by Annie Murray
‘Hello, Cynth,’ she said, leaning towards her.
‘Hello, Dot,’ Cynthia whispered. Her lips tried to smile but the attempt quickly faded. She seemed to have shrunk right into herself, helpless and like a very small child. What on earth could they talk about, Dot thought, panic rising in her. Then she admonished herself. This is Cynth, silly, your old pal – just talk like you normally would!
‘How are you?’ she asked gently.
‘All right.’ Cynthia shrugged. It seemed hopeless to say anything further. Her eyes were stretched wide, as if in constant appeal.
‘Are they taking care of you all right?’
‘Yes. All right.’
There was no sign of the distress Bob had described, the need to harm herself. Not at this moment anyway. It felt more as if she was a candle with a faulty wick, guttering and struggling to burn. Dot longed suddenly to reach out and hold her, as if by embracing her she could pour her own warmth and vitality into her friend.
‘Bob sent his love to yer,’ she said.
‘The kids . . . How are they?’ The eyes wider, wilder now.
‘They’re all right, love. Em was a bit poorly a few weeks ago, but she’s back to normal now. We had a little tea party on her birthday. Joyce and Sid are well . . .’ She wasn’t going to mention about Sid’s feet, which had only just healed, or the big gash Joyce had on her chin from falling off the back wall in the week. Certainly not that their father spent every daily moment he could manage – and, for all she knew, some of the nightly ones too – at the house of a certain Mrs Flossie Dawson. None of this would help Cynthia now. ‘They all sent their love and they hope you’ll soon be feeling better.’
‘My babby – how’s my little Violet?’ She never spoke above a whisper, those eyes wide and apprehensive as if she expected someone to tell her off at any moment.
‘Oh, doing well. She’s still with your sister.’ Dot thought guiltily that she should go and see, check how Violet was. Whatever else she thought of Olive, she did appear to be caring well for the baby.
‘I miss them so much.’ Cynthia looked up towards the windows for a moment, as if trying to see their faces. Her eyes began to stream and she looked down. Dot reached out and took her hands, unable now to stop her own tears.
‘They miss you too, bab. But they’re all right. They’re looking forward to you coming home.’
Cynthia was shaking her head hopelessly. ‘No. I shan’t go home.’ She gazed across at the dark windows again. ‘No, I can’t do that.’
‘You will – of course you will!’ Dot squeezed her hands more tightly, trying to pacify her as if she were a child. Where had her bubbly, loving, best pal gone, leaving only this whispering shell?
‘It’s all right, Cynth. Look, you’re just feeling a bit low at the moment and everything seems bad. But you’ll get better, course you will! You’ll come home and be with them all again.’
Cynthia raised her tearful face, clutching at Dot’s words. ‘Will I? No.’ More head shaking. ‘I can’t. I won’t. I can’t even make a cup of tea for myself any more. I can’t do anything . . . I don’t know what’s happened to me. I feel so lost, so bad . . .’
Dot leaned close and took Cynthia in her arms, feeling the coarse material of the dress which was draped over her bones. The material seemed indestructible, as it was no doubt intended to be. A sour, sweaty smell came from her friend and made Dot’s spirits sink further, but she felt overwhelmingly that she must hold Cynthia like one of her own children, while her friend sobbed in her arms.
‘Just hang on.’ She had no reference or authority for her words, apart from a desperate hope that Cynthia’s sickness was like any other – something that could, in the end, heal. ‘If you hang on, and rest, and let yourself get better, it’ll all be all right. It will, love! I’m helping your Bob look after the kids – they’re all right – and my Nance loves it. It’s like having more brothers and sisters for her! We all love you and we’re waiting to have you back. But you just take your time, Cynth. You’ll get better – you will. One day the sun ’ll come out and you’ll be able to see it proper, like.’
‘Oh God!’ Cynthia fell into sudden sobbing and, to Dot’s astonishment, she burst out, ‘I want, oh, I want my mom! I want her, I want her . . . She shouldn’t have died . . . I just wish she’d been here sometimes!’
‘There, oh, poor little lovey, there, there . . .’ Dot held her, rocking her gently. There seemed nothing else to do except hold her and help her grasp on to some kind of hope.
