I could have killed her then, could have slaughtered her on the spot for causing so much pain to my father, to Frank, to me, my aunt, my uncle. The pressure on Dad to move us on yet again might just have been the final straw, the one that broke John McNally’s heart and stopped his brain … She had put that pressure there, had passed on the information that had caused everybody’s stress. I needed to get away. If I stayed, I would surely drown her with the venom of my words.
Uncle Freddie must have seen something in my stance, in my face, because he pushed past us, hailed a taxi and held the vehicle’s door wide until my mother had stepped inside.
I stayed with Auntie Maisie until the taxi had left the scene. ‘I’ll kill her,’ I said softly. ‘One day, I’ll really lose my rag and push her down the nearest flight of stairs.’
‘There, there.’ Auntie Maisie patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t be getting yourself into a fret. Feelings run high at times like these.’
‘She told Tommo where I was. I can’t believe that any mother would draw a map for a monster. She put a freak on the trail of her own child, her grandchildren.’
Maisie nodded pensively. ‘But you never told us, Laura. We had our own ideas, our suspicions, but we didn’t know for sure that Tommo was really bad. Perhaps she didn’t realize what she was doing. You don’t talk about him, so how could she have known that you had left him for ever?’
I leaned against the wall. ‘A real mother would know, Auntie. If it had been Anne, you would have known.’
She sighed. ‘Aye, I reckon I would, love.’
We walked to the van, squeezed ourselves into a narrow seat, drove through town and out towards the rolling moors. Frank would be waiting for me. I didn’t know what our future would be, where we would live, how we would cope. But he was there just for me and the children. Perhaps I could stop running now. Perhaps Tommo would not loom so large in the corridors of my mind. The shortage of money was a small thing, a minor irritation. For peace of mind, for a world without Tommo and Mother, I was prepared to deny myself indefinitely.
I was exhausted for weeks after the funeral, too weary to plan a life. So we stayed put simply because neither of us had the energy for organization. Frank was quiet, withdrawn, watchful. He was probably waiting for Tommo; he was also waiting for me to buck up sufficiently for yet another change of location. About one aspect of life I was content. Uncle Freddie had accepted the enforced retirement, was making a good stab at shopkeeping.
Few alterations were done to the property in Barr Bridge, because Frank and I had no intention of remaining in the village. The local builder made a connecting door between the two houses’ upper floors, so that we could share facilities, but beyond that, we could not commit ourselves to expenditure that might be wasted. I, in particular, would eventually need to get as far away as possible from the area, from the gap left by my father. Mother had taken very well to widowhood, was shouting the odds all over the place. The factory was invaded by engineers, electricians, chemists, specialists in time and motion. When new machinery moved in, the buses became emptier, and rumour had it that many disabled people had been given their cards. Mother was on the up, so the rest of us could go down without wrinkling the surface of her gilt-edged pond.
Anne was the one who came up with an answer. She relayed her suggestion through Frank, who had taken a job at a stationer’s in Bolton. He came in one evening, joined me in a room above Auntie Maisie’s shop, played with Gerald, put both boys to bed. Sometimes, he was so good that I almost wept with gratitude. He spent all day on his feet, often finishing up with dreadful pain in the bad leg, then he would come home and take over the children. ‘You’re too good to be true,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Shall I go through and run a bath for you next door?’
‘No.’ He kissed me, pushed the fall of heavy hair from my face. ‘I saw Anne today. She thinks it’s time we stopped running.’
‘Oh yes? And who are we running from? Or should I say from whom are we running? God, there are bloody two of them, Frank. There’s Mother sacking the infirm and replacing them with automation, then there’s our darling husband stroke brother. Where the hell is he these days?’
Frank smiled at me. Whenever he smiled, it was like the sun peeping over cloud, bright and cheerful after the most dreadful of storms. He was a handsome man, quite broad and firm about the chest, solid except for the one wasted limb. His eyes always wrinkled at the corners, while the whole face seemed to reflect any merriment that happened to be taking place. ‘I love you, Laura,’ he whispered. ‘And I’m so happy to see you livening up again. Anyway, enough of frivolity. She came in for envelopes, paper clips and stuff.’
