by Annie Murray
‘I am doing something. It’s Joyce who’s sitting on her backside . . .’
‘Don’t you give me that lip or you’ll be washing your mouth out . . .’
Linda shrugged.
Usually she had Carol to help. Mrs Magee loved Carol. Linda slipped out the back and along the entry, where the air was cool and her skin stood up in goose-pimples, until she reached the bright street. She walked into Mrs Magee’s mothball-smelling house, bracing herself for the struggle.
The old lady was long and lean and sitting defiantly in her chair. She’d worked as a seamstress for years and her black clothes were old and wafer thin, but beautifully made.
‘I’m not going. You can’t make me.’
Her voice was high and scraped the air. She had her teeth in a teacup. They pinched her so badly that she hardly ever put them in.
‘Please, Mrs Magee. It’ll be all right.’ Linda knew her twelve-year-old reasoning was no match for Carol’s pretty charm. Carol could always persuade Mrs Magee.
‘No it won’t.’ She clamped her knees together. Her shimmering black skirt flowed over them.
‘But dinner’s ready.’
‘I don’t care. Blasted thug of a woman. Thinks she runs the street, that she does, pushing me around, coming after my sugar ration and acting as if it’s charity!’
Linda sympathized a great deal with Mrs Magee, but what could you do?
‘She’s just trying to be kind.’ This was what they were supposed to believe.
‘You can kill people with kindness,’ Mrs Magee said, beginning to surrender. You could tell by the way her voice went quiet. She looked up at Linda. The whites of her eyes were bile yellow. ‘I s’pose you’ll be in trouble if I don’t?’
Soon she was dressed in her black coat and hat to go across the road, cup of teeth in hand.
‘This is the last time I’m doing this.’ She said that every week.
Linda took Mrs Magee’s stick of an arm so that they could shuffle across the road. The elderly lady was soon seated mutinously at the table and never took her hat off.
The afternoon passed as it always did on Sundays, with the huge meal which they ate until they were all stuffed full.
‘Tummy Touching Table – that’s what you want,’ Bessie said, ladling out spuds.
Belly Busting Buttons, Linda thought.
When Harry had first come back, every week Bessie went on about how they had to fatten him up. She never said anything now. Even Bessie, who knew every trick there was to get around rationing, was no less defeated than the rest of them by the ravages the Japanese camps had wrought in him.
Harry ate his dinner in silence. It was Nana who held court, family her captive audience, full of her neighbours’ doings, memories of Grandad Jack, her husband, who died of the influenza at the end of the Great War.
‘Worshipped the ground I trod on, Jack did,’ she sighed, between mouthfuls of beef. ‘There’s not many have a husband like I did.’
Occasionally someone else got a word in. Mrs Magee champed away resentfully with her troublesome teeth and the children listened and poured as much gravy over their potatoes as they could.
Today, though, a lot of the talk was about Carol. Linda didn’t want to hear it. The others ate mainly in silence, Joyce and Colin looking sulky. Gladys nagged Charlie – ‘Don’t hold your knife like that, it’s rude’ – Charlie barely ever said a word and Harry answered in monosyllables if Nana said anything to him.
‘Got enough spuds there, Harry?’
‘Yes, ta.’
Afterwards, Linda took Mrs Magee back to her house – ‘At last – I’m not budging next week!’ – and when she got back, her dad was asleep as usual, his thin face sagging with exhaustion.
‘Look at the poor bugger,’ Uncle Clarence remarked.
He soon fell asleep too, the paper spread across his chest, so that the only sounds in the front room were their snores. The women went into the kitchen and talked over the first round of washing up and Violet made a pan of custard. Then Nana got her cards and boards and cribbage pegs out and they all played until it was time to put the kettle on and get the treacle pudding dished out.
‘This is a good ’un, Bess – one of your best,’ Uncle Clarence told her, and it was beautiful, thick and sweet and gooey with treacle, the custard not too thick or too thin.
‘Very nice,’ Gladys murmured. She came along with Charlie every Sunday, no question. This was what the Wileses did on Sundays and if you married one, then that was that. Bessie was the matriarch and no mistake.
