Lonely Teardrops (2008) (8 page)

All she’d done since he left was to listen to the wireless, waiting for news. If this was how she was going to be spending the months or years of war, Joyce didn’t much care for it.
 

Probably he wasn’t in the least bothered about her. If Stan Ashton wanted to see her again, or if he’d been keen for her to write to him, he would surely have said so. Obviously, their little love affair had been nothing more than a summer flirtation. She’d helped him to while away a few weeks in the sun before going off to war, that was all.

There was tension in the air now, and anxiety, a devil-may-care attitude creeping in, and a great deal of beer being drunk as many of the boys Eileen had invited to her impromptu party were expecting to be called up any day.

Joyce hadn’t touched a drop at first, as always afraid of losing control and making a fool of herself. People thought her quite confident because of the way she dressed and the airs and graces she gave herself to prove she wasn’t a nobody. But she was really quite unsure of herself underneath, with this great big chip on her shoulder over her background, nervous of making a mistake in this lovely home which belonged to Eileen’s parents.

Her father was an accountant, her mother a housewife, never having needed to work outside the home, and Eileen was training to be some sort of clerk in the bank. She was dark and pretty, with a mischievous grin, and had always been top of the class although she could act like a complete scatterbrain at times. The pair of them had been friends for years. What she saw in a girl who worked on a cheese stall on Champion Street Market, Joyce couldn’t rightly say.

Again someone offered her a drink but she refused. Even beer made her feel quite light headed. Joyce longed for a glass of orangeade or Tizer, but couldn’t find any. Not that it mattered as she was enjoying herself too much, dancing with one young man after another, laughing and joking and having such a good time she’d almost forgotten about one handsome sailor. Almost.

‘How is he then, lover-boy? I assume he’s written you sack-loads of passionate love letters?’ Eileen teased, coming to hook her arm in Joyce’s.

Joyce shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. ‘I expect he’s busy.’ She’d no wish to reveal that she’d foolishly forgotten to give him her address, nor had he given her his.

‘Busy? Lord, not in the first weeks surely? It’s a laugh that initial training. My Bill writes to me every day. Actually he’s in France now, did I tell you? The sun is shining and he says it’s just like being on holiday.’ Eileen giggled but Joyce wasn’t amused.

All this talk of war was very scary. People were saying that the British Army was totally unfit to fight, but Joyce didn’t believe that. The Navy would certainly be strong, if only because Stan was part of it, and she was quite certain the army would be too. In any case weren’t our boys in France behind the impregnable Maginot Line? Even so, they were facing great danger.

‘They could be killed or wounded any day. You really do say the most stupid things, Eileen.’

‘Ooh, pardon me for breathing. Who do you think you are, Miss Uppity? At least Bill writes every day. Your man, if that’s what he is, can’t even be bothered to write at all.’

‘And if yours is having such a good time, maybe he’s found himself a French sweetheart to keep him amused. What else will there be for him to do in this Phoney War?’

Eileen didn’t much care for this comment, and, as on so many occasions in the past, their friendship rocked a little as a result and the argument got a bit heated after that. Then Joyce stuck her chin in the air, told her so-called friend that she was going upstairs to fetch her coat, and then off home.

‘Suit yourself.’

The coats were heaped on top of the big double bed in Eileen’s parents’ room, and it took Joyce some time to rummage through and drag out her own from the bottom of the pile. She’d hardly snatched it up when the door flew open and a young sailor, very much the worse for drink, staggered in.

‘Whoops!’ Joyce said, laughing as she tried to help him to his feet. ‘I think you’ve had a skinful. Take it easy, lad, you’ll do yourself a mischief if you fall down those stairs.’

He looked at her, all bleary eyed, and blinked. ‘By heck, you’re pretty. I like brunettes, especially when they have long sexy legs like yours. What’s your name?’

He was rather plump with wiry dark hair, wearing a big silly grin on his round face. Joyce didn’t fancy him at all but his words made her blush, perhaps because she didn’t get many compliments, not even from drunks. She saw no reason not to tell him her name. ‘I’m Joyce, and you are?’

