The Girls from See Saw Lane (18 page)

M
ary heard
from the council after only two weeks, probably because she was so far gone with the baby. She and Ralph had been offered a flat on the other side of the estate.

It was my day off and I said I would go with Mary to look at it.

When I got downstairs Clark was tucking into eggs and bacon. Rita was sitting at the kitchen table with a tea cup between her hands and she was moaning – again. It was all she seemed to do lately. I thought maybe marriage would improve her, but if anything she was worse. When she wasn't moaning, she was bragging about her new semi-detached house and her new fridge and all the other new things which she and Nigel had bought. It was a nice house on an estate that was so new they were still building it. The house had a big picture window at the front, and central heating, all the mod cons in fact. As Rita kept saying, there were a lot of things that still needed doing, like putting turf in the garden and buying a twin tub, but Nigel spent most of his free time decorating and there was always something new to see. Once a month we all had to traipse round for Sunday tea to admire it all.

‘I'm not going there again,' Dad said after our last disastrous visit. ‘Half a tomato, that's what was on my plate. Half a bloody tomato. Who gives anyone half a tomato?'

‘Okay, Nelson,' said Mum. ‘We get the point, our Rita gave you half a tomato. Get over it.'

‘And one measly slice of ham. I call that mean.'

‘I thought the Swiss roll was nice, though,' I said.

‘What there was of it. And I had to take me bloody shoes off. Whoever heard of that? If you ask me…'

‘And no one is,' said Mum.

‘Our Rita's getting too big for her boots.'

‘She'd just had that lovely shagpile fitted, she didn't want your great clod-hopping boots walking all over it.'

‘Don't you start getting any ideas, Maureen,' said Dad.

‘You're just fed up cos you had to smoke out in the garden,' I said.

‘Well, I'm not going again,' said Dad, ‘and that's that.'

‘You
are
going again, Nelson Perks, if I have to drag you round. She's your daughter.'

And now the said daughter was sitting at our kitchen table moaning, when she could have stayed at home and done it at her own house, surrounded by all her nice things.

Mum lifted the biscuit tin off the shelf, pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. She took the lid off the tin and offered it to Rita, who took out a custard cream, put it down in her saucer and stared at it miserably.

‘What's the matter, love?' said Mum. ‘You don't look very happy. Is everything all right with you and Nigel?'

‘Of course everything's all right with me and Nigel. Whatever do you mean?'

‘Well, you know…' 

‘No, I don't actually.'

‘In the bedroom…' Mum whispered under her breath. 

‘That's my business,' said Rita. Then she burst into tears.

‘
C
ome on
, love, whatever it is, you can tell your mum.'

Rita sniffed. ‘I think there's something wrong with me.'

‘That‘s got to be the understatement of the year,' said Clark, smothering his egg in Ketchup sauce.

‘We don't seem to be able to make a baby,' she sobbed. She wiped her eyes with her fingers and mascara smudged on her cheek.

‘Clark, upstairs,' said Mum.

‘But I'm eating my breakfast.'

‘Take it with you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because we are talking women's problems.'

‘How come no one talks about men's problems?'

‘Men don't have problems. The last time your father had a problem was when he dropped his fag down the toilet.'

Once Clark had gone, Mum put her arm around Rita's shoulder.

‘Things like that take time, my love. It doesn't always happen right away, even if you want it to.'

‘But why not?' said Rita. ‘Betty Green at work got pregnant on her honeymoon and Eleanor McDonald is expecting twins and she got married after me.'

‘It'll happen,' said Mum, ‘when the time's right.'

‘Even Mary bloody Pickles is pregnant and I bet she doesn't even want it. It's not fair.'

‘Mary was unlucky,' said Mum gently.

‘Unlucky?' screamed Rita. ‘Mary Pickles is a tart.'

‘She
is not!
' I said.

‘Oh shut up, you,' said Rita.

‘It's going to be hard for Mary,' said Mum.

‘Oh, poor Mary,' said Rita sarcastically. ‘My heart bleeds for her.'

