‘Oh!’ Sally could contain herself no longer. ‘You two-faced old hypocrite! You called her a … well, I can’t repeat what you called her. I’ve heard nothing else all the time I’ve been here, and now the poor lady’s laid out on her death bed! You should be ashamed. You’re the most miserable, self-centred person I’ve ever come across, and if it weren’t for leaving you in the lurch, I’d have walked out of here long ago. No wonder your nephew never comes to see you – it’s because you’re a spiteful, wicked old woman.’
‘Nephew?’ Emily Simms looked askance at Ida.
‘Yes! There’s a photograph of him on the sideboard, and he looks very pleasant and nice.’ With that Sally burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that with Mr Jessops and everything, it’s all becoming a bit too much.’
‘Well, it isn’t surprising, love.’ Emily stared at Ida then. ‘What’s all this nonsense about a nephew? Don’t tell me you’re still passing your Donald off as a nephew? Especially to Sally, who’s looking after yer as well as any daughter would. You’re a fool to yerself, Ida! Everybody in Millington knows ’e’s your son … well, everybody apart from Sally, obviously, and we accepted it years ago. Why, you’ve only to look at the red hair and the cleft chin on him to know he’s belonging to Doug Fletcher. Especially us who knew ’im when he were a lad. Young Donald’s the image of ’is dad.’
‘Get me my tablets!’ Ida exclaimed, almost fainting with shock. ‘I’ve got one of me turns coming on.’ Sally ran to get Miss Appleby’s medication and a glass of water.
‘Nonsense!’ Emily snapped at her. ‘It’s time yer faced facts, Ida. Everybody knew you were knocking about wi’ Doug Fletcher. It nearly ended wi’ that poor wife of his divorcing ’im. Mind you, she’d ’ave been better off if she had. Nobody blamed you, Ida, we all knew he’d taken advantage of an innocent young girl.
‘People in the rows would ’ave stood by yer, if you’d come out in the open. But, oh, no, you ’ad to go running away to somewhere or other – and you almost six months gone by then. And what did yer come back with? A beautiful baby boy who yer tried to pass off as yer cousin’s. A cousin everyone knew you hadn’t got! That was the worst sin of all, Ida, taking everybody in the rows for fools. Then, to cap it all, you brought the little lad up to call yer “Aunty”. Did yer really think you’d got away with it? If only you’d told the truth instead of always being ashamed of ’im.’
‘I was never ashamed of ’im! He means everything to me.’
‘Aye, well, I reckon it’s time yer told ’im that. Tell ’im yer proud to be ’is mother, and a grandmother too. Aunt and great-aunt, indeed! Anyway, think about what I’ve said, I reckon you’ve wasted enough time living a lie. I’m off now before Mr Baraclough closes. Are you all right, Sally love?’
Sally couldn’t answer her. She had never been so flabbergasted in all her life. Finally she managed to pull herself together.
‘I’ll make us some tea.’ In the kitchen she splashed her burning face with cold water, took a few deep breaths and mashed the tea. Then she spilled half of it as she carried the tray with trembling hands back to the other room.
‘Here, Miss Appleby, drink this. Oh, I am sorry for the things I said.’
‘No! You were right, and Emily was right, too. I’m glad it’s all out in the open at last. Eeh, this is a good cup of tea, Sally.’
She smiled. ‘It ought to be, I’ve used two spoonfuls!’
When Sally plucked up courage to go to Old Misery’s stall again she asked Mary to accompany her for moral support. They wheeled Ernie out in his pram and people paused to admire him. Sally found two pairs of outsize pink knickers with elastic legs and gave them to Mary, to pay the man.
‘I hope he doesn’t think they’re for me,’ she giggled.
‘I bet his wife wears that sort,’ Sally said, ‘I bet that’s why he’s so miserable.’ They also bought a windmill to fasten on to Ernie’s pram, a paint book for Daisy, and stamps for Stanley’s album. Both the older children had decided they were too big for windmills.
