One Day at a Time

by Susan Lewis

  ‘He’s gone down club with the others.’

  ‘So where are you going?’

  ‘Up the Kleen-eze playing fields. Do you want to come?’

  ‘There’s this bloke, Mickey Lester,’ Julie says. ‘He works down GB Britain’s during the week, but he’s the park keeper on Saturdays and Sundays. He’s gert lush, you wait till you see him. He’s about twenty-four and looks exactly like Davy Jones.’

  I know I’m supposed to be going home, but who cares? I’d much rather go up the Kleen-eze, especially if there’s a bloke who looks like Davy Jones. If I can get off with him, that’ll really show Kev.

  I just hope Lucky doesn’t growl at him, or she’ll really be in trouble.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Dad’s face is white with rage.

  ‘Out with my friends.’

  ‘I trusted you to come straight home, and now look at the time! It’s after nine o’clock and I’ve been worried out of my mind.’

  ‘What for? I’m old enough to take care of myself.’

  ‘Don’t backchat me, young lady. Now, I want to know where you’ve been.’

  ‘I went up the Kleen-eze, all right?’

  ‘No, it is not all right. I told you Uncle Alf had come to pick us up …’

  ‘Stop shouting at me all the time.’

  ‘Who did you go with?’

  ‘My friends.’

  ‘Which friends?’

  ‘Lainey and the others.’

  ‘You’re lying. It’s written all over your face.’

  ‘Oh no, you two aren’t rowing again, are you?’ Gary complains, coming in the door.

  ‘I thought you were sleeping in the Williamses’ tonight,’ Dad says.

  ‘I am. I’ve come back to get my pyjamas. Hello, Lucky. Want to come with me?’

  ‘She’s mine, not yours,’ I remind him, ‘so she’s staying with me.’

  ‘You always get to keep her. Why can’t I have a turn?’

  ‘You can’t take her next door,’ Dad tells him. ‘Now hurry up and fetch what you came for, and you, young lady, can get upstairs to bed.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going. Come on, Lucky, we know where we’re not wanted, don’t we?’

  ‘Have you eaten anything today?’ Dad calls after me.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ Actually, I’m starving, but I’m not going to give him the chance to get on at me about something else. I’m fed up with him. I wish he’d just leave me alone. I wish everyone would, especially Mandy and Julie who only made me wait over the other side of the park while they went to talk to Mickey Lester, in case Lucky attacked him. Anyone would think she’s vicious, and she’s not.

  Anyway, he’s not interested in either of them, because he’s got a girlfriend who was there, and from what I could see she’s lovely-looking, so it’s no wonder he told Julie to grow up and get lost.

  ‘I know your sort,’ his girlfriend called after her, ‘and we don’t want you round here, so stay round your own way.’

  Julie’s threatening to go and bash her up now, but if you ask me she’s all talk.

  Lucky’s lying on the bed gazing up at me, so I go to give her a cuddle before Dad comes in to get her. He won’t allow her to sleep upstairs, even though she howls and scratches at the kitchen door for most of the night.

  ‘She has to learn she can’t always have her own way,’ he says sharply, ‘and so do you.’

  He’s so mean. I really hate him sometimes. In fact, I hate everyone, except Lucky and Miss Vaughan, because they’re the only ones who are always on my side.

  Miss Vaughan’s going to be Mrs Philpott by the time we start back in September. She only invited me to her wedding, which I thought was really nice of her, and I felt really honoured, but worse luck, we’re going to be on holiday down Bowleaze Cove the week she gets married.

  I’m thinking about running away and taking Lucky with me. It’ll serve everyone right if I do.

  Eddie

  ‘Hello Mr Lewis.’

  ‘Hello Anne.’ I keep meaning to tell her she can call me Eddie, but I’m afraid it might seem too forward, so I never quite get round to it. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. A bit hot, but it’s lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I agree.

