Lonely Teardrops (2008) (10 page)

‘When was that exactly?’ Harriet wanted to know.

‘Christmas,’ the old man drily remarked.

Harriet smiled, used to Lancashire wit. ‘I mean what year?’

‘Nineteen forty. Manchester was ablaze. Plenty of folk were killed in the blitz.’

She shook her head. ‘No, this must have happened the following year, nineteen forty-one, the year I was born.’

The old man frowned and scratched his head. ‘I weren’t around then. I were away fighting in Africa at the time, but me wife were here, and me daughter. I’m trying to remember if they ever mentioned a bomb. Are you looking for someone, love?’

Harriet swallowed. ‘My mother. I’ve been told she was living in this street and was killed during an air raid. I just wanted to find the house.’

‘Eeh, I’m right sorry to hear that. I wish I could be more helpful but my wife’s dead too, and me daughter is living in Cheshire now.’ The old man peered short-sightedly along the street. ‘Course, stray bombs did fall from time to time, long after the blitz, and the Jerries were fond of dropping ‘em here in Manchester because they were aiming for the factories as well as the Ship Canal. I suppose there could well have been one dropped around these parts, but I can’t say for certain.’

It wasn’t a very satisfactory result but, despite asking a couple of other people, they managed to elicit no further information.

‘I shall have to try asking Nan again for the full address. Make her put her thinking cap on.’

‘Or ask your mother. Joyce, I mean.’

‘No thanks. She’d never tell me, anyroad. She’s declared the subject closed. Definitely off-limits. I can understand her attitude, in a way. I don’t like thinking about it much either.’

‘Then don’t. What does it matter? No one will know you’re illegitimate if you don’t say anything. Just forget it,’ Steve said, giving a casual shrug of his shoulders. Harriet instantly saw red and stopped in her tracks to stare at him.

‘
Forget it
? That’s easy for you to say. I can’t simply dismiss it out of hand. You think it isn’t important to know who my mother was, where I was born and where I nearly died? Don’t you realise that I hate the thought of being illegitimate? It’s awful, dreadful. I feel dirty in some way, besmirched, and as if I’ve been cast adrift from the life I once knew. I
have
to investigate further. I
must
!’

He looked at her sorrowfully. ‘I get the picture.’

But Harriet didn’t even hear his apology. ‘I need to know if my mother, my
real
mother, loved me. If she meant to keep me, and what sort of person she was. I need to find that house, the exact place where that little baby,
me
, was discovered. Which heap of rubble saved me from an almost certain death? Did I have something on me to say who I was? How did Joyce know I was that girl’s baby? Why won’t she tell me her name? She and Nan are still keeping something from me, I’m sure of it, and I mean to get to the bottom of this and find out exactly what happened, and who I
am
!’

She stopped at last, short of breath, heart pounding, her cheeks wet with tears. Harriet hadn’t even realised she was crying.

Steve pulled her close to awkwardly pat her on the back. ‘I do understand how you feel, love, really I do. But just remember that you’re still
you
, the girl I love.’

‘And what about that poor girl, my mother, having a baby she didn’t want, and then being killed in an air raid? That’s tragic!’

Steve kissed her nose. ‘But
you’re
still here. And what a lovely baby you were. She’d be pleased about that, this tragic mother of yours. I know I am. So come on, love, calm down and give me one of your lovely smiles.’

Harriet managed a shy smile for him through her tears. He was so patient with her, so kind and loving, and all she did was bicker and be irritable. He was at least here with her, wasn’t he, trying to help?
 

‘Let me just check out the next street, then we’ll do something much more fun, shall we? The pictures are closed today, being Sunday, but we could go home by way of the canal and do a bit of necking under the bridge. How about that?’

Steve grinned. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Later, flushed and happy from their short interlude under the arches by the Bridgewater Canal, they sat down to lunch with Steve’s parents, as they often did on a Sunday. Harriet liked Mr and Mrs Blackstock. Steve’s father was always jolly and friendly, cracking little jokes and making silly remarks about popping in to the salon for a new hairdo as he stroked his bald pate, or claiming the sun was about to come out any minute, even when it was raining stair-rods.

