September Starlings (46 page)

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ she kept saying as we forced all the gifts into Frank’s car.

‘Of course,’ I replied for the umpteenth time. Sometimes, Maisie was more like a mother to me than she was to her own daughter. ‘You never fussed like this over Anne,’ I reminded her.

‘Anne hasn’t got two babies to care for.’

Uncle Freddie, who had taken to wearing a brown overall coat while working in the shop, passed me a small sack of potatoes. ‘We’ll not get in the car,’ I told him.

He pulled a wry face. ‘Then stop here, lass.’

I threw my arms about the dear man’s neck. ‘You’ve always been so good to me, both of you. When I was little …’ I swallowed a self-pitying sob, stamped on it, continued determinedly with what I wanted to say. ‘You were always there for me.’

Uncle Freddie’s eyes were old and sunken, with white
rings around the irises, the rims that come with advancing years. ‘We love you,’ he said gruffly. ‘As much as we love yon lass of our own.’

Maisie agreed with him. ‘We’ve had two good daughters, me and Freddie. But don’t tell your mam we said so.’

‘Of course not.’ They knew her, all right. They knew that although she hadn’t wanted me, she had never liked the idea of me receiving love and attention elsewhere. ‘It’ll be a long time before I talk to Mother.’

‘Nay.’ Maisie mopped her face with a large white handkerchief. ‘She is your mam. Never forget that she’s your mother, Laura. Happen she can’t help the road she is after getting spoilt as a young one. Life’s about forgiving folk and that includes ourselves. Don’t put the blame on any one pair of shoulders.’

I climbed into the car, reached for Edward, took him from Auntie Maisie’s gentle arms, closed the door. Judging by the crackling of paper, Gerald, in the back seat, was making inroads into Auntie’s carefully wrapped parcels. But I did not check him, because my eyes were fixed on the figure approaching us along the uneven village street. ‘Oh God,’ I breathed from the corner of my mouth. ‘Get going, Frank.’

He had not seen her. ‘Why the sudden hurry?’ he asked.

‘Mother is upon us,’ I said, trying to keep my lips as still as possible.

‘Ah.’ He rolled down his window, greeted my mother. ‘Hello, Mrs McNally.’

My mother, resplendent in a burgundy suit, chose to ignore Frank. She stepped off the pavement, walked in front of the car and stood motionless until I opened my window. ‘Yes?’ I asked, sounding like a shopkeeper who waits for an order.

‘That is a company car, I think,’ she said.

I looked hard at her, breathed in the disparate odours of Worth and Park Drive, studied her expensive clothes. There was no doubt in my mind that the suit and blouse had been made for her, because the fit was perfect. I
decided that she had visited a city dressmaker, had probably ordered a dozen exclusive outfits. The shoes were suede, as was the handbag, a large affair that was rather like a briefcase. Here was the businesswoman, then. So the play had progressed into yet another act, with one of the scenes to be played here and now with the world passing by. ‘My father gave it to Frank,’ I answered eventually.

‘It was for company business,’ she snapped.

I glanced up the street, decided that this little bit of the world was a poor audience for Mother, too small to concern me. After all, the locals knew Liza, had enjoyed her variable temper over the years. And as far as I was concerned, there was nothing to lose.

I thrust my baby into his father’s arms, got out of the car, squared up to the woman on the cobbles. As far as height was concerned, I held the advantage, but because of the heels on her court shoes, we were more or less on the same level. However, my footing was steadier than hers, and I tried not to smirk when she stumbled slightly between two age-worn stones. ‘Do you want the car now, Mother?’ I asked, my tone trimmed with saccharine.

‘Where are you going?’ she demanded.

I leaned a casual elbow on the car’s roof. ‘Why do you need to know? And what difference will our destination make? Oh and if we keep answering questions with questions, we shall be staying exactly where we are for the foreseeable future.’

She curled that top lip in her good old-fashioned way. ‘Don’t be impudent.’

‘I am too old to be impudent. Just one more question, though. Why do we keep having these show-downs in public? Don’t you think we should use a telephone or the Royal Mail? Or pigeons?’

She gritted her teeth, almost looked her age for a moment. ‘You will not take that car out of Bolton. It is mine, it is company property.’

I leaned down, spoke to Frank. ‘Put the children inside the shop, love. And then you can help me to unload all the luggage. Mummy wants her motor.’

