We climb the stairs to the Addingtons’ new kitchen.
‘I know I wanted to live in those flats on the new estate, but they’d never have been as convenient or as good as this,’ Angela says. ‘Look at these. Have you ever seen windows so big? The ones in the front room look out on to The Common. I thought only the toffs lived in places like this. To top it all, Bill’s had the whole place redecorated. It’s like a dream … ’
‘All right, I get the picture.’ I lean moodily against the wall. ‘You’re carrying on about Bill as if he’s a combination of Sir Galahad and the Arc Angel Gabriel. You and your mother aren’t the only ones benefitting from the arrangement. Bill’s getting plenty from it himself. A ready-made family for a start.’
‘All right, all right! Keep your hair on! Anyone would think you were jealous.’
‘Jealous! Why would I possibly be jealous?’ Mum had always said the Dibbles don’t know the meaning of the word.
‘This is dopey. We’re falling out over nothing. Why don’t you pop into the front room and say hello to Mum and see the chair Bill’s done for her. He’s got hold of a lovely cot for Maria as well. She’s settled down in it really well., with Mum looking after her on the nights when I go out and do some measuring for the business. And that’s another thing: Bill’s teaching me all sorts of upholstery stuff I never thought I would like, but I love the work, all except the machining, that is. I’m not too hot at that, but Bill’s got Mum doing some of it, and that’s right up her alley.’
‘Yes … well … that’s good.’ My face stiffens. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ll visit your Mum some other time. I’ve got to go.’
‘Come to tea on Tuesday,’ Angela calls to me as I’m nearing the bottom of the stairs. I don’t answer.
I hasten across The Common, careening round trees, stumbling over uneven ground.
‘Hey, are you all right? You look as if the devil’s after you,’ Bill says.
I hadn’t seen him walking towards me, pushing the pram.
‘I’m fine. Leave me alone.’
‘Is anything the matter?’
‘What would you care?’
‘For pity’s sake, what is this?’
‘Oh yes, good old Fix-Everything-Up, Bill. You have to help everyone, don’t you?’ The words cascade from me. ‘You can’t just help a little. Oh no, you have to do it all. Not only do you give Angela a job and an advance on her salary, but a flat as well? What’re you going to do next, save the world?’
‘I thought you’d be pleased. If you remember, it was you who first asked me to help the Addingtons.’
‘Not …’
‘You can still see your friends. Nothing’s changed, so what is it you want? I never thought a daughter of Lily’s would be so spoilt, carrying on like …’
‘Don’t you dare …’
Maria wakes up and emits a scream. Bill swivels and pats her. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ he soothes.
When he’s straightened, I’m already beyond the trees.
‘Run away then. That’s all you and your mother have ever been able to do, run away,’ he yells after me.
I’m still running when I reach the slope through the Cigar Box Kingdom. When it had been the bombsite it had been at this point I’d always experienced a feeling of coming home, of reaching a safe place, of permanency. Now Blountmere Street is a derelict shell with most of its houses deserted for high rise blocks and dislocation. Windows are broken and others whitewashed or boarded over. Unwanted furniture is strewn in gardens and on the pavement, where weeds are taking possession. The front door to the Addingtons’ flat is boarded over, and a rusty oven rests against Miss Lorimore’s door. In the midst of the desolation in our front garden, a beacon of colour shines out its defiant message. Daffodils and crocusses shine, despite the destruction all around, while tulips and wallflowers are waiting their turn to rebel. Our lace curtains are still starched white and the letterbox polished. Dad has thumbed his nose at our surroundings, and my spirits lift.
The specialist advises that Mum will be better off in the asylum for a little longer, in order for her to finish her treatment and so that she doesn’t return, only to have to move a week or two later. Her moods can at times still be a little erratic and unnecessary change should be avoided. Stay in the neighbourhood, he urges, even if it means being on the top storey of a high rise block and sacrificing a council house out of London somewhere. At least the locality will be familiar to her.
Dad begins lugging cardboard boxes into the kitchen. ‘We might as well make a start on packing. We don’t want to leave it all to the last minute. It can’t be long before that Council lot write and tell us what flat they’re penning us up in.’
