Tara (7 page)

'You promise you won't tell anyone?'

The old man shot a reproachful look at George.

'Need you ask that?' he said gently.

Shamed, George quickly told him all about Amy and the children, and Bill.

'I see.' The priest nodded. 'And you think he may do something more to his family?'

'That's it' George shrugged his shoulders. 'I've got to get Amy somewhere safe. You knew Mabel Randall; have you got any idea where she went when she left Durwood Street?'

'It was here she came!'

George blinked in surprise. Mabel's religion had been fired by some unorthodox church. The last thing he would have expected was to find her sheltering here.

'Here!'

'Well she's gone now.' Father Glynn smiled at George's surprise. 'She was a very troubled woman, she stayed for a while, but then she went off to Somerset.'

'How, why?' George stammered. He hardly knew what to say.

'She saw an advertisement in the personal column of the
Telegraph
from her mother, living in Somerset, asking her to get in touch. Apparently Mabel's father threw her out when she took up with Arthur Randall and Mabel had vowed never to return to the farm she'd grown up on as a child until he was dead.'

'So Mabel was booted out of home, too!' George chuckled at the irony. 'They say history repeats itself!'

'Mabel told me a great deal about her life while she was with me,' Father Glynn said pensively. 'Of course I can't repeat it, but let's just say that her experiences with Arthur taught her to be wary of handsome charmers like Bill MacDonald.'

'D'you think she might help her daughter now?' George asked.

Father Glynn didn't answer immediately; he was remembering the night Mabel had left him, some six years earlier.

Her suitcase was packed in the hall and, despite her usual abstinence from drink, she took a glass of whiskey with Father Glynn as they sat in his study.

He had known of Mabel when she first arrived in Whitechapel with Arthur, but then she had been the sort of woman no-one overlooked.

Back in 1929 Mabel was beautiful, her red-gold hair, tawny eyes and a body like a goddess had been enough to get her noticed. But people soon discovered she was gently bred and very talented both at music and painting. They didn't know much about Mabel, though her husband was a local lad. The couple had been on their uppers, Durwood Street then was only one step away from the workhouse. The street ran behind Whitechapel Road, one of many grim, narrow streets into which sunshine never found its way. Why such a handsome couple came there had remained a mystery, the fact they stayed was even more strange.

The Mabel sitting opposite him twenty-five years on showed no resemblance to that vivacious beauty. Her hair was iron grey, dragged back from a face that had forgotten how to smile; her body was concealed in a shapeless black dress.

'So how d' you feel about going home?' the priest had asked her. She was a stubborn, proud woman, but nonetheless he was sorry to lose such an efficient house- keeper.

'Frightened!'

'Not you, surely?' He laughed as he said it, knowing she induced terror in half his visitors. 'You're going home to see your mother who is anxious to see you!'

'Not of Mother.' She dropped her eyes to her lap. 'Of the emotions I buried so long ago. Of my failure.'

'Failure?'

'Yes.' She lifted her eyes defiantly and he saw a flash of the younger Mabel. 'I had intended to go home in triumph one day, on the arm of my Arthur, with beautiful clothes.'

'Your mother will be happy just to see you,' he had assured her.

'But I've got nothing to take to her,' she had whispered in reply. 'I'm nothing but an empty shell.'

'I think she might be persuaded to help Amy,' Father Glynn said thoughtfully, coming back to the present. 'I heard from her when her mother died four years ago and the letter was that of a lonely, unhappy woman. I could try to mediate between them.'

George's sunny face clouded.

'I don't want 'er taking Amy and the kids on sufferance. Tell me what's worse, Father, a barmy, cold mother or a vicious husband?'

The priest reached out and put one small bony hand on George's great paw. 'You care for Amy and you feel powerless now to protect her and the children. But don't be tempted to condemn Mabel out of hand, and resist the temptation to strike back at MacDonald.' Father Glynn raised one eyebrow and smiled. 'Continue for now to look after the children and meanwhile I'll write to Mabel.'

It was only as George drove home that he realised Father Glynn hadn't suggested calling the police in or using the courts to keep Bill at bay.

