Lonely Teardrops (2008) (19 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Joyce was feeling very sorry for herself and decidedly put upon. She’d already spent years caring for a sick husband, at least in her eyes, and now, just when she was free to go her own way, her mother goes and has a stroke. She felt trapped. It was so unfair to have yet another sick person dependent upon her. Joyce most certainly had no intention of allowing her life to be ruined by one sad old woman. Didn’t she have enough to do looking after her hairdressing business without waiting hand, foot and finger on her mother?

Joyce had called the ambulance the moment she’d found Rose lying in her bed quite unable to move, apparently paralysed from top to toe. She’d been taken to hospital and was making, as the doctors informed her with great tact and gentleness, steady improvement, really rather remarkable progress considering her age. But a full recovery was not anticipated. Nor could they keep her in hospital for too long as they didn’t have the beds. In a few weeks, they said, Mother would feel much more comfortable at home, although someone would need to provide constant care for the old lady on a daily basis for some time.

Joyce couldn’t believe her bad luck, far more concerned about the impact of the stroke upon her own life rather than on Rose’s. She was furious, and deeply regretted having given Harriet the order of the boot. The girl could easily have taken care of her grandmother, as she did her father, instead of which the whole caboodle was going to fall on Joyce’s own fair shoulders.

Not if she had any say in the matter, however. Something would have to be done. There were plenty of old folk’s homes, after all. Rose could go into one of those. Or stay in the hospital for all she cared. Where was it written that you had to sacrifice your entire life to caring for flaming invalids, even if they were related?

And why was it, Joyce asked herself, that so many things over which she had no control had changed the direction of her life? In fact, if she’d ever had any say over what happened to her, the moment must have passed her by. Fate seemed to have it in for her at every turn. The moment something good happened, bad news followed almost at once. It had been exactly that way with Stan.

Joyce had fallen in love with Stan at first sight, dreamed of him being a part of her life, but the discovery that she was pregnant was a massive blow to her hopes. She’d been mortified. It was far too late to confess to the rape which had happened weeks before, so how could she then own up to being pregnant? It was dreadful. Appalling! There’d seemed to be no way out. She almost wished that Stan had been a bit more pushy in his love making, and then had hated herself for such a thought.

It would surely be utterly wicked to put the blame on to Stan for this baby, when he wasn’t the one responsible?

When, a day or two later Joyce had received yet another of his regular letters, she’d made up her mind to act. She couldn’t do this to him, she really couldn’t. Such a bare-faced lie would surely ruin both their lives.

She’d spent hours working out what she should say, chewing on the end of her pen, crossing out, crumpling up sheets of paper she could ill afford. She was in tears by the time she was done, devastated by what had happened, but it seemed the only way.

In the end, the letter was quite short, simply saying that she thought it best if they didn’t see each other again. Joyce gave no explanation, no reason at all for her change of heart. She didn’t even claim to have found a new love, so it wasn’t really a Dear John letter. And it was very final.

She walked round the block twice before plucking up the courage to actually shove it into the letter box. Then she ran home, shut herself in her room and sobbed her heart out, knowing she’d just destroyed her one chance of happiness.

All she had to do now was get rid of the baby.

Except that Stan had turned up at her house within days of receiving that letter. She’d been surprised to see him, shocked even, and how he’d got leave she never dared ask but he wanted to know what the hell it was all about.

‘I thought you were keen. I thought you loved me.’

‘I do love you,’ Joyce had told him, before stopping to think what she was saying.

‘Well then, that settles it. I’ve been granted compassionate leave before going overseas, and if it’s just that you’re worried I might not be serious about you, then I have the proof right here.’

From his pocket he drew out a slip of paper which turned out to be a special license.

‘I invited my parents to attend, but my father is a strict Catholic and doesn’t approve of hasty marriages, so they declined. Nevertheless, I’m up for it, if you are?’

