The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (24 page)

‘That’s enough.  I won’t have you talking about Lily or Paula like this.  She is – they’re very dear to me and I can’t bear it – I won’t stand for all of this!’  Bill emits a long choking sound.

‘You’re obsessed with them.  .  Anyway, she might not be here for long.  You might lose your precious Paula soon.’

‘And what does that mean?’

But the door has already slammed behind Angela as she races out of the shop.

I cling to the banister, then, trembling, I tiptoe back to my bedroom and lock the door.  My hands are shaking so much I can hardly pick up my fountain pen and when I begin to write, my writing is spidery and uneven.   But I know now is the right time.

It isn’t until I reach the sloping path between the high rise blocks that I catch the first glimpse of where I think our flat had been.  I stop to make sure I’m in the right place.  Gone is the row of front doors - two together - then yellowy-black brick walls and bow windows, before the pattern repeats itself.  Gone is Miss Lorimore’s place, gone is Old Boy Barker’s shop, gone ours and the Addingtons’ flats.  Gone, gone, gone.  Bulldozed, burnt, buried.  Most of the people who once lived in Blountmere Street are now incarcerated in the Cigar Box Kingdom. 

I will myself to walk on, skirting squares of struggling grass, in an effort to locate the exact place where I’d once lived.  Round and round I wander. 

When I had been back in my bedroom, after I’d written the letter, visiting Blountmere Street had seemed something I should do, before I move on.  It was a mistake.  I should never have come.  This isn’t Blountmere Street anymore.  Blountmere Street doesn’t exist. It’s vanished, ceased to be.  In years to come when anyone asks, “Wasn’t there a Blountmere Street around here once?”  The answer will be: “Blountmere Street?  Never heard of it.” 

I sit on a wall in front of a seven storey block, close my eyes and try to picture it as it had been, but the image refuses to manifest itself.  I remember Aunt Min telling me how she wished she hadn't gone to see a friend who had died, because in death she had looked so different.  Aunt Min had sobbed and said that she would never again be able to remember her friend as she had been.  I weep, too.  In coming I’ve allowed the images in my head to be superseded by another place entirely, and I’m terrified my memories will never return.

‘Paula, what’re you doing here?  Are you all right?  I saw you from our window.’  Herbie comes to sit beside me on the wall.

‘I can’t find where I used to live.’  My tears fall on to his hand.

‘It’s a strange feeling at first, but you get used to it.’

I never want to get used to it – never.

‘I actually walked around the whole place one day and I think I’ve located the exact spot of our camp.  It’s where the entrance lobby to one of the blocks is.’

I shake my head.  I don’t want to find the place that had once been so precious to me now covered with concrete.  ‘I’ve got to go.’  I need somewhere unchanging, somewhere safe.

‘I’ll walk with you to The Common.’  Herbie puts his arm around my waist and guides me through the concrete and bricks.

‘Have you thought about what I asked you?’  He speaks softly, aware of my fragility.  ‘We could be happy.  It would be a new life for us both.’

‘I know.’

‘So the answer’s “yes”.  You’ll marry me?’

I take a shuddering breath.  ‘I can’t.  I just can’t.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The woman looks pleasant enough, with her hair swept back from her face into a carefully pinned roll, revealing features that have probably changed little in her four or so decades, and in all probability will remain much the same for the next four.  Placing her hands either side of her eyes to block out the light, she peers through the door of the shop.  She spies me and gestures to be let in.

I unlock the door and open it to a crack.  ‘I’m sorry, but we’re closed.  I was only here making a phone call.’  I take in the woman’s agitated playing with the strap of her handbag and the pressing together of her lips.

‘I … I’ve come to see Bill Masters.  Is he in?’

‘I’m afraid he isn’t.  Both he and his assistant are out on measuring jobs.’

‘Oh dear!’  The woman looks flustered. 

I open the door wider, lead her into the shop and pick up a pencil stub lying beside the telephone. ‘If you give me your name and address I’ll pass it on to him or his assistant.  It’s some upholstery you want done, I take it?’

