by Annie Murray
For a start, Norm was bossier than he’d used to be: more commanding. Even though he’d only been promoted to Corporal in the RAF, he had had people to order about. There was more confidence in the way he expressed his opinions, both about Robbie and things outside.
‘They’re going to sweep all this away, you know,’ he’d said one evening over tea. ‘All this area’ll go. It’s a new era, now we’ve got a Labour government – they’ve got to do better for the working man, better houses. The lads’ve been talking about it all through the war. They won’t let them get away without doing it now.’
‘Swept away?’ Cynthia said.
‘All these old houses – they’ll have to go.’
Em and Cynthia looked at each other in dismay. They knew that the powers that be had plans, but they weren’t at all sure that they wanted their house swept away.
‘Equal shares – none of this government by the rich. We’ve all had more than enough of that.’
He tried to draw Bob, Em’s dad, into discussions, but Bob, though obviously not in any disagreement with him, was not a great talker. Last year, in the elections after the war, they had voted Labour, even though they were grateful to Winnie Churchill. But it was just odd, hearing Norm suddenly giving off opinions like that. The war had changed him.
‘I’ve seen blokes killed,’ he said tersely to her, when she accused him of being on a soapbox one evening. ‘And I’ll be damned if they’re going to have died for nothing – for it all just to go back to how it was before, with certain people lining their pockets.’
He had also come home with other high hopes – of independence, of starting something up.
‘I’d like my own little business,’ he said to Em, when they were alone in bed, soon after he came back. ‘Not have a boss – to be the one in charge.’
‘But what could you do?’ Em asked. The thought seemed extraordinary to her, and well out of reach.
‘That’s the trouble – I don’t know.’ He sounded frustrated. ‘A shop, maybe?’
But very quickly he was coming down to earth. There was no money for anything new. Norm was having to come to terms, within those first days home, with the fact that the only obvious thing for him to do was go back into the police force, where he’d started out.
Last night, lying with her in the darkness, he’d said sadly. ‘I dunno – I thought things were opening out. That was the feeling I had: I wanted to keep it up, carry on like that. In the war things felt important. We felt important. Now it just feels as if things are closing in, getting smaller, as if there’s nowhere to turn.’
And Em stroked one of his arms, which were wrapped around her, and felt desperate, because it felt as if she and Robbie were part of that closing down and hemming in. As if they were making life for him feel like a prison, shutting him away from his new, high hopes.
IV
KATIE
Thirty
June 1946
She didn’t think she could face knocking on yet another door.
Katie stopped for a moment in the street, trying to hold back the tears that were stinging her eyes. Her throat felt sore with the effort of not crying. The light was at last beginning to die on this long June evening, but there were a few people about and children still playing out, and she didn’t want anyone to see the tear that oozed over and ran down her cheek.
So far, all she had met was suspicion and hard-faced rejection. It was all very well when they opened their doors and saw her, smart in a sage-green shirt-waister with its matching belt, and her white cardigan and neat navy shoes. She wore her hair swept back stylishly so that she looked every inch a reliable working girl, the sort who would have money to meet the rent and no trouble.
‘I’m enquiring about the room,’ she’d say. ‘It says you have one to let?’
The landladies could afford to be fussy: there were far more people in need of a room than the accommodation to meet it. A quiet, single woman – that’s what they all wanted. Or, second best, a quiet, single man. So far so good. Seeing Katie’s respectable look, some of their faces broke into cautious smiles. But sooner or later in the conversation she had to tell them the full truth. That wiped the smiles off them. The last one had been the worst, the one who’d really got under her skin.
‘I have regular work,’ she’d begun. ‘With solicitors Rowan and Johnson on Bennett’s Hill . . .’ This always impressed them. This last lady had been in her apron, middle-aged with tight brown curls, genteel but hard-faced in a thin, tight-lipped way. The sort who could damn you with a look or a whisper. She stood twisting her wedding ring round and round her bony finger, as if to emphasize how respectably married she was.
