by Annie Murray
She patted Cynthia’s hand and sat back, smiling. But Cynthia suddenly put her hands over her face.
‘I feel so bad sometimes, Dot. I can’t tell yer how bad. I feel . . . evil. I’m making everything worse for everyone, but I don’t know how to help myself.’ She moved her hands away, her face screwed up in revulsion. ‘I’m an evil woman. I don’t deserve to live.’
‘Cynth, what are you on about?’ Dot was really concerned but as a coper herself she was at a loss. ‘You’ll perk up soon. It’s just the babby, and what with the shock you had over Joycie and that. Come on, you need to get enough rest and try and look on the bright side.’
She sat chatting, trying to make Cynthia laugh and tell her jokes and bits of gossip. Her son Terry, she said, had a new girlfriend – quite a looker. ‘And I reckon Old Man Donnelly’s playing away again,’ she said in her comical way. ‘And with that hatchet face of hers you can hardly blame him!’
Before she left she managed to get a wan smile out of Cynthia. It was the last any of them were to see for a very long time.
Her mood of frantic energy began to slip away. The withdrawn, glassy-eyed mother reappeared, who seemed barely able to move a limb of her body without enormous effort.
Em noticed that suddenly Cynthia seemed not to want to take care of Violet. Em was allowed to struggle on at school. She caught up with her lessons quite easily, but still felt terribly hurt by Katie O’Neill’s abandonment of her. Katie was inseparable from Lily. Em pretended she didn’t care and went out to play with anyone who’d have her. When she got home she would often find Cynthia in bed or sitting in a chair, staring, taking no notice of her baby. If she was upstairs, as often as not she left Violet down in the back room, shutting out the sound of her cries.
‘I got Dot to get me some formula,’ Cynthia said to Em one day, her hollow-eyed face looking up at her from the pillow. ‘You just mix it with water in one of them bottles. I’m not going to feed her myself any more. It’s making me too tired. And I don’t want them to see me with her anyway.’
‘Who?’ Em asked, bewildered.
‘Oh – ’ Cynthia waved a bony hand, scornfully – ‘the people from the Welfare. They spy on people like me, you know. You never know when they might be watching you. So you take her and sort her out, will you, love?’
Em couldn’t make any sense of this, but she liked looking after Violet who, despite everything, was a round-faced, rather placid child whose smiles revealed a deep dimple in her left cheek. Em was sure her baby sister recognized her and began to wave her arms about when she appeared. She enjoyed sitting with the warm, milky weight of Violet in her lap, watching her suck out of a bottle. Violet was cross at first and spat the formula milk out, asking for the familiar warm nipple, but she was soon hungry enough to get used to it. Em and Joyce took turns.
Em wondered what Mom had been talking about. Did the Welfare people really watch you if you had a baby? And were they watching her as she fed Violet? She shrugged the thought away. They could only be looking through the window and she couldn’t see anyone. Besides, she wasn’t doing anything wrong, was she?
Things came quickly to a head. Bob came straight home that Friday evening, not going to the pub, trying to do his best for his family. The night was cold, he had a cough and was exhausted, and was as black as a chimney sweep as ever. He came in to find the downstairs rooms full of blue smoke and rank with the smell of burned fat. Sid and Joyce were squabbling and Em was jiggling a wailing Violet in her arms while the sausages she was cooking were charring on the stove.
He ran and snatched the pan off the heat, slamming it down at the back of the range.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exploded. ‘What the hell’s going on – where’s yer mother?’ Without waiting for Em to answer he tore off his coat and hat, flinging them onto a chair and stormed up the stairs. Sid and Joyce had stopped fighting and the three children all stood still, listening in dread.
The bedroom door was flung open, followed by the sound of terrifying screams.
Cynthia, who had been lying in bed like a rag, leapt up, electrified by terror at the sight of someone coming through the door.
‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Get away from me! Get out of my room – no, don’t touch me! AAAAAAA-AAAAAGH!’
Bob, startled and horribly disturbed by the hysteria in her voice, dealt her a stinging slap across the face.
‘Don’t take me away!’ Cynthia was crying, begging. ‘Don’t . . . I’ll be better, I will. I don’t want to be bad . . . Oh, help me, help me, for God’s sake!’
