Birmingham Friends

by Annie Murray

  The vicar was due round any minute, I remembered. One of Mummy’s parish meetings. I threw down my cricket bat and ran towards the house. Even Olivia perked up. She had been pouting on the bench in front of the hollyhocks because William had caught her out. She and the others weren’t supposed to know about Granny, but of course they did.

  ‘She must’ve taken all her clothes off again!’ Olivia cried, almost clapping with delight.

  The four of them left in the garden watched as I scurried into the house. They stood in silence, unable to resist trying to hear what was afoot: Olivia, William looking embarrassed and Angus and John from next door.

  The house felt very dark and cool as I ran inside. Mummy emerged from the kitchen and seized my arm.

  ‘Do something with her quickly,’ she hissed, unrestrained now we were alone. I was startled, feeling her hand on my arm. We hardly ever touched each other. ‘The wretched, selfish old woman. This is too much. Mr Hughes could be on the doorstep for all I know.’

  Clenching her hands into fists to try and quell her frustration, she retreated back into the kitchen. She must have thanked heaven for the nets in the front windows, or anyone passing along Chantry Road might be treated to a glimpse of her mother-in-law. It wasn’t just embarrassing that she was standing there starkers like that: it made it look as if Granny wasn’t being cared for properly, and Mummy was supposed to know about taking care of people.

  I tiptoed nervously along the tiled hall. The drawing-room door was not quite shut and I tried to peer through the crack between the hinges but my specs got in the way, so I pushed the door a little further open.

  Granny was standing with her back to me. She had not a stitch on. Her hands were clamped to her waist, and she was taking in deep breaths through her nose and letting them out through her mouth like a steam train mustering force. Though I’d never in my life seen Mummy naked, the sight of Granny was something I was growing used to. Sometimes I helped her dress, and very often I sat perched on a cork-seated stool as steam curled round the bathroom, and kept her company while she bathed. In fact that was when we had our best talks.

  I could talk to Granny Munro about anything. What was such a relief about her was the way she was so straight and open, just came out with it when she was thinking something. And I could tell her so much, like how I got fed up with Mummy lumping me in with the boys all the time and never buying me anything pretty like Olivia had and how I wished Angus was my brother instead of Wonderful William.

  She’d tell me stories about her childhood and her life in North Berwick with Grandpa Robert and how she swam in the grey foamy sea every day up until she left. We said things to each other we knew mustn’t be repeated.

  ‘When you get to my age,’ she’d say, soaping her vanilla blancmange of a belly, ‘and you’ve had as many children as I have, you get past modesty and all that sort of nonsense.’ Then, with a conspiratorial little smile, she’d add, ‘I don’t suppose your mother will though, do you?’

  Despite this, it was odd seeing her there in the drawing room. I smiled, half in amusement, half pity. Sarah Munro had always been a big woman – I was left in no doubt from where I’d inherited my solid figure – and had not shrunk much in old age. The years had just made everything droop a bit. Her bottom was large and squashy and her back covered by sagging folds of flesh. But she stood good and straight, her soft, steely-grey hair still neatly pinned up. She was a strong woman for seventy-five.

  I suppose I’ll be like that one day, I thought, looking down at Granny’s plump, mottled legs.

  I clicked the brass door-handle to give her a chance, let her know she wasn’t alone. Granny whipped round, glowering, her long, pink breasts swinging as she moved. I saw she still had her half-moon glasses on the chain round her neck. When she saw me her expression lost some of its defiance.

  ‘Ah, it’s you.’ Her Edinburgh accent was broader than my father’s, who had long moved south, the tone of her voice surprisingly soft. ‘I suppose you’ve been sent to tame me?’

  I, at fourteen, was the only one who could ‘deal with’ Granny Munro. Even her son, doctor or no doctor, could make little headway with her.

  ‘Mummy’s afraid Mr Hughes’ll see you.’

  Granny’s broad, pink face broke into a grin. ‘I’ll bet she is. The sight of me would be enough to give that namby-pamby little preacher a turn.’

  Anxiously, I peered back into the hall to see if Mummy was coming, but there was no sign of her.

