New Neighbors for Coronation Close, page 15
‘I haven’t seen your Roy for a while. Working away from home, is he?’
‘He does sometimes.’
Jenny could feel Thelma’s incisive look across the table. She sipped her tea, not minding it being sugarless.
Thelma leaned over the table, her breasts almost colliding with her teacup. ‘Jenny, if you’re short of a few bob, I can lend you some.’
Jenny shook her head vehemently. ‘I’m fine. Anyway, neither a borrower nor a lender be. I won’t borrow.’
Thelma chewed her lips as though thinking something over. ‘What are you going to do?’
Jenny looked up, surprised. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do.’
For a moment, both women held a look, understanding in one set of eyes, resignation in the other set.
Lying to Thelma was useless. She had a knack of getting to the truth.
Jenny sighed. ‘You might as well know. He hasn’t been home for three days and I’m running short of money.’
‘I can lend you some.’
‘No. I won’t borrow…’
Thelma looked at her. ‘Then what will you do?’
Jenny took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got to go into town. I’ll go along to the docks office and find out where he is.’
‘I’d go with you if I didn’t have to work.’
‘That’s a kind offer, Thelma, but I must do this myself. Anyway, there’s a couple of old friends I want to look up.’
‘Then that’s what you must do,’ said Thelma, slapping her palm hard on the tabletop. ‘And don’t worry about rushing back for the kids. They can have their tea with my girls.’
‘Thelma, I do not want charity,’ Jenny responded, her eyes blazing. ‘I can look after my own. They can have…’ Her head fell forward onto her hand. The look in her eyes was hidden, but she could do nothing to stop her lips quivering.
‘Bread and marge?’
Thelma had hit the nail on the head and knew it.
Jenny looked away, ashamed there was so little in her larder but she was unwilling to admit anything. Raising her head high, she resolved to face this.
‘I won’t take advantage of your friendship.’
‘You won’t be. My girls always cook the evening meal. Besides, they’d love your girls to come for tea. They just love cooking for people.’
When Jenny opened her mouth to protest, Thelma held up a warning finger.
‘My girls would be disappointed if you said no. Let them have a little tea party to themselves. They’d love it. Anyway, they’ve already made a big pot of mutton stew – too much for just three of us.’
Jenny caved in. Thelma was one of the kindest people she’d ever met. On top of that, there was a serious necessity for her to go into the city centre and find out where Roy had got to. Whilst there, she would also take the opportunity to visit Isaac and Ruth. ‘Thanks, Thelma.’
Thelma shrugged. ‘What are friends for?’ She peered more closely at Jenny’s flawless complexion before looking her up and down.
‘You know, I’ve got a lovely sea green dress that will suit you. I was going to wear it myself, but it’s too small.’ She pushed her breasts together and laughed. ‘Couldn’t find room for these beauties could I. Shall I bring it over?’
‘Oh yes. As long as you’re sure you can’t make use of it, or perhaps Cath might like it? She’s slim.’
‘She’s skinny and a bit of a scruff in case you haven’t noticed. Though the colour might match one of her headscarves. She’s got enough of them.’
Jenny laughed with her. No matter what Thelma did, Cath went her own way, comfortable in being herself.
Thelma eyed her questioningly, head cocked to one side. ‘Ain’t seen you in that other dress I gave you a while back. Still got it?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I have. I’ve hung it up in the wardrobe for best. Don’t want to muck it up doing housework, do I?’
Her smile was as sincere as she could make it. The lie had rolled easily enough off her tongue. After all the time and effort Thelma had put into the dress, she couldn’t bear to tell her of Roy’s anger, shouting at her that his family didn’t take handouts from tarts like Thelma Dawson.
In a fit of temper, he’d torn the dress from her, rolled it into a bowl and slung it into the pig bin. Once he’d set off to work, she’d retrieved it and put it into the wash. The stiches had held and it had taken a bit of scrubbing but it had proved almost impossible to get the stains out. She’d done her best but couldn’t tell Thelma the truth – not after all the effort and kindness she’d put into it. Her new friend deserved nothing but praise and she was glad they had met.
