by Annie Murray
That morning they had left Vi’s early. They glimpsed the cut on the walk back, a mist still hanging over the narrowboats and joeys. It seemed to take forever to trudge all the way back to Ladywood. They saw shopkeepers flinging up their blinds for Saturday’s trade. Their father must have taken himself off up to bed after they left and even now he was still nowhere to be seen, sleeping it off at two in the afternoon. The rest of them were all tired and irritable, but without the energy for a fight. Mom was sulking and none of them dared ask for the dinner that was still waiting to be eaten from last night. Vi had given them each a bit of toast, but Evie’s stomach was gurgling.
‘What is it this time, bab?’ There was an edge of irritation to Mrs Waring’s voice, but she was a kindly lady and it didn’t last. ‘You come to see our Whisky again?’
Evie caught sight of the dog approaching from inside with her amiable face and feather duster tail. She nodded, looking up pleadingly. She longed for comfort, like a hunger. She had to cuddle the dog, had to.
‘Oh, all right then. Dickie!’ Mrs Waring turned to her husband who was buried in the paper at the table. The other lady, Con, was there too, big and pink-faced. There were white cups on the white cloth. Evie thought she had never seen so much white. ‘It’s that little wench from the other side of the entry again, come to see the dog.’
‘Oh ar?’ Mr Waring looked up, laying the paper down. He was a small, dark-haired, chirpy man with an upright bearing and a friendly way about him. His sleeves were rolled up to show muscular forearms fuzzed with black hair. Evie thought he looked quite pleased to see her. He chuckled. ‘The dog? There was me thinking you’d come to see me, little wench!’
‘Aah,’ Con said, in a husky voice as Evie made a beeline for Whisky. ‘That’s nice. You like the doggy, don’t yer, bab?’
Evie said nothing. Conversation was not something she was used to. She felt Whisky’s hot, tickly breath on her hand and her lips twitched into a smile. She knelt and flung her arms round the dog who struggled in her grasp, but good-naturedly.
‘Poor little thing,’ she heard Mrs Waring say. ‘That mother . . . You should have heard her yesterday – it’s enough to make you curl up. I mean, I’m not sure about all these coloureds, but . . .’
‘That Charles bloke’s decent enough,’ Mr Waring put in. ‘He was in the RAF. Fought for this country – credit where credit’s due . . .’
The Charles family lived across the road – a couple with two sons. They didn’t see a lot of Mr Charles, who was a bus driver. Mrs Charles, a tall, slender lady, very smart, nearly always in a neat black hat, passed back and forth to do her shopping. Despite the fact that she was a quiet, dignified woman, Irene could not leave her alone. She would wait on the step. Instead of shouting, as normal, she muttered things about ‘dirty’ families and ‘blackie’ hands. Mrs Charles might have been deaf and blind for all the notice she took.
‘I mean, there’s no call for that,’ Mrs Waring was saying. ‘That’s plain nastiness, that is. The woman’s only going about her business. In the end I said to her’ – she made a disparaging tilt of her head towards the Suttons’ house – ‘you want to clean up your own mess before you start finding fault with other people. Oh! You should have heard the language I got back from that one . . .’
‘D’yer like animals, do yer?’ Mr Waring leaned towards Evie, a cigarette in his hand, resting his arms on his thighs.
Evie gave a nod, brushing her cheek against the soft fur of the dog’s neck as she stroked and stroked her. Whisky was the loveliest thing she had ever seen.
‘Tell yer what, bab, d’you want to come and see my girls? She’d like that, wouldn’t she, Mave?’ he said to his wife.
‘Oh, I s’pect so,’ Mrs Waring said, sitting down beside Con and pouring tea. The two women were rolling their eyes and giving each other little smiles.
‘Go and see the hens with Dickie, bab,’ Con urged her. ‘You’ll like them. They might lay you an egg for your tea.’
‘Him and his birds.’ Mrs Waring rolled her eyes, stirring her tea.
Evie got up reluctantly. She just wanted to stay with Whisky, who had sat down and patiently allowed herself to be petted.
‘’Ere, you can have one of these to take with you,’ Mrs Waring said. She went to the scullery and brought back a little golden domed thing. ‘It’s a fairy cake.’
