by Annie Murray
Aggie shook her head. It was as if Mrs Southgate was treating her like an adult. On the table were some of her sewing things, lovely coloured threads catching the light through the door. Aggie fingered one, a bright, burned orange colour, hoping it might jog Mrs Southgate’s memory of her offer, but she took no notice.
‘The thing is, Aggie . . .’ She stopped again. Aggie looked up. The woman’s face looked tired and different somehow. ‘I shall need you to run a number of errands for me like the last one to Mr King’s house. Would you like that? I’ll give you a penny or two of course, for your trouble.’
Aggie nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Southgate.’
‘The only thing is . . .’ Again, the hesitation, as if she didn’t know what to say. ‘I need you to be very careful. I am communicating with Mr King about piano lessons for Lily—’
‘But I thought Mrs Wood was teaching her?’ Aggie interrupted.
‘Yes, well, she is,’ Rose said hastily, ‘but I thought, with Mr King being without sight the way he is, and him having to earn a living somehow, it would be the kind thing to do to let him teach her sometimes as well. But Aggie, the problem is, my husband’s not in favour of piano lessons, not from anyone. So you see, I need to you be very careful and not tell anyone what you are doing for me or where you are going, do you see? In case it gets back to him because then I should be in dreadful trouble.’
Aggie nodded again, a bit bewildered.
‘I know!’ Rose said with a strange giggle. ‘Why don’t we make it into a game – just between ourselves? No one else must know.’ She seemed to gather enthusiasm for this idea. ‘You can be Mata Hari, delivering a secretly coded note across to the enemy . . . I mean, I know Mr King isn’t the enemy, but we can make up our own story, can’t we? You have to move back and forth in secret between here and Oldfield Road to complete your mission. Oh!’ She stood up, pacing the room. ‘This will be a good game, don’t you think, Aggie? You could even take Lily with you now and then, as a cover story for why you are going out. Won’t it be fun!’
Aggie grinned, borne along by her enthusiasm. Agnes Green: Spy had a mission! And it meant bringing home a few pennies for Mom as well.
‘I can do it,’ she said excitedly. ‘No one’ll know where I’m going – I shan’t let on, I promise.’
‘Well, that’s settled,’ Mrs Southgate said, laughing happily. ‘Now – would you take on a little mission for this afternoon? I do need a message delivered . . .’
Aggie thought quickly. She could easily go there and back before tea and Mom wouldn’t even ask where she’d been. ‘Yes – but I might have to take May with me. I’m s’posed to be minding her.’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Southgate’s expression soured a fraction. ‘I see. Well, let’s hope she won’t slow you down too much. But I suppose, if you have to.’
‘All right,’ Aggie said. This was all a bit odd, but there was twopence in it for her. ‘I’ll go and fetch our May and I’ll come straight back.’
Forty
Jen climbed the stairs that Sunday afternoon, her legs shaking with weariness. Her mother was lying down in her room, already deeply asleep. She came home from the factory every day white with exhaustion, yet determined to hide the fact.
‘A cuppa’ll soon set me right,’ she’d say, spooning sugar in and drinking it down.
She’s a tough old bird, all right, Jen thought. It wasn’t enough just to say she was grateful. Stiff and tired as she was, Freda seemed to have a determination that would overcome anything. Jen was moved by her old mom, by what she was capable of. But sometimes Jen would be seized by terror. Her mother shouldn’t be collaring away like this at her age! What if something happened to her? What if she was taken ill? The kids were doing their bit, bless them, but they could only earn a few coppers. She was struggling to keep up with the factory dinners. And there was her mother’s miserly pension. But even so they could scarcely get by. Freda was the only thing now keeping them away from the hard-faced officials of the parish, those who could decide whether or not a family deserved to eat, and Jen knew that, at the moment, she owed her everything.
But this was only one of her troubles. She scarcely knew which way to turn for worry, about Mom, about the kids, including the ones not yet born. Mrs Sissons had persuaded Jen to let her examine her. She lay back on her bed next to Tommy as Mrs Sissons felt her belly and then listened for the heartbeat. After a few minutes she looked up, still listening.
