Fourteen
Em sat on the second stair from the top, rocking back and forth, her fingers rammed into her ears. Her old grey skirt was spotted from crying, her vision blurred by more tears welling in her eyes. Behind the bedroom door, Mom was crying and Violet grizzling. The sounds tore at her and she tried to plug her ears even harder. But she couldn’t seem to move away.
It was a week since that terrible night when she had let the range go out so she couldn’t cook Dad’s tea, and in that time she had been to school only once.
Cynthia felt very bad in the mornings.
‘You’ll have to stay at home, Em. I can’t manage, just can’t . . .’ she’d say, in the flat, hopeless tone that Em had come to dread as much as the blank look in her eyes. ‘You’re the eldest and you’re a good girl. I need you to help.’
Staying at home spelled another lonely day of pounding at pails full of washing, black-leading the range, scrubbing and cooking. She didn’t do the outside jobs like washing down and whitening the front step, or going to the shops, because she was afraid of the wag man seeing her. She stayed hidden inside. Dot popped in whenever she could but she was overstretched herself and now had Joyce to mind as well. By the afternoon Cynthia sometimes felt a bit better and could drag herself down and cook Bob’s tea. She would move round the house as if in a trance, and quite often sink into a chair when in the middle of something and just leave off, forgetting what she was doing. Frequently she was so irritable that Em could do nothing right, and both of them would end up in tears. Other times she was childlike and pathetically gentle, wanting Em to do everything for her. And she was so frightened. She thought all the neighbours were watching her, talking about her. They
were
talking about her, of course. Some were spiteful, others kind and neighbourly, but everyone knew by now that Dot was helping out because Cynthia Brown had been taken bad after the babby and wasn’t herself.
Things had been looking up this week to begin with. On the Saturday, Bob had sent the three of them out to the Penny Pictures on Nechells Park Road and given them enough to get some pork scratchings before the butcher’s closed on the way back. And Em was allowed to play out – until Bob sloped off to the pub again, that was. And yesterday Cynthia had a better day. Em had been downstairs, bossing Sid into his little ragged shorts and shirt for school, envious of him for being able to run, carefree, out of the door. Suddenly Cynthia had appeared, already dressed and holding Violet. Em’s heart had lifted. Mom was up and about – maybe she was better!
‘Go on, Em,’ Cynthia had said bravely. ‘Get your things together and get yourself to school.’
Em’s freckled face had lit up. ‘
Can
I, Mom? Are you sure you can manage?’
‘I said so, dain’t I? Go on, before I change my mind.’
Em had almost danced out of the house, running to catch up with Katie and the other girls, so excited to be allowed back to school. But the day had been a bitter disappointment.
‘Is your mom better now?’ Katie’d asked, turning for a second from her conversation with another girl.
‘Yeah, think so!’ Em had beamed, wanting it to be true. But the smile had faded from her face. She had wanted Katie to be more pleased to see her. Instead she hardly seemed to care if Em was there or not.
But Miss Lineham had demanded to know why she hadn’t been there.
‘I’ve been poorly, Miss.’
‘And what,
exactly
,’ her tone had been heavy with sarcasm, ‘has been the matter with you?’
‘Had a pain in my tummy, Miss.’
‘Hmph.’ Miss Lineham had stared stonily, but Em was looking convincingly pale and drawn after the strain of the last days.
She’d settled thankfully at her little desk beside Katie, just wanting things to feel right and back to normal, how they’d always been. But, to her dismay, nothing had felt right. In the lessons she’d missed they’d started long multiplication. Normally good at arithmetic, she just hadn’t been able to get to grips with it or keep her mind on anything and soon the rows of numbers were just a snowstorm in front of her eyes. Six more lashes with the cane left her already raw palms red and stinging. She’d walked out of school utterly miserable, her hands tucked under her arms, her head hanging. Molly had been waiting for her.
‘Go away – leave me alone,’ Em had said wretchedly, trying not to cry.
The sight of Molly’s sad face as she slunk away towards her yard made Em feel even worse.
Today, with Mom bad again, it felt easier to stay at home.
Sitting on the stairs Em cautiously lowered her hands to her lap. Weak sobbing sounds came from the bedroom and suddenly she felt she couldn’t stand it any more. She got up to run into the bedroom and beg,
Mom, stop it, stop crying, will yer! Just get up and be all right, be my mom again!
