Hannah felt near to tears as she gazed down at the note in Kenny’s handwriting. Then she looked at the baby as she suckled Dolly’s breast. ‘So how much was it?’
‘Two florins! Yer could have knocked me down with a feather!’ Dolly rocked gently in the old rocker. Small and curvaceous, she was untidily dressed, her blouse hanging outside a brown skirt which dipped where the hem had come unstitched. Her thick chestnut hair was twisted in a knot on top of her head but tendrils of hair had come loose and hung over her ears. ‘But if they think they’re going to get her away from me for two florins they’re much mistaken. Aren’t they, me lovely?’ She kissed the baby’s red-gold curls.
‘Now, Dolly me duck, don’t yous be talking like that. She’s not yer babby, and yer’ve got to think about what your fella’s going to say when he comes back from India with the army,’ said Granny, from the other side of the fireplace. The old woman looked worried as she drew on her clay pipe, her wrinkled face reminding Hannah of a spider’s web as her mouth pursed. ‘I’d like to know where Mal is in all this,’ continued the old woman. ‘It’s a mystery to me. I can’t see him being behind putting thank you notes with money through my front door. Has Kenny done this off his own bat? If so, how can he afford it? Does Alice have any part in it? One thing’s for sure, in my opinion, there’s no intention at the moment to take the babby away from us yet, otherwise they’d be here in person.’
‘It is a mystery. You’re right!’ said Hannah, slamming one fist into the open hand that held the note, creasing it. ‘But if Kenny could write this to you, then why can’t he write to me? I helped him to learn to write. We were close. He must know something of what’s happening in our house. Someone must have told him. Surely he can’t be far away if this note was delivered by hand.’ Her grey-blue eyes were bewildered and angry.
‘You’re right there,’ said Dolly with a sniff.
Granny removed the pipe from her mouth and scowled. ‘Someone else could have delivered it and the pair of yer are forgettin’ what he’s bin through. Lost his stepmother, doesn’t know where Alice is, and’s recovering from a bullyin’ violent father and being beaten up by Bert.’
Hannah stared at her, then nodded and said slowly, ‘You’re right. Alice must have told him about the baby before they got split up. We were especially careful to keep it from Mr Moran, so I doubt he knows. He’s gone to ground somewhere – maybe Liverpool, who knows – and he could still be frightening Alice to death.’
Granny nodded. ‘Difficult to find anyone in Liverpool if they want to lose themselves.’
‘If only she could write to me and let me know how she’s going on,’ sighed Hannah.
‘Well, it seems she can’t,’ said Dolly, gently removing her nipple from the baby’s mouth, and putting the child over her shoulder and patting her small back. ‘So yer’ll just have to hope that Kenny is still looking for her… and if he writes again, that he’ll tell us any news he has.’
Granny nodded. ‘I think he will write again now he’s broken the ice. Likely send us more money… as for this money…’ She beamed at her granddaughter and the baby, ‘we use it to make our Christmas and the babby’s a merry one.’
Hannah agreed, while hoping that Kenny would think again and write to her next.
But a whole week passed and no letter had arrived for Hannah. It was Sunday morning in the Kirk household and Bert was reading aloud from the newspaper. Apparently in America, one of two brothers called Wright had managed to get a heavier than air powered flying machine, carrying a man, to fly a distance of eight hundred and fifty feet in fifty-nine seconds. ‘That’s some engineering feat, Dah,’ he said, looking across at his father, who was gazing moodily into the fire.
‘A Yorkshire man flew before the Americans did,’ said Hannah, placing the flat iron on the fire to heat up. ‘I remember Dah telling us years ago that he was a baronet,’ she added, her face screwed up with concentration.
‘That’s right, lass,’ said Jock, glancing up with sudden interest. ‘Sir George Cayley. He started with models of whalebone, string and feathers and went on to make toy gliders, tackling the problems of forward propulsion and lift before planning an internal combustion engine to provide power. It was his coachman, who actually made the first manned flight… Sir George being seventy-nine by the time he developed his ideas. It flew two hundred yards right across Brompton Vale and the coachman climbed out the wreckage and gave notice.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ said Joy, looking up from the stocking she was darning. ‘If we were meant to fly, Dah, God would have given us wings.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Hannah firmly. ‘What I love about history is the way you can see how mankind’s developed. Machines have made life easier for people. Just think of the train and how it brings the tourists in and the farmers and their wives to market.’
