‘You must see a doctor, Mum.’ The old name that he seldom used now slipped out. She was his mum in all but blood ties. He laid his hand on her arm, smiling down at her.
‘I’m OK, son. Just needed a rest, that’s all, but I should get up. I’m due on the ward this evening.’
‘Oh no, you’re not. I’ll phone from the box on the corner – tell them you’re sick. You’re in no condition to be running around with bedpans.’
Mary didn’t argue and, as Harry went down the echoing stairs and through the empty shop, he thought she must be really ill to take time off work. Why shouldn’t she, when Bert was earning good money at the Club? He always seemed to have money to splash around – although Harry knew he was prone to being ‘a bit short’ when the rent was due, or when Mary desperately needed something like a new winter coat. Although she only worked part-time now, Mary had told him she needed the little bit of security it gave her, and he could understand that.
After phoning the hospital he hurried across the road to the market, pushing his way through the crowds thronging the stalls. The cacophony of horns blaring, lively chatter and the stallholders’ raucous patter was music to his ears.
Sid was inundated with customers and he greeted Harry with relief. ‘It’s been bedlam ’ere, mate,’ he gasped. ‘Am I glad to see yer – I need a breather.’
Harry finished weighing out the potatoes and tipped them into the woman’s waiting bag, topped it with a hearty cabbage and a pound of cooking apples. He totted the money up in his head and gave her change, then turned without pause to the next in line.
Half an hour later there was a pause and Harry turned to Sid, who was sitting on an upturned orange box. ‘You OK, mate?’
‘Bin overdoin’ it. The doc told me, no lifting ’eavy weights.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Ow does ’e expect a fruit and veg man to avoid ’eavy liftin’? Them spud sacks are no joke.’
‘You should’ve waited for me to come back. Sorry I was so long,’ Harry apologized.
‘Mary all right, is she?’ Sid asked, his kindly face creased in concern.
‘I’m worried. She ought to see the doctor – but you know Mary – stubborn as hell.’
‘Well, tell ’er not to leave it too long – like I did. They said at the ’ospital, if I’d gone sooner they could’ve done more for me.’ He put his hand on Harry’s arm. ‘You don’t think she’s got my trouble, do yer?’
Despite several operations, Sid continued to lose weight and often seemed to be in pain and Harry knew his old friend was more ill than he let on. He would never tell anyone exactly what the doctors had said, but Harry had his suspicions.
He hastened to reassure him, knowing how fond Sid was of Mary. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing too serious.’ He coloured a little. ‘It’s just – women’s trouble. You know.’
Sid nodded in understanding. ‘Still, she oughter get ’erself sorted out. Don’t do to leave these things – you tell ’er from me.’
Harry turned to serve another customer, glad for once that the crowd was thinning out. Maybe he’d be able to get off early for a change. He turned back to Sid and suggested he go home. ‘You look knackered, mate. I can finish up here,’ he said.
When he got back to the flat, it was dark and chilly and he realized he’d forgotten to bank up the range before leaving. He riddled the dead ashes and carefully relit the fire, waiting until he was sure it had caught, before going into the next room to check on Mary. She was still lying on top of the bed as he’d left her and he tucked a blanket round her. Best let her sleep, he thought.
As he went downstairs to fill the coal bucket, the side door opened and Bert came in. He grinned at Harry. ‘Still runnin’ around after that lazy mare?’ he asked.
Harry brushed past without replying.
When he got back upstairs, Bert was sprawled at the kitchen table. ‘No grub ready, I see.’
Harry stared him down, remembering how as a small boy he’d been intimidated by this nasty little man. But no more. Even for Mary’s sake he wouldn’t keep quiet.
‘Always thinking of yourself,’ he said. ‘What about Mary? She’s in bed – sick. You haven’t even asked how she is.’ He turned away and threw coal on to the fire, his knuckles white on the handle of the shovel.
Bert backed down, as he’d known he would. ‘I thought she was at work,’ he mumbled.
