Trio (14 page)

Sally took Pamela too, on the worst days when Lilian simply needed to weep and thrash about, when she needed to let herself wallow in the pain, dragging up memories to lash herself with, reciting litanies of all they would never share, getting stupid with self-pity. All the things that Lilian hid from her daughter. Sally had Ian, a four-year-old, who Pamela loved to entertain, so it was a good arrangement all round.

Alicia and Bernard Gough had attended their son’s funeral and gone back to the house afterwards. They had accepted commiserations from people and Alicia had been moved to tears several times. Pamela had been wary of them and they had made no special effort to talk to their grand-daughter as far as Lilian could see. She herself hadn’t had the strength to try and find common ground in their suffering, not that day, though she would try later when she was up to it.

The days rolled into weeks and there was no word from them. Then it was Peter’s birthday. She sat in the lounge that afternoon while Pamela was at school and sorted through photographs, careful not to wet them with her tears. She chose three that she wanted to frame for herself and Pamela: a lovely shot of Peter with Pamela at the park, the pair of them sitting on the roundabout, caught laughing at something; and a solo shot of Peter in his tuxedo at a dinner dance, handsome, his black hair gleaming with Brylcreme slapped on to try and tame it. Sally had joked about him having girl’s eyes, because of his long curling lashes. He was smiling and there was a cigarette in one hand. He was beautiful. She also selected a rare shot of the three of them. Pamela had been about five and a half, she’d lost her first teeth, two at the bottom, and her hair was tied up in bunches. They were at the front at Blackpool, Peter with a picnic basket in his hand and each of them with a cornet. She remembered the day, sunny with a stiff breeze. They’d gone back to the boarding house and Pamela had fallen asleep exhausted from a long day playing on the sands. She and Peter had made love in the cramped room, sand and suntan lotion on their skin and the taste of ice cream on their lips.

She sorted more pictures out for Alicia and Bernard. It would be nice for them to have some. She posted them first-class with a short note saying how she was missing him and how they must be too. She heard nothing.

She put the house on the market but interest was slow. A lot of people wanted something more modern – split level or at least with the living room and dining room knocked through. Then she got an offer. She began to look for places that they could afford. She hoped they could stay in the area and Pamela could continue at St John’s, but it might not be possible. Then the buyer pulled out and it was back to square one. There was nothing in the bank and the Family Allowance went nowhere. Pamela needed new shoes. She began to feel panicky. She had to manage. She had to. There was no one else now.

She dressed as neatly as she could, aware of the aura of disapproval that always seemed to emanate from Peter’s parents. She walked there. It was half an hour or so and it was a fine day, wind fluttering the first autumn leaves and the smell of wood smoke in the air. She was thirsty by the time she arrived and too warm from the walk.

She rang the front doorbell and after a moment saw the curtains in the bay window twitch. Then the door opened.

‘Lilian.’ Alicia had a tiny puzzled frown. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wanted to have a word with you, if . . .’ She was tongue-tied. She had practised what she would say so often but it all ran away from her now.

‘Oh.’ Alicia stepped back and let her in. They went into the sitting room.

Alicia sat down, her feet together side by side. Lilian glanced down at her own feet, shoes dusty from the walk.

‘Things have been difficult since Peter died. Financially . . .’ It sounded too blunt, too direct. ‘I’m trying to sell the house, of course, but there have been holdups. I’ve come to ask whether you and Bernard might be able to help us out.’

Alicia blinked, colour flushed her neck and she patted nervously at her lip with the knuckle of one forefinger. There was an appalling silence. Lilian could smell her own body odour. She cleared her throat.

‘I’ll have to speak to Bernard,’ Alicia said.

‘Yes, thank you. I’m sorry, if there’d been any other way . . . It’s just these next few weeks till I sell the house and then . . .’ she trailed off. ‘Thank you.’

Alicia stood up and Lilian copied her. She had an urge to grab the woman, to get hold of her and shake her, shout at her. Did she mourn her son, did she cry for him in the night, did he walk through her dreams and call her name? Could she bear the thought of him in the cold ground, knowing she’d never hear his voice, watch him eat or smile?

‘Did you get the photographs?’

‘Yes,’ Alicia said, betraying nothing. And turned to show her out.0

She walked home feeling hot and humiliated. What, what had she done to deserve such . . . She struggled for words. She felt sick and parched. She stopped at a corner shop and bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. She drank it as she walked, trying to burp discretely when the bubbles repeated on her. It’s for Pamela, she told herself, you had to do it.

Two days later a postal order for twenty pounds arrived and a note.

Dear Lilian,

      We do hope this will assist you at this difficult time.

      Yours sincerely,

      Alicia Gough

It would buy groceries for a few weeks and new shoes for Pamela. It was the last time she ever heard from either of them.

Joan

Lena’s version of ‘Walk My Way’ had been a monumental flop. Roger blamed everyone but himself. The discs were late being pressed, the distributors messed him about, it was the wrong time of year, the trend was for Americans or for male singers. Everyone wanted more Elvis Presley and Cliff. He ignored the fact that Helen Shapiro and Petula Clarke had each topped the charts. The fact that Roger had cut corners on studio time and session musicians and then had been late in liaising with all the other people involved and even had a design commissioned with the wrong title – ‘Walk This Way’ – might have had more than a little to do with it. Joan was bitterly disappointed but she didn’t bother trying to tackle him about it.

