Clover's Child

by Amanda Prowse

‘That’s the problem! You didn’t give enough of a shit what anyone thinks or you wouldn’t have done it in the first place!’

  ‘Christ! You make it sound like I committed a crime!’

  Joan finally piped up. ‘Maybe you did, in God’s eyes.’

  Dot turned to her mum, who had been unnaturally quiet at the table. ‘In God’s eyes? Oh please, Mum, how can you say that? You don’t even go to bloody church! You just pick and choose the bits that suit you.’

  Joan folded her arms across her chest. ‘You can say what you like, but that doesn’t change the fact that you let us down, Dot, in the worst possible way.’

  Dot let out a small laugh. ‘I let you down? Jesus Christ, I expected shit from him…’ She pointed at her dad. ‘But you! How could you do that to me Mum? You’ve had babies and you knew what I was about to go through and yet you never said a bloody word, packing me off, nearly due without one single word of advice. And d’you know what, Mum? One word of kindness, just one, would have made the biggest difference to me, far better than giving me a sodding hankie! But no, I got the cold, silent treatment as part of my punishment, part of making me suffer. And all because I fell in love with the wrong man – and I did fall in love, it wasn’t just sex! I loved him! I really loved him.’ Dot’s tears started to fall. ‘And I would have gone to the other side of the world just to be with him. I was going to leave, leave you, this shit hole of a house and this bloody country where people judge and condemn me, when all I am guilty of is falling in love.’

  ‘D’you think you’re the only one?’ Her mum spat the words. ‘The only girl ever to have had her heart broken over a little crush?’

  ‘A little crush? I was going to marry him! I had a fucking baby, your grandchild! A little boy that someone else gets to wash, feed, bathe and sing to sleep every night just because his dad had the wrong colour skin! It’s a fucking joke, you think you can sit in a church, say a few prayers and make it all all right? How? How can you justify what you did to me, to us? How can you justify your horrible, horrible views? What kind of church is that?’

  ‘It’s not just me, it’s the whole world, it’s how it is.’

  ‘Just because it’s how it is does not mean it is how it should be!’

  Reg was not done with his part in the discussion. ‘Very profound, Dot, but this is the real world!’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that Dad? Do you think after what I’ve been through, I have some sweet little fantasy about life? I’ve got a son in this world that doesn’t even know I exist. How is that fair? Why should he be denied his proper mum and dad just because you had a problem with his dad’s skin? Think about it, Dad, both of you; play it back in your head and think about that for a minute. How fucked up is that?’

  ‘He left you, Dot.’ Joan spoke quietly yet forcefully; it was time it was said. ‘He left you without so much as a by your leave. That is not what people that love you do. I know that you are angry and you can try and lay the blame on my shoulders if it makes it easier for you, but I ain’t the one that buggered off at the first sniff of a problem. Whether you like it or not, the fact is you gave him what he wanted and he left you. And now you are paying for that.’

  ‘He wanted to marry me.’ Dot slid down the wall, her legs crumpled like paper beneath her body. The shouting had cleared her head, she felt nearly sober.

  ‘Did he? Did he really? Think about it, Dot, did he really?’

  There was a pause while the three mentally reloaded. All were exhausted, wanting the confrontation to end, but they knew that this was possibly the only chance to get it all out and put it to bed.

  ‘No matter what Sol did to me, Mum, you let me down, you and Dad, but especially you. I don’t even mean telling me what to expect about giving birth or anything like that, which would have been kind, but you knew what it was like to fall in love with a baby, you knew what was going to happen to me and yet you didn’t give me one word of hope, nothing to prepare me for having my heart ripped out, nothing. And I will never ever forgive you for that.’

  Joan leant over and tried to hold her daughter. ‘I’ve suffered too,’ she said. ‘D’you think I wanted to see my family torn apart like this? D’you think this is how I pictured you having your first baby?’

  ‘Mum, if there’s a scale of suffering, I’m at the top, trust me.’

  ‘Get away from her, Joan.’ Reg was clenching his fists now. ‘Listen to yourself, Dot.’ She looked up at her dad. ‘You are one selfish cow. Since when did it become all about you? When did you become the most significant person in this family, Dot?’

