‘You sound happy.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard Mum sing since her strangeness. Hope surges inside me like a wave tumbling over and over.
‘What are you making?’
‘You’ll see when I’ve finished.’
Recently Mum’s become more withdrawn, not even sharing what the voices tell her. She cuts another zigzag into the paper and I move around the table and put my arm around her. She’s still beautiful.
Mum becomes secretive. ‘When I’ve finished, everyone will see.’
When I return from school that evening, Dad’s at the door with a potato peeler in his hand talking to a policeman.
‘When I got home and she wasn’t here, I thought the girl must’ve taken her out,’ Dad is telling the policeman as I arrive on the doorstep.
‘Can we go inside, sir?’ The policeman asks and Dad shows him up the passageway and into the kitchen. The policeman directs a look at me. ‘You might not want the young lady to …’
‘Go and make a cup of tea,’ Dad orders me.
‘But … but.’
‘I said, go and make a cup of tea.’
Obediently I leave the room, but double back to crouch behind the kitchen door. I suppose Mum’s in her place in the scullery in front of the oven.
‘I’m afraid your wife was found this afternoon in the High Street in a … in a bit of a state, sir, very agitated. Seemed to think she was in ...’ The policeman coughs. ‘ … heaven … didn’t seem to know who she was.’ The policeman lowers his voice. ‘She … um … was naked and accosting people along the street, trying to put paper crowns on them. Said …’ He coughs again. ‘God had told her to find His chosen ones.’
Mum what have you done to yourself? What have you done to me?
Chapter Fourteen
Now the warmer weather’s here, Dad and I walk across The Common on Sundays on our way to catch a train to visit Mum in the asylum. Unlike the bombsite, where red bricks are already three layers above the ground, The Common’s always the same. German bombs didn’t dare scar it. It was spared for people like Tony and me to stretch out our arms to the endless green and raise our faces to the broad sky. The Common is children tadpoling, fathers sitting on benches reading The News of the World or helping to sail model boats. It’s mothers pushing prams and calling to their kids, and platoons of men planting, wheel barrowing and shovelling on their allotments; still digging for victory.
Under a horse chestnut tree on a threadbare blanket, two women are pouring tea from a flask. Their children are eating cakes, from which currants drop like ants, ready to scurry to some task or the other.
A few early drinkers are making their way to The Carpenter’s Arms, anxious to be there for opening time. I recognise Jack Bealer from further down Blountmere Street. He’s dressed in his best Sunday suit and black cap. His shoes are like lumps of shiny coal. He won’t return to Blountmere Street that way. He’ll stagger back later this afternoon with his tie hanging limp, his cap askew, his suit stained and crumpled.
Mum had been as disparaging of Jack and his drinking cronies, as she had been of Mr Addington from upstairs. “His ilk are disgraceful,” she had snorted. She had used the word “ilk” as if they were a pack of wild animals roaming along Blountmere Street. “Drinking themselves senseless, while their children run around like ragamuffins, their backsides hanging out. And to come back singing, propping each other up, it’s shameful.” It was at this point she’d screw her eyes shut, slam her lips together and shake her head to dispel the thought of anyone displaying their excesses so publicly. She was thankful neither she nor her family were of “his ilk”, she’d said, when her lips eventually slackened.
“She was up the High Street starkers. There was blood dripping everywhere, and she was going up to people saying that God wanted her to crown ‘em. Frightened out of their wits, everyone was.”
Don’t tell me anything about shame or whatever it is I feel and can’t put a name to. Mum didn’t know a thing. Not a thing. Screwing up your face and shaking your head is easy. Anyone can screw up their face and shake their head. Holding your head up isn’t so easy. Holding your head up and keeping it held up – now that’s difficult. Opening the front door in the morning and facing everyone. That’s difficult. I look across at Jack Bealer and smile. He doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t recognise me as one of his ilk.
The sound of metal on metal and the voices of children at play blend into one high-pitched note as we walk past the swings. The new, tamer lizzies are swinging backwards and forwards like the changing patterns of my life.
