Orphan of Angel Street

by Annie Murray

  Mercy stood with everyone else until the twins reached the corner and disappeared, still waving. She felt strange and shocked. One moment he had been there, so close, now he was gone. She put her hand to her lips as if to seal his kiss.

  Walking home that evening from the bus stop on the Moseley Road, Mercy thought of Tom as she’d done almost every moment since he left. At first she had felt only astonishment. Tom, whom she’d known all these years, in love with her! As she grew used to the idea, recalled again and again his look, his words to her, she bubbled inside with the warm excitement this knowledge aroused in her. All this time and she’d never known – someone other than Susan found it possible to love her! More and more she knew she was in love with him in return, loved him for his gentleness and solidity, his kindness. Above all she loved him for loving her.

  She’d felt differently about everything since Tom and Johnny left. The War had moved closer, to her doorstep, her heart. She knew that soon they would be sent to the Front, and then all she could do would be worry and pray.

  She also felt an enormous sense of restlessness come over her, as if between them they had prised open a chink in her mind and let in a view she’d never seen before. There was so much more to life and the world than she ever saw, and the twins had stepped out into it.

  Turning into the entry, she felt exhausted and prickly with an unfamiliar kind of irritation. She was sixteen, grown up. Was this grimy yard in a grimy city, living with a woman she loathed all she was ever going to see of life?

  Perhaps I was wrong, she thought. I should’ve taken up Dorothy’s offer of that job, and I wouldn’t be churning out grenades day after day. But that would have meant leaving Susan . . .

  She entered the house rubbing her stiff neck and taking a deep breath, preparing herself to be as civil as she could manage to Mabel. Life felt like one long struggle.

  ‘You all right?’ Susan asked her brightly, as George shrieked at the sight of her.

  ‘I’ll survive.’ She sank on to the settle.

  ‘Mom – give ’er a cup of tea,’ Susan instructed Mabel who was on her way downstairs. ‘This job’s wearing ’er out!’

  ‘Dear oh dear,’ Mabel said sarcastically.

  ‘Could be worse,’ Mercy said, ignoring her. ‘I could be shell-filling like Cathleen. I hate to think what’s in them shells. I saw ’er again yesterday and she’s yellow as a canary, right down to ’er scalp!’

  Mercy drank her tea and tried to smile, trying to shake off her restless feelings. After all, this was home. If it meant living with Mabel still, so be it. She belonged here. She had Susan whatever else. And Tom. Each time she remembered there came a rush of joy. Dear Tom.

  *

  Things had changed a fair bit in Nine Court over the past year and a half. The two cottages with their scrubby gardens had new tenants: the Ripleys and the McGonegalls. Mary Jones complained that the Ripleys were a ‘right rough crew’, and the yard was like bedlam with all their children everywhere, but she moaned a bit less when they turned out to be good company for her own.

  But there had been one change which had taken everyone’s breath away. Christmas Day of 1914 after Mabel first showed herself in the yard again, Mary Jones came roaring out of her house and spat in her face.

  ‘Where is ’e then?’ she shrieked at Mabel. ‘Where’s that bastard now?’

  Other choice words followed and the neighbours began to open their doors and enjoy a free show on this frosty morning. But it was all a damp squib so far as neighbourhood entertainment went.

  To everyone’s astonishment, Mabel stood tall, silently drew her sleeve across her face to wipe off Mary’s spit and refused to be riled into fighting back. Mercy watched with everyone else. Blimey, she thought. What’s come over her?

  ‘I dunno where ’e is,’ Mabel said. ‘Not exactly any’ow.’

  ‘Did ’e leave yer to join up?’ Mary’s face puckered into a vicious sneer. ‘Went off to do ’is bit and you couldn’t stand being left be’ind?’

  ‘Look, Mary,’ Mabel clamped her hands on her hips. ‘Stan left me for another woman and I don’t know where they’ve gone. ’E just ran out on me. But I know, and so should you – if ’e hadn’t left you for me, it’d’ve been someone else.’

  ‘’E never looked at another woman ’til you come along!’ Mary yelled, although the wind was fast disappearing from her sails. It was her right, her role to have a go at Mabel, expected almost. But she didn’t want Stan back. She just wanted someone to take it all out on, being left alone, the relentless hardship of her life.

