A Family Affair (5 page)

‘Good night, Mr Parsons. Thank you.'

‘Good night, Mrs Simmons.'

‘I'm sorry for spoiling your dinner.'

‘Don't worry about that.'

They both knew the exchange was for the benefit of Alice, who could, for all they knew, be listening on the other side of the living-room door.

She went out into the night, into the cold and the mist, and her face began to burn, whether from the cold or from the release of tension and relief that it was over she did not know and could not be bothered to wonder. She walked fast, adrenalin driving her along, incapable of coherent thought.

The light was still on in the library room, the outside door ajar. She went in, asked Miss Phillips to renew her book while she looked on the romance shelves for something by Ethel M Dell. Only when she picked one out did she realise her hands were shaking.

‘I think Glad's had this one,' Miss Phillips said. ‘I think so.'

‘Oh well, never mind, she'll have to have it again.'

‘How is she? All right? This weather …'

‘She's fine,' Carrie said. ‘I'm sorry, Miss Phillips, I can't stop to talk.'

‘No, I shall be closing in a minute anyway. Remember me to Glad, will you?'

Carrie went back under The Subway, back up the hill, still unable to organise her racing thoughts. The first nervous elation was beginning to subside; she didn't know what Mr Parsons would do when he'd had a chance to recover himself, and she didn't know what she'd do if he failed to respond to her threats. She wouldn't carry them out, of course. She wasn't the sort to make trouble for the sake of it – and what would be the point? Revenge – but that wouldn't get a house for them, only ensure that her name went to the very bottom of the list. Suppose
he
knew that – George Parsons – and called her bluff? Suppose
he
took revenge and moved her name to the bottom of the list anyway? She hadn't thought of that before.

Oh well, what was done was done. Now all she could do was wait and hope that it worked!

‘You bloody bitch!' Joyce Edgell hissed.

She had cornered Carrie in the serving area; Ivy and Mary were both out in the main hall, setting tables.

‘You bloody bitch!' She stabbed Carrie with her forefinger.

‘I don't know what you're on about,' Carrie said, pretending indignation.

‘You do! You know very well! I'll get you for this!'

‘Oh grow up, Joyce, for goodness sake!' Carrie elbowed her out of the corner. ‘You sound like one of the kids.'

She saw Ivy heading back towards the serving hatch and called out to her.

‘Looks like it's going to rain again.'

‘It is a bit dark, yes,' Ivy called back, and the moment passed.

Carrie wondered what George had said to Joyce, whether he'd finished their affair or just told her they'd have to be more careful. Either way, she'd made an enemy. Not one enemy but two. It didn't worry her what George thought of her. But Joyce was a different matter. She had to work with her every day and if things turned out as she hoped, have her for a neighbour too. But it couldn't be helped. At least she wouldn't have to
live
with her. At least she'd have her own four walls around her and a home to call her own when she shut the front door at night.

Carrie set her chin, high hopes racing, and went on with her work.

The letter came the following Wednesday.

When she saw the franking on the envelope, Carrie was almost afraid to open it. It wasn't addressed to her, of course. It was addressed to Joe. But Carrie had never been one to let a little thing like that stop her.

She took it into the bathroom – always the best place for a bit of privacy, sometimes the
only
place – and tore it open. Then, as she read it, she felt a great surge of excitement that made her want to whoop with joy and burst into tears, both at the same time.

She'd done it! The council was offering them one of the new houses. A three-bedroomed semi-detached. Number 27, Alder Road. It should be ready for occupation soon after Christmas.

Carrie flung open the bathroom door, ran into the living room where Glad was having her usual breakfast of All Bran and toast.

‘Glad! What do you think! We've got one of the new houses! We've got one of the new houses!'

Above the crowded dance floor of the local Palais de Danse a net of balloons swung precariously beneath the myriad-faceted globe which bathed the hall in twinkling light; on stage the best dance band in the district – Jack Tucker and his Swinging Strings – were playing ‘Charmaine'. Heather Simmons sat on one of the chairs which lined three of the walls, the apricot taffeta of her full, ballerina-length skirt spread around her like a blown rose, her chin resting on her knuckles as she leaned forward to watch the dancers.

