Two Penn'orth of Sky (33 page)

Next morning Diana woke early, full of delighted anticipation of the surprise ahead, but in fact the surprise was that there was no surprise. Nothing was said at breakfast, and by eleven o’clock Diana realised that she had been wrong; a trip to Llandudno was definitely in the pipeline, but it was clearly not to take place this Sunday, so she would have to possess her soul in patience for a week or so. Later in the day, she tried to question Charlie, but he was evasive, merely saying that he guessed his mam knew best what she was about and Diana shouldn’t take things for granted. Baffled, Diana took Becky to the park in thoughtful silence, wondering precisely what had happened. She could, of course, ask Aunty Beryl outright, but did not quite like to do so. She had a feeling that Aunty Beryl was not best pleased with her and wondered, uneasily, whether Charlie had mentioned Mr Johansson’s visit, then dismissed the idea. Charlie might be a good many things, but he was no tale-clat. No, it must be her imagination, she decided. Aunty Beryl was tired after washing and ironing all the McNab table linen; that must be it.

In fact, Beryl had met Mr Johansson as she returned to the court and had been horrified when he told her of his encounter with Diana, though she guessed from
his expression that he had not believed a word of Diana’s story.

‘No, no, our Em is where she’s always been, at the sanatorium in Llandudno,’ she had assured him. ‘And since Diana saw fit to lie to you, I won’t tell her that I’ve put you right. But if you’d like to visit Emmy tomorrow – I were goin’ myself, and taking Diana, but if you can go there’s no need for us to do so – then I’m sure you’ll be very welcome. I’ve not seen her meself since Christmas, but Mr Mac, the feller she used to work for, has been goin’ down regularly, though he only stays for a short while. He’s been awful good, going down almost every Sunday, because it’s a devil of a journey when you only stay twenty minutes and then have to turn round and come all the way back. I believe he tells her all the restaurant gossip and then just comes away so as not to tire her. But he’s said she’s lookin’ better.’

‘He is an admirable employer,’ Mr Johansson said gravely. ‘If you’re sure it’s all right for me to go to visit, I won’t stay for more than half an hour. But I do so long to see her again . . .’ he added, looking worried.

‘I’m sure it will do her a great deal of good,’ Beryl said soothingly. ‘I know she wants to see Diana but we can go in a week or two.’

‘Diana does not like me, though I have done my best to be her friend,’ Mr Johansson said. ‘I wonder if, perhaps, there is some little jealousy . . .’

‘You’re right there. She’s very possessive over her mam, but that shouldn’t have made her tell you lies,’ Beryl said. ‘Fortunately, the visit tomorrow was to be a surprise, both for Em and Diana, so I’ll simply put my plans off for a while.’

They talked for a little longer and then they parted.
Beryl returned home and sent Diana off on an unnecessary message so that she could tell Charlie that she would not be visiting Llandudno next day, after all.

Charlie glanced shrewdly at her, then grinned. ‘You met that officer feller, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘And I guess he told you all the whoppers Diana had told him. I said liars always lost in the end. But she’s scared he’ll marry her mam and take the pair of them abroad, you see, and she’s happy here and don’t fancy moving away.’

Beryl said she understood and began to get the evening meal, admiring the fish which Charlie had scraped and gutted. If Diana was afraid of her life’s taking another violent change, then perhaps the lies were understandable, but if she caught the child out in more untruths, she would have to tackle the problem.

At this point, Diana returned and preparations for the meal began, and Beryl forgot her worries as the family surged into the kitchen.

Emmy sat on the veranda in front of Wisteria Ward, gazing out over a view which was as familiar to her as any she had ever known. It was one of those mild days which September sometimes brings, and the sea shone calm and silvery blue beneath a cloudless sky, whilst the leaves on the trees below her were touched with gold. Emmy stared at the scene, trying consciously for the first time to impress it upon her memory, for when she had last seen Dr Masters, he had had the results of the recent tests and X-rays, and had positively beamed at her.

‘I’m happy to tell you that your tests show that you are now clear of the disease, Mrs Wesley,’ he had said. ‘We shall keep you with us for a further month – or perhaps a little longer – whilst you gradually increase your activity to what we might call a normal level. When that is achieved, provided there are no ill effects of course, you will be able to go home.’

