‘Fell off . . . Oh, no!’ Harriet was shocked. ‘But I thought you still lived with your mother behind the fish market.’
Vinny glowered and shook his head. ‘Dermot and his girl friend Jo are supposedly responsible for us now, at least that’s what they claim. He’s another such as me da, a real bully. The only thing you can say in his favour is that he provides a roof over the kids’ heads by paying the rent, and Jo is good with our Sally. But Dermot isn’t easy to live with, a real chip off the old block. An Irish rogue of the worst kind, through and through. I couldn’t take any more. I tell you I was glad to get away.’
Which somehow explained everything. Harriet had tears in her eyes by the time he was done. ‘You know what I think?’
He scowled at her. ‘What?’
‘I think you were right when you said it was fate that brought us together. We have so much in common, you and me, with our messy family lives.’
His expression softened, the way it often did when he relaxed enough to set aside the bitterness and reveal his true nature . ‘That means we can help each other, right?’
‘Right.’
He began to kiss her, gently pushing Harriet down in the grass beside the canal.
Her head was spinning from the cigarette, but it felt so good to have someone hold and love her like this, to stroke her face and softly kiss her mouth, and then with increasing passion, exploring it with his tongue, stirring a need in her. She rather liked it when he slipped his hand beneath her blouse and fondled her breast, kissed her throat and told her how lovely she was. Harriet made no protest as he unhooked her bra and caressed her naked breasts while he kissed her. She felt so daring, so marvellously free. He unzipped her jeans, and she helped him to tug them down, groaning with delighted shock as he slid his fingers inside her.
She knew it was wrong but a part of her wanted to be bad, to prove she had some control over her own life.
Harriet welcomed him with eagerness and passion when he entered her, not even bothering to remember what Nan had told her about how to make a boy stop, as she’d related the facts of life to her all those years ago, looking all pink-cheeked and embarrassed. Harriet didn’t care what she should be doing, how she should be behaving. Who was to tell her now what was right and wrong? What sort of an example had Joyce set her, anyway, or even her own father who’d kept a mistress and a dark secret about her birth for years?
She liked Vinny, even if she had absolutely no intention of falling in love with him, or with anyone in fact. Harriet felt she’d lost everything in the world that mattered to her, so what more did she have to lose?
Chapter Eighteen
Gossip was the life blood of Champion Street Market, and the topic on everybody’s lips today, as it had been for many mornings in the last few weeks, was the uncertain future of the stallholders. Their livelihoods were under serious threat.
‘I really don’t know what we’ll do,’ Amy was saying to Irma, as she chose a selection of biscuits from her stall. ‘I think I’d like some of those coconut crunch, please. Chris has a fancy to accept the developers’ offer, I’m ashamed to admit, and nothing I say seems to change his mind.’
Irma slipped two or three extra Shrewsbury biscuits into the bag she was weighing to give it good measure before skilfully spinning it between her fingers to secure it.
‘It’ll be a fair sum of money I reckon?’
‘Suspiciously generous,’ Amy agreed. ‘And of course his dad owns the property so Chris doesn’t have total say.’
‘You have to look after number one in this world,’ Irma agreed. She was about to hand over the bag when a young boy dashed by, knocking a tin of biscuits to the ground.
‘Sorry, missus,’ he said as he put it back in place, then cheekily added, ‘I’ll buy them off you, if you like. Me brother and me likes a few broken biscuits.’
‘Gerroff, you little monkey. Go and break somebody else’s biscuits and leave mine alone. You’re getting nowt cheap off me.’
For a moment it looked as if the lad might argue the toss but then he saw how Irma pushed up her overall sleeves to reveal sizeable forearms, and did a runner instead.
‘I need eyes in the back of my head to watch them little tykes,’ Irma grumbled.
Amy was deeply sympathetic. ‘They’re just as bad with us over at the bakery. They hang around every morning waiting for Chris to throw away the stale bread so they can pinch it. Anyone would think they were starving.’
