September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  The light went out. ‘You’re no fun,’ he grumbled.

  ‘You’ve missed the best ones anyway,’ I said.

  He let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Well, if Clara Bow hadn’t been called Clara …’

  ‘Right, I’m listening.’

  ‘If she’d been called Florence and she’d shorted it to—’

  ‘Flo?’ he interrupted. ‘Flo Bow? Not bad for a beginner.’

  I felt damned by this faint praise. ‘Right. Which president of the United States had a facial tic? Go on, Clever-clogs, work that one out.’

  He pretended to think for a moment, was probably miles ahead of me. ‘I give in,’ he said.

  ‘Blinkin’ Lincoln. Now go to sleep.’ Frank was the best man in the whole world, because he loved me, looked after me and made me laugh in bed. But I wasn’t going to tell him what he already knew.

  Chapter Six

  It was a large and airy flat with tall windows, two living rooms, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. I liked living there, was comforted by the comings and goings in the street below. After a while, I gained enough confidence to put the babies in their Silver Cross, Edward at the sleeping end, Gerald seated opposite, then we would saunter forth into the town. The old-fashioned lift was a bonus, as we would never have got out during weekdays while Edward was so young. As time passed, I ventured further afield, to the Town Hall Square, to the open-air market and even along Deansgate to Queens Park.

  We heard nothing of Tommo, nothing of Mother, as we both maintained a careful distance from family. Frank was fond of his father, met him sometimes for a drink in the Pack Horse, but Mr Thompson chose not to mention his other son. Occasionally, they would come to the flat after a couple of pints, and Mr Thompson would peep at his sleeping grandchildren before sitting silently in front of our rented television set. I tried to draw him out. ‘How are you today, Mr Thompson?’

  ‘All right, thanks.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Not just now, thank you.’

  ‘Are you still at the same pit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was hopeless. Time after time, I tried to be a friend to my lover’s father, but I failed miserably on every occasion. When I asked Frank about it, he rambled on about his dad being ashamed of Tommo, about me reminding Mr Thompson of his son’s misdeeds.

  Then the evening came when I didn’t have to try. Frank was preparing to meet his father in the pub while I bathed the boys and tucked them into bed. Our doorbell rang, so I ran to the window and stared into the street. Although I seldom voiced my fears, I still expected to see Tommo standing at the front door. ‘It’s your dad,’ I called. ‘I’ll just let him in.’

  Colin Thompson followed me up the brown-painted stairs, stood in our living room, the tweed cap twisting in his hands. ‘Where’s Frank?’

  ‘In the bathroom having a shave. Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘No, love.’ Mr Thompson was not one to call a person ‘love’ or ‘dear’. ‘I’ll just sit down a bit.’ He dropped into the sagging sofa.

  I stood near the fireplace, fiddled with a china shepherdess whose nose had gone missing during one of Gerald’s games. ‘Gerald broke it,’ I said, feeling gauche and stupid.

  ‘Yes, little ones do break ornaments, don’t they?’ He cleared his coal-damaged throat. ‘Is he a good lad?’

  ‘Well … yes, he is. A bit quiet, gets into cupboards and drawers. But he’s a nice little boy.’

  ‘He doesn’t smash things deliberately?’

  I shivered. Was this poor man looking into the adage ‘like father, like son’? ‘There’s no harm in him, Mr Thompson. He just gets into places when I’m not looking and breaks bits and pieces by accident.’

  He nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

  Frank came in, continued to run a comb through his hair. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’

  Mr Thompson fixed his eyes on me. ‘He’s not given up, Laura.’

  ‘Oh.’ The syllable was more of a sigh than a word.

  Colin Thompson drew something from an inside pocket, placed it on the melamine coffee table, another ugly piece of furniture that had been among the pile of Cunningham’s rejects.

  Frank bent down and picked up the envelope, opened it, drew out some stiff paper and riffled through five or six items. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said softly. ‘I thought it was all over, hoped he’d come to his senses at last.’

  The man on the sofa ran a hand over his balding head. ‘He’s got no senses. Not human ones. I thought you should both be warned.’

