Angela’s spoken of so many boys in the past few months, but I wonder … I push the thought away.
‘I’m not scared to go through with it on my own,’ Angela continues. ‘And Mum doesn’t need to know either. There’s no reason to go upsetting her.’
Angela gets up from the step, rubbing the front of her dress as if she’s already trying to flatten a bulge. She seems no older than when she used to chase me home from Blountmere Street School.
The air of Stowerhouse Street is tainted with poverty. The net curtains of number forty-five hang like grey shards. Grime coats the windows, hiding the secrets behind them in a way the curtains no longer can. The glass in the front door has been replaced with rough wood on which is written in indelible purple, “Jaffa Oranges”. Sheltered in the doorway at the top of a flight of steps, cluttered with broken furniture and the stuffing from a discarded mattress, a crone sleeps a gin-induced slumber. Sprawled in a rickety armchair, she’s oblivious to the raucous sounds of the children below chalking obscenities on the pavement.
A small boy, shoeless and with spiky black hair, stops his scribbling to eye me defiantly.
‘‘ad yer pennoth,‘ave yer?’
‘I … I was just taking a walk.’
‘Why don’t yer bleedin’ sling yer hook and walk somewhere else?’ A girl of about my own age confronts me, while the others sift the dirt in the gutter for stones.
‘Yeah, clear orf.’ A boy aims a pebble at me. It skims my arm. A shower of others follows. ‘Git to where yer belong,’ the boy yells at my retreating back.
‘Yeah, clear orf.’
‘Clear orf, clear orf,’ the children chorus as, with my arms covering my head for protection, I flee the grim hostility of Stowerhouse Street.
On my next visit to see Mum, she strokes my hair. ‘You’re growing into a young woman,’ she says.
I snuggle closer to her remembering long ago nights round the fire in Blountmere Street cocooned in her lap. Old and familiar feelings stir waiting permission to be reborn.
‘It’s wonderful to see Mum so much better, isn’t it?’ I ask Dad.
In answer, he grunts his usual grunt and stares at the floor.
I cup Mum’s face between my hands and say, ‘It feels as if you’re coming back to us.’
It’s been several weeks since Mum’s mentioned the voices, although she doesn’t yet use either of our names.
‘Do you know who we are?’ I begin. In spite of the improvement in Mum, inside I am still a little scared.
‘You’re my girl, my special girl.’
‘And what about this man?’ I indicate Dad.
Mum smiles politely at Dad. Again, he lowers his head.
‘The weather’s lovely today, isn’t it?’ She continues as if she hasn’t heard my question. ‘I’ve been out in the grounds all morning. A marvellous day to get those sheets blowing on the line and the place given a good airing.’ She looks at Dad again. ‘Talking of fresh air, I don’t know if you smoke, but we won’t mind if you pop into the garden for a cigarette.’
Looking relieved, Dad pats his pockets for his Weights. ‘I won’t be long then,’ he says.
‘Take your time. Mum and I have got plenty to talk about.’ I watch Dad as he leaves the room. Now that Mum’s more coherent, she’s not any easier for Dad to relate to than when she was incoherent. He doesn’t understand either.
‘Mum, there’s something I need some advice on.’ I’ve been waiting for this. Waiting for a look of recognition and a lucid reply. ‘It’s Angela.’
‘Angela?’
‘You know, Angela Addington upstairs.’
Mum looks upwards.
‘She’s pregnant, and she’s going to have an abortion, but the woman she’s thinking of gong to lives in Stowerhouse Street. I went there to have a look at the place, but it’s horrible – so dirty and I don’t know what to do.’
I expect Mum to tut at the word “abortion” as she would once have done, but she seems not to notice the word has been used.
‘While I was there a woman came out. She looked awful, very pale, and the person with her had to help her down the steps. She was crying and when she got to the bottom she almost passed out. It was terrible. I can’t let Angela go through that.’
‘Has the girl upstairs told her mother?’
‘Do you think Mrs Addington will be able to help her?’
Mum looks vaguely at the ceiling again. ‘Her mother will. Mothers always can.’
