Cissie Sheard’s presence in number eleven sent shivers down Cally’s spine. Crouched on her hunkers in the corner opposite the stairs door she observed the sickeningly familiar bustle, remembering.
This was how it had been before, except it wasn’t her mam upstairs. Her mam had gone to heaven. Cissie Sheard had sent her there. Was she about to send Annie? Cally pondered on the possibility and liked it. Perhaps her dad wouldn’t mind either if Annie went to heaven. But maybe he’d be sad if the little baby went too. Cally thought about the baby. Would this one get born? Or would it be like that other baby, the one that killed her mam?
She listened to Gertie Snell and Molly Hamby whispering and giggling in the kitchen, heard the rattle of the sneck on the back door as, every so often, one of them opened then closed it. Unlike her other neighbours these two had formed a close friendship with Annie and were here to support her.
The back door opened again, balmy air wafting into the parlour and Cally’s preoccupation was disrupted by a sudden shriek. Anxious to find out what caused it, she ran into the kitchen.
‘He’s comin’ down t’yard,’ squealed Molly.
‘Shall I give him a pot o’ tea as soon as he comes in,’ twittered Gertie, ‘or do you think he’ll go straight up to Annie?’ Cally watched them dither.
George stepped inside, surprised to find two attractive young women in his kitchen. A roguish smile lit his darkly handsome features. Before he had time to enquire as to the reason for their presence the two girls began to babble, both at the same time.
‘Annie’s havin’ the baby… She’s doin’ rightly… Do you want a pot o’ tea? Is there anythin’ we can get you, George?’
George suavely accepted their felicitations, old habits hard to suppress. He ignored Cally.
Cissie Sheard panted into the kitchen, sat down heavily on the nearest chair and eased off her shoes, rubbing one foot on top of the other. ‘Give us a drop o’ tea, Molly, love,’ she wheezed, ‘I’m fair parched an’ me feet are killin’ me.’
George looked questioningly at Cissie.
Cissie took a long swallow of tea. ‘She’ll not have any bother. This one’ll slide out.’
Her sympathetic expression let George know she was recalling that awful night some nine months before. He nodded to show he understood.
‘Is there anything else we can get you while you’re waiting, George,’ twittered Gertie, anxious to please. Even in his pit muck she still found him attractive.
‘Nowt,’ he said abruptly. ‘There’s nowt I want. I’m off to t’pub. I’ll be back later.’
Without a backward glance he walked out of the kitchen.
Cally smiled a smug little smile. He’d stayed in the house on the night she’d been born; her mam had told her how he’d paced up and down smoking cigarettes, waiting for her, Cally, to arrive. He must have wanted me more than he wants this baby, she thought. It gave her a warm feeling inside and she ran upstairs to bed, huddling under the covers to make it last.
They called the new baby Daisy.
*
Cally deliberately rattled the dishes in the sink, just to annoy Annie.
‘Stop that clattering, and when you’ve finished them pots you can tidy up.’
Cally’s lips curved impishly as she thought of another ploy to irritate Annie. ‘When I’m a bridesmaid at Harriet’s wedding—’ She got no further.
‘Shut it!’ screeched Annie, ‘Don’t mention that trollop’s name again, and don’t keep on about that blasted wedding cos you’re not going.’
Cally, her back to Annie, smirked. She’d heard that a hundred times but she knew that, in the end, Harriet would come to her rescue.
Annie wheeled the pram with Daisy in it into the yard then popped her head back into the kitchen. ‘I’m off to Gertie’s,’ she said.
Cally blinked her surprise. Usually, when Annie ventured out she locked Cally outside until she came back. Now, to her amazement, she was leaving her in the house, alone.
After Annie had left, Cally sped through the chores then sat for a while wondering what to do. She’d never had the house to herself before; it felt strange and exciting.
Suddenly, she knew what she would do, surprised not to have thought of it sooner. A warm shiver of anticipation tingled her spine as she mounted the stairs.
On the landing she dithered outside George and Annie’s bedroom door. She hadn’t been in this room since her mam died, afraid to arouse sad memories, and nervous of trespassing in what was now Annie’s domain.
Cally opened the door and stepped inside, tears pricking her eyes as she breathed in the faint scent of lavender; her mam’s special smell. She could almost feel her mam’s presence as, down on her knees, she rooted in the bottom of the wardrobe; the box was still there, exactly where her mam had always kept it. Cally lifted it, a few quick, nervous steps taking her out of the bedroom, across the landing and into her own room. She set the box on the bed then sat beside it.
Made from some cheap foreign wood embellished with brass corners, this was Ada’s memories box, filled in the flush of happiness in the early years of her marriage to George. ‘It’ll be yours one day, Cally; you can keep your own special memories with mine,’ she had said. Cally gazed fondly at it, wondering what treasures she could store in the box; she didn’t own any special trinkets. Apart from books Ada had bought and read to her, books that Cally treasured all the more now Mam was no longer there to share them with her, she had no precious possessions.
Sorely tempted to open the box and relive Ada’s memories but nervous of Annie’s impending return she got down on her knees, hiding the box behind the books that had been shoved under the bed when Annie first came to share her room. Annie had since moved her clutter into the room she now shared with George but, the second bed still taking up too much space, the books stayed where they were.
Sure in the knowledge that Annie was too lazy to sweep under the bed, Cally sat back on her heels taking comfort in knowing that these special treasures were safely out of Annie’s reach and that she could handle them whenever she liked.
