by Annie Murray
Cynthia looked despairing. ‘But whatever it is, he’d rather be with her than me.’
‘No – I don’t think that’s it. You’ve got to fight for him, bab, not just let that strumpet walk all over the pair of yer. Bob’s a weak man in some ways, but you and the kids are his sun and stars, you know that. He’s always been a family man! He’ll soon miss you all like hell and come running back. I don’t know what the hold she has on him is, but somehow she’s pulled him right off the rails.’ Dot was looking thoughtful. ‘Tell you what, bide your time, give ’im a chance to get sick of her and let’s see if we can find out a bit about her. We could talk to Em, see what she knows. I know they’ve been in her house.’
Cynthia looked reluctant. ‘I don’t want the kids dragged into this. They’ve had enough to put up with.’
‘They’re in it anyway,’ Dot said. ‘What with her turning up and carrying on the way she did. And you’re going to have to say he’s gone with her for the moment. What choice have you got? Look, Em’s quite grown-up for her age now, she’s had to be. We’ll talk to her. But you’ll have to tell them. You don’t want them finding out from someone else, do yer?’
Later that evening, Cynthia gathered the children round her before they went to bed. She had been surprised none of them had asked where Bob was, until Sid remarked, ‘I s’pose Dad’s down the Crown again?’
Things had obviously been even worse than she realized while she was away, but once they were all round her, scrubbed and ready, Violet in her arms, she said, ‘I’ve got summat to tell you that’s not easy to explain. You know that lady who came round this evening?’
‘Mrs Dawson?’ Joyce said earnestly.
‘Yes. Well, as you’ve no doubt noticed, your dad’s got rather . . .’ She had to hold on to herself very tightly so as not to cry. ‘He’s rather fond of her. Anyway, for the moment, he’s going to be staying with her in her house.’
‘Why?’ Sid asked, frowning furiously. ‘I don’t like her. Why’s he stopping with her?’
‘To – help her out a little bit,’ Cynthia said, groping desperately for reasons that would make any sense to the children.
‘Is that because of the babby?’ Em asked.
‘Yes,’ Cynthia said faintly. The children had obviously not missed any of the shouted exchange when Flossie turned up. ‘That’s right. She just . . . she just needs a bit of help.’
‘Well, when’s he coming back? Tomorrow?’ Sid demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Cynthia had to say. ‘I’m sorry, love.’
Sid and Joyce asked more questions, but Em stood silent, her face very solemn, her eyes like two despairing pools.
Em sat biting her nails through her lessons the next day and got told off by Miss Lineham. She felt sick and couldn’t keep her mind on anything after what had happened with Flossie Dawson, and seeing Mom and Dad both looking so upset and frightened, then Dad going. Mom had been trying to act as if everything was normal that morning as they got ready for school, but Em could see how pale and upset she was. Just when things had been getting better, they were all falling apart again.
Out in the playground she saw Sid and Joyce. Sid was running round in the gang of footballers, but Joyce came up to her looking upset.
‘I hurt my finger,’ she said, tears rolling down her cheeks as she showed Em her bruised right middle finger. She had got it caught in one of the doors as someone closed it and it was already purple and swollen. Em gave her a cuddle and tried to distract her, but she could see that her little sister was feeling as unsettled as she was.
‘Can I come round and play at yours?’ Molly said afterwards and Em nodded gladly. If they played out she could forget everything that was happening at home.
When they got to the house, Dot and Cynthia were both waiting for them. Both the women had pegged out their washing after a hard morning’s work and it was swinging gently on the lines in their back yards under a threatening sky.
‘Here, there’s a piece for you,’ Cynthia greeted them as they came in, trying to sound calm. The plate of bread with a scraping of dripping was on the table. ‘Oh hello, Molly. I didn’t know you were coming as well.’ She made herself speak kindly, even though her nerves were screaming that she didn’t want anyone else there, just family and Dot.
‘’Ello, Mrs Brown,’ Molly said.
‘Can Molly have a piece?’ Em asked.
