by Annie Murray
‘Well, of course.’ Maudie said. ‘I know with my John – I mean he’s very good, and he writes whenever he gets the chance, but it’s so erratic, and of course when they’re at sea . . . !’ She gazed down at Michael again. ‘What a heavenly baby – oh, the kettle!’ She dashed back into the kitchen.
By the end of this ‘interview’ Katie had hardly had to say anything, but she knew a great deal about Maudie and John Grant, and about little Jenny’s schooling, which was a homespun business these days, taking place in the house of a Mrs Grey where sometimes Maudie went to help, and about Peter’s tendency to sleepwalk. And Maudie had said, of course, that Katie could move in if she could stand the chaos, and that they would muddle along together.
And they had done, for more than two years. Katie was more grateful to Maudie than she could put into words. Until Michael was two months old she had stayed home with him, paying Maudie for her board out of Simon’s money. The girls pooled their rations. Katie found a new job as a typist then, not too far away, in Hockley, and paid Maudie to look after Michael. She had to start giving him formula from a bottle in the daytime, and Katie was always longing to get home after a long day slogging at the typewriter, her breasts still tingling and seeping with milk, to feed him herself.
It was hard at first, uncomfortable, and she hated being away from Michael. She was envious of the time Maudie spent with him, pushing him up to the shops on the Soho Road in Jenny’s and Peter’s old perambulator, and sitting with him in the afternoon. But Maudie was so kind-hearted and never at all possessive about Michael, because her hands were already quite full enough with her own children. And soon, since Katie always came home to find him safe and well cared for, she trusted Maudie with him completely.
In return, she sometimes took Jenny and Peter out for a walk at the weekend to give Maudie a break, although Maudie often said she wanted to come too and they ended up chatting together in Handsworth Park; or Maudie’s mother came round, so Katie didn’t have to do much. But as she was of an orderly nature and Maudie was anything but, Katie did try to keep things tidy in the house. She made lists for shopping and jobs that needed doing, until Maudie would say, ‘How on earth did I manage before you were here?’ And Maudie sometimes took things rather over-seriously and Katie could make her laugh. They found that they were good for each other.
On Sundays, Katie often went over to St Francis’s parish for Mass while Maudie joined her mother at Handsworth Old Church, by the park. Maudie was not especially religious, but going to church was something they had always done, and she liked to read bits of the Bible to the children. Katie found it a comfort to go to Mass. As things settled, as her body recovered and she continued this new life, she began to dwell more on the past. She missed Uncle Patrick, and going to Mass was a reminder of him. It was painful thinking of him, but not as painful as thinking about the other people who had bowed so cruelly out of her life. Many of her memories of him were happy ones, and Mass brought some of those back. Sometimes, in the evenings, when Maudie was settling the children down, reading to them, Katie would sit on the stairs of the little terraced house and listen. Maudie always read a story and then, as they were lying down to sleep, a psalm.
‘The rhythm of them is so beautiful,’ she told Katie. ‘It doesn’t really matter if they don’t understand the words.’
So Katie sat, if Michael was settled, in the almost darkness at the top of the stairs and listened: ‘The Lord is my shepherd: therefore can I lack nothing . . . But thy loving-kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ Psalm 23 was her favourite, but there were many others that took her back to Patrick’s gentle, musical voice. She found it soothing.
And there was something else for which she was especially grateful to Maudie. At first it took some getting used to. All Katie’s life she had been schooled – first by her mother, then by circumstances – to be secretive, even to lie if necessary, so that shameful truths should not be disclosed. Anyone who asked questions was seen as suspect. But Maudie asked questions – lots of them. And not only that, she talked, straightforwardly and with an artless trust that Katie found astonishing.
‘The thing is,’ Maudie told her one afternoon, while the children were napping, not long after Katie had arrived. She was perched on a low stool, looking rather like a little girl, in ankle socks and with her hair hanging loose. She was working on a long skein of green knitting, though it would have been hard to say what kind of garment was meant to be developing from it.
