September Starlings (59 page)

I often looked at my ginger-haired eight-year-old and wondered whether he might be an interesting specimen, an example of the theory that genetics can triumph over environment. Yet my other two, who seemed to have little or none of their father in them, proved that environment can overcome nature. Although we were not wealthy, I strove to provide stimuli for my children, did my best to
entertain and teach them. But Edward was not terribly responsive and I wondered whether he would turn out like Tommo.

Tommo had been a difficult boy, but his offspring were docile by comparison. Although Edward’s father had been a wonderful man, I could not help thinking that some of Tommo’s genes had perhaps appeared in his nephew, had been once removed by Mother Nature on one of her less sensible days. ‘Stop yelling, Edward,’ I said as kindly as I could. ‘You’ve probably mislaid the things in the cloakroom or dropped them outside.’

He sniffed back the abundant tears, pushed away his sister, looked at me with those soft grey eyes that might have been attractive had they not been surrounded by so much lard. Edward was a compulsive eater with the ability to dispose of half a pound of biscuits in a single sitting.

‘One biscuit,’ I warned him. ‘Then we’re all going for a bath.’

Everyone groaned. They hated the public baths, but they were too large now for cosy spongeings and splashings in front of a fire. ‘It’s icy cold,’ moaned Edward. ‘I’ve been sneezing today,’ offered Jodie. Gerald said nothing, but he looked glum.

‘We’re going.’ I relieved Edward of his coat, brought all three outer garments to steam on a maiden in front of the grate. ‘One day, we’ll have our own bathroom.’

Edward snorted. ‘There’s no space for a bathroom here.’

‘We won’t always be here,’ I informed him.

Gerald looked at me quizzically. ‘Where will we go?’

‘Somewhere,’ I said airily. ‘Not too far, so don’t start bothering your head about changes. When I’ve done another three or four books, we might have a deposit for a better house, one we can buy instead of renting.’

Jodie beamed. ‘A garden. A dog and a cat – can we have a rabbit?’

‘No, you can have meat pie like everybody else.’

She pretended to look hurt. ‘I didn’t mean a rabbit to eat, Mam, I meant—’

‘Kitchen, all of you,’ I said. ‘Hands and face washed, then, if you’ve homework, do it here on the table before I set it.’

Someone knocked at the door. I pushed the fringe from my eyes, answered the persistent caller. It was a tall woman with stringy hair and pale eyes. I recognized her face, but could not place her accurately. ‘Are you Mrs Thompson?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

She thrust an envelope under my nose. ‘We live further up, in one of the new houses. I think 22 Wordsworth Street used to be up there, before they pulled the terrace down, like. Well, the woman in the greengrocer’s said your name was Thompson, so I’ve called on the off-chance. I think they must have meant number 2. Anyway, if it’s not for you, you can always shove it back in the box, put “not at this address” on the envelope.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned the cheap buff envelope between my fingers, not understanding why I felt so disturbed. I was definitely number 2, the first house on Wordsworth Street. And I was definitely Mrs Thompson. I looked into the colourless eyes. ‘I’ll open it later.’ When she had walked away, I stood on the doorstep for several seconds. I didn’t want to look at this letter. It wasn’t a bill or a note from my newly acquired agent, wasn’t from Confetti or Anne. Mr Thompson, then? If so, why so?

We went to the public baths, came home shiny and clean, ate our supper of pie and vegetables. The letter stood on the mantelpiece, propped up behind one of a pair of candlesticks from a second-hand shop in Waterloo. It was a smallish envelope, yet it seemed to grow as it sat there, seemed to swell up until it filled my mind and the small sitting room.

When they were all in bed, I took it down, placed it on the tablecloth. My name and the wrong address were printed in block capitals, rather square ones, and the pen
had been a cheap ballpoint, because bits of ink had made a blob here and there. I weighed it in my hand, assessed that it contained just one sheet of paper or perhaps two thin pieces.

The same instinct that had stirred on the doorstep forced me into the kitchen. I filled the kettle, set it to boil, almost hopping from foot to foot as I waited for some steam. But I missed my chance, because Liddy’s voice came screaming over the back yard wall. ‘Laura! Get out here, I’ve bloody started.’ I turned everything off, thrust the letter into a drawer, fled through the house and into number 4.

Jimmy was there looking huge and useless, his hands dangling by his sides. ‘What do I do?’ he asked me.

