The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (17 page)

‘In the long run,’ Mum smiles enigmatically.  ‘We always have to look at everything in the long run.’  A brief pause.  ‘Now tell me, how’s school?’

Immediately, I’m wary.  I hesitate.  School’s a subject to be avoided at any cost.

‘It’s fine.’ 

‘That doesn’t tell me much.  Have you decided what you want to do when you leave?’

‘I’m thinking of sitting an exam for a …’  The word lodges in my throat.  Mum might not be here now if it weren’t for that word.  I take a deep breath and force the word into my mouth.  ‘Scholarship … for a secretarial school.’  I glance round for a nurse in case Mum becomes agitated.

‘And when do you go for the scholarship?’ Mum asks, as if the word has never been the source of such anguish.

‘In a couple of weeks’ time at The Elite Secretarial School, although if I get it, I won’t start for a while.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do well.’  No words of advice or opinions, no “don’t forgets” or “you musts”.

I try to carry on the conversation in as casual a way as my trembling voice will allow.  ‘I thought I’d try and look fairly clerical.  Wear a suit, you know.  What do you think?’ 

‘Wear anything you feel comfortable in.’  Mum pushes the cuticles back from her nails with her thumb.

‘You think so?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

This is the mother I’ve always wanted: this serene woman with beautiful hands, who allows me to form opinions of my own and make independent decisions.  So why does the chasm inside me seem as wide as ever?

The Chairman of the Council Housing Committee, circled by a handful of officials, stands on a manicured piece of grass where the bombsite had once been. Through a megaphone, he announces that the desert has blossomed like a rose, and love, laughter, good health and happiness are replacing the sorrow and degradation of the bombsite.  ‘The past is now buried and forgotten under this
glorious edifice
, he says, surveying the identical red brick boxes that are intersected by a newly asphalted road curving towards the High Street, surrounded by freshly laid turf and dotted with the occasional spindly tree.  ‘Soon the whole neighbourhood will be transformed,’ he continues to restrained applause.

I think about my coloured glass treasure and Tony’s camp, sealed forever under “this
glorious edifice
”, but Angela claps and shouts, ‘It’s about time something was done about the dump.’

The day I sit the scholarship examination, Herbie Armitage and his family move into a top storey flat on the new
Browning Estate
.  Angela says she doesn’t care if Herbie Armitage lives down a hole, while I lay awake at night worrying that from his flat he’ll be able to look directly down on to our house.  I hate this loss of anonymity.  I hate being watched from observation posts above us.  I don’t know how Mum will react when she returns.  Perhaps she’ll simply take it as part of the changes that have transformed us all forever.  As for Dad, he appears not to notice, and loads his ladders on and off his motorcycle sidecar, oblivious to the overbearing blocks and their prying sky dwellers.

Bill’s waiting outside when I emerge from the Elite Secretarial School after sitting the scholarship exam. 

‘How did it go?’ he asks without explaining why he’s here, or the reason he’s wearing his best suit, laundered white shirt and black and red striped tie.

‘I think it went all right, but what’re you doing here?’

‘I needed to get some material from John Lewis, so I thought I might as well pop round the corner and find out how you got on.’  As if it’s the natural thing to do, Bill takes my arm.  ‘What about tea at Lyons Corner House?’

‘I have to get back.  Dad’s expecting me.’

‘We’ll leave before the rush hour, I promise.  I don’t get too many opportunities for a social outing and I really do want to hear how you got on.’

‘All right.’  Who would turn down an invitation to Lyons Corner House?  Nevertheless, I disentangle my arm from Bill’s.

‘Did the meeting with the director of the school go well?’ he asks, as we sit at a table covered with a startling white table cloth and laid with a bone china tea set. 

‘I think so.  He said they’d had a letter from my head mistress, together with my examination results.’  I spread cream onto a thin square of bread that I’ve already smeared with jam.  The cream looks like the mixture Mrs Heathman spooned into little round tins.  Eaten here, though, it tastes altogether different to when we’d plastered it onto homemade bread in the Heathman’s kitchen.

‘He said they’ll let me know within a month.’

‘If you want to have a go at typing before then, I’ve picked up a typewriter together with a desk and chair in a furniture sale.  They were going for a song.  You can try it out when you come to practise the piano if you like.’  Bill bites into a doughnut.

‘Thanks, but maybe I’ll wait until I know whether I’ve got the scholarship.’

‘Look, I know you’re an independent young woman, and I know I’ve said this before, but if you don’t get the scholarship – I’m sure you will – but if you don’t, I’d be pleased to fund your training myself.   I’m sure we could arrange it in a way that nobody would have to know.’

Suddenly the cream tastes sour.  Who does Bill think I am, to offer me money like this? 

