by Annie Murray
Rachel gave her a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘Ta, Lily. You’re a pal. He’s quite shy, see, and it’s easier if it’s just me and him.’
‘I get the message,’ Lilian said, long-sufferingly. ‘So –’ She looked at Rachel with a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Danny boy, eh?’
III
Thirteen
April 1940
All these months it had felt as if they were waiting for it to begin properly. The Phoney War, as it came to be called, went on all through that winter. The Russians were fighting across Finland and Poland; the Germans – ‘the forces of darkness’, Fred Horton called them – forcing their way into country after country: first Poland, now Denmark and Norway. There seemed to be nothing that would stop them.
Rachel had seen her mother become more and more nervous as the news piled upon them. The Germans appeared to be drawing daily closer. With the new baby she seemed to feel everything more intensely.
‘Don’t you worry, Peggy,’ Fred kept trying to reassure her. ‘We’ve got our cellar if anything happens and it’s quite cosy down there. We’ll be quite safe.’
‘Not if they invade we won’t!’ Peggy sobbed, cradling Cissy in her arms and looking woefully down at her. ‘They’ll soon have us surrounded! And it’s bad enough stumbling about in the dark and having all this stuff stuck across the windows making you think of bombs falling on us every time you look out. And as for those horrible masks! Oh, my little darling, what kind of a world have I brought you into?’
Rachel held back from reminding her mother that she had once upon a time brought her into the world as well and that she was still here. But Peggy was also strangely more upset that Sidney Horton had been called up than his father was. She had thought that his job might be a reserved occupation, but apparently it was not. Sidney who was twenty-one had to go.
‘These poor boys,’ Peggy said. ‘It’s all wrong. It’s just like the last time. This should never have happened again – it’s wicked, that’s what it is. Just like poor James. And what good did it do anyone?’
Rachel had been rather enjoying the possibility that Sidney might meet with physical misfortune somewhere along the line – a serious injury at the least. And she realized that what was really upsetting her mother was the memory of her own brother, James, who had died in France. All Peggy’s emotions seemed to be heightened and she went to pieces at the slightest thing. Rachel wondered what had happened to the mother she used to know who had seemed strong enough to stand up to anything.
The first time she visited Gladys’s and Danny’s house was a Sunday afternoon in April. As she turned up at the Rag Market week after week to help Gladys out and see Danny as often as possible, gradually they had all got used to each other. Gladys now seemed to take it for granted that she would be around.
‘Come and have a cup of tea with us tomorrow, bab, will you?’ Gladys invited while they were in the market. ‘I’m having a little do for my pal Dolly. It’s her birthday.’
Rachel was excited to be asked. Only slowly had she come to realize how alone in the world Gladys was. She was such a strong, attractive personality, so capable and friendly, that Rachel had somehow imagined that she had a home full of family and a husband, even though she knew full well that Gladys was a widow. It sounded as if her friend Dolly was very important to her and she was happy to be included.
‘Get the number six tram, then walk along to Summer Lane,’ Danny said, as Gladys moved away and picked up a man’s jacket to inspect it. ‘We’re in Alma Street – a bit further along.’
‘Come and see the palm trees swaying,’ Gladys sang over her shoulder. She smiled at Rachel’s baffled expression. ‘It’s a song, bab –’ She continued singing, her voice deep and strong:
‘ . . . See the folks a-singing at the “Salutation”,
No snow in Snow Hill,
There’s no need to catch a train,
To your southern home where the weather is warm,
It’s always summer in Summer Lane!’
She finished off, laughing, as a couple of other people joined in beside her and there was clapping. Gladys took a joking bow.
‘So you get the tram. Get off by the nail works and Danny’ll meet you – oh yes, you will, Danny – about three, all right?’
When she arrived in Summer Lane she was still half-expecting to see palm trees but this illusion was quickly dispelled. Danny was waiting when she got off the tram and she saw his grin as he leaned against a wall. They were both growing up, she could feel it. Danny had turned sixteen and he was taller, broader in the shoulders, like a man. And she sensed that he looked at her more as a man would look. She was wearing a new pale pink frock that Peggy had made for her and some white shoes, her hair, now shoulder length, neatly pinned back each side. She hoped Danny would like the way she looked and when she saw his eyes drinking in the sight of her, she could see that he did.
