A Mother’s Hope

Rose acted quickly, jumping out of bed and bending anxiously over Martin’s inanimate form. Then, heaving and panting, she dragged him into a sitting position and began to tow him towards the bed. Fortunately he came round, for Rose did not think she could have lifted him herself, and somehow the two of them got him between the sheets. Martin was greatly distressed, mumbling that he was sorry, that Don would lick up the spilt tea, that he would be all right in a minute. But Rose thought he looked dreadfully ill, and when she touched his skin it was burning hot.

‘Shut up, Martin,’ she ordered, dragging his jumpers off and pushing him down the bed when he made a feeble effort to get up. ‘This is my home and I’m the boss, and I’m telling you to stay right where you are. Don’t so much as sit up or I’ll give you a clack round the ear.’ As she spoke she seized her clothes. ‘I’ll dress in the kitchen whilst I get you a drink.’ At this point Don, clearly following a tasty trail, entered the room and continued to clean up. Despite herself, Rose laughed. ‘Men!’ she said. ‘You’re all alike.’ About to leave the room, she wagged a reproving finger at her quivering guest. ‘I’m going to fetch you the blanket off the sofa, as well as a cup of hot, sweet tea, so just you stay where you are or it will be the worse for you.’

In the kitchen, Rose dressed hurriedly and drank the mug of tea which Martin had abandoned whilst she wondered what on earth to do for the best. Martin looked really ill; his normally pale skin was almost salmon pink and his eyes, red-rimmed, were watering so badly that he appeared to be weeping even though he was not. When she had bent over the bed, she had heard wheezing sounds coming from his chest. Yet he must be strong, she thought, otherwise he could not have survived so many nights of sleeping rough in such weather.

By the time she had made fresh tea and watched Martin drink two full mugs of it, she had come to the conclusion that he might well have nothing worse than a feverish cold, but she decided, nevertheless, that she must call a doctor. She dared not have a sick young man on her hands, maybe for weeks. If he was really ill a doctor might advise hospital, and in that case – though she would visit him, of course – he would no longer be her responsibility.

Having decided on her course of action, Rose felt a good deal better. She would lock him into the flat and go along to the clinic on Brougham Terrace and ask a doctor to call. Mrs Ellis had a job, so she never visited Rose until after five o’clock. And I’ll be back well before then, Rose told herself, putting on her thick winter coat and wrapping a scarf round her neck. She added hat, gloves and boots, then went softly across the hall and into her bedroom. Martin appeared to be asleep, but he opened his eyes as she approached the bed and gave her a watery smile. ‘I’m real sorry to go and get ill on you, Rosie,’ he said. ‘Where’s you off to? I don’t like to ask it, but . . .’

It was not a long walk to the clinic from Everton Brow, and once Don had done what he’d come out to do, Rose found herself enjoying the sharp crisp air and the pale sunshine, for the snow clouds had drifted away and the blue sky overhead seemed to promise that spring was on its way at last. Don had neither a collar nor a lead, but he paced alongside Rose, never moving far from her side and occasionally nuzzling her hand as though to remind her of his presence.

They sauntered down Everton Brow and along Village Street, turning into Everton Road and heading for Brougham Terrace. Once there, however, Rose was faced with the dilemma which Martin had described. She could scarcely take Don into the doctor’s surgery, yet hesitated to leave him outside alone in case he was mistaken for a stray and taken off to a dog pound. Finally, and with some regret, she took off the little red tie from the neck of her maternity smock and knotted it loosely round the big dog’s throat. Then she told him to sit and to stay, kissed the top of his smooth head, and went into the clinic.

An hour later she was ushering Dr Matthews into her flat. She knew the doctor from her own visits to the clinic and had told a number of inventive lies to the receptionist who wanted details of the new patient. ‘He’s me cousin, come to Liverpool from Ireland to look for work,’ she had said glibly. ‘He’s been sleepin’ rough in this terrible weather, not wantin’ to put upon me in my condition. But finally it all got too much. He’s real ill, so since I’m on Doc Matthews’s panel I thought he might be kind enough to visit.’

