Mothers and Daughters

by Fleming, Leah

  She thought about Freddie, the dad she never knew. Was she like him in any way? Had his death in Palestine been worthwhile or just another pointless accident of war?

  Soldier, soldier gone for slaughter,

  Left his daughter baby blue,

  Soldier soldier, what you fought for

  Left the kid you never knew.

  She repeated it in her head over and over until she found the tune of an old folk song, the one they used in Z Cars on the TV.

  ‘Sandy, wake up. How does this sound?’ she asked, wondering if the lyrics made any sense to anyone else.

  Soldier, soldier gone for slaughter

  Left the kid, you never knew Soldier

  soldier, what you fought for.

  Only flags, red, white and blue.

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ said Marty, giving her a hug.

  Once they got hold of the idea everyone stayed behind in the barracks to practise the harmonies and get the song off pat. Even Lorne Dobson gave Connie a hug and laughed.

  ‘You’ve saved our bacon. We can add a few more verses and the usual protest CND songs but you bet, when they’re all drunk and we bash out a few numbers, they’ll be up and dancing on the floor. This is a weird place and no mistake, a cross between a nunnery and a prisoner-of-war camp, and it gives me the willies. All that political stuff – they are so deadly serious about it. Marty seems very taken with Eva,’ he added in a whisper, making mischief.

  ‘So?’ Connie smiled through her teeth. ‘We’re not joined at the hip.’

  ‘Just as well then.’ He winked at her.

  On the last night of their gig, Connie stood up and introduced their new number with a new-found pride.

  ‘I’d like to dedicate this to my dad, Freddie, who I never knew, who died in Palestine at the hands of Israeli separatists, and my late mother, Ana, who was a partisan in Crete, a prisoner of war and refugee.’

  She sang first, the others joined in. They sang it straight off, adding a few more verses. The catchy tune soon caught on with first the English students and then the others. Everyone seemed pleased, and the beer flowed, and then some of the Brits asked for a few beat numbers and no one objected, and soon everybody was dancing just as Lorne predicted.

  Connie was high with the success, looking round for Marty. He was dancing with Eva and her friend and not looking in her direction at all.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Lorne whispered. ‘That Lorelei German Mädchen has stolen his eyes.’

  ‘So I see,’ Connie said, knocking back the spice beers as if they were fizzy pop. ‘Come on then. Let’s beat them at their own game,’ she said to him, trying to look cool, but fuming inside. They danced and did the shake, fooled around, but she didn’t care. Lorne could move like the devil, his hair flopping over his forehead, his eyes rolling as he sent himself up. He might not be the world’s greatest looker but he did have a strange hypnotic allure when he was dancing, his limbs loose and suggestive, his hips thrusting.

  ‘Have another,’ he said, shoving a glass in her hand, and she just let the drink flow over her. What was the point? When she looked across the room neither Marty nor Eva was there dancing. If he was out there in the moonlight with Eva what was the point of crying into her beer? Two could play at that silly game, she smiled, and took hold of Lorne’s hand and put it round her waist. Time to see if the famous Lorne’s loins were as good as their reputation.

  It was a brief, careless, headstrong act of drunken sex, but revenge was sweet. They tripped in the darkness, stumbling over each other, giggling and kissing. Lorne was expert at removing hooks, buttons, bras and other impediments. They were both so sozzled she couldn’t recall whether it was good or not when she woke up at dawn on the damp grass with such a hangover and a tongue like a cork doormat. She attempted to totter back to her bunk.

  Marty was already up, packing the van with a face like thunder.

  ‘Where the hell did you get to last night?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not a million yards from where you were with Eva, I expect,’ she snapped back.

  ‘How could you be so stupid? We were here to sing, not fool around,’ he replied, ignoring her jibe.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ she sneered. ‘I had a great time.’

  ‘Yes, I saw you making doe eyes at Lorne. For God’s sake, you must have been out of your head. You disappoint me, Connie. That was cheap and it’ll make problems. How could you stoop so low?’

