My Daughter, My Mother (22 page)

‘No, you don’t know anything about much ’cept pouring it down yer gullet, do yer? You give me the money and I’ll sort her out, poor little wench.’

Ted snatched up his cap again. ‘Stop nagging on, woman. Christ! I’m off down the pub.’

‘That’s it: go and get kalied –
again.
’ Dora was screeching with anger this time. ‘That’ll solve all yer problems, won’t it? You’re an idle sod, Ted Winters, idle and a coward, that’s what you are!’

But Ted was already off along the entry.

‘Here, bab, don’t cry. Look, I’ll help you clear up the mess,’ Dora said, going out to fill a pail of water. ‘It ain’t no good expecting anything off of him, bab, ’cause you ain’t going to get it. It’s a hard thing to say, but he hasn’t got a decent bone in his body, that man, and the sooner you get that into your head, the better.’

It took Margaret a long time to settle in school. Having been away for more than four years, she spoke differently from everyone else and felt like a foreigner. She tried to get her Birmingham accent back so that she could fit in, but with her wonky eye and lack of confidence she was already fair game. She stood at the edge of the playground when they had the dinner break, wishing she was invisible. There were a few other children in the school who had been evacuated and had returned, but none of them had been away for anything like as long. One had run away, and the others had been fetched back by their parents before Christmas 1939, long before the bombing had even started.

‘Our mom said we’d all stick together,’ a girl called Nance told her proudly. ‘She said if we were gunna die, we’d all do it in our own home.’

Nance had been sent to Wales for a few weeks and she was the first person who Margaret thought of as a kind of friend. But that first winter home was full of lonely misery. She didn’t have time to play out in the yard with the other children, so she didn’t make friends with them, and the boys taunted her and called her names. If the younger Jennings kids were around, they stood up for her, but they were already out at work and not there much. Margaret shrugged it off. A deadness took over inside her. She didn’t let herself feel anything. Feelings were too unbearable.

The other person who showed her a bit of kindness was her half-sister Elsie. One Sunday, Dora and Margaret walked over to see her. It was very cold, the streets full of grey Sunday stillness. Margaret traipsed along beside Dora. The buildings they walked between looked very high, the chimneys breathing out swirls of smoke. There was nothing nice to look at, except for a black horse pulling a cart along, but it made Margaret think of Rags, and then she had to stop thinking about it so that she didn’t cry.

They stopped at the door of a house that opened straight onto the pavement. Elsie came to open it. Margaret saw a young woman who was taller and thinner than she remembered, but she did recognize her face and her lank brown hair. She had a look of their mother, which tore at Margaret’s heart.

‘Hello, Elsie,’ Dora said. ‘Look, this is little Margaret, your sister.’

By this time Elsie’s two little girls had come to peer out from behind her. They were both very small and dark-haired, with sharp faces like their mother.

‘Margaret – oh my, is that really our little Margaret!’ Elsie cried, amazed. ‘Ooh, it is: I can see by your eyes. Where’ve yer been then all this time? Oh, look, you’d better come in, it’s cold.’

They sat round the table in the cramped room. The place was not much different from the Upper Ridley Street house, except that there was a lot more sign of home-making. On a shelf was propped a wedding picture of Elsie and her husband, and there were little knick-knacks on the mantel and a cheery red-and-white checked cloth on the table. By the fire there was a rag rug in bright colours. Elsie briskly made a pot of tea while the two little girls stood staring.

‘My, you’ve grown, Margaret,’ Elsie said when they were all drinking the weak brew. ‘I can’t get over it. I mean you were – it was at the beginning of the war, just before our mom . . .’ Her eyes filled and she trailed off. ‘You were only about . . . ?’

‘Five,’ Dora Jennings told her. ‘Five and a bit. And now you’re just turned eleven, aren’t you, bab? That’s it, Elsie – she’s been away all that time. And now she’s back with the Old Man . . .’

Elsie’s face tightened. ‘That rotten old—’ She didn’t let herself finish. ‘Well, that can’t be much of a life for you, Margaret. Now, look – ooh, silly me, I haven’t even told you their names. Come ’ere, you two: this is Susan and this is little Heather . . . Now, you two, this is your Auntie Margaret. She’s been stopping away for a bit away from the bombs, but she’s come back now.’

The two little girls, four and two, stared at Margaret, who looked back uncertainly at them. After a moment the oldest, Susan, smiled shyly and moved a bit closer. Margaret’s heart leapt and she smiled back. Heather put her hand over her mouth and giggled, and this made Margaret smile even more.

