by Maggie Hope
‘Hmm.’ Mrs Carr pursed her lips and went back to her seat on the sofa. After a moment, Ada brought in the tea tray. She poured tea, gave the other woman a cup and picked up her own with shaky hands.
‘I’m ready for that.’ Mrs Carr added milk and three spoonfuls of sugar to her cup. Then she took the bottle of gin out of her bag and added a dollop of that too, emptying the bottle. Ada wondered if it had been full when she started out that morning.
‘I like the milk put in first,’ Mrs Carr commented before looking up and seeing Ada’s frozen expression. ‘What’s the matter? Oh, the gin, do you mean? Do you want some in your tea?’
Ada shook her head, feeling so shaken she couldn’t answer. There’s some mistake, she thought miserably, there has to be, this can’t really be my mother. Someone is having me on, that’s it. But as she saw the violet eyes looking over the teacup to her, she knew there was no mistake.
‘Er … Did you have a good journey up?’ asked Ada, she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Bloody horrible, that’s what it was,’ was Mrs Carr’s forthright answer. ‘I ask your pardon, like, Lorinda, but it was enough to make a saint swear.’
‘That’s all right,’ Ada mumbled. Oh, her mother wasn’t at all the way she had always imagined her to be. She remembered her grannie telling her how bonny she was, ‘like a dainty little fairy girl,’ Grannie had said. ‘The prettiest little thing in the street.’
Her mother must have had a really hard life, though – Ada found herself making excuses for her – it showed in her face, poor thing.
‘I left my cases downstairs.’ Mrs Carr broke into her thoughts. ‘I couldn’t carry them up here, could I? Not with my back.’
‘I’ll go down for them later,’ Ada said.
‘You want to make one of those lasses bring them up. Don’t keep a dog and bark yourself, Lorinda, that’s what I say. You should let them see who’s boss.’
Ada was beginning to realise she hated her mother to call her Lorinda. Every time she said it, it grated on her. But for the minute she couldn’t think of a way of telling her so without offending her.
‘They’re very busy,’ she pointed out, ‘and besides, they are employed to look after the patients, not visitors.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Mam’, feeling very self-conscious about saying it.
‘I’m not a visitor – I’m the matron’s mother. That’s not a visitor, surely, Lorinda?’
‘You can’t stay here, not for more than a couple of weeks, that is. I don’t think it will be allowed.’
‘What do you mean, I can’t stop here? You’re the matron, aren’t you? Doesn’t that make you the boss?’ Ada’s mother stared down her nose at her, her tone becoming strident. ‘And why did you send for me if I can’t stay here, eh? Was I supposed to sleep on the streets?’
For the first time Ada saw the resemblance between her mother and her aunt. Why, when they were angry they had the same forward thrust to the head, the same stridency and gimlet stare. She shook her head.
‘No, no –’
‘What then?’ Mrs Carr interrupted. ‘Who will tell you to put your own mother on the streets anyway?’
‘The trustees run the place, Mam, they run it for the owner, who is fighting in France. But I didn’t mean you would be without somewhere to sleep. You can have a nice holiday with me for a while and then I’ll find you somewhere to stay, if you want to stay in Durham, that is.’ Ada was beginning to feel overwhelmed by her mother’s aggressiveness. She looked about her helplessly and her eyes fell on the gin bottle. Of course, that was what it was, the drink made people aggressive. She’d be all right when she’d had a rest, maybe she hadn’t meant to drink so much.
‘I’ll show you where you can sleep, Mam,’ she said gently, ‘then you can have a nice rest. And afterwards I’ll have dinner sent up on a tray, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? We can talk things over then, when you’re not so tired.’
‘I thought you wanted me to stay with you. I can’t go back now, I’ve nothing to go back to, a poor widow like I am.’ Mrs Carr nodded her head, and her face sank into lines of self-pity.
‘Howay, Mam,’ Ada said gently, holding her hand out to her mother. ‘Howay and have a lie-down. It’ll do you the world of good, you’ll feel better after it, you’ll see.’ Unconsciously she had fallen into the way of talking which she had often used with the old ladies in the workhouse hospital. Even though, she thought with a slight shock, her mother could hardly be in her fifties yet.
