by Annie Murray
‘Can we come in?’ Linda said, trying not to sound irritated. She didn’t know what it was with Mom these days. Sometimes she felt really sympathetic to her, what with being a widow after all that had happened to Dad and Carol being in hospital and everything. At other times it was as if devilment rose in her and she couldn’t stand anything about home and her mom and all she could think of were rude, bad-tempered things to say.
‘Course you can. Aren’t you going to introduce me first?’
‘This is Alan,’ Linda said, grumpily.
‘Come on in, Alan,’ Violet said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? We’ve got some cake over from yesterday, haven’t we, Lin? We’ve always got cake, with her working at Wimbush’s.’
She turned and smiled at them and Linda saw her suddenly. Mom’s pretty, she thought. Maybe she always had been and she’d never noticed. She was certainly more relaxed and happy-looking than she had ever known her.
‘Where d’you work, Alan?’
‘Nowhere.’ A hunted look came over Alan’s face. ‘Not at the moment.’
‘Oh well – ’ Violet put a plate of sponge slices on the table. ‘Never mind, love – you’ll find something soon. Plenty of jobs about if you’re ready to knuckle down, aren’t there?’
‘Well – yes,’ Alan said. And Linda saw him relax. At home he felt a failure, but Violet accepted him just as he was.
She watched him getting on with her mother. He asked her about Carol and her job and then if he could see the dogs.
‘Oh – you don’t mind if I let them in again then?’ Violet was delighted. ‘Some people don’t like them – Mr Bottoms next door doesn’t, does he, Lin? If you’re all right with them, I’ll bring them in.’
Alan loved the dogs and made a big fuss of them.
‘They like you,’ Violet said. ‘They can tell when someone really takes to them, can’t they, Lin?’
Once Alan had ridden away that afternoon, though, Violet said, ‘Seems a nice enough boy. Bit posh for you, though, isn’t he?’
Without answering, Linda left the room and slammed the door. Trust Mom to want to drag me down as usual! she thought, thumping up the stairs. She’d keep Alan well away from here, she decided. They were better off without anyone telling them what to do and who to be – just the two of them.
The next Sunday was a bright day and they rode right out to the countryside and sat out of the breeze behind a blackthorn hedge, looking across a sloping field where tiny shoots of green were sprouting like hair. Clouds came and went across the sky.
‘Smoke?’ He held out a packet to her.
Linda took one and enjoyed the trail of it on the fresh air. They were huddled, side by side. She fished out ham sandwiches and they munched in silence for a time, alternating with puffs on the cigarettes.
‘Here – ’ Out of his bag he pulled a bottle of Bell’s whisky.
Linda wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t like it much. Got anything else?’
‘No – go on. It’s Dad’s. It was in the cupboard in his office.’
‘Won’t he want it?’
‘Probably. He’ll just have to get some more, won’t he? Get out on his footsies and buy some for himself.’
She unscrewed the bottle and took a swig, gasping as it burned down.
‘It’s horrible!’
‘You get used to it.’ He drank himself, grimaced, then wiped his mouth.
‘D’you know what?’ He was full of indignation suddenly. ‘The damn film censors . . .’ He swigged again.
She pushed her fingers through the dropped stitches in Carol’s scarf. The smell of the damp earth rose up between her knees. ‘What’re you on about?’
‘That movie – the one Stanley told me about? It was Hot Blood – the one about the bikers, Marlon Brando . . .? They’ve renamed it The Wild One. But they’ve banned it – they aren’t bloody well going to show it over here! The mealy-mouthed reactionary bigots in this pathetic small-minded country won’t let us see it because it’s too controversial for us. As if we’re kids and can’t make our own minds up! God, I was dying to see that. I was looking forward to it. Stanley’s got a leather jacket – like the guys in the movie!’
‘Stanley seems to get everything,’ she remarked. She got a bit tired of hearing about Stanley. He was older than Alan, and already a college student.
