Lonely Teardrops (2008)

by Lightfoot, Freda

  It had been Al who’d encouraged the band to widen their repertoire and try a few different numbers such as La Bamba, a Ritchie Valens number, Bongo Rock, and Everybody Likes to Cha Cha Cha, a dance craze that was doing the rounds. It boosted their popularity ratings enormously.

  In her heart of hearts, Harriet realised that she was in more trouble than she cared to admit. Even if the band was no longer sleeping rough, or living in poverty, she was on the fringes of a world she neither understood nor fitted into. She’d lost her innocence, her naivety. She now recognised the funny cigarettes as marijuana, and it was clear that Vinny was becoming increasingly unpredictable, so volatile she worried for his health.

  He seemed to have boundless enthusiasm and energy, completely high and out of control, leaping about and pounding on the strings of his guitar, screaming instructions to everyone, urging them to greater heights of creativity. He’d often refuse to stop practising even when everyone else was exhausted. On other occasions he’d have no energy at all. He’d retreat to his bed and refuse to speak to anyone for days on end, apparently swamped in deep depression. At those times it was impossible to please him or do anything right.

  Harriet was growing more and more certain that he had a serious problem, that the pot he smoked was doing him no good at all, and that maybe he was involved with other drugs too.

  She put the question to him one evening and could see at once that was a bad mistake. They’d been sitting in bed together, in some overpriced hotel near Piccadilly Gardens having just made love, and she’d thought this a good moment to make her plea. Instead, he glared coldly at her.

  ‘You stupid bitch! You think that’s what this is all about, drugs? In any case, what business is it of yours what I do?’

  Harriet was appalled by his reaction, that he saw her concern as interference. ‘I - I’m just worried about you.’

  He seemed to speak through gritted teeth as his jaw tightened, green-gold eyes flashing fire. ‘That’s all you imagine trash like me is fit for, is it? I’m just some no-good Irish lad who spent his youth in institutions, so I must be a drug addict, or evil in some way? You don’t think that maybe I’m in the music business simply because I enjoy it, might even have a modicum of talent?’

  Harriet was mortified, never having realised he could be so touchy. Vinny clearly carried a great big chip on his shoulders over his difficult background, and she’d just made matters worse. She stroked his arm, trying to pacify him. ‘Look, I apologise. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, I really am. Forget I asked.’

  Pushing her roughly away, he taunted her. ‘Naw, come on, get it off your chest, why don’t you? There must be a reason why you asked. Is it because I’m not good enough for you, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes?’

  Something inside Harriet snapped at his sarcasm, reminding her as it did of Joyce. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, but OK, I’ll be honest. I hate you smoking that weed. I don’t think it’s doing you any good at all and I want you to stop.’

  He looked at her askance. ‘You want me to stop?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And why in hell should I do what you say?’

  ‘Because I ask you to.’

  He put back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You’re a real treasure, you know that, babe? You ought to put yourself up for sainthood.’

  Harriet said no more, simply flounced away and curled up at the far side of the bed, swamped in misery.

  Before morning he’d apologised for ‘his callousness’, pulled her to him and made love to her so passionately, so sweetly, that for the first time Harriet admitted to herself the dangerous path she trod. She realised it was far too late now to deny she had feelings for him, or pretend their relationship was simply physical. She was mesmerised by him, addicted to Vinny as much as he was to that weed. And she still hadn’t told him about her condition.

  ‘Don’t I just love it when you heckle and fuss over me,’ he said, purring softly into her neck, licking the arch of her throat with his tongue, nibbling her ear, pretending she was his pet kitten and he wanted to stroke her.

  ‘So will you do as I ask?’ Harriet risked repeating the question, certain he must love her a little, deep down, or he wouldn’t have apologised for his bad behaviour, would he?

  Vinny looked at her blank-eyed, shaking his head in a bemused fashion as he adopted his most Irish accent with not a trace of Manchester in it. ‘Sure and I haven’t the first idea what it is yer wanting me to do? Aren’t I the picture of innocence?’

