Trio (10 page)

‘Hrrumph!’ had been his greeting when Peter first took her home. He was an electrician by trade, with his own business. Though Lilian often wondered how his customers coped with his offhand manner. The pair of them had never had a conversation. She dreaded these visits, Peter less so, though he readily acknowledged that his father was miserable company and that her family were more easy-going. ‘You and Sally are chatterboxes,’ he joked. ‘You wouldn’t notice if someone was mealy-mouthed, because you’d be talking nineteen to the dozen.’

Lilian wondered how much religion came into it. The Goughs were Protestants – Methodists, a creed that shunned pomp and circumstance, frowned on drink and, it seemed to Lilian, were uncomfortable with any emotional expression too. They could sing, though. Sang her lot out of church at the wedding. Peter had converted to become a Catholic. He’d studied and promised to follow the faith and now here she was encouraging him to go against the dogma. But the alternative was unbearable.

Peter had been an only child. His mother had never spoken about whether that was by choice. Lilian had a sister, Sally. They had quarrelled a lot as children but were close now they’d grown up and their parents were gone. Lilian had always thought three children would be a nice number. Three. Three miscarriages she’d had. And each time Peter’s father had been too stiff and awkward to even refer to it. Had hardly come near her while she was there, as though what she had was contagious.

‘It’s just his way,’ Peter defended him. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it.’

And now there was Pamela?

Bernard appeared for lunch and the four of them settled to eat. Roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, braised red cabbage, peas and carrots and thick gravy. It was seventy-eight degrees outside but the Sunday roast was made come hell or high water.

Peter talked about his promotion and the work he was doing in Sheffield. His mother chucked in the odd comment. An occasional nod or grunt from Bernard the only indication he was listening. No one mentioned Pamela. Lilian longed for her to wake up so she could tend to her and show her off. After apricot crumble and custard she helped Alicia wash up. Lilian talked about Pamela for a while – how she was a slow feeder and kept nodding off on the bottle. She had to tickle her feet to keep her awake sometimes. That she loved her bath and Peter sometimes bathed her at the weekends. But Alicia’s response was so muted Lilian felt like she was talking to herself.

When Pamela’s sudden, gutsy yell broke through the silence she put down the tea towel with relief.

Peter got his mother to warm the bottle while Lilian rocked Pamela. They had had her twelve days and every time Lilian looked at her she got a rush inside, her heart felt swollen as though it was bruised with emotion. There were moments when the child’s vulnerability appalled her. Such tiny bones, the soft dips on her head where the fontanelles were yet to join, the translucent skin on her eyelids, soft pale fingernails. If she dropped her, hurt her . . . the pictures frightened her. Why did she think like that? She loved Pamela. She was her mother. She would do anything to keep her safe. So why did she have these flashes, awful images like nightmares. Blood and guilt. There was something wrong with her. You couldn’t tell anyone about thoughts like that. They’d lock you up in Springfield or Prestwich, chuck away the key.

Peter handed her the bottle. The room was cool and once Pamela had started to feed it was peaceful. She looked out towards the small garden. It was full of roses. They had no lawn, only paving, between the rose beds. In the summer the roses looked showy, hot colours and big blooms. It was an adult’s garden, all those thorns. No place for a child to play. What did it matter? Pamela would never come here to stay with Granny Gough. Her throat constricted, anger and sadness together. The baby spluttered and Lilian raised her upright and patted her back. The rich burp made Lilian giggle. ‘Lovely manners,’ she whispered, and kissed the baby’s forehead. Pamela’s fist curled round a strand of her hair. She pulled back, gently loosening the grip. When she offered her the bottle again, Pamela turned away from the teat.

Perhaps Alicia was just shy? No daughter herself, years since she’s been around a baby. Not sure how to act with us?

‘Let’s go see.’

She found Peter and his mother in the dining room. He was engrossed in the paper and she was studying the crossword puzzle. Bernard would be back in his shed.

‘Hello.’ She stood beside him. He put the paper down, held his arms out to Pamela.

‘I thought you might like a hold,’ she turned to Alicia. ‘She’s happy now, had her feed.’

‘Oh, er . . . yes.’ Alicia looked dismayed, her mouth twitching and eyes blinking. Lilian handed her the child before she could demur, passing her the muslin square too, in case Pamela possetted.

Alicia held the child on her lap, a picture of uncomfortable tension. She didn’t attempt to communicate with the baby but spoke to Peter. ‘And you’ve got a new car?’

