Lonely Teardrops (2008) (20 page)

Rose was brought home a couple of weeks later, and Joyce still hadn’t found anyone willing to look after her. She’d tried Aunty Dot, the one all the stallholders turned to when they were in trouble. But she was fostering even more children than usual at the moment, as well as being heavily involved in making sweets and chocolates for Lizzie Pringle’s shop, so couldn’t help.

Molly Poulson, when asked if she could spare the odd hour in her day, said, ‘You must be joking. I barely have time to wash me own face, let alone somebody else’s.’

Amy George was pregnant, so pointed out she wouldn’t be able to lift Rose, or turn her over. Clara Higginson, although she claimed to be semi-retired, seemed busier than ever, not only helping Patsy on the hat stall but involved in many committees at the church, and various charities. Everyone else was too busy earning their living. Joyce was in despair. But here she was, her mother sitting up in bed looking as spry as ever and demanding her tea.

‘Look sharp. I’m . . .’ the old woman paused, as if searching for the right word. ‘Fair clemmed.’

‘You’ve got your voice back then, I see,’ Joyce dryly remarked.

‘Me tongue gets in a - knot. Not good.’ She indicated her legs, which she still couldn’t move, then demonstrated that she couldn’t lift her right arm. ‘Floppy. Doctor says - exercises. Every day. You help.’

‘Me?’ Joyce was horrified. ‘When will I have time to do exercises with you? I’ve got to get back downstairs for me two o’clock.’

‘Cooee, can I come up?’

‘Now who the hecky-thump is that?’

Seconds later Irma came sailing in, blindingly bright in her wrap-over white overall worn over a warm jumper and skirt against the chill autumn breeze that whooshed through the door with her. A great smile wreathed her round face as she looked on her old friend. ‘I heard you were home. How are you, chuck? I’ve only got a minute but I thought I’d just pop over to welcome you home like. I’ve fetched you some of me best ginger snaps.’

Rose struggled to communicate but gave up and simply said, ‘Ta.’

‘By heck, it’s a bit chilly in here. Shall I switch the electric fire on?’ And she did so, without even a by-your-leave. Then Irma gathered the frail old lady into a warm hug, telling her not to fret if she couldn’t get the words out. ‘I just popped in to say I’ll be delighted to call in regular like for a chat, or happen do a bit more, if you want me to? I could help you have a wash or something. I don’t mind, since you’re a good mate.’

Tears stood proud in the old woman’s eyes as she glanced up at her daughter, hating her own dependence on Joyce’s charity.

‘Unless you have some objection to having me here?’ Irma pointedly asked.

Joyce ground her teeth together but managed, nonetheless, to see the advantage of Irma’s presence, despite its obvious complications. ‘It’s true that I could do with a bit of help. I have me hands full already with the salon, as you know, and I’m not good on the nursing front.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Irma dryly commented, and sat herself down on the chair next to the bed without even being asked.

Rose smiled at her daughter, a crooked, twisted sort of grimace, but the nearest she could manage to a smile. ‘Two cups - love.’ She indicated that she and Irma wished to be alone as they had things to talk over.

Joyce was now the one lost for words.
 

So it was that Joyce found herself not only obliged to make tea for her lover’s wife, but also accept Irma’s help in caring for her mother. Fate had played its cruel tricks, yet again.

######

Chapter Seventeen

They slept on make-shift cardboard beds for several more nights, although not in the same dank little tunnel.
 
She moved on with Vinny from place to place, sometimes sleeping under the railway arches, sometimes down by the canal, once in a bus shelter. But apart from that first night they were never alone. They were always part of a crowd of other waifs and strays who were likewise sleeping rough amongst the detritus of rubbish, the smell of rotting leaves and sewage, with beetles crawling over them and a litter of used cigarette packets and French johnnies scattered all around.

