by Joan Jonker
‘She certainly does,’ Mick agreed. ‘Nice enough to be on the lid of a box of Cadbury’s chocolates.’
Amy put her hand to her stomach and made a gurgling sound. ‘Seamus, if yer don’t put a glass in me hand this minute, I’ll be sick all over yer floor. And put those four outside, while ye’re at it. Sloppy beggars.’
‘Now, me darlin’, were yer not young yerself once? It’s a long time ago, I’ll grant yer that, but sure, yer must have some memories of being flattered and courted.’
Amy caught her husband’s eye and jerked her head. ‘Go on, you tell them how yer flattered and courted me.’
‘You tell a better tale than me, love,’ Ben said. ‘And ye’re a better liar than me.’
Amy, her chubby hands around a glass of stout, was in her element. ‘Well, when my Ben used to call for me, I’d open the door and he’d say, “Are yer ready, girl?” Then we’d walk down the street with him on the inside and me on the outside near the kerb. I always took me own quarter of wine gums, ’cos I knew he wouldn’t dream of buying me sweets. We’d sit in the dark of the picture house, chewing on MY wine gums, without a word being spoken. If James Cagney and Pat O’Brien were on, and it came to an exciting bit, Ben used to close his eyes and I’d have to tell him when it was safe to look. Then when we came out of the pictures, I used to walk him home ’cos his mam didn’t like him being out on his own in the dark, and when we got outside his house he’d tap me on the arm and say, “Ta-ra, girl, see yer tomorrow”. If I was quick, I’d have a chance to kiss him on the cheek before he had time to put his key in the lock.’
Amy took a long swig of stout before gazing around the rapt faces. ‘I knew I’d always have to buy me own wine gums and walk in the gutter, but yer see, although yer wouldn’t think so now, he was dead handsome, was Ben. A real he-man, he was, knocked spots off the likes of Clark Gable. Sometimes, when we were walking, our hips would touch and I’d swoon with rapture. He’ll tell yer himself the number of times he had to lift me up out of the gutter.’
Ben, who had enjoyed the tale of fantasy more than anyone, cocked an eyebrow. ‘Yer were lying in the gutter the first time I set eyes on yer, love. Yer were dead drunk and slobbering. And I remember saying to meself, as I picked yer up, “This is the girl for me”.’
Amy grinned. ‘There yer are – didn’t I tell yer he was dead romantic?’
The laughter increased ten-fold when Janet said, ‘I don’t think he was dead romantic. Fancy him making yer buy yer own wine gums!’
Amy, the chair creaking beneath her, looked at her son. ‘John, spell it out for her, will yer? Or, better still, draw her a picture.’
‘Mam, she doesn’t know yer well enough yet. How was she to know that every word yer spoke was a lie? Janet’s mam’s not as daft as you.’
‘Ooh, er!’ There was a look of amazement on Janet’s face. ‘Yer mean that was all lies, Mrs Hanley? Well, why was yer husband laughing?’
‘Because he’s sitting on a feather, girl, and it’s tickling his fancy.’ Then Amy felt sorry for her. ‘It was all a joke, girl, just to make people laugh. I often come out with these weird and wonderful tales, but they’re all in fun.’
Janet’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘In that case, Mrs Hanley, it was very funny. But will yer tell me in future, so I can enjoy the joke?’
‘Listen, sunshine,’ Mary said, ‘just treat everything me mate says as a joke and yer can’t go far wrong. She never gives a warning because she doesn’t know herself what she’s going to come out with.’ Mary chuckled. ‘Come shopping with us one day, Janet, and yer’ll find out what I mean.’
Janet put her hand on John’s arm. ‘Your mam is very clever, John, to be able to make up stories like that.’
Amy was delighted. ‘A girl after me own heart. She’ll make someone a good wife.’
‘All right, Mam.’ John felt it was time to shut his mother up before she said Janet would make a good daughter-in-law. The trouble with his mam was, she didn’t expect people to take to heart what she said. ‘Yer’ve hogged the stage for long enough, give someone else a chance.’
