Birmingham Friends

by Annie Murray

  ‘“One has no great hope of Birmingham,”’ Douglas quoted lugubriously. ‘“I always say there is something direful in the sound.” ’

  ‘Who said that?’ I was still recovering from his last bout of clowning. ‘D’you always mimic people? You must get yourself into frightful trouble.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do. And in answer to your question it was Jane Austen.’

  ‘Well, it may have been, but it’s still nonsense,’ I argued. ‘Just listen to this place – all these people round us working away day and night. Up there and down under the ground. Listen – it’s as if the city’s alive. There must be more coming out of Birmingham for the war effort than anywhere else in the country.’

  ‘All right, all right. I didn’t say I agreed with her, did I? Can’t say I’d want to settle here for life, though.’

  ‘I wonder how much longer it’ll all be needed.’

  ‘I did a piece today on the Fire Guard, now they’re standing them all down. The Home Guard’ll be the next to go, I suppose.’

  It was getting really dark as we walked down the Moseley Road. I shivered. Now we had both thrown away our greasy newspapers holding the food, it had created an awkwardness. We had nothing to do with our hands. Douglas walked with his clasped behind his back. I folded my arms, pulling my cardigan closer round me.

  ‘I should have brought a coat,’ I said. ‘I keep thinking it’s still summer.’

  Pain washed through me suddenly. Angus. If Angus had been here we would be walking arm in arm, easy with each other, our knowledge of each other so long, deep and familiar. For a moment I felt insanely angry with Douglas for being who he was, for lurching along beside me and for not being Angus. I was bewildered. My moods seemed to switch so quickly.

  I was silent for so long that Douglas said, ‘Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘It’s been a very difficult week,’ I said in a tight voice. ‘As you can imagine.’

  ‘Oh Lord, I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me.’ He sounded quite distressed. ‘You seemed in such good form back there that I’d almost forgotten. Were you very close to your father?’

  I sighed. ‘No. Not really. Only – it’s been different recently. Since I started working on the district. We worked in the same area you see and I sometimes met him. It was the first time we’ve found anything in common. He was the sort of person who was happiest and most himself when he was working. We all used to feel terribly neglected at home really. Poor Mummy . . . But he told me, a while ago – I delivered someone’s baby you see . . .’ I felt myself growing incoherent, trying to hold back my tears. It felt too intimate to cry in front of Douglas. ‘He told me he was proud of me.’

  Douglas stopped me gently and turned me round to face him. Then, realizing his hands were on my shoulders, he hastily removed them.

  ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘On Friday.’

  ‘Would you like me to come?’

  Startled, I looked up at him. ‘I don’t know. It’s just – my mother’s rather difficult, and my brother’s coming home, I think. It could be a bit – it won’t be much fun for you.’

  ‘Fun?’ Douglas exploded. ‘What d’you think I am, made of wood or something? It doesn’t matter about your family. Of course it’ll be difficult. It’s a bloody awful business. I’d come because I care about you, you silly thing.’

  The scarred left cheek was twitching slightly and his eyes were full of an emotion which I couldn’t read. It only dawned on me then that his feelings for me were much stronger than I had imagined.

  ‘All right. That would be very good of you, thank you.’

  I was very weary and wrung out. I knew if I stayed with him much longer it would end with me stepping into his arms and crying myself out. My feelings were confused and painful and could only be eased, I felt, by my getting away from him.

  ‘Look, I’m very sorry. This hasn’t been much of an outing, I know. But I’m very tired. I’d like to go home.’

  Douglas was all courtesy. We waited in silence at the bus stop. All I could feel was my acute need to be out of his company. Saying nothing, we sat together on the slow-moving bus. I got off first at Moseley.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, standing up quickly. ‘See you soon . . .’ I tried to smile at him.

  As the bus passed me I saw him looking out, searching for me with his eyes.

  *

  At Daddy’s funeral he kept well in the background. I was glad he was there, though my mind was mostly on other things. I wished Olivia could be there and that I could turn to her, but I had to be content with her brief letter.

