A Mother’s Hope

By the time the oddly assorted trio reached Crosby, Rose was very tired indeed. Had it not been for the fact that the rain had never ceased, so that she was literally soaked to the skin, she would have suggested finding shelter of some description. However, as things stood, she realised this would be madness, for to curl up wet and cold as she was would be courting disaster. At first the two of them had chatted, but as the rain continued to pour and dusk deepened they fell silent, too exhausted for conversation of even the most casual kind.

Martin had just said, in a flat and weary voice, that their luck seemed to be out when a lorry drew up beside them. There was the sound of a window being cranked down and then a man’s voice spoke. ‘Well, if I ever saw three such drowned rats! Headin’ for the ’Pool, are you? There’s room in me cab for all three of you, if the dog ain’t too proud to lie on the floor. It’s a bit mucky, but I dare say you won’t mind that.’

Martin seemed to be struck dumb, but Rose spoke for all of them, struggling to get the door open and saying breathlessly as she did so, ‘Thanks, mister, you are good! Me and me pal have walked all the way from Southport – so’s our dog, of course – and we’re just about done in. I’m afraid we’re awful wet. I’d offer to take off me coat to save your seat, except that I’m just as wet under it, and so is Marty.’

She was in the cab by now and Martin was scrambling in after her, carrying Don, for the dog had hesitated, clearly unsure of his welcome. Martin slammed the door and expected the driver to engage first gear and drive on, but instead the man looked at them and whistled. ‘Phew. I called you drowned rats, but if you’ve come all the way from Southport on foot you must be half dead with the cold and wet.’ He leaned down and picked up what looked like an old potato sack from under the dashboard, ferreted around for a moment, and then produced a large flask and a packet wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘The missus allus puts up enough hot tea and butties to last me the whole day, but I stopped off at a pull-in earlier. Drivin’ in rain like this is no picnic, so I went and got me a hot meal.’ He handed the flask and the packet to Rose. ‘You’re welcome to what’s left. There’s at least a couple o’ Spam butties wrapped in the greaseproof; you two and the dawg can have the lot.’

Rose took the flask and poured a careful cup, thanking the driver sincerely as she did so, while Martin handed round the sandwiches – one each for himself and Rose and one for the dog. For a moment there was no sound but sipping and munching. Rose had the first drink of tea and it warmed her beautifully, so she hurried to pass the next capful to Martin, knowing that he must be as cold and wet as she. The driver waited until they had finished drinking, then started the engine and moved off. Presently Rose asked him what load he was carrying.

‘Farm produce, I reckon you’d call it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Mornings I’m up on the Fylde, collecting sacks o’ spuds, cabbages, sprouts, swedes and so on. Each farm gives me a list tellin’ me where I’m to deliver. I’m not sayin’ it’s a marvellous job – I dare say I could get more deliverin’ for one o’ the breweries – but I’ve always liked me independence. The lorry’s me own and it’s up to me what time I start and finish. I’ll probably never make a fortune, but I’m me own boss.’ He turned and grinned at them. ‘I joined the army at the start of the war; I were a Desert Rat, if you know what that means. I got made up to sergeant, and it gave me a taste for givin’ orders rather than taking ’em. So when I got back to Blighty I used me savings to buy an old lorry, and the rest you know. Warmin’ up, are you?’ He grinned again. ‘There’s enough steam comin’ off your coats to make me wonder if you’ve a locomotive hid somewhere!’

Rose gave a squeak of amusement. ‘He’s tall, but he’s only eighteen,’ she explained, before Martin could speak. ‘We’re – we’re pals, that’s all. We travelled to Southport by bus, looking for work, only neither of us found any, so we decided to hitchhike back. But until you came along, no one stopped.’ She turned to Martin. ‘Where is the best place to be dropped off, Mart?’

‘Oh, you are good, ’cos I don’t think any of us could walk another step,’ Rose said gratefully. ‘We’re in one of them tower blocks in Everton what were built a couple o’ years ago; d’you know ’em?’ The driver said he did and, as they reached the city and met more traffic, she pinched Martin’s hand and sank her voice to a whisper. ‘It’s awful late; what say you kip down on me floor, just for tonight? I can spare a blanket off me bed but I can’t afford to switch on the electric, so it won’t be very warm.’

As she spoke the lorry turned into Everton Brow. The driver pulled his vehicle to a stop by the first tower block and then turned to his passengers. ‘No, no, there’s no need to do owt of the sort,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ve thanked me enough; I were young – and penniless – once meself, so I were happy to give you a helpin’ hand.’ He jumped out on his side whilst Martin and Rose were easing their cramped limbs into motion, and came round to open their door for them. ‘Now in wi’ you before this perishin’ rain soaks you all over again.’

Rose, Martin and Don rushed for the building, then stood in the doorway and waved until the lorry was out of sight. Rose crossed to the lift and pressed the button but did not bother to wait. ‘If it’s workin’, it’s either on the ground floor with the door open, or else you hear a clattering, whining sound,’ she told her companion as they began to mount the stairs. ‘Never mind, we’re almost home.’ She turned to address the dog, who was hopping from step to step, never stumbling even though the stairwell was extremely dark. ‘Good old boy, Don,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I got some dried milk from the clinic the last time I was there . . .’ She glanced at Martin, realising she had given away more than she intended, but it was clear from his expression that he had not noticed her solecism, so she continued to talk to Don. ‘I’ll make you up a drink of it, though it’ll have to be cold. If there’s any money left in the meter I’ll save it to boil the kettle tomorrow morning. I do like a cuppa first thing.’

