house of women (4 page)

"Yes, Great-gran.

Go on, confront her with it' she jerked her head to the side'I'm not stopping you. The only thing is, I don't want you to change your opinion of her because, as you are always saying, she's with it . Now, let's have no more of it. " And lowering her voice, she went on, "

You've got to go and see this boy. If you don't, your father will go, and imagine what'll happen then. He's only staying his hand because I told him Gran's opinion, and that he had better leave it to me . "

They went out and down the stairs, and were crossing the hall making for the front door when Lizzie's mother appeared from the dining-room, saying, "Oh, I've caught you. I thought you were gone. Look; would you call at the chemist and pick up my prescription? Just hang on a minute and I'll get it."

"We are not going that way, Mother."

Victoria Pollock stopped. Her mouth had gone into a grim line, and her hands now going on to her hips, her usual stance when annoyed, she said, "Nobody's ever going that way when I want anything done. It's Mother this. Mother that, or it's Victoria, do this, Victoria, do that, but when Victoria wants anything done, nobody's going that way."

Lizzie had paused but did not answer her mother;

she just cast a side-long glance at her before nudging Peggy again towards the door, and she followed her out and down the three steps, on to the drive that curved between an avenue of trees to the main gate, and she immediately took in the fact that Peter Boyle, the part-time gardener, was mounting his bike.

She looked at her wrist-watch. It showed a quarter to five, and he wasn't supposed to finish until five. He wasn't a satisfactory man, not like old Herbert who had died last year; he would stay till all hours and not demand a penny extra. But then, what did it matter, what did anything matter but this present situation? She didn't know how she was going to face these people, or what their reactions would be.

If she were to say to them half the things Gran had said they would likely turf her out into the street. She'd had quite a time stopping her Gran from accompanying them.

42.

She glanced at her daughter. She was walking with her head well up, that defiant look on her face she had come to know more and more of late. She was a bonny girl; she would grow into a beautiful woman. Oh God! Why had this to happen to her? She should have spoken to her about things. She hadn't talked to her about personal matters since she started to menstruate. And that was three years ago. But she had seemed so level-headed, so sure of herself. What was she talking about? What was she thinking? Youth was never level-headed or sure of itself. Youth was a time of false values, false urges, wild desires that drove you to prove that your night longings could be eased by a piece of paper on which you wrote your name in front of a man. Youth gave you no inkling that you would regret it for the rest of your life.

But oh! didn't you soon learn. Well, knowing this, why was she

pressing her daughter into marriage?

No; this was a different kettle of fish altogether. She herself had hung on till she was married. But her daughter hadn't waited and there was a penalty to be paid for such haste: an illegitimate child.

It wasn't to be thought of. But then, there was a point: if she had liked the boy well enough to allow what had happened to happen, and not only once, then she would likely settle down with him and live a normal, happily married life. Were there any normal married

couples?

Yes, yes. She nodded to herself. There was May and Frank next door.

She'd always envied them their happiness. Then there had been her grandmother and grandfather. They had been close until the day he died. But what about her own mother and father? Well, could anybody be really happy with her mother? Her whining would get on anybody's nerves. From an early age she had both loved and pitied her father; as she grew older she had wondered why he stayed with her mother. Could he have loved her? Could a man love a woman who lives simply for her ailments, most of them imaginary? Her mother had had that one

operation in her thirties and from then on had taken on a career of sickness.

Look at herself, too.

She couldn't bear to look at herself and the life she was leading, because it wasn't life.

"Mam. What if he won't marry me?"

Yes, what if he refused to marry her? Oh, she couldn't bear even to think of the result of that situation: her schoolgirl daughter with an illegitimate baby and having to live in such a house with four females, perhaps five, depending on the baby's sex, and Len. Oh, no!

There had to be a solution to this situation, and the only one was marriage and

getting them set up somewhere on their own.

She ignored her daughter's question.

