A month later, Peter was arriving home late. He’d been delayed because Mr Ince had wanted to see him. He had felt a rush of hope at the summons and he’d been right. He was to be promoted to develop new production methods throughout the region. It would mean travelling, to visit their factories in Wakefield, Sheffield, Leeds and Hull. An extra five hundred a year and a company car. He was proud. He’d worked his guts out for this. He’d just stepped in the door when the telephone began to ring. He picked it up.
‘Mr Gough? Sister Monica at St Ann’s here. I have some good news.’
He was flustered. ‘Oh, yes, Sister – right-o, erm . . . you better speak to Lilian.’ Lilian was coming through from the kitchen having heard the phone. ‘Sister Monica,’ he said, holding out the receiver.
Her face blanched and she swallowed quickly. She blinked several times and took the phone from him.
‘Hello, Sister.’
‘Mrs Gough, I have some lovely news. We have a little girl here and I wondered if you and your husband would like to come and see her.’
‘Oh!’ a swirl of disappointment edged her excitement. ‘We’d hoped for a boy first, Sister.’ She glanced at Peter, who shrugged his shoulders.
‘Would you like to have a think about it and call me back?’
‘Yes.’
‘And don’t be worrying now. There’s no hurry and I’m sure it won’t be long until there’s a boy for you, if that’s what you’ve set your hearts on.’
‘Thank you.’
She put the phone down, her forehead creased and her hand shaking. ‘Now what do we do? It’s a girl.’
‘What did she say?’ Peter hung up his sports coat.
Lilian told him.
‘So it’s up to us.’
‘I know you’d like a boy,’ she said, ‘but . . .’
‘Let’s sit down.’
Once they were seated on the sofa in the lounge he said. ‘I thought you did too?’
‘I did. But now . . . I don’t know how to explain,’ she took off her glasses and rubbed the lenses on the corner of her blouse.
‘You don’t want to wait?’
‘It’s not that. She said it wouldn’t be long before there’d be a boy available. It’s more, well . . . this is random, isn’t it, the luck of the draw. Like it would be if . . . if we were having one ourselves. We wouldn’t get to choose. Do you see?’
‘Fate? Down to chance?’
‘I mean, we might not like her anyway. If I saw her and felt, I don’t know . . . nothing, then I’d . . . well, I’d think about it very hard. Have you got a cigarette?’
Peter lit two cigarettes and handed one to her.
‘Do you feel very strongly about a boy?’ she asked him.
He thought for a moment. ‘I would like a son, someone to carry on the name. But it doesn’t have to be the first.’
She widened her eyes, the green glinting at him.
‘Well, we may want to do it again,’ he said. ‘People do. Look at the Carters, they’ve got five.’
‘I don’t want five. Two would be nice. One of each. Oh –’ she flung back her head – ‘I just want a baby, Peter. I want to see her. I don’t want to say no.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll see her, see what she’s like.’
She exhaled loudly. ‘Oh, thank you!’ She hugged him.
‘Red-letter day.’
‘Yes.’
‘In more ways than one.’
‘What?’ She straightened up and turned to him.
‘Mr Ince called me in. He’s giving me the regional job.’
‘Oh, Peter!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘That's marvellous. Why didn’t you say?’
‘I didn’t get a chance, did I?’
‘Oh, I knew he’d give you it! Congratulations.’
‘And now I am going to get out of these clothes. Do you want to call Matron back?’
‘Yes.’
‘It'll have to be Saturday or Sunday.’
‘I know.’
He took her hand and squeezed it. She looked alive with excitement again. After the tragedy of the first miscarriage it had been a horrific struggle to balance optimism and dread when Lilian got pregnant the second and then the third time. It was such a relief now to be talking about a baby without the shadow of miscarriage hovering over them. It all felt so simple in comparison.
‘Go and ring then,’ he said.
Lilian held the baby in her arms. She knew this would be her daughter. She touched a small foot encased in a lace bootee. The nun was murmuring about how beautiful she was, with the curls of dark hair and such a sweet face. Lilian knew this would be her daughter, her child, and in the same moment she faced the realisation that she would never bear a child. This baby would not share her blood, her looks, her nature, her background. She would never look at this child and see herself looking back, that particular shade of green in her eyes. She felt an immense sadness soaking through her, despair and bitter grief mingling with the love and hope that the child in her arms brought.
Joan
Carnaby Street was her favourite place. London was so different from Manchester. Things were happening here. Young people everywhere, parading the latest fashions, having fun. Jobs were there for the asking, if your boss got up your nose you could just walk away, there was always something else available. Joan had already had two. The first in a record shop, a place she loved because she could hear all the latest records, but the manager had wandering hands and bad breath and she got sick of his attentions.
There were plenty of dishy young men in London looking for a good time, money in their pockets. She got countless invitations but she turned them all down. She still felt uncomfortable about what had happened. She didn't want anyone to know she had stretch marks, silvery threads that meandered across her belly, and although she sometimes felt aroused she had no desire to sleep with anyone. The woman who had cavorted on desks with Duncan and then gone home and pleasured herself was a stranger. Like a flickering home movie from someone else’s life; she had withered and died as Joan’s baby had grown and been born. Occasionally Joan wondered whether she would ever want to do the normal things again. Settle down, get married, have a family. It all seemed so stuffy, really.
