The Women of Lilac Street

by Annie Murray

  ‘He was a mad sod,’ Jen said. ‘What made you think of him?’

  Tommy began to smile, but he caught his breath and started coughing, jerked to a sitting position by his need to breathe. His lungs seemed to foam and rattle and he coughed up a load of stuff into his piece of rag. Jen went to sit by him, horrified by the sound. As the fit passed she ran her hand down his back. His ribs were like piano keys. Oh, God, she thought, horrified again. Her mind swam away from the implications of this, of just how ill he was and how stubborn.

  ‘I’ll go and get you your tea,’ she said.

  He lay back, too exhausted to answer.

  Jen went downstairs with a cold, frightened feeling wrapping itself round her heart.

  Three

  Rose Southgate had woken early that morning.

  It was dark, save for a faint blur of light seeping round the curtains.

  She knew she had woken because of Lily, though at that moment she could hear nothing except Harry’s breathing beside her, his quiet, almost surreptitious breaths. She called this his ‘sleep of the dead’ when he went quiet like that and she could barely tell he was there beside her. At other times, in the small hours he would let out yells, sometimes jerk up to sit panting, in what seemed terrible anguish. This had gone on all through the six years of their marriage, but if she offered comfort – he seemed so frightened and distraught – or asked him about it once daylight had returned, he pushed her away furiously, refusing to talk about it. So she had given up asking.

  Lily was out there, she knew. Despite the silence, Rose could sense her through the door. She could picture her, in her little white nightshirt, her long, ghostly hair in a plait down her back – without the plait there were such tangles and tears in the morning – sitting waiting on the top step in the cold. She imagined the chill of her soft little feet.

  Rose lifted up her head to listen. Yes, there it was – a tiny creak of the floorboard at the top of the stairs. Lily was waiting. She knew never to knock or come into their bedroom. Harry wouldn’t have it. He was so touchy about everything.

  Hardly breathing, Rose shifted the bedclothes off her and in a smooth, almost melting motion, removed herself from the bed. Snatching up her long cardigan she crept to the door, which was unlatched in readiness. It opened with a squeak and she looked back at Harry, but he slept on. She crept out, drawing the door closed again and in the gloom, smiled down at the person most beloved to her in all the world.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she whispered. Even being away from Harry’s sleeping presence made her feel light-hearted. Lily was looking up at her. ‘Shall we go and light the fire? Find our shoes?’

  The two of them linked hands and slid silently downstairs, each with their long fair hair in a braid. They looked as if they could have been sisters just as well as mother and daughter, a twenty-one-year gap between them.

  The clock in the back room said six-fifteen. Lily curled up in a chair and Rose put a blanket over her while she, mousey quiet out of habit, dealt with the coal bucket and lit the range to warm the house and boil water. While they waited for the water, Rose did a few little jobs tidying up and folding some dry washing. She made tea, and warm milk for Lily.

  ‘Can I have a story, Mom?’

  Rose pushed the chair as close to the range as possible and sat Lily on her lap, both of them under the blanket, and they cuddled up and read Lily’s favourite story. It was called Ameliaranne and the Green Umbrella. A kind lady at the church called Mrs Muriel Wood had given it to her, along with some other little tales which had belonged to her daughter. Poor Mrs Wood had lost her husband and daughter Elizabeth to the Spanish influenza and was left with just her little boy, Oliver, who did not like girls’ books. Lily loved the stories and could not hear the adventures of Ameliaranne Stiggins enough times.

  Her daughter’s head on her shoulder, her warm, sweet weight in her lap, Rose read softly and sipped her tea. With the story finished she put the book down and wrapped her arms around Lily, looking out over her head.

  ‘’Nother one, Mom?’ Lily said hopefully.

  ‘In a minute, dear.’

  Rose let out a long sigh. If only it could always be like this: just her and Lily, snug and warm together. The fact that the books had belonged to poor Muriel Wood’s little girl made Lily’s sweet, warm existence even more precious.

  ‘Make sure you always read, won’t you?’ she said suddenly. Lily looked round at her. ‘Once you get to school – you read and learn all you can and make the best of things, won’t you?’