‘Ye’re right, son,’ Amy said. ‘I should be concentrating on me big performance later on. We artistes are very highly strung and temper – er, tempora –’ she glanced at Mary. ‘What’s the word I’m looking for, girl?’
‘Temperamental, sunshine.’
‘That’s what I am.’ Amy nodded. ‘So I’ll save meself for the big moment.’
And the big moment came at half-past eleven, after much beer and port had been drunk, songs sung and jigs and reels danced. Amy made her way into the kitchen and closed the door, telling Molly not to let anyone out there, even if they were desperate for the lavvy. ‘Tell them to cross their legs,’ she said.
While the adults were engaged in conversation as they waited for the star of the show, Mick said to Jenny, ‘Yer mam said yer can come to the dance with us after yer birthday.’
‘Did she? Oh, won’t that be great!’ Jenny’s pretty face was animated and flushed with all the laughing. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ Mick thought that was putting it mildly. He was counting the days. ‘We’ll have some fun.’
‘You bet,’ John said. ‘We’ll be that good we’ll be able to enter in competitions.’
‘Will yer teach me to dance proper, John?’ Janet asked. ‘You know, like they do in the movies?’
Why does she always ask me things, John asked himself. Why doesn’t she ask Mick? ‘Yeah, me and Mick will both teach yer. We’ll take turns apiece with you and Jenny until yer can do all the dances.’
There came a thumping on the kitchen door. ‘Molly, as yer’ve taken over as me manager, it’s up to you to introduce me and make sure the audience don’t get rowdy. This act I’m doing tonight is a real class act, and I won’t put up with any whistling or bawling. So if ye’re expecting to get paid for the job, get cracking and give me an introduction worthy of me many and varied talents.’
‘Oh dear,’ Molly said, ‘would somebody else like to be her manager? I’m out of me depths, so I am, and haven’t a clue what to do or say.’
There was a lot of pulling of faces and shaking of heads. No one wanted to be Amy’s manager when they didn’t know what she was going to look like when she came through that door. Oh, it was all in fun, a great big joke to Amy. And the person opening the door for her big entrance could end up in tears of laughter. But they could also end up with a very red face and wishing the floor would open and swallow them up. ‘Seamus,’ she pleaded, ‘will yer not be helping me out?’
Seamus was shaking with laughter. ‘With the best will, and all the love in the world, me darlin’, I’ll not be taking that chance. If Amy comes in here in her birthday suit, wouldn’t it be me being chased up the street by yer dear self, with the stiff brush in yer hand?’
Amy was getting impatient. ‘What the bleedin’ hell is going on in there? I’ve got me own flippin’ legs crossed now, yer’ve been that long.’
Molly breathed out through her teeth before opening the kitchen door slowly. Then, with a sigh of relief and a smile on her face, she announced, ‘Here she comes, for your entertainment, the one and only – Amy Hanley!’
When the laughter erupted, it was like an explosion. Amy was wearing her husband’s working clothes, right down to the dirty old cap, collarless shirt and braces. Now Ben was a big man, and his wife was swamped in his clothes. The jacket came down to her knees, the trouser legs had been rolled up and secured with large pins, and the waist was tied with a piece of strong string, knotted above Amy’s tummy. The sleeves had also been turned up half-a-dozen times to fit. It was the dirty old cap that had everyone rolling about. It came down over her ears and almost covered her eyes. All you could see was her chubby cheeks and the wide smile which told of her delight in the reception.
‘In the name of God, love, how did yer do that?’ Ben asked. ‘I had those clothes on for work today!’
‘I
know, and I thought I was going to have to drag the bleedin’ things off yer, yer were that slow getting changed. Anyway, on with the show. Nobody join in till I tell yer, ’cos some of yer are tone deaf and yer put me off me stroke.’ With a thumb hooked each side of the braces, and a swagger to her walk, she began. ‘Anytime ye’re Lambeth Way …’ She’d told them not to join in, but the song was so catchy they had to do something, so they clapped their hands and stamped their feet.
What a sight Amy looked, a real scream. And there wasn’t a soul in that room who didn’t feel like giving her a big hug. One song followed another, all with a Cockney theme. ‘Any Old Iron’ was followed by ‘Maybe It’s Because I’m A Londoner’. And as she sang, her legs and feet were never still. Till in the end, with sweat running down her face and her breathing laboured, she called it a day. ‘That’s all for now folks, I’m all in.’
