Family of Women (36 page)

‘It’s not very flattering, is it?’ she said, looking at Linda’s new outfit. ‘I thought you were going to go shopping with me – get a nice new skirt?’

‘Well, I like it,’ Linda snapped. ‘I don’t just have to wear what you want, do I?’
I’ve done quite enough of what you want already
, she wanted to add.

The other thing about Alan was that he talked about ideas. He liked philosophy. He talked about something called existentialism which he said was about getting past all the ‘tosh’ all the adults talked about, with their establishment values, their religion and politics.

‘We have to carve out the way for ourselves – with the choices we make,’ he said to her earnestly, as they sat at a little table and sipped dark, strong coffee. ‘Not be trapped in systems made by other people.’

Linda listened to him, feeling ready to go off pop. It was exciting enough sitting here with him, the taste of coffee and tobacco in her mouth, feeling all grown up and sophisticated. But now she could feel her mind expanding as well,bou Q" width="0 tw the way she longed for it to do. If she’d carried on at the grammar school, wouldn’t she have been able to have ideas like this, instead of finding them out from him by chance? But then, wasn’t it romantic discussing them in a coffee bar with your boyfriend instead of with a load of girls in a classroom? At last here was someone who felt what she felt!

‘Everyone’s stuck, aren’t they?’ she said passionately, nodding out of the window at the Saturday afternoon shoppers trailing past in the Birmingham drizzle. ‘I mean look at them – you’re born, you work in a factory, have loads of kids, get old and fat and boss everyone else around to make them do exactly what you’ve done, and then you die!’

She spoke with such vehemence that Alan stared at her and then burst out laughing.

‘What?’ She blushed. ‘What’s so funny? It may not be like that for you, but that’s what it’s like for me, what I’ll be stuck in if I let myself.’

‘Can’t imagine you getting fat.’ He was grinning.

Linda stared at him, completely enraged by the laughter in his eyes. She was startled by the force of her anger. He’d missed the whole meaning of what she’d said! How could he reply in such a shallow way when she was laying out all her feelings in front of him? She took a fierce drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke in his face.

‘No. Well – it’s different for you, isn’t it? You can just go back to school!’ She was on the verge of tears suddenly. ‘It’s all there for you, if you want it.’

He was startled by the force of her emotion. ‘Hey – what’s up?’

‘You just don’t get it, do you? And I thought you would.’

Holding back the tears made her throat hurt. Wasn’t there anyone who would understand how she felt, locked inside herself with this enormous hunger to escape?

She was quiet after that, couldn’t find words. Alan finished his cigarette. He looked uncertain.

‘Shall we go then?’

Linda followed, mute. As they walked back to the bus stop she didn’t say a word and he knew he had offended her. It was the first time they kissed, properly, that afternoon. They went back to Handsworth Wood, to his house, almost in silence. She felt as if there was a well of sadness building inside her that needed release, and suddenly, on the smoky, upstairs deck of the bus, for no reason she could name, tears began to run down her cheeks.

‘Hey – ’ Alan sounded alarmed for a moment, then shyly slipped his arm round her shoulders.

She put her hands over her face and had a quick cry and all the time was aware of the warmth of his arm round her, the woolly smell of his duffel coat. After, she dried her eyes and looked out of the smudgy window, because something had altered. There were strong, charged feelings between them and she didn’t know what to do.

Upstairs in his room, Alan stood in front of ng Pher, eyes anxious.

‘Sorry. I don’t know what to say.’

‘S’all right.’ She looked at the floor, miserable.

He came to her then, and put his arms round her, but in a way that also felt as if he was a child and needed her and they clung together. After a moment he drew his head back and looked into her eyes. She scarcely knew what a kiss was, except something that happened in the pictures, but Alan was moving his face closer to hers and she found herself responding. The feel of his lips on hers was new and strange at first. His lips were warm and soft. They kissed shyly, then more passionately, pulling each other closer, and it was all new, his warm tongue between her lips, his hands stroking her back until she was floating amid all these sensations.

He drew back and looked at her again.

‘I love you.’

This caught her so unawares that she giggled. Alan looked hurt.

‘I mean it!’

‘Sorry.’ She managed to straighten her face. ‘D’you really?’