Irma frowned. ‘I reckon some of them are, even though that Harold Macmillan keeps telling us we’ve never had it so good. People assume it’s badness or lack of morals which drives a kid to steal, but it could be out of love for his family, because they’re hungry. Why would a child care about stupid laws made by folk better off than himself? It’s been going on for years. Nabbing, skimming, nicking, whatever you like to call it.’
‘Yer right there, Irma,’ Winnie Holmes put in, as she sidled up to join in the gossip. ‘You have to watch them little blighters. I see ‘em run in the market hall for a bottle of Vimto or a tin of condensed milk, then slip something in their pocket when the stallholder’s back is turned. I reckon their parents put ‘em up to it.’
‘That’s just it, this lot don’t have no parents,’ Irma said. ‘I know them Turner kids, and that little tyke was one of them. They’ve had a bad time of it with no mam and a bully for a big brother. Young Vinny used to stand up for them, not that he’s any knight in shining armour, but he made sure they were at least fed. Yet even he’s vanished now.’
‘And we know who he’s vanished with, don’t we?’ Amy added. ‘I can’t believe Harriet would do such a stupid thing. What can she see in him?’
‘It’s none of my business but I put it all down to trouble at home. I can say no more,’ Winnie darkly commented, tapping the side of her nose.
The school bell rang somewhere in the distance, and while one group of kids ran hell for leather, scared of being late and made to stand in the school yard until the headmaster saw them, others didn’t move a muscle, but just went on messing about in the dirt, playing marbles and swapping cigarette cards.
‘Get off to school, you lazy hounds,’ Winnie shouted at them. ‘Go on, or you’ll get a clip round the ear.’ As the old woman moved towards them they didn’t need telling twice but ran, though whether in the direction of their school classroom was another matter. ‘That truant chap isn’t doing his job proper, that’s what I say,’ Winnie said in disgust. ‘The world is going to the dogs.’
‘Aye, it certainly is when perfectly good houses and markets like this one are being closed down to make way for yet more barracks of high-rise flats,’ Irma agreed. ‘What will them kids do when Champion Street has been flattened? If their families are in difficulties now, how much worse will their lives be? Their parents barely manage to pay their way, often doing a moonlight flit when the rent arrears pile up. And they won’t all be given posh new council flats in Ordsall.’
Amy was looking thoughtful at these words. ‘Maybe they do need something better though than the damp-riddled houses on this street. I’ve had personal experience of how bad those can be. Happen we do need a clean sweep and a fresh start somewhere decent for our kids to grow up.’
Steve was beginning to see that not only had he been unfortunate in getting embroiled in a quarrel with his parents when he should have been meeting Harriet at the dance, but he’d badly over-reacted when finding her dancing in the arms of another bloke. He’d been stupidly jealous and rather pompous and arrogant, instead of being instantly apologetic for letting her down by being late. No wonder she’d gone off in a huff. She was clearly angry with him.
Everyone was saying that she’d run away with Vinny Turner, but why would she do such a crazy thing? Why would she choose Vinny Turner over him?
But then why had he deliberately asked that blonde for a dance when he’d spotted Harriet walking over to him? Had he just wanted to be perverse, trying to show he didn’t care? Well, he’d p
roved that all right, hadn’t he? What a mess he’d made of everything. He missed her so much. He could hardly concentrate on his studies for thinking about how stupid he’d been.
At the first opportunity, once he’d settled in to the college routine, he came home on a weekend visit and went straight to the hair salon to see her. He was horrified to learn that the rumours were true. Harriet had indeed left home. He demanded to know why, and where she’d gone.
‘How would I know?’ Joyce airily remarked. ‘She’s a grown woman and pleases herself what she does. Nothing to do with me. Not my responsibility any more. If she wants to hang around with no-good layabouts, that’s her decision. You should thank your lucky stars, lad, that you’ve had such a lucky escape. She’s not the girl for you.’
Steve was appalled by the woman’s callousness, and yet wondered if perhaps Joyce was in fact riddled with guilt, trying to convince herself she didn’t care when deep down she was as concerned as he was. If that was the case he had to admit she was disguising her feelings well.
