by Annie Murray
‘We should get the doctor, Mom,’ Susan begged.
‘There’s nowt ’e can do. When ’e saw Josie Ripley with it ’e just said to keep ’er comfortable, plenty of water . . .’ But even Mabel was getting worried. ‘She do look bad though . . .’
One evening Mercy half opened her eyes, aware of Susan sitting close by.
‘I’m dying,’ she whispered.
‘No—’ Susan’s voice rose in panic. ‘No, Mercy, you’re not – you just feel bad but you’ll get better!’
Mercy fell back into her half-sleeping state, her mind full of odd, buckled images.
When she was alert to what was going on around her she almost always opened her eyes to see Susan beside her, her sweet face, dark hair swept back, fastened now in a bun rather similar to Mabel’s. Susan’s eyes watched every twitch Mercy made, every shallow breath she took with a caressing devotion. Mercy saw the love in her eyes, felt it wrap round her, holding her.
‘She’s getting ever so thin,’ she heard Susan say anxiously one night, speaking into a silence which had been punctuated only by the little popping sounds from the gas mantle. ‘Look at ’er wrist – like a matchstick. She’s wasting away.’
Mercy didn’t hear Mabel’s reply. But as Susan sat leaning over her, holding and stroking her hand, the one thing she knew was that she was being cared for. She tried to find the strength to squeeze Susan’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, before sliding into sleep.
As the fever died in her and she began to recover, Susan brought her thin broth.
‘Try, Mercy,’ she begged. ‘It’ll ’elp get yer strength back.’
Mercy attempted to find the energy and will to make her arms push her body up from the mattress. In the end Mabel had to support her as Susan put the spoonful of salty broth into her mouth.
‘Johnny’s just come home,’ Susan said to her. ‘Bet you didn’t know that, did yer? ’E’s on crutches and that, but they say ‘e’ll be right as rain in a few weeks. Seems awright in ’imself. There’s ever such a lot of others down with this influenza now though, all along the street. There’s people out there with hankies pressed up to their noses in fear of catching it.’
Mercy looked up at her. She hadn’t the energy to reply. She felt very strange and light, purged in some way, as if she were floating. Johnny, all the Peppers, seemed miles away, like strangers.
Johnny came in to see her. His leg was bandaged but he’d managed to get his trousers on over the top, so that except for the crutches and the stiff way he was holding his leg, there wasn’t much left to see.
‘You feeling better?’
‘I’ll soon be up and about,’ Mercy whispered bravely. ‘Feel as if I’ve been hit by a tram.’ She looked him in the eyes. ‘You’re home then?’
Johnny looked down, tapping the foot of his good leg on the floor. ‘Ah. For now.’
As Mercy recovered, moving slowly about the house, Susan started to complain of her head hurting and shivering, and soon she was in Mercy’s place on the mattress.
‘Getting like the Peppers, we are,’ Mabel grumbled, still fit as a flea herself. ‘Beds downstairs.’
Now Mercy was having to take a turn nursing Susan, although she was still only just strong enough to move. If she didn’t go back to work soon there’d be no money for food, but she barely had the strength as yet to get across the yard. She often lay exhausted on the settle beside Susan in the dying light from the fire, not having the energy to go to bed upstairs. Seeing the frightening severity of Susan’s illness she knew just how sick she’d been herself.
When she thought Susan could hear she talked to her, tried to find things to cheer her.
‘When you get better, when the War’s all over, we’ll go somewhere,’ she promised her. ‘I’ll go out and earn some more money and you’ll be able to do your sewing again, and we’ll go somewhere. We’ll go to the sea, shall we? Wouldn’t you like to see the sea, Susan?’
She waited, listening for a murmur in reply, but nothing came except Susan’s quick, feverish breaths.
Chapter Twenty
For days Mercy’s waking existence revolved around Susan. She took turns with Mabel, washing her, giving her sips of water, holding and talking to her. She sang odd scraps of songs or hymns she could remember from the Hanley Home. Remembering the enveloping feeling of love Susan’s presence had given her when she was sick, she hoped she could do the same in return.
