A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  She looked at her beautiful child, this precious girl who had endured so much. ‘So you never told me because he said he’d kill us?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you never tell anybody, love?’

  ‘A priest. He came up and thumped him.’

  ‘And I’ll finish him off, by Christ, I will! I’ll go up to that bloody hospital and I’ll wring his neck! Holy Mother of God . . .’

  ‘Don’t, Mam. Nothing’s changed, has it? We’re still the same. This went on for eight or nine years – I don’t see why you want to do something now, when it’s all over.’

  ‘I want him to pay, Annie.’

  ‘It’s too late, Mother. Anyway, he has paid.’

  ‘Paid? Has he bloody hell paid!’

  ‘I clouted him with the poker and put him in the infirmary, didn’t I? I half-drowned him, I knifed him – there’s been enough violence.’

  ‘He’s not dead yet. I want him dead so’s I can dance on his grave.’

  ‘Mother . . . !’

  ‘Anyway, why didn’t you tell me when you got older, eh? I can understand about when you were little and he threatened to kill you . . .’

  ‘He said he’d swear I’d encouraged him. I was afraid he might just be believed.’

  ‘I’d never have believed him, Annie.’

  ‘The court might have! Don’t you see – it was the only way. I was so confused – I knew you’d kill him if you ever found out. And where would that get you? Prison – or worse. Dr Pritchard wanted to get the police, but I told him I didn’t want to end up in a children’s home and I didn’t want you to lose the breadwinner.’

  ‘Breadwinner? He’s not given me enough for a scrape of marg during the last two years . . .’

  ‘That’s not the point! I just did what I thought best and Dr Pritchard backed me up. We got a lawyer to draw up a paper about what Eddie Higson had done to me over the years. We used that to blackmail him and he’s never touched me since. Only now, he’s done it to somebody else instead.’

  Nancy walked across the room, placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. ‘My good brave lass,’ she whispered before pulling Annie into her arms. ‘We shall never set eyes on him again, I promise you that. The law’ll see to him now.’

  ‘Thanks, Mother.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just for being my mother.’

  ‘Nay, lass. If I’d been a good mother . . .’

  ‘You didn’t know . . .’

  ‘I knew you hated him. I should have found out why.’

  ‘Never mind, Mam. You know what you always say about spilt milk.’

  ‘Aye, but you’re not milk, Annie. You, my girl, are the cream. And never forget that.’

  Dolly was puzzled. Frightened too, if she could but admit it. It had cost her one and six and all to get up there, then they wouldn’t let her see him, said he was in isolation or summat.

  She eased herself onto the bus seat which, though intended for two, managed to accommodate just Dolly and her bag, leaving little room for anyone else. So. It looked as if it were going to be a long job. If he were that bad as he had to be put on his own, then this one in her belly would likely be at school before its dad got out. Still, right was only right at the end of the day. He’d had his fun and she wasn’t going to pay his whack as well as her own. Bad enough going through birthing a child, without having him as fathered it out of the road and not tipping up a few bob. Aye, there were nowt else for it, she’d have to call and see his missus, get the cards on the table and demand her rights. Mind, that Nancy were a dark horse. Quiet like, but Dolly reckoned she might turn nasty if pressed. And what about the flaming neighbours? Oh, she’d have to say as how Eric had been back for just the one night, sneaked out in the early hours and left her up the spout.

  But she’d best get through to Eddie some road and if it had to happen through his missus, well it was just too bad. She could stick up for herself, could Dolly.

  She took a bunch of grapes intended for Eddie and pushed them one by one into her mouth, heedless of the juice dripping down her chin. She’d been partial to a bit of fruit lately, probably summat to do with the kid on the way.

  The bus stopped right outside the Higsons’ house, so she got off, might as well get it over and done with and she could always catch another for the last two stops. The girl opened the door.

  ‘Is yer Mam in?’

  She looked as if she’d been crying. ‘She’s not well, Mrs Nelson.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’m right sorry to ’ear that. Nothin’ serious, I ’ope?’

