Lonely Teardrops (2008) (38 page)

Harriet gave a half laugh. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘You’ll be allowed use of the bathroom at set times of the day, otherwise you’ll stop in here.’ Joyce went to the window and tugged the curtains closed, as if she could already sense prying eyes.

‘Fortunately your room looks out over the back street, so no one is likely to spot you up in the attic here. Just make sure they don’t. That young girl who brought you, Shelley somebody-or-other, assured me she’d keep her gob shut and not tell a soul. Good thing too. I want no gossip flying round the market over this. You’ll stop in this room till it’s all over and we’ve disposed of the evidence.’

Harriet gasped, looking at her stepmother in horrified bewilderment. ‘Disposed of... I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘I’m saying, when your time comes, Mother and I will see to you, then we’ll get the child adopted. I’ll make a few private enquiries through the church. I’m sure Father Dimmock will help, and respect the delicate nature of the situation. Confidentiality is vital.’

Joyce was at the door, her fidgety fingers now titivating her hair as if wishing to make sure she hadn’t in some way soiled herself by coming into contact with this transgressor of all right and proper moral values. ‘I’ll fetch you up a bit of supper later, till then get some rest, you look as if you need it.’

Only when Harriet heard the key turn in the lock did she appreciate her stepmother’s full purpose.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Joyce could hear them giggling together, laughing at
her
no doubt. Was it a crime, she wondered, to wish her husband and best friend dead? Yet she did, with all her heart. The fury and hatred she felt towards her one-time friend and husband was hard to control, threatening to erupt into incandescent rage at any second. It blurred her vision, roared in her ears whenever she saw them together, kissing and canoodling, Stan fussing over Eileen and the other woman casting her glances of triumph.

Most of the time Stan was away, and she and Eileen were left to rub along as best they could, with Rose acting as some sort of referee. It was far from ideal.

Joyce did her utmost to ignore Eileen, barely speaking to her, concentrating on finishing her hairdressing course, on planning a future for herself and her son. The house they rented, near the old mill behind Blossom Street in Ancoats, was a spacious terraced house with two living rooms as well as a back kitchen and three bedrooms, but it seemed to have shrunk now that Eileen had moved in with all her stuff. Not to mention her endless wailing and complaining.

The young woman seemed to be constantly throwing up, was finicky about her food, stuffing herself with chips instead of the good fruit and vegetables Joyce provided, and she would burst into tears over the slightest thing. She was driving Joyce to distraction, and because she was pregnant, seemed to imagine she needn’t lift a finger. The stream of letters which came from Stan asking how Eileen was, and urging his precious sweetheart not to exert herself, didn’t help either.

‘Anyone would think he no longer had a wife. He rarely bothers to even ask how
I
am?’ Joyce would bitterly complain. ‘And I’m quite sure I didn’t make as much fuss as this when I was pregnant.’

Rose judged it wise not to comment.

Joyce found it an absolute agony to long for another baby so much, yet be forced to accept that it was her husband’s mistress who carried his child. Her stomach would churn and she’d feel physically sick. To add insult to injury she was obliged to care for the other woman throughout her pregnancy, surely more than any wife should be expected to tolerate.

The rage building up inside her was an absolute torment, a dark whirlpool of pent-up resentment and frustration.

The only consolation was that once her condition became obvious Eileen willingly confined herself to the house. She might constantly moan and complain but she clearly had no wish to present herself in public as an object of scandal and gossip. This was a huge relief to Joyce that her own respectability and good name would not be tarnished in any way, a decision which made the whole experience at least endurable.

‘I think it would be best if I stayed home too,’ Joyce decided.

Rose frowned. ‘Why?’

Joyce’s answer, as always, was brusque, not wishing to discuss her private decisions with her mother. ‘I just do. For one thing, I want to make sure Eileen stays put and doesn’t create any unnecessary problems. For another, I’ve finished my hairdressing course and intend to start up a little business of my own, but not yet, not till this baby is born. We can surely manage for a month or two without my money coming in, since we have Stan’s pay arriving regular. I need a rest, and time to think.’