  ‘Is he bothering you, honey?’ Lorne staggered forth with his rucksack, putting his arms around Connie.

  She wriggled free. ‘I’m fine. I’ll go and pack. Show’s over, I suspect.’ She was feeling sick and stupid and very small.

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Marty. ‘We’ve made no money. The van’s on its last legs.’

  ‘This’s been a complete waste of time,’ Des added, slinging his rucksack back into the van. ‘All that stupid propaganda, what’s it all in aid of?’

  ‘Ask Marty. He was the one having private lectures with the lovely Eva. I bet she was a trap to hook you into their schemes to change the world.’

  ‘And you can belt up or smoke a joint, Dobson. You haven’t exactly helped things along,’ Marty exploded.

  ‘Don’t go blaming me for Connie’s little night on the tiles. You started it.’

  ‘Oh, shut it!’

  ‘No, you shut it. You don’t order us around like Mr Hitler. We’re a group, a democratic, not autocratic, collective – decision makers At least I’ve learned that in the last past few days.’

  ‘Bullshit, Dobson. This band is rubbish without a leader. You’re always half cut and now you screw my girl.’

  ‘I’m not your girl, or anybody’s, for that matter,’ piped Connie. ‘So shut up, the both of you.’ It was awful to see everything disintegrating like this. She was sobering up fast and now she was feeling cheap and silly.

  ‘Well, I might as well tell you … I’m out of it,’ said Marty, as Jack, Des, Lorne circled round him with Connie and Sandra clinging on to each other. ‘I’m leaving, going solo. I’ve had an offer. It just hasn’t worked out, has it? We’ve had three months and this fiasco is the last straw.’

  Everyone stood shocked, heads down, but Marty continued, ‘It’s better we split up now. You can all regroup. I want to do other stuff … experiment. Tony has some ideas.’

  ‘Has that poofter been feeling you up then?’ Lorne sneered.

  Marty leaped at him and punched him. ‘Just shut it, big mouth. You think with your dick!’

  Connie couldn’t stand it and turned away in tears. ‘What about me then?’ she whispered.

  Marty pulled her to the side, out of earshot, of the others. ‘Look, Connie, you’re still a kid. Go back and finish your studies, make up with your family. I’m not ready to be tied down. Write some more songs and send them out. But I’m travelling solo from now on.’

  The journey back was long, dreary and full of tension. Everyone was shocked by Marty’s defection. The van’s exhaust finally gave up and they had a struggle to find enough cash to have it wired together. They scrumped apples off trees and had to share a loaf of bread and drink water, hunger making them all tetchy. Lorne kept trying to snuggle up to Connie but she was having none of it.

  What a stupid thing to have done in a drunken haze, and with Lorne, of all people. She couldn’t stand him. He was just a port in a storm and she’d been so angry and hurt she’d lashed out and hurt herself even more. All she had to look forward to was going back north and trying to make amends.

  Everything was changed. She felt soiled and full of remorse. Marty had been planning this defection all along. That was why he’d gone cold, distanced himself and made up to Eva. No wonder she had felt something was going wrong. The summer of love was well and truly over.

  As she hung over the rails of the ferry trying to breathe in the sea air, sensing everything was over, words drifted into her head.

  You packed the suitcase full of my dreams and
>
  threw it down the stairs

  When you cheated on me.

  You put a stop to all my loving schemes and

  chucked them from the window

  When you cheated on me.

  What did I do to deserve all this pain? How can I

  ever trust you again?

  I’m standing at the bus stop now, with nowhere

  to go, and the fog’s coming down

  A suitcase full of broken dreams, nowhere to go

  and the fog’s coming down.

  Through her tears, Connie ferreted in her rucksack and pulled out the jotting pad. At least she’d learned one thing from Marty Gorman. Never miss some good lyrics.

  Connie paces the airport lounge, looking at her watch. Why doesn’t the plane land? She explained so much in her letters, trying to set her story in the context of those distant times.

