Two Penn'orth of Sky (25 page)

Emmy stood on the top step for a moment, trying to pretend that she was merely taking the air, reluctant to admit that the child had actually run away from her. She spent a moment longer glancing casually round, and wondered whether she ought to ask the nearest child, a filthy, tow-headed girl of ten or eleven, in which direction Diana had fled. Instead, strolling idly, as though with no particular purpose in mind, Emmy crossed the court and went under the arch on to Raymond Street. Once more she looked to right and left, but could see no sign of her daughter. I suppose she’s gone to visit Mrs Symons, Emmy told herself, retracing her footsteps and returning to her domestic task. I’ve never known her so naughty and defiant and I don’t really know how best to deal with her. Once I would have run straight to Beryl and she would have told me exactly what to do, but old Mrs Symons is different. She’s only ever had the one child and she treats Diana like an adult, I’ve often noticed it. Well, when she does come home, she’ll find herself on bread and water until she apologises for her behaviour. I really can’t cope with a disobedient child.

She finished chopping the last of the vegetables and flopped into the nearest easy chair. Her breath was coming fast and shallow and there was a nasty, niggling little pain in her chest. She coughed and the little pain grew worse. She had noticed, lately, that when she was flying round the restaurant, carrying laden trays, she frequently had to pause to get her breath, and now it seemed that the quarrel with Diana was tightening her breathing just as much as running with a heavy tray did.

I’ll have to start taking it a bit easier, Emmy thought dolefully. And I’ll have to make Diana mind me
because worrying doesn’t do anyone any good. I thought I’d miss her when school starts and she spends the evenings in Raymond Street, but now I think I’ll come home by myself and have a real rest. I won’t tell Mr Mac that I can work the late shifts; I’ll just come quietly back here and potter around and get my strength back. Once I’m all right again, then I’ll start to do more hours, because the extra money will enable Diana and myself to enjoy a better standard of living.

This should have been a happy thought and it was not until she felt the tears trickling down her cheeks that Emmy realised she was crying. Crying for the life she had known, for Peter’s steady companionship, for the child Diana who had adored her mummy and would have done anything to please her; and for her lost friendship, though she was now beginning to realise that this was not so much lost as thrown away.

When the knock came at the door, she considered pretending she had not heard, because she did not want anyone to see that she had been crying. She knew it would not be Diana, or Beryl, of course, but it could be Wendy, or one of the other children, asking whether Diana might come out to play. After a short pause, however, the knock came again, and Emmy dragged herself to her feet, a tiny bird of hope fluttering within her breast. Suppose, just suppose, that it was Beryl, come to ask her if she would like to go to New Brighton with the Fishers. Even if Beryl had only called to ask her why Diana had flown off in such a hurry, the question would break the ice, enabling Emmy to apologise for what she had said and beg Beryl to be her friend once more. So she opened the door without trying to
hide her tear-blubbered face and was astonished to find Carl Johansson standing on the step, cap in hand and a big smile on his face.

‘Good morning, Mrs Wesley,’ he said formally. ‘I have come to ask you . . . but whatever’s the matter? Oh . . . oh, Mrs Wesley – Emmy – you’ve been crying.’ And without more ado, he stepped into the hall, dropped both his cap and the bag he was carrying, and took Emmy in his arms. For a moment, she was so shocked and surprised that she did nothing. Then she made a feeble attempt to free herself, but when this failed she leaned her cheek against his uniform jacket and gave way to the luxury of a fit of weeping.

‘D-D-D-Diana’s run away,’ she wailed between sobs. ‘W-w-we had a quarrel and she’s ru-ru-run away. Oh, Mr Johansson!’

Mr Johansson half led, half carried her into the kitchen and sat her down tenderly on the easy chair, taking the one opposite himself. He looked so boyishly handsome, with his fair curls rumpled and his eyes anxious, that Emmy began to cry all over again. She felt so helpless, so weak, and he looked so strong and capable. She wished that she could lay all her burdens on his broad shoulders, but that was impossible. However, when he got to his feet and began to pull the kettle over the fire, saying that he would make them both a cup of tea, that she would feel better with something hot inside her, she felt she owed him at least some sort of explanation. Besides, to share her troubles with someone else would be an enormous relief. They were, she decided, ships that passed in the night. He would listen to her woes, perhaps even advise her, but then he would go away again and by the time she saw him next everything would have changed.

