‘One of your women is expecting, I see. Did yer know?’ Her eyes were dancing.
‘No,’ I answered truthfully, not wishing to discuss my lodger’s intimate details with outsiders.
‘Mark my words, she’ll have one before you can say Jack Robinson,’ she warned. ‘I had a good look at her today: surely you noticed that smock – it’s obvious. She is married, I suppose?’ she demanded, after a long pause.
‘Yes, but lots of women do their housework in smocks,’ I reasoned.
‘Yep, lots of birds do ’ousework in them smocks – our Ma does an’ she ain’t h’expecting.’ Nelson was hanging out of the bathroom window engrossed by our discussion. Normally Mrs Briggs would have reprimanded Nelson, but not this time. ‘Twenty-fourth of the fifth,’ Nelson offered dates, disappearing in an uproar in what seemed to be a dispute with Jane over the bathroom.
‘Ho, ho, you’ll be in for it now,’ Mrs Briggs remarked delightedly, ignoring the small tidy male figure with the middle parting, who had appeared at her kitchen door. ‘Nappies and babies crying, that’s what you’ll have. You should never have had her – she’s too old for babies anyway. She ought to be ashamed of herself: women ought to keep their skirts down, I say.’ And Mrs Briggs, who had given birth to four children, put a masterful arm out and propelled her man indoors.
We were done for. Edward was right, and Mrs Briggs was the oracle.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mother and I were taking tea in the bay window: she was in the usual position, hidden by the curtains, that she adopted now when sitting in such a prominent place, to hide her from what she called the hounding curiosity of neighbours. The chink of knitting needles accompanied our conversation as a shapeless object rolled out from Mother’s busy hands and lay across her knees – small coloured squares, intensely involved, which lengthened visibly as we talked.
Across the road, sheltered from the sun by the boughs of the horse chestnut which spread like an umbrella above them, Mrs Briggs, her cheeks glowing with natural colour, in apron and washed-out striped dress, discussed animatedly an unidentified subject with Miss Brady. Looking as though she were about to take a facial, her head carefully wrapped in mauve chiffon tied in a large bow, which, standing up like rabbits’ears, bobbed merrily, Miss Brady answered Mrs Briggs word for word. In the alley between our two houses, the usual haunt of Mrs Briggs when she wished to attract my attention, rose persistent accumulation of sound, the hollow thudding of a hammer splitting wood: a disturbance which, so far, although I had found it irritating, I had been too lazy to investigate as I related to Mother the latest gossip – missing out Edward’s savoury piece about the brothel – of how Mrs Budden had exploded in our midst a bouncing boy weighing nine-and-a-half pounds, thereby consolidating Mrs Briggs’ position amongst us as a soothsayer, gleefully remarking ‘the truth will come out’, which had sent Mother into a fit of righteous indignation against scandal-mongering neighbours.
Edward called for attention and we responded. His room was in perfect order: before the window a table carried brushes and paints stacked tidily and a pile of books lying together neatly in a pyramid. The door to the garden was wide open and reminded me that something must be done about that wilderness. The kitchen was a combination of warm smells and neatness. Inspection of the strange-looking fluid with greenery on the top gave us no immediate solution to the problem, however: it looked like something brother Gerald preserved dead animals in, and I made a hasty resolution that if Edward offered me any of this brew my answer would be an emphatic ‘no’. Mother, tantalized by the inexplicable subject, stirred the contents of the solid stone jar, poring over it with deep concentration.
‘This stuff looks rather like chickweed to me – I should be very careful,’ she warned, reflecting on the growth of thriving coverage, and they both dived into the wine-making manual for the third time.
But Mother was defeated. ‘It’s no good, Edward,’ she announced at length. ‘You must have got your recipes mixed somehow. You will just have to leave it to the full maturing time, and then give it another examination. Patience,’ and she straightened, sniffing a clove of garlic appreciatively while her gentle, very blue eyes examined Edward’s latest painting, a galaxy of yellows. ‘Now isn’t that pretty, Edward dear.’ Mother walked towards it, passing over, with a slightly embarrassed start, a large painting hanging over the double divan which held a vision of Olwen (painted before our time) stark naked, resting on a bed of cushions. She clutched hurriedly at a small canvas of wild flowers, examining it with great intent. ‘Such beautiful flowers, you can almost smell them.’ She placed it back, and stepped towards the next canvas, her back firmly towards the pink body on the wall.
