A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  With unsteady hands she poured a small sherry, swallowing her pride as she gulped down the liquid. She had to ask. ‘Do you . . . love this woman?’

  The grandfather clock at the far end of the room sang the hour in gentle Westminster chime.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I have never loved a woman, never had that rare privilege. I like and respect her, but love – according to what I’ve read and heard – has always eluded me completely. She is not in love with me either; we simply comfort one another. Now, I’ve finally found the courage to be as honest with my wife as I’ve always been with her.’

  ‘Do I know her?’

  His eyes travelled from the top of her head right down to her feet. ‘You don’t know anybody. You measure people, judge them, use them . . .’

  ‘Very well then,’ she interrupted. ‘Is she among my circle?’

  He shook his head slowly then stalked out of the room, slamming the door as he left. In the hallway, he leaned on the banister, his heart racing. She was going insane and she would take him with her. But there had been no need for him to lash out so viciously. It was like kicking a dumb defenceless animal with neither wit nor wisdom to protect itself. Why, after all these years, had he turned on her like that?

  He stared up at the chandelier, his eyes narrowing against a thousand shards of reflected light as if he might find a solution in these insubstantial splinters. Dear God, if she ever found out that his source of comfort was part of her bridge four, then her world would collapse. Yet he knew that Edna had not the courage to pursue the issue, that she would nurse it within herself where it would fester like a gangrenous sore.

  His friendship with Sarah Pennington had always been easy and necessary to both of them. She, a widow with a young family and a vast inheritance to protect from fortune-hunters, he, with a dead marriage and a son who would surely have suffered had his father found a permanent new mate. For a brief moment, David saw Clive’s young face, watched the train pulling out of Trinity Street, heard his dead friend calling ‘Look after Sarah.’ Clive had become one of the few to whom so much would be forever owed, shot down over Germany. Of course, Edna had soon tired of caring for Sarah and her children. He smiled to himself, knowing somehow that Clive would have approved of his way of ‘looking after Sarah’.

  But David would never forgive himself for what he had done to Edna this evening. He had behaved stupidly, irrationally, like a spoiled brat. But whichever quality might be required to make him return to the drawing room and apologize, explain, negotiate – whatever he needed to find within himself to put things on a better footing, smooth things over, make some kind of order – eluded him completely. Life, from now on, promised to be completely unbearable.

  Meanwhile, Edna sat in a stupor, her second sherry already consumed, a third in her glass. She would, she concluded, do nothing – simply because she could do nothing. She didn’t want divorce, abhorred the concept of scandal, was not equipped for ‘scenes’ of any kind. The name of the woman was not important. Things could continue the same on the surface – nothing would change. And she was far too busy for such trivia. Tomorrow was bridge day, she had baking to do, standards to uphold. She drained the glass. David could find his own way to the devil.

  11

  Dolly’s Lot

  The house was situated on a new council estate in Breightmet, on the hem of Bolton’s ever-spreading outskirts. It was one of many such concrete and pebble-dashed buildings that were springing up to replace decaying or bombed-out row houses and to accommodate the post-war explosion of population.

  Dolly Nelson’s was an end house, edged on two sides by open fields, the front facing the blind end of another corner house across the way. Dolly hated it. For a kick-off, it was back to front. Whoever heard of a back kitchen at the front of a house? If she stood at the sink all day and looked out of the small window, she could stare, if she chose, at a blank wall or if she craned her neck to the point of pain, she could just about see up the avenue. There was nothing worth looking at, few buses, no cars, no late-night revellers rolling home from the pub. The flaming bus came only twice an hour and what with the pram to push, she’d managed the six-mile round trip to town just once since she moved in. Aye, and she’d not forget that in a hurry, meeting Nancy Higson and her stuck-up kid.

  The ‘front room’ was at the back of the house, running its full width with two large windows looking out on to a garden. Beyond the garden were fallow fields and the only passers-by she’d seen so far were a stray cow and a couple of dogs from the estate. She was bored out of her mind.

  Dolly stubbed out her Woodbine in a cracked saucer and lifted Johnny from his pram. He never cried, didn’t Johnny, not like the other four little buggers who’d woken up screaming every day and gone to bed in the same state. Their Johnny was an angel, the only thing left to brighten her days since Maggie went off. ‘If she thinks t’ middle o’ Bolton’s paved wi’ gold, she’s another think comin’, she ’as,’ announced Dolly to the placid child while she fiddled with her buttons. Obediently, the baby accepted the breast, his unwavering deep-set stare fixed on Dolly’s face.