Dr Matthews was elderly, almost due for retirement, but he and Rose had always got on well. Now he puffed out his cheeks eloquently. ‘I deserve a medal for climbing those stairs but I’ll settle for a cup of tea when I’ve seen my patient,’ he said. ‘If that feller’s been sleeping out in this weather, he’ll mebbe need more than an aspirin and a spoonful of Buttercup Syrup. Lead on, young lady.’

Accordingly, Rose led him into her bedroom. Martin had been asleep but he woke on their entry and Rose thought he had never looked worse. His whole face was still a bright, unnatural pink, his eyes seeming to have sunk deep into their sockets. They were still red-rimmed and watering, and when he breathed a cacophony of sound accompanied each inhalation.

Fortunately, Martin did not reply; Rose doubted if he even took it in, but she spoke quickly. ‘Sorry, Dr Matthews. The truth is, Martin – I mean Albert – hasn’t registered with a doctor ’cos he’s never been ill. But sleepin’ rough seems to have give him a feverish cold, like, and – and when he came to me he collapsed, so I thought it best to get him some real doctoring. Someone once told me that my own doctor could treat a friend or relative who was visitin’, so I said Albert was my cousin and came from Ireland, so’s it ’ud be harder to check up than if I’d said, oh, that he came from Chester or somewhere.’

‘Yes, all right, all right,’ Dr Matthews said with a touch of impatience. He had been wearing a heavy coat and a thick, fudge-coloured scarf, but now he removed his scarf, stood his bag on the bedside cabinet and produced a stethoscope from its depths. ‘I’ve no objection to treating young Albert here.’ He jammed the stethoscope into his ears, pressed the business end to Martin’s skinny chest and said: ‘Not that I need a stethoscope to tell me that this young man’s got bronchitis, or worse; I could hear an orchestra playing every time he took a breath.’ He removed the stethoscope and returned it to his bag, looking thoughtfully at Martin. ‘I think this calls for one of the new wonder drugs. Ever heard of penicillin?’

‘It is good, especially for chest infections,’ the doctor said. He ferreted around in his bag once more, produced a bottle of tablets and handed them to Rose. ‘Give him one three times a day for a full week,’ he instructed. ‘I’m pretty sure that’ll do the trick. I’ll come in again, just to check, in two or three days . . . no, better not, those stairs are killers. You come to me, young lady, and tell me how he’s progressing.’

‘Thank you ever so much, Dr Matthews,’ Rose said gratefully, ushering him out of the room. ‘But do you mind not telling anyone, anyone at all, that he’s staying with me? If folk found out, I might easily get evicted, because the lady who got me the flat wouldn’t approve of Mart – I mean Albert – sharing my place.’

By now they were in the kitchen and Dr Matthews was reaching for his cup of tea. ‘Is he the father?’ he asked bluntly, jerking a thumb towards Rose’s bump. ‘Of course, you’re too young to marry anyone yet, but I’d say Albert was a steady sort of fellow. And there’s no harm in wearing a wedding ring and telling everyone you’re married provided you turn the lie into truth as soon as you’re sixteen.’

The story of their abortive trips to Southport and the long trek home was soon told, and at the end of the recital Dr Matthews whistled softly beneath his breath. ‘Well, I think that proves my point,’ he said. ‘He could have taken advantage of you and stayed in the flat, but he didn’t, did he? He moved back to living on the streets, having decided not to visit you again until he had a proper job and a roof over his head. He only came back to Everton Brow when he had lost literally everything: sleeping bag, spare clothing and the use of that convenient doorway.’ The doctor raised his thick white eyebrows until they almost disappeared beneath his shock of white hair. ‘And what will happen when he’s over this illness, eh? Last time he left the shelter of your home you didn’t realise that he was sleeping rough, but you know now. Because of the terrible weather, I doubt there’s so much as a single bed not filled in any of the hostels or lodging houses, and of course the dog will mean he can’t even apply for a place at the YMCA.’ He looked quizzically at Rose across the kitchen table. ‘You could offer to keep the dog for him if he got a place, but it’s not a solution, is it? Look, Miss Pleavin, if I procure a camp bed and a couple of blankets, would you let young Albert stay with you until he finds a job, and a place of his own? I might even help with a job, because there’s folk who owe me a favour and once Albert’s back on his feet I could use my influence on his behalf.’

