by Annie Murray
‘Goodbye, Margaret,’ she whispered. Her throat ached with unshed tears.
Carrying her bundle, she stepped out into the misty garden.
Light began to finger the edges of the city as she walked down the Moseley Road and the mist slowly cleared. She didn’t hurry. No one was awake, she wouldn’t be missed, and besides, she hadn’t the strength. She pulled her coat round her in the cool air. She hadn’t been able to bring all the clothes Margaret had generously supplied her with, but she kept the blue overcoat.
Down the hill she walked, into Balsall Heath, and how much it felt as if she was sinking down! As the light grew firmer it highlighted the grime and delapidation of the place, the filthy cobbled road, the smoking chimneys which coated everything in muck. The buildings shrank to small, menial dwellings, shops and workshops, houses with yards squeezed in behind. She had left her temporary dream life of the big, well-appointed house, and as her feet trod the road towards Birmingham, she felt as if the streets were closing in on her, claiming her. A slum child, returning to her rightful place in the slums. She found herself thinking of Yola Petrowski, the kinship she felt as if they were sisters, even though they hadn’t a single word of language in common. They were two of a kind: poor and needy. She remembered baby Peschka and felt a moment of exaltation – she too was going to have a child! – followed by a sinking desolation. She had no Tomek. There was no one for her.
She stopped for a moment, slipping her hand inside the bundle. A car backfired, breaking the silence and she jumped violently, heart pounding. Its engine chugged off down a side street. From the bundle she pulled out a letter and walked on. At the next posting box she would send it, and that would be that. The future cut away from the past.
Dear Paul,
I’m going to say this quick, because I don’t know how else to. I can’t marry you or ever see you again. I’m sorry. Don’t come to Birmingham, there’s nothing for you here.
Forgive me. Forget about me now.
Love,
Mercy
She hadn’t been able to sign off without the word ‘love’. Anything less seemed so callous and abrupt. And she did love him. She ached with love and longing for him.
Fifty yards further along she saw a pillar box. She stopped, the envelope resting against her lips and closed her eyes for a second. Taking a deep breath, she quickly pushed it through the slot.
Angel Street looked just the same: the sloping, cobbled street, huckster’s shop on the corner, that tilted street lamp just along from their entry. Mercy paused. She had to face Mabel. Whatever the humiliation it might mean putting herself through, instinct and common sense had driven her back to the one place she might find a roof over her head. She pulled her shoulders back and went into the yard.
She saw Josie Ripley’s eldest son John coming out of their house. He stopped, putting his cap on, and stared at her as she went to Mabel’s door.
‘Awright?’ he said, coming over. He had a thin face and narrow, squinting eyes. ‘Mercy, int it? You’re ’ere early.’
‘Well, you’re up early too.’ She felt horribly conscious of what a pathetic waif she must look standing there with her little bundle of all she possessed in the world.
‘If you’re after Mabel, yer won’t find ’er there – there’s a new bloke in now. She’s over there.’ He pointed at the Peppers’ house.
‘Oh, she is, is she?’ Mabel hadn’t wasted any time.
John was still hanging about, kicking at an uneven corner of brick.
‘All right then, ta,’ Mercy said tartly. ‘I think I can manage to knock on a door by myself. Ta-ra!’ She waited until he’d gone off down the entry.
‘Who’s that?’
Mabel’s voice was the first she heard through the window as she knocked loudly several times. From upstairs, eventually, came the sound of someone yanking at the sash but it would only open a crack. ‘Who’s making all that racket? What d’yer want?’
But the door opened a second later and Alf stood there, bare chested except for his braces, looking blearily out at her. His eyes were red, cheeks covered in pale stubble, but he still looked a strong man.
‘What the – Mercy? Is that you, wench?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘’Course yer can, course yer can . . .’ He stood back. She could hear his chesty breathing, smelt the sweat on him as she squeezed past.
‘What’s up?’
‘Alf, I need somewhere to go. I’m in trouble.’ She put her bundle down on the table, speaking very fast in the hope that she could talk to him before Mabel got down and stuck her oar in, tell her where she could get off. Her heart was beating very fast. ‘Can I stay here – for a while, anyhow?’
