Who's Sorry Now (2008)

by Lightfoot, Freda

  ‘I know what she’s like, how she deliberately makes your life a misery by having you working all hours when really you should be putting your feet up. I’ve told her you need to rest, but I’m the last person she listens to. You should move into a place of your own before it’s too late.’

  Amy looked at him, bemused. What was he saying? What on earth did he mean? ‘Too late for what?’ she asked.

  ‘For you and Chris to be happy. She poisons everything she touches, that woman.’

  Too shocked to think clearly, Amy gabbled something about Chris not wanting to put any strain on her by moving house while she was pregnant. ‘In any case, I’m not sure we could afford to rent a place of our own just yet.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  Again he glanced towards the kitchen door as he handed her a plate to dry. ‘Believe me, it’s important you get out of here. I’ve put the word out that your looking for a place. I’ll let you know if I hear owt.’

  ‘Oh, goodness, I don’t know. Do you think we should?’

  ‘Now don’t get all flummoxed. You have to stay calm when you’re carrying. You need a place of your own, love, for the baby. Remember, I might not always be here to stand up for you.’

  Now Amy really was alarmed. ‘You aren’t sick, are you?’ She didn’t share her mother’s contempt for this man. On the contrary, she felt rather sorry for the old man, seeing him as a fellow sufferer at Mavis’s hand.

  ‘Nay, I’m not going to die, if that’s what yer thinking.’ This quiet man who usually barely spoke more than half a dozen words to anyone now grinned from ear to ear and gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘But one of these days I might do summat, shall we say, a bit daring like.’

  At which point the door did open and the woman herself marched in. ‘Have you two not finished that washing up yet? Goodness me, look at all those bubbles. You’ve used far too much soap.’

  Mavis prudently saved left-over pieces of soap and put them in a small plastic cage which could be swished about in the washing up water. Unfortunately, Thomas had been so busy talking he’d rather overdone it and bubbles were everywhere.

  ‘What a waste! Really, I can’t trust you to do anything properly.’

  Thomas took his hands out of the water and carefully dried them on a towel. ‘Best do it yourself then, so you can be sure the job’s done right,’ and walked out of the kitchen.

  It was the first hint of rebellion Amy had ever seen in him, and, following on their most interesting conversation, and that last enigmatic remark just as they were interrupted, she couldn’t help wondering why. What on earth was going on? Thomas was behaving very oddly, very oddly indeed.

  Amy thought no more of this unsettling conversation, finding that her life had quite livened up just by getting involved with the Peace Movement. Jeff Stockton, the old school friend whom she’d met when he asked her to sign his petition, had invited her along to a meeting and she’d gone, just to see what it was all about.

  There’d been a speaker talking about the threat to England’s security, how if it chose to follow the nuclear route, this would ultimately lead to the destruction of mankind. It was all very depressing, particularly with the baby coming. Jeff, and his girl friend Sue didn’t agree with her.

  ‘We need to understand what’s going on so that we can fight back. Youth must have a voice. It’s our future they’re messing up, after all.’

  Amy went to more meetings, carried along by the rhetoric, by the sheer passion and energy of these people. These were often held at the Friends Meeting House or the Rechobite’s Hall, but for some reason she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Chris where she was going, feeling sure he would object. She would pretend that she was going over to Patsy’s, or to see Lizzie Pringle. It wasn’t really a lie, Amy told herself, well, only a white one.

  Ever cautious, her husband wasn’t at all the sort of man to get involved in demonstrations. He was turning into a replica of his father: a family man with a small business mentality. He certainly wanted his world to be safe, but he trusted the government to make sure of that for him. And as a tried and true conservative, he saw the new peace movement as far too left wing for his taste.

  Amy, on the other hand, wasn’t the least interested in politics, either left or right. She focused entirely on that one important word: Peace. She interpreted this in a simplistic way, as a safe future for her child. And if this new movement was full of students, journalists and intellectuals, making her sometimes feel a little out of her depth, that was simply her own lack of education showing. Mixing with such people could surely only be a good thing.

