‘My dad’s buying that house,’ he said. ‘This is only rented. But we will buy one day, Anne, I promise.’
‘I don’t care either way,’ she said. ‘I’m just delighted with this.’
The next-door neighbour knocked on the door and invited them in for a cup of tea. ‘The lad that lived there used to grow lovely spuds and vegetables,’ she told them, ‘but he got called up and drowned at sea and his mam just lost heart. She’d had a big family but he was the last. The others are all scattered. In fact, she’s gone now to a daughter in Southampton.’ Mrs Rooney was a fat, smiling woman with grey hair.
‘She was nice and friendly, wasn’t she?’ Anne said when they left.
‘Too friendly,’ John growled. ‘She might turn out a bit of a pest.’
‘Look on the bright side, for goodness’ sake,’ she said. ‘She might have been like those neighbours your mum told us about when she was first married. Really nasty.’
John looked offended and they waited in silence for the tramcar but were both too excited about the house to stay out of friends for long.
With help from his father and Anne’s brothers, John quickly redecorated the house and then the women of both families moved in to clean it and hang curtains.
In the second week of June, while Sarah and Joe were still on their honeymoon, Anne and John moved into the house and left their rooms in the Fitzgerald house free for the newlyweds.
Surplus furniture from the Redmond house was moved into the rooms and on the day they returned Maureen lit a fire and scattered vases of flowers about the rooms to welcome Sarah and Joe home.
All new furniture was labelled Utility and made to a standard design, and to ensure fair distribution as it was so scarce couples were allocated dockets to use when they bought it.
Anne and John were able to buy a Utility dining table and chairs and a wardrobe, all well made and in light wood, but they had insufficient dockets for any other furniture. From their old rooms they brought their bed, a chest of drawers, a small cupboard to serve as a sideboard and a plain wooden kitchen table and two wooden kitchen chairs.
John’s mother gave them two armchairs from the seven-piece suite in her parlour and Anne and John felt that their house was well furnished. It was true that nothing matched and the living room was still bare but Gerry could use it as a playroom until they were able to furnish it.
There were fitted cupboards and shelves in the alcove beside the living-room fire and John’s father brought wood and fitted cupboards in the bedrooms and kitchen.
The sun shone and Anne was so happy that she sang all day as she worked in the house. Mrs Rooney, the next-door neighbour, told her, ‘I can hear you singing. You’re made up with your house, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, I am,’ Anne exclaimed. ‘I love it. Everything’s so easy and the clothes dry in no time in the garden and smell so sweet. The air’s so lovely and fresh.’
‘It was even better when we come here in 1934,’ Mrs Rooney said. ‘There wasn’t nothing where them houses are over the main road, only all fields and woods.’
‘Is that when you came here – 1934?’
‘Yes, we had rooms in a court behind Field Street before and I couldn’t keep them clean. We was persecuted with fleas and bugs and cockroaches. I thought I was in heaven when I come here. And we had the hot water and the boiler.’ She laughed. ‘I couldn’t stop washing at first. The clothes were wore out.’
‘We had two rooms in my dad’s house,’ Anne told her. ‘We were very comfortable there, but this! The days aren’t long enough to enjoy it.’
‘They’re not long enough for your feller anyway,’ Mrs Rooney said with a smile. ‘I seen him out digging the other night with his bike lamp beside him. He’s going at the garden like someone demented, isn’t he?’
‘John never does things by halves,’ Anne laughed. She could understand and approve of his absorption in the garden but was becoming resentful of his obsession with Gerry. She tried to make allowances, telling herself that John had missed the early months of the baby’s life, but she often felt hurt and angry at the way he shut her out.
Although Anne was so happy, she missed the daily contact with her family and looked forward eagerly to John’s return from work. Invariably, though, he went straight to the playpen or cot and picked up the child, and only after hugging and kissing him for several minutes could he spare time to greet her.
When she tried to tell him about the small happenings of her day, she was conscious that all his attention was focused on his son and he was not listening to her.