  A bewildering number of people did attend the service, though. I looked round the church seeing faces I had never set eyes on before: many must have been patients, but there were also a rather oddly dressed crew in mismatched clothes and squashed felt hats, some of whom I guessed were his Christian Socialist friends. The organ let out a bleak sound and it was raining outside so the lights had to be on in the church. The tribute all these people were making to Daddy by being there made me feel wretched and powerless, as if circumstances had cheated me. Why had I known him so little? All these people for and with whom he had worked so hard, had in fact given his life for, and I had barely known of their existence.

  Mummy was dignified and calm. She was well used to buttoning up her emotions. She wore her usual brown coat since she didn’t possess a black one, and a black hat with a wide brim against which her pale features looked sharp and severe. She sat beside me on the front pew, her back very straight.

  William had two days’ leave from his Intelligence – hush hush – work for the army. He looked older, thinner, with his cropped hair, and as ever, self-important. We were civil to each other, if not warm. I could see by the strained look of his face that he was cut up by Daddy’s death.

  ‘How’s Mother?’ he asked afterwards. He no longer said ‘Mummy’ of course.

  ‘Oh – you know. Hard to tell. Gladys has been a gem. She’s taken everything on.’

  I was holding one of the plates of fish-paste sandwiches which Gladys Peck and I were handing round to the throng who were all trying to squeeze into the drawing-room. We had to spread them into the back room as well and the hall was lined with damp raincoats and umbrellas.

  Gladys smiled and blushed, making her way past us. ‘I’m just glad to have been here at the right time,’ she said. ‘Eric, don’t take any more! There won’t be enough to go round.’ She darted off after him.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ William said, his eyes following her compact figure. ‘And Mummy doesn’t mind?’

  ‘No. She’s really hit it off with Gladys, odd as it may seem. I heard her crying the other day, and it was Gladys she allowed to see her. I found her with her arm round Mummy’s shoulders. She’s a godsend. We’d never have coped otherwise.’

  I moved off to distribute sandwiches. People kept stopping to talk to me, all assuming that I knew who they were. A tiny, childlike woman in a murky green shawl seized my elbow and fixed me with watery eyes. ‘Your father was a saint my dear, a saint.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, at a loss. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘I’m Edie Webster.’ She held out her hand and I could feel the raised blue veins of her wrist against my finger tips. ‘Christian Health Quarterly. Your father wrote some inspirational papers.’

  A familiar face came towards me through the crowd and I excused myself from Edie’s skeletal grasp. ‘Lisa!’ I was delighted to see her. ‘How are you – and Daisy?’

  ‘Oh, we’re all right – going along.’ She was wearing a patched black dress. ‘Daisy’s running around now. You’ll pay us a call soon, won’t you? I ’ad to come today – ’ She took my arm in her direct way. ‘Terrible, your Dad going like that. ’E were a good man. We’ll all miss him.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, still feeling overcome. ‘So it seems. I’ve never seen most of these people before.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Lisa said. She touched my shoulder. ‘Yo
u can’t know everything, can you?’

  This was the most comforting thing anyone had said all day. ‘It means a lot that you’re here,’ I said. ‘I’ll come and see you very soon, I promise.’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘We miss you.’

  Douglas stayed until the last guests were leaving. Gladys had finally sat down with Lizzie on her lap and was gulping down a cup of tea. There was nothing on any of the plates but crumbs. Eric was dabbing at them with a wet finger which travelled urgently back and forth to his mouth.

  I walked to the gate with Douglas. The rain had eased off and the ground was scattered with bright yellow leaves.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve barely even had the chance to say hello to you.’ I had, in fact, almost forgotten he was there. The strain was telling in my voice though I was trying to sound light and cheerful.

  ‘You’ve got tears in your eyes,’ he observed. He had a strange, detached manner sometimes. He moved his gaze to the laurel bushes behind me, avoiding my eyes.

  ‘Well, it’s been that kind of day.’

  I could think of nothing to say and felt dog-tired. I backed away from him over the wet leaves. ‘Look, I’ll see you soon,’ I said formally. ‘It was good of you to come.’