‘Cynth! CYNTHIA!’ Bob knelt on the bed and grasped her hands, shaking her, forcing her to sit still. ‘It’s me, for Christ’s sake. Stop screaming, woman, I can’t stand it.’
‘I thought they were coming to take me away.’ She was stunned and trembling, her hair wild, eyes full of fear.
Bob looked at her, the alien, strange woman beside him, and cautiously released her hands. He was beyond trying to comfort her. He was deeply afraid.
‘It’s no good.’ His voice was low and grave. ‘I can’t live with you no more, not carrying on like this. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Cynth, but you can get your things packed. You’re going back to your sister till you can pull yerself together, or not bother coming back at all!’
‘No, Bob – no, don’t make me go back there!’ Cynthia begged, weeping heartbrokenly. ‘I don’t want to go back there. She’s horrible to me, Olive is, and it’s all worse there. They’ll be watching me and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand them watching me . . . Their eyes . . .’
‘For God’s sake, woman!’ He was yelling now, completely distraught. ‘You carry on like this and you’ll end up in the asylum, that you will. You’re going off yer head and I can’t stand it! I can’t live with yer when you’re like this. I want my bloody wife back, that’s what I want – not some sodding loony who talks a load of bloody rubbish all the time!’
There was a momentary lull. Em stared at the floor, hugging Violet. She couldn’t look at Sid or Joyce, because upstairs something was happening that they’d never known before. Both their parents were weeping. Bob’s sobs came to them in raw, jerking sounds. It seemed shameful, hearing a grown man cry, and frightening because it was their dad. Over it came desperate weeping from Cynthia.
‘I’m not giving in to you no more,’ they heard, more quietly then. ‘You’ve got to go, Cynth. I can’t stand it and you’re no good to me or the kids in this state. I don’t want to do it, but it’s for the best. I can’t stand living with you as you are. Come back and be my wife, for God’s sake, love. But for now you’ve got to go – first thing in the morning. And that’s final.’
The night seemed to go on forever. None of them slept much. All night Em kept falling into a doze only to be woken by Violet crying, or her mother weeping and begging incoherently in the next room.
Sid got into bed with the girls, top to toe with them, so that rest was made all the more difficult by all being cramped in together. Em was afraid he’d wet the bed, but she was quite glad of the comfort of having her brother and sister close when her heart felt cold and full of dread. None of them had heard their father’s exact words; they just knew something awful and frightening was happening, that the sunny, secure life they had known before seemed to be being swept away forever.
In the grey light of dawn, Em woke, wet and clammy, enveloped in the pungent smell of Sid’s urine, and she clambered from the bed, her vest and pants clinging to her. Sid woke immediately and sat bolt upright, saying, ‘Where’s Mom?’
‘I dunno,’ Em said. ‘In bed, I s’pose.’
She woke Joyce and tugged the sodden sheet off the bed once more. They were growing used to the stinging ammonia smell, and the mattress was ringed with stains and this new damp patch. She went to take the sheet down to soak it, and the others followed her as if they didn’t dare let her out of their sight.
As their bare feet progressed down the stairs, there was a wail from the f
ront room.
‘Oh God, Bob – they’re awake!’
Cynthia was standing by the front door in her hat and coat. Her little brown bag was up against the door and Violet was resting on a blanket in the seat of the chair. To Em, her mother seemed like a scrawny stranger. Her real mom, the old Cynthia, had gone away somewhere already.
Bob came from the back. He looked very annoyed to see the children standing at the foot of the stairs.
‘Right, well, you’d best say goodbye to your mother,’ he said brusquely. ‘’Er’s going away again, just for a few days, to your auntie Olive’s.’
‘Oh, Mom, I don’t want you to go away, you said you’d never!’ Sid ran to her, as did Joyce, both sobbing, holding out their arms to be picked up. Em, swept by the most terrible sense of dread, felt sobs forcing up in her chest. She wanted to be the big sister, who could control herself, but it was too frightening and difficult.
‘Don’t go, Mom!’ A wail of anguish tore out of her. ‘Please don’t go away again!’
‘Oh my Lord,’ Cynthia cried, holding out her pitifully thin arms to embrace all her children. Em felt her boniness as she was pressed to her and she clung to her mother, never wanting to let go.