Every night John insisted on bathing the baby and putting him to bed, and waved Anne away impatiently when she came to say goodnight to Gerry. She ignored him and kissed and cuddled the baby and Gerry, who was an affectionate child, clung to her saying, ‘Night night, Mama.’
It was a battle of wills every night as John looked pointedly at his watch and opened the book from which he read stories to Gerry until he fell asleep, but Anne was determined not to be intimidated into staying downstairs.
When Gerry was asleep John came downstairs, then either went straight out to work in the garden or went to one of the meetings connected with the various causes he was becoming involved with.
Anne told herself that it was only a small flaw in her happiness and John would be more sensible about the baby when he had been home a bit longer. All her new neighbours admired Gerry and told her he looked a picture of health.
‘He’ll break some hearts when he’s older,’ Mrs Rooney predicted and Anne agreed with her. Gerry was now nearly two years old, tall and sturdy, with bright blue eyes and fair curly hair, and a happy affectionate disposition.
Anne loved him so much that it was not easy for her to check him when he was naughty, but for the child’s sake she was firm with him and tried to train him to be well behaved and polite. She could do this while she was alone with him but when John was at home in the evenings or at weekends, he allowed the child to do whatever he wished.
If Anne protested he said impatiently, ‘Leave him alone. He’s only a baby.’ Gerry quickly realised the situation and would look defiantly at his mother as he did the things she forbade, like swinging on the curtains and climbing, or snatching food, knowing John would only laugh at his antics.
Anne often lay awake at night worrying that Gerry was being spoiled or that she was too strict with him and wrong to resent John’s absorption in the baby. I’m not jealous, she told herself, it’s just that it seems unnatural. But other times she thought that she should be glad that John loved Gerry so much.
She would have liked to talk over her worries but was too loyal to confide in anyone and just hoped that time would alter the situation.
Their house lay near to the tram terminus and Anne often travelled back to Everton. There were very few shops on the estate and she had been advised not to register with them but to leave her ration books where she had previously shopped. There she could be sure of obtaining various items ‘off the ration’ and under the counter cigarettes for John.
Bread rationing had been introduced in July, and the estate shop sometimes sold out, but Anne could always obtain her ration at the bakery in Everton and sometimes an additional barm cake or a few rolls too.
Anne always visited her relatives on these trips and in November Sarah told her that she was expecting a baby, due in late May. ‘I wish Helen could start with another,’ she said. ‘I don’t like talking to her about mine because I know she’s longing so much for another one herself.’
‘It’s a shame she hasn’t started another yet,’ Anne agreed. ‘Helen and Tony are such perfect parents.’ She smiled at Sarah. ‘Don’t let it spoil your pleasure, though, Sar.’
‘It won’t,’ Sarah said. ‘Nothing will. Oh, Anne, I’m so excited. I hope it’ll be exactly like Joe.’
‘What does he say?’
‘He hopes it’ll be exactly like me,’ Sarah admitted, laughing. ‘It probably won’t be like either of us. G
erry’s not like either of you, is he?’
‘No. He’s more like your Mick than anyone else. I hope he’ll be as clever.’
‘Mick was a terrible handful, though,’ Sarah said, smiling at the child who sat happily playing with pegs and an old box. ‘Gerry’s a good little boy.’
‘No thanks to John,’ Anne said sharply, then added quickly, ‘I suppose he’s bound to spoil Gerry a bit. He missed all his early months.’ And Sarah agreed.
Anne was always warmly welcomed when she went to see her Aunt Carrie and Uncle Fred, and Fred announced that it was time he started the Easter parties again now that there was another generation growing up.
Bridie’s twins were now ten years old and Theresa now had twin girls in addition to her two boys and Shaun had a son. ‘Not many from our family,’ Anne said ruefully. ‘Only Gerry and Moira and Sarah’s baby to come.’
‘Plenty of time for more,’ Fred said cheerfully. ‘Why, you young ones are only just starting.’
