Mrs Ramsgate was only just five foot tall and as round as she was long. She was also the worst gossip this side of Sheffield. Usually she would spread her scandal then scurry off indoors, but there was no hiding from Amy Butler, who stood on her doorstep, arms firmly folded and a cloth hanging over one of them.
‘Amy?’ Mrs Ramsgate addressed her neighbour of many years.
‘Mrs Butler to you. What’s this you’ve been saying about my lass?’
‘What?’ The other woman shuffled her feet uncomfortably in their filthy old carpet slippers, wondering what Amy had heard. ‘I ’aven’t said owt except how lovely she looked in ’er wedding gown and veil.’
‘Yes, she did. In a white gown and veil she should never ’ave been wearing, seeing as she’s almost six months gone.’ Amy raised her voice then so that all the neighbours could hear. ‘But at least she had a wedding gown and veil, and a ring on her finger – which is more than can be said for your Florence, who went sneaking off to Blackpool or somewhere on pretence of being a waitress when all the time she had gone to bear a child, a poor little mite she had to give away to strangers – all because she didn’t ’ave a mother who’d stand by her.
‘Well, I’ll tell you this, Kitty Ramsgate, wedding ring or not, no grandchild of mine would ever be parted with, even if I ’ad to bring it up meself. And just because me daughter’s misbehaved herself, it don’t give you the right to call ’er names, because it isn’t any business of yours or anybody else’s!’
Amy Butler unfolded her arms and handed the cloth to the red-faced woman before her. ‘And here’s a floor cloth. Yer filthy doorstep ’asn’t seen a bucket of water for weeks!’
Kitty Ramsgate waited until her neighbour had made her slow departure then called after her, ‘Say what yer like, she’s still a flighty bitch.’
Amy continued imperturbably on her way as she answered over her shoulder, ‘Maybe, but at least she’s a clean one.’
Confrontations such as this were commonplace on all the rows but never before had Amy Butler or any of her family been involved in one. Scenes like this had always been beneath them previously and Amy felt secretly ashamed that she had lowered herself. Even so, neighbours who had respected her as a good friend for years were delighted by the way she had put the Ramsgate woman in her place; her shoddy ways and scandal-mongering were felt to have lowered the tone of Potters Row.
Mrs Firth nodded to Amy as she passed her door. ‘You’re right, Mrs Butler, she is a dirty bugger.’
‘I didn’t call her that.’
‘No, but she is. I bet if she took ’er curtains down they’d drop to bits. Eeh, but I didn’t know about their Florence. I thought she was such a nice lass.’
‘She is, but what chance had she got with a mother like that?’ Amy sighed. ‘I reckon the poor little mite she had was better off adopted. Though I’m sorry I said what I did now.’
Then she went home, put the kettle on and mashed herself a pot of tea. She was still trembling, glad she’d put the woman in her place but just as ashamed of their Betty. The awful thing was that she knew the other woman was right. Her daughter was a flighty little piece, and the man she’d married didn’t seem much better either. In fact, Amy doubted he had wanted to marry Betty at all. Well, at least he had done what was right and made an honest woman of her, but marriage shouldn’t be about doing the right thing, it should be about love – the kind of love she had felt for her George. Right up to the day he died they had loved and cherished each other, as they had promised to on their wedding day. Through sickness and in health … and God knows there had been enough sickness on George’s part, what with his weak heart and his lungs full of coal dust.
She could almost hear him now, sighing, ‘Eeh, Amy lass, I’m neither use nor ornament.’ Through all the pain and weakness he had apologised to her, when in truth he had been the love, light and mainstay of Amy’s life. She would give both her legs to have him back – not that they were much to write home about these days.
That was what love was all about: putting somebody else first; knowing them as well as you knew yourself; loving them the same in the morning while scrubbing the pit muck from their clothes as you did at night when each warm body was comforting the other. That was love.
Oh, well, it was no use crying over spilled milk now. Their Betty and Clarence Hayes had made their bed and they’d have to lie on it. Amy giggled to herself at last. At least she’d done the row a favour if Kitty Ramsgate had been shamed into cleaning her doorstep. It had shown them all up for long enough, that doorstep. Amy might take her a wash leather if that had worked and tell her about her mucky windows. Potters Row was a nice, respectable place in which to live … Amy frowned to herself. Even with their Betty in it.
