Unforgettable (5 page)

But her independence would all be over now, she thought furiously. She might as well start packing …

She went downstairs just before seven o'clock to find Mrs Warburton standing beside the telephone, which she polished every day to gleaming black perfection. All her lodgers knew they risked her wrath any time they received a personal call that wasn't for a dire emergency. It was for business
purposes only, every lodger was told grandly when they first entered the house.

When it rang it startled them both, and after a moment or two of speaking into it, Mrs Warburton handed the receiver to Gracie. She took it nervously, and then held it away from her ear as she heard her father's voice.

‘You'll know why I'm calling, girl,' he shouted, in the way of a person unfamiliar with a telephone. ‘You've shamed us by having your picture in a newspaper with that other young tart. If it wasn't for your mother's condition I'd wash my hands of you.'

‘What condition?' Gracie said, ignoring everything else.

He didn't say anything for a few seconds, and she knew the meaning of that daft phrase they used in books. The silence spoke volumes.

When he eventually spoke she could almost hear the tightness in his voice. He was anything but a demonstrative or emotional man, but it was weird how such things became more obvious over a telephone line.

‘She's real bad. The doctor don't like the look of her.'

‘You had the doctor?' Gracie's voice rose, and she knew it must be serious if he forked
out some of his booze money for the doctor's bill.

‘I said so, didn't I? Anyway, you've got to come home to look after her, and after this other business, it had better be right away.'

‘What's
wrong
with her, Dad?'

‘It's a growth on her lungs. You know what I mean.
The other
. She's got six months at most, the doctor says. Maybe less.'

His voice was harsh, hiding his feelings in the only way he knew how, but Gracie was reeling with shock now. Her mother was dying, with the word that nobody ever used except in hushed whispers, and it was more than she could bear. Her thoughts whirled sickly.

‘You should have
told
me!' she shrieked. ‘I'll be home tomorrow, Dad.'

‘Aye. All right, girl,' he said gruffly, and she knew it was as near as she would get to any thanks.

Not that she wanted or expected any. It was her duty to look after her mother, and she would do it out of love and respect. But she wouldn't have been human if she didn't realize it was the end of all her hopes and dreams. Because even if—when—it happened, her dad would still expect her to be the dutiful daughter and look after
him
.

She smothered a sob, aware that the
landlady was hovering somewhere near. She could smell the Devon Violets scent, which was a sure giveaway when she was eavesdropping. She could also smell the furniture polish on the yellow duster which would be at the ready to buff the telephone to its gleaming perfection again.

‘Have you finished, Miss Brown?'

‘Yes, thank you.' She swallowed, willing away those inane thoughts, and tried to be as calm as possible. ‘My mother's very ill, so I have to go home. I'll be leaving tomorrow. I'll pay you my rent for the rest of the week once I've been to the factory to collect my wages in the morning.'

The landlady's face was a picture as Gracie swept by and went upstairs to her room, without giving her the satisfaction of any further explanation, though she knew Mrs Warburton dearly liked a bit of gossip to tell about her lodgers. But once upstairs, Gracie burst into uncontrollable tears.

‘Oh Gawd, did he give you a bad time, gel? Now you've left home you should stand up to him and not let him treat you like a bleedin' drudge.' Dolly droned on until Gracie snapped at her to shut up.

‘If you'd just listen a minute, I'll tell you what's happened and why I've got to leave here tomorrow.'

Dolly gaped. ‘I hope it's for a better reason than just seeing your picture in the ruddy newspaper, then.'

‘It is. My mother's dying, and I've got to take care of her.'

Her voice broke again, and then she was sobbing out the rest of it in Dolly's arms until the other girl shook her, none too gently.

‘I know it's awful for you, Gracie, and I'm really sorry—sorry to be losing you too, come to that—but a fat lot of good you're going to be to your mum if you're crying over her all the time. You've got to be cheerful for her sake.'

‘That's easy to say!'

