When it was almost light he volunteered to go and look for her stuff. ‘You stay here,’ he ordered, and reaching forward, gave her a quick kiss. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
Harriet grasped his arm. ‘How do I know you won’t bring that lot back with you? They’re your mates, after all. Why would I trust you?’
Vinny grinned, and somehow the smile softened the hard lines of his handsome face. ‘Because I’m sick of that daft lot, I’d much rather be with you. If you want to know the honest truth, I was wanting rid of them anyway. Terry has got me a job in a rock band. I’m going places, babe, and you can come along with me. You and me were meant to be together, I knew it from the first moment I clapped eyes on you. We’re free spirits you and me.’
‘Are we?’ Harriet stared at him, bemused.
‘Course we are, why else would we both be here at not much after five in the morning, with our life’s possessions in our pockets, well almost. I need to pop back home for me guitar, and a few other bits and bobs. I’ll pick up your stuff too. Keep yer head down, I’ll be back in two shakes.’
And then he was gone, leaving Harriet all alone in the semi-darkness. She pulled up the collar of her shirt to stop drips of water sliding down her neck and sat shivering, arms tightly wrapped about her knees while she watched the clouds roll away and a limpid sun peep through.
Vinny said she could trust him, but would she be wise to do so? Harriet was quite sure he must have a police record. Hadn’t he been done for shop lifting not so long ago? She was certainly aware that he smoked and drank a lot, that he’d drawn graffiti on the end walls of the terraced houses, tied dustbin lids to door handles and nicked milk bottles from people’s doorsteps. He and his gang liked nothing better, in fact, than to create havoc in Champion Street. But how far did his crimes reach? What were his limits? Did he have any moral core at all?
Ever since his family had moved into the smelly old flats behind the new fish market just a few months ago, they’d been the talk of the district. But what other choice did she have but to wait for him? Who else cared where she went or what she did?
Certainly not Joyce, the woman who had half-heartedly carried out the role of mother throughout her life and had now abandoned her almost the moment her father had died. Admittedly the two of them had endured a difficult and complicated relationship but, strangely, Harriet still loved her. Joyce had been the only mother she’d ever known, so why wouldn’t she? It hurt so badly that Joyce should reject her in this way.
Harriet had also believed in Steve. Yet even he didn’t seem interested now that she was no longer the respectable girl his mother had fondly imagined her to be.
She still had Nan, of course, but what could one old woman do? Rose didn’t have the clout to stand up to Joyce. Nobody did. Or to deal with Grant, who was a real chip off the old block, cold and condemning, exactly like his mother in so many ways.
Harriet felt as if she were all alone in the world. Whatever she’d taken for granted in the past, was now gone. Love was a commodity not to be trusted. Far too dangerous an emotion to risk since it hurt too much when it was withdrawn.
How long she waited for Vinny to return Harriet couldn’t quite decide, but it felt like an age. The sun was high in the sky and she was beginning to despair he would ever come back when suddenly there he was, loaded down with gear. He was carrying a guitar and a large knapsack on his back, and in his other hand he held her suitcase.
‘I’m not sure I’ve got everything. Some of it might have blown away, but I did my best.’
‘Oh, Vinny, thank you so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’ In that moment she made her decision. To hell with her so-called family. To hell with Steve. He could go off to college and marry a nice girl and live in a nice semi-detached house in a nice garden suburb if that’s what he wanted, exactly as his mother expected. He could go out with the blonde he’d been dancing with the other night. Harriet would tag up with Vinny Turner. Vinny would look after her, which was surely better than trying to cope alone.
Chapter Fifteen
It was a week now since Harriet had walked out and Rose was frantic with worry, becoming increasingly obsessed with searching for her lost granddaughter. Every single day she went all around the stallholders on the market, asking if they’d seen her, if they knew where Harriet was.
‘The lass can’t have gone far. She doesn’t have any money, and she knows no one but us. Where would she go? She hasn’t even got a job.’