Harriet learned where to find the best cardboard and discovered the surprising benefits of newspaper. It could double as a bed, form a blanket, and even line the soles of your worn out shoes. She hadn’t quite reached such a sorry state as some of her fellow homeless, her shoes still being in one piece, but she made a mental note of how they coped. Cigarettes were their main luxury, and they could make one last for half a day by continually docking it out and relighting it. In fact, searching for fag ends was a favourite pastime of many of the old lags.

She saw how they always wore mittens, usually gloves with the tips of the fingers removed, how they kept careful watch when people were eating their lunches or picnics in the park or at the bus station, and were ready to swiftly dip in the litter bin should they spot a half eaten sandwich or pork pie being thrown away. Harriet shuddered at the thought of being driven to such lengths, yet could sympathise totally with their plight.

Many had stories to tell very much like her own. They too had been thrown out on to the street and abandoned, or worse, abused, by a parent. Or they’d suffered some sort of breakdown, perhaps losing a wife, a child, or a job. They weren’t all alcoholics and deadbeats, not by any means.

The nights were drawing in as autumn approached, and the days were growing cooler. Harriet worried about how they would manage when winter really set in. Looking at these unfortunates made her feel uncomfortable, as if she were seeing herself five years from now.

But then Vinny would crack a joke, or find a sixpence someone had dropped and Harriet would shake these fears away. She was young, after all, and still with money in her pocket.

The band which Terry Hall had set up for him hadn’t materialised, but Vinny had got together a group of optimistic, like-minded musicians and they were working hard rehearsing. Vinny and Bruno played the guitar. Duffy was on double base, which was nothing more than a tea-chest and broom handle with a single string attached, and Al played the drums. In fact he was the most talented of the four, which sometimes created a few tensions when he was doing a drum solo.

But Vinny meant to go places with his new band. Hadn’t he promised her as much?

They found an old deserted warehouse down by the docks where they could sleep out of the wind and rain, which was a relief. It was still cold and dirty, but far better than being out on the streets. The lads were also able to practise in there, pounding out music without fear of disturbing anyone. The trouble was they still weren’t earning any money, but nursed high hopes of being spotted by a talent scout one day. Right now, were it not for Harriet’s twenty-five pounds, they’d all be starving.

Amazingly, they did have one or two gigs lined up in late October which Vinny had secured by trailing around all the dance halls of Manchester and Salford asking to be given a chance, but these were still a few weeks off. If those went well, then the boys were quite convinced that other bookings, and fame, would surely follow. They’d put out the word that they were still in need of a singer, and were even now in the process of holding auditions to choose one.

Harriet sat on an old upturned orange box watching a stream of hopefuls stand up to sing, then dribble away again one by one. Vinny, she’d discovered, was most particular about what sort of singer he wanted, and very rude to anyone who didn’t come up to his standard.

‘You sound like a cat on heat,’ he told one girl.

‘Have you got a hernia or something?’ he asked another.

Or, ‘Stick to the bath, love, nobody would pay good money to hear you strangle a song.’

Harriet sighed. She rather thought that by October they might all have perished for lack of nourishment, judging by the speed her small nest egg was rapidly disappearing. She hadn’t reckoned on being obliged to feed four big lads as well as herself, although Vinny insisted it would be unfriendly not to. They too had put their own money into the pot, little though it might be, so it was only fair that she did the same.

‘All for one and one for all,’ he informed her, not giving her any choice in the matter. And she’d be ready enough to enjoy a share in their success when it came, wouldn’t she?

‘The lads might have to find themselves a job in the end, if we run out of cash,’ she warned Vinny when he strolled over to again ask her to rustle up some food for them all.

He blinked at her. ‘You are joking! A job? They’ve got a job, working in this band. How can they make their way in the music world if they don’t have time to practise?‘

She felt a spurt of resentment, wondering how they would ever have managed if she hadn’t been there with Joyce’s twenty-five quid, but all she said was, ‘So, aren’t you going to get a job either?’ and smiling, Vinny handed her a cigarette.

‘Have a puff of this, love, it’ll make you relax and feel much better.’ The slight lilt of his Irish accent always sounded much more pronounced when he was laughing at her.

