by Annie Murray
‘Thanks for the tea, then.’
‘See you tomorrow, Bob.’ Then once he was safely out on the step she added, ‘I’m so glad.’ Three words said in such a way that he was shaken again at the force of his desire for her.
‘Cheerio, then,’ he said breezily, putting on his hat.
‘Goodbye, Bob.’
The door closed and he was alone on the snow-muffled pavement, his breath whirling out of him in the light of the street lamp.
He gave a groan, bending over for a moment in an agony. All the feeling she brought out in him seemed to overwhelm him: need, clumsiness, unworthiness, awe. And desire, that above all.
‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘What a woman!’
Thirty-Three
Em woke from a dream the next morning. She was cradling Violet close to her in the bed, feeling the soft fuzz of baby hair against her cheek. She woke, bereft when she discovered it wasn’t true. When she opened her eyes, a hard, unusual light was seeping round the curtain.
‘There’s lots more snow!’ Joycie came back into the room a minute later, bouncing with excitement. ‘It’s everywhere, let’s go out and play. Come on, Em, Sid!’
Sid and Joyce threw on their clothes and belted off downstairs, but Em was slower, lingering in the yearning of her dream. She cuddled Princess Lucy to her, snuggling against her embroidered cotton face, but it had nothing of the roundness and warmth of Violet’s.
She got out of bed, suddenly determined, and went to her father’s room, peering through the door, which had been left open an inch. He was in bed, his eyes closed, and the bedclothes were moving. She watched, frowning, puzzled. His hand seemed to be pumping furiously up and down under the bedclothes.
‘Dad?’ She pushed the door open.
‘What?’ he shouted, flying into a rage as his eyes snapped open. ‘Don’t come barging in ’ere like that!’
‘Sorry . . .’
The sight of her standing in her little nightdress, trailing her doll from one hand, seemed to shame him.
‘Didn’t mean to shout, love,’ he said, sitting up wearily. ‘I just didn’t hear yer coming, that’s all.’
‘Can we go and see Violet today?’
‘Violet?’ For a second it was as though he couldn’t think who she meant. ‘Oh – no, bab. Can’t go anywhere today. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Oh.’ He always seemed to have things to do these days. No time for any of them.
She went and dressed, sadly. Downstairs she stoked the range and put on a big pan of porridge.
Sid and Joyce came in to eat it, with pink cheeks and noses and bright eyes.
‘Ooh, my fingers’re freezing!’ Sid cried, hopping from one foot to the other and wincing as he tried to warm them by the range.
Joyce eyed the steaming pan of porridge, wrinkling her nose.
‘Can us have sugar on it, Em?’
‘No,’ Em said grumpily. ‘Ain’t got none.’
‘Don’t say “ain’t!”’ She heard Cynthia’s voice in her head.
Joyce pouted but was hungry enough to eat it anyway.
Bob came to join them. ‘Good wench,’ he said absent-mindedly.
‘Dad – ’ Sid was still jiggling with excitement – ‘will yer take us down the park this afternoon? Or out to the country so we can play in the snow?’
Bob shook his head. ‘Can’t, son. Got things to do.’
‘What things?’ Sid’s face fell.
‘Promised someone some help.’
Em knew instinctively that the person he had promised help to was Mrs Dawson, but she didn’t dare say anything. Joyce was less hesitant, though.
‘You never do anything for us,’ she said, with a smouldering expression. ‘You’re not like our dad any more.’
Horrified, Em waited for his wrath to fall on Joyce. Surely she’d get a belting for that? But all Bob said was, ‘That’s enough. Eat yer porridge,’ as if he’d barely heard. As if he was somewhere else in his head. And that felt worse than him getting angry.
Joyce slid down from the table. ‘I hate you,’ she said, running off upstairs. Em was shocked to the core. She never dared use words like that.
Bob disappeared soon after breakfast, letting in the distant sound of church bells and the glaring white light as the front door swung open and shut. He didn’t stop to say goodbye or tell them where he was going. Em stood hunched over the sink in the scullery, scraping out the porridge pan with her fingernails. The porridge was caked on and slimy to the touch. Tears ran down her cheeks and dropped into the water.
