‘If the cap fits.’
There followed the most almighty row, the worst they’d ever had, with Joyce vehemently defending her son and Grant letting his mother get on with it, while he sat in a corner smirking in that self-satisfied way he had.
‘You can’t prove any of this,’ Joyce yelled. ‘You’re a suspicious old goat, blaming the boy for your own stupid carelessness.’
Grant mocked his grandmother with his laughter. ‘Most of the time you don’t even know what day of the week it is, let alone how much money you have in that box.’
Rose’s head snapped up. ‘Oh, so you admit you do know where I keep it then?’
Joyce looked slightly discomfited by this but instantly rallied. ‘We all know you keep your precious bits and pieces in that old jewellery box. You should put it in the bank as sensible people do.’
‘This is my weekly pension I’m talking about, not me life savings. I’m surely entitled to think it’s safe in me own wardrobe? But you’re right, I can’t prove it. What I can do is make sure he gets nowt else. I’ll be more careful where I stow it in future, and in case you don’t know I’ve already cut you out of my will, even if you are me only daughter, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.’
Joyce went white to the lips. ‘B - b – but what about the salon? You’ll be leaving me that, surely? It’s my home!’
‘No, it’s my home, actually, legally speaking,’ Rose reminded her. ‘Not that you’ve ever made me feel welcome in it. But I hold the deeds, thanks to the careful provision my Ronnie made for me. You never thought owt of your poor dear father, never thought him worthy of your love and attention, your respect. Yet he were a good man, even if he was only a dustman.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Mother. You aren’t dragging up all that old history, surely.’
‘Why not, you’re the one who lives in the past, not me. Obsessed by something that happened years ago. Just because you let it ruin your life you’re now allowing it to ruin that of your children too. You’ve certainly spoiled young Harriet’s, and all over something that wasn’t her fault. When are you going to own up and confess that it was you what destroyed her mother?’
White faced, Joyce flew at Rose, yelling and screaming at the top of her voice. ‘That’s a lie! And you know it. I never wanted … didn’t…’
‘… lift a finger to help? Don’t I know it. I was there, remember, so you can’t lie to me. When Eileen needed you most, you just left her to rot.’
‘That’s enough, Mother! You’ve said more than enough.’
‘Naw, go on,’ Grant said. ‘I’m interested in this.’
Rose turned on her grandson. ‘And if you’re nurturing any fond hopes of inheriting when I die, you can think again too. I’ve left everything to our Harriet. She’s the only one in this family who deserves it, the only one who’s ever shown me the slightest bit of love and attention.’
‘What?’
‘Think yerself fortunate I haven’t called in the police. You’re getting off lightly, lad.’
Ignoring the look of shock and fury that came over his face, Rose turned back to her daughter. ‘Your thief of a son might have found it easy to rob an old woman, particularly when I was lying paralysed in me bed from a stroke, but that’s all he’s getting out of me. I might be old but I’m not stupid. He’s a greedy little tyke and you’re a cold, hard, unfeeling woman, too wrapped up in your own self-pity to find it in your frozen heart to love that lass. But you’ll be the greater loser, not her.
‘As for the salon, I doubt it’ll be here for much longer anyroad, but whatever compensation I manage to wring out of that parsimonious local council or them greedy developers, will go in my pocket, save for what’s due for your hairdressing business, not yours.
‘I sussed the pair of you two long since and when Judgement Day comes, you’ll get your just deserts. In the meantime, Harriet will get the cash. Happen you’ll then learn to be nice to her, because you’ll be dependent upon her for help and a home then, instead of the other way round.’
It wasn’t until she’d been walking for a full twenty minutes that it came to Harriet what she had done. She’d abandoned her own child! She stood stock still in the middle of Liverpool Street. Dear lord, what was she thinking of?
What if someone wicked found her? What if they didn’t hand her over to the hospital authorities at all? What if they took her and kept her, hurt the baby or even killed her? Supposing some stupid kids thought she was merely a doll and chucked her in the River Irwell? Or what if nobody found her at all and she perished slowly of starvation and cold? A thousand fears rushed through Harriet’s head.
