by Juliet West
No, their baby is determined, and he is glad. His baby, growing inside her. He feels choked with emotion just to think of it. Why must Hannah always think of the child as the problem, when it could be the answer? He has promised to face the trouble with her. What is the baby after all but a chance of being together?
As twilight falls, he walks back to the boarding house through deserted streets. Lamps are lit in warm front rooms, and there is the sound of singing and laughter, upright pianos clanking off-key carols. The docks are quiet, only a whisper of wind in the rigging.
Mrs Browne’s front parlour is dark, but when he lets himself into the hallway, he hears talking from the middle sitting room, and music from a gramophone. Is the gramophone a Christmas present? He has never heard music playing in the house before. He pauses to listen to a woman’s voice droning along to the tune, one he doesn’t recognize, the words in French. The voice sounds too young for Mrs Browne – her married daughter, perhaps, or a niece he has never met.
He climbs the stairs. On the landing, Sonia’s door is wide open, but she is not inside her room. Of course, it was Sonia singing with the gramophone. Mrs Browne must have asked her down.
His own room is stiff with cold. He puts a match to the candle and sits down to read, but it’s impossible to concentrate with the noise from downstairs. The music seems to be getting louder; now it is a dance tune, something American, and the women are clattering and stomping so that in the end he wonders whether he might go out into the night again and see if there isn’t a lock-in at the Eagle. He pulls on his gloves.
Footsteps fly up the stairs and his door rattles with three fierce knocks. ‘Daniel?’ calls Sonia. ‘I know you’re in there. Come down and say happy Christmas!’
He can hardly pretend to be asleep.
Sonia is wearing a red dress with a low neckline, pleats in the calf-length skirt. Around her neck is a sequinned black scarf. One of her gold hooped earrings has caught in her hair and it hangs sideways, pulling at the lobe. She sways in his doorway with hands splayed on her hips.
‘Merry Christmas, Sonia,’ he says. ‘Mrs Browne has guests?’
‘Just me. And now you. Come on, get yerself downstairs. I’ve never seen the old cow so cheerful. She’s come into a little legacy and splashed out on the gramophone. Plus there’s a bowl of punch and a bottle of sherry waiting to be drunk.’
She puts her hand on his arm and tries to pull him towards her. He fixes his feet to the floor.
‘I’ll come for ten minutes. I have to work tomorrow.’
‘Boxing Day, Daniel?’
‘Double time, Sonia.’
She laughs and pouts up at him. ‘I’ll give you double time, Mr Blake.’
In the event he stays an hour. He drinks two glasses of punch, dances with Mrs Browne and with Sonia, pecks them both on the cheek, then backs out of the doorway. Sonia calls him a spoilsport and blows him a kiss. Mrs Browne lifts her skirt and twirls her ankle to Al Jolson.
Daniel is pleased with himself as he treads the stairs to his room. A year ago he might have given in, allowed Sonia to tempt him to her bedroom. At the very least he might have removed the hanging from the wall to watch her undress. But his desire is mastered now, more focused. With Hannah, he has become a better person, a better man.
He cannot sleep, and by the early hours he is shivering with cold. He gets up, takes his coat from the back of the chair and drapes it on the top blanket. He imagines Hannah in bed next to him, her smooth blood-warm body, and the way she lifts his hair from his eyes, strokes his eyebrows and kisses them, then moves down to kiss the tip of his nose, his mouth. He thought he had loved Esther, but now he knows it was something more flimsy than love; it lacked the intensity and the . . . wholeness of his feelings for Hannah. He fell in love with Esther because she wasn’t interested, not at first in any case. She was friendly, but there was that hint of superiority, her office job at the GPO, and him a welder at the docks. He found the challenge exciting. Perhaps it’s because Hannah is married, then: the thrill of wanting what isn’t his. No, he is sure that’s not right. He would love her even more if she was truly his.
She writes to him at Mrs Browne’s, brief letters on smooth blue paper, such beautiful handwriting, and the words so affecting. When I am with you, it’s as if I am flying. He feels the same way. They soar together.