  ‘Think what you like,’ Mabel said calmly. ‘But I’ve had a lot of hard thinking to do and I’ve got a suggestion to make to you – for your own benefit.’ She looked round, on her dignity at the people strung across the yard. ‘Why don’t we go in your ’ouse and discuss it where there ain’t so many pairs of ears flapping?’

  ‘You – in my ’ouse! You’ve got some nerve!’ Mary looked meaningfully over at Elsie, waiting to be backed up, but Elsie shrugged in her doorway, keeping out of it.

  ‘Come in mine then.’

  Mary wavered, though her face was still taut and defiant. ‘No.’

  ‘So – it’ll have to be yours—’

  Mabel, the older and by far the more forceful of the two, ushered Mary Jones into her own house. The door closed. Outside, everyone looked at one another and Susan whispered to Mercy, ‘What’s come over ’er?’

  Stan had left Mabel a fortnight before and in that time she felt she had scraped the rock bottom of her life. Here she was at forty-one, left alone in two squalid, bug-ridden rooms above an Aston fish shop, the stench of it forever in her nostrils. She’d been deserted by the man she’d run after with such paltry hopes. She’d abandoned her only surviving daughter, and her last hope of having another healthy child had ended in a painful, bloody failure at which Stan had shown not an ounce of sorrow or disappointment.

  One terrible, grey day when the clouds sat like a heavy lid on top of the city she’d sat in that dreary room. There was a speckled mirror fixed over a battered vanity table. Mabel leant close, peering short-sightedly at her face. She still didn’t feel right after losing the infant. Her face was pale and sagging, hair and eyes lifeless. She reminded herself of a corpse and that was how she felt. The living dead. And at that moment she felt enough shame and hatred for herself to go and finish it all for good in the canal.

  Her life had had its low points before, no doubt about that. But none of the other things that had happened had been of her own making. What would she say of any other woman who had run out on her child? And she missed Susan. Deep in her guts she missed her and was overwhelmed with grief and shame.

  ‘Why’ve you come back?’ Mary Jones demanded, holding Paul on her lap and keeping up her expression of bitter hostility.

  ‘I’ve come back to my daughter.’ Mabel didn’t sit down, but took a stance stiffly just inside the door, arms folded. ‘Did you know I was carrying ’is child?’

  Mary’s hand moved up to her mouth, eyes widening. ‘My God – you never—’

  ‘I lost it. Natural. I never wanted to get rid of it. I’ve two dead babbies already.’ Her voice was hard, defiant almost.

  Mary lowered her hand and continued to stare mutely at her. She had never known the first thing about this woman before.

  ‘I’ve had to take a good look at myself and I haven’t liked what I’ve seen. So I said to myself, “Mabel, you can stay ’ere on yer own like a fallen woman for the rest of your life and die lonely, or you can go back there, ask your daughter’s forgiveness, and make amends.” ’ She paused. ‘What I think is, we should both try and put it behind us and I’ll help you out. I know what it’s like bringing up babbies on your own. I’m part of the cause, so I’ll do my bit. There.’

  Mary allowed herself a bitter laugh. ‘Oh – you steal my husband and come in ’ere thinking you can eat humble pie and we’re all going to turn round and say “Oh that’s awright Mabel, welco
me back?” ’

  ‘I never stole your ’usband. ’E wasn’t a child – ’e chose to go and walked right out and as I said to you, if it hadn’t happened now it would’ve later. ’E’s a worthless, selfish good for nothing and you know it.’

  ‘Well if ’e was so bloody terrible, what d’yer take off with ’im for?’

  Mabel looked her right in the eyes. ‘I wanted someone. It’s been a long time.’

  There was silence as the two woman stared each other out. Finally, Mary shook her head. ‘Both got bloody bad taste, ’aven’t we?’

  When Mabel arrived home, Mercy felt as if she were being put back in prison.

  ‘We need to make a fresh start,’ Mabel said to them that same day, her hair brushing Mercy’s little homemade streamers. She was struggling to remain calm. She’d already eaten humble pie for Mary Jones and now she’d have to do it again, but by God this was tougher by half. She could feel all her aversion flooding back towards this mardy little blonde child. No, she saw, not child. Not any more. Two young women were before her, who’d struggled and managed to run their lives almost alone.

  ‘I don’t want to live out my life with everyone hating me,’ she admitted.

  ‘Well it’d have paid you to think of that a bit sooner!’ Mercy blurted out. She’d spent the night sleepless with anguish at Mabel’s return, despite her relief on Susan’s behalf.

