by Annie Murray
‘You awright, Ned?’ Olive asked him as he sat moving his cup round on the table.
He looked up and smiled. ‘Course – sorry. Miles away I was there, for a second.’
‘Got a lot on yer mind, I should think, with the babby coming and that. Never mind – soon he’ll be ’ere and you’ll get used to it all.’
Reality chilled him like a bucket of ice water. I don’t want to get used to it. I want another life. I want to start again.
He didn’t stay long. Said he’d better be getting back, and stood up to slip the jacket back on. He looked broader, taller in his uniform than in the old clothes he’d been wearing before. As he left he spoke to all of them politely.
‘Cheerio, Sis . . . Jess.’
‘T’ra, Ned,’ she said. Her soft voice vibrated through him. He looked away from her quickly.
His visit filled Jess with longing. However much she told herself she was being ridiculous, each brief look or exchange of words she had had with him seemed charged with significance. She relived his visit over and over that week, lying on the prickly mattress after Polly and Sis were asleep, or standing with her hands in tepid water, washing tea and coffee dregs out of thick glasses at the back of Mather’s. She kept seeing his eyes turned to her, interested, in some way puzzled, it seemed, when he looked at her.
I’ve got to stop thinking of him, she thought. We barely know each other and he’s married and I bet Mary’s really beautiful . . . I’m nothing to him. She was ashamed at the extent of her feelings, her preoccupation with him, hour after hour which she could not seem to overcome by willpower.
Her need to think of Ned blocked out other feelings of longing. Neither her father nor Sarah had written back to answer Olive’s letter.
So they don’t want me, even enough to drop a line . . . But she no longer felt homesick. For what would life be, if he was not there? In two weeks Ned had invaded her thoughts until she could keep her mind on almost nothing else.
The next week he did come with Mary. Jess was in a state of nerves all morning, wondering if they’d come. When they arrived she backed into the scullery, peeping out to get a look at Ned’s wife.
She heard Mary’s high, slightly nasal voice first.
‘Lovely to see yer, Mrs Beeston.’ Jess thought she sounded nervous.
‘Yer’ll want to sit down,’ Olive was saying. ‘Ooh, yer carrying low awright! Never mind, bab, soon be over now. Come on in and take a pew.’
Trying hard to look casual, Jess stepped out of the scullery. The first thing that struck her was Mary’s smallness beside Ned. She was a tiny, pale thing with freckles, auburn hair tied in a high ponytail and arms poking out of her loose stripey frock which were so white and skinny they looked as if they’d snap like kindling. She was carrying the child well out at the front and the burden of it looked enough to topple her over on her face.
Jess was rocked by the violent stab of jealousy that went through her. Savage thoughts ran through her mind. She’s barely worth having, scrawny little thing! And look at that thin neck, and those arms! For a second she placed her hands on her own waist, feeling her strong, hourglass shape.
She was ashamed at her thoughts. What right did she have to be so horrible? Mary was bound to be very nice – she was Ned’s wife, after all! She knew Polly didn’t think much of Mary though. Was there a good reason for this?
She managed a smile at Mary. She had a sweet face, even Jess could see that, with high, arched eyebrows which made her look permanently surprised and interested.
‘I’m Jess. Polly’s cousin.’
‘Oh—’ Mary nodded. ‘That’s nice. Come to stay for a bit, ’ave yer?’
‘Sit down and ’ave a cuppa tea – and I might rustle up a bit of cake if yer lucky.’ Olive nodded over at
Mary. ‘Look as if yer could do with feeding up, wench.’ It sounded like an accusation.
They stayed a couple of hours, Mary laughing and joking, full of importance as a young wife who was about to have her first baby. Jess did her best to smile and laugh. She wanted to shine in front of Ned, for him at least to notice her. She sat Ronny on her lap and fed him mouthfuls of cake, kissing his cheeks. He’d get down, play about for a bit, run to Ernie for a time, then scramble up on her lap again.
‘Come ’ere,’ she said as he approached her again. ‘Ooh, yer don’t make up yer mind, do yer!’