  Besides, with the state of housing in Manchester the way it was, that’s what the government should be spending their hard earned taxes on, not nuclear rockets to start yet another war. Amy spent every waking moment longing for a place of their own.

  And with the cold war she was fighting with Mavis, peace, like privacy, seemed like a distant dream.

  But then one morning when Amy was pegging clothes out on the line, Thomas came creeping down the back stairs from the bakery above and spoke to her once more in hushed conspiratorial tones.

  ‘There’s a two-bedroom house come empty down the bottom of the street, just next door to the pawn shop. I’ve spoken to the landlord, and, thankfully, it’s not that Billy Quinn but an old mate of mine. He says it’s in a bit of a mess so he’s not asking too much. You must take it, lass. I’ll help you fix it up, give it a daub of paint and such like. You choose the colours, I’ll wield the brush. You won’t recognise the place once we’ve given it a wash and brush up. Just don’t tell Chris it were my idea, that’s all I ask.’

  It was a week or two later and Amy was so excited she couldn’t wait for Chris to come home so she called in at the bakery during his dinner hour, begging him to come with her there and then. ‘There’s something I want to show you. It won’t take long.’

  Chris was tempted to refuse, to protest that he’d left some dough proving and must bake several dozen currant teacakes this afternoon, but Amy looked so lovely with her fly-away auburn hair, her patient, loving smile. And she was all round and cuddly with the child she was carrying, his child, that he’d really no wish to upset her.

  ‘Very well then,’ he conceded with a gentle sigh. Yet he felt compelled to put in a reminder that life wasn’t all girlish fancies; that he was a family man now with responsibilities. ‘Make it quick, whatever it was.’

  Amy bit back the protest that she too had responsibilities, producing his son or daughter for one thing. It irritated her sometimes the way Chris had started talking to her as if she’d turned deaf, blind and stupid simply because she was pregnant. Sometimes she would do battle with him over this condescending attitude but today she swallowed her pride and hurried him along Champion Street, drawing to a halt on the corner by the pawn shop.

  ‘Here it is.’ She did a little flourish with her hands, rather as a conjurer might produce a rabbit out of a hat. ‘See, I’ve found us a house to rent. What do you think? Isn’t it wonderful?’ She carefully stuck to her promise that she wouldn’t reveal his father’s part in the deal.

  Chris stared at the small terrace house, utterly dumbfounded. Several long seconds ticked by before he spoke. ‘I thought we’d agreed to do nothing about this until after the baby was born?’

  ‘I changed my mind. A woman’s privilege. A pregnant woman’s privilege. Oh, Chris, think of it. Wouldn’t it be marvellous to have our own place? Once this little one is born I’ll be far too busy to have time to move house, and I can’t wait until it’s four, five or six months old. We need a place of our own now!’

  Chris continued to look doubtful as she fitted the key in the lock and ushered him inside, the scowl on his face deepening.

  ‘Even supposing we could afford the rent, what with a baby coming an’ all, how could you begin to manage a house in your condition, without Mother’s help? Look what silly things you do. How would I know that you could manage on your own?’
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br />   ‘I’ll take good care to wash your pink socks separately,’ Amy told him, straight-faced.

  The corners of Chris’s mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. ‘It’s not only that. I don’t want you lifting anything heavy, or trying to cope with things you know nothing about. How could I be sure that you’d be sensible and take proper rest of an afternoon? Keeping house might look easy when Mother is around, but she is far more experienced than you, love.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a bunch. You mean because my own mother’s home is an untidy mess?’ This was undoubtedly true. The Poulson’s abode always looked a complete shambles with clothes and dog hairs scattered about everywhere, but Amy adored her mother and really didn’t like anyone, outside of the family, to criticise Big Molly.

  ‘I meant nothing of the sort. I’m saying that Mother has the skills, and you don’t.’