Evie took it, round-eyed, and bit into its softness, saliva rushing into her mouth. The cake was warm and sweet.
‘You gunna say “ta” then?’ Mrs Waring said.
‘Ta,’ Evie managed, through her mouthful.
As she went out she heard Con say, ‘Well, she don’t look half starved.’
‘No,’ Mrs Waring said. ‘But I can’t see that one getting a square meal on the table very often.’
‘Come on.’ Mr Waring cajoled her outside.
Evie followed him along the entry at the side of the house. To the right, it led off into the familiar yard behind number twenty-nine. Evie was getting to recognize their neighbours in the yard now, through all her visits lugging the slop bucket. But to the left, there was a wall with a gate in it which she had never seen opened. Her eyes widened in surprise when he unlatched it and led her inside. Their backyard was all bricks: dirty redbrick houses and the blue-brick-paved yard. There was a lamp, a tap, two lavatories and the brew house, a small outbuilding shared by all six houses, two at the front and four on the yard. The brew house was where Mom went when it was her turn to heat water in the copper for her washing. But behind Mr and Mrs Waring’s house and the other houses beyond, there were strips of garden. It felt like another world.
‘Come on in, shut the gate,’ Mr Waring urged her.
Evie did as she was bidden, then looked around her. It was different here from in the yard behind their houses. These two-up, two-down terraces had strips of garden behind. There was an outside lav and a brew house close to the back of the house. The rest of the long, thin garden, apart from the path down the side, was Mr Waring’s vegetable patch. Evie followed Mr Waring, the stripes of faded green braces down each side of his back over his shirt. He walked halfway along before stopping for a moment, hands on hips, leaning forward to look.
‘Well, I’m blowed. I’ve never known that before. Summat’s been in ’ere, having the last of my onions. I had a whole row of spring onions there and now look.’
Evie looked but did not know what she was looking for. Grown-ups seemed to talk in riddles most of the time. All she could see was a tangle of wizened plants. Mr Waring shook his head and moved on.
There were rickety old fences dividing up most of the gardens, but at the bottom of the Warings’ was a building with a concrete slab for a roof, which stood in the lane behind, its wall flush with the edge of the garden. She followed Mr Waring’s dapper, bandy-legged figure along the path. She could see part of the round bald patch in his black hair, like a half moon.
The coop, a big wood and wire construction, was built up against the wall of the concrete building. Next to it, in the back corner of the garden, a small gate opened onto the lane. When they reached the coop, she could hear little puck-puck noises and she saw four white hens inside who looked up at her in alarm. Mr Waring checked round it carefully, bending to press the wire at the bottom into the ground. To one side there was a covered part, next to the pen where the hens were pecking around.
‘I have to keep ’em nice and safe – don’t want any flaming cats getting in. Good little layers, these girls are. They can go into here at night.’ He pointed at the covered-in part. ‘Nice and snug.’ He talked about the birds as if they were children.
He didn’t seem to know what else to say, and neither did Evie. The hens were not warm and soft to cuddle like Whisky. They were rather ugly, with their pinky eyes and funny wobbly combs on their heads.
They were just about to turn back to the house when a sound startled them. There was a bang at the back gate followed by a scuffling noise, as if someone had flung themselves at i
t. Hands appeared at the top and after a few seconds’ scrabbling, a face appeared. A face with a scruffy mop of hair and thick bottle-bottom specs. The face looked aghast at seeing anyone there on the other side and vanished again immediately.
‘Oi!’ Mr Waring pulled back the bolt and flung the gate open. They could both hear the footsteps tearing away along the entry. ‘Little bugger! What’s ’e playing at?’ He slammed the gate shut.
Back in the house he said to his wife, ‘There was one of them kids trying to jump the gate. One of them scruffy little apeths from over the road – I bet it was him had my onions!’
‘What apeths?’ Con had gone and Mrs Waring was sitting in the one comfortable chair with her feet up, reading something, and seemed unwilling to be disturbed.
‘You know, feller whose wife passed on.’
‘Oh, Cathleen Knight’s boys.’ Mrs Waring looked up, her face sad. ‘Poor little devils. Don’t stand a chance. Stan Knight didn’t have a clue when Cathleen was alive and he’s got even less of one now.’
