Try a Little Tenderness (16 page)

Mary stood outside her childhood home and felt like crying. Her mam used to have the place looking like a little palace, with windows shining, lace curtains as white as snow, front doorstep scrubbed every morning and the red-raddled window sill polished until you could see your face in it. If it hadn’t been for the number on the door, Mary would have thought she was at the wrong house. Behind the dirty net curtains the draw curtains were still closed. The windows were filthy, as was the step and window sill. It was as if nothing had been touched since her mam had died. The house was a disgrace, the scruffiest in the street. And as she knocked on the door, Mary thought how ashamed her dad must be, having to come home to this every day. He was a proud man and this must be so humiliating for him.

As she lifted the knocker for the third time, the next door opened and Monica Platt’s head appeared. ‘Yer’ll not get an answer there before twelve.’ Then when recognition dawned a wide smile lit up her face and she almost jumped from the top step to embrace the daughter of the woman who’d been her neighbour and best mate for years. ‘Mary, sweetheart, it’s good to see yer. Me and Phil often talk about yer, and wonder how you and Stan are, and the girls.’

‘I came to have a word with Celia, but she must have gone out.’

Monica Platt’s smile disappeared. ‘Come inside, sweetheart, and I’ll make us a cuppa.’ With her arm across Mary’s shoulders, she led her up the step and into the hall. ‘I’m glad yer’ve come, there’s things need saying.’

While Monica put the kettle on, Mary gazed around the room that had been like a second home to her when she
was young. Nothing had changed, the same brown chenille cloth covered the table, the same clock ticked away on the mantelpiece, the aspidistra still stood on a small table under the window and the statue of the Whistling Boy had pride of place on the sideboard. The room was homely, comfortable and spotlessly clean. Like her mam had been, Monica Platt was very houseproud.

‘There yer are, sweetheart, drink it while it’s hot.’ Monica set a dainty cup and saucer in front of Mary before sitting down on the opposite side of the table. ‘It does me heart good to see yer, and that’s the truth.’

Mary sipped on the hot tea, hoping it would chase away the hard lump that had formed in her throat and quell the tears that were threatening to spill. But she was so devastated by what she’d seen of her old home she had no control over her emotions. ‘I’m sorry, Auntie Monica, but I’m going to cry.’

‘You go ahead, sweetheart. I’ve cried buckets meself over the last year or so.’

Mary put the cup back on the saucer and the sobs came. ‘Me mam must be looking down with sadness at the little house she was so proud of. And she must be disappointed in me for not doing something about it. But I was so hurt and angry when me dad married again so soon after her death, I fell out with him.’ Mary sniffed up as she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘I didn’t see him for well over a year, but we’ve made it up now and he calls in every Saturday afternoon and sometimes a night through the week. But he comes alone because I won’t have her in my house. I think she only married him so he could keep her and she wouldn’t have to work. I can’t stand the woman.’

‘Did yer come with a message for her? I don’t even pass her the time of day if I can help it, but I don’t mind passing a message on if it’ll save yer hanging around.’

Mary shook her head. ‘Our Laura came to see her grandad a few nights ago, and apparently he went to bed
early leaving Laura with Celia. Things were said about me dad that I didn’t like, so I came to have it out with her. I came early, hoping to catch her before she went to the shops, but she must go to work, does she?’

‘Work! Work, did yer say? She couldn’t even spell it, never mind do it.’ There was disgust on Monica’s face. ‘She’s in bed, sweetheart. She’ll have heard yer knocking, but she never surfaces until twelve o’clock. She’s the laziest bitch I’ve ever known. Never does a hand’s turn in the house, it’s like a tip. If yer think the outside looks bad, yer should see inside, it’s like a muck-midden.’

Mary narrowed her eyes. ‘Yer mean she’s in bed now?’

‘Yes, sweetheart, she’s in bed now. Twelve o’clock she gets up, not a minute before. And she seldom goes to the shops, except the one on the corner for her ciggies. Yer never see her in the butcher’s buying meat, nor have I ever seen her carrying potatoes or veg.’

‘Doesn’t she ever have a dinner ready for me dad when he comes home from work?’

‘I don’t want yer to think I’m nosy, sweetheart, but I’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know what’s going on next door. There’s never any smells coming from the kitchen, never any sign of activity, until your dad comes home. Any cooking done in there is done by him. All she’s fit for is making her face up, painting her nails, reading magazines and flirting with every man in the street. Anything in trousers and she’s fluttering her eyelashes. Any of the neighbours will tell yer that what I’m saying is true, there’s not one has a good word for her.’

