The Factory Girl (29 page)

It occurred to her that she must appear to be defending herself. And indeed that was just what she was doing, even a trace of guilt in her tone. She could hear it and so had Fenella, who touched her arm lightly.

‘Don't worry about it, darling. He's as you said, an old friend of the family. Well, I must be off. See you on Wednesday, okay?'

‘Yes,' supplied Geraldine, wishing she could say something to vindicate herself from her sister-in-law's obvious assumptions.

They were without doubt mild ones – many a wife enjoyed a bit on the side in these new, heady days of broad-mindedness, non-conformism, freedom and frivolity among the social set with the opening of a new decade. Plainly Fenella saw her as no different, might herself have had a dabble though she had never let on, wasn't even indignant on her brother's behalf, and quite definitely wasn't showing any embarrassment.

Fenella leaned forward and dropped a kiss just short of her cheek. ‘See you later, darling, love to Anthony. I'll hail a taxi in Piccadilly, still have a little more shopping to do!' and was off.

Long legs twinkling down the three steps, at the bottom she paused to glance up at the still leaden sky, winced at the splatter of rain on her rouged cheeks and up went the brightly coloured umbrella like a flower popping open to greet the morning sun.

Geraldine stood watching her departing figure, slim, busy, leggy, her narrow Cuban heels going tap-tap-tap on the shining pavement, her brolly swaying mightily, her handbag and paper bags swinging from her arm. She waited for her to wave before turning the corner, but she didn't.

Geraldine went back inside and closed the door. Returning to the lounge she found Alan still in the centre of the room where she had left him. He turned to look at her.

‘I shouldn't of come. I saw straight away you was embarrassed. I saw the way she looked.'

Defiance suddenly flooded over Geraldine. ‘I don't care how she looked. You're a friend of mine and I choose who comes into my house and who don't.'

‘It's what sort of friend,' he answered. ‘That's what she was querying. I saw it the way she looked at me. And you, I embarrassed you.'

‘No you didn't. I'm really glad to see you.'

She needed all the friends she could get at this time and Alan had proved himself one of them on the day he had taken her into that café for her to recover herself. So damn what Fenella read into his arrival. Fenella's few words of wisdom had made her think a little. And now Alan's presence was adding to all her sister-in-law had said to her – that the time must come, if it hadn't yet come today, when she must learn to face the world again, that she was only destroying herself as well as impeding the release from the child she had lost. Now Alan had turned up and his presence was already adding to the healing process.

She went over to the armchair where she was wont to sit the day long and, hesitating, moved away to an upright chair. ‘Alan, come and sit down.' She indicated the sofa. ‘Would you like a drink? Brandy? Whisky?'

He shook his head. ‘Too early for me.'

‘Coffee then? Or tea? It won't take me a second to make it.' Again she wondered at her enquiry. It was a chore even to stir to make a cup for herself, or even to pour herself anything stronger – probably her salvation from drinking herself into a stupor at times, this inability to bother. And now, suddenly, here she was offering to make tea.

Alan was shaking his head. ‘No, but thanks. I ain't stayin' long. I just come because yer mum told me 'ow low yer've bin. She's worried for yer.'

Mum? Worried? Mum had come round here several times, but her attitude had always been distant as if the visit were a chore she'd rather have done without.

‘Takes blessed ages on that blinkin' bus. I 'ate the noise and rush of the West End, never could abide it. No one gives yer a second glance even if they bump inter yer.'

The nearest Mum came to showing any affection lately was a peck on the cheek, and when Geraldine burst into one of her frequent weeping fits in front of her, longing to be cuddled, to be comforted, there was only a cold, hard hand patting hers and a toneless encouragement to keep her chin up.

Mum had gone through this in her time, but rather than soften her to the pain of others it had hardened her to their weaknesses; if she had held up under the loss of a child, then so could another – no allowances for the fact that everyone was different. Mum's life had taught her to be hard, and equally as hard on herself. But how wonderful it would have been to have just one small cuddle to say she cared.

Alan was leaning forward, his brown eyes full of regard. ‘You orright, ole gel?'

It was a simple enquiry, loosely encompassing a world of probabilities as most simple enquiries do for want of something more specific, and could have sounded inane, but coming from him, she knew instantly what he meant. She nodded wordlessly and the next second he was leaning towards her, taking her hands in his and there was pressure and warmth in those hands.

