by Annie Murray
For a moment rage flickered in her. All that algebra, and Latin and music and history – all the things she craved, that he had been given and seemed not to care about!
‘Well, where’re you going then?’ What makes you so blooming special?, she wanted to add.
‘America. I’m going to write for the movies. It’s the only thing for me. I just know that’s what I’m meant to do. D’you like them? Movies – the flicks, I mean?’
‘Yes. I go to the Odeon sometimes.’
‘I go as often as I possibly can. I’d live in the cinema if I could! D’you like Westerns?’
She looked at him, saw the intense set of his face. ‘Well – a bit,’ she fibbed.
‘They’re my life. They’re just – it!’ He made an emphatic gesture with his arm. It all takes you off somewhere else. Away from it all. Oh, that silver screen! I’ve written two scripts already. When I leave school, I mean, properly . . . the old man thinks he can talk them into taking me back, saying I’ve been playing the wag because of my mother and everything . . . But when it’s over, I’m going to go to America.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I just have to. My father goes there sometimes. He’s a scientist – works in laboratories in Massachusetts.’ He talked about his father’s interest in a bored, offhand tone. ‘I’ve never been, but one day I shall. I have a penfriend, the son of one of his colleagues. We’re the same age – he’s called Stanley . . .’ He stopped and indicated that they should cross another road. They were in a nice area, the houses getting bigger, timber-framed, with tidy front gardens. ‘Nearly there . . . Stanley tells me all about the movies that we haven’t seen over here yet. They’re mad about the silver screen over there! Have you seen High Noon?’
‘No.’
‘It’s the best. Absolute best I’ve ever seen. Stanley got hold of a poster for me – had it sent back with Dad last time he was over there.’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’ She felt stupid, not able to think of anything to say. She didn’t mind Westerns but they all seemed pretty much the same to her, all galloping about on horses and shooting. She liked the quieter bits when there were women in them too.
‘Mrs Richards said your father was a doctor.’
‘The old man? He is – but not of medicine. He’s an industrial chemist. Researches things for various firms. Dunlop – I know he’s worked for them in the past. It’s all very useful apparently. He lives and breathes it but I’m not really interested. Shame for him really – only son and I’m not much good at science. Can’t possibly follow in his footsteps.’
‘What do you like?’
‘Oh – history, English literature, French – that sort of thing. Music. I’m more like my mother, I suppose.’
Linda didn’t like to ask any more questions about Alan’s mother. A moment later he led her up the path to one of the houses.
It was very dark and Alan felt round inside the door for the light switch.
‘Dad won’t be back until goodness knows when – there!’
He snapped the light on and Linda found she was in a spacious hall. There was a deep red carpet with hectic squiggles of yellow on it. Opposite the door stood a coat-rack with various old jackets and macintoshes flung over it, and beside it a small table with a telephone. Around this there were chaotic piles of paper and notebooks. As well as a broken umbrella and some wellington boots near the stairs, there were more bundles of papers stacked in one corner. Under the front window, next to the door, was a little bookcase crammed with paperback volumes.
Linda was a little comforted by the mess. It was different from the down-at-heel, squalid, doggy mess of her own home, but it wasn’t all immaculate like Lucy’s house. At least he didn’t live in a perfect palace of a place, even if it was big.
Alan took his coat off and threw it on to the coat stand, from where it slithered off on to the floor again. Underneath he had on a sea-blue jumper, very large and baggy, and the sleeves hung down partly covering his hands. Linda watched, wondering what his mother was like and what was the matter with her. He stood at a loss for a moment, as if he’d forgotten why he had asked her to come with him.
‘Oh yes – let’s get some water on for tea!’
The kitchen, at the back of the house, was much tidier. There was a table in the middle with a teapot waiting on it and there was an air of cleanliness and order.
‘Mrs P. sorts out the kitchen for us,’ Alan said, putting the kettle on the gas. ‘She seems to feel it’s worth keeping the kitchen under control. I think she’s given up with various other parts of the house.’