Rose gnawed her lower lip. What would Mrs Ellis say? A bargain, was a bargain, but now that she thought about it she could see no real reason for her conviction that the older woman would not like the new arrangement. And why should she even know about it? Mrs Ellis had never shown the slightest interest in Rose’s bedroom. Once or twice when visiting the flat she had used the bathroom, but mostly their short meetings took place either in the kitchen or in the sitting room. Whilst Martin was ill, Rose would shut him in the bedroom with Don, and see to it that Mrs Ellis never suspected the presence of anyone other than themselves in the flat. When Martin was well again, she must impress upon him that he could not remain indoors during daylight hours. Of course, she would go back to her own bed and he would have to make do with the sofa, for kind though it was of Dr Matthews to suggest the loan of a camp bed, any sign of it in the flat would immediately arouse suspicion.

She said as much to the doctor, who grinned, then stood up and reached for his coat, hat and scarf, which he had hung on the back of the kitchen door. ‘Oh well, I dare say you know your own business best,’ he said. He looked round. ‘Where’s that damned great dog? You won’t want him nipping out when I leave.’

‘He’s very obedient,’ Rose said rather reproachfully. ‘Didn’t you notice that he hasn’t got a collar? But when we take him out he sticks closer than glue to me or – or Albert, honest to God he does. And anyway, I’ve got to go shopping, so I might as well take Don at the same time.’ She flicked her own coat off its peg as she spoke and began to put it on. ‘I offered Albert porridge or toast, but he didn’t seem to fancy either. Wharrabout soup, doctor?’

The doctor opened the kitchen door and stood in the small hall whilst Rose fetched Don, saying nothing to Martin since he appeared to be sleeping soundly. As the two of them descended the stairs, however, the doctor spoke. ‘He won’t want solids for a day or two; soup, Lucozade and hot drinks such as Oxo or Bovril will be quite sufficient. When he begins to feel more himself, he’ll suggest food which he feels he can cope with. I take it you’re all right for money? The boy won’t be able to draw the dole until he’s better. I suppose I could write a note explaining the situation . . .’

On the last day of the tablets, Martin tried to assure Rose that he was now completely well and could manage the journey to the Labour Exchange if she wouldn’t mind looking after Don whilst he was away, but this caused Rose to get bossy once more. ‘I know it’s sunny and it hasn’t snowed since you was took ill, but it’s still perishin’ cold,’ she told him. ‘What’s more, Dr Matthews said you were to go down to Brougham Terrace when you finished his tablets so he could judge for himself whether you needed a second course, wharrever that may mean. So tomorrer, the two of us will toddle along there and get you signed off.’

Rose gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘You are better!’ she said. ‘Them tablets certainly did the trick. And it just goes to show that you really are strong, Mart, because the doctor was quite worried by that there orchestra he said were playin’ inside your chest. And it’s not done that for a full three days. Oh aye, I reckon you’re strong as a bleedin’ donkey.’

‘Strong as Don,’ Martin said gleefully, smoothing the big dog’s head. ‘As if we’d leave you behind, old feller.’ He was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed for the first time since his illness and feeling so full of energy that he thought he would scream if he was cooped up for another day. He said as much and saw Rose cock her head on one side in a considering sort of way.

‘I know what you mean,’ she said slowly. ‘If it were to rain tomorrer I’d not want you to go round to Brougham Terrace and then on to the Labour Exchange. I’ve gorran umbrella but that would only keep the top half of you dry. And like you said, I’m not too keen on the neighbours seein’ us both comin’ out o’ the flat at the same time and goin’ off together. It ’ud cause talk.’

Martin sighed. He glanced towards the window and thought how good it would be to stretch his legs. At first, the sheer luxury of being in bed and being looked after had been enough, for Rose had taken good care of him, never trying to force him to eat what he did not fancy, helping him to the bathroom when he was at his weakest and bringing him hot drinks every hour or so. She had even come quietly into the bedroom three or four times a night, making sure that there was nothing he wanted. But now he glanced at her, seeing her indecision and hoping to be able to use it to his advantage. ‘Rosie?’ he said coaxingly. ‘Rosie, suppose I do some shopping for you instead? Then I can take Don, because he could do with a walk, and I promise if I start to cough, or wheeze, or feel ill, I’ll come straight home. How about that?’

