Edward nodded, remembering the deaths of Edith’s dad and his own parents long ago. Edith sat down on the kitchen chair opposite her husband. ‘Do you know what that Trevor did then?’ she looked concerned and confused at the same time. ‘He started crying. I said, “Oh Trevor, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were grieving for someone.” Well, that’s what it looked like. He told me to shut up and bloody turned his back, sat down and picked up the paper. And without looking at me told me to get back to work!’
‘Well, he was embarrassed, weren’t he?’ Edward himself looked slightly embarrassed at the idea of another man crying in front of his wife. ‘But he’s a big girl’s blouse anyway, you said.’
He slapped his hand on the table and said firmly, ‘You better not do that to me if I die before you! Bloody go into work like nothing’s happened. I want you to grieve like them Catholic women, wear black for the rest of your life and don’t even dare look at another man. Do you get me?’ He wasn’t joking, Edith could tell, but handled his rising anger as she always did.
‘Oh shut up, you’re ain’t ’alf daft.’ She flicked her tea towel in his direction and continued, ‘I don’t want to ask Maud about it, I don’t want to pry. But I didn’t like the way he got claws out at her, calling her an old cow like that. That’s not respectful. Don’t care if he’s grieving or not. She’s my friend.’
‘Huh,’ Edward responded, ‘Trevor’s just saying it like it is. It’s simple. People like Maud think that them students are worth more than her own husband. No matter what you think, he was her husband. He was family and they’re not, no matter how much she wants them to be, and they’ll forget her as soon as they’ve left to go on and become bosses of the likes of you and me.’
Edith shook her head, ‘Maud doesn’t have children, remember, and look at her with our Audrey. I do think she looks at them boys as if they’re her own. That college is her life. She watches ’em graduate at the Senate House, she used to go down to the Bumps and told me that she was once a seamstress at May Balls too.’
‘Sounds like she’s their bleeding mascot.’
But Edward didn’t dislike Maud, even if it seemed sometimes that he did. He was pleased that she was a friend of Edith’s, and that she helped them out on many occasions by babysitting Audrey. He was thankful for those free family holidays she was able to offer them at her caravan in Felixstowe, too.
Edward was to become even more indebted to Maud when a few weeks later she pushed and pulled Edith home from college on her bike. ‘I’m sorry,’ Edith said as she sat breathing shallowly in the kitchen, having been helped off the bike by Edward and Maud together. ‘I just conked out. I don’t know what I would have done if Maud hadn’t pulled me home on my bike,’ she smiled thinly at Maud. ‘I just didn’t have the insides to pedal, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
As Maud helped Edward get Edith into bed she told them, ‘I’ll get June’s girl Doreen in to do her staircase for the rest of the week at college. She’s looking for some work. Edith, you don’t need to worry about work, I’ll speak to Mrs George, she’s a lovely woman and you know she’ll be alright with it.’
Edward didn’t care a tuppence, he said, he really wasn’t bothered with what the college would do without her. His main concern was whether his wife would make it through the night. ‘She looks bloody awful,’ he told Audrey and Ron when they returned home later that day.
As Edward suspected, Edith’s illness was serious. Hospital appointments, tests and consultations during the months that followed her collapse at work revealed that she had bowel cancer. When Edith returned from hearing the prognosis from her doctor and told him, Edward didn’t say a word. He stared at the wall until Edith shouted at him, ‘Did you ’ear what I said? I’ve got cancer, Edward. I might not see Audrey grow up. Say something, for Christ’s sake.’
‘They’ve got it wrong,’ he said quietly.
‘They ain’t,’ Edith moaned. ‘You’ll have to get used to it. Come ’ere.’
She opened her arms wide, beckoning her husband into her embrace, but his legs had gone and he couldn’t move. Holding the back of a kitchen chair he steadied himself, and Edith stepped towards him. She cradled him in her arms as he sobbed. ‘You bloody great apeth,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve got to be strong, Edward. You’ve got to be strong for Audrey ’cos she’s going to need you more than ever now if the doctors don’t get it all out of me. Now,’ she gently raised his head away to look into his eyes. ‘Please promise me that you won’t do to me what Maud did with her Hugh, if I die.’
‘What? Leave you here and go to work?’ Edward half-sobbed incredulously.
