‘I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that,’ said Jo, sniffing. ‘It sounds so stupid. And you’re being stupid. How am I going to get another job? All the electrical goods chains are struggling. There’s no jobs going there. I’ve been to the Job Centre. There’s nothing going in retail at all. There’s some office work, but they want all sorts of GCSEs and certificates. Which I haven’t got, have I? I’m the one that’s stupid.’
‘No you’re not,’ I said. Even though she’d just said I was stupid.
‘I should have tried to keep up with my schoolwork. Gone to evening classes,’ Jo wept.
‘You had me.’
‘I could have been catching up these last few years. But I didn’t think I needed to. I was doing so well at work . . .’
‘You’ll get another job, Jo, honest you will. There must be shop jobs going somewhere. You’ll get a job easy . . . You’ll get a job, I promise.’
I promised until I was blue in the face but of course we both knew I could turn positively navy but it wouldn’t make any difference.
Jo didn’t come to bed till very late that night and then she didn’t sleep for ages. She tried not to toss and turn but whenever I woke up I knew immediately she was awake. Lying stiff and still, staring up at our crimson ceiling. Only it doesn’t look red at night. It’s black in the dark.
I woke up very early, long before the alarm. At least the ceiling was dimly red now. Jo was properly asleep at last, her hair all sticking up, her mouth slightly open. She had one hand up near her face, clenched in a fist. I propped myself up on one elbow, watching her for a bit, and then I slid out of bed.
Jo won’t let me stick any posters or magazine pictures up in the living room. We’ve got a proper print of a plump lady cuddling her daughter with a white frame to match the walls. I didn’t want to mess up the round red glow of the bedroom but I’ve stuck up heaps and heaps of stuff in the loo. Want to see?
Of course, it’s a bit weird with all these eyes watching you when you go to the toilet. Lisa and Angela always have a giggle about it when they come to my place.
They both like my home a lot. They’ve got much bigger houses but they think mine’s best. They’re thrilled if I ever have one or other of them to stay over. (They have to come separately – and even then Jo has to sleep on the sofa in the living room.)
Angela’s house seems quite small too but that’s just because she’s got a big family, not just brothers and sisters but a granny and an auntie or two. It’s fun at Angela’s house and she’s got a super mum who laughs a lot and she cooks amazing food. Angela and I stayed up half Saturday night and got the giggles so bad when we went to bed that we still couldn’t get to sleep for ages. I nearly fell asleep in church. That’s the disadvantage of staying over at Angela’s. We went to church twice on Sunday. I might even have had to go again in the evening if Jo hadn’t picked me up in time.
Lisa’s got an even bigger home with a huge garden and a swing. We put up this tent in her garden and camped out in it, though I’d have sooner slept in her bedroom which is pink and white and ever so pretty, with special twin beds with pink and white flowery duvets. Lisa’s mum is all pink and white too and she smells very flowery but she isn’t always as soft and gentle as she looks. She nags Lisa about all sorts of stuff. But Lisa’s dad adores her. He calls her his little Lisalot and when he comes home from work he gives her such a big hug he lifts her right off her feet.
Lisa said it must be awful for me not having a dad. I said I didn’t care a bit. And I don’t. I’ve got Jo.
Sometimes Jo and I play this silly game that we’re both male, because we’ve both got funny names. I’m little-boy Charlie and she’s this big gruff funny bloke Jo who’s my dad. We often have games together where we muck around and play at being different people. When I was little my favourite game of all was me being Jo and Jo being me, so that I was the mother and got to tell her what to do.
I wandered out of the loo and into the living room and stared at the space on the carpet where Jo had sat yesterday. I felt as if I was the mother now and she was the little kid – but it wasn’t a game.
The minute Jo woke up she said, ‘What are we going to do?’ As if I knew.
I felt worried about leaving her at home when I went to school. I kept wondering if she was sitting on the living-room floor again, all hunched up. I was thinking about Jo and her job and our home so much I didn’t listen in lessons and Miss Beckworth got really narked with me. So I acted cheeky and then I was in serious trouble, but I didn’t really mind. That just made things more normal.
