A Hopscotch Summer (7 page)

Molly stepped out of the entry from the yard into Kenilworth Street, glad of the swathing October fog in which she could hide as she peered cautiously up and down. She shivered, having no top coat to her name and only a threadbare jersey as an outer garment. There were other children dawdling on their way to school and she could see the coalman’s cart emerging out of the murk at the far end of the road. She checked instinctively for danger, this time in the shape of Katie O’Neill, and as there was no sign of her she ran across Kenilworth Street and knocked urgently on the door of number eighteen.

Her nervousness made her jiggle up and down, and for a second she was frightened she was going to wet herself. It just seemed to come over her sometimes and she was weeing without knowing it was going to happen. She stood scratching the itchy patches inside her elbows, through her clothes.

The door opened a crack and she could just make out Em’s frightened face in the gloom.

‘Oh – it’s you.’ Em opened the door a fraction wider.

‘Who did yer think it was, the bogeyman?’

‘Nah, stupid, the wag man.’ Em came out onto the step and looked up and down even more fearfully.

‘Well, ain’t yer coming to school again, then?’

Retreating inside, Em shook her head. Her face was pale, her fringe needed cutting and she didn’t look like the usual carefree Em. Molly wanted Em to smile and skip along the road with her. Em was being quite nice to her these days, even though she was Katie O’Neill’s friend, but now she’d suddenly stopped coming to school.

‘Tell ’em I’m poorly,’ Em said.

‘What’s up with yer, then?’ In her disappointment it came out harshly.

‘Nothing.’ Em glanced behind her, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘It’s my mom. She ain’t too good. I gotta stay home and help ’er.’

Molly had heard the rumours about Mrs Brown. She’d never ‘picked up’ after the babby, everyone said. Wouldn’t go out. The gossips said she couldn’t even get down to Great Lister Street for a pound of potatoes. Dot Wiggins was doing her shopping for her and minding Joycie every day, and Em was keeping house. It was a shame. Molly found it very strange that Em was kept at home. Iris couldn’t get
her
out of the door quick enough.

Out of the corner of her eye Molly suddenly saw a figure approaching who she didn’t want to meet: Katie was coming, on her way to school.

‘You gunna play out after?’ she said, backing swiftly down the step. ‘Everyone’s playing tipcat.’

Em shook her head. ‘I dunno.’

‘Gotta go,’ Molly said hurriedly. ‘T’ra.’

But it was too late.

‘What’re you doing here, stinky?’ Katie said, as Em closed the door.

‘Calling for Em,’ Molly said, trying to be defiant. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

Katie’s face screwed up and she reached out and pinched the one piece of soft, bare flesh she could find at the side of Molly’s neck.

‘Cos you aren’t her friend, so don’t think you are!’ Katie sneered. ‘Why’d she want to be friends with you, yeller drawers? And anyhow, she ain’t coming to school, dain’t yer know? Stale buns for tea!’

Katie’s slim figure and long swinging hair flounced past her and along the street. Showing off to Molly, she called out to two other girls and linked arms with them and they went along chattering excitedly towards the school.

Molly watched, feeling shut out as usual. She was always on the wrong side of the window pane, looking in. School was bad enough, but now Em wasn’t even there either . . .

Trying to shrug off her loneliness, she dragged her way along the street towards the yawning doors of hell, or rather the elementary school.

‘Shall I make you a cuppa tea, Mom?’

Em stood timidly at the door of the bedroom. Cynthia lay in bed on her side with Violet beside her, suckling. She raised dull eyes to her daughter. Her face was gaunt now, with dark circles under her eyes. She could not sleep properly, and she was barely eating, so the weight was dropping off her.

‘All right, love,’ she whispered in the flat voice with which she spoke all the time now, as if the life had been drained out of her.

‘I’ll put four sugars in it,’ Em said. It was the only way she could think of lavishing care on her mother that might be acceptable.

‘You’ve gotta get her to eat summat,’ Bob kept urging. ‘She won’t take any notice of me and you’re the one here all day. Try and get summat down her.’