Monica leaned her elbows on the table and laced her fingers. ‘I don’t know whether I should be telling you all this, but me and Phil think a lot of Joe, and we worry about him. He never moans or criticises her, but I’ve watched him walking up the street on his way home from work, and he looks so unhappy and weary, my heart goes out to him.’

Mary’s face was set, her anger boiling over. ‘And yer say she’s in bed now?’

‘Yes, sweetheart, she’s in bed now and hasn’t got a care in the world.’

Mary pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Right, we’ll soon put a stop to that. I’ll give her something to care about.’ She put her arms around the older woman and gave her a hug. ‘Yer did right to tell me, Auntie Monica, so don’t worry.’

‘She probably won’t open the door for yer, ’cos as I said, yer never see sight nor light of her until dinnertime. But if she does, watch out for her, sweetheart, she’s got a vile temper. I don’t know how Joe puts up with the way she shouts at him – my Phil wouldn’t.’

‘She’ll open the door all right, otherwise I’ll put a window in. I’m so angry now I would willingly strangle her with me bare hands. I’m not going to stand by and see a fly turn like her make a fool of my dad.’

‘If yer get into trouble, sweetheart, just knock on the wall and I’ll come running.’

‘The way I feel now, Auntie Monica, if anyone does any running, it’ll be the queer one who me dad was soft enough to marry.’ Mary was shaking her head as she stepped into the street. ‘And by God, he’s paying dearly for it now.’

Monica stood on the pavement and watched as Mary banged on the knocker next door. The bangs became louder, but still there was no response from inside. The woman from next door but one came out to see what all the noise was about, but at a sign from Monica she held her tongue and just stood silently watching and wondering what Joe Steadman’s daughter was up to. If her face was anything to go by, it boded ill for the lazy so-and-so inside. Perhaps she was going to get her comeuppance, and it wouldn’t be before time.

Mary lifted the letter box and bent to put her mouth as near to the opening as she could get. Then, at the top of her
voice, she yelled, ‘Get out of that bed right now, and open this door! Did yer hear what I said, or shall I start breaking a few windows?’ She stood back, looked up at the bedroom and saw the curtains twitch. ‘I haven’t got all day, so make it snappy.’

Three women from the houses opposite had come to their doors when they heard the shouting and were now standing in a small group with their arms folded. There was a look of pleasant expectancy on their faces that the chit of a girl who’d dragged Joe Steadman down to the gutter, was going to be confronted by his very angry-looking daughter. ‘I hope she belts her one,’ said Maggie Smith. ‘She certainly deserves it.’

‘Yer never spoke a truer word, Maggie,’ Nellie Mitchell said, hitching up her ample bosom. ‘Many’s the time I’ve felt like clocking her one.’

‘Aye, poor Ada, God rest her soul.’ Lizzie Thompson made the sign of the cross. ‘She must be turning in her grave at what’s happened to her husband and her little house.’

The door to Joe’s house opened slowly and Celia’s head appeared. ‘What the bleedin’ hell are yer making all that racket for? What d’yer want?’

‘I came to talk to you. I’m coming in.’

‘Like hell yer are!’ The door was opened wider and Celia stood on the step, a cigarette dangling from lips that bore traces of yesterday’s lipstick. Her hair was tousled and the scrap of nightdress she was wearing looked as though it had never been washed. ‘Yer don’t live here, this is not your house, so get lost.’

‘Just try and keep me out.’ Mary acted so quickly the girl was unprepared for what happened. With one hand on the door, and the other on Celia’s chest, Mary pushed with all her might. The door crashed back against the hall wall and Celia was sent reeling backwards. ‘This is my father’s house and I’ll enter it whenever I want to.’

To the dismay of the onlookers, who were in the mood for cheering, Mary stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. Dusting her hands together as though they’d been in contact with something unpleasant, she walked into the living room to find Celia standing by the table, waiting for her, with eyes blazing.

‘You can’t come barging in here as though yer own the bleedin’ place. Just wait until I tell Joe, he’ll have plenty to say about it, don’t you worry.’ Celia took a long drag on the cigarette before throwing it in the direction of the fireplace. ‘Now yer can just sod off, I don’t want yer in here.’

