Her Father's Daughter

by Beezy Marsh

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ said Mam, anxiety etched on her features.

  ‘I think you are just very tired and need plenty of bed rest. Have you been doing too much around the house?’

  ‘No, not any more than usual,’ she said, groaning as she tried to pull herself up onto her elbows.

  ‘Well, in my experience, every woman works twice as hard as the man because she is constantly attending to everyone’s needs. Sometimes it’s nature’s way of saying you need to slow down a bit. Your daughter here seems to be easing the load. She’ll look after you.’

  He packed up his stethoscope and made his way downstairs to the scullery.

  Da leaped to his feet as he entered.

  ‘No need,’ said the doctor, motioning for him to sit back down. Ethel followed him into the room and shut the door behind her. ‘Are you her husband?’

  Da nodded.

  ‘It goes without saying that your wife is very sick,’ said the doctor. ‘I am fairly certain that she is in the advanced stages of womb cancer and there is little that can be done for her.’

  18

  Ethel

  Clapham, November 1929

  The low mumble of Da saying his prayers resonated through the house.

  He sat at Mam’s bedside morning, noon and night, reading from the Bible, heaping blessings on her in the hope that she might get better. Ethel couldn’t bear it, watching her wasting away day after day. Word got around the street that her mam was very sick, and women started plating up meals, dropping off cakes, and inviting Ethel in for a cup of tea or taking William off her hands for a few hours. It was wonderful to have their support because Harry wasn’t much help; he kept making excuses to be out of the house with union work or extra shifts. Da muttered, within earshot, that he was about as much use to Ethel as a chocolate fireguard.

  Doreen from over the road was a real boon because she’d heard about doctors cutting out tumours. There was a woman around the corner who’d been cured of cancer that way, so she said. With that in mind, Ethel decided to make an appointment to see Dr Perkins, to find out more and see if he could help get Mam to see an expert at the hospital. It would cost her money to be seen – nothing came free – but it would be worth it to help her mother.

  The surgery was a few streets away, just off Clapham Manor Street, and Ethel scurried along nervously, as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. When she got there, the people sitting in his waiting room were a pitiful sight and half of them looked underfed. Skinny bairns with dark circles under their eyes played listlessly on the floor while their mothers shushed squalling babies on their laps. Wizened old folk dozed, their hunched shoulders and gnarled hands proof enough of the many years of hard graft they’d put in to make ends meet.

  No one wanted to be here, not least because seeing the doctor meant they’d be robbing Peter to pay Paul. Either the tallyman, the rent man or the milkman would have to put their dues on tick for a week or so. Although it had to be said, this doctor was more reasonable than most and he’d often let you pay him off at a shilling a week, which was why his waiting room was so full.

  After waiting for more than an hour in the crowded room, which was fetid with the smell of so many bodies in damp and dirty clothing packed tightly together, it was Ethel’s turn.

  The doctor listened intently but when she asked about the operation, he shook his head and said, ‘She’s riddled with disease, I’m afraid, so the cancer is inoperable. The kindest thing is to just look after her at home but if she needs to, we can bring her to hospital so she can have morphia.’

  ‘She won’t want to leave us and be in the hospital!’ Ethel cried. ‘We’re her family.’

  ‘That’s my point exactly,’ he said, polishing his glasses. ‘Leaving home only distresses people in their final weeks. Give her all the tender loving care you can, that is my best advice to you. Cherish the time you have left with her and try to ease her worries by telling her she is going to recover.’

  ‘You want me to lie to my own mother?’ said Ethel incredulously.

  ‘No. I’m just telling you to think of what is kindest for her,’ said the doctor, with a reassuring smile.

  But as Mam lay in bed day after day, growing weaker, her skin yellowing like old wallpaper, she guessed the truth.

  One cold December morning, when you could see your own breath inside the house and there was ice on the inside of the windowpane, she clasped at Ethel’s hand with bony fingers and said, ‘I’m dying, aren’t I, pet?’

