by Annie Murray
Aggie nodded eagerly.
‘All right – well, I’ve got a little note to be delivered. Tell your mother where you’re going. You’ll need to go out along the Ladypool Road . . .’ She gave directions and Aggie set off happily, glad to earn some money.
Harry, as Rose expected, had no intention of staying in and missing his fishing on Sunday, Easter or no Easter. This week she greeted his hobby with more enthusiasm than usual.
‘The days are drawing out now,’ she said. ‘That’ll be nice – you won’t have to cut it so short, will you?’
‘No – nor freeze my arse off neither,’ he said, peering at some intricate piece of fishing tackle in his hand.
‘Harry!’ she scolded. ‘Must you be so coarse in front of Lily?’
‘Harry,’ he mimicked her in a silly voice, tutting and mocking.
Rose bit her lip and turned away. Say nothing – what did it matter anyway? He was going out, that was the main thing. And soon, very soon, she was going to see Arthur King. These days, that seemed to be the only thing that did matter.
She baked the cake with great care, and by the Sunday, she had spread a thin layer of marzipan on to the top and rolled the remainder into little balls to place round the edge as traditional. She could remember her mother doing it, at the right season. While she was laying out the teacups, Lily asked, ‘Is the man coming?’
Rose felt a chill go through her. She went tight and angry inside. What if one day the child said something carelessly in front of her father? It would ruin everything. She bent over her daughter, trying not to sound as tense as she felt.
‘He might come, Lily. But Mrs Wood might come instead – I’m not sure. Now you will remember, we don’t need to talk about the man ever, do we? Especially not when Daddy’s at home?’
Lily eyed her cautiously. She could sense the woundup mood her mother was in.
‘D’you understand, Lily?’ She spoke more sternly than usual and Lily’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded.
Guilt surged through Rose then. ‘Oh, look, it’s all right, babby – come to Mommy.’ She hugged her. ‘Don’t you worry. It’s just better if Daddy doesn’t know, that’s all. You know how cross he gets sometimes. Now – never mind about that. D’you know who else is coming, for you to play with? Aggie and May and maybe their friend Babs – after they come back from Sunday school. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’ Lily brightened up a little.
Rose knew this was wrong, all of it, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
He came very punctually at three o’clock, by which time Rose was in a total state of nerves. She leapt up at the sound of his knock, almost overturning the chair in the back room. She had a good fire burning at the front to make the parlour cosy.
Opening the door, she was struck once again by the fact that her sight revealed him to her in a way that was not possible for him. She took him in, neatly dressed, hesitant in his step and with something tucked under his arm. He smiled in her general direction, that lovely face of his, she thought. She felt a grief that he could not see her.
‘A blessed Eastertide,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, and to you too,’ she said, glancing along the street. ‘Come in, do. It’s very nice to see you.’
Then she felt that was tactless and tried to apologize but he laughed it off.
‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he said, taking his hat off. His hair had grown a little. ‘I could say, “Good to hear you,” which would be true. You have a very lovely voice.’
‘Oh,’ Rose said, thrilled by this. ‘Well, that’s nice of you. Shall I take your coat?’
‘I brought this –’ He held out the shallow, oblong box he was carrying. ‘I thought Lily and her little pals might like it.’
Rose took it, seeing that it was a game of Ludo.
‘My mother passed it on – I used to play with my sisters.’
‘How lovely – look, Lily! We can show you how to play once Aggie gets here.’
Lily looked pleased, and took the box over on to the floor to look inside. Rose took Arthur’s coat and hat from him, her pulse racing as they stood close. How she longed to reach up and stroke his cheek! It was because he was blind, she realized. They could not speak to each other with their eyes.
‘Here –’ She took his arm and led him to the chair. ‘I’ve left everything in the same place, look . . . I mean . . .’ Again she stuttered into confusion.
‘That’s good – I’m beginning to learn my way round. It doesn’t take too long. I find I get quicker at it – like a sort of inner eye.’
‘It’s hard to think of it,’ she said, hanging his coat on the back of the door. ‘When you don’t need to. But I’m learning.’
