by Annie Murray
Linda followed, mute. As they walked back to the bus stop she didn’t say a word and he knew he had offended her. It was the first time they kissed, properly, that afternoon. They went back to Handsworth Wood, to his house, almost in silence. She felt as if there was a well of sadness building inside her that needed release, and suddenly, on the smoky, upstairs deck of the bus, for no reason she could name, tears began to run down her cheeks.
‘Hey – ’ Alan sounded alarmed for a moment, then shyly slipped his arm round her shoulders.
She put her hands over her face and had a quick cry and all the time was aware of the warmth of his arm round her, the woolly smell of his duffel coat. After, she dried her eyes and looked out of the smudgy window, because something had altered. There were strong, charged feelings between them and she didn’t know what to do.
Upstairs in his room, Alan stood in front of her, eyes anxious.
‘Sorry. I don’t know what to say.’
‘S’all right.’ She looked at the floor, miserable.
He came to her then, and put his arms round her, but in a way that also felt as if he was a child and needed her and they clung together. After a moment he drew his head back and looked into her eyes. She scarcely knew what a kiss was, except something that happened in the pictures, but Alan was moving his face closer to hers and she found herself responding. The feel of his lips on hers was new and strange at first. His lips were warm and soft. They kissed shyly, then more passionately, pulling each other closer, and it was all new, his warm tongue between her lips, his hands stroking her back until she was floating amid all these sensations.
He drew back and looked at her again.
‘I love you.’
This caught her so unawares that she giggled. Alan looked hurt.
‘I mean it!’
‘Sorry.’ She managed to straighten her face. ‘D’you really?’
He nodded. ‘I need you, Linda. I do.’
It seemed a big thing to say, like stepping out somewhere new, but she said it anyway. ‘I love you too.’
He pulled her close again and she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He was all that made sense in a lot of confusion.
‘We don’t need anyone else, do we?’ he said. ‘Just you and me.’
The next time she saw him was a couple of days before Christmas. As soon as he let her into the house, she could feel how low his mood was. He was alone and there were no signs of any Christmas preparations. She and Mom had at least put some streamers up together and planned presents for Carol and Joyce and Danny. In fact Mom was gradually doing the house up, bit by bit. She seemed to be full of energy. She’d painted the back room and put new lino down on the floor and was starting to clean up the kitchen, with Joe Kaminski’s help. Alan’s house, though, was dark and cheerless.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘Nothing much.’ His voice was surly as he led her upstairs.
‘You look like a wet weekend.’
‘Thanks.’ There was so much aggression in his voice she felt quelled.
‘Alan?’ She faced him across the room.
‘It’s just . . .’ He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his hands. ‘They thought my mother might be out for Christmas. But she’s worse, they say. She’s not coming.’
Linda sank down beside him. ‘So – is it just you and your dad?’
Alan nodded. ‘S’pose you’ve got all your family.’
‘Umm,’ she agreed. She’d been dreading it – Christmas dinner with Nana moaning about Marigold, and Clarence coughing and hawking and the first one without Dad. But compared to Alan’s Christmas it suddenly all seemed quite cheerful. There was Carol to go and see for a start, and they’d get together with Eva and Joe Kaminski and there were cards arriving – one had come from Australia, from Mom’s friend Muriel, that morning.
‘Wish I could be with you though,’ she said. ‘That’s all I want – to be with you.’
He put his arms round her and rested his head on her shoulder.
‘My girl,’ he murmured. He kissed her cheek. ‘Come to America with me?’
She was startled.
‘When?’
‘When I’ve finished school. I could work – you could go back to school there. It’s all easier over there.’
She turned to face him, eyes alight. Everything seemed to open up full of hope. ‘D’you really mean it?’
‘I’m going to write movies, I told you. I want you with me.’
‘I’ll come with you!’ she cried. ‘I’d go anywhere with you.’
Part Five
1954
Chapter Sixty-Two
The clock on the mantel struck with a mellow-sounding ‘bong!’