‘Look at this,’ I exclaimed quickly, thinking that Edward’s room was fast becoming a hazard, and I led her speedily past my blond has-been and his fatty waist-line, which Edward had returned to his easel for further titillation after Nelson’s and my criticism. I pointed out a still life: a wicker basket caressed a gin bottle and two green glasses winked patiently beside a bottle opener, a cohesion of subtle greens.
‘Charming!’ Mother acclaimed the picture wholly. ‘You really are clever, Edward. I am sure you will be famous one day.’
Mother’s uncensored genuine applause would hearten any struggling artist and make him feel that life was yet worthwhile. I liked it too, and said so, but I was interrupted by the bouncing shape of Nelson carrying a large placard, a hammer and a tin of nails, and followed by his usual crowd of admirers. He was very happy, for the children had started a holiday.
Nelson was ever on the alert, nosing his way ferret-like to enjoy any situation at someone else’s expense, so naturally he stopped by the open door to gaze at us.
‘Wotcha, Grandma!’ he yelled airily to my mother, making this sound endearing, giving the room a nosy searching look, and taking in the whole picture at a glance.
Edward slammed the door. ‘Evil little boy,’ he said, but not unkindly, then changed the subject for he knew that Mother would never agree to any infamous suggestions concerning her favourite fat boy.
After prolonged minutes of varied and earnest discussion, we left the cosy room to return to our own more spacious quarters. In the hall Jane was lurking; she hugged a first aid kit, and a slight smell of ether hung about her. She was a nurse now, no longer the femme fatale. I could not make up my mind which was the most comical: who, I wondered, was getting first aid. It couldn’t be Gordon, who was still away, or Mrs Budden who had been carried off groaning and weeping to the hospital; the nursing glamour girls were completely silent (for a change) and were obviously reviving themselves in sleep for their arduous night duties – it was unusual. In any case it was doubtful if plain Jane would administer her aid to her secret rivals, however needy. Could it be Barry, returning home early from job-hunting with a blister? Maybe Roger was suffering, or Andy needed help? I stopped, dismayed at the very thought of my absence at such a moment.
‘Everything all right?’ I asked, faking disinterest but demanding an answer.
‘Roger’s cut himself. His cut-throat slipped,’ was the calm reply.
‘Good God, not suicide? I knew he would injure himself with that thing.’ Edward poked his head out of his door for a final remark.
‘Oh, poor boy,’ Mother bustled anxiously. ‘Those cut-throat razors ought to be banned, dreadful things.’
‘It’s all right now. I soon cleaned up the gory mess.’
‘Good.’ I was relieved that it wasn’t Andy.
‘Is Edward well?’ Jane enquired tenderly, forgetting Roger’s lacerations in the more important light of the welfare of her favourite neighbour: the hastily slamming door had already told her that he was in.
‘Yes, quite,’ I answered lightly, fearing for Edward’s morals, feeling that with such persistence she would get him in the end.
Roger’s Maltese girlfriend swept in and passed us up the stairs. I noticed a bristle of dark hair showing beneath her armpits; perspira
tion touched her top lip. We heard the heavy steps across the landing, a sharp knock, the opening and closing of a door, and then there was silence.
‘I wouldn’t like to trust her with a septic wound,’ Jane remarked scathingly.
Taking a firm hold of Mother (for Mother too had trained as a nurse) I manoeuvred her away from the conversation and determinedly marched her towards our own part of the house.
A large notice displayed brilliantly on our gate told my neighbours that we were about to open a pet shop.
‘Really Mother, that Nelson goes too far,’ I complained heatedly, having made a quick trip to the gate to investigate. Digesting Nelson’s illiterate hand I returned to impart the news.
‘I don’t suppose the dear children are doing any harm,’ Mother consoled, ‘but I shouldn’t be surprised if you have a few complaints at the noise,’ as the never-ending sound of violent hammering had now brought Mrs Briggs back to her side of the road to investigate.
‘Now, now, what’s going on?’ she called.
