Authors: June Gadsby
Alex fell silent. He could see that the conversation was going nowhere. In fact, it was most likely to lead to a slanging match if he persisted. They seemed to have more and more heated exchanges these days, neither one of them able to speak without a barb attached.
What the hell had happened to their marriage, Alex wondered gloomily? It had all started out happily enough. Maybe that was the
problem
. Happily
enough
. He had never felt that great boost of excitement that went beyond the superficial realms of lust. It was Fiona who had made the running, Fiona who pushed him into marriage. Looking back now over the last five years, it was easy to see how it had all gone wrong. She had been too forceful and he had been too young and
impressionable
. Had love ever entered into the equation? He thought not.
And for Fiona’s part, she had quickly become bored with being his wife. She didn’t find him exciting enough. He was always working, and when he wasn’t nose to the grindstone in the hospital or, as now, in the practice, he was too tired for the kind of social life she would have preferred. He had thought, perhaps, that if they started a family, things would improve. Well, she had knocked that theory on the head more than once, much to his disappointment.
Alex collected the packets of patient-notes into a neat pile, secured them with an elastic band and popped them into his Gladstone bag. His conscience was telling him he had to do something to salvage whatever remained of a relationship that he had sworn before God to protect. He wasn’t a religious man, but he did believe in the sanctity of marriage. Even so, it did take two to make any marriage work and Fiona had long ago ceased to meet him halfway. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the table.
‘Why don’t we go out for a drink?’ he suggested, thinking that being in a public place was preferable to an unfriendly silence here at home.
Fiona gave him a languid look and her mouth twitched in the way it did when she thought he was being stupid.
‘I’m not in the mood. Besides, we have alcohol in the sideboard. I can think of better things to do than mingle with pitmen and dockers
swilling
beer.’
Alex gritted his teeth. Although he was fairly new to Tyneside, he already felt a natural urge to defend the mainly working-class population. They were the salt of the earth, these big-hearted, hard-working
Geordies. He had received nothing but warmth from them since he first put his foreign nose into their midst.
‘They’re good people, Fiona,’ he said, his voice tight but controlled. ‘You shouldn’t run them down. Good Lord, you don’t even know them.’
‘Oh, go out for a drink, if that’s what you want, but don’t expect me to come with you.’ Fiona’s eyes flashed angrily, then she turned her gaze back to the fire. ‘Go and get drunk, if you must. I don’t care.’
Alex said no more. He grabbed his overcoat, scarf and the mandatory gas mask, and headed for the pub. It was his uncle’s turn to be on call that night, so he didn’t worry too much about being absent.
The evening being fine, though the air was freezing and the pavements icy, Alex decided to go on foot up to Victoria Square, where there was a pub that seemed popular with the locals. He felt the need for exercise and to breathe some good, clean air. And to distance himself from the house, which had never truly felt like a home, mainly because Fiona seemed incapable of making it so.
The Jubilee public house was heaving with bodies, quite a few of them servicemen. The young, brash soldiers were intent on enjoying their
freedom
and filled the place with raucous laughter as they shouted out toasts bordering on the ridiculous and the vulgar, such as ‘Up yours, Adolph!’ and ‘Here’s to Adolf in Blunderland!’
One man sat alone in a corner, warding off company with aggressive arm waves. The fellow, Alex noticed, was in his fifties and stared down sullenly into his glass. Like Alex, he was drinking whisky, but was
obviously
a few shots ahead, for his eyes were clouded and there was a
dribble
of saliva coursing down his chin from his slack mouth.
‘Who’s that in the corner over there?’ Alex asked the barman as he paid for his second whisky. ‘The fellow with the glum expression and the haunted eyes.’
‘Oh, that’s Frank West,’ the barman told him and Alex wandered over to where the man was still sitting staring into space.
‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked, sitting down anyway. ‘It’s the only vacant seat.’
The man raised his eyes and swallowed hard, then shrugged his
shoulders
uncaringly. He ignored Alex and returned to his serious drinking, calling for another whisky as soon as he had downed the last drop of the one before him.
