A Whisper to the Living (38 page)

Dolly’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is she still at Woolworth’s?’

‘Aye,’ replied Bertha.

‘Then ’ow come she’s toutin’ in ’er dinner hour? ’Ow would she get up Sherwood an’ back in time fer work?’

David Pritchard glanced at Bertha. ‘She uses her friend’s flat near the Lido on Bradshawgate, we believe. Between the pair of them, they’ve quite a business going. I’m sorry to be the carrier of such bad tidings, Mrs Nelson, but we thought it best to bring your daughter home straight away.’

‘Aye. Well you did right. ’Appen you’d best be off now and tend your own business. I suppose yer’ll ’ave plenty fer t’ talk about now, Bertha Cullen? Yer’ll be able ter tell yer mate Nancy ’Igson all about it, eh?’

Bertha breathed in sharply. ‘You ungrateful bugger, you! As if I would! There’s not a word’ll cross my lips. Me and Nancy ’as better things fer t’ talk over.’

‘Oh aye? Like ’er leavin’ a chap ter die on ’is own? Like ’er goin’ about dancin’ an’ takin’ boarders in?’

‘Now, ladies . . .’ began David.

‘This is no bloody lady, Doctor,’ said Bertha. She turned and stamped out of the room.

‘I’ll . . . I’ll leave you to it then, Mrs Nelson.’

‘I reckon you’d better.’

She waited until the car pulled away, then shouted from the foot of the stairs, ‘Get thisen down ’ere!’

A shamefaced Maggie entered the kitchen where her mother was arranging mugs and plates on the table.

‘We’ll ’ave a cup, lass. Sit down, I’ll not bite thee.’

‘I’m sorry, Mam . . .’

‘Nay, never bother. We’ll soon be to rights tha’ll see.’

They sat at the table drinking tea, Dolly studying her daughter closely.

‘So. Yer on t’ game, are you?’

‘It was fer the rent, Mam. I couldn’t manage on me wages. I won’t do it no more – honest.’

‘’Ow much was you gettin’?’

‘About a quid a go.’ Maggie, her cheeks blazing, stared down at the stained tablecloth.

‘’Ow many a week?’

‘Ten, maybe more.’

‘That’s a fair amount o’ brass. ’Ave yer spent it all?’

‘I’ve a bit in t’ Post Office.’

Dolly stood up and walked to the window. It was dead quiet round here, so quiet that she reckoned the house could burn down without anybody noticing. ‘Yer’ve got to stop off the streets, Maggie.’

‘I will, Mam. I will. But I can’t live ’ere – there’s nowt goes on, nowhere ter go . . .’

‘Then we mun make a life, eh?’ She turned to look at her daughter. ‘Listen ter me, our Maggie. I’m stoney – never been so broke in me life. We could . . . well . . . set up shop, like.’

‘’Ow do yer mean, Mam?’

Dolly sidled towards the table. ‘Get yer gentleman callers ter come up ’ere! I can keep t’ lads upstairs, yer can use t’ best room – that couch makes to a bed, tha knows. An’ if there’s any bother, yer’ll ’ave yer old Mam ter look after yer.’ She smoothed her tangled hair. ‘Fact is, one or two of ’em might fancy a bit of older stuff – I could maybe ’elp out.’

Maggie’s jaw dropped. ‘We’d . . . we’d be runnin’ a brothel, Mam!’

‘Nay, lass. We’d be stayin’ alive best way we can. It’s money fer old rope, isn’t it? I mean, we could buy a few bottles in, sell drinks on t’ side . . . it’d be like ’avin’ a party a couple o’ nights a week. Come ’ome, Maggie. I’ll look after thee. Yer never know what yer might pick up on yer own – yer could get a flamin’ murderer or summat. What do yer say?’

Maggie stared at her mother for several seconds. ‘Alright, Mam. We’ll give it a try. But . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Well, it seems right funny, does this. I thought yer’d kill me an’ ’ere we are talkin’ about . . . well . . .’

‘About settin’ up in business is what, Maggie. Look at it this road – we’re ’elpin’ out, aren’t we? Some women doesn’t like doin’ it. So their poor ’usbands ’as ter go wi’out. If we give t’ men what they want, then they’ll likely give over mitherin’ their wives.’

‘Eeh Mam, you’re a bugger!’

‘Aye well, ’appen yer’ve took after me, eh?’

The baby whimpered and Maggie leaned over to look into the pram. ‘Is ’e alright, Mam?’

‘’Course ’e is. ’E’s not complainin’ ’is ’e?’

‘No . . . no. I just wondered . . .’

