Two Penn'orth of Sky (31 page)

Johnny sighed. ‘Oh, that,’ he said, almost dismissively. ‘We never did get married, me and Rhian. She were a nice girl, but the truth is, queen, I took up wi’ her on the rebound and after a bit we both realised we’d made a mistake. When I heard about Peter’s death – oh, Emmy, my heart bled for you, honest to God it did – I thought about trying my luck again, but I knew it were too soon. Now, I’m more organised and I might have tried again, but me mam telled me you’d took up wi’ the officer who were best man at your wedding. Oh, but Emmy, I’ve missed you so much!’

Emmy felt quite guilty because she could not pretend to similar feelings. She had not thought about Johnny at all since losing Peter, but of course she could scarcely say so. Instead, she said rather feebly: ‘Well . . . I thought you were married – out of the running, so to speak. And d’you mean to tell me you’ve not got another young lady?’ She smiled up at him, suddenly feeling a surge of her old affection. ‘Are all the young ladies of Llandudno blind, then?’

Johnny laughed with her. ‘I told you I’d been busy, an’ I meant it,’ he said reprovingly. ‘I’ve started a guest house, Em, specially for folk from Liverpool. Actually, it were me Aunt Carrie’s idea. She’s me dad’s sister-in-law an’ she come into some money when my uncle died. She knew I were at a bit of a loose end so she asked me to help her find a decent place, down on the coast. We chose Llandudno
because it’s lively and thriving, and property weren’t that expensive, unless it overlooked the seafront, of course. Aunt put all her savings into buying the house, an’ I put all mine into painting and decorating.’ He grinned at Emmy. ‘It were rare fun,’ he admitted. ‘We went to auctions – or rather, I did – and bought furniture, beds, linen, the lot. We started up last March, advertisin’ in the
Echo
, always keepin’ our prices a bob or two below what everyone else were chargin’, and we’ve been full, just about, ever since we opened.’

His excitement was so evident that Emmy found herself excited too. She beamed at him. ‘Who does the cooking? And the cleaning? I bet it’s your poor Aunt Carrie,’ she said. ‘What do
you
do in this enterprise, my old pal?’

Johnny laughed delightedly. ‘I cook, I clean, I serve at table and do the garden,’ he announced gleefully. ‘I’m a dab hand with a frying pan and I make a bed neat as you like, wash the sheets in the dolly tub, hang ’em on the line . . .’

Emmy knew her eyes had rounded with astonishment. Johnny had been like all the men in the court, thinking that domestic chores were for women, and cooking was no suitable occupation for a man. ‘You’ve changed,’ she said, almost accusingly. ‘You never lifted a finger when you lived at home with your mam.’

‘Well, I do now. It were part of the agreement Aunt and meself signed,’ Johnny assured her. ‘But we do have help in the house, now we’re established. Bethan – she’s the maid – does a lot of the housework and Mrs Crabb comes in each day to do scrubbin’ an’ that.’

Emmy was about to question Johnny further when the door opened and Sister Alma Evans came in. She
was rather a favourite with Emmy, but now she was frowning and shaking her head. ‘I told you no longer than fifteen minutes, Mr Frost,’ she said reprovingly. ‘We try to keep visiting down to the minimum for the first six months; it’s really close relatives only, but since you said you’d come all the way from Liverpool I made an exception. Now say goodbye to Mrs Wesley and be off, or you’ll miss your last train.’

Johnny looked a little sheepish but got up at once. ‘If I promise to stick to fifteen minutes, can I come again, Sister? Emmy an’ me – I mean, Mrs Wesley an’ me – is old friends.’

‘We’ll see,’ Sister Evans said, though she gave Emmy a little nod as Johnny turned to leave the ward. ‘Mrs Wesley has a great many friends who want to visit, but they realise her welfare must come first, so they obey our rules. Her sister, Beryl, and daughter Diana have only been three times because when they come they stay a couple of hours, and though Mrs Wesley will not admit it, such visits exhaust her. Now run along, Mr Frost, do.’