‘I don’t want your money or your typewriter, not even the piano.  I don’t need them.’  Distractedly, I look for my jacket, before I realise a waitress has taken it from me and hung it up.  ‘I want to go.’

Bill rises with me.  ‘I’m sorry.   I never meant to upset you.  I’ve only ever wanted to help.’

I ignore him and thread my way through the tables, and grab my coat from a hanger.  Out in the street I negotiate the crowds of workers and tourists.  

‘Paula, wait!’ Bill calls after me.

‘Go away.’  I bump into a woman.  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I mumble and immediately walk into a knot of people waiting to cross the road.

I continue to flee, pushing my way through the Oxford Street crowds.  Why am I running away from Bill, when it’s Bill I’ve always run
to
?  I keep going.

‘You’ll need this,’ Bill puffs, catching up with me at the entrance to Oxford Circus Underground Station.  His tie is askew, and perspiration has made his face shiny.  He extracts an envelope from his pocket and points it towards me.  ‘It’s the details of the place for Angela.’

I dart towards him and snatch it.  ‘It’s the last thing I ever want from you.  I wouldn’t take it at all if it wasn’t for Angela.  And … and …’ My breath comes in shaky sobs.  ‘Don’t ever go near my mother again, or … or … I’ll tell my father.’

‘Wait, Paula, please wait.’

‘You’re causing a congestion,’ a man in a bowler hat complains.

I descend the escalator two stairs at a time.  I never want to see Bill again.

Chapter Nineteen

‘I’d hug you if I could get close enough.’  Angela lumbers down the steps of the rambling house she is now staying in, and towards me.

‘This place looks really nice and it isn’t too difficult to get to.’

‘Yeah, on the whole, it’s not bad, and the other girls are all right too.  One of them went into labour this morning.  It makes me think my time can’t be long.’ Angela looks into the distance at a clump of trees.  ‘They’ve already got a good home for the baby as soon as it’s two weeks old.  When it’s born they’ll take it away from me so as I can’t get attached to it, matron says.  Mind you, the old girl isn’t too bad, even though she tells us every five minutes we’re here through our own folly and that we have to face the consequences.’

‘Whatever she says, you look really healthy, ever so much better than you did back in Blountmere Street.’

‘I might look better, but I still miss the place.  How’re the flats going?  Everybody moved in?’

‘They’re not all occupied.  But already it’s like living in an anthill.’

‘You’ll have to get used to them because they’re not going to pull them down.  Anyway, I can’t understand why you don’t like them.  They give the place a bit of life.  Personally, I can’t wait to get back, even if it is without my baby.’  Angela brushes her hand across her face as if she’s trying to obliterate a dark shadow. 

The Autumn sun warms our faces and brown-gold leaves crackle beneath our feet as we pass a flower-bed still glowing red with the last of the summer salvias. 

‘I’ve got you to thank for everything, or at least that friend of yours for the money she sends.  You know, I still can’t understand how someone can just give money away like that, without knowing anything about me and not asking for it back.’

‘Some people are just philanthropic.’

‘Fill and what?  Blimey, Paul, you get more educated every day.’

‘Some people get a lot of pleasure out of giving.’

‘All I can say is bless her lovely soul.  It makes all the difference to be able to send Mum some money and have enough left for a bit of fruit and that.  To be honest I don’t know what I’d have done without it.’

When I get a job, I’ll pay Bill back every last penny.  I regret not having been able to return it to him when I’d first opened the envelope, and ten pound note after ten pound note had fallen on to my bed.  But I’d known I couldn’t send it back.  Angela and Mrs Addington needed it.  I haven’t acknowledged it or contacted Bill.  When I’ve saved the money I’ll simply put it in an envelope and return it.  It will be my final contact with him. 

‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to know the money’s helped.’ I reply, still thinking of Bill and his stupid generosity or whatever it is.

‘He?  I thought you said your friend was a woman.’

‘Oh yes, she.’

In an ungainly move, Angela swivels to face me.  ‘It’s a bloke who’s been giving you the money, isn’t it?  Not a woman.’

‘It’s just … ’

‘You’ve got some fancy rich boyfriend.  You’re a dark one and no mistake.  Not a word and here you are with a fancy man.’

‘He’s not a fancy man, just a friend of the family.  And you’re not to say anything to anyone.’

Angela studies me.  ‘I’m not surprised.’

‘About what?’

‘Not surprised you’ve got a fancy man.  You’re really attractive, you know.’

‘He’s not my fancy man.’

‘When we were kids I used to think you were ugly, but you’ve changed a lot. Surely you must notice all the blokes looking at you when we go shopping.  I think it’s your eyes.  They’re the colour of those mauve enemas you get round about Mother’s Day.’

‘Anemones.  They’re called anemones.  Anyway, don’t be silly.  Mum used to say I’d only pass with a push.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t need much of a shove now.  I can see how this bloke fancies you.  He’d be daft if he didn’t.’