  ‘Just a bad cold.’

  Dolly felt as if the wind had been taken from her sails. ‘Tell ’er as ’ow I want to see ’er – when she’s better, like. Ask ’er will she call round one afternoon – I’m off matinees, so I’ll be in all week.’ Yes, that might be better. Better on her own patch than in Nancy Higson’s kitchen.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ the girl said.

  ‘Right then, luv. Ta-ra now.’

  It was a fine night. She’d walk home, it wasn’t that far and she’d a couple of nice green apples to keep her company.

  ‘Who was it, Annie?’ Nancy stirred the fire, then set the old blackened kettle on the grid to boil yet again.

  ‘It was Mrs Nelson.’

  ‘Dolly Nelson? What did she want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t she say?’

  ‘No.’

  They were both bone-weary; this evening had gone on forever. Nancy, after hearing all that from Annie, was almost too tired to care about what Dolly Nelson might want. The initial shock was over, but now the guilt had started to move in, creeping over her like icy fingers as she asked herself why she’d left Annie with him all these years, why she’d never listened, never noticed. She beat her closed fists against the wall. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if she had him here now, right now . . .

  ‘Don’t, Mam.’

  Nancy straightened. ‘Did she leave a message?’

  ‘She wants you to go and visit her.’

  ‘Visit her? I don’t know her. Last time I saw her she was buying tripe in the Jubilee Stores – months ago. We say hello, but we never pass the time. Whatever can she want?’

  Annie, whose senses in spite of tiredness were still alert to the point of pain, said, as casually as she could, ‘Don’t go, Mother.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I just know you shouldn’t go, that’s all.’

  8

  Repercussions

  It was a long upstairs room at the back of the house with two mock-Georgian windows, each covered by the lace curtains Mother seemed so taken with. Dad had made it really comfortable, with a carpet square that could be rolled back for dancing, a couple of tables with folding canvas chairs, a dartboard on the wall and a larger table for records and the Dansette.

  Simon opened a bottle of lemonade and took a swig, aware of how horrified his mother would be if she realized he had sunk to such depths. She was furious about all this, he could tell, though little had been said. There was an atmosphere in the house, not the usual coldness, but a crackling silence, as if a thunderstorm would shortly break.

  He stacked the records, looked at his watch, then went on to the landing. It would be better if he met them out on the road. Mother would consider the felony thoroughly compounded if they were to ring the bell like normal visitors. Her bedroom door was open and he could see right into the flowery girlish room with its frills and rose-pink lighting. She sat by the window in a chintz-covered nursing chair, peering out, waiting for them to arrive. He felt pity for her, so much that he almost ran in and said, ‘It will be alright.’ But he couldn’t. Something in the way she sat, motionless and ramrod-stiff, precluded any such approach – as indeed did reason – he knew she would never approve of Anne and Martin, let alone Lofty and the rest.

  He ran down the stairs at speed, opened the front door and waited under a white light illuminating the brass p
late that announced his father’s profession. They advanced, a tangle of stick-thin legs in drainpipe trousers, bopping and jiving along the road while the girls, in rustling skirts with layers of net just showing at the hem, followed in a manner only slightly more sedate. Dad was out on call, so his main line of defence was temporarily down. And he wanted it to go well this first time, especially after Dad had said to take care of Anne as there’d been a bit of trouble which must not be mentioned.

  They burst in, bringing life and colour into the tastefully drab hall, some of the boys running partway up the stairs to slide down the highly polished banister several times. Anne and Martin were the last to arrive, separate from the rest, hand in hand as always. And yet although they were outwardly a pair, Simon felt they were incomplete without him. A strange trio, this, he thought. Himself, cherished son of a self-appointed lady of the manor, then Martin Cullen, product of a poverty-stricken home containing no less than seven children . . . and lastly, but never least, Anne Byrne. How to describe her? Daughter of a dead soldier, child of Nancy Higson, doffer and ring-spinner of this parish?

