by Mary Gibson
It had been a mistake to come on tour on her own. Secret grief for her child still clung to her and though she’d not confided in them, being back among her family had somehow helped ease that loss. But the loneliness of nights in digs and solitary train journeys had left her too much time to think and she’d arrived at Hull drained and ready to go home. That night Matty tried to turn her despair into fuel for her performance. It was a matter of professional pride that she didn’t bring her own sadness into the hall. Though the tune playing in her own head was ‘Am I Blue?’ still she gave her audience a programme of old music hall favourites, which lifted the crowd’s spirits if not her own. She deliberately avoided all songs of missing and loss, choosing the brightest and silliest of her repertoire, ending with ‘The Old Apple Tree’ and a comical drunken dance from imaginary pub to pub, which brought the house down.
She was so effective that the manager came up to her after the performance. Sucking on a large cigar, he blocked her way to the shared dressing room, which was little more than a cupboard in the basement.
‘Well, love, they don’t call you the Cockney Canary for now’t! You couldn’t a’ bin more chirpy ’n that if I’d taken you up there in a gilded cage! You’ve got ’em laughin’ and the poor buggers certainly need cheering up! Half on ’em won’t have jobs this time next week, so we got to make the most of it while they’re still earnin’. Come ’an have a drink wi’ me.’
‘No thanks.’ Matty leaned heavily on the basement wall and dabbed her face with a lace handkerchief. The greasepaint was melting and she wanted nothing more than to get the heavy sequinned dress off and return to her digs. She felt no obligation to keep up the act with the manager.
‘I’m bone tired.’ She sidestepped round him but he grabbed her arm.
‘Come on, Matty, aren’t you lonely on tour, you could do wi’ a bit of company.’ He pushed his face closer to hers. She sighed, this was the last thing she needed. She’d played Hull a few times in the early days of her career and knew Nat had earned his reputation in the business as one of the more persistent stage managers when it came to his female acts; in fact he treated his theatre as though it was his personal fiefdom.
‘Yes, Nat, I am lonely...’ For a moment his face brightened. ‘I miss my family and if you want to thank me, you can let me use your telephone. I want to ring home.’ Matty glared at him. Knowing Nat was a married man, she hoped that the mention of home would sober him. And she saw his face change.
‘Oh, sorry, Matty, ’course you can use the phone, love.’
It was late, but Eliza kept late hours and in all her years of touring Matty couldn’t ever remember needing to hear a familiar voice so much. Though she hadn’t told Eliza the full extent of Frank’s mistreatment, it was as though she’d let off the emotional stopper of some pungent poison, which only now was making its way through her system. She wasn’t one for self-pity. But tonight the only antidote she needed was her sister’s voice.
After the fifth ring she realized no one was going to answer, but she let it ring twice more, just in case Eliza was upstairs.
The voice when it came didn’t sound like Eliza’s. ‘Hello? Is that you, Matty, why aren’t you on stage?’ Her sister’s breathing was laboured and Mattie could hear a soft rattle on each intake of breath.
‘I’ve just finished. I’m still at the theatre. I’ve been ringing for ages – where have you been? Have you just come in from a meeting?’
‘Ah, you’re checking up on me!’ There came a pause and another harsh breath. ‘No, it just took me a while to get to the phone. How’s the Hull audience been?’
‘OK, but I’m looking forward to coming home.’
Matty heard a muffled wheezing which turned to a phlegmy cough, rattling down the telephone line.
‘Eliza, that cough’s terrible. Have you seen the doctor?’
‘Don’t fuss, Matty, dear. I’m fine. I spent all yesterday in Trafalgar Square with the hunger marchers. It was freezing but marvellous...’ Her enthusiasm disappeared in another wheeze. ‘But I shouted myself hoarse on the platform.’
‘Will it make a difference, do you think?’ Sometimes Matty wondered where this dedication of her sister’s came from, the passion to right everyone else’s wrongs. But she’d certainly been grateful for it in her own case. So Eliza’s answer was a surprise.
‘I’m not that optimistic, Matty, it’s like raising the dead. Even our Labour government can’t conjure up work when the factories are dying.’