‘I’d like a puffer engine for Christmas,’ said Freddie, glancing up from the wooden blocks his father had made him last year.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ murmured Hannah, taking a scorched rag and lifting the iron from the fire. ‘There’s no money in the kitty for engines.’
Jock looked at her, cleared his throat and said gruffly, ‘I’ll give ye an extra ten shillings, lass.’
Hannah smiled her thanks, thinking she could buy a little toy for each of the younger ones, and it meant she wouldn’t run up too much of a bill at the corner shop. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to get a wooden engine. Freddie would just have to make do with something else, a couple of lead soldiers perhaps, and a couple of skipping ropes for the girls. There wasn’t going to be anything in her own stocking but the best present she could have would be for her mother to be her old self again.
On Christmas Day, Hannah was feeling in an optimistic mood. Late last night, Agnes from the bakery had called round with a bun-loaf and mince pies, as well as a shilling; these were gifts from Mrs Bannister, her previous boss, who said she would be happy to have her back any time. Hannah was truly grateful and determined to go in person and thank her after Christmas.
She suggested that Jock and Bert help Susannah downstairs, so she could join them in the breast of lamb hotpot dinner she had made. ‘If she can sit and eat her dinner up there then surely she can eat it down here?’ she said firmly, having thought long and hard about the idea. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her back now. Just because she’s not right in her head, it doesn’t mean that she has to stay in that room. She’s going to lose the use of her legs if she doesn’t start moving herself.’
‘Hold on, lass,’ said Jock, running a hand through his hair and frowning. ‘It’s not me stopping her. I’ve tried to persuade her to do things but she just looks through me or turns away.’
‘I think you’re best leaving her where she is for dinner,’ said Bert. ‘She’ll find it noisy down here with the kids.’ He fingered his fledgling moustache. ‘Perhaps later in the day when the kids go out to play, we could try it. I think she’s got used to the peace and quiet in the bedroom. It’s restful with the fire glowing and nobody else disturbing you.’
‘Nice to have nothing else to do but read the newspaper when you’re up there with Mother,’ said Hannah tartly. ‘And having a second fire in the house costs money.’
Bert looked pained. ‘It’s hard work reading aloud. You want to try it.’
‘There’s nothing I’d like better.’ Her hands went to her hips and her eyes sparkled. ‘But it’s me that has the job of helping her wash her hair, carrying up trays and keeping the fire going, as well as a hundred other things in this house.’
‘Leave off!’ said Jock, his fists clenching. ‘Don’t let’s argue on Christmas Day. I’ll carry her down if she’s not up to walking. Noise or not, it just might be the right thing to get her going again.’
So the decision was made and, an hour later, Jock went upstairs and entered the bedroom. Susannah was sitting up against the pillows, that faraway expression in her eyes that so disturbed him. He felt nervous. Where did she go in her head when she looked like that? He took several deep breaths, and glanced about the room, wondering how his elder son could find it so peaceful with his mother the way she was. Jock wished he could find some peace of mind but it was getting so that he couldn’t sleep nights. He just couldn’t understand why his wife turned away from him the way she did. It wasn’t as if he had ever been violent towards her.
He went over to the bed. ‘Mother, I’m going to take yer downstairs. It’s Christmas day and ye should be with me and the children.’ He did not look her in the face but drew back the bedcovers to reveal her small, round body in an off-white flannelette nightgown. She looked like a little dumpling, having put on weight with lying in bed so long and eating well.
He reached down for her. One muscular arm going about her shoulders, the other beneath her buttocks. He had her attention. Her expression was startled, frightened. ‘No need to look like that,’ he muttered, hoisting her into his arms. With one hand she clung to his shirt but with the other she hit out at him, catching him a blow on the chin. He tried to ignore her action but then she lashed out at him with both hands, slashing his face with her fingernails. His face stung like billyo!
For a minute or so he took the blows and then something snapped inside him. He flung her onto the bed. ‘Yer bitch!’ he yelled. ‘Bloody stay there if that’s what yer want. But yer’ll be spending yer nights alone in future. I’ve had enough! Yer can rot for all I care.’ He took hold of the bedcovers and dragged them up so that they covered her completely, before leaving her alone.
