The Chief Education Officer stood on the platform and peered through glasses that were just halves of circles. He seemed a jolly man, especially when he made jokes about his own schooldays. He talked about three classes in one big room, three teachers at the front teaching three different subjects. The pupils on the ends of benches listened to two lessons simultaneously and either learned too much or nothing at all. ‘We all kept hutching up,’ he said, ‘pushing one another along the forms till the end one fell off. That was our entertainment.’ Then he told us how lucky we were to have powder paint and books and paper and bright classrooms.
The first prizes were for art, then we went through music (St Mary’s won nothing in that category) and mathematics. Norma Wallace came out top, beat every child in Bolton, even those from the private establishments that crammed for Bolton School itself. I knew now that my story about Mr Evans had been silly and ordinary. None of these posh folk would be interested in an old man who grew flowers and made a fuss of cats.
The Chief Education Officer announced that he would now give out the essay prizes. Sister Maria Goretti turned in her seat and winked at me. I learned two things in those few seconds – a composition was an essay and a nun can wink. I felt terrible about letting Confetti down. She set a lot of store by me, would be disappointed when I didn’t win. My father would be sad too. He must have been at the back of the hall, because I hadn’t seen him yet.
Third prize went to a boy from Castle Hill, then the second was collected by a very beautiful girl from the Bolton Preparatory. The Chief Education Officer stood centre-stage and waved a paper. ‘The first prize goes to someone whose story is very real and moving. Will you come up and read your essay, Laura McNally?’
I was stuck to the chair. My legs were of no earthly use to me and cold sweat ran down my neck, tickling as it travelled along the bumps of my spine. Sister Agatha got out of her seat and came for me. ‘Come along, child.’ Her eyes were wet and bright. ‘I am so proud of you.’
I did it. To this day, I don’t know how I managed not to faint, but I got on to that platform and read my sad little piece about an unsung hero. Applause is addictive. When they clapped and stamped their feet, I wanted more and more of it. Some of them even stood up and turned to one another, and I knew that they were talking about me.
I needed just one face in that audience, needed to see Dad, wanted him to share my moment of glory. My eyes raked back and forth along the rows and did not discover him. It was like the evening in the park all over again, because I was learning anew to be there for myself, to be my own guardian.
I was given a lovely leather-bound book full of Shakespeare, another item that I would keep till my dying day. The nuns clustered round me, their skirts spreading like a dark womb in which I could stay and be myself. They were my mothers, would continue forever to be my supporters, my guides. Norma Wallace gave me a germ-ridden kiss, then snerched in my ear. We were told to sit down, to remain in our seats until the schools nearer the door had left the hall.
Confetti knew. The pain in her lovely face was horrible, while her eyes kept darting all over the place as she searched for some member of my family who would come forward and be proud. When hopelessness filled my heart, Uncle Freddie hobbled in. I learned that he had heard my composition, had gone outside for a breath of fresh air. But whatever emotion he had taken out with him was still working on his face. ‘Eeh, lass,’ he said, picking me up and holding me to his chest. ‘I don’t know what to say to you. I went back out in case … Well … Liza might have been … We love you, Laura. Always remember that, sweetheart.’
Confetti beamed like a lighthouse, pleased to see that someone had cared enough to come. ‘This is my uncle,’ I told her. ‘He’s called Freddie and he lives next door.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she answered. ‘Mr Turnbull and I have met before.’
‘Sister Maria Goretti sent me an invitation,’ he said, placing me back on my feet. ‘Maisie’s got a bad cold, so I’ve left our Anne to see to her. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. You’re a great kid, Laura. Sister here has told me how well she thinks of you. And she’s not wrong.’ He beamed broadly at Confetti.
The thing about nuns is that they find out everything. In that one small sense, they are not unlike my mother. Even if you pretend that life at home is all right, they ask questions, make sure that they know your business. It hurt. Realizing that Confetti and old Tommy-gun and our headmistress (whom we called Aggie) knew all about my parents was not comfortable. It was as if my skin had been made of glass, as if they could look through me and see all the details of my inner workings.