‘Hello you,’ she said shyly, and the way he smiled back, his cheeks turning pink, she realized how much small things pleased him, and that he was happy to see her. ‘You gunna show me the way then?’
‘Come on then,’ he said.
Summer Lane, a shabby vista, stretched ahead of them, lined with factories, warehouses and shops, with warrens of houses packed everywhere in between. The smell of coal smoke was very strong for it was a breezeless, heavy day, the sun straining to shine through pale clouds. The street was crowded with children who’d all been turfed out to give their weary moms and dads some peace. Rachel had to dodge to get out of the way of kids whirling round the lamps on remnants of rope or dashing back and forth with hoops or makeshift carts. A lad was scooping horse muck into a bucket with a wafer of plywood and seemed to be falling out with another who wished he had got there first. The gutters were still wet and mucky from recent rain.
‘What’s that – Crocodile Works?’ Rachel asked, seeing the imposing, brick-faced works as they progressed along Alma Street. ‘Don’t tell me they make crocodiles!’
Danny chuckled. ‘Nah – knives and such. Bayonets – and big machete-type things.’ Further along, he said, ‘Here – in here.’
He led her up an entry and into a yard of five houses, three of them backing onto the houses facing the street, the other two onto a wall which divided the yard from a similar one next door. At the far end was the higher wall of a factory. It was very like the yard where they had had to go round to the toilet in Floodgate Street, only wider, and less squalid. Rachel looked around. The toilets and miskins, or dustbins, were at the far end. In the middle of the yard were both a lamp and a common tap, dripping into a drain in the ground. The blue bricks of the yard were swept very clean – she could see where the bristles of the brush had passed over the muddiest patch near the tap. A hard-faced woman with a scarf on her head was standing in her doorway, watching as they passed.
‘Got yerself a girlfriend then, Danny?’ she said. When Danny didn’t answer she added, ‘Not got a tongue in your head then, lad?’
‘That’s Ma Jackman, lives next door,’ he whispered. ‘Nosey old bag she is.’
Rachel giggled.
Gladys lived at number three of the five houses in the back court. Hers was in the corner, the last in the row backing onto the houses facing the street. When they got to the door there seemed to be a crowd inside and Danny said:
‘Oh – they’ve got started then. This lot weren’t here when I went out!’
There was a low cheer as he and Rachel came in the door. Round the table in the middle of the room, on which sat a large cake, was a crowd of people: one a dark-haired, pretty woman, who Rachel realized must be Dolly, and a gaggle of blond-haired little boys who at first sight all looked the same. Rachel made out Gladys among them, who raised an arm in greeting.
‘Come on in, bab, if you can get in!’
Gladys was wearing a short-sleeved shirtwaister frock in a soft sage green with white spots which showed off her magnificent curves. It must have been her best dress, Rachel th
ought, and it made her look younger suddenly, though she still had her hair plaited and coiled up in its rather old-fashioned style. It was the first time Rachel had seen Gladys not dressed in black or without her arms covered. They were pink and plump and comfortable-looking, though her hands were work-worn.
‘It’s our Mom’s birthday!’ One of the little boys announced as Rachel and Danny stepped into the little downstairs room. ‘It were yesterday!’ He seemed very excited. ‘There’s cake – look!’
Rachel looked around her in wonder. As she remembered the poor, bare house in Floodgate Street – how long ago that seemed now – Gladys’s downstairs room was another world. It was like walking into a cosy, immaculately clean little palace, Rachel thought. The walls were painted pale blue and there were neatly tied curtains in the window in navy-and-white gingham. The range was polished to a black sheen with well-scrubbed pans arranged on it, though thankfully, in this warmth, it did not seem to be lit. All along the mantelpiece, over which was draped a cheerful piece of crimson, flowery cloth, was an array of knick-knacks: jugs and ornaments, china animals and candlesticks, a wooden-cased clock and two palm crosses atilt in a pewter cup. Rachel saw a china country cottage which also seemed to be a teapot and at the far end was a photograph in a frame. Despite the reflected light on the glass she could just make out the man in it, who she realized must have been Gladys’s husband. On a dark sideboard on the left-hand wall, she saw a wireless with a polished wooden case.
