The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (19 page)

‘My … friend said to tell you it still doesn’t answer the problem of the prejudice and gossip you’ll face.’

Mrs Addington’s smile is a faint one.  ‘I’m no stranger to gossip.  I’ve put up with it ever since Ted … Mr Addington left, and before that.  And Angela - well you know Angela.  She’ll give as good as she gets.  As for Maria, she’ll be brought up knowing we love her and that’s the main thing.  What other people think and say is their business.’

Suddenly, the door is flung open revealing Miss Selska, shiny with face cream, her head an armoury of curlers.  ‘I am ashamed I vas vhat you say, eavesdrooping, it is?  But vhat vonderful news!  Vonderful news!  The baby vill stay.  Every night I pray the baby von’t have to go.  I know Angela has been a vicked girl, but I don’t say anything.  It vasn’t my place, see.  But babies need their mothers, I von’t hear no different.  I vill go if you vant, but not the baby.’  Miss Selska pulls a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dressing gown and begins dabbing at her eyes with a blue-veined hand.  ‘Ve vill see the baby doesn’t get sick or ve lose her like ve did my Villem and your Tony.  Together ve vill protect her, Mrs Addington.  No-one vill take another of our childrens.  You did not know about my Villem, eh?  I tell no-one.  He is my secret.  The Gestapo take him and I never see him again.’   Tears glide over the face cream.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Mrs Addington leads the distraught woman to a chair, instructing me to pour her a cup of tea.

‘You are a good voman, Mrs Addington.’

‘We all need support, Miss Selska.’  Mrs Addington looks across at me.  ‘It looks as if that’s what we’re going to get from Paula’s friend, um …’

‘Bill.’

‘It looks as if that’s exactly what we’re going to get from Bill, and you’re right,’ she smiles at Miss Selska.  ‘We don’t want to lose any more children from this family. 

I concentrate on pouring the tea.  Why is it that I always need Bill?

Chapter Twenty-One

The landlord admires Dad’s paperhanging.  He seems not to notice the unevenness of the pattern in the corners where Dad’s been unable to order the flowers into the prescribed lines, no matter what tantrums he performs.  He tells us what good tenants we’ve been.  After all, what other of his tenants have built a glass lean-to, installed a bathroom and modernised the kitchen all at their own expense?
  He commiserates with us over the waste of such a good piece of wallpaper, and sympathises with the loss of our home due to demolition.  ‘But,’ he says, patting his back pocket from which peeks a bulging wallet, ‘a Compulsory Purchase Order is a Compulsory Purchase Order, and everybody who lives in Blountmere Street is, so to speak, a banana in the same bowl of custard.’  He laughs so vociferously, it brings on a hacking cough.  ‘To look on the bright side,’ he continues when he has recovered, ‘the Council is obligated to relocate us, and I’ve heard the flats on the new estate opposite are very nice inside.’

Bill tucks the pram cover tighter around Maria.  ‘I know it’s not that cold, but it can still blow a gale across The Common especially at this time of year.  You can’t take any chances.  She’s only five months old, after all.’

‘Heaven help us, Bill, stop smothering her.  She’s tough as a year-old steak.  And I do believe the minx plays up to you.’ 

We watch as Bill crosses the road on his way to The Common, pushing the pram.  Turning to me, Angela continues, ‘Bill would take her for a walk half a dozen times a day if I let him, especially now he’s got me to help him in the shop.  As it is, I have difficulty keeping it to every morning and some afternoons.’  Angela’s hair, now back to its natural sandy brown, is cropped short.  Her trim figure is accentuated by a blue sailcloth skirt and blouse.  She looks like someone in an advertisement promoting health and vitality

‘So everything’s working out all right?’  I ask, although it’s obvious that everything is more than satisfactory.

‘Thanks to Bill, it couldn’t be better.  He’s a truly good man, and there aren’t too many of them about.  I can’t understand how your parents came to fall out with him.’

‘You know what Mum and Dad are like.  They’re not always easy to get along with.’  I fiddle with my handkerchief.

‘Well, he’s certainly been our saviour, letting us have the flat upstairs as well as the job.’

My smile is as fickle as the showery sunshine outside.  Trust Bill to parcel everything up so neatly: not just a job for Angela with flexible hours where she can take Maria, and a salary advance, but a home as well.  So that was what he had meant by “other paths they might saunter down a little later”.  It hadn’t been so much a saunter as a headlong gallop.

‘What other employer would throw in accommodation?  And all signed on the dotted line, so that the flat isn’t connected to my job here.  Honestly, Paul, sometimes I can hardly believe it’s happening to us.’

We climb the stairs to the Addingtons’ new kitchen.

‘I know I wanted to live in those flats on the new estate, but they’d never have been as convenient or as good as this,’ Angela says.  ‘Look at these.  Have you ever seen windows so big?  The ones in the front room look out on to The Common.  I thought only the toffs lived in places like this.  To top it all, Bill’s had the whole place redecorated.   It’s like a dream … ’

‘All right, I get the picture.’ I lean moodily against the wall.  ‘You’re carrying on about Bill as if he’s a combination of Sir Galahad and the Arc Angel Gabriel.  You and your mother aren’t the only ones benefitting from the arrangement.  Bill’s getting plenty from it himself.  A ready-made family for a start.’