There were shouts of, ‘Encore!’ and, ‘Bravo!’ but Amy shook her head. ‘I need two glasses of stout to catch up with the rest of yer. And until I get that, my backside stays on this chair.’
John, his mother’s biggest fan, looked across at her and said, ‘I don’t half love me mam, she’s a real corker.’
‘I love yer mam, too, John.’ Janet nodded her head. ‘I think she’s brilliant.’
‘We all love Auntie Amy,’ Jenny said. ‘Yer couldn’t help but love her.’
Although Mick agreed with their sentiments, he wasn’t very happy about it. If Jenny loved his mother, it gave John a head start. ‘I love Mrs Hanley, she’s great. But doesn’t anybody love my mam?’
‘Of course we do!’ Jenny giggled. ‘I always think of my mam, Auntie Amy and Auntie Molly as The Three Musketeers. They’re one for all and all for one. If a helping hand is needed, it is quickly offered. They’ve been friends for as long as I can remember, and I love the bones of the three of them.’
Mick and John were very happy with that statement. But it left Janet wondering whether they lived too far away for her mam to join the friends, so she could be loved by everyone. ‘Yer can’t have Four Musketeers, can yer?’
‘Nah,’ John said. ‘It doesn’t have the same ring to it, somehow.’ He looked at Mick and knew his friend was trying to figure out the same thing as him. Was Janet really as daft as she made out, or was she, in her own way, as funny as his mam?
It was a Monday morning, ten days into the New Year, when Cynthia decided to put her plan into action. She left for work as usual, in her old coat, scruffy shoes and a scarf over her head. In her handbag was the letter she’d written and an old pair of her father’s reading glasses. She worked through until the dinner break, then asked the supervisor if she could go home as she wasn’t feeling very well.
As she walked through the factory gates, Cynthia’s nerves were as taut as a violin string. The only thing that kept her going was the knowledge that if the letter had the desired effect, she’d finally get the revenge she sought. Larry and Jeff had made her life a hell, and she hadn’t asked for it. She may have been stupid to have taken up with Larry in the first place, but she didn’t deserve what he and his friend had done to her. Nobody deserved that. And it wasn’t only herself who had suffered at their hands, but others, too. They couldn’t be allowed to carry on; they must be punished and have their lives made a hell on earth.
Cynthia could feel sympathy for their wives, for she had no doubt they were married, but they had to know. They were the only ones who could put a stop to it. None of the women they forced into having sex would go to the police, because they’d be too ashamed to put into words what had happened to them. And too ashamed of their families and neighbours finding out. There was always one who would say, ‘I bet she asked for it. There’s no smoke without fire.’
Cynthia hopped on a tram at Everton Valley and took a seat by the window. And as she swayed with the movement of the tram, the shops and buildings that flashed by were just a blur. She was deep in thought, going over and over her plan. She’d worked it out to the last detail, but would it be as easy in reality? It had to be; she desperately needed it to be successful so her mind would be cleansed and she could put the whole incident behind her. She’d never forget, but it wouldn’t be nagging away in her head every day and night. And she wouldn’t be looking at every boy with suspicion.
‘Walton Church next stop,’ the conductor called as he rang the bell.
Cynthia stepped down from the tram and began to walk back to the street with a pub on one corner and a sweet shop on the other. She stopped before she reached the corner and put on her father’s glasses before pulling the scarf down to cover her hair. No one would have given her a second glance; she looked like a dowdy, middle-aged housewife. She couldn’t see out of the glasses clearly so she bent her head and peered over the rims as she turned the corner of the street. She glanced briefly up at number fifteen as she passed, noting that the house seemed well-kept, with bright windows and clean steps, but kept on walking until she came to number fifty-five. Then, settling the glasses straight on her nose, she lifted the knocker.
The woman who opened the door was middle-aged with a happy face and ginger hair. ‘Yes, can I help yer?’
Her eyes squinting, Cynthia asked, ‘Is Larry in, please?’
