Down Daisy Street (19 page)
Alec looked curiously at the pictures and thought that his parents had been right. The flood had been devastating and the pictures proved it. Ruined houses, a railway track looping over a yawning gap, machinery lying useless with the water washing over it, furniture floating on the flood. It was impossible to recognise Magdalene Street, which he knew well, impossible to believe that the street in the picture could ever become the street he knew.
On the opposite side of the hearth, Bob stretched and sighed. ‘Time for bed, old gal,’ he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hands to help Betty to hers. ‘We might as well get our rest since the rain’s stopped so there’ll be no excuse to lie abed tomorrow morning, despite working so late tonight.’ He turned to his son. ‘And by the same token, boy Alec, you’d better get up them stairs. As I recall, you and Joel are on milking tomorrow and I want them churns ready for the lorry at the end of the lane no later than half past seven.’
‘Fair enough, Dad,’ Alec said, getting to his feet and following his parents up the stairs. ‘When do you reckon we’ll get the first fruit off of the trees we planted today? They aren’t very big so I dare say it’ll be a year or two.’
‘The bigger the tree the more you pay for them, and the bank weren’t willing to part with money for older trees as well as for the dairy cattle,’ Bob observed, going heavily up the stairs, the long black shadow thrown by his bedroom candle bobbing ahead of Alec’s own light. ‘But I reckon there’ll be a bit of blossom come the spring and probably two or three fruit per tree will come of it.’
Ahead of him, Betty peered back at her son. ‘It’s better not to let ’em fruit for the first year, because it wastes their strength,’ she said. ‘And that’s a job I think I’ll keep to myself. It’s easy work, walking slowly along between the rows, picking off the young fruit before it begins to swell.’
‘Oh,’ Alec said, rather taken aback. Yet when he thought about it, he could see the sense in his mother’s words. If you wanted a prize sweet pea, for instance, you picked off all the tendrils and side buds as the plant grew, and it was the same with tomatoes. His mother had not yet been able to afford the greenhouse for which she longed, but she had a good many cold frames and started her tomato plants from seed each year. As they grew and flourished, she transplanted them to a sunny spot against the wall, and from that moment on the side shoots were picked out daily until she felt that each plant would produce fine swags of tomatoes which could grow large and fat, rather than letting it produce a great many smaller, inferior fruit. It stood to reason that the same rule would apply to apples, plums, pears and the like. But his mother was still peering down at him, plainly expecting a reaction, so he said rather lamely: ‘Yes, of course. Only . . . only you let the goosegogs and currants fruit this year so I thought it might be the same for the apples and that.’
‘That was different; the bushes are more mature. But if you fancy an apple or two, there’ll be plenty in the old orchard,’ Betty said consolingly. ‘For myself, I dare say I’ll dream of fruit trees for a night or two, and they’ll be more like nightmares if they’re dreams of planting! Goodnight, now, young Alec.’
Betty had done her best not to show how truly dreadful she felt now that she had rested for a while, but she ached in every limb and was so stiff that it had cost her a considerable effort to climb the stairs without a groan of pain at every step. Now that Alec had gone to his own room she might have let go a little, confided in Bob, but she could not bring herself to admit how crushingly painful the day had been, nor how very ill she felt. It was not just the pains in arms, legs and back which plagued her, but an unaccustomed hotness in her head and a low, growling ache in the pit of her stomach which made her doubt that she would be able to get a good night’s sleep. And she knew that only a good night’s sleep could begin to bring back her ease of both body and mind, so she sat down at her dressing table and began to brush out her hair, doing so with great care for it had suddenly occurred to her that she might incautiously raise an arm and find herself unable to lower it again.
Bob, undressing with all his usual lack of ceremony and having a somewhat sketchy wash in the bowl of water which always stood on their washstand, came over and took her by the shoulders, giving them a tiny shake. ‘You feel like death, old gal,’ he said, concern and affection in his lowered voice. ‘You’re bin and gone and overdone it, thass what you’re done. But will you admit it?’ He shook his head sadly over her obstinacy, but she could see the gleam of reluctant admiration in his eyes. ‘Well, I’ll tell you suffin’ for nothin’. Come tomorrow morning the aches will begin to ease and by supper time you’ll hev forgot all about it.’ He put a gentle hand on her forehead and wagged a finger at her through the mirror. ‘Thass wouldn’t surprise me if you’re got a little fever, being out in all that wet. Ah well, a day in bed works wonders.’
