‘Maybe.’ He twirled his empty cup by the handle. ‘Jenny, can you tell me how you kept going when you must have thought there was nothing worth living for?’
‘It was different for me. There was nobody else to look after Georgie and little Lizann. Besides, I’d my health, and you still haven’t got over what’s happened to you.’
‘It’s the boys and Norma … I can’t see how I can be father and mother to them if I take them back to Main Street.’
‘The Slaters’ll maybe not let you take them back, and there’s nothing coming over them, they’re being well looked after. And maybe you’ll be asked to move in there with them.’
‘It wouldn’t work. I’ve still got my dark times … you know, when I wonder what I’m good for like this.’
‘Don’t let it get you down, Peter. Think things over properly before you come to any decisions.’
He put his cup and saucer down and stood up. ‘You amaze me, Jenny, you’re always so … sensible.’
‘Not always. There’s times I give way and have a good cry. Besides, it’s easy for me to give you advice, I’m an outsider.’
‘You’ll never be an outsider to me, Jenny. Mick and you have been the best friends I ever had. No, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’
‘You’ll let me know what you decide on?’
‘I’ll do that.’
Peter would have been horrified to know how his visit affected Jenny. She burst into tears when he left her, tears of pity for him and of longing for the husband she had loved so dearly, and she went to bed that night wishing that Peter had never come. She wasn’t sensible, as he had said, she was living a lie, pretending she was coping when she often felt like taking her two children by the hands and walking into the sea with them. Walking, walking, walking … until they were swallowed up.
Her morbid thoughts came to an abrupt end as she pictured two small faces distorted from long immersion in the water. She couldn’t do that to them; they had a right to live, whatever the future held for them. And she wasn’t as bad as Peter. At least she had her health, and two good legs. Mick wouldn’t have wanted her to give up. She would manage without him. She had to manage.
In the morning, Jenny rose determined not to slip back into the Slough of Despond which had nearly claimed her again. At thirty-three she had many years ahead of her, years she would devote to Georgie and Lizann. She was blessed compared to those widows who had nobody; she had a son and a daughter to buck her up when she was tired, to care for her when she grew old.
For the first time in months, Jenny whistled blithely as she made the breakfast.
It was two weeks before Peter returned to the Yardie. He shrugged when Jenny asked him if he had made up his mind yet. ‘The kids don’t want to leave the Slaters,’ he said, mournfully, ‘and the Slaters want to keep them. I’ve been sleeping on a camp bed in the same room as the boys, but I’m about round the bend with Chae and his jokes, for he keeps on till I feel like throttling him. Pattie and Tommy think he’s great, and Norma clings to her grandma like she was terrified of me.’
‘She won’t remember you,’ Jenny soothed. ‘And the boys’ll feel strange with you, they haven’t seen you for so long.’
‘No, it’s me, Jenny. I can’t summon up any fatherly feelings for them. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I still love them and I want them back, but to tell the truth, I’m quite glad they won’t come.’
‘You’re still all mixed up, Peter. You’ve been through an awful lot, and it’s going to take you time to get over it.’
‘The thing is, sometimes I feel so down I don’t think I’ll ever get up again, and I can’t expect folk to put up with that. No, I’d be best to live in Main Street on my own. Would you think it was awful cheek if I asked you to come and help me to sort out Elsie’s things?’
The thought of him sitting night after night by himself, and getting more and more depressed made Jenny burst out, ‘Sell your house, Peter, and come and live here with us. We’d be company for one another.’
His eyes brightened a little. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ll help you to clear it out, and you can take whatever you want with you … within reason.’
‘Have you room for me, though?’
‘Well, I shifted downstairs to give my two a room each, but you can have my bed, that’ll save you having to climb the stairs, and I’ll go in with little Lizann.’
‘Will she not mind?’
‘She’s easy-going. Now that’s settled, so go and tell the Slaters, and I’ll move my things upstairs. We can start on your house tomorrow.’