‘Who did?’
‘Anne did.’
‘Ah.’ I began to count the freckles on his arm, used a Biro to draw a line after fifty. This was a game we often played, as Frank’s freckles were profuse and impossible to number. It was the impossibility that had created the game. ‘Is this two or one?’ I asked as I started on the second fifty.
‘Siamese twins,’ he replied, rubbing at a freckle shaped like a number eight. ‘Or an amoeba caught in the act of simple fission. She’s found us a flat.’
I thought about amoebae in flagrante delicto, wondered how they might feel about being caught in the act. Then I drew a heart just below his elbow, put our initials in it, a fancy L entwined with a curly F. ‘In Bolton?’
‘Yes. Laura, we can’t keep skipping about. I like working with old Mr Saunders. He’s talking about retirement, so he might just be looking for a manager in a year or two. I’ll never get a decent job with a decent wage if we carry on hopping all over the place. And we must consider the children. They’re young, I know, but they need some security of tenure. They don’t want to be waking up in a different house every six months.’
Frank was always sensible. ‘You’re always sensible,’ I said. ‘Without ever managing to be boring. Yes, we need our own place. I’ve not had my back scrubbed since we left Sale – imagine how dirty I must be.’ We needed privacy, the chance to be together properly, to live our life without even kindly spectators. I sighed, nodded, agreed with him. ‘It’s time to move on, darling, but I am so scared of him. It’s probably safe-ish here, simply because of the shop and all the comings and goings. But I don’t think I should be near Mother. I anger her, I’ve got on her nerves since the day I was born. The factory folk might be better off once I’m out of the way. She’s sacking everybody just to hurt me.’
He yanked off his tie, threw it on the floor, heaved at the left leg till it rested on a footstool. ‘Remember Cunningham’s furniture?’
‘Bradshawgate?’
‘That’s the one. Well, it’s closed down. The chap who’s taken over is opening several lock-up businesses on the ground floor. Anne’s flat is above what was the main showroom – it’s a newsagent’s now – and there’s another flat available. The beauty of it is that although it’s upstairs, the old lift is still there, the one that used to bring the furniture down to earth. You could use that when you’re fetching the pram into the street.’
I bit hard on my lip, begged the panic to go away. ‘But it’s still Bolton, Frank.’
‘Yes. If he wants to find us, he’ll find us in Cornwall or Australia. This flat is a town dwelling, Laura. Bolton’s just about the biggest town in England, full of bustle and noise. We both felt like sitting ducks in the country, didn’t we? Well, didn’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it has to be a town. Look, there’ll be Anne in the next flat. Even when she’s at work, she’s only a spit away from Bradshawgate. I’ll be working almost next door to the police station and you’ll have a phone.’ He massaged my shoulder, tried to squash out the tension. ‘You can’t live on the edge all the time, love. Sooner or later, you’ve simply got to relax or …’
‘Or what?’
‘Or be ill.’
I turned and looked at him solemnly. ‘You mean daft-ill, don’t you? You mean that I’m still letting To
mmo get to me, even though I don’t see him every day. He’s still winning.’
‘They’re both losers, Laura. Bernard and your mother are miserable people who’ve tried to drag you down with them.’
I snorted. ‘Down? Mother’s never been so up!’
‘Only on the outside.’
‘She’s crowing, Frank.’
He dropped his chin and stared up at me, the grey eyes misted with concern. ‘It’s all a game. She’s like a child with the longest skipping-rope, the brightest colours on her spinning top. Inside, she’s sad, lonely because no-one wants to play with her.’
‘And Tommo?’
‘The same.’ He dropped the leg, stood up, smiled at me. ‘Except that he is really sick. He’s daft-sick, as you so aptly put it. Only there’s nothing amusing about my brother’s brand of insanity. Forget both of them, please. Let’s go out there and find some sort of a life.’
I reached out for him, careful to account for most of my own weight as he lifted me out of the seat. He was a strong man with two weaknesses – one in his leg, the other in his heart. I thanked God that this lovely man had chosen me to occupy that gentle, caring heart. ‘OK, Buster. We’ll move. What about furniture?’
