by Annie Murray
‘Yes, ta! Here – I’d forgotten. I bought something for him.’ She reached for her coat.
Danny came in then, with a mug for each of them.
‘Ta, love,’ Joyce said comfortably, taking the tea.
From her coat pocket Linda took out a beautiful pair of bootees she’d seen in a shop window, wrapped in white tissue.
‘Ah –’ Joyce seemed genuinely touched. ‘Aren’t they pretty? That was nice of you. Thanks. Look, Danny.’
Danny nodded. ‘Ta. Very nice.’
He came and perched wearily on the other side of the bed with his own mug of tea and leaned forward to look adoringly at his son.
‘Ya cheeky little bugger! You’re going to have to learn to sleep a bit better’n this!’
‘We thought we’d call him Charles – you know, after the prince. And then – ’ Joyce looked to Danny for approval, ‘Harry. For Dad. Only we’re not sure yet . . .’
‘Eh, Charlie, what d’you reckon?’ Danny leaned over to tickle his son’s nose.
‘Careful – you’ll spill your tea all over him!’ Joyce chided.
‘No I won’t – don’t talk daft.’
Linda shifted the little boy in her arms so they could all see him properly.
‘Charles Harry Rodgers,’ she said. And she drew him close and kissed his bulging cheek, surprised at the affection she felt for him already.
She left Joyce, Danny and the baby resolved to go and see them as often as she could. She was so caught up with Alan that the visit to Joyce’s had been a surprise, like emerging from a darkened room. Alan was almost all she thought about, and every spare moment they had, they were together. He had become the centre of her life.
Alan had gone back to school after Christmas and she would see him after work, but soon after the baby arrived she went round there one afternoon to find him in a strangely excited state.
‘Well – guess what,’ he said after letting her in. She could smell drink on him and his eyes didn’t look right.
‘What?’ she asked, uneasily.
‘They’ve just chucked me out again.’ He flung the information casually over his shoulder as they went upstairs.
She was shocked. ‘Why?’
‘Oh – not turning up . . .’
‘But I thought you had been . . . haven’t you?’
Alan flung himself down on the bed, and looked up contemptuously at the ceiling. Beside him, Gary Cooper stared out enigmatically over his gun.
‘Not much. And it wasn’t just that. I had a skinful.’
She knew he was drinking, but hadn’t realized it was that bad. He didn’t drink much with her.
‘What – just today?’ She slid her coat off and flung it on the chair.
‘Today, yesterday, last week . . .’
‘Oh, Al . . .’ She sank down beside him on the unmade bed and took his hand. He shook her off at first, then his hand reached for hers and he looked up at her, hungry for reassurance.
‘Why d’you do it?’
He didn’t reply.
‘You’ve really torn it now, haven’t you?’
‘Come here.’ He pulled her closer and she lay down in his arms. She reached up and kissed him and she could taste the booze on him.
‘What’re you going to do? What’ll your dad say? He’ll be livid!’
She felt Alan shrug. ‘Let him. Who cares?’
‘But you can’t just stay at home.’
‘I’ll get a job. Hey – ’ He released her suddenly and leapt up. ‘I got a letter from Stanley today – there’s this new movie he’s seen . . .’
He fished about on his desk for the blue airmail letter and sat down beside her. In Stanley’s small, painstaking handwriting were pages of description of a film called Hot Blood. Alan ran his eyes over the page, though he already seemed to know the gist of it off by heart.
‘It’s about a gang of motorcyclists called the Black Rebels and the leader’s called Johnny Strabler . . .’
‘Sshh – you don’t have to shout . . .’
‘They ride in and take over this town in California. Stanley says it’s the most fantastic film, it’s like nothing else! Everyone’s talking about it and the establishment types think it’s a Commie movie.’
As usual, when he started on the subject of ‘movies’ his voice was taking on an American twang.
‘I hope they blasted well hurry up and show it over here.’ He turned to her, as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘That’s what I’m going to do. Get Dad to buy me a bike.’
