by Annie Murray
‘Not today,’ she said. She was standing at the back door, squinting against the sun as Harry bent over his bike. There was a chasm between them, widening with every day, with every word they spoke and every gloomy silence. Once she would have cared, but now all she could feel was a cold indifference.
He turned back to the dangling chain. Rose watched him, arms folded, hearing the very faint crackle as she stroked the paper message tucked inside her dress and thinking how bodies that are not cared for start to give off waves of need and resentment.
‘I’ll start the dinner,’ she said.
Seeing Harry cycle away after dinner gave Rose a moment of pure relief and joy. There was just Lily now, standing in her way. Come on, Aggie! she urged in her head.
The child came, subdued and thin in the face, and even in her moments of extreme tension and anxiety, Rose could feel for her. She knew Aggie’s father had been a good man, and she remembered the desolation of those days following her own mother’s death.
‘How’s your family?’ she asked kindly. ‘Are you getting along all right?’
Aggie, who was squatting down, helping Lily fasten her shoe, looked up at her.
‘Mom says we’re gonna have to move out,’ she said. It was hard to tell from her general flatness whether she was upset by this.
‘Oh, no!’ Rose said. She felt so sorry for poor Jen Green. ‘Is it the rent?’
Aggie nodded. ‘We’re going to the Mansions. It’ll save us a few bob, she says.’
This grown-up information wrung Rose’s heart.
‘Well, at least it’s not far, is it?’ she said. ‘We’ll still see you . . .’ She could have cut her tongue out. What was she saying? She was going away with Arthur, wasn’t she? She might never see Lilac Street again! ‘And I mean,’ she added hurriedly, ‘it’s near your pal Babs, isn’t it?’
Aggie nodded, straightening up, poor solemn little thing.
‘Hold my hand, Lily,’ she said. ‘We’ll go and get Silas and Ann.’
Rose stood at the door, half unable to believe that she was about to be alone at last and free to go . . . The gaggle of bare-legged children set off along the street and she watched them for a few seconds to make sure that they had truly gone. But as she was about to close the door, she saw a familiar figure turn in at the end of the street and walk determinedly towards her.
‘Oh, no! Oh, heavens!’ Rose whipped round and dashed inside the house, shutting the door. Muriel Wood – and she was obviously making straight for here. She hadn’t said anything about visiting when they had seen her in the week. Rose stood in a complete fit of panic behind the door. Muriel surely had seen her – she could not pretend to be out.
Sure enough, moments later came a polite tapping at the door. Rose clenched her fists. Trying to look normal, she opened the door to see Muriel’s homely face smiling at her.
‘I knew I’d find you in,’ she said. ‘How lovely! We missed you at Communion this morning.’
It was an hour and a half before Muriel left, during which time Rose brewed and drank tea, trying to chat amiably with so kind a person. Muriel shared little snippets of news about fellow parishioners, some of whom Rose could barely remember.
But suddenly she got to her feet and said, ‘Oh, my goodness, look at the time! We’ve had such a lovely talk I’d forgotten I was also on my way to see Mrs Woodward. What a chatterbox I am. But how lovely to see you, Rose.’
Rose beamed at her, almost delirious with relief. How long was it until Lily would be back? She had the best part of an hour, she calculated.
As soon as Muriel was out of sight, she set off, walking with as much decorum as she could along Lilac Street. Once out on the Ladypool Road, she hurtled along as fast as possible. Another hour without seeing Arthur now seemed too much to bear.
When she reached the house, she was suddenly at a loss. Before, they had had an arrangement – he would have been waiting behind the door. But shortage of time and her own impatience overcame her and she knocked.
In a few moments there were sounds behind the door, the bolt slid back and Rose had her first sight of Mrs Terry, a tall, rather severe-looking middle-aged woman in spectacles. She looked like a school teacher, Rose thought.
‘Yes?’ she said suspiciously.
‘I’ve come to see a Mr King,’ Rose said. ‘With a message from his sister.’
The lie sprang to her lips almost without her thinking.