Confetti was still grinning from ear to ear, while her affection for me shone wetly in her eyes. My indignation evaporated within a moment, because Confetti was a precious soul, had picked me from the crowd and watched over me ever since the death of Mr Evans. Even Aggie was my friend. After our headmistress had made a fuss of the other winners, she came and put a hand on my head. ‘That was a wonderful piece of work, Laura McNally. In time, we shall expect great things of you.’
On an impulse that was undeniable, I spread my arms wide and hugged the unhuggable, pressed my face into the celluloid wimple of an immovable woman. And she laughed at me, laughed hard and tugged at my hair. ‘She’ll have the heart out of you, Goretti,’ she said. ‘For the child is a character and no mistake.’
Oh, it was so good to be a character and no mistake, to be noticed and valued, to be appreciated, touched, applauded. I turned to Uncle Freddie. ‘Where’s my dad?’
He stroked his moustache. ‘The thing about your dad is that he’s a genius. Geniuses do not make good timekeepers.’
‘Or good teachers.’ I saw that Sister Agatha had turned away. Her back was shaking, so I knew that I had said something amusing. ‘One of our teachers is a genius. But Dad promised that he’d come. I read my story and didn’t make any mistakes and—’
‘He’ll have forgotten, lass. He’s a busy man.’
It was hard to accept that a person who loved me could forget an occasion such as this one. If Dad loved me, then why had he not been here on my special night? ‘He should have come,’ I said softly. ‘It was my story that won and he should have come.’
Confetti mouthed at Uncle Freddie, something about my mother, I thought.
‘Out, I think,’ he answered curtly. ‘Charity work, which should start at home.’
‘Exactly.’ Confetti’s mouth was suddenly so tight that it looked mean. ‘Some people don’t appreciate God’s gifts, Mr Turnbull. And gifts need nurturing.’
‘I’ll speak to John,’ he said. ‘This just isn’t good enough.’
We filed out to the charabanc. I clutched my Shakespeare and my certificate of merit, curled my fingers round a florin from Uncle Freddie. Then I saw him. He was leaning against the wall, his face turned away from me, but I knew that hair. Tommo. Tommo had come, had heard my story. When he swivelled round, I smiled at him.
‘I stood in the porch,’ he said. ‘I heard you.’
He cared. Well, life wasn’t too bad after all. Confetti and Aggie liked me, Uncle Freddie loved me, so did Auntie Maisie. If she hadn’t been ill, she would have come, would have brought my cousin too. And Tommo … Tommo must have cared. Otherwise, he would not have bestirred himself to come and hear my story.
Tommo didn’t say any more, but I could feel his gaze following me into the vehicle. As we drove away, he was still standing there, still staring at me. We turned into St George’s Road, and I saw a man running down the slope towards the Victoria Hall. My father had come too late for me. But Tommo had been on time.
Life with the gang was hilarious, invigorating, extremely dangerous. For a while, I convinced Mother that I was taking extra music classes after school, but she was disabused of this concept when she met my piano teacher.
‘Where is the extra money I gave you for the lessons?’ asked Mother.
I placed the money on the mantelpiece, had not dared to spend the
pound note on myself, hadn’t dared to tell the gang of its existence. I prepared myself for the showdown, expected and got the usual stuff, furniture between us, a lot of hand-wringing and smoking on her part.
But I had changed, had toughened considerably. People like Enid, whose hair and dignity had been removed by high authority, whose mother collected rags and fleas in more or less equal quantities, were beyond caring, and they had dragged me into a state of near-nonchalance. The twins beat me, I clouted them back – it was all a part of the ethos. Tommo stayed aloof and superior, while Ginger worshipped me, stole things for me, put his freedom on the line many a time. Art worshipped me too, but he was just a little brother, a sad waif with strange teeth and a lisp. He was a friend, though, was a part of the gang. I needed them all, was getting used to people taking notice of me, felt encouraged by their interest. Mother was suddenly less significant than before.