‘No, you ’apeth,’ Edith smiled. ‘Scatter my ashes all over Felixstowe. That Trevor later told me that Hugh’s on the pier, in the toilets and in the sea. I don’t want to think that my leg is going to be separated from my arm miles away from each other. I want to be completely intact, thank you very much!’ Through his tears, Edward laughed.
A few months later, Edith had an operation in hospital. Audrey’s oldest brothers John and Roy, who were taking their national service in the RAF, claimed a compassionate leave and on the day of the operation they took Audrey and Ron to the cinema to see The King and I. ‘It’ll take their minds off it,’ the older boys said to Edward, who agreed that there was no point in them all being at the hospital.
Halfway through the screening of the musical, though, an announcement came over the speaker system asking, ‘Could John or Roy Perry come to the foyer as we have a phone call from Addenbrooke’s.’ Panicking, Audrey and her brothers ran to the foyer, where Roy grabbed the telephone from the usher.
‘She’s dead, ain’t she?’ Audrey cried, as Roy listened to their father on the other end of the line. Edward explained that their mother had died on the operating table – not just once, but three times – however they had brought her back to life, and she was now ‘stable’ and sleeping.
Audrey wasn’t allowed to see her mum until she was ‘out of danger’, as her dad put it, but it was still a bit of a shock to her when she saw her in the hospital a week after the operation. Edith looked as white as the sheets that were turned over her blanket, and she needed help to sit up and talk to Audrey.
Edward was sent by Edith to get a cup of tea and when he’d left the ward she explained to her daughter that the doctors had removed bits of her inside (‘me bowel’), then ‘cleaned it and put it back’.
Her weak smile brought tears to Audrey’s eyes. She tried not to cry, knowing that her mum would then try to make her feel better when it was clear to Audrey that Edith needed all of her strength just to talk. ‘Oh Mum,’ Audrey’s voice almost broke as she took her mum’s hand. ‘It’ll be alright then, won’t it?’
‘To be honest, love, I don’t know,’ Edith made a slight movement with her shoulders that was trying to be a shrug. ‘But I can’t go through this again, I tell you that; but don’t tell your dad, he won’t be able to hold himself together. It has to be just you and me what knows, alright? We have to make things alright in the house so that if I don’t get home for long – now don’t you dare cry!’
Audrey sniffed loudly, and angrily wiped her eyes.
Edith continued, ‘If I’m not at home for long, we have to get you in shipshape to take over running the house, right?’
Audrey nodded.
‘Right, now, shhh! Bet your dad forgets the sugar in me tea!’
Audrey half-giggled, but felt her face flushing as the thought of her mum not being with her forever took a hold of her mind. Edward’s return gave her an excuse to leave and find the ladies loo, where she cried and cried, as quietly as she could, in a stall. She was all cried out when she went back to the ward and smiled, being ‘brave’ just for Mum.
By the time it came for Edith to be taken home from hospital it was clear, the doctors told her, that her cancer had spread throughout her body. Audrey stood in the doorway as Edith asked doctors the question that they never liked to answer: ‘How long?’
>
They hummed and hahed, said it was hard to tell, but when Edith pushed them and asked if she could plan next Christmas one of the doctors, a grey-haired, tall man who looked as if he’d been a general in the army, thought Audrey, shook his head, and then looked at the floor.
‘Thank you,’ said Edith. ‘Goodbye.’
At home, Edith was too weak to do anything strenuous, so Audrey began to do most of the household chores. She was ‘helped’ by Edith’s directions in the first few weeks, but when it became difficult for her mum to walk around, she’d just lie on the sofa, watching Audrey iron, or sweep up and dust the furniture.
One Sunday afternoon when Edith had finished listening to the 2,000th episode of Mrs Dale’s Diary on the radio, she staggered to the kitchen and stood hunched in the doorway watching her daughter transfer peeled potatoes from the sink to a large saucepan. She took a deep breath before speaking. ‘You missed Mrs Dale’s Diary, Audrey. I was hoping Maud might have come over to hear it, too.’
‘What happened?’ Audrey asked. She wasn’t very interested in the programme, but knew how much her mum loved it.
‘It was alright, Bob got married to Jenny Owen. About time an’ all.’