She looked back at Martin, who was beginning to struggle. She realised that he simply was not used to stairs, or not ten flights of them anyway, so she slowed her own pace to let him keep up. When they reached her door, she fished the key out of the letter box and opened up, reminding herself that this was the first time she had voluntarily invited a stranger into her home. She crossed the small hall, very conscious suddenly of her role as hostess, and flung open the door to her right. ‘Sittin’ room,’ she said briefly. ‘Bedroom’s that door, bathroom’s there, kitchen’s here.’ She opened the last door and ushered Martin and Don into a small fitted kitchen. ‘Take off your coat; I’ll fetch my old dressing gown for you. I’ve got a towel an’ all. Come to think, you’d best take off all your clothes and wrap the towel round you. I won’t bring the blanket through until you’re dry.’

The tall young man turned towards her and Rose realised, with a sense of shock, that she had never seen his face. Oh, she had seen a pointed nose, the glint of teeth and eyes, but that was all. She saw him hesitate, then he undid the toggles of his hooded duffel coat and snatched it off. She could not help gasping, though she suppressed the scream which rose to her lips. His hair was as white as an old man’s, his face cadaverous and as white as a sheet, and his eyes . . . oh, God, his eyes were a pinkish grey! She had never seen eyes like them. But he was looking at her with such hopeless appeal that she hid her dismay and tried to speak naturally. ‘You all right, Mart? Then I’ll go and fetch that towel.’

Left alone in the small kitchen, the young man and the dog stared at one another. Martin had recognised the surprise and horror in Rose’s face when he had shed his duffel coat, because he had seen it so many times before. His very first memory was of overhearing a conversation between the matron and one of her helpers at the Arbuthnot Boys’ Home. He had been no more than three or four at the time, but even so he had been sufficiently intelligent to realise that he was the object of the conversation. It was high summer and the helper had been asked by Matron to take a group of the younger children to Prince’s Park. Martin had pricked up his ears; he loved the park, loved the broad green expanse where a child could run and run without fear of traffic, loved the ducks on the lake, the birds in the aviary . . . oh, everything about it. But then the helper had spoken and Martin had known he would not be amongst the lucky ones.

‘I can manage half a dozen, and if Miss Bates comes with me we can take ten,’ Miss Cavanagh had said. ‘But I won’t take that one, with his white hair and pink eyes; gives me the creeps he does. I’m always afraid he’ll have a fit or drop down dead or something. My dad’s a porter at the hospital and he says they don’t live long anyway, which is probably a mercy.’ She had shot a malevolent look at the small Martin, sitting on the floor of the playroom and building a wobbly tower with a pile of wooden bricks. ‘Imagine having a baby and discovering it was like one of those rabbits you see in the pet shop.’

Matron had said, rather stiffly, that if Miss Cavanagh felt so strongly she would see that Martin was not included in the treat, and had then briskly changed the subject, which he supposed, doubtfully now, had been good of her. On the other hand, why had she not told Miss Cavanagh that she was talking a lot of pernicious rubbish? Matron must have known that he had understood every word Miss Cavanagh had uttered, yet she had not come over to him, picked him up for a cuddle and told him that it was all nonsense, that there was nothing wrong with him that time would not erase.

He had tried very hard to forget the incident but it had stayed with him, reinforced by the fact that he was regarded with suspicion and dislike by the other boys, and even by the staff. The only real understanding he had ever received was from a teacher who had kept him behind the rest of the class one day to discuss an essay Martin had written. Mr Brownrigg had told him that the essay was the best piece of work he had seen from a boy not yet twelve. ‘It’s an intelligent and inventive piece of writing,’ he had said. Then he had looked thoughtfully at his pupil. ‘I never see you playing with any of the other lads, Thompson. Even in organised games you tend to be kept on the sidelines. D’you know why that is?’

The teacher had nodded. ‘That’s it. It could be worse – yes, your sight is poor, but unlike some albinos you write perfectly legibly and never walk into lamp posts or misjudge distances – but the fact remains that you’re different, and some folk think that’s a reason to give you the cold shoulder. Later in life you’ll see that anyone different may be avoided by others, which is what we call mindless prejudice. In your case, the fact that you were born without the usual pigmentation means some people will take against you, but you have to remember that being different doesn’t mean you’re any way inferior.’ He tapped the essay on the desk before him. ‘In fact, this work shows that far from being inferior, you are a good deal brighter than most.’

Now, standing in Rose’s kitchen, he remembered both conversations, one with an echo of the dismay the small Martin had felt, the other with considerable pleasure. It was a shame that Mr Brownrigg had left the school at the end of the summer term, to be replaced by a crusty old man who did not like boys – any boys. The new teacher had scornfully dismissed Martin’s work as ‘ridiculous flights of fancy’, and had given him consistently low marks, but Mr Brownrigg’s words had been treasured, had helped Martin to drag himself out of the slough of despond into which he sometimes fell.

He was still gazing thoughtfully at Don when he registered a drip, drip, dripping sound and saw that water was running from the dog’s lean form and plopping on to the brown linoleum. Hastily, he looked properly at the kitchen. There was a low stone sink, which boasted a wooden draining board on one side and two large chromium taps. Slung between the taps was a grey floor cloth. Martin picked it up, then realised that it was not only the dog who was shedding water; he was standing in a puddle himself. He was about to employ the floor cloth to clean up when it occurred to him that it would be more sensible to use it to give the dog a good rub down.

