Nobody’s Girl (31 page)

‘With you?’

‘Yes, Pearl,’ she said, animated with excitement now. ‘It isn’t large, but there’s a spare room. I’d love you to live with me, to see my grandson growing up. Please say yes.’

Pearl gazed at her mother, saw the appeal in her eyes and felt her heart fill with joy. This woman, this frail but beautiful woman, was her mother and was offering her a home. For a moment her face straightened and she hung her head. It would mean leaving Battersea, and though this was something she had longed to do, it would mean leaving Bessie – Derek too.

As though reading her mind, Emily spoke. ‘I realise there are people here that you’ll miss, but you can still see them.’

‘Winchester is so far away and it wouldn’t be easy.’

‘Nonsense. It isn’t that far and there are trains. If you want to see Bessie, you could visit at weekends, and I’m sure she’ll always offer you a bed.’

‘Yes, she would,’ Pearl agreed, yet still she hesitated.

‘Oh, my darling girl, I’ll understand if you want to stay, but will you come with me, if only for little while? I love you, my dear, will always love you, but I want so much for us to get to know each other.’

Hearing her mother’s words, Pearl’s heart once again surged with joy. It was as if her dreams had come true. She had a mother. A mother who loved her. It would be hard to leave Bessie, but she had Nora now and wouldn’t be alone. She could talk to Derek, explain that she’d come to see him as often as she could. He said he’d wait, but it would be a long time before she was divorced – free. Would he wait that long?

Pearl sighed. There was no way of knowing, the future not hers to see. She and Derek would have to take it one step at a time, but for now, her mother was right. They needed to get to know each other.

She turned, smiling widely. ‘Oh, yes please, I’d love to come to stay with you.’

Emma Chambers pulled the threadbare blanket up to her chin, only to have one of her three sisters tug it back. The attic room was freezing. In the far corner there was another straw-filled mattress, this one equally crammed with her four brothers.

The house stirred as faint sounds reached her wakeful ears. A door closing, a hacking cough, and then the sound of her father climbing the ladder. Through the material slung across the attic to divide the children from their parents she heard her mother groan softly, and sensed her dread.

At sixteen years old Emma had no illusions. Her father was drunk, his feet stumbling on the rungs, and that meant the scant money he earned as a labourer had already lined the local publican’s pocket.

There was more noise now, as he finally made it through the small, square opening, to the attic. Then came the sound of his boots hitting the floor as he flung them off. Emma tensed, and shortly afterwards the nightly argument begun.

‘Come on, woman!’

‘No Tom!’

The sound of a slap, a sob, and then Tom’s harsh voice.

‘You’re my wife.’

‘The baby’s nearly due. Can’t you leave me in peace?’

‘Leave it out, you’ve weeks to go yet. Now come on, Myra, lift your nightdress.’

‘I don’t feel well. Can’t you do without for one night?’

‘No, I bloody well can’t!’

It started then, the grunts, the groans. Emma wanted to scream, to run around and drag her father off her mother, but she knew from past experience that it would only make things worse. Better to just pray that it would be over quickly, and that her mother would be all right.

Emma held her hands over her ears, hating the sounds. Her stomach rumbled with hunger and with only cabbage soup for dinner, it wasn’t surprising when one of her brothers loudly broke wind again.

Food had preoccupied Emma’s thoughts during the past week, but the thought of her dad’s payday today had cheered her up. Now, though, there’d be no bread, and though she tried to stifle it, hate surged through her – hatred for what their father had become.

Emma wondered what had happened to the father she had known before the war. Yes, he’d been taciturn, but loving, with an innate kindness. The man who returned from the fighting was a stranger. One who was short-tempered, cruel, and embittered.

Moonlight spilled through a hole in the roof and Emma frowned. They hadn’t always lived here. Before the war their home had been several streets away, not large, but at least her parents had a separate bedroom.

The war had changed everything. At first they’d been fine, but gradually the air raids had started, escalating to a point when it seemed that bombs fell night and day. Many of Emma’s friends had been evacuated, but a few remained, Lorraine, her friend next door being one of them. One morning they returned from the bomb shelter to find Lorraine’s house flattened, and theirs badly damaged. All that remained of the wrecked house was the staircase, the steps now leading up to open sky. They had stood, mouths agape, too shocked even to cry.

It was the last time Emma saw her friend, whose family went to live with grandparents in another borough. Unlike us, Emma thought, remembering her mother’s distress because they had no one to take them in. With so much property destroyed, accommodation had been hard to find. They had been offered this attic flat, and with no other option, her mother had taken it.

Some people had profited by the war, and their landlord was one of them. He’d been clever, buying up cheap property, willing to take the risk that the buildings would remain standing. This house had originally been two flats, but the landlord had converted the attics to shove in as many families as he could, raking in extra rent.

