A Whisper to the Living (35 page)

For a few breathless moments, he lay on top of the girl, his head against the wonderful softness of her, his hand slowly caressing creamy curves. Then he looked up into her face and saw the hard, streetwise expression, noticed the layers of pink foundation and powder, the matted eyelashes with their thick coating of black mascara. His heart lurched, his mind cried out to Annie – oh God, what had he done?

‘What’s t’ matter, Martin? Didn’t yer like it?’

He struggled to his feet and grabbed his clothes.

‘What’s t’ matter?’ she asked again.

‘Nothing. I’ve got to get back to the
News
, that’s all.’

She raised herself to a sitting position. ‘I’ll bet Annie Byrne never gives yer a good time like that, eh?’

‘Annie’s different. Leave her out of it.’

‘’Appen I might. ’Appen I might not.’

He rounded on her. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘She’d be right interested ter know about this, wouldn’t she?’

Swiftly, he pulled on his trousers. When he was fully dressed, he turned to look at the naked girl at his feet. ‘Don’t tell her.’

‘OK, I won’t. As long as you come back, like. We could meet up regular, ’ave our fun an’ nobody’ll be the wiser. Get me drift?’

He nodded, ready to agree to anything in his desperation to escape.

‘Tuesday then? Jolly Brows, near that little ’ill over t’ top. Seven o’clock?’

‘Right.’

‘You’d best be there, Martin. I don’t like bein’ stood up. I can get right nasty if I get stood up.’

Disgusted with her and with himself, he walked quickly out of the house, slamming the door behind him. How would he ever look Annie in the face again?

But when night came and he lay in his lonely bed, Martin remembered only the pleasure. When he slept, he was tortured by dreams of Maggie and her voluptuous body. When he woke, he knew that he was hooked. No matter how hard he fought the urge, he would be meeting Maggie Nelson, taking what she offered so freely. But his pillow was wet with tears.

It was strange having an emancipated mother, one who did the washing when she felt like it, who loudly declared her conversion to the Labour Party, often going round distributing leaflets for the socialist cause. Nancy Higson, now a fully-fledged foreman with a decent wage, was no longer up and coming. She had arrived, had launched herself on an unsuspecting world with a bang rather than with a whimper. There was talk, of course, what with her poor husband being stuck in hospital for God knew how long and her never visiting him. But Nancy rose above it all, got her hair permed in soft waves, bought a Coty compact of Fair Beauty and took to wearing soft coral lipstick. She also had her ears pierced, an event that led to some discomfort and several interesting expletives until the pain died down.

On Thursday evenings, she attended the Amy Walker School of Dance, for which purpose she acquired two strapless frocks, one in sequined black tulle over taffeta, the other in a figured emerald brocade with a matching stole. At last, Nancy had her green dress.

Annie, her feelings mixed as she watched the butterfly emerging from its grey chrysalis, held her breath, hoping that the wings would dry quickly and that nothing sharp would inflict pain on this reborn creature. It seemed that Nancy’s youth had not been missed out, but had simply been postponed until circumstances allowed it to occur.

Mother and daughter stood now in the doorway of the Bodega coffee bar, the older woman still complaining about what they had just consumed in the café’s darkened depths. ‘I’m sure they make it with Lux flakes. Given a kiddy’s clay pipe, I could have blown a fair bubble with that mess.’

‘Frothy coffee’s all the rage, Mother.’

‘Aye well, they should have given us straws – I finished up with a moustache after dipping myself into that cup. And it was cracked.’

They began to walk through the town, pausing occasionally to gaze into shop windows.

‘How do you think I’d look in that hat, Annie?’

‘Drowned.’

‘Shall we go in and try it?’

‘Oh, not on a Saturday – it’ll be packed in there.’

They stopped on the corner by Timothy White’s and Taylor’s. ‘I’m glad you’ve got the exams over,’ said Nancy. ‘But you still seem bothered over something or other. Is it to do with Martin?’

Annie shrugged her shoulders.

‘What’s up, lass?’

‘He’s got . . . I think he’s got somebody else. Oh, let’s go home.’

Nancy trotted beside her long-legged daughter, then grabbed her by the arm. ‘Slow down, for goodness sake! Do you think I’m a flaming racehorse? Tell me what’s up before I give you a clout. You’re not too big for a thump, you know.’ She could see that Annie’s temper was roused – the two spots of colour on her face were always a dead give-away.

