A Hopscotch Summer (22 page)

Bob stood on Flossie Dawson’s step, holding a bunch of daffodils. It was a Sunday afternoon, he was all spruced up and in a state of high excitement which he was trying to keep under control, but when he heard her limping to the door to open it he was trembling with anticipation. Today was the day he was going to lay his cards on the table – so long as the girl wasn’t in. She had to be out – just
had
to be!

‘Ah, Bob!’ Flossie’s pretty face, and the sound of her soft Staffordshire accent, made his innards do a somersault. ‘How nice to see you!’ She spoke with polite formality.

‘Here, I brought you these,’ he said before he’d even got over the threshold. ‘It’s St Valentine’s Day. I thought you’d like ’em . . .’

He tried to thrust them into her hands but of course she was holding the stick.

‘Oh, how nice. You’ll bring them in for me, will you?’

‘Yes, course. Silly of me, sorry.’

‘No, it’s very nice of you.’ Once inside the door the intimate, seductive tone of her voice returned. Its effect on him was, as usual, electric. Even the rise and fall of her voice now could arouse him in seconds, he was at such a pitch.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Oh – tea? Yes. Yes, please!’ God, it wasn’t tea he wanted. He wanted
her
, right now. He wanted to lift her off her feet in those dainty boots, carry her upstairs, lay her back over what would of course be a whopping great bed and . . .

‘I think it’s getting a bit warmer at last,’ she remarked from the back. He heard the sound of water.

‘Yes!’ he agreed, peeping into the front room to check. Surely to God the girl wasn’t in there, not this time, watching him slyly and silently the way she always did. No! He almost punched the air. No sign of her. He hung up his cap, then went and sat on one of the green chairs, expectantly, his foot tapping.

‘There.’ Flossie came in. She was wearing a black dress that fitted her curves precisely. It was his favourite. He fought the desire to stand up and draw her to him. Her blue eyes looked at him – laughingly, did he imagine that? – and she said, ‘Kettle’s on. Won’t be long.’

‘Where’s young Daisy today?’ he asked, innocently. ‘At auntie’s?’

‘Yes – it’s her weekend away. I expect they’ll go out together somewhere. They usually do.’

As if he cared, so long as the girl wasn’t going to walk in any moment. He’d waited so long, telling himself at first that Flossie was too good for him, more of a lady who he could admire from afar. Then of course she broke her leg and any suggestion of things going further seemed impossibly inconsiderate. Most of the time he wanted her so badly that he wouldn’t have cared if she had every limb in plaster. But to suggest it would have been wrong. All those signs she gave, the eyes, the way she spoke and moved herself seductively in front of him. God, yes, she wanted him, he knew. She was just too genteel to ask. And of course normally the girl was here . . .

They drank tea but his sense of decency could only last so long. Once he’d downed his to the dregs, sitting the other side of the fire from her, he could bear it no longer.

‘Flossie . . .’ He stumbled into words, then helplessly out of them again, and sat in an agonized silence.

‘Yes?’ she said encouragingly.

‘I . . . I can’t help the feeling . . . I mean, I’ve noticed you . . .’ He stood up, burning, frustrated to the point of madness. ‘Christ, woman, I need you. Let’s go up to bed!’

He’d said it – bloody hell, did he really say that? It was out now!

Flossie stared up at him, her cheeks blushing gratify-ingly as if she was struggling with the idea, but as she didn’t seem about to reject him, Bob flung himself to his knees in front of her. ‘I can’t think of anything but you, woman. I’m beside myself with it.’

‘Bob,’ she said archly. ‘D’you mean what you’re saying? You’re a married man, you know.’

‘Married! Yes, I’m married,’ he cried passionately. ‘But where is she? I ain’t had a wife for months! It’s not that I’m not sorry for her, but what do I do? And what about me? I’m a healthy man – and then you come along and as soon as I saw yer . . . Well, I can’t help myself – I just can’t.’

He looked down at the bright reds and blues of the Turkey rug on which he was kneeling. It was his turn to blush. He’d laid himself right in her hands now.

‘Bob – ’ she put two fingers under his chin and gently drew his face up – ‘that’s so sweet. You’re a very lovely man. I’m quite overcome.’

He stared back like a little boy. ‘Are yer?’ He could hardly believe it all.

Flossie nodded. He began to lean towards her, to kiss her lovely pink cheek, but she held back.

‘The thing is, Bob, I’m not that sort of woman. I never have been. Before Arthur passed away . . .’ She looked down, seeming grief-stricken. ‘Well, there’s only been him, my husband. You do have an effect on me, dear, I can’t say you don’t.’

