Lonely Teardrops (2008) (45 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Harriet was sitting with her feet braced against the lavatory pan, her back against the door, panting and gasping, too frightened even to cry. Never had she known such pain. She felt as if she were being ripped apart. Weren’t first babies supposed to take their time? Harriet was sure she’d read that somewhere, yet this one seemed to be in a tearing hurry, clawing itself from her flesh. But then she’d probably been in labour for days without even realising it.

She’d already flooded the floor with water that had gushed out of her of its own volition. She’d tried to mop it up with toilet paper but given up the task as hopeless. Now Harriet looked down and was transfixed by the sight of a small head emerging from between her legs. It seemed to be blue and streaked with blood. Terror engulfed her. Was the baby dead even before it was born? Pain swamped her, stopped her from thinking or fretting for several long moments which felt like hours, enveloping her totally. She let out a terrified scream, half hoping someone might hear and come to help. Not that many people were around at this time in the morning.

But maybe it was better if they didn’t find her. The last thing she needed was for some busybody to start calling the police, or worse, Joyce. She bit down hard on her lower lip so that she didn’t make a sound, so hard that she tasted blood.
 

There was a brief respite as the pain momentarily ebbed away but then it came again, overwhelming her, as if
it
, and not herself, was in control of her body. For one horrifying moment Harriet thought she might faint but then the baby slithered from her in a slippy mess of blood and liquid, a long wiggly cord attached to its belly. Harriet stared at the infant lying between her legs. Shouldn’t it be crying? She picked it up, anxious suddenly as she thumbed away the mucus from its eyes and nose. The baby opened its mouth and howled.

‘Oh, clever you. That’s a good girl. There, there.’

Harriet gathered her baby to her breast, smiling down into her tiny furious face, overwhelmed by wonder. She was perfect. Utterly perfect! How could such a wonderful creature have survived through all of this torment and neglect, the lack of sleep and good food, the misery and upset that Harriet had endured? She counted fingers and toes, complete with shell pink fingernails, smoothed the damp blond curls and smiled into a pair of baby blue eyes, fringed with amazingly beautiful, long dark lashes. Then she carefully tied and cut the cord, using a bit of string and small penknife she’d learned to keep handy among other useful bits and bobs in her pocket.

‘Welcome to the world, baby, although there’s a bit more to it than this lavatory stall. Outside the sun will be shining, and you’ll discover that you have a whole wonderful life to look forward to.’

It was in that moment, with this thought uppermost in her mind, as Harriet fell in love with the miracle that was her own child, that she realised she couldn’t possibly keep her.

What kind of life would she be able to offer? How could she provide for and care for this baby? Did she want her daughter to eat scraps out of dustbins? How would she keep her warm through the endless cold nights of winter as they slept beneath the railway arches or down by the canal? Even the old deserted warehouse which had seemed like a fun place to be when the band was filling its emptiness with music, was no place to bring up a baby. Now even those welcoming sounds and old friends were gone.

And what was the alternative? Supposing Harriet was able to look clean and respectable enough to get herself a job, where would she live? And who would look after the baby while she earned the money to keep them both?

Great fat tears rolled silently down her cheeks, and a pain worse even than childbirth clenched her heart in an iron fist. It would be quite impossible. Much as she loved this baby and wanted to keep her, Harriet knew it to be impossible. What kind of mother would want such a life for her precious child?

She felt very sore and her stomach was aching. Harriet instinctively kneaded her belly, to at least ease the physical pain, and brought forth the afterbirth. She stared at the resulting mess on the floor of the stall for a long time, then dumped it down the pan. It could well block the entire system, but what did she care?

Then she wrapped the baby in the one towel she’d brought with her, and in a warm woollen sweater. When she’d cleaned the stall floor as best she could with what remained of the roll of toilet paper, she lay the baby down in a place where she would easily be found, the moment someone came in to use the lavatory. Then with tears streaming down her face, Harriet picked up her bag and walked away.

Rose was not in a good mood. She’d come home, hung up her coat, changed out of her best clothes, stowing the new hat away in its box on the top shelf of her wardrobe, still fuming over the way they’d been treated. The councillors didn’t even seem willing to discuss how the demolition would be carried out, whether temporary accommodation would be provided for the residents, let alone compensation for lack of trade or a proposal for an alternative site for the market.

Eeh, but she was fair worn out with all that arguing. She was glad to be back in her own home, looking forward to a brew and an Eccles cake. She next took down the old jewellery box where she kept her pension book and a wad of money, before slipping off her ear-rings and tucking them inside.

For once, Rose knew exactly how much there should be in the box, as she’d checked it after going to the post office to collect her pension only yesterday. Something made her count the notes again, and she frowned. It was ten pounds short. And this wasn’t the first time this had happened. Was she losing her mind? Had she got in a muddle, what with the stroke and moving her things into Stan’s old room? No, she’d counted the notes three times just to make sure, since she’d been puzzling for some time over missing money.

Rose lay down on her bed, in dire need of a nap after all the trauma of the morning. Not that she had much hope of one as her mind was buzzing, in far too much of a turmoil to rest. She was worrying about the campaign to save the market which mustn’t be allowed to die, then there was the anxiety she felt over Harriet, and now this. Who would steal money out of her box? Who could pick the lock and be able to get into it without leaving a mark?

The answer was obvious, coming to her in a flash. Grant.

Rose felt sick. Oh, but could that be right? Surely the lad wouldn’t steal money from his own grandmother? Yet she knew that he had. Rose was only too aware that during her illness a great deal of money had gone missing. She’d said nothing about it at the time, being focused on getting well, but she’d known even then, even when she’d been unable to articulate the words, that someone was stealing from her. And it certainly wasn’t her friend Irma, who’d spoiled her rotten, practically saved her life, and was as honest as the day.

