A Whisper to the Living (21 page)

Dr Pritchard walked round the back of the car and came to stand next to Simon and me. ‘Anne is not walking,’ he pronounced. ‘She has had some medical problems of late and I insist that she rides in the car.’

My mother drew herself up to her full height, straightening her spine and raising her chin as she spoke. ‘Medical problems? Huh! she will have bloody medical problems once you’ve wrapped her round a lamp post two or three times. She’ll be six months in hospital the road you’re driving!’

The tall man took a step towards this very tiny but very angry woman. He looked down at her for several seconds then suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed. Dr Pritchard was endowed with one of those laughs that come straight from the belly, a laugh that could not be ignored or denied. It was more infectious than ‘flu in hot weather and soon Simon and I were rolling about in the long grass, doubled up with the pain of trying not to laugh at my mother’s expression, crippled by the agony of not being able to echo the doctor’s merriment. Then we heard a loud scream and we turned to see if she had resorted to violence, but the scream was just the beginning of her own laughter and there they were, the pair of them, doubled up over Genevieve’s bonnet and howling like a couple of banshees. Several motorists slowed down to view the spectacle and Dr Pritchard straightened up to wave them on with a very Shakespearian flourish. And suddenly I forgot to laugh because the moment was too precious. I stood very still and watched, drank in the sight and the sound of my mother’s joy, for I had not witnessed such an event for years.

When we finally got back into the car, she was mopping happy tears from her cheeks and Simon pressed two half-crowns into my hand. I tossed one back to him. ‘Easy money, Simon – too easy. She was never going to lose.’

We didn’t reach Blackpool until after eleven, because Dr Pritchard travelled the rest of the distance like a tranquillized snail and this unprecedented phenomenon caused even more glee in the back of the car. But by the time we got there, the doctor was calling my mother Nancy and she wasn’t calling him anything – not maniac, not Doctor, but not David either, though she had been invited to use his Christian name.

Blackpool itself was not a revelation – we’d all been there at some time or other. But what Blackpool did to us, together and separately, was very revealing. We decided to walk the Golden Mile, but didn’t quite manage it, because we stopped to gaze at just about every shop and sideshow. My mother had ten minutes with Gypsy Rose Lee who told her that she had a marvellous future full of travel and money. Dr Pritchard advised a second opinion, so she double-checked with Gypsy Marina May two blocks away and was warned about tall strangers, the number seven and Fridays.

We ate all the things that were bad for us and thoroughly enjoyed them – fish and chips with vinegar dripping newsprint onto our fingers, candy floss, toffee apples, rock, black peas in thick cracked cups. We all had hats. I got the inevitable Kiss Me Quick, Simon had an Indian headdress, my mother sported a blue-and-white-striped cardboard boater while Dr Pritchard, not to be outdone, bought an enormous Stetson with ‘Fast Shooter’ emblazoned on the band. He was like a big kid. He was first in the cage for the tower, first on the caterpillar, dodgems, big wheel. It seemed that he needed to pack everything into this one day and I found myself wondering how a man with such a pronounced sense of fun managed to cope with his grim-faced wife and that never ending queue of ailing patients.

I also discovered that I was hoping that everyone who saw us in the street would think we were a family, mother, father, brother and sister, a proper family having a day out together.

As evening threatened to end our brief holiday, we walked to the front and sat on a bench facing the sea. We were all exhausted and the almost hypnotic sight of the advancing tide lulled us into temporary silence. On the horizon, the sun was slipping away to make another day somewhere else, to warm another patch of earth’s scattered soil. It left in its wake a trail of glorious colours from orange through aquamarine to violet, all beautifully patterned with a lacework of tiny mackerel clouds.

Dr Pritchard was the first to speak. ‘Of such visions dreams are made. Isn’t that right, Simon?’

Simon glanced sideways at me then muttered quietly, ‘He’s going to make us play the dream game. He always did this when I was a kid – even got my mother to join in.’

I continued to stare at the sea, feeling that somehow there were only the four of us left in the world, that we had slipped through into an alternative dimension where we could remain untouched and untouchable. My troubles, everybody’s troubles were of the past, from another time and place. This was contentment; this was all I ever wanted.