But Dolly’s mind was too full of plans to give heed to Maggie’s wonderings. Yes, they had the answer now, a bit of life with money thrown in as a bonus. She took the last Woodbine from the packet and grinned. There’d be plenty more, plenty to go round for everybody.

Eddie Higson, after surviving well beyond the expected span, died in June 1958, just as Annie was completing her advanced level examinations. Nancy, on receiving the news from local police, decided not to tell her daughter yet, then, after making arrangements with the undertaker, she sent word to his brothers. The older man, Bob Higson, arrived at the house and demanded to know why Nancy had never visited Eddie and why she now refused to attend his funeral. So she told him straight, with Mary at her side, both women hoping that any trouble would be over before Annie got back from school.

‘He was a rapist and a child-molester,’ said Nancy, not prepared at this stage to pull any punches.

‘I don’t believe it!’ came the reply. ‘That was all rubbish about him and that kiddy down Emmanuel Street. They proved nowt at all! The child was lying!’

Nancy folded her arms and stood squarely before him. ‘That girl and her mother were both killed, weren’t they? After your Eddie had gone off to the war. I remember old Florrie Hyatt trying to tell me about that, only I wouldn’t listen – just like you, I didn’t want to hear bad of him. Well hear me now, Bob Higson. That brother of yours interfered with my daughter, likely affected her for life, he did.’ Without glancing at Mary, she went on, ‘Then he raped a nurse up at the TB place. Oh yes, he was very generous with his attentions, was your brother. Even got one of his customers pregnant. But above all, he was a . . . a . . . what’s that fancy word, Mary?’

‘A paedophile.’ Mary’s voice was quiet.

‘That’s right. He liked little girls. And you expect me to go to his funeral?’ Nancy’s tone was bitter and sarcastic.

Bob shuffled about uncomfortably, his face reddened by embarrassment. ‘To be honest with you, Nancy, we did know as how he was a queer fish – kept to himself most of the time, then given to odd fits of temper. But we never thought he was one for children and suchlike. Oh heck.’ He sank into a chair and sat twisting his cap between his fingers. ‘In spite of that business in ’39, we never cottoned on, never knew he was that bad.’

‘Well he was,’ snapped Nancy.

‘Anyroad, he suffered for it. Like an animal in a cage, he was . . .’

‘We don’t need to know all that,’ said Nancy firmly. ‘I’m convinced he got himself in there so he wouldn’t be tried. Then he likely went mad at the finish knowing he’d never get out. You just see him buried decent with his father. I’ve got my own plot – my bones could never rest easy with his.’

Bob rose from the chair. ‘Nancy, lass. I feel awful coming up here on the bounce like, especially after what you’ve just said. Let us chip in for the burial, give you some money back for Annie . . .’

Nancy held up her hand. ‘I’ll say this for you – you’re a decent sort, Bob Higson and I appreciate your offer. But no, I owe the man one debt and that’s to get him safely buried, thanks all the same.’

He left bowed and round-shouldered, Nancy closing the door securely in his wake.

‘Right. That’s that then, Mary. Pour us both a drop of brandy. Thank God I took a couple of days off – you’d have had his brother to deal with and you on the flaming night shift.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Daft, isn’t it? I get three days’ compassionate leave because I’ve lost a husband I didn’t want anyway. Never mind. Cheers – here’s to us and our Annie.’

As they raised their glasses, the subject of the toast burst in like a whirlwind, books and papers scattering about her person as she entered the room. ‘I’ve finished!’ she cried, tossing a handful of notes into the air.

‘Then you shall have a brandy too,’ said Nancy. ‘After all, you’re eighteen – time you got introduced to the booze.’

‘Oh give over, Mam,’ laughed Annie, lapsing into her old mode of speech. ‘I’ve been pinching the odd drop since I was about fourteen – it would be no novelty.’

Nancy clipped her playfully round the ear. ‘Sit down, Annie.’

‘What is it, Mother?’ Annie placed herself in the fireside rocker.

‘He’s dead.’

Mary came and squatted on her haunches in front of Annie, this new grown-up little sister whom she had learned to love. ‘Yes, he’s gone, Annie.’

‘Eddie Higson?’

‘Yes.’ Mary gripped Annie’s hands. ‘He died two days ago, only we never told you on account of that big exam today.’

Annie’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Nay,’ said Nancy. ‘You’re not weeping for him, are you?’

‘No.’ She sniffed hard. ‘I’m crying for what he was and what he did. We don’t know – perhaps he couldn’t help it. He might have been born bad and now he’s died all on his own.’