The stallholders were most sympathetic. Everyone liked Harriet as she was a lovely girl. But sadly, nobody had seen her anywhere.
Despair set in. Rose was at a loss over what to do next, feeling as if she no longer had any real purpose to her day. The thought of never seeing her lovely granddaughter’s cheery smile again was almost unbearable. She felt as if she were in deep mourning, worse in a way than when her lovely Ron had died. But then he’d enjoyed a good long life while Harriet was still only a young girl, with all her life before her.
‘She’s not dead,’ Joyce yelled at her mother, when Rose started worrying along these lines in front of her.
‘She might well be for all we know. She could’ve fallen in the canal, jumped off a bridge or under a train, been attacked by hooligans, owt could’ve happened to the poor lass, and do you care? I bet you didn’t even give her any money.’
‘Well, that’s where you’d be wrong. I gave her twenty-five quid.’
Grant snorted with disgust. ‘You’ve never given me that much cash in me life. I’d run away too if someone would give me that sort of money.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ his grandmother retorted. ‘Twenty-five quid won’t last long if she’s rent to pay, has to buy food and so on. How will she manage? You didn’t even give her time to find herself a job, or somewhere decent to live. What sort of a mother are you?’
Joyce was only just hanging on to her patience as Joe still hadn’t agreed to move in with her, despite her best efforts to persuade him to take the plunge. She certainly wasn’t in the mood to concern herself over a silly young girl. ‘That’s just it, I’m not her mother, am I?’
At this Rose really saw red and she banged her fist on the table. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself for saying such a wicked thing. You’re the only mother that child’s ever known, and all you do is callously chuck her out the door at the first opportunity. All because you’re on heat and itching to replace your recently demised husband, that poor girl’s father, with another chap. You turn my stomach, you do really. Can’t you see you’ve lost a precious daughter, and I a beloved grandchild?’
‘I can see that I’m free of a great liability at last.’
‘You’ve still got me, Nan,’ Grant simpered. ‘In fact, if you’ve a bit of money going begging, I could find a home for a few bob meself.’ Whereupon Rose stormed out of the room, orange earrings bobbing angrily against her tightly clenched jaw.
Joyce’s stentorian voice bawled after her. ‘Don’t you go losing your temper, Mother, it won’t do your blood pressure any good at all.’
Over the coming week Rose did everything she possibly could to find her lost granddaughter. She continued to search for Harriet, but in the end was forced to conclude that there was nothing more she could do. Her only hope was that the girl would have the good sense to come home eventually, knowing her nan at least would be worried about her. Meanwhile, Rose felt she had no choice but to bury her misery in the campaign to save the market. Then they’d at least have a home for her to come home to.
It was generally agreed they should start a petition and Rose went round all the houses, shops and market stalls, asking people to sign if they wanted the market to stay. This did at least allow her the opportunity to keep on asking about Harriet, although the response was always in the negative.
Where had the girl gone, and why wasn’t she keeping in touch? That was what broke Rose’s heart. There’d been one measly postcard in those first few days, which at least proved she was alive
and well, but there’d been nothing since.
Rose was so worried she felt ill the whole time, sick to her stomach, hardly able to eat because of her distress. Not only that but Joyce made little effort to take over Harriet’s chores in the house, and Grant certainly did nothing to help, so the task of making breakfast, dinner and tea each day fell to the old woman.
She was also responsible for all the washing and ironing, the cleaning, and hundreds of other chores like sewing on buttons or darning Grant’s smelly socks. And she was still expected to clean up the salon each and every night as she’d always done. Rose felt like a slave and could see now why Harriet may not have protested too much at being thrown out. Maybe she’d gone willingly, and with some relief.
‘Mother, is that food not ready yet?’ came a constant cry.
‘I’ve only one pair of hands,’ Rose would yell right back.