  ‘Kate – ’ Clumsily he moved towards me and pulled me into his arms. I felt his lips, startling against mine, the pale moustache prickling against my skin. It was a hard, desperate kiss, one which I didn’t have the time to return, nor the inclination.

  He stepped back. ‘Sorry – oh, God.’ He half turned away from me. ‘I just – wanted to touch you. I’m sorry . . .’

  Before I could say anything he was moving off at surprising speed down the road.

  Chapter 17

  Evening had set in as I cycled to my last call that day, and it was all the later as I had been delayed by a punctured tyre. It was January. Fog thickened between the walls of the narrow alleys, mingling with smoke from the chimneys of houses and factories to form a smelly, sludge-coloured haze. The muffled light from my bicycle made little impression on it as I pedalled cautiously along, its frame shuddering as the wheels moved over the slippery cobbles. After a time I dismounted, tired and impatient, and walked instead.

  ‘Damn fog,’ I cursed to myself. ‘Damn bicycle. Damn flaming war.’

  Coughing. I wheeled my bike irritably into number eight court, Stanley Street. I wiped my damp face with my hanky. It would be good to see Lisa. She always gave me strength. Despite the cold, the alleys and yards were full of the sounds of children playing out until bedtime. A gaggle of them were shouting shrilly and from somewhere came the sound of dustbin lids being clanged together. At least now the blackout had been lifted to ‘dim out’, more light filtered into the yard through the thin curtains in the houses.

  When Lisa opened the door she looked fraught and exhausted. She had on a washed-out fawn-coloured dress, tight across her breasts, with what looked like fat stains down the front. Her hair was unbrushed and she looked set to jump right down my throat.

  ‘Oh – it’s you,’ she said unceremoniously. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’ I asked, stepping into the chaotic room. I’d seldom seen her so brusque before.

  ‘No – you’re all right. It’s just them little buggers out there’ve been banging on my door on and off all evening and it’s driving me mad.’ She seemed close to tears. Her two older children were fighting over the fire-tongs by the grate.

  ‘Pack it in the pair of yer!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve ’ad enough of it!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked gently. Then I caught sight of Daisy, propped in one of the old armchairs. She had grown into a rather quaint-looking two-year-old with straight brown hair and a round face. She suffered badly from eczema and was always on the move, trying to scratch at some part of her arms or legs. She was at ease with people, and normally came to me, chattering. But now she lay against the greyish pillow with her eyes closed, taking quick, fluttery breaths. Clearly she had a high fever.

  ‘How long’s she been like this?’ I knelt beside her.

  ‘A couple of days. She’s not been so bad in the daytime. It comes on worse of an evening.’

  ‘She’s coughing?’

  As I spoke Daisy began to give out harsh, dry-sounding coughs.

  ‘It looks like bronchitis, Lisa.’ I looked round at her. She was frowning and biting the end of one finger. ‘Why haven’t you called the doctor?’

  With a pang I realized that for a moment I had been thinking of Daddy.

  ‘I hoped she’d get better without it,’ Lisa gabbled tearfully. ‘I’ve been sponging her down. I give ’er a bath earlier with the oatmeal in for ’er skin. Thought it’d cool ’er down. The thing is, Kate – I can’t abide that Dr Williamson. It’s not been the same since your dad passed on. She will be all right, won’t she?’

  Daisy stirred again and started trying to scratch, pulling at the cotton eczema cuffs on her arms. Her movements started off the coughing again and her face puckered with pain.

  ‘Look, if it’s the money you’re worried about I’ll help you out. She is my goddaughter, after all.’ I patted Lisa’s arm. ‘I’ll go and see if Dr Williamson’s still there – he often stops late, especially now he’s on his own. It won’t take long.’

  I had never seen Lisa so upset before. It was usually her who had a calming effect on me. I felt anxious for her, and for Daisy, and angry with Dr Williamson. There was enough to feel helpless about nowadays without having to be terrified of your own doctor. Twenty minutes later Dr Williamson and I were on our way to Lisa’s house. He had not been pleased to see me or to be asked out on another call. As I explained the situation he nodded impatiently.

