A Whisper to the Living (24 page)

Annie looked into the thin worried face of Simon Pritchard. She hadn’t seen him for quite a while and he looked awful, worried half to death.

‘You’ve got to help me, Anne. I’m in a hell of a mess.’

‘Why, whatever’s the matter? And why didn’t you come to the front door?’

His deeper blush was the only answer she needed. His mother wouldn’t like it. Of course, that was it. Edna Pritchard with her fur coats and her permed hair wouldn’t like to think that Simon was becoming over-familiar with patients and other natives. Having to live in the area was probably bad enough for Mrs Pritchard, though the large corner building that housed both surgery and living quarters was by far the most imposing residence on the road.

Simon pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s the French and the biology – I’m a bit behind,’ he muttered.

‘Come in.’ She stepped aside and held the door wide.

‘Are you sure your mother won’t mind . . .?’

For answer she pulled him into the kitchen and slammed the back door behind him.

‘We’re going into the front room, Mother. Simon needs to borrow some school books – he forgot to bring them home and we use the same text-books, more or less.’

Nancy’s hand slowed in its stirring of the soup as the boy and Annie moved through to the front room. By, she’d get her comeuppance would that lady if she had her eye on the doctor’s son! Edna Pritchard wouldn’t stand for anybody taking a pair of scissors to the apron strings – anybody at all. And she’d been barely civil to Nancy in the shops these past few years since Annie got into the convent right off while Simon had to struggle for Bolton School. Without being aware of what she was doing, Nancy patted her hair, preening herself almost. She would make something, would Annie. She wouldn’t finish up with fluff in her hair, noises in her ears and shoulders bent from doffing four machines day in and day out.

Eddie Higson’s bucket clattered loudly in the yard and Nancy filled his bowl while he washed his hands at the kitchen sink. She sat in silence as he ate his soup slowly and noisily. Apart from his eating habits, Eddie was a quiet man. Likely something to do with being a prisoner of war, sitting still for all those years, waiting, watching other men wither away. He never really mentioned it. The only thing he’d ever told her, after eight or nine pints in the Star, was of the day they’d woken up to find that all their German guards had fled. ‘Some of the lads started walking towards England,’ he had said. ‘Daft buggers didn’t even know which way to go. Then again, some couldn’t walk, but they were all for being carried off home there and then. I crawled to the gate and waited for the Yanks. Two days we sat there, but then we were used to it.’ Yes, he’d got so used to it, he couldn’t break the habit even now. For hours he’d sit on top of the fire, even in this heat, smoking his Woodies or his roll-ups, thinking his own thoughts.

‘Cup of tea, Eddie?’

‘Aye. I’ll have it up to the fire.’

She poured his drink. Like as not he’d sit here now till two o’clock, thinking. Then he might just bestir himself, get up off his bottom and do a few more windows.

‘What do you think about, Eddie?’ she almost startled herself by saying.

‘What do you mean, what do I think about? What sort of a bloody daft question do you call that?’

She stacked the dishes, wishing she’d never spoken. But other people, other married people, surely they had conversations? Surely it wasn’t always like this, with one stacking soup dishes while the other stared into the fire?

‘I was just trying to . . . well . . . I was just wondering, like, what you think about when you sit there staring into the fire. When I was a little girl, I used to see pictures in the fire and in the clouds too . . .’ Her voice tailed away. She expected no reply, got no reply.

Sighing, she carried the pots through to the kitchen and turned on the tap. There was no talking to him, was there? She’d have been just as well off having a word with the coalman’s horse. Better shut up, anyroad. She was luckier than most, running hot water, nice bathroom with a flushing toilet and him talking about getting a television set. When he did speak – on rare occasions, like. She leaned against the sink, her hands gripping the cold porcelain sides. She’d give it all up tomorrow for a sight of that baby, the one that never was. Oh yes and she’d tell him where to shove his television set sideways if Billy would just walk in and say, ‘I’m back, Nancy. It were all a mix-up . . .’ A solitary tear escaped down her cheek and she brushed it away angrily. It was right what they said – no use crying over spilt milk. Or blood, come to that.

