Family of Women (12 page)

Josiah stared at him, at a loss.

‘You one of my sons? Can’t remember yer name.’

‘Harry. It’s Harry.’

&lsquingrsquo2emuo;o;Oh ar. Harry.’ He considered this, staring into the dead fireplace. ‘Why’re you ’ere?’

‘Mom died. Two nights ago.’

His head tilted round. ‘Elsie?’

‘You can remember
her
name then.’

The savagery in his tone seemed to cut the air.

Josiah was about to speak when the woman with the ash pail came back in. Harry loathed her on sight. She walked smartly to the fireplace and slammed the pail down.

‘Who’s this then? What’s going on?’

‘I’m his son,’ Harry said. ‘And it’s none of your cowing business what’s going on.’

She was about to have a go, Harry could see, her face puckering up hatefully. He strode out of there before he punched the miserable bint in the face.

‘Funeral’s Friday,’ he said on the way out. ‘Eleven o’clock. St Mary’s.’

The day of the funeral he still felt all the time as if he was going to explode. It was freezing, and wet. Couldn’t have been a nastier day if it tried. The snow was all gone but there was a mizzling cold rain and the wind was bitter. He felt everything was against him.

‘Put that fag out,’ he snarled at Violet as they reached the church.

Smoke, smoke – all she ever bloody did these days. Like a cowing chimney.

‘All right,’ Violet said carefully. She dropped the stub and ground it out with her heel. His feelings softened for a moment. She was a looker all right when she took the trouble. Her hair was shoulder-length and she’d curled the ends today. He could see glimpses of its gold against the black hat and coat. Her blue eyes, deep as pools, contained the sad, yearning look which had always made him feel protective towards her. She was even thinner now of course – tired-looking. Jo Snell going like that had knocked her, he knew. The sight of her moved him. He knew he loved her and wanted things to be right, but all he could feel was this tight rage and grief which blocked out everything else.

She was being gentle with him, he knew. Sorry for him because of his mom, even though he knew she could never stand the woman. She had Joycie and Linda hanging on to her skirts, all in their best clothes and bewildered by the solemn carry-on of a funeral. Little Linda looked up at him with those dark, inscrutable eyes, as if waiting for something.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, turning away.

He was a bearer. He had to carry his mom’s coffin into the church. No good thinking about anything else. Nudging the edges of his mind all the time was the question: would Dad come? Did he care whether he did or not?

Twenty years Mom and Dad were married, he calculated as they sat in a row in the pews. The rain was still on his coat. He felt out of place in a church. It was cold and the pews were hard.

The coffin was in front of them in the aisle. He found it hard to take in that Mom was in there, that he’d never see her again. For a moment the tight feeling in him increased so that it was almost unbearable. It frightened him, the way he felt. He couldn’t make sense of it. As if his whole body was about to break open.

‘We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we will carry nothing out . . .’

The vicar’s words passed by him, barely heard. Suddenly, though, Linda, who was standing beside him, reached up and with her little hand caught hold of the ends of his fingers. Harry looked down. The child was gazing up at him with such naked trust that he suddenly wanted to weep. He took her hand properly and squeezed it.

I’m her dad
, he thought, as if he’d only realized it for the first time. He could see himself in her, the way she looked. The thought filled him with joy and fear. Whatever kind of father did he know how to be?

They were sitting and the vicar was reading: ‘For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday . . .’

There was a thump at the back of the church as the door opened and a bang as it closed. Harry felt the hairs stand up on the back of his head. Somehow he could not bring himself to turn round, not while they were all sitting facing the front. Whoever it was must have sat down and it was quiet again.

But within a couple of minutes, before the vicar had got to the end of the readings, they all heard it start, low at first, then louder and unmistakable; the lurching, indecipherable singing of a drunk man. A drunk man who was the husband of the woman being commended to her grave.

The eruption that had been waiting to happen inside Harry began then. He loosed Linda’s hand and got up from his seat, charging down the long aisle of the church to where Josiah was sitting, slumped to one side in the back row.

‘Get out!’ He seized him by the lapels of his jacket and hoiked him to his feet. ‘Get yourself out of here – now!’

