by Annie Murray
Clarence, a stooped figure beside them, had on his old Sunday suit, which he could only just do up round him, and which for some reason now seemed to be too short in the legs. The remaining wisps of his hair were combed over like strands of seaweed on a rock. Of the three of them he looked by far the most cheerful.
‘We’ve been here close on an hour already,’ Bessie complained, as soon as Violet set foot out of the car.
‘Well, you knew it started at twelve,’ Violet said mildly. Her mom was always at her most aggressive when out of her usual home and street. ‘Why don’t you go in and sit down?’
Bessie eyed the church door warily. Marigold stood, impassive as ever, though Violet could sense an excitement in her. Anything different was a treat for Marigold.
‘Let’s go in, Bess,’ Clarence said in his quavering voice. ‘My knees’re killing me.’
‘You go in then,’ Bessie snapped, stubbing her cigarette out on the wall. ‘And take her off my hands, will you?’ She nodded dismissively at Marigold. ‘I’m going to see the bride arrive.’
Bessie had always liked Joyce, who did all the right things in her eyes.
Violet and Mr Rodgers helped Harry into his pew at the front of the church, settling him on his cushion.
‘No sign of Tom yet?’ Harry asked.
His brother, Uncle Tom, was to stand in his place, giving Joyce away.
‘He’ll be along. I ought to go and watch for him, see a few people,’ Violet said, patting the back of her hair, agitated.
‘I’ll be all right.’ Proud, he sat up as straight as he could. ‘Leave me be, woman.’
Some of their friends and neighbours had walked over. Joe and Eva Kaminski were just coming in. Eva, dressed in bright emerald green, kissed Violet.
‘This is a good day. A good day,’ she pronounced, in her spiky way.
Behind them was Edna Bottoms, in a sober little navy blue outfit. She smelled sweetly of talcum powder.
‘I wanted to come.’ She was all flustered. ‘Reg wanted to as well, only . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ Violet said, knowing Edna was covering up for him. Imagine Reg Bottoms coming to Joyce’s wedding! ‘It’s nice of you, love.’
She was distracted by seeing Uncle Tom arrive at last, striding up the road. The sight of him always gave her a pang. He was so like Harry! All Harry could have been in looks and physical strength.
Soon after, Mr Rodgers drew up with the three girls, Carol in the front and Linda with Joyce at the back. The few left outside all stood back to admire as Joyce climbed out of the car, full of herself, fussing over her dress and making Linda rearrange her veil. She beamed regally at everyone. Violet was aware of the special, pitying smile people gave ‘little Carol’ as she struggled up the steps with her crutches.
At last they were all settled inside and Joyce paraded along the aisle, Linda and Carol behind. Joyce, holding her bouquet of blossoms, tried to look solemn but couldn’t contain her grin of delight.
Danny turned to greet her, looking constrained and uncomfortable in a suit, the collar too tight and cutting into his plump neck. He was very like his dad and just as jolly. Violet watched Carol anxiously, but she was managing perfectly well.
As Joyce and Danny stood in front of the vicar, waiting to make their vows, Violet couldn’t contain her emotion and the tears ran down her cheeks.
‘You’re so young,’ she’d said to Joyce. ‘Just leave it for a bit. What’s the rush? You’re hardly old enough to know your own minds.’
‘You got married when you were seventeen!’ Joyce argued fiercely. ‘And anyhow, Danny’s nineteen. We’re old enough to decide and you’re not going to stop us. If you won’t let us, we’ll run away and get married somewhere else!’ There was no budging her.
All Harry said was, ‘She’s right, Vi. She’s no younger than you were.’
As she watched them standing there she was back at her own wedding day, Harry beside her as he was now, but then upright and strong, full of urgent male energy. She skipped past this painful thought. What about her own family on that day? Bessie had been approving all right. Had she married to please Bessie, or to escape her? Marigold had been there, just the same, like a sealed jar, its contents ageing in airless secrecy. And Rosina, her lovely bridesmaid. How she longed for her.