‘I thought I’d make a start on dinner, Mum.’
‘Thanks, love. You’re doing alright.’ Edith smiled at her daughter who, small as she was, had Edith’s pinafore on – its straps tied round her several times to keep it closed. She was not playing at being ‘mum’, Edith could see, because Audrey understood that she had to be ‘mum’ and keep house for Edward and Ron – until he went to join the RAF, anyway.
Three weeks later, at the beginning of December 1956, Edith passed away. No one in the family cried the day that she fell asleep – which was how it looked to Audrey.
It was the middle of the day, the doctor was round and Audrey heated some soup for her mother, more in hope than expectation, because Edith hadn’t been eating for almost a week, only taking sips of water. Edith hadn’t spoken properly for a few days either, but she looked over as Audrey came into her bedroom carrying a tray.
Seeing that look Audrey kind of understood that her mum, in that instant, was speaking to her; she was saying ‘goodbye’. Edith then closed her eyes and, within seconds it seemed, with Audrey standing stock-still at the end of the bed, the doctor stood up and said simply, ‘It’s over.’
There was no surprise, which is perhaps why no one cried. Instead there seemed to Audrey to be a collective sigh released, and a feeling of relief rolled over them all, buoying them up as Edward organized Edith’s funeral. The service was a small affair but the college sent a wreath with their crest and this touched Edward, who asked Ron, ‘Who was there from the college? Was the bursar there? And your mum’s housekeeper, Mrs George, was she there?’
The day had been a blur for the family, Audrey thought. Her dad was clearly unsure what to say to people. He had been drinking more heavily as Edith’s illness worsened and as she held his hand in the church pew, Audrey thought he struggled to stop himself from breaking down. Her brothers did the meeting and greeting of guests and Audrey didn’t leave Edward’s side. ‘Sorry ’bout your shirt,’ she whispered in his ear. The night before the funeral she had ironed his and Ron’s shirts so inexpertly that Edward had shouted at her, ‘You’ve made a pig’s ear of it, Audrey.’
She shouted back at him, ‘I’m not Mum!’
Her outburst stung Edward, who stopped, knelt before her and said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you’re not. I’m sorry.’ He looked into the eyes of his blonde, short-haired daughter and hugged her. He promised that he would never shout at her again. After he got to his feet Edward poured himself a large Scotch and reassured Audrey that she would get better at it.
One of the lasting memories that Audrey kept coming back to was of a night, about a month before her mum died, when Audrey showed her the green jumper that she was knitting for her. Audrey had saved her dinner money to buy green wool (Edith’s favourite colour), a tray cloth with a printed pattern on it, and some embroidery threads. Edith had loved the embroidery which Audrey gave her on her birthday, and although she had not finished the green jumper she showed it to Edith anyway.
‘See how far I’ve got, Mum.’ Audrey held the garment up and said how she was looking forward to seeing her wear it. ‘I thought it would bring the green out in your eyes, Mum.’
Edith squeezed her hand and, although too weak to get out of bed, told her, ‘I’ll wear it like it is.’
Audrey laughed, ‘You’ll look daft. It’s only got one arm, Mum.’
‘Don’t matter. Put it on me.’
Audrey would never forget watching her mum struggle as she squeezed into the green, armless jumper, smiling weakly. After the funeral, Audrey wrapped the embroidery and half-finished jumper in tissue paper and put them into a box under her bed. She promised herself that she would finish it, one day.
ROSE
Cambridge 1959–63
There were days when Rose daydreamed that some of the boys that she did for were her sons. Well-spoken, smartly dressed, always respectful, even the naughty ones, those boys never really gave her any trouble. They were so unlike her children that she felt as if she was living in another world when at work, and one that compared very harshly with what awaited her at home.
Clark and Maurice couldn’t have been any more different to her students than they were from each other. Clark had red hair, was stocky and thought to be ‘a bit backward’ by people who knew him. ‘The trouble is, he don’t like school,’ Rose would tell teachers and truant officers when they called to talk to her about him, which was often. ‘I can’t force him to go. You’ve seen the size of him. I shout at him, I open the curtains, I even threw a bucket of cold water over him one morning! But he’d rather be sat on the bank down Fen Ditton fishing than in a classroom.’