  Without another word, I took the cards from Frank, turned them over, saw myself sitting on a bench, my hand resting on the handle of the pram, saw myself again, this time squatting on the grass near a duckpond. There were photographs of me, of me and Gerald, of me and Edward. But my younger baby’s face had been mutilated by layers of ink that had poured from an angry pen. Tommo had crossed out Edward. My legs would not bear my weight, so I sank to the rust-coloured rug, allowed the photographs to scatter around me. I was everywhere and so was Tommo.

  Frank dropped down beside me, placed an arm across my shoulders. ‘Come on, girl.’

  ‘He’s wiped out our baby,’ I said. ‘And a baby’s not much bigger than a pet rabbit. Remember what he did to all those poor animals. We have to move on, Frank. We’ve got to go somewhere, anywhere. But he’s all over the place. Wherever we go, he’ll find us and he’ll kill Edward and—’

  He shook me, guided my chin until I faced him. ‘Laura, he’s not chasing us again. He can’t chase people who refuse to run. We are not going to keep on the move for ever, darling.’ He cast a glance over the widespread photographs. ‘I’d say he was drunk when he did this to Edward’s picture.’ He directed a question at his father. ‘Hasn’t he found another woman yet?’

  ‘No. Thank God.’ The man reached out and touched my arm. ‘I don’t mean anything by that, Laura. I know it’s a mess when you seem to be his only target. But I couldn’t bear it if I’d another young woman to worry about.’ He screwed up his face, looked as if he were about to cry, but he held on. ‘He wants locking up. I’m not just saying that, Frank. If I had my way, he’d be having his head tested. But your mam’s dug her heels in, swears there’s nothing wrong with him. Even when I’ve come home and found her battered and bruised, she’s always had a fall. The only benefit of having him back home is that I can keep an eye on him.’

  I stared at the visitor. ‘He hits his mother?’

  ‘Yes. And I’m no match for him. Even if I could manage him, Phoebe wouldn’t let me raise a finger. It was the same when they were kiddies – nothing was good enough for her Bernard.’

  Frank picked up all the snaps and tore them into tiny pieces. ‘These are going in the bin. And Dad and I are going nowhere tonight, Laura. We shall all stay in and watch a bit of telly, give you a hand if the boys wake.’

  As if on cue, Edward, who was making much of his sore mouth, let out one of his roars. ‘Teeth,’ I explained to Grandad. ‘He never does anything quietly, I’m afraid.’

  A chill swept over me as I walked to the bedroom. Had the badness missed Gerald, even though he was Tommo’s real son? Was it going to emerge in my husband’s nephew, was there a miniature Tommo waiting for me to pick him up and rub Bonjella on his reddened gums?

  Edward stopped crying as soon as I reached the cot. His cheeks were scarlet and the little chest continued to heave with the rhythm of recent sobs. Mothering still didn’t come easily. I loved my children, but mostly with my head. Yet how sick I had been moments earlier when I’d seen this tiny chap’s face rubbed out with what looked like Indian ink. ‘No-one will get you,’ I told him. ‘By Christ, I’ll kill him first, Teddy.’

  Gerald eyed me from the bed. He was almost three years old, master of all he surveyed, very quietly superior to his little brother. ‘He’s a pest,’ he announced for the umpteenth time. ‘He’s getting pesterer all the time.’ Gerald’s acquaint
ance with adjectives was short, but he insisted on using ‘gooder’ and ‘badder’ with great relish, usually when describing Edward. ‘He keeps me waker,’ he grumbled. ‘Screaming louderer.’ Ah, the courtship with adverbs was beginning. Tommo’s son bore all the hallmarks of cleverness, and I hoped that he would direct himself into something useful. Tommo was bright. Bright and twisted and evil. God forbid that my child should … I shivered again. ‘Go to sleep.’

  Frank came in. ‘Is this little devil disturbing you, Gerald?’ The amazing man never showed any favouritism, treated both boys as his own sons. ‘I’ll take him away for a while.’

  When Gerald and I were alone, I tucked him up and sang to him, pushed the shock of hair from his eyes, watched him watching me. ‘Will you sleep now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll keep Teddy till he drops off. OK?’

  ‘I like him really,’ said the sleepy child. ‘He’s my brovver.’

  There were times when I knew I was a mother, times when one of my children wore a certain expression, occasions when Gerald’s diction was quaint and heart-rendingly infantile. Whenever he said ‘tewevision’ or ‘bweakfast’, something stuck in my windpipe and threatened to cut off my breath. This was a skill that could be learned, an art my mother had failed to master. Small people were lovable once the fear of them had passed.

