‘What am I s’posed ter do?’ Joe asked them. ‘The man needs a doctor.’
The women were adamant and Joe reluctantly agreed to call into the shop. He found Misery sitting on an upturned box behind the counter with his head in his hands, mumbling loudly to himself.
‘What’s the matter mate?’ Joe asked quietly.
Misery did not answer. Instead, his shoulders suddenly heaved and he began to cry.
Joe walked round the counter and put his hand on Misery’s shoulder. ‘C’mon, mate. Let’s get yer upstairs. Yer need a doctor.’
Misery did not resist as Joe led him up the stairs, and when they reached the landing the shop owner stood with head bowed. Joe opened the door facing the stairs and recoiled in horror at what he saw. He walked slowly into the room and looked around in bewilderment. The tattered curtains were drawn and the stale-smelling room was lit by dozens of thick candles which stood in dirty saucers. One wall was covered with faded photographs of a young woman who smiled down into the room. A vase holding coloured paper flowers was standing on the mantelshelf, and beside the vase there was a small framed photograph of two young people posed together outside a building. The smart young man wore a flower in his coat lapel and the pretty young girl was holding on to his arm. In the centre of the room the table was laid for two. Cobwebs covered the plates, knives and forks, and beside one of the plates there was a small parcel tied with ribbon. In one corner of the room there was an unmade camp bed with a chair placed at the head. Misery Martin slumped down on the dirty blanket, his head in his hands, his eyes staring down at his feet. As Joe backed towards the door, hardly able to take his eyes from the scene, he caught sight of the little photograph on the wall above the bed. It was of the young girl but, unlike the other photos, it was draped in black velvet.
‘The poor bastard!’ he whispered aloud as he left the room and hurried down the stairs to fetch the doctor.
Chapter Thirteen
Connie got dressed quickly. It was Monday morning and she had slept through the alarm. The kettle seemed to take an eternity to boil, and the toast burnt under the gas-stove grill. Outside the window she could see the rain falling from a leaden sky, and down in the street the milkman was pushing his heavy cart over the slippery cobbles. One or two people hurried along beneath umbrellas and she saw the local policeman talking to old George Baker at his front door. Outside, everything was the same as usual but for Connie the morning was different. She felt excited as she scraped the carbon from the toast and spread a thin coating of marmalade over the two thick slices. The tea was hot and she glanced again anxiously at the clock as she blew on the cup. Up on the mantelshelf was Michael’s latest letter to her and in it he said that he might be home by Christmas. The holiday seemed a long way off to Connie and she stared at the letter as she finished her toast. In two weeks’ time she would be seventeen and at that moment she felt much older. Robert Armitage was returning after a spell away from the factory and today she would see him.
The canteen was hot and steamy and a pile of potatoes awaited Connie as she took off her wet coat. The short dash across the street had been enough to soak her and, as she dabbed her hair on a towel, Dot came over and pointed to the sacks of cabbages in one corner.
‘Yer’ll ’ave ter get that lot done before yer lay the managers’ table, Con. That bleedin’ Emma ain’t showed up this mornin’.’
Connie began peeling the potatoes. Without Emma chattering away incessantly, Connie was able to gather her thoughts, and it was with a feeling of excitement that she recalled the conversation she had had with Robert before he left. He had been very attentive whenever he saw her and often asked about Michael. Connie remembered how this time he had made much of the fact that her boyfriend would be away for quite a time, and had suggested that if she was feeling lonely she might like to go to a show with him when he got back from his business trip. Robert had made it clear that it would be merely a friendly evening out and she would have nothing to reproach herself for. Connie had been taken aback by the invitation and said she would let him know as soon as he returned. She thought that it could be asking for trouble to accept his offer, but she knew it would be hard to refuse him. She had tried to keep her distance since Michael had left but Robert always seemed to be around. He was good looking, and she found his easy, relaxed manner very appealing. Her legs would feel like jelly whenever he talked to her, and many nights she had lain awake in her bed thinking of him. It was not right, she told herself, she should be thinking of Michael. Nevertheless she was eager to see Robert again.