‘It’ll be a nightmare trying to get all of this to the top floor of those flats, if that’s where they decide to put us.’ I survey the kitchen with its heavy walnut table and sideboard. ‘And what will you do with your ladders, and your window cleaning gear? And then there’s your motorbike.’
‘I’ll have to find myself somewhere to keep them. A garage or lock-up. I’ve started looking around. Something’ll turn up.’
‘Why don’t we apply for a Council house somewhere out of London? I know what the doctor said, but I think Mum would be just as happy there as in the flats opposite. And surely you’d be able to find work as a window cleaner somewhere else.’ What would Dad do in a block of flats without a garden and a shed to potter in? How would he fill his weekends and summer evenings?
‘What about you and that secretarial college? No, it’s best we stay round here.’
‘I could travel on the train, a lot of the girls do.’
‘It’d cost a packet. No, we should stay here. We’ve got to do what the specialist says is the best for your mother.’
Since when had Dad considered what was right for Mum? I fume; then relent. If moving to one of the flats opposite will mean a fresh start for Mum and Dad, I’ll move there.
Mum’s journey back to sanity continues. If her eyes are sometimes feverishly bright and at others sly and secretive, it’s fleeting. Although she still doesn’t acknowledge Dad, I’m certain things will change once we’re all together again. I’ve managed to push Mum’s visit to the back of my mind, and inside I feel light at the prospect of Mum’s return for good. I’ve begun to sing at the sink while I’m peeling the potatoes and skip down the passage to pick up the letters from the doormat.
Fat blossoms frame the bench on which Mum and I relax, while thrushes sing a spring song above our heads.
‘There’s grass and trees around the flats we’ll be moving into,’ I venture.
‘That’s nice,’ Mum responds, followed by, ‘Where did you say those people upstairs have moved to?’
I hoped Mum wouldn’t ask. I try to keep my voice steady. ‘Up the road a mile or two … they’ve got a flat there.’
‘Where exactly is “up the road”? That doesn’t tell me anything.’
‘Oh … one of those roads off … off The Common. I can’t remember the name.’
Without warning, fire enters Mum’s eyes. ‘Call yourself a secretary and you can’t remember the name of a street that’s practically on your doorstep. What’s that secretarial school teaching you? If you ask me, it’s doing nothing but fill the heads of a lot of two-a-penny typists with rubbish.’
‘That’s not true.’ Mum hasn’t spoken in a derogatory fashion about the college before. It reminds me of how she’d reacted about Riversham College and a bubble of fear bursts inside me. As quickly as it came, however, Mum’s feistiness leaves. ‘How did these people manage to get hold of this flat, then?’ she asks reasonably.
‘It … it belongs to a friend of theirs.’ I bend a blossom branch towards me and bury my face in it.
After a while, I say, ‘It won’t be long before you’re back with us again. You need to finish your treatment and the doctor says it’s best Dad and I move into the flat first. That’s why Dad hasn’t come today. He’s busy packing his too
ls. Goodness knows what he’ll do with them all.’
‘There’s time enough.’ Mum sweeps her hand outwards and away from her, as if she’s wafting the thought of returning home onto the scented air to be borne away and forgotten. ‘Did I tell you, I sometimes help the gardener with a bit of weeding and suchlike? He’s grateful for a hand.’
‘That’s marvellous, Mum.’ I wonder what she’ll do in a high rise block of flats. A window box won’t be the same.
The underground train lurches to a stop and a throng of humanity shoves its way through the doors and spills out on to the platform, where it jostles with the multitude who are struggling to board.
Nevertheless, I never cease to experience the excitement of being part of a busy metropolis, its pulsating rhythm, and its continuity, even if I’m crammed into a carriage where I’m unable to move my nose from someone’s ear, or I’m lodged under a stranger’s armpit. Rather than feeling lost in the bustling masses, I feel part of them. How could Damielle and Devon have once seemed attractive?
In the fray, I’m shunted into a corner. My head is pressed against a man’s chest.
