by Maggie Ford
She knew then that she couldn’t – that it was a harbinger of his remaining daughter’s intention to leave him on his own at the first opportunity. So strongly did she feel the emptiness that was soon to be his, that it squeezed out all the happiness she had been feeling.
On impulse she began twisting the ring off her finger, to David’s surprised frown.
‘What are you doing, darling?’
‘I don’t think me dad ought to see this yet.’
‘But you said …’ He looked hurt.
‘Please, David, I’ve got to break it to him gently.’ In a rush she explained, ‘I can’t spring it on him just out of hand. He’s only got me. I miss Mum terribly, so Lord knows what he must feel like. And knowing he’ll be losing me before long too.’
‘He is going to have to know sooner or later.’
‘Yes, but not so soon. Please, David, it’ll only be for a little while, a few weeks longer, nearer the autumn. Then I promise I’ll tell him. Let him have a few weeks.’ She watched his expression relax.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, and sighed in disappointment.
By the time they reached home, her gorgeous ring hung on a narrow ribbon around her neck concealed by her blouse – black despite the fine weather, out of respect for her mother’s memory.
Summer moved into autumn and with the ring still dangling immutably on its ribbon, David was becoming more and more restive.
‘It isn’t easy for your father, I know,’ he told her. ‘But your mother wouldn’t thank him for all his pining for her. He has to pull himself together sooner or later. He can’t depend on you forever, my love. No, you’ll have to be firm with him, Letty, or you’ll make a rod for your own back.’
They’d been to the Mogul Theatre that Saturday evening. Mrs Hall had agreed to keep an eye on Dad just for a few hours. These days there was no more going for supper afterwards but a rush home in time to relieve Mrs Hall. Even so, Letty had been happy, still giggling at the Harry Lauder jokes as they emerged to a rainy evening, the bilious gleam of gas lamps along Drury Lane reflecting the hurrying crowds unevenly upon the damp pavement. But David’s reminder dulled her spirits.
At her door David kissed her. He very seldom came in, having long ago become aware of her father’s inexplicable dislike of him. Now he gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘Remember, darling, you mustn’t let him rule you. Be firm with him. Next week put that ring back on your finger and be damned to his reaction. You just cannot give up your whole life to him. He has to know about us at sometime or other.’
Letty nodded, lifted her head for his goodbye kiss and watched the taxi chug slowly along Club Row, deserted at eleven o’clock but for several drunks singing their heads off on the corner of Old Nichol Street. She closed the door despondently as the cab turned left into Bethnal Green Road and out of sight.
All very well for him to say ‘be firm’. He didn’t have to look into Dad’s eyes and see the lost look that came all too often into them. David, who understood about grief, had only been on the receiving end. What he didn’t know was what it was like to have to watch someone grieving and not know what to do for them; and she could not tell him, couldn’t explain it to anyone.
Out of desperation she confided in Mrs Hall, one wet November afternoon as she mended some of Dad’s shirts. Mrs Hall had popped in with a bit of fish for Dad. She’d taken to doing things like that. She was a bit startled by Letty’s attitude, and somewhat severe.
‘Well, it’s only bin seven months, luv. Grief’s a two-year disease an’ I should know. When my Fred went, Gawd bless ’im, I was beside meself fer more’n two years, I can tell yer.’
‘I know how he feels,’ Letty said, practically imploring her to understand. ‘But I can’t sacrifice my life forever.’
‘But yer wouldn’t rush off and git wed so soon, would yer? I mean, seven months! Wiv’aht yer, yer dad ain’t got a soul in the world. Them sisters of yours ain’t no bloomin’ consolation to ’im. Too wrapped up in their own lives, they are. You don’t know what a great comfort you are to yer dad.’
Whatever Letty thought of her sisters, it didn’t sit right to have an outsider criticise them, no matter how lacking they were.
‘Vinny’s got her baby to see to, Mrs Hall,’ she defended tersely. ‘And now that Lucy’s expecting …’
Mrs Hall was instantly all avid interest. ‘My, time do fly, don’ it. ’Ow long do she ’ave ter go?’
