Lonely Teardrops (2008) (33 page)

A night or two later, as she helped her friend to get ready for the next gig in the cramped washrooms of some seedy pub, Harriet resolved to ask her straight out. The thought of Shelley and Vinny together had become a nagging worry at the back of her mind.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure, fire away.’

‘Are you and Vinny lovers?

Shelley looked startled, and then burst out laughing, as if Harriet had cracked some sort of joke. ‘Would it matter if we were?’

Harriet stiffened, could sense herself sounding all disapproving like some sort of maiden aunt. ‘It might.’

‘I thought you and me were best friends,’ Shelley said, briskly brushing out her dark cropped curls till they seemed to stand on end. ‘And friends share everything, don’t they?’

‘Not their men, they don’t.’

Shelley stabbed at her lips with a pale pink lipstick. With those huge Bambi eyes, and elfin hair cut, she looked positively frail, more like a child. Yet she was anything but. She only had to start singing, with that throbbing husky voice of hers, and men fell at her feet, shivering with desire. ‘Anyway, I thought you weren’t in love with Vinny.’

‘I’m not!’ Even as Harriet issued the hot denial it sounded strangely hollow and unconvincing. Who was she kidding? If she didn’t love him, why did she stay? Because he made her feel wanted maybe? Yet it seemed nothing like the love she’d felt for Steve.

Shelley shrugged her shoulders as she began to apply violet blue eye shadow. ‘Well then, if you don’t love him, what does it matter who else he might be sleeping with?’

This wasn’t at all the response Harriet had hoped for, or expected, and her voice trembled with anger as she answered. ‘Maybe because I believe a bloke should be faithful to the girl he’s dating, that he should only go out with one person at a time.’

Shelley applied a line of kohl above and below her black spiky lashes, and giggled. ‘What a funny, old fashioned girl you are. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t claim not to be in love with a guy and yet want him all to yourself.’

‘Why can’t I? That’s the decent way of going about things, certainly in my book.’

‘Oh, well then, if you say it’s the decent thing to do, it must be, mustn’t it? You’re the one who’s an expert on morals.’

Grabbing hold of Shelley’s arm Harriet gave the other girl a furious shake. ‘This isn’t some silly joke that we can all have a good laugh about. This is my life, my
future
!’ It crossed her mind to confess about her pregnancy, but at the last moment something held her back, a need for privacy perhaps. ‘You leave Vinny alone, right? He’s mine.’

Shelley shook her off, instinctively tweaking her fly-away curls and checking her lipstick, as she’d be out there singing before a drunken audience in less than five minutes. ‘Making claims on him now, are you? You really are a glutton for punishment. Living on dreams, more like. Trying to turn Vinny Turner into something he isn’t and never could be.’

‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

‘Well, just you remember, Vinny and me are planning a future together, so you keep your grasping little mitts off my man. Right?’

‘Ooer! I’m shaking in my shoes.’

‘Go and chase Duffy instead. He’s not choosy about which girls he sleeps with, and leave Vinny alone or you’ll have me to deal with.’

Shelley moved away from the mirror, dusting a few traces of powder from the tight shirtwaister dress she was wearing. At the door of the washroom she paused, smiling as she issued her parting words. ‘Vinny Turner is great fun, but as for planning a future with him, I’d think again if I were you. However, if you’re determined you want him, love, you can have him and welcome. He’s all yours, and good luck to you.’

So why, when her erstwhile friend sashayed into the bar lounge to a huge round of cheering and applause, didn’t Harriet feel more elated by her victory?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Joyce was as determined to save her reputation, as obsessed by her desire to keep her good name unsullied, as she’d been all those years ago when first married to Stan. Keeping her son on the straight and narrow had been difficult enough, and now Harriet had let her down badly. Was any woman more beset with problems than she?