‘No sign of Eileen courting again?’ Carrie said.
Anne shook her head. ‘She just doesn’t seem interested,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t got over losing Whitey yet.’
‘She often goes to our Theresa’s,’ Carrie said. ‘Theresa says the trouble is Whitey was killed before she found out any of his faults, so now no one else measures up to him. Theresa tries to tell her all men have some faults.’
‘Except me,’ Fred said with a grin.
‘Oh, you,’ Carrie said. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start with yours.’
‘I don’t get so many dishes thrown at me these days though,’ he said to Anne. ‘I don’t know whether she’s learning to appreciate me or whether your aunt’s worried about her aim now.’
‘I can’t spare the dishes,’ Carrie retorted, but she rubbed Fred’s balding head affectionately.
No one mentioned Maureen, but Sarah had told Anne that Chris and Maureen had met Bridie and Jack in a queue for a film, and Carrie and Fred on another occasion, but everyone had simply accepted him as a friend of Maureen’s. His wife had refused to come back to Liverpool and was still in the nursing home, with Chris paying exorbitant fees for her.
‘I’m sure there’s nothing much wrong with her,’ Sarah said. ‘I believe someone told Chris she was seen on the front at Llandudno. I think he should call her bluff but of course I can’t say that to Maureen.’
‘I suppose you can’t,’ Anne said. ‘But I think Chris should do something, if only for Maureen’s sake. Still, it’s not our business, I suppose.’
‘Maureen seems happy enough, anyway,’ Sarah said.
Anne sometimes took the tram to Breckfield Park to see John’s mother and grandmother and enjoyed these visits during the week far more than when John was with her at the weekend.
They were often invited for Sunday tea and always warmly welcomed by John’s parents and grandmother. Sometimes all went smoothly but on other occasions an argument between John and his father seemed to arise quite suddenly.
Anne could see that John was usually at fault. He seemed unable to take even the mildest disagreement with his point of view and immediately flew into a rage, several times flinging out of the house.
The first time this happened Anne was upset and ashamed and could only whisper, ‘I’m sorry.’
Cathy hugged her. ‘We’re the ones who should be sorry, love,’ she said gently. And Sally added, ‘Yes. We’re the ones who had the rearing of him.’
‘I’m afraid I caused this,’ Greg said. ‘But I couldn’t let that pass. There are good employers and Stan’s one of them. John’s got nothing to complain of.’
‘Just forget about it, Greg,’ Cathy said. ‘Let’s have our tea. I’m sure we’re all ready for it.’
She kept a high chair in the house for Gerry and while she settled him into it, Sally pressed Anne’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, girl,’ she said. ‘We’re used to his moods. Let him walk them off until his stomach brings him home and we’ll forget him and enjoy our tea.’
John had the grace to look ashamed when he returned and to apologise for his behaviour. His mother only said calmly, ‘All right. Sit down and have your tea. I’ll make a fresh pot.’
No one said anything more about the incident and Cathy continued with her stories of the women she had worked with before the war. She told them well and there was much laughter, in which John and Anne joined, but Anne was unable to look at John or to speak to him.
There was extra warmth in the way Cathy and Sally hugged Anne as she left and John’s father gripped her hand and kissed her as he said goodbye. Gerry had fallen asleep and John was carrying him so Anne could avoid taking his arm.
She turned her head and looked out of the window of the tram, answering in monosyllables when he spoke to her. When they reached home she was still angry and when John had taken Gerry to bed and returned downstairs, he said impatiently, ‘What are you sulking about now?’
‘Sulking!’ she said angrily. ‘You’ve got a damned cheek! After the way you humiliated me and made a show of yourself in your mother’s.’
‘My parents accepted my apology,’ he said. ‘No cause for sulks from you.’
‘Maybe that’s the trouble,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve got away with too much. But I’m not standing for your tantrums!’
‘That’s enough,’ John said in a loud hectoring voice. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘Oh, don’t you?’ Anne began but he interrupted her.