Daisy watched Norah and Pat cross the field to school. Then she saw the Dawson boys from Taylors Row and Stanley Porter, all running at the last minute. How she wished she could go with them. When she started school Daisy would never be late, she wouldn’t want to miss a minute of it.
She wandered over to the sycamore tree and began to sing as she circled the old weathered trunk: ‘… the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.’ She hated school days when there was no one to play with. Next she skipped along the row to Mrs Firth’s. Daisy loved Mrs Firth, who always had either puppies or kittens in the cupboard beside the fire. Once Mr Firth even brought a piglet from his father’s farm and kept it until it was strong enough to go home. The Firths loved all living things, and Daisy loved them.
Once she had taken Baby Doll and her nightdress and gone to live at their house. That was because of the dirty dumplings. Mam had said the dirty bits were just herbs, to add flavour, but there was no way Daisy was going to eat dirty dumplings. Dad said she could either eat them or go without dinner, and no wonder she was all skin and bone. So Daisy had gone to live with the Firths.
Mrs Firth had let her stay until teatime and then sent her home as Mam and Dad would be missing her. Mrs Firth had given her a rolled-up brandysnap to take back for tea. Leaving home hadn’t done any good. Mam said if all Daisy would eat were things with no goodness in them she would have to have a tonic, so every day now she had to take a large spoonful of Virol. She thought even dirty dumplings might taste better than that horrid, brown sticky stuff.
Mrs Firth was out today and Daisy was feeling bored. She went through the gap in the dry stone wall and picked some fluffy pussy willows, then she saw some pretty yellow flowers further along the row and decided to pick some for Grandma Butler. They looked lovely with the pussy willows. Grandma asked where she had found them and cringed when Daisy showed her.
Of all the gardens on the row, Miss Appleby’s was the most perfect. Each plant was set an exact distance from the next, each row colour-matched so that the flowerbed formed a tidy pattern of purple crocus and golden daffodils. Now there were spaces in the border where Daisy had plucked her flowers. Spaces that stuck out a mile.
‘Oh, love,’ Grandma sighed. ‘Why did you have to pick them from that particular garden?’
‘Because they were the best flowers,’ said Daisy.
Sally smacked her daughter’s leg and took her to apologise to Miss Appleby, who looked as though she might have a seizure as she surveyed the ruined border.
‘Well, I don’t know what our Donald will say, I’m sure.’
It was Miss Appleby’s nephew who had planted the spring bulbs. Sally could have pointed out that as the woman’s nephew called so rarely, the flowers would probably be dead anyway by the time he next visited. But all she said was, ‘Well, at least the bulbs aren’t damaged for next year.’ She hurried Daisy home then, gave her a glass of milk and threatened to hold her nose if she didn’t drink it. Then she took the sulking child down the Donkey Path to buy a nice bunch of flowers for Miss Appleby.
The poor woman had looked so pained that Daisy felt remorseful.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said when they gave her the flowers, ‘but it’s my mam’s fault for not letting me go to school
.’ Then she turned an accusing eye on Sally.
Miss Appleby took one look at Daisy’s indignant expression and smiled. Sally was astounded. In all the years she had known her, the woman had never been seen to do that before.
‘Our Daisy’s getting spoiled,’ Jim informed his wife when he heard about the shenanigans.
‘No, Jim, she’s just bored. Ready for school, that’s her trouble.’
‘Well, she’ll have to wait, and boredom doesn’t give ’er the right to go helping ’erself to owt she fancies.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Especially the Appleby woman’s treasured blooms.’ He couldn’t help grinning then. ‘I’d ’ave given owt to see her face when she surveyed the damage.’
‘Well, at least she smiled later, which in itself was a miracle.’ Sally frowned. ‘She’s nobody to play with when they’re all at school. Our Daisy, not Miss Appleby.’
‘No, she needs a brother or sister.’
‘Really?’ Sally’s face lit up. ‘Wouldn’t you mind?’
‘Well, the way I see it, the way we’ve been carrying on it’s a wonder it hasn’t happened already.’
‘But after our Daisy was born, you said one was enough?’
