‘Where are you going tonight, Mam?’ Sarah Jane asked, coming into the bedroom as Lucy was getting ready, Sean trailing behind her, thumb in mouth.
‘I’m off out with my friend Joan,’ Lucy fibbed, not meeting her children’s collective gaze through the mirror. She tapped Sean’s hand and the thumb came out with a loud sucking noise.
‘I thought she was called Sally.’
‘I’ve more than one friend.’ Lucy made a mental note to be more careful. She understood now why they said liars should have good memories.
Sarah Jane flung herself on to her parent’s bed, chin propped in hand and watched with interest as Lucy applied Hollywood red lipstick to her rosebud mouth. Sean scrambled up beside her, sliding the thumb back in, eyes wide. ‘Do you ever see Michael?’ Sarah Jane innocently enquired, a wistful expression on her pale face.
The lipstick slipped from Lucy’s fingers, leaving a trail of crimson extending over the corner of her mouth and she began to scrub at it with a licked finger. ‘Why would I?’
‘He never comes to see us any more. I thought he was our friend.’
‘He used to take me fishing,’ Sean said, speaking around the thumb. Lucy again removed it and worried about why he’d recently taken up this babyish habit. She tucked her children up in bed, read them the story of the Gingerbread Man and then, acutely aware she was late, half ran downstairs. As usual Tom was in his chair by the fire, reading the sport’s pages. He made no move as she shrugged on her best brown coat and carefully pinned an evidently new and very perky little scarlet hat atop her curled bangs
‘I’m off out then,’ she said, kissing the air an inch above the top of his head. Tom neither moved nor spoke. Lucy took a step back towards the door. She wanted to call and speak to Polly first and if she didn’t hurry she’d miss the seven o’clock bus and then Michael would think she wasn’t coming. ‘I won’t be late. It’s the first house pictures we’re going to. You’ll mind the kids?’ No response. ‘Are you listening?’ And when he still didn’t respond, she turned and left the house.
Only then did Tom fold his paper and get up from his seat. He hovered in the shadow of the front door while he watched Lucy hurry up the street and go into her mother’s house. She was barely in there more than a second or two before she was out again, half running this time, in the direction of the canal basin and maybe the warehouse. Tom collected his jacket and followed her, maintaining a safe distance.
Lucy hurried down Pansy Street, scarlet hat askew, coat flying open in her haste to put her decision into effect. She skirted Potato Wharf, barely glancing at the rushing sluice and clattered over the iron foot bridge on her way to Polly’s warehouse near Knott’s Mill. Ahead of her were the railway bridges and viaduct that spanned the canal basin, a section she loved during the day when she could watch the comings and goings of brightly painted barges and folk about their business but now, with dusk falling, she kept up a brisk pace, the thunder of train wheels going over just at the moment she passed beneath, seeming to rattle the teeth in her head.
‘Spare a penny luv, or an ‘appenny’ll do.’ A voice from the shadows beneath the arches made her jump and she hurried on, drawing her coat close, starting to button it. The November night was cold and dank and she wished, not for the first time, that Polly spent more time at home and less at the warehouse. A drunk with a whiskery chin lurched out from behind a pillar so that by the time she reached Castle Street Lucy was running flat out, arriving at the side door of the warehouse, built into the filled-in arch, quite out of breath.
It was unlocked and she wrenched it open, the shadows seeming to leap out at her as she stepped inside. She heard a sound, a rustling whisper and Lucy halted in her tracks, staring about from eyes grown wide with fright. The entire warehouse was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from Polly’s office. She glanced back over her shoulder, thinking the noise must have come from outside and quickly pulled the door shut behind her. The darkness became even more intense and the looms reared like black apparitions in the dusty shafts of moonlight that seeped in from semicircular windows set high in the walls. Lucy shuddered, then took a step out into the void. As she hesitantly negotiated the crossing of a room littered with obstacles at every step, though now empty of its workers at the end of the day, the sound of her heels echoed hollowly on the wooden flooring. So loud were they, that had there been any other sound, she would not have heard it.