Unable to resist, Joyce had flung herself into his arms in delight. They were married the very next day, and spent two wonderful days of unrestrained passion, quite unable to keep their hands off each other for more than five minutes at a time. It had seemed to signify the end of all her problems. In reality, they were only just beginning.

Now, years later, Joyce was towelling Belle Garside’s hair when Grant sauntered in, pretending an interest in the hair-do before blithely enquiring if his mother intended going out with Belle this evening, perhaps taking up with some of her old friends again, now that she was fancy free and a widow. Grant thought this rather a clever ploy in his quest to discover as much information about Joyce’s past as he possibly could. His mother, however, saw through it in seconds and gave him short shrift for being too inquisitive.
 

‘What are you on about? You’ve got nosy all of a sudden.’

Belle chuckled. ‘You don’t know the half of it. He was asking me the other day if I knew any of your old flames. Not that I was able to help him, as I was at pains to explain.’

Joyce gave her customer a wavering smile through the mirror, even as she wondered what the hell was going on. She really had no wish to be reminded of her past, full as it was of uncomfortable truths she’d rather not examine too closely. Dear me no. Besides, Joyce was far more interested in the future, and nothing seemed to be going right for her at present.

Apart from the problem of needing someone to care for her mother, she was still desperately trying to urge Joe to divorce his wife and move in with her. Yet she was getting nowhere fast.

The silly man was far too cautious, still obstinately refusing to make up his mind. He gave any number of excuses for the delay from being too busy on the stall, to Joyce needing more time to adjust to Stan’s recent demise, to Irma not yet being ready to cope on her own. He even cited the weather, which often created problems one way or another on a market. A right load of old bunkum, in Joyce’s opinion. If he really cared for her, he’d tell Irma to her face that he was leaving and that would be that. Joyce fully intended to keep on at him, and to get her own way as she always did in the end.

Although it hadn’t quite worked out that way with Stan, had it? For all his confession of undying love for her when they’d first married, and the undoubted passion they’d enjoyed in those first few nights of connubial bliss, he’d betrayed her within months of putting a ring on her finger.

Nevertheless, Joyce meant to have better luck this time.

As she wound Belle Garside’s long brunette tresses on to the largest rollers she possessed, she met her customer’s curious gaze with a resigned expression of motherly tolerance. ‘What has it to do with my son who I went around with when I was a young lass, eh?’
 

Belle smiled her artificial smile while keeping a keen eye on Joyce’s expression, determined to get to the bottom of this little mystery. ‘That’s precisely what I told him.’

‘Why would he want to know, anyroad?’

Belle glanced through the mirror and caught the panic in Grant’s eyes. Had he been genuine, she wondered, with his tale of planning a party? Best not to mention that, just in case. Belle would hate to be the one to spoil a surprise. ‘Nay, don’t expect me to understand sons. Both of mine have been the bane of my life, a great disappointment to me for all I adored them both and gave my heart and soul to caring for them. That’s kids for you. But do you think Grant’s sudden interest in the past might have something to do with your Harriet?’

Whirling about to glare at the unfortunate son in question, Joyce snapped, ‘Has it? Because if so . . . ‘

‘Naw, I never said it had owt to do with our Harriet. Why would it?’ Grant demurred.

‘I should hope not. She might still be family, in a way, but . . . ‘

‘Is she? Are you sure about that?’ There was unmistakable bitterness in his tone.

‘She is if I say she is,’ Joyce bit back, then quickly changed tack. ‘Anyroad, she’s gone, taken herself off some place, so let’s forget her. She can make her own way from now on, as I’m sure she will.’

‘You haven’t heard from her then?’ Belle smoothly enquired, never one to miss an opportunity for a bit of gossip. Nor had she missed that little slip which seemed to cast doubt on the relationship of the erstwhile siblings. Even Grant didn’t seem convinced. What was going on? she wondered. Belle waited patiently for her old rival’s response, but Joyce had paused in her labours, and was looking somewhat put out.

