September Starlings (26 page)

‘What do you do with these friends?’

Sometimes, people were very nosy. ‘We write stories. We sit in Enid and Irene’s parlour and do poems and things.’ Enid and Irene probably had no parlour. ‘And we go to church at St Patrick’s.’ Well, we’d been once.

She wore an expression of disbelief in her eyes. ‘I suppose I’ll get silly answers if I ask silly questions?’

‘Yes.’ At last, we understood one another.

‘Laura. Be careful. You’ve brains and a tremendous energy that could be easily misdirected.’

I wondered if she’d heard anything. There’d been several scrapes, and one head-on encounter with police after some apples got pinched from the market. ‘I’ll be careful,’ I said. And I would indeed take care, especially when speaking to an adult. Yet I didn’t want to alienate her, needed her on my side. And I hated the idea of being without old Tommy-gun. She had what Auntie Maisie would call ‘a face like a clog back’, but I’d seen the other side of Sister St Thomas. She had been good to me, and now she was going away. It seemed that I kept on losing people who liked me. Auntie Maisie and Uncle Freddie lived just feet away from me, yet I had lost them. Would Confetti go next? Or Tommo? My heart missed a beat when I thought about life without Bernard Thompson.

‘Go back now to class and finish your story. We have to send it in today for the judges. Good luck, Laura.’

I walked away from my friend and wrote one of my better stories. It was about Mr Evans, who had called himself ‘Good Evans’ and who had looked after cats and
helped to win a war. And it was about the sovereign he bequeathed to me, even though I’d stolen flowers from his garden. Love, I suppose, was the theme of my scribbling. Those who read it must have recognized a lonely child who sought affection, but I simply scribbled down what came into my heart as a tribute to a wonderful old man.

My name was placed on the short-list together with many others from schools throughout the town. There was to be a function at the Victoria Hall, some singing by choirs from various schools, a few tunes from discordant youth orchestras. We received an invitation with a crinkly edge and curly writing. It popped through the letterbox a day or so before the event, and Dad stood it on the mantelpiece next to the clock. ‘We’ll be proud of you, Laurie-child, whether you win or not.’

On the evening of the presentations, I went back to school and climbed into a cramped charabanc with the choir, the orchestra, three nuns and a thin woman called Miss Bridges. Miss Bridges taught music, so she was a vague and wispy person with vague and wispy hair. Norma Wallace always said that Ida Bridges was a genius and that geniuses did not make good teachers. There was a lot of messing about during music lessons, whispering and giggling and throwing of bits of blotting paper dipped in watery ink. Geniuses appear not to notice much.

I slipped into a vacant seat next to some very small violins and a box of recorders. So the evening promised to be hilarious then. The St Mary’s orchestra was like cats on the tiles, just a lot of wailing and screeching. Confetti leaned over me. ‘Are you all right there, Laura?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

She lowered her tone. ‘They’re going to play in public. And the choir’s going to sing.’

‘Oh.’ I didn’t know what to say.

She pulled a wad of cotton wool from her pocket. ‘May God preserve us,’ she muttered. ‘Do you want some of this?’

‘No, Sister. I’m used to the noise.’

Miss Bridges was standing in the centre aisle, her hair messier than ever. ‘Where is she? We shall have no first violin if Mary doesn’t come. Audrey? Look outside and see if she’s there. Who has the sheet music? Has anyone seen my baton? Please give it to me, Susan. No, it is not a fencing sword, this is my conductor’s baton. There’s a music case somewhere, and my handbag. Ah no, I remember that I didn’t bring my handbag. Mary – come along, stop dawdling. No, your mummy must take the tram or the bus to town, as we have no room on the coach. Who threw that?’ Toffee papers were flying round the bus like a plague of cabbage white butterflies. ‘Really, girls, I do wish you would settle down and behave like young ladies.’

They quickly became young ladies when Sister Agatha appeared, her voluminous skirts spread as wide as any crinoline. She climbed into the vehicle, stared straight ahead, simply waited for silence. Sister Agatha would have been very useful during the war, because even the Germans would have fled from an expression as sour as hers.