Matty wanted to hear more cheering news.
‘How’re Sam and Nellie, have you seen them?’
‘Nellie brought the boys round. They’re all bright as buttons, but I think Billy’s got the family talent for music. He sang us “Mother of Mine” all the way through without a mistake.’
‘Not another one destined for the stage, I hope.’
There was a moment’s silence and Matty thought they had been cut off.
‘Hold on, Matty.’ Matty heard the phone clatter on to the table and then what sounded like a coughing fit.
‘Eliza?’ Matty gripped the telephone, suddenly wracked by an unaccountably strong certainty that something was really wrong with her sister. ‘Eliza!’ she shouted down the phone. ‘Are you there?’ And seized by a strong wave of panic, Matty called to her again. ‘Where have you gone?’ But there was only silence. ‘Eliza!’ Matty screamed, now really afraid.
‘Yes, yes, I’m all right, Matty. Just a coughing fit, teach me to stand on a freezing cold podium in the middle of winter.’
Immediately anger replaced concern. ‘Well, you should be taking better care of yourself! You frightened the bloody life out of me. I’ll come home.’ Matty was already reaching for her bag and coat.
‘Don’t be so melodramatic. You’re not on the stage now, Matty. Really, it’s just a cold. I’ll be fine, trust me.’
4
Pal o’ My Cradle Days
September–October 1930
At first she thought the house was empty. She dropped her bag in the passage and threw off her coat. She hoped Eliza had a fire going; she was stiff with cold from the journey.
‘Eliza? I’m home... it’s perishing out!’
Then she heard it. A crackling, hacking cough, unbroken by any breath. It sounded as if it were coming from the chest of an eighty-year-old man, but when finally it ended with an attempt to call her name she knew it was coming from her sister. She leaped the stairs two at a time to find Eliza propped up in bed, her hair falling down in untidy strands, face white with tiredness.
Matty ran to her. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were so ill?’ she said accusingly. ‘I would have come straight home.’
‘I thought I just had a cold—’
‘A cold! Eliza, you can barely breathe...’ Matty’s voice rose in panic. ‘I should never have listened to you.’
‘Matty, it’s just I’ve been awake all night, it’s worn me out. I only need something to clear the pipes.’ Her sister patted her chest weakly and let her hand fall back on the sheet.
Matty shook her head. ‘I think it’s more than a cough. I’m getting the doctor.’
At that moment there was a loud knocking on the front door.
‘I already sent the boy next door to fetch Nellie,’ Eliza explained.
And soon Nellie, who didn’t stop to take off her coat, was at Matty’s side. She placed the back of her hand on Eliza’s cheek. ‘She’s burning up and I don’t like the sound of her.’
‘I’m here!’ protested Eliza, who still had enough strength in her to resent being treated like a patient.
‘Shall I ring for the doctor?’ Matty asked Nellie, who nodded in spite of Eliza’s protests.
The doctor was with them quickly as his surgery was on the corner of Reverdy Road. A kindly man with an unhurried manner, he took his time examining Eliza while Matty hovered anxiously by the bed. Finally he pronounced it pneumonia. Eliza, he said, needed to be in hospital.
‘Come on, Mat
ty. I’ll wrap her up, you get your coat on,’ Nellie ordered.
And Matty sprang into action, glad she could finally do something. She swaddled Eliza in a papoose of blankets so thick that Eliza appeared to shrink in size.
She attempted a weak laugh ‘Stop, Matty, you’re like a mother hen... you’ll suffocate me before the pneumonia does!’ she said, trying to push off the covers. But Matty ignored her and was glad she had, for it was cold as death outside and even the short distance to the ambulance had Eliza shivering.
‘Try not to worry, Matty,’ Nellie said, laying a hand on Matty’s before they stepped up into the ambulance.
Guy’s Hospital was a scene of calm professional activity. Nurses in starched hats wearing white and purple striped dresses attended Eliza, surrounding her in an unhurried, synchronized dance that Matty at first found reassuring. The ward held the forced hush of those saving all their energies simply to get well. But Eliza’s cough tore through the quiet like a ferocious beast, and it was obvious to Matty that her once vigorous body was wearing itself out in these repeated paroxysms of explosive force.
