by Annie Murray
There were so many widows about, all struggling. All those children without fathers. At least when they all got to an age when they could go to work, things would ease up. And her mother understood what it was like. Tears came to Jen’s eyes. Both the men in her life, father and husband, had been taken from her so young. She had only been four when her father died. She had only a handful of memories of him. Mostly she remembered his boots, but she did recall a wide, smiling face and that he had been very big – or seemed so to her – a burly, comforting presence. She found herself aching for him as well, for strong, comforting arms to wrap themselves round her and ease her of all her worries.
Sixty-One
Rose walked back in the lazy Sunday afternoon warmth, brimful of happiness and expectation. She had spent a loving hour with Arthur in the privacy of his room.
‘Let’s go out, shall we?’ she said afterwards. ‘To the park? It’s too nice a day to be inside.’
Arthur was cautious. ‘Aren’t you worried some-one’ll see us?’ He was still lying on the bed and he half sat up and took her hand. ‘We could just stay here, love.’
‘I’m not worried round here,’ she said. ‘No one knows me. We could be any courting couple for all anyone else is concerned.’
‘All right.’ Arthur sat up. Rose sometimes had the feeling that he would always do whatever she asked of him. It was strange, to know that someone needed her so much.
As they walked towards Small Heath Park they could hear music drifting on the still air.
‘There’s a band today!’ Rose said, excited. They were walking arm in arm and it felt so happy and free. She didn’t know anyone else in Small Heath. How good it would be to be in Manchester where they could be completely sure that no one knew them or would find them!
They drifted across the green to the bandstand, where the Sally Army were playing cheerful marching tunes which added a festive air. They strolled round at an easy pace in the Sunday afternoon atmosphere of pipe smoke and mown grass and ice-cream. People were lolling on the grass, chatting, smoking and just lazing in the luxurious heat.
‘I feel so strange, don’t you?’ she said. As she turned to speak she longed, for a second, for Arthur to be able to move his head to her in response, to look deeply into her eyes.
‘Yes,’ Arthur agreed. ‘It’s hard to take in that this is real . . .’
‘That after next week we shan’t be here. That it’s really true. I’ve never been anywhere except Birmingham. At least you know that other places really exist!’
‘I hope I can get work.’ He was forever fretting about this. ‘I don’t want to let you down, Rose.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘I feel I could be such a burden. As if I’m not – well, a full man.’
She moved her lips close to his ear. ‘Oh, you’re a full man all right, Arthur, my dear.’ This brought a smile. Rose could see his need for reassurance. She squeezed his arm back. ‘Look, you’ve got a bit saved up – you live like a monk – and so have I. We’ll be all right, love. We’ll find a place to lodge and get established. It may take a little time, but we can do it. We’ll be together, working for each other.’
Rose looked across the park, scattered with knots of people. The band set off on another jaunty tune. She wanted to capture the memory of it. In another week they would be gone and they might never see this place again. However much she longed to leave, this was her home town, the only place she knew. The start of August meant the beginning of a new life. It meant Manchester, and Arthur and happiness. She had made her choice and she felt a thrill of power go through her. ‘We can do anything, you and I, Arthur, when we’re together. I know we can!’
He did turn to her then, as if hungrily seeking her face. Gently he held her upper arms and said, ‘God, I love you, woman. Where would I be without you?’
It was always a dreadful wrench to leave him and go home, like waking from a dream and having to go back to her mundane reality.
‘I hate to let you go, every time,’ Arthur said.
‘Soon I shan’t have to leave you,’ she said, kissing him goodbye, pressing her face close to his. They stood, their warm cheeks touching for a moment.
Once she had torn herself away from his loving presence, she strode home, needing to be back in time for Lily, and in case Harry should come back early, though that seemed unlikely. He might have cycled miles to fish on such a long, lovely day.
She walked along to the Mansions to collect Lily, thinking, as she hurried down the grim entry, how a few months ago she would never have thought of entrusting her daughter to a place like this.
