‘Why didn’t you use the chamber pot?’ Joyce scolded.
‘I’m not a child! I insist you let me out of here. Now!’ and Harriet marched along the landing to the bathroom which Joyce herself had had installed only a few years ago. Before then, they’d only had the privy at the end of the yard, but Joyce had wanted the house to be smart and modern. She’d put in a proper bathroom as well as a new gas fire in the living room so they no longer had to carry coal in.
‘We could allus keep the coal in the bath,’ Nan had joked at the time, which had earned her a freezing glare.
Now, Harriet ran herself a bath and made a vow to spend as much time in there as possible, and she would refuse absolutely to return to her room until bed time.
It didn’t work out that way. By the time she emerged, fresh and clean and feeling much better both physically and emotionally, it was to find Grant lounging at the door. He stood, arms folded, blocking her exit to the stairs. Harriet looked at him, considered an attempt to charge past his square, bulky body, but then smoothed a cautionary hand over her round tummy. Perhaps not. She decided to try charm instead.
‘Are you going to allow me to go downstairs and eat my breakfast in a civilised fashion?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re to go back into your room, and I’ll fetch it up on a tray.’
Harriet took a breath, steeling herself for an argument. ‘I don’t want you coming to my room. If I must be confined, I’d rather Nan brought me my food, or Joyce.’
Nan isn’t fit enough to climb up and down these stairs, and Mam is busy with her first client in the salon.’
Harriet took a breath, feeling increasingly trapped, as if in some sort of horror movie. ‘And you’re at a loose end, as usual?’
‘Actually, I’ve just got back from work. I drive for Catlow’s during the nights and early mornings now. I’m on me way to bed, as a matter of fact, so I’m doing you a favour fetching you your grub. Do you want it or not, it’s no skin off my nose if you choose to go hungry.’
As he said all of this he was edging her backwards along the landing until Harriet found herself standing by her bedroom door. He pushed it open and she could tell by the triumphant glow in his small nasty eyes what pleasure he took from seeing her caged up like this, the revenge he’d always longed for.
Harriet remembered how he’d once stalked her, had seemed ready to actually assault her, his own half-sister. It chilled her a little to find herself at his mercy, but was determined not to show it.
Nevertheless, she had no alternative but to go back into her prison. Five minutes later Grant brought up a bacon sandwich and mug of tea which he placed on her desk with a sardonic grin. ‘Make it last. You’ll get nowt else till dinner time around twelvish.’
The key was already turning in the lock before Harriet thought to chase after him, and hammer again on the door. ‘You won’t forget to let me out to go to the lav every hour, will you? I’m pregnant for God’s sake!’
She could hear her half-brother’s laugh echoing back along the landing as he walked away.
Locking up the salon at the end of a difficult day, Joyce congratulated herself that at least she’d provided a home for the child, for which the girl had shown precious little gratitude. No longer would she allow herself to be used and put upon, as she had been in the past by a selfish husband and his foolish mistress. Neither of them had given a moment’s consideration to her own feelings, or to the sensitivity of the situation. It had been left to Joyce to sort everything out, to smooth over the cracks of her marriage, move house in order to avoid the malice of local gossip, in order to save them all from the wicked treachery of their betrayal without the least thanks from anyone.
Joyce certainly had no intention of allowing that child, Harriet herself, to ruin everything now, by shaming them before the entire street.
The very thought of Winnie Holmes gossiping with Irma Southworth, her latest hated rival, was more than any human being should be expected to bear. This was her home, her sanctuary.
No one seemed to appreciate what she’d had to put up with over the years. And if Joyce had found it impossible to love the child, was that any fault of hers? Would it all have been happy families if she’d forgiven her husband for his betrayal? Joyce very much doubted it. Forgiveness was not a part of her nature. The bitterness brought on by a bad marriage had never left her, some might say it had destroyed her. Her mother certainly thought so, but then she wasn’t the one who’d been forced to endure it.
And this girl, this love-child of Stan’s, had turned out to be every bit as depraved as her whore of a mother. She deserved to suffer, Joyce decided, and she’d make damn sure that she did.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rose had little appetite for breakfast the next morning. She pushed aside the porridge which Joyce had painstakingly made, brought to her on a tray with no small degree of resentment. All Rose could think of was her precious granddaughter locked in her room upstairs.
‘Go on, get it off your chest, whatever it is that’s bothering you,’ Joyce challenged. ‘I can see that you’re clearly working yourself up for a row.’
‘How can you keep our Harriet locked up? It’s inhuman, cruel. How is she supposed to go to the lavvy if she wants to?’
‘She’s in the bathroom at this precise moment, as a matter of fact,’ Joyce informed her mother, in clipped tones. ‘Grant will take her some breakfast then fetch her some books from the library, magazines from the shop, whatever she fancies. She’ll be fine.’
Rose snorted her derision. ‘If she has to rely on our Grant to look after her, she’ll soon be in a right state. The lass needs fresh air and exercise, and she should see a doctor. She’s pregnant for heavens’ sake.’