A nurse hurried up to them. ‘Are you the next of kin?’
Matty nodded.
The nurse walked briskly to a side room. She fired questions at Matty, but Nellie answered, as Matty had no idea how long Eliza had been coughing, nor what her temperature had been. She felt the poorest of sisters, ashamed even to open her mouth.
Eventually the nurse finished making her notes and looked up at Matty; in spite of her reassuring veneer, there was something in her eyes that made Matty afraid.
‘Can’t you do anything to help her breathe?’
‘Try not to worry!’ the nurse said pointlessly.
Eliza was gasping for air now, clutching at the bedclothes. Matty had never seen her brave sister scared – but now the fear in her eyes spurred Matty to action.
‘Look at her! For God’s sake, get some help!’
The nurse didn’t argue, but dashed out of the room.
Matty gripped her sister’s hand. ‘Oh, I feel so bad, Eliza. I should have come home when I knew you were ill!’
But Eliza had no breath left for words and simply gripped Matty’s hand.
‘Shhh, Matty, that’s silly talk. Besides, when have you ever known Eliza take anyone else’s advice?’ Nellie reassured her.
They heard the nurse before they saw her; she was trundling an oxygen canister on wheels. She quickly spun dials and adjusted a small mask over Eliza’s face. She’d brought the doctor with her.
‘This will help for now,’ the doctor explained, ‘but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave her with us, she needs to rest.’
As Eliza calmed and began to breathe more easily, Matty’s pounding heart began to still itself too. Her eyes locked with Eliza’s, and Eliza gave her a small, nod, almost of permission.
‘We’ll be back tomorrow!’ she said, but Eliza held up her long tapering fingers in a beckoning gesture and Matty went to her side. The voice was muffled behind the mask, so Matty leaned in close to hear her laboured words. ‘I always loved you, Matty, right from the day you were born...’ She was silenced by a long shuddering breath and closed her eyes. Matty turned to leave, but Eliza grabbed her hand with surprising strength. ‘You were always here...’ and she rested her other hand on her heart. Matty thought she heard the words. ‘Goodnight, my angel,’ as Eliza’s eyes closed again and her hand dropped to the bedclothes.
Matty was rooted to the spot. Perhaps she’d been mistaken, for it was an endearment Eliza never used. But their mother had. Always, before tucking them into bed at night. Perhaps that’s why they were also the last words she’d spoken to her own tiny daughter, and as she bent to kiss Eliza goodbye, tears flooded her cheeks at that unbearable memory.
*
That night when she finally got home, she glanced in the hall mirror as she took off her hat and was shocked by the toll the anxious night had taken on her. She looked almost as exhausted as Eliza. She traipsed upstairs and laid down to sleep, kept awake by the creaks and groans of the empty house and by guilt for the way she’d treated her sister in the past. She remembered how hard Eliza had tried to be friends when she’d returned, buying her presents, asking only to be given a chance to make up for the lost years when she’d been exiled with Ernest James in Mecklenberg Square and later Australia. Matty tossed and turned, eventually hearing the voice of her mother, always practical, never sentimental. Lizzie Gilbie would be getting so impatient with her now. ‘You can’t turn back the clock. It’s what you do today that counts, not what you did gawd knows how long ago!’ she’d have said, with a flash of fire in her eyes, reserved for those less practical than herself. And Matty smiled through her tears of regret, for even from the grave Lizzie Gilbie was right, and Matty would do everything in her power to prove to Eliza how much she’d grown to love her.
The following morning as she was preparing to go to the hospital, Matty was surprised to hear the clip clop of a dray and the creaking of a cart as it came to a halt outside the house. She ran out, grabbing her hat and pulling on her coat.
‘Sam! What are you doing here?’
It seemed his delivery round out of the Bricklayer’s Arms had brought him past Reverdy Road and he offered to take her to Guy’s Hospital.
‘That’s if the Hollywood star don’t mind being seen sitting up on a cart!’ He laughed.