Outside the church door, Harry had no words any more. For the second time in his life he laid into his father, holding him pinned against the wall with one hand and punching and punching him with the other. There was no holding back on it, no reserve: all self-control was lost in the bursting floodgates of his rage and pain. Josiah made no sound except a winded ‘urrgh’ noise when Harry punched him hard in the stomach and he collapsed, sagging to the floor.

‘Harry – don’t, for God’s sake, what’re you doing?’

Violet was beside him.

‘Don’t, love – stop it! You’ll kill him!’

She was pulling at his arm, trying to prevent him doing any more. Josiah lay on his side on the wet path. He was straining to breathe, after the winding he had taken from Harry’s punch.

‘You could’ve killed him!’ she said. He could see the horror in her eyes but could not really take in what he might have done in his rage.>
< seize alth="2e ‘D’you want to go to prison? Come on – we’d better sit him up.’

They managed to wedge Josiah in a sitting position against the wall. He groaned and mumbled an
d his face was all cut about, but Harry had done no more damage than that.

For a moment the two of them stood, stunned, in the rain. The organ was playing inside the church.

‘Christ,’ Harry said, his voice beginning to crack. ‘Just look at him.’

‘Oh, love,’ Violet said.

Her eyes were full of emotion and she went to put her arms round him, but he couldn’t stand her affection, her pity.

‘Don’t,’ he said. And pushed her away.

Violet stood by the gas stove, grimacing at the pans of butter beans and boiling fish. Harry was bound to moan. What was she supposed to do? She’d never been a good cook but now, with all the shortages and rationing, it was harder than ever.

Eyeing the clock on the mantel she wiped her hands on her apron. Saturday evening, and she was alone, as usual. She never knew when Harry would come home. Most nights he went to the pub and she didn’t know what mood he’d be in when he got back. He seemed to be always frustrated and angry. With petrol in short supply, he couldn’t take the bike out much now and it was under a tarpaulin out at the back. It had all got much worse since his mother died. There were still rare moments of tenderness between them, but the good times had grown fewer.

‘Let’s see what you’ve got to say.’

She switched on the wireless which stood in pride of place with its accumulator on the sideboard. Harry had come home with it a few months ago and she loved having it. He was spending more money these days – had given up on saving all the time. The wireless was company and cheered the place up no end. She missed Jo Snell and the rest of the family horribly. The ache of it never quite left her. Without Jo as a friend and with Harry hardly ever in, she was very lonely.

Making friends didn’t come very easily to her. But she tried to make things nice and keep herself looking presentable. It seemed a bit daft, the war on and everything, all those ships going down and Russian names she’d never heard before. The raids seemed to be over. There’d been warnings, of course, but not much in the way of actual raids since the really bad ones in April. But you still had to keep cheerful somehow, put a face on, a bit of lipstick and powder. She had let her hair grow over the past months, put some rollers in at night so it hung in pretty waves on her shoulders.

Humming along to the wireless, she went to the back door. The girls were playing out in the little yard in the grey light. She could see the barrage balloon – ‘our’ balloon, as the girls called it. A sycamore tree on the scrubby bit of ground the other side of the wall had shed its papery brow dadivn leaves over into their yard.

‘Joycie! Linda – get in here for tea!’

‘Mom – they’m birds, they’m flying!’ Linda cried, her plump hands releasing a drifting shower of leaves into the air.

‘Birds,’ Violet muttered, shaking her head. That child was a proper one for seeing things a queer way.

But she smiled and leaned against the doorframe, watching them. It had been a long day, nothing but hard graft and kiddies, but it was a treat to see their cheeks rosy in the biting air, especially Linda, whose round face seemed to glow. Whenever she stopped to look at her girls she was struck by the difference in them – Joycie, five now, was thin as a twig, with her pale, wispy hair, and Linda, three, was sturdier like Harry, with his brown eyes and thick black locks. You’d never guess they were sisters. Even the way they laughed was quite different. Joyce had a high, thin giggle and Linda chuckled with a rich gurgle in her throat.

Breathing in deeply, Violet relished the smell of fallen leaves, mixed with smoke from the house chimneys. Mrs McEvoy next door was shouting to be heard over all her children.
Eamonn, stop that – stop it now!
She was forever yelling. Violet felt a moment of contentment, standing there by the glow of sycamore leaves. Then Joyce kicked up a shower of them, lifting a stone with them which hit Linda on the side of the head.