The woman’s lips are still white from compression.  ‘I’ve come to see Bill on a personal matter.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m a relative of his.’

We smile uncertainly at each other then stand awkward and wordless.

‘Actually, I’m his wife.’

‘His wife.’  Bill had said little about her, practically nothing, and I’d never cared enough to spend any time imagining what she might look like.

‘I should have rung.  I need to talk to him.  I’ll come back another time, or I’ll call him.  I just thought it would be easier … no, not easier … better to talk to him face to face.’  The woman makes to go.

‘He shouldn’t be long.’  I lead her to a chair and indicate she should sit down.

‘You can come upstairs if you want.’

‘I prefer to wait here thanks,’ the woman declines my offer then continues, ‘Bill seems to be busy.  He was always a good upholsterer.  Work here, do you?’

‘No, I’m a tenant.’ 

Silence seems to suck us into a tunnel.

‘Would you like something to drink?  I think they’ve recently got a kettle and a teapot and things down here.’

‘No thanks.’  The woman manages a slight lifting of her mouth and I respond in much the same manner.  I picture this ordinary, decent woman living out her marriage in the shadow of my mother.

‘We’ve been separated for a long time, Bill and me,’ the woman blurts.  ‘We’re not divorced though.  Neither of us has ever wanted to remarry, but I think he’s found someone now.’

‘Oh!’

‘I thought I would - you know - marry again, but I’ve never found the right man, though I would have liked to have had kids.  Bill and I would have been all right if we’d had children.  Young ones seem to help things along, don’t they?’  As if to confirm what she’s said, Maria squeals from somewhere above us.

‘I was all right.’

‘All right?’

‘I mean, it wasn’t my fault we couldn’t have children.  Had all the tests done.’

‘Oh!’  I turn away towards the shop window.

‘It was Bill.  He couldn’t … couldn’t produce babies.’  She blushes and lowers her voice.  ‘Something missing.’  The woman straightens her back, tugs at her handbag strap and mumbles, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.  Forget what I said.  He’s a very kind man.  It’s just that I don’t want him to marry someone and not tell her.  I don’t know why, but I’ve got this feeling he might want to marry someone younger.  I suppose that’s why I came - silly really.  It’s none of my business.’  She makes for the door.  ‘I won’t stay.  I’m so sorry.  You will keep what I said to yourself, won’t you?  I don’t know why I said it.’  The woman struggles with the door catch, desperate to leave, then flees along the main road.

‘Liar, liar.’  My voice soars above Mrs Addingtons’ sewing machine downstairs in the shop. ‘You said you were my father.’

‘I never told you that.’

‘You let me believe it.  You never denied it.  You couldn’t have children, could you?’

‘You’re so like her; you could have been Lily’s and mine.  You should have been.  She wanted me to look after you, I know she did.   She knew what was best for you, even at the end.  I’ve done more for you, loved you more than your father ever did.  What did he ever do for you or your mother?  He as good as killed her.’

‘Shut up!  Shut up!’

Bill takes hold of my arm.  ‘I couldn’t let you go.  I had to keep you any way I could.’

‘Get away from me!  Don’t touch me!’

‘I love you, just as I loved her.  Can’t you see?  You’ve taken her place.  You can be
her
!   With you I can have Lily, always.’

Angela bites into Aunt Min’s date loaf and grimaces.  ‘We miss you now you’ve moved back here.’  She takes a handkerchief from her pocket, opens it out, places the rest of the cake in it and puts it back in her pocket.

‘It’s only for a short time.  But I couldn’t stay.’  I urge Angela to understand.

‘I have to admit that at first I was cut up about you going.  I was even more upset that neither you nor Bill confided in me and Mum.  But when I thought about it, well, I suppose there are things I’ve kept to myself.’  Angela wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.  ‘You shouldn’t be too hard on Bill.  He did what he thought was best, even if he did become a bit confused along the way.’