‘Just because Mary doesn't live in a semi-detached house with a shagpile carpet and a toaster doesn't mean she hasn't got as much right to have a baby as you,' I said.

‘Babies need a proper home,' said Rita. ‘I bet that Mary Pickles doesn't even have anywhere to live yet.'

‘Well, that's where you're wrong!' I shot back. ‘Because they've just been offered a council flat.'

‘Why am I not surprised,' said Rita, screwing up her face as if she had a bad smell under her nose.

‘Actually, I'm going round to Mary's now, and we're going to have a look at it. And you can stop calling her Mary Pickles. Her name is Mary Bennett.
Mrs
Mary Bennett.'

‘Why are you looking at flats with her anyway, after what she did to you?'

‘It's called forgiveness, Rita,' said Mum.

I smiled gratefully at her, grabbed my coat and went out of the back door.

It was still freezing cold outside. There was slush on the pavements that made my feet wet and put me in a worse mood.

Bloody Rita, I thought, walking up the twitten. She was turning into a right snob. What gave her the right to look down on Mary? I'd hoped things would have got a bit better between Rita and I once she moved out, but we still managed to wind each other up. I guess that's just the way we were. Then I remembered how she was there for me when Ralph and Mary got married and something inside told me that however much we argued, she would always be there for me.

Was Rita right? Had I forgiven Mary too quickly? Why was I going to look at the home that her and Ralph were going to be sharing? The truth was that I couldn't understand it myself. I knew that people thought I was being brave but I wasn't, It would have been braver to have walked away from them both, but the thought of not having them in my life was something I couldn't even think about. Not brave at all. Part of me knew that my behaviour was odd, but right now it was the only thing I could do. I just hoped to God that Mary was right when she said that Ralph wouldn't be at the flat, because I'm not sure what I would do if he was.

Mary's front door was on the latch when I got there, so I tapped on it and walked in. The cat rushed in after me in a rush of ginger hair.

‘Hello-o!' I called.

‘Is that you, Dottie?' called Mary's mum. ‘I'm in the kitchen, come through. Mary will be down in a minute.'

The kitchen was warm and cosy. It smelled of baking. Mrs Pickles was bent over, putting a tray of cakes into the oven. She closed the door, stood up and rubbed the hollow of her back.

She looked at me and smiled. ‘I just want to say thank you, Dottie. What you have been able to do has made a huge difference to Mary. No one would have blamed you if you had turned your back on her, but you haven't and I know it can't have been easy.'

‘Not easy, no.' I said. ‘But I missed her, you see.'

She wet a cloth under the tap at the sink and wiped down the counter, which was covered in flour.

‘Anyway,' I said, ‘it's kind of exciting that she's getting a flat. I'm looking forward to seeing it.'

‘And it's a nice one, according to the letter, only one previous tenant,' Mrs Pickles said. ‘It's got a bathroom and everything. When we started out, there were no luxuries like that.'

‘Mary's worried about furniture,' I said.

‘Well, she doesn't have to be. The boys are all working now and they said they'd help out.'

‘That's nice of them.'

‘They're good lads.' Mrs Pickles washed her hands at the sink.

I heard Mary's footsteps on the stairs and then she pushed open the kitchen door.

‘Everything's too tight on me,' she said, pulling at the waistband of her skirt. ‘I feel like a sack of potatoes.'

I could see what she meant. Even the flowery maternity top she was wearing was tight on her. It was odd to see Mary in clothes that were too small for her, normally she had the opposite problem. Mary sighed and sat down. She put her head in her hands. ‘I hate all this,' she said.

‘But aren't you excited about the apartment?' I said.

‘Apartment?' said Mrs Pickles, laughing.

‘That's what they call them in America.'

‘Dottie, this is Brighton,' said Mary, ‘not America, and it's going to be a grotty flat on a grotty estate.'

Mrs Pickles rolled her eyes. I guess she'd heard this complaint a thousand times before.

‘But you can make it nice,' I said encouragingly. ‘Your mum told me your brothers are going to help out.'

‘I know,' said Mary. She smiled. ‘Sorry. You must think I'm an ungrateful cow.'