Marigold sat in the chair by the fire, which was usually sacrosant. It was Bessie’s chair. But now Marigold was basking rebelliously in it. She also had her coat on, belted tightly round her, and a new hat she’d bought from the pawn shop, blue like her coat, a soft wool circle nipped in at the sides to fit round her head, her black hair sticking out below.
She smiled at the clock.
‘Tick tick,’ she said.
She was waiting to make sure there was no more noise from upstairs. Bessie and Clarence had gone up to bed as they always did when the clock struck ten. Wireless off, cup of cocoa, regular as clockwork.
‘Get up to bed now,’ Bessie bossed her, struggling to her feet, wincing at the pain. Her feet were no good now. She had rheumatism and bunions, bandages round her stout, ulcerated legs, and she couldn’t walk far. Once she was upstairs there was no getting her down in a hurry. How long before she couldn’t get upstairs? But this was not a question Marigold was interested in. Every day was Mom’s legs and Clarence’s wheezy chest, her at everyone’s beck and call. Now, though, she had only one thing on her mind.
She got up with a little grunt, patting the bottle in her coat pocket. Gordon’s gin – her favourite. Clarence saved a bit of his pension money every week, kept it in a sock under his mattress.
‘What’re you hanging on to that for, you silly old sod?’ Bessie would ask. ‘Your own bloody funeral?’
And Clarence would nod in an enigmatic way, as if he had immense plans no one else was to know about. He never remembered how much was in there, which was a lucky thing for Marigold, who extracted a small amount from his stash each week, to make sure she could always get more gin. The rest she took from Bessie’s jam jar of coins in the pantry. Why not? Bessie never noticed, not like she would have done years ago. Too taken up with her aches and pains these days.
Marigold went to the window and pulled back the curtain. It was snowing outside, flakes seeping down into the street where they disappeared into dark gullies of shadow. It was only by the lamp you could see a thin layer accumulating on the pavement. She giggled at the sight, excited as a little girl. And she had her new hat. She patted it proudly. Time to go.
‘Dirty girl, dirty girl,’ she whispered, going to the door. She snickered as she opened it. ‘Dirty girl’s going out, and sod you.’
She could hardly contain her laughter: it was bursting out of her as she stood on the step she’d scrubbed that morning, and would scrub tomorrow morning and every day of her remaining life, it seemed. Scrub, scrub. Rub-a-dub. What was that song? I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair . . . Mary Martin, South Pacific. She hadn’t written that one down yet. Tomorrow she’d do it, with her pencil and pad. But wash him out? Her Fred – oh no! Mom thought she’d washed him out, but Marigold was cleverer than they knew.
She set out along the dark street with her little bag over her arm, her steps silent on the cushion of snow. It was that cold, flat time after Christmas. Christmas Day they’d sat in Violet’s house, nice and clean now, for a beef dinner and there were decorations and a big pudding. Violet looked nice too, Linda hardly saying anything, Joyce there with her belly all out. Marigold kept looking at it, Joyce’s heavy belly. Full, like a pod.
‘Two months t
o go!’ Joyce said. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be a mom!’
‘And I can’t believe I’m going to be a nan!’ Violet smiled. She was looking nice. Pretty, with her hair and that. Good old Vi.
Joyce’s belly made Marigold feel funny. She didn’t like it. All she wanted was to stick something in it and make it go down. But she couldn’t stop staring at it either.
Babby . . . new, sticky babby between Joycie’s leggies, her scrawny white thighs . . .
And while they were eating beef and potatoes and trimmings, Mom said in that voice she used, ‘Marigold had herself a fancy man – did I say before?’ She laughed, belly wobbling, forkful of cabbage. Then her voice changed and turned hard, contemptuous. ‘Huh! I soon put a stop to that, I can tell you. Bloody disgusting – and at her age!’
That’s what she thought, anyway! Ha, ha, that’s what she thought, the old cow!
The lights of the pub beckoned her. She felt warm inside.
‘That you, Marigold?’
‘Yes – it’s me.’ She giggled again, seeing Fred’s burly shape come out of the pub door.
‘Took your time! Just got time for a quick ’un before closing.’
