by Annie Murray
All the Days of Our Lives
Annie Murray
Pan Books (2011)
* * *
Rating: *****
Tags: Sagas, Fiction
Synopsis
Book 3
It is 1946: the war is over and three young women face a new kind of life. But peacetime brings its own pressures . . . Katie O'Neill's childhood has been dominated by her temperamental mother and by frightening secrets that she barely understands. Innocent, yet hungry for love, she is easily taken in by male charm and is left outcast and alone with her young son. Emma Brown has spent the war at home in Birmingham, longing for her husband Norm to return and meet the son he has never seen. But she soon finds that the joy of homecoming only brings a whole new set of problems. And Molly Fox, after a sad and brutal childhood, found a place to belong during the war, in the women's army, the ATS. Now, the women are no longer wanted and Molly finds peacetime a bleak, difficult challenge. Finding work in guesthouses and holiday camps, she keeps running from herself, in search of a place she can call home. All the Days of Our Lives is the story of three girls who first met in a Birmingham classroom in the 1930s, each facing life with all its joys, sorrows and surprises.
ANNIE MURRAY
All the Days of Our Lives
PAN BOOKS
For Liz Downer,
with thanks for her friendship
Contents
1945
1931-1944
I: KATIE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
1946
II: MOLLY
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
III: EM
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
IV: KATIE
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
V: MOLLY
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
VI: EM
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
1948-1949
VII: KATIE
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
VIII: EM
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
IX: MOLLY
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
X: KATIE
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
XI: EM
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
XII: KATIE
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
XIII: MOLLY
Fifty-Nine
XIV: EM
Sixty
XV: KATIE
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
1953
1945
‘Mom, Mom!’ Robbie threw himself, sobbing, against his mother’s legs. ‘Wanna come with you!’
‘Oh, Robbie.’ Em, in the middle of buttoning up her cardigan, bent over, upset and exasperated. Her son’s head was clamped to her thighs and she stroked his hair, hating to see him cry. ‘Don’t do this, babby. Come on, let go now. Mommy’s got to go out for a bit, that’s all.’
Her mother, Cynthia, swooped down. ‘Robbie, stop that now.’ She managed to wrestle him up into her arms. ‘That’s right, come to Nanna. Your mom’s not going to be out for long. It’s just like when she goes to work. You’ve got to stop going on like this. That’s it – let’s sit you at the table and I’ll get you some nice bread and a scrape of jam, if there’s any left!’
‘Thanks, Mom.’ Em picked up her bag. Though a mother herself, she still looked young enough to be a schoolgirl. ‘I dunno what’s come over him.’
‘Oh, he’ll grow out of it. But I’ve told you, haven’t I? You need to be firmer with him.’ She stood behind Robbie, who was still grizzling, and gave Em one of her looks. ‘You sure you want to go over there? Seems a bit morbid to me.’
Em hesitated. ‘I’ve told Mr Perry I’m going – he gave me a couple of hours off. And I know Bert was . . . well, everyone knows how horrible he was, but I’m going for Molly. I just feel I should.’
Cynthia nodded. ‘I s’pose you’re right, love. And however vile he is – was – you have to feel some pity for the lad, with that family behind him.’
On her way out, Em glanced in the mirror by the front door and patted her straight, mousy hair. She almost despaired of keeping anything in the way of a curl or wave in it for long. The air in the street felt warmer than it had in the house, big white clouds sailing across the summer sky.
Em smiled to herself for a second, then adjusted her face. You’re going to a hanging, she rebuked herself. Blimey, a hanging! Bert Fox, Molly’s younger brother, whom Em had known all his life, was today due to be hanged by the neck until he was dead. Eight in the morning was the hangman’s hour, and it was already a quarter past. Walking to the bus stop, she realized with a shudder that Bert must have met his end – deep in the bowels of the prison somewhere, hidden from the eyes of the crowd outside – while she was eating the last of her breakfast and getting her cardigan on. The finality of it seemed terrible.
She climbed onto the crowded bus and paid her fare in a daze. Why was she going, like a tripper to a seaside attraction, to see the notice of the hanging on the doors of the prison? Bert had been a nasty, rat-faced little boy living in a yard along the street, who had grown into a sadistic, criminal man. All through the war he’d done nothing for the country but cheat and steal, with his band of mates, running all sorts of black-market rackets while evading the call-up. But it wasn’t that he’d been arrested for. The police only caught up with him after his latest hard-faced girlfriend had been found floating in the murky waters of the Cut – the Birmingham and Warwick Canal. She’d been strangled, and all evidence pointed to Bert Fox, then of Lupin Street, Vauxhall.
But Bert was the brother of one of Em’s best friends, Molly. And Molly, still in Belgium with her ack-ack battery, was not in a position to be present even if she’d wanted to be, which Em doubted. It felt wrong that no one should be there. Bert and Molly had had a cruel, squalid childhood, and Bert had at least tried to keep their drunken mother, Iris Fox, in some sort of comfort out of his criminal profits.