From the corner of my eye I saw the white of Mr Beetle’s panama and a beige object settled on our lawn. ‘The enemy,’ I warned, and Mother and I ducked as Mr Beetle strolled by at a dithering pace. I caught a quick glimpse of his shining countenance scanning the windows hopefully. ‘We’re flanked by the enemy on two sides,’ I said in a stifled voice. ‘And I wish he’d control that damn dog of his,’ I muttered, in sympathy with my withering front lawn.
‘Mind my knitting, you are trampling all over it,’ Mother said in agitation.
‘Look out, he’ll see you!’ I warned, as Mother came dangerously out of hiding.
‘Silly old fool!’ came the expected comment. ‘He wants his brains testing, hanging about ogling women like some teenager. I am inclined to agree with Mrs Briggs’ views on him, I must say.’
I felt this rather unfair criticism of Mother’s suitor, and said so. ‘You seem to like him if he wants to discuss spooks,’ I remarked, popping up to view the situation and removing Mother’s knitting from under my foot.
‘That’s different,’ Mother said coldly, rising cautiously. Mr Beetle had disappeared with Miss Brady, and with Mrs Briggs’ protests subsiding into angry mutterings, with her back door shivering on its hinges, we knew she had disappeared too.
‘You don’t seem to get much trouble from Lady Booth,’ Mother reflected in a relieved tone. ‘That’s one less to worry about,’ and she settled herself back comfortably, picking up her knitting again and examining it carefully for signs of damage.
‘No …’ My answer was slow and uncertain, thinking of Edward’s rumour. Which was worse, subterranean gossip and watching eyes behind a lace curtain, or Mrs Briggs’ open attacks? For Lady Booth, finally discovering that I was possibly going to out-do even Mrs O’Grady, now languished in reserved volcanic grumbling, only occasionally breaking forth to bleat a protest as a deft kick from Nelson sent a football bounding against her wall, or the noise of Gordon’s engine revived every nerve in her body.
The hammering started again. I bounded up exasperated, in full sympathy with Mrs Briggs and made hasty tracks towards the noise.
‘What are you doing? The noise is driving us mad!’ I demanded aggressively, rounding the corner in the vicinity of the back door and reaching the source of the trouble. My voice trailed off as I found myself looking at the upturned face of Andy squatting beside a tea chest. The actual culprit of the din, hammer aloft, gave me an innocent smile of welcome.
‘It’s a truly paying proposition,’ Nelson explained away the noise grandly. ‘We need every blooming box we can get.’
‘Yes, Ma, mice are going to breed like flies!’ Gerry announced, as though he were the world’s expert on breeding.
‘We’re going to make some dough, aren’t we?’ Nicholas, hugging Johnny, turned a face of trust towards Nelson. ‘Nelson says the back lavatory is just the place.’
Andy gave me a grin and bent his head, concentrating on the hinge he was attaching to the piece of wood. ‘Eh, lass,’ he said shyly, ‘just giving the kids a hand. Didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘You are one of us,’ Nelson said proudly, giving Andy’s shoulder a hefty squeeze.
I noticed Andy’s strong neck; his brown hair needed cutting, curling down thickly against tanned skin. I felt a sudden urge to touch the bent head, darn the aging rollneck sweater and threadbare trousers. He looked very handsome, I thought with certain reserve, not wanting to admit that which was already common gossip in our female community and dragging my straying inclinations back to Nelson’s activities. Nelson gave me one of his special knowing looks, missing nothing and, sensing that with the presence of Andy I was immediately undermined, spoke to me man-to-man: ‘It’s like this,’ he explained confidently with a flourish of his plump hand. ‘We’re going to make some dough from this ’ere mice,’ and pulling out two white mice he let them scamper up his arm.
‘These mice,’ I corrected.
‘These ’ere mice,’ Nelson went on. He stood hands on hips, in the attitude of Mrs Briggs, legs splayed; a mouse-dealer and man of finance. His short pants splitting at the seams spoilt the picture.
I smiled unwillingly, alarmed at the prospect of fornicating mice in our back lavatory.
‘All our pocket money is going into the business; I reckon we’ll make a mint of dough,’ Nelson said, hoping to reassure me.
‘Eh, lad, you will.’ There was kind amusement in Andy’s deep voice.