‘All right, all right!  Keep your hair on!  Anyone would think you were jealous.’

‘Jealous!  Why would I possibly be jealous?’  Mum had always said the Dibbles don’t know the meaning of the word.

‘This is dopey.  We’re falling out over nothing.  Why don’t you pop into the front room and say hello to Mum and see the chair Bill’s done for her.  He’s got hold of a lovely cot for Maria as well.  She’s settled down in it really well., with Mum looking after her on the nights when I go out and do some measuring for the business.  And that’s another thing: Bill’s teaching me all sorts of upholstery stuff I never thought I would like, but I love the work, all except the machining, that is.  I’m not too hot at that, but Bill’s got Mum doing some of it, and that’s right up her alley.’

‘Yes … well … that’s good.’  My face stiffens.  ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.  I’ll visit your Mum some other time.  I’ve got to go.’

‘Come to tea on Tuesday,’ Angela calls to me as I’m nearing the bottom of the stairs.  I don’t answer.

I hasten across The Common, careening round trees, stumbling over uneven ground.

‘Hey, are you all right?  You look as if the devil’s after you,’ Bill says.

I hadn’t seen him walking towards me, pushing the pram.

‘I’m fine.  Leave me alone.’

‘Is anything the matter?’

‘What would you care?’

‘For pity’s sake, what is this?’ 

‘Oh yes, good old Fix-Everything-Up, Bill.  You have to help everyone, don’t you?’  The words cascade from me.  ‘You can’t just help a little.  Oh no, you have to do it all.  Not only do you give Angela a job and an advance on her salary, but a flat as well?  What’re you going to do next, save the world?’

‘I thought you’d be pleased.  If you remember, it was you who first asked me to help the Addingtons.’

‘Not …’

‘You can still see your friends.  Nothing’s changed, so what is it you want?  I never thought a daughter of Lily’s would be so spoilt, carrying on like …’

‘Don’t you dare …’

Maria wakes up and emits a scream.   Bill swivels and pats her.   ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ he soothes. 

When he’s straightened, I’m already beyond the trees. 

‘Run away then.  That’s all you and your mother have ever been able to do, run away,’ he yells after me.

I’m still running when I reach the slope through the Cigar Box Kingdom.  When it had been the bombsite it had been at this point I’d always experienced a feeling of coming home, of reaching a safe place, of permanency.  Now Blountmere Street is a derelict shell with most of its houses deserted for high rise blocks and dislocation.  Windows are broken and others whitewashed or boarded over.  Unwanted furniture is strewn in gardens and on the pavement, where weeds are taking possession.   The front door to the Addingtons’ flat is boarded over, and a rusty oven rests against Miss Lorimore’s door.  In the midst of the desolation in our front garden, a beacon of colour shines out its defiant message.  Daffodils and crocusses shine, despite the destruction all around, while tulips and wallflowers are waiting their turn to rebel.  Our lace curtains are still starched white and the letterbox polished.  Dad has thumbed his nose at our surroundings, and my spirits lift.

The specialist advises that Mum will be better off in the asylum for a little longer, in order for her to finish her treatment and so that she doesn’t return, only to have to move a week or two later.  Her moods can at times still be a little erratic and unnecessary change should be avoided.  Stay in the neighbourhood, he urges, even if it means being on the top storey of a high rise block and sacrificing a council house out of London somewhere.  At least the locality will be familiar to her.

Dad begins lugging cardboard boxes into the kitchen.  ‘We might as well make a start on packing.  We don’t want to leave it all to the last minute.  It can’t be long before that Council lot write and tell us what flat they’re penning us up in.’

‘It’ll be a nightmare trying to get all of this to the top floor of those flats, if that’s where they decide to put us.’  I survey the kitchen with its heavy walnut table and sideboard.  ‘And what will you do with your ladders, and your window cleaning gear?  And then there’s your motorbike.’

‘I’ll have to find myself somewhere to keep them.  A garage or lock-up.  I’ve started looking around.  Something’ll turn up.’

‘Why don’t we apply for a Council house somewhere out of London?  I know what the doctor said, but I think Mum would be just as happy there as in the flats opposite.  And surely you’d be able to find work as a window cleaner somewhere else.’  What would Dad do in a block of flats without a garden and a shed to potter in?  How would he fill his weekends and summer evenings?

‘What about you and that secretarial college?  No, it’s best we stay round here.’

‘I could travel on the train, a lot of the girls do.’

‘It’d cost a packet.  No, we should stay here.  We’ve got to do what the specialist says is the best for your mother.’

Since when had Dad considered what was right for Mum?  I fume; then relent.  If moving to one of the flats opposite will mean a fresh start for Mum and Dad, I’ll move there. 