She knew her mother had only expected to live here as a stop-gap and planned to move them as soon as something better became available, but then the war ended, her father’s army pay ending with it when he was demobbed. If he’d returned the same man, they would have been all right, but now he drank heavily, lost job after job, and here they remained, the rent sometimes unpaid and on catch-up, her mother’s dreams of a nicer home still unfulfilled.

Emma’s stomach growled again. Huh, they’d been better off when her father was away. At least his army pay had been regular, but now …

There was a loud groan, a familiar one, and Emma knew that her father had finished. She yanked on the blanket again, snuggled closer to her sisters for warmth and, knowing that her mother was safe now, she finally fell asleep.

*

Emma found herself the first one awake. As quietly as possible, she crawled from the mattress. God, it was freezing! She descended the ladder and rushed downstairs to the middle landing. There was only one toilet, shared by all three tenants in the tall, dilapidated house. Alice Moon and her husband Cyril lived on this floor, but there was no sound of movement from their rooms. Pleased to find the smelly toilet free, Emma soon hurried back to their top-floor flat.

She knelt in front of the hearth now, holding out her frozen hands to the tongues of flame. She covered the flames with a few lumps of old wood that Dick, her eldest brother, had pro cured from somewhere. There were a few nuggets of coke too, and fearing they were stolen, Emma hastily shovelled them on top of the smouldering wood, as if this act could protect him. That done, she frowned. Emma knew that she shouldn’t encourage him, but she also realised that unless Dick was lucky again, there was little chance of getting more fuel. She scowled. What sort of man had their father become? What sort of man let his family go hungry and cold whilst he poured ale down his throat?

When the fire was a manageable glow, Emma hung the kettle over.

Stretching her arm to the rafters, Emma took down the bundle of dried nettles. As the kettle boiled she made the infusion, just in time to see her mother’s swollen legs coming down the ladder.

Myra smiled as Emma gave her the tin mug, her hands wrapping round it for warmth.

As her mother gingerly lowered herself onto a stool, her stomach looked huge, yet the rest of her was scrawny, her arms and legs like thin, white sticks. She was only in her mid-thirties, yet she appeared old and worn. In the candlelight, Emma saw her grimace of pain. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

‘Stop fretting, I’m fine,’ she said, before taking a sip of the nettle tea.

‘Do you think there’s any money left?’

‘I looked in his pockets before coming down and found none.’

‘How could he?’

‘That’s enough from you! You know that he hasn’t been the same since the war. He had a terrible time and it changed him.’

‘Mum, you can’t keep on using that excuse. It’s been three years now and he rarely has those nightmares. He should count himself lucky. At least he’s in one piece, which is more than you can say for Mr Horton next door.’

‘Enough, Emma! I know you’ll soon be seventeen, but you’re getting too big for your boots and talking about things you don’t understand.’

Emma hung her head and mumbled, ‘If he’s blown his money on booze again, what are we supposed to do for food? The rent is overdue too.’

‘You always worry too much. We’ve managed before and we’ll manage again. We’ve still got some potatoes, and perhaps Dick will earn a few bob today.’

‘Without flour there’ll be no bread.’

‘Then we’ll do without. Now come on, peel some spuds and I’ll fry them for breakfast.’

Emma did as she was told, finding as she dug in the nearly-empty sack that most were sprouting roots and spongy with age. She picked out the best of them and washed them in the sink, her hands turning blue in the ice-cold water, whilst she surreptitiously watched her mother.

Another grimace of pain crossed her mother’s face, and Emma suspected the baby was coming. This would be her ninth child, and it had been a difficult pregnancy, one that drained her of energy.

The racket started then, the sound of her siblings squabbling, and then her father’s voice. ‘Shut that fucking noise!’

There was instant quiet for a moment, but then one by one they came down the ladder. First to emerge was Dick, the eldest boy at fourteen years old. In his arms, he held the youngest boy, little Archie, who at two hero-worshipped his big brother. Next came thirteen-year-old Luke, the quietest of them all, followed by eleven-year-old Susan.

There was a lull then, Myra enquiring, ‘Where are the others?’

‘Still asleep,’ said nine-and-a-half-year-old Bella, the last to appear.

Six-year-old Ann, along with three-year-old James were usually the last up every morning, but they’d show their faces as soon as the smell of food wafted up into the attic.

All the children made for the fire, shoving each other to get close to the warmth, whilst Myra smiled serenely at her brood. She had a look about her that Emma was familiar with, a curious, peaceful expression that always preceded labour.

Emma pushed between her siblings to place the frying-pan on the fire, saying impatiently, ‘Get dressed you lot, or you’ll get no breakfast.’

Dick thought himself too old to be given orders, but seeing how pale his mother looked today he lifted Archie, saying, ‘I’ll see to this one.’