He understood perfectly what had happened. Whatever mischief Rose had caused by revealing those unpalatable facts about Harriet’s birth, Joyce had obviously wasted no time in taking advantage of them by showing her the door. But why? Because she disapproved of Vinny Turner, and who could blame her for that, or out of some twisted desire for revenge on the dead father?
Whatever the reason, he felt desperately sorry for Harriet. But where the hell was she? And was she safe?
‘Can I speak to Rose?’ he asked, thinking he might get more sense out of the grandmother, but Joyce shrugged her shoulders.
‘Sure, if you like. She’s upstairs in bed, but you’ll get no sense out of her. My mother has had a stroke and can barely string two words together.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Steve was appalled. Everywhere he turned doors seemed to be slammed in his face. His own parents, predictably enough, had offered no support either when Steve turned to them for help.
‘What has the fate of one foolish girl got to do with us?’ his mother had asked.
‘Maybe because I love her? I thought that might count for something?’ Steve told them, anger over their complete indifference making it hard for him to control himself. He had a sudden image of Harriet’s face when he’d stupidly retaliated by asking that blonde to dance. She’d looked utterly stricken. If only he could turn back the clock and do it all differently. ‘What’s more, I believe she still loves me.’
‘How can she when she’s run off with that Vinny Turner,’ his mother sharply reminded him. ‘That doesn’t sound like the action of a girl in love with you, dear boy. Stop behaving like a sentimental fool. What could you do in any case?’
‘I have to find her. Couldn’t we report her missing to the police or something?’
‘Don’t be foolish. She left of her own free will, so far as I’m aware. Girls leave home every day. The police aren’t going to send out a search party to look for a silly runaway. She’s made her choice, leave her to it. You have more important things to think about now. You’ve a new life to lead, a career to build.’
But as Steve sat through endless hours of lectures, churned out half-hearted attempts at essays, he couldn’t get Harriet out of his mind. She was his girl, lost somewhere, and he should be doing much more to find her and bring her home. If only he knew where to look.
It was a cold, wet day in October, the kind where washing hung damply on the lines strung about the back streets, without any hope of drying. Irma made her way along the street to see Rose, Joe having obligingly agreed to keep an eye on the stall for the last hour of the day. Yet she heaved a great sigh, filled with sadness.
She’d lived and worked on Champion Street Market for the last twenty years, and she’d be sorry to leave it, she would really. Irma could remember when they’d all feared for their lives as bombs were dropped all over Manchester. She recalled a time when there was bunting strung everywhere and hopes were high as peace was declared. Mothers had kicked up their skirts to dance on VE Day. But what progress had they made since that glorious day?
A group of kids were crawling all over an abandoned car, some playing hop-scotch on the paving stones while their mothers searched for a bargain on the open stalls, or bought a bit of bacon for their husband’s tea. Nothing had changed. People were still hard-pressed to make ends meet, as were the stallholders themselves. They all depended upon this market, which would soon be history.
As Irma walked into Joyce’s hair salon, she felt as if she’d entered another world. A world where the chief topic of conversation was whether to go for a June Allison pageboy bob, or the Lucille Ball bubble cut, apparently all the rage.
She stood in the doorway listening, acutely aware that Joyce had seen her enter but was choosing to ignore her.
‘I had a girl in here the other day who’d tried to bleach her own hair,’ Joyce was telling her customer as she folded the woman’s rich dark locks into a clever French pleat at the back of her head. ‘She’d mixed peroxide with washing-up detergent, and I have to say it was a disaster. Young girls, or teenagers as they like to call themselves these days, where are their brains? All they think about is fashion. Crinoline hooped petticoats that bounce and show their knickers as they walk. Tight pencil skirts under which they can barely wear any underwear at all. Then there’s popper beads, baby pink lipstick and ponytails, poodle skirts and plastic hoop bracelets all up their arms. I suppose they are at least trying to look smart for their boy friends, which is more than some women do for their own husbands. That dowdy, some of them, they’re invisible. Oh, I didn’t notice you standing there, Irma, were you wanting to go up?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Why would I mind? It’s me mother you’re attending to, not me.’ And turning back to her customer Joyce went on with her conversation as if Irma were nothing more than the washer woman come to collect the dirty laundry.