Linda sat up, laughing in disbelief. ‘You must be joking! After you’ve just been expelled from school, again!’
‘I can use it to get to work.’
‘Well, where are you going to work?’
‘I dunno.’ He sat down again and put his arms round her, kissing her passionately. ‘We can get out of here – ride off together.’
And again she found herself caught up in his dreams, which in some way spoke to hers.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Within a fortnight, Mrs Bray was sent home from the mental hospital for a trial period.
When Linda went round one afternoon she was startled to find all the family there.
‘My mother’s here,’ Alan said at the door. His face looked different, as if something had loosened in him.
‘You mean – they’ve let her out?’
‘Yes – she came yesterday.’
Linda started to back away. She was muffled up in Carol’s woolly scarf, speaking through it. ‘I’ll go home . . . You don’t want me there . . ’
‘I do – please!’ Alan seized her wrist. ‘Come on – she likes a bit of company and I’ve told her about you. I want you to meet her.’
Linda was very nervous. She didn’t know what she expected Mrs Dorothea Bray to be like, but the idea of the ‘asylum’ struck fear and dread into everyone. She’d seen Nana shudder at the very mention of it.
To her surprise, she could hear dance music coming from the living-room at the back of the house. There was a radio in there, Linda knew, but Alan led her to the kitchen. Standing by the table was a slim, black-haired woman with Alan’s wide grey eyes. Linda had an impression of someone neatly dressed, in a calf-length skirt, pale blouse and a long black cardigan. Her hair was parted in the middle and taken back in a rough bunch at the back. What was startling was how young she appeared, almost girlish.
For a moment her face was blank and then, mechanically, as if having to recall how to do it, she smiled.
‘Hello. You must be Linda?’
Her voice was soft, well-spoken. Linda had to remind herself to free her chin from behind the scarf. She unwound it and took it off.
‘Hello,’ she said, feeling very shy and at a loss.
‘What a nice name,’ Mrs Bray suddenly spoke very fast. ‘Did you know Linda means “pretty” in Spanish? I expect you did.’
‘No.’ That was the truth of course. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Well – it’s very nice to meet you. I’m glad you’re a friend for Alan because his father works so hard and my poor boy is alone so much with me being . . . ill.’ She leant forward distractedly and picked up the tin of tea from the table. ‘You know I’ve been away?’
Linda nodded.
‘They did something to my head, you see, and now I’m back.’
Linda could feel Alan’s discomfort reaching her, almost smell it. He seemed younger suddenly, now his mother was here.
‘I can’t always . . . manage, you see.’ Dorothea Bray smiled brightly. ‘Would you like some tea? I can make tea now, Alan.’
‘Thanks – that’d be nice,’ Linda said.
As Mrs Bray turned to light the gas with slow deliberation, she whispered to Alan, ‘Where’s your daddy?’
Alan rolled his eyes upwards. ‘I think he’s working.’
It seemed to Linda very odd and unkind of Dr Bray to be up in his study when his wife had only just got home. But she was relieved he wasn’t here. He was so s
tiff and hard to talk to.
‘You sit down, both of you,’ Mrs Bray said. ‘Let me make you tea. I haven’t made tea for a long time.’ She stood as if thinking for a moment, then said, ‘You see, they did something to my brain – to try and make me better. Everything takes me a long time . . .’
She was so transparently open, like someone whose skin has been removed, that Linda was disarmed and felt sorry and somehow tender towards her. She began to relax, and saw that she was helping Alan to do the same.
‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘You take your time. There’s no need to hurry, is there?’
‘No.’ Mrs Bray gave a sudden little laugh. ‘No, of course you’re quite right. No reason to hurry at all.’
Watching her prepare the tea was agonizing. She laid out four cups and saucers with the slow deliberation of a child.
‘Sugar . . .’ she murmured, and opened the cupboard to stand staring for an age, while Linda and Alan could both see it right in front of her but thought they had better let her find it for herself. The same rigmarole went on with the refrigerator.
Just as she had found the milk and was closing the door triumphantly, Dr Bray’s voice came booming from the upstairs landing.
