‘Can I? Won’t they mind?’
‘She’s still my baby and until I sign that document and she goes, I’ll let who I like hold her, but for Pete’s sake don’t look at what she’s wearing. Have you ever seen anything so horrible as the purple cardigan and lime green booties they’ve dressed her in?’
‘Actually I’ve bought her a little dress and a matinee jacket and booties, but if that’s the case I’ll take them back home with me.’ I’d had to juggle the housekeeping to buy them. I hope Dad won’t notice when we have sausages twice this coming week.
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Like I said, she’s my baby and until she goes, I’ll do what I want with her. Give those clothes and the baby here.’ I hand Maria back, and Angela begins undressing the sleeping infant. ‘I want to remember her in a gorgeous dress, not looking like something out of the rag bag,’ she asserts.
‘Don’t you look smart?’ Mum smiles on our next visit.
‘I thought I’d wear the outfit Dad bought me for secretarial school so that I could show you. Although I don’t start for a few months, I’m wearing it now because all my other clothes are too small or wearing out.’ I wait, expecting a rebuke or a platitude, such as, patience is a virtue, or, everything comes to those who wait, but all Mum says is, ‘It’s lovely.’
A passing nurse carrying a tray calls, ‘Your mother’s making a marvellous recovery, isn’t she?’
‘Yes … Yes, she really is.’
‘Isn’t your father with you today?’ the nurse enquires.
‘He’s coming.’
Dad now finds it necessary to have a cigarette in the grounds before our time with Mum, in addition to the cigarette he’s obviously gasping for halfway through the visit.
I wait for the nurse to pass, before I snuggle closer to Mum. Things feel so much better here at the asylum than they did when Mum had been with us at home. Here I don’t feel responsible for her, and there’s always someone to help if Mum becomes anxious. I wish she could stay here. I wish she didn’t have to come home. I look down in case Mum can somehow see the disloyalty in my eyes.
‘I‘ve got something to tell you, although it’s both happy and sad.’
‘Come on, girl, get on with it.’
I say sorry, then stop. Now Mum’s getting better, I’ve already begun to apologise again. I hadn’t realised how good it had been not to constantly be saying I was sorry. Often I didn’t know what I had to be sorry for.
‘Angela’s had the baby: a little girl. She’s named her Maria, but I expect her new parents will call her something different. She’s lovely with lots of black hair.’
‘Like the boy upstairs when he was a baby.’
‘Really! It must make Mrs Addington terribly sad when she sees Maria. And I can’t imagine how Angela’s going to give the baby up.’
The nurse returns. ‘It can’t be too long before your mother’s on her way home to you for good.’ She tweaks the collar on Mum’s blouse, ‘The treatment’s worked wonders on her.’ She turns to Mum. ‘A new woman, aren’t we?’
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ Mum replies looking at me, and ignoring the nurse.
‘That’s the spirit.’ The nurse pats Mum on the shoulder and leaves.
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ Mum repeats.
‘Is that’s what’s got you through, Mum?’
‘Not me; that girl and her baby: If she’s set on keeping it, she’ll find a way. But the smile that had begun, drains from Mum’s face as Dad enters the room.
‘You all right?’ he asks stiffly.
‘Very well, thank you,’ Mum replies, as if she’s looking far beyond the opposite wall.
Angela is sitting in a rocking chair facing the window cradling Maria when I next visit.
‘I thought I’d come and see how you both are.’ How can I tell Angela I want to see the baby one more time before she’s taken away?
‘We’re all right, aren’t we, Maria?’ Angela answers. ‘Although the matron’s been in and said I’m making things worse for myself and that tomorrow they’re going to take Maria to the nursery and look after her there until her new parents collect her. That’s why they won’t let me breast feed her.’ Angela runs her finger down the baby’s cheek. ‘Her skin’s like rose petals.’ Angela’s tears fall unchecked on the baby.
‘I know this’ll sound daft, but what I’d really love is for Tony to see her. Mum says she looks just like he did when he was a baby. I wish I could write to him and tell him to come home because we need him.’ Maria stirs and Angela makes a shushing sound.
