by Anne Berry
‘Shall we try for another?’ His tone was all husky with lust. I let him have his way. But I saw to it that he withdrew early. I use a diaphragm but I don’t trust it fully. When he’s big inside me I feel bunged up, blocked. I want to clench my muscles and push him out. I stroked his lined brow in the velvet of the night, tried to smooth the truth from it. ‘A companion for Lowrie? What do you say, Bethan?’
‘We’ll see,’ I replied, forecasting silently that there would be no more babies.
Chapter 16
Harriet, 1956
I SEE THIS house, our home, as a fourth person in our family, one that left to its own devices would be as dissolute as the fathers in Bermondsey who drink their wages weekly. Each day I set about knocking some order into it. And each day the house does all it can to thwart me in my pursuits. The society, the Sons of Temperance, has become our second home, our home away from home. My father would have been pleased at our involvement, pleased as well that Enid, my sister-in-law and her children, Frank and Rachel, number in the ranks of our brethren.
Have no delusions, the destructive power of drink is awesome. It should on no account be underestimated. It splits families asunder. It corrupts the mind and ruins the health of strong men. It undermines the morality of women. And it lures children into petty crime. The dismal sights that meet our eyes when we tramp the streets are a constant reminder to me. We march frequently, give out leaflets, spread the word, welcome with open arms our suffering brothers and sisters who are called to sign the pledge of lifelong abstinence: ‘We, the undersigned, vow to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality whether ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as medicine.’
We took Lucilla on the last march. That was an education for the girl, let me tell you. We held our banners high and paraded through the slums of Bermondsey, inviting the damned to swell our numbers and renounce the demon drink. Enid and I, spearheading our valiant troop, took turns displaying the finest of them all. Saint George painted on a fringed silk canvas. His sword and shield are at the ready. His cloak of temperance billows behind his plumed helmet. Under his conquering feet lies the slain dragon. His scaly body is beribboned by the horrors unleashed by drink.
‘Disease, Pauperism, Death, It Biteth Like a Serpent, Drink, Lust and Drunkenness.’ In the left-hand corner a rose bush blooms among the words, ‘Virtue, Peace and Love’ – the rewards for those that wrestle alcohol and, like Saint George, prevail. Frank, my dear nephew, nags me constantly, wanting to know when he will be tall enough to carry it.
‘It’s the most the brilliant of all the banners, Aunt Harriet. With Saint George stabbing the odious dragon, and the monster writhing in agony.’ That boy is going to grow up into a fine young man, a man who will amount to something. Rachel, my niece, shy girl that she is, has no aspirations to head up the processions. She claims the scenes depicted on the banners give her nightmares – such a homely, sensitive nature.
Merfyn’s immense contribution to the cause is common knowledge. His rise in the ranks has been meteoric. Already chairman, only last year, he was voted in as Intergroup Treasurer, looking after the savings of countless families who do not fritter away their money on gin, ale and whisky. It is a highly trusted position that only a celebrated few attain. When funds in the kitty are plentiful, we Sons and Daughters of Temperance holiday together, or arrange a day of field games, or an interesting and informative outing, or indeed attend an intergroup conference. In addition some members save for personal items, or budget for Christmas. On the marches, my husband cuts a dashing figure, as magnificent as the Lord Mayor of London, I like to think. His heavy gold chain of office is draped over his shoulders, the medallion with its enamel triangle at its heart, his badge of office, lying against his chest. To focus the group, we hold a prayer meeting before we set off.
‘“Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder. Proverbs twenty-three, verses thirty-one to thirty-two,’” Merfyn intones sonorously.
‘“At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder,”’ we faithful disciples chorus, speaking out with one tongue against the devil’s beverage.
And then we are off to scour the streets for new recruits. ‘Give up the evils of drink!’ we shout. ‘Join us!’ I let Lucilla give out leaflets. Her eyes were wide as saucers as she witnessed the poverty and misery, the ragged sickly children coughing and limping, the comatose mothers tippling on bathtub gin, the insensible, bleary-eyed men lying in the gutters babbling, their senses numbed with drink, the dogs licking their sores, and the piles of stinking rubbish attended by buzzing masses of blowflies.