Not long after that Roger shut down the company and Joan was out of work. He wanted to move into fashion, he said. More opportunities. Lena caught flu and was very ill. Joan nursed her. Joan worked for a temping agency, typing. Late in 1962 she sent ‘Walk My Way’ and everything else she had written since round to all the record companies. A week later, on her day off, she visited six of them. Two refused to let her past the receptionist. One told her they had a stable of writers and didn’t take unsolicited work.

‘You might want to add me to your stable,’ she tried with a bravado she didn’t feel inside.

‘No room. Sorry.’

At the next place she met George Boyd – half-drunk and ill-tempered, wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat and a disreputable suit. He claimed not to have received her work.

‘It’s there,’ she told him, ‘that one.’ She could see it on his desk.

‘Let’s hear it then,’ he slung back at her.

‘I don’t . . .’ She hated her voice but she couldn’t miss the chance. Emulating Lena she launched into it.

At the end he shrugged. ‘Not bad. Anyone ever tell you you could sing, they were lying.’

She felt her face flush at the jibe. ‘Will you take it?’

‘I could show it to Candy.’

Candy! This burke dealt with Candy? Yes, oh, yes! She swallowed. ‘Yes. I’d want royalties, though, not just a flat fee.’

‘Don’t want much, do you?’

‘Nothing wrong with a little ambition.’

He grimaced. Maybe it was meant to be a smile.

‘Leave it with me. ‘

Not fully trusting him she had rung every week until he confirmed that Candy liked it and would record it for her next-but-one single. It would be released in July, the day after Lena flew home.

Joan saw her off at the airport.

‘I wish you’d come,’ Lena repeated, ‘we’d be so happy.’

Joan shook her head, smiling. They’d been over this so many times. She loved Lena – her exuberance and her daring – and she owed her so much for showing Joan how women could love, but in her heart she knew she didn’t love Lena enough to give up everything else. Things were just starting to happen for her and she adored life in London.

‘You’ll be happy,’ Joan told her. ‘You will.’

And she had been.

Lilian

‘They say Friday at noon.’ She handed the letter to Sally.

‘But once you sell this place . . .’

‘They won’t wait. If the bill’s not settled the bailiff’s will take the furniture, anything of any value.’

‘What’s bailiffs?’ Pamela came in from the hall.

‘Never you mind,’ Lilian said. ‘Where’s Ian?’

‘Out here.’

‘Well, watch him or he’ll be after the china ornaments. Take him in the garden.’

‘She’s not daft,’ Sally pointed out as Pamela left.

‘I know, but she doesn’t need chapter and verse.’

‘I’ll talk to Ed. I’m sure we can sort something.’

‘Oh, would you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And we’d another couple looking round yesterday, agent thought they were very keen.’

‘I’m not worried about being paid back,’ Sally said. ‘I know you’re not going to pull a fast one.’

In the forty-eight hours that followed the phone was red hot with calls from Sally detailing the various conversations Ed had had with the bank manager and the accountant and everyone else. He would collect the money on Friday morning.

‘Don’t open the door. Don’t let them in,’ Sally told her. ‘And make sure they don’t try anything early. We'll be there by twelve.’

At half past eleven a white van drew up outside the house. Lilian watched from the upstairs window as two well-built men got out, both dressed in overalls. They made no attempt to approach the house but leant against the van smoking.

‘Where was Sally?’ She’d tried ringing the house twice but there was no answer. If they took the furniture it would be that much harder to get settled somewhere new. And there were a few pieces that meant the world to her. Her mother’s dresser, which had come from Wales when her mother married her father, the writing bureau that Peter had bought second-hand and restored. Somewhere for his engineer’s drawings and books. Later when he worked away more it had become a place for all the family to use. The drawers held maps and stationery, photograph albums, certificates, a set of watercolours, dominoes and a chess game.

And the bed. The bed they’d shared, the bed where Peter had died. She’d heard rumours that the bailiffs couldn’t take all the beds in a house, they had to leave you something to sleep on.

She went down and tried the phone again, praying for a reply. She listened to the ring, counting seven, ten, fifteen times before putting the receiver back.

She watched from the lounge as another car drew up. Ed? But he drove a Ford Popular. This was a Wolsey. A bald man in a suit and tie stepped out. He spoke to the men by the van. It must be the bailiff. She looked across the road to the houses opposite. They were all watching. Some behind the curtains other quite blatantly. Please, Sally. She went into the kitchen and lit a cigarette, sucked the sulphur of the match in her haste.

Knocking at the door startled her. It was only ten to twelve. More knocking. ‘Mrs Gough.’

She went along the hall. She could see the man’s head through the stained-glass panel at the top of the door.

‘Someone’s coming,’ she said, feeling faintly ridiculous at shouting through the door. ‘They’re bringing the money.’

‘They’ll have to look sharp. We have a noon deadline.’

‘They’ll be here.’

‘I have to advise you that we have legal powers to enter at midday and to remove items as we see fit.’