  Dot slid back up the wall and stood tall; she smoothed her coat against her body and pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘From now on I want you to call me Clover, not Dot. A dot is something small and insignificant and I am not insignificant, because I am someone’s mother and that makes me something amazing.’

  As she turned and left the room, then padded up the stairs to her bed, her parents exchanged a long look of incomprehension. This was it, she had finally gone proper doobleedin’lally.

  * * *

  Two weeks had passed since the showdown. And while it had been painful for both parties to give and receive such honest opinions, it had helped to clear the air. The atmosphere was no longer heavy with unspoken insinuation, sentences were no longer stuttered from dishonest mouths as everyone edited and whispered their words. Dot had stopped skulking in the hallway, embarrassed and awkward. She was not back to her chatty self, she never would be, and her demeanour was that of someone who lived with a heavy burden, but she certainly felt better having voiced her grievances and exorcised some of the horrors of Lavender Hill Lodge. In some small way the family could now move forward, albeit a different family to the one that used to live at 38 Ropemakers Fields. Everyone understood now just how fragile the ties of family life were, how they could be severed forever. Dot had learnt that the certainties of her youth – knowing that her mum and dad would always be there for her, no matter what – were unfounded. She now knew that they would only be there for her if she did and said what they expected, within their accepted boundaries. She envied Dee her ignorance, her assumption that her mummy and daddy would fix everything.

  Dot was woken by the clinking of cutlery and the banging of drawers. Popping on her slippers, she sloped down the stairs and headed for the kitchen.

  ‘Pass me the best tablecloth, Dot.’

  Joan spoke as though her daughter had been present all morning and had not only just appeared, with mussed hair and still in her pyjamas. Dot yanked open the drawer in the sideboard and pulled out the white linen cloth with the pressed-out lace pattern along its border. The cloth they used for Christmas lunch, birthday teas, Easter Sunday, wakes and other special occasions. After which it would be boil-washed, ironed, starched and returned to the drawer for its next appearance – and that was today, apparently: January 14th 1962; not a date of note, as far as Dot could remember.

  She handed her mum the cloth. ‘Why are you using the best cloth and why are you laying the table so early?’ It was only eleven a.m.

  ‘Cos your dad has a guest coming for Sunday lunch and I want the place to look nice. You give yourself a good strip-wash and come down looking nice. An’ I don’t want no misery-guts face or silent treatment, just a nice normal Sunday lunch, all right?’

  Dot shrugged. A nice normal Sunday lunch – that’d be her mum skivvying away with a plucked chicken, a peeler and a sack of spuds before shoving everything in hot fat to roast for an hour. They would then eat in silence around the table, interspersed only by her mum’s occasional tuts as her dad splashed gravy on the table and by Dee moaning about how much she hated sprouts. Her dad would then take his afters to his chair by the fire, shovel the pudding/pie/trifle into his mouth and then fall asleep for an hour while she and her mum washed, dried and put away. Why they would want anyone to come and witness the merry tradition, God only knew.

  Dot did as she was told, pulling a comb through her hair and
slipping into a grey polo-necked jersey and black skirt. She put a slick of eyeliner on each eye and, hey presto!, she was ready to eat Sunday lunch under the watchful eye of one of her dad’s cronies. She hoped it wasn’t slobber gob Steve, the balding bore with a florid complexion and nasal laugh.

  She picked up the shell and placed it on her lap.

  ‘I’ve been thinking this morning, what it would’ve been like if you’d come here for lunch. I was thinking that if only they’d spent a bit of time with you, they wouldn’t have been able to help falling for you, just like I did, cos you were so clever and funny and polite. I remember you telling me all about your garden and the plants you used to grow and about your peahens that you try and feed. I’m sure that if they’d just given you a chance, you would have won them over, and then what, eh? Maybe we would have just gone and got hitched and sailed off into the sunset. He’ll be just over two months now. I bet he’s big. I’m not sure what they do at two months, do they smile yet? I don’t know how I can find out. It’ll be our anniversary next week, did you know that? One whole year since I met you. I’ll talk to you then of course. Gotta go now though, love, me dad’s invited one of his mates to lunch. I’m dreading it really.’

