‘That salt they chuck everywhere, the gritters and that, you should see what that does to the carpets. Burns ’em. It’s corrosive, that’s what it is. Ruins ’em if you let it build up.’
Joe swung the bus on to Rochdale Road leading down into town. ‘Your Brendan had any luck?’
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Anything that comes up there’s half of Harpurhey after it. And they take the youngsters. Pay ’em less.’
‘Bloody crime,’ Joe put in. ‘When I started out you could always find something.’
‘Like the buses?’
He laughed. ‘Aye. Well they had conductors too in them days. Or the railways, markets, factories. Everywhere’s hit now. Rolls Royce gone bust, did you see that? Dockers and engineers on strike, even the post office.’
She knew only too well. After she’d been off having Chris they’d cut back at her old place. When she went to see about going back to work they couldn’t give her anything. Not even part-time. Orders were down and overheads were up. People blamed cheap imports and they were tightening their belts.
‘Something might turn up,’ he said. ‘You live in hope.’
‘Aye, you live in hope and you die in despair.’
‘Keep doing the pools, lass.’
She watched the streets rattle past. Houses in darkness, streetlights still casting everything in an orange wash. It was perishing. They hadn’t had the heating on all winter. Just using the gas fire in the lounge. They were living on beans and toast. She still tried to keep the kids looking nice but it was hard. Aidan only had to look at a pair of shoes and they started dropping to bits and Francine growing so fast they couldn’t keep up. She’d even got them some stuff from the Oxfam shop in town. That was a real no-no. You were meant to give your kids the best, only the best, all new. Never cast-offs or if you absolutely had to then only in the family. She pretended they’d come from Woollies, they all had ladybird labels in and you couldn’t tell they’d been worn.
Brendan had taken her to task for it, thinking she’d been spending what they hadn’t got, so she’d had to tell him the whole lot had only cost a couple of bob. She’d seen the fleeting look of shame cross his features and fought against the same feelings in herself.
‘It doesn’t matter, Brendan,’ she said gently, ‘it’s just another way of keeping our heads above water.’
With no joy at the factory she now had four cleaning jobs and still they were spending more than they brought home. If she earned any more they’d dock his social. Two of the jobs were cash-in-hand as it was. Some fool somewhere had decided how much a family of five needed to live on. They must have forgotten to add a nought on the end because the amount barely fed them never mind all the rest – cleaning stuff, soap, plasters, tampons, school things, repairs, birthday cards.
Brendan had helped out on the Driscoll’s stall for a couple of months but they all knew it didn’t add up. People were holding on to their money and takings were rock bottom. Now and again he’d get a day or two labouring, on the motorway. Digging and lifting. He’d come back shattered, the sun or the wind peeled his nose and his shoulders and he’d have cuts on his hands and arms and sometimes was half-deaf from the drills but he’d have a note or two in his pocket. Enough for a bit of shopping or towards the gas or the electric. It didn't happen often. Too many after the same chance and besides it was wise not to push it, too many snoopers eager to catch them out and stop all their benefits.
Her stop next. She finished her cigarette and trod on the tab. Her day stretched ahead like an endurance test. Two and a half hours at the office block in town; five floors they covered, just the three of them. And that included everything from emptying paper bins and hoovering to cleaning toilets and polishing the big entrance hall with the industrial machines.
Then on to the nightclub, where it was clearing up tab ends and broken glass, wiping last night’s beer from the bar and often as not someone's vomit from the floor. The carpet was past saving. Years of spills creating the dark, tacky residue that made your soles stick as you walked on it. Made her skin crawl, that carpet. Third job was a private house in Prestwich where she did a different floor each weekday and always the kitchen and bathroom. A consultant lived there, working at the hospital. She’d never met him, only his wife, who acted like minor royalty. She was often out, going off to coffee mornings and exhibitions and trips to Stratford or up to London, which was where they were from originally. How could you go up to London, Megan thought? The place was 300 miles south. It wasn’t so much a direction thing, she’d said to Brendan, she reckoned it was more like a snob thing: London was better than everywhere else so London was up and everywhere else was down.
Once she’d done the big house she had to get two buses back home, squeeze in her own housework and fetch the kids. Sometimes Brendan went for them and she had half an hour with her feet up. Then it was three hours of bedlam while they were fed and did their homework and little Chris was got ready for bed. At seven she set out again to the comprehensive school. If she really pushed it she could do her section in an hour and a half but most nights she hadn’t the energy to tear about. By the time she got back the kids would be asleep, Francine and her Dad watching telly. She’d join them for a cup of tea and a final fag before turning in, the alarm set for four-thirty.
Nina
‘Nina, Nina, there’s no one meaner! Nina, Nina, there’s no one meaner!’
The four girls surrounded her, their faces curled in snarls as they chanted their latest taunts, careful to have their backs to the staff supervising the playground. She could feel herself getting hot and the red bubbles growing inside. Wanting to smash their faces and pull the hair from their heads.
‘Shut up, pigs!’ she retorted.
‘Takes one to know one!’ Sophie Broom, the leader of the gang threw back.
‘I know you are, I said you are, but what am I?’ Veronica said. Veronica was the coward. Nina knew last time she had lashed out Veronica had run calling for teacher, leaving her three friends to cope with Nina’s furious reaction, kicking feet and slashing arms. Veronica never came near Nina when she was on her own.
‘If I had freckles like you, I’d get my name down for a skin-graft.’ Rosie glanced at Sophie for her approval. ‘There’s millions of them.’
‘Yeah. Looks like you’re going rusty.’ Sophie said.
Nina hated them. She felt her chest tighten, her hands go damp with sweat. She set her mouth, turned to walk away. One of them shoved her in the back between the shoulder blades. She couldn’t stop herself then. She lunged and caught a fistful