Polly set down the wad of papers she’d been studying when Lucy entered the office and stood, arms akimbo, to consider her daughter. Lucy saw at once that she wore her most disapproving frown, not at all what she’d hoped for.
‘Saints preserve us, what is it now? I can see something terrible has happened by the look on your face.’
It took no time at all for Lucy to pour out her guilty secret, for the burden of it had grown heavy of late. In order to quench any expressions of joy or attempts at congratulations she quickly added that it was Michael who was the father and not Tom. Polly showed her disapproval only by a slight widening of her eyes.
‘And what does Tom think of all this?’
‘He doesn’t know, and you mustn’t tell him.’
‘He needs to be told.’
‘I know and I’ll tell him myself, as soon as I’ve spoken to Michael. He doesn’t know either.’ She let it all pour out then, all her disappointment in the marriage, her efforts to please Tom in the beginning, quickly stifled by his selfish and cold attitude towards her. Polly responded as Lucy would have expected, with exhortations for her to show more patience, to allow for the fact that this man had spent years as a POW so how could he be expected to behave normally? Guilt cascaded through Lucy, making her feel small and cheap. She could see that her mother was doing her best to hide her shock, but Lucy could sense her disapproval in the stiff way Polly’s head moved on her neck, the pursing of the lips and the way her hands were folded tightly together.
‘You neglect your children because of this foolish passion with your fancy man. Running wild they are. And have ye thought of the babby? You’d be making it into a bastard if you choose Michael as the father and, to my way of thinking, that’s what ye would be doing - choosing. For how can ye be sure?’
Lucy hung her head, saying nothing, unable to deny the truth of that. What proof did she have either way?
‘Shame on ye lass, for such wickedness. I’m disappointed in you. Didn’t I think you’d show more sense and be kind to your poor husband when he comes home to ye at last.’ Somewhere in the depths of the building there came a scraping sound, as if a door or window had blown shut in a draught. For an instant Lucy was aware of it and then forgot it in her distress.
Tears ran down her cheeks at her mother’s lack of understanding. Nobody did but then how could she explain the misery of living with Tom, the long accusing silences, his volatile moods and his episodes of violence. He exerted an almost dehumanising control over her which assumed that he alone was capable of making decisions, treating her as if she were an idiot with no mind of her own. And then there was the callous way he used her body which made her shudder whenever she thought of it. How could she face the embarrassment of telling her own mother all of that?’
‘If ye take my advice you’ll kiss goodbye to Michael Hopkins, however lovely a man he might be, for it wouldn’t be right. Don’t tell him about the babby. What good would it do, except to bring more pain. You’ve not been with Tom a year yet. Give him a proper chance. Wouldn’t he just love the chance to be a dad, a proper one this time, there every day to watch the child grow up. Ye owe him that at least, do ye not?’
Lucy felt herself driven almost to the limits of her endurance. Why couldn’t somebody be on her side, instead of always taking Tom’s? It was perfectly clear Mam wasn’t going to find it easy to accept a daughter who’d given up on her marriage. But then having been fortunate in both her husbands, how could Polly ever hope to understand? To all outward appearances Tom was an impeccable and caring husband, always sm
artly turned out and mindful of his family’s needs. Only Lucy, as his wife, was aware of his darker side, of a simmering anger that nothing seemed to mellow, and how he too often seemed poised on the brink of explosion.
She pushed her face up close to Polly’s. ‘I owe him nothing. You don’t understand. Tom lies! All right, I’ve no proof but I know he lies all the same. I’ve only his word that he was anywhere near a POW camp. Who knows where he was or what he’s been up to all those years. Half the war he was missing and more than a year after it ended with not a single word. Nothing but silence. Michael is good to me. He’s kind and gentle, and I can hardly bear for Tom to touch me. It’s no good. It won’t work.’ Her voice broke on a hiccupping sob. ‘However long I stay with him, I’ll never feel the same about him as I should.’
She began to sob in earnest now and, seeing her distress, Polly put her arms about Lucy, a tide of sympathy and love for her daughter breaking down the barriers of disapproval.
