‘It would be plain common sense.’
‘And how would Irma manage? Our pension is tied up in that biscuit business. I couldn’t just abandon her. She is still me wife, after all.’
This wasn’t at all the answer Joyce had hoped for. ‘So what you’re saying is that, given the choice between the two of us, you choose Irma. Is that the way of it?’
‘There’s no need to put it quite so bluntly,’ Joe demurred, fidgeting with discomfort. ‘You and me can still - you know - be friends, like.’
‘You mean you can still come and visit my bed whenever the fancy takes you to enjoy my ‘favours’, without taking any responsibility for my respectability, my good name. Or even my happiness?’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t.’ Joyce had had enough. She got unsteadily to her feet, drunk on the pain of broken dreams rather than the single rum and coke she’d enjoyed. She looked at the second one which Joe had placed before her, and she smiled at him, a bitter, hard mockery of a smile, one that had frequently brought a chill to her husband’s heart. ‘It’s your decision, Joe, one you might well live to regret,’ then she picked up the glass and upended the contents over his head. She didn’t even glance back to enjoy the uproar she created in the pub as she walked away.
The day that Shelley brought Harriet home to Champion Street, pregnant and still unmarried, was a day which would live forever in her mind. Harriet needed only to glance into her stepmother’s dark, forbidding gaze to appreciate how badly she’d transgressed. Joyce would never forgive her for bringing such shame upon the family. Harriet knew she should be filled with guilt, but she felt nothing.
Since her friend had found her climbing on to the parapet of that bridge, and had come screaming towards her in a welter of panic and self-recrimination, she’d felt numb inside. Nothing seemed quite real.
In a strange way, despite it being Shelley’s own actions which had led to that reckless act, Harriet had welcomed her intervention, experienced a strange feeling of relief as she’d gently been urged back on to solid ground. Harriet had offered no resistance, allowing her friend to quietly lead her from the bridge, answering her questions about her home address in a monotone, without thought or question.
It hadn’t seemed the moment for blame, to point out that had Shelley not attempted to muscle in upon her relationship with Vinny then she might never have run, or threatened to seek oblivion in the murky waters of the Ship Canal.
Now Harriet couldn’t believe she was back home in the salon. But neither did she feel in any position to judge whether it was the right thing for Shelley to have brought her here. She simply felt grateful she was still alive, and deeply ashamed of her own momentary weakness which had led her to do such a stupid thing. What on earth had come over her? How dare she be so selfish when she was carrying this precious child?
Harriet looked at her stepmother and wondered what would happen next. Merely the way Joyce flew to bolt the door behind her and ordered her straight upstairs said everything. The disgrace of her condition must be hushed up, hidden away from prying eyes and market gossip. Her first words made that very clear.
‘Upstairs, and don’t go anywhere the window. I’ll speak to your friend down here, then I’ll be right up.’ It sounded more like a threat than a welcome.
Harriet knew it was a mistake to argue yet she did so. ‘I want to see Nan.’
Instinct led her straight to her grandmother. As she entered the old woman’s bedroom at the back of the shop, Harriet was shocked and alarmed by the sight of her grandmother, looking even more frail than the last time she’d seen her. Despite her indomitable spirit, she seemed to have grown old suddenly.
Harriet felt shame and anguish for having neglected her for so long. And why? For what reason? Was it as a result of shame, or misplaced pride? She could see that Rose was equally shocked by her own appearance, clearly having been unaware of her condition. Even so, Harriet ran straight into her arms.
‘There, there, lass, don’t fret. You’re safe and sound now. Nan won’t let owt bad happen to you,’ and as her grandmother pressed her close against the cushion of her uncorseted breast, Harriet felt she was home at last, and let the tears come.
‘Did anyone see you arrive?’ Joyce fired the question at Harriet the moment she entered the room. Harriet shook her head.
‘Not that I’m aware of. I made sure all the customers had left the salon before we came in.’
