by Annie Murray
‘Yes, Mrs Maud Mayberry, Your Royal Highness,’ Joycie said with an unctuous bow.
‘I ain’t Queen Mary, silly!’ Em said, falling out of role for a second. ‘Yer don’t just say ‘“Your Royal Highness” to any old person, yer know.’
‘Well, I dain’t know,’ Joyce protested, stamping her foot. ‘Why can’t I be Mrs Maud Mayberry for once? I always have to be Miss Susan and it ain’t fair . . .’
‘Oh, all right, then,’ Em said grumpily, trying to keep the peace. ‘And don’t say “ain’t”.’
They exchanged roles, Joyce strutting back and forth across the back room as if to the manner born and Em being a spirited Miss Susan. The hours disappeared into the game, the other chores forgotten, until Dot knocked on the door again.
‘All right, you two? ’Ere’s a bit of dinner for yer – we had it left over. I’d’ve ’ad you come round and eat at ours only you should see the state of Nance – she’s all spots!’
She sat the two little girls down at the table and lifted the lid off a delicious-smelling portion of stew.
‘There yer go – I’ve shoved a few taters in to make it go further so that should keep you going. Eat it all up – I’ll see yer later.’
And off she went again. They wolfed down the stew. Em liked having Joyce at home. It stopped the long hours of the day being so lonely. Today she had almost forgotten about Mom and about trying to do everything right to make her come back. She and Joyce had been lost in the game, like old times.
She spilled some gravy in her lap as she was eating, and as she scraped it up she saw with dismay just how dirty her frock was.
‘I’d better wash it,’ she told Joyce. ‘And Sid’s sheet should be dry by now.’
All the mundane realities were coming back now the game was over.
They left their dirty plates on the table and Em went down to the coal cellar which the coalman had newly stocked two days ago, the coal rattling down through the opening outside. Always glad to get out of there again she hurried up with the heavy scuttle and stoked the range. Then she filled another bucket of water, added some warm from the kettle and stripped off her dress.
‘I might as well wash yours while I’m at it, Joycie . . .’
The two girls stood in their bloomers and vests and Daily Mail boots, plunging the dresses down into the soapy water. It quickly became a game and they giggled, dotting soap bubbles on each other’s noses and yanking the dresses up and down in the pail, wringing them into soaking wet snakes. Soon there was water splashed all across the linoleum in the back room and they were getting wet themselves as well.
They were so caught up in the washing game that they didn’t hear the front door opening.
It was Em, raising her head from dipping her frock in the bucket, who gasped at the sight of the figure standing by the door of the back room. She stood stock-still for a second, as if afraid to believe her eyes, then the cry burst pitifully from her throat.
‘Mom! Oh, Mom!’
Cynthia, with Violet in her arms, sank to her knees, regardless of the wet floor, and her two little girls ran to her. She held out her spare arm and wrapped it round Joyce, and Em clung round her neck and shoulders, drinking in the warmth of her body, the reality that she was with them again.
‘Oh, my babbies, my little ones . . .’ Cynthia broke down and wept heartbrokenly at the sight of her daughters, all the more sweet and vulnerable for being clad only in their shabby underclothes. Frantically she stroked their hair, their cheeks, ravenous for the feel of them. She looked wildly into their faces. ‘Are you all right? Has Dot been coming in?’
They nodded, too excited to see her to take in just how gaunt her face was, the dark, sleepless rings under her eyes. They cuddled Violet and exclaimed that she was bigger, and then Em stood back and said, very grown-up, ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I, Mom?’
More tears ran down Cynthia’s face as she said, ‘Yes please, bab. I’m dying for a cuppa. That’s my girl.’
Twenty
There was great excitement that afternoon. Dot came in, delighted to see her friend back home, and Em and Joyce scurried down to the school together to fetch Sid and tell him the news.
‘Mom’s home!’ they cried as soon as they saw him. He looked uncertainly at them, as if he couldn’t dare to believe it, before tearing home as fast as his little legs would carry him. Cynthia had been away for three weeks, but to the children it seemed like an eternity. They all clung round her.
