by Lizzie Lane
Her black patent sling-backs clattered like gunfire down the garden path. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked with a beaming smile as she twirled on the spot.
‘Lovely,’ said Edna. The truth was she really thought the full skirt and the neat little bolero would look wonderful on someone taller and smaller-busted than Polly. Something else she couldn’t say, but she didn’t want to waste time. Getting to the sanatorium was all she could think of.
Beaming as though Christian Dior himself had sung her praises, Polly started for the car door then stopped. ‘What are they doing here?’
Pamela and Peter looked at her soulfully from the back seat.
‘They’re coming with us.’
‘They can’t!’
‘They have to.’
‘Why couldn’t Colin have them?’
Edna coloured up, but stayed forthright. ‘I haven’t told him I’m going there. To tell you the truth, I thought that your Aunty Meg might have them.’
‘Crafty cow!’
Without hesitation, Polly opened the back door of the car. ‘Come on, kids. Out you come. Yer Aunty Meg will ’ave you fer the day. She’s making cakes. You could give her a hand.’
They left the children licking cake mixture from a large china bowl and a wooden spoon. Meg promised them a piece of the finished cake that was presently in the oven, its aroma of mixed fruit, cinnamon and butter making their mouths water.
Edna’s stomach rumbled. She’d been too nervous for breakfast.
‘You look nice, dear,’ said Meg to Edna and offered them both a cup of tea before they set off.
Edna thanked her for the compliment, but declined the tea. ‘We have to go.’
‘You do look nice,’ said Polly, lighting a cigarette as they pulled away from the kerb.
Edna wore her best green suit, which had a straight skirt and a box jacket. She’d styled her hair differently, tying it back and teasing some bits forward into a fringe. Occupying herself with trivialities helped to hide the pain of Susan’s illness following on so soon after the miscarriage.
‘Don’t think much of yer perfume though,’ Polly added after Edna had thanked her.
‘I’m not wearing perfume.’
‘Thank God fer that,’ Polly laughed. ‘Smells like bleedin’ bleach.’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of cleaning,’ Edna explained as they took a left onto St John’s Lane. ‘I have to keep everything very clean and germ free for when Susan comes home. If I’d kept things cleaner in the first place, Susan would never have got polio.’
‘You silly cow,’ Polly chided. ‘She could ’ave caught it from anywhere. I thought the swimming baths were the best bet for picking up summat like that, or the pictures, anywhere there’s a load of kids.’
‘Anywhere,’ said Edna. ‘No one knows for sure.’
‘Well, there’s a girl in our street—’
Edna interrupted. ‘When are you going to Australia?’
Polly recognized the fact that Edna did not want the conversation to continue, but wished she’d chosen a different subject.
‘Never.’
‘You’ve changed your mind?’
‘No, Billy’s buggered it up. They might ’ave took convicts years ago, but they sure as ’ell don’t want ’em now!’
‘He’s in prison?’ Edna looked shocked. ‘What did he do?’
‘Supposed to have nicked a van – but he didn’t.’
Polly sounded convinced. Edna was shocked. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘The best I can.’
Polly’s mouth shut tight as a clam. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she stared out of the window for the rest of the journey. Every so often Edna glanced at her, wondering what she was planning, but she wouldn’t ask. Her own thoughts were occupied with Susan. All the same, she couldn’t help thinking that Polly was up to something and the imprisoned Billy Hills just might have a problem.
Polly was thinking about Billy and not being able to emigrate. But she was also thinking about Edna and all that scrubbing and the stink of bleach and boiled laundry. Edna was one of the most spick and span people she knew. What a silly thing to think that Susan catching the polio was her fault. Another thought came to her. Should she have allowed the children to stay with Meg? Would Carol be all right?
Arriving at Saltmead Sanatorium broke the silence that had persisted throughout most of the journey.
‘I know this place,’ said Polly, screwing her eyes up tight at the sight of the high fence, the concrete drive and the single storey prefabricated buildings. ‘It used to be a prisoner of war camp. Charlotte used to come here to ’elp German prisoners go ’ome – something like that anyway.’