  ‘As a matter of fact your mother has taught me a great deal, for which I’m truly grateful, even if I don’t always care for the way she does it. But having said that, she and I have entirely different ideas about how things should be done. She insists on using only a brush and dustpan to clean the carpet while I’d prefer a vacuum cleaner. She uses hard soap and a scrubbing board for your soiled white baker’s overalls. I’d use Omo. I’d even rather like to buy a washing machine. It’s not a crime to want to be modern. We’re a different generation.’

  ‘I know, love, but Mother likes things to be done in the traditional way.’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’ So long as she has someone willing to wield the brush and shovel for her, Amy thought, although didn’t say as much out loud.

  According to the gospel of Mavis, cleaning must be done not only in a particular way but also in a certain order. There was a strict daily routine in which the carpet must be swept and the furniture dusted. She maintained windows must be kept closed while this was going on so that the dust didn’t fly around too much, and would scold Amy should she dare to open one to rid the room of stale air.

  Then there was the weekly clean which, in addition, required rugs to be hung on the washing line and given a good beating; awkward ledges, picture rails and shelves wiped down with a damp cloth, windows cleaned and last of all, the furniture polished to perfection with bees wax.

  Most important of all was the annual spring-clean. This had been carried out only recently, an exhausting task which Amy could well have done without at this stage in her pregnancy. The big carpet rugs had to be rolled up and floorboards scrubbed; curtains taken down and washed, drawers and cupboards emptied, disinfected with a weak solution of bleach and everything put back in a tidy fashion.

  And once all of that was done, a fan of newspaper was set into the cleaned fire grate for the summer. No more fires would be allowed until the autumn, no matter how cold or wet it might be as the chimney might belch out soot and smoke and make the room dirty again.

  Poor Thomas’s life was a misery while all of this was going on and he would retreat, yet again, to his precious allotment.

  Chris was saying, ‘Besides, this place is a mess, a real dump. How could we ever make it decent enough to live in? I don’t have the time and you aren’t fit to do the job.’

  ‘I’m sure your dad would help. I’ll ask him. We need our own place,’ Amy insisted. ‘I’ve already spoken to the landlord and we can afford the rent, simply because the house does need so much work doing to it. But a lick of paint will work wonders. Oh, come on Chris, do say yes. I want us to be in our own home by the time the baby comes.’

  ‘I know, love, so do I, but ...’

  ‘No buts!’ Amy kissed him, a sweet, lingering kiss. ‘And we’ll only be at the end of the street so I can still ask your mother for advice, should I need it. Which I’m sure I won’t,’ she hastily added.

  ‘Well…’ She could sense that he was weakening.

  Amy led him upstairs into the empty bedroom, hugging his arm close as she outlined her plans, saying how much better it would look with new wallpaper, a rug on the floor and home-made curtains at the window.

  ‘It’ll have to be a second-hand bed, I’m not having anything to do with this never-never business,’ Chris warned her.

  ‘I’ve a bit saved up for a new bed,’ Amy told him. ‘And a bed is all we do need at first, isn’t it? We can get other things later, a bit at a time.’

  Her bright eyes twinkled so cheekily at him he fell to laughing and kissing her, as he always did. A moment later he was happily agreeing to her plan, if only because it would be so good to have the freedom to make love to his lovely wife in private without being conscious of his mother listening behind paper-thin walls.

  ‘He agreed,’ Amy told Thomas in jubilation that evening as once again they were doing the dishes in the back kitchen.

  ‘You didn’t tell him I had owt to do with it, did you?’

  Amy assured the old man that she hadn’t broken her promise. ‘I did say I’d ask you to help us do the place up a bit, since Chris is working so hard learning his new trade. Is that all right?’

  ‘Aye, course it is, chuck. I’ve already said, I’ll be happy to help. I’ll pop round tomorrow and have a shufty, then we’ll decide what needs doing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so thrilled! Should I tell Mavis, do you think, or leave that to Chris?’