He stormed downstairs, took his coat from the hook in the lobby and left the house. He walked swiftly, having no idea where he was going, but with the intention of putting as much space between him and the house as he could. At the bottom of Brook Street, he crossed Cow Lane Bridge and headed towards the city centre. He went along Frodsham Street and turned in the direction of the Eastgate, now a favourite meeting place for young lovers since the clock on top of the wall had been erected to celebrate the old queen’s Diamond Jubilee. As he looked up at it he collided with a woman.
‘Look where you’re going,’ she said, clutching her hat.
He looked down and recognised the widow Taylor, the Morans’ former neighbour. ‘Sorry!’ His voice was gruff.
She lifted her face to him and before he could carry on walking, took hold of his sleeve. ‘Mr Kirk! Your face is bleeding and you look upset. Is something wrong?’
‘Bloody everything!’ he said, then begged her pardon.
‘That’s all right.’ She squeezed his arm, her expression sympathetic. ‘Mrs Kirk no better?’ He shook his head. ‘It must be terrible for you, especially at Christmas-time.’ He nodded, still unable to speak. Then she said hesitantly, ‘At any other time I wouldn’t suggest this but, with it being Christmas day – I wonder if you’d like to join me in a drink?’ Jock was so taken aback that his mouth fell open. A delicate pink coloured her cheeks. ‘I shouldn’t have asked,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s not a very lady-like thing to do, asking a gentleman out for a drink.’
A gentleman! She thought him a gentleman! She didn’t look at him like he was a monster. The tightness in his throat eased. Jock only ever drank on special occasions such as Hogmanay. But wasn’t Christmas such an occasion? ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’
Her smile dazzled him. ‘It’s me that should thank you. Christmas is a very lonely time for me since my husband passed over.’
‘Ye don’t have to live on yer own to be lonely.’
She stared at him fixedly and then surprised him by saying, ‘Let me wipe away that blood.’
The feather in her hat tickled his chin as she bent her head and opened her bag. She took out a handkerchief and dampened a corner of it with her tongue. Then she took hold of his jaw and dabbed the dried blood with the linen. The swell of her breasts brushed against his chest. He felt a rippling sensation in the pit of his stomach. He had been a faithful husband for a long time. That wasn’t to say he had never looked at another woman and let his imagination run riot, but that was as far as it went. Yet here he was thinking things about this lonely widow. Not that he would do anything, he assured himself. Even so, when he remembered his wife attacking him, there was nothing more he wanted at that moment than to try and forget all about her.
She replaced the handkerchief inside her bag and slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. ‘The name’s Nora. Shall we go? I know a very nice place not so far away that’s open for a few select customers.’
For an instant he felt uncomfortable with her suggestion, then he thought, What the Hell! Didn’t he deserve some fun after working bloody hard for months on end, not to mention handing over his wage packet for more bloody years than he cared to think about? Very few men did that. He would make it up to Hannah and the kids another day.
The raised voice, the thunderous sound of their father’s boots on the stairs, and the slamming of the front door, sent Hannah and Bert dashing upstairs. They found their mother struggling with the bedclothes. Hannah helped her sort them out and then the pair of them hoisted her up against the pillow.
‘Are you all right, Mother?’ they chorused.
She sighed and closed her eyes. Bert sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand, squeezing it. Hannah willed her to speak and tell them what had happened to set their dah shouting and dashing out of the house. But her mother just carried on lying there with her eyes closed, freeing little sighs.
There was a scuffling sound outside the bedroom door that caused Hannah to whirl round, hoping her father had returned. ‘Is Mother going to get up?’ asked Grace.
‘It doesn’t look like it to me,’ said Joy, giving Susannah a sad glance. ‘Perhaps we’d best go ahead and have dinner without the pair of them. It’s not like Dah to lose his temper but he can eat when he gets back.’
Hannah nodded. She was frustrated that her plan hadn’t worked and upset that it was the first time that the whole family had not sat down together for Christmas dinner. But she decided there was nothing for it but to do as Joy suggested. So they all went downstairs.
