Family of Women (32 page)

‘Sister Cathleen?’

‘Yeah. They’ve sent her away – back to her nunnery place. Carol was ever so disappointed. Keeps asking for her. She doesn’t like the others nearly as much.’

Linda ached for Carol. She knew how much Sister Cathleen meant to her.

‘How long’ll she be there then?’ Harry asked.

Violet shook her head. ‘Don’t know. Longer than they thought. Months probably. And then so far as I can see she might be no better for it. One of the nurses kept saying to me I had to be hopeful, the next operation would make a difference. And then there’ll be all that exercise and stuff for her. I just feel so bad, the thought of her lying there all that time again and nothing we can do.’

Linda lay in bed that night full of painful thoughts of Carol and how she must be feeling. Dad was coughing next door. Once or twice she heard him groan. His body was so emaciated now that moving was painful for him and even a soft mattress could chafe him to sores.

She felt utterly helpless. Her father had been sick for so long, Carol was stuck in her hospital bed, and as her mom had said, they couldn’t seem to do anything about anything, ever. She willed thoughts to Carol, lying there in her bed at St Gerard’s, unable to move without help. Was she awake now, saying those prayers she set so much store by?

God help her
, Linda thought, and wondered if that counted as a prayer.
And Dad
. For good measure, she added,
please.

Before she drifted off to sleep, she realized there might just be one small thing she could do.

Linda stood outside the convent walls, her heart thudding painfully.

It was an overcast, chill afternoon. The trees edging the park across the road were turning fast, their leaves adding a copper glow to the greyness. Reaching Selly Park, her nerves had increased enormously at the sight of the big, red brick convent behind its enclosing walls. It looked forbidding, like a castle. All she knew about nuns was that they wore strange robes and prayed a lot, that some were nurses, some were kind and gentle like Sister Cathleen, and others, from frightening stories she’d heard, could be anything but. It seemed so strange that Sister Cathleen with her friendly, freckly face lived in this terrifying-looking place.

For a while she walked back and forth outside the wrought-iron gates, too frightened to enter.

Well, I can’t stay out here all day, she thought, and forced herself to pass under the arch into the courtyard. She felt as if she was being watched from all the many windows, and she hurried to the front door and rang the bell.

After a pause the door opened. A plain face, of an age she could not have guessed, look out enquiringly from under a black veil.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’ It was a melodious voice, the tone neither warm nor cold.

Linda suddenly realized she had not a thought in her head of what to say.

‘Um – I’ve come to find Sister Cathleen,’ she blurted out.

The woman’s expression altered not a jot.

‘I see. Well, we have more than one Sister Cathleen here. In fact we have three. Would your Sister Cathleen be an older person?’

Linda shook her head.

‘Ah. Well, in that case you must be wanting Sister Cathleen Donovan or Sister Cathleen Geraghty . . .’ She stood musing. ‘And Sister Cathleen Geraghty has gone home to Ireland . . .’

‘She’s a nurse,’ Linda offered. ‘She was at Coleshill looking after my sister.’

‘Ah,’ she said again, softening a fraction. ‘Well, you’re lucky then, because that’s Sister Cathleen Donovan and I happen to know just where she is at this very moment. You’d better come in.’

Linda found herself ushered through a dark hallway to a side room where there were a few chairs and a crucifix on the wall by the door. It was very quiet as the nun disappeared and the great building around her seemed to absorb all the noise from outside. She didn’t think she had ever been anywhere so quiet.

In just a few moments the door swung silently open and she saw Sister Cathleen’s round, pale face, in which the blue eyes looked very big and deep. She was wearing black now, not the white habit the nursing sisters wore, and she seemed to glide across the floor.

‘Hello, dear.’ She came forward with a calm, but puzzled expression. ‘I hear you asked to see me?’

Linda’s mouth went dry. She stood up awkwardly. Obviously Sister Cathleen didn’t remember her.

‘It’s all right – sit down.’

Sister Cathleen sat down beside her. ‘How did you know my name?’ She drew back a little and examined Linda’s face. ‘Ah, now I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Would that be at St Gerard’s?’

‘It’s my sister, Carol,’ Linda blurted, feeling foolish as the tears welled in her eyes. ‘You were her nurse at Coleshill. She’s got polio.’

