by Annie Murray
‘No, but you could get a better job – in an office or a shop or something.’
‘Maybe I don’t want that kind of job – and anyway, what are you doing, eh? Are you going to stand there with Mrs R selling buns for the rest of your life?’
That stung. She didn’t want to talk about her limiting of herself – she wanted to criticize him for doing the same instead!
‘I dunno,’ she snapped. ‘But I’m not you, am I? I don’t have a dad who works in a university . . . You could do better.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I don’t think it’s worth the bother. I don’t want to be like him.’ The anger in his voice went so deep that she was silenced by it.
So he went to work in the foundry. She could never get much out of him about it. Of course he didn’t come and meet her out of Wimbush’s any more, and he seemed tired by it. Otherwise, if she asked he just said, ‘It’s not too bad. It’ll do.’
Now, he said, ‘I’ve finished – at the foundry.’ He was looking down at her, his face quite near hers, and she saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a strange, closed look. His eyes already had the glazed look that drink gave them.
‘ ’Bout time you gave that up,’ she teased.
‘I didn’t give it up – they sacked me.’
‘Alan!’ she half sat up. ‘Why?’
Offhandedly he said, ‘Didn’t get there on time. Didn’t always turn up.’
‘I thought you wanted to do that job!’
‘Nah. It’s a bore.’ He lay back, reaching for his fags in his pocket and lit up. ‘I’ve started writing a script.’
‘What did your dad say?’
‘Nothing much.’ He handed her a lit cigarette. ‘Usual sort of lecture . . . got to learn to knuckle down, bow to authority . . . the British Empire didn’t get built by this sort of attitude . . . rolling stones gather no moss . . . blah, blah, blah . . .’ He hurled the match away into the grass. ‘He’s covered in so much bloody moss he can’t see out.’
There was silence.
‘Did you hear me?’ It was a shout, almost. ‘I’m writing a script.’
‘Yes – I heard you.’
He rolled over, aggressively. ‘D’you love me?’
‘Yes, I love you.’ But suddenly she was afraid.
They lay smoking and staring up at the sky. Linda felt the harsh smoke in her throat, the breeze on her face, and a floaty feeling as if they were not attached to the earth but on a raft, floating on a wide, empty sea, all alone, just the two of them. And the raft seemed to spin faster and faster and she wanted to put her hand out to stop it. She had no idea where they were floating off to, the two of them. None at all.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Bessie and Clarence were in their chairs either side of the range.
Bessie never sat down, of course, not an actual ‘sit down’ like some idle old bag of bones with nothing better to do. When she did sit she was always about something – darning, knitting. She had a great-grandchild to knit for now of course, a boy, no less, and little Charlie was going to have nothing less than the best.
The half-knitted matinée coat in pale blue wool lay on the stool next to her chair. I’ll get going in a minute, she thought. Opposite her Clarence was asleep, head tilted back, snoring. So he wouldn’t be checking up on her. That’s it, Bess – you have a rest. That would have made her pick up her knitting right quick. She wasn’t having anyone thinking she was slowing down, starting to grow barnacles, oh no.
The back door was ajar to let the breeze through but she fanned her face with her hand. She was perspiring heavily. It was too hot! She could never remember a day as hot before. Flies circled round the ceiling, stubbornly dodging the curl of flypaper hanging from the light cord. They were after the waste bucket in the kitchen. She thought about going to tip it outside. Later would do. No need to move now.
It was the heat, that was what. That was why she couldn’t seem to get going today. It made her dead tired, with a heaviness she’d never felt before except in the last month before a baby. A moment of deep longing went through her and she sighed. Those were the days all right. Her and Jack, babbies coming. The only really good time of her life, that was the truth, like a picture with a shining gold frame. And twins! Boy and a girl all in one! She’d felt like one of the seven wonders of the world, all the fuss from everyone when Charlie and Marigold arrived.
