Lonely Teardrops (2008) (24 page)

Joyce was certain that was when he started seeing other women, or at least one in particular.

Now, of course, she was the one having the affair, stealing, or at least attempting to steal, someone else’s husband. Joyce deeply resented Irma Southworth’s presence in her house. There she would be in the kitchen every morning, coddling eggs for Rose and frying bacon for herself. She left Joyce to make her own breakfast, as the kitchen in the flat was really far too small for two women who disliked each other as intensely as these two did, to share, particularly when one of them was Irma’s size.

‘How long are you going to take in there?’ Joyce would demand. ‘I’ve the salon to open. I take exception to being shut out of me own kitchen.’

Irma would cast her barely more than a scathing glance. ‘And I take exception to you leaving your own mother to pee in her bed because you can’t be bothered nip upstairs and look after her. Anyroad, I’m not standing in your way. I’m done, it’s all yours.’

And the two women would do a little two-step as Irma attempted to exit, tray balanced precariously, while Joyce barged in.

But having taken Rose’s breakfast upstairs, Irma would then return and have the effrontery to eat her own breakfast at the living room table - more often than not without even Grant to leaven the silence between them as he was usually still in bed, snoring his head off.

Irma was a very determined lady. She wasn’t going to be hindered in her self-appointed task to make Rose better just because of any bad feeling there might be between herself and her husband’s mistress. How many times in the past had she found herself in a similar situation, being obliged to behave normally with a woman who was sleeping with her husband? She’d learned long since that whatever Joe got up to was his business. On this occasion, Irma had a job to do, and if that caused Joyce Ashton some discomfort and embarrassment, so be it.

Half an hour later Irma was serving Winnie with half a pound of mixed biscuits, paying particularly attention to fig rolls, for which her friend had a weakness. She cast a glance over her shoulder to where Joe was packing a birthday cake ready for delivery. She’d seriously considered giving him the order of the boot because of this latest infidelity, but had decided, after careful deliberation, that he might be worth hanging to.

Even if he did spend too much time on his beloved committees and with other women, Joe was still handy to have around. She was able to leave him in charge of the stall while she took a break, without the need to employ anyone. He drove the van when she had a cake delivery to make, as Irma didn’t drive. He could fix the guttering on the house when it fell down, and dig their vegetable patch on the allotment. And he was really no bother so long as she kept him well fed.

On balance, Irma had decided Joe was worth keeping, although last night they’d had a real set to when he’d actually threatened to move out. Well, more a tentative suggestion rather than a threat. Irma had laughed at him.

‘And where would you move to?’

‘I’d find somewhere.’

‘You’d never manage on your own. Who’d wash your socks or pick your clothes up off the floor? Who’d cook your dinner or wipe round the bath after you climbed out of it. If you lived on your own, the place would be like a pigsty in no time.’

‘But I might not be on me own, I might lodge with someone.’

‘Nay, who’d have you?’

‘Someone might.’

‘If you were thinking of shacking up with that Joyce Ashton I wouldn’t recommend it, not if you value your livelihood, not to mention your manhood.’

Joe had looked devastated, blithely unaware his wife even knew about that particular friendship, let alone the fact that Joyce had suggested he move in with her. ‘What are you saying?’

‘That if you want to continue earning your living working on this biscuit stall, and expect a share in the profits from my little cake business, then you aren’t going anywhere. You don’t start getting itchy feet, or any romantic notions in your daft noddle, if you catch my drift. Anyroad, you’d miss my steak and kidney puddings. See, I’ve made you a gradely one tonight, so stop dreaming and get that down your neck.’

Joe’s eyes lit up as she placed the feast before him. ‘Eeh, Irma, yer a good wife to me. What would I do without you?’

‘Aye, what indeed? We’re all right, you and me. We’ve been together too long to suffer any nasty surprises, so eat up and be grateful for what you’ve got, lad.’

‘Oh, I am, Irma, I am,’ Joe said, tucking in, all thoughts of leaving quite gone from his mind.