‘Honest! She’d see good in Jack the Ripper, she would!’

‘Please, Nancy,’ whispered Mary. ‘He was looked after, Annie. Don’t go upsetting everybody, especially yourself. And I’m not waltzing off on nights leaving you in tears.’

Nancy and Mary went to the table and carried on setting places for the meal. Annie sat very still, staring into the grate as she spoke in a voice that was barely audible. ‘I read that any man’s death is diminishing to the rest of us. It’s forever. Death’s forever. The only thing we can be really sure of is that we’ll die. That’s why people write poetry, try to tell us to look at things now while there’s still time. I don’t like the thought of people dying, no matter what they’ve done. But I feel so awful, because I’m glad he’s gone. Does that mean I’m a bad person too?’

‘It means you’re bloody human, Annie,’ said Nancy.

‘Did he die peacefully, Mother?’

Nancy would never tell her daughter the truth, that he had gone out raving and bathed in his own final haemorrhage. ‘Yes, he went quiet enough.’

‘Good.’ Annie rose, deliberately pulling herself together. ‘I’ll just go and change into some human clothes.’

‘Hang on!’ called Mary from the sideboard. ‘Two letters for you – one’s from America, I think.’

Annie took the envelopes and sped to her room, opening Tom’s first. His letters and parcels had arrived frequently over the years, providing great pleasure for Annie and her friends with whom she’d often shared Life-Savers, coloured bubble-gums, bright American comic papers and lots of other carefully chosen mementos. Sometimes, he even sent clothing and items of jewellery, things that were not available in England, so that Nancy and Annie often wore things that attracted attention and comment. Always, always, Tom sent his love.

She smiled, noticing yet again how American her Tom had become.

1517 Forest View

Philadelphia, Pa.

U.S.A.

June 1st 1958

Hi Annie,

How are you doing? I’ve got a good job now in the steelworks, promoted to supervisor just last month. This means I’m in charge of the two P’s – paint and people. I don’t know which is worse! I wish you would get out here and see this beautiful country. Philly itself is really busy, but there’s some cute places around and you would surely love Pennsylvania.

I am busy most days. Everything needs repainting the minute you’ve done it. We paint everything that don’t move and a few things that do! Paint sure spreads easy!

I’ve saved nearly enough to visit back home and the guys upstairs are letting me save vacations too so I’ll have six weeks in England once I’ve enough dough. I guess England will seem small. This one state is enormous compared to Lancashire.

I’ve travelled a bit, went to Niagara a few weeks ago – boy, you should see that water, it kind of makes you want to cry. All that natural power is frightening.

Also I’ve been to Fort Ligonier, Pennsylvania-Dutch territory. You would love them forests, Annie. This place is full of trees – I guess that’s how it came by its name. I’m sending you some souvenirs, Penn-Dutch aprons, tea-towels and the like so you can get the flavor. America has everybody’s history rolled into one heap, that’s why it’s so interesting.

Well, I’m 32 and still not married. Did you wait for me or are you about to marry some college professor?

I’ll be seeing you. Best regards to your Ma and hooray for her getting to be foreman.

Lots of love,

Tom.

Annie placed the letter with the others in a drawer of the tallboy. She held on to the second envelope for some time, turning it over slowly in her hand. It bore a London mark and the address was handwritten. She had applied to no colleges in the south and anyway, with her new career decision, she did not expect to hear anything for a while, her late change of mind having made the applications tardy. Slowly, she opened the letter.

113, Sandfield Road,

London EC4

14th June 58

My Dear Annie,

Yes, I’m in London – for the time being. I’ve gone freelance and already have two assignments lined up. My interest in photography paid off, because I now do the journalism and the pictures, so I don’t have to cart a photographer around with me. I’m calling myself a photojournalist, which sounds a bit posher than tea-boy! I leave for Africa in a day or two, raring to set off on safari.

It seems stupid now, the way we quarrelled. I hope you are happy and that your career will be a success. I write to my mother occasionally, I think she’s glad of the pound or two I manage to send at last. She tells me you still visit and keep them smiling like you always did.

Don’t you dare forget me, Annie Byrne. You can’t write, because I don’t know where I’ll be, but I’ll send postcards and photos from wherever I happen to get to. Look after yourself, kid. I’m coming back one day to see you. I expect you have a boyfriend (or several?) but I’m sure we can get together for old times’ sake.

Hope your Mam is well – I hear that your stepdad is not in good health and I’m sorry, though you never did like him, did you?

Will write again and hope to see you sometime soon.

My love to you,

Martin. X