‘You better now, Mom?’ Sid was the only one of the children to inherit Cynthia’s brown eyes, and now they gazed at her full of longing.
‘Course I am,’ she said bravely, hugging him to her. ‘I’m not going away again.’ To Dot she added in a whisper, ‘Not to that hard-faced bitch over there, I can tell yer.’
Dot rolled her eyes. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘I can’t tell you, Dot.’ Cynthia’s eyes started to fill and she shooed the children away. ‘Go on, all of you – go and play out for a bit while Dot and me have a chinwag.’
The children did as they were told, though obviously reluctant to leave her.
‘You all right now, Cynth?’ Dot asked carefully.
‘Oh, Dot.’ Cynthia broke down then. ‘Olive’s so mean and spiteful. She’s not got an ounce of kindness in her! I was grieving all the time I was there and she was horrible to me, making me feel in the way. I didn’t know where to put myself. She made me hide upstairs when she had visitors round! She’s always been hard-faced, but I never knew she was that bad.’
‘Never mind, bab, you’re back home now,’ Dot comforted her. ‘Your kiddies need you here. Your Em’s been ever such a good girl, trying to look after everyone the way she has. You should be proud of her.’
‘I know,’ Cynthia nodded. ‘And I’ll try and make it up to her.’
‘I’d best be off now, our Nance is all spots,’ Dot said. ‘I hope we ain’t all spreading it about.’
‘Yes you’d better,’ Cynthia urged. ‘And thanks, Dot. You’re the best friend anyone could have.’
‘T’ain’t been the same without you around, Mrs Brown,’ Dot said with a lopsided smile which meant she was close to tears. ‘T’ra for now.’
It seemed so quiet once Dot had gone. Violet was asleep and Cynthia sat, soaking in the feeling of being at home again. It wasn’t much, their house, but today it seemed to her like a palace. She looked round her simple room, with its poor furniture, the old range with the battered kettle resting on top, the big saucepan with mendits screwed through the bottom to keep the water in, the mantelshelf with its cover of threadbare red velvet and their few ornaments on it. Their precious photographs graced the mantel in the front room: their wedding portrait and the faded face of Bob’s mother looking out across the bare room. Cynthia had often wondered what she was like: she had a kindly face. Perhaps she’d change things round, she thought, and bring the pictures in here where they could see them all the time instead of saving them for best. They were family and what could be more important?
‘I’ve got to make it up to Bob,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ve got to be better – for his sake, and the kids.’
But she thought about the days before she left home, the hurt and anger in his face, and fear rose up to choke her. What if he couldn’t forgive her? And what if she couldn’t be the wife he needed her to be?
Putting her hands over her face she rocked back and forth, deep racking sobs working their way out of her. She was home at last, but everything still felt impossible and overwhelming. How on earth was she going to manage?
Em helped her make the tea. She was in the habit now and Cynthia seemed almost to have forgotten how. She had wanted to come home and take up the reins, be in charge as a mother, but she found herself standing helplessly, as if she couldn’t remember what to do.
‘I feel all mithered,’ she said, as Em turned from peeling potatoes in a bowl at the table, to see her mother just gazing at her in bewilderment. She was so thin, even E
m could see her clothes were hanging on her. Her eyes had a stretched, staring look which had not been there before.
‘Why don’t you go and sit down, Mom?’ Em said cautiously. ‘You don’t want to go getting tired.’
‘No!’ She was shouting suddenly, but seeing the look of terror on Em’s face she tried to quieten herself. ‘No, I must help, I’ve got to. I’m your mother!’
Em stood back, offering her the old knife, talking cautiously to her. ‘You do the taters. I’ll get the cabbage done, shall I?’
‘All right,’ Cynthia said quietly, and Em had a terrible feeling suddenly, more frightening than all that had gone before. It was as if a big black pit was opening in front of her, because she was utterly alone: out of the two of them it was Mom who was the child, and there was no one above her to rely on. Together, they cooked liver and potatoes and cabbage, Em reminding Cynthia what to do at every step.
By the time it was ready Bob had not come home. Em had set the table and was ready to feed everyone, but Cynthia hovered expectantly by the front window.
