Lonely Teardrops (2008)

by Lightfoot, Freda

  Joyce punched Eileen in the mouth, knocking the other woman to her knees which sent the electric fire spinning across the shiny linoleum floor to the window. The draught of its journey caused the already smouldering scarf, still caught on the bars of the fire, to burst into flames which in turn set the long black-out curtains alight. Yet still Eileen kept a tight hold of the baby.

  The two women fought like tigers, each determined to take possession of the child, at whatever cost. In her fury, Joyce’s vision began to grow blurred. She felt a tightness in her chest and started to cough, yet she didn’t give up, not for an instant. Once again she lunged at Eileen, kicking her legs from under her as she made a grab for the baby.

  It was then, as Eileen managed to right herself, attempting to escape Joyce’s grasp that they heard the ominous crackle and at last noticed the flames. The fire had leapt from the window curtains to the wing chair, blackening the curled pages of Joyce’s abandoned book, and was now swallowing the cushion in a hungry tongue of flame.

  In that horrifying moment, time seemed to stand still, and Joyce realised her coughing and choking was due to the wreaths of smoke swirling around them both. Sparks leaped like livid fireflies all about the room, even the carpet beneath her feet was beginning to crackle and sizzle with the heat.

  ‘What have you done?’ Joyce could hear herself yelling at the top of her voice, shouting over the increasing roar of the flames.

  ‘It wasn’t me, it was you! You must have thrown my scarf on to the fire, then knocked it over, you stupid woman.’

  ‘If you’d never broken into my house in the first place and tried to steal Harriet, this would never have happened!’

  ‘You stole her from me,’ Eileen yelled right back.

  As they swore and screamed at each other, the fire continued to grow and make steady progress around them. They might well have continued with this pointless argument for several more dangerous moments, even fallen to fighting again had they not heard a cry. Rushing out into the hall, both women saw Rose poised at the head of the stairs.

  Dressed in her cosy tartan dressing gown, hair in curling pins, she stood with a look of dazed horror on her face. The old woman was coughing and gasping, looking as if she were about to tumble downstairs. Smoke was billowing all around, pouring out of the door of the room below, which was by this time a furnace. Before Joyce had time to move, Eileen rushed up the stairs to grab her, still with the crying baby held in her arms, Harriet’s tiny face pressed into her shoulder to protect her from the smoke.

  ‘Quickly, quickly, but don’t fall.’

  ‘Never mind about me,’ Rose cried. ‘Save that baby.’

  Eileen tucked Harriet under her coat. ‘There, she’ll be fine. Come with me, Rose, come on. Take my hand. That’s right, don’t panic. I didn’t start this fire, I swear it. I just wanted to take my child back! It was an accident,’ Eileen was sobbing as she helped the older woman safely down the stairs.

  Watching them, Joyce was filled with a sudden rage. This woman, this strumpet who had already stolen her husband was the one responsible for this horror. If she’d only accepted the allowance they’d generously provided, and got on with her life, instead of obstinately stalking them and now breaking into the house to get Harriet back, this tragedy would not have occurred.

  What happened next could never afterwards be accurately explained. Joyce, having failed to wrest the child out of her rival’s arms and with the fire rapidly growing out of control, was anxious to call for help and perhaps to get them all out of the house, so she opened the front door. It was the worst thing she could have done.

  Just as Rose and Eileen reached the foot of the stairs, a blast of hot air rushed past them and flames suddenly seemed to engulf the tiny hallway. Paint blistered and part of the banister collapsed, strips of lath and plaster fell everywhere, and the living room door fell off its hinges, almost blocking their exit.

  It seemed impossible that anyone could survive this inferno but then the two women emerged through the haze of smoke and flame, arms wrapped about each other. Eileen’s hair was starting to burn, flames lighting her head like a halo yet she continued to assist the older woman towards the open front door. And the baby, tucked under Eileen’s coat, was now ominously quiet.

  Consumed with fury every bit as terrible as the fire that raged all around them, Joyce wrestled Harriet from the other woman’s arms and then hit her hard across the face.

