‘Oh, that’s finished. I’ve transferred my affections to Marie, to use solicitor language. So watch out, you’re not the only one in the running.’
‘I didn’t know I was in the running,’ Terry said. ‘I thought she was engaged.’
‘I am,’ Marie cut in, carefully made up and wearing a dress she’d tactfully borrowed from Nancy, rather than wear Margaret’s again.
‘Well, all’s fair in love and war,’ George grinned. ‘Seems to be, now, anyway. So I’m playing by the new rules.’
‘Not with me. Strictly as pals, George,’ Marie repeated. ‘Got it?’
‘Anything you say, sweetheart. Have a good time.’
Terry offered Marie his arm. ‘We will.’
She picked up her handbag and the drawstring bag containing her dancing shoes and took it.
‘Is that the same man we saw at the dance the other night? He’s changed his tune. Seems quite chipper for a bloke who’s just lost his fiancée,’ Terry commented, as they walked away.
‘Not so much lost, as dropped. That actor that she ran off to London with – he’s discovered where he is, and he thinks he’s going to get them both into court. He’s obsessed with it.’
‘Do you think he’ll succeed?’
‘I don’t know. Nancy’s not keen at all, but even if he does, I don’t think he stands much chance of getting any of his money back. He’ll just end up even further out of pocket, as far as I can see.’
‘He’s throwing good money after bad, then,’ Terry said. ‘Anyway, he’s braver than me. I think I’d rather face another fire like Spillers than a court case. Good places to keep away from, courts. I’ve never heard of anybody coming off best in any court battle. I think I’d rather settle my differences man to man, and leave the law alone.’
‘Pistols at dawn?’ she laughed.
‘Probably not pistols,’ Terry said. ‘Probably not at dawn, either. Maybe when he’s on his way back to his digs, after the evening performance.’
There were a couple of other firemen out with their partners. They all did as much chatting together as dancing, about various incidents they’d dealt with, the people injured and damage done, especially at Reckitts. Listening to them, Marie yearned to get back into the thick of things.
‘I’ve got to get back into nursing; I’m sick of standing on the sidelines, kicking around in the house all the time,’ she told Terry, when they took the floor for a quickstep. ‘I wish my mother had gone to stay in Dunswell when I asked her to. If she had, she wouldn’t have been blasted the second time, and maybe I wouldn’t either. And our Alfie would never have come down here to get gassed – and maybe Jenny would still be alive, as well.’
He leaned back from her with a wry expression on his face and shook his head, his blue eyes looking directly into hers. ‘Listen here, Marie, you can’t think like that. You might just as easily have been injured somewhere else, so might Alfie. So might Jenny, and there are worse ways to go than carbon monoxide. Never dwell on what might have been. Never look back, unless you want to drive yourself mad. Just take life as it comes; it’s the only way to survive. Besides, you’re not on the sidelines. You are nursing – your own mother, and nobody needs you more.’
She was quiet for the rest of that dance. He was right, of course; she was nursing, but what she missed was the companionship of the hospital, the busyness, the being in the middle of the action, and the inspiration that came from knowing they were all working together towards the same end. Still, he was also right that it was pointless to dwell on things that couldn’t be altered.
‘My mother is ill,’ she said, when the music stopped, and the master of ceremonies went to put another record on. ‘Really ill. The doctor said she might recover, but she’s not making much progress. I suppose I’d better telephone our Pam again, and tell her she might not have a mother much longer. It’s up to her what she does about it. She can never say she wasn’t told.’
‘She’s gone out,’ Mrs Harding said, when Marie called round the following day to see Nancy.
‘Will she be long? I’ve only nipped out for an hour while my mother’s dozing. Aunt Edie’s there, but still, I don’t want to leave her too long.’
‘Well, I’m not sure.’ Mrs Harding hesitated, then glanced up the stairs before pulling Marie into the front room and closing the door in such a cloak-and-dagger fashion that Marie knew what was coming next. ‘The lodgers are in, so we’ll have to keep mum,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell anybody else – especially George; she’d hate me if she knew I’d let on – but she’s gone to the chemist. For some pills.’
‘What sort of pills?’