When Sally called at Ida Appleby’s with the knickers, Ida told her to bring the pram inside and made a fuss of baby Ernie, giving him a biscuit which she said would help his teeth through. Sally went to put the underwear away and found another half-dozen pairs neatly folded in the drawer.
‘Are you sure you needed any more? You seem to have plenty already,’ Sally queried.
‘Oh, aye. I’ve heard there’s going to be clothes shortages and rationing any day. We don’t know how long this is going to last and I don’t want to be caught without knickers.’ Ida even managed a smile of sorts.
‘This little ’un reminds me of our Donald when he was a baby, except that he had red hair.’ She’d lifted Ernie out of the pram and was bouncing him on her knee. Sally had a feeling Ida wanted to talk about her son but Daisy would be home from school soon and she hadn’t much time. She would make time, though, on her next visit, she promised herself. It had already made a difference to Ida, having things out in the open. If she talked about Donald a bit more, she might even end up like a normal human being.
Daisy was doing so well at school, Miss Robinson considered she was being held back in the baby class. Miss Clarke decided she could be moved up to Miss Williams’ instead. Fortunately Carol and Jean – the little girl with no toys – were to be moved too. It would have been unthinkable for Daisy and her best friend to be separated.
The second class was far more interesting, but Miss Williams wasn’t too pleased to be lumbered with another three pupils and wasn’t quite as patient as Miss Robinson – even if Miss Robinson had had a pimply, hairy face.
On the first day in the new class, Miss Williams asked the children what they would like to be when they grew up. The answers ranged from engine driver to cowboy. One boy said he would like to be a skeleton, and then it was Carol’s turn.
‘Please, Miss, I would like to be a film star.’
Miss Williams sniffed at that.
When she came to Daisy, the little girl said, ‘Please, Miss, I would like to be a typewriter.’
All the teacher need have done was correct the child by saying, ‘No, Daisy, you mean a typist.’ But teachers can be cruel sometimes, and Miss Williams said, ‘Oh! So you want to be a machine made out of metal with letters on, do you?’
All the other children were delighted and highly amused as they laughed and pointed at the embarrassed little girl.
Daisy didn’t think she was going to like Miss Williams.
Betty was taking Ernie for a walk to see Doreen and baby Alice. She was halfway down the Donkey Path when she saw a soldier jump off the bus down on the main road. He turned up the path towards her and Betty’s heart seemed to skip a few beats.
‘Clarence?’ She called out his name and put the brake on the pram; she was trembling so much she didn’t feel capable of holding it back on the steepest part of the hill.
‘Betty!’ He hurried towards his wife and son. He looked so smart in his uniform, but Betty was shocked to see how much weight he had lost and the gauntness of his face. Then he held out his arms to her and Betty went into them, still keeping one hand on the pram, not trusting the brake on so steep a gradient.
‘Oh, Betty.’ Clarence was almost in tears, and the sight of her husband had the same effect on Betty, who started to cry. Then he was kissing her, just the way he had in the early days of their courtship, except that now there was a deeper, truer feeling between them, one that had been missing before.
‘You look beautiful, Betty.’ He touched her hair, then glanced into the pram. Clarence couldn’t speak then. The smiling little face gazing up at him was a replica of his own on the old photographs at his parents’ house. ‘My son!’
‘Ernie,’ Betty told him. ‘I didn’t know what name you wanted. Bloody ’ell, Clarence, you just left me, without a goodbye or anything!’
‘Ernie’s a fine name. You got the money, though? And the other money came through for you, at the Post Offic
e?’
‘Yes.’ Betty turned the pram round. ‘How are you really, Clarence? You don’t look too well.’
‘Oh, I’m okay, considering.’ But Betty didn’t believe him.
‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
Clarence wheeled the pram up the hill with one hand and carried his kit bag with the other. He wanted to hold Betty’s hand but couldn’t. She seemed to sense the way he felt and placed her hand over his on the pram handle.
‘I’m sorry, Bet.’
‘That’s okay, I’m sorry too.’
‘What for?’
‘For being what I was. I’ve changed, Clarence.’
‘So have I.’