‘We-ell,’ Rose said slowly. ‘I don’t know as I ought to let you, but it is a lovely day, even though it’s chilly still.’ She jerked her thumb at the coats on the kitchen door. ‘Last time I were on the Scottie, I picked up an old duffel coat dead cheap. Go on, try if it fits.’ It did, and Rose nodded approvingly. ‘Right, you’ll do. You can buy me half a pound of stewing steak, three nice onions and a couple of carrots. The doc said a sustaining stew would do you the world of good once you were eating solids . . . oh, and if you can carry them, we could do with some spuds.’

Rose saw her two companions off and smiled to herself. She would have time to clean the flat thoroughly before they came back, because she guessed that Martin would not hurry. She had spoken no more than the truth when she said it was a fine day, for earlier she had taken a bag of rubbish down to the dustbins and had appreciated the freshness of the air, spiced still with frost but now showing definite signs of spring.

She had expected to feel a sense of freedom once Martin and Don had left, but instead she felt rather lonely. It had been her habit to leave the doors open and to shout through to Martin, telling him what she was doing and sometimes calling him through into the kitchen so that they could listen to a radio programme together.

Now, she took a quick look through her food cupboard and decided that she would nip down to the corner shop and buy the ingredients for three or four large Victoria sponges. Miss Haverstock must be wondering what had happened to ‘her little helper’ and though to the best of Rose’s knowledge the matron and Mrs Ellis did not know one another, you could never tell how gossip would spread. She did not think Mrs Ellis knew anything about her earnings from the old people’s home, which allowed her at least some independence, but it might alert the older woman if someone said that the supply of baking for the home had suddenly dried up. As a governor of the orphanage, and a social worker, Mrs Ellis probably knew that Rose had loved her cookery classes; how awful if she put two and two together and first accused Rose of earning money on the side and then began to investigate the sudden cessation of Rose’s little earner.

Rose finished making her shopping list and chided herself for her stupidity. What on earth did it matter if Mrs Ellis found out that she was earning money? Soon she would have a baby to keep, as well as herself, for though Mrs Ellis had been generous – was being generous – Rose realised that the older woman had never said that she would continue to support Rose once the child was born. I’ll probably have to get a job, but it won’t be easy because if I do I’ll have to pay someone else to look after the baby, Rose told herself now. But I expect there are grants and things for mums who can’t go out to work.

As she was leaving the flat, locking the door carefully behind her, another thought occurred. Suppose she asked Miss Haverstock if she could work at the old people’s home? She could take the baby there, which would be a very real saving, and do all their cooking instead of just producing the odd cake or tray of buns. At present Mrs Poulson cooked for the residents, but she was old and wanted to retire and Mrs P and Matron had never got on. Yes, it was an idea; when she delivered today’s baking, she might hint to Miss Haverstock that when the baby was born she would be looking for a full-time job. The older woman could only say no, after all.

She was just emerging from the tower block when, to her initial dismay, she saw Mrs Ellis approaching and heard herself hailed. ‘Gertrude? I was just coming to visit you. Where are you off to, my dear? Can you spare me five minutes? Oh, is the lift working? I don’t want to drag you up all those stairs again in your condition.’

Rose’s mind did a rapid tour of the flat which she had just left. Yes, she had made her bed, changing the sheets since she intended to sleep there herself now that Martin was so much better. She had left the linen soaking in the sink. Fortunately, she had stripped the sofa, folded the blankets round the pillow and replaced the bedding in the small cupboard in the hall. The kitchen might be a slight giveaway because she had left her cooking utensils on the table, but what was wrong with that? Surely she was entitled to bake a cake or two without consulting Mrs Ellis.

‘I’m not sure about the lift; sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, and I’m always afraid of getting stuck in it so I hardly ever use it even when it is working,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t mind the stairs; the nurse at the clinic says stairs are good exercise and I reckon they’ve done me no harm. Sometimes I go up and down six or eight times a day.’

Mrs Ellis laughed. ‘Rather you than me,’ she said gaily. ‘Well, if you can spare the time, I’ve brought you a bag of sticky buns and a couple of oranges. I know you get orange juice when you visit the clinic, but Mr Ellis says fresh fruit is best so I bought the oranges, a couple of nice apples and a small bunch of bananas. You do like bananas, don’t you?’