Peter shook his head. ‘I was supposed to look after you, Jenny, not the other way round.’
‘We’ll look after each other. Besides, I could be doing with an extra bob or two, so I’ll expect you to pay something for your keep.’
‘Yes, of course.’ They stood up at the same time and at the door he clasped her hand. ‘Oh Jenny, you’ve taken a weight off my mind.’
Going inside, she thought wryly that the weight was on her mind now. She had offered him a home on the spur of the moment and she couldn’t back down, but what would people say about a widow and a widower in the same house with only two young children as chaperones? The more Jenny thought about it, however, the less she worried. Her neighbours all knew he had been Mick’s pal, and it should seem as natural to them as it did to her that she should take him in. Robbie Chapman had told her to share someone else’s troubles and who better than a disabled ex-serviceman who deserved a decent place to live and decent food to eat?
Next morning, when Peter arrived with his kitbag, Jenny went along to Main Street with him, and while he packed his civilian clothes into a case, she took Elsie’s things out of the wardrobe and chest of drawers, her eyes widening when she came across the provocative nighties. Her cheeks were deep scarlet when she asked, ‘What do you want me to do with … this lot?’
He too coloured, with mortification as well as embarrassment. ‘I’ll burn them. I … I don’t suppose you want any of her other clothes?’
‘They’re not the kind of things I’d wear.’ Pity for him welled up in her again. He was such a nice man, it was awful to think that his wife had set herself out to attract other men with these short skirts and low-necked blouses.
Peter made a big bonfire on the shore, starting with Elsie’s clothes and piling on other items Jenny said he should dispose of. While he was thus occupied, she inspected all the cupboards, and finding them clean and tidy, she guessed that Mrs Slater had been busy. She had likely been appalled at the state of things when she came to collect the children’s clothes after their mother died. It suddenly crossed Jenny’s mind that there must be quite a few young couples who would be glad to walk into a fully-equipped house like this – there were only ‘utility’ furniture and bedding to be had now, and some household items weren’t available at all – so before beginning on the mammoth task of packing Peter’s belongings into boxes to be sold, she went out to talk to him.
He seemed relieved when she made the suggestion that he should rent out his house as it stood, and promised to see about it the following day. She left him tending to the fire and went home to prepare a meal. Babsie Berry was looking after Georgie and wee Lizann to leave her free to help Peter – at least her nearest neighbour hadn’t been shocked by her taking in a lodger. Recalling how black Georgie had got from just standing beside a fire, Jenny boiled kettles and pans of water ready for Peter, but when he came in and she said she would fill the enamel bath for him, he shook his head. ‘I couldn’t … not in front of you and the kids.’
‘Why not? Mick often did.’
‘That was different,’ he mumbled, uncomfortably.
It was different, she realized suddenly. Mick had been her husband, the children’s father. Noticing her confusion, Peter said, ‘I’ll wash my face and hands just now, and change my clothes, and I’ll have the bath when you’re all in bed.’
‘That’s a good idea
.’ While she set the table, she realized that it wasn’t going to be easy living in the same house as a man she had known practically since the day she learned to walk. Her house had been across the street from his, and they had played together even before they went to school. But they were man and woman now, not bairns. She couldn’t come down in the mornings in her nightie like she’d done with Mick. She would have to be more circumspect.
In spite of the blackout and the frequent air raids, Lizann was happier than she had ever been before. Even when she was married to George, she had always had the worry of him being at sea, and her mother to contend with. She was in charge of her own life for the very first time. There was a camaraderie amongst her fellow fish workers that made her set off for Sinclair Road every morning looking forward to the day ahead. The men teased her light-heartedly, as they did to everyone, and the other women couldn’t be more friendly, though Gladys Wright was still her closest pal. They swapped lipsticks and powder compacts, they went to each other’s homes and tried out the latest hairstyles, Gladys settling on the long page boy bob with up-swept sides which she found easier to man-age than the slinky, one-eye-covered hairdo which film star Veronica Lake had made popular. Lizann, however, found that the metal curlers just made her black curls frizzy, and she ended up like a golliwog.