  ‘Hiya, kid.’ Martin clapped a hand on to Simon’s shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Simon.’ She stood under the square chandelier, her hand still in Martin’s. No, he couldn’t describe her, apart from how she looked, that sad-happy smile, the fall of yellow hair left loose to cover her long back right down to the waist, clear green eyes set wide under a smooth white forehead, the small straight nose with its sprinkling of freckles. Nonconformist might be the word for Anne, who seemed unaware of, or at least unaffected by, the fashion of the day, rarely tying her hair back into a typical pony-tail, never to be seen in a skirt held impossibly wide by layers of crackle-nylon. As usual, she wore rolled-up jeans, white socks and sandals and an over-large sweater with a plain crew neck. But she stood out, for her brightness came from within and she needed no garish feathers to enhance her beauty. Because for Simon, she was beauty – not beautiful, but the very essence of all that was soul-touching. Was empathy, he wondered, akin to love? Yet he felt no jealousy, no resentment towards Martin. He liked him, loved him even, in the way one might love a brother, an older and more worldly-wise blood relation who offered comradeship and demanded little in return.

  She placed a hand on Simon’s arm. ‘I can’t stay long. My mother isn’t too well – Auntie Jessie’s with her just now, but I’ll have to get back before she leaves.’

  ‘I’m only glad you came. War could break out at any minute – I may need troops.’

  Martin stepped forward. ‘Listen, Sime. If she doesn’t want us, we’ll go – I’ll get them all out if this means trouble for you.’ The noise from upstairs was deafening, music blaring, laughter and the stamping of feet echoing throughout the house.

  David let himself in at the front door and Simon, relieved beyond measure, stepped aside to allow his father into the hall.

  ‘Noisy, eh?’ grinned David, his eyes flicking towards the ceiling. He followed them upstairs and into the room, his smile broadening while he watched a pair of rock ’n’ rollers whose dancing displayed a degree of athleticism that had to be admired. When the performance had ended, Lofty offered him a lemonade and David sat on a canvas chair sipping at the mug of fizzing liquid. One of the girls, brightly painted and in a dress of multicoloured glazed cotton, came over to him. ‘We want to say ta, Doc, for lettin’ us come in your ’ouse.’

  ‘Hello, Margaret – I hardly recognized you! You’re welcome, all of you. Now listen.’ They waited, respect plain on their faces, for David to continue. ‘I’m laying down no rules, but don’t go wild. Know what I mean?’ They nodded, murmuring their agreement. ‘This is a big house, plenty of room for everyone, but please remember that it is fastened to the house next door, that glass is thin and that if you get too loud, you’ll disturb the whole neighbourhood.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘We don’t dance all t’ time, Doc. Sometimes we just sit talkin’ – or listenin’ to Annie more like it. Once she gets on ’er ’igh ’orse over summat, she can start a right good thing goin’ – interestin’ – you know?’

  ‘Oh shut up, Maggie,’ said Annie, blushing. ‘You give your sixpennyworth and you know it.’

  ‘Aye. But t’ difference atween thee an’ me is I allers wants fivepence change!’

  They all laughed and Lofty broke away to put another record on the Dansette. David slipped out quietly, only to find that Margaret had followed him on to the landing.

  ‘’Ey, Doc. Can I ’ave a quick word?’

  ‘Certainly. Here or in the surgery?’

  ‘Oh ’ere’ll do. It’s nowt really, just me Mam – she’s gone a bit funny, like. She sits there for hours, starin’ into t’ fire, there’s never no tea when we come in from school. She’s like . . . sad, if you know what I mean.’

  Poor Margaret, thought David. Not yet fifteen and with the body and mind of a woman already. He thought about Dolly Nelson, knowing only too well the reason for her depression. A fifth child on the way, her husband gone, no sign of the baby’s father putting in an appearance or offering support. ‘I’ve seen your mother. She’ll get better in time, I’m sure. But you’re a sensible girl – there is something you can do to help.’

  ‘Consider it done, Doc.’