‘Bananas are okay, I suppose,’ Rose said grudgingly. She had been tempted to reply sharply, ‘I’m not a bleedin’ monkey’, but had swallowed the remark unsaid. Mrs Ellis had been a true friend and could not possibly guess that Rose’s one visit to a zoo had included watching a large gorilla deftly peeling a banana and then eating the peel and throwing down the fruit.

By now, they were halfway up the third flight, the lift having not appeared when Mrs Ellis had pressed the bell, and Rose remembered something she had forgotten before. Only two days ago she had seen, on a stall in Paddy’s Market, a large stoneware bowl with Dog written upon it. She had bargained briskly with the stallholder, obtaining it for sixpence in the end, and she knew she had not put it away before leaving the flat, idiot that she was. It was full of water so that Don could have a drink whenever he wished, but if Mrs Ellis remarked on it, she would think of something.

Accordingly, when they reached the fifth landing she turned impulsively towards her companion. ‘Oh, I am thoughtless, Mrs Ellis, dragging you up all these stairs! You’re out of breath already and we ain’t halfway yet. Tell you what, I’ll take your bags and go ahead, and you can come up slow like. Or if you’re only here to give me nice things, we can transfer them from your basket to mine and you needn’t come any further.’

Mrs Ellis laughed breathlessly and Rose saw that her cheeks were very pink. She noticed that the mass of bright brown hair, which Mrs Ellis usually wore pulled severely away from her face and fashioned into a large bun on the nape of her neck, had been casually clipped back with a couple of tortoiseshell hair slides, and fell to her shoulders in a pageboy bob. For the first time she realised that Mrs Ellis was a pretty woman, and relatively young. Rose had always thought of her as quite old. She wore spectacles, but her eyes, large and light blue, seemed to sparkle today and to Rose’s astonishment she had actually applied pale pink lipstick to her mouth. She wore, as she always did when she was working, a white blouse with a grey skirt and jacket, and her feet were shod in well-polished brogues, but there was something about her . . .

Rose took the bags and hurried ahead. She was actually in the kitchen and kicking Don’s bowl out of sight beneath the table when Mrs Ellis entered the room. Hoping she had noticed nothing, Rose hastily put the kettle on the stove. ‘Tea or coffee, Mrs Ellis?’ she said cheerfully as the older woman sank on to a chair. ‘I know you like coffee so I always keep some in, though I’m more for a nice cup o’ char meself.’

‘I feel awful mean, offering you the food you’ve brought yourself,’ Rose said, ‘but I’ve not gorra lorra grub in right now, so . . . will you have a sticky bun with your drink?’ Rose had used the expression ‘grub’ as a sort of test, because she knew it was one of which Mrs Ellis disapproved, but Mrs Ellis neither wagged a reproving finger nor frowned. Something was definitely up, Rose concluded.

Rose’s heart, which had sunk to her boots on hearing the doctor’s name, began to beat more normally. ‘He thinks . . .’ did not sound as though the doctor had spilt the beans to her mentor. ‘What does he think, Mrs Ellis?’ she asked encouragingly. ‘I like Dr Matthews. He’s ever so kind.’

Mrs Ellis put a hand across her mouth and giggled, which made Rose stare even more incredulously. She had thought, many times, that Mrs Ellis was a bit of a prig. If the woman meant she was expecting a baby, why on earth had she not said so? All this talk of little strangers was completely unnecessary, since having a baby was a natural process and nothing to be ashamed of. However, it would never do to say so. Instead, she said: ‘That’s wonderful, Mrs Ellis, I expect you and your husband are very excited. When is the baby due?’

‘Don’t worry, dear; I shall get various grants as an expectant mother myself and of course Mr Ellis’s salary will support us both whilst I’m unable to earn. We shall continue to help you for as long as you need – we have an agreement, remember – so you mustn’t worry that you’ll be left high and dry. We are very much your friends. Now, tell me. When you first came to the flat you were so upset and angry over your – your condition that I never liked to question you as to your feelings. But lately you’ve seemed, oh, more mellow somehow, not so bitterly resentful. Have I read your feelings aright?’