‘A good three months.’ Letty’s needle flew in and out of the twin holes of the button. She could almost see Mrs Hall counting the months on her fingers, wondering if conception could be calculated as having occurred before the nuptials proper.
Fastening the thread, Letty bit it off close to the button with strong teeth, laid the shirt aside, and glanced out of the window. It had stopped raining. She stood up, smiling politely into Mrs Hall’s heavy face with its mottled cheeks.
‘I’ve got to pop out for something for Sunday. I might get a bit of loin in the pork butcher’s. My young man’s coming for dinner.’
Mrs Hall chuckled good-humouredly as she followed Letty out of the parlour. ‘Your dad don’t seem to take to that young man of yours, do ’e? Well, that’s the impression I get.’
She hovered in the passage while Letty took her black coat from the stand and secured her black tam o’shanter with a hat pin, putting on gloves and scarf for extra warmth against the wet November air.
‘Mind you,’ went on Mrs Hall, trailing her down the narrow stairs to where Dad was sitting in the shop, slouched on a stool, staring blankly at the busy street beyond. ‘Mind you, I do fink that young man of yours is a bit too old fer you, if you ask me.’
‘I’m not asking you, Mrs Hall!’ Letty turned on her before she could stop herself, and saw the woman’s face drop.
‘Beg yer pardon fer me audacity, I’m sure. I’ll say goodbye then, if yer don’t mind. I’m sure I didn’t mean ter intrude. Good day then, Mr Bancroft.’ She bustled past him and the bell swung wildly, the wind catching it as the door was flung open to close with as near a crash as the incoming draught allowed.
‘There was no cause ter be rude to ’er like that.’ Arthur Bancroft straightened up with an angry gesture, and saw his chance to get all that had bothered him off his chest.
‘She’s been a good neighbour ter me, ’elped me in me time of need, when me own family was only thinkin’ of nothink but themselves.’
He saw shock on her face. ‘That’s not true, Dad! I’ve stuck by you. I’ve done all I can for you, and you can’t say I haven’t!’ But he gave her no chance to say more, the pent up feelings he himself could not completely understand pouring out in a torrent.
‘Is that what yer fine young man’s taught yer, ter go around being rude ter people who do their best er ’elp others in need?’
He advanced towards her, his face ravaged by as much anger as his normally placid nature allowed. ‘Fine manners. Fine ways. But when it comes down ter the milk of human kindness, then all ’e wants is what ’e can get – takin’ a daughter away from ’er father and ter hell with ’ow I feel, left all on me own, her mother ’ardly cold in ’er grave! That’s what yer want, ain’t it? Ter go off an’ marry ’im? Forget all about me an’ yer mother an’ the ’ome yer was brought up in. People round ’ere ain’t good enough for yer any more. Turnin’ up yer snooty nose at decent lads like young Billy Beans oo’s nearer yer age and could give yer as good an ’ome as he’d give yer, and ain’t tarnished by bein’ married before – making you second ’and. No ’e ain’t good enough. None of us is good enough. You want ter go off, tryin’ ter be what you ain’t. And yer never will be, don’t matter ’ow hard yer try.’
As he stood over her, she seemed to shrink. ‘Well, you ain’t goin’ ter go off with yer fancy young man. This is yer ’ome, where yer belong, where yer was born. You ain’t even proud ter be what you are, trying ter talk all la-di-da, fancyin’ yer luck! Well, he ain’t goin’ ter take you away from me.
You ain’t twenty-one yet and you won’t get no permission from me.’
His daughter’s green eyes were blazing back at him from a mere few inches away. ‘Then I shall wait until I’m twenty-one!’ Even with her shoulders hunched forward, her chin thrust forward defiantly; even as she yelled at him like a fishwife, she sounded posh, the way she spoke in front of him, so practised that it had become second nature – as if she’d brushed her old life, like dirt, out of sight under the carpet. ‘It’s only two years away. I can wait that long. I won’t need your consent then.’
‘Yer won’t get me blessings neither!’
The words, thrown at her in anger, hit back at him with their true import, sounded as though he was disowning her. He didn’t want to disown her. He loved her, loved her dearly. Letitia’s face, twisted and ugly with fury, swam before his eyes in a mist. He was crying, tears flowing down his cheeks, unchecked. ‘Gawd ’elp me fer sayin’ that!’