She felt the strength in her arms, lifting him up, and glanced across, longing to see Ned looking at her. For all she attempted to pull herself together and be sensible, she wanted to know he was watching. His being there lit her up. She felt as if she was glowing in the room. But he never seemed to see her. Was looking anywhere but in her direction, it seemed, whenever she looked up and tried to meet his eyes.
‘You’re settling over there then, are yer?’ Olive asked. ‘I was hoping yer might move closer over ’ere.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to leave me mom,’ Mary said. ‘She still needs me ’elp like – all me brothers and sisters. I’m the eldest of ten,’ she explained to Jess.
‘She’s got ’er ’ands full then,’ Jess smiled.
‘None too well either, is she?’ Ned was sitting back, legs stretched out. Still he didn’t look at her.
‘No – I don’t know what our mom’d do without me close by. And Ned’s been ever so good – says ’e’d live anywhere to be with me.’ Mary smiled at him adoringly.
Polly got up and refilled the teapot. Jess watched, saw Polly holding her shoulders stiffly. As she came back to the table she looked directly at Jess. See? her expression said. No good you getting any thoughts in that direction. But then she noticed that Olive had suddenly closed her eyes and sat back as if overcome by dizziness. Jess saw Polly exchange a worried glance with Sis.
‘You awright, Auntie?’ Ned leaned towards her.
Olive opened her eyes, dazed for a second, then took a deep breath. ‘Oh ar – I’ll be awright. You carry on.’ She held out her cup for tea, shaking her head to dislodge the flashes of memory which had appeared in there, unbidden.
Jess held Ronny tight with one arm, looking down and stroking his soft little legs. She felt as if she was in a dream, one in which she was in a familiar place but everything in it felt wrong.
You’re so stupid! she raged at herself in her head. You can’t work up any feelings for the man who was given you on a plate, and now you’re all of a flutter over someone who’s married to someone else! Just stop acting so daft and get ’im out of your head, for God’s sake!
She looked up again, sensing a movement beside her. Ned was leaning forward, playing a game with Ronny.
‘I’m gunna ’ave that!’ He tweaked at Ronny’s nose, then held his thumb trapped between two fingers. Jess saw that he had wide, flat nails. She could smell him, soap, leather, sweat, breathed him in. ‘Look – ’ere it is. I’ve got it – want it back?’
Ronny looked at him open mouthed for a second, put his hand up to his nose, then gurgled with laughter.
‘There yer go – back on!’
He pretended to give the little boy his nose back. As he touched the child’s face he looked at Jess for a second, laughing. She smiled back, but Ned turned, abruptly.
‘We’d better be going, Auntie. You ready, Mary?’
As they left, Olive stood on the step waving them down the street. She turned to come inside, still smiling.
‘Lovely couple, ain’t they?’ she said. ‘’E’s done really nicely for ’imself there.’
A few days later, when everyone was out, except the babby, Ronny, Olive stood in her house, her thoughts agonized. It was getting worse. Some days she was all right. Normal. But days like today were terrible. Memories rushing back at her like a flock of ravens flying into her mind. Things she had avoided thinking about for years, as if some cavity in her had opened, spilling over.
‘It’s no good – I can’t carry on like this . . .’ Hearing her speak, Ronny looked up from his seat on the floor where he was playing with a ha
ndful of pegs.
For a moment she stared at him, distracted. So like his father he was! Her face contorted with bitterness. The child couldn’t help it, but by God she would rue his existence to the end of her days. A few moments of weakness, of need. Carried away – her, Olive Beeston carried away by sweet talk and a man’s fumblings! If she’d known anyone else be so bloody stupid she’d’ve soon told ’em . . .
With trembling, clammy hands she pulled open the little drawstring bag she kept tucked in her pocket and counted through her change. She turned over the coins, counting and recounting with the sense of wonder that came to her whenever she handled money. It still seemed a miracle when they brought their earnings home. Polly, Bert, Sis – and Jess was bringing in a small amount . . . They had enough now with four earning! Not a princely amount, but enough.