  ‘We don’t hate you, Mom!’ Susan was overwhelmed that her mother had returned. ‘Mercy, I know Mom’s treated yer bad in the past, but it won’t be like that from now on, will it?’ She looked at each of them with huge, spaniel eyes.

  ‘I owe you, Mercy,’ Mabel said gruffly. She’d known this was going to be damned humiliating and she wasn’t going to back out now. Being left alone had been so much worse. ‘You’ve looked out for Susan when I went off and left her. I had my reasons – I want you to know that—’

  ‘Just don’t come back ’ere thinking you can take over and start carrying on how you was before,’ Mercy burst out furiously, all aquiver. ‘There’ve been some changes around ’ere and we’ve all managed perfectly well without you.’

  ‘So I see.’ Mabel’s gaze travelled over the new furniture.

  ‘The wheelchair’s indoors for good,’ Mercy decreed, as if everything hung on this.

  ‘It’s much better,’ Susan backed her up, trying to please Mercy and appeal to Mabel at the same time. ‘I can do so much more and the sewing’s been going ever so well – before the War it was any’ow.’

  ‘I’m glad for yer,’ Mabel said carefully. Mercy watched her through narrowed eyes, arms clasped defensively across her body. However hard Mabel’s return was to swallow, she was here, and for Susan’s sake she was going to have to learn to put up with her.

  It was only a matter of time before things blew up. Mercy didn’t believe a word of Mabel’s claims of repentance and neighbourliness. She had no understanding of the course Mabel’s emotions had taken over the years, did not know anyone might try to change out of need and self-revulsion.

  Mabel did everything she could to ingratiate herself with Mercy and Susan and with the neighbours, especially Mary Jones. She started to pay attention to Mary’s kids. The two women even had a laugh together. But Mercy watched her, mistrustful.

  Mabel didn’t have a job at this time and was doing the shopping, something Mercy found hard to make time for, except for bread which back then she could still get from Wrigley’s.

  She’d asked Mabel to get cheap meat for stewing. Mabel not only came home with fish instead but managed to forget about it and burn it almost to a cinder. It was two women, a kitchen stove and so much more besides.

  ‘So you can’t get the shopping right and then you serve us up with cowing charcoal for our tea!’ Mercy, already living on her nerves, flew straight off the handle as she came to the table.

  ‘Less of your lip – I was doing my best. I just ’ad to nip out! At least I was getting on with the cooking instead of waiting for you.’

  ‘I don’t want you doing it!’ Mercy’s eyes held an icy loathing. ‘We haven’t needed you for a long time and we don’t need you now!’

  Without thinking Mabel whipped out and slapped Mercy hard on the cheek. The girl’s hand flew up to her face.

  ‘What’re you going to do now?’ Mabel sneered. ‘Call the welfare people? Don’t think they’d be interested at your age, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Mercy’s voice was clipped, chilling. ‘This is what I’m going to do.’

  She strode round the table, eyes never leaving Mabel’s face, and her fist landed on Mabel’s nose with all the force she was capable of.

  Mabel reeled, eyes screwed shut in pain, gasping.

  Mercy put her face right up close to her. ‘Just remember,’ she hissed, ‘you don’t hit me, Mabel. Not ever again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mercy stood aghast in the doorway of the Peppers’. Rosalie was lying on the hearthrug letting out heartbroken sobs as Bummy, Cathleen and Elsie stood or sat round the table, faces bruised with shock. The letter lay on the table.

  ‘Frank?’

  Their faces told her it was so, but no words would come.

  ‘D’you want—’ Mercy’s throat had tightened so much she could barely speak either. ‘Shall I go for Josephine?’

  ‘Jack’s gone.’ Elsie’s voice had a far away sound to it and she spoke uncertainly, as if she’d forgotten how to use words.

  Mercy went to Rosalie, sat beside her and pulled her across her lap. Rosalie was small for an eight-year-old, and skinny. Her hands were clenched to her face and wet from the tears squeezing out between them. ‘I want Frankie!’

  Mercy felt her body jerking with sobs. ‘I know love,’ she said softly, rocking the bony little body. ‘I know you do.’ Cathleen also had tears running down her sallow face.

  Bummy Pepper sat at the table, a stunned expression on his face, rubbing his hand again and again over his stubbly chin. After a time he pushed the chair back and walked out of the house without saying a word.

  Mercy’s eyes followed him.

