The Women of Lilac Street

by Annie Murray

  ‘Yes – course I will.’ Rose stepped out towards him, then stopped, at a loss. ‘What exactly d’you want me to do?’

  ‘Just take my arm – that’s right. Once I’m at the piano, all will be well.’

  Rose was aware of a few passers-by watching curiously as she took the young man’s arm.

  ‘This way – there’s just a little step. It’s straight in – there’s no hall.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ he said.

  Rose motioned to a round-eyed Lily to move out of the way as they shuffled on together.

  ‘Now here we are – there’s the piano. The stool’s here.’ For a second she felt ashamed of the decayed green material covering its seat, but then realized the young man couldn’t see it.

  He thanked her again with dignity and removed his coat and hat while she closed the door.

  ‘Let me hang that up,’ she said, going to the hook behind the door. The hat felt soft, and good quality. A smell lingered around the coat, sweet, like pipe tobacco. He seated himself at the piano, which was open, ready for him, and stroked his hands gently over the keys.

  Rose looked curiously at his face, then away. It seemed wrong that she could just stare at him without him being able to look back. But as he befriended the instrument, her eyes were drawn back to his face. She could not seem to look away. Though his hair was cut quite short, it was tightly curled. His skin was smooth and his colouring healthy, except for the puckered burn marks on the flesh round his eyes. His nose was large and well defined.

  He’s beautiful, was the first thought which came to her. And his voice was lovely to her, gentle and smooth.

  Lily crept closer, beside her, watching. He was running long-fingered hands over the yellowed keys.

  ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Is it a little Broadwood?’

  Under the lid the name was embossed in gold letters: John Broadwood.

  ‘Yes.’ She was impressed.

  ‘How did you come by it?’

  ‘It was my mother’s. She played a bit. I think her father gave it to her. My sister passed it on to me; she said it was taking up too much room.’

  Arthur King stood up suddenly and opened the top of the piano. He leaned over, seeming to breathe it in, then she realized he was feeling for something.

  ‘D’you see – in here?’

  Rose moved closer, conscious of the fact that their cheeks were almost touching.

  ‘See along here – the hammer rest rail – maybe it’s easier to feel. Give me your hand.’

  He guided her fingers and she peered in at the same time, glad he couldn’t see her blushing. There were a number of initials carved in the wood.

  ‘Oh – yes, I see,’ she said. ‘Or at least, I can feel. What are they?’

  He released her, smiling, though he was still looking straight ahead of him feeling the piano’s innards.

  ‘That’ll be the other tuners who’ve been here before me. It hasn’t been tuned in rather a long time.’

  ‘Not in as long as I can remember,’ she admitted. ‘My mother might have had it done – I don’t know.’

  ‘The last date here,’ he sat down again, ‘is 1871.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rose said. ‘Oh, dear. That’s before she even owned it!’

  To her surprise, Arthur King laughed, a full-hearted, infectious sound, and she found herself laughing too. ‘Ah, well – we’ll have to try and put the old girl right now, shan’t we?’

  He reached into his breast pocket, brought out a tuning fork and started work, playing different series of notes.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Rose offered.

  Her visitor stopped, looking surprised. ‘Well – that would be very nice. Thank you.’

  As she stood in the back room, waiting for the water, tidying, folding washing from the rack squeezed in next to the range, she could hear him working his way along the keys, the sounds, as he adjusted, becoming clearer, brighter somehow. She loved having him in the house, this handsome, refined man. For a moment she stood with her arms folded, hugging herself, just listening. It was a like a door opening to something wider, and genteel and good. She realized she missed the Mounts.

  She put the cups on a tray along with the toffee tin which Muriel had given her from the British Empire Exhibition. Lily kept her bits in it – little toys, pegs and cotton reels, treasures she had found, to amuse herself.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said as she came back in. Lily was sitting rapt, cross-legged on the floor. They waited, as the tea brewed and he finished off. It took some time, but then he stood again and closed the top lid.