Rose took her time to answer the question, because for some reason she realised that it was important. Finally she said: ‘At the beginning I was sick every morning for weeks and weeks, and of course I was worried, thinking I had some horrible disease and might die because food simply would not stay in my stomach. Then I went to the doctor and he told me I was expecting. Then I hated the baby; I think I felt I had been betrayed into giving shelter to someone I didn’t even know. But now I suppose you could say I have come to terms with it. I was never a very patient person but I’ve learned that havin’ a baby is one thing you can’t hurry. So I cook and clean and shop . . . and wait. And when it’s all over, I’ll be me again.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Can you understand?’

Mrs Ellis thanked her but refused, getting to her feet. ‘I have the day off work, which is why I’ve been able to come and see you this morning,’ she said. ‘I had intended to visit my mother’s grave; she died when I was only a few months old and I was brought up by my grandparents. In fact it is their house that we live in now. But I really think I must go and see Mr Ellis and tell him my news before I go home to the Wirral.’

Secretly, she was hoping to avoid a confrontation between Mrs Ellis and Martin, to say nothing of Don. The trouble with Martin was that he was unforgettable, as Dr Matthews had proved. Mrs Ellis might have come in contact with Martin when he had been at the Arbuthnot, and if she saw him more than once at the flats and began asking questions, folk might begin to put two and two together and make five. If she walked with Mrs Ellis down to Everton Brow and Martin caught sight of them, she was sure he would have sufficient sense to steer clear. If it looked as though Martin and the dog had not noticed them she would chatter away to Mrs Ellis, focusing the older woman’s attention upon herself.

These precautions, however, proved unnecessary. Mrs Ellis wanted to talk babies and was so clearly excited by the prospect that Rose wished she had not mentioned morning sickness. Not that it would necessarily attack her companion, for other expectant mothers had assured Rose that they had either escaped the bouts of sickness altogether, or suffered them for a relatively short time.

As they approached the tram stop, Rose realised what an enormous difference the other woman’s condition must have made, for Mrs Ellis had never mentioned her mother before, nor the fact that she had been brought up by her grandparents. Emboldened by this, she said shyly: ‘I didn’t know you lived on the Wirral. Is it nice?’

Rose stood and waved at the car until it was out of sight, then went thoughtfully down the road towards Heyworth Street, where she could purchase everything she needed for her baking. Thinking it over, she decided that Mrs Ellis’s excitement, though strange at first, was perfectly understandable in the circumstances. The revelation that she had been brought up by her grandparents had come as a complete surprise, and Rose could not help wondering why the older woman had never mentioned them before. This seemed odd in itself; but then she had never pretended to understand Mrs Ellis.

Satisfied, Rose set off for the shops. Tomorrow, she reminded herself, Martin would go off to Brougham Terrace and perhaps Dr Matthews would have been able to persuade someone to give him a job. Mrs Ellis had said she would continue to support Rose for as long as necessary which meant, Rose supposed, until she herself was earning, so if Martin was able to make a contribution they ought to manage pretty comfortably.

Don and Martin sauntered up the hill towards the tower block, feeling at peace with the world. The previous week he had gone, as arranged, to Brougham Terrace where Dr Matthews had pronounced him fit as a fiddle and added that he had spoken about him to a possible employer and arranged an interview for the following Monday.

Martin had been thrilled but apprehensive, and went along to Exchange Flags determined to do his very best to impress this Mr Cornwallis. He tied Don up to a lamp post with a length of rope and went into the Cygnet Insurance Company full of trepidation, mentioning Mr Cornwallis in a voice so faint that the girl on reception had to ask him to repeat the name. He knew, of course, that Dr Matthews had spoken for him, but the doctor had said that everything hung on the interview, so upon entering Mr Cornwallis’s office he pulled himself together and shook hands firmly, looking his would-be employer straight in the eye, and doing his best to exude confidence.

Mr Cornwallis, an elderly man, grey-haired and stout, put Martin immediately at ease by saying that Dr Matthews regarded him as hard-working and trustworthy. Then he asked Martin whether he had previous experience of office work. Martin was able to tell him that he had worked in the office at the boys’ home, where they had taught him a certain amount about bookkeeping and how to use their ancient Remington typewriter, and Mr Cornwallis nodded. ‘The doctor explained that your appearance had sometimes worked against you, particularly the fact that your spectacles were broken and not replaced because of the cost,’ he said kindly. ‘Normally, we would ask for references, but the one which Dr Matthews has already given you is quite sufficient.’ He glanced across his big desk at Martin’s earnest face. ‘I understand that your sight was badly affected by measles . . . as was my own.’ He tapped his steel-rimmed spectacles with a plump forefinger. ‘I would be lost without these. How were yours broken? And how have you managed without them?’