Harriet lay on her bed staring dry-eyed at the ceiling. She was in total shock. She’d made up the bed, automatically obeying Joyce’s instructions since she had to sleep somewhere. Then for want of something better to do, she laid down upon it to try to make some sense of what was happening to her. She felt overwhelmed by tiredness, the child she carried suddenly weighing heavy.

What on earth had brought her to this pretty pass? What was she even doing here, back in her stepmother’s house, the very same from which she’d been booted out only a few short months before? It wasn’t as if Joyce wanted her home, she’d made that very clear. Harriet was an embarrassment to her, a possible source of scandal to be hushed up and kept quiet at all costs.

She couldn’t stay. She must escape. Vinny would be wondering what on earth had happened to her. He’d be worried sick and ... This line of reasoning died unfinished in her head. No, he wouldn’t. He was probably even now in bed with Shelley, and, kind as her friend had been to save her from almost certain death, she’d have no compunction in agreeing. Where was the harm in a bit of rough and tumble? they would say. It’s just sex!

One lone tear slid from the corner of her eye and ran down on to Harriet’s pillow. What a fool she’d been! What a complete and utter fool. She’d hung on to Vinny’s coat tails, believing he cared for her when he simply took such adoration for granted. He’d grown used to girls clamouring for his autograph, wanting to touch him, even begging for a kiss. He wouldn’t even notice she was gone, let alone miss her.

And no one else knew she was even here.
 

It was the longest night of Harriet’s life. The hours seemed to crawl by at a snail’s pace, so that it was almost a relief when the first pale light of dawn found her perched on the narrow window sill, arms wrapped tight about her knees.

Harriet watched a cat leisurely stretch itself then stroll nonchalantly across the tiles of a nearby roof, wishing she could do the same. From her eyrie she could trace a myriad of roofs over privies and ash pits, back kitchens and coal sheds. Immediately below her attic window, the slate roof sloped precipitously downward. Even if she could push up the sash window, which hadn’t been shifted in years, and try walking along the tiles like the cat, she’d end up sliding down and crashing twenty feet or more into the yard below. Not a prospect she was prepared to risk.

Harriet saw no hope of rescue, or escape.

She went back to bed, shivering slightly as she pulled the blankets over her head, telling herself to stop being so melodramatic. Her nan was in the room below. Rose would never tolerate her favourite grandchild being held a virtual prisoner in her own home. When Nan woke up, she would let her out right away.

The weeks had dragged by, tempers were frequently frayed but somehow Joyce had managed to tend to the health of her husband’s pregnant mistress, while secretly making her plans. Finally, one morning before dawn in late November, 1941, Eileen went into labour.

She started screaming and shouting, gasping and grunting, obviously in considerable pain. Joyce very nearly panicked and called a doctor or midwife to assist, but was still undecided when it suddenly became plain that the baby would be born at any moment. Rose calmly took charge. She held the girl’s hands and with a quiet firmness urged her to stop shouting, and to bear down and push.

‘Come on, love, stop your fussing and get on with the job. It’s hard work and you’ve got to concentrate. Give it all you’ve got.’

It was all over surprisingly quickly. Harriet came into the world without making the least trouble for anyone, even her own mother. It turned out to be the swiftest, easiest birth for suddenly there she was, a scrap of new life lying in Rose’s capable hands. The child was perfect in every way, a beautiful, healthy baby girl.

Joyce’s heart turned over. Why couldn’t this have been her own daughter? Why wasn’t she the one lying in that bed having this easy birth, providing Stan with the child he so craved? Never, in all her life, had she wanted anything more.
 

As Joyce wrapped the infant in a towel and cradled her in her arms, all of those secret dreams and schemes of the last weeks seemed to crystallize in her mind. If Eileen would simply leave, or disappear off the face of the earth, then she might yet be able to salvage her marriage.