He was kneeling on the floor, working on Don’s emaciated body, when the door opened and Rose came back into the room, carrying a thin towel over one arm. She nodded approvingly as he scrambled to his feet, but stared with some dismay at the small lake which now covered a considerable proportion of the linoleum. ‘Well, Don looks a good deal better and me floor a good deal worse,’ she observed. ‘I’d best fetch the mop from the hall cupboard, otherwise you might drop the towel and that ’ud be the end of that.’

‘I shan’t drop it,’ Martin said eagerly, taking the towel from her and placing it carefully upon the draining board. ‘But if you’ll give me the mop, I’ll get rid of the water for you.’ He hesitated, then continued: ‘Do you mean me to sleep in here? If so, I reckon I’d better put me wet clothes out on the landing, ’cos I don’t fancy sleeping on the floor with them drippin’ into the sink. I’ll do me best to wring ’em out, but me coat’s real thick and heavy.’

Rose laughed. ‘You can’t possibly sleep in here. There’s an old sofa in me sitting room. You can lie on that and Don can have the hearthrug.’ She twinkled up at Martin, then put a hand on the dog’s head. ‘He’s almost dry,’ she said. ‘Wait on, I’m gonna make him some bread and milk.’ She turned to a small cupboard and began taking out a tin of dried milk and the half loaf of bread she had mentioned earlier. ‘We’ll have the eggs boiled tomorrow, for our breakfast,’ she said chattily and turned to give him a beaming smile. ‘Would that suit you, Mr Thompson?’

Martin, mopping the floor vigorously, thought that she looked almost pretty when she smiled. She had taken off her own coat and pixie hood and he saw with some surprise that she was not the skinny little creature he had thought her in her big flapping mackintosh. She was wearing a long, loose blue dress, old and faded and very full, and a pair of carpet slippers. He saw that in order to keep the slippers on her feet she had to shuffle, and he grinned at her. ‘You’ve been shoppin’ at jumble sales, same as me,’ he said, laughing. ‘Why, you could get two of you inside that dress.’

He had spoken jokingly and was surprised and even a little dismayed when the colour rushed into her face and she turned on him, her eyes sparkling angrily. ‘Fancy you noticing!’ she said, her voice rich with sarcasm. ‘There are two of us inside this dress, and if you make one more crack like that you can bloody well go and sleep out in the rain. And if you catch your death, you horrible creature, it’ll serve you right.’

Martin could only stare. What the devil did she mean? Two of them inside the dress? Instinctively, he looked down, half expecting to see a second pair of feet beside the carpet slippers; what could she mean? ‘I’m sorry, Rose. It were rude of me to criticise your dress,’ he said humbly. ‘I didn’t mean no harm, but I don’t understand. There aren’t really two of you, so I suppose you were jokin’, like I was, only you looked awful cross. Please don’t turn me out.’

His apologetic tone put her anger to flight and she laughed again, reaching out to pat his long, bony hand. ‘Oh, Mart, you don’t know nothin’! I’m havin’ a baby, you fool! I’m six months gone and I didn’t think I showed much, but I reckon the lady in Southport must have guessed because she kept giving me funny looks, and when she came through and told us who had got the job she patted my shoulder and said she was sorry but it really wouldn’t do and she hoped I’d understand.’

She patted her stomach tenderly, glancing down as she did so, and Martin saw the loving look on her face and thought suddenly that she would not part with her baby if she could help it; she would be a good mother for all she was scarcely more than a child herself. ‘Oh, well, if they won’t give you a bigger flat for a while, I guess you’ll manage,’ he said quickly. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help . . . but I dare say now you’ve seen me face you won’t want me around, norreven as a pal, in case it – it affects your baby, me being an albino, like.’

Rose opened her eyes very wide, then gave a derisive snort. ‘Don’t be so daft. This baby were made six months ago. I’ve been attendin’ classes at the Oxford Street Maternity Hospital, an’ they tell you straight, honest to God they do, if they think there’s owt wrong. What’s more, there’s a nurse what lectures us on how we mustn’t believe old wives’ tales . . . you know, if a hare crosses your path the kid’ll have a deformed lip, or if a cat hisses at you it’ll come out arse-side up. So seein’ a feller what’s an alb . . . alb . . . oh, heck, a feller what has white hair an’ that isn’t goin’ to make one mite of difference to me baby. It’s already formed, from what they telled us – dark hair or light, blue eyes or brown, even good teeth or bad ’uns. See? D’you understand, Mart?’

‘I think I do,’ Martin said cautiously. ‘By gum, I’m learnin’ a lot today. Tell you what, though, if you did get a bigger flat and I manage to get a job, mebbe I could be a lodger, like. It ’ud be grand to help with the baby and you could have all me money, so long as you fed me and Don, of course.’

He knew it had been the wrong thing to say as soon as she turned to stand the bowl of bready milk down before the dog. She said nothing, but the set of her shoulders and her very silence spoke volumes. Knowing he had put his foot in it for a second time, he said hastily: ‘Oh, Gawd, what an idiot I am! Of course you wouldn’t want no lodger, and anyway, the council aren’t likely to offer you a bigger flat just so you can rent a room. Forget I even said it, would you, Rose? It was just a joke.’