‘So you’re the famous Rachel – we’ve heard all about you,’ the other woman said. She was slender and energetic-looking with black wavy hair pinned back from her face and lively brown eyes. She was so pretty! Rachel thought, especially with the touch of red lipstick which matched the flowers in her frock. Rachel liked her straight away.
‘Don’t tease her, Dolly!’ These words came from a stocky, jolly-looking man sitting near the range. For a moment Rachel wondered if he was the woman’s father, but then she saw that he must be her husband. He had a very pink face and the blond hair which he seemed to have passed on to every one of his sons, though his own hair was now faded almost to grey, as was his bushy moustache. He sat in his braces, leaning forward on his thighs, a cigarette in one hand. ‘Look. You’re making the wench blush. But then, as we know –’ He tapped his bulbous nose with the hand holding the cigarette so that ash dropped down on his trousers. Curses followed.
‘Mo!’ Dolly cried, exasperated. ‘You’ll have holes in those trousers again! Here – pass me one . . .’ She reached for the packet of cigarettes and lit up. ‘Ooh – and look at all this. This is so nice of you, Glad!’
Gladys waved this away as if to say it was nothing.
‘As I was saying,’ Mo addressed Rachel, with dignity. ‘You’re like a film star around ’ere – least you’d think so, the way Danny carries on.’
Rachel blushed even more. What on earth was he talking about?
‘Now who’s teasing her, Mo?’ Gladys said. ‘Come on – time for some char.’
‘Yes,’ Dolly added. ‘And you boys can keep yer thieving little mitts off that cake ’til anyone says you can have some or I’ll send you out to play up the far end – got it?’
There was a big teapot on the table covered with a crocheted cosy in varying shades of green. Beside it, a jug full of pink sweet williams and the cake with white icing, ringed with glacé cherries. The little boys – Rachel counted five of them, in descending size – were all swarming round it. Danny pointed them out and told her their names – Eric, Wally, Reggie, Jonny, Fred the youngest, only just able to stand – but by the end of the afternoon she still could not tell which of the elder four was which.
‘Hands behind yer backs,’ Dolly ordered. ‘Wally – if I have to say it once more, you’re out!’
‘I’ve been saving my rations,’ Gladys said, smiling as she poured tea into pretty china cups, with a pattern of pink dog roses winding round each. ‘I’ve had those bits of cherry since before the war – I knew they’d come in useful one day and it’s time we had an excuse for a get-together. Come on – sit down – those who can find a chair.’
‘Not you, Reggie –’ His father hoicked him from the seat of a chair by one ear. ‘Age before impudence.’
Danny and Rachel sat on a couple of stools just inside the door. Danny leaned over and whispered close to her ear, ‘Dolly is Auntie’s best friend.’ Rachel smiled and nodded. She could already see that.
Danny explained that Mo’s real name was George but he was always called Mo after their surname, Morrison. And that the pair of them had been good friends to Gladys, ever since she moved into the yard nearly twenty years ago. They seemed very nice, Rachel thought. Dolly, Danny whispered, was half-Italian. Rachel could see why Dolly and Gladys had been drawn together as friends, each with their dark, interesting looks. Of the two, Dolly was the more straightforwardly pretty with her long black hair and dancing eyes. Rachel already felt at home with them all. She gazed round at the scrubbed tiles of the floor, the neat cleanness of the few plates on the shelves and the dark red chenille cloth on the table. She looked up again at the photograph, which she now noticed had black crêpe arranged lovingly around it. From it smiled the face of a thin, dark-haired man. She could not make out the face very well. It did not seem to stand out. She found herself wondering what sort of man had been married to Gladys.
Before anyone could say anything else, a little lad about seven years old with curly red hair and freckles all over his nose appeared in the doorway, holding in his arms what appeared to be a round bundle of newspaper tied with string. At first he did not seem to notice all the other people in the room.
‘Mrs Poulter,’ he gabbled urgently, ‘can I ask Danny . . .’ He spotted Danny then, by the door. ‘Danny – you gonna come and play out? I’ve gorra new football, our dad’s done it and everyone’s out the front and they want yer to come . . .’