But this was easier said than done, Em thought. You could lead a horse to water . . . And she wasn’t used to ordering her mom around!

She went down to the silent kitchen. Sid was already at school and Dot had come and taken Joyce next door.

‘I’ll come back in a bit, bab, when I can find the time,’ Dot had told her kindly. ‘Only I’m rushed off my feet at the moment what with the girls and all the washing and that. ’Ere – I’d better help you with yours an’ all.’

With her brisk, effective movements she’d got a fire going under the copper in the back kitchen, ready for the washing.

‘Now, you get started and I’ll see yer later. You know what to do, don’t yer? You’ve seen your mom do it hundreds of times. If you need some help just come running round, all right? Come on, Joycie – our Nance is waiting for you.’

Joyce had trotted off happily. She and Sid were aware that their mom was poorly but they were busy getting on with their lives. The burden fell on Em. And she noticed her dad seemed to be out even more than usual these days. He had been kind and helpful for a short time but now he was running out of patience.

‘You’re going to have to pull yerself together, Cynth,’ he’d said when he got home, tired, the night before. ‘It’s no good, we can’t go on like this.’

His anger and her own hopelessness had reduced Cynthia to tears once again.

‘For God’s sake, woman – is that all yer can do? Sit and blart? That won’t get us our dinner on the table, will it?’

Em had been shaken by her father’s angry words. She’d run upstairs and hidden in her room. She knew most people’s moms and dads had fights and shouting matches. Josie and Eamon Donnelly two doors away were forever at it like cats and dogs. But her mom and dad had always been different. They rubbed along without yelling and carrying-on. They’d been good pals. Hearing the hurt and fury in her father’s voice had rocked Em’s world. She wondered how she could make things right. If she was good, and did everything, maybe Mom would get better and they could all go back to normal.

Down in the kitchen now she tied one of her mother’s pinners over her clothes. It was a faded pink thing which could have reached round her several times and she had to hitch the hem up into her drawers. Then she put the kettle on, her skinny arms shaking as she hauled its weight up onto the hob. First opening the back door to let out the steam from the hot water in the copper, as she knew Mom always did, she dragged a chair over to it to add the Hudson’s soap – a bit too much, she realized, making the water froth – before climbing up and down with armfuls of washing which she shoved down into the copper with the wooden tongs which were almost as big as she was. Once the kettle boiled she mashed the tea, sweating with the effort of controlling the big kettle. When it had had its five-minute brew she poured herself and Cynthia a cup, spooning plenty of sugar into both. She loved sweet tea.

‘Here y’are, Mom,’ she said proudly.

Cynthia had finished feeding Violet, who was lying kicking on the bed. At six weeks old she was filling out into a pretty little thing. Cynthia barely seemed to have the strength to sit up.

‘Ta, love.’ She looked down, as if unable to bear the sweet sight of her daughter in the huge pinner, trying so hard to do everything right.

Em sat on the side of the bed and tickled Violet’s tummy, which made her squirm and kick even more. She gave a little gurgle and Em laughed.

‘She’s smiling, Mom!’ She looked up eagerly. ‘She’s ever so pretty now – you’re a good girl, aren’t you, Violet!’ She kissed her sister’s tiny cheek, then looked up, burbling eagerly, ‘I’ve got the first lot of washing in the copper so I’ll go down and get it in the maiding tub in a minute. Then I can get the next lot on and I’ll have it all hung out in the yard soon.’

She wanted to please Mom, to show how much of a help she was being, but Cynthia put her hand over her eyes.

‘Just go on down, will yer, Em, please. Just leave me. I can’t stand it.’

Cut to the quick, and afraid Cynthia might start crying again, Em clomped down the stairs. She spent the morning washing furiously and sloshing a good deal of scummy water all over the kitchen floor and out into the little yard at the back. Hauling the wet clothes out of the copper to put them in the maiding tub, she ended up clutching them against her body. Soon she was soaked to the skin, even her boots filling with water. At first her sodden clothes were still warm as she energetically pounded the washing with the wooden dolly and rinsed it in the sink. But when she took it outside in the tin pail to mangle it and hang it out, the cold wind cut through her wet clothes, making her teeth chatter.

