Lonely Teardrops (2008)

by Lightfoot, Freda

  She watched other young mothers walk by, proudly wheeling their newborn babies in fancy high prams, and she envied them their contentment and their security. Why couldn’t her life be as uncomplicated as theirs? Why couldn’t Joyce have loved her as other adoptive mothers do?

  And why had she stupidly run away instead of staying and fighting for her rights?

  Because she had felt unwanted. Because there had been no place for her, not even with Steve. And she certainly wasn’t going to go to him now, as some sort of charity case.

  There were times when Harriet blamed herself for everything. On other days, when she was cold and wet and hungry, she would rail against fate, against Joyce, or even against her much loved, late departed father. If Stan hadn’t foolishly embroiled himself in an affair because he refused to believe his wife’s story about the rape, all their lives could have been so very different. The pair of them had wanted only to punish each other but it was Harriet, and Grant too, who had suffered the most. Their children were the ones paying the price now.

  Harriet sighed, desperately trying to shake herself free of this melancholy, which did her no good at all. The baby was still moving, still kicking, surely that was all that mattered?

  And when it was time for it to be born? Harriet instantly cut off the thought. The prospect of childbirth terrified her. All she knew about the subject was what she’d learned from scraps of girlish gossip at school, none of it much use. When she was ten she’d imagined a baby came out through your belly button, by means of some miracle or other created by the Virgin Mary. Now she might know the correct place, but not the means, nor what would be required of her to bring this baby safely out. And there was certainly no one to ask, so she banished the worry from her mind.

  She’d deal with it later, when the time came.

  Once, finding a penny in her pocket, she’d slipped into a Catholic church and lit a candle and said a prayer for her unborn child. The act had given her some sort of comfort and strength, but then a cleaner had arrived and shooed her out into the street as if she were vermin.

  Harriet’s mind remained a defensive blank on many issues concerning the future. She determined to cross each bridge when she came to it. On one matter though, she was absolutely certain. She had no intention of spending her pregnancy being locked up by Joyce for months on end, either in her own attic bedroom or in a Home for Wayward Girls, as Joyce had threatened. Nor would she allow Steve to ruin his life by feeling obliged to marry her. None of this was his fault.

  Harriet had no desire to be found. To make sure her family didn’t drag her back to one or other of these fates, she never stayed in one place for too long.

  One day she spotted Nan standing at a bus stop. That was when she’d been trailing the streets of Ancoats. Rose was chatting to the other women in the queue, and some instinct told Harriet that she was asking them if they’d seen a pregnant girl hanging around street corners, as they were all shaking their heads and looking concerned. She’d left Ancoats that same day and gone back to Salford.

  This was her favoured spot, an old bomb site by the River Irwell near St Simon Street. No one she knew from Champion Street would think to look for her here. Today, with the cool nights of autumn approaching, Harriet remained at the bomb site for only one more night, sharing her pitiful food with old Tom, a tramp she’d become acquainted with. She even wore fingerless gloves now, and had newspaper stuffed into her shoes, just like a real old lag.

  As dawn came up over the city, lightening the sky with streaks of pink and yellow, she rolled up the old rug she’d brought with her and prepared to move on.

  ‘Go home,’ old Tom told her in his usual toneless voice, as he had done a thousand times before. ‘Go home to yer mam.’

  Harriet merely smiled and told him to take care of his chest, then set off in the direction of an old air raid shelter that she used regularly. She thought this might be a good place for the birth, which must come soon, and she would at least be out of the rain.

  The trouble was, the shelter was some distance away and her pace of progress was slow these days. Inhibited by her cumbersome size and loaded down with her entire worldly possessions, she hobbled along like an old woman. Even old Tom was fitter than she was, for all he was three times her age.

  But then Harriet had been bothered with cramps in her belly for over a day now, and an aching back. All part of the joys of pregnancy, she supposed. And she was suffering from an even greater urgency to pee. An hour later, though it was still barely five in the morning, Harriet was grateful to find some public lavatories and went inside to relieve herself. She sipped some water from a rusty tap and washed her face and hands. The wash freshened her and she felt better, but then the pains started in earnest, and Harriet realised it hadn’t been cramp at all, but labour pains.

  Rose sat in the meeting, fast losing patience at the obstinacy of councillors. Belle Garside had put forward their case and robustly defended it, all to no avail.

  ‘We can’t be seen to be holding up progress,’ reiterated one pompous man who sat with sausage fingers steepled over a bloated stomach, revelling in his own self-importance. ‘Manchester has to move forward and embrace the modern world.’

  Rose stubbornly repeated what Belle had already told them. ‘We accept that some properties in Champion Street would be best pulled down, the old Victorian slums by the fish market certainly, and maybe the row by the old horse trough. But the top half of the street is perfectly respectable, the row where Clara Higginson and Molly Poulson live. Why knock down houses which are still in good shape? Does this so-called modernisation have to be quite so drastic? What is to be gained by destroying a happy and worthwhile community? And why demolish a market hall which you only recently granted us permission to extend and improve?’

  She might as well have been speaking in a foreign language for all the good her words did.

