by Annie Murray
‘How is the little bugger? He’s hardly ever at home.’
‘He’s all right. Anyway, Auntie was nattering away to this bloke – he’s ever so tall. I could barely see her there was such a crush but you could see him. This big . . .’ She stretched her arm up. ‘Mom says he was a guardsman, Welsh Guards – in the first war.’
‘They’ve taken a shine to each other, have they?’
‘Dad says they never stopped talking all evening. And she looks like a cat with the cream.’
Reggie stopped in order to laugh thoroughly. ‘God – never say die. How old is she?’
‘She must be – sixty-six – nearly.’
They walked on, chatting and laughing. Every so often, Reggie stopped and drew her close to kiss her.
‘Oh, Mel,’ he said, after drawing back from a long kiss, under a spreading beech tree, ‘I know it’s the right thing to wait ’til we’re wed and all . . . But I don’t know as I can.’
She looked into his eyes, her own desire meeting his. She knew she was supposed to prefer to wait – but she didn’t. She loved the way he wanted her and she desired him back with a force that surprised her. It wasn’t difficult to find time to be alone in Mo and Dolly’s house. Unlike the cramped dwellings of their childhoods, the Moseley house sprawled upwards – seven bedrooms, including an attic, like an eyrie looking out over the garden. Since only Donna and Freddie were still living at home, not all of the rooms had occupants.
They had a cup of tea with Dolly and Mo. All the time, desire hummed between them in the sultry afternoon, a sound that only they could hear. Sometimes their eyes met, as if making a date for later, as they talked about mutual friends and the day-to-day things of Dolly and Mo’s lives.
Afterwards, almost as if under a spell, they climbed the stairs hand in hand. Dolly was cooking, Mo outside. The house was quiet, a region they could explore in almost guaranteed peace.
Reggie’s room was not in the attic but on the first floor, looking out over the road. As Melly followed him upstairs, his warm hand in hers, she did not question or resist. She wanted Reggie as much as he wanted her. She had felt his desire for her, his body pressed against hers so often now that she no longer knew how to resist. Did not want to resist.
As soon as they closed the door, they were kissing, half frantic for each other, removing clothes with their mouths locked on each other’s.
His bed was under the window and he led her, laid her down and she felt the soft pillow under her head, and Reggie’s weight, the salt sprinkle of his blonde stubble. Reggie, her Reggie now, so close, in her arms.
Afterwards, she explored him with her fingertips: the white scar worms on his body, the long mauve zip-fastener from the operation down his right thigh. All the smashing up and rearrangement had left that leg at odds with itself and a fraction shorter than the other.
‘Not pretty, is it?’ he said. He seemed bashful at her seeing it.
‘No – but it’s all right. It works.’ She thought of the hospital, all that it had taken to restore him to life and mobility. None of that possible for Wally. She kissed him. ‘And it doesn’t matter. I love you. And you’re here.’
They both knew what she was talking about. She saw a shadow cross Reggie’s face. They lay back together, cuddled close. After a silence, Reggie seemed to think of something. He moved to look into her face.
‘It won’t . . . Mean anything – will it?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You won’t have a baby?’
She stared at him. She knew the facts, sort of. In a vague way.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Course not. Not from just one time. People try to have babies for ages, don’t they?’
That’s what Mrs Hughes had said. She and her husband had taken a good while to have Peter. But she felt foolish. In the heat of it she had not given it a thought. Why was she so ignorant? She had been training as a nurse but she still didn’t know much. She left before they got to ‘Human Reproduction’. She promised herself that in the week, sometime, she would go into Harborne Library and look it up.
‘If you did,’ he said, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself, ‘it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It’d be . . . Lovely. It would.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. I don’t think that would be right. We need to be married at least.’
He rolled over and cuddled her tight. ‘We’d best get up in a tick. Don’t want Mom coming in, do we?’
Sixty-Two
‘The human race has been kept within reasonable limits in the past by famine, pestilence and war.’
