All these years of carefully nurturing an aura of respectability seemed to come crashing down around her. She’d dragged herself up from the pits of Ancoats despite the shame of a dustman for a father, overcome a rape with no help from anyone, a straying husband and having this cuckoo child foisted upon her. She’d built herself a fine business, was respected on this market. Everyone came to Joyce’s to have their hair done. And not a word of scandal had ever crept out in all the years she’d been here. Now this little madam, this trollop, had brought shame upon them all.
Joyce could feel herself trembling with rage, was having difficulty keeping her hand from slapping the little slattern, and her voice shook as she finally found her voice. ‘Why am I not surprised? I always said there was bad blood in you, girl. Like mother, like daughter.’
‘Are you going to tell me who she is - or rather was - this mother of mine?’
‘What the hangment does it matter now, after all this time? She was a nobody, a bit of skirt or fluff Stan picked up. A slut, exactly like you.’
Harriet bristled, inwardly chiding herself to remain calm. ‘I’ve not intention of entering into a slanging match with you, Joyce. I just brought these.’ Handing over the forms she briefly explained how, as her guardian, her stepmother’s signature was necessary since she was still under age. Joyce snatched up the pen and signed in a fury, without blinking, without even asking his name.
‘Thank goodness he’s prepared to marry you. Make sure it’s quick. How far gone are you?’
‘Not even three months yet. Don’t you want to know who I’m marrying?’
Joyce’s upper lip curled. ‘If it’s that Vinny Turner, you’ll rue the day. He’ll bring you nowt but misery, which pleases me greatly. Why should you be happy? I never was with your father.’
Harriet got up, anxious now to be gone. She’d considered calling on a few friends, once this difficult interview was over, but now she just longed to dash back to Vinny.
‘Tell Nan I’m sorry to have missed her this time, but I’ll call again soon. And I’ll bring my husband with me.’ Then she walked out without a backward glance.
Joyce slammed the door after her, marched upstairs and picked up her mug of cold tea, then flung it in the sink where it smashed into a dozen pieces.
Harriet had hardly turned the corner of Champion Street when there was another knock on the salon door. Joyce, in no mood to be interrupted yet again stamped down the stairs and flung it open.
‘Yes?’ she snapped, to her surprise finding Steve Blackstock kicking his heels on the doorstep, looking all hangdog with his hands in his pockets. ‘Flaming ‘arry, what a morning I’m having. I thought you were away at college?’
‘I’m home for the weekend, so I thought I’d just pop over.’
‘What for this time?’ Joyce groaned. ‘You’re never away.’
‘I was wondering if you’d heard anything of Harriet lately?’ Steve asked, as politely as he could manage. He didn’t much care for Joyce, but despite Harriet’s earnest pleadings that he forget about her, he simply wasn’t capable of doing so. He’d kept away for as long as he could, but some instinct, some need in him, always brought him back here in the end.
‘If you’ve got an address I’d like to know what it is, so’s I can write to her. Just to keep in touch, since we’re such old friends.’
‘I haven’t the first idea where she lives. I should think, since she’s with that Vinny Turner, she’s barely in one place long enough to wash her socks,’ Joyce snapped. ‘Anyroad, you’ve just missed her.’
Steve looked aghast. ‘Missed her, why, has she been here?’
Joyce glanced up the street, as if she half expected to see Harriet still walking along it. Steve did the same. ‘She was here just now. Only just this minute gone.’
‘Did she ask after me?’
Joyce frowned. ‘I’m not sure, er, yes, I think she did enquire as to how you were. I told her you were doing well at that college, or at least so your mam says whenever she comes in to have her hair done.’
Steve was edging away from the door, lifting himself on to the balls of his feet, as if about to run. ‘How long has she been gone? Do you reckon I might catch up with her if I hurry? Which way did she go?’
‘I’ve no idea. Anyroad, don’t waste your time, lad, she isn’t interested in you any more. You’re history. She brought some forms for me to sign, to give her permission to marry her lover-boy.’ Joyce was itching to shut the door, to go back upstairs and pour herself a rum and coke. She needed one to help her cope with the shame Harriet was about to inflict upon her.
