by Annie Murray
Harry nodded. He seemed subdued: the effects of the drink.
Rose cut bread and put it in front of him, then poured the tea, eyeing him for any reaction as if he were a dangerous bull. But he said nothing. He seemed low in himself and sunk in his own thoughts.
Life in the Mansions had become more interesting with the arrival of Mr Gates, so much so that Aggie and Babs chose to play in their yard now more than in Babs’s. One thing about Mr Gates was that he either did not notice, or chose not to notice, when people were disagreeable.
‘Even Mrs Peters is quite nice when he’s about,’ Aggie told Babs. ‘Most of the time she has that face on her, you know. But I saw her smile at him this morning.’
Babs looked impressed. ‘Well, there’s not many can make that happen.’
‘And everyone’s always trying to get him to speak so they can try and make out what he’s saying.’ Aggie did some impressions of Wally Gates’s broad Geordie. ‘I think I know what he’s saying now, mostly.’
‘I think he’s nice,’ Babs said.
The weather had brought everyone outside. That evening, it was so hot in the house by the time Jen had cooked tea that they ate as fast as they could and went out again. She hurried off to work, saying she didn’t know if she’d be able to stand it in Mr Price’s in this heat.
‘God, it’s close,’ Freda said, perched on a chair by the door. Most of the other neighbours were out too, waiting for the evening to cool, for any breath of fresh air.
The smell from the lavatories and the dustbins was very strong and spoiled the atmosphere. The whole city was baking, the dirt cooked to dust, the air gritty with it and flies seething round everything. They all longed for rain to ease the suffocating atmosphere.
‘Your arm all right now, is it?’ one of the neighbours asked Freda.
‘Ooh, not so bad,’ Freda Adams said, though she winced as she moved her fingers.
‘Given you a rest though, hasn’t it?’ one of the neighbours, a Mrs Roberts said with an air of reproach. Everyone knew that Freda was going back to work, and it seemed wrong at her age. But, as she would have retorted, what else was she supposed to do – sit on her backside and watch her family go under?
The burly figure of Mr Gates appeared from the entry and everyone looked his way.
‘Quite a gent, that one, I gather,’ Mrs Roberts said, leaning close to Freda.
‘Seems decent enough,’ Freda replied. ‘When you can make out a single flaming word he says.’
Mrs Roberts chuckled.
Mr Gates stood looking at the kids dotted round the yard and spoke to Aggie, Babs and the few other older ones.
‘Any of ye fancy a game of cards?’ He held up a pack in his large hand.
Aggie and Babs looked at each other. ‘All right!’ Babs called out.
Mr Gates brought out a rickety folding table of Eliza Jenks’s and they all gathered round. He sat on a chair, legs apart to grip the table with his knees.
‘D’you know hoo te play whist, or shall Ah larn yee?’
His thick, work-worn fingers dealt the cards skilfully and then he looked up at them. Turning to Aggie, his big eyes looked into hers and she felt a thrill of something: the feeling of being paid attention to. And she liked the smell of his beery breath – it reminded her of Dad.
‘D’you want to stort, pet? I’ll explain as we go.’
Sixty-Three
‘You’re nothing but a whore, are you?’
Rose thought at first that his voice was the continuation of her dream, the next morning. But as her waking brain made sense of the words she lay rigid with fear. The voice was light, almost teasing, but laced with a terrifying venom.
‘No one’d think it looking at you, lying there. Pretty little bitch, spreading your legs. You’re a filthy little whore. You’re no one’s wife, you’re just a tart . . .’
Harry’s charming monologue went on and on. Rose kept her eyes shut but could feel her eyelids trembling. Surely it must be obvious to him that she could hear him?
He blew softly on her ear. To her it felt like a dagger plunging into her. His hot chest was pressed up against her back as he leaned over her. He seemed massive, as if she was propped against a hillside.
‘I should’ve married an ugly woman, not a pretty little whore like you, Rosie,’ he said. ‘A whore and a cock teaser . . .’
