by Maureen Lee
He took out his wallet, removed a business card and held it in front of her eyes. ‘Francis M. O’Leary, Printer’, she read, followed by his address and telephone number. ‘Wedding Invitations, Tickets, Letterheads, Business Cards, etc.’
‘What does the “M” stand for?’ she asked.
‘Money, girl,’ Francie said with a wicked grin. ‘I thought, seeing as we live in a capitalist society, I may as well be a fully paid up member. It means I get the benefit of me hard graft, not some cruddy employer. I put the printing machine in the bedroom after our Pauline and Sandra left home. Not doing bad for meself either.’
Daisy had arrived, along with Mrs Kavanagh, who fortunately didn’t remember this was the man who had nearly sent her youngest daughter to a convent. Before he left, Francie said nonchalantly that if Josie would like to give him her address, he’d drop in sometimes, and she said she was already looking forward to it.
Mrs Kavanagh wanted to know how Dinah was getting on now that she was five days old.
‘Fine.’ Josie didn’t haunt the nursery like the other mothers, looking through the glass to reassure themselves that their baby wasn’t crying. Nor did she welcome having the child thrust at her several times a day to breast-feed. She felt no connection, no relationship, to the tiny, pale, fair-haired infant, almost two pounds lighter than Laura, who bore no resemblance to either her mother or her father. In another five days she would be sent home with a baby she still didn’t want.
Spencer & Sons were doing their best to hang on to the typist whom Sid claimed kept the firm afloat. Josie said he was being ridiculous – there were dozens of typists around, as good as her or better – though she appreciated a pile of invoices or estimates arriving via Chrissie or one of the lads which she would type on the machine that now stood on her table, something that would never have happened with the insurance company she’d worked for, or Ashbury Buxton in Chelsea. Not many women with a newly born baby were in a position to earn a wage, but she flatly refused to accept the amount she’d had before. ‘It’s too much. You’ll have to pay someone to be in the office and answer the phone.’
Chrissie claimed she missed the office, but not the typewriter. ‘I didn’t mind answering the phone. It gave me something to do while Sid and the lads were at work.’
Everyone agreed on two pounds less a week, and everyone was happy.
Dinah was a fractious baby. She cried if she was wet, if she was dry, if she was hungry, if she was full. She cried for no reason at all as far as her anxious mother could see. Josie nursed her, cursed her and poured gripe water down her throat, because Daisy had consulted a book in the library which suggested she might have three-month colic. If so, it would stop in another five or six weeks.
‘I don’t think I can stand another week,’ Josie groaned, ‘let alone five or six. Laura hardly cried at all.’
‘That was Laura, this is Dinah,’ Daisy said patiently. ‘She’s such a sweet little thing, so pretty.’ She toyed with the white fingers which quickly curled around her own. Dinah gave a little shuddering breath and fell asleep in her arms.
‘You seem to have a knack with her.’
Daisy looked Josie full in the face. ‘She knows I love her, that’s all.’ She turned her gentle gaze to the baby. ‘I don’t half wish she were mine.’
Josie turned away, ashamed. She didn’t love her daughter, and doubted if she ever would. Perhaps that’s why Dinah cried so much. It wasn’t gripe water she needed, but her mother’s love.
She’d been half expecting someone to complain about the noise. ‘I know it can’t be helped, dear,’ the smart, middle-aged woman who lived in one of the flats below said when she came upstairs to point out that neither she nor her husband had had a wink of sleep the night before. ‘All babies cry, though yours seems to be a champion. We were wondering if you intended to stay, renew your lease. If so, we thought we’d look for somewhere else because I dread to think what it’ll be like when she starts teething, and that can go on for months.’
‘I am moving,’ Josie said tiredly. She hadn’t had a wink of sleep either, and the woman had woken up Dinah, who’d started to cry, just as she was attempting to get on with some typing. ‘I’m looking for a house. Until then, I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with me and me baby. Tara.’
She closed the door, without mentioning she’d had a letter from the agent who managed the property informing her that the lease strictly forbade children under sixteen and, while he wouldn’t evict a mother and baby, he’d had several complaints, and would be obliged if she would find somewhere else as soon as possible.
