A Broken Family (3 page)

Celia carried the tray downstairs, and after washing the plate she went back into the sitting room where she took a seat by the fire, her eyes resting on her husband in the opposite chair. He was asleep, snoring softly and her lips twisted in distaste. She’d had high hopes for George when they married, expecting him to be as ambitious as she was, but instead, with his problem, he’d never attempted to expand the business. There was plenty of work for glaziers, and by now George should have been in the position to employ men to work for him. However, he’d been too proud to accept her offer to help, instead remaining a one-man band.

Of course Thomas worked with him, but that hardly counted. At least George made fairly good money and was generous with the housekeeping, Celia had to admit. Yet they could have had so much more, still could, if George would only listen to her suggestions instead of dismissing them.

With a sigh of discontent, Celia picked up her tapestry frame to continue working on a cushion; the scene a quaint thatched cottage and garden filled with hollyhocks, delphiniums and roses in profusion. She would love a pretty garden, a place in the country away from the smoke and pollution which would be so much better for Thomas.

There was a snort, a grunt and then George’s eyes opened. He yawned then said, ‘I could do with a cup of Rosie Lee.’

‘You sound so common. It’s a cup of
tea
, George,’ Celia chastised.

The tiredness left his eyes to be replaced by annoyance. ‘When are you going to get off your high horse, woman? You may sound as though you were born with a plum in your mouth, but I know you came from a slum.’

Celia felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She had been born in the East End of London, and when her father died, her mother had been left to bring up eight children on her own. Celia could remember the two small rooms they had been crammed into, the rats, and the bugs climbing the walls. Tuberculosis had been rife, and Celia saw three of her brothers and one sister die of the disease. She’d been terrified that she was going to catch it too, and with that fear came a fierce determination to escape the poverty and filth. Angrily she cried, ‘I may have been born in a slum, but at least I had the ambition to better myself, which is more than I can say for you!’

‘That’s it, bring me down again, but you seem to forget that you only worked in a dress shop when I met you.
’

‘It wasn’t just any old shop! I had to improve my diction, posture and dress sense before I could gain a position in Knightsbridge. We catered for the wealthy and fashionable.’

‘Yeah, and you still try to emulate them,’ George said bitterly.

‘No doubt you’d prefer me to sound like a fishwife, but let me tell you I’m proud of my achievements.’

‘If that’s the case, how come nobody around here knows anything about it? Instead you’ve fabricated the story that you were born in Chelsea, of middle-class parents.’

‘I won’t have anyone looking down on me.’

‘No, you prefer to lord it up over them by pretending to be something that you’re not.’

‘You didn’t complain when we met,’ Celia told him, annoyed to find tears welling in her eyes. ‘In fact you said you loved my voice, my poise, and everything else about me. Lately though, all you do is criticise me and I have no idea why.’

George shook his head, sighed, then said, ‘Yeah, you’re right and I’m sorry. It’s just that I wish you’d lighten up; learn to live a little, to have a bit of fun.’

‘We went to the dance at the Conservative Club, and there’s another one in a couple of weeks.’

‘You can’t call that fun. It’s all so formal, dress suits and cocktail dresses. We’re only in our forties, but we’re becoming a couple of old fuddy-duddies, and when was the last time we made love?’

Celia stared at her husband, aghast. George didn’t seem to appreciate that lately she’d been worn out with looking after Thomas, sometimes so worried about him that she slept in a chair beside his bed. She didn’t bother to point this out; George would only say she was mollycoddling Thomas again, so she rose to her feet, only saying, ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘Yeah, do that, and then how about a bit of slap and tickle?’

‘George,’ she cried, appalled, ‘what on earth has come over you? It’s four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.’

‘As prissy as ever,’ he said bitterly. ‘I knew you’d react like that, Celia. In fact the only fun I have with you nowadays is in winding you up. Forget the tea. I’m going out.’

With those words George abruptly rose to his feet, and as he walked out of the room Celia chased after him. ‘George, where are you going?’

‘For a walk,’ he snapped while pulling on his overcoat. Moments later he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Celia just stood there for moment, brows furrowed. George had changed lately, had become sharp in his criticism of her, but she felt that something else was going on, something underlying his odd behaviour. Was it to do with his business? Was George having financial problems and keeping it from her? No, that couldn’t be it, she decided, he was as busy as ever.

