by Chris Curran
‘Smart chap, fortyish, and as I say looked like a debt collector to me. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, if you know what I mean. Lovely shiny shoes, though.’
***
‘It was the same man – the one from Manchester – the one with the autograph book,’ Joycie said.
‘Surely not.’
‘The way she described him, I just know it’s him.’
‘But why would he be calling on your old landlady?’
‘I don’t know, but it scares me.’
‘Do you want to go to the police then?’
‘They’d just laugh at me, you know that,’ she said.
They were both quiet for the rest of the journey, but when she got out of the car and was climbing the steps to the house Joycie found herself looking up and down the sunny street. Marcus put his arm round her as he slotted in his key. ‘Relax, there’s no one there.’
There was the usual pile of post on the hall floor, and Joycie put it on the little table and began to look through it, trying to calm herself.
‘There you are – Fort Knox,’ Marcus said, attaching the chain to the front door and slapping the heavy wooden frame. ‘And we could get a dog, if you like. I wouldn’t mind an Afghan or something.’
Joycie only half-heard him because she was opening a big brown envelope, her heart beating hard.
Dear Joyce,
These are the letters from Mary to our mam or all the ones Mam kept anyway. It was lovely to see you and the kids haven’t stopped talking about you. It would be nice if you could come for a proper visit sometime.
Your loving aunt,
Susan
Marcus came behind her and rested his warm hand on her shoulder. She put her head against his cheek. ‘You’ll want to read those on your own I expect?’ he said. When she nodded he rubbed her arm. ‘I’ll be in the darkroom. Call me if you need to talk.’
It was sunny outside now so she made a cup of Earl Grey and took the bundle of letters into the garden. Marcus had dragged a couple of old wicker chairs out from the shed the other day, and she put the brown envelope on one and sat on the other. A deep breath, a gulp of tea, then with her cup carefully placed on the grass beside her she took out the letters.
They were in no particular order. One from ’43, another from ’52 and one from ’49, all signed: Your loving daughter Mary. The careful handwriting wasn’t familiar, but then she’d only ever seen a shopping list or two scribbled by her mum. Odd phrases jumped out at her as she tried to organize the letters by date.
The postal order is for Susie’s birthday. Please buy something nice for her.
Joycie is walking really well and is into everything.
Charlie and Sid are doing the summer season in Clacton …
… in Margate,
… in Blackpool. Perhaps you could try to get over sometime while we’re there. If you drop a note at the box office I can arrange to meet you. I’d love you to see Joycie. She’s so pretty and she never stops talking.
Joycie held the crinkled paper to her lips, looking down the garden. Most of the daffodil flowers had gone now, leaving just their spikes of green to catch the sun, but the tree in the middle danced with pink blossom. The date on this letter was 1947: her mum hadn’t seen her family for six years.
She took a breath and carried on organizing the bundle by date. This must be one of the first: August 1941, not long before her own birth.
I don’t know when Charlie will get his next leave, but I’m not on my own because I’m staying with a friend of his, Irene Slade. She’s very kind, but I do miss you all.
Just before Christmas that year:
We’re calling her Joyce after Grandma. Charlie hasn’t seen her yet. I’m still staying with Irene and I’ve put her address above. I know it must be difficult, but if you could get down here it would be lovely to see you.
December ’45: Charlie’s home and we’re so happy, but Joycie is still not sure of him!
She skimmed through them all, but could find no mention of Mr Grant or any other man. There were only two from that last year: 1953. The first was just chit-chat about them going to Hastings for the summer season and the new shoes she’d bought for Joycie. She remembered those: they were red patent leather, and she’d worn them till they were so tight her toes began to bleed. You should see her in them. I think she might turn into a dancer one day.
Then what must be the last, sent in August 1953.
I’m coming back home. Please tell Dad I only need to stay for a day or so until I find somewhere permanent. Charlie won’t be with me, just Joycie (something scribbled out here that was impossible to read). Please, Mam, something has happened and I have to get away from here and to get Joycie away too.
