‘You can’t be serious. Where am I supposed to go?’
‘Why don’t you ask them new friends of yours for some ideas? That rabble-rousing lot you hung out with last night at the dance, Vinny Turner and his mates.’
‘I – I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to understand. You’ve lost the right to stay here, that’s all there is to it.’
‘Why? I wasn’t doing any harm going out with Vinny.’
‘You were showing yourself up, showing me up, which is far worse, and you’re not even my responsibility any more.’
‘Mam . . .’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Joyce snapped. ‘I never was your mother, and you never saw me as such, not really. It was always your dad, dad, dad, who came first, second and third. He was the one you always ran to, not me. So now he’s gone, you can go too.’
‘Mam, I never came to you because you always shoved me away, but I still love you. I didn’t know how to please you, how to make you happy. Don’t you care about me at all?’
Joyce looked at her erstwhile daughter for a long moment. ‘Why would I? I don’t even know who you are.’ Then picking up her glass, she refilled it with whisky and went upstairs to bed without another word.
Rose went home to her bed and spent a restless night going over and over what the cards had said, which didn’t give her any hope at all of resolving her dilemma. She’d promised Joyce that she’d keep her lip buttoned, but what if this continued silence harmed her lovely Harriet, what then? Which of them, Harriet or Joyce, did she have the most duty to protect in the long run? On this point, the cards hadn’t helped one bit.
The next morning Rose woke early, headed straight for the kitchen as she generally did to make a pot of tea. There was nothing like the freshness of that first brew of the day. She’d take a cup up to Harriet, see if she’d enjoyed her night out and try to get to the bottom of what had gone wrong between her and Steve.
Getting no reply as she knocked softly on the girls’ bedroom door, Rose crept into Harriet’s room only to find it empty. She started to straighten the covers of her granddaughter’s bed, smoothing her pillow, thinking she must have gone into the bathroom while she’d been downstairs making the tea. Rose was worried about the lass and the old woman’s eyes filled with tears at recollection of how shocked and hurt Harriet had been when she’d first learned the truth about her birth.
She half regretted having been the one to tell her about her mother, and in quite such a blunt manner. Yet she knew Joyce had only been waiting for Stan’s death to deal the blow herself, and would have done it with far less tact, making sure she bullied the girl quite a bit first, which had been Rose’s deepest concern.
But despite Rose’s desire to bring honesty and openness, she still felt mired in secrets. There was still much to worry over, and Rose’s faith in the cards had slipped a little, due to the confusion in the readings.
Her hands paused in their smoothing of the pillow slip upon which she herself had embroidered her granddaughter’s initials as it occurred to her that the bed was already made, in fact it didn’t look as if it had even been slept in.
Her hands flew to her face in horror. Where was she then? Where had the lass spent the night? Surely not with her new boy friend!
‘Don’t be daft,’ she scolded herself. ‘She’s probably made her bed and is right at this minute enjoying a leisurely bath in peace.’
But as she set off to check she noticed the letter, exactly as the cards had predicted, half hidden behind the bedside lamp. The small white envelope bore a single name: Mother. Rose stared at it in dismay.
Turning it over to examine it she saw that it was sealed and felt quite bulky. She realised at once what it was. The poor lass had poured her heart out on paper, in a letter to a long-dead mother she’d only recently learned existed. And having written it, she’d nowhere to send it. How upsetting for the child!
But if Joyce should see it there’d be hell to pay. She’d think Rose had been talking again. Tucking the letter into her apron pocket Rose again turned to leave, half shaking her head in amazement. The cards had been right after all. There was indeed a letter. Now she’d have to think carefully about what else they’d told her. She’d need all her wits about her if she was to take Joyce on.
It was then that she noticed the note which Harriet had left on the bedside table addressed with her own name: Nan. Puzzled, Rose unfolded the paper and read the few words scribbled inside. She felt as if all the blood was draining from her face and she came over all light headed.