Eddie Higson lit his third Woodbine. What did he think about? Stupid cow, what did she know about anything? All she cared about was having a nice clean house and trying to get a new cooker. What did he thing about? Because he did think alright, by Christ he did. Sometimes he lost track of time sitting here, remembering the so-called best years of his life spent in a long hut with narrow planks for beds, sitting, waiting, listening to the sounds of people pretending to be alive. ‘Course, some soft buggers had to start digging their way out, but he never joined in their stupid games even when he had his strength. What did they want to get out for? To go tear-arsing round Europe till they found a bullet with their name on it? Oh no, he’d kept himself to himself. Then the bloody rations got cut because the guards had to punish the prisoners for trying to escape. It didn’t take the Jerries long to find out that men with no food in their bellies and no flesh on their bones didn’t have the strength to escape.

What did he think about? He thought about that one upstairs with her high-falutin talk and her fancy ways. He thought about the weeks he’d spent in hospital, about the agony the young bitch had put him through. He never worried about the others, the little girls he’d given pennies to in the past – they were off his patch, he never saw them twice. But that she-devil was always there, always a temptation. And somehow, he didn’t fancy the very young ones anymore. No, he was growing out of that. Now, all he could think of most of the time was Annie Byrne and her fresh young body, a tigress to be tamed. Could anybody blame him? Look at the shrivelled woman he’d married – she’d never even given him a kid, had she? Oh aye, there’d very near been a kid that time, but not his, never his. He wasn’t really sterile – that was a mistake, he knew that now. But she’d gone with another man and he’d never forgive her for it. And look at her now – like a woman of fifty, she was. Not that she’d been like that when he married her. Oh no, she was a fine-looking piece then with good legs and a great figure. And she’d had no trouble getting that daughter off the first one, had she? Ten months married and she’d dropped one, but not for him, never for him. He still blamed her for that. After the operation two years ago, he’d had more tests, hadn’t he? And they’d said he could have a kid if he tried hard enough. Tried hard enough? Christ, chance would be a fine thing. She didn’t like ‘that side’ as she put it. It was a quick in and out at the best of times, enough to put anybody off. Had she liked it with him, the bloody war hero? Or with Ernie Bradshaw who was lucky to be alive after that going over Eddie and his brothers had given him?

He cleared his throat and spat into the fire, then grinned to himself. She didn’t like him spitting into the fire, though she never said much. Except for her stupid questions and there hadn’t been many of them just lately.

Yes, life was one long bloody think, come to that. Up a ladder, down a ladder, window after window, shut the gate, mind the dog . . . Aye, it got boring at times, though he’d copped some sights, by heck he had! Folk still in bed going hell for leather with the curtains open, nice young women half-dressed, one or two having a rinse in the scullery. Happen he could get a good time if he played his cards right, every woman had her price, didn’t she? But it wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t be her, the one he really had to have. Mind, there might be some sense in taking a look round till he could get her. Because he would in the end, by the hell he would!

Oh, no, he could never tell Nancy what he thought about because what he thought about wasn’t right. What he thought about had to be hidden away, out of sight, out of hearing.

But he’d have his own back on that young madam, no danger. He threw his fag-end into the fire and settled back for forty winks. It was hard work, cleaning windows.

‘I’m just not going to pass my GCEs Anne, I know it. I’m so far behind now – it’s getting to the stage where it’s absolutely hopeless.’

‘It’s never hopeless. Look at the time I’ve had with the Latin, staying behind for extra lessons because I’m so thick at it. Even if you have to re-sit a few of them in the November, you’ll get them in the end if you put your mind to it.’ She looked down at the exercise book, wondering how he could have got it all so wrong. None of the adjectives agreed with the nouns, the verbs were barely recognizable . . . ‘I think the first thing you must do is to learn the construction of a French sentence. It’s not like English, you see . . .’ And she heard herself repeating her teacher’s words, lessons she’d been taught two or even three years earlier. Bolton School, undoubtedly the best for miles around, could only work with the raw material with which it was presented. Simon was not of the right calibre for such a high-flying establishment. Yes, he was behind. She corrected his work, explaining each step as best she could, unnerved by the look of blank incomprehension on the small worried face.

‘Thanks, Anne,’ he said after she had outlined the exercise in biology. ‘I’ll never make a doctor, will I? I think my father always hoped I’d take over after he’s retired.’ He laughed shakily. ‘But he’s a sensible chap. He probably realizes that I have neither the ability nor the inclination.’

