The Forget-Me-Not Summer (4 page)

But the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, and both dreams and nightmares grew rarer. The picture of Arabella which Miranda kept inside her head never faded, but Miranda's pretty clothes grew jaded and dirty whilst hope gradually receded, though it never disappeared altogether.

Harry, the policeman, became a friend and Miranda knew it was he who was responsible for notices which appeared around the city asking for information as to
the whereabouts of Arabella Lovage, the beautiful actress who had charmed the citizens of Liverpool whenever she appeared on the stage. The cast, too, clubbed together to pay for notices in the papers, begging anyone with information as to Arabella's whereabouts to come forward. They might have enquired also for the young acrobat, but since it seemed he had left the theatre under a slight cloud, and Miranda objected vociferously to any linking of her mother's name with his, they did not. Gradually, Miranda began to accept the terrible change in her circumstances until it was almost as though she had had two lives. The first one, a life of pleasure and luxury, was gone for ever; the second one, of penury and neglect, had come to stay, at least until she could claw her way out of the hateful pit into which she had been dragged.

There had been many advantages to the life she had lived in Sycamore Avenue, and very few indeed to the one she now endured. Her cousin Beth occasionally showed signs of humanity, appearing to want if not friendship at least mutual tolerance, but Miranda ignored such overtures as were offered. She became, almost without knowing it, a sort of Cinderella, a general dogsbody, belonging to no one and therefore ordered about by everyone. She was not even sure that she cared particularly; why should she? She had a strong will, however, and beneath all her outward meekness there gradually blossomed a determination to succeed. She felt she was just marking time, waiting for something wonderful to happen. So she continued to work conscientiously at school, made no objection when her clothes grew shabbier, the food on her plate shrank to the leftovers no one
else wanted, and her share of the housework grew heavier and heavier. Once or twice Beth, who wasn't such a bad creature after all, gave her a hand, or put in a word for her; sometimes even stole food for her, but by and large, had she but realised it, Miranda was playing a waiting game. Arabella Lovage, she reminded herself half a dozen times a day, had disliked her half-sister, and would have moved heaven and earth rather than have her daughter live in the dirty, dilapidated house in Jamaica Close. If Arabella could see her daughter now, pale, dirty, always hungry and bitterly overworked, she would tell her miserable half-sister what she thought of her and whisk Miranda off back to the Avenue and the life they had both enjoyed.

But that time had not yet come, and the weeks continued to turn into months until at last it was a whole year, and the hope which had brightened the eyes of the Madison Players grew dim. Then the acrobat returned. He told anyone who was interested that he had got a job with the circus for the remainder of the summer season and then gone on to act in panto – a scene in the giant's kitchen, his ex-colleagues guessed – and had met and married one of the chorus to their mutual pleasure, though this romantic narrative was slightly tempered by the fact that the chorus girl had just announced she would be having a baby before Christmas.

Folk who had been convinced that Arabella had fled with the acrobat had to eat their words, but by now few people thought twice about it. Miranda, who had never believed it anyway, was shocked by her own lack of surprise; why should she be surprised, indeed? But perhaps it was then that little by little Miranda's
confidence in her mother's return began to trickle slowly away. She thought afterwards that it bled away, as if from a horrible wound which would not heal, and the worst thing was there was nothing she could do about it. She knew she should fight against the way her aunt treated her, she knew she should tell somebody – Harry, or one of her teachers, or some other responsible adult – but she was too weary. Money was short as the Depression bit deeper and deeper. If you argued about the price of a simple apple in the market the stallholder would throw the Depression in your face. If you chopped kindling, ran messages, or carted heavy buckets of water, where once a few coppers would be pressed into your hand now you were lucky to be given a ha'penny, or maybe a cut off a homemade loaf with a smear of margarine. Yes, times were hard, and if it hadn't been for Steve . . .

‘
LOVAGE! DRAT THE
girl, where's she got to?'

Miranda, who was awaiting her turn to jump into the skipping rope being expertly twirled by two of the older girls who lived in the small cul-de-sac, stood up and headed for the steps of Number Six, upon the top one of which her Aunt Vi stood. She hung back a little, however, for her aunt's expression was vengeful, and even from halfway across the paving Miranda could see her hand preparing for a slap.