He grinned knowingly. ‘Cunningham’s left some bits and pieces, all a bit scarred and utility-ish. We’ll manage. We’ll always manage.’
As he led me to the bedroom, I held those words in my mind, clutched at them as if they were a life-raft. Frank was my saviour, and I lay down with him gladly. But there was no gratitude in my love-making. In that, there was only love.
Auntie Maisie had packed as if we were going off on a picnic that would last about a fortnight. We had tins of corned beef, soup, fruit and Spam. Four two-pound bags of sugar were wedged next to grease-proofed packages containing bacon, ham and cheese. She had even made curtains for our flat, and two lace-trimmed table cloths as covers for a barley-sugar-legged table that was scarred beyond repair, an item that had plainly been used when the Cunningham’s sales force had been brewing tea.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ she kept saying as we forced all the gifts into Frank’s car.
‘Of course,’ I replied for the umpteenth time. Sometimes, Maisie was more like a mother to me than she was to her own daughter. ‘You never fussed like this over Anne,’ I reminded her.
‘Anne hasn’t got two babies to care for.’
Uncle Freddie, who had taken to wearing a brown overall coat while working in the shop, passed me a small sack of potatoes. ‘We’ll not get in the car,’ I told him.
He pulled a wry face. ‘Then stop here, lass.’
I threw my arms about the dear man’s neck. ‘You’ve always been so good to me, both of you. When I was little …’ I swallowed a self-pitying sob, stamped on it, continued determinedly with what I wanted to say. ‘You were always there for me.’
Uncle Freddie’s eyes were old and sunken, with white rings around the irises, the rims that come with advancing years. ‘We love you,’ he said gruffly. ‘As much as we love yon lass of our own.’
Maisie agreed with him. ‘We’ve had two good daughters, me and Freddie. But don’t tell your mam we said so.’
‘Of course not.’ They knew her, all right. They knew that although she hadn’t wanted me, she had never liked the idea of me receiving love and attention elsewhere. ‘It’ll be a long time before I talk to Mother.’
‘Nay.’ Maisie mopped her face with a large white handkerchief. ‘She is your mam. Never forget that she’s your mother, Laura. Happen she can’t help the road she is after getting spoilt as a young one. Life’s about forgiving folk and that includes ourselves. Don’t put the blame on any one pair of shoulders.’
I climbed into the car, reached for Edward, took him from Auntie Maisie’s gentle arms, closed the door. Judging by the crackling of paper, Gerald, in the back seat, was making inroads into Auntie’s carefully wrapped parcels. But I did not check him, because my eyes were fixed on the figure approaching us along the uneven village street. ‘Oh God,’ I breathed from the corner of my mouth. ‘Get going, Frank.’
He had not seen her. ‘Why the sudden hurry?’ he asked.
‘Mother is upon us,’ I said, trying to keep my lips as still as possible.
‘Ah.’ He rolled down his window, greeted my mother. ‘Hello, Mrs McNally.’
My mother, resplendent in a burgundy suit, chose to ignore Frank. She stepped off the pavement, walked in front of the car and stood motionless until I opened my window. ‘Yes?’ I asked, sounding like a shopkeeper who waits for an order.
‘That is a company car, I think,’ she said.
I looked hard at her, breathed in the disparate odours of Worth and Park Drive, studied her expensive clothes. There was no doubt in my mind that the suit and blouse had been made for her, because the fit was perfect. I decided that she had visited a city dressmaker, had probably ordered a dozen exclusive outfits. The shoes were suede, as was the handbag, a large affair that was rather like a briefcase. Here was the businesswoman, then. So the play had progressed into yet another act, with one of the scenes to be played here and now with the world passing by. ‘My father gave it to Frank,’ I answered eventually.
‘It was for company business,’ she snapped.
I glanced up the street, decided that this little bit of the world was a poor audience for Mother, too small to concern me. After all, the locals knew Liza, had enjoyed her variable temper over the years. And as far as I was concerned, there was nothing to lose.