‘I’m the only one Angela’s told, so you won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘I’m very good at keeping secrets.’ Mum twists her hands together and places them on her chest, supposedly to where her heart is.
When I tell Angela I’ve been to Stowerhouse Street, she snaps. ‘You shouldn’t poke your nose into what’s got nothing to do with you. It isn’t any of your business. I don’t care what you say, as soon as I can get the money, I’m getting rid of this kid, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Why don’t you tell your Mum and see what she says?’
‘I’ve told you, I’m not having Mum dragged into this. She doesn’t need to know.’
‘If you’re set on having an abortion, at least go somewhere better than Stowerhouse Street,’ I urge.
‘And where, Miss High and Mighty Know Everything, would I go? Anyway, it would cost a packet. No, it’s either Stowerhouse Street or I’ll do something myself. The girls at school used to say it wasn’t difficult.’
‘You can’t do that … it could … you might … it’s so dangerous. Promise me you won’t do anything like that.’
‘What else would you suggest, seeing as you know so much?’
It comes to me suddenly and I say, ‘Give it a few days. I know someone who I think will be able to help.’
‘A few days, then.’
I go straight to Bill.
At first he looks alarmed. ‘It’s not you who’s pregnant, is it? I’ll help you if you are, Paula. I’ll do anything.’ He holds both my hands in his until my knuckles whiten. ‘You needn’t go through this on your own. I’ll be with you.’
‘No, no, it’s not me. It’s a friend. Actually, it’s Angela Addington upstairs.’
Bill lets out a breath and says, ‘I see,’ although I’m sure he doesn’t.
He relinquishes my hands, but continues to pat them from time to time. ‘It’s not that I haven’t got the money, or that I wouldn’t give it to her. You know I’d do anything for you … your mother and you,’ Bill repeats, while I question my wisdom in coming. I hadn’t intended seeing Bill again, even if I do miss playing the piano, and sitting in my special chair chatting with him. Afterwards, though, I’m left with niggling doubts that I’m doing something wrong. Bill’s becoming too involved in my life. But he’s the only person I know who might have the money.
‘I’m not sure abortion is the best course of action, even if your friend can find a reputable clinic,’ he replies.
‘So what do you think she should do?’
‘I’ll need to think about it.’ Bill still manages his easy smile. ‘I do know there are places where women can stay while they’re waiting to have their babies. Afterwards … given your friend’s circumstances, the baby will probably have to be adopted, but at least she won’t have put her life in danger, and the child will have a good home.’
‘Angela and I wouldn’t know where to begin to find one of those places, even if I can persuade her it’s the best thing to do.’
‘Her doctor will help her, or if you like I’ll look into it.’
‘The problem is that this way she’ll have to tell her mother and she doesn’t want to.’
‘Her mother would certainly find out if there were to be complications after having the abortion. Your friend might not have thought about that.’
‘Mum said she should tell Mrs Addington.’ Mum hadn’t exactly used Mrs Addington’s name, but as good as. ‘You know, Mum seems so much better every time we visit her. I don’t th
ink it’ll be long before she comes home.’
‘That’ll be wonderful.’
I wonder if Bill’s aware he’s moved to the middle of the room and that he’s stroking Mum’s chaise longue.
It’s the first time in several weeks Angela’s hair’s looked tidy and her face shown any colour.
‘You’re looking better,’ I observe as we come out of our front doors together.
‘I feel better, not so sick, you know. And I’ve been thinking, since you told me what your friend said about a home I can go into, that it might not be such a bad idea.’ Angela looks up at a plane flying overhead, and struggles to make herself heard. ‘Anyway, I saw this couple with their little ‘un the other day and it made me think, well …’
‘Think?’
‘That this,’ Angela pats her stomach. ‘Isn’t just a lump of something. Anyway, time’s getting on, so I reckon I’m stuck with it. Telling Mum’s going to be the stinker. Poor old girl, her family hasn’t done her too many favours. Still, she won’t be stuck with the baby. I’ll get it adopted as soon as it’s born. By the way, who’s this friend of yours, do I know her?’