‘I don’t want to go,’ Cynthia wept, her cheeks brushed by her children’s soft hair as they clung to her, all crying desperately. ‘I don’t want to leave you. It won’t be for long. I’ll come back as soon as I can.’
‘Come on now – let’s get it over.’ Jaw set, his own suffering locked within him, Bob pulled his wife to her feet. ‘You’ve got to go, Cynth, it’s no good.’
Em tore herself away from her mother but the two younger children were not so easy to shift. Sid roared in protest and in the end Bob hauled both him and Joyce roughly away, knocking Joyce’s leg painfully on the chair as he did so, making her cry even louder. He plonked the two of them on the rag rug, as Cynthia wept uncontrollably.
‘Now you stay there and stop yer blarting!’ he shouted at his distressed children. ‘I’m going to put your mother on the bus and I’ll be back.’
He picked up Violet in one arm and the bag in the other.
‘Open the door,’ he ordered.
Cynthia did so, gazing back at her children.
‘Go on – out, woman!’
Her distraught eyes drank in their tear-stained faces. ‘I’ll be back soon, little’uns. Take care of each other!’
With tears rolling down her cheeks, Cynthia was urged out through the front door by her husband, the children’s cries following her leaden steps along the freezing street.
Jack Stones
Twenty-Two
‘Em – oi, Em! You coming to play?’
Em had just come out of the house when she was hailed by a group of girls from school. They were squatting on the pavement playing jack stones, the latest craze to hit the neighbourhood.
Em pretended she didn’t hear, immediately wishing she could escape indoors again. Katie O’Neill was among the girls, though she had not been the one who shouted. Of course not, Em thought sourly. Katie wouldn’t have anything to do with her now. It was a long time since Em had been out to the Girls’ Brigade or anything like that.
‘Em?’
She shook her head, hurrying past. ‘Can’t – I got to go somewhere.’
‘Be like that, then,’ the girl said, but not nastily. Katie didn’t even look up. She kept her head down so low that the ends of her plaits were dragging on the pavement. The girls went back to their game, throwing a stone in the air and trying to pick up another of the five before it hit the ground.
The street was humming with life and most of the neighbourhood children were outside, shooed from under their mothers’ heels. The sun was sinking low, though well disguised with a pall of grey cloud, and a mean wind was blowing the smoke from the chimneys to one side. Em put her head down, hugging herself in her thin jersey as she hurried to Mrs Button’s shop. As she got to the door, Mrs Button was standing there about to close up. Bullseye the dog was peering out from behind her skirts.
‘Ah – so you’ve come, ’ave yer?’ she said, her chins wobbling cheerfully. She led Em into the little house. ‘I was about to shut up for the night. In fact I’d just said to my Stanley, “I think I’ll shut up shop,” so you’ve come just in time – don’t mind the dog, ’e’ll only sniff at yer – not that I wouldn’t open the door to yer, but Stanley ain’t too keen on callers after hours. ’E says ’e wants me all to ’imself then!’
‘Quite right!’ Stanley Button’s jovial voice called from out the back somewhere. ‘Who is it, Jen?’
‘It’s little Em Brown – you know, from over the road.’
‘Oh ar,’ Stanley said. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ve got summat for the wench, ain’t yer, Jen?’
Everyone knew there was something badly wrong with her mother by now, Em realized, or they thought they knew and made up the rest. Some were very kind. Others were not and seized on the opportunity to look down on someone else’s misfortunes. Em’s heart warmed at the sound of Stanley Button’s kindness. Bullseye kept gently pushing his wet nose into her hand and she patted him, enjoying the feel of his wiry coat. There was a smell of bleach in the room.
‘Oh, you ain’t come in vain, bab. I’ve a couple of things for yer.’ With a grunt Jenny Button bent down to retrieve a small paper package from under the counter.
‘There ain’t no bread left today but there’s a couple of cakes for you and yer dad. What d’yer say?’
‘Thank you,’ Em said politely, as her mother had taught her. ‘It’s very nice of you.’
‘Well, there ain’t much I can do but a bit of cake always helps to cheer you up, that’s what I say.’
Em bought the family’s bread from Mrs Button as usual in the morning, but for a week now she had been telling Em to come back at the end of the day to see if she had any leftovers. It was her way of helping.
‘Any news of your mother?’
Miserably, Em shook her head. She was back to her burden of care in the house, though she had managed to get to school three times. Bob had told her to go.
