by Annie Murray
She’d settled thankfully at her little desk beside Katie, just wanting things to feel right and back to normal, how they’d always been. But, to her dismay, nothing had felt right. In the lessons she’d missed they’d started long multiplication. Normally good at arithmetic, she just hadn’t been able to get to grips with it or keep her mind on anything and soon the rows of numbers were just a snowstorm in front of her eyes. Six more lashes with the cane left her already raw palms red and stinging. She’d walked out of school utterly miserable, her hands tucked under her arms, her head hanging. Molly had been waiting for her.
‘Go away – leave me alone,’ Em had said wretchedly, trying not to cry.
The sight of Molly’s sad face as she slunk away towards her yard made Em feel even worse.
Today, with Mom bad again, it felt easier to stay at home.
Sitting on the stairs Em cautiously lowered her hands to her lap. Weak sobbing sounds came from the bedroom and suddenly she felt she couldn’t stand it any more. She got up to run into the bedroom and beg, Mom, stop it, stop crying, will yer! Just get up and be all right, be my mom again!
But there was a brisk knock at the door.
‘Coo-ee – it’s me – can I come in?’
Dot’s cheerful voice rang up the stairs and Em quickly wiped her eyes and ran down to meet her. She was obviously right in the middle of her own housework, pinner on, sleeves rolled and a flowery scarf tied over her salt-and-pepper hair.
‘Awright, bab?’ She gave her toothy smile, but then took in the state of Em’s face. ‘Oh dear, like that again, is it? I’ll come up and ’ave a word with her.’
Em felt much better with Dot’s capable presence in the house. She followed her thin, energetic figure up the stairs and hovered, peering through the crack of the open door once Dot was inside.
‘Cynth?’ Her voice was gentle. ‘Just thought I’d pop in. How are yer today?’
Em didn’t hear a reply, other than a low moan.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Dot said sympathetically. ‘What’re we going to do with you, eh? Shall I make yer a nice cuppa tea?’
‘Em’ll do it.’ Cynthia grasped at Dot’s apron. ‘Stay with me a minute.’
Dot called out, ‘Em! Stick the kettle on for us, will yer, bab?’
Em obeyed, and once it was safely on the range she crept upstairs to the bedroom door.
Dot was sitting on the bed, her arm round Cynthia’s shoulders, stroking her hair as if she was her mother. Cynthia was crying again, just tears, no sound.
‘I have such terrible thoughts, Dot,’ she said, her face crumpling. ‘I’m a wicked, wicked woman.’
‘No you’re not,’ Dot tried to reason. ‘Course you’re not, love. You’re just feeling a bit any’ow after the babby. It’s all got on top of you, hasn’t it?’ She spoke kindly, though Em could sense she was as bewildered as the rest of them by the extent of Cynthia’s misery. ‘She’s lovely and bonny at any rate, and you’ll feel better soon, you just need to hold on and get a bit of rest.’
‘Bob hates me . . . I’m just useless. No good as a wife, as a mother. Em’s such a good girl but she ought to be at school. Sometimes, I think I’d be better finishing myself off, God knows I do!’
‘Cynth!’ Dot was shocked. ‘What’s all this? You mustn’t talk like that! Your Bob’s devoted to yer, you know he is!’
‘He hates me!’ Cynthia wailed. ‘He’s never home now – he just goes down the boozer, filling his neck and . . . He’s turning into a . . . He’s horrible to me! He never used to be like that.’
‘Look, love, you’re seeing the black side of everything at the moment. You’ve just got to get your strength back and try and look on the bright side. Perk up, Cynth,’ Dot said, patting her and getting up. ‘Try and put a bright face on when the Old Man comes home, that’s all. You can rest for now – I’ve got your Joycie, so don’t you fret. But I’ll have to get on . . .’
She was interrupted by another abrupt hammering at the door.
‘Well, who the hell can that be?’
Dot poked her head out of the window and quickly drew back with an urgent expression. ‘It’s the wag man with his sodding little notebook! Em!’ she hissed.
Abandoning all pretence that she had not been listening, Em ran to her.