Now, the morning after his pathetic bid for freedom, as if suddenly aware of her eyes upon him, Joe managed a timid smile which he intended to be reassuring. ‘I’ve done all the packing. Is it all right if I slip over to Belle's café for a frothy coffee?’ he politely asked of his wife. ‘I’ll not be more’n ten minutes.’

‘Ah, you go. I’ll mind the family jewels,’ indicating the cash box behind the stall. ‘But don’t spoil your appetite. I’ve got a lamb hotpot in the oven for us tea tonight.’

He beamed at her in delight. ‘Right y’are, Irma, love. I won’t.’

Winnie said, ‘He’s working hard on this new campaign committee is your Joe. I’ve not seen him in the Dog and Duck nearly so often lately.’

Irma met her friend’s bland gaze, interpreting this apparently innocent remark as an indication that he hadn’t been seeing as much of Joyce Ashton either.

‘There’s nothing Joe loves more than a bit of committee business to get his teeth into,’ Irma agreed. ‘Apart from a good dinner, that is. But he’s been doing a few jobs for me around the house.’ Irma rolled her eyes as she watched him stride away, and smiled at Winnie. ‘I’ll say one thing for Joe, he’s predictable. Like all men, you know exactly where you are with him. Wherever other parts of his anatomy might lead him, he’ll allus come home to be fed.’

After another week of Irma’s large presence in her kitchen, Joyce had had enough and went to see Joe. ‘You’ve got to get that woman out of my house.

‘What can I do?’

Joe was not unaware of the difficulties his wife was causing by this unexpected decision to involve herself in Rose’s troubles, but was loath to interfere. His mouth watered as he recalled the custard tart she’d served him last night for his tea, following a delicious dish of macaroni cheese. He really didn’t know how she coped, how she managed to fit so much into her day. She was a miracle worker, that woman. But however busy she was, she never neglected him, never failed to provide him with a good dinner and a clean shirt. What more could a man ask?

Joyce’s voice had become shrill with temper. ‘Tell her it’s not appropriate for her to be living with me, that she’s creating gossip, that I don’t need her, thank you very much.’

‘
You
tell her. It’s nowt to do wi’ me what Irma does.’

‘She’s your wife, for goodness sake!’

‘Nay, I can’t control her, never could. She’s her own woman, is Irma.’

Joyce stamped her foot, unable to control her rage. ‘Damn you, Joe, this isn’t fair. You swore that once Stan was gone we’d be together. Instead I’m lumbered with your flaming wife.’

‘That’s not my fault. I wasn’t to know your mother would have a stroke, was I? And I wish Rose a speedy recovery, I do really.’

Joyce came close to hitting him then, but knew it would be like batting a pillow. What was wrong with the man? He seemed to be completely oblivious to her problem.

Joe was thinking that perhaps Joyce Ashton was becoming a bit of a problem herself. He’d had some ding-dong battles with Belle Garside over the years when they were enjoying a bit of a fling, but at least Belle had fire in her soul, and she’d often provided him with a good breakfast at her café, if Irma hadn’t time because of a rush order for her cake making.

‘I don’t see how I can help,’ Joe admitted. ‘Sorry, but I’d better be getting back to work. I’m minding the stall for the next couple of hours while Irma does exercises with your mam.’

How could she argue with that?

In despair Joyce turned to her son. ‘Find our Harriet,’ she instructed Grant, through gritted teeth. ‘And fast! I’ve had enough of this. It’s time to fetch the girl home where she belongs.’
 

Grant smiled, choosing not to mention that he’d found her already. ‘And how do I persuade her to come home, assuming I find her, after the way you chucked her out?’

‘Tell her Steve is pining for her, tell her anything you like, but get her back here where she can be of some use.’

Just as Joyce was about to close the salon after a long tiring day constantly interrupted by a stream of visitors, Belle Garside popped across to make an appointment. The other woman stood impatiently tapping her long scarlet finger nails on the counter top as she waited for Joyce to write out a card. ‘I see Irma has moved in to help with your poor mother. That must be very convenient. Though perhaps not in every respect.’