‘Go on, then,’ Cynthia said. She was surprised at the bond that had formed between Em and Molly Fox, and she found Molly quite a likeable girl, once you got past the scruffy, smelly state of her. Jenny Button’s instruction in the manners department had also been a great improvement.
‘Thing is, we want to have a word with you, Em,’ she said, once Sid, Joyce and Nance had taken their bread and run off outside. ‘Nothing to worry about, you ain’t in trouble. Only maybe Molly’d better go on home.’
Em’s face fell. ‘But we wanted to play!’
‘Why don’t you let Molly stay?’ Dot suggested, topping up the teacups. ‘It’ll be all right.’ To Cynthia she added in a whisper, ‘You never know, she might know summat. She hears a lot and she’s no fool, that one.’
Cynthia was none too keen to discuss her business in front of Molly Fox, but she had to realize that a lot of things had changed in the months she’d been away. None of her business was going to be private now, that was one thing for certain.
‘What d’you want to know?’ Em said warily, through a thick mouthful of bread. When adults said they wanted to talk to you it usually meant bad news and trouble. She looked poised to run away.
‘Well,’ Cynthia began gently. She was determined to keep herself under control and not cry. ‘You know that lady who came round last night?’
Em’s lip curled in contempt. ‘Flossie the Floozy.’
‘What? Where did you hear that?’ Cynthia and Dot couldn’t help laughing.
‘Dunno,’ Em said evasively. ‘It’s just what some people call her.’
‘You’ve been to her house, haven’t you? What’s it like?’
Em swallowed her last mouthful, shrugging. ‘S’all right. Quite nice.’
‘Has she got some nice things?’ Dot asked.
Em looked a bit blank. ‘She’s got a dragon – a red one.’
The two women exchanged glances, but this didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere.
‘What about her daughter?’ Cynthia asked.
‘She’s called Daisy and she’s horrible. She was always nasty to us. She isn’t always there. She goes out and they argue about it.’
‘Where does she go?’
‘She’s got an auntie, I think . . .’ Em didn’t seem quite sure.
‘I saw her,’ Molly put in, but no one took any notice.
‘Did she say anything about her auntie?’
Em shook her head. ‘She goes for tea or summat – Sundays.’
‘She was outside this house . . .’ Molly spoke more loudly and at last they all looked at her.
‘Go on, bab,’ Dot said. ‘Tell us what you were going to say.’
‘I saw Daisy – weeks back, when we was living up Aston. She was going along the road – you couldn’t miss her in that hat she wears. I followed her cos I dain’t have anything else to do and I wanted to see where she’d go. It were only for a couple of minutes because she went and knocked on the door of this house, and then someone let her in.’
She had Cynthia’s and Dot’s full attention now.
‘D’you know where the house was?’ Dot asked.
Molly’s eye wandered. ‘I dunno the name of the road – but I know where it is. I could show yer if you want to know that bad.’
Skipping
Forty-Nine
Gradually the news spread throughout the neighbourhood and gossiping voices looked at the situation from every angle.
Em dreaded going out, knowing that everyone was tattling about her and her family. All the months she had hung on while Mom was in the hospital, wishing and
praying for her family to be together again, and now this – Dad was gone instead, and living with that woman and horrible Daisy Dawson.
Sid took it very badly as well and played up. His bedwetting had got better since Mom came home but now it started again with a vengeance.
They saw their father coming back from work on the Wednesday and all left the rope they’d been skipping with and ran to him as he came down the road.
‘Dad, Dad!’
Bob tried to smile but his eyes showed the tension in them as they swarmed round him.
‘All right, kids, all right. Hey, don’t push me over, lad! How’s yer mother?’
‘She keeps crying,’ Joyce said. ‘When’re you going to come home, Dad?’
He straightened up, pushing them away. ‘I’m not sure. Can’t tell yer.’
And he was gone.
‘Yer dirty bastard!’ they heard a woman’s voice shout from one of the houses along the street.
