Читать книгу Daughter of Mine - Anne Bennett - Страница 10

The following morning Lizzie didn’t feel a bit like an ox. In fact, she woke feeling very strange indeed. She was dripping wet with sweat, her head was thumping and she felt as if she had a tight band around her chest. She was due to serve breakfasts with Marjorie and she struggled to get out of bed, though the room tilted in a most alarming way.

She slumped back on the bed again, and Marjorie, coming back from the bathroom and beginning to dress, said, ‘God, are you all right? Your face is as red as a beetroot.’

Lizzie wasn’t surprised. She could feel the sweat standing out on her forehead, trickling down her back, and seeping between her breasts. She opened her mouth to say she felt a little strange, but she was taken unawares by a fit of coughing.

‘God, Lizzie, I don’t think you’d better go downstairs like that.’

‘No, I’m all right, I’m fine,’ Lizzie said in a husky voice.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ Marjorie said, putting her feet into her shoes. ‘Stay here, I’ll have a word with someone.’

Lizzie tried to tell the doctor that the manager had summoned that she was all right too, between bouts of coughing and gasping for breath. The doctor was Scottish and one to stand no nonsense and he said, ‘Please let me be the judge of that, young lady. I wouldna dream of telling you how to serve breakfast now, would I? Open up the front of your nightie and let’s have a wee listen to that chest of yours.’

Acutely embarrassed, Lizzie undid the buttons at her neck and the doctor sounded her chest with the stethoscope. ‘Hm, hm,’ was all the comment he made, and then he straightened up and said, ‘Pull it right off.’

‘What?’

‘I need to listen to your back.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I’m a doctor, lassie,’ the man barked. ‘Here to see how ill you are, not to look at your body. Now pull off your nightie.’

Lizzie did as the doctor bid, glad they were alone, and the doctor listened and he also gave her back little taps. Eventually he said, ‘All right, put your nightie back on.’

‘What is it, Doctor?’

‘Bronchitis,’ the doctor replied, ‘and a bad dose I might add. Need to take care of it.’

To the manager he said more. ‘Have to see it doesn’t turn to pneumonia. Needs careful nursing, for that girl might have little resistance and she’s as thin as a rake.’

‘She’s never had a day off sick before.’

‘Well, she’ll have more than a day now.’

‘I have a hotel to run.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘What I mean is, I can’t have her here,’ the manager said. ‘With one down anyway, I won’t have the staff to nurse her and I presume she won’t be able to stay in a dormitory with the others?’

‘It’s not something I would recommend.’

‘Well then…’

‘The only place for her, if you’re adamant, is the hospital.’

‘See to it, can you?’

The doctor, grim-faced, saw to it, and when he told Lizzie that she was to go to the General Hospital, she shed bitter tears. She’d never been in hospital in her life and didn’t want to go now. Surely to God she wasn’t that sick. People died in hospital.

Lizzie sent a note to Steve to tell him what had happened and he turned up at the hospital a couple of days later. Lizzie had deteriorated during that time and it tore at his heart to see her fighting for breath, the beads of glistening sweat on her forehead lending a sheen to her face, despite the ministrations of the nurses.

Knowing she had little breath to talk, he did the talking, and for hours. Much of what he said went over her head, but she liked the sound of his voice and it was nice to have someone near, holding her hand.

Betty and Pat came, and even Marjorie popped in one day. Tressa came too, but obviously without Phillip, so she couldn’t stay long, but Lizzie was pleased she had made the effort, for it was quite a trek.

Two days after Tressa’s visit, Lizzie was in the throes of delirium when Steve called at the hospital. ‘What is it?’ he cried, seeing the hospital staff scurrying about and Lizzie hardly aware of anything as she was being transferred to a separate single room.

‘Are you a relative?’ the doctor asked.

‘Sort of,’ Steve said. ‘All her people are in Ireland. I’m her boyfriend,’ and then, thinking it might have more clout, he added, ‘her fiancé really. I just haven’t got around to buying the ring yet.’

‘Well,’ the doctor said, ‘in view of that, and her family not being here, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Miss Clooney has developed pneumonia.’

Ah Jesus Christ, Steve’s mind screamed, thinking of that killer disease of his youth, and his mouth dropped open with shock. ‘Will she…Will she…?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘We’ll do what we can and it will depend on her resistance to fight. I’m sorry I can offer you no further hope.’

