September Starlings (40 page)

Neither of them smiled at my attempt to lighten this dynamite situation. Dad was still tapping, this time on the dashboard. ‘You’ll have lost your job at the library, of course,’ he said to Frank.

‘Daren’t go back.’ Frank looked sad, because he had loved his work. ‘So I’ll get no reference. But I’ve no address either, you see. Even if and when we do get an address, I won’t be able to give it out. Bernard will be at the library as soon as it opens. As my brother, he can soon persuade them to help in the search for me.’

Dad stopped tapping, had plainly started thinking. ‘Can you drive, Frank?’

‘Never had the chance. But the bad side of me could use a car clutch, I’d say.’

‘Then we’ll get you driving and you can work for me.’

Frank’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, then darkened just as quickly. ‘I can’t come near Barr Bridge, Mr McNally. I really do appreciate your offer, but it’s out of the question. He’d find me. When he finds me, he finds Laura. I’d starve before I’d let him near her again.’

My father’s face softened. ‘You want to protect this daughter of mine, don’t you?’

The pale cheeks showed twin spots of colour as he said, ‘He’ll not break her leg again, sir. I’ll break his bloody back first.’

Dad smiled. ‘Have you never heard of a telephone, lad? You’ll be a traveller, you’ll be drumming up more outlets for McNally’s products. You see, there are a lot of smaller shops that still don’t stock the teas and the other bits and pieces. You’ll have a map and a car, and you’ll travel.’

Frank glanced at me. ‘She’ll be on her own. I don’t fancy leaving her alone, not after what she’s been through.’

My father touched my cheek. ‘Would you feel safe with forty-odd miles between you and Bolton?’

Tommo would be no respecter of distance. I would never feel safe anywhere on the planet as long as Tommo lived. It was going to be just a matter of time, wherever Frank and I went. ‘I’ll feel safe enough,’ I lied. ‘Just get us out of Bolton.’

We spent the following week or two at an inn near Ramsbottom, emerging from our hide only to seek fresh air for the baby. Our names remained unchanged, as Thompson was not uncommon, and we continued to call ourselves Mr and Mrs. Although both titles were technically correct, I felt as if everyone knew the truth. This was my husband’s brother, and I was the most awful sinner.

The Sister House,

Chorley New Road,

Bolton.

3 September 1961

Dear Laura,

I am sending this via your father’s factory, as I understand your need for secrecy at such a difficult time. My poor girl, how can you carry on being so hard on yourself? I know that what you have done is unusual, but you really could not have carried on with that terrible fellow. And him a Catholic too!
Laura, the main thing for you is to be safe and to keep Gerald safe also. Please do not worry about your lack of maternal affection. You will learn to love that little boy – I know you will. After such brutal treatment, you cannot expect life to turn instantly into a bowl of cherries. I am praying constantly for you and Frank. God is good, and He will surely understand your love for that kind man. Old Tommy-gun over in Mayo is praying like billy-o as well – I bet she has worn out a whole rosary these past weeks.

Well, I’m still getting into trouble for what the Revd Mother calls my unconventional views on topics like birth control and the ecumenical movement. I suppose I just feel that all Christians should bury hatchets – not in each other’s brains, though. Sometimes, I get as confused as you are, my dear girl. Life’s not simple. The commandments make it seem clear enough, but living’s an art form and getting it right seems to be a matter of luck (God forgive me for such blasphemy). But factors outside of us often affect and guide our instincts, and instinct affects our interpretation of God’s laws. I had better start praying for myself, too. You are not the only sinner in this world, Laura.

Please write to me soon.

God bless you,

Confetti.

I smiled at Confetti’s words of encouragement, then passed the letter to Frank. ‘Do you think I’ve got this post-natal depression thing?’

His eyes sparkled. ‘No sign of that last night, old girl. I think you’re just having a bit of trouble getting used to motherhood, that’s all.’

My feelings for Gerald were similar to those I’d had for dolls. I didn’t want to play with him, wasn’t struck on showing him off in his pram, didn’t enjoy dressing him up and going for walks with him. I did all these things, but they required a great deal of energy and were founded not in what I recognized as love, but in willpower. I made an act of will each morning, then every day I worked hard at being a good parent.

