She sorted more pictures out for Alicia and Bernard. It would be nice for them to have some. She posted them first-class with a short note saying how she was missing him and how they must be too. She heard nothing.
She put the house on the market but interest was slow. A lot of people wanted something more modern – split level or at least with the living room and dining room knocked through. Then she got an offer. She began to look for places that they could afford. She hoped they could stay in the area and Pamela could continue at St John’s, but it might not be possible. Then the buyer pulled out and it was back to square one. There was nothing in the bank and the Family Allowance went nowhere. Pamela needed new shoes. She began to feel panicky. She had to manage. She had to. There was no one else now.
She dressed as neatly as she could, aware of the aura of disapproval that always seemed to emanate from Peter’s parents. She walked there. It was half an hour or so and it was a fine day, wind fluttering the first autumn leaves and the smell of wood smoke in the air. She was thirsty by the time she arrived and too warm from the walk.
She rang the front doorbell and after a moment saw the curtains in the bay window twitch. Then the door opened.
‘Lilian.’ Alicia had a tiny puzzled frown. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to have a word with you, if . . .’ She was tongue-tied. She had practised what she would say so often but it all ran away from her now.
‘Oh.’ Alicia stepped back and let her in. They went into the sitting room.
Alicia sat down, her feet together side by side. Lilian glanced down at her own feet, shoes dusty from the walk.
‘Things have been difficult since Peter died. Financially . . .’ It sounded too blunt, too direct. ‘I’m trying to sell the house, of course, but there have been holdups. I’ve come to ask whether you and Bernard might be able to help us out.’
Alicia blinked, colour flushed her neck and she patted nervously at her lip with the knuckle of one forefinger. There was an appalling silence. Lilian could smell her own body odour. She cleared her throat.
‘I’ll have to speak to Bernard,’ Alicia said.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m sorry, if there’d been any other way . . . It’s just these next few weeks till I sell the house and then . . .’ she trailed off. ‘Thank you.’
Alicia stood up and Lilian copied her. She had an urge to grab the woman, to get hold of her and shake her, shout at her. Did she mourn her son, did she cry for him in the night, did he walk through her dreams and call her name? Could she bear the thought of him in the cold ground, knowing she’d never hear his voice, watch him eat or smile?
‘Did you get the photographs?’
‘Yes,’ Alicia said, betraying nothing. And turned to show her out.0
She walked home feeling hot and humiliated. What, what had she done to deserve such . . . She struggled for words. She felt sick and parched. She stopped at a corner shop and bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. She drank it as she walked, trying to burp discretely when the bubbles repeated on her. It’s for Pamela, she told herself, you had to do it.
Two days later a postal order for twenty pounds arrived and a note.
Dear Lilian,
We do hope this will assist you at this difficult time.
Yours sincerely,
Alicia Gough
It would buy groceries for a few weeks and new shoes for Pamela. It was the last time she ever heard from either of them.
Joan
Lena’s version of ‘Walk My Way’ had been a monumental flop. Roger blamed everyone but himself. The discs were late being pressed, the distributors messed him about, it was the wrong time of year, the trend was for Americans or for male singers. Everyone wanted more Elvis Presley and Cliff. He ignored the fact that Helen Shapiro and Petula Clarke had each topped the charts. The fact that Roger had cut corners on studio time and session musicians and then had been late in liaising with all the other people involved and even had a design commissioned with the wrong title – ‘Walk This Way’ – might have had more than a little to do with it. Joan was bitterly disappointed but she didn’t bother trying to tackle him about it.
Not long after that Roger shut down the company and Joan was out of work. He wanted to move into fashion, he said. More opportunities. Lena caught flu and was very ill. Joan nursed her. Joan worked for a temping agency, typing. Late in 1962 she sent ‘Walk My Way’ and everything else she had written since round to all the record companies. A week later, on her day off, she visited six of them. Two refused to let her past the receptionist. One told her they had a stable of writers and didn’t take unsolicited work.
‘You might want to add me to your stable,’ she tried with a bravado she didn’t feel inside.
‘No room. Sorry.’
At the next place she met George Boyd – half-drunk and ill-tempered, wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat and a disreputable suit. He claimed not to have received her work.
‘It’s there,’ she told him, ‘that one.’ She could see it on his desk.
‘Let’s hear it then,’ he slung back at her.
‘I don’t . . .’ She hated her voice but she couldn’t miss the chance. Emulating Lena she launched into it.
At the end he shrugged. ‘Not bad. Anyone ever tell you you could sing, they were lying.’
She felt her face flush at the jibe. ‘Will you take it?’
‘I could show it to Candy.’
Candy! This burke dealt with Candy? Yes, oh, yes! She swallowed. ‘Yes. I’d want royalties, though, not just a flat fee.’
‘Don’t want much, do you?’
‘Nothing wrong with a little ambition.’
He grimaced. Maybe it was meant to be a smile.
‘Leave it with me. ‘
Not fully trusting him she had rung every week until he confirmed that Candy liked it and would record it for her next-but-one single. It would be released in July, the day after Lena flew home.
Joan saw her off at the airport.