‘Isn’t that tea ready yet, Dorothea?’
The effect was terrible to see. Linda thought Mrs Bray was going to drop the milk bottle, which she had finally identified in the fridge, and she only just managed to steer it to the table. Her eyes were terribly frightened and she was all of a quiver, almost to pieces. Linda was appalled.
‘Y-yes, Arn . . . Arnold. Just a moment, please!’
Alan got up abruptly from his chair.
‘No – Alan, don’t!’ Mrs Bray protested, but he was already out in the hall. They heard him say something low and emphatic and he came back with his cheeks red.
‘Oh dear – I’m so slow,’ Mrs Bray said. ‘He does hate things to be slow.’
‘Why’s he like that?’ Alan erupted suddenly. ‘Why does he always have to be like that?’ His voice was tearful. ‘How are you supposed to get better?’
‘Don’t, Alan . . .’ Mrs Bray was weeping herself now. She was trembling all over and she went to Alan and took him in her arms, cradling his head. ‘Oh, my boy, my lovely boy . . .’
Linda watched, her insides knotting tighter and tighter. It was like it had been when Dad was ill and you didn’t know how he was going to react to anything, that sense of fear and dread at what might happen. She knew it was one of the things that bound her and Alan together. Poor Mrs Bray! And poor Alan! He was crying now, his sobs sounding too deep and manly for his slim body. Behind them the kettle boiled and boiled, filling the room with steam.
‘Why don’t you leave him? Get away from him – he makes you ill. You wouldn’t be like that if it wasn’t for him!’
‘Don’t say that, darling!’ She pulled him from her and took his face between her shaking hands. ‘That’s not true. I would. I truly think I would be. It’s how I am and it’s very hard for Daddy.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘And where would I go? Who would want a person straight out of the madhouse – eh?’
She chucked his chin, trying to be brave, to lighten things. She seemed suddenly more self-possessed.
Linda got up, shakily, and removed the kettle from the gas.
‘Oh dear, yes – look at all this smoke . . . no, steam, that’s it – steam. Like a Turkish bath!’ Mrs Bray said. ‘Thank you, Linda! What a way to welcome your lovely, pretty friend. Come on now, darling.’ She poured water into the teapot. ‘We must look on the bright side – umm? I’m home now. Now you take your father his tea to keep him happy. I don’t suppose he’ll want to come and drink it with us.’
They sat together drinking tea, with a plate of biscuits, and Mrs Bray talked about some of the other inmates in the hospital in Winson Green.
‘Some of them are really very nice,’ she said. ‘One does make friends – even in the oddest of places. But still – ’ she braced her shoulders. ‘I mustn’t linger . . . I must be here now . . . Look after my boy . . . I’ve not been much good.’
She patted Alan’s shoulder and, looking at Linda, she gave a terrible, sad smile.
‘You’ll help me look after him, won’t you?’
Chapter Sixty-Five
Three weeks later they came to take Mrs Bray away again.
Linda didn’t realize at first.
Alan was outside when she arrived that Sunday morning. It was March, sunny, but still very cold, the air whirling white with their breath, but he was outside without even a jacket on, squatting down on the front path by a very smart silver and black motorcycle. He was polishing the front mudguard, frowning sternly.
‘Blimey! Is that yours?’
‘BSA Star Twin. Smashing, isn’t it?’ He stood up, his expression lightening a little. ‘Got her yesterday. I’ve been out a couple of times already.’
Linda thought of her dad’s old Norton, rotting away in the front garden all those years. Poor Dad. For a second she had a glimpse of the younger father she could barely remember.
‘Is it new?’ It appeared to be in perfect condition.
‘Nearly. Dad got it off someone in Sutton. Said he had a shed out the back with a whole load of them. The bloke collected them and tinkered about with them, but he hardly ever rode them.’
‘So – did he buy it for you? Just ’cause you asked him?’
Alan shrugged. ‘He’s got enough money. I can always get money out of him. He’s stopped going on about school, now he knows I’m not going to get to university like he did, he doesn’t care a damn what I do.’