But Mabel was down by then, without her blouse properly fastened up and Mercy could see her wide, flaccid chest and her cleavage above the top button. Her hair was all hanging round her face and she looked like a witch.
‘My God.’ There was already a note of triumph in her voice. ‘What the ’ell d’you want then?’
‘Mabel,’ Alf commanded her sternly. ‘Don’t start on the kid. ’Er says ’er’s in trouble. ’Ere, have a seat, Mercy.’ He pulled out one of the chairs by the table.
Mercy sat, chin stuck out as she looked up at the two of them. They’d have to know soon enough. Best to get it over with. ‘I’m ’aving a babby. And I’ve nowhere to go.’
She expected Mabel to rant and shout, laugh even. Instead, she sank down on one of the chairs by the table, pulling the neck of her blouse together.
‘I’d’ve thought you’d’ve had more sense. What happened?’
‘What d’you think happened?’ Mercy retorted fiercely. To her fury she felt tears welling in her eyes. Mabel hadn’t immediately cast her out. There was hope. It was such a relief to be back in this familiar place among her own people, even George there by the window, on his perch.
‘But who’s the father?’
‘I don’t want him to know. Never! It wasn’t my fault. It was all a mistake.’
Alf stood by, at a loss, breathing heavily.
Mabel leant forward, eyes narrowed. ‘Was it that Mr . . . what’s his name?’
Mercy nodded, looking down on her lap, her cheeks burning red. Oh, the shame of having to admit such a thing to Mabel of all people!
‘Did ’e take advantage of you?’
Mercy hesitated.
‘Well did you want it too?’
‘No! Never!’
‘So ’e took advantage.’
He did. Yes, he did. Mercy nodded again.
‘Ought to be ashamed of hisself – young kid like you. You could be ’is daughter . . .’
Alf suddenly laid a warm hand on her shoulder for a second. ‘’Course yer can stay. You’ve always been like one of the family. Can’t she, love?’
Mercy slowly raised her head and looked at Mabel. Instead of the mean exhaltation, the crowing she’d expected, she looked up and saw tears in Mabel’s eyes.
‘You can stay,’ she said gruffly. I know I never treated yer right as a kid. It were a rotten time of my life that, and I want to put it behind me. But I’ll try and do right by yer. You were always good as gold with Susan. You’re my daughter, sort of, even though it were never regular like. And nothing’s regular about this child that’s coming, is it?’ She wiped her eyes. ‘But I’ve always loved having a babby in the ’ouse, that I have.’
Mercy rested her head on her arms on the table and burst into tears.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘Where’s Tom?’
Mabel had brewed tea and they sat sipping it from the chipped willow-pattern cups that reminded Mercy so much of Elsie. The room looked the same, although George was there, pecking at his feathers, but now there was so much more space in it. Mercy had only just fully taken in this fact.
‘Have you moved him upstairs then?’
Alf looked shamefaced. ‘No, we, er—’ – he glanced at Mabel –‘Tom’s not ’ere, love. ’E’s being looked
after over at Hollymoor. ’E was in a terrible state, what with Elsie being bad and . . . and that . . .’ For a moment he seemed unable to speak. ‘They took ’im up the ‘ospital and they said ’e should be looked after proper like, somewhere where there’s nurses to see to ’im.’ He took a big breath. ‘Any’ow – it’s for the best.’
‘We don’t know if ’e knows any different,’ Mabel said.
‘Thing is – we’d best tell ’er Mabel.’ They looked at one another for a second. Suddenly Mabel smiled. Mercy saw, like a revelation, that she was happy. ‘Mabel and I are getting wed.’ Alf rubbed a beefy hand over his stubble. He spoke the words like a confession. ‘Next month like . . .’
‘Oh,’ Mercy said. It stood to reason – they’d already set up house together, and Tom would’ve been in their way. She wanted to be angry with them. Didn’t she owe it to Tom to stick up for him, with them having him put away to suit them? But if all the doctors said it was the right thing . . . And she, too, could feel the relief of his not being there. Guilt too, but yes, relief. She had to believe he was all right, being well looked after.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I hope you’ll be happy.’