He looked across at Linda, who was standing by the table, and grinned suddenly. This lit up his face in such an extraordinary way that she felt herself lurch inside. He had high, prominent cheekbones, his pale face tapering to a quite pointed chin, and his normal expression was rather sombre. The smile, however, brought out his vivid, deep grey eyes. His teeth were even, and quite large. She liked his smile.
‘Fancy some cake?’
‘Yes please.’
‘I don’t think there’s much else . . . There might be some Rich Tea . . .’ He shook the biscuit tin hopefully but it gave off only silence.
‘Cake’d be nice.’ She felt so shy and awkward. It was as if she needed opening up to tell him things, say things, but she didn’t know where to begin. She just knew that they were the same in some way, and that was why she felt drawn to him.
He cut the cake on the table and, as an afterthought, produced two pale green sideplates. She watched him, saw the way his hair curled a little, just behind his ears. He interested her, not like most boys, whom she found dull. But she still couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘There – ’ He handed her a cup of weak tea. ‘I suppose we’d better stay here and have this. Sit down.’
She nibbled the sweet marzipan round the cake, feeling tongue-tied and self-conscious. She stared down at the table-top, its pitted wooden surface, surprised at how old and rough it was.
‘I expect you’re wondering about my mother. Everyone does, and they don’t like to say anything.’ He was talking rather fast, almost gabbling, stirring a lot of sugar into the tea. ‘No one likes to talk about things like that. She’s been in and out of the hospital for years. I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t. She goes mad, you see,’ he said candidly. ‘Some of the time she’s all right and gives piano lessons. And then . . .’ He shrugged. ‘She really can’t help it. She says she’s sorry and everything. It just comes over her.’
‘Oh dear,’ Linda said, helplessly.
There was a pause.
‘Must be lonely. Being here on your own so much.’
‘I’m used to it.’
‘My dad’s poorly,’ she offered. ‘And my sister.’
His thin face turned to her and she felt the force of his gaze. ‘What’s the matter with them?’
‘Dad’s just . . . never well. Hasn’t been really since the war. He was in a Jap camp. And my sister, Carol – she had polio. She’s in hospital now, having an operation on her back – she’ll be there months.’
‘Gosh,’ Alan said. ‘That sounds terrible.’ He looked closely at her for a moment. ‘There’s something about you. I mean – I don’t know how to say this without being rude, but you don’t look quite right in the bakery.’ Still gazing at her, he said, ‘You’re so pretty.’
‘Aren’t pretty girls allowed to work in bakeries?’ she quipped. But her face was pink again, with mixed delight and confusion. He’d seen something in her, he had, despite her down-at-heel shoes and cheap clothes! ‘Thing is – a lot of things have gone wrong in our family. Sickness, and that. I was at the grammar school too – the girls’ one in Handsworth. Only I had to leave – family reasons really.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Somehow she had expected light to dawn in his face, for this to be important, a big statement, as it was for her. Oh – that explains it! she wanted to hear. I thought there was something different about you, someth
ing special. As if there were two versions of her, the one that had gone to King Edward’s, the real her, whom everyone else had forgotten, and the other disappointed one who went to the secondary modern, the mask behind which she was forced to live now. She desperately wanted someone to recognize the first version of her and for a second she thought he had. But he just said it matter-of-factly, as if it didn’t matter.
‘So you were just there for a bit then.’ As if it was as easy as that. It would have been for him. He’d just go back to the grammar school – of course he would.
‘Yes.’ No one but her knew her sinking heart. ‘Maybe.’
He drained his teacup and pushed the chair back.
‘Come on up – I’ll show you my room.’
She followed his long legs as he bounced upstairs, and had a brief impression of the upstairs landing, flowery curtains at the window, more of the crimson carpet and a very straight-backed chair standing between two doorways, but otherwise bare.