She watched his face carefully, seeing how much he cared underneath all his pretence not to.
‘What about your Mum?’
Avoiding looking at her, he rubbed his cloth along the line of the handlebars, then circled it over the BSA trademark.
Linda bent down and looked quizzically into his face but he looked away.
‘She’s not here.’
She tried to make sense of this.
‘She went bonkers again,’ he said harshly. ‘They came for her – yesterday.’
‘Oh, Al!’ Mrs Bray had seemed distracted, it was true, and odd, but she hadn’t realized it was that bad. ‘What happened?’
He ignored her. ‘So – d’you want a ride, or not?’
Once he’d wheeled the bike out to the road, they both climbed on and it started up with an impressive roar.
‘Get your feet up!’ he shouted, and they sped off along the road. Immediately she could tell he was in charge of the thing, seemed naturally to know how to handle it, and she relaxed, arms wrapped round him, the cold wind rasping against her face, making her eyes sting, but she didn’t care because even on the staid roads of Handsworth Wood it felt like freedom and she just wanted to ride and ride. She let out a cry of excitement and heard Alan laugh. They didn’t go far, not this time. It was so cold, and by the time they got back her cheeks were raw and stinging.
When they jolted to a standstill outside the house again, she laughed, exhilarated.
‘That’s the best thing I’ve ever done!’
‘Told you, didn’t I?’ He took the bike in on to the path and started polishing it all over again. ‘Now we can really go places.’
As the spring came, the bike was like their magic carpet.
They went to Sutton Park and beyond, out into the countryside, whenever they could get away, and it felt to Linda as if everything about her life that was sad and limited and frustrating blew away as Alan rode faster and faster along the country lanes with her whooping, excitedly behind him, and the wind tore through her hair, seeming to wash her mind clean.
One Sunday he said, ‘You’ve got to let me meet your mother. It’s not fair if I never see your family.’
Linda hesitated. There was something about bringing together this dream world of Alan with home that she didn’t like. His home was not a happy place, that was true, but that was his, not hers. She could manag
e it with him, give him comfort. But taking him home to hers felt difficult.
‘We’d have to go on a Sunday,’ she said. ‘She’s at the hair salon every other day.’
‘Let’s go now then.’
They whizzed out to Kingstanding. On the way, Alan pulled up abruptly by the Maryvale Orphanage to stroke the pet donkey which grazed outside and was a friend for the children. She had never thought of him as loving animals before.
‘Never been allowed them,’ he said. ‘Mum couldn’t cope – not with anything else.’
Linda looked into the donkey’s wise brown eyes.
‘Carol would love this.’
‘When’s she coming home?’
‘Soon. They say in the next month or two.’
Alan rubbed the donkey’s face. ‘Must be nice – having other people. Brothers and sisters I mean.’
‘Sometimes.’ Linda laughed. ‘It’s better with Joyce now she lives somewhere else though. She doesn’t half get on my nerves if I have too much of her!’
It felt grand somehow, riding into the estate on the bike. Along Bandywood Road, she suddenly spotted Maureen Lister, whom she barely ever ran into these days, and waved, yelling, ‘Hello, Maureen!’ as they streaked past. Maureen got the message almost too late and Linda saw her gawping in wonder.
When they pulled up to the door in Bloomsbury Road the dogs started barking frantically. They heard Violet ticking them off, shutting them out the back, and then she appeared, in her apron. She’d been in the middle of cleaning.
‘What the hell’s all the racket about? Oh – it’s you. Nice of you to put in an appearance,’ she said to Linda. You’re never here, she was forever saying. For all I know you could be lying in a ditch somewhere. I mean you never know . . .
‘Hello, Mrs Martin,’ Alan said. Linda heard how polite he was, how he could put that on when he wanted. Somehow she felt proud of him, although she was anxious about him being here. She became aware just how desperately the front door needed a new coat of paint.
‘Brought you out of hiding then, finally, has she?’ Violet said. ‘I was beginning to think she was making you up.’ But her tone was friendly.