‘Marry?’ Steve froze, his face going rigid with shock.
‘Aye, that Vinny Turner is her intended now, so go back to your nice college, lad, and find yourself another girl.’
The leftover stew was tasteless and almost cold by the time Joyce finally got round to eating it. She could strangle the girl, she could really. Why did she always have to ruin things? Why was her life so blighted by the faults of others? Joyce attached no blame to herself. Why should she? Hadn’t she taken the lass in as her own when most betrayed wives would have flung both husband and by-blow on to the muck heap? But what good had it done? She was a fool to herself, that was her trouble.
And she’d been so looking forward to this day on her own, without Irma constantly under her feet, or her mother demanding this, that or the other. Or ringing that flaming bell Irma had provided her with, for the times when she herself wasn’t at her patient’s side ready and willing to do her every bidding.
Joyce was heartily sick of the pair of them.
Following her appointment with the doctor, Irma was taking Rose out to lunch at the Midland Hotel for a treat. As if she deserved one, Joyce thought in disgust. Her mother hadn’t done a lick of work in weeks, just lay in bed all day being waited on. What right had she to a lunch out while Joyce was still slaving away with no thanks from anyone?
She didn’t even have time for five minutes with the Daily Express as she usually did. There wasn’t a moment in this awful day to relax before she was back downstairs in the salon, shampooing Helen Catlow’s hair.
‘Just a little trim, is it?’ Joyce asked her customer in the practised, professional tones which skilfully disguised her ill temper. She found that she needed to breathe slowly and deeply, to calm herself. ‘Going somewhere nice this evening, are we?’
‘I’m having dinner at the Shackletons’, such lovely people. John is hoping to be our next MP,’ the other woman bragged.
Joyce mentally switched off as the boring catalogue of engagements continued, as if life was most wearisome for someone such as herself with a busy social life. As she shampooed and rinsed, slapped on conditioner and rubbed Helen Catlow’s scalp with more vigour than was quite necessary, Joyce furiously mulled over her own problems in a welter of self-pity.
She’d believed herself to be free at last, having kicked the hussy out. Now the stupid girl had robbed her of what little peace and respectability she had left in her life. Nothing seemed to go right for her these days.
By the time Joyce was combing out the tangles of wet hair, Helen Catlow had changed tack and was now into a litany of complaints about her husband, who was apparently seeing rather a lot of Judy Beckett.
‘Not content with stealing my husband, that Beckett woman has the bare-faced cheek to return to the market and open up her cheap-jack little art stall again. She’s selling her silly little paintings as if she’s some sort of renowned artist.’
‘I heard she was doing rather well, actually,’ Joyce said. ‘Anyway, I thought you and Leo were getting divorced?’
‘We are, but that’s no excuse, is it?’
Joyce mumbled some non-committal response to this, since everyone knew that Leo Catlow had stuck faithfully to his wife despite her own rampant infidelity, long after any other man would have strangled the woman. Besides, as Joyce herself was likewise embroiled in an extra-marital affair with the ever-indolent Joe, what rig
ht did she have to criticise?
Why was Joe obstinately resisting any attempt to move in with her, even though Irma was back in her own bed? He still seemed keen enough on the bedroom front, so what was the attraction in staying with his wife? Irma wasn’t exactly a pin-up. No Marilyn Monroe, that was for sure.
Joyce had rather hoped to persuade him to pop over at some point today, as she’d seen very little of him lately. But of course with Irma out with Rose, Joe was tied to the biscuit stall. It was all most frustrating.
As she towel-dried her client’s hair, Joyce couldn’t resist one cheeky question. ‘And what’s Sam Beckett doing these days? I used to see him regular in the Dog and Duck, but haven’t clapped eyes on him for weeks.’
Helen’s coral lips tightened slightly, her porcelain complexion taking on the faintest flush of pink. ‘He’s left the market, I believe. There was a time when I used to see quite a lot of him myself.’