Connie looked at the diminishing pile of potatoes and realised that she had been peeling them with a vengeance. Life was very boring at the moment. During the days there was the grind of the factory canteen and in the evenings the often uncomfortable time spent at the Bartletts’ flat. Helen and Matthew argued a lot because of the constant shortage of money and Molly had grown resentful of Connie’s relationship with Michael. Occasionally the two cousins went for short walks, but the spinal jacket Molly wore made it difficult for her to go out very far without discomfort. At the pictures it was the same. Molly became more irritable, and Connie had to bite on her tongue to stop her making some retort that she would regret. Worst of all, there were the regular visits to the sanatorium. She would always come away feeling sad and depressed. Kate was becoming less talkative, and it was obvious to Connie that her mother was getting weaker. She had never told Kate about Michael and it had been an agreement between Connie and the Bartletts not to mention anything to Kate until she was feeling better. The Rileys had obviously not said anything to the Bartletts about Michael going back to the flat and for that Connie was grateful. So Robert was the one bright thing in her mundane existence.
As the morning wore on Connie became more anxious. She knew that to agree to Robert’s suggestion of an evening out might well mean the start of a relationship that she could regret. It would be hard to resist his good looks and charming ways for long, she felt sure. Connie thought hard about her predicament, and she realised that she might not have been so mixed up and confused had she not taken Michael back to her flat that evening before he left. Her childish expectations of ecstasy had been let down when she had let him make love to her. Her face flushed with the recollection. It was the first time she had ever made love, and she had been anxious for her breathless need to be sated. Michael had never been with a woman before, and his fumbling and inexperience had left her unsatisfied, cheated of fulfilment. She had told him that it had been good, but he had known that she was lying, and his repeated words of concern had only irked her.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Dot called over to her. ‘Leave the rest o’ the veg. I’ll finish it. You’d better get that table laid.’
At ten minutes past midday Robert looked in at the door and spotted Connie setting the places. ‘Hello, young lady. It’s nice to see you again,’ he said brightly.
Connie flushed with embarrassment and smiled at him. ‘’Ello. Did yer enjoy yer trip?’ she said awkwardly.
Robert thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders. ‘It wasn’t bad. I was in Birmingham at an engineering exhibition. We’re thinking of putting some new machinery in the factory.’
‘Oh,’ was all Connie could muster, and Robert smiled.
‘It’s all boring stuff. Did you give some thought to what we talked about?’
‘About goin’ out?’
‘Yes . . .’
Connie looked down at the table. ‘I don’t fink I should.’
Robert touched her arm gently. ‘Look. There’s a good musical show up town. Do you like musicals?’
Connie had never been to a show but she nodded. ‘Yes I do.’
‘Well then. What about tomorrow evening?’
It was wrong, she knew, but she couldn’t say no to him. He looked totally disarming. His boyish smile made her feel breathless with excitement, and she looked into his pale-blue eyes and swallowed hard. ‘Yes, okay,’ she said.
Claudette Armitage put the telephone down with an exaggerated display of petulance. ‘Really, Peter. I do think Stewart should have ordered the marquee by now,’ she began. ‘After all, he did agree. I can’t be expected to do everything myself. There are the drinks and the buffet to see to, and I suppose Reverend Jones will be asking me to organise the home-made jam competition again this year. It’s too much, really it is.’
Peter grinned to himself as he stayed hidden behind the evening paper. Claudette was working herself up into one of her hysterical moods, and those required very special handling. ‘You’re quite right, dear. You can’t be expected to do it all,’ he said in a tone of concern. ‘In fact the fête would be an absolute disaster if it wasn’t for you.’
His sympathetic words soothed Claudette somewhat and she sat down to consult her notebook once more. ‘Now let me see,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I must phone the Marchants tomorrow. They’ll need time to make arrangements. I wouldn’t like Eunice to miss the day, now that Robert is back.’