‘Shift,’ I answered. ‘Get this lot upstairs and play cards or something.’ Liddy, whose dislike of hospitals was almost paranoid, had fought to have this seventh child at home. I wondered fleetingly what its name would be, as the rest, with the exception of Mary, answered to nicknames most of the time. Bonzo, really Mark, chased Short’ouse, really Paul, up the stairs while Jimmy continued riveted to the spot. The expression on his face might have framed the word ‘gormless’, had it not already been invented. ‘Go,’ I told him.

He went, feet dragging, his face turning towards the woman he loved. ‘Will she be all right?’ he threw over his shoulder.

‘Out,’ I said again.

Liddy rallied. ‘Look, Jimmy, I know some of these modern folk want their men there when the baby comes. But you’re not standing near me and staring at me private parts, it’s not nice. And you’d only faint over.’ She gritted her teeth against one of those fierce and unproductive early pains. ‘He’s bloody thick,’ she announced to me when Jimmy had dragged himself away. ‘I’ve done this six times without him, so he can sod off.’ She sat on the sofa, then eased herself onto the floor. ‘Now, I’ll be all right. Just open out this here sofa-bed, then get down to Milton
Terrace for that midwife, her with a face like a tinned prune. Gladys, she’s called. Gladys Roberts. She’s Welsh, but that can’t be helped.’

As I unfolded the bed, I wondered what Liddy had against Welsh people. Liddy plainly read my thoughts. ‘She doesn’t talk, she warbles, goes up and down all the while. It’s a nice enough voice till you’re in labour, but all that “Ooh, there’s lovely you are” gets you down after an hour or two. You’ll find the linen clean and ready in the bottom drawer.’ She pointed to the dresser, a treasured heirloom that dominated the room. ‘And if this one’s not a girl, you can stuff it back in, ’cos I’ve knitted in pink, bought a job lot on Paddy’s Market.’

Being present while Liddy gave birth was a great privilege and an experience that I would never forget. She told the midwife to sit in a corner and keep quiet, then my stolid little neighbour ran through every song she knew, some of them highly unsuitable for such a serious occasion. Halfway through ‘The Foggy, Foggy Dew’, the waters broke. ‘Not so much dew as a bloody torrent,’ declared Liddy. ‘Is that plastic sheet saving the sofa? And put apples on my shopping list, Laura, red delicious and Granny Smiths. Then get that kettle on, me throat’s like a birdcage bottom.’

Gladys stirred. ‘It would be best if you didn’t drink tea, Mrs Mansell. You see, if there are complications, you might need an ambulance and an anaesthetic—’

‘Belt up.’ Liddy was clearly approaching the highlight of her one-woman show. ‘If I need you, I’ll send you a sodding telegram. Laura, two sugars and a drop of brandy.’

I concurred, but went easy on the brandy. A drunken mother-to-be would not have gone down well in most operating theatres. I stood in Liddy’s kitchen, tried not to laugh out loud as the good woman worked her way through an infamous version of ‘Colonel Bogey’.

When I returned, the midwife had been allowed to approach the sofa. ‘Push now,’ she said gently.

‘What the sodding hell do you think I’m doing? Writing
me bloody memoirs? And do something about your hands, missus, they’re like ice cubes.’

I placed the mug of tea on the table, mopped Liddy’s brow with a damp flannel. ‘Be nice,’ I mouthed.

She winked at me. ‘I’m always nice.’

A pink baby girl arrived before midnight, her face screwed up against the brightness of an overhead light. She howled, coughed when the midwife tried to clear her throat, screamed all through her first bathtime. Liddy, radiant enough to deserve a halo, took the tiny creature and placed her at the breast. ‘Oh no,’ she muttered. ‘Not again.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ lilted the midwife.

‘Teeth,’ groaned Liddy. ‘That’s three of them born with their bloody front teeth.’ She cuddled the newborn, lifted her head. ‘Jimmy?’

‘What?’ The voice was very near.

‘Never mind standing all breathless on them bloody stairs, I’m the one what’s doing all the work. It’s a girl with teeth. Now get down to Openshaw’s chemist and knock him up. He’ll be drunk, so make sure he does the order right. You want Cow and Gate – the weak stuff – teats, bottles and one of them sterilizers. The sterilizing stuff’s called Milton. And you can drop in at the offy, get me a pint of stout and some toffees for the kids.

‘Mrs Mansell,’ began the midwife.

‘Miss,’ snapped Liddy. ‘I’ll get that soft beggar to marry me when his mother’s shuffled off. But for now, I’m miss. That’s M-I-S-S.’