I’d like to swing now; to hold on to the chains, stretch out my legs, thrust them forward, pull them back sharply and cradle the chains in the crook of my arms, until I rise higher and higher, above everything that’s happening to me.
‘You can have a swing when we come back, if you like. You’re not too big,’ Dad says, as if he understands my thoughts. At that moment I forgive him. Only a little, though. Forgiveness comes like medicine, a spoonful at a time.
The asylum is built in a hollow surrounded by wooded hills. Its shape reminds me of an ear that’s swollen from eavesdropping on the pain of the people locked inside. A high pitched shriek splinters the atmosphere and carries eerily towards the hills. It’s difficult to tell whether it’s a human voice or a bird. I keep my eyes on the oak door we’re approaching and away from the sides of the building, where I know the windows have bars on them. I wonder if Mum’s room has bars on its windows. We’ve never been to it. We only ever see her in the “special room”.
Pansies and stocks crowd around the entrance. I want to store their perfume against the stench that’s about to engulf us when we push open the door.
We both take a deep breath. It never gets any easier to push that door open, and I know Dad is as frightened as I am.
Inside, as she usually is, Mum is in a cell-like room, staring at a wall as if rows of numbers are written on it. She recites in an expressionless voice, ‘One hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and four.’
‘Here are your visitors. We haven’t had to wait long, have we? Not got into the thousands this time, sweetheart.’ A nurse with a pasted-on smile talks to Mum.
‘They’ve given permission for your daughter to come today, I presume?’ the nurse asks Dad.
Dad glares at her and replies, ‘Is there any reason why she shouldn’t come? Her visits are good for her mother, which is more than I can say …’
‘They allow me in when Mum’s feeling all right. They think it helps her.’ I interject.
‘Be that as it may, in my opinion you’re too young to be visiting a place like this.’
‘I’ll be fourteen soon.’
‘Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,’ Mum’s counting is getting louder.
I speak over the top of her, and say ‘Hello, Mum.’ This is the part I fear the most: not knowing how Mum will react, the long silences, her relapses into counting; my uncertainty whether I should join in Mum’s fantasies.
Mum, dressed in a red polka dot frock, smiles at us and says politely, ‘Pleased to meet you both. It’s good of you to come.’
‘She’s been a good girl today, so I don’t think I need to stay.’ The nurse pats Mum on the head. ‘I’ll be round the corner if you need me. No being naughty, now.’
Dad clicks his tongue at the retreating nurse, and Mum continues her counting.
‘We’ve brought you some fruit and some sweets from Old Boy Barker’s,’ I say, making a decision not to use the word “Mum” again.
‘It’s very kind of you and this man,’ Mum points at Dad, ‘To buy me sweets, but I don’t know if I should accept them from a stranger.’
Dad clicks his tongue again. It’s the sort of noise Mum herself had once used to indicate disgust.
‘He’s a very nice man and quite safe. He’d be very upset if you didn’t have them,’ I pacify, while Dad unpacks the bag. He has red patches covering his neck and face like the spots on Mum’s dress.
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‘In that case, thank him very much. Tell him I might not be allowed to eat many of them. I’ll ask, but if I can’t I’ll share them around.’
I’m not sure if Mum means she’ll ask the staff or the voices.
‘Do you need anything?’ Dad asks brusquely, as he does every week for want of something to say.
Mum’s reply is always the same. ‘No, thank you very much.’ Her smile is remote; one reserved for strangers.
All three of us stare at the wall until Mum resumes her counting, and I seek something to say that won’t upset her, or produce a blank expression.
‘Did you have a good dinner today?’
‘No,’ Mum answers between counting.
‘Why was that?’
‘They don’t know how to cook, that’s why.’ It is a spark of the old Mum. I’m encouraged, and continue, ‘What was wrong with it?’
‘Cow’s tits.’
‘Now that’s enough,’ Dad rises in protest. The polka-dot patches on his face are more pronounced.
‘One hundred and thirty-three, one hundred and thirty-four.’
