Who's Sorry Now (2008) (23 page)

Clara hadn’t even made any protest when Patsy had suggested they re-organise the central workroom, perhaps add a curtained alcove to offer the customer a little privacy for trying hats on.
 

‘You do what you think best, love. I have every faith in you.’

Patsy hugged the older woman, overcome by emotion. ‘You’re like a mother to me.’

‘Indeed, I hope so.’

Patsy depended upon Clara, and even the grumpy Annie, far more than she cared to admit, as she’d never known her own mother. Even her foster parents had rejected her, once they’d had a child of their own. That sense of being unwanted had affected her badly for years, made her angry and rebellious, unable to trust anyone.

Now, she had a good life, a good man, and a family of sorts in the Higginson sisters. Everything was going well for her at last; except for the fact that she was still troubled by shop-lifting. Whoever was doing it was persistent and clever, as Patsy could never link the loss of an item with any particular customer.

She kept a careful watch, had even put up a mirror so that she could see most of the stall without moving from her chair were she to be busy sewing. That was the real danger. The stall occupied quite a large block of space on three sides, the fourth butting on to Marion’s Ribbons and Lace stall, and Patsy would become so engrossed in her work that she’d forget to keep a proper watch.

It was so much easier when Clara was with her, as they could take it in turns to patrol the length of it. But Clara was more often than not absent these days as Annie had been unwell for weeks and her sister was very concerned.

Number 22, the little house where the Higginson sisters had lived since they’d come home from France during the war, became permeated with the sour-sweet smell of sickness.

Patsy did what she could to help with the endless cleaning, the scrubbing and disinfecting, the washing of linen; the fetching and carrying of beef tea or barley water to Annie who lay like a withered leaf in the Victorian iron bedstead. Later, Patsy would carry the tray away again as the poor lady rarely ate a scrap no matter how much care Clara took over the preparation of the poached salmon or the soup which she made specially to tempt her.
 

And then one morning before it was quite light, Clara came to Patsy’s room and told her that Annie had gone.

Patsy sat up, blinking owlishly in the light cast in from the stairs, wanting to ask gone where, before sleep fell away and reality hit home. Annie was dead. That crochety old woman with a heart of gold had finally gone to meet her maker, and, sadly, few would grieve for her, save for her beloved, distraught sister and one orphan to whom she had given a home.

Thomas had at last opted for semi-retirement, cutting down the hours he spent at the bakery. He’d even temporarily abandoned his allotment to devote long hours to helping Chris and Amy renovate and restore their little house. He declared he was happy to make these small sacrifices to help them on their way. And very glad of his efforts they were too, as the house made a depressing picture. The walls were running with damp, much of the woodwork was rotten, and it stank of rot and damp and vermin.

Mavis had been horrified when she was taken to view it. ‘I won’t have my son, or any grandchild of mine, being brought up here. Ten shillings a week for this? You’ve been robbed! I’ve seen drier cellars.’

For once Amy had to agree with her, although she did notice that no mention was made of her own comfort. Just as if Amy was of no consequence at all.

‘What’s the alternative?’ she very reasonably pointed out. ‘There aren’t enough decent houses to go round. They say two fall down every day in Manchester as a result of bomb damage. As for a new council flat, we’d be old and grey before ever we got to the top of the list. They just can’t build them fast enough, so it’s up to us to make our own way.’

‘But not here, not in this hole,’ Mavis snorted. ‘As I’ve said countless times before, I can’t see why you need to move at all.’

‘Nay, it’s not too bad,’ Thomas said, ever the optimist. ‘I’ve seen worse. It’s got potential.’

It had two rooms downstairs, a front parlour which for the time being would have to be left empty for lack of furniture, and at the back was the living room. Beyond this was the scullery with an old-fashioned shallow brown-stone sink and slop-stone. The hot water was provided by the back boiler, set behind the Lancashire iron range which must have been there since the house was built a century ago.

