Two Penn'orth of Sky (17 page)

‘Mrs Wesley? I don’t suppose you remember me, but since I’m in Liverpool I thought I’d pop in and make sure you and the young ’un are all right. It’s Carl Johansson – I helped with your move.’

Emmy gasped, then stood back, ushering the young man into the house. ‘I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t see your face with the lamplight behind you,’ she explained, ‘Come into the kitchen – it’s warm in there.’ He hesitated a moment, cap in hand, then passed her, heading for the light which he could see streaming through the open kitchen door.

Emmy shut the front door and followed him. In the warm, gaslit kitchen, they smiled at each other, both, Emmy suspected, a little uncertain of how they should behave. They were, after all, virtual strangers, but it was kind of him to call.

‘Please take your coat off, Mr Johansson,’ Emmy said, pointing to the chair she had just vacated, ‘and sit down.’ She lifted Diana up and sat down herself, arranging the still sleeping child comfortably on her lap. ‘It’s good of you to call, Mr Johansson,’ she said. ‘Actually, Diana and I have spent the day with a neighbour; we’ve only been home about half an hour. And how have you spent your Christmas?’

Carl Johansson smiled and Emmy thought how very nice-looking he was, with his crisply curling fair
hair and his tanned face accentuating the blue of his eyes. ‘I know you’ve been out,’ he said. ‘I have called twice already today. You see, although I popped in several times whilst the working team were here, I never did see the end result. The men told me you seemed pleased but . . . well, I thought I should have checked myself.’ His blue glance slid, appreciatively, round the kitchen. ‘It looks pretty good, I must say, but I guess that’s a woman’s touch. Still, it’s better to have a nice clean canvas, so to speak, and I reckon the men did that.’

‘They were all wonderful,’ Emmy said warmly. ‘They made all that shelving, and Mr Reynolds said that when he was able to spare some time he would come round and put doors on the front of the shelves, which would make them into proper cupboards.’

Mr Johansson nodded. ‘Aye, he’s a real craftsman, is the chippy.’ He glanced at the sleeping Diana and Emmy saw what might have been a blush darkening his cheeks. ‘I – I wondered if you and the little missie might do me the honour of – of coming to the pantomime at the Royal Court, tomorrow night . . . or we could go to the matinee performance, if you’d prefer it.’

Emmy hesitated. If he had invited her to go dancing, or to the cinema, she would have refused unhesitatingly. But a visit to the pantomime . . . well, that was the sort of treat an indulgent uncle, or an old family friend, might suggest. Because her job was so demanding, she had not been out once in an evening since Peter’s death, had not really wanted to do so, and when Freda had teased her about Mr Spelman she had told herself that even if he had been charming, young and handsome, she would not have gone out with him. But she felt she owed Mr Johansson
the courtesy of a considered reply, at least. ‘A visit to the pantomime? I’m not sure . . .’ she was beginning, when Diana suddenly sat bolt upright.

‘A pantomime?’ the child squeaked. ‘Oh, Mammy, d’you ‘member the pantomime last year, and the lovely fat lady – only you said it were a man – with the striped woollen stockings and a big red nose? Oh, and a giant’s kitchen . . . and the hen that laid the golden eggs and they dropped on the fat man’s boot . . . and the nice young man with the long green legs – only you said he were a lady – told all the children to shout when we saw the giant coming . . . oh, Mammy,
please
say we can go.’

Emmy looked helplessly across at Mr Johansson, who was smiling. ‘And I thought she was fast asleep,’ she said ruefully. ‘Well, I think you’ve had your answer, Mr Johansson; thank you very much for your kind invitation to go to the matinee performance, which Diana and I are delighted to accept.’ She hesitated only a moment before adding recklessly: ‘And if you would like to come back here afterwards, for a meal, you’d be more than welcome.’

Mr Johansson coloured again and said that he would consider it an honour. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed that he felt at ease with them, because he began chatting, telling Emmy how he had spent Christmas Day and giving her little snippets of information about the ship and about his fellow officers. Before she knew it, Emmy found herself telling him about life as a waitress in McCullough’s Dining Rooms, with Diana chipping in from time to time. In fact, it was only when Emmy happened to glance at the clock and see that it was past ten that she jumped to her feet, a hand flying to her mouth. ‘Oh, how dreadful of me. It’s well past Diana’s bedtime,
and since we are to have an outing tomorrow we shall both need a good night’s sleep. I’m so sorry, Mr Johansson. And I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea.’