‘Sometimes I see him, you know, in my mind’s eye, real nice looking he is.’ Angela gathers the baby closer. ‘That’s what having a baby does. Sends you crackers.’ She stops abruptly. ‘Sorry, Paul, I didn’t mean anything about your Mum.’
‘Don’t be silly. Anyway, I’ve tried to do the same myself. When we went to see Tony in the orphanage that time, he and I agreed to try and contact each other, sort of telepathically, I suppose, every afternoon at four. I used to do it every day, but I haven’t done it for ages.’
‘Did it work?’
‘Not really. It was a kid’s thing, but … well … I might try again.’
‘I know this sounds selfish,’ Angela continues, ‘But he’d be getting on for sixteen now, so if he came back, he could get a job. You know, give us the support we need. If he’d been here I might have been able to keep Maria and … ’ A sob finishes Angela’s sentence.
It’s four in the afternoon and I stretch out on my bed. I ignore my own reflection in the mirror and study the floral wallpaper. The petals of the tiny flowers guarded on either side by an army of leaves are disjointed where Dad wasn’t able to match the pattern when he hung the wallpaper. I recall him hurling the papering brush across the room, cursing the walls for being out of plumb, the inferior quality of the wallpaper and blaming Mum for simply being there.
Outside there is a general buzz of busyness as people come and go from their cigar boxes. I resettle myself against the pillows and attempt to make my mind blank. Once again, I focus on the flowers and then beyond. All at once I’m looking at an empty beach, beyond which are sheep-grazed pastures. “Where are you Tony? I need you to answer me. There isn’t much time, at least not for Angela.” But the image has dissolved like one of Mum’s pills in water.
Bill is in the back of the shop when I arrive. He’s taken to wearing glasses and they rest halfway down his nose as he concentrates on the cloth he’s machining. Having picked my way through the general assortment of chairs and sofas, I have to touch him on the shoulder before he’s aware of me.
‘Good grief, you startled me.’ Bill removes his spectacles. ‘This is a surprise.’ He smiles, and without intending to, I smile back. He’s so disarming. That’s always been the trouble with Bill.
‘I’m sorry to bother you when you’re busy,’ I stammer. I’m aware of our last meeting, and the promise I made to myself not to see him again.
‘I am busy, but you’re never a bother. Come upstairs and have a cup of tea. I’ve missed our chats.’ Bill ushers me through the shop as if there has never been any acrimony between us.
‘What about the scholarship?’ he asks casually.
‘I got it,’ I reply with the same nonchalance.
‘I’m glad.’
‘I came to tell you that Angela’s had the baby.’ I sit in my spring flowers and sunshine armchair, while the winter sun dapples the room.
‘I’ve been thinking it must be about time. A boy or a girl?’
‘A girl, Maria.’
‘And Angela – she’s well?’
‘She’s well, but very sad at having to have Maria adopted.’ I pause. I’ve practised what I’m going to say into the mirror in my bedroom, but now I’m here, I know that what I’ve planned will sound altogether too rehearsed.
‘Thank you for the money. It’s made all the difference to Angela and Mrs Addington. I wouldn’t … I wouldn’t hav
e kept it if they hadn’t needed it. And I’ll repay every penny when I start work. I … I … meant to write and thank you. That’s not quite true. I … I …’
‘You don’t have to say anything. If you feel you must repay me, then you can, once you get a job. I’m in no hurry. Business is booming.’
‘That’s partly why I came. You’re busy and …’ I take another mouthful of tea. It burns my throat. ‘Angela wants to keep Maria. I think she’d make a good mother, but as things are, it would be practically impossible.’
‘How do you think I can help?’ Bill pushes his hair from his forehead.
‘What I thought was, seeing as you’ve got so much work, perhaps you could give Angela a job. She could run the shop while you’re out. You were so busy when I arrived, you didn’t even hear me, and I could have been a customer. ‘Perhaps you could teach her how to do upholstery and …’ I take another breath. ‘And she could bring the baby with her, at least sometimes. That way, Mrs Addington could get a little peace and quiet during the day and time to get on with her sewing.
