Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I’ve got a job in Lincolnshire,’ he says now.

  ‘I hope you and your other half will be happy there.’

  His eyes dart from side to side for a few seconds. He’s like a rat in a trap built by a world that is not being kind to him. He misses his mother. She was everything to him, and vice versa. ‘I suppose it’s best if we end the marriage,’ he says. ‘And I never, ever want to live with a clever woman again. You’ve made me ill. You’ve made me how I am.’

  Perhaps I have contributed to his condition, though I didn’t create it. I don’t like his way of life, his selfishness, his concern about image. I don’t like the way he envies the rich and wishes them ill. He must be terribly insecure.

  Suddenly, my mind is filled with images of us as we were, walking into the Med at midnight, our guts filled with cheap Spanish brandy. Looking for shells and finding someone’s top denture in the sand, displaying said item in the living room when we came home. Stopping the Royal Mail in Kensington on rag day, placing items of ceramic bedroom furniture on the heads of Victoria and her beloved Albert, paddling in fountains, singing Land of Hope and Glory on the Mall, making dangerous cocktails with fruit juice and absolute alcohol. We did have a life. We have been young and yes, I have loved him.

  ‘We’ve had some brilliant times, Den, but times change. I wasn’t enough for you and wasn’t right for you.’

  ‘This is scary,’ he admits.

  ‘I know.’ I want to hug him better, but I won’t. I can’t turn him into a brother, can’t have him as a friend.

  He leaves, and I sink into a chair and sob my heart out. It’s like another death, another period of bereavement. He was so alive until he became a businessman. His humour was brilliant, he enjoyed the holidays, good food, nights out, the theatre. Now? He’s an old man, and he hasn’t yet reached forty-five.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Then why are you crying?’ she asks.

  Why? Because part of my life just walked away, and I saw darkness all around him. He isn’t steady, isn’t right, isn’t whole. Even now, I worry about him. But I don’t tell Susan about all that, because she’s probably too young to cope with the concept. I ask her to make a pot of tea while I watch the news. The cup that cheers, the English cure, the best medicine.

  She comes back. I hear the kettle as it grumbles its way towards boiling point. ‘Anna?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maureen’s in the ozzy. Mam’s in the kitchen crying. Maureen’s feller beat her up and took the car off her.’

  ‘What?’ I am on my feet in a fraction of a second. ‘Phone a taxi. Take Marie to the hospital and find out what you can. I’ll get Juliet.’

  It never rains but it pours. Have you noticed that?

  I suppose it’s not believable, but it’s happening, so it’s real enough. If anyone had told me – a year ago, say – that my beautiful big house was going to be filled with Scallies, I would have laughed. But it’s not funny. Juliet is now in charge of two divorces – mine and Marie’s. Maureen doesn’t need a divorce, as she never married her Jimmy in the first place, so that’s OK.

  The master bedroom I allocated to myself and my girls – they are in separate cots, of course. Emily is sleeping through, and I am not as tired as I used to be. The smallest room contains Marie and dozens of cardboard boxes. Her husband is drying out in some unit for alcoholics, and she is on the emergency list for a council flat in St Helens. She’s had enough of her sons, her husband, and her wrecked house, so she’s being fast-tracked up the list.

  Bedroom two is for Susan and Stephen, while the third largest is occupied by Maureen. She has broken ribs and has recovered in hospital from severe concussion. The doctors and nurses were worried about bleeds and brain damage, but she woke after three days demanding a double brandy and a lipstick, so she’s all right, thank goodness.

  Our Maureen’s Jimmy is on remand in jail. We got the car back eventually, and I had it restored to its former beauty, since it’s the only thing of any value that poor Maureen owns. Marie is trying for a two-bedroomed flat so that Maureen can move in with her, because Maureen’s kids are old enough to have moved on. ‘Time they stopped depending on her, anyway,’ Marie said yesterday. My house is busy, alive and happy. The post-natal depression is wearing thin, and I am on a lower dose of red things, while the yellow ones are now withdrawn. The doctor is pleased with me. I am pleased with Marie.

