‘Yes. I’ve got some compensation through. Not heaps but enough to start me off.’
A crowd piled into the coffee bar, voices raucous, the boys teasing the girls and the girls giving lip back. Someone put the jukebox on, ‘She Loves You’ blared out. Caroline loved the song, it was a new group from Liverpool called The Beatles, but it was impossible to talk above the noise.
‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
They headed for Whitworth Park. It was a dull evening, warm and humid, midges danced in clouds beneath the trees in the park, a gang of children kicked a ball about, their squeals punctuating the murmur of the city.
They stopped to sit on a bench. Paul propped his stick against the end. ‘Caroline, there’s something I want to say.’ He spoke quickly, tripping over the words. ‘I don’t know what your feelings are for me but I meant what I said. I have really missed you.’
‘Paul . . .’ She felt her mouth get dry, her hands shook a little.
‘Please, listen. The business idea. You talked about gardening. Well, I’ve been thinking, it could be a nursery. I’ve enough to buy some land and I could run the financial side, the paperwork. You’d be in charge of all the rest.’
‘You want to go into business with me?’ She was confused.
There was a pause.
‘I want to marry you.’
‘No!’ she exclaimed.
‘Caroline.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Don’t you care for me?’
‘I can’t marry you,’ she repeated. You don’t know about me. You don’t know what happened. It wouldn’t be fair.
He stood up, his face flushed. ‘I thought you’d be sympathetic. See beyond the ruddy cane and the game leg.’ He grabbed his stick and slammed it against the bench.
She stood too. ‘Oh, Paul, it’s not you. Don’t think that. It’s me. I can’t. I don’t deserve you.’
‘Is there someone else?’ He said tightly.
‘No!’ She exclaimed, then, ‘There was before.’ Did he understand what she meant?
‘You still see him?’
‘No.’ She waited. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter, really.’ He felt for her hand, clasped it tight against his chest. ‘If it’s over, I don’t mind, Caroline, really.’
‘But Paul . . .’
‘Marry me.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ll meet another girl, someone . . . better.’
‘I don’t want anyone else, better or worse. I want you.’ He spoke urgently, his face creased with anguish. ‘I’ve been going crazy. We could have a future together, a good one. Get married, buy some land. It was your dream . . . I thought you might feel the same.’
‘I do . . .’ she whispered. She blinked furiously. Tell him about the baby. Tell him now. No. She didn’t want to think about it. It was too hard. She couldn’t. She saw herself watering plants, potting on seedlings. Outside, rain and shine. No more antiseptic and bloodied dressings, enemas and vomit. Paul with her, sharing their lives together. She might never meet a man she liked so much. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Yes. I will marry you.’ She was smiling and tears ran into the corners of her mouth. He gazed at her, his own eyes bright. ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘You’re hurting my hand.’
He kissed her then. Tentative at first as though he was holding back and then hungry. She thought how strange that she had promised to marry him before they had even shared a kiss.
Part Three
Growing Up
Joan Lilian
Pamela
Pamela
‘Goal! What a goal!’ Her dad leapt up and Pamela bounced off the sofa and back on again, her arms raised and cheering with him.
Geoff Hurst. Geoff Hurst had made it four-two and there was no way Germany could beat that in the remaining seconds.
‘We won the cup, we won the cup, eee-aye-adio, we won the cup!’
Her mum stuck her head through the serving hatch. ‘Have we won?’
‘Four-two! And it was two-all at the end of full time. Two goals in extra time! Fantastic. Hurst was unbelievable.’
They watched the squad go up to receive their medals and the cup and hoist Bobby Moore on their shoulders. The Charlton brothers were playing, Pamela liked them best. Dad liked Alan Ball.
The beginning of the summer holidays and Pamela had plans. Mum and Dad had been saving all their cigarette coupons and they’d enough now to get a pogo stick. She’d helped count last night after tea. They said she could get one before Christmas, when, as she had pointed out, it would be too cold for it. Then they’d been to see The Sound Of Music the night before. It was absolutely brilliant. Pamela wanted her mum to get the LP so she could learn all the songs. The Nazis had been awful. She was glad she hadn’t been a Jew then. Dad said there were still things like that going on, it wasn’t always Jews. Like black children in America and South Africa who weren’t allowed at school with white children. There were only two black children at Pamela’s school but you had to be Catholic or pay lots of fees to go there. School was OK. The worst was when a gang came up, especially the big girls, and said, ‘Are you a mod or a rocker?’