Now that the sun was low in the sky the yard, which had been a baking rectangle of brick without the relief of grass, was in shade and many of the occupants had brought chairs outside and were sitting talking. Heads turned to look at Rose, neat and pretty in her blue frock. She saw Aggie’s mother over by the tap with a pail – the redheads in the family were easy to spot – and there was a huge man with her who seemed to be offering to carry it for her. Rose never remembered seeing him before.
Goodness, Rose thought, Jen’s getting ever so big now.
Freda Adams, the grandmother, was on a chair beside their door. ‘Come for Lily, have you?’ she called. ‘They’re in the next ’un.’ She nodded her head towards the other yard.
‘All right – thank you,’ Rose called.
She found Lily with Aggie and Babs, all sitting in one corner, away from the boys who seemed to seethe around the yard getting in everyone’s way.
Aggie looked up and Rose saw a closed, wary expression on her face, very different from the Aggie of a few months ago when she was so eager to please. Rose felt a pang of regret. She had always had a soft spot for Aggie, had liked to give her attention, but lately she had been so caught up in her own thoughts and feelings about Arthur. Love can be so selfish, she thought. She knew it, but could do nothing about it.
Lily saw her and stood up.
‘Thank you, Aggie,’ Rose said kindly. ‘You are a good girl and I know Lily likes to come with you.’
Aggie still looked up with a reluctant smile. Babs, that strange, gawky little thing, was squinting up at her. In that moment, Rose felt overcome by shame, as if she had truly lost her own innocence.
‘Here –’ She reached in her pocket for the little rag in which she carried her change and found a twopenny piece. ‘That’s for you, Aggie.’
Aggie looked as if she was about to say something but then stopped herself. She reached out and took the money, saying, ‘Ta,’ and stowing it in her pocket.
Before Rose had even gone, with Lily, Aggie had turned away, and was talking to Babs.
Harry was late coming home. Rose cooked some fish for their tea, but there was no sign of him. By the time seven o’clock had passed, then eight, Rose was too hungry to wait. Once she had put Lily to bed, she ate and settled down to sew. When she heard him coming along the entry she quickly hid her sewing away and went to open the back door.
‘You’re late back,’ she said, without resentment. ‘Your tea’s here if you want it.’
Harry was bent over, his back to her in the dusky light, detaching the rods from the side of his bike. He said nothing. Rose went and took the plate from the range where it had stayed warm. She moved the fish about a little with a fork so that it didn’t look congealed and put it on the table.
Harry came in, heavily, and sat at the table. From his movements and the redness of his eyes she could see he had been drinking.
‘I don’t want that –’ He pushed the plate away with a look of disgust.
‘Oh,’ she said. There was something bunched up about him, as if he was coiled, waiting to spring, and her insides tightened.
‘D’you want a bit of bread instead? Cup of tea?’
‘Nah.’
She sat down, nervously, opposite him, wondering what was on his mind.
‘Nothing then?’ she asked, and she could hear the way her voice had gone higher.
Harry looked back
at her with a bleary ferocity, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus.
‘What I want to know –’ he said, slurring his words. There was a long pause. Rose’s heart began to thud, the way he was looking at her. ‘Is who the hell “A” is.’
Rose could not get her breath for a moment. She worked on arranging her face, blank at first, then in an expression of casual puzzlement.
‘“A”? What d’you mean?’
Harry slid two fingers into the inside pocket of his jerkin. To her horror she saw a familiar piece of paper drawn out and held up before her. Arthur’s poem! Surely she had hidden it in her drawer upstairs, with her stockings and undergarments? Hadn’t she? Otherwise she had had it on her at all times: how had he got hold of it?
‘What’s that?’ she said lightly.
Harry’s stubby fingers struggled to unfold it. The paper was limp and well worn from being tucked close to her skin, and from her having looked at it over and over again. It was almost as familiar as her own hand as he held it out to her.
‘A poem.’ His voice held both venom and disgust. ‘From “A”.’