‘I wish I could take away yer sufferin', Gel. I wish I could take it all on meself so's yer'd be free of it.'

She found her voice, heard the tears in her throat, tears that stemmed from having someone feel for her. ‘You wouldn't want this sort of suffering.'

‘Any sort,' he said, his voice low, ‘so long as it freed you.' He let go of her hands suddenly and moved back a fraction, gazing down at the hands that had previously held hers. ‘P'raps I shouldn't say this, but I've got to. I ain't just bein' kind to yer. I've been wantin' ter come and see yer for a long time but thought it best not to. But yer Mum seems upset so I promised meself I'd come.'

‘It's good of you,' Geraldine managed, controlling her tears.

‘It ain't good of me.' His tone had become harsh. ‘If I came reluctant-like, then maybe it would be good of me – like charity. But I came because I wanted to. Because I had to. I don't want ter lose touch wiv yer.'

‘And I don't want to lose touch with you, Alan,' she said, still fighting the tears his kind sympathy had provoked. ‘We'll always be friends.'

He sat very upright now. ‘No, you don't understand, Gel. It's more than that, more than just bein' kind. It's … I've got ter say it. It's …'

He seemed to collapse a little within himself, the rigidness melting and he was leaning forward again, his gaze grown intense. ‘I still love yer, Gel. I always will. That's why I ain't found meself anuvver gel since I packed up with me wife. I'm bein' stupid, I know, and you're 'appily married, and I wouldn't want ter see yer any ovver way, but it don't alter how I feel about yer.'

Geraldine was staring at him. Deep in her heart she knew he loved her but to have it come out like that shook her and she didn't know what to say to him. Was there anything to say?

‘Well, I've said it,' he went on as though she had spoken her thoughts aloud. ‘All I want ter say now is, I 'ate seeing yer so un'appy. If only I could do somethink ter make yer better, but there ain't nothink no one can do. The only one what can do anythink is yerself, and that takes time. Maybe it'll take forever though I just 'ope and pray it won't be forever, that in time all this pain and emptiness yer goin' through will go away. I know the memory won't ever leave yer, but just that in time it won't hurt so much. And I feel sure it will go away, Gel. I know you. You're made of strong stuff and yer will weather it. Just one fing – don't let it change yer. Don't become all crabbed up and 'ard-'earted against the world. I couldn't bear ter see that lovely nature of yours get lost in a twisted, bitter way. Think about it, Gel, think what I've said, or tried ter say.'

She sat silent, and a warmth seemed to be flowing from him into her, yet they were not touching. All of a sudden, Alan gave a low, almost self-conscious chuckle. ‘I fink I've said enough, yer know. I didn't really come 'ere fer that. I just come ter …'

He stopped, and got slowly to his feet, yet it was as though he had left the warmth to continue flowing into her as she looked up at him.

His voice had lightened. ‘I 'ad no idea what I was going ter say when I come 'ere. I never intended … Never mind, forget what I said. Look, I've got ter be on me way.' He stepped a little nearer, gazing down at her. ‘Will yer be orright?'

Geraldine's smile was tremulous. ‘I think so.' Now she too got to her feet. Her voice had grown suddenly strong. ‘Yes, Alan, I think I will be all right.'

‘Good.' He turned and made for the door, with her following.

It was two people who were mere friends once more as she said goodbye, thanked him for coming, told him that he'd done her a great deal of good by doing so, and watched him depart, striding through a steady downpour as though he couldn't feel it. But in her heart as she watched him go, she knew she'd never be the same. A declaration had been made and although she hadn't returned it, she had accepted it, taken it to her and would never view him in the same light again. Unexpectedly she felt strong again – a goal had been reached and surpassed.

Going back indoors, she glanced in the lounge at the armchair where she'd sit for hours on end, then continued on to the kitchen to make tea.

The look on Mum's face as she opened her street door to see Geraldine there was a picture to behold.

‘Well, blow me! What brings you 'ere?'

Geraldine gave her one of her brightest smiles, still somewhat stiff but after three days of thinking about what Fenella had said to her, then Alan, her mind was learning to cope again with the world.