  In the sitting room, Frank was cradling his son and rubbing balm on the fiery gums. But my eyes were fixed on the senior Mr Thompson, because his face was twisting again as he watched his favourite son playing the part of a father. As I understood him and felt his pain, I sat next to him on the sofa and held his hand. It was dry and calloused, seemed to have healed itself after a dozen pit injuries. This was a good man, another like Frank. ‘Where did he come from, Mr Thompson? How did you manage to have two sons so different from each other? What happened to make Tommo act the way he does?’

  ‘I’ve asked myself that for donkey’s years, Laura. It was Phoebe’s fault, I suppose. She favoured Bernard over Frank.’

  I patted his hand, felt like a nurse looking after a patient. ‘Are we all our mothers’ faults?’

  He smiled weakly. ‘I reckon so. It might start coming right once enough men decide to take more of an interest in their children. But there wasn’t a lot I could do from a seam half a mile underground. She spoiled him, made him too free. He’s been a wrong ’un all his life, ever since he could walk.’

  ‘I’m scared.’ I tried to swallow the fear, but it bubbled in my throat, made me cough. ‘I’m frightened to death of him, Mr Thompson.’

  He shook his head, looked tired, ill and old. ‘So are we all, lovey. And that includes his mother, though she’ll never admit it. Time and again I’d have left home, but I’ve needed to keep an eye on his doings. She just says he’s clever and has to have his head. I reckon he’d have battered our Frank to pulp if I’d scarpered when they were still at school. And now, it’s too late for me to have a fresh start. I’m old, set in my ways.’

  How well I understood. ‘It’s too late for my dad, Mr Thompson, but not for you. Get away from him.’

  ‘And who’ll watch him? Who’ll find the photos with the kiddy’s face blacked out?’ He grabbed my hand tightly. ‘I’m sorry about your father. Don’t think I’m not sorry. Frank says that your parents didn’t rub along too well. And yes, it is too late for your dad. I must sound selfish, moaning on because I’ve never had the courage to walk out. Marriage becomes a habit, you see. It’s all to do with home and a certain chair or a pattern on a rug. We get used to the worst places simply because we’ve not the courage to try again.’

  Frank placed the sleeping infant in his day-crib, a larger version of the Moses basket. ‘We’ll leave him there till Gerald’s settled, otherwise we might get stuck with the pair of them.’ He sat in the armchair, part of which was threatening to explode at any minute, as the moquette had worn thin against too much stuffing. ‘Laura, I’m sure we’ve got to hang on. I’ve got a job I can cope with, a car that you’ve paid for, a decent flat—’

  ‘She sent the car money back,’ I said. ‘A bundle of cash in a registered envelope. It went against the grain, but I forced myself to keep it.’ I shrugged. ‘Perhaps there’s hope for her yet.’

  Frank’s jaw slackened. ‘She what?’

  ‘I put it in the bank. She sent a little note about her grandsons needing the best clothes, the best food, about her grandsons being special because their grandmother is special. So we’ve still got four hundred pounds.’

  ‘Bingo,’ grinned Frank. ‘Let’s buy some grapes and have an orgy.’ He blushed, remembering his father’s presence.

  Mr Thompson smiled fully for the first time since arriving. ‘You two are made for one another,’ he said. ‘Can’t you have an orgy without grapes?’

  Frank’s tongue stumbled slightly as he answered, ‘No, not a Roman one. Mind, a Lancashire orgy’s different.’ He grinned at the expectant looks on our faces. ‘For a Lancashire orgy, you need cow heels, tripe and black puds.’

  His father lost the smile, adopted an expression of great seriousness. ‘Oh heck, I’ll go to the back of our coalshed,’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s up, Mr Thompson?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, all these years, I’ve seen myself as a right Lothario. I thought it took just two bags of chips and a couple of cod. No wonder I’ve no luck with women.’

  Frank nodded, continued the game. ‘Depends on the kind of vinegar, Dad. You’ve to make sure it’s brown.’