Miss Beckworth kept me in at dinner time. She didn’t give me any stupid lines to write out, though. She said I could work on my Victorian project.
Boring boring boring, I thought – but better than lines. And at least I had the book box to myself. I asked for something about Victorian homes.
‘Not a posh house for the rich. What about an ordinary little home for a poor family? Aren’t there any books about that?’
She found me one or two pages, but there wasn’t much. So I made a lot of it up.
HOME
There is nothing for it. I have to leave home.
I love my home very much, although it is only a tumbledown cottage, stifling hot in the summer and bitter cold in winter. The winters have always been the worst. Two little brothers and one infant sister died during the winter months, and Father passed away last February when the snow was thick on the ground.
I did not cry when Father died. Perhaps it is wicked to admit this, but I felt relieved. He treated Mother very bad, and though he earned a fair wage he drank a great deal of it. So we were always poor even then, but Mother kept our simple home shining bright. She made bright rag rugs to cover the cold stone flags of the floor and each bed upstairs had a pretty patchwork quilt. I cut out pictures from the illustrated papers and pinned them to the walls. I even pinned pictures out in the privy!
There was always a rabbit stew bubbling on the black-leaded range when we came home from school. We’d dig potatoes or carrots or cabbage from the garden, and in the summer Rose and Jessie and I would pick a big bunch of flowers to go in the pink jug Frank won at the fair.
Mother always liked us to wash our hands and say Grace at the table before eating. Father never washed his hands or said Grace, but Mother could do nothing about that. Sometimes Father did not come home until very late. One night last winter he fell coming home in the dark and lay where he was till morning. They carried him home to us and Mother nursed him night and day but the cold got to his chest.
Mother used up her sockful of savings on Father’s funeral. She bought us all a set of black mourning clothes, even little Ada-May. I thought this a waste of money, but Mother is determined that we stay respectable.
Our grandmother and grandfather did not want Mother to marry Father They thought he was a wastrel, far too fond of the Demon Drink. I privately agreed, but I did not like them saying this to Mother. They came to Father’s funeral and said it all over again. They asked Mother how she was going to manage now.
Mother said she would take in washing and do fine sewing for ladies.
Grandmother and Grandfather sniffed. They took a shine to my sister Rose, who is pretty, and offered her a home with them. It will be one mouth less for you to feed, they said. Mother asked Rose if she wanted to live with Grandmother and Grandfather and she cried and said no. So Mother said we would all stick together.
‘You will be sticking together in the Workhouse then,’ said Grandmother.
Mother stuck her chin in the air and said we would manage fine. But I heard her crying at night. I went to comfort her ‘We will manage fine, Mother you’ll see,’ I said.
But it has become very hard. Mother washes all day and sews half the night. She has become very pale and thin and coughs a good deal. I am very frightened that she will get really ill in the winter if she keeps working so hard. Frank and Rose and I tried to help out this spring and summer, running errands and sellin
g nosegays and sweet lemonade at the market. But we can only earn pennies. We need pounds to keep us out of the workhouse.
So it is up to me. I am the oldest. I must go and earn money and send it to Mother There is only one job a girl my age can go for I must be a servant.
WORK
The phone rang. I answered it automatically. Lisa and Angela are always ringing me up – and some of the other girls in our class. I don’t want to sound disgustingly boastful but I am quite popular.
But it wasn’t a girl. It was Grandma.
‘Hello, Charlotte dear,’ said Grandma.
I told a teeny white lie to Miss Beckworth. Grandma always calls me Charlotte, pursing her lips and clicking her teeth. If you’re standing right in front of her you get sprayed with spit. I found I was holding the telephone at arm’s length just in case.
‘Can I speak to Mummy, please?’ said Grandma.
That’s another weird thing she does. I’ve never called Jo Mummy in my life. But Grandma always does. As if Jo is her Mummy. Though Grandma treats Jo as if she’s a silly little toddler, not a grown-up woman with a practically grown-up daughter of her own.