At work, all the females wore headsquares knotted so that their hair was completely hidden. As Gladys observed one Saturday afternoon, while Lizann wielded a pair of curling tongs on her, ‘Goodness knows why I suffer this torture. Nobody sees what our hair’s like under our turbans. Oucha! Watch what you’re doing, Lizann, you burnt my scalp just now.’
At this, Mrs Melville, who had been watching in silent amusement, let out a loud roar of laughter. ‘What you lassies’ll go through to look beautiful!’
‘I’ll never be beautiful with my nose,’ Gladys said, ruefully, ‘but that’s not to say I shouldn’t try.’
‘That’s it, then.’ Lizann laid down the tongs: ‘Should we paint our legs, as well? All my stockings have ladders in them.’
‘We might as well. I’ll do yours and you can do mine.’
When Mrs Melville saw the tan going on her lodger’s legs, she shook her head. ‘I hope that stuff doesn’t come off on the sheets.’
Gladys pointed to the instructions. ‘It says there it won’t.’
The older woman gave a sigh of resignation. ‘If it does, you can wash them yourself, Lizann.’
The task completed, Gladys dived into her handbag and brought out the pencil she used on her plucked eye-brows, a fad Lizann had always refused to follow. ‘I’ll use this to mark a seam down the back.’
‘What next?’ Mrs Melville exclaimed, but she followed the procedure with interest.
‘Now then,’ Gladys said, when her legs were done. ‘We look like we’ve got fully-fashioned silk stockings on, don’t we?’
‘And we can’t get rips in them,’ Lizann added.
‘I don’t know why you bother. You’ve been wearing slacks to your work for months now.’ The trousers had shocked the elderly woman when Lizann bought them, but she had come round – nearly every girl she saw going to work was wearing them nowadays.
‘We put skirts on to go out,’ Gladys reminded her, ‘and we’re going to see Gone With the Wind tonight. It’s the third time I’ll have seen it, but I just love Clark Gable.’
‘He’ll not be there to see your legs,’ Mrs Melville said, dryly. ‘Now, if you two are finished making yourselves into something you’re not, are you ready for your tea?’
At first Jenny thought nothing of Peter sitting in the kitchen all day. She knew it must be difficult for him to walk much, and did her best to spare a little time to talk to him every morning and afternoon. It was when she noticed how much brighter he was when Georgie came home from school that the answer dawned on her. He was missing his sons. He had gone to North Pringle Street once and was quiet and withdrawn for hours after he came back; she had thought his stump was hurting him, but it hadn’t been just that. A day or two later she had what she thought was a brilliant idea, but she waited until her children were in bed before mentioning it.
‘I was thinking, Peter. Why don’t you ask Pattie and Tommy and Norma here for their dinner and supper every Sunday? Just on their own, so you wouldn’t have Mr and Mrs Slater breathing down your neck.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Jenny, but would you not mind having so many kids in the house?’
‘My two would be glad to have somebody else to play with.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll see what the Slaters say tomorrow.’
His face was etched with pain when he returned the following day, and Jenny’s heart ached for him. It must be agony for him to walk so far, and it was no wonder he hardly ever went out. When her children were in bed that night, they sat comfortably by the fire as usual, she doing a bit of make-do-and-mend (adding false hems to her son’s shorts and her daughter’s skirts), he reading. They never said much, but Mick hadn’t been one for saying much either, and it showed that Peter felt at home. Her sewing finished, she laid it down and rose to fill the kettle.
He looked up now. ‘That time already?’
‘Peter,’ she said timidly, ‘is your leg very sore?’
‘It’s throbbing like the devil,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m used to it.’
‘Would you let me take a look at it? Maybe it needs bathing …’
‘I couldn’t let you do it, Jenny.’
‘I wouldn’t mind. I used to give my father and mother all-over washes every day. Come on, take your artificial leg off and let me see.’
