The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (15 page)

Chapter Seventeen

‘This Christmas is going to be the best ever.’  Angela tugs at her jeans while Mrs Addington complains, ‘They’re too tight.’

‘Course they’re not.’  Gripping the waistband, Angela wiggles her way into them.  ‘They’re having a party at work with Babycham and everything.’

‘You vill have to be careful.  It is not good to consume too much alcohol.  It can be dangerous.’  Miss Selska studies the jeans pulled across Angela’s thighs like an animal’s hide.  ‘And vearing clothing that is too tight vill cut off your circulation.’

‘My circulation’s fine, thanks.’  Angela propels me into the passage and whispers, ‘Micky Rowle, you know, the one who calls me Peachy, says he can’t wait to get me under the mistletoe.’

‘But didn’t you say he’s married?’

‘Maybe – I forget.  Anyway, it’ll teach that Herbie Armitage a lesson.’

‘Why would you want to teach him a lesson?’

‘No reason.’

Our Christmas, Dad’s, Aunt Min’s and mine consists of a sapling Christmas tree I bought at the market and dragged back on the bus, a stringy chicken cooked by Aunt Min with her special fig stuffing, and a slender cracker minus a hat.   Mum had always been at her bustling best at Christmas, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t coax the festive spirit to make even a brief appearance. 

The nurses at the hospital say Mum’s Christmas has been wonderful, though it appears to me that Mum has no inkling what season it is.  She might have worn a paper hat and been given a tin of talcum powder and a box of chocolates, it hadn’t made any difference.

Winter drags on, mild and dry, but with few bright days. 

Somewhere around seven most evenings, after we’ve cleared away the tea things, Dad and I embark on a jerky sort of conversation. 

‘How’s school?’  Dad asks.  He doesn’t look at me immediately but directs his gaze towards me gradually. 

‘Good.’

‘What about your lessons?  You getting on all right with ‘em?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘And there’s nothing else?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Right, that’s um good.  So … um … d’you want to watch the tele?’

‘That’ll be nice.’

‘Right.’  Dad turns on the television with an almost audible sigh of relief.

‘So what do you think of it?’  Bill lifts the lid of a shiny black piano.  It’s new to Bill’s front room since I last visited.

‘I’ve had it tuned.  Mind you, I had my doubts we’d get it up the stairs.  It was touch and go.  And I’ve had to get rid of one or two of the armchairs to fit it in.’

‘It’s lovely.’ 

Despite telling myself after my first visit to Bill at his upholstery shop on the other side of The Common I wouldn’t return, this is now the fourth time I’ve been.  It’s comforting to talk to someone who knows Mum almost as well as I do.  Apart from Bill and me, nobody does.  Bill’s so easy to talk to.  Not like Dad.  I immediately chastise myself for making the comparison.  Just the same, I find myself looking forward to my visits.

‘Why don’t you give us a tune while I put the kettle on.  I’ve made a piano stool, too.’

‘It’s covered with the same material as my chair.’

‘So it is.  By the way, the seat of the stool lifts up.  You’ll find some music in there,’ he adds, as he opens the kitchen door.

I push up the seat top and look at the music manuscripts inside.  They look new.  ‘You’ve got
The Moonlight Sonata
,’ I call out.  ‘And the
Tuneful Graded Studies
book Miss Heckley my music teacher gave me to play from.’

 Bill returns carrying a tea tray.  ‘The music came with the piano,’ he says, busying himself arranging cups.  ‘You can come here and practise any time you like.’  He opens a packet of biscuits, giving what he’s doing great attention.

‘Coincidentally, there’s a woman a couple of doors along who gives piano lessons.  If you want, I can make arrangements for you to have a few.’  He pauses.  ‘My treat.’

‘I’m a bit busy with school work and looking after Dad, but thanks.’  How can I possibly let Bill spend money on me, or be that disloyal to Dad?  Why would Bill want to do it, anyway?

I move from the piano to my spring flowers chair, while Bill picks up his cup and relaxes into the chair beside me, crossing his legs.  ‘Do I remember you saying you were leaving school in July?’

‘Yes.’  Bill doesn’t seem to forget anything I tell him.

‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do?’

‘I suppose I’ll work in a shop and Angela says there are plenty of jobs in the leather factory.’

‘Is that what you want to do?’

I shrug.  Why doesn’t Dad ask me these questions?

‘Have you thought about secretarial work?’

