A Whisper to the Living (20 page)

‘Yes.’

After a short pause, he asked again, ‘How did it happen?’

I looked as steadily as I could into the calm blue eyes. ‘He fell off his ladder.’

‘Strange place to get hurt falling off a ladder. Your mother says he must have landed very awkwardly to sustain such a severe injury.’

‘Yes. Yes, he must have landed awkwardly.’

I could no longer meet the constant gaze and I began to fiddle about with the buttons of my cardigan as if getting ready to leave. He knew something, I could sense it. The pores on my arms opened and I felt tiny hairs prickling as they stood on end. I was aware of his eyes on me, knew he was probing my soul for the answer to an unspoken question. He was clever, yes. But could he read minds?

‘What’s troubling you, Anne? What is it really?’

Oh to have someone like him for a father! ‘Nothing I can put words to, Doctor. Probably just hormones or whatever you call them.’

‘Sure?’

I finally managed to look him in the eye. ‘Positive.’

Please God, it was all over now. Surely Higson would not dare, not again. Or would he? And if I did tell this lovely kind man what had happened, what would I achieve? There’d be no home for me because I’d be put somewhere safe, or, if they locked him up, no window-cleaning money for my mother, no way to pay the rates or the mortgage . . .

‘Some day you will tell me, Anne.’

I shifted in the chair. ‘I’d better be going, Doctor. The waiting room’s pretty full out there . . .’

‘I always have time for you, my dear.’

Kindness. These days I could scarcely bear it without tears threatening. And suddenly, I longed to run round the desk and hug him, to have some good, clean contact with a man who might have been my father had the fates been good to me. But I let the moment pass and rose hurriedly to leave.

‘Saturday morning, then – nine o’clock sharp,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know if I have any trouble getting a colleague to stand in for me, but I think it will be alright. We’ll pick you up.’

‘Thanks, Doctor.’

I sped home to give my mother the news, expecting her to be as delighted as I was at the prospect of a day out.

‘You what?’ She threw the oven cloth onto the table, her grey eyes wide with surprise and shock. ‘What the hell are you up to now, Annie?’

‘Nothing. I’m up to nothing. He just said I needed a change for the good of my health and I asked if you could come too. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with a day at Blackpool?’

She lowered herself into a chair, her eyes still glued to my face. ‘What’s wrong? Well, if you don’t know, then I wonder if it’s worth my while telling you!’ She picked up the cloth and began to fold it this way and that as she chose her words. ‘Look, Annie. They’re a different class – a different type of folk to us . . .’

‘That’s true. Dr Pritchard always votes Labour . . .’

‘He never does!’

‘She votes Tory, of course, so they cancel one another out. Simon says it’s funny on voting days. They have this agreement not to go because it’s a waste of time with them voting opposite, then they both sneak out and vote. Of course they smile secret smiles afterwards, thinking they’ve outdone one another . . .’

‘Eeh well. You’d think he’d vote Tory, him being educated.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mother. And I thought you were the one who wanted to do away with class. You’ve always told me that if I got an education I could be anything, mix with anybody. I’m just an early starter, that’s all. And I’m starting mixing now and you’re coming with me.’

‘It’s not the same, Annie love. They’re born to it.’

‘Born to what?’

She bit her bottom lip before whispering, ‘Money. They’re born to money.’

‘Rubbish, Mam! She was, perhaps. But he works hard for his wages, you know that. He’s a worker the same as you.’

‘Aye. And he’s a walking flaming dictionary as well. I wouldn’t know what to say to him, Annie, honest I wouldn’t.’

‘Now who’s being daft? There’s no need for you to be lost for words – ever. Who goes round all the chippies begging crossword pages out of the wrappings? Who’s read all of Jane Austen, most of Charles Dickens and half the blinking
Canterbury Tales
?’

‘Mucky book that – what I could understand of it . . .’

‘I’ll get you a translation – a modern version – for Christmas. If you’ll come to Blackpool.’

She got up and began to set the table, reaching plates from the wall-cupboard and cutlery from a drawer in the small sideboard. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She clattered a cup into its saucer.

‘No you won’t. You’re coming.’

‘Who says so?’

‘I say so! Just for once, let me be the boss, eh?’

‘Just for once? You’ve always been a wayward little devil . . .’

‘Yes, but I nearly always do what you say. Nearly . . .’

‘Aye. And how near’s nearly?’