He didn’t answer, just hiccupped loudly then lurched forward once more, only this time as he fell against her, his arms fastened about her waist as if for support, knocking her backwards into the jumble of coats and scarves and hats. Joyce found herself pinioned beneath him and couldn’t move.

‘Get off me, you idiot,’ she gasped, laughing despite her predicament.

‘Hey, who you calling an idiot?’

‘Move, you great clod!’

Afterwards she could never remember why, or when, it turned nasty. One minute they were both lying in a tangle of coats laughing, the lad demanding a kiss by way of an apology and Joyce trying to tell him that she had a sailor boy friend already, thanks very much. But foolishly, she gave in and allowed him one quick kiss. It would do no harm and might pacify him, she thought. Only it fired his blood for more. The next instant he was holding her down, pressing one arm tight against her throat.
 

Joyce tried to protest but nothing came out of her mouth except a squeak. She felt sure he was about to throttle her, yet that was as nothing compared to what he was doing with his other hand. He was tugging up her skirt, sliding his hands between her legs and squeezing her, tugging at her panties and then fumbling with his trousers. By this time Joyce was in a state of panic, wriggling and kicking and squirming, but there was no escape.

He might be drunk but he was big and heavy, and seemed to have the strength of ten men. She couldn’t even catch a choking breath or cry out, let alone prevent what happened next. Fear flooded through as he ripped open her blouse and sucked at her breast, then suddenly he was inside her, plunging and bucking like a mad thing. If she managed anything more than a strangled squeal nobody heard her above the pounding jazz music being played downstairs on Eileen’s parents’ posh radiogram.

When it was over he carefully buttoned his trousers then threw up all over the bedroom carpet. Joyce grabbed her coat to her bare breasts and fled, rushing down the stairs and dashing out of the house before anyone could witness her shame.

Chapter Seven

The day in which Patsy Bowman and Marc Bertalone were at last to tie the knot thankfully dawned bright and sunny after all the recent rain. A beautiful hot day in early July, with only a few lacy clouds streaking a sky as blue as a robin’s egg. Each stall was trimmed with streamers and paper roses and everyone from Champion Street Market was invited to the wedding.

Irma Southworth, Joe’s wife, and perhaps soon to be his ex-wife if Joyce got her way, had been responsible for baking a beautiful three-tiered wedding cake for the happy couple. The smallest tier was to be sealed in an air-tight tin after the event to save as a christening cake for the first baby, as tradition dictated. Not that Patsy was in any hurry to take up motherhood, as she kept reminding Marc and his large Italian Catholic family.

Catering for the event had been a community affair. Big Molly Poulson had made the sausage rolls and pork pies, using the finest ingredients Jimmy Ramsay could supply, and Chris George had baked the fancy cakes and bread for the ham sandwiches, which Rose had helped cut and make up. Barry Holmes had volunteered to provide strawberries for everyone, and Papa Bertalone the ice cream to go with them. At intervals along the centre of the tables were trays of chocolates supplied by Lizzie Pringle’s Chocolate Cabin. And there was plenty of sparkling wine for the many guests, shipped in at a discount by Leo Catlow.

Everyone declared that it was the finest spread anyone had ever seen. It was indeed a feast to gladden the eye, all set out on trestle tables that ran the length of Champion Street, while Terry Hall’s skiffle group entertained the guests with Lonnie Donegan and Buddy Holly hits.
 

A day to celebrate and for everyone to share in the young couple’s happiness.

Rose could see that her daughter was glad of a few hours off. The last few days had been hectic with all the cutting and styling required for this special day, not to mention a full hour that morning making the bride look beautiful, along with her two bridesmaids, Lizzie Pringle and Amy George. But she’d made a good job of them, as always. No one could deny that her Joyce wasn’t gifted with her hands, even if her tongue was as sharp as a razor.