As the bus took them past Bog's End, past the bottom of Brampton Hill and to the new council estate, she wished they had come by car;

although her driving a car, she imagined, would have emphasised their superior position and so would preclude his understanding that he or his parents would have to support the child.

Peggy rose first to get off the bus, and as she followed her. Lizzie wondered how she and the boy had first met, because he would have gone to a school nearby, whereas Peggy went to Brixton Road Girls' High School. Of course there were the clubs and there was the school dance at Christmas. Here she recalled that Peggy had been very excited after the dance. She'd had a lovely time, she'd said. Yes, the school

dance.

She had invited Charlie to accompany her as her partner, but at no time had she become excited over Charlie, because she had been brought up with him, played with him since they were babies. There was, it

seemed, nothing exciting about Charlie. No, this was likely why the other one, whoever he was, appealed to her.

"What street is it?"

"It's ... it's called Clover Close."

Clover Close. Her chin jerked up.

"You know the number?"

"I ... I think so. Seventeen."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure." The last words were almost a covered growl, and Lizzie answered in like manner, saying, "Well, how have you come by being so sure of the address? Have you been here?"

"No, I haven't, but he wrote to me."

"And you wrote back, I suppose?"

"Yes, I did."

Number seventeen was in the middle of a row of identical houses. They were ne wish and looked like a row of barracks. They stood before the door for a moment before Lizzie raised her hand and knocked.

It was opened by a young girl of about Peggy's own age. She looked from one to the other, then glanced back down a short passage as she enquired "Yes?"

"I am ... I am Mrs. Hammond. I would like to see your mother or father."

"Hang on." The girl did not actually close the door but pushed it a little forward, and they heard her running down the passage.

It was a full two minutes before the door was pulled open and a man in his shirt sleeves, black- haired and dark-eyed, aged about forty, looked at them, and he, too, said, "Yes?"

Lizzie drew in a long breath before she said, "You are Mr. Jones, and I think you know why I'm here."

"Come in." He pulled the door wide and they passed him, and as he closed the door behind them they waited, then followed him down the passage and into what appeared to be a kitchen- cum-living-room, for the table was set roughly for a meal.

Besides the girl, there was a woman in the room and the man said, "This woman says we should know why she's here. Well, we didn't up till a few hours ago, did we?"

The woman wagged her head now, saying, "No, we certainly didn't."

"I told you last week, if you'd only listened," at which interruption, the woman turned around and half raised her hand to the girl, saying,

"Shut your mouth! Minn."

Not one of the three people was appealing to Lizzie. She wasn't

class-conscious, she often told herself, but there were some and some and there were limits; and she would put these people just below the limit. Common was the word. But still there were many nice common people; in fact, she knew quite a few.

The man now said, "Well, sit down; it'll cost you the same." And then he added, "And you, lass ... two for the price of one."

Oh, so there was a joker here. Lizzie took her seat but it was some seconds before Peggy slowly lowered herself down into a chair some distance from the table, and she watched the man and woman now seating themselves. But the young girl remained standing near the fireplace, her hand outstretched towards the mantel as if for support. And yet she didn't appear like a girl who needed support; she looked perky.

The man was staring hard at Peggy, and then he suddenly said to her,

"So you say my lad's got you into trouble, do you? That's what it's all about, isn't it?" His tone was no longer jocular.

Peggy stared back at him. She was unable to answer. Her throat was dry, her stomach was trembling. She had the desire to cry; at the same time she wanted to shout at him and say, "Yes, he did; but I don't want anything more to do with him." But her mother was answering for her, at least she was asking the question: "Has your son admitted to this?"

"No; why should he?" It was the woman speaking now, and Lizzie quickly answered her: "Simply because, madam, he has given my daughter a child," she said.

"We'll have less of the " madam"' the woman was nodding at her'I'm Mrs.