‘Just a family friend.’
‘Thank her for the advice, will you?’
Outside the asylum, the clouds scud across the sky like boats pushed by a strong current, while inside the air is thick and static.
‘Has the girl upstairs told her mother?’ Mum asks, when Dad’s outside leaning against a tree, trying to keep a match flickering while he lights a cigarette.
I study Mum’s hands. Gone are the deep dirt-ingrained crevices. The skin once reddened and chapped is soft and creamy, her nails, rounded and smooth, shiny with shell-pink nail varnish. This is not my occasionally dressed-up pink-frocked film-star mother, this is Mum, pink-frocked inside and out.
‘And how did the lady upstairs – Mrs Adson, is it – take it?’
‘Mrs Addington.’ Mum’s memory’s getting so much better. Given time she’ll come to recognise Dad, too. I know she will.
Outside, he’s managed to light his cigarette and is gazing into the distance. He’s probably thinking of the time when Mum will return to us. Surely it can’t be long. Maybe he’s considering our lives, his and mine, and wondering where Mum fits in.
I continue, ‘Angela said her mother took the news much better than she’d thought she would. The worst thing, Angela said, was that her mother feels she’s in some way to blame. Not only has she let Tony down, she’s failed Angela, too. Anyway, the good thing is Angela’s not going to have an abortion. A friend’s making some enquiries about her going into a home for unmarried mothers, and then having the baby adopted. In the long run it’s probably the best option.’
‘In the long run,’ Mum smiles enigmatically. ‘We always have to look at everything in the long run.’ A brief pause. ‘Now tell me, how’s school?’
Immediately, I’m wary. I hesitate. School’s a subject to be avoided at any cost.
‘It’s fine.’
‘That doesn’t tell me much. Have you decided what you want to do when you leave?’
‘I’m thinking of sitting an exam for a …’ The word lodges in my throat. Mum might not be here now if it weren’t for that word. I take a deep breath and force the word into my mouth. ‘Scholarship … for a secretarial school.’ I glance round for a nurse in case Mum becomes agitated.
‘And when do you go for the scholarship?’ Mum asks, as if the word has never been the source of such anguish.
‘In a couple of weeks’ time at The Elite Secretarial School, although if I get it, I won’t start for a while.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do well.’ No words of advice or opinions, no “don’t forgets” or “you musts”.
I try to carry on the conversation in as casual a way as my trembling voice will allow. ‘I thought I’d try and look fairly clerical. Wear a suit, you know. What do you think?’
‘Wear anything you feel comfortable in.’ Mum pushes the cuticles back from her nails with her thumb.
‘You think so?’
‘I said so, didn’t I?’
This is the mother I’ve always wanted: this serene woman with beautiful hands, who allows me to form opinions of my own and make independent decisions. So why does the chasm inside me seem as wide as ever?
The Chairman of the Council Housing Committee, circled by a handful of officials, stands on a manicured piece of grass where the bombsite had once been. Through a megaphone, he announces that the desert has blossomed like a rose, and love, laughter, good health and happiness are replacing the sorrow and degradation of the bombsite. ‘The past is now buried and forgotten under this glorious edifice, he says, surveying the identical red brick boxes that are intersected by a newly asphalted road curving towards the High Street, surrounded by freshly laid turf and dotted with the occasional spindly tree. ‘Soon the whole neighbourhood will be transformed,’ he continues to restrained applause.
I think about my coloured glass treasure and Tony’s camp, sealed forever under “this glorious edifice”, but Angela claps and shouts, ‘It’s about time something was done about the dump.’
The day I sit the scholarship examination, Herbie Armitage and his family move into a top storey flat on the new Browning Estate. Angela says she doesn’t care if Herbie Armitage lives down a hole, while I lay awake at night worrying that from his flat he’ll be able to look directly down on to our house. I hate this loss of anonymity. I hate being watched from observation posts above us. I don’t know how Mum will react when she returns. Perhaps she’ll simply take it as part of the changes that have transformed us all forever. As for Dad, he appears not to notice, and loads his ladders on and off his motorcycle sidecar, oblivious to the overbearing blocks and their prying sky dwellers.