Pamela wasn't anything but you couldn’t say that, they made you pick one. Sometimes if you got it wrong they pulled faces or pushed you. Sometimes they said, ‘Who do you like best, the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?’ She loved the Beatles, they were miles better, and her favourite was Paul because he was the most good-looking. Elizabeth, her friend at school, liked John because he was funny. But he wore glasses. Ringo was sweet but he had a big nose. She didn’t know anyone who liked George best. George Best, hah!
In the middle of the holidays they’d go to Criccieth. They would set off really early in the morning and not even have breakfast and sing songs all the way. ‘Summer Holiday’ and pop songs like ‘Pretty Flamingo’ and ‘Every Turn’ by Candy and Dusty’s new one, ‘You Don’t Have to Say Forever’. She knew all the words to that one and could sing it really loud and Dad would be the instruments, the trombone and the drums.
There was a caravan at Criccieth and it was so good. If she was an orphan and she had to live somewhere by herself she’d go there and live in a caravan. And get a dog. A golden Labrador that would walk to heel and fetch the paper. Auntie Sally had one called Queenie.
‘Fancy a kick about?’ Dad said and she leapt up.
‘I’ll get changed.’
She swapped her shift dress, the one with purple and green swirls on, for her shorts and PE top. And ran to get the ball. This was going to be the best summer ever.
Lilian
‘Peter?’ His breathing sounded strange. Lilian felt fear douse her veins with ice. ‘Peter?’
She switched the bedside lamp on, put on her glasses and looked at him. He lay face down but even in the dim light she could see his skin was a horrible grey colour and when she put her hand out to touch him his pyjama top was soaked with sweat. She shook his shoulder. ‘Peter.’ There was no response, only the awful sound of his breath sucking in and out.
She ran downstairs, her heart thumping, stitch pains in her chest. She telephoned for an ambulance, watching the dial creep slowly back after each nine. Why nine-nine-nine, she thought, why not one-one-one? It would be so much quicker.
‘It’s my husband,’ she said to the operator, ‘I think it’s a heart attack.’ She hadn’t named it till then, hadn’t known she’d thought that till she said the words. She wondered what led her to that conclusion. ‘Please hurry.’ She gave her name and address and the woman reassured her that the ambulance would be there very soon. She ran back upstairs then, got on the bed beside him. ‘There’s an ambulance coming, it won’t be long now. Peter?’
He was quiet. The rasping sounds had stopped. She tried to hear whether he was breathing but the blood was thundering in her ears. She put a hand on his back between his shoulder blades, looked for movements, but all she could see was her own hand trembling. He was dead.
Moaning to herself, she struggled to turn him over. He was heavy, always a solid man, not flabby but hard muscles, thick bones. His face was slack, dark blue eyes opened and vague. Don’t think. She put her lips over his and blew into his mouth. There was a bubbling noise, that startled her. She moved away and a gush of liquid came from his mouth. She began to weep. No, Peter, no. I don’t know what to do. She took another breath and bent and blew into his mouth again, and again. Nothing changed except his face became wet with her tears and the liquid that kept dribbling from his mouth.
The doorbell chimed and there was banging too. She left him, almost falling on the stairs as she clattered down them.
‘He’s upstairs,’ she said to the ambulance men, ‘he’s not breathing.’
‘We’ll follow you,’ the man said calmly, as though there was nothing to get het-up about.
‘In here,’ she said stupidly, then stood aside as they moved to examine him. One struggled out of his jacket, climbed astride Peter and began to pump his chest with his hands, stopping every so often to tilt his chin and breathe into him. After several minutes he sat back, exhaled and exchanged a look with his colleague. ‘We’re best taking him to the hospital,’ he said to her. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him here.’