Betty got to her feet and began to undress, shaking her head chidingly at her husband as she did so. ‘I’m not staying in bed for an extra hour, let alone a whole day,’ she said robustly. ‘All right, so I overdid it – I’m not as young as I was, I’m the first to admit it – but I’ve worked through worse. And now let’s get to bed, because I reckon you’re as tired as ever I am – more, probably, since you worked almost five hours longer.’
‘Aye, it’s been a long day,’ Bob agreed, climbing into bed. As he always did, he waited until she joined him and then leaned over and gave her a hug. ‘Goodnight, my woman. Sweet dreams.’
‘Goodnight, Bob,’ Betty murmured, and smiled to herself as her husband’s rhythmic snores began to sound almost before the words were out of her mouth.
Kathy, enveloped in her mother’s large calico apron, was making a steak pie for the lodgers’ evening meal, for the November days were short and grew chilly towards dusk and the men, Kathy knew, were always glad of a hot meal. Her mother had stayed on at Dorothy’s Tearooms now that Billy was in school, and Kathy had taken over a good few of her tasks. She generally cooked at least a part of the evening meal and, of course, she kept an eye on Billy, though he seemed much stronger than he had been. Jane’s sister Tilly, now a sensible thirteen-year-old, met him out of school and kept him with her until Kathy was able to take over, and despite their fears Billy seemed to enjoy school and had had no fits since he started.
Kathy had returned to school in September with a uniform which fitted her. After a couple of rather suspenseful days, during which she and Marcia had pointedly ignored one another, she realised two things. The first was that Marcia would not easily forget the punch on the nose which Kathy had delivered, and would, in future, avoid her whenever possible; certainly, it was unlikely that she would insult the younger girl to her face whatever she might say behind her back. Second, it seemed that no one had noticed anything wrong or unusual about Kathy’s school uniform. Her mother had knitted the green cardigan and made a very good job of it and Mrs Bullivant, a cheerful fat old shawly, who had a second-hand stall in Paddy’s market, had turned up a set of buttons which were the very same ones used on bought cardigans from Brown’s department store. Miss Tucker, the dressmaker in Crocus Street, had been happy to make a tunic exactly like Kathy’s old one, only a good deal larger. It had a deep hem on it and there were darts in the bodice that could be let out as Kathy grew. Her Aunt Lily always sent her two pairs of beautifully knitted black stockings as a Christmas gift and three pairs of socks for the summer, and the shoes had been purchased second-hand from Paddy’s market, as had two cream-coloured blouses.
Kathy had waited rather apprehensively for sneering comments from her schoolfellows, but there had been none. Indeed, Isobella had told her she looked really smart and Kathy had been doubly grateful, for the remark had put them back on the friendly footing which her sharpness the previous summer had almost destroyed.
‘Kathy, can I have a butty? I’m turble hungry and it’ll be ages before supper.’ Billy was sitting at the other end of the kitchen table. A bigger boy who lived further up Daisy Street had given him an old Meccano set and Sam Bracknell had begun cleaning up the various pieces and repainting them. As he finished each piece, he gave it to Billy, showing him how to connect it to the others with small nuts and bolts. Kathy had thought the set far too old for Billy and had been astonished and delighted when she was proved wrong. Billy’s small fingers were quick and accurate on the nuts and bolts and he could already make a recognisable crane and a box-shaped object which he assured Kathy was the “bed” of the truck which he would make when he had enough pieces.
‘Kathy? I’m starvin’. All the other kids gets a butty or a cake or some biscuits when they gets back from school.’
‘So do you, young man,’ Kathy said severely, dusting her hands together and abandoning her baking reluctantly. ‘I know full well that Tilly gives you something to eat as soon as you reach the O’Briens’ place. Still, I dare say another jam butty won’t hurt you.’ She went over to the pantry and got the loaf and the jar of mixed fruit jam. She cut a substantial slice, spread it and handed it to her little brother. Billy was just sinking his teeth into the bread when the back door opened and Mr Philpott came into the room with the slightly apologetic air which had always annoyed Kathy, though her mother told her she was being silly. ‘Sorry if I’m inconveniencin’ you,’ he mumbled. ‘I was on early this mornin’ so I gorroff early as well; mind if I sit by the fire and – and watch you workin’? Me bedroom’s chilly at this time of day and . . . and . . .’ His voice trailed off.
