On Tuesday, Charles was trying to get the last of everything in place for Hettie to come home. He’d spoken to an agency who, as well as recommending a daily carer, also suggested getting some equipment that would be of help. Amongst other things he’d ordered a commode, which alerted him to the fact that with only a daily carer, there would be nobody to help Hettie if she needed to use the thing during the night. Charles didn’t like the thought of that distasteful task falling on him, so decided to change his mind and employ a night carer too.
It would mean added expense, but without a mistress with expensive tastes he could now afford it. He was still angry with Jessica, fuming that she had made a fool of him, and had decided not to replace her. He’d sell the flat, and with the property market doing well, he expected to make a considerable profit.
When the telephone rang at eleven-thirty he answered it, frowning as he listened, and then went to get his coat. ‘Constance,’ he called.
‘Yes, Daddy,’ she said, appearing in the hall.
‘I have to go the hospital. Your mother has developed a chest infection’
‘Oh, no, does that mean she won’t be home tomorrow?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘Her consultant has asked to see me.’
‘Please, can I come with you?’
‘No. If your mother has taken a turn for the worse I don’t want her upset.’
Constance looked desolated, but Charles didn’t soften, only saying, ‘Tell Cook not to prepare lunch for me,’ and with that he hurried out.
Constance was distracted as she finished getting ready to see Albie. She was worried about her mother and wished she could put him off, but maybe going out for a while would give her something else to think about until her father returned.
She was aware of the changes to her body and all her clothes were tight now. She had to leave the button undone on the waist of her grey skirt and to hide this she wore a navy-blue jumper, though it too was a bit tight. She brushed her hair, wishing it was a prettier colour, and applied some pink lipstick.
She wondered what sort of welcome she’d get from Albie’s mother, and doubted it would be as nice as the one she’d received from Ethel and Mary yesterday. They had been pleased to see her, ushering her in and proudly showing her their flat. It had seemed small to her, but it was lovely to see them so happy. She’d cut her visit short, though she would have liked to stay longer, but she needed to go to the loo, and the thought of using the dreadful outside lavatory had filled her with dismay. Instead, to spare their feelings, Constance had held on and had left rather hastily. They’d told her to call in at any time and Constance knew that it was an invitation she would often take up, though she’d make sure she used the toilet before visiting next time.
At noon the doorbell rang and she ran downstairs, saying as she opened it, ‘Hello, Albie. Do come in.’
‘Hello. You look nice, but as you’ll be riding on the back of my scooter you’ll need a warm coat and a scarf or something to tie around your hair.’
‘All right, I’ll find one,’ she said, and as she had never been on a scooter before she wondered what it would be like. ‘I can only stay out for a couple of hours. My mother is unwell and I want be here when my father comes home from the hospital, to find out how she is.’
‘Yeah, fine,’ he readily agreed.
When they left, Constance climbed onto the back of the scooter and when Albie sped off, she wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging on as if her life depended on it. Though frightened at first, she then found the ride exhilarating, the cold wind stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water. When they at last arrived outside his house she climbed off, smiling widely. ‘That was wonderful,’ she exclaimed.
‘Blimey, it doesn’t take much to please you, but you look frozen. Come on, let’s get inside.’
‘Hello,’ Constance said shyly to the woman who stood up to greet them.
‘Hello, love. I’m Dora and it’s nice to meet you. You look cold, so come and sit by the fire.’
Constance relaxed a little. Dora seemed nice. What surprised her though was the size of the room. It seemed tiny, and apart from a small Christmas tree and some paper garlands, drab, with old, worn furniture, the chair she’d been offered threadbare. ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the seat.
‘Chuck your coat on the back of that chair, and can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’ Dora asked.
‘Tea would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘Blimey, you don’t ’arf sound posh,’ Dora said. ‘I can’t see you fitting in around here.’
‘She’ll have to, Mum.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Dora replied, then left the room to return shortly after, carrying two cups of tea. She handed one to Constance. ‘Here you are. I had a pot ready made for when you arrived.’
‘Thank you,’ Constance said.
Albie laughed. ‘All you’ve said since you got here is mostly “Thank you.”’
‘Give the girl a chance,’ Dora admonished. ‘Get that tea down you, Constance, and I’ll show you around. Not that there’s much to see.’
Constance managed to swallow the strong, sugarless brew and then rose to her feet to follow Dora into a tiny kitchen. There was just a cooker, sink and a couple of cupboards, the window looking out onto a small back yard. ‘It … it’s very nice,’ she said politely.
‘We’re lucky,’ Dora said as she led her upstairs. ‘We’ve got an indoor bathroom and toilet. It’s between the bedrooms. That’s my room there, and you’ll be sharing this one with Albie.’
Constance tried not to look appalled. Everything she had seen was spotlessly clean, but so small. She noted the two single beds in Albie’s room, and at least felt some relief. It meant they wouldn’t be sharing a bed and for that she was grateful.
