Birmingham Friends (3 page)

And it’s Livy and me who are with him, I thought. No one else. I felt more presentable than usual, wearing that frock instead of the cut-down pair of William’s shorts that Mummy so often dressed me in. If only I didn’t have to wear my ugly specs . . .

Alec treated us to everything that afternoon. ‘Here, you’d love a go on this,’ and ‘Come on girls, I remember this one from when I was a kid.’ He lengthened his stride towards the biggest merry-go-round with the horses gliding up and down so high above us, its banner reading ‘Rides for Young and Old’.

‘I wish Daddy was like your father,’ I said excitedly to Olivia. ‘He’d never spend money on things like this.’

Olivia grinned mischievously. ‘He’s all work, work, work. That’s no fun, is it?’

My father was forever working, busy with his patients or in the study. Reading, writing: Christian ethics, papers on improving the health of the nation. His work as a doctor and his Christian Socialist principles didn’t leave him much time for leisure. Quite unlike this glamorous, thrilling, all-providing Father Christmas who was Olivia’s father. No wonder Elizabeth Kemp adored him so. How could you not envy her, being married to such a man? Largesse flowed from his fingers, pouring out over the whole city.

The horses slowed suddenly, people climbing down before they had stopped, and it was our turn. We rode together on one of the painted horses, knees gripping the cool smooth flanks. I sat behind, my arms tight round Olivia’s waist, and her hands gripped the twisted metal pole. We laughed and screamed to the loud music. ‘I’m flying!’ I shrieked, and Olivia just giggled and giggled.

He took us on the helter-skelter and the Big Bens, the steam yachts which swung up until they were at right angles to the ground, leaving your stomach behind as they came down again with everyone screaming. We laughed our way helplessly along the shuddering cake walk. He bought us hot potatoes, balloons, furry stickfuls of candyfloss.

‘It’s like eating knitting,’ I said cheekily, and Alec lunged for it, teasing me. ‘All right. If you’re going to be fussy, I’ll have it!’

But Olivia stopped suddenly, taking in the sight of one of the traction engines which pulled the trailers, right in front of us. It was a brilliant emerald green, the sunlight catching its polished brass funnel.

‘I’ve got to go on one of those!’ she cried and, candyfloss still in hand, she dashed across the dry ground, wisps of her hair and her cream skirt flying behind her. I followed, letting go of Alec Kemp’s hand, scared for a moment by her impulsiveness. Only days ago I’d watched her climb the parapet of a little bridge over the River Cole, scrambling up, shouting triumphant, then falling. She was unhurt but wet and scared. But she could make you frightened for her. Sometimes I wished I could tie her down. I felt staid and solid beside her.

‘That’s not a ride, Olivia!’ Alec shouted. He strode after us. ‘Come back. You’ll get lost.’

But she was already standing next to the majestic machine. She had to have what she wanted. By the time he reached her she was already climbing up into it. We could hear its throb, the power of it. She was chatting to the men working the engine, who smiled back, captivated but bemused, caps on heads and their hands black with grease.

‘We’ve told her we can’t move it, sir.’ One of them climbed down to speak to Alec Kemp, who raised his hat to him. ‘Not now, in this crowd.’

‘That’s quite all right. She shouldn’t be up there,’ Alec replied. I saw him slip coins into the man’s hand. ‘Thank you.’

That was the one cross moment. I had seen the panic in his face as Olivia dived into the crowd. Now he gripped her so hard that she yelped. When he let go there was a pink, suffusing mark on her arm.

‘You must never go off like that again, you silly girl. D’you hear?’ I could hear the anger like needles in his voice. ‘Now stay close to me all the time or you’ll get into trouble.’

Olivia stared at the ground, lower lip thrust out. I could tell she was near tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a little high voice. ‘But it was so exciting.’

‘Never mind, princess.’ Alec recovered quickly and swung her up into his arms for a moment. ‘Daddy doesn’t want to be cross. Come on. Let’s go and find something else you can have a go on.’

The photograph was taken after one of our merry-go-round rides. A young fellow with sticking-out teeth and a badly fitting suit approached us with his camera. ‘Councillor Kemp, I’m from the
Gazette
. Could I trouble you for a picture?’

‘Of course. It’s no trouble, is it girls?’ He smiled amiably. Courtesy to everyone, he maintained, was the trick. He was a great one for presenting the right image. ‘Would you like the girls in as well?’