‘Well,’ Betty said, ‘maybe if we’ve both changed for the better, we might be able to start afresh.’
‘So yer haven’t met anyone else? Got a new love, I mean?’
‘Oh, aye, I’ve got a new love.’ Betty watched her husband’s face fall. ‘He’s in the pram, you daft bat!’
They laughed as they crossed St George’s Road and walked along the row, happier than they had ever been. Betty and Clarence Hayes had both grown up at last.
Ernest Denman was flying a Spitfire Mark 11 long range, and for the first time ever was apprehensive about his own capabilities. The uneven fuel tank made the plane difficult to handle. He told himself that with practice he’d be okay. Fortunately, this was a test flight, one of many taken in readiness for the real thing. Take-off had been difficult, and he suspected keeping it on an even keel for landing would be more so.
He looked down over the south of England. The smooth, green sweep of the Downs would have soothed his soul with their beauty in other circumstances – though no place, in Ernest’s opinion, could compare with the rugged hills and valleys of Yorkshire.
He planned his route and found that, compared to the Standard Mark 11, the LR took longer to reach 20,000 feet, and because of its extra weight couldn’t match the maximum speed of the standard plane. The advantage of the long range was the distance the Spitfire could cover. The pilot would be alone for many hours, though. Time to think, time to dream of the day when war would be over. In the case of Ernest Denman, time to visualise the face that had filled his thoughts since he’d returned from his last leave in Millington. The face of Betty Hayes.
Mr Barker from the farm came every Saturday morning to empty the pig bins on the three rows. Old peelings, cabbage stalks, in fact anything edible, would be fed to his pigs. Charles, Mr Barker’s son, would accompany his father, and, being about the same age as Daisy, would invite himself into their house where she would bring out her picture books and read to him.
Charles was a strong lad, the size of a ten-year-old; unfortunately he didn’t have the brain power to match his size or his age. He was mentally impaired, though whether from damage at birth or an inherited condition no one seemed to know.
Daisy loved Charlie and would sit there on her three-legged stool reading books to him that she had long left behind herself, such as Red Riding Hood, understanding that these were the stories Charlie enjoyed.
‘Your little lass’s a damn’ good reader,’ Mr Barker said when he came to collect Charles, who never wanted to leave.
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘She loves her books.’
‘I’m going to write one when I grow up,’ said Daisy. Sally and Mr Barker laughed but Daisy wasn’t joking. She gave Charlie The Three Bears to take home.
Charles carried the book carefully in front of him as though it was the most precious thing in the world, a grin stretching from ear to ear on his face. He muttered something then and Daisy answered him.
‘What did Charles say?’ Sally enquired after father and son had gone home.
‘He said he likes books with no words in,’ Daisy explained. ‘He means like babies’ picture books. That’s because Charlie’s still a little baby, even though he’s a big boy.’
Sally marvelled at the six-year-old’s understanding.
‘He won’t like the books I’m going to write,’ she said. ‘They’ll have hundreds and millions of words.’ Then Daisy went out to play.
‘They’re like love’s young dream,’ Amy told Sally and Jim on her daily visit. She was delighted that her son-in-law had come home, even if it was only for a week. Clarence was entranced by his son and willingly cared for him while Betty went to work. Then, on her daughter’s return, Amy would take her grandson on a visit to Sally in order to give the young couple time alone together.
Amy was right about love’s young dream: Betty was in love for the first time in her life. Never before had she needed to be with someone as much as she did with Clarence. He listened while she talked to him about her childhood, about her dreams for the future and for Ernie. In return, she comforted her husband when the trembling and the panic attacks came on him in the night. She bathed his brow, held him, and afterwards they would make love with such intensity that Betty cried at the wonder of it all.
They never mentioned the day when he would leave, except once when Clarence took his wife and son to Sheffield and had photographs taken of the three of them. He gave one to Betty and placed the other carefully in the breast pocket of his tunic.
‘This picture’ll remain close to my heart all the time I’m away,’ he told her.
