We ate all the things that were bad for us and thoroughly enjoyed them – fish and chips with vinegar dripping newsprint onto our fingers, candy floss, toffee apples, rock, black peas in thick cracked cups. We all had hats. I got the inevitable Kiss Me Quick, Simon had an Indian headdress, my mother sported a blue-and-white-striped cardboard boater while Dr Pritchard, not to be outdone, bought an enormous Stetson with ‘Fast Shooter’ emblazoned on the band. He was like a big kid. He was first in the cage for the tower, first on the caterpillar, dodgems, big wheel. It seemed that he needed to pack everything into this one day and I found myself wondering how a man with such a pronounced sense of fun managed to cope with his grim-faced wife and that never ending queue of ailing patients.
I also discovered that I was hoping that everyone who saw us in the street would think we were a family, mother, father, brother and sister, a proper family having a day out together.
As evening threatened to end our brief holiday, we walked to the front and sat on a bench facing the sea. We were all exhausted and the almost hypnotic sight of the advancing tide lulled us into temporary silence. On the horizon, the sun was slipping away to make another day somewhere else, to warm another patch of earth’s scattered soil. It left in its wake a trail of glorious colours from orange through aquamarine to violet, all beautifully patterned with a lacework of tiny mackerel clouds.
Dr Pritchard was the first to speak. ‘Of such visions dreams are made. Isn’t that right, Simon?’
Simon glanced sideways at me then muttered quietly, ‘He’s going to make us play the dream game. He always did this when I was a kid – even got my mother to join in.’
I continued to stare at the sea, feeling that somehow there were only the four of us left in the world, that we had slipped through into an alternative dimension where we could remain untouched and untouchable. My troubles, everybody’s troubles were of the past, from another time and place. This was contentment; this was all I ever wanted.
‘My dream,’ continued the doctor, ‘is of a world without pain. Of course, I don’t want people to live forever, but I’d like life to be full of joy and empty of war and argument. We should all die in our beds at three score and ten, no doctors, no nurses, no hospitals . . .’
‘And no job for you,’ said my mother.
‘And no interruptions!’ After a pause, he went on, ‘Every night it would rain enough for us to drink and grow food. The days would all be sunny and full of fun. Silly dream for a grown man, isn’t it?’
I didn’t think it was silly at all, not now, in this magic place.
‘What would you be in a world without doctors?’ my mother asked.
‘Oh, a mechanic, definitely. I’d have rows and rows of Genevieves to work on and at weekends I’d be a racing driver.’
‘That accounts for it,’ she answered. ‘And you’d soon need a doctor, wouldn’t you?’
‘Nancy,’ he sighed. ‘Have you no soul? Your daughter has, I think. What’s your dream, Anne?’
I closed my eyes. ‘Well, if I can’t stay here forever, I suppose I want a lot of children. I’d hate to have just one on its own. In my dream there is no religion and no politics, nothing to fight about. Everybody is equal. There are definitely no nuns and priests, no popes and kings. But the main thing is that my father comes back. I don’t see any sense in the way he and the others died, you see. It’s all politics and religion. They got rid of the Nazis and now we’re getting White Russians and Red Russians – it’s ridiculous. So. My dream is just as silly as yours, Doctor. I want the Jews to have peace, the Russians to stop being greedy, the Americans to stop piling up those awful bombs, people to stop hurting one another. Above all else, I want my mother to be happy.’
‘I am happy, Annie.’
Yes, she was. In that moment when I opened my eyes after speaking my dream, I saw that her face was glowing with some light that came from within, that she looked about twenty years old. And I knew that I had spoken her idea of Utopia as well as my own.
Simon’s dream was an odd one, I thought. I knew he was good at drawing, but when he said that he wanted to paint a picture as good and as meaningful as the Mona Lisa, I was taken aback somewhat. Surely he would be a doctor like his father? Wasn’t that what usually happened – or was I being as naive as my mother sometimes seemed to be? I sighed sadly as I recalled Simon’s homework problems. The rolling tide and the magnificent sky would not put everything right. Simon’s talent lay in his hands rather than in his head – he was creative, probably talented, but not intellectual.