She saw Sister Cathleen’s face break into a smile. ‘Oh, one of our little patients, I see!’

‘Carol Martin.’

‘Little Carol.’ She gave a little gasp. ‘Oh yes, God love her! I’d not forget her. Lovely-looking girl, and she’s something about her, you know. She’s one of God’s own and no mistake. I’ve not met many like her. How
’s she going along?’

Linda began to cry now, all her pent-up worry pouring out.

‘She’s back in the hospital and they’ve done an operation on her back and they say it hasn’t worked and she’s going to be there for a long time. And she thought you’d be there and she wanted to see you and you weren’t there . . .’

‘Oh, the poor lass . . .’ Sister Cathleen looked stricken. ‘The operation’s not been a success? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Will they do it again?’

Linda nodded, wiping her eyes. ‘I think so.’

‘Oh dear . . .’ She tutted, shaking her head. ‘Such a delicate little thing as well. Now don’t you be upsetting yourself, dear, I’m sure it’ll be all right . . .’

‘She wants you,’ Linda sobbed, feeling at that moment as if the wanting was all coming from deep inside herself, not Carol. ‘She wanted you to be there.’

‘Oh, you poor young thing.’ Sister Cathleen’s eyes were full of sympathy. ‘I can see how much you feel for your sister. But at the moment I’m working here – we have a hospital of our own, in the convent. I’d like to see her, she’s a special child, your Carol. But I’m not free just to go, d’you see?’

She stood up and in doing so invited Linda to stand as well.

‘Send her my good wishes. Tell her to say the rosary I taught her, um? And I’ll see what I can do.’

She showed Carol to the door and smiled. ‘God bless you, Linda. It was brave of you to come.’

The first time he came into the bakery was late one afternoon.

He brought with him a waft of the autumn smell of smoky mist from outside as the door closed behind him, tingling the bell. Linda was wiping over shelves in the window and didn’t take much notice to begin with.

‘Hello, duck!’ Mrs Richards’ tone was very warm. ‘You ain’t been in for a bit, have you?’

Linda turned to see a boy not much older than herself, dressed in a baggy blue sweater and grey flannel trousers. His hair was unusually long, dark brown and tousled by the wind, his face thin, with striking grey eyes. There was an intensity about him, as if he was deep in thoughts which Mrs Richards had interrupted.

‘Afternoon,’ he said gruffly.

‘You all right, Alan? How’s your mn&r Qlike Siste camequo;Aftom these days?’ Mrs Richards leaned towards him, speaking as if his mother’s health was in some way a secret. She gave a meaningful nod of her head. ‘She having a spell in there again?’

The boy nodded abruptly, not meeting her eyes. For a moment he glanced across at Linda and she felt her pulse speed up, caught in his gaze, just for a second. ‘Yep.’

‘Oh, I am sorry, duck. That why you’re not at school, is it? Here – what did you want today? We’ve not got much left, but there’s Eccles cakes . . .’

‘I’ll have four of them – and a white tin, please.’

His voice when he asked for the cakes was low, and well-spoken. There was something about him that intrigued Linda. As Mrs Richards fetched the bread and cakes, Linda kept taking little glances at him. The boy was tall and slim, and he stood with one arm resting on the counter, tapping his foot nervously. For a moment he looked round at Linda again and his eyes met hers with some curiosity, then he turned away and she was glad he did because she felt herself blushing at this frank look.

‘Thanks, Mrs Richards.’

He handed over his coins and was gone with an impatient tug on the door.

‘That’s Alan,’ Mrs Richards said. ‘Lovely lad. Clever. Went on to the grammar school, he did. He was in here a lot at one time – last time his mother was in the . . . you know, the asylum. She suffers with her nerves. No brothers or sisters to keep him company, poor thing. There’s only Alan and the father.’

Linda stared after him, seeing him for a few seconds through a patch of glass between the window shelves. She felt sorry for him. His life sounded sad and lonely, yet he did not look downcast. Instead, he had that energy about him which had drawn her to look at him. Any mention of the grammar school always hurt, though. She wanted to say to Mrs Richards, ‘Did you know, I went to the grammar school as well?’ But what was the use? It had only lasted a year, after all. One dreamlike year of bliss, which seemed like another life now.