‘By heck,’ Thomas had said when he’d first clapped eyes on it. ‘We had one of those once. My mother used to black-lead it every week.’

Amy looked stricken. ‘Oh, no, am I going to have to do that too?’ The joy of owning their own home was suddenly beginning to pall. The task of making the house habitable seemed enormous.

‘Nay,’ Thomas assured her. ‘We could have it out in a jiffy but then you’d have no hot water, unless we rewire the place and put in one of them new-fangled emersion heaters?’

Amy gave a rueful smile. ‘We can’t afford, not with a baby to provide for.’

‘Well, then, it’ll have to stay where it is. I’ll give it a lick of black enamel paint so it don’t need more than a wipe down.’

Thomas put on his overalls and got down to the job there and then. He chipped away old plaster, removed rotten shelves, skirting boards and picture rails. He then knocked out an old Victorian fireplace in the back scullery.

‘How about we build on a bathroom, since you’ve not got one upstairs?’

‘We can’t afford one of those either,’ Amy said, in something of a panic as he broke through the outer scullery wall with his sledge hammer.

‘Don’t fret,’ Thomas cried, like a man possessed. ‘I’m just going to put up a lean-to on the back of the house, to link it to the old outside lavatory. It won’t be no palace but at least you’ll not risk catching pneumonia every time you go for a pee.’

He did all the work himself, Chris working alongside his father whenever he could be spared from the bakery, acting as labourer under Thomas’s patient instruction.
 

‘Plastering is no more difficult than icing a cake, well not much anyroad,’ he explained to his son. Thomas was an enthusiast, willing to have a go at anything, whether or not he had any experience in the task.

‘Except for the fact the surface is considerably larger in dimension, and vertical,’ Chris groaned, as yet another trowel-load of plaster fell with a plop to the floor.

The two men worked tirelessly at all hours of the day and night: mending kitchen cupboards, putting new hinges on doors, repairing broken sash windows, scrubbing away black mould. And once all of that was done they gave the old walls a coat of size, then started on the painting and distempering.

Amy wasn’t allowed to do a thing except brew endless mugs of tea for them both, and choose the colour of the paint: jasmine yellow and white, she decided. She’d also chosen a wallpaper in a vibrant abstract design as she wanted their first home to look modern and cheerful in jazzy colours. Mostly she was happy to sit and watch the two men work, knitting matinee jackets and baby bonnets. She was getting very near to her time so was thankful for an hour or two of peace in her day when she wasn’t at Mavis’s beck and call.

It was a week later when, as Carmina walked into the house, Carlotta took off her apron and reached for her coat. ‘You come with me, madam.’

‘What? Why? Where are we going?’

‘You will see when we get there. We have a visit to make.’

It was perfectly plain that her mother wasn’t taking no for an answer, so with a weary sigh Carmina allowed herself to be shepherded out of the house and marched along the street.

She was feeling in a sour mood anyway because she hadn’t seen Luc for days; hadn’t, in fact, set eyes on him since their quarrel last week when he’d sworn never to love her. Foolish boy! He hadn’t meant it, of course, not deep down. He was in a sulk because he believed she’d trapped him. Men didn’t know what was good for them. He’d soon see that they could have a wonderful life together if only he would stop fighting her.

Carmina hadn’t even spotted him at the bus stop lately, although she’d been there waiting for him, without fail, every single day. He must be taking a different bus, or getting off at a different stop, she thought, furious that he could avoid her so easily. She was particularly cross today as it was a Friday and she’d hoped to persuade him to come out of his sulk and take her to the dance. He was absolutely potty about her deep down, she was sure of it. He just needed to rid himself of this guilt he felt over abandoning her stupid sister. And Carmina had no intention of allowing him to escape his responsibilities.

She almost giggled at this thought, for in reality he had no responsibilities. He owed her nothing. But since she’d told the Big Lie almost two weeks ago, Carmina had come to half believe in it herself.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ she repeated in her most irritable voice, as her mother steered her across the busy street.

