The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2)

by Arnold, Barbara

  ‘No. No I haven’t.’ I keep my eyes directed on the pavement, in case Herbie can read the impure thoughts I have about him.

  ‘I meant what I said. If they have a go at you again, tell me and I’ll sort them out.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  A pause. Perhaps he wants me to say how strong I think he is, but I don’t have the right words.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Tony?’

  ‘No. Mrs Addington reckons he’s probably up north somewhere, even Scotland.’

  ‘Wherever he is, he must really like it. I can’t understand why he hasn’t been in touch with anyone, not even his family.’ Herbie hoists his satchel higher. His shoulders are twice as wide as mine, and he’s a head taller.

  As we pass, Izzy’s gives way to the bombsite-cigar box kingdom.

  ‘We’ve applied to move into one of these flats once they’re built.’ Herbie looks up at the scaffolding.

  ‘Do you really want to live in one?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I, especially if it’s on the top storey. It’ll have a good view and we’ll have a bathroom with an inside lavatory. No mice; what more could you ask?’

  ‘And you wouldn’t mind not having a garden or living with all those people around you?’

  ‘Why should I? Anyway, all the houses in Blountmere Street are going be pulled down. Everyone in the street will be rehoused in these flats eventually.’ Herbie answers arrogantly, and his walk has become more of a strut. I suppose it adds to his hero status with the girls at school. Why do girls, women for that matter, like men who swagger like James Dean? Or who are aloof and treat them as a mere convenience, as Dad did Mum. Why don’t they go for nice boys, like the kind of boy Bill must have been? I’m no different from the girls at school. I just keep all that burning and churning inside me.

  ‘I have to admit,’ Herbie speaks with a private school accent. I suppose I would have spoken like him if I’d gone to Riversham. ‘It’ll be strange living where the bombsite was, as if we’re somehow being unfaithful to it.’

  I raise my eyes and take in his skin, the colour of milky tea and his even teeth, like Mum’s “whites” after their weekly boil in the copper on wash day. I’ll see his every feature when I go to bed tonight.

  ‘There’s a good flick on at The Majestic, fancy going?’ Herbie asks suddenly, and in an off-hand manner, I reply, ‘All right.’

  ‘Tuesday at seven outside The Majestic?’ Herbie turns away from Blountmere Street and towards Kentlyn Avenue. ‘I’d better go.’ He raises his arm in a half-wave. I do the same.

  That night, I hurry through the chores and my homework so that I can get to bed; to Radio Luxenbourg and my fantasies. This time, they’re not entirely fantasies. Herbie Armitage has asked me out! I suppose it’s a date. I have a date with Herbie Armitage! Almost immediately I’m overcome by fear that douses all my other emotions. How can something I’ve wanted so much be turning into something I don’t want at all? There are times when I simply don’t understand myself. Most of the time.

  Tuesday arrives like a steam roller that won’t be slowed down. I pull my coat to me, clasping the front of it in a bunch to my chest, as I force myself to round the corner of St Kits Avenue, into the High Street. Opposite, between David Greigs, the grocers and the Bata Shoe Shop, stands The Majestic Picture House. I’ve always thought it was a magnificent building. Now it might as well be a prison. Herbie, still dressed in his school “longs” topped with a red jersey matted by too hot a wash, is waiting outside studying the Coming Attractions.

  Why had I come? Why hadn’t God answered my prayers and somehow struck me or Herbie down - in a way that didn’t hurt, of course. Doesn’t the hymn we sing at school say God works in mysterious ways. His wonders to perform?

  As I’m about to turn back, Herbie sees me and raises his hand. I wave back, tremulously touching my hair as I do so. I shouldn’t have used Mum’s curlers. It had been a mistake. They made my hair stick out like the chocolate finger biscuits we used to have as a special treat at Christmas. As for my face – there’s no other word to describe it but ugly. If I’d worn lipstick and high heels, I would have felt more confident and grown up, like Angela when she totters across the road on her way out with her friends from work.

  I keep moving forward. My beige flatties pinch my toes. Herbie waves again. I feel so nauseous, I eye the gutter in case I have to be sick into it. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t stop the trembling or the nausea. What do I know about boys, about what they do when they take you to the pictures? And what they do after they’ve taken you to the pictures? All I know is what the girls at school talk about, and I don’t want that at all.

