Читать книгу Lost & Found - Kitty Neale - Страница 15

Mavis wasn’t sure what was wrong with her mother. Last week, when she’d told her that Miss Harwood wanted to talk to her at the parents’ meeting, she’d been snappy, saying that she didn’t have time to go. Mavis had been crushed. Miss Harwood still insisted that she could go on to art college and if her mother had spoken to her it could have made all the difference.

Dad had been true to his word, sending a fiver every week, and with money coming in the rent was paid, with food on the table too. On her fifteenth birthday he’d sent her a present, and Mavis had been thrilled with the watercolour paints and thick paper. Gran had given her a lovely new pink hat and scarf and, for just that one week, her mother had let her keep two shillings of the money she earned at Mrs Pugh’s.

Mavis knew that her mum didn’t have any money worries now, but she still wasn’t happy. She was quiet most of the time, distant, and when Mavis looked back it seemed that her mother had been acting strangely almost since Dad had left. Mavis had thought she must be missing him, just as she herself was, but her gran had laughed at that idea.

Her mother’s unhappiness couldn’t have anything to do with Gran. Yes, she was in hospital now, but it wasn’t anything serious. It had been an ulcer that prevented her from eating—no wonder she’d become so thin. She had been admitted to hospital four days ago, and now that she’d had the small operation, surely her mother would take her to see Gran that evening.

Mavis clutched the small, precious canvas as she made her way home, holding it against her chest to shield it from the rain. Today had been the end of term, mid April, and her last day at school. This was it! She was so proud of her painting and when her mother saw it surely it would change everything. She couldn’t wait to see her face and decided that she would show it to her now; she’d quickly pop in before she went to Mrs Pugh’s.

She passed an alley, yelping when hands came out to yank the canvas from her grasp. Mavis spun around, finding herself face to face with Tommy Wilson.

‘What have we got here then?’ he sneered.

‘Give it back! Oh, please, give it back!’

Mavis had carefully wrapped brown paper around the canvas, but Tommy ripped it away, laughing as he held up the picture. ‘Bloody hell. Look at that face. In fact, no thanks,’ and with that he lifted his leg to boot the canvas down the alley.

‘Oh, no … No!’ Mavis cried, pushing past Tommy to rush after it.

It had landed face down in a puddle, but, as Mavis bent down to retrieve it, Tommy was at her side, shoving her out of the way as his foot came out to stamp on the canvas.

‘Oh, don’t … don’t,’ she begged.

Still not satisfied, Tommy picked up the canvas again, this time slamming it down face up and, with one boot holding it in place, he used the heel of the other to gouge into the painting.

Mavis saw all her work destroyed, her dream disintegrating before her eyes. She sank down onto the wet ground, sobbing, hardly aware of Tommy’s hand when it touched her shoulder.

‘What’s all the fuss about? It’s only a daft painting.’

The contrition in his voice surprised Mavis, but she could only look up at him mutely, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Look, it’s your own fault,’ he said defensively. ‘Larry told you not to blab, but you didn’t listen and then that bitch, Sandra, opened her mouth too. Me and Larry were in right trouble and all for a bit of fun, that’s all.’

Still Mavis couldn’t talk. She could only shake her head, her eyes resting on the painting again. It was ruined, beyond repair, and once again she sobbed.

‘I only mucked up your picture, that’s all. You should think yourself lucky I didn’t take it out on you.’ And with that Tommy abruptly walked away.

Mavis didn’t know how long she sat on the ground, rain falling heavily and soaking her coat. At last she got up, and with one last look at the ruined canvas she desolately made her way home.

‘My God, Mavis. What happened to you?’

‘Oh, Mum …’

‘Get that coat off. You look wet through. Now tell me what happened.’

Mavis found her hands shaking so badly that she could barely undo the buttons. ‘I … I was on my way home, but then Tom … Tommy …’

‘Tommy Wilson! What did he do?’ she cried. ‘Did he touch you?’

‘He … he grabbed my painting. He … he ruined it.’

‘You wouldn’t be in this state over a flaming picture. Tell the truth, Mavis. What did he do to you?’

‘I am telling the truth. He didn’t touch me, but he … he destroyed my canvas. Oh, Mum, it was a good painting. Really good.’

‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t believe this. You’re supposed to be at Edith Pugh’s, but instead you turn up here like a drowned rat, crying about nothing.’

