Family of Women (44 page)

‘Excuse me – ’ Someone wanted to come past and she was forced to step even closer to him.

‘Sorry,’ she said, and he looked round to acknowledge the remark, glancing at her, and away.

‘Not to worry,’ he said.

Deflated, she started to move past, and realized she was shaking. Tea, that was what was needed. But all she could think was that he hadn’t recognized her, hadn’t known her, instantly the way she knew him!

Before she reached the terrace, though, he caught her up, beside a flowerbed, full of bright blooms.

‘Violet?’

He had hurried over without the wheelchair.

They looked at each other for a few seconds. He had spoken softly, his voice not giving anything away. Suddenly she was coldly calm. There seemed no other way to be. There was nothing to expect.

‘Your son,’ she said. ‘You’ve left him.’

‘He’s having another game. The lady’s helping him.’

There were more seconds of silence, full of the impossibility of beginning. She thought of his face that day they’d said goodbye, before she even knew she was carrying his child. How could they begin on this here?

‘How are you?’ He moved his shoulders in a way which acknowledged the lameness of the question.

‘All right, thanks. What about you? The family?’ She was finding it hard to look him in the eyes. Back then, she had looked so deeply.

‘Yes. All right. Well – except for Philip.’ He nodded back in the direction of his son. ‘They both caught it, the twins. John had it much worse – he died of it after a few days. And Philip – wellf b ` Qh; wellf , they’re working on him.’

‘Oh, how awful,’ Violet said. She could really look at him then.

‘Yes – what with that and us losing one before, well . . .’ The sentence petered out, implying something, but she was not quite sure what.

‘Are you still living in Aston?’ he asked.

‘No. We moved out to Kingstanding – years ago, you know, after the war.’

The conversation felt so awkward, it was excruciating. She longed to be alone with him properly, to let go and talk.

Roy frowned suddenly. ‘Why are you here? One of your two didn’t catch polio, did they?’

The next couple of seconds seemed to stretch endlessly, as if her heart had stopped. She longed with every fibre of her to tell him about Carol, but she was so frightened by it. Eleven years had gone by – why did she need to tell him now?

‘It’s my youngest.’ Carefully, she looked into his face. ‘She’s just over there. She’s eleven.’

‘Oh.’ He nodded, and she could see her words had not registered. He had not worked it out.

There was more silence, the moment growing so awkward that he was starting to say, ‘Well – I’d better go and get Philip. Nice to see you, Violet. You look . . . well, you look very nice.’

And they said goodbye and he turned back towards his son.

Violet went and got a cup of tea and sank down on one of the chairs by the wall, praying that no one would come and talk to her. She needed time to recover. There was both relief and a devastating sense of letdown at the same time. What else could she have expected, after all? But seeing him brought back all the feelings of those years, the only time she had had such feelings, as if he was burned into her in a way no one else could be.

‘Ah –
here she is now!’

To her disquiet she heard Sister Cathleen’s cheerful voice, and she and Carol came up, Carol radiant and holding her hand.

‘Hello, Mrs Martin – how are you?’

Violet stood up, trying to keep a grip on her dainty cup and saucer.

‘I’m all right,’ she said. Why was it that this nun always made her feel so awkward?

Sister Cathleen’s pale face beamed down at Carol. ‘Isn’t this one looking a picture? Marvellous, isn’t it?’

Violet smiled. ‘Yes – she’s going along well.’

‘I should say she is! Quite the little miracle. Well I hope we shan’t be seeing you back at St Gerard’s again – not for treatment, anyways. Though it’s always a treat to see you Carol, if you want to come to St Paul’s . . . You take every care of yourself neig ` Qrself neiow, dear.’

She embraced Carol once more and said her goodbyes. Carol stared adoringly after her.

‘D’you want a drink?’ Violet asked, brusquely. ‘There are cakes, as well.’

Carol settled beside her with some home-made lemon in a glass and an angel cake, its little wings stuck on with butter icing.

‘Why don’t you make these, Mom? They’re nice.’

Violet laughed. ‘I’m not much of a cook. Perhaps we’ll give it a try?’ She put her cup down. ‘D’you want to stay much longer? We ought to be . . .’