‘I’ve found a second one.’ She spoke softly, with a note of awe. ‘It is twins, I think, Mrs Green.’
Jen’s heart leapt at this wonderful, terrible news. Her eyes filled with tears but she tried to joke. ‘D’you ’ear that, Tommy Green? Two of the little so-and-sos!’
But once Mrs Sissons had gone she couldn’t help herself. She lay beside Tommy and gave way to her tears. Both of them knew that he was not going to see these babies born.
He was her greatest worry and grief. For the moment, it was him she had to be with and thank the good Lord that whatever the rights and wrongs of her relying on her mother’s labour, she had Freda there to help.
Now, on this quiet Sunday afternoon, the boards seemed to creak very loudly as she crept into their bedroom where he lay, on his back, his eyes closed, his chest crackling as he breathed. Jen eased herself on to the bed beside him, the rusty springs squeaking as her weight sank down. She felt queasy with tiredness and settled down with a long release of breath. Thank heavens for Sunday school. The kids were all out, at least for a couple of hours. Her hands moved over her belly. She was more than four months gone now and there was a definite bulge. Everything about carrying twins was more intense. She could hardly stand anywhere for long without feeling faint. At least it was not her having to stand on a factory floor all day.
Tommy shifted slightly beside her and began to cough, the shudders starting small then dragging out of him harder and harder until she felt he must split apart with the strain of it. Her heart seemed to turn over. However tired she was and longing for sleep, every part of her was jarred and overwrought with the distress of it all. Tommy was so weak that she knew he had to think for a long while just to move an arm or leg. How he had ever got back from that hospital she’d never know, not the state he was in. But he’d gone downhill a lot in the few weeks since. He had barely eaten anything for days. She knew she was watching death slowly take him, an agony that she could do so very little about. It was his death, a journey upon which she could not follow him, which he was undertaking far too young, and far, far too soon. Anger and grief went through her like a wave of bile. She could not let her mind go down the path of thinking about the future, about all their children, the unborn pair in her belly that Tommy would never see. If she started to think like that she would go mad with it.
He’s here now, now this minute, she thought, and as his coughing quietened, she reached for his hand. Here, now. The hand was warm, dry and skeletal. His nails had changed, had turned pale and bowed out, so that his hands had a froggy look.
‘Jen?’ It was a hoarse whisper.
‘Yes, love?’ She turned to him.
There was a lengthy silence as he gathered strength, then he managed to say, ‘Fancy a bit of . . . You know . . . ?’
‘Tommy Green!’ Startled into laughter she leaned up on her elbow and looked down at him. ‘You are the very end, that you are!’
‘Just kidding.’ A whispery little laugh came from him.
‘I’d never have guessed,’ she said softly, kissing his sunken cheek.
He tried to say something else but the coughing came again. She had to help raise him so that he could spit out, a process which was such a racking, painful one that it was awful to watch. At last he could lie quiet again.
Jen lay tenderly stroking his arm. She was on fire with a sense of the preciousness of this moment, now, with Tommy still here. She pulled the pins from her hair, letting its faded auburn hanks loose so that she could lie comfortably beside him, burning, wretchedly full of love f
or him. It was bright outside, but the sun was not shining directly into the room, and the outside world felt far away, unreal to her. All her reality was in this room.
‘Jen?’ Tommy whispered. ‘I can’t see too well.’
A sense of horror seized her. His joke had lulled her into thinking he was still the old Tommy. But he was leaving, slipping away. Consumption, that’s what they called it. And it was consuming him, inch by inch.
‘What d’you mean?’ she said, trying not to let the panic sound in her voice.
‘There’s . . . It’s like a film over my eyes.’
‘Let me look.’
She leaned over, and though he had his eyes open, they were yellowish like his skin and were taking on an increasingly foggy look, as if they were coated in sour milk. Moving her hand over his face, she said, ‘Can you see that?’
‘Barely. Summat moving.’
‘Oh . . . Tommy.’
She lay down again, trying to warm him, wanting to weep, but the grief of it all was dammed up inside her. And there it must stay, she knew, for the moment. He needed something better from her.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘d’you remember that time you and Frank Murphy and the others climbed up to spy on Mrs Evans? You were the one right at the top – I don’t know how you didn’t fall and kill yourself!’
