Harriet closed her eyes in agony. She would never, ever, agree to marrying Steve, for that very reason. It was good that he’d taken her at her word and found himself a new girl friend. She felt glad that Steve, at least, had a chance at happiness. Even if he hadn’t found someone else, Harriet would never inflict herself upon him. This wasn’t his child, or his problem. Hadn’t a similar situation destroyed Joyce and Stan’s marriage? She certainly had no intention of making the same mistake.
Harriet could bear to hear no more and slipped quietly to her room where she began to pack her few belongings, which meant that she missed Steve’s fervent response.
‘I don’t believe I would feel any resentment against the child. I would love it simply because it was Harriet’s. Why would I not? I see no reason why a marriage between us couldn’t work. Pardon me for saying so, but just because your own was a disaster, Mrs Ashton, doesn’t mean ours would be.‘
Joyce’s pale cheeks lit with twin spots of furious crimson, and Steve was suddenly filled with anxiety, realising he might well have overstepped the bounds of decency. But having gone this far, he couldn’t stop now. He’d been badly shaken by the news but had done his best not to show it. Steve dearly wished the baby was his, but even though it wasn’t, his first instinct was one of joy that Harriet was still free. He couldn’t help wondering if she’d still have him, although what his mother would have to say if he dumped Caro practically on the eve of their engagement to marry Harriet, an unmarried mother, he had no wish to even consider at this juncture.
Despite these seemingly impossible obstacles, he took a breath and spoke calmly and quietly, with as much patience as he could muster. ‘I love her, is that so difficult to understand? Can’t you see that I always will? We were meant to be together, Harriet and I, and, begging your pardon, I believe she still loves me. Where is she, Joyce? If you don’t tell me I’ll make your life a complete hell. You have my word on that. Is she upstairs?’
Spitting with fury, Joyce attempted once more to block him but Steve had had enough and gently but firmly set her to one side. ‘I’m going up. I want to see her. It’s for Harriet to make these decisions about her own life, not you.’
There was no one in the upstairs living room, not even Rose or Grant. The old woman was probably asleep and the lad would no doubt be out drinking. Joyce was right behind him hissing her fury at him, ordering him to leave, but Steve kept on going.
He quickly sprinted up the short flight which led to the attic bedrooms, calling her name. But when he reached Harriet’s bedroom it was only to find that empty too. If she’d ever been here, and he sensed by the mingled look of shock and relief on Joyce’s face that she had, then she certainly wasn’t here now. The bird had flown.
Outside, in the alley, having hidden in the bathroom and then slipped down the stairs and out of the back door unobserved, Harriet didn’t pause to reconsider her decision, but hobbled away as quickly as her sprained ankle would allow.
And if she felt adrift and alone in a big, unfriendly world with nowhere to go, it was no doubt the fate she deserved for being so wicked.
Joyce did not find caring for a baby easy. It made her acutely aware of her own failings, that she wasn’t a natural mother. The child cried constantly, didn’t sleep well and was an obstinately picky eater, very like her mother. Joyce felt obliged to call in the health visitor on more than one occasion, concerned by the child’s fretfulness.
‘Are you a new mother, Mrs Ashton?’ the nurse kindly enquired, but then seeing Grant she’d smile and said perhaps it seemed more difficult this time because Harriet was a tiny little girl and not a robust young man like her big brother.
‘Perhaps your own anxiety is upsetting her. Stay calm and happy, and you’ll have a happy baby.’
That didn’t seem to work for Joyce. She would frequently be in despair for no matter what she did the baby would scream and fret, and work herself into a lather till she was overheated and red in the face.
Then Rose would take her and she would stop crying almost at once. It was infuriating.
Yet in general terms, Joyce was pleased with the way things had worked out. She had the child in her possession, the means of keeping Stan by her side. She’d done what was necessary to save her marriage. When next he came home on leave they’d be a proper family, just as they should be. Even in the days immediately following her suggestion to keep Harriet, his attitude towards Grant had changed noticeably. It was going to be all right, she was sure of it. And she would at last have him all to herself.