The rest of the sentence was snatched from her when she saw Roy again, coming towards them, pushing his son in the wheelchair. There was no sign of his wife with him. He saw her notice him and there was no point pretending she hadn’t. He came towards her. Philip, the remaining twin, must have been about fourteen, she realized, though he seemed small for his age. As well as his legs he had one arm badly affected by polio.

‘Hello again,’ Roy said, and was obviously going to keep walking past. But then she saw him notice Carol. Everyone noticed Carol because she was so pretty, but this was different. She saw him stop and look, and Carol looked back in her usual open, inquiring way. Violet saw him take in her deep brown eyes, his eyes, looking back at him, and she saw the realization breaking over his face.

‘All change please, all change!’

Linda walked along the platform at Euston Station. A lady in her carriage had taken her under her wing and explained about the Underground and what to do after that, very carefully, as if she was speaking to a class of six-year-olds.

But it wasn’t just finding her way that she was nervous about.

She hadn’t exactly planned to come today. She’d been secretly saving up the money for her ticket. This Saturday she knew Carol was out at a friend’s house for the day and Mom was working, then going to Aston to see Nana. Bessie still wasn’t right after her funny turn. The day was fine, and the only thing to do, it seemed, was dress in a skirt and blouse – she wanted to look not too scruffy and she didn’t have anything very smart to wear – and go get on a train to London. She had to dare herself. It felt as if she was going to the other side of the world.

She had been determined to post the letter on the way. She stood by a postbox in town for minutes, after getting off the Kingstanding bus, trying to make herself push it through the slot. But the letter, with its Handsworth Wood address, was still in her bag. How could she just tell Alan that she couldn’t see him any more? It seemed very brutal, especially when he w hoal, P H P>

‘Dear Alan,’ she had written last night, sitting up in bed, once Carol was asleep. At least it was her left arm in plaster, or she wouldn’t have been able to write at all. She stared at the cast along her forearm for a moment.
He could have killed me
. . .

‘I’m sorry for not coming to the hospital.’ After that she sat for an age. How could she explain?
I don’t think I can be with you – you make me feel sad and stuck and you’re not good for me. With you I can see no real future.
How to say that to him? There wasn’t a kind way to tell the truth. All she could say was, ‘I don’t think we can see each other any more. I’m very sorry. With best wishes from Linda.’

That was the note she put in the envelope. And she despised herself for it and that was why she couldn’t bring herself to hand it over to the letterbox, to be free of this constant ache of dread and sadness because something had to be finished but it hurt too much to do it. As a result, the ache was still there, mixed with her nervousness at being alone in London, and looking for Rosina.

To Violet’s surprise she had offered to go and call in on her grandmother in the week, to see how she was.

‘This is a surprise,’ Bessie greeted her, voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Bit like royalty showing up, ain’t it, Marigold? What’re
you
after?’

Marigold was knitting. She looked up at Linda in silence, but her treacly eyes held a twinkle and Linda sensed she was pleased to see her. She had a cup of tea with them – Marigold’s with a drop of extra which she sneaked in behind Bessie’s back – and put up with Nana’s jibes about her clothes, her job, about anything at all that she could think to criticize. In the meantime she also managed to slip Rosina’s letter out from behind the jug and into the scullery for long enough to memorize her address. She noticed that her grandmother really did look ill: puffy round the face, beads of sweat on her forehead and somehow simply changed, as if something had given way inside her. Not that it had sweetened her up in the process, Linda thought sourly as she left the house. It’d take more than a funny turn to do that. But she’d put up with it long enough to get what she needed. The address! She said it over and over in her mind and wrote it down as soon as she got home: Rosina Croft, 3a Brewer Street, London W1.

The lady on the train had frowned at the sight of the address. ‘Are you sure that’s where you want to go, dear?’ She had an A-Z map book and, on a piece of writing paper, drew her a plan of how to get to Rosina’s address from the Tube. On the Underground train Linda stared at the little
map, hardly able to believe that soon the lines on the powder-blue paper would turn into real streets and she would be walking along them, moving closer to Rosina.