Joycie pressed her hand to her throat where a lump of ice seemed to be stuck. For a moment she thought she could hear the ice cracking, but it was only the breeze catching at the tree’s thin twigs and whipping a whirl of pink blossoms onto the grass.
Chapter Six
She was rocking back and forth, the letters clutched to her chest, when Marcus came into the garden. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you must be starving. Let’s have some lunch at Franco’s.’
She was still wearing the silk evening gown under her jeans and sweater so she changed into slacks, a blouse, and flat shoes and hung the silk on the hook behind the door, hoping some of the creases might fall out. Then she shoved the brown envelope into the box on top of her wardrobe where she kept the few things she still had belonging to her mum. She wouldn’t think about the letters for now.
As they walked down to the Italian restaurant at the end of the street, Marcus smiled and took her hand, but didn’t speak. The restaurant was a tiny place with roughly plastered walls and checked tablecloths. It was busy at lunchtimes, but the customers were all regulars, mostly middle-aged, and if they recognized Marcus and Joycie they avoided showing it.
Their usual table was in a dim corner, where no one else wanted to sit, so it was still free. The waiter brought the Chianti right away, but Joycie’s stomach felt hollow, and she made herself crunch on a breadstick before taking a deep drink. She was very aware of Marcus’s blue eyes on her, but shook her head at him. ‘Can we wait till the food comes?’
They were halfway through their spaghetti when he said, ‘You know it just might help to talk about it.’
She sat back and put down her fork. ‘Either she was lying to her mother or she really was planning to take me with her.’
‘Any mention of a man?’
‘No, and if there was one I really don’t think he was her only reason for leaving. She said something had happened.’
‘That could mean your dad had found out she was cheating on him, I suppose. But it sounds like their relationship was very open, and he would have understood that she needed someone. More likely it was the boyfriend who gave her an ultimatum.’
Joycie dipped a chunk of bread into her bolognaise sauce. It made sense, but something told her it wasn’t right. Perhaps because she didn’t want to believe it. She shook her head. ‘But if she had a boyfriend, why would she want to stay with her family?’
‘I don’t know,’ Marcus said.
The food was delicious, and suddenly Joycie wished she’d never started all this. What she wanted more than anything was to enjoy the food and wine, maybe even get drunk, and put the whole thing out of her mind.
Marcus was still talking. ‘I wonder if we should stop looking for the boyfriend and just try to find out everything we can about your parents’ lives at the time.’
She was tempted to tell him to leave it alone just for an hour or so. But instead she gazed over his shoulder at a young couple sitting by the window. They were sharing an ice cream sundae and kissing between mouthfuls. The girl was very pretty, in the way Joycie had always longed to be, small and curvy with blonde curls and a turned-up nose.
‘I said, what about school friends?’ Marcus’s voice jolted her back.
She blink
ed and forced herself to look at him. ‘What?’
‘If we want to find out what really happened I think we need to stop focusing on the boyfriend and just talk to anyone who was around in those days. Another of the acts, or even someone you knew from school.’
She laughed and spooned more grated parmesan onto her spaghetti. ‘I was only in one school long enough to make friends. The one in Acton. Even there it was difficult because I was away every summer. And we moved lodgings after Mum disappeared, so I never went there again. By the time I was thirteen I’d more or less stopped going to school altogether. Explains why I’m so ignorant, I suppose.’ She emptied her glass, poured them both more wine and leaned back to drink hers.
‘There must be someone we can talk to,’ he said.
A wave of heat flooded through her, and she wanted to scream at him to leave her alone. She needed to think, but didn’t want to think now. Certainly didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Look, this isn’t your problem, Marcus, so please stop going on about it. Let me figure it out for myself.’ It came out all wrong, as if she was angry with him.
He sat looking at her for a moment then beckoned the waiter and asked for the bill. When it arrived he said, ‘Are you coming?’