The Annual Carnival Queen Selection Ball was in full swing, but Heather was not really enjoying it. There had been a stream of young men asking her to dance as there always was and she had accepted some of them, twirling under that twinkling globe on her three-inch heels, smiling, laughing sometimes, sparkling as if she had not a care in the world. But beneath the façade the uncomfortably familiar feeling of emptiness, of not quite belonging was always there as it had been for more years than she cared to remember and she thought, as she so often did, of another dance, not nearly as glamorous as this one but a thousand times more meaningful. It was the tune that had set her off, she knew, the sweet haunting strains: ‘I wonder why you keep me waiting; Charmaine, my Charmaine …' Such a long time ago, and yet still so fresh in her memory that every one of her senses recalled it, right down to the scent of her mother's Evening in Paris perfume that she had dabbed behind her ears. Such a long time ago and yet still a part of her, her past, her present, her future, all rolled into one.

The music slowed, came to a climatic end. The dance floor emptied as the waltzers returned to their seats and Heather saw Julia Chivers making her way back towards her. The two girls worked together at the glove factory and they were close friends, although Julia was almost five years younger than Heather. ‘The Glovlie Twins'the men in the factory jokingly called them, though in fact they did not look like twins at all – Heather with her shoulder-length brown hair and wholesome, girl-next-door appearance and dark yet fragile Julia who looked more like a china doll who would break if she wasn't treated with tender care. Tonight she was wearing apple-green chiffon, which floated around her legs in a pale green cloud, and pinned to the bodice was a single white rose. Heather thought she had seen Julia in colours which suited her better, but the dress had been loaned to her by one of the local traders, and the rose denoted that she was one of the contestants for Carnival Queen.

‘It can't be long now before they do the choosing, can it?' Julia said, lowering herself into the chair next to Heather's, then jumping up again and looking around to see if the officials had yet made an appearance.

‘For goodness sake sit down!' Heather said, smiling. ‘You're like a cat on hot bricks! You're making
me
nervous!'

‘I can't help it! It's such a responsibility, being Miss Hillsbridge.'

There were sixteen other girls besides Julia wearing white roses; sixteen other girls who had been chosen to represent their village – a Miss South Compton, a Miss Withydown, a Miss Purldown and so on. All would get the chance to ride in the Queen's Coach in the torchlight carnival procession but fourteen of them would be banked on one side, moving backwards along the route, whilst the Queen and her two attendants had the honour of facing the way they were going and the crowds would see them first. All the girls wanted to win for their village as much as for themselves, but Heather knew that on the night of the carnival they would all feel nothing but incredible excitement. She had been Miss Hillsbridge twice – five years ago she had failed to win a place in the top three, much to the amazement and disgust of her supporters, and the following year when she had been crowned Queen. The thrill of following the town band through the main streets of South Compton, whilst Boy Scouts with flaming torches marched alongside, had given her such a glow that she had not even noticed the cold; her arms beneath the velvet cloak of office had been bare to the frosty November night and she hadn't thought twice about it, though Carrie had been convinced she would end up with pneumonia. This year, however, it was Julia who wore the coveted Miss Hillsbridge sash.

‘Julia, stop worrying! You look absolutely terrific. If they don't choose you they should all get a free pair of glasses,' Heather said.

‘But why can't they have the choosing and get it over with? At least then I'll be able to enjoy the rest of the evening.'

‘Even if you
don't
win?'

‘Yeah. At least I'll be able to have a drink. A
real
drink, not cordial! I daren't yet or I might trip over in the parade and make a complete fool of myself.'

‘There you are!' Heather said. ‘They're coming out now!'

A small group had emerged from the manager's office, which was being used as the committee room – three men immaculate in dinner jackets and black ‘dicky-bow'ties and two women in long floaty chiffon, their hair set rigidly into elaborate coifs. Heather recognised Harry Hall, their MP and a local boy – Harry had been the Miners'Agent in Hillsbridge before he had been elected to parliament. Tonight he was to be one of the judges, and they had heard that Margaret, his wife, had been asked to be a judge too, but had declined. Set hairdos and floaty chiffon dresses weren't Margaret's thing, and she was uncomfortable with being in the limelight, although, as the wife of the sitting member, there were times when it was unavoidable.