  ‘You bitch! This is your fault, you whore! You could have had us all killed.’

  Caught unawares, Eileen failed to defend herself and fell backwards into the flames, just as part of the ceiling fell down.

  ‘That baby. You,’ Joyce calmly continued, ‘was taken straight to hospital. Fortunately there wasn’t a scratch on you, and no sign of any burns, but they gave you oxygen and kept you in for observation, fearful of damage to your tiny lungs. Rose too was obliged to remain in hospital for a night or two, having suffered some minor burns, mainly to her hands and arms.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rose quietly stated. ‘Fortunately with no lasting damage. Eileen saved my life.’

  Her daughter’s lip curled. ‘The woman deserved to lose her own for trying to steal Harriet from me.’

  ‘You stole Harriet from her, Joyce, if you remember. Eileen is the child’s mother, and, understandably, wanted her back.’

  ‘She had no right to her, none at all. She was my child, by law! Let her sue me, I thought. Let her take me to court if she wants to. I’d’ve fought her all the way and won my case. She was a harlot, a whore! Not fit to bring up a child.’

  ‘The poor lass was in no shape to face any court,’ Rose explained to Harriet, who sat beside her on the sofa.

  ‘So what happened to her?’

  ‘She rather wished that she were dead, poor girl.’

  Joyce was suddenly on her feet. ‘Right, so now you have the full story I’d be obliged if you’d leave me in peace.

  ‘But she can’t be dead. She’s sent me a letter. Can’t we talk a bit longer? Where is Eileen now?’ Harriet protested, tears starting up as she struggled to absorb this horrifying tale.

  ‘No more. Not now. Some of us have work to do.’ And Joyce was shooing them down the stairs, making it very clear the conversation was at an end.

  Rose patted Harriet on the shoulder. ‘There, there, don’t take on. We’ll have a little chat later when you’ve had time to think about everything. It’s a lot to take in all at once.

  And once more Harriet found herself evicted from her stepmother’s house.

  In the days following Joyce became increasingly furious that the truth had finally come out. She resolved that whatever the cost, her mother’s interference would have quite the opposite effect to what she intended. The last thing Joyce wanted was for Harriet to meet with Eileen and hear her side of the story. In any case, why should this girl be happy when Joyce had suffered so much through her dratted mother, and that father of hers?

  Nor was Joyce pleased that after all her years of hard work, her livelihood seemed to be dissolving before her very eyes, about to be bulldozed out of existence. While Rose was doing everything she could to save the market, the home Joyce had believed would one day be hers was now to be handed over to Stan’s by-blow, as if she were the one with a better right to it. The very idea was execrable to her. Even her darling son was to be disinherited, just because he’d borrowed a few quid from his grandmother without asking.

  She had absolutely no intention of allowing that girl to win. Harriet had ruined everything, robbed her of her pride and reputation. Joyce was only too bitterly aware that whenever she went out and about round the market, folk were talking about her behind their hands. To her horror, Joyce realised she’d become an object of scorn and pity, all because of that hussy. Having destroyed her carefully nurtured respectability, Harriet really had no right to anything.

  If only she would run away again with her junky boy friend. But if she wouldn’t disappear, then the baby at least must g
o. Surely she deserved some peace, some retribution for all she had suffered? There was no reason why she shouldn’t hand over the child to Father Dimmock and the good Christian family he had found to care for it. It was but six months old and would soon forget its real mother. Joyce decided she’d been right all along. Adoption was the only solution. Perhaps then, when the child was gone, Harriet would leave too, this time for good.

  The next day, having made the necessary arrangements, she went over to St. John’s Place and found, to her delight, that Margaret Blackstock was alone with the baby. Harriet was at Pringles, working, and, as luck would have it, Steve was away too on a geography field trip.

  ‘Perhaps I might be allowed to take my grandchild for a walk?’ Joyce asked, smiling confidently at the other woman. ‘I could take little Michelle to meet her mother on her way home from Pringle’s.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she would like that,’ Margaret agreed, all unsuspecting and pleased to see Joyce was at last taking an interest. ‘I’ll just get her little matinee coat, there’s a chill wind out today.

