by Janet Tanner
‘Amy’s garden is actually looking very nice at the moment,’ Helen said. ‘She’s got Cliff Button helping her out now.’
‘So I heard. How is he?’
‘He’s OK,’ Helen said. ‘I didn’t come to talk about Cliff Button, though. I want to talk to you about something quite different. And Auntie Dolly too.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Helen?’ Dolly asked. ‘You’ll have to put the kettle on if you do. I’m all over flour.’
‘I know what I’d like,’ Charlotte said. ‘A nice glass of milk stout.’
‘Mam!’ Dolly sounded scandalised. ‘Whatever will Helen think of you?’
‘A bit of bread and nice tasty cheese and a glass of milk stout,’ Charlotte repeated, enjoying every moment of her temporary notoriety. ‘You know what they say – a little of what you fancy does you good. Isn’t that right, Helen?’
‘It certainly won’t do you any harm,’ Helen said, laughing.
‘It’ll spoil your dinner!’ Dolly said severely. ‘I’ve got sausages and Savoy cabbage with fat out of the pan – your favourite.’
‘Spoil my dinner!’ Charlotte scoffed. ‘Anyone would think it was the children you were talking to! You’re getting too bossy for my liking, Dolly.’
‘You have a glass of milk stout if you want one, Gran,’ Helen said. ‘And I’ll have one too.’
Pretending to ignore Dolly’s disapproval, Charlotte padded defiantly to the pantry and emerged with two bottles and glasses.
‘What did you come to talk to us about then?’ Dolly asked as Charlotte rummaged in the kitchen drawer for the bottle opener.
‘Well – I’ve got some news,’ Helen said. ‘You remember when we went up to Greenslade Terrace, Gran, we saw that your old house was up for sale?’
‘It’s never gone already!’ Charlotte said, sounding shocked.
‘Yes. Of course, it was a bargain, wasn’t it?’ Helen was so full of excitement she couldn’t resist teasing a little.
‘It was at that! When I think of all the things we had done! There was no electric when we moved in, you know, only the gas mantels. And no bathroom.’
‘I know,’ Helen said.
‘All the same – gone already! Who’s bought it, I wonder?’
‘You’ll never guess. In a million years.’
‘What – you mean it’s somebody I know?’
‘You could say that, yes.’
‘Well – who? You’ve come up here’specially to tell me, I reckon. So don’t keep me in suspense!’
‘All right,’ Helen said. ‘It’s me.’
For a moment Charlotte gaped at her, open-mouthed, and Dolly stood transfixed with a circle of pastry suspended over her rolling pin halfway to the enamel pie-plate.
‘You!’ she said in the loud voice she adopted to talk to her deaf husband Victor.
‘Me.’
‘You never have!’ Charlotte said. ‘Fancy that!’
‘You’re a dark horse,’ Dolly said. She sounded vaguely affronted. ‘You never said a word!’
‘I wanted to be sure I could get it,’ Helen said. ‘You never know with these things … there’s so much that can go wrong. But now it’s all signed and settled, I couldn’t wait to share the news.’
Charlotte had forgotten all about her milk stout. It stood untouched on the little cupboard beside the sink.
‘Well, I am pleased, Helen. I’ve always hated the thought of strangers in my house.’
Helen hesitated. This, she knew, was going to be the tricky part – asking Charlotte to come back and live in ‘her’house. Ideally, Helen would have preferred to raise the subject when they were alone, but she didn’t want Dolly to think she was going behind her back. Already she seemed a bit put out by not having known what was going on. It had been her home, too, once, after all. But the subject of where Charlotte would finish out her days was even more delicate. Dolly might be terribly offended that anyone should consider her mother might prefer to be anywhere other than with her.
‘I did think, Gran,’ Helen said carefully, ‘that it would be nice for you. You could always come and stay.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Dolly had slapped the pastry on to the plate; now she ran a knife round the rim almost viciously. ‘It would upset her routine.’