He pulled up his trousers and his hands fumbled so much at the straps that she knelt down to help him. When she saw that the puckered skin of his stump was raw, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, why didn’t you tell me, Peter?’
‘I didn’t like.’
‘I don’t know how you could bear to wear that thing.’ She stood up and poured some warm water into a basin, carried it over to the fireside and went to get cotton wool, disinfectant and the tin of ointment from the press. She dabbed slowly and gently, looking up into his face now and then to make sure that she wasn’t hurting him too much, and patted the area dry with a soft towel.
‘I’ll put on some of this Germolene,’ she smiled then. ‘Georgie says it makes his scraped knees better.’
When she had emptied the basin and was laying past the other items, Peter said sadly, ‘I came here to help you, and I’ve ended up giving you a lot of extra work. You’re the strong one. My life’s not worth a damn any more.’
She felt like throwing her arms round him and cuddling him like she cuddled her son when he hurt himself, but she busied herself making a pot of tea and said without looking round, ‘That’s not true, Peter. You used to be a draughtsman, and I’m sure Jones would take you back if you asked. If you’d a job, you’d feel different.’
‘Jones wouldn’t employ a cripple, and besides, I’m not fit to walk so far every day. I’m not fit to work. I’m not fit for anything.’
Longing to dispel his misery, she knew that sympathy would only make him worse, so she laid the teapot down and stood in front of him. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Peter Tait. You can do anything if you set your mind to it. Give your stump a few days to heal, then go to the yard. With so many men away, they’ll be glad of somebody experienced. And if they don’t want you, try Herd and McKenzie.’
She could tell that he was wavering, although his face bore deep hurt at her reprimand. At last he muttered, ‘You’re just trying to get me out from under your feet.’
She bent over and grasped his hands. ‘You know I’m not. I hate seeing you like this, that’s all. Now, we’ll drink our tea and get to bed.’
Lying alongside her daughter, Jenny wondered if she had been too harsh with him. Maybe she was the cause of his depression. He had arrived here primed with the idea of helping her to get over Mick’s death and she had made him believe she didn’t need his help, when h
er so-called bravery was really bravado. Her heart was crying out for Mick, and she couldn’t count the nights she had lain awake since she got the telegram, sobbing until her head was pounding and her pillow was soaking. If she admitted that, it might let Peter see she wasn’t as strong as he thought. She was as weak as any other woman, and would have given way altogether if she hadn’t kept a tight grip on herself.
The next day being Sunday, Chae Slater arrived just after twelve with his three grandchildren – his own idea, to save Peter the walk. ‘I’ll come back for them at seven,’ he said.
To give Peter a few minutes alone with his family, she went out to see Mr Slater off. ‘He looks a bit better now,’ Chae remarked. ‘You’ve taken on more than I’d like to have tackled, so how do you get on with him? Is he still as moody?’
‘It’s sitting about feeling useless that gets him down,’ she smiled, ‘so I’ve told him to go to Jones and ask for his old job back.’
‘D’you think he’s up to it, lass? He’d be a lot worse if he’d to give it up after he started.’
‘He’ll manage the job, it’s the walking he’ll have to get used to. But I’m sure he will.’
‘Ach well, they’ll maybe nae take him back.’
‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Aye, so we will. Well, see you at seven, lass, and I hope the nickums behave themselves.’
When Jenny went back to her kitchen, she was delighted to see Peter’s eyes shining. Norma had climbed on to his knee, and Pattie and Tommy were engrossed in the comics Georgie had left on the table before going to Sunday school with his sister. Occasionally, however, they flung a question at their father, which told that they accepted him as a friend, if nothing else.
The dinner was quite hectic, with three shrill voices wanting to speak at once, and Jenny was thankful that at least the two little girls were quiet and got on together. In the afternoon the boys wanted to hear about the corvette and Peter willingly obliged, glossing over how he had lost his leg, which was really what they wanted to know.
The Girl with the Creel Page 43