It took only thirty seconds for Pamela to twist and begin to whimper. Alicia looked helplessly at Lilian, who rescued her daughter.

She doesn’t care. She swung her toffee-coloured hair out of the way and nestled the infant against her shoulder. She’d have more affection if we’d bought a bloody dog. She decided then that she would never come again. Blast tradition. She would not subject her wonderful, brilliant new daughter to these loveless afternoons of stifling boredom. If Peter wished to come, he could come alone. And if his parents ever woke up and realised just exactly what they were missing, then they could damn well come and see Pamela and Lilian in their own house.

Joan

‘It’s perfect,’ Lena pronounced. ‘I love you!’ She leapt across the carpet and planted a kiss on Joan’s head. ‘Do it again, the chorus.’

‘Walk my way,’ Joan sang in a breathy voice and picked the chords out on the guitar. ‘Make my day. You can take what you need but you’re never going to take this away. Oh, baby, walk my way.’

When she had finished Lena sang the song all the way through, her voice rich and full.

‘Wonderful. It needs strings, do you think? Or maybe a really moody sax? You're so clever, Joan. I knew you could do it. Tonight we celebrate.’

Joan laughed at her friend’s exuberance. Lena wasn’t all stuffy and bossy like you heard Germans were. She was like a child. Full of life and always excited about something.

‘You’re working tonight,’ Joan pointed out.

‘After.’

‘Some of us sleep at night.’

‘This is a special day. What do you call it – a letter day?’

‘Red-letter day.’

‘So?’ She cocked her head, smiling as ever.

‘OK.’

‘Good. Ooh, wait till Roger hears this. Shall we tell him it’s your song?’

‘No. Only if it’s a hit.’

‘When it’s a hit. It has to be. Forget Doris Day, Connie Francis, here comes Lena!’

Joan didn’t enjoy waiting in the club for Lena. It was a seedy place, noisy and thick with smoke. Lena’s act provided background but few of the patrons paid much attention, they were here for the exotic dancers who topped the bill. Joan worried that someone would think she was a working girl, a hostess who could be approached. She sat at a small table near to the toilets and avoided any eye contact. She drank her Martini too quickly and sat twiddling her glass waiting for Lena to finish. When Lena swept up to her table Joan felt she’d been rescued.

‘Come on.’ Lena pulled her shoulder bag over her white mac. ‘You hungry?’

‘Now?’

‘You English! In bed by ten, tea at five. You never grow up.’

They bought fish and chips from the corner and ate as they walked.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Club I know.’

Joan groaned. ‘Another dive?’

‘No, you’ll like it. Come on, live dangerously.’

She followed Lena down a side street. A wooden sign proclaimed the Zebra Club. They went down steep basement steps to a plain door. Inside there was a large room crammed with dancers. About half of them were coloured. There had been places in Manchester where the West Indians went, but Joan would never have dreamed of going there. This seemed more mixed. On a small stage a trio were playing. At the tiny bar Lena bought drinks. Joan was aware of some of the men looking their way. Well, she thought, if Lena found a friend she should have just enough for a taxi home, if she was careful.

After the first drink Joan found herself relaxing. The music was good, quite varied too. They played some jazz and calypso-type songs with a strong beat. Lena insisted on dancing and got Joan up too. Some of the movements the black couples were doing were quite astonishing but no one seemed to mind and the atmosphere was fun. When Lena caught her yawning she dragged her to the ladies’.

‘Here.’ She took a couple of yellow capsules from her pocket.

Joan shook her head.

‘Stop you being tired.’ Lena put one in her mouth and bent to drink from the tap. ‘They’re great, really. Make you feel like you’re full of champagne.’

Joan smiled.

‘Try one.’

She might as well. Everyone else liked them. And it would be nice to have a bit more energy.

She took the pill and drank from the tap.

Hours later, almost four in the morning and in paroxysms of giggles the two wove their way, arm in arm, to Lena’s flat.

It too was downstairs, a damp basement with a powerful smell of mildew and fungus on the ceilings. There was a main room with a tiny kitchen area in one corner behind a curtain. The toilet and washbasin were outside, in a small yard crammed with broken furniture. In the room Lena had a single bed, a small wooden table and two stools, an armchair that had seen better days and a wardrobe with a broken door. She had brightened the place up by putting multicolored crocheted blankets over the chair and bed. Posters adorned the walls: Adam Faith and Elvis.

