A Hopscotch Summer (29 page)

Gradually the news spread throughout the neighbourhood and gossiping voices looked at the situation from every angle.

Em dreaded going out, knowing that everyone was tattling about her and her family. All the months she had hung on while Mom was in the hospital, wishing and praying for her family to be together again, and now this – Dad was gone instead, and living with that woman and horrible Daisy Dawson.

Sid took it very badly as well and played up. His bedwetting had got better since Mom came home but now it started again with a vengeance.

They saw their father coming back from work on the Wednesday and all left the rope they’d been skipping with and ran to him as he came down the road.

‘Dad, Dad!’

Bob tried to smile but his eyes showed the tension in them as they swarmed round him.

‘All right, kids, all right. Hey, don’t push me over, lad! How’s yer mother?’

‘She keeps crying,’ Joyce said. ‘When’re you going to come home, Dad?’

He straightened up, pushing them away. ‘I’m not sure. Can’t tell yer.’

And he was gone.

‘Yer dirty bastard!’ they heard a woman’s voice shout from one of the houses along the street.

The words made Em curl up inside, hearing her dad being called names like that! It made her feel sick with shame. But
why
was he living with Mrs Dawson, just when Mom had finally come home? Why was Mrs Dawson going on about a baby? What did that have to do with them and why did Dad have to look after her? She didn’t understand any of it. She lay awake that night, burning inside at the injustice of it all and with rage at her father. All the struggling she’d done, all the work and drudgery, missing school, trying to keep things going while Mom was away, and he’d gone and spoiled it all just like that, thrown it all away without a care! She turned to the wall and sobbed with hurt, anger and helplessness. Beneath all her rage was the longing for him to come home, to be her daddy, and for things to be right. Spent with sobbing, she rolled onto her back, staring up into the darkness. And that was when she decided it was up to her. Mom and Dad couldn’t seem to sort themselves out.

Next day, still fit to explode, she waited until she knew Bob would be back from work, then marched round to Flossie’s house. She didn’t even tell Molly where she was going. Molly had joined in one of the skipping games which had taken over the street and Em ran off, leaving her to it.

Her courage high, she hammered her fists on Flossie’s door.

Daisy opened it.

‘Oh, what
d’you
want?’ she asked sneeringly.

‘I want me dad.’

‘Well, you’re flaming well welcome to him –
I
don’t want him here!’ Daisy snarled.

She disappeared and Em heard low voices inside. A smell of stew and cabbage wafted out to her along the hall. She stood with her fists clenched. From the back room she heard Mrs Dawson say harshly, ‘You just button your lip, Daisy, or else.’ Then Bob appeared.

‘Em?’ He sounded worried. ‘What’s up, love?’

‘You’ve got to come home, Dad!’ she erupted at him. It all started pouring out and tears came as well. ‘It’s horrible you living here and everyone saying dirty things about you. We want you at home! So what if Mrs Dawson’s having a babby, our mom’s got a babby as well and the rest of us. It’s stupid and it’s not
fair
! You’re our dad and you used to be nice and you ain’t any more. You’re nasty and
stupid
!’ In enraged frustration she stamped her foot, shrieking and sobbing like a tiny child.

‘Hey, Em!’ Bob tried to sound appeasing. His voice was wretched. ‘Don’t go on like that now. You’ll get everyone upset. It’ll all be all right . . .’

‘No, it
won’t
!’ She was beside herself now at this hopeless response. ‘Why won’t you listen? Mom’s not well and we’re all on our own and you’ve got to come home! Why’re you living here with this silly woman?’

‘Oh now, bab . . .’ He sank down onto the step, squatting so he could look into her face. ‘Come on, Em – c’m’ere.’ He held his arms out.

‘NO!’ she shouted, backing away.

‘All right. But come here while I talk to yer. To try and explain . . .’

‘Bob, what’s going on?’ Em heard Flossie’s voice from inside.