Later that afternoon when the old woman had gathered her strength, she went upstairs to the living room and confronted her grandson, arms folded across her corseted chest. Rose had fought one battle today, now she would fight another, if she must. Only this time against her own kith and kin. ‘Where is it then?’

Grant looked at her, shoulders hunched defensively, round face puckered into a picture of manufactured innocence. ‘Where’s what?’

‘All that money what you stole from me? Where’s it gone? What did you do with it? Lost it on the gee-gees, I shouldn’t wonder.’

It was Joyce who answered. She came rushing out of the kitchen with a face like thunder. ‘Are you accusing my son of being a thief?’

‘If the cap fits.’

There followed the most almighty row, the worst they’d ever had, with Joyce vehemently defending her son and Grant letting his mother get on with it, while he sat in a corner smirking in that self-satisfied way he had.

‘You can’t prove any of this,’ Joyce yelled. ‘You’re a suspicious old goat, blaming the boy for your own stupid carelessness.’

Grant mocked his grandmother with his laughter. ‘Most of the time you don’t even know what day of the week it is, let alone how much money you have in that box.’

Rose’s head snapped up. ‘Oh, so you admit you do know where I keep it then?’

Joyce looked slightly discomfited by this but instantly rallied. ‘We all know you keep your precious bits and pieces in that old jewellery box. You should put it in the bank as sensible people do.’

‘This is my weekly pension I’m talking about, not me life savings. I’m surely entitled to think it’s safe in me own wardrobe? But you’re right, I can’t prove it. What I can do is make sure he gets nowt else. I’ll be more careful where I stow it in future, and in case you don’t know I’ve already cut you out of my will, even if you are me only daughter, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.’

Joyce went white to the lips. ‘B - b – but what about the salon? You’ll be leaving me that, surely? It’s my home!’

‘No, it’s
my
home, actually, legally speaking,’ Rose reminded her. ‘Not that you’ve ever made me feel welcome in it. But I hold the deeds, thanks to the careful provision my Ronnie made for me. You never thought owt of your poor dear father, never thought him worthy of your love and attention, your respect. Yet he were a good man, even if he was only a dustman.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Mother. You aren’t dragging up all that old history, surely.’

‘Why not, you’re the one who lives in the past, not me. Obsessed by something that happened years ago. Just because you let it ruin
your
life you’re now allowing it to ruin that of your children too. You’ve certainly spoiled young Harriet’s, and all over something that wasn’t her fault. When are you going to own up and confess that it was
you
what destroyed her mother?’

White faced, Joyce flew at Rose, yelling and screaming at the top of her voice. ‘
That’s a lie
! And you know it. I never wanted … didn’t…’

‘… lift a finger to help? Don’t I know it. I was there, remember, so you can’t lie to me. When Eileen needed you most, you just left her to rot.’

‘That’s enough, Mother! You’ve said more than enough.’

‘Naw, go on,’ Grant said. ‘I’m interested in this.’

Rose turned on her grandson. ‘And if you’re nurturing any fond hopes of inheriting when I die, you can think again too. I’ve left everything to our Harriet. She’s the only one in this family who deserves it, the only one who’s ever shown me the slightest bit of love and attention.’

‘
What
?’

‘Think yerself fortunate I haven’t called in the police. You’re getting off lightly, lad.’

Ignoring the look of shock and fury that came over his face, Rose turned back to her daughter. ‘Your thief of a son might have found it easy to rob an old woman, particularly when I was lying paralysed in me bed from a stroke, but that’s all he’s getting out of me. I might be old but I’m not stupid. He’s a greedy little tyke and you’re a cold, hard, unfeeling woman, too wrapped up in your own self-pity to find it in your frozen heart to love that lass. But you’ll be the greater loser, not her.

‘As for the salon, I doubt it’ll be here for much longer anyroad, but whatever compensation I manage to wring out of that parsimonious local council or them greedy developers, will go in
my
pocket, save for what’s due for your hairdressing business, not yours.

‘I sussed the pair of you two long since and when Judgement Day comes, you’ll get your just deserts. In the meantime, Harriet will get the cash. Happen you’ll then learn to be nice to her, because you’ll be dependent upon her for help and a home then, instead of the other way round.’

It wasn’t until she’d been walking for a full twenty minutes that it came to Harriet what she had done.
She’d abandoned her own child
! She stood stock still in the middle of Liverpool Street. Dear lord, what was she thinking of?

What if someone wicked found her? What if they didn’t hand her over to the hospital authorities at all? What if they took her and kept her, hurt the baby or even killed her? Supposing some stupid kids thought she was merely a doll and chucked her in the River Irwell? Or what if nobody found her at all and she perished slowly of starvation and cold? A thousand fears rushed through Harriet’s head.

Spinning on her heel she began to run. She ran as fast as she could, her heart racing.

What kind of mother was she to treat her child in such a way
? She was worse even than Joyce.

Harriet was breathless by the time she reached the block of public lavatories where she’d given birth. Blood was running down her legs and she felt sick with exhaustion, but she didn’t care. ‘Oh, let her still be here. Please let her still be here,’ Harriet sobbed as she pushed open the door and ran inside.

Chapter Forty

Steve arrived at the hair salon just before five that Friday evening to find Joyce creating some sort of balloon with Dena Dobson’s hair. Bits of it were standing up in all directions as if she’d been hit by an electric shock, and he watched in mystified silence as Joyce jabbed and teased at the hair, brushing it in what seemed to Steve to be entirely the wrong direction, then smoothing the piece down to join up with the rest of the balloon.

Seeing the expression on his face, Dena laughed at him. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, Steve, it’s called back-combing. I’ve got a fashion show this evening, so need to look my best. This is the latest style from America, it’s called a beehive.’