  ‘There – that’s a lot better, the poor old thing,’ he said. ‘If possible it wants doing every six months.’ He laughed again, gently. ‘More than every half-century anyway!’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, handing him a cup of tea and asking about sugar. As he stirred, she said, ‘I don’t want to delay you.’ Although that was exactly what she wanted.

  ‘A few minutes won’t matter in the least,’ he said. ‘Thank you – I could do with this.’

  Rose handed Lily her toy tin and she became absorbed on the rug.

  ‘So do you play?’ he asked. It was peculiar talking to someone who looked straight through you, or only in your general direction. Rose found it strange, but also freeing, knowing that she could not be seen.

  ‘Not me – well, not much. My mother died when I was quite young, you see, otherwise I think she would have taught me a bit more. No – I want Lily to learn. She’ll be five this year, and we know a kind lady who said she would teach her.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘That’s quite young, but she could start with a few basics.’

  ‘Do you play?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. It was meat and drink in our house. I have to play mostly from memory now. Luckily I had a lot stored away before the war.’

  ‘Will you play something? Please?’

  His face turned fractionally more towards her, as if drawn by the longing in her voice.

  ‘Really – you’d like me to?’

  ‘Please – let me take your cup.’

  He arranged himself, easing his shoulders for a moment, then began. Whatever it was he played, she was drawn in at once, enraptured. He swayed back and forth as he played, so at home with it, and the feel of it. By the time the rise and fall of the notes was over, Rose had tears running down her cheeks. As the last chords sounded she wiped her face on her sleeves, trying to pull herself together.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, knowing she sounded tearful. ‘That was lovely.’

  ‘Beethoven,’ he said. ‘Poor man lost his hearing – dreadfully young. I have a special feel for him now. And I’ve always enjoyed that piece.’

  She could still hardly speak. She got up and passed him his teacup again from the top of the piano.

  There was a silence. He raised his head to her, beside him.

  ‘Cosy little houses, these. Have you lived here long?’

  ‘A few years. Since the war. I’m a widow, you see.’ What made her say it? It just came out, naturally, the way lies seemed to pop out of her mouth in times of greatest need. And just then it felt true.

  ‘Ah,’ Arthur King said sorrowfully. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Another silence fell. He finished his tea and handed her the cup, with thanks. Rose went to the door to fetch his coat.

  ‘Oh – I must pay you.’ she said. ‘How much will it be?’

  ‘Well, as you’re so very local, it’ll be seventeen and six,’ he said.

  He didn’t see her face fall.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, blushing to the roots of her hair. She hurried to fetch her pot of savings. ‘I didn’t realize it would be quite so much. I’ve saved fifteen shillings. I can get the rest – soon. I’ll drop it into the works, shall I? And it’s all in coppers and small change – I should have thought. Oh, dear, look – take the jar, I’ve nothing else to put it in for you!’

  ‘Not to worry,’ he said, tucking the
jar under his arm. ‘I’m sure we can trust you. We can send a boy round if it’s a help – it’s not far, after all.’

  She helped him into his coat, gratefully, holding the jar as he readied himself.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ she said again as she handed it back.

  ‘Not at all. I’m just glad your nice little instrument is sounding in better health. And you, young lady –’ He spoke generally to the room, unsure where Lily was. ‘Make sure you do lots of practice.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lily said, awed.

  Rose led him to the front door and out to the street.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ she asked. It seemed terrible just to leave him, not to go with him and help.

  ‘Just point me in the right direction,’ he said. ‘And thank you for the tea.’ He raised his hat. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Rose stood at the door, watching him feel his way carefully along. She could not bear to leave the doorway until he had passed the Mission Hall and was out of sight.

  Fifteen

  That dreadful afternoon, Aggie was sitting crouched on the front step after school. With her inky fingers she kept tugging at her skirt, trying to pull it down further and cover her bare feet. The soles of her pumps were worn right through and while she was at school, what was left of one had parted company with the top so she couldn’t wear them any more.