‘Hello,’ she said, remembering how kind Patty had been and wanting to be like her.

The little girls squirmed and smiled.

‘Say hello then!’ Elsie urged, though they were overcome with shyness. But they had made Margaret’s day. Oh, maybe, just maybe, the little ones would like her! She could play with them, the way Patty had played with her.

‘You must come and see us sometimes,’ Elsie said. ‘I don’t go and call on the Old Man – what’s the use?’ Her voice was bitter. After all, he wasn’t even her real father. ‘I don’t have time to go gadding about. But if you want to come and see us, Margaret, you can.’

Margaret nodded gladly. But on the walk home she realized what a long way it was.

‘That was nice, wasn’t it?’ Dora said as they headed back along Digbeth. ‘Are you pleased we went?’

Margaret nodded in a vague way. Just for once her heart was singing, but she didn’t know what to say.

‘Well, you’re a funny one,’ Dora laughed. Then her face fell again, looking down at the sad child beside her. ‘Poor little sod,’ she muttered.

Twenty-Six

The summer the war ended, Ted Winters started bringing another woman home. The first time Margaret saw her, she had been out to the huckster’s shop down on the corner for a box of matches. Crossing the yard, she could see someone through the open door, the rear view of a voluminous pale-pink dress, a pair of thick calves and feet in white heels planted heavily on the floor.

Ted Winters was pouring them a drink.

‘Ah, ’ere she is – me daughter.’ Ted pointed towards Margaret the cup into which he had been pouring.

Margaret had her first sight of Peggy Loach’s mean, fleshy face and peroxide hair, which was rolled back into various elaborate coils at the side of her face, and one in a knot on top. Her lips were painted bright red and her cheeks were thick with powder. Margaret could see that her skin was rough and pockmarked underneath all the war paint.

She stared hard at Margaret, her piggy eyes hard and calculating.

‘So, this is the only one of your brats living here with you then, Ted?’ She had a rough voice and a thick Irish accent.

‘Oh, ar . . . Don’t you worry, Peggy. I’ve got this’un ’ere to keep ’ouse. ‘Er’s no trouble – I’ve got ’er trained. ‘’Ere you are, Peggy: bottoms up!’

Peggy turned to take the cup off him and drank, leaving a ’tache of froth on her lip. She stank of sweat and a heady smell of cheap perfume. Margaret could see that her father was in wooing mood – shaved and spruced up, belly tucked more thoroughly than usual into his trousers. He was a stocky, swarthy man with brown eyes, which gave him a spaniel charm. He let out a flattering laugh at anything Peggy said.

‘How old’re you then?’ Peggy nodded in Margaret’s direction.

‘Eleven.’ Margaret had been trying to slide away towards the stairs to get away from them.

‘Oi, where d’yer think you’re off to?’ Ted demanded.

‘Nowhere.’ She linked her hands together at the front and stood awkwardly.

‘I should think not – us’ll be wanting our tea. There’ll be an extra one tonight. Peggy will be dining with us.’

Margaret did as she was told. As school was out, she had already made a pot of stew, and now she stood at the table peeling potatoes while Ted and Peggy sat at the other end, drinking. Peggy laughed a lot, her belly wobbling, and saying, ‘Ooh, Ted . . .’

‘You can take yours upstairs with yer,’ Ted said once the spuds were cooked. ‘Leave me and Peggy in peace.’

Margaret sat up in the gloom, eating her stringy stew and potatoes, glad to be away from them. Peggy’s booming laugh came up through the house. Later she heard a lot more giggling from the bedroom next door, the bedsprings squeaking and some grunting noises. She lay in bed with her hands over her ears.

Peggy Loach spent more and more time at number two, back of sixteen Upper Ridley Street, and within a couple of weeks she had moved into the house.

‘Ooh, I don’t like the look of that one at all,’ Dora said. ‘Looks like a prize fighter – hard-faced with it. You let me know if you have any trouble with her, Margaret. I hope she’ll take on some of the work now.’

This, however, was quite the opposite to what Peggy Loach had in mind. She had left an upbringing of acute poverty in Ireland. The prospect of a man to keep her and a girl doing all the drudgery was like a gift from heaven. The first time they were alone in the house, Peggy turned on Margaret. She came round the table to where Margaret was standing by the range.