His room was not bare – anything but. It was not very large, and the bed, chest of drawers, desk, chairs and bookshelves took up much of the space. But there were the books and papers and clutter of Meccano and tools, several replica guns and piles of clothes strewn on the bed and floor. Most eye-catching in all the mess was the big poster dominating the wall above the bed. It was all in a harsh brown and bright yellow, dominated by Gary Cooper’s face looking out over his gun.
‘“Gary Cooper’s High Noon,” ’ she read.
‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ Alan even slid into an American accent. ‘“The man who was too proud to run.” See – ’ His English accent returned. ‘That’s the great thing about knowing Stanley. He sent it me all the way over in a big cardboard tube. It’s my most precious possession. He says he may be able to get me some more – Red River, Shane, Rio Grande, She Wears a Yellow Ribbon . . . Any of them! I want them all!’
As soon as he started on the pictures an almost quivering excitement came over him. He sank down on the bed and went off into a description of all his favourite scenes from High Noon. She sat beside him and listened, feeling proud that he wanted to tell her all this. Something about him touched her, so passionate, so alone here in this house with his enthusiasms. She noticed how thin his wrists were, as if they could so easily snap. After a time, he stopped.
‘Gets me going,’ he said, glancing shyly at her. ‘Sorry. There’s not usually anyone to talk to, you see.’
‘That’s OK. It’s interesting.’
‘You’re very nice,’ he said, looking at her properly. ‘You really are. D’you know, I kept coming in to buy extra bread! You’ve got a lovely face – it’s so kind and friendly-looking.’
Linda giggled. ‘Don’t be silly!’ She would have liked to say how much she liked his face, and about how much he moved her, but didn’t know where to begin without sounding daft.
‘No – I’m not. It’s true. I don’t know any other girls, you see. No sisters – well, or brothers either. And school’s all boys.’
‘D’you think they’ll take you back?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.’ He sounded weary suddenly, and rather wretched. ‘I just can’t keep my mind on anything.’
‘Because of your mom?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged it off, not meeting her eyes.
‘Don’t you want to go back?’
‘The old man wants me to.’ What did he think of his father, she wondered? When he spoke about him it sounded as if he loathed him.
‘But you – don’t you want to?’
He looked down, said sulkily, ‘Yes – s’pose so.’
Suddenly, after all his talk, things seemed to come to a standstill and neither of them could think of anything to say.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get all the way home.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Kingstanding.’
‘Blimey – miles away!’ He jumped up. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
He walked her back to the bus stop and waited with her. She felt his loneliness, which linked hands with her own and drew her to him.
‘Will you come again?’ he asked, as the bus swayed into view. ‘I mean, meet me?’
She smiled, full of happiness suddenly.
‘Yes – course. If you want.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Even before she got out of bed Violet could tell it was foggy outside. The estate was still almost out in the country, and the thick, waterlogged air curled up from the fields and along the streets in a grey pall.
The clock said ten past seven – time to get moving. She didn’t want to get out of bed. It was cold, and Harry was settled, still asleep. The nights were so disturbed that broken sleep had become a way of life to her, and she was tired to her bones, aching to lie and sink back into the warm darkness. She thought of Carol in her bed in the hospital, as she did every morning. Her poor little lamb.
‘Come on – out you get,’ she said to herself. Her old pink nightdress was covered in bobbly bits and one of the cuffs was torn. ‘Proper glamour puss, you,’ she muttered to herself, hurriedly pushing her feet into her shoes and pulling a cardigan on in the chilly room.
She slipped next door and to her surprise found Linda was already out of bed.
‘Blimey – what’s come over you?’ she teased, in a low voice.
‘Dunno. I just woke up early.’
Linda was half naked, standing shyly with her back to Violet. She probably needed to start wearing a bra, Violet realized. They still hadn’t been shopping. For a moment she studied her daughter’s shapely back, the long dark hair falling in waves down it. She’s lovely, she thought. When did she suddenly get so lovely, almost a grown-up woman like that?