Whatever the underlying problem was, Celia was sure that it wasn’t anything to do with their marriage. After all, she was a good wife and mother. It was George who had changed, not her.

On Monday morning the fog had cleared and Carol’s mother, Daphne Cole, stood at the bottom of the stairs to shout impatiently, ‘Carol, get up! If you don’t get a move on you’ll be late for work.’

‘Yeah, I’m coming,’ she called back sleepily. Carol hated Monday morning, and her boring job in the shoe shop did nothing to inspire her to get out of bed. She didn’t mind most of the customers, but dreaded those that had smelly feet, especially if they wanted her to take their foot measurements. However, as she became fully awake Carol thought about the shop fitter who had caught her eye. Now
he
was worth getting up for.

It didn’t take Carol long to get ready, but she wished she didn’t have to put on the black, pencil skirt and white blouse that all the staff had to wear. She needed something striking to be noticed, and as Carol sat at her dressing table she decided that instead of dragging her long, auburn hair into a ponytail, she’d try something more sophisticated. It took a little time, but at last Carol managed to style her hair into a neat French pleat. She then applied make-up, and smiled at her own reflection. Yes, she looked good. Surely the shop fitter would notice her today.

‘Why are you all done up like a dog’s dinner?’ her mother asked as soon as Carol appeared downstairs.

‘I’ve only done my hair in a different style.’

‘It’s more than that. You’ve got far too much make-up on. With all that green eye-shadow and black mascara, you look like a flippin’ clown.’

‘I think it looks nice,’ Carol said, ignoring her mother’s criticism as she poured herself a cup of tea. Sometimes she felt that her mum was jealous of her, and she had never been given the attention or shows of affection that were showered on her brothers.

‘Come on, girl, it’s time you left for work,’ her mum now chided.

Carol glanced at the clock, grabbed a slice of toast, threw on her coat and hurried out, calling, ‘Bye, see you later.’

Amy was just leaving her house too, and Mabel Povis was on her doorstep, cleaning her letterbox. Carol saw the woman looking at her with disapproval, but ignored her as she linked arms with Amy.

‘You look nice,’ Amy said as they walked up the Rise.

‘Thanks,’ Carol said, pleased to hear that after her mother’s carping. She saw that Amy was hardly wearing any make-up, just a touch of mascara and pink lipstick. She still looked nice though, pretty in a wholesome sort of way, with her blonde bubble-cut hair, pink cheeks and clear, blue eyes.

‘I suppose you’re all done up for that shop fitter’s benefit,’ Amy said, grinning.

‘Who else?’ Carol quipped. ‘I just hope it works.’

As they passed Tommy’s house, Amy glanced up at one of the bedroom windows, musing, ‘I wonder how he is today?’

‘How was he last night?’ Carol asked.

For a moment Amy looked surprised at the question, but then she stammered, ‘His … his chest was still bad.’

‘Well then, he’s hardly likely to be much better this morning,’ Carol said, wondering why Amy looked flushed. If Tommy was so ill, they couldn’t have got up to much, but maybe a few kisses had been exchanged. Fancy blushing about that, Carol thought. Now, if they had gone all the way it would be different, but like her, Carol knew that Amy was still a virgin. Moments later they turned onto Lavender Hill, saving on bus fare as usual by walking to Clapham Junction.

When they reached the crossroads Amy was about t
o turn
the corner, as after passing Arding & Hobbs department store they would soon come to the shoe shop, but Carol grabbed her arm, pulling her to the other side of the road, saying, ‘Let’s walk along to the shop that’s being refitted and cross over again in front of it.’

Amy smiled knowingly. ‘I suppose you’re hoping that fitter will see you.’

‘Yes, and I can get a closer look at him.’

Carol wasn’t disappointed. He was there, this time standing outside while rolling a cigarette. She planted a smile on her face and began chatting inanely to Amy about the weather as they drew near.

At last he turned his head, eyes roaming over them and then, best of all, with a cheeky grin, he said, ‘Now there’s a sight to cheer a bloke up in the morning.’

Carol quipped back, ‘Glad to oblige.’

‘Come on, Miss Winters is opening up,’ Amy hissed and after looking both ways, she hurried across the road.