Gladys raised her eyes to heaven. She’d been through all this with Liddy before, so she wasn’t particularly bothered by the antics. ‘Miss Mansell, you shouldn’t be needing anything from the off-licence. There’s a lovely cup of tea here and—’

‘Shut up,’ said Liddy. ‘I’m celebrating. If this had been a lad, he’d have turned out a right fairy-cake. I’ve been worried ever since I bought that pink wool.’ She eyed Jimmy. ‘Are you still here?’

The large man blushed, wiped his cheek with a handkerchief. ‘You’re a queen, you are, Liddy.’

‘And a nice bottle of rum.’ She glared at the bewildered Gladys. ‘As a present for the midwife.’

‘There’s no need …’ Gladys picked up her bowls and went into the kitchen.

‘I’m calling her Daisy.’ Liddy looked at my bewilderment, realized that my attention had followed the midwife. ‘Not her, you pie-can. This one. I’m calling her Daisy.’ She impaled Jimmy on her gimlet stare, pushed him out of the house with the sheer power of her will. ‘Soft,’ she said again to herself. ‘That’s your dad, Daisy, and he’s as daft as they come.’

I examined the child, found her very fair-haired and pretty. ‘That’s a lovely name. Shall I fetch the kids down?’

Liddy shook her head. ‘No, you’d best get back to your own. And thanks, love.’

I smiled at my exhausted friend. ‘Thanks to you too, Liddy. There was no midwife for Jodie, was there?’

The small face pulled itself into a comical shape. ‘We don’t need them, Laura. Good night.’

I was so tired that I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. At some ungodly hour of the morning, I was wakened by the persistent cry of a healthy newborn. As I lay listening to the latest arrival, I thought about the letter. But it was cold and dark, and I’d been allowing my imagination to run away with me. It would be a circular, a piece of nonsense. I lifted my head, saw the dim outline of the other bed, heard Jodie’s gentle breathing, decided that all was well with the world. There was no need to be frightened, no need at all.

It was from Tommo. A sickness rose in my gorge, threatened to hinder my breathing. He knew where we were. There might have been a digit added to the house number, but he was on our trail. I shuddered, made sure that the envelope was intact, tried to praise myself for managing to steam it open.

Well, I had got through the night without reading the thing, had even lasted for most of today, but I had finally allowed curiosity to be my master. It was from him. Part of me had felt it, had sensed the venom sealed inside the folds.

I read it again. A social worker called Mrs Melia had tracked us down, had made sure that prisoner 458917 made contact with his son. With good behaviour, he would be out in a couple of years. Meanwhile, a friend of Tommo’s would be visiting, would be keeping an eye on us. A friend. A criminal, an ex-prisoner, no doubt.

With fingers that refused to obey, I tried and failed to refold the page into its original shape. Where could we go? Where could we hide and from whom were we hiding? Life was going to be unbearable. Every strange man in the street would be a suspect, every knock at the door would drive me nearer to insanity. I didn’t want insanity. That was something I’d encountered before, and I didn’t need to pay a second visit. What? Where? When? Every hair on my body seemed to stand on end as the pores opened in reaction to my terror. Yet again, I was a hunted animal.

At last, I had the letter sealed, though I had to put a little fresh glue on the flap. When my hands were calmer, I took a pen and printed NOT AT THIS ADDRESS, RETURN TO SENDER. If the Post Office had any sense, the sorters would realize that a communication from a prisoner was not acceptable. Dead-end letters were opened in the sorting office and returned to source. I stared at the envelope for a long time, knew that Tommo was far too clever to be distracted by my feeble ploy. We would have to move again. I was tired of chopping my existence into separate sections, sick of being on the run all the time.

I sat in Liddy’s house for a while, watched fondly while she tended the new baby. She was going to have Jimmy doctored, she said. It was only a small operation, just a couple of quick cuts with the bacon scissors. ‘What’s happened?’ asked my too-astute neighbour.

‘Nothing.’

‘Have you had one of them ejections again?’

‘No, they’ve accepted the book. I’m lucky, I’ve only been rejected once.’

‘Then why the gob?’

I shrugged, tried to make light of the situation. ‘A letter, that’s all. Just a few words from someone I never wanted to hear from again.’

She whistled. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Walton.’

‘Oh God.’ She shifted the child, placed the little body against a shoulder and patted the tiny back. ‘He’s only round the bloody corner.’

‘I know.’

Liddy’s face screwed itself up as she went into one of her ‘thinks’. ‘Jimmy’ll know somebody. There’s always half a dozen dockers inside waiting to be proved innocent. Jimmy can get him sorted.’