by Annie Murray
But if she could not even have more children . . . She began to shake, her body letting out the tension that her mind had been keeping so tightly under control. She sat in the little living room as Hilda sat watching her with wide, frightened eyes. Finally, the tears came and Hilda began to cry too.
Rose picked her up and cuddled her. ‘It’s all right love, don’t you worry. Mommy’s just feeling a bit poorly, that’s all.’ She felt steadied by the child’s warm body.
Could there ever really be love between a man and a woman? Mr Lazenby, Alfie – both used her in their way. And what about Tony? That was unreasonable, she knew, but in her state such terrible thoughts came. Worst of all, the one she tried to keep furthest from her mind persisted. What about Falcone? Had his words, his confusion, the looks of tenderness and desire that she had from him all been his way of using her? Of getting what he wanted and then dropping her for a ‘higher calling’? Had she been deluded even when she responded to a man with every fibre of herself? All these doubts stabbed into her mind.
Though she had tried to avoid thinking of Italy, and especially of Il Rifugio, she knew that what sustained her and kept her feeling worth something was the knowledge that she could truly love and be loved in return. If no one else ever showed her that, then Falcone had done so. Try as she might to forget Italy and him, the thoughts still came to her from time to time.
Sometimes she dreamed of him, seeing his dark, serious eyes close to hers. In some of the dreams he was telling her how much he loved her. She saw herself back in the Finzis’ house with the moon slanting through the windows on to their naked bodies. Or in Il Rifugio, making love with him on the thin straw pallets where she had first seen him sleeping. In other dreams he kept telling her over and over again that he had to leave her. He was cold and distant, cruel even. She would repeat the feeling of desolation of returning to Il Rifugio to find him gone. Sometimes she would wake crying, finding Alfie stirring next to her. The depth of her disappointment that he was not Falcone made her weep even more – harsh, quiet tears that she could never share with him.
A few weeks earlier she had had a letter from Gwen. She and Bill had compromised between their two sets of parents and settled in a small village in Berkshire. Bill was working in a bank in the nearby town.
‘We’re not very far from where we all started out together!’ Gwen had told her. She already had a son and a daughter, Edward and Elizabeth, and was expecting her third child.
‘I must say, I’m awfully happy,’ Gwen wrote. ‘Bill is a good husband and father and provides wonderful protection against Mummy when necessary! I should so love you to see E and E and to meet Alfie and your little Hilda. Perhaps we shall all be able to meet up one day?’
Gwen had apparently found a settled, serene sort of happiness with someone she loved. It was possible. But Rose knew she did not love Alfie.
As she sat that afternoon, holding a now rather drowsy Hilda and looking blankly over the child’s shoulder, she knew starkly that though she had settled for what she could get, for filling her life with children, it was not and never could be enough.
She had to believe in her love for Falcone and his for her, even knowing she would never see him again. Without that life seemed worth nothing.
Thirty-Two
Rose was hanging decorations on a little Christmas tree when she heard the banging on the door. With her were Hilda and Freddie and another little girl, all squabbling eagerly over the few baubles and the home-made foil stars.
‘Hey! Anyone in?’ a voice shouted.
She went to the door. Outside stood two men, struggling to support Alfie between them, his arms pinned over their shoulders and his body sagging between.
‘About time,’ one of the men said. ‘He’s a dead weight.’
Rose looked at them all, dumbfounded. Alfie’s head was lolling to the right and his eyes rolling strangely from side to side like those of an idiot.
‘Move out the road,’ the older of the two men grunted at her. ‘Let’s get him on the bed. Silly bugger’s got himself properly tanked up. Been a right game getting him over here on the bus, I can tell you.’
They hoisted Alfie into the bedroom and half laid, half threw him on to the pink-candlewick-covered bed. His eyes rolled upwards and then he closed them.
‘He looks terrible,’ Rose said. The sight of him really disturbed her. She stood close to the door holding back the three curious children. ‘What’s got into him? He’s not a big drinker.’
‘Oh, he’ll be right as rain by tomorrow. Must’ve been putting it away while no one was looking. He’ll have one hell of a head on him in the morning!’ The younger man laughed knowingly.