The next time Alan came into the shop he was in school uniform, obviously on his way home. She didn’t recognize him instantly because he’d had a haircut and was wearing a blazer. Her eyes were drawn with longing recognition to the emblem on his blazer pocket. A King Edward’s boy. There were a number of King Edward’s foundation schools across the city.

‘Ooh, hello, Alan!’ Mrs Richards greeted him.

Linda busied herself behind the counter, though her attention was fixed entirely on trying to overhear anything that was said.

He replied with a distant politeness, asking for the bread and cakes he wanted.

‘Partial to an Eccles cake, your father, ain’t he?’ Mrs Richards said, in a conspiratorial way. Then, in almost a whisper. ‘And how’s your poor mother, Alan?’

‘All right.’ Linda saw his shrug out of the corner of her eyes. She could also see his discomfort at being questioned and wished Mrs Richards words PMuld leave him alone.

‘I haven’t actually seen her,’ he added.

‘No – course you haven’t. And these things take time, don’t they? Can’t rush anything.’

‘Could I have a couple of jam tarts as well, please?’

‘Course you can, my duck – Linda, bring the young gentleman a couple of those tarts!’

Linda bagged a couple up and reached out to give them to him. She felt very self-conscious. For the first time in a long time it seemed to matter how she looked. Wearing her hair tied back in a ponytail in the shop had helped her spots clear up, but she still felt scruffy, and frumpy in the white work overall.

‘Are they strawberry?’ Alan asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Richards assured him.

‘No – they’re raspberry,’ Linda said. ‘They’ve got pips in.’

‘Course they are,’ Mrs Richards said. ‘Silly me. Trust you to get it right.’

Linda saw Alan’s eyes focus appraisingly on her for a moment. She tried to hold his gaze, but looked down, blushing.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘This is Linda,’ Mrs Richards said. Linda felt her cheeks burn even redder and she was forced to look up and meet his gaze. ‘She’s ever such a clever girl.’

‘Hello,’ Alan said. He looked about to say something else, but moved awkwardly away. Linda saw th
at he was embarrassed too. She was furious with Mrs Richards. Why couldn’t she just keep quiet? Someone like him wasn’t going to be interested in her, was he?

She tried to have nothing to do with him when he came in the next few times. But she couldn’t help thinking, trying to guess. Was he one of the ones who had gone to the grammar school whose family didn’t take that sort of thing for granted? She wondered what sort of house he lived in, whether he was ashamed to take people home the way she had been. Could he be in any way like her?

One afternoon he came in with another boy wearing the King Edward’s uniform. Alan, however, was not dressed for school.

‘All right lads?’ Mrs Richards said, with the slight air she put on of greeting royalty. ‘You not been to school today, Alan?’

‘No.’ His tone was abrupt and he looked away, putting Mrs Richards off asking him any more. Linda hovered in the background, trying not to look interested in them. In a few moments they were gone.

Seeing them made her feel miserable. She knew, somewhere in herself, she was their equal. But why would they take any notice of her, a shopgirl who lived in one of the scruffiest houses on the estate and had just left the secondary modern with no qualifications to her name?

‘He doesn’t have a happy life Ri Pa, that lad, for all he’s from a good background,’ Mrs Richards observed. ‘His father’s a doctor. They’ve got one of those nice houses in Handsworth Wood. Young Alan’s been coming in here for years.’

Linda let this information sink in, gloomily. Not like her then. He was another Lucy after all. Someone from another kind of life. Angrily she tried to push away the fantasy that she had barely even admitted to herself, that Alan Bray might ever want to take any interest in her.

She always went with Violet to visit Carol in St Gerard’s on Sunday afternoons. Now and then Joyce would come as well, full of herself with her belly beginning to show and talking as if she was a seasoned married woman who had founts of wisdom to impart to Linda.

‘Nana’s made me two matinée coats,’ she would rattle on. ‘And Danny’s mom’s helping me get my layette together. You have to make sure a new babby’s kept nice and warm, you know. Danny’s just bought a new heater for the bedroom to make sure. He’s worried about the way the windows let a draught in. Thing is, Linda, if a young babby catches just a cold it can be fatal when they’re that small . . .’

But this time it was just her and Mom. It felt very peculiar. These weeks were the first time in her life she’d ever had any time with her mother on her own. At first she didn’t know what to say to her.