  ‘We can’t be seen to be holding up progress ...’

  Round and round they went in an ever decreasing circle of pointless argument.

  ‘So what about an alternative home?’ If the councillors could be stubborn, then so could she. She was in just the right mood for an argument.

  ‘Everyone will be rehoused in brand new modern flats,’ the chairman in charge of this particular project informed her with little evidence of sympathy.

  ‘What if folk don’t fancy looking down on the world from a high-rise monstrosity?’ Joe Southworth asked.

  The councillor adopted a patronising tone. ‘I’m sure people will be only too grateful when they realise they can escape the dreadful conditions they’ve been forced to endure all these years.’

  ‘Clara Higginson isn’t enduring dreadful conditions. Her house is as neat as a new pin, as smart as yours any day,’ Rose snapped.

  This comment was met with a gimlet glare. ‘Nevertheless she’d be very foolish to refuse, very foolish indeed. The new flats will be fully equipped, with washing machines and everything. We mustn’t be seen to ...’

  ‘… be holding up progress, I know,’ Rose said, barely managing to disguise her irritation.

  Belle Garside intervened, ‘And what about the market traders who have their livelihoods to think of? Where can they go to make a living while you’re bull-dozing the street around their ears?’

  ‘Aye, we should be paid due compensation for the disruption and loss of trade,’ added Jimmy Ramsay, thinking of his own butcher’s business.

  ‘And found an alternative site,’ Rose finished.

  The sound of indrawn breath was unnerving as all the councillors glanced sideways at each other, then became suddenly absorbed with their jotting pads and engagement diaries, refusing to meet the collective gaze of the delegates from Champion Street Market.

  ‘I’m afraid finding an alternative site has to be your responsibility. I’m not sure the funds are in place to allow for such things as relocation or compensation.’

  ’Then put them in place.’

  ‘What you have
to appreciate, Mrs Ibbotson, is we mustn’t be seen...’

  Rose closed her ears. She wanted to tell the lot of them to shut up, to slap their silly, arrogant faces, to drag their attention out of their own fat pockets, lined by rich developers no doubt, and think about the affect of their actions on the residents themselves. Many people would shortly be turned out of perfectly respectable homes which they loved, a community which had become a part of their lives over a fair number of years would be torn apart, and for what? Another block of modern flats.

  ‘Surely there’s room for compromise, for a half-way course?’ Belle was saying.

  It would seem not, and while everyone did their utmost to support their Market Superintendent by putting forward a sound argument for a reprieve, it was all too apparent that their hopes for success were rapidly fading.

  As one, the four delegates got to their feet and prepared to leave, the generous frame of the butcher seeming to dominate the small stuffy council office. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ Jimmy warned.

  ‘No,’ Joe Southworth added. ‘We’re not satisfied with the treatment we’re getting. We’re not done yet.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Rose added her two pennyworth. ‘We’ll start looking for another site, as you suggest, and you can speak to the developers about footing the bill for the cost of the move. It’ll be peanuts to them.’

  ‘And surely far better than open confrontation and bad publicity in the national press,’ Belle reminded him.

  The chairman began to stutter with rage, his face turning a dull purple. ‘Is that some sort of threat? Because if you are attempting to blackmail this project committee …’

  Belle flashed her beautiful violet eyes, thickly fringed by long mascara-coated lashes. ‘We’re attempting to achieve justice, a word you gentlemen don’t seem too familiar with. You can’t just toss folk aside, rob them of their homes and their livelihoods without a care for how they will survive.’

  ‘You’ll be hearing from us,’ Rose darkly threatened as they swept out of the room, a small yet determined figure in her best navy coat, new burgundy velvet hat, and trademark dangly ear-rings.

  If she stayed in that office a second longer, she’d clock him one, she would really. And for all this was an important matter, at the back of her mind Rose was still haunted by a far more serious problem.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Harriet was sitting with her feet braced against the lavatory pan, her back against the door, panting and gasping, too frightened even to cry. Never had she known such pain. She felt as if she were being ripped apart. Weren’t first babies supposed to take their time? Harriet was sure she’d read that somewhere, yet this one seemed to be in a tearing hurry, clawing itself from her flesh. But then she’d probably been in labour for days without even realising it.

  She’d already flooded the floor with water that had gushed out of her of its own volition. She’d tried to mop it up with toilet paper but given up the task as hopeless. Now Harriet looked down and was transfixed by the sight of a small head emerging from between her legs. It seemed to be blue and streaked with blood. Terror engulfed her. Was the baby dead even before it was born? Pain swamped her, stopped her from thinking or fretting for several long moments which felt like hours, enveloping her totally. She let out a terrified scream, half hoping someone might hear and come to help. Not that many people were around at this time in the morning.

  But maybe it was better if they didn’t find her. The last thing she needed was for some busybody to start calling the police, or worse, Joyce. She bit down hard on her lower lip so that she didn’t make a sound, so hard that she tasted blood.