Her friend Frances had got married and moved to the outer suburbs with her new husband. Frances had given up work and become a full-time housewife. Joan couldn’t imagine it. Be like being buried alive.
Her second job was with a record company. They needed someone to run the office. The place was crazy, an endless stream of hopeful youngsters ringing up or turning up, climbing the rickety staircase to the two-room let in a Soho backstreet, clutching song sheets or guitars or letters from the school music teacher. The place was owned by Roger, who had minor connections to royalty and no need to make any money from his hobby. He talked endlessly about the new sound, about rivaling the Shadows, about platinum discs and breaking America. As it was, the only success the outfit had was with compilations of ballads, Russ Conway style.
Joan had her black hair cut short, a stylish cut with a straight fringe. She bought false eyelashes and practically glued her eyes shut on the first attempt. She got dark eye make-up and white lipstick at Biba and saved from her wages to get a second-hand Singer sewing machine. All the dresses in vogue were simple shapes. She ran up an A-line in geometric material from the market and a dress with the empire bust line in gorgeous purple paisley for a fraction of the cost.
Roger liked her to look groovy, as he put it, never mind that half their clients were still wearing what their parents wore. She would give an impression of being really trendy and then the kids would go in and see Roger in his lair. After Joan had been there a month she had created some sort of filing system to show who they had seen and what, if anything, had been agreed. She often had to pester Roger to find out. And catch him straight after an act had left. He was irritatingly absent-minded.
Roger invited her to one of his parties. He had a huge house near Hampstead Heath and he boasted that the parties went on all weekend, day and night. He paid for caterers and cleaners and even people to serve drinks. With all that, Joan couldn’t see why on earth he bothered with his little record label.
When she got there she didn’t know what to do with herself. She smoked too much and drank too much and found herself outside by the terrace being sick behind a hydrangea bush. She fell asleep there. The cold woke her and she went exploring. The house was huge and, with music blaring from all corners and psychedelic lighting, she felt like she’d walked into someone’s bad dream. People were petting on the stairs and dancing in one room to a live group who were hopelessly off key. Everyone seemed to be smoking reefers or popping pills. She opened one door and was shocked to see a bed covered with naked people. Not just one couple but several. A sea of breasts and pubic hair. A man’s willy. She shut the door hurriedly, her cheeks aflame. She felt uncomfortable and walked home.
When Roger had his next party she wondered whether to go or not but he told her there were some business contacts there he wanted her to meet. He introduced her to Lena. Lena was working in Soho, singing in a nightclub not far from the office. Although her English was very good she had a thick German accent and Joan had to concentrate hard to make out the sense. She was talking about Roger and how he had promised her some sort of record deal. They hoped to make a record soon.
‘Have you written it?’ Joan asked.
‘No,’ Lena threw back her head and laughed. She had bronze skin and her hair was streaked with gold and honey. She had very pale grey eyes. Joan thought she could have been a model or a film star if the singing didn’t work out.
‘Roger is the writer,’ Lena said.
Joan pulled a face.
‘You think it’s a problem? No good?’
Joan shrugged. ‘You’d be better off doing it yourself.’
‘No. I can sing, but writing? Pouff!’ she waved her hands in dismissal. ‘What is wrong with Roger doing it?’
‘First of all, it’ll take him forever, and then it will be . . .’ she leaned close and enunciated carefully, ‘dull, square, boring.’ She had heard his songs and tried to think of comments that wouldn’t get her sacked.
‘Joan, you write me a song.’
‘But I’ve never . . .’
‘If you don’t, I’ll have to do Roger’s. Please?’
‘He wouldn’t like it.’
‘We’ll pick a name for you, he won’t know.’ Lena was animated, her face alight with the plan. ‘What would you like to be called?’
‘I can’t . . .’ She protested.
‘Joan –’ Lena grabbed her hands – ‘my friend, please. Just try, promise you’ll try.’ She stared at Joan, an open look to her, eyes dancing, a smile stretching her lips. ‘Please?’
‘I’ll try. But it might be rubbish.’
‘You’ll try?’
‘Yes.’
Lena pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. Joan laughed with surprise.
‘And what name?’
The question blew Joan straight back to St Ann’s, to the registrar documenting the birth. And what name? Laboriously writing with a thick fountain pen. Her name and address, a careful line across the section for the father’s details, and then, pen poised, he turned his shiny round face to her and peered over his glasses. And what name? Nearly two years ago now.
‘Joan?’ Lena nudged her elbow. ‘You OK?’
‘Day dreaming,’ she said. ‘I’ll think of something.’ And she tried to force her smile into her eyes too.
Lilian
‘And this is Pamela,’ Peter announced, lifting up the carrycot. ‘Pamela Mary Gough.’
‘She’s tiny,’ his mother observed. She sounded pleasant enough but Lilian noticed that she made no move to touch her first grandchild. Frightened of waking her, or something else?
‘Why don’t you get settled and I’ll tell Bernard you’re here. Kettle’s on.’ She hurried away and Lilian took off her jacket and took it out to the pegs in the hall. She could hear Alicia calling Bernard in from the garden. He made models in his shed. Planes and boats, no – ships. He got upset if you called them boats. His fine attention to detail and his skills at his hobby went hand in hand with a complete lack of skills and gross insensitivity where people were concerned.