Two Penn'orth of Sky (29 page)

Wally nodded slowly and turned reproachful eyes on their uninvited guest. ‘I suppose your mam’s
goin’ frantic an’ Aunty Beryl’s doin’ her best to let her old pal know you’re safe an’ well,’ he said heavily. ‘If them gals can sink their differences, it’ll be one good thing to come out of this mess, ’cos Beryl, she’s that soft-hearted . . . oh well, we’ll have to see.’ He patted his daughter’s back as she stirred in his arms. ‘How Becky could sleep through the din you two were makin’ is more’n I can understand, but I’ll take her upstairs now an’ tuck her in.’ He addressed Charlie again. ‘How much of that bread ’n’ milk went inside young Bobby? There looks to be a fair bit on the floor.’

Bobby had been roaring a protest when his father had entered the room but he had been out-roared by Wally and now sat placidly on the floor, occasionally wiping a dribble of milk from his face. Charlie had prudently cleared both the broken china and the food from his little brother’s vicinity and now said, resignedly: ‘Norralot, Dad. I’ll make some more, shall I?’

Wally grunted assent and left the room and the children began to do as he told them. Charlie started to make fresh bread and milk, this time in a tin plate. Diana went back to the sink and Lenny, glancing curiously from one to the other, started to lay the table. At one point, Diana sidled over to Charlie and whispered that she had not meant to get him into trouble, but Charlie only grunted and began to shovel bread and milk into his little brother’s mouth, so Diana finished off the potatoes and then she and Lenny staggered across the kitchen with the heavy pot and pulled it over the fire.

By the time Wally came downstairs once more, the potatoes were beginning to steam and the kitchen looked clean, bright and welcoming. The table was
laid for a meal, Bobby had had his face and hair washed by his eldest brother, and the other children were hovering helpfully around.

‘That’s better,’ Wally said approvingly. ‘I dare say Mam will be returning any moment with young Emmy in tow. Charlie, lay an extra place.’

Beryl, with Jimmy tucked warmly inside her shawl, returned home after her fruitless search to find Wally presiding over what seemed like a happy, domestic scene. This should have pleased her, but it failed to do so. She was hot and cross. Her visits to the three nearest police stations had proved abortive; no one had heard of either Emmy or her missing child, so Beryl marched into the kitchen, laid the sleeping Jimmy in his cot, and then took her place at the table. She answered Diana’s enquiring look with a shake of the head.

‘No one’s seen your mam, so she’s not reported you missing,’ she said briefly. She began to help herself to potatoes and fish. ‘I reckon she guessed you’d have gone with us so it was safe for her to clear off with that young officer.’ She sighed gustily. ‘Well, I suppose I ought to be honoured that I’m trusted,’ she finished, her tone so rich with sarcasm that even Diana noticed and looked at her doubtfully. Ashamed, Beryl leaned forward and patted Diana’s cheek. It wasn’t fair to take it out on the child just because Emmy was thoughtless and selfish. When she had first seen Diana on New Brighton beach, she had hoped it was a tacit sign that the feud was over, but now she knew better. She had always known Emmy was selfish but had never guessed the full extent of it, and she meant to give the younger woman a telling-off which would make her think
twice before abandoning her daughter to Beryl’s care again. Oh, Emmy might, probably would, say that the whole thing was a dreadful mistake but she, Beryl, knew better. The woman who looked after Diana during the week must have baulked at having her on a Sunday as well so Emmy had simply turned round and dumped the kid on her old friend. Even in her temper, Beryl did not believe for one moment that Emmy would have simply abandoned the child to her own devices. She would have sent her to the Fishers’ home, not realising that they had already left for their day out.

Beryl began to eat her meal. She glanced across at Wally and raised her eyebrows, for it was clear that something had happened in her absence. Usually, mealtimes were accompanied by laughter and lively conversation but today no one spoke and they attacked their food with less than their usual gusto. Wally pulled a face and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so they all heard a loud and desperate knocking at the door and Beryl jumped to her feet. ‘That’ll be her, and since I’ve gorra word or two to say to her, I’ll take her into the parlour,’ she said grimly. ‘The rest of you stay just where you are and finish your meal.’

