Two Penn'orth of Sky (18 page)

Standing there listening, Diana realised she could not possibly say anything in front of Mrs Telford. Nevertheless, she was poised to knock on the door when she remembered her mother’s prohibition. Wendy can come here, her mother had said, but you are never, under any circumstances, to visit the Telford house. ‘Is that clear?’

Diana was still hovering, wondering what to do next, when the Telfords’ door shot open and Wendy erupted into the court. She saw Diana and grinned at her friend, though tears were still running down her rather grimy face, but she did not stop in her onward rush and Diana had to turn and run after her. She caught her up as Wendy skidded round the corner into Raymond Street, and grabbed at her sleeve. ‘Wendy! What’s happened? And why weren’t you in school today?’

For a moment, it seemed as though Wendy was going to refuse to answer. She tightened her lips and glared down at Diana, but then she seemed to change her mind. ‘Is your mam in?’ she asked. ‘It’s a long story, but we could go back to your place . . .’

‘Mam’s out,’ Diana said briefly. She turned, still clutching her friend’s sleeve, and the two of them crossed the court and went into the Wesley kitchen. ‘My mam buys lemons and sugar and Aunty Beryl makes them into lemonade,’ Diana said, pouring the drink into two tin mugs. ‘And there’s some biscuits . . . want one?’

Presently, seated opposite one another at the kitchen table, with a drink of lemonade before them and a plate with four biscuits on it conveniently close, Diana repeated her question. ‘Wendy, why
weren’t you in school today? And Hilda said you’d missed yesterday, and the day before that as well. If you keep saggin’ off, you’ll forget how to read and write.’

‘No, I shan’t,’ Wendy said defiantly. ‘I pick up the old newspapers what the fellers chuck down when they’ve finished with ’em, and reads ’em out loud to meself. I reads ’em to the other kids an’ all . . . only I leaves out the really long words and the foreign bits. Oh no, I shan’t forget readin’, don’t you fret.’

‘Well, that’s better’n just not bothering,’ Diana admitted grudgingly. ‘But what about writing? And sums? And things like geography? You can’t do that at home without the proper books an’ that. Oh, Wendy,
do
come back! I’m ever so lonely without you.’

‘I’m not goin’ back into that place so’s Mr Withers can clack me head as hard as ever me mam does,’ Wendy said decidedly. ‘Luvvy Duvvy was awright, but that old Withers . . . well, he hates me and I hate him, so I’ll never learn nothing in his class. What’s old Williams like?’

‘Awful, just awful,’ Diana said, rather thoughtlessly, as it turned out. ‘She writes something on the board – something like the seven times table – and make us sit there for hours, just reading it over and over. I’ve never been so bored in my whole life.’

‘Well, there you are then!’ Wendy said triumphantly. ‘Even if I could stick old Withers, which I can’t, what have I got to look forward to, eh? A nice dose of bein’ bored to death by old Williams for a whole miserable year. I tell you, queen, if that’s their idea of learnin’, then they can stick it.’

‘We-ell, maybe Miss Williams will improve,’ Diana said, realising that her criticism of the teacher had
not been wise. ‘Anyhow, Hilda says if you go back, everyone will stick by you and – and stop old Withers being horrible. How about that? I used to hate Hilda, but perhaps she’s getting nicer as she gets older.’

‘No she ain’t. It’s just that if old Withers don’t have me to beat up, then he’ll turn on Hilda,’ Wendy said acutely. ‘And anyway, me mam says she’s movin’ out o’ the court. If you asks me, she’s bein’ thrown out for not payin’ the rent, but anyway, she says she’s movin’ in with her pal Aunt Flora, what lives out Garston way, by the gasworks. I hates Flora and her husband Bert, an’ I don’t mean to live there. The house is crammed that full ’cos her mam and dad live with them, as well as eight kids. I tell you, queen, the only way to fix Mam where she is, is for me to earn some dosh so’s I can pay the rent meself. An’ that’s another good reason for saggin’ off school,’ she finished.

Diana stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘But you aren’t big enough to have a job,’ she said finally. ‘How can you earn so much money, Wendy?’

Wendy leaned over and took another biscuit, then crammed half of it into her mouth. ‘I can run messages, help carry heavy baskets back from the market, chop up orange boxes and sell kindling for fires, mind babies for their mams,’ she said. ‘I dunno as I could really earn five bob a week, which is the rent for that rat pit we live in, but I could earn enough to help wi’ Mam’s scrubbin’ money.’