‘Yes, Aunt?' she said, knowing that it would annoy Aunt Vi if she spoke nicely; her aunt would have preferred impudence so she could strike out with a clear conscience. Not that she would hesitate to hit her niece if the fancy took her, as Miranda knew all too well. Aunt Vi waited for her to get closer, and when she failed to move began to swell with indignation, even her pale sandy hair seeming to stand on end.

‘Come
here
, I say,' she shouted, her voice thin with spite. ‘Why can't you ever do as you're told, you lazy little madam? There's your poor cousin sick as a cat, smothered in perishin' spots, and instead of givin' me a hand to nurse her, you're off a-pleasurin'. Considerin' it was you give my poor girl the measles . . .'

‘She might have caught them off anyone.'

‘No; it were bloody well you what passed them on,'
her aunt said aggressively. ‘Why, you were still a-scrawpin' and a-scratchin' at the spots when my poor Beth began to feel ill. And now she's been and gone and thrown up all over her bed and the floor, so since it's your bleedin' fault you can just git up them stairs and clean up.' She grinned spitefully as her niece approached the front door, then scowled as the girl looked pointedly at her right hand.

‘If you so much as raise your arm you can clear up the mess yourself,' Miranda said bluntly. ‘When I was sick and ill you never even brought me a cup of water, but you expect me to wait on Beth. Well, I won't do it if you so much as touch me, and if you try anything else I'll tell the scuffers.'

It would be idle to pretend that the spiteful look left her aunt's face, but she moved to one side and made no attempt to interfere as Miranda squiggled past. Miranda had lately discovered that Vi did not want anything to do with the police, and though mention of Harry's name might not save her from all her aunt's wrath it certainly made Vi think twice before hitting her without reason.

But right now she had work to do and if her aunt had bothered to use her brain she might have realised that Miranda was perfectly willing to clear up the mess. Not only because she shared Beth's bed, but also because she and Beth were getting on slightly better. Whilst Miranda herself had had the measles Beth had brought food up to her occasionally, and had insisted that her cousin should have a share of anything soft that was going. Thanks to Beth, Miranda had kept body and soul together with bread and milk. Now Miranda was actually quite happy to do as much for her cousin, so she went into
the kitchen, poured water from the kettle into a bucket, added a scrubbing brush and a bar of strong yellow soap and hurried upstairs. And it was nowhere near as bad as she had feared; the bed seemed to have escaped altogether, and though Beth, lying back on her pillows, was clearly still feeling far from well, it was the work of a moment for Miranda to clean the floor and to grin cheerfully at her cousin. ‘Awful, isn't it?' she said. ‘The first three days are the worst, but then you begin to realise you ain't goin' to die after all.' She stood the bucket down by the door and sat on the sagging brass bedstead. ‘Poor ol' Beth! But at least you'll get all sorts of nice things once you feel a bit better; I had to exist on bread and milk. No wonder I were weak as a kitten and could scarcely climb the stairs.'

Beth sniffed. ‘You were lucky to get bread and milk,' she said sullenly. ‘Mam wanted to give you bread and water; said milk were too rich . . . well, conny onny was, at any rate. So if it weren't for me sneakin' a spoonful on to your bread and water you'd likely still be in bed and covered in spots.' She pulled a face. ‘And aren't you the lucky one? When you had measles it was term time so you missed school, but me, I got 'em on the very first day of the summer holidays.' She glared at her cousin. ‘I tell you, you're lucky you even had pobs.'

‘You're probably right and I'm real grateful to you,' Miranda said. ‘But if you don't mind me sayin' so, Beth, your mam isn't very sensible, is she? When I were ill and couldn't clean or cook or scrub, she had to do all my work whilst you got the messages and prepared the meals. You'd have thought she'd be keen to get me back on me feet, and that would have happened a good deal
quicker if I'd had some decent grub now and then.' She sighed. ‘Sometimes the smell of scouse comin' up the stairs tempted me to go down and ask for a share – like Oliver Twist, you know – but I guessed I'd only get a clack round the ear and I could do without that.'

