Margaret certainly had no intention of waiting on the girl. It was, in any case, time Harriet learned some sense of responsibility. Margaret would sit in her small parlour doing her tapestry work or listening to Woman’s Hour, half an ear cocked for any sound from above. Not that there ever was any sound. She might still have been alone in the house all day for all the noise the girl and her baby made.
Margaret had to admit she seemed to be a very good baby, with hardly a peep out of her. A part of her almost regretted this. She might well have welcomed an opportunity to dash upstairs once in a while on the pretext of offering help and advice, if only to see the child close to. Margaret had to admit she was curious, and she did rather like babies. She would have liked more than one of her own, but no more had come after Steve.
Sometimes when Harriet came downstairs at three o’clock, as she did every afternoon to put little Michelle in her pram which stood in the hall, Margaret would jump to her feet and rush out to make some comment or other.
‘It’s rather cold outside, have you made sure she is well wrapped up?’
‘Oh, yes, Nan bought her a warm matinee jacket.’
‘Don’t stay out too long though, it looks like rain. Young babies are very prone to catching a chill.’
Harriet would smile and go on her way.
‘How is she sleeping?’ Margaret politely enquired as Harriet returned to the house one afternoon.
Surprised by the interest, Harriet answered with equal politeness. ‘She’s doing very well, thank you.’
‘And how long can she go between feeds?’
‘About four hours.’
‘Oh, that’s good for such a small baby. What weight was she when she was born?’
‘Six pounds two ounces.’
‘She is doing well then.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet agreed, ‘she is. Thank you.’
That evening as Margaret sat with her husband listening to a concert on the Third Programme, she commented thoughtfully, ‘I believe this girl could shape up to make quite a good mother.’ Mr Blackstock gave a non-committal grunt from behind his evening paper.
‘There’s an air of common sense about her which is really quite surprising, considering her background. Of course she will need help,’ Margaret mused. ‘Babies can be tricky creatures.’
She glanced across at her inattentive husband, and the empty chair where her son used to sit before he’d gone off to college. ‘Not that you would either know or care. Men don’t understand such things,’ she finished rather quietly to herself, and went to put the kettle on.
Harriet made a point of expressing her gratitude for Mrs Blackstock’s interest, even for the advice the woman offered, such as not to pile on too many blankets which could overheat the baby, and never to use a pillow.
‘And don’t rely too much upon a dummy,’ Margaret firmly instructed. ‘If a baby is crying there is generally a good reason for it.’
‘Yes, Mrs Blackstock.’
Yet, surprisingly, her comments didn’t make Harriet feel inadequate in any way, rather it made her feel less alone in this difficult situation, perhaps because the older woman was also equally ready to offer praise, such as her frequent remarks about what good progress Michelle was making, and how well she must be sleeping.
Generally though, Harriet did her best to keep out of the Blackstocks’ way. She took careful note of their mealtimes and adjusted her own eating plan so that she didn’t intrude upon them. Harriet found it preferable, in the circumstances, to avoid much cooking altogether, and got by largely on bread and cheese, fruit and cold meat sandwiches. Sometimes she would treat herself to a hot pie from Big Molly’s stall, or fish and chips from Frankie’s. Her one consideration was for Michelle. So long as the baby was well and happy, nothing else mattered.
Best of all she loved her afternoons when she would walk round the market, proudly showing off her child. Harriet refused to be concerned if some people did indeed gossip about her behind their hands, whispering that she was still unwed and her child illegitimate. She was by no means the first on this market, and Michelle was still beautiful, and very healthy despite her poor start in life. A baby to be proud of.
Joyce never came near but Rose was a constant visitor, calling in most days to dangle this new addition to the family on her knee.
‘The cards told me I was to find a new love in my life. Not that I imagined for a minute they meant a babby, getting the wrong end of the stick entirely,‘ Rose chortled. ‘But they were absolutely right, as always, and here she is, a real little love. Isn’t she a treasure?’
‘Does Joyce ever ask after her?’ Harriet ventured to enquire, and her grandmother’s face darkened.
‘Don’t expect too much from our Joyce, chuck.’
‘But she’ll miss so much if she refuses to even get to know Michelle.’
Rose shook her head in despair. ‘Don’t dwell on it, Harriet love. We are as we are, and my daughter isn’t going to change at this late stage in her sad life.’
To be fair to Margaret Blackstock, unlike Joyce, she didn’t take out her disapproval upon the baby. One rainy afternoon, seeing Harriet struggling to put the hood down on the pram, she quietly took Michelle and held her while Harriet unloaded her shopping and carried the bags upstairs. When she came back down again, only moments later, Mrs Blackstock was sitting in the kitchen with the baby on her knee, making coochee-coochee sounds and pretending to tickle the baby’s tummy.
‘She’s a little darling.’
Harriet smiled with relief. ‘I think so.’
‘Of course you do. And what does your mother think of her?’
‘Joyce, you mean?’
‘Ah, I was forgetting for a moment. Yes, what does Joyce think of her?’
‘She thinks I should sweep her under a carpet, or, failing that, have her adopted.’
The other woman looked slightly stunned by this robust response. ‘You always were very direct, Harriet. And are you going to have her adopted?’