Joyce remained unmoved. ‘That’s her problem. She should’ve kept herself respectable, shown more sense in the first place instead of going off with that no-good Vinny Turner.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Joyce! What choice did she have? You’d kicked her out of her own home, if you recall. Your own daughter!’
‘She’s not my…’
‘Don’t say it, don’t ever say that again. You chose to keep her. No one twisted your arm.’ Rose was wagging a furious finger, going red in the face with fury, which alarmed Joyce as it did no good at all for her mother’s blood pressure. The last thing she wanted was for her to suffer another stroke.
‘Mother, will you please keep your voice down. Half the neighbours will be able to hear you. Be calm, I beg you.’
But Rose wasn’t listening. ‘I don’t care if they do hear me. You wanted that babby from the minute she was born, maybe even before, only it didn’t work out quite as you’d hoped, did it? You couldn’t ever forget that she was Eileen’s child and not your own, or forgive Stan for his transgression. You taunted him with it even when he came back from the war a cripple. No wonder Harriet became her father’s girl, all because of your wicked jealousy. You’ve made that poor lass’s life a living hell, picking on her the whole time for something that wasn’t her fault. How often have I needed to step in and protect her over the years? You should be ashamed of yerself, you should really.’
Joyce had gone white to lips during this tirade, but now briskly turned to leave.
‘Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you. What sort of woman takes on a child and then refuses to love it? Ask yourself that.’
Stan had arrived home a few days after the birth, having been granted compassionate leave although he’d told a lie in order to get it, somehow failing to mention it was his mistress who was giving birth, letting everyone assume it to be his wife.
He was delighted, thrilled with the baby, even though she was not the son he’d most wanted. And to her great surprise, Joyce discovered that he showed little interest in Eileen. Admittedly she was no longer the glamorous figure Stan had fallen in love with. She’d let herself go badly, piled on the pounds as she’d lazed about doing very little throughout her pregnancy. Now, he simply pecked a
kiss on to her forehead before devoting his entire time and attention to the child.
Stan did have the decency to express his gratitude to Joyce for helping to look after Eileen, and for caring for this new baby.
‘You wanted a child of your own, now you’ve got one, thanks to Eileen,’ Joyce caustically remarked.
‘You deserve credit too. Since her parents turned her out, Eileen wouldn’t have been capable of coping on her own. I’m grateful for your generosity, Joyce. It was very – forgiving of you.’
Joyce had never felt less forgiving in her life, but she let the remark pass.
He appeared so grateful that he not only asked if he might join his wife in her bed that night, but was particularly loving towards her. He seemed to feel the need to celebrate this joyous event. Joyce was elated. It felt almost like a return to their old passion. Almost.
Yet she knew it was the child he loved most, and not her.
Stan was enraptured by Harriet, completely captivated. Maybe Joyce should have recognised the seeds of jealousy which set down roots in those first few days. Too dazzled by her night of love, by the attention her husband was at last paying to her rather than to his mistress, she fooled herself into thinking that Eileen’s task had been completed, that she was no longer relevant or of any concern to him. Joyce could almost believe that she was the one who’d given him this precious baby, and basked in his praise.
‘You’ve done a tremendous job, Joyce. Look at her, isn’t she wonderful? See how she grasps my fingers, so firm, so strong. You don’t know what this means to me, to hold my own child in my arms.’
‘She is indeed a lovely baby.’ Joyce inwardly railed at the cruelty of fate. There seemed no way to get around the fact that he’d bypassed her completely to get himself a child. ‘It breaks my heart to think how you and I were once so desperately in love, how we seemed to be well suited at first, and yet our marriage has been a total disaster, through no fault of our own. All because I suffered that rape. It’s so sad.’
Stan looked at her, considering her words with such care that Joyce’s heart did a little flip. Was it possible that she could persuade him to forgive her, even now, for not being entirely honest with him over that?
‘If I could turn back the clock ... ‘ she began, but he flapped a hand at her.
‘We’d all like to do that.’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what would you do differently, if you could?’
He paused, looking deeply into her eyes, and then down at the child before answering. ‘Maybe show a bit more understanding and patience, a little more compassion.’
‘I should think this war destroys compassion.’
He nodded. ‘That’s true. Such emotions feel like weakness, and weakness in war is something a man can’t afford. I’ve heard so many terrible stories among my comrades, seen so much heartbreak. My best mate’s wife cheated on him with a local pacifist, would you believe? Another was left standing at the altar looking a right proper Charlie, and then was shot to pieces only weeks later. She could at least have made what miserable life he had left, happy. He started taking stupid risks, I think, not caring whether he lived or died. There are loads of stories of guys being dumped by their girl friends for someone else, despite the fact they are facing death and danger every day of their lives. You get so’s you can’t trust anyone. I assumed you were spinning me a yarn about the rape.’
It was the first time they’d talked as reasonable adults in months.
‘But now you’ve surpassed yourself, Joyce, looking after Eileen, and this wonderful baby.’
They both looked at the child, cradled in Stan’s arms, her intense gaze seeming to consider them with a remarkable intelligence, as if wondering what they were going to do about her, now that she was here.
Encouraged by Stan’s more mellow attitude, Joyce took her courage in both hands. ‘We could always adopt her.’