  Lily, barely understanding her but aware that this seemed important, nodded solemnly.

  ‘Good girl,’ Rose said.

  Silently, she thought, So you don’t have to end up like me.

  She had a pot of porridge ready for when Harry came down. He went silently out to the privy to relieve himself, then stood shaving in the scullery in his shirtsleeves. Rose watched him, standing at an angle to him where she knew he could not see her in the little rectangular mirror.

  Harry was just a year older than her. He was a strong, stocky man with bristly black hair, swarthy skin and very dark brown eyes. By trade he was a painter and decorator, a job in which the summer was the best time, so in the winter he tried to make up his earnings by doing odd jobs. Yesterday he had been out fixing someone’s back door. He was strong and competent. He had once also been lively and humorous, in those early days, and now and again his old self popped out. Increasingly, he was a mystery to Rose and a hostile one at that. She knew it was partly her fault – but not all, surely? The war had made strangers of some men.

  Patting the damp from his newly shaved cheeks, Harry sat at the table and when she served his porridge, he gave a low grunt which she knew was a thank-you of a kind. She poured tea. Lily sat watching him, warily. Rose also sat down, trying to gauge his mood.

  ‘What will you do today?’ she asked finally. His Saturday afternoons were either football or fishing.

  Harry finished his mouthful and looked up, peering out of the window. The sight of the brightness outside seemed to cheer him.

  ‘We’re gonna finish that little job from yesterday.’ He chewed, swallowed. ‘Then I’ll take my rod out.’ There was a time they’d have laughed at him saying that, but not now.

  So he’d be out all afternoon. Harry was a keen fisherman, even just in the cut – but he liked to go further afield to do it, often cycling right out of town with the rod strapped to his bike.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Looks a good day for it.’ A weight lifted from her at the thought of him being out all that time. She’d be able to sew. That set of place linen was almost finished.

  ‘Ar – it does.’ Harry looked up then and gave her almost a smile. Rose smiled back and Lily beamed in delight.

  ‘You going fishing, Dad?’

  ‘Shame you’re not a lad – you could come with me.’

  It rankled with him all the time that he had no son. That she was so unwilling to give him more children.

  ‘You could teach her,’ Rose said pleasantly, knowing he never would.

  He seemed in a good mood. She’d try asking now, she thought.

  ‘The thing is, Harry – love – I was thinking . . . It’s time we had someone in to tune the piano.’

  ‘What? That old thing? Nah –’ He scraped his bowl out and flung the spoon down. ‘What d’yer think you’re going to use for money then, eh? Middle of the winter? Forget it – the damn thing’s no use anyway.’

  ‘But I want Lily to have a few lessons soon.’ Rose tried to speak sweetly, persuasively. She could see Harry’s chin jutting already in opposition. She quelled her own anger. Why was he so mean and stubborn about everything? ‘She’s nearly old enough and I only know a little bit, hardly anything. Mrs Wood’d teach her for next to nothing, I’m sure. She’s said so. And playing my mother’s piano – it’d be nice to hear her . . .’

  ‘Piano lessons!’ He pushed his chair back scornfully. ‘What bloody use is a
ny of that? You can forget that idea – all your airs and graces and frills. I’m not wasting good money on your fancy ideas. If I had my way I’d sell the rotten thing, taking up half the room . . .’

  He went out to the back again and Rose knew he had gone to sort out his fishing tackle.

  ‘But you’re not going to get your way,’ she whispered to herself. She had been stowing away the money for it. Harry didn’t know she still sewed, how good she was at embroidery or about Mrs Lacey over in Moseley, who was eager to buy the things she made . . . One day, when it was safe, she would get the piano tuned.

  ‘Is Daddy cross?’ Lily asked. She was an anxious child. His moods moved across them like clouds in the wind.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Rose said brightly. ‘Your dad’s all right. He’s going out fishing. Tell you what, if it stays sunny, shall we see if Aggie and May want to come to the park with us?’

  Lily brightened up immediately.