‘Hey, Frank, lad. I think ye’ve had enough, eh? Ye’ll nivvor get home th’ neet.’ The barman hovered by Alex’s shoulder, shaking his head. Then he bent down and shouted in Alex’s ear because it was too noisy to
whisper
.
‘He’s a bit upset, ye see. Got turned down by the Draft Board when he tried to join up.’
Alex looked at the lined face of the miner in amazement. The fellow was slowly sinking down as he muttered something unintelligibly, then his forehead crashed on to the table before him.
‘Where does he live?’ Alex asked.
‘Up Split Crow Road way,’ said another miner who had wandered over, clutching his thick pint glass. ‘Silly old fool. Fancy trying to join up at his age. You’d think he’d have had enough of war after the last one.’
‘Yes.’ Alex sighed, then stood up and hauled the slightly built,
semiconscious
man to his feet. ‘However, there’s no telling what goes on in a man’s mind at times like these. I’ll see him home.’
‘It’s a long walk, and uphill all the way.’
‘It’ll do us both good. Split Crow Road, is it?’
‘Aye, that’s right. George Street. On the right, just past the allotments.’
Alex’s eyes narrowed slightly. He couldn’t be sure, but the man he was now supporting, and who was almost comatose, was very likely Mary West’s father.
It was going to be quite a challenge, getting the drunken man home, but in the square they came upon a horse and cart going in the right direction. The man driving it was Tommy Dobson, the patient who had created such a fuss at being signed off that morning.
‘Hold on there,’ Alex called out as he saw that Tommy was about to pass them by. ‘Can you give us a lift up Split Crow Road as far as George Street?’
The man glowered at him beneath his flat cap and tried to disappear into his coat collar.
‘Aye, put him on the back,’ he said eventually, his voice muffled. ‘I’ll see he gets there safely enough.’
‘No, I’ll go with him, just to make sure.’
‘Ye divvint trust us, eh?’
‘Tommy Dobson, I know it’s you, so there’s no use pretending you’re somebody different. Now will you give us a lift or not?’
‘What’s in it for me, eh? Ye ganna give us another sick note?’
‘What’s in it for you, my man, is my silence if you go back to work and stop all your shenanigans.’
There was a brief hesitation, then Tommy whipped off his cap and scratched fiercely at his greasy head.
‘Aye, gan on then. Hop aboard.’
It took them ten minutes. The horse was old and kept stopping to pant
and cough, filling the air with steam from its nostrils and a fouler stench from its rear. But at least it seemed to know its way, even in the
pitch-black
night. The cartwheels mounted the kerb only once.
When Alex jumped down at the end of George Street and pulled Mr West after him, he could see Tommy Dobson hovering expectantly.
‘Don’t push your luck, laddie,’ he said and received a grimace in return. ‘My gratitude is all you’re getting. Consider this as part of your donation towards the war effort. And get yourself back to work by Monday morning, or I’ll want to know why not.’
Without a further word, Dobson clicked his tongue and the horse moved on. Alex looked about him, recognizing the area, even in the dark. That patient he had visited this afternoon – Miss Croft – she lived two streets further up.
‘Come on, Mr West,’ he said, tightening his grip about the man’s waist so that they were almost joined at the hip. ‘Let’s get you to your bed.’
‘Ye’re a good lad,’ Frank West muttered and patted Alex’s shoulder. ‘I bet they wouldn’t turn you down, eh?’
Frank managed to stay awake long enough to indicate which house he lived in. As Alex rapped on the door with the heavy iron knocker, he saw a flicker of light through a chink in the fanlight black-out curtain. After a few seconds he heard feet coming down the stairs at a run.
‘Mrs West?’ he spoke out as soon as the door began to open. ‘It’s Dr Craig. I’ve got your husband here. He’s a bit under the weather, I’m afraid.’
