‘You know that man Jones. The one who owns the warehouse. He owned our houses too. He was going to sell. To kick us out. Ollie and me and all the families.’ Grandpa coughed again and Rosie poured a drink, holding the glass for him, then wiping his chin. There was still stubble and his hair was too long.
‘We needed to buy the house and your grandma told me to go to Barney. To borrow enough and for Ollie too. I had to go with me cap in me hand. I can remember twisting the brim so much that I couldn’t wear it again. The words sort of stuck in me throat but he lent us the money and that was what was important. Nothing else. Nothing else at all.’ He was coughing again and Rosie didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want to see the tears smearing over his cheeks. This was her grandpa, and she didn’t want to see him like this but she had to.
‘Your grandma always said it was her house. Barney did it for her. She was right. I tried to think it was because I took him off the doorpost but it wasn’t. He told me so. He said he’d had her on the foggers’ floor. That she’d loved him, followed him to London. But he didn’t love her. So he owed her something. He laughed, you know.’
Rosie wiped his face. ‘Don’t, Grandpa, please don’t. It was probably just words, to hurt you. He was jealous that you’d got Grandma. That’s all.’
‘But you’ve got to understand that it was your grandma’s house really. And you mustn’t blame me. I’ve made sure you’re all right.’ He was gripping her hand now. ‘Promise you understand. Go on, promise.’
‘Sshh. It’s all right. I promise.’ But she didn’t know what she was promising and before she left she said, ‘But why did you go to him? Why not just find somewhere else to live?’
He was lying back now, his jaw slack, breathing through his mouth, his eyes following the movements of the nurse behind Rosie. He said nothing for a moment and then lifted his head, wiping his mouth with a clumsy hand.
‘Your mum and dad were dead. How long would we live? I had to work hard and pay it off so you always had somewhere to live. It was for you children. It didn’t work out quite like I wanted, but you’ll be all right. I promise.’
Grandpa didn’t die that night, or the next, but on Boxing Day, after Rosie had kissed him, and held him, then left. There had been the peace of Herefordshire on his face all evening and so she was not surprised, but that did not make it any easier.
CHAPTER 9
Rosie stood in the churchyard, hearing the vicar but not watching him, hearing Maisie’s sobs, but not watching her, or Norah, Ollie, Jack. Instead she looked above the heads of all of them to the trees which lined the cemetery. There were no leaves, there was no sun. There was no Grandpa any more but she still could not believe that.
She picked up the handful of earth and dropped it on the coffin but it meant nothing. The vicar’s words meant nothing. He was gone. That was all. He was gone.
At the solicitor’s office she sat with Norah on raffia-seated chairs. A strand was broken and dug into her leg. It meant nothing.
In his will Grandpa left the house to Norah, in pursuance of his wife’s wishes, the solicitor intoned. With Rosemary to have residence for so long as she required. The nailer’s penny and his books were to come to Rosie, along with the letter which was now handed to her. It all meant nothing. Because he had gone.
Rosie walked with Norah towards Maisie’s for sandwiches and tea and to accept the condolences of the neighbours. She listened to her sister, saw her smile, felt the letter in her pocket which she would read alone, because Grandpa had said that people needed their privacy.
They walked past the torn houses but she didn’t feel torn, she felt nothing. When they reached Maisie’s she smiled at Ollie and the people who kissed her with sweet tea on their breath and kindness in their faces. She drank sweet tea herself. She didn’t take sugar. Had Maisie forgotten? But what did it matter? She didn’t eat though. Even with the tea her mouth was so dry, her eyes were dry, her heart was dry.
She put down her cup, carefully, still smiling, still nodding, still thanking Grandpa’s friends for their kindness as she walked out through the yard, past Jack, who didn’t stop her because he knew she had to be alone. But there was love in his face and grief too.
Grandpa’s yard was empty. The rose trees were stunted from her autumn pruning. She touched The Reverend Ashe, running her fingers along its thorns, remembering its summer scent mingling with the creosote of the shed, seeing the roses which she had left in the hospital yard to bloom for someone else.
