‘Of course, you should. Here, unfold a camping stall and sit down, or someone’ll take our place. Give your Mum a cup of tea from the flask, Paula. That’ll buck her up.’ Angela shades her eyes with her hand and looks around her. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this? Look how everywhere’s decorated with pink and white roses. It’s gorgeous, really gorgeous.’
All the time the crowd is growing and everyone is speaking to everyone else. It’s as if we’ve all known each other forever. The family on one side of us come from New Zealand where Fred and Lori live. They speak with funny accents and tell us what a great place it is for young people like Angela and me. Angela gives them one of her “looks” and says anywhere that far away gives her the willies.
The nights are cold and I’m grateful for the crowd to generate at least some heat. Some people a couple of rows behind pass us forward the extra blankets they’re not using. We sleep in spurts, and wake up stiff, but with mounting excitement.
On the day of The Coronation it’s wet and grey, but nothing dampens the atmosphere. Guards resplendent in red, line the roads and in the distance we can hear the sound of bagpipes mingled with that of brass bands. Everywhere, excitement is rising and we are all on our feet. Even Mum is waving a flag and telling the woman next to her about our flat in Blountmere Street and the transformation her dear husband has made to it.
Then more guards, together with Beefeaters, come into view, followed by carriages, lots of them. Inside one, is Miss Lorimore’s Dear Mr Churchill and I wish she was here to see him.
But as the procession makes its way past and The Queen’s gold carriage comes into view, Mum plops on to her stall and buries her head in her hands. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I’m not good enough,’ she weeps through her fingers.
The tables covered in red, white and blue run the length of Blountmere Street and are laden with food.
Mum seems to have recovered from her upset at The Coronation and scuttles out with her plates of cheese straws and butterfly cakes, but when she sees the length of the tables and everyone beginning to seat themselves, she hunches over and runs back into the house. ‘They wouldn’t like this,’ she asserts, as she closes the door behind her.
Dad stands at our gate watching the huge tea party, but my appetite has disappeared along with Mum.
‘Don’t take any notice of her. She’ll come round,’ Dad says, but, even with Angela not being ashamed to sit next to me as she would once have been, the sunshine has seeped from my day.
Tony and Mum, the two people I most want to be here, aren’t.
Chapter Twelve
‘Take it off! Take it off!’ Mum covers her eyes and trembles. I race to my bedroom, stumbling, tripping over Betsy, pulling my gymslip over my head, loosening my tie, and fumbling with the buttons of my school shirt. I bundle it all into the bottom of my wardrobe, take my everyday skirt and blouse and swiftly close the door on my school uniform.
‘It’s all right, you can look now, Mum.’
It’s like this every afternoon when I return from school.
‘It’s all right, all right.’ I soothe Mum until she removes her hands from her eyes and the trembling gradually subsides.
Because it upsets Mum so much, I’ve debated whether to wear school uniform at all. Wearing a uniform isn’t compulsory at Grigham Road Secondary Modern School. But after all the upset about Riversham College and its uniform, Dad now insists I wear a gymslip and blouse. He made Mum get her money back on the Riversham stuff, calling it “la-de-da college paraphernalia”.
Mum had said, “Yes sir”, and skittered to the scullery where she’d huddled on an old chair drawn up to the oven, which she does a lot of the time now.
It won’t last. I know it won’t. Every day I expect Mum to revert to her old self, bustling about the house, taking charge, setting standards. She has to. She just has to. I won’t be able to stand it much longer.
Usually, I wait for Mum to leave for her cleaning job at the baker’s before I put on my school uniform. But recently she’s been going after I leave for school, and I have to sneak into my bedroom, put it on as quickly as I can and slip out of the door before she sees me. I wonder if she even realizes I’ve gone.
It’s been a couple of weeks now that Mum’s been going to work late.
‘Why aren’t you going to the baker’s at the time you usually go?’ I ask as she sits at the kitchen table staring at the wall. Dad pops into the kitchen to pick up his cap.
‘Get yourself dressed and off to work,’ he orders Mum. ‘You can’t sit there all day in your dressing gown, looking like Lady Muck.’