‘Oh, there was a rough and tumble in the dormitory when I was at Brackendale Hall and they got broken . . . well, shattered, really,’ Martin explained with a wry smile. ‘I should have gone along to the warden’s office and asked him to see about getting me another pair, but somehow I never got round to it. And besides, I didn’t see much point because they were the third ones the boys in my dorm had bust. As for managing without them, I see everything as fuzzy but I get along all right. To tell you the truth, I’ve got a big old greyhound, a lovely feller. He walks close beside me, so when there’s a pothole in the road, or a paving stone missing, he avoids it so so do I.’

Mr Cornwallis’s thick grey eyebrows shot up. ‘I understand, but you will need spectacles when you start work here. You will be delivering letters and parcels, fetching and carrying, taking correspondence to the post office and adding up your expenditure on stationery and stamps at the end of each day. You must go along to Dollond & Aitchison’s on Lord Street and get yourself some spectacles as soon as you leave here.’

Martin stared at him, round-eyed. ‘Does – does that mean I’ve got the job?’ he said, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice. ‘Oh, Mr Cornwallis, I’ll work ever so hard, honest to God I will. And I’ll go straight along to Lord Street . . . only, what’ll I have to pay? I’ve got my dole money, but I doubt if it’ll cover the cost.’

Mr Cornwallis was scribbling on a sheet of paper. When he’d finished, he blotted it, folded it and handed it to Martin. ‘I don’t think they’ll charge you for your spectacles since you are still on the dole,’ he said. ‘But if I’m wrong, I’ve told them to send the bill to me.’ He grinned, suddenly and disarmingly. ‘You can pay me back at sixpence a week, out of your wages!’ He rose to his feet and held out a white, well-manicured hand. ‘Good day, Mr Thompson. We’ll see you next Monday; prompt at nine o’clock, mind. And get that hair cut!’

Martin had treated himself to a Bounty bar as a celebration and now, crossing Thomas Street and avoiding a bus by inches, he unwrapped the paper, took a bite of the chocolate within, and broke off a piece for the dog. Sweets had only come off ration a few years before and then they had been in short supply for some time, so chocolate was still a luxury to them all. ‘Do you like that?’ Martin asked, as the dog took the piece delicately from his fingers, eyes shining, and swallowed it more or less whole. ‘You’re a good feller, so you are.’ Martin, who had bought Rose a Bounty bar as well, knowing how she loved the creamy coconut filling, told the dog that Rosie would probably go halves too. ‘So you win out all round, old Don.’

Martin was forcing himself to walk slowly, despite an urge to break into a gallop because of his good news. He would be earning a steady salary, though he knew that if he had had to pay rent, electricity and such things as rates he would be hard pressed to provide himself with enough to eat. However, for the time being at least, Rose had assured him that such things were being paid for by Mrs Ellis. Rose had always been somewhat secretive about her friend, but Martin had finally persuaded her to explain how she managed to pay the rent from the small sum she drew, he assumed, from the state.

‘Mrs Ellis wanted to help me because she said I were only a child meself,’ Rose had said. ‘She felt that it were partly her fault that I got meself in trouble because she were the captain of the Girl Guides from St Mary’s when we were took on a hiking holiday in Snowdonia. I thought what happened to me there were just horrible; I were stupid in them days and didn’t know about con . . . consequences. Mrs Ellis did, though. And when we both knew I were preggy, we made a bargain. She would get me a flat and see I got everything I was entitled to, provided I never let on I’d been interfered with. She said she might lose her job if anyone found out what had happened. You do understand, Mart, that I’ve gorra keep in with Mrs Ellis, no matter what.’

When Martin had returned with the shopping the previous week, Rose had told him of Mrs Ellis’s visit and revealed that the older woman, too, was expecting a baby. ‘I didn’t even know she wanted one,’ Rose had said, ‘but I’m awful glad for her because she was tickled pink, I could tell. And she said she’ll continue paying the rent and so on until I start earning myself.’

