by Annie Murray
The others would soon be home from school. And Sam – bless him – from work. After the four grimmest and most despairing years of Dora’s life they at last had a regular wage coming into the house. How she would have got by without the neighbours she’d never know – Theresa and Gladys especially. The final humiliation had come when they had been forced to go on the Parish. First there was the gruelling session in front of the board. Dora’s innards turned just thinking about it. She’d remember the cold, gimlet-eyed woman there till her dying day. The board, which executed the Means Test, decided whether she was worthy of their meagre allowance of food and coal.
Sam, Rose and Grace had become familiar, sad little figures outside factories as far away as Cheapside and Moseley Street, greeting the men who came off shift with persistent cries of ‘Have you got a piece for us?’ They’d run after the men until they handed over any leftover portions of bread from their lunches.
On Saturday nights they would hang about in Smith- field and the Market Hall until the stallholders were packing up, and then walk home exhausted, carrying a piece of knockdown meat and bags of bruised fruit and veg. Rose would fall asleep with her head full of visions of pyramids of apples and oranges lit by the the naphtha flares which hissed next to the stalls.
The shame and desperation of those years had nearly finished Dora. When Violet was born she had haemorrhaged so badly that she’d been ill for weeks and had had to give up her night job in the metal stamping factory. They’d had Sickness Benefit, and by the time that finished she was pregnant again, but she miscarried in the third month. Again she was left weak and drained.
Dora had been desperate not to get pregnant again. She tried to fight Sid in bed, and kick him off. But even with only one arm he was stronger. He begged her and then slapped her about, and most often now pushed into her with a force which frightened her and left her sore, sometimes bleeding, and with an overwhelming sense of shame as if she had done something wrong. When she had the strength, she crept out in the dark afterwards and fetched a pail of cold water to wash herself with.
As soon as she realized she was carrying this child, for the first time in her life she tried to abort it. She had tried castor oil and Penny Royal syrup and even water which she’d boiled pennies in. She had trembled at the sin she was committing – however ineffective it proved – but even more at the thought of what Sid would do to her if he ever found out. His one remaining source of power was his and Dora’s fertility.
‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said to her one night in an ugly mood. He was lying on the bed naked from the waist down, his member lolling to one side on its nest of dark hair. ‘I saw a fella in the army with it all blown away. Where would that leave you, eh?’
She had been brought too low to feel anything for Sid now. Even pity had been drained out of her. Now when his dreams drove him to cry out in the night she turned away and pushed her fingers into her ears. She had pity now only for her children, and admiration for their pluck and spirit.
She leaned back into her chair, folding her arms over her swollen stomach and thinking of her kids one by one.
There was Albert, over in Erdington, whom she hardly ever saw, and Marj, rather smug with her two kids in Sparkbrook. She realized that these two, who could just remember the life before the war, despised what their parents had become. If that was their attitude they could keep away.
As for Sam, he was a good solid lad. She knew he’d stick by her and look after her. Sticking by people was one of the codes by which Dora lived. Disloyalty figured high on her list of human failures, along with thieving and cruelty to children. She felt Sam had inherited that loyalty from her.
‘Don’t worry, Mom,’ he’d kept saying, while he was waiting out his last year at school. ‘I’ll get myself a job soon. I’ll look after you.’ It was a promise he’d kept. He was bringing in ten bob a week which was a start and they made up the rest with odds and sods.
Then there were the two girls. Dora smiled at the thought of Grace. She was so transparent and shared things with her mother. She used to climb on Dora’s knee and show her the latest picture she’d found of her great passion – the royal family. She was straightforward somehow. Like herself, Dora thought.
But Rose was more of a mystery. Dora had never worked out why that posh vicar’s daughter Diana wanted to be so friendly with her. She must have had pals with knobs on up at her public school, but she and Rose were still as thick as anything. And she didn’t even seem to mind coming and slumming it down Catherine Street now and then. It was the neighbours who acted suspicious and said, ‘What’s she doing down here again?’
