Gradually, as she worked on her play, Jo began to feel an easing of her deep loss and pain. She and Colin had always seen things differently. He had always preferred Paul McCartney to her John Lennon. He had supported Newcastle United, while she had chosen Sunderland − probably just to annoy him − she couldn’t remember why. So it was nothing out of the ordinary for them to argue over the war or the world. It would’ve been unusual if they hadn’t, Jo thought wryly. That was something that Marilyn, as an only child, had never understood. When Marilyn saw Colin and Jo arguing, she thought they’d stopped loving each other. But Jo was certain now that Colin had never stopped loving her, no matter what she had said. She had still loved him, despite past hurts, so why should it be any different the other way round?
‘How’s it going?’ Susie would ask each evening.
Sometimes Jo would answer, ‘Okay, I think.’ At others she would just show her a bin full of crumpled-up paper.
One night Jo said tentatively, ‘I’m thinking of making it a one-woman play − doing all the parts.’
Susie nodded in approval. ‘Sounds interesting − and cheap. More likely to get someone to put it on.’
Jo looked at her in alarm. ‘You don’t think anyone will actually want to watch it?’
Susie laughed. ‘Well, there’s no point spending all this time and effort on it just to show me and Heather in the sitting room! Alan will help you there, won’t he?’
Jo wondered. She had hardly been in contact with him in weeks. She had rung him at New Year to tell him she was staying on in London to work on a play about the Falklands and the peace camp. He had sounded interested but distracted, and said he would try and get down to see her when the pantomime finished.
Jo rang him that evening but there was no reply. She tried for three days but never caught him in and so gave up. Maybe he had gone away for a few days’ walking in Scotland after the Christmas season had ended. She would encourage him to come down for a weekend in London when she had something to show him.
The more she worked on her idea, the more autobiographical it became. She had to change some of the characters in case it became too personal. Increasingly, her thoughts dwelt on Mark and the effect the war had had on him. At first she made him into a character who went off to war full of idealism and came home virulently anti-war, like some First World War veteran. But then she abandoned the idea as having been done too many times before. What was she trying to say when she thought of Mark? she agonised.
Jo went for long wintry walks around Clapham Common and sat in cafes over mugs of coffee thinking about him. How did Mark feel now? she wondered, ashamed that she did not know. She had been too quick to criticise him for his self-pity and not listen to why he was hurting inside so much. But wasn’t it obvious? In a world where people were too quick to judge him by the way he looked − the colour of his skin − he had felt safe among his childhood friends. Then he had lost both Colin and Skippy overnight, and for some reason felt responsible for Skippy’s death.
For all his outward show of toughness and devilment as a boy, Mark had been the most sensitive and idealistic of them all. Even as a child, he had railed at his father’s brutality towards his mother and refused to be bullied himself. He had been a true grandson of Hassan, who had stood up for injustice against black sailors, and had also inherited a strong sense of fairness from Ivy’s father, the liberal Mathias.
But Marilyn had warned Jo to leave Mark and Brenda alone to get on with their lives, so she might never really know what ate away inside him. They did not want her inquisitive interference. She would always be a reminder of Colin and the past that Brenda was eager to forget. Maybe it was best if they did forget, Jo concluded. But even if she never saw Mark again, she could pay tribute to his bravery and the values for which he had stood up all his life.
Jo sat up late, writing and tearing up her work and starting again. In the end, she abandoned the idea of describing the war at first hand and set it all at home. She created a group of women characters who saw the war through their own eyes and the way it affected the men who went. At the heart of it was the unresolved debate about peace and whether it was right to fight and die for it, or braver not to fight at all.
On Colin’s birthday, she rang her father.
‘I was thinking of you, pet,’ he told her, and she could hear the tears in his voice. ‘I’m glad you rang.’
‘Me too, Dad,’ she answered.
‘When are you coming home?’ he asked plaintively. ‘We miss you that much.’
‘Soon,’ she promised, ‘when the play’s finished.’
‘Pearl’s wanting to arrange the wedding,’ Jack pressed her. ‘She needs to know when you’re going to be back. You won’t miss that, will you?’