‘She’s too ill to go to work. You’ll have to get yourself something to eat. I’m going to see if she’s OK.’
Mary still appeared to be sleeping but she opened her eyes. ‘Back so soon? I’ll get you some tea.’
‘No you won’t. I’ll get some fish’n’chips later. How do you feel now?’
Mary struggled upright. ‘A bit better. It’s OK if I don’t move around too much.’
‘Well, you stay there, I’ll fetch you a cuppa.’
Bert was having a wash at the kitchen sink – too lazy to go downstairs and use the bathroom – and he moved grudgingly aside to allow Harry to fill the kettle. He slicked his hair down with Brylcreem and put his jacket on. ‘I’m off,’ he announced.
Harry banged the kettle down on the cooker. That selfish bastard hadn’t even looked in on his wife. Concentrating on getting the teapot out of the cupboard, laying a tray with cup and saucer, a plate with a couple of biscuits to tempt Mary’s appetite, he knew at that moment he was quite capable of going after Bert and giving him a good hiding.
When his breathing was back to normal he took the tray into the bedroom, almost dropping it when he saw Mary sitting on the edge of the bed, doubled over in pain, her face grey and beaded with sweat.
He had a long wait before the doctor appeared, his steps echoing in the long empty corridor. ‘Are you the next of kin?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly. I’m her foster son – I’m not sure where her husband is at the moment. He went out just before she collapsed.’
‘Well, I ought to have a word with him. We’re going to have to operate. Tell him to come in as soon as he can – I’m on duty all night.’
‘I’ll try and get hold of him,’ Harry said, then blurted out, ‘Can I see her? She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, I’m sure she is. But I think we ought to let her rest now. Come back at visiting time tomorrow.’ The doctor was already turning away. ‘And don’t forget to let her husband know.’
‘Sod Bert,’ Harry muttered as he went down the stairs and crossed the entrance lobby. ‘He doesn’t care anyway.’ Scarcely reassured by what the doctor had said, Harry wasn’t sure what to do next. He couldn’t just go home and wait.
He spotted a telephone near the door. Sheila – he ought to let her know her mother was ill. Not that she could do anything at this time of night and with two little kiddies to look after. But he’d feel better talking to someone.
He fumbled in his pocket for some coppers, struggling to remember the number. Sheila didn’t sound unduly worried when he told her what had happened.
‘Lots of women have the same trouble,’ she said airily. ‘She’ll be fine once she’s had the operation.’ She rang off after promising to come to the hospital the next day.
Reluctant to go back to the empty flat, Harry walked through the deserted streets. It was much later than he’d realized – he must have been at the hospital hours. He cut across the tarmac play-area in front of the flats where Mary’s mother had lived for such a short time, and where her Auntie Vi still lived. He ought to let her know too, he thought. But no lights showed in the twelve-storey block which dwarfed the remaining terraced houses around it. Harry smiled, remembering Ellie’s description of the lit-up flats as fairytale castles. In the dark, they could be anything your imagination wanted them to be. The smile changed to a twisted grimace as he wondered yet again where Ellie could be, wishing there was some way he could let her know how ill her mother was.
Beneath the sadness of missing her, as he still did even after all this time, Harry felt a surge of anger. However unhappy she’d been, she shouldn’t hav
e hurt her mother like that. The anger helped mask his worry that something must have happened to her. He could understand her cutting herself off from him, but to lose touch with her mother so completely….
He sighed and turned the corner, passing the deserted market and quickening his steps as he neared home. He must get some sleep, otherwise he’d never get up in the morning, and Sid was depending on him to do the Covent Garden run.
The flat appeared to be deserted. Bert was at the club of course. He stumbled upstairs, but before entering his own room he opened the door to the room that had been Ellie’s. Reminders of her were everywhere – her paintings pinned to the walls, her school blazer still hanging behind the door. He sighed – he must make one more effort to find her – and not just for Mary’s sake either.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ellie lined up the sheets of silk, taut in their wooden frames, and switched on the overhead spotlights, adjusting each one to shine directly on to the painting. She stepped back to let Alex see.