By the time Dot walked out of the hospital into the whitening world beyond, she felt sad and drained beyond belief.
Thirty-Two
Em waited all afternoon on tenterhooks for Dot to come back. Whatever Dad said, surely she might return with the news they all longed to hear, even bring Mom home with her?
At last, her footfalls silenced by the snow, she arrived with a tapping on the window.
‘Coo-ee – it’s me.’
Em flung the door open expectantly and saw Dot’s brave smile, but her hopes slid right down. No Mom. There was to be no miracle.
‘Make us a cuppa tea, will yer, bab. I’m dying for one.’ Exhaustedly Dot laid her hat on the table in the back room, after shaking the melting flakes from it. Em scurried to reheat the kettle, then hovered round Dot with the others. Nancy climbed onto her lap, glad her mom was back.
‘So – how did yer find ’er?’ Bob asked.
‘Not too bad,’ Dot spoke cautiously in front of the children, sinking onto one of the chairs by the table. ‘By crikey, it’s cold out there now . . .’
‘Is that all?’ He stood over her as if to drag the words out of her.
Dot’s face puckered with anger. ‘If you want to know that bad, why don’t you get yerself over there?’
‘I will . . . I mean . . . But how did you find ’er today?’
Dot looked round at the eager faces all waiting for her reply and she spoke chiefly to the children.
‘Your mom’s not too bad,’ she told them, reaching out to stroke Joyce’s head. ‘There’s no need to worry. She’s still feeling a little bit poorly, but she sends her love and says she’ll be back with yer as soon as she can, all right? Now – you run along a minute and let me have a word with your dad.’
Sid and Joyce disappeared to the front room where the fire was lit. Nancy followed reluctantly and Em went back into the scullery.
‘So?’ Bob said.
‘Well – what d’yer think? Not herself. Down in the dumps. Hardly able to drag herself about. Can’t even think how to make a cup of tea – that was what she said.’ Dot recited. The strain of the day was telling on her and her voice rose harshly. ‘Sad, cried a lot. Misses the kids.’ She glared at Bob. ‘Misses you. Not the woman I know as Cynthia Brown, if you really want to know.’
Em, carrying the teapot in, saw Dot put her hands over her face and burst into tears. ‘It’s so sad to see ’er like that. It’s terrible . . .’
Bob turned away, as if he couldn’t face her tears. Dot looked up and saw Em’s desolate expression.
‘Oh, come ’ere, love – I’m sorry.’ She held her arms out and cuddled Em close to her, speaking as cheerfully as she could, trying to offer a glimmer of hope. ‘I dain’t mean to upset you, bab. It’s just a bit sad that she can’t be here with you all. She just needs a bit more time to rest.’
‘Why can’t she rest here?’ Em asked, looking up wide-eyed at Dot. ‘I could look after her.’
Bob interrupted suddenly, getting up from his chair. ‘I’m off out for a bit.’
‘Bob – for Christ’s sake!’ Dot erupted, jumping to her feet. ‘You’re not going anywhere. I’ve only just got ’ere – what am I s’posed to do? Your kids need you. You’re not dumping everything on me again!’
But he was flinging his coat on. ‘I’m not – I’ll be back. But I’ve got to go.’ They heard the front door slam.
‘I s’pect he’s gone to see Mrs Dawson,’ Em said. ‘That’s whe
re he always goes.’
‘What?’ Dot couldn’t keep the horrified tone out of her voice; she was shocked that Em was so aware of this. ‘Oh, I don’t s’pose so, love! I s’pect he’s gone down the Crown the way ’e usually does.’
Dot was breathing heavily, trying to bite back all the things she would have liked to scream after Bob: Useless, heartless bugger! But she controlled herself and patted Em’s shoulder. ‘That tea must be ready to pour, eh? You’re such a good girl, that you are.’
Em poured the tea, frowning with sadness and confusion after all she had overheard from the scullery. And everyone kept telling her how good she was when she did everything they wanted. ‘Good girl, Em – you’ll run an errand for me, won’t you? What a good girl . . .’ Like Dad, every time he went off to that Mrs Dawson and left her in charge: ‘You’ll look after the others won’t you, Em? You’re a good wench.’
