The Girl From Barefoot House (37 page)

‘He wants a divorce,’ Josie whispered dully. ‘They said Jack wants a divorce. He’s going to marry someone else. Honesty, Lil, I love him so much, I don’t think I can bear it.’

They went into the kitchen. Lily did her best to be sympathetic, but she had disliked Jack as much as he had her, and couldn’t understand how you could still love someone you hadn’t seen for nearly six years.

‘I just do,’ Josie sobbed. ‘I don’t know how or why, I just do.’

‘It means you can get married again yourself,’ Lily said comfortingly.

‘Oh, really? Who to? Not only have I no intention of getting married again, but there isn’t exactly a horde of would-be husbands beating their way to me door.’

‘There’s …’ Lily’s face contorted painfully and she virtually spat out the next words. ‘… Francie O’Leary.’ It was a sore point that Josie and the first man Lily had ever loved had become such close friends.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lil.’ Josie managed to raise a smile. ‘I don’t think of Francie that way. Anyroad, he’s a confirmed bachelor.’

‘I wish he’d told me that when we first went out, before he broke me heart, like.’

Josie went back to her own little house, where she could be alone, think, though it was torture to imagine Jack in another woman’s arms, marrying another woman, smiling at her, touching her, saying the things he’d said to
her
.

‘You’re stupid,’ she told herself angrily. ‘Dead stupid.’ She made tea – one of these days, she’d turn into a packet of tea – and carried it out to the deckchair in the garden. It was a lovely warm September day, and she hoped it would stay nice for Dinah’s fifth birthday party on Saturday. Best to think about the party instead of Jack.

The narrow garden looked dead pretty. She’d cleared the wild grass and the weeds, grown a new lawn from seed and a neat privet hedge from cuttings off the woman next door. The rose bushes in each corner were from the same source, and this year they’d come on a treat, with big, bulging pink and yellow blooms. Dinah collected the petals and kept them in a bowl in her room. The front
garden had been turned into a rockery and the heathers were spreading nicely.

Josie sipped the tea, trying not to think of Jack. Inside the house it was just as pretty. There was still the earthenware sink and the claw-toothed bath. She’d had no improvements made, but the walls were covered with delicately flower patterned paper and all the woodwork was white. She’d gone mad with indoor plants, and Aunt Ivy had let her have one of the lovely, colourful, glass-shaded lamps from Machin Street.

‘They’re called Tiffany lamps,’ she said. ‘Me dad brought them from America. One’s already gone – to the pawn shop, I presume. I thought I’d give you the other before that goes, too. They have them in George Henry Lee’s and they cost the earth.’

Life was so unpredictable and topsy-turvy. Aunt Ivy was a regular visitor nowadays. She adored Dinah, and Dinah, such a strange little girl, regarded Ivy as one of her favourite people.

Josie finished the tea, sighed and went indoors to wash the dishes. She stacked everything on the wooden draining-board, very unhygenic according to Lily, who had stainless steel and couldn’t understand why everyone oohed and aahed in admiration over Josie’s house, so titchy and run-down, when hers was much nicer modern, miles bigger and full of G-plan furniture. She even had an Ercol three-piece, bought when Neil was promoted to under-manager, or it might have been over-manager, at the Post Office.

‘And you have so many visitors,’ she pouted. ‘Hardly anyone comes to ours, except me ma and da’.’

It was probably because Josie didn’t expect visitors to remove their shoes before being allowed on the carpets,
or frown if they wanted to smoke, or watch them like a hawk in case a drop of tea spilled on the furniture.

On Monday nights, Daisy, Eunice and Francie came and played poker for halfpennies. Josie hoped she wasn’t showing her daughter a bad example by letting her join in for a while before she went to bed. Dinah had caught on quickly and usually won. At some time during the week, usually Wednesdays, Josie went with Lily to the pictures or the theatre. The same with Francie. Aunt Ivy was only too willing to babysit. Chrissie and Sid Spencer often popped in on Sunday afternoons to see how she was – two of their lads were now married, and they had three grandchildren. Mrs Kavanagh came frequently, her husband less often now that he was plagued with arthritis and had had to sell the shop.

Josie went upstairs to make the beds, still doing her best not to think about Jack. She had a lovely house, and loads of friends, which was rather surprising as she’d never thought of herself as a sociable person. She’d been careful with the money from Aunt Ivy, and there was still plenty left if she didn’t find a job immediately. As she plumped up Dinah’s pillow, Josie wondered why, despite this undeniably pleasant, even enjoyable existence, she felt only half alive.