‘For goodness sake, Dolly!’ Charlotte said testily. ‘Don’t talk about me as if I wasn’t here! And what routine are you on about, anyway?’
‘Well – your All Bran in the mornings … your afternoon nap …’
‘Why couldn’t I have All Bran and a nap if I was staying with Helen?’
‘Well, you could, I suppose. But it would be such a to-do, getting you there and back …’
‘It would give you some time to yourself, Auntie Dolly. And you could stay for as long as you liked, Gran. When I’m out at work you can pretend nothing’s changed and it’s still your house, just like it always was.’
‘It wouldn’t be the same, though, would it? I should feel like a visitor.’
But Helen could sense the undercurrent of her excitement.
‘Think about it anyway, Gran,’ she said. ‘And I shall be doing up your old room specially for you so you’d better not let me do it in vain.’
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ Dolly asked suddenly, plonking strawberry jam into the tart and pointing the spoon at Helen. ‘Are you asking Mam to go back there and live?’
‘Well … if she wanted to there’ll be plenty of room and I should be in and out and well able to keep an eye …’ She broke off, aware that she was doing the same thing Charlotte had accused Dolly of doing – talking about her as if she wasn’t there.
‘Oh, Gran – I might as well come clean. There’s nothing I’d like better than for you to be back where you belong. I know Auntie Dolly does a wonderful job of looking after you, but your heart’s in Greenslade Terrace, and I’d be really happy if you moved back in with me – if that’s what you want.’
‘Well yes,’ Charlotte said, ‘there’s not much doubt about where my heart is. What do you think, Dolly?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to think at all!’ Dolly said. ‘And nor have you, Mam. We need to sit down and talk it over – all the pros and cons. What if you should be taken bad? Helen would still have to go to work and I couldn’t keep running over to look after you. I’m not as young as I used to be either, and I’ve got my own home and family to see to.’
Helen saw Charlotte’s face fall but she was still very aware that she was treading on delicate ground. To say too much, and put Dolly’s nose out of joint, would be counter-productive. The last thing she wanted was to cause a family rift.
‘I think Auntie Dolly’s right,’ she said. ‘Talk it over between yourselves. There’s no rush. I’m not even going to get the keys for another couple of weeks. But at least you know the offer’s there. If you want to move back into your own home, you know you can. If not – well, at least it’s back in the family, isn’t it?’
Charlotte nodded.
‘You’re a good girl, Helen.’
The tears were shining in her eyes again, Helen noticed with a sense of shock. In all her life she didn’t think she could ever remember seeing her grandmother cry. Now, in the space of a few short weeks, it had happened twice – and both over the old home.
It means so much to her, Helen thought.
Everything else had changed – her children grown into men and women who were not just middle-aged but some of them verging on the old themselves – what a shock that must be, to look at a plump ageing woman and realise this was the metamorphosis of the tiny baby you had once held at your breast! Even her grandchildren were grown, with children of their own. James, with whom she had shared it all, was long dead. And the world had moved on. But Greenslade Terrace was still there, changed and yet oddly unchanging, the same bricks and mortar, the same narrow access lane to the back doors, the same plaster on the walls which had absorbed so many years of laughter and tears, seen births and deaths and marri
ages, survived two world wars, echoed with the living of a family at whose heart Charlotte had always been – who was its heart. For a brief, surprised moment tears constricted her own throat. Then Charlotte was holding out a glass to her.
‘Don’t let your milk stout go flat, Helen. Especially now we’ve got something to drink to!’
‘I thought we were going to talk about it, Mam,’ Dolly said.
‘All right, Dolly, don’t get your hair off with me! We do have something to drink to, whatever’s decided.’ She raised her glass. ‘There’s going to be Halls in Greenslade Terrace again. That’s good enough for me!’
‘Thank you,’ Linda said.
She was in bed – the three-quarter-size bed that had been delivered from Bath because none of the local furniture shops could supply them with what they wanted in time, wearing her new filmy powder-blue nylon nightie. David, unknotting his tie, looked at her in the dressing-table mirror and felt his stomach tighten with love.