‘My dream,’ continued the doctor, ‘is of a world without pain. Of course, I don’t want people to live forever, but I’d like life to be full of joy and empty of war and argument. We should all die in our beds at three score and ten, no doctors, no nurses, no hospitals . . .’

‘And no job for you,’ said my mother.

‘And no interruptions!’ After a pause, he went on, ‘Every night it would rain enough for us to drink and grow food. The days would all be sunny and full of fun. Silly dream for a grown man, isn’t it?’

I didn’t think it was silly at all, not now, in this magic place.

‘What would you be in a world without doctors?’ my mother asked.

‘Oh, a mechanic, definitely. I’d have rows and rows of Genevieves to work on and at weekends I’d be a racing driver.’

‘That accounts for it,’ she answered. ‘And you’d soon need a doctor, wouldn’t you?’

‘Nancy,’ he sighed. ‘Have you no soul? Your daughter has, I think. What’s your dream, Anne?’

I closed my eyes. ‘Well, if I can’t stay here forever, I suppose I want a lot of children. I’d hate to have just one on its own. In my dream there is no religion and no politics, nothing to fight about. Everybody is equal. There are definitely no nuns and priests, no popes and kings. But the main thing is that my father comes back. I don’t see any sense in the way he and the others died, you see. It’s all politics and religion. They got rid of the Nazis and now we’re getting White Russians and Red Russians – it’s ridiculous. So. My dream is just as silly as yours, Doctor. I want the Jews to have peace, the Russians to stop being greedy, the Americans to stop piling up those awful bombs, people to stop hurting one another. Above all else, I want my mother to be happy.’

‘I am happy, Annie.’

Yes, she was. In that moment when I opened my eyes after speaking my dream, I saw that her face was glowing with some light that came from within, that she looked about twenty years old. And I knew that I had spoken her idea of Utopia as well as my own.

Simon’s dream was an odd one, I thought. I knew he was good at drawing, but when he said that he wanted to paint a picture as good and as meaningful as the
Mona Lisa
, I was taken aback somewhat. Surely he would be a doctor like his father? Wasn’t that what usually happened – or was I being as naive as my mother sometimes seemed to be? I sighed sadly as I recalled Simon’s homework problems. The rolling tide and the magnificent sky would not put everything right. Simon’s talent lay in his hands rather than in his head – he was creative, probably talented, but not intellectual.

My mother took a lot of persuading, but she finally succumbed when the three of us threatened to put her over the rail and into the sea.

‘I just want our Annie to do well. Course, I’d like a few other things, little things, but they’re not important.’

‘They are important, Nancy. All dreams and ambitions are important.’ Dr Pritchard reached over and touched her arm. ‘You have to tell. We’ve all done it, we’ve all made fools of ourselves – it’s a matter of honour.’

‘Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘If it’s a matter of honour . . . I’d like for her to be a lawyer or maybe a teacher. And I want her to have a happy marriage and some nice children . . .’

‘What about yourself, Nancy? What do you want for yourself?’

She paused momentarily. ‘If anybody laughs, I’ll belt them!’

‘We won’t laugh, Mother – honestly.’

She took a deep breath. ‘A green frock with a matching stole.’

I stared at her in amazement. ‘Mother! Whatever would you do with a green frock and a matching stole?’

‘I’d go ballroom dancing with some of the girls from the mill. Yes, I think I’d like to learn dancing. It’s good for you, you know.’

Dr Pritchard stretched long legs and crossed his ankles. ‘A green dress. Yes, that would suit you very nicely, Nancy.’ It was obvious that the man was moved, because he turned away as he spoke, his voice gruff and slightly choked.

I felt a huge lump in my throat. She’d never had anything, not for herself. It had all been for the house or for me, yet she never complained about being deprived. And all she wanted now was a dance frock. Yet I knew, felt certain that had she been educated, she would have outstripped us all. I would get a paper round and buy the dress for her. But what would be the use of that? He’d never allow her to go dancing on a Saturday night. And she’d already refused to let me deliver papers. It was something I would remember for the rest of my life, this simple desire for a green frock.

When we reached home that night, I felt that we each knew and valued the others a little better or at least, differently, though Simon was to remain something of an enigma for many years to come. Even when we’d played the dream game, he had held something back. Simon would be holding back forever, but I didn’t know that then.

