Chocolate Girls (30 page)

Edie sat very still, drawn in to what he was telling her. Her chest felt tight.

‘Why would it be her fault?’

‘Well, Nellie was the one left to fend for ’em. ’Er was the second eldest of the O’Riordans – after a brother. Born 1894, Nell was, and five more followed – them that survived, anyroad. They lived over Bordesley way – but her father was from Ireland before that. Sligo. ’E come over on the boat.’ He paused, scratching his head.

‘The mom died after the youngest was born. Well – they was already poor as roaches and the dad were left with seven kids. Nellie never went to school after nine years old – she had to be a mother to ’em all. Then when ’er was sixteen the dad was killed, crushed by a wall falling in on him. Well, Nellie’s brother was out at work. Next thing, ’e took sick died an’ all and it was just Nell. She took in carding and anything she could at home to stay and look after the five little ’uns, but it wasn’t enough to make ends meet. Nellie was desperate. That was when . . .’ A sob caught in his throat.

Both of them looked at Nellie, lying between them. Edie was numb with astonishment. This woman her father was talking about was like someone else. She couldn’t take it in! Her mother had no living family, that was the version she had grown up with. No one in the world. No family, no past . . .

‘I first saw her in a pub in Bradford Street. It weren’t an Irish pub. I’d met up with a pal for a drink and she came in with a fella. I mean I didn’t know then what ’er was. She weren’t – you know – all dressed up like a . . . She hadn’t the money for finery. Her looks were enough. Hair all up, bright as a copper kettle, those eyes flashing, and her face was fresh as a milkmaid’s . . .’ He choked, wiping more tears from his eyes, then continued talking in short bursts.

‘I was older, of course – Nell were only a kid. I’d been working with my father for years by then, was almost set to take over . . . Anyroad—’ He made a wiping motion with his hands, as if ironing out all that came in between. ‘We were wed. Nellie was eighteen when we tied the knot and I was twenty-five. I daint know everything straight away . . . I mean she made up to me – saw I had a steady job, prospects.’ With bitter sadness, he added, ‘That was what Nellie wanted. Safety. Prospects. I only wanted her.

‘Things came out of course. Er’d had a . . . well of course I knew ’er was no vestal virgin, but er’d caught for a babby and, well, she had it done away with . . . And there was her family – she wouldn’t have it. Nor the Catholic Church. Wouldn’t go back there. There was no one in the church except my side, on our wedding day . . . Florrie came along the year after and Nellie seemed contented enough with her. Then I was away of course, the years of the Great War.’ He stopped, apparently wondering, trying to make sense of it. ‘I s’pose she ’oped I wouldn’t come back.’

Edie made herself look at his face, the misery etched in it. She clenched her fists. He wanted her to feel sorry for him, was working on her pity. And she did feel more sorry than she could ever have imagined, picturing the proud, handsome young man who had been her father, madly in love with a woman who couldn’t love him back. Their marriage seemed to open up in front of her like a long road growing bleaker and sadder by the year.

‘Course, Florrie was a grown-up child when I came home, already at school. Nellie had found it easier than most – one child when she’d had to look after five before. ’Er was happy enough on her own, I think, in lodgings where no one knew anything about her. We moved in here then – and you come along, and Rodney after. All she wanted – a house, a nice road. Oh, she was so proud that we lived in a road not a street!’ A slight smile reached his lips for an instant. ‘Well – for a time. Nothing was ever good enough for long. And ’er never wanted me after that. Hardly ever. Not as a husband.’

There was a long silence.

Edie spoke eventually. ‘I wish she’d’ve said.’

He spat out a bitter laugh. ‘Said? Oh – she’d never’ve told yer. Rather’ve had her tongue cut out.’ He stared at her wasted features. ‘Poor old Nellie. We brought out the worst in each other, that we did. If things’d been different . . . I dunno.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll ’ave to go down for a tick. All that tea . . .’

All that ale more like, Edie thought as he went to the door.

Edie sat on, trying to digest all she’d heard. She felt immensely sad and weary. And very uneasy. Had her mother heard all of that? Had he taken some pleasure in revealing her past when she was not in a position to stop him? In the quiet, Nellie stirred suddenly, gave a sharp sigh.

