Clover's Child (37 page)

Dot spoke to Wally for the first time. ‘You coming in or out, Wall?’

He hovered by the curtain, on the edge. ‘D’you need anything?’

She shook her head. ‘No, love, just looking forward to getting home.’

‘Does it hurt?’ He looked genuinely concerned; it was his fault after all.

‘Not much.’ She winced as another contraction built.

Wally smiled and nodded. This was no place for men. ‘I’ll go and phone your dad, give him an update, and then I’ll pop back.’

Dot laughed, knowing he would be gone for some time, finding any excuse to loiter outside until it was all over.

Dot cast her eyes around the maternity suite. She may have been well into the advanced stages of her labour, but she was lucid enough to take in all the detail. It didn’t matter that nearly two years had passed since she’d given birth to Simon; the passage of time had done nothing to dilute her distress. When she saw the instruments for childbirth and nodded at the masked nurses and midwives bustling to and fro with syringes and lotions and potions to ease their patients’ discomfort, she was back in the delivery room at Lavender Hill Lodge, where the only comfort she’d received was from a kindly nun. She felt the pain in her heart as keenly as she had when she walked across the fine gravel with a Silver Cross pram that was empty of her baby, her Simon.

Dot expected to feel guilty. How could she look at the baby she was able to keep and not reflect on the one that she had given away. Guilt, however, was not her overriding emotion as the linen-wrapped bundle was placed in her arms. It was love. Dot felt a huge rush of love that she had forgotten was possible. Her little girl was perfect and beautiful. She mewled and gurgled from under her blanket. Dot peered in and beamed.

Sitting on the edge of their bed in their little flat, with her dressing gown wrapped around her trunk, Dot stared into the little white cot. Sherry stilled and turned her head in the direction of her mum.

‘Hello, little one. Hello, mate.’

The baby opened her eyes and blinked. Her mouth opened and closed and her little legs kicked against the base of the cot. Dot felt her heart constrict and her stomach knot. The baby’s fine covering of hair looked quite ginger in the light. Her nose was flat and her eyes, slowly blinking, were already inquisitive, taking it all in. Dot loosened the little blanket and lowered her head towards the baby girl.

‘Well, well, look at you, funny little thing. I’m your mum, yes I am, forever and ever. No one is going to take you away from me. You are stuck with me! God only knows what we did to get something as gorgeous as you!’

Dot reached into the cot and scooped her baby girl into her arms. Cradling her small head in the crook of her neck, she inhaled deeply. It reminded her of holding Simon. Her eyes misted over and the breath caught in her throat as she held Sherry’s downy head under her chin. ‘Oh, it feels lovely to hold you, little one. I’ll do my best for you, I promise. I will love you and tell you everything I know – which isn’t much. I’ll try and help you follow your dreams because dreams are very important, my girl. Mine were taken away from me, but I’ll try and make it different for you. In fact, I am going to tell you a secret…’ Dot lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I still think of my dreams every single day and night. I think about a little boy who was a scrap of a thing just like you, only with the beautiful honey-glow skin of his daddy. And I think about watching that little boy swim in the warm crystal sea before I wrap him in a big, fluffy towel and give him fresh pineapple juice to drink while we sit on the sand leaning on that big palm tree.’

Dot did nothing to stem the tears that trickled down her face. ‘I told you I was a daft old thing. Ignore me, my darling girl; I’m just a silly old cow with her head stuck in the clouds. But it’s hard not to miss him. Even after all this time, when I think there is no gap in my armour, something knocks me sideways and the ache for his dad is as strong as it was on the day he left me. I loved him, you see; more than I ever knew was possible, and I still love him now just the same, just like it was yesterday. He shone to me, like a bright light in a very ordinary world; made me feel special. One day I might tell you about the night I danced in front of Etta James,
the
Etta James; it was the best night of my life. It was our first dance, but not our last.’

‘Who are you talking to?’

She hadn’t heard Wally creep along the hallway, but his intrusions didn’t alarm her any more. ‘Who do you think? Your daughter!’ She turned towards her husband. ‘Do you want to come and say hello?’

Wally shuffled from foot to foot and hesitated. ‘I will later.’ His nerves were palpable.

‘She’s tougher than she looks, love, and isn’t she beautiful?’

He stared at the baby. ‘I guess so, but when they’re babies they all look the same, don’t they?’