‘Aye, I did, but the death of Tom’s baby made me realise how precious a child can be. Besides, what if anything happened to our Daisy? I know we could never replace ’er, and it doesn’t bear thinking about, but aye, I think we should ’ave another.’
‘Oh, Jim, I’m so glad. And our Daisy’ll be made up.’
‘ ’Ere, hold on, it ’asn’t happened yet. Besides, what about old Walter? You’ve got your hands full enough there.’
Sally’s eyes filled. ‘I don’t think he’ll be here for much longer, Jim. He’s just sleeping the whole time now.’
‘I suppose it’d be a blessing if he went then. What about that niece of his? Has she been to see him yet?’
‘No! Do you think I was right to let her know? My mother said I should.’
‘Maybe. After all, he is ninety-nine, can’t ’ave long left.’
‘But she knows that, and despite the letter I sent she still hasn’t bothered to get in touch.’
Sally finished ironing the pillow cases off Walter Jessops’ bed and hung them over the fireguard to air. She had been looking after old Mr Jessops for ten years now; had done his shopping from being a little girl not much older than Daisy was. Sally’s grandmother and Mrs Jessops had been lifelong friends, and Sally had been treated almost like a daughter by the lovely old couple, the child they had always wanted but had never conceived.
Years before, their niece Charlotte had filled that gap in their lives. Then, in their twilight years, just when they had needed her, she had deserted the old couple. Mrs Jessops, partially paralysed by a stroke, had longed for contact with her niece but her letters had been ignored. Sally had done the best she could to comfort her late grandmother’s friend. A fading Mrs Jessops had begged her to look after her beloved Walter. Of course, Sally had agreed, little realising the number of years her promise would have to be kept. So for the last ten years she had cleaned, shopped and cooked for him, and brought home his washing, even putting Jim second on occasions, much to his dismay. Especially during their courtship when he had wanted Sally all to himself. Being an unselfish soul, however, and knowing her generous nature could never be changed, he had accepted that old Walter would have to be cared for as long as he survived.
‘If he gets any worse, I’ll send for her again,’ Sally decided, referring to Charlotte.
Jim shrugged. ‘Doubt if she’ll take any notice,’ he said. ‘Besides, if he gets any worse, he’d be better off in hospital.’ Though he knew deep down that Sally would carry on looking after the old man to the bitter end.
Amy Butler hobbled along the row on her morning visit to see her daughter-in-law and grand-daughter. Daisy would no doubt succeed in taking her mind off their Betty. The little girl ran to meet her and threw her arms round her grandma’s legs.
‘Hold on! Wi’ my legs, I’m likely to topple over if you unbalance me like that.’ So Daisy took her hand and carefully helped the elderly woman up the step and into the kitchen.
‘The kettle’s boiled, you’ve just come right.’ Sally poured the water into the teapot and stood it on a tray.
‘We’ve got some biscuits!’ Daisy stood up on a chair and brought a biscuit barrel down from the cupboard as Amy flopped on to a kitchen chair by the table.
‘You look tired,’ Sally said. ‘Didn’t you sleep again?’
‘Not a wink. Hadn’t a chance wi’ the row going on across the landing.’
Sally frowned. ‘What was it about this time?’
‘Money, or rather the lack of it. Betty wants to give up work, says she’s too tired … more like too idle, if you ask me! I mean, it’s not as if she’s a heavy job. All she does is work one of those adding machines, settling the wages and things. He says she could work for at least another month. After all, she’s not very big yet. I agree with Clarence, for once. It would buy a few things for the baby. Besides, they need to start getting things together for when they have their own place. Though God knows when that’ll be, with a war on.’
‘There’s bound to be somewhere to rent some time soon,’ Sally reassured her. ‘She should get their names down on the council list anyway.’
Daisy thought Grandma Butler looked sad and climbed on her knee to cuddle her.
‘Oh, Sally, I don’t know how they’ll end up! Arguments every night … that’s if he hasn’t stormed out and gone to the pub. What an atmosphere into which to bring an innocent child. And that’s another thing … neither of ’em seems to want the baby.’
Daisy lifted her head from the comfort of her grandma’s ample bosom. ‘Can we have it, Mam? If Aunty Betty doesn’t want it, can we have the new baby? We’ve still got my cot and pram.’