  ‘Ooh, yes – can I take my hoop?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Rose said. She caught sight of her husband through the back window, doing something intricate to his line, his eyes narrowed, intent. She thought how odd it was that she lived with this man and tried to find in herself a grain of tenderness for him, but it slid away from her grasp.

  Four

  ‘Can we come in and see yer?’

  Rose opened the door that Saturday afternoon to find the two little girls hand in hand, shivering, gazing up at her pleadingly. The brief burst of sunshine was over and a bitter wind was blowing the smoke from all the chimneys horizontally along the rooftops. Aggie’s teeth were chattering and May’s face was stained with a crusty mixture of tears and snot.

  ‘Only,’ Aggie told her, ‘our mom says I’m to take May out from under her feet, but it’s cold out here and it’s making May bad.’

  ‘Didn’t you think to put a coat on?’ Rose scolded gently, before realizing she had been tactless.

  ‘I ain’t got a coat,’ Aggie said, in a voice which implied that the thought of having such a thing had never occurred to her. She was wearing a brown skirt cut down to fit, after a fashion, the hem rucked up in a thick ridge round her shins. Her shoes were clumpy charity boots like so many of the children wore. May at least had an extra jumper on which came down almost to her knees, but the child seemed to be full of cold.

  Poor little mites, Rose thought. She smiled. She was glad of company, even if it was that of a couple of snotty children.

  ‘Come in then,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of going to the park today, but the wind’s turned so bitter. I think we’ll have to blow the cobwebs away another day. We’ll settle by the fire instead, shall we?’

  Aggie could think of nothing more blissful than to spend a cosy afternoon with Mrs Southgate and Lily. She knew that lately she’d been rather neglecting her friend Babs. But Aggie adored Rose Southgate: she was pretty and kind. Mom was forever keeping on at her, do this, do that but Rose had a soft, musical voice and she didn’t shout. Aggie wanted to be exactly like her when she grew up and to have a little girl with long flaxen hair and no other children, just one to dress up like a princess and buy her the prettiest shoes she could find instead of charity boots from the Mail newspaper like the ones Aggie had to clump about in, blistering her feet.

  And she loved the house as well. There was a calmness and order in Mrs Southgate’s house. She thought it was beautiful and found it soothing.

  She looked around cautiously as they went inside. Sometimes a lady called Mrs Wood was there too. And was Mr Southgate in? He was a big, gloomy, mostly bad-tempered man and Aggie was scared of him. Mom said he was like the other men who’d ‘come back’.

  ‘Even the ones with all their arms and legs are no use to anyone half the time,’ she’d say sorrowfully. Her own husband, Tommy, had stayed, having failed every medical for the army.

  ‘No one else is here,’ Rose said, seeing Aggie’s unease. ‘Just Lily – she’s having a little sleep. I expect she’ll wake up soon. Come and get warm.’

  It was such a relief to be in out of the gritty wind. There was a fire in the iron grate in the front room – oh, so nice compared with their house! – and Aggie and May settled shivering on the soft little rug by the hearth. In the Greens’ front room the only thing on the floor was a peg rug, ancient and worn to a brown, grimy colour from all the traffic of feet passing over it mixed with soot. There was nothing rich or fine about the Southgates’ front parlour. Nearly everything they had was old and worn, but Rose kept it very nice and she was good with her hands. There was a modest-sized table and chairs near the window and the little wool rug was woven in lively patterns of crimson, white, blue and black. The sight of the colours made Aggie happy. The curtains were dark red, patterned with white and grey flowers, and Rose kept everything well polished and dusted. On the mantel there were china animals and jugs and a picture of Lily. There were a few brasses at the side of the grate and a gleaming copper coal scuttle. Most special of all was the piano, standing against the back wall, also polished to a sheen. Sometimes Rose would open it and show Aggie middle C and how to pick out an octave.

  ‘What’s up with you, little May?’ Rose knelt beside her.

  ‘Oh, our mom wanted us out from under her feet. Mom’s feeling a bit any’ow – and our nanna,’ Aggie said, stroking the soft rug under her as if it was a dog and basking in the fire’s heat. It was making one side of her face hot and prickly.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Rose said. ‘But May seems a bit poorly too.’