‘That’s enough, I said,’ he shouted even more loudly. ‘I won’t hear another word.’
He turned and stormed upstairs and Anne called after him, ‘Bully! You’re not still in the army, y’know.’ But he ignored her and went into the bedroom, slamming the door.
Anne was trembling but busied herself putting away the home-made loaf and the cake that John’s mother had given her and putting out milk bottles. There was no sound from upstairs but she made a cup of tea for herself, the tears running down her face as she drank it.
It was the first time she could ever remember being spoken to so roughly. Childhood quarrels with her brothers and sisters had been mild affairs, soon over, and the older ones like Tony and Maureen had always been there, loving and protective, to look after her.
She had never before quarrelled like this with John either but as she sipped her tea she thought bitterly that that was only because she had never responded when he spoke rudely and overbearingly to her. I’ve been too soft, she told herself, just feeling hurt and too proud to say anything, but all that’s going to change.
She wept afresh as she thought of all her grievances and of the cutting remarks she could have made to John if he had stayed to hear them. I’d have told him he behaved like an ignorant lout, she thought, and a bad example to Gerry.
Gerry! She stood up and began to walk about the kitchen. That’s something else that’s going to change, she thought grimly. He’s not going to have such a free hand with Gerry. I’ll tell him I don’t want the child to grow up like him.
Anne was reluctant to go to bed, to lie beside John, but there was no alternative. They had only one bed and not even a sofa. She thought briefly of sleeping in an armchair but suddenly rebelled. Why should she be driven from her comfortable bed because her husband was unable to control his temper?
When she went up to Gerry in his cot and John in bed both were sound asleep. Anne undressed quietly and slipped into bed, lying as far as possible from John and with her back turned to him.
For some time she lay awake thinking tearfully of the loving family she had left to marry him and brooding over every cross word or thoughtless act of John’s since she had known him. I’ve been too meek, she decided, too anxious not to start a row. In future I’ll tackle him right away when anything annoys me.
She was almost asleep when she suddenly thought, First catch your hare, as Mrs Beeton would say. John would probably have rushed away or refused to discuss the matter before she could sort things out with him. I’ll do it th
ough, one way or another, she vowed as she slipped into sleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
Anne woke several times during the night and lay awake thinking bitterly of John’s behaviour, and consequently fell deeply asleep at about six o’clock and slept through the sound of the alarm at seven.
She woke to find John standing beside her, fully dressed and holding a cup of tea for her. He bent and kissed her. ‘I’m sorry, Anne,’ he said quietly. ‘You were right. I shouldn’t have behaved like that at my mum’s.’
Anne sat up and he kissed her again. She slipped her arms round his neck. ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you,’ she said.
‘Never mind. All forgotten now, eh?’ he said and Anne nodded. He stroked her cheek. ‘I felt a worm when I saw your poor little tear-stained face, but you’re happy now, aren’t you?’
She smiled and he hugged her then went to the cot to kiss Gerry. ‘I’ve given him a rusk,’ he said before dashing off to work. Gerry had sucked the rusk until it was soft and was now rubbing it over his face and head, crooning happily.
Anne stayed in bed, sipping her tea and feeling pleased that the quarrel was over, but wishing that she had been able to talk things over with John. He seems to think the subject’s closed now and if I tackle him about the way he spoke to me it might start another row, she thought, forgetting her brave plans of the previous night.
John’s remark about her ‘poor little tear-stained face’ rankled with her too. Sometimes he’s so damn patronising, she mused, but then thrust these thoughts away and sprang out of bed, eager to begin the day.
She enjoyed Mondays. Her washing was always finished by midday and then she took Gerry to the clinic to be weighed. She had made many friends among the young mothers who attended the clinic, one in particular, Ina Baxter, whose daughter was bom on the same day as Gerry.
The Catholic church was less than ten minutes’ walk away and Anne had joined the women’s confraternity there. The members met every Monday night for Benediction followed by a social evening in the church hall.
A Nest of Singing Birds Page 37