My mother took a lot of persuading, but she finally succumbed when the three of us threatened to put her over the rail and into the sea.
‘I just want our Annie to do well. Course, I’d like a few other things, little things, but they’re not important.’
‘They are important, Nancy. All dreams and ambitions are important.’ Dr Pritchard reached over and touched her arm. ‘You have to tell. We’ve all done it, we’ve all made fools of ourselves – it’s a matter of honour.’
‘Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘If it’s a matter of honour . . . I’d like for her to be a lawyer or maybe a teacher. And I want her to have a happy marriage and some nice children . . .’
‘What about yourself, Nancy? What do you want for yourself?’
She paused momentarily. ‘If anybody laughs, I’ll belt them!’
‘We won’t laugh, Mother – honestly.’
She took a deep breath. ‘A green frock with a matching stole.’
I stared at her in amazement. ‘Mother! Whatever would you do with a green frock and a matching stole?’
‘I’d go ballroom dancing with some of the girls from the mill. Yes, I think I’d like to learn dancing. It’s good for you, you know.’
Dr Pritchard stretched long legs and crossed his ankles. ‘A green dress. Yes, that would suit you very nicely, Nancy.’ It was obvious that the man was moved, because he turned away as he spoke, his voice gruff and slightly choked.
I felt a huge lump in my throat. She’d never had anything, not for herself. It had all been for the house or for me, yet she never complained about being deprived. And all she wanted now was a dance frock. Yet I knew, felt certain that had she been educated, she would have outstripped us all. I would get a paper round and buy the dress for her. But what would be the use of that? He’d never allow her to go dancing on a Saturday night. And she’d already refused to let me deliver papers. It was something I would remember for the rest of my life, this simple desire for a green frock.
When we reached home that night, I felt that we each knew and valued the others a little better or at least, differently, though Simon was to remain something of an enigma for many years to come. Even when we’d played the dream game, he had held something back. Simon would be holding back forever, but I didn’t know that then.
There was no going back to that enchanted time, that small island of contentment in 1953 when I learned so much about my mother, about myself – and about others too, when friendships were cemented between me and Simon, between my mother and Bertha Cullen, when we were free to choose where we went and what we did. And that was a strange alliance too, between my mother and Bertha Cullen, the one so houseproud and exacting, the other seemingly slapdash and fancy-free. But these two women were big of heart and they embraced each other’s good points and bad, seemed to complement one another perfectly. The bond between Nancy and Bertha was thoroughly forged that year and Higson never managed to sever it. My mother owed her life to Mrs Cullen and her family – but for them, she might not have survived when her unborn child was beaten out of her, but this was never mentioned between the two women as far as I knew.
We picnicked on the Jolly Brows twice, Mrs Cullen and most of her brood, my mother and I, eating wedges of Hovis and cheese out of waxy bread-wrappings, drinking fizzy lemonade from shared enamel cups. Martin always stayed separate from the rest of us, tagging along with his rusty bike, then snatching his sandwiches before walking
away hurriedly. I tried to speak to him several times, but he blushed and mumbled unintelligibly, so I learned to keep my distance from him.
Higson limped home in September. He spoke seldom, simply sat staring for endless hours into the fire, though when he looked at me with those sunken sharp eyes, I knew he was taking his revenge gleefully by refusing to go back on the round for several months, thus forcing my mother to take a morning job cleaning at the Star. For many weeks I watched her shabby little figure disappearing down the road each morning before I left for school, witnessed her exhaustion as she prepared to go out again in the evening for the five o’clock to nine shift. This was my fault. I had dealt him a blow from which, it seemed, he would never allow his wife to recover.
It was Bertha Cullen who set him to rights on Christmas morning when she arrived with my gift. He sat huddled over a roaring fire while my mother and I prepared the dinner. There was seldom any Christmas spirit in the house and this year the absence of festive cheer was even more marked than usual because of the silent figure near the hearth. He hadn’t even stirred himself to go out to his brother’s house this time and the living room felt chilled in spite of the blazing fire, as if Scrooge himself was sitting in our midst to dampen our pleasure. Perhaps we sensed the atmosphere more acutely because of the brief weeks of freedom we had enjoyed, because we had learned what life was like without him.