‘Now I know how it would feel to be herded into a cattle truck.’ The voice is young and familiar. ‘You’re at a secretarial school somewhere up West, aren’t you? Won a scholarship, I heard.’
I maneuver my head until I’m eyeballing a chin. ‘Yes, but …’
‘It’s Herbie.’
I’m relieved I’m not able to look directly at him.
‘I sometimes think we all become robots when we enter an underground station and only get our humanity back when we’re outside again, except when something snaps us out of it, like now, of course.’ The smell of his jacket bears the same smell as his jersey when he had taken me to the pictures.
‘I thought I’d seen you once or twice at the Tube station.’ We both know we see each other every morning and concentrate on avoiding the other.
‘I work in the City. I’m training to become an insurance broker.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘I suppose so. Mum and Dad are pleased about it, at any rate. As for me and what I’d really like to do, I’ll tell you one day.’
It sounds as if Herbie intends to continue talking to me.
‘It can’t be long before you move.’
Whether screened behind a newspaper or a book, or staring fixedly ahead, everyone in the carriage seems locked into a world that reels and spins for them alone. Herbie’s voice probably breaks into their reveries. ‘Will you be shifting onto the estate?’
‘I expect so. We’re waiting to hear what flat they’ve allocated us.’
‘I seem to remember you weren’t too keen on living there.’
‘I’m not, but we don’t have any choice.’
‘It isn’t so bad.’
I wonder if living on the top storey of a high rise block has met Herbie’s expectations.
‘And tell me, where’s Tony’s family gone to? I thought I saw his sister walking across The Common a few weeks ago, but she was pushing a pram.’
‘They’ve moved to a flat on The Common South Side. It’s very nice,’ I add, while I consider what I’ll say about the baby. I wonder why I should find it difficult. After all, Maria isn’t my child. ‘She’s … got a … baby now … Tony’s sister … Maria. I mean that’s the baby’s name, not Tony’s sister’s.’
‘I know.’
‘She’s almost six months old – the baby.’
‘Right.’
The human silence engulfs us as the train clunks through the darkness.
‘What does her … her husband do?’
‘She’s … not - um - married.’
‘Right.’
The train screeches to a station and empties a little. We move along the aisle and grasp a strap each. I make an involuntarily grab for Herbie’s arm with my spare hand as the train jerks into motion.
‘It’s seems ironic the Addingtons should end up living across The Common, when the last time I spoke to Angela she’d been set on one of the flats opposite.’
The irony is compounded when I long to live in a place like the Addingtons’ flat, where I can wake and see the sky stretched like a banner over a green and gold landscape. ‘I suppose it is,’ I reply.
The photograph of Tony at Fred and Lori’s wedding rests in the centre of the Addingtons’ sideboard. It is turned as if he’s smiling out on to The Common.
‘It’s exactly the right place for the photo,’ Mrs Addington says when she sees me studying it. ‘Tony always loved The Common.
‘Almost as much as his precious bombsite,’ Angela adds.
‘I know Tony would have loved it here. This flat’s everything we could ever have wanted or dreamed of, and Bill’s a gem.’ Mrs Addington smiles. ‘Look at the place. It’s a palace. My only concern is that we won’t receive his letter if Tony tries to get in touch with us, although I’ve informed the Post Office of our move. Not that we receive any letters other than bills and regular airmails from Fred and Lori, and they already have our new address, but, you never know, one day Tony might … ’ Mrs Addingtons’ face clouds.
Angela looks exasperated. ‘I keep telling you, Mum, if Tony hasn’t written in all these years, he’s not likely to write now. It sounds heartless, but we all have to accept that’s the way it is.’
Mrs Addingtons’ reply is the same as it always is: ‘Say what you like, Angela, but I’ll keep praying because prayer can move mountains.’
Angela makes a facial gesture that says if it keeps you happy, then you might as well carry on doing it.
‘And how’re you keeping, Paul?’ she continues, diverting the conversation away from Tony. ‘You weren’t yourself the last time you came. I wasn’t sure you’d heard me invite you to tea. You left like a hurricane.’
I’d debated pretending I hadn’t heard the invitation. It is only my desire to see Maria and my loneliness that has driven me back.