Amy’s face brightened up; Daisy always cheered her. She nibbled at a digestive biscuit. ‘We’d better be careful what we say from now on. Little pigs ’ave big ears.’
‘What little pigs?’ Daisy enquired.
Grandma slithered her down to the floor. ‘I’d better be off, there’s the washing to peg out. And that’s another thing … all’t washing and ironing. Betty never strikes a bat when she comes ’ome of a night, and ’im with a clean shirt on every day. All that standing ironing plays ’avoc wi’ my legs.’
‘She’ll have to be told, Ma. You don’t need that at your age.’
‘Oh, I’m all right, apart from me legs.’
‘Are they worse? The ulcers, I mean.’
‘No better, lass. Well, I’d best be off.’
‘Can I come?’ Daisy pleaded.
‘Not today,’ Sally said. ‘Grandma needs to rest.’
‘Aye, yer can come another day,’ Amy said, sighing wearily as she hobbled off along the row. Sally vowed to have a word with Jim about their Betty. She must be told to pull her weight. Though she feared it would take more than words to get his sister to mend her ways. The rumours were right: Betty Butler always had been a flighty little piece, and Sally doubted if Betty Hayes would ever change for the better.
Sunday school wasn’t nearly as exciting as day school, or so Daisy imagined, but today there was a special Easter service which was to take place in the big chapel instead of the dark, dismal lecture room. Each child had made crosses out of card and decorated them with catkins and flowers, in Daisy’s case some purple primulas from the garden. The children were to present their handwork to all the parents and grandparents.
Daisy looked like an angel in her shortened pink bridesmaid’s dress as she tripped down the aisle by her cousin Norah’s side, carrying her crosses in a strawberry basket. She loved the big chapel with its coloured windows casting reflections on the wall, and the smell of polish, dusty old hymn books and flowers, though usually Sunday school meant boring stories and boys who pulled her hair and tipped the girls’ chairs backwards.
Mam looked pretty today in her best dress and hat, sta
nding with Aunty Enid and Grandma Denman who came to chapel regularly, following in the long tradition of the Denman family whose graves took up a large section of the graveyard. Grandma Butler was also in the congregation, standing with her friends from the Sisterhood.
Daisy took a cross to Grandma Butler, who gave her a hug and a kiss. Norah gave one to Grandma Denman, who didn’t hug and kiss as much as Grandma Butler, though Daisy loved her just the same.
After the crosses were handed out the rest of the service was boring, except for the hymns, and even then Daisy didn’t know the words. When she went to school she would be able to read the hymn books. Today, however, Daisy was happy. For two weeks in the holidays she would have Norah and Stanley to play with. In the meantime there was Sunday tea and the evening walk to enjoy.
Usually on Sundays Aunty Enid and Uncle Bernard and their daughters Pat and Norah would accompany Daisy and her parents on a walk. Daisy’s favourite was to Sheepdip Wood, where they could throw leaves into the muddy stream and watch them float away all the way to the sea or fairyland or other wonderful places. Tonight, however, they were going in the opposite direction, up past the golf club and the flat-roofed house where Daisy had always thought Jesus lived, until Mam explained that Jesus lived in Heaven with baby Celia and the angels. It was all most confusing, due to the picture given to the children at Sunday school: Jesus’ house definitely looked like the one on the way to the common.
When they reached the farm Dippy had to be put on his lead until they’d left the cattle behind, and once they climbed the stile out on the moor Daisy clung to her mam’s hand. She had heard Aunty Enid talking about a ghost lady who walked here, and though Daisy didn’t know much about ghosts it always seemed scary when Stanley and Norah talked about them. Out on the common Jim always crouched down on the rocks to breathe in the pure Yorkshire air and drink in the view.
It was certainly worth drinking in. Fields of every shade of green were dotted here and there by grey farmsteads and bordered by dry stone walls. In the distance tall crags towered upwards, reflecting the colours of the setting sun. The whole scene was seen in reverse reflected in the long, shimmering reservoir, painted in the evening glow of gold, orange and warm, rosy purple. Even Dippy seemed content to lie down and gaze out at the scene. Only Daisy and her cousins were impatient to be off, knowing that Sunday walks always happened to lead in the direction of a country pub, and lemonade and crisps.
The Ever Open Door Page 2