She doesn’t appear to hear him and he slams the kitchen door as he leaves. A few minutes later, I hear him starting up his motorbike.
‘You really should be going to work, Mum,’ I say. ‘Aren’t they getting upset about you being late all the time?’
‘I don’t work there anymore,’ Mum says, as if she can barely remember her job. ‘It was them.’ Mum spreads her arms in front of her in the way she does when she talks about the voices she hears in her head. ‘They’ve told me I’m not worthy to clean a shop.’ She smiles secretly to herself. ‘My calling’s lowlier. I’m the humblest of servants.’
‘Won’t you go to the doctor, Mum, please. I’ll come with you. It’ll be all right.’
‘Silly, silly girl,’ Mum chides me. ‘Lily Hammell (she’s reverted to her maiden name) has no right to see a doctor. She must bear the load alone.’
‘Of course you’ve got the right.’
‘We’re both destined never to rise from the gutter. They’ve decreed that’s where you and I belong.’
‘No, no. It’s not true.’
‘It’s true all right. I’m trying to persuade them to release you. If I do enough penance, perhaps they will. I’ll try. I’ll really try for you.’ Mum brushes a stray piece of hair from her eyes. She no longer looks like a film star.
Please God help me! Please somebody help me!‘
‘Mum’s lost her job at the bakers,’ I confide to Angela on our way to school.
‘Is she worried about it?’ Angela asks.
‘She doesn’t seem to be. She didn’t tell me for a while.’
‘Don’t worry, Paula. She’ll come right. Look at my Mum. She used to be the same – always going off to some airy fairy place in her imagination. She just couldn’t cope, see. She had to escape. It’ll be the same with your Mum.’
I nod and smile, although I’m sure Mrs Addington never heard the voices.
‘Come up tonight and we’ll have a chat. Mum looks forward to seeing you.’ Angela gives me a playful push on the arm. ‘We’ll have a slice of bread and dripping waiting.’
Inside me, the weight lightens.
I can hardly wait to get to the Addingtons’ place that evening, and away from the strained atmosphere of our flat downstairs. I hope Angela really does have a slice of bread and dripping waiting. I know I shouldn’t be taking their food. It’s a struggle for Mrs Addington to feed herself and Angela, but these days I’m often hungry.
The first thing I notice as I enter the Addingtons’ kitchen is a brown envelope lying discarded beside Mrs Addingtons’ chair.
‘The letter came this morning. It’s official,’ she says as soon as I walk through the door. She holds up a typewritten letter. ‘It says Tony’s being fostered with the intention of his being adopted, and that they are not at liberty to release his records.’
‘Do they say where he is?’
‘No. He could be anywhere in England, I suppose. The letter says it’s best we don’t know, and that Tony has a good home with all the privileges we’re not able to give him.’ Mrs Addington swallows in order to dam the tears. ‘It says he’s very happy, and for us to get on with our lives and leave him to get on with his.’
Angela places a chipped plate with a slice of bread and dripping on my knees. For a moment I forget about Tony, as I ram the bread into my mouth. It tastes wonderful.
‘There’s som
ething odd about it. Tony wouldn’t say those things. I know we used to argue, but he wouldn’t tell us to leave him alone. Not Tone.’
‘I’m not certain what else to do.’ Mrs Addington folds the letter and puts it back into the envelope. She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. ‘You’re right, Angela. It’s not like Tony. He’ll get in touch. We’ll just have to wait until he does.’ She pauses. ‘But I’m blowed if we’ll do nothing. We’ll write another letter and insist they give it to him.’.
As soon as I arrive home from school, I rip off my uniform, hide it at the bottom of my wardrobe as I usually do and hurry into the kitchen. My stomach growls at the smell of food.
‘How are you, Mum?’ I embrace her as she stands at the oven holding the handle of a frying pan. ‘What’re you cooking?
‘Salmon.’
‘Salmon!’ I doubt anyone in Blountmere Street has ever eaten salmon. Perhaps they’ve had it out of a tin once or twice, but never fresh. It’s for rich people who live in big houses.
