The Girl From Barefoot House (35 page)

The evening visitors poured into the ward, the new fathers stiffly formal in their best suits, a few awkwardly bearing flowers. Josie’s attention was drawn to one man who stood out from the rest. He wore a trenchcoat with the belt tightly buckled, and a black trilby perched precariously on the back of his head. He was chewing gum, and his hands were stuffed mutinously in his pockets, as if he wouldn’t be seen dead carrying flowers or a bag of fruit. She thought he looked vaguely familiar. Their eyes met when he passed the foot of her bed and they stared at each other. Then the man grinned broadly, and said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Well, if it isn’t Josie Flynn!’

‘Francie O’Leary!’

He came and sat on the edge of the bed, which was strictly forbidden. Visitors were supposed to use the chairs. ‘What are you doing here, luv?’

‘What do you think? It’s a maternity hospital, Francie.’ He was still the handsome rat she remembered from the Saturdays when they’d sorted out the world over a cup of coffee, and she was really pleased to see him. He carried with him the aura of that carefree time when she’d got on well with Aunt Ivy and was going to marry Ben.

He seemed equally pleased to see her. ‘Someone told me you lived in America, or was it London?’

‘Both, but now I’m back in Liverpool for good.’

‘You’ve had a baby?’

Josie smiled. ‘They wouldn’t have let me in if I hadn’t.’

To her surprise, he picked up her hand and kissed it. ‘Congratulations, Jose. Where’s the proud father? He’s a writer, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He’s back in America. It …’ She shrugged. ‘It didn’t work out. What about you? Are congratulations due?’

His small eyes widened in amusement. ‘Jaysus, no, luv. I’m not married. It’s our Pauline who’s had the baby. She’s over there with me Mam and the doting husband.’ He winked. ‘I’ll get an ear-bashing for not fetching in a bunch of grapes.’

‘Are you still working in the same place?’ she asked conversationally, reluctant to let him go. He’d worked as a clerk for a shipping company on the Dock Road.

He took out his wallet, removed a business card and held it in front of her eyes. ‘Francis M. O’Leary, Printer’, she read, followed by his address and telephone number. ‘Wedding Invitations, Tickets, Letterheads, Business Cards, etc.’

‘What does the “M” stand for?’ she asked.

‘Money, girl,’ Francie said with a wicked grin. ‘I thought, seeing as we live in a capitalist society, I may as well be a fully paid up member. It means
I
get the benefit of me hard graft, not some cruddy employer. I put the printing machine in the bedroom after our Pauline and Sandra left home. Not doing bad for meself either.’

Daisy had arrived, along with Mrs Kavanagh, who fortunately didn’t remember this was the man who had nearly sent her youngest daughter to a convent. Before he left, Francie said nonchalantly that if Josie would like
to give him her address, he’d drop in sometimes, and she said she was already looking forward to it.

Mrs Kavanagh wanted to know how Dinah was getting on now that she was five days old.

‘Fine.’ Josie didn’t haunt the nursery like the other mothers, looking through the glass to reassure themselves that
their
baby wasn’t crying. Nor did she welcome having the child thrust at her several times a day to breast-feed. She felt no connection, no relationship, to the tiny, pale, fair-haired infant, almost two pounds lighter than Laura, who bore no resemblance to either her mother or her father. In another five days she would be sent home with a baby she still didn’t want.

Spencer & Sons were doing their best to hang on to the typist whom Sid claimed kept the firm afloat. Josie said he was being ridiculous – there were dozens of typists around, as good as her or better – though she appreciated a pile of invoices or estimates arriving via Chrissie or one of the lads which she would type on the machine that now stood on her table, something that would never have happened with the insurance company she’d worked for, or Ashbury Buxton in Chelsea. Not many women with a newly born baby were in a position to earn a wage, but she flatly refused to accept the amount she’d had before. ‘It’s too much. You’ll have to pay someone to be in the office and answer the phone.’

Chrissie claimed she missed the office, but not the typewriter. ‘I didn’t mind answering the phone. It gave me something to do while Sid and the lads were at work.’

Everyone agreed on two pounds less a week, and everyone was happy.