‘Shall I inform her people?’

‘It can do no harm,’ the doctor said, and those words more than any other conveyed to Steve the seriousness of Lizzie’s condition.

Lizzie felt as if she were surrounded by sticky treacle and across her chest was a hot, tight band, so that she found it hard to breathe. She was semi-aware sometimes of someone sitting by her side, holding her hand, talking to her, but it was as if she were outside of it. Strange images disturbed her dreams, mixed up with her home back in Ireland, the hotel, and, most of all, Steve.

He’d arrived every evening since he’d been told Lizzie had pneumonia. ‘We have got a visiting policy,’ the matron had said to the nurses, ‘but I haven’t the heart to turn him away. And after all, it’s a private room she has, so he’s disturbing no one else.’

‘He wouldn’t disturb anyone else anyroad,’ one of the nurses replied. ‘He just sits there. God, to have someone love you like that.’

Lizzie’s mother, who’d come over to see her daughter, while desperately worried about her was also impressed by Steve’s diligence. When she was informed he was Lizzie’s fiancé, she believed it, though thought it odd. Lizzie had not asked their permission and she said as much to Steve.

Steve had no wish to alienate Catherine and yet was unable to tell her the truth in case he might not be allowed to see Lizzie any more, but he was anxious to assure her their relationship was above board. ‘Neither of us had the time to ask your approval,’ he told Catherine. ‘We were just toying with the idea of becoming engaged, with your blessing of course, when Lizzie became ill.’

Catherine accepted Steve’s version of events and the hospital gave a very good account of Steve Gillespie; and while his cronies at The Bell and the women of the street could have painted a different picture, even they would have had to admit that since this business had started he’d been a changed man.

Catherine was staying at Longbridge with Arthur and Doreen, whom she’d met and got on well with at Tressa’s wedding. It was a long haul every day into the city centre, and while she stayed with Lizzie most of the day she tended to leave the evenings free for Steve, which suited him fine.

He hadn’t told Flo where he went every evening after a swift wash and a bite to eat, but the news filtered through to her at last. Flo wanted to tell her son to waste no time on the girl, that it would be better if she died altogether, but the sorrow on his face checked her and, uncharacteristically, she made no comment.

‘The crisis will be reached in the early hours,’ the doctor told him when Lizzie had been in hospital a fortnight. ‘Sometime between two and four.’

Catherine had been informed too, and that night they sat either side of the bed, holding Lizzie’s hands, watching her struggling to breathe, the sweat pouring from her. Steve was bone-weary for he’d sat there many days now, but he felt that if he took his eyes off Lizzie for one moment she would die.

It was the early hours when Catherine got to her feet. ‘God, I’m stiff,’ she said, ‘and I need some air. I feel as if I’m suffocating in here.’

Steve had barely noticed, but when she said, ‘Would you mind if I pop out for a few minutes?’ he nodded. He’d be glad for a few minutes alone with Lizzie to speak of what was in his heart.

He began as soon as the door had closed behind Catherine. ‘Come on, Lizzie. You must fight this, for God knows I can’t live without you. You know that. I love you. Jesus, I’ve always loved you. I’d lay down my life for you, Lizzie, please…’ On and on he went, in the same vein.

Lizzie felt as if a furnace blazed within her and her eyes burned too, and she was so tired she had the feeling she could just float away, but always that voice would drag her back. She liked the sound of it. It soothed her, though the words were indistinguishable, and she liked the feel of a large hand encircling her own. Maybe, if she could raise her other arm from the bed, she could tell whoever it was she could hear them and that she liked what they were doing.

But her arm felt like lead. She couldn’t lift it. She tried again and again and eventually, slowly, her fingers moved. Steve wasn’t aware of the slight movement straight away, but when her arm lifted oh so slightly, he jumped from the bed as if he’d been shot and was out of the room in seconds, yelling for a nurse.

He stood at the threshold of the room, unable to see her for the doctor and two nurses grouped about the bed as Catherine returned to the ward. She hurried when she saw Steve standing outside the room, but before she was able to frame a question the young doctor came out of the room towards them, and he was smiling. ‘The fever has passed,’ he said. ‘The crisis is over and she is sleeping normally. I won’t tell you how worried I was. She will be weak for some time, but she will live.’