He was big, Fred, fat and red-faced, owned a butcher’s shop. ‘How’s my girl, eh?’
‘All right,’ she laughed.
‘Quick drink – ’ Fred laid his hand on her left buttock as he steered her through the door. ‘Then we can get down to business!’
She was welcomed into the den of the pub. It wasn’t far off closing time now, the air heavy with ale and smoke, the sawdust sodden underfoot, spittoon holding a murky liquid with a thin froth on top.
‘Your usual?’ Fred asked.
He brought her half of stout and another brown ale for himself. The old piano was quiet now, no more music, but a couple of Fred’s pals were there and they all welcomed her.
‘Here y’are Marigold – she let you out, has she? Come and sit here, bab!’
Marigold felt like a queen. She had never had friends before, not like this. She didn’t need to say anything. She sat in her hat and coat, snowflakes melting on her shoulders, enraptured simply to be there, amid the desultory conversation of half-soaked men, out of home, away from Bessie, with the promise of . . . She looked at Fred and he winked at her.
‘Drink up, old girl!’
She was draining her glass as the bell rang for closing time and they all had to mill out into the white street. The flakes were bigger now.
‘Won’t last long, I don’t suppose,’ one of the men said, squinting up at the dark sky. ‘Too bloody wet.’
They said their goodbyes and Fred immediately put his arm round her. With his free hand he reached round and gave her breast a squeeze.
‘Let’s be off, wench.’
Fred was a bachelor who lived in two rooms a street away fom the pub. Marigold went back regularly with Fred and shared his bed, nice for both of them, until it was time to creep back into her mom’s house.
She liked Fred, and he liked her, but there was no ceremony about it. As soon as they were through the door into his spartan man’s abode, his hands were under her coat, reaching for her breasts. Marigold took her coat and hat off and got ready to luxuriate in a man’s attention.
‘Just a minute, girl . . .’ He went fumbling into the bedroom and she heard him relieving himself noisily into the chamber-pot. He didn’t bother to button up when he came out.
‘That’s better. Let’s be having you then.’
Soon they were on Fred’s unmade bed with its wrinkly grey blankets, only half undressed. He rucked Marigold’s dress up, yanked her bloomers off, fumbling at himself.
‘That’s it,’ he grunted contentedly, steering himself into her. ‘Into the harbour – that’s my girl!’
Marigold snickered, then moaned as he jerked back and forth, fired with her own pleasure. This was a bit of all right. She always got what she wanted as well, whoosh, like a firework all down there. Nothing like it.
‘You’re a fine wench, Marigold,’ Fred said, kissing her affectionately when they’d finished. ‘Glad I found you, that I am.’
‘You’re all floppy,’ she giggled, eyeing his flagging manhood.
‘That I am . . .’ He yawned and teased at her nipple under her blouse. ‘Till the next time, anyway – eh?’
Half an hour later she left Fred snoring and crept back home. No one was stirring. Nearly half past twelve and Mom and Clarence none the wiser, once again. She took a swig of the gin as a congratulatory nightcap and lit a candle to get upstairs.
The boards creaked on the upper landing. She stopped for a moment, but heard her own loud breathing, nothing else.
Something made her go into her mother’s room. A sense of triumph, of wanting to crow. Creeping over to Bessie’s bed she stood over her. Bessie was on her back, her thickened face tilted to one side, mouth half open and snoring, oblivious to the fact she was being watched.
Marigold held the candle high and stood, looking down at her.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Joyce’s baby was born in Good Hope Hospital on a February day as the clouds sprinkled sleet upon the sodden streets. There was more falling later that evening when Linda got home.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Violet was in the hall the moment the door opened.
‘Out.’ Linda pushed the hood back and peered out at her mother between long curtains of hair.
‘She’s had it! Joyce – they’ve had a little lad! Danny came round earlier to tell us and he drove me over to the hospital to see her! He’s ever so bonny – just like Danny. He’s got footballer’s legs!’