  They were two of a kind, a matching pair. Mr Thompson was clearly a man of great intelligence, one of the many who had been deprived of chances. If I closed my eyes and cut out the blue lines of coal-dust in his complexion, he might have been a teacher or a doctor, because folk these days were hanging on to their roots, refusing to ‘talk proper’ just for the sake of protocol. The sixties crashed through all kinds of barriers, brought much of the Establishment tumbling down. It was the debs who were mocked now, the social climbers, the folk with cut-glass BBC gobful-of-plums accents.

  They were both staring at me. ‘Sorry, I’ve been thinking again,’ I explained for the benefit of our visitor. ‘I’ve the sort of brain that can only deal with one thing at a time. Have you asked me a question?’

  Frank looked serious, had worry-lines on his forehead. ‘He’s working nights at Yates’s Wine Lodge.’

  I held my breath. The wine lodge was just a hundred yards from our flat. ‘Every night?’ I asked. I didn’t need any clarification about the ‘he’.

  ‘No,’ answered Mr Thompson. ‘Thursdays and Saturdays up to now. He’s still travelling in confectionery, but he says he needs extra cash. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘I do.’ Frank’s cheeks glowed with colour. ‘He’s trying to get near Laura.’ He gave me his full attention. ‘Your mother told him once where we were, so she might just have done it again. Or he could have found out from another source, simply by keeping his eyes and ears open.’

  I was sick of it, sick to death of wondering when he would turn up, what I would do if he did. And there was Frank to consider. He had a good job and a bad leg, had been dragged about enough. It was never my fault alone, because we shared the burden of Tommo, were both related to him. But I couldn’t make my lovely Frank carry on moving, changing jobs, searching for homes, just because I was afraid of one man. Then Edward’s face, most of it blacked out, came roaring into my mind … I breathed in, checked my terror. ‘We stay,’ I said.

  Frank’s forehead flattened itself out instantly, looked as if it had been ironed. ‘It’s for the best, love,’ he said. ‘Because in the end, there’s no hiding place from a man like my brother.’

  ‘And my husband.’

  Mr Thompson stood up, collected his cap, bent over the basket. ‘Nice-looking little thing,’ he said. ‘I wish … Well, wishes don’t count, do they?’ He strode to the doorway, turned and looked at us. ‘But dreams do count. Follow them and find them.’

  ‘Oh, what
a smashing bloke,’ I said when the door was closed.

  ‘Of course. I mean, look at me.’

  There was just one problem attached to living with a man like Frank. He wouldn’t let me fret, always made me laugh at the most unlikely times. There could be only one thing worse than being with Frank. I hugged him, buried my head in his shoulder. That one thing would be to live with a man who never made me laugh at all. A man who made me cry.

  Anne looked all posh and fashion-platey in her tailor-mades, but she was still the same Anne Turnbull underneath all the worsted and silk. Well, she was almost the same … ‘They sort of stand there like this, with a hand on each side of the gown, running their thumbs over the material. There’s a bit of swaying back and forth as well, up on their toes, then down on their heels. They think it makes them look imposing, you see. It’s a good job they get wigs, because most of them are bald. “My learned friend”, they call each other, but you could cut the air with a blunt razor. Honestly, they’re giving each other such filthy looks – you wouldn’t be surprised if it was pistols at dawn. Half an hour later, there’s the whole shower of them in the Dog and Duck, you’d think they’d just got married to one another. It’s a bloody scream. So much for Her Majesty’s Crown Courts, eh?’

  I sat on her off-white sofa with my feet on a thick cream rug. One of my eyes was on Gerald, who had both of his eyes fixed on a group of Spode figures just above his head. Edward gurgled, and I tried to keep my other eye on him, prayed that he wouldn’t be sick in the midst of all this opulence. For a junior solicitor, Anne was very well furnished. ‘How do you afford all this?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t. The chairs are on the never-never and the carpets and stuff are courtesy of my bank manager. He’s fed up with his wife, so I treat him to a meal now and then.’

  ‘Just a meal?’

  She arched a perfect eyebrow. ‘Of course. I’ve set my sights on a doctor, because that would balance things out. I could see to all the family’s legal problems while he attended to their physical well-being. But I am definitely off barristers. And I don’t want to marry a solicitor, because there’s no room in my life for a pair of briefs. Coffee?’ She lifted a fancy percolator and grimaced. ‘Catalogue,’ she said. ‘Three bob a week.’