‘You go. I’m going to have another glass of wine.’ Again it came out wrong. Too loud; too sharp. She had no reason to be angry with him. The kissing couple were staring at them, and their eyes followed Marcus as he left without looking back at her.
She ordered some more wine and forced herself to drink the whole glass although she no longer wanted it. At the door she stumbled and heard a giggle from the pretty girl. The door clanged hard behind her, and she could feel the couple’s eyes still on her as she passed the window where they sat.
Marcus had left their front door ajar. So stupid, anyone could have got in. She locked up and went into the living room. He was sitting on the sofa with two cups of coffee in front of him. ‘I made it nice and strong,’ he said.
She tried a laugh. ‘Not strong enough for me,’ and went to the sideboard. ‘I need a brandy.’ Some of it spilled on the polished wood as she poured, and she wiped it away with her sleeve, slumping down in the armchair opposite him.
He leaned forward. ‘Those letters must have upset you. You need time to let it all sink in. I shouldn’t have pushed you.’ His hands were on her knees, and when she flinched he pulled back. ‘Sorry.’
That hank of blond hair was falling over his eyes again, and his face was so sad and sweet she felt a sob rise into her throat. She stood and looked down at him, trying to smile. ‘I’m the one who should say sorry.’ She stroked his hair, and he pressed his face into her waist.
They stayed like that for a while then she knelt to give him a gentle kiss. But when he drew back she found herself looking at his lips and kissed him again, hard and greedy this time. He returned the pressure and moved to pushed her down onto the sofa, his hand pulling at the buttons of her blouse.
‘Oh, Joycie, I love you so much.’
She was aware only of him, the musky scent of him, the warmth of his hands and his lips, the length of his body against hers. She opened her mouth to him and let her knees fall apart.
Dirty little tart, I know what you want.
She was standing, heart thumping, breath catching. On the sofa Marcus stared up at her. Then he twisted to sit straight, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. She touched his shoulder, but he pushed her hand away. ‘Don’t.’ She had never heard him sound like that before. As if he hated her.
She left him there, went to her room and lay on the bed, her chest heaving so hard she felt as if she was having some kind of attack. She longed to cry, but her eyes were dry and all she could do was turn and press her face into the pillow.
It might have been a few minutes or an hour later when she heard the front door slam.
Clacton-on-Sea – May 1954
Joycie has been rehearsing her part as the second stooge for a few days, and she’s going to be in the show tonight. They’re calling her Our Kid, and she’s practised walking heavily with her feet turned out and her hands in her pockets. The difficult bit is following her dad on to the stage and bumping into him. Dad keeps telling her she’s doing fine, but Sid’s face says something different.
Now she’s standing in the wings, her tummy twisting so hard it hurts. At least she doesn’t have to speak, doesn’t think she could, because her throat is so dry she can’t even swallow.
The audience is a good one and they’re laughing a lot, but her ears have started buzzing so she can’t hear what Dad and Sid are saying. But she does hear her cue when it comes because Sid speaks louder than usual. ‘Go and get our kid, Lord Toddy.’ Dad does his usual gormless stare at Sid before looking towards the wings. ‘I said get the kid,’ Sid repeats even louder.
Dad ambles over, and she knows Sid must be saying something else because there’s more laughter, but all she can see is Dad. He steps into the wings, touches her shoulder and whispers, ‘OK darlin’?’
She nods, and he turns so she can press herself against his back, and they march back to Sid, in step, just like they’ve practised. There’s laughter and she knows it’s for them. She can feel the audience out there in the dark, like some big animal watching and waiting to see what they’ll do.
Dad turns fast, and her face is against his waistcoat. She knows he’s looking helplessly back to the wings because the laughter gets louder. She waits for a moment, like Sid has told her to, then pulls back her foot and kicks Dad’s shin. He jumps away, looking from his leg to her and back again, as if he can’t understand where she came from. Then he takes off his top hat and whacks her round the head with it. She runs back a few feet and faces the audience rubbing her head, careful not to dislodge the cap. Then she stands looking down at the stage, pulling the sad face she’s practised.