Melly sat in a corner of Harborne Library a couple of days later, looking up often to see if anyone was near her because she felt so self-conscious about the medical book she was reading. Even though there were not many people in the library, her cheeks were hot with blushes. She had managed to get away from Mrs Hughes’s house early and slipped into the library.
‘Pregnancy is the state of being with child . . .’
She kept looking for new headings that might help. If you were already expecting a child it was rather too late for famine, pestilence or war to remedy the situation. The book said that the first sign that you were having a baby was the stoppage of monthly periods.
‘. . . the child’s birth may be expected nine months and a fortnight from the first day of the last period.’
The next symptom that would apparently show itself was ‘morning sickness’. She remembered this from when her mother was having Sandra and Alan. Immediately she started to feel queasy. Now she was not in Reggie’s arms she was worried sick. This book was all very well but how were you supposed to know how likely it might be that you had caught for a baby?
Earlier, when Mrs Hughes had passed a comment about the time when she was carrying Ann, Melly had jumped in with, ‘How did you know – at first, I mean?’
‘Oh,’ Dorothy Hughes said, taking Ann from her to give her a feed. ‘You don’t know to start with. You just have to wait and see. Some women catch a lot more easily than others.’
Melly shut the heavy book and slid it back on the shelf. A fat lot of good that was. The sense of utter dread that had come over her at the possibility of a baby was almost puzzling. She didn’t want to be caught pregnant before she was married. But she loved Reggie, didn’t she? She didn’t want to stay working with Mrs Hughes forever, nor would Dorothy need her forever. Marriage, family – it was all good. It was what she wanted.
But not yet, the thought throbbed through her. Oh, please, not just yet . . . Give me a bit more time . . .
She walked home in a sober state, calculating on her fingers the date of her last period and when the next one was due. Nothing was all that regular. And she was going to have to wait at least two weeks to find out. That felt like forever.
At home, she found that an enormous man was sitting in the front room. His legs reached halfway across the floor. Seeing her, he drew them to him and stood up, straight as a telegraph pole in a spruce black suit.
‘Hello there, my dear.’ Smiling, he greeted her, one hand outstretched, towering over her. Her hand disappeared into his palm. His face was craggy and kind looking, the grizzled hair that she remembered clipped very short. He reminded her of a big, crumple-faced dog that looked sad until he smiled, as he was doing now, and all the lines pointed suddenly up instead of down.
‘You must be Melly.’ The voice was deep and big, like a tuba. ‘I’m Dudley Rainer.’
‘I saw you in the pub,’ Melly said, in some confusion. What was he doing sitting here on his own in the front room? What was he doing here at all?
‘I’ve come to visit your, er – aunt? Gladys Poulter.’ He was full of old-world courtesy and there was a light in his eyes that seemed to hold humour, or at least a fondness for life in general. She warmed to him straight away. ‘She’s just making us a cup of tea.’
‘Melly?’ She heard Gladys call. ‘That you?’
‘Yes,’ she called back. Dudley Rain
er released her hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said to him, and meant it.
Gladys was bustling about in the kitchen. The kettle was boiling and there was a tray on the table with a little embroidered cloth on it that to Melly’s bemusement she had never seen before. The best cups were laid out and a vast, sticky fruit cake on a plate. The kitchen smelt of baking. Gladys had evidently been busy.
Gladys was also dressed up, in a black skirt and scarlet blouse with black piping at the edges. Her hair was dolled up, with tortoiseshell combs pressed into it. There was a new, quick purpose to her movements. Melly watched, amazed. The old Gladys she remembered was back.
‘Goodness,’ Melly said. ‘Where’s Mom?’
‘What d’you mean, “goodness”?’ Gladys said huffily. But her glance darted at Melly. She could not conceal her excitement. ‘Your mother’s gone round to see one of her pals – she took the three young’uns.’
Melly grinned at her. ‘He looks nice, Auntie.’
A sunset blush crept across Gladys’s face. She looked down and picked up the tray. ‘Oh, I know he is,’ she said, sweeping out of the room.