But by the fifth day Susan was showing no sign of getting better. The fever was raging through her, her face, already thin, was hollow, had taken on a bluish tinge, and she could barely gather the strength to speak. Mercy watched helplessly as she struggled for every breath.
One afternoon she opened her eyes and was obviously trying to say something. Mabel was out looking for work to keep them going and Mercy, who had been half dozing on the chair beside her, immediately leant forward.
‘What’s that, Susan?’
Susan’s eyes opened wide suddenly as if she’d been startled by something. ‘I’m going to die.’
Mercy knelt down, heart aching, and took one of her bony hands between her own. She pressed it to her cheek. It felt so cold and fragile. ‘No, yer not. That’s what I said, wasn’it, when I was that bad? You just wait a bit and you’ll soon feel better.’
Susan closed her eyes again. There was something in her face after she’d spoken, such a look of exhaustion and defeat. Her skin looked sallow against her black hair. All that afternoon she seemed to be fading away from them, her breathing more and more laboured. Mercy held her, crying silently, as if she might physically drag her back to health.
‘Oh Susan, hold on – for God’s sake hold on!’
By the time Mabel got home Mercy was frantic at the door waiting for her.
‘She’s not gaining – she’s getting worse if anything.’
Mabel saw Mercy’s frightened eyes and rushed to kneel beside her daughter. She listened, frantic, to Susan’s breathing.
‘Susan. Susan – love?’ Mercy could hear the panic in Mabel’s voice.
Susan’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Mom . . .’
Mabel let out a long, tremulous sigh. ‘We’re ’ere Susan. Yer going to be awright. Just try for us, won’t yer, pet . . .’
As Mabel struggled to her feet again, Mercy saw tears in her eyes, the first tears of sorrow she had ever seen her shed.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Mabel said, wringing her hands. ‘Should I go for the doctor?’
‘Yes!’ Mercy looked at Susan again. ‘And be quick!’
She knelt waiting beside Susan, holding her hand, kissing her, humming softly, her own tears falling into her lap and on to Susan’s hand. She willed all her own meagre strength to her, her sweet, placid Susan who’d been her home, her anchor all these years.
‘Oh please,’ she sobbed, thinking of all the two of them had done together, all the ordinary days they’d struggled and worked and laughed together. She was choked with remorse for the times when she’d found looking after her a burden. ‘Hold on. Just hold on. Get better for Mercy, please, Susan. You’re my sister – you’re all I’ve got.’
Susan’s eyes struggled half open again, seeing only Mercy’s face, the grey eyes filled with desperate, loving tears.
‘Don’t leave me, Mercy.’ Her voice was a rasping whisper. ‘Don’t ever . . .’
Mercy began to cry even harder. It was unbearable. ‘Oh Susan, Susan . . .’ She lay down beside her, drawing Susan’s frail body into her arms. ‘You know I won’t. I’ll always stay and look after you. I’ll never leave you, Susan.’
‘Mercy . . .’ Susan murmered. ‘Mercy . . .’
When Mabel returned, panting, with Dr Manley, the two girls were lying there, raven black and golden hair mingled together, their arms wrapped round each other, Mercy’s tensed tight as if she would never let go. There was a slight smile on Susan’s lips, but when Dr Manley knelt to examine her, she was no longer breathing.
They
buried Susan in Lodge Hill Cemetery, under a louring November sky. Alf Pepper came with them bringing Johnny, Jack and Rosalie, and Mary Jones was there too. Everyone was silent, stony-faced as Mabel’s daughter was laid to rest, the earth rattling down on Susan’s pitifully small coffin, Mercy’s posy of flowers fluttering down after it, then the sound of Mabel weeping.
‘She’s all I had,’ Mabel sobbed as they moved away from the grave. ‘Three children, all taken from me . . .’
Rosalie crept up beside Mercy and shyly took her hand. Mercy gave a little smile through her tears. Mary Jones walked with Mabel and took her arm as they walked between the quiet trees. To her surprise, Mercy also saw Alf catch up with them and take Mabel’s other arm to support her.
Johnny hung behind to walk with Mercy, swinging along beside her on his crutches as her tears fell. She found his presence a comfort.