‘How long’s your old man away this time,’ Thelma asked.
‘I never know. I wish I did though. I could organise my life better if I had some idea.’
Thelma picked up on it.
‘Wishful thinking?’
Jenny tossed her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do.’
Thelma adopted an incisive look that made Jenny feel as though her thoughts were written on her forehead.
Jenny shrugged. ‘I have to take it as it comes and take my chances where I can.’
15
The day was cold and a thick fog plus the smoke from thousands of coal fires threatened to become impenetrable but despite its menace, Jenny was desperate to visit the Jacobs. It had been so long since she’d seen them.
The sound of her footsteps echoed against the roof and walls of the cut-through at Blue Bowl Alley. In a strange way, the fog softened the grim lines of the old buildings, making it seem as though they were vanishing into the past, the place they truly belonged.
A light thrown from indoors assured her that they were at home. There being no door knocker, she rapped hard with her fist. Nobody came, so she rapped a second time.
‘Hold yer horses,’ shouted someone from inside.
The voice was loud and rough and sounded nothing like Isaac or his wife.
She stepped back as the door opened and a woman she recognised as the landlord’s wife filled the gap.
‘What do want?’ Mrs Smith’s tone was surly. She’d never been one for sounding pleasant.
‘The Jacobs family. Are they in?’ Jenny asked nervously.
‘They ain’t yer any more.’
‘They’ve moved?’
The woman had been about to close the door but held it halfway.
‘What do you want ’em for?’
‘I used to live here. Mrs Crawford’s my name. You might remember me.’
‘Oh yeah.’
The surly tone failed to improve. Jenny recalled her as a shrew of a woman who’d pass you on the stairs without speaking.
‘Why did they move?’ she asked hopefully, thinking they too might have realised a dream and moved to somewhere better.
Mrs Smith let go the door, folded her arms across her meagre chest and eyed her inquisitively. ‘I ’ad to give ’em notice. My husband Jack dropped dead and I needed these rooms. Not that it’s any concern of yours.’
‘No. Of course not. Do you know where they’ve gone?’
Mrs Smith sniffed. ‘Pie Lane up behind St James’s Church.’
Jenny nodded. She’d heard of it but had rarely gone there. From what she did know it was an old area of grim looking houses and few streetlights, thus she had reservations about Isaac and Ruth living there. Such kind people needed someone to enquire after them. She steeled herself to go there.
‘Do you have the number of the house?’
‘That’s all I know.’
Before she could ask anything else, the door had slammed in her face.
She turned away feeling both dejected and concerned. Poor Isaac and Ruth. They’d been happy enough here, simply because they were both together. She hoped their strong partnership would sustain them in their new home. It felt now even more important to see them to make sure they were coping.
Thanks to the fog, the day was getting darker, the air on her tongue tasting gritty and sulphurous.
St James’s Church was on the other side of the Horse Fair, so named because in medieval times it had indeed been a place where horses and other beasts of burden were bought and sold.
Pie Lane was as ancient as she’d heard it was and none of the houses had numbers. Jenny decided to go by instinct. One of these houses would shout out to her, or at least, that’s what she hoped.
The overhanging gables of houses, old even back in the time of Queen Elizabeth the First, leaned against each other, like old men seeking support for crooked limbs. Overall there was an air of menace which reminded her of Blue Bowl Alley, though perhaps marginally worse.
It was harder to tell than she thought. She began to feel disheartened, until she came to one displaying a sign in the window: no children and no pets.
It was an incongruous beginning but seemed likely, seeing as Isaac and Ruth had neither children nor pets.
The house was as old as those around it, its timber-framed upper floor jutting out over the ground floor. The crooked front door was low and the windows grubby. The knocker was heavy, rusty and stiff obliging her to use both hands. The sound reverberated in the thick fog. She eyed the fog despairingly hoping it would dissipate enough to see her way home.