It just didn’t feel like Christmas, thought Hannah, as she gazed at her brothers and sisters gathered around the table. Bert suggested they say grace and pray for their parents, which they did, before the younger ones fell on the food. He took his mother’s dinner up but did not linger. As soon as the meal was over, the girls asked if they could go out and play with the skipping ropes. Hannah said that they would have to help her with the dishes first. Bert, however, went out.
Jock and Bert were both back in time for tea, which consisted of the mince pies and sliced bun-loaf. Immediately he entered the kitchen, Hannah could smell the alcohol on her father’s breath, although he wasn’t staggering about as if worse for drink.
‘Where’ve you been, Dah?’ she asked, taking his dinner out of the oven.
‘Ask no questions and ye get told no lies.’
The words were only slightly slurred. He pulled out a chair and lowered himself onto it, reached for his knife and fork, and beamed round the table at his children.
‘You all right, Dah?’ asked Joy.
‘Mother not joining us?’ asked Jock.
Hannah stared at her father. Had he forgotten? His mind wasn’t going, too, was it? ‘Not today,’ she murmured.
‘Not any bloody day if ye ask me,’ said Jock mildly. ‘But that’s her loss. We’ll just have to carry on as we have been. I never thought we’d manage but we’re not doing too badly, are we, me wee bairns?’
‘No, Dah!’ chorused his younger daughters, and reached for more cake.
Hannah glanced at Bert. A faint smile played about his lips as he returned her look and, suddenly, she felt extremely uneasy. If their father was going to take to drink, what would happen to them?
Christmas and New Year were over and January had passed with no change in Susannah. In the February newspapers, the Irish Nationalist leader, Redmond, was calling for Home Rule. There had been another form sent to Dolly for the baby, who had now been given a name – Matilda – as suggested in the letter from Kenny. Why couldn’t he write to her? wondered Hannah as she ladled out the porridge and avoided looking at her elder brother.
Last night Bert had come into their bedroom. Grace and Joy were asleep but Hannah had too much on her mind. Still, some inner voice had told her to pretend to be asleep as she sensed him looming over the bed. It had seemed an eternity before he left the room. She wanted to plead with her father to open his eyes and see that Bert was trying to usurp his position, but Jock wasn’t the one for conversation at the breakfast table these days.
Most nights he went out after supper, coming in well after she had gone to bed. Hannah had found a blanket and pillow downstairs on the sofa yesterday morning, so obviously he was no longer sleeping with Mother. Hannah had asked him a week or so ago where he was going and he told that it was just for a walk, but who in their right minds would do such a thing these cold, foggy February evenings?
He was holding back money, too. She guessed he was drinking of a Saturday, because Sunday mornings he had a bad head. She was going to have to get him to listen to her, though, because they were in debt to the corner shop. Mrs Jones had taken pity on her at first but now she wanted the bill paid in full.
Hannah had no idea how she had run up such an amount and had been too scared to tell her father; now she had no choice. Besides, she needed extra money to buy more coal. If only she had someone she could confide in about Bert and money. She could talk to Granny Popo about her sisters and how they were getting hard to handle but that was all. Still, the old woman did come and sit with Susannah and talk to her as if she was taking in every word. She told her how the baby was coming along and it was obvious the old woman loved the bones of the child.
At first Hannah had felt embarrassed by the way Granny Popo provided Susannah’s answers when she talked to her. On those occasions Hannah would hold her breath and pray for her mother to speak up and say that wasn’t what she thought at all. The thought popped into Hannah’s head that, perhaps, she should be taking a leaf out of the old woman’s book by at least talking to her mother more. She had got out of the habit in the last few months, feeling that it was a waste of time.
So now she sat sideways on the bed and took Susannah’s hand in hers. ‘Mother, I just hate it when you lie there and say nothing. I want you to get up and be your old self. I’ve got myself into debt and need your advice. I can’t handle things the way you could.’
Susannah stared at her daughter but remained silent.
Hannah wanted to weep. What’s wrong with her, God? What good is it to you or anyone her being like this? Do something if you’re up there! She tried again with her mother. ‘I get the housework and cooking done with no trouble now and since Freddie turned four, suddenly he seems to be dry most nights. He no longer cries for you and, although that’s good in one way, in another it saddens me. I need you back. Dah needs you. He’s changing and it scares me. Please, come back to us! Please!’
No response.
