But Ginny had seen Nellie in action too many times of late to dare comment about being wasteful. Her mother-in-law had changed so much. She could now take it into her head, for no reason other than causing mischief it seemed, deliberately to misinterpret the most innocuous of Ginny’s remarks as being the most cutting criticism. And she would throw even more coal on the fire just for spite.
Tired, anxious and fed up as she felt, Ginny had no choice but to try and keep Nellie in a good mood. I’m really glad I’ve got this new job, you know, Nell. But who’d have thought I’d be working in an electrics factory, eh?’ Ginny allowed herself a little smile as she thought about the deposit she had taken from her week’s wages to put on the wireless the day before. With her staff discount she had chosen a model that was really top of the range. Even Nellie couldn’t help but be pleased when she saw it.
‘I’d prefer to be doing machining still, of course, but at least I’m earning until something more suitable comes up. And I can get plenty of overtime at this place.’
‘Overtime? Is that what you call it? Well I call it staying out all hours. You’re never sodding here when I need you.’
Ginny flinched at Nellie’s tone. ‘You’ve got Dilys to help you,’ she replied cautiously.
She draped the final shirt over the clothes-horse and put the iron outside the back door to cool down. ‘She told me she’s been doing all sorts over here,’ she said, straightening up and kneading her knuckles into the small of her aching back.
‘You could say that,’ Nellie snorted.
Ginny refilled the kettle at the sink. Nellie put away more tea than anyone Ginny had ever known; and Ginny was expected to keep her well supplied. ‘So,’ she said, lighting the gas stove, ‘what gossip have you got for me then, Nell? I haven’t had much of a chance to catch up, what with all the extra hours I’m putting in.’
Nellie paused for a moment, torn between pointedly ignoring Ginny’s attempts at pleasantness on the one hand and, on the other, the pleasure she would gain in passing on a story that would wind up the silly little cow like a watch spring.
Nellie’s new-found fondness for malice against her dozy daughter-in-law won. But it was her own fault, Nellie reasoned; if only the girl had shown some spirit, Nellie would probably have left her alone – she might even have tried discouraging Dilys a bit – but Ginny was just too easy a target to resist.
At one time, she had tolerated Ginny – just – but over the years she had started wearing down her patience more and more, and Nellie was beginning to wonder whether she should really start working on her and perhaps she’d bugger off and let Dilys move in. Not that Nellie was that struck with Dilys. But at least she made her laugh. Plus she was generous with the booze; and Nellie seemed to get through the hard stuff faster and faster these days. She’d have hated that little source of pleasure to dry up.
‘You heard what happened to that stupid mare over the road yesterday, I suppose?’
‘What, Dilys?’ Ginny asked over her shoulder as she rinsed out the teapot.
Nellie was sorely tempted to say yes, that’s right, Dilys. She’s been over here schtupping your old man while you’ve been grafting all the hours God sends. That’d wipe the stupid smile off her face. It would do her good to hear a few home truths. But she didn’t. Not because she cared for her daughter-in-law’s feelings, of course, but because Ted wouldn’t have liked it if she’d grassed on him. Nellie had never really figured out why, but her boy seemed to like keeping her around the place, flapping about with her bloody dusters and irons. The more Ted had a pop at the soppy tart, the more she tried to keep the house looking like a flaming palace. It drove Nellie to distraction.
Nellie looked her up and down as she walked back to the table, folded the ironing blanket and stuck it away in the bottom of the dresser. At least she had a decent figure, Nellie supposed, and her Ted liked that in a woman. So maybe she was good for something.
‘I was talking to Pearl earlier,’ Ginny said amiably, ‘while we was both out scrubbing the street doorsteps. And she never said nothing about Dilys.’
Nellie sighed theatrically. Huh! Pearl Chivers. Dilys’s flaming perfect mother and Ginny’s special friend, who was always there if Ginny needed her. She made Nellie sick. She was another one always cleaning and polishing. But at least Pearl could have a row and had a mouth on her like a docker when she let go. Nellie had to hand that to her: she wasn’t a mouse. Not like Dolly Day-dream, who didn’t seem to know what day of the week it was half the time, let alone how to stand up for herself.