I thrust my baby into his father’s arms, got out of the car, squared up to the woman on the cobbles. As far as height was concerned, I held the advantage, but because of the heels on her court shoes, we were more or less on the same level. However, my footing was steadier than hers, and I tried not to smirk when she stumbled slightly between two age-worn stones. ‘Do you want the car now, Mother?’ I asked, my tone trimmed with saccharine.
‘Where are you going?’ she demanded.
I leaned a casual elbow on the car’s roof. ‘Why do you need to know? And what difference will our destination make? Oh and if we keep answering questions with questions, we shall be staying exactly where we are for the foreseeable future.’
She curled that top lip in her good old-fashioned way. ‘Don’t be impudent.’
‘I am too old to be impudent. Just one more question, though. Why do we keep having these show-downs in public? Don’t you think we should use a telephone or the Royal Mail? Or pigeons?’
She gritted her teeth, almost looked her age for a moment. ‘You will not take that car out of Bolton. It is mine, it is company property.’
I leaned down, spoke to Frank. ‘Put the children inside the shop, love. And then you can help me to unload all the luggage. Mummy wants her motor.’
‘Don’t call me Mummy. I’ve told you before—’
‘I’ll call you exactly what I choose to call you. And some of the names will probably be short and rather rude. Come on, Frank, she wants her precious car back.’
Frank climbed out, gave Edward to Auntie Maisie, lifted out Gerald, who had become firmly attached to a packet of biscuits. As he was a well-brought-up child, he offered the soggy contents to my uncle and to Frank, then to a few other people who happened to be passing.
At last, there remained just Mother, Frank and myself. I walked to the boot, threw it open, scattered our cases on to the pavement. My temper was rising – I could feel the heat on my face.
Frank spoke to Mother. ‘We’re not leaving Bolton, Mrs McNally. And the car is so useful to us because of the children.’
She ignored him, but used the information he had imparted. ‘Laura, if you are staying in town, you may continue to borrow the car.’
I glared at her, deposited a pile of nappies on a suitcase. ‘I want nothing of yours.’ I paused for a second, had a think. ‘Frank, give me a hand. We’ll keep the bloody car and pay her for it.’
When the boot was filled once more, we collected our boy
s and began the process all over again, Gerald in the back, Edward with me, biscuit crumbs everywhere. Mother stood on the pavement, her body turned slightly away from her sister and brother-in-law. I didn’t smile, because my temper was still simmering, but I felt as if I had won a small battle. Even so, defeating my own mother did not give me any true joy. And, as Frank had so rightly predicted on many such occasions, there were tears before bedtime.
I wept not just for myself, but for the man whose arms contained me. She would not even deign to recognize him. ‘I’ll get the money tomorrow,’ I said between sobs. ‘And I hope it chokes her.’
He patted my back, comforted me as if I were a baby with colic. ‘You should just keep the car and the money, darling. She doesn’t need either of them, she’s only trying to—’
‘I want nothing of hers,’ I cried. ‘Nothing. I’m an orphan.’
He bathed my face, brushed my hair, tucked me into our new and rather lumpy bed. ‘From this day, I shall call you Orphan Annie,’ he declared soberly. ‘I hope Anne won’t mind me borrowing her name.’
The trouble with Frank was that he never let anybody grieve for long. He lay down beside me and started making up names for everyone we knew. When he had finished reducing the good people of Bolton to characters from Comic Capers, he began on the famous, rhyming names that sounded too terrible for me to resist. ‘If Bette Davis had been Mavis Davis and if Doris Day had chosen May Day—’
I cut him off with a sharp elbow. ‘Shut up, Frank.’
He had no remorse in him, no mercy. ‘Your life could have been a lot worse if you’d been called Sally McNally. And if Clark Gable had a sister called Mabel, and if John Wayne had a sister called—’
‘Jane!’ I shouted. ‘Honestly, there’s nothing worse than a man who makes you laugh in bed.’
He turned on the bedside lamp, a hideous thing from the thirties with a naked women stretching upward towards the shade. ‘What about Myrna’s brother, Roy Loy? Are you giggling? Are you?’
‘No.’
September Starlings Page 36