I decided to try another tack. ‘Right then, have it your own way, Mother. Dr Pritchard and Simon will be here at nine o’clock on Saturday. What do I tell them? She can’t come, she’s got a previous appointment with the Prime Minister, just popped out to number ten for a chat? Or shall I say you’re not well, then he’ll fly in with his box of tricks and prescribe a day in Blackpool? Of course, I could tell the truth and say you won’t go because you’re not good enough for them.’ I paused and watched a sparkle arriving in the quick grey eyes.

‘Honest to God!’ she exclaimed. ‘What did I do to deserve you, eh? What harm have I done in this world? I’ve done my best, worked my fingers down to the bone . . .’

‘Made sure you got an education,’ I mimicked.

‘Shut up, you cheeky young minx, you! By God, you’ll make one hell of a politician, you will. I reckon you could make the bloody birds fly backwards. Whatever shall I wear?’

‘Clothes, Mother.’

‘And what about my hair?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair. Put a scarf on anyway – Blackpool’s a windy place . . .’

‘See?’ she said to the sideboard. ‘See? She’s got an answer for everything, this one has.’ She looked back at me. ‘And you know I’m frightened of cars. Especially his. Every week, there’s half a dozen men pushing him home.’

‘Yes, well – don’t make any rude remarks about his car. He’s very attached to it.’

‘So I’ve noticed. He operates on it every Sunday just to keep it alive. It should have had the last rites years ago, that thing. I reckon it’s held together with faith, hope and plasticine.’

‘Mother. Are you a coward?’

‘No. But I’m no Amelia Whatsername either.’

‘Nobody’s asking you to fly the Atlantic – or even the English Channel. All you’ve got to do is sit in a car, smile, get to Blackpool and enjoy yourself.’

‘With the doctor?’

‘With the doctor.’

She reached into the range oven and brought out a pie, crusty-gold and steaming through the herringbone pattern across the top.

‘Smells good,’ I remarked.

‘Oh that’s right, butter me up. Go and get the spuds and carrots out of the kitchen. They’re drained and in the steamer. And I’m blinking well drained too!’ she called as I disappeared.

I smiled to myself as I collected the vegetables, listening while she grumbled – for my benefit, of course. ‘Sit in a car and smile all the way to Blackpool? That’s if we ever get there in that bone-shaker.’ Bang, bang – that would be the salt and pepper arriving on the table. ‘I don’t even like Blackpool that much.’ Bang, bang – sugar bowl and milk jug. ‘And I’ve nothing to wear.’ Bang – probably the pie knife.

I re-entered with the vegetable dishes. ‘Did you say something, Mother?’

‘Yes. I’m talking to the fire-back. I might as well, mightn’t I? You’ll probably sail through life getting your own road, you. Remember how you flattened Sister Agatha when you weren’t the size of two pennorth of chips? Then you went and got round that Mother Thingy at St Mary’s and you with no intention of getting confirmed. Now you think you’re getting round me as well, don’t you? I should tell you where to get off, it would do you some good. Anyroad, how come the doctor invites you out? What about the rest of his patients?’

‘Well, he’d need about six buses, wouldn’t he?’

‘So why choose you?’

I grinned. ‘Because I’m special.’

‘Aye. Special and damned cheeky.’

‘He knows I’m cheeky – he said so today.’

‘Not a bad judge then. Oh well, happen I’ll go if the rain holds off.’

The rain held off. After greeting our benefactors rather stiffly and properly, my mother clambered into the front passenger seat where she sat bolt upright while Simon and I stifled our giggles in the back. Fortunately, the engine was quite noisy and we were able to hold a whispered conversation in comparative peace.

‘Your mother looks terrified.’

‘She is.’

‘Mine’s furious. She’s probably taking it out on the furniture, costing us a fortune in Johnson’s Lavender . . .’

‘Oh. Does she know you’re with us – with me and my mother?’

‘I didn’t mention it and I don’t suppose Dad did. They . . . er . . . don’t talk much. She knows we’re going to Blackpool, though.’

‘Oh dear. Did she want to come?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘You must be joking. Blackpool’s common – it’s where street people go. You’d never catch my mother in Blackpool. She tolerates Southport on the odd occasion, but that’s just because the shopping’s good.’

‘What are you two whispering and giggling about?’ called Dr Pritchard as he negotiated a left turn while my mother, white as a ghost, clung to the door and to the edge of her seat.

I struggled with my laughter. ‘Oh we’re just . . . passing the time of day. Isn’t it a lovely car, Mother? Genevieve, she’s called.’