Tommy and the other lads in the yard had formed a tree, scrambling up on to each other’s shoulders one winter evening to peer in at the window of the most loathed woman in the street. They knew if she caught them she’d come roaring out ready to give all of them a good hiding. Jen watched, a hand over her mouth, as Tommy climbed the drainpipe like a monkey, over the first boy’s shoulders as he clung on, grumbling, then the second boy who was already looking as if he wished they’d never started all this. Tommy’s face moved above the sill of the upstairs window and Jen gasped, certain that Mrs Evans would be out with the poker any second. And then Tommy, in a hissing whisper, had let out the electrifying words: ‘’Er’s there inside – in ’er nuddies!’
‘’Er’s never!’ The boy at the bottom started shaking with a fatal mix of laughter and fear and the whole structure started to look very shaky.
‘ ’Er is – honest!’
Everyone started to panic. Jen thrilled with utter terror as the stack of boys crumpled. Tommy slithered down the drainpipe, jumping from halfway up, and they all fled out through the dark entry, expecting Mrs Evans to be roaring behind them. The debate had gone on for many days afterwards as to what Tommy had seen.
‘You never saw ’er with no clothes on,’ the middle boy argued. ‘’T’ain’t true – you never.’
After a time Tommy conceded that she might just have had her bloomers on. But they’d never got the full truth out of him – what had he actually seen?
Jen lifted her head again. ‘Was she there – Mrs Evans, that day?’
She felt a light tremor pass through Tommy, a memory of laughter more than the thing itself.
‘She wasn’t, was she? You were having us on all the time!’
‘Not saying.’
‘Tommy!’ she cajoled. She looked into his face. ‘She wasn’t there, was she?
Faintly he shook his head, grinning. ‘No one there . . . At all . . .’
‘You cheeky little bugger,’ she said affectionately, lying down to reminisce some more, to bring back sweet memories of their youth. ‘You always were a cheeky bugger.’
Tommy, her Tommy, just like the first day she’d set eyes on him in Kyrwicks Lane, on his mucky, cheeky, incorrigible face. She’d loved him ever since then, hadn’t she?
She lay close, wrapping her arm very gently around his wasted body, the bones all that seemed left of him. But he was still here . . . Now. For the moment. And in this moment, whatever the future held for her, she wanted to love him with all her heart.
Forty-One
Tommy Green was nearing his end. Everyone knew Mrs Sissons and when you saw her going in and out of a house it was certain something was up.
Neighbours came and went, offering help. Dulcie, Jen’s best friend, came as often as she could, and others called to see what they could do or just to exchange a few words.
Irene Best was one of them. She came over and stood at the front, saying she wouldn’t come in. She kept turning and glancing anxiously at her husband as she was talking. John Best did not like to be seen outside but as it was a warm day she had wheeled him close to the door. He could just be seen, stiff and immobile in the front room.
‘How is he, Rene?’ Jen asked, even though she knew the answer really. Her heart ached for Irene, whose face, as usual, looked pale and strained.
‘Much the same,’ Irene said with a slight shrug. She appeared much too old for her age. The war had knocked the life out of both of them. They’d never had any children. ‘Although –’ She hesitated. ‘I can’t help thinking he’s going downhill a bit. A dose of something – that influenza – it’d finish him. Anyhow –’ She gathered herself bravely, as she had done so many times. ‘We go along. I came to ask about your Tommy.’
Jen’s eyes filled with tears but she wiped them away fiercely.
‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ Irene told her sweetly. ‘I must’ve wept that much I could’ve topped the sea up in my time.’
‘But if I start . . .’ Jen said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘He’s fading fast, Rene. You should see the state of him. His sight’s gone. All that’s left of him’s skin and bone.’
Irene Best reached out and touched her arm. ‘I’m always there if there’s anything I can do, Jen. I know everyone says that, but it’s true – you just let me know.’
Jen thanked her and she scurried back across the street. The sight of her made Jen’s tears flow again. All this sadness brought out the tenderness in people.