Mrs Blackstock was less easy-going but still pleasant and friendly enough. She was a small, round, no-nonsense sort of woman, heavily involved in the WVS during the war and even now seemed to be on any number of committees, whose task was to raise money for worthy causes. She spent every Sunday morning at the Baptist chapel, once she’d put on the roast for lunch, and which they’d be eating up cold until at least Tuesday. Her one extravagance seemed to be to come in to the salon once a month for a blue rinse on her short grey hair and she always asked for camomile tea and a cream wafer.

Steve was an only child and in all the years Harriet had known him and his family, she’d always felt welcome in their house. She loved to be invited as the atmosphere was so much more relaxed than at home. But today, she noticed at once that something had changed. Mr Blackstock seemed unusually quiet, never quite meeting her eye, while Steve’s mother was practically monosyllabic.

‘Can I help?’ Harriet offered, jumping to her feet as she noticed dishes being set on the table. She usually helped lay it, make the gravy or pick flowers with Mrs Blackstock in the tiny back-garden behind the tall terrace house, and watch admiringly as she deftly created a charming display for the table.
 

‘No thanks,’ was the cool response.

‘Shall I make the mint sauce?’

‘It’s done.’

Harriet politely took her seat. Mrs Blackstock set a plate of roast lamb before each of them, vegetable dishes were handed round, the gravy boat passed from hand to hand and then, without a word, everyone began to eat. There was no lively chatter, no questions about how Harriet’s secretarial course was progressing, as she usually took pains to enquire. She didn’t ask how Joyce was, or if they’d been busy in the salon. Not even a word about the excitement of Patsy’s wedding. Nothing.

Harriet stole a sideways glance at Steve but he had his eyes firmly fixed on his plate. After a while Mr Blackstock told his wife that the meat was ‘done to a turn’ and, looking pleased, she at last addressed a question to Harriet.

‘So what have you two been up to this morning?’

Harriet tried to quickly swallow a mouthful of lamb but before she had time to speak, Steve answered for her.

‘Nothing much. Just went for a walk by the canal, since it was such a nice day.’

Harriet shot him a questioning look, one which clearly asked why they couldn’t be entirely open and truthful and admit they’d been investigating her family’s past. But his eyes warned her otherwise as he gave an infinitesimal shake of the head.

‘That’s nice,’ Margaret Blackstock agreed. ‘You should enjoy what free time you have left together, before Stephen goes off to college in September.’ She smiled at Harriet then, though it seemed cooler than usual, more distant. ‘We’re so pleased that all his hard work has paid off. I’m quite sure he’ll do well at college so long as he doesn’t have too many distractions. We want only the best for him. But then he’s a bright lad who will go far.’

‘Mother!’

She patted his hand. ‘Don’t be modest, dear, it’s true. Once you’re qualified, you’ll be a headmaster in no time, I’m quite sure of it. Then you’ll be able to afford to buy a nice semi-detached house in a good area of Manchester, find yourself a nice middle-class girl to marry and provide us with a couple of lovely grandchildren. Won’t that be nice, dear?’

There was a small silence while Harriet digested this comment.

Nice was one of Mrs Blackstock’s favourite words. She liked everything to be nice, from the way she set her dining room table to her neatly tended back garden. Her home was liberally decorated with flowery prints, tapestry cushions, embroidered fire screens and other pretty things which she’d no doubt stitched herself. There were Persian rugs and Royal Dalton figurines in crinolines; Toby jugs and a good deal of polished brass. It was the kind of house Joyce would have given her soul for. To Harriet, it seemed like another world here in St John’s Place, far from the everyday hustle and bustle of Champion Street.

Not even glancing at Harriet’s stunned face Steve gave an awkward little laugh. ‘One thing at a time, Mother, I’ve two years hard graft at Teacher Training College first. Besides, Harriet doesn’t want to hear all of this stuff.’