I turn the envelope over in my hand.  At the bottom is printed,
The Elite Secretarial School
–
Training the Secretaries of the Future
.  I had begun to think I wouldn’t hear from them. 

‘Well go on, open it.’  Dad places his leather and scrim into a bucket, ready to start his day’s work.

‘You open it,’ I say, offering Dad the envelope.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.  It’s addressed to you.  Here’s a knife.  Now get on with it, I haven’t got all day.’ 

I insert the knife into the envelope and shakily cut along the edge.  ‘If I haven’t got a scholarship, I’ve made up my mind to apply for a job at Hendersons.  Angela says they always need people.  I think I’d quite like it there.  Angela did.  That’s … before she left to work at the seaside for a few months,’ I tell Dad before  extracting the letter.

‘Well, go on, what’s it say?’

‘I’ve got it!  I’ve been given a scholarship.  The Director says they’ll be sending me another letter with all the details.’

‘That’s good.’  Coming after Dad’s usual morning cursing, it’s as much as he can manage.

The specialist takes his usual stance by the window, avoiding eye contact with either Dad or me.  He says he’s glad to tell us that the patient we are related to is one of the people for whom the recommended treatment has been therapeutic.  It is undoubtedly bringing her from the darkness of dementia back to reality, although he cannot say how long her recovery will take, or if, indeed, she will regain her full mental processes.  Nor can he guarantee she will not relapse.  Given her progress, however, he feels it timely that the patient makes a rehabilitative visit to her home and family for a weekend.

No one seems to notice the car drawing up outside, but, then, it’s black and unobtrusive and, then again, who knows what the sky dwellers in the Cigar Box Kingdom see?  Perhaps there are some looking on who remember Mum’s shameful departure. 

Now, in place of a demented, naked woman, a serene blue-coated one steps from the car.  She turns her back without comment on the flats that in her absence have risen from the ruins, and walks sedately up the path.  She stops to pat Dad’s motorbike, and smiles distantly at the bare front garden, devoid of its summer geraniums and with the rose bushes pruned to stumps.

‘Welcome home.’  I propel Mum through the front door.  ‘Dad’s lit a fire in the front room just like at Christmas, especially for your homecoming.’

At the word “fire”, Mum makes a clicking sound and momentarily her bemused expression changes to one of frustration.  ‘What a waste of coal!  Haven’t I taught you not to waste coal?’

‘Don’t worry.  We’ve got plenty.  We had five hundredweight delivered last week.’

Mum already seems to have forgotten about coal, and allows me to take off her coat. ‘You’ve got it very nice in here.’  She casts around, as if she’s never seen the room before.

Under her coat, Mum is wearing a pale blue skirt and a white blouse with a frill around the neck and down the front.

‘Your blouse is lovely.’  Mum used to hate frilly things.

‘I like it,’ Mum says defensively.

Dad has retreated to the lean-to while Mum balances on the edge of an armchair, pushing the skin away from her cuticles.

‘Well, are you going to take me for a wander round the house or not?’ she asks at last.

I jump from my chair and help Mum from hers, although she complains she’s able to get up by herself, thank you very much.

In the scullery Mum touches various utensils as if she’s reuniting with them.  She rubs her fingers almost lovingly across the frying pan.  She lifts the bread-board, and examines it, before replacing it behind the bread bin where she’d always kept it. 

Surprisingly, she seems not to notice the oven, around which she’d spent so much time before she’d been admitted to the asylum, or the freshly painted kitchen cupboards.  As we approach the lean-to, Dad mumbles he has something to do in the garden and is already closing the door behind him by the time we enter.  The air is thick with its usual smell of geraniums and paraffin.  I remember Dad’s outburst when he built the sidecar and glance sideways at Mum, but she looks as if she’s forgotten the incident.

‘What’s your name?’ Mum asks stroking Betsy, who is lying asleep on a pile of newspapers.  ‘Your cat’s sweet,’ she observes and continues, ‘Quite a nice little place, this greenhouse.  I expect you find it comes in handy.’

Of all the things Dad and I have taken the most trouble over, it’s the tablecloth.  Mum had always been very particular about tablecloths.  Dad had put a blue bag in the water when we’d boiled it, and it had taken me half an hour to iron it.

‘This cloth’s a bit grubby,’ Mum observes as we sit round the table. Dad opens his mouth, then shuts it without saying a word.

‘Would you like to pour the tea, Mum?’  I invite.

Without answering, Mum takes hold of the tea pot.  ‘Tea for you?’ she asks Dad across the table. 

He grunts.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.  Was it a yes or a no?’

‘Yes,’ Dad moves his reddening neck inside his shirt.

‘Yes,
please
.  It’s rude not to say please.’

‘Please,’ Dad murmurs, the redness seeping into his jaw.