‘He should have stayed in the cardboard box. I wouldn’t have minded looking at him through cellophane. Oh, Frank, I feel so bloody awful. This poor little lad. Just look at him, will you? All that lovely blond hair turning brown, those beautiful eyes staring at me all the time. Does he know, Frank? Does he know how I feel about his dad?’

‘Stop it, Laura.’ He took a step towards me, folded his arms around my neck, dropped his chin and smiled at me. ‘It will come. Your love for this baby is just buried under a few other things.’

Like rape and a broken leg, I thought. Like rice pudding and a broken heart. Thick pudding dripping down the wall and a man shouting for me, ordering me to lie beneath him so that he could hate me properly, fully. ‘I’m not normal,’ I insisted. ‘I don’t like myself. Someone else should be Gerald’s mother, someone kind and loving.’

‘Stop it, sweetheart.’ His hair looked really peculiar, was starting to grow. Although he kept it short, the roots looked bright pink compared to the lifeless greeny-brown that was cropped close, too close for the fashion of the day. ‘Keep your hat on,’ I advised yet again.

He laughed. ‘When I take it off, I tell any onlookers that I used to be an actor and that my latest bit part required a cripple with brown hair. They are all waiting for the film to come out, but they’re in for a very long wait. I’ve called this non-existent epic
The Luck of the Devil
. I hope there isn’t one coming out with that title.’ He stepped away, pulled on the old-fashioned trilby, tipped it over one eye.
‘I can always look sad and say that the brown-haired cripple is on a cutting-room floor.’

I didn’t think of him as a cripple. He was the kindest person I had encountered for ages – with the possible exception of my pen-pal, Confetti – and I loved him with a passion I had not expected to discover in someone of my nature. I was a cool person, humorous but detached, a watcher rather than a doer. I remembered telling my cousin Anne that I wanted to be a doer, but things hadn’t turned out that way for me. I was a collector, a gatherer of people. Often, I wrote people in a little book, wondered vaguely whether I would ever find the energy to write novels or short stories.

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked the man in my life.

‘Becoming a writer.’

He didn’t laugh. Frank never laughed at people’s hopes and dreams. ‘Yes. I can see you scribbling at a desk in some quiet attic. Try it.’ He gathered up his briefcase and kissed the top of my head, tickled Gerald under the chin. ‘See you later.’

I watched as he drove away in his brand-new Ford, waved until he disappeared round the corner. Gerald, whose bloom of health was even rosier this morning, was sitting propped up by cushions in his pram. He stared at me solemnly. This was a serious baby who took in everything that went on around him. He frightened me, because I guessed that he felt my lack of love. ‘Smile,’ I said to him. ‘Come on, give Mummy a smile.’

He had lovely eyes of a soft grey-blue, and hair whose colour was either dark blond or light brown. His crowning glory was shiny and thick, had begun to thicken shortly after birth. At almost four months of age, he was solid, crammed with nourishment, deprived of real love. He continued to stare at me until I walked away.

We were living in a village just outside St Helens, a tiny place that nestled amid some of Lord Derby’s rich crop fields. It was safe enough, I mused as I washed the
breakfast dishes. We were surrounded by emptiness, attached to half a dozen cottages that housed labourers from tenant farms. No-one ever came here. He would not find me, I insisted while drying the cups and saucers.

The telephone screamed at me. It was an angry-looking red thing, was attached to a wall in the kitchen. I lifted the receiver, inhaled deeply to prevent my heart from forcing its noisy way up my throat. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s only me.’

‘Dad.’ I felt the tension running out of me, almost heard the stiffness cracking as it melted in my shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ He paused. I knew that he had covered the handset, could hear muffled words as he talked to someone else. ‘Laurie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Is Frank there?’

‘No, he went to work a few minutes ago.’

Dad left me hanging on again, this time failing to cover the phone. ‘Look, Freddie, just go out and buy another bloody gallon of it.’ To swear, John McNally needed to be at the end of his tether. ‘And tell them out there that I’ll be cutting their wages if they spill any more. That stuff’s four pounds a quart.’

‘Dad?’ By this time, my nerves were on edge again. ‘Is it Tommo? Has he been up to see you?’ Tommo had threatened my parents with everything from a law-suit to physical pain, was causing not a little gossip in my father’s village.

He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, love. It’s a bit hectic here today. I wanted to talk to Frank. Have you any idea where he is?’

