A Family Affair (3 page)

‘You've got all the rest of your life to drink tea,' her mother would say. ‘Milk will do you a lot more good while you're still growing.'

The indulgences showed. Jenny's legs might have been a similar shape to Heather's, but they were also plump, so plump that in cold weather she got chaps between her thighs where they rubbed together. Being plump meant she couldn't run as fast as the others or play games or do physical training as well, and being good at games and physical training was one of the things that really counted in the popularity stakes. But Jenny had come to accept that was the shape she was and there was nothing she could do about it.

‘We're all made different,' her mother would say. ‘You're all right as you are.'

And of course, if the truth were told, her mother was plump too.

It was only when it came to school work that Jenny felt truly confident. She was good at English – sometimes the lessons came to her so easily it was almost boring and she couldn't understand the difficulty the others had in grasping it; she was disappointed if she failed to get less than ten out of ten for spelling tests, and she had read voraciously since she was six. Her grasp of English stood her in good stead for all the other lessons except arithmetic, which she struggled with, but still managed to do better than many of the others. The teachers would pick her out to answer questions when the inspector came, though she never felt they liked her as much as some of the less able, even naughtier children – perhaps because she tried so hard to be good! But the rector seemed to like her. He always beamed at her when he came in to take the weekly RE class – something which she suspected did not endear her to her classmates.

No – she
could
pass The Exam. She was expected to. And it was that which terrified her most of all. If she failed she would be letting them all down – Mr Heal, the rector, her mother, Heather. But most of all she would be letting herself down. It was her chance to shine, to really do well, to make a better future for herself than a job at the glove factory. If she failed she didn't think she could bear it.

The school bell pealed suddenly, bringing the morning's lessons to a close. The children began scraping their chairs, chattering, until Mr Heal called them to order, making them line up neatly before he opened the door to release them. They thronged out through the classroom beyond – the Infants'Room – and down the stone steps to the cloakroom, the walls of which ran with water at this time of year when the weather was wet.

Mr Heal stood on the top step, supervising, as they took their coats from the pegstands and put them on, rosy faces peeping from the hoods of gaberdine mackintoshes or eager beneath bonnets and caps. Then he marshalled them into a crocodile, two by two, for the walk across the playground and through the churchyard to the dining hall.

As usual, Jenny found herself at the back. It always took her longer than the others to get herself organised, though she could never work out why this should be. Only Tessa Smith was inevitably slower. Jenny managed to work her way further up the line to avoid having to walk with her. The move put her immediately behind Valerie Scott. Jenny smiled at her hopefully but Valerie turned away with a toss of her shoulder-length bunches, not smiling back but linking her arm through that of Margaret Hodges, her best friend of the moment, and whispering. Margaret giggled and Jenny flushed, unexpected tears pricking her eyes. Valerie had said something about her, she was sure, and they were laughing at her. If only I could be like them! Jenny thought. If only I could be like Heather! If only I could be like
anybody
except me!

Through the churchyard they went, under the dripping trees, down the little flight of steps and into the lane.

‘Watch out for the puddles!' Mr Heal called, but Jenny had already squelched into one, and now there were mud splashes on her clean white knee socks.

The warmth and the smell of food greeted them as they went through the door of the prefabricated hut and hung their coats on yet another set of pegstands.

As Jenny joined the queue she caught sight of Carrie, standing behind the row of containers, and her heart lifted. Her mum always made her feel safe and wanted. Her mum was always there for her, putting things right when they went wrong, giving her little treats Jenny knew she could ill afford.

At almost the same moment Carrie saw Jenny and smiled, a wide smile that lit up her square, rather worn-looking face. Jenny smiled back, waving before she could stop herself.

‘Jenny's Mum, the Dinner Bum,' Valerie said to Margaret in a whisper loud enough for Jenny to hear. And then again, in a sing-song chant, with which Margaret joined in: ‘Jenny's Mum, the Dinner Bum!'

‘Don't say that!' Jenny protested. The flush was beginning again.

They turned to stare at her, eyes wide and innocent, barely concealing laughter.

‘Why not?'

‘Bum's a rude word,' Jenny said.

Valerie tossed her bunches again, challenging, taunting.

