by Annie Murray
‘Well – here we go,’ Danny said. ‘I’ve got as close as I can. That’s the door you need.’ He sat for a moment, the engine cut off, hands braced on the wheel.
Tommy didn’t want to get out of the car, not yet. Streams of people were making their way into the works, some glancing into the car. A small covered walkway across the road divided the offices from the manufacturing section of the works.
It felt as if Dad had something to say. The discomfort of it grew in the car.
‘Look, son,’ Danny came out with at last, staring through the windscreen. ‘You’re a good lad. You’ll do well, I’m sure. But people can be unkind. They don’t always know how to deal with you . . .’
As if I need telling, Tommy raged inside. As if his guts weren’t in turmoil because of these very thoughts swirling in his head. He just wanted to get out of the car. To begin and get it over with.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’d better go, Dad. Don’t want to be late.’ He saw Danny move to get out. ‘S’all right,’ he said quickly, grasping his stick. ‘I can manage.’
On the pavement with his stick, he felt exposed and foolish, but he stood tall and waved his father away. Danny gave one of his brief gestures of parting with the flat of his hand against the window. And, amid the sea of hurrying workers, for the first time he could remember, Tommy was out in the world, alone.
‘Here y’are, mate – you can sit here.’
The supervisor stood over him as Tommy sank, still panting from the effort and worry of getting up the stairs to the office. Already he felt exhausted. He was in a room with windows along one side, at a seat among a row of desks which, though not a production line exactly, was how he imagined a production line would look. Only this was a production line of papers.
The man treated him in a breezy, infantile way, not sure how to talk to him.
‘Here you are – this is the invoice department.’ He spoke slowly as if he was explaining things to a small child. Now – I’ll show you what you have to do.’
The job, Tommy learned, consisted of tearing off the invoices – in this case for L-plates – sorting the copies and stapling them together. While easy as falling off a log for someone with two working arms and a working brain, Tommy was minus one of the working arms. He eyed up the work before him, the stapler. He could manage it, one movement at a time, and he set off. It was laborious and slow, lining up the sheets of paper. He soon worked out a way of tucking the front inch or so of an invoice over the edge of the desk and pressing his body against it while he used his right hand to staple the corners.
There was a young lad on one side of him and a girl on the other. The boy was ginger-headed, with very pale eyelashes and about his age. Tommy felt sure they were working far quicker than he ever could and he felt tense and foolish. It was not as if it was a difficult job.
The girl was pale, black-haired, plump-faced and sleepy looking. She had a very big chest which Tommy found his eyes drawn to in fascination. Neither his mother nor Melly was anything like that. Among all the females he knew, he had never seen one quite that shape before. It gave him an excited feeling. Once she caught him staring at her and made a rude face at him. He looked away, his cheeks burning. By asking a few questions throughout the morning he ascertained that neither of his work fellows had any O-levels.
As soon as the lunch break arrived, both his neighbours fled the office to the company restaurant or the shops without asking him if he needed anything. Mom had sent him with a pack of sandwiches and he ate them at his desk, wondering where the lavs were. He found out when the ginger-headed boy came back, tucking into a greasy and delicious-looking sausage roll.
‘Wha’s yer name?’ he asked Tommy, swallowing so that his Adam’s apple wobbled.
‘Tommy.’
‘Mine’s Micky. Tha’s Con.’ He nodded at the busty girl’s empty chair. ‘Wha’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing,’ Tommy said, irritated by the way he said it. ‘Nothing’s the – matter – with – me.’
‘But you talk funny – and you’re a cripple, ain’t yer?’ He took another bite and added, muffled, ‘Tha’s what Con said. You’re from the home – the cripples’ home.’
How did they know where he was from? Tommy wondered, a blush spreading across his face. He looked down at his desk.
‘I’ve – never –’ Because he was tense his speech became more contorted. It always did. ‘Been in – a – home,’ he said as firmly as he could manage. ‘I – live in – Harborne.’