‘What do you think of the jam?  Dad and I made it.  Do you remember me telling you?’

‘It’s very nice, thank you.’

‘We pickled some onions as well, didn’t we, Dad?’

Dad helps himself to another slice of bread and doesn’t answer.

‘But they weren’t as nice as yours,’ I persevere.  ‘I don’t know what we did wrong.  They weren’t so crunchy.’

‘They need to be soaked in brine.’  Mum cuts the crusts from her bread.

Dad, busily buttering his bread, still doesn’t answer and I want to scream at him.  “Help me.  Please, please, help me.”

‘We’ll have to try pickling some more, although it won’t be long before you’re home for good, then you can show us as we go along.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And what does it feel like to be home now?’  I try to swallow the piece of bread and jam that seems to be stuck somewhere between the back of my tongue and my throat.

‘Very nice, thank you.’

‘I’ll start the washing up.’  Dad gets up from the table and leaves the room.

‘What d’you think of our television?  It’s even got a bubble glass to make the picture bigger.  Dad moved it into this room from the kitchen especially for you,’ I say.

‘First ones in the street are you?’  Mum asks.  ‘They’re a time-waster if you ask me.’

‘That’s what Mrs Addington says.’

Mum doesn’t answer.  The set of her mouth gives way to a vague smile as she contemplates her nails.

The evening wears on, with Mum for the most part staring at her hands.  She seems only occasionally aware the television is on, making some comment or the other and just as quickly losing interest.  I wonder how much longer I can bear the strain, when Dad asks, ‘Does your mother need to go to bed?’  Bedtime is the part of Mum's visit I’m dreading the most.  What if she refuses to get into bed with someone she seems to consider a stranger?  And what about Dad, how will he feel about it?   It had seemed somehow audacious to suggest Mum have my bed and that I sleep on the settee in the front room.  Mum and Dad have always slept together.

‘And give her one of those pills the nurse gave us.’  It’s obvious Dad wants Mum well asleep before he goes to bed.  Gently I take Mum’s hand and help her out of the armchair. 

‘I can get up by myself.  I’m not helpless, you know,’ Mum retaliates.  ‘Honestly, you’re a funny girl.’  Nevertheless, she is meek enough and straight afterwards, I say goodnight to Dad and, exhausted, flop into my bed.  How will we ever be able to live like this?  What will become of the three of us?

‘Did Mum sleep all right?’  I ask Dad the next morning, as I set the table for breakfast and Dad cleans the grate.

‘Like a baby.’ 

I knew Dad had got up early while Mum was still asleep. 

‘That’s good.’  It’s more than good.  I couldn’t have imagined Dad coping if Mum had begun acting strangely in the night.  Now she is sitting quietly stroking her nails in the front room.  She hadn’t resisted when I’d dressed her.  I hadn’t attempted to offer her a wash or do it myself, and she hadn’t said anything.

‘What’re you going to do with your mother today?’  Dad asks, with no suggestion that the three of us might do something together.

‘Perhaps I’ll take her to the market.  She might like that.’

‘It beats me what she’d like.  One minute she’s as right as rain, the next she’s gone doolally again.’

‘The nurse said this often happens, and with luck she’ll continue getting better.’ 

Dad huffs, ‘Let’s hope so.’

‘Is that the price they’re wanting for oranges?’ Mum asks, as the market sounds and smells entice me into its world.  ‘It’s scandalous,’ she clicks and continues to click as we make our way through the throngs of Saturday shoppers.  ‘And is that what they’re charging for eels?  They ought to be ashamed of themselves,’ Mum looks menacingly at the woman chopping the black worms into wriggling pieces.

‘Hello, stranger, ain’t seen you for a long whiles.’  A man brandishing a knife and slashing away the leaves from cauliflower heads in swashbuckler style greets Mum.

I take a breath to answer but Mum replies in a matter of fact tone.  ‘I haven’t been too well.’

‘Sorry to ‘ear that missus.  You feelin’ better now?’

‘Much better, thanks.’

We continue to wander past a string of stalls.  Mum feels the quality of material and stops to watch the crockery sellers.  It reminds me of the time I’d first met Bill.

‘Does your … brother still come to see you?’  I ask casually.

Still rubbing a piece of woollen fabric between her thumb and forefinger, Mum replies.  ‘He’s been busy lately.’

Despite Mum saying it had been good to go back to the market and had used my name twice, when we get off the bus and begin to walk down Blountmere Street, it seems to throw a veil over her.

‘Why don’t we get some crisps and a bottle of Tizer at Old Boy Barkers?’ I suggest, hoping to reawaken the old Mum again.  It’s like waiting for a baby to take another step after having witnessed the first ones.  But at Old Boy Barker’s Mum directs her gaze steadfastly ahead.  Even when he asks, ‘Feeling better, are we?’