‘Well, you showed some common sense there, at least. But if you think I’m going to allow you to set foot outside this house looking like that, you’ve got another think coming.’
Arms folded, pencilled brows almost meeting in a deep, censorious frown, small mouth drawn into a thin tight line, Joyce glared at her stepdaughter. She felt deeply disappointed and let down, furious that the girl should be so stupid as to get herself into this shameful condition. Her wanton behaviour was quite beyond belief. Joyce refused to see the situation as a youthful act of rebellion, a consequence of the long-standing war between them. She saw Harriet’s pregnancy as evidence of the girl’s wickedness, not a desperate need to find love. Didn’t this prove that she had bad blood in her veins?
Harriet found Joyce’s disapproving scrutiny unnerving, quenching any lingering remnants of rebellion, but said nothing as she sat in the shelter of her grandmother’s embrace. Nor did Joyce speak, as she restlessly paced to and fro, practically wringing her hands in anguish. After watching her stepmother take several more turns about the room, still cluttered with Joyce’s personal belongings, Harriet could stand the ominous silence no longer.
‘Look, I’ll go. I’ll not stay where I’m not wanted. I’ve no wish to cause you any further embarrassment.’
Rose protested. ‘You’ll stop here where you belong. This is still your home. It is as long as I’m alive and own the deeds to this property.’
Joyce now directed her glare towards her mother, but her mind was whirling, thinking fast, considering ways to save her own good name and respectability. Perhaps she could put Harriet in a home for wayward girls. Did they still exist, she wondered? It was a pity they didn’t have a maiden aunt in some far-flung rural backwater where the girl could wait out her time and then have the baby adopted without a soul being any the wiser. Unfortunately Joyce had no aunts, maiden or otherwise, no family but Rose, who wasn’t the slightest use. But then the answer came to her, clear and simple.
Fortunately, Irma was no longer residing in Harriet’s old room. Having achieved a satisfactory improvement in Rose’s condition, the other woman had thankfully packed her bags and moved back home, much to Joyce’s relief. And for once Joyce felt equally relieved that she had in fact failed to persuade Joe to move in, despite all her best efforts, for in the circumstances that would have been a total disaster. Discretion was now vital.
Joyce folded her arms. ‘Right, we’ll talk more about this in the morning. Meanwhile, you’d best get some sleep.’
Harriet kissed her grandmother a fond goodnight, then wearily climbed the stairs to her old attic bedroom. It felt strange, as if she were stepping back in time. She had a sudden longing to be with Vinny, to feel his arms round her, welcoming and loving.
Joyce fetched a pile of clean linen, dumped it on the bed and told Harriet to make it up. ‘You stop in here, away from prying eyes till you’re fit to be seen.’
Harriet frowned, feeling a sharp pang of concern. ‘What do you mean ‘fit to be seen’? I’m only six months gone. I can’t stay in my bedroom for three whole months!’
‘You can and you will.’
Harriet gave a half laugh. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘You’ll be allowed use of the bathroom at set times of the day, otherwise you’ll stop in here.’ Joyce went to the window and tugged the curtains closed, as if she could already sense prying eyes.
‘Fortunately your room looks out over the back street, so no one is likely to spot you up in the attic here. Just m
ake sure they don’t. That young girl who brought you, Shelley somebody-or-other, assured me she’d keep her gob shut and not tell a soul. Good thing too. I want no gossip flying round the market over this. You’ll stop in this room till it’s all over and we’ve disposed of the evidence.’
Harriet gasped, looking at her stepmother in horrified bewilderment. ‘Disposed of... I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘I’m saying, when your time comes, Mother and I will see to you, then we’ll get the child adopted. I’ll make a few private enquiries through the church. I’m sure Father Dimmock will help, and respect the delicate nature of the situation. Confidentiality is vital.’
Joyce was at the door, her fidgety fingers now titivating her hair as if wishing to make sure she hadn’t in some way soiled herself by coming into contact with this transgressor of all right and proper moral values. ‘I’ll fetch you up a bit of supper later, till then get some rest, you look as if you need it.’