The words made Em curl up inside, hearing her dad being called names like that! It made her feel sick with shame. But why was he living with Mrs Dawson, just when Mom had finally come home? Why was Mrs Dawson going on about a baby? What did that have to do with them and why did Dad have to look after her? She didn’t understand any of it. She lay awake that night, burning inside at the injustice of it all and with rage at her father. All the struggling she’d done, all the work and drudgery, missing school, trying to keep things going while Mom was away, and he’d gone and spoiled it all just like that, thrown it all away without a care! She turned to the wall and sobbed with hurt, anger and helplessness. Beneath all her rage was the longing for him to come home, to be her daddy, and for things to be right. Spent with sobbing, she rolled onto her back, staring up into the darkness. And that was when she decided it was up to her. Mom and Dad couldn’t seem to sort themselves out.
Next day, still fit to explode, she waited until she knew Bob would be back from work, then marched round to Flossie’s house. She didn’t even tell Molly where she was going. Molly had joined in one of the skipping games which had taken over the street and Em ran off, leaving her to it.
Her courage high, she hammered her fists on Flossie’s door.
Daisy opened it.
‘Oh, what d’you want?’ she asked sneeringly.
‘I want me dad.’
‘Well, you’re flaming well welcome to him – I don’t want him here!’ Daisy snarled.
She disappeared and Em heard low voices inside. A smell of stew and cabbage wafted out to her along the hall. She stood with her fists clenched. From the back room she heard Mrs Dawson say harshly, ‘You just button your lip, Daisy, or else.’ Then Bob appeared.
‘Em?’ He sounded worried. ‘What’s up, love?’
‘You’ve got to come home, Dad!’ she erupted at him. It all started pouring out and tears came as well. ‘It’s horrible you living here and everyone saying dirty things about you. We want you at home! So what if Mrs Dawson’s having a babby, our mom’s got a babby as well and the rest of us. It’s stupid and it’s not fair! You’re our dad and you used to be nice and you ain’t any more. You’re nasty and stupid!’ In enraged frustration she stamped her foot, shrieking and sobbing like a tiny child.
‘Hey, Em!’ Bob tried to sound appeasing. His voice was wretched. ‘Don’t go on like that now. You’ll get everyone upset. It’ll all be all right . . .’
‘No, it won’t!’ She was beside herself now at this hopeless response. ‘Why won’t you listen? Mom’s not well and we’re all on our own and you’ve got to come home! Why’re you living here with this silly woman?’
‘Oh now, bab . . .’ He sank down onto the step, squatting so he could look into her face. ‘Come on, Em – c’m’ere.’ He held his arms out.
‘NO!’ she shouted, backing away.
‘All right. But come here while I talk to yer. To try and explain . . .’
‘Bob, what’s going on?’ Em heard Flossie’s voice from inside.
‘Nothing much. I’ll be in in a minute.’ He sounded almost fearful. Em froze inside. Her tears stopped. Nothing much.
‘You’re stupid!’ she cried, taking off down the road. ‘I hate you!’
Bob turned up on the Friday evening of that miserable week and shamefacedly handed Cynthia most of the contents of his wage packet. The sight of him on the doorstep, knocking like a visitor, felt worse to Cynthia than anything else.
‘Didn’t expect to see yer,’ she said coldly, facing him with her arms folded, fighting to remain proud and hostile when all she wanted to do was weep and beg him to come home.
‘Don’t want you to go short,’ he said.
‘Oh, and what about poor Mrs Dawson?’ she said savagely. ‘Won’t she go short if you give us your wages?’
Bob hung his head. ‘We’ll manage.’ He dared to look up at her for a moment. ‘I could come and help you do a few things.’
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Her anger flared out at him. ‘You don’t have it both ways. You’ve shown where you want to be so you can bloody stay there, with your floozy and her sodding brat. You made your bed and you lie on it, and good luck to the two of yer!’
She slammed the door in his face. Leaning against it, her face contorted in anguish and she slid down, shaking with sobs.
During that week she and Dot had helped each other out as usual, and talked endlessly over what had happened and more on finding out about Flossie Dawson.
‘I can’t see what good all this is going to do,’ Cynthia said sometimes, in a desperate voice.