Sometimes they play a game, working out when they might have met, growing up in Poplar. Their paths must have crossed twelve dozen times, at the Queen’s, the dance halls, the Boer victory parades. So why on earth did fate lead her to George? Daniel envies George and he pities him. He wishes he would die. A painless death, he’ll give him that. A bullet in the head, or a stab of shrapnel through the heart.
George’s division is in Palestine now, and there’s plenty of fighting: Beersheba has been captured and they’re moving into Jerusalem. He is desperate for leave, Hannah says, but none is being granted.
Is George much of a fighter? Would he fight for his wife? Hannah says he is placid, a decent man with an honest heart. He has never hit her, never even hit the children. A good man, then.
Daniel is sorry for what is to come.
28
I wake from the strangest dream. On a dinner plate were two raw eggs, cracked from their shells. Instead of flattening out, the eggs had kept their oval shape and the transparent whites quivered around the yolks like oversized fish eggs. ‘Eat up,’ my mum was saying. I poked at the eggs with a fork, but still they didn’t spread; they kept their shape and the yolks stared back at me.
I sit up in bed, queasy to the pit of my stomach, convinced the eggs must be waiting for me downstairs. I can hear the kettle whistling on the stovetop. The back door shuts and from the quick footsteps I know it’s Mum, dashing inside after her morning visit to the privy. She takes the kettle off the boil. I dress quickly, pull one of George’s knitted jumpers over my blouse and tie my shawl loosely round my middle. I’m thankful it’s such a cold January: no excuse needed for extra layers.
Snow is melting outside and the streets are black with icy slush. The snow never settled in Canning Town, but you could see it over the river, up on Shooters Hill and the slopes of Greenwich Park.
The children haven’t woken yet and I can’t hear Jen or the baby. I creep downstairs and find Mum in the parlour, sitting in the armchair with her cup of tea.
‘Just brewed,’ she says, nodding at the pot. ‘Sleep all right?’
‘Not really. Peculiar dream.’
‘What was it this time?’
‘Nothing. It’s too daft to say. Are you going to see Dad?’
‘I think I’ll risk it, now the weather’s thawing.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘It’s Saturday, love. You stay here with the kids. Jen needs a break.’
Perhaps Mum meant it as a dig, but I refuse to feel guilty. Jen plays the martyr, but she enjoys having the children around. Teddy is a help with the baby, dangling rattles and pulling daft faces so that she can get on with the dinner. The kids love their little cousin, especially now he’s started to talk. ‘Dee-dee’ the baby calls Teddy, and Teddy puffs up with delight every time.
‘I’d like to visit Dad soon. Is he well enough, do you think?’
‘I’ll see how he is. You know it upset him when you turned up that time. The nurses said he was agitated for days.’ She breaks off and sips her tea. ‘Don’t look so downhearted. It’s not your fault. He’s still not himself.’
Are any of us ourselves?
I don’t think Mum has guessed. I’m not so sure about Jen. I caught her looking at me yesterday as I was stretching to hang my wet coat over the dryer. She was feeding little Alec a piece of bread, breaking off tiny chunks rather than give him the whole crust. She stared at me, then all of a sudden scooped Alec up and disappeared into the scullery.
I pour tea into a cup and warm my fingers around the china, sit on the edge of the wooden chair, forwards so that the cup is resting on my knees. There
is a sudden movement deep in my belly.
One flicker, and then another.
Dear Christ, the baby is alive.
I’ve watched my waist thicken, my breasts swell, yet all this time I’ve been hoping, hoping that it might be a phantom, or that even if it was real, the pills or the gin would do their work. My hands begin to shake.
‘Hannah?’ says Mum.
I can’t speak for the rush of tears and the sickness in my throat.
‘What is it, love?’
‘It’s . . . it’s just Dad. I don’t like to think of him in the hospital.’
Mum leans over and pats my knee. ‘We’ll get him home, see if we can’t. They’re doing more tests, might finally come up with some answers. Got to keep hoping, haven’t we?’
I nod and reach for the hankie inside my sleeve. I try to take some deep breaths to stop the hysteria bubbling through me. The baby kicks again. Jen walks in and speaks to Mum as if I’m not even in the room.