Bill’s waiting outside when I emerge from the Elite Secretarial School after sitting the scholarship exam.
‘How did it go?’ he asks without explaining why he’s here, or the reason he’s wearing his best suit, laundered white shirt and black and red striped tie.
‘I think it went all right, but what’re you doing here?’
‘I needed to get some material from John Lewis, so I thought I might as well pop round the corner and find out how you got on.’ As if it’s the natural thing to do, Bill takes my arm. ‘What about tea at Lyons Corner House?’
‘I have to get back. Dad’s expecting me.’
‘We’ll leave before the rush hour, I promise. I don’t get too many opportunities for a social outing and I really do want to hear how you got on.’
‘All right.’ Who would turn down an invitation to Lyons Corner House? Nevertheless, I disentangle my arm from Bill’s.
‘Did the meeting with the director of the school go well?’ he asks, as we sit at a table covered with a startling white table cloth and laid with a bone china tea set.
‘I think so. He said they’d had a letter from my head mistress, together with my examination results.’ I spread cream onto a thin square of bread that I’ve already smeared with jam. The cream looks like the mixture Mrs Heathman spooned into little round tins. Eaten here, though, it tastes altogether different to when we’d plastered it onto homemade bread in the Heathman’s kitchen.
‘He said they’ll let me know within a month.’
‘If you want to have a go at typing before then, I’ve picked up a typewriter together with a desk and chair in a furniture sale. They were going for a song. You can try it out when you come to practise the piano if you like.’ Bill bites into a doughnut.
‘Thanks, but maybe I’ll wait until I know whether I’ve got the scholarship.’
‘Look, I know you’re an independent young woman, and I know I’ve said this before, but if you don’t get the scholarship – I’m sure you will – but if you don’t, I’d be pleased to fund your training myself. I’m sure we could arrange it in a way that nobody would have to know.’
Suddenly the cream tastes sour. Who does Bill think I am, to offer me money like this?
‘I don’t want your money or your typewriter, not even the piano. I don’t need them.’ Distractedly, I look for my jacket, before I realise a waitress has taken it from me and hung it up. ‘I want to go.’
Bill rises with me. ‘I’m sorry. I never meant to upset you. I’ve only ever wanted to help.’
I ignore him and thread my way through the tables, and grab my coat from a hanger. Out in the street I negotiate the crowds of workers and tourists.
‘Paula, wait!’ Bill calls after me.
‘Go away.’ I bump into a woman. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I mumble and immediately walk into a knot of people waiting to cross the road.
I continue to flee, pushing my way through the Oxford Street crowds. Why am I running away from Bill, when it’s Bill I’ve always run to? I keep going.
‘You’ll need this,’ Bill puffs, catching up with me at the entrance to Oxford Circus Underground Station. His tie is askew, and perspiration has made his face shiny. He extracts an envelope from his pocket and points it towards me. ‘It’s the details of the place for Angela.’
I dart towards him and snatch it. ‘It’s the last thing I ever want from you. I wouldn’t take it at all if it wasn’t for Angela. And … and …’ My breath comes in shaky sobs. ‘Don’t ever go near my mother again, or … or … I’ll tell my father.’
‘Wait, Paula, please wait.’
‘You’re causing a congestion,’ a man in a bowler hat complains.
I descend the escalator two stairs at a time. I never want to see Bill again.
Chapter Nineteen
‘I’d hug you if I could get close enough.’ Angela lumbers down the steps of the rambling house she is now staying in, and towards me.
‘This place looks really nice and it isn’t too difficult to get to.’
‘Yeah, on the whole, it’s not bad, and the other girls are all right too. One of them went into labour this morning. It makes me think my time can’t be long.’ Angela looks into the distance at a clump of trees. ‘They’ve already got a good home for the baby as soon as it’s two weeks old. When it’s born they’ll take it away from me so as I can’t get attached to it, matron says. Mind you, the old girl isn’t too bad, even though she tells us every five minutes we’re here through our own folly and that we have to face the consequences.’
The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) Page 17