Joyce cast the other woman a questioning glance. Belle no doubt found it highly amusing that her little affair with Joe had been stifled by the omnipresence of his own wife on the premises. Determined not to rise to the bait, she agreed that Irma had been most attentive. ‘I’m pleased to report that my mother is making good progress.’

‘Excellent. No sign of your Harriet yet then?’

Joyce took a breath, reminding herself that this was a valued client she was speaking to and she couldn’t just say,
she’s not my Harriet
. She managed a chilling smile instead. ‘Not yet.’

‘How dreadful, and with her grandmother seriously ill. You never got your party then?’ Belle continued, enjoying finding new ways to make her rival squirm.

‘Party, what party?’

‘Ooh, have I let the cat out of the bag?’ she asked, in all innocence. ‘I thought that was why Grant was asking all those questions about your old flames, about what went on during the war. He said he was planning a surprise party, so I assumed he wanted to invite them all. We talked a bit about it the last time I was in, if you remember?’

Joyce found it a struggle to recall a conversation she’d had yesterday, let alone a weeks ago, but that bit of gossip did come back to her with surprising clarity. Grant had been going on about her old friends. Joyce frowned. ‘Yes, I do remember something about that, now I come to think of it, but I don’t recall any talk of a party.’

‘No? Well, I obviously had more discretion then than I’m showing now. Forget I ever mentioned it. I’ve no wish to spoil the lad’s surprise. Anyroad, I was no help to him, you’ll be glad to hear, so I suggested he talk to Frankie Morris. You used to be quite pally with him once-over, I seem to remember.’

After she’d gone, Joyce quietly closed the door and carefully locked it. She made no move to go upstairs, simply stood in the empty salon, silently contemplating what Belle had just said. Frankie Morris? If Grant ever started asking Frankie the same questions he’d asked Belle, she would really have a problem on her hands. The last thing she wanted was for her precious son to hear the whole terrible story of how he was conceived, let alone the rest of it.

Without pausing to give the matter any further thought, she pulled on her coat, let herself out of the salon, and hurried across the road to the fish and chip shop opposite. She didn’t have the energy to cook tonight anyway.

‘Hello, chuck, what’ll it be?’ Frankie asked, his round shiny face beaming a wide smile. ‘Haddock or cod?’

She chose cod. As Frankie wrapped the fish and chips, first in grease- proof paper, and then in yesterday’s newspaper with a picture of a smiling John Kennedy who was running for president in America, Joyce chewed on her lip, worrying over what she should say.

As he handed over the hot parcel, aromatic with the scent of freshly cooked fish and chips, it all came out in a rush. ‘Our Grant has taken it into his head to do a bit of probing. He’s asking questions about my past, my old friends and such, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your trap shut.’

Frankie looked at her with brows raised, sympathy wiping the smile from his fat face. ‘Really, and why would he be interested?’

‘Something to do with a surprise party he’s planning. And you know how I feel about parties, Frankie. Say nowt, right?’

‘You know you can rely on me,’ Frankie smoothly promised, but as Joyce dashed away with her supper tucked under her arm, he muttered to himself. ‘Not that I care what happens to you, madam. But then it’s not you I’ve been protecting all these years, is it?’

Chapter Twenty-One

They called themselves The Scrapyard Kids and played not only rock ‘n’ roll but the blues, which they’d jazz up, reworking songs and practising for hour after hour, sometimes with barely a break.

Vinny had a go at composing his own songs, although not terribly successfully. On one occasion he sat up all night frantically scribbling notes on paper, so certain he was producing something brilliant he refused all suggestion that he should at least get some sleep. But the next morning, as he started to strum the tune on his guitar, he suddenly decided it was no good, flew into a temper and ripped the paper to shreds.

Harriet rushed to console him but he pushed her away and remained in a glum mood all day, only livening up when the beer and cigarettes came out in the evening.