Linda peeled off her damp coat, a smile coming over her face at the thought of a baby looking like Danny, with little football boots on. And it had distracted Mom from noticing how late she was. It was nearly ten o’clock.
‘Let’s have a drink . . .’
Violet led her through to the kitchen and put the kettle on in a celebratory way.
‘Joyce’s doing marvellously. They told her she’s a natural mom – gave birth easy and that. She’s very pleased with herself.’
Yes, Linda could imagine. But she leaned up against the side in the kitchen, full of a sense of wonder.
‘Our Joycie a mom!’ Violet said. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling. ‘Don’t seem five minutes since I was having her!’
‘You’re a nan.’
Violet looked solemn for a moment, then giggled. ‘Blimey – I am, aren’t I? God – it makes you think!’
Linda walked over to the flat on the Sunday morning. They’d been to see Carol the afternoon before and she was very excited about the baby. The nuns said Carol was doing exceptionally well and might be able to come home the next month. She’d finished the scarf she had knitted for Linda, a brown and yellow striped creation with a few missed stitches and wonky bits, but Linda loved it. It looked scruffy and in keeping with her look.
‘Goes with my coat,’ she smiled, indicating her mole-coloured duffel coat.
Carol beamed. ‘It’s cold out. I wanted it to keep you warm.’
The wool was a bit itchy, but the scarf was cosy to wear. She had it on, her hood up in the rain, as she walked round the Kingstanding circle and turned off towards Danny’s dad’s garage and the flat which was up a staircase at the back. Danny let her in, face dark with stubble and still in his pyjamas.
‘Oh – it’s you.’ He sounded a bit bewildered. ‘What time is it?’
‘Dunno. ’Bout ten.’
‘Little ’un’s been on the go all flaming night. I’ve lost my bearings.’ But he grinned good-naturedly. ‘He can’t half blart when he gets going!’
‘Who is it?’ Joyce called. She didn’t need to raise her voice too much. The flat was small – one bedroom plus a boxroom, a living-room, and tiny kitchen and bathroom.
‘It’s your sister.’ Danny was lighting the gas.
‘Come on in then, Linda,’ Joyce called regally. ‘You’ll have to take us as you find us. T
hat’s how it is with a babby in the house.’
Linda went into the bedroom, most of which was occupied by a double bed. There was an oil heater in the corner and they’d got quite a fug up, bedroom stuffiness mixed with paraffin and an animal, milky smell. It was so warm, Linda took off the coat and scarf and put them on the floor behind the door on what seemed to be a pile of laundry. Joyce was sitting propped against a couple of pillows, in a nightgown with frills at the neck. Her hair was long and loose and there was something different about her, as if she, like the baby, had been under water for a long time and the water had washed her features looser in some way.
‘Here he is!’
In her arms was a bundle of blanket, at the top of which Linda could just see a crown of fuzzy dark hair. Joyce sat him up and the bundle gave out a sneeze.
‘Ooh – bless you!’ Joyce giggled.
Linda heard a tone in her sister’s voice that she had never heard before, a wholehearted tenderness towards something outside herself. She was humbled by it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she leaned forward and Joyce laid the baby across her arms. He was more solid than she had been expecting, with a swarthy complexion and strongly carved features, almost like a grown man already. His eyes opened a slit to show cloudy grey pebbles. He was the first baby she’d seen close up in a very long time and she was astonished. And it was Joyce who had produced this miracle of a creature!
‘God, Joyce – he’s lovely, isn’t he?’
Joyce beamed, gratified by her sister’s genuine enthusiasm.
‘He’s the most beautiful babby ever,’ she pronounced.
‘I mean – where did he come from?’ she stuttered.
‘In my belly, stupid!’ Joyce laughed.
‘No – but I mean – I know that . . . But it’s . . . I mean it feels as if he’s come from space – just arrived on a flying saucer or something!’
‘You been watching too much Quatermass?’ Joyce laughed.
‘Fat chance. Mr Bum won’t let us near that television again!’
‘D’you want a cuppa tea, Lin?’ Danny called from the kitchen. They could hear him clinking cups and spoons.