Then he kissed her, right there in the middle of the shop, with little Ernie grinning and dozens of people looking on. Many of them envied the handsome young couple’s obvious happiness.
1942 came in like a lion, with twelve inches of snow falling in a few hours in the middle of January. Pat Cartwright was delighted, as the extreme weather prevented her from reaching the grammar school. Any enthusiasm she had initially shown for it had now disappeared as she found herself struggling to keep up with the more diligent students.
Pat might have coped better if she had not suddenly become obsessed with the opposite sex. Her homework was rarely completed before she was titivated and off out to meet her gang. Three times a week they would go to the Palace. Films were changed Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and it was considered a disaster if one of them happened to be missed. Although not much of any of the films was actually seen, the darkness of the cinema being just an opportunity to cuddle and pet with any of the opposite sex Pat and her friends happened to fancy.
Once or twice the usherette had caught the youngsters going too far and made the amorous teenagers leave. Pat had been amongst them on a number of occasions. Because she always told her parents she was going with a friend, they had no idea of their daughter’s antics. If anyone had told Bernard Cartwright, it was doubtful he would have believed them. So it came as a shock to him when he came home one night from the afternoon shift and Enid said, ‘Our Pat’s getting a name for herself.’
‘What? What sort of name?’
‘Potters Row Pat, good for a feel.’
‘What?’ Bernard’s face turned scarlet and Enid burst into tears.
‘How do yer know?’ Bernard asked his weeping wife.
‘It was written on the wall in the lads’ toilets. I had to clean it off. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life, or so ashamed.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Out. She’d already gone when I came home from work at six.’
‘And she’s still out? It’s bloody ten-past ten, Enid!’
‘I know. She’s never been out this late before …’
Bernard put on the overcoat he’d just taken off and went storming out, down the row and on to St George’s Road. He saw one of the Dawson boys come from the Donkey Path and enquired, ‘Have yer seen our Pat, Trevor?’
He looked uncomfortable and glanced back the way he had come. That glance was enough for Bernard who set off down the path, fumbling his way in the darkness. He reached the place where one of the flags had been carved out in the shape of a donkey. Suddenly he heard giggling – his daughter’s giggling – coming from the bushes on the edge of the Donkey Wood. He moved silently towards the sound.
‘What t
he bloody ’ell do yer think yer playing at?’ he asked then.
A youth shot past him like a hurricane and disappeared in the direction of the main road. Bernard grabbed his daughter by the shoulder, just in time to catch her buttoning up her blouse.
‘I … we were just talking, that’s all.’
‘Aye, that’s why yer name’s written all over the walls up at the school, is it? Because they like to talk to yer? “Potters Row Pat, good for a feel”? You dirty little bitch!’
‘No! I don’t believe you.’
‘Potters Row Pat, that’s what the lads call you.’
She started to cry. ‘I don’t let them feel.’
‘Don’t yer? Then why were you half-undressed?’
Pat just cried harder. She couldn’t answer her dad. She had let that lad feel inside her bra, but that was all. She would never let anybody go any further.
‘Who was he?’
But Pat didn’t answer, she daren’t, she wouldn’t put it past her dad to go and find the lad. Well, she couldn’t blame him. She knew she’d done wrong. It was just that she got carried away when she was kissed … but to write about her on the school wall, where everybody could read it! She’d thought he really liked her – and all the time he’d been telling everybody what they’d done. She would never dare show her face. All the gang would be laughing at her. Oh, and that name … Potters Row Pat!
She was still crying when she walked into the house, and cried all the harder when she saw how upset her mam was.
‘I think you owe yer mam more of an apology than that.’ Bernard glared at his daughter. ‘Do yer realise what she must have felt like, seeing your name on that toilet wall?’
‘I’m sorry, Mam, I really am. I just wanted to be part of the gang. They seem to have shut me out now I’ve gone to the grammar and they’re still at Millington School.’
‘So you decide to turn yerself into a cheap little slut to get back in again?’
‘No! It wasn’t like that. I really like him …’
‘Well, he obviously doesn’t think much of you, to write that on the wall.’
Where the Heart Is Page 16