‘Oh thank God! Thank God!’ Catherine said fervently.

Steve thanked the Almighty too, but in his head. He couldn’t speak for the torrent of tears pouring from him. Catherine put her arms around him and they cried together and took comfort from one another.

It seemed to Lizzie that nearly every time she opened her eyes, Steve was by her side, his large muscular hands holding hers, especially after her mother had returned home. Her mother and the nursing staff had often referred to Steve as her fiancé and she’d not corrected them and wasn’t sure why she hadn’t. Maybe, like Steve, she’d thought he wouldn’t be able to visit so often, and she’d not have liked that. In fact, he had become very important to her and she longed to see his large frame almost filling the doorway each evening and his heavy strides across the floor to sit by Lizzie’s bed, when he would take her small hand in his and talk to her.

She’d been in hospital a month when the manager of the Grand Hotel came in one afternoon with a hamper of fruit, and when he told Lizzie he was very sorry but he couldn’t keep her job open any longer, she wasn’t really surprised.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been ill and everything, and I am delighted you’ll make a full recovery in time,’ he went on to say. ‘But, you see, it’s Easter in a few weeks. We’re coming up to our busiest time and with you off I’m one member of staff down already.’

It was only what Lizzie expected and she could see the man’s dilemma, but she knew when she left hospital she would have to work at something and jobs were desperately hard to find. Finding somewhere to live that she could afford would be just as bad and she was nervous and scared of the future.

She told Steve her concerns that same evening, but he told her not to worry, something would turn up. He had plans of his own for Lizzie and they involved her marrying him so he could look after her for good. But first he had to find a place to live, for he couldn’t really expect Lizzie to move in with his parents and Neil. Time enough then to ask her to marry him.

In early March, Steve heard of a house in a courtyard off Bell Barn Road that would be coming vacant in a month or two, when the old man living there alone would be moving to stay with his daughter. It wasn’t much more than a few hundred yards from his parents’ house in Grant Street, but that couldn’t be helped, for many would give their eye teeth for any sort of house at all.

That night at the hospital, he took Lizzie’s hand in his. ‘Lizzie, you once told me you didn’t love me. Is that still true?’

‘Ah, Steve. Don’t do this. Why torture yourself?’

‘Please, I need to know. There is a reason.’

Tears sprang to Lizzie’s eyes and she opened her mouth to say she didn’t love Steve and she still felt the same, but then she stopped. Once she definitely hadn’t, it was true, but people change and circumstances can alter the way a person views things. There was no doubt that she liked his company, had depended on it while in the hospital and longed for him to come in each evening. Wasn’t that a kind of love? True, it wasn’t the aching, bittersweet passion enjoyed by Tressa and Mike, but she and Steve were different people, so the way they loved would be different too, surely. ‘I don’t know how I feel about you now, Steve,’ she answered honestly.

‘Do you like me?’

‘Of course I like you.’

‘A lot, or just a bit.’

‘A lot, bighead.’

Steve gave a sigh of relief and knelt beside the hospital bed, but still kept hold of Lizzie’s hand. ‘Marry me, Lizzie?’ he pleaded. ‘I love you more than life itself.’

‘Oh, Steve…’

‘Please think about it?’ Steve begged. ‘I know this isn’t ideal and you didn’t want to get married so young, but your illness changed a lot of things and I will have a house for us to move in to.’ And then, as Lizzie’s eyes still looked troubled, he said gently, ‘If you refuse me, what is the alternative?’

And Lizzie couldn’t answer that. She had no job and no place to live, and even if she had both, Birmingham was a lonely place where she knew no one. Tressa, as a friend to go out with, or even as a confidante, was almost lost to her. Betty was getting married, Pat would soon follow, and Marjorie had never been a true friend.

‘Can I think about it, Steve?’

‘Oh yeah, bonny girl,’ Steve said, delighted that Lizzie hadn’t said no outright. ‘You can think about it. But don’t keep me waiting for weeks.’

‘I’ll not do that to you, I’ll give you the answer within the next few days,’ Lizzie promised.

The following day, she was leaving the hospital and had been offered a temporary home with Mike’s aunt and uncle at Longbridge, till she was on her feet and could decide what to do. Arthur and Doreen had taken to Lizzie at the wedding and Doreen had gone to see her a few times in the hospital after Catherine had left. Catherine had told them Lizzie wasn’t keen on going back to Ireland at all and yet there was little else for her to do as far as she could see. That had decided Doreen. ‘The girl can bide here a wee while until she is fully recovered and then she can decide what is to be done,’ she declared one evening.

