by Jane Bailey
We wait at the bus stop for the eleven o’clock and I am bubbling over with all the smiles I will smile when I see her, my mum, after so so long.
It is five minutes late and I fiddle with my collar as the passengers get off. One old lady and a GI.
“Ta-ta, then,” the bus conductress says to the old lady’s back.
“Ta-ta – I’ll tell Iris you wuz asking after her.”
And with a laugh and a clink of her money bag, the bus is gone.
We wait for the ten-to-twelve but she isn’t on that one either. I feel so bereft I can hardly breathe, but I refuse to give up. We go to the post office to see if there are any messages, but Mrs Chudd just shakes her head decisively: “No messages, my love.”
We go to the shops until the next bus, when Aunty Joyce goes home but I hang around. And so the whole day is played out in this way, with me hanging around the bus stop for ten minutes before each bus is due, and then wandering off to kill time before the next one.
At seven o’clock Uncle Jack comes and takes me home.
Guess I’ll hang my tears out to dry
My mother’s non-arrival is a huge betrayal. In a world where there are murdered kittens and dead girls’ clothes and rampant germs and words too dangerous to speak, I was certain my mum would provide some reassurance, certain she would be my champion in every way, and I would be safe. But now that she’s let me down I am more alone than before, and I have to put up with knowing that they’re whispering about her. Now they’ll never know how normal I really am, and how much someone can love me.
Still, Aunty Joyce seems to mellow a bit during the days that follow. She lets me make cakes with her on Sunday, and on Monday she tells me I’m a real help to have around on washdays.
With all these germs to contend with, you’d imagine washday was the highlight of Aunty Joyce’s week. Actually, I don’t think she enjoys it that much, although the other women say, “She dun ’alf do a good line of washing, do Joyce,” and a good line of washing is the greatest compliment a Sheepcote woman can have.
On washday – always Monday – the parlour and the back kitchen turn into a steam bath, with all pans on to boil and a ruthless stench of strong soap. In the corner of the back kitchen a metal tub encased in stone is filled with water, and underneath it a little trapdoor in the stone is opened, coal is shovelled in and set alight. It takes an age for the deep tub of water to reach boiling point, and as it does the windows start to stream. Our faces turn a deep pink, our skin becomes clammy and our clothes stick to us.
Some weeks, a mystery lidded pail is brought in from the back yard, and I watch at a distance as Aunty Joyce pours a bloody liquid down the sink, then vigorously washes some rags under the cold tap as if it is a race against the clock. She drops them in one boiling pot, and handkerchiefs and knickers in each of the others.
When the tub is ready, in go the sheets and shirts, and Aunty Joyce pumps them up and down with a wash dolly. Meanwhile, as I’m home on holiday, she lets me do some scrubbing of dirtier items on the washboard in the sink. When I’ve finished I put them in the tin bath ready for rinsing, but she always comes and washes each item again, finding stains I just can’t see, however hard I try. After the first few weeks I stop questioning her, and accept that my washing will never be quite up to scratch.
The tin bath is set up on two chairs near the boiler tub, and when things are ready she fishes them out with wooden tongs and slops them, steaming, heavy and lethally hot, into the cold bath for a rinse. She tells me to stand well back and screws her face up at the hot snakes of material that she eases at arm’s length into the icy water.
We always have the wireless on all morning for washday. We listen to Music While You Work, the news, and all sorts of songs that get us humming and singing along. Aunty Joyce is a bit shy about singing at first, but I hold the broom handle and pretend to be Carmen Miranda or The Squadronaires and she rolls her eyes as I belt out ‘I, yi, yi, yi, yi I like you very much’ or ‘A Little on the Lonely Side’. I can never catch all the words so I get lots of things wrong, and that always makes her smile.
On one particular occasion I make her smile a lot, and it is so lovely to see her in this mood I lark around even more.
“When April showers they come your way,
They bring the flowers that bloom in May,
So when it’s raining, have no regrets,
Because it isn’t raining rain, you know –”
I point the broom handle to her mouth to make her join in, and both together, very loudly, we sing:
“IT’S RAINING VIOLETS!”