We trundled off to town, unloaded ourselves outside the Market Hall and marched across the road in an untidy crocodile. Sister Maria Goretti stood in the middle of the traffic waving her arms as if bringing in an aeroplane. Some loving parents accosted their daughters, straightened ties and collars, pulled up wrinkled stockings, brandished combs and brushes. No-one waited for me. Dad would no doubt be inside. I wondered whether Mother would turn up, but she’d probably gone out again to save some family from starvation and fleas.

The music was unbelievably bad. Even the Mayor of Bolton squirmed in his seat, while I wished with all my heart that I’d taken the cotton wool from Confetti. The best performers were from Peter and Paul’s, a group of little girls in their best white communion frocks. They sang about a gypsy woman called Meg and made a good job of it. Everyone else’s renditions were murderous,
though nothing was quite as wonderfully appalling as the St Mary’s Strings. The St Mary’s Strings were accompanied by Miss Bridges on the piano. She played all the right notes, probably in the right order, but my colleagues were, as ever, a law unto themselves. When those tortured miniature violins were finally put out of their misery, a collective sigh of relief hovered in the air above the audience. But I looked at Sister Agatha in that moment and saw something on her face. It wasn’t pride, but it was certainly love. Seeing that made me special again, because I was close to these holy women. They knew me and some of them allowed me to know them. They were full of charity, those brides of Christ, but they made sure that few of us discovered their inner gentleness.

The Chief Education Officer stood on the platform and peered through glasses that were just halves of circles. He seemed a jolly man, especially when he made jokes about his own schooldays. He talked about three classes in one big room, three teachers at the front teaching three different subjects. The pupils on the ends of benches listened to two lessons simultaneously and either learned too much or nothing at all. ‘We all kept hutching up,’ he said, ‘pushing one another along the forms till the end one fell off. That was our entertainment.’ Then he told us how lucky we were to have powder paint and books and paper and bright classrooms.

The first prizes were for art, then we went through music (St Mary’s won nothing in that category) and mathematics. Norma Wallace came out top, beat every child in Bolton, even those from the private establishments that crammed for Bolton School itself. I knew now that my story about Mr Evans had been silly and ordinary. None of these posh folk would be interested in an old man who grew flowers and made a fuss of cats.

The Chief Education Officer announced that he would now give out the essay prizes. Sister Maria Goretti turned in her seat and winked at me. I learned two things in those few seconds – a composition was an essay and a nun can
wink. I felt terrible about letting Confetti down. She set a lot of store by me, would be disappointed when I didn’t win. My father would be sad too. He must have been at the back of the hall, because I hadn’t seen him yet.

Third prize went to a boy from Castle Hill, then the second was collected by a very beautiful girl from the Bolton Preparatory. The Chief Education Officer stood centre-stage and waved a paper. ‘The first prize goes to someone whose story is very real and moving. Will you come up and read your essay, Laura McNally?’

I was stuck to the chair. My legs were of no earthly use to me and cold sweat ran down my neck, tickling as it travelled along the bumps of my spine. Sister Agatha got out of her seat and came for me. ‘Come along, child.’ Her eyes were wet and bright. ‘I am so proud of you.’

I did it. To this day, I don’t know how I managed not to faint, but I got on to that platform and read my sad little piece about an unsung hero. Applause is addictive. When they clapped and stamped their feet, I wanted more and more of it. Some of them even stood up and turned to one another, and I knew that they were talking about me.

I needed just one face in that audience, needed to see Dad, wanted him to share my moment of glory. My eyes raked back and forth along the rows and did not discover him. It was like the evening in the park all over again, because I was learning anew to be there for myself, to be my own guardian.

I was given a lovely leather-bound book full of Shakespeare, another item that I would keep till my dying day. The nuns clustered round me, their skirts spreading like a dark womb in which I could stay and be myself. They were my mothers, would continue forever to be my supporters, my guides. Norma Wallace gave me a germ-ridden kiss, then snerched in my ear. We were told to sit down, to remain in our seats until the schools nearer the door had left the hall.

Confetti knew. The pain in her lovely face was horrible,
while her eyes kept darting all over the place as she searched for some member of my family who would come forward and be proud. When hopelessness filled my heart, Uncle Freddie hobbled in. I learned that he had heard my composition, had gone outside for a breath of fresh air. But whatever emotion he had taken out with him was still working on his face. ‘Eeh, lass,’ he said, picking me up and holding me to his chest. ‘I don’t know what to say to you. I went back out in case … Well … Liza might have been … We love you, Laura. Always remember that, sweetheart.’