But the person who stood there, her face illuminated by a sudden beam of light as the moon appeared from behind a bank of cloud, was none other than Mary West.
‘Dr Craig? Oh, goodness, Dad! What’s happened? Mam, come quick!’
‘It’s all right,’ Alex said, stepping over the threshold with his burden. ‘He’s not hurt. Just the worse for too much drink.’
‘He’s drunk? But Dad never touches alcohol.’
‘Well, he did tonight. Better get him up the stairs and pour him into bed. He’ll have a beauty of a hangover in the morning.’
‘I just don’t believe that your dad would do such a thing,’ Jenny West sat with her head in her hands, which is how she had been since Dr Craig left. ‘And just fancy, that doctor bringing him all the way home. What must he think of us, eh?’
‘I don’t know, Mam,’ Mary said, putting a cup of strong, sweet tea in front of her mother. ‘But it was very kind of him to do that. Otherwise,
Dad might have ended up sleeping in the gutter tonight and they’d have found him all frozen to death in the morning.’
‘Oh, but the shame of it!’ Jenny moaned. ‘What on earth possessed him?’
Mary knew there was no point in struggling with the whys and the wherefores. Her father kept his feelings very much to himself, and although he never spoke of it, he was proud to have served his king and country in the Great War. No doubt he felt that Britain and King George needed him again.
‘Poor Dad,’ she said, glancing at her sister, who looked as stricken as her mother. ‘I thought he was a bit quieter than usual. I bet he’ll feel awful when he realizes what he’s done.’
Jenny West got up from the table and threw her hands up in the air. She paced back and forward in front of the coal fire that was still
glowing
in the grate.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to face people,’ she said.
‘Oh, Mam! It’s not a crime to get drunk.’ Mary felt her voice sharpen. ‘He must have been feeling pretty bad to drink as much as he did.’
‘It’s a crime for your father to drink himself stupid,’ Jenny said. ‘And Dr Craig had had a drink or two as well. I could smell the whisky on his breath. And him a doctor!’
Mary had noticed the smell of alcohol too, and wondered if both men had reason to drown their sorrows. Her dad had been turned down by the Army and perhaps laughed at because of his age and his bad chest from years of breathing in coal dust. What was Dr Craig’s reason for drinking a little more than was good for him, she wondered curiously? He didn’t give the impression of being a drinking man.
But then, whatever it was, it was none of her business. He had been kind enough to see that her father got home safely and had stayed to drink a warming cup of tea by the fire. And when she had let him out of the house later on he had gripped her hand and smiled down at her, and the smile had reached his eyes. It was such a special smile and she felt it was just for her. His hand was firm and strong, unlike Walter’s pudgy grip that lacked substance. She really must make a point of calling in to thank him. They had all been so shocked by her father’s state that she was sure they had all forgotten their manners.
‘Mary!’ She jumped as her mother’s sharp voice penetrated her thoughts. ‘Stop dreaming and go and see if your dad’s come back to the land of the living. There’s a drop of broth left in the pan. He probably needs something in his stomach to soak up the alcohol. Silly old fool!’
I
T
was a few days before things settled down in the West household. Jenny was at last speaking again to Frank, though grudgingly. Mary was glad, in a way, that she had lost her job at Harper’s, for she was able to be there for her parents when they needed her most. Although after a couple of days dealing with her mother’s obvious depression following her husband’s drinking session, Mary was more than ready to start
looking
for another position.
And that was exactly what she was about to do on Friday morning when there was a furious banging on the front door.
‘Oh, that’s got to be bad news!’ her mother wailed, clamping her face between her hands and looking as if she had frozen solid to the kitchen floor.
‘It’s all right, Mam,’ Mary said. ‘Calm down. I’ll go.’
She pulled open the door, stepping back sharply when Iris Morrison tumbled in, rosy cheeked and breathless.
‘Mary, grab your things and come with me,’ Iris said between gasps.
‘Iris, what on earth…?’ Mary stared at her friend. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing, as yet, but if we don’t get down to the pensions office quick you’ll lose the chance of a lifetime. Go on … coat, bag, gloves, scarf … quick!’