Frantic with anxiety, she searched drawers and cupboards, only to discover her worst fears were realised. Her granddaughter had gone. The girl’s bedroom was empty of all her possessions.
Rose rushed straight to her daughter, who was by this time in the kitchen making toast under the grill, and demanded to know what was going on.
‘Where’s our Harriet?’
Joyce’s lip curled with distaste. ‘Gone.’
‘What d’you mean gone? Gone where?
‘I neither know nor care. She’s spread her wings and flown the nest. It was long past time for her to start living her own life.’ Joyce gave an airy shrug as she spilled cornflakes into a bowl, then looked vaguely round for the milk bottle as if she hadn’t an idea where it was kept.
For the first time in a great number of years she was obliged to make her own breakfast, which was a downside to the situation, admittedly. She just fancied a bacon sandwich this morning, which might have helped this terrible handover she was suffering. Joyce wondered if she could coax her mother into operating the frying pan, even though Rose had sworn never to touch it again after the complaints she’d received the last time she cooked her daughter breakfast. Then in the next breath Joyce was making the excuse that Joe would be moving in soon. ‘Harriet would have been sure to object.’
‘I might object myself,’ Rose bluntly remarked. ‘Has Joe actually promised to move in or is this merely hope on your part?’
Judging by the way her daughter’s face tightened in response to this question, Rose rather thought she might have hit the nail on the head.
‘Joe will do as I say,’ Joyce snapped, rubbing at her pounding forehead with the tips of her fingers. ‘I’ve already explained Joe and I need to be together.’
‘And what about his wife? Does she have any say in the matter? What right have you to rob another woman of her husband?’
‘If Irma had anything about her, Joe wouldn’t want to leave.’
‘What Joe Southworth needs is a boot up the backside. He doesn’t know when he’s well off. Irma’s a treasure, an absolute saint to put up with that man.’
Sorry as Rose was for Irma, she felt a hundred times sorrier for herself. The cards had been right yet again. Hadn’t they warned of a parting, and a great deal of sorrow? Not for one moment had she imagined they meant Harriet would leave home. Hadn’t Irma assured her the cards were telling Rose’s fortune, not her granddaughter’s? She’d feared that she might be the one about to turn up her toes, what with all that stuff about losing her health or her money. But losing Harriet was far worse, and it was all Joyce’s fault. Rose could feel herself going all hot and cold in pure panic, prickling all over as if she were on fire. How dare Joyce be so cruel as to turn the girl out on to the streets!
‘Perhaps saints don’t make good bedfellows. A man has needs, after all,’ Joyce muttered.
‘Men and booze, that’s all you ever think about. You’ve a one-track mind, you. You disgust me. I’m going to find our Harriet, and when I do, I’m leaving with her, do you understand, you great brainless moron? From the moment that child first drew breath you’ve set out to ruin her life. That’s the reason I stopped on, for her, not for you. Well, you’ve ruined your own life, that’s for sure, with this desperate need you have for revenge, but I’m damned if I’ll let you succeed in ruining our Harriet’s. She’s an innocent in all of this, remember that, madam, an innocent.’
> Chapter Fourteen
Harriet left the house before dawn, as Rose had surmised, without even bothering to go to bed. She shed a few tears at the prospect of being forced to leave her home, however unwelcome Joyce had made her feel in it, and hated the prospect of leaving her nan. But there seemed little point in waking the old woman just to cause her more upset by saying goodbye, so Harriet left the short note instead.
Harriet would have liked to say goodbye to Steve, had things not gone so badly wrong between them. In any case, he’d be off to college soon, so he probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone.
After the confrontation with her stepmother, Harriet dried her eyes, washed her face and dressed in more practical clothes, jeans and a shirt and sweater. She then packed a few more items which Joyce had forgotten: a photo of her dad, the tiny teddy bear he’d brought her back from the war, and slipped quietly out into a cool grey dawn with not the first idea where she was going.
