by Annie Murray
‘You could at least sound pleased for me.’
‘I am pleased for you!’
‘Well, you don’t sound it.’
‘You want to be careful in them.’ Violet nodded towards the shoes. If you catch one of them heels in the hem you’ll have a nasty tear.’
‘Well, I won’t, will I?’ Joyce said pertly. ‘I’m not that stupid, am I?’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Linda retorted.
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Charming. Does Danny know what you’re like?’
Joyce’s pointy, narrowed-eyed face squinted back from the mirror, eyes filling with tears. ‘You’re horrible, you are! It’s my wedding day and you can’t even stop being a cow! You should be nice to me today!’
‘Yes – cut it out, Lin,’ Violet said, though half her mind was on the dogs in the garden. One of them was barking loudly and she eyed them through the window. Herself, she rather liked Danny with his stocky barrel of a body and naturally cheerful expression. Joyce had been climbing on to the back of his motorcycle in her skirts and high heels for over a year and now there were wedding bells. Joyce had struck lucky, she thought.
‘You going to put your make-up on now?’ Carol wanted to know. Violet and Linda had helped her upstairs and she was on the bed, watching intently. She’d been in her wheelchair since she came out of St Gerard’s and was going back to hospital in the autumn, for the operation on her back which they hoped would make her able to walk properly again.
‘Give me a chance!’ Joyce winced as she squeezed her feet into the shoes. If there was a fashionable but viciously uncomfortable style of shoe to be had, you could guarantee Joyce would get hold of it. She looked at her meagre collection of make-up. ‘D’you think blue or green’d be better?’
‘Blue,’ Linda said.
‘Green,’ Carol said.
Joyce tutted. ‘Goodness sakes. Mom – tell them to get out! They’re getting me all mithered, fussing around me all the time!’
‘Right – you two . . .’ Violet was about to usher them out of the room, but Joyce, about to lose her audience, changed her mind.
‘Oh, I s’pose they can stay,’ she granted long-sufferingly. ‘Only tell them to stop talking stupid.’
‘No – ’ Violet was firm. ‘Next door, you two – you need to get changed. Quick!’
She still had her old work frock and pinner over the top and needed to get on, but she lingered for a moment, watching Joyce put on her make-up. Violet’s tired features broke into a smile. There was Joyce, seventeen and with her job at Bird’s, and getting married! Joyce really thought she’d arrived. Violet saw herself on her own wedding day, at the same age and with similar hopes. Then she thought of the wrecked, disillusioned man downstairs whom she had to go and get ready.
Heaven help you, Joycie, she thought, the smile fading. But then she and Harry had had the war, their generation sharing all that grief and trouble. It had broken Harry. But it’d be different now – had to be.
‘I hope you’ll be happy, Joycie,’ she said gently.
Joyce turned, eyelids brushed with blue, and for a rare moment she was a soft young woman, and solemn.
‘I think we will. Danny’s a good ’un, Mom.’
‘I know. I can see.’ She put her arms round her daughter. Joyce felt to her more solid and substantial than she was herself. ‘You worried?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘Nah. Mind my veil . . . Is Dad . . .? Is he really going to come?’
Violet wasn’t sure if this was asked with hope or dread.
‘He says so. Won’t hear of staying behind. He wants to see his little girl get married. Look, I need to go and finish him, or Danny’s dad’ll be along before I’ve got him dressed.’
Let alone me, she thought, hurrying to him. Mother of the bride. It’s going to be a rush job.
Harry was still in bed. She’d taken him a cup of tea earlier, and he’d drunk half and left the rest to go cold on the bedside cabinet. He lay there with his eyes closed, one arm out from under the covers, so thin in its blue-and-white-striped pyjama sleeve. He looked so settled, so still, that she wondered, as she often did, whether he had slipped away. But then she heard his breathing. It was tempting just to leave him there. She felt exhausted at the thought of getting him up.
Like having my feet buried in concrete, she thought. That’s how it feels, living like this.