‘What?’
‘There’s another vacancy come up for a pensions clerk and they’re interviewing this morning. I told them about you and they said if you could get down there by nine they’d see you.’
‘Oh, Iris!’
Mary was already rushing back into the house while Iris caught her breath on the doorstep.
‘Where are you going?’ Jenny poked her head out in time to see Mary
wind her scarf around her neck and pull on some woollen gloves.
‘Job interview, Mam,’ Mary told her. ‘I’m off with Iris. See you later. Wish me luck?’
‘Oh, aye, hinny. Good luck. It’s not at any factory, is it?’
‘No, Mam. It’s in an office.’
And then the two young women were outside in the crisp November morning, their feet crunching on the ground frost, their faces tingling as the icy wind slapped their cheeks.
It was a treacherous route down the slippery slope of Split Crow Road and they hung on to each other, laughing nervously, their booted feet slithering away from under them at every step.
‘Sorry I couldn’t come up last night, Mary,’ Iris said, wiping the steam from her glasses as they paused to catch their breath at the bottom of the first hill. ‘I was late home and I can’t see in the dark. And everybody’s down with the flu in our house, so I had to do the supper as well.’
‘I’m so glad you thought of me, Iris,’ Mary said and they started off again, arm in arm, running, sliding, hardly able to stop themselves until they reached Heworth and the tramcars that ran into Gateshead and Newcastle.
‘Here it comes,’ Iris said with a sigh of relief after a few minutes’ wait as they hopped from one foot to the other to keep warm.
The tramcar that rattled towards them displayed the destination of ‘Saltwell Park’ and the windows were steamed up from the body
temperature
of the passengers already inside.
They jumped aboard and paid the tuppence fare to the driver, but as he clanged the bell and started off there was a loud yell and the clatter of feet running down the road after them.
‘Stop the tram! Hey! Wait a minute!’
Mary peered out of the back of the tram and saw a diminutive figure running hell for leather after them, coat and skirt flying in the wind, skinny sparrow legs working in overdrive, and one hand clamped over a hat that was insisting on taking flight.
The driver must have been in a good mood, for he slowed down, but didn’t stop. The girl chasing them never flagged. She got to the
boarding-platform
and leapt forward and up, arms reaching out. Mary caught her and pulled her inside.
‘Bloody hell!’ The expletive from the girl under the hat, which had come down over her eyes, scorched Mary’s ears.
‘What were you trying to do?’ Mary laughed. ‘Break your neck? There’ll be another tram in a few minutes.’
‘Aye, but I’m late already and I have to get back by eleven or there’ll be hell to pay.’
Mary clamped her lips together to hide her amusement as the other girl went through the intricate business of rearranging her person, which had been more than just a little disarranged by her flight after the tram.
Giving her a friendly smile, Mary hooked her hand under the girl’s arm, because she was unsteady as the tram gathered speed. ‘Come on inside. It’ll be warmer.’
‘Aye. This effin’ weather’s playin’ havoc wi’ me chilblains.’ A pair of small eyes like dark pebbles flashed at her. ‘And ye can stop lookin’ at us like that. We can’t all talk posh like you, ye know.’
‘It was just that I thought I’d seen you before somewhere …’ Mary told her quickly, having no wish to offend the girl, who was obviously touchy on the subject of her broad Geordie accent.
‘Aye, mebbe, if you’ve had somebody in the family die recently. I work for me da. He’s an undertaker.’ She waved her hands about. ‘Oh, damn these chilblains!’
Mary sympathized, glad that she wasn’t troubled with the same
affliction
, but she knew plenty of people who complained bitterly about it. With a smile and a nod, she went to join Iris in the centre of the tram, pulling the back of the seat forward so she could sit facing her friend as they rocked and rattled their way to Gateshead.
‘That could have been nasty,’ Iris said jerking her head towards the girl from the funeral parlour. ‘It’s a wonder she didn’t fall and break a leg or something.’