‘Well, then!’ he cried. ‘Look, I’m not messing with yer. I’ll come and be with yer, give you everything. I’m not married any more, that’s how it feels. You know that’s how it is. I want to be ’ere – be your feller.’

‘Oh!’ She gave a smile that melted his already besotted heart even further. ‘That’s so sweet, deary. You see I’ve been so worried. My nerves are shattered all the time worrying about things. About how I’m going to cope. Money’s such a problem.’

‘You mustn’t worry. I’ll help – I earn a wage, don’t I! It’s not princely of course but it’s summat. And I’ll give it all to yer, Flossie love. I’ll look after you!’ He hardly knew what he was saying. Wages were low and there was never a week when they didn’t have to hock something to get by, but he couldn’t think of that now.

‘Oh, Bob,’ she sat back yieldingly in the chair, ‘that would be such a weight off my mind. If perhaps you could let me have a little something this week? It would make all the difference in the world.’

‘Yes, of course!’ He promised her every bit of his money he could find, anything. He was hot and aching with desire. ‘I’ll help you, only kiss me, you lovely girl. Please do that for me.’

Flossie looked at his desperate condition. ‘We must be careful, dear. I shouldn’t want another child. It happens so easily . . .’

‘No . . .’ He hardly knew what he was saying. ‘Of course not.’

She stood up and, taking him by the hand, pulled him to his feet. ‘You must withdraw. D’you think you can?’

‘Yes!’ He was in a trance, ready to agree to anything.

Flossie pulled him to her and pressed herself against his urgent body.

‘You won’t forget about the money, will you, dear? You promise?’

Bob promised, anything, everything, as she led him to the stairs.

‘Let me undress you,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve thought of it that many times.’

In her bedroom, with its not-so-big bed, though he barely noticed this, she slowly unfastened the top button of her dress, then, fixing him with her eyes, took his shaking hand and guided him to do the rest.

Later that afternoon he slipped out of Flossie’s house, sated, confused, and almost unable to believe what had happened. All this time and finally he’d been able to have her, to lie with her all the afternoon. She’d blown his mind, the way she’d taken charge of him, making him withdraw when he was at his most excited, then leaning down to take him in her mouth. This was something Cynthia had never done – she was quite prim in her way – and even the sensation made him lose control immediately so that he had no choice but to let go between her lips, gasping with gratitude and amazement that she would do such a thing.

She smiled down at him afterwards, still caressing him. ‘Well, you’re a powerful boy, aren’t you?’

And he had lain spent and in a haze of relieved fulfilment. ‘God, Floss, oh God . . .’

Afterwards he found his feet heading automatically towards the Crown, even though he knew he should go home. He needed to drown out the other niggling feelings that crowded in to spoil his triumph. His guilt as a husband, which over the weeks he had kept pushing away, finding reasons to justify himself. But as well as that, something worse played round the edges of his mind, so uncomfortable that he needed to blank it out. It was that as he lay with Flossie Dawson, even at the peak of their union, he knew she was not loving him, but acting. She did not desire him and much of the time her eyes, cold and separate, would hardly meet his. Even her smile held triumph, a kind of control. Bob knew what intimate love was like, the way he and Cynth were before, when she would turn to him, her brown eyes full of love and longing warmth. Flossie Dawson’s eyes had not opened her heart to him, they had held a blue blankness which chilled him. And yet what she had done for him, had made him feel! He knew the woman was like a drug for him: he’d have to keep coming back and back to her.

Hurrying over the sawdust-scattered floor to the bar, he ordered a pint. ‘And make it quick,’ he said grumpily. Drinking deeply, froth covering his upper lip, he downed the pint and slammed the glass on the bar.

‘Give us another.’

‘Sid – get down here. We’ve got to go!’ Em shouted grumpily up the stairs. It was a day when she could go to school.

Bob had got up and gone off to work, leaving them to get themselves ready, as usual. Though only nine years old, Em felt like a bad-tempered mom already.

‘You don’t have to do anything ’cept get your clothes on. Why does it take you twice as long as me?’

‘I’m
coming
,’ Sid yelled from the top of the stairs, pulling on his jacket. There was a bang, then another and another in a growing clatter as his marble collection began to empty itself down the staircase from his torn pockets.

‘Oh, Sid!’ Joyce giggled, hand over her mouth.

‘
It’s not funny
,’ Em raged at them. ‘We’re gunna be late again. Come on, Joycie – you get along to Dot’s. And I’m going without you, Sid – I’ve had enough of you!’

