Avalanche of Daisies (28 page)

Bob Wilkins was late getting home that night and, as Heather was scowling in her sleep, he crept into bed beside her very carefully so as not to wake her. Consequently it wasn't until breakfast that he discovered that Barbara had gone.

He was so upset he lost his appetite. ‘Gone?' he echoed, putting down his knife and fork. ‘What d'you mean “gone”? What's brought that about?'

‘We had words,' Heather admitted. ‘Last night. An' before you make that face you'd better hear me out. She said some dreadful things to me. Really dreadful. She was swearing an' cussing the way you'd never believe. The air was blue. I told her I wouldn't have it. You'd've said the same if you'd been here. I said it was beyond human flesh an' blood to stand. So she packed her bag and took off.'

‘Where to?'

Heather poured herself a second cup of tea and shrugged the question away. ‘No idea.' It had worried her to find the bedroom cleared and the bed unslept in but she wasn't going to admit it.

‘You must know,' he protested. ‘Good God woman, she's been out all night. Anything could've happened to her. She wouldn't've gone without saying where she'd be.'

‘You've got too high an opinion of her,' she said, sipping her tea slowly to keep herself calm. ‘That's your trouble. I told you she was a nasty piece a' work, didn't I? Very well then. Now I been proved right. She's gone an' she hasn't told me where to and that's all there is to it.'

‘What about Steve?'

‘Exactly. What about Steve? Well, he'll have to know about her now, won't he? We should've told him months ago only you wouldn't have it. I shall write this morning.'

It was a very rare thing for Bob Wilkins to put his foot down but he did it then. ‘You won't do no such thing,' he said and his face was fierce. ‘You'll leave well alone till we know where she is an' what's happened to her. Do you understand me, Heather?'

She recognised that he was giving her an order and that it would have to be obeyed but she went on making her case. ‘He'll have to know sooner or later.'

‘Wait!' he instructed. ‘That's all. I'm not having him upset with gossip.'

‘Gossip!' she said. ‘Oh that's nice. I get sworn at an' it's gossip.'

He stood up and put on his jacket, buttoning it neatly and brushing the lapels the way he usually did. His face was set. ‘You know what I mean,' he said.

She looked from his fierce face to the half-eaten meal on his plate. ‘Where you going?'

‘Out.'

‘But you haven't had your breakfast. You're not going out without your breakfast.'

‘Put it in the oven for me,' he said. ‘I'll have it later.'

And went, treading the stairs as carefully as usual and shutting the door behind him as quietly. But he didn't whistle as he walked away and the lack of that little chirruping sound distressed her to tears. Damned girl, she thought, blinking angrily. Now look what she's done. Oh why couldn't he have married a nice girl from round here? A nice respectable girl, with good manners, that we all knew, that'ud speak like us instead of all that country burr. That gets on my wick. I'll bet she's been with that awful feller all night. I wouldn't put it past her. Bob'll like
that
when he finds out. She's probably rolling around in bed this very minute, sleeping it off.

*

She was right about that, at least. Barbara
was
in bed at that moment but she wasn't asleep and she was lying perfectly still, trying to gather her thoughts and her energy for the day ahead. She and Becky had sat up till two in the morning, talking and grieving, and now Becky was up and had lit the fire and was clattering about downstairs making the tea, but she was in bed and loath to get up. The trouble was that their conversation had gone round and round over relatively easy ground. They'd remembered how strong Norman had been and what a good swimmer he was and how well he rowed, and said, over and over again, that he'd been cut out for the sea and that they couldn't believe they'd never see him again. Barbara had found out what time the funeral was going to be, and where, and who was coming. They'd even discussed what they ought to wear. But she hadn't asked the one question she really wanted to have answered.

‘Come on down, my poppet,' Becky called to her. ‘Tea's made.'

Tea. Toast. Quietly going over the same talk, again and again, gradually inching to the question. More tea. Getting dressed in the clothes they'd agreed on. Brown skirt, white blouse and Becky's old navy mackintosh to cover it all because she couldn't wear her red coat. Still inching. Going out of the door, checking in the mirror to see that they looked ‘orl right'. Still inching. I must know. I must ask. Do it now or that'll be too late.