‘I never knew why she took off like that,’ she said sometimes. But she knew really. She was the one who got out from under Bessie.
Back in the winter they had heard from her for the first time in years. There was no special reason they could make out that prompted her to write. This time she gave an address though, in London.
Dear Mom and all of you,
I feel I want to write to you, Christmas coming up and everything. There’s too much to tell you though, to catch up over the years. We’ll do it one day. I hope you’re all doing well. These are my children, Clark and Vivianne. Clark’s nine now and Vivianne seven. They’re doing well and I wanted to show you them. Clark’s really one of us, isn’t he?
Love to you all – Charlie, Vi, Marigold – I’ve missed you.
Rosina.
Clark was very like her: the definite brows and the delicate, handsome features. The girl’s colouring was lighter and she was round-faced and sweet-looking, with long, curling hair. With her, Violet didn’t immediately feel the same sense of recognition, of affinity that she did with the boy. My nephew, she thought.
Once again the picture was propped on the mantel in Bessie’s house.
‘So she’s remembered we exist,’ Bessie said. Her tone was very hard. ‘Does she think we’re all going to go rushing down there now she’s spawned a couple of brats?’ She heaped scorn on anything to do with Rosina.
But I might, one day, Violet thought. I might see her. Rosina was her one proper sister. There was Marigold of course, but you couldn’t really talk to her, her and her love songs and her closed-off life. Violet was never close to Charlie. He was always just there – Gladys, his kids, beer. You didn’t get much out of him either. We’re a family of women, she thought. The men are like shadows.
Light streamed in through the high windows. Violet looked at Joyce’s slim back in her shiny dress. And Danny. He was no shadow though. He had a lot of life in him, and the two of them really did seem to love each other. When they kissed after the vows, she heard a big sigh from behind, everyone going ‘Aaah’, especially Bessie. Joyce turned round, blushing and looking very pleased with herself.
She’s done it, Violet thought, wiping her eyes. Our Joycie – married. I might be a grandmother soon!
Joyce clung on to Danny’s arm, laughing, and Violet could feel the pleasure of the moment in the people round her.
‘She looks very lovely,’ she heard Eva Kaminski say behind her.
Then she saw Joyce’s face change, a sober enquiring expression come across it as she looked down the church, seeing something behind them all. She squinted, trying to see clearly, to make something out, and then as if uncertain, puzzled, her eyes met Violet’s.
Violet turned and saw as well. Seated near the back of the church, a slim, smart figure in a large, peach-coloured hat with a sloping brim, from under which looked dark, defiant eyes. As if Violet’s thoughts had winged her there.
Rosina.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Linda didn’t notice Rosina until they got right outside.
Everyone was milling about, lighting cigarettes, talking and laughing like children let out of school, amid the whirl of confetti scattered by Joyce’s workmates.
‘Who’s that?’ Carol nudged her.
The woman in the peach hat and dress had collared Violet and pulled her away from the rest of the group.
Linda shrugged. But there was something about the stranger that drew her attention. She seemed familiar, yet Linda knew she didn’t know her. The woman was holding Violet’s upper arm as if to stop her moving away, and talking urgently. Linda saw her mother nodding in a bewildered way and then as the peach-dress woman
started to pull back, Violet made a sharp movement to stop her. All this only took a few seconds and it was only then that anyone else began to notice.
‘Who’s that?’ she heard Bessie say behind her. ‘Someone come to see Violet. Looks posh. Fancy barging in in the middle of all . . .’
‘That’s Rosina,’ Marigold’s flat voice pronounced.
‘Ros . . . No! Don’t be so bloody silly, Marigold.’
‘ ’Tis. It’s Rosy.’
‘It’s never . . . Is it?’
But the woman leaned forward, swiftly kissed Violet on the cheek and hurried away along the road on her high, white heels. She seemed almost about to break into a run. Violet stood staring after her, a hand up to her cheek.
‘Vi?’ Bessie shoved through the other guests to where Violet was standing by the road. Linda followed. ‘Who was that? Was that Rosina?’