If only she could get Eileen off her tail.
Joyce might have thrown Eileen physically from the house, but it was less easy to banish her from her life. Whenever she walked out with the baby in the pram, she was aware of the woman following her, a persistent shadow trailing after her everywhere she went.
Eileen would be sitting on the doorstep when she came out of a morning to pick up the milk bottles. Or Joyce would see her standing across the road watching the house for hour upon hour. She’d find herself drawing the curtains in the afternoon, even when it was still light, in order to shut out the image of her.
And Joyce never dared to leave the baby alone, even for a moment.
Rose was deeply distressed and finally broke her silence, filled with compassion by the sight of this desperate mother. ‘By heck, are you sure this is right? It does seem a bit draconian. Are you certain you’re allowed to keep that babby, Joyce?’
It had been raining for almost a week and still Eileen came, day after day to stand in the empty street, shivering with cold but otherwise oblivious to the fact she was getting soaked to her skin. She made no move to seek protection from the downpour. Nor did the girl possess an umbrella, at least she never brought one with her, and looked utterly wretched, her face a picture of misery.
Joyce continued with her daily routine giving no indication of being in the least moved by the sight of her one-time friend. This afternoon she set the usual tray of silver teapot and jug down upon the table sharp at four and began to pour tea into delicate china cups.
‘I’m absolutely certain that no one is in a position to dispute my claim, which is, in any case, in the child’s best interest.’ Joyce’s icy tone brooked no argument, and, to prove her point, she went to the bureau and took out the birth certificate, which she handed to her mother. ‘Harriet is mine. Stan registered the birth, as the child’s father, and I get to keep the baby as recompense for all that woman has put me through. Which means I get to keep Stan too, thanks to my generosity in this delicate matter.’
‘Generosity? But – you’d be telling a wicked lie to that innocent child over who her real mother was.’ Rose looked aghast, not quite able to take in all the implications.
‘What Harriet doesn’t know, can’t hurt her.’
‘I’m not too sure about that. No good will come of this. No good at all. Anyroad, you’ll never get away with it. You’re the one who allus frets about what folk will think. What will they say about this?’
‘They’ll never hear the truth from me, Mother, nor from you. And certainly not from Eileen either, not if she wants to continue receiving her allowance. If you recall, I had a dreadful pregnancy and was obliged to stay in bed almost the entire time. I had a doctor call on me from out of town, a specialist gynaecologist, rather than the local GP. No one will ever find out any different. And after that difficult birth I endured with Grant, and my last disappointment, is it any wonder? Just remember those simple facts and you won’t go far wrong.’
Joyce twitched the lace curtain aside and peeped out. ‘Ah good, she’s seen sense and gone at last. I thought she’d soon grow bored with her vigil and move some place else, no doubt find herself a new paramour, as I suggested. That will be the last we hear of her.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ Rose murmured. ‘It’ll end in tears will all of this business. Mark my words. Honesty is always the best policy.’
Rose might have gone on in this vein for some t
ime but right then the air raid siren sounded and both women wearily set their cups aside and started to gather up their belongings, coats, warm woollies and gas masks. Rose rushed into the kitchen to snatch up a heel of bread and cheese, wondering if she had time to boil some water for a flask of tea before the bombs started dropping. Joyce hurried upstairs to collect Harriet and grab the new pink frock she’d bought only that morning. Even in an air raid shelter she mustn’t be seen looking anything less than her best.
‘No one will find me neglecting my wifely duty, or that any child of mine will want for a thing.’
‘Nay, it won’t,’ Rose muttered to herself. ‘It’ll want for nowt but love.’
Harriet was once again on the road. Her first instinct was to break her promise to Nan and seek out Vinny and Shelley, and the rest of the band. They would at least feed her and provide her with shelter, might even welcome her back into the fold. But she could find no sign of them in any of their usual haunts, and then she remembered the letter Vinny had sent, telling her that they were off to London to seek their fortunes in the capital. He’d suggested Harriet meet him at London Road Station if she wanted to join them, giving exact time and date. This, of course, was an appointment she hadn’t kept.