Even now, Emmy could remember her initial delight and the attack of total dismay and panic which had almost immediately followed. How would she manage? Mr Freeman had re-let her house in Nightingale Court, for she had been unable to continue paying the rent when she and Diana had moved out. Beryl had sold all her furniture at Emmy’s request, since no one had anywhere to store it, but she had kept small ornaments and similar knickknacks, packed away in boxes, and stowed under
beds and in cupboards at No. 4. Other things, such as clothing, had been kept, she knew, and there must be a little money in her Post Office savings book, for Beryl had refused to use the proceeds of the furniture sale towards Diana’s keep, despite Emmy’s urgings. She said that the pension was perfectly adequate, since a child like Diana scarcely ate enough to increase the amount of food she bought. If she needed to buy the child clothing as time passed and was unable to stretch the pension to cover this expense, she would dip into the Post Office account and tell Emmy what she had spent. She had never done so, always insisting that she could manage, so Emmy supposed that the furniture money would still be intact.

Emmy knew, of course, that Beryl would urge her to move into No. 4. Other families managed to cram a great many relatives into their homes, but Emmy was also aware that living in such circumstances was not at all advisable for someone who had recently recovered from consumption. When anyone left the sanatorium, they were lectured about the need for clean air, good food, exercise in moderation, and so on. She could get none of these things crammed into the Fishers’ home; indeed, she did not think clean air was available anywhere in the courts. But sitting here on the balcony, gazing over the beautiful scene before her, it was difficult to envisage the court at all. She tried to conjure it up: the filthy flagstones, the brickwork, smoke-blackened by years of domestic fires and factory chimneys, the washing lines crisscrossing it, and the barefoot ragged children absorbed in their games, accustomed to the dinginess of their surroundings.

Emmy sighed. It was all very well telling herself
that something would turn up, but unless it did so quickly, she would have no alternative but to return to the court as Beryl’s unpaying lodger, for she would be unable to work immediately and, in any case, Dr Masters had said she should not take up paid employment for at least six months, preferably a year.

Emmy had been forced to tell Beryl all this and knew that it had deeply worried her friend, but they had agreed to talk to the authorities once Emmy was back in Liverpool. Dr Masters was writing letters and thought that some money would be forthcoming, though he was not sure of the amount.

But that’s charity, Emmy had thought to herself, shocked. Surely I don’t need to accept charity? Before, I earned a decent living for Diana and myself; why shouldn’t I do so again? Oh, waitressing is out, Dr Masters made that clear; when I work again it must be at what he calls a sedentary job – bookkeeping or typing, or something of that nature – but until then, I must try to accept Beryl’s advice, and take each day as it comes.

And then she remembered what Violet had said, the last time she came visiting, for Violet had returned home almost a year before, though the two girls had kept in touch by letter. They had met by arrangement, at the entrance to Llandudno pier, and had enjoyed a wonderful afternoon together, for by then Emmy had graduated to thrice weekly trips to town as well as the days out organised by the staff, when all the patients who were sufficiently fit went off in a charabanc, sometimes as far afield as Holyhead, in Anglesey, where they would watch the ferries leaving for Ireland, and envy those aboard.

Violet had looked at her critically after their first, ecstatic greeting. ‘You’re looking grand, queen,’ she
had said. ‘Mark my words, you’ll be home before Christmas. Made any big decisions yet?’

‘No,’ Emmy had said, puzzled. ‘What sort of decisions can any of us make in the sanatorium? Everything is decided for us – don’t say you’ve forgotten
that
!’

‘Puddin’ ’ead!’ Violet had said, laughing. ‘Real life is about to knock the feet from under you, unless you sit up and take notice. Why, you were the only one of us in Wisteria with a choice of fellers visitin’, payin’ court, makin’ their intentions clear. Which one of the three is you goin’ to accept?’

‘Three?’ Emmy had said, mystified. ‘Oh, I suppose you mean young Dr Morgan? You can’t have meant Mr McCullough. He’s my boss – or rather, he was – and anyway he’s really old.’