‘I wish you’d come,’ Lena repeated, ‘we’d be so happy.’
Joan shook her head, smiling. They’d been over this so many times. She loved Lena – her exuberance and her daring – and she owed her so much for showing Joan how women could love, but in her heart she knew she didn’t love Lena enough to give up everything else. Things were just starting to happen for her and she adored life in London.
‘You’ll be happy,’ Joan told her. ‘You will.’
And she had been.
Lilian
‘They say Friday at noon.’ She handed the letter to Sally.
‘But once you sell this place . . .’
‘They won’t wait. If the bill’s not settled the bailiff’s will take the furniture, anything of any value.’
‘What’s bailiffs?’ Pamela came in from the hall.
‘Never you mind,’ Lilian said. ‘Where’s Ian?’
‘Out here.’
‘Well, watch him or he’ll be after the china ornaments. Take him in the garden.’
‘She’s not daft,’ Sally pointed out as Pamela left.
‘I know, but she doesn’t need chapter and verse.’
‘I’ll talk to Ed. I’m sure we can sort something.’
‘Oh, would you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And we’d another couple looking round yesterday, agent thought they were very keen.’
‘I’m not worried about being paid back,’ Sally said. ‘I know you’re not going to pull a fast one.’
In the forty-eight hours that followed the phone was red hot with calls from Sally detailing the various conversations Ed had had with the bank manager and the accountant and everyone else. He would collect the money on Friday morning.
‘Don’t open the door. Don’t let them in,’ Sally told her. ‘And make sure they don’t try anything early. We'll be there by twelve.’
At half past eleven a white van drew up outside the house. Lilian watched from the upstairs window as two well-
built men got out, both dressed in overalls. They made no attempt to approach the house but leant against the van smoking.
‘Where was Sally?’ She’d tried ringing the house twice but there was no answer. If they took the furniture it would be that much harder to get settled somewhere new. And there were a few pieces that meant the world to her. Her mother’s dresser, which had come from Wales when her mother married her father, the writing bureau that Peter had bought second-hand and restored. Somewhere for his engineer’s drawings and books. Later when he worked away more it had become a place for all the family to use. The drawers held maps and stationery, photograph albums, certificates, a set of watercolours, dominoes and a chess game.
And the bed. The bed they’d shared, the bed where Peter had died. She’d heard rumours that the bailiffs couldn’t take all the beds in a house, they had to leave you something to sleep on.
She went down and tried the phone again, praying for a reply. She listened to the ring, counting seven, ten, fifteen times before putting the receiver back.
She watched from the lounge as another car drew up. Ed? But he drove a Ford Popular. This was a Wolsey. A bald man in a suit and tie stepped out. He spoke to the men by the van. It must be the bailiff. She looked across the road to the houses opposite. They were all watching. Some behind the curtains other quite blatantly. Please, Sally. She went into the kitchen and lit a cigarette, sucked the sulphur of the match in her haste.
Knocking at the door startled her. It was only ten to twelve. More knocking. ‘Mrs Gough.’
She went along the hall. She could see the man’s head through the stained-glass panel at the top of the door.
‘Someone’s coming,’ she said, feeling faintly ridiculous at shouting through the door. ‘They’re bringing the money.’
‘They’ll have to look sharp. We have a noon deadline.’
‘They’ll be here.’
‘I have to advise you that we have legal powers to enter at midday and to remove items as we see fit.’
‘I know.’ Her voice trembled.
In-between smoking she bit at her nails, a habit she hated but found impossible to stop. She used to try every so often, when Peter was alive. She would put false nails on to fool herself and enjoy how sophisticated it made her look but she never managed to break the habit. It didn’t matter much now, her nails would be broken anyway from all the extra jobs she was doing to keep the house shipshape.
I’m selling the house, she wanted to tell him, I can pay back the money then, more if it helps. But she had already had those conversations and they were like banging her head against a brick wall.
The phone rang and she raced to it.
‘Mrs Gough, we’ve a Mr and Mrs Jarvis who’d like to view this tea-time if that’s convenient.’
‘Fine,’ might be looking a bit empty by then, she thought.
Banging on the door. ‘Mrs Gough, we need to come in now.’
She swallowed. Heard the clock in the dining room start to chime.
How could they let her down like this? Something must have happened. She ran upstairs and looked out, praying for a sign of Ed’s Ford rolling down the street but there was nothing.
More hammering. She didn’t want them to break the door down. She undid the latch, stepped back, her face set with dislike.
The three men ignored her. The bald man led the way and she listened from the hallway, her face stony, as he made comments about the items in the lounge, telling the others which to take. She heard them go out and into the dining room, more discussion, a burst of laughter at which she stiffened. They trailed past her and up the stairs. She went and hid in the kitchen. Lit another cigarette. The man in charge came and sought her out. He had a list. He offered it to her but she could not bear to take it. She looked away. He read it out. ‘Matching armchairs and two-seater sofa, glass display cabinet, television . . .’
Even the television. And what would she tell Pamela when she came in and wanted to watch The Monkees or Mr Ed?