  There was a brief respite as the pain momentarily ebbed away but then it came again, overwhelming her, as if it, and not herself, was in control of her body. For one horrifying moment Harriet thought she might faint but then the baby slithered from her in a slippy mess of blood and liquid, a long wiggly cord attached to its belly. Harriet stared at the infant lying between her legs. Shouldn’t it be crying? She picked it up, anxious suddenly as she thumbed away the mucus from its eyes and nose. The baby opened its mouth and howled.

  ‘Oh, clever you. That’s a good girl. There, there.’

  Harriet gathered her baby to her breast, smiling down into her tiny furious face, overwhelmed by wonder. She was perfect. Utterly perfect! How could such a wonderful creature have survived through all of this torment and neglect, the lack of sleep and good food, the misery and upset that Harriet had endured? She counted fingers and toes, complete with shell pink fingernails, smoothed the damp blond curls and smiled into a pair of baby blue eyes, fringed with amazingly beautiful, long dark lashes. Then she carefully tied and cut the cord, using a bit of string and small penknife she’d learned to keep handy among other useful bits and bobs in her pocket.

  ‘Welcome to the world, baby, although there’s a bit more to it than this lavatory stall. Outside the sun will be shining, and you’ll discover that you have a whole wonderful life to look forward to.’

  It was in that moment, with this thought uppermost in her mind, as Harriet fell in love with the miracle that was her own child, that she realised she couldn’t possibly keep her.

  What kind of life would she be able to offer? How could she provide for and care for this baby? Did she want her daughter to eat scraps out of dustbins? How would she keep her warm through the endless cold nights of winter as they slept beneath the railway arches or down by the canal? Even the old deserted warehouse which had seemed like a fun place to be when the band was filling its emptiness with music, was no place to bring up a baby. Now even those welcoming sounds and old friends were gone.

  And what was the alternative? Supposing Harriet was able to look clean and respectable enough to get herself a job, where would she live? And who would look after the baby while she earned the money to keep them both?

  Great fat tears rolled silently down her cheeks, and a pain worse even than childbirth clenched her heart in an iron fist. It would be quite impossible. Much as she loved this baby and wanted to keep her, Harriet knew it to be impossible. What kind of mother would want such a life for her precious child?

  She felt very sore and her stomach was aching. Harriet instinctively kneaded her belly, to at least ease the physical pain, and brought forth the afterbirth. She stared at the resulting mess on the floor of the stall for a long time, then dumped it down the pan. It could well block the entire system, but what did she care?

  Then she wrapped the baby in the one towel she’d brought with her, and in a warm woollen sweater. When she’d cleaned the stall floor as best she could with what remained of the roll of toilet paper, she lay the baby down in a place where she would easily be found, the moment someone came in to use the lavatory. Then with tears streaming down her face, Harriet picked up her bag and walked away.

  Rose was not in a good mood. She’d come home, hung up her coat, changed out of her best clothes, stowing the new hat away in its box on the top shelf of her wardrobe, still fuming over the way they’d been treated. The councillors didn’t even seem willing to discuss how the demolition would be carried out, whether temporary accommodation would be provided for the residents, let alone compensation for lack of trade or a proposal for an alternative site for the market.

  Eeh, but she was fair worn out with all that arguing. She was glad to be back in her own home, looking forward to a brew and an Eccles cake. She next took down the old jewellery box where she kept her pension book and a wad of money, before slipping off her ear-rings and tucking them inside.

  For once, Rose knew exactly how much there should be in the box, as she’d checked it after going to the post office to collect her pension only yesterday. Something made her count the notes again, and she frowned. It was ten pounds short. And this wasn’t the first time this had happened. Was she losing her mind? Had she got in a muddle, what with the stroke and moving her things into Stan’s old room? No, she’d counted the notes three times just to make sure, since
she’d been puzzling for some time over missing money.

  Rose lay down on her bed, in dire need of a nap after all the trauma of the morning. Not that she had much hope of one as her mind was buzzing, in far too much of a turmoil to rest. She was worrying about the campaign to save the market which mustn’t be allowed to die, then there was the anxiety she felt over Harriet, and now this. Who would steal money out of her box? Who could pick the lock and be able to get into it without leaving a mark?

  The answer was obvious, coming to her in a flash. Grant.

  Rose felt sick. Oh, but could that be right? Surely the lad wouldn’t steal money from his own grandmother? Yet she knew that he had. Rose was only too aware that during her illness a great deal of money had gone missing. She’d said nothing about it at the time, being focused on getting well, but she’d known even then, even when she’d been unable to articulate the words, that someone was stealing from her. And it certainly wasn’t her friend Irma, who’d spoiled her rotten, practically saved her life, and was as honest as the day.

  Later that afternoon when the old woman had gathered her strength, she went upstairs to the living room and confronted her grandson, arms folded across her corseted chest. Rose had fought one battle today, now she would fight another, if she must. Only this time against her own kith and kin. ‘Where is it then?’

  Grant looked at her, shoulders hunched defensively, round face puckered into a picture of manufactured innocence. ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘All that money what you stole from me? Where’s it gone? What did you do with it? Lost it on the gee-gees, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  It was Joyce who answered. She came rushing out of the kitchen with a face like thunder. ‘Are you accusing my son of being a thief?’