‘But I thought you were going to housetrain Johnny for me – that’s a full-time job I would have thought,’ I reminded Nelson of his promise. ‘Oh, all right,’ I capitulated finally, unconvinced but not wanting to spoil the glow on three childish faces, and unwilling to belittle myself foolishly in Andy’s presence – for Nelson could make you look very foolish if he tried. I left it at that, turning to go.
‘I’ve some new records, luv. Bessie Smith blues. Would you care to hear them sometime?’ Andy glanced up briefly and smiled with his eyes.
‘Yes!’ I breathed, quickly turning to meet his look. I didn’t care what records they were, the invitation was enough to send my spirits soaring. I killed with difficulty the urge to prolong the happy moment with trivial gossip and forced myself to return to Mother, in a state of mixed emotions.
‘They’re breeding mice in the back lavatory, isn’t it awful?’ I moaned, with my mind still wandering helplessly back to that bent head.
‘The nursing home down the road seems to be doing good business, that’s the second ambulance I have seen today.’ Mother was oblivious to my state of mind. I repeated my statement more loudly.
‘Breeding mice!’ she gasped, as though at last comprehending, and behaving as though I had told her that an epidemic of smallpox raged through the avenue. ‘It’s a most unhygienic occupation, and they do smell dreadfully dear. It might start an epidemic.’ Mother put down her work, a faraway haunted look in her eyes. ‘I well remember the occasion when I very stupidly allowed your brother Gerald, as a little boy, to keep mice. I regretted it bitterly – had to put my foot down in the end. Perhaps you remember the incident?’
‘Yes!’ I said decidedly, ‘but I do try and forget the more sordid memories.’
The picture of Mother putting her foot down amused me: I had no doubt at all that Gerald had bred mice to the bitter end.
Our reminiscences were interrupted by a dejected Magda walking down the path in a blundering way. Her head was down and she was crying.
‘Oh dear, more trouble,’ Mother murmured sympathetically, her eyes on the distressed figure in the mauve dress.
‘Perhaps she has had a row with Roger,’ I reasoned, a little bewildered. I didn’t know Magda well, but she had always seemed wholly confident; a tempestuous, full-blooded girl, spoiling Roger willingly. ‘Perhaps Jane’s come between them,’ I added, not believing it for a moment.
‘What she sees in that scruffy-looking individual, I can’t imagine,’ said Mother grimly, but a braking taxi and subseque
nt uproar at the gate distracted our attention.
Into our midst, well before schedule, came my brother Gerald, and his arrival eclipsed all else for the next twenty-four hours. Mother’s face, unlike mine, cheered delightedly at the sight of her youngest son. I groaned aloud as the familiar boyish face, very like my own, grinned at the mob racing to the gate to greet him.
‘It’s our uncle!’ Gerry shouted joyfully at Nelson, who was frantic to be first, followed closely by Nicholas and Johnny.
He stepped from the car; tall, fair and debonair and typically English, holding a sack carefully in one hand as if carrying a rare gift, but I knew better than that. Greeting his nephews jovially, he shook hands with the enormous Nelson, eyes twinkling. There was an involved gesticulated discussion which seemed to involve both the house, the garage and the large wooden cage that was resting on the boot of the taxi: he appeared to regard the place as his own, for in a matter of a few minutes an unusual entourage made its way to the empty garage. I knew the meaning of the sack and the wooden box. I glanced slyly at Mother – a look of dismay had now crossed her face too, as no doubt she remembered other times when the presence of a sack or box had meant eventual trouble.
‘If he puts one foot over my threshold,’ I said in a voice of doom, ‘I’m done for.’
‘Too late, dear,’ said Mother in a queer voice, as many hands lifted the crate and it cleared the gate tipped at a crazy angle: the party, under the loud instruction of Nelson’s directions, crossed my boundaries. Followed by Mother, I went to face the inevitable. I wished I hadn’t been so hard on Aunt Patience. Her visit would have been nothing compared to this.
‘Just a few monkeys,’ Gerald called out airily, seeing Mother and me for the first time and throwing a saucy eye heavenwards towards an upstairs window, where two half-clad female bodies, disturbed from their slumbers, watched him. The small inquisitive face of plain Jane appeared like a ghost at the hall window.
‘I hope there is nothing dangerous in that sack, dear?’ Mother enquired, kissing her youngest tenderly.
Whatever Happened to Margo? Page 9