Joan was still tittering and then she couldn’t remember why they’d been laughing and that seemed even funnier. She collapsed on the bed, kicking off her shoes. Lena was singing as she switched on a lamp and the electric fire. She put a stack of records on the dansette in the corner. The strains of ‘Apache’ by The Shadows filled the room.

Joan felt the bed bounce as Lena sat beside her. She felt a hand brush her fringe aside. Opened her eyes. Lena smiling, warm lips, her hair falling forward. Bending down. Lips against hers, touching her own, the faint stickiness of lipstick. Joan’s giggles quietened. Her thoughts were scrambling, trying to run without legs. No, wrong, wicked. Mustn’t. But she didn't move.

Lena sat up. Joan’s lips were empty. A look passed between them. Lena’s eyes like silver, swimming like mercury. Joan could smell smoke on her, and perfume. She should get up, move, break the spell, claim the armchair. Soon. She parted her lips, took a breath. Lena stopped smiling. She bent down, kissed Joan, the tip of her tongue tracing the inside edge of her lips. Joan closed her eyes, felt Lena’s hand brush down her shoulder and over her breast, the lightest pressure that filled Joan’s veins with warmth and sent small shocks of pleasure to her sex.

Joan moaned, moved her head a fraction, changing the pressure of the kiss. Wanting more. Everything. It was wicked but she didn’t want to stop. The thought of the wickedness gave her an additional thrill and she felt her body stiffening and getting hotter.

But she musn’t . . . if . . . with a jolt of understanding she realised that however wicked it was Lena could never make her pregnant and a great feeling of recklessness and liberation made her moan and wriggle. She reached up with one arm, tangling her fingers in Lena’s thick, smooth hair. Ran her other hand down her back, round the curve of her hip and along her thigh.

Lena made a gurgling noise and then parted from her. Her mouth was dark, the lipstick smeared and her lips swollen. Joan swallowed. Lena smiled, a small, intent smile, and began to unbutton her dress. Joan lay and watched her, her heart beating fast and anticipation tingling along the length of her spine.

Megan  Marjorie

Nina

Marjorie

‘Speaking. Hello, Sister.’

Robert Underwood noted the excitement in his wife’s voice and she waved him over with one hand.

‘Yes?’ Her hazel eyes crinkled with a smile. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, fiddling with it, and then with the coiled phone wire. ‘Oh, lovely. How old? Yes. When can we . . . Eleven. Thank you. Yes, he’s fine. We’ll bring him with us.’

She replaced the receiver. ‘They’ve got a little girl. Four weeks old. We could have her in the next couple of weeks.’ She grinned and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Robert!’

He hugged her briefly. ‘You’re sure now?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t say things like that. I don’t want Stephen to grow up an only child.’

‘I know, but you’re sure you don’t want to hang on a bit – it’ll mean more work.’

She frowned, examining his face. ‘Robert, have you got cold feet?’

‘No,’ he reassured her.

The following morning they drove across town to St Ann’s. Two-year-old Stephen clung between the bucket seats.

‘Sit down, Stephen,’ his mother told him and he obliged. ‘Good boy.’ People went on about the terrible twos and she’d seen friends’ children hurl themselves to the floor in temper tantrums but Stephen was an angel.

Robert turned into the gateway for St Ann’s and parked the car at the top of the drive to one side of the main entrance. Marjorie didn’t really like the place – it was so imposing and she knew that beneath the bright chatter of the nuns there were terribly sad stories. When she came here she couldn’t help but think of the girls who were sent here, the ones who would have to leave with empty arms. It had been the same last time when they had come for Stephen, but once she got him home she didn’t think about that side of things. There was no point in dwelling on it all. This was the best solution for everyone.

She turned to look at Robert. He patted her knee a little clumsily, he wasn’t one for fussing. She had liked his reserve when they first met at her brother’s wedding. She had noticed the tall, sandy-haired man during the marriage ceremony. He had gone up to communion ahead of her and seemed to be on his own. It turned out he was a cousin of the bride, an optician with a new shop in Sale, and at the reception he had been seated opposite her. He had smiled quietly at the jokes and listened attentively to the speeches, while some of the other guests had made a show of loud laughter and called out quips to interrupt the speakers. Every so often she felt his eyes on her. Light-blue eyes quite different from her own hazel ones. She felt attracted to him and quietly confident of her own good looks. She was slender and she kept her golden hair long. It looked natural and fresh, and it suited her better than some of the more elaborate styles that meant spending hours under the hairdryer and left you reeking of setting lotion or permanent wave.