  ‘Granny, look, I’ll help you get dressed, shall I? You’ll only get into more trouble if you don’t. Shall we go upstairs, and I’ll bring you some tea up afterwards?’

  ‘I suppose if I stay here I’ll be shot at dawn. Or it’ll be rat poison in the tea. That’ll be the next thing.’

  I gathered up the clothes that she had apparently not just discarded but hurled all round the room: garters and bloomers, the heavy dress and shift and her stiff whale-boned corset. Her stockings had landed on the standard lamp.

  ‘I’ll check the coast is clear and then we can get back upstairs.’

  The doorbell rang as we were crossing the hall. My mother dashed out from the kitchen and made frantic flapping motions at us, her body taut and furious.

  ‘Oooh,’ Granny said, stopping in full view of the front door and clasping her hand to her chest, ‘I think I can feel a funny turn coming on.’

  ‘Just get up there,’ Mummy snarled at her, gesturing at Simmons our maid, whose eyes were goggling, to wait before opening the door.

  Granny suddenly dropped the pretence and shot with impressive speed up to the first floor.

  ‘Why d’you do it?’ I panted when we were up in her room overlooking the garden and I was rolling her stockings up her legs.

  ‘Got to get someone to take notice of me somehow, haven’t I?’ she said petulantly, perched on the pale blue candlewick bedspread. ‘Locked away up here.’

  I clicked my tongue. ‘You know you can come down any time you like.’

  ‘Yes, but with her around . . . Heavens, no wonder your father’s wrapped himself up so tight in his work.’

  I’d heard these complaints so many times now that I didn’t rise to them. ‘I’ll go and fetch you some tea now, shall I?’

  I settled her in the easy chair in what was in fact a light, comfortable room with many of her possessions round her. I carried up tea and slabs of shortbread and stayed while Granny enjoyed them, sitting with the window open over the garden. It had gone quiet outside. I sat on an upright wooden chair, my tanned legs spreading over the seat.

  ‘I gather you managed to behave yourself while I was away?’

  ‘You deserted me.’ She looked at me out of the corner of her eye with mock reproach.

  ‘It was only ten days.’

  ‘And it was lovely,’ Granny stated.

  ‘It was . . .’ I hesitated. Since the holiday I had tried to push the disturbing elements of it to the back of my mind. ‘Yes, it was lovely.’

  Granny ruminated on her oblong of shortbread.

  ‘I’d like to marry someone like Alec Kemp,’ I said, dreamily.

  Granny snorted. ‘Nonsense. He’s a Tory.’

  I giggled. ‘And he’s married already.’

  ‘And he’s old enough . . .’

  ‘. . . to be my father!’ I finished for her, laughing.

  Granny sat re-stirring her tea. She dropped the spoon noisily into the saucer and said, ‘No. The one you ought to marry is Angus.’

  ‘Angus?’

  ‘Yes, Angus. If ever I saw a nice boy it’s Angus.’

  ‘But he’s only fifteen.’ Set beside the glamour of Alec Kemp, Angus seemed a mere child.

  ‘And you’re only fourteen.’

  ‘But Angus is just a friend. I mean he’s just, well – Angus. And he’s so quiet and serious all the time.’

  Granny shrugged. ‘You don’t want to get married. Get a job instead. Far better paid. If I hadn’t got myself married and tied down out i
n the sticks I’d have had a much better time. Out there, marching with them all.’ She held her arm out as if to indicate a column of militant women parading through the garden. It was a cause of continuing regret to her that she hadn’t been able to take an active part in the Women’s Suffrage movement. She switched into her rhetorical tone. ‘Marriage is pure slavery anyway. Look at your mother. Frustration, that’s her problem. Don’t think I don’t sympathize, because I do. Much too full of ideas to be married, that one.’

  Suddenly she flagged, and sank back in the chair. ‘Where’s my book? You get out with your friends. I’ll be good, I promise.’

  The others had moved down to kneel round the pond at the far end of the garden. They had a net and a bucket and were looking for tiddlers. Butterflies were slowly folding and unfolding their wings on the buddleia.