Marigold. Her mouth twisted bitterly at the thought of her slow, lumbering daughter with her sly ways. Out gadding somewhere, no doubt. Bloody disgrace she was, a woman of forty, stinking of booze and out round the pubs the way she was, like a bitch on heat. Thought she had secrets, didn’t she? Thought her mother didn’t know she pinched money off her, when Bessie could read her like a book, the silly little cow, with all her carry-on. She should say something – course she should. Kept putting it off. Her mind slid away from the thought, from the look she saw sometimes in Marigold’s eyes that made her keep her lip buttoned. It was only a few bob she made off with, after all. Easier to keep the peace now.
Any road – I wash my hands of her, Bessie thought. I’ve done more than a mother should have to, over the years, that I have. Not just for her either.
She rested her head back in the chair. It was so seldom that she just sat. Her hands were resting on the arms of the chair. She stared at them for a moment, misshapen, puffy-knuckled. They weren’t her hands, were they? Old woman’s hands. Then down at her wide lap, capacious flowery frock falling in a curve between her thighs, at her old woman’s feet, all swollen, the ankles bulging out of her sloppy old shoes. Better than being scrawny, though. Quite enough of that as a child. Years she’d spent, thin as a broom-handle.
‘You’re not bad for sixty-two, Bess,’ she whispered. ‘Better nick than him.’
After all, if she didn’t give herself a puff up, who would? Sixty-two years she’d lived in this area, Aston born and bred, worked like a dray horse all her life, brought up four kiddies by herself and fostered scores of other women’s brats. Fostered, they called it now – had to find a posh name for everything these days. In her day you just took them in out of pity and did your best. And a fat lot of thanks anyone had ever given her when you came down to it. Oh, there was the odd remark, and the money, of course. But not real gratitude, not what she really felt she was owed for all those nights she’d turned out of bed for a screaming brat and the mess and nappies everywhere. No real credit for the way she’d managed everything. They owe me, she thought, her mouth twisting bitterly again. This neighbourhood owes me. Not that anyone cared. No one cared about anything these days. You had to make sure you thanked yourself – no one else would.
She eyed Clarence malevolently. His face was parchment pale, cheeks sunken and his hair was almost gone now, except for a few strands which clung across his bald pate like the last survivors in a shipwreck. Looking over him she saw the white shirt, clammy-looking and stained with food, his skinny old shanks in shiny black trousers and his mouth hanging open like a bird waiting to be fed.
That’s all he’s done all his bloody life – wait for me to feed him.
Like the rest of the family, she decided, rage swelling in her. Take, take, take. Violet with her fancy ways now and her frippery little job mucking with women’s hair. Thought she was too good for them now, she did, and that Linda, like something the cat dragged in. Serve her right, miss smartypants. Never did to get above yourself, did it – grammar-school airs and graces. She’d never seen it come to anything that a bit of hard collar couldn’t do just as well.
As for Carol – well, who was the father of that one, eh? So it served them right really. Polio – Vi knew it was her punishment.
Behold I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me . . . The words jumped into her mind, startling her. Where did she know that from? Somewhere way back – Sunday School? Any road, Joyce was the only one with any sense, getting on with life the way it should be. Like Charlie and Gladys – they’d done
it right, never been any trouble.
Not like Rosina. Her picture and the two letters were still gathering dust on the mantel. Bessie never looked at them – not to take out and really look at. The letters were no good to her – she couldn’t make head nor tail of them. But Rosina’s face was there, always present behind the jug. She’d catch sight of a dark eye or the shoulder of her frock as she moved about the room. The scene at Joyce’s wedding replayed in her mind. Rosina’s glamorous get-up, her nervous, haunted expression and then her taking off along the street without even a glance at her mother, holding that hat on with her skinny arm, the ungrateful, scheming little bitch . . . Bessie realized her heart was beating so hard she had to push herself up in the chair and take in some deep breaths.