Arthur nodded his head sagely, knowing agreement was the only and safest course to take with his wife over certain issues. He collected Lizzie the following evening after work, and Doreen saw how white-faced the girl was with tiredness.

After the evening meal, with the men away to the pub, Lizzie said, ‘I can’t thank you enough for asking me to come here for a while. Mammy wanted me to go home, but I had the feeling if I left these shores I’d never come back.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Doreen said. ‘You can stay as long as you like.’

‘Aye,’ said Tressa. ‘It will be like old times.’

‘Not quite,’ Lizzie said with a smile. ‘Those days will not come back, I’m afraid. Maybe my carefree days are over too.’ And then, in a quieter voice, she said, ‘Steve asked me to marry him yesterday.’

Tressa’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Because she hadn’t been able to visit the hospital much she didn’t know the role Steve had played. The last she’d heard, Lizzie had told her firmly that they were just friends. ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

‘I said I’d think about it.’

Doreen, who’d had many a chat with Catherine about Steve, gave a sniff and said, ‘What’s there to think about?’

‘I’m not sure I love him,’ Lizzie said simply.

‘Love! Bumpkin!’ Doreen said disparagingly. ‘Love, let me tell you, flies out of the windows when the bills come in at the door. And it’s a good thing that man didn’t waste time to think about it when you were lying half-dead in a hospital bed.’

‘I know that.’

‘He has a good job, he’ll be a good provider,’ Doreen said. ‘Is he generous?’

‘Aye, very generous and considerate. He has a temper though.’

‘Not with you, surely?’

For a second, the scene when she told Steve it was over flashed through Lizzie’s mind, but she decided to say nothing, for Steve had apologised profusely and since then he had been kindness itself. ‘No,’ she said, and added, ‘He fights mainly with his brother.’

Doreen gave a snort. ‘What brothers do not?’ she asked. ‘But they’ll probably get on better when they have wives and children of their own. It’s a very gentling experience becoming a father. I’ve seen it many a time. Tell me, Lizzie, do you like Steve?’

‘Oh aye.’

‘Well, let me tell you that liking is often more sustaining and fulfilling than love. When love dims, liking will survive.’

‘So you think I should say yes, Doreen?’

‘I do, my dear.’

‘What about you, Tressa?’

‘It’s entirely up to you, Lizzie,’ Tressa said, ‘but do you not want a home and family of your own?’

Unbidden, Lizzie remembered little Phillip, the perfectness of him, and she knew she yearned for a baby and the decision was made.

The wedding was in Ballintra on 18^th June 1933, just three weeks short of Lizzie’s twenty-first birthday, and her family pulled out all the stops to accommodate Steve’s family, who came over for it.

Lizzie herself was consumed by excitement as the wedding drew near. She’d bought the dress in Birmingham, though her parents had paid for it, and it was the talk of the place for days. It was pure white, the shimmering satin of the skirt held out with six lace petticoats, caught up at intervals with white rosebuds. The bodice fitted her slender figure to perfection and the entire dress was covered with beads that caught the light in the room as Lizzie spun round to admire herself in the mirror.

It brought a lump to Catherine’s throat to see this, her youngest daughter, and one who had been dangerously ill not so long ago, looking so radiant, so happy. She was thrilled that the man she had chosen was honest and respectable and that he had shown Catherine that he loved Lizzie to distraction. She was also glad that Lizzie had respected herself, that she had earned the right to wear the white dress.

However, it wasn’t in Catherine’s nature to praise her children, and so now she said chidingly, ‘How can I get this headdress on with you spinning around like a dervish? Be still now.’

Lizzie obediently stayed still, though her insides continued to perform somersaults as her mother fastened the veil in place, pinning it securely to the plait she had in a coronet around her head. The effect of it all caused Eileen, coming into the room at that moment, to catch her breath. ‘God, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘You look just fantastic. Doesn’t she, Mammy?’

Catherine blinked away the tears from her own eyes and said almost brusquely, ‘Aye. You chose well, Lizzie. The dress an’ all suits you fine.’