  Aggie nodded absently. One or other of them was forever streaming with snot – this didn’t seem anything worth remarking on.

  ‘And how’s your poor father?’

  Aggie shrugged. She didn’t want to think about it. ‘Can I see the book?’ she asked eagerly.

  One of the treasures Aggie loved at Mrs Southgate’s house was something she called a commonplace book. She wrote things inside which caught her fancy: snippets from the newspaper, poems, sayings, even recipes and all sorts. And she had the most beautiful curling handwriting that Aggie had ever seen. She had told Aggie she’d been in service once to some nice people who had taught her a lot of things. Aggie thought Mrs Southgate was a magical person being able to write like that and embroider so beautifully as well.

  ‘All right – if you like.’ There was a sigh in her voice as Rose got up, though Aggie didn’t notice it and it had nothing to do with her.

  The precious notebook was bound in dark red leather. Rose handed it to her and May came and craned over Aggie’s shoulder as she turned the pages, the blue-black ink looping graciously along the lines.

  ‘Stop that sniffing, May,’ Aggie said irritably, covering her ear for a moment. May was like her shadow, forever there. She just wanted a few moments to herself. But May leaned against her shoulder, wriggling. Aggie, tensed against her sister’s weight, tried to ignore her. She read from the first page, immediately caught up in the words,

  There is no place where Earth’s Sorrows

  are more felt than up in Heaven,

  There is no place where Earth’s failings

  Have such Kindly Judgement Given . . .

  Then further down:

  The Kiss of the Sun for Pardon,

  The Song of the Birds for Mirth,

  One is nearer God’s Heart in a Garden

  Than anywhere else on Earth.

  At the bottom of the page it said:

  Cure for Chilblains:

  ½ oz sulphur of zinc

  ½ oz sugar of lead

  ½ pint of Water, hot or cold – Not to be Taken.

  Bathed.—OR Turnip Poultice.

  Leafing through she saw page after page of long poems, all very neatly copied, and all, Aggie knew, containing sentiments of love and hope which had the power to make her heart feel like a bird fluttering about in her chest. But she skipped over them to the page she was really looking for, at the back where Rose kept her clippings.

  It was where she had first heard about Mata Har
i. There was a picture postcard of her stuck into the book and Aggie drank in the sight. Mata Hari was dressed in a luxurious gold gown, low-cut at the front and sweeping the ground. The outfit was topped by a headdress which made her appear to have jewelled gold horns. She was half turned towards the camera with her arm across her body, bowing slightly, a purple sash draping from her waist. Aggie stared back at her dark, teasing eyes. Dancer, circus performer, spy – all the things Aggie thought the most exciting in the world and this woman had done them all! But beside the picture postcard was a clipping, headed: Mata Hari Put to Death by Firing Squad in Paris.

  The first time she had found the picture she had stared entranced. She had never seen anyone in her life who looked in the least like Mata Hari, and her name made her sound so foreign and mysterious!

  ‘What’s a spy?’ she had asked Mrs Southgate.

  ‘It’s someone who finds out other people’s business,’ Rose said. ‘Who goes poking their nose in, I suppose you’d say. The French thought she was trying to find out their secrets for the Germans and that because of her, a lot of French soldiers died.’

  Aggie could barely imagine such big actions with their terrible consequences. She just knew that she felt very small and rough in her cut-down clothes and boots, and Mata Hari looked like something out of heaven.

  ‘That’s bad,’ she said finally. ‘Ain’t it?’

  ‘If it was true, it is, yes.’

  ‘But . . .’ Aggie had stared and stared. How could anyone so gorgeous have done anything bad? ‘Is there good spying – as well as bad?’

  Rose laughed. ‘Well, I suppose there must be – it depends whose side you’re on and what you’re finding out.’

  ‘What d’you have to do – to be a spy?’

  Rose shrugged, seeming amused by her agog interest. ‘I don’t know. I think you have to keep your eyes open, find out things. A bit like one of those detectives – Sherlock Holmes. You have to look for clues.’