‘Yes. Lovely,’ she muttered between clenched teeth and I dug Simon in the ribs to stop him exploding.

To be fair, Dr Pritchard’s driving was sufficiently distinctive to strike fear into the heart of the most seasoned traveller. My mother, who had never been in a car before, was quite shocked when our driver repeatedly gazed round to indicate buildings of architectural merit, when he took his hands from the wheel to illustrate a point, when he seemed to be colour-blind with regard to traffic lights. Even I, who had made several journeys in cars belonging to the parents of classmates, was rather unnerved each time he cursed after one of his many near misses.

‘Bloody fools,’ he grumbled. ‘Weekend drivers, you see. They come out like a rash on Saturdays and Sundays.’ He put his head out of the window to yell at a rag and bone man, ‘Oi – pull over. I’m a doctor on urgent business.’ The poor ragman heaved his pony and cart on to the pavement while we jerked forward, gears grinding and wheels screaming.

At last, my mother could contain herself no longer and I sat back to enjoy what would surely follow.

‘Dr Pritchard?’

‘Yes, Mrs Higson?’

I gripped Simon’s hand tightly; I dared not look at him properly, but from the corner of my eye I could see that he was stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth.

‘You drive like a maniac, Doctor. I feel as though we’re in the hands of a raving lunatic!’

‘What?’ We ground to a shuddering halt next to a fence. Everyone bounced forwards and back again with a spine-jarring abruptness. Simon and I, who could contain our mirth no longer, climbed out of the car and pretended to become engrossed in the wild flowers at the roadside. But we stayed very close to Genevieve – we would not miss this for the world.

‘Does she realize what she’s taking on?’ whispered Simon.

‘I’ll bet five bob on my mother any day of the week.’

We spat on our palms, then shook hands to seal the bargain.

My mother’s voice came strident and clear through the car’s open windows. ‘It’s a wonder we’re not all dead! Four sets of red traffic lights you went through in Preston.’

‘Three. And they were amber.’

‘Four, Doctor. I can count, you know.’

‘Ah yes. But can you drive?’

‘No. I can’t do major surgery either, but I like to be damned sure that the bloke with the knife is flaming qualified!’

‘I am qualified.’

‘Ah yes. As a doctor or as a driver?’

I looked at Simon. ‘Fifteen-love to my mother.’

‘Mrs Higson, I drive every day of the week . . .’

‘Do you now? Pity they did away with the bloke with the red flag then, isn’t it? Though I daresay you’d have run him over in five minutes.’

‘Now, let’s be sensible . . .’

‘How many notches on your gun so far, eh? It’s a wonder they don’t clear the roads when they know you’re coming. How did you manage to miss that poor old lady a couple of miles back – error of judgement, was it? I reckon she’s gone home now to have her heart attack in peace . . .’

Simon sighed heavily. ‘Thirty-love,’ he admitted grudgingly. Words poured from my mother’s mouth in a seemingly endless stream and I smiled as I remembered how she’d worried about what she would say to the doctor. That she was enjoying this scene was obvious, but I found myself hoping that things would not get out of hand . . .

‘Mrs Higson. Would you like to walk the rest of the way?’ A nudge in my ribs said thirty-fifteen.

‘Walk? Walk? I’d rather flaming well crawl than put my life in your hands for another yard!’

There followed a very brief pause, then both doors opened and my mother and Dr Pritchard spilled simultaneously and untidily out of the car.

‘Come on, Annie!’ she cried. ‘We’ll find a bus home.’

‘Oh Mother – be reasonable . . .’

‘Reasonable? Me? Tell him to be reasonable.’ Her face glowed and I caught sight of the beauty she had once been. She turned the full force of her not inconsiderable temper on him now. ‘I don’t know about Pritchard, this here’s Dr Jekyll! Put him behind a steering wheel and he changes into a monster!’ While she, my darling Mam, had turned into a human being, feelings on show, little body bristling with energy, her eyes wide with passions that were usually well hidden. Had she ever been like this with Higson? Oh no, never a cross word there, seldom a sign of life in her at home. What a transformation! But here she was with a real man, a normal man, a person who allowed her to express herself, someone who had dragged her into the light where she could be seen as she really was, a powerful and rather splendid woman. I bit my lower lip. She had been like this with my father. Although I remembered little of their relationship, I knew I was catching sight of it now. It was healthy, beautiful, yet disturbing, because I realized now how much she had lost, how much she had failed to regain in her second marriage.