As Johnny left the ward, closing the door softly behind him, Emmy sank back on her pillows, suddenly aware of the truth of Sister’s words. It had been lovely seeing Johnny. For a moment, she had felt young again and almost well, but now she was totally exhausted. She put out a hand to pick up the kettle holder and let it drop. Breathing was difficult; she felt as though a tight band encircled her ribs and, for the first time, she realised that the staff were right when they said that laughter and excitement were not good for her. The truth was, she had tried to respond to Johnny in the light, flirtatious way she had always behaved with young men, and it had worn her out. She must be careful never to do such
a thing again and found herself half hoping that next time Johnny called, he would be denied admittance.

Sister Evans had left the ward when Johnny did, but now she reappeared, carrying a bottle and glass. She smiled reassuringly at Emmy, then poured a dose of the bright pink medicine into the glass, and held it to her patient’s lips. ‘Drink it slowly but drink it all up,’ she commanded. ‘I imagine, from the look on your face, that you now realise there’s method in our madness; quiet and calm are your best friends and emotion, even joy, is an enemy. That’s why we try to keep visiting to a minimum; it’s for your good, not because we are bitter old spoilsports.’

‘Oh, I know
you
aren’t, Sister,’ Emmy said, rather breathlessly. ‘But some of the staff seem to enjoy keeping us under.’

Sister Evans smiled. ‘Maybe, maybe. And now, Mrs Wesley, I think it’s time you had a rest. So I’ll make you comfortable and then leave you. And don’t forget, we are here to help you to get better, but for that we need your co-operation, so if the young man does call again, you must keep an eye on the clock at the end of the ward and turn him out after fifteen minutes.’

Snuggling down in the bed, Emmy agreed, drowsily, to do as Sister said. The ward was quiet now, and cold, the air blowing through the open windows distinctly nippy, though it was mid-afternoon and the sun was shining. Johnny can’t possibly have tired me that much, Emmy was telling herself, as Sister Evans tiptoed from the room. I’ll never sleep, and anyway the others will make a row when they come back in and that should be any moment now. No, I’ll never slee—

She slept.

*

It was a wild March day. Diana and Becky were off to do the messages, pushing the rickety old pram with Bobby and Jimmy aboard and having to raise their voices to a shout just to be heard. Diana, however, was not talking much because she was thinking about her mother, and the letter she had received from her that morning. It had been a cheerful letter, though Emmy had complained that the gusting wind off the Irish Sea had kept her awake half the night, slamming against the long windows which were so rarely shut, and rattling the panes noisily.

Diana had last visited Emmy on Boxing Day and had been struck by the improvement in her mother’s looks. Wisteria Ward had been decorated with holly and ivy and even some paper chains, made by the patients, and there had been a nice dinner, served in the dining room, to which Beryl and Diana had been invited. Diana had been thrilled because her mother, wrapped in the most beautiful pale blue dressing gown, and wearing the slippers which all the Fisher children, and Diana, had saved up to buy, had come down to the dining room, too. It had been her first meal not taken on the ward, and, though she had been warned not to get too excited, Diana could tell from her mother’s bright eyes and pink cheeks that she was enjoying the occasion immensely. However, though she looked a little stronger, Diana did not think she was progressing as fast as she should, and had felt once more a rush of guilt. She knew now it was not her fault that Emmy had been struck down by consumption, so the guilt was not for that; it was because within days of her mother’s going into the sanatorium she, Diana, had been suddenly conscious of a sort of lightness, as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

At first, this had not worried her, because she did not understand the reason for it; she simply rejoiced in the feeling that she was now a member of the much admired, much envied Fisher family. Then, one day, the truth had struck her. Ever since her father’s death, she had felt responsible, not only for her own well-being, but for Emmy’s too. She had thought of herself not as a child any more, but as a responsible person who must support her mother in all things and cast aside any desire to join in childish games or take part in juvenile pranks. Other kids might tie door knockers together, knock on doors and run away, or nick a few fades from the apple seller on the corner of Byrom Street and Alexander Pope Street, but she must do no such thing.

Being left in Mrs Symons’s care had made things worse. The old lady was intelligent and lively but physically very disabled. She needed a great deal of help, and though Diana had been happy enough to give such help, the responsibility for the old lady had weighed heavier on her than she had realised. When Aunty Beryl had said, bluntly, that she needed Diana at home and could not spare her to the Symonses, Diana had been conscious of an enormous surge of relief – and that had made her feel guilty, too. She was truly fond of old Mrs Symons, had believed she enjoyed helping her, yet she knew that any regrets over the loss of the old lady’s companionship would be more than outweighed by her increased sense of freedom.