Harriet lay in breathless anticipation, expecting any moment to hear the key turn in the lock and Nan calling her to come on down for her breakfast. And then she remembered her grandmother’s bad leg. Could she even get up the stairs? Probably not. She’d use the old lavvy down the yard and the little kitchenette behind the salon to wash herself.

A cold chill settled around her heart as she wondered what was going to happen to her.

She could smell bacon frying, which reminded her of how hungry she was, having hardly eaten a thing for twenty-four hours, worrying too much about Vinny, and not enough about herself and her child. This was surely the worst possible situation to be in. Wasn’t being pregnant difficult enough without the added burden of being locked up like a criminal? The baby seemed to be pressing on her bladder and Harriet realised she wanted to pee, really quite urgently. She felt a surge of irritation towards her stepmother. Surely she didn’t expect a pregnant woman to go for much longer without relieving herself? She certainly had no intention of using the chamber pot Joyce had pointedly left in full view.

Harriet went to the bedroom door and hammered upon it. ‘Hey! Joyce, can you hear me? Nan, are you up?’ I need the lavatory. It’s rather urgent.’

No reply. By the time Joyce finally came, twenty minutes later, Harriet was sitting curled up by the door in some distress and agony.

‘Why didn’t you use the chamber pot?’ Joyce scolded.

‘I’m not a child! I insist you let me out of here. Now!’ and Harriet marched along the landing to the bathroom which Joyce herself had had installed only a few years ago. Before then, they’d only had the privy at the end of the yard, but Joyce had wanted the house to be smart and modern. She’d put in a proper bathroom as well as a new gas fire in the living room so they no longer had to carry coal in.

‘We could allus keep the coal in the bath,’ Nan had joked at the time, which had earned her a freezing glare.

Now, Harriet ran herself a bath and made a vow to spend as much time in there as possible, and she would refuse absolutely to return to her room until bed time.

It didn’t work out that way. By the time she emerged, fresh and clean and feeling much better both physically and emotionally, it was to find Grant lounging at the door. He stood, arms folded, blocking her exit to the stairs. Harriet looked at him, considered an attempt to charge past his square, bulky body, but then smoothed a cautionary hand over her round tummy. Perhaps not. She decided to try charm instead.

‘Are you going to allow me to go downstairs and eat my breakfast in a civilised fashion?’

He shook his head. ‘You’re to go back into your room, and I’ll fetch it up on a tray.’

Harriet took a breath, steeling herself for an argument. ‘I don’t want you coming to my room. If I must be confined, I’d rather Nan brought me my food, or Joyce.’

Nan isn’t fit enough to climb up and down these stairs, and Mam is busy with her first client in the salon.’

Harriet took a breath, feeling increasingly trapped, as if in some sort of horror movie. ‘And you’re at a loose end, as usual?’

‘Actually, I’ve just got back from work. I drive for Catlow’s during the nights and early mornings now. I’m on me way to bed, as a matter of fact, so I’m doing you a favour fetching you your grub. Do you want it or not, it’s no skin off my nose if you choose to go hungry.’

As he said all of this he was edging her backwards along the landing until Harriet found herself standing by her bedroom door. He pushed it open and she could tell by the triumphant glow in his small nasty eyes what pleasure he took from seeing her caged up like this, the revenge he’d always longed for.

Harriet remembered how he’d once stalked her, had seemed ready to actually assault her, his own half-sister. It chilled her a little to find herself at his mercy, but was determined not to show it.

Nevertheless, she had no alternative but to go back into her prison. Five minutes later Grant brought up a bacon sandwich and mug of tea which he placed on her desk with a sardonic grin. ‘Make it last. You’ll get nowt else till dinner time around twelvish.’

The key was already turning in the lock before Harriet thought to chase after him, and hammer again on the door. ‘You won’t forget to let me out to go to the lav every hour, will you? I’m
pregnant
for God’s sake!’