Micky stared at him, swallowing the last of the sausage roll. ‘Oh, ar,’ he said finally. ‘Well, you look like a cripple to me.’
It was going to be a very long afternoon.
When he made his way out of the building at clocking-off time, the grey Standard was waiting almost where Danny had dropped him off.
‘All right, son?’ Dad said, as he got in.
‘Yeah.’ He felt like crying.
Dad pulled away from the kerb. ‘Well, you seem to be all in one piece. How d’yer get on?’
‘All right,’ Tommy said. He just wanted to curl up somewhere and be very quiet.
‘Well,’ Dad said, seeming cheerful. ‘You’ve done your first day’s work!’
Work, the work he was apparently so lucky to be doing – was one of the most dismal experiences of his life. Was this all, from now on?
He could see his father was more at ease with him because he could work like anyone else. And there were people he knew at Carlson House, like his friend Martin, whose twisted bodies would never let them enter that world the way Tommy had done. He ought to be feeling happier, he told himself. He had survived it. And he knew he must put on a brave front to go home and face Mom.
She was waiting, obviously hovering as he came through the door, in her apron, a spoon in her hand which she had carried from the kitchen on hearing the door.
‘Hello, babby – Tommy, I mean – how did you get on?’ Her breathless anxiety was all too apparent.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’ He forced a smile on to his face.
‘Is that the lad?’ He heard Gladys’s voice from the back room. Auntie – had she come over specially? ‘Come in here, Tommy, and tell yer auntie all about it.’
So much happiness that he had a job, that he could lift the burden of himself from their shoulders. He limped into the back room to tell Gladys that the day had been good and people were nice and it was all right.
Only later, in bed, in the little box room he had to himself, did he let himself cry, muffling any sound with the bedclothes. He thought of Kev, of all the football and cricket he played at the grammar school, things he could never ever do himself. He might have been like Kev – mightn’t he? They said he was clever. Had a brain. But his body let his brain down.
And now he was faced with this, day in day out. A few of the older ladies were kind and motherly to him. But with the younger ones, like Con, they either ignored him or treated him like a curiosity or an idiot. Without a flaming O-level between them! he reflected bitterly. The near presence of Con’s breasts would not leave him alone. At least that bit of me works all right, he thought, as he hardened with excitement. But his arousal cast him into further gloom. No girl was ever going to look at him, was she?
At Carlson House he had seldom been frustrated because the life there was tailored to his needs and so many of the others had had bodies that were even more uncooperative than his.
But now, he thought, this same body shaking with sobs, now it was always going to be like this. Like hell. Only he’d have to keep quiet about it – and be grateful for having anything at all.
Thirty-Five
December 1960
Rachel crumpled up the last of the paper streamers which had sagged in colourful lines across the room. The kids had had a lovely time making them and she smiled at the thought of Ricky, Sandra and Alan round the table before Christmas, for once not squabbling too much over the squeezy little bottle of glue and the cut-out stri
ps of coloured paper and old magazines Danny had brought home for them to use.
She hurried out to the back to put them in the dustbin, her head bowed in the drizzle. It was a horrible grey day and she felt flat and sad.
Just before Christmas she had had a visit from Cissy with the baby boy she had given birth to six weeks earlier, Andrew as she had called him. Cissy was besotted with the little lad who, like his mother, looked plump, creamy and satisfied. She reported that Teddy was over the moon at the birth of his son. Rachel’s own children had loved meeting Andrew. And then there was all the excitement of Christmas, the children up at crack of dawn to find their stockings and all the cooking and enjoying being together, all of them around her. Gladys had come over and it had been one of the happiest family times she could remember.
Rachel sighed as she shut the door behind her. Funny, she thought, how you want your children to grow up, but then again, you feel lost when they do. A feeling of grief rose in her for a moment and her eyes filled.