‘You’re a good boy,’ Myra said, but then with a cry she bent forward, arms clutched around her stomach.

‘Mum! What’s wrong?’ Dick cried.

‘I … I think the baby’s coming,’ she gasped. After taking a few deep breaths, she managed to straighten up. ‘It’ll be a while yet so there’s no need to look so worried. In the meantime, Emma, get the kids fed. And you, Dick, be prepared to take them out for a while, and …’ Her voice died as she bent forward again, this time unable to suppress a scream.

Emma’s face blanched. She’d seen her mother in labour before, but this time it was different. ‘Mum, what is it? What’s the matter?’

‘I dunno,’ gasped Myra, and despite the freezing room, perspiration beaded her brow. ‘Oh, God!’ she suddenly cried, ‘Quick, Emma, run downstairs and fetch Alice!’

Emma fled the room, and hammered on Alice Moon’s door.
Come on! Come on
, her mind screamed, relieved when at last the woman appeared. ‘Please, come quick, it’s my mum.’

‘Stone the crows,’ Alice said, her voice dazed with sleep, ‘what’s all the fuss about?’

‘Mum’s in labour, but something’s wrong. She’s screaming, Alice!’

At last the urgency in Emma’s voice registered in the older woman. Shoving Emma aside, she rushed upstairs.

Upstairs, Alice took over. She sent the children down to her flat, and then woke Tom Chambers up to help his wife back to bed.

For three hours Emma crouched beside the mattress, her hand numb with pain from her mother’s fierce grip, her legs cramping whilst Alice tried to help with the birth.

‘Myra, I’m sorry love, but I’ve got to have another go at turning it.’

There was no reply, just a groan, and Emma’s heart thudded with fear. The last time Alice had tried this, her mother’s screams had been horrendous. Please, she willed, please let it work this time.

Alice bent to her task and then the screams rose again. ‘No! No! Don’t,’ Myra cried.

Alice shook her head in despair, her voice a yell, ‘Tom!’

His head appeared at the top of the ladder, and impatiently he said, ‘What do you want now?’

Alice stood up, and though she spoke quietly, Emma heard every word.

‘She’s bad, Tom, real bad. You’d better get the doctor.’

‘Leave it out, woman. She’ll be all right. You’ve birthed the last three kids and there’s never been a problem.’

‘For God’s sake, man, will you listen to me! It’s a breech birth and I can’t turn the baby. She needs the doctor, now!’

‘He won’t come without his fee.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, wake up! You don’t have to pay the doctor now, not since this National Health Service thing was introduced. Now, get a move on or you could lose your wife. I don’t care how you do it, drag him here if you have to, but get him!’

Emma didn’t hear her father’s reply. Her eyes were wide with horror. Blood was pumping from her mother’s womb, soaking the mattress. ‘Alice! Alice!’

The woman turned at her cry. ‘Christ, she’s haemorrhaging. Quick, Tom, get the doctor!’

It was too late. By the time the doctor climbed the ladder, Myra Chambers and the baby were both dead. Emma was still sitting by her mother, refusing to accept that she was gone, and only when her father’s hand fell on her shoulder did she react. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she yelled at him. ‘This is your fault! She’d still be alive if you hadn’t filled her belly again!’

Emma tensed, expecting a clout. She had dared to shout at her father, but instead he just stared at her, his eyes avoiding the body of his wife and the baby lying beside her, swaddled in a rag.

‘You … you,’ he spluttered, but then his body seemed to crumple and, staggering, he clambered down the ladder.

Still Emma didn’t move. It was only when Dick came to her side, placing an arm around her shoulder that she broke. The anger seeped away, to be replaced by a surge of grief. She sobbed and clutched her brother, finding that his tears mingled with her own.

‘Come on, Em,’ Dick urged softly. ‘Alice needs to see to Mum.’

Emma dashed the tears away with the heel of her hand, but looking at her mother’s body, she felt her anger rise again. ‘He killed her, Dick.’

‘Don’t be daft. Alice said that by the time the doctor got here it was too late.’

‘I’m not talking about the doctor.
Dad
killed her.’

‘You’re talking rot. Of course he didn’t.’

Emma was too fatigued to argue. She forced herself to her feet, and with a last look at her beloved mother, Dick lead her away.

‘You’ll have to tell the kids, Emma,’ Tom Chambers said as Emma climbed down the ladder.

She looked at her father’s pale face, collapsed in grief, and felt nothing but contempt. ‘Why me?’

‘It’ll be better coming from you.’

Unable to stand the sight of him, Emma fled the room. The door slammed behind her and she hurried down to Alice Moon’s door. Now she had to break the news to her siblings. Somehow, she had to hold herself together for their sakes. Taking a great gulp of air to brace herself, Emma went inside.