‘Shall I start cooking tea, Auntie?’ she asked her departing back. No one else seemed about to do it.
‘Ar – go on, then.’ Gladys was already gone.
Turning, Melly saw that on the table from where Gladys had picked up the tray, was another letter for Tommy.
As soon as he came home, Tommy grabbed the envelope and went outside. A bit later, with the tea simmering on the stove, Melly went out to find him. As she cooked a stew for tea she had been fretting endlessly about herself. Could she be having a baby? Every time she thought of it she felt a bit sick. But as soon as she caught sight of Tommy, all her own problems left her mind.
She could see straight away that there was something terribly wrong. Tommy was sitting on the wall, his head bowed, the letter in his hands. He must have been sitting in just the same spot for ages.
‘Tommy?’
He didn’t even move. She went to him and bent to touch his arm gently and look into his face. It was already wet with tears. As his body began to shake with silent sobs, he handed her the letter.
She could see immediately that the blue handwriting, normally so neat and careful, was bigger, hurried and agitated, and that there were smudges on the page as if Jo-Ann had touched it with wet fingers.
Oh, Tommy, I don’t know what to do. I’ve had a terrible row with Dad and he’s been so horrible I can hardly look at him. Your letter came and it was nice and a good idea but when Mom and I asked him about it he just flew off the handle and said straight away that he didn’t want you or anyone coming here. And then he said he doesn’t want me writing to you or seeing you ever again.
I don’t know what to do, Tommy. He was so angry because he didn’t know about all the letters. Mom did and she thought it was all right. I never said anything to him because he keeps on so about everything and I wanted something to be mine for once without having to ask him. Why shouldn’t I at my age? You and I are grown up almost. When are we ever going to have a life of our own?
I’ll think of something. I’m determined he’s not going to stop us seeing each other – but how? I can’t even get out of the house on my own even though he’s talking about putting a ramp in at the front but he hasn’t done it and sometimes I think it’s because he doesn’t want me to go out, ever. I don’t feel like a proper person.
You’re the only one who understands what it’s like. I love your letters. We should be able to see each other – it’s not fair of him.
I think I love you, Tommy. I know I’ve never said it before but now this has happened, I know it. Oh, what are we going to do?
I’ll write again soon – somehow I’ll get it posted again.
With my love,
Jo-Ann xxxx
Melly looked up at her brother, tears in her own eyes.
‘God, Tommy – she sounds a lovely girl. Oh, I’m sorry for you – I really am. But he can’t just stop her seeing you, can he?’
Tommy rubbed his right arm fiercely across his face. ‘I dunno,’ he said miserably. ‘But I – don’t . . .’ He kept having to stop for breaths. ‘Want to – push in if – I’m not – wanted.’
‘But you are wanted. By her.’ Melly sat on the wall beside him. ‘She wants to see you. It’s just that – if only she wasn’t . . .’ She tailed off.
‘A c-cripple?’
‘No. Well – it’d make life a lot easier,’ she admitted.
‘If – she wasn’t a – cripple, she – wouldn’t – want – me,’ Tommy said bleakly.
‘Oh, Tommy.’ She slung her arm round his shoulders. ‘How could anyone not want you – eh?’
He stayed silent, staring at the blue bricks at their feet.
‘She says she’s going to think of something,’ she suggested.
‘I – ought to – go. Just – drive – there . . .’ He sounded angry now, mutinous. ‘Who – cares – what he – says?’
‘Are you going to tell Mom?’
They looked at each other. Tommy shrugged. ‘Not – yet. I – want to – write – back first. He can’t – bloody – stop me – doing that.’
Rachel walked in about half an hour later. Melly, in the kitchen, heard Ricky and the other two come in noisily. It went abruptly quiet as the front door banged shut. The sight of Dudley Rainer and a vast fruit cake together in the same place seemed to have silenced the children. She heard her mother’s voice, followed by laughter and the sound of Dudley in the hall as if he was taking his leave. A moment later Rachel came into the kitchen.