Mary’s eyes followed the flying cigarette and she gasped at what she saw. The grate still held the remains of last night’s fire and the hearth was overflowing with ashes, cigarette stubs, sweet papers and an apple core. Then Mary took stock of the room. As Monica Platt had said, it was like a muck-midden. The furniture was thick with dust, curtains and cushion covers were filthy, there were clothes flung everywhere and the floor was strewn with shoes and papers. But it was the overpowering smell of dirt and neglect that had Mary clenching her fists. There was nothing here to remind her of her childhood and her mother. ‘You dirty bitch! You dirty, lazy bitch! Lounging in bed all morning, too flaming idle to keep the place clean. Yer should be ashamed of yerself.’

‘Don’t you come here lecturing me, this is my house and I’ll please meself what I do in it.’ The brazen look was on Celia’s face again as she reached for the cigarette packet on the table. She never took her eyes off Mary as she deliberately took her time selecting a cigarette and then lighting it. Just as deliberately, she drew deeply on it before blowing the smoke into Mary’s face. ‘Now, get yer skates on and vamoose, before I throw yer out on yer arse.’

‘I’ll go when I’m good and ready, and not before. And I wouldn’t advise yer to lay one finger on me if yer know what’s good for yer.’ Mary resisted the temptation to take
her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. ‘Tell me, is this what my father comes home to every night? A lazy good-for-nothing wife and a filthy house?’

‘So what if he does? I don’t hear him complaining.’

‘I’ll complain for him then, shall I? And as yer don’t seem to know what being a wife’s all about, I’ll explain that to yer. I’ll do it slowly, so yer can’t say yer don’t understand. When a woman marries a man, she pledges her love and vows to care for him. That means giving him love, warmth and a clean comfortable home. And as you were so keen to marry me dad yer practically threw yerself at him, I believed yer did love him. So I’d like to know why the dirt is meeting him at the door when he comes home from work, why there’s no dinner ready for him, and why his wife has turned into a lazy slut? Or would I be right in thinking yer never loved him, yer just wanted a meal ticket? And the real truth is, yer’ve always been a lazy slut?’

‘I’ll break yer bleedin’ neck, talking to me like that. Who the hell d’yer think yer are?’ Celia lunged forward to grab at Mary’s hair, but the move was anticipated and Mary pushed her arm away.

‘Don’t try that again or I’ll brain yer.’ Mary sighed. She hadn’t come with the intention of fighting with her father’s wife, just to talk to her. But seeing the way her mam’s home had been left to go to rack and ruin, she couldn’t help herself. And now she’d probably made things worse for her father. ‘I won’t tell me dad I’ve been today because he’d be so ashamed that I’d seen the way he lives. If you want to tell him, that’s your business.’

‘Oh, I’ll be telling him all right, everything yer said. And he’ll be straight up to yours to tell yer what he thinks about yer.’ There was spite in Celia’s eyes. ‘There’ll be no more Saturday visits from him, that’s a dead cert.’

‘Please yerself, but when ye’re crying down his ear, put a blindfold on him so he can’t see that every word I’ve spoken is the truth. And don’t forget about me calling yer a lazy
slut, I wouldn’t want yer to miss that out.’ Mary hoped she was right in thinking Celia wouldn’t dare even mention she’d been in case the whole thing backfired on her. ‘Anyway, all this is not why I’m here. I came to tell yer not to talk to Laura about intimate details of your life. And yer must never run me dad down to her. The girl isn’t sixteen yet, and I’ll not have yer putting an old head on young shoulders.’

‘I didn’t tell her nothing but the truth. He’s like an old man, going to bed every night about nine or ten and leaving me on me own. What sort of life is that for me?’

‘Perhaps he goes to bed so he won’t have to sit in this squalor. Try cleaning the place up and make it comfortable for him, then he won’t be going to bed early.’

‘Your dad is an old man. He goes to bed because he’s tired. But what about me? I’m still young.’ Celia’s top lip curled. ‘And there’s no fun in me going to bed with him because all he does is sleep. He’s not capable of doing anything else these days.’

As quick as a flash, Mary let swing with her arm, delivering a resounding smack across Celia’s cheek. ‘How dare you! How dare you talk about my father like that. Your mouth and your thoughts are dirtier than this room, and that’s saying something. Cheap, nasty, and as common as muck, that’s you. Ye’re not fit to wipe my father’s shoes. And I can promise you that if I ever hear yer’ve talked dirty to my daughter, I’ll be down here to wash yer mouth out with carbolic soap. Then I’ll drag yer out of this house and down the street by yer hair. And don’t think I can’t, or won’t, because when anything threatens my family I’ll protect them with me life.’