Neither Lizzie nor Eileen were put off by Catherine’s manner. It was her way, and both had spotted her glittering eyes and they smiled at one another across the room.

‘Thank you, Mammy,’ Lizzie said, suddenly overcome with it all. ‘Thank you for making it so special for me, the dress, the flowers, the cake, and for arranging it all. No one could ask for more, or better parents.’

And then, mindful not to crush the dress, Catherine took Lizzie in her arms and kissed her lightly. ‘And why would we not want it special for you?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you the last daughter to see to, and one I love dearly.’

Seldom had Catherine used such gentle tones and never could Lizzie ever remember her mother saying she loved her and it brought a lump to her throat.

‘Don’t be blubbing now,’ Catherine warned, seeing her daughter’s eyes brimming, ‘or your face will puff up and your man will go for me for upsetting you. Go on now with Eileen. Your daddy will be waiting on you.’

Later, when Lizzie stood at the church door, one arm through her father’s and the other holding the beautiful array of flowers, her three little nieces who her sister Susan had got ready in place behind her, the strains of the wedding march filling that familiar church, she felt she could burst with happiness.

She kept her eyes averted from the malicious glare of Flo as they began the slow walk down the aisle and instead fixed them on her man waiting for her before the altar, with Mike his best man beside him. As she drew closer, Steve risked a peep at her and he felt for a moment as if his heart had stopped beating. At the look on his face, Lizzie’s own heart turned over and she stepped forward to be joined to Steve until death would part them.

Margaret confided to Catherine that she wished Tressa’s wedding could have been in the village too, but in the circumstances it was better done in Birmingham where none knew them. Even now, she’d had a few with knowing glances and nudges saying that the baby had made a great turn-out, seeing as he was so premature.

Lizzie knew this, for the same had been said to her, and she knew her mother was puffed up with pride that she hadn’t been in the same condition as Tressa when she married. In Catherine’s opinion, Lizzie had done well for herself. She was marrying a fine strapping man in a well-paid job and the only haste to the wedding at all was because they had a house waiting for them.

Margaret would know the manner of house it would be. She’d seen the streets of them when she had gone over for her daughter’s wedding. The pub where the reception had been held was actually in Bell Barn Road, but when Catherine had been over when Lizzie had been so ill, she went only from the hospital and out to Longbridge each day and had no idea. Margaret was glad, at any rate, that her own daughter was out of those crowded, disease-ridden streets. She couldn’t really describe it: you had to see the place, smell the stink in the air and hear the noise to understand it at all. But she didn’t say any of this and Catherine was only worried about one thing, as far as her daughter was concerned, and that was Flo.

‘You may have trouble there, Lizzie, for she thinks Steve can do no wrong.’

‘Oh, you’ve noticed then?’ Lizzie commented dryly, for Flo’s obsession with her son was obvious even to the most casual observer.

‘Does she live far from you?’

Lizzie wrinkled her nose. ‘Not far enough!’ Then she added, ‘In fairness, Steve did his best. Housing is at a premium and some have to make a start in a couple of rooms.’

‘Aye, you have a good man there,’ Catherine said. ‘And God knows, he can’t help his mother. Eileen’s chap, young Murray O’Shea, doesn’t treat her half so well as Steve does you, but nothing would do her than marry the man.’

And Lizzie knew Steve was good. Even after she’d agreed to marry him, he’d not urged her to go further in their lovemaking than fondling and kissing her. She didn’t know what it cost Steve, and Lizzie hadn’t admitted to him that she often wanted things to go further, nor told him how she longed for fulfilment on their wedding night.

And when it came, it was wondrous, rapturous, a feeling that superseded the sudden sharp pain, and afterwards she cried with joy, glad she’d waited and that her wedding night was all she’d wanted. Steve lay curled beside her, delighted he’d pleased her. He’d taken his time because he’d wanted her to enjoy it. It was a long time since he’d slept with a young, tight virgin and he’d also wanted to savour the moment.

There were many things about Steve that Lizzie hadn’t been aware of, and many a woman could have warned her that you never know a man fully until you marry him.

She didn’t know he drank so much, for instance, nor that he wanted to drink almost every night. He could carry his beer well most nights at least, and though he was not sober when he came home and sometimes a little unsteady on his feet, their lovemaking, which Steve wanted often, was almost as good as it had been on their wedding night. However, on the fairly rare occasions that Steve was really drunk it was a different story. He’d be so unpredictable; Lizzie would be afraid to say anything much in case he took it the wrong way, for he could be aggressive and belligerent and he’d be rough and unfeeling later in bed and often hurt her.