Danny was at the table in the kitchen doing their accounts for the market. Kev had gone to see a pal of his and she could hear the other three upstairs, playing at something, not fighting for the moment. Rachel filled the kettle, wishing there was no one else in the house just for a while.
As she tidied the kitchen her mind wandered to Tommy and she felt immediately anxious. It was Melly who had forced her to see what was in front of her eyes.
Melly had come home for Christmas but she had only been able to stay one night. She was on an early shift on the ward on Christmas Day, so Danny had had to go and pick her up afterwards. Rachel felt a bit hurt that she did not appear to mind this. Her daughter had been sucked into the life of the hospital and did not seem to need them any more.
But Melly had taken her aside, upstairs, that evening.
‘Mom –’ She closed the door of the bedroom she was now sharing with Sandra. They stood between the beds, on the runner of blue carpet. ‘I want to talk to you. What the hell’s wrong with Tommy? He looks terrible!’
Rachel was on the defensive immediately.
‘What d’you mean?’ But she knew. She had been trying not to notice because she had no idea what to do about it.
‘He looks . . .’ Melly tried to find the words. ‘Not like Tommy. He looks sad and not himself. I asked him about the job again – I mean, he’d said he didn’t like it very much. Now he won’t say anything.’
‘Well, he’s only been there a little while,’ Rachel said, turning away to sit down on Sandra’s bed. She tried to sound as if it was nothing to worry about. ‘It’s bound to be difficult, isn’t it? He’ll take longer than most people to settle in. And everyone has to do jobs they don’t like sometimes.’
Melly folded her arms. Rachel felt as if her daughter could see right through her and was suddenly older than she was. This made her bristle with annoyance. After all, she was the one here with Tommy day after day – why did Melly always think she knew better?
‘I’ll talk to him,’ was all Melly said.
She hadn’t said anything else. Rachel wondered now whether she had managed to get anything more out of Tommy. He went off to work with Danny every day, uncomplaining. Perhaps if he got one of those trike things he would be able to go on his own. Maybe that would cheer him up, she thought. He never complained, but try as she might to tell herself that he was all right, she could see he was shrouded in misery.
But what could she do? Rachel made tea and placed a cup in front of Danny, who muttered, ‘Ta’. She stood, looking at his bent head. He was barely aware she was there. She climbed the stairs to gather bits of handwashing.
As she worked she felt a pang of envy for Melly, full of her new job, a life all before her. Melly didn’t know she was born. Not that she would have wanted Melly’s job. The thought of it made her shudder. At her age, Rachel thought, I had two kids already. No life of my own. And God, she’d been so young. All because of Danny. She would have followed Danny anywhere then, done anything for him.
Back downstairs with an armful of washing, as the tap ran into the pail, she turned and looked at Danny again. Skinny little thing he used to be. He had filled out and was now a strong-looking man getting on for thirty-seven, his face still handsome. His hair had darkened from fair to brown but there was still plenty of it. She looked at his hunched shoulders in his dark blue jersey, suddenly filled with tenderness. What else could she have done at fifteen? With a mother like Peggy and bloody Fred Horton in tow?
Once Cissy, Fred’s own child, arrived she had felt like an outsider, a cuckoo in the nest. Cissy was the one who had given Fred and Peggy everything they wanted. And now Cissy had given them Andrew – a proper grandchild, of both of them. No doubt there would be more fuss made over Cissy’s kid than there ever was over any of her six, Rachel thought sourly. Not that she blamed Cissy. She was delighted for her sister, had worried for her that she might never have a baby as it was taking so long. It was her mother’s snobbery she couldn’t stand. Even now she was only just about polite to Danny.
She turned the tap off and tilted the packet of Omo – Adds brightness to cleanness and whiteness . . .
‘Danny?’
‘Ummm – what?’ He turned to her.
She wanted him to look, to notice she was there. She smiled. ‘Nothing – doesn’t matter.’
To her surprise, he grinned back, as if he had heard something in her voice. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Their eyes met for a moment before they turned away again.