‘Come on, quick, into the cellar!’ Dot grabbed her hand and they ran downstairs. Opening the door to the cellar, Dot urged a reluctant Em to go down the steps. ‘It ain’t for long,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just in case. I’m not planning to let him in – just make sure you keep quiet as a mouse!’
Em stayed near the top of the steps, heart thumping painfully, hardly daring to breathe. She was terrified to go any deeper into the yawning maw of the cellar with its bitter soot smell and lurking horrors of her imagination. But she was just as scared that the School Board man would come and wrench the door open and find her cowering there. She seemed to be scared of everything these days – of Mom, of Dad coming home . . .
‘Yes?’ she heard Dot say boldly.
‘Emma Brown,’ the man said officiously. ‘School says she’s only been in once this week and last.’
‘That’s because she’s unwell,’ Dot said.
‘You ’er mother? You’re not, are yer?’
‘I’m a neighbour, since you asked,’ Dot replied haughtily. ‘And I’m here looking after Mrs Brown as she’s also unwell.’
‘What’s the matter with ’er?’ he asked roughly.
‘Problems of a female nature,’ Dot said, knowing this was a good way to silence a man’s questions. ‘And the child has a nasty case of tonsillitis.’
Soon she was opening the coal-cellar door with a grin.
‘That’s got shot of him, for the moment at least! Now, Em, you’re doing a good job looking after your mother and I’m sure she’ll soon feel better. I’ve got to go and get on, but you know where I am if you need me, bab. Just say the word.’
The house seemed all too quiet without her lively presence. Em stood looking round at the mountain of work before her, at the mess of breakfast still on the table. She heaved a huge, weary sigh.
That evening Dot, who worked like a dynamo, had the stew pot on and potatoes bubbling away on the range. There was enough for both households as she’d pooled ingredients with Em, and now she was taking a short break, standing on her front step in the last of the autumn light, chatting to Mrs Donnelly at number fourteen.
‘You’ve got a lot on your plate with her being bad,’ Josie Donnelly said, leaning up against the doorframe, her arms folded over her scrawny chest.
‘Poor old Cynth,’ Dot mused. ‘I’ve never seen ’er in such a bad way. She usually picks up quicker than this.’
‘How’s himself taking it?’
‘None too well,’ Dot whispered. ‘Ey up, talk of the devil. Here’s ’er old man now.’
The two women watched Bob come along the road, his jacket swinging open, cap on askew. For a second he swerved violently as a gaggle of lads dashed past him.
‘I’ll say one thing – he’s a fine figure of a man,’ Josie Donnelly remarked, suggestively. Both she and Dot were a few years older than Bob.
‘Now, now,’ Dot reprimanded her teasingly. ‘I’d’ve thought you’ve got enough on yer plate with your Eamon, and you a good Catholic and all . . .’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Blimey – looks as if ’e’s had a skinful again tonight!’
They took in Bob’s reeling gait. He was weaving along the pavement, and as he passed them, oblivious to their watching eyes, he nearly tripped over a scrawny dog that was skulking close to the houses.
‘Gerr’outa my bloody way, hound!’ Bob mumbled at it, indistinctly.
‘Jaysus, let’s hope he can get himself into the right house!’
‘Well, ’e wouldn’t be the first kalied bloke to climb into bed with the wrong wife!’ Dot said and the two of them laughed.
‘You can hardly blame ’im getting a skinful in, the way she is,’ Josie Donnelly said with a sniff. �
��I mean the state of her front step – hasn’t been touched for days! I don’t suppose she’s any comfort to the poor man.’
‘It ain’t her fault,’ Dot defended her friend, reminding herself inwardly that she must scrub the step of number eighteen. ‘You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, that.’
‘There’s a case for just getting up and getting on with what needs to be done, no matter how you’re feeling,’ Josie decreed. ‘After all, no one’s going to do it for you.’ She spoke tartly, still watching Bob as he narrowly avoided bumping into someone coming along the pavement the other way.
The other passer-by glanced curiously at Bob, then continued along, staring straight ahead of her. She was a small, neatly dressed figure, black hair cut in a bob just visible under the brim of her hat, whose white band seemed to glow brightly in the half-light. Walking past Dot and Josie, she affected not to notice them, and disappeared quickly into the gloom.