  She is sorting out the Emily/Lottie business. It’s slow, detailed and impressive. Had Marie married a different bloke, she would have made a hell of a good mum. And I never allow myself to forget that this woman produced Susan, who is a wonderful daughter. There is in Marie a deep well of knowledge, an intelligence that is rare in a woman from any background. Out of the depths of the old Dingle has risen a psychologist who needs no letters behind her name, and I am in awe.

  She never raises her voice, doesn’t get cross, shows boundless patience. Marie is an ‘oper’ of whom even Mrs Bee might approve were she privy to the full details of my life with the twins. Working on a system that seems simple, Marie uses reward and deprivation with Emily. It isn’t simple – it’s quite complicated in reality, but my unexpected mentor follows a programme of which she is scarcely aware, yet she is an expert. I can only hope it works and that St Helens Council doesn’t find that flat too quickly. I am learning, but I must learn with alacrity.

  Sitting on our extra acre with three damaged women and three children, I am as happy as Mrs Bee’s proverbial pig in muck. It’s a bit like a commune, though we don’t need a list of rules regarding tasks and responsibilities. It’s as if each member of my household knows instinctively what needs doing and who needs help. The place is spotless inside. My heart overflows with gratitude.

  Apropos of absolutely nothing, Maureen makes an announcement. She is going straight. Susan, after almost choking on iced tea, composes herself sufficiently to ask, ‘Eh?’

  Maureen’s face is completely expressionless. ‘Time I turned over a new leaf,’ she says. ‘I’m not as fast as I used to be, and a shoplifter needs to keep on the move. So I’m going into butties.’

  ‘You’ll need a big kitchen, Maureen, for the buttering and spreading,’ I say.

  Marie eyes her recovering relative. With a family of such a size, a separate edition of Who’s Who might be useful. ‘Listen, our Mo. I’ve raised five lads and our Susan, and I’ve buttered more bread than you’ll find in Warburton’s Bakery. If you’re going into sandwiches, you’re on your own.’

  Maureen places a hand on her broken ribs. ‘After all what I’ve been through? You’ll get paid. I’ll give you a cut.’

  ‘A cut?’ Marie yells. ‘Never mind cutting, get ready sliced. And I don’t want nothing to do with egg mayonnaise. I can stand childbirth, drunks and thieves, but not egg mayonnaise. And you’ll pay rent, lady.’

  The gentle, good-humoured bickering lulls me to sleep, and I wake to find the chairs around me empty, the babies gone, and a blanket stretched over me. They’ll be inside preparing food. Maureen, who is making the most of her temporary injuries, won’t be doing much, but Susan and her mother are probably bathing kids and making a meal. It’s a family, a proper family. Most people would run a mile from this clan, but I am strangely comforted by their various eccentricities.

  Six

  Anna was busy collecting newspaper articles. History was being made and, though it was unpleasant, she needed to save the evidence for the future.

  ‘At it again?’ asked Bert, ruffling her hair as he neared the table.

  ‘We’re winning,’ she answered. ‘It’s nearly over. I’m sure it’s nearly over.’

  He shook his head. ‘There’ll be a fair amount of to-ing and fro-ing yet, love. It’ll be one step forward and two back on many a day, but we can’t lose. No way will Hitler rule the world, not while there’s still a few of us standing. He’s got to die. There’s been rumours that even his own generals have been plotting to blow him up.
He’s mad, you know. Totally out of his mind.’

  ‘Do the Germans know that, Uncle Bert? Do they know he’s crackers?’

  ‘Some do, some don’t. Like Churchill, he’s an inspirational speaker, gets people going. But he’s bloody hysterical most of the time, just gets folk worked up and sends them to kill us. They’ll catch on, pet. Wouldn’t surprise me if the daft bugger got shot by one of his own.’

  When was a murder not a murder, she wondered. Did war mean it wasn’t murder any more? If Dad had killed a load of baddies, would he go to hell because of mortal sin, or would he enter heaven as a brave man? She carried on cutting and pasting. If she put it all together, she could read it when she got older, then she might get some answers. Until then, it remained a grey area that interfered with her religion.

  ‘Uncle Bert?’

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘You know that final solution thing. Is it true? Can it really be happening? Can something so horrible be real?’