Mrs Carr responded to her coaxing and allowed herself to be led into the bedroom. She sniffed a little as she saw the narrow single bed but slipped off her shoes and dress and let Ada tuck her in.
‘Just half an hour, that’s all I need,’ she said. ‘The journey an’ all.’
Ada closed the bedroom door and sat down on the sofa before the fire. What a way to end the lovely afternoon she had had with Eliza, she thought. She sighed; it was so sad seeing her mother like that. Once she must have been as young and full of hope as Ada was herself, and when she went off to London she must have been certain she could make something of herself. Hadn’t she said to Grannie that she would send for her little girl as soon as she had a home for her? And hadn’t Grannie told Ada, time and time again, that her mother loved her and would never have left her if she could have helped it?
No, it wasn’t her mother’s fault, Ada was sure, it was life and hardships that had ground her down, that was all. How awful it must have been to miss your baby, try desperately to make a home for her and never quite manage it. No, she thought again, it couldn’t have been her mother’s fault.
Ada picked up the empty gin bottle and took it into the kitchen, because the smell made her feel sick. She would take it down to the rubbish bins when she went for the cases. She washed the cups, tidied the kitchen and went back into the sitting room to wait for her mother to wake up. She stared into the fire, pondering what to do. It was obvious that her mother was going to be dependent on her from now on, and there would be lodgings to find for her. Mrs Dunne in Gilesgate, perhaps; Ada would enquire on her next half-day.
The daylight faded, the fire died down and Ada added coal to it from the scuttle. She lit the lamp and drew the curtains against the dark, and her mother slept on. Poor thing, she must be really tired, Ada thought as she listened at the door to the bedroom. There was a soft snoring sound coming from the bed, so she was still asleep. Ada decided to go down to the hall, bring up the suitcases and ask Cook to make a tray up for their supper at the same time.
‘About nine o’clock, if that’s all right,’ she said to Cook. ‘Millie will bring it up, I’m sure.’
‘Nine o’clock, right then,’ Cook answered. She was a plump, amiable woman who took everything in her stride, an extra tray was neither here nor there to her. She smiled at Ada now. ‘How nice for you to have your mother to stay, Matron. I hope you both enjoy yourselves.’
‘Thank you, we will. I just hope it isn’t too much extra work, that’s all.’
‘Nay, what’s one more, nothing at all,’ Cook said stoutly.
Ada lugged the two heavy suitcases she found in the hall up the three flights of stairs to her rooms, puffing and panting by the time she got to her door. Inside, all was quiet and when she went to the bedroom door she could still hear the soft sound of snores. Smiling to herself, she sat down to wait for her mother to wake up.
‘Mind, I was ready for that, Lorinda.’ Mrs Carr, her hair brushed back from her forehead and pinned in a bun at the nape of her neck and with fresh rouge on her cheeks, picked delicately at a chicken bone. ‘It’s a long while since I could afford chicken, not since my poor Henry went.’
‘You’ll have to tell me about Henry, Mam,’ Ada said. ‘He was your husband, was he? Mr Carr?’
Her mother gave her a sideways glance. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she answered.
Ada was bewildered – what was she talking about? Best not go into it, she thought, as the obvious explanation
presented itself to her.
‘He died, did he?’ she asked instead, trying to sound suitably sympathetic.
‘Yes. Leaving me without a penny, an’ all.’
Ada creased her brow. ‘Surely you’ll have a widow’s pension, though?’
‘I haven’t. Not a penny.’
‘Oh, but –’ And then Ada realised that her mother probably wasn’t old enough for a widow’s pension; she wasn’t exactly sure how old you had to be to qualify for a Lloyd George pension.
‘But how have you managed?’ she asked. ‘How did you earn a living?’
‘Oh, this and that.’ Mrs Carr had lost interest for the moment, and focused on the small chocolate cake which Cook had sent up for them. ‘Will you cut me a piece of that cake, Lorinda?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Ada fetched a clean knife from the kitchen and cut a good slice of chocolate cake for her mother, who was looking at it greedily, like a child. No doubt she didn’t often get anything nice to eat, Ada told herself, it was a treat for her. She sipped her tea and watched her mother tuck into the cake. She did it single-mindedly, eating every crumb. Then she looked over at Ada.