Linda tried to sink into the familiar, over-fed drowsiness of Sunday afternoon with them all crowded in there together. She sat by the hearth, on the old peg rug. She knew the bright red bits in it were from a skirt she’d once had. Colin and Joyce were over in the corner, whispering. Linda wondering what they were saying. Colin never whispered to her, but she’d never found cousin Colin very interesting anyway. All he ever thought about was football. She missed the dogs, shut in at home. Nana wouldn’t have animals in the house. She said they were dirty.
She tried not to think about Carol but her thoughts kept going back to her. She was so poorly. What if she never got better? What if she died . . . ? No! Don’t think about it!
She jumped up. Nana and her mom were in the kitchen, she thought, but it was quiet, and when she went through the back she saw that the door was open and they’d gone out into the yard.
Before she’d got across the kitchen she could hear Mom crying. Linda stood in the kitchen, looking out through the door. They were out there by the mangle, Nana with her arms folded, Mom wiping her eyes.
‘That’s why she’s poorly!’ she was saying. ‘I can’t bear it – seeing her like that, knowing she’s lying there in that thing. What am I going to do? I’ve always tried not to show anything – not to treat her any different. It’s a punishment, I know it is. But it’s me should be punished, not her!’
Linda stood on her left leg, trying to balance, right leg bent up at the knee. She stood there, balanced, like a stork, listening to her mother crying outside.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The week before Carol fell ill with polio, Harry came home drunk, on a weeknight.
‘God almighty, hark at him!’ Violet jumped violently as he came crashing in through the front door. The dogs all leapt up, barking frantically.
‘Get away from me, stupid hounds! Violet – get ’em off me!’
The dogs were supposed to be outside at night, once the rabbits were safely stowed away.
‘Why’re they in the house? I’ve told you . . .’
‘They’re company – all right? Molly, Dolly – out!’
‘Company – drooling bloody mongrels!’
‘Well, they’re better company than you ever are!’
Harry didn’t mind the dogs when he was sober, was even quite fond of them. But now was a different matter because with the drink in, everything was hateful to him, himself especially.
Linda, Joyce and Carol scuttled into the hall to help Mom get Dolly, Molly and George out. George the beagle was leaping up, tongue lolling, at their dad, who was propped unsteadily against the dirty, scratched wall. His sunken eyes were glassy and he was still barely more than a skeleton draped in clothes. In the shadows his scar from the bike accident looked more pronounced than ever.
‘What kind of house do I have to come home to, eh? Like a sodding zoo. Look at it!’
He pushed himself off the wall. The girls each seized hold of a dog – Carol had Molly as she was the easiest – and were dragging them by their collars towards the back door. Linda had George, who struggled mightily, his brown and white body like a ball of muscle.
They all ended up in the back room, dogs scratching at the kitchen door. There was something about Dad tonight. Linda felt her innards go all tight. It was never knowing what was going to happen, that was the worst thing.
‘You aren’t going to last in that job if you keep on.’ Mom’s voice was l
ow and weary. ‘The dairy’ve already warned you – they’re only keeping you on . . .’ She bit off the end of the sentence.
‘That’s it – go on!’ He was holding on to the back of a chair, swaying. His voice grated out. ‘They’re only keeping me on ’cause what? ’Cause I’m a wreck, that’s it, isn’t it? “Poor old Harry, look at the state of him? Can’t even shit regular like other blokes any more . . .”’
The three girls stood there, Linda pressing her shoulder against Joyce’s arm, and she could feel that Carol had grabbed hold of the back of her dress and was clinging on. The fear in their eyes enraged him further.
‘Go on – have a good look at the wreck!’ He was trembling suddenly, as if he was freezing cold. ‘Keeping me on out of pity! I’d like to’ve seen them . . . They didn’t have to see what I . . . They’ve no idea – none of ’em . . .’ He stuttered the words out, his face working, arms twisting at his sides as if fighting something.
‘Oh, Harry – ’ The sadness in Violet’s voice brought him to tears and he stood there gulping in front of them, hands with their bony wrists pressed to his face.
‘I couldn’t bear it . . . there . . . in Burma . . .’ he gulped. ‘And now I can’t bear it here neither . . .’
Linda felt herself twist inside and none of them knew what to do.