  He was a bonny lad and no mistake, with peach-tinted cheeks and eyes of a blue so dark that it bordered on violet. Like Eddie’s, thought Dolly to herself. Yes, he was very like his dad, quiet and still most of the time. She wondered if Eddie had got the letter she’d finally scraped together on a bit of paper out of their Stevie’s homework book. Aye, she’d tried to let him know about his lad. She hoped they’d sent it on from the sanatorium to Prestwich Mental Hospital. Funny, that. She’d never heard of anybody being treated for TB in a loony bin before. Still, that sanatorium had likely driven him daft. Aye, and the bloody Higson woman was having a right good time now by all accounts, going dancing, buying new frocks, taking in lodgers now Eddie was out of the road. Alright for some, it was, made up to foreman, going about with nice-looking fellers, putting shows on with the formation team.

  Dolly was in trouble. Any money from the sale of her old house had disappeared now, squandered on cheap sticks of splay-legged furniture, a television set, some gilt-framed convex mirrors, contemporary paper on her fireplace wall and a load of that nice Skaters’ Trails carpet that was all the rage. ’Course, things for the baby had cost a bob or two and all.

  She shifted the child to the other milk-swollen breast. Aye, there was plenty for him, but what about herself and the other three? Eric’s money still came regular, but it was hardly enough to pay for rent and electric and she couldn’t do without her fags and her stout, what with her bad nerves and needing fluids to keep the milk coming in. She looked at the dozing infant. Them new doctors down the clinic were on about his development, talked as if there were summat up with him. And she was sick of folk looking in the pram and saying about his unusual eyes. He was beautiful, their Johnny. Nowt up with him – they could all say what they liked.

  Still, it wasn’t right, none of it. Except for Eddie Higson, she’d still be up Long Moor with her job at the pictures and folk to talk to. Aye and their Maggie would likely have stopped at home instead of legging it hell for leather. She’d been a good help, had Maggie, what with her wages and giving a hand in the house. The oldest of the three boys was but thirteen and lads weren’t the same, you couldn’t expect them to wash pots and sweep carpets, could you? And the way Maggie had left too, never a note nor nothing, just a postcard a few days after with a photo of the Town Hall clock and a line to say she was alright.

  Dolly placed the sleeping child over her shoulder and reached to flick through the pages of an old Reveille, the wrapping from last night’s chips. Aye, that was a laugh and all, the chip shop ten minutes away and having to warm them up when you got them home stone cold and stuck to the paper.

  A car drew up outside, but Dolly remained where she was. It would be nowt to do with her. Then the front door opened and a familiar voice cried, ‘Dolly? Dolly Nelson? You in there?’

  Dolly hastily dropped the paper, fastened her f
rock and was just placing Johnny in his pram when Bertha Cullen walked in.

  ‘Tha’d best sit thisen down, Dolly. It’s not good news I’ve fetched.’

  ‘Why? What’s up?’

  ‘Come on, lass. We’ll sit at t’ table.’

  The two women lowered their not insubstantial bodies onto frail metal-framed dining chairs.

  Bertha leaned forward. As was the custom with most of her generation when speaking of something unsavoury, she mouthed half her words as if the whole world might be listening. ‘I’ve knowed all along as it were summat ter do wi’ your Maggie, our Martin leavin’ ’ome an’ splittin’ up wi’ Annie. Common knowledge it is now, as your Maggie were givin’ our Martin a good time – if yer get me drift?’

  ‘So?’ Dolly bristled.

  ‘Well, it weren’t just our Martin. An’ it weren’t just fer free, like.’

  ‘Stop messin’ about in t’ bushes, Bertha Cullen. Get it spit out!’

  ‘It’s not me what’s been messin’ about in t’ bushes, Dolly. It’s tha daughter what’s been up ter no good.’

  ‘Oh aye? An’ what bloody business is it o’ yourn?’

  ‘I don’t like seein’ a young girl puttin’ ’erself about. ’Er’ll end up in t’ courts afore she’s much older.’

  Dolly leaned back on to the chair’s yellow plastic cover. ‘Like I said, spit it out afore I lose me patience!’