‘I don’t know much about offices.’  I remember there had once been a strip in
The Girl
entitled
Sheila – Secretary
.  At the time I’d thought I’d quite like to be one.  I recall telling Tony so during one of our Saturday afternoon doorstep confiding sessions.

‘If you put your hand down the side of your chair you’ll find a brochure I just happened to pick up the other day.’ Bill continues.  ‘I tucked it down there for safe-keeping.  It’s advertising a secretarial college that might suit you.’

‘But I couldn’t afford … ’

‘It says they offer scholarships.  Take it home and read it.  See what you think.’

I ease the leaflet between the side of the chair and the cushion, fold it and stuff it in my pocket.

Bill sips his tea and continues easily, ‘If you couldn’t get a scholarship, I could always help you out and … ’

‘I’ll show Dad tonight.  He’ll be really interested.’ 

I’ll wait to one of our talking times, then tell him one of the teachers at school’s given it to me.  I suspect he’ll feel the same way about a secretarial school as he had about Riversham.

‘I’m sure your father’ll be interested.’

I can tell Bill’s lying.

‘And your mother,’ he hurries on.  ‘Is there any improvement?’

‘A little.’  I hope Bill can’t detect my lies, as I can his.

‘Incidentally, when did you say the visiting times were at the place where your mother is?’

‘Wednesdays and Sundays.  Dad and I go on Sundays, but only family are allowed in, and then only close family.’

‘Do you like her hair cut?  She was a very good girl when it was being done, weren’t you?’ The nurse flattens Mum’s stubby fringe, but Mum shrugs her off.

‘Beware of vipers,’ she hisses.

‘Now, now, that’s very naughty,’ the nurse reacts.

With spittle frothy on her chin, Mum shouts, ‘Leave me alone.  Bloody go away.’

‘I’ve told you before about bloody swearing,’ Dad warns.

‘My brother likes my hair.’  Mum is acting like a sulky child.

‘Yes, he thinks you’re a lovely girl, doesn’t he?’ the nurse says, apparently forgiving Mum’s rebuff and endeavouring to dab the spittle from Mum’s chin. 

‘I’ll leave you to it then.  Toodle pip and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.  I won’t be far away.’  The nurse puts the cloth she’s been using in her pocket, screws her hand into a fist and releases it in a little-girl wave.  ‘Don’t forget you have an appointment to see the specialist at four o’clock, Mr Dibble,’ she reminds Dad as she leaves.

‘Do these people think I haven’t got a brain?  And they’re treating her as if she’s two, encouraging all this brother nonsense.’  Dad inclines his head towards Mum as if she’s no more than a distant acquaintance.

I cross the room and begin stroking Mum’s hands.  Her brother!

‘We’ve found many patients respond well to the treatment we’re proposing for your wife.’  The specialist looks fleetingly at Dad, then out the window as if what he sees is of a lot more interest.

‘And what is this treatment you’re proposing, my daughter and I would like to know?’

“My daughter and I.” 
All at once, I feel we’re not two people thrown together in some mysterious way.  I take hold of Dad’s hand, and he squeezes it.

 ‘It’s complex.’  The specialist continues to gaze at something far away.  ‘But in layman’s terms it involves treating the patient with low electric voltage.’ He hurries on.  ‘It might sound a drastic approach, but the discharge of electric current in this way has, as I’ve said, been found to be successful in bringing some patients to lucidity.’

‘And what about those it hasn’t been successful with?’

‘Well, um, let’s put it this way.’  The specialist moves closer to the window.  ‘The patient – in this case, your wife – is unlikely to regain … to regain her mental equilibrium without treatment and we believe this to be the most effective.’

‘In other words, she can’t get much worse than she already is.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, but …’

‘You don’t have to.  What d’you think, Paula?   D’you think we should go home and talk about it?’

Still clutching his hand I move closer to Dad.  He’s used my name and he’s going to talk to me about Mum.  I begin to cry.

Dad tucks
The Star
under the cushion of his armchair.  ‘What d’you think about us going down to Devon for a week?’  It’s typical of Dad that the question comes without any lead up to it.  ‘It’ll be nice there at this time of year.  Make you feel better.’  Unused to showing concern, he looks embarrassed.

‘But what about Mum?’

‘What about her? Your mother’ll be all right for a week.  She probably won’t notice we’ve not been.’

‘Will you be able to afford to take a week off work?’