It was so early that even Champion Street was looking strangely bereft without the usual bustle of market crowds. Not even the stallholders, always early risers, had begun to get their pitch ready for the day.
And for all it was only early September, a chill wind blew along the empty street, scattering dry leaves from the churchyard, paper bags and cigarette ends, sending a shudder down Harriet’s spine. Dustbin lids rattled and one clattered to the ground as a lone tabby cat streaked across in front of her, startled by her sudden presence. Harriet was even more unnerved by the noise, almost jumping out of her skin. What on earth was she doing? Where was she supposed to go?
She stopped walking to look in the purse which Joyce had left with the suitcase, quickly counting the notes inside. It contained twenty-five pounds, quite a sum of money, Harriet supposed. Yet it was still a cheap way of ridding herself of a troublesome stepdaughter. She tucked the purse carefully back into her pocket, then picking up the suitcase she set off down the street. She’d go to London Road Station and get on the first train which came in, she decided. That seemed as good a way as any to decide what to do with the rest of her life.
It was as she turned into Grove Street that she realised she was no longer alone. The sound was little more than a whisper, but close, too close, and Harriet glanced anxiously over her shoulder. There was no one there, the street completely empty. She carried on walking, then heard what sounded like a snort of laughter. This time she felt the small hairs rise on the back of her neck and Harriet increased her pace as she heard footsteps. Someone was following her, she was sure of it.
By the time she reached the end of Grove Street she had started to run but then, feeling foolish, slowed her pace as she turned into Gartside Street. Who else would be around at this time in the morning? It was barely four o’ clock.
The thought had hardly registered in her head when she found herself surrounded by a group of jeering youths. Her heart gave a frightening lurch as she realised at once who they were. Vinny Turner’s mates. She’d seen them at the dance the other night. Now they were behaving as if they’d been out drinking all night. Perhaps they had. They certainly looked the worse for wear.
‘Come on, chuck, hand it over,’ one of them instructed. He was big, with a large beer belly which made him look as if he were nine months pregnant.
Harriet swallowed. ‘Hand what over? I doubt my clothes would fit you,’ indicating the small brown suitcase in her hand. Harriet was amazed by how normal her voice sounded. How was that possible when fear was pulsing through her, fizzing in her brain so that she could barely think?
‘Don’t play games with me,’ said Beer Belly. ‘We know you’ve got a nice fat purse. We saw you looking at it just now. Don’t make life difficult for yourself. Be a good girl and hand it over.’
She thought about running but they were all round her, a tight-knit, hostile group of at least four or five lads, all mocking and taunting her. A skinny one gave her a hefty shove and Harriet would have fallen over had not another propped her up from behind. Then they were all doing it, pushing and shoving her, bouncing her between them like a rubber ball. She fell to the ground and one kicked her in the back. Harriet let out a whimper of fear and they laughed all the more, another yelling, ‘Get her, Jimmy. Let her have it.’
Skinny Jimmy grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to her feet. Suddenly enraged by her own terror, Harriet took a swing at him with the suitcase, still clutched tight in her hand. Laughing, he ducked, then snatching it from her, snapped it open and tossed her things out on to the filthy pavement.
‘Get off!’ she screamed, hating to see his dirty hands rummaging through her night clothes, and her pretty skirts and blouses, as he searched for anything valuable.
Harriet couldn’t believe this was happening to her, and practically on her own doorstep too. How was she ever going to manage out in the big brave world on her own if she couldn’t even look after herself a mere step away from Champion Street?
‘Give me the bloody purse,’ Beer Belly repeated. ‘I won’t ask a third time.’
Harriet could tell by the way he was flexing his fat fists that he’d beat her to a pulp if she didn’t comply, and no doubt still get the twenty-five quid. It certainly wasn’t worth dying for. Even so, it was all she had in the world . . .