Edna barely acknowledged her, but eyed the wire fence and the low huts, the concrete paths and the uncut grass beaten flat by the pouring rain. Susan was somewhere in this dreary place, so close yet so far.
‘I came here once,’ said Polly, then immediately got out of the car.
The rain was lashing down, creating puddles in the cracked concrete and gurgling down drainpipes. They huddled under one umbrella and made their way through the puddles. By the time they’d found the entrance, raindrops drizzled from Edna’s fringe and Polly’s flared skirt hung heavy with water and clung to her seamed stockings.
The waiting room was square with cream walls and a brown floor. There were no chairs to sit on and no pictures or posters on the wall except for a notice pinned next to a hatch which said, ‘Please Knock’.
Edna raised her gloved hand and tapped politely.
‘That’s not enough to get some attention. I’ve got a tougher fist,’ said Polly and gave the closed hatch a few hefty blows.
The nurse who answered had a round face, pink cheeks and merry eyes. Like a chocolate coated Brazil nut, her exterior hid a hard centre. Edna explained why they were there.
The nurse pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry. Visiting is not allowed.’
‘Can you at least tell me how she is?’ asked Edna.
The nurse was adamant. ‘It is not my responsibility to report on a patient’s progress. Only a doctor can do that.’
Polly pushed forward. ‘So can we see a doctor?’
The nurse raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, I’m not, but—’
‘Then you cannot possibly see a doctor.’
Edna pressed forward. ‘I’m the mother of Susan Smith. Can I see a doctor?’
The nurse looked at her as if she had no importance whatsoever. ‘I very much doubt it. Professor Pritchard won’t see you and will not allow any other doctor to see you until the patient is recovered and able to leave our care.’
Edna immediately interpreted this to mean that Susan had not recovered and might, in fact, never recover. She panicked. ‘Will my child live? Is she going to live?’
Polly recognized that Edna was losing control and grabbed her arms.
‘Really, this kind of behaviour will do no good,’ bleated the nurse.
‘Edna! Edna! Calm down!’
But it was no use. Edna burst into hysterics and there was nothing Polly could do about it except get very mad.
She spun like a dervish towards the open shutter. ‘Look, you bloody old cow!’
‘There is no need for that!’
The shutter came down with a loud bang.
Polly put her arms around Edna and eased her onto her feet. Her usual bubbly brightness had disappeared. This was a very serious situation and she felt genuine sorrow for her friend.
‘Come on, Edna love. Let’s go home. We ain’t doing no good here.’
She tried to head her towards the door. After just two steps, she stopped dead.
‘I know! Let’s ask for Janet.’ Before Polly could stop her, she was hammering on the closed shutter. ‘Janet! Let me see Janet!’
The shutter went up and the stern face of the ward sister returned. ‘You have been told to leave,’ she said sternly.
Edna gripped the cream p
ainted shelf on which the shutter usually sat. ‘Janet Hennessey-White. She knows my daughter. She’s seen her!’
The pale lips of the woman in the stiff veil and starched uniform seemed to turn to blue then back to mauve.
Polly cringed and instinctively apologized, something she didn’t make a habit of doing. ‘She’s upset,’ she explained. ‘It’s not true what she’s saying – not really!’
Edna would not be calmed. ‘Janet Hennessey-White works for the Professor. She’s seen Susan,’ she shouted, ‘she’s seen my daughter! She told me so, and if she can see her, so can I. I’m her mother!’
‘Come on,’ Polly hissed as she guided Edna towards the door.
‘But Susan … and Janet … !’
Polly pushed Edna out of the door and glanced back just once and then only briefly. It was enough time to see that the woman behind the hatch had acquired a face like thunder.
‘Bloody hell! That’s torn it,’ Polly muttered on as she sat Edna back behind the wheel of the car.
‘I only wanted to see Susan,’ Edna whined childishly. ‘Is that very wrong?’