Her frown deepened. Why was it always her who had to try so hard when Dad kept going off and leaving them? She wasn’t so sure she wanted to be a good girl any more.
Half an hour later, tanked up with a quick pint for courage, Bob was standing on Flossie Dawson’s front step, which was now cushioned with half an inch of snow. He leaned his head back, took in a long breath of the freezing air and expelled it in a rush, trying to calm himself. He had got here, the place he had dreamed of being all day, and now he was so nervous his legs were fit to give way.
‘Christ, man – get a grip!’ he urged himself. It had got so that the thought of the woman almost unhinged him. All day long she floated before his eyes, her sweet, vulnerable face against her black widow’s weeds, the soft, well-spoken Staffordshire accent, that look in her eyes when she opened the door to him. She was like no one he had ever known before, and she possessed him. He had to see her, had to . . .
He steadied himself and rapped twice on the door. In a moment she would come, he would be with her.
He heard a slight movement inside – her step – and thought his heart would burst out of his chest. Then her shape in the dimly lit little hall, and her face behind the patterned glass, uncertain as a cloud-obscured moon, so that he could not read whether she was pleased to see him.
‘Oh, Bob – it’s you,’ her soft voice greeted him. She was always polite, proper, but her tone held that hint of seductiveness which had hooked him in the first place. She did sound a little flustered, though, and he took this as a good sign.
‘Evening,’ he said gruffly. ‘Just thought I’d pop round, see if you was both all right. If you need any help with anything, like.’
He felt rough and awkward beside her, with her genteel manner, but something in the way she appealed to him, sweetly grateful for his small acts of help, made him feel strong and manly and heroic. She needed the help of a man, now she was left alone. She said so often. And she had fixed on him.
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you,’ Flossie said, sounding surprised, though his visits to offer help had become so very frequent. But they both kept up the pretence that his coming here was rare and surprising. She gave a little laugh, seeming breathless. ‘Well, I think I’m all right at the moment, thank you. But as you’ve taken the trouble, perhaps you’d like to come in for a cup of tea?’
‘Well, thank you! That’s good of you.’ He played surprised as well, stepping inside with a glow of triumph, his snow-flecked cap in his hand. Once she had closed the door behind them he felt safe. He was here, here at last, close to her, this neat, curvaceous woman, a scent of flowers always about her, a cut above this neighbourhood, he thought. She had class. Her clothes were better than anything Cynthia had ever had. And something about her, the direct yet shy way she looked at him, her demure manners, her vulnerability and seeming need of him, drew him like a drug.
Of course they weren’t alone. That made it all above board. The girl was there. The times Bob had wished her gone, anywhere else but here, that she would disappear in a puff of smoke by some magician’s trick! He had learned that on Sunday afternoons she visited an aunt somewhere. Flossie had let him know this, casually, signalling that this would be a good time to visit. But she was here now, perched on a leather pouffe by the fire, looking up at him in that insolent way of hers which got right under his skin.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ he said, in a false, jolly voice.
Daisy stared. Her face was very pale amid the tumbling dark hair, her eyes hooded.
‘Manners, Daisy,’ Flossie reprimanded sharply. ‘Say hello to Mr Brown.’
‘Hello, Mr Brown,’ Daisy said, with barely veiled sarcasm. ‘How’re your children?’
‘They’re all right, ta,’ Bob said lightly.
‘Go and put on some tea, please, Daisy,’ Flossie said. To Bob’s surprise there were already teacups on a tray, resting on the side table. Had they had company before? But it seemed nosy to ask.
‘Oh, but you’ve already had your tea . . .’ he protested.
‘No – it’s quite all right. I should like another,’ Flossie said firmly. ‘And you’ve been out in the cold. Go along, Daisy.’
Daisy got up and sulkily picked up the tray, and Bob’s heart bucked at the thought that she would be out of the room, at least for a few minutes! What difference this made he was not sure, except that in his acute state of unsatisfied longing he could imagine that there might be some possibility. A quick kiss, perhaps. Something.
He knew really that there was not much hope. Since that one time when Flossie had turned, standing close to him with that look in her eyes, since that one kiss, touching his mouth with her sweet, soft lips, which keyed him up with desire every time he thought of it, she had withdrawn as if afraid. Of course she was afraid! He tried to get a grip on himself. Here she was, a respectable though lonely widow, and he a married man. He mustn’t do anything to worry her. She wasn’t the sort.
