by Annie Murray
Aggie looked up at her in the gloom, feeling as if something was pressing very hard on her chest.
‘Why don’t you go in and be with him, with your mother? We won’t wake the little ’uns, but as you’re up . . . Come on, bab, you’re old enough . . .’ She took Aggie’s hand in her gnarled one and led her towards the room. ‘I’m going down to get the fire going,’ she said. ‘We’ll need a cuppa, sure enough.’
Aggie peered inside, finding that she was shaking, and not from cold. The night was quite warm. There was a candle burning on a saucer on the chest of drawers, and her mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Dad’s hand. Her other hand was clasped to her eyes and Aggie could see that her shoulders were shaking, but she made no sound. Afraid that Mom would snap at her, she moved closer.
But as Mom turned and saw her, she looked calm, almost as if she had been expecting Aggie, and she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.
‘I woke up and he was different,’ she whispered, seeming glad that someone else was there. ‘His breathing was different and I just knew summat’d changed . . . Come here and sit with him.’ She held her hand out and Aggie sat on the edge of the bed close to her father’s head.
She could hear nothing from the bed at first and wondered if Dad was breathing at all. Then a tiny puff of breath escaped through his dry lips. He seemed so quiet and far away. It was as if he was still him, but only just. He was so thin and light, she had a fancy that he might just leave the bed and float, lying flat as he was, wrapped in a blanket, out of the window, past the curve of the moon and up to heaven.
Her eyes met her mother’s for a moment.
‘He’s leaving us,’ Mom said. More tears spilled from her eyes. ‘Dear God – I don’t want him suffering any more, but I don’t want him to go.’ She put both her hands over her face.
Aggie began to cry too, a feeling inside her like something tearing open. But they both wept very quietly, as if what was taking place on the bed beside them needed to be done in peace. Dad was there and not there. He had withdrawn from them already. Aggie sensed that he would never speak again, he was too far gone. Dad! she wanted to say. Tell me about . . . Tell me about anything, just speak to me, don’t go! Sobs shook her.
A few moments later, each of them realized that there was someone else in the room. May had crept down and was standing at the door, two fingers in her mouth, looking at them with a glazed, half-asleep look.
‘Oh, babby,’ Jen said. ‘Come here . . .’
May came over to her and Aggie saw her mom pick the little girl up and cuddle her against her bulky tummy. May snuggled up to her mother and, still sucking on two of her fingers, began to fall asleep again.
They sat on, and sometime later they heard Freda’s slow, heavy tread on the stairs and the faint clink of cups.
‘Give us a hand, Aggie,’ she called softly, as she reached the top. ‘And go and get that chair from my room.’
Aggie helped her grandmother rest the tray with the pot in its cosy on the chest of drawers, then went and brought in the chair. Freda had brought up a new candle which she lit from the stub of the old one and stuck it into the wax on the saucer. Then she poured the strong brew into the cups, stirred in sugar and they all sat sipping quietly, their eyes fixed on Tommy – their father, husband, son-in-law – as he breathed out his last hours.
When she had finished her tea, Aggie began to feel sleepy. She lay down on the other side of the bed, quite close to her father, her foot just touching up against his stick-like leg. Jen settled May down too, between them. Aggie put her arm round her little sister and felt Nanna lay something over the pair of them before she slid into sleep again.
She was woken by her mother’s heart-rending sobs.
‘Oh, Tommy! My Tommy!’ Jen was curled forward, her head resting on her husband’s emaciated chest. ‘Oh, he’s gone, oh, Tommy don’t go – come back to me!’
Aggie scrambled to sit up as did May, looking bewildered at the sudden outburst. It was still not light, everything uncertain in the shadows. They each found their grandmother’s hands resting on them from behind and she bent close to them.
‘It’s all right, babbies.’ Her voice was trembling. ‘Your father’s gone to his rest – he’s not with us any more.’