The mangle was a stiff old thing and Em was already exhausted. Trying to work it on her own was nigh-on impossible. She could not hold the wet garments and sheets off the ground as well as turn the handle and the ends kept dropping in the dirt so she had to rinse them all over again. The third time she saw a sheet fall to the filthy ground, she sank onto her knees, buried her head in the wet cotton and burst into tears of desperate frustration.

‘I’ll never get it done!’ she sobbed. ‘I’ll be here forever and ever.’

Dot’s face appeared over the wall. ‘Eh, bab, what’s up? Oh you’re not trying to do all that on your own are yer, yer silly sausage! You should’ve come and got me – you can’t do all that without someone else. No wonder you’re getting in a mess! And you’re dripping wet, look at yer!’

Dot was round in a trice and soon they had her first lot of washing on the line. As it was now a sunny day, Em knew with pride that though it was cold, at least the washing would probably dry, as, eventually, would her own clothes.

She put more washing into the copper, topping up its grey contents with a bucketful of clean water, and started all over again. The morning flew by and she had no time to miss being at school or her friends, or even to think about the dreaded knock on the door from the School Board man. If he came, she told herself, she’d hide down in the coal cellar, even though it frightened her to death down there because she was afraid of the dark and of rats and roaches and anything whatsoever that might be lurking down in the sooty darkness. Even they weren’t as frightening, though, as the official man who might come knocking for her.

Once the last wash was done, and Dot had come back to help her mangle it and it was all hanging out, Em’s arms and shoulders were aching, her legs weak from all the effort. Dot went home, telling her to make herself and her mother a bite to eat. Before she left, she helped Em cut some slices of bread and smeared them with margarine.

‘And try and see she eats some of it, eh? I must go and finish my own wash now, bab. I’ll see yer later on.’

Em cut a piece of cheese and wolfed it down with the bread. Then she took a similar plateful up to her mother.

Cynthia was still lying there, staring at the ceiling. Em saw that she had used the chamber pot but apart from that it was as if she had barely moved. Half the tea remained undrunk. Em took the chamber pot downstairs to empty, then slipped back into the room.

‘All the washing’s on the line,’ she reported, standing timidly by the bed. ‘And it’s a nice day.’

Cynthia turned her head, her brown eyes searching her daughter’s face. As if summoning her strength, she said, ‘You’re golden, Em. You’re a good girl. Sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to be nasty.’

‘S’all right,’ Em said, tears prickling in her eyes.

‘Has Dot been back?’

‘Yes. She gave me a hand.’

‘I’m sorry, love.’ Cynthia’s eyes filled. Em’s stomach tightened with dread. She wished Mom wouldn’t keep saying sorry. ‘You should be at school with yer pals. I just can’t seem to help myself.’

‘Never mind, Mom, you just get a bit of rest,’ Em said, feeling very grown-up. ‘You going to eat summat?’

Cynthia shook her head, glancing down the bed to where Violet was still on the go. ‘Can you take her off me for a bit?’

‘Yes, Mom.’

She picked up her wriggling sister from the bed and carried her downstairs and out into the yard. Next door, Dot was still hanging out her washing. She waved, seeing Em in the yard with Violet in her arms.

‘You all right, bab? Washing’s drying nicely! Yer a good’un!’

Em smiled and waved, feeling proud of herself. But soon a cold, sinking feeling came over her. At first it had just been the odd day she’d had to stay off school – to help on wash day, or if Mom was feeling especially bad – but now it was getting to be all the time. She hadn’t been to school for a full week now and, when she stopped for long enough to think, she felt lonely and frightened. She just wanted Dot, or someone, anyone, to come and take over everything, to look after them all so she could go back to school, see her friends and stop being a mom and housekeeper at the tender age of eight.

It was late afternoon and school was out. Em answered a knock at the door, holding a grizzling Violet.

‘You coming out?’ Katie asked. She wrinkled her nose at the grimy state Em was in, and Violet burped up some milk which trickled over Em’s wrist.

