A queue had formed by this time, and Irma concentrated on serving. Highland Shortbread. Homewheat Chocolate Digestive. Syrup and Oat Cookies. Was it any wonder she’d lost her figure, with a straying husband to contend with and surrounded by all these riches. Which came first, she wondered, the fat on her hips or the affairs? She didn’t care to consider, and really did it matter? There were more important things in life than daft husbands who couldn’t keep their trousers buttoned.
He should be here by rights, helping her, but then when had he ever pulled his weight? If he wasn’t warming some woman’s bed he was pontificating his opinions at meetings of the market committee. Even though he was no longer market superintendent, he couldn’t keep his nose out. All summer he’d been fretting about this talk of yet another threat to Champion Street Market, of developers wanting to move in and bulldoze the area clean to build yet more blocks of flats.
The rumour had seriously alarmed Joe. Irma was more philosophical. While considering it a tragic shame, if they lost the biscuit stall she still had her wedding cake business, not to mention her other little side-lines. She made and decorated cakes for all occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, christenings, not simply weddings. Events, very often, that she herself had predicted thanks to her skill with the cards, reading tea leaves or palms, whatever seemed appropriate for the client. She’d never been asked to make a cake to celebrate a divorce, but there was always a first time for everything. Maybe she’d make one for her own.
Or maybe she’d hang on to him, just to be awkward. If they lost the stall happen she could force Joe to go out and get a proper job, make him pay for what he’d done to her. Serve him right for all the suffering he’d caused her over the years. And she would stay at home for a bit and indulge her hobbies. Maybe it was time for the shoe to be on the other foot.
And then she saw him, heading for the office at the back of the market hall. She noticed how he glanced back over his shoulder then pause as Joyce Ashton approached. There was something in the way the pair glanced cautiously about them before putting their faces up close to whisper to each other, as if they were entirely alone, or wanted to be.
‘So that’s how the land lies, is it?’ Irma thought, not realising she’d spoken aloud until she heard Winnie Holmes’s soft chuckle.
‘Have you only just noticed? Nay, she’s been your Joe’s latest fancy piece for months now. Daft article that he is. There’s one man who doesn’t know what side his bread is buttered.’
Irma froze. ‘And what can I get for you, Winnie?’
‘Eeh, don’t come over all hoity-toity wi’ me, lass. We’ve been friends too many years. Anyroad, there isn’t a soul on this market doesn’t know how it is with your Joe. But if it’s any comfort to you, Irma love, everyone’s on your side, and I reckon he might’ve met his match this time round. Trust me, that woman will make his life hell.’
Irma smiled, making her rosy cheeks puff out and glow with pleasure. ‘I do hope you’re right, Winnie. I shall enjoy watching him burn.’
Before returning to the hair salon, Rose called at Irma Southworth’s biscuit stall, not to make a purchase, but to set an appointment for a reading, palm or cards, she really didn’t mind. Rose felt that she had some very important decisions to make and if anyone could help her see into the future, Irma could. Anything which helped her to make up her mind would be most welcome.
Having done that, she got on a bus bound for Ancoats. Rose had an important errand to do there too, and if she was quick Joyce wouldn’t even notice she was gone. Her daughter would simply assume that she was in the Dog and Duck chewing over the results of the meeting. But then she’d sneaked away on this particular little trip many times before, so she was an expert.
Chapter Ten
Harriet was writing a letter. She was sitting on her bed with her legs tucked beneath her trying to think what she could say to a woman she’d never known who was probably dead, but who she’d just discovered was her mother. She didn’t even have a Christian name, yet felt this great urge to put her thoughts and feelings down on paper.
The Blackstocks’ change of attitude towards her had shaken Harriet to the core. Until that moment she’d believed she could weather this storm, that all she had to do was persuade Joyce, and her nan, to be a bit more forthcoming with the facts. Now, following that difficult Sunday lunch, Harriet realised that everything had changed, and that from now on people would view her differently. It wasn’t a comfortable thought. She’d tackled Steve on the subject the very next day, and he’d been strangely defensive.
