I nod, judging it best not to say I’ve already tried but Mum had called me a “daughter of satan” and chased me away.
‘You’d better get her cleaned up, as well.’
I’m not certain how Mum will react to me telling her to wash, and especially, to me washing her. She should have a bath, but unless Mum bathes herself, it’s out of the question. Mum’s never allowed me to see her without any clothes on.
‘Go and sort her out before she stinks the place out,’ Dad orders.
I turn to the door, but before I leave the room, Dad suddenly asks, ‘School all right?’
‘Yes … eh … yes.’
‘Good.’ He hesitates. ‘If you’re worried about anything your mother’s doing you’d better tell me.’
I can’t remember Dad seeming so unsure of himself. He follows me into the scullery where Mum’s huddled in her customary position in front of the oven.
‘I don’t want you dealing with the housekeeping. In the future I will do it and the girl can do the shopping,’
Mum hugs herself and whimpers while I wish that once, just once, Dad would use my name.
I hover at one of the openings in the corrugated iron barricade that now surrounds the bombsite. I gaze at the water-filled crater and the new family of ducks who have adopted it. They’ll soon lose their home, just as the children in Blountmere Street will be robbed of their playground. In its place they’re going to build, eight-storey-high blocks of flats with the fancy name of the Browning Estate. That’s what the South London Press says.
It’s Saturday morning and behind its enclosure, the bombsite is silent. I hate looking out of our window and seeing the fortress opposite. It’s as if some evil plan is being hatched behind it that the surrounding houses know nothing about. They are part of the old order of things, and don’t understand progress.
I suppose the bombsite can’t be left as it is. A lot of people say it’s an eyesore. We’re always being told that thousands of Londoners live in substandard housing. The houses in Blountmere Street may be substandard, but if people complain, it’s only in the way they complain about the weather or little everyday things. If they were asked, I’m sure not many would willingly exchange their home in Blountmere Street for a flat in an eight-storey block.
I wish it didn’t have to change. The bombsite’s part of my life. Strange as it might sound, for me it represents security and, up until now, changelessness. It’s a place where spring comes by way of gold, and summer in clumps of purple. No, it’s never been an eyesore to me. Blocks of sterile flats like on-end cigar boxes – they will be the eyesore.
Mum used to say that the bombsite was unsightly. That was before she started hearing the voices; when she still noticed such things. If the voices hadn’t come, I’m certain Mum would be saying, “It’s about time. The sooner they get that place tidied up the better”. These days, cleanliness, order and conformity, the watchwords by which Mum has lived her life, are now the ones most at odds with her behaviour.
Dad hasn’t said anything about the building beginning across the road, but he looks in the direction of the corrugated iron and sniffs as he loads his ladders onto his motorbike. Before the voices, he would have ranted about it every morning while he was shaving and Mum was cooking his breakfast. He would have called the Council every swear word he could think of. Now he shaves in silence.
I continue to study the crater. What does it matter what anyone thinks or says? Soon it’ll be filled in, the ground around it levelled, smooth, and red bricks will rise from their foundations. I’m powerless to stop it happening, just as I’m unable to stem the changes taking place in Mum, and incapable of bringing Tony back.
‘What’re you doing?’ Angela is wearing a navy blue skirt made with material left over from something Mrs Addington has sewn for a customer. The skirt is full and swings from side to side as Angela prances across the road. It’s another piece of topsy-turvyism: while my wardrobe decreases, and what I do have is becoming shabbier or too small for me, Angela is better dressed than she has ever been.
‘I was thinking how sad Tony would have been to lose the bombsite.’
‘It would have broken his heart to see his camp taken away. He would’ve probably organised a protest.’ Angela manages a half laugh.
‘I suppose you haven’t heard anything from him?’ I enquire.
‘Not a dickey bird. The people who wrote us that letter must have been right when they said he’s happy and just wants to get on with his new life.’
‘I suppose so, but somehow I can’t believe Tony would want to forget all of us and this.’ I sweep my arm in front of me.
‘Whether he’s here or not, all of this’ll soon be gone, and I, for one, think it’ll be exciting to have new buildings and a lot more people on our doorstep.’
