Lonely Teardrops (2008)

by Lightfoot, Freda

  Joyce twittered with polite laughter. ‘I dare say you’re right. What a character she is, my dear mother. Put the kettle on, son,’ she instructed him. Half way to the stairs Grant pulled a face, which fortunately Joyce didn’t see. ‘I’m fair gasping. Coffee for you, dear?’ she asked of her customer.

  Patsy shook her head. ‘No thanks, I have to get back to the stall.’

  ‘And will you be accepting the developer’s offer, I wonder. Or rather, will Clara Higginson be accepting?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask Clara,’ Patsy said, carefully guarded. Don’t overdo the back-combing, Joyce. I often have to model a hat, don’t forget, so it’s hardly worth it.’

  ‘Yes, but we must keep you in the forefront of fashion, so you can show the hats off at their best,’ Joyce demurred, teasing and smoothing and patting till finally even Patsy ran out of patience.

  ‘That’s fine, Joyce. And I like the way you’ve got it to flip up at the ends. It looks lovely, for as long as it lasts.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll last,’ Joyce assured her, waving a can of hair lacquer about and spraying the new hair style so thoroughly even a force nine gale wouldn’t shift it. Patsy paid up and fled, wishing she’d just trimmed it herself, as she usually did.

  Grant produced the tea, weak and milky with two sugars, just as his mother liked it. As he made to escape, Joyce said, ‘I hope you’re not still wasting your time looking for our Harriet?’

  He paused, puzzled by this remark. Hadn’t Harriet called at the salon a couple of times to see Nan? ‘I did catch sight of her one night with that band, but that was months ago. Then I lost her again. If you’d wanted to know where she was living, you should’ve said. I could’ve followed her after her last visit.’

  ‘No, I don’t particularly want you to find her. That’s why I’m mentioning it. It’s not important now that Rose is on the mend. And I don’t want her upset.’

  Joyce had said nothing to her mother about Harriet’s most recent visit, although Grant was aware that his sister was about to embark upon a shotgun marriage, which hopefully would have taken place by now. Joyce sincerely hoped so, in view of the circumstances. It still filled her with rage to think of the shame that harlot had brought upon them all. Keeping quiet seemed the only solution. She certainly had no intention of spreading the scandal. Joyce had little sympathy for the girl, none whatsoever, in fact. This was nothing like the situation Joyce had found herself in. Harriet hadn’t been raped, she’d brought this disgrace upon herself.

  ‘Don’t you even want to know what’s happened to her?’ Grant was asking. ‘She’s still your stepdaughter, after all. Maybe she’s had a hard winter. She could be holed up in some rat-hole somewhere, half starved.’

  ‘Good heavens, what’s this? Don’t tell me you’ve developed a conscience all of a sudden. That’d be a first.’

  Grant shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Why would I care? You’re the one who seems troubled by a conscience, not me.’

  Joyce frowned at this enigmatic remark, wondering what exactly he meant by it. ‘You’ve not been pestering folk with more questions, have you?’ she snapped.

  ‘No!’ Grant shook his head, a picture of innocence. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Joyce watched her lazy son slouch away, chin thrust forward, shoulders hunched about his thick neck. Was he a blessing or a curse? Much as she loved and adored him, she’d never quite made up her mind.

  Alone in his grandmother’s room, Grant glanced through the pile of letters from Harriet, as he often did when Nan was out and about around the market, or at one of her committee meetings. He was seeking an address. Harriet wrote regularly every week to her grandmother, even though she hadn’t visited the old lady for some time.

  Rose kept making excuses for her, saying the poor girl was probably busy helping to organise the band, that her lovely granddaughter would come home just as soon as she could. It was annoying that Joyce still hadn’t told Rose that Harriet was pregnant, and had threatened Grant with blue murder if he let that particular cat out of the bag.

  ‘The last thing I need to cope with right now, is for your grandmother to suffer another stroke, so keep them lips buttoned, right?’