‘I don’t mean Dilys, do I?’ Nellie rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘And if you’d just keep your trap shut for a couple o’ minutes, and let me get a flaming word in edgeways, I’d bloody well be able to tell you who I mean.’
‘Sorry, Nellie.’
‘I should think so.’
‘Well?’ Ginny asked, her voice small and coaxing.
‘I was talking about Violet Varney.’
‘What, she’s turned up, has she?’ Ginny asked hopefully, as she returned to the sink and filled a blue-rimmed white enamel bowl ready to peel the potatoes for tea-time.
‘Yeah. She’s turned up all right.’
‘Thank Gawd for that.’ Ginny bent down and took a string bag full of potatoes and some old newspapers from under the sink, and carried them and the basin of water over to the table. ‘You know, Nellie, I reckon it broke Violet’s heart having to send them kids away. When she went amongst the missing last week, I really thought, that’s it, she’s gone off her head, she’s had it away ’cos she can’t stand it no more.’
Nellie folded her arms triumphantly across her aproned bosom. This was going to shock the dopey little madam. ‘If you must know, you was right. She did go off her head.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Ginny let a long thin curl of peel drop on to the paper she had spread out on the table.
‘The stupid tart’s gone and topped herself.’
‘She’s what?’ The knife and the half-peeled potato fell from Ginny’s hands into the bowl with a messy splash.
Nellie stared critically at the spilt water. ‘Left this really miserable note, didn’t she? Her Bert found it propped up on the front room mantelpiece. Went screaming along the street to Bobby and Martha at the Prince Albert, just like a man possessed. I’m surprised Pearl never mentioned it to you. She must have heard him. And what with you two being so friendly.’
She said the last word as though it were a nasty, contagious affliction that might infect the incautious at any moment.
Ginny could only stare, as Nellie paused to search the pockets of her cross-over apron for her Woodbines. Having found them, she stuck one in the corner of her mouth, lit it and tossed the spent match carelessly into the hearth.
Picking a stray strand of tobacco from her lip, Nellie continued as casually as if she had been discussing nothing more interesting than the price of cod. ‘That kettle’s boiling,’ she said with a lift of her chin. She made no attempt to get up.
Automatically, Ginny went over and switched off the gas. She twisted round to face Nellie with a puzzled frown. ‘Look, Nellie, am I missing something here? You did say Bert, didn’t you? Bert Varney? How could Bert find the note? He’s dead.’
‘No he ain’t. It’s Violet what’s dead. Mind you, when he finds out Violet was on the sodding game, I bet he’ll wish he was a goner.’ Nellie screwed up her nose and shuddered with revulsion. ‘And wait till he finds out about her getting a dose . . . What a show-up! A right win double!’
Ginny dropped down on to her chair and rubbed her hands over her face, trying to make sense of it all. ‘I know I must sound stupid, Nell, but start again, will you? You’re saying Violet’s dead, but Bert Varney ain’t?’
‘Blimey, you got cloth ears or something?’ She puffed irritably on her cigarette. ‘Yes, Violet’s Uncle Ned. And no, Bert ain’t. Got it? It was all a mistake. He was in a camp, wasn’t he. In Japan or somewhere.’
Ginny could hard
ly take it in. ‘But that Japan business was all over more than six months ago. How could he—’
Nellie threw up her hands in exasperation. ‘I know, but he was sick or something, wasn’t he. Got transferred to some hospital. With some nuns . . .’
‘How d’you mean?’
Nellie shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I dunno, do I. He had this fever thing. Didn’t know his arse from his elbow, let alone who he was, or what his name was. But when he got better they sent him home.’ She shook her head contemptuously. ‘Bet they were glad to get rid of him, with all his moaning. You know what he’s like.’