She went up to her room, taking her jacket and her dresses back into the kitchen, fetching Grandma’s green wicker sewing box from beneath the bottom of his bookshelves. She measured and cut the black tape she had bought from Norah’s counter and then sewed, stitch by stitch, a black armband on the left sleeve of the jacket. And then there were the dresses.
The needle went in and out, in and out. The scissors cut the thread cleanly. One done. The needle went in and out again and again. The fire was burning low. She had wrapped the coal in damp newspaper last night. She had heaped the fire with ash before she climbed the stairs. She had riddled it this morning, holding up newspaper to draw the heat, but Grandpa would never sit here again.
Middle Street
Dear little Rosie,
Please try and understand. Your grandmother felt that Norah should have gone to America too. She felt it was unfair that it was just you. She felt the house was hers and when the bomb fell and she was dying she made me promise that Norah would have it in my will. She knew then that the impetigo would keep her from America.
I couldn’t cry for her. Not after that. But I promised, you see. You must stay in the house for as long as you need to. That was the best I could do. I find it hard to forgive myself. I leave you my penny and my books. I loved them but not as much as I love you.
Grandpa
Rosie put the letter back in her pocket. She felt nothing. She picked up the needle again, in and out, in and out.
There were footsteps in the yard. They were not Jack’s or Norah’s but Maisie’s and her arms were plump and warm as they hugged her, but Maisie’s face was without light, and as Rosie let the last of the dresses fall from her hands she thought of the big red-haired man but it was all too distant. And what did any of it matter?
‘I wasn’t there with him, you see, when he died. And I left him for too many years. He was so alone and I even left him to die alone,’ Rosie said.
Maisie’s arms were no help. They didn’t reach inside her. But there was a lavender smell in the crook of her neck and Rosie rested on her shoulder for a moment and wondered how you could take away the years and return to where the sun smiled and you shelled peas on the back step.
‘Come to me next door whenever you need help or you want to talk.’ Maisie stood up and Rosie didn’t watch her but looked instead at the flames of the fire as Grandpa had watched the flames up in Bromsgrove.
‘I know things are bad again but come. Don’t be put off by the rows. We love you. All of us. Jack especially. And we all loved Albert. It won’t be the same.’ Now Maisie was crying and Rosie turned from the flames which were easing round the lumps of coal. Maisie’s eyes were red and her skin was blotched and Rosie stretched out her hand.
‘No, it won’t be the same. But nothing’s been the same for so long.’ And she wanted to say, why are you quarrelling again? Who is that man? Did he exist or did I imagine it? But she wasn’t imagining the pain in Jack’s eyes.
She said nothing though, just watched Maisie walk away through the smog that was creeping into the yard, edging her hair and clothes with droplets.
She looked around the room, at Grandpa’s books, at his ashtray bought in Malvern. At the slippers which still held the shape of his feet. At the table covered in oilcloth. At the back step where they had shelled peas. No, nothing was the same.
All this was Norah’s and she couldn’t believe this had happened. That she no longer belonged in the house she had been brought back to. She couldn’t believe t
hat Grandma could do this to her. That Grandpa hadn’t fought her. But she shouldn’t feel angry because Grandpa had told her why and she should understand. She should goddamn understand.
But there was a noise now from the yard and then another, sharp and loud. She saw through the window that the shed door was open and that Norah was pulling and heaving at something, her coat rising at the back and her petticoat hanging down beneath her frock.
It was the pram she was pulling out, dragging it to the alley, chucking it at the children waiting outside playing flicksies in spite of the fog.
‘Have that, and good riddance,’ she said and Rosie watched as she went back into the shed. It was Norah’s house now. Rosie couldn’t stop her, and she would stamp down on the rage which was making her head burst.
But then Norah came out with the saw which was rusted and hadn’t been used for years. She took hold of the thick trunk of the peach trailing rose, The Reverend Ashe, which had held the warmth of the summer. She took hold, leaning down, her breath thicker than the smog, and now Rosie moved.