‘Oh, poor little chap.’
A lady’s voice, just like Sid hoped, and more laughter. She’s done it. But Sid has warned her to be careful. The worst moments are when it’s going well. That’s when you can get carried away and lose them. She feels good, but knows she has to do it right or she won’t get another chance.
‘Tell our kid,’ Sid is talking to Dad, ‘to take this note to that lovely lady down there.’ He points to a fat woman in the front row.
Dad turns and does his posh stutter at Joycie, his eyes telling her it will be OK. She knows it will, and she runs down and gives the note to the woman, who makes a big show of opening it, enjoying every moment. When she reads it she lets out a scream and flaps Joycie on the arm. Before she can say anything Joycie hurries away, running up the steps to the stage.
The woman shrieks something, but Sid talks over her. ‘Hear that, Lord Toddy, you’ve upset the lady.’
Dad hangs his head, but when Joycie reaches them he turns on her and hits her with his hat over and over until she jumps away. She runs towards the wings, but stops just before them and sticks out her tongue at him. The audience roars with laughter, and a voice shouts, ‘Cheeky young blighter,’ as she steps into the darkness, feeling so happy she’s sure everyone must hear her heart thumping.
The rest of the act goes fine, and when her dad comes off he pats her shoulder. ‘Well done, love. That was great.’ Sid says nothing, but she doesn’t care; she knows she was good, and he’ll want to keep her.
She has to wait in the dressing room after the show while Dad and Sid go out to do autographs. Sid says he doesn’t want people to know she’s a girl so it’s best if she stays inside and keeps her costume on. But the cap is itchy and she takes it off to scratch her head.
When the door opens she shoves it back on, but the girl who comes in laughs. ‘It’s all right, only me.’ It’s Pauline whose mum, Mrs Shaw, runs the box office and seems to do pretty much everything else too. Pauline is about Joycie’s age, but they’ve never spoken. Joycie has seen her sitting behind Mrs Shaw, reading a comic while her mum sells tickets, but she never even looks up. Once Joycie saw her in t
own with a gaggle of girls all laughing and screaming over something Pauline was saying. She was the prettiest of them all.
Now she hitches herself up to sit on the dressing table near the door, swinging her legs. She has blonde curls and a wide smile, and she reminds Joycie of a girl she saw once in a film: a bobby-soxer they called her. And Pauline is chewing gum just like the bobby-soxer did. ‘Mum let me stay and watch tonight ’cos it’s half-term holidays. You were funny. Don’t like those clothes though,’ she says.
Joycie has to cough before she can speak. ‘They’re horrible. All scratchy.’
Pauline jumps down and opens the door. ‘See you.’
Don’t go, please don’t go.
She’s in the corridor when she turns back. ‘I’ll ask Mum if you can come to tea on Sunday. OK?’
Chelsea – May 1965
It was nearly 4 a.m. before Marcus came back. Joycie was lying on her bed, fully clothed. She listened as he moved about in his bedroom on the floor above. She waited for the silence that told her he was asleep, then grabbed her weekend bag and crept downstairs. She scribbled a note and left it propped in front of the kettle.
I’ll call you in a couple of days. Just need to sort a few things out by myself. Sorry. J
Then she left, closing the front door, quietly, behind her.
Chapter Seven
Joycie was glad she’d bought a first class ticket to Clacton because she had the compartment to herself, and the rest of the train was crammed with families heading for a Sunday outing. But her seat was too soft, enveloping her in its cushions so she felt suffocated. It was hot, and when she pushed down the window beside her the breeze stirred the thick air, but didn’t cool it.
Why had she been like that with Marcus? Getting angry when he tried to help her and pushing him away when he said he loved her. It would be her own fault if he wanted nothing more to do with her. It hurt her so much when she thought of him with other girls, but she had no right to object.