‘A solicitor – oh well, you sound just the sort of person I’m looking for,’ she said in an affected way, even managing something almost like a smile. ‘Tell me – where are you living now?’
‘Not far away,’ Katie explained. ‘In Holly Road.’ It was another street nearby in Handsworth. ‘I’m lodging with a lady there, but her husband will be coming home soon and I need to give them their privacy and find somewhere else.’
The lady looked her up and down again, sniffed, then said, ‘I’m very strict about use of hot water. But you look a sensible sort of girl. If you’re serious, you’d better come and see the room.’
‘The thing is,’ Katie felt her legs turn weak again, having to say this, ‘I’m not completely on my own.’ There, the words had to come out. ‘I’ve my little boy: he’s nearly two and a half, and he’s no trouble . . .’ She babbled fast, trying to make a good impression, but all the while aware of the expression of disdain taking over the landlady’s face. ‘He’s a quiet little lad, ever so good, and he’ll be looked after during the day while I’m at work . . .’
But the woman was retreating furiously back into her doorway.
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. I don’t want any children, all noise and mess. No, you’ll have to find somewhere else. Coming here, disturbing people at this time of the evening! I mean, how do I even know you’ve got a husband? You never can tell these days. Off you go now – away from my door!’
‘But . . .’ Katie called out, as the door slammed shut. ‘You don’t understand. My husband – he was killed at Arnhem.’ Her voice sunk to a whisper. ‘You stuck-up, cold-hearted bitch.’
No, she thought, standing in the dusk, she couldn’t face any more. She felt cold and shrunken inside. The woman’s words had sliced into her. It was her mother all over again, that stone-hearted sanctimony. Because it was all true: she wasn’t respectable. There was no husband, killed at Arnhem or anywhere else. She was going to be burdened by her shame every day of her life, no matter how much she lied and pretended and put on a brave front. How was she ever going to find a place for herself and her little boy? Somewhere they could just live in peace and make some sort of life? She had hoped to find a place in Handsworth, to be close to her present lodgings, because Maudie, her current landlady, was going to carry on looking after Michael. But maybe that was a vain hope – she’d have to find a place that wasn’t quite so respectable, where people were more desperate for her rent. This dreadful thought sunk into her: the idea of returning to the sort of place where she had grown up, surrounded by poverty.
Trying to pull herself together, she turned for home. She’d go back to the cosy little house near the park, to Maudie and the children. That would cheer her up.
Crossing over the main road in the falling dusk, she headed home along a side street of tall Victorian houses. Even after all this time it still felt like a novelty being able to walk the evening streets and be able to see, after all the war years of blackout when some nights you could scarcely see your hand in front of your face. The neglect that most houses had suffered through the war was shrouded now by the encroaching darkness, and Katie thought how cosy some of them looked, the lights on behind the curtains in the wide windows, many of them with a pretty border at the top, of coloured glass flowers and fruits. These were the sorts of
houses where they would have had maids before the war, and maybe a few still did. But all that sort of thing seemed to be dying out. She peered curiously at each house as she passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lives going on behind the glass, aching at the thought that she would never have a proper family now, or a normal life.
A movement caught her eye in the downstairs window of a house halfway along. A plump arm and shoulder appeared through the curtains, and something white. There was some operation going on with a pot of glue, a card being stuck into the window. For a moment she shrunk down behind the hedge, waiting until the card had been attached and the person had withdrawn. With curiosity, but not much hope, she crept up the path.
‘ROOM FOR RENT,’ the sign read, and then in smaller letters: ‘SIZEABLE BUT MUST TACKLE STAIRS. SUIT WORKING MAN. Half Board, £1 a week. Apply Within.’
‘Must tackle stairs,’ Katie murmured, frowning at this rather odd condition. ‘That must mean it’s the attic.’
Still not sure that she could face another ordeal with a hatchet-faced landlady, she was turning to back away when she realized someone was standing on the path behind her.
‘Oh my goodness!’ She laid a hand over her thudding heart. ‘Did you have to creep up on me like that? You nearly made me jump out of my skin!’
