Clover's Child (31 page)

11

Three months had passed since their wedding. Three months that for Dot Day might as well have been years. She lived in a state of silent agitation when Wally was around and in a state of silent agitation when he wasn’t around, waiting for him to come home – not that it would ever feel like home. Joan and Reg had visited once; it had been awkward and embarrassing. Wally and her Dad had bantered as they always did, recounting the hilarity of the wedding reception and arranging to meet soon in the pub. Their jollity merely highlighted all that wasn’t being said. Joan tried not to make too much of the sparse surroundings of her daughter’s marital home, although her raised eyebrows and sharp intake of breath spoke volumes. She tried not to comment on the lack of food on offer or the dark circles that sat beneath her daughter’s clouded eyes like two bruises. The four sat in the front room, with Dot and Wally on cushions on the floor. After one hour Joan commented that they did not want to miss the bus and everyone had nodded, no one publicly acknowledging the fact that there was a bus every forty minutes. No one insisted on another cup of tea or delayed their exit with one final story. Another hour would have been unbearable. They promised to bring Dee next time; she was doing well at school, they said, and this was the only time Dot smiled, when she pictured the bundle of energy that was her clever little sister.

She woke bright and early and did as she had every morning since her arrival in Walthamstow: squeezed out a healthy dollop of Ajax, scrubbed the worktops in the kitchen, cleaned the two-ring hob and mopped and dried the kitchen floor. Then she wiped around the stainless steel sink until it shone, ran the carpet sweeper over the lino and the concrete floors, flicked a duster over the fireplace and rubbed over the two vinyl chairs – donated by Wally’s mealy-mouthed, whinging mother – with a damp cloth. This took approximately twenty minutes and that was her list of chores complete for the day.

Wally had been signed off the sheet metal for a while with his back and had got into the habit of sleeping in until mid-morning. He would appear at around eleven a.m., having sloped from the bedroom to the bathroom to the chairs in the sitting room, where he would yawn and stretch with a look of happiness on his face, reminding Dot of a retarded cat. When he did appear, unwashed but dressed, flat-haired and with the indent of a pillow crease on his grey cheek, she would slip into the bedroom and fling open the window on its tilt, trying to rid the room of the smell of him. It was the musky tang of male sweat and smoker’s breath; no matter that she knew what to expect, Dot had to fight her gag reflex or would have thrown up all over their mattress. She longed to wake in a room that smelt like her childhood bedroom, sweet and untainted by adult scents, or indeed in a room that smelt of Sol, expensive cologne and sensual oils. She would stare out over the roof tops, taking great gulps of air before throwing the sheet and bedspread over the mattress and plumping the two pillows just so.

Wally, enjoying his first fag of the day, would mutter ‘Are you hungry?’ as she passed the door. To this she would give a little nod and reach for the frying pan in the kitchen. He was nervous around her and did not have the courage to ask outright if there was any breakfast. Dot fed Wally twice a day. Every day. Eating breakfast so late meant that this meal was a kind of lunch/breakfast hybrid, consisting of fried bacon between two slices of white bread and tomato ketchup, washed down with a mug of strong tea. At around five p.m. Wally would be hungry again and she would present him with either more bacon, again served between two slices of white bread and tomato ketchup, or a fried egg between two slices of white bread and tomato ketchup. Every Wednesday and Friday night she would fetch fish and chips from the chippy in the new precinct on the ground floor and they would eat it out of the wrapper with their fingers. Every time Dot lifted the scalding batter-wrapped cod to her mouth, she thought of Sol and a large conch on a large plate.

Dot placed the white china on the arm of the chair and waited for Wally to stop scratching his chin so that he could eat his breakfast.

‘Ooh, bacon – lovely!’

She knew he was lying, but couldn’t figure out why – or why the lie was delivered in the veil of a compliment; did he think she cared? ‘I could do you some toast?’

‘Toast? Nah, bacon’ll do, but I reckon if you carry on like this, I’ll turn into a bleeding pig!’ He laughed, hoping that it might be infectious. It wasn’t.

Dot stared at the man who never used cologne, who didn’t sing or dance, who scratched himself with abandon and never cleaned his teeth. She didn’t say a word.