‘I’ve never seen anybody run like that.’ Mary laughed into the folds of her scarf, wishing there was some form of heating in the tram, for it was nearly as cold as it was outside, and the driver looked a bit blue about the gills too. ‘When she jumped I held my breath, but she kind of just flew.’
‘Yes, well, those Donaldsons aren’t made to break.’
‘You know her?’
‘Not exactly,’ Iris put her hands under her armpits for warmth and hugged herself tightly, her breath coming out in a great cloud and
meeting
the same from Mary’s open mouth. ‘The family’s well known around here. They’re from Elliot Street and you can’t get anything rougher, but they run a good funeral service. Four lads and one girl, though I hear tell she’s as bad as any of her brothers. Effie, she’s called, mainly on account of her swearing.’
Mary stifled a giggle, and then they were both laughing and were glad there were other passengers to hide them from the object of their
humour. However, Mary did catch the girl staring at them with a
malignant
eye when she gave a swift glance over her shoulder.
‘She’s not the friendliest character in the world, is she? I didn’t even get a thank-you for hauling her on board.’
‘No, well, I suppose she’s more used to dealing with corpses.’
‘That’s not my idea of fun.’ Mary said with a shudder, recalling the strange almost almond smell of the embalming fluid that pervaded
everything
after they had had her grandfather laid out.
‘The mother died or scarpered years ago,’ Iris muttered out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Effie’s the youngest, but they say she’s held the family together one way or another. Mam says she’s a right little
scrubber
and no mistake, but she won’t stand for any nonsense from anybody.’
‘Well, she has to be admired.’
‘Yes, maybe, but she’s got a right reputation. You just have to look at her the wrong way and she’s on you like a ton of bricks.’ Iris grabbed Mary as she was about to give Effie another look. ‘No, don’t look round or she’ll think we’re talking about her.’
‘Oh, Iris, you are funny.’
‘I don’t mess with any of the Donaldsons,’ Iris told her. ‘Effie in
particular
. Come on, it’s our stop next.’
They staggered to the exit as the tram pulled in and stopped. There were a few people to get off and Iris pushed her way past them, dragging Mary with her. As fast as they could go on the frosted ground they hurried to the War Pensions Office.
It was a plain, redbrick building with nothing to recommend it as a site worthy of note. Inside it was even plainer, with its starkly blank walls painted cream over heavily embossed Lincrusta wallpaper. It might have been considered fashionable, but to Mary it looked rather as though they’d decorated the place with rice-pudding.
‘In there,’ Iris said, giving Mary a shove towards a door marked ‘Chief Clerk’. ‘Mr Hornby’s expecting you. I’ll pop back and see how you’ve got on in about half an hour.’
Iris entered another room where there was a buzz of female voices, the sound of a typewriter clacking and the buzz of a switchboard. Already, there was a short queue of customers lining up in reception, waiting for the service window to be opened to them.
Taking a deep breath, Mary knocked on Mr Hornby’s door and heard the summons to enter. The man sitting at the large desk in the centre of the room looked harassed, even though it was barely nine o’clock. He had fat, florid cheeks and peered at her through thick-lensed glasses that
sat on a fleshy nose, which resembled a piece of bread-dough.
‘Mr Hornby? I’m Mary West,’ Mary introduced herself.
He glanced down at his diary, stabbed a finger on the top name of a long list of names and blinked up at her. ‘Ah, yes. Come in, Miss West. Sit down, sit down … and tell me all about yourself, eh?’
Fifteen minutes later, the interview was over and Mr Hornby was accompanying Mary to the door, congratulating her on obtaining the position of junior pensions clerk and shaking her hand vigorously. As she thanked him again and started to walk in the direction of the reception office, she almost bumped into someone hovering just outside the door.
‘That effin’ does it!’
Mary recognized the girl as none other than Effie Donaldson who had sprinted like a mad thing after the tramcar. She started to apologize for her own clumsiness, but the girl was already being addressed by Mr Hornby.
