Birmingham Rose

by Annie Murray

  So Grace went, feverishly excited and wearing a new peach-coloured frock. She and Doris sat out all night in the Mall with a flask of tea and their sandwiches with all the other thousands of people breathless to catch a glimpse of the new monarch. And she came back brimming full of it all: the procession and the flags and trombones and all the aeroplanes flying over, and how the woman next to them had shared her ham sandwiches with them because they’d run out, and how everyone cheered and cheered when she came out of Westminster Abbey and stood there for hours with their little flags despite all the showers.

  So it went on for days and weeks after. Rose was never in any doubt as to whether she’d made the right choice.

  Things with George, though, were getting worse and worse, and Grace’s excursion brought things to a head.

  ‘So who paid for that, then?’ he demanded.

  ‘I did, if you must know.’

  ‘Where d’you get the money from?’ he asked in his usual sneering tone.

  ‘Some of us do a job of work if you remember.’

  She watched her brother with loathing that day as he sat smoking, as usual. Fag after fag, flicking the ash towards the fireplace and missing half the time. All the sympathy she had mustered for him had evaporated over the past few months. God knows she had tried. But he had given her no respite, and not an ounce of help or sympathy. He sickened her. He couldn’t even be bothered to come to her husband’s funeral. Things she had hoped never to say tumbled out of her mouth.

  ‘I used to think it might be worth helping you out,’ she spat at him as he sat staring indifferently at the floor. ‘But you’re a useless sod if ever there was one. Other people have problems and get on with their lives, but not you. Poor old George. You sit on your arse and wait for everyone to run round you. And then you turn round and go back to thieving and wasting your stupid, useless life away.’

  George’s head whipped round savagely. ‘Who says I’m thieving?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you? You’re up to something. Out all hours and mixing in with God alone knows who. Anyone out at the time of night you come in is up to no good. And you’re not stony broke are you? So where’s it all coming from if you’re not nicking it?’

  ‘Leave me alone, you silly cow!’ George yelled at her. ‘Stupid nagging bitch. You’re all the bloody same!’

  Rose watched her brother’s face, its expression of pure malice. His grey eyes were the coldest she had seen for a long time. Shuddering, she thought of Mr Lazenby.

  ‘I tried with you,’ she said more quietly. ‘I’m the only person who’s even tried.’

  ‘Only so everyone could tell you how bloody marvellous you are. You thought I’d come in here and be your dogsbody, looking after that cripple of a husband of yours, and your stupid kid. But now people can start doing the running for me for a change.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  George sat down again, nipping his cigarette nervously between his lips. ‘Never you mind – sis,’ he said contemptuously. ‘You just go on being a good little girl and working for your nice law man. I s’pose he’s giving you one, is he?’

  ‘Get out. Take your things and get out of my house.’

  George turned to her with mock casualness. ‘Going to make me?’

  Thinking back over this now as she wrung out the clothes, Rose could feel the rage rising in her again. Things had settled down for the moment, it was true, but sooner or later she was going to have to face up to it. She pegged out the clothes and flung the water down the drain. She had to do something about George. She simply could not stand the sight of him.

  *

  In September everything changed at work. She reached town rather late that morning, trying to hurry in her tall slim heels through the usual sounds of thumping and drilling and all the dust and mess that signified the resurrection of the city. She hoped Ella Crosby would not notice she was late.

  Climbing the stairs up to the Abel and Waters offices, she became aware of more crashing about and shouting from inside. What the hell’s going on? she thought, hurrying even more. It sounded as though the offices were being ransacked.

  She cautiously pushed the door open and was greeted by an incredible sight. Near his closed office door, as if trying to take refuge from it all, stood Mr Abel.

  ‘No – please!’ he cried as if that was the last straw. ‘Not the typewriter, please! They’re so expensive! Ah Rose – Mrs Meredith. Thank goodness you’re here!’

  Across the room was strewn what looked like the entire contents of Miss Crosby’s desk. There were shorthand pads open and spread over the floor, files and typed letters and crumpled sheets of carbon paper, wodges of new stationery with sheaves of envelopes fanning out across the carpet, and against the wastepaper basket the blotter stood tipped up at an angle. A typewriter ribbon lay unravelled in black coils across the layers of paper.

  Ella Crosby still seemed to be searching for things to throw, a snarl of fury trapped for the time being in her throat.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Rose asked. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Mr Abel tried to explain.

  ‘The stupid, selfish, miserable old—’ Ella Crosby finished the sentence with a screech of fury. She thumped her fist down on the desk and the sight was so melodramatic that Rose wondered for a second whether she was putting it all on.

  ‘What the heck have you done?’ she demanded of Mr Abel.

  ‘Not me!’ Laurence Abel squeaked. ‘God in heaven, not me! It’s Mr Waters.’

  ‘He’s only gone and died, hasn’t he?’ Ella shouted. ‘He’s gone and damn well died on us!’

  ‘It was a heart attack,’ Laurence Abel explained. ‘Last night. Someone found him this morning lying on the floor downstairs.’

  Rose walked cautiously over to Ella Crosby, who had sunk down on her chair and was sitting sobbing at the desk.