Her days of bone freezing poverty never left her. Worrying about every farthing, not even having enough on many a day for a half pail of slack for the fire, Polly and Bert slinking down the canal to pinch it off the barges, begging outside pubs when ice shone like crystals on the cobbles with her babbies clinging round her skirts, so bad with fever she barely knew what she was doing. If it hadn’t been for the charity of the church missions they’d have starved. These memories and many others forced themselves into her mind whenever she handled money.
But the things she most wanted to forget, to block right out of her mind, went further back. God knows she’d tried to force the memories away, but suddenly it wasn’t working any more. It all seemed to be bearing down on her like a goods train, with her tied to the track, like those pretty wenches in the films, the hot breath of the train on her face.
‘Today’s the day,’ she said to Ronny. ‘I gotta do summat about meself. ’Ow can I go on like this? I can’t even get to the shops!’
Polly or Jess were doing all the shopping. She could tell Jess was puzzled by this. After all, Olive was the one who was at home all day. She had the time. That morning as they set off to work Polly had said,
‘What d’yer need bringing in tonight, Mom?’
‘Don’t bother. We’ll get by on what we’ve got,’ she said. Polly looked surprised but was in too much of a rush to argue.
It was no good – she’d have to go. They were out of milk and tea, and there wasn’t a heel of bread in the house.
She pulled her coat on like a suit of armour, although it was June now and warm, took her hessian bag from the hook where the coat had hung and picked Ronny up.
‘Come on, son—’ She was aflutter with nerves. ‘You’re going to Agatha’s for a bit.’ She forced herself to the front door and carried Ronny round into the yard and went to her neighbour’s house.
Agatha’s pinched face appeared at the door. She looked taken aback at the sight of Olive Beeston in her hat and coat. Word had got round that she’d ‘turned a bit funny’ and wouldn’t go out of the house.
‘Could yer take Ronny for me for an hour?’ Olive said brusquely, trying not to turn her nose up at the dank, sweaty air that gusted out through the open door.
‘You going out?’ A nosey smile had begun at the corners of her mouth.
‘Ar – I’m going out. That awright with you?’
‘No trouble,’ Agatha said, holding her arms out. Ronny’s face screwed up and he started roaring. ‘Oh come on, bab, don’t start that. You go – ’e’ll be awright wi’ me.’
Olive left a beetroot-faced Ronny trying to hurl himself out of Agatha’s arms. She made it out of the yard, but down the entry stopped and leaned against the wall, all the old fear flooding through her. She bowed her head, closing her eyes, sweating inside her thick coat. Her hands felt clammy, and for a few moments she was panting in panic.
Oh pull yerself together! she gasped to herself, scared stiff someone’d see her. She straightened herself up and walked on weak legs towards the street.
It had only got this bad since Jess arrived. She knew that was what it was. Seeing her that evening, that copper beside her. Gave her the shock of her life. All these years she’d kept it at bay. And borne so much alone. No old man to tek care of ’em. No Charlie. He kept her steady when he was alive, those years they had together.
Taking deep breaths she turned down Allison Street. Immediately she spotted Bertha Hyde at her window across the street, like a ghost between her twitching net curtains. Olive’s fury at her restored her a little and she gave a mocking wave.
There’s nowt to be afraid of. Nowt. Just keep walking. Down to the main road – morning, Mrs Eldon, awright? A smile, that’s it. No, I don’t see you out often either . . . that’s it, round the corner.
Digbeth and the Bull Ring were packed with shoppers. Her fear began to subside a little in the anonymous bustle. She enjoyed the smells of the market, music from someone playing a French horn, felt the early summer sun on her face.
Ain’t good to be cooped up inside all day long, she thought. I ought to do this all the time, silly old woman I am.
Stepping into the first shop was a relief though. As if she’d been washed up on a rock. She felt her body relax, and only realized then that she’d been clenching her teeth hard.
But then she saw one of her neighbours from down the road was just turning from buying her bread as Olive’s turn came.
‘Mrs Beeston, ain’t it?’ the woman said, not troubling to keep her voice down. ‘Don’t see yer about much – yer been bad or summat?’
Olive’s jaw tightened again. Mind your own cowing business! a madwoman’s voice shrieked in her head. Don’t go nosing into my business, yer upstart busybody you!