Until now she had two pictures of Rosina to hold on to. One was the pretty young woman in her stage costume whose face stared brazenly out of the picture she had sent to the family; the other was that glimpse of her peach-satin-clad figure retreating from the church at Jwid p Qch at Jwioyce’s wedding. These two images conveyed glamour, daring and mystery. The streets Linda found herself walking in search of her spelled something more ambiguous.

The country’s on its knees
. . . Uncle Clarence’s whining words came back to her. Of course she was used to it in Brum, all the bombsites, mess and grime, all those years of Stafford Cripps, austerity and rationing, only just ending. And then came the building sites, the sense of old things giving way to new, but in the end always seeming workaday, functional, not glamorous at all. She had thought London would be different, even though they had the worst Blitz of all, that it would be cleaned up, smart and exciting. But she found herself in gloomy, seedy streets between run-down buildings strewn with rubbish and poky-looking cafés and bars. There was a life in it, it was true, people coming and going, neon signs outside clubs and theatres, and most passers-by in the street seemed to be speaking a whole array of languages she couldn’t understand. She felt suddenly very young and overawed and out of place.

She stopped on a street corner and looked at the teacher lady’s map to get her bearings. One more street and then she had to turn right . . .

‘You working?’ It was a gruff whisper in her ear and she jumped.

Behind her was a stringy-looking man in a singlet. He was not very old but his skin was deeply tanned, his face leathery and lined as if from screwing his face up against the sun and his chin covered in stubble. He stared at her suggestively.

‘What?’ Her heart was beating fast in shock at his sudden appearance.

‘I said, are you
working
, love?’ There was an edge of threat in his voice.

‘No.’ She shook her head vigorously.

‘Fair enough,’ he snapped, and walked off. She saw he had a limp. Linda looked round, hoping no one else had been close enough to hear. She didn’t know for sure what he meant but she could guess. She felt dirty. Could he see she wasn’t a virgin? Could people tell, somehow?

She scurried on and round the corner. Thank goodness she was nearly there!

Standing outside number 3, from where Rosina had written her only letter in years to Bessie, Linda felt more and more nervous and foolish.

The house had a tall, forbidding frontage of red bricks darkened by soot. Linda was torn between her longing to get off the streets and fear that Rosina might not be there or would laugh in her face and turn her away. What if she told her to get lost? She’d have to go straight back to the station and go home.

There were four buttons. Two had names beside them, but the space next to number three was blank. She rang it anyway.

There was a long silence. She thought about ringing again, but then came faint sounds from inside of someone in heels clacking downstairs. After a moment she saw a movement through the clear spaces in the glass, and caught her breath. The door opened just wide enough for a woThe qqqqq Tman to look out. She had dyed blonde hair, darker at the roots and scraped back into a ponytail, and her eyelids were laden with blue tints and mascara. She was obviously poised to slam the door shut again.

‘Yes? Who’re you?’

‘I’m . . .’ Linda lost courage. ‘I thought I’d got the right house but . . . I’m looking for my auntie. Her name’s Rosina.’

‘Oh?’ The woman looked taken aback, though some of her hostility faded away. She opened the door wider, letting out a strong, musty smell. Linda saw that she was dressed in a bright blue frock which barely reached down below her knees and high-heeled white shoes. She stared at Linda again for a moment, but in a different way from before, as if she had to calculate what to say.

‘Does she live here?’

‘She’s not here – not at present,’ the woman said. ‘I mean, well, Rosy does live here. This is where . . . I mean . . .’ She seemed oddly confused. ‘Only she’s not here at the moment, see. She’s . . .’

‘I’ve come all the way from Birmingham to see her,’ Linda said, desperately. ‘I saved up for the ticket and everything and if I don’t see her I don’t know when I’d be able to come again.’

The woman was still staring at her in that odd way. Then she said abruptly, ‘Look – hang on a tick.’ She disappeared into the house and came back a moment later with keys, closing the door behind her. On the doorstep she pulled out a powder compact from her bag and used the mirror to apply deep red lipstick.