She left the kitchen, shutting the door firmly behind her, and hurried to open the front door. As she had guessed, Emmy stood on the doorstep, but she was not alone. The young officer was with her, an arm about her waist, and as soon as the door was opened the two came into the house, staggering in a manner which made Beryl think that they must both be drunk. There was no light in the hallway, so Beryl could not see either of her visitors clearly, but she ushered them into the parlour. ‘Sit down for a
moment, both of you,’ she said, and went to light the gas mantle, so that she could see her guests more clearly. When she turned back towards Emmy and the young man, she gasped with horror. During her quarrel with Emmy she had been at first so tense, and then so furious, that she had scarcely glanced at the younger girl. Now, seeing Emmy properly for the first time for many weeks, she was shocked both by her friend’s extreme pallor and by the almost skeletal thinness of Emmy’s body. The only thing which seemed to have remained unaltered was Emmy’s great fall of shining, pale gold hair; without that, Beryl would scarcely have recognised the other woman.

She began to speak, but was interrupted. ‘Diana?’ Emmy asked, in a thin, hoarse little voice. ‘Is she – is she with you, Beryl?’

All the anger and hurt had left Beryl as soon as she set eyes on Emmy in the light, leaving only loving concern. ‘Aye, she’s been with me all day and she’s just fine,’ she said robustly. ‘But Em, you’re ill.’ She turned to the young officer. ‘Lift her on to the couch, young feller, and prop her up with them cushions. What in God’s name have you done to her?’

The young man looked hunted. ‘I have done nothing,’ he said defensively. ‘She wanted to go to New Brighton, so we took the ferry and searched for you on the beach, but it was very crowded and we could not see you. I noticed she grew tired very quickly so I took her to a café place, but she could eat nothing. She said the food made her cough, though she had two cups of tea. Then I could see she was very unwell and must not wander about in the hot sun. We came back to the city and I took her to the Northern Hospital on Great Howard Street – it was the nearest – but when the doctor said she must stay, she
grew very agitated. She kept saying she
must
go home, that she must find Diana.’ He looked anxiously at Beryl, his eyes pleading for understanding. ‘I did not know what to do. She says she won’t stay in hospital and I am not a relative, so I cannot sign papers, cannot insist. I promised the doctor I would take her back when we had made arrangements for the child, but if she refuses’ – he shrugged helplessly – ‘there is nothing I can do. Do you understand?’

‘Aye, I understand; our Em can be as obstinate as any mule when she chooses,’ Beryl said. She plumped down on her knees beside her friend, taking the thin, blue-veined hands in her own strong and capable clasp. ‘Em, my love, how long have you been ill like this? Why, you’re as thin as a rail and pale as a ghost. This must have been coming on for some while. You didn’t get like this just because you’re anxious about Diana. What have you been doing?’

Emmy gave a wheezy little chuckle. ‘I’ve been doing double shifts,’ she whispered. ‘Me and Peter, we never managed to save much, so I was determined to put a bit of money in the bank. Winter is coming, and—’ Her words were cut short by a painful bout of coughing and the young man leaned forward and touched Beryl’s arm.

‘The doctor said she mustn’t talk,’ he said urgently. ‘It tires her too much; she needs all her strength for breathing.’ He gestured for Beryl to move away from the couch and she did so, seeing that Emmy’s eyes had closed, as though she were too weary even to raise her lids. The officer pulled Beryl towards the window and then addressed her in an urgent undertone. ‘The doctor says it is consumption. He says she is very ill and must go to the chest hospital on Mount Pleasant and they will probably send her to a – to a
– I can’t remember the name, but it is a hospital far from here, where air is clean and recovery more possible. She will say no, but he tell me it is that, or . . . pouf! She will get worse and be unable to work. Then she will die.’

Beryl stared at him, horrified. She had noticed how his English grew worse and his accent stronger as he became agitated but she was sure he was not mistaken. If Emmy had been driving herself too hard, worrying too much, probably not eating properly, then she was just the sort of person who would be most at risk of catching the illness. Emmy’s father, after all, had died of it many years ago. Beryl thought back; Emmy had always appeared frail but there had been a healthy glow and a fluidity of movement which had given the lie to her apparent fragility. Now, this had disappeared. Brittle, terribly thin and wheezing like an old man, she was white as a sheet, save for two spots of burning colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were blue-shadowed, whilst the bones of her face could almost be seen through the translucent pallor of her skin.

‘I see,’ Beryl said slowly. ‘It’ll be a sanatorium you’re meaning, Mr – Mr . . .’