‘Aw m’cushla, don’t I know what it is to be in love, to have no other thought in your head.’ This surge of sympathy might have brought forth more details about the dark side of her marriage, and of Lucy’s secret fears, were it not for the crack of erupting flames as they shot through the open doors opposite, and the smell of dense smoke suddenly alarmingly evident to them both.
Lucy arrived home in the early hours in great distress. Tom was waiting in the kitchen with the kettle simmering on the hob despite it being past two o’clock in the morning, almost as if he’d expected her to walk in at any minute. But then he’d probably been half out of his mind with worry over why she was out so late. It was a wonder he wasn’t standing at the door with his sleeves rolled up and fists at the ready. Instead, he was surprisingly kind to her when he heard about the fire, and as tears of shock rained down her smoke-blackened cheeks, Lucy told more than she had meant to.
It was Tom who helped her out of her soot-blackened clothes, washed her face and limbs and dressed her in a warmed night-gown, just as if she were Sarah Jane. Then he assisted her up the stairs to bed, all the while explaining how he’d known all along about the coming baby. Hadn’t he heard her throwing up in the sink each morning? He was glad, he told her. He’d always wanted another child. They stood at the top of the stairs and he told her how delighted he was of this chance to be a proper father at last. He made no mention of Michael Hopkins, and neither did she. His only reference to her evening out was to mildly enquire if she’d ever got to the pictures and Lucy dolefully shook her head, then put her hand to it for it throbbed horribly. ‘Sally wouldn’t mind. She’d go in and see it anyway.’
His fingers closed about her arm, ‘I thought you were going with Joan. Forgotten your friend’s name already?’
‘No, both - Sally and - Joan were hoping to go, but at the last minute Sally had to cry off,’ Lucy hastily fabricated.
‘So poor Joan would be on her own?’
‘Yes, yes - that’s right. Joan would be on her own. God, I’m tired.’ She made to move towards the bedroom but he was still holding her arm.
‘You’ll have to go round tomorrow and explain.’
‘Yes, I will. We’ll talk then, shall we?’
‘And no one else was expected to be there, at the pictures?’
‘No, no one. Just the - three of us.’
It was as she turned to step thankfully into the bedroom and the oblivion of sleep, that it happened. His attitude suddenly changed. One moment he was stroking her arm and smiling sympathetically at her, the next he was spitting his fury directly into her face. ‘You’re a liar! I don’t believe a bloody word! Then she was falling, over and over back down the narrow stairs. She had time only to wrap her arms instinctively about herself to protect the coming child as her hips and knees bumped and jarred on every step.
Seconds later she lay shaken and crying, having cracked her head on the door post. Tom was beside her, cradling her in his arms, murmuring words of remorse and sympathy, stroking her bleeding head and saying how he’d never meant to hurt her. ‘Something just comes over me, Lucy. I can’t seem to help myself.’ Then somehow her tears had dried and it was she who was comforting him. Yet in that moment everything changed, a turning point had been reached in her mind.
‘I know it was an accident, that you never meant me any real harm. Nevertheless, I think I’ll sleep with the children tonight. My head is aching so badly I might disturb you with my restlessness.’
For once Tom did not argue.
In truth, only the warmth of her children’s loving bodies were able to ease the horrors of the night’s events. Exhausted as she was, sleep deserted her the moment she lay down. Tom was a consummate liar. She felt his behaviour tonight had proved that. He’d given every impression that he believed this to be his child with his soft words and caring gestures, yet his actions, by deliberately thrusting her down the stairs, proved he didn’t believe that at all.
Lucy was shaking with emotion, shivering with shock yet not for a moment dare she venture downstairs for a cup of tea or a warm by the embers of the kitchen fire. She was too afraid. Eyes wide open, she lay staring up into the darkness, her thoughts turning to Michael like an angel of light in her head.
He would have been disappointed, of course, that she hadn’t managed to get away but he’d understand, and soon it wouldn’t matter for they’d be together always. Thinking of his love made the shock ebb slowly away and a warm sensation to flow through her veins as she came to a decision. She realised now that she could never find the courage to tell Tom she was leaving him, not face to face. She saw that there was only one recourse open to her. Tomorrow, while he was at work, she’d pack her things, hers and the children’s and go to Michael. Then they would indeed run away together. Far away from Pansy Street and the gossips of Castlefield.