Harriet shook her head. ‘Would you have given Steve away?’
A small silence, and then Steve’s mother asked the inevitable question. ‘And you think you can manage to bring her up on your own, do you?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Hmm!’
Still she didn’t hand over the baby, but at that moment the kettle on the Aga started to whistle. ‘I thought we might have a cup of tea. Why don’t you make it while I change her nappy? I see there’s one in her little bag here.’
Harriet could scarcely believe her eyes as Steve’s mother efficiently changed Michelle’s nappy, talking and smiling to her all the while, then sat to sip her tea, still with the baby on her knee.
‘I take it the father is not going to be of any help.’
‘No,’ Harriet replied, rather shortly. She had no intention of discussing Vinny with Mrs Blackstock.
‘Babies can be very demanding.’ She jiggled Michelle in her arms to keep her content as she began to grizzle and suck her little fist. ‘They deprive you of sleep, suffer from colic, need constant attention and feeding, and cry for no reason, or so it seems at times.’
‘Nan has given me lots of advice.’
‘I’m sure she has.’
Michelle started to whimper and Harriet leapt to her feet. ‘It’s nearly time for her next feed, I’d best take her upstairs and get her bottle ready.’
‘Aren’t you feeding her yourself?’ Margaret lay the baby against her shoulder and gently rubbed her back. Michelle instantly stopped crying, although her little mouth was still searching for food.
‘I don’t have enough milk. Sister said it was because I was malnourished when I had her. It’s all right, I get the National Dried Milk from the clinic, along with her orange juice and cod liver oil, and she seems to be thriving on it. That’s what counts.’
Margaret considered Harriet with all seriousness. ‘You must take great care of her. My Stephen suffered from jaundice shortly after he was born, wh
ich was partly due to some feeding difficulties he was having, and a consequent shortage of fluids. Quite common with small babies, I believe, but nonetheless worrying.’
‘I will take the very greatest care of her.’
Margaret looked the girl straight in the eye. ‘I rather believe you will. And what about you? Are you taking proper care of yourself? I don’t see you operating my cooker very often. What are you eating?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Hmm!’ said Margaret Blackstock again as she handed the baby over.
‘Well, no one shall remain malnourished in my house. And if you are to be of any use as a mother to this baby, then you must eat properly too. We have dinner at six as a rule, but we can put it back an hour until after you’ve settled her, then you may join us. Don’t argue, I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Blackstock, I appreciate it.’ Harriet was appalled by the prospect of dinner alone each night with the Blackstocks, without even Steve there for support, but she could hardly refuse when they’d opened their doors to her, however unwillingly. And at least the woman thought Michelle was a little darling.
Steve came home every weekend and it soon became clear that they were getting along as well as ever, happy just to be in each other’s company.
‘You might even fall in love with me all over again,’ he teased as he helped fold Michelle’s clean nappies and stow them away in a cupboard.
Harriet rewarded him with an impish smile. ‘I just might, you never know.’
Steve was less astonished to find his mother entirely captivated by the baby than Harriet was, being only too aware that her bark was far worse than her bite. But he was amazed to find himself equally enraptured. He’d never ever given a thought to babies until now, but this one was indeed a darling, a sweet little baby who took her feed without a murmur, slept soundly, and surely that was a smile just now when he’d tickled her under her chin?
‘Let me feed her,’ he would say, as she tuned up with the first opening cries of hunger, and Harriet would laugh.
‘All right, softie, but make sure you burp her properly.’
Steve watched how Harriet did things, and took great care to follow her lead. She was a natural mother, and his admiration and love for her grew with each moment he spent with her.
And when the baby was tucked up for the night, they would sit together in the lamplight and talk, not about anything in particular, nor about Harriet’s uncertain future, which he knew was of great concern to her. They would stick to more general topics, perhaps chewing over the day’s news from her transistor radio. Whether Kennedy would make a good president now that he’d scraped into office, or the fact that for the first time in cricket history, a test match had ended in a draw despite Australia needing only six to win with three wickets left.
‘A catch dropped, a run out, five frantic runs, then finally a fantastic throw from Joe Solomon,’ Steve cried. ‘What a game!’
Not understanding a word, Harriet smiled fondly at him.
They might talk about whether or not Yul Brynner should have shaved his hair off again for The Magnificent Seven, or the new star Albert Finney in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. But they went to see neither of these films. For one thing they didn’t have any money, and for another they were quite content to light a fire in the small Victorian grate in Harriet’s room and toast crumpets. Then she might let him kiss her a little, which was adorable, although Steve made sure that he kept his emotions firmly in check.
Sometimes, when he reluctantly left her to go to his own bed, he couldn’t remember what they’d talked about at all.
It was a week or two after Christmas when Harriet got the shock of her life. She was just giving Michelle her morning bath when there came a tap on the door and Margaret Blackstock popped her head round it, for once not smiling when she saw the naked pink baby kicking her little legs in the bath.
‘Ah, I thought you might be busy. You have a visitor. Two, actually.’
Harriet could tell by the tightness in the other woman’s face that this wasn’t a welcome visitor, and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Who?’