‘Tea’s ready, Mom,’ Em called to her.
‘But your dad’s not here. We’d best not start without him.’
Em exchanged looks with Sid and Joyce. ‘I s’pect he’ll be late,’ Em said. ‘He is sometimes.’
Cynthia came in frowning. ‘Why? ’E’s never late normally. Always home by half past five.’
Em didn’t like to tell her that it was sometimes another three hours before Bob rolled in these days.
‘Well, let’s have ours and he’ll soon be here,’ she said.
By the time they had eaten and washed up, still there was no sign of him. His dinner congealed on his plate at the table. It was an awful evening, with Cynthia on pins asking again and again where her husband was and why he was late. In the end Em had had to say, ‘I s’pect he’s gone down the boozer. ’E does sometimes. ’E dain’t know you was coming home, Mom.’
‘He doesn’t, not “’e dain’t”,’ Cynthia corrected automatically. ‘Don’t drop your aitches, it’s common.’ Then she remembered what they were talking about. ‘You mean he’s left you, every night like this? Oh, I should never ’ve gone away. I shouldn’t’ve listened to him! I thought it’d be for the best, the way I was feeling, but I never should’ve.’
‘It’s all right, Mom. We’ve not come to any harm,’ Em said.
‘No but it’s not right!’ She was working herself up into a terrible state. ‘What’s come over ’im? And what the neighbours must’ve been saying . . .’
As time passed she was almost on the point of marching along to the pub and dragging him out, but Em stopped her.
It was past Em’s bedtime and she was already lying beside Sid, trying to soothe him to sleep, when she heard the front door open. She pulled the blanket and Bob’s old army coat up over her ears and screwed her eyes tightly shut.
Bob came round the door, and saw her waiting there. He was well oiled but not blind drunk, though he stopped and blinked a time or two to check he wasn’t seeing things.
‘Cynth?’
‘Where’ve you been?’ Her pent-up emotion came out in a shrewish wail. ‘It’s a fine thing, me coming home and you’re not here, and Em says you’ve been out every night! Why weren’t you here?’
She wanted him to come to her, to be sweet and reassuring and glad to see her, but her anger and misery had the opposite effect.
‘So, you’re back, are yer?’ He stuck his cap angrily on the hook at the back of the door. ‘Well, I hope you’ve pulled yourself together, cos if you ain’t you can pack your bag and go back there until yer have.’
‘Yes, of course I’m better.’ She wiped her eyes hurriedly at this threat and spoke appeasingly. ‘I was just worried, that’s all, love. It’s not like you to be out every evening and I was looking forward to seeing you. I didn’t know where you were, that’s all.’
‘I just went out for a drink, if that’s all right with you,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Since there weren’t no company at ’ome. What d’yer want, me sitting in by the fire waiting for you every night?’
‘No, I . . .’
‘Just cos you’d gone off on a little holiday . . .’
But he softened then and came to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, and her heart leapt with relief as he looked into her eyes.
‘So – you better, then, wench?’ His voice was gentler.
‘I th-think so.’ She ached for it to be true, though she still felt so strange, so lost and shut away from everyone. But she must make him believe she was better.
‘Glad to ’ear it.’
He took her in his arms and was immediately full of desire for her, fumbling to unbutton her blouse.
‘Bob, no . . .’
‘Come upstairs,’ he cajoled, tugging on her hand. ‘Come on – the kids are in bed, ain’t they? What’s to stop us?’
‘But I—’
‘But be dammed!’ he roared. ‘I said, get upstairs!’
Terrified, she could hardly recognize him. She begged him to be quiet but he dragged her up to the bedroom, kicked the door shut and forced her up against it, pushing himself against her, his beery tongue in her mouth. She felt his fingers digging into her arms as he pulled her to the bed, starting to tug her clothes off her, bruising her.
‘No . . .’ she wept. ‘Don’t . . . don’t . . .’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you miserable bitch, what’s the matter with yer now?’ The stinging slap he delivered across her face made her whimper.
‘Just stop yer blarting,’ he panted.