‘Margaret Nelson, Mother. That’s what’s up.’

Nancy stiffened. ‘Dolly Nelson’s lass?’

‘Yes. And she’s not a lass, she’s a bloody whore!’

‘Annie! Will I wash your mouth out with a block of carbolic? What’s got into you at all? Oh, bloody hell – talk of the devil!’

Annie was just about to make a remark about the pot calling the kettle black, when she noticed the frozen expression on Nancy’s face. She turned from her mother to see Dolly Nelson, pram in front of her massive body, waddling along the pavement towards them. It was too late to take evasive action – the woman was upon them before they could move.

‘’Ow are you then, Mrs ’Igson?’

‘Fair to middling,’ Nancy managed.

Annie peeped into the pram. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ she asked as politely as she could, wishing Maggie Nelson’s mother would disappear in a puff of smoke.

‘It’s a boy,’ answered Dolly proudly. She turned to Nancy. “Ow’s my little lad’s dad, then?’

‘The less said about that, the better.’ Nancy made to move away.

‘’Ang on!’ screamed Dolly. ‘Kept quiet long enough, I ’ave. An’ I’ve ’eard as ’ow yer never even visit the poor sod.’

‘He’s not fit to visit. He’s in a secure wing at the mental hospital. They can’t have him in the TB place because of his state of mind. He’s isolated on account of the infection and because he takes bad turns.’

‘No wonder, if nobody visits ’im!’

Annie had recoiled from the pram as if bitten by a snake. ‘Is this . . . his child?’

‘Aye,’ said Dolly. ‘Your little brother in a way.’

Annie drew herself to full height. ‘Eddie Higson is no relation of mine, Mrs Nelson.’

‘Or mine,’ added Nancy firmly.

‘You bloody bitch! No wonder ’e turned ter me! Aye, an’ it’s me ’e’ll come to when ’e’s reet!’

Annie, her face ablaze with temper now, stepped forward to stand between her mother and this awful woman. ‘He won’t be coming out,’ she said, fighting to control her voice. ‘He’s allergic to all the antibiotics and he’ll die soon of tuberculosis. I think they’re surprised he’s lasted this long. He’s incurable.’

Dolly sagged against the pram. ‘Dyin’?’

‘Yes,’ replied Annie.

‘And you never even go ter see ’im?’

Nancy stepped forward to her daughter’s side. ‘We would as soon visit Old Nick himself.’

‘Well . . . well . . . you right pair of bitches, you. ’E’s better off without you!’

Annie grabbed Nancy’s arm and dragged her away, marching her off, picking up speed until they were both running.

‘Don’t look back, Mother.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

They reached the bus station and sat on a bench to wait for the 45, Nancy panting slightly after her run.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Mam?’ asked Annie after a while. ‘Why?’

‘There was no need.’

Annie sifted through her thoughts for a few minutes. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ She noticed that Nancy looked downcast to the point of heartbreak, so placing her arm about her mother’s shoulders, she whispered, ‘Hey, you know what annoys me most about you?’

‘No – what?’

‘You’re always flaming well right!’

Nancy shook her head slowly. ‘Nay, lass. I’m right when I’m not wrong, same as everybody else.’

Annie’s temper still simmered beneath an outwardly cool facade. She stepped on to the bus, her mouth set in a grim determined line. No wonder Maggie Nelson was a whore – she’d followed in her mother’s footsteps, hadn’t she? And now Annie and Nancy were both suffering, each affected by one generation of that dreadful family. Martin, the damned fool – she would sort him out tonight. It was time now, time to wipe the whole Nelson family out of the picture forever.

Martin rolled away from Maggie, sick to the core for the umpteenth time. And now she was coming on with all the love stuff and about her mate getting wed next year – oh God. That was the trouble with sex, he mused as he fastened his trousers. It was a bit like beer – the more you got, the more you wanted. But he didn’t want her, oh no, not a lifetime with Maggie flaming Nelson. He watched her as she pulled down her skirt and fastened the grass-stained blouse. Sometimes, he hated her. And because he hated her, he was beginning to dislike himself as well.

‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’ The voice came from the top of the mound behind which he and Maggie were supposedly hidden. He didn’t need to look. It was her alright. She wore a blue and white striped dress and her hair was coiled into a perfect chignon, making her long neck appear more slender than ever. She stepped down the slope as if she were entering a drawing room or attending a gathering of debutantes.