‘Who’s that?’ Dot asked. ‘She looked a snooty little bit.’
‘She’s the one moved in round the corner,’ Josie said. ‘A widow, or so I’ve heard – with a young daughter.’
‘Oh.’ Dot quickly lost interest. ‘Well – I’d better get on, Jose. This won’t get the babby a new coat.’
Further desperate days passed. The more Em was left alone in the house with Cynthia upstairs, the more she jumped at every little sound. She was terrified of the School Board man’s visits. He’d been twice and she hadn’t been caught yet, but what if he came back? She’d have to tell lies, and what would he do if he saw she was all right? Would he have her thrown into prison? Was that what happened to children who played truant for too long?
Dot popped in when she could but mostly Em was left to herself, struggling to keep everything going. To save work she didn’t wash her own clothes and she was too busy to notice how stained and smelly they were becoming. Her hair needed cutting and, already thin, she was becoming bony and pinched in the face. Katie had stopped bothering to call to see if she was coming to play out and now she had gone off with some of the other girls. The only person who seemed to care was Molly Fox. She appeared at the door every day asking for Em, and Em had to shake her head, sometimes feeling tears prick her eyes.
Worst of all was the fear of her father’s return from work. He seldom came back in time for tea now. On the good days, which were few, he would come home, trying to do the right thing, to look after the children and his sick wife. But more often his route from the power station took him via the pub, and when he came in his mood was self-pitying and ugly. Em tried to make sure they all went up before he came back, but it was impossible to sleep, waiting for the bang of the door, his slurred, angry voice downstairs, Mom begging him to be quiet, not to shout.
Last night she and Joyce had lain clinging to one another, waiting, but as soon as they heard the shouts downstairs, Sid had appeared by their bed.
‘Wanna come in with you, Em,’ he’d said miserably, sounding much younger than his six years. So the three of them had squeezed in together, cuddling up and trying to block out the shouting.
‘I’m not bloody having this any more! Where’s my dinner, then, you skinny cow?’
Em had pressed up tight against the wall as the slamming and cursing of the mild father she had once known and her mother’s weak protests and her weeping pushed their horrible way up between the floorboards. Once again she’d put her fingers in her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make it all disappear.
Fifteen
‘You off ’ome now, pal?’
‘I’ll be off when I’m sodding well ready!’ Bob’s reply was a slurred snarl. He was needled by the note of concern in Stan, his workmate’s voice. ‘I’m having a cowing drink, if that’s all right with you.’ He knew they were talking about him these days, how Bob Brown had started to put away more than his ration, was making a fool of himself.
He pushed himself up, steadying himself against Stan’s shoulder.
‘G’night, you buggers,’ he said, half affectionately.
‘See yer tomorra, Bob,’ Stan called after him. ‘Go easy, mate.’
‘Go easy . . . yerself . . .’ Bob replied vaguely, weaving his way to the door of the pub. He slid on a wet clot of sawdust and had to grab hold of the edge of a table so as not to fall. He could feel them watching him.
‘I’m all right!’ he insisted at full volume.
It hit him, the second he stepped outside into a bitter, mizzling evening, the ache in his heart like a black void and all the pain of loss and confusion. He stopped in the shadows and leaned against the wall of the pub for a moment, both arms braced, his spinning head slumping forward. The rain fell cold on the back of his neck. He had to go home but he felt as if he had no home to go to, because she was not there. The woman he loved, his Cynthia, wife and mother of his children, was not there. Instead there was this lethargic, shrunken stranger who barely spoke, could not look at him except with the deadest of eyes, who shrank from him and would not accept his loving or his physical need of her.
‘Damn and blast her!’ A sob escaped him and he punched his fist against the wall, yelping with pain at the graze on his knuckles. ‘What does she want? What the hell am I s’posed to do? I want my girl back!’
As he walked along in the damp, miserable night, self-pity and anger swelled inside him.
‘I’m not ’aving this,’ he mumbled savagely. ‘She can come back and be my bloody wife or clear off – that’s what!’