‘I’m sure she’s very interested in how you plan to spend your future, aren’t you, dear? And I should think she understands perfectly that since we’ve all had such a struggle recovering from the war years, we wouldn’t want our only son stuck in this seedy part of Manchester for the rest of his life. Not when he has the chance to better himself.’

‘I quite like Castlefield, actually,’ Harriet stoutly responded. ‘And Champion Street will always be my home.’

‘But you weren’t born there, were you, dear? Or so I’ve been led to believe.’

Again that small taut silence, in which all knives and forks stopped moving as eyes swivelled to the woman’s bland, enquiring smile.

Mr Blackstock cleared his throat. ‘I reckon I’ll have a few more of those lovely crunchy roast potatoes. Would you like one, Harriet?’

‘No, thanks, Mr Blackstock. You’re quite right, I wasn’t born in Champion Street. Fancy your knowing that when I’ve only just found out myself.’

The older woman delicately dabbed her mouth with an embroidered napkin. ‘Oh dear, I do hope I haven’t upset you. Word gets around so quickly in these parts, doesn’t it? Full of old gossips that market is, which is another reason why we want our Stephen to make his life elsewhere. I’m sure you’re ready to move on too, dear, following these recent traumas you’ve been obliged to endure. Losing your poor dear father and discovering that your mother wasn’t who you thought she was.’

‘Margaret,’ Mr Blackstock said on a warning note, but his wife pressed on as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘And no one could blame you if you did up-sticks and leave. For our part we look forward to moving to the Fylde Coast once Ralph retires from the bank. By then, of course, Stephen will be long off our hands and nicely settled.’

Living in a nice semi-detached house and married to a nice middle-class girl, Harriet thought, unshed tears smarting at the backs of her eyes as she struggled to focus on her roast lamb. Unfortunately her throat had closed up tight and she’d quite lost her appetite. She judged it wise not to say anything more on the subject, hoping perhaps that Steve might refute his mother’s plans for him.
 

He said nothing, simply kept his head down and concentrated on eating his Sunday lunch, which galled her somewhat.

Margaret Blackstock, however, was well into her stride. ‘And of course, none of us can be held responsible for where, or how, or to whom we were born, can we, even if it does prove to be a blight on our lives?’

Harriet looked at her, her stormy grey gaze steady. ‘No, we can’t, although some people might insist on apportioning blame on the innocent.’

Margaret Blackstock blinked. ‘I’m sure no one would do any such thing.’

Harriet smiled. ‘And would you still describe me as a
nice
girl, Mrs Blackstock?’

Still Steve said nothing, although he shot her a furious glare which Harriet did not miss. His father too seemed strangely silent, concentrating entirely upon his roast potatoes.

‘You always were very direct, dear.’

‘I see no disgrace in speaking the truth.’

Harriet’s heart had started to beat very slowly and painfully in her breast. She laid her knife and fork neatly together in the centre of her plate, as Mrs Blackstock liked her to do. ‘Well, that was lovely, thank you, but for some reason I seem to have lost my appetite. I won’t bother with a sweet, if you don’t mind. I think I’d best be going.’

‘As you wish, dear. I’m sure you must feel more comfortable at home. It’s bound to take time for you to adjust to your new status.’

Like being a bastard you mean, Harriet thought, but managed not to say so. And when Steve made no effort to come to her defence, she pushed back her chair and headed for the door. She’d deal with him later.

Her acceptance by the Blackstocks into their son’s life seemed to be entirely dependent upon the quality of her pedigree, which was now apparently beyond redemption.

Chapter Nine

Summer was coming to an end and the mornings were fresher now with that first hint of autumn in the air. The Committee should have been making their plans for Christmas, which they liked to do in good time, organising the fairy lights and the tree in order to make the market look festive. Instead they were holding an emergency meeting to discuss the new threat to the market.

The half-derelict houses at the bottom of the street had long been in need of demolition, and everyone would welcome something more modern and pleasant in their place. The problem was that since the right to develop this section of the street had been acquired, the rest of it now seemed to be under threat too, even though those houses were still in perfectly good order. And the developers wanted the market to move out of the street altogether.