Violet turned. Her eyes were full of tears. ‘She wanted to come. But she wouldn’t stay. I wish she’d stay . . .’
‘Well, what’s she playing at?’ Bessie erupted, red-faced. She threw down her cigarette and ground at it with her heel. ‘Go after her and make her come back! Swanning in and out like that after seventeen years! Not a word to her mother. What the hell did she have to say for herself?’
‘Not much . . .’ Violet was weeping now, in shock and disappointment. ‘I want her to be here – to see her . . .’
‘Little bitch! I’d like to get her here and put her over my knee. You should’ve got her and made her stay. There’s a few things I’d say to her, I can tell you. She always was a selfish little cow!’ Bessie’s raging started to filter through to everyone else and they went quiet. Joyce came hurrying over.
‘Nan!’ she hissed, mortified. ‘Stop shouting – everyone’s staring. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s going on. That . . . that trollop mincing off down the road there were your auntie Rosina, looking down her nose at us and then taking off as if she was royalty and too good for us. Wants a good hiding, that she does.’
God, Nana, shut up, Linda thought, mortified. Making all this carry-on at Joyce’s wedding!
‘Nan, please,’ Joyce begged. ‘Leave it. Everyone’s staring at you.’
Bessie wheeled round to face everyone on the steps. ‘Go on then – have a good look. That’s it – walk away. See you down the pub, you bloody miserable lot!’
‘Stop it!’ Joyce wailed. ‘You’re spoiling my wedding. Just stop it!’
‘Mom,’ Violet begged, wiping her eyes. ‘Don’t keep on. It’s no good. Rosy’s gone. Don’t let her spoil Joyce’s wedding. Not after all this time.’
Bessie quietened and sank down on to the low wall. For a moment she looked frail. ‘She’s upset me, that’s all, turning up like that, ungrateful little bitch.’
Everyone else, unperturbed by Bessie’s outburst, was moving along the road towards the pub.
‘I must go and get Harry!’ Violet said, gathering her wits.
‘Mom – ’ Linda hurried after her, sorry for her. She felt different about everything, just today. Able to forget her own feelings. Mom never said how much she missed Rosina, but Linda could tell. ‘Mr Rodgers’s taken Dad home, remember? And your mascara’s smudged.’
‘Oh – ’ Violet stopped on the steps and fished out her hanky. ‘Is Carol all right? I feel all shaken up.’
‘What did she say? Auntie Rosina? How did she know about the wedding?’
‘I wrote to her. Just dropped her a line. It was when I wrote to Muriel telling her about Joyce, as if she was my sister. I just thought Rosy should know. And she’d sent her address this time. I thought she might want to know us again. And she came up all this way . . .’ Violet shook her head, sadly.
They reached Carol, who was waiting by the church door. Violet laid her arm round Carol’s shoulders and in that absent-minded gesture Linda saw another of those unguarded moments of devotion, of something only Carol brought out in her.
‘She just said, “I wanted to come but I can’t . . .!” ’ Violet said. ‘Something about not being able to face it. It was all so quick and then she went off. It’s made me feel peculiar seeing her.’
‘Mom – ’ Joyce came flaming up to them, all upset. ‘Nana’s spoilt it – she’s spoilt everything!’
But Danny was close behind.
‘Don’t talk daft.’ He put his arm round her waist and gestured at everyone strolling off along the road. ‘They don’t look bothered, do they? Come on, wench – Mrs Rodgers! Our dad’s waiting in the car.’
He squeezed her close and kissed her ear, and Joyce softened and giggled.
‘Danny! Gerroff!’
The two of them went off down the steps arm in arm and Violet managed a smile.
‘Look at them – least they’re all right, anyway.’
That night, Linda couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, just able to hear Carol’s breathing in the other bed. No Joyce next door now, of course. She and Danny were off for a few days by the sea before moving into the tiny flat above Mr Rodgers’ garage, where Danny worked.
There were no sounds from next door. When they got home, after the celebrations in the pub, Dad had been asleep in his chair, flaked out and grey in the face. Linda noticed her mom’s face alter as she saw him, that thought that went through her head from time to time, wondering if he was still with them, if the wedding had been the end of him. But he woke and managed a bowl of chicken soup.