‘Course not,’ Jo said hastily. ‘It’ll be the highlight of the year.’
There was a silence while both of them remembered.
‘Dad,’ Jo said cautiously, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about the family while I’ve been writing − a lot about Mam too.’
‘Joanne, don’t think too badly of her − don’t upset yourself,’ he panicked.
‘No, Dad, I don’t blame her any longer,’ Jo broke in quickly. ‘There’s no point getting angry. She might have loved me without it really showing. Anyway, I had you and Auntie Pearl giving me more than enough love −still have − and that’s what matters to me now. When I come home, I’m going to spoil you both; make up for not being there for you these past months.’
At first she heard nothing, then her father’s croaky voice said, ‘You’re always with me, pet, wherever you are. And I thank God for you every day of me life.’
Jo put her hand to her mouth to stop herself crying. Gulping down tears, she said, ‘Give me love to Auntie Pearl. I’ll see you soon.’ Then she quickly rang off.
Finally, at the end of February, Jo felt she had something to show for all the weeks of struggle. She gave it to Susie to read one night. Her friend came rushing through to where she was sleeping on the sofa, tears streaming down her face.
‘It’s − it’s brilliant!’ she cried. ‘It’s so powerful − right from the guts.’
‘Do you think so?’ Jo asked, feeling her insides lurch with excitement. She had been so afraid that Susie would reject it for being open-ended, raising more questions about peace and war than it answered.
‘Yes,’ Susie assured her. ‘Heather probably won’t like it. She’ll say it’s too sentimental − that you let the military off the hook. But it’s so moving,’ she enthused. She clutched Jo’s arm. ‘It’s just you. You’ve given everything of yourself − it’s all here.’
Jo felt a wave of relief. She had put everything into the play and was exhausted by the effort. But even if Susie was the only person who ever read it, it had been worth the agony.
Susie sat clutching the manuscript, the duvet pulled over her knees. She looked reflective, then turned to Jo. ‘You must love him very much still,’ she said softly.
Jo felt a pang as she nodded. ‘He was me only brother; of course I’ll always love him.’
Susie gave her an odd look, and then laughed as she realised the confusion. ‘No, Jo, not Colin,’ she answered gently. ‘The other character, the one you call Greg. Mark − is that his real name?’
Jo flushed. ‘W−why do you say that? How can you tell? I mean, it’s only fiction!’ she stammered.
Susie gave her a disbelieving look. ‘Listen, Jo, I think I know you pretty well by now. It’s obvious to me. The way you write about him − it’s very beautiful and touching. You shouldn’t be embarrassed.’
Jo put her hands to her burning face. ‘But I am. He’s married. He doesn’t even like me any more! No, of course I don’t still love him. I’m just using his case to make a point,’ she blustered.
Susie did not press her. ‘If you say so.’
***
Jo did nothing for a few days, except walk and sleep and listen to the radio. She wondered whether she should rewrite bits
of the play. The main character lost her lover to the war. Was the lover really based on Mark, and if so should she change him? she fretted. Then she determined to empty her mind of the play and relax. Susie had never even met Mark, so how could she know? The Greg character was just a vehicle to express Jo’s ideas on freedom and loyalty and love.
Her state of quiet limbo was brought abruptly to an end by a telephone call from Pearl.
‘We’ve booked the registry office for next Friday afternoon,’ her aunt told her firmly, ‘and a meal at Georgio’s in the evening. We’ve taken a room upstairs. So you get yourself home sharpish. I want to take you out and buy you a nice outfit.’
Jo was suddenly full of nervous excitement. ‘Just don’t say frock, Auntie Pearl,’ she teased.
‘Well, you’re not coming in old jeans,’ her aunt insisted. ‘And the other thing. You won’t go on calling me Auntie once I’m married, will you?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Jo said, not having given it any thought. But the relationship would be different. ‘You don’t want me to call you Stepmother, do you?’
‘Course not!’ Pearl exclaimed. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ll practise,’ Jo promised. ‘Pearl. Is that okay?’