  Steve arrived about an hour later and headed straight to the bathroom, Margaret chasing after him. She chided him for never being here when he was needed and told him there was no time for showers or unpacking. ‘A matter of great importance has come up, which you need to be told about forthwith, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘And what is so important it can’t wait for an hour or two? I’m filthy, Mother, and could do with a cup of tea, if you’re putting the kettle on.’

  ‘Harriet has had a letter, from Vinny.’

  Steve looked stunned. Hadn’t Harriet promised him faithfully that the relationship was over? ‘A letter from Vinny? She can’t have.’

  ‘The letter was delivered by hand via her own grandmother. Rose actually called in yesterday to speak to her about it, and I just happened to hear a snippet of their conversation.’

  Margaret’s cheeks were slightly flushed as she admitted this while Steve’s blazed to a bright crimson. ‘You were eavesdropping? What did you do, put your ear to the keyhole?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Anyway, there isn’t a keyhole on that bedroom door. And no, I didn’t put my ear to the panel of the door either, but I could hear what was said, quite clearly – well, reasonably clearly.’

  Steve gave his mother a withering look. ‘I don’t want to know what they said.’ He turned away in disgust, still heading for the bathroom, but Margaret snatched at his arm to prevent him.

  ‘Yes, you do, Stephen. Harriet asked her grandmother if she would go with her. She said - and I quote - “I surely deserve a full and proper explanation. I need to understand what’s going on, how I feel about things before I can make any definite decisions about my future.” And when Rose attempted to caution her against doing anything in a hurry, she said, “I have all this love inside of me still waiting to be expressed.” Who else could she be referring to but Vinny Turner?’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Steve said. ‘Will we never be free of that man? Where is Harriet?’

  ‘Working. Joyce has gone to meet her with the child. She may well be seeing him now, today, this very minute, for all we know.’

  ‘We’ll just have to wait till she gets back, and ask her.’

  Margaret said no more, obliged to accept her son’s decision.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  When Harriet returned to the house around lunch time, she was alone. Steve met her at the door, his expression cold and condemning. He didn’t say hello, or ask how her morning had gone as he normally did. Instead he launched right in with, ‘I hear you’ve had a letter.’

  Harriet had been about to run into his arms, but seeing his set face and hearing the ice in his tone, she paused and frowned up at him. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Mother tells me Rose delivered it by hand.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Then I’m sure you’ll understand how delighted I was to receive it.’

  ‘I’m surprised, I must say. I assume you’ve agreed to go?’ He meant back to join the band, with Vinny, but Harriet didn’t understand what he was suggesting, picking up only on his first words.

  ‘You’re surprised?’ She laughed. ‘I was absolutely stunned, and so thrilled! I expect I should be angry, by rights, but I’m not at all.’ She went to hug him then in her excitement but felt him flinch away from her. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? You look so worried, and there’s really no reason to be.’

  Steve almost snarled at her. ‘Why should anything be wrong? You get a letter from your old boy friend and instantly want to dash off into his arms. Why should I be worried about that?’

  ‘My old boy friend, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about that letter,’ Steve crisply informed her, folding his arms across his chest so that his hands wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her.

  Harriet began to laugh. ‘Is that what you thought?’

  ‘I don’t see anything funny about it.’

  Her laughter instantly faded. ‘No, you’re quite right, it isn’t funny at all. What you’re saying is that you still don’t trust me. A letter is delivered to your house, by hand, and without any proof whatsoever you assume it to be from Vinny. Now why would that be? Because you’re still haunted by the thought of him, of the time I spent with him, the fact I slept in his bed and that he is Michelle’s father. And you wonder why I still won’t agree to marry you?’

  Harriet was fuming as she spun on her heel and headed for the stairs, desperately upset. She wanted only to be alone where she could weep in private. Why did everyone always let her down in the end? Why was love so useless and unreliable?