‘There’s no Larry here, queen, yer’ve got the wrong house.’
‘Oh, I’m sure me dad said fifty-five.’ Cynthia held the envelope out. ‘He asked me to bring this letter, but he hasn’t put the address on. It’s just got Larry on the front.’
‘I’ve got it now,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘It’ll be Larry Langton, he’s the only Larry I know. He lives up the road at number fifteen. But he won’t be in now, he’ll be at work.’
‘Perhaps his wife will be in?’
‘She’ll be at work, queen, and the kids are at school. If yer come back tonight, they’ll all be in.’
‘I couldn’t do that, I’ve come all the way from Bootle.’ Cynthia lifted the glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’ve got a splitting headache with these glasses. I need new ones but I can’t afford them.’
‘Why don’t yer pop the letter through their letter box, queen, save anyone having to make that long journey?’
‘I don’t think me dad would like that. He said to be sure to give it to Larry or his wife. In fact, he thought Larry would be at work, and he told me to give it to his wife. If I tell him I went to the wrong house in the first place, and then put it through a letter box, he’ll have me guts for garters.’
‘Then give me the letter and I’ll nip up with it when Doreen gets in. That’s his wife, and she works until three o’clock.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘My name’s June Lawson, by the way, queen. What’s yours?’
‘Ooh, isn’t that funny, my name’s June, too!’ Cynthia was thinking fast as she passed the letter over. ‘June Hardcastle.’
‘Right, I’ll let Doreen know yer called and she can tell Larry. Yer can promise yer dad he’ll definitely have the letter in his hand as soon as he gets home. Is there any other message, queen?’
‘No, I don’t even know this Larry, it’s me dad what knows him.’ Cynthia turned to walk away. ‘Thanks very much, yer’ve saved me life.’
‘Think nothing of it, queen, ye’re welcome.’ June Lawson watched her walk away. A spinster from the looks of her, she thought. And a downtrodden one at that. Seemed her father had the whip hand. She closed the door and gazed down at the envelope. Why the hell couldn’t the old man have posted it, save putting his daughter to all that trouble? Whatever was in the ruddy letter couldn’t be that important.
When Cynthia heard the door close, she speeded up her steps. The glasses were discarded and thrust in her pocket. The deed was done now and the sooner she got away from here the better. By tonight, Larry’s wife, and Jeff’s too, with any luck, would know what their husbands got up to. For Doreen was sure to do as Cynthia expected and open the letter as soon as she got in. After all, she wouldn’t see any harm in reading a letter that had been hand-delivered, an
d curiosity would be bound to get the better of her. However, what she would find inside would shake her to the core. First was the date when her husband and his friend had picked up two young girls in a pub and taken them down an entry. The pub was named and a description of the girls given. Then Doreen would read about the woman who was dragged struggling down an entry by her husband and Jeff, and how they were in the act of raping her when two men who were passing came to her aid. This was the night their husbands had come home badly bruised and beaten up. Their injuries had been inflicted by the two men who didn’t take kindly to rapists. Again the date was given and the name of the pub.
Cynthia had not given details of her own ordeal for fear of being found out as the writer of the letter. But she had written that the incidents mentioned were only two of many, and that Larry and Jeff were nothing but evil bullies and rapists, unfit to be members of the human race.
While Cynthia was waiting at the tram stop, she told herself it was too early to go home without awkward questions being asked. She’d go into town and have a cup of tea at the Kardomah. She realised with surprise that the tension had left her body and her heart felt lighter than it had done in months. Please God it would stay like that and the dark moods were a thing of the past.
When the tram came and she jumped on board, the conductor was standing on the platform talking to the driver. He held out his hand, asking, ‘Where to, love?’
She smiled as she handed him two pennies. ‘A single to Church Street, please.’
Doreen Langton closed the door on June and looked down at the letter in her hand. ‘I bet he’s been backing the gee-gees and owes the bookie money.’ She walked through to the living room and stood the letter up on the mantelpiece. She was alone in the house, the children wouldn’t be in from school for another half-hour. ‘I’ll break his bloody neck for him, if that’s the case. What’s the point in me going out to work to earn a few bob if he’s going to squander it on bloody horses?’