‘What’s up with ’er?’ she says.
‘She wanted to come with me to the hospital. I’ve told her Dad’s not up to it.’
‘Sit down and drink your tea, Mum. You know what Hannah’s like – she’d squeeze tears from a glass eye.’
Funny how two seconds in a room with Jen brings me to my senses. My tears dry instantly, just as they did when I was a child, trying to be brave so my big sister wouldn’t tease.
‘Cheer up,’ says Jen, bustling over to the teapot. ‘I don’t want to be stuck indoors with that glum face all day.’
In the afternoon Jen puts little Alec down for a nap and I send Alice and Teddy to call for their friends on the street. A blast of cold air will do them good. Mrs Hillier has a granddaughter staying. With any luck she’ll ask them in for their tea. I’ve got no patience with the children today.
Jen is in the armchair reading the Pictorial, a plate of shrivelled apple rings balanced at her elbow. When I come in, she tucks the magazine down the side of the cushion and stretches her legs towards the stove.
‘Put a few more coals on, would you?’ she asks.
I can feel Jen’s eyes on me as I squat down to shovel coals from the scuttle. The hinge creaks as I open the stove door.
‘Why were you so upset before?’ she asks.
‘Just thinking of Dad. Sometimes it catches me.’
‘Only, you’ve got a lot on your mind, haven’t you? Did you enjoy yourself at the Steamship last night?’
‘It was nice enough. Same as usual.’
‘Funny that. The Steamship is closed for a few days, I heard. Burst pipes, after the snow.’
She’s staring at me, watching my reaction.
‘That’s right – I was forgetting. The White Horse we went to. They’re all much of a muchness, aren’t they, these pubs?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
My only thought is to get out of the room. I start walking towards the door, but she lifts up one leg to block me.
‘Who’s the feller, then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The feller. You’re not getting fat on bacon, that’s for sure. You was with him last night, wasn’t you?’
Panic shrieks through my brain, twists my tongue. I mustn’t get angry with Jen, got to play it carefully. An idea has been chasing round my mind for a couple of weeks now: a possible escape route. If only I had more time to choose my words, had a chance to calm myself . . . But if this is the moment, then I have to take it. I grab the chair and set it down closer to Jen.
She’s staring at me and somehow I meet her eyes. ‘I’ve got into trouble, Jen.’
‘I knew it.’ She spits out the words. Her top lip curls in disgust. ‘How could you? How could you do it to George?’
‘He don’t deserve it, I know. I tried to end it, I swear, but . . . we picked up again and that was shameful.’
‘So what are you going to do? You’re after money, I suppose, for an operation?’
‘No.’
I take a deep breath. The shrieking gets louder, a shrill pitch, stabbing at my mind. There’s no dressing it up. I’ll have to ask her straight.
‘What about you, Jen? Would you have the baby? Alec didn’t go till September, did he? The dates work out – it could be his baby. You’re so good with them, and . . . I know how much you’d like another.’
As I’m speaking the words, I’m aware how ridiculous they sound, what a perfect bloody idiot I am. What possessed me to think this was a good idea?
Blotches blaze like fresh burns on Jen’s cheeks. Her mouth opens and closes. Seems I’ve knocked the wind clean out of her. Finally she speaks.
‘Your baby? You want me to have it . . . bring it up as my own?’
She doesn’t sound as angry as I’d expected. Perhaps Jen is considering it, after all. Dear Christ, Jen is considering it.
‘Alec wouldn’t need to know,’ I say. ‘We can cover it up somehow. Think of Clare, from Flint Street. She got away with it.’
Her face clouds and the lip curls up again, a look of sheer loathing. ‘Clare didn’t do what you’ve done. What you’ve done . . . it’s hateful. George away fighting. And if you think I’m going to lay a finger on your little bastard . . . I don’t think I can stand the sight of you, let alone –’ she jabs a finger towards my stomach ‘– it.’
In my heart, this is what I expected. And I know what’s coming next.
