Bye Bye Love (28 page)

‘How dare he?’ she shouted. ‘How dare he do this to me? All those years without a word, and now when he wants to shack up with someone else, I’ve got to give him a divorce!’

She finally let herself out of the toilet, gave the children their dinner and embarked on a mammoth anger-fuelled cleaning spree. By the time she had finished she was exhausted and depressed. Whatever was she going to do now? She had lost the job she enjoyed, the love of her life was getting married and soon she would be a divorced woman, the sort of person people whispered about behind their hands. The future looked very bleak.

She flopped onto the sagging sofa and the children climbed up and cuddled close to her. She put an arm round each of their little bodies, drawing comfort from their soft warmth. She kissed each of their heads.

‘Who’s my own little darlings?’ she said.

‘Me!’

‘And me!’

At least she still had them. Ricky wanted to divorce her and Jonathan was about to be married, but she still had her children.

Victor shambled into the room, carrying a half-empty bottle of British Ruby Sherry and a tumbler.

‘Hello, Dad. Up on your day off?’

‘Couldn’t sleep with all that banging going on. What were you doing?’

‘Getting stuff off my chest.’

Victor sat down at the table and poured himself a glass of sherry. He drank it down, rolled a cigarette, lit it and took in a deep drag. Scarlett’s words finally got through to him.

‘Getting what off your chest?’

‘Ricky’s asked for a divorce.’

Victor made a so-what expression, turning down the corners of his mouth. ‘Good riddance.’

To her own surprise, Scarlett found painful laughter bubbling up from her stomach. She grinned and hugged the children closer.

‘Yeah, you’re right, Dad. We done all right without him. Good riddance!’

‘Riddance, riddance!’ Simon chanted.

Scarlett kissed him. Poor little soul. He’d never even seen his father, and now he probably never would.

S
CARLETT
trudged up the High Street. It had been a long evening. She had had a row with her boss, who had tried to insist that she undid another two buttons on her blouse in order to show plenty of cleavage. Scarlett had said that she preferred to keep the customers guessing, and was told that it was unbutton or go. Scarlett had obeyed, and had then done them up again as soon as his back was turned. On top of that, she was unpopular with some of the other barmaids because she was sent to work in the lounge bar, where the tips were best, and they felt that this was their right as they had been there longer. Scarlett didn’t find the customers in the lounge bar any better than those in the saloon or even the public bar. They might wear suits and ties and speak with nicer accents, but they still considered the barmaid fair game. She had had to smile and take the salacious remarks all evening long.

‘Bloody men,’ she muttered to herself, as she walked past shop windows full of things she couldn’t afford.

The barman working with her wasn’t much better. He had put his hand on her bottom whenever he got the chance. Scarlett had retaliated by accidentally-on-purpose stepping back onto his foot with her stiletto heel. That had stopped him. She chuckled out loud, remembering. He wouldn’t do that again in a hurry.

She reached Victoria Circus at the top of the High Street. Just a couple of last buses were waiting. Either would go right to the top of her road. She hesitated. Usually she walked home, saving the fare. Six bus fares a week made a lot of difference to the amount of money she had for essentials. But the horrible businessmen had been appreciative, cleavage or no cleavage, and she had a nice handful of tips jingling in her purse. To hell with it, her feet and legs were aching and she was fed up and dead tired. She deserved a ride. She got on the first bus and flopped down on a seat. What luxury!

She half dozed as the bus trundled along, waking with a start each time the bell rang. When it got to her stop and she got up, her feet seemed to hurt even more than when she had sat down. As she hobbled off the bus, she noticed the reflections of flashing blue lights in the corner shop windows, and people around her were asking each other what was going on, was it a fire?

Once on the pavement, she knew it was a fire. She could smell the smoke. Fear clutched at her heart.

‘Don’t let it be my house. Please don’t let it be my house,’ she prayed.

Heedless now of her swollen feet, she ran across the main road and round the corner into her street.

‘Oh, my God!’ she cried.

Halfway down on the left hand side, smoke was billowing from one of the long row of terraced houses, though from the distance it was difficult to see exactly which one. Blue lights flashed luridly through the murk. A police car, an ambulance and two fire engines were grouped at the scene. People were standing at their front gates, watching and pointing.

‘Please, please no—’ Scarlett cried, pounding down the road.

But, as she drew nearer, it became clear that her worst fear had been realised. It was her house. Even as she watched, a fireman rescued one of her neighbours from their upstairs window while others were directing hoses through the downstairs windows.

‘Dad!’ she screamed.

She burst through the ring of people watching.

‘Let me through! Let me through! It’s my house!’

A policeman caught her in his arms. ‘No further, miss. It’s dangerous.’