She wrenched open the door, calling, ‘Leave that alone, you greedy bitch.’ She didn’t recognise her own voice as she tore through the yard, pushing Norah backwards, snatching at the saw, feeling the raw cut it made on the palm of her hand.
‘Get away from his roses.’
She held it to one side as Norah grabbed at it, hitting and slapping Rosie, pulling at her arm, shoving her, shaking her, but she couldn’t reach the saw. Rosie was on her knees now, forced back by Norah, who shrieked and gripped her hair, pulling it hard, forcing Rosie backwards, her eyes pulled into slits, pain searing through her.
Norah’s face was close to hers now. She was bending over and Rosie felt the spittle which sprayed from her mouth.
‘This is my house now, Miss bloody Hoity Toity. If I want those roses down, I’ll take them down.’
Now Rosie twisted free, slapping Norah hard across the face and then again, hearing the saw crash to the ground. ‘You leave them! You leave them or I’ll tell that apology for a man you’ve got that you’ve never rubbed a brass in your life. That you sulked all through your time in Somerset because you didn’t get a GI button.’
Norah came at her again, her hands like claws, fury, rage, hatred in her face, and Rosie held her wrists, keeping her away, forced back now on to the rose, the thorns digging into her scalp, her back and hands as Norah pushed back, harder.
Then Norah stopped, pulled away, stood there panting. ‘This is my house. His roses can stay. You can’t.’
Rosie eased forward, the thorns dragged at her hair, at her cardigan, snagging, pulling.
‘His roses will stay and so will I. Go and look at the will again.’
Norah wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
‘Then you’ll be in the way. Harold will marry me now I have the house. Why don’t you just get back to where you belong? Nobody wants you over here now that he’s dead. Grandma never wanted you, only me. Now they’re both dead. You haven’t got him to stand by you.’
Norah turned, pulling her coat straight, walking into the kitchen, slamming the door. The light came on and Rosie cried in the yard that was empty and cold.
The fog was catching in her throat and her tears were warm. She’d never noticed that tears were so warm. She leaned against the shed and then Jack came and held her, saying nothing, just holding her until she walked to the bench where she used to sit with Grandpa.
‘Will you go back to Frank and Nancy?’ Jack asked, still holding the saw that he had taken from her. ‘There’s nothing to keep you here. Not now. It’s the sensible thing to do.’
He propped the saw against the shed, squatting, taking a packet of Woodbines from his pocket. Rosie saw the match flare, smelt the sulphur. Saw the oast-houses, saw Frank striking a match against the kitchen tiles. Heard Nancy say, ‘Get that goddamn thing out of here.’
‘You must do what makes you happy, Rosie,’ Jack said, smoke pouring from his mouth. His face was pinched, pale, alone. He didn’t go to the Palais any more because the rows were so much worse, and Rosie held out her hands to him, watching as he pushed himself upright.
‘You’re here. That’s what makes me happy,’ was all she said because he was alone and she loved him and she couldn’t leave him, not as she’d left Grandpa.
The next day she applied and was accepted for a job as a typist at a magazine and handed in her notice at Woolworths. The day after that she took the train to Herefordshire and watched the winter claw deep into the earth and into her body where there should have been pain, but there was nothing again.
She took a bus from the station to the village, driving along mist-draped roads which curled around the base of the hills, then up between them, weaving and turning. There were oast-houses drained of colour, their cowled vanes motionless. Sulphur would not sting anyone’s eyes today.
The bus passed a broken wagon with its shafts upended at the entrance to a field. Cobwebs were moisture-laden in the hedgerows. No birds sang as she stepped from the bus and walked up the lane to the farm along the frost-hard track. The blackberry leaves were dark, torn, furled. Her fingers had been purple last year from the juice. Norah’s face had been purple all those years ago.
