by Kitty Neale
‘You don’t have to do that. I can cook something.’
‘No, I insist. What do you fancy, Lily, a bit of cod or maybe haddock?’
‘All right then. Cod please, and a pickled onion.’
‘What about you, Mavis?’ Pete asked.
She forced a smile. ‘The same, please.’
‘Right, cod and chips all round. I won’t be long,’ he said, throwing his overcoat on before hurrying outside.
‘Right, Mavis. Now that Pete’s gone you can tell me what he said to bring about this sudden change.’
‘He…he said that he isn’t trying to take dad’s place.’
‘That’s right, he ain’t. He’s just being a good friend and I ain’t having you being rude to him again. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Mavis said, hating that she had to do this. If she was nice to Pete, it would feel like she was being disloyal to her dad, but once again she knew there was no other choice.
‘Good, now get the plates out and lay the table for when Pete comes back.’
This was something her mother would never have allowed a year ago, but thanks to Mrs Pugh Mavis was confident now when it came to handling china. She’d been told to do things slowly, to make sure that everything was gripped firmly and it had made such a difference. Of course, unlike Mrs Pugh, her mother didn’t have fine porcelain, but she still carried the thick white plates carefully to the table.
It wasn’t long before Pete returned, smiling as he put the newspaper-wrapped packages on the table. ‘There you go, fish and chips for my two lovely girls.’
‘Girl…me? No, I don’t think so, Pete.’
‘Leave it out, Lily. You’re still a spring chicken.’
Mavis was fighting to hide her feelings. She wasn’t his girl, would never be his girl, and hated the silly little smile on her mother’s face when she looked at Pete. Somehow she sat at the table to eat the food that tasted like sawdust in her mouth, and when Pete asked her if she was enjoying it she managed to say, ‘Yes, it’s lovely, thanks.’
‘Shame we didn’t think about a cake, Lily.’
‘She did all right with your cardigan and I let her keep a few bob out of her wages.’
‘Mum, when I’ve finished my dinner, can I go out again?’
‘Out! Where?’
‘To see Mrs Pugh.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘She…she invited me, said there’s more she’d like to teach me.’
‘Oh, yeah, like what?’
‘I dunno, but can I go, Mum?’
‘I don’t suppose it would do any harm, but I want you home by ten and not a minute later.’
‘Yeah,’ Pete agreed, ‘we don’t want you out on the streets any later than that.’
Mavis pushed her plate to one side. ‘Can I go now, Mum?’
‘You ain’t finished your dinner.’
‘I can’t eat any more. It was a large portion and I’m full up.’
‘All right, but don’t be late, or else.’
She grabbed her coat, called goodbye, and dashed out, thinking about Pete’s last words: we don’t want her on the streets—not your mother doesn’t want you on the streets. To Mavis it proved that, no matter what he said, he was trying to step into her father’s shoes.
Tommy Wilson turned the corner and saw Mavis Jackson walking towards him, but with her head down she hadn’t yet seen him. It had been over a year since they had both left school and in that time Tommy had seen the transformation. In fact, Mavis now looked flipping gorgeous. She had turned from a gangly schoolgirl into a right looker, but since that last encounter when he’d smashed up her painting he’d kept out of her way. She might be a bit dumb but he’d never forgotten the look on her face, the anguish, and he was still racked with guilt. Yes, he’d been angry that she’d blabbed, but he wasn’t a silly kid now and knew that he and Larry had deserved the rollicking they got.
Mavis looked up, saw him, paled and stopped in her tracks.
‘It’s all right, Mavis, I ain’t gonna hurt you.’
Her eyes flicked to the other side of the road and Tommy guessed she was going to bolt, so said quickly, ‘I’ve kept out of your way, you must have seen that, but, well, it’s about time I said I’m sorry.’
‘S…sorry?’
‘Yes, for smashing up your painting. I know it was a long time ago, but I shouldn’t have done it.’
‘It…it was a portrait of my gran, but…but she’s dead now.’
‘I know, I heard, and I’m sorry. Have you done another one?’