‘Adopt?’
‘You want the best for her, I suppose?’ Joyce stroked the baby’s soft cheek, smiled into those baby blue eyes which were already showing signs of darkening to a beautiful slate grey.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I doubt you could prove you had any rights at all to her, not as things stand, since you and Eileen aren’t married, even though we both know that she is indeed your child. Eileen could simply up-sticks and leave and marry someone else, and you couldn’t stop her.’
Stan frowned, his hold on the baby tightening slightly.
‘But you and I are man and wife,’ Joyce went on, her voice perfectly calm and reasonable. ‘Eileen isn’t in a good position to bring up an illegitimate child. And, as I say, you have an equal right to her, a better claim in a way, since your name will be on her birth certificate as her legal father, and you’re in a good position to provide her with a stable home. We could adopt - legitimise her.’
‘You mean officially, signing papers and such?’
Joyce looked him straight in the eye. ‘Or simply pretend she’s ours, let people assume that I was the one who gave birth.’
Stan puffed out his cheeks and was thoughtful for several long minutes. ‘Well, I’ll admit I let my commanding office make such an assumption. It seemed easier that way. But we’d surely never get away with it, not here. Did no one attend the birth, no doctor or midwife?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘It all happened so quickly there wasn’t time to call one. Rose attended to her, and she’ll keep quiet if I tell her to. For all anyone knows, it could have been me giving birth.’
Stan frowned. ‘But you weren’t the one looking pregnant all these last months, Eileen was. How would you get around that?’
‘Actually, that isn’t a problem. Eileen had the good sense to stay indoors, out of the gaze of public censure, as she’d no wish to create a scandal. Once I realised this was her intention, some sort of instinct kicked in and I did the same. Neither of us has been out of the house for months. Mother did all the shopping, told people I wasn’t feeling too well if anyone enquired. No one would be in the least surprised if I suddenly emerged with a baby. Many women prefer a quiet pregnancy, particularly if they’ve suffered a miscarriage, as I have.’
Stan was staring at his wife in wonder and disbelief. ‘You’ve worked this all out, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve thought about it, yes.’
‘And you’d do this for me? You’d forgive my – indiscretion – my affair with Eileen and accept this child, my child, as your own?’
Joyce lifted her chin and agreed that she would. ‘I’m perfectly willing to give our marriage another go, if you are.’ If he said no, if he chose instead to walk out the door with the baby and Eileen, what would she do then? It didn’t bear thinking about. But if keeping this child meant she could also have Stan, then she would do it, at whatever cost to her pride.
There was another short silence and then Stan nodded. It was the smallest of gestures and yet made a world of difference. Joyce’s hopes soared, and she actually smiled.
‘Why don’t you speak to Eileen, Stan? The suggestion would come better from you. See how she reacts. She might well be grateful for her baby to be given a bright, new, respectable future.’
The creases between his brow deepened as Stan thought through all the implications, perhaps wondering if they really could pull it off. But Joyce could tell that he was already hooked on the idea. She could see it in the softness of his gaze as he looked down upon his precious daughter cradled so lovingly in his arms. He would be a good father, Joyce thought.
The only question which remained was, could she be a good mother to this unexpected, alien child? But why should she not be? The baby might be the very thing to bring them together.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The days passed in an absolute agony, each one torturously long so that Harriet was frequently compelled to utilise the chamber-pot, much against her better judgement. She hadn’t used such a thing since she was three years ol
d when she’d been too afraid to go down the yard in the dark, particularly with the possibility of an air raid siren going off at any moment. Now she felt as if she’d slipped back to those grim days of war.
Each morning, as promised, Grant would bring her breakfast, then her midday meal: a Spam or fish paste sandwich, mug of tea or coffee. Not her favourite meal but she always ate it simply because she seemed to be constantly famished. Maybe it was because she was eating for two. Rebelliously going on a hunger strike, she decided, wouldn’t help her baby in the least, and probably give Joyce enormous satisfaction. Then in the evening he’d bring supper.
Grant would then allow her use of the bathroom where she would wash out the chamber pot with hot water and Dettol, and take as long as possible over her ablutions. He always waited outside until she was finished, studiously marshalling the procedure so that there was no hope of escape.
Harriet was very often near to tears. How would she survive three months of this? It was horrendous! Inhuman! Was Grant going to act as her jailor throughout? Dear lord, it was outrageous. There must be some way out.
He also brought her library books, which she leafed through in a perfunctory fashion. She started on a John Creasey detective story but couldn’t quite engage her mind on the plot. Then she tried Gone with the Wind, a favourite which she’d read many times. But not even Scarlett O’Hara’s troubles could take Harriet’s mind off her own.
Very sensibly, Harriet lay down every afternoon to take a rest, for the sake of the baby, as well as to ease her back and legs which ached from constantly pacing back and forth in the small confined space. More often than not she lay staring at the ceiling, worrying and plotting over hopeless plans of escape, but occasionally she would sleep, if only out of exhaustion.
One such afternoon she awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed. Even though it was still light outside, it being June, there was that slight change in the air which told her that the afternoon was over and evening had come.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 29