' 'E knows 'is flock.' George smiled to himself, despite the heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

Few men in the East End would be bound by a restraining order and the police were loath to intervene in family matters. They might try to pin the fire on MacDonald, they probably even despised him as much as George did. But at the end of the day they wouldn't put even one bobby outside his house to protect Amy and the kids.

Chapter 4

'Come on, girl, don't sit there gawping.' George opened the car door with a flourish.

'I didn't expect –' Amy broke off abruptly. Perhaps it was rude to say 'anything so nice'?

Her recollections of Paradise Row were coloured by the Bethnal Green disaster in 1943 when scores of people were crushed to death in the panic of an air raid. Someone in Paradise Row had set up an appeal for bereaved relatives and her mother had sent her there with two shillings. All she remembered clearly were masses of grieving people congregating on the cobbled street, wilting bunches of flowers laid on the grass, and going into a gloomy room in one of the houses that had stunk of unwashed bodies.

'What did you expect? A doss house?' George retorted as he helped her out. Her arm was still in plaster, but the sling had been abandoned.

Now she saw that Paradise Row was in fact a Georgian terrace built for the middle classes when Bethnal Green was on the outskirts of London. The big trees on the green outside were just coming into bud and it had an air of genteel tranquillity.

'Oh, George, you can't know how good it feels to be out of hospital at last.' She noticed the snowy white net curtains, sparkling windows and scrubbed front steps and guessed that spring cleaning had been done in her honour.

'And you can't know 'ow chuffed we are to get you 'ome,' he replied, taking out his key.

The door burst open before he could get the key anywhere near it and Anne leaped out to envelop her mother in a fierce hug.

Paul stood uncertainly on the doormat. A red crepe paper hat rested on his sticking-out ears, one finger preventing it from falling over his eyes. He was self-conscious about his first pair of long trousers, even more so of the red and blue striped tie. Sheer delight at seeing his mother showed in his chocolate brown eyes.

'Paul!' Amy glanced past Anne's shoulder at her son, her eyes brimming with tears. 'Is that hat in honour of me?'

'He's had it on since first thing.' Anne disengaged herself to let Paul get closer.

'My big boy!' Amy exclaimed, taking her son's hand and looking him up and down. 'Don't you look splendid?'

Paul took a step closer, his arms slipping round his mother's waist, head buried in her chest.

'I'm so glad you're home,' he whispered.

'Wait till you see the other stuff we've done!' Anne said gleefully.

Amy understood now why the children had been so impressed by George's house; the hall alone looked sumptuous by her standards. But it was the heat she noticed most, and the delicious smell of roast beef.

'Isn't it wonderful?' Anne gabbled. 'I can't wait to show you the bathroom and your room. It's hot like this all the time. We've never been cold once.'

'One fing at a time,' George said from behind her. 'Remember Mum ain't quite the ticket yet.'

Seeing her children in an ordinary setting brought home to Amy just how much George had done for them. Anne was wearing yet another new outfit. Her hair was up in a pony tail, and her face was flushed pink with excitement. Paul's dark hair had been cut beautifully, not shaved remorselessly the way Bill used to insist on, and his little features looked less sharp.

Harry came up the hall as George finally managed to shut the front door behind them.

'Welcome home!' He couldn't quite meet her eyes and he blushed with unexpected shyness. 'How do you feel today?'

'Wonderful.' Amy beamed, but once again hid her mouth with her hand. 'I know I saw the children every day but it isn't the same as living with them, is it?'

'Certainly ain't.' Harry made a play of cuffing Paul's ear. 'Never stops talking, this one, wears you out!'

Paul giggled. He still rarely spoke unless asked a direct question, but he enjoyed Harry making these jokes.

'Come on in, Mum.' Anne drew Amy into the front room, putting one hand over her eyes. 'Now you can look!'

A 'welcome home' banner was strung across the chimney breast, huge bunches of balloons hung in each corner of the room and a bouquet of flowers lay on the coffee table.

'We went with Harry to choose those.' Anne's amber eyes sparkled and excitement fizzed out of her like a shaken-up bottle of lemonade. 'The flower shop was dead posh and the lady let us pick all our favourite ones. You've never had a bouquet before, have you, Mum?'