  ‘Miss Crosby,’ she said gently. Somehow she did not dare touch the woman. ‘You’ve had a shock. Why don’t you go home and have a bit of a rest? Take the day off?’

  Ella Crosby looked round at her slowly, rather stunned. ‘But I’ve made such a terrible mess. I’m so sorry. I should clear it all up at least before I go.’

  ‘No. You’re all right, I’ll do it,’ Rose told her. ‘Go on. We’ll see you in the morning.’

  Slowly Miss Crosby picked herself up, wiping her face with a handkerchief, and went out of the door.

  Ella Crosby applied for another job. Laurence Abel was left with the sole running of the practice, and Rose stayed on with him. It took several weeks before things began to settle down.

  ‘I’ll be able to pay you a bit more now,’ he told her. ‘You’ll be doing more work for a start.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to complain about that,’ she told him.

  ‘But,’ he went on, ‘come hell or high water I’m going to take the time off that I’d planned. Complete folly of course in the circumstances, but I can get someone to stand in for me and do at least the basics for a fortnight.’

  Rose smiled at him without the sense of wistfulness that she had always felt before whenever he mentioned his trips to Italy. It was her secret. She was going to go as well! It didn’t matter how soon, but she was going.

  She realized that Laurence Abel was looking at her with unusual intentness.

  ‘I’d have thought you must be in need of a holiday too,’ he said. She noticed that his cheeks were turning pinker as he spoke. ‘You could – er – come with me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Rose. I know how much it’d mean to you to go. I’d be happy to pay for you.’ He laughed nervously.

  Rose was so startled she could for a moment think of nothing to say. What was it he was actually asking her? He had been extremely kind and understanding to her during the last weeks of Alfie’s life. But now she was back to being a single woman, was he trying to push things further? She wanted to believe the best of him, but she found her old mistrust flaring up again.

  She sat sta
ring down at her typewriter, her cheeks burning. She could feel his own discomfort even though she was not looking at him.

  ‘I’m sorry. Don’t take that the wrong way, will you? I wasn’t expecting . . . anything of you. I’d just enjoy the company.’

  She wanted to believe him. She looked up shyly at him. ‘Thanks. But I couldn’t just go, anyway. I’ve my daughter to think of.’

  When Laurence Abel returned from his trip in November, it sharpened even more her own longing to go.

  ‘Hilda,’ she couldn’t resist saying one night as she pulled the bedclothes up round the little girl, ‘how would you fancy coming away on a little trip with me?’

  ‘To Weston?’ Hilda asked eagerly, half sitting up.

  ‘No, not Weston. But we might see the sea.’

  ‘Ooh yes!’ Hilda said, and wriggled with excitement. Then she wrinkled up her nose. ‘Would Uncle George have to come with us?’

  Her uncle had been losing his glamour as the months passed and all his promises failed to come true. Since Alfie died, she had clung increasingly to Rose, the one really reliable person she had left, and they had grown much closer.

  ‘No, not Uncle George,’ Rose said. ‘We don’t want him along with us, do we? It’d just be you and me.’ With a sudden rush of affection she leaned over and kissed Hilda’s warm cheek. ‘Now you go to sleep and dream all about it, eh?’

  As she made herself a cup of tea she resolved that before she and Hilda went anywhere, she had to get George out. She sat down, kicking off her shoes and stirring sugar into her tea.

  She hadn’t seen him for two days. Perhaps she could threaten him with the police? Call his bluff? She had absolutely no proof that he was doing anything, but she knew him too well and he had to be up to something. She couldn’t just throw him out. She had tried that. She began to think of something that would work. Money. She could bribe him. She put her cup and saucer down. Give him some cash for a clean pair of heels? Perhaps she could spare some of Catherine’s money. That would mean she would have to delay her plans a little, but it would be worth it. She could save the rest up gradually.

  She went over to the fireplace and jiggled the loosened brick out of the wall to recount the money.

  Her fingernails scratched against the brickwork. For a moment she scrabbled around, not believing it. Where was the envelope? Growing frantic, she slid her hand all round the inside of the cavity. Nothing.

  A horrible suspicion filled her mind. Heart thumping hard, she ran up to the attic, to George’s room, where she had not ventured for weeks.

  The stench of stale cigarette smoke hit her immediately. With trembling hands she held the candle high and looked around. The bed was unmade and the old cupboard door was hanging open. Beside the bed lay the only remains of George to be seen in the room: a white saucer brimming over with cigarette stubs.

  A week later a letter arrived from Catherine Harper-Watt. They kept up a regular correspondence, but this letter was different and short. Rose read it through several times, the full implications of it taking time to sink in. Finally she laid it down, shaking with anger and embarrassment.

  My dear Rose,

  Just a quick note to let you know that all is well and I am most happy to have been able to help. The fact that you felt able to send your brother here when he needed assistance is most gratifying to me, and he seemed such an interesting and purposeful young man.

  I was able to let him have £50 to help him on his way, and we left him at Piccadilly heading north to his new life feeling we had truly done someone a service. Perhaps this removes a burden from you, and of course of that I am also glad.