‘What d’you mean – thank you? What for?’
‘For today. For marrying a …’ Her voice cracked. ‘A lost cause like me.’
He turned. ‘What are you talking about?’
She attempted to smile but it was wan, a pale imitation of the radiance of a few hours previously.
‘David, don’t pretend. You don’t have to pretend.’
‘I’m not pretending.’
‘You went through today just to make me happy. And I want you to know how grateful I am. How much I love you for it. I just wanted you to know.’
‘Linda, you’re talking rot.’ He crossed to the bed, sat down on the edge beside her and took her in his arms. ‘I married you because I wanted to – all right?’
‘Oh, David …’ She nuzzled into his shoulder. Her hair felt like spun silk against his cheek. ‘David, I love you.’
‘And I love you.’ His voice was hoarse with emotion, speaking the words he’d never expected to speak, let alone mean and feel with every ounce of his being.
He stood up, unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt, dropping his clothes on to the bright Readicut rug and turning back the covers to slip into bed beside her. She melted against him and as he felt the warm yielding curves moulding to his body he forgot momentarily that she was a sick – a dying – woman. She was quite simply just his Linda.
He slid his hand under the low frothy neckline of her new nightdress, cupping her breast, feeling the nipple rise and harden. With his other hand he rucked up the skirt, his fingers following the line of her thigh up to the jut of her hip bone, then slipping back to bury themselves in the soft tuft between her legs. He crooked his leg so that his knee lay across her thigh, his whole body reaching out toward her, his love a thick knot of desire that blotted out thought and reason.
‘Linda …’
He rolled towards her, at the same time taking her with him, his body probing now where his fingers had probed.
‘Linda …’
At first he was too intent on his overwhelming need to notice her withdrawal, the tension, the slackening, the inertia. He covered her mouth with his, parting her lips with his tongue and she tore them away, turning her head to one side, her breathing laboured and ragged. Then and only then was he aware of a shaft of alarm.
He raised himself on his elbows.
‘Linda – what’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. There was a sob in her voice. ‘David, I’m sorry. I can’t. I don’t feel very well …’
His ardour was gone as swiftly as it had become aroused. He rolled off her, looking down at her anxiously, afraid he’d hurt her, afraid … afraid …
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I just can’t. I really can’t.’ The tears were welling weakly in the corners of her eyes, trickling down her face. ‘I’m so tired. So terribly tired. I’m sorry … I’m sorry …’
‘Hush!’ he said fiercely. ‘Stop saying you’re sorry! I’m the one who should be saying sorry!’
‘It’s our wedding night! But I honestly don’t think I can …’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Honestly, Linda, it doesn’t matter at all.’
‘It does …’
‘No. You’re my wife and we’re together. That’s the only thing that matters. I mean it, Linda.’
And it was true, he realised. Such a short time ago it had all been so different. Then it had been the physical thing that had mattered. Then he would have run a mile at the thought of marriage. That had all been turned on its head. Just being with Linda – keeping her with him – was all that mattered now.
‘There’ll be other times,’ he said softly, catching her tears with his fingers and wiping them away. ‘We’ll have other times, you’ll see.’
He lay down beside her, holding her tenderly, listening to her breathing, shallow and regular, as she fell asleep. Through the long hours of the night they stayed that way; when dawn broke they were still in one another’s arms.
Helen drove carefully along Greenslade Terrace and parked outside Number 11. It had been raining – the cobbles were slick and the doors of the houses on either side were closed. Helen was glad. She didn’t especially want to run into any of her new neighbours today. She was too anxious to simply get inside the house and have a really good look around.
She fished in her bag for the keys – still on a little wire ring with a brown card label attached – and selected one. Then, with the key in the lock, she paused, savouring the moment.