Rose affected a glance at it as inspiration came to her. ‘Oh,’ she laughed. ‘That. Where on earth did you find that? God – I’ve had that for years. It was my mother’s. Alice, her name, remember? She gave it me before she died. It was her favourite poem. I think my father had taught it her somewhere along the line when they were courting. His family tried to stop them marrying . . .’ She was making this up, fast, as she went along. ‘And in the end they did marry. But while they had to be apart he’d given her that and she wrote it out and kept it.’
Harry stared at her for a moment, then his face took on an ugly sneer.
‘Your mother’s?’ The words were spoken with such contempt that they were like a slap.
He pushed the chair back and came for her, round the table, pushing his hand round her throat. His big body loomed over her, his breath hot and pungent on her face.
‘What kind of fool d’you take me for?’ His hand tightened. Rose sat completely still, terrified. Any tighter and she would not be able to breathe.
Harry stood looking down at her. She could tell his mind was full of something but he was too drunk to find words for it. For those moments they were locked together, her eyes staring back at him.
He swayed, then pushed her away with a roar of disgust. She felt the chair tilt back and had to scramble forward to save herself. Fear filled her to the back of her throat at what he might do now. But he turned away, his feet clumping heavily up the stairs to bed. She did not follow until she was sure he was asleep.
Sixty-Two
‘I’m going to go mad,’ Dolly moaned, lolloping from side to side on the bed, trying to get comfortable. ‘It’s sweltering. I can’t stand it!’
She knew the others weren’t asleep. The three girls lay staring into the hot, humid night. Their beds felt damp under them and there wasn’t a hint of movement in the air. The open window gave no relief. Dolly knew her sisters resented her, but she longed for some company and reassurance.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Rachel said unsympathetically. ‘Just go to sleep.’ She sat up and lifted her long hair up and off her neck, trying to cool herself.
‘Don’t you think I would if I could?’ Dolly complained, tears rising in her. ‘You don’t know what it’s like . . .’
‘No, and I don’t want to either,’ Rachel retorted.
Dolly began to cry then. She had kept her feelings in for so long but now they spilled out. She felt so mixed up about everything, full of powerful, conflicting emotions. The bigger the baby had grown, the worse it had become. She could feel it in her now, twitching and squirming. Alive; real.
Susanna turned on to her side and Dolly could feel her quietly looking at her in the gloom.
‘It’ll soon be over,’ she said, more gently than Rachel. ‘Two or three weeks and . . .’
‘We can forget all about it and stop walking about padded up like a lot of clowns,’ Rachel said grumpily. ‘And I can stop flaming well pretending to be you, Dolly!’
Mom had sent Rachel out on all sorts of errands that week. ‘You want to put yourself about – make people think all three of you are going about your business as usual . . .’
‘Mom says you’ve got to do it bit by bit,’ Dolly said. ‘You can’t just take it all off. People’ll notice.’
‘Oh, sod that,’ Rachel retorted. ‘Once the babby’s out of the way, what does it matter what anyone thinks?’
‘Oh, it’ll matter to Mom,’ Susanna predicted gloomily.
Rachel’s words made Dolly break out in sobs. ‘Don’t talk like that!’ she said, her voice suddenly small and vulnerable. ‘It’s moving – I can feel it, all the time now. I think it’s a boy.’
There was a moment of shocked silence from her sisters. For months, all of them had barred their minds from thinking of the baby as a real child, a person and part of the family.
‘Oh, Dolly,’ Susanna said, and Dolly could hear that she was emotional. ‘A little boy? Why d’you think that?’
‘I dunno. It just feels like it.’ Dolly felt very old compared with her sisters these days, even though she was the baby.
Rachel had sat up again and now she spoke more kindly. ‘What’s it feel like, Dolly? All of it, I mean? Now it’s big.’
‘It feels heavy, and tight at the front,’ Dolly said through her tears. ‘Like a drum sometimes. And it keeps going all tight. It hurts . . . It’s like being taken over by . . . I mean, it’s someone in there. It’s hard to believe, but it is. And it’s got to come out. How’m I going to manage? I’m so scared. Mom says I’ve got to go next week – to this Nancy person. I don’t know her, and then I’ve got to leave him with her, and I don’t know . . .’ She really broke down now. ‘I don’t know if I want to any more! I don’t know what to do!’