‘Oh.’ Mrs Terry looked perturbed. ‘Well, it’s lucky for you I heard you knock because I’m rather hard of hearing. I’m afraid Mr King’s not here.’
Rose tried to look neutral. ‘Oh, dear. Will he be long, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know for sure. I assume he’s just gone out for a little walk, to get a bit of sun on him as it’s such a nice day. Not that he can see that, poor man.’
‘I see,’ Rose said. ‘All right, then. Thank you.’
‘Shall I tell him you called?’
Clearly she was going to anyway, so Rose agreed and said a pleasant goodbye. She walked along, feeling frantic. Where would Arthur go for a walk? If it was anyone with sight they would try to get to the nearest park, but that was not much help to him. She remembered him telling her that he liked the sounds and smells of the trains. It felt futile but she had to do something. She made her way across to St Paul’s Road, to where the railway bridge crossed the road. There were children playing, spilling out of the avenues along the road.
The railway bridge cast a deep blue shadow. Emerging the other side into the sun, she saw a pair of legs and feet. Someone was leaning against the soot-grimed bricks, soaking in the sun. She would have known those feet in their brown shoes anywhere.
‘Arthur?’
His head was back, face bathed in light, and he jerked forward, eager at the sound of her voice, but then she saw him remember and his face fell. He withdrew into himself and into silence.
‘Arthur. Please. It’s me.’ She went to touch his arm but he shook her off.
‘Don’t! I know it’s you. Don’t you think I’d know your voice?’
She quailed at the sound of so much hostility in his tone. This was not the man she remembered. It was as if he had built a fortification round himself.
Where could she begin? ‘You sent me that poem.’
‘To say goodbye.’ His face was so pained.
‘It said you still love me.’
There was another silence. His face was working, trying to gain control.
‘I could love you for ever,’ he said acidly. ‘But what difference does that make to anything? You’re married, Rose. And that’s that. You should never, never have let me get involved with you the way you did. Have you any idea how this feels, to be played around with like that? I thought I’d found –’ He stopped, turning his face down, emotional and bitter.
Rose wrung her hands, longing to touch him but not daring. As well as Arthur being so forbidding, there were people about. She moved closer, speaking in barely more than a whisper.
‘I wasn’t . . . I’m not playing. How can you say that? I’ve almost gone mad this week! Arthur, it’s you I love . . .’
‘That may be so,’ he retorted. ‘But that doesn’t alter the rather inconvenient fact that you already have a husband, does it?’
‘I don’t love Harry – in fact, I loathe him!’ she said passionately. ‘It’s torture living with him when it’s you I want to be with. All I can think of is you – being with you, leaving him and—’
‘Oh, Rose . . .’ He was wretched now, past anger. ‘For God’s sake. Just stop doing this – to both of us. Can you imagine it – divorce? Do you know how vile it all is? How much it all costs? People like us don’t get divorced! Then there’s me – a blind, useless wreck.’
She tried to protest but he made a fierce gesture with his hand, his anger returning.
‘Just leave me, woman. You’ve done me enough damage, letting me hope there might be something for me. I can’t stand this. Just let m
e be alone again and get used to it without coming and disturbing me.’ Almost weeping now, he said, ‘Just go away – please.’
Rose stared helplessly at him. How could he be saying these things, after all her dreams of them being together again? She couldn’t leave, not like this. Her own tears came then.
‘Arthur,’ she said between sobs. ‘Don’t talk like this. I love you – I’ll do anything to be with you. We won’t divorce – we’ll just go where no one can find us. Just tell me . . .’
But he had pushed off from the wall and was walking as fast as he could away from her towards the Moseley Road. As she went to follow, he swung round.
‘No! Damn it – just leave me alone. Get away from me!’
And all she could do was watch him recede from her, along to the corner, turning right on to the main road. She moved back into the shadow of the bridge and put her hands over her face.
Fifty-One
The Greens moved a few days later, on a baking hot morning. Aggie and John were kept home from school to help and to keep May out of trouble. Jen had hired a handcart and they loaded it with all their chattels. Jen’s elder brother Bill turned up to help, a big, stocky man with faded sandy-coloured hair and a freckled face.