He had spent months in hospital after he broke down completely. He was better in himself now, gentler somehow, as well. But his body was never going to get any better. She knew that. And in accepting that, things had become quiet and gentler within her. Those days, after the war, when she had paced the floor day after day, weeping in anguish, were past. For a moment, in the shadowy room, she could see in his wasted features and grey hair a glimpse of the vital, energetic Harry she’d married, and the tenderness which so often saved her rose in her again. She remembered that Christmas when he and his pals had made those paper snakes to sell, paper and paint everywhere, the drive he had then to get on and get out of Birmingham.
‘You silly sod,’ she whispered.
Harry opened his eyes. He seemed alert, and she saw that he hadn’t been asleep at all.
‘What’re you gawping at?’
‘You, sunshine.’
‘Have I got to get up now?’
‘It’s about time, if you don’t want to be late. Sure you want to?’
‘If it’s the last thing I do. Give us a hand.’
She went to assist him, feeling his skeletal form straining to perform this simple movement. He groaned, already panting from the exertion, and she felt a moment of despair at the effort required to get him to the church.
‘Harry . . .’
‘No – don’t say it. I’m going to that church.’ He looked round at her. Even in the gloom she could see the sallowness of the whites of his eyes. ‘I’m a useless item, but I’m not missing our Joyce getting wed.’
‘All right, love, I know. Let’s get you sorted out then.’
These days she surprised herself, often, by the gentleness in her voice, by her own patience. Since those months in hospital, he’d never been able to work. Not much more we can do, the doctors said. His system had taken too much. But she hadn’t always been patient. Not all the way through, in those days of fear and strain. Now, though, she could see that he was moving slowly, so agonizingly slowly, towards the end of the line.
So she washed him and painstakingly shaved him, quite used to running the razor over the sharp contours of his face, and helped him dress in his old Sunday suit.
‘Look like a bleeding scarecrow, don’t I?’ he said, but with resignation.
‘You’re all right,’ she said, thinking, surely he doesn’t imagine he’s going to walk down the aisle with her? He’ll never make it.
Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, his breathing was so laboured you’d think he’d run a race. Violet led him to his chair by the window, and he sank into it with a groan. The ashtray on the arm was full of stubs from yesterday, and she went and tipped it in the kitchen bin.
‘I’ll get your porridge.’ He lived mainly on porridge now. That and fags. ‘Then I’ve got to go up and get ready.’
She cut herself a piece of bread, daubed some Stork on it and took it upstairs with a cup of tea. On the stairs she heard the girls giggling together. It was a nice feeling, them getting on for a bit, happiness in the house.
The bedroom smelt stale, with that sickly aroma of Harry. The doctor said, ‘His body is slowly eating itself, Mrs Martin.’ She didn’t know exactly what that meant, but after hearing it, the smell repelled her more than before. She pushed the window open and smelt newly cut grass. Mr Bottoms had been out yesterday with his mower.
‘Now then – get going, Vi,’ she said. ‘Or you’ll be in that church in nothing but your girdle!’
Her dress was simple, a pretty blue and white cotton print with a white collar and sleeve edgings, and it hung flowingly o
ver the curves of her slim figure. She’d been taking more pride in herself again now she was out at work. It was Rita, a jolly newcomer from London, who’d taken her on at the salon, just to help out at first. She could not have put into words the gratitude she felt towards Rita.
‘You can sweep up and wash the brushes and that – do some washes. We’ll see how you get on.’
She settled in fast. Rita, big-hearted and generous, took to her like a sister.
‘You’re a natural,’ she said. ‘I bet you could soon pick up a few basic cuts, Vi.’
And the wages, though not handsome, boosted Harry’s National Assistance and Joyce’s wages from Bird’s.
The salon was now called ‘Rita’s’. Violet loved being there, after the loneliness of home and being forever surrounded by sickness. Here was a pretty, sweet-smelling female world of chat and cosseting. It wasn’t just frippery haircuts, she decided. It was a way of looking after people, making them feel better, and she loved washing people’s hair. They told her she had gentle hands, especially after Rita, who could be a bit vigorous on the scalp.
Rita was big and exotic-looking, with long dark hair all swept up into piled, curling styles. She’d always give Violet a cut when she needed it. She’d had her hair long and scraped back for ages, with no time or money to think of doing anything else, and it had gone lank and split at the ends. Her skin had been pasty and tired, like old congealed porridge. Rita helped her learn to take pride in herself.