Only when Harriet heard the key turn in the lock did she appreciate her stepmother’s full purpose.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Joyce could hear them giggling together, laughing at her no doubt. Was it a crime, she wondered, to wish her husband and best friend dead? Yet she did, with all her heart. The fury and hatred she felt towards her one-time friend and husband was hard to control, threatening to erupt into incandescent rage at any second. It blurred her vision, roared in her ears whenever she saw them together, kissing and canoodling, Stan fussing over Eileen and the other woman casting her glances of triumph.
Most of the time Stan was away, and she and Eileen were left to rub along as best they could, with Rose acting as some sort of referee. It was far from ideal.
Joyce did her utmost to ignore Eileen, barely speaking to her, concentrating on finishing her hairdressing course, on planning a future for herself and her son. The house they rented, near the old mill behind Blossom Street in Ancoats, was a spacious terraced house with two living rooms as well as a back kitchen and three bedrooms, but it seemed to have shrunk now that Eileen had moved in with all her stuff. Not to mention her endless wailing and complaining.
The young woman seemed to be constantly throwing up, was finicky about her food, stuffing herself with chips instead of the good fruit and vegetables Joyce provided, and she would burst into tears over the slightest thing. She was driving Joyce to distraction, and because she was pregnant, seemed to imagine she needn’t lift a finger. The stream of letters which came from Stan asking how Eileen was, and urging his precious sweetheart not to exert herself, didn’t help either.
‘Anyone would think he no longer had a wife. He rarely bothers to even ask how I am?’ Joyce would bitterly complain. ‘And I’m quite sure I didn’t make as much fuss as this when I was pregnant.’
Rose judged it wise not to comment.
Joyce found it an absolute agony to long for another baby so much, yet be forced to accept that it was her husband’s mistress who carried his child. Her stomach would churn and she’d feel physically sick. To add insult to injury she was obliged to care for the other woman throughout her pregnancy, surely more than any wife should be expected to tolerate.
The rage building up inside her was an absolute torment, a dark whirlpool of pent-up resentment and frustration.
The only consolation was that once her condition became obvious Eileen willingly confined herself to the house. She might constantly moan and complain but she clearly had no wish to present herself in public as an object of scandal and gossip. This was a huge relief to Joyce that her own respectability and good name would not be tarnished in any way, a decision which made the whole experience at least endurable.
‘I think it would be best if I stayed home too,’ Joyce decided.
Rose frowned. ‘Why?’
Joyce’s answer, as always, was brusque, not wishing to discuss her private decisions with her mother. ‘I just do. For one thing, I want to make sure Eileen stays put and doesn’t create any unnecessary problems. For another, I’ve finished my hairdressing course and intend to start up a little business of my own, but not yet, not till this baby is born. We can surely manage for a month or two without my money coming in, since we have Stan’s pay arriving regular. I need a rest, and time to think.’
Harriet lay on her bed staring dry-eyed at the ceiling. She was in total shock. She’d made up the bed, automatically obeying Joyce’s instructions since she had to sleep somewhere. Then for want of something better to do, she laid down upon it to try to make some sense of what was happening to her. She felt overwhelmed by tiredness, the child she carried suddenly weighing heavy.
What on earth had brought her to this pretty pass? What was she even doing here, back in her stepmother’s house, the very same from which she’d been booted out only a few short months before? It wasn’t as if Joyce wanted her home, she’d made that very clear. Harriet was an embarrassment to her, a possible source of scandal to be hushed up and kept quiet at all costs.
She couldn’t stay. She must escape. Vinny would be wondering what on earth had happened to her. He’d be worried sick and ... This line of reasoning died unfinished in her head. No, he wouldn’t. He was probably even now in bed with Shelley, and, kind as her friend had been to save her from almost certain death, she’d have no compunction in agreeing. Where was the harm in a bit of rough and tumble? they would say. It’s just sex!