‘I’m going outside to get some fresh air.’ Dad has already begun pulling a packet of Weights from his pocket.
As soon as Dad leaves, Mum’s face becomes animated. ‘Quick, hide this fruit.’ She begins piling apples and oranges into my lap. Some fall on the floor and roll around the room. ‘They’re trying to poison me.’
‘But …’
‘Hide the fruit!’ she orders.
‘They’re not trying to poison you. Nobody’s trying to poison you.’
‘Don’t tell me what they’re trying to do. I know. They’ve told me.’ She pauses and looks at me quizzically. ‘Who are you, anyway?’
I’m gradually getting used to the new order of things and the routine Dad and I have got into: the shared housework and cooking, sitting together in the kitchen at night, while I do my homework and Dad reads The Star. Sometimes Dad even asks me how I’m getting on at school.
The changes in him are like one of the fantasies we used to dance in ballet class, where an ogre changes into a loving prince, and a wolf is transformed into a docile dog. It’s more the stuff of imagination than reality. In the here and now, though, it’s about survival, Dad’s and mine. For us both to survive, he has to change. So Dad’s opened a rusty catch to a long-forgotten door. He’s braved what he might find on the other side and has become a bit more involved in life.
‘This is for you,’ Dad offers me a used brown envelope. ‘You might need to get yourself a couple of things.’ He presses the envelope into my hand. Then he delves into his pocket and produces a few coppers. ‘Friday night used to be treat night, didn’t it? So why don’t you go and buy a bottle of that Tizer stuff and a couple of packets of crisps.’ He busies himself folding his newspaper and pushing it under the cushion of his armchair. ‘Then you and me can have a little knees up.’ His face contorts into a smile and he half-coughs a creaky unused laugh.
Outside in the passage I tear open the envelope and count the money. It’s enough to buy a brassiere, maybe two. I run back into the kitchen and kiss him.
‘Daft happorth,’ Dad replies. I forgive him another spoonful.
I usually do some shopping after school and before Dad gets in. I rush around the side of the bombsite like Mum used to, mentally ticking off in my mind what we need, in the same way I suppose she did. I’m concentrating, so that at first I don’t see Bill standing outside the fortressed building site. Lines, not even hints of which I remember, bite into his face shaping it into middle age.
‘What are you doing here?’ I’m surprised at the sharpness of my tone.
‘I wanted to see you,’ Bill says, stepping forward, and looking directly into my face. ‘Just the same, and yet more grown up,’ he observes, as he runs his fingers through his hair in his characteristic gesture of uncertainty. ‘But then, of course, you would be more grown up. It must be getting on for three years since I last saw you.’
‘I thought you didn’t know where we lived.’ I look back at our place. Dad might return at any time.
‘Shall we walk up to the High Street? I presume that was where you were going?’ he asks.
Automatically Bill takes my shopping bag. It reminds me of when I’d first met him with Mum at the market. If it weren’t for that meeting Mum might still be standing at the sink peeling potatoes, singing. Consciously I move away from him.
‘I heard about your Mum from a customer of mine in Kentlyn Avenue.’
“She was up the High Street starkers. Daphne Hawkins said she’d cut herself all over. There was blood dripping everywhere and she was going up to people saying that God wanted her to crown ‘em. Frightened out of their wits, they all were.”
‘How did it happen?’ Bill asks.
I shake my head. How does someone step from sanity to insanity? It seems sudden - just one step, but looking back, those who are close know there have been a succession of steps that they haven’t seen or they’ve chosen not to see.
‘She started hearing voices.’ It’s an easy place to begin.
‘Voices?’
‘They told her to do strange things.’
‘How is she now?’
‘She’s in an … a … special hospital. She’s getting better,’ I lie.
‘How did it start? What triggered it?’
‘I don’t know.’ I keep my gaze levelled on the row of shops teetering on the edge of the building site as if they are about to topple into it and be swallowed up by red bricks.
‘Do you think I could visit her?’