In contrast, Maurice was tall with blonde curly hair. He passed his eleven-plus exam and was accepted at Soham Grammar School in 1959. It was quite a trek for him, but he caught a bus from Newmarket Road Cemetery every morning and soon he was missing the bus home because he’d stay behind to play sports, and have to hitch back. He played for the school football and cricket teams, and did a bit of boxing, too – he figured that might be handy in dealing with Clark, who could get violent if the mood took him, as it often had.
By the time he was thirteen, Rose was aware that Clark was building himself a reputation as a bit of a hard nut, and was fighting other kids for pocket money, conkers and the leadership of a gang. She wouldn’t have been surprised if his gang – who thought they were Teddy Boys and nicked their dad’s donkey jackets when they could (he took one of his gang’s stolen jackets) – were going out and beating up grads, but she didn’t want to think about it. If her Clark set about one of her boys she didn’t know what she’d do. Shop him to the coppers, she thought. That’d teach him a thing or two.
‘He’s a nasty one, my Clark,’ Rose told one of her students one morning, who she was trying to warn off cycling across Midsummer Common at night. Two students had been pushed off their bikes into cowpats the night before, and one of them had been daft enough to challenge the boys who’d done it. The student ended up with a broken collarbone. Rose had heard from the porter that he’d described his attackers to the police as looking like workmen with big boots, trousers hitched up to show them off, and grease in their hair. ‘Full of anger he is, my Clark,’ Rose continued. ‘An’ he wants to fight anyone who in’t like him – anyone like you, partic’ly.’ Her student looked suitably alarmed at the prospect.
‘My Maurice is like me though,’ she went on, trying to assure him that not all town boys were like Clark. ‘He’s a hard worker and does seven paper rounds. He gets more for his Sunday one, and I don’t have to get him up for it neither, he’s out before I am. Mind you, he’s cheeky like me, too. Him and that Terry he goes to Soham with, go to the back of the Co-op on Whitehill Road and collect all the empties, then go to the front of the shop and get th
e money back on them. Little bugger, ain’t he.’
Rose’s varicose veins had become so bad that she had to stop cycling to work and instead caught the early morning ‘bedders bus’ (it was a tram before the war, she recalled Vesta telling her) that stopped at every college in Cambridge. She’d been offered an operation to repair them in the winter of 1958, but knew that if she did then she would miss work, so said she’d wait until the summer.
The housekeeper, knowing how Rose was suffering with her veins (and knees, too), moved her to staircase H and gave her two staircases to another bedder. Working on H meant she only had to do for two fellows and a BA student. They each had coal fires that required cleaning out and rebuilding, and a scuttle of coal left in their rooms every day, though. Still, she thought, it’s hard work but not like it was for old Vesta. She told me that she used to get up on a Sunday morning and go there for three shillings pay, working seven days a week from seven until ten in the morning. Blow that, it’s not for me. I got to have a Sunday off.
Rose attended the Pentecostal Mission on Newmarket Road every Sunday. The parson, Sid as she called him, seemed to be a great fan of hers even though she’d tell him after services, ‘You know I ain’t religious, Sid, but it helps. Thank you.’ Then she’d head straight to the Seven Stars pub for her first Sunday drink. She was, she claimed, ‘Welcome in all them pubs along there, they all know me.’ The landlords and barmaids of the pubs that lined the Newmarket Road from the Seven Stars to the cemetery bus stop would see her every Sunday as she made her way home. She’d have a glass of port in every other one, mixing that with a half of mild in the others. It took her mind off her legs, she’d say.
The housekeeper of the college where Rose had worked for almost a decade, allocated her one of the first vacuum cleaners they’d bought. The other bedders had to come to her in order to use it, or else stick with the carpet sweepers they all had, which were hard to run over the Turkish carpets and bare floorboards. Having the vacuum cleaner not only made Rose’s work easier, but it made her feel important, somehow. Working for the fellows also made Rose feel as if she was a notch above the average bedder, but working for the two old men had its own set of worries. One morning when she was cleaning the fireplace for one of her fellows, she watched him put bread on a fork to toast over the fire that she was setting, when she said, ‘Oy–oy–oy! You can’t eat that bit of bread, look at the fur on it!’
The Staircase Girls Page 19