Grandma’s voice is so loud it boomed right across the room to Jo. She shook her head in a panic. ‘Say I’m not here!’ she mouthed at me.
She’d been crying and she’d got to that sodden stage where everything is still dribbling. She fumbled for a tissue and blew her nose dolefully.
‘I’m afraid Jo’s just nipped out to the shops, Grandma,’ I lied.
‘Don’t be silly, Charlotte. It’s half past seven in the evening,’ Grandma said briskly.
‘There’s heaps of shops still open round here, Grandma. There’s the video shop, and the off-licence, and the Spar down the road—’
Grandma gave a disdainful snort. ‘Please don’t argue with me, Charlotte. I know Mummy’s there, I can hear her blowing her nose. I want to talk to her.’
‘Well, she doesn’t want to talk to you,’ I said – but in a little squeaky-mouse mumble as I passed the phone over.
‘Josephine?’
‘Hello, Mum,’ said Jo wearily, sniffing.
‘Are you crying?’ Grandma demanded.
‘No, I – of course I’m not crying,’ said Jo, a tear dribbling down her cheek.
‘Say you’ve got a cold!’ I whispered, miming a major bout of sneezing.
‘I’ve got a cold,’ Jo said, nodding at me gratefully. ‘Why on earth should I be crying?’
‘Well, you tell me,’ said Grandma. ‘Your father’s just read a most disturbing item on the financial page of his newspaper. It says Elete Electrical have folded.’
Jo shut her eyes and said nothing.
‘Josephine? Are you still there? Is it true? Is it a nationwide collapse? You are being kept on until they find a new buyer, aren’t you? And if the worst comes to the worst, they will give you a substantial redundancy payment, won’t they?’
Jo sniffed again but still couldn’t speak.
‘Do say something, dear,’ said Grandma. ‘We’re very worried about you. We’ve always said you’re in a very precarious position. How on earth are you going to keep up the payments on your flat if you lose your job? You and Charlotte can barely manage as it is. We do worry about you so.’
Jo opened her eyes. She stood up straight. She gave one last giant sniff and then spoke.
‘Honestly, Mum, you do get into a silly state. There’s no need to worry. We’re fine. I feel I was ready for a change from Elete anyway. Of course I’ve known for a long time that things have been precarious with the firm – which is why I applied for my new job. I have this brilliant managerial position, and a much larger salary too – so Charlie and I are very comfortably off at the moment. I really must go now, Mum, I badly need to get a hankie, my goodness, this is a terrible cold, I think I’d better have an early night with honey and hot lemon, well, goodbye, thanks for phoning.’
She said this without pausing, absolutely gabbling the last bit and then slamming the phone down quick. Then she took the receiver off again, so that Grandma couldn’t call back.
‘What?’ Jo said to me, wiping her cheeks with the cuff of her shirt.
‘You know what! You told her one socking great lie,’ I said admiringly.
‘Well, I couldn’t stand her going on and on like that.’
‘But she’ll find out that it’s not true,’ I said.
‘I’m going to make it come true,’ said Jo. ‘You’ll see.’
All the tight feeling in my tummy untwisted. It was OK. Of course Jo would get another job, easy-peasy, simple-pimple.
She was up early the next morning, hair washed, all made up, blouse fresh on, skirt carefully pressed. When I woke up she was walking up and down the bedroom, practising.
‘Good morning. My name’s Jo Enright. I’ve been the manageress of a large shop for the last year but now I feel it’s time for a change. Are there any new job opportunities in your company?’ she asked our bedroom wardrobe, shaking the sleeve of her dressing gown.
‘Good morning. I am Mr Wardrobe. Yes, Ms Enright, you can come and manage my clothes for me and I’ll pay you a million pounds a week,’ I said from under the covers.
‘Charlie! You didn’t half give me a fright!’ said Jo, finding my tummy through the duvet and tickling it.