Scarlett wriggled and fought. ‘Let me go! My dad! My dad’s in there!’

But the policeman held her firm. ‘You live in the bottom flat, miss?’

‘Yes, yes—’

‘Anyone else in there, miss? Just the one? You sure?’

‘Yes, just my dad. Have they got him out?’

‘Which room would he be in, miss?’

It was difficult to think straight.

‘The—the living room at the front. Or the small bedroom at the back.’

The policeman relayed this information to the head fireman, who sent men down the alleyway at the side of the house.

One of the firemen helped her neighbour into the waiting ambulance. The doors closed and it made off.

‘Where’s my dad? Have they got him out?’ Scarlett repeated.

‘Not yet. The others were at the window. They’re still trying to get into the downstairs. And your name is, Miss—?’

‘Harrington. Mrs Scarlett Harrington. But my dad—’

‘And your father’s name?’

‘Victor Smith. Look, what does it matter? Just tell them to get him out.’

Even from three houses away, the heat was intense. The homes on either side had been evacuated and shocked neighbours were huddled in the street, watching to see if the fire would spread, and being comforted by those who lived slightly further away from the flames. The policemen moved everyone back.

Weeping with shock and horror, Scarlett watched the flames licking through her home, heard terrible cracking noises from inside.

‘Please, please, you must get him!’ she begged.

Someone took over the job of holding her back. Scarlett vaguely recognised familiar voices.

‘They’re doing the best they can, love. We can only pray. At least the kiddies weren’t in there.’

Scarlett let out a howl of anguish at even the thought of her children being in that inferno.

‘They’re not, are they, love?’

‘No, no—but my dad—’

Motherly arms held her, voices tried to reassure her, but nothing could lessen the terrible torment of waiting to see if the men could get through to wherever it was that her father lay. Another ambulance drew up. Scarlett’s eyes were streaming from tears and the effect of the smoke. People all around her were coughing. The fire had a dreadful stench to it, quite unlike the friendly smell of a bonfire. Once more the policemen moved everyone back.

After what seemed like an age, the flames started to die back and the smoke grew thicker and darker. Then two firemen emerged from the alleyway, carrying a stretcher between them.

‘Dad!’ Scarlett screamed, starting forward.

Two sets of strong arms held her back, for the figure on the stretcher was completely covered with a rubber sheet. Scarlett stared at it in agony.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Oh, no, no, no! Not my dad, please not my dad!’

She fought to get away from the people who restrained her.

‘I got to see him.’

‘No, dear. Best not. Leave it.’

As the body was carried past and into the waiting ambulance, her nostrils caught the sickening smell of burnt flesh. There were gasps and groans of horror around her. Scarlett’s legs gave way. She knelt in the road and vomited up everything in her stomach, then continued retching helplessly and weeping, doubled over in the street. Vaguely she registered the ambulance being driven off.

Hands helped her to her feet. Voices tried to soothe her.

‘Come away, love. Come on. There’s nothing more you can do. Leave them to it now, eh? Come along.’

She was too weak and shaken now to resist. Still sobbing, she allowed herself to be led away and taken into the house opposite her own. Someone helped her upstairs, eased off her shoes and skirt and let her roll into a soft bed, where she curled up in a ball of misery. Voices murmured round her, the springs of the bed creaked as someone sat down beside her and put an arm round her shoulders.

‘Have a drink of water, dearie.’

Obediently, Scarlett drank. She found she was parched.

‘That’s right. Good girl. Now, take this.’

A pill was put in her mouth.

‘And another little drink, dearie. It’ll help you sleep.’

Again Scarlett did as she was told. Then she was allowed to lie down again. When she closed her eyes, she saw flames and smoke and that dreadful shape beneath the rubber sheet. She fought to stay awake. Anything rather than see that again. But the sleeping pill was too strong for her. She was dragged downwards into a drugged slumber, and knew no more.

When she surfaced again, it was light. She felt sick and muzzy and ached all over. For a moment she couldn’t make out where she was and why she was still half dressed. Then she remembered. Her father was dead. Her home was ruined. She let out a groan of despair.

A head looked round the bedroom door.

‘You awake, dearie? I brought you a nice cuppa tea.’

‘Oh, Mrs Jenkins—’

Except for her time in hospital with the babies, it was the first time anyone had brought her tea in bed since she was a little girl. The simple act of kindness overwhelmed her. Her neighbour sat down on the bed and put her arms round her. Scarlett buried her head in her comforting chest and wept while Mrs Jenkins rubbed her back and talked to her as if she were a child. When she finally subsided into sobs, Mrs Jenkins pulled away slightly.