The filthy words kept pouring out of his mouth. Soon Lily would wake, Rose thought. Would she come into the room to hear this horrible gush of language washing all over her mother? She could tell that the longer he went on the more he was working himself up and she couldn’t lie here with her eyes closed for ever.
As if she had only just woken she stirred and tried to roll on to her back, but of course he was blocking the bed. Rose opened her eyes, pretending puzzlement, and she jumped, which she didn’t have to pretend to do, even though she knew he was there.
‘Oh, Harry!’ She drew back a little. ‘What on earth’re you doing?’
She went to sit up but he pressed her down.
‘Don’t make out you’re so surprised to see me,’ he snarled. ‘I know you heard what I said. Now you listen to me . . .’ He pressed down on her so that she could not move. It was hard to breathe. ‘You think I’m a fool, don’t you?’
‘No!’ But this seemed to aggravate him further.
‘Don’t pretend with me, you lying tart! All your flannel about, “Oh, Harry dear, it was my mother’s.” A love poem from your mother? That you was wearing in your clothes? You must think I was born yesterday.’
Rose lay very still.
‘Now you listen to me. I know you’re a whore and an unfaithful bitch. I know there’s another bloke. And I intend to make sure that ’e never comes near my wife again – whatever it takes . . .’
‘No!’ she cried, horrified. She couldn’t hide or deny any longer. Struggling, she tried to get up, but Harry slapped his hand across her face. He punched her hard in the ribs. Pain ripped across her side and the air left her lungs with a moan.
‘So – the truth at last out of your lying mouth! D’you know –’ He crouched over her and once again fastened his hands round her neck. Rose gasped, feeling her eyes bulging as he tightened his grip for a moment. ‘I could kill you, easy. Just like that.’ He squeezed again. ‘If I wanted.’
He got up, abruptly, as if disgusted all of a sudden.
‘You’re not my wife any more,’ he said. ‘You ain’t been the woman I married in a long while. You’re just a slag.’
And he left the room. She lay panting, holding back the sobs as his feet pounded down the stairs. All she could think was that she had to get away from him, go to Arthur, had to – now!
Jen could not bear her bed any more, the shifting back and forth trying to get comfortable. She never slept well in the last months when she was carrying a child, and the heat made this worse than ever she could remember.
‘It’s like treacle,’ she muttered, getting slowly up out of bed. It made it impossible to do anything fast. She decided she’d get up and have a wash to cool down before everyone else was on the move.
The yard was still in shade and it was a little more bearable outside, though the air already had the intense, charged feel of the beginning of another scorching hot day. The Peters boy was out there, ambling about in a purposeless way. He seemed a bit simple, Jen thought. She stood in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the frame, breathing in the morning air, metallic and smoky even at this time. She thought sadly for a moment of Mary Crewe.
Footsteps came down the stairs and she cursed, having hoped for a time of peace. It was Aggie.
‘You’re up early,’ Jen said. It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet.
All Aggie had on was her long vest, which came down nearly to her knees. ‘It’s too hot,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘’Ere – as you’re up – go and fetch us a pail of water. I want a wash.’
Aggie went out barefoot, tiptoeing across the blu
e bricks, the mud of wet days long dried to a crust. She stood watching the bright thread of water pour into the bucket, letting it fill until it was teetering at the top ready to spill. As she picked it up water sloshed out all over her feet, deliciously cool.
‘Heor,’ a voice said, that could only belong to one person, ‘let me tyek tha’ – it’s too heavy for a little ’un.’
She stood back to let Mr Gates pick up the bucket and transport it easily, splashing across the yard. She saw Mom watching, looking a bit embarrassed that this big man had involved himself.
‘Oh, she can manage,’ Jen told him. ‘But ta very much, any road, it’s nice of you.’
Mr Gates inclined his head.
‘Oh, it’s ne trouble.’
Jen nodded amiably. She felt very aware of how big she was out at the front, of her swollen neck and ankles. She felt very heavy and ungainly.
‘Well, ta,’ was all she could think to say again.