‘I hate you . . .’ Joyce’s words rang in her head. What had happened to her loving family?
She pushed her hair off of her face with her forearm. Her fringe was constantly in her eyes. Dot kept saying she must cut it for her and then forgetting. Almost immediately the hair slipped down across her eyes again and she slammed her hands down in the water suddenly, sending out a great splash.
‘Bugger it. I’m not bloody well doing it!’
Misery enveloped her then and she sank down on a chair by the table, picking up Princess Lucy as she went. She put her head down on the milk-splashed table and, in the dark ring of her arms, wept lonely, angry tears.
A soft tapping brought her out of it. Quickly wiping her eyes she opened the door to find Molly, and gasped at the sight of her face, its right side swollen and her eye puffed up with a great big shiner.
‘Blimey – who did that?’
Molly shrugged as if she hardly knew what Em was talking about. ‘You crying? What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Coming out to play?’
Em only took in then that the street was full of life, shrieks of fun and snowballs flying. ‘All right, then.’
She pulled on her coat and went out. The day was turning bright, the snow powdery, creaking slightly underfoot. Up and down the street all the children were out, balling up the snow, dragging one another along on trays or home-made sleds cobbled together from bits of wood. Several wonky snowmen with coal eyes and parsnip noses graced the pavement and there was a huge one under construction right in the middle of the road.
Some older boys were out, chasing and shouting, and doors were open along the street as the adults watched the party. She saw Bullseye, the Buttons’ black and white dog, snuffing in the road, then noticed Mrs Button standing by her door, with Stanley watching from just inside in his wheelchair, bundled up to his chin with blankets. Mrs Button had on her Sunday best – under her cherry-red coat and black hat – and she smiled and waved at Em and so did Stanley. Em waved back, cheered by Mrs Button’s kindness. She could not know that behind Jenny Button’s smile that morning was the longing that almost overwhelmed her sometimes, for a man who was able-bodied and could still make love to her. But she loved her Stanley and continued to smile even though she ached inside.
Em and Molly joined the crowd, pressing gathered snow in their fists and throwing it. Soon they were laughing, running, pink-cheeked, their necks wet and cold from snowballs flung at them. It was all fun until Bert Fox came out as well and then there was too much force and nastiness behind the throwing. Em shrank back, seeing Bert hurl a ball of snow at a boy much smaller than him. He had put a stone in the middle of it and it cut the boy’s head and made him cry, his blood vivid against all the white.
‘You’re a vicious little bugger, you are, Bert Fox. You should be locked up!’ Jenny Button reprimanded him, waddling over to assist the young boy. But Bert ran away laughing, his thin, stoat face twisted with defiance.
‘Sorry about my brother,’ Molly said shamefully.
‘T’ain’t your fault, bab,’ Jenny Button said. She looked closely at Molly. ‘You been in the wars as well? Did he do that?’
Molly shook her head and Mrs Button didn’t like to ask any more. She took the boy with the cut off to her house to clean him up.
‘I’m going in,’ Em said, noticing how cold it was, how her bare hands were now agony.
‘Can I
come with yer?’ Molly said. ‘I don’t want to go ’ome.’
Em nodded and the two of them went into the house. They ate some broken biscuits and sat by the fire, wincing as their hands came back to life.
‘Who did your face?’ Em asked.
Molly looked down at her lap. ‘Mom,’ she said very quietly.
‘Why – what did you do?’
‘Dunno. Nothing.’
Em shuddered. The thought of having Iris Fox as your mom was terrible.
There was a long silence. Molly picked at the hole in the chair where the stuffing was coming through. Eventually she said, ‘I’m not going home again.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I don’t want to live with them no more.’ She looked at Em. ‘Can I come and live with you? I’d help and everything . . .’ Her face was so bright and eager.
Em stared at her. What would Dad say? ‘I . . . I dunno. I don’t think my dad would let you.’