  Dot was halfway down the stairs when the door bell rang out its whiny, grating serenade. She could make out a male form standing on the other side of the etched glass: tall, thin and with dark hair. Opening the front door, she stepped forward, then stopped still.

  ‘What d’you want, Wally? If you’ve come to apologise about the other week, then it’s too bloody late. You knew I was pissed and you was right out of order, not only to me, but to Barb ’n’all!’

  Dot folded her arms high across her chest. Her face flushed and her body shook as she recalled his hand on her back, his mouth looming larger as it came in for a kiss.

  Wally stared at her with his unblinking eyes and held her gaze. ‘Actually, Dot—’

  But before he had a chance to finish his sentence, Dot’s dad came up behind her and opened the front door wide. ‘There you are, Wally! Come in, son!’

  Son? Surely to God it wasn’t Wally that was the special guest!

  Dot sat as far away from him as the size of room and chair configuration would allow. She barely spoke and when she did, had to bite her lip to stop from mentioning what he had done to her after offering to walk her home. The pig. She watched as he chatted to Dee, making her laugh with a napkin fashioned into a puppet that gobbled up her fingers and spat them back out again. She watched how he overloaded food onto his fork, using it like a shovel; how he chewed with his back teeth and how his front ones hovered irritatingly over his bottom lip. Her dad had made an effort and was wearing his pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his hair brilliantined into place. It made her angry to think that her parents thought they had to dress up for someone like him or that Wally might be considered the distraction that was needed. It made her cringe to think that they thought he was a potential match for her, an equal. Is that what they thought she was worth, bloody Wallace Day?

  Wally and Reg sat in the chairs by the fire and laughed at memories of their days on the sheet metal, the foremen who knew bugger all about the job in hand and the factory owner who had been born not only with a silver spoon in his gob, but apparently one stuck up his arse as well.

  Dot washed the plates in silence, unable to talk to her mother, who at least twice jabbed her in the ribs and reminded her to ‘Be nice!’ Dot swallowed the bile in her throat, remembering just how nice Wally wanted her to be.

  Wally stepped into the kitchen with two empty bowls. ‘Cor, Mrs Simpson, you know how to make a mean custard, that was lovely!’ He smacked his lips together.

  ‘Well, I should hope so, Wally. I’ve made enough of it in me time!’ Joan giggled, coquettish, glad of the compliment.

  Dot was stood a couple of feet from him and could smell cheap scent. She immediately compared it to the way Sol smelled – expensive soap, hair oil and a natural smell like cookies and spice. She had found it intoxicating, surreptitiously sniffing at his scalp and temples when he dozed in her arms.

  Her parents waved Wally off after what felt like hours.

  ‘Well, that was nice.’ Joan stripped the table of her best cloth and headed towards the sink. It would get a good soak overnight before hitting the twin-tub in the morning. ‘He’s a nice boy, Reg.’

  ‘Yes he is. I told you.’

  ‘Liked my custard, he did, and ate a good dinner.’

  Dot looked from one to the other. How? How could it be that Sol, who treated her like a queen, like Lady Clover, would not have been welcome at their grotty dinner table and yet Wallace, who would take advantage of her in a dark alley and had the manners of a goat was considered a nice boy? It was beyond her.

  Dot couldn’t wait to get out of the house once Wally had finally disappeared and was relieved to find Barb waiting for her at the end of Narrow Street, as agreed. They headed off for a wander and to find somewhere for a cuppa. Dot felt awkward not mentioning Wally’s visit, but it was hard to know how to phrase it: ‘You know, the bloke you love, who I detest and who my parents want to fix me up with.’ It was a non-starter. The two girls linked arms and matched each other’s pace.

  ‘How’s it going up Bryant and May?’

  Dot shrugged. ‘Not so good, actually, mate. I’ve got a start date, but I think I might need to get my nerves in better order before I try going back.’

  It was a huge admission that things were far from okay with her. Barb recognised the branch.