‘And your mother?’

‘My mother?’ He sighed. ‘She just flutters around with her bridge parties and her afternoon teas. She still hasn’t recovered from the end of the war, hasn’t forgiven the war for finishing. The war gave her something to hang on to, socks to knit, women’s groups to organize. It allowed her to be Lady of the Manor, you see, gave her a sense of importance. Now she simply fills in time, bakes fancy cakes for her friends and tells everybody how well her dear boy is doing at Bolton School.’ He walked to the window and stared, unseeing, out on to the road.

‘I’m sure you could cope if you tried harder, Simon . . .’

He rounded on her. ‘Tried harder? For God’s sake, Anne – do you think I haven’t tried? It’s just not for me, I’m not an academic, that’s all. But if one more person tells me to try, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’

To Annie’s surprise and horror, he began to weep noiselessly, a river of tears pouring down his narrow, sad face. Instinctively, she reached and put her arms around him. ‘Don’t cry – please, don’t cry . . .’

The door opened and Eddie Higson eyed the scene coldly. They didn’t see him. Simon’s face was buried in Annie’s shoulder and she, facing the window, had her back to the door. But Higson could tell that the boy was crying because his body was shaking with sobs. Silently, the intruder withdrew from the room. So that was the way the land lay, was it? She was ripe, ripe and ready and he must not think of it for it was driving him to madness.

He swept past a startled Nancy and slammed out of the back door. She didn’t know what the world was coming to, really she didn’t. The doctor’s son in the house and Eddie slamming doors like that. She hadn’t told him about Simon, of course. And he never went near the front room, he wouldn’t know they were in there unless they’d made a noise and there’d been no noise, had there?

But Eddie Higson had heard what Nancy’s damaged ears could not catch from the kitchen, those slightly raised voices, that catch in the lad’s tone just before he broke down. The boy was crying, likely begging that one to let him have her. Why else would a big lad like that cry? And Eddie knew what it was like, how it felt to be deprived to the point where you felt you’d burst if you didn’t get a woman, preferably a ripe, young one who needed the only education a woman was fit for.

He banged his ladder against a window sill and began to climb. The boy wouldn’t get her easily. Eddie Higson knew that better than he knew anything.

Martin Cullen and Dennis Maher, the latter usually known as Lofty because of his height, which had never increased from the age of twelve, made their way along the cobbled entry at the back of Long Moor Lane. They had left the rest of the gang in the Milk Bar listening to a new record. Martin wanted to talk and they wouldn’t understand. He could trust only Lofty not to laugh at him, but then Lofty had not the brain to laugh at anybody and Martin, who recognized Lofty’s severe limitations, knew that he was using the lad as a sounding board rather than as a comprehending companion. This little weasel-faced lad had always treated Martin as something of a hero, mostly because Martin had watched over him and protected him from bullies throughout the secondary school.

They stopped across from Annie Byrne’s back gate and leaned on a garden wall. The houses opposite Annie’s, both front and back, were corporation and had gardens. Not that the Cullens’ was a proper garden, mused Martin as he cast his eye over Mrs Chadwick’s neat square of green. Their own garden was like a jungle, full of waist-high weeds and rusty prams, empty tins, punctured footballs and bits of broken furniture from his mother’s famous clearouts.

The washing had been taken in now, so they had an uninterrupted view of Annie’s house, though she would likely be in the front as usual.

Martin glanced down at the small lad beside him. He didn’t look more than ten or eleven at the most, a poor thin soul with huge eyes and a forest of curly black hair.

‘What’s up, Martin?’ asked Lofty. ‘I knew somethin’ were up right off, as soon as you walked into the bar.’

Martin shrugged. ‘I just . . . oh, I know this’ll sound daft, but I’ve been thinking, like and . . . and I’m not going in for weaving.’

‘You what? You mean you’re not comin’ with us on Monday an’ after we got took on an’ all?’

‘No. I’m not going.’

Lofty’s mouth dropped open as he stared at his best friend. Not going? After an apprentice weaver’s job? It was a good job, was that. Lofty himself was going into the spinning rooms, doing odd jobs, a bit of work in the carding shop if he was lucky, running errands more like. But Martin had got took on proper, he’d get learned how to weave, how to make cloth, get set up for life. He was clever, was Martin.