‘Where have you been going?’ my mother asked shrilly.
‘Out.’ I was alone, yet not alone. In the slums of Deane and Daubhill, my mates were behind me. They might not have been visible at this particular juncture, but they held me up, supported the grim campaign I waged against my mother.
She stubbed out another Craven A. It had taken the length of a whole cigarette for her to persuade me to open my mouth in the first place. ‘I am asking you where you go, Laura. Smart answers that tell me nothing are useless.’
I shrugged. Although I had not yet reached double figures in the age stakes, I was righteous about my rebellion. The righteousness sprang from the knowledge that while I was not necessarily right all the time, Liza McNally was definitely wrong on most occasions.
‘Will you say something?’
I eyed her with what probably was dumb insolence. I had learned, from Ginger and under the watchful gaze of Tommo, how and when to kick back, when to speak up, when to be silent. Art was a big help too – when he did bestir himself to speak. According to him, if you said nowt, ‘they’ could do nowt to you. He’d probably gleaned that from films about courtrooms and from life experience. My mother was a member of the ‘they’ who could do nowt. ‘I’ve got friends,’ I said eventually. My tone was dark and sinister.
‘Their names?’ She arched the perfect eyebrows, leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, looked like Bette Davis in one of her many dramatic roles. ‘I wish to know the names and addresses of all your friends.’
‘Why? Why do you need to know?’ I was finding that if I stared straight at her, if I made my face cold and hard, she glanced away. ‘I don’t know the names of the people you go out with,’ I said, believing this to be a seed of reasonable debate.
I had struck a nerve. She blinked, seemed vague for a second, propped herself more firmly against the dark wood shelf. ‘I am not a child. When I was a little girl, I told my mother everything. My parents always knew where I was.’
I sat down on a dining chair, ignored the look of surprise that had invaded her face when I dared to sit without waiting for the order. During my lectures, I was expected to remain erect and alert unless otherwise advised by present company, present company always being Mrs Liza McNally. ‘How could your mother know where you were all the time? What about when she was out scrubbing the Town Hall steps?’
She swallowed, pushed a lock of hair from her cheek. ‘Who told you about that?’
‘Auntie Maisie.’
‘I ordered you not to go—’
‘Ages ago. She told me a long time ago. Before you … before you upset Uncle Freddie.’
I had overstepped the mark by miles. Her hand was sharp and dry as it whipped across my face, but I managed to remain upright in the chair, did not cower. The skin of my cheek glowed with pain – I could almost feel it swelling, as if it had been stung by a wasp.
Mother stared hard at me, raised a hand, saw that I did not flinch. My stomach was fluttering and threatening to heave as she spoke. ‘Don’t talk about my parents,’ she whispered as her hand dropped. ‘My parents were decent people who worked very hard. It wasn’t their fault that they got no education. My father might have been a great man if he’d been given a chance. Anyway, I listened to them, obeyed them.’ She swallowed again, gulped down her shame. I thought that she was ashamed of being ashamed of her beginnings, but perhaps I was being too generous. Liza McNally was never eager to talk about her poor home background.
My breathing was hurting as it rushed past a constricted throat. She might kill me. She might just do it this time. Yet I sensed some kind of watershed, as if I had to push for a conclusion, a solution to my problem with her. ‘Auntie Maisie said you were …’ I searched for the word, dug my teeth into it, ‘humiliated by where you lived and that you pretended not to live there. I don’t know why you should worry about things like that. Auntie Maisie said that nothing is good enough for you. So you read a lot of books and followed my dad till you caught him.’ Auntie Maisie had said none of this to me, but had been overheard by Anne, then Anne had furnished me with this delicious ammunition. Sometimes, I was not a nice child. Although rather young to organize my revolution properly, I fired some more bullets anyway. ‘You didn’t do as you were told all the time. You were naughty sometimes, Auntie Maisie said.’