‘. . . Welsh dresser, dining table and four chairs, writing bureau, vanity unit with mirror, Turkish rug, washing machine. We’ll start moving it now. I need you to sign here.’
She sat there frozen but not unfeeling. Fury singing beneath her skin like sherbet. She heard them opening the drawers of the bureau. ‘Where do you want us to put the contents?’
She sighed. The thought of the precious things, of Pamela’s Holy Communion certificate, her baby bracelet, the photograph albums and letters from Peter when he had to stay the week in Sheffield or Leeds. She pulled herself up and went to fetch an old suitcase from under the bed. She began to empty the bureau drawers into it, trying to ignore the men, their patent impatience. When it was empty they lifted it up and carried it out. She would not cry, she bit her tongue, wiped her eyes, rubbed at the itching on her face.
‘Lilian, Lilian.’
Sally and Ed, anxious, breathless.
She went to them. ‘What—’
‘It’s all here!’ Ed held out an envelope. Had a ruddy flat coming up Wilbraham Road! Sorry.’
She took it from him and went out to the man in the suit.
‘It’s all here,’ she said, ‘the money.’
He sighed and cocked his head on one side, looked at her as though she was a tiresome child. Please take it, she thought. Please.
‘Cutting it a bit fine.’
She didn’t trust herself to speak.
‘’Ang on!’ he called to the lads. He pushed himself away from the side of the van and went to his car. He returned with a receipt, which she had to sign.
He spoke to the man and then drove off in his Wolsey.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Sally said. ‘Look at that lot gawking, nothing better to do. Come on, Lilian.’
The men began to unload the van.
The tea was hot and strong and Sally put a splash of brandy in everyone’s to steady their nerves.
There was no noise from the bailiff’s men and Lilian thought they were probably taking the chance of a break themselves now the boss had gone.
When she finished the tea she went out to look.
The van had gone. They’d pulled out her stuff and left it there, higgledy-piggledy on the pavement. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
Pamela
She’d done her maths. They were doing algebra and she liked it. Once you knew the rules you could work it out. English was trickier. They had to write an essay on My Ambition.
She had some ideas. One was to be a brilliant gymnast like Olga Korbut, who had just won three medals at the Olympic Games, or maybe a swimmer like Mark Spitz. Swimming was more realistic, because Pamela was in the swimming team but she couldn’t do gym for toffee. Or maybe chess? She loved chess. She went to chess club after school and Mr Stenner said she had great promise. She got up to turn the LP over. Electric Warrior. T Rex. She moved the arm across, judging where the track started, and moved the little lever to lower it. Mum had bought her it for her birthday and she played it every day but there was only one scratch on it, because she was really careful. She didn’t have many records. She wanted Rod Stewart next. As the opening chords began and Marc Bolan’s voice sang out she returned to her work.
Her essay didn’t have to be realistic, you could pick anything. One thing that would be good would be to bring peace. Stop wars like Vietnam and the trouble in Ireland and save all those lives. And Ban the Bomb and stop Apartheid. All the things that were unjust. Like the Coca-Cola song said – teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. Her mum turned the telly off now when stuff about Vietnam came on. She got so upset. Pamela chewed the end of her biro and considered. She could be the first woman to walk on the moon. Hardly anyone got to do that. She liked the idea of floating, zero gravity. Mum had woken her to watch the moon landing. She said it was too fantastic to miss. So she’d got up at three in the morning and they’d watched Neil Armstrong climb down from the Eagle. You couldn’t see his face in the big, bubble helmet bu
t he sounded so happy and proud. Imagine going all that way seeing the earth and then when you came back looking at the moon and knowing you had stood on it. But it was only Americans and Russians went and you had to wee in tubes and eat pills or suck stuff from packets for food. It would be awful not to have real food. Outside, it was raining steadily. Mum was watching telly in the front room. Monty Python was on later. Her mum thought it was silly, which was the whole point. Usually she left Pamela to watch it by herself, which was less embarrassing all round, especially with some of the freaky cartoons.
She bent down to write. My ambition is to be a world-famous chess player. A grand master, because no woman has done that yet.
Joan
‘Mind you, the Kinks have a huge following, and ‘Hard Day’s Night’ is still selling well.’
‘Bugger off, George,’ said Joan.
He grinned, poured more pale ale into his glass and tilted back in his leather chair. The room was stifling, the windows painted shut years ago. A small, cream fan made a whining noise but barely shifted the smoky air.
‘He will ring?’ Joan slouched on the sofa. She was drinking Pernod and water, smoking Gauloise. Her Francophile phase. The taste of the drink reminded her of aniseed balls, of the weekly trip to the sweet shop with her threepenny bit. Choosing between flying saucers and sherbet fountains, Spanish and Kay-lie, gumdrops and sour apples.
There was a racket from outside. She went and peered down. Ban the Bombers. She couldn’t open the window to shout her support but she raised her glass and blew a kiss to a guy dressed up like a clown. Most of them looked so ordinary she thought. She watched them pass. The atmosphere was good-natured. Strains of singing drifted up and the twanging sound of a skiffle band playing ‘When When The Saints Go Marching In’.
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