Mad Joy (4 page)

One day I did something that clinched the ‘mad’ bit of my name for good.

Once a week, on a Thursday, we made a bus trip into town. Along with half a dozen or so other women, we waited tentatively in Vile It’s stone bus shelter by the edge of the green, and would pick up our bags and shuffle forwards every time a motor engine was heard, or just pick up our bags and shuffle if Vile It herself appeared. Eventually, its green nose would appear around the brow of the hill, and we would bristle with the collective excitement of explorers setting out on an expedition.

Sometimes the bus was already full when it reached
Woodside
, having passed through several villages in a loop before it arrived. Then we would stand up in the aisle, holding on to the upright steel posts, or the handle on the edge of a seat. If we were sitting down when it became full, Gracie would always offer her seat to an older person; I had no manners so I didn’t, although I soon learnt through her nudging to offer my seat to anyone older than myself, even if they looked stronger than me. I never minded because I liked to be thrown from side to side by the sway of the bus, but on one of these days, when the bus was full to bursting and the conductress reminded us that she
was exceeding the limits out of the kindness of her heart, I broke my own limits and did something that would never be forgotten.

I was sitting with Gracie in the front seat, and she was craning her neck to check that the elderly women who had just got on had been offered seats halfway down the aisle. The aisle was already almost three-quarters full when it stopped at the next village, and the conductress rolled her eyes and beckoned on two elderly ladies and a nun. ‘Go on then!’ she said, waving them in as if they were children awaiting a fairground ride.

Gracie and I stood up for the old ladies, and I was standing right up against the metallic-smelling conductress with her shiny leather bag and ticket machine, until she squeezed past me to collect more fares, and I was left sandwiched between Gracie and the nun.

There was no door on the bus, and the wind swept in as we sailed downhill, and the nun, right next to the entrance, kept pressing down her habit with her free hand. Her other hand was gripping the same steel post as mine, and I kept finding myself swaying into her as the bus veered slightly around curves in the road. I watched her sinewy hand tighten its grip on the bends, its blue veins forming ridges through the neat white flesh. There were no red knuckles like on Gracie’s hands, no flaking skin from hours of scrubbing and hot water. I resented her for gripping so tightly when the bus swung about. God didn’t seem to be helping her out
here
, then. I felt I had caught her out being human, when she was pretending to be something better. I looked up at her face, soft and pouchy where the wimple seemed to squash it all up together, and it looked harmless enough. She wore a bland, beatific half-smile, and I fixed my eyes on it suspiciously, reaching out a hand to grip Gracie’s coat sleeve.

‘Hold on with both hands, my love,’ said Gracie.

At the same time the conductress shouted, ‘Hold on tight!’ from somewhere deep inside the bus.

The vehicle swung us all to the right, and then back to the left. I was forced into Gracie, and then into the nun. I felt her yielding flesh and saw, unmistakably, the eyes screw
themselves
up at the jerking of the bus. The smile disappeared and the mouth grew rigid and thin; the brows frowned ferociously and the nostrils flared. I was certain that this angry gargoyle of a face was meant for me, and just as it began to calm itself, a fresh jerk pushed me into her again and the face reappeared, teeth clenched and stony.

I began to sweat. I could see the road ahead was anything but straight, hear the ‘Hold on tight!’ again and I clutched at Gracie in panic.

‘Hold
on
!’ she said. ‘Don’t hold me – we’ll both be over!’ And we swayed from side to side again. Each time I lurched into the nun with my shoulder, and soon I was pushing her harder than I needed to. That soft, spongy nun-look hardened again. Her nostrils grew and her lips shrunk; her eyes squeezed tight with the concentration of staying upright, looked so full of spite I could feel my palms grow sticky as I clasped the pole next to hers. Her nails, so neat and clean on their snowy fingertips, seemed to grow and curve and twist into talons. I could feel my breath failing me: great gasps of air barely lasted a moment and were no sooner exhaled than drawn in again, desperately.

When the bus took the next corner I rammed her. She toppled sideways and nearly fell down the step out of the bus. ‘Joy! Steady on!’ I heard Gracie say, but I wasn’t listening. The towering face of the nun seemed pitted against me: red, panting and full of frown.

The idea came to me before I could register it. It came so naturally it was more of a reflex than a decision. With the next stagger into Gracie and the corresponding swing the other way, I pitched into the nun with the whole weight of my body,
shouldering her down the steps and out of the bus. She toppled like a baby bird, spreading wings of raven black as she flew into the wind, and everyone on the left side of the bus saw her knickers before she flopped into a heap somewhere back up the road.