She didn’t bother complaining for she knew this was the lot of many women. She met her neighbours: Violet, who lived beside her with her husband Barry and their two teenagers, Colin and Carol, and the others down the yard: Ada Smith, Gloria Havering, Minnie Monahan and Sadie Miller, who she met at the tap and in the brew house, where they helped her with the weekly wash in the early days of her marriage.

Between herself and Violet there was a special bond. Violet felt sorry for the girl with none of her own beside her and became quite motherly towards her, and Lizzie was glad of it, of all the women’s company. All the women complained about their husbands and only Violet’s and Gloria’s besides Lizzie’s were in work. Quite a few also complained about the amount the men drank. ‘He’s always down the boozer and I’m always down the pawnshop,’ Ada would say.

‘Yeah, and when they comes home bottled, they can’t think of owt but getting their leg over,’ Minnie put in.

‘Mine don’t get owt if he comes home bottled,’ Gloria said with a sniff. ‘Told him I’d brain him with the frying pan if he comes home again in that state. I’m having no drunken pig in my bed.’

‘Mine wouldn’t stand for that,’ Sadie said, and there was a murmur of agreement.

‘He had to stand it,’ Gloria retorted. ‘He has to tie a knot in it some nights when I’m not in the mood, anyroad. I’ve told him, I’m not a brood mare.’

‘Jesus,’ Minnie cried. ‘My Charlie would have the priest up to me so quick his feet wouldn’t touch the floor.’

‘That’s the trouble with you papists, hidebound by the priests,’ Gloria said witheringly.

Lizzie knew that for most of them sex was a duty and done for their husbands’ sake. They never spoke of enjoying it themselves and when Lizzie mentioned it to Violet, she’d said, ‘It’s not done to say you enjoy it, Lizzie. Most women don’t, or else say they don’t. If you enjoy it, you’re lucky, but keep it to yourself.’

So Lizzie kept to herself the times she enjoyed sex, and put up with the bad times. Sometimes she was able to encourage Steve to do something other than drink himself stupid every night and entice him for a walk, or even to go to the nearby Broadway Cinema on Bristol Street.

Flo had been scathing of that when she got to hear. ‘You’re a married woman now,’ she’d screamed, ‘not a kid playing at it. Your gallivanting days is over and your place is in the home looking after it and seeing to your man.’

Lizzie honestly couldn’t understand Flo’s anger. ‘We only went to the pictures.’

‘“Only went to the pictures”,’ Flo mimicked. ‘And his father waiting on him at The Bell.’

‘He works with his father every day,’ Lizzie answered, and added a little bitterly, ‘Anyway, he’s at The Bell every other night.’

‘Oh so that’s your tack, is it,’ Flo said. ‘Stopping a man having a drink after he’s been at work all day.’

‘No, but…’

‘He’s always enjoyed a drink, like his father before him. Brass workers need to drink. They’re all the same.’

Flo was right there and not just about brass workers either. The Bell would be full of men most nights, and while the women might moan and nag their men a little, in the main they put up with it.

Flo was the thorn in Lizzie’s life that her mother had prophesised, coming around and always complaining. She was jealous of the friendship developing between Violet and Lizzie, which meant Lizzie wasn’t depending on her as she’d thought she would be. Lizzie could have told her she’d never have leant on her anyway. She’d rather rely on a viper than her mother-in-law, or muddle through on her own before she’d ask her to do a hand’s turn.

Flo also constantly complained of Lizzie’s housekeeping skills. Steve’s shirt collars weren’t clean enough, nor stiff enough in her opinion, and her ironing left a lot to be desired. She ran her finger over the mantelpiece and clicked her tongue at the state of the grate, and made disparaging remarks about Lizzie’s cooking. If there was washing on the line she’d sniff her disapproval and say she wasn’t maiding the things well enough and had she boiled up those sheets?

‘How do you keep your patience?’ Violet asked her one day.

‘Oh she’s just a bag of old wind,’ Lizzie said. ‘And Steve hates me to argue with his mother.’