Leaving Sid scrabbling to pick up his marbles, which seemed to have to accompany him everywhere now marbles were all the rage, Em pulled Joyce through to the front, to tie a ribbon in her hair as Mom had always done. It was only then she noticed the piece of paper which must have been pushed under the door then blown to one side when Bob opened it to go to work. It was torn from a piece of brown parcel paper, folded over. Picking it up she saw writing scrawled on it, obviously in a hurry:

‘What’s that?’ Joyce was pushing at her to see.

‘Dunno.’ Em frowned. ‘Just Molly being silly. Come on.’

But Molly was not at school that day and soon the word got around that the Fox family had vanished in the night, lock, stock and barrel.

‘Trust that bloody shower to do a moonlight,’ was Dot’s comment that afternoon. ‘Never done an honest day’s work between the lot of ’em, that they haven’t. Well, good riddance, I say. Although Molly’s not all bad, considering, I’ll say that for ’er, poor kid.’

Em
had
missed Molly at school. She was surprised how much she had come to rely on her now everything had changed, as if she and Molly were bound together by troubles that neither of them could speak of.

‘Where d’you think they went?’ she asked Dot later, a lump in her throat.

Dot shrugged. Rather harshly she said, ‘Could be anywhere by now. The likes of them won’t be going far, though, I don’t s’pose, not with a handcart in the small hours.’ Then she noticed the tears welling in Em’s eyes. ‘Ahh – you and Molly were pals a bit, like, weren’t yer? Never mind, eh. Look, I made a few tarts today. They were for later really, but I’ll let you taste one as a treat to cheer you up. Come and sit at the table and have it.’

Em eagerly swallowed down Dot’s raspberry jam tart and it made her feel better for a little while, but it didn’t take away the sad, tight feeling she had inside.

Dot watched her wolfing down the pastry, touched by the way Em’s feet didn’t even reach the floor when she was on a chair. Poor little mite, she thought. Trying to be so grown-up when she’s only a babby really. She was about to tell Em that she was planning to visit her mother at the weekend, but she kept quiet. She’d see what state Cynthia was in first before she said anything. No point in causing more upset. Instead, she said, ‘Shall I give your hair a cut later? It’s getting in your eyes.’

Em nodded, scrambling up from the table. ‘Ta, Mrs Wiggins,’ she said. ‘But I’d better go now – I’ve got to go to Mrs Button’s.’ She ran out into the overcast afternoon.

‘Hello, little’un,’ Jenny Button greeted her as usual, as she appeared in her shop. ‘I’ve kept your bread for you. I’ve no cakes today, though, I’m a bit short. My Stanley’s a bit under the weather, see, so I’ve not had the time. Never mind, bab, there’ll be some tomorrow, I s’pect.’

Em smiled shyly and waited for the bread.

‘’Ere.’ Jenny Button leaned over the counter, and almost lost her balance for a second. ‘Ooh my – I’ll ’ave to watch myself. I nearly fell off! Made my heart go, that did!’ She peered towards the door to check they were really alone. ‘I ’aven’t seen
her
in here in a while.’

Em stared back at her, knowing she didn’t need to say anything. Mrs Button never spoke of Flossie Daw-son by name these days, nor anything else about her because anything she might have mentioned was not right to be spoken in the world of children. But it seemed to be her way of letting Em know she was on her side.

‘Ooh – now, I’ve got summat to show you,’ Jenny Button said, getting down wheezily from her stool. ‘Come through a minute.’

Em hesitated.

‘It’s all right – Stanley won’t mind. Come on – we won’t bite yer.’

Em followed Mrs Button’s panting progress through the back room. It was very stuffy and all she saw of Stanley was a mound of bedclothes. He must have been asleep. Mrs Button flung the door to the back yard open and said, ‘There you are – there’s my little lovely, just like I said.’

For a moment Em couldn’t think what she was talking about, but then, among all the chaotic array of pots taking up most of the yard, her eye was caught by the biggest plant which she remembered in the corner. The camellia’s tight green buds had opened out into the most beautiful crimson blooms and their deep red glowed in the winter light. The flowers were at their most perfect and Em gasped.

‘It’s lovely!’ she said. The gorgeous thing seemed to give off life and colour and joy, just when it was most needed, in the dead depths of winter.

‘Makes yer feel better to look at it, doesn’t it, bab?’ Jenny Button said, all smiles. ‘She’s my little love, she is – just look at her!’