‘These are excellent, but what else could I expect from my talented wife?’ He dropped a kiss on her head. ‘I don’t want you overdoing things, though.’
She ignored his condescending tone. Since she’d told him she was pregnant, he treated her as if she might break. At least the tension between them had lessened and she didn’t want to jeopardize the fragile thread that held them together.
She smiled. ‘Painting relaxes me,’ she said. ‘I was a bit worried about these though – it’s the first time I’ve tried anything really modern or abstract.’
‘We must get some proper frames made,’ Alex said, pointing. ‘I like that one – it’ll look good on the dining room wall over the fireplace.’
Ellie bit back a reply. She’d been working on the new designs for several weeks and, although Alex seemed pleased that she’d regained her usual zest for life, he still treated her art as if it were a hobby. She knew she should have told him about her commissions for Sylvia before now but the opportunity hadn’t arisen. Besides, he wasn’t really interested. All he could think about was the baby and whether she was taking care of herself.
Would it do any good to try again – to make him see that she needed more than just being a wife and mother? She took a deep breath. ‘Alex, I’ve had an idea,’ she said as if she had only just thought of it. ‘Why don’t we use some of these designs on the new fabric?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t think so. The plain material is doing well. Besides, Don and I have some ideas of our own.’
‘But Alex—’
‘No, Ellie, you won’t have time for all that once the baby comes.’
Ellie bit back her reply but later, as they sat down to their meal, she decided to try again. Before she could frame the words, Alex raised his glass and smiled at her across the table. ‘Here’s to my beautiful, clever wife,’ he said.
Smiling, she took a small sip of wine. Perhaps this wasn’t the right moment. It was good to see Alex looking so happy. To him, the coming baby had set the seal on their marriage. It would be stupid to spoil things.
But he had to know about her business venture some time. Her hand-painted scarves were now being sold in exclusive shops in Ipswich and Norwich as well as Sylvia’s in Colchester and she’d recently been in touch with one of the new boutiques in London. How could she keep it secret now that demand for her work was increasing? She’d even started reproducing her designs in bulk ready for the expected influx of orders. At one time she’d have asked Alex for help but, wary of his reaction, she had found a screen printer in Chelmsford who had agreed to run off small numbers to start with.
Deep in thought, she didn’t notice he was staring at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘Is everything all right, darling? You looked a little worried.’
‘Everything’s fine.’ She touched his hand, hesitated. ‘Alex, I’ve something to tell you.’
Before she could continue he squeezed her fingers. ‘It’s not the baby, is it?’
‘No – I told you, everything’s fine.’ She took a deep breath, wondering why she felt so nervous. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘You know how much the girls at the mill liked my scarves. Well, I made some more. And when I went into this lovely little shop in Colchester, the woman there admired the one I was wearing. She asked me where I bought it.’
‘Don’t tell me she wanted you to make one for her,’ Alex said with an indulgent smile.
‘No, she wanted me to make half a dozen – for her shop.’
‘Very flattering, darling. I hope you refused.’
‘Of course I was flattered but I didn’t see any harm in agreeing to make a few scarves for Sylvia – exclusive to her shop. I’ve been wanting to do something like this for ages.’
‘But why? You’re my wife, you have this house, our baby soon. Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘The baby’s not due for months and Mrs Mills does everything in the house.’ She paused. ‘I get bored, Alex. I’m not used to a life of leisure.’
‘I don’t understand you, Ellie. Most girls would give anything for the kind of life you have. Look at those mill girls, and your friend Norah – ask them if they’d like a life of leisure.’
‘I didn’t think you’d understand,’ Ellie said, pushing her chair back. She rushed out of the room.
Upstairs she sat at her dressing-table, brushing her hair with furious strokes, fighting to hold back the tears. She wished she’d kept quiet now but she already had enough secrets from Alex. Besides, she understood in a way. He was concerned about her – and the baby.