As Dolly lay sobbing, she felt her sisters move over to her, their weight beside her on the mattress.
‘Come on – sit up,’ Rachel said, and even she sounded choked up. They had been through so much of all this together – but it was only Dolly who could do the real part, the last, terrifying act of birthing the child.
Dolly sat up, feeling the baby lurch inside her. Her sisters’ arms came round her and they sat huddled together, speaking in whispers, smelling each other, sweat and Lifebuoy and a hint of Susanna’s perfume.
‘Mom’ll be there,’ Susanna told her. ‘And they’ll help you. They’ve all had babbies – they’ll know what to do.’
‘Mom’ll give you your marching orders,’ Rachel said. ‘And us. Hey –’ She nudged Dolly. ‘You’ll be all right. You’re a strong ’un, you.’
Dolly let herself cry as they held her, her body trembling. ‘I’m so scared,’ she sobbed. ‘And . . . Oh, this is making my belly clench up – feel!’ She took her sisters’ hands and laid them on her swollen front.
‘Crikey,’ Rachel said, in awed tones.
‘Like a drum,’ Susanna said. ‘Oh – I felt it! I felt him kicking!’ They had never done this before, allowed themselves to know.
‘Sometimes I feel as if he’s ruined my life,’ Dolly said. ‘And then other times I feel him moving and I think, he’s a little baby, a person who’ll grow up and get big, and . . . He’s mine.’ She wept again. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to feel. Sometimes it feels as if my head’s going to fall off, my mind’s spinning so much. What if I have him and I don’t want to be parted from him?’
‘What – you mean keep him? Bring him back here?’ Rachel said, stunned. ‘God, Dolly – Mom’d never let you do that. Not after all this . . . What’d people say? You know what she’s like.’
‘And you’re so young,’ Susanna pointed out gently. ‘And no father. It’s no good, is it?’
Dolly lowered her head. She cuddled closer to Susanna, warmed by her sisters’ closeness. ‘No,’ she said, in a small voice. ‘I s’pose it isn’t.’ Then she burst out again. ‘But he’s my little babby!’
&nbs
p; By then, all three of them had tears running down their faces.
Rose woke very early the next morning, filled with terror. When Harry had confronted her with Arthur’s poem last night, he had been half knocked out with drink and barely able to keep awake. But what would he say now?
She lay looking at him. The light was already bright outside and though it was early, she could feel the heat building up. Harry lay on his side facing her, his features relaxed in sleep, his chest a cave of coarse black hair. She tried to summon up tenderness for him, even the smallest amount, to make herself feel guilty and sorry. But her neck was still sore after last night; and after his silent contempt, the painful, aggressive way he had forced himself on her in bed over these weeks, his thuggish way of dominating her, she felt nothing now except contempt in return. She had to leave him, had to be with Arthur, whatever it cost.
She knew there was only so long she could deceive him now. How had she let that poem get into his hands? How could she have dropped it? Round and round spun her mind. Had she got away with it?
She slipped out of bed, full of tension about what would happen when he woke. She must try to make everything seem normal, not make him suspect anything else.
She went about her morning tasks, boiling water, making breakfast, with a grim deliberation, waiting. As soon as either Harry or Lily came downstairs, her act would begin that everything was normal. In ten days, I’ll be away from you, she said to him in her head. It was thrilling, terrifying. But what if he knew more than he was saying? What if he came down and confronted her? But how could he possibly know? He had been fishing all afternoon, miles away . . . This was the whirl of her thoughts.
When she did hear him coming down, her heart thudded madly, all her body on alert. She turned her back and studied the task of making tea and he came in and sat with a loud sigh at the table. When she turned, with the tea, he was rasping his hands down his stubbly face.
‘Needs to stand a minute,’ she said, putting the pot down.