  He indeed looked so innocent in that moment, Harriet couldn’t help but giggle. ‘All right, I give up, but please try to cut down. Will you do that for me, at least?’

  By way of an answer he sat up in bed and lit up another spliff, grinning cheekily at her as he did so.

  Harriet took this as a warning to keep her nose out of his private life.

  There were times when Vinny wondered why he bothered with her when there were any number of adoring fans around eager to enjoy his attention. Harriet was pretty enough with that heart-shaped face and bouncy bob of blond hair which curled under her pointed chin, and those solemn, slate grey eyes looking so adoringly up at him. But she came from a different world.

  For all her parents might not have been happily married, her father had clearly adored her, as had her grandmother. And although Champion Street might not be a well-off neighbourhood, and the bit where Vinny lived behind the new fish market should have been condemned back in the dark ages, nevertheless, nobody could deny its innate decency. It was a tight-knit community in which people cared about each other. Harriet might tactfully never say as much, but Vinny was all too aware that she had a completely different set of morals to his own.

  Yet perhaps it was because of these differences that he found her so enchanting. He liked having her around. She was brave and intelligent, determined and strong, hard working and uncomplaining, although he didn’t find her easy to understand. Harriet Ashton was different to all the other girls who fawned upon him, always managing to keep a part of herself private. She represented a challenge, one he couldn’t resist.

  Most of all she was warm and loving, always willing to listen to him talk and sympathise with his problems. He needed her, liked her fussing and caring for him like some sort of mother hen, and in one respect at least he knew her intimately. He knew how she liked to be touched, how to tease and provoke her till she was begging for him to take her. She was so giving, so loving, sex with Harriet was never dull.

  He only had to touch her, to kiss her, as he was doing now, pulling open her blouse and suckling each nipple of her pert, firm breasts for her to moan in ecstasy, unable to resist, desperate for more. He was always on a high after a successful gig, he thought, as he pushed her, unprotesting, down on the grubby floor of the pub’s back office which was serving as a dressing room.

  ‘Someone might walk in,’ Harriet gasped, in a futile attempt to be sensible.

  ‘Let them,’ he cried, reaching under her skirt to remove her panties. Then he was rubbing himself against her, pushing himself inside, filling her with his love as they both moved instinctively together, savouring their pleasure in each other.

  The door opened and Duffy and the rest walked in. Harriet leapt to her feet, embarrassed, tucking her blouse into her skirt, snatching up discarded clothing, feeling a burning shame as she searched for her shoes.

  Vinny just put back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Right on cue, lads, as always,’ he said. Turning to Harriet, he kissed her on the nose. ‘Go back to the hotel, there’s a good girl.’

  She was disappointed. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘I’ll see you later, right?’

  For all he enjoyed that vulnerability and need in her, perversely there were times when it cramped his style somewhat to know that wherever he went, whatever he did, she would be waiting for him back at the hotel. She wasn’t, after all, the only girl in the world. And once he hit the big time, when he got the call from London, he’d mo
ve on, and this little dalliance with Harriet Ashton would simply be a fond memory. Freedom, that was the name of the game.

  The next morning, feeling guilty over his apparent neglect, since he hadn’t climbed into her bed until past five in the morning, Vinny suggested they take a day off and have some fun. ‘Why don’t we go to the Speedway at Belle Vue? Or would you prefer the Water Chute? How about that? We’re getting far too wrapped up in problems.’

  Harriet smiled at him, as if he were a small boy she needed to humour. Vinny might be a rogue, but he was fun. ‘Can we go out to play tomorrow instead? Today, there’s something far more important we need to talk about.’

  He pretended to sulk. ‘What? What can be more important than a day out with me?’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He stared at her for a long moment as if he hadn’t quite heard correctly, and then his face lit up. ‘You’re having a baby? Are you serious?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  To Harriet’s utter astonishment he wrapped his arms about her and hugged her tight, raining kisses all over her face. ‘Aw, now isn’t that lovely? Don’t I just love kids? The more the merrier my ma used to say. And I could teach him to play the guitar, assuming he’s a boy of course.’