‘My brother Wilfred is the black sheep of the family. What with Daddy being a headmaster, of course, there was always a lot of school and a lot of bossing about. Being a headmaster did make Daddy rather pompous, I’m afraid. And Wilfred reacted badly. That wife of his, Glenda – well, you won’t meet her because they’ve moved away – but she was well on with their first baby before they tied the knot. Mummy and Daddy were furious with him. You can imagine! Anyway – oh, bother, I’ve lost a stitch again – there was this awful shotgun wedding, and she’s clearly not at all right for him. Simply ghastly woman! They’ve two children now, but oh my goodness, Mummy and Daddy loathe her, even though they try to be polite!’
Katie was astonished to be told such family secrets, but somehow hearing about them like this made them seem not quite so bad. Maudie seemed to regard most human foibles with a detached amusement, rather than sitting as judge and jury. Ah well, her attitude seemed to be, it’ll all be the same in a hundred years! People, compared with geology, are very short-lived – and aren’t people funny?
Katie started to see just how obsessed her own mother had been with keeping things secret: Uncle Patrick’s condition, and even the details of her husband’s death, which was hardly something to be ashamed of. As the weeks passed, under Maudie’s interested questioning Katie found herself, for the first time in her life, beginning to talk.
At first it was about her father dying, and about sharing the house with Uncle Patrick. For the first time ever she voiced the words, ‘I suppose you’d have to say he wasn’t really very well . . .’
Maudie put down the mending she was doing that afternoon and listened raptly. ‘It sounds as if he was a manic depressive,’ she said.
‘A what?’ Katie had never heard the words before. If only she could have turned to that medical dictionary in Sparkhill Library and known what to look for. Would it have made any difference?
‘I couldn’t give you chapter and verse,’ Maudie said. ‘But I know Daddy worked with someone once who was like that. Sometimes he just sat in the darkest corner of the staffroom as if he had no life in him at all, then next time he’d be brim full of energy, fomenting revolution! He drove all the rest of them round the bend. It really became very difficult – you know, beyond managing. They had to ask him to move on in the end.’
Katie could feel things falling into place in her mind. Tearfully she described what she knew of Patrick’s life to Maudie, his suddenly leaving the White Fathers, the dark days when he would barely move, the over-excitement and pacing at night, the long walks, his coming home soaked to the skin and famished, with his shoes worn through.
‘And he was so kind,’ she found herself sobbing. ‘He was like a father to me, even though he wasn’t. You know, I still make sure they say a Mass for him every year, round the anniversary of his death.’
Maudie was interested and sympathetic. Gradually Katie found herself talking about Vera. She had been tempted to tell Maudie that her mother was dead too, but she owed it to her to be more truthful than that. And eventually – because it soon became obvious that there were no letters arriving from her husband, and Maudie kept worrying for her – Katie could not keep up the pretence of pining for an absent spouse. She told Maudie about Simon Collinge. Maudie was shocked, but then furious on Katie’s behalf.
‘You mean he paid you off – just like that?’
Katie nodded, her face burning. ‘I felt . . .’ It was so strange,
so wonderful to pour all this out for the first time! ‘Well, I felt cheap – awful. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the money, but . . .’
‘Of course you should!’ Maudie insisted indignantly. ‘If he was just going to abandon you, instead of doing the decent thing. What a complete cad!’
‘Yes,’ Katie agreed. Even though it hurt, she could see Simon Collinge for what he was: a spoilt, shallow young man who had used her for what he could get and then cast her aside. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to pay my rent without it.’
‘And he’s not interested in seeing his own son?’
Katie shook her head miserably, looking down to hide the sudden tears.
‘Well, you poor girl. We women have to stand up for ourselves, you know – we didn’t get the vote by giving in to them. All I can say is, we’ll stick together here, at least till the war ends. We’ll have to see after that, won’t we?’
Katie nodded gratefully, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes – thank you very much.’
Thirty-Two
The two years had flown by. Their household had been a very female one, with some of Maudie’s friends visiting. Katie’s old friend Ann Miller came very occasionally to see how she was getting along, and she went to see the family in Balsall Heath sometimes too. They were always delighted to see her and Michael. In its way it had been a happy time, and she had put a lot of her bitterness over Simon Collinge behind her. He had become irrelevant.