‘Mind! Have I ever minded? Shove over.’
As she clambered up on to the seat beside Sam, the smell of horse and leather harness transported her back to the days when, as a child, Sam would hoist her up on to his cart and take her for a ride. Now she leaned against him, putting her hand on the arm of his worn work jacket.
‘Drive on, James, and...’ she said, pausing for Sam to complete their old chant.
‘Do spare the horses...’ He obliged, smiling.
He gave his familiar click and the horse lifted its head. They jolted forward, cartwheels hissing and hooves clipping sharply on the frosty cobbles as Sam urged the horse onward.
‘Nellie told me they gave her oxygen. How do you think she is?’ he asked, above the roar of a passing lorry.
‘A little better, I think, Sam. I’m praying she’ll be able to breathe on her own today.’
Her brother nodded, his jaw set, as he concentrated on the traffic. But when he glanced at her, she could see his own anxiety written there.
‘We’ll keep our hopes up, eh, Matty love? Nellie’s put a sandwich for you in here.’ He indicated a wrapped package. ‘She says you won’t think to eat.’
‘As if she didn’t have enough to do looking after all you lot! Say thanks for me, Sam.’
Sam shook his head. ‘Our Eliza... if she’d spent less time putting the world to rights organizing hunger marches and more on looking after her own health...’
Her brother had always been hard on Eliza, and whereas once Matty would have agreed, now she defended her sister. ‘It’s what she’s lived for, Sam. And besides, she might not have been looking after herself, but she’s certainly been looking after me lately. Do you know she’s not taken a penny rent?’
‘And so she shouldn’t...’
Matty gave up trying to convince him as Sam brought the cart to a halt outside the old Victorian hospital building. She hugged him and jumped down. It was impossible to imagine how she could have got through the last couple of months without him, or Nellie, or Eliza. They were all the world to her, and sometimes she felt almost grateful that she’d been blown back across the Atlantic and into the warmth of their arms again.
‘Can you come in for a minute?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll try to get time off tomorrow. But be sure to give her my love, won’t you?’ he said deliberately.
Eliza’s eyes were closed. She looked thinner than yesterday, her eyes dark sunken circles above the oxygen mask. Matty sat at her bedside and took her sister’s hand.
‘Sam sends his love, Liza. And Will’s on his way home, he’ll be
here soon...’
In fact Matty didn’t know where Will was. She’d telephoned the porter at Trinity, but he’d said Will wasn’t there, and when she’d explained how ill his mother was the man had relented. ‘I think he’s gone off with that other young Bolshie, son of Lord Fetherstone, though you wouldn’t think it. Walks around in sandals, filthy feet. The family pile’s up north.’
But when she asked for the telephone number he refused. Matty pretended to cry; she could do sad equally well as chirpy.
‘Now, now, young lady, no need for tears. Best I can do is pass on a message, let the young gentleman know he’s needed at home.’
So Matty could only hope the message had got through.
The nurse came to the bedside. ‘Let’s see if she’ll make an effort for you today.’
Matty let go of Eliza’s hand.
‘We’ll try without the oxygen,’ she said, gently lifting the mask off Eliza’s face.
‘Come on, Liza,’ Matty urged, ‘prove I’m not the only trouper in the family.’
Matty’s fingers dug deep into her palms as she clenched her fists, willing her sister to take just one calm, unhindered breath, one effortless intake and one smooth sigh out.
‘One breath for me, Liza,’ she begged, reaching again for her sister’s hand, and seeing, she thought, a flicker of effort crossing her face. Eliza’s lips moved as though struggling to speak.
Matty held her own breath for what seemed like minutes, but must have been only seconds, when, with a shudder and a half smile, Eliza breathed in, one deep, life-promising gulp of air and then one long sigh out which ended, not in a paroxysm of choking but, instead, in a palpable calm, a stillness that filled the seconds. Matty had felt that stillness before, she had held it in the palm of her hand, and with a cold recognition she stared at her sister’s chest, waiting for it to rise of its own accord. She lifted her eyes to the nurse, but the woman’s expression had turned from one of expectancy to alarm.