Violet had laughed. ‘No, I suppose you can’t count your boss as a suitor, although he did come regular as clockwork for some time,’ she said. ‘I did notice Doc Morgan making sheep’s eyes at you, though, whenever he come on to the ward. Is he still up there at the san? I thought he were only doing a six-month stint.’

‘Yes, he was,’ Emmy agreed. ‘As for the other two . . .’

‘I hopes as how you aren’t goin’ to tell me that Mr Johansson and Mr Frost haven’t popped the question?’ Violet said. ‘’Cos that would be too much for anyone to swaller, even me.’

Emmy, blushing, had admitted that both Carl and Johnny had asked her to marry them, adding, a trifle haughtily, that she had naturally refused. ‘How can I marry anyone when I can’t be a proper wife?’ she had asked, rather petulantly. ‘Dr Masters has gone on and on about getting plenty of rest, good food
and gentle exercise, but he hasn’t said who’s going to do the housework, the scrubbing of floors and the heaving of wet sheets out of the boiler and over to the sink. Oh, Violet, however
shall
I manage?’

It was different for Violet, who was still living at home with her mam, though she was engaged to be married to a young man with a good job in Tate’s. When she did leave home, Emmy reflected rather bitterly, her friend would go to a decent little house of her own, and would begin her new life knowing her husband’s salary was secure.

At the time, she had passed off Violet’s question by saying that she had no wish to marry again, but that had been before Dr Masters had told her, definitely, that she would soon be leaving the sanatorium. The question of marriage then had been something which could be pushed into the future. Now, it was imperative to seriously consider it.

Looking out over the calm sea, she reminded herself that Johnny and she might have married years ago, had not Peter come into her life. And no one could say Johnny had been inattentive since his first visit to the sanatorium. Despite constant warnings from the staff, he had persisted in visiting her three or four times a week, though he never tried to stay longer than fifteen or twenty minutes after she had told him, bluntly, that she tired easily.

She had visited him in his pleasant guest house on quiet, tree-lined Chapel Street a good many times, enjoying both his company and that of his practical, humorous Aunt Carrie. It was soon easy to see who was the more business-like of the two. Easy-going, gentle Johnny would never have found the courage to evict dirty, disreputable holiday-makers who came in drunk and spewed up on the hall floor. Nor would
he have pursued, to the very railway station, the odd non-payer, or sat up half the night with a sick child, though it had been he who had fetched the doctor on the occasion when this had happened. He did the books – and did them extremely well – and dealt with plumbers, electricians, and other tradespeople who came to the house, but Mrs Carrie Frost had the energy and drive which Emmy was beginning to realise Johnny had always lacked. He was handsome, charming and easy-going. In many ways, he would make an ideal husband, but she did not believe she could ever love him as she had once loved Peter.

She reminded herself that she loved Beryl in one way and Diana in another so, naturally, she would love Johnny differently from the way she had loved Peter. She thought about Johnny, tried to imagine him taking her in his arms, sweeping her off her feet. She thought about waking to find his rumpled, dark head next to her own on the pillow . . . and found herself blushing. How imagination did run away with her, especially when you considered how she kept telling herself – and everyone else – that she did not mean to remarry.

But her obstinate mind continued to play with the idea. Carl came to visit her whenever he could and truth to tell he was a much more exciting visitor, a much more exciting person than Johnny had ever been. He was full of gaiety and charm and Emmy knew that all the staff and half the inhabitants of the sanatorium were a little in love with him. Including herself? Was it love that made her heart flutter when he put his arm round her or held her hand? It was nice to know that everyone envied her handsome Carl’s affection . . . but then Johnny was good-looking, sweet-tempered, accommodating . . .
Sighing, she decided that she was trying to do things in the wrong order. First, she must grow accustomed to ordinary life. Only when she had done so could she consider marrying anyone, anyone at all.

‘You awright now, Aunt Carrie? Only I thought I’d go up to the sanny for half an hour. Emmy were told a while back that she’d be home before the end of September, and – and . . .’

‘And you still haven’t plucked up the courage to tell her she’s gorra marry you and bring the kid back here,’ his aunt said cheerfully. She was a tall, rawboned woman with thin grey hair curling closely about a narrow and bony face, whose only beauty was in the sweetness of her smile.