She was back-combing Patsy Bertalone’s hair when her son came in, giving Patsy’s usually sleek, silver blonde hair some lift on the crown to make it more stylish. Grant was doing a bit of portering for Leo Catlow so at last had a regular income coming in. Since it was Friday, his mother told him to leave his contribution towards the housekeeping on the kitchen table.

Grant mumbled a protest, though not very loud. His mother could be soft as butter with him at times, but never when it came to money. He had to pay his whack; his board, as she called it. Which was a nuisance considering how much it cost him to take part in the nightly card games he and his mates enjoyed playing.

‘Have you seen your grandmother by any chance, son?’ Joyce asked, in that mincing way she had of speaking in front of her clients.

Grant shook his head. ‘There’s a meeting going on at the market hall, so I expect that’s where she is. Putting in her four pennyworth.’

Joyce twittered with polite laughter. ‘I dare say you’re right. What a character she is, my dear mother. Put the kettle on, son,’ she instructed him. Half way to the stairs Grant pulled a face, which fortunately Joyce didn’t see. ‘I’m fair gasping. Coffee for you, dear?’ she asked of her customer.

Patsy shook her head. ‘No thanks, I have to get back to the stall.’

‘And will you be accepting the developer’s offer, I wonder. Or rather, will Clara Higginson be accepting?’

‘I really wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask Clara,’ Patsy said, carefully guarded. Don’t overdo the back-combing, Joyce. I often have to model a hat, don’t forget, so it’s hardly worth it.’

‘Yes, but we must keep you in the forefront of fashion, so you can show the hats off at their best,’ Joyce demurred, teasing and smoothing and patting till finally even Patsy ran out of patience.

‘That’s fine, Joyce. And I like the way you’ve got it to flip up at the ends. It looks lovely, for as long as it lasts.’
 

‘Oh, it’ll last,’ Joyce assured her, waving a can of hair lacquer about and spraying the new hair style so thoroughly even a force nine gale wouldn’t shift it. Patsy paid up and fled, wishing she’d just trimmed it herself, as she usually did.

Grant produced the tea, weak and milky with two sugars, just as his mother liked it. As he made to escape, Joyce said, ‘I hope you’re not still wasting your time looking for our Harriet?’

He paused, puzzled by this remark. Hadn’t Harriet called at the salon a couple of times to see Nan? ‘I did catch sight of her one night with that band, but that was months ago. Then I lost her again. If you’d wanted to know where she was living, you should’ve said. I could’ve followed her after her last visit.’

‘No, I don’t particularly want you to find her. That’s why I’m mentioning it. It’s not important now that Rose is on the mend. And I don’t want her upset.’

Joyce had said nothing to her mother about Harriet’s most recent visit, although Grant was aware that his sister was about to embark upon a shotgun marriage, which hopefully would have taken place by now. Joyce sincerely hoped so, in view of the circumstances. It still filled her with rage to think of the shame that harlot had brought upon them all. Keeping quiet seemed the only solution. She certainly had no intention of spreading the scandal. Joyce had little sympathy for the girl, none whatsoever, in fact. This was nothing like the situation Joyce had found herself in. Harriet hadn’t been raped, she’d brought this disgrace upon herself.

‘Don’t you even want to know what’s happened to her?’ Grant was asking. ‘She’s still your stepdaughter, after all. Maybe she’s had a hard winter. She could be holed up in some rat-hole somewhere, half starved.’

‘Good heavens, what’s this? Don’t tell me you’ve developed a conscience all of a sudden. That’d be a first.’

Grant shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Why would I care? You’re the one who seems troubled by a conscience, not me.’

Joyce frowned at this enigmatic remark, wondering what exactly he meant by it. ‘You’ve not been pestering folk with more questions, have you?’ she snapped.

‘No!’ Grant shook his head, a picture of innocence. ‘Why would I?’

‘Why indeed?’ Joyce watched her lazy son slouch away, chin thrust forward, shoulders hunched about his thick neck. Was he a blessing or a curse? Much as she loved and adored him, she’d never quite made up her mind.