‘Preoccupied with moving, that’s all,’ I lie.
‘It’ll work out. Mum’ll pray for you.’ Angela pats her mother’s knees. Still laughing, she focuses her attention on Maria, who is kicking and gurgling on a blanket on the floor. ‘You love that carpet your Uncle Bill’s just had laid, don’t you? Well, young lady, are you going to let your Aunty Paula feed you while I go and fetch your Uncle Bill?’
I’d hoped Bill would be out on a measuring job or ensconced in his flat.
‘From time to time, Bill pops up and eats with us, especially when Old Selska goes to her lace making classes or wherever it is she goes. By the by, can you smell her perishing camphorated oil? I thought we were rid of it. I told her to throw it away when we left Blountmere Street, but, no, she ups and brings it with her. It’ll probably knock the demolition blokes off their feet when they come to pull the old place down. Mind you, we might not have to put up with the reek of it for too long if she goes back to Germany, as she says she might. Something about laying some ghosts.’
Angela hands me Maria’s bottle. ‘Getting back to Bill, it’s daft him sitting down there in that flat of his with a bit of bread and cheese, when we’ve got toad in the hole or some such up here. He’s been very quiet the last few days – a bit off colour - so I said he’s got to come tonight, but I know he won’t turn up unless I go and fetch him.”
When Bill arrives, he perches on the edge of the chair, pulling creases into his trousers. It’s the first time I’ve seen him ill at ease. He neither looks at, nor speaks to me. I feel as uncomfortable as he obviously is.
‘If you ask me, you’re still not looking yourself.’ Angela pushes a cup of tea in front of Bill, oblivious to the strong brown liquid she’s slopped into the saucer. ‘I know I sound like Old Selska, but you need a tonic.’
‘I’m fine.’ Bill stretches across and runs his finger down Maria’s cheek. ‘I’ve only to see this little bundle of joy and I feel better.’
Since meeting him on the train, it seems futile to continue to avoid Her
bie. And, as Mum and Bill did years before, we’ve taken to meeting every morning at the underground station, although not as early as Mum and Bill.
Our disastrous time at the pictures is never mentioned, but I hadn’t realised how good Herbie is at making anything sound funny when he wants to, and what an excellent mimic he is. Perhaps I’d been too intense to notice. I remember Mum, at least I think it was Mum, saying laughter’s a medicine. I always feel better after laughing with Herbie, even if laughing is an outrageous thing to do in a rush hour Tube train.
If it was mum who said laughter was a medicine, she should have taken more of it herself, gallons more. She should have swigged it down in great choking mouthfuls. Her recent attacks on me, when she called me “a failure”, “a jumped up nobody” and “a worthless typist”, have wounded me like a sabre slash.
On our next visit, Mum is more humourless than ever, and her gaze is restless and flickering. She doesn’t smile at me when I arrive. She doesn’t smile at Dad either after his now customary pre-visit cigarette, although there’s nothing unusual about that. She rubs the band of her cardigan between her fingers. The action reminds me of when she used to rub fat into flour when she made pastry.
‘How are you, Mum?’
‘Why do you always have to ask the same thing?’
I make another attempt. ‘I thought you might be in the garden today. The weather’s beautiful.’
Mum ignores me, and continues fingering the ribbing of her cardigan.
I look at Dad and silently plead for help. ‘The garden looks lovely, doesn’t it, Dad?’
But Dad doesn’t answer, and Mum goes on rubbing. Her eye movement is becoming more rapid. I begin to fidget. Along the corridor somewhere, I hear the rattle of teacups. Perhaps we should call for help. Dad walks across to the window and stares at the garden outside. I try stroking Mum’s arm and Mum lets go of her cardigan to flick her arm free of my touch. The sabre slash inside me reopens and stings.
Dad begins making a tuneless noise through his teeth and I stare at the floor and recall Herbie impersonating The Goons – “Neddy Seagoon, here”. I smile at the lino. When Herbie impersonated Eccles, I’d laughed so loud someone in the carriage had shushed me quiet. I didn’t care. It was wonderful to laugh. I’d almost forgotten how.
The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) Page 20