She speaks quietly now, looking down at her hands and picking at some dirt under a fingernail. ‘I thought it was Alec you were after, but he said don’t be silly, he’d seen you with someone else, big tall feller, kissing in Victoria Park. And he was right all along. Assuming that’s the only fancy man. P’r’aps there are others . . .’
‘No!’
She stares up at me. ‘You’ll have to leave, of course. Leave and take the children with you.’
‘But, Jen, I don’t know how I’ll manage. I won’t be able to work. Daniel—’
She thumps a fist on the arm of the chair. ‘Don’t. I don’t want to hear his name or nothing about him. I want to be able to look George in the face when he comes home. I’ve a good mind to write to him now.’
‘You wouldn’t. He doesn’t have to know yet. I’ll find a way to tell him.’
‘What about Mum? Will you tell her the news, or shall I?’
‘I will. But please, Jen, please don’t make us leave now. Give me a month, at least. A month to find somewhere and get sorted. Spring will be here soon. I’ll be able to think straight.’
‘All right.’ She sighs now, as if she is actually bored and I am nothing but the silly little sister who needed putting in her place. ‘But, Hannah, if you believe this feller’s going to stick with you, you must be more stupid than I thought.’
I want to fly at her, tear out her hair, slap her smug mouth, but I stay in my seat, gripping the sides of the chair. My voice is low now, cracking with anger. ‘Don’t you dare pretend to know about me and Daniel. Don’t you dare. You don’t know nothing about love.’
She stands up and her elbow sends the plate of apple rings crashing to the floor. The china cracks and a piece of apple rolls into the ashy hearth. She leans in close so that her face is an inch from mine, words spitting from her lips. ‘Love, is it? We’ll see.’
I listen to Jen’s footsteps pounding up the stairs and I hate the sound of her, the heft of her, every bloody thing about her. She has never liked me, not really. We rubbed along as kids, we had to, but it’s as if she has been waiting for this moment – the chance to stamp on me and watch me squirm. Oh, Hannah, she may be clever, but she’s got no sense. I’ve heard her say it more than once. When Dad got ill and I had to leave school, start earning, she made no secret of the fact she was cock-a-hoop. All those spelling tests . . . Ten out of ten ain’t going to do you much good when you’re skivvying up west. Well, now she has the biggest stick to beat me with. I hope she enjoys every minute.
The back door bangs and Alice runs into the parlour. Mrs Hillier’s granddaughter trails a
fter her with Teddy, their noses red and their lips blue-tinged with cold.
‘Can Kathleen come in to play?’ asks Alice. ‘Mrs Hillier’s got a headache.’
I wipe my eyes with the end of my apron and try to force a smile. ‘Do what you like,’ I say. ‘But don’t disturb Jen. She’s upstairs with the baby.’ The children flop down onto the rug and Kathleen takes a little knitted doll from her pocket. Teddy edges closer to Kathleen, inching his Ducky across the rug towards the doll.
I untie my apron and drape it over the back of the armchair. ‘I’m popping out for a while,’ I tell the children. ‘There’s bread if you’re hungry.’
A raw easterly is blowing down Victoria Dock Road. The force of it makes me gasp, but I like the cold, the creeping numbness. At the station, a train has just pulled in and passengers begin to file along the street. I hurry past, keeping my head down in case Mum is among them, on her way back from the hospital. A huddle of Indian sailors emerge from the seamen’s hostel, thin cotton trousers flapping around their bony legs.
Left towards the creek. The tide is in. Ice splinters the murky grey water. In the sky, rain clouds mingle with drifts of black chimney smoke. Wooden hulls of small boats knock against the redbrick piers that hold up the bridge. Knock, knock, knock, as if looking for an answer.
The parapets are shoulder-high, solid metal with fancy panels inlaid. The rivets on the panels are big enough to give a foothold. I reach out and run my hand along the ridges. How long would it take to go up and over? Is this how Auntie Bea did it? Up and over without stopping to think, or pacing the dockside, taking her time, reasoning it out? I imagine the water surging into my lungs, the feeling that there is no solid ground beneath me, and I know then that I have left it too late. I shouldn’t have stopped to think.