‘This is what alcohol does to a man, Lucilla,’ I schooled, as a drunk made a grab for her with a shaky hand, mumbling unintelligibly. Sometimes they jeer us, as they jeered the Messiah. We embrace our martyrdom. It is their folly that separates them from God’s grace. And it is our duty to prise open their blind eyes. After this experience, Merfyn and I decide Lucilla is ready to attend meetings. I anticipate a show of thanks at the honour we are bestowing upon her. What I get is a mule, hoofs planted stubbornly.
‘I am perfectly happy staying home here with Mrs Fortinbrass,’ she demurs.
‘This is like school, Lucilla. When you were five you went to school. Now you are eight you will attend the temperance meetings.’
She tucks a straggle of hair behind her ears and her brow puckers. ‘Must I go?’ she asks, downcast.
‘Yes you must,’ I retort crossly. ‘We take the trolley bus from East Finchley to Archway, to the chapel hall. There are special groups for children. Aunt Enid will be there, and your cousins, Frank and Rachel. There are games and competitions and dances. And you’ll make dozens of friends. Nice children from nice families.’
‘Are we a nice family?’ she wants to know.
‘Of course we are. The nonsensical questions you do ask, Lucilla! Why, it makes my head pound.’
Her father cajoles the little madam with a promise. If she does as she is told, he will give serious consideration to her requests for a pet, a dog. I glare at this, because it is obvious who will have to feed it and clear up after it. Still, her eyes brighten and she skips docilely out of the house. Unfortunately, it is soon apparent that Lucilla is as burdensome at the meetings as she is at home, and doubtless at school also. I have now lost count of the amount of times she has been sent to stand outside the chapel doors for her mischief. Frank reports her having shameful tantrums in our absence. Rachel loyally sticks up for her, but then she is generous and willing to forgive anything. When I discuss these aberrant passions of hers with my husband, he disregards them saying she is certain to get into the swing of things eventually. We are in two minds on this, but we shall see.
Lucilla is constantly under my feet, asking me why for goodness’ sake. What kind of question is that? Why?
‘I don’t know!’ I tell her, when she demands to know why Monday is wash day. ‘Because Tuesday is drying day. And Wednesday is my day for ironing. While Thursday is earmarked for shopping. And Friday is when I give the house a thorough clean, top and tail.’
‘But why do you do it all day?’ she flutes. She does not keep still when she talks to me, and I dislike this habit of continuous purposeless motion. To me it indicates a lack of respect. She is hopping about first on one foot then the other, for no good reason at all that I can divine. ‘Can’t you do it for a short while and then go out to play?’ she pesters me.
‘No. I do it all day because it takes all day,’ I rejoin, a sensation of pressure along my hairline giving warning of an approaching migraine. ‘Clothes don’t wash themselves, Miss Mousey.’
‘I don’t care whether my clothes are clean or ironed,’ she toots back undaunted. ‘You can leave mine out, Mother, if that makes less work for you.’ Can you believe it!
‘Do have some common sense, Lucilla,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘
What would people think if I sent you out looking as grimy as a guttersnipe?’
She shrugs her narrow shoulders. ‘Why does it matter what people think?’
That wretched word again. We are in the basement. The sheets are boiling in the copper with the Sunlight Flakes. The washboard is out. The tin bath is filled to the brim ready for rinsing. I tip in the Dolly Blue. We bought Lucilla a miniature wooden washboard and a small plastic tub. I have run water into it, added a few flakes and lathered it up. I dip my tongs into the copper and stir the linen sheets in the scalding water.
‘Aren’t you going to wash your dolly’s clothes?’ I ask, indicating her stubbornly unnamed doll, stoically bearing the indignity of being dangled by her hair.
‘They’re not dirty,’ she cheeks me back. A sudden change of mood. She is as inconstant as the weather, this child. ‘Can I turn the mangle handle?’ she petitions her face all pleading now, her doll abandoned in a dingy corner.
I stare through the steam at my Harris table mangle. ‘Perhaps. When we’re ready.’ The air is humid as a jungle, marbled with soapy vapours. And Lucilla’s pixie face swims in and out of the steam. Apart from the slits in the wooden hatch of the coal shoot that afford a few needles of daylight, the only other source of illumination is an unshielded light bulb suspended from the ceiling.