  ‘You’ll get there, Dot. Blimey, I used to think you was the strongest girl in the world. You’d never take crap from a bloke and you’ll get back to that, once you get over that poet soldier arsehole.’

  ‘Don’t call him that.’ Dot laughed a little.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re defending him! He was a proper shit to you.’

  ‘I know, but it wasn’t entirely his fault.’ Dot considered what he didn’t know. ‘Thing is, it’s up to us to make lives for ourselves. We should take chances and grab at opportunities, not wait for them to be offered to us.’

  ‘I s’pose so.’

  ‘I know so. Don’t just settle, Barb. Please don’t ever settle for anything less than what you really want, anything other than what will make you really, truly happy.’

  Barb stood still and looked at her friend. ‘But supposing no chances or opportunities come along? Then I’ll be on the shelf and you’ll see me smoking on the pavement in all weathers with a face as miserable as sour milk, begrudging anyone smiling the air they breathe – I’ll turn into Aunty Audrey!’

  ‘That ain’t gonna happen to you. You should train as a hairdresser and try and get on that cruise ship. I want you to have an adventure; I might get stuck here, so you need to have an adventure for us both!’

  ‘Christ, don’t talk like that, you sound like your life is over!’

  It is. I hate waking up, I’m broken. My life is over. ‘It’s not that, it’s just that I love you too much for you not to have a bloody brilliant life!’

  The two girls hugged.

  ‘I n’arf lucky to have a mate like you, Dot. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Well, you’ll never have to find out. We’re gonna grow old together and we’ll sit with a nice cuppa in our bed jackets and talk about when we was young.’

  ‘But we’ll have an adventure before that, right?’

  Dot painted on a smile. ‘Oh, you betcha!’

  * * *

  It was a Saturday night and Joan was gathering up the gravy-smeared plates and the salt and pepper pots from the table.

  ‘That was lovely, Mrs S,’ Wally patted his stomach, which despite being flat was able to put away vast quantities of Joan’s fare. She called it a good healthy appetite. Dot thought him greedy.

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it, love. I like to see a man eat well. But for Gawd’s sake, Wallace, please don’t call me Mrs S – it makes me sound ancient. Call me Joa
n.’

  ‘All right, I will. Thanks, Joan.’

  Reg winked at the boy who had clearly won his wife over.

  ‘Fancy a pint, son?’

  ‘Rude not to.’

  Reg punched Wally on the arm; they were cut from the same cloth. Similar in so many ways, and the admiration was mutual. ‘Be with you in a minute. I’ll just pay a visit before we go.’

  Wally strolled out into the street and rocked on the pavement in his winkle pickers. He zipped up his leather jacket, extracted his comb from his back pocket and smoothed his hair back.

  ‘Wally?’

  He looked up and saw Barb, who was leaving her aunty’s.

  ‘All right, Barb?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m… I’m fine. What you doing here? Looking for me?’ She smiled, happy at the thought that he had sought her out, nervous because she had her work clothes on and didn’t like him to see her so dowdy looking. She was supposed to get straight home, had promised her mum, but sod it; she’d go to the pub with Wally. Going out when it wasn’t planned felt like much more of an adventure. She put her hands on her hips and stood in front of him.

  ‘Looking for you? No.’ He looked beyond her down the street. His tone was dismissive.

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t know what to say. Tongue-tied and awkward, she took a step backwards and hovered on the cobbles, caught between confusion and embarrassment. Her arms slipped down to her sides.

  ‘I thought you’d come to find me when I saw you, thought me mum might have told you I was here.’

  ‘Your mum? No. Joan’s just cooked me tea and now Reg and I are off up the Barley Mow for a pint.’

  ‘You and Reg?’

  ‘Yeah. Dot’s staying in, she’s knackered.’

  ‘Is she?’ Barb felt an overwhelming desire to cry. Her best friend and her boyfriend had just had their tea together and now he was going out with her dad – it didn’t make any sense… Unless… unless…

  Barb rubbed her cheek, considering how to ask the question that shot into her mind, nervous about how to ask it and also wondering if she should; she didn’t want to make a fool of herself.