‘I agree that my parents have taken an old fashioned view on this, but then they’re from a different generation.’
‘Which means you have to blindly accept everything they say and not speak up for me? I haven’t grown two heads just because I no longer know who my mother is.’
‘I can’t be seen to take sides,’ he demurred.
‘Why not?’
‘They’re my parents. They have a right to their opinion.’
‘Rather foolishly I thought I was the girl you were going to settle down with and marry one day, and not necessarily in a nice semi-detached house in some nice garden suburb either.’
He’d reached for her then and laughed. ‘You mustn’t take everything Mother says so seriously.’
Harriet had pushed his hands away, not yet ready to forgive. ‘Why wouldn’t I? You obviously do. Isn’t it time you stood up to her? She seems to have your entire life mapped out.’
‘Don’t be daft. They had a hard time of it during the war and Mother likes to dream, that’s all. When the time comes, I shall do as I please.’
‘Meanwhile I’m to sit back and allow her to insult me, is that it?’
‘Now you’re being over-sensitive.’
‘Over-sensitive? She tells me it will take time for me to grow accustomed to my new status, by which I assume she means the fact I’m illegitimate, and you think I should sit and take it, without saying a word in my own defence?’
Steve’s jaw tightened. ‘There’s no necessity for you to defend yourself, but she is my mother. You have to show her some respect.’
‘Why? She showed none to me. She can go stuff herself.’
And that’s how it had ended, the most terrible row they’d ever had.
Now, acknowledging to herself that she really didn’t know what it felt like to have a loving mother who watched out for you all the time, or put your happiness first before everyone and everything else, Harriet had decided to write the letter. Maybe if she put her feelings down on paper, she would understand exactly what changes might evolve from this so-called change of status. But she wasn’t finding it easy. And what she would do with the letter, once it was written, was anyone’s guess.
A week went by with no sign of Steve. Feeling increasingly annoyed and rebellious, Harriet gave in her notice on the secretarial course. She had no intention of allowing Joyce to dictate what she did with her life any longer. She never had wanted to spend her days filing, docketing, answering the phone, or any of the other numerous office-type tasks which she loathed. She’d no idea what the future held for her, but being a secretary wasn’t part of it.
In the meantime she’d got herself a job helping Lizzie Pringle make chocolates in her rapidly expanding business, a delicious task if ever there was one. And if Joyce considered Harriet to be an educational failure as a consequence of her low ambitions, so be it. See if she cared! Harriet loved the market, and was proud to be a part of its hustle and bustle.
Harriet had finished writing the letter to her mother, which in fact had been most therapeutic, if rather pointless. She could hardly address it to her in heaven, could she? Secretly, Harriet felt a bit silly having written a letter to a dead woman, so had simply written Mother on the envelope and stuffed it behind the lamp on the bedside table in her room, trying not to think about it too much.
She couldn’t even make up her mind whether it had helped her to adjust to this so-called new status
. Harriet was hoping that Steve might be able to help her with that one, when next she saw him.
So far, she hadn’t clapped eyes on him for days and was trying not to be too downcast about this. He was probably busy buying gear for Teacher Training College, studying, or whatever students did as he was due to start his course any day now. She would miss him, Harriet thought bleakly.
They had planned to go to the Friday night dance together, as usual, and Harriet duly got ready for the evening out with fast beating heart. She often felt a bit fluttery inside whenever she was seeing Steve, but tonight she had real butterflies. Would he still be mad with her for disagreeing with his parents? Would they be able to make up after their quarrel? Oh, she did hope everything was back to normal between them. The last thing she needed right now was to fall out with Steve. He was her lifeline, the one person she could rely on, other than Nan, of course.