‘I like squishing out the water and seeing the sheets sliding through thin as paper,’ Lucilla rhapsodises prodding at the handle.
My nose tickles in the poached air and I sneeze. ‘I think your doll does want you to wash her clothes.’ Her prolonged inactivity is beginning to grate on me.
‘No, she doesn’t,’ she counters perkily. ‘She told me. Besides, she can’t stand her pink dress. She thinks it’s ugly. She wants me to rip it up.’
‘What an awful thing to say,’ I growl, irritability now taking hold. ‘It’s a lovely dress and your dolly should be grateful that she has it.’
‘Well, she isn’t,’ sings back Lucilla, her disposition bright as the noonday sun. She darts into the corner for a speedy conference with her doll. Lifting it up to her ear, she throttles it and nods.
‘Yes … yes … mm … oh you do? OK, I’ll tell her.’ Those disturbing turquoise eyes come to rest unflinchingly on me. ‘Dolly says she would prefer to wear trousers, like the ones Daddy has.’
‘Well then, dolly is very silly with no brains at all,’ I snipe, jabbing at the sheets with my tongs as if they are a harpoon and I am trying to lance a seal. ‘If your doll was smart she’d know that girls wear dresses and only boys wear trousers.’
‘But that’s not true. I’ve seen girls wearing trousers,’ Lucilla impugns. She drops her doll again and crosses her arms over her chest. ‘Anyway I agree with her. I want to wear trousers too. All the time. Not stupid skirts and fancy frocks. You can’t do anything in dresses. And they’re draughty as well.’
I sometimes think I know less about her now, than when we rode home with her on the bus that spring day in 1948. ‘Lucilla, I am not going to quarrel with you about this. I’ve told you, no daughter of mine is going to wear trousers.’
She turns her back on me, folds herself in half and spies on me through her open legs. ‘You’re upside down, Mother, standing on your head on the ceiling,’ she observes merrily.
I did make a concession to our dress code. Blue needlecord, that’s what I purchased. Three and a half yards, a fresh light blue. I made her some shorts and a shirt to match, on the proviso that she must obtain my express permission to wear them. You’d have thought the clothes were her second skin she was in them so much. But the material faded. And last weekend I noticed a tear on a sleeve, and another on the seat of the shorts. ‘There is nothing for it,’ I explained, ‘but that the outfit will have to go to the ragbag.’ What I had on my hands following this timely announcement was no less than a mutiny. I held firm and the house resounded with her petulant sobbing. But eventually she gave in and handed them over. With a sense of relief, I shovelled the boyish outfit into the bag, and consigned it to be recycled as patchwork.
I am constantly trying to engage Lucilla’s interest in sewing, to demonstrate how my treadle sewing machine works. I want to teach her all the skills I mastered at the clothes factory where I was employed. But she does not seem to appreciate the opportunity afforded her. She is an unwilling pupil. To my chagrin, she makes herself scarce whenever I get out my sewing box. I purchased her a French knitting doll as a last resort. And to be fair crocheting woollen ropes diverts her for a few minutes before she starts to fidget. What frustrates me is that there is no appetite for more, no drive to learn the craft of knitting, of embroidery, to tackle the multitude of stitches.
‘Wouldn’t you like to have a go at basket weave? Single chevron? Windmill? Mock cable then? How about close checks? Very well, two by two rib,’ I coax as she shakes her head. I persevere casting a few stitches on her stumpy plastic needles. And lo and behold that infuriatingly dreamy look screens her eyes. I may as well be communicating with a mannequin in a shop window. ‘Well, wouldn’t you, Lucilla?’
