Harriet laughed at the very idea. ‘Joyce would never have me back. She chucked me out, remember?’
‘You’re lucky you have a home to go to. I don’t. My parents are both dead. Vinny’s in the same boat. You could at least ask. What have you got to lose?’
‘Everything. My freedom. My pride, I suppose. Vinny?’
Shelley looked at her askance. ‘You aren’t in love with him, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good, keep it that way. He’ll bring you nothing but unhappiness.’
‘I think you’re being a bit hard on him, actually. He’s had an unhappy life too. He needs friends just as much as we do.’
Shelley raised her brow and said no more.
Harriet was suffering so badly from home sickness that she’d decided to pay a visit to her nan. Letters were all very well but Rose was the only one who had ever cared for her, and the old lady would probably still be worrying over how her favourite grandchild was coping. Besides, Harriet missed her, and felt in desperate need of a warm hug.
She chose a Saturday evening when Harriet knew Joyce would be out at the Dog and Duck with Joe. The market too would be closed, so there’d be less danger of her running into someone she knew who would ask awkward questions. Much as she ached to see her friends she had no wish to own up to them what a mess her life was in right now.
She rang the door bell, a slight sense of nervous excitement making her anxious even as she was eager to see her nan. She could hear the bell echoing through the shop, could imagine the sound of it in the flat above, but no one came, no one answered. Harriet was deeply disappointed.
Finally, she was forced to admit defeat and walked disconsolately away, tears rolling down her cheeks. Harriet told herself off for being so foolish as not to warn her that she was coming. Why hadn’t she at least sent a postcard? Perhaps because she’d been afraid of Joyce finding out and attempting to block her, or creating some sort of scene. Harriet had been so obsessed with avoiding her stepmother that she’d messed up an opportunity to see her lovely grandmother.
A little sob caught in her throat and she briskly rubbed her tears away with the flat of her hands. Next time she’d do it properly.
Upstairs, stuck in her bed unable to move, Rose had heard the doorbell ring and wondered who could be calling. Everyone knew the market would be closed by now so it couldn’t be a customer, or a commercial traveller trying to sell them shampoo. Oh, well, if it was important they’d call again, she thought.
Harriet strolled along the empty street, imagining the stacked stalls as they usually were, all decked out in their pink and white striped awnings and open for business, packed with produce, the entire market humming with people as they haggled over the price of a hand-knitted sweater or length of curtaining, bought their Fisherman’s Friend or coltsfoot rock, a meat pie or chunk of cheese from Poulsons, mint chocs from Pringle’s Chocolate Cabin. She thought of the times she used to sit in Bertalone’s ice cream parlour enjoying a peach gelato, or chatted over a hot Vimto with her friends in Belle’s café. How she missed it, all the fun and laughter, and most of all, the people.
She felt a warm acknowledgement that this was the place she belonged, almost as if she were an exile being granted a glimpse of her homeland.
Finding the big doors unlocked, Harriet couldn’t resist walking through the market hall. One or two of the traders were still in the process of closing for the day, cashing up or perhaps taking the opportunity to carry out a few maintenance jobs now all the customers had gone home.
To her great relief, Winnie Holmes was not among them. The nosy old woman would only need to catch a glimpse of her for Harriet’s presence to be broadcast to all and sundry. Joyce would be sure to hear then that she’d been back on a visit. Harriet tiptoed past Winnie’s stall, almost as if she half expected the old woman to leap out from behind the locked grill that protected the goods on display.
Even as she laughed at her own fears, she heard her name being called and almost jumped out of her skin. Turning, she saw with relief that it wasn’t Winnie, and the next instant found herself caught up in a warm hug from her friend Patsy.
‘Harriet, it’s so good to see you! I was just reorganising the display on the hat stall. Best chance I get to have a good clean and tidy up when we’re closed, and I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. How are you doing? Where are you living now?’
All the questions Harriet had dreaded. She put on a brave face. ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m with Vinny’s band, as I expect you’ve heard.’
‘Yes, I did hear something of the sort,’ Patsy admitted. ‘And you’re happy?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Harriet fibbed, ‘It’s great fun. And they’re doing really well with lots of bookings lined up.’ There were only three so far, but she didn’t tell Patsy that.
‘We must get up a group together from Champion Street, and come and listen to it some time.’
Harriet felt the smile freeze on her face. ‘That would be good.’
‘What do they call themselves?’
‘The Scrapyard Kids.’
‘And where will they be playing next? At the Ritz or Mecca? I’d love to hear them. What sort of stuff do they play?’ The conversation turned to music which was far easier than discussing possible venues. Harriet had no wish to admit that the band would be more likely to be found playing in some back street pub rather than a high profile spot like the Ritz or Mecca ballroom. But then some instinct made her turn round and she found herself face to face with Steve.
‘Harriet!
He was staring at her in shock and delight, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, his face wreathed in a grin as wide as that of the proverbial Cheshire cat.
‘I thought I heard your voice. You’re home, that’s wonderful!’
‘Not really, just on a visit.’
An awkward silence fell between them, in which Patsy crept away, leaving them to it.