  I have a look around the shop, wondering where to start first.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking a little peaky. Are you getting enough vitamins?’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ I tell her, even though I’m in a bit of pain. Our Nance keeps on that I’m developing an ulcer, and sometimes I think she might be right.

  ‘It’s worrying about our Susan that’s doing it,’ she says. ‘She’ll be the death of you, that girl, the way she carries on.’

  I wish she wouldn’t say things like that in front of Gary, but I suppose not having any kids of her own, she doesn’t realise how much they pick up. Of course he went straight home and told our Susan I was going to die because of her, and the next thing I knew they were at one another’s throats. I managed to break them up before any blood was spilled, but our Susan ended up crying so hard that she started to retch.

  She’s gone over our Doreen’s today, with Gary. I put them on the bus first thing this morning, and Alf’s bringing them back tonight in time for Top of the Pops. Woe betide us all if we make our Susan miss that. The latest is that she’s going to run away and be a groupie for the Monkees. I can only hope she doesn’t know what that actually means.

  The dog’s at home, shut up in the kitchen in disgrace after she chased one of the neighbours up her own stairs yesterday, and kept her trapped under the bed, barking and growling at her, until her husband came home and managed to get Lucky out of the house. I don’t know what we’re going to do about all the havoc she’s causing, but I’ll have to think of something, because I’ll never get our Susan to part with her now.

  ‘I’ve kept something back for you,’ Anne says, and going behind the counter she pulls out a brown envelope and hands it over. ‘It’s some photographs of the Concorde. I thought you might like them, because you used to work down Rolls-Royce at one time, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was the BAC,’ I tell her, which is on the same site and part of the same company, so all of us who’ve worked there, even if we’ve left now, feel a sense of pride about Concorde.

  ‘Did you go down to watch it taking off, back in April?’ she asks, as I sift through some of the best photographs I’ve ever seen of the plane. They’re all in black and white, and my goodness, they’re impressive.

  ‘I couldn’t get the time off,’ I reply, ‘but I’d have loved to be there. Who on earth brought these in? They must be collectors’ items. I can’t believe their owner doesn’t want them.’

  Her cheeks go slightly pink as she says, ‘I found them in with some books I was sorting out this morning, so I suppose Helen, who does Thursdays and Fridays, must have taken them in.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you to keep them for me, but someone must have brought them in by mistake.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure they didn’t,’ she insists.

  I have a look through them again, marvelling at how clear and well taken they are. ‘These are really something to treasure,’ I comment, ‘pictures of her maiden voyage out of Filton, is what it looks like. They say she’ll be flying across the Atlantic by ’73, you know.’ I give a chuckle. ‘I don’t suppose the likes of us will be able to afford the tickets though. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure I can afford these photos. How much do you want for them?’

  She waves a hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You spend enough in here already, so take it as a gift, but mind you don’t tell anyone, or you’ll get me into trouble.’

  It’s not until I’m back home later, and flicking through them again, that it occurs to me Anne’s brother, or was it her father, used to work at the BAC. I don’t know the family well, because they’re quite well-to-do, but as far
as I remember, her dad used to be quite high up in Rolls-Royce. He’s dead now, but I think her brother still works there, and I’m guessing that these photos are his, and she’s had some copies made, just for me.

  I have to sit with the shock of that for a minute or two, not sure why she’d do something like that, and actually hoping she didn’t, because it would make me very uncomfortable to think of her spending all that money on me. It wouldn’t be right, when we hardly even know each other, but at the same time I can’t help feeling touched by her kindness. Of course I can’t ask her if that’s what she did, because it would embarrass her terribly, and anyway, I’m sure she’d only deny it.

  I expect I’ve got it wrong though, because the more I think about it, the more unlikely it seems that she’d go to all that trouble. That’s typical of you, Eddie, I say to myself, thinking you’re a bit special, when very likely all that’s happened is that some poor bloke really has handed them photos in by mistake. I’ll tell her next time I’m up there, that I’ll be very happy to give them back, should anyone come looking for them.