‘Now, look …’
But I’ve already embarked on my next sentence. ‘If that didn’t work out, perhaps Angela could work in the evenings. You sometimes work in the evenings, don’t you? And maybe you could advance Angela some wages until she’s ready to start work. Then you could deduct it from what she earned … That way … ’
‘You certainly seem to have it worked out,’ Bill interrupts and I flush. I’m using Bill and his generosity and we both know it.
‘First things, first. Is this plan Angela’s as well as yours?’
‘Mine,’ I mumble.
‘And what about Mrs Addington? Has she said how she feels about Angela keeping Maria?’
I shake my head. It had seemed so simple when I’d incubated the whole thing lying on my bed staring at the wallpaper.
Bill crosses his legs in his usual easy fashion, as if I’ve just asked him for another cup of tea, and certainly not to be the salvation of a young mother and her baby.
‘I suggest you speak to Mrs Addington. After that a talk with Angela would seem to be the next thing to do. She might not want to work in an upholstery shop. It’s not everyone’s choice of a job. And then there’s the prejudice they would face. Would Angela and Mrs Addington be prepared for that? People can be cruel and narrow-minded, as you know, Paula. And when Maria grows up she won’t be exempt from the stigma of being illegitimate.’
‘Forget I asked.’ I rise from my chair and prepare to leave. The sooner I can get away, the better. ‘I’m sorry I got a bit carried away.’
‘You’ve thought the situation out well. Yes, I do need an assistant and, yes, Angela, would be ideal. How I’d be able to concentrate with a baby around would remain to be seen, but I suppose I could manage. Actually, it might be quite nice. Of course, we’d need to think about what would happen when Maria grows a little. But time enough for that.’ He takes my hand. ‘You see, I haven’t used the word “no” at all. On reflection it might be the perfect solution. But a few questions need to be asked first, and I guess there isn’t that much time. I’ll leave it with you. And there might be some other roads we could take a saunter down a little later. One thing at a time.’
‘Thanks and I’m sorry … about last time.’
‘What last time?’ Bill asks and rapidly continues, ‘Tell me, how’s your mother?’
‘It can’t be long before she’s back for good. She’s already been home for a weekend.’
All at once, Bill looks downcast. When Mum is back at home, he won’t be able to see her.
‘At first I really did think the answer was to have the baby adopted. After all, what have we to offer her?’ Mrs Addington accepts the cup of tea I’ve just made her during my visit that evening. ‘And I never thought our Angela was ready for motherhood. But since the birth of the baby, I’ve changed my mind.’ She sets her cup down beside her on the hearth. ‘To be honest, I’ve spent most of the last few days trying to figure out the best way of going about things. Before you came this evening, I’d more or less made the decision to go out to work again, although the last time I got myself a job, it turned out to add to our problems, rather than answer them.’ She frowns, causing lines to intersect her forehead like furrows in Devonshire pastures. ‘And now you say this family friend will give Angela a job, let her work either in the day or in the evenings and sometimes allow her to take the baby. Into the bargain he’ll train her and give her an advance on her wages. It’s an answer to all my prayers and believe me, I’ve prayed a few lately.’
‘So you think Angela would be pleased with the arrangement?’ I ask.
‘Anything that would help her keep the baby would delight her, I’m sure.’
‘I know it sounds too good to be true, but this friend is really reliable,’ I assure her.
‘My belief is that there are times when we have to exercise some trust,’ Mrs Addington replies.
I hesitate. ‘This … friend isn’t a friend of our family any longer.’ Not used to duplicity, I bite my lip. ‘They fell out when Mum became sick, so it’d be better if Mum and Dad don’t know. I divert my eyes to my shoes, and Mrs Addington says, ‘Right you are.’
‘My … friend said to tell you it still doesn’t answer the problem of the prejudice and gossip you’ll face.’
Mrs Addington’s smile is a faint one. ‘I’m no stranger to gossip. I’ve put up with it ever since Ted … Mr Addington left, and before that. And Angela - well you know Angela. She’ll give as good as she gets. As for Maria, she’ll be brought up knowing we love her and that’s the main thing. What other people think and say is their business.’