  I continue on towards The Majestic. I look in the shops, then at the road, anywhere but at Herbie.

  ‘Hi,’ he calls.

  ‘Hi,’ I call back, still not looking at him.

  The gap between us lessens, at least distance-wise.

  ‘Did you have any trouble getting out?’ Herbie asks.

  ‘No … no it was all right.’ I’d told Dad I was going to see a school friend.

  ‘They say The Incredible Shrinking Man’s a really good flick.’

  ‘Yes.’ The film’s of little consequence to me.

  ‘I hear it’s quite frightening in parts.’

  That’s what Angela and the girls at school told me boys always say about films. It’s a way they can get to touch you.

  ‘I’ll get the tickets,’ Herbie offers.

  ‘All right.’ I fiddle with the coins in my pocket, uncertain whether to give them to him. Angela and the girls at school say you never pay for yourself when you go out with a boy. You only “go Dutch” when you’re going steady, and then not always. Angela says it makes boys feel manlier when they pay. I wonder if Herbie feels manly.

  The cockerel on the Pathe News crows as we squeeze our way along the row to our seats. I deliberately keep my gaze from the back row and the embracing couples. I’m glad Herbie and I aren’t sitting in the back row.

  ‘I’ve bought you some liquorice allsorts,’ Herbie thrusts the packet at me.

  ‘Thanks.’ I clutch the box praying the ordeal will soon be over. When it is, I swear I’ll never go out with a boy again. Never!

  Thankful for the dark and the flickering images that keep us from having to talk, I’m conscious of Herbie’s arm touching mine.

  ‘Ooh, I’m frightened, Terry.’ A girl’s voice, together with a rustling sound comes from behind.

  As the film progresses, the characters get smaller, while everything around them gets larger and larger, until a spider, like some giant prehistoric creature, prowls across the screen. A man who is a hundred times smaller, wields a pin in self-defence. From behind comes more rustling followed by a throaty groan.

  ‘Are you frightened?’ Herbie whispers.

  I don’t answer. I’m frightened, but not of the film. With a swift movement of his head, he looks at me. Then, as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it, he slides his arm around my shoulder, where it rests like a yoke. I keep looking ahead, pretending to be intent on the action. Does he want me to touch him, to encourage him further? If I was Angela or one of the girls at school, I’d know exactly what to do. Instead, I clench my teeth and try to control my trembling. I beseech God that there’ll be nothing more, just Herbie’s hand around my shoulder, clutching and unclutching me.

  His pullover, redolent of Sunlight soap, prickles my neck. From behind, the groaning is becoming louder, while the man on the screen is diminishing in size. Compared to him even a matchbox looks like a gigantic fortress. Herbie begins pulling me towards him, at first tentatively and then with more urgency. I resist and feign a deep interest in the film.

  ‘Come on,’ he coaxes.

  I’m a child, a silly little child. He’s a boy-man. But the boy-man is becoming more insistent and as the character on the screen disappears into infinity, I allow myself to be turned and Herbie’s lips to slide towards mine. Half finding them he sucks my
skin. His hands caress my shoulders. The music comes to a crescendo, the lights flare, and Herbie lets me go. There are sighs and movement from behind.

  ‘Ooh, Terry that was lovely,’ the voice says.

  ‘D’you want a choc-ice?’ Herbie askes. His eyes are glassy.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘But there’s another film to come.’

  ‘I’ve got to catch the bus to my Aunt’s. I’m staying there tonight. It goes soon.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ I begin to push my way along the row. Then I stumble up the stairs and into the foyer trying to dodge arriving picture-goers.

  ‘Hey wait,’ Herbie shouts after me.

  A bus is at the stop outside The Majestic. I jump on it and I’m already running up the stairs as it pulls away. Glancing back, I see Herbie standing on the pavement looking perplexed.

  I imagine I hear a knock at the door for days after and when I answer, it will be Herbie asking me if something’s wrong. He doesn’t come, and I’m glad of the darkening Autumn evenings so that I can hide in the shadows on my way home from school.