‘Pennyroyal. She’s missed twice. She’s hoping they’ll make her come on. That’s what they’re supposed to do.’
Marie’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I know what they’re supposed to do, and I know what that stuff actually does. Don’t let her take them. All they’ll succeed in doing is poisoning her, and they won’t get rid of the baby when she’s done. I nursed a girl who’d taken that stuff as a tea, day after day, until she’d done herself so much damage she’d had it. She hung on for two months, and then she died of liver failure. And the doctor said that’s what happens. It never gets rid of a baby – unless the mother takes enough to kill herself along with it. Nancy ought to know better.’
Mrs Harding put a finger to her lips, looking pointedly upwards, indicating the lodgers. ‘Ssh, don’t talk so loud; they might hear. She’s desperate. Desperate enough to risk it.’
‘Don’t let her do it, Mrs Harding. Just don’t. Take them off her, and throw them on the fire.’
‘Oh, Marie,’ said Mrs Harding, wringing her hands in distress. ‘If you only knew what she’s going through, the tears she’s cried. She’s lost everything. Her nursing, George, that rotten actor and everything he promised her . . . and George is pushing her into going to court, and she can’t face it, the shame of it. She says it’ll be all over the papers, and no bloke worth having will look at her again.’
Marie remembered George’s eyes when he’d told her he had the actor’s address, how they’d fairly glittered, like Shylock gloating over his pound of flesh. He’d turned so much against Nancy that he wouldn’t care if he destroyed her. And here was Nancy, already desperate enough to kill herself. In Marie’s book, her friend had been punished enough. Sheer pity overcame all her scruples about spoiling George’s revenge.
‘She hasn’t lost everything,’ she said. ‘She’s still got you, and she’s got me. Maybe she’ll have that actor, as well, if she goes to see him and gives him a chance to redeem himself. If it was a joint account, and Nancy had a right to draw the money, I don’t see how there can be a case if she refuses to prosecute him, so she could give him a choice: make an honest woman of her, or she’ll have no option but to do what George wants, and bounce him into court.’
‘How can she? She doesn’t know where he lives. And George says he’s definitely got a case against her and he’ll do her, if she doesn’t do Monty – and he’ll do it, Marie. He will.’
‘What would be the point, if she hasn’t got a bean?’ Marie said, and paused for thought. ‘And Monty won’t know that, will he? She could bluff him, turn the tables on him, take him in, just like he took her in. George has tracked him down to Scarborough; I’ll give you his address. You and Nance could go together; you could be back before the end of his evening performance. You might tell him you’ll do him for your rent, as well, if he doesn’t do the right thing. Just don’t tell a soul I suggested it. Don’t tell on me, and I won’t tell on you.’
Mrs Harding hesitated for a moment, then: ‘It’s worth a try, I suppose,’ she said. ‘If she can get him to the altar, the baby will have a name, at least, and she’ll be able to hold her head up as Mrs Shitehawk, even if he buggers off the day after. Although I’m not guaranteeing I won’t kill him, if I lay eyes on him.’
Marie nodded, and pulled the lace curtains aside, to look down the street. ‘I can’t see George taking her
to court; she’s got nothing. It wouldn’t be worth it. Well, she’s nowhere in sight, so I’ll be off. I want to telephone our Pam, and then I’ll have to get back. Just don’t let Nancy take those bloody pills, that’s all.’
In the phone box she could hear the piano in the background when Mrs Stewart lifted the receiver. When the music stopped, and Pam came to the telephone, their conversation was short and to the point, just a few words from Marie telling her that if she wanted to see her mother alive again, she’d better make it soon, because later would probably be too late.
Lucky Pam, Marie thought, when she put the phone down. No bombs disturbed her pleasant, country mansion carry-on. She never had to puzzle over ration books, wondering how to make two ounces of butter and four ounces of bacon stretch a whole week, and then have to listen to some government spokesman on the wireless adding insult to injury by telling her how much healthier people were, for having so much less to eat. No sick, dependent relatives for Pam to worry about. Pam’s lot was a safe and comfortable home, plenty to eat – without even having to queue for it herself – doting guardians, no responsibilities, and all obstacles to her hours of piano playing removed, so that her passion for music could be totally indulged. And a passion for music must be a better proposition than a passion for a man, Marie thought, especially a man like Charles Elsworth. Yes, the war was the best thing that had ever happened to Pamela Larsen.