  ‘She’ll have to know some time,’ Grant had objected. He’d rather relished the job of whistle-blower, and he’d love nothing more than to see his prissy half-sister brought down in his grandmother’s eyes. It would be justified punishment for always being his nan’s favourite.

  ‘You’ll say nowt,’ Joyce insisted. ‘At least, not until Rose is married. So think on. Keep your gob shut!’ His mother could sound so vulgar at times.

  Grant picked up the latest envelope, noticing that it was dated nearly three months ago. Frowning, he realised this was strange. The last time she’d written, back in March, shortly after asking Mam to sign some permission forms so she could get wed to that Vinny Turner, Harriet had been adamant that she’d be coming to see Nan any day. Yet not a word since. Shrugging his shoulders, he dropped the letter back on to the pile.

  Then he expertly picked the lock of the little jewellery box where Rose hid her pension, with the skill of long practice, and helped himself to a couple of five pound notes. His need was greater than hers. The old woman had nothing to spend her money on anyway.

  No matter what his faults, Joyce adored her son. Because of the way he’d been conceived she hadn’t expected to care for him at all, but the moment they’d put Grant into her arms she’d fallen in love with him at first sight. Perhaps because he was hers, and hers alone.

  After the miscarriage, she’d felt no real desire to go through all the pain and agony again, or bear the responsibility of another child, but nor did she wish to risk losing her husband. So if a child was what it took to keep him, then that’s what she’d have.

  Until that happy day dawned, the pair of them seemed hell-bent on destroying each other, both bitter over the way things had turned out. And whenever she complained about his attitude towards Grant, Stan would insist this dreadful situation was all of her own making, her own fault for tricking him into marriage in the first place. She’d lied to him so must now suffer the consequences.

  Yet he made no bones about the fact that he wanted a child of his own, and that he was disappointed over Joyce losing the baby, if that were indeed the truth. Sadly, she very much doubted she’d be able to provide him with another. Joyce had endured a difficult birth with Grant, a tragic miscarriage, and now she didn’t seem able to even conceive. She was willing to keep trying, if only because it kept Stan in her bed, but his home leaves were becoming less frequent, and hope was fading.

  ‘I’ll stick by you for the duration,’ he promised. ‘But once peace is declared, if you haven’t managed to give me a child by then, you’re on your own.’

  ‘I can never resist a challenge,’ Joyce bit back.

  It was then that she’d enrolled on a course in hairdressing, realising she’d need a decent income to support herself and her son when peace finally came. To her surprise, she found she enjoyed it and had a natural flair for styling hair, but the prospect of life alone without Stan brought little comfort.

  She still loved him, that was the trouble.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The two girls hardly spoke to each other for days, their friendship severely dented by the quarrel. Instead of sitting gossiping together in the breaks between rehearsals, or sharing a sandwich and a giggle, there was an awkwardness between them, and a distinct coolness.

  Harriet wanted to feel pleased by the fact she’d won the battle but it somehow seemed so tawdry to be fighting over a man. So clichéd and silly. The only emotion she felt was one of foolishness over the pointlessness of it all. What was it she expected from Vinny? Security? Love? Some sort of emotional commitment? And could he possibly provide it? Oh, she did hope so, otherwise, what else did she have?

  But Shelley’s words still rang in her head. Making claims on him now, are you? You really are a glutto
n for punishment. What had she meant by that?

  She seemed to be implying that what Harriet felt for Vinny was not really love at all, but simply a physical attraction born out of a desire for revenge against Joyce, or as a means to hurt herself.

  Was that true? Was that what this was all about? Self-punishment? But why would she do such a thing after all that had happened to her? Hadn’t she a right to a decent, happy life like everyone else, Harriet thought, in a welter of uncharacteristic self-pity. Shelley wasn’t the easiest person to understand. Her parents had both died in an horrific car crash and she was almost as confused and bitter about life as Vinny himself. But never one to bear a grudge, after nearly a week had gone by Harriet could take no more of the other girl’s huffy silence.

  ‘Are we still friends?’