Letty felt his arms go around her. Her reaction was instinctive as she clutched him. But her eyes were dry, the comfort of tears forced back by what he had said, words that would always stay with her. Yet she couldn’t blame him. They had come from a frightened man, a man made old by grief, though he was not old in years.
In the street she could hear the discordant confused jangle of the barrel organ that was nearly always drawn up outside the Knave of Clubs, jingling out a discordant tune: ‘I live in Trafalgar Square’.
She could see people passing backwards and forwards beyond the shop window, going about their business as quickly as possible, huddled in their coats, scarves wrapped around the necks, heads down against the chill wind; could see them clearly because her eyes were as dry as the desert.
Chapter Six
Letty leaned forward and tapped little Albert’s fat cheeks with a forefinger. ‘Who’s a darling chubby-cheeks then?’ she cooed, evoking a smile from the nine month old sitting contentedly on his mother’s lap, a small fist curled around the bit of buttered bread he was vigorously sucking.
Curtains closed against the winter’s evening, everyone full up with Christmas pudding and cake, they sat around the parlour fire, pulling chestnuts out of the grate, muffins browned on toasting forks then being buttered and handed round. Nutshells littered the ash-strewn hearth; the men drank beer, the women sipped sherry. Letty gazed at each one.
Almost a year since losing Mum. It hardly seemed possible, for all Dad’s face seemed to grow more lined with grief as the months grew. Vinny and Lucy had even put aside their black for something a bit more cheerful for Christmas. Vinny with baby Albert had proudly announced another on the way. Lucy too, her stomach in full bloom, looked so contented with her married state, Letty almost hurt with envy.
Lucy puffed her chest out over her bulge, leaning forward with an effort to retrieve a chestnut from the grate, and didn’t quite make it.
‘Jack, love, reach one out for me, there’s a dear.’
Obligingly jiggling its charred blackness from one hand to the other until it was cool enough, he handed it to her. Lucy gingerly peeled off the husk. Nibbling the sweet floury flesh, her eyes sought Letty’s.
‘And when are you and David getting engaged?’ She looked surprised when Letty, tightening her lips, didn’t reply. ‘Lord knows you’ve been walking out for long enough. Eighteen months, isn’t it? Since Vinny got married.’
Letty caught David’s look, sitting a little apart from the others, near the piano, read in his expression that now was probably the time to bring out her ring. She glanced quickly away. It definitely was not the time. At Lucy’s enquiry Dad had got up. Shoulders hunched, he went out of the room, going past David with not one glance in his direction. Irritation immediately reared up in her. She almost called after him, ‘It’s Christmas! Goodwill to all men – that includes my David too.’
‘Where’s Dad off to?’ Lucy, her blue-grey eyes wide with innocence, continued nibbling at the chestnut while Vinny prattled happily to little Albert, oblivious to everything but him.
Dad hates David, that’s what, and you didn’t help, Letty wanted to stand up and shout at them both. Your Jack and your Albert – the sun shines out of their backsides as far as Dad’s concerned. So why in God’s name is he so against David?
Instead, she shot her pregnant sister a sharp glance. ‘You’ll get indigestion eating all those nuts,’ she said, and escaped Lucy’s retort by getting swiftly up from the sofa to go and help herself to another muffin off the table.
She didn’t really want it, put it back on the pile, sat at one of the upright chairs beside David.
‘I can’t show them the ring,’ she hissed. ‘Not yet.’
He said nothing, but his bowed head gave the impression of veiled disapproval, disappointment, a coolness towards her for lacking in courage, for letting him down perhaps in not boldly displaying the ring still hiding like a felon under her blouse.
‘I’m sorry, David,’ was all she could whisper, but again he said nothing, just stared sightlessly towards the fireplace, an apathetic half smile on his lips as though it was an effort to acknowledge her at all, though he did hold her hand when she touched his.
Her leaving had disrupted the pleasant stupor around the fire. Jack took a deep revitalising breath and turned towards Albert who had been lethargically smoking a pipe, the moustache he had been cultivating for some months now grown thicker, the fair bristles long enough to touch the pipestem.