She did still love him, that was all. It was one of the moments when she stopped and knew it. She pushed the dirty clothes down into the white bubbles, smiling to herself.
Thirty-Six
March 1961
‘Melly – you seen the list?’ Margaret slouched against the door frame of Melly and Berni’s room in the nurses’ home. ‘I’m on with you this time – A3, male medical.’
‘Oh – is the list up?’ Melly said. They always waited anxiously to see where they were going next. ‘Good! We’ll be on different shifts, though.’
‘At least we can compare,’ Margaret said. She came and sat on the edge of Berni’s bed.
Now they were no longer the new intake and were seasoned second years who had survived their first-year exams, they were no longer in the ‘huts’ outside, but in the nurses’ home. Some of the girls had rooms to themselves, but Melly had been allocated to share with Berni. Berni’s cheerful, freckled face could always cheer her up and their room was often the meeting place for some of the others who came in with cups of cocoa and sat chatting and laughing on the beds. But today, Melly and Berni were sitting propped against the pillows, studying. This was their last week of the latest training block in the classroom and there was a lot to cram into their heads.
‘Did you see where I am?’ Berni asked.
Margaret frowned. ‘C4, I think – women’s medical and ENT.’ Her face broke into a grin again. ‘With Mavis.’ Mavis was the least agreeable girl in their group.
‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!’ Berni groaned, stretching and yawning, hands above her head. ‘I don’t know how that one ever makes anyone better – she looks like the wrath of God.’
‘So I’m with you?’ Melly smiled at Margaret.
‘Yes, brainbox, you are,’ Margaret said, pouting. ‘Don’t go showing me up.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ Melly gave a happy smile.
To her amazement she had achieved the second-highest mark overall in the exams in October. She had come first in anatomy! And she was only a couple of marks off the girl who had come first. The glow of finding out that she could do something well, of being praised by the nursing tutors and finding that anyone could look up to her for something had still not worn off.
‘Being a nurse isn’t about passing exams anyway, is it?’ she added, not wanting to seem too pleased with herself.
‘Ohh, C4!’ Berni groaned. ‘Ladies – they make so much fuss – and they can’t pee i
nto a bottle. Give me men to nurse any time!’
‘Well,’ Margaret said, ‘I’d say it’s about the only chance they get to make a fuss.’ She eyed the open packet of custard creams beside her on Berni’s bed. ‘Can I have one? Or two?’
‘Help yourself,’ Berni laughed.
Melly had grown to like Margaret a lot and she admired her determination. Both she and Denise, the two West Indian nurses, had met with hostility on the wards. Melly wondered how they stood it. Denise, who was a quiet girl, never said much about it. Margaret got angry, but not in front of the patients themselves.
‘It’s something new for them,’ she would shrug, trying not to show how hurt and insulted she was. ‘Foreign. Maybe they’ll get used to us.’
Sometimes being kind to unkind people was the hardest job of all.
The first year had passed with what seemed to Melly like amazing speed. She had never in her life been so happy. As well as flying through the exams – though not without slogging very hard for it – she had completed two ward placements, one on ENT and one men’s surgical, and between those, a block of nights on women’s surgical. It had been strange and nerve-racking at first. They had visited a couple of wards during the classroom period. And they had learned the basic work, of bed-making and how the ward was to be arranged and giving bed baths.
When she walked on to her first ward for a placement, though, the strangeness of it hit her all over again. There were the hospital smells of disinfectant and soap; and human smells of excrement, the acetone aroma of the very sick, ether and sweat; and sometimes, intermingled, a whiff of flowers. Appearing in uniform, she knew that most patients did not realize she was a new student nurse and would expect her to know what to do. And there was the challenge of dealing with real patients instead of the uncomplaining Mrs Bedworthy with her blank smile.
Melly had made her mistakes – misunderstood and brought the wrong things for senior nurses, got procedures awry, not arranged pillows the perfect way that Sister required and all sorts of human things.