‘Well, I’m glad of that,’ Rose said rather distantly. She had been squatting down beside the dog, but now she straightened and walked towards the kitchen door. ‘I’ll go and fetch a blanket off my bed while you undress and dry yourself off. The central heating is supposed to come on at eight o’clock in the morning – if it comes on at all, that is. When you’re respectable, knock three times on the kitchen door and I’ll come and give you the blanket. You can drape the towel over the back of me chair before you go through into the sittin’ room. We’ve had a pretty hard day of it, so we’ll probably sleep in tomorrow. Why don’t you and Don stay in bed until I shout you that breakfast is ready?’

‘Right. Thanks, Rose. I’ll do just as you say,’ Martin said. As soon as the kitchen door shut behind her, he tore off every stitch of clothing and attacked his long white body with the towel. When he was as dry as he could get, he banged on the kitchen door and presently, wrapped in a blanket, he went through into the sitting room, Don padding softly behind him. There was no sign of his hostess, and as he folded himself on to the small sofa he thought unhappily that she had still not entirely forgiven him for his thoughtless remark. He also thought how much he would have enjoyed Don’s bowl of bread and milk, but he acknowledged that the dog’s need was greater than his. After all, his dole money fed him adequately, if not well, whereas the greyhound had probably been starved for weeks.

He woke once during the night to find that Don was stretched out beside the sofa, his big body on the floor but his head actually resting on Martin’s feet, and he guessed that the dog wanted to be sure that he would not be left behind should Martin decide to move on. Immensely heartened by this sign of trust and affection, he told Don he was a good boy, the sort of dog any feller would be proud to own. Even when the light woke him and he discovered flea bites all over his legs, he told himself it was a small price to pay for such friendship.

The expected shout that breakfast was ready came shortly after ten – he had heard a church clock chime the hour – but Rose herself did not appear, though she handed him his dried clothing round the door. Martin glanced out of the window as he dressed, and gasped with pleasure. The view was incredible, like nothing he had ever seen before. Miles and miles of houses, St Anthony’s church, the great estuary of the Mersey, beyond it the Wirral and beyond that the blue of what must surely be the Welsh hills.

But he had no time to linger, for through the thin wall which separated sitting room and kitchen he could hear Rose moving about, and did not want to rouse her annoyance a third time by being late for breakfast. He and Don entered the kitchen hastily, therefore, to find the table laid for two people. There was only one chair, a ladder-backed wooden one, but Rose must have brought another seat through from her bedroom since there was a box-like object with a pillow on top drawn up on the opposite side of the table. An egg, neatly decapitated, was set in each place and lying on the table were two rounds of bread and margarine, neatly cut into fingers. Between the two place settings were a barrel of Saxa salt, the half jar of jam she had mentioned, the remains of the loaf and two cups of gently steaming tea.

‘You’d best have me hope chest since you’re taller’n me,’ she said, indicating the box and pillow with a jerk of the head. ‘Hurry up, Mart, or your egg will be cold and you won’t be able to dip the bread into the yolk. I’ve saved the heel of the loaf and some of the milk mixture for the dog, so we won’t have to eat with him sitting there envying us every mouthful.’

Martin complied. The egg was just as he liked it and he finished his much faster than Rose finished hers, for she had lingered to crumble a good half of what remained of the loaf into the milk mixture and put it down for Don who, with his usual cautious courtesy, would not touch it until bidden to do so, though saliva trickled from his mouth.

When she saw that Martin had finished, Rose, halfway through her own egg, paused to cut him a generous chunk of bread, smear it with margarine and add a good helping of jam. ‘That’ll fill in the chinks,’ she said thickly. ‘Go on, Mart, eat up. There’s a lot more of you to fill than there is of me, though since I’m eating for two I’ll have my share of the bread and jam. Fancy another cuppa?’

He did, but got up to pour it for himself, to save Rose moving, and seeing him lift the teapot she pushed her own mug towards him. ‘The milkman won’t climb all them stairs, nor he don’t trust the lift,’ she said, pushing her empty egg cup aside and starting to cut another slice from what remained of the loaf. ‘He got stuck in it for three hours a few months back – I weren’t here then but he told me all about it – so now if we wants milk, we has to go down to the foyer when he shouts. That’s why I always keep dried milk in. I like it better than the sterilised, and conny-onny’s a bit sweet for my taste.’

Martin was so keen to discover what he had been sitting on that he finished his bread and jam in record time, but Rose did not open the lid of her hope chest until they had washed up their crocks and cutlery. She was clearly of a tidy disposition and Martin, a tidy person himself, thought this was praiseworthy. If I had a flat, even a tiny one, I’d keep it neat as a new pin, he thought wistfully. I’d save up every penny to buy paint and wallpaper and that. It might take time – well, it would – but I’d make it real nice. I’d start with the kitchen, and when that was all modern and shining I’d have a go at the sitting room. I’d do the bedroom last.