  He removed his cap and stared through the window. So peaceful here, so quiet. ‘I think it might be, sweetheart. Mr Hitler doesn’t seem to like Jews or Romanies or people who’re disabled. I am praying. I hope it’s not true. If anything ever needed to be propaganda . . .’ Then he found himself explaining propaganda. War was hard, especially when spent in the company of a seven-year-old. He spent more time on explanations than he did on eating his meals.

  ‘So sometimes, what we read in the papers isn’t true? Is that what you mean?’

  He told her he wouldn’t go that far, but that everybody saw things differently and sometimes news was exaggerated for a good reason. ‘They try to keep our spirits up, you see. They don’t want us all walking about with our faces in our boots, do they? They have to make us carry on smiling, love.’

  ‘But they should write the truth.’

  Bert smiled. ‘And it shouldn’t rain during the day, and the sun should shine from dawn till dusk. If you’re looking for a perfect world, babe, you’ll have to wait a long, long while.’ He went to feed the chickens. At least chickens didn’t ask questions.

  Anna looked at the clock. Soon, it would be time for her to walk up to Berkeley Hall and bring back the twins. Auntie Elsie was working up there this evening, so the twins would be Anna’s responsibility for a few hours. There was no point in moaning and groaning about that, she told herself. Everybody had to do their bit, and at least her bit didn’t involve guns or bomb-making. Which was just as well, because she still felt like killing the pair of them at times.

  They were two and a half now, and the half had been the worst. Tantrums. Screaming at each other in that weird language, breaking things, throwing food, banging their heads against walls. That was one of the most unusual of their behaviours, the synchronized head-banging thing. She failed to work out why they did it. Perhaps it was nice when they stopped? Perhaps they needed the pain to enjoy the pleasure when it was over? It was clear that Hitler wasn’t the only mad beggar in the world.

  She got out the big pram, because that provided the easiest way of getting Kate and Beckie from one place to another. She pushed the empty vehicle in the direction of the hall, but stopped halfway up the drive when she heard someone sobbing quietly. She parked the pram and pushed herself through a hole in a privet hedge. It was Linda Harris from the Land Army. She was curled into a ball and crying her eyes out.

  Anna hadn’t seen a great deal of Linda, because Linda was being courted by Roger, the son of Iris Mellor, owner of Berkeley Hall. ‘Linda?’ she said hesitantly. ‘Linda, it’s me. What’s the matter? Can I do something?’

  ‘Go away, Anna. Please go.’

  Anna wasn’t going anywhere. ‘No,’ she said, her voice gaining strength. ‘I’m not leaving you in this state. What’s going on?’

  Linda tried to dry her eyes. ‘You sound more like Elsie every day,’ she sobbed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the child repeated.

  ‘Nothing.’

  So. Here lay a young woman who was crying for no reason whatsoever. The twins did that. Grown-ups did not do that. ‘I don’t believe you. Kate and Beckie cry for nothing, but you don’t. Even I don’t, and I’m only seven. You’re crying because of something, not because of nothing.’

  Linda scrambled to her feet. ‘Roger. It’s Roger. He’s a few years younger than me, but he’s turned eighteen and he’s been called up. And,’ she sniffed loudly, ‘he’s happy. He wants to go. He’s happy about going away to fight, and I don’t want him to go.’

  Anna tried to reason with the distressed woman. ‘A lot of them want to go, Linda. It’s like a duty, like they need to defend their country – I’ve read about it. He’s not the only one, you know.’

  ‘He’s my only one.’

  Anna nodded. ‘Yes, and my dad’s my only one, but he’s in some Western Desert, all sand and no water. It’s everybody.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m selfish.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re very worried in case somebody you love gets killed. You just have to get used to it like the rest of us.’

  Linda allowed a smile to live on her face for a split second. ‘Yes, Elsie,’ she replied.

  Anna had to continue her journey, since she didn’t want to be late – Mrs Mellor was a stickler when it came to timekeeping. She parked her pram at the bottom of the steps before walking into the hall. Nursery classes were held at the back of the house, and Anna had to walk through a deserted corridor to reach the rooms she needed. But she didn’t get far, because there was a big row going on. And she heard most of it. ‘I love her,’ Roger shouted. ‘I am sick and tired of repeating myself, Mother, but I love Linda. You can’t change that. You can’t change how I feel.’