  ‘It’s very foolish to bath a child in this condition,’ were almost his first words as he set foot through Lisa’s door. He threw his hat on the table. I saw that while I was away she had been trying to tidy up.

  Dr Williamson bent over Daisy, breathing his tobacco breath loudly at her. His balding crown was shiny with sweat. He looked into the little girl’s mouth, felt the glands in her neck with his pink, stubby fingers, listened to her chest with his stethoscope. Daisy coughed as he did so, barely able to open her eyes.

  ‘Say ahhh,’ he instructed her. There was silence. I could see Lisa biting her nails.

  ‘Say ahhh, child,’ he repeated, loudly.

  ‘She’s only two years old,’ I pointed out. ‘And she’s almost asleep.’ My usual irritation with him was turning to anger.

  ‘She’ll be much too hot in these,’ he said briskly, unfastening the eczema cuffs from her elbows. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

  The two of us stood in silence. I could tell Lisa was close to tears and my breathing was growing shallower with fury.

  ‘I think Mrs Turnbull would like some assurance that Daisy is going to be all right,’ I translated for her.

  He stood up. ‘Oh, I dare say she will if she’s looked after properly. Here – ’ He wrote out a prescription and handed it to her abruptly. ‘Go to the dispensary in the morning. In the meantime she needs warmth, fresh air and plenty of fluids. Think you can manage that?’

  He walked straight out without another word and I was after him. I had seen doctors be monumentally rude to patients in hospital on occasion, but it seemed so much worse in people’s homes.

  ‘D’you always speak to your patients like that?’ I demanded.

  Dr Williamson jerked to a standstill, bristling. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I expect he still regarded me as a child.

  ‘I thought our job was to try and make people feel better – to alleviate suffering. Not to go out of our way to make them feel small and inadequate and imply that they can’t even look after their own children.’

  He breathed in sharply. ‘I’ll thank you to keep your views to yourself,’ he said in a low, furious voice. ‘And when I need advice on how to do my job after thirty years’ experience I’ll find someone qua
lified to dispense it.’

  He strode away, quickly disappearing from view. Inside Lisa was in tears.

  ‘I only did what I thought was right,’ she sobbed miserably. ‘ ’E’s an ’orrible man, he is. I’d like to see ’im try and get fresh air and warmth at the same time in here, ’cause it’s bloody harder than it sounds.’

  I persuaded her to finish getting the other children to bed.

  ‘Daisy’s asleep now, look,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you get yourself something to eat and try and get some rest yourself. I’ll call by tomorrow, all right?’

  She smiled faintly. ‘Thanks, Kate. You know – you’re very like ’im.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your dad, of course.’ She added miserably, ‘I wish Don was here.’

  When I visited the next evening I found Lisa standing outside her door with her apron on. In her hand was a bowl and I could see steam rising from it in the light through the front door.

  ‘Chicken soup,’ she told me. ‘For Daisy.’ Her face looked more relaxed, though she was sagging with exhaustion.

  Daisy’s eyes were open and Lisa was altogether more buoyant.

  ‘I’m absolutely wiped out,’ she told me. ‘We ’ad an ’ell of a night. She was burning up – got me in a right state. Thought I was going to lose ’er. But come this morning she perked up again. Look at ’er. Don’t you think she’s better?’

  Relieved, I smiled at Daisy. ‘Hello, darling – are you on the mend?’ I went to sit by her and felt her forehead. ‘She’s a bit warm, but as you say, her temperature’s settling, isn’t it? That must’ve been the worst of it yesterday.’

  ‘Let’s see if she’ll have some soup.’ Lisa settled the other two children at the table and then went to the door.

  ‘Sid!’ she yelled into the dark yard. ‘Get ’ere!’

  We heard running feet outside and Sid Blakeley tore into the room, his cheeks raw from the cold. He was ten now, his brown hair cropped very short, face pinched, with not a trace left of his baby chubbiness. He had on grey shorts and a jumper and Birmingham Mail charity boots which looked weighty on the end of his bony legs.