‘Nothing much. I’ll be in in a minute.’ He sounded almost fearful. Em froze inside. Her tears stopped.
Nothing much
.

‘You’re
stupid
!’ she cried, taking off down the road. ‘I hate you!’

Bob turned up on the Friday evening of that miserable week and shamefacedly handed Cynthia most of the contents of his wage packet. The sight of him on the doorstep, knocking like a visitor, felt worse to Cynthia than anything else.

‘Didn’t expect to see yer,’ she said coldly, facing him with her arms folded, fighting to remain proud and hostile when all she wanted to do was weep and beg him to come home.

‘Don’t want you to go short,’ he said.

‘Oh, and what about
poor
Mrs Dawson?’ she said savagely. ‘Won’t she go short if you give us your wages?’

Bob hung his head. ‘We’ll manage.’ He dared to look up at her for a moment. ‘I could come and help you do a few things.’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ Her anger flared out at him. ‘You don’t have it both ways. You’ve shown where you want to be so you can bloody stay there, with your floozy and her sodding brat. You made your bed and you lie on it, and good luck to the two of yer!’

She slammed the door in his face. Leaning against it, her face contorted in anguish and she slid down, shaking with sobs.

During that week she and Dot had helped each other out as usual, and talked endlessly over what had happened and more on finding out about Flossie Dawson.

‘I can’t see what good all this is going to do,’ Cynthia said sometimes, in a desperate voice.

‘You just wait and see,’ Dot told her. ‘We’re gunna get that bitch – one way or another.’

No one in the neighbourhood seemed to know a thing about her, though she was not greatly liked. People found her stand-offish, as if she thought she was better than anyone else. Now she had made off with the father of a popular family in the street when his wife hadn’t been well, no one had a good word to say about her.

They resolved to do something at the weekend when Molly could help them. In the meantime, though, Molly was in more trouble.

She turned up at school one morning that week with her face badly bruised again, her left cheekbone very shiny and swollen. She was obviously in pain, and after struggling through school that day, with everyone’s comments and questions, she paid her usual visit to Mrs Button’s.

‘My house can be your home from home,’ Jenny Button had told her. And Molly loved going there, where she was received with the kindness and affection that had been so lacking in her life, and often cake or other treats as well.

But that day Jenny Button took one look at her and climbed soberly off her stool. She lifted the counter and beckoned Molly through to the back.

‘Look at this, Stanley.’ Her voice was clipped with rage as she pushed Molly before her husband.

‘Oh my,’ Stanley said, seeing Molly’s injured face.

‘Who did that to you, love?’ Jenny asked, already certain of the answer.

Molly squatted down, taking refuge in stroking Bullseye’s wiry coat.

‘Was it your mom?’

Molly nodded shamefully. ‘It was only cos she’d had a bit to drink . . .’

‘Right.’ Jenny Button unfastened her pinner and flung it on the chair. ‘Come on – I’m taking you home.’

‘No!’ Molly’s head jerked up. ‘I’ll go on my own!’ she cried, horrified. ‘You mustn’t come!’

‘And why not?’ Jenny Button asked.

‘Cos she gets so angry. I don’t want no trouble. You don’t know what she might do.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Jenny Button said. ‘Don’t worry, Molly. I’ve just got a few things to say to her. Now you lead the way.’

‘Please don’t!’ Molly was almost in tears. She wanted sympathy, but not trouble.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Jenny Button said firmly. ‘All I want is a quick word with her.’

Molly fearfully led Jenny Button’s determined, waddling figure along to Lupin Street and into the latest poverty-stricken yard where the Foxes had taken up residence. In fact it was not quite as dismal as the one in Kenilworth Street, being a little wider and open to more sunlight. But Jenny Button, a clean, fastidious woman, wrinkled her nose in dismay at the sight of the piles of rubbish up at the far end and the doors of the shared privies swinging open on their hinges.