The young man had got to his feet as Emmy did and was already struggling into his coat. ‘It is I who should apologise, Mrs Wesley,’ he said. ‘It is too bad of me, to call so late and stay so long, but when one is a seaman and far from home, it is a real treat to find oneself in a cosy kitchen, feeling oneself amongst friends.’

As she followed him out of the kitchen and into the cold hallway Emmy said, ‘Where is your home, Mr Johansson? You speak such excellent English, but with a name like Johansson . . .’

‘Oh, I come from Sweden,’ the young man said. ‘But my connections with my own country are not so strong since I joined the British Merchant Navy. However, I have a sister, a brother-in-law, and three nieces living near my parents, and whenever I have a long leave I visit them.’ He opened the door as he spoke and stepped out into the cold night. Turning up his coat collar against the bitter chill, he pulled his cap well down over his fair curls and saluted. ‘Thank you for a delightful evening, Mrs Wesley,’ he said formally, his breath coming out in puffs of white mist with every word. ‘The performance starts at half past two tomorrow afternoon, so I shall pick you up at two o’clock, in a taxi cab. Is that all right?’

Emmy and Diana chorused that it would be fine, that they were already looking forward to it, and then Emmy ushered her daughter back indoors. ‘It’s high time you were in bed, young lady,’ she said severely, guiding Diana towards the stairs. ‘No,
sweetheart, no excuses, and no hot milk either, it’s far too late. Go straight up and start undressing, and I’ll follow you in five minutes when I’ve damped down the fire and tidied round.’

Alone in the kitchen, she wondered whether she had done the right thing by accepting the young officer’s invitation. She did hope that he realised she would probably have said no, had it not been for Diana. She thought, guiltily, that if Freda knew, she would purse her lips and nod, saying with satisfaction that it was high time her young friend began to socialise once more. But she won’t know because I shan’t tell her, Emmy thought grimly, damping the fire in the stove with coal dust and shutting the doors in the base of the grate so that it would not burn up brightly until next morning. As for the neighbours, they would think it sensible and provident of her to go to a pantomime at someone else’s expense. It was not until she had climbed into bed and was settling herself to sleep that she remembered she had asked him back for a meal, and that he had accepted.

Oh dear, Emmy thought to herself, I wonder if it was wise to ask him back here? The trouble was, she was really appallingly ignorant about how one should behave with members of the opposite sex. Peter had been her first real boyfriend after Johnny and had behaved so beautifully that her mother had always encouraged her to spend time with him. But Peter had been a dozen years her senior, and would not have dreamed of placing her in a difficult position where folk might think badly of her behaviour. Mr Johansson was not only young, he was a foreigner, and could not be expected to know the correct thing to do.

Next morning, as always when she was perplexed or worried, Emmy flew next door and told Beryl everything. She found her washing up after the family’s breakfast, and picking up a tea towel Emmy began to dry the crockery whilst she talked. At the end of her recital, Beryl turned away from the sink, gazing at her friend with mild astonishment. ‘If you can get yourself in a state over a visit to the panto wi’ your daughter and a young man, then it’s high time you did begin to go about a bit more,’ she said roundly. ‘As for askin’ him back for a meal, I should hope you would. When you think of all he’s done for you – cleanin’ an’ decoratin’ the house, just for starters – givin’ the poor feller a cuppa and a slice o’ cake is the least you can do.’ She smiled at Emmy and patted her arm with a water-wrinkled hand. ‘Don’t
worry
so much, queen! I know you keep thinkin’ that you only lost poor Peter six months ago, but you aren’t one of them Indian women what commits harry-karry over the body of their dead husband, you know. You’re young and pretty, an’ you’ve gorra child to bring up, so get on wi’ livin’ life, ’cos that’s what you were born for, same as the rest of us.’

Emmy choked on a giggle. ‘Indian women don’t commit harry-karry, as you call it – I think that’s the Japanese. I think Indian women commit suttee . . . at least, I remember Peter telling me once that they’re supposed to throw themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre, only mostly they’re drugged and thrown on by someone else.’ She shuddered. ‘Isn’t that just dreadful, Beryl? Peter said often they’re quite young girls . . . it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘No, it don’t,’ Beryl agreed. ‘But there’s other ways of endin’ your life, queen, an’ one of ’em’s shuttin’
yourself away in your house and refusin’ to have any fun, because you’re a widow. So just you enjoy this here pantomime . . . an’ tell me all about it when you get home.’