Joyce was wondering what line to take. Should she aim to play the concerned mother of a girl who’d run off because she was up to no good, or be honest and admit she threw her out and was glad to see the back of her? But then she’d have to give a good reason, which might be tricky as Joyce didn’t rightly know herself what that was. The lass just got on her wick but she could hardly say as much, could she?

She shrugged her shoulders and continued winding the big pink sponge rollers. ‘When did kids ever tell you where they were or what they are up to? Never, in my experience. No doubt she’ll come home when she’s good and ready, when she’s tasted the big bad world, and not before.’ Ignorance, she decided, was the best policy.

‘Perhaps Grant knows where she is,’ Belle teased, not yet prepared to accept defeat on this fascinating discussion.

Joyce turned on the hapless Grant once more, where he lounged against the door, hands in pockets. ‘You don’t know where she is, do you?’

Grant shook his head, honestly assuring his mother that he hadn’t the first idea where she might be, although privately wishing that this was not the case. If it hadn’t been for her sucking up to her father, Stan might have taken more of an interest in his adopted son. And now he had an even greater score to settle after the beating he’d suffered the night she’d run away. He’d even devised an interesting plan over how he meant to achieve this. He despised and loathed his half-sister for that attack alone. How dare she escape and leave those brutes to turn on him?

Determined to find her, the morning after she disappeared he’d explored the area around by the River Irwell, and, after much persistence and several hours of searching, had found the crushed cardboard which had obviously formed a bed for someone.

Then he’d spotted two pairs of footprints in the mud by Prince’s Bridge, one small, possibly Harriet’s, and a larger pair of boots, clearly belonging to a bloke. She didn’t even have the bottle to leave on her own, the dozy mare. Grant followed both sets of footprints, deciding in the end that they’d crossed the bridge and headed for Salford, most likely the docks.

The fact that she wasn’t alone didn’t trouble him in the slightest. He decided that whoever her helper might be, couldn’t keep watch over her every minute of the day. Satisfied with his morning’s work, Grant had finally gone home. Since then he’d crossed Prince’s Bridge on numerous occasions, walking as far as Salford docks and searching every nook and cranny along the way, yet still he’d found no sign of her. He’d been forced to give up in the end, quite certain he’d get a lead one day.

Grant hated the thought that he could no longer claim to be a cut above, except that he was at least legitimate. But who was his real father and why hadn’t he married his mother? That’s what he wanted to know, facts which were proving incredibly difficult to root out. He needed more names and since Joyce wasn’t willing to cough up, Nan had been his only chance. Now it was too late. The stupid old woman was ill in hospital, hardly able to speak.

Quite out of the blue, it occurred to him that this meant his grandmother’s room was standing empty, and the evidence he needed may well be lying around in diaries, letters, or notebooks. It might take only a matter of moments to discover what he needed, while his mother was thus engaged doing Belle Garside’s hair.

‘I’ll fetch you both a pot of tea, shall I?’ he generously offered, making his escape.

‘By heck,’ Belle said. ‘There must be something up. I’ve never heard the lad make such an offer before.’

‘Nor me neither,’ Joyce agreed, watching with curiosity as her great lump of a son boiled the kettle in the little kitchenette behind the salon. He then carefully carried in a tray of tea and biscuits with some trepidation, clearly demonstrating that he’d never done such a thing in his life before.
 

Much as she adored him, he was a lazy article, and a constant source of worry to her. Could her past really be coming back to haunt her? she wondered. Joyce rather thought it might be. And how much could her son uncover, if he really tried? She shuddered to think.

What Joyce would have thought had she seen him, moments later, rummaging through Rose’s things, Grant didn’t trouble to consider. Sadly, he found nothing of any interest, but hadn’t by any means given up hope. If there was something to find, he’d discover it sooner or later. In the meantime he helped himself to a few fivers from his nan’s secret hoard. She hardly needed money in hospital, did she?