That was an understatement. One day, when she’d had an up and downer with Flo, his father was quick to make Steve well aware of it that night at the pub. ‘Your mother was proper put out,’ he said. ‘Your Lizzie really flew at her, she said, and all she did was make a comment, like.’

Later, a drunken Steve went for Lizzie. He said the last thing he wanted to cope with was arguments between her and his mother. Lizzie had to understand Flo’s position. ‘Can’t you show some consideration? You knew she would be jealous.’

Lizzie knew she should let Steve rave on, knowing he hated to be criticised, argued with, and especially when he had a load on, but the unfairness of his accusations got to her. ‘Why doesn’t she show me any understanding? She’s always moaning, complaining and finding fault, and I’m sick of it.’

Steve grasped Lizzie by the arms and shook her as if she was a rag doll, shook her till she felt as if every bone in her body had loosened. ‘She needs to show no consideration for you, you stupid bitch. You respect her because she’s my mother, or I’ll want to know the reason why.’

Lizzie, shocked to the core and frightened, said not another word but got into bed, and later, while Steve slept, cried herself to sleep.

The next morning he was contrite when he saw the dark blue and black bruises ringing both arms. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised. ‘I know I was a bit too rough, like, but dad went on and on, and God, she is my mother. I can’t have my wife treating her badly.’

Lizzie didn’t bother with a reply and kept her arms hidden from Violet and the others. They’d have sympathised, but would be unable to lift a finger to help her. Lizzie had heard of women near killed by violent husbands, and within the bosom of the community, where everyone had been aware of it and those in the house adjoining must have heard every blow, every shuddering scream through those paper-thin walls, and yet none had gone to their aid. So, what price sympathy?

When Lizzie told Steve she was expecting, she could have done anything to Flo he was that delighted with her. Later, at Phillip’s first birthday party, Lizzie found out Tressa was pregnant again too, both babies due towards the end of May, but Steve seemed to think no one had ever been pregnant before.

Lizzie was a little annoyed with Mike turning the conversation around to less joyful things, like the Jews who’d marched through London to draw attention to the persecution of their race, which they claimed was happening in Germany.

‘What the hell are we supposed to do about it?’ Steve said. ‘Declare war for a handful of Jews, when we’ve not recovered from the last one?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mike answered. ‘But I don’t like this Hitler. Anyway, I’m getting a wireless, see what is going on in the world.’

‘You can, man, you have the electric in.’

‘You can get one too,’ Arthur said. ‘Even without electric. You get one with a battery and get an accumulator with it for power, like, and get it charged up every so often. They do it at any garage.’

‘I’ll certainly look into it,’ Steve promised. ‘I suppose it’s probably as well to know.’

Lizzie began having pains just a few days before Christmas and her knickers were stained with blood when she went to the lavatory, so she went for Violet.

She was in the bed, warmed by the hot-water bottle, when Doctor Taylor arrived, closely followed by a frantic Steve.

‘She might be miscarrying,’ Doctor Taylor said, ‘and then again it might be a warning that she’s doing too much. Only time will tell. Call me if you’re worried.’

Worried! Steve was beside himself. But he needn’t have fretted quite so much for the neighbours were all willing to give Lizzie a hand with things till she was on her feet again, and the doctor was pleased when he called again. ‘It might be better,’ he told Steve, ‘if sexual activity were to cease for a little while. Best to be on the safe side.’

Steve wanted this child as much as Lizzie, and wanted it, son or daughter, to be born hale and hearty; and yet, ‘God,’ he confided to Stuart, ‘it could be months. I’ll be a raving loony by then.’

‘There’s an alternative,’ Stuart told him. ‘Like I’ve said before. You’re often doing the woman a favour.’

‘Oh I don’t know, I’ve not been with another woman since…well, for months.’

A month later, Steve was burning up with frustration. ‘She won’t know owt about it,’ Stuart encouraged. ‘How could she, and how would it hurt her anyroad?’

‘You’re right,’ Steve decided. ‘She needn’t know a thing about it.’

But Lizzie did know, or at least had reasonable doubt, for the odour of cheap perfume lingering around Steve and the smell of cosmetics on the shirt he’d worn were apparent enough. Later, she had further evidence, for she knew the marks on his neck that she saw when he stripped for his wash had nothing to do with her. However, Lizzie was too ashamed to voice her suspicions and far too nervous of Steve to challenge him about it, and so she drew a veil of secrecy over it all.