Not all of them
, thought Dot as she placed the three-day-old Sherry back in her little cot.
Not all of them.

‘What’s that you got there?’ Dot noticed for the first time the piece of paper in her husband’s hand. ‘Is it her birth certificate?’

Wally nodded sheepishly. Dot approached and noticed that he smelt mildly of beer. He and Reg had clearly stopped for a couple of halves to wet the baby’s head on their way to Canning Town.

‘Well let’s have a look!’ She grabbed at the certificate that Wally held by his side. This was how Sherry had actually been registered as Cheryl. Dot marched into the lounge, staring with her hands on her hips at her father who was sprawled on the chair in front of the fire, napping with his hands folded over his chest, ‘Oh, Dad, not again!’

* * *

Dot put her baby girl down for a nap and plonked herself down into the chair. She was exhausted. Wally was at work and she thought she might grab forty winks as Cheryl slept. No sooner had she sat down than the front door bell rang. Dot rubbed her face and eyes, then walked down the hall to open the front door. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened; there was the briefest moment of hesitation before she spoke.

‘Barb! Oh my God, it’s lovely to see you!’

The two stepped forward until they were standing with their arms wrapped around each other.

‘Come in! Oh, please come in!’ Dot wished she wasn’t so scruffy; her mate looked immaculate.

‘Your mum gave me your address, said you’ve just had a little one?’

‘Yes, come and see her.’

Dot and her old friend crept into the small bedroom and peered into the cot in which the little girl slept. She lay on her back with her arms over her head, her fat little cheeks sucked in and out as if she was feeding and her tummy gently rose and fell as she breathed deeply.

‘Oh, mate, she’s beautiful.’

Dot beamed, not at the compliment, but because Barb had called her ‘mate’.

‘I ain’t half missed you.’ Dot felt her eyes misting over.

‘I’ve missed you too.’ For the second time in as many minutes, the two women hugged. Then they wandered into the kitchen to make a cuppa.

‘Wally not here?’

Dot blushed.

‘It’s all right, Dot, we have to mention him at some point!’

‘He’s at work.’

Barb nodded. ‘We’ve got to talk about it, Dot or it will always sit between us like a massive boulder.’

Dot placed her hands on the work surface and addressed the wall. ‘I know, but I feel so embarrassed. I felt bad enough when you were angry with me, but now you are being nice, it’s worse somehow!’

‘I could always clock you one if that’d make you feel better?’

Dot turned to face her friend. ‘No you’re all right.’ The two laughed.

‘I never wanted to hurt you, mate, never. Truth was, I was pushed into it a bit, and I know that sounds like a crap excuse, but it’s the truth. I was a mess after Sol, a bit doolally if you like, and I wasn’t really right again until I got pregnant, with Cheryl.’ Dot felt her cheeks colour again. This was for two reasons: the verbal confirmation that she and Wally had slept together – as if their child weren’t proof enough; and also her need to clarify in her own mind which pregnancy she was talking about.

Barb removed her fur coat and smoothed her fitted frock. ‘I can see that now. I think I wanted him to like me, just cos he was so good looking…’

Dot jerked her head up – was Barb talking about her husband?
So good looking?
She realised that she never really looked at Wally for who he was; her eyes were veiled with an image of Sol that filtered everything.

Barb continued, ‘And I got the wrong end of the stick a bit. Wally and me was only ever mates and I misread him being nice to me, thought it was something more. I was desperate for someone to want me, anyone, really, and he was around. I s’pose I wanted what you had, a proper fella.’

‘Oh, Barb. I’m so sad we didn’t have this conversation sooner. I honestly thought I’d never see you again.’

‘Well, a lot of water’s passed under the bridge since then.’

‘Hasn’t it just! You look fabulous, really well.’ Dot was conscious of her own scruffy trousers and jumper mottled with baby milk.

‘I’m off, Dot. I’m doing what you said and I’m joining a big cruise ship, not as a hairdresser, but as a hostess and I’ve come to ask you a favour.’

‘Blimey, I don’t see you for years and you come for a bloody favour?’ She laughed.

‘I need an amazing evening dress, something really knockout, and I would like you to make it for me.’

Dot put the teaspoon down and gave her friend her full attention. ‘What? Are you winding me up?’

‘Nope. You said I should follow my dream and I am. I shall travel in luxury all over the Caribbean – can you imagine that, Dot? A girl like you or me heading off to the Caribloodybbean?’