Her first house. The first home of her own. It had been long enough coming! Thirty-two years was an inordinately long time to wait! But then, if she’d chosen a career which necessitated such a lengthy training, and chosen to get herself involved with a married man instead of finding a husband, she had no-one but herself to blame.
And it had been worth the wait. Not just any old house for her first home, but the one Grandpa had brought Gran to all those years ago; the house where her own father had been born and brought up. What an incredible chance that it had come on the market again now, just when she was able to step in and buy it!
Helen turned for a moment, looking out over the valley, gleaming wetly from the rain. From the wagon works down by the railway sidings the hooter sounded suddenly as it had every working day at midday for as long as she could remember. It evoked a twist of nostalgia in the pit of her stomach.
Helen turned back, rotated the key in the lock, and paused again. Then, with a smile, she went into the house.
Book Three
1956–1957
Chapter Thirteen
In the summer of 1957 Jenny left school; in the autumn, with five O levels under her belt, she started a secretarial course at the Technical College in Bath. Each morning she caught the 8.12 bus from the centre of Hillsbridge, sitting in the little back seat on the top deck with her smart new hound’s-tooth check vanity box on the seat beside her and practised page after page of shorthand symbols in her notebook using the special pen that would make both thick and thin strokes according to how much pressure you exerted on it.
She needed all the practice she could get, Jenny reckoned. Shorthand didn’t come as easily to her as typewriting, which she loved, or even, surprisingly, bookkeeping. The symbols and squiggles were all very well, very clever, but each time she thought she was beginning to master it, there was a new variation to learn and though she could write it quite well, reading it back was another matter. But master it she must. Jenny had set her heart on getting a job as a newspaper reporter, and the Head of Department at the college, a sharp little lady with a quavery voice, had said no editor would even consider taking her on with a speed of less than 120 words per minute.
She could do it, Jenny promised herself. If she could manage O levels in Latin and Maths and French, then she could learn to write shorthand at 120 wpm. Even if it meant practising until her wrist ached. And having persuaded Carrie to let her leave school and get on with doing the course that would help her achieve her ambition, she had to make a
success of it!
Persuading Carrie hadn’t been easy. Everyone had done their best to talk her into staying on and taking her A levels – her teachers; the headmaster (he’d sent a letter to Carrie and Joe saying that to leave now would be a terrible waste of her potential); even Carrie herself, though Jenny knew that the financial position at home was no better than it had ever been and another two years in school would only have added to the pressures.
‘The secretarial course is only for a year, Mum,’ she’d said. ‘I’m eligible for it because I’ve been to Grammar School. Then I shall be earning and I’ll be able to help you out.’
‘I don’t want you to miss out on the opportunity to do well for yourself,’ Carrie had said. ‘I don’t want you feeling all your life that you could have gone to college if only we were a bit better off.’
‘I don’t want to go to college,’ Jenny had argued. ‘What’s the point? I’d never get to university – you’ve got to be really clever for that – much cleverer than I am – and college is really only for people who want to teach. I don’t.’
‘What’s wrong with teaching?’ Carrie had demanded. She rather fancied her daughter becoming a teacher. There was a lot of status attached to that.
‘I don’t want to do it! I want to be a newspaper reporter.’
Carrie had snorted in disgust. To her, a newspaper reporter was someone like Walter Evans, who wrote for the Mercury, the local paper. He had an office in the centre of Hillsbridge that was hardly worthy of the name, he wore an old tweed suit with patched elbows, drove a dreadful old banger of a motor car and seemed to spend most of his time standing on the doorstep of his office smoking roll-up cigarettes and gossiping to passers-by in the hope of picking up a titbit of information that would lead to a story. Not in the same league at all as teaching, by Carrie’s reckoning.
‘Everybody would look up to you if you were a teacher,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Everyone would look up to me if my name was on the byline of the Daily Telegraph,’ Jenny said. ‘And anyway, I don’t care whether they do or not. As long as I’m doing what I want to. And looking after a lot of screaming kids isn’t what I want.’