The cigarette had the weirdest smell imaginable and an even stranger taste which Harriet didn’t much care for. But, surprisingly, it did make her feel much, much better, really quite light headed. And then so drowsy that she had to lie down and close her eyes for a little rest. Two hours later she woke to find that the band had at last found the girl singer they needed.

She was called Shelley and was a skinny looking waif with short dark hair and big blue eyes. Watching the way Vinny hovered over her, Harriet thought it fortunate that she wasn’t in the least bit in love with him, or she’d be jealous.

Once the auditions were over, Harriet went to buy them all fish and chips, and a bottle of beer each. Naturally they complained about the puny ration so far as the alcohol was concerned, but on this point she was adamant. No money, no more beer. After they’d eaten, they passed round the funny smelling cigarettes again, which she accepted. Harriet had no idea what they were but the one she’d tried earlier had left her feeling a bit muzzy but oddly happy.
 

‘Who needs all that nine-to-five shit, anyway?’ Vinny was saying with a vacant smile on his face. He had one arm hung round the shoulders of the new girl singer who likewise seemed to be having trouble staying awake after smoking half of one of these funny cigarettes.

They all became rather silly and giddy, telling stupid jokes and having a riotous time. Harriet revelled in the silly banter, and, now that she’d grown used to sleeping rough, had started to enjoy herself. She enjoyed humming along to the band’s music while they practised, and could quite see Vinny’s point of view in his choice of life-style.
 

She’d fully intended to get a job herself, of course, but now it occurred to Harriet that really there was no rush. A spark of rebellion had been lit in her as a result of the rejection she’d suffered. Where did duty and love ever get you, anyway? Nowhere. Her dad was dead, her mother wasn’t her mother after all, and had thrown her out. Her boy friend, who had once claimed to adore her, refused to defend her against his snobbish parents, and had stood her up at the first opportunity and gone off with another girl. So what did it matter where she went or what she did? No one cared a jot about her.

Harriet was filled with a wash of guilt as she remembered this wasn’t strictly true. Nan cared for her, deeply. She’d meant to buy a pad of paper and envelopes and write to her grandmother but there’d been too much to think about, too much worry involved in finding somewhere to sleep. And deep down a sense of shame she daren’t admit to herself, let alone her nan.

Even when they’d found the deserted warehouse, there’d been the auditions and bookings to arrange. Now, to her even greater shame, Harriet realised that she’d been having such a good time that she’d forgotten all about her poor nan, save for the postcard which she’d sent soon after she’d left home. She made a private promise to buy some paper and write her a long letter first thing in the morning; a loving, apologetic note.
 

In the meantime she slipped out to find a phone box. Harriet intended to explain that she was fine and that Nan mustn’t worry, that she would make her own way in the world with Vinny and his group. Who cared about love anyway? She dialled the number for the salon but it was Joyce who answered.

‘Hello, it’s me. Can I speak to Nan?’

‘She isn’t in,’ Joyce snapped, and without giving any further explanation, put down the phone.

Harriet felt bitterly disappointed, let down yet again. She didn’t believe for a minute that her grandmother wasn’t at home, this was Joyce being difficult. She’d write to Nan first thing tomorrow. She hurried straight back to the warehouse and sucked on the cigarette some more, not quite getting it right, her head spinning giddily. This was great, much better than being bossed and bullied by Joyce, or harassed and stalked by Grant.

She was free, at last.

Harriet found Vinny to be a conflicting mixture of opposites. Tough, almost brutal when it came to defending himself, as demonstrated by the way he’d tackled his old gang single-handed when they’d attacked her. Yet he could be as soft as butter if the mood took him, warm and gentle and caring. He was ruthlessly ambitious and yet careless of any sort of commitment when it came to making plans for the future. He would quite happily work for a twelve or eighteen hour stretch without complaint, but then stay in bed for the next several days, showing no interest whatsoever in rehearsing.