  As I walked across the lawn, I saw Angus coming back in from next door carrying another net. There was a gate between our garden and the Harveys’ which enabled us to pass freely between them.

  Angus was a tall, slim boy with a pale complexion and dark brown hair cut very short at the back but longer at the front so that it tumbled over his forehead. He had serious eyes and a more uncertain manner than William’s, whose body had a kind of physical arrogance about it. Like me, William had inherited a solid figure, but in him it was expressed in muscle: a brawny torso, thick, rugby-playing legs and a broad, freckled face topped by wavy fair hair. Angus was much lighter and more delicate looking, and dressed as ever in the careless Harvey way, in long baggy shorts and a buff-coloured shirt that looked a size or two too big.

  William and I tolerated each other just about, but I always liked Angus better. William was self-confident, an achiever both in class and sports. Angus appeared less certain of himself and William often put him down.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ William would shout, exasperated, during a cricket game. ‘If you’re going to bowl at least put a bit of elbow into it. Even Katie could do better than that!’

  And Angus would try harder, very seldom rising to William’s needling. It took me a long time to realize how much he minded it.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Angus asked. He sounded concerned, and I was grateful to him for being so and for not poking fun.

  ‘She’s had a cup of tea. I waited with her for a while.’

  Angus nodded. ‘Poor thing. She’s missing Scotland I expect. My mother says she’s welcome to call round at our place any time, you know.’ He gave me his sudden smile which made his grey eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘We thought we’d go into the park. We were waiting for you.’

  The gardens on our side of the road all shared their boundaries with a private park which had a lake in the middle.

  As we neared the pond, Olivia looked up from where she was kneeling beside William on the rough slabs round the water.

  ‘About time!’ she called, jumping up. ‘Let’s go! There’s nothing to catch in here. Come on, William.’

  To the equal astonishment of me and William, who was nearly sixteen and felt himself to be above our company nowadays, Olivia thrust her arms through each of ours and pulled us with her to the gate at the bottom of the garden. William strode along, apparently unable to resist but looking most uncomfortable.

  We walked down the leafy path and round the still water of the lake to a shady spot from where you could look back up to the line of Chantry Road’s huge, ornate houses, their windows catching the light of the afternoon sun. Leaves rippled white, green, yellow. Moorhens and mallards slid over the surface of the lake. The boys started off with the nets. Olivia and I lay on our stomachs on the cool ground waiting for a turn and looking down into the dark water.

  ‘I look like the full moon,’ I sighed. My round face shuddered in the water’s surface. ‘Except the moon doesn’t wear specs.’ With her big dark eyes and long wavy hair Olivia looked like a wispy Ophelia in the water. ‘I wish I was pretty like you, Livy.’

  Olivia smiled. She could be a minx when attacked but when I made a comment like that it brought out her better nature. ‘You’ve got a lovely face. All sort of big and generous.’ She called out to the boys, ‘Come on – let us have a turn now, won’t you?’

  I took one of the long-handled nets and dipped it into the water. It came up containing nothing more than a coating of green slime.

  ‘Try again.’ I found Angus at my shoulder. He watched seriously as I dipped in the net and on the fourth attempt brought it up with something tiny flapping in the bottom amid the leaves and weed. Carefully we turned the net out into the enamel bucket. I saw the deft, precise movements of Angus’s slim fingers. Heads together, we watched the tiny, almost transparent creature struggle into the water.

  ‘We shall let it go, shan’t we?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes – it’d be cruel not to.’

  For a second I became aware of Olivia watching us, her brown eyes puzzled. Suddenly she twirled round, floral skirt dancing about her legs, and skipped over to William.

  ‘William, will you help me? I can’t seem to catch anything either.’

  William picked up his bucket looking surprised, walked over to Olivia and squatted down, his thick legs bent up on each side of the pail. Olivia inclined towards him as if she had a secret to tell him, and William, startled, jumped back and overbalanced, sitting down suddenly.

  Olivia let out peals of giggles. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried. ‘Here – let me pull you up.’

  ‘I can get up myself,’ William said crossly, with a flushed face.