‘Nice of you to try,’ he said sweetly.
She made tea and came back in to find him holding out his hands towards the fire.
‘It’s a nice cosy room this,’ he said. ‘I get the feel of it, even without being able to see.’
‘It is,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the curtains closed already – to keep the heat in.’
They drank tea together and he was very enthusiastic about her cake. Lily was still absorbed in the little counters and dice out of the Ludo box. Arthur asked Rose, gently, about her family. Rose told him what had happened to them.
‘I suppose it was my mother who held us all together. Once she had gone – well, we scattered. My brother Peter emigrated after the war, to Australia. Bessie’s still here, she’s my only family really, though I don’t see much of her now. I’ve never seen Maud since.’
‘How dreadfully sad,’ Arthur said. ‘Should you want to see her, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rose sat forward, saucer on her knees, warming her hands on her teacup. ‘Sometimes I’d just like to know what happened to her, to see that she’s all right. She was such a little poppet. But she wouldn’t know us – she was very young when the lady took her. I think it might just disturb things, for all of us.’
‘That sounds wise,’ he said. ‘But I can see that you must wonder.’
She described the Mounts’ house to him, but of course did not mention Harry. It seemed so natural and effortless to write Harry out, as though she were in a different life suddenly, where he no longer existed. She wondered at herself even as she did it.
She asked him about his own family. Arthur described a rather genteel upbringing: his family still lived in Solihull.
‘There’s just me and my two sisters, Edith and Connie. Thank heavens. That’s how I look at it now. To have sons was really a curse in our parents’ generation. I have – well, had – a school pal, George Sanders. He was one of five boys – after that lot there’s only one left, Dickie, and he didn’t fight because he was too young.’ He shook his head, his face pained. ‘I tend to remind myself of them, rather often, when I’m falling about over chairs or almost getting run down by a tram. I am still here, pretty much in one piece except for this.’ He raised a hand to his face. ‘Anyway, both my sisters are married and keeping my mother busy.’
‘What are they like?’ Rose asked. ‘Do you look alike?’
‘Oh, well, Edith and I are alike – Dad’s curly hair. Conn, she’s out of another drawer altogether – and bossy!’ He sucked his breath in, shaking his head humorously. ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear . . .’
Rose laughed. ‘My sister Bessie’s like that. Like a flaming sergeant major . . .’
‘Ah, well, Connie’s almost reached the lieutenant colonel’s rank in terms of giving orders.’
They talked and laughed easily together. After a time Rose heard a timid knocking and let Aggie in, with May and Babs.
Once the children were settled by the fire with cake and the game, Rose said, ‘I hope you’ll play for us later, Mr King?’
‘Arthur, please,’ he said, seeming taken aback. He turned as she came and sat down again, as if still in the habit of glancing round, even though he could not see. Then he turned back to the fire. The children were laughing, but for a moment
Rose and Arthur sat still and quiet.
‘You know,’ he said softly after a few moments. ‘It means more to me than I can say, being able to come and visit you like this. To be able to walk here and be in such nice company.’
‘Oh,’ Rose said, feeling her cheeks burn. ‘It . . . It means an awful lot to me too. I don’t get many visitors. Do you see your family?’
‘Now and again. They’re all with Edith and her children today. I usually feel a bit of a spare part, to tell you the truth. Everyone tiptoeing round about my sight and acting rather breezily as if nothing has happened.’
She felt for him, seeing how the blindness must lock you inside yourself. ‘It must be ever so difficult,’ she said.
‘It is. Well, can be. It’s claustrophobic, especially at first. Like being shut in a box. It’s another way of experiencing the world, certainly. You have to learn all about touch and smell, sounds, atmospheres – they all start to become sharper. And of course, with all the carnage that happened to others, one doesn’t feel right complaining.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘It’s hard for other people to enter into it. But it only takes someone like yourself to take a bit of trouble to understand, and it makes all the difference.’