Oh, I mustn’t think about it . . . I don’t feel right today, that I don’t . . .
If only there was someone to make her a nice cup of tea. That’d sort her out.
‘Clarence?’ It came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Clarence? Oh, wake up, you deaf old bastard you. You useless, stinking old bag of bones, you’re no use to anyone, are you? Saddled with you all my bloody life . . .’
Rage engulfed her like a wave and she had to sit and concentrate on breathing until she felt a fraction calmer. All right, she’d have to make her own tea then. There’d been no one to help all her life – she wasn’t going to cave in now.
As she got the things together to make tea she realized her hands were shaking. The teaspoon clattered on the saucer. She steadied herself, holding on to the edge of the sink as the kettle heated. That stinking waste bucket! The stench of it seemed overwhelming. Sweat was running down her face.
She didn’t remember walking into the front room, sitting back down in her chair. A blackness spread through her head. When Clarence woke up, the kettle had boiled dry.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
‘Get on.’
Alan yanked the bike away from the wall outside the pub.
It was a few nights later and they had been drinking with two of his old school friends. The two of them had been on at Alan. What was he playing at? Why didn’t he pull himself together and get a proper job? Alan had lost his temper and stormed out, Linda following through the press of bodies, into the sultry evening.
He was trembling with fury.
‘I said get on!’
‘Alan!’ But she obeyed.
Before mounting the bike himself he reached into his bag and took out a bottle, swigging from it.
‘Al – be careful.’ Fear slithered like worms inside her. He was more angry and unpredictable than she had ever seen him.
He mounted and started up the engine, revving it furiously. Luckily she held on tight to him, because he shot off very fast along the road.
Frightened, Linda shouted out, not knowing if he could hear her. It made no difference so she pressed her cheek to his thin back in his leather jacket and held on tight as they roared along the Birmingham roads, taking corners very fast so that her stomach lurched with dread, and he headed north. She only had on a thin cardigan, with her jeans and short-sleeved blouse, and the air felt much cooler as they tore along, but she was sheltered by him. She closed her eyes, fighting the fear. The bike swerved from side to side, leaning right over as they went round corners very fast. There was nothing she could do except cling on and wait until it was over.
Finally, right out in the country he took them up a hill and stopped by a gate. Linda peeled herself shakily off the bike.
‘God, Al!’ she raged at him. ‘You scared me. You go too fast!’
‘Don’t be daft. I know what I’m doing. Come here.’
He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the lips, then drew back, and she could see him looking intently at her in the darkness.
‘D’you love me?’ he said.
‘Course I do.’
‘No, I mean really – do you?’
The intensity of the question took her aback. She did love him, didn’t she? She tried to quell in her the sense of unease that was growing. The voices of his friends had come back to her as she clung to him on the bike. What the hell are you doing? You’re messing up your life! And she was angry and insulted by them because she knew they thought she was part of the mess, that she was beneath Alan. But her anger left her and she felt very tender towards him again.
‘I do love you.’ She kissed his cheek, tears in her eyes. ‘I really love you. But you scare me sometimes.’
‘I don’t mean to. Look – let’s go up there.’ He nodded at the gate, behind which the field sloped up a little further, topped by a small clump of trees.
They climbed over and walked up in silence, holding hands. They had to leave the edge of the field and walk through the wheat to get to the top. They could hear it swishing against their legs. Once they reached the top, they sat in front of the trees. The moon was coming up, half full, and its light showed the pale wheat falling away in front of them and the darkness of the lower-lying ground beyond. You could just make out more trees at the far edge of the field, the warm night air mingled with the smell of wheat.
‘Those two, in the pub – were they your best mates at school?’
‘Yeah – I s’pose they were.’ Alan tore off a head of wheat and fiddled with it. ‘Not sure I see eye to eye with them now though. They seem – I dunno – as if we don’t care about the same things. Don’t speak the same language any more.’