‘How have you been carrying the baby?’ Dora asked when they went back downstairs. ‘Have you had any morning sickness?’
‘No, none.’
‘You’re lucky. I was vomiting every morning with Albie.’
‘Oh dear, that sounds awful,’ Constance said.
‘Blimey, Mum, can you talk about something else,’ Albie urged. ‘It’s enough to put me off me dinner.’
‘Yeah, sorry, son,’ Dora said and then looked at Constance. ‘Him and his weak stomach.’
Constance was surprised, but then there was so much she didn’t know about Albie. She wondered what his taste was in music, and doubted it was the same as hers. She loved the classics, Debussy, Beethoven, Chopin and many others. Somehow she felt that Albie would be more into pop or jazz, but didn’t ask him. It was something she’d find out as time went by.
‘Have you two given any thought to what the baby will need?’ Dora asked.
‘Leave it out, Mum. There’s plenty of time for that.’
‘You’ll be surprised at how quickly the months pass, and you should start stocking up. You’ll need terry nappies, vests, nighties, cardigans and pram sets to name a few things, let alone the bigger stuff like a pram and a cot. Can you knit, Constance?’
‘No, I’m afraid not, Mrs Jones.’
‘Less of the Mrs Jones. Dora is fine. I suppose I’d better get my knitting needles out and make a start on some bits and bobs.’
‘Thank you. That is so kind.’
‘Bloomin’ ’eck, I still can’t get over how polite you are. Still, no doubt as we’ll be living together I’ll get used to it.’
‘It’s lovely of you to offer us a home.’
‘Yeah, well, Albie said you don’t know how to cook and clean, let alone tackle the washing and ironing. I’ll do my best to show you how, and as long as you pull your weight, I’ll be happy.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘That’s good enough for me. Now then, do you want another cuppa?’
‘No, thank you,’ Constance said and as they went on to talk about other things, the neighbourhood, the shops, the park, she tried to show an interest but in reality she just wanted to find out how her mother was. Eventually she said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m worried about my mother and really need to go home now.’
‘Albie said something about her having a stroke and I was sorry to hear that.’
‘My father was called to the hospital this morning as she has a chest infection.’
‘Blimey, poor cow. Well, love, I hope she soon gets over it.’
‘Thank you,’ Constance said as she put on her coat and scarf.
‘Come on then,’ Albie said, hovering by the street door.
‘Goodbye, Dora, and it was lovely to meet you.’
‘It was nice to meet you too. Come again to see me. Maybe next week?’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ Constance said, and then gave a small wave as she followed Albie outside. Her eyes briefly roamed the street, and then over Albie’s terraced house, wondering what it would be like living there. She saw a curtain twitch in next door’s window and remembered the same thing happening the last time she was here. People seemed to be nosy, watching everything that went on in the street, and no doubt she and Albie would be a source of gossip.
‘Come on, girl, get a move on,’ Albie urged.
Constance climbed on behind him, putting thoughts of living in Kibble Street from her mind, and focused on news of her mother.
Charles was worried and in a low mood when he returned home. After all the years they’d been married, and watching his cold wife turn to alcohol, he hadn’t thought he still harboured any feeling for Hettie. However, after speaking to the consultant, he feared the worst and found himself greatly upset.
When he pulled up outside his house, he saw Constance getting off a motor scooter, her wave jaunty as Albert Jones drove off. His mood, already low, turned to anger and no sooner had they both gone inside than he turned on his daughter when she asked, ‘How’s Mummy?’
‘Don’t pretend you care,’ he thundered. ‘You were out, obviously enjoying yourself without a thought for your mother.’
‘That isn’t true. Albie took me to meet his mother, that’s all.’
‘That could have waited.’
‘I needed something to fill my mind, Daddy. Something to stop me constantly fretting until you came home. Please, tell me how Mummy is.’
Charles could see the tears close to the surface in his daughter’s eyes and slumped. He knew he was taking his fears and angst out on her – knew that deep down a part of him blamed Constance for Hettie’s stroke. ‘I spoke to your mother’s consultant and there are concerns that in her weakened condition the chest infection might turn to pneumonia.’
‘Oh no … no … Granddad died of pneumo—’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Charles cut in. ‘However, your mother is in the best place, and is being treated with antibiotics. She is also dehydrated so is on a fluid drip.’
‘Why is she dehydrated?’
‘Because she’s been refusing to drink.’
‘But why?’
‘I have no idea, perhaps because it isn’t gin,’ he said, then immediately regretted it. He was distraught, and though worried sick about Hettie, he was angry that she wasn’t fighting to survive. ‘I’m going to my study now, and I don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Can I get you anything, tea, coffee?’
‘No, I just want to be left in peace,’ Charles said, knowing that he was close to breaking down and that was something he would never do in front of his daughter, or anyone else. He’d been raised to keep a stiff upper lip in all circumstances, and he fought to do just that.