As she left the bus and its perspiring passengers, Em saw that going to the prison was a way of trying to tie parts of her life together when everything felt as if it was scattered apart. Molly was so far away, but most of all, Em was worried about her own husband Norm. The war in Europe may have been over, there was a new Prime Minister, Mr Attlee, a fresh start, but who knew how long the war in the East might go on? Em was horrified by the thought that Norm might be re-posted. He had miraculously survived so far – that was how Em felt – but if he was sent out east, surely his luck would run out? She ached for him to be home, to see their three-year-old son whom he’d never yet set eyes on, and to be a family properly, instead of all this waiting. Then she could stop feeling so anxious all the time. If going to pay her respects to Bert, however m
uch he deserved what he’d got, could make things feel more right, then that’s what she’d do.
Walking across Cathedral Square to the next bus stop, she saw VOTE LABOUR flyers left over from the election, blown against the edge of the path. And she had voted Labour, though it did seem hard on old Winnie. Em didn’t dwell on politics much, but voting Labour seemed to mean that things would be fairer.
Shielding her eyes, she looked up at the grand edifice of St Philip’s Cathedral and thought that one day she must go inside and look. She had never been in there in all her life.
‘Oops – careful! You want to look where you’re going!’
The woman scolded, but did not really seem very cross, more amused. Em was aware of a green suit, remarkably vivid in these drab days, on a slender figure, neat black court shoes and dark hair taken up into a stylish pleat.
‘Oh – sorry!’ Em said, then looked more closely. ‘Katie? Katie O’Neill?’
Even after all this time, and in these smart clothes, the long, pale face of the girl who had once been her best friend was immediately familiar. She saw Katie recognize her and a confusion of emotions flicker across her face, first amusement fading in her eyes, then what seemed like fear, and finally a wary politeness.
‘I remember – you’re Emma Brown, aren’t you? You haven’t changed a bit.’
Em thought back to Cromwell Street School, where she, Katie and Molly had been classmates. She and Katie had been top of the class and best friends, playing and giggling their way through life – until Em’s family had run into troubles. After Cynthia had had Violet, Em’s youngest sister, she’d fallen into a depression and had to be taken into the asylum. Katie had turned against Em and had been unkind and spiteful, refusing to be friends any more, in a way that had hurt Em dreadfully at the time. Then, within about two years, Katie and her mother had disappeared from the area and Katie didn’t attend the school any longer.
These painful memories lay between them now, but Em wanted to forget the past; it seemed petty to dwell on things that happened when you were so young.
‘How’s your family?’ Katie asked politely. Em noticed that she spoke very nicely, with hardly a trace of an accent.
‘They’re all very well, thanks,’ Em said. She felt rather scruffy beside Katie, in her old frock and scuffed white shoes. ‘And yours?’
‘Yes, thanks. They are too.’
Another memory got in the way. Last year – it seemed another life, with the war still on. That was it, January 1944, that cold night, she knew she had seen Katie. That time Katie had almost run into her, rounding a corner not far from home. Em remembered it very clearly because she had seen such a look of wariness and desperation in Katie’s eyes as she hurried past, swathed in a big coat. And Em was sure she had not been mistaken in noticing that Katie had been cradling a tiny infant in her arms. But she could hardly ask her about that now.
‘That’s good,’ Em said. ‘Well, our mom’s much better these days.’ She found herself rattling out information in the hope that Katie might offer some back. ‘She’s very well, and she’s such a help to me because I’ve got a little boy, Robbie, he’s three and his dad’s away in the army. And our Sid – d’you remember him? He’s about to get married to his girl, Connie – they’ve been courting a good while.’
She saw Katie arrange her face in a pleasant, polite expression. She’d grown into a looker, Em thought. Her face was slender, pleasing in shape, eyes still that pretty sea-blue. While not unfriendly, it was clear she was not going to give anything away about herself.
‘Are you off to work?’ Em asked.
‘Yes.’ Katie made a gesture in front of her with her hand, but didn’t volunteer any more information. Perhaps her mom had made that suit, Em thought. They’d never seen much of Mrs O’Neill, who’d kept herself to herself, but hadn’t there been some talk of her being a tailoress? ‘Do you work in town too?’
‘Oh no!’ Em said. Again she found herself talking fast out of nerves. ‘No, the thing is, I’m going up to the nick – it’s . . . d’you remember Molly Fox, from over in the yard – and from Cromwell Street?’
A disgusted downturn of Katie’s mouth indicated that she did. She smoothed her skirt as if wiping away specks of dirt. ‘Oh my goodness, her. What a family!’
Em choked back the desire to snap: Well, she was a better friend than you ever were, you with your spiteful, stuck-up ways!
‘They’re hanging her brother today.’ It came out abruptly and she kept her eyes on Katie’s face, watching the shock register.