‘He was by the air-raid shelter,’ Mr Waring said, sitting down at the table and lifting the paper again. ‘Jumping up on the gate, bold as brass. Little sod.’ They both seemed to have forgotten Evie was there, so she knelt down with Whisky again, on the mat by the old range, in a bliss of warm fur.
‘Well, you know the kids play there,’ Mrs Waring said, settling back again. ‘I don’t know what’ll become of those poor Knight boys, though, I really don’t.’
Evie listened, taking all this in. She had not known about the air-raid shelter round in the back lane before. But she did know that the face she saw was that of the boy she had met in the entry, who she had seen since in the street among a gaggle of lads. The boy who, like her, always seemed to be running away.
Five
Later, Evie stood on the front step of number twenty-nine, listening.
Mrs Waring had packed her off eventually: ‘Go on home now, bab, or your mother’ll wonder where you’ve got to.’ Evie knew that Mom would not do any such thing but she dragged herself away from Whisky, whispering in the dog’s ear, ‘It’s all right, I’ll come back. I’m only going next door.’
She took the soft feel of Whisky’s coat away with her like a charm. Outside number twenty-nine she put her guard on again, the one she wore at home without even realizing. The door was open in the balmy late afternoon and she heard her father’s voice, then her mother’s loud laugh. Dad said she laughed like a foghorn. Shirley said something, then Dad and Mom laughed again. Encouraged, Evie stepped inside.
They were at the table, Mom in her best blue frock again, her hair curled at the ends. Dad looked relaxed, cheeks stubbly, shirt open at the neck. He was lolling back with one of old Mrs Garnet’s china cups in his hand, half full of a dark liquid which you could be sure wasn’t tea. Rita and Shirley were on the settle and there was an enamel jug on the table. Evie could smell the ale on the air. But she could also smell food and the table was littered with plates smeared with brown gravy. They had evidently eaten last night’s stew without her.
Irene saw her come in. ‘Oh, ’ello, babby,’ she said with the complacency of someone whose stomach is full. ‘Where’ve yer bin?’
Evie stood with her hands behind her back. There was no sign of any food for her. But for once, all the family were looking at her. Mom’s warm tone made the sun come out in her heart. Immediately she would have done anything for her mother, anything that would please her.
‘I went to see the dog,’ she said.
Mom laughed again, her body wobbling. Evie wasn’t quite sure it was a nice laugh. ‘The dog? What dog?’ She pushed herself up in the chair. ‘You don’t wanna go near them filthy whammels. Pass us the jug, Shirl.’
She didn’t really want to know and Evie knew it was better not to tell her anything. It might come back in a nasty way later. But she thought her rare and shining moment of attention was over and did not want it to end, so she burst out, ‘’Er’s called Whisky.’
‘Ooh, I’ll ’ave a drop of that,’ her father said. Mom laughed loudly. She was in one of those moods where she’d laugh at anything Dad said because she, too, craved attention and the drink was in and life was good. ‘C’m’ere, babby.’ Dad also sat up a bit and beckoned to Evie, scraping his chair back. ‘Come and see yer old dad.’
‘Evie’s too big for that,’ Rita said in a sour voice.
‘Nah, she ain’t. Come on, pretty wench, come and see yer old dad.’
Evie went to him and Dad pulled her onto his lap. He hadn’t done that in a long time. She snuggled up against him, feeling part of things for once. Feeling favoured by the warmth of an embrace, the rub of his stubble against her cheek. Rita made a face at her from across the table.
‘Eh, our Reet, no call for that,’ Dad said. His beer-and-fag breath filled Evie’s nostrils. She was pressed against his warm chest, his arms round her. ‘Not when we’re ’aving a nice afternoon – ain’t we, eh, all my wenches?’
Irene filled her cup again and sat back. ‘Course we are, Ray,’ she said. ‘In our new house.’ She looked round. ‘I’d say we’ve landed on our feet ’ere. Better than that last ’ole we were in.’