The next onslaught, as Terry had called it, came that night. Again, East Hull was the target. As she sat at her mother’s bedside thanking her stars that the bombs were not falling on her, Marie thought that the chances of Pam letting herself in for any more of this sort of terror were practically nil, mother or no mother.
In the evenings, as Marie washed her weary mother’s grey, drawn face, and combed her lank and lifeless hair, she sometimes thought she was too ill to last the night, and then thought how sad it was that she should die so young, not yet fifty. Every night, her mother hung on, and woke the next morning not much better, but no worse. Alfie cycled down from Dunswell every other day to see them, and had ceased to protest at having to go back. The ‘little rotter’ seemed to have grown sad, and old beyond his years.
Saturday was the day that Nancy and Mrs Harding were going to Scarborough. Marie thought of them while working in the house, and later, while weeding and watering on the allotment, wondering whether she’d done right in suggesting they went to confront Monty. She’d been blasé at the time but, now it was too late, she began to dread the outcome, imagining a hundred snags and horrible developments. It served her right. Her anxiety was just punishment for her persistent meddling in other people’s business. She gave a wry smile at the sudden thought that that was precisely what Chas would have said.
Chapter 28
On Sunday morning, as she walked towards the cemetery carrying two little posies, Marie saw Hannah coming towards her, dressed up and made up, but not looking very happy. No feral child to follow in her wake now, or watch her from a doorway. She went by without a sign of recognition, and Marie gave none either. Wherever she was trotting off to, it wouldn’t be to see Charles, at any rate. When Marie arrived at Jenny’s last resting place, the little grave was covered with flowers, and Danny stood there, alone.
‘I was coming to see you,’ he said. ‘Pam telephoned, and asked us to tell you she’s coming over on the ferry, tomorrow.’
‘Well, you were wrong, Alfie,’ Marie told him out of earshot of her mother, when he joined them for a meatless Sunday dinner. ‘Pam’s coming to see us – or she’s coming to see our mam, at any rate. She’s coming over on the ferry tomorrow.’
He pulled a face. ‘I shouldn’t think she’ll be staying long. Next air raid, and she’ll be off. Sooner, if anything.’
‘I can’t say I blame her for that,’ Marie said.
Alfie’s eyes narrowed, and his brows twitched together slightly. Dark suspicions had evidently sprung into his mind. ‘Where’s she stopping?’ he demanded. ‘Not with us, I hope.’
‘Come on, Alfie. She’s your sister.’
‘I know she is. And I don’t want her looking down her toffee nose at Uncle Alf and Auntie Dot.’
Marie laughed. ‘Just tell ’em she’s coming as soon as you get back, will you?’
After the meal was finished and the washing up done, Marie decided she had to know the worst about the Hardings’ trip to Scarborough, rather than sit worrying about it. She left George reading his paper, and Alfie and Auntie Edie keeping her mother company, and went to see Nancy.
Mrs Harding answered the door, and gave her a reproachful look. ‘It was a disaster,’ she said. ‘An absolute disaster. She cried buckets on the way home. Honestly and truthfully, I know you meant well, but I wish we’d never gone.’
Marie’s heart sank. ‘What happened?’
‘Go, and ask her, she might talk to you. She hasn’t said two words to me since we got back. She’s upstairs, in the bedroom.’
Marie climbed the stairs to the bedroom that Nancy shared with her mother. She was sitting on a stool in front of the dressing table, brushing her fair hair and staring at her reflection. Their eyes met in the glass.
Nancy did not turn round. ‘I heard you come in.’
‘Nancy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever suggested it.’
Nancy’s chin jutted forward slightly. ‘Have you got any money?’
‘Not much,’ Marie said, cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, not for some backstreet abortionist, don’t worry about that; I know what a moralist you are. I fancy getting out of the house for a bit, that’s all. I fancy going to the matinée at the pictures.’
‘I suppose I could go,’ Marie said. ‘George is in, and Aunt Edie. If they send Alfie for me, your mother will tell him where we are.’