  Then the worse thing possible happens. We come face to face at the baker’s. He looks at me as if he is about to say something, but I swivel towards the shop window to study the cakes. To my relief, he walks away without buying anything.

  Now I know beyond doubt, I’m not like other girls. I’m different. I’m a freak, abnormal. I can’t even cope with a kiss. I’ve made Herbie Armitage feel unmanly. I’ve got a mad mother.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘This Christmas is going to be the best ever.’ Angela tugs at her jeans while Mrs Addington complains, ‘They’re too tight.’

  ‘Course they’re not.’ Gripping the waistband, Angela wiggles her way into them. ‘They’re having a party at work with Babycham and everything.’

  ‘You vill have to be careful. It is not good to consume too much alcohol. It can be dangerous.’ Miss Selska studies the jeans pulled across Angela’s thighs like an animal’s hide. ‘And vearing clothing that is too tight vill cut off your circulation.’

  ‘My circulation’s fine, thanks.’ Angela propels me into the passage and whispers, ‘Micky Rowle, you know, the one who calls me Peachy, says he can’t wait to get me under the mistletoe.’

  ‘But didn’t you say he’s married?’

  ‘Maybe – I forget. Anyway, it’ll teach that Herbie Armitage a lesson.’

  ‘Why would you want to teach him a lesson?’

  ‘No reason.’

  Our Christmas, Dad’s, Aunt Min’s and mine consists of a sapling Christmas tree I bought at the market and dragged back on the bus, a stringy chicken cooked by Aunt Min with her special fig stuffing, and a slender cracker minus a hat. Mum had always been at her bustling best at Christmas, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t coax the festive spirit to make even a brief appearance.

  The nurses at the hospital say Mum’s Christmas has been wonderful, though it appears to me that Mum has no inkling what season it is. She might have worn a paper hat and been given a tin of talcum powder and a box of chocolates, it hadn’t made any difference.

  Winter drags on, mild and dry, but with few bright days.

  Somewhere around seven most evenings, after we’ve cleared away the tea things, Dad and I embark on a jerky sort of conversation.

  ‘How’s school?’ Dad asks. He doesn’t look at me immediately but directs his gaze towards me gradually.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What about your lessons? You getting on all right with ‘em?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Right, that’s um good. So … um … d’you want to watch the tele?’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  ‘Right.’ Dad turns on the television with an almost audible sigh of relief.

  ‘So what do you think of it?’ Bill lifts the lid of a shiny black piano. It’s new to Bill’s front room since I last visited.

  ‘I’ve had it tuned. Mind you, I had my doubts we’d get it up the stairs. It was touch and go. And I’ve had to get rid of one or two of the armchairs to fit it in.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  Despite telling myself after my first visit to Bill at his upholstery shop on the other side of The Common I wouldn’t return, this is now the fourth time I’ve been. It’s comforting to talk to someone who knows Mum almost as well as I do. Apart from Bill and me, nobody does. Bill’s so easy to talk to. Not like Dad. I immediately chastise myself for making the comparison. Just the same, I find myself looking forward to my visits.

  ‘Why don’t you give us a tune while I put the kettle on. I’ve made a piano stool, too.’

  ‘It’s covered with the same material as my chair.’

  ‘So it is. By the way, the seat of the stool lifts up. You’ll find some music in there,’ he adds, as he opens the kitchen door.

  I push up the seat top and look at the music manuscripts inside. They look new. ‘You’ve got The Moonlight Sonata,’ I call out. ‘And the Tuneful Graded Studies book Miss Heckley my music teacher gave me to play from.’

  Bill returns carrying a tea tray. ‘The music came with the piano,’ he says, busying himself arranging cups. ‘You can come here and practise any time you like.’ He opens a packet of biscuits, giving what he’s doing great attention.

  ‘Coincidentally, there’s a woman a couple of doors along who gives piano lessons. If you want, I can make arrangements for you to have a few.’ He pauses. ‘My treat.’

  ‘I’m a bit busy with school work and looking after Dad, but thanks.’ How can I possibly let Bill spend money on me, or be that disloyal to Dad? Why would Bill want to do it, anyway?