Diana thought this over for a moment, then brightened. ‘But when you’re real grown up, you’ll earn much more money if you can read and write and do sums,’ she said craftily. ‘Don’t you remember Luvvy Duvvy telling us that the future would be a brighter place if we learned our lessons well?’

‘Oh aye, I remember that awright,’ Wendy said scornfully. ‘But it’s now that matters, don’t you see? By the time I’m old enough for a real job, anything could have happened. But if I’m carted off to Garston, I’ll be out of this school anyway, so I might as well forget school and do anything I can to keep Mam ’n’ the kids ’n’ me in the court, ain’t that right?’

Diana would have liked to refute this, but at the thought of Wendy’s leaving the court her heart sank. Becky Fisher was the only other girl she really knew in the area, and Becky had her own friends. Diana still adored Charlie, but knew better now than to dog his footsteps since she had noticed he was much nicer to her when she spent most of her time playing with Wendy.

She stared thoughtfully across the table at her friend. They were more or less in the same boat, she realised suddenly. Time spent by Wendy in Mr Withers’s class was time wasted, as was time spent by her in Miss Williams’s class. Indeed, I could be away for the whole year and still keep up, the way Miss Williams teaches, Diana told herself. And if both of us earn some money . . .

It seemed to her, afterwards, that the idea was born in a moment. She leaned across the table and began to speak rapidly, seeing the change in her friend’s face at her proposal, the way Wendy’s eyes began to sparkle. ‘You’re a perishin’ genius,’ Wendy exclaimed fervently, as Diana revealed her great idea. ‘Oh, Di, I’m sure it’ll work – wharrever would I do wi’out you?’

‘G’night, Freda, night Jen, night Mr Mac,’ Emmy called, as she let herself out of the back door of the dining rooms. It was a cold, dreary November
evening, but Emmy’s step was light. It had been a quiet day, and besides, after over a year of waiting on, she had learned how to pace herself, and was finding the work a good deal easier than she had done at first. In addition, because they had had so few customers, she would not have to worry about getting a meal when she reached No. 2. Inside her basket was a large piece of steak and kidney pie, some cold potatoes and a dish of rice pudding, which would do very well for supper if she popped it into her oven for twenty minutes or so. In fact, there was enough steak and kidney pie for four, so she might well pop it round to Beryl’s. Wally was always hungry, as were the boys, and though Beryl was an excellent cook, steak and kidney was expensive and did not often come their way.

Emmy made her way along the Scottie, smiling at people as she passed them. Because she worked such regular hours she had grown to know, by sight at least, a good many folk who were heading home at the same time as herself. Just ahead of her, a large woman in a black coat and scarlet headscarf turned and Emmy recognised Nellie Coggins, the Telfords’ next door neighbour. Like Emmy, she was in the restaurant business, though she was only a washer-upper and general dogsbody in a rather seedy dining rooms further down the Scottie. She was a nice, friendly woman, whose docker husband did little to help her bring up their three kids, and, like Emmy, she carried a covered basket, no doubt laden with leftovers.

As Emmy fell into step beside her Nellie said breezily, ‘Hello, chuck. Quiet day, weren’t it? Mrs Brown, me boss, gave me the rest of the scouse an’ a heap o’ spuds, so me old man will have something
besides porter in his belly when I gets home. How are you doin’, eh? Heard from that feller o’ yours?’

Emmy smiled, biting back an urge to tell Nellie that if she meant Mr Johansson, he was not her feller, but one of her late husband’s oldest friends. After the pantomime trip, almost a year ago, she had told everyone who would listen that Mr Johansson was just a friend, but it had not stopped people nudging and winking, she thought crossly now. The trouble was, he always visited her whenever he was in port, and since she never knew when he would arrive she could scarcely suggest that they meet somewhere other than the court in order to stop tongues wagging. Indeed, when she had hesitantly suggested that it might not be wise for him to visit so often, his fair brows had risen and he had given her his most twisted, attractive grin. ‘Why should people talk?’ he had said quizzically. ‘After all, we never go dancing, and rarely do I ask you to accompany me to a theatre or cinema without also asking Diana. I am happy to do small jobs for you around the house, but I understand completely that you are still in mourning for your husband. Don’t let foolish gossip spoil our friendship.’

Emmy had known he was right; people would talk, nudge and wink so long as there was breath in their bodies, and her best course was to ignore such behaviour. But it was not always easy, especially since Diana had grown progressively less friendly towards their visitor and had several times suggested that Mr Johansson should be asked not to call.

‘He uses up too much of your time, Mam,’ she had said pettishly. ‘And when he takes us to the pictures, it’s to horrible films that bore me.’