In the kitchen Aunt Min bangs pots and rattles crockery, while Angela continues.  ‘Personally, I’ll never be able to thank him enough for what he’s done for us, although,’ she hesitates, ‘It’s not altogether gratitude I feel for him, if you get my drift.’  She blushes and directs her gaze to the vase on Aunt Min’s sideboard.  ‘Anyway, he’s going to his brother in Canada for a few months.  He leaves at the end of the week.  He needs to put a bit of space between himself and all of this.’

Bill isn’t the only one who needs the perspective that distance brings.

Angela continues, ‘I’ll take over the shop while he’s away and I’ll still be there when he gets back.  I think the two of us could make a go of things, and I don’t just mean the business.  Before you say anything, age doesn’t mean a thing.  If it doesn’t work out, well, I’ve saved a bit so I might be able to get my own business together.  Who would have thought Angela Addington could save.’  Her smile emphasises the recent strain lines around her eyes.

Eventually the reply to my letter arrives.  Yes, they say, they’d simply love to have me stay with them for as long as I want or the government permits.  Hadn’t they always said I could?  They only wished they’d received the same request from Tony.

It’s the right time, I know it.  Without hesitating, I reply and tell them I’m coming.  Then I resign my position at Ligoli and Spiraton, tell the Addingtons and a tearful Aunt Min my plans, write to Herbie and purchase two tickets.  One is for a reasonably short destination, the other for a place considerably farther away.

The train rocks its way through a grey landscape.  The carriage is empty and smells of damp upholstery.  I kick off my shoes and fold my feet under me as the rain-spattered view changes from buildings in sooty dejected rows to back gardens with swings and fish-ponds.  I pull up the sleeves of my cardigan and study my arms.  Unlike Bill’s they’re freckle-free.  This examining of myself is something I haven’t been able to stop doing since Bill’s wife’s visit.  I wonder why I didn’t do it before when Mum first told us.  I open my compact and stare into the mirror.  My lips are full and straight like Dad’s, not bunched in a bow like Bill’s.  Up until now, I hadn’t noticed the difference.

I fall asleep and when I wake, the train has entered a tunnel and behind my closed eyes it darkens.  In my mind, I compare Bill’s walnut coloured hair that’s prone to curling with my hair that’s so thick it stays rigidly straight no matter what I do to it.

A tinny disembodied voice breaks into the images.  “
All passengers to alight for Newton Abbot
.”

I take a bus to the nearest village to the Heathman’s farm, then take my suitcase and lumber along lanes that are even narrower and more winding than I remember them in
Devonshire - The Sunshine County
.  Trees arch above me in a leafy awning.  Birds flutter in and out of tall hedgerows intent on their business, seemingly oblivious to the snorting cacophony of pigs choiring from somewhere nearby.  Drizzle pulls a mask over much of the countryside and causes the landscape to sway and bow under its moisture.  I stop and take the map Damielle has drawn for me from my pocket.  The road signs have been sparse, but I think I’m heading in the right direction.  I replace the map and continue on.

Suddenly, further up the lane a cottage materialises out of the mist like an apparition.  For no fathomable reason, with its thatched roof, it reminds me of a lonely old woman with matted hair.

I hesitate and consider retracing my footsteps back in the direction of the station.  I haven’t told him I’m coming.  I didn’t want him to try and dissuade me as he has before. I gaze back in the direction I’ve come.  I take a deep breath and continue on.  Now the blurred lines of the whitewashed cottage are becoming more defined.

Dad must have been watching from a window as I tread the last few yards to the cottage.  He has already bent himself under the doorway and is halfway along the path before I push open the gate.

He’s wearing the ubiquitous cap and as a concession to the damp chill, the plaid scarf I sent him for Christmas knotted over the jersey Mum had once knitted him, which is now much-darned.  He looks no different.  His face is weathered, his fingers long and sinewy like mine. 

‘Is that you, Paula?’ he calls.  His voice is crackly and he holds his head in the way I do when something comes as a surprise.