They went to see Gloria Jean in A Little Bit of Heaven at the Carlton on Anlaby Road. Marie sat through the film with her mind only half on it, not daring to ask what had actually happened in Scarborough. Nancy said nothing about it until they left the cinema, then the floodgates opened.
‘It turns out he couldn’t marry me even if he wanted to,’ she burst out. ‘He’s got a wife and three children living in Brighton, and he’s got no intention of leaving them for me, he says – although I doubt very much that he ever goes to see them, either. The liar! The liar! When I think of the lies he told, Marie, deliberate lies: he knew why he’d never married, he was waiting for me, and all the rest of the shit he gave me while he was robbing me blind. And then, when I tell him I’m having his child, he calls me a silly tart! “Prove it,” he says, “prove it’s mine!” Well, he’s shown himself in his true colours now, and if he thinks he’s getting away with it, he’s one off! I’ll go to court – I’ll tell them everything. You just tell George when you get back, he can get his solicitor pal to fix it up as soon as possible, just let me know the time and date. I want it over and done with before I start showing too much.’
‘Well, he deserves it,’ said Marie, at a loss for anything else to say.
‘Hell, aye, he deserves it, and he’s going to bloody get it. My mother wants her rent, as well. Montgomery Holmes! You know what his real name is? Bill Pratt!’
Although she’d already heard so from George, Marie nearly burst out laughing. What did I tell you? were the words that sprang to her lips, and it was as much as she could do to bite them back. ‘I wish I’d never suggested you going to see him, though,’ she said.
Nancy’s cheeks flamed, and her eyes darkened with fury. ‘I don’t! I’m glad I went to see him. Yeah, I was upset yesterday – really upset – but this is today, and today I’m out for blood, because I know him for the rat he is. It’s finally sunk in,’ she said, and tapped the side of her head three times to emphasize the point. ‘Clever, smarmy Billy Boy Pratt is going to see all his chickens coming home to roost before very much longer. He’ll be laughing on the other side of his face soon. I’d get him hung if I could, for the way he’s treated me.’
Marie was
waiting on the quay when Pam walked down the gangway of the Hull ferry. The day was hot, but Pam looked as cool as a cucumber in an up-to-the-minute short-sleeved dress, the blue of which brought out the blue of her eyes. With the white hat, shoes, gloves and handbag she might have stepped straight off the cover of Vogue – except that she was far too young. It looked as if the Stewarts had ploughed every single ten and six they’d ever received into Pam’s wardrobe, and a lot more besides. One of the ferrymen followed her, honoured to be carrying Pam’s best suitcase, in toning grey. He put it down by Marie.
‘How is she?’ Pam asked.
‘Not very well, or I wouldn’t have phoned you.’ Marie glanced at the suitcase. ‘How long are you planning to stay?’
Pam gave her a quizzical look. ‘I don’t know, it depends how ill she is. You said she was dying.’
‘I often think so, especially at night. I never expected you to come, though.’
Pam’s face resembled chiselled marble. ‘I love my mum,’ she said coldly, ‘in spite of the way you try to make me feel. I was lucky when I was evacuated, that’s all, and I don’t see why I should apologize for it to you. Auntie Morag – I mean Mr and Mrs Stewart – didn’t want me to come at all. They said it’s not safe. And it isn’t safe. The Germans are bombing Hull as much as ever they did, in spite of being in Russia. They thought I should just write a nice long letter every day, that someone could read to her. But I’m not very good at writing letters.’
‘Well, we’d better go and get the bus, then,’ Marie said, setting off in that direction.
Pam hesitated for a moment, and then picked up her suitcase, and followed.
When they boarded the bus, Marie made for a seat on the lower deck, but in spite of her suitcase, Pam started up the stairs.
‘Why are you lugging it up there?’ Marie asked.
‘You can see more from the top deck,’ Pam said. ‘I want to see everything.’
They travelled through the town centre and along Spring Bank with a good view of all the devastation, but apart from occasional murmurs of ‘it’s terrible’, and ‘it’s awful’, from Pam, little was said. Later, as they walked towards the pile of rubble that had been their childhood home, Pam’s pale face blanched further. They came to a stop, and surveyed the wreckage.
Angel of the North Page 27