Wally took a large bite, filling his mouth with half the sandwich. ‘I thought you might like cooking, what with your mum being a cook and everything.’ A small blob of wet bread landed on the chair; she resisted the temptation to clean it up right away.

Dot shrugged in response and wandered into the kitchen to scrub the frying pan. She replied to Wally in her mind, as she often did.
‘Truth is, Wally, I do love cooking, I just don’t want to cook for you. If I was married to Sol, I would strive every day to make something wonderful that we would eat together and laugh about before falling into bed. Truth is, Wally, if he was the man I shared this flat with, I’d live in this horrible place, with its shitty kitchen and its cold floor, and I would be living wrapped up in clovers. In fact, as long as I was with him, any
where and anything – a tent in a blizzard or homeless in a jungle – would make me happy. And the exact opposite is true of you, of us; if you put us in a mansion and gave me jewels, I would feel the same as I do now. I would wake with a desolate heart and want to run away, because you aren’t him and you never will be.’

‘I’m going out.’

Dot nodded in his direction. He was probably off to meet one of his creepy mates up the pub. Not that she cared; it was a relief to be alone. As soon as the front door clicked into the frame, Dot wiped her hands on her skirt and went into the bedroom. Pulling her suitcase from the corner of the room, she flipped up the locks and removed her shell from beneath her underwear. She carried it with both hands into the sitting room, sat in the chair only recently vacated by her husband and placed it on her knees. She breathed deeply and spoke slowly. She wanted every word to reach him.

‘Me again. Things pretty much the same here. I know I should try harder, but it’s difficult. Wally ain’t bad, but he’s not you. He’s not fat or wicked, but truth is it could be Billy Fury that I’m shacked up and I’d feel exactly the same. I want your skin, your face, your voice and anything else is not good enough. I can’t help wondering what it’d be like living with you, here. We’d be all right, wouldn’t we? We’d be more than all right. I was thinking earlier that we’d be fine anywhere. I’d make you apple crumble just like I promised and we’d find nice places to walk with Simon. It’d be brilliant. See, I don’t need no formal and informal lounge – whatever that is when it’s at home. I just need you, that’s all, just you. Being with you was like being home.’

Dot considered her next phrase. She drew breath and smiled, wanting to talk about Simon some more.

‘What the bleeding hell are you doing?’

His voice took her by surprise; she jumped. Dot looked up and into the face of her husband. She hadn’t heard him come back in, had been too engrossed to hear the key in the lock or the rattle of the front door. She was mortified, embarrassed to have been discovered. Not because of what Wally might think, but in case their exchange could be heard on a beach far, far away.

‘N… nothing. I’m not doing nothing!’ She placed her hands protectively around her shell, hugging it close to her lap.

‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’ It was a rare flare of aggression. Wally flexed his fists by his side.

‘I wasn’t talking to no one.’

‘I can see that, cos you’re sat here all on your tod, but you were talking to someone as if they were here, telling him you’d make bleeding apple crumble…’

Dot stared at the floor and felt the creep of a blush over her neck and face; he must have heard it all.
Oh God…

Wally bent down. Crouching on the floor in front of her, his voice was once again quite soft. ‘And what I really want to know, Dot, is who you’d make apple crumble for, while I choke meal after meal on bacon, always grateful that you are making me something, no matter how boring or tasteless it is?’

Dot ignored the question.

Wally continued. ‘Nah, you don’t have to answer, love. I bet I can guess. I bet I know who all this is in aid of. It were that bloke you were seeing before, weren’t it? That darkie bloke who had first pickings. Barb told me you had a fancy for a bit of foreign.’ Wally breathed deeply and stood, placing his hands on his hips, figuring out how to continue. ‘I reckon you’ve got some bloody nerve. You marry me, live here, never show me the slightest bit of kindness or interest and as soon as me back’s turned, you sit chatting to some bloody bloke on the other side of the bleeding world who didn’t give a shit about you and yet you talk to him like he’s royalty, and me, muggins here, I’m just the annoying bastard that’s put a roof over your head! I’m the idiot that puts up with your bollocks and what do I get in return? I get nothing, fuck all!’