May twisted round to look up at her, not understanding. Aggie also could not take it in yet, but the fact that Nanna was in tears shook her to the core. She could hear her mother’s grief, see her father lying there, just as he had been before, breathing almost silently into the night. She sat very still, trying to let her nanna’s words sink in.
After a few moments she moved up the bed to look more closely. Her father’s face was very still, even though the shifting candlelight gave it a look of life.
‘Your dad’s passed on,’ her mother told her tearfully. As she said it, she seemed to be trying to understand it for herself.
Aggie reached out and felt his hand. It didn’t feel much different from before, but leaning to look closely at his face, she knew then. It was her father as she remembered him, wasted by his cruel illness, but now, though his body was here, there was nothing of him, no life. He had gone.
‘Dad!’ She burst into tears and hearing her May started to cry as well. Soon, Ann and Silas appeared and finally John. As dawn broke over the rooftops, the family all said their goodbyes to their beloved Tommy, all round his bed where he had suffered for so long, but was free from suffering now.
Aggie would always remember that Saturday, not only as the one when her father died, but as one also, when he was still with them. Mom was distraught but gentle. There was an atmosphere of love and tenderness, of everyone in it together and trying to be helpful. Even John was a model son and brother.
Once the sun had risen that morning, after their father had breathed his last, Mom sent Aggie to fetch Dr Hill. Mrs Sissons came in full of help and reassurance to lay Tommy out. The girls boiled pans for washing his body and the kettle to make cups of tea. Just for once when Aggie asked anyone to do something they did it. No one played out. They all wanted to be in together. News spread and neighbours came round to pay their respects. Some of them sat in with them for a bit, talked to Nanna and asked Jen if they could be of any help. Aggie let people in at the front. It was nice to have something to do, and everyone tried to find comforting things to say. Irene Best came and Dulcie, with Babs.
‘Ooh, there you are, bab,’ Dulcie said kindly to Aggie as she opened the door. Wiping tears away she squeezed Aggie’s shoulder. ‘Poor babbies,’ she said. ‘Let me go and see your mother.’
Babs didn’t know what to say to Aggie but she stuck around with the rest and it was a comfort to have her there. Everyone made a fuss of May because it was easier to cuddle a small child than to know what to say to the others. Aggie noticed that Mrs Southgate did not call on them and she guessed this was because her face was covered in cuts and bruises.
They knew Tommy had been very sick and was dead. What was harder to take in was that soon, they would never see him again. And today everything was so busy there was no time to start taking it in.
Forty-Six
The funeral carriage, with its pair of noble black horses, made its stately way along Lilac Street and came to a stop outside number nine.
Rose stood on her doorstep, the curtains of the house drawn closed as they were along the street out of respect for the occasion. Tommy had been a popular man in the district and everyone felt for his family. Rose didn’t want to go any further out and attract attention to herself, but she wanted to pay her respects like anyone else. She had put her hat on, the brim pulled down low to hide the yellowing rainbow bruise that was working its way across her face.
The horses were shaking their heads, their black plumes swishing away the flies. One of them lifted its tail and left its steaming message on the cobbles and she heard a small boy laughing at the sight on the other side of the street. Many of the neighbours were outside, some other women with their hats
on, all talking in low, respectful voices.
The family must have poured in every last penny for this, Rose thought, though it was quite a humble funeral as these things went: only one carriage. She watched as the undertakers carried out Tommy’s coffin, laying it reverentially in the carriage, and the family emerged, dark heads and ginger heads, all dressed in the best clothes they could muster, with black armbands. They would walk behind, to the church. She saw Aggie emerge from the house, still in her old brown skirt but now, at the top, was a black blouse.
Aggie was holding May’s hand and she looked along at Rose for a moment. The child’s unwavering, blue gaze seemed to pierce through Rose, before she turned away. Rose felt unsettled by it, as if she had let the girl down in some way. She told herself it was her own sense of guilt needling her. Hadn’t she always been kind to Aggie and invited her into her house? And at least Aggie had some decent shoes to wear, Rose thought, seeing the brown lace-ups, well polished again today.