‘Well, this mop needs a cut all right,’ Rita had said, the first time, running strands of Violet’s hair through her fingers. ‘Lovely colour though. It’s all natural too! Oh, I’d love to be a natural blonde.’ She regarded her own swarthy features in the mirror. Her dad was an Italian, she said.
‘Very straight though, isn’t it? No good trying to look like the Beverley sisters. You need it quite short and smooth. I’ll make you look gamine, darlin’.’
‘What?’ Violet asked, alarmed.
‘You know – boyish. Cheeky, sort of thing.’
‘Well . . . if you think . . .’
‘Oh, I do, love. Very definitely.’
Rita snipped the hair into a neat bob round Violet’s chin.
‘Ooh, those cheekbones! You’re so lucky,’ Rita murmured caressingly. ‘A face I’d give my right arm for.’
Violet listened in astonishment. No one had told her nice things like that before. Only Harry, but such a long time ago that it felt as if she had been someone else. And Roy . . . But as soon as thoughts of him came to her mind, she slammed the door on them. No good thinking about that, his face the last time she saw him. She couldn’t stand the ache it gave her inside, even after all this time.
She combed her sleek hair, stroked a dusting of blue on to her eyelids and added mascara.
‘You don’t look so bad, for an old ’un,’ she told her reflection. ‘Better than our mom looked at thirty-eight, any road.’
She had a pretty white cardigan and sandals bought specially.
‘Today I’m going to my daughter’s wedding,’ she told herself archly, then laughed at herself. Today, no matter what other troubles there were, it was going to be good. She thought about Harry. Please let it be all right, she thought.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Linda had helped Carol downstairs and they were drinking Vimto in the kitchen, Carol resting in her wheelchair.
‘You look nice, Mom,’ Carol said.
A rare smile spread across Violet’s face.
‘Am I all right? Petticoat not showing?’
They reassured her.
‘Rita’s made your hair look lovely,’ Linda said.
Violet was touched by this moment of warmth from her daughter. The one she now thought of as difficult, strange to her.
‘And aren’t you two a picture? Linda – you’ve done it all a treat!’ Linda also had style, she saw suddenly, a knack for making things look right.
The two of them had new frocks as well, both pink. Their hair was brushed out and Linda had pinned little pink and white paper flowers at the side. They both looked so lovely: Linda with her dark looks and also smiling, for once, and Carol, oh, sometimes the way those brown eyes looked at her, those bright, soulful eyes, she almost gasped. His eyes, Roy’s eyes. For an instant, just for seconds, she was awash with longing. She forced those thoughts away. She seemed to be so full of emotion today!
‘Joyce still titivating?’
‘She says she’s not coming down because it’s bad luck if anyone sees her,’ Carol said.
‘I’ll go and see your dad,’ Violet whispered. ‘You stay here, eh? Let him be quiet.’
Harry was sitting in the back room, the window open on to the garden to let the smoke out. The saucer he used for an ashtray was on the arm of the chair. Outside, Molly was still barking.
‘Shut up, you blasted hound!’ they heard from Mr Bottoms over the fence.
‘You going to be all right, love?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Harry mumbled. ‘For Christ’s sake stop mithering me, woman.’ His sweet pliability on waking had now disappeared.
With agonizing slowness he pulled himself forward in the chair, each movement costing enormous effort. Violet looked away, out of the window. Harry found any change difficult. He needed things to be the same: the daily routine, fags, Evening Mail and the Daily Mirror, music on the radio, bits of meals that he could manage, then the dogs inside later in the afternoon so he could get a walk round the garden with his stick without them jumping up at him.
‘A puff of wind blows him over,’ Eva Kaminski observed sometimes. Violet and Eva had become close over the years.
‘He’s very sick,’ Eva often said. ‘He looks terrible. He’s not going to last for ever.’ She was never one to mince her words, but she was a relief to Violet, someone who didn’t pretend things were otherwise.
Violet supported Harry by the elbow and helped him haul himself up, a pathetic, gangling figure. Taking his arm, she helped him towards the door.