  ‘T’ doctor’s fetched us – Dr Pritchard. Yer see, Dolly, I caught sight o’ your Maggie a few times toutin’ fer business outside o’ t’ wine lodge. I knew I’d never manage ’er on me own, so I got t’ doctor fer t’ come down in ’is car ter pick ’er up. I ’ad fer t’ drag Maggie by the ‘air into t’ car. It were all done fer t’ best, Dolly.’

  ‘Where the bloody ’ell is she?’

  ‘Outside wi’ Dr Pritchard.’

  ‘Then tha’d best give over wastin’ time an’ fetch ’em in!’

  Dolly waited in the hallway, arms folded as far as they would reach across her huge chest. As soon as Maggie appeared between the two escorts, Dolly pulled her inside the house. ‘Get up them dancers this minute, Maggie Nelson! I’ll deal with thee after.’

  As soon as the girl had reached the landing, the three adults made their way into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry about all this, Mrs Nelson,’ began the doctor. ‘Margaret has taken a room in Sherwood Avenue where I have several elderly patients. Of course, I visit regularly and I knew that your daughter was having . . . men calling on her quite frequently. But Mrs Cullen brought things to a head this lunchtime and . . . well, here we are.’

  Dolly’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is she still at Woolworth’s?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Bertha.

  ‘Then ’ow come she’s toutin’ in ’er dinner hour? ’Ow would she get up Sherwood an’ back in time fer work?’

  David Pritchard glanced at Bertha. ‘She uses her friend’s flat near the Lido on Bradshawgate, we believe. Between the pair of them, they’ve quite a business going. I’m sorry to be the carrier of such bad tidings, Mrs Nelson, but we thought it best to bring your daughter home straight away.’

  ‘Aye. Well you did right. ’Appen you’d best be off now and tend your own business. I suppose yer’ll ’ave plenty fer t’ talk about now, Bertha Cullen? Yer’ll be able ter tell yer mate Nancy ’Igson all about it, eh?’

  Bertha breathed in sharply. ‘You ungrateful bugger, you! As if I would! There’s not a word’ll cross my lips. Me and Nancy ’as better things fer t’ talk over.’

  ‘Oh aye? Like ’er leavin’ a chap ter die on ’is own? Like ’er goin’ about dancin’ an’ takin’ boarders in?’

  ‘Now, ladies . . .’ began David.

  ‘This is no bloody lady, Doctor,’ said Bertha. She turned and stamped out of the room.

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll leave you to it then, Mrs Nelson.’

  ‘I reckon you’d better.’

  She waited until the car pulled away, then shouted from the foot of the stairs, ‘Get thisen down ’ere!’

  A shamefaced Maggie entered the kitchen where her mother was arranging mugs and plates on the table.

  ‘We’ll ’ave a cup, lass. Sit down, I’ll not bite thee.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mam . . .’

  ‘Nay, never bother. We’ll soon be to rights tha’ll see.’

  They sat at the table drinking tea, Dolly studying her daughter closely.

  ‘So. Yer on t’ game, are you?’

  ‘It was fer the rent, Mam. I couldn’t manage on me wages. I won’t do it no more – honest.’

  ‘’Ow much was you gettin’?’

  ‘About a quid a go.’ Maggie, her cheeks blazing, stared down at the stained tablecloth.

  ‘’Ow many a week?’

  ‘Ten, maybe more.’

  ‘That’s a fair amount o’ brass. ’Ave yer spent it all?’

  ‘I’ve a bit in t’ Post Office.’

  Dolly stood up and walked to the window. It was dead quiet round here, so quiet that she reckoned the house could burn down without anybody noticing. ‘Yer’ve got to stop off the streets, Maggie.’

  ‘I will, Mam. I will. But I can’t live ’ere – there’s nowt goes on, nowhere ter go . . .’

  ‘Then we mun make a life, eh?’ She turned to look at her daughter. ‘Listen ter me, our Maggie. I’m stoney – never been so broke in me life. We could . . . well . . . set up shop, like.’

  ‘’Ow do yer mean, Mam?’

  Dolly sidled towards the table. ‘Get yer gentleman callers ter come up ’ere! I can keep t’ lads upstairs, yer can use t’ best room – that couch makes to a bed, tha knows. An’ if there’s any bother, yer’ll ’ave yer old Mam ter look after yer.’ She smoothed her tangled hair. ‘Fact is, one or two of ’em might fancy a bit of older stuff – I could maybe ’elp out.’