‘Auntie Maisie, Auntie Maisie,’ she mimicked spitefully. ‘Stop wandering away from the point. Where have you been when you ought to have been taking your music classes?’
‘Out.’ And thus we returned to square one. Inside, I was scared, but I laughed secretly at her discomfiture, tried to smother my frail misgivings. Yet my own discomfiture was still there, because although I never loved my mother, I was destined to remain uneasy with my feelings towards her.
She lit yet another cigarette.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’
The hand which held the lighted match paused, froze in mid-air. ‘What did you say?’ She yelped as the flame matured and licked a heated tongue against her fingers, then she flung the match away. ‘What did you just say to me?’
I made my eyes cold and hard again. It was easy to do – I just blinked as infrequently as I could manage. ‘Every day – well, nearly every day – I come in here and you tell me how bad I am. That’s all right, but I wish you wouldn’t smoke, because I find it hard to breathe when you are smoking all the time.’ It was as if I wanted to be slapped, as if I deliberately courted her anger just to see how far she would go.
She darted round the chair and grabbed my hair, forced my head back until I thought my spine would snap. The noise that escaped from her throat was guttural and nasty. ‘Don’t you dare criticize me, girl. I smoke when I am nervous, and your behaviour makes me nervous. This is all for your own good. If you are running about the streets and misbehaving yourself, then you will only bring dishonour to this family.’
It’s hard to know where the strength came from, difficult to work out where I got the courage and the inspiration, but I said, very softly, ‘I don’t bring great fat women knocking on our door.’
She was still tugging at my hair, and her eyes had become frantic, were darting about in her head as if seeking somewhere to hide. The lids dropped for a moment, hid her panic. Mother was afraid because I appeared not to fear her. Had she heard the clamour of my heart, she would have known the terror.
I was tossed aside like a rag doll, came to rest against the door. The brass knob crashed into my temple, filled the room with flashes of colourful light. But I would not fall, would not allow myself to sag.
The silence almost defied description. There was a small fire that crackled and spat, making the smoky atmosphere even more electric and frightening. My mother seemed to petrify, the cigarette halfway to her mouth, her lips parted and slackened by something that looked like a blood brother to astonishment. When she finally moved, it was towards me, the free hand lifted to strike anew.
At times like this, I had always cowered low down to make myself small, to reduce the visibility of target areas like head and neck. Until this day, my hands had covered my face and
as much of my skull as they could encompass, so Mother had been very sure of her power, even if her dominance over me had been merely physical. But on this occasion, I did not move, did not even blink.
Her progress slowed itself, and she looked silly with her hand raised above her head. ‘You are … not natural,’ she whispered. ‘You are not my child. I have often said that they must have given me the wrong one.’
My knees threatened to buckle as I steadied myself, but I managed to stand fairly still. ‘I’m Daddy’s,’ I said, the tears dangerously close.
‘Are you? Did he come to your precious presentation? Oh, I heard you telling him off. Let you down, did he?’ As she spoke, she lowered her arm and took a pace back.
‘I am the right one,’ I screamed. ‘It’s you who are wrong, you, you, YOU! Uncle Freddie says that Dad ought to leave you and find a proper life with somebody nice, but Dad won’t leave me. He stays with me. So … so just be very glad that I’m here, that’s all. Because if I wasn’t here, he’d go off and live all by himself in the rooms above the shop.’ My temper slipped into neutral, coasted along with no brake to hinder it. ‘He might even find a nice lady with no cigarettes or red lipstick, somebody who can cook.’
She walked out of the room. Had she stayed, she would probably have battered me to death. The whole of my back had weakened to pulp, then my limbs became affected, started jerking and trembling like saplings in a skittish wind. Breathing was not easy. I had to open my mouth wide, found myself gulping down air that was heavy with smoke. There was no strength in me, so I could not cough. I simply heaved, waited for my legs to return to me, rested until the flashing lights had settled, then I crept out of the house and fled down towards the town.
September Starlings Page 21