She forced a tight smile. ‘My daughter likes to do the shopping as a rule.’ She turned away. ‘I’ll ’ave a large cottage and a bag o’ cobs, ta.’
She moved carefully from shop to shop for what she wanted: tins of Handy Brand milk, a quarter of Typhoo Tipps, a pound of cheap mince, onions, spuds and carrots off the Bull Ring. They slung them straight into her carrier for her. Triumphant, she gathered up her purchases and headed across towards Digbeth. Straight home and get the kettle on. She could leave Ronny with Agatha a bit longer and have a morning’s peace. She’d done it! It had only taken breaking the habit . . .
A tram was lumbering down the road and she glanced to one side, half looking at it. There was an advertisement for Hudson’s Soap plastered along the side of it. She was none too keen on trams passing too close to her. All those faces behind the glass staring down at her. Made her prickle all over. She avoided looking at the windows, and the tram rattled past.
And then she saw it, across the street. Her insides gave a violent lurch of shock so that for a moment she thought she was going to be sick right there in the gutter. Among all those people milling along there, that face turned towards her. The face she lived her life in dread of seeing, eyes staring straight at her from under the brim of a black hat . . . It happened in a second and Olive spun round, pressing herself against the sooty wall of St Martin’s. After a moment she turned back, searching the crowd, but there were so many hats, so many people in drab clothes, and her eyesight was not all it might be. She dropped her bag and onions rolled out across the pavement. A woman stooped and helped her pick them up.
She almost fell through her front door, her face wet with perspiration, hands trembling so that she could barely unbutton her coat. She put the kettle on the hob and sank down at the table, panting as if she’d run all the way home.
Everything led back to that house. That room where she’d been found. They’d come towards her, approaching her slowly as if she was diseased or dangerous, leading her away by the hand . . . away . . .
‘Oh God in heaven,’ she whimpered. ‘Oh Louisa . . .’
She sat for a long time, staring across the room. Steam gushed unheeded from the kettle’s spout.
‘We’ve got to move on.’
Polly was greeted by these words as she got in from work that night. Olive was huddled up in the little room which seemed very dark after the light evening.
/> Polly put her bag down, looking round for Jess or Sis. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Jess ain’t back. Sis’s round at Enid’s.’
Carefully, Polly said, ‘What’s ’appened, Mom?’
‘I saw ’er.’
‘Saw who?’ Polly sat down at the table, rubbing her hands over her pale face. ‘What’re yer talking about?’
‘I went up the Bull Ring. I ’ad to get . . .’
‘You went up the shops?’ Polly sat up, smiling. ‘Did yer manage by yerself? That’s really good, Mom, ain’t it. Yer could get out more now . . .’
‘But I saw – this woman. Lived round Saltley when Louisa and me lived with yer Dad . . .’ Polly could hear the tightly strung emotion in her mother’s voice. Olive couldn’t seem to stop talking, thoughts which had been pressing in on her all day, rushing out, even though Polly didn’t know, wouldn’t understand. ‘She’s aged a bit of course, but it was ’er awright. Oh Poll, I thought my ’eart was going to stop she gave me such a shock. She’s after me again, coming to find me . . .’
‘Mom, stop it!’ Polly shouted. She grabbed Olive by the shoulders, starting to shake her. ‘I don’t know what yer going on about. What woman? Why’s anyone going to be after yer? Yer ain’t done nothing, ’ave yer?’
Olive’s face was crumpling like that of a terrified child.
‘Don’t!’ Polly cried harshly. She released her mother, frightened by the look in her eyes. ‘This’s got to stop, Mom. I can’t stand any more of it. Yer making a nervous wreck of me an’ all. Yer not making any sense.’
‘I’m sorry, Poll—’ Olive started crying, sobs breaking out from her throat. ‘I just can’t go on living round ’ere if she knows we’re ’ere. She’s wicked – evil . . .’
Polly was close to tears herself. ‘Mom, I don’t know what all this is about. I’m worried about yer – yer don’t seem yerself at all lately. Please don’t talk like this. You’re frightening the life out of me. There’s no one after yer, is there? Why would there be?’