He nodded. ‘I need you, Linda. I do.’

It seemed a big thing to say, like stepping out somewhere new, but she said it anyway. ‘I love you too.’

He pulled her close again and she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He was all that made sense in a lot of confusion.

‘We don’t need anyone else, do we?’ he said. ‘Just you and me.’

The next time she saw him was a couple of days before Christmas. As soon as he let her into the house, she could feel how low his mood was. He was alone and there were no signs of any Christmas preparations. She and Mom had at least put some streamers up together and planned presents for Carol and Joyce and Danny. In fact Mom was gradually doing the house up, bit by bit. She seemed to be full of energy. She’d painted the back room and put new lino down on the floor and was starting to clean up the kitchen, with Joe Kaminski’s help. Alan’s house, though, was dark and cheerless.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘Nothing much.’ His voice was surly as he led her upstairs.

‘You look like a wet weekend.’

‘Thanks.’ There was so much aggression in his voice she f
elt quelled.

‘Alan?’ She faced him across the room.

‘It’s just . . .’
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his hands. ‘They thought my mother might be out for Christmas. But she’s worse, they say. She’s not coming.’

Linda sank down beside him. ‘So – is it just you and your dad?’

Alan nodded. ‘S’pose you’ve got all your family.’

‘Umm,’ she agreed. She’d been dreading it – Christmas dinner with Nana moaning about Marigold, and Clarence coughing and hawking and the first one without Dad. But compared to Alan’s Christmas it suddenly all seemed quite cheerful. There was Carol to go and see for a start, and they’d get together with Eva and Joe Kaminski and there were cards arriving – one had come from Australia, from Mom’s friend Muriel, that morning.

‘Wish I could be with you though,’ she said. ‘That’s all I want – to be with you.’

He put his arms round her and rested his head on her shoulder.

‘My girl,’ he murmured. He kissed her cheek. ‘Come to America with me?’

She was startled.

‘When?’

‘When I’ve finished school. I could work – you could go back to school there. It’s all easier over there.’

She turned to face him, eyes alight. Everything seemed to open up full of hope. ‘D’you really mean it?’

‘I’m going to write movies, I told you. I want you with me.’

‘I’ll come with you!’ she cried. ‘I’d go anywhere with you.’

The clock on the mantel struck with a mellow-sounding ‘bong!’

Marigold sat in the chair by the fire, which was usually sacrosant. It was Bessie’s chair. But now Marigold was basking rebelliously in it. She also had her coat on, belted tightly round her, and a new hat she’d bought from the pawn shop, blue like her coat, a soft wool circle nipped in at the sides to fit round her head, her black hair sticking out below.

She smiled at the clock.

‘Tick tick,’ she said.

She was waiting to make sure there was no more noise from upstairs. Bessie and Clarence had gone up to bed as they always did when the clock struck ten. Wireless off, cup of cocoa, regular as clockwork.

‘Get up to bed now,’ Bessie bossed her, struggling to her feet, wincing at the pain. Her feet were no good now. She had rheumatism and bunions, bandages round her stout, ulcerated legs, and she couldn’t walk far. Once she was upstairs there was no getting her down in a hurry. How long before she couldn’t get upstairs? But this was not a question Marigold was interested in. Every day was Mom’s legs and Clarence’s wheezy chest, her at everyone’s beck and call. Now, though, she had only one thing on her mind.

She got up with a little grunt, patting the bottle in her coat pocket. Gordon’s gin – her favourite. Clarence saved a bit of his pension money every week, kept it in a sock under his mattress.

‘What’re you hanging on to that for, you silly old sod?’ Bessie would ask. ‘Your own bloody funeral?’

And Clarence would nod in an enigmatic way, as if he had immense plans no one else was to know about. He never remembered how much was in there, which was a lucky thing for Marigold, who extracted a small amount from his stash each week, to make sure she could always get more gin. The rest she took from Bessie’s jam jar of coins in the pantry. Why not? Bessie never noticed, not like she would have done years ago. Too taken up with her aches and pains these days.

Marigold went to the window and pulled back the curtain. It was snowing outside, flakes seeping down into the street where they disappeared into dark gullies of shadow. It was only by the lamp you could see a thin layer accumulating on the pavement. She giggled at the sight, excited as a little girl. And she had her new hat. She patted it proudly. Time to go.