‘I can’t bear it,’ she said to him. ‘She shouldn’t’ve died. She’d hardly had any life. And she was lovely, she was – I loved ’er . . .’
‘’Ere—’ Johnny stopped, awkward on one leg, and leant his crutches against a tree. ‘Come ’ere.’
Mercy loosed Rosalie’s hand and felt herself drawn into Johnny’s arms like a child. Gently removing her hat, he kissed the top of her golden head.
Less than a week later the Kaiser was forced to abdicate, and in another two days the War was over. The celebrations began, the parties and songs and cheering. Angel Street came alive with flags and bunting, singing and drinking. But in every court along the street there was also so much raw emotion: as much numbness, grief and sorrow as joy and relief. And the need simply to get used to the idea that the War, which had become a way of life for so many, was over.
On Armistice night Mercy was left alone in the house. Mabel had spent most of the time since Susan’s death with Mary Jones. She couldn’t stand her own home.
Mercy looked round the room, a place so full of memories of Susan there was hardly anything she could rest her gaze on without wanting to weep. Everything I’ve ever cared about is gone. Susan, Tom . . . She could hear cheers from the street. Despite her grief, she put on her hat and coat, feeling drawn to go outside, to be with other people. Staying here alone with her thoughts was too much to bear.
I s’pose I could go to the Peppers’, she thought. But the idea of piling more grief on to her already aching heart was too much for her. She stood in the yard, taking in breaths of the dark, smoky air. The celebrations were growing louder. There were shouts and shrieks of laughter, singing. She stood feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life before. She nearly went back inside, but then came the desolate thought: inside, outside, what does it matter? There’s no one for me wherever I go.
The door of the Peppers’ house opened and she saw Johnny outlined in the door frame. He came out, awkward on the crutches, and closed the door. She saw a quick snatch of flame as he lit a cigarette.
‘Johnny?’
‘That you, Mercy?’
She walked over to him. ‘Lot of carry-on out there, eh?’
The two of them walked down the entry and stood looking out into the street. A bonfire had been lit in the middle of the road, sparks flying up to the dark sky and a ragged circle of people carousing round it. A woman stood near them, swigging from a bottle. Further down was a piano they must have dragged out of the pub, and the street was full of people milling about in the flickering light.
Mercy glanced at Johnny, propped against the wall. She knew she was never going to hear much from him, of the memories that haunted his mind. But as they stood there she sensed an understanding between them, of the sheer burden of sadness they carried, so at odds with the party going on in front of them.
After a time Johnny stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and threw the butt aside.
‘It’s no good. I’ve got to get away from ’ere. There ain’t nothing for me. Not any more.’
There was a long silence, then Mercy said, ‘Me too.’
Part Four
Chapter Twenty-One
March 1919
‘Oh Dorothy, is this where they live? These houses are ever so big!’
Mercy eyed the enormous mansions along the Wake Green Road from under the brim of her hat. She’d never been as far as Moseley before, or seen so many prosperous middle-class dwellings clustered close together. She was churned up inside with nerves.
‘This is it. We’re nearly there.’ Dorothy’s hand landed on her shoulder. ‘Let’s have a look at yer.’
Mercy stood still as Dorothy brushed down her coat for the third time. The two of them were just about the same height now, though Dorothy was ageing to look rather matronly, her face careworn and a little severe. She cast away some imaginary specks from the navy-blue shoulders and straightened Mercy’s hat, also navy, but brightened round the brim by a strip of spotted fabric, black on white.
‘That’ll stop you looking like a war widow,’ Dorothy had said, trimming it for her earlier that morning.
But I am a war widow, Mercy thought as she slid the hat on, seeing her own, wan expression in the mirror.
Dorothy finished her inspection by stepping back to look down at Mercy’s boots, still bright with much polishing below her calf-length skirt.
‘You’re making me nervous,’ Mercy said. ‘Will you stop looking at me like that? You’re in more of a dither than I am.’
She leant to kiss Dorothy’s dry cheek. ‘Look – your hands are trembling! It’s me going for the job, not you!’