Dora couldn’t help liking Diana, even if she hadn’t been sure at first what she was after. Her mother’s family were something titled, it was said, and she’d married beneath her. But Diana didn’t put on airs. She always said ‘Mrs Lucas’ so politely. And she was such a pretty lass with all that curly hair round her face. But Rose went up to the vicarage more often than Diana came down here. Rose didn’t want the neighbours gossiping about her or Geraldine Donaghue deliberately messing up Diana’s dress out of envy.
Rose worried Dora though. She knew her daughter’s contact with the Harper-Watts had shown her a kind of life that would never be within her grasp.
‘Don’t get big ideas, will you?’ she warned sometimes.
Sid put it more brutally. ‘You needn’t bring her round here and get all toffee-nosed. You was born a slum kid and you’ll die a slum kid so you needn’t go expecting any different.’
It was already getting quite dark. The lamplighter would soon be out on the streets. Dora was about to stir herself when she heard the girls outside, and George came crashing into the house shouting, ‘Rose’s had the cane! Rose’s had the cane!’
As was her way, she didn’t ask questions immediately but pulled herself to her feet and lit the lamp. Then she turned to her daughters. Rose was still the taller of the two and bone thin, with long black hair down her back. Her face was puffed up from crying and her cheeks streaked and red. Grace, who was wheezing heavily, also looked tearful. Instinctively, Dora moved across to boil some water for her.
‘What’s been going on?’ she demanded.
‘It’s that Miss Smart,’ Rose burst out, her voice high with tears and anger. ‘She’s a wicked, horrible bitch, she is.’
‘Rose!’ Dora started. But then, seeing how distressed she was, said, ‘Turn round.’
Rose turned, and very tentatively pulled her ripped bloomers down to show her bare bottom. It was raw and red with stripes of blood and vivid purple welts, so many that they had all merged together in a hot, angry mass.
‘God Almighty,’ Dora gasped. ‘What the hell has she done? What brought all that on?’
It had been the last lesson, Rose explained. They’d been sitting in the classroom, and she was next to the heavy green curtain that separated her class from Grace’s. She knew Grace wasn’t feeling too good that day. The weather was damp and cold which always brought on the asthma. She’d been struggling to get her breath even on the way to school. A day in the building, heated by the one feeble stove, had not helped.
As Rose sat through her arithmetic lesson, Miss Smart was teaching Grace in the next section of the room. Suddenly she became aware of Miss Smart’s usually abrupt and tetchy voice saying quite clearly, ‘Pull yourself together! I’ve had quite enough of your malingering.’
‘I can’t help it, Miss Smart,’ she heard Grace trying to protest. ‘It’s me chest. I’ve got—’
‘Be quiet,’ Miss Smart shouted. ‘You make that horrible noise once more and you’ll feel the cane across your behind. I’m not putting up with any more of your excuses.’
Through the curtain Rose could hear Grace’s wheezing becoming louder and more agitated. She could picture Miss Smart’s angry, spiteful face as she stood over her sister, and suddenly she felt all restraint leave her.
She glanced up at Miss Phipps to check she wasn’t looking. Then she lifted
up the bottom of the heavy curtain, pushed her way underneath it and ran to Grace, flinging an arm round her frightened sister’s shoulders.
‘You cruel bitch!’ she shouted at Miss Smart. Her voice sounded surprisingly strong. ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? Just because you can’t keep a bloke for five minutes doesn’t mean you have to take it out on my sister. She’s got a bad chest, as you ought to know bleeding well by now!’
Grace’s face almost mirrored her teacher’s in its look of horror. Miss Smart grabbed Rose by the wrist and hauled her through the classroom with astonishing strength, bashing Rose’s legs and hips against the desks.
‘Come here you uppity little scum,’ she hissed, her teeth locked together as though she was trying to hold back some of her rage. ‘You’ll be out of this school as soon as breathe after what you’ve just said to me.’ The woman’s body was quivering all over. ‘But now I’m going to give you something you should have been given a long time ago.’
Grace watched, terrified, as Miss Smart grabbed Rose again by the shoulders and forced her round so she was facing the window. She pulled Rose’s skirt up and yanked on her bloomers so that the entire class heard them tear.