But in the summer of 1945, after peace had been declared and celebrated in Europe, Katie realized that although the men would not be home for some time yet, she had better get out of the typing pool and look for a better-paid job. She had soon found her new post at Rowan and Johnson, Solicitors, and was pleased at the thought of working in town for a change. In celebration she went to a draper’s in Handsworth – never Lewis’s, in case she ran into her mother – and bought a length of vivid jade-green cloth, off the ration, to make herself a suit. It had been that first morning, reporting for work, as she had walked across Cathedral Square in high spirits, that a young woman in a pink frock – so busy gazing up at the cathedral that she was not looking where she was going – had collided with her. The past echoed at her immediately. It was Emma Brown, from Kenilworth Street.
Katie’s heart beat fast with delight at seeing her. She wanted to put the clock back and return to that friendship they had had in the Cromwell Street School classroom, their jokes and games, before all the hurts and difficulties. But despite her new relaxed openness with Maudie, in those seconds the old habits fell back into place. Don’t say anything. Don’t give anything away. So she put on a bright and breezy manner, friendly, but closed, and told Em nothing. And then Em started on about Molly Fox and that disgusting brother of hers and how he’d been hanged, and there’d been no chance to say more, or change anything. She’d tried – she’d smiled and hoped Em would ask more. She needed to be asked – to be invited back in. But then Em was gone, and so had her chance.
‘Never mind,’ she told herself. ‘You’ve got Maudie. She’s the best friend you’ve ever had!’
But the sadness of what happened with Em still stayed with her.
The attic room that Sybil Routh showed to Katie did indeed involve climbing a lot of stairs, with runners of old carpet up the middle. She carried Michael, feeling her leg muscles pulling. This would keep her in trim all right! Archie, the little dog, followed this time, seeming quite happy with Katie’s presence now that she had been let into the house. When they reached the top and looked into its large, airy space, she felt immediately that she could live in it, even though it was still occupied in a sparse, masculine way by the man who was going to Manchester – Mr Bell. The bed was rumpled and there were clothes thrown carelessly on the chair.
‘Mr Bell will be gone by the end of the month,’ Sybil told her, still panting from the climb.
The room extended across most of the top of the house, which was built of generous Victorian proportions, with a high ceiling and two dormer windows overlooking the street, so that the front of the room was bathed in light, with the back end, where the bed was, more shadowy. As well as the bed, which seemed to be three-quarter-sized, there was an old leather armchair, its brown surface rubbed pale where countless heads and hands had rested on it, a small writing table and chair, and a wardrobe that, Sybil showed her, also contained shelves. The floor was of worn brown linoleum. Even without any female touch, it felt cheerful and inviting.
‘It’s very nice,’ Katie said. Michael chattered, smiling and waving his arm excitedly, wanting to be put down to play with Archie, who was sniffing round the room.
‘He won’t hurt him,’ Sybil said, as Michael made straight for Archie. The dog’s little docked tail wagged at him. ‘He’s all sound and fury – look, friends already.’
‘Just be gentle with him, Mikey,’ Katie said. But the dog seemed happy and Michael too.
‘Think you can do all these stairs – with him?’ Sybil Routh nodded at Michael, then gave an unexpected smile. ‘Yes, little fellow: this is your new home!’
Katie was warmed by this. Sybil seemed in no doubt about them.
‘I’ll be perfectly all right. I just don’t want to disturb the people underneath – if he were to run up and down.’
‘Well, you’re above the Gudgeons, both of whom are fortunately rather deaf. You won’t see much of her – she’s an invalid. Tell you what, I’ve got a mouldy old rug somewhere in the back there, if you don’t mind it. That’d muffle things up a bit, wouldn’t it?’
On the way down again Sybil Routh showed her the bathroom at the back of the second floor, with a huge claw-footed bath. It was the best bathroom Katie had ever seen.