‘So how did—’
‘And then,’ she continued, not best pleased at being interrupted – conversations were always more monologues than dialogues as far as Nellie was concerned – ‘when he found out that Violet had mullered herself and she’d sent his oldest kids to the other side of the world to that Africa place, and that his youngest had gone to live with Vi’s sister down in Yalding. Well, he led off alarming, didn’t he. Bobby got him straight out of the pub and on to the first train down to Kent. Best place for him, if you ask me: surrounded by hop gardens and sheep, and with a bunch of bloody carrot crunchers for neighbours. They won’t know no better if he goes doolally, will they? ’Cos they’re all a bit funny down there anyway.’
Nellie shifted her bosom with the back of her hand. ‘Must be all that fresh air.’ She wrinkled her nose with distaste. ‘Can’t do you no good, can it?’
‘Nobody should have to sink as low as she did.’ Ginny dropped her chin and stared down at the floor. ‘I should have done more to help her. But you know what she was like. She was so private—’
‘Private?’ Nellie spluttered. ‘She was bloody ashamed! Filthy trollop.’
Ginny shook her head in disbelief that so much tragedy could visit just one family. ‘That poor feller.’
‘Who’s a poor feller?’ someone asked.
Ginny looked up to see Ted standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb.
‘Ted!’ Ginny leapt up from the table and ran across the kitchen to him, but he held up his hands to make sure she kept her distance.
‘Mind off, you dozy cow. Can’t you see I’m in pain?’
She winced, not at his harsh words, but at the unmistakable, if faint, whiff of scent. She swallowed hard, determined to keep her voice steady, then asked softly, ‘What’s wrong, Ted?’
‘I slipped, didn’t I? Last night. On the wet stones down the docks. While I was having a trade. I hurt me leg.’
She frowned as she watched Ted hobble over to the table and carefully lower himself on to one of the hard kitchen chairs. It didn’t look as though it was his leg that was hurting.
Carelessly, he shoved the bowl, potatoes and peelings to one side and rested his elbows in their place. ‘I couldn’t drive, could I. So I had to stay the night with a bloke I was doing the bit of business with.’
She felt relief flood through her. He had stayed at a friend’s house. The scent must have been from his wife. Ginny was a past master at convincing herself of anything where Ted was concerned.
‘And have you brought anything home from the docks for your poor old mum?’ Nellie asked pathetically.
Gingerly, Ted, shifted his weight and eased his hand into his trouser pocket. He held out his car keys to Ginny. ‘Go out to the car. There’s some bananas on the back seat.’
‘Bananas!’ Ginny ran out to the car to fetch them.
Nellie wasn’t so impressed. ‘I’d rather have a few quid. Or a nice leg o’ pork.’
Ted snorted at his mother’s ingratitude. ‘I bring you the first bananas this country’s seen since bloody 1939 and you don’t even say thank you.’
‘Well, can you sodding well blame me?’ Nellie no longer sounded pathetic, she sounded put out, very put out, and very loud. ‘D’you know what they had in the paper yesterday?’
Ted didn’t answer.
‘Oi! I’m talking to you. A bloody recipe for Squirrel Pie. That’s what. That’s what the sodding government’s telling us to eat.’ Nellie was getting into her stride – it didn’t take much. ‘We’re going to have a lovely time, ain’t we? Squirrels and pissing bananas. I’m not getting no younger, Ted. I need a bit of comfort in me old age.’
Ginny had heard her mother-in-law’s hollering from outside in the street, but she was determined not to let Nellie upset her. Ted was home and that was all that mattered.
She came back into the kitchen and took the bananas from under her apron – although she was sure that all the neighbours knew what Ted was up to, she didn’t like to advertise the fact – and, with a careful smile, put them on the table in front of Ted.
Ted ripped one off the bunch and tossed it to Nellie.
Grudgingly she peeled off the skin.
‘Don’t get a gob on you, Mum,’ he sighed. ‘What sort of a son do you think I am? You know you won’t have to go eating no squirrels while I’m around.’
Nellie shrugged, unable to speak with all the fruit she had crammed in her mouth.
‘We’ve got plenty.’ Ted jerked his head at Ginny. ‘Go up and get some of them boxes down, Gin. Show the old girl what I’ve got up there. When I flog that little lot, we’ll be rolling in it. And there’s plenty more where they come from an’ all.’