She chose to wear a pretty blue polished cotton daisy skirt, bought from Dena Dobson’s stall, and a tight-fitting, off-the-shoulder black sweater which would surely wow him. Harriet thought she had rather good shoulders, and not a bad cleavage, though she said so herself. And this was a night when she needed to make the best use of her assets. She wanted Steve to fall in love with her all over again so they could patch up this silly quarrel and carry on where they’d left off before all this hiatus.
Harriet was standing on the corner of Champion Street, her dancing shoes in the small vanity case in her hand, waiting for Steve. She never liked him to call for her at the salon as she feared sarcastic remarks from Joyce, so they’d got into the habit of meeting at the door of the school hall where the dances were held. But tonight he was late. She’d been trying to deny this fact and making excuses to herself for over half an hour now, as hordes of young people passed by and hurried inside to enjoy the dance.
Harriet could hear the music thumping. Lonely Teardrops sung by Jackie Wilson was playing, which seemed entirely appropriate for she was having great difficulty stopping uncharacteristic tears of self-pity from spilling over and running down her cheeks. Her life seemed to be falling apart and she with it.
With an increasing sense of desperation she scanned the length of the street, empty now as all would-be revellers were already inside bopping and jiving to the music. All except for her.
Harriet rummaged in the little red plastic vanity case, looking for a hanky to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Drat, she’d forgotten to put one in and angrily tried to scrub the tears away with her fingers, which only made her cry all the more, and her mascara run, so she’d look a real sight when he did get here. Where was he? Why didn’t he come? Did this mean they were finished, or was he just making a point? Was he trying to make her sorry for not having shown proper respect to his mother?
She began to desperately search her pockets for a hanky.
Whatever the reason, it wasn’t fair to leave her hanging around like this. And what should she do about it? She’d lost track of most of her friends in the fifteen months she and Steve had been seriously dating. Many of them were going steady themselves now, and she really had no wish to play gooseberry, nor to go home with her tail between her legs.
‘Here you are love, have mine.’ Harriet found a clean white handkerchief was being thrust into her hand.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, without even looking up.
‘You been stood up, babe? Pretty chick like you shouldn’t be standing around waiting for some lout who can’t be bothered to arrive on time.’
‘My sentiment entirely,’ she hiccupped, almost losing control.
‘Come on, mop up, or you’ll have us all at it,’ he teased, and taking the hanky from her began to dab gently at her eyes.
She looked at him then and knew instantly who he was. Local bad boy Vinny Turner, slightly older than Harriet at about twenty. She was surprised to see him on his own , as he usually hung around with a group of lads who were generally up to no good. Everyone knew Vinny’s gang drank too much and racketed about the streets long into the small hours.
She believed he lived in the yard behind the new fish market. What family he had, Harriet wasn’t sure, but rather thought he had a couple of younger brothers and a sister, at least. There was nothing new or agreeable about those houses, despite the fish market itself having been done up. They were little better than slums. No one on Champion Street would object to a bulldozer razing those properties to the ground.
Nevertheless, despite these disadvantages, Vinny was really quite good looking, and on a summer’s evening like this he was looking particularly suave.
A Saint Christopher medal glimmered in the open-neck of the pale blue shirt he wore, and the tight blue denim jeans were fastened with a thick leather belt that emphasised the lean muscled length of his hips and thighs. He wore winkle-picker shoes, and his hair was a rich dark brown with a quiff that fell over a wide brow. Not exactly a Teddy Boy, but not far off.
He was smiling down at her, a lop-sided, cynical sort of grin and she noticed that his hazel eyes were rimmed with gold, an entrancing combination. There was just one snag. Attractive though he might be, and kind to offer her his hanky, he wasn’t Steve.
‘Thanks, I’m all right now,’ she said, about to offer him his handkerchief back until she realised she’d used it, then shoved it in her pocket. ‘I’ll return it when I’ve washed it,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry about that. I assume it’s wonder-boy Steve Blackstock you’re waiting for. I’ve seen you hanging around with him.’