‘Well then put them to better purpose than writing letters for that flaming committee. I’m hungry.’
‘So why don’t you cook something for yerself for a change? You’ve got a pair of hands too, and I’m getting on, tha knows. I can’t do as much as I used to. You’ll have to sweep the back yard today, my back’s giving me gip. Or get that lazy article to do something useful for a change.’
Grant would only smirk and slip quietly away, knowing he was safe from being forced to do anything by his adoring mother.
Rose went on feeling poorly, though she didn’t let on just how bad she was. Where was the point in expecting sympathy from Joyce when none would be forthcoming. She gave up arguing and just got on with the job, and in the evenings would escape to chat with her friend, Winnie Holmes, in the Dog and Duck.
‘I don’t know how you’re coping,’ Winnie would say. ‘It might be none of my business but I’d walk out if I were you.’
‘And go where, to the workhouse? They don’t have them any more, do they? Thank the lord for that, or Joyce would book me a bed in one for sure. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than for me to leave too. Then her and her fancy man would have the place practically to themselves.’
Sometimes Rose would call in on Irma to see if she was yet ready to give her a second reading. Her friend was most sympathetic over her concern for Harriet, but didn’t seem to think the time was right.
‘We must see how things pan out first,’ Irma explained. ‘We can’t rush fate along, it must progress at its own rate.’
‘Them cards have been right on two counts so far,’ Rose told her. ‘There was a letter, just as you predicted, one which our Harriet wrote to her real mother, only the poor lass didn’t know where to send it. And now a parting, with her being chucked out on to the streets. You could call it three things they got right since they predicted a great deal of sorrow and there’s certainly been that. It’s heartbreaking.’
‘Don’t take this situation too much to heart, Rose. Remember the cards also stated that there would be a successful outcome in the end; that you must trust in your own intuition and try to offer help at the appropriate time.’
‘And when might that be, I wonder?’
‘You won’t know till it happens,’ Irma consoled her. ‘It’s a pity your Harriet didn’t come round for a reading, like I suggested, but I’m sure your instincts won’t let you down when it comes to the crunch.’
‘I think we’ve reached that already and I haven’t a sensible idea in me head of what I can do to find her! I feel gutted, I do really.’
‘There’s still that ace of hearts, remember. I’ve every faith some newcomer will bring love into your life.’
Rose remained sceptical but said no more. Nor did the two women ever mention Joe, or the fact he might be moving from his wife’s house into Joyce’s any time soon. The subject of Irma’s husband never came up and Rose was certainly not going to be the one to raise it.
Belle Garside, the incumbent market superintendent was busy giving any number of interviews to the local press about the threatened demolition works on Champion Street, and continuing to hold an endless round of meetings.
Joe never missed a single one, though he spent most of each meeting disagreeing and arguing with her. They were like a couple of kids having a slanging match in the playground. He took great pleasure in rubbing Belle up the wrong way at the slightest provocation, somehow managing to imply how much better he could do the job if he were still in charge.
‘Well you’re not any longer, I am, so bite your tongue, Joe Southworth, before you open that stupid gob of yours once too often.’
‘Who are you calling stupid?’
‘You must be, the way you’re carrying on with that hussy.’
‘Oh, so you’re jealous, is that it?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Sounds very much like it to me. Well, I’m sorry, Belle, you and I had a good innings, but I called time, if you remember?’
‘To my great and profound relief . . .’
Then Jimmy Ramsay would hold up his great big dinner plate hands and call for silence, rather like a teacher would with a pair of errant pupils. There was an unspoken acceptance that Belle was furious Joe had dumped her in favour of Joyce Ashton, but the danger of losing the market, he tactfully reminded everybody, was far more important than personal feelings.