A youngish man in a suit, with a sorrowful-looking moustache, was standing patiently, apparently waiting for her to move.
‘I was just coming home,’ he said. ‘This is where I live.’
‘Sorry,’ Katie said, calming down, ‘only I didn’t hear you.’
‘That’ll be my room,’ he added, nodding at the card, adding tragically, ‘They’re moving me to Manchester.’
‘Oh – I see. Well, yes. I’m looking for somewhere. Should I ask, d’you think?’ She wanted to say: What’s she like? But didn’t dare.
‘You could apply within, as stated.’ He produced a key and, before she could protest, swung the door open. A nice smell floated out, of meat cooking. ‘Allow me.’
A shrill barking also broke out as soon as the door opened, and Katie heard the tac-tac of a dog’s nails coming along the hall. A wiry-haired Jack Russell came to the step and stood barking for all he was worth.
‘Hello,’ Katie said to the dog, hoping it wouldn’t bite her, and it did more important barking.
‘Archie?’ A deep, well-spoken voice called. Light spilled into the hall as a door opened inside. ‘Oh, Archie, what are you doing?’
Katie saw a woman coming towards her, limping on obviously sore feet and wearing a shapeless, billowing frock.
‘Archie, for goodness’ sake, stop it! Now, out of the way.’ Opening the door of the room beside her, the woman put her foot against the dog’s backside, directed him in there with a firm shove and closed the door. The barking continued, then stopped, defeated. Katie found herself being observed. As the woman had her back to the light, Katie could only get an impression of her: hair in some sort of bun, but straggling, a surprisingly masculine-looking face with black brows, then the rest of her shapeless form lost in the green frock, which was belted loosely at the waist. On her feet were thick stockings and broken-down sheepskin slippers.
‘Oh dear,’ the woman said at once. ‘I see you really aren’t a young man.’
‘Well, no,’ Katie agreed, almost feeling she ought to apologize.
‘I see – and you have come about the room? Good heavens, I’ve only just put the card up. Were you standing out in the street waiting, or something?’
‘In a way I was,’ Katie said. ‘I’ve been looking for a room, and I was just passing.’
‘But really I want a young man . . .’
‘I can climb stairs,’ Katie said. ‘If that’s the problem. I’m very strong and I don’t mind at all . . . In fact,’ she added desperately, ‘I’d be willing to help you – I mean, in the house, if you need it.’
She decided to lay everything bare, instead of waiting. After all she might as well be turned away sooner rather than delaying the agony. All her pride had been shaken out of her by now.
‘I’m really desperate for a place to go, you see. It’s me and my little boy. I’m a widow – we’re on our own: he’s only two – and my present landlady, her husband’s being demobbed and they don’t want a lodger, and no one will have us. I’m afraid if it goes on like this, I’m going to be on the streets . . .’ The emotion she had been keeping down all evening began to pour out and she burst into tears. ‘Oh, I’m sorry – I never meant to carry on like this, only I’ve been looking for days and everyone’s been so nasty . . .’
The woman leaned against the doorframe. ‘Oh, dearie me,’ she said, almost huffily. ‘I do wish you hadn’t told me all this.’ There was a silence as Katie composed herself.
‘You’ve really nowhere else to go? What about your family – can’t they help?’
Katie shook her head, wiping her eyes. ‘Not a hope.’
‘What’s your name? And the boy?’
‘Katie – O’Neill.’ And my little boy’s Michael. He’s no trouble, honestly. He’s a quiet little chap, and I wouldn’t cause you any noise or bother.’
There was a silence. The woman folded her arms and let out a long, considering sigh.
‘It’s against my better judgement,’ she said. ‘I prefer male lodgers really – they’re handier, and not so hard on the plumbing. But you do seem to be in a jam, and one must try and be Christian about these things. Come round tomorrow and bring your boy. If you like the room, and I like you, we might be able to come to some arrangement.’
‘Oh – d’you mean it!’ Katie felt like throwing her arms around the woman. ‘Really? Oh, thank you, thank you!’