Dot shook her head. ‘No I can’t.’ She crossed her fingers; everyone knew that if your fingers were crossed, it didn’t count.

‘I remember you said your dream was to design frocks and so I want to make one of your dreams come true. I want to wear a Clover Original when I arrive for my first big dinner.’

Dot placed her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, Barb, supposing I’m not very good?’ She pictured a little blue romper suit that hadn’t been deemed good enough.

‘It will be perfect.’

The following week, Dot sat staring out of the bus window. It had been too long since she had jumped on a bus and gone up West. The shop windows sparkled in their pre-Christmas finery; pounding the busy pavements gave her an energy she hadn’t felt in a long time. She window-shopped in Lady Jane, noting that skirts were getting shorter and shorter and eyelashes longer and fatter. It was easy to lose touch now that she was a fully occupied mum. Making her way to Selfridges, Dot entered through the front swing door and headed for the nursery department, where she selected a pair of pink crocheted booties with a little pearly button on the side, perfect for her little girl. Next she jumped in the lift and went straight up to Haberdashery.

She didn’t recognise anyone in the department and, thankfully, no Miss Blight, the old cow.

‘Can I help you, madam?’

A young girl with an East End accent approached with a smile. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

‘Yes please. I want some sheer fabric to make a dress.’ Dot pulled out a pattern from her bag and showed the girl the design.

‘Ooh, that’s lovely!’

Dot beamed. Yes it was, if only she could do the picture justice.

‘What colour were you thinking of? We have a whole range across the back wall.’ The girl indicated with her outstretched arm.

Dot turned her head and there it was – her fabric rainbow. She wandered over to the bolts of material and ran her hand over the sheer silks and mossy tweeds. The smell transported her to another place, another time. Her fingers came to a standstill.

‘I think this one. It is the colour of St Lucian sky, Caribbean blue.’

‘Have you been there?’ the young girl asked as she pulled the fabric across the wide cutting table, her pinking shears in her hand.

‘Yes I have.’

The girl looked at Dot with wide eyes. ‘I’ve never been anywhere, don’t think I ever will.’

‘Where are you from?’ Dot asked.

‘Forest Gate.’

Dot nodded. ‘And if you could go anywhere, where would you go?’

‘America. I’d love to go to America.’

Dot noted her name badge. ‘Well, Roberta, let me assure you that a lot stranger things have happened than a girl from Forest Gate finding her way to America.’

‘I hope you’re right!’ Roberta beamed. ‘Although knowing my luck, I’d find me way there, but not me way home again!’

‘Ah, that’s the thing. If you are meant to find your way home, you will, I guarantee it. It’s all down to love and luck!’

A month later, Dot stepped off the bus in Narrow Street and thanked the conductor who’d helped lift the pram down the big step. She pushed Cheryl up and round the corner into Ropemakers Fields and spied Mrs Harrison leaning on the door frame with a fag clamped to her gob.

‘Cold, innit, Dot? Reckon the weather’s on the turn.’ They were so familiar, she spoke as if she had seen her only an hour before and not more than a year ago.

‘Yeah, you want to get inside, you’ll catch your death out here, Mrs H.’

‘Let’s have a look at her then.’ She stepped onto the pavement and removed her fag before peering into the hood of the pram. ‘Oh, she’s soundo.’ Mrs Harrison sighed. ‘Bless her, she’s beautiful, Dot, really is.’

Dot was aghast to see tears falling down Mrs Harrison’s leathery cheeks, sending her eyes instantly bloodshot.

‘You all right, Mrs Harrison?’

The old lady nodded and sniffed. ‘Takes me back, that’s all.’

Dot tried to work out why she was so distressed. Mrs H was childless – the careless, feckless Mr Harrison having died before they’d managed to reproduce. ‘Oh what, to when Barb was born? You must have been a very proud aunty. I’m meeting her at me mum’s, as it happens.’

‘No, not to when Barb was born… To when
I
went to work on a farm in Kent, Dot. I was fifteen, but I remember it like it was yesterday.’

‘Oh, Mrs H…’

‘I whispered to him, my little boy. I told him where I lived and I told him to come and find me. I promised I’d never move house and I haven’t, even though I haven’t got a single happy memory here and I’ve had to run it as a boarding house to keep it on. I promised him I’d stand outside in case he couldn’t find me and that I’d wait until my dying day. I’m still waiting.’