Martin acknowledged the truth of this, though the dog showed no sign of a desire to leave the flat, and he watched with interest as Rose threw the pillow to one side and heaved up the lid of the box. Smiling with pride, she began to display the contents. ‘A white shawl, ’cos it would look odd to wrap a girl in blue or a boy in pink, and two blankets to fit a cradle.’ She rubbed them against her cheeks, her expression blissful. ‘They’re soft as thistledown and brand new, just like the shawl, though you’d be surprised at how ’spensive even baby things are. Then there’s these nightgowns. I bought them because it don’t make no difference whether it’s a boy or a girl, babies still wear nightgowns in bed.’ She flourished one under Martin’s nose. ‘I did the embroidery round the necks and round the waistbands. It’s mostly lazy daisies and love knots, with satin stitch to fill in the petals, of course. It took me ages ’cos I ain’t good with me needle, but I soldiered on.’ She pointed to the last items in the box. ‘Them’s nappies, ’cos all babies need nappies. I couldn’t afford many – they’re real expensive – so I got six towelling and six muslin.’ She laughed. ‘It ain’t much, but I’ve a pal what helps me out, and she’s collectin’ all sorts for me as well. I’ve not told her I’m doin’ the same, so it’ll be a nice surprise when I show her the stuff I’ve bought meself.’

Rose gave a crow of amusement and began to laugh helplessly, punching him playfully on the shoulder as she did so. He did not understand her reaction, but was delighted by it. It was the sort of gesture he had often seen amongst his schoolfellows, but had never shared. After a moment, he let his puzzlement show. ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded. ‘It were a compliment, weren’t it?’

Rose wiped tears of amusement from her eyes. ‘I said I weren’t good wi’ me needle. Them’s blood spots from where I dug the perishin’ thing into meself rather than the material,’ she said between gasps. ‘Oh, Mart, you do me a power o’ good, honest you do!’ As she spoke Rose began folding the shawl and blankets, carefully piling them back into the box, but she looked up when Martin cleared his throat.

‘Well, you can’t go handing a kid to its new mother without a stitch to its back,’ Rose said reasonably, then gave Martin a crooked little grin. ‘To tell you the truth, though, Mart, I’ve already decided that I shan’t part wi’ me baby. I’ve not telled anyone else because they’ll say I’m too young, and it’s selfish to deprive the baby of parents – mum and dad – who have lots o’ cash and that. But this baby . . . oh, it’s hard to explain, but I’m pretty sure now that I’ll keep it meself.’

Martin beamed at her. ‘I’ll help, if you’ll let me,’ he said eagerly. ‘Even after feedin’ Don I’ll be able to spare a bit of me dole money. I see you ain’t got no woolly ball to hang on the front of the pram, nor no rattle, nor a soft toy. Couldn’t I buy the little ’un something to play with? I like babies, and Don and me would like to feel we’d helped, even in a small way. What d’you say?’

Rose gave him an awkward glance. ‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ she said grudgingly. And then, clearly thinking an explanation was due, she added: ‘I don’t know if you can understand, Marty, but I’ve never had nothin’ which was really an’ truly me own. They were dead keen at the home that we should learn to share. Our toys belonged to everyone; we were never allowed to say a particular doll or teddy was ours. You might take a doll to bed with you for a week and then one of the staff would notice – or someone would tell on you, more likely – and the doll would be passed to someone else. But this ’un . . .’ she stroked her stomach, her expression one of loving tenderness once more, ‘this ’un’s all me own, and I want to keep it that way.’

He watched Rose’s cheeks flush pink and stepped back, waiting for the explosion of wrath which he felt sure was to come. But she just shook her head slowly and continued to pile her possessions back into their box. ‘I can’t explain,’ she said in a small, tired voice. ‘You’re ever so kind, Mart, and I know you mean it for the best, but to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have let me pal give me one or two things except that I mean to pay her back. I’ll get a job, a proper one – oh, I’ll do something, though I don’t know what yet – so she don’t lose by what she’s done for me. I’ve not mentioned it before, but she got me this flat and told lies for me; she said I were eighteen though she knows, none better, that I’m not even sixteen yet. She gives me money, too, ’cos there’s no dole for someone my age, but I get all the free stuff from the clinic. Oh, it’s too complicated to explain, but she’s been not just a friend but a – a – I can’t think of the word, but you know what I mean.’

Martin hesitated, looking round for his coat, which Rose had draped across the clothes horse that stood in front of the stove. Most of what Rose had said had not seemed to make sense, but he knew he had been listening with only half his attention because he had been dismayed at what he took to be a denial of friendship. He thought she was trying to tell him that any attempt on his part to help with the baby would be resented. But he was used to people elbowing him aside, misunderstanding what he said, making it clear that he was a nuisance, that they didn’t want him around; and he thought that he really should learn to follow his own rules. Don’t grumble or complain, just quietly leave. That way, if he and the other person met up again, there need be no ill feeling or awkwardness between them. He would accept his dismissal, and simply be grateful that until he had gone too far by suggesting that he might buy the baby a gift Rose had seemed friendly enough.

He picked up his coat. It was warm and dry and he shrugged himself into it, flicking the hood forward and doing up the toggles with fingers that were only slightly unsteady. He wrinkled his nose at his socks, which were old, holey and, alas, rather smelly, but pulled them on and reached for his boots. The possession of the boots was a constant pleasure. He had bought them from a street trader who had let him have them cheap since he had intended to keep them for himself, only to discover that they were too narrow. He had looked doubtful when Martin had asked to try them on, but to Martin’s delight the boots fitted and were extremely comfortable. They must have been made for someone with long slender feet just like his, and he thought now that he would never have managed the walk back from Southport in his old pair.

Martin felt the hot blood rise up his neck and flood into his face. He shoved his feet hastily into the boots, then bent and tied up the laces. He could not explain that washing clothes when you were homeless and sleeping rough was pretty well impossible. And if he said anything, she might take it as an attempt to get her sympathy. Instead he straightened, put his hand on the kitchen door, then turned towards her. ‘Thanks for everything, Rose,’ he said huskily. ‘I’ll wash me socks first chance I get.’