‘They’ve told me to cook him salmon tonight.’
‘But salmon’s very expensive and last night it was steak and the night before, chicken. Where’s the money coming from?’
‘I have to do what they tell me.’
‘Is there enough for all of us?’ I ask, selfishly considering my stomach more than the money.
Lately, Mum eats less and less. She seems to exist on no more than a slice of bread a day, which she eats furtively in the scullery. I wonder if the voices have told her that I can be included in Dad’s meal, or whether I have to share her bread, as I often have to.
‘They’ve said today Lily Hammell’s daughter need not show humility, like her mother.’ I let out an uneasy breath. Tonight I’m going to be allowed a meal.
As soon as Dad’s settled in his chair, Mum gives him his newspaper, as she does every evening. Now, however, she stands in front of him with her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her. Dad looks at her and grunts, but she doesn’t move. He grunts again. She remains still. ‘You can go. I don’t need anything else,’ Dad says. With his dismissal, she begins shuffling backwards, but still facing him, and leaves the kitchen.
Dad appears not to notice Mum’s cooked him salmon. He lets his nose drip on to it and forks it into his mouth without looking at what he’s eating. As if after all this time he’s realized Mum doesn’t eat with us any more and stays in the scullery, he suddenly demands, ‘Why’s your mother eating outside? Make her come in and sit at the table properly.’
I run to the scullery and take hold of Mum’s arm. ‘Dad wants you to eat with us,’ I tell her gently, and she rises slowly and picks up her plate of bread. Then she creeps into the kitchen with her head bowed, lowers herself onto a chair and begins breaking her bread into pieces. She considers each one as if she’s making a major decision about it. Meal times have become so unpredictable, I dread them.
Mum! Mum! What’s happened to you? Come back to us. Please, please.
Even with Mum’s strangeness, I enjoy the mornings more than any other part of my day. If I’d been at Riversham College, I’d be hurrying to the High Street to catch the bus, instead of sauntering along Grigham Road chatting with Angela. I can leave Mum and her voices behind until I return later in the afternoon.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ Angela says on our way to school. ‘You’ve been a real brick the way you’ve coped with not going to Riversham. You could have been wearing one of them posh boaters and playing hockey now. Not that I’d want to,’ she adds hastily. ‘But you’re different, real brainy.’
I smile. Being friends with Angela is wonderful. If it wasn’t for Mum and Tony not being around, everything in my life would be perfect.
‘It wasn’t difficult. I didn’t really want to go to Riversham, anyway.’
‘But you were made for it.’
‘I’d rather be at Grigham Road.’ Why won’t anyone believe me? Can’t they see that at Grigham Road I feel normal? I’m not singled out as being different. I can hardly believe it, but now I’m actually popular. Riversham College with its boaters, hockey and plum in the mouth accents would’ve been unlikely to offer me popularity.
When we arrive at Grigham Road Secondary Modern, a group of girls propped against a sooty brick wall separating the sooty brick school from sooty brick houses smile at me.
‘Hey, come here, Paul, we want to say something to you.’ I try and quell the fear that automatically rises.
‘We’ve been talking among ourselves, and we think you’re the best one for it.’ Ruby Tolston heads the group as spokeswoman. Hazel Allan says that’s right and the others nod and murmur their agreement.
‘What do you think I’ll be best at?’ I like the way they call me “Paul”.
‘Class captain. You’re clever and you talk nice but you’re not snotty-nosed about it.’
‘Everybody likes you,’ Hazel continues.
‘But what about one of you? Ruby, you’re popular.’
‘Maybe, but none of the teachers like me. To be class captain you have to get on with them like you do. You’ve got to be - how d’you put it - sort of respected,’ Ruby says.
‘I don’t know,’ I hesitate. ‘Don’t the whole class have to vote?’
‘Yeah, but that’ll be all right. We’ll make sure they vote for you. Anyway, they all like you.’
‘I suppose you can put my name forward if you really think I can do it.’
Thank you God and Jesus. Thank you strange voices in Mum’s head. Thank you, thank you.