‘How about a game of cards?’
Albert took his pipe from his mouth. ‘Don’t mind if I do. How about you, David?’
‘Couldn’t we all play?’ Lucy cried eagerly.
‘I won’t.’ Vinny kissed little Albert’s fat cheek. ‘He’s all nice and contented at the moment. If I put him down he’ll cry.’
Dad came back into the room, adjusting his belt.
‘We’re going to have a game of cards, Father,’ Jack informed him with respectful enthusiasm. ‘Something the ladies can join in, if that’s all right? What about you?’
Arthur shook his head, dropping into his chair.
‘Oh, come on, Dad!’ pleaded Lucy. ‘Cheer you up.’
‘I don’t need cheering up,’ he said glumly. ‘I’ll be going ter bed in a minute.’
‘It’s only ten o’clock!’ Lucy exploded tactlessly, never glancing beyond her nose to see the obvious.
He’s missing Mum more than ever on this day, thought Letty, as she had done several times over the past few hours. Last Christmas Mum was here, with us. As ill as she was, her presence filled this flat. And now all that was left was her memory, in every cup, every saucer, in the vases on the piano, in the humblest duster Letty used to polish the furniture with. Mum gazing out from the photograph Dad refused to put away, expression unsmiling as required by the camera though her eyes smiled, the pose military for the purpose of the photographer yet something behind it radiating warmth.
Emptiness surrounded Dad, even with his family about him, cloaked him in a sort of aura, and whatever irritation Letty had felt with him a moment ago disappeared completely. Like her sisters she was adjusting to her loss, it was in the nature of things. They were young. She had David, her sisters their husbands, each ready to challenge or enjoy what life had to offer. Dad had no such panacea, could only look back, live in the past, still living with the dead who had shaped his life.
The telegram came as Letty was closing for dinner. Guessing its contents, she gave the boy sixpence and raced upstairs, tearing open the flap as she went.
‘It is!’ she laughed, reading excitedly. ‘Lucy’s baby! A girl! Six-thirty this morning, seven pounds eight ounces. A whopper for a girl. She’s called Elisabeth Lucilla. Oh, I’m so pleased for her!’
‘Long as they don’t call ’er Lizzy.’ Taking the telegram from her, Dad read it for himself.
‘She won’t shorten it. Spelt with an “s” too,’ Letty said with conviction. Nothing common for Lucy, living in posh Chingford.
‘Be nice ter go over ter see ’er,
’ Arthur mused out of the blue as they finished the sausage and mash Letty had kept warm over the range.
Clearing the plates, she looked at him in amazement. ‘You mean that, Dad? You’d travel all that way? The weather so cold and all?’
Unhooking the poker from its stand in the hearth, she vigorously raked at the moribund coals in the grate until the flames began to flicker grudgingly. ‘We’d have to go by train. And we’d have to close the shop for the day.’
Arthur reached up, propped the telegram on the mantelshelf, sank into his chair before the now blazing fire.
‘Can’t afford ter lose money closing up. It’d ’ave ter be Sunday.’
Sunday? Letty’s heart seemed to plummet. With an action that was slow and deliberate her father took his pipe from its rack, his tobacco pouch from a tin box beside his chair. The smooth age-blackened leather had so absorbed the taint of its contents over the years that the room was instantly filled with the pungent-sweet reek of Navy Cut which every evening he would cut from a plug with a penknife over a sheet of newspaper spread on the table, paring it into suitable slices and rubbing it between his palms into shag to fill the pouch for the next day.
The poker poised in her hand, halfway to its stand, Letty watched him fill the pipe, hands manipulating pouch and bowl together until the bowl was filled. Rewrapping the pouch over itself, he plucked a taper from the narrow wooden case hanging by the hearth and reached it into the coals, bringing the flame to his pipe, sucking at the stem, forefinger expertly tamping the tobacco, the flame plopping audibly with each suck.
Contented, he tapped the taper out against the grate, replaced it still gently smoking in its holder beside the rest, and sat back in his chair to puff a cloud of blue smoke into the air.