Fuming, Carol did the same, but as she looked back over her shoulder, the shop fitter called, ‘I go to the Nelson Café at around twelve thirty for my lunch. Maybe I’ll see you there.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Carol called back, her heart racing. She didn’t know his name yet, and he looked older than she’d first thought, but he was even better looking close up and nothing was going to keep her from the café at lunchtime.

Mabel Povis put her washing in the bath to soak and then went next door to see Phyllis. She used the back entrance, none of them keeping their gates or back doors locked until they went to bed, and going through the kitchen into her friend’s living room Mabel said without preamble, ‘I think Amy should stay away from Caroline Cole.’

‘Why?’ Phyllis asked from her chair by the fire.

‘Because Carol looks, and acts, like a tart. You should have seen her this morning, all done up with her face plastered with make-up. Her mother is little better, vain and full of herself.’

‘Daphne is all right, and Amy has been friends with Carol since they were kids. She’s a nice girl,’ Phyllis argued.

‘I must admit that Daphne has a lot to put up with,’ Mabel said. ‘You know how thin our walls are, and Frank seems to be a bit insatiable on the
you know what
side
.
He’s at Daphne every night, and from what I’ve heard he won’t take no for an answer.’

Phyllis chuckled. ‘Are you sure you’re not jealous?’

‘A bit of slap and tickle every night! No thanks,’ Mabel protested.

‘If I had the energy I wouldn’t mind,’ Phyllis said, running a hand tiredly over her face.

Mabel was used to Phyllis being a bit worn out, after all, she was up at the crack of dawn, but this morning she looked exhausted, her complexion grey. Not only that, it was unusual to see Phyllis just sitting, especially on a Monday morning when nearly every woman in the street tackled their laundry. A little worried Mabel asked, ‘What’s up, love? You look a bit rough.’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘If you ask me, it’s more than that,’ Mabel said. ‘You look ill.’

‘I feel a bit washed-out today, that’s all. I think I need a tonic.’

‘Talking of washing, have you made a start on yours?’

‘Not yet,’ Phyllis admitted.

‘Well you stay there and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Then as my stuff is already in soak, I’ll make a start on yours.’

‘No, I’ll do it,’ Phyllis protested.

‘Don’t be daft, it’s no trouble and if I was under the weather you’d do the same for me.’

‘Yeah, all right, thanks, but there’s Winnie’s stuff to put in soak too.’

‘No problem,’ Mabel said, frowning with concern. The fact that Phyllis had agreed to let her help was worrying and she wondered if taking care of Winnie, along with doing two cleaning jobs, had become a bit too much for her friend . . .

Mabel made the tea, determined to speak her mind as she handed a cup to Phyllis. ‘Now listen, it’s obvious that you’re worn out. Winnie isn’t your responsibility and you shouldn’t have to look after her.’

‘Her son emigrated to Australia and with her daughter living in Devon, she’s too far away. Winnie hasn’t got anyone else.’

‘I’ve offered to help out, but you know that Winnie doesn’t like me and she refused,’ Mabel said. ‘It ain’t fair on you and you should get in touch with her daughter. Tell her that her mother needs to go into a nursing home or something.’

‘Winnie wouldn’t stand for that,’ Phyllis said, shaking her head. ‘She’s lived in that house since she got
married nearly sixty years ago and nothing will make her
leave it.’

‘If you didn’t put yourself out, her daughter would flaming well have to,’ Mabel snapped.

‘They don’t get on and she won’t do anything,’ Phyllis said, her voice weak with tiredness.

‘Right then, have a word with the doctor. See if he can get her some sort of home help, ’cos I’m telling you now, Phyllis, if you don’t, I will,’ Mabel said, concerned for her friend.

‘Yeah, yeah, all right, I’ll try to sort something out. Now for goodness sake change the subject,’ Phyllis appealed.

‘While you’re talking to the doc about Winnie, you should get him to take a look at you.’

‘Mabel, I’ve told you, I’m fine, and thanks for the tea. As for my washing, I feel up to doing it myself now. You can bugger off and let me get on with it.’

Mabel didn’t take offence. She and Phyllis had been friends for years and in reply she said, ‘Right, sod you then. I’m going.’