  Now it’s time to start packing for our holidays. Florrie’s not coming this year, because we’re having to get the coach, and her legs aren’t up to all that walking and getting on and off the bus. So it’s going to be just the three of us, and Lucky, who’s sitting here looking very sorry for herself, having just been told off. You should have seen the state of the kitchen when I got back. She’d torn half the wallpaper off the wall, scratched all the paintwork, and she must have jumped up on the draining board to try and get out of the window, because the venetian blinds were all buckled, and the dishes I left drying were all over the place.

  ‘For two pins I’d take you down the flipping dogs’ home right now,’ I tell her. And I would too, if it weren’t for how our Susan would react. I suppose I could always tell her the dog got run over, or wandered off and hasn’t come back. It wouldn’t be right to lie to her though, and much as she doesn’t deserve to have anything of her own the way she carries on half the time, I don’t have the heart to take away her dog.

  I’ve got a couple of things I need to ask her about though, one in particular that’s been playing on my mind for a long time now. It’s hard getting round to it when I know how much it’ll embarrass her, me too, and try as I might I can’t seem to think of the right words. I’ve written them down I don’t know how many times, and in a dozen different ways, but nothing ever seems right. I’ll have to ask her though, because if there is something wrong with her, the quicker we get her up the doctor’s the more chance we’ll have of putting it right.

  Just thinking about the doctor brings the soreness back in my stomach that makes me want to groan out loud. I suppose I’ll have to get something for it, or the next thing I know I won’t be fit to go back to work after my holidays, and apart from needing the money, it scares the kids to death when I’m not well.

  I lie back and close my eyes, waiting for the burn to pass. When it finally does I become aware of the dog’s head under my hand, and looking down at her I can’t help but smile. She’s gazing up at me with her doleful brown eyes, as though saying, ‘It’s all right, Ed, I’m here for you.’

  A bit of fanciful nonsense, but it makes me feel better, and then I look at the photos on the arm of the chair, and realise that bit of fanciful nonsense – thinking Anne had copied them specially for me – made me feel better too.

  Susan

  I didn’t realise Auntie Nance was going to be here as well today, and I wouldn’t have minded, if I hadn’t heard her and Auntie Doreen talking about me. They were in the kitchen and I was in the front room having a look through young Doreen’s records, which she keeps in their sleeves, all pristine and shiny, with no scratches at all.

  This is what Auntie Nance said: ‘That girl’s running wild and something has to be done.’

  ‘Oh come on now, Nance,’ Auntie Doreen said, ‘she’s not that bad.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. She’s making her father’s life a misery, and our poor Ed doesn’t deserve it. He works hard bringing up those kids on his own, and if she goes on the way she is …’

  ‘Ssh, or she’ll hear you. Where is she?’

  ‘She was outside just now, with our Gary. What I’m saying is, our Ed’s not well, and if it turns out to be something serious that young madam will be to blame. She goes and gets herself expelled from school, now she’s running riot down the Grange and the things I’ve been hearing …’

  ‘Now, now, Nance, girls will be girls, and you’ve got to remember, she’s lost her mother, poor love, so you have to make allowances.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Auntie Nance barked, ‘and I’ll tell you this, her mam wouldn’t put up with the way she’s behaving, not for a minute.’

  ‘I daresay you’re right, because Eddress was always strict with ’em, but our Ed’s a good dad and he loves those kids.’

  ‘I’m not saying he doesn’t, but he’s too soft on her, Doreen. She needs a firm hand, or before we know it she’ll be right off the rails and in a borstal, or blooming well pregnant.’

  ‘Oh, you’re exaggerating, Nance. She’s too young for all that. She’s only just thirteen.’

  ‘And look at her. She’s more like a girl of sixteen the way her bosoms are growing and how tall she’s getting. You mark my words, she’s on the road to ruin, and that’s where she’s going to end up if someone doesn’t talk to her soon.’

  ‘Does she know about the birds and the bees? Has anyone told her?’