Left alone in the kitchen, Rose picked up the box of baby things and carried it through to her bedroom, placing it carefully at the foot of her bed. Every morning, when she awoke, she glanced immediately towards the box, and every morning the same sense of pleasure and accomplishment enveloped her. She had worked hard and had often gone without a meal in order to purchase items for her hope chest.

The thought made her pull a wry face. If only she had learned to knit! The handiwork teacher at the school which Rose and the other children from St Mary’s had attended had taught everyone to knit except Rose, who was naturally left-handed and had never managed to master the art. Instead, she had spent her handiwork lessons inventing stories and telling them to the other girls in a whisper.

‘I’ll kill you off an’ all if you call me Gertie; you know I like to be called Rose,’ Rose had hissed in a furious undertone, and because her stories had made handiwork lessons bearable her fellow pupils had agreed to use the name she preferred, though not of course in front of the teachers.

However, it was a different story when the handiwork teacher discovered the reason for Rose’s sudden popularity, which had the girls gathering together round the one member of class who could be relied upon to ruin any handiwork she was given. Miss Wheatley thought she had devised the perfect punishment for the pupil she most disliked by sending her down to the kitchens, saying that she might as well make herself useful there, peeling vegetables, washing up and doing any cleaning necessary. ‘Working in kitchens is what you’ll probably do when you leave this place, for you’re fit for nothing else,’ the teacher had said spitefully. ‘I’ve told the cook to expect you on Monday and Wednesday afternoons.’

‘Oh, but Miss Wheatley, we only do handiwork on a Monday; Wednesdays we do hockey in winter and rounders in summer,’ Rose had protested. ‘Or sometimes we’re took for a nature walk in Prince’s Park. Even outings in the charabanc is usually on a Wednesday afternoon; you can’t mean me to miss them.’

Miss Wheatley’s eyes had glinted and Rose knew that she would have done better to say nothing. But it was too late; she had burned her boats. ‘Perhaps it will teach you a lesson to miss games and outings for a few weeks,’ the teacher had said. ‘I’ll explain to the rest of the staff why you will be otherwise engaged on a Wednesday for a while.’

If Miss Wheatley had ever known how her plan had misfired she would have been furious, but since she never visited the kitchens and never remembered, either, that the punishment was only supposed to last for a few weeks, she remained ignorant of the fact that Rose actually came to look forward to Monday and Wednesday afternoons. Cook was a fat, comfortable woman, proud of her ability to produce good nourishing food for the staff and pupils of St Mary’s without ever overspending her budget. She had greeted her new young helper somewhat doubtfully, but had soon realised that Rose was fascinated by everything to do with cooking. At first, Rose had just peeled potatoes, chopped cabbages and sliced carrots whilst chattering to the kitchen staff and asking intelligent questions about the work in hand. Soon Cook had taught her to sauté the vegetables she had prepared so that they might become part of one of her delicious stews, and when she had discovered that Rose could be trusted to whip a batter or knead a bread mix she had actually suggested that she might like to make a couple of Victoria sponges for the staff’s mid-morning break.

Very soon, Monday and Wednesday afternoons had become Rose’s favourite times of day. She had learned to make scones, teacakes and buns. Cook had introduced her to the mysteries of gingerbread, which started life in a saucepan on the stove and ended up emerging from the oven as a delicious dark brown confection.

But now, having placed the box in its usual position, she turned her attention to the small, rather shabby little dressing table in front of the window. She pulled open the bottom drawer and produced an ancient tin which had once contained Lyons coffee, which she carried back to her bed before wrenching off the lid and pouring the contents, mainly pennies, sixpences and shillings, on to the counterpane. The rain had stopped, and though the sky was overcast, and the wind gusty, she thought she might take some of her money and do a little shopping. She needed both bread and milk, and if she went all the way to St John’s Market she could buy food a good deal more cheaply there than in the smaller shops on Heyworth Street.

Her friend had given her a book by a doctor who was a great believer in fresh fruit and vegetables. He advised his readers to make nourishing stews and broths from cheap cuts of meat and Rose had speedily realised that cooking for herself was the most practical way to survive. In addition, she had begun to make simple cakes and biscuits, which she sold to a nearby old people’s home. The matron, Miss Haverstock, a huge woman with a flourishing moustache and twinkling black eyes, had told Rose that she herself loved home cooking but was too busy looking after her ladies and gents to spend time toiling over a hot stove, so was glad to pay small sums for Rose’s cakes and buns.

At first, when a cake had refused to rise or Rose had left a tray of mince pies in the oven too long, she had not liked to take them to the old people’s home, but the matron had told her not to be so daft. ‘I pours custard over most of me puddin’s and the old ’uns gobble them up,’ she had said. ‘Of course, I can’t pay so much for what you might call damaged goods . . .’ here, she had given Rose a very odd glance which Rose did not understand in the least, ‘but I’ll pay for all your ingredients. Would you think that was fair?’

Rose had said it was very fair. However, she thought the old people in the home were far too nosy, far too interested in herself, though Matron had assured her that they meant no harm and that her occasional visits gave them something to think about and discuss amongst themselves. Some weeks before, one of the old ladies, sharper than the rest, had come hobbling up to Rose in the long, drab corridor leading to Matron’s office. ‘You’re in the fambly way, ain’t you?’ she had said slyly, giving Rose a poke in the ribs. ‘I can always tell; it’s something in the way you walks. So when’s it due, eh, or don’t you know?’