‘He’s round at Mrs Dawson’s again, ain’t ’e?’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Saw ’im. I don’t like that girl, Daisy. She’s a stuck-up cow, she is.’
‘Yes, she is,’ Em agreed enthusiastically.
‘And her hat’s like bogeys.’
Em giggled, delighted that she had had just the same thought about Daisy’s green hat.
‘Is ’e carrying on with her?’
‘Carrying on? What d’yer mean?’ Em didn’t know anything except that Dad was never here and even when he was, he was somewhere else in his head.
‘You know. Getting up to more than he should be. That’s what everyone’s saying. Cos of your mom being away and that.’
Em didn’t know. She had hardly the remotest idea what Molly was talking about, except that she did know Bob was forever at Mrs Dawson’s, even when he pretended he wasn’t.
‘I hate her,’ she said. Joyce’s words had released her. She poked the fire. ‘Hate her, hate her.’
‘Eh – ’ Molly leaned forward – ‘why don’t you get back at her?’
Em felt a wicked tingle of excitement. ‘How d’yer mean?’
‘Oh,’ Molly said triumphantly. ‘There’s all sorts of things we can do. Now, what shall we start with?’
Thirty-Four
‘You’d never believe it – the cheek of some of them ruddy kids!’
Bob came ranting into the house as Em was stirring the stew-pot at the back. Molly was still there, adamant that she wasn’t going home, and she was playing with Sid and Joyce.
They all stared at Bob with innocent expressions – genuinely innocent in Sid’s and Joyce’s case, since they had no idea what had happened.
‘What, Dad?’ Sid said.
‘I was round at . . .’ He hesitated, suddenly realizing he was going to have to own up to where he’d been all afternoon. ‘Any road, those kids, one of ’em chucked a brick. It came right through the flaming window, smashed the pane.’ He jammed his coat onto the hook. ‘If I find out—’ He turned to Molly with a nasty expression. ‘Sort of thing that bloody brother of yours’d do.’
‘Yes,’ Molly said angelically. ‘It is. Maybe it was him. He cut a lad’s head this morning.’
There was no love lost between Molly and Bert, who was about the most unpopular boy in the district.
‘Oh dear,’ Em said, her face furrowed with mock concern. Inside, the giggles were straining to get out. ‘So did they break Mrs Dawson’s window?’
‘Yes, they cowing well did! I’ve been boarding it up for ’er until they can fix it proper tomorrow. So, is dinner ready?’
He sat down and picked up yesterday’s paper. Behind him, Em and Molly exchanged looks. They’d been so careful, waiting until after dark, choosing a moment when the street was quiet. It was Molly who had thrown the half brick, aiming with all her strength, and they heard the magnificent smash of glass. Em tore off along the street feeling as if electricity was pumping along her limbs with the power of what they had done. Going the back way, she and Molly were home in a twinkling, bursting into the house and laughing until the tears ran down their faces.
‘That’ll show ’er!’ Em gasped, thrilled and aghast at what they had done. ‘D’you think they saw us?’
‘No. Course not!’ They roared and snorted for ages. Reminded of this now, as they looked at each other, they could barely stop themselves laughing all over again.
Bob suddenly swivelled round. ‘What’re you still doing here?’ he said to Molly.
‘Can she stop over?’ Em asked. She felt bold now, as if she could do or say anything.
‘No, she bloody can’t!’ Bob erupted. ‘As if I ain’t got enough on my plate without half the neighbours’ kids ’ere as well. You get off now,’ he ordered Molly.
Molly cast a reluctant look at Em, but she had to go. Once the door had closed behind her, Bob said, ‘What’s one of them Foxes doing ’ere any road? We don’t want ’er sort about.’
‘I think she’s nice,’ Joyce contradicted. Joyce seemed to be able to get away with anything.
‘Oh, yer do, do yer?’ Bob said sarcastically, before going back to his paper.