There was no going back to that enchanted time, that small island of contentment in 1953 when I learned so much about my mother, about myself – and about others too, when friendships were cemented between me and Simon, between my mother and Bertha Cullen, when we were free to choose where we went and what we did. And that was a strange alliance too, between my mother and Bertha Cullen, the one so houseproud and exacting, the other seemingly slapdash and fancy-free. But these two women were big of heart and they embraced each other’s good points and bad, seemed to complement one another perfectly. The bond between Nancy and Bertha was thoroughly forged that year and Higson never managed to sever it. My mother owed her life to Mrs Cullen and her family – but for them, she might not have survived when her unborn child was beaten out of her, but this was never mentioned between the two women as far as I knew.

We picnicked on the Jolly Brows twice, Mrs Cullen and most of her brood, my mother and I, eating wedges of Hovis and cheese out of waxy bread-wrappings, drinking fizzy lemonade from shared enamel cups. Martin always stayed separate from the rest of us, tagging along with his rusty bike, then snatching his sandwiches before walking away hurriedly. I tried to speak to him several times, but he blushed and mumbled unintelligibly, so I learned to keep my distance from him.

Higson limped home in September. He spoke seldom, simply sat staring for endless hours into the fire, though when he looked at me with those sunken sharp eyes, I knew he was taking his revenge gleefully by refusing to go back on the round for several months, thus forcing my mother to take a morning job cleaning at the Star. For many weeks I watched her shabby little figure disappearing down the road each morning before I left for school, witnessed her exhaustion as she prepared to go out again in the evening for the five o’clock to nine shift. This was my fault. I had dealt him a blow from which, it seemed, he would never allow his wife to recover.

It was Bertha Cullen who set him to rights on Christmas morning when she arrived with my gift. He sat huddled over a roaring fire while my mother and I prepared the dinner. There was seldom any Christmas spirit in the house and this year the absence of festive cheer was even more marked than usual because of the silent figure near the hearth. He hadn’t even stirred himself to go out to his brother’s house this time and the living room felt chilled in spite of the blazing fire, as if Scrooge himself was sitting in our midst to dampen our pleasure. Perhaps we sensed the atmosphere more acutely because of the brief weeks of freedom we had enjoyed, because we had learned what life was like without him.

I was peeling carrots when Bertha rushed in unannounced as usual and I heard him spit into the coals when my mother and I exchanged seasonal greetings with our visitor. Bertha had a truly amazing capacity for ignoring Eddie Higson altogether, but on this occasion she decided to speak to him. With a broad smile on her face she approached his chair. ‘Well then, Eddie – I ’ear as ’ow yer’ve been given th’all clear fer t’ New Year.’

‘You what?’ He looked up at her.

‘Well, I’ve a friend as works at t’ Royal Infirmary, like. She says yer right now – yer can go back ter work in January.’

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Happen I might,’ he said.

My mother’s face brightened perceptibly. ‘That means I’ll be able to give up at the Star!’ she cried.

‘The money’s handy,’ muttered Higson.

Mrs Cullen cast a sideways glance in his direction. She had never had much to say to him since the night of the clearout and now she directed her attention towards my mother. ‘Never mind t’ bloody brass, Nancy. Tha’s fair wore out wi’ workin’. Now as ’e’s right, tha mun stick ter th’ evenin’ shift an’ bugger the Star.’ She puffed out her already enormous chest. ‘My George might not be up ter much, but ’e’s never made me work over the odds. Pace yerself, lass.’

Higson picked up the poker and looked briefly but meaningfully at me before using it to stoke the fire. He seemed shrivelled somehow, as if the ‘accident’, of which he had never spoken to me, had almost finished him physically and mentally. But no, the anger was still there. I could sense it as he smashed the poker into the coals, could see it in the small sly eyes that sometimes seemed to spit venom in my direction. Had I stopped him? Or had I simply postponed the inevitable . . .?

‘Come on, Annie. Open Bertha’s present,’ my mother was saying now.

‘Our Martin chose it,’ beamed Mrs Cullen. ‘’E said as ’ow yer’d like it.’ It was a single strand of pearls. ‘They’re not real, like. Only our Martin said as they’ll suit you a treat. ’Ey Nancy – I reckon ’e’s got ’is eye on your Annie . . .’ The poker clattered noisily into the grate.