She giggles. Aunty Joyce actually giggles. At one point I even notice her hips swaying to ‘In the Mood’.
“Aunty Joyce …” I capitalize on our new-found intimacy to ask the question that’s been nagging me for some time. “Why don’t you have another baby?”
I see the back of her housecoat freeze for a moment, then her elbows start to move again, and her head bows. All I hear is the slop and scrunch as garments are rinsed at the sink.
“Aunty Joyce …?”
She doesn’t turn round, but flops a wet wrung pillowcase on the draining board. “We could do a lot of things if things were different … But there! They’re not. We must just make the best of it.”
I feed one of Uncle Jack’s shirts in between the rollers of the mangle and turn the handle very slowly. “My mum always says, it’s not what you could’ve done if, it’s what you can do despite.”
“Your mother’s a very smart woman.” She turns a little to see me and lowers her voice. “But then, your mother hasn’t had to put up with what I’ve been through.”
I am indignant. I think back to the bombed-out houses, the babies’ rattles, photograph frames, bits of leg, half-eaten pies, peeping through the rubble.
“A lot of people have,” I say.
She clenches her lips and wrings some poor garment to death. “Well, I can’t bring her back, can I? I can’t ever bring my little Rosemary … back …”
It is the first time I’ve heard the name, and we catch each other’s eye as if she has let slip a huge secret.
“You could have another one.”
Her eyes are on me with such fury I’m afraid she’s going to lose it altogether like when I wore Rosemary’s clothes.
“I could what?”
Maybe she misheard. I take up the challenge, hopefully: “You could have another baby. I know it wouldn’t be the same an’ that, but it would be just as lovely, and then you wouldn’t have time to be so sad.”
She is gasping for air like a drowning woman, and I suspect she may not like the idea.
“You don’t understand!” she hisses through the steam. “How could you? You’re far too young.”
Actually I’m quite grown up. Miss Lavish and people like that always stop me and Aunty Joyce in the street and say things like “Poor mite, away from home – they grow up so fast in a war” or “It’s the children I worry about – they’ve been robbed of a childhood.” I’m convinced that because I’ve suffered, I understand all suffering. And maybe I do understand much of it, but I have no idea of the sad demons inside Aunty Joyce. But there it is. I think I have her sorted. I think I have the whole world sorted, and that in my new war-enhanced, child-wrenched-from-the-bombing status, I have wisdom beyond compare, so I frown at a wet sock and say glibly, “What don’t I understand? I’d’ve thought a new baby would be better than no baby.”
Aunty Joyce takes in a long slow breath and seems to forget to breathe out. It is a long time before she speaks. After much thwacking and wringing of garments she sighs again and says, “Even if you’re right, Jack would never … would never agree.”
“Oh, why worry about that? Anyway, he’d crack up when he saw it. Just think, it might be a little boy next time and Uncle Jack could take him on the trains. You could call him Glen or Frank – or Gregory – and you could knit him blue woollies, and when he grows up he’ll sing on the wireless or act in the pic
tures and you could have a load of grandchildren. Just think –”
“Stop it! And don’t you dare say anything to Uncle Jack, for pity’s sake.”
I fall silent, hurt that she doesn’t see I’m trying to help.
“I’m sorry, Kitty, but you don’t understand. Having a baby … the man needs to … to agree. A woman can’t have a baby by herself …”
I can’t get the hang of this agreement lark. Of course you can have a baby on your own. My Aunty Babs had a baby and she wasn’t even married. I’m sure you don’t have to get anyone’s agreement.
“I don’t think that’s right, Aunty Joyce. If you really want a baby, then I don’t think Uncle Jack has much say in the matter.”
She brings over a bucket full of wrung clothes for me. I try to read her face: it’s not cross, it’s more troubled.
“A baby can’t just happen, look. It has to be made … and that’s … where the disagreement starts. There!”