Mr Gates smiled, his pink face crinkling, and was about to move away, but he added humbly, ‘Ah must gan an get mesel some work. Can yee tell me some likely places? A’ve worked in big firms in the northeast, and Ah’d turn me hand to owt, like.’
Jen looked at him, trying to guess his age. In his fifties, she thought, and strong. Work was hard to find for anyone, but there was something about him that inspired confidence.
‘Oh, there’s plenty of firms round here,’ she told him. ‘All you need to do is go about and look. You may not be lucky at first – it won’t be easy, but keep trying. Tell you what, though, when my mother comes down we’ll have a think of where might suit you best.’
Mr Gates backed away, thanking her and touching a non-existent cap. Jen found she was smiling as she poured water into a bowl and began on her wash. Smiling felt unfamiliar, stretching her cheeks in a pleasing way that she had almost forgotten.
By the time Rose had dressed and got herself downstairs, taking tiny, shallow breaths because she was in such pain, the fight seemed to have gone out of Harry. He was in the backyard. Rose hurried to the front parlour and fetched something from a drawer. It was still early. There’d be enough time if she hurried. It was too late to worry about hiding. She had to do the one and only thing she could do now. For a second she hesitated. Should she take Lily? Was it safe to leave her with Harry? But he’d never shown any sign of hurting Lily before. He took little notice of her. If she was quick, he would barely notice she had been gone . . .
Painfully, she crept out of the front door and hurried to the Mansions. Turning in to the entry she met a burly, middle-aged man coming out who stood back with a kind air to let her pass.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed.
‘All reet, lass,’ he said. Rose was too caught up in her own troubles to notice much more. She turned in to the yard and hurried to number three.
It was Aggie who answered her tap on the door. She saw the shock on the little girl’s face at the sight of her.
‘Mom can’t come out – she’s having a wash,’ Aggie said.
‘No – it’s you I need, dear,’ Rose said. Even speaking hurt. ‘I need you to run an errand for me – now, quickly, before it’s too late!’
Her desperation communicated itself. Rose did not realize quite how bad she looked. The bruising had not yet come out on her face but there were cuts and her left eyebrow was already swelling.
Aggie looked uncertain.
‘Look –’ Rose held out a half-crown. ‘This is for you – here, take it. But go now, please. Go to Mr King in Oldfield Road. Don’t go away until they open the door. Say you’ve come from me – tell Mr King he mustn’t go out. D’you understand, Aggie? He mustn’t go to work, or anywhere. Tell him it’s an emergency – he must wait at home for me.’
‘Who’re you talking to, Aggie?’ Jen Green’s voice came from the back.
Aggie looked round, then back, in confusion.
‘Tell her,’ Rose urged. ‘Tell her you’ve got a quick errand to run.’
‘Mrs Southgate’s give me half a crown to run an errand for her,’ she said, hoping the money would smooth things.
‘Blimey,’ Jen’s voice came through. ‘She must’ve won the pools.’
‘Go on,’ Rose said frantically. She looked so deranged that Aggie felt scared. ‘Now, Aggie – and run, please!’
Harry left for work, without a word to her, with a slam of the back door. The second he had gone, Rose began to make her final preparations to leave. Bit by bit, she had already taken a large number of her possessions to Arthur’s. She did not have the suitcase she had stored in his room, planning to bring it home and pack it at the right time. Instead, she made three bundles of her and Lily’s remaining possessions.
‘We’re going on a little journey,’ she told Lily urgently, upstairs. Her nerves were at screaming pitch, yet at the same time it was as if she had slipped into a dream. Nothing seemed quite real. Was she really doing this, gathering her underclothes and Lily’s toys? All she could think of was getting away. Harry knew about Arthur, and she didn’t know what he might do, he was in such a dark rage. That look on his face when he had his hands around her throat . . . She had to get to Arthur, safe in Oldfield Road. Harry didn’t know where Arthur lived, of that she was certain. How could he possibly? If she could just get away this morning, everything would be all right. And soon they’d be on their way, out of his reach for ever.