Hannah got up, resisting the urge to shake and yell at her mother to pull herself together. Her patience was fraying and she knew she had to get out of the room.
That evening, as soon as Jock and Bert came in from work, Hannah brought up the subject of money. She was glad the younger ones were playing in the street. A whole gang of kids had gathered under a lamp-post; having thrown a rope over one of the bars, they were now using it as a swing.
She took a deep breath, ‘Dah, I need more housekeeping money. I have to buy extra coal because of the two fires and Freddie needs new boots. Bert doesn’t give me anything. He must get some money, although I know he doesn’t get much, him still being an apprentice, but I’m not a miracle worker who can turn thin air into money. I owe the corner shop and Mrs Jones wants her money. Speak to him.’
Bert frowned. ‘Just because I had a birthday not so long ago and had a rise it doesn’t mean I have to hand that over to you. We know you’re doing your best but if it isn’t good enough then don’t be blaming me.’
Her cheeks flamed. ‘It’s not my fault! You always were no good at adding up.’ She turned to her father, her arms folded across her chest. ‘Dah, you know Mother had all your wages and mine. It is true I can’t manage as well as her but then it was her job. I haven’t had her to teach me and am having to learn as I go along and on less money. And as I said, it takes more coal with her stuck up there in the bedroom.’
Jock sighed heavily and got up from the chair. ‘I’ll give ye another half a crown. Bert, yer’ll give Hanny your rise.’
Bert’s handsome face mirrored his dismay. ‘Good God, Dah! I’ll never manage. I buy Mother little treats with that money, I don’t want to stop doing that.’
For a moment Jock was lost for words. There were times when an overwhelming guilt dragged him down and he told himself he had to end the affair with Nora. He wriggled his shoulders. ‘It’s either that or she has no fire up there,’ he muttered. ‘She needs that comfort.’
‘We all need some comfort, Dah. But I’ll do what you say.’ Bert smiled at Hannah, reached into his pocket and took out tuppence and handed it to her. She thanked him. He bowed slightly before sitting at the table and spreading out that evening’s newspaper and began to read aloud about the possibility of fighting breaking out between Russia and Japan because both wanted control of trade in Korea and Manchuria.
Jock pressed half a crown onto Hannah’s palm and then went down the yard. He was avoiding going upstairs as much as possible. The less he saw of his wife, the easier it was to deaden that voice in his head that told him he was behaving very badly.
As Hannah fried fish to go with the potatoes and peas for their supper, she felt a victory had been gained. She still had the worry of paying off the debt but was hoping Mrs Jones would accept the half crown on account and agree the same payment for the next few weeks. But she didn’t know what to do about boots for Freddie, and tuppence wouldn’t go far to pay for the extra coal. She had no idea if her mother had been in a boot club. She had heard such a thing mentioned in the queue at the fishmonger’s the other day. If her mother didn’t have money in that, perhaps she had some rainy day money hidden away? She had always managed to produce boots and coats when it was an absolute necessity.
As soon as Bert and Jock went out after supper and her younger siblings were in bed, Hannah went into her parents’ bedroom. She gazed at the silent humped shape in the bed, silhouetted in the firelight. Feeling guilty about what she planned, Hannah hoped her mother was asleep. She knew it would be more sensible to search the room in daylight but she did not want to wait. Systematically she went through the chest of drawers and the old fashioned wardrobe that had belonged to her grandmother, feeling for coins. She did not bother with the linen in the cupboard at the side of the fireplace because that was washed and ironed regularly. On the shelves on the other side she found a box of letters, cards and faded sepia photographs that she vaguely remembered her mother showing her when she was younger, but there was no money there. She felt inside the matching flower-painted vases on the fireplace and in the glass powder bowl on the chest of drawers. Not a farthing!
Hannah straightened up, depressed. Then as from nowhere, she remembered Kenny slitting the chair cushion that dreadful day when everything had gone wrong in their lives and wondered whether he had been searching for money for his father. Where were they all? She felt that overwhelming sense of hurt and anger that he could send money to Dolly in a letter, but not write to her. She wished she could forget him.