Mum’s journey back to sanity continues.  If her eyes are sometimes feverishly bright and at others sly and secretive, it’s fleeting.  Although she still doesn’t acknowledge Dad, I’m certain things will change once we’re all together again.  I’ve managed to push Mum’s visit to the back of my mind, and inside I feel light at the prospect of Mum’s return for good.  I’ve begun to sing at the sink while I’m peeling the potatoes and skip down the passage to pick up the letters from the doormat.

Fat blossoms frame the bench on which Mum and I relax, while thrushes sing a spring song above our heads.

‘There’s grass and trees around the flats we’ll be moving into,’ I venture.

‘That’s nice,’ Mum responds, followed by, ‘Where did you say those people upstairs have moved to?’

I hoped Mum wouldn’t ask.  I try to keep my voice steady.  ‘Up the road a mile or two … they’ve got a flat there.’

‘Where exactly is “up the road”?  That doesn’t tell me anything.’

‘Oh … one of those roads off … off The Common.  I can’t remember the name.’

Without warning, fire enters Mum’s eyes.  ‘Call yourself a secretary and you can’t remember the name of a street that’s practically on your doorstep.  What’s that secretarial school teaching you?  If you ask me, it’s doing nothing but fill the heads of a lot of two-a-penny typists with rubbish.’

‘That’s not true.’  Mum hasn’t spoken in a derogatory fashion about the college before.  It reminds me of how she’d reacted about Riversham College and a bubble of fear bursts inside me.  As quickly as it came, however, Mum’s feistiness leaves.  ‘How did these people manage to get hold of this flat, then?’ she asks reasonably.

‘It … it belongs to a friend of theirs.’  I bend a blossom branch towards me and bury my face in it. 

After a while, I say, ‘It won’t be long before you’re back with us again. You need to finish your treatment and the doctor says it’s best Dad and I move into the flat first.  That’s why Dad hasn’t come today.  He’s busy packing his tools.  Goodness knows what he’ll do with them all.’

‘There’s time enough.’  Mum sweeps her hand outwards and away from her, as if she’s wafting the thought of returning home onto the scented air to be borne away and forgotten.  ‘Did I tell you, I sometimes help the gardener with a bit of weeding and suchlike?  He’s grateful for a hand.’

‘That’s marvellous, Mum.’  I wonder what she’ll do in a high rise block of flats.  A window box won’t be the same.

The underground train lurches to a stop and a throng of humanity shoves its way through the doors and spills out on to the platform, where it jostles with the multitude who are struggling to board.

Nevertheless, I never cease to experience the excitement of being part of a busy metropolis, its pulsating rhythm, and its continuity, even if I’m crammed into a carriage where I’m unable to move my nose from someone’s ear, or I’m lodged under a stranger’s armpit.  Rather than feeling lost in the bustling masses, I feel part of them.  How could Damielle and Devon have once seemed attractive?

In the fray, I’m shunted into a corner.  My head is pressed against a man’s chest.

‘Now I know how it would feel to be herded into a cattle truck.’  The voice is young and familiar.  ‘You’re at a secretarial school somewhere up West, aren’t you?  Won a scholarship, I heard.’

I maneuver my head until I’m eyeballing a chin.  ‘Yes, but …’

‘It’s Herbie.’

I’m relieved I’m not able to look directly at him. 

‘I sometimes think we all become robots when we enter an underground station and only get our humanity back when we’re outside again, except when something snaps us out of it, like now, of course.’  The smell of his jacket bears the same smell as his jersey when he had taken me to the pictures.

‘I thought I’d seen you once or twice at the Tube station.’  We both know we see each other every morning and concentrate on avoiding the other.

‘I work in the City.  I’m training to become an insurance broker.’

‘That sounds interesting.’

‘I suppose so.  Mum and Dad are pleased about it, at any rate.  As for me and what I’d really like to do, I’ll tell you one day.’

It sounds as if Herbie intends to continue talking to me.

‘It can’t be long before you move.’ 

Whether screened behind a newspaper or a book, or staring fixedly ahead, everyone in the carriage seems locked into a world that reels and spins for them alone.  Herbie’s voice probably breaks into their reveries.  ‘Will you be shifting onto the estate?’

‘I expect so.  We’re waiting to hear what flat they’ve allocated us.’

‘I seem to remember you weren’t too keen on living there.’

‘I’m not, but we don’t have any choice.’

‘It isn’t so bad.’

I wonder if living on the top storey of a high rise block has met Herbie’s expectations.

‘And tell me, where’s Tony’s family gone to?  I thought I saw his sister walking across The Common a few weeks ago, but she was pushing a pram.’

‘They’ve moved to a flat on The Common South Side.  It’s very nice,’ I add, while I consider what I’ll say about the baby.  I wonder why I should find it difficult.  After all, Maria isn’t my child.  ‘She’s … got a … baby now … Tony’s sister … Maria.  I mean that’s the baby’s name, not Tony’s sister’s.’

‘I know.’

‘She’s almost six months old – the baby.’