That’s the difference between Angela and me. Angela isn’t afraid to move on, to experience new things, whereas I’m terrified to let go of the past and I can’t bear to think what the future might hold.
‘I’ve got my shopping list. You got yours?’ Angela fishes in the pocket of her skirt.
‘Yes, though I still have a struggle knowing what to get.’ At least Angela has Mrs Addington to help her plan what to buy, even if Mrs Addington doesn’t shine at the art of housekeeping, as Mum always used to say. I’ve never had to choose anything more than whether I’d like a special treat of smoked haddock or steak and kidney. Now I have to decide what we’ll eat everyday. All of it, on the measly amount Dad gives me and without the extra Mum used to earn from cleaning the bakers’.
Having completed our shopping, we hoist our bags up the stairs to the upper deck of the bus.
‘I don’t understand why we can’t sit downstairs. It would’ve been much easier,’ I complain as the contents of my shopping bag spill on to the floor.
‘Cos I want a drag, and I can’t smoke downstairs.’
‘You smoke?’
‘And what’s wrong with that? Most of the girls I know smoke.’
‘Does your mother know?’
‘Come on, Paul. Would I be likely to tell Mum?’ Angela pulls a packet of Players from her shopping bag. ‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Anyway, I can stop whenever I want.’
‘Where d’you get the money from?’
‘I fiddle it out of the housekeeping. And don’t go giving me one of your looks.’
I watch Angela light her cigarette. I wish I had Angela’s courage, her daring, her rebellion. If Angela thinks my look is one of disapproval, she’s got it wrong. It’s one of admiration.
We stagger off the bus and haul our shopping onto the pavement. Then we walk towards the bakers where two women wave and smile at me sympathetically. I know everyone in Blountmere Street has begun to gossip about Mum. It makes me cringe, but I put my shopping down and wave back. It’s the best way to act.
‘Isn’t that your Mum?’ Angela asks as we round the corner past the sycamore tree and into Blountmere Street. Outside one of the houses, Mum is on her knees with a bucket of soapy water beside her scrubbing someone’s doorstep. Behind her a row of freshly washed doorsteps glint in the anaemic sunshine. I leave my shopping on the pavement and begin to run. I know I’m being watched from behind at least a dozen barely moving net curtains, but I don’t stop until I get to her.
‘What’re you doing, Mum?’ I call, trying to force some lightness into my voice. Mum keeps scrubbing as if she hasn’t heard me, and I walk up the path. ‘Why are you cleaning all these door steps?’
‘Got to scrub every step in Blountmere Street.’
‘You ought to come home now. You’ve done a really good job.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘Not finished. Got to carry on. Must do them all. They told me I must show more humility.’
‘You’ve done enough. You don’t have to do any more.’
‘Must, must. They told me to.’ Mum dips her scrubbing brush into the bucket.
I put my hands under her arms and try to lift her.
/> ‘No! No!’ She lets out a penetrating screech as she throws herself onto the wet doorstep.
By this time Angela has reached us and together we lift Mum to her feet.
‘Come on home, Mum. They’ve said you’ve done enough,’ I urge her and Angela and I half drag, half carry her, whimpering, back to our flat.
I can’t bring myself to tell Dad about Mum and the doorsteps. I’m afraid he might shout at her or lock her in a room. Anyway, it’s the only time Mum’s done anything strange outside the house. She’d been disturbed for hours afterwards. I’m sure she won’t want to go outside again, not unless I’m with her.
Every morning, I make Mum promise to stay in and keep the front door locked until I get home from school. Although Mum never answers me, she seems content enough to sit in the scullery or potter around our flat.
Today isn’t one of Mum’s quieter ones, however. She refuses to wash and pushes the enamel bowl away. Then she sits beside the table with her hands over her face.
‘You have to wash,’ I try to persuade her.
Mum presses her fingers tighter over her eyes.
‘Please, Mum!’ I wheedle, as I endeavour to dislodge Mum’s hands, but Mum resists.
‘Here, give me that flannel.’
I look up as Dad comes into the kitchen.