Mom looked as if she was going to cry as well. She went to put her arms around him, and worst of all were the little crooning noises she made as if he were a baby, the way they had heard her doing at night when he woke screaming. Suddenly, though, he pulled his hands down and his face was contorted with rage.
‘You don’t know!’ he screamed. ‘You don’t know, none of you – don’t touch me, woman!’
He turned on Violet. ‘Wait for me, I said. And you couldn’t even . . .’
The girls all jumped as he strode over to them suddenly and grabbed Carol by her wavy blonde hair.
‘Found yourself a proper man, did you?’
‘Harry, don’t!’ Violet moaned. Her hands moved in protest, but she stood helpless.
‘Ow! Dad, don’t – it hurts, it hurts!’ Carol shrieked. He was twisting her round by her hair, her legs pedalling to keep up. Linda felt as if every hair on her own head was being ripped as well.
‘Dad – stop it!’ She went to try and get him off Carol. She’d do anything for Carol. ‘You’re hurting her! Bloody stop it, will you!’
Harry backed away, dragging Carol with him as she sobbed and screamed and tried to get away.
‘Get me the scissors, Linda, my daughter . . . She’s the only one I can be sure about, isn’t she, looking like that?’
Linda stood at a loss.
He bawled at her, ‘Scissors – now!’
‘Harry, no – leave her alone . . .’ Violet tried to tackle him again but he pushed her away.
‘Shut up – ’ He pulled Carol even closer to the door. ‘Linda – hurry up!’
Linda came back from the kitchen with the big, blunt scissors with black handles.
‘Right – now then . . .’ Harry was swaying slightly. He took the scissors in one hand and pulled Carol’s hair all up above her head.
‘For Christ’s sake, what’re you doing – not her hair! Leave her!’ Violet was screaming now, trying to get near, to stop it. Drunk as Harry was, he kept twisting round, dragging Carol with him, fending her off.
‘You know what they did with faithless fraternizing bitches, don’t you? The ones who went whoring with the Krauts? Well – my daughter – I could cut your mother’s hair off . . .’ He dragged Carol by her hair again and she cried out, sobbing, hysterical with pain and fear. Linda clenched her fists; her body was so tense she felt she might snap.
‘I’ve always fancied having a lad, though . . .’ He snipped off a chunk of her hair, having to work hard with the blunt blades. The gold locks fell to the floor.
‘Dad, don’t!’ Carol was crying. ‘Stop it – don’t cut my hair off . . .! Ow – you’re hurting me!’
He sawed and chopped at it, hunks of it falling and Carol crying even more at the sight of it. Once the heavy length of her hair was all gone he carried on and on. The room was full of the sound of women crying. Joyce and Linda clung to each other, helpless as Dad reduced Carol’s bright hair to uneven tufts all over her head. All Violet could do was hold Carol’s hand.
‘There you go – lad – ’ He pushed Carol away from him and she fell into Violet’s arms trembling and crying. Violet stroked her shorn head, sobbing heartbrokenly herself.
‘You bastard, Harry. You pathetic, cruel bastard! Oh, babby – my beautiful babby, I’m sorry. Your pretty hair . . . My lovely one, my little love . . .’
Joyce and Linda huddled together, shocked and crying.
Their dad stood looking at them, his own face wet with tears, but wearing an expression of terrible contempt.
‘It’s only a bit of bloody hair,’ he said, disgusted. ‘It’ll grow again, for Christ’s sake . . .’ He sank down into a chair. ‘Go on – sod off out of here, the lot of you, with your blarting, and leave me alone.’
Violet took the girls up to bed. In Linda and Carol’s room she sat on Carol’s bed, holding her on her lap, Carol’s scrawny little body still convulsing with sobs even after she had finished crying.
‘Why did he do it, Mom? What did he mean?’
‘Ssssh,’ Violet held her close, rocking her, weeping into the stubbly remains of her hair. ‘He’s just poorly, and he’s had too much to drink. You know your dad when he’s had too much – he doesn’t know what he’s doing.’