Harriet looked at him in surprise. Why would Vinny Turner notice who she was with? But the comment reminded her again about Steve, and she glanced up and down the length of the street wishing he would materialise out of the growing dusk. But the street was still empty and she lifted her chin, doing her best to appear unconcerned. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’
‘And like a fool, you’re going to go on waiting for him, are you, and miss all the fun?’ He shrugged, then hooking his thumbs in his thick leather belt started to stroll away. ‘Suit yourself, no skin off my nose. I’ll be inside, if you change your mind.’
A spurt of rebellion burst inside her. ‘I’m no fool, so don’t call me one.’
‘Course you are. Do you need me to draw a picture? Any bird who can’t read the writing on the wall when a guy doesn’t turn up has got to be stupid. He’s chucked you, love. Dumped you. Dropped you. Is probably right at this moment trying to get inside some other chick’s knickers.’
The door banged shut behind him and an unexpected chill touched her spine, making her shiver. Harriet remembered how Steve had kept his gaze firmly fixed on his plate throughout his mother’s caustic comments; how he’d made no effort to stand by her during that attack, and then had defended his mother, not Harriet, when later she’d taken him to task over the issue. Maybe he too considered her beneath contempt, now that he knew she was illegitimate. A part of her shrivelled inside with shame, as if she felt suddenly unclean, and Harriet felt less sure of what had once been a certainty in her life. Steve’s love for her.
‘Drat you, Steve Blackstock! See if I care.’ And fired with rebellion, Harriet lifted her chin and walked into the dance hall in Vinny’s wake.
Harriet had to admit that she was having a great time. Vinny was fun, although his mates when they turned up later were a bit of a pain, rather loud and raucous, embarrassing her a bit in front of all her friends. Terry Hall’s skiffle group had been playing for over an hour, beating out several popular numbers including two of her favourites, Bird Dog, and Stagger Lee.
When Terry stepped down from the stage, Vinny and his mates gathered up their guitars and climbed up to take their place. They weren’t very good, being far too loud and slightly out of tune but everyone clapped and cheered and bopped like crazy. What they lacked in skill they more than made up for in the energy they exerted by throwing themselves about the stage. It was a real laugh.
Lizzie Pringle came over to say hello, mentioning how pleased she was tha
t Harriet was going to be working with her. She was often still called by this name, because of the business, even though she’d married her beloved Charlie. ‘Steve not here tonight?’ she asked.
Harriet shook her head, not trusting herself to answer.
Lizzie glanced across at Vinny, standing at the door as he sank a pint of bitter. Alcohol wasn’t allowed on the premises but he was old enough to buy it elsewhere.
‘You can sit with us, if you’re on your own,’ Lizzie said, indicating the group of friends she was with, which, besides Charlie, included Lynda Hemley who was always around when Terry was doing a turn with his group; Dena Dobson with her new doctor friend; and Gina Bertalone and Luc.
Harriet decided she’d feel out of place as the only single. Besides, she told herself firmly, she’d stopped looking for Steve after the third or fourth dance. If he was no longer interested in her, why should she care about him? He wasn’t the only boy in the world.
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
‘You don’t look it, to be honest.’ Lizzie peered closely into her face and glanced across at Vinny as if she disapproved. Then Terry Hall put on a slow record, It’s All in the Game, sung by Tommy Edwards, and before Harriet could think of a suitable reply Vinny came right over and pulled her into his arms for a smooch without even asking.
Harriet laughed as he pressed her close against him, running his hands up and down her back. ‘As you can see, I’m having a great time and I’m fine,’ she called out to her friend as they moved away.
‘If you’re sure . . .’ Lizzie looked unconvinced but shrugged her shoulders and left them to it. It was then that Harriet saw him. Steve had arrived. He was standing at the door glaring right across at her. Determined to show that she really didn’t care about being stood up, she slid her arms tighter about Vinny’s neck and ignored him. If he wanted her, let him show it. Let him make the first move.
The next instant he was standing beside her. He tapped Vinny on the shoulder. ‘You can leave now, mate.’
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 9