‘Don’t call me Mummy. I’ve told you before—’

‘I’ll call you exactly what I choose to call you. And some of the names will probably be short and rather rude. Come on, Frank, she wants her precious car back.’

Frank climbed out, gave Edward to Auntie Maisie, lifted out Gerald, who had become firmly attached to a packet of biscuits. As he was a well-brought-up child, he offered the soggy contents to my uncle and to Frank, then to a few other people who happened to be passing.

At last, there remained just Mother, Frank and myself. I walked to the boot, threw it open, scattered our cases on to the pavement. My temper was rising – I could feel the heat on my face.

Frank spoke to Mother. ‘We’re not leaving Bolton, Mrs McNally. And the car is so useful to us because of the children.’

She ignored him, but used the information he had imparted. ‘Laura, if you are staying in town, you may continue to borrow the car.’

I glared at her, deposited a pile of nappies on a suitcase. ‘I want nothing of yours.’ I paused for a second, had a think. ‘Frank, give me a hand. We’ll keep the bloody car and pay her for it.’

When the boot was filled once more, we collected our boys and began the process all over again, Gerald in the back, Edward with me, biscuit crumbs everywhere. Mother stood on the pavement, her body turned slightly away from her sister and brother-in-law. I didn’t smile, because my temper was still simmering, but I felt as if I had won a small battle. Even so, defeating my own mother did not give me any true joy. And, as Frank had so rightly predicted on many such occasions, there were tears before bedtime.

I wept not just for myself, but for the man whose arms contained me. She would not even deign to recognize him.
‘I’ll get the money tomorrow,’ I said between sobs. ‘And I hope it chokes her.’

He patted my back, comforted me as if I were a baby with colic. ‘You should just keep the car and the money, darling. She doesn’t need either of them, she’s only trying to—’

‘I want nothing of hers,’ I cried. ‘Nothing. I’m an orphan.’

He bathed my face, brushed my hair, tucked me into our new and rather lumpy bed. ‘From this day, I shall call you Orphan Annie,’ he declared soberly. ‘I hope Anne won’t mind me borrowing her name.’

The trouble with Frank was that he never let anybody grieve for long. He lay down beside me and started making up names for everyone we knew. When he had finished reducing the good people of Bolton to characters from
Comic Capers
, he began on the famous, rhyming names that sounded too terrible for me to resist. ‘If Bette Davis had been Mavis Davis and if Doris Day had chosen May Day—’

I cut him off with a sharp elbow. ‘Shut up, Frank.’

He had no remorse in him, no mercy. ‘Your life could have been a lot worse if you’d been called Sally McNally. And if Clark Gable had a sister called Mabel, and if John Wayne had a sister called—’

‘Jane!’ I shouted. ‘Honestly, there’s nothing worse than a man who makes you laugh in bed.’

He turned on the bedside lamp, a hideous thing from the thirties with a naked women stretching upward towards the shade. ‘What about Myrna’s brother, Roy Loy? Are you giggling? Are you?’

‘No.’

The light went out. ‘You’re no fun,’ he grumbled.

‘You’ve missed the best ones anyway,’ I said.

He let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Well, if Clara Bow hadn’t been called Clara …’

‘Right, I’m listening.’

‘If she’d been called Florence and she’d shorted it to—’

‘Flo?’ he interrupted. ‘Flo Bow? Not bad for a beginner.’

I felt damned by this faint praise. ‘Right. Which president of the United States had a facial tic? Go on, Clever-clogs, work that one out.’

He pretended to think for a moment, was probably miles ahead of me. ‘I give in,’ he said.

‘Blinkin’ Lincoln. Now go to sleep.’ Frank was the best man in the whole world, because he loved me, looked after me and made me laugh in bed. But I wasn’t going to tell him what he already knew.

It was a large and airy flat with tall windows, two living rooms, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. I liked living there, was comforted by the comings and goings in the street below. After a while, I gained enough confidence to put the babies in their Silver Cross, Edward at the sleeping end, Gerald seated opposite, then we would saunter forth into the town. The old-fashioned lift was a bonus, as we would never have got out during weekdays while Edward was so young. As time passed, I ventured further afield, to the Town Hall Square, to the open-air market and even along Deansgate to Queens Park.