As she waited, a long black shape slunk from one dank drain to another.
Finally, after a few more raps, the door was wrenched open, the man who opened it lifting it slightly so it would clear the step.
The step went down into a dark void from where the man had emerged.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m looking for Mr and Mrs Jacobs.’
‘Well, I ain’t ’im. I’m Fred Baker.’ He laughed as though he’d cracked a big joke.
Besides his perpetual smile, he had oiled hair and a very fine moustache. Both hair and moustache were glossy.
‘No. Mrs Smith, the landlord in Blue Bowl Alley said my old friends had moved here.’
He looked her up and down. ‘That’s a shame. I thought you might want some rooms. I’d like a better class of tenant, especially a woman.’
‘I’m sorry, no, I don’t want a room. I’m just trying to find my friends.’
‘My dear lady, do come in,’ he said with a flourish of his hand, pulling the door back as far as it would go. ‘I’ll take you up to the second floor myself.’
The fact that he’d said that Isaac and Ruth lived on the second floor worried her. Neither of them was good on their feet. Filled with apprehension, she followed him up the narrow twisting staircase to the second floor. The building smelt of damp plaster. There was no stair carpet, just rough floorboards dark grained enough to be oak.
After the last twist in direction, she stepped onto the landing. Sunshine fell through an arched window at one end. All the same, she wondered how on earth Isaac and Ruth were managing.
‘I wouldn’t have thought my friends would manage those stairs.’
‘I know it’s a lot,’ he said, ‘but because it’s on the second floor, there’s a lovely view over the city. I’m sure you’ll be taken with it.’ That said, he bashed on the door. ‘Mr Jacobs. Are you in there?’
Before Isaac on his wobbly legs could have made the door, Fred Baker was hammering again.
‘Come on, Isaac. You got a visitor.’
The door was a misshapen oblong that had twisted over the years. Isaac was obliged to draw it open.
The tired greyness of his face lit up when he saw her. ‘Jenny!’
She could tell just how thrilled he was to see her by the fact that he had called her by her first name. He rarely had. It had always been Mrs Crawford.
Rather than greeting her, he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Ruth. It’s Jenny Crawford come to visit. Our old neighbor Jenny Crawford!’
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Fred, who had lingered too long at her shoulder, perhaps waiting for an invitation to join them.
Isaac ignored him and closed the door as she stepped inside. ‘Come in, my girl. Come in.’
He sounded and looked ecstatic, taking hold of her elbow and drawing her into his new home.
‘Ruth! Ruth! Did you hear what I said?’
Bright sunlight would have lifted the grimy paintwork and crumbling plaster but today was far from sunny. Two twisted beams held up the ceiling of the first room. A stove, a deep white sink with draining boards, plus ancient cupboards and a free-standing dresser comprised the kitchen set at one end of the room. The furniture from the old place was instantly recognisable: an old-fashioned windup gramophone, a chaise lounge and chairs with springs threatening to burst through the faded red upholstery.
She’d expected Ruth to be in her usual chair and was surprised when she wasn’t.
‘In here,’ said Isaac and took her into the bedroom.
Ruth lay propped up in bed, looking as pale as the pillow her grey head rested upon. Nevertheless, her face brightened.
‘Jenny! It is so good to see you. Isaac. Help me sit up straighter. Puff up these pillows.’
‘Let me help.’ Jenny wound an arm around her old friend. She was shocked to feel the lack of muscles, the prominence of shoulder bones.
Isaac did as he was told, bashing at the pillows, straightening them and asking her whether she was comfortable.
Concerned by Ruth’s appearance, Jenny helped him get her propped up better with an assortment of cushions and pillows.
‘Ruth.’ She took both wrinkled hands in hers. They felt as light as the claws of a bird. ‘Have you not been well?’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘But she’s getting better now,’ Isaac said. ‘She’ll get better even quicker now you’re here, Jenny.’