I know you did, Joyce thought, generally in his back office with the closed notice on the door. It had been the talk of the market for months that Sam had been Helen’s lover, and an absolute brute to Judy, his lovely wife. ‘So that’s why his little ironmonger’s shop is all boarded up and empty?’ she innocently enquired.
‘Apparently so. He accepted an offer from the developers he couldn’t afford to turn down, and he’s gone. Planning to emigrate to Canada, or so I’m told.’
‘Dear me, that won’t go down well with the other stallholders. My mother, for one, will go light. Just as well he’s leaving the country before she gets hold of him. They still hang traitors from trees round here. Good riddance though, is what I say.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Helen agreed, with characteristic coldness in her tone. ‘My sentiment entirely.’
But as Joyce applied the razor to Helen’s fine blond hair, cropping it fashionably short with a feathery fringe over her forehead, her mind returned to her own recent visitors, to Harriet and to young Steve.
She could see the lad had been pole-axed by the news, though at least she’d spared him the reason for the hasty nuptials.
Joyce had never believed that particular relationship would amount to anything, not with that snobby mother of his. Nevertheless, she felt some sympathy for the lad as she could still remember what it felt like to be in love, and to feel hurt by a loved one’s betrayal. Shame and humiliation were only a part of it.
Back in 1940 at the start of what appeared to be the shortest marriage in the history of the universe, Joyce had been riddled with guilt. She knew in her heart that she should have told Stan the truth from the outset. And she should never have let him talk her into going out with him again after she’d sent that Dear John letter calling it all off. How stupid she’d been! It was true, she had tricked him. But the prospect of a respectable marriage, particularly to Stan Ashton with whom she was already madly in love, had been too tempting to resist.
It was as if her entire world had fallen apart, as if she’d failed in some way, that it was all her own fault. Joyce hated that feeling more than anything.
In the end she’d convinced herself that Stan was the one really to blame. From the day he’d realised Grant wasn’t his child, their relationship had gone from bad to worse. He could have accepted the boy as his son, if he’d loved her enough. Just because she hadn’t told him the truth at the time of their marriage was no fault of the child’s. But Stan was far too selfish to overlook her lies, seeking for any excuse to play the field. That much was obvious, Joyce thought, appeasing her conscience.
He’d hurt her precious son badly, so was it any wonder if now she hurt his child?
Stan had obstinately refused to believe Joyce’s version of events and deliberately set out to provoke her by flirting with her best friend.
Eileen seemed to think the whole thing hilarious. She took the view that this fledgling marriage was already on the rocks and had no compunction in enjoying Stan’s company. He was a good looking chap, after all, and hugely entertaining. They went everywhere together, to dances, to the cinema, on long romantic walks by the canal. He even took her to Liverpool to see his ship. Whenever he was home on leave, however little time he might have, he would spend most of it with Eileen rather than his own wife. Yet she swore to Joyce that’s all it was, a close friendship, a flirtation, and not a full-blown affair.
Joyce didn’t believe her, of course. She was deeply hurt and very angry over this betrayal by her best friend. It made her feel sick inside just to picture them together. Images of them making love haunted her dreams and stopped her thinking straight during the day. She couldn’t concentrate on her work, couldn’t bear for her husband to be out of her sight for a moment, the jealousy eating away at her like a canker. Joyce hated herself for being so needy, constantly threatened to leave him, but could never quite bring herself to do so.
‘How dare you go off with her! How dare you cheat on me!’ she would scream at him, picking up a vase that was handy and throwing it at his head.
Stan became adept at ducking, his burst of laughter failing to brighten the grim set of his face. ‘You’ve no right to complain. You only married me in order to provide a father for your son, so you’ve only yourself to blame if it’s all gone wrong. What did you imagine? That I’d be so stupid I’d never have the wit to notice, or add up the discrepancy in his age? Eileen and me are having a good time, that’s all there is to it, and I reckon I deserve a bit of fun.’