Yesterday, partly out of sorrow for the Green family and partly to distract herself from her own agony, she had gone and bought a bag of sweets, walking along to the Stratford Road to find a shop where they didn’t know her. Her face was still in such a state, she wasn’t shopping at Dorrie Davis’s.
She went along to number nine late in the day, when the other visitors had left, and it was Freda Adams who opened the door. She looked tired, a little more stooped, and no wonder, Rose thought. Working in a factory at her age! But she admired the woman and was moved by her.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Freda said. Her tone was not rude, just weary.
‘I just came to say I’m so sorry to hear about Mr Green.’ Rose looked Freda Adams full in the eye. Though she was ashamed of the state of her face, in a way she also wanted them to know, to say, Look at me – this is the kind of husband I’ve got, my life’s not so easy either! – and to be given sympathy. But Freda Adams seemed too preoccupied to notice.
‘And I bought these – for Aggie and the others. You know – a little treat.’
As Rose handed over the generous bag of sweets, Freda’s tired face broke into a smile.
‘Oh, now that’s kind of you! Well, I know they won’t say no to those. D’you want to come in . . .’
Rose shook her head before the woman had finished.
‘Oh, no – thank you. I’m sure you’ve got more than enough to do. But please pass on my condolences to Je– to Mrs Green.’
Now, at last, everything was ready and the cortege moved off slowly. The few men in the street removed their hats as it passed.
Rose went inside then, and even though Lily was there, she wept and wept.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. Tommy Green’s death was one thing that pulled her out of her despair for a while, giving her the relief of thinking about someone else. But Arthur’s dismissal of her, the ending of things, felt unendurable, as if a whole part of her had fallen away, leaving very little behind.
Her body was leaden. She found it so hard to get out of bed each morning, to do everything that needed to be done, to move, to think. She would find herself perched on the edge of the bed or on a chair downstairs, staring, and if left uninterrupted she would suddenly come to, not knowing how long she had been there. But she was not often left to herself. Lily could feel the change in her – another change which meant she was paying the child less attention, but this time she was miserable instead of charged with happiness as she had been before.
‘Mom?’ Lily kept coming to her, pulling at her. Her mother, whose world had revolved around her before, had withdrawn. Lily wasn’t the sort of child who had been sent out on to the street to play and fend for herself. Used to attention, she would grab Rose’s sleeve and tug on it, whining, until Rose was driven almost hysterical by it.
‘Just leave me alone, Lily! I need some peace!’ she’d cry in an overwrought voice.
‘I hate you!’ Lily was starting to shout now, stamping her way upstairs, crying with hurt and frustration and Rose had not the energy to do anything to put it right.
All she could think about was Arthur. What could she do? The worst of it was his anger, the contempt she knew he must feel towards her.
Whenever she thought about this it made her want to slam about in fury and frustration. What else could she have done but lie? How else could she find any escape from this death-in-life of a marriage? What if she were to fly in the face of everything and leave Harry? She had heard whispered conversations about divorce – it did happen. She would be the guilty party, was the guilty party. But how could that make things any worse than they were now? Wouldn’t she do anything just to be with him, for her life to be different?
But how could she do anything or make any change if Arthur would not forgive her or let her see him? She would be stuck here now, for ever, when they could have made things different, gone away to live somewhere else, anything . . . And again she would weep with the pain and frustration of it all.
How was she going to go on like this, she wondered, after days of being unable to eat, to sleep or settle to anything. She cooked Harry’s meals and looked after the house as best she could, but barely spoke to him and could not look him in the eye. He said nothing about his assault on her. He thought she was sulking, and he wasn’t the apologizing sort. And he seemed to feel he had put up with enough. He moved around her with a sneer of contempt, grunting when she put his dinner in front of him. The very sight of him made her feel ill. Many times, day and night, she thought about finishing herself, or running away, anywhere, just to get away from this place and from Harry, from the unbearable violence of her feelings.