  Maggie’s jaw dropped. ‘We’d . . . we’d be runnin’ a brothel, Mam!’

  ‘Nay, lass. We’d be stayin’ alive best way we can. It’s money fer old rope, isn’t it? I mean, we could buy a few bottles in, sell drinks on t’ side . . . it’d be like ’avin’ a party a couple o’ nights a week. Come ’ome, Maggie. I’ll look after thee. Yer never know what yer might pick up on yer own – yer could get a flamin’ murderer or summat. What do yer say?’

  Maggie stared at her mother for several seconds. ‘Alright, Mam. We’ll give it a try. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, it seems right funny, does this. I thought yer’d kill me an’ ’ere we are talkin’ about . . . well . . .’

  ‘About settin’ up in business is what, Maggie. Look at it this road – we’re ’elpin’ out, aren’t we? Some women doesn’t like doin’ it. So their poor ’usbands ’as ter go wi’out. If we give t’ men what they want, then they’ll likely give over mitherin’ their wives.’

  ‘Eeh Mam, you’re a bugger!’

  ‘Aye well, ’appen yer’ve took after me, eh?’

  The baby whimpered and Maggie leaned over to look into the pram. ‘Is ’e alright, Mam?’

  ‘’Course ’e is. ’E’s not complainin’ ’is ’e?’

  ‘No . . . no. I just wondered . . .’

  But Dolly’s mind was too full of plans to give heed to Maggie’s wonderings. Yes, they had the answer now, a bit of life with money thrown in as a bonus. She took the last Woodbine from the packet and grinned. There’d be plenty more, plenty to go round for everybody.

  12

  Departures

  Eddie Higson, after surviving well beyond the expected span, died in June 1958, just as Annie was completing her advanced level examinations. Nancy, on receiving the news from local police, decided not to tell her daughter yet, then, after making arrangements with the undertaker, she sent word to his brothers. The older man, Bob Higson, arrived at the house and demanded to know why Nancy had never visited Eddie and why she now refused to attend his funeral. So she told him straight, with Mary at her side, both women hoping that any trouble would be over before Annie got
back from school.

  ‘He was a rapist and a child-molester,’ said Nancy, not prepared at this stage to pull any punches.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ came the reply. ‘That was all rubbish about him and that kiddy down Emmanuel Street. They proved nowt at all! The child was lying!’

  Nancy folded her arms and stood squarely before him. ‘That girl and her mother were both killed, weren’t they? After your Eddie had gone off to the war. I remember old Florrie Hyatt trying to tell me about that, only I wouldn’t listen – just like you, I didn’t want to hear bad of him. Well hear me now, Bob Higson. That brother of yours interfered with my daughter, likely affected her for life, he did.’ Without glancing at Mary, she went on, ‘Then he raped a nurse up at the TB place. Oh yes, he was very generous with his attentions, was your brother. Even got one of his customers pregnant. But above all, he was a . . . a . . . what’s that fancy word, Mary?’

  ‘A paedophile.’ Mary’s voice was quiet.

  ‘That’s right. He liked little girls. And you expect me to go to his funeral?’ Nancy’s tone was bitter and sarcastic.

  Bob shuffled about uncomfortably, his face reddened by embarrassment. ‘To be honest with you, Nancy, we did know as how he was a queer fish – kept to himself most of the time, then given to odd fits of temper. But we never thought he was one for children and suchlike. Oh heck.’ He sank into a chair and sat twisting his cap between his fingers. ‘In spite of that business in ’39, we never cottoned on, never knew he was that bad.’

  ‘Well he was,’ snapped Nancy.

  ‘Anyroad, he suffered for it. Like an animal in a cage, he was . . .’

  ‘We don’t need to know all that,’ said Nancy firmly. ‘I’m convinced he got himself in there so he wouldn’t be tried. Then he likely went mad at the finish knowing he’d never get out. You just see him buried decent with his father. I’ve got my own plot – my bones could never rest easy with his.’

  Bob rose from the chair. ‘Nancy, lass. I feel awful coming up here on the bounce like, especially after what you’ve just said. Let us chip in for the burial, give you some money back for Annie . . .’