‘That’s what comes of living in the US of A. It’s another world from here. Everything here is so staid and tired and unexciting.’
‘Mom says it’s because of the war. Austerity.’
‘It’s not just that – it’s the way we are. I don’t want to be British. I don’t want to be me!’
He flung himself over on his side, impatiently, as if trying to escape from his own skin. He was still holding the bottle and she could hear his voice getting louder, the way it did when he drank. She reached over and took it from him, standing it down beside a big thistle.
Suddenly he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. She wrapped her arms round him. At least when he kissed her he stopped being angry. She saw the tender side of him then, and he moved her. She loved him so much, the feelings seemed to fill her whole body.
Chapter Sixty-Six
A row of bright red tulips along the garden fence swayed in the spring breeze.
Violet stood by the sink, looking out.
‘I planted you,’ she whispered.
They were the first thing she had ever planted. Now and then there had been marigolds and pansies which she’d bought ready-grown to try and brighten up their patch of garden, but these tulips she had put in as dull, dry bulbs and now look at them!
She held her cup of tea clasped in both hands, and could feel the steam warming her chin. Today was special: she had taken the day off – ‘Of course you’ve got to be at home, darlin’!’ Rita said – because it was the day Carol was coming back from St Gerard’s.
Linda had only just left for work, the door slamming shut to leave the house with this strange miracle of quietness. The cold tap was slowly dripping and she tightened the faucet to shut it up. She could dimly hear sounds from next door – the Kaminskis must have their radio on.
Out beyond the tulips, at the bottom of the garden, was a freshly dug patch with a little wooden cross on top made from slivers of the broken fence. This was Dolly’s grave, one of the two old mongrel sisters, who had died last week. Violet’s eyes filled with tears looking at it. Linda and Alan had buried her, taking turns with the spade, Joe Kaminski occasionally peering over the fence, baffled by such sentimentality. Violet knew she wouldn’t get any more dogs. They still had the cats, and Snowdrop, and the budgies. Before she had craved animals, had gathered them round her for comfort. Everything was different now.
She had watched Linda and Alan burying Dolly. Sweet together, they were: Lin, with her long hair all round her face, both of them out there in those sloppy clothes they seemed to want to wear. One moment they had their arms wrapped round each other, the next they were down there scraping at the earth like little kiddies digging on the beach . . . She couldn’t believe she already had one daughter married with a babby – and now it looked as if Linda was heading the same way. Linda of all people! But it was the natural way of things, wasn’t it? She’d worried about Lin when she was younger, knocking about with that queer bloke Johnny Vetch, and all that business about the grammar school. It was as if her girl had taken off into a foreign country where Violet couldn’t speak the language. Lin had been angry for a bit of, course, when she had to leave, but it had been for the best, hadn’t it?
Only gets you into trouble, pushing out into water that’s too deep, Violet thought. Best stick with your own and what you know. When it came to marriage – well, that she did know something about! What good ever came of kicking over the traces? For a moment she thought uneasily of Rosina, her agitated departure from Joyce’s wedding in those fancy clothes. She should do something about her, get in touch. But there’d been so much else to get through, no time, no energy le
ft. And who was Rosina now? The truth was, she wasn’t sure she could face it.
For a moment she pictured the future, with her still living here in this house she was now licking into shape, month by month, room by room. She felt proud of it now – she’d done a lot of it by herself, with odd bits of help from Joe Kaminski and Danny. There were things left to do, of course, like the garden and their mess of a front door. But she’d made a real home of it. The girls would live nearby with their husbands, grandkids over at the weekend, her cooking, queen bee at the middle of her family. She smiled, in the direction of the tulips. It had all been such a struggle – making ends meet – where would she have been some weeks without the Divi stamps from the Co-op? But at last she felt on top of things a bit, could feel she was the driver in her life instead of always riding pillion on events and letting them happen to her.