Last night, he had forced himself on her as soon as they got into bed. Without a word he had been there suddenly, his thick hands forcing her to roll over on to her back.
‘No!’ she cried, seeing that he was already half naked and ready, an ugly expression on his face.
He brought his face up close to hers. ‘Don’t say no to me, woman. Never again, d’you hear? I’ve had enough. I’ve put up with your games for years and I ain’t having any more of it. I’m a man and I need what I need – and it’s your job to give it me.’
Forcing his way in, he took with relish what he considered to be his full entitlement, not withdrawing, moving in her with sharp, aggressive little sounds. He had the upper hand now, and he was enjoying it.
Two days after Tommy Green’s funeral, Rose was upstairs, stripping the bed to wash the sheets and tidying the room. She felt the need to wash them more often now that Harry had decided that almost every night he would have intercourse with her. She knew what he wanted: to put another child inside her. He was not interested in a child for its own sake, simply to prove his manhood and to have power over her in every way.
‘That Jen Green along the way – that’s what I’d call a proper woman,’ he said as he prepared to mount her again.
‘What – a widow?’ Rose retorted, voice laced with sarcasm.
Harry raised his hand and made a motion of slapping her face, so that Rose cringed away from him. But he had stopped short of actually hitting her and stared down at her as if trying to dominate her with his eyes. She had stared back for a moment, then looked away.
She yanked the bottom sheet from the bed and bundled it up and still holding it, stood staring across the room. Those afternoons she had spent with Arthur – oh, the bliss of it! But could she be carrying his child? She didn’t know, not yet. Sooner or later the way things were, she’d be carrying Harry’s. Shame burned in her cheeks. To be carrying a child and not know whose it was! She wasn’t that kind of woman, was she?
She sank down on the side of the mattress, dreaming that it was Arthur’s bed, in his room in Oldfield Road, the sun streaming through the window. She stroked her hand over it, remembering his strong thighs, his face . . .
‘Mom!’ Lily’s voice cut in, from downstairs. ‘Mom!’
Rose ignored it, frantic not to have her fantasy disturbed. This, now, was all she had
left. She pictured him lying there, the way he had caressed her, the look of sheer delight on his face.
‘Mo-om!’
‘What is it, Lily?’ she shouted irritably.
‘There’s a letter for you.’
Rose frowned. ‘All right,’ she said distantly. She gave a deep sigh, closing her eyes. Oh, God, save me . . . She’d never even been religious. But to who else was she supposed to cry out?
Lily was coming upstairs. ‘Look, Mom . . .’
‘I’ll be down in a minute – you stay—’
But Lily was already there, a sheet of folded paper in her hand. She thrust it at her mother.
On the outside, in unsteady capitals, was written, ROSE. Puzzled, she opened it up, her heart suddenly thumping as she saw the copperplate script, wayward on the page, the lines wavering and some words running into each other. But it was not hard to make out. One hand at her throat, she read:
We may not meet and yet I am made glad
because I know thou livest,
That the sun that lights my pathway
falls across thine own,
That in the night the pale and patient moon
watches thy way and mine.
With all I do, the blessed hope is born
that even you, friend of my former day,
May hear and guess,
that time nor ties, nor distance
make love less.
At the bottom, it was signed simply, with a curly A.
Forty-Seven
The house seemed so deserted without Dad coughing.
It took days and days before Aggie woke without expecting to hear him. Each morning she opened her eyes, with May and Ann beside her, and listened for it. Then in would rush the realization that Dad was gone for good and all the world turned grey with sadness.
Before the funeral, he had stayed with them for a time, at least in body. Mrs Sissons, kindly and reassuring as ever, laid Tommy out. Such a sad, shrunken figure he was, dressed up in his Sunday suit, lying in his coffin in the front room, and they filled the place with flowers.