Em was surprised to find she did feel a bit more cheerful as she came out of Mrs Button’s shop. Then she remembered Molly and her spirits sank again. She decided she’d creep into the yard where the Foxes lived and see. Had they really gone? In some ways she didn’t want to know the truth but she made herself walk up the entry of Seven Court, relieved to see that there was no one about in the yard.

The door of number four was ajar. Heart pounding at the thought of finding Iris Fox sitting inside staring at her, she pushed against it. She was ready to jump at the slightest thing, but the room was dark in the gloomy afternoon light, and empty. It looked very squalid, and was icy cold. The dull throb came through the wall from the factory. All that remained of the Fox family’s existence there was the old greasy range, scattered with grey ash, and, lurching on the top of it, a battered old kettle with its handle missing. There was a stale odour of smoke mixed with alcohol and the damp mustiness of the place. Altogether, the sight of it sapped Em’s spirits. It was so depressing. She didn’t go in further.

A slurred voice called to her from out of another of the windows as she left. ‘There ain’t no one there, they’ve all gone, and good riddance. And you can clear off an’ all!’

Em fled. She loathed Molly’s yard. They’re a rough lot in there, Cynthia always used to say. None of them seemed to have a kind word for anyone.

Going back into her own empty house, her spirits sank even lower. The tight feeling came back and she sat down at the table, kicking her legs against the chair. She kicked harder and harder. There was liver to cook – Dot had shown her how and she’d done it before. And she ought to be peeling the potatoes, which had nasty black bits in and always took her a long time in the cold, gritty water. But something stopped her. Harder and harder she kicked at the chair legs until she caught her ankle bone by accident and yelped with pain, her eyes filling.

‘Bugger it!
’ she shouted, nursing her smarting ankle.

She got up and filled the enamel bowl to peel the spuds, kneeling on a chair so she could reach the table, still bursting with mutinous feelings. Sid ran in and out and she snapped at him, and after a while Bob came back from work. He was covered in coal dust as ever, and tired. As he came in, taking off his coat, he called out, ‘Em?’

‘What?’

‘What’s for tea? You got it ready?’

She didn’t answer. The tight feeling seemed to rise up into her chest.

‘I’m talking to yer.’ He appeared in the doorway. ‘That as far as you’ve got?’

When she didn’t answer and kept her face mulishly turned down, he came and stood at the other side of the table.

‘What’s the hold-up? It ought to be ready by now. I’ve got to get out tonight, after tea.’

Something snapped in her then, the tight feeling bursting like a boil. Picking up a muddy potato she threw it straight at his face, then violently overturned the bowl of peelings so the water splashed down his front.

‘I hate you!’ she yelled at him. ‘And I hate doing all the work all the time. I’m not Mom! Make your own tea and stop bossing me about. All you care about is that bloody woman!’

There was a moment of stunned silence, both of them aghast.

‘Christ – you little bugger,’ Bob started on her, his voice rising as he wiped the dirty water from his face. ‘I’ll put you over my cowing knee . . .’

‘I don’t care!’ She stamped upstairs and fell onto her bed, curling up tight, her arms round Princess Lucy, sobbing so hard she could scarcely breathe as weeks of pent-up grief and despair flooded out of her. Her tears rested like tiny jewels on Princess Lucy’s embroidered face and on the old grey blanket before sinking in, forming little wet patches. She didn’t hear Bob coming up the stairs but she did feel the bed sink down as he sat beside her. She curled up tighter, afraid he’d punish her. The old dad wouldn’t have, but this new, faithless dad – you never knew what he might do.

‘Em?’

He spoke roughly as he had no other way of speaking, but she could tell he wasn’t angry. She listened in silence.

‘I know yer doing yer best, wench. I shouldn’t’ve been so hard on yer.’

She was too far gone now to hold back. Jerking up onto one elbow she cried, ‘What about Mom? You said you’d bring her home. You
promised
, and you never even go and see her. And what about Mrs Dawson? She ain’t your wife. You’re no good for us, Dad.’ She fixed him with a heartbroken stare, not caring if he punished her. Nothing could feel any worse now. ‘You’re just no good.’

She saw his face twitch, ripples of conflicting emotions passing through: anger, sorrow, pain. Mostly pain. He raised his head towards the dusky light seeping through the window and took a big, shuddering breath. He looked as if he was about to say something, but he choked it back.

‘I don’t know what to say to yer,’ was what came out eventually. ‘I want to give yer a clout for talking to me like that, but I know I’m in the wrong. I dunno what’s happened . . . to all of us . . . It didn’t ought to be like this . . .’ He sat for a few moments longer, then roughly patted her shoulder. ‘Look, love, I’ll go and do the spuds.’