‘Bit of fun? You’re sleeping with her!’
‘I’m not, actually, but what business would it be of yours even if I were? You can hardly claim our marriage to have been made in heaven, can you? You were the one who cheated first, not me.’
‘I’ve told you a thousand times, I was raped!’
‘So you say, a fact you quite forgot to mention until you discovered the consequences of your betrayal.’
‘Once this war is over, you can go hang yourself off the yard-arm,’ Joyce yelled, flinging her favourite tea-pot after the vase and then bursting into tears when it smashed to smithereens against the wall.
Yet she loved him so much that even as tempers flared and passions grew heated, even in the throes of her rage she would fling herself into his arms, profusely apologising for her lack of honesty and begging for his forgiveness. ‘Love me, give me a child!’
And perhaps intrigued by her neediness, captivated still by his sexy wife, Stan would laughingly take her to bed and make love to her till she cried out in ecstasy. This sort of behaviour was typical of the blow hot, blow cold nature of their relationship. Joyce loved Stan and hated him in equal proportions, and he felt the same way about her.
To her utter delight Joyce did indeed fall pregnant again, and joyously celebrated, writing to Stan at once to tell him the good news. But no sooner had she posted the letter than she started bleeding and lost the baby. She was devastated.
His reply, when she wrote a second time to tell him what had happened, was to accuse her of lying to him yet again. ‘How do I know you weren’t just claiming to be pregnant in order to keep me? You probably weren’t pregnant at all,’ he wrote. ‘Or maybe your lover put you in the family way again, and that’s why you threw yourself at me.’
‘If that’s what you think then don’t bother coming home again,’ she wrote back, in a frenzy of rage.
But of course he always did come home, and they’d row and make love with equal intensity all over again, jealously accusing each other of rampant infidelity. Long before one war ended, another had already begun. At home.
But Joyce had no intention of allowing Stan to win it. She’d make him love her, force him to give her another child, insist that he be a good husband to her, no matter what the cost. Failure didn’t bear thinking of, and divorce was quite out of the question. Far too shaming.
Fortunately, with Stan being a Catholic, his religion didn’t approve of divorce, which was some consolation. If nothing else, Joyce intended to protect her reputation.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They were in Seedley Park Science Museum of all places, looking at the stuffed animals and birds in cases, at the birds’ eggs, rocks and minerals, and other exhibits. There was even an elephant, a small one admittedly, and close by it a tiny mouse in a glass case. Harriet felt like that mouse, stuffed and stiff, trapped behind a glass wall she couldn’t penetrate, and Vinny was the huge elephant, blundering through life doing exactly as he pleased, irrespective of all those around him.
He pulled one of his vile cigarettes from his pocket and lit up. Harriet was instantly filled with shame, glancing about her to meet several disapproving glares.
‘You can’t smoke in here, Vinny. Put it out,’ she hissed, fearing the museum curator might appear at any minute and catch him smoking.
‘Why?’
‘Because you can’t!’ As so often these days, she felt as if she were speaking to a petulant child. ‘Come on, let’s go outside. I don’t know why you wanted to come here in the first place.’
He would often insist on doing strange things, such as spending the day riding on buses and trams, back and forth through the city, going nowhere in particular. Or he’d count every step, sometimes backwards, as they walked along the tow-path. He’d get up in the middle of the night and start scattering sheets of music all over the place, frantically searching for one he couldn’t seem to find. He’d lose patience with the lads when they were practising a number and change to another one half way through. He would do this over and over, so that they never reached the end of a song. Then there’d be an almighty row and Vinny would stalk off, refusing to speak to anyone for hours.
Harriet was growing concerned. At first she’d put this odd behaviour down to overwork and insufficient sleep. For weeks now she’d been begging him to see a doctor, insisting he was overdoing it but he point-blank refused. He had, however, agreed to this day out in the park in order to allow himself time to relax, to breathe in some fresh air, and to stop smoking cannabis for a whole day. Now he’d broken this promise and she was in despair.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 23