She carried on with her search, double checking places until, much to her relief, she found money sewn in the hem of an old skirt, belonging to her mother, right at the back of the wardrobe. As she undid the stitching and counted the coins she had a sense of being watched. She whirled round but her mother was still curled up in the bed, eyes closed. Perhaps it was guilt that made her feel the way she did but it was stupid to feel guilty and she had to suppress it. Every worker needed the tools to do a job properly, she reasoned. She finished counting and hid the money in her underwear. She did not wait for her father and brother to come home but went to bed. Immediately she fell into a deep sleep.
At first she thought it was a dream when a voice whispered, ‘Time for you to earn that money, Hanny.’
She thought of her mother’s rainy day nest egg. ‘No!’ she said sleepily.
‘Oh yes!’
‘No. She’d understand.’ Hannah struggled to wake up but it was as if there was a weight on top of her keeping her down. She couldn’t breathe, was suffocating. She fought her way out of the darkness, woke, gasping. Her legs were spread-eagled and her nightdress was up round her thighs. Terrified, she would have cried out but a hand covered her mouth.
‘Shush now, Hanny! You don’t want to wake the girls. Best we keep this to ourselves, luv.’ She recognised her brother’s coaxing tone, could smell his hair cream and feel the rough flannelette of his nightshirt against her midriff. And oh, my God, she could feel something else as well.
‘Oh, let me go, please let me go, Bert! I’ll give you the money back,’ she babbled against his hand, and attempted to push him off.
‘Don’t do that, Hanny!’ he whispered, his apology for a moustache brushing her ear. ‘I don’t want to get angry and hurt you – and, honestly, to tell you the truth this is well worth the money – at least I know no one else has had you.’
Panicking utterly, she fought him but it was no use. He smothered her scream with his hand. The smell of the peppermint drops he liked to suck filled her nostrils as his breath came in gasps. Then he sighed and collapsed in a heap, almost squashing the breath out of her.
She did not want to believe what had happened had taken place. How could Bert do such a thing to her? He knew it was wrong. Scared silly her sisters might wake and remembering what her mother had told her when she had started with the curse, she thumped him on the shoulder and kicked at his legs. He groaned and slid off her. She pushed him onto the floor where he lay in his nightshirt. She wanted to kick him and kick him where he lay but she knew she had to act quickly.
Dragging her nightgown between her legs and clutching it there, she managed to get downstairs without falling. She prayed her father would not wake up. Feeling dreadful, she threw up in the sink and then sluiced the mess away and washed herself underneath repeatedly. Tears ran down her cheeks. She wanted to kill her brother. He had committed a terrible sin. How could you let this happen to me, God? What are you playing at? What is it you’ve got against our family?
She wanted her mother to hold her and tell her everything would be all right but there was no comfort to be had from that silent figure upstairs. And how could she tell her father what had happened? She couldn’t stay here, but what if Bert was still in her bedroom? He might do it again. The horror engendered by what had taken place chilled her from top to toe. Then she remembered her sisters and, scared that Bert might do something to them, knew that she had to go back upstairs. As Hannah went past the sofa, she peered through the gloom, holding her breath, hoping Jock had not heard her. Then she realised he was not there. She picked up the blanket and pillow but no one lay there. Perhaps he had gone the lavatory. No! She wasn’t thinking straight. He would have had to pass her. Maybe he had heard something upstairs and gone to see what it was.
He was not in their mother’s room. The door was ajar to the girls’ bedroom but, thank God, there was no sign of Bert. Shivering, she climbed into bed, worrying over her father’s whereabouts. She could not sleep for thinking about what Bert had done and wondering where Jock could be. So it was, she heard the clock downstairs strike six and someone enter the house.
How she was able to behave normally when she got up, Hannah had no idea. It was as if she was watching another self perform her tasks. Maybe it was the same for her father, she thought, watching him eat his salt fish. Where had he been last night? And how was she to face her brother? Her insides quivered just thinking of him.
When Bert finally got up, Jock had already left the house, saying as it was Sunday, he was going for a walk. Hannah did her best to avoid meeting her elder brother’s eyes. He was humming a hymn tune. How could he be such a hypocrite? She tried to concentrate on listening to her sisters’ chattering while she washed and dressed Freddie but, even so, she sensed Bert watching her. What was going on in his mind? He had said about knowing no one else had ever been with her, did that mean he had been with girls of easy virtue? She was frightened to be alone with him in the house. Her mother did not count. She came to a decision, placed the meat in the oven and went out with her sisters and Freddie to the park.