‘I haven’t said yes yet,’ she said crustily. ‘Come round tomorrow – it’s number twenty-six. Don’t come so late. Six o’clock would suit. Then we’ll see.’ She had almost shut the door when it opened again. ‘My name is Miss Routh, by the way. Sybil Routh.’
‘How d’you do,’ Katie said.
Sybil Routh stared a moment longer, shook her head as if baffled by her own foolishness, then shut the door.
Thirty-One
Within days of Katie giving birth in the Millers’ crowded household, something lucky had happened. Ann came in from work one afternoon while Katie was feeding Michael, wincing at the child’s strong pull on her.
‘Ooh,’ Ann looked sympathetic. ‘Does it hurt yer?’
‘A bit – he doesn’t half suck.’ Katie smiled. ‘Never mind.’
‘Look!’ Ann was waving a copy of the Mail. ‘I’m not trying to get rid of you – not as such, of course. But there’s summat here might be just the thing.’
A service wife in Handsworth was advertising for a lodger-cum-companion while her husband was away. Well-behaved infants were welcome, not more than two, sharing care of the children.
Katie read it and looked up at Ann, her eyes full of hope.
‘The only thing is,’ Ann said, concerned. ‘How will you pay the rent – it does say it’s neg . . . negotiable.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Katie said. ‘I can manage – until I can get back to work again.’ She had Simon’s money. Anger and hurt swelled in her, as it did every time she thought of him, as well as a defiant determination to survive without him, whatever happened. To show him she didn’t need him – even if he didn’t know or care! Anyway, it was the least he could do: put a roof over their heads.
That was how she came to be living with Maudie Grant in Holly Road. Maudie and her husband John were schoolteachers, though John, a history teacher, had decided to ‘do his bit’ and had joined the navy in 1940. Maudie’s parents, who lived nearby in Handsworth Wood, had helped and supported her with the little ones and she had had a lodger for a time, but she had moved on.
‘As my two have got older, I find it even more of a handful in some ways,’ Maudie told Katie on her first visit. ‘I thought it might be fun to have someone else in the house with children – but then, you see, I love babies. Oh, I
’d so like another one, but of course with John not being here . . .’
Maudie was a curvaceous, lively, scatty young woman who hardly ever stopped talking. She had straight brown hair, yanked back into a wayward pony-tail, and an artless way of dressing – frumpy almost, Katie thought, taking in Maudie’s calf-length brown skirt and cream blouse with three-quarter length sleeves, and a button missing so that the blouse gaped, giving a glimpse of her white brassiere. Yet the overall effect of Maudie was not of a frump, because there was something so individual about her shapely, restless figure that gave her her own style. And she was very pretty, with a scattering of freckles across her nose and wide grey eyes. Her children – Jenny, six, and Peter, four – were blond and angelic-looking.
Katie, wanting to hide nothing and spare herself any disappointment, carried Michael along with her. In any case, she didn’t like being separated from him and didn’t want to put Mrs Miller to the trouble of looking after him. He lay sleepily in her arms, his cheeks pink and firm.
‘Oh, now he’s adorable!’ Maudie said softly, looking down at him. ‘What lovely colouring: those dark lashes. He’s ever so like you, isn’t he? But so little – when on earth did you have him?’
‘A week ago,’ Katie confessed.
‘Gracious heavens!’ Maudie looked at her, aghast. ‘You must be all in – here, have a chair. And I’ll make tea: you must have biscuits! I’ll run and turn up the gas! Course, I used to have a daily, but she’s gone off to work in a factory – more money. And quite right of course, naturally. We must all do our bit . . .’
Katie was more than grateful to sit down. She felt shaky, and the journey had taken it out of her.
‘And you’re having to look for a new berth so soon after?’ Maudie bustled back in. ‘You poor, poor thing! And where’s your husband, may I ask?’
Katie had told so many of these kinds of lies that they came easily now. ‘Oh, he’s out east somewhere. I haven’t heard from him in a little while now. I don’t know if he even knows about Michael yet – probably not. I can’t help worrying.’