But whatever his head said, he was hooked on her, his thoughts possessed by her, by all that he’d like to do with her, for her, and he didn’t mean just fixing door hinges. Over and over again he played the dream of undoing the buttons of her white blouse, revealing the lacy garments underneath, unpeeling them, her rounded, feminine body naked before his eyes, him laying her down, her eyes beckoning him.
‘How is your wife? Did your neighbour go to see her? And do sit down, please.’ She was talking to him – Bob jerked his thoughts back to reality. Flossie sat on the worn old pouffe by the fire which Daisy had just vacated. There was an attractive rug woven in warm colours, partially covering the bare boards. He couldn’t help noticing that while Flossie pleaded poverty, what possessions she did have were of fine quality, some quite exotic. Bob sat on the chair opposite her, only noticing then that her cheeks were flushed pink. She seemed to be nervous, as if trying to collect herself.
‘Yes, ta, er, thank you,’ he said. ‘Dot – our neighbour – saw her. Said she’s a bit better, but still not right. My turn to go next, of course.’ He looked down, his cheeks reddening, and fiddled with his cap. She might think he was neglecting Cynthia and that wouldn’t do! And he was, of course, but he was filled with dread of that place, of having to go back there.
Flossie’s big grey eyes took on a look of deep concern.
‘The poor, poor thing,’ she said. ‘How terrible. And for you, having to try and do everything for the children. My late husband’s sister was very bad after one of her babies and I must say she was never quite the same again. It happens that way with some women. Of course, I’m sure your wife will make a full recovery, but it must be ever so upsetting for you.’
For a moment Bob had the awful feeling he was going to cry. Bathed in her sympathy, his chest tightened and a lump came into his throat. What he wanted most at that moment was to surrender himself into her soft arms, to be held and to weep like a baby himself. Instead he looked up and said gruffly, ‘Well, we manage the best we can. My girl Em, she’s a good’un.’
‘The poor little thing.’ Again, the head held on one side, the sweet sympathy. ‘My Daisy was only nine when her f
ather passed away.’ She said the last two words in a pained whisper. ‘It’s so very difficult for children but they can be very brave, can’t they? I do have some idea what it must be like, you see.’
Her words chimed in with his sense of despair that he had lost Cynthia for good, as if she was actually dead. He found he could not stand the conversation any more because he was choking back the urge to weep.
‘That door all right?’ he managed to bark out. ‘The one I had a go at?’
One hinge to the scullery door had been snapped off and he had mended it for her.
‘Oh yes, thank you, it’s working perfectly now.’ Her face clouded. ‘I am a bit concerned that there’s a hole in the roof. I suppose I’d better find someone who can get up and look at the tiles.’
Bob wanted to say he could do it, that he could in fact fly: anything to please her.
‘I might be able to look at it,’ he offered, though he had little idea about roofs or tiles.
She clasped her hands in wonder. ‘Bob, could you? Oh, to have a strong capable man about – I can’t tell you! It’d put my mind at rest no end. I’d be so grateful.’
‘I’ll ’ave a look tomorrow,’ he promised. Now he had an excuse to come the next day! A firm, harmless reason! He glowed inside.
Soon Daisy came back with the tea and stubbornly planted herself on a stool between the two of them, slurping her tea loudly until Flossie asked her to find better manners. So they continued to make stilted conversation with the girl there, until Bob had finished his tea. They had so little to talk about, not sharing day-to-day life. He could see there was no chance of being with Flossie on her own that night and his conscience was beginning to itch about what might be going on at home.
‘I’ll come in tomorrow afternoon,’ he said as he went out to the hall to get his coat. ‘My pal’s got a ladder I could borrow.’
‘Oh, Bob, you really are marvellous,’ Flossie said softly. It was a bedroom voice, full of promise. And at least the girl hadn’t followed them out there. Christ, how he wanted to take hold of her and kiss her, however wrong it was. He couldn’t give a fig how wrong anything was, the way he felt. He gave her a long look in the shadowy hall, but she simply returned a gentle smile.