Kathy knew he was shy and as she agreed to his suggestion she thought, for the first time, that he was far more at ease with her mother than with her. Perhaps it was because she had less patience with his timidity, which she thought ridiculous in a man of his years, but, whatever the reason, he always stuttered and stammered when he found her alone – alone apart from Billy, that was.
Mr Philpott took off his coat and cap and hung them on the back of the kitchen door. Then he went and sat in one of the fireside chairs, moving it round so that he could watch her work. Kathy rolled out the suet crust she was making and placed it carefully over the top of the pie dish. Her mother had already cooked the meat and onions until they were tender; now she would paint the pastry with some milk to make it shine, pop it in the preheated oven and start to peel the potatoes and prepare the cabbage her mother had bought.
‘You makin’ a pie for our supper, Miss Kathy?’ The remark was so unexpected that Kathy jumped, then muttered an acknowledgement. Silly fool, what on earth did he think she was doing, making a dress? But her mother had impressed upon her the need to treat the lodgers with great respect and anyway, being sarcastic to Mr Philpott would have been like taking candy from a baby. He would blush and stammer and probably not open his mouth again for weeks and Sarah Kelling would guess that her daughter had snubbed him and would not be best pleased. Sarah had noticed lately that Mr Philpott was making what she called “an honest effort” to become more at ease with the family, and since she assured her daughter that this would lead to an even pleasanter atmosphere in the house it would upset her if Mr Philpott was, in his turn, upset.
Kathy finished making the pie and carried it across to the oven, saying as she did so: ‘It’s a steak pie, Mr Philpott. Mam pre-cooked the steak and onions before she went off to work so all I had to do was to make a suet crust, but I’m making a treacle sponge for pudding and that will be all me own work.’
She glanced across at Mr Philpott as she spoke and saw that he was looking pleased. Her conscience smote her; it was such a little thing to do, to be nice to a shy and awkward man. She really must make the effort; it would please her mother.
‘I – I think it’s remarkable the way you and your mam manage,’ Mr Philpott muttered. ‘Your mam is bringing you up to be a real good little housewife.’
Kathy straightened, feeling her cheeks grow hot. The last thing she wanted to be was a good little housewife! She was going to make something of her life. She was going to college, would be the first person in her family to get a degree, would become a teacher or perhaps go into business of some sort. She had no real interest in boys and did not mean to marry, or at any rate, not until she was very old, perhaps thirty or forty. But Mr Philpott clearly thought of her as someone who made beds, cleaned floors, polished windows and cooked substantial meals. Well, let him think it. He was nothing to her, but their lives would be easier if she kept her mouth shut, so she just smiled as pleasantly as she could, thanked him prettily for what she realised he thought was a compliment and went across to the sink to begin peeling potatoes.
She finished the potatoes, plopped the last one into the saucepan and turned away from the sink. To her relief, Mr Philpott had drawn a large sheet of paper from his pocket and was studying it closely. He held a pencil in one hand and every now and again tried to make a note on the paper, which Kathy recognised as a timetable, without very much success. He really is pathetic, Kathy told herself, crossing to the sideboard and getting down one of her mother’s cookery books. She handed it to Mr Philpott. ‘Use this to press on, Mr Philpott. You’ll find it a good deal easier to see the pencil marks if you’ve got something firm behind the paper.’ She looked curiously at the timetable. ‘I didn’t know you brought work home? Or is this a journey you mean to make yourself?’
It was an innocent enough question but it seemed to throw. Mr Philpott into considerable confusion. He went pink and began to mumble, then spoke out a little more strongly. ‘Oh, it’s – it’s a sort of exercise, Miss Kathy. My boss has suggested we work out routes and write them down in a notebook, so’s we can give the public advice straight off, without having to look up the timetables. I get asked a lorra questions about trains goin’ to London, Manchester and Leeds, so I’m just memorisin’ what I’ll say to the customers on the busiest routes.’
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