Betty Hemley had done the flowers, of course, sweetly fragrant bouquets of freesia and lily of the valley, signifying a return to happiness which surely the bride and groom deserved.

The church was crowded to the doors with not a spare seat in the house, little attention being paid to which side one should sit. Just as well since Patsy had no family. She’d come to the market as a starving orphan, having run away from her foster parents as she searched for her mother, but had been fortunate enough to not only be taken in by Clara and Annie Higginson who ran the millinery stall, but also right to the hearts of all the market folk, once she’d got over her initial defiance and rebellion, that is.

Annie had died some months ago but Clara was standing beside Patsy today, pink-cheeked and proud as punch, as loyal as any mother could be, real or not.

As Rose watched Patsy glide down the aisle in her flowing white silk gown, designed and stitched by her Italian mother-in-law, she couldn’t help worrying how her own granddaughter would cope with a similar problem. At least Harriet knew who her dad was, which was something, and Patsy had survived, so why shouldn’t Harriet?

Once the service was over, Rose stood with her arm linked in Harriet’s, watching as folk clicked their little box brownies to snap pictures of the happy bride and groom. There was a frown on her pale, heart-shaped face, the poor girl not looking half so joyful as the occasion demanded. Feeling the need to ease her worries, Rose squeezed her granddaughter’s arm and whispered in her ear. ‘Stop thinking about it. Put it behind you. Look at Patsy, she’s fine.’

‘I know, and I’m still
me
inside.’

‘Course you are, chuck. Yer a real little gem, and allus will be. Just remember, it’s our Joyce’s problem, not yours. Only the future matters for you now, not the past.’

Easy said, Harriet thought, but she understood what her grandmother was trying to say and nodded bleakly, doing her best to smile.

Rose was very fond of weddings and surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye. It reminded her of her own to Ronnie Ibbetson, a lovely man if ever there was one. Rose considered that she’d been blessed with a good marriage, to a man who’d come into her life if not exactly like a knight on a white charger, but at least willing to work hard so they could eventually escape the slums of Ancoats.
 

She’d endured a poverty-stricken childhood, far worse than the one her daughter claimed to have suffered. Back before the Great War when Rose was growing up you thought yourself lucky if you had a pair of shoes to put on your feet, and managed to get your grubby little hand on anything to eat at some point in a day.

Joyce might complain bitterly about what she’d lacked as a child in the way of material goods, but she’d never gone hungry, nor ever went short of love. Yet she remained ashamed of her roots, and didn’t take kindly to being reminded of her humble origins, not even by her own mother. She’d rather lie than admit she’d once been a scruffy little tyke with a father who was a dustman. As if that mattered! It was what sort of person you were inside that counted, not how much money you had. Something her daughter couldn’t quite get her fancy head round.

Rose freely admitted to being a bit frugal herself where money was concerned, some might say to the point of meanness, so she could understand her daughter’s obsession to a degree, although Joyce was doing very nicely in that salon of hers and wasn’t short of a bob or two.

But then young Grant was every bit as bad, the greedy little tyke. Pity he didn’t have his mother’s work ethic.

Rose watched with resignation as the boy sidled up to her, beady black eyes as sharp as a ferret’s, breathing noisily, as he’d always suffered sinus problems ever since he was a lad.

‘I’m bored with this wedding. Lend us a quid, Nan, then I can go to the dogs.’

‘Nay, thee went to the dogs years ago, lad,’ Rose said, in chortling good humour.

‘Very funny. Go on, you can spare me ten bob at least.’

‘Want, want, want! Do you reckon money grows on trees?’ She gave him five shillings. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’

He didn’t trouble to thank her, just slipped away into the crowd, off to the greyhound track or about his own nefarious business.

Rose didn’t rightly care. Too used to handing out cash when her grandson asked for it, she instantly forgot about him, and glanced over to where Joyce was openly flirting with Joe Southworth, making it very plain what was going on there to anyone who cared to look. Done up like a dog’s dinner she was too, in a cream shantung two piece with a box jacket and tight skirt, almost like a bride herself.