‘It … it isn’t nothing. When you saw my painting I thought you might let me go to art college.’

‘Art college! Are you out of your mind, girl?’

‘Mum, please,’ Mavis begged. ‘It’s the only thing I’m any good at. If you’d seen the portrait of Gran …’

‘Shut up! Your gran’s dying and you come grizzling to me about a silly painting.’ Lily threw a hand over her mouth. ‘Now look what you’ve done! She didn’t want me to tell you.’

Mavis stiffened in shock, hardly aware that her mother had collapsed onto a chair. Her gran was dying? No! No! It couldn’t be true. ‘Oh … Mum … she can’t be. You said she had an ulcer. That she was in hospital for a small operation.’

There was no answer, and then Mavis saw her mother lay her arms on the table, bending over to rest her head on them as sobs began to rack her body. She hurried forward, a hand hovering uncertainly until it came to rest on her mum’s head.

Lily reared up, eyes wild. ‘Don’t touch me! Get out! Go on, get out of my sight!’

Mavis grabbed her still sodden coat, crying too as she dashed out of the house. She began to run, faster and faster as though trying to escape the terrible news. Gran couldn’t be dying! She just couldn’t!

Lily heard the front door slam, but didn’t care. All she cared about was her mother. The past couple of months had been hell and almost more than she could bear. If it hadn’t been for the money that Ron sent and Mavis’s scant earnings, it would have been impossible. At least she hadn’t had to worry about finding stock and selling it. Instead she’d been able to spend every possible hour with her mother, looking after her, making sure her pain relief was increased, until four days ago when it had become impossible for her to remain at home.

Before she’d gone into hospital, how her mother had been able to put on such a front when Mavis called round was beyond Lily, but rally she did. And how her daughter could be so naïve was beyond Lily too. She must have seen her grandmother fading away before her eyes, but the stupid girl had believed their story of an ulcer. An ulcer! God, if only it was that! Oh, Mum, why did you leave it so long before you saw a doctor? Why did you wait until it was too late? And when you found out—why didn’t you tell me?

Lily knew the answer. As usual her mother had been trying to protect her. Misguided love, that’s what it was. If only her mother had told her when she’d been diagnosed. Lily groaned. She could have spent more time with her mother, but all she’d done was to pop round every day, too busy to make it a long visit. Yes, and if she hadn’t been so busy, so trapped in trying to make enough to pay the rent every week, maybe she would’ve seen what was right in front of her eyes. Why! Why hadn’t she taken more notice of her mother’s weight loss?

When she’d found out the truth, Lily had begged her mother to move in with her, but she’d stubbornly refused. It would have made things so much easier and she could have nursed her mother at night too, but she wouldn’t even allow that, nor her suggestion that she and Mavis move in with her. Instead her close friend and fellow widow next door had taken on that role, until, finally, she became so racked with pain that the doctor had insisted she be admitted to hospital.

Lily dashed a hand across her eyes. There was little time left, she knew that, and as soon as Mavis came home she’d go to the hospital again. Mavis, yes, she’d sent her daughter off with a flea in her ear, and now Lily felt a surge of guilt. She shouldn’t have taken it out on Mavis. It wasn’t her fault, but all that fuss about a silly painting had been the last straw.

Had Mavis gone to Mrs Pugh’s? Lily didn’t know, but seeing how devastated her daughter had been, she doubted it. Mavis knew the truth now, so maybe she should think about taking her to the hospital, but how would her mother react?

‘Mavis, what is it?’ Edith asked as the girl staggered over the doorstep. Her coat was wet, filthy with mud, and her hair hung around her face like rats’ tails.

‘Oh, Mrs Pugh. My … my gran’s dying.’

Edith placed an arm around Mavis’s shoulder, gently leading her through to the kitchen as she murmured, ‘How awful for you. I’m so sorry, my dear. Sit there and tell me all about it.’

Mavis slumped onto a fireside chair, and, though the spring days were warmer than the preceding harsh winter, Edith had a small fire burning. The cold was no friend to her pain and it would be a long time yet before her hearth was left empty of the comforting flames.

At first Mavis could barely speak, but gradually the story emerged. ‘I … I thought she was just in hospital for a small operation. Oh, Mrs Pugh, I can’t believe she’s dying.’