‘Well, try to look on the bright side—'

‘What bright side? My mother's dying!'

Dolly tried again, uncomfortable with all this talk of dying, but going on doggedly.

‘Yes, but at least she'll have you with her, and I suppose that's what she wants more than anything. So you're doing the best you can for her, ain't you?'

Grace grimaced at her logic. ‘I suppose you're right, but I'm going to miss you like stink, Dolly! You will write to me now and then, won't you?'

‘I'm not much good at letter-writing, but I'll do me best. I'll want to let you know about me and Jim, won't I?' she said.

‘I don't want to talk about Jim right now, Dolly,' Gracie muttered. ‘But—well, if you should hear anything about—about anybody else, you'd be sure to let me know, wouldn't you?'

‘The saxophone player, you mean.'

‘Or anybody else,' Gracie said, not wanting to let on just how much he had figured in her dreaming for those few brief hours.

She knew how foolish it was. They barely knew one another, but she had danced in his arms, and his music was in her heart, and if she closed her eyes she could picture him as clearly as if he stood right next to her.

‘I'd better pack my things,' she said, turning away because it suddenly seemed wrong to be thinking about anything but the enormity of the task ahead of her. But she just couldn't help it, because for those few magical hours she had let herself dream that he was the one …

* * *

The girls at the factory were sorry to know she was leaving, especially in the circumstances. She had to explain her reasons to the boss, and hope he would see fit to pay her what she was owed, while he sat behind his desk like a lazy fat cat. It was demeaning to
ask, but she knew she would need every penny to see her mum out in comfort.

She intended to stand firm with her dad too, and insist that he didn't spend all his money at the boozer. She had known the sweet taste of independence, and she was no longer prepared to be a skivvy.

Lawson was more reasonable than she had expected, considering it was a Monday morning when he was never in the best of tempers.

‘Right then, girl,' he said finally. ‘If you have to leave, then you must. I'll be sorry to lose a good machine-worker, mind, so if you ever want to come back at any time, I'll try to make room for you.'

‘Thank you, Mr Lawson,' she muttered.

Thanks for nothing. Despite all his talk, she knew she was no more than a cog in his works machine. By the time she left the office he would already be putting somebody else on her machine and as far as he was concerned, she wouldn't be missed. But he'd paid her up what she was owed, and for that she was thankful. Leaving at a minute's notice, he needn't have paid her anything.

* * *

Home wasn't far from Southampton station, so Gracie didn't have to splash out on a tram or a cab fare. But walking in the warm sunshine, her bags seemed to have got a deal heavier by the time she turned into the narrow cobbled street where all the houses appeared to be crammed into one long mass. The women neighbours stood outside gossiping in their overalls, the same as they always did in the afternoon, and it was just as if she had never been away.

Most of the menfolk were dockworkers like her dad, and everyone knew everyone else around here, and all their business too. As people nodded and called out sympathetically to her, time seemed to have stood still, and for one horrifying moment Gracie felt as if she was being sucked back into a life she had looked forward so optimistically to leaving behind.

And then she opened her own door and the welcome smells of baking met her nostrils, and her mum came out from the kitchen, smiling.

Gracie dropped her bags and stood dumbly for a moment. She had expected to be confronted by a sickroom and a hushed atmosphere. Instead, at first sight her mum looked just the same, until Gracie realized how thin she was, her face almost gaunt, her
arms like sticks; and she saw something like fear behind her eyes.

‘Mum!' she said, choked, and was clasped in the older woman's arms.

‘Now then, Gracie, I know your father's told you the worst, but we don't talk about it, and we don't think about it.'

The brave words, which were all for her daughter's benefit, were abruptly halted by a racking bout of coughing that left her staggering to a chair.

‘What do you think you were doing, baking cakes in your condition?' Gracie said accusingly, because she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Her mother had always been strong enough to stand up to her drunkard of a husband, and now she seemed no more than a shell.