  We are all well. Judith has announced that she is at last to be married to her teacher friend Robert. How old that makes me feel!

  I shall write again, but I just wanted to set your mind at rest.

  Loving greetings,

  Catherine Harper-Watt.

  The winter months passed very slowly. Rose felt as frozen inside as the weather outside. Even work seemed less enjoyable. To her surprise she missed Ella Crosby, and it was lonely sitting in the outer office on her own.

  She could not bring herself to write and tell Catherine the truth. For a start it might sound as if she was asking for more money. She had not even told Grace what had happened. Now she did not have Catherine’s money as a back-up, she felt compelled to save as much as she could of her wages, scrimping along as a matter of habit.

  Laurence Abel was keener than ever to speak Italian whenever possible, and although she went along with it, it only rubbed in the fact that she never seemed to get anywhere in her life.

  What she needed to do now, she told herself, was to forget all this foolish hankering for something that was past, and build the best future she could for herself and her daughter. Hilda, after all, was the future.

  The bus drew up with its brakes shrieking. Climbing inside Rose realized she had the chance of a seat and squeezed across to sit next to the window. It was a surprisingly warm spring day and the bus felt hot inside. She was on her way home from work, tired and stuffy in the head.

  On her lap with her bag was her last newspaper from Laurence Abel, a December copy of Corriera della Sera. She knew she was feeling too inert to make any sense out of it at that time in the afternoon, but she opened it up, taking care not to wave it in the face of the man next to her.

  The words seemed to shout at her, from a small news item in the middle of the second page. She blinked hard and tried to make sense of it.

  ‘Vatican makes example of rebel priests’ was the headline above the words that had drawn her eyes: Paulo Augustino Falcone. Father Paulo Falcone.

  Many of the words in the article were unfamiliar to her as she seldom bothered to read stories connected with the Church.

  She tore home, the paper not even properly folded in her hands. Once she was sitting down at the table with her dictionary she began to make more sense of it.

  Three priests were referred to in the story. All of them had preached or taught on issues of faith or morals in a manner which had come to the displeasured attention of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Rose had no idea what that was so she skipped over it. The story said that the Vatican had decided to clamp down on these three to provide a moral example to the rest of the Catholic community. Consequently, all three had to some degree been silenced by suspension from their duties as priests.

  Rose skimmed over the details about the other two.

  The most severely reprimanded of the three and also the youngest is Father Paulo Augustino Falcone, ordained three years ago in the Dominican house of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples. His radical views on issues such as poverty and contraception, and his calling to question the obligatory state of celibacy for all priests have resulted in his being banned from teaching, preaching, or celebration of the Mass.

  Rose sat staring across the room, only realizing after a moment that Hilda was prodding her arm.

  ‘I’m hungry, Mom. What’s for tea?’

  In a dreamlike state Rose got up and started spreading margarine on bread, the past still crashing in around her. Just reading his name like that rekindled such strong feelings.

  ‘I said I wanted jam!’ Hilda protested, swinging her legs crossly against the chair when the food arrived.

  Rose stared, confused, at the slices of bread. Instead of jam she had put margarine on them twice.

  He was still there: he was real. And now, after all his agonizing, all those years of training, his commitment to the priesthood was leading him into what, she recognized, devoid as she was of any real understanding of the Catholic faith, must be a good deal of pain and confusion.

  ‘Mom! Listen to me! Can I have some jam? Is there any cake?’

  Now she knew with a kind of frightening clarity that whatever it took, whatever the outcome of it, she had to go there. Finish things if necessary. She had to see Falcone again.

  Standing by the table with the saucer of strawberr
y jam in her hand she said to Hilda, ‘You know I said – ages back – that we’d be going on a journey? Well, I’ve been saving, and I’m going to go on saving our money until we’ve got enough to go – together. What d’you think of that?’

  ‘Smashing,’ Hilda said. ‘Now please give me some of that jam!’

  Forty

  September 1954

  ‘You really going tomorrow then?’ Grace’s voice held a definite tone of disapproval.

  Rose was folding clothes into a decrepit old suitcase of Alfie’s that had stood for years in her bedroom. ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Beats me why you want to go off over there,’ Grace said, shifting her weight to lean up against the doorframe. ‘You could’ve gone anywhere for a break – a week by the sea at Rhyl for a quarter the price. I’d have thought you’d have had enough of over there in the war. They say it’s ever so dirty and smelly.’

  Rose smiled. ‘Do they?’

  ‘And you could’ve left Hilda with me and our dad. No need to go dragging her along as well.’

  ‘I want her to come,’ Rose said. ‘She’s seven, old enough to see it and remember. And Margherita’s got kids. They can all play together.’

  ‘You sure you’ve got enough money? Is that Mrs Harper-Watt paying for you to go?’

  ‘No,’ Rose said briskly, pushing a pair of shoes down into the side of the suitcase. ‘She sent me some money for my birthday so I put that in the pot.’ She turned to look squarely at Grace. ‘The money she gave me after she came that time—’

  ‘How much was it?’ It was something Grace had always been dying to know.

  ‘A hundred quid.’

  Grace’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Blimey. She must be rolling in it!’