They had talked at the party, he had offered to get her a drink and explained apologetically that he didn’t dance – two left feet. But he was good company, and dates led to a proposal and then a wedding of their own. And now here they were, about to meet their second child.

‘Ready?’ he asked her.

She nodded, her palms felt slippery and she’d butterflies in her stomach.

Sister Monica let them in and exclaimed with pleasure over Stephen and how grand he looked. He hid behind his mother’s skirts. She lifted him up on to one hip so she could walk.

‘They’re all outside,’ the nun said. ‘It’s great weather, isn’t it. This way.’ They followed her through French windows and on to the terrace at the back, where half a dozen prams were placed in a line.

‘This first one,’ Sister Monica said, ‘she’s asleep, but have a peek and we’ll get some tea and if she’s not awake by then we’ll get her up and you can have a good look at her. Then you take a couple of days to think it over and telephone me to say what you’ve decided.’

‘Go to Daddy.’ She handed Stephen over and stepped closer and craned forward to see. The baby lay motionless, only her face visible between the white pram blankets and the white wool bonnet. The tiny cheeks were peppered with the minute white spots of milk rash, the nose was slightly upturned and the small, rosy mouth had a blister on the upper lip. ‘Oh,’ said Marjorie softly.

‘She’s a darling, isn’t she? Just six pounds at birth but she’s gaining well now.’

‘Look, Stephen – little baby.’

Stephen looked, nodded solemnly.

‘Let’s have tea and you can tell me how you’re all getting along.’

While the grown ups chatted in Matron’s room Stephen was occupied with a box of coloured building blocks. There were nine in the set and they worked like a jigsaw, the various facets formed a number of different farmyard scenes when put together. This was too sophisticated for Stephen, who instead built towers and lines with the cubes.

‘He looks so strong and healthy,’ Sister Monica told them. ‘He keeps you busy, I’ll bet.’

‘He’s very good,’ Marjorie said. She didn’t want the matron to think she wouldn’t have all the energy to take on another child. She was being silly, she thought, they’re crying out for places. It would have to be something terrible to not be considered and she wouldn’t have rung if she didn’t think we were right for it. ‘He’s marvellous,’ she added.

Robert grunted in agreement. ‘This little girl . . .’ he asked.

‘Yes. Now, her mother is very young, practically a child herself. She’s a nice girl, lively and helpful.’

‘Where’s she from?’ Marjorie said. Stephen’s natural mother had been Irish and had come over to St Ann’s to have the baby in secret.

‘Lancashire,’ the Matron said. ‘Though the family are from Ireland originally. There are no family problems health-wise and the little girl, she’s called her Claire, is great. She’s had all her checks, of course.’

‘When was she born?’

‘May twenty-fourth, late in the evening.’

‘My birthday!’ Robert said, and Marjorie laughed.

‘Well,’ Sister Monica smiled, ‘I think we can see the hand of God in that. Will I fetch her for you?’

‘Yes, please.’ Marjorie could feel a headache coming on with the sheer nerves of it all. She felt sick and excited all at once. ‘We’ll have to get new clothes,’ she said to fill the silence. ‘We can’t put her in blue.’

Sister Monica returned with the baby in her arms. She sat beside Marjorie on the sofa and unwrapped the blanket. The baby wore a matinee jacket to match the bonnet, rompers and bootees. She was so tiny. Marjorie looked at the skinny legs, the petite feet. You forget how small they are. Stephen seemed huge by comparison. When Matron removed the hat the baby was practically bald.

‘Oh, bless her.’ Marjorie ran her hand over the fuzzy skull. The baby was awake now, blinking slowly and staring at the ceiling.

‘Now, her mother is a redhead,’ Matron said. ‘And I think she’ll turn out the same but you may want a baby with similar colouring to Stephen. He’s very like you, Marjorie, with the blonde hair.’

‘He is. But Robert’s more gingery, it might be nice for her to look like him.’

‘Yes, she’ll have the blue eyes, too. Would you like to hold her?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Marjorie settled back so she could rest the baby across her lap and support the head in the crook of her arm. Sister Monica passed her the child and Marjorie settled her. The eyes, which had not yet acquired their colour, were very dark, almost black, and looked huge.

Stephen edged closer to the sofa.

‘She’s holding her head well. She’s a strong little thing. Would you like a baby sister, Stephen?’ Marjorie said.