‘Aren’t you having any, Lorinda?’
‘I’m not hungry, you have another piece,’ Ada answered and gave her another slice.
‘I was meaning to say,’ Ada said after a moment. Her mother looked up from her plate. A crumb of chocolate cake was stuck to her lower lip and she put out the tip of her tongue and licked it off.
‘I was meaning to say,’ Ada repeated, ‘I’m called Ada now, I’ve been called Ada ever since I went to live with Auntie Doris when I was little. I’m used to it now, so please call me Ada.’
‘Ada? What on earth for? What’s wrong with Lorinda?’ Mrs Carr shook her head and went back to her cake. ‘No, I named you Lorinda, it’s a lovely name. My auntie was called Lorinda. I’ve always thought of you as Lorinda and I would feel daft calling you Ada.’
Ada gave up for the moment. Secretly she wondered if her mother had thought of her at all during the long years of her growing up, never mind her name. But maybe that was being a bit unfair.
At last her mother had finished and she sat back in her chair with a sigh of content. She glanced round the room as though looking for something and failing to find it.
‘Have you not got a gramophone, Ada? Surely you could afford a gramophone – liven things up a bit, a gramophone would.’
‘No, not here,’ Ada admitted. ‘We had one at the house but I didn’t think to bring it here. I don’t like to make too much noise, it might disturb the patients, you know.’
‘Cheer them up, more like. A nice lively song would do them good.’ Mrs Carr watched her daughter as she piled the supper things on the tray and took them out to the kitchen. ‘You should let the maid do that,’ she said primly and Ada had trouble hiding her grin. Her mother seemed to go from haughty lady to poor destitute woman and back again to lady in the space of half an hour.
‘Like I said, Mam, that’s not what they are here for.’
Ada came back into the sitting room and took a seat on the chair across from her mother. ‘Now we can have a nice, cosy talk,’ she said. ‘I’m longing to know all that happened to you in London.’
Mrs Carr sighed. ‘You wouldn’t believe the bad luck I’ve had, you wouldn’t, pet. And Henry, bless his soul, well, he wasn’t a good provider. He liked a good time, did Henry. So I’ve had to work all my life and here I am, not a thing to show for it.’ She looked hopefully across at Ada. ‘You haven’t got a drop of gin in the place, have you? I like a drop of gin before I go to bed, it helps me to sleep.’
Ada shook her head. ‘I don’t keep it in, Mam, I don’t drink it myself.’ Privately she thought that her mother had had enough gin for one day in any case.
‘Nothing? No brandy? Maybe a glass of stout?’
‘No, I’m sorry … Though, wait a minute, there is some brandy. I keep the bottle for the patients up here, it’s safer. Sometimes we have to use it as a restorative.’ Ada went over to the sideboard and took out a half-bottle of brandy. ‘It’s for medicinal use, you know. But I’m sure it doesn’t matter if you have a little, I can buy some tomorrow and fill it up.’
She took out a small glass and poured out the usual dose, watched critically by her mother.
‘Bye, mind, I needed that,’ Mrs Carr declared after she had thrown it back in one swallow, making Ada blink. She looked up at her daughter as though about to ask for another but she thought better of it. ‘I only take it for medicinal purposes myself,’ she said.
Ada put the bottle away and sat down again. ‘Tell me about your husband,’ she urged. ‘You didn’t have any more children then?’
‘No, just as well an’ all. We moved around a lot and it would have been no good with kids.’ Mrs Carr pulled herself up when she saw Ada’s face. ‘Mind, I would still have sent for you, if we could have managed the fare. But somehow – anyway, you were all right with our Doris, I knew you’d be all right with Doris.’
Yes indeed, thought Ada, remembering the times she had cried herself to sleep behind the screen in the kitchen in Finkle Street, praying her mam would come and claim her. And Uncle Harry … best not think of Uncle Harry.
Mrs Carr was yawning openly now. ‘I think I’ll go to bed then, Lorinda,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’ She rose and stretched her skinny arms over her head. ‘It’s grand to see you, pet, it is, but I’m tired now, you know, and my back’s giving me hell.’