‘First Officer Johansson, of SS
Queen of the South
,’ the young man said, belatedly pulling off his cap and bowing slightly. ‘You, I know, are Mrs Fisher, her great friend. When the doctor made his pronouncement, she began to say at once that she must go to Beryl – I’m sorry, that is rude, but it is what she did say – so when I realised she was serious I put her in a taxi and brought her to Raymond Street, only he would not come into the court and by then she could hardly walk. Still, we are here now, and you will tell me what I must do.’

Despite herself, Beryl smiled. It seemed that this young man intended to take her advice over Emmy’s welfare, and that suited her just fine. ‘For a start, Mr Johansson, you may give me a hand in making up this sofa as a bed. Diana is in the kitchen, eating her supper; as soon as she is finished, she can pop in to say goodnight to her mam, and then she can share my daughter Becky’s bed. When do you have to return to your ship?’

Once more, the hunted look appeared in Mr Johansson’s face. ‘That is the trouble; I tried to explain to the doctor but I was very upset and perhaps got many words wrong. I have to be back on board by midnight, since we sail at dawn, when the tide is right. I could apply for leave of absence but I do not know if my captain would permit. As I said before, Mrs Wesley is not my relative and I have no rights . . .’

‘Don’t you worry yourself, lad – Mr Johansson, I mean,’ Beryl said quickly. ‘I’ll take her to the Mount Pleasant hospital myself, first thing in the morning. That will give us a chance to make arrangements about Diana and for Em to get a few things together.’

Mr Johansson could not hide the relief he felt, though he said: ‘But will she go with you, Mrs Fisher? If she refuses . . .’

‘Don’t you fret yourself; she won’t refuse,’ Beryl said grimly. ‘One glance at her face told me she were at the end of her tether. There’s no alternative, Mr Johansson, not when it’s live or die. Our Em loves life and she loves Diana . . . mebbe, she even loves me a bit. She’s got plenty of sense, has Em, and when it comes right down to it she’ll go into that sanatorium knowing full well I’d never let her down. Now you stay with her while I go and fetch some bedding,
and next time your ship docks in the port of Liverpool you come straight round here, understand? And I’ll tell you how she’s keeping and where you can find her.’

Diana lay in bed beside Becky, completely exhausted. When Beryl had told her that her mother was really ill and might have to go to the sanatorium to be made well again, she had known that it was her fault. The eviction of the Telfords, which had seemed such a cruel and terrible thing, paled into insignificance beside her mother’s illness and had, in fact, gone right out of Diana’s head. It had haunted her that, for the first time in her whole life, she had ignored her mother’s wishes and gone her own way. She had known she would be making Emmy unhappy and miserable and had hoped that she would make the hated Carl unhappy, too, but she had never meant to make Emmy ill. Since her father’s death, she and Emmy had grown closer and closer and Diana realised that life without her mother would be unendurable, especially as she now blamed herself for the whole, horrible business.

Aunty Beryl had assured her that it was not her fault, that the consumption which was the cause of Emmy’s illness must have been getting worse and worse for some time. To be sure, Diana’s running away might have brought things to a head, but by and large this was a good thing, Beryl had said. It meant that Emmy now had a chance of recovery, whereas if she had gone on hiding her illness from everyone, she might have left it too late to get treatment.

It had taken a long time to convince Diana that it was not her own behaviour which had caused her
mother’s collapse, but when even Charlie joined in, saying gruffly that of course they all knew that she was real fond of her mother and wouldn’t do nothing to hurt her, not for the whole world, she had begun to feel a little better. She had drunk a mug of hot milk, eaten two biscuits, and gone up to bed, squeezing in beside Becky. But since the last thing she had done before climbing the stairs had been to visit her mother, lying limp and pale on the sofa in the parlour, she had cried bitterly once she got into bed, soaking her pillow with frightened tears. She
did
love Emmy, she did, she did, and though Aunty Beryl had told her that she might live with the Fishers whilst her mother was in the sanatorium, she still dreaded Emmy’s departure. Aunty Beryl had been certain that Emmy would recover but once she was alone, in the dark, Diana found that she was not so sure. After all, no one had ever thought that Daddy would be killed; he was young and strong, yet he had still died. Emmy, lying on the sofa with her eyes closed, had looked both old and weak to Diana.