It rained on Saturday morning, but the sky had cleared and the sun was shining by two o’clock when it was time for Dinah’s party.

‘I hope no one fetches me dolls. I hate dolls,’ Dinah had said earlier as they’d wrapped tiny gifts in sheets of newspaper for pass the parcel.

‘I know, luv.’ Josie’s present had been, by special request, a xylophone. Dinah could already pick out ‘Silent Night’.

‘Auntie Ivy’s got me a trumpet. Francie said he had a lovely surprise. He’s bringing it tonight.’ Dinah frowned. ‘Samantha and Gillian have got me a doll. Samantha told me, though she wasn’t supposed to. It opens its mouth and says “Mama”.’

‘You mustn’t let anyone guess you don’t want it, luv,’ Josie warned. ‘Pretend to be dead pleased.’

‘Oh, I will, Mummy,’ Dinah assured her seriously. ‘It’s called being polite.’

Dinah was a very serious little girl. Her conversation, her reasoning, was almost adult. Josie had never discussed where soil came from, how flowers grew, what clouds were made of, why the Queen was the Queen with Laura. Yet she was conscious that there wasn’t the same intimacy between her and Dinah as there’d been with her other child. Dinah was too self-contained. She liked her privacy.

Josie often got up in the morning and found her sitting up in bed looking at a picture book, or lying on the floor, her pretty, pale, rather tight little face hidden behind a curtain of creamy hair, doing a jig-saw or some other puzzle and talking to herself. It never crossed her mind to jump into bed with her mam. A few weeks ago Josie had walked into the bathroom when Dinah had been on the lavatory, and her little tight face had got tighter with obvious annoyance. ‘You should knock first, Mummy.’ Since then she’d fastened the bolt.

Perhaps Josie over-compensated for those first few months when she had resented Dinah so much for taking Laura’s place. It was hard to believe, now, that she could have been so stupid, so insensitive as to resent a tiny baby. She must have been unbalanced, sick in the head. Ever since, she had tried to make up by cosseting Dinah too much, fussing over her endlessly, finding it hard to
leave the child to her own devices. Sometimes she wondered if she got on Dinah’s nerves!

She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s time you changed into your new frock, luv. People’ll be arriving soon.’

‘Why didn’t Mrs Kavanagh make my frock like always?’

‘She’s had to give up sewing, hasn’t she? Poor Mrs Kavanagh can’t see that well any more.’ It was sad. What with arthritis and glaucoma, the couple she’d regarded as a substitute mam and dad for most of her life had suddenly become very old and frail.

Lily and the girls were the first to arrive, dropped off by Neil on his way to a football match, followed by two little girls from Dinah’s class at school. Then Aunt Ivy appeared bearing the trumpet, and Mrs Kavanagh a sewing set. Everyone went into the garden, where deckchairs were provided for the older women and Lily sat on the grass. Josie took the presents into the minuscule dining room where the table was set for tea – the big, rather ugly doll squeaked ‘Mama’ whenever it was moved. She wasn’t looking forward to organising games for five little girls to fill in the time before the birthday tea.

It was difficult, trying to ensure that Gillian, three years younger than the others, wasn’t left out, particularly with her mother watching keenly. And stopping Samantha from cheating, something that the same keen-eyed mother didn’t notice. Josie prayed the children weren’t as bored as she was. She was slightly relieved when Aunt Ivy shouted that there was a knock on the door, seeing it as an opportunity to collapse, exhausted, on the grass.

‘I’ll go.’ Lily returned minutes later with a tall, sad-faced man. Two excessively thin children followed timidly behind, a boy of about twelve, a girl a few years
younger. ‘Look who’s here,’ Lily said in a funny voice. ‘It’s our Ben, with Peter and Colette. They’ve been home, and me da’ sent them here.’

‘Ben, is that our Ben?’ Mrs Kavanagh tried, unsuccessfully, to struggle out of the deckchair, and for some reason Josie recalled the sprightly woman in the blue coat she’d met in Bladder’s bargain basement where she and Mam had gone to look for a tray. ‘Ben, son, I haven’t seen you in ages.’

Before his mother could get up, Ben did the most surprising thing. Every muscle in his face seemed to collapse, and he strode across the grass, knelt in front of his mother’s chair and buried his face in her breast. Mrs Kavanagh gently stroked the fair hair of her youngest son. Lily looked set to burst into tears. Ben’s children watched, their faces showing not the slightest flicker of emotion. The five little girls stood awkwardly on the grass, knowing something strange was happening. Josie, shaken by the pathos of the situation, had no idea what to do. Should she take the little ones inside?