‘Aunt Becky.'

Becky turned her foxy face towards her. ‘Poppet?'

‘How did he die?'

The answer was quick and honest and brutal. ‘Drowned, my lovey. Burned too bad to swim they do say an' covered in oil.'

The horror of it was like a blow to her stomach, even though she'd half expected it. To die like that, burnt and in pain, out in the middle of the Atlantic, all on his own. She could feel the oil burning on her own flesh, the
terror of the water over her head. ‘Oh my poor Norman! That ain't fair!'

Becky patted her arm. ‘You got han'kerchief, 'ave you, gal?'

Barbara shook away her tears. She had to be controlled. That wouldn't do to let everyone see her in a state. ‘Yes. I'm orl right.'

‘You're a good brave gal,' Becky said, button eyes full of pity. ‘Catch hold of my arm.' And when Barbara hesitated. ‘I could do with a bit of support.'

So they walked through the yards to her father's house arm in arm, supporting one another. Her own yard was exactly as she remembered it, dark and cramped and full of clutter, the same worn mangles against the wall, the dustbins and old bikes, the tin baths propped against the brickwork, even the same nets hanging to dry, the same smell of fish, wet boots and dirty clothes, and above it all, the same putrid stink from those awful outside lavvies. After months in the comfort of Childeric Road, she found it appalling and knew it was a slum. But at the moment it was full of relations, who'd spilled out of the house, and were standing around waiting and commiserating. So she had to put on a calm face and go and greet at least a few of them before she went indoors.

The tiny living room was crowded too. Her father was hunched in his chair in the corner with his crew around him and a half-finished glass of whisky in his hand. His mates were all in their sea-faring caps and Sunday ganseys, but he was wearing a blue suit. She hadn't been aware that he even possessed such a thing, leave alone seen him wear it, and the sight of him, so ill at ease and quiet and shrunk into himself, made her feel a sudden rush of pity towards him.

‘'Lo Pa,' she said. ‘You orl right?'

But he didn't look up. Instead her mother swooped across the room and seized her by the arm. ‘Whass brought
you
here then?' she said. ‘I thought you were
working up in Lonnon. On the trams.' Her voice was querulous and aggressive and her face tear-stained. ‘I'm surprised you got time for us now, the sorta life you're leadin'.'

I won't be provoked, Barbara thought. Not today. She's upset. She don't mean it. ‘Where's the kids?' she asked and looked round to find them.

They were sitting back to back on a low wooden stool in a corner of the room, hemmed in by adult legs and noisy conversation and looking most unlike themselves, with their hair slicked to their skulls – who did that to them? – and their school guernseys clean and pressed. They were so glad to see her it made her want to cry. Instead she knelt on the floor and put her arms round them and told them she'd look after them.

‘You stand by me,' she said. ‘Then you'll be orl right.'

There was a rustle of movement by the open door and somebody was calling that the hearse had arrived and it was time to go. Her father lumbered to his feet, still not saying a word, and with his mates protectively around him, led them all out.

Afterwards Barbara was puzzled to realise how little of the funeral service she could remember. Her own brother was being committed to the earth and yet she stood at his graveside and didn't feel any emotion at all. She looked away from the anguished faces round that awful pit, because she couldn't bear to see them or to look at the coffin, but then she didn't know where to put her eyes and glanced idly across at the dark walls of the church, thinking how old it was. She noticed the white wings of a flock of herring gulls as they soared overhead calling like cats, found she was admiring the grey backs and the garish yellow bills of the adults, counted the speckled yearlings, thinking what a lot of them there were. Finally she watched the branches of the yew tree swaying in the wind and sniffed the air thinking how salty it was. But she didn't think of her brother at all.
There would be time for that later, when she was on her own and it wouldn't matter if she cried. For the moment it was all she could do to get through the awesome words of the service.

But when her father took the proffered spade and shovelled the first load of earth to cover his son and she heard the sharp clods rattling down on the lid of the coffin, she was suddenly pulled to such grief she was afraid she would fall and closed her eyes against the pain of it. At that point, her mother began to wail, standing alone on the other side of the grave, and she went on and on until the service was over and they were all walking back to the yards again. Poor Ma.