‘They look fiddly. I’ve got a new book from the library,’ she tells me on a sigh, bouncing on the stool by the side of my chair. ‘Heidi. The librarian says it’s all about a little girl who is orphaned, and goes to live in the Swiss mountains with her grandfather.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Her previous disinterest is contagious. Prattling about her wearisome books has much the same effect on me as the mention of sewing does on her. I yawn and twist the hornet-yellow three-ply so tightly about my index finger that I cut off the circulation and it throbs. And that is another irksome thing. Constantly loitering in the library on her way home from school, when she has homework and chores to do. Books and drawing, that’s all she seems devoted to. She’s at her scribbles day and night. It has been known for me to come upon her sitting up in bed painting, her paintbox open, a jam jar of dirty water propped up against her pillow if you please!
‘Lucilla! You do not paint in bed!’ I said, seizing the lot. I commandeered it for a month. I would have liked to throw it in the bin.
Now she continues chattering about Heidi, this book that she finds so much more enticing than an hour’s sewing instruction with her mother. ‘Heidi’s mummy and daddy are dead,’ she says blithely. ‘But it isn’t a bit sad, because her grandfather looks after her. And he’s ever so kind – although he pretends to be gruff. And he makes her toasted cheese and she sleeps on a bed of straw.’ A pause, then, ‘I’d like to go and live in the mountains with goats,’ she adds shiny-eyed, tap-dancing her feet.
‘Well, you don’t live there now,’ I riposte, unwinding the wool from my fingers. ‘You live in London.’
She sucks in her lips, considering. ‘I don’t like London terribly much. When I grow up I shall live on a mountain.’
I give a sarcastic laugh, unable to resist baiting her. ‘And exactly where will you live on your mountain? In a cave?’ I rewind the ball of wool, snatch the knitting needles from her hands and ram them in my sewing bag.
‘Maybe,’ she says a little doubtfully.
‘There are bats in caves,’ I point out, smothering a smile. Your play now, missy. Fear fogs the blue of her eyes fleetingly. ‘What about doing your embroidery?’ We last attempted lazy daisy and stem stitch.
‘Will Daddy be home soon?’ she asks, changing the subject and glancing at the mantel clock.
‘He’s going to be late tonight,’ I tell her. ‘Now what about your sampler?’
‘Oh, please can I go and read my book?’ She looks hopeful and frankly my enthusiasm has drained away.
‘Very well.’ I get up suddenly and she shies away from me, falling off her stool. ‘I’ll see to tea.’ We are having salad. In the kitchen, peeling the shells off the eggs, I realise that distracted by Lucilla I’ve overboiled them. The whites are stained a dark greyish green.
Chapter 17
Lucilla, 1959
WHEN SHE WAS eight, Lucilla had a nightmare. She only had it that
once but it stayed with her, repeated on her like the indigestible meals her mother dished up. In it there was a ghoul with shreds of silvered skin hanging down from its squat, voluptuous, pallid body. They were pinned to its torso, and the pinheads glinted fiendishly in a grid of moonlight. They rippled and undulated. But the pins anchored them securely in position. Some of the shreds had paper casings under them that rustled. But the scariest thing about the ghost was that it had no head and no arms, and a single crutch instead of legs. Where the head and arms should have been attached was nothing, only the vacuous night. The shock of seeing this decapitated spectre made her heart contract violently, and when she sucked in a breath she had a painful stitch in her side.
The head was the seat of nearly all the senses, eyes and sight, tongue and taste, ears and hearing, nose and smell. The sense of touch was there, as well, but then it was scattered all over your body. This decapitated fiend, though devoid of reason, its pearly epidermis all slashed to ribbons, pulsed with life. It reared up in front of Lucilla. She couldn’t dodge the wadded bulk of it. What petrified her most was that it was her reflection. Most days she felt headless, armless, voiceless. Where her brain should be, where an identity was normally planted in memory and knowledge, was a vacuum.
That was when she started screaming. The piercing shrieks didn’t seem to be emanating from her, but from another girl sleepwalking on the landing. She was still screaming when the light made her squint, screaming too when her father loomed over her in his striped pyjamas, blue and maroon, and his brown wool dressing gown, screaming too when Mrs Fortinbrass’s door opened a few inches and her diminutive face popped out of the gap. She alone was welcome, the North Star to a lost mariner. A lady in lavender. A lavender nightgown. A lavender knitted bed jacket. Even a lavender hairnet with her grey hair neatly coiled under it. Her smile was a damp scented flannel on a hot fevered brow.