Linda could feel Sooty, a warm, reassuring bundle curled up by her feet. She needed comfort. Soon after they got home her monthly period had started – thank goodness not in the middle of the wedding! She lay with the thick Dr White’s pad between her legs and gripes low in her belly. She felt fragile and emotional. Not that it hadn’t been a good day. They’d celebrated with Joyce and Danny, and things in the family had been more or less all right. Linda felt for once that she hadn’t been out on a limb, angry and misunderstood the way she normally felt these days. She knew how difficult things were for Mom, what with Dad and Carol, and she’d wanted to do her best to help. And for all that she and Joyce had never been close, she could see that she and Danny made each other happy.
But then Auntie Rosina turning up had upset Mom. Pleased her in a way too, but brought out a lot of emotion. And the wedding ceremony itself came back to her now, all the feelings that had swept over her as Joyce and Danny made their vows, then swept in triumph out of the church.
There’d been that moment as they turned, just married, Joyce’s cheeks flushed pink. She looked pretty, Linda could see. The prettiest she had ever looked. But all she could feel herself was a stony sensation in her chest.
She’s done it, Linda thought, she’s done the right thing – the thing every woman is supposed to do. As everyone went ‘Aaah’, all she could see was a vision of how Joyce’s life would be, mapped out in children and meals and Monday washes and hanging Danny’s socks out until she was old like Nana, sighing with memories at the weddings of her grandchildren. And this ought to have seemed a happy thing, yet it made her sink inside with dread at the inevitable vision in front of her.
I don’t want that, she was thinking. I don’t, I don’t . . . Yet what else was there? Being old and a spinster like Marigold, or funny Miss Turpitt who lived a few houses down and talked to the starlings and pigeons in the garden as if they were her family?
And what else was there to want, anyhow? Her years at the secondary modern had brought no satisfaction. The lessons were too easy and she couldn’t be bothered any more. She felt like a misfit, and became lethargic, sullen. What was the point of anything? If you stepped out of where you belonged you ended up like Johnny Vetch, in and out of the mental hospital.
The organ had started up and Carol was tugging on her arm, smiling up at her. ‘Wakey, wakey,’ she whispered. ‘Daydreaming again!’
As they turned to walk back down the aisle to the last hymn, her father looked ashen and exhausted from the effort of it all and he didn’t stand up. He was w
atching the couple with a haunted expression, and she saw tears running down her mom’s cheeks and a soft smile on Bessie’s plump face.
Outside, Linda found herself next to her grandmother and Marigold. Bessie’s breathing was laboured just from walking out of the church, her lungs giving off a sound like rustling paper. Linda watched as her eyes followed Joyce and Danny, both laughing as their friends threw confetti.
‘I’m s’posed to throw my flowers, aren’t I?’ Joyce cried. ‘Come on, you lot – who’s going to catch ’em?’
Bessie gave a low laugh. Soppy face, Linda thought, watching her. She was filled with a swelling sense of loathing, of panic. Look at her stupid, soppy face!
Bessie turned to her, watery-eyed.
‘Well, I s’pose you’re next on the list?’
And for a moment she wanted to run and run and never come back.
But lying here now, there was a weariness, a surrender, as if all her dreams were ashes and might just as well be. What did it matter? She had thought she might have a different sort of life, but she was cut out to be just like anyone else after all. This was her last term at school, and then she’d go to work in some firm or shop, meet some factory Jack, marry and settle down and that was that.
All right, she thought, her foot pressed against Sooty’s warm shape. If that’s what they want, they can have it.
Chapter Forty-Nine
June 1953
Linda ambled home from school along Bandywood Road, not in any special hurry to get there. Home, school, what was the difference? She felt numb about all of it, the days drifting by, always the same. She’d tried a bit, at the beginning, when she first went to the secondary modern, but not now. Mostly she felt as if her head was full of scraps of soggy paper. And at home, Dad was always ill and there was nothing to look forward to.