Basil Thatcher, owner of the Palais de Danse, who was acting as MC, went up on to the stage, took the microphone and called for the village representatives to come forward.

Julia stood rooted to the spot, and Heather gave her a little push.

‘Go on! This is what you've been waiting for! If you don't look out you'll miss it!'

‘Oh – I can't! I can't! All those people.'

‘Go on!'

Julia went, nervously, joining the other girls who, in the interests of a fair contest, would not be identified until after the selection. That was a farce, really, of course – even without their sashes it was obvious to everyone which village they came from by the cheers of their supporters.

The minute the spotlight fell on her, Julia's nervousness seemed to disappear. In Heather's opinion there was no contest – Julia outshone the others by a mile. But she knew anything could happen, and her heart began to pound as it had when it was she herself up there parading before the judges.

As the girls lined up to loud cheers and whistles, Heather edged her way to the front of the crowd.

‘Hello, gorgeous, trying to get in on the act?' one man quipped.

Heather ignored him. She had recognised him as a miner from Purldown – Brian Jacobs – and knew his reputation as something of a troublemaker. He was one of those who squatted on the pavement outside Starvault Colliery waiting for the coach to take him to the pithead baths and when he was on the morning shift he always seemed to be there when Heather was going back to the glove factory after her dinner break, catcalling, whistling and making suggestive remarks as she passed. Tonight he was with a gang of others who had come along to support Miss Purldown – and ogle the other girls.

‘Oh – too snooty to speak to us!' he said now. ‘Not good enough for you, are we, darling?'

His voice was slurred – he had obviously had too much to drink already, and it was still early.

Heather refused to so much as glance in his direction. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on Julia, willing her to do well.

One by one the girls paraded across the floor in front of the judges, twirled, sashayed back again, teetering on their high heels.

The Purldown group sent up a loud cheer as their representative made her walk, hoping, no doubt, to sway the judges, but Heather thought she didn't stand a chance. Compared to Julia she was downright plain.

The girls retired to the side of the hall, marshalled by Basil Thatcher. The judges put their heads together, conferring, then asked them to do it all again. It must be a close run thing, Heather thought, her heart in her mouth.

Basil Thatcher had the microphone in his hand again. He was clearly enjoying himself.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the judges will now retire to consider their decision. Whilst they do so, would you please take your partners for a waltz.'

The band picked up their instruments, the floor began to clear. A finger jabbed Heather hard between the shoulder blades and she turned to see Brian Jacobs grinning at her.

‘Come on then, gorgeous.'

‘No thank you.'

‘Aw – don't be a spoilsport! Come on!'

She could smell the odour of sweat and carbolic soap mingled with beer. It revolted her.

‘I said no thanks.'

She turned away, trying to sidestep him, but he grabbed her around the waist, pulling her back towards him and pushing his hips against hers. She wriggled, not wanting to be forced to dance with him but not wanting to make a scene either.

‘Look …'

‘The lady said no.' A hand as big as a small ham came down on Brian's shoulder; surprised, Heather looked up into a square-jawed face and deep violet eyes.

‘Get off, Steve!'

‘No. You get off.' His voice was deep, soft yet surprisingly firm, with the trace of an accent she did not recognise.

For a few moments the two men stared each other out, the one still holding Heather by the waist and wrist, the other equally intransigent, standing his ground, and Heather's heart came into her mouth. There was going to be a fight, one of those horrible brawls that started all too often in dance halls – or outside them, afterwards, and ended with whole gangs of youths and men being locked in the police cells for the night. Then, to her surprise, the miner released her as suddenly as he had grabbed her, muttering something she could not catch because it was drowned by the swelling dance music, and waving his fist threateningly in Steve's face. Steve stood motionless, not flinching, and Brian stumbled off, bumping into a twirling couple as he went and looking as if he might threaten to hit them too.