‘Jenny's Mum, the Dinner Bum!' she repeated, emphasising each word. Then she and Margaret turned their backs on her, helpless with giggles.

The tears pricked behind Jenny's eyes again. She couldn't understand why they were so horrible to her. Even the pleasure of seeing her mother had been spoiled.

‘I'll show them,' Jenny thought, fighting back the tears. ‘One day I really will show them!'

The two sittings of dinner were over, the children gone back to their afternoon classes. Carrie was elbow-deep in greasy water at one of the sinks. The feeling of trapped helplessness remained but she had stopped being angry with Glad now, and even felt a little guilty for having been so sharp with her. Perhaps she'd make a detour to the Co-op bakery on her way home and buy some jam tarts for tea by way of a peace offering.

‘Your Jennifer didn't look very happy,' Ivy Burden said, taking a pile of washed plates and stacking them in one of the overhead cupboards. ‘She's a funny little soul, isn't she? So serious.'

‘She's a good girl,' Carrie said, sensing an unspoken criticism and springing to Jenny's defence. ‘She's never any trouble.'

‘That's what I mean,' Ivy said. ‘I mean – most of them are full of it at that age. I know our Brenda was.'

‘And our Billy,' Joyce Edgell chimed in. ‘Still is, come to that.'

Carrie's lips tightened. Everyone knew Billy Edgell had been up before the Juvenile Court for stealing sweets and even a handful of cash from the till in Morris's shop when Ev Morris's back was turned. And Joyce was ‘no better than she should be'.

‘Takes after his mother, if you ask me,' Mary Packer joked, and Carrie smiled to herself, though she said nothing. Her sentiments exactly!

Joyce laughed, taking no offence.

‘His father, more like! I've told him he'll have to pull his socks up when we move to Alder Road. I don't want him upsetting the neighbours there and getting us off on the wrong foot.'

Carrie froze.

‘You're moving into the new estate?' Mary asked, a tone of awe in her voice.

‘We shall be, yes. We had the letter this morning. Number 14, Alder Road.'

‘You're a dark horse!' Ivy said. ‘I should've thought you'd have told us as soon as you came in.'

‘We were busy, weren't we? Three of us doing the work of four.'

Carrie was so staggered at hearing that Joyce Edgell had one of the new houses that she failed to rise to the taunt. The letters had started going out then, and just as she had feared, she hadn't had one. Unless of course it had come by second post.

‘You won't know yourself up there, Joyce,' Ivy said. ‘They say those houses are going to be lovely. You've been lucky there.'

‘Luck doesn't come into it!' Mary snorted. ‘We've all got a pretty good idea how Joyce managed to get to the top of the list, haven't we? It isn't what you know, it's
who
you know that counts.'

‘Mary! Watch what you're saying!' Ivy admonished her, and suddenly Carrie was burning with outrage as it all came clear. George Parsons, Clerk to the Council – of course! Joyce and George Parsons!

Some days Joyce was in a hurry to leave. She was off along the lane before them, not stopping to chat, and one afternoon when Carrie had left early herself, before any of them, for an appointment at the dentist's, she had seen George Parsons'car parked under the trees on the corner where the lane joined the main road. She'd put two and two together and made four and she guessed now that the others had seen something to make them suspicious too.

For all her dubious background, Joyce was an attractive woman, tall and boldly handsome, with thick lustrous black hair, dark skin and eyes that had something of a Mediterranean look about them, though her mother and father were both Hillsbridge people, as solidly Somerset as they came. No, it didn't take a great stretch of the imagination to guess what was going on, but nothing had ever been said. Until now.

Mary had hit the nail on the head without a doubt. The atmosphere in the steamy kitchen had become charged suddenly, the comradely banter had become a minefield.

‘You've got a cheek, Mary Packer!' If Joyce's dark skin had been capable of flushing, she would have flushed now. As it was her eyes blazed out of a face that had the unmistakable look of guilt surprised.

‘Well, it's true, isn't it?' Mary said, but a little defensively, as if she knew she'd overstepped an invisible boundary.

‘I'll thank you to mind your own business!' Joyce blazed.

‘Sorry, I'm sure.'

‘And so you should be, making accusations like that!'

‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.'