‘I dunno,’ Em said helplessly. She could see Sid tearing up and down the horse road and she ached to be out there with everyone. She’d got all the washing in and minded Violet all afternoon and she was fed up with the game of housekeeping. ‘I’ll go and ask.’

Cynthia told her she could go out so long as she kept an eye on Sid and got on with the cooking in time.

‘Your dad needs his tea soon as he gets in, so don’t be out too long. Dot’ll help you.’

Em handed Violet back and tore downstairs and out into the street, released. It was a chilly but fine evening and there were games going on everywhere. Sid was swinging from a rope tied to the lamp post and he swung himself at her as she came along, his feet, clad in his heavy
Birmingham Daily Mail
boots, almost kicking the side of her head. The boots were issued as charity by the local paper to those considered the deserving poor.

‘Gerroff, Sid!’ Em said crossly.

Sid thumbed his nose at her and ran off.

‘Hello, Em!’ Mrs Button hailed her from the door of her shop. ‘How’s yer mother?’

‘All right,’ Em said.

‘She looking any better?’

Em shrugged. She didn’t understand what the matter with Mom was so it was hard to say if she was looking better. She just wanted her back, singing and cooking and bustling around downstairs.

‘Wish ’er well from me,’ Mrs Button said.

Further along there was one of several games of tipcat in progress. The game involved hitting a ‘tipcat’, a piece of wood just a few inches long and sharpened to a point at each end. With a bat the player hit the tipcat while it was on the ground to send it flying into the air, to be hit with the bat as far as possible. The next player was supposed to guess how many jumps or hops it would take to reach the tipcat and award points accordingly. If the first player didn’t think the score was high enough they would hop the distance to check the points. The player with the most points was the winner.

Em saw Molly standing by one group of players, trying, as always, to edge her way into the game.

‘Why did old stinky come to your house this morning?’ Katie asked.

Em was about to answer when Molly caught sight of them and came trotting over.

‘You allowed out, then, Em?’ she said in her plaintive way that made Em feel both sorry for her and intensely irritated at the same time. She didn’t really want Molly around but couldn’t bring herself to be nasty to her the way Katie could, so she just nodded.

She and Katie were quickly absorbed into the game, as popular members of the street groups, while Molly was still left out. Em was too desperate to play and forget all her duties at home to notice and before long she was holding the bat and whacking the tipcat as hard as she could along the street, all thoughts of cooking tea or keeping house chased from her mind. Katie, who was missing her at school, was pleased to be out playing with her and soon they were laughing and joking as usual.

Em was so taken up with the game that she didn’t notice the sun sinking down, the chill fingers of smoky autumn mist reaching along the road. She was catching up on the school gossip and company.

Suddenly, though, she froze. Looking along the road she saw Bob heading towards them, on his way back from work.

‘Is that the time already?’ she gasped. ‘I’ve gotta go!’

Without further explanation she tore off along the road and into the house. She looked round in utter dismay. She’d worked so hard that day and thought she had left everything in order, but what a mess it all looked now! There were piles of the clean washing she’d brought in from the line on the table and chairs, the copper was still full of scummy water, the floor was muddy and there were unwashed pots from last night that she’d completely forgotten about washing. And on top of that she hadn’t even begun on the cooking!

What should she do? She was supposed to be boiling potatoes. Water – that was what was needed! She scrubbed out the biggest saucepan and filled it with water to put on the range. It was only then she realized that the worst disaster possible had happened. She had let the fire go out!

She was standing staring in horror at the lifeless range when the door juddered open and her father came in. He hung his coat and cap on the back of the door then turned to face the darkened room.

‘It’s dark as the grave in ’ere,’ he complained, going to light the gas. ‘How’s yer mother?’

‘In bed,’ Em said carefully.

Just then Sid came bursting in through the door with Joyce.

‘What’s for tea?’ he yelled with his usual exuberance.

Em saw her father taking in the state of the room.

‘Tea nearly ready?’

Tremulously, Em said, ‘The range’s gone out, Dad.’