‘Dirty girl, dirty girl,’ she whispered, going to the door. She snickered as she opened it. ‘Dirty girl’s going out, and sod you.’

She could hardly contain her laughter: it was bursting out of her as she stood on the step she’d scrubbed that morning, and would scrub tomorrow morning and every day of her remaining life, it seemed. Scrub, scrub. Rub-a-dub. What was that song?
I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair
. . . Mary Martin,
South Pacific
. She hadn’t written that one down yet. Tomorrow she’d do it, with her pencil and pad. But wash him out? Her Fred – oh no! Mom thought she’d washed him out, but Marigold was cleverer than they knew.

She set out along the dark street with her little bag over her arm, her steps silent on the cushion of snow. It was that cold, flat time after Christmas. Christmas Day they’d sat in Violet’s house, nice and clean now, for a beef dinner and there were decorations and a big pudding. Violet looked nice too, Linda hardly saying anything, Joyce there with her belly all out. Marigold kept looking at it, Joyce’s heavy belly. Full, like a pod.

‘Two months to go!’ Joyce said. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be a mom!’

‘And I can’t believe I’m going to be a nan!’ Violet smiled. She was looking nice. Pretty, with her hair and that. Good old Vi.

Joyce’s belly made Marigold feel funny. She didn’t like it. All she wanted was to stick something in it and make it go down. But she couldn’t stop staring at it either.

Babby . . . new, sticky babby between Joycie’s leggies, her scrawny white thighs . . .

And while they were eating beef and potatoes and trimmings, Mom said in that voice she used, ‘Marigold had herself a fancy man – did I say before?’ She laughed, belly wobbling, forkful of cabbage. Then her voice changed and turned hard, contemptuous. ‘Huh! I soon put a stop to that, I can tell you. Bloody disgusting – and at her age!’

That’s what she thought, anyway! Ha, ha, that’s what she thought, the old cow!

The lights of the pub beckoned her. She felt warm inside.

‘That you, Marigold?’

‘Yes – it’s me.’ She giggled again, seeing Fred’s burly shape come out of the pub door.

‘Took your time! Just got time for a quick ’un before closing.’

He was big, Fred, fat and red-faced, owned a butcher’s shop. ‘How’s my girl, eh?’

‘All right,’ she laughed.

‘Quick drink – ’ Fred laid his hand on her left buttock as he steered her through the door. ‘Then we can get down to business!’

She was welcomed into the den of the pub. It wasn’t far off closing time now, the air heavy with ale and smoke, the sawdust sodden underfoot, spittoon holding a murky liquid with a thin froth on top.

‘Your usual?’ Fred asked.

He brought her half of stout and another brown ale for himself. The old piano was quiet now, no more music, but a couple of Fred’s pals were there and they all welcomed her.

‘Here y’are Marigold – she let you out, has she? Come and sit here, bab!’

Marigold felt like a queen. She had never had friends before, not like this. She didn’t need to say anything. She sat in her hat and coat, snowflakes melting on her shoulders, enraptured simply to be there, amid the desultory conversation of half-soaked men, out of home, away from Bessie, with the promise of . . . She looked at Fred and he winked at her.

‘Drink up, old girl!’

She was draining her glass as the bell rang for closing time and they all had to mill out into the white street. The flakes were bigger now.

‘Won’t last long, I don’t suppose,’ one of the men said, squinting up at the dark sky. ‘Too bloody wet.’

They said their goodbyes and Fred immediately put his arm round her. With his free hand he reached round and gave her breast a squeeze.

‘Let’s be off, wench.’

Fred was a bachelor who lived in two rooms a street away fom the pub. Marigold went back regularly with Fred and shared his bed, nice for both of them, until it was time to creep back into her mom’s house.

She liked Fred, and he liked her, but there was no ceremony about it. As soon as they were through the door into his spartan man’s abode, his hands were under her coat, reaching for her breasts. Marigold took her coat and hat off and got ready to luxuriate in a man’s attention.

‘Just a minute, girl . . .’ He went fumbling into the bedroom and she heard him relieving himself noisily into th we `Ae chamber-pot. He didn’t bother to button up when he came out.