Maggie hastily finished fastening her buttons while Annie knelt on the grass beside her.

‘Tell me, Maggie,’ she went on, her tone conversational, ‘how long have you been a prostitute?’

‘You what?’ A look of amazement came over Maggie’s painted features.

‘Is this something that’s passed on from one generation to another – like a legacy? Because your mother’s quite generous with her favours, isn’t she? Though why anybody should want to touch such an ugly heap of blubber . . .’

‘Shut yer gob, Annie Byrne! Just ’cos I’ve took your lad . . .’

‘You’ve taken nothing of mine, Maggie Nelson. If I really wanted something, there’s no way a cheap little slut like you would get her hands on it.’ She turned to Martin now. ‘How much does she charge, by the way?’

‘What do yer mean, ’ow much do I charge? An’ mind what yer say about me Mam.’

Annie continued to stare at Martin until he flinched under the coldness of her hard gaze, then she slowly moved her head towards Maggie. ‘Your mother had a bastard recently – a boy, I believe. Some man must have a strong stomach. I can smell your mother from forty paces.’

‘You bloody cow . . .!’ Clawing hands reached out for Annie’s hair, but they never attained their target. With a blow that might have felled a sapling, Annie sent Maggie reeling back. The girl lay still and silent, terror plain on her face as Annie rose gracefully to her feet.

Now she turned the full force of her anger on Martin. ‘Has it never occurred to you that you might catch something from her? Stay away from me, Cullen. I never want to set eyes on your silly face again. I never did like red hair anyway – not on a man. It’s alright for little boys, but you can never be a man, not with a carrot head.’

Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

Martin, heedless of Maggie’s pitiful cries, ran after Annie. When he caught up with her on the cinder path, she turned and spat into his face. ‘Scum!’ she shouted as he wiped his cheek. ‘I love you, Annie,’ she mimicked. ‘Don’t leave me, Annie. There’ll never be another girl, Annie. And there you are, copulating with a dirty piece of rubbish . . .’

‘But you wouldn’t let me near you!’

‘That’s because I don’t want you near me! I don’t want anybody near me! And even if I told you the reason why, you’d never understand because you’re thick. Did you know she was advertising your business with her all over Bolton? Perhaps she’s hoping you’ll give her a reference.’

‘Annie . . . Annie . . .’

‘Don’t “Annie” me! I’m finished with you. Go away, stay away, don’t come back. I’m using simple words for your bloody simple mind, then I can be sure you understand.’

He stood uselessly and watched her walk away. He hadn’t seen this side of her before, didn’t realize till now what a temper she had. What could he do anyway? She’d told him plain enough to bugger off – aye, that’s what he’d do! To hell with her and all of them.

Martin left home that night, taking with him just his clothes, a battered typewriter and one small framed photograph. In his poky back room in Mayfield Street, he placed the picture in the bottom of his suitcase, then pushed the case under the bed. He could manage without her. He had to.

Susan Birchall was a suitable friend for Simon. Her parents were Methodist, but that was a small fly in the ointment and Edna’s church wasn’t very high, merely moderate in her estimation. Not that Simon was old enough to be considering a permanent liaison, but it was nice to see how carefully he was choosing these days. Those awful people still came on Wednesdays, but, she thought magnanimously, that might be looked upon as charity work. And at least Martin Cullen and Anne Byrne were conspicuously absent of late. Yes, one had to be thankful for small mercies.

Susan was a sweet child, not as mature in appearance as that awful crowd and she didn’t have the ‘knowing’ look that was always so obvious in Anne Bryne’s expression. Of course, the Birchalls were quite eminent, the father a solicitor, the mother related to the Partingtons who owned land near Preston. Susan possessed all the ladylike virtues, was a competent pianist, an excellent horsewoman – and her embroidery had to be seen to be believed.

Edna smiled as she arranged some yellow flowers in a rosebowl. It was a lovely day. The muted strains of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
floated gently down the stairway, so much more appropriate than the raucous sounds that often came from what Edna had decided to call the recreation room. She could picture the scene – Simon at a table with his books, Susan sitting demurely in a chair working on that lovely tapestry she always seemed to bring.

Edna picked up her basket and walked to the foot of the stairs. ‘I’m just popping out to the shops – shan’t be long,’ she called.

‘Bye, Mrs Pritchard,’ Susan’s high girlish voice called in reply. Such a polite girl, such a lady.