Dot let her tears fall. What did it matter, it was the truth.

‘Still got nothing to say?’ Wally stood and stared out of the window at the concrete nothingness that was their view. ‘I knew you was damaged goods, as they say, but I had no idea that you were mental. You are, y’know; you are bloody loop the loop. Jesus, I reckon even that Barb would have more about her. I mean she weren’t no looker but, Christ, it’d be better than this!’

Dot remained silent. Maybe he was right, who knows? Maybe he and Barb would have been happy. How had it all gone so bloody wrong?

He turned towards her. She watched his expression, saw him deciding what to do next. Where could they go from here?

He reached forward and grabbed at the shell. She raised her elbows, making it hard for him to get a grip, clutching it to her chest. ‘No! Get off! Leave it alone, Wally, it’s mine!’

The two tussled over it like toddlers.

‘We is married, love, what’s mine is yours and all that… Let go!’

‘No!’ she shrieked, louder than he would have thought possible. ‘Don’t you touch it, Wally, it’s all I’ve got left of him! It’s all I’ve got left!’

These words gave Wally the impetus he needed. With one hand he hooked the shell from her grip and with the other he pushed her head back against the chair.

‘Is that right, all you’ve got left of him? You’ve taken the piss out of me for the last time. Apple crumble? I’m your fucking husband!’

Wally stood, slightly encumbered by the bulky shell in his hand.

Dot jumped up after him. ‘Please, Wally! Please give it back to me… please. My grandad gave it to me.’

Wally hesitated for the briefest second before opening the front door. Dot ran behind him but was too slow. He stood on the walkway and hurled her precious shell out into the daylight. Dot watched with her hands outstretched, as though she could somehow prevent the inevitable. The shell seemed to fall in slow motion, allowing her to follow its course out into the middle of the empty space below, turning and falling before it hit the concrete floor, shattering into a million pieces. For the rest of her days, Dot would be able to picture that moment with clarity; closing her eyes, it would always be there for perfect recall. She watched the shards splinter and bounce with a violent pitter-patter.

Wally stormed off, angry and embarrassed by what he’d done. Dot stood transfixed by the fragments of shell that littered the greyness below, the sun glinting off the tiny slivers of pink. She slid down the wall and sat in a ball at the base of the walkway. She felt calm and strangely disconnected. She knew that she would never talk to Sol again. And finally she had the answer to the big question: three months and five days. It had taken three months and five days for her to start to lose her mind.

As night began to fall, she crept back inside the flat and crawled on all fours across the hallway and onto the greasy mattress. She heard the laughter of kids outside, knowing that never again would she laugh with joy. Never again would she kiss the lips of the man she loved or place her hand upon a male chest with longing. Her heart had split, would never heal; her broken spirit meant she would exist as a husk, all feeling and vitality stripped away forever. She would grow old and lonely inside this marriage with a heart that yearned for the man she could never have. Her body would cherish the memory of the times their skin had touched and that magic spark that had ignited within her.

She closed her eyes and pictured the two of them sitting in Ronnie Scott’s sipping champagne with fingers entwined, staring into each other’s eyes; they had been unaware that these were the last few hours they would have together. What would she have said had she known? What could she have done? It probably would have made little difference. The universe had conspired and Dot and Sol were reduced to mere pawns that had no option but to go with the situation that forces bigger than them had decreed. She lay her head on her childhood pillow and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The front door slammed against the wall in the early hours, waking her with a jolt. Wally bumped along the hallway, muttering to himself before walking into the door frame of the bedroom and tripping over his shoes. He entered in a cloud of alcoholic fumes; the pungent odour stung her nose – beer and whisky, if she had to guess. He removed his trousers and fell onto the mattress in his shirt and socks. Dot lay still, staring into the manmade orange glow. She became aware of a movement on Wally’s side of the bed; his shoulders shook and his body heaved as he cried into his pillow. Unable to speak words of comfort, she placed her hand on his back and patted him, the way one might a child that was distressed but whom you didn’t know.

Wally’s words were muffled against the feather-filled ticking, but Dot heard them loud and clear.