Steve said, ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Er . . .’ Harriet half glanced about her, as if seeking rescue. The last thing she wanted was to be interrogated by Steve over where she was living or what she was doing. Why would he care anyway? He hadn’t been interested in her the last time she saw him, so why now?
When she didn’t immediately answer, he hurried on, ‘Come to think of it, I’m not sure Belle’s café is still open.’
‘It doesn’t matter, it’s just a flying visit . . . I have to get back. I really don’t have time . . .’
‘There’s a new hamburger joint opened on Bridge Street, we could go there for a bite, if you like.’ Steve smiled hopefully, knowing he’d give his right arm for her to say yes.
‘I’m sorry, but . . .’
‘There’s something I need to say to you, a sort of apology.’
She looked at him more closely then and almost burst out laughing at the sheepish expression on his boyish face. At one time she would have done exactly that, and they would have hugged and both had a good laugh over their foolish quarrel and the attempt each made to make the other jealous. There wouldn’t have been any need for apologies, they would both have instinctively understood and forgiven each other. But then she thought of Vinny and of what had happened between them the other night, and knew it was too late for apologies now.
Even so she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze from his. Harriet looked into a pair of dark brown eyes which were pleading her to agree, and felt that familiar weakness deep inside, that softening and melting which always came over her when she was close to Steve. She could sense his eagerness, smell the familiar tang of his skin, knew if she reached out her hand he would grasp her fingers and kiss them as he had used to do.
In that moment Harriet realised she still adored the way his heavy straight brows almost met when he was puzzling over something, as he was now. She loved the way his nostrils flared as his breathing grew more rapid, and how his wide mouth set above a firm square chin was always smiling. His dark hair had grown, reaching alm
ost to his collar instead of being cut to less than half an inch all over his head. And he’d started wearing glasses, black and rather square. He looked very much the student in his corduroy jacket and slacks, and he still carried about him that air of reliability and strength.
And she still loved him. In that moment her heart ached with longing for things to be as they once were between them. Why couldn’t it have worked out better for them? Why hadn’t he stuck up for her against his snobby mother?
But the damage was done. It was too late now. Harriet was no longer the innocent young girl Steve had fallen in love with. She was no longer a virgin, not the same person in any way. She rather thought that she’d fulfilled his mother’s doom-laden prediction for her, and justified her fears for her son.
Harriet’s status was surely about as low as it could get. Dossing down on cardboard, smoking pot, hanging out with a bunch of losers who lived on dreams and other people’s leftovers. Mrs Blackstock would indeed have fifty fits if she knew the half of it. And what Steve would think of her, she didn’t bear to think.
‘I have to go,’ she said, spinning on her heel as if about to break into a run.
Steve grabbed her hand. ‘Just five minutes, please. It wasn’t how you think. I didn’t really stand you up.’
The feel of his fingers curling around her arm was having a strange effect upon her, making her go all light headed. If she didn’t make her escape soon, then she’d be falling into his arms and begging him to kiss her. ‘Look, I really do have to go. Some other time, right?’
Harriet fled, breaking into a sweat as she pushed her way through the big doors, took to her heels and ran, not pausing even for a second as she heard his footsteps clattering behind her. Nor did she respond as Steve called after her. ‘Where’s the band playing? I’ll come over some time and we can talk properly.’
She didn’t bother to reply and he stood forlorn in the empty street and watched her race away from him, her strawberry blonde curls bobbing all about her head.
‘Damn! You rushed her you damn fool. You scared her,’ he berated himself.
Patsy was at his side in a second, a comforting hand on his arm. ‘It wasn’t anything you did. The problem lies with Harriet, I think. Something isn’t quite right. I sensed it too.’
‘I didn’t even tell her how sorry I was about Rose being ill.’
‘Me neither. I didn’t get the chance, but I assume she knows.’
Steve’s gaze remained fixed on the spot where he’d last had sight of her. What a clod he was! ‘Why didn’t I just ask her how she was, if she was enjoying life? Why did I have to go charging in like a bull in a china shop with a bungling attempt at an apology?’
Patsy gave his arm a little squeeze. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to find out where the band is playing. Scour the local papers, read the boards outside pubs and clubs, they’ll be bound to turn up sooner or later.’
He looked at her, a pained bleakness in his expressive face. ‘I didn’t ask their name. I’ve no idea what they’re even called.’
‘Oh, she did tell me that much at least. What was it? Yes, The Scrapyard Kids, that’s it. You’ll just have to keep a look-out and not give up.’
‘Oh, I won’t give up, Patsy. I may be fooling myself, but there was something in her expression just now which tells me it might not be such a lost cause between us after all.’
Grant came across the band quite by chance. Bored with having no success in searching for Harriet he’d hooked up with a girl he quite fancied and it was she who suggested they go to a jazz club one night. It was a bit seedy, short on electricity and smelling of drains, tucked down in a basement near Cross Lane in Salford. Several jazz bands were playing that night, both modern and trad, and then for a change they introduced a rock group. Grant wasn’t paying too much attention, being more into cool modern jazz than this sort of playground stuff, but then he saw her.