‘I wanted to welcome you home,' she was told in a laboured voice. ‘I hope you'll stay for a while, Gracie—'

‘Don't be daft. I'm home for good now, Mum.'

‘No, not for good, love. As soon as all this is over, you're to go back to London. You're not to stay here with
him
. He'll wear you down, the same as he's worn me down all these years, and you're worth more than that.'

‘Oh Mum! You should have left him years ago,' Gracie said, not bothering to hide her
disgust of her father.

‘Women don't leave their husbands, Gracie. Besides, I loved him once, and he gave me you, didn't he?'

The painful coughing started again, and at last she had to give in and go to bed. The effort of baking cakes had been too much for her after all, and once Gracie had put her things in her old bedroom, she glanced in at her mother and watched her sleeping fitfully for a few minutes, her throat catching with sorrow at what they both knew was inevitable.

Then she set about preparing an evening meal before her dad got home from his shift at the docks. This was how it was going to be from now on, she told herself numbly, back where she started, just as if she had never been away, she thought again. And she might as well forget all those foolish dreams about a handsome saxophone player with a lovely smile. Everyone knew that dreams were just for children, anyway.

Mick Brown came home from the docks in the early evening, already reeking of beer and bellowing for his dinner.

‘Hello, Dad,' Gracie said steadily, hearing her mother's intake of breath at the state of him. He'd never been one for knocking his womenfolk about, but his movements were clumsy and he was unsteady on his feet.

‘So you're back,' he snarled. ‘Not before time too.'

She smarted at his tone, but for her mum's sake, she wouldn't cause a fuss. ‘That's not fair, Dad! I came as soon as I could, and anyway, I'm here now. And we're both going to have to pull our weight in looking after Mum.'

‘That's why I sent for you, ain't it?' he barked back.

She stared him out, disgusted by the state of him, but realizing something else too. She hadn't been away from home all that long, but in those months when she had stood on her own feet, she had lost her old fear of her father. In his present condition, she had lost respect too, but she wasn't going to
think about that now.

‘For pity's sake, you two, don't start arguing the minute you're together,' Gracie's mother said wearily. ‘If we can't all get along, what's the point of it all?'

She was stopped by a bout of coughing that left her gasping and reaching for a handkerchief, and Gracie just managed not to yell at her father that this was all his fault. Her mother, the peacemaker, wouldn't want that. So she forced a smile to her lips, resisting the urge to look at the bloodstained handkerchief her mother was trying to hide now.

‘Why don't you go and wash, Dad, and I'll put the dinner on the table. It's mince and mash tonight, your favourite.'

It was also one of the meals her mother could comfortably keep down now, as she had learned since coming home. Hiding her heartbreak, Gracie served up the meal and watched as her mother picked at the food, professing that it was lovely, but that she wasn't really hungry.

‘She eats no more than a bird nowadays,' her husband said, talking all the while he shovelled the food into his mouth. ‘She needs to keep up her strength and she won't do it by starving herself.'

‘Leave it, Mick,' Queenie said. ‘I'll eat what I need.'

Gracie intervened. ‘I've made a blancmange. Try some of that, Mum.'

‘Just a little, then.'

Gracie was becoming more and more alarmed, seeing now that her mother's behaviour when she had arrived was little more than a sham. This was the real woman, this pathetic, seemingly shrunk little woman who seemed too weary to make any further effort. She resolved to visit the doctor as soon as possible to find out just how long a future her mother really had, and what she could best do for her in the meantime.

At the end of the meal, her father belched and farted at one and the same time, and apologized for neither. It was no surprise to Gracie that her mother decided to go to bed early and left them to themselves. She put the dirty dishes and pans in the scullery sink, trying hard not to bang them about in her growing anger as he watched her with narrowed eyes.

‘I hope you were paid all that you were owed from that sweatshop, Gracie. You'll need to pay your way here now you're back. This isn't a charity—'

She plunged her hands into the soapy water. ‘Oh, don't worry, I'll do my share, as long as you do yours!'