One lone tear slid from the corner of her eye and ran down on to Harriet’s pillow. What a fool she’d been! What a complete and utter fool. She’d hung on to Vinny’s coat tails, believing he cared for her when he simply took such adoration for granted. He’d grown used to girls clamouring for his autograph, wanting to touch him, even begging for a kiss. He wouldn’t even notice she was gone, let alone miss her.
And no one else knew she was even here.
It was the longest night of Harriet’s life. The hours seemed to crawl by at a snail’s pace, so that it was almost a relief when the first pale light of dawn found her perched on the narrow window sill, arms wrapped tight about her knees.
Harriet watched a cat leisurely stretch itself then stroll nonchalantly across the tiles of a nearby roof, wishing she could do the same. From her eyrie she could trace a myriad of roofs over privies and ash pits, back kitchens and coal sheds. Immediately below her attic window, the slate roof sloped precipitously downward. Even if she could push up the sash window, which hadn’t been shifted in years, and try walking along the tiles like the cat, she’d end up sliding down and crashing twenty feet or more into the yard below. Not a prospect she was prepared to risk.
Harriet saw no hope of rescue, or escape.
She went back to bed, shivering slightly as she pulled the blankets over her head, telling herself to stop being so melodramatic. Her nan was in the room below. Rose would never tolerate her favourite grandchild being held a virtual prisoner in her own home. When Nan woke up, she would let her out right away.
The weeks had dragged by, tempers were frequently frayed but somehow Joyce had managed to tend to the health of her husband’s pregnant mistress, while secretly making her plans. Finally, one morning before dawn in late November, 1941, Eileen went into labour.
She started screaming and shouting, gasping and grunting, obviously in considerable pain. Joyce very nearly panicked and called a doctor or midwife to assist, but was still undecided when it suddenly became plain that the baby would be born at any moment. Rose calmly took charge. She held the girl’s hands and with a quiet firmness urged her to stop shouting, and to bear down and push.
‘Come on, love, stop your fussing and get on with the job. It’s hard work and you’ve got to concentrate. Give it all you’ve got.’
It was all over surprisingly quickly. Harriet came into the world without making the least trouble for anyone, even her own mother. It turned out to be the swiftest, easiest birth for suddenly there she was, a scrap of new life lying in Rose’s capable hands. The child was perfect in every way, a
beautiful, healthy baby girl.
Joyce’s heart turned over. Why couldn’t this have been her own daughter? Why wasn’t she the one lying in that bed having this easy birth, providing Stan with the child he so craved? Never, in all her life, had she wanted anything more.
As Joyce wrapped the infant in a towel and cradled her in her arms, all of those secret dreams and schemes of the last weeks seemed to crystallize in her mind. If Eileen would simply leave, or disappear off the face of the earth, then she might yet be able to salvage her marriage.
Harriet lay in breathless anticipation, expecting any moment to hear the key turn in the lock and Nan calling her to come on down for her breakfast. And then she remembered her grandmother’s bad leg. Could she even get up the stairs? Probably not. She’d use the old lavvy down the yard and the little kitchenette behind the salon to wash herself.
A cold chill settled around her heart as she wondered what was going to happen to her.
She could smell bacon frying, which reminded her of how hungry she was, having hardly eaten a thing for twenty-four hours, worrying too much about Vinny, and not enough about herself and her child. This was surely the worst possible situation to be in. Wasn’t being pregnant difficult enough without the added burden of being locked up like a criminal? The baby seemed to be pressing on her bladder and Harriet realised she wanted to pee, really quite urgently. She felt a surge of irritation towards her stepmother. Surely she didn’t expect a pregnant woman to go for much longer without relieving herself? She certainly had no intention of using the chamber pot Joyce had pointedly left in full view.
Harriet went to the bedroom door and hammered upon it. ‘Hey! Joyce, can you hear me? Nan, are you up?’ I need the lavatory. It’s rather urgent.’
No reply. By the time Joyce finally came, twenty minutes later, Harriet was sitting curled up by the door in some distress and agony.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 28