  The colours of the swinging sixties might have been oranges and limes and purples, black and white, geometric stripes and swirls, but when Connie thinks of that time she sees only grey and denim and mourning shades. They say if you can remember your student days in the sixties – all that measuring time through coffee spoons – then you weren’t really there, she sighs. Sex, drugs and rock and roll were supposed to begin in 1963. That’s not true, of course.

  She’d done it all: sex, purple hearts, smoked grass, listened to the Beatles’ first big albums through tears and pain and grief. Recalling every month of that time as if it was yesterday.

  It’s hard growing up without a mother’s love to guide you.

  All that was left was to hitchhike back to Grimbleton to eat humble pie, tail between legs.

  There was a frosty chill in the air when she dumped her bags in the hall at Waverley. Her room was let and she was sent to live with Gran as her nursemaid. Every rebellion has its price.

  ‘Do you think you can just swan back here and take up where you left off? Go back to school? You blotted your copybook there by not sitting your exams and we had to pay the fees. It’s the technical college and work for you.’ Gran had had the last word as usual.

  There was always this hole in my heart, a gaping void in the middle waiting to be filled. First when Mama died and then later … Whatever I did to try to fill the gap, it never closed up, she sighs. How could it when that first summer of love was over and the winter of pain began?

  17

  23 November 1963

  ‘I hear the runaway came back to Division Street and got short shrift from that Susan … quite right too. Now the girl’s up at Esme’s, making herself useful, for once,’ said Ivy, watching her son preening himself in the mirror. ‘I see you’ve bought another new shirt. We’ll have to get a bigger wardrobe, you’ve got that much stuff, Neville,’ she added, eyeing him up. ‘Black and white stripes is a bit loud … You look like a spiv. Dancing … or out with that Trevor again?’

  ‘Might be.’ Neville was cagey. His mother was always sniffing around, waiting for him to bring Trevor home, but he never would.

  ‘I hear he’s off the Willows council estate and rough with it. What about Basil? You used to be right pally with him. I liked him. His dad is a dentist.’

  ‘Basil’s moved to Manchester.’

  ‘Got a girlfriend, has he?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he replied. How could he tell his mother that Basil was living in Didsbury with a guy twice his age, a right silver fox who played in the Hallé Orchestra.

  ‘I wish you’d bring your friends back so I can meet them,’ she continued.

  So you can vet them, more like, he thought. She’d take one look at Trevor and think him common, rough-spoken and not good enough to be a friend for her precious son. God only knew what she’d think if she knew the truth about their relationship.

  ‘Trevor and me thought we’d try further afield,’ he lied. ‘Go for a Chinese and then on to Manchester.’

  ‘Well, put some petrol in the car then. I’m not forking out for your trips. Trevor should pay his whack. He gets enough free rides these days.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be mean. He’s got his widowed mother to support.’

  ‘Aye, and on a plasterer’s wage, I gather. I can’t see what you two have in common at all except the Operatic.’

  She’d have a fit if she knew what they got up to after the rehearsals were over. Trevor was as keen as he was with their lovemaking – fast and furious and the best he’d ever had. Sometimes it was as much as they could do to keep their hands off each other in public. How could his fussy mother understand any of that? Now, his father was living with Shirley most of the time while Mum was growing fat in front of the television every night. He’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so nosy.

  ‘I’ll be late so don’t wait up,’ he shouted as he straightened his tie. How could he tell her he was in love, courting and full of plans?

  They met up as usual at the Golden Dragon for chow mein, chips and banana fritters, chatting over their day like an old couple. Trevor had taken his mother shopping and round the Saturday market. He was rehearsing his new part for the next show, Oklahoma!, with their voice coach, Audrey Ramsden, and he was plastering up a bedroom wall for one of his neighbours in his spare time.

  ‘I looked like a snowman when I finished,’ he smiled.

  ‘You don’t now; you smell divine,’ Neville said.

  ‘I like the new shirt, it’s very trendy,’ Trevor replied.

  ‘Only the best for the best. Where shall we go from here?’ Neville asked.