‘Let me worry about that.  I’ve got a bit put by.’

‘It’s a pity Mum didn’t know that.  She might not have worried so much,’ I respond with a newfound boldness that, without understanding why, I feel has something to do with Dad using my name.

‘Now don’t go bringing your mother into this.  What I’ve got’s my own business.  D’you want to go to Devon or don’t you?’  Dad bristles.  Uncharacteristically, he softens almost immediately.  ‘You’d like to see that young friend of yours, wouldn’t you?  I’ll write to Ted Heathman and his missus, see if they can put us up.  It’s a bit early in the year for the tent.’

‘Will we go on the motorbike?’  The thought of seeing Damielle dims at the prospect of all those miles in the cramped sidecar.

‘I thought we’d go by train,’ Dad replies airily.

‘But you always told Mum it was too expensive to go anywhere on a train.’

‘I told you to mind your own business and let me mind mine.  Do you or don’t you want to go on the train?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘That’s that then.  Go and get my fountain pen and a couple of sheets of paper and I’ll write the letter straight away.  There’s no point in shilly-shallying about.’

The woman rises from her seat beside the piano, pulling her cardigan around her. ‘You’ve done very well, Paula, considering you haven’t played the piano for so long.  I’m only too pleased to pop in and give you a lesson whenever you visit your uncle.  He can always pop along and get me as he did today.  I’m usually around and not doing anything that can’t be put off.’

‘She used to be a concert pianist before she had her accident.  I’m not altogether sure what sort of accident it was, but, as you can see, she walks with a nasty limp and three of her fingers are completely stiff now.’  Bill talks on and on.  ‘It’s handy she lives so close.  A hop, skip and a … ’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to get her?  I thought you’d gone down to the shop for something.’  I stand up in an effort to assert myself.  ‘I don’t want you arranging piano lessons for me.’

‘It seems a waste to have a piano here and a teacher living so close and not be able to use them both.  You wouldn’t want to deprive my neighbour of the enjoyment she obviously gets from teaching you, would you?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘The point is that it makes everyone happy, and that’s the main thing.’

I wander to the window and watch the piano teacher shuffling up the path to her house.  ‘And another thing.  Why did you tell her you were my uncle?’

‘Simply because it’s easier than trying to explain the true connection.’

‘That’s what you do at the hospital where Mum is.  You’ve been visiting her and telling the hospital you’re her brother, haven’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t have done it if it had upset her.’  Bill runs his fingers into his hair.  ‘I’m sorry, Paula, but I had to … I had to see her.’

Our departure for Devon can’t be more of a contrast than when we’d last gone.  This time, Dad’s motorbike rests outside our flat, covered by the tarpaulin that had once acted as the ground sheet for our tent.  Our only luggage is the suitcase that’s usually stuffed with wool and Mum’s knitting patterns.  Now there’s no Mum rushing around flushed and flustered.  No Tony to give me liquorice, and no Lori and Fred to assure us every thing will be all right.  No one waits on the pavement today to see us off. 

Across the road, two women pass.  ‘Looks as if they’re goin’ on ‘oliday.  Poor blighters deserve it after what they’ve been through,’ I hear one of them say.  ‘Mind you, he’s always been an arrogant sod.  It’s the girl I feel sorry for.  Tied to her mother’s apron strings, then she ups and goes barmy on her.’

‘You off then?’  Angela’s head protrudes from the upstairs window.  Her peroxided hair is matted like a ball of off-white wool.  Carbon rings circle her eyes.  Her face devoid of makeup looks as if it is made of parchment.

‘Are you all right?’ I call up to her.

‘Course I’m all right.  Out on the town last night having a good time,’ she smiles wanly.  ‘Talking of having a good time, enjoy yourselves, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’

Even if Angela’s life, now that she’s working, is taking a different direction from mine, she’s still my best friend since Tony went.  All at once I ache to see him standing on the pavement as he had the last time, slipping me the liquorice for the journey.  I ache to see them all as they had been that day.  I ache for nothing to have changed.

As a concession to the holiday, Dad’s green shirt is open at the neck and he wears his ancient holiday sandals.  He picks up the case and glancing down the road at the retreating backs of the two women, says, ‘We’ll show ‘em all a thing or two.  The Dibbles ain’t down and out yet.  When could anyone along this street afford to go to Devon by train and stay as guests at a farmhouse, you tell me that?’