  Ethel looked away for a moment, feeling the sharpness of the lie she was about to tell stabbing at her heart. She smiled and then rearranged Mam’s pillows to make her more comfortable.

  ‘No, Mam, the doctors just say you need plenty of rest and by the spring, you’ll feel a lot brighter,’ she said. ‘You’ve just been doing too much, that’s all.’

  The terrible struggle of Mam’s last days would live with Ethel forever.

  Cancer had no respect for the weak, the kind and the gentle. It ripped through Mam’s body, causing her such pain that even to hold Ethel’s hand was agony by the end. Hours passed in a blur of pained cries and visits from the vicar, punctuated by cups of tea.

  Ethel slept in a chair by Mam’s bedside, as Da had long since decamped to the front room, where he paced nightly and read aloud from the Bible. Anger welled in Ethel’s stomach about Harry keeping himself to himself so much. It was as if he couldn’t bear to face any of it, beyond asking ‘How’s your mam doing today?’ Like Da said, in times of crisis, he was as much use as a chocolate fireguard.

  It was a mercy when Mam slipped into unconsciousness but now her every breath came as a terrible rattle which would stop alarmingly and then start up again. Ethel began to pray, guiltily, for Mam’s release from suffering. She stared at the cross on the wall above the bed for hours on end, willing Jesus to do something.

  Eventually, after three long days, Mam finally slipped from the room with a sigh, her body just skin and bone.

  She’d given most of herself to Da in this life, and in death, the disease had taken what was left of her.

  It was such a waste.

  Ethel wept.

  Later that night, after Ethel had washed and laid out her mother’s body in a clean nightdress, just as she would have wanted, Harry did his best to comfort her.

  ‘Your mam was a lovely woman,’ he said, hugging her tightly to him in bed. ‘But death is just a part of life. We’ve all lost people. She’s at peace now.’

  He turned his face to the wall.

  She wanted to feel his arms around her, for him to hold her, like he used to when they lived in Newcastle and the baby was due. He’d stroke her belly and whisper in her ear that he’d always love her, and he’d be there for her. Their whispered conversations in the pitch black of the night in that little terraced house in Benwell had been their own secret world.

  Now all she had was her grief and the back of his pyjamas for comfort.

  With just a week to go before Christmas, Harry announced that he intended to go and visit his family back in Newcastle to spend the holiday with them.

  He was always scribbling letters to that sister of his and Ethel couldn’t help thinking that Kitty had probably demanded to see him, but she was his wife and she needed him here in her time of mourning. Mam had barely been cold in her grave for a month.

  ‘Well, you can go but I don’t want to. This is our home now,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be like that, pet,’ he said. ‘I need to go and see my mother too, I haven’t been back for over two years now and Kitty said Mum had a bit of a funny turn the other week. I thought I’d take William with me. Mum and Kitty are asking after him and they would love to see how big he’s grown.’

  ‘Suit yourself, but I’m staying put,’ said Ethel.

  He took a step backwards, as if she’d struck him.

  ‘But, Ethel, I thought you’d want to come with me!’

  ‘Well,’ she said, tilting her chin a l
ittle at him so she almost smirked, ‘you thought wrong. I am not going and that is that.’

  He reached out to her but she brushed him away. ‘No, Harry,’ she said. ‘My mind is made up. I need to be here for Da.’ He shrugged his shoulders, as if he would never understand women, and walked out of the scullery.

  Ethel busied herself with her basket full of ironing for a moment. Her heart was pounding. She’d stood up for herself for once. That was certainly part of the reason she wanted to stay behind, to make sure Da was all right, out of a sense of duty to him, but also she was so fed up with Harry and the way he had treated her she’d be damned if she was going to sip tea in his posh parlour in Simonside Terrace, with all its fancy antiques, while that snooty sister of his looked down her nose at her. No. She was staying here, and anyway, Doreen and the other women in her street were planning a little knees-up in the pub around the corner, so if he was going off to Newcastle without her, she’d go down the boozer to keep her spirits up.