Dinah was a fractious baby. She cried if she was wet, if she was dry, if she was hungry, if she was full. She cried for no reason at all as far as her anxious mother could see. Josie nursed her, cursed her and poured gripe water down her throat, because Daisy had consulted a book in the library which suggested she might have three-month colic. If so, it would stop in another five or six weeks.

‘I don’t think I can stand another week,’ Josie groaned, ‘let alone five or six. Laura hardly cried at all.’

‘That was Laura, this is Dinah,’ Daisy said patiently. ‘She’s such a sweet little thing, so pretty.’ She toyed with the white fingers which quickly curled around her own. Dinah gave a little shuddering breath and fell asleep in her arms.

‘You seem to have a knack with her.’

Daisy looked Josie full in the face. ‘She knows I love her, that’s all.’ She turned her gentle gaze to the baby. ‘I don’t half wish she were mine.’

Josie turned away, ashamed. She didn’t love her daughter, and doubted if she ever would. Perhaps that’s why Dinah cried so much. It wasn’t gripe water she needed, but her mother’s love.

She’d been half expecting someone to complain about the noise. ‘I know it can’t be helped, dear,’ the smart, middle-aged woman who lived in one of the flats below said when she came upstairs to point out that neither she nor her husband had had a wink of sleep the night before. ‘All babies cry, though yours seems to be a champion. We were wondering if you intended to stay, renew your lease. If so, we thought we’d look for somewhere else because I dread to think what it’ll be like when she starts teething, and that can go on for months.’

‘I
am
moving,’ Josie said tiredly. She hadn’t had a wink of sleep either, and the woman had woken up Dinah,
who’d started to cry, just as she was attempting to get on with some typing. ‘I’m looking for a house. Until then, I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with me and me baby. Tara.’

She closed the door, without mentioning she’d had a letter from the agent who managed the property informing her that the lease strictly forbade children under sixteen and, while he wouldn’t evict a mother and baby, he’d had several complaints, and would be obliged if she would find somewhere else as soon as possible.

Josie would have moved the next day had she been able to find a house, where the neighbours could complain until they were blue in the face about a crying baby but there was nothing they could do, and she would have a proper kitchen and hang the nappies out to dry. As things were, she was spending a small fortune in the launderette. And Lily had been right about the stairs. Coming up wasn’t so bad, but going down was treacherous. She had to take Dinah all the way to the bottom floor, put her in the pram which she kept in the hall – no doubt someone had complained about
that
, too – then go all the way back for the washing or her shopping bag. Coming home, she did the same thing in reverse. It was worse than Cypress Terrace in a way. Although this room was incomparably nicer, in London Jack had been writing, and there’d been a
point
to all the inconvenience they’d had to put up with.

Francie O’Leary had taken to dropping in at least once a week. He arrived that night with a bottle of wine and cheered her up somewhat. She switched off the light in favour of the white shaded lamp, which made the room look smaller and more cosy. It was raining outside, and a blustery wind kept throwing the rain against the
windows. The glass creaked and squeaked in protest. Dinah was fast asleep in the shadows at the other end, and Josie prayed she’d stay that way.

Francie still found it incredible that there was a man alive who had been willing to marry Lily Kavanagh. ‘Does she hang him on a crucifix at night to sleep?’

‘No.’ Josie giggled.

‘I visualise him with an arrow through his chest, like a martyr.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She sipped the wine. Francie always made her feel young again. He reminded her there was a world outside that could be fun. ‘Neil’s a perfectly nice, normal young man. He loves Lily to death.’

He grinned. ‘That’s appropriate. The poor guy signed his death warrant when he married her. She’ll nag him into the grave in no time. Eh, what about Ben? I understand he got hitched to a cracking-looking girl. I can’t remember her name.’

‘Imelda. They’ve got two children, a boy and a girl.’ She hadn’t seen Ben since Lily’s wedding, since which time things had got worse. Lily said that Imelda was completely unstable, regularly threatening suicide. She was on tablets for her nerves.

‘I liked Ben, he was a nice guy. I wouldn’t mind getting in touch with him. Have you got his address?’

‘No, but I can get it for you. I think he’d appreciate that, Francie.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s not very happy.’

‘Marriage!’ Francie snorted. ‘I wouldn’t get married if they paid me, not even if it were Marilyn Monroe on offer.
Especially
if it were Marilyn Monroe. She’s already on her third husband. Marriage is an unnatural state. How can people be expected to get on with each other
for a whole lifetime? It’d be okay if you could change partners every few years.’