They were two weeks into the new term when Diana realised that she had not seen Wendy in school for at least three days. Wandering across the playground, she reminded herself that they were in different classes now, for Diana had gone into the next year and was being taught by Miss Williams, whilst Wendy had been kept down with Hilda, and one or two others, though Maureen had been allowed to go up with the rest of the class.

Wendy had been philosophical about it when they had first heard. ‘I know I ain’t caught up wi’ the rest o’ you yet,’ she had said airily, ‘but Luvvy Duvvy is a nice old bird. She’ll see me right, an’ you an’ me can still play out at break time.’

Then Miss Lovett’s retirement had been announced, and pupils and teachers alike had given towards a leaving present. Wendy’s optimism had trembled a little, but everyone had assumed that Miss Lovett’s place would be taken by a young woman, Miss Bourne, who did relief duties when a teacher was away. Instead, a Mr Withers had been appointed, a skinny, middle-aged man with a sharp tongue, who was always ready to crack a ruler across one’s palm or a switch across the back of one’s legs.

Wendy had hated him from the first, and it seemed he hated her since he taunted her with being so much older than the rest of the class, constantly criticised
her personal appearance, and generally made her life miserable.

Diana had listened to Wendy’s grumbles but had thought that her friend’s desire to be able to read and write would outweigh her dislike of the new teacher. Now, however, it looked as though this was not the case. Diana searched the playground and then, with extreme reluctance, asked Hilda if she had seen Wendy Telford.

‘No, I ain’t, and for why? ’Cos she ain’t been in school for three days,’ Hilda said morosely. ‘She’s saggin’ off, and I for one don’t blame her. If it weren’t that me dad would beat hell out o’ me with his belt – and buckle end, most likely – I wouldn’t be in school meself. That Withers is a pig. He picks on me, ’specially if Wendy ain’t there.’

‘Poor Wendy,’ Diana said mournfully. ‘And she needs to be in school, she keeps saying so. But I’ll go round to her place when class is finished and try to get her to come back tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, you do that,’ Hilda said eagerly. ‘Tell ’er we really miss ’er. Tell ’er if she comes back I’ll be real nice to ’er. Tell ’er we’ll gang up on old Withers and report ’im to the head if he starts beatin’ people up.’

Diana nodded absently, knowing full well why Hilda was suddenly prepared to be nice to Wendy. She wanted the other girl to get all the nastiness poured on her head instead of on Hilda’s; but there was one thing: Diana would be very surprised if there was any bullying in Mr Withers’s class. Oh, sure, he was a bully himself, that went without saying, but he was also a disciplinarian and would not stand for his authority’s being flouted.

Miss Williams, on the other hand, was neither a disciplinarian nor a good teacher. She had a flat,
monotonous voice, which tended to sink to a whisper, and she was a great believer in repetition. She would write a poem or a times table on the board, or some rules of grammar, and the children would then sit in their places and repeat what was written in a sing-song chant. Diana was soon bored by these methods, and began to dislike Miss Williams more and more. After only a couple of weeks, she felt that if she did not escape from lessons occasionally, she would go stark, staring mad. She realised that, even without effort, she could be top of the class once more, but since her schoolfellows now accepted her she had no wish to rock the boat by becoming teacher’s pet, and Miss Williams already showed a tendency to praise her in front of the others. Disliking the teacher as she did, Diana thought praise from such a source was nothing to value; in fact, it made her feel truly uncomfortable.

But right now, her main objective was to give Wendy a piece of her mind. What was the point, she would ask her, of all the hard work they had put in in the previous year? The pair of them had worked like slaves to get reading and writing into Wendy’s thick head, but it would have been in vain if she was going to throw it all away. Sagging off wouldn’t please Mr Withers either, and when she did return she would be in deep trouble, sure as eggs were eggs.

So as soon as school was finished for the day, Diana set off for the Telfords’ house. Halfway across the court, however, she heard Mrs Telford screaming at Wendy that her daughter would do as she was told or she would knock her bleedin’ head off her bleedin’ shoulders. Wendy, apparently uncowed by this threat, screamed back that she would do as she bleedin’ well pleased and would thank her mother to leave her
alone. ‘’Cos you can take the rest of them, but you ain’t takin’ me,’ Wendy shrieked. ‘I’m stayin’ here!’