Later that night, alone in her bedroom with the contents of the box spread out on the counterpane, Cally relived Ada’s stories: the wedding corsage pinned to her dress the day she married George, the lock of dark hair that was Cally’s first curl, the brooch that was a present from George and the gold locket that had been her grandmother’s, the same grandmother who had owned the glittering Victorian glass lustres that sat either end of the dresser in the parlour, and the vase that Annie had deliberately smashed.
That night, and for many nights after, the handling of each precious item brought Cally a secret happiness, and for the first time since her mother’s death she no longer felt lost and alone. It was as though Ada was there with her, talking in that gentle way of hers, making Cally smile as she recalled the things Mam used to say.
Ferny fronds from fairy bowers, Ada had said on the day Cally gave her a bunch of grasses picked on the wasteland. Mam had a lovely way with words. Funny too. Like the time she left the bread dough to rise in front of the fire for too long. Quick Cally, she had called, if we don’t get that dough in the oven it’ll push its way out into the yard and up School Road. Cally had laughed then and the memory still made her smile. Even when Mam was being serious she had a grand way of saying things: life is what you make it; you can do anything if you try; willows bend but they don’t break. One time she had advised Cally to ‘fight her own corner.’ When Cally asked what it meant, Ada explained, ‘stand up for yourself.’ Cally decided to heed Ada’s advice.
However, there was always a price to pay.
*
‘And think on, you’d better come straight home.’ The words sounding like a threat, Cally put on her coat and lifted her schoolbooks. Annie said this every morning but Cally never bothered to answer; she just walked out. And on that day, and most other days, when school finished Cally linked arms with her best friend, Marie Gilmore, and walked down School Road, straight past the entrance to Jackson’s Yard and into Green Lane. She was ‘fighting her own corner’ and ‘like the willows’ she wasn’t going to break.
‘You’re ever so brave,’ said Marie, as they approached the Gilmore’s cottage. ‘Aren’t you scared of what Annie’ll do when you get home?’
Cally shrugged. ‘She can hit me all she likes. I don’t care any more.’ Marie flinched. Annie really was a wicked stepmother.
‘My mam’s baking today,’ said Marie, as they turned in at the gate. Cally’s mouth watered at the thought of Sarah Gilmore’s iced buns; Annie never baked.
‘Will we dress up again?’ asked Cally. She loved parading up and down Marie’s bedroom wearing the clothes Grandma Gilmore had kept from her days in the Music Halls; feathered hats, silk shawls and frilly dresses. Marie had been named after Grandma Gilmore’s favourite entertainer, Marie Lloyd; Cally liked that.
‘Do you think your Grandma will let me wear the purple feather thing?’
‘Of course,’ said Marie, with the certainty of a much-loved only child.
Later, Cally walked home to Jackson’s Yard, the taste of icing sugar on her lips and in her head the song Grandma Gilmore had sung about an old man and a van that had lots of dilly-dally words in it. She was humming the tune as she walked under the arch.
She smelled the smoke before she saw the fire.
In the middle of the yard, opposite the back door to number eleven, hungry flames licked and flared. The neighbouring women, Lizzie amongst them, stood watching the blaze. Curious, Cally hurried towards it.
Her eyes widened and she frantically grabbed a wodge of charred paper and card, screaming and dropping it instantly as heat seared her fingers.
Lizzie yanked her away. ‘Leave ’em lass, leave ’em, there’s nowt you can do to save ’em.’ She pulled Cally against the front of her apron. ‘Don’t cry, love. She’s not worth it.’
‘But they’re my books!’
Cally watched the rapidly disintegrating pages turn to grey ash. ‘Why, Lizzie, why did she do it?’ Cally already knew the answer. She had annoyed Annie once too often.
‘Cos she’s barmy, if you ask me,’ said Lizzie. ‘A bloody good hidin’ wouldn’t go amiss.’ She looked from Cally to the neighbouring women. ‘The spiteful bugger knows t’bairn loves her books.’
Cally broke free of Lizzie’s comforting arm and hurtled into Annie’s kitchen where Annie sat reading one of her many copies of the Red Letter, her favourite magazine.
Cally defiantly planted herself directly in front of Annie. ‘You wicked, rotten bugger. You burned my books,’ she screeched.
Annie idly turned a page. ‘Oh dear, have I upset the little bridesmaid?’ she said, her tone mockingly sympathetic. She stood, slowly rolling the magazine into a tight tube. ‘Good!’ she snapped, her sarcasm spent, ‘because I’ve had just about enough of you and your grand notions: all that traipsing off to the Gilmores and the Jessops, that Harriet filling your head with nonsense. Well, maybe now you’ll think twice before skedaddling off with your fine friends or burying your head in a book when you should be helping me.’ She lashed Cally’s face with the magazine. ‘And don’t you dare to raise your voice or swear at me ever again.’
Cally jumped back, panic rising. She’d hidden the treasure box behind the books under her bed. Annie had taken the books and burned them. Had she also taken the box?
Cally dashed upstairs and dived under the bed, dust and fluff tickling her nose. In the darkened space her fingers found the box. The fluffballs danced as, dizzy with relief, she let pent up breath whoosh from her lungs.
*
Cally grieved the loss of her books, and the longer she grieved the more she plotted to redress the situation. Common sense told her she couldn’t physically punish Annie, but there had to be some way to hurt Annie like Annie hurt her; she had to even the score.
Two days later, a pile of Red Letter magazines burned brightly behind the ash pits in Jackson’s Yard.
Cally didn’t tell Marie about the burnt books – or the magazines; she was too ashamed. How could Marie, who lived in a house full of love, understand what it was like to live with someone like Annie?