‘Want a cup of tea?’
‘All right. Yes.’
There was something different about that girl suddenly, Violet thought as she went downstairs. Linda, her mystery child. She was still a mardy little madam at times, but something had shifted in her. She wasn’t so heavy in herself. In fact she seemed almost happy.
The cats were circling her legs in the hall, miaowing as if they hadn’t been fed for a month.
‘All right, all right . . .’
As she opened the kitchen door the smell of the dogs hit her, overpowering. The three of them leapt up, full of excitement and she shushed them, wrinkling her nose and hurried to open the back door.
‘Go on – get out. You stink! And don’t go making a racket.’
They tore out into the milky air like children dismissed from school. Violet left the door open to air the room and grimaced at the floor, all muck and dog hairs. Would there be time to mop it before work?
She stood by the stove as the kettle boiled, hugging herself. Linda had even agreed to let Violet trim her hair. A smile came to her lips. Amid all the struggle of her life, the best thing to come out of it lately was Rita. She adored going into work every day, getting out of the house, the edge of glamour it gave to life, the chatter and companionship. And Rita was warmth and generosity itself.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Vi, love,’ she was forever saying. ‘Keeping going the way you do with all your problems. I think you’re marvellous. I’ve only got my Micky to deal with and that’s quite enough, I can tell you!’
No one had ever told Violet she was marvellous before.
Rita seemed prepared to teach Violet everything she knew. Although they were about the same age, Rita mothered her and she revelled in it. She was learning how to cut in different styles, how to do a permanent wave and set hair in curlers.
‘Ooh, you do learn fast,’ Rita would say admiringly. ‘You’ll put me out of business, you will!’
But they laughed, both knowing that was the very last thing Violet wanted to do.
She didn’t want anything about her work to change – she loved it exactly as it was. It was much better when Rita said, ‘You’re my right-hand woman, that’s what you are.’ She liked being someone’s right hand: it wouldn’
t have felt right being in charge.
By the time she’d poured three cups of tea, Linda was already dressed and downstairs, hair tied back ready for work. Violet looked her up and down. Her skirt, blouse and jumper were all pretty long in the tooth, but she seemed to be dressing with more care.
‘You look nice, bab.’
‘Mom – can I get something new to wear?’
‘I promised you, didn’t I? How about we go for a bit of a shop – late Saturday after I’ve finished? Rita’d let me go early.’
Linda’s eye wandered, as if she had other plans in mind. ‘Maybe,’ she said guardedly. ‘Or I could go by myself . . .’
‘Suit yourself.’ Feeling let down, Violet headed off upstairs. Why was it she never seemed able to do anything right for that girl, even when she was doing her best?
Putting the cups down on the sill in the bedroom, she drew the curtains. It still felt as if she was trying to stare out through muslin, everything shrouded and indistinct. She rubbed a layer of mist off the damp window but that only made a small difference.
‘Proper peasouper,’ she said.
It seemed a shame to wake Harry, but she had to make sure he had something to eat and drink before she left. She’d pop back at dinnertime, of course. Rita was quite all right about it. Harry wasn’t getting up every day now. One morning, only two or three weeks back, he’d looked at her from his bed with a defeated expression and said, ‘I don’t want to have to make the effort today, Vi. Just let me lie here for a bit.’
That frightened her. It seemed to bring the inevitable closer. Up until then he had fought on, battling his declining body and frail mind.
She heard the hooves of the horse pulling the milk float outside, the man calling ‘Milko!’ and it pierced her with sadness. He used to be out there, early mornings. He used to . . . But it was no good letting her mind run down the road of the things Harry used to be able to do.
‘I’ve brought your tea,’ she said, more brusquely than she meant to. It was a way of trying to keep her emotion at bay. ‘Harry – time to wake up, love – I’ve got to go soon.’