Alone in his grandmother’s room, Grant glanced through the pile of letters from Harriet, as he often did when Nan was out and about around the market, or at one of her committee meetings. He was seeking an address. Harriet wrote regularly every week to her grandmother, even though she hadn’t visited the old lady for some time.

Rose kept making excuses for her, saying the poor girl was probably busy helping to organise the band, that her lovely granddaughter would come home just as soon as she could. It was annoying that Joyce still hadn’t told Rose that Harriet was pregnant, and had threatened Grant with blue murder if he let that particular cat out of the bag.
 

‘The last thing I need to cope with right now, is for your grandmother to suffer another stroke, so keep them lips buttoned, right?’

‘She’ll have to know some time,’ Grant had objected. He’d rather relished the job of whistle-blower, and he’d love nothing more than to see his prissy half-sister brought down in his grandmother’s eyes. It would be justified punishment for always being his nan’s favourite.

‘You’ll say nowt,’ Joyce insisted. ‘At least, not until Rose is married. So think on. Keep your gob shut!’ His mother could sound so vulgar at times.

Grant picked up the latest envelope, noticing that it was dated nearly three months ago. Frowning, he realised this was strange. The last time she’d written, back in March, shortly after asking Mam to sign some permission forms so she could get wed to that Vinny Turner, Harriet had been adamant that she’d be coming to see Nan any day. Yet not a word since. Shrugging his shoulders, he dropped the letter back on to the pile.

Then he expertly picked the lock of the little jewellery box where Rose hid her pension, with the skill of long practice, and helped himself to a couple of five pound notes. His need was greater than hers. The old woman had nothing to spend her money on anyway.

No matter what his faults, Joyce adored her son. Because of the way he’d been conceived she hadn’t expected to care for him at all, but the moment they’d put Grant into her arms she’d fallen in love with him at first sight. Perhaps because he was hers, and hers alone.

After the miscarriage, she’d felt no real desire to go through all the pain and agony again, or bear the responsibility of another child, but nor did she wish to risk losing her husband. So if a child was what it took to keep him, then that’s what she’d have.

Until that happy day dawned, the pair of them seemed hell-bent on destroying each other, both bitter over the way things had turned out. And whenever she complained about his attitude towards Grant, Stan would insist this dreadful situation was all of her own making, her own fault for tricking him into marriage in the first place. She’d lied to him so must now suffer the consequences.

Yet he made no bones about the fact that he wanted a child of his own, and that he was disappointed over Joyce losing the baby, if that were indeed the truth. Sadly, she very much doubted she’d be able to provide him with another. Joyce had endured a difficult birth with Grant, a tragic miscarriage, and now she didn’t seem able to even conceive. She was willing to keep trying, if only because it kept Stan in her bed, but his home leaves were becoming less frequent, and hope was fading.

 
‘I’ll stick by you for the duration,’ he promised. ‘But once peace is declared, if you haven’t managed to give me a child by then, you’re on your own.’

‘I can never resist a challenge,’ Joyce bit back.

It was then that she’d enrolled on a course in hairdressing, realising she’d need a decent income to support herself and her son when peace finally came. To her surprise, she found she enjoyed it and had a natural flair for styling hair, but the prospect of life alone without Stan brought little comfort.

She still loved him, that was the trouble.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The two girls hardly spoke to each other for days, their friendship severely dented by the quarrel. Instead of sitting gossiping together in the breaks between rehearsals, or sharing a sandwich and a giggle, there was an awkwardness between them, and a distinct coolness.

Harriet wanted to feel pleased by the fact she’d won the battle but it somehow seemed so tawdry to be fighting over a man. So clichéd and silly. The only emotion she felt was one of foolishness over the pointlessness of it all. What was it she expected from Vinny? Security? Love? Some sort of emotional commitment? And could he possibly provide it? Oh, she did hope so, otherwise, what else did she have?

But Shelley’s words still rang in her head.
Making claims on him now, are you? You really are a glutton for punishment.
What had she meant by that?