‘Oh, we will,’ Mabel said.
Rosalie and Jack came down after a while.
‘Mercy!’ Rosalie ran straight to her for a cuddle, even though when Mercy stood up she saw Rosalie was almost the same height as her now.
‘You’re like a beanpole, you are,’ she said. Rosalie was thin and gaunt, auburn hair scraped back, cheeks pale, wrists like sticks. ‘Barely an ounce of flesh on your bones!’
‘Yer back at school now any rate,’ Alf said to Rosalie.
‘You stopping?’ Rosalie asked.
Mercy blushed. ‘Yes. I’m stopping for a bit.’
Rosalie beamed. ‘Oh good – ain’t that lovely. You not working up Moseley no more?’
‘No,’ Mercy said quietly. ‘I’m not.’
Jack, twenty now, was tall, his hair still a bright ginger and for a moment Mercy almost thought he was Johnny, except he was broader, more stocky, like Alf.
He nodded to her and they exchanged a few friendly enough words, but she could tell immediately that he and Mabel didn’t get on. He acted as if she wasn’t there. He’ll be leaving home soon, Mercy thought, and they’ll be lucky if they see much of him again. She was surprised to note that Rosalie seemed all right with Mabel.
Mabel stood cutting bread with the loaf under her arm. They ate a bit of breakfast before Alf and Jack went off to work, Jack with barely a word, and Rosalie to school.
‘Take the ticket for Chubb’s,’ Mabel said to her as she left. ‘And don’t go and lose it. I want yer to get yer dad’s suit out for Sunday on yer way ’ome.’
‘Awright.’ Rosalie tucked the pawn ticket in her pocket. ‘You will still be ’ere when I get back, won’t you, Mercy?’
‘’Course I will. See you later, love.’
Rosalie departed, smiling.
‘There’s no need to breathe a word to anyone – not yet,’ Mabel told her once they were alone. She stood riddling ash out of the range. Mercy watched her. Mabel’s body had thickened and spread, but had kept its curves. She now had a rather stately figure, and was a handsome woman, despite her sluttish ways. Mercy could smell her, that ripe, sweaty odour which always hung about her.
‘Why’re you being so nice to me?’ Best to get it over, know where she stood.
Mabel straightened up, brushing ash off her sacking apron.
‘Look – I’m not all bad, yer know. You used to rile me as a kid. Always looking at me as if I were the devil’s mother or summat. And I didn’t always treat yer kindly, but can’t we let bygones be bygones?’
‘Awright.’ Mercy still felt wary. Old feelings, years of cruelty, weren’t so quickly overcome. But she also felt queasy again, and absolutely exhausted. She rested her head on her hand, elbow on the table.
‘Alf’s a good man and ’e’s giving me a chance, even if I don’t deserve it . . .’
‘You helped Elsie,’ Mercy said grudgingly.
‘I did what I could.’
Mercy was silent for a moment. Stevie would be awake now. They would know she was gone.
‘Mabel – I need to go to sleep.’
Mabel pushed a chair in under the table. ‘Yer look all in. Go up on Rosalie’s bed – sleep all day if yer want.’
Mercy passed an odd, restless few days of sleep and sickness. She kept dreaming of Stevie, of the daily routine at the Adairs’, and she’d wake, bewildered to find herself in Rosalie’s bed in the bare little back bedroom with its cracked ceiling.
The first day she slept almost all the time, prostrate with exhaustion. Mabel brought her up water and tea and she was too far gone even to be surprised. In the evening Rosalie made herself up a bed on the floor.
‘No,’ Mercy protested weakly. ‘You must have your bed!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Rosalie said. ‘You’re poorly. I can sleep down ’ere easy. It’s the best thing having yer back, Mercy.’
‘Is Mabel awright to you?’
‘She ain’t so bad.’ Rosalie sat on her bedding on the floor, unplaiting her hair. ‘It felt a bit funny at first – ’er and Dad like, yer know. As if it was wrong some’ow. She was really good to our mom when she was bad and that. Sometimes I don’t like ’er being ’ere, as if she thinks she’s taken Mom’s place, but Dad’d be lonely without someone. It’s for the best really and she’s awright to me. It’s Jack can’t stand having ’er ’ere – not that quick.’