Rose had drawn herself up to her full height, which was only five foot four, and had said frostily: ‘If you are referrin’ to me slight bulge, that’s a horrible growth, that is, what’ll probably kill me off before me time, and weren’t you ever taught that it were bloody rude to make personal remarks?’

Furious at being outwitted by a toothless old woman, ninety if she were a day, Rose had searched her mind for a sharp reply, but had found none. Nose in the air, with her basket of goodies held protectively across her bump, she had sailed past the old woman, heading once more for Matron’s office. But she could not help wondering if everyone knew, and at the last moment had turned impulsively back. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have told that stupid lie,’ she had said grudgingly. ‘You’re right, I am expectin’, though why that should make me a bad girl I don’t know.’

At this point, the door of Matron’s office had opened and that lady had beckoned Rose inside. ‘Thought I heard voices. What’s Little Red Riding Hood got for us today?’ Her voice had been arch but her eyes had scanned the basket greedily, and since she made no mention of the conversation she had overheard Rose had assumed that she knew nothing.

Now, Rose was counting her money and deciding how to spend it. She needed ingredients if she were to bake, and she really should get some cheap meat and vegetables so that she could make a sustaining meal, because yesterday she and Martin had had almost nothing. She wondered whether it would be cheeky to ask Martin for a contribution when he came back to the flat, but decided that, knowing he had no money on him, she could scarcely do so. He could come shopping with her. Naturally, she would also go with him to collect his dole, and only then would she suggest that he might like to contribute a bob or two towards the stew she intended to cook.

Satisfied, she selected some money from her hoard and tucked it into the pocket of her thin jumper. Then she returned to the kitchen, poured herself another cup of tea, and waited. Glancing at the battered old alarm clock on the windowsill, she realised that Martin had been gone some time and thought approvingly that he must have decided to take Don for a proper walk, though after yesterday’s marathon a walk would, she thought, have been the last thing the pair of them wanted. However, she might as well be doing something useful whilst she waited.

Checking the cupboard meant making a list of things which were either not there or running short. She wrote the list, went to the window and peered out. He really was taking his time . . . but there was nothing wrong with that. It had felt very strange, on waking this morning, to realise that there was someone else in the flat, and not only a stranger but a man, albeit a young one.

Time passed. Eventually, alarmed, Rose left the flat, locked the door and clattered down the long flights. She wondered, with some concern, whether Martin had been confused by the fact that the tower blocks were all so similar, and had gone into the wrong one. Then she remembered Don; he would not let harm come to Martin, she was sure of that. But she did go into the nearest two blocks, only to come out again convinced that neither youth nor dog had made any such mistake. Martin seemed to her to be bright enough. She went over in her mind his leaving of the kitchen and came to the conclusion that he had taken her remarks for dismissal, and had gone back to – to – oh, dammit, he had never given her his address!

Sighing deeply, she toiled back up the stairs and took her coat off the hook behind the door. She slipped into it, then picked up her marketing basket, telling herself impatiently that if Martin had chosen to go off without so much as a proper farewell there was nothing she could do about it, and she certainly could not hang around the flats waiting for him. She really must do some shopping. Quickly, she transferred the money from her pocket to her worn little black purse, which she then pushed into her coat’s deep pocket. She picked up her list and pocketed that as well, then found an old envelope upon which she scrawled: Martin – gone shopping for grub. Back soon. R.

Leaving the flat, she attached the envelope to the door, carefully locked it, and set off down the stairs. She had not liked to put the time of her possible return on the envelope, because you never knew: someone might come all the way to the top floor, realise that she was out and would not be returning until five or six o’clock, and break in. God knew there was little enough to steal, but suppose they found her hope chest, or her money tin? Her blood turned to ice at the thought and for a moment she dithered. If Martin returned and found the door of the flat locked . . . but what did it matter, really? It was not as though he were an old friend; he was just a chance acquaintance, and she knew that if someone broke in she would never feel safe in the flat again. She did not always feel safe now, because there were four flats on the top floor and she knew almost nothing about any of the other occupants, save that at least two of the families indulged in drinking bouts which were followed by violent rows. Once, a man had hammered on her door, demanding admittance, clearly mistaking it for his own abode. When morning came and she had tried to open her door, a huge man had been lying across it, clearly having fallen asleep without managing to identify his own apartment.

She ran up the steps again and tore the envelope down, crumpling it into a ball and dropping it into her pocket. Martin knew she had no food in the house, would guess she had gone shopping and would either wait or come back later. Satisfied, Rose descended the stairs again and headed for the tram stop. She did her shopping, choosing what to buy with all her usual care, thinking how strange it was to be considering another person, wondering whether Martin preferred cabbage or sprouts, being extra specially nice to the butcher so that she might beg a bone for the dog and asking shyly whether he knew where she might buy cheap dog meat.

The butcher directed her to Billy, the dogs’ meat man, who sold her what he described as ‘lights’: a glutinous mass of scarlet tissue which he assured her her dog would relish. ‘But you’ve gotta cook it. Cover it wi’ water and boil it up in a big old pan until it’s a nice dark brahn,’ he instructed her. He was a big hefty man, red-faced and jovial, with gingery hair and yellowish, broken teeth. ‘What kind of dog is it? A big ’un . . . say an Alsatian . . . or a little terrier? I should have asked, ’cos that ’ud make six meals for a Yorkie and one for an Alsatian.’