The fresh air made Hannah feel better but her thoughts were in confusion and she felt icy when she thought about what men and women did to have a child. Bert had ruined such a relation for her. She felt soiled, unclean. She would never marry. If her mother remained the way she was, it was doubtful she would anyway. As the eldest daughter, Hannah knew where her duty lay.
That night she could not sleep, fearful Bert would sneak into the bedroom again and force himself upon her. She wanted to move the chest of drawers against the door but could not manage that alone and besides her sisters would ask questions and what answers could she give them? She slid out of bed and put a chair there, and thought of placing one of her mother’s hatpins under the pillow. She did not expect to be rescued by her father. He was up to something. Maybe he had joined a card game. She did not want to think he might be out spending his money on a woman of ill repute. No! She was wicked even to consider such a thing.
She could not sleep, starting at every sound, but Bert did not come that night. Jock crept into the house just before dawn and at last she fell asleep. It was only when she woke that she remembered it was her seventeenth birthday. Well, there would be no cards or cake. They had all depended on her mother to make a fuss of such events.
Later that morning Hannah went into the corner shop, which her mother had always called a ‘jangling shop’. At least she found pleasure in placing a heap of coins on the counter. ‘I think you’ll find there’s three pounds, two shillings and ninepence, farthing, Mrs Jones.’
The small, thin woman with sharp features turned from weighing out sugar into a blue bag and smiled. ‘There now, girlie, I knew you’d manage it if you had to.’ She scooped up the money. ‘And how’s your mam?’
‘The same. And I’d like a receipt, please, and to see you crossing our name off your book. Then I’d like-’ she rattled off a list which included jam and semolina and a packet of jelly crystals.
She was scrubbing the front step when the postman stopped and held out an envelope to her. ‘Feels like a card, Hanny,’ he smiled.
She dropped the scrubbing brush into the bucket and wiped her hands on the sacking apron and took the envelope from him. She recognised the handwriting immediately. Kenny! Dear God! At last! She tore the envelope in her haste. It was a birthday card. Fancy him remembering, she thought, as she gazed at the red roses and the black lettering wishing A Happy Birthday to a Very Special Person. There was a message.
Dear Hanny,
We’d love you to have a happy birthday and we’d like nothing more than to give our best wishes in person today but this card will have to do. It’s now almost eight months since that terrible day when our mam died and we hope your mother might be a bit better. If you’d like to meet us – how about this Sunday in Grosvenor Park in the ornamental gardens at three o’clock?
Love Alice and Kenny.
‘Oh!’ gasped Hannah, pressing the card to her bosom and then placing it down the front of her apron. Alice and Kenny! Her eyes shone with tears.
‘Nice message, is it?’ called the postman.
‘Yes! Just what the doctor ordered.’ She got up off her knees, picked up the bucket and emptied it down the grid in the gutter. Then stepping over the wet step, she wiped her feet on the coconut mat and ran upstairs to place the card in her underwear drawer.
That afternoon Hannah sang in a tremulous voice as she prepared a hot pot, made a jelly, and a dish of semolina which she placed in the bottom of the oven. It would be lovely with a big spoonful of jam in it. She was not going to think about what Bert had done to her. He wouldn’t get the chance again. She must remember to place the chair under the handle every night. As she set the table, she thought about what to wear on Sunday. After taking a cup of tea to her mother, she and Freddie went for a walk with the intention of meeting the girls from school on the way back.
‘What’s this in aid of?’ asked Bert, letting the semolina drip from his spoon back into his dish. He smiled at her and said in a teasing voice, ‘I hope you’re not wasting that extra money me and Dah gave you.’
She ignored him, gazing at Jock, wondering where he went nights. ‘It’s me birthday, Dah. I thought a little treat for us all would be nice.’
He stared at her, a flush on his cheeks. ‘Bloody hell, lass! Why didn’t yer say earlier? Mother always made a fuss of birthdays.’
Hannah felt uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t want to bother you. You have enough to think about.’
He did not deny that but looked anguished. He dug into his trouser pocket and produced a shilling and reaching across the table, placing it next to her plate. ‘Get yerself a little treat. Ye deserve it. Yer a good lass. I know how difficult it must have been for ye giving up yer work to stay at home with Mother the way she is.’