‘All right, love? Need the lavvy again?’
‘No – I’m all right. Christ.’ He patted his pockets to make sure his packet of Capstan was in place.
A horn pipped out in the road.
‘He’s here, Mom!’ Linda ran to the front door. The rest of the family followed, painfully slowly, Carol on her crutches now. She could manage on those for short periods. My family, Violet thought. And just look at the state of us – talk about the walking wounded!
Danny’s dad, a hulking great figure, had just drawn up in his white Austin, wide face grinning out through the window.
‘All right, Linda!’ he called, his beefy arm resting along the edge of the open window. ‘Nice day for it, eh?’
Linda nodded, smiling. It was a beautiful May day, a deep blue sky, the estate bathed in sunshine, front windows open all along the road. Bessie had said, ‘You ought to have a May wedding – you can have orange-blossom. And you’ll get it over with before the Coronation.’ So, of course, Joyce obeyed.
‘Blushing bride ready, is she?’
‘Think so.’
‘Don’t let anyone see me!’ Joyce shouted, all in a tizzy at the top of the stairs. ‘It’s bad luck!’
‘Well, stay there and they won’t, will they?’ Linda called up to her.
‘Tell her it’s not too late – I can run her to the docks instead if she wants to get away!’ Mr Rodgers joked, his barrel figure coming up the path.
Harry made a wheezing sound, his attempt at a laugh. Violet had her arm through his, which felt thin and hard as a broom handle. Between them she and Mr Rodgers helped Harry shuffle out to the car. He was all wrapped up as if it was December, scarf and all. The walk made him pant.
‘All right, mate?’ Mr Rodgers opened the passenger door for him and helped him sink slowly on to the seat. Other men were always gentle with him, Violet saw.
‘Oh – Vi –’ Harry gasped before the door closed. ‘Get us my cushion. Them church pews’re hard
as hell.’
‘You girls’ll be all right, won’t you?’ Violet said anxiously, hurrying in to get the old blue cushion from Harry’s chair. Linda was outside with Carol, who was perched on the doorstep. ‘Mr Rodgers’ll be back for you girls, soon as he can. Don’t come without Carol’s crutches and for God’s sake be patient with her.’ She rolled her eyes up in the direction of the bedroom, where Joyce was shouting something about her lipstick. No one took any notice.
‘It’s all right, Mom,’ Linda said, and Violet saw suddenly how grown-up she was. After all that sulking about school, just for today it was as if the sun had come out and she was a different girl. ‘You go – we’ll be all right.’
For a moment Violet felt like a child, sitting in the car, with its special smell, being waved off by the two girls, all in their pink.
‘Beautiful,’ she heard Harry mutter, as if he was seeing everything differently today. Even Carol. The cuckoo child, whom he was prepared to call beautiful as if she were his own. Violet’s eyes filled with tears. It was one of those days when the gruelling, lonely struggle of it all was lifted into something bigger, some pattern which made sense of her life. You’re a good man, Harry, she thought. I married a good man.
The church was only a mile away. Mr Rodgers chatted to Harry. Violet could see his good-natured face in the little mirror. They passed people doing their Saturday things and it seemed astonishing to Violet that to them it was such an ordinary day. Then she wondered if they all smelt of dogs and surreptitiously sniffed her sleeve. She couldn’t tell. Linda said people at school complained that she stank of dogs.
When they reached the church, Harry murmured, ‘There’s the old battleship. What’s up with her?’
‘Harry!’ But Violet smiled.
Bessie was standing outside, smoking, grim-faced. She and the others had come from Aston on the bus. She had on a capacious frock, mauve with white swirls on it, and a straw hat. Her expression was grim. Beside her, Marigold had on a similar dress in pale yellow, covered in pale blue polka dots, and a dark brown hat that didn’t match. Violet looked at her sadly. Poor old Marigold. She wouldn’t have thought of asking for anything better. For a moment she thought of Rosina. She would always have asked! You wouldn’t have caught Rosina going to a wedding in a hat that didn’t match her frock! She ached for Rosy for a moment, or at least the eighteen-year-old Rosina she remembered, and sighed. You felt it on days like this.