‘Was there something you wanted?’ he said, peering down his dumpling nose.
‘Aye. I’ve come about the clerical job.’
‘Oh, dear, yes, I see.’ Mr Hornby’s face twisted as he sniffed the air between them and expanded his broad chest. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re too late. It’s already been filled.’
Effie Donaldson seemed to sag inside her bones and every line on her thin face turned downwards.
‘Bloody Norah! After all the rush. And I did get here on time an’ all. Nearly killed mesel’ to get here, too.’
‘Yes, well …’ Mr Hornby twitched from head to foot, glanced uncomfortably at Mary, then started to back into his office, his hand ready to close, and possibly lock the door. ‘Perhaps another time … er … Miss … er…?’
‘It’s Donaldson,’ Effie pronounced loudly and angrily. ‘Effie Donaldson, and don’t you look down yer nose at me. I’m as good as the rest. I just wanted the chance to …’
The door clicked firmly shut and Effie was left talking to the solid wood panel. Her words tailed off and she slumped, then, remembering Mary’s presence, her shoulders rose again and she spun on her heel to face her.
‘What ye starin’ at, eh? Are you the bleedin’ new pensions clerk then? Is that what you was runnin’ for – to get ahead of me?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming for an interview.’
‘Aye, well I was, but then, I don’t look like you, or talk like you. I’m not posh, as you well know. I’m effin’ common as muck, me. It was daft to even think they’d give us a go at makin’ somethin’ of mesel’. They probably think I can’t read and write.’
‘I’m sure you can, as well as anybody.’ Mary hastened to pour oil over obviously troubled waters. ‘Look, I really am sorry.’
‘Like hell you are. Anyway, they don’t need good English to hand out pensions, do they? And I can do me sums. I was always pretty good at arithmetic.’
‘I don’t know what to say, except there may be another vacancy soon.’
‘Ye’ll be tellin’ us next that it was meant to be.’
Effie’s face twisted into a wry smile, though it would take a good deal more than that to make her halfway to being pretty. Hers was a roughly hewn face, void of all the usual feminine softness. The dark eyes were too close together beneath thick black eyebrows and there was the hint of a moustache shadowing her upper lip. She had small canine teeth that were white enough, but crooked.
‘Actually, I do believe that things happen for the best,’ Mary said hastily. ‘Even the bad things. Believing that helps me get through life.’
‘If ye had my life ye’d not think like that, I can tell ye.’
‘No, perhaps not, but we all have to cope with our problems in our own way.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mary could see Iris poking her nose out of the office door across the corridor. Effie saw her too and rounded on her.
‘I suppose I have you to thank for this,’ she called out, standing squarely and placing her hands on her thin hips. ‘Well, ye can quit worryin’ about yer friend here. She got the job.’
Iris’s eyes sparkled and she pressed her hands together, ignoring Effie Donaldson and looking at Mary for confirmation.
‘I start on Monday,’ Mary told her.
‘Fantastic! Must go. Fridays are always busy.’
Iris ducked back inside the office and Mary turned to have a final word with Effie, but the girl had already left and could be seen marching resentfully down the street, shoulders slumped, head down. Mary felt sorry for her. Maybe the poor girl would have got the job, though she doubted it, judging by the look on Mr Hornby’s face.
With a sigh, Mary took a different route and walked into town rather than cross Effie’s path again. She found a small café open and bought a cup of coffee and a currant bun. Well, she told herself, she had a reason
to celebrate. She had landed herself a government job, so she wouldn’t be called up alongside the men, which otherwise had seemed likely, for there was certainly plenty of talk about it being in the pipeline.
‘Are you nervous?’
Iris’s guarded whisper from the next desk broke through Mary’s concentration. She had been working at the War Pensions Office for three weeks and had not, so far, felt that it was a job she would ever really enjoy. Too much bending over ledgers and filling in forms. She was even seeing columns of figures in her sleep.