She didn’t expect to sleep but she must have done, for it seemed no more than a matter of moments before morning came and she was dragging herself out of bed, searching for fresh clothes. Tom was already seated at the kitchen table by the time she reached it, waiting for his breakfast as he scanned the morning paper, just as if it were any normal day.
‘There’s nothing in here about any fire,’ he said, as if she’d made it all up.
‘It happened too late for them to print anything.’ Lucy crossed to the sink to fill the kettle. Every muscle screamed with pain, even her bones ached as if she’d fought the fire herself instead of simply helping Polly carry out as much stock as they could before it took a proper hold. Sadly, they’d managed to save precious little as it had spread frighteningly fast. Lucy guessed she must be covered with bruises. ‘It’ll be in the Evening News. I’ll go and see Mam this morning. She’ll be in a terrible state.’
Exhaustion dragged at her, fogging her mind so that she couldn’t think properly, making her eyes feel like burned holes in her head.
Lucy cooked kippers for Tom’s breakfast, handed him his hat and coat, even let him kiss her cheek as usual when he left the house. He made no mention of the baby, or her ‘accidental’ fall down the stairs. Neither did she. They simply kept up the pretence of normality, which had become second nature to them.
When he’d gone she forced herself into action, hastily packed bags with clumsy fingers, stuffed clothes in anyhow, ironed or not and instead of taking the children to school she walked and dragged and hustled them to the end of the street where she knocked on Minnie Hopkin’s door. Michael, she knew, would be delighted to look after all three of them.
It was Minnie who opened the door, holding a handkerchief to her face. Lucy saw at once that the old woman had been crying. Her first thought was that she’d heard about the fire but then how could she, it surely wasn’t generally known yet and why would that make her cry? Nobody had been hurt, but then inside of her a creeping fear swelled and began to fill her entire body.
‘What is it? Where’s Michael? Dear God, no!’ Somehow it same as no surprise to hear Minnie Hopkins open her toothless mouth and wail that he had gone, v
owing never to return.
They all four crowded into Minnie Hopkin’s tiny kitchen to listen to her sad tale. ‘He was all I had. To be honest, he weren’t really my nephew at all. He were me son,’ she confessed on a great gulping sob. ‘My mam and dad were so ashamed of my fall from grace they were going to send me to a home for wayward girls. So I up and run away. Never went back.’
‘Oh Minnie, I didn’t know.’ Lucy could hardly take in Minnie’s story, as she sat in a state of disbelief. This couldn’t be happening to her. Michael wouldn’t go off and leave her. Yet she knew that he had. Hadn’t he told her to choose? That this was her last chance. Last night, the very date when she was to give him her decision, she’d missed their date completely because of the fire. He wouldn’t have known why she’d failed to turn up, of course. He would simply assume that she’d made her choice, and that it wasn’t him. Oh, dear God, why hadn’t she gone to him last night, however late it was.
‘It was nobody’s business but mine,’ Minnie was saying. ‘Least said, soonest mended.’
‘But how did you survive, a young girl on her own?’ Lucy now found her sluggish mind racing, half of it listening to Minnie’s tale, the rest of it desperately seeking a solution to her own tragedy.
‘Oh, it was hard at first. I near starved. Lived rough for a year or two but I weren’t the only one in t’same pickle. I met other girls. We helped each other. Then I found a job working on the wharves packing, and Michael used to help me. He were only small like but he were a right little Trojan. Wife of my gaffer spotted him and told me it was no place for a child. She were the woman what owned this house. Come down in t’world she had, but still had a bob or two. She took me on as housemaid and told me I could fetch him wi’ me. I said he were me sister’s child, though I never had no sister. For my lad’s sake it seemed better if I made out I were his aunt. Saves all that nasty name-calling. But he were t’best thing that ever happened to me.’ Despite her tough words, Minnie’s faded eyes again filled with tears which she quickly stifled with a large white handkerchief, blowing her nose vigorously.
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