So when he had placed the mug of tea in her hands, she started to tell him what had happened to her since they had last met. She began at the beginning with the split between herself and the Fishers. She did not pretend that it had been anyone’s fault but hers, though for weeks now she had been telling herself that there were faults on both sides. She went on to tell him about Diana’s brief stay with Mrs Lucas and how Mr Mac had had the brilliant idea that she and the Symonses might help one another. This led, naturally, to the increase in her working hours, the subsequent weariness, and the incredibly spiteful things she had said to Beryl. ‘I don’t know why I said what I did. It was as though my mouth opened of its own accord and spoke the wickedest words it could think of,’ she said miserably. ‘Of course I’ve been telling myself that Beryl started it by saying I’d always been dead lucky, always landed on my feet, but she only spoke the truth, Mr Johansson. Apart from Peter’s death, which was a terrible thing, I
have
been lucky, and a lot of the luck was due to my friendship with Beryl. She brought me back to Nightingale Court, she found me the job, she looked after Diana for me, and advised me how to go on. She looked after me even when I was a kid. And now I don’t know how to manage without her.’

Mr Johansson pulled his chair nearer her own, leaned forward and took both her hands in his. ‘Mrs Wesley, what you’ve just said is true. You need your friend Beryl, because everyone needs a friend, but there are other friendships – other relationships – which are just as important. A woman bringing up a child on her own, trying to do a full-time job, trying to make ends meet, needs more than just a friend. Mrs Wesley . . . Emmy – may I call you Emmy? I
wish you would call me Carl – I would give anything to share your burden, to be able to help in a more practical fashion. I’ve not spoken before . . .’

Emmy stared into the young man’s grave but eloquent countenance. The words he was saying did not seem to make sense. He was clearly offering her friendship and some sort of help, but he must realise she would not dream of taking money from him and she did not see how else he could assist her when he was only in the port of Liverpool three or four times a year.

‘Emmy? You aren’t offended? I know it’s only two years since Peter died . . .’

Light dawned with the abruptness of a struck match’s flaring up. He was proposing marriage; this nice young man with his good prospects was actually asking her to marry him. But it was absurd. To be sure, they had been acquainted ever since her wedding . . . no, you could not even say that. They had not got to know each other until after Peter’s death, when Carl had first offered to help her.

‘Emmy? I’ve said nothing before because I thought it was too soon. Also, I was afraid that if I – if I proposed, and you refused me, then our friendship would no longer be possible. But, my dear girl, you are working far too hard. When I saw you five months ago, you looked tired and perhaps a little pale, but now! You are so thin, so frail! Emmy, if you don’t begin to take it easy, you’ll be really ill. Won’t you – won’t you let me help you?’

Emmy pulled her hands from his grasp and stood up. ‘You’re a good, kind man, Carl, but we really don’t know one another very well, do we?’ she said gently. ‘I’m going upstairs to wash my face and brush my hair because crying always makes me look awful,
and when I come down I think it best if we forget this conversation ever took place. Then, you see, we can remain good friends and I hope you will continue to call on me whenever you’re in port.’ She smiled down at him. ‘I should like Diana to grow . . . more accustomed to you, as well,’ she added. ‘Because, at present, I’m afraid she’s just a tiny bit jealous.’

At these words, he jumped to his feet, his eyes glowing with ardour. ‘Then – then there is hope for me?’ he said huskily. ‘You will not say that you’ll marry me, but you haven’t said no either.’ He tried to take her in his arms but Emmy fended him off, though she was smiling. ‘Ah, if I know there is hope, I can wait . . . oh, I can wait for years!’