Ruth’s eyes held hers. The look in them told her things were far from well. Jenny guessed that she was agreeing with Isaac that she would recover to keep his spirits up.
Isaac offered to make tea and she accepted.
Cups and saucers rattled in the other room. Jenny sat on the bed and smiled. ‘It’s so good to see you, Ruth. I’ve often thought about you, but what with settling in and… other things…’
‘I can guess why. He wouldn’t let you see us – that husband of yours – he wouldn’t let you come.’
At first, Jenny was going to lie but thought better of it. Why should she? They knew what he was like. She nodded. ‘He’s away a lot nowadays, what with work and out with his friends.’
An awkward silence followed. They all knew these friends he was out with, but none dared say their name.
Ruth began coughing, her chest shaking with the effort. She pointed at a piece of white cloth on the washstand. Jenny grabbed it and handed it to her.
A profuse amount of coughing ensued. Even before she handed it back, Jenny knew that red would have stained the whiteness.
Not wanting to admit to having seen the blood Ruth had brought up and Isaac entering the bedroom with tea, Jenny steered the conversation elsewhere.
‘I read in the paper that these houses are coming down along with others in this area. Do you know when?’
He chuckled. ‘I can’t really say and Fred Baker is clueless, but…’ He winked. ‘We have a friend who’s fighting our corner.’
Jenny frowned. That wink had been meant to convey something to her.
She took a sip of tea and eyed him over the rim of her cup. ‘Are you going to tell me more?’
Isaac’s smile lit up his face. ‘That young man, Charlie, who saved me from being beat up. He pops in now and again to see how we are. He’s been asking questions, seeing if he can get the housing department to do something even before they tear this lot down. He knows a few of the councillors. Once he’s got a date for the demolition, he’s going to get us put at the front of the queue.’
She exclaimed how wonderful it was that someone was doing something. Inside she thrilled at the mention of Charlie. Moving out of the city centre had its advantages but also its drawbacks. Charlie Talbot was one of those drawbacks.
‘He’s such a nice young man,’ said Ruth, hand resting on her chest each time another cough threatened.
Jenny agreed with her. Even thinking about him sent her blood racing.
It was no good telling herself that she was a married woman. Charlie’s smile was a permanent fixture in her head. No matter how hard she tried to dismiss his image, it was there, fixed in her mind.
Isaac poked at a patch of dry, flaky plaster around the window. Pieces the size of a postage stamp fluttered to the floor. ‘It can’t come soon enough,’ he said and gave it another jab.
If what she’d heard was right, anyone still living in the last of these old properties – deemed unfit for human habitation – would be rehoused.
She looked around, noting the doors, the sloping floor, the meagre daylight coming through the windows. A central gas candelabra provided lighting. Heating was by way of a small fireplace and the stove which had just about enough room for two saucepans and no oven.
‘How much rent do you pay?’
‘It was seven and six a week, but then Charlie had a word with the landlord and he reduced it to five shillings. We’re very grateful for that. It’s made things a bit easier. I’m not good with the stairs, but I tell myself I won’t be here for ever.’
‘That includes gas, mind you,’ Ruth added. ‘There’s no electricity. But them gas lights warms a room as well as lighting it. Fred brings up the bath from the back wall if I ask him to. I suppose it’s better than nothing.’
Jenny doubted that the gas lights warmed the room that much. She would shiver if she took her coat off.
More tea was offered, but Jenny declined. She knew they’d been glad to see her and promised to call again.
On her way back down the twisting staircase, very similar to the one back at Blue Bowl Alley, she checked the contents of her purse. There wasn’t much in there.
The thick fog was further diminishing late-afternoon light, moving like a living thing around the amber glow of streetlights. Footsteps and the sound of vehicles, horse-drawn and mechanical, were heard but not seen.
The bus stop was on the other side of the tramway centre where roads circled the greenery of the central reservation. The docks offices were off to her right in Princes Street.