Suddenly, the door is flung open revealing Miss Selska, shiny with face cream, her head an armoury of curlers. ‘I am ashamed I vas vhat you say, eavesdrooping, it is? But vhat vonderful news! Vonderful news! The baby vill stay. Every night I pray the baby von’t have to go. I know Angela has been a vicked girl, but I don’t say anything. It vasn’t my place, see. But babies need their mothers, I von’t hear no different. I vill go if you vant, but not the baby.’ Miss Selska pulls a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dressing gown and begins dabbing at her eyes with a blue-veined hand. ‘Ve vill see the baby doesn’t get sick or ve lose her like ve did my Villem and your Tony. Together ve vill protect her, Mrs Addington. No-one vill take another of our childrens. You did not know about my Villem, eh? I tell no-one. He is my secret. The Gestapo take him and I never see him again.’ Tears glide over the face cream.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mrs Addington leads the distraught woman to a chair, instructing me to pour her a cup of tea.
‘You are a good voman, Mrs Addington.’
‘We all need support, Miss Selska.’ Mrs Addington looks across at me. ‘It looks as if that’s what we’re going to get from Paula’s friend, um …’
‘Bill.’
‘It looks as if that’s exactly what we’re going to get from Bill, and you’re right,’ she smiles at Miss Selska. ‘We don’t want to lose any more children from this family.
I concentrate on pouring the tea. Why is it that I always need Bill?
Chapter Twenty-One
The landlord admires Dad’s paperhanging. He seems not to notice the unevenness of the pattern in the corners where Dad’s been unable to order the flowers into the prescribed lines, no matter what tantrums he performs. He tells us what good tenants we’ve been. After all, what other of his tenants have built a glass lean-to, installed a bathroom and modernised the kitchen all at their own expense? He commiserates with us over the waste of such a good piece of wallpaper, and sympathises with the loss of our home due to demolition. ‘But,’ he says, patting his back pocket from which peeks a bulging wallet, ‘a Compulsory Purchase Order is a Compulsory Purchase Order, and everybody who lives in Blountmere Street is, so to speak, a banana in the same bowl of custard.’ He laughs so vociferously, it brings on a hacking cough. ‘To look on the bright side,’ he continues when he has recovere
d, ‘the Council is obligated to relocate us, and I’ve heard the flats on the new estate opposite are very nice inside.’
Bill tucks the pram cover tighter around Maria. ‘I know it’s not that cold, but it can still blow a gale across The Common especially at this time of year. You can’t take any chances. She’s only five months old, after all.’
‘Heaven help us, Bill, stop smothering her. She’s tough as a year-old steak. And I do believe the minx plays up to you.’
We watch as Bill crosses the road on his way to The Common, pushing the pram. Turning to me, Angela continues, ‘Bill would take her for a walk half a dozen times a day if I let him, especially now he’s got me to help him in the shop. As it is, I have difficulty keeping it to every morning and some afternoons.’ Angela’s hair, now back to its natural sandy brown, is cropped short. Her trim figure is accentuated by a blue sailcloth skirt and blouse. She looks like someone in an advertisement promoting health and vitality
‘So everything’s working out all right?’ I ask, although it’s obvious that everything is more than satisfactory.
‘Thanks to Bill, it couldn’t be better. He’s a truly good man, and there aren’t too many of them about. I can’t understand how your parents came to fall out with him.’
‘You know what Mum and Dad are like. They’re not always easy to get along with.’ I fiddle with my handkerchief.
‘Well, he’s certainly been our saviour, letting us have the flat upstairs as well as the job.’
My smile is as fickle as the showery sunshine outside. Trust Bill to parcel everything up so neatly: not just a job for Angela with flexible hours where she can take Maria, and a salary advance, but a home as well. So that was what he had meant by “other paths they might saunter down a little later”. It hadn’t been so much a saunter as a headlong gallop.
‘What other employer would throw in accommodation? And all signed on the dotted line, so that the flat isn’t connected to my job here. Honestly, Paul, sometimes I can hardly believe it’s happening to us.’
The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) Page 19