Linda thought of Lucy Etheridge from the grammar school and how hard it would have been to keep that friendship up once she left.
Into her silence, he said, ‘I’ve got you, though.’
She smiled, though there was a moment of unease at the island the two of them seemed to have become, dark sea all round, no boats in sight.
‘Haven’t I?’
‘Yes – ’ She took his hand again, but he pulled away and put her arm round her shoulders instead, pulling her close.
‘My Linda – God, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
He rested his head against hers for a moment.
‘Look – ’ she pointed – ‘Stars.’
It was as if they suddenly became aware of them, as if they all came out at once.
‘I knew this bloke when I was a kid, called Johnny Vetch. He took me up a church tower to look at the stars.’
‘Why?’ Alan sounded puzzled.
‘He was just like that. It was in the war, when it was all dark. Johnny saw things different from everyone else. He was nice – to me, anyhow. But he killed himself.’
‘How?’
‘Cut his wrists.’
‘God. Why did he do it?’
‘I don’t know.’ She wanted to cry suddenly and had to swallow hard. ‘Everyone said he wasn’t right in the head. But he was nice. He knew a lot about things.’
After a moment, Alan said, ‘I don’t want to be like my father.’
‘I don’t want to be like my mother.’
‘Your mum’s nice!’
‘Yes. But I don’t want to be like her.’
‘I just want to get away.’ Alan stared up at the sky, the great distance of it. ‘Be somewhere else. Be someone else.’
Lowering his head, he said, ‘I’m so glad I met you.’ He kissed her and, passionately, she kissed him back.
She hadn’t given any thought to how far it might go that night. Neither of them had. They lay back at the edge of the wheat, flattening a swathe of it like a bed and clinging to each other. They had done very little before except kiss, but now neither of them was completely sober and she felt his hand slip under her blouse.
He hesitated. Neither of them knew what to do. ‘Can I?’ he said.
She nodded, wide-eyed, not knowing exactly what she had said yes to.
She had a moment of panic at the newness of what was happening, his warm fingers on her skin, and then nothing mattered but the sensations of his hands and their lips, which carried them through the unbuttoning and sliding off of jeans and their skin against one anothe
r’s until she could feel him between her legs, pushing into her, and though she barely understood what was happening she didn’t want to stop him. She wanted the feelings, and what would happen next. As he lay still on top of her afterwards, her arms and legs round his back, she felt awed, a bit afraid, almost unaware of what had happened. Alan made a small sound of contentment, and she kissed his cheek, stroking his back. Their faces were close together, his breath on her neck.
‘You scared me,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t scare me, Al. On the bike. You were going too fast.’
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Didn’t mean to. You’re everything . . . The whole world to me . . .’
She could hear that he was sleepy, overcome by the drink. He slid off her and they lay close. She held his slim body as they slept, naked on their bed of wheat.
She had never seen her mom so angry.
‘Get in here.’
Violet opened the door to leave for work as Linda crept up to the house after Alan had dropped her off. Once the door was shut, she got the full force of her mother’s ire.
‘Where the bleeding hell’ve you been? Out all night without a word, you selfish little cow – I thought . . .’ Violet raked her hand through her hair, which for once did not look immaculate.
‘You thought I was dead in a ditch,’ Linda mocked sarcastically. She’d felt a bit sorry on the way home, until Mom started on her. Now she just felt fed up.
‘Well, I don’t need to ask who you’ve been with, but God knows what you’ve been up to! I’m glad your sister’s at school so she doesn’t have to see you coming in with the bloody milk. You look as if you’ve slept in a field!’
‘I have slept in a field, if you really want to know.’
‘Oh yes – slept and what else – eh? All I can say is you’re running out of control – as if I haven’t got enough on my plate, with your nan having a turn . . . I’ll have words with you later, young lady – you’re making me late for work. Go on – out of my way . . .’
Violet yanked the front door open furiously.