‘Well, isn’t that just grand,’ Martin had said heartily. Rose had told him Mrs Ellis was a busy and successful woman. She was a magistrate, a member of the board of governors for at least two children’s homes and possibly more, and worked in the Welfare Department. Her husband had his own business making cabling for the communications industry. Rose had explained that Mrs Ellis had no need to work since she did not need the money, but continued to do so because she was deeply interested in children and education.

Rose was lucky to have such a friend, Martin had concluded, even though the situation still puzzled him somewhat. Rose took it for granted, but Martin could not help thinking that in his experience folk did not hand out money so freely without thought of return. Perhaps Mrs Ellis wanted something which Rose would be able to give once the baby was born, such as help in what he imagined to be a large country house. Martin knew that domestic service in private houses had practically ceased to exist, because girls wanted more freedom than such jobs allowed, and he guessed that a large house in a remote area would be difficult, if not impossible, to staff. If Rose went to work for Mrs Ellis it would pay the woman back in some degree for the kindness she had shown to Rose.

It did occur to him that the job Mrs Ellis might offer could easily be live-in, which would mean that he would lose his accommodation, but he would simply have to find himself somewhere else to live. He could go back to the YMCA, he supposed, except that he knew they would not have Don. He was sure that Rose would never abandon the greyhound any more than he would, but somehow he doubted that Mrs Ellis would welcome his four-footed friend into her house.

By now he had reached the tower block and was ascending the stairs, determined to tell Rose that he had probably only got the job partly at least as a result of her help and advice. She had frowned over the fact that he had no really smart interview clothes, and then gone off on some mysterious errand of her own, returning a considerable while later with a pair of grey trousers, a white shirt and a tweed jacket. ‘I borrowed ’em off one of the stallholders in Paddy’s Market,’ she had explained. ‘She’s a good old gal and she’s holdin’ me best winter coat as a guarantee that she’ll get her stuff back, so don’t you go spillin’ your dinner down none of this clobber or I’ll have your bleedin’ guts for garters.’ The trousers were a bit short in the leg, as was the jacket in the sleeves, but with the addition of his own blue tie Martin had been quite impressed with his appearance and had thanked Rose from the heart. He had listened intently to every word of her subsequent lecture and wanted her to know that, between them, she and Dr Matthews had pretty well got him the job.

He slowed as he reached the top floor. Suppose Mrs Ellis had come visiting? He had best knock at the door and not simply burst in, though he knew Rose seldom locked it during daylight hours. When he and Don reached the tenth floor and he tapped on the wooden panel, the door opened so quickly that he guessed Rose must have heard their footsteps on the stairs. Before he thought, he gave her an exuberant hug, trying not to notice that she winced away as he did so. She stepped back, however, to allow him to enter, so he hoped the wincing had been in his imagination.

‘You got the clothes, Rosie, so it’s you I’ve got to thank,’ Martin said. ‘And the money goes up if I give satisfaction. I’ve gorra go to Dollond & Aitchison’s on Lord Street to get meself some new specs, ’cos I’ll be doin’ close work . . . accounts and that. Mr Cornwallis – he’s the boss – said I were to go straight there and they’ll see me right. Only I couldn’t wait to tell you that I’d got the job, an’ I start work Monday morning, at nine.’ He peered at her hopefully. ‘Want to come to the opticians with me? I could tell you all about the job as we walk . . . or we could catch a tram ’cos I’ve still got some of me dole money left.’ He dug into his pocket and produced the Bounty bar, pressing it into her hand. ‘For you, Rosie, to celebrate. And now I’d best change ’cos you’ll want to return these clothes and get your coat back.’ Another thought struck him. ‘But wharrabout next Monday? Will they expect me to be smart then as well?’

‘Oh, blimey, I never thought of that,’ Rose said, with some dismay. ‘But we’ll take this lot back and look for a decent jumper and some kecks what’ll cover your ankles. That should do for now. I’ve got a little bit of money put by from me bakin’. You can borrow that and pay me back some time!’ She turned to him, cuffing his shoulder lightly. ‘And we must deal with your hair; you look like a perishin’ dandelion clock!’