It’s all a bit foggy after that. I think the bus stopped, but I can’t remember if the nun was badly hurt or not, whether she continued her journey or was helped into a nearby house or what. I don’t know to this day whether she told anyone I’d pushed her, whether any of the passengers saw me push her, or if Gracie saw. Gracie didn’t say anything to me. I often caught her studying me after that. I would look up and she’d have a face filled with curiosity. But if she had seen me do it, she didn’t say. She never said a thing. Just kept on loving me.

Miss Wallock was the one who first made me realize that Gracie had a secret too.

If Swallockelder was as batty as a fruitcake, the younger Miss Wallock was perfectly sane. When I was a little older, Gracie started sending me a few doors down to Miss Wallock’s for piano lessons on Tuesdays. I went straight from school, which meant Gracie had a bit more time at the dress agency where she worked, or else could catch the bus back a bit later from shopping in town.

Miss Wallock was something of a rival to Gracie, it always seemed. They had known each other from girlhood and took pains to compare every detail of their lives.

‘You’ve got a linen tablecloth, I suppose,’ Miss Wallock might say.

‘Yes, I think we have one – for best, though.’

‘Ah! For best. Of course. Now is that embroidered?’

‘I think so – maybe lace-edged.’

‘By Gracie, is it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Probably not. She knows her sewing, doesn’t she? She never was much at lace-making, though. Tried, of course. Always did work hard.’

And whenever I got back home, rather than questions about my lesson, there would always be a little inquest.

‘Were those
new
lace curtains I thought I saw in Ivy’s front window?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Hmm. Ask her next time.’

Or ‘Sherbet lemon, is it, for doing well? Where would she’ve got them from, I wonder. Thomson’s, is it?’

I was well aware of my position between the two of them, and over time I learnt to play the situation better than the piano. If I wanted more attention off Gracie, I would give her a little tweak, and if I was fed up with Miss Wallock for over-working me on the scales I would feed her a little nugget of jealousy to last the rest of the lesson.

I realized now, of course, that she would be a prime source of information, and fed her compliments to get her in the mood.

‘What an exquisite vase,’ I said, admiring a dull-looking clod of ceramic on the sideboard. ‘We’ve got nothing like that at home.’

‘Really? No vases?’

I sighed, ruefully. ‘Oh, we just put flowers in jars. I wish we had beautiful vases like you.’

Miss Wallock simpered in an over-modest fashion.

‘I’m surprised Gracie isn’t more like you. You must’ve known each other since you were young, back in olden days.’

Miss Wallock smiled. ‘We’ve known each other since I can remember. We went to school together.’

‘I bet you both had a string of boys after you. And men.’

Miss Wallock gave a high-pitched giggle, and sounded just like a girl.

‘Heavens above! We had no such thing. Mind you, I had my fair share – I was quite a beauty, some say, when I was young.’ She sighed, got up from the piano stool, and wandered over to the sideboard.

‘And what about Gracie? I don’t suppose she had
any
young men, did she?’

I knew she would respond to this provocation. She took something out of the sideboard drawer and turned bright eyes on me. ‘Gracie? Lord, no! She never had any luck … look …’

She stood next to me and showed me a dog-eared
photograph
. A row of girls were standing dressed in white and in the centre was a girl wearing a crown.

‘Is that you?’ I pointed at the May Queen.

‘No, that’s me.’ She pointed to a passably fine-looking girl, and I responded ecstatically.

‘How beautiful!’

Miss Wallock inhaled a deep lungful of satisfaction.

‘Which one is Gracie?’

‘Have a guess.’

I scanned the photograph. They were a motley crew, it had to be said, with every kind of physical defect known to man, and mostly they looked completely surprised to be wearing pretty white dresses. I was sure I would find Gracie, because I’d seen pictures of her at home. And there, the eyes had it – there she was but … what a face! What a startled, smiling, youthful face! And the eyes, the old sad eyes I was so familiar with, now they sparkled prettily out of the picture from under a gloriously wide-brimmed hat. The same eyes. The very same, but transformed.

‘There – there she is.’

‘That’s right. And here’s

Miss Wallock wittered on about every single girl in the
line-up
: who they married, where they were living now. I let her get on with it, then I said, ‘Wasn’t Gracie ever even in love? Not once?’

Miss Wallock giggled again. ‘Heavens above, Joy Burrows! You do ask some questions!’ But it was clear I’d hit upon a topic she was interested in, and a wicked, conspiratorial look came to her face. ‘Well … there
was
someone … once.’

‘Who?’

‘Well … I couldn’t possibly say …’ She folded her lips together tightly and replaced the photograph in the sideboard drawer.

‘Was it a gentleman?’