‘There’s a meter for the water – I know what you girls are like for baths; go easy on the lavatory flush – and no more than two squares of Izal at a time: the plumbing objects to it . . . Now, I’ll show you what’s what. That room – well, rooms – at the front, that’s the Gudgeons’.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. Katie had to strain to hear over Michael’s happy crooning. She had put him down and was having to hold on tight to his hand. ‘They’re a nice old couple, but very frail. She looks as if the wind would blow her down, and he’s quite devoted. Then there’s Mr Treace in the back room. He’ll be in any minute – works in Lloyds Bank – rather a dull fellow, I’m afraid, but of frugal habits, which is what we landladies like, of course! A modest bather. Now, I know you’ll need to bath the child . . . We’ll have to see what we can do.’ She led the way downstairs. Michael was wrapped up in the dog, playing with him along the hall.
‘The bottom floor is all mine. There’s a little parlour at the front, which I never really use and it’s cold as the grave in there. This room is where all life happens.’
She led the way along the lovely tiled hall and into a very large back room. Katie was aware immediately of moss-green walls beneath a picture rail, above which everything was creamy-white, and of a room crammed with intriguing things. At one end was a dining table and chairs and, beside it, a dark old sideboard on which rested a huge china soup-tureen and various silver jugs and salvers. There was a dresser, the top half of which had glass doors, crammed with leather-bound books, and beside it another set of deep shelves, which held a mixture of books and glass cases. In them Katie saw a variety of stuffed birds: pheasants and grouse and other game birds. Her eyes were drawn to the very top shelf, where she could see something with very big teeth.
‘Ah . . .’ Sybil saw where she was looking. ‘That is the Bengal tiger, or was once, poor fellow – skull of one.’ Its jaws were stretched wide open, the teeth curved like sabres. ‘It was my brother Anselm’s – he died in India, alas. And these others . . .’ A sweep of her hand took in the birds and various glass cases of coloured butterflies, which were attached to the wall by the door. ‘Those are Cuthbert’s: another brother, but he’s gorn orf, as they say, to Australia.’
Nearer the back end of the house, from which glass doors led out to the garden, the
re was a fireplace with a couple of comfy old chairs covered in green-and-white flowered chintz beside it and, against the wall behind, an upright piano.
‘Oh,’ Katie said, surprised. ‘It’s lovely! And a piano – can you play it?’
‘I was just about to ask you the same question. I live in hope!’
‘No, I’m afraid I never learned,’ Katie said.
‘It’s beyond me now,’ Sybil said. ‘My sister Cordelia is the real pianist and I used to play around a bit on it, before my wretched hands seized up.’ She held her hands out, swollen and gnarled-looking, and Katie felt for her. ‘Mr Treace can tinkle a bit, but nothing that you’d really want to listen to exactly, I’m afraid.’ She chuckled. ‘Yes, young man,’ she said and Michael came and peered curiously at it. ‘Have you seen a piano before?’ She opened the lid. ‘Look, I’ll show you something. That’s middle C – that’s right, you press it.’
Michael looked up at her, fascinated as the note sounded out.
‘You’ll have to learn to play, won’t you?’ Sybil smiled, closing the lid again. ‘Now, this room is where we all eat – breakfast and evening meal. Lunch is your affair, of course. I’ll have your ration books off you. I’ve a girl does some shopping for me and a few odd jobs. Better that we all share – I like my house to be a home, not a doss-house. I don’t hold with all this crouching in little rooms over a solitary electric ring. It’s wasteful and uncivilized. Now, we can arrange for you to feed the boy separately, if you wish him to have tea early, but otherwise food will be on the table at seven. You’ll hear the gong. In fact, I need to go and finish it off now. So – d’you want the room or not?’
Maudie laughed wholeheartedly when Katie told her where she had found new lodgings for the following month.
‘Old Sybil Routh? Oh yes, Mummy and I know her from the church. In fact I think her father was a clergyman, though not round here. There are quite a few Rouths scattered around somewhere – I think she was one of six or seven. She’s quite potty, but actually rather nice. Such odd clothes! But how funny that you should go there. I think she runs a bit of a home for waifs and strays, even though she tries to pretend she’s terribly businesslike about it. She’s an interesting lady – used to be some kind of social worker, I believe. Or was it a nurse? Well, that’s lovely, Katie – you’re not far away and you, little M, can come round and see me while your mummy’s at work, can’t you?’