‘Bend over and empty the wastepaper basket,’ Miss Smart shouted, only just able to get the words out.
Rose knew the drill. She turned the basket over, tipping out scraps of paper and some balls of fluff, and leaned down on the dusty weave of the base.
Miss Smart thrashed her with the cane as no child in the school had ever been thrashed before. She lost all control as her voice screamed out her frustration and loathing. ‘D’you think I like standing here day after day looking at your ugly – ignorant – faces? I hate it. I hate it – do you hear? You stupid – scummy little – slum kids . . . You’ll never – do anything – or be anything. I could be married and out of this cesspit by now, but I’m stuck here forever. Stuck – stuck – stuck!’
Rose’s whimpering broke into screams as Miss Smart brought the thin cane down and broke the skin. The lashes shot through her, making her feel weak in the legs and dizzy. She was aware only of the pain and of the saliva gathering in her mouth.
‘Helena! Helena Smart – what in God’s name are you doing?’ It was a deep voice, from the large body of Miss Phipps, who had been teaching arithmetic next door. The beating stopped abruptly as Miss Phipps grabbed the younger teacher’s arms and took the bloodstained cane from her trembling hand.
Rose slowly turned the waste basket over and retched miserably into it. She heard Grace’s loud breathing beside her.
‘Rose? Rose – are you all right?’ Grace was crying. A thin trickle of vomit began to ooze out through the wicker and across the floor.
Miss Phipps was holding Miss Smart by one of her wrists. The younger woman was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I’ll see you later,’ Miss Phipps said in a low voice. ‘For now I think you’d be wisest to get out of my sight.’
They all watched Miss Smart, her head sunk down and her shoulders heaving as she left the room.
Miss Phipps came over to Rose. ‘Go home and get your mother to dress those cuts,’ she said gently. ‘Grace, you go with her.’
Rose tried to straighten up. Her behind and the lower part of her back were a tight wall of pain.
Miss Phipps guessed what was painting the worried expression on the girl’s face even through her obvious distress. ‘It’s all right,’ she assured her kindly. ‘You’ll be coming back to school again.’
As Rose was finishing off her story, Sid lurched into the house on his crutch, slamming the door as he always did. Dora tensed.
He looked round the room. Grace was sitting at the table with George, breathing noisily over a bowl while Dora held her hair back. Rose was standing holding a cup with a face as long as Livery Street and not a sign of his tea on the go.
What’s going on?’ His voice was ugly.
‘Rose got caned down at the school for sticking up for our Grace,’ Dora said. ‘Her behind’s red raw with it.’
Sid looked at Rose’s tearstained face. It was rare for him to see Rose crying. She was a proud cow, in front of him anyway. Strong, independent Rose. Rose, who had all the aspirations he had had and probably even more, going about with that kid from up the vicarage. He felt a moment of identity with her, but he pushed it aside. For once she wasn’t giving him that serious, knowing look of hers, that seemed to say, ‘Sod you, Dad. I’m going to get out of here and do something with my life.’
He began to enjoy her humiliation. ‘I s’pose you asked for it,’ he said. ‘You’re a cheeky little bugger.’
‘I didn’t ask for it!’ Rose shouted. She felt like someone with nothing to lose. ‘She was carrying on at our Grace and I stuck up for her. Like Mom could do with someone to stick up for her when you’re down there knocking her about of a night. I’ve listened to you since I were a babby with your bullying and your carrying on, and your – crying.’ Rose spat the word out with all the contempt she felt. ‘You’re disgusting, Dad. So don’t go telling me I asked for it.’
She stood unflinching as Sid lurched over and hit her round the head with both sides of his thick hand again and again.
‘Stop it!’ Dora screamed. Grace and George sat quite still as if paralysed with fright. ‘Don’t you dare hit her! Don’t you ever hit my kids.’ Her voice dropped to a snarl. ‘I’ve put up with you knocking me about, but don’t you ever lay a finger on my kids again or I swear I’ll lay you out for good.’ She was looking round wildly for something to use as a weapon when Rose simply took a step backwards and Sid lost his balance, falling to the floor heavily, on his side.
With all the dignity she could summon Rose stood over him. ‘I shouldn’t bother getting up, Dad.’ She left Grace and George gawping and went to her room.
Rose lay with her stomach flat against the bed in the dusk light of the attic.
Dora was bathing the sores on her daughter’s behind with warm water and dabbing iodine on the cuts. One side of Rose’s face was swollen and shiny and beginning to darken into bruises. Sid’s outburst, as much as the treatment she had had from Miss Smart, had created a bond between the mother and daughter stronger than any that had existed before.
‘I hate him,’ Rose said, banging her fists on the thin mattress, and wincing whenever Dora touched her. ‘I hate, hate, hate him. He ought to want better than he’s had for his kids. He’s never cared about us.’
Dora sighed. Rose became aware that her mother was stroking her hair with a new gentleness that she was unused to. She kept very still in case any movement made Dora stop.
‘If it were a few year ago I’d’ve said that’s not the truth.’ Dora paused for a moment, breathless with the baby pushing up her lungs. ‘Now I just don’t know. He’s turned sour on everything and there’s no getting near him. And you can’t blame him when you stop to think about it. But that don’t make it any easier for the rest of us. There’ve been times . . .’ She stopped.
As if reading her mind, Rose said, ‘You’d have been just as well off without him, wouldn’t you?’
‘No,’ Dora said briskly. ‘That’s not my way. You make your bed and you lie on it, and that’s that, whatever happens after.’
Rose turned her head to look at her mother. In the poor light from the window she could see the outline of her scrawny neck and her thinning hair which looked lanker and more faded every year. Her skin was pasty and tired-looking. She thought of Catherine Harper-Watt’s rosy complexion and her thick, healthy hair. She started to cry again because her mother’s life seemed so sad, such a waste.
Dora, not knowing the real reason for Rose’s sobs, stroked her back in a way that surprised both of them. ‘Ssssh,’ she said. ‘You’ll feel better soon, don’t you worry. Hang on a minute – I’ll go and get you another nice cup of tea.’
Five
A month later Rose and Diana were walking to the Bull Ring. As soon as Diana had called in for her at Catherine Street Rose grabbed her coat and
was off.
‘Better get her out of here before she catches anything, hadn’t you?’ Geraldine called out spitefully as the two of them sped out of the court. They were followed a short distance by George, who was becoming a right tearaway, and Violet, lisping, ‘Thweets, Diana – bring us back some thweets!’
The two girls soon left them behind. Rose was never comfortable when Diana came to her house and it didn’t happen very often. She couldn’t help feeling ashamed of the cramped, filthy conditions they lived in. Whenever Diana came the smells drifting from the toilets in the yard always came over stronger than usual.
Diana was always very polite. Rose had never seen her bat an eyelid at the newspaper instead of a cloth on the table or the cockroaches scuttling busily about on the floor and walls, their antennae twitching. She’d only once jumped and squeaked when one landed clumsily on a slice of bread she was eating. Dora had nearly turned herself inside out apologizing.
‘Don’t you hate coming to our house?’ Rose asked her. ‘Why would you want to, with us being so rough and ready?’ She felt humbled by Diana’s tolerance, whereas if her friend had been haughty or critical Rose would have leapt like a wildcat to defend her family and how they were forced to live.
‘Come on,’ Rose said as they scurried towards town. ‘It isn’t half a relief to get out, I can tell you. My mom’s been on at me all morning: “Rose – blacklead the grate; Rose – Violet’s gone and wet the floor, get down and wipe it up will you, Rose; Rose – go and get us some fish and chips for our lunch!” Anyone’d think there was no one else in the house ’cept me.’
It always took the two girls a while to get used to being together.
‘We could go on the tram,’ Diana suggested breathlessly as they rushed along.
‘You mad?’ Rose looked shocked. ‘What d’you want to go wasting money on that for? It’s not much of a walk.’
‘All right.’ Diana smiled. ‘I’ll treat you to a cup of tea then.’