  Her old black charity Mail boots had been handed on to John. She could just squeeze into them, though they pinched and gave her blisters. John was busy clacking up and down the street in them now, dashing about with the other boys.

  ‘All we’ve got’s that old pair of wellingtons of your mother’s,’ Freda Adams said, seeing Aggie’s miserable face when she got home from school. ‘We’ll have to cut them down for yer, for the time being.’ There was no spare money for shoes – not at the moment.

  ‘But they’re too big,’ Aggie protested. ‘And they’ve got holes in already!’

  ‘Look, if I could do spells I’d get you some golden slippers,’ Nanny Adams said. ‘But those’ll have to do for now. Go and mind May – we’ll see to it later. Your mother’s not well.’

  Aggie felt thoroughly miserable. It was cold and she didn’t want to get up and run around with the others, with no shoes on. She didn’t want to be outside at all. And the thought that the only shoes she was going to get until they could get some more charity boots, which was not until Christmas, was that mouldy old pair of rubber ones which already had holes in was even more demoralizing. She thought of Lily’s lovely brown shoes and the little red slippers she had as well. One day, I’m going to have shoes like that, she vowed.

  But she was also waiting for her dad. Even though Mom and Nanna had tried to stop him, he’d gone out with his barrow again looking for work. And now they were all back from school and he still hadn’t come home. To distract herself she looked round, scouring the gutter for dog ends for Dad, so that he could roll new cigarettes out of the nubs of tobacco. But there were none in sight. Where was he? Her heart thumped as she peered along the street.

  Before Dad got so poorly she and the others used to wait for him when he went to the Eagle at the end of Lilac Street. They’d play out or huddle under the street lamp if there was anything they wanted to look at in the gloom. Dad’d come out after a pint or two, mellow and smelling of ale and say, ‘Come on then, yer little buggers!’ And they’d all traipse home after him. If he had any change left they’d get some chips from Price’s. It was something she’d done since she was small, that made her feel happy and close to him. But he hadn’t even the strength for the Eagle now. He shouldn’t be out, she fretted.

  ‘May!’ she called crossly to her sister.

  May was staring at a skipping game that some of the other girls were playing along the street, chanting their rhymes, the rope swinging.

  ‘Don’t go so far away – stay where I can see yer! Look – I’ve got Silas’s marbles – come and play over ’ere!’

  She felt weary today, like an old woman, and cold to her bones. Why did she have to watch May all the time? Why couldn’t John take a turn for once? But she was also worried, frightened. She told herself she was sitting waiting for Babs to come and play out. But she knew really she was waiting for Dad. She wanted him to come home, not be walking the streets, coughing like that.

  Tommy Green had gone out to look for work for a few hours the day before yesterday. When he got back, he was four shillings better off but he could barely stand. He stumbled in through the back door, shivering, bent over, coughing up stuff from his lungs. It was all he could do to get upstairs and collapse into bed.

  It was afternoon and Jen was feeling a bit better by then. Morning and evening were her sickest times. She carried some broth up to him, with bread with a scraping of margarine, and sat on the edge of their bed. Other than a broken-down chest of drawers, it was the only thing in the room.

  ‘What the hell’re you playing at, Tommy Green?’

  Her voice was harsh with anxiety. Look at the state of him, she thought, a cold terror filling her. He looked terrible, his already thin face pinched, his breathing very shallow. There were pink spots on his cheeks and he looked feverish and weak. He managed to open his eyes. It’s consumption, I know it is, she thought, and that freezing hand of fear gripped round her heart again.

  ‘Don’t . . .’ He managed a whisper. ‘Don’t nag me, wench.’

  His shirt was unbuttoned halfway and Jen could see the bones in his chest as he breathed. His face was all stubble, hair slicked to his head. Silently they stared at one another. Then he mustered one of his grins, the cheeky-boy face that had always won her over.

  But not this time. Instead, she started to cry.