He stood very still for a minute, then suddenly hurled himself into action, grabbing the bundles of washing from the chairs into one big heap on the table.

‘Get rid of this lot for a start!’ he roared. ‘There’s nowhere even to sit down. And where’s my bloody tea, eh? D’yer mean you haven’t even started? I’ve ’ad enough of this – the whole bloody thing. Her lying about up there . . .’ He stormed up the staircase.

Joyce and Sid stood cowering and all Em could think of doing was moving the washing out of the way. She couldn’t think where to put it and in her panic decided to run upstairs and take it to her bedroom. It took her two journeys and as she passed Mom and Dad’s room, where the door was slammed shut, she heard him shouting and her mother crying.

‘I’ve had enough of this! You’ve got to get yerself up. Lying around here all day while the place is going to rack and ruin . . . It were all very well after the babby but ’er’s weeks old now and yer still ain’t pulled yerself together. For God’s sake, what’s the matter with yer, woman? Look at me when I’m talking to yer! You’re no bloody good to anyone, that you’re not. I’ll ’ave to go out and get us some dinner – it’s too late to start it now.’

As Em crept down after depositing the second load of laundry on the bed she heard, ‘I want you back to normal tomorrow or there’ll be trouble, that there bloody will. Call yerself a wife! I’m not sticking around to be treated like this, like I don’t exist, that I’m not! And you’d better be able to hear what I’m saying, yer useless cow.’

Bob came down and said furiously, ‘Fetch us a basin, Em. I’m going out to get us all some dinner.’

He returned later with a basin of steaming faggots and peas. Bob sent Sid up to his mother with some food, then they sat at the table in a strained silence. Em tucked in, realizing suddenly how hungry she was, but she could see Joyce just playing with her food, casting fearful looks at their father. He shovelled his portion down then went and put on his coat again.

‘Get them to bed,’ he said to Em in a horrible clipped voice that she wasn’t used to. ‘I’m going out. And make sure this place is cleared up by the time I get back. It looks like a pigsty.’

And he was gone, slamming the door.

Bob stormed along the road towards his favourite watering hole, head down, his collar up against the cold wind. Inside he was a tangle of frightening feelings. The most immediate were anger and resentment at being so disregarded. Here he was, a working man, the breadwinner, and not a crust on the table to greet him when he arrived home! He was worried about Cynth, of course, and his worry translated into more anger. What the hell was the matter? Why couldn’t she pull herself together and get on with it like other women did – like Dot, for example? Dot had always been a ball of fire, and no mistake!

A neighbour greeted Bob as he strode along Kenilworth Street but he passed without noticing, scowling into the darkness.

Nothing could happen to Cynth – for God’s sake, she was his earth, sun and stars! Ever since he’d seen her that day on the tram everything had felt right. Cynth had healed the ache, the thirst in him that had lingered ever since his mother died, shortly followed by his father, both of influenza. He and his brothers had gone into the Boys’ Home on the Vauxhall Road. They had each other, of course, and the company of other lads. They’d been fed and clothed, and the Home had helped them into the adult world of work so that most of them could fend for themselves. But nothing could ever fill the void of love that they’d lost. They were special to no one, nobody ever looked into their eyes with love or put their arms around them. All the longing of Bob’s scarred childhood had found fulfilment in Cynthia. His Cynth, his kids – they were his everything! Without them nothing made any sense. And now, look what was happening to her! She’d left him as surely as if she’d packed a bag and walked out of the door, slamming it behind her. When she lay with that blank expression as if something in her had died, or gone far, far away from him, he wanted to get hold of her and shake her, to make her come back to him. The feeling frightened him to death.

‘’Er’d better be all right tomorrow or there’s no telling what I might do,’ he growled to himself. ‘This is no way for a wife to go on.’ He stopped abruptly in the street as tears welled in his eyes. There was a tight feeling in his chest and his throat ached. For God’s sake, what was the matter with him?

Dashing the tears away furiously with the back of his hand he hurried the last few steps to the Crown and pushed open the door into a refuge of light, the familiar smells of ale and smoke, sodden sawdust on the floor and the talk and laughter of other men.