His need and arousal were so great that he forced her legs apart and pushed himself into her, thrusting and muttering until he came, quickly, with a sob of release. Cynthia turned her head aside, her eyes clenched shut. She could smell him, a mixture of sweat, coal dust and beer.
He withdrew from her abruptly and lit the candle. Seeing her there, limp on the bed, he was full of remorse and came and lay beside her, stroking her hair.
‘God, Cynth . . . I’m sorry. It’s been so long, so bloody miserable – I just had to . . . I dain’t mean to hurt yer . . .’
With a sob she snuggled up to him. She didn’t want to be angry with him, she needed to feel the comfort of his arms round her. Into his chest she murmured, ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’
Gentler now, and close to sleep, he held her. ‘Never mind, love. It’s been awful without yer. But we can make it better, can’t we, my bab? It’ll be all right.’
Twenty-One
For the first few days Em thought it was going to be all right.
She went back to school, trying to resign herself to Katie’s rejection of her and hanging about with anyone who was prepared to be her friend, which of course Molly always was. She tried to push from her mind what had happened with Molly’s mom and the cat. Everything about Molly and her family horrified her. Cynthia had always said the Foxes were a dirty family, but it wasn’t just the dirt which made her stomach turn with dread. It was the feeling of chaos and cruelty which she saw in Bert and which had been so horribly demonstrated by Iris Fox that day with Molly’s kitten. So she looked upon Molly with mixed pity and dread.
A few days went past but even though they all tried to pretend everything was back to normal, Cynthia was anything but recovered. She seemed to exist on a knife edge, barely able to cope but trying too hard and flying into hysterics over the slightest thing.
There was no lying in bed now. Instead she got up each morning and flung herself into a fever of activity, cleaning and washing the neglected house. Soon her energy would run out. She was already very thin and had no appetite, and feeding Violet took a lot from her. Her face was white and her jaw seemed permanently clenched. At the slightest thing she dissolved into tears.
‘Hey – you’re s’posed to be getting a bit of rest, ain’t yer?’ Dot upbraided her when she dropped in for a cup of tea during a lull one afternoon. She found Cynthia ironin
g frantically, a blanket spread over the table. ‘Come and sit down for a bit and drink your tea.’
Cynthia snatched up the iron which had been heating on the range, a square of worn leather in her hand to prevent her from burning herself on the handle.
‘I can’t stop, Dot – I’ve got so much to do.’ She gave her strained, intense look. ‘What with me being away, the place is squalid! I’ve got to clean up – get everything put right . . .’
Dot got up from her chair with a determined expression, firmly took the iron out of Cynthia’s hand and replaced it on the range.
‘Cynth – ’ she put her arm round her friend’s shoulders and looked into her eyes – ‘come and sit down. The house can wait. It never ruddy well ends whatever you do, does it? You look all in.’
Cynthia protested, but allowed herself to be seated on one of the chairs. Dot drew hers closer and looked at her very seriously.
‘Look, bab, what’s ailing yer? You’re not right, you’re thin as a railing and you’ve got a look on yer face all the time now as if the devil’s behind yer. You want to go careful or you’re going to have a breakdown. You’re driving yourself too hard!’
‘I’m not,’ Cynthia said earnestly, knitting her bony fingers together. She blinked and rolled her eyes in the strange way that she did now. ‘I’m all right, Dot, really I am. But I’ve let Bob down, and the kids, and I’m just trying to make everything right again. He gets so angry with me.’ She trailed off, looking sad and bewildered.
‘He’s worried about yer. We all are!’ Dot leaned forward and gripped her hand. ‘For God’s sake, take it easy, love. I’ll come and help if there’s that much to do . . .’
‘No!’ Cynthia protested. ‘You’ve got your Nance down with the measles.’
‘Oh, she’s on the mend – they’re all tough little buggers, my lot,’ Dot said fondly. ‘I just don’t want to see my pal in this state. If you go on like this—’ She bit her words back. ‘Look, everything’s all right – your husband, kids, you’ve got a nice healthy bab there – you’ve no need to be in such a state. ’