They both laughed. ‘Eeh, it’ll be grand to have you back home,’ Pearl said. ‘Alan’s invited, of course.’
Jo felt herself blushing. She had hardly thought about him for days. ‘Thanks,’ she answered. ‘I don’t know what he’s doing next Friday…’
‘You sort it out and let us know,’ Pearl said. ‘And Jack wants to know when we’re going to see this play of yours.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Jo was evasive. ‘I’d thought of contacting my old friend from the Dees Theatre, Martha Jones. Do you remember?’
‘Course I do,’ Pearl said. ‘I was at a production of The Dumbwaiter there before Christmas. I saw Martha and she was asking after you. She’s not acting any more, but she’s still one of the trustees.’
‘Could you look her number up for me?’ Jo asked excitedly. Pearl came back after a couple of minutes with the numbers for the theatre and for Martha’s home. ‘Thanks, Aun− I mean Pearl,’ she grinned. ‘I’ll be up next week.’
‘Make it early next week,’ Pearl warned.
***
By the time Jo boarded the coach for Newcastle on the Tuesday, she had already spoken to Martha and arranged to meet her and show her the play. Her old friend and mentor was as encouraging as always and delighted to hear from her. They had a lot of catching-up to do.
It was difficult saying goodbye to Susie after all their time together.
‘You’ve been so good to me,’ Jo said gratefully. ‘I don’t know what sort of mess I’d be in if you and Heather hadn’t sorted me out over Christmas.’
‘I was glad of the company,’ Susie told her. ‘Stopped me moping around thinking about Bob.’
‘You’ll come up and stay soon?’ Jo urged.
‘Love to,’ Susie said, giving her a direct look. ‘Will I get you at Alan’s or your dad’s?’
Jo pulled a face. ‘Not sure what I’m going to find. Better let me ring you.’
Susie hesitated, then decided to say it. ‘It might mean nothing. But that time you couldn’t get in touch with Alan. Well, Maya was away then too. Could just be coincidence…’
Jo flushed. ‘They’ve always been good friends,’ she said defensively. ‘It doesn’t mean−’
Susie hugged her quickly. ‘No, of course it doesn’t. Take care. Hope the wedding goes really well. Have a few drinks for me!’
Moments later, Jo was on the bus with her bulging bag made out of patchwork leather and suede, finding a seat. She slept a lot of the way, but as they neared Newcastle she craned out of the window for familiar landmarks: the crescent shape of the Tyne Bridge lit up in the winter dusk, the solid castle tower and the delicate thistle dome of the cathedral. Jo felt a strange hunger at the sight of the river below. There was a naval ship docked at the quayside. Her heart began to beat faster as it made her think of Mark and Skippy. She glanced downriver towards the cranes of Wallsend and suddenly could not wait to be there.
Instead of taking a taxi to Alan’s flat in Sandyford, Jo went straight to the bus station and climbed on a bus for Wallsend. In twenty minutes she was ringing the bell on her old doorstep. Her father opened the door and squinted over his reading spectacles at the figure in the dimly lit hallway. Jo hardly gave him time to throw open his arms as she flung herself at him.
‘Dad, it’s me,’ she cried.
‘Joanne!’ he answered and hugged her to him in delight.
‘Haway and bring her inside!’ Pearl commanded. ‘Let’s have a good look at her.’
Jo grinned at the familiar words. Her aunt had said them every time she had come home from abroad and could not wait to see how she and Colin had grown. This time Jo herself was the returning wanderer, but it felt just as good.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was Pearl’s idea. She made the suggestion the next day when Jo went to talk to Martha about putting on the play at the Dees Theatre in March or April. Jo gawped at her.
‘You’re not serious? Do the play at your wedding reception? But I haven’t learnt it− ’
‘I bet you have.’ Pearl gave her a look. ‘Anyway, you could do it as a reading.’
‘But it’s not suitable for a wedding.’ Jo made excuses. ‘It’s not a happy play.’
‘Susie said it was uplifting,’ Pearl answered. ‘Didn’t she, Jack?’
‘Aye,’ her father agreed.