‘Don’t make me laugh! I need to go to the loo. I’ll wet the bed, I’m warning you,’ I giggled, rolling around.
‘Well, get up and go, you lazy thing,’ said Jo, trying to tip me out. ‘Come on, you’ll be late for school. And I thought this new teacher of yours is dead strict?’
‘You’re telling me! Lisa and Angela and me didn’t feel like playing boring old rounders yesterday so we hid in the girls’ toilets. We’ve done that heaps of times and no-one ever thought a thing about it before, but Miss Beckworth came looking for us, right into the toilets, and when we all hid in a cubicle she peered underneath the door and said, “Will the girl with six feet please come out of this toilet immediately.” We thought we were really in for it, but she said she’d hated games at school too and as she’d already picked the two rounders teams we didn’t have to play just this one time and we thought great – but do you know what we had to do instead? Run round and round the playground without stopping for the entire lesson. We were absolutely knackered. And every time we ran past her and begged for mercy she said brightly, “Aren’t you lucky to be taking part in my rounders game, girls?” She’s so . . . slippery. You can’t suss out what she’s going to do next. Every time you get ready to hate her she’s funny and then when you start to think she’s an old softie she plays a trick on you.’ I was in the bathroom by this time, sitting on the loo.
‘She sounds a good teacher,’ Jo called. She followed me into the bathroom. ‘Do you think I look a bit older and more professional with my hair up? Yeah, I think so. Help me pin it up at the back, eh?’
She’s usually great at fixing her own hair but her hands were all fumbly this morning, and she couldn’t eat any breakfast because she said she was too nervous.
‘You’ve got to eat something. You don’t want to faint dramatically in the middle of a job interview,’ I said.
‘Maybe I won’t get any interviews,’ Jo said. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. ‘No. I’ve got to think positive. Right, Charlie?’
‘You bet. Good luck, Jo,’ I said, hugging her.
I hoped and hoped Jo would get a job that day. She went into town and she walked round in her high heels with this big bright smile on her face, going into all these different shops and introducing herself and asking and then nodding and walking out again, over and over, all day long. She came home and she kicked her shoes off and she howled. But then I made her a cup of tea and rubbed her feet and she stopped crying and the next day she tried again. And the next.
A shop selling weird way-out clothes was advertising for staff but they said Jo wasn’t wacky enough. A big store wanted a sales assistant for their ladies’ dress department
but they said Jo wasn’t mature enough. A snobby shop selling designer clothes made it plain Jo wasn’t posh enough.
‘This is hopeless,’ said Jo, sighing.
She tried record shops, but she didn’t know enough about modern music. She’d been too busy bringing me up to dash down the disco. She tried bookshops, because she likes reading, but the only shop with a vacancy was full of all these studenty boys in jeans making jokey remarks, and the one with the scruffiest hair and the grubbiest T-shirt turned out to be the manager and although Jo said he was friendly it was obvious she didn’t fit.
She charged out at seven in the morning on Friday to buy the local paper and she skimmed through all the small print looking for jobs.
‘Nothing!’ she said despairingly. ‘Well, no proper jobs. There’s bar work. But I’m not leaving you alone in the evenings.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’ll be fine. Go for it, Jo! You could learn how to make all those great cocktails with the little cherries and toy umbrellas. It would be fun,’ I said.
Jo went to the pub to see what it was like.
‘It would not be fun,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be making any cocktails there. Just serving pints of bitter to a lot of boring old men trying to look down my front. I could put up with that, but I wouldn’t be free till half past eleven every night and then I’d have to walk miles home unless I forked out for a taxi – and they were only paying fifty pounds for five full evening shifts. We can’t pay the mortgage with that.’
Jo went back to the local paper. ‘The only other jobs are cleaning,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, cleaning? Like at Sketchley’s?’ I said.
‘No, not a dry cleaning shop. Cleaning ladies. You know.’ I looked at Jo.
‘I can clean, can’t I?’ she said.
‘But you hate cleaning. Look at all the fights we have over whose turn it is to vacuum.’
Lottie Project Page 3