‘No! Only Dad and I are allowed, and getting permission for me was difficult because they said I wasn’t old enough. Now they think it helps Mum. Sometimes when, when … she’s not well we’re not allowed to go.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Bill turns to look at me, but I keep staring ahead. Don’t say anything. Nothing! Nothing.
‘When you see her tell her I still … remember me to her.’
‘All right,’ I reply. I won’t be able to, of course.
‘I’ve got my own upholstery business now,’ Bill continues. ‘Just moved there. It’s quite close; the other side of The Common as a matter of fact. It’s a small place, but with a couple of flats over the top. Someone I knew was emigrating to Australia and wanted to get rid of it pretty quickly. Unfortunately, my marriage has broken up, so it’s a new start.’ He pulls out his wallet and gives me a card. ‘In case you need to get in touch with me,’ he explains. I take the card and ram it in my pocket. I won’t need to get in touch with Bill anymore. I’ve got Dad now.
Chapter Fifteen
On my return from the shops, Angela is leaning against her front door waiting for me. She calls out even before I’ve crossed the road, ‘I thought you were never coming! I’ve got something to tell you.’
I tense and slow my steps. I no longer trust life to be predictable; always on my guard for the unexpected, the unplanned, the unfair. Maybe Angela’s seen me with Bill and wants to know who he is.
‘Guess what?’ Angela asks as I walk up the path towards her. She doesn’t wait for a reply before she blurts, ‘I’ve got a job at Hendersons Leather Factory.’
My smile is broad with relief.
‘I knew you’d be pleased.’
‘What will you be doing?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. What’s it matter as long as it’s a job and I get paid thirty-five bob a week.’
‘What does your mother say?’
‘All the things mothers say about working hard and trying to better yourself, you know.’
I know, except that now Mum doesn’t say or do all the usual things. Perhaps she will never say and do all the usual things mothers say and do ever again.
‘Why don’t you come up later, and I’ll do your make-up. You look like death warmed up twice.’ Angela’s lips shimmer vivid pink and her face shines iced pale beige.
This time next year, I’ll be leaving schoo
l and looking for a job. I’ve no idea what l’ll do. Work in a shop, I suppose, or join Angela in the leather factory. It’s a long way from Mum’s dream of me becoming a botanist, although she never seemed to have a clear idea what botanists did, except that they had something to do with plants. If I chose not to become a botanist, Mum had supposed, I could be a mannequin like the ones in the Woman’s Weekly, who modelled the twin sets she had so admired.’
‘Are we having mashed potatoes tonight?’ Dad calls along the passage when I get in.
‘Sausage and mash,’ I reply from my bedroom, at the same time taking Bill’s card from my pocket. ‘I’ll be there to help in a minute.’ I turn the card over in the middle of my hand, studying it. Best to burn it, or tear it up. Rather that, than Dad find out I’ve seen Bill. I begin to rip it in two, then on an impulse and as quietly as I can, I move my bed away from the wall. I lift a piece of linoleum and slide the card under it.
Angela holds the lipstick between her fingers like a cigarette. She places her hands either side of my head to steady it. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to get it right when you keep doing funny things with your lips,’ Angela reprimands and adds, ‘Cupid’s bows are all the rage.’
‘But my lips are just about touching my nose, and they’re so bright,’ I peer into the Addingtons’ fly spotted mirror at the red gash circling my mouth. I daren’t think where Angela got the lipstick. It looks well used.
‘Now don’t move or talk while I put on this eye shadow and mascara. When I’ve finished you’ll be so beautiful Elvis Presley himself would fall in love with you.’
I try not to smile. I hardly think being painted in garish colours will make me beautiful. Mum – the old Mum - would have said it made me look common.
Angela stands back to admire her handiwork. ‘You look marvelous, Paul, you really do. James Dean would fall head over hills if he were to see you now.’
‘I thought you said Elvis Presley.’
‘Well he’s got to go in the Army, hasn’t he? Actually I’m considering wearing a black armband. I read in this magazine that there’s thousands of girls in America wearing them as a protest against Elvis having to sign up. Want to join me?’
The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) Page 13