‘Come on, now,’ he says not unkindly, and as Mum becomes more docile, he prises her fingers away and begins gently to rub the flannel round her face.
‘Now don’t go doing anything dopey today for gawd’s sake. You listen to me, not to those voices. I’ll be home at lunchtime to get us something to eat. The girl worries about you while she’s at school, so no playing up.’ He pats Mum’s face with a towel, while I simply stare at him. I can’t be sure, but I think Dad’s just run his finger down Mum’s cheek. He must have been wiping away some water.
‘You’d better leave the washing and I’ll do it when I get home. It’s too heavy for you to lift the copper off the gas stove with everything in it,’ Dad says to me.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I know you don’t mind, but I do. I don’t want you scalding yourself.
We’ve got enough trouble on our hands as it is.’ Suddenly Dad makes a grimace I think is a smile. I flee to my bedroom. It’s difficult enough that Mum’s become another person. I can’t cope with Dad changing as well.
‘Your mother’s barmy, she’s goin’ to join the army.’ A knot of children are gathered outside our flat when I return from school.
‘Mad ‘ouse! Mad ‘ouse! Send ‘er to the mad ‘ouse.’ They taunt me in sing-song voices as they block my way to our front door.
‘Excuse me.’ I try to sound brave.
‘Excuse me,’ they imitate. ‘You’ve got a mad mother. You’ve got a mad mother.’
I put my fingers in my ears. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’
‘Stop it! Stop it,’ they mimic.
‘She said stop and I’m telling you to scarper.’ Tony’s friend, Herbie, is crossing the road.
‘Who d’yer fink you are?’ one of the boys asks.
‘Someone who’ll knock your block off if you don’t leave her alone.’
‘She’s your girlfriend, she’s your girlfriend,’ two of the girls begin to chant. Herbie raises his fists as if he’s in a boxing ring and, dancing on his toes, begins advancing towards them.
‘Stuck up, from a stuck up school,’ one of the boys shouts. Nevertheless, the group begins to disperse. ‘Loony bin, loony bin. Your old lady belongs in the loony bin,’ they call as they move further down the street.
I study the ground, and resist the urge to cry.
‘Don’t take any notice of them.’ Herbie is wearing the St. Nicholas College maroon and gold blazer, where Angela says he’s won a scholarship. “Who would have thought that?” Angela had said.
He looks as awkward as I feel. As if he’s searching for something to say, he continues, ‘It can’t be long before the bombsite’s built over. Dennis and I tried to get in the other evening to see what’s going on, but the watchman chased us away with a bit of copper pipe.’ He laughs. ‘It must have been a piece we missed.’
I smile. I haven’t seen much of Tony’s gang since they barricaded the bombsite. Suddenly I realise that while I remember Tony as I’d last seen him, he must have grown just as Herbie has. His features are probably preparing themselves for manhood. He might even have a hint of fine hair growing above his lip like Herbie has.
‘I’d better be going, then.’
‘Me, too. And thanks.’ I walk up the path towards our front door.
‘Bye. And don’t let those kids bully you. If they try it again you can always tell them I’ll sort them out.’
‘Thanks.’
Herbie must know about Mum. The whole of Blountmere Street does. I smile a smile that stays inside me. I have another ally.
Angela says, ‘I can’t see why all the girls are so potty about Herbie Armitage,’ when I tell her about him later that evening. ‘I only go to the bus stop every afternoon to watch him get off the bus from his posh school in order to stop the others making fools of themselves,’ she says in her most sneering voice.
It’s Angela’s birthday, and Mrs Addingtons’ made an obvious effort. She’s even got fancy paper plates, cups, and serviettes on the table. ‘One of my customers owns a stationery shop and I deducted a little off her bill in exchange for the party things,’ she explains.
‘Lori and Fred have sent me a Maori doll. Not one you play with, of course.’ Angela adds, ‘It’s one you have as an ornament. It’s beautiful.’