‘I thought it was time I came to see yer, Mum.' She'd automatically lapsed into her old way of speaking, but there was no disguising the veneer of culture she'd acquired, and she saw her mother frown as if she viewed her as slumming it.

‘Well, yer'd best come in.' Mum stepped back to allow her entry, closing the door behind them to instantly dim the narrow passage. After months of not setting foot here, Geraldine's unaccustomed nose took in the smell of washing, yesterday's Sunday dinner, and all the other little smells that had once made home while hardly noticing them. Now they struck her as quite unpleasant, not even a welcoming feel to them.

‘So what did yer come 'ere for?' her mother asked, leading the way to the kitchen where the inevitable cup of tea would be offered to anyone who entered: friends, neighbours, the man coming to empty the gas or electric meter.

‘I thought it was time I came ter see you rather than you coming to see me.'

‘That's nice of yer.' Noisily Mum filled the kettle and put it on the black-leaded gas stove, applying a match to the gas ring which gave a little plop as it ignited. ‘But I didn't come that often.'

‘As you said, Mum …' She sat down at the table. ‘It was the buses.'

‘Blooming long trot, that's why.'

‘Yes. Well, I'm here now.'

Mum turned and studied her. ‘Yer look a lot better than when I last saw yer. More perky. Getting' out, at last. Must say it took yer long enough.'

Didn't Mum notice how her words could hurt, or was it deliberate? Geraldine forced cheeriness.

‘Everyone orright? Dad? Fred and Evie, Wally? And Mavis?'

The last name was an effort. Four weeks ago Mavis's baby had been born, a lovely little girl as ever there was, Mum put it when she'd visited just afterwards. Her lips had tightened when tears had flooded Geraldine's eyes at hearing it, her testy remark, ‘Ain't you over it yet? You ain't the only one ter lose a baby,' stinging like a scab ripped from a half-healed sore.

Now Geraldine asked the question, managing to stay dry-eyed and without her voice wavering, ‘And the baby?'

‘Doin' grand,' Mum said casually as she put two cups and saucers out on the kitchen table, giving herself the worst chipped one, and began ladling a spoonful of tea into the brown teapot, that too somewhat chipped – no money to buy such luxuries as a new teapot the second a chip or two appeared on the lid or spout.

‘Lovely little thing, she is. Barbara. Barbara Hilda, after me. That's nice, I thought. But of course it's another mouth for 'er ter feed, and 'er Tom on the dole again too. She could of done without 'aving another baby at the moment, way things is going. But then, babies take no 'eed of people being 'ard up, do they? They just come, money or no money.'

It seemed to Geraldine's sensitive mind that Mum was delighting in rubbing it in, but she fought back the threatening tears that would only irritate her mother, seeing her as the one with the money and therefore with no cause to feel sorry for herself.

Ironic though that the one living from hand to mouth with a husband out of work still should have another baby to feed, a bouncing, bonny girl with nothing at all wrong with her, while she with everything to give a baby should lose hers. It seemed to her that Him up there enjoyed playing games just to see how a body reacted – ‘Like playing chess with us all,' came the bitter thought.

It must have shown on her face for Mum stopped pouring hot water into the teapot to glare at her.

‘What's the matter now?'

‘Nothing.' Geraldine shook her head vigorously to clear the moisture misting her eyes, but Mum was already ahead of her.

‘You ain't cryin' again, are yer? Is that why yer've come 'ere ter see me, fer a bit more sympathy?'

The moisture dried as if by magic. If she'd wanted sympathy, Mum was the last one she'd have come to. She had come from a sense of duty and all she seemed to be reaping was a hard, unforgiving reception.

‘Yer'd be more upset,' Mum was going on, ‘if yer was in yer sister's boots. We're 'aving ter 'elp her out these days with a bit of this, a bit of that, 'er Tom gettin' just a day's work 'ere, a day's work there, if he's lucky. On the dole fer months on end and 'er not knowing where ter turn for 'er next penny. You should count yerself lucky, 'aving a bit of money around yer, and count yer blessings instead of moping all over the place, and p'raps put yer 'and in yer pocket to 'elp 'er out a bit. Yer can always 'ave another baby any time, but money never do come easy – except fer some.'