Carmina decided it must be something to do with the wedding, perhaps they were going to see Dena Dobson to get her to make the dress. She had her heart set on something short and lacy, ballerina length with a nipped-in waist. No one could accuse her of not having good taste.

But they walked on without stopping. Where on earth were they heading? To Betty Hemley’s flower stall perhaps? Carmina wanted something exotic and romantic for her bouquet. White lilies, perhaps. They’d look rather grand, with a sprig or two of orange blossom for luck.

Betty smiled and looked faintly puzzled as they swept past, for there was nothing Carlotta liked better than a little gossip with the flower seller. She swore that was how she’d learned most of her English. There was certainly little that went on in Champion Street which Betty Hemley didn’t know about.

People were turning to watch as they hurried by and Carmina began to feel uneasy. She could see Alec Hall staring at her with open curiosity from the doorway of his little music shop. She’d managed to avoid him this last week or two, but might well have run to him now were it not for the iron grip her mother had upon her arm. And there was something unsettling in this purposeful walk.

They finally came to a halt outside the door of Doc Mitchell’s surgery and panic hit her like a smack in the face.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Carmina felt as if she might actually throw up. ‘I’m not going in
there!
’

‘Oh, yes, you are, my girl. When you have baby, you need doctor, to make sure all is well.’

There was a roaring sound in Carmina’s ears, like the hum of a thousand angry bees. She couldn’t think for the noise. It had been easy enough to lie, to make up this tale which had successfully brought Luc to heel when all other methods had failed, but this man would see the truth at once. He was a
doctor
, for heaven’s sake!

She tried to back away. ‘It’s too soon. I don’t need to see any doctor yet.’

‘You think your momma not know about babies? Have I not had enough to make me the expert? The sooner you see the doctor, the better,’ and Carlotta thrust her daughter through the door.

They clattered up a long flight of stairs then each took a seat in the small, stuffy waiting room. Here, Carmina was condemned to wait her turn behind a queue of people with the usual coughs and colds and sniffles, stomach complaints or with faces etched with concern over something more serious. Someone new would arrive and people would shuffle along to make a space for them on the wooden benches, or indicate with a glance or a flick of the hand, who was the last in line. Eyes would assess the newcomer, inwardly trying to guess the reason for their visit, before returning to reading one of the tatty magazines or crumpled newspapers heaped on a small table.

But Carmina was almost glad of the wait since it gave her time to think. She’d had her period, as usual, just two weeks ago, would the doctor be able to tell? Surely not.

The grubby walls with their brown anaglypta wallpaper and faded posters about
breast being best
and
get the proper immunisation for your child
, seemed to press in upon her. Carmina hadn’t bargained on this, not quite so soon, and desperately strove to think of a way to escape.
 

‘I’ll just pop back home to the toilet,’ she whispered to her mother, but Carlotta showed her the door of the ladies right there, before her. It didn’t even have a window large enough for her to crawl out of. In any case, it was on the first floor with a fifteen foot drop or more over the rooftops below. Even the view made her feel helpless, trapped.

So it was that Carmina found herself undergoing a most thorough and embarrassing examination, Doc Mitchell’s wrinkled old face growing increasingly puzzled as he prodded and poked.

Finally, as she sat beside her mother, humiliated and deeply angered by this complete loss of dignity, he sighed and smiled kindly, addressing his remarks to her mother, just as if Carmina weren’t even present.

‘It’s possibly too early to be certain, but I can see no sign of a pregnancy in the girl. Rest assured, I think you might be worrying unnecessarily.’

Carmina made a valiant attempt to hang on to the make-believe. ‘Excuse me, but I certainly
am
pregnant. I know it. I feel it instinctively as a woman does. Why, I’ve even had morning sickness, and can’t stand the smell of coffee.’ With so many younger siblings, Carmina was no stranger to the symptoms of early pregnancy.