Spinning on her heel she began to run. She ran as fast as she could, her heart racing.
What kind of mother was she to treat her child in such a way? She was worse even than Joyce.
Harriet was breathless by the time she reached the block of public lavatories where she’d given birth. Blood was running down her legs and she felt sick with exhaustion, but she didn’t care. ‘Oh, let her still be here. Please let her still be here,’ Harriet sobbed as she pushed open the door and ran inside.
Chapter Forty
Steve arrived at the hair salon just before five that Friday evening to find Joyce creating some sort of balloon with Dena Dobson’s hair. Bits of it were standing up in all directions as if she’d been hit by an electric shock, and he watched in mystified silence as Joyce jabbed and teased at the hair, brushing it in what seemed to Steve to be entirely the wrong direction, then smoothing the piece down to join up with the rest of the balloon.
Seeing the expression on his face, Dena laughed at him. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, Steve, it’s called back-combing. I’ve got a fashion show this evening, so need to look my best. This is the latest style from America, it’s called a beehive.’
‘Right.’ Steve took off his glasses and began to polish them on his clean handkerchief, quite unable to think of anything else to say except where were the bees? Hair salons were embarrassing places for a chap. He sat patiently waiting while Joyce sprayed the resulting pile with half a can of hair lacquer. What did he know about hair, or women, for that matter? They were an increasing mystery to him.
He’d expected Caro to be furious with him when he’d called off their engagement. Instead, after weeping copious tears all over his shoulder, she’d quickly rallied and bravely claimed that it was all her fault that he was getting cold feet, because she’d rushed him into an engagement. How she really didn’t mind if it was postponed for a while. She could always wear the dress she’d bought specially for the party on some other occasion.
‘I can wait until you feel ready,’ Caro assured him, all teary-eyed. ‘I’ll wait forever, so long as I don’t lose you.’
‘I don’t expect you to wait forever,’ Steve had assured her, his heart softening with pity at this evidence of her love for him, quite unable to extricate himself from its cloying demands.
‘Oh, Steve, I can’t imagine facing life without you.’
Steve had felt such a rat that he’d mopped up her tears, kissed her better and before he knew it they were standing in the jeweller’s shop actually choosing the ring. He still couldn’t work out how that had come about. Her excitement and eager hugs and kisses afterwards made him feel like a real hero, big and strong, loved and wanted, almost happy, carried along on a blissful tide of hopes and dreams. But then the enormity of what he’d done hit home. Perhaps reality had struck when his mother shrieked her delight and instantly launched into organising the Party of the Year.
Now Dena tapped him on the shoulder on her way out of the salon. ‘Cheer up, Stevey boy, it might never happen.’
‘It already has,’ Steve grumbled.
It still hurt badly that Harriet should run away rather than speak to him. He understood that she might have been embarrassed, even filled with shame for having got herself into this situation, but why couldn’t she trust him? Didn’t she know that he would never judge her? His love for Harriet
was bigger than that. Yes, he’d been shocked to hear of her predicament, but these things happened, it didn’t make her any less lovable, not in Steve’s eyes.
When he’d chased through the house looking for her, only to find she’d gone, Joyce had taken great pleasure in informing him that she’d been quietly sitting on the couch only moments before.
Now he repeated the question he asked every weekend when he called. ‘Is she here?’
Joyce shook her head, looking annoyed, as always.
At that moment Rose rushed in, looking deeply troubled. Before she’d even caught her breath to speak, Joyce turned on her mother. ‘What now? I’ve no time for any more arguments. I’m off out with Joe.’
‘That was the telephone. It’s the hospital. They’ve got Harriet in there, and she’s had her baby. They think we should go right over.’
‘Why?’ Joyce snapped. ‘She certainly won’t want me.’
‘Apparently she does.’ Rose put a hand to her chest, as if she felt a sudden pain. Steve was instantly on the alert. ‘Let me take you, Mrs Ibbotson, and Mrs Ashton. I’ve got my car outside. It’s a bit beat up, but will get us there in one piece.’