She looked up as he came into the room and carried on brushing, looking at him in the mirror.
After a few moments he said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, darling, but you must see things from my point of view. I’m the factory owner. I can’t have you producing things in competition with me. Besides, what’s the point of telling this woman you can supply her when you won’t be able to keep it up? She’ll want more when those are sold and, once the baby comes, you won’t have time for all this nonsense.’
‘How dare you say it’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘Besides, she’s already sold them and I’ve promised her a new batch next week.’
‘You can’t do it, Ellie. I forbid you.’
‘But Alex, I’ve promised her. I can’t let her down.’
He sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it won’t hurt. But that’s it – no more.’
As Ellie opened her mouth to protest, he grabbed her wrist. ‘I mean it. You must think of the baby. I can’t let you wear yourself out like this.’
Ellie nodded. Let Alex think he’d got his own way. She felt a twinge of guilt – she really had meant to tell him everything.
The next day she phoned Norah, listening with a smile as her friend rattled on about how good life was in their little seaside town. ‘And what about you, love? Keeping well, are you? I bet you and Alex are excited. Have you thought about names yet?’
‘Not really.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Actually, we had a row last night. I told him about making the scarves for Sylvia’s shop.’
‘And he didn’t like it, I suppose?’
‘He called my business nonsense, said I’d forget all about it when the baby comes.’
‘Maybe you will, love. Babies take up a lot of time. Besides, it was just a hobby wasn’t it – something to keep you occupied while Alex was spending so much time at the mill?’
‘It’s not just a hobby. Why doesn’t anyone understand?’
‘I do, Ellie. But what about Alex?’
Ellie bit her lip. ‘I didn’t tell him everything. He thinks I just made a few for Sylvia.’
‘Oh, Ellie. You must tell him everything.’
‘I can’t, Norah. He’ll insist I stop. Besides, I’m committed now. I’ve got an order from a shop in London – a boutique in Carnaby Street.’
Norah shrieked. ‘Carnaby Street! I’ve been reading about those shops and all those weird fashions. Well, I’ve got to adm
ire your guts, Ellie. But is it worth risking your marriage?’
‘I suppose not. But I can’t let the shop down now. I’ll just have to tell them I can’t keep up production.’ She paused. ‘I expect you’ve guessed things aren’t right with me and Alex. I’ve tried to put a brave face on things….’ Her voice choked on a sob.
‘Don’t cry, love. I’m sure things will get better once you have the baby.’
They spoke for a few more minutes and when she rang off she felt better. She picked up the phone again. There was one more thing she had to do. But she was too late. The editor of the magazine told her regretfully that the issue with the article about her had already gone to press.
How she wished she’d refused to be interviewed when the reporter had got in touch with her. She’d agreed almost without stopping to think. That’ll show them, she’d told herself, remembering Auntie Vi’s snide comments and her father’s taunts. The fact that they were most unlikely ever to see the expensive glossy publication didn’t matter. But Alex was sure to hear about it. Should she own up before the article came out?
But she didn’t get the chance. When her complimentary copy dropped through the letterbox, Ellie snatched it up, flicking through the pages eagerly. The two-page spread showed her in her studio and there were pictures of her designs including the original one of delicate butterflies and flowers that she’d done for Sylvia.
Later, she bought an extra copy of the magazine to send to Norah, knowing how proud her old friend would be. ‘It doesn’t sound like me at all,’ she wrote in the accompanying letter. ‘They’ve made me out to be a sort of leader of fashion – but I’ve only copied what everyone else is doing. To be honest I’d rather be painting the more traditional stuff.’
A couple of days later she had a reply. ‘Alex must be so proud of you,’ Norah wrote.
Ellie bit her lip and glanced up to see Alex watching her. ‘From Norah?’ he asked. ‘How are they? We must invite them over while the café’s closed for the season.’
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