  Harriet laughed with relief. She couldn’t believe how well he was taking it. It was astonishing. She’d expected shock, denial, even anger or resentment. Never for a moment had she anticipated this open-hearted joy. She could have cried with happiness, realising how tense she’d become over the last few weeks. ‘So today we need to start making plans.’

  He kissed her delightful snub nose. ‘What sort of plans?’

  ‘For the baby. For us.’

  ‘We’ll call him Dylan. Didn’t I always want a son called Dylan? That’s a good Irish name, to be sure.’

  ‘You can call him whatever you like,’ Harriet told him fondly, quite light headed with relief. ‘The point is, I’m still under age, so we’ll have to get Joyce’s permission before we can marry. Even though she’s no longer my real mother, I suppose she’s still my legal guardian, or whatever they call it. I don’t expect her to object. She’ll be only too pleased to be rid of the responsibility.’

  ‘Responsibility? Hey, I don’t do all that stuff. I put you in charge of responsibility.’

  Harriet tweaked his nose. ‘Of course I am. Don’t worry, you can leave everything safely in my hands. She’s my mother – er, stepmother, after all, so I’ll go and talk to her, shall I? Get her to sign the forms.’

  ‘Forms?’

  Harriet felt her cheeks grow warm before his enquiring gaze. ‘I picked them up from the Register Office the other day. It’s OK, I’m not expecting you to go down on bended knee and propose, or anything vaguely romantic like that, but I thought I’d save you the trouble since you’re so busy with the band. I just need to get Joyce to sign them, then we can have a quick and easy little ceremony. No fuss, no bother.’

  ‘What I want is a quick and easy bit of the other,’ he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her with a thoroughness that excited her, as it seemed to be proof of his love. ‘That’s enough talk about responsibility, let’s just celebrate our baby.’

  Vinny wanted her, and her child, so what else mattered?

  He’d surprised her by his warm response, but then he was ever unpredictable. He always seemed so different when they were making love, as if his thoughts were only for her, his edginess quite dissolved. He stopped being cynical and sarcastic and became sweetly loving. Just the sensual way he kissed her caused Harriet to believe that, deep down he cared for her very much indeed, for all he might pretend otherwise.

  She loved the hard pressure of his mouth, the curl of his tongue against hers and the feather-light touch of his fingers as they slid over her upper thighs to that secret part of her.

  ‘Let’s make music,’ he murmured, in that teasing way of his.

  ‘Oh, yes please, don’t ever stop,’ she begged, groaning with delight as shafts of pleasure rippled through her.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he murmured, drawing off the sexy black lace nightdress he’d bought for her so he could kiss and suckle her nipples. ‘I’m going all the way, sweetie, right to the top.’

  Harriet giggled, knowing he was referring to his career, but also hoping that he was secretly telling her that he’d take her with him all the way too.

  She climbed astride him, pushing herself on to him, moving slowly at first, revelling in her power. Then he rolled her over, pulled her beneath him and brought her to such a height of passion, Harriet didn’t care what happened to her, as she fell once more under his spell.

  Moments later, instead of falling asleep as he was inclined to do after one of their love-making sessions, he leapt from the bed and began pulling on jeans and a sweater. His back was turned towards her as Harriet chattered on about the sort of dress she might wear for the wedding, too busy making plans to notice his slight withdrawal.

  ‘We might have a bit of a bash afterwards, what do you think? Nothing too expensive, and we can think about serious stuff like babies and houses later.’

  Vinny picked up his guitar as he glanced at her, his expression quite blank. ‘You know I don’t care for serious, babe. Why do we have to be serious?’

  ‘It’s what grown-ups do, Vinny.’

  ‘That’s OK then. You be the grown-up. I’m not, nor ever intend to be. You do what you like, babe. I’m off to the Belle Vue Speedway with the lads.’

  ‘Vinny ...’ but he’d gone, guitar in hand.