Her eyes widened. Yes, I definitely saw them widen. ‘
Whoever
told you that? My goodness, wherever did you hear that?’

‘It’s true, then?’

‘Did Gracie say that?’

‘No. It is true, then?’

She parked her wide behind next to mine on the piano stool, and looked at me full of secrets. ‘You’ll have to ask Gracie. I can’t go telling you things like that.’

‘Oh
please
, Miss Wallock.’

‘Certainly not. She’d never forgive me. No. If she got one sniff of it … one sniff … Some things are best left unsaid. Now find all the policeman Cs for me.’

I gave her one last forlorn look, and played all the Cs on the keyboard.

‘And all the doggie Ds.’ She licked her finger to turn a page in the music book. What with the smell of her metallic breath, her soapy cardigan, and the overenthusiastic layer of polish on the piano, Miss Wallock’s was always a very odoriferous
experience
.

At least I knew now that there was something Gracie hadn’t told me. I had caught the scent of mystery, and I was
determined
to track it down.

It was in the summer of 1931 that I first began my own affair with the mysterious Buckleigh household, because that was the summer I first met Celia. It was one warm June evening after school – I was about eleven at the time – and a crowd of us were playing up by the gates: me, Mo, Tilly and Spit Palmer. Mo was still small and skinny, her younger sister was taller and more robust, and Spit was as sweet and quiet as ever. Spit stood with her back to the high dry stone wall and we lined up facing her:

Spit stood on one leg and chewed a plait, considering us.

‘Joy – handth.’

I brought my hands round from behind my back, palms up.

More chewing.

‘Mo – legth.’

Mo parted her ankles, but no ball fell out of her knees or her thighs.

‘Wider.’

Nothing.

‘Tilly—’

‘She’s thin like a rolling pin!’

We all looked up to the voice and Spit turned to look up too, but we could see nothing.

‘Thin like a rolling pin!’ came the voice again. It was coming from behind the wall.

We looked at each other, thrilled and wary. Spit backed away from the wall and came to stand with the rest of us.

‘Who’s there?’ asked Mo.

After a short silence, as if the voice were considering what to do next, came the answer, ‘Me.’

As we stood bewildered, a head appeared slowly above the upright stones at the top of the wall. It was a girl our age with the fine features of a porcelain doll and one long
toffee-coloured
plait.

‘I’m Celia! Tell me your names!’

She seemed so pleased to meet us that we all did as we were told, and chimed our names out in unison.

‘Golly! Steady on! Let me see … Rose—’

‘We call her Spit.’

‘How dreadful! Poor Rose. I shall call you Rose … Tilly … Mo – I suppose that’s short for Maureen and …’

She put her head on one side and considered me. I felt a mixture of disappointment that she hadn’t heard my name and gratitude that she should gaze at my face for so long.

‘Joy,’ I supplied.

‘Mad Joy, we call ’er.’

‘Joy …’ The girl repeated it wistfully, as though it pleased her. ‘Why mad?’

The others looked confused, as if they had been asked a tricky question in class.

‘Just is,’ shrugged Mo.

Celia took a satisfied deep breath in. ‘Oh well, I shall soon find out. I’m coming over!’

‘Watch out! There’s glass!’ I was foolish enough to imagine she didn’t know that her own walls were covered in broken glass to deter intruders. But Celia had disappeared, and
reappeared
a few yards further down the road outside the wall.

‘It’s okay, thanks. I have my own secret way out!’

Now she was standing before us and we could see her full perfection. She wore a dropped waist summer frock with glorious red poppies on it, and red shoes with a bar and button. None of us could think of anything to say. We just stood there gawping at her.

‘May I play?’

We nodded, but didn’t move.

‘What shall we play then?’

We looked at each other, terrified.

‘I’ve seen you playing on a see-saw you made, over there by the field. Can I have a go?’

We would have to make it again; it consisted of a split trunk the boys had lifted on to an old broken sheep trough. But we couldn’t run fast enough, and between us we rolled the log up on to the crumbled stone, but it swung in all directions, giving an unpredictable lateral ride as well as a vertical one.

‘What about your lovely dress?’ asked Tilly, when Celia straddled the filthy old log.

‘Oh, don’t worry! They’re only play clothes! Whoo …!’

She was flung about in all directions, and shouted lots of wonderful words like ‘Golly!’ and ‘Cripes!’ which we
immediately
adopted as our own.

When we were called home for bed she made us promise not to tell anyone about her playing with us. We shook our heads solemnly and skipped home on air.

‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said Gracie as she tucked me up.

‘Golly! Do I?’

She frowned at me, then shook her head and blew the candle out. ‘Whatever next!’

My thoughts exactly.