So now she was a child again, a member of a large and happy family, and though there was little money to spare, and always another job to be done, she undertook such tasks willingly, knowing that once the messages were finished she was free to play out until Aunty Beryl called her in for her next meal.

Despite missing her mother, Diana was doing very nicely. Schoolwork had always come easily to her, so her marks were good. Charlie had unbent enough to promise that he would take her fishing in the canal when next he went, and she and Lenny had gone to the market and begged orange boxes from the stallholders to be taken home and chopped into kindling, which they would sell from house to house at a farthing a bundle after school.

‘Is we nearly there, Di?’ Becky’s voice was plaintive, for her legs were a good deal shorter than Diana’s, and, because she had been thinking, Diana had been walking fast.

Contritely, she slowed her pace. ‘Sorry, Becky; want a lift in the pram?’ she asked. Becky shook her head and Diana smiled at her and smoothed the soft, mousy hair back from the younger child’s forehead. ‘You’re a good girl, old Becky,’ she said. ‘You shall have first go on the swings and I’ll push you high as the sky. Tell you what, when we’ve got the messages, we’ll share a couple of sherbet dabs. How about that?’

Beryl, alone in her kitchen for once, was making bread. She pushed the dough into half a dozen large loaf tins, then stood them near the fire to prove. By the time they had risen, she trusted that either the boys or Diana and Becky would be back, so that they could take the tins along to Skillicorn’s bakery on the corner of Blenheim Street. Beryl would have liked to bake her own bread, in her own oven, but it was too small to hold a week’s supply and anyway she could not do with constantly having to turn the tins so that the bread continued to rise evenly. Instead, she would cook a large batch of sultana cakes. Well
wrapped in greaseproof paper and put into sealed tins, these would last the family as long as a month, if she was careful and cut the slices thin.

And now I’d best start the washing, Beryl told herself, glancing towards the window. It was always difficult to guess what the weather was like in the court, but judging from the draught which hissed and whistled under the kitchen door there would be a good drying wind, and she had all McNab’s tablecloths awaiting her attention. She always took her laundry along to the local washhouse, where she had plenty of room to wash, rinse and starch, and of course the place was criss-crossed with lines where it could be left to drip. But Beryl never took advantage of this last facility; she could not spare the time to sit on one of the long benches and gossip with the other women whilst the tablecloths dried. As for leaving them, that was out of the question; it was not unknown for one of the women, either accidentally or on purpose, to take a good item in place of a worn one, and Beryl shuddered at the thought of losing so much as a napkin, for old Mrs McNab was a real tartar and would probably take the work away from her, as well as charging her double the lost articles’ value.

The tablecloths were tied up into a big fat bundle and Beryl was about to hoist it on to her head – easily the best way to carry such a burden – when the kitchen door burst open and the boys erupted into the room. ‘Hey up, Ma,’ Charlie said cheerfully. ‘Gorrany messages? Or have them gals done the lot?’

Bones, entering the kitchen just ahead of Lenny, was carrying a large marrow bone in his jaws. He laid it carefully on the hearthrug and collapsed beside
it, putting one proprietorial, hairy paw upon it when he saw Beryl watching him.

‘The girls have gone to get my messages, but I was hoping you boys would come back in time to take the loaves to the baker,’ Beryl admitted. She glanced, reproachfully, from the large marrow bone to Charlie’s face. ‘Why did you give that bone to him before I’ve boiled the stock out of it?’

Charlie laughed. ‘I didn’t give it to him; the butcher’s boy from Granby’s did, and old Bones fastened on to it like glue. But I dare say you could boil it anyway, ’cos he’s hardly started it,’ he added generously.

It was Beryl’s turn to laugh. ‘He’s a good-natured old feller, but I won’t deprive him of his meal,’ she said. ‘If you go round to the Todds, they’ll lend you their handcart so you can take all the loaves at once, and by the time you get back I’ll be home from the washhouse and have dinner on the go.’

‘That’s great, Mam,’ Charlie said eagerly, whilst Lenny asked if they could have a bit of bread and jam to keep them going until dinner was ready. Beryl nodded and fetched the remains of the loaf from the cupboard, cutting two generous slices and smearing them, thinly, with plum jam. ‘What
is
for dinner, anyroad?’