‘No, I don’t paint any more.’
‘That’s a shame. I know I took the mick out of it, but it was good.’
‘Th…thanks.’
Now that he was this close, Tommy couldn’t take his eyes off Mavis and wanted to prolong the encounter. ‘I’m an apprentice signwriter and, as it needs a bit of an artistic eye, we have something in common. Well, maybe not the writing, but the artistic bit.’
Mavis moved to step around him, saying curtly, ‘I’ve got to go, but thanks for the apology.’
Tommy could have kicked himself. Signwriting, what an idiot! It must have sounded like he was having a dig, but he hadn’t meant it like that. It was odd really, Mavis didn’t sound daft, or look daft, but he hadn’t really noticed that before. She’d just been Dumbo, and that was all he’d seen, a girl to make fun of; but somehow he suspected there was more to Mavis Jackson than met the eye. Not that he was interested in her, of course. Mavis might be a bit tasty, but his mates would take the piss out of him if he took out a girl who was known to be loopy. Not only that, his mother would have a fit. At the moment he had his eyes on a girl who worked on the make-up counter in Woolworths. Next week he was determined to ask her out.
Mavis was thinking about Tommy too. She hadn’t had to worry about Larry Barnet for some time now, not since he and his family had moved away, and she had to admit that it was true—Tommy had kept out of her way. Until now. She had still been scared when she saw him, but it had been unfounded. It was nice of Tommy to apologise, but then he had spoiled it with that dig about signwriting.
She picked up her pace, looking forward to going to Ellington Avenue. Mrs Pugh was the only one who didn’t treat her like an idiot, and when she was with her Mavis felt her confidence growing—but then, as always, her mother, and now Tommy Wilson, shot it down again. Oh, if only she could show them. Show them that she wasn’t daft—but on that thought, Mavis saddened. She couldn’t read or write, so she must be.
When she arrived at Mrs Pugh’s, it was Alec who opened the door, his smile warm. ‘Mavis, come on in. My mother said you might call in to see her again.’
She took off her coat, hung it in the hall closet, and then followed Alec into the sitting room. ‘Hello, Mrs Pugh.’
‘Mavis, how lovely to see you. I was hoping you’d accept my invitation. Sit down, my dear. As my son is busy with his stamp collection I can hardly get a word out of him, so you’re a welcome sight. Alec, if I can drag you away from your albums for five minutes, why don’t you make us all a drink?’
‘I’ll do it,’ Mavis offered.
‘No, sit down, Mavis. While Alec is making the drinks, there’s something I want to talk to you about. I had intended to wait until I had gathered all the facts I can, but I think you need something to cheer you up.’
Mavis sat on the sofa, and echoed Mrs Pugh’s words, ‘Cheer me up?’
‘As I’ve mentioned before, I can always tell when you’re unhappy, and as you accepted my invitation to come here, it must be because that man is still in your home. Am I right?’
‘Yes, he’s still there.’
‘I thought so, but listen, Mavis. I’ve been looking into the problems that a minority of school children have with reading and writing. It’s amazing what you can find in the library, and I think I’ve discovered something. For instance, in 1896, a Dr Pringle Morgan wrote a paper about congenital word blindness.’
‘Word blindness.
What’s that?’
‘It’s a medical condition. I think it may be the root of your problem and why you can’t read and write.’
Excited, Mavis asked, ‘If…if it’s medical, can it be cured?’
‘Not that I know of, but I’m sure further research is being done. I did find reference to an American man, Samuel Orton, who wrote a text in 1937 about what he called a specific reading disability. He advocates certain teaching methods, so you see, my dear, perhaps with a lot of patience and hard work, I’ll be able to teach you to read.’
Mavis gasped, unable to believe her ears. ‘Me! Read!’
‘Yes, but as I said, it may take some time. You’ll probably have to spend at least two evenings a week with me, as well as a few extra hours each weekend.’