  ‘’S’awright – ’e’ll’ve gone down the Angel. ’E’ll be back after a couple of pints.’ Elsie had turned, within hours, from a woman who looked young for fifty to one who seemed much older. She sank on to her husband’s chair by the table.

  ‘Oh Frank. Oh God, my little Frankie. I can’t even give ’im a decent burial.’

  Soon after, in a corner of the yard up by the brewhouse wall appeared a cross about a foot high made from two pieces of smooth wood nailed together. Above it, a Union Jack was tacked to the wall.

  ‘What’s all that?’ Mercy asked coming in from work. Under the flag lay a bunch of white lilies.

  ‘It’s Elsie’s,’ Susan said. ‘For Frank. She’s bin out there ’alf the day. I ’ope she’s awright – seems to be acting a bit funny to me.’

  Mabel peered out at the little home-made shrine across the yard. ‘Nah,’ she said with authority. ‘It’s natural enough. She wants to do summat for ’im.’

  There were similar little offerings to be seen out on the streets, rolls of honour, flags and flowers for dead sons, fathers, brothers.

  Elsie got into the habit of standing for a few moments in front of hers almost every time she passed it, going about her chores. The day after she’d laid her little memorial to Frank and was standing before it, her body one endless ache of sorrow, she heard someone else come up from behind and stand by her. Then Mabel stepped forward, laid another bunch of flowers close by the others and stood straight again, wiping her hands on her apron. Neither woman spoke, nor did they look at each other.

  *

  Tom and Johnny came home on leave for the first time in November, striding in large as life one wet midday. Elsie fell on them both, drawing them tight into her arms.

  ‘Mom!’ Johnny struggled as she kissed his face. ‘Go easy – you’ll squeeze all the breath out of us!’ He shook her off, embarrassed. Tom kept one hand on his mom’s shou
lder, silently offering comfort, not knowing what to say about Frank.

  ‘You’re both bigger!’ Elsie cried, wiping her eyes. ‘Oh my God, look at the pair of yer!’ They seemed enormous suddenly in her tiny house. ‘Wait ’til yer dad sees yer! ’Ere – you hungry?’

  ‘When aren’t we?’ Tom said. ‘We could do with some decent grub, I can tell yer.’

  Elsie smiled with a mixture of pride and sorrow as her two strapping, now much more muscular sons swung their kitbags on to the sofa and settled themselves at the table. She scurried around preparing food to hide the tears that kept welling up. Tom looked so like Frank now. Cross with herself she wiped her eyes. Enough of this – she had the twins home for a whole week. There’d be time aplenty to dwell on sorrow.

  The two of them tucked in, munching like a couple of bulls, Elsie thought fondly. She’d bought all the food they could possibly afford.

  ‘Rosalie’s crazy to see yer,’ she told them. ‘She’s taken it ever so bad over . . .’ Everything seemed to lead to it. Frank dead, gone. She was weeping, hadn’t meant to . . .

  ‘Eh, Mom!’ Tom was up, an arm round her shoulders, struggling to control his own emotion. He’d been close to Frank, looked up to him. Both boys did their best to jolly her out of her crying.

  ‘We’ll take you out and about now we’re ’ome,’ Johnny said. ‘Give you a break. Don’t you cry, Mom. Us two’ll look after each other when we get out there. We’ll be all right, we will.’

  ‘I’m awright . . .’ Elsie forced a smile, pushing them down in front of their plates again. ‘It’ll be cold else. There’s more spud.’ She scraped round the pan. ‘Come on – let’s try and be cheerful.’

  After a few moments Tom asked, ever so casually, ‘’Ow’s Mercy?’

  A twinkle appeared in Elsie eyes. ‘Why – who’s asking?’

  He’d written to her from the training camp three times since he’d been away. Pictured her in his mind coming home, finding his letter . . . Reading it with a smile on her face. Every night, lying on the hard ground in his tent it was Mercy who filled his mind. Her often solemn little face breaking into a smile for him, her teeth, small and slightly uneven which made the smile special for him. Made her Mercy. But she was still awesome to him now she was grown up. He thought of her startling pale hair, pale neck curving down into a lace collar. He’d started following that curve further in his mind, imagining how she might look. Smooth, very white, except for those two round . . . Tom remembered seeing his mom suckling Rosalie, her breasts huge with milk. He couldn’t stop thinking of the tender, swelling shapes under Mercy’s blouse. He was certain he was always the last in his tent to get to sleep, dreaming about her.