Em and Molly were taken aback by their own daring. After their first bold assault on Flossie Dawson they were rather stumped as to what to do next. It was as if they had done the most outrageous thing they could think of already. They whispered in the playground at school, plotting and hatching plans. It made Em feel much more cheerful, as if she had a secret magic power.
As they filed inside after playtime in the slushy playground one day that week, Em found that by chance she was next to Katie. At one time Em might have been excited, and hopeful. Now, though, she couldn’t care less. She felt stronger; Katie was spiteful and disloyal. Why should she want to suck up to her and be her friend?
‘You’re very chummy with Molly Fox these days,’ Katie remarked. Her tone was friendly, but Em knew she was being nosy. Maybe she was miffed that Em was not running after her for a change!
Em looked stonily at her. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘There’s no need to be like that. I was just saying,’ Katie said huffily.
Em watched her walk away, and poked out her tongue at Katie’s departing rear.
Their next assaults on Flossie Dawson were small and mostly harmless, but they also made Em feel better, because at least they were doing something. They left broken glass on the doorstep for her to tread on, and dog muck in her path right outside. They smeared greasy soot on the door, hoping that either Flossie or Daisy would rub up against it and soil their clothes. Every day after school they met, scheming about what they might do next, and hung about near the house after dark, spying and whispering. Em knew that quite often her father was in there too. There was no point in trying to hide the fact from Molly. Everyone seemed to know their business anyway.
One afternoon, in the week before Christmas, Molly came along in high excitement. The snow had almost gone and the girls were in the street near the timber yard. Molly pulled Em into the entry to the courtyard of houses opposite. It was a double knack – a yard with two entrances, so any mischief-maker could speed out at the other side if necessary.
‘I know what we can do!’ Molly went importantly to the end of the entry and peered out to check no one was coming. Returning, she pulled out something that was tucked in the waist of her skirt: a new white candle, quite a fat one.
‘Where d’yer get that?’ Em asked, bemused.
‘Never you mind.’ Molly had a light-fingered way of getting hold of things. ‘D’you know what we’re gunna do with it?’
She gave a dramatic pause for Em to shake her head.
‘Voodoo! See – we melt it down, make a statue of Mrs Dawson and then anything we do to it, it’ll happen to her, see?’
‘But—’
‘It’s magic,’ Molly insisted. ‘She’ll be screaming in pain and she’ll never know who’s done it.’
‘Oh,’ Em said doubtfully. Even to her, to have Flos
sie Dawson screaming in pain seemed a bit extreme, but it was an interesting idea.
‘Come on, then. Not round mine. Let’s do it at yours, out the back.’
When they tried the melting-down procedure in the yard behind Em’s house the wind kept on blowing out the matches so they retreated into the scullery, melting the candle down into a bowl until they had a handful of soft wax.
‘How does the magic know it’s Mrs Dawson?’ Em wondered, looking at the pale dolly they had shaped with one thin leg and one fat one, Molly breathing heavily in concentration.
‘It just does,’ Molly insisted.
‘Shouldn’t we put her name on it or summat?’
‘No. We just have to say.’ Molly was loving being the one to lead the way. The bruising on her face had faded to a swirl of green and yellow and her eyes were bright and excited. ‘Now – get a pin!’
They started by sticking pins into the manikin, howling with Mrs Dawson’s imagined pain with each prick. At first they chose a spot carefully and aimed the pin. After a while they were jabbing it in all over, giggling uncontrollably.
‘I know,’ Em said after a while. She picked up a knife. ‘I’m going to cut her!’
Unfortunately she cut so vigorously into the dolly’s thin leg that the end of it snapped right off. They held up the bits, appalled for a moment, then burst into hysterical fits of laughter.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ Molly cried, convulsed.
‘D’you think she can feel it?’ Em was awed by the thought that the magic might be working, before being overtaken by giggles again.
‘Course she can,’ Molly said importantly.
‘We’d better try and fix it on again before it’s too late!’ Em spluttered.
They struck a match and heated the wax so that they could fix the leg haphazardly back on.
‘We’d best stop now, I think,’ Molly said solemnly. ‘We’ve done enough to her.’