Not that she regretted her decision. There was no future for her with Vinny. Harriet had thrown the letter away in the end without even bothering to answer it, which was probably the right thing to do.
It was over. And now she was all alone.
At least it’s summer, Harriet thought, as she settled down that first night under one of the canal bridges with the old lags. One or two gave her funny looks, clearly wondering what a good looking, very pregnant girl was doing dossing down with the dregs of society. They watched with interest as she went on a hunt for cardboard, but once they saw how she made herself a makeshift bed with the ease of long practise, they left her to her own devices. It was the accepted code in this community. Never interfere.
Even though the summer days were long, darkness had already fallen and a cool breeze wafted over the water. Harriet curled up in a protective foetal position, hugging her swollen body, feeling her baby kick, and she worried how they would both survive.
She hadn’t even seen a doctor, thanks to Joyce’s determination to keep her locked up and not create a scandal. And how she would manage when her time came, Harriet didn’t care to think. Tears slid unchecked down her face but they were silent tears. Not for the world would she let anyone see the depths of her fear and distress. She had her pride at least, even if she’d lost everything else.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Summer dragged by, hot and sticky and busy as ever on the market. Mothers bought their children ice cream from Bertalones’ old cart which had stood on the Champion Street Market for decades, and then sighed with relief when September came and they went back to school. For the first time in their lives they could watch the Olympics on the television screens in their own living rooms. A miracle of modern science, they thought, even if the poor competitors were sweltering in the heat.
On Champion Street Market the children jumped over skipping ropes, galloped imaginary horses and boxed with extra fervour at Barry Holmes’s Lad’s Club, imitating their heroes, pretending they were Cassius Clay or Lester Piggott.
It had seemed like the longest summer of her life for Rose as she stopped one morning to buy herself a quarter of coconut macaroons from Lizzie Pringle’s Chocolate Cabin. She couldn’t stop worrying about Harriet, even though the girl was now grown up and about to have a child of her own. Where had she vanished to this time? Surely she hadn’t gone back to Vinny Turner, when she’d faithfully promised it was all over between them? Rose prayed not.
But if she wasn’t with him, then where was she? She could hardly get herself a job with that bump she was carrying, and Rose wasn’t even certain she had any money left. By heck, but the lass was a worry.
Rose’s main task for the morning was to buy herself a new hat from Clara Higginson’s stall, something smart to wear when she attended a most important meeting with the City Council. She felt it was vital to look her best, but couldn’t keep her mind on the task in hand.
‘Didn’t you say you wanted navy, to match your coat?’ Patsy gently enquired. ‘Only, you’ve just picked up a brown felt, which would look entirely wrong.’
‘By heck, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going,’ Rose mourned. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse, and for the life in her Rose didn’t dare to imagine what might happen next. The tea leaves had been right, both about the visitor in the shape of a baby coming, and the tears. But then hadn’t she predicted from the start that this would all end in tears?
Her lovely Harriet could be living on scraps left over from market stalls for all Rose knew. At least she wasn’t in one of them Homes with wicked nuns beating moral virtue into her. But where on earth would she have the baby, and who would be with her to hold her hand when the moment came? It didn’t bear thinking about. Child birth wasn’t something to face on your own.
‘Maybe this one?’ Patsy suggested, setting a hat in crushed burgundy velvet with a curvy brim atop Rose’s tight curls. That should brighten up your navy outfit beautifully. A lovely autumn shade, don’t you think?’
‘Aye, you’re right. I quite like this one. I’ll take it. It’ll give me the confidence I need to face them councillors. It’s not going to be easy,’ Rose warned. ‘They’ll run rings round us if they can, do their level best not to hand over a penny unless it’s surgically removed or squeezed out of them by force.’
The market committee was in serious conflict over how best to handle the campaign. Many more people had been persuaded into accepting the developers’ offer, and things were looking increasingly bleak, although several residents remained determined to stand firm.