Aggie and John helped lift things on and carry smaller things out – pots and pans, a stool, rugs and bedding – and they were piled around their humble sticks of furniture.
‘It doesn’t add up to much,’ Jen said, eyeing the drab collection.
‘Good job,’ Freda commented. She could not do much but stand nursing her arm in its cast. ‘There’s not going to be a lot of room where we’re off to.’
Neighbours milled around offering help and comments. ‘You’re not going to be far away, bab – come and see us,’ and, ‘Don’t bother putting that on, I’ll carry that down for you.’
Aggie, standing on the dusty cobbles holding May’s hand, had a nice warm feeling with everyone chatting and wishing them well. While they were packing up, an ice-cream barrow came along the street and one of the neighbours treated her, John and May.
While she was standing relishing the cool oblong of ice-cream, sandwiched between two wafers, Aggie saw the door of number fifteen open and Mr Southgate stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled, thumbs tucked in his braces. He seemed as if his mind was on something else altogether to start with, a frown pulling at his brows. Then he took in what was going on along the street and stepped over to them.
‘D’yer need a hand?’ he asked. What with Nanna’s bad arm and Mom expecting, they weren’t up to much. ‘I ain’t got to go to work till a bit later.’
Soon he was chatting to Aggie’s uncle Bill. Aggie watched Mr Southgate. Though he had looked surly and frowning when he first came out, like someone who had been dragged unwillingly from his bed, he gradually relaxed and Aggie saw him laugh, leaning back, his face lifting. She thought he didn’t look so frightening after all, when he smiled. Then she thought about Mrs Southgate and the bruises on her face, and what Nanna had said about having the piano tuned, and she wondered. None of it made much sense to her.
‘Right,’ Bill said at last, when the cart was stacked so high that its load was in danger of swaying off. ‘Let’s get this first lot along then, eh?’
Just as they were about to move off the milkman’s dray appeared, the horse’s hooves loud along the street.
‘Hang on a tick,’ Jen said. ‘I’ll just see him before we go. Aggie – get the jug. Look – it’s on top there!’
As she went to fetch the white enamel jug from the cart, Mr Southgate reached up for it and handed it down to her.
‘Here you go,’ he said gruffly. She caught a whiff of him, sweat and smoke. He gave her what was almost a smile and it lit up his dark eyes.
‘Ta,’ Aggie said shyly. She decided maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. She glanced across the road wondering if Mrs Southgate would come and wish them well, but there was no sign of her. Aggie felt rather hurt by the way Mrs Southgate hardly ever asked her in now. She took Lily to Sunday school but she rarely went into the house. Somehow these days she’d got bored of spying too. She never seemed to find out anything nice.
She took the jug over to the milkman, a man with a jolly expression who reminded her, with a pang, of her father.
‘Going to your new house today then, are you, bab? Going up in the world!’
Aggie heard her grandmother give a snort behind her. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Heaven on earth, that’s where we’re going.’
‘Nowt wrong with the Mansions,’ the milkman said chirpily, ladling milk into the jug from one of the churns on his cart. May was tickling the horse’s nose and the blinkered horse kept jerking its head back which made May laugh. Aggie stroked its neck, enjoying the animal’s hot smell. ‘One of Brum’s many fine palaces,’ he chuckled. ‘Long as you stove it reg’lar.’
‘Huh,’ Jen said, but he had brought a smile to her lips.
‘Here you go.’ He handed Aggie the well-filled jug. ‘I’ve put in a bit extra for luck. See you tomorra.’
So Aggie trailed after the cart with the heavy jug of milk. As they set off, the men at each end of the cart, its wheels squeaking as they turned, a low cheer rang along the road and they were showered with good wishes which brought tears to Jen’s eyes all over again.
‘Doing a moonlight, Jen?’ an aproned lady called from her doorstep.
‘If I was going to do that I’d get a lot further away from you lot, I can tell you!’ Jen quipped.