‘We’ll ’ave that nosy bugger from the Corporation round, else . . .’ They didn’t think the School Board man would take notice if she stayed at home for wash day and another day in the week, so long as she was there most of the time.
‘And how’re you managing?’ Mrs Button asked. ‘It’s hard on yer, bab, that it is. You’re a poor skinny little waif as it is. You need feeding up.’
Em hung her head. She couldn’t explain to Mrs Button just how alone she felt, trying to be housekeeper and mother to her brother and sister when all she ached for herself was her mom back, taking care of them.
‘Poor little things,’ Mrs Button said. Then, as if on impulse, she suddenly added, ‘’Ere, now you come through here with me a minute. I’ve got summat to show yer’ll lift your spirits.’
To her surprise, Mrs Button led her though to the back room. Em had never been in there before, and she looked round curiously. A large part of the room was taken up with a big double bed, pushed into the corner by the window. Stanley Button, a pink, plump little man, was sitting in a chair which was squeezed in between the bed and the hearth, and he was reading his paper. His wheelchair was in front of him, between him and another easy chair, and it was acting as a table, with an empty cup and saucer resting in the seat. Right in the corner, behind him, was a small table with a cage on it, in which were perched two chattering green budgerigars.
‘I know it’s a bit of a squeeze,’ Jenny Button explained, seeing Em’s surprise. ‘We have to stop down here, see, cos my Stanley can’t do stairs. I’ve got my little bakehouse ouot the back, see? And I keep my stores and suchlike up there. But down here it’s the menagerie!’ She shook with laughter at this.
Em nodded and smiled at Stanley Button, who had looked up in surprise. His blue eyes were friendly.
‘Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said amiably. ‘All right, are yer, bab?
See my little pals? Peter and Poll, I call them. Don’t know if they’re boys or girls or what!’ He gave a wheezing laugh. Em gazed fascinated at the birds and their beady eyes seemed to stare back at her.
‘Thought I’d show it her,’ Mrs Button said with a significant nod towards the back door. ‘I shan’t be long, Stanley.’
‘That’s all right.’ He smiled and winked at Em. He reminded her of a baby because he was so round and chubby and had only a thin fluff of hair. She felt sorry for him because his legs didn’t work.
With Bullseye shadowing their steps, Mrs Button led Em out into a tiny yard at the back, with the little brewhouse where she baked at one side. Apart from a strip across the middle, above which hung a sagging clothes line, there was no space to move, as the place was absolutely crammed on all sides with pots full of plants. Em’s eyes widened in amazement.
‘See, I like my flowers,’ Jenny Button said, taking Em round them as if introducing her to friends of hers. Bullseye wandered into a corner and cocked his leg. ‘Dirty boy,’ Mrs Button tutted. ‘See, here I’ve got my herbs – rosemary, mint, sage . . . Then here’s my pretty flowers for the summer. But this is my favourite – look at her.’
In the corner stood a wide pot containing a shrub with glossy green leaves and tight buds, at the tip of which peeped the tips of crimson flowers.
‘You wait – come back after Christmas and she’ll be a beauty, all blooms,’ Mrs Button said. She spoke about her flowers so lovingly as if they were children.
‘It’s lovely,’ Em said shyly.
‘She’s called a camellia,’ she was told. ‘My little camellia. You come back and see her when she’s in flower.’
‘I will,’ Em said.
She left, holding her packet of cake, feeling a little comforted. As she was going back along the road she saw there were people standing outside her house. Narrowing her eyes she peered to try and see who it was. Her father was one side of the conversation. She noticed then, with a tiny part of her mind, that he looked different. It was the way he was standing – upright, attentive, handsome again, not like the weary, wilting man they mostly saw these days. He had just come back from work and he was talking to the widow lady from round the corner, Flossie Dawson. As Em crossed the road and came closer she saw that there was also a girl with them. The girl saw Em coming and Em felt herself being stared at. She was older than Em, with a pale oval face and straight brown hair, not black like her mother’s, and red-rimmed eyes that made Em think of a rabbit. Em also saw that the dark red coat she was wearing was lovely and warm and soft-looking so that she almost wanted to stroke it. But perched on her hair was a knitted hat in a bright, vicious green. Bogey-coloured, Em thought. Why did she wear that with that nice coat?