‘Any trouble from you . . .’ She loomed huge and pugnacious. Close up, her skin was mottled and scarred. Margaret cowered away from the woman, wrinkling her nose at the stink of her, which enraged Peggy.

‘What’re you making that face for, you little bitch? Now, you listen. I’m living ’ere now, wit your father. So far as anyone else needs to know, I’m his missis. Any trouble from you, and you’ll be feeling the back of my hand just to start wit – got it?’

All Margaret could do was nod. The thought of a belting from Peggy Loach was really frightening.

As it turned out, whether Margaret ‘watched it’ or not, Peggy took any chance she could to deal out a cuff or a slap. Margaret, in her usual numb way, took it, not knowing what else to do.

One Saturday that winter she set out to get coal from the wharf. It was a freezing day, the air biting into her cheeks, her breath making clouds of white. Margaret pulled her sleeves down over her hands to push the old pram that Dora Jennings always lent her to fetch the coal in. There were a few others about on the street, some obviously heading in the same direction. Margaret kept her head down. Going to the wharf always reminded her of Tommy, and how they used to go together. She wondered where he was, and whether he ever thought about her.

She had just gone round the corner when she realized that someone who had been following her had almost caught up. A wooden crate bodged onto a couple of pram wheels appeared beside her, followed by a tall, gangling boy. He was pushing the makeshift handle of the cart with one hand and trying to hold his jacket closed with the other. She saw this was because he had nothing on underneath it.

He nodded shyly at her, then turned his head away as if he expected her to reject or insult him. He was extremely thin, a drooping, shambling figure. She realized that she had seen him before, but couldn’t think where.

‘You going up the wharf?’ he asked after a few seconds.

‘Yes,’ Margaret said in a small voice. She mainly avoided speaking to people, not expecting anything much good from anyone these days. But she could hear him trying to control his shivering and she felt sorry for him. His jacket didn’t seem to have any buttons.

The boy glanced at her, seeming grateful for being spoken to.

‘Perishing, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she said again. She didn’t want to look directly at him because then he’d see her funny eye.

‘Still, once we’ve got the coal we can make a fire.’ He seemed encouraged by her. ‘Does your dad do the fire or your mom?’

Margaret didn’t want to have to explain that she did more or less everything, so she said, ‘My dad.’

‘I ain’t got one,’ the boy said. ‘Our dad was killed in the war.’

‘Oh,’ Margaret said. ‘I ain’t got a mom. She died in the war too.’

‘Did you get bombed out?’

‘No – she just died.’

They reached the back of the queue and waited. The boy was quivering all over.

‘Haven’t you got a shirt?’ Margaret asked. She wondered how old he was.

‘It’s soaking wet – our mom washed it. T’ain’t dried ’cause the fire’s gone out: it’s froze solid.’

She couldn’t avoid him looking at her now that they’d stopped walking, but he didn’t seem to see anything amiss. She looked up into a long, gentle face with big grey eyes. His lips were cracked and sore-looking and he was hugging himself to try and keep warm. She thought he looked sad.

‘Where d’you live?’ he asked. ‘I think I’ve seen you about before.’

When she told him, he said, ‘Oh, that’s not far. I live in Washington Street – behind the leather works.’ Now he had started talking, a stream of information came out. He was thirteen, had a sister who was nine and a brother of seven. His father had been a rear gunner in the RAF and had died in North Africa. His mom was trying to cope on her own.

By the time they had fetched the coal and parted, pushing heavy loads, at the corner of Upper Ridley Street, he had asked if he could call in and see her.

‘I’ll meet you on the corner,’ Margaret said. She didn’t want Peggy Loach anywhere near this fragile friendship.

The boy told her his name was Fred Tolley.

August–September 1984

Twenty-Seven

At the last toddler group before they broke up for the summer, Joanne and the others had a little party, to say thanks to Tess and the other helpers.

Everyone had brought along a few bits and pieces – sandwiches, cheesy biscuits, Twiglets and crisps – and laid them out on the kitchen table.

Tess was wearing an orange sundress. Her face was a little swollen and she was obviously very tired and heavy, but remained as good-natured as ever.

‘I’ll miss you all,’ she said, ‘but I hope to see you all again in the autumn. I should be up and running by then, if all goes well. But Mavis here . . .’ Mavis stood smiling modestly. ‘Mavis has been great, hasn’t she? And she’s off to college next term to start her training as a children’s nurse. So let’s all wish her luck!’