‘That’ll be a treat,’ the young man said, squinting into his lens. ‘Stand nice and close together now.’

We were both still alight with the thrill of it, standing warm together, arms wrapped round each other’s back, utterly friends and absolutely happy.

The picture made the evening edition.

*  *  *

OLIVIA

They moved the piano forward in the drawing room, left music open on it and a vase of huge chrysanths on the top, which spread a heavy scent through the room.

‘Don’t make me,’ I begged Mummy. ‘Please. I don’t want to, I can’t.’

‘Oh, Olivia.’ Mummy knelt down beside me immediately. Her face was white. She implored me with her eyes. She had to make me, had to, for him. ‘Daddy’s so proud of you. Do it for him, please, my darling. You must do things for Daddy to make him happy.’

She put her arms round me. She was so thin and pale. I could smell her cologne. ‘Please Olivia, my pretty darling. You’re so clever.’

She cupped my face in her hands, stared into my eyes and she was frightened, I knew. She stroked my hair as if I were a pony. I had no choice. I was only ten and they expected me to play in front of all those people: councillors, aldermen, even MPs like Neville Chamberlain.

‘We’ll ask Kate to come along and keep you company,’ Mummy said.

It was 1931, the summer leading up to the formation of the National Government. They were all smug and expectant, of course, much talk of the eclipse of Socialism, Ramsay MacDonald having fluffed it. Waiting like vampires to do their duty for King and Country.

Daddy held a party, which meant giving orders for a marquee, terracotta pots with cascades of geraniums and busy Lizzies spilling from them like blood, lanterns strung between posts in the garden for when dusk came, and days of frenzied preparation of food. Mummy was pretty and charming but she was a draper’s daughter. She had a little green book called
How to Entertain
, and kept it by her bed like a Gideon Bible. The responsibility made her eyes bulge. It took away her sleep.

I went to talk to Lady and King, my budgerigars. They were in my bedroom. I was allowed them there as long as I kept them clean. Lady was an unpromising-looking creature, pale sulphur colour with a smudge of green down one wing. King, though, looked perfectly splendid. A green-patterned bird, he lived up to his name, mottled with black and majestic. But they were such mute birds. They made sounds but they didn’t speak. I wanted them to talk to me.

Sometimes I got angry with them. ‘Say something. Speak, will you? Say, “Pretty Livy.” Don’t just sit there looking stupid like that!’

They’d chatter together sometimes, harsh, shocking outbursts of noise like dried beans falling on lino, but usually when I wasn’t in the room. I’d listen from outside, hearing them gossiping, confiding things between them or fighting over the seed. They fluttered around in a frenzy, pattering their droppings down on the floor of the cage for me to clear up. When I went in they’d go silent suddenly, as if I was interrupting something.

It was like that that morning. As I climbed the soft, red stair carpet, I could hear them chirruping from the other end of the corridor. I tiptoed, my feet making no sound. I stepped over the raised, creaky board on the dark landing, knowing exactly where it was. I even held my breath when I reached the long strip of light by my bedroom door. They were hopping round the circular cage, chatting like an old couple reminiscing. Cosy, it was. I stood at the door listening, feeling angry. One of them rang the little bell I’d hung in there for them. They hopped and fanned with their wings.

Slowly and silently I slid into the room. They didn’t see me at first. When my shape and movement came to their attention they stopped. They sat quite still, watching me warily, like they always did.

‘Go on,’ I said sweetly, squatting down beside the cage. ‘You don’t have to stop because of me. Keep talking – I like to hear you.’ I pressed my nose against the bars. They fled to the opposite side of the cage and stood on the bottom, shifting nervously from one horrible naked pink foot to the other. I hated to see their scalded-looking skin and the way they were so scared and shifty.

‘All right,’ I wheedled. ‘If you’ve got nothing to say, I’ll talk to you. Daddy’s having one of his parties tonight and there’s a big tent on the lawn in case it rains, though it doesn’t look as if it will. And all the important people Daddy knows are coming. And he’s going to make me play the piano in front of them and I don’t
want
to! I HATE THEM ALL STARING AT ME!’

My shouting made the birds panic. They crashed around the cage, nowhere to escape to, their wings clumsily hitting each other, beaks open and vicious. Sometimes I thought they might peck each other to death to escape me.

‘It’s all right, I’m sorry,’ I soothed them. ‘I’ll tell you something nice now. Something that makes it better. Katie’s coming. My best friend Katie. You like her, don’t you? She doesn’t scare you. She’s coming to keep me company and stop them all pressing in on me with their eyes. Katie doesn’t mind it. She doesn’t see it. She loves me.’