She plonks the bucket down decisively as if that’s an end to it. I picture Uncle Jack and Aunty Joyce making a baby from modelling kits, carefully gluing bits of balsa wood together – like the boys do in school – and suddenly having a row over where to put the nose. Suddenly I remember the rabbits. I wonder if Aunty Joyce knows the Facts of Life, and how she managed to have Rosemary without noticing she’d been shagged first. Perhaps Uncle Jack just nudged her a bit while she was asleep. She looks very hot and bothered, and I think it might be too cruel to tell her the true facts at this moment. Anyway, a good Bing Crosby song starts up on the wireless and I jump up to grab the broom handle again.
“Imagine I’m Uncle Jack:
I dream of you
More than you dream I do.
How can I prove to you
This love is real?”
I’m so busy exaggerating my passion to the broom handle, it is a few moments before I notice she has turned away and taken a deep breath again, and she is not smiling.
I sit at the mangle and feed the rinsed garments into its rollers, while Aunty Joyce tries by the sink to wring out the larger unwieldy items. I am not allowed to help as I see her wrestling with a sheet like an enormous steaming serpent about her neck.
Glorious things of Thee are spoken
It is August, and for the past few days Uncle Jack has been practising the lesson he will read in church. He stands in front of the range with his Bible lifted high in front of him, and spouts forth the gospel. It is something about the Sun of Man and separating sheep from goats. Aunty Joyce looks up from her darning from time to time and tells him to mind he doesn’t drop the ‘h’ on this word or that, or to keep his shoulders back.
When Sunday comes I find myself all caught up in Uncle Jack’s excitement as the first hymn ends and he makes his way to the golden eagle for the lesson.
It is the first time I’ve listened to it properly all the way through. There seem to be some sheep sitting on a king’s right hand, and some goats sitting on his left one. So it is either a very giant king or these are some pretty small animals. One way or another it doesn’t sound too comfortable, but it does sound interesting, and I’m quite keen to hear what the king’s going to do about it. Uncle Jack, who looks very small behind the golden eagle, and has been mumbling a little with his head down, suddenly catches Aunty Joyce’s eye and must remember her advice, for he thrusts his shoulders back and booms out: “THEN THE KING WILL SAY …” (he is loud for a few seconds) “to those on his right …”
Mr Fairly is listening with his head tilted back, giving the impression of a connoisseur awaiting the moment when he might be called upon to give his marks out of ten. His eyes are fixed on the uppermost panel of a stained glass window (Jesus with some sort of shepherd type) which tilts his nose in a distinctly up position.
“Then the righteous will reply,‘Lord, when was it that we saw you HUNGRY and fed you, or thirsty and gave you drink, a stranger and took you HOME, or naked and clothed you? When did we see you ill or in prison, and come to visit you?’ And the king will answer, ‘I tell you this:…”he catches sight of us again and booms out, “… ANYTHING YOU DID FOR ONE OF MY BROTHERS, ’OWEVER HUMBLE – HOWEVER ’UMBLE – YOU DID IT FOR ME.’”
I have been lulled by his soft rolling accent, but now I lift my head and listen intently.
“Then HE will say to those on HIS left HAND,‘The curse is upon you; go from my sight to the eternal fire that is ready for the devil and HIS angels. For when I was HUNGRY you gave me nothing to eat, when thirsty nothing to drink; when I was a stranger you gave me no HOME; when naked you did not clothe me; when I was ill and in prison you did not come to my HELP.’ And they too will reply, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you HUNGRY or thirsty or a stranger or naked or ill or in prison, and did nothing for you.’ And HE will answer, ‘I tell you this: anything you did not do for one of these, ’owever HUMBLE – HOWEVER ’UMBLE – you did not do for me …’”
Everyone rustles and rumbles to their knees. I peek out from between the fingers which cover my face as he walks proudly back to his seat. I think Aunty Joyce and I both feel relieved that it is over, and I feel oddly protective of him as he kneels beside me in a sweat. I stick two thumbs in the air to show my approval, and I can’t help cupping my fingers and commenting, in a loud whisper, “Fackin’ ace!”