‘Mr Stannard and Miss Lorimore – oops there I go again. I just can’t get into the habit of calling Lori, Mrs Stannard - anyway, they’re very upset that we still haven’t heard anything from Tony.’ Mrs Addington places a plate of Spam sandwiches on the table. ‘They said in their last letter that with so many people in England, finding Tony would be near impossible. If he was in New Zealand it would be a different matter altogether. The place is half-empty. They’d find him there pretty quickly, they said.’
‘Happy Birthday, Angela. It is another year older you have.’ Miss Selska brings the reek of camphorated oil into the Addingtons’ kitchen. ‘You are growing into a young voman in front of our eyes.’ She embraces Angela, who, to her credit, submits without flinching.
Mrs Addington looks affectionately at Angela. ‘Yes, she’s growing up.’
‘And I have bought you a gift for a voman, not a child,’ Miss Selska hands Angela a package. I marvel that someone as down to earth as Miss Selska could wrap a present so exquisitely.
‘It’s lovely. I mean the paper and the bow. I’ve never seen anything wrapped up so beautifully in my whole life.’ Angela undoes the bow as if it’s made of real silver, then gazes at a green box covered with white flowers.
‘It’s, how you say, talcum powder and perfume,’ Miss Selska says before Angela has a chance to lift the lid. ‘The perfume is French. I believe in English you say lilies in the valley.’
Angela unscrews the top from the perfume bottle and breathes deeply. ‘It’s gorgeous. You have a whiff, Paul.’ She hands the bottle to me. How strange that someone who constantly smells of camphorated oil should give such a sweet-smelling gift.
‘You can put a dab behind your ears if you like,’ Angela offers the bottle to me. ‘Then I’ll put some behind mine. After that I’m only going to keep it for special occasions.’
‘It’s best you use it and not try to save it,’ Mrs Addington intervenes. ‘Perfume evaporates.’
‘Well, I suppose women wear perfume every day, don’t they? I can use the talcum powder each morning after I’ve washed and even if they don’t allow perfume at school, I can put it on in the evening.’
Perhaps Angela will dab it behind her ears before she goes to watch Herbie get off the bus.
Miss Selska’s right. Angela is growing into a woman. Her breasts are becoming rounder, and I know she’s begun having periods.
I wish m
y breasts would show signs of growing, but my chest remains flat and my periods are probably a long way off. At school when we get ready for PE, I turn to the wall and put my top on quickly so that the girls won’t notice I’m not wearing a bra. Sometimes I complain of a stomach ache like the other girls. I hope they’ll assume it’s a period pain.
I have to admit, there are some advantages in not needing to wear a bra or having periods, especially with Mum being sick like she is. On my own I wouldn’t know how to go about buying a brassiere. I don’t even know what size I am. The girls at school are always talking about A, B and C cups, and Ruby Tolston actually says she’s a D. They probably don’t make bras for women with no breasts. Why should they? There would be no reason to do so. As for buying sanitary towels, the thought of going into a shop and asking for them fills me with dread, even though the other girls talk about it as if it’s the most natural thing to do.
‘Thanks for your box of handkerchiefs, too, Paul. They’re really pretty.’ Angela actually hugs me.
I’d stolen them from the drawer in Mum’s dressing table. It felt like stealing and it was stealing. Though the old Mum might have given them to me for Angela’s present, the new hearing voices Mum would have considered it stealing. I truly hope Angela likes them. They’ve cost me a lot.
‘Miss Selska’s kindly made some lemon barley water.’ Mrs Addington begins pouring the cloudy liquid into paper cups.
‘It is wery good for your liver. If you vant healthy liver, then it is lemon barley vater you drink,’ Miss Selska tells us.
‘It’s good for a party too. Let’s drink a toast,’ Mrs Addington lifts her cup. ‘To Angela.’
‘To Angela,’ Miss Selska and I repeat.
Angela smiles and coughs as the sourness hits the back of her throat.
‘And perhaps one more,’ Mrs Addington raises her cup again. ‘To Tony, wherever you are. All our love. You will always be part of us.’ We lift our cups and shudder at the bitterness.
Mum sits at the kitchen table cutting zigzags into a piece of wallpaper left over from when Dad had decorated my bedroom. She is humming what sounds like You Are My Heart’s Delight, one of her favourites.
The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) Page 12