‘No,’ said Polly and a wealth of sympathy immediately swept over her, and not just for Edna and Susan. Janet was about to land in some hellish hot water.
Susan opened her eyes. The world had always been good to her, but it didn’t seem that way any more. The hospital was a horrid place, but the lady who came to tell her stories had made it a bit better.
She hadn’t been for two nights now and she missed her. She missed her mother too and her father. She even missed her little brother and sister.
Her lips were dry. She licked them, then wondered if her mother had left her some water on the bedside cabinet. Then she reminded herself it would be a nurse who might have left her water, not her mother. She tried to lift her arm to reach it, but it wouldn’t move so she began to cry.
A voice sounded somewhere in the darkness beyond the glass partition. ‘Susan! You’re awake. Now come along. No need to cry. If you’re a very good girl you’ll soon be better.’
She looked up to see if the eyes that looked back at her were those of the lady who told her stories. ‘Are you going to read me a story?’ she asked.
Two chill blue eyes peered over a crisp white mask. ‘No. I told you. You’re here to get better. And if you’re a good girl, you will get better.’
The words frightened her. Did they mean that if she were a bad girl she wouldn’t?
Another face appeared wearing the same white mask as the first, but this person had a lot of wrinkles around her eyes.
‘Take no notice,’ said the older woman. ‘Children that cry incessantly for their mothers tend to be unstable. Leave her alone and turn off the light.’
The world was plunged into darkness.
Susan felt her lips quivering, but willed herself not to whimper.
My brave little girl. That’s how her father usually referred to her. But why had he left her here in this terrible place? And where was her mother?
If only the lady who told her stories would come. She wouldn’t feel frightened then.
She suddenly needed to use the toilet. Frightened, immobile and confused, she lay silently, afraid to make a sound. There was a pain in her groin because she wanted to pee, but was afraid to call out. She held it in for as long as she could, then burst into tears as the warm wetness seeped out of her body. Desperately she tried to cry softly so that she wouldn’t see those two women again, at least, not until she had to.
Chapter Twenty
Doing a bit of housework for Charlotte and for Edna’s parents was all well and good, but it wasn’t really keeping the wolf from the door. Polly didn’t want to leave Mr Burbage in the lurch, not the way things were with Edna at the moment, but she had to do something.
‘You’re on yer own,’ she muttered to herself as she considered a large hole in Carol’s shoe and a severe lack of elastic in some of her own knickers. ‘You’re skint. Now what are you going to do about it?’
Thirty-four and her quality of life had dived nose down into a pile of poo. What she wouldn’t give to roll back the clock to the time when she was young – well – younger than she was now. Jitterbugs, Glenn Miller, good-looking guys with a few quid. What wouldn’t she give for a bit of fun and a few more pounds in her pocket.
‘Damn and blast you, Billy Hills,’ she hissed as she rolled herself a badly needed cigarette from a couple of stumps that she’d saved from yesterday. ‘Look what I’ve bloody come to.’
It occurred to her that although Billy was not entirely blameless for ending up in prison, the people he’d been working for had a lot to answer for. What’s more, he’d been so bloody loyal to them. And what about me? she thought, aiming a kick at the dog who had just chewed up her best shoes. He can’t have been thinking about me. Luckily, the kick missed, her slipper flew off and the dog caught it and ran out into the garden. Oh well, she thought wryly, what the hell! They were old anyway and she had more important things on her mind.
Billy would carry the can and keep his mouth shut and, because she didn’t want to worry him, she’d still said nothing about the visit from O’Hara’s henchmen. No husband, no money, a right mess. What a load of aggro she was getting, though it was nothing compared to the aggro Carol had given that ginger git who’d come calling. Hope he’s got a bump the size of a potato, she thought with a wicked smile.
Her thoughts went back to Billy. Keeping his mouth shut was what the visit had been all about. They’d known he was about to get nicked and didn’t want him squealing. The police had badgered him to tell them more about the illegal operations of the bloke he’d been working for. So far he’d said nothing. There was a price on keeping quiet, thought Polly, as she poked at the last lumps of coal in the grate, and I’m the one paying it. That had to be worth money. It definitely had to be worth money!