Every morning as Steve started work on Barry Holmes’s fruit and veg stall, he kept a weather eye out in case Harriet should come strolling by, but sadly she never did. He was beginning to worry in case she might be ill, or some accident had befallen her. Steve was desperate to talk to her, to explain what had gone wrong the other Friday night, and was beginning to think that she might be avoiding him. He only had one week left before he went up to college. Admittedly it was only in Lancaster and he could come home most weekends, but he wanted everything put right between them before he left. This morning, as luck would have it, he spotted Rose coming out of George’s bakery.
‘Mrs Ibbotson, could I have a word?’
Rose looked at the lad blankly for a moment and then, realising who he was, hurried over to him filled with new hope and excitement. ‘What is it lad, have you seen our Harriet?’
Steve looked stunned. ‘That’s just what I was going to ask you. I haven’t seen her since the Friday we fell out at the dance. She’s been avoiding me, I expect, because she thinks I deliberately stood her up. I want you to know, Mrs Ibbotson . . . I want to tell Harriet . . . that I didn’t mean to stand her up at all. I was only late for the dance because I was involved in a great big row with my parents. For some reason they’ve taken against her and . . .’
‘I wonder why that is,’ Rose interrupted, her tone ripe with sarcasm.
The boy let out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s true they objected to the fact that I intended to go on seeing her, despite – well, everything - you know, and they tried to stop me going to the dance. But unlike Sunday lunch when I failed to stand up to them, this time I did. I know they’re my parents but I pointed out to them, begging your pardon, Mrs Ibbotson, that Harriet can’t be blamed for the stupid or wicked things her parents did.’
‘You’re absolutely right, lad.’
‘So will you tell her that our quarrel was just a silly misunderstanding. I hadn’t stood her up at all, I was delayed because I was defending her. Unfortunately, I then got all jealous when I saw her dancing with that Vinny Turner which made things worse. Will you tell her I’m sorry, that I still love her, and I want to see her before I go away to college.’
‘Aye lad, course I will,’ Rose told him, her faded old eyes warm with pity. ‘There’s just one small snag. I haven’t the first idea where she is.’
Across at the bakery Chris George was showing his wife a letter. It had come from the developers’ solicitors and said they were offering him a tidy sum of money to sell up and move out.
‘Think what this could mean,’ he said to Amy, as she sat feeding their small son toast soldiers dipped in egg yolk. She was also pregnant with their second child and, Chris thought, looking a little
strained and tired.
‘Why, what would it mean? We’re fine as we are, now that your mother and father have retired and left us the bakery business, and we’ve moved into the flat above.’
Chris sat down next to her at the table. ‘Yes, but we could do so much more with the kind of money they’re offering. Dad has indicated he might accept, then give us a share of the profit so that we could buy a much better, bigger business in a busier street. It would mean more money in the long run, and a more secure future.’
‘And where would we live?’
‘Either over whatever shop we bought, as we do here, or we could happen take on a mortgage and buy ourselves a proper house as well.’
Amy looked at him, aghast. ‘A mortgage, but that would mean more debt, wouldn’t it? I don’t like the sound of that at all. Anyway, I like it here, in Champion Street.’
‘There are other streets, every bit as good.’
‘But we don’t know anyone who lives in them.’
‘We could get to know them, love, and you can’t deny it isn’t tempting. It’s more money than we’ve ever dreamed of. Dad could do with a bit extra cash for his retirement too. It’s a generous offer.’
Amy looked at him askance. ‘Those solicitors also offered Mam and Dad way over the top for Poulson’s Pies, but Mam refused.’
Chris looked sceptical. ‘That’s not what I heard. Your mother was bragging the other night in the Dog and Duck that she’d tossed their offer back at them because it was nowhere near as much as they’d offered Sam Beckett. She admitted that she might accept if they offered more.’
‘Rubbish, she never would,’ Amy protested. ‘Our Robert is going to take over the business, so Mam wants Poulson’s to keep on going, then he can afford to pay her a pension from the profits.’
‘Huh, I can’t see your brother being very reliable on the pension front.’
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 13