She looked round, still all smiles. She always seemed happy when she’d been with Gina. They were best friends and the kids played together.
‘Oh – you’ve done the tea then, have you? Ta, Melly.’ Humming, she went to the stove and lifted the pan lid. ‘Gina’s such a laugh – she really is. D’you put plenty of onion in?’
Melly nodded. She’s got me just where she wants me, Melly thought. In the kitchen, getting married – all just like her. Nothing new. Nothing different. She was surprised by the force of resentment that came to her out of nowhere.
‘Mom – Tommy’s upset.’
Rachel looked round, though Melly could tell she was only half listening.
She explained about the letter and what Jo-Ann had said.
‘Oh, dear,’ Rachel said. ‘Here – let’s lay up. The spuds are nearly done.’
‘Mom!’
Rachel put her hand on her waist. ‘Well, what d’you want me to say? I don’t know who these people are. They’re miles away. He’ll get over it.’
Melly got up and went over to her. Her intent face finally got Rachel’s full attention.
‘Mom – he’s up in my room writing a letter to her now. I’ve never seen him so heartbroken. He was outside crying his eyes out. Why shouldn’t they see each other? They’re friends – and they’re not kids any longer, are they?’
Rachel folded her arms and looked away, thinking. She sighed and looked back at Melly.
‘I don’t know. If they don’t want him there . . .’
The door opened and Gladys came in with a smile nearly as wide as the door, bringing the conversation to an end.
Melly posted Tommy’s letter for him the next morning before going to Dorothy Hughes’s house. Tommy looked white and upset.
‘I feel – like – driving – over – there,’ he said. She could see all the pent-up emotion in him.
‘Don’t do anything rash, Tom,’ Melly said. ‘Maybe she can talk her mom and dad round – give it a bit of time.’
‘She – shouldn’t – have – to,’ he said, as he limped with his stick to the front door.
Walking through Harborne she thought of her brother, knowing he was in for a truly miserable day.
Her own was not much better. She felt distracted by her own worries – about Tommy and about herself. Was she carrying a baby – was she? Her head ached with tiredness from n
ot sleeping well. Both children seemed to sense her mood and were fractious.
‘Oh, dear,’ Dorothy Hughes said. ‘I do hope they’re not sickening for something. Victor does so hate it if the children wake at night and disturb his sleep. It’s always worse if they’re ill.’
‘It must be difficult for him,’ Melly said, thinking in fact that Victor Hughes was a selfish old stick who had no idea about looking after the children he had produced with little cost to himself.
‘I tell you what.’ Dorothy perked up. ‘Shall we have a little sing-song?’ She lifted the lid of the piano.
Melly held Ann and sat beside Peter while their mother played some nursery rhymes. Half her mind was on the singing, the other half thinking of the night before, Gladys’s radiant face, Tommy’s pale, distraught one. Then Ann started off crying again, a sound which grated on her nerves more than usual.
Don’t let me be having a baby, she kept thinking. The idea of it made her want to cry herself. Please, no – not yet.
Sixty-Three
‘What’m I going to do with him?’
Rachel stood at the sink in her yellow Marigolds and pale blue spotty apron. She wrinkled her nose as the smell of bleach came up to meet her.
‘Who – Danny?’ Gladys said. She was at the table, sewing up the hem of a slinky frock in coppery colours.
‘No – for once. Tommy.’
Gladys shook her head. Rachel had already explained.
‘I don’t know, bab. Can’t really interfere, can you? We don’t know these people.’
Rachel stood with one hand in the water, the other pushing her hair out of her eyes. She felt reassured by this. She wanted to be told there was nothing she could do.
‘He’s nice, your Dudley,’ she said, watching Gladys with sudden fondness.
‘My Dudley?’ Gladys looked round at her. She spoke harshly but Rachel could see it was because she was shy about it all.
‘He’s mad on you,’ Rachel laughed. ‘He was round here like a dose of salts.’
‘Well . . .’ Gladys looked down at her sewing again. She held it further away from her. ‘I need my eyes seeing to . . .’