By the time he reached the house he was ready to explode. He slammed in through the front door, expecting her to be sitting there, passive as ever, staring at him with that deadened look which made him shrivel inside. Instead, there was no one in the front and when he strode through to the back he found Em and Sid sitting at the table hunched over a sheet of paper. The room was a dismal mess despite Em’s efforts. Cynthia had taken to her bed for most of the day. There was a stench from the pail of napkins soaking by the scullery door and of stale boiled cabbage. The obvious neglect and the way his children looked up at him like terrified rabbits brought Bob’s blood to boiling point.
‘Where’s yer mother?’ he bawled.
‘U-upstairs,’ Em whispered.
‘I s’pose ’er’s been lying abed all sodding day while I’m working my guts out, swallowing bellyfuls of dust!’ he roared. ‘Well, the idle cow can get up and see to my tea, that she can! I’ll show ’er what a wife is!’
He stumbled up the stairs, past thinking, long past being the kindly man he had been, and crashed into the bedroom. It was dark in the room as she had not even lit a candle. Bob lunged at the bed and seized hold of Cynthia’s arm, even in his drunken state registering just how thin and bony she had become. She let out a shriek as he hauled her out of bed.
‘Bob, stop it! What’re yer doing?’
‘Come out ’ere where I can see yer. I want to see yer!’
‘Stop it! You’ll wake Joycie and you’ll scare the kiddies . . .’
‘Scared be damned!’ Bob blared. ‘What’ve they got to be scared of? I’m their bloody father, ain’t I?’
‘Oh, Bob, stop it, please!’ Cynthia was sobbing, clinging to the bedstead as he tried to drag her away.
‘I’m not having any more of it . . . I’ve ’ad enough and it’s time you stopped all this nonsense and started being a wife to me . . . Give me what I need . . .’ He was pawing her, trying to yank her away from the bed, loathsome to himself even as he did it, but in his pain and fury he couldn’t hold back, he needed her, he had to have her back or he’d go mad.
‘Stop it, you’re hurting me! For God’s sake, Bob!’ The last was a desperate scream.
Ignoring her cries he lunged at her, and in the darkness he swiped her far harder than he had intended. She crumpled to the floor and he heard a moan of pain.
‘Cynth . . .’ He grovelled round her. ‘Christ!’ What had he done? He felt like a small boy now, close to crying. ‘Cynth, where are yer?’
‘Get off me, you ba
stard!’ Her voice was muffled. She started to weep, a weak, racking sound. ‘You’ve hurt me. I hate you!’
With trembling hands he reached for the candle and matches, at last managing to get it alight.
‘Oh Christ, Cynth—’ He stumbled over to her, aghast to see blood seeping from her mouth into the blanket which she had pressed to her mouth.
‘You’ve knocked a tooth out,’ she wept.
He was too befuddled to think what to do.
‘Get me some water!’
‘Em!’ he yelled down the stairs. ‘Get some water for yer mother!’
When Em came up with a crock half full of water Bob took it from her and tried to help his wife stem the flow. Looking up after a moment Bob caught sight of Em still hovering by the door, her face white with shock.
‘Get away downstairs with yer, wench! Just get out!’
His words seemed to catapult her away into the darkness with a last, terrified look.
When the bleeding gum had been staunched, Bob and Cynthia sat looking at one another warily.
‘It hurts,’ Cynthia said at last, plaintive as a little girl, with tears rolling down her cheeks.
Bob, all his hurt and worry plain in his face, said, ‘Please, Cynth, we can’t go on like this. I can’t stand it. You’ve shut me out and I can’t get to yer. You’ve got to pull yerself together – or I’m going, and that’s final. I can’t stand any more of it. I feel as if I’ve lost yer . . .’
She gazed back at him, her eyes very wide. ‘I’ve lost myself.’
They both fell into a restless sleep and woke to a cold, wet day. Bob groaned, sick to his stomach and his head pounding.
‘Fetch us a cuppa tea, bab,’ he murmured to Cynthia, half awake, forgetting how she was.
There was no reply. He rolled over and dragged his eyes open, seeing her lying there in what he thought of as her corpse state: as if lifeless, dead eyes fixed on the ceiling, a smear of blood from last night encrusted on her chin. It was as if a door had clanged shut in his face.
‘I said, fetch us a cuppa tea!’ he snarled.