‘Nobody thinks anything of the kind,' said her mum. ‘I thought you two were going to go and have a look at the flat. You might be pleasantly surprised.'

‘And pigs might fly.' 

Mary stood up and reached for her coat. ‘Come on Dottie, let's go and see this apartment,' she said.

We walked along the road, arm in arm, with me taking special care that Mary didn't slip. Occasionally a car went past and black spray came up from its wheels.

We had to walk past our old primary school, so we stopped and looked through the bars on the big metal gate that led into the playground. The boys were haring around playing British Bulldog in the middle and the girls stood in little huddles round the edges playing clapping games or skipping. Their gloves hung out of their coat sleeves. Their socks were round their ankles and their legs were all red with the cold. A fierce-looking woman with a whistle on a ribbon round her neck was supervising.

‘Seems like a long time ago,' said Mary. There was a wistful tone in her voice. ‘I wish we were still there.' 

‘Really?' 

‘Everything seemed a lot easier.'

‘I suppose it did,' I said, fishing around in my bag for my gloves. ‘But I prefer having a job and earning my own money. I thought you did too.'

Mary went quiet, then said: ‘At school, I got to see Elton every day.'

I should have realised that stopping at the school would have brought back memories of Elton. I slipped my arm through hers and said: ‘Let's go and see this apartment, eh?'

‘Yes, let's!' she said, giving me a watery little smile. We turned away from the school and walked on.

The block of flats was called Westland Court. There was a large green in front of it with children's swings and a slide.

‘It doesn't look too bad,' I said, looking up at the building. Some of the windows had white net curtains strung across. Others were decorated with window boxes that would be full of flowers in the summer and some flats even had little balconies. ‘It's okay, isn't it?' I repeated. ‘In fact, it's quite nice.'

‘The jury's out till I see what it's like inside,' said Mary.

‘What number is it?' 

Mary took an envelope out of her bag. There was a key inside that was hanging from a tag that said number nineteen on it. Along the front of the building was a series of arches but we couldn't see any numbers. We walked through the nearest arch and found ourselves in a kind of quadrangle. It was full of clothes lines that were strung between concrete posts. Nappies were pegged to the strings of some of them; I couldn't imagine that they'd ever get dry in that weather, but I don't suppose there was anywhere else for people to put them. The quadrangle was surrounded on all four sides by the flats. Just then a tall girl walked into the square pushing a pram. 

‘Blimey,' said Mary. ‘It's Beverly Johnson from school, isn't it?'

‘Mary Pickles!' said Beverly. ‘And Dottie. What are you doing here?'

‘We've come to look at a flat,' said Mary. She peered into the pram. ‘Is that yours?' 

‘No it flippin' isn't!' said Beverly. ‘It's my sister's.'

Mary stared at the baby and the baby stared back. I couldn't tell what either of them was thinking, but after a few moments the baby turned its face away and made some whimpery noises like it was about to cry. Mary wrinkled her nose. She didn't look particularly impressed.

‘We're looking for number nineteen,' I said.

Beverly jiggled the handle of the pram to keep the baby quiet. ‘It can't be far away. Do you know what block it's in?'

‘Maybe it says on the envelope.'

Mary fished the envelope out of her bag again.

‘Oh yes, it does. It's in Nightingale block.'

‘All the blocks are named after birds,' said Beverly. ‘My sister's in Swallow.'

‘Could have been worse, I suppose,' said Mary. ‘It could have been blue tit.'

It was nice to see that Mary hadn't lost her sense of humour. Beverly showed us where the block was and we went in. All the doors were the same colour green and they were all in lines. Mary turned right and I turned left.

‘It's not down here,' I shouted.

‘Nor here,' Mary shouted back. ‘Let's try the next floor.'

There was a set of concrete steps leading to the next landing and that was where we found number nineteen. It had a green door just like all the others, and next to the door was a window, but you couldn't see through it because the curtains were drawn. A little boy on a tricycle pedalled up and down the landing, staring at us. I smiled at him and he stuck his tongue out.