She had reason to recoil further. There was already a whiff outside the door of the Foxes’ house, and when Molly pushed it open the smell that hit her from that small downstairs room was ferocious. Jenny had time just to take in the two men in their chairs, who seemed to be taking up most of the space, the older one with grizzled mutton-chop whiskers, the other pale and prematurely aged. Molly disappeared inside and Iris Fox loomed from behind the door. As usual she was dressed all in black, and her eyes were glazed and senseless with drink. She leaned voluptuously against one side of the door frame.

‘Who’re you?’ she demanded, trying to focus her gaze. ‘Oh, it’s you – what d’you want? Come to interfere in other people’s business, ’ave yer?’

Jenny Button was barely four feet ten inches in height, but she pulled herself to the full extent of it and looked forbiddingly at Iris, without the slightest hint of fear.

‘You don’t deserve to have a child,’ she began. ‘You’re a bloody disgrace and you only want her as your little skivvy.’

‘It weren’t me!’ Iris said petulantly. ‘I never lay a finger on ’er – do I, Molly?’

There was no reply. Molly seemed to have disappeared into the house.

‘It’s ’er Dad ’its ’er,’ Iris confided, in a self-pitying whine. ‘’E’s not right in the ’ead – the war done ’im. I’m as good as widowed . . .’

Barely able to control her temper, Jenny Button moved closer to Iris’s bulky figure. ‘You aren’t the only one with a ruined husband, you know – only some of us work for a living instead of drowning our sorrows. Now, you lay your finger on Molly again, and I’ll report you for child cruelty.’

‘Oh, will yer?’ Iris’s foul temper soon surfaced. ‘Yer sodding nosy cow! What’s it got to do with you? Who’re you gunna report me to any road? There ain’t no one knows us.’

‘Oh, make no mistake,’ Jenny came back at her. ‘There’s the Welfare people, the police, the NSPCC – they come and take children away when the family ain’t fit. And I’ll tell you something, you filthy slattern – you do anything to hurt this young wench and I’ll take her away myself. Oh,’ she added. ‘And I expect your old landlord’d like to know where you are an’ all . . .’

‘Don’t you bloody dare tell ’im, the bastard!’ Iris roared, bunching her fist.

‘You gunna hit me an’ all, then?’ Jenny turned away with a disgusted look. ‘You’d better remember what I’ve said.’

‘That’s right, you get out of ’ere before I punch yer lights out!’ Iris bawled after her. ‘Yer nosy, meddling bitch!’

Jenny picked her way with dignity back down the entry and out into Lupin Street. Lord, if she could only get that child away from that house! The vile stench of the place seemed to be burned into her nostrils, almost making her gag. There was something horribly familiar about it and it was only as she was walking back across Great Lister Street that it came to her what it was. Old Reggie, a friend of Stan’s, had died shortly after the war, of a wound that never healed. His house had also been filled with that ghastly, suppurating smell, which she now recognized as the deathly odour of gangrene.

On Saturday afternoon, Cynthia and Dot set off for Aston with Molly and Em in tow. They had been discussing it all week. Molly was to show them the way.

‘Why does your mom want to go and see Mrs Floozy’s sister anyway?’ Molly asked Em. They always called Flossie Mrs Floozy now.

Em shrugged angrily. ‘Dunno.’ She didn’t care. She just wanted Flossie Dawson to disappear in a puff of smoke and have everything back as it should be.

‘There’s no point in all of us going,’ Cynthia had argued to Dot. ‘Molly can show me where the house is . . .’

‘No – I’m not having you going off on your own, the state you’re in. You don’t know how you might be treated by that trollop’s sister! And if Molly’s got to come, Em can keep her company.’

‘It’ll cost us in tram fares . . .’ Cynthia was all nerves.

‘Don’t be daft – we’ll walk,’ Dot said. ‘That’s if you’re up to it.’

It was a couple of miles away, but Saturday dawned dry and quite warm and the four of them set off, leaving the younger children to be minded by a neighbour. They even took bread and butter, some cake and bottles of tea.