  ‘Tommy, don’t. You’re sick, really bad – I can see. Don’t try and hide it. I’m going to go and talk to Dr Hill. He’s all right – he’s a—’

  ‘No!’ he held his hand up. Tommy had a horror of any kind of interference from outside. It was doctors killed his mom, that’s what he always said. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he rasped. ‘Let me sleep.’

  She didn’t mention the blood. How could she have missed that? Had he hidden it from her? The thought of life without him passed through her mind, terrifying, desolate. She had known him almost all her life. She pushed the thought away.

  ‘Drink your broth,’ she said, getting up. ‘It’ll do you good.’

  She turned at the door, unable to hide her tears. ‘If anything happens to you, I don’t know what I’ll . . .’

  But his eyes were closed. He was already asleep.

  Downstairs, Nanny Adams was dozing by the fire, a faint aroma of hooch around her. She found a lot of strength and comfort in her little flask and it helped dull the pain in her hips. She and Jen had cooked the factory meals together, the men taking a plateful, covered with another plate and wrapped in newspaper for their dinner. Always some kind of stew.

  Jen sank by the table, unable to stop her weeping now it had begun. Everything was such a struggle, as if life was piled on top of her. She was exhausted, the babby taking everything, it felt like. And Tommy . . . Her Tommy looked like a death’s head.

  Freda Adams opened her eyes.

  ‘What’s ailing yer, wench?’

  ‘Tommy needs the doctor – but he won’t hear of it. He looks so bad. Oh, why did I ’ave to catch for a babby now? What if he dies – we’ll all end up in the workhouse!’

  Her mother pushed herself up straighter, almost grandly, in her chair. Impeded as she was by her joints, she had survived losing her husband at a young age and being left with four children, two of whom had been taken from her by war. Freda Adams had always worked and struggled her way through. At one especially desperate time she had had to turn to the parish for help and the experience was burned into her soul. She had fought her way back from it – she was a survivor, and big-hearted with it.

  ‘Don’t you go talking like that. Over my dead body we’ll fall on the parish – those heartless, int
erfering harridans! Not while you’ve got me, wench, with breath in my body. I may not be up to much but I ain’t dead and buried yet. We’ll think of summat. Give Tommy a day or two. Then he might be glad of a doctor.’ She kept the thought to herself that there might not be much anyone could do for Tommy now. He should have had a doctor weeks ago, if he was going to have one at all. ‘But we’ll keep going. That’s what you have to do somehow or other – just keep going.’

  Yesterday Aggie’s dad had stayed in bed all day. But this morning, still shaking with fever, he had gone off with the barrow again. Aggie had heard Mom pleading with him, crying.

  ‘D’you want to kill yourself – just for a few bob? Don’t go, Tommy – stay for my sake . . .’

  ‘A few bob’s the difference between eating and going without. Just a few bob and I’ll be home,’ he’d said. ‘It’s a fine man can’t feed his family!’

  Jen had been too ill herself to stop him. It had shaken Aggie and the others up badly – they’d scarcely ever heard her mom cry the way she did when Dad left the house this morning. But they’d all had to go to school.

  From her perch on the step, Aggie sat shivering, keeping half an eye on May, and on Silas and Ann. She decided Babs wasn’t coming to play out after all. As the only girl in the family she was another one who ended up with a lot of jobs. Babs’s dad, Mr Skinner, kept hens out in the brew house, or wash house, in their yard. They were in a little pen made out of crates and had to be moved in and out of the brew house, depending on the weather and who else needed it. On wash days when the coppers were lit – which was most days – they had to keep shifting the creatures in and out. And Mrs Skinner was always after Babs for something.

  Aggie drew her knees up and sat hugging them, looking around her. The step was a good place from which to get a view of the street, with its rows of chimneys, the smoke all leaning to one side in the breeze today. From there, she could see the bulk of the Mission Hall at the far end to her right. When you went past you could hear them singing sometimes, especially on Sunday evenings.