She nodded, her mouth crammed with questions but too fearful to ask them.
The other man disappeared and returned with a stretcher.
They strapped Peter to it. She watched his eyes, praying for a blink, a wink, a glimpse of life. Praying endlessly, incoherent appeals running through her mind. They took him on the stretcher, negotiating the narrow stairs with difficulty, raising the stretcher to turn the landing, bumping it against the newel post. She winced as though he might be hurt. He can’t feel anything, she told herself, and was dismayed at her lack of hope.
‘We can take you with . . . ?’
‘I’ve a little girl. Get a taxi. I don’t drive. Peter . . .’ She couldn’t talk properly, missing connections.
They nodded.
She hurried back into the house to wake Pamela. Should she leave her with the neighbours? They had a seven-year-old too. She dressed herself then woke Pamela. She explained Daddy was ill, that she had to go to the hospital. Pamela begged to come too, promised to be good. Lilian was unsure. Children were usually shielded from such experiences. But she knew Pamela disliked Shona, the little girl next door. Lilian suspected her of being a bully.
‘Please, Mummy, please? You’ve got to let me.’
‘All right, put some clothes on quickly.’ She rang a taxi that advertised an all night-service in the phone book. It was three thirty a.m.
At the hospital Lilian enquired at the Accident and Emergency Department and was told to take a seat. The place was quiet. The staff’s voices echoed round when they spoke to each other. Lilian looked at posters about the smallpox outbreak and one about burns and scalds. Pamela sat beside her, knees together, toes meeting. She could tell her mother was upset and sensed it would not help to be asking lots of questions.
When the doctor came out to see them he asked Pamela to wait while he spoke to her mother.
Lilian walked silently alongside him into the small room. She was clenching her teeth tight, her hands called into fists, her tongue pressing hard against the roof of her mouth. Holding on.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gough, there wasn't anything we could do for your husband. We weren’t able to revive him.’
She nodded. Words, just words. Flying past like paper birds.
‘It appears to be a heart attack but we’ll be more sure of that once we’ve carried out a post-mortem. That’s routine in a sudden death like this.’
Death. A feathery word, some owl lurching towards her.
The doctor looked at her. He must have said something. She’d no idea what it had been. She shook her head a fraction.
‘Mrs Gough, had he been ill recently?’
‘No.’ Her voice sounded rusty.
‘Any complaints?’
Only that he’s dead.
‘No,’ she managed, horrified at the mess inside her head.
The doctor talked about forms and hours and releasing the body. He stood up then and she caught on that he had finished.
‘Have you any family in Manchester?’
‘Yes.’ Her sister, Sally. She would ring her as soon as it got light.
Pamela
Pamela watched her mother walk towards her, eyes cast down and her steps a little unsteady. She paused by the bench and held out her hand. Pamela stood up and took it. Mummy’s hand was cold and she held Pamela too tight.
She didn’t say anything until they were back home. Mummy made her a cup of Ovaltine and sat opposite her at the kitchen table. She took her glasses off. It was just getting light. Like when they went on holiday and drove all night and watched the sun rise and the mist come off the fields.
‘Daddy’s not going to get better.’ Mummy’s voice sounded far away even though she was sitting right next to her. ‘He’s . . . he’s gone to heaven, Pamela.’
It was a lie. He wouldn’t go and leave her. She wanted to be brave but she began to cry. She couldn’t help it. She loved Daddy, she was his best girl and he’d gone away and left her behind. It wasn’t fair. It was stinking awful. She didn’t want God to have him in heaven, she wanted him for herself. Mummy pulled her close and she breathed in the face-powder smell of her. Mummy stroked her hair, saying nothing.
‘Why?’ Pamela cried out. ‘Why?’ She felt her mother shake her head.
There was a horrid feeling in her tummy, a wrong feeling; everything dirty and mean and bad. Why couldn’t it be Grandpa who died? He was old and cranky. Or Granny. Or Mummy. No! She didn’t mean that, really, God she didn’t. But Mummy got tired and bossed her about and Daddy loved Pamela best and now . . . She’d been bad, the bad thoughts she had sometimes, the times when she was unkind or told a fib. She’d been bad and now Daddy was dead. She should have been good, all the time, like a saint, always good and kind and nice to everybody and then it would never have happened.