  Da had been out in the back yard cleaning William’s boots but the door was ajar, and once Harry had left the room, he came in and laid a hand on Ethel’s shoulder.

  He looked down at her with affection, just as he used to when she was a girl. ‘You’ve done the right thing, pet. Our family belongs down here now, not back up in Newcastle.’

  On Christmas Eve, despite Da’s disapproving looks, she spent ages with her hair in curlers and popped on some lipstick and powder. She practised a look in the mirror, like the film stars did, before giving herself a slow smile. ‘You deserve to have some fun, Ethel,’ she said to her reflection.

  Ethel linked arms with Doreen as they tottered off to the Manor Arms, around the corner on Clapham Manor Street. ‘Is Harry not coming along later?’ said Doreen, pulling her mink stole around her shoulders. Doreen’s husband was a butcher and, with all the extra business over Christmas, he was flush with cash.

  Ethel eyed it enviously. There was no chance Harry could afford to buy her anything so fancy on his wages.

  ‘He’s gone home to his mother,’ she said, picking at her nails. ‘Not that I mind too much.’

  Doreen gave her a little nudge and giggled. ‘Well, you know what they say, while the cat’s away . . .’

  The noise from the pub could be heard from the top of the road and as they drew nearer the sound of songs being hammered out on the piano carried through the cold night air. Ethel felt a little frisson of excitement as they pushed through the doors and heads turned to look in her direction. Right on cue, she gave a shy smile, just like the actress in Cupid in Clover, as they made their way to the bar.

  The girls from their street were tucked into a corner and were already a few sherries ahead of them by the look of it. Ethel ordered a port and lemon for herself and one for Doreen but when she came to pay for them, she felt a hand on her shoulder and a voice said, ‘I’ll get these, ladies.’

  She spun around and came face to face with Len, the bloke who’d helped her when she’d dropped her washing. ‘I was hoping we’d bump into each other again,’ he said. ‘Where’s your fella? I can’t believe he would let a lovely lady such as yourself go out on your own.’

  ‘Well, she’s not on her own, because she’s with me,’ said Doreen, with a laugh. ‘But I’m beginning to feel all green and hairy, rather like a gooseberry, so I’ll just be over in the corner. Wave if you need me, Ethel!’ And with that, she trotted off to join the others, leaving Ethel at the bar with her admirer.

  Len coloured up a bit.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind her, she’s only joking,’ said Ethel, fiddling with her hair and forgetting all about trying to act like a film star. ‘What about you? Don’t you have someone waiting at home for you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, looking rather crestfallen. ‘I lost my wife a couple of years ago, so I’m on my own now.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude . . .’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It’s been hard coming to terms with it, but life goes on.’

  She hesitated for a moment, taking a sip of her drink before adding, ‘I know it’s not the same thing, but I lost my mam only a few weeks back to cancer. I don’t think there’s ever a good time to lose someone dear, is there?’

  In the middle of the shrieks of laughter as the women from her street gave an impromptu performance of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’, Ethel found herself pouring her heart out to Len about Mam falling ill and the doctor telling her not to reveal the truth to her about the cancer. He was just so easy to talk to and, what’s more, he was genuinely interested in her.

  Just before midnight, the landlord shouted, ‘Christmas lock-in!’ and everyone cheered because that meant the drink would keep flowing for those lucky enough to be inside.

  The pianist started to play a song that Ethel hadn’t heard before, but she tapped her feet along in time and the words seemed so funny, she had to laugh: ‘Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it . . .’

  ‘Would you care to dance, Ethel?’ said Len, offering her his hand. A few couples were already shuffling their way around together in each other’s arms, in drunken clinches.

  So right there, in front of the bar on the carpet that was so claggy with beer that your shoes stuck to it, Ethel and Len waltzed together, as the clock struck midnight on Christmas Eve.

  And the whole pub joined in on the chorus, ‘Let’s do it, let’s fall in love!’

  As the last of the revellers staggered out of the pub and into the street, Ethel was still at Len’s side.