It was Aunt Ivy who saved the day. She stood and clapped her hands. ‘How about a little walk to the sweetshop?’ she cried. ‘You two an’ all, Peter and Colette. Colette, you take Gillian’s hand, she’s only a little ‘un. Peter, you can keep an eye on the others. Come on. We won’t be long,’ she sang gaily.

They left. Ben stayed with his head buried in his mother’s breast. Josie couldn’t tell if he was crying. It seemed ages before he looked up. His dead eyes searched for Josie, and he said in a cracked voice, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled the party.’

‘You haven’t —’ Josie began, but Lily interrupted.

‘That bloody Imelda – what’s she done now?’

‘Shush, luv,’ Mrs Kavanagh chided.

‘I will not shush. She’s ruining our Ben’s life. Did you see the faces of them kids? They look set for a nervous breakdown.’

‘Lily, girl, please shush.’

‘No, Ma. Why don’t you leave her?’ Lily demanded angrily of her brother. ‘Why put up with it all this while?’

Ben sat on the deckchair Aunt Ivy had vacated. ‘I can’t leave Imelda, she’s sick.’

‘No she’s not, she’s evil,’ Lily said flatly.

‘Lily!’

‘Be quiet, Ma. Anyone with an ounce of spunk would have left years ago. I wouldn’t have stood it for a minute, me.’

Josie went to put the kettle on, but could still hear the argument raging on her lawn. She hoped the neighbours weren’t listening.

‘I can’t walk out and leave the children, Lil,’ Ben was saying. ‘I can’t just take them away either. Imelda’s their mother. Believe it or not, they love her. Peter’s old enough to guess there’s something wrong. He used to be frightened, but now he gets protective when she has one of her rages.’

‘Rages! Huh!’ Lily said contemptuously. ‘How did you manage to escape today? Did she write you a pass or something? What time have you got to be back?’

‘She took another overdose last night,’ Ben said wearily. ‘She’s in hospital again. I know I should be with her, but I had the children to think of. She’ll sleep all day, and I’ll fetch her home tomorrow.’

‘Oh, no, son!’ Mrs Kavanagh’s voice quivered like an old woman’s.

Lily was unimpressed. ‘She never takes enough to finish herself off, does she? Next time she decides to
kill
herself, I hope she lets me know first, and I’ll encourage her to take a fatal dose. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’

‘Have a heart, Lil. The doctors say it’s a cry for help.’

‘I’m all heart, Ben,’ Lily said virtuously, ‘but where Imelda’s concerned, it’s made of iron.’

There were footsteps down the side of the house and Francie O’Leary appeared. Josie dragged him into the kitchen. ‘Don’t interrupt. It’s a family row.’

‘Is that Ben?’ Francie said, aghast. ‘Jaysus, he looks about eighty. He’s only thirty-four, same as me. I wrote to him, years ago, but never got an answer. What’s happened to the party? Where are the kids?’

‘Gone to the shops with Auntie Ivy.’ She closed the door to shut out the row. Lily had started to shriek. ‘As you can see, there’s been an upset. What are you doing here, anyroad? I wouldn’t have thought a children’s party was your scene.’

Francie gloomily stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Anything’s my scene these days, Jose. The house seems like a morgue since me mam died. I feel so lonely, I’m thinking of getting married.’ He grinned. ‘Who should I ask?’

She grinned back, knowing he was only joking and glad he was there to lighten the mood of the day which had suddenly turned so tragic. ‘I don’t know, Francie. As long as it’s not me, because I’d turn you down.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you and spoiling a perfect friendship!’ he said in a shocked voice.

‘Mind you, you’d be a good catch, especially since your printing business has taken off.’ He now employed six people. She looked at him appraisingly. He was still attractive in a lean, pinched way, and his black outfit – leather jacket, polo-necked sweater, flared trousers, boots
– gave him an appealingly sinister air. Since the Beatles had taken Liverpool and the whole world by storm a few years ago, and long hair had become fashionable, Francie had acquired a dashing ponytail.

‘You’re the first girl I ever fancied.’ He leered at her and winked. ‘I mean,
really
fancied. I used to be dead envious of Ben.’ He went over to the window. Ben was staring at the grass, his arms folded, his long face inscrutable. Mrs Kavanagh was crying, Lily shouting and waving her arms. ‘The way things change, eh!’ Francie said softly. ‘I feel dead sorry for him now.’