  Yes, she was a bright girl, this oldest of Dolly Nelson’s children. Young people these days had a certain resilience, pondered David, wondering obliquely whether all that cod-liver oil had done some good after all. These war-babies were a tough breed, stronger in mind and body than any previous generation. ‘Try to get her to eat the right foods, Margaret. She’s overweight . . .’

  ‘I know, she’s fat, I’ve told ’er that.’

  ‘Fish, green vegetables, fruit – those are the kind of foods she should be eating.’

  ‘Aye. She’s taken to fruit lately.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good sign, isn’t it?’

  As she went off to join the others, David remained on the landing, his head moving slowly from side to side. Yes, it was a sign. But not necessarily a good one.

  Jessie Gallagher sat in the rocker by the living-room range, staring at her sister who occupied the straight-backed chair opposite hers. Jessie’s mouth hung open, her jaw slack yet immovable as she tried to take in what their Nancy had just said. And the way she’d told it too, like she was reading it out of a book, like it had happened to somebody else.

  ‘I don’t want it spreading, Jessie. I’ve told you because I trust you and . . . well, I needed to talk to somebody round my own age and it had to be family.’

  ‘Does our Annie know?’ Jessie finally managed.

  ‘She knows he went for a nurse – she doesn’t need any pictures drawing.’ Of course, she hadn’t told Jessie about the other thing, about him and Annie . . . Unable to sit still with the thoughts, she jumped up to pour tea.

  ‘Well,’ said Jessie. ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs – who’d have thought it, eh? And him such a quiet man.’

  ‘Happen it’s the quiet ones that need watching, Jess. Them as makes a noise gets things out of their system. He was a brooder.’ Yes, she was talking about him in the past tense and that was right, because he’d gone, gone forever, just as if he were dead and buried.

  ‘Will it get in the papers, Nancy?’

  A spoon clattered to the floor as Nancy steadied herself against the table’s edge ‘Eeh no – I never thought. Oh my God, how could I forget the papers? Oh no no . . .’

  ‘Now calm yourself. See, sit down while I make the brew. What’s done’s done and there’s nowt to make it different.’

  Nancy sat by the fire while Jessie took over the tea-making, stirring a little extra sugar into her sister’s cup. ‘I wish I’d kept my gob shut now, I do. I’d no intentions of upsetting you, not with what’s already on your plate . . .’

  ‘Nay, you’re right, lass. It’s a consideration, by God it is.’

  ‘Give over. It might never get in the Evening News anyroad.’

&nb
sp; ‘Evening News? This could make the front page of the News of the World, this could. After all, if that poor nurse was hurt bad . . .’ For the first time, Nancy found herself really thinking, caring about his victim. She must be in a terrible state. Aye, Nancy knew what he could be like. She felt sick to the core as she remembered the black silent shape hovering over her in the night, his body slick and vile-smelling with all that sweat. Oh, she’d had to put up with it – he was her husband. Even a paper Catholic couldn’t refuse. But the other things he’d tried to make her do, unnatural things, nothing to do with making babies, then the anger when she’d refused to allow . . . She fled to the kitchen and retched fruitlessly over the sink while Jessie patted her back and murmured words of comfort.

  ‘Oh Jessie – that poor girl . . .’

  ‘Come on. Have you finished? See, have a glass of water – sip it slow now.’

  But she couldn’t swallow, her stomach still heaved. ‘To think I lived for years with a creature like that . . . oh Jessie, Jessie . . .’

  ‘That’s right, love. You have a good cry, it’s only natural.’

  When Nancy was calmer, they returned to their seats by the fire. Jessie knew she would have to be going soon. Where was that girl? Fancy her leaving her Mam at a time like this. ‘Where’s Annie?’ she asked now.

  ‘With her friends – oh I made her go. If you’d seen the state she was in the other night, you’d have done the same. She’s never left my side till now – I had to kick her out. Even then I saw her standing at the corner waiting till she saw you get off the bus. This isn’t something she can tell her mates, Jessie. She’ll have to put a brave face on and the sooner she starts, the better. Don’t you worry. She’ll look after me alright. We’ll look after one another.’