Rose put the bundles down in the front and looked around. She had all she needed, her few possessions, her savings. They were going. It was too late to wonder what anyone else made of it. In any case, she was not carrying a suitcase.
She made Lily put her coat on to save carrying it and did the same herself. Lily already looked hot and fed up.
‘Come on then, dear,’ she said, handing her a bundle. ‘You can carry this little one with your dolly in and I’ll take the others.’
‘Where’re we going?’ Lily said grumpily.
‘Just for a little walk,’ Rose insisted, her nerves frayed to pieces. ‘Come on, Lily!’
With a last glance round, she let the two of them out, scarcely noticing the pain she was in now from the injuries he had inflicted on her. Trying to walk normally was the hardest part. All the time Rose’s back was prickling with the expectation that Harry was hiding somewhere, that he had not gone to work at all, and was behind them. If they got to the corner and looked back and he was there, she would go somewhere else, anywhere, catch a bus into town, make sure they lost him.
After what seemed an eternity, they reached the corner and she looked back. There was no sign of him.
‘Oh, God,’ she breathed, hand on her chest. She pulled her daughter round the corner. ‘Oh, thank God – come on, Lily, walk quickly now!’
Sixty-Four
Phyllis wandered round the Rag Market. The bag she carried over her arm was already weighed down with groceries – mutton and vegetables. She looked round from under the wide brim of her navy straw boater with its cluster of white flowers pinned at one side. She knew she looked splendid in it. That was what James used to say: ‘You’re a splendid woman, Phyllis.’
All the time she was aware that she was on guard in case any familiar faces suddenly surfaced in the crowd. Still, always, she was on the lookout for Ethel. Ethel had kept away from her – her threats had been genuine and she realized that Ethel had understood that. But she might be out there somewhere and might appear suddenly, like an evil spirit, threatening everything that Phyllis held dear.
And it wasn’t just Ethel. Today she had no wish to meet anyone she knew, no faces from Lilac Street. She’d had bits and pieces left over from the layettes she’d put together when her own babies were born. Sentimentally, she’d held on to them. But there were still a few things needed for Dolly’s baby. Nancy could not be expected to provide for the brat. But the last thing Phyllis wanted was for anyone to see what she was buying. She picked up a white, soft blanket on one stall and stowed it away. Some napkins on another.
Looking r
ound again, she sauntered away, towards the tram stop, trying to look like the last woman in the world who would be carrying baby clothes in her bag.
As she turned in to Lilac Street, its features, so often obscured in fog and rain, were lit up by the intense sunlight, its blemishes full on display. The slates on the roofs were uneven as a mouthful of bad teeth, grimed with soot and rashes of lichen. Every pore of the brickwork had absorbed the filth. Most of the houses had scrubbed steps and swept pavements in front, even if that meant refuse being swept briskly into the gutter. The fight with dirt was constant, but today the street reminded Phyllis of an unwashed maiden caught blushing in her underclothes in this bright, exposing light.
The sight dragged her down. At least the inside of her home was its own little world, full of her things, the fruit of her hopes. She had longed for so much more and had James lived, she would have had it. They would have moved to a better neighbourhood, kippers and curtains, the lot. Things would have been very different. But, she told herself, considering where she’d started out, she was lucky to have all that she’d got and she revelled in it.
She called a smiling greeting to Irene Best: ‘Very warm again, isn’t it?’ Poor cow, she thought, as she always did. If there was one thing worse than a dead husband it was one that might just as well be.
It was a relief to push the front door open and go into the shade. Phyllis was perspiring heavily and longing for a drink and a sit-down. She closed the door behind her. The house felt blessedly cool in comparison with the street.
‘Mom?’ Dolly appeared from the back of the house. She was wearing her white shift and her hair hung loose. For a moment Dolly looked to Phyllis as she had when she was eight or nine and the huge belly on her seemed a cruel mockery.
‘Get me a drink of water, Dolly,’ Phyllis said. ‘I need a sit-down.’
They went through to the back and Dolly poured the water and gave it to her. Phyllis drank gratefully, kicked off her shoes and tipped her head back against the wall, closing her eyes.