‘There now, it’s best to have your cry out. There’s your tea gone all cold. Shall I get you another?’

Scarlett nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

But while Mrs Jenkins went downstairs, Scarlett slid out of bed. She just had to see what state her home was in. With dread clutching at her stomach, she padded into the front bedroom and looked across the street. She had been prepared for a terrible sight, but still the shock of it made her cry out. The building looked derelict. The windows were broken and the brick on the outside of the house was blackened with smoke. Inside, from what she could see, was just a black hole. There was no chance that anything could be saved. What hadn’t been burnt would be damaged by smoke and water. It was a total disaster. She tried to think about what she should do next, but her poor brain did not seem to be functioning properly.

Mrs Jenkins found her and led her back to the spare bedroom.

‘Here you are, dearie. Drink this up and you’ll feel a bit better. We’ve all been having a bit of a turn-out, and we’ve got a few things together for you. Look—’

She nodded at the laundry basket and the bulging pillowcase by the bed. Scarlett examined their contents. There were sheets and blankets and towels, children’s clothes and toys, a change of clothes for herself and a selection of toiletries.

‘Oh—’ she kept saying, ‘oh, how kind. How thoughtful.’

So now she had a little more in the world than just what she stood up in. But it wasn’t the most important thing in her mind.

‘Where am I going to go?’ she wondered out loud.

‘Have you not got any family?’ Mrs Jenkins asked.

‘No.’

She really was all alone now. Her father might not have been much of a support, but at least he had been there, and he had cared about her and the children, in his own way. Now there was no one.

‘What about the children’s granny? That’s who looks after them at night, isn’t it? Can’t you stay with her?’

‘That’s exactly what I don’t want to do,’ Scarlett said grimly.

She could just imagine Mrs Harrington’s reaction to the news of the fire. She would see it as a chance to keep the children with her for ever.

‘Well, you can stay here till you get yourself settled,’ Mrs Jenkins offered.

‘That’s really kind of you,’ Scarlett said.

But she knew it wasn’t the solution. The room she had slept in last night was tiny, Mrs Jenkins already had a lodger in the other spare bedroom and Mr Jenkins wasn’t well and wouldn’t appreciate having two noisy children charging round the place.

‘I’ve got to go and pick up the children. My mother-in-law will think I’m taking advantage if I leave it any longer,’ she said.

Besides, she needed to be with them. They were all she had now. She dressed in the ill-fitting hand-me-down clothes and stepped out of the front door, only to be confronted once more by the ruin that had once been her home. The smell of wet ash hung heavily on the air. Scarlett bit her lip, trying to hold back another bout of tears as she fully realised just what had gone. The photos of her mother, of the children as babies, of Jonathan. The fluffy kitten that Jonathan had won for her on their first trip up the pier. Her copy of
Gone with the Wind
. Clothes and household goods could be replaced, but not those precious pieces of her past.

What was she going to say to the children? How could she explain? Simon was probably still young enough to adapt to anything as long as she was there, but Joanne was going to be very upset at the loss of her home and her toys. And how could she possibly explain what had happened to their grandfather? They were too young to know what death meant.

And, as she gazed at the scorched building, it suddenly came to her that she had been so wrapped up in her own woes that she had not even thought to ask how her upstairs neighbours were. They had been taken off to hospital, but she had no idea how badly they were injured.

‘Do they know how it started, girl?’ a voice said behind her.

Scarlett jumped and turned round. It was the Jenkins’s next-door neighbour.

‘I think I can guess.’ She sighed. ‘I think my dad must’ve gone to sleep with a cigarette alight in his hand.’

She didn’t add that he probably had a bottle of spirits in the other hand that would have tipped and caught light, or that he had more likely been in a drunken stupor than simply asleep.

‘Poor devil,’ the man said. ‘It’s a bad business and no mistake.’

‘Does anybody know anything about the young couple upstairs, how they are?’ Scarlett asked.

‘My old lady rang the hospital. They’re suffering from smoke inhalation and minor burns. They’ll be let out later today.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Scarlett said. ‘But they’ve still lost their home as well.’

She felt partially responsible. It had been her father who had started the blaze.

‘What’re you going to do, girl?’

‘I don’t know,’ Scarlett admitted.

She thrust her hands into her coat pockets. Her fingers touched a small card. She pulled it out.

‘Jonathan!’ she said out loud.

It was the business card he had given her. She turned it over and over in her hands, remembering how happy and hopeful he had been that day, looking forward to a successful future with Corinne by his side. And what had she done? She had rejected his offer to show her round his project and rejected his idea of her working with him and Corinne. When it came down to it, she had rejected his friendship. Would he respond now if she phoned him? She had to try. It was her only hope.