Hannah thanked him in a husky voice and pocketed her shilling. She would buy a pair of stockings with it because even her best pair had darns in them. Joy suggested they sing Happy Birthday and the two girls and Freddie did. After that the jelly was greeted with rapture by the young ones. Bert even thanked her for allowing them to join in her special day and placed tuppence by her plate. She ignored it.
That evening when she went to bed, her mind full of the card from Kenny and Alice, wondering when they had found each other and what had happened to Mal. Alice had obviously managed to escape him but how had she found Kenny? Well, she would find out soon. She let her mind drift, imagining the moment when she saw them both for the first time in months.
‘So it’s your birthday!’ Bert’s whisper reached her from the bedroom doorway.
Hannah’s heart jerked like a puppet on a string and the blood pounded through her veins. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She had forgotten to place the chair under the doorknob. ‘Go away!’ She attempted to strengthen her voice but it shook.
‘Don’t be like that, Hanny! I’ve got a present for you.’ He moved towards her, his figure dark, bulky and threatening.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ she hissed in a trembling voice, feeling for the hatpin beneath the pillow. She was shaking so much she almost dropped it. As he wrenched the bedcovers from her grasp, she lunged at him with the hatpin. It went through the shirt fabric and into the fleshy part of his upper arm. He yelped. ‘What the hell was that?’ Reaching up he pulled the hatpin out, felt its sharp point with the edge of his thumb. ‘Naughty, naughty! I’m going to have to punish you for that, Hanny luv.’
‘I’ll scream. Dad’ll c-come.’ She was so terrified that she could hardly get the words out.
‘Dad’s not here. He’s got himself a fancy piece. He can’t live without it, you see. Us men are different from you females. He’s taken up with the widow woman who lives next to the Morans’ old house. I followed him one night.’
Hannah did not want to believe it and would have screamed that he was lying, that Dah wouldn’t do such a thing, but Bert must have read her mind. He clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged down the bedcovers, despite his younger sisters’ sleepy protests. Hannah fought him but he hit her across the head so hard her ears rang.
‘What’s going on?’ muttered Grace, attempting to seize her share of the sheet and blankets, yawning and blinking as she did so.
‘Go to sleep, Grace, you’re having a dream,’ said Bert in a gentle voice. ‘Shush now, luv.’ He put his mouth against Hannah’s ear. ‘One word, Hanny, and I’ll do the same to them.’ She believed him.
He removed his hand from her mouth and forced up her nightgown. Then he drew the bedclothes up so they covered them, heads and all. ‘Isn’t this cosy, Hanny?’ he said in a friendly voice.
The sickening scent of hair cream, peppermint and sweat filled Hannah’s nostrils and she wanted to throw up but Bert was pressing down on her and, all the while, humming Happy birthday to you.
Hannah felt as if she was living in a nightmare: only her brother’s threat, that he would do the same to their sisters, was preventing her from throwing herself into the canal, that and the thought of keeping the appointment with Kenny and Alice. She hated her brother, hated him but who was there to stop him? Not her dah certainly. Her brother’s words had shocked her. How could her father have got so close to that widow? She had always kept herself to herself and looked a right prude. Hannah had always considered her father someone special and felt betrayed, as though she had lost something valuable.
Hannah carried a tray into her mother’s room and gazed down at her with a sense of helplessness. Her hair resembled a bird’s nest. It was weeks since she had washed it. She looked like a very old woman instead of middle-aged. If only she could be herself again.
‘Well, here’s your dinner!’ said Hannah brightly. ‘Pea soup I made with a ham bone just like you used to.’ She placed the tray on the chair next to the bed. ‘It’ll be Easter in a few weeks and I don’t know whether to get a piece of ham or a couple of rabbits. I wonder if Dah will be spending the holiday with us, or the widow in the next street? I’d rather it was with us but the atmosphere in this house is so bloody horrible now I can understand him wanting to get out of here but that’s no excuse for him.’ She sank onto the side of the bed and brushed back her mother’s hair. ‘Oh, Mother, please come back to us? I don’t think I can bear much more.’ Her voice broke on a sob.
The woman in the bed stilled and, for a moment, Hannah thought she would speak and held her breath. Then her mother reached for the spoon and began to sup the soup.