Josie would have moved the next day had she been able to find a house, where the neighbours could complain until they were blue in the face about a crying baby but there was nothing they could do, and she would have a proper kitchen and hang the nappies out to dry. As things were, she was spending a small fortune in the launderette. And Lily had been right about the stairs. Coming up wasn’t so bad, but going down was treacherous. She had to take Dinah all the way to the bottom floor, put her in the pram which she kept in the hall – no doubt someone had complained about that, too – then go all the way back for the washing or her shopping bag. Coming home, she did the same thing in reverse. It was worse than Cypress Terrace in a way. Although this room was incomparably nicer, in London Jack had been writing, and there’d been a point to all the inconvenience they’d had to put up with.
Francie O’Leary had taken to dropping in at least once a week. He arrived that night with a bottle of wine and cheered her up somewhat. She switched off the light in favour of the white shaded lamp, which made the room look smaller and more cosy. It was raining outside, and a blustery wind kept throwing the rain against the windows. The glass creaked and squeaked in protest. Dinah was fast asleep in the shadows at the other end, and Josie prayed she’d stay that way.
Francie still found it incredible that there was a man alive who had been willing to marry Lily Kavanagh. ‘Does she hang him on a crucifix at night to sleep?’
‘No.’ Josie giggled.
‘I visualise him with an arrow through his chest, like a martyr.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She sipped the wine. Francie always made her feel young again. He reminded her there was a world outside that could be fun. ‘Neil’s a perfectly nice, normal young man. He loves Lily to death.’
He grinned. ‘That’s appropriate. The poor guy signed his death warrant when he married her. She’ll nag him into the grave in no time. Eh, what about Ben? I understand he got hitched to a cracking-looking girl. I can’t remember her name.’
‘Imelda. They’ve got two children, a boy and a girl.’ She hadn’t seen Ben since Lily’s wedding, since which time things had got worse. Lily said that Imelda was completely unstable, regularly threatening suicide. She was on tablets for her nerves.
‘I liked Ben, he was a nice guy. I wouldn’t mind getting in touch with him. Have you got his address?’
‘No, but I can get it for you. I think he’d appreciate that, Francie.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s not very happy.’
‘Marriage!’ Francie snorted. ‘I wouldn’t get married if they paid me, not even if it were Marilyn Monroe on offer. Especially if it were Marilyn Monroe. She’s already on her third husband. Marriage is an unnatural state. How can people be expected to get on with each other for a whole lifetime? It’d be okay if you could change partners every few years.’
‘So you’re going to remain a bachelor gay?’ Dinah made a noise, a little hiccup, and Josie turned to watch the cot, praying the bedclothes wouldn’t move, indicating that the baby had woken up, hungry for a meal, and poor Francie would have to be surrendered to the rain, which was coming down in buckets, while she breastfed. She was enjoying their conversation.
‘I’d sooner be a bachelor-dead-miserable than be married,’ Francie said with an elaborate shudder. ‘Talking of Marilyn Monroe, Some Like It Hot is on at the Forum. Let’s go one night. I’ve been told it’s
the gear.’
‘Go to the pictures?’ Josie looked at him, astounded.
‘People do it all the time,’ he said airily. ‘It’s quite a common practice. Some people even do it two or three times a week. In fact, I’ve known you go to the pictures before now, Josie, so don’t look so surprised. I distinctly remember you were there when I saw Samson and Delilah.’
‘You spoiled it,’ she pouted. ‘It’s just that I can’t imagine doing anything normal, like going to the pictures, for years.’ She couldn’t imagine reading a book, painting her nails or going shopping for anything that wasn’t to do with babies.
‘Get someone to babysit, and we’ll go next week.’
She’d drunk too much wine, but it was a pleasant, hazy feeling, relaxing. Francie had managed to make her feel vaguely happy. Before getting into bed, she fed Dinah, rubbed her back and raised a satisfactory burp, then changed her nappy. ‘Now, look here,’ she said sternly. ‘Mummy feels exceptionally tired tonight, and she’s a little bit drunk, too, so I’d appreciate a good night’s sleep, if you don’t mind.’