I flicked through the schedule on the cork notice-board next to the phone. ‘Formby, Ainsdale, Southport.’

‘Right. I’ll try one of the shops on his route, get him to call me back.’

‘Why?’ I shouted. ‘Is it business or is it Tommo?’

‘Both,’ he answered softly. ‘But there’s nothing to
worry about. Really, Laurie, don’t start getting yourself upset.’

‘He’s been round again, hasn’t he?’ Gerald was grizzling and I needed to go to him. As a dutiful mother, I did not leave my infant to cry on his own. Most of the time, I cried with him, was uneasy when Frank was out, couldn’t cope by myself. I was not a coper. I was useless, no good—

‘Laurie?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘Look, I’ll get away tonight when it’s dark. Fix up the bed in the spare room and get a nice meal together. Do you need anything?’ He often did our shopping, filled up freezer and cupboards at least twice a month. ‘I can get off early and pick up some things in St Helens.’

‘No, Dad. You do too much already.’

‘Only for you, Laurie-child. Oh and Liza’s moaning again about never seeing her grandson.’

‘Don’t bring her,’ I yelled. ‘Please don’t bring her.’

He laughed, though the sound contained little humour. ‘That’s my other ear-drum punctured,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s done my left in, and now you’ve completed the set. See you later.’

I rang off, spread the tea-towel to dry, gazed through the window at the endless flatness of the fields. It was a boring place. I hadn’t thought about it before, but now I missed my own undulating countryside. Perhaps movement in the land made for interesting people, because this lot round here were surely the dullest crowd I had never met. They hadn’t even bothered to introduce themselves after we had moved into the house at the end of the terrace. Flat land, flat folk. I closed the window, went back to my son in the living room.

He had slipped sideways, so that his little head was resting on the side of the pram. I walked round to him, reached out to lift him into a more comfortable position. My hands froze in mid-air. Gerald’s skin was a pale blue-white, and there was no movement in him. My baby was dead. My baby had died from lack of love. I backed away
from the tiny embodiment of my mortal sin, crouched down in a corner of the room, screamed and yelled for help until the house threatened to burst open.

It did burst open. The woman in the doorway was short and fat, with red hands and a pale face, but her face wasn’t as pale as Gerald’s. Needing my neighbours was becoming a habit. I should not have called the people hereabouts flat and dull, because there was nothing placid about this rounded lady. And I shouldn’t be thinking about neighbours, shouldn’t be cataloguing folk for my collection when my baby had just breathed his last. The newcomer’s work-scalded hands plucked my child from his pram and turned him upside down. ‘Water,’ she snapped at me as she pummelled the little body. ‘Hot and cold, sink and bowl.’

I ran out, chanted in my head, ‘hot and cold, sink and bowl’, filled the sink, filled the bowl, called to the woman, ‘I’ve done it, I’ve got the water.’

She rushed into the kitchen, dunked Gerald in the bowl, clouted him, immersed him in the sink. ‘He’s right now,’ she said. ‘Must have got a bit of a temperature, love. It doesn’t mean he’ll always have fits, but you’d best see a doctor all the same.’ She unveiled my son, pulled the towel from his face. And he smiled at me. The cheeky little rascal grinned so widely that his face was almost in two halves.

‘I’m Hetty Hawkesworth,’ she stated defiantly. ‘No jokes, please. They call me Hetty the Hawk because I miss nowt.’ She thrust the wriggling bundle that was Gerald into my arms. ‘Get out of me road,’ she ordered, launching herself at the telephone. Within ten seconds, a taxi was on its way. ‘I’ll not mither the ambulance, because this is no more than an infantile convulsion. Don’t look at me as if I’m daft, I’ve done more than enough auxiliary nursing in my time.’

‘Thank you.’ He was beautiful. He was beautiful and he was smiling and I had nearly lost him and I didn’t love him.

Hetty the Hawk dragged some clothes from a pile in the corner. ‘Give him here. Now get shaping, go and make yourself ready. Take him to the Provvy, tell the sisters that I sent you.’ Although she was plump, Hetty deserved to be likened to a bird of prey, because her nose was definitely hooked.

I stood in the doorway and tried not to look at the predatory nose. ‘The Provvy?’

‘Providence Hospital, love. Nuns run it. If you’d rather, you can take him to Whiston – or all the way to Alder Hey Children’s. The Provvy’s the nearest.’