  She kept on at him all that afternoon: ‘William, will you help me? William, walk with me. Will you carry my bucket?’ I couldn’t understand this sudden attention paid to him, nor his passive response to her clamouring. If I’d carried on like that I was quite sure he’d have told me to leave off. Finally he did say gently to her, ‘Can you leave me alone for a bit now, Livy, eh?’

  Pouting slightly, Olivia stepped over to me.

  ‘William’s being rather mean.’ She turned her head to look at him over one shoulder, coquettishly, strands of her chestnut hair half covering her face.

  ‘Just leave him alone for a while,’ I replied, carefully moving my net through the water. ‘Anyone’d think you’ve got ants in your pants this afternoon.’

  I was so absorbed in helping Angus to release some more tiny fish into the bucket that it was some time before I noticed Olivia was crying.

  ‘Hey, what on earth’s the matter?’ I flung an arm round her slim shoulders, but she wriggled uneasily.

  ‘Come over here,’ Olivia said. She seemed all twitchy and strange. We left the boys and walked back up slowly under the trees towards the garden.

  ‘I feel so peculiar,’ Olivia sniffed. ‘It’s – Katie, I got my – you know – today.’

  I turned to her, baffled.

  ‘My – when you become a woman.’ Olivia seemed to have to wring the words out of herself.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Gosh. I see. Your periods.’ Thanks to Granny Munro I knew all about those. ‘Bad luck. Is it making you feel rotten then?’

  ‘No. My tummy hurts a bit. It’s sort of gripy, down here.’ She laid a hand on the lower part of her stomach. ‘But it’s not that. I feel awfully queer. I’ve never felt like this before. As if I want something very badly but I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again. I hadn’t the remotest idea what Livy was talking about.

  ‘And when I told Mummy about it, she got all cross and then started crying. It’s made me feel awful.’

  I was astonished. Hoping to cheer Livy up, I said, ‘Never mind. Let’s go in and have some tea before you have to go. Mrs Drysdale’s made shortbread and there’s chocolate cake.’

  Olivia burst into tears all over again.

  ‘What’s up now?’ I cried.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She was wiping her face with her hanky. ‘It’s just how I feel.’

  When we got inside, Mummy seemed to have calmed down. Her meeting was over.

  ‘We
ll, you look like a wet weekend,’ she said briskly to Olivia in her best nursing sister tone. ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘Coming,’ I said.

  We sat in the kitchen and Mrs Drysdale poured tea for us all from the big brown pot with its green and orange knitted cosy. I loved the kitchen. It was warm and steamy in winter with the range going full blast and cool in summer with its dull red quarry tiles and shady atmosphere.

  We all sat round the table, Mummy with her thin body quite upright, as if she had a steel bar up the back of her blouse. She had fastened her hair up again at the back and it waved neatly round her face. She was wearing a moss-green cardigan which had a tie of braid at the neck.

  ‘You’ve got so much on, Mummy,’ I exclaimed, looking at her. ‘It’s such a boiling day!’

  ‘It may be outside,’ she replied as she sliced up the moist cake, a smooth ridge of butter icing between the two layers, ‘but I’ve been in sorting out this parish work.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I forgot.’ I always seemed to say the wrong thing.

  ‘Your father’s going to be late.’ I wondered why she was even commenting on the fact since Daddy was late almost every day. ‘Sometimes I don’t know why he doesn’t take a truckle-bed and go and sleep in the surgery.’ She checked herself, remembering that Mrs Drysdale was still working over by the sink. Mummy pointed at the ceiling. ‘I take it she’s quietened down?’

  ‘She’s all right,’ I assured her, glad I’d managed to do something right. ‘And she’s promised faithfully to be as good as gold from now on.’

  ‘Well,’ Mummy said drily. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Can I come with you, Daddy? Please?’

  He hesitated over his boiled egg, not meeting my eye. William was scraping his toast with irritating loudness so that charred black crumbs dusted his plate.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Mummy intervened abruptly. ‘You haven’t been down there for years. You’re too old.’

  ‘What your mother means,’ Daddy said, his manner less harsh than Mummy’s, ‘is that you might find some aspects of it rather unappealing at your age. You were just a little girl when you used to come before.’