‘Yes, of course, you go to bed when you like and get up when you like, this is a holiday for you. I’ll just get blankets and a pillow from the chest in the bedroom, and make a bed up for myself on the sofa.’
‘Eeh, I thought you would have a spare bed in the place,’ Mrs Carr declared.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Ada answered, noticing that her mother didn’t seem unduly perturbed about her having to sleep on the sofa. ‘I’ll probably be working when you get up in the morning, but make yourself some tea and I’ll come up at ten and bring you some breakfast.’
When her mother had gone to bed and Ada was settled on the sofa with only the flickering light from the fire to light the room, she went over the momentous happenings of the evening in her mind, trying to settle her thoughts for sleep. She had to be up at six o’clock in the morning and a busy day lay ahead of her, so she needed to sleep.
My poor mam, she thought, what hardships had she undergone to bring her to her present state? No wonder she had turned to drink. But there would be no need for that any more, she would wean her off the gin, gradually, she thought. If there was none in the place, then her mother couldn’t drink it, it was as simple as that.
Ada turned over, stretching out her legs so that her feet were over the edge of the sofa. She had told her mother she would be comfortable enough but in truth it was a bit restricting.
I’m not going to criticise her, Ada resolved, I’ll think of all the nice things about her. She’s my mother and it’s going to be grand to be able to confide in her, tell her all my problems. I’m sure she’ll understand me, it will be like having Eliza close by all the time. A quiet happiness stole over her, and her eyelids drooped sleepily. Her life was going to be so different now: she had her mother and she had Johnny, or she would have Johnny as soon as this war was over. And Johnny loved her, he wouldn’t mind her mother going with her to Canada, she was sure he wouldn’t.
It crossed her mind that her mother hadn’t once asked her how it was when Grannie died or what it had been like living in Bishop Auckland. But she dismissed the thought, it was uncharitable of her.
It was half past ten in the morning by the time Ada was free to go upstairs with a breakfast tray for her mother. The latest group of wounded soldiers were all recovering physically by the time they got to the convalescent home, but most of them were in pretty bad shape emotionally and mentally. Nightmares were frequent despite the sedatives prescribed by the doctors and quite often one patient scre
aming in his sleep woke the whole ward and then the night staff had trouble settling the men down again. As a consequence the men were morose and irritable during the day.
And then there were the wet beds, sometimes worse. Ada herself had had to lend a hand in changing the beds that morning; there was a doctor’s round later in the morning and she was a nurse short as a VAD had failed to report for duty after her day off.
‘I’m sorry I’m late –’ Ada broke off her apology as she entered the sitting room, for her mother was not yet out of bed. Ada could still hear the soft snoring from the bedroom. Putting down the tray, she went in to see if there was anything the matter.
No, Mrs Carr was lying on her back with her mouth open and traces of last night’s make-up still visible on her face. As Ada went up to her, she tripped over a skirt which was dropped on the floor and had to clutch at the bedboard to save herself from falling, causing the bed to shake. Her mother woke with a start.
‘What – Bloody hell, what’s the matter?’ She sat up, startled, and looked around her with a disoriented gaze.
‘It’s only me, Mam,’ said Ada and went to the window to draw the curtains. A thin shaft of sunshine entered the room and Ada began picking up the clothes her mother had dropped as she prepared for bed.
‘Oh, Lorinda,’ said Mrs Carr, putting her hand over her eyes to shade them from the light. ‘What time is it, like?’
‘Ten thirty, Mam.’
‘Ten thirty? Aw, that’s all right then.’ She lay back on her pillow, yawning.
‘I’ve brought you a nice boiled egg and some bread and butter, and a pot of tea. I thought I’d have my break with you before I go back to work.’
‘I never eat in the mornings. Take it away, I feel sick at the thought,’ Mrs Carr said pettishly. ‘You’re going back to work, did you say? What about me? I thought you would take the time off, I don’t like to be on my own.’
Ada sighed as she poured out two cups of tea and gave one to her mother. She felt a little nauseous herself, she thought. Perhaps it was the smell of stale gin which was still hanging around.