She was sitting in a corner, deep in shadow, since the club was in near darkness, but he would have recognised her anywhere. She was his half-sister, after all, or maybe not any more, but there Harriet sat and his mouth went dry. His appetite for the lusciously plump little bird he’d brought with him vanished upon the instant.
For all Harriet’s coldness towards him, or perhaps because of it, the thought of her still tormented him. In his view she’d lorded it over him all his life, stealing the attention Stan should have paid to him. Of course, as things had turned out, Stan wasn’t his real father after all, but that wouldn’t have mattered if Harriet had never come on the scene. No wonder his mother hated her with a vengeance, exactly as she had hated Stan. So did Grant.
And he still nursed resentment over the beating up Vinny’s old gang had given him the night Joyce had thrown the stupid girl out. He’d enjoyed watching her suffer the beating, but hadn’t expected them to turn on him moments later. That was all her fault too.
She got up to jive with the singer at one point, and Grant couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He’d always been fascinated by the languid way she moved, her slow smile, and the innocence in those big grey eyes which could be all soft and velvety one minute and like a storm over the sea the next.
He loved the way she would suddenly flare up into an absolute paddy because she couldn’t find her lipstick, or some favourite record or other she wanted to play on her record player. She’d rail at him, accusing him of borrowing it without asking and not giving it back. Which of course was generally true, certainly so far as the record was concerned, although he had once or twice stolen her lipsticks too and dropped them in the canal, simply for the joy of seeing that temper in action. There was nothing he liked better than to irritate and annoy her, to see how much he got on her nerves. It all seemed to add to the fun.
The band was playing Love Potion No.9, then even managing a pretty fair rendition of Mack the Knife, considering they were amateurs. Grant noticed how she kept her eyes fixed on the band, was jiving quite close to them, talking to one guy who looked vaguely familiar.
Then Grant recognised him. Vinny Turner, no less. Of course, he was the main attraction. No doubt she was sleeping with him. Well, let her get in a bit of practise, then he’d show her what a real man could do.
He warned himself not to rush into anything. He’d get rid of the bird, Sandra or Sharon or whatever her name was, then he’d follow this so-called sister of his and see where she went. Once he knew where she was living, he could make plans at his leisure. Not taking too long about it in case they decided to move on. Bands were notorious for not staying in one place for long, but, now that he’d found her, he had every intention of keeping her in his sights. And then of enjoying her and taking his revenge for the mess she’d made of his life.
Chapter Twenty
Joyce and Stan had just two nights together after the hasty Register Office wedding, two passionate nights, and two long days of loving before Stan had to leave. His ship was sailing for some unknown destination overseas the very next day. Joyce was already three months pregnant, which she somehow managed to avoid mentioning. Within weeks though, she was writing to announce her pregnancy, and he wrote back with joy, saying how he’d always wanted to be a family man, and he really didn’t mind whether it was a boy or a girl.
Fortunately his parents were still disapproving of their marriage and never came near. When the baby was born Stan was still overseas, and Joyce left it for several more weeks before writing to tell him he’d become a father.
In her heart she knew she couldn’t get away with this subterfuge for long, and she was proved absolutely right. By the time Stan came home, instead of a small seven month baby lying in his cot, he found a ten month old infant crawling around and getting into mischief. Something didn’t add up, but Stan could. He knew at once that he’d been duped.
Stan looked at the child and then at Joyce. ‘You saw me coming a mile off, didn’t you? What a fool I was. No wonder you didn’t put up much of a fight when I suggested we get married in a hurr
y. My parents’ suspicions were correct.’
‘I was in love with you,’ Joyce told him, trembling with fear that he might actually walk away and she’d lose him. ‘I still am, and I can explain.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ The sarcastic tone of his voice cut right to the heart of her. ‘It’s my own fault, I suppose, I should’ve paid more attention to that Dear John letter, shouldn’t I?’
‘Don’t say that. Just listen to what I have to say. Please!’ But he wasn’t interested in listening. He was indeed walking away. Joyce felt desperate. She must stop him from leaving, she really must. ‘I was raped!’
He stopped dead, whirled about to face her, eyes stretched wide in disbelief. ‘Raped! Now I’ve heard everything. How dare you try to excuse your lies and trickery by making up such a sorry excuse?’
‘It’s not an excuse, it’s true, I swear it.’
‘And you forgot to mention it until now?’
‘I should have told you, I realise that now. But I didn’t tell anyone, not even my own mother.’
‘And why was that, I wonder? Because it never happened?’
‘It did happen, at a party Eileen held. He was a sailor too, but he was a stranger to me. I’d no idea who he was. He was drunk and I . . .’
‘Drunken sailors? That’s enough, Joyce. Enough I say!’ Stan was furious, stabbing a finger in her face. ‘Do you realise my comrades, little more than boys some of them, are dying out there. And what thanks do they get for offering that ultimate sacrifice? Their girl friends sleep around with other men, that’s what happens, time after time. I’ve seen my best friends face danger every day, and all their girls can think about is the next bit of fun they can have at some dance or other. You make me sick with your excuses. You’ve made a fool of me once, Joyce, but don’t think you can make a habit of it. We may be stuck with each other, for the moment at least, but I don’t have to like it.’
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 17