But there was a brisk knock at the door.
‘Coo-ee – it’s me – can I come in?’
Dot’s cheerful voice rang up the stairs and Em quickly wiped her eyes and ran down to meet her. She was obviously right in the middle of her own housework, pinner on, sleeves rolled and a flowery scarf tied over her salt-and-pepper hair.
‘Awright, bab?’ She gave her toothy smile, but then took in the state of Em’s face. ‘Oh dear, like that again, is it? I’ll come up and ’ave a word with her.’
Em felt much better with Dot’s capable presence in the house. She followed her thin, energetic figure up the stairs and hovered, peering through the crack of the open door once Dot was inside.
‘Cynth?’ Her voice was gentle. ‘Just thought I’d pop in. How are yer today?’
Em didn’t hear a reply, other than a low moan.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Dot said sympathetically. ‘What’re we going to do with you, eh? Shall I make yer a nice cuppa tea?’
‘Em’ll do it.’ Cynthia grasped at Dot’s apron. ‘Stay with me a minute.’
Dot called out, ‘Em! Stick the kettle on for us, will yer, bab?’
Em obeyed, and once it was safely on the range she crept upstairs to the bedroom door.
Dot was sitting on the bed, her arm round Cynthia’s shoulders, stroking her hair as if she was her mother. Cynthia was crying again, just tears, no sound.
‘I have such terrible thoughts, Dot,’ she said, her face crumpling. ‘I’m a wicked, wicked woman.’
‘No you’re not,’ Dot tried to reason. ‘
Course
you’re not, love. You’re just feeling a bit any’ow after the babby. It’s all got on top of you, hasn’t it?’ She spoke kindly, though Em could sense she was as bewildered as the rest of them by the extent of Cynthia’s misery. ‘She’s lovely and bonny at any rate, and you’ll feel better soon, you just need to hold on and get a bit of rest.’
‘Bob hates me . . . I’m just useless. No good as a wife, as a mother. Em’s such a good girl but she ought to be at school. Sometimes, I think I’d be better finishing myself off, God knows I do!’
‘Cynth!’ Dot was shocked. ‘What’s all this? You mustn’t talk like that! Your Bob’s devoted to yer, you know he is!’
‘He hates me!’ Cynthia wailed. ‘He’s never home now – he just goes down the boozer, filling his neck and . . . He’s turning into a . . . He’s horrible to me! He never used to be like that.’
‘Look, love, you’re seeing the black side of everything at the moment. You’ve just got to get your strength back and try and look on the bright side. Perk up, Cynth,’ Dot said, patting her and getting up. ‘Try and put a bright face on when the Old Man comes home, that’s all. You can rest for now – I’ve got your Joycie, so don’t you fret. But I’ll have to get on . . .’
She was interrupted by another abrupt hammering at the door.
‘Well, who the hell can that be?’
Dot poked her head out of the window and quickly drew back with an urgent expression. ‘It’s the wag man with his sodding little notebook! Em!’ she hissed.
Abandoning all pretence that she had not been listening, Em ran to her.
‘Come on, quick, into the cellar!’ Dot grabbed her hand and they ran downstairs. Opening the door to the cellar, Dot urged a reluctant Em to go down the steps. ‘It ain’t for long,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just in case. I’m not planning to let him in – just make sure you keep quiet as a mouse!’
Em stayed near the top of the steps, heart thumping painfully, hardly daring to breathe. She was terrified to go any deeper into the yawning maw of the cellar with its bitter soot smell and lurking horrors of her imagination. But she was just as scared that the School Board man would come and wrench the door open and find her cowering there. She seemed to be scared of everything these days – of Mom, of Dad coming home . . .
‘Yes?’ she heard Dot say boldly.
‘Emma Brown,’ the man said officiously. ‘School says she’s only been in once this week and last.’
‘That’s because she’s unwell,’ Dot said.
‘You ’er mother? You’re not, are yer?’
‘I’m a neighbour, since you asked,’ Dot replied haughtily. ‘And I’m here looking after Mrs Brown as she’s also unwell.’
‘What’s the matter with ’er?’ he asked roughly.
‘Problems of a female nature,’ Dot said, knowing this was a good way to silence a man’s questions. ‘And the child has a nasty case of tonsillitis.’