‘I’ve got some great news,’ I tell Mum, when I’ve changed out of my uniform that afternoon. I put my arm around her as she distractedly twists strips of newspaper into spills to light the gas stove. She doesn’t answer, but I can’t hold the news back. ‘I think I’m going to be voted by the class to be captain. Isn’t that smashing news?’ I examine Mum’s face for the signs of pleasure I know would normally have been there. Instead, Mum begins to scream and shake. She jams her fingers in her ears and yells, ‘That place is the home of the devil! Don’t ever mention it here. Never! Never!’
‘Nobody would make a better class captain,’ Mrs Addington says encouragingly that evening when I visit. She hands me a cup of tea and, surprisingly, a piece of homemade cake. ‘I’m not much of a one for baking, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to do something special tonight. It’ll cheer us up, as well as celebrate your news.’
It doesn’t seem long ago since Tony used to pop downstairs to our flat, while Mrs Addington brooded and Angela seethed in their flat upstairs. Then, Mum had given Tony encouragement, along with her date slices. I ask myself who it is who orders things so that they change so quickly and unpredictably? Perhaps, after all, it’s the voices.
‘Lori and Fred will be pleased to hear about you being made class captain. It’ll be something to cheer them up in the letter I’ll be writing them later on. They already blame themselves for Tony being put into the orphanage, although I’ve told them not to. We all have our lives to live, though, God knows, I miss them. Sometimes I wonder why we seem to think the grass is greener somewhere else. In my experience it’s just different grass.’ Mrs Addington’s voice vibrates like the doll I had that cried when you turned it upside down. ‘As it is, Lori’s found it difficult to settle over there. It’ll upset them terribly to hear that it looks as if Tony’s going to be adopted out, and that we still don’t know where he is.’ Mrs Addington lifts her apron and holds it to her eyes. ‘All we can do is pray.’
Mrs Addington’s God is obviously kind, not like the voices Mum hears. I pray with all my heart that in the end they’ll be kind, too.
Chapter Thirteen
It doesn’t look as if the voices are going to be kind to Mum.
‘What’s going on?’ Dad demands the next evening when he returns from work. ‘The girl’s found these behind the oven.’ He fans a handful of bills close to Mum’s nose. I hadn’t wanted to show him, but, in the end, I knew I’d have to.
<
br /> ‘Have they or haven’t they been paid?’
Mum tucks her head into her chest and stares at the lino. ‘No, sir.’
‘What d’you mean, “No”? Why not? Some of them are weeks old. What d’you think these are, Scotch mist! They’re letters threatening to sue us. What the hell are you doing with the housekeeping?’
Mum says nothing. A piece of lank hair falls forward and hangs in front of her face like a question mark. I hold her hand. I hadn’t noticed how dirty it is, how dirty she is.
‘Answer me, damn you! Why haven’t you paid them, and what’s this the girl tells me about you giving up your job at the baker’s?’
‘They told me to, sir.’
‘Who told you to?’
‘The voices she hears in her head. They tell her what to do.’
‘Hears voices! Hears bloody voices. This is all a put on! Now you listen to me. Pull yourself together and stop this nonsense. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And drop this “sir” stuff. Look at me!’
Mum lifts her head as if she’s trying to resist some force that’s keeping it lowered.
‘I’m warning you. Stop this carry on or else … or else.’ Dad’s control is beginning to crack. I become more frightened as his eyeballs dilate. ‘If you think all this malarkey’s going to work, you’ve made a big mistake. The girl’s not going to that stuck-up college and that’s flat. Get out of my sight.’
Mum bobs a curtsey and flees from the kitchen.
‘You! Stay here!’ he orders me. He runs his hands across his eyes, up and over his eyebrows and from the front to the back of his head. It’s as if he’s trying to push his frustration outwards and away. I’ve never seen him do it before. I wonder whether Mum is reporting what’s gone on to the voices and what they are advising her to do.
‘What sort of things do these voices tell her?’ Dad asks me.
‘That she has to be humble, and she isn’t, well, she isn’t worth anything.’
Dad runs his hands over his eyes again. ‘You’d better see if you can get her to a doctor.’
The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) Page 11