‘Aye, you’re right there. It’s wicked the way they treats them greyhounds,’ Billy said, twisting his big red face into an expression of disgust. ‘They’re pleased enough to rake in the money when the poor critters is a-chasin’ that hare and winnin’, but the moment they begin to flag it’s out on the street and fend for yourselves. I like dogs better’n people; they don’t cheat or steal or murder one another, like what some folk do.’ He cocked his head on one side and grinned at his customer. ‘I know what you’re a-going to say. Dogs do steal sometimes, but they’ll only do that when they’re starvin’, and it’s people what starve them. D’you know that in the wild, when a wolf pack makes a kill, the puppies get first go at it? Then the others have a turn until everyone’s fed. I read that in a book – I’m a great reader.’

Back in the flat once more, she boiled up the disgusting-looking meat and had to open all the windows to get rid of the smell. Billy had told her that all his meat was marked so that anyone buying it could see that it was unfit for human consumption, and sure enough the red mass had a stripe of green dye right the way across it, but Rose thought, wrinkling her nose, that it would be a desperate human indeed who was tempted to eat the horrible stuff.

She tipped Billy’s offering into an ancient bucket and pushed it under the sink, thinking how delighted both Martin and Don would be to find that she had provided the dog with a good meal. Then she began to peel vegetables; when she had the stew simmering on the stove she would do some tray-baking for the matron. Miss Haverstock always paid promptly. Rose had found the old people’s home by chance, and had realised at once that cooking for Matron was ideal. She told Rose what she required and Rose supplied it; the old people liked simple, easy to digest food, and were especially fond of cakes and pies.

Rose began to collect her ingredients, humming a little tune as she did so and realising, suddenly, that she had lied when she had told Martin she did not like living in the flats. In daylight, when most of the other tenants were out, she was content enough, particularly when she was cooking, her mind and hands occupied. She liked the small independence that selling her baking provided, too, and hugged the secret that she could earn money tightly to her own breast. She only hated the long cold flights of concrete stairs, the unreliability of the lift and the youths who congregated in the tower blocks, ripe for mischief. She feared the neighbours and their frequent drinking bouts and cowered in her bed when the men banged on her door and shouted lewd remarks in slurred voices. She guessed the remarks would get worse as her condition became more obvious.

In her heart she disliked her reliance upon her ‘friend’ because she was always aware that she had no real right to the place she called home. If Mrs Ellis chose, she could get Rose turned out tomorrow, and though Rose told herself constantly that the older woman would do no such thing, in the back of her mind there was always a tiny, niggling doubt. She reminded herself that the flat had been Mrs Ellis’s idea and that she, Rose, had done Mrs Ellis an enormous favour. Casting her mind back, she remembered Mrs Ellis pleading with her, the tears running down her face, promising that she would do anything, anything at all, if only Rose would swear to her that she would never, ever . . .

Carefully measuring the ingredients into her big yellow bowl, Rose began to count her blessings. There was heating in the flat during the winter months, though it was only turned on for a few hours, morning and evening; and she would have been the first to acknowledge that the views from her sitting room and bedroom were stunning. She had a tiny balcony across which she had strung a stout rope to dry her washing when the weather was clement.

One of her first purchases when she had moved into the flat had been the small Bakelite radio which plugged into the electric so she did not have the bother of buying batteries. To be sure, in order to hear her favourite programmes, she had to fill the electricity meter with shillings, but she thought it was a small price to pay for entertainment. Pick of the Pops was a great favourite, but so were Mrs Dale’s Diary, The Billy Cotton Band Show and, best of all, Paul Temple. She only had to hear the music start to be transported to another world, where Paul and Steve reigned supreme, and evil was always vanquished.

She had the radio on now, playing what she thought of as background music because she had it turned very low. The kitchen was warm and comfortable with the sweet smell of baking, and she was just telling herself that she much preferred her own company to that of anyone else when she heard footsteps on the stairs outside. She thought it must be Martin and Don, and was surprised to realise that she was quite looking forward to feeding them both, though as a rule she was happier alone and considered other people an intrusion. Was Martin different? She remembered his strange face, his horrid pink eyes and the long, thin length of him, and decided that she had little interest in the youth but was keen to see Don again. She had always wanted a dog and all the previous day had enjoyed his friendship. Martin was just a boy, even though he was eighteen, and so peculiar-looking that now she was glad the inside of the lorry’s cab had been dark, as it had meant that the friendly driver had seen them only as an ordinary couple of young people, rain-soaked and weary.

She was actually crossing the hall and heading for the front door when the footsteps shambled past and she heard the sound of a key grating in a lock. Disappointed despite herself, she turned back to the kitchen and her work, feeding the meter with a couple of shillings so that the oven would not go off at a crucial moment in her cooking.

For the rest of the afternoon, she put Martin and Don out of her mind. They had undoubtedly gone to Martin’s place but would, she was sure, turn up at the flat again quite soon. After all, Martin had offered financial help if she would be kind enough to feed himself and the dog. A fully grown greyhound was not easy to miss and not easy to feed, either. Martin would undoubtedly be round for scraps to satisfy Don’s appetite. Rose turned the radio up a little louder and ignored the next set of footsteps on the stairs.