‘Mom?’ Edie stood over her immediately. ‘Mom, you all right?’

There was no reply. Edie saw that her mother’s face had changed. The frown was gone and her features smoothed and relaxed as if massaged by gentle fingers. Edie did not need to check her breathing to be sure.

When her father came clumping back up the stairs and into the room she was holding her mother’s hand. Gently, she said, ‘She’s gone.’

A week after Nellie Marshall’s funeral, Janet sat at her desk in the buying department, fingers flying over the keys of her typewriter. The sun shone in from outside, though more weakly, now the afternoon was waning. It had been a bright March day, and on the way to work she and Edie had enjoyed the sight of clusters of crocuses and daffodils in Bournville Lane just beginning to open in the morning sun.

She finished the latest order, rolled the paper from the typewriter and sat back for a moment, flexing her aching fingers. She felt tense, coiled inside as if the slightest thing might make her explode. When she and Alec had parted in Corporation Street that Saturday afternoon he’d said, ‘Look Janet – I know this isn’t an ideal situation – for either of us. I only wish things could be different. But I have to say, I miss you like mad.’ As he said that he reached out and touched her cheek. ‘Remember Wednesday night was our night? Well it still could be. I’ll go for a drink in the Midland, usual time, if you want to join me. I’ll leave it up to you.’

Of course she had not rushed to join him. There had been Edie’s troubles over her mother, and she had no intention of ever seeing him again. Of course she didn’t. But then the notes started arriving. Not many, or with any regularity. Three had arrived now, slipped through the door, since she met him. Frances saw one of them and Janet made an excuse for it. Something about the Bournville tennis club, she’d said. Lies, again. They were short notes. ‘Meet me – please.’ ‘I’ll be there – Wednesdays, as ever . . .’ The latest had come yesterday. ‘I’m waiting for you . . .’ And she just couldn’t seem to get him out of her head, the way he looked at her, eyes full of wistful desire. The disturbing, primitive effect he had on her had not faded completely. He excited her – had done from almost the moment they met. And she needed excitement through all the drabness of the war, single at her age in a house full of children and Martin so very distant. She just wanted a bit of male company. Sometimes life felt so bleak and stifling.

The ridiculous thing is, she railed to herself as she prepared to begin her new piece of work, amid the ringing of telephones and clacking of other typewriters, that I don’t even
like
Alec very much. Everything about him is at odds with our morals – he’s a philandering husband, a manipulator! Fancy writing those notes when he knows I’m engaged. How
dare
he! I shouldn’t want the first thing to do with him. Oh, if only I hadn’t run into him again! Oh, I do wish I could talk about this to Edie, but she’s so straight and honourable, she’d never even think of doing something like this – and she’s got quite enough on her mind.

Edie had kept all that she’d heard from her father to herself for the days after Nellie died. Janet and Frances came to the funeral with her, and after it, when they got home and David was in bed, she broke down and told them all about it. It was a heartbreaking story, Janet thought. How Mrs Marshall must have loathed herself to be so vicious towards her children. Yet it was one of those tragedies caused by circumstances and not really by anyone’s fault.

Not like me, she thought. Oh, I must get a grip on myself and not spoil everything for Martin and me – if he’s still alive somewhere. If he still loves me at all . . . Oh Martin, where are you?

When the day’s work ended it was dark. She set off towards home, but found herself walking past the house, and further on, until she reached the main road and caught a bus into Birmingham. Sitting in her seat, thinking nervously of seeing him, she found herself longing to smoke, even though she had broken the habit long ago. But the situation seemed to demand that she carry cigarettes in her bag. It seemed to turn her into someone else.

With a sense of disbelief at herself she walked down New Street, her coat collar up, heels clipping along the pavement. Memories filled her mind, almost like being at the pictures watching a show about herself, of the times she’d been with Alec, the intimate drinks together, drives out to the country, the day at the beach. As she neared the hotel she slowed, daring herself to go on. Outside the big doors she stopped. He would be in there, at a corner table, waiting for her, hat on the seat beside him. When he saw her his eyes would follow every line of her, caressing her . . .