  Trevor winked. ‘What about Leaper’s View. It’s quiet up there and we haven’t seen each other for days.’ There was promise in those flashing eyes.

  Neville grinned. ‘Leaper’s View it is then. I’ll just go and settle up.’

  ‘No, it’s my treat,’ Trevor replied. ‘You always pay. It makes me feel like a kept man.’

  ‘I wish we could live together, you and me, sharing a bed like any normal couple,’ said Neville, knowing such a dream was never going to happen for them.

  ‘We’re not normal, though, are we?’ Trevor said softly. ‘We’re not free to do as we please. We have to be careful. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Trevor, you’re so thoughtful. I get so frustrated and mad. It’s not fair. We aren’t bothering anyone else, are we?’

  They drove up through the town, the foggy lights and the streets fading as they turned from the suburbs into country lanes and up to the moor and the layby that looked down over the whole of the Lancashire plain. There was only one saloon car at the corner, its windows already steamed up.

  ‘I love it here,’ Trevor said. ‘It’s like the whole world’s at our feet.’ He nestled his head on Nev’s shoulder. ‘I wish we could stay here for ever, just you and me.’

  ‘You’d soon get cramp,’ Neville quipped, pulling him down onto his lap.

  They tussled and kissed, unbuttoning themselves, aroused by the taste and scent of each other.

  ‘I’ll never get enough of you,’ Neville sighed, his fingers wandering over Trevor’s bulge.

  Then a torch blinded them for a second. Christ! He couldn’t see. A voice was shouting and a fist banging on the window.

  ‘Get out, you perverts, out of the car. What have we here?’

  ‘Just a couple of queers on the job, Constable.’

  ‘Do you see what I see? Is that a trunk I see, popping out of those trousers? Blimey, it’s more like a stovepipe. Out! Names … ?’

  Trevor covered his eyes. ‘Please, we were doing no harm,’ he pleaded.

  ‘That’s what they all say, sonny. What you are doing is against the law and we are here to uphold the law of the land. Save your defence for the bench. We’ve been told puffs like you are using Leaper’s View as a rendezvous.’

  The other constable got out his notebook. ‘Names, addresses, and no lies.’

  Neville felt sick, shaking. ‘Look, we’ve taken your warning, just leave it at that, for pity’s sake,’ he argued.
Trevor was sobbing. ‘Let him go, just take me.’

  ‘Out, the both of yous, or we’ll call for reinforcements and they will not hesitate to use force. Come on chaps, the game’s up. Time to pay your due. It’s the police station for both of you.’

  Esme watched her granddaughter vacuuming round the room like one of the Furies. Since her return, Connie was making a real effort to make up for letting her down. But there was silence between them that was worrying. The girl was peaky, with rings under her eyes, and the bounce had gone out of her. That Gorman lad had dumped her as she’d always sensed he might. It didn’t do to mix faiths in Grimbleton. Now he was back in London making records, and the rest of the band, it appeared, were back in town trying to find work.

  Connie was now at the technical college to do her A-level resits. At least she could resit them in November, and it was a relief to see her with her head down in her books, silly madam, but the light had gone out of her eyes as if the dream had died. She looked just as she had when Ana died.

  This dratted hip was slow to mend and stiffening her up, and it was so painful. If this was old age, you could keep it. She was like a creaking gate on rusty hinges; every move across the room must be calculated and aided with two sticks. Dr Gilchrist said she must keep moving or else, but cleaning was out of the question, walking, shopping, all the pleasures she had taken for granted, were off limits. It was a slow shuffle, a game of cards, the TV, gramophone, and visiting friends the highlight of her day. Connie circled round her, quiet, polite, almost too dutiful. Esme could see her heart was aching but now that she was home, all’s well that ended well. Though Connie hadn’t apologised for letting them down and running away. It was as if these young ones thought it was their right to do what they pleased with themselves. What had happened to their sense of duty and responsibility within the family? She’d hardly seen Joy since the summer – on bed rest still, or so they said. Su wouldn’t let her leave the house much. Denny didn’t want her being bothered by visitors either.