Still facing towards the fire, slowly, cautiously, he reached out his right hand to her. Rose’s heart lurched. She was so moved by him, so longed to touch him, to hold him. Glancing at Lily, to see that her daughter was not watching, she reached out and their fingertips touched. He clasped her hand then, with strong fingers.
‘Thank you,’ he said, as if she had spoken. She realized that with her hand, she had.
‘Come through to the back,’ she said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on for some more tea.’
He stood with his fingertips touching the edge of the table while she filled the kettle and set it on to boil. He faced straight ahead as if listening, getting the feel of the room.
‘It’s all very small,’ she said. ‘But it does us.’
She saw Harry’s cap hanging on the back door and glanced anxiously at Arthur for a moment, then realized she was being foolish. He would never see it. She stepped round and stood in front of him.
‘Arthur,’ she said softly.
He reached his hands out, his face tenderly hopeful, and she stepped into his arms, putting her hands on his shoulders.
‘Oh, you’re lovely,’ he breathed.
‘I might not be,’ she teased. ‘I might have a face like the back of a tram.’
‘But I don’t think you have. I expect you’re beautiful. You sound it.’ He reached for her face, felt her features and her strong, thick hair.
‘What colour is it?’ he asked.
‘Blonde – very light. Lily’s is the same. Grey eyes – blue-grey.’
He ran the side of his thumb down her cheek.
‘You’re lovely – I can feel you are.’
She was full of trembling, longing emotion. Reaching up she stroked his face at last, and when she saw tears begin to run down his cheeks, her own emotions twisted and spilled and she was weeping too.
They drew each other close and stood holding on for comfort, and she loved the feel, the smell of him, this gentle man. It was if she had come home.
Twenty-Eight
Phyllis and all her brood went to church on Easter morning. There had been a few warm days in the week before, but the overcast weather had returned and they were wrapped up warm again.
‘Well, that’s no bad thing,’ Phyllis observed, peering up at the sky. ‘Get your coats on, all of you. Wrap up well – you feel the cold, and don’t you forget it.’
‘Oh, not again,’ Rachel muttered. ‘We’ll be flaming stifled. It’s bad enough getting fat.’ She pinched her midriff with distaste. Phyllis was feeding them all up like turkey cocks.
Phyllis opened the front door to leave and found Charles already waiting out there, standing stiffly, facing away down the street as if disowning them all. He had a cold and a sore nose, and looked generally miserable.
‘You go on ahead if you want,’ Phyllis instructed him. And Charles was off as if sprung from a trap, desperate to be away from his sisters and all their alarming physicality.
Phyllis looked cautiously both ways along the street.
‘What’s the matter, Mom?’ Rachel said with daring sarcasm. ‘They’re not going to come and arrest Dolly, are they? Not for that.’
‘Oh, stop it, Rachel!’ Susanna said crossly, adjusting her hat. She wanted to look her best for David, her fiancé, who would be at the service.
‘Enough of your lip,’ Phyllis said.
She had been full of unease ever since she ran into Ethel Sharp, expecting constantly that she would turn up again. But the girls didn’t need to know anything about Ethel and her foul ways. Or anything else about her past for that matter. James had offered her a new life, and she’d seized it with both hands. Nothing was going to drag all that out again. That part of her was dead and buried.
But ever since she had seen Ethel, things she had long hidden away had been roused in her mind. Terrible images kept flashing across her memory.
‘Come on – we’ll be late.’ She adjusted Dolly’s collar, then ran her hand down her daughter’s front. Her hand paused over her belly.
‘Mom!’ Dolly protested.
‘Not much to show – but there soon will be.’
‘Thanks,’ Dolly said bitterly. ‘For reminding me.’
‘Come on,’ Susanna urged. ‘Or we’ll be late.’
Phyllis revelled in the walk to church, which was a bit of a step away on the Moseley Road. The Taylors made a fine sight, and Phyllis knew it. There was she, massive and handsome, and her three girls were all good-looking in their varied ways, Susanna stately and straight backed like her father, Rachel splendidly curvaceous and dark haired in Phyllis’s mould, and Dolly an even prettier version of her.