‘Oh, Diana!’ Emmy had said, much shocked by
this tremendous untruth, for Diana adored the cinema and Mr Johansson was always careful to pick a film she would enjoy. ‘But if you truly feel like that, if you truly don’t want to come to the cinema, then I’ll arrange for you to spend the evening with Aunty Beryl. How’s that?’

Diana had flushed angrily. ‘That would mean you and him would go alone,’ she muttered. ‘My daddy wouldn’t like that.’

‘Daddy would have understood completely that Mr Johansson is trying to give us a nice time, nothing more,’ Emmy had said severely. ‘Diana Wesley, don’t be so selfish.
I
enjoy a visit to the cinema now and then, or a theatre trip. You’ve got the Saturday rush and your friend Wendy. Why should I be the only one who has to stay at home?’

Diana had been sorry then, had admitted that she enjoyed the cinema and would not wish to be left behind next time Mr Johansson asked them out. But Emmy knew, of course, that her daughter was jealous. Diana still talked constantly of her father, of his generosity, his jokes, the songs he sang and the stories he told. Emmy imagined that time would reconcile her daughter to her mother’s new friend, or at least she hoped it would.

But now Nellie Coggins was looking at her, waiting for an answer to her question, and Emmy cast her mind hurriedly back. What had the older woman said? Oh yes, she had asked how Emmy was and whether she had heard from Mr Johansson lately. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Coggins, and I’ve not heard from Mr Johansson recently. He doesn’t write often, usually only to tell me roughly when he’ll next be in the ‘Pool. And how are you? And your family, of course?’

‘We’re doin’ awright; been doin’ awright ever since our Dicky started work down at the docks, stevedorin’,’ Mrs Coggins said expansively. ‘I see’d your young ’un down Paddy’s Market t’other day. She were on one end of a roll of lino and the eldest Telford kid were on t’other. I reckon they was earning theirselves a copper or two towards Christmas.’

‘Yes, they work very hard at weekends,’ Emmy agreed. ‘There was talk at one time of the family’s moving out because money was short, but I gather Wendy wasn’t keen so she’s been earning extra cash to help her mother pay the rent, and Diana helps too. I think she quite enjoys it.’

‘Oh, it weren’t the weekend . . .’ Mrs Coggins was beginning, when the noise of a tram drowned her voice for a moment. When she started speaking again it was to inform Emmy that her youngest, Freddie, had managed to get a job delivering Christmas wreaths. ‘Of course, the work won’t start until December and it’ll be over by the New Year,’ she admitted, ‘but Freddie’s made up.’ Once they reached Tenterden Street they parted, and Emmy made her way along Raymond Street. She turned into Nightingale Court eagerly anticipating the hot cup of tea and the good sit-down which awaited her.

It was not until she was in bed that night that Emmy remembered Mrs Coggins’s remark about seeing Diana and Wendy carrying a role of linoleum on a weekday.

Strange, Emmy thought drowsily, pulling the blankets up over her shoulders, for the night was extremely cold. If those two youngsters are making their way to Paddy’s Market after school in order to earn money carting heavy rolls of linoleum, then I suppose I really ought to put a stop to it. I know that
Miss Williams doesn’t hand out homework – I don’t suppose the kids would do it if she did – but Diana does an awful lot in the house, and even when she’s staying over with Beryl I believe she’s quite useful. I don’t want her wearing herself out for that young ragamuffin Wendy Telford, and I think it would be a good thing if the whole family did move away. They’re a feckless lot, and if Wendy wasn’t around, maybe Diana would become friends with a nicer sort of girl.

She would have a word with Diana next morning, tell her that she must not overdo it or she would become ill and then what would her poor mother do?

Having made up her mind how to deal with the situation, Emmy soon slept.

My brilliant idea really does seem to be working, Diana told herself next morning, when her mother advised her not to cart linoleum or any other heavy burdens after a day in school. It was easy to promise to do no such thing since neither Diana nor Wendy had attended school for some while. At first, they had followed Diana’s original scheme which was to go into class in order to get ticked off on the register, and then to disappear. This plan, however, had had only moderate success. Miss Williams never seemed to notice, once she had called the register, whether her class contained thirty-nine or forty children, but the gimlet-eyed Mr Withers was a different kettle of fish. Wendy used various excuses – a sudden nosebleed, a pounding headache, a desperate plea from home for her to return there at once – but she soon realised that Mr Withers was not fooled, and when he announced his intention of calling on
her mother she told Diana they would have to try Plan B.