And I loved her. How I loved her.

‘Much more than you ugly little pigs,’ I said to Lady and King. I stuck my tongue out at them.

Dear Kate. She was so overwhelmed by it all. So impressed. Her family were restrained and colourless. She was always wide-eyed and in love with us, her round face pink at a word from Daddy. He charmed her as if with a magic pipe and she lay squirming at his feet. She was so sweet. Of course she was plump and she had to wear those dreadful glasses, but she was a darling behind all that gruff self-protectiveness. Win Munro never gave her an ounce of self-esteem. She had no idea how to say anything warm or caressing. It was my parents who did that for her. And Daddy was so fond of Kate back then, giving attention in a way that he never normally did to women who weren’t beautiful. But you couldn’t not like Kate. She was full of innocence and fortitude. She’d go to the ends of the earth for you in her tight cotton frocks and buckled sandals.

‘Gosh, Livy, it’s beautiful!’ she cried, looking round the garden with her mouth open. The wisteria was hanging in flower and there were garlands of lilies round the entrance to the marquee. The servants were on the run, Dawson and O’Callaghan heaving a huge side of cooked meat on a platter.

‘My feet are killing me already,’ O’Callaghan moaned. I hadn’t got the measure of O’Callaghan yet, she was a new one. The maids were always coming and going. Except Dawson. Dawson was a very sensible woman. She’d learned: she lived out and had a small child and no husband. She hung on to her job with us.

It was already nearly dusk when the guests arrived. Lanterns glowed between the leaves in the garden. Mummy had dressed me in a white bridal frock like Betty McNamee wore for her First Communion. Kate’s dress was pale green and as frumpy as ever, poor thing, but I could never lend her one of mine because she couldn’t fit into them.

‘It’s gorgeous, Livy,’ she said wistfully to me. She wasn’t jealous. That wasn’t Kate. She just admired. Her heart was so whole. She didn’t see bad things and I didn’t want to make her. I needed her to believe in us, in our fairy tale, so we could have her wonder, her adoration.

We stayed at the edge of the crowd, darting to the table to fill our plates. Kate ate, I picked at the food, the meats and sweet tomatoes and eggs and prawns trapped in aspic. I gave my most angelic smiles to those who stopped me and spoke.

‘You’re not eating much,’ Katie said, as we sat in our spot near the shrubbery and watched.

I was sick with nerves. ‘Oh, I’ve seen the food going past under my nose all day,’ I said. ‘Dawson and O’Callaghan gave me some bits to eat. I’ve no space left.’

We gazed up at the shadowy figures around us, the men in their dark suits and the shimmering, coloured silks of the ladies’ long dresses which swished across the grass as they walked. I pointed to a tall, lean man talking earnestly near us. ‘Neville Chamberlain,’ I told Kate. ‘Look, there’s his wife over there.’

‘She’s gorgeous,’ Kate breathed, peering over at Annie Chamberlain, swathed in pale violet silk. ‘Look at that dress.’

We took in fragments of conversation. There was much talk of the election and the downfall of Socialism, and of riots breaking up meetings of the New Party. Labour’s darling MP for Smethwick, carried on shoulders through the street after the 1929 election, dark and dashing with a red rosette, had soon fallen foul of the Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald. Oswald Mosley’s meetings in the Bull Ring were now broken up by hecklers, bottles and chairs flung into the crowd by irate members of the Labour Party.

‘Quite extraordinary, Mosley’s lot seem to be,’ a voice said. ‘Bunch of thugs. Fearful tribe.’

Oswald Mosley had become the
bête noire
, but of course the Tories weren’t complaining. I was fascinated by Mosley. He was so attractive. There was something diamond hard about him, and everything dark: his hair, clothes, heart, black and dangerous as a cobra.

‘Olivia?’ Daddy’s voice cut across the chatter of the guests. ‘Have you seen my girl? Where are you, Livy?’

I loved him so much I wanted to run into his arms, do anything I could to please him. My daddy, my handsome, adoring father. I was all to him, his kitten, his princess. He wanted to show me off in front of his friends. The piano. I felt my stomach lunge and buckle.

‘Olivia?’ Kate cried in alarm. I stood retching in the darkness behind the blossoms of buddleia, its drugging scent all around me. The guests couldn’t have noticed.