Phyllis nodded grandly to people along Lilac Street and called out a greeting. Dorrie Davis, scurrying along to the Mission Hall where she sometimes played the piano, twisted her sour face into something that was meant to be a smile and hurried on in her flat old shoes.
Sour bitch, Phyllis thought.
‘She stared at me,’ Dolly hissed at Rachel. ‘I’m sure she knows – she’s guessed. If she finds out, we’re done for – the whole flaming neighbourhood’ll know in five minutes!’
Phyllis turned and glared her into silence as Rachel hissed, ‘Button it, Dolly.’
Susanna was walking slightly ahead, in a world of her own as if she, like Charles, wanted to pretend they didn’t exist. Phyllis looked proudly at her. She’d turned into a fine woman and no mistake. There was her wedding coming up next year and a grand occasion it was going to be. A lot was at stake.
Old Mary Crewe appeared then, lumbering along in her usual distracted fashion, puffing away on her cigarette. The forefinger and thumb of her right hand were canary yellow. Every time she saw Mary Crewe, Phyllis felt a mix of pity and horror. That could have been me, she thought. Could easily. She had pulled herself out, struck lucky meeting James that night, the way she had, and she had looks on her side. But had things gone differently . . .
‘Morning, Mary,’ she said kindly.
‘Damn you!’ Mary said with some energy, clutching her bundle tighter. ‘Damn and bugger you!’ she continued on, muttering. Dolly giggled. Phyllis turned on her.
‘Don’t you dare laugh, you little madam! She’ll’ve been like you once – young and foolish. And don’t you ever forget it. Some mothers would’ve put you out, my girl – I might yet if you don’t watch your step!’
Dolly at least had the grace to look sorry for laughing.
At the bottom of the street she met Dulcie Skinner coming out of the entry into the Mansions. Ignoring Dulcie’s wry expression at the sight of her and her extravagant hat, Phyllis boomed out, ‘Morning, Mrs Skinner – a happy Easter to you!’
She stopped, wanting to make the most of this opportunity.
‘Oh,’ Dulcie said va
guely. ‘Happy Easter, Mrs Taylor. Off to church, are yer?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Phyllis said in her most refined voice. ‘My Charles has gone on ahead – he has responsibilities as a lay preacher, you know. And Susanna is going to meet her fiancé there – a very nice lad. Aren’t you, Susanna?’
Blushing, Susanna quietly agreed that she was. The other girls looked away and fidgeted.
Dulcie folded her arms. ‘Oh?’ she said, lips twitching a little.
‘Yes,’ Phyllis gushed. ‘He’s doing very nicely at Edwards’ Drapers – very nicely indeed.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Dulcie said insincerely.
‘Well, we must get along,’ Phyllis said merrily. ‘We do stand out rather if we all come in late!’
Quite oblivious to Dulcie rolling her eyes and muttering, ‘Oh, he’s doing very nicely, oh, kiss my backside,’ behind her, Phyllis sailed off past the Mansions and round the corner.
One of her greatest pleasures was making an appearance at church: the five of them all along one pew not too far from the front, she resplendent in her Sunday hat. She had on her best one of all today, her Easter bonnet, a straw hat lavishly dolled up with flowers and a striking artificial bird she had found in the market with vivid green feathers. She liked to make a splash among all these dutiful, colourless little church mice. After all, she was the widow of James Taylor, who had been a much respected lay preacher in the congregation. When James preached, she used to sit watching her man as he stood, tall and passionate, up at the front and she would be fit to burst with pride. She also knew she was the most striking woman in the congregation by far. If anyone thought her vulgar they would be far too polite to say so. And she had a strong, loud voice which could soar on the rousing hymns. Did she believe in it all, the words she was belting out? James certainly did but Phyllis seldom gave it much thought. Being a Methodist had brought her to where she was, with a certain standing, that was what mattered. In fact it was everything.
Twenty-Nine
‘Right,’ Mom ordered them all when they reached the church’s pillared entrance. ‘Smile – this is a happy day, remember. The Lord is risen.’