  Harriet shook her head in fond despair. What a child he was, but at least he’d taken the news so much better than she’d expected. All she had to do now was speak to Joyce.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘By heck, it must be a day for bad pennies turning up.’

  Harriet had chosen lunch time to call, knowing the salon would be closed for an hour, thereby avoiding an audience to their conversation.

  She’d wasted no time strolling round the market, much as she might have wished to catch up with old friends. Champion Street looked much the same as ever on this cold March day, grubby awnings flapping in a chill wind; pinched-faced customers arguing over the price of fish. The steaming, appetising aroma of Benny’s hot potato cart wafted tantalising across to her. She’d maybe buy one later, when she was done. A small child was having a tantrum because his mother refused to buy him a plastic windmill that whizzed round when you blew on it. Harriet felt a warm glow inside to think she’d soon be a mum too, with a small child of her own. Oh, and wouldn’t she give it all the love her own so-called mother had always denied her?

  She arrived at the salon just as Joyce was dropping the latch on the front door, judging her moment perfectly in case she should decide to go off and have dinner with Joe in Belle’s café. Her greeting, if that’s what you could call it, was as cold and unwelcoming as ever.

  ‘Is that what I am then, a bad penny? Well, it’s good to see you too, Joyce. You don’t mind if I call you that, so that we’re both clear where we stand. And don’t fret, I haven’t come home for good. I won’t take up more than a moment of your time.’

  ‘You’d best come in then, before Winnie sees you and comes dashing over, ear lugs flapping.’

  Joyce didn’t take her upstairs, or offer any sort of refreshment. She swivelled a hair dryer out of the way and indicated Harriet should sit on one of the salon chairs.

  Harriet looked round. ‘Where’s Nan? I’d like to see her while I’m here.’

  ‘She’s off out gallivanting with Irma Southworth. She might not be back till this evening.’

  Harriet felt a burst of disappointment. What bad luck! She’d been so looking forward to seeing her grandmother. But this had been a rather spur-of-the-moment decision, not quite knowing when she’d find the courage to tell Vinny about the baby, so she hadn’t mentioned in her latest letter that she might pop over.

  ‘Not having her cards read again, is she? Are you su
re she won’t be back before this evening, or I could go over to Irma’s and ...’

  ‘I’ve told you, they’re both out for the day, so it’s not worth your while waiting.’

  Irma had taken Rose to the doctor, but not for the world did Joyce intend to tell Harriet that. Like it or not Irma was having some success with her regime of exercises, which meant that Rose was on the mend. She might soon be free of that blasted wheelchair and the last thing Joyce wanted was to have Stan’s daughter back home, fussing over her precious nan and reminding her of how she’d messed up her life. She’d quite changed her mind on that score.

  ‘I haven’t got all day so say whatever you’ve come to say, and get it over with. If it’s money you’re wanting ...’

  ‘No, I don’t want your money. Have you seen Steve recently?’ Harriet asked, again putting off the evil moment. She hadn’t seen Steve in weeks, not since the night he’d brought her to visit Nan, and that was before Christmas. Maybe he’d got the message at last to leave her alone. Even so, she thought about him a great deal and wanted to know that he was well.

  ‘He’s doing okay at that college I believe, according to the weekly bulletins issued by that snobby mother of his.’

  ‘Does he ever ask about me?’

  Joyce was thinking of her dinner going cold upstairs and impatiently shook her head. She stood ramrod-straight, arms folded, making it all too clear she was not in the mood for casual conversation.

  She looked thinner than ever, Harriet thought. Her hair seemed darker, almost black, and the plucked eyebrows more finely drawn, the mouth tighter and deeply puckered.

  ‘Well, the fact is ...’ Harriet took a breath ‘... I’m getting married.’

  Joyce stared at her without comprehension for a moment. ‘Married? But you’re only ... Oh, my God! You’re pregnant!’ Anger flooded through her, clouding her vision, and her heart started to thump. Joyce could see Harriet’s mouth moving, knew she was still talking but the sound of the girl’s voice was nothing more than a roaring in her ears.