Dad wasn’t listening to her. ‘You’re getting big now,’ he observed into Evie’s ear. ‘Sit up a bit, wench, I can hardly breathe! Look at you!’ He ran a rough hand down her arm, then clamped his hand over her thigh until it pinched. Evie winced. ‘Turning into a ripe one, you are.’
Evie saw her mother’s face turn thunderous. Mom was enraged by any attention or compliment from Dad that wasn’t sent in her direction. She leapt from her chair and Evie hardly knew what was happening until a slap stung her face and made her ear ring.
‘Stop playing up to yer dad like that! Go on, get off of ’im, yow dirty little trollop! Don’t encourage her, Ray. Our Reet’s right – ’er’s too big for all that! Giving ’er ideas!’
Confused, Evie slid to the floor again, seeing Rita and Shirley smirking at her.
‘What’re you on about, yer soft cow?’ Ray protested muzzily.
‘C’m’ere, kid,’ Irene said, expansive, wheedling all of a sudden, as she sank into her chair again.
Wary, longing, Evie went to her, looking up into her mother’s face, the fleshy, pitted skin, clogged at this moment with powder, the full lips with a remnant of red on them, big eyes and bright, blonde hair. Her mother who occupied most of the world, filled the sky like a moody and unpredictable sun that Evie desperately wanted to shine on her at all times.
‘Run and fetch me my cardi from upstairs,’ Mom ordered her. ‘Sun’s going down.’
Evie hurried to do as she requested. By the time she came down, Mom was filling her cup again, tilting the jug to get the last drops.
‘Shirl, go down the outdoor and get us another jug,’ Mom ordered.
‘Oh Mom,’ Shirley groaned. ‘Why do I ’ave to? Can’t Evie go?’
‘I’ll go,’ Evie said, desperate to curry favour, to regain her momentary place basking in light.
‘You can clear up the cowing table, Shirl,’ their mother said.
‘Go on then, our kid.’ Dad reached into his pocket and pressed coppers into her hand. ‘You can earn yerself a ha’penny for going, how’s that, eh?’
Glowing, Evie ran along the street to get the jug filled at the outdoor of one of the pubs where you could buy straight from the street. Mom and Dad were being nice to her. She was happy. She didn’t think about anything else.
When she got back, Rita had got out a dog-eared pack of cards. Dad plonked a ha’penny into her palm and Evie stowed it in her knicker leg. She sat at the table with Rita and Shirley. Mom and Dad drank and laughed at nothing much and everyone was in such a good mood that Rita and Shirley even let her play Rummy with them. It was the best night Evie could remember in a long time – at least, for as long as it lasted.
By the time darkness had fallen, all of them were hungry again, especially Evie, and the drink was taking its effect.
‘What’s for my cowing tea?’ Dad asked, in the face of there being no obvious sign of any food manifesting itself.
‘Don’t need tea,’ Mom retorted. ‘You’ve ’ad yower cowing dinner. Yow’ve got yower ale.’
‘What d’yer mean, don’t need tea? You’re a bloody lousy wife, you are.’
‘Don’t yow cowing talk to me like that!’ Mom was on her high horse immediately. ‘How’m I s’posed to feed all yow cowing lot when yow’ve spent most of yower wages by Sat’dy night?’
‘I’m the one who earns the cowing wages! I’m the man of the house and if I say I want a dinner, I want a dinner – NOW!’
And off they went, hammer and tongs again. The girls looked at each other. No tea for them. Again.
Sunday morning was like so many other Sunday mornings at home: the foul-tempered dregs of the Saturday night before. Church bells rang round the city, people walked out in hats and coats and Sunday best dresses and jackets, including Mr and Mrs Charles, who walked along the street with their younger son, all in their smartest clothes, backs straight as ramrods. No one went to church from Evie’s house and it stank of the bucket, in the general direction of which Dad had peed liberally before crashing into bed. Their house did not contribute to the inviting smells of Sunday joints roasting along the street.
Mom and Dad slept until almost midday. Mom was in a mean temper once she woke. She sat downstairs drinking tea and smoking and there was no food. Evie sat on the front step, her mouth watering at the meat smells on the air, her stomach rumbling. She had taken a few pinches of sugar off the saucer on the table without Mom noticing but she didn’t dare go back for more. She still had her ha’penny, but all the shops were shut.