‘Whass goin' to happen now, Bar'bra?' Jimmy wanted to know. He'd clung on to her hand all through the service and was holding it still, so tightly that his grip was quite painful.

‘There'll be a few sandwiches or something,' she told them. ‘People generally have a bite to eat after. That won't take long.'

But to her horror, plate-loads of food had been prepared, and were being carried into the house by her neighbours; shrimps, cockles, winkles, fish-paste sandwiches, even a flatmeat pie. And there were boxes full of glasses, and a keg of beer standing in the corner where the kids' stool had been.

‘Got to give him a good send-off,' her uncle said cheerfully. ‘Come on Crusher, bor, git that down yer. Mek all the difference that will.'

Thass a party, Barbara thought with disbelief. They're holding a party. Feeling returned in a rush of temper. How dare they do such a thing! Hain't they got
any
sense? All those great coarse mouths chomping up bread an' marge an' fish-paste, all that beer slopping over the edge of those glasses an' running down those stupid chins, an' Norman burnt to death.

Her father was hunched in his corner again. He had a full glass but for once in his life he wasn't drinking.

‘Best of the bunch,' he said, holding the glass in both scarred hands as though it were a bouquet. ‘Well an' away. Best of the bunch. I should of told him an' now he's gone an' thass too late.'

‘Never you mind, bor,' his skipper said, comforting him in the only way he knew. ‘He'd of knowd it. Just you drink up.'

‘Thass a cruel mistress, that ol' sea,' another commiserated. ‘All onnus knows that. Thass took many a good un, one way or 'nother. You think of ol' Tanker. Took him.'

‘An' Froggie,' one of the uncles put in. ‘I 'member when they brought him in, all over slime, an' his face caved in, an' all. You 'member that, don't you Crusher.'

But Crusher could only sigh.

So they went on encouraging him with gruesome tales. ‘You 'member when Jiggy fell outta the riggin'. That was a funeral! I 'member the percession. All round Pilot Street an' in ter Chapel Lane.' ‘You 'member when we took that ol' corpse out the water. Three mile out that was. The stink of un. D'you 'member? And not one on us knowd un.'

Barbara couldn't believe they were being so insensitive. It was hideous, barbaric. She strode through the throng until she was standing among them. ‘Stop it!' she said, the words hissing through clenched teeth. ‘Just stop it! Can't you see what you're doin' to him?'

‘We hain't a-doin' nothin' to him,' the skipper told her. ‘We're cheerin' him up. Ain't we, bor?'

But one of her uncles moved into the attack. ‘S'pose you know what's best for us now you're livin' up Lonnon,' he said, sneering at her. ‘S'pose you're all high an' mighty now. What you done with that bebby of your'n, eh? You tell us that.'

It was such an unexpected attack that it took her breath away but she fought back at once, bristling at them. ‘What bebby?'

‘The one you was aspectin' when you went hossin' off with that soldier boy of your'n.'

You vile man, she thought. How dare you say such a thing! How dare you imply … In a small honest corner of her mind she knew it could easily have been true but that only made it worse. She drew herself up to her full height and pulled in her stomach so that it was as flat as she could make it. ‘Thass just a load of ol' squit what someone's been tellin' you,' she said. ‘There ain't a bebby. There never was a bebby. I onny been married five months an' he been in France four an half of 'em. I'll trouble you not to spread wicked rumours, Uncle Ned.'

Her mother was at her elbow, flushed in the face and breathing quickly. But she'd come to defend her cousin, not her daughter. ‘That could ha' been true though,' she said to Barbara. ‘How was we to know? You went off so quick, you could ha' been in any ol' state, we wouldn't ha knowd.'

It was a shock to come under attack from her own mother but Barbara turned to take her on too. ‘Well I wasn't,' she said stoutly. ‘So now you
do
know.'

‘This is what comes a' marryin' a foreigner,' her mother complained, tears springing to her eyes again. ‘You should ha' stayed here an' married one of your own kind, like we all done. Thass what you should ha' done. But no. You would go your own way. There was no tellin' you. Well you made your bed so now you must lie on it. An' your poor brother cold in his grave. You oughtta be ashamed of yourself.'