Memories of You

 
 
 

 
Memories of You

 

 
BENITA BROWN

 
 
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Copyright © 2011 Benita Brown

 

 
The right of Benita Brown to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

 

 
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2011.

 

 
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

 
Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard to reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.

 

 
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

 

eISBN : 978 0 7553 5351 4

 

 
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Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

In memory of my mother who because of family circumstances had to leave grammar school at the age of fourteen. Like Helen, she left Newcastle to work in London.

I know she would have enjoyed this story.

Newcastle, November 1929

Selma got to her feet and stared down at the woman. One shoe had come off and there was a darn in her stocking just above one knee. She stooped swiftly and pulled the woman's coat down
.
At least I can protect her dignity, she thought.

As she turned to go her foot caught on something and she stumbled. She looked down and to her surprise she saw an orange, a splash of colour on the rain-dark road. A shopping bag lay nearby, the contents spilled and scattered. More oranges, apples, a loaf of bread, a jar of jam, the glass smashed and the red contents oozing out. Selma stared at the jam in horror
.
She was hurrying home to give her family their tea, she thought
.
They'll be waiting for her. Wondering what treats she's bringing.

The last few lumps of coal smouldered in the grate and the room was chilly. Helen sat on the sofa with her younger sister Elsie. She put an arm round her and drew her close. The twins Joe and Danny, in their coats and ready to go, stood near the window, brown paper parcels tied with string at their feet. Every now and then Joe pushed the net curtain aside, and looked out at the drenched cobbles and the rain overflowing from the gutters of the houses opposite. Danny kept his head turned away from the window and stared at nothing in particular. Usually so easy-going and happy, the younger boy was now rigid with misery, his face pinched and drawn. Joe, the elder by ten minutes, simply looked angry.

It had been a week since their mother's funeral but Aunt Jane had left it to the evening before to tell them that they were not going to be staying together.

‘I haven't got room for all of them,' she'd told their neighbour, Mrs Andrews. ‘And I can't afford to take two growing boys. They'd eat me out of house and home. It might have been different if Grace had thought to take out a proper insurance policy. As it is, once the funeral's paid for, that's that.'

Jane Roberts, the widow of a bank manager, had shed no tears for her dead sister; nor had she offered any comfort to her nephews and nieces. She had come when Mrs Andrews had sent for her, and she had done her duty. If she had shown any sign of humanity it had been towards the youngest child. But not many people could resist Elsie. Simply to look at her was to make you draw your breath and wonder at her beauty. Her long hair was angel fair, her blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. Small and fragile, she looked and behaved younger than her nine years.

Aunt Jane had been noticeably gentle with her and had encouraged her to eat the plain food she had provided. But Elsie had only nibbled at her bread and margarine and had pushed aside the plates of gristly stew. Eventually Aunt Jane lost patience with her and ignored her.

Today there was a clean cloth on the table in the front parlour and it was set with a generous plate of ham sandwiches and a sliced fruit cake. Aunt Jane had not come to sit with them as they waited. She had remained in the kitchen with Mrs Andrews. She had explained that she had things to talk about, arrangements to make about handing the keys back to the landlord and the like. Helen wondered if the truth was that their aunt could not face them. Maybe she felt guilty. But if she did, there was no sign of her having changed her mind.