Not like Muriel and Dickie, upping sticks and going all the way to Australia! They’d had Christmas on the beach! She did wish Muriel hadn’t gone so far away. Sometimes she ached to see her, with her crisp Scottish accent and her jokes, to talk over old times. But the two of them sounded happy, that was the main thing – even if they hadn’t managed to have any kids of their own.
I must write to her, she thought. Finishing her tea, she put the cup in the sink and sat down at the table. It felt like the first time she had sat down for twenty years and she smiled at this thought. God, there’d been some hard times! Considering that, she wasn’t in bad nick, was she? She looked down at herself, trim in her blouse and skirt and stockings. And Rita had done wonders with her hair. In fact she felt better than she’d ever done in her life before.
Sitting back in her chair, she looked round the room, dwelling on familiar objects in a way she never normally had time to. This kitchen was a luxury compared to anything Bessie had ever had. She could have had it by now, of course, if she hadn’t been too stubborn to move. Everything looked beautiful today, the sink with its wooden drainers, pans on the stove, handles all pointing the same way, the colander, sieve, potato masher, big metal spoon all hanging from hooks beside the sink, her life, with its mundane tools for feeding them all day by day. And on this day there would be a feeling of rightness, of gathering everything in, because, after almost seven months, Carol was coming home. Roy’s Carol.
A bar of weak sunlight slanted across the floor and she watched it lazily, allowing herself to dream. How much had she ever really got to know Roy? Did he love that wife of his? He had seemed to, and loved his children, of course. His life had gone on, somewhere, children growing up, he getting older, and all she had of him were those pictures, frozen in her mind, of those ecstatic days when they had loved each other during the war. Real life wasn’t like that, she reminded herself. Things change. Roy and his wife would be a middle-aged couple living out their life somewhere . . .
‘And I,’ she said, pushing herself up from the table, ‘had better get on with it, not sit drooling here.’
But even now, at the thought of his lips on hers, a pang went through her almost as deep as the day he left.
They came with Carol soon after midday. Violet heard sounds outside and opened the door to see her getting carefully out of a car, not an ambulance this time. Her hair was long now, a gold blaze over her shoulders.
‘Hello, Mom!’
And Carol walked, beaming, towards her carrying a little cloth bag. Violet saw that the limp was still quite bad. Her left leg was slightly withered, and though St Gerard’s had done everything they could on her spine, her leg was not likely to get better than this. But Carol was delighted.
‘It’s lovely – I can walk properly!’ That first time she had paraded up and down the ward to show them. One of the nurses clapped.
Violet still felt a mother’s sadness at any disfigurement to her child, but of course it was true – she was walking, and without even a stick or a caliper! Her life could be much more normal now. Violet’s eyes filled. Carol could have died, she could have been crippled for life, but here she was, walking up the path, almost right as rain.
Once they stepped inside, Violet took her girl in her arms.
‘Hello, babby – ’ She lifted Carol off the floor. She was eleven now, but still a little scrap of a thing. ‘Oh, you’re home at last.’ She closed her eyes, feeling Carol’s arms gripped round her convulsively.
‘We’ve done up Joyce’s room for you to have,’ Violet told her excitedly. ‘Linda chose the colour for you – it’s ever so pretty.’
Violet showed her the new bedroom, pink walls and curtains, a teddy waiting for her on the bed. Sooty was asleep on there curled up as well. Then she wanted to see the rest of the animals and Violet made her a sandwich.
Carol was quiet at first, then talked in a constant stream, all about her friends at St Gerard’s, Bernice and the others, the daily routine, what they’d be doing now. When she’d finished her sandwich she limped over to fetch the cloth bag. It was made of faded green velvet.
‘That’s nice,’ Violet said. ‘Who gave you that?’
‘Sister Maria,’ Carol said. She sat down at the table and from the bag pulled out a black book with a worn leather cover. Violet was startled for a moment. It looked almost like that poetry book that Roy had brought to show her!