She reached down to the suitcase as if about to pluck the purse from a pocket inside, then kicked the skinny one in the ankle, making him yelp, while digging an elbow in Beer Belly. By a miracle she managed to take them both by surprise sufficiently to break free, then ran for her life. But not for long. Seconds later Harriet could hear feet pounding behind her.
She didn’t think about where she was running to but twisted and turned, ducking and weaving down back streets and alleys in an effort to confuse them as she searched frantically for a hiding place. She certainly couldn’t keep up this pace for long, and they had much longer legs than her.
Finding herself out on Water Street she hurriedly climbed over a gate into the yard behind the Old Botany Warehouses, thanking her lucky stars that she’d always been agile, having been something of a tomboy in her youth. Then she flung herself behind a pile of crates, quite out of breath and with a tearing stitch in her side.
How long she lay there, fear still coursing through her veins as she heard the group banging about looking for her, Harriet had no idea. Maybe as little as five minutes, or as long as an hour. It certainly felt more like the latter. She thought of her lost belongings, her precious clothes, her toothbrush and face flannel, more importantly the photo of her father and even her much-loved teddy bear, and tears sprang to her eyes. Now what was she going to do? She clasped the purse tight in her pocket. At least she still had the money.
‘Ah, there you are!’ a voice said, and Harriet looked up, knowing she was lost.
Grant had hardly slept a wink since the conversation with his mother, determined to keep an eye out for what might happen next. He’d been curious to know what she was doing in Harriet’s room, and then delighted to overhear Joyce order his hated half-sister to leave. He’d rejoiced still more when in the early hours he’d heard Harriet slip out of her room, creep down the stairs and let herself out of the house.
Grant had followed, a safe distance behind, wanting to see where she went, how she intended to handle this disaster.
He’d followed her along Champion Street, fearful of being seen, and struggled to keep pace at one stage when she actually begun to run. But even he’d been shocked to see the gang of youths suddenly pounce upon her like feral wolves, while secretly relishing her predicament. Didn’t the daft mare deserve a going over, for all the trouble she’d caused him through the years?
Somehow Harriet broke free and was off again, running like a hare with baying hounds on her trail. Grant quickened his own pace and scuttled after them, not wanting to miss the capture when they would surely tear her apart.
He ran along Grove Street, then down Gartside Street but it was as he turned along Hardman Street heading for the river that one of the youth
s suddenly leapt out in front of him. To his utter horror, Grant was the one now to find himself surrounded by the gang, every one of them furious at having lost their quarry and eager to take out that anger on anyone who chanced along.
Unfortunately for Grant, this happened to be him. As they set about him with their fists and their boots, with stones and cudgels, he had time only to consider that this was one more debt Harriet owed him, one more reason for him to one day take revenge.
Harriet had never felt more alone. She was hurting so much the pain felt like an iron band squeezing her heart. What was she doing sitting in this dark, damp tunnel by the river watching the dawn come up all pink and gold over Prince’s Bridge? The purse, with its roll of notes, was still a warm, solid pressure in her jeans pocket but what would happen now?
Okay, she’d been lucky that Vinny had been the one to find her and not his mates. And that he seemed willing to help rescue her from her pursuers.
‘Don’t make a sound,’ he’d told her when he’d come across her hiding behind the broken old crates. ‘I have you now. You’re quite safe.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I heard you scream. Ssh, they might hear you.’
The next instant they were creeping along by the river, the sluggish Irwell even more dark and gloomy in the eerie pre-dawn light. Vinny held her firmly by the hand and for some reason she no longer felt afraid. Maybe because Harriet was so relieved it hadn’t been Beer Belly or Skinny Jimmy who’d chanced upon her instead.
When they’d reached the bridge, he’d pulled her down this narrow tunnel that cut into the rock under the railway lines. And here they were hiding amongst the filth and the mud, the rubble and the broken bricks, tangled bits of wire and no doubt the odd rat. The narrow tunnel dripped with water and stank of cat pee but Vinny had found some reasonably dry cardboard boxes and broken these up for them to sit on.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 12