‘Yes. Well. If ever I hear you say that again, I'll have you up for libel!' She reached for her overall. ‘I'm going. I was here early, unlike some.'

She grabbed her coat and hurried out buttoning it as she went, more hot and bothered than Carrie had ever seen her.

‘I bet he's up there waiting for her now,' Mary said, chastened but still defiant.

‘Mary!'

‘I bet he is. That's why she's in such a hurry, to make sure they're well out of the way before we get along there. You know as well as I do what's going on there, and has been for years.'

‘Perhaps, but I've got more sense than to say so.'

‘There was no need for her to fly off the handle like that.'

‘Well, I can't say I blame her. Goodness only knows what would happen if something like that got out.'

‘I can't see as it would make a lot of difference,' Mary said defensively. ‘George Parsons isn't the first she's been with and I don't suppose he'll be the last. And that husband of hers is no better. Funny sort of marriage, if you ask me.'

‘Like she said, that's her business,' Ivy retorted. ‘In any case, it wasn't her I was thinking of. It's George Parsons. He'd lose his job if it got out.'

‘And so he should if he's trading favours with Joyce Edgell or anybody else for that matter.'

‘We've got to work with her, Mary,' Ivy said sternly. ‘When you work with somebody every day you get to know things, but you've got to keep quiet about it. What sort of atmosphere would it be if you go causing trouble?'

‘She should get the push.'

‘
You're
the one that'll get the push if you don't watch your p's and q's. I mean it, Mary. You're the one causing trouble. Joyce isn't doing anybody any harm.'

Throughout the exchange, Carrie had said nothing. But the outrage was swelling inside her, swelling and swelling until she felt she would burst with it.

It was so unfair – so grossly unfair – that one of the coveted new houses should be given away to someone as a reward for being no better than she should be. And goodness only knew what state the place would be in before you could say Jack Robinson. That tribe would turn it into a junkyard, whereas if she had one of the houses she'd keep it like a new pin. In moments when she allowed herself to dream, Carrie had imagined her own kitchen, with her own modern bits and pieces that she'd accumulated over the years and the other things she'd buy if she had the money. She'd pictured an airing cupboard with an immersion heater instead of the clothes' horse in front of the fire. She'd pictured herself working in the front garden, mowing the lawn and planting grape hyacinths for the spring and marigolds for the summer. And best of all she'd pictured the privacy. She and Joe able to argue and plan and make love without fear of being overheard. Her own home. Not a lodger in somebody else's.

But she wasn't like Joyce Edgell. She kept herself decent. And because of that, Joyce was getting one of the new houses and she wasn't.

Unless of course the letter had come second post. Suddenly Carrie couldn't wait to get home and find out. When they locked up she hurried on, not waiting for Ivy and Mary. Up the hill she went, forcing herself to keep going though her legs ached and she could feel the sweat breaking out under her armpits.

But there was no letter propped up on the table against the yellow glass vase and bowl that made a centrepiece when the cloth wasn't laid for a meal. Nothing but the sense of claustrophobia that descended on the room when the doors and windows had to be kept shut for winter and the windows steamed up against the damp air outside. There was still the faint odour of scorched clothes in the air too, reminding her of this morning's catastrophe.

‘Anything come second post?' she asked Glad, without much hope.

‘Not that I've seen,' Glad replied.

And Carrie's heart sank until it felt as if it had relocated in the very bottom of her fur-lined zip-up boots. She'd missed out, this time anyway. And for the moment she didn't know what she could do about it.

The idea came to her as she and Glad were getting the tea. Carrie was putting a plate of liver and vegetables liberally covered with gravy to warm over a saucepan of hot water so that it would be ready for Joe when the coach dropped him off outside the door at six thirty, Glad was buttering bread for the rest of them, cutting slices which always managed to be wafer-thin at one end and doorstep wedges at the other because she insisted on holding the loaf against her chest instead of resting it on the bread board. Everyone but Joe had eaten their main meal in the middle of the day – Carrie and Jenny at school, the others at home. Heather and David, who worked in the carpentry shop at Starvault Pit, had an hour for dinner, and Walt, who had retired from the footplate now and did lighter work in the railway sheds, finished for the day at one.