Dinah was an unresponsive child. She didn’t gurgle or wave her arms, as Laura used to, but regarded her mother coolly when she was put in the cot. Josie climbed into bed and immediately fell asleep.
It was still dark when she woke up and, apart from the rain which had become a deluge, the room was silent. But she knew what was about to happen. After a few minutes there was a little cry, like a kitten’s mewl, followed by another, slightly more urgent. It was as if her brain was connected to her child’s, and it recognised when she had awoken and was about to cry.
Josie groaned. She’d been having a lovely sleep, the bed felt exceptionally comfortable and she would have given anything on earth to stay under the warm covers, particularly on such a stormy night.
The cries rose in volume, and she could barely drag her lethargic body out of bed. She swayed dizzily, staggered to the cot, picked up Dinah and carried her back to bed. Halfway through the feed she fell asleep, and woke up to find an irritable Dinah sucking at an empty breast. She transferred her to the other breast, and managed to stay awake until the baby had had her fill. The rain thundered on the roof, and she could have sworn she could hear the slates move.
Josie sighed. She always found these dead-of-night feeds lonely and depressing, sorely missing Jack’s warm presence in bed beside her, reminding her that she shouldn’t have let him go, not for ever. But she’d been in such a state, sick with grief over Laura. Why, she thought fretfully, hadn’t Jack understood she wasn’t herself when she said she didn’t want to see him again? But he had been sick with grief and guilt himself. The best plan would have been to part for a while, see how she felt, how he felt, in a few months. She considered putting an advert in a newspaper, asking him to contact her, but there were probably hundreds of papers in California, and he might not even be there. Like the time he had disappeared for two days, he could be anywhere. Anyroad, if he wanted to see her again, he was in a position to contact her.
‘I’ll burp you and change your nappy in a minute,’ she muttered tiredly, leaving Dinah in the bed and covering her with the eiderdown while she went to get a drink of water. It must be the wine – her mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage.
She drank two glasses thirstily, but on the way back from the sink she felt dizzy again and had to sit on the settee.
It was the slamming of a door that woke her, voices on the stairs. The rain had stopped. Cold December sunshine glimmered through the curtains, and Josie, waking up on the settee, remembered she’d left Dinah in the bed.
She might have choked on her vomit, smothered under the eiderdown. Terror gripped Josie like an icy fist. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘No!’ Somehow she got to the other end of the room. The bottom half of the baby’s face was covered with the eiderdown. Josie snatched it away. Dinah lay completely still, eyes closed, very pale.
‘Dinah!’ The tiny body felt cold when she picked it up. She pressed her daughter against her breast, her cheek against the pale one. Dinah stirred and uttered a little sigh, the most welcome sound Josie had ever heard. ‘Dinah, oh, darling, I thought you were dead.’ She sat on the bed and rocked to and fro, her child clutched in her arms. ‘I love you, darling. Mummy loves you more than words can say.’ She was trembling, and rocking like a mad woman. ‘I love you, I love you,’ she said in a hoarse, shaky voice, over and over again.
She moved her arm so that they faced each other, and her eyes met the light blue, almost lavender-coloured eyes of her daughter. There was something about her mouth she’d never noticed before, something determinedly serious, almost wilful, about the small pink lips. ‘You’re going to be a little madam when you grow up,’ Josie said, and could have sworn that Dinah smiled.
‘It was bound to happen some time, Jose,’ Daisy said that night. ‘Having Dinah happened too soon, while you were still grieving for Laura. If the circumstances had been different, it would have been best to wait a year or so before you had another child.’
‘I’ll never stop grieving for Laura,’ Josie said quickly. ‘Dinah’s just blunted the edges a bit, that’s all.’
‘I know, luv. But it’s not as intense as it used to be, I’ll bet. I didn’t want to go on living when Ralph jilted me and I lost me baby in the space of a few weeks. It took a while before I realised the world hadn’t ended, that life was still there to be lived and I could still enjoy meself, as it were. The world would be a miserable place, Josie, if everyone gave up the ghost when someone dear to them died.’
‘I feel terrible.’ Josie glanced at the cot, where Dinah was peacefully sleeping. ‘I hope she doesn’t grow up with the feeling I don’t properly love her.’