  Thomas was thoughtful. ‘Nay, you can leave that to me, love. I’ll inform madam, er Mavis, of what you mean to do.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Carmina eagerly returned to her daily routine of meeting Luc at the bus stop on the corner of Hardman Street. Night after night she would patiently wait for him. Sadly, he was not pleased to see her. Now, whenever he alighted from the bus, instead of wrapping a casual arm around her neck and kissing her, as he’d used to do, he seemed embarrassed that she should even be there. He would walk right past as if he hadn’t even noticed her. Carmina didn’t like being ignored and vigorously protested.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, miffed that he should be so distant.

  ‘Nothing,’ he growled, striding away from her at such a speed she had to half run to keep up with him.

  ‘I’m not angry. It was just a bit of a tiff we had. I’ve forgotten it already.’

  She’d far from forgotten it, but Carmina certainly had no intention of letting Luc know how hurt she’d been by his rejection. Maybe he was playing hard to get, but he’d certainly wanted her, for goodness sake. Any fool could tell that. Which had made her even more determined to have him. Couldn’t she always twist a man around her little finger?

  If her mother had told her once, she’d told her a thousand times to be a good girl, to respect herself then others would respect her in turn. Carmina wasn’t interested in respect, only passion. Momma also said that once a boy had had his wicked way with you, he dropped you.

  Not that she’d ever listened to her mother’s advice. What did she know?

  Carlotta still listened to Perry Como and Glen Miller, and spent all her time cooking and washing dishes. She didn’t approve of today’s world, of bad boy Elvis the pelvis, of loud rock ‘n’ roll and the new earning power of the young. She believed that today’s teenagers had too much money and too little discipline. Her mother was old fashioned, still with one foot in the past, constantly reliving the war years, or forever harping on about how things were different in Italy when she was a girl.

  Carmina saw herself as the future, free to do as she pleased now that she was seventeen, nearly eighteen. She intended to be Luc’s girl and she would do whatever was necessary to catch him.

  She’d almost had him that night at the dance, but then he’d chickened out at the last minute. Carmina felt cheated and annoyed. Why wouldn’t the daft fool admit that he wanted her as much as she wanted him? Hadn’t she longed for that moment, dreamed of it for weeks ever since they’d split up? She’d ached to be in Luc Fabriani’s arms again, and all her careful planning had seemed to be working beautifully until he’d no doubt been hit by a bout of guilt over her stupid sister!

  ‘Y
ou haven’t taken up with our Gina again, have you?’ She hadn’t meant to blurt out this worry, but somehow couldn’t get her head round the complex emotions she was experiencing.

  Yet Carmina didn’t really think that could be the case as the silly girl was still moping about looking like a wet weekend. Besides, wasn’t she herself far more loveable and desirable than her sanctimonious sister? ‘She’d never have you back,’ Carmina finished, wanting to drive home her point.

  Luc spun about, his face an angry crimson. ‘Why wouldn’t she? Because you’ve poisoned her mind with more of your lies?’

  ‘They aren’t lies.’ Carmina put back her head and laughed. ‘You can hardly claim to be the faithful boy friend now, can you? You were gasping for it, so don’t pretend otherwise. Although I can’t imagine what Momma and Papa’s reaction would be if they learned you were dangling both of us on a string.’

  ‘I’m not dangling anyone on a string.’

  ‘Of course you are. You have both Gina and me panting for love of you, you lucky boy. Unfortunately, you aren’t one of Momma and Papa’s favourite people. Apart from the fact your family are business rivals, they’re very protective of our Gina. She’s still sick, as you know.’

  ‘She looks fine to me.’

  ‘What would you know about it?’ Carmina almost told him that Gina did feel a bit below par this week, but changed her mind in case it should spark off some sort of stupid sympathy in him. ‘Anyway, Papa may seem soft but actually he’s quite strict. He likes to be in control, just as he would be in the old country.’

  It had been almost midnight when Carmina had got home after the dance. Having persuaded her father to let her stay out till eleven o’clock, she knew she’d be in trouble for being late. Her cheeks had been flushed, her eyes glazed with the fury of frustration passion, and her chin a suspicious raw crimson from rubbing against Luc’s roughly shaven skin.