Soon she was opening the coal-cellar door with a grin.
‘That’s got shot of him, for the moment at least! Now, Em, you’re doing a good job looking after your mother and I’m sure she’ll soon feel better. I’ve got to go and get on, but you know where I am if you need me, bab. Just say the word.’
The house seemed all too quiet without her lively presence. Em stood looking round at the mountain of work before her, at the mess of breakfast still on the table. She heaved a huge, weary sigh.
That evening Dot, who worked like a dynamo, had the stew pot on and potatoes bubbling away on the range. There was enough for both households as she’d pooled ingredients with Em, and now she was taking a short break, standing on her front step in the last of the autumn light, chatting to Mrs Donnelly at number fourteen.
‘You’ve got a lot on your plate with her being bad,’ Josie Donnelly said, leaning up against the doorframe, her arms folded over her scrawny chest.
‘Poor old Cynth,’ Dot mused. ‘I’ve never seen ’er in such a bad way. She usually picks up quicker than this.’
‘How’s himself taking it?’
‘None too well,’ Dot whispered. ‘Ey up, talk of the devil. Here’s ’er old man now.’
The two women watched Bob come along the road, his jacket swinging open, cap on askew. For a second he swerved violently as a gaggle of lads dashed past him.
‘I’ll say one thing – he’s a fine figure of a man,’ Josie Donnelly remarked, suggestively. Both she and Dot were a few years older than Bob.
‘Now, now,’ Dot reprimanded her teasingly. ‘I’d’ve thought you’ve got enough on yer plate with your Eamon, and you a good Catholic and all . . .’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Blimey – looks as if ’e’s had a skinful again tonight!’
They took in Bob’s reeling gait. He was weaving along the pavement, and as he passed them, oblivious to their watching eyes, he nearly tripped over a scrawny dog that was skulking close to the houses.
‘Gerr’outa my bloody way, hound!’ Bob mumbled at it, indistinctly.
‘Jaysus, let’s hope he can get himself into the right house!’
‘Well, ’e wouldn’t be the first kalied bloke to climb into bed with the wrong wife!’ Dot said and the two of them laughed.
‘You can hardly blame ’im getting a skinful in, the way she is,’ Josie Donnelly said with a sniff. ‘I mean the state of her front step – hasn’t been touched for days! I don’t suppose she’s any comfort to the poor man.’
‘It ain’t her fault,’ Dot defended her friend, reminding herself inwardly that she must scrub the step of number eighteen. ‘You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, that.’
‘There’s a case for just getting up and getting on with what needs to be done, no matter how you’re feeling,’ Josie decreed. ‘After all, no one’s going to do it for you.’ She spoke tartly, still watching Bob as he narrowly avoided bumping into someone coming along the pavement the other way.
The other passer-by glanced curiously at Bob, then continued along, staring straight ahead of her. She was a small, neatly dressed figure, black hair cut in a bob just visible under the brim of her hat, whose white band seemed to glow brightly in the half-light. Walking past Dot and Josie, she affected not to notice them, and disappeared quickly into the gloom.
‘Who’s that?’ Dot asked. ‘She looked a snooty little bit.’
‘She’s the one moved in round the corner,’ Josie said. ‘A widow, or so I’ve heard – with a young daughter.’
‘Oh.’ Dot quickly lost interest. ‘Well – I’d better get on, Jose. This won’t get the babby a new coat.’
Further desperate days passed. The more Em was left alone in the house with Cynthia upstairs, the more she jumped at every little sound. She was terrified of the School Board man’s visits. He’d been twice and she hadn’t been caught yet, but what if he came back? She’d have to tell lies, and what would he do if he saw she was all right? Would he have her thrown into prison? Was that what happened to children who played truant for too long?
Dot popped in when she could but mostly Em was left to herself, struggling to keep everything going. To save work she didn’t wash her own clothes and she was too busy to notice how stained and smelly they were becoming. Her hair needed cutting and, already thin, she was becoming bony and pinched in the face. Katie had stopped bothering to call to see if she was coming to play out and now she had gone off with some of the other girls. The only person who seemed to care was Molly Fox. She appeared at the door every day asking for Em, and Em had to shake her head, sometimes feeling tears prick her eyes.