Emmy went slowly upstairs. The whole episode might have astonished her – well, it had – but she found she was not displeased. She knew she was still in love with Peter, had not even considered marrying anyone else, but the dragging pain in her chest told her that she should seriously consider such a course. If she became really ill, ill enough to be taken into hospital, perhaps for many weeks, then who would look after Diana? The thought of living with another man was still repugnant to her but she simply must be practical. Being able to trust Diana to the Symonses was a great help; if she could cut down her hours at the restaurant, then she was sure her health would improve even though her finances would not. With better health, she thought she might begin to grow closer to Mr Johansson – no, she must call him Carl – and now that she knew how he felt, she realised her attitude towards him would undoubtedly change. At the moment, she had no idea what sort of husband he might make, because she had only thought of him, really, as a friend of
Peter’s, who took her out when he was in port, as a tribute to her husband, rather than herself. Now, she acknowledged that it was not so. He liked her for herself; wanted her for herself, in fact.

Emmy reached her bedroom, poured water from the ewer into the basin, and seized her face flannel and the soap. The cold water would reduce the swelling round her eyes. Then she took the pins out of her hair, brushed it until it was smooth and shining, then coiled it up once more, thrusting the pins into place and examining her reflection in the small mirror as she did so. The face that looked back at her was white and wan, though her eyes looked a good deal brighter than they had done an hour previously. Mr Johansson’s – no, Carl’s – proposal had cheered her up more than she would have thought possible. Without realising it, she had begun to think of herself as being far too burdened for any man to show an interest in her. There were a great many women who had children but no husbands – look at Mrs Telford – and she had begun to see herself as one of them. Now, Carl had given her back her self-esteem. Other men might be regarding her wistfully; might, in the fullness of time, be as keen as Carl was to share her life, and the task of bringing up Diana.

Emmy smiled at her reflection, then let herself out of the bedroom and began to descend the stairs, rubbing her cheeks to give herself some colour just before re-entering the kitchen. ‘I feel a new woman, Carl,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I was about to chase after Diana when you arrived – she’s run off, the naughty little minx – so I’ll have to go round to the Symonses’ to check that she’s all right. After that, however, the day is our own.’

Carl had got to his feet as soon as she came back
into the room and now he took down her coat from the peg on the back of the door, and helped her into it. He was smiling. ‘That is wonderful,’ he said. ‘If Diana wishes to come with us, of course, that would be wonderful too. But a day to ourselves . . .’

When they reached the Symonses’ house, however, a surprise awaited them. Mother and daughter had just returned from church and assured Emmy that they had seen neither hide nor hair of Diana. Emmy’s high spirits were considerably lowered by this news and she felt, once more, a touch of the dragging weariness which had attacked her earlier. She thanked the Symonses, however, pretending that all was well, but once outside on the pavement again she and Carl looked at one another with some anxiety. Emmy was about to suggest that they report Diana’s absence at the nearest police station when an idea struck her. ‘She’ll have gone to the Fishers’ house,’ she said crossly. ‘She knows very well she’s forbidden to go there, but she was in a mood to defy me and one good sure way of upsetting me would be to go round to see Beryl. I’ll have to go and get her, Carl.’

The two of them returned to the court and went straight to the house next door, but it was only after repeated knockings had failed to elicit an answer that Emmy suddenly clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘They’ve gone to New Brighton!’ she gasped. ‘That was why we quarrelled, Diana and me, because I said she wasn’t to go with them. Oh, the little madam! Well, at least I know Beryl wouldn’t dream of letting her get into any sort of trouble. Oh, Carl, I’m so sorry, but I shall simply have to go to New Brighton and make sure she really is with the Fishers. Do you mind?’

Diana had shot out of the house with every intention of going round to the Fishers and begging to be allowed to join their family party in a day at the seaside. She was quite bright enough, however, to realise that her mother would pursue her and drag her back if she were given half the chance, so the sensible thing to do would be to pretend to go round to Raymond Street and stay there until the coast was clear.

As she always did, she went down the jigger and entered the yard through the back gate. In her blazing temper, she had forgotten that it was Sunday, and it was the Symonses’ habit to go to church at this hour, but it did not worry her. After all, she only had to remain here for ten minutes or so, and then she could return to the court and hang about until the Fishers set off for the ferry. Whilst she waited, she picked up a small fork and began to weed some of the tubs, a task she enjoyed so much that a good deal longer than ten minutes elapsed before she remembered she had other fish to fry. She dug the little fork into the nearest barrel and set off again, though much less impetuously this time.