  I move from the piano to my spring flowers chair, while Bill picks up his cup and relaxes into the chair beside me, crossing his legs. ‘Do I remember you saying you were leaving school in July?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bill doesn’t seem to forget anything I tell him.

  ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll work in a shop and Angela says there are plenty of jobs in the leather factory.’

  ‘Is that what you want to do?’

  I shrug. Why doesn’t Dad ask me these questions?

  ‘Have you thought about secretarial work?’

  ‘I don’t know much about offices.’ I remember there had once been a strip in The Girl entitled Sheila – Secretary. At the time I’d thought I’d quite like to be one. I recall telling Tony so during one of our Saturday afternoon doorstep confiding sessions.

  ‘If you put your hand down the side of your chair you’ll find a brochure I just happened to pick up the other day.’ Bill continues. ‘I tucked it down there for safe-keeping. It’s advertising a secretarial college that might suit you.’

  ‘But I couldn’t afford … ’

  ‘It says they offer scholarships. Take it home and read it. See what you think.’

  I ease the leaflet between the side of the chair and the cushion, fold it and stuff it in my pocket.

  Bill sips his tea and continues easily, ‘If you couldn’t get a scholarship, I could always help you out and … ’

  ‘I’ll show Dad tonight. He’ll be really interested.’

  I’ll wait to one of our talking times, then tell him one of the teachers at school’s given it to me. I suspect he’ll feel the same way about a secretarial school as he had about Riversham.

  ‘I’m sure your father’ll be interested.’

  I can tell Bill’s lying.

  ‘And your mother,’ he hurries on. ‘Is there any improvement?’

  ‘A little.’ I hope Bill can’t detect my lies, as I can his.

  ‘Incidentally, when did you say the visiting times were at the place where your mother is?’

  ‘Wednesdays and Sundays. Dad and I go on Sundays, but only family are allowed in, and then only close family.’

 
‘Do you like her hair cut? She was a very good girl when it was being done, weren’t you?’ The nurse flattens Mum’s stubby fringe, but Mum shrugs her off.

  ‘Beware of vipers,’ she hisses.

  ‘Now, now, that’s very naughty,’ the nurse reacts.

  With spittle frothy on her chin, Mum shouts, ‘Leave me alone. Bloody go away.’

  ‘I’ve told you before about bloody swearing,’ Dad warns.

  ‘My brother likes my hair.’ Mum is acting like a sulky child.

  ‘Yes, he thinks you’re a lovely girl, doesn’t he?’ the nurse says, apparently forgiving Mum’s rebuff and endeavouring to dab the spittle from Mum’s chin.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Toodle pip and don’t do anything I wouldn’t. I won’t be far away.’ The nurse puts the cloth she’s been using in her pocket, screws her hand into a fist and releases it in a little-girl wave. ‘Don’t forget you have an appointment to see the specialist at four o’clock, Mr Dibble,’ she reminds Dad as she leaves.

  ‘Do these people think I haven’t got a brain? And they’re treating her as if she’s two, encouraging all this brother nonsense.’ Dad inclines his head towards Mum as if she’s no more than a distant acquaintance.

  I cross the room and begin stroking Mum’s hands. Her brother!

  ‘We’ve found many patients respond well to the treatment we’re proposing for your wife.’ The specialist looks fleetingly at Dad, then out the window as if what he sees is of a lot more interest.

  ‘And what is this treatment you’re proposing, my daughter and I would like to know?’

  “My daughter and I.” All at once, I feel we’re not two people thrown together in some mysterious way. I take hold of Dad’s hand, and he squeezes it.

  ‘It’s complex.’ The specialist continues to gaze at something far away. ‘But in layman’s terms it involves treating the patient with low electric voltage.’ He hurries on. ‘It might sound a drastic approach, but the discharge of electric current in this way has, as I’ve said, been found to be successful in bringing some patients to lucidity.’

  ‘And what about those it hasn’t been successful with?’

  ‘Well, um, let’s put it this way.’ The specialist moves closer to the window. ‘The patient – in this case, your wife – is unlikely to regain … to regain her mental equilibrium without treatment and we believe this to be the most effective.’