Confetti beamed like a lighthouse, pleased to see that someone had cared enough to come. ‘This is my uncle,’ I told her. ‘He’s called Freddie and he lives next door.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she answered. ‘Mr Turnbull and I have met before.’

‘Sister Maria Goretti sent me an invitation,’ he said, placing me back on my feet. ‘Maisie’s got a bad cold, so I’ve left our Anne to see to her. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. You’re a great kid, Laura. Sister here has told me how well she thinks of you. And she’s not wrong.’ He beamed broadly at Confetti.

The thing about nuns is that they find out everything. In that one small sense, they are not unlike my mother. Even if you pretend that life at home is all right, they ask questions, make sure that they know your business. It hurt. Realizing that Confetti and old Tommy-gun and our headmistress (whom we called Aggie) knew all about my parents was not comfortable. It was as if my skin had been made of glass, as if they could look through me and see all the details of my inner workings.

Confetti was still grinning from ear to ear, while her affection for me shone wetly in her eyes. My indignation evaporated within a moment, because Confetti was a precious soul, had picked me from the crowd and watched over me ever since the death of Mr Evans. Even Aggie was my friend. After our headmistress had made a fuss of the other winners, she came and put a hand on my head. ‘That
was a wonderful piece of work, Laura McNally. In time, we shall expect great things of you.’

On an impulse that was undeniable, I spread my arms wide and hugged the unhuggable, pressed my face into the celluloid wimple of an immovable woman. And she laughed at me, laughed hard and tugged at my hair. ‘She’ll have the heart out of you, Goretti,’ she said. ‘For the child is a character and no mistake.’

Oh, it was so good to be a character and no mistake, to be noticed and valued, to be appreciated, touched, applauded. I turned to Uncle Freddie. ‘Where’s my dad?’

He stroked his moustache. ‘The thing about your dad is that he’s a genius. Geniuses do not make good timekeepers.’

‘Or good teachers.’ I saw that Sister Agatha had turned away. Her back was shaking, so I knew that I had said something amusing. ‘One of our teachers is a genius. But Dad promised that he’d come. I read my story and didn’t make any mistakes and—’

‘He’ll have forgotten, lass. He’s a busy man.’

It was hard to accept that a person who loved me could forget an occasion such as this one. If Dad loved me, then why had he not been here on my special night? ‘He should have come,’ I said softly. ‘It was my story that won and he should have come.’

Confetti mouthed at Uncle Freddie, something about my mother, I thought.

‘Out, I think,’ he answered curtly. ‘Charity work, which should start at home.’

‘Exactly.’ Confetti’s mouth was suddenly so tight that it looked mean. ‘Some people don’t appreciate God’s gifts, Mr Turnbull. And gifts need nurturing.’

‘I’ll speak to John,’ he said. ‘This just isn’t good enough.’

We filed out to the charabanc. I clutched my Shakespeare and my certificate of merit, curled my fingers round a florin from Uncle Freddie. Then I saw him. He was leaning against the wall, his face turned away from
me, but I knew that hair. Tommo. Tommo had come, had heard my story. When he swivelled round, I smiled at him.

‘I stood in the porch,’ he said. ‘I heard you.’

He cared. Well, life wasn’t too bad after all. Confetti and Aggie liked me, Uncle Freddie loved me, so did Auntie Maisie. If she hadn’t been ill, she would have come, would have brought my cousin too. And Tommo … Tommo must have cared. Otherwise, he would not have bestirred himself to come and hear my story.

Tommo didn’t say any more, but I could feel his gaze following me into the vehicle. As we drove away, he was still standing there, still staring at me. We turned into St George’s Road, and I saw a man running down the slope towards the Victoria Hall. My father had come too late for me. But Tommo had been on time.

Life with the gang was hilarious, invigorating, extremely dangerous. For a while, I convinced Mother that I was taking extra music classes after school, but she was disabused of this concept when she met my piano teacher.

‘Where is the extra money I gave you for the lessons?’ asked Mother.

I placed the money on the mantelpiece, had not dared to spend the pound note on myself, hadn’t dared to tell the gang of its existence. I prepared myself for the showdown, expected and got the usual stuff, furniture between us, a lot of hand-wringing and smoking on her part.