I was peeling carrots when Bertha rushed in unannounced as usual and I heard him spit into the coals when my mother and I exchanged seasonal greetings with our visitor. Bertha had a truly amazing capacity for ignoring Eddie Higson altogether, but on this occasion she decided to speak to him. With a broad smile on her face she approached his chair. ‘Well then, Eddie – I ’ear as ’ow yer’ve been given th’all clear fer t’ New Year.’
‘You what?’ He looked up at her.
‘Well, I’ve a friend as works at t’ Royal Infirmary, like. She says yer right now – yer can go back ter work in January.’
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Happen I might,’ he said.
My mother’s face brightened perceptibly. ‘That means I’ll be able to give up at the Star!’ she cried.
‘The money’s handy,’ muttered Higson.
Mrs Cullen cast a sideways glance in his direction. She had never had much to say to him since the night of the clearout and now she directed her attention towards my mother. ‘Never mind t’ bloody brass, Nancy. Tha’s fair wore out wi’ workin’. Now as ’e’s right, tha mun stick ter th’ evenin’ shift an’ bugger the Star.’ She puffed out her already enormous chest. ‘My George might not be up ter much, but ’e’s never made me work over the odds. Pace yerself, lass.’
Higson picked up the poker and looked briefly but meaningfully at me before using it to stoke the fire. He seemed shrivelled somehow, as if the ‘accident’, of which he had never spoken to me, had almost finished him physically and mentally. But no, the anger was still there. I could sense it as he smashed the poker into the coals, could see it in the small sly eyes that sometimes seemed to spit venom in my direction. Had I stopped him? Or had I simply postponed the inevitable . . .?
‘Come on, Annie. Open Bertha’s present,’ my mother was saying now.
‘Our Martin chose it,’ beamed Mrs Cullen. ‘’E said as ’ow yer’d like it.’ It was a single strand of pearls. ‘They’re not real, like. Only our Martin said as they’ll suit you a treat. ’Ey Nancy – I reckon ’e’s got ’is eye on your Annie . . .’ The poker clattered noisily into the grate.
‘Thank you, Mrs Cullen,’ I said.
‘Aye well. You deserve nice things, lass. Allers got yer ’ead stuck in a book – yer want ter get out an’ enjoy yerself sometimes.’
‘She’s got to study, Bertha,’ said my mother. And Mrs Cullen who, although she did not understand it, now appreciated my mother’s need for me to succeed, picked up the large box of crackers I had bought for her family to share, made her goodbyes and beckoned me to follow her to the front door.
‘’Ey Annie, luv,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘I made it up.’
‘Made what up?’
‘About ’avin’ a friend at th’ Infirmary. Only I reckon ’e’s sat on ’is laurels fer long enough, that bugger.’ She began to giggle like a girl. ‘Ooh, what am I sayin’? Pity they didn’t cut ’is bloody laurels off altogether, eh?’
‘Behave yourself, Mrs Cullen.’
‘’Ey, don’t you start laughin’ an’ all. It were ’is laurels as were the problem – am I right? Does ’e still ’ave ter sit on one o’ them rubber rings what you blow up wi’ a bike pump?’
‘No!’
She wiped her eyes. ‘No, listen. I’m bein’ dead serious now. I’ve reckoned ’is number, I ’ave. T’ longer as ’e sits there doin’ nowt, t’ less likely ’e is fer t’ get back on t’ round. That bloody mate of ’is ’11 be buyin’ it off ’im next news if we don’t do summat. But ’e’ll go back now, mark my words.’
And he did. But this proved to be a mixed blessing, because although my mother was able to give up her morning job, he seemed to grow stronger with every passing month and I noticed, gradually, that he was watching me again. But he made no moves in my direction and I managed to stay out of his way most of the time, studying with friends, visiting the Cullens, taking advantage of the fact that I was now old enough to make my own decisions about when I must arrive home and when I must go to bed.