  ‘Do you fancy a nightcap at my place?’ he whispered.

  Ethel nodded. Da would be snoring his head off in bed by now in any case, so she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and stay out a bit later. And as for Harry, well, he’d chosen to go away for Christmas, so she didn’t give him a second thought.

  They waited until the others had rounded the corner before falling into step with each other and heading up the road, in the other direction, to Len’s street.

  It was a bit icy, and so Len put his arm around her protectively, to steady her as they went, with only the sound of their footsteps and the faint hiss of the gas jets in the street lamps filling the night air.

  They turned into Elmhurst Road and paused for a minute outside his front door while he fumbled for his key.

  He stepped inside and as she was crossing the threshold, he turned and pulled her to him.

  ‘Welcome home, Ethel,’ he said.

  19

  Ethel

  Clapham, January 1930

  Harry was a changed man after his visit to see Kitty and his mum in Newcastle.

  He came back from the North wreathed in smiles, bringing with him a beautiful pair of pea-green leather gloves he’d bought for Ethel in Fenwick’s. She gasped when she saw them, because they must have cost a small fortune.

  ‘I’d been saving up for them because I wanted to give you something special, pet,’ he said, as he drew her into an embrace. ‘I know I’ve not been much good as a husband lately. Kitty gave me a bit of a talking-to. I promise I’ll try to do better.’

  Ethel tried not to show it, but it rankled with her that his sister held such sway over his moods, whereas she was powerless to stop them, even though she was his wife. As she kissed him, the guilt about what she had done with Len on Christmas Eve sat leaden in the pit of her stomach. She’d sneaked back into the house in the early hours of Christmas morning, when Da was still sound asleep, and he hadn’t said a word about her staying out late beyond asking if she’d enjoyed herself. She had replied, truthfully, that she’d had a wonderful night.

  William tugged at her sleeve. He had a toy aeroplane and a set of tin soldiers that his Aunt Kitty and his grandmother had given him for Christmas. Da swept him up into an embrace. ‘There’s my bonny lad! You come and tell me all about the big ships you saw on the Tyne and give your mam and dad a moment’s peace.’

  As Harry sat down in the scullery, it became clear what had really lifte
d his black mood.

  ‘I’ve got a job offer, Ethel, back up in Newcastle,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s engineering for the ships, like I used to do, and it’s good money, too. We can all go home.’

  ‘But our home is here, in London!’ she cried, before she could stop herself.

  His face fell. ‘I thought you missed the North, Ethel, and you’d want to get away from the smog and be back where we grew up, where we belong.’

  She turned her back and bustled over to the sink to compose herself for a moment. All she could think of, every waking moment, was Len, the fella from around the corner. Being in his arms had ignited something in her and she knew it was wrong, but she wanted more. The thought of being miles away in Newcastle was more than she could bear.

  ‘I like it down here, Harry,’ she said, as if she were reasoning with a small child. ‘We’re settled now and I’m making friends. William loves it and he’ll be starting school soon and Da’s got a job. What about him? He’ll be on the dole if we go back up to Newcastle. There’s more work down here in London . . .’

  Harry stared at his hands, as if the answer to their problems might magically appear at his fingertips at any moment. He pursed his lips. ‘I’ve accepted the job, pet. It would be madness to turn it down.’

  ‘Well, you should have asked me first!’ she shouted, hurling a tea towel to the floor and running from the room. ‘Nobody cares what I want! I won’t leave London and you shan’t force me to either!’

  Ethel’s tears had dried by the time Harry came up to bed. He stroked her hair and she turned to face him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, putting his arms around her. ‘I only wanted to make you happy. You needn’t come with me back up North just yet if you don’t want to. I’ll go to Newcastle, just to get us some money saved up, and you can have time to think about things and come when you are ready. If things pick up in London and I can get an engineering job back here, I’ll be back like a shot. I’ll send you my wages, Ethel. I want to be able to buy you nice things, to treat you right and look after you properly. I know I haven’t done a great job of it until now.’