‘You’ve been speaking to Susie about it?’ Jo gasped. ‘What else did she say?’
‘Just that she’s coming up for the wedding,’ Pearl smiled. ‘She’s been that good to you we thought it would be a nice way to thank her. And she said she’d definitely come if you did a performance.’
‘Dad, are you in on all this?’ Jo asked, dumbfounded.
He looked at her guardedly. ‘Aye, in a manner of speaking. It was Pearl’s idea, but we’re both curious to see what’s been keeping you in London all this time.’
‘But you’ll probably hate it.’ Jo cringed at the thought of those closest to her seeing her work. It was much easier to perform in front of strangers, especially when she had written it herself. It would be like exposing herself in public, she thought in embarrassment.
‘Go on,’ Pearl encouraged. ‘You know how I love a good play. Doesn’t matter if you make us cry or laugh, it’ll be special because it’s you doing it on our special day.’
‘Oh, Pearl, I don’t know…’ Jo said, covering her burning cheeks with her hands.
‘Haway, there won’t be many there,’ Jack coaxed. ‘It would be a grand wedding present for us to see your work, pet.’
Jo was suddenly fired by the idea. ‘If you’re sure it won’t spoil your evening,’ she said with a bashful smile.
‘We’ve got the weekend in Edinburgh to recover if it does,’ Pearl joked, with a kiss on her cheek.
‘I’ll need to get some music taped.’ Jo began to plan at once. ‘I’ll go over to Alan’s tomorrow and sort that out. I left a message at the theatre to say I was back.’ She stopped. They were both looking at her. ‘What?’
‘He rang while you were out at Martha’s,’ Pearl said quietly. ‘Said he couldn’t make it to the wedding − wished us all the best.’ Jo felt herself go hot.
‘Think it’s time you sorted things out there,’ Jack said, unusually forthright.
‘Aye,’ Jo said stiffly, ‘it is.’
The next day, Jo and Pearl went into Newcastle to buy the promised outfit. Pearl forbade black. They laughed like teenagers as Jo tried on various skirts and tops, but in the end she settled for a long purple dress and black boots. They parted at the bus station, Jo bracing herself to go back to Alan’s.
‘I’ll see you on Friday, then,’ Jo smiled, kissing her aunt affectionately. Pearl was suddenly emotional.
‘I can’t wait!’ she sniffed. ‘I feel
as excited as a young lass.’
‘You still are,’ Jo grinned.
Pearl caught her hand. ‘If things get awkward − you come straight home.’
Jo nodded, realising that they both still thought of Jack’s flat as her home. The nearer she drew to Sandyford, the more she felt that she no longer wanted to be there. It had suited her to have excuses to stay away, and she imagined Alan already knew that. She had hardly been back since she had left for the peace camp in October.
Alan was not there when she let herself in, so she busied herself taping the pieces of music that she needed for the play, from his large collection of LPs. She could not help herself nosing around for signs that Maya had moved in or was a regular visitor, but there was nothing to suggest it. In fact, the place had an air of neglect about it, as if it had ceased to be a home to anyone. The fridge was empty, apart from some ancient Brie and a few stalks of withered spring onions. The newspapers lying around were several weeks old, and dust lay thick on everything.
Jo shivered and switched on the gas fire, made herself a cup of black tea and settled to read through the script while the music played. Later, she got up and drew the curtains against the dark, then decided to pop out to the corner shop for some milk and fresh bread before it closed. By the time she had bought provisions and chatted to the grocer, whom she had not seen in months, half an hour had gone.
Fiddling with her key in the lock, she heard a familiar voice shout, ‘It’s open!’
She staggered in with two carrier bags and dumped them down, looking across at Alan. He looks old, she thought with detachment. ‘Hi. I’ve got some stuff to make a curry.’
He smiled at last and came forward to give her a kiss. It was brief, without enthusiasm. ‘Welcome back at last. Wasn’t sure if I’d see you again.’
‘Sorry,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I wasn’t sure if I’d come back.’
‘That’s honest,’ Alan answered evenly. ‘So I’m going to be honest with you. Glass of wine?’
THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory Page 119