He shoots me a furious glance, and she rolls her eyes in despair. I put my palms together and pray loudly:
“Our Father, which art in Heaven, Harold be Thy name …”
The next day we are just starting tea when there is a visitor. It is really frustrating because there is half an apple pie to finish up and I have been looking forward to it. But it turns out to be someone Uncle Jack and Aunty Joyce are honoured to see. At last I am to meet Mr Fairly Himself.
He comes alone and strides into the front room before Aunty Joyce has time to suggest it. Uncle Jack is soon up from the table and wiping the jam from his mouth. He barges past me with an outstretched arm for Mr Fairly.
“Mr Fairly – Charles, delighted to see you!” He seems to have got a new voice altogether. “To what do we owe this pleasure? Do take a seat.”
I loll around the doorway pretending to examine the paintwork. He is shorter than Uncle Jack but somehow quite imposing.
“This must be Betty!” he booms, smiling, as he catches sight of me fingering the wallpaper. I step forward and look him in the eyes. They are pale blue with pupils like full stops.
“I’m Kitty,” I say. “Not Betty.”
Aunty Joyce laughs like a bell chime and whisks me away to make a cup of tea. “She’s from London!” she chirps over her shoulder, as if to apologize for me, and hisses, “Don’t be so rude!” as soon as we reach the parlour.
We watch the kettle boil on the range and say nothing. Every time I’m about to open my mouth she sends me to fetch cups or wash spoons. From the front room we can catch words like ‘unhealthy’ and ‘stop’ from time to time.
“I should’ve made a cake today – I was going to, wasn’t I? Oh hang! I haven’t even any biscuits. What am I going to offer him? Look in the biscuit tin, Kitty.”
I lift the lid of a rectangular tin and a stale smell comes out. There is half a malted biscuit that must have been there for weeks.
“The apple pie!” Joyce is triumphant. She snatches it from the table and cuts a huge wedge from it, placing it in one of the china bowls we never use from the dresser.
I hold open the door as Aunty Joyce takes in the tray.
“Tea, Mr Fairly – Charles.”
It is as if they have been given leave to call him by his Christian name but can’t quite believe they deserve it.
“I’m ever so sorry there’s no biscuits, but would you like some apple pie?”
“Well, really, this was only a fleeting visit …” Then he eyes the pie and moistens his lips. “Well … it does look delicious, Joyce. Perhaps I will be tempted. But then I must fly.”
Aunty Joyce sits with them and I am shooed away as Mr Fairly mu
nches his way through half of our evening meal. I alternately sit by the shoes in the hall or drape myself around the parlour door, listening carefully.
“I’ve told Jack it’s got to stop … I’m worried for the girl. She’s only – how old is she? Nine? Eight? Well … I ask you … I’m afraid boys of thirteen …” and then his voice becomes lower and it is harder to make things out. “… Boys’ home lads … Tommy … there’s no … what he’ll get up to … but you … the blame if anything happens to her.”
Then his voice is suddenly louder: “Please – now I’ve upset you, Joyce – I’m so sorry.” And I can hear Aunty Joyce sounding muffled and upset, and then offering him more apple pie, and he accepts!
Out pops Joyce’s head smiling meekly; she says, “Fetch some more pie, there’s a poppet, and use a clean plate! And put the kettle on!”
He’s just finishing the pie, when Aunty Joyce springs towards my tray in the hall and grabs the pot. “More tea?”
“No, thank you, I’d best be off.” He stands up, brushing the crumbs from his trousers on to Aunty Joyce’s spotless floor rug. “I hope you don’t mind my calling round, but you can see how serious this could be.”
“Of course. Indeed,” says Uncle Jack, in his voice borrowed from the Gaumont cinema screen. “Well, many thanks for letting us know, Mr Fairly – Charles.”
“Bye-bye, Betty!” he says, stroking me under the chin, and beaming.
“Bye-bye, Mr Hairy,” I say in my own best toff’s voice. He chuckles amiably.
“And you look after Mr and Mrs Shepherd, now. They’re very special people.”
Aunty Joyce and Uncle Jack glow as they see him off.
So, that is Mr Fairly. He has come with a very mysterious message. He is smiling and friendly and important. And he has eaten all our pie.