‘You just wait and see,’ Dot told her. ‘We’re gunna get that bitch – one way or another.’
No one in the neighbourhood seemed to know a thing about her, though she was not greatly liked. People found her stand-offish, as if she thought she was better than anyone else. Now she had made off with the father of a popular family in the street when his wife hadn’t been well, no one had a good word to say about her.
They resolved to do something at the weekend when Molly could help them. In the meantime, though, Molly was in more trouble.
She turned up at school one morning that week with her face badly bruised again, her left cheekbone very shiny and swollen. She was obviously in pain, and after struggling through school that day, with everyone’s comments and questions, she paid her usual visit to Mrs Button’s.
‘My house can be your home from home,’ Jenny Button had told her. And Molly loved going there, where she was received with the kindness and affection that had been so lacking in her life, and often cake or other treats as well.
But that day Jenny Button took one look at her and climbed soberly off her stool. She lifted the counter and beckoned Molly through to the back.
‘Look at this, Stanley.’ Her voice was clipped with rage as she pushed Molly before her husband.
‘Oh my,’ Stanley said, seeing Molly’s injured face.
‘Who did that to you, love?’ Jenny asked, already certain of the answer.
Molly squatted down, taking refuge in stroking Bulls-eye’s wiry coat.
‘Was it your mom?’
Molly nodded shamefully. ‘It was only cos she’d had a bit to drink . . .’
‘Right.’ Jenny Button unfastened her pinner and flung it on the chair. ‘Come on – I’m taking you home.’
‘No!’ Molly’s head jerked up. ‘I’ll go on my own!’ she cried, horrified. ‘You mustn’t come!’
‘And why not?’ Jenny Button asked.
‘Cos she gets so angry. I don’t want no trouble. You don’t know what she might do.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Jenny Button said. ‘Don’t worry, Molly. I’ve just got a few things to say to her. Now you lead the way.’
‘Please don’t!’ Molly was almost in tears. She wanted sympathy, but not trouble.
‘Don’t you worry,’ Jenny Button said firmly. ‘All I want is a quick word with her.’
Molly fearfully led Jenny Button’s determined, waddling figure along to
Lupin Street and into the latest poverty-stricken yard where the Foxes had taken up residence. In fact it was not quite as dismal as the one in Kenilworth Street, being a little wider and open to more sunlight. But Jenny Button, a clean, fastidious woman, wrinkled her nose in dismay at the sight of the piles of rubbish up at the far end and the doors of the shared privies swinging open on their hinges.
She had reason to recoil further. There was already a whiff outside the door of the Foxes’ house, and when Molly pushed it open the smell that hit her from that small downstairs room was ferocious. Jenny had time just to take in the two men in their chairs, who seemed to be taking up most of the space, the older one with grizzled mutton-chop whiskers, the other pale and prematurely aged. Molly disappeared inside and Iris Fox loomed from behind the door. As usual she was dressed all in black, and her eyes were glazed and senseless with drink. She leaned voluptuously against one side of the door frame.
‘Who’re you?’ she demanded, trying to focus her gaze. ‘Oh, it’s you – what d’you want? Come to interfere in other people’s business, ’ave yer?’
Jenny Button was barely four feet ten inches in height, but she pulled herself to the full extent of it and looked forbiddingly at Iris, without the slightest hint of fear.
‘You don’t deserve to have a child,’ she began. ‘You’re a bloody disgrace and you only want her as your little skivvy.’
‘It weren’t me!’ Iris said petulantly. ‘I never lay a finger on ’er – do I, Molly?’
There was no reply. Molly seemed to have disappeared into the house.
‘It’s ’er Dad ’its ’er,’ Iris confided, in a self-pitying whine. ‘’E’s not right in the ’ead – the war done ’im. I’m as good as widowed . . .’
Barely able to control her temper, Jenny Button moved closer to Iris’s bulky figure. ‘You aren’t the only one with a ruined husband, you know – only some of us work for a living instead of drowning our sorrows. Now, you lay your finger on Molly again, and I’ll report you for child cruelty.’