Irma made no comment but quietly squeezed past two women seated under hair dryers, and others studying the latest fashion magazines as they waited their turn. Joyce seemed to be busy, not coping quite so well without Harriet to assist, and young Grant had evidently been coerced into making coffee. Yet it was all very calm, quietly civilised and professional, so long as no one was in too much of a hurry.
‘Thinking of taking up hairdressing then?’ Irma joked as she reached the foot of the stairs and saw Grant heading towards the kitchen.
‘No chance. That dozy mare Harriet should be doing this, not me.’
Upstairs was a different story. Rose was in great distress. The old woman had clearly been left unattended for some hours and she was in floods of tears over having wet her bed.
‘I’m worse than a babby,’ she cried, wretched in her shame and despair. Irma put her arms round her old friend and gathered her close against her plump warm bosom.
‘Nay, don’t take on. It’s not your fault. When’s the last time your Joyce came up to see how you were, or if you wanted anything?’
‘Dinner time.’
Irma looked shocked. ‘But that’s more than five hours ago. Six, if she came up around twelve.’
Rose nodded. ‘She left - water.’ Then shook her head as she indicated the still full glass, showing how she’d been too afraid to drink it in case she needed to relieve herself.
Irma helped the old lady out of bed and to the bathroom where she cleaned her up then sat her in a chair while she stripped and remade the bed. She could feel fury boiling up inside her. How could a woman treat her own mother in such a fashion? It was dreadful.
‘I blame meself,’ Irma said. ‘I should have popped in for a few minutes in the middle of the afternoon. I will in future. I’ll make sure our Joe is available to take over for half an hour or so every now and then, while I see to you.’
‘I – I d-don’t want to be no . . .’ Rose struggled over the next word.
‘Eeh, you’re no bother, chuck, so you can put that idea right out of yer head.’
‘I don’t know,’ Irma grimly replied. ‘But I mean to find out. In the meantime, I’ll move into her room so’s I can look after you properly till we get you on your feet again. Though mebbe I’d best ask your Joyce if it’s all right, since it’s her house.’
‘Nay - it’s not. Mine,’ Rose told her, surprising her friend.
‘Really? It’s your house, is it? Well, strike me down with a wet feather, and there’s me thinking Madam Joyce was the one with the brass. In that case, I’ll go and fetch me box right now, shall I?’
Rose beamed her pleasure.
Which was how it came about that it was Irma who moved in with Joyce, and not Joe after all.
Chapter Nineteen
Harriet wasn’t coping terribly well. There were times when she cried with quiet despair into the musty old cushion that she’d found in a rubbish skip and used as a pillow; times when she ached to run back home to Nan, to a hot bath and a warm bed.
Then the sun would come up, lighting the Ship Canal, glinting on the metal struts of giant cranes, polishing the railway sleepers to a glowing silver, and she’d sneak out to buy breakfast for the lads and think: ‘Where would I rather be? Here, with Vinny, having fun, or back home being harangued by Joyce, stood up by Steve, and with nothing more to look forward to than another day of constant criticism?
She missed her nan, of course. Harriet had tried ringing home a couple more times but had received the same abrupt response, so gave up. Instead, she wrote a long letter to her grandmother every week. Not that she could ever give any address for a reply, but at least it would put the old woman’s mind at rest.
She still felt angry over what had happened to her, over the way Joyce had treated her since Nan had announced the truth about her mother. It was absolutely unforgivable. Harriet felt she had only one real friend, and that was Shelley, the girl who sang in the band. They would sneak off together for a frothy coffee and a giggle and gossip whenever they got the chance, swap clothes and advise each other on the right shade of lipstick. It felt good to have a friend. But Shelley kept urging Harriet to go home, to get out while she still could.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 16