Joyce glanced across at Grant, whom Steve hadn’t noticed until now, sitting sulking in a corner, and then returned her glare to her mother. ‘Have you changed your mind about that matter concerning money we were discussing earlier?’
‘Not a bit of it. Nor will I, not while you keep that heart of yours encased in a block of ice, and your son has itchy fingers. Are you coming to see our Harriet, or not?’
Joyce gave a loud sniff and her lip curled. ‘I don’t think so. I reckon she’s your responsibility now, Mother.’
Rose sucked in her breath. ‘I reckon she allus has been.’ She turned to Steve. ‘Come on, lad, I need to know if our Harriet and that baby are all right. Let’s go.’
Steve was left kicking his heels in the waiting room while Rose hurried in to the maternity ward. She seemed to take forever, and he almost gave up hope of them ever allowing him in.
This was the moment, he realised, to put those high-sounding ideals of his into practice. What would he feel when he came face to face with Vinny Turner’s child? Jealous? Bitter? Resentful? He hoped none of these things, that it wouldn’t even matter to him who the father was. But it was hard to assess how he might react, when faced with the reality.
A nurse came over to him. ‘Are you the father?’
Steve shook his head, suddenly filled with an attack of shyness. ‘I-I’m a friend, her best friend.’
The nurse smiled at him. ‘You’re Steve. She was delighted to hear that you’d come. Follow me.’
His heart lifted and he followed the nurse to the ward, bracing himself for whatever he might find there.
His first sight of Harriet shocked him to the core. She looked pale and ill, and so very thin. Yet he also felt a great rush of love for her and hurried over to grasp her hands in his. ‘How are you? You look as beautiful as ever.’
She laughed. ‘I look like death warmed up.’
Steve pecked a kiss on her cheek, wishing he dare gather her in his arms and kiss her properly, but sternly warned himself to be cautious. ‘You always look beautiful to me.’
‘That’s all right then.’
Harriet could tell that he was valiantly trying to disguise his shock at seeing her in this state. The expression on his face said everything, but then Steve had always possessed the kind of open, boyish face in which his emotions were clearly shown. And living on the streets had done nothing for her complexion, she thought wryly.
Rose, who was seated beside the bed, tapped him on the arm. ‘What about saying hello to Junior here.’
Steve looked down into a pair of wide blue eyes. He’d always thought that new babies were supposed to be red and wrinkled and ugly. This one was certainly tiny, but the skin was smooth, almost translucent, and it had a crown of red-gold hair, just like Harriet’s. The baby seemed to be wrapped up in some sort of swaddling sheet but those beautiful eyes looked bright and alert, weighing him up as if wondering who he was. And they didn’t remind him of Vinny Turner at all, only of Harriet.
‘Would you like to hold her?’ Rose asked, and Steve felt a surge of panic.
‘I’m not good with babies.’
Rose chuckled. ‘I should hope not, but she doesn’t bite,’ and, loosening the sheet, she placed the baby carefully in Steve’s arms, showing him how to support her head.
‘It’s a girl then?’ For some reason he was delighted about this, perhaps because a boy would more likely resemble the father. ‘What are you going to call her?’ he asked, trying to disguise the silly grin he felt creeping over his face as the baby grasped his finger in a fierce grip.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ Harriet looked a bit sheepish about this, as if it were a form of neglect, but she hadn’t wanted to personalise this unknown baby until she was absolutely certain she could keep her. Even now there were doubts, but at least she was safe. Harriet had been so relieved to find her still warmly wrapped in the towel in the lavatory stall.
She’d then set out to walk all the way to the hospital, realising the baby at least should be checked over, when a woman in the street noticed she was bleeding and insisted on calling an ambulance. So she’d arrived in style and both mother and baby had been thoroughly examined. What happened now, Harriet had no idea.