Jones, if you please. And what if he says he hasn't been with her? It could be anybody; there's been others after her. There's a lad next door, I understand."

"Nonsense! They are like brother and sister; they were brought up together. He's a different type."

"Oh. Oh. A different type from what? Eh?" It was the woman on the attack again, the mother of the son defending her brood, and she half rose from the chair.

"You want to be careful what you say."

Lizzie swallowed.

"Well," she said, 'what I meant was, Charlie is a quiet kind of lad; he's never bothered with girls. "

"No; perhaps because he had one close at hand."

"Shut up!"

All eyes in the room were immediately drawn to Peggy. She was sitting straight up on the edge of the chair.

"Charlie Conway is a different type from your son. It was your son Andrew who ... who ... well, he is the father. I have never known any other boy. I was never out with a boy until I met him last Christmas at the school dance. And from then he ... he followed me. He came to the school and ... and set me home time and time again."

"He did, Ma. I saw him, I mean waiting at the school gate, and once I saw them going across the field to ... interrupted Minn.

"Will you shut your mouth, our Minn!"

"Why should I? Because he's your bright-eyed boy? He couldn't do any wrong, could he, but " Be quiet! Minn. " It was her father speaking to her now; and the girl looked at him, her eyes blinking as if to ward off tears; but her voice held no tears when she said, " You know what I'm saying is true.

It's always been our Andrew, our Andrew, our Andrew. Our Andrew's going to the Grammar School . Our Andrew's been picked for this . Our Andrew's been picked for that. "

When the woman swung round in her chair her husband cried, "Enough!

Enough! And she's right. She always is, you know. " He grinned now, then, looking at Lizzie, he said, " Families. Families. Well now, the thing to do is to get the lad in and confront him with this, isn't it?

" He looked over his shoulder again to his daughter, saying, " Go and fetch him. He'll be in the shed seeing to his bike. "

"I bet he isn't; I bet he's skipped." Minn interjected.

A movement from her mother caused the girl to run from the room. And the father, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms, said, "Nice kettle of fish. He was all set to go places, you know. He could have an' all; he's bright. Oh, he's bright. Good at art an' figures. I could see him being a draughts man or an accountant. They're the blokes that make the money, the accountants. But if he's going to be lumbered with a

hairn, well, that puts a different complexion on it, doesn't it? He won't be able to stay on at school. "

"He will!" His wife interposed now. Her lips pouting, she repeated,

"He will."

"And who's going to support the child, eh?"

"What's the matter with you, man? You're taking it already that it's his."

"Well, what d'you think?"

"Why should he support any child? They've got money." She was looking at Lizzie now.

"Your people own the Funnell garage and showrooms, don't they? off the market place, so you're not without a penny."

"That is quite beside the point at the present moment' Lizzie's voice was stiff 'but what is very much to the point is that my daughter is not going to bear an illegitimate child; she must be married."

The husband and wife looked at each other as if Lizzie's words had come as a shock to them, which apparently they had, because Mrs. Jones, leaning slightly across the table now towards Lizzie, said, "He's only seventeen; he's too young to take responsibility like that."

Like a flash Lizzie came back. Her hand swinging round as though to embrace Peggy, she retorted, "And so is my daughter too young to take the responsibility of a child without a father and the ensuing

disgrace that child will have to bear all its life; not forgetting how people will look on its mother."

It was at this moment that- the door opened and Andrew Jones entered the room. He stopped just within the doorway, but a push from his sister, who wanted to get in, caused him to take two quick steps forward, and at the same time to turn an angry glance down on her.

Then he was looking at Peggy.

He was a tall boy for his age. His hair was cut short but it was thick and dark. His eyebrows, too, were dark, as were the eyelashes; his blue eyes were large and set well apart. His nose was in proportion to the length of his face, which was longish and pale in comparison with his dark hair, and on first glance he could have appeared promisingly handsome, except that his mouth was full-lipped and slack. It hung now slightly open.