She walked past the yard where manure steamed through the mist. A dog barked. She didn’t stop until she reached the pigsties, the sties where Grandpa and she had slept. Where they had all slept and laughed and talked.
The cold was deep in her now, her hair was heavy and damp. She dug her hands deep into her pockets and turned towards the path to the hop-yards. The dog still barked but there were no other sounds.
The grass had overgrown the path and its wetness soaked her shoes, but it did not matter. The sloping yards were empty of bines, as she knew they would be. There was no sea of green, no Roman Candles of green sprays. She took her hands from her pockets, lifted them to her face and remembered the hop smell of sticky hands, the yellow powder under nails, Grandpa’s last season.
She cried, standing in the long wet grass with snow spattered on the distant Welsh hills and his ‘me dooks’ echoing again and again. It was here, standing in the hop-yards, that she said goodbye and at last believed that he had gone.
She waited for the bus at the end of the track, next to the telegraph pole where no bines wound today. But in the spring they would grow again, twining up clockwise, always clockwise, two feet in a week, and the pickers would come. She could hear the bus now, lurching up the lane, and turned again to the hop-yards.
One day she would come again because this is where the sun had always shone. One day she would come back, with Jack. And in the meantime she would stay at 15 Middle Street, to be near him, to make something positive out of her life.
The office was pleasant to work in. She watered the flowers, typed all day, listened, watched, learned and asked how she could move into Features. The Editor laughed.
‘Give it time,’ she said. ‘At least now we know you’re keen.’
She wondered if Frank had liked her feature on the jazz clubs. She had heard nothing from him or Nancy.
She and Jack no longer went to the Palais for Jack had seen Ollie hit Maisie after the funeral and now he didn’t like to leave them alone. So they spent their evenings walking up and down the alley behind the houses and listening for the sounds of angry voices.
In February Frank sent her twenty dollars for the feature, which had drawn letters from his readers. More, please, he said, when you have time. He didn’t talk of the Local Administrator, just of Grandpa and how sad they were for her and would she be coming back to Lower Falls?
That night she sat in her boxroom and wrote, telling them that she would come back but only when Jack had gone for his National Service because she couldn’t leave him. She didn’t tell them she loved him and that he was her reason to breathe, to live. But he was.
Each night they would just be together. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they kissed, but it was enough that their han
ds were joined and that their voices mingled, that their lips touched and then drew away because they were both frightened of too much passion.
In March Frank wrote of his distress at the news that the Communists had staged a coup in Czechoslovakia, and journalists who had attempted to get through to the President’s Palace had been turned back by police and militia wearing armbands and carrying guns. Coming only nine years after the Nazi takeover it chilled the blood.
Nancy also wrote and said that the Local Administrator had written a letter to the newspaper calling on all good Americans to be extra vigilant as the Communist Menace crept forward yet again. Frank had not published it, of course. ‘And come when you can,’ she wrote. ‘We love you. We grieve for you. This Jack must be important to you. I’m glad. Keep going with the writing.’
On 23 March Harold and Norah were married in St Cuthbert’s. Rosie wore a new hat and so did Maisie. There was to be a small reception at a local hotel which Rosie had paid for because Norah had cried and said that Harold’s mother would expect one.
Rosie had nodded and given her the money as her wedding present as Grandpa would have done, and besides, it would stop her goddamn crying. Maisie made the cake, though she had wanted to use hemlock as the flavouring, she told Rosie as Norah came down the aisle while an elderly man played the wedding march. He had a drip on the end of his nose.
Norah looked almost beautiful but Jack said that was because the veil was thick and hiding her face. Rosie nudged him and then held his mother’s hand because Maisie had begun to cry. Her tears were silent but Ollie saw and looked away. Rosie watched his hands tense, but then Lee wanted Jack to lift him so that he could see Harold put the ring on Norah’s finger. They kissed.
It was the first time Rosie could remember Norah kissing anyone, even Harold. Usually they cycled to their latest rubbing or sat either side of the fire, neither speaking, while she sat at the table, working up a Feature, practising, always practising.
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