‘I could see.’
‘But even Mom said, life has to go on. Mabel’ll never be my mom but it’s nice to have someone ’ere. I was all on my own with Tom before, see.’
‘You’ve been a real good kid, you have.’ Mercy was drifting off again. She didn’t even seem to have the strength to move an arm or leg.
It was such a relief to be able to lie down for a time, and not pretend any more. She wouldn’t be turned out on the streets, she was safe for the moment. But now these immediate needs were met she kept thinking of Paul. She dreamed of him too, kept seeing herself in New York with him, everything happy and undisturbed. She felt that enormous warmth and joy in the knowledge of his love and woke with tears streaming down her cheeks into her hair. Once she woke like this to find Mabel standing over her.
‘What’s all that about?’
‘Don’t know.’ Mercy wiped her eyes, trying to sit up. ‘Just everything.’
‘You’ll be all right.’ Mabel handed her a cup of tea. Mercy still felt she was dreaming this, Mabel being kind. At that moment it was all too much and she burst into tears again.
A week passed. She got up, had to get out and face the neighbours.
‘I’m looking for a new job,’ she told them. She simply couldn’t bear to tell the truth. Not yet. But each time she saw anyone, Mary Jones, Josie Ripley, Mrs McGonegall, blushes flamed in her cheeks. She wasn’t going to be able to keep this up for long. But after their initial surprise they all treated her as if she’d never been away. There was a new man called Samuel Formby living in number two, the old house, but he was out at work all day and in the pub most of the rest of the time.
‘I shall look for a job,’ Mercy told Mabel. As soon as she felt a bit stronger she helped out round the yard, maiding and mangling on wash days, cooking, scrubbing. But she was still being sick a bit, on and off.
‘Wait till you’ve got over that,’ Mabel said. ‘We’ll manage.’
Mercy watched Mabel’s new happiness and wondered at how much of a person’s nature was built on circumstances.
Of course everyone soon found out about her. One morning Mercy was out in the yard and felt nausea rushing up in her. She dashed down to the lav, just making it, and stood heaving in the foul-smelling privy. Josie Ripley was in the one next door. As soon as they both stepped out, Mercy walked off trying to pretend nothing had happened, but Josie strode up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Mercy!’
She looked round into Josie’s crooked face. Even Josie couldn’t fail to see the agony and shame in the girl’s eyes.
‘You in trouble?’
‘Trouble?’
‘Yer know what I’m saying. In the family way?’
Mercy nodded, looking miserably at her dirty work pinner.
‘Thought so!’ Josie was triumphant, hands on hips. ‘Coming back ’ere sudden like, I knew there had to be more to it. Bit of a comedown eh, after what you’re used to miss?’
Mercy didn’t answer her.
‘Does Mabel know? ’Cos if she don’t yer’d better tell ’er right quick.’
‘She knows.’
‘So—’ Josie was always one to get things straight. ‘You’re no better than the rest of us then are yer?’
Mercy shook her head and looked up indignantly.
‘’Course I’m not!’ She’d never thought she was – had she?
‘Any’ow—’ – Josie softened suddenly, backing away – ‘if yer need anything . . .’
Mercy folded her arms over the pinner and walked slowly back to the Peppers’ house. She could see her future spread out in front of her. Angel Street, work, the babby. She’d grow old like Josie, Mary, Mabel, among all these people she’d known almost all her life. It was good enough for them, she told herself. And it would have to be good enough for her. But as she looked up at the drab, mean-sized little dwelling, she felt as if her very soul was dying inside her.
She got a job at the Futurist Cinema in John Bright Street, sitting in the little wooden booth selling tickets.
‘Your pretty face’ll bring the punters in,’ the manager said. Not that people needed bringing in. They came in droves, especially Saturday afternoon. The job was easy. Tickets 3d, 6d, 1/6d, 2/6d. She could sit down and do it. She smiled as sweetly as she could at everyone. No one would have guessed at the shattered, lonely heart inside her.