We heard nothing of Tommo, nothing of Mother, as we both maintained a careful distance from family. Frank was fond of his father, met him sometimes for a drink in the Pack Horse, but Mr Thompson chose not to mention his other son. Occasionally, they would come to the flat after a couple of pints, and Mr Thompson would peep at his sleeping grandchildren before sitting silently in front of our rented television set. I tried to draw him out. ‘How are you today, Mr Thompson?’

‘All right, thanks.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Not just now, thank you.’

‘Are you still at the same pit?’

‘Yes.’

It was hopeless. Time after time, I tried to be a friend to my lover’s father, but I failed miserably on every occasion. When I asked Frank about it, he rambled on about his dad being ashamed of Tommo, about me reminding Mr Thompson of his son’s misdeeds.

Then the evening came when I didn’t have to try. Frank was preparing to meet his father in the pub while I bathed the boys and tucked them into bed. Our doorbell rang, so I ran to the window and stared into the street. Although I seldom voiced my fears, I still expected to see Tommo standing at the front door. ‘It’s your dad,’ I called. ‘I’ll just let him in.’

Colin Thompson followed me up the brown-painted stairs, stood in our living room, the tweed cap twisting in his hands. ‘Where’s Frank?’

‘In the bathroom having a shave. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘No, love.’ Mr Thompson was not one to call a person ‘love’ or ‘dear’. ‘I’ll just sit down a bit.’ He dropped into the sagging sofa.

I stood near the fireplace, fiddled with a china shepherdess whose nose had gone missing during one of Gerald’s games. ‘Gerald broke it,’ I said, feeling gauche and stupid.

‘Yes, little ones do break ornaments, don’t they?’ He cleared his coal-damaged throat. ‘Is he a good lad?’

‘Well … yes, he is. A bit quiet, gets into cupboards and drawers. But he’s a nice little boy.’

‘He doesn’t smash things deliberately?’

I shivered. Was this poor man looking into the adage ‘like father, like son’? ‘There’s no harm in him, Mr Thompson. He just gets into places when I’m not looking and breaks bits and pieces by accident.’

He nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

Frank came in, continued to run a comb through his hair. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’

Mr Thompson fixed his eyes on me. ‘He’s not given up, Laura.’

‘Oh.’ The syllable was more of a sigh than a word.

Colin Thompson drew something from an inside pocket, placed it on the melamine coffee table, another ugly piece of furniture that had been among the pile of Cunningham’s rejects.

Frank bent down and picked up the envelope, opened
it, drew out some stiff paper and riffled through five or six items. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said softly. ‘I thought it was all over, hoped he’d come to his senses at last.’

The man on the sofa ran a hand over his balding head. ‘He’s got no senses. Not human ones. I thought you should both be warned.’

Without another word, I took the cards from Frank, turned them over, saw myself sitting on a bench, my hand resting on the handle of the pram, saw myself again, this time squatting on the grass near a duckpond. There were photographs of me, of me and Gerald, of me and Edward. But my younger baby’s face had been mutilated by layers of ink that had poured from an angry pen. Tommo had crossed out Edward. My legs would not bear my weight, so I sank to the rust-coloured rug, allowed the photographs to scatter around me. I was everywhere and so was Tommo.

Frank dropped down beside me, placed an arm across my shoulders. ‘Come on, girl.’

‘He’s wiped out our baby,’ I said. ‘And a baby’s not much bigger than a pet rabbit. Remember what he did to all those poor animals. We have to move on, Frank. We’ve got to go somewhere, anywhere. But he’s all over the place. Wherever we go, he’ll find us and he’ll kill Edward and—’

He shook me, guided my chin until I faced him. ‘Laura, he’s not chasing us again. He can’t chase people who refuse to run. We are not going to keep on the move for ever, darling.’ He cast a glance over the widespread photographs. ‘I’d say he was drunk when he did this to Edward’s picture.’ He directed a question at his father. ‘Hasn’t he found another woman yet?’

‘No. Thank God.’ The man reached out and touched my arm. ‘I don’t mean anything by that, Laura. I know it’s a mess when you seem to be his only target. But I couldn’t bear it if I’d another young woman to worry about.’ He screwed up his face, looked as if he were about to cry, but he held on. ‘He wants locking up. I’m not just
saying that, Frank. If I had my way, he’d be having his head tested. But your mam’s dug her heels in, swears there’s nothing wrong with him. Even when I’ve come home and found her battered and bruised, she’s always had a fall. The only benefit of having him back home is that I can keep an eye on him.’