Only last week the surveyors had arrived, moving around with their special equipment, taking measurements and sight lines, making notes on where the new flats would be built once the old Victorian houses had been cleared away and the market hall razed to the ground.
‘They’ll have to get up early to outface you, Rose. You’re always ready to stand up for what’s right. Never let us down yet.’
Rose looked at the younger woman with a bleakness in her tired old face. ‘There have been times, in the past, when I haven’t done what’s right, when I’ve kept quiet and wished later that I’d spoken up. Mebbe that’s why I’ve let meself get involved in this business. I felt it were about time I started making me voice heard.’ Rose frowned. ‘Happen it’s time I did in other respects too, if it’s not too late.’
There was an uneasy silence as Patsy wrapped the hat in tissue paper and stowed it carefully into a box. ‘We’ve every faith in you, Rose, so just you follow your instincts. They’ve never let you down yet.’
Rose looked at the girl, startled. Wasn’t that what the cards had said, all those months ago? But if her main instinct was to protect Harriet, how would telling her the whole truth achieve that when it would be bound to bring fresh pain? Always supposing Rose could find her, which she hadn’t so far managed to do, despite poor Steve trailing over half the city searching for the poor lass.
Jerking herself back to the present, Rose handed over the money for the hat and offered up an encouraging, if rather stiff, smile. ‘Anyroad, they’ll not chuck us out of this street, demolish our fine old houses or deprive us of our livelihoods without due compensation, or better still an alternative location, not if I’ve any say in the matter.’
‘Atta girl!’ Patsy laughed. ‘A woman after my own heart.’ Then she put her arms about the old woman and hugged her close as she whispered words of comfort in her ear. ‘Don’t worry too much about your Harriet. She’s a real chip off the old block, and has got her head screwed on too. She’ll sort herself out, don’t you fret.’
‘How, that’s the question?’ Rose wiped a tear from her eye as she walked away, carrying her hat box with care.
But although rumou
rs were flying around Champion Street Market like confetti, being exchanged along with slices of polony on Jimmy Ramsay’s stall, or with every length of curtain net on Winnie’s, not another word on the subject of her granddaughter would cross Rose’s lips. Let them make what they will of the lass’s latest disappearance, they’d get nothing out of her.
Harriet was at that precise moment sitting by a smoky fire which gave off very little heat, and eating a chicken sandwich she’d found in a bin behind one of the new supermarkets.
Through a long hot, dusty summer, she’d discovered these to be a good source of food, as were baker’s shops when they threw away stale items. Sometimes, if she had a penny or two, she’d be able to buy herself a barm cake for a treat. The shop assistant might take pity on her and add a scraping of marg. Passersby tossed her a coin or two occasionally, out of pity, as she sat huddled in her layers of grubby clothes, no doubt resembling a bundle of rags.
For some reason Harriet felt demeaned by this, even though it meant she could provide herself with a hot bath, or a decent lunch for a change. Even a simple mug of tea was welcome.
On the days when she didn’t even have a penny in her pocket, Harriet had become an expert at picking out the good bits from rotten apples, scraping mould from old cheese and even eating raw cabbage leaves. Once, she made herself very ill by spit-roasting a piece of pork she really should have left in the dump.
She’d lost weight, naturally, her hair was badly in need of a good wash and a proper brushing, and she smelt, for all she made a point of going to the public baths for a bath or shower whenever she had a copper or two to spare. No matter how much she scrubbed herself with the strong lye soap they provided, she never felt clean. The dirt from the streets, and from the weight of the sin she carried seemed ingrained in her, on view for all to see.
Shame and humiliation ate at her soul. She’d brought herself to this pitiful state by running off with Vinny Turner and sleeping with him. Had she hoped to change him? Had she imagined that he would forsake the excitement of cannabis for her sake? If so, then she’d been stupidly naïve. It had all seemed like a silly game, a daring escape. Now reality had set in. Was this the price of freedom, this terrible sense of hopelessness and guilt?
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 32