The other, more serious, said to Rose, ‘You’d better tell him, though, one more do like this and he’ll be out of a job. He’s lucky they’re not putting the boot behind him today like. He’ll have to watch himself.’
Still startled, Rose watched them go as they called out cheerfully, ‘Tara, Alfie. See you in the morning.’
‘Save it till Christmas next time, mate!’
Rose sat the children down in the next room with a beaker of rosehip syrup and a biscuit each, and came back in to her husband. He was lying with his eyes closed, but when he felt her unfastening his boots and pulling them off, he opened them.
‘Rose?’ he murmured indistinctly. ‘I feel terrible.’
‘Well, what were you thinking of?’ she asked him. She knelt down by the head of the bed. ‘No wonder. You’re not used to more than the odd pint.’
‘No.’ Alfie’s voice sounded thick and strange; out of his control. ‘I told them – I kept saying . . . I haven’t had a drop. Nothing.’
Rose frowned. ‘What d’you mean? Look, you don’t have to make a big secret of it. Was it something the others gave you? Whisky?’
‘No,’ he slurred back. ‘I told you . . . nothing. I don’t know. I’m scared, Rose.’
Suddenly very alarmed, she bent close to him and smelt his breath. There was not a trace of alcohol on it. She stood up quickly. ‘I’ll get a doctor.’
By that evening Alfie was in Selly Oak Hospital. Rose left Hilda with Joan and went in to see him. She found him lying in a long ward with rows of beds along each side, his face almost as white as the stiff pillow case and his eyes closed. Rose stood for a moment looking down at him. His hair was sticking up on top of his head and still looked greyed from the dust at work. His neck was bent rather awkwardly to one side as if he had a crick in it, and the shape of his body underneath the thin covers looked slight suddenly, and vulnerable.
‘Alfie?’ she said softly. On the floor by the bed she put the little bag of his possessions she’d brought in: pyjamas, shaving brush and razor, and the day’s paper, thinking he’d have been feeling better.
His eyes opened slowly, trying to focus. He also seemed to be trying to smile.
‘How you feeling?’
‘Bad,’ he said. ‘Never . . . had anything . . . like this . . . before.’
She reached under the covers suddenly, surprising them both by taking his hand, feeling compassionate and protective towards him as she would have done towards a child.
‘They’ll look after you,’ she told him. ‘Soon see you better.’
Alfie nodded slowly and his eyes closed again. ‘Sleepy,’ he managed to say.
Rose sat by him until he was deeply asleep and then went to speak to the matron, a tall, well-spoken woman with a sheaf of papers in her hand. She had a brisk, forbidding air which suggested she might be kind so long as you submitted to her totally.
‘My husband, Alfred Meredith,’ Rose said, rather timidly. ‘Do you know what’s wrong with him?’
‘Mr Meredith,’ the woman said, her grey eyes scanning the ward for inspiration. ‘Ah yes, the ataxia – new admission. No. Too early to say I’m afraid. Could be something quite simple but you never know. Might be a few days before we’re sure.’ She made as if to walk off.
‘But how long will he be here �
�� please?’ Rose called after her. The woman seemed more intimidating than any officers she had come across in the ATS.
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly say,’ Matron replied. She noted something down on one of the papers she was holding. ‘Let’s wait and see what they say in the morning, shall we?’
Rose walked desolately out of the echoing hospital building to catch the bus home. Seeing Alfie lying there had come as a terrible shock to her. He looked so broken and helpless. Though she did not love him with anything approaching passion, she knew that it mattered to her a great deal what happened to him. She relied on him, on him being there with her, on his bland optimism and steady kindness. She had simply grown used to him. And he was Hilda’s father. She was really frightened.
Before she reached the bus stop she changed her mind. Hilda would be asleep by now at Joan’s. It was already dark. Instead, she made her way to Catherine Street. She felt completely churned up inside and she needed to see them, to tell them what had happened. Grace may have hardened herself to many of the problems of others, but she could always summon up sympathy for anyone who was sick.