  ‘Nonsense – you’re too young for that sort of thing.’

  Anna stood very still.

  ‘She’s only three years older than I am. I’m probably going abroad, Mother. But I must tell you this here and now – if you don’t stop being so damned horrible, I won’t be coming back here even if I live. When it concerns Linda, you’re a bitter, twisted woman. You are NOT my mother.’

  The child fled. He was giving up his mother, while Anna would have sacrificed almost anything to have hers back. Roger loved Linda enough to walk away from his own mam. The concept was a total anathema – mothers were too precious for that sort of behaviour. So Master Mellor must have been very, very serious to threaten something like that.

  When Anna returned to the corridor with her sisters, the office door was open, and Mrs Mellor was alone at her desk. She was weeping. Apart from the possibility (according to Uncle Bert) of an eventual one-nil result for the Allies against Germany, this day was a vale of tears. She hesitated, opened her mouth, stepped back, stepped forward again. It was difficult to know what was right, what was the best thing to do. Oh, well. She was going in, and that was an end to it.

  Without knocking, she entered the office. ‘Hello,’ she said when Mrs Mellor looked up and began drying her face on a lace-edged scrap of fabric. ‘Linda’s crying, too. She’s in the big garden. She’s very, very upset about . . . about something or other.’

  ‘I see.’

  Anna addressed the twins. ‘Touch anything, and you’re dead,’ she advised, her voice darkened by the severity of the promise. ‘It’s the war,’ she told Mrs Mellor. ‘Auntie Elsie says everybody’s in a hurry to do everything and it’s all because of bloody Hitler. Life’s changed, she says. People haven’t got the same . . . er . . . standards, I think she said. They’re doing things differently.’

  Iris Mellor nodded. ‘A wise woman, Elsie Dixon.’

  Anna approached the desk. ‘If he gets killed – Master Roger, I mean – you’ll wish you’d stayed friends with him. You’d never get over it. Auntie Elsie knows people who’ve lost sons, and she says they’ll never get over it. She’s a wise woman like you just said.’

  ‘Yes. How old are you now, Anna?’

  ‘Seven, soon be eight.’

  ‘And you?’ she asked th
e twins.

  ‘Two and a half,’ they chorused.

  ‘And they’ll live to be three if they behave themselves – that’s what Auntie Elsie says.’

  ‘Take them home, Anna,’ said the weary Iris Mellor. ‘Go along. Take them home. I shall be well, I promise you.’

  The woman watched while the child pushed her younger sisters away from the house. ‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ she muttered before pouring herself a stiff whisky. ‘Damn this bloody war.’ Then she had another double before going out to find her son. As she walked through her little bit of England, she thought about Roger and what he might have to face once he got through basic training. And the girl wasn’t too bad, she supposed. She was a bit older than Roger, but not enough to make any significant difference.

  What the child had said was true. People grew up fast in times of war. And she, Iris Mellor, had to mature to the point where she could let her son go. Not just to the war, but into the arms of a young woman who seemed a little too grown up for him. ‘Oh, well,’ she mumbled. ‘C’est la vie.’

  Linda burst into the house. She was still crying, but she was smiling at the same time, and her breathing was odd. Anna decided that had Linda been a weather feature, it would be rainy and sunny at the same time, with rainbows.

  Linda fell to her knees. ‘Thank you, Anna,’ she said. ‘Thank you for caring enough to march in and fight dragons for me.’

  ‘Mrs Mellor’s not a dragon.’

  ‘I know. But you’d have gone in even if she had been a dragon. Wouldn’t you?’

  Anna wasn’t sure, and she said so.

  Elsie had just returned from her shift, and she came in from the kitchen. ‘What’s happened now?’ she asked with her customary bluntness.

  ‘I’m getting married,’ replied Linda. ‘No time for banns, so we’re being treated as a special case because of the war. We both hope you’ll all be there once we’ve sorted it out properly. Oh, and there’s the parachute. For my dress. Mrs Culshaw says she’ll sew as fast as she can, but . . . ah, Anna. How can I ever thank you?’