‘So you’re going to remain a bachelor gay?’ Dinah made a noise, a little hiccup, and Josie turned to watch the cot, praying the bedclothes wouldn’t move, indicating that the baby had woken up, hungry for a meal, and poor Francie would have to be surrendered to the rain, which was coming down in buckets, while she breastfed. She was enjoying their conversation.

‘I’d sooner be a bachelor-dead-miserable than be married,’ Francie said with an elaborate shudder. ‘Talking of Marilyn Monroe,
Some Like It Hot
is on at the Forum. Let’s go one night. I’ve been told it’s the gear.’

‘Go to the pictures?’ Josie looked at him, astounded.

‘People do it all the time,’ he said airily. ‘It’s quite a common practice. Some people even do it two or three times a week. In fact, I’ve known
you
go to the pictures before now, Josie, so don’t look so surprised. I distinctly remember you were there when I saw
Samson and Delilah
.’

‘You spoiled it,’ she pouted. ‘It’s just that I can’t imagine doing anything
normal
, like going to the pictures, for years.’ She couldn’t imagine reading a book, painting her nails or going shopping for anything that wasn’t to do with babies.

‘Get someone to babysit, and we’ll go next week.’

She’d drunk too much wine, but it was a pleasant, hazy feeling, relaxing. Francie had managed to make her feel vaguely happy. Before getting into bed, she fed Dinah, rubbed her back and raised a satisfactory burp, then changed her nappy. ‘Now, look here,’ she said sternly. ‘Mummy feels exceptionally tired tonight, and she’s a
little bit drunk, too, so I’d appreciate a good night’s sleep, if you don’t mind.’

Dinah was an unresponsive child. She didn’t gurgle or wave her arms, as Laura used to, but regarded her mother coolly when she was put in the cot. Josie climbed into bed and immediately fell asleep.

It was still dark when she woke up and, apart from the rain which had become a deluge, the room was silent. But she knew what was about to happen. After a few minutes there was a little cry, like a kitten’s mewl, followed by another, slightly more urgent. It was as if her brain was connected to her child’s, and it recognised when she had awoken and was about to cry.

Josie groaned. She’d been having a lovely sleep, the bed felt exceptionally comfortable and she would have given anything on earth to stay under the warm covers, particularly on such a stormy night.

The cries rose in volume, and she could barely drag her lethargic body out of bed. She swayed dizzily, staggered to the cot, picked up Dinah and carried her back to bed. Halfway through the feed she fell asleep, and woke up to find an irritable Dinah sucking at an empty breast. She transferred her to the other breast, and managed to stay awake until the baby had had her fill. The rain thundered on the roof, and she could have sworn she could hear the slates move.

Josie sighed. She always found these dead-of-night feeds lonely and depressing, sorely missing Jack’s warm presence in bed beside her, reminding her that she shouldn’t have let him go, not for ever. But she’d been in such a state, sick with grief over Laura. Why, she thought fretfully, hadn’t Jack understood she wasn’t herself when she said she didn’t want to see him again? But he had been sick with grief and guilt himself. The best plan
would have been to part for a while, see how she felt, how he felt, in a few months. She considered putting an advert in a newspaper, asking him to contact her, but there were probably hundreds of papers in California, and he might not even be there. Like the time he had disappeared for two days, he could be anywhere. Anyroad, if he wanted to see her again,
he
was in a position to contact
her
.

‘I’ll burp you and change your nappy in a minute,’ she muttered tiredly, leaving Dinah in the bed and covering her with the eiderdown while she went to get a drink of water. It must be the wine – her mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage.

She drank two glasses thirstily, but on the way back from the sink she felt dizzy again and had to sit on the settee.

It was the slamming of a door that woke her, voices on the stairs. The rain had stopped. Cold December sunshine glimmered through the curtains, and Josie, waking up on the settee, remembered
she’d left Dinah in the bed
.

She might have choked on her vomit, smothered under the eiderdown. Terror gripped Josie like an icy fist. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘
No
!’ Somehow she got to the other end of the room. The bottom half of the baby’s face was covered with the eiderdown. Josie snatched it away. Dinah lay completely still, eyes closed, very pale.