and cracked, had festooned the chairs and the range with drying washing. When Sid came in he was after food as usual, but he said, ‘Bert says Molly wants to see yer.’
‘Bert? What d’you mean?’
‘’Er’s in bed, summat the matter with her. Bert says you’ve gotta go and see ’er.’
Em wasn’t at all pleased about being ordered around by Bert Fox, but she felt badly about Molly. She found it hard to admit that she and Molly were really friends, not the way she and Katie had been – or she thought they had. What would Mom say if she knew Em was knocking about with Molly Fox? Molly grated on Em with her constant chatt
er and rough ways, but she was the only one who had been kind and really proved to be not just a fair-weather friend.
‘All right, then,’ Em said grudgingly. ‘I’ll go. Tell Dot where I’ve gone, will yer?’
Taking off her mom’s apron, which dangled to her ankles, Em ran across the wet street and into Molly’s yard before anyone could stop her. Coming in through the entry she found the way almost completely blocked by a huge, scummy puddle. Em made a face and slid round the edge of it, trying not to wipe her back on the slimy wall.
The door of number four was open a crack and he could hear voices and Iris’s distinctive bleating tone. When she knocked, Iris shouted, ‘Oooh’s that?’
Trying to stop her voice trembling, Em said, ‘It’s me – Emma Brown. I’ve come to see Molly.’
‘Can’t hear yer. Open the door, for Christ’s sake, or bugger off!’
Going in, Em saw Iris turn and look blearily at her with her narrow eyes. There was a flushed red patch on her left cheek and she was dressed in her usual black, her clothes straining over her voluptuous bulges. She was squatting on a stool between the two men, Molly’s vacant, bewildered-looking father and the whiskery old grandfather, in their chairs by the grate. Apart from a table there was no other furniture in the room. Fumes of drink filled the air, mixed with smells of sweat and other things, none of them nice. The scene filled Em with dread.