  Steve took a sideways step to block her way.

  ‘Please get out of my way.’

  Ignoring her, Steve remained where he was, now looking deeply troubled and very contrite. ‘Look, I’m sorry if we jumped to the wrong conclusion but ...’

  ‘We?’

  He glanced away, not wishing to meet her condemning gaze. ‘Mother overheard some of the conversation between you and Rose last evening, and she rather thought you were talking about Vinny.’

  Now Harriet was even more angry. ‘Well, she was wrong. If you want to know the truth that letter was from my mother, my real mother, who apparently isn’t dead after all, and wants to see me after all these years. She’s the one I’m desperate to see. Now do you understand why I’m so thrilled?’

  ‘Oh, lord, but Mother thought it was Vinny.’

  ‘Well, she thought wrong. Serve her right for eavesdropping on a private conversation. Please, it’s been a long morning and I wish to see my child.’ Pushing Steve out of the way Harriet started up the stairs, unshed tears already marring her vision.

  ‘She isn’t there,’ Steve called after her retreating figure, puzzled by the comment.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Michelle isn’t there. Joyce collected her earlier. She was supposed to be meeting you after work.’

  Harriet froze. ‘Joyce has taken my baby? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Turning, she flew down the stairs and out of the house, and, after a moment of stunned paralysis, Steve ran after her.

  The stallholders of Champion Street were attempting to go about their business as normally as possible, despite the presence of bulldozers at one end of the street, lined up like an army waiting to invade. Men in hard hats stood about making notes on their clip-boards, engaged in endless discussions. They seemed to be blocking off the street with barriers, erecting scaffolding here and there, putting up warning signs.

  ‘Are they going to start work today?’ Jimmy Ramsay was asking, as a group of them stood huddled together in the rain, worrying over what to do next.

  ‘Since they’ve given us only till the end of the week to move out, it’s bound to be soon, that’s for sure,’ Patsy agreed. ‘Then what? Do we meekly leave, or stay and fight?’

  Rose was livid that all their efforts seemed to be coming to nought. ‘We stay and fight. We ring all of the newspapers again, the nationals
this time, not just the local lot.’

  ‘And the television people,’ Papa Bertalone raged, shaking his fist. ‘We should make them take pictures to show the world how these developers mean to take down perfectly good houses and destroy our market.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ Belle agreed. ‘I’ll get on to it this very minute. We need to show everyone that we haven’t given up yet, that we remain strong.’

  Jimmy Ramsay turned to Rose. ‘It’s time you and me paid another visit to them flippin’ councillors, tried one more time to get them on our side and persuade these people to at least meet us half way.’

  ‘Let’s march on them right now and chase them bulldozers off our street,’ Winnie Holmes shouted, and a roar of approval went up.

  It was at this moment that Harriet come running across the cobbles, quite out of breath and her face ashen, a picture of distress. Steve, looking equally concerned, was by her side. She skidded to a halt and instantly burst into tears.

  It took a moment for Rose to get any sense out of her, the entire gathering of stallholders and residents listening agog to the tale. It seemed that out of some long-held desire for revenge, Joyce had stolen little Michelle and clearly meant the baby harm.

  ‘She would,’ Frankie Morris agreed. ‘That sounds very like Joyce. She’s been out for revenge all her life.’

  ‘But why take it out on an innocent babby?’ Winnie Holmes wanted to know.

  ‘Because she’s a paranoiac and has lost all sense of reason and logic. She were raped when she were young,’ Frankie bluntly told them, suddenly tired of secrets. ‘By my brother, as it turned out, though she didn’t know that at the time. I’ve kept quiet to protect him ‘cos he was nobbut a lad, a young sailor the worse for drink at a party and really hadn’t the first idea what he was doing, or that she was unwilling. Unfortunately, he left Joyce pregnant with Grant and she’s tried to cover it up with lies ever since. The bitterness of that tragedy ruined her marriage and warped her mind. But now isn’t the time to talk about the rights and wrongs of the case. We have to find that baby.’