Dorothy gave her a stiff smile. ‘I just want the best for you, Mercy. You know I do. Now remember, try and put your aitches on if you can, and call ’er “Ma’am”. It’s a companion this Mrs Adair’s after, not a maid. And don’t go telling ’er exactly where you’ve come from. Not yet any’ow. No one’d think to look at you you was living there . . .’ She gripped Mercy’s arm and led her on.
‘The woman’s rather down in ’erself, I gather, so be a bit cheerful like. Come on – here goes.’
They turned into the gateway of a rambling, gabled house. There was a tall conifer in the front garden. Was she to live in this house? Mercy wondered. Start a new life? She looked up at the brick facade, tilting her head. For a dizzy moment she felt as if the house were swaying towards her, and she stumbled.
‘Eh – watch it!’ Dorothy caught her arm. ‘For goodness sake watch where you’re going. We don’t need you breaking a leg now, do we?’
She took the brass knocker in two hands and lifted it for two loud bangs.
A skinny maid with freckles and a long nose asked their names and led them into the rear of the house. The hall floor was a mosaic of vivid blues and whites, orange and black, and there was a wide runner of red carpet on the stairs and a well-polished bannister. At the far end of the hall a glass door led out to the garden and Mercy could see trees and a white wrought-iron bench. The whole impression was of colour, light and cleanliness. Mercy looked round in delight, in disbelief. So some people really lived like this – she had never seen a house with anything like such beauty, such comfort!
Her heart was beating very fast, and she took in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. What could the woman be like who was mistress of a house such as this? Dorothy squeezed her arm and she let out a ragged breath.
‘Mrs Adair?’ she heard the maid say. ‘A Miss Finch and a Miss ’Anley to see yer.’
‘Ah – oh yes.’ They heard a soft voice from behind the door, well modulated but unmistakeably flustered. ‘Just one moment . . . Oh goodness.’ There was a small sound, obviously from a baby.
‘One moment,’ the maid said to them unnecessarily. Soon she added, ‘You can go in now.’
The room was light and pretty, comfortable chairs covered in a chintz fabric, winter sun casting thin shadows on the richly coloured rug. In front of them, a plump woman with pink cheeks and baby-fine fair hair was holding an infant on one arm and evidently still struggling to fasten the top button of her blouse. On the chair behind
her lay a tangle of white linen and a thin, crocheted blanket.
‘’Er – Emmie—’ She called the maid back. ‘Please call Nanny to come and fetch Stevie. I must apologize—’ She turned to Mercy and Dorothy. ‘I must admit, I’d completely forgotten our appointment. In fact I don’t know quite what’s happening to me lately.’
Mercy eyed her round pink cheeks and generally rumpled air and was relieved. She’d pictured someone stiff and chilly. Immediately she warmed to the flustered, vulnerable woman in front of her.
‘’Er – do take a seat.’ Sounding slightly breathless, Margaret Adair gestured towards the sofa. Mercy and Dorothy perched side by side on the edge of it. Mercy looked over at the window, entranced by the sight of a ruby glass jug on the sill, glowing in the light.
‘No – please sit back and be comfortable,’ Mrs Adair urged them. ‘We shall have to wait just a moment or two. I’m afraid you’ve caught me a little bit on the hop . . .’
She jiggled the baby on her hip and he stared fixedly at the two of them with his brown eyes. He had a fuzz of brown hair and a solid, healthy look to him. Not like Mary Jones’s babbies, Mercy thought. Scrawny little mites, they were. The only thing marring little Stevie Adair’s looks was a wound on his left cheekbone, still pink and not quite healed. He suddenly let out a little belch and Mercy giggled, which made him show his gums in a big smile and kick his legs in excitement. He tried to throw himself forward.
‘Stevie . . . Stevie . . .’ his mother reproached him. ‘Gently now. He’s forever bumping himself,’ she apologized.
‘He’s a real bonny babby,’ Mercy said. The woman turned to her and smiled, though it was a smile which did not for a moment leave behind the look of anxiety which seemed to haunt her face.
‘Thank you, Miss . . . er, oh dear, I’m so sorry. I’m Margaret Adair. You must be . . .?’
‘Dorothy Finch.’ Mercy felt Dorothy pulling her to her feet. ‘And this is Miss Hanley. Mercy Hanley.’