The beautiful flowers in their cellophane wrap with a huge pink bow weren't the only thing here she'd never had before, and for a second Amy was choked with emotion. There had never been a time when she was the object of everyone's attention. Never before had her children looked so happy and healthy. Here she was in George's warm, comfortable home, and she knew for certain he would never withdraw his affection.

His character was stamped indelibly on the lounge, from the eye-popping autumn leaf carpet to the ostentatious simulated fur three-piece suite and electric imitation log fire. It was showy like him, perhaps a little vulgar, but it was a real home, furnished with love.

'I owe you so much, George,' she blurted out, afraid she might break down and spoil the children's pleasure. 'How can I ever thank you enough?'

'You just get better.' George looked at his feet and turned scarlet. 'Besides, Anne's our little housekeeper!'

'They've got all the gadgets, Mum.' Anne helped Amy over to the settee and made her sit down. 'A Hoover, a washing machine like down the launderette and a food mixer.'

'Which we ain't never used,' Harry joined in. He looked even more dashing than usual in light grey slacks and a pale blue shirt. 'Anne tried it out, though, to make a cake for you. She's good at cooking, ain't she?'

'Anne's good at everything, Mum,' Paul said in little more than a whisper. 'But I blew up most of the balloons for you!'

Amy slid her good arm round Paul and drew him close to her, aware he felt he hadn't done as much as everyone else.

'The balloons are the best part,' she said as she kissed his bony forehead. 'I couldn't blow up so many, I doubt even Uncle George could.'

'Everything's gonna be good for you now.' Harry grinned boyishly, his blue eyes sparkling. 'Anne's decided she's going to be a famous dress designer and Paul's planning to be a doctor, so they'll keep you in your old age.'

'And I'm going to change my name to Tara Manning.'

Amy looked at her daughter in astonishment. In hospital they had discussed keeping the surname Manning which had been allocated to Amy as a safety precaution, but she hadn't expected Anne to take
it
so seriously.

'I mean it.' Anne's lower lip stuck out defiantly. 'I don't want to take anything of Dad's on with me.'

These two months at George's had made Anne aware of many things. One was that another move was inevitable and, although she was saddened by this, she realised it was an opportunity to wipe the slate clean. A new identity was the first step, the second was to look ahead and plan a career. She had no intention of ending up working in Woolworth's, or an East End sweat shop. She was going to be a success.

'OK, we'll stay "Manning",' Amy agreed, guessing what was behind the determination in Anne's eyes. 'I've got used to it all these weeks anyway. But why Tara?'

'Dress designers have names like that.' Anne lowered her eyes, sure everyone was going to laugh at her. 'Anne sounds like a schoolteacher or something stuffy.'

'It's a good name,' Paul piped up. 'She got it out of
Gone with the Wind.
She thought of Scarlett at first.'

Amy giggled. 'I suggested calling you that myself. I saw the film three times, but when your dad saw your red hair he said it was cruel. I never thought of Tara.'

'She wants to call me Ashley, too.' Paul glowered at his sister. 'But I'm not changing. I like Paul.'

'It's as good a time as ever to change,' George said cautiously, winking at Amy. 'Of course I can't promise I'll remember to call her Tara, even though she's been harping on about it for days. But it will help, Amy.'

He meant it would help to make her children more difficult to track down; maybe even give them new confidence to lose a name that had brought them so much shame.

Amy held out her arms to Anne.

'OK, Tara Manning,' she laughed. 'You'd better make sure we see your name on dress labels one day. And we'd better invent an interesting background for ourselves!'

Amy had been home a week when anxiety crept back in.

It was Sunday afternoon and she'd come up to her room for the afternoon rest George insisted on. Her room was the smallest and warmest, on the second floor overlooking the railway at the back. According to the children it had been a dumping ground for stock before Harry decorated it specially for her.

She wriggled down further under the satin eiderdown. Weak sunshine was playing on a family of little china cats George had arranged on a what-not shelf and from below she could hear Harry, Tara and Paul washing up. George, she knew, would be dozing in front of the television.

It was so easy to live here. She woke to bacon frying and the next thing she knew George was staggering through the bedroom door with enough food for three people. Slowly she was regaining lost weight and her looks.