‘Might as well make an outing of it,’ Dot said.

Em’s spirits rose once they’d set off and they were away from the familiar streets of home. It suddenly felt like fun, an adventure, and Dot had brought a picnic! She and Molly skipped along, chattering away behind the two mothers.

‘What if she’s not in?’ Cynthia said uneasily to Dot.

‘Well, we’ll have to wait till she is,’ Dot said. ‘Don’t s’pose she’ll go far.’

‘I just hope Molly knows what she’s on about after all this,’ Cynthia said doubtfully. Molly was certain that the address was close to the park in Aston, because she had been on her way there that day she had spotted Daisy Dawson.

‘It’s quite a tall house,’ she said. ‘With a black front door and a big brass knocker.’

‘All right, bab,’ Dot told her. ‘Well, we’re counting on you.’

Em was impressed by Molly’s sense of direction. Aston, to her, seemed a confusing place, stinking of vinegar from the sauce factory and with streets leading off in every direction, jam-packed with houses, and she was sure she would never be able to find her way back home from here. But Molly led them with hardly any hesitation towards Aston Park and off along a street of solid, respectable-looking terraces, bigger than they were used to seeing in Kenilworth Street, with little gardens at the front.

‘You sure about this, Molly?’ Dot said, looking anxious.

Molly nodded. She was walking faster now. ‘It’s just up ’ere, on the left.’

She stopped suddenly, pointing.

‘Well, I never,’ Cynthia said. And then, ‘Oh, I don’t know about this . . .’

There was the black front door with its brass knocker. The house was three storeys and seemed to loom over them. At the front were a couple of sad, scrubby-looking bushes and the flower beds along the front of the house were neglected and choked with weeds.

‘This doesn’t feel right,’ Cynthia said shakily. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say . . .’

‘You can just say what’s happened. Polite, like. God knows, Cynth, you’ve got a right to know a bit about the woman. She’s stolen your husband! Look, shall I come in with yer?’

‘No – best not. It’ll look like a gang turning up. You wait with the girls.’ Cynthia took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back. ‘Oh – I don’t know why I’m doing this. I must be off my head . . . Still – ’ there was a wry flicker of a smile – ‘I have just come out of the asylum.’

‘You’ll be all right,’ Dot said. She suddenly took each of the girls by the hand and they retreated even further and stood by someone’s front gate. Em liked the feeling of holding Dot’s hand, though she didn’t enjoy the idea of her mother disappearing into this strange house.

They saw Cynthia look up and down the road then go to the front door. The sound of the knocker rat-tatted along the street. Then it went quiet.

‘Come on!’ Dot said. ‘We’ll just walk past.’

As they strolled along the street they were just in time to catch sight of Cynthia’s back disappearing into the dark hall of the house. The door closed.

It seemed an age that they waited, walking round and round the block, not liking to go too far away in case Cynthia came out again. Dot was left with the task of jollying the children along in these odd circumstances.

‘After this is over,’ she said, ‘we’ll go and have our bit of picnic. Nice day for it.’

She chatted to the two girls, trying to make things sound calm and normal, and they brightened when she promised them some sweets as well. But every so often she’d say in a worried voice, ‘Oh my goodness, I wonder what on earth’s going on . . .’

At last, when they had done another turn-about of the roads close to Flossie’s sister’s house, rounding the corner past the little shop, which was by now coming to seem familiar after several laps, they saw Cynthia coming along towards them.

‘Mom!’ Em broke away and ran towards her.

‘You’ve been ages!’ Dot cried, as she and Molly ran to catch up. ‘Are you all right? What did she say?’

It was then that they all took in the stunned expression on Cynthia’s face. She was shaking her head as if she could not find the words.

‘It wasn’t a she,’ she gobbled at last, pointing back, wide-eyed, at the house. ‘It was a he. That man in there is Flossie Dawson’s husband – and she’s still married to him.’