She sat back in the chair as the unfairness of it all gave birth to an idea. Those blokes owed them for Billy’s silence.
‘And now,’ she said, getting to her feet and throwing the fag stumps into the fire, ‘it’s time to collect a down payment!’
‘I’m off to Ashley Down,’ she told Aunty Meg and explained why.
A smart black jacket teamed with a matching skirt in dog’s tooth check seemed just the thing to wear. It looked smart and businesslike, and that was the way she wanted to look.
Mouth full of hairgrips, she stood in front of the mirror that hung over the fireplace. As she fixed a featherlight hat to her head, she glanced at the boy and girl skating in Dutch national dress painted onto the mirror.
‘Look at them,’ she said to Aunty Meg and indicated the two figures with a nod of her head. ‘That’s what I’m doing – ice skating – only I’m more likely to fall flat on me arse than they are.’
Meg sat herself on the broad arm of the armchair, a nervous frown hanging over her eyes. ‘Are you sure about this? I mean, he might be a bit angry.’
‘Angry? How about me? I’m bloody angry! Lost me job ’cos the bloody manager wanted me to take more down than the posters at the end of a two-week matinee. Cheeky sod! Well I told ’im where to get off!’ She didn’t mention that they’d been living off money meant to finance their emigration to Australia. She’d only get upset.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?’ Meg asked.
Polly shook her head and clipped on a pair of black plastic earrings that Carol had bought her for her birthday in Woolworths.
‘Twopence for the bus is all I need, thank you very much.’
Meg leaned over the front gate and watched her niece totter off on three-inch black suede court shoes, her rear end rolling provocatively beneath a slim-fitting skirt that reached to her calves.
Polly was no longer the bubbly young woman who’d discovered love and lust under the anonymity of the blackout. She was older now, a wife and a mother. But she was still attractive. Meg could understand why her boss up at the Broadway had tried it on. But she couldn’
t help but harbour the suspicion that Polly might very well have given in to his advances if it hadn’t been for Carol, not that she could blame her. Responsibility for their bed and board had fallen pretty heavily onto her niece’s shoulders. Lucky for them all that Carol had intervened and had also told Meg all about it, not that she’d let on she knew. Besides, Carol had sworn her to secrecy.
Polly took a deep breath and tugged the hem of her jacket down over her hips before pushing open the gate of the house in Ashley Place. The glass at the windows seemed as inky black as on the first occasion she’d seen them. Billy had been with her then and she wished with all her might that he were with her now. But it was on his account that she was here. If only he’d never met these people in the first place …
‘Forget it,’ she said aloud, aware that her heart was beating like a hammer against her rib cage, the sound of it filling her head and drowning out the scrunching of gravel beneath her feet.
There were three chilly white steps leading up to the front door. Just as her foot landed on the first one the door sprang open. At first she didn’t recognize the man in the loud check suit who sprinted down the steps and grabbed her arm. Once she got a whiff of him, and saw his eyes, his hair and the ginger moustache, she knew immediately who he was.
‘Let go of me you ginger-haired stinker!’
He shook her like a terrier shakes a rat. ‘Get the hell out of here!’
‘I want to see the boss.’ Short as she was, she managed to stand her ground and glare levelly into his face.
‘I am the boss.’
‘No you ain’t! I want to talk to the organ grinder, not ’is bleeding monkey!’
His face came close to hers. ‘As far as you’re concerned I am the boss.’
A shout came from the open door at the top of the steps.
‘Cassidy!’
Ginger, who was obviously Cassidy, didn’t look round, but glared at her menacingly. Polly would have laughed into his face and reminded him that he’d almost been beaten senseless by a schoolgirl armed with a hockey stick, but her attention was drawn to the man who had shouted from the top of the steps. He looked powerful, not because he was built like a bull, more because he had an aura of someone used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Military, she thought. He reminded her of Griffiths though better-looking.