He looked at her then back to the infant. ‘No,’ he said solemnly.

The adults laughed.

Megan

Most people at the factory knew where Megan had been. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work that one out. But apart from the snobby gits in wages and one or two holier-than-thous on the shopfloor nobody made a meal of it. She knew for a fact she wasn’t the only one, either. Annie Platt and Breda Carney had both been in the club with no wedding ring in sight.

Of course, it wasn’t long before Brendan and she were courting again. In secret at first, both of them very, very careful not to let anyone catch on. They avoided their old haunts and met at places further from home. The waiting room at Victoria Station usually, and the reading room at Central Library one time. But you couldn’t talk up there. Gave Megan the heebie-jeebies. All these swots with their noses stuck in books and this loud silence and the great big ceiling like St Peter’s in Rome or something and everyone creeping about. Made her want to make a loud noise and run away. But downstairs in the basement there was a cafe, that was all right, though none of the places were good for a necking session and she was just as keen as he was for a kiss and cuddle. They ended up fitting that in at bus stops and doorways and on the walk back up to Collyhurst. She told him plain though – no more than that, not till the bans were read and the church booked.

Brendan wanted to know all about the baby and it was great to be able to tell him. Her mammy didn’t want to know. Put it behind you, darling, it’s only more heartache, she said when Megan first tried. You did what was best, she said. That’s all you can do.

After a few months Megan wrote to Sister Monica, asking if she could have a photograph of her daughter to remember her by. She got no reply. She wrote again when May came round and she imagined the child having a first birthday party, in a lovely white smocked frock with frilly knickers and a bow in her hair. She thought about her a lot, the weather and the blossom reminding her of St Ann’s.

This time a small studio photo came back. Black and white. Looking at it was like a punch in the stomach. Claire, her baby – the name meant light and Megan hoped her life would be full of light and brightness – Claire was sitting up, a broderie anglaise dress on and bare feet. A sprig of close curls framed her face. Her hair would be red with both Megan and Brendan that colour but you couldn’t tell in the photo and no one had colored it in like the studios sometimes did. She must have studied that picture a thousand times that day, and when the children were all in bed she showed it to Mammy.

‘Does she look like me?’

‘Like spit. But Megan,’ her mammy’s voice sounded thin and pained, ‘don’t be upsetting yourself. You have to forget her.’

‘I know. But it’s hard.’ She left the room not wanting to cry in front of her.

Brendan understood when she showed him. They had got the bus up Rochdale Road to Boggart Hole Clough, he’d sat upstairs and she down, just in case anyone got on, but they were OK. They wandered through the park and found a secluded spot to sit, surrounded by pretty trees, their leaves shivering in the slight breeze. He stared at the photograph, his face all blank and narrow like he’d seen a ghost. He shook his head. He didn’t say much but she knew he felt like she did: that it wasn’t fair.

They talked of marriage again and Brendan said he would go and see her Dad.

‘The apprenticeship.’

‘I’ve two more years. The rules are clear. We can get engaged but they don’t need to know. I just won’t tell them.’

‘There’s other work,’ she said. ‘Vickers are crying out for people, and Universal Stores.’

‘I know they are but this is a trade, Megan. I could work anywhere then, they’ll always need printers. If I left now . . . I don’t want to end up portering or on the markets.’

‘Just seems so long.’

‘I’ll ask your Dad. Least if we’re engaged we can stop acting like spies.’

He began to kiss her. She could feel her breasts tingling. They were bigger since she’d had the baby even though the doctor had given her something to dry her milk up. As he unbuckled his belt, pulling at the zipper on his pants, he was still kissing her, French kisses. It made her wet and weak and hot for his fingers. She held him in her hand, made the movements copy the rhythm of his breathing.

‘Megan,’ he spoke softly in her ear. ‘I’ve got a rubber johnny.’

She froze, shocked. He wanted to go all the way. Did she? Her mind raced about. It’d be all right, it would stop any consequences. Her body was hungry.

‘Put it on then.’ Her throat was dry.

While he sat up and fumbled she closed her eyes. Felt desire skip over her skin and quicken her pulse. Then he bent to kiss her again, moving over her. She wriggled her hips and opened her eyes to look into his. Cornflower blue, she thought. He nudged his way inside. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes.’ She lifted her hips to meet him. She ran her own hands over her breasts, watching his face darken with lust. She began to unbutton her cardigan.