‘What’s that, pet?’
‘Sister Cathleen sent it over for me.’ Carol hugged it for a moment as if it was a doll. ‘She came to see me on Sunday because they told her I was going home, and she said it was hers. It’s called a Missal – ’ She flicked through the delicate pages. ‘It has all the readings in that they do at Mass every day.’
‘Oh,’ Violet said. She felt resentful. Why give a child something like that? It seemed most peculiar – and why on earth was Carol so pleased with it? Thank heavens they were out of there and had seen the last of that meddling Sister Cathleen!
‘I’m going to read the readings with them,’ Carol said.
‘I’ve got some chocolate biscuits,’ Violet said. ‘D’you want one?’
‘Umm – yes please!’
‘And shall we have a game of Ludo?’
Carol beamed. ‘Yes, OK. When’s Linda coming home?’
‘She’ll be in – soon as she’s finished work.’
It was so lovely to have her back and Violet spent the afternoon close by her, wanting nothing else but to drink in her presence, and trying to understand that Carol had been away for a very long time and that she was full up with chatter about the day-to-day rhythms of the hospital because she had known nothing else.
When it was nearly dark, they were sitting together in the back room and heard noises at the front. Carol gasped.
‘Linda!’
A moment later, Linda appeared. Violet saw the two sisters’ eyes meet and the joyful smile which spread over Linda’s face.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
They were laughing. Linda had never heard Alan laugh that much before.
They were not laughing about anything in particular: it was the drinking that made all the difference, cider this time, a big bottle of it standing half empty in the bright summer grass by Alan’s head.
‘God – it’s flaming strong!’
Linda started tittering after only a few mouthfuls. The stuff licked its way down into her stomach, and in no time she felt floaty and blurred in the head as if all she could ever do was lie in that spot for ever, unable to move.
‘What the hell’s that made of?’
‘Apples,’ Alan told her, taking another huge swig.
‘No – it’s never!’ She giggled.
‘ ’Tis!’
The field started to swerve around her.
‘I think I’m going to have to lie down!’
All she could see was the sky like a blue saucer, smell the heavy scent of cow parsley, waving close to their heads. Behind them, the bike was propped against the gate. Just for once she’d taken the denim jeans off as it was hot and put on a checked frock, and fronds of grass tickled the backs of her legs.
‘You sound like a girl!’ She laughed even more, hearing him.
‘No I don’t!’
‘You do . . .’
He drank some more, wiping his mouth on his bare arm, then lay down beside her and they held hands.
‘It’s like standing waiting for the bus,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘If you tipped us up, so’s we were standing up. You’re standing next to me . . .’ His voice was slurred. ‘Christ – it is strong, that stuff . . .’
He raised his arm and pointed two fingers at the sky.
‘Bang . . . Bang!’
Then he pedalled his legs in the air. ‘Roger Bannister! Four-minute mile!’
Laughter seemed to come out of Linda without her asking it.
‘Stanley’s going to get me a picture – Marlon Brando on his bike. The Wild One.’
He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. It was then he told her about the job.
He’d hung about for a few weeks in the spring, never seeming to get round to doing anything but tinker with the bike and go to the pictures. Linda liked him coming and meeting her from work, and Mrs Richards was always ever so pleased to see him.
‘He is a nice lad,’ she said frequently to Linda. ‘You are lucky – you hold on to him, duck.’
Course, Mrs Richards could think about nothing but wedding bells and babies either. Linda didn’t know why she felt stifled any time anyone talked like that. Even Carol had asked her if she was going to marry Alan. Carol said she hoped so because she liked him.
In May he’d announced he’d got himself a job, in a foundry near the middle of town. At the time, they’d quarrelled about it.
‘What d’you want to do that for?’ she said. ‘You can do something better than that, surely?’
Alan became suddenly hostile. ‘What d’you mean, better? What – you think you’re above an ordinary working-class job, do you?’