After much badgering from Rose, Joyce agreed to visit Harriet the next day. She sat in the straight-backed chair beside the hospital bed, her spine as rigid and unbending as her manner, and asked Harriet if she was well. Her tone of voice seemed to indicate complete indifference whether she was or not.
Wasting no further words on trivialities such as health, or why her stepdaughter had felt it necessary to live rough on the streets, she swiftly came to the point of her visit.
‘I’ve spoken to Father Dimmock. A good Catholic family will be found to take the child.’
‘I thought I explained how I felt about that.’
‘Arrangements have been made, Harriet, so don’t make any more difficulties.’
Joyce remained adamant that the baby be adopted, but after all Harriet had been through, she couldn’t bear to part with her. She’d loved her from the moment of her birth, even in the lavatory stall. In those very first seconds despite the mess, the pain and the fear, she’d been swamped with love for her child. Amazingly, regardless of the lack of pre-natal care, and the difficult circumstances of her birth, she was a fine healthy baby. A little miracle, the nurses were calling her.
‘I’ve already told you that I intend to keep this baby.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! How can you possibly care for a child? You don’t even have a job.’
‘I’ll get one. Don’t worry, I’ll cope. It’s my choice, not yours.’
Joyce barely glanced at the child, concerned only with keeping scandal from her door, at whatever cost. ‘I’m still your legal guardian, if no longer your mother, and you’ll do as I say.’
Harriet hung on to her patience with difficulty, determined to fight for her child. ‘You can’t bear for me to be happy, can you, or for your carefully constructed respectability to be destroyed?’
Joyce ignored her. ‘Arrangements are being put in place for the adoption, and you’ll either do as I say, or go back to living out of dustbins.’ Having made her announcement, Joyce stalked off, head held high. Harriet chewed on her lip and felt deeply afraid.
Later that same afternoon, Harriet was surprised to be visited by Father Dimmock who informed her, in that kindly, caring voice that only a priest can adopt, that he’d come to tell her he’d solved her little problem.
‘And what ‘little problem’ would that be, Father?’
He half glanced at the crib, but didn’t approach it to take a closer look at the baby. ‘I’ve found a good, middle-class couple in need of a child. Desperate, in fact, since the wife cannot have one of her own. And the fact it’s a girl makes it easier to place
.’
She’s called Michelle, and you address her as she, Father, not it.’
He looked momentarily discomfited by this remark and scowled as he hurried on. ‘Quite so, quite so. Anyway, Harriet, your troubles are over. I’ve come to take this little problem off your hands. All you need do is sign this form, right here.’ He handed her a pen and smoothed a paper out on her lap.
The words swam before her eyes. If she wrote her name on this piece of paper then Michelle’s future would be assured. She would never have to suffer the ignominy of being called a bastard, of people gossiping behind her back, shutting her out or refusing to allow her to play with their more respectable children. She’d be loved and cherished, spoiled rotten no doubt by this couple desperate for a child.
Ignoring the pen, Harriet pushed the form away. ‘A baby isn’t something you give away, like a present you don’t want or can’t afford to keep. Even if she doesn’t have a father, she has me. I’m her mother. Nothing can change that.’
‘In the eyes of God, Harriet, she is base born, a child born out of sin.’
‘Then I’m glad my God is a kinder God than yours, Father. I’m afraid this couple will have to look elsewhere for a child, they can’t have mine.’
Father Dimmock did not look pleased by this decision. In fact, he looked extremely annoyed, and marched away muttering darkly about speaking to her mother, to see what she had to say on the matter.
‘If you mean my real mother then don’t waste your time, she’s dead,’ Harriet called before bursting into tears.
Chapter Forty-One
Seeing Harriet look so frail and weary after her terrible experiences, yet so full of love for her child, somehow filled Steve with fresh hope. She was back in his life again. She’d smiled at him and let him hold her hand. She hadn’t pushed him away. She’d even allowed him to kiss her cheek. Best of all, Vinny Turner was nowhere in evidence. He was quite convinced that Harriet still loved him, that all he had to do was get her to admit it.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 34