  ‘Well I haven’t, and I don’t know that her gran has. I think you should sit her down and …’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you’ve got young Doreen, so you know more about girls our Susan’s age. What did you tell our Doreen?’

  ‘Let me see. You know, I don’t think I told her anything specific like.’

  ‘Auntie Doreen,’ Gary shouts, bursting in through the door, ‘some boys down the bottom said I could go and play with them, is that all right?’

  ‘Go on then, my lovely, but make sure you stay on the green where I can see you. Where’s our Susan?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  After he’s scuttled off I hear Auntie Nance say, ‘I hope she hasn’t gone and run off. It would be typical of her though if she has, because she never thinks about anyone but herself.’

  Eddie

  It’s early evening now, and Susan’s in her bedroom sorting out what she’s going to take down to Bowleaze Cove tomorrow. She had a face as long as a fiddle when she came back from our Doreen’s earlier, apart from when she saw Lucky, but now she won’t even let the dog into her room.

  I try knocking on her door again. ‘What’s the matter, my old love?’ I call out.

  ‘Nothing,’ she snaps back.

  ‘Then why won’t you let us in?’

  ‘Because I want you all to go away,’ she shouts.

  I glance down at Lucky, who glances up at me. ‘Well that’s not very nice, is it?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t care. Just leave me alone. And I don’t want to go on holiday tomorrow. I’m staying here.’

  ‘We don’t want you to come anyway, do we Dad?’ Gary shouts from his room.

  ‘Yes we do,’ I tell him, ‘now, if you’ve finished your packing you can go outside and play football for a while. I want to have a chat with our Susan.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you,’ she informs me. ‘Nothing you say is of any interest to me.’

  I don’t know what the dickens happened over our Doreen’s to put her in such a bad mood, but something’s obviously rubbed her up the wrong way, and I don’t know whether to leave her be, or try to make her tell me what it is.

  In the end, because my stomach’s starting to play up again, I take myself off downstairs to put the kettle on. Someone said bicarb in hot water is good for stomach ache, so I’m giving it a try.

  When it’s ready I go and sit down in the dining room, where the windows are wide open and the smell of freshly c
ut grass is wafting in on a breeze. The lovely pictures Anne gave me are on the table – I expect Gary will enjoy looking at them, but I’ll have to make sure his hands are clean, because I don’t want him mucking them up. Even he feels proud that parts of Concorde are being built in Bristol, the whole city does.

  I’m taking Faulkner’s The Mansion away with me on holiday. He says it’s a writer’s job to put things clearly so that others can read and form their own conclusions. I think he makes a very good job of putting forward his points about class and race, and I’m looking forward to reading more. Certainly it’ll keep my mind off the acid in my gut, and beef up my meagre knowledge of our wonderfully, frighteningly complex world.

  I shall also make a study of Swinburne’s ‘Ballad of Burdens’ if I have time. I imagine I will, because the children will be off with new friends, splashing about in the sea, exploring the local attractions. I find myself wondering what Anne does for her holidays, where she goes, how she occupies her time? Perhaps I should return the photographs, but how can I without causing offence?

  I can hear music coming from our Susan’s room now – ‘Something in The Air’ – so I’m hoping this means that her black mood has lifted. I must say, I’m partial to this song myself, so I think I’ll write the lyrics down for her. She often asks for them, so I’m sure it’ll please her to have these.

  I reckon we’re leading up to some kind of revolution, with all that’s going on in the world. We were told the Vietnam War was coming to an end, but there’s no sign of it yet. All that waste of life, never mind the abuse of it. At the same time the Americans go and put a man on the moon, and what good’s that going to do anyone, I ask myself. It was impressive though, and we all stopped work to watch when it happened. At the crucial minute the picture went, but the sound carried on so we heard the already immortal words ‘… one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind’. I wonder who wrote that. I’m sure Neil Armstrong didn’t make it up on the spur of the moment. I expect they had some great minds working on that for years.