She waited, half expecting her cousin to react angrily, for though Beth must know how badly her cousin was treated neither of them ever referred to it aloud. Now, however, Beth gave Miranda a malicious smile. ‘Your mam spoiled you when you lived in the Avenue, made sure you got the best of everything going,' she said. ‘And my mam gives me the best what's on offer; you can't blame her for that.' Her eyes had been half closed, but now they opened fully and fixed themselves on Miranda's face. ‘You're an extra mouth to feed; Mam's always saying so, and neither you nor your perishin' missin' mother contributes a brass farthing to this house. You don't pay any of the rent, nor a penny towards the messages, so don't you grumble about my mam, because you're just a burden, you!'

This was said with such spite that Miranda's eyes rounded. She had always supposed that Beth was jealous of her because she was encouraged to be so by her mother. Aunt Vi knew that Miranda was a good deal cleverer than Beth and found this alone difficult to forgive. But now Beth had made it plain that she resented her cousin on her own account, so to speak. Or perhaps it was just the measles talking? Miranda hoped so, but got off the bed and headed for the door, telling herself that she did not have to stop and listen to her cousin's outpourings. It was true that she did not contribute to the rent of Number Six, but she thought indignantly that on all other
counts her cousin was way out. She washed and scrubbed, dusted and tidied, peeled potatoes and prepared vegetables, and sometimes even cooked them, though usually under her aunt's supervision. When she earned a penny or two by running messages or chopping kindling, she was usually forced to hand over the small amount of money she had managed to acquire, whereas Beth got sixpence pocket money each week, and quite often extra pennies so that she might attend the Saturday rush at the Derby cinema, or buy herself a bag of homemade toffee from Kettle's Emporium on the Scotland Road. With her hand on the doorknob, Miranda was about to leave the room when a feeble voice from the bed stopped her for a moment. ‘I'm thirsty,' Beth whined. ‘I want a drink. Mam went up to the Terrace to get advice on how to look after me and Nurse said I were to have plenty of cool drinks; things like raspberry cordial, or lemonade. Get me both, then I'll choose which to drink.'

The words ‘Get 'em yourself' popped into Miranda's head and were hastily stifled; no point in giving her cousin ammunition which she might well hand on to her mother, who would see that Miranda suffered for her sharp tongue. Instead, she pretended she had not heard and went quietly out of the room, shutting the door on Beth's peevish demand that she bring the drinks at once . . . at once, did she hear?

When Miranda entered the kitchen she found her aunt sitting at the table with last night's
Echo
spread out before her and a mug of tea to hand. Miranda contemplated saying nothing about raspberry cordial or lemonade – after all, her aunt had said that she herself intended to be her daughter's principal nurse – but realised that it
would be unwise to irritate the older woman any further. Whilst Vi's sudden protective interest in Beth lasted, which would not be for very long, Miranda guessed, she would take offence at any tiny thing, and when Aunt Vi took offence Miranda headed for the hills. She went outside and emptied her bucket down the drain, then walked down to the pump and rinsed it out before returning to the kitchen. ‘Beth wants a drink, either raspberry cordial or lemonade,' she said briefly. ‘Did you buy 'em when you were out earlier, Aunt Vi? If so, I'll pour some into a jug and take it upstairs . . . unless you would rather do it yourself?'

She had not meant to sound sarcastic, but realised she had done so when her aunt's hard red cheeks began to take on a purplish tinge. Hastily, she went into the pantry and scanned the shelves until she spotted a bottle of raspberry cordial. Pouring some into a jug, she mixed it with water and, making sure first that her aunt's back was turned, took a cautious sip. It was delicious. The nicest thing she had tasted over the past twelve months, she told herself dreamily, heading for the stairs. Lucky, lucky Beth! When I had the measles all I got was water to drink and old copies of the
Echo
to read. Earlier she had seen a big pile of comics beside the bed –
Chicks' Own
,
The Dandy
,
The Beano
and
The Girl's Own Paper
– and had offered to read them to her cousin. Beth, however, clearly thought this a ruse on Miranda's part to get at the comics and had refused loftily. ‘You can't read pictures,' she had said. ‘And comics is all about pictures, not words. Go off and buy yourself comics if you're so keen on 'em, 'cos you ain't havin' mine.'