Lilian
Lilian rocked Pamela in her arms. Thank God she was here. Thank God.
‘Why?’ Her daughter’s cry echoed her own thoughts, brought a twist of anguish to her guts. Why?
She’d been too greedy. After the miscarriages she should have let it be but she’d pushed. Maybe God didn’t intend for her to be a mother. But she’d gone on and on about it, talked Peter round. Not just about the adoption, either. She’d been the one tempting him to disobey the Church’s ruling on the sanctity of married life.
She looked at the clock. Nearly seven. He’d be getting up now . . . The room swam. She pressed her face into Pamela’s tangled hair, her tears falling quietly. Would they take Pamela away? Fear coursed through her like acid. They couldn’t. For the love of God after seven years. No. Don’t be silly.
She looked up, her face wet and itchy, Pamela still cradled in her arms, one arm going numb. She stared out of the window. Saw the sky turning pearl-grey, heard the rattle of the milk float and the chatter of a magpie. She watched nextdoor’s cat parade across the garden fence and felt her cheeks grow cold.
She hugged Pamela and brushed her dark hair back from her face and told her to fetch a hanky. When the clock struck eight she rang her sister and had her first practise at saying the words. ‘It’s bad news. Peter’s had a heart attack. He died last night.’
She had expected them to offer something, even though they hadn’t seen much of them in the last few years. Peter had been their son, after all. Pamela was their grand-daughter. So she’d expected a call or perhaps a note in the days after the funeral, discretely volunteering assistance. They knew she had nothing. The house would have to be sold and she’d have to find some sort of job, but these things took time.
The funeral had been miserable, how could it have been anything else? She had got through it like a robot. She’d taken the tranquilizers that the doctor proscribed and they’d ma
de her feel sleepy and disconnected. She was determined to be dignified for Pamela, like Jackie Kennedy had at Jack’s funeral. Composed. Sally had helped her with all the arrangements. Thank God Sally had been there. Practical and efficient, she was the one person Lilian could confide in. She could talk to her about how terrible losing Peter really was. She told her about hearing his voice and smelling his pillow and the strange things she felt compelled to do. The bizarre aspects of grieving.
Sally took Pamela too, on the worst days when Lilian simply needed to weep and thrash about, when she needed to let herself wallow in the pain, dragging up memories to lash herself with, reciting litanies of all they would never share, getting stupid with self-pity. All the things that Lilian hid from her daughter. Sally had Ian, a four-year-old, who Pamela loved to entertain, so it was a good arrangement all round.
Alicia and Bernard Gough had attended their son’s funeral and gone back to the house afterwards. They had accepted commiserations from people and Alicia had been moved to tears several times. Pamela had been wary of them and they had made no special effort to talk to their grand-daughter as far as Lilian could see. She herself hadn’t had the strength to try and find common ground in their suffering, not that day, though she would try later when she was up to it.
The days rolled into weeks and there was no word from them. Then it was Peter’s birthday. She sat in the lounge that afternoon while Pamela was at school and sorted through photographs, careful not to wet them with her tears. She chose three that she wanted to frame for herself and Pamela: a lovely shot of Peter with Pamela at the park, the pair of them sitting on the roundabout, caught laughing at something; and a solo shot of Peter in his tuxedo at a dinner dance, handsome, his black hair gleaming with Brylcreme slapped on to try and tame it. Sally had joked about him having girl’s eyes, because of his long curling lashes. He was smiling and there was a cigarette in one hand. He was beautiful. She also selected a rare shot of the three of them. Pamela had been about five and a half, she’d lost her first teeth, two at the bottom, and her hair was tied up in bunches. They were at the front at Blackpool, Peter with a picnic basket in his hand and each of them with a cornet. She remembered the day, sunny with a stiff breeze. They’d gone back to the boarding house and Pamela had fallen asleep exhausted from a long day playing on the sands. She and Peter had made love in the cramped room, sand and suntan lotion on their skin and the taste of ice cream on their lips.
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