Peter puffed silently behind his paper. He had always considered Clarence Marchant to be an unmitigated bore. He drank too much for a start, and he usually managed to upset one or two of the elderly lady committee members with his bawdy comments. He was also prone to ogle the young girls with his bleary, lecherous eyes. His long-suffering wife Mabel was so wrapped up in her charity work at the fête, that she didn’t seem to notice her husband’s boorish behaviour or, if she did, she pretended not to. Yes, Major Clarence Marchant was insufferable, Peter decided, switching his thoughts to Eunice, the Marchants’ daughter. It was obvious to him that Robert partnered her at the fêtes only out of good manners and he knew, too, that his son was bored to distraction with the whole rigmarole. Peter secretly wished that Claudette would be more observant – her role of matchmaker was one function she would do well to relinquish.
During the evening the notebook was consulted thoroughly and a few more ticks placed against names. Claudette made at least a dozen calls and Peter watched with amusement as his wife performed, her repertoire ranging from thinly disguised irritation to gushing patronage. She was in her element and loving every minute of being the fête organiser. In fact, she was elected every year, and she invariably accepted with a contrived show of reluctance. ‘I’m sure someone else could do a much better job than I,’ she would say demurely.
‘But you always do such a tremendous job, Claudette, and it all goes off so smoothly,’ the Reverend Jones would always reply.
All the committee members around the vestry table would nod their heads and allow Claudette to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘All right then. If you insist.’
Peter dreaded the day when the rest of the committee did not insist. The annual fête was the highlight of his wife’s social calendar.
For Claudette, the evening had been reasonably successful. The usual volunteers had been recruited. The jam ladies would be eagerly competing for the coveted silver jam pot, and Miss Harcourt would be on hand again this year with a thunderingly good aria. The Waverley sisters had already started making woollen egg muffs, tasselled tea cosies and long woollen bedsocks. Cyril Thomas, landlord of the village pub, had been pressed into donating a barrel of ale, and old James the village postman had agreed to go through his musical spoon routine. Yes, it was fairly encouraging. Must have a word with Robert though, she thought, looking over to her husband who was nodding off in his armchair.
‘Peter, will Robert be coming home this evening?’ she asked loudly.
‘No,’ he yawned. ‘Robert’s going to see the Lupino Lane show at the Adelphi. He told me he’ll be staying over in London with a few friends.’
Claudette pulled a face. ‘I do hope he realises the fête’s this weekend. I don’t want him making other arrangements.’
Peter dutifully said he would remind him. He wished he was in a position to make other arrangements himself, instead of having to escort the Waverley sisters to the homemade jam table and wait while they nibbled on jam-smeared wafer biscuits and deliberated for what would seem an eternity.
The evening traffic was heavy, with drivers hooting and cursing as they were held up by trams and buses stopping and starting. Tired horses held their heads low as they plodded homewards, their carts slowing the traffic to a crawl. Weary office workers streamed over Waterloo Bridge and, down below the iron girders, beneath the noise and bustle, the quiet river flowed swiftly on to the open sea. The autumn night was already lit by a yellow moon which appeared low in the sky downriver. On the bridge the slow traffic began to move a little and the taxi driver slipped into the near side, ready to pull up by the Strand. His passengers sat, comfortable and warm, in the back. The young man was reclining with his arms folded, occasionally glancing at the expression on his partner’s face. The young girl was wide-eyed and attentive to everything around her. It was the first time she had travelled in a London taxi cab and the prospect of seeing a real live show excited her. Robert smiled and pointed to the huge stone building which ran along the river front.
‘See that place,’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s Somerset House. We’re all in there somewhere. It’s where they keep a register of births, deaths and marriages.’
Connie followed his eyes. She could see lights twinkling downriver and the laughing, mocking face of the rising moon. A momentary panic gripped her as the promise she made to Michael flashed into her mind.
I won’t go on any dates, Mick,
and she paled.
‘You okay?’ Robert asked, concerned.
Connie smiled. ‘It’s exciting. I’ve never bin in a taxi before.’
The cab driver pulled into the kerb and the two passengers got out. Robert handed over the fare and waved the change away.