Another year sped by, another Christmas, another birthday – my fifteenth. For eighteen months, he and I had spoken scarcely a word to one another and my mother had by now given up her attempts to enforce an armistice between us. Her own relationship with him was obviously strained and there was little speech or laughter in the house except when he was absent from it. I continued to grow and by the summer of 1955 I was five feet seven inches tall, weighed a good nine stones and was very strong. And he continued to watch, never coming near me, seldom speaking to anyone but watching, always watching.
I threw myself into my work, because I had just twelve months until my GCE examinations; now, there was no time for sitting on walls, little contact with others except fellow students, few opportunities for fun or relaxation. The term drew towards its close. Mother St Vincent remained concerned about me, but she had long since given up on the idea of my confirmation. The ‘little chats’, which we both enjoyed thoroughly, carried on and she was pushing me gently towards Oxbridge. My mother had been proved right yet again, because the 1950s had indeed opened new doors for the working classes and for women. But although I had decided that I would not leave the North, I did not enlighten the little nun about my intentions. Law and medicine were both available in Liverpool or Manchester and I would go no further from home. To leave my mother alone with him after all her sacrifice would be a crime for which I would never be able to forgive myself. Yet I kept my counsel and agreed with everything the headmistress said.
We spilled out of school on the last day of our fourth year, made our goodbyes, promised to meet sometime during the holidays and went our separate and widespread ways – Leigh, Farnworth, Westhoughton, Affetside, Bolton. The lucky ones would be going away for holidays, perhaps abroad or to Scotland. I had been offered a holiday in Maria Hourigan’s caravan, but I could not go. Nothing in this world would entice me away from home, for I would never trust him alone with my mother. He feared me, had good reason to fear me. But without my constant vigilance, he would surely make her pay for what I had done to him. And my mother had already paid enough for me.
As I rode home on the 45, I found myself noticing, as if for the first time, how the world around me had changed during my short life. In the streets I saw girls who no longer looked like younger versions of their mothers, girls with a style of their own – the princess line was slowly making its exit and wide colourful skirts with waspie waists were taking its place. By the side of these girls walked lads with long slicked-back hair, drainpipe trousers, bright socks, deep-soled sh
oes and knee-length jackets. I realized that something of a revolution had been taking place while I wasn’t looking, that young people were demanding attention, seeking a slot of their own in society, snatching a place for themselves, a place that had never been offered or even imagined by adults. They had their own spokesmen too – James Dean, Bill Haley and a new star called Elvis. The music and the words of the Fifties screamed rebellion and I was beginning to notice it.
Everything was changing. Even grown-ups seemed crazy during this decade, entering the throwaway society with enthusiasm as if attempting to deny that there had ever been war, shortages, rationing. Plastic-coated coffee tables with fly-away edges began to appear in the sitting rooms of the nouveau riche, while in thousands of homes a large glass eye called television sat in a corner, often discreetly hidden behind tiny doors. Someone called Fairfield Osborn was warning us that we were using up the world’s resources too fast, but nobody heeded him. It was an age of madness, an era of excitement and carelessness. I wondered who they were, these people with money to throw about, because they certainly didn’t live in our road. My mother still ran a household on five pounds a week, paid coal and electricity bills, fed three people and managed a mortgage with that paltry sum.
The bus stopped and I got off opposite the library. Martin Cullen, who seemed to have found his tongue when he acquired his first Teddy Boy suit, yelled a greeting across the road and I waved at him. Yes, everything was indeed changing. Now was the time for me to speak out, to join the rebels in my own way. But no, there she was at the gate waiting for me, her hair made fiery by the rays of an afternoon sun. I threw my satchel into our small patch of garden and lifted the tiny woman off her feet, pretending to be happy to have six whole weeks off school. One day, I promised myself, she would be comfortable and my education would buy her peace of mind and provide a passport out of the mill. For now, I must continue to act my part, must keep her as happy as I could manage. This was not the best of our times, but the best was yet to come.
A Whisper to the Living Page 17