  Shelley instantly gathered Harriet into her arms for a big warm hug. ‘Course we are. Why would we not be? I’ve been every bit as miserable as you. We certainly aren’t going to fall out over Vinny Turner. I know about the baby so I can see now why you were so upset, and I just want you to know that you can rely on me, no matter what.’

  Harriet instinctively smoothed the flat of one hand over her emerging bump. ‘Thanks, that means a lot. Everything’s going to be fine, I know it is. It’s just that Vinny’s so booked up with gigs at the moment we haven’t had time to fix a day to pop down to the Register Office.’

  Shelley didn’t look at her as she turned her back to Harriet so she could pull down the zip of the new mini dress she’d worn for the gig that night. ‘Maybe he will do soon. But if there’s any problem, I’m here, don’t forget.’

  Harriet helped her out of the dress and placed it on its hanger, smoothing the soft blue fabric. She suddenly envied her friend’s beauty and her free and easy style. Harriet would never summon up the nerve to wear a dress so short even if she’d still been slim, and certainly not now with her swollen tummy and breasts bursting out of her bra. Was it any wonder if Vinny wasn’t quite as enamoured of her as he used to be? Still, he was pleased about the baby, she must remember that, which surely proved that he meant to stand by her. ‘Why would there be a problem?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Shelley agreed, pulling a Sloppy Joe sweater on over her stretch pants. ‘I’m just saying, all for one, and one for all, isn’t that what the band stands for?’

  Despite herself, Harriet found herself giggling, remembering how Vinny used to say the same thing. ‘Only when I’m paying for the fish and chips,’ she reminded Shelley.

  ‘Right, then let’s go and buy some. And you’re paying.’

  Joyce deeply regretted her marriage. It had been a bad mistake to marry Stan Ashton. If it hadn’t all happened in such a rush she might well have stopped to consider more carefully the risk she was taking by not telling him the truth. But she’d been at a loss to know how to deal with that rape and the resulting pregnancy, and she’d been desperately in love. No matter how much her mother might criticise, it had seemed the best solution at the time.

  Rose, naturally, took a close interest in her daughter’s welfare, and was not blind to the fact that her marriage seemed to be falling apart. When, on occasions, Stan had spent barely more than the odd night at home in the entire length of his leave, she challenged Joyce on the subject.

  ‘Is that Yorkshireman knocking you about?’ she asked, certain this could be the only reason any marriage wouldn’t work.

  ‘Of course he isn’t, Mother, don’t talk daft. We’ve got a bit of a problem, that’s all.’

  ‘What sort of a problem? Another woman, is that it?’

  And for the first time in her life Joyce had burst into tears, blurting out how she believed her husband was having an affair with her best friend.

  Rose was incensed. ‘I allus knew he were a wrong un. I’ll give him what for when I catch him.’

  ‘No, don’t. Don’t say anything! It’s nothing to do with you. Anyway, you don’t know the whole story,’ Joyce protested, as her mother ranted on, seemingly prepared to lie in wait for him behind the front door next time he came home on leave, rolling pin in hand.

  ‘What story, don’t tell me you’ve been at it an’ all?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t, nothing like that. Not willingly anyway.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean? You either have or you haven’t.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest and open with you either, Mother.’

  ‘If you mean did I realise that young Grant was conceived quite a few months before you wed his father, then spare yourself the trouble. I wasn’t brought in with the morning fish.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that. Stan isn’t his father.’

  And so, at last, driven by despair, Joyce confessed to her mother the whole truth, the entire tale from start to finish. How Grant was the result of ‘an unpleasant encounter’, a careful choice of words, at a friend’s party, and how she’d been three months pregnant when she and Stan had married, of which he’d been entirely ignorant. Joyce found it distasteful to use the word rape, but her mother used it for her.

  ‘When you say that you weren’t willing, do you mean that this bloke, whoever he was, raped you?’

  ‘Don’t be coarse, mother, but yes, I am. It all happened so quickly. One minute I was having a laugh with this silly young drunken sailor, the next ... Oh, it really doesn’t bear thinking about. And the trouble is, Stan doesn’t believe a word I say on the subject. He doesn’t believe I was raped!’