‘I’ve missed you, Dad,’ I say.

My initial impressions of the cottage and what else Dad and I said to each other have somehow bypassed the mental registering process, and my first recall is of sitting in a low-beamed room in one of our armchairs from Blountmere Street with Dad seated in the other.  Mum’s dining room table, as in Blountmere Street, is oversized for the room.  I haven’t once thought about what had happened to our furniture.  As far as I’d been concerned, like the house, it had ceased to exist.  Seeing it adds to the sense of homecoming I’d longed to feel but hadn’t dared hope for.

Without meaning to, Dad and I settle into a routine remarkably like our one in Blountmere Street.  Every morning I wash in the outhouse where Dad has already placed an enamel bowl with steaming water, a flannel and towel ready for me.  Then I make tea in Mum’s pre-war teapot and watch over the grill while it toasts thick slices of bread.  Dad cleans the ashes from the grate, reciting a new daily mantra: “Thank gawd for this fire.  The wind howls through the place like a dose of salts.”

With the sun battling to lighten a colourless sky, and birds flitting to and from the thatched eves of the cottage, we sit at the table, covered with Mum’s embroidered breakfast tablecloth strewn with red flowers.

I cut my toast into small squares.  I’d been looking forward to the homemade jam and clotted cream Dad has produced from his larder, but my appetite seems to have flown into the eves along with the birds.  It’s time to talk.

‘When I left Aunt Min’s, I lived above his upholstery shop,’ I begin.  I can’t bring myself to say Bill’s name.

‘I thought as much from a couple of the things you said in your letters.’ Dad studies the bricks framing the fireplace.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘It was your choice.  You had your own life to live.  Anyway, your mother would probably have preferred you lived with him.’

‘It wasn’t true, though, what she said about … him … Bill being my father.’

‘I never did believe her.  It was the insanity talking.  Got the same ears, you and me.  Who could argue with that?’

‘Oh Dad,’ I say, half laughing, half crying. 

Dad stretches his roughened hand across the table and takes mine.  ‘It’s all right, girl.  It’s all right,’ he says. 

I cover our entwined hands with my spare one and we stay that way without saying a word, while the blood flows between us and whatever happened between Mum and Dad drains away.

For the first time since I’ve arrived in Devon, the sun breaks through and promises to stay for more than half an hour.  A straggle of late holiday-makers, like Mum, Dad and me years before, relax on the same beach, seeking respite and replenishment.  I hope they find both, for who knows what will follow, and how they might need the memories of this day to sustain them.

In search of solitude, I scramble across the rocks, clamber up a sandy cliff and skirt fields.  The clouds continue to part as if some invisible hand is pushing them back.

I prop myself against a tree trunk and close my eyes.  I breathe in hay scent, while the sun touches my face and my thoughts flit hither and thither like a child skipping through buttercups.  I hear echoes of voices and snippets of songs.  I see long-forgotten snapshots, sepia images.  They are the legacy of bereavement and the solace of loss.

Damielle is plumper and not the fairy child I remember, while her son, Christopher, is stocky, his complexion apple-ruddy and his hair a black spiky helmet.

‘He’s like his father,’ Damielle explains.

I smile at the boy playing with a train on the floor.  I could have had domesticity if I’d married Herbie.  I brush the thought away.  Damielle loves John, whereas I’d never loved Herbie.  I suppose it’s the difference between contentment and servitude.

‘It’s so good to see you again.’  Damielle places a plate with a scone plastered with Devonshire cream in front of me.  ‘You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Paula.  And if you’re not offended, a woman who has suffered much.’  She tears a piece of scone from her own and passes it down to Christopher’s upturned hand.  ‘I know it was a while ago and I have said it before in my letters, but I was so sad about your mother.  You must have felt a deal of pain.  Your father too, although he keeps his grief to himself, but I can tell he is really pleased to have you back with him.’

‘Only for a while.’

‘Then you’ll go back to your important job in the city and the friends you live with?’  Damielle asks with what sounds like a touch of envy.