She was surprised the next day to find Rose Southgate on the step, holding a plate with a Victoria sponge on it. Rose seemed shy and awkward.
‘Aggie told me how poorly her dad is. I . . . Well, I thought the children might like a bit of this – when they get home from school. Aggie’s been such a good girl, taking Lily to the Sunday school and . . . Well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry . . .’
‘That’s good of yer,’ Jen said, feeling awkward, but genuinely touched.
‘How is your husband?’
‘Bad,’ Jen said. Again, she couldn’t hold the tears. She saw Rose Southgate’s brow crinkle with sympathy as she wiped her eyes on her pinner.
‘I’m sorry. Oh, you poor thing. But –’ She stopped, as if feeling she was about to say the wrong thing.
‘What?’ Jen said.
‘No – nothing. Here – take it, won’t you?’ Rose handed her the plate. She didn’t seem to expect to be invited in, was backing away. ‘She’s a good girl, your Aggie.’
Jen stared at her, then looked at the cake in her hand. It had icing sugar sprinkled on the top, as well as a layer of jam in the middle. Rose had gone to some trouble and she was touched. ‘That’s nice. Don’t s’pose it’ll last five minutes when this lot get in.’
Rose smiled. ‘No, I don’t s’pose it will. Oh – please give my regards to your mother, won’t you?’
And she was gone. Jen watched her for a moment, puzzled, then took the cake into the house.
A few days later, Rose was giving Lily her tea, when she heard a knock at the door. Frowning, she went to answer.
‘Oh!’ She actually jumped, her hand going to her heart, and cried, ‘Arthur – oh, Lord! What on earth are you doing here?’
He looked understandably taken aback and hurt. She had left him only last Sunday after another afternoon of love and closeness.
‘I’m sorry, Rose – it’s just that I’m on my way back from a job over this way. I couldn’t bear to pass you by. I got off the bus a couple of stops early.’ He added uncertainly, ‘I so much wanted to see you.’
Rose looked despairingly along the street. It was teeming with children and people coming home from work. Everyone would
see them! And she didn’t know when Harry would be home but it could be any time.
‘Come in, quickly!’ She reached for his hand and almost pulled him inside, closing the door as soon as she could.
‘Rose, love, whatever’s wrong?’ He could hear how flustered she was.
‘Arthur . . .’ She tried to make her tone more gentle but she was utterly wound up with tension.
‘Who is it?’ Lily wandered out from the back.
‘Hello, Lily,’ Arthur said.
‘Go and eat your tea,’ Rose ordered her sharply.
Lily looked very downcast and stumped back into the kitchen, resentment in every line of her body.
‘I’ve done wrong in coming – I’m sorry,’ Arthur said. ‘Only I was longing to see you and I don’t really see the harm. Why should you not have an admirer? No one expects a woman to stay alone for ever.’
Appalled at herself, Rose, said, ‘Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain. But you really can’t stay. I’ll tell you everything properly one day, but not today. Listen – come to the back with me for a minute, but then you really must go, dear.’ She reached for his hand, then moved close and kissed his cheek. ‘Never doubt that I love you so. I’m just a foolish woman.’
He seemed a little reassured and followed her to the back room, but Rose was still in a turmoil of nerves. Had she time to offer him a cup of tea? How could she not? It would look so odd and offhand, cruel even.
‘The kettle’s on,’ she said, trying to control her tone. Her heart was beating so hard she had to keep taking deep breaths to try and calm herself. ‘Why don’t you sit down beside Lily, Mr King?’
Arthur felt his way to a seat and sat, saying, ‘Hello, Lily. How’s your piano playing coming on?’
Lily looked solemnly at him, a tussle evident in the expression in her blue eyes. She liked Arthur but she didn’t like the way his coming made her mother so sharp with her.
‘All right,’ she said, but she didn’t summon up a smile.
Arthur, kindly man that he was, asked her some more simple questions, drawing the little girl out. Rose was just about to fill the teapot when to her horror she saw Harry walk past the back window, guiding his bicycle to where he left it in the backyard. She sprang across the room.