The boy stopped, at last, taking in the unusual sight inside. He stared at Rachel. He stared even more at the cake, with wide eyes, a gaze which he then turned with desperate appeal on Gladys.
‘He’s not coming out for a while yet, Ernie,’ Gladys said. ‘We’re just having a bit of tea.’
Rachel could almost see the saliva rising in the boy’s mouth.
‘I’ll come out a bit later, Ern,’ Danny told him.
The four older Morrison boys were shoulder to shoulder in front of the cake as if guarding it with their lives.
‘Oh, go on, let him have a bit,’ Dolly said, laughing. To Rachel she added, ‘He ain’t even from this yard, he’s from next door!’
Gladys winked at Ernie. ‘Oh ar – I s’pect we can spare you a bit, lad. You come back in a few minutes when I’ve cut the cake and you can have a little slice.’
‘Ooh, ta, Mrs Poulter!’ He tore away again on skinny legs. Rachel was amazed. It was impossible to imagine her own mother sharing what she had with anyone who was not her own. And she liked the friendly, easy feeling between Gladys and Dolly and Mo Morrison.
‘Well, many happy returns, Dolly,’ Gladys said when she had poured the tea and they had stirred in a tiny ration of sugar. She raised her teacup as if in a toast.
‘Happy birthday!’ everyone chorused.
Dolly blushed and laughed. ‘Oh, ta all of you – stop it, I’m starting to fill up!’ Rachel saw she had tears in her eyes and she wiped them, laughing at herself at the same time. ‘This is nice, Glad – and look at your cake.’
Gladys didn’t seem to know what to say and Danny called out, ‘So, when are we going to eat some of it then?’
‘Oi you!’ Gladys retorted, pointing the knife at him. ‘Just remember, I’ve know you since you was in napkins,’ she added sternly.
As if by some form of mind-reading, as soon as she put the blade of the knife to the top of the cake, Ernie’s ginger head was back at the door, accompanied by a whole gaggle of small children, all eagerly trying to see in, elbowing each other and giggling.
‘Oi, you lot!�
� Mo boomed at them. ‘What d’yer think you’re all doing ’ere – eh? Clear off, the lot of yer!’
Gladys looked up, a moment’s dismay turning to amusement.
‘Brought a few pals, ’ave yer, Ernie? Did I say the whole street was invited?’ She waited, smiling at them. They all tittered and looked hopeful.
‘Well – you’ve got quite a party now, Dolly – shall we give ’em some cake? We can’t eat all this on our own, can we? Right – now you just hang on, you lot, ’til we’ve had some.’
Once she had given a slice of sponge to everyone in the room, she turned to the excited crowd at the door. ‘Right – one at a time – hold yer hands out. Then out yer go, and there won’t be no more, right?’
Soon a sticky procession of children had passed through the room and out again, nuzzling their faces into their hands ecstatically to eat the finger of pale yellow cake. Their laughter floated in from outside.
‘Well – there you are, Dolly,’ Gladys said. ‘You’ve made a lot of people very happy on your birthday.’
Dolly laughed, still eating. ‘Little sods,’ she said, indistinctly.
‘Mrs Poulter?’ Rachel said a little later, choosing a moment when everyone else was talking. She moved her stool closer to speak to Gladys and Danny followed.
‘Why don’t you just call me Auntie?’ Gladys suggested. ‘It makes me feel peculiar you calling me Mrs Poulter all the time.’
Rachel smiled. ‘If that’s all right.’ She was delighted, loving Gladys’s approval and acceptance. ‘I was just wondering why Danny didn’t just come and live with you – after his mother, well, passed away?’
Gladys gave a harsh laugh. ‘Me? I’ll tell you why, wench. Danny’s father, Wilf – oh, he hated me like poison. I could see the way he was and I’d tell him so. I know he was never the same when he came back from France – but he was alive, which was more than any of ’em. Instead of coming back and making a life, all he could think of was the bottle. Downhill all the way, he was. The way he treated Mary – I’d’ve happily seen him hang and that’s the truth.’