  ‘Not surprising, if you failed to mention it till months after your marriage that there were actually three of you present at that little wedding ceremony.’

  Rose then proceeded to give Joyce a long lecture on the question of trust in marriage, on how, even though Stan was not without fault in this matter, Joyce had only herself to blame. ‘I told you not to marry him.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Joyce wearily protested. ‘You said something rude like, well, if that’s the best you can do, I suppose I’ll have to accept him. You’d decided you didn’t like Stan long before you even met him.’

  ‘Aye, well, he’s the wrong religion, and from the wrong side of the Pennines. Now he’s playing away from home an’ all, so me first instincts were right, weren’t they? Why would I like him?’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ Joyce endured the prolonged lecture with all the fortitude she could muster, thankful when Rose finally ran out of breath. She gave her mother a long- suffering look. ‘Please don’t go on about it any more. I feel bad enough as it is. Don’t make things worse.’

  ‘I’m not sure it could be any worse.’

  But in this, she was wrong. When Stan arrived home later that same evening, it was to announce that Eileen was pregnant.

  Joyce’s first reaction was blind fury. How dare this woman, this so-called friend, be pregnant with her own husband’s child when she had utterly failed him in that respect? How would she endure it? She wanted to scream and claw out his eyes, beat him about the head for what he’d done to her. Was this Stan Ashton’s idea of revenge because of one lie she’d told him? ‘You assured me you weren’t sleeping with her. You swore you were just good friends.’

  Stan gave her a pitying look. ‘That was months ago. In any case, since you clearly believed I was having it off with her, there didn’t seem any reason not to. Eileen’s keen for us to wed, so obviously you’ll have to give me a divorce. My family will never speak to me again, of course, although they already seem to have cut me off without a penny, thanks to your lies. Father Dimmock will no doubt excommunicate me, but I can’t see any other solution. In the meantime, I’m moving Eileen in here.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘She can’t live on her own, not in her condition, and with a war on. Besides, her parents have thrown her out. I’ll fetch her in, shall I? She’s waiting outside.’

  And both Joyce and Rose watched in open-mouthed disbelief as Stan moved his mistress into the spare room, and then went to join her in it.


  ‘By heck,’ Rose said. ‘This beats the filums any day.’

  The silly squabble between Harriet and Shelly was quite forgotten and everything was back to normal. The band was booked for so many gigs they rarely had a free night. Not one was cancelled as Vinny too seemed to be on a more even keel, working hard but seemingly relaxed and enjoying life. Harriet took great care not to upset him, or to mention how anxious she was for them to be married. She still had the forms, safely stowed away in her bag, waiting for the right moment.

  But as May slipped by and June arrived with the promise of summer in the air, Harriet was forced to admit it was harder to disguise her condition. And she’d quite lost her nerve to call on Nan again. What would the old lady say if she saw the state of her now, nearly five months gone and still unwed? Being a strong chapel-going Methodist with high moral standards, the old lady would be appalled to find her granddaughter in such a condition. Much as Harriet longed to visit her, she no longer dared do so.

  Rose was well on the road to recovery, and for the first time in many weeks was walking through the market under her own steam, albeit with the aid of a walking stick. Stan’s wheelchair had been abandoned, returned to the doctor who had given her a clean bill of health and told her to get out more and enjoy life to the full, which was exactly what Rose intended to do.

  She’d certainly had enough of sitting in that back room hour after hour, waiting for someone to call in for a chat, or to wheel her out so she could escape for a short while from her prison. How Stan had tolerated his wife largely ignoring him for so many years she couldn’t imagine. She was beginning to see her son-in-law in quite a different light these days.

  She struck out with as much vigour as she could muster, revelling in the warmth of the sun on her face, smiling as friends hailed her as she passed by. Big Molly gave her a cheery wave, calling Rose over and insisting on giving her old friend a pork pie.

  ‘On the house, I’m that glad to see you out and about again.’