‘I don’t mind, in fact, I’d love it. Oh, Mrs Pugh, this is like a dream come true! I’ve always been called stupid, or slow. If I can learn to read it’ll show that I’m not. I…I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘There’s no need, Mavis. I’ll enjoy the challenge.’
‘What challenge?’ Alec said as he walked in carrying a tray.
‘Your mother’s going to teach me to read,’ Mavis blurted out, so happy that she wanted to share this wonderful news with the world.
‘I’m going to try,’ Edith corrected.
Alec frowned. ‘But I thought…’
‘Yes, I know what you thought, but I’ve always suspected that Mavis is bright, more so since she’s been working for me. I’ve been looking into the subject and, though it will take some time, hopefully we’ll get there.’
‘This is all very commendable, Mother, but are you sure you’re up to it? You need to rest and I don’t want you wearing yourself out.’
‘Alec, I’m not braindead, and don’t want to be. It’s my body that’s letting me down. I need a challenge, something other than this illness to focus on.’
‘Very well,’ Alec said as he at last put the tray down. ‘If this is what you want to do, that’s fine. Anyway, when you get an idea into your head, there’s no arguing with you.’
‘Mavis, there’s just one thing,’ Edith then said. ‘I’d rather that the three of us kept this to ourselves for the time being. I wouldn’t want to raise your mother’s hopes, only to dash them down again if these methods don’t work.’
‘Oh…but…’
Mavis found her words cut off as Edith Pugh interrupted her to say, ‘Mavis, I insist. Think what a wonderful surprise it would be if one day you pick up a book or newspaper and begin to read out loud to your mother. Surely that would be better than the disappointment she’d face if this doesn’t work?’
‘Yes…yes, I suppose so.’
‘Good girl, and also, if your mother knows what I’m trying to do, she’s bound to want progress reports. I don’t want that, because as I said it may take some time and the last thing you need is to feel under any pressure.’
Mavis took in Mrs Pugh’s words, and had to agree that she was right. Oh, please let it work, she thought, anticipating the look on her mother’s face if she could read. She’d see pride at last and, maybe, even love.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On Saturday Ron woke up bathed in sweat, but at least the delirium had passed. He smiled gratefully at Pat Higgins, the woman who all those months ago had come to his rescue, tending him then as she was now.
All his big ideas about boarding a ship and leaving these shores forever had come to nothing, just as everything he tried to do came to nothing. Mind you, on that occasion it hadn’t been down to him. It had been down to a rotten pie, the one he’d found in a dustbin. He’d been fine at first, but by that night he’d been in agony, sweaty, shivering, sick, and chucking his guts out in an alley. Things were a bit foggy after that, but according to Pat she had found him lying in his own vomit, and with the help of another tom she had got him back to her flat.
‘How are you feeling, love?’ she asked now.
‘A bit better, but I could do with a drink.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Come on, Pat, just one. Look at me hands, they’re shaking and you know a drink will see me right.’
‘Yeah, but just a small one for now.’
Ron watched eagerly as Pat crossed the room, immune now to the way she dressed and the makeup she plastered on her face. Yes, Pat was a tom, but one with a heart of gold and one who plied her trade every night to provide the alcohol they both craved. The only thing she wouldn’t do was to give him money for gambling, but nowadays all Ron cared about was his next drink, and when Pat shoved a glass of whisky in his hand he downed it in one go. ‘Thanks, love, but what happened last night? I can’t remember a thing.’
‘You had a go at one of me punters, that’s what.’
‘Did I? Bloody hell. Why did I do it? Was he being a bit rough?’
‘No, he wasn’t. Shit, Ron, how many times have I got to tell you this? Unless I call you, stay out of the way when I bring a punter back. In the state you were in you’d have been useless anyway and you’re lucky he didn’t deck you.’
‘I’m sorry, Pat.’
‘Not as sorry as me. He didn’t pay.’
Ron knew how to placate Pat. He wasn’t any good to her in bed, found an erection impossible these days, but that seemed to suit her just fine. All she craved was a bit of affection, a cuddle without any strings attached. ‘Come here, love.’