Aware that she must look strange and that a doorman might ask her what she wanted if she dithered any longer, she wrenched herself round and forced herself to walk back up the road towards the bus stop, the tension in her beginning to ease. No! She didn’t want him. Not all that again. Not even if Martin never came home. Not if Alec was the last man on earth. She must have gone out of her mind going anywhere near him again!

Frances didn’t quiz her as to why she was late home. She often was, stopping to finish work. But she did come into the hall, smiling as she heard Janet arrive.

‘Darling – at last. Of course you would have to work late today of all days. Look—’ From under her silky shawl she brought a letter.

‘Oh!’ Janet cried. ‘Oh – is it . . .? It’s from Martin!’

She seized the letter and set off upstairs without taking her coat off. ‘Down in a tick!’

Sitting on her bed, she tore it open and read it so fast and hungrily! The letter provided the usual combination of hope and anticlimax. He could tell her so little of his whereabouts, his life. But he was alive and in the letter he included his parents’ address in Warwickshire. He didn’t say ‘just in case’ but she knew that was what he meant – it was they, not she, who would be sent any news of him. The letter ended with words of such tenderness that it brought on her tears. ‘My own sweet darling,’ he called her. Oh, the pleasure of it – and the shame, reading his words of love on a day when she had come so close to being disloyal to him! She held the letter to her breast and lay on the bed, weeping with relief and longing.

Ruby had tried to shut it out of her mind. She’d missed her monthly visitor twice since that night with Wally, the time they’d made love without any precautions. She wouldn’t catch for a babby just from the one time, surely! But two days ago she had woken feeling sick. And there were the other signs, the terrible tiredness, the way certain smells made her feel queasy. She lay in bed, while her mind raced doing calculations. It was February when she must have caught. That meant she’d be having it in – she counted on her fingers – November. Almost exactly three years after Marleen! Oh no, it couldn’t be. Please, let it be a horrible mistake. Let her just be poorly instead! She pushed herself up groggily and sat hugging her rough blanket over her knees, the implications of it all forcing themselves into her mind. It would mean leaving work again, at least for a few months. She’d have to go through the hell of another birth – just the thought of the hospital made her go cold – and all that horrible feeding, and bringing up two children on her own. And what was far, far worse was, she wasn’t married! Everyone knew Frank had been killed. Surely she wouldn’t be able to carry on working at Cadbury’s if they knew that! What if she told Wally? Immediately she thought of that leave with Frank, so hurtful and humilating, when she had first been expecting Marleen. If she told Wally now he might take to his heels just like Frank. A man didn’t like that sort of surprise, that was one thing she’d learned the hard way. No – she couldn’t tell him. At least if she kept quiet she’d have him for a few months longer, before it became obvious and he left her anyway. A few tears trickled down her cheeks, but she wiped them angrily away. Where was that going to get her? There was no one to dry her tears: she would just have to get on with it, up and out of bed, get the kettle on for a cuppa.

The next day she was due to meet Wally. Once again they’d arranged to go dancing. Although Ruby was tired, she felt better by that time of day and she dressed herself up in her green frock and powdered her face to hide the dark circles under her eyes, adding a touch of her brightest red lipstick. She smiled determinedly at her reflection in the mirror.

‘Ready for anything, eh, Rube?’

She was determined to be as happy and loving as possible.

‘Here’s my gal!’ Wally greeted her with his usual enthusiasm, flinging his arms round her and kissing her and Ruby was reassured. He was a good man, Wally was. She linked her arm with his and smiled up at him as they stepped into the dance hall, with its smell of floor polish, of sweat and cheap perfume.

They danced to the fast swing numbers, the colour coming to their cheeks, twirling round one another. Ruby laughed and joked as if she had no cares in the world, kissing Wally amid the clapping and whooping when the music stopped. At the moment she felt as if all her safety and her future depended on him. And she felt so much for him – she did! When a slow waltz number came on and they were gliding round the floor together, she put her lips close to his ear.