As Ginny knelt in front of the wardrobe, she heard someone come into the room behind her.
She looked warily over her shoulder – she would never get used to Ted’s ‘business’ – but it was all right, it was Ted.
He limped slowly towards her. ‘Leave that for now,’ he said, his lips stretched with pain. ‘I wanna bit of peace. I’m going to bed.’
Ginny stood up. ‘Shall I get in with you?’ she whispered.
‘Leave off.’ Ted climbed on to the bed and rolled over on to his side, clutching himself in agony. Billy Saunders, he fumed to himself. I swear, I’ll find you, and I’ll have you, you bastard . . .
It was Saturday morning, two weeks after Ted had been attacked, and Ginny hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since the night before.
He could now walk around without clasping himself in agony, but his improved health hadn’t done anything to improve his mood. Whenever he did condescend to come home – which wasn’t very often – he always seemed to be angry with Ginny about something or other. Anything could get him going: from the food on his plate suddenly not being to his liking, to Ginny singing quietly to herself as she washed up after him. It was like living with a time bomb that was ticking away, just waiting to go off in her face.
Any other Saturday, Ginny might have kidded herself that she was pleased Ted wasn’t there to get in her way while she did the housework, but today was 30 March, Nellie’s birthday and she had expected her son to be there with her. So Nellie wasn’t very happy.
She had carried on at Ginny as though it was all her fault that he had stayed out all night again, and instead of being grateful, or even pleased, with the wireless that Ginny had bought her, Nellie looked at it with about as much interest as if she’d been given a pair of size fifteen football boots without any laces.
It wasn’t that Nellie didn’t like Ginny’s gift – she loved it, although it would have killed her to say so – no, it was the fact that she wanted her Ted there, fussing over her, giving her presents, treating her like the queen she believed herself to be. Her son had gained himself quite a reputation around the East End for being a black marketeer, a real spiv, and Nellie basked in his notoriety as the bloke who could get you anything. It gave her a feeling of superiority to know that people were beholden to her boy for all the little things that were so difficult to get unless you had ‘contacts’.
No matter how they pretended to be good, law-abiding citizens, it seemed that nearly everyone was involved in some sort of fiddle: buying a bit of this and a bit of that from any source they could find. And it wasn’t only luxuries that were hard to come by. Everyday food items were still in short supply and anything that could help str
etch the rations – that were now even meaner than during the worst of the war years – could be sold for a good profit. As to where the stuff actually came from . . . Well, that didn’t seem to be much of a cause for concern for all the eager customers.
Nellie had longed to see her Ted walk through the kitchen door with his arms full of gear that her neighbours could only dream about and say, ‘Here you are, Mum, happy birthday.’ But he hadn’t, and she had gone on and on about it. She went on so much, in fact, that when Pearl and George came over to take Nellie down to the Albert for a lunch-time celebration port and lemon – Pearl’s all-seeing eyes hadn’t missed Ginny’s predicament – Ginny put her hands together in gratitude. It seemed almost like a treat to be left in peace to get on with the housework.
Ginny had just finished scouring the wooden draining board when the back door flew back on its hinges and Ted burst into the kitchen. ‘Get upstairs,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’
Ginny’s heart leapt: Ted might not have expressed himself very romantically, but she was so relieved that he was still interested in her, she treasured his words as though they’d come written on a card with a dozen long-stemmed roses.
It had been two weeks since they’d last been to bed together and she’d been seriously worried that he’d finally gone off her. And she couldn’t have stood that. Despite everything, Ginny just couldn’t contemplate life without him; couldn’t stand the thought of being completely alone. The past fortnight had been terrible. Whenever Ted had been home, he’d made her sleep downstairs on the armchair in the front room. She knew it was because he was in so much pain, but she would have happily slept on the bedroom floor – if he would have let her.
‘I’ve missed you, Ted. I’ve really—’ she began, walking towards him.
‘You can get that idea right out of your head,’ he sneered, barging past her and out into the passage. ‘Now come on. Move yourself. We’ve gotta get all that gear out of the wardrobe.’
Dream On Page 8