‘Owwww!’ Linda howled.

‘Oh, Joyce – what d’you have to go and do that for?’ Violet snapped. ‘Get in now, the pair of you.’

‘Stinks in here,’ Joyce said resentfully. ‘Why do we have to have fish?’

Sighing, Violet sat them down at the table.

‘Urgh,’ Joyce whined, seeing the pale beans being doled out. ‘Don’t like those.’

‘Nor do any of us,’ Violet said sharply. ‘But that’s what there is today. That or go hungry.’

She felt the boredom that accompanied the children’s mealtimes come over her in a wash, like fatigue, as if her limbs were suddenly too heavy. It was a constant struggle, keeping it all going with rations, let alone trying to cook anything they really liked.

Joyce groaned and picked up her fork, leaning on one elbow and pouting.

‘How many beans make five?’ Violet asked, trying to distract them.

Linda’s dark brows dipped in a frown. ‘Five, dafty.’

‘You calling me dafty?’

‘Don’t
like
fish. And I don’t want beans. They’re nasty.’ Joyce was moving them round the plate as if they were dead beetles. A couple of them flicked off the edge of the plate.

‘Oh, shut your face and eat them, for God’s sake.’

Violet gowid/div> At gowid/dt up and fished in her pocket for her Woodbines. They were in paper wrappers now – it saved on cardboard. She lit up and stood over by the wireless. George Formby was singing and she managed a smile, recovering her temper.

‘. . . as a certain little lady passes by . . .’ she sang, conducting with her cigarette so that the smoke drew circles in the air. ‘Eat up, Joycie.’

The door rattled and Violet felt herself tense up. Harry! How much booze would he have put away this time? His dark, handsome features appeared round the door. Not enough, then, for him to be scowling and in a temper.

‘Hello, ladies!’ he cried jovially, flinging his cap at the hook behind the door. It fell on the floor.

‘Missed by miles!’ Joyce giggled. The girls immediately sensed his good mood.

Clownishly, Harry stooped to pick it up and try again. He missed two more times, messing about, and Joyce and Linda giggled. Violet relaxed a little.

‘There!’ He managed it finally and turned, swaying a little, an amiable grin on his face.

‘How’s my wenches?’ He circled the table, shrugging his jacket off. He was strong and square, his muscular shoulders appearing about to burst out of his shirt, and he seemed to take up most of the room. Bending over the table, he tickled each of the girls under the chin and they laughed, squirming.

‘Do it again, Dad!’ Joyce got up and tugged at him. They were so hungry for his attention. Often he barely did more than grunt at them.

Violet doled out more of the beans and fish for Harry and herself. She felt light-hearted as well. At least for now it was going to be all right!

Harry stood across the table from her, and his face changed. He looked instantly sober and regretful, but behind this she could also sense an excitement. She would never forget the look on his face at that moment.

‘Got summat to tell you, Vi.’

‘What?’ She was holding the plate of food out to him.

‘Me and Goosey – we’ve joined up.’

‘What?’
She put the plate down with a bang. Beans spilled on to the table. ‘You can’t’ve – what d’you mean?’

‘The army. We’re going. The both of us.’

‘But . . . You can’t! You’re reserved occ— Mr Riddle won’t let you!’

‘He’s said I can. I’ve asked him – a few times. He was down the pub earlier on and he said, “Well, lad – I can tell you’re just going to keep on and on and wear me down. If you’re that restless you’ll only go upsetting everyone – you’d better go with the others.” ’

Violet pulled out the chair and sat down, as her legs would no longer hold her.

‘But – you don’t have to go, do you? They want you in the factory! You mean it’s what
you
want, to go off and leave us?’ Her voice was starting to thicken with tears.

He came round behind her and put his hands on her shoulders; the warm feel of how he used to touch her made her weep.

‘I don’t want to leave
you
. That ain’t it. I just . . .’ He sounded completely sober now, and sad. ‘You know me, Vi – I’ve always wanted to get out of here. I’m a silly sod, I know – itchy feet. Just want life to be . . .
bigger
than anything I’ve ever seen. Never thought I was going to do it, like, not now, with the kiddies and everything. But there’s blokes going off and . . . I don’t want to be left behind.’
He shrugged. ‘Won’t be for long, I don’t s’pose.’