‘It’s him, your young man.’ Margaret Blackstock nodded coldly in the direction of the baby, in case Harriet had forgotten the identity of the baby’s father already.
‘He isn’t - my young man,’ Harriet said in her quietest voice. ‘What does he want?’
Margaret considered Harriet’s ash-pale face and her heart softened a little. It was very clear that her son was desperately in love with this girl, a fact which had at first alarmed and displeased her. Now her opinion was gradually changing. Harriet wasn’t in fact a bad lot at all, as she had at first assumed. A bit silly and rebellious perhaps, but who wasn’t in their teens? Margaret preferred not to recall how close she had come to making a similar mistake herself. And with Joyce for a mother, or stepmother, was it any wonder? ‘There’s a girl with him, quite pretty.’
‘Shelley. She’s the singer in the band.’
‘Ah!’ There was an awkward moment while Margaret waited for Harriet to say something more. When no further response came, she continued in a softer tone, ‘You don’t have to see him, if you don’t want to. I could take a message, or ask him to leave, if you prefer.’
Harriet looked into the older woman’s face, momentarily startled by the sympathy she found there, and took less than a second to decide. ‘Yes. Yes, please do that. Thank him for calling and ask him to leave.’
Margaret nodded. ‘A good decision.’
She returned ten minutes later with a cup of coffee for each for them, and two slices of jam sponge. ‘There, a little treat for us. I baked it only this morning so we must eat it while it’s at its very best. May I take her for a moment?’
Moved by the woman’s unexpected generosity, Harriet happily handed Michelle over. After a moment, in which she praised the lightness of the sponge, she asked, ‘Has Vinny gone?’ She felt the need to use his name, to prove to herself she could say it without any ill effects, and was pleased to find that she could.
‘Indeed he has. He asked me to tell you that the band is back in Manchester. Things apparently didn’t go too well in London and he’d be happy for you to join them, if you’re interested. But it’s now or never, apparently. You must make up your mind once and for all, because if you aren’t available to work for them as before, then he’ll have to find somebody else.’ Margaret glanced at the girl, gauging her reaction.
A slight pause, and then Harriet said, ‘Did he ask about the baby, whether I’d had a boy or a girl, for instance?’
Margaret shook her head, watching the girl closely from over the rim of her cup as she sipped her coffee. ‘He did say that you were welcome to bring the baby, no strings attached. He seemed to imply you were well aware of his need for freedom.’
‘I am.’
‘And will you be joining him?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘I see. No regrets?’
‘About not accepting his offer? No, none at all.’
Harriet managed to smile even though she was silently fuming inside. She felt angry towards Vinny for not caring if he’d fathered a boy or a girl, for not even bothering to ask how Harriet was coping on her own, or if she needed any money. Not that she would take it, she told herself, but it was the principle that counted. He could at least offer.
And how had he known she was here? Had Joyce told him she was living with the Blackstocks? Most significant of all, he still had Shelley with him. Nothing had changed then.
Well, he was gone now, thank goodness. They both were, and Harriet doubted they’d be back.
It was true what she’d just said, she didn’t feel any regrets, except for having met him in the first place. She reached over to tickle her baby’s tummy. ‘I have Michelle, I don’t need Vinny Turner. He is indeed trouble with a capital T.’
‘Good girl,’ Margaret said, without the slightest hint of being patronising. ‘And what about our little t
reasure then? She seems to be growing daily, before our very eyes. What a little beauty you are going to be,’ Margaret said, placing a raspberry kiss on the baby’s bare tummy. Michelle chuckled and both women burst out laughing. ‘Do you think that was a laugh or simply wind?’ Margaret asked, surprised.
Harriet shook her head in delight. ‘I’ve no idea, but it sounded lovely, didn’t it?’
‘It did indeed!’ And the two women contentedly played with the baby while they enjoyed Margaret’s excellent coffee and jam sponge.
Chapter Forty-Three
The market was in turmoil with the arrival of bulldozers and JCBs. Homes were within days of being razed to the ground, the hairdresser’s salon included, and Joyce was frantically packing up to leave. She’d found them a house to rent in Quay Street, just a short distance away, but hadn’t yet found alternative accommodation for the salon. She was filled with fury over the situation, angry with her mother for not having accepted the generous offer from the developers. At least then they could relocate her business somewhere decent. Many people had already done so, the rest were beginning to ask if it was worth going on with the fight.
All except for one or two stalwarts, her mother included. Rose was still calling the newspapers and trying to drum up support for this fruitless campaign.
The folk who lived at the bottom end of Champion Street were, of course, delighted at the prospect of being rehoused in a posh new flat, thrilled to escape the damp overcrowding, the peeling wallpaper and the invasion of cockroaches in the dark of night. But those in the top half of the street took a different view.
The Poulsons were still holding out, as were Winnie and Barry Holmes; Dena Dobson too was hoping either for a last minute reprieve or word that the developers or the city council had found them a new home and were willing to relocate the market. Patsy Bowman, now Patsy Bertalone, was likewise hanging on, having persuaded Clara Higginson not to accept the developers’ offer either. It was a dangerous game they were playing.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 36