Linda watched from her bed, hugging her knees, face swollen with crying. Mom was clinging to Carol, distraught, quite different from normal. She’d always been distant from her, fending her off as if she was a nuisance, so that Carol had learned to turn to Linda for comfort and they’d grown close as close. But now, there was Mom sobbing over her as if she was the most precious thing in the world. It stirred Linda up. She didn’t know how to feel. She could never make Mom out. She hardly ever showed much emotion, and when she did, it was over things that didn’t matter, like in the war when that family across the road, the Keillors, had moved away, when she hardly knew them: Linda had barely ever seen Mom speak to Mrs Keillor at all, but there she was, crying as if her heart was about to be snapped in two. Nothing ever made sense, like the things Dad was saying downstairs about Germans.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mom was saying, over and over again. ‘It’s all my fault. Oh, Carol, I’m sorry.’
Linda couldn’t bear it. ‘Mom!’ Her voice cracked. ‘Mom, don’t!’
Her mother looked across at her, as if she had forgotten she was there, and her face changed. She wiped her face, as if stunned.
‘Come here,’ she said gently.
Linda crawled out of bed and sat beside her. Violet put her arm round her and she stretched one arm round Mom, the other round Carol. They sat quietly for a moment, then Joyce appeared in the doorway and came and sat down with them as well.
‘I’m sorry, girls,’ Mom said.
And she started crying again.
Carol came into bed with Linda that night. Linda put her arms round her.
‘I’ll look after you,’ she whispered as they drifted into drowsiness.
A week later Carol came in from playing out on the estate saying she had a bad headache and felt giddy. Before long she couldn’t get up at all.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Carol’s illness had a strange effect on the neighbours. Or at least the women. Everyone was kinder for a start, kept asking if they needed anything.
A few days after the rabbits got into their garden, Mrs Bottoms came round to see Mom. The front door opened on her anxious face. She had on a pale blue shirtwaister, her hair was tightly curled and she held out a bunch of pink roses from the garden. Joyce and Linda stood in the shadow of the hall.
‘Here, dearie, these’re for you. I hope you don’t think it funny of me coming round . . . Only I heard your Carol had been taken po
orly.’
There was a pause, then Mom stepped back. ‘Come in.’
Edna Bottoms talked agitatedly as she came through the door. ‘Reg said I shouldn’t bother you – should mind my own business. So I thought I’d come round while he’s at work. Men don’t always understand these things, do they?’
‘Joyce, Linda – outside. Go on.’
They scooted out to where the dogs were lying out on the strip of concrete at the back of the house, basking in the warmth. Tufts of grass spiked up through the cracks in the concrete.
Linda was wandering off to see Snowdrop when Joyce hissed, beckoning. ‘Come ’ere – see what she wants!’
The kitchen window was wide open. The girls squatted under it, backs against the hot wall. Violet was making tea. There was a clink of cups and they could hear snatches of her telling Mrs Bottoms about the hospital, the iron lung, and Mrs B’s concerned noises.
Joyce and Linda mimicked her, under the window. Oh dear, oh Lord . . . They mouthed like goldfish, crossing their eyes and pulling the grievous expressions they could picture on Mrs Bottoms’ face. How terrible . . . Poor little thing . . . Dear oh dear . . . until they were helpless with giggles and had to move down the garden to explode into laughter, tears running down their cheeks. Linda felt a bit better after it.
‘Come on – we’re missing it!’ Joyce dragged her back by the arm.
They squatted down again. The breeze blew the women’s drifting words back and forth in snatches, but they could catch the sad, confidential tones. Mrs Bottoms was talking about a baby. She and Mr Bottoms had one son, called Frank, who was married now, but it wasn’t Frank she was talking about.
‘She only lived six days. Not even a week.’ Mrs Bottoms was speaking in a tight, hiccoughy way. Her voice became a squeak. ‘My little Daisy. She was just lying there in the cot . . .’ There was a long silence until they heard their mom say something: ‘. . . ever so sorry . . . terrible . . .’
Linda’s eyes met Joyce’s. They were solemn now.
‘The worst of it is – it’s Reg!’ Words seemed to come out of Mrs Bottoms like a cork from a bottle. ‘If we could talk about her, it might lay her to rest. But he won’t let me. It’s as if she never existed. I don’t even know where they buried her – I was in that much of a state at the time. The police came. They thought . . . They took her away and I’ve never known . . . Reg said he didn’t know – never asked . . . And he’s not the same since the war. If I ever say anything he just says you have to forget everything. Put it behind you. But I can’t . . . I try, but . . .’