‘No! I’d heard about it, but I hadn’t made the connection – that brother, what was he called?’
‘Albert. Bert.’ Before she could ask, Em added, ‘He strangled his girlfriend.’
Katie shuddered. ‘They were always going to come to a bad end. Disgusting, the whole lot of them.’
‘In fact Molly’s doing very well,’ Em said defiantly. ‘She’s in the army, in ack-ack – in Belgium. And they’ve promoted her to Lance Corporal. You’d be surprised if you saw her now.’
Katie raised her eyebrows. ‘Goodness! Well, there’s room for all sorts in the army, I s’pose.’
They both fell silent.
‘Well,’ Em said, hurt all over again. ‘I’d better get on.’
To her surprise, Katie then gave a genuine smile, which lit up her face. This was more like the old Katie that Em remembered. ‘It was nice to see you, Em. I’m glad everything’s going all right for you.’
Em found herself smiling back, remembering what fun Katie had been at times. She longed for them to sit down somewhere, with an afternoon to while away with cups of tea, and tell each other everything about their lives. But she could see that wasn’t going to happen.
‘Thanks,’ she said, surprised to find a sudden lump in her throat. ‘Bye then. Don’t make yourself late for work.’
She watched as Katie walked away, seeming so familiar, yet with a closed air of mystery about her. What had happened to her in all this time? Em saw, sadly, that she barely knew Katie O’Neill at all.
1931-1944
I
KATIE
One
1931
Katie crept up to the front door, biting her lower lip as she unfastened the latch, praying that the door wouldn’t creak and give her away. She clicked it shut and stood behind it, screwing her eyes tightly shut. Please don’t let Mother have heard her come in! If only she could have a few minutes – all she wanted to do was run up to her room, bury her face in her pillow after what she had just done, after what Mother had made her do.
But of course her mother’s ears were sharp as a cat’s.
‘Katie, is that you down there?’
‘Yes,’ she called faintly. Sometimes it felt as if Mother knew everything that was going on in her head.
‘Come up here – now, please. You’ve kept me waiting.’
Katie climbed the two flights of stairs, the first flight covered in brown linoleum, the attic stairs just bare boards. Her white ankle socks were the only bright thing in the gloom, left, right, left, right, her long black plaits swinging as she climbed, past the two rotten treads that groaned when you stepped on them. She felt like groaning too.
Her mother, Mrs Vera O’Neill, turned as she reached the attic, taking her brass thimble from her finger. Vera had been sitting working in the remaining light from the window. As she swivelled round, her face was in shadow so that Katie could only make out her outline. This made her even more forbidding than usual, the ramrod-straight back, the well-built body, simply but elegantly clad, her thick, golden brown hair swept up and piled on her head in the same style her own mother might have worn. There was nothing modern about Vera O’Neill. Katie could just see the gleam of pins that she had pushed for safekeeping through the collar of her green cardigan. On the work table behind her could be seen the black Singer machine, the glint of scissors, reels of thread and the length of grey serge on which she was working.
‘And did
you do as I asked?’ Even though she couldn’t see her mother’s face, Katie knew it wore that look which always made her feel bad and guilty. How could she do anything to displease Mother, whose life was made up of Grief and Suffering? Vera’s voice was smooth and well spoken, the Birmingham accent almost completely schooled out of her long ago, in a private establishment in Edgbaston. However much she had been reduced to living in poverty, Vera O’Neill made it clear with every ounce of her that this was not where she had started off in life, nor did she belong here.
‘Yes,’ Katie said again. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, feet neatly together, as Mother – woe betide her if she ever called her Mom – liked her to do. Vera was like a puppet master: she liked to be in control.
‘Good girl. I hope you made yourself quite plain. And you keep away from Emma Brown at school. I don’t want you associating with people like that.’
‘But,’ Katie dared protest, ‘isn’t Mrs Brown just a bit poorly, a bit like Uncle Patrick is a bit poorly sometimes? Won’t she get better?’ And she’s my friend, she wanted to cry.
Her mother seemed to swell in the gloom so that Katie would have taken a step backwards, had she dared. Vera O’Neill leaned forward.
‘Now listen to me,’ she hissed. ‘You do not speak about your uncle and that Mrs Brown in the same breath, d’you hear? You’re talking about your father’s brother – it’s not the same thing at all! Uncle Patrick has a troubled nature, it’s true, but he’s of sound mind and don’t you ever, ever tell anyone otherwise. He’s never been sent to the asylum, has he?’ She sat back again, steely and imposing. ‘Anyone who gets sent to the asylum is a different kettle of fish altogether, and they don’t come out again in a hurry. We don’t want anything else to do with people like that, do you understand?’
Katie nodded. Their superiority over everyone around had been drummed into her.
‘Good.’ Her mother’s tone lightened for a moment. ‘Now, you said you’ve found a new friend at school to play with – is it Lily?’