The woman laughed. ‘Bet you would, bab! I’ll be round for a cuppa once you’re settled.’
And soon, on a tide of goodwill, they were washed along to the entry off which the two yards of the Mansions divided, which was as far as the cart could go.
‘Should only take one more load,’ Bill said, hoicking up his trousers, which kept shrinking down under pressure from his generous gut.
‘Give us a shout,’ Mr Southgate said, moving away. ‘I might still be about later.’
‘Ta very much!’ Jen said. She looked at her mother. ‘He seems cheerful for once.’
Dulcie Skinner was at the end of the entry, waving.
‘You’re good and early,’ she said, hooking her arm through Jen’s. ‘All right, are yer?’
Aggie saw her mother smile and pat Dulcie’s arm. ‘I’m all right. Glad you’re here.’
Aggie carried the jug along the dark entry. She often came down here to visit Babs, but now they were going to live in the next yard. In the heat she could already catch a strong whiff of refuse from the rubbish tips at the end of the yards.
‘Stinks,’ May remarked behind her.
‘Sshhh,’ Aggie said. ‘Don’t upset our mom.’
May made a mutinous noise, her lower lip sticking out.
‘Shurrit, all right?’
Aggie wanted to take in the new place without May rattling down her ear. She stepped into the yard. 3/2 The Mansions was their new address. There were three houses each side of the yard facing each other, a gas lamp placed squarely halfway down. Further along was a tap, free-standing in the middle of the yard. It was dripping steadily, so that a mucky brown snake of water squiggled across the uneven bricks. The place was quiet enough to hear fat bluebottles buzzing round and someone splashing water in the brew house at the end. This was next to their new home, at the end, on the left.
The houses all looked much the same, but outside some there were signs of efforts to cheer the place up. Inside number two you could make out red-and-white striped curtains, and the family at number four had pots on their sills outside full of red and white tobacco plants and geraniums, and hanging chained to a nail outside the door was a soldier’s helmet, full of petunias of pink, white and mauve. Aggie thought they looked lovely.
‘Look,’ she pointed and saw May take in the colours with a pleased gleam in her eyes.
Number six, by the yard entrance, was Mary Crewe’s, though there was no sign of her, and her sister, Eliza Jenks, was out at work. Theirs, d
own in the opposite corner, was a dingy, neglected-looking house, with filthy windows and all its paintwork cracked and split with only hints remaining of its original green.
‘Here we are,’ Nanna said, limping along the yard. ‘It’ll do us.’
Mom came along after her and Aggie heard her murmur something to herself. Her eyes were full of dismay.
Cautiously, they pushed the door of number three open. It seemed queer going into the old man’s house. His possessions had been cleared out and it was bare and covered in dust and grime. The range looked as if it hadn’t been blackleaded for years and there was a strong smell of mould. As they stepped inside, things scattered away from their feet, at lightning speed.
‘Dear God,’ Jen said. ‘We’re going to be eaten alive in here.’
The house needed the spring clean of a lifetime. And it was considerably smaller than their house in Lilac Street. For a start there was no attic. Downstairs there was one room only, with a little scullery at the back with a sink, but no running water. They had to fetch that from the tap in the yard. On the upper floor were two bedrooms. After the extra rooms upstairs and down that they had had before, it was a comedown, all right.
All the same, the children found it exciting to explore, their feet clattering on the bare boards. These were so rotten in some places that they’d splintered off and there were rough holes in the floor. They ran upstairs to investigate where they were going to sleep.
‘Don’t bang about so much!’ Mom kept yelling up the stairs. ‘You’ll come through the ceiling, else!’
Aggie, John and May came back down. The fourth step was broken and Aggie helped May jump over it.
‘Are we having the big room, then?’ John asked, standing, as he did these days, with the air of the little man of the house.
‘Don’t keep on,’ Jen snapped, peering into the range, which looked as if it hadn’t been lit in living memory. ‘How’re we even going to get a cup of tea in this place?’
‘It’ll be all right,’ Freda said. ‘Just stoke it up.’