‘You’ve always loved her, Josie. It just took a while for it to sink in, that’s all.’
The sun continued to shine the next day. It was shining at one’clock when Josie’s doorbell rang. She hoped it was Lily with Samantha, and they could take the babies for a walk in Princes Park.
A strange, elderly woman was standing on the step. She wore a fur coat and too much jewellery, and her stiffly permed hair was the colour of iron. She’s pressed the wrong bell, Josie thought. It’s someone else she wants.
‘Hello, Josie,’ the woman said, however, and there was something terribly sad, terribly lost about the dark eyes in the yellow face when Josie’s face showed no sign of recognition.
‘I’m afraid—’ Josie began, but the woman interrupted with, ‘It’s Ivy, luv.’
Her last contact with Aunt Ivy had been in the holiday camp, when she’d sent a note more or less telling her to get lost. What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to act? ‘Hello,’ she said stiffly. After a long pause, when Aunt Ivy showed no sign of going away, she muttered, ‘You’d better come in.’
It was horrible, really horrible, watching the blunt yellow fingers pick up Dinah from the cot and Aunt Ivy stroke the pale cheeks of her great-niece. ‘I think that’s what she is. And I’m her great-aunt.’ Josie prayed Dinah would cry, so she’d have an excuse to snatch her away, but Dinah sat uncomplainingly on Aunt Ivy’s knee, letting the horrible woman maul her.
‘She’s the image of me mam.’ Ivy looked up, beaming. ‘There’s a wedding photo on the mantelpiece in the parlour. Do you remember, luv? I’ll bring it round next time I come,’ she said when Josie shook her head.
She intended coming again! Not if I can help it, Josie vowed. She wouldn’t let her in. No way did she want Aunt Ivy back in her life, the woman who had betrayed her own sister, then her sister’s child.
Aunt Ivy sighed. She gently put Dinah in her cot, and glanced at Josie. ‘I’m not exactly welcome, am I, luv?’
Josie didn’t answer. Aunt Ivy sighed again, and there was that same sad, lost look in her eyes. ‘I don’t blame you. I let you down more than once. Trouble with me, I’ve never been much of a judge of character. I turn the good people away, and welcome the bad ones with open arms.’
Still Josie didn’t
answer. What else could she do but agree?
‘Do you mind if I take me coat off, luv? It’s hot in here.’
‘Of course not.’ She mustered every charitable bone in her body and said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Anyroad, she longed for one herself.
‘I’d love one.’ Aunt Ivy removed her coat and came and sat on the settee. She glanced around the room. ‘It’s nice, this place, but a bit cramped for a baby.’
‘I signed the lease before I realised I was pregnant, didn’t I?’ Josie said shortly. ‘I’m looking for a house.’
‘Daisy Kavanagh said you’d been given notice to quit.’
‘Yes.’
Aunt Ivy raised her yellow hands for the tea. Josie took hers to the table and sat on a wooden chair. Her aunt looked at her almost slyly. Josie remembered the look well from her first years in Machin Street, and her stomach curled again. ‘I can help with the house,’ Ivy said. Her voice was surprisingly timid.
‘You know where there’s one to let?’ Her spirits rose. ‘I can only afford a dead cheap place.’
‘No, but there’s plenty around that you can buy.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ She made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
‘I said I can help.’ Aunt Ivy put her tea on the floor and reached for her handbag. ‘I’ve just been to the bank. I told the manager weeks ago that I wanted to take everything out. You’ve got to give notice with long-term investments – they don’t just hand the cash over at the drop of a hat.’ She reached into the bag, drew out a cheque and handed it to Josie. ‘This is for you and Dinah.’
Josie ignored the cheque. It was pathetic. Ivy was trying to buy her way back into her affections, not that she’d ever truly been there. But Aunt Ivy had always been pathetic. ‘I don’t want your money, thanks all the same.’
‘But it’s your money,’ Ivy said eagerly. ‘When Mam died, there was over six hundred pounds in the bank. Half belonged to Mabel, as well as half the house. The way things went, well …’ a spasm of pain crossed her face ‘… she never got it, did she?’