Rose knocked on the door of number five. Outwardly the house looked much better than it had in the old days. The back-to-back terraces in Catherine Street were among a number that had been ‘soled and heeled’ by the council, who could not keep up with the demand to build new houses and had decided to patch up some of the ones they already had. New roofs, windows and doors had made the whole place look smarter. The front door was painted a cheerful sky blue.
‘What you doing here?’ Grace asked when she opened the door.
Rose walked in amid the smell of meat cooking and the gaslight which seemed so much dimmer than the electric they had out in the prefabs. She noticed there were no signs of Christmas about the house.
‘Where’s Hilda?’ Grace demanded anxiously.
As Rose sat down, Grace stood by the table, hands on hips. She was dressed in a drab brown skirt and fawn blouse, on top a flowery apron which Rose realized with a pang had been cut down from an old dress of Dora’s. Grace’s hair was fastened up in an old scarf, the end tucked in at the front, to keep her hair out of the way while she was working.
‘Hilda’s with Joan,’ Rose said. ‘I’ve been with Alfie. He’s in Selly Oak. Been taken bad.’
Grace automatically reached out and poured Rose a cup of tea. ‘In hospital? What’s up with him?’
‘They don’t know.’ Rose began to cry at last, the worry and shock of the afternoon finally released.
Grace leaned close to her sister’s dark head and put an arm round her shoulder. Rose got a whiff of the sweaty smell from under her arms, sharp, but somehow comforting.
‘They brought him home at dinnertime. Looked as though he’d had a skinful. He was all over the place – eyes rolling, could hardly get a word out of his mouth, the lot. And he hadn’t touched a drop.’
Grace looked quizzically at her. ‘You sure he’s not just having you on? After all, what with Christmas coming up – you know what they’re like.’
‘No,’ Rose sobbed. ‘He hardly drinks ever. He’d never lead us on and make us think he was bad when he wasn’t.’ She looked into Grace’s concerned eyes. ‘When you were nursing, d’you remember seeing anyone like that – like Alfie is now?’
Grace shook her head. ‘I’ve seen blokes in a proper state – shocked and that. But not like you said. Never heard of that.’ She patted Rose’s arm with sudden kindness and Rose could hear the wartime nurse coming out in her. ‘Anyhow, the doctors do all they can, so there’s no point in fretting all night about it. You should get back to Hilda before she thinks she’s lost both of you.’
As she spoke, the door opened and Sid pulled himself into the room. His hair, so dark when he was a young man, was now a powdery grey.
‘Dinner ready?’ he asked Grace, and she got up to spoon out the meat and vegetables.
‘Alfie’s in Selly Oak Hospital,’ Rose told him, and tried to explain what was wrong. She wished overwhelmingly that Dora was there for her to turn to.
‘Oh ar,’ Sid said. Then through a mouthful of swede he commented dispassionately, ‘Blooming shame. I always thought he looked a weak little runt though.’
Rose stood up abruptly. ‘Time I was going,’ she said bitterly. She put her coat on. ‘Tara Dad. I see you’re much as usual.’
Sid raised one hand as a goodbye, but Grace followed Rose out into the yard.
‘It’s no good expecting anything from him,’ she said, with more gentleness than Rose had heard from her for a long time. ‘He lives in his own little world now and the rest of us might just as well not be here.’ She touched Rose awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘If you need anything, come to me, all right?’
Rose smiled at her. ‘Still here, aren’t you – after all this time. Running about after everyone.’
Grace shrugged rather evasively. ‘Looks like that’s what I’m good for, don’t it? Now remember what I said. Just ask for help if you need it.’
Humbled, Rose kissed her quickly on her rough cheek. ‘That’s nice of you,’ she said. ‘Ta.’
Alfie spent Christmas 1949 in hospital. Hilda kept saying, ‘Where’s my dad?’ Rose brought her in to be with Alfie for a short time, walking into the warm ward from the icy air outside. When Hilda saw him she ran to him, dressed in her little red coat and black boots, her hair tied up in two pigtails.
‘Hello little monkey,’ Alfie said as Hilda hurled herself at him. He was propped up on several thick pillows. His voice sounded stronger now and his words were easier to understand.
‘Not on the bed, please,’ a nurse said as she walked past. ‘I know it’s Christmas, but we still have to keep the rules.’
‘She’s a real daddy’s girl,’ Rose told her apologetically. ‘Been missing him like anything.’ She lifted Hilda down on to her lap. The nurse walked off in her heavy black shoes, smiling.
‘How are you?’ Rose asked. ‘You look a bit better today.’
‘I feel better,’ Alfie said. He was even wearing one of the coloured hats they’d all been given to jolly things along for Christmas, and the soft orange tissue paper kept slipping off his clumps of hair. ‘It’s wearing off a bit. My hands felt all queer, sort of numb. Scared me, I can tell you.’
His pale face suddenly lit up with an adoring smile. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Rosie. Give us a kiss, will you?’
She stood up and leaned forwards to kiss him. Affectionately she straightened the orange crown. ‘I’ll have to bring some Brylcreem in,’ she joked.
But Alfie was staring at her with a seriousness which silenced her. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you? I should tell you more often. Only when you’re always about I forget . . . But, if anything was to happen . . . ?’
‘I know,’ Rose said. She couldn’t look at him straight, and felt her cheeks turning red. Hilda was pulling at her skirt, impatient at this conversation which took the attention away from her.
‘You’ll be home soon though, won’t you?’ Rose said brightly.
They didn’t tell her then. It was a couple of days later. A condition affecting the nerves, the doctor with the grey hair and distant eyes said. Very hard to predict how it would progress. Some patients lived normal lives for years. Attacks and remissions, that was the pattern. Sometimes he’d be perfectly all right, sometimes not.
‘Does he know?’ Rose asked. Her eyes rested on the doctor’s dark blue tie.
Looking out of the window beyond her, he said, ‘He’s known for a little while. He’s had the chance to think about it. Said he’d rather I told his, er, family myself.’
‘What about work?’ Rose asked. ‘Will he be able to carry on?’
‘Your husband’s a builder I see.’ The doctor made a sharp, regretful intake of breath. ‘Very difficult. Building’s not a good job to be in with his condition. Any work off the ground, on scaffolding for instance, could cost him his life if he had another of these attacks. You must impr
ess that upon him strongly, Mrs Meredith. He can’t afford to be careless with himself.’
‘Course I’m going back to work!’ Alfie said. It was January, snowy, and thick fog covered the city, so dense that the traffic was having trouble passing along the streets. ‘I feel fine. Don’t s’pose they’ll be doing a lot today anyway, but I’ve told them I’ll show me face and see what’s cooking. Don’t you worry, Rosie,’ he said, seeing her anxious expression. She was standing at the door with Hilda in her arms. ‘I’ll keep me feet on the ground. After all, someone’s got to be the breadwinner round here!’
After he’d kissed them both they watched him, Hilda waving as he walked away, fast disappearing into the fog.
Two months later Alfie collapsed again. This time he was at home, and the attack seemed even more severe. Rose was terrified by the fear and distress on his ashen face. A pattern emerged. Hospital, a recovery period, a time when he felt weaker perhaps, but more or less normal, and then another attack. By the late summer of 1950 he was barely recovering between each one. His legs, from which he was gradually losing all sensation, finally became paralysed. He could do very little without help. Alfie had become a permanent invalid.
Thirty-Three
Catherine Street, Birmingham, January 1951
‘This house is all pongy!’
Little Hilda, only a few months off her fourth birthday, sniffed distastefully as she eyed up the place that was to be her new home. She had grown into a pale, rather scrawny child, her brown hair scraped back into a high ponytail, the end of which did not even reach as far down as the back of her neck.
‘Moonstruck House.’ Mabel Gooch’s gruff voice came from the edge of the room, where her barrel-shaped body was leaning up against the doorframe. Mabel, still the matriarch of Court 11, had aged from a woman with a strong, handsome face into one who looked almost masculine, with a hint of a moustache gathering on her top lip. ‘Bet you never thought you’d end up here, eh, Rose?’ There was a strong hint of satisfaction in her voice. But then she added, ‘Still, it’s good to know there’s someone decent living here for a change. God knows, we’ve had some rum’uns in here, I can tell you.’