‘Bugger off. You’re not going to soft-soap me this time.’
‘Come on, just a little cuddle.’
She scowled, but then, with a small shake of her head, climbed beside him on the bed. Ron wrapped his arms around her, his feelings of distaste long gone now, and stroking her hair he murmured, ‘I’m a useless bastard, Pat, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Nor do I, you daft bugger.’
Ron held her for a while, and like a child she snuggled into him. A wave of depression swamped him. Unlike his daughter, Pat wasn’t a child. She was a woman in her forties. Yet Mavis wasn’t a child now either. She was sixteen, and on her birthday he’d persuaded Pat to buy a card, which she then posted. It had assuaged his guilt, and thanks to Pat the rest of his daughter’s birthday passed in a haze of alcohol. And it was whisky he craved again now. It drowned out his memories, helped him to forget his past, one that, unless he stopped drinking and pulled himself together, he could never return to. ‘Pat, any chance of another drink?’
‘Yeah, all right,’ she said.
Pat climbed off the bed and once again Ron watched eagerly as she went across the room, this time returning with the bottle of whisky and two glasses. The measure she poured was large and Ron took the glass with a shaking hand, gulping the liquid gratefully.
He felt better shortly afterwards, mellow, and as Pat snuggled up to him again, he held her for a while, until she was ready to pour them both another drink.
Pat Higgins was smiling inwardly. She had come to love this tall, good-looking man who, unlike all the others, didn’t want to use her body. At first, as Ron recovered from food poisoning, all he had talked about was his wife and kid, along with his dreams of making it big so he could go back to them. Pat didn’t want that. Ron was different and she never wanted to let him go. All her life she had been abused by men. First by her father, and then, when she was taken into care, by a man in the children’s home. Even in foster care she’d been abused, until finally she had run away, surviving on the streets by telling herself that this time it was her choice that the bastards were using her body, and that at least she was getting paid.
She’d done all right over the years, made enough money to rent this place, but had always felt that there was something missing in her life. It certainly wasn’t sex. She’d had her fill of men, and when she’d found Ron in that alley, another tom had told her she was mad to take him back to her flat. Pat knew she was right, but there was something about Ron’s helplessness that drew her to take the chance.
Pat snuggled clo
ser to Ron. At first she knew that he hated what she did for a living, but then she had opened up, told him about her past and had seen the horror on his face. She knew it had been an impulse, that he had been driven by pity when he had drawn her into his arms, and had expected the inevitable to happen. But it hadn’t! He had just held her, comforted her, and for the first time in her life Pat had felt affection without any strings attached—felt that someone actually cared.
When Ron had fully recovered, she hadn’t wanted him to leave, and as he had nowhere else to go, she’d persuaded him to stay. Pat knew he was depressed and it hadn’t taken Ron long to become hooked on alcohol, in no fit state to find work, and dependent on her for his next drink.
Her face saddened. She wasn’t a fool and knew that Ron didn’t love her. It was just the alcohol that held him here, yet in truth she encouraged his need. She couldn’t let him go, wouldn’t go back to the loneliness she now knew had gripped her all her life.
‘Pat, I can’t stop thinking about my daughter. I hope she got my card.’
‘Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she?’ Pat said, knowing that the birthday card had never been posted.
‘Maybe I should write to Lily again, you know, just to let her know that I’m all right.’
‘Yeah, all right, I’ll post it for you when I go out,’ Pat said as she sat up to pour Ron another glass of whisky. A couple more and he’d forget about his wife and daughter as usual. If he did write a letter, it would go in the bin like previous ones. Ron was hers now and, as far as she was concerned, she’d make sure that his wife never heard from him again.
‘Mavis, surely you’re not going to Edith Pugh’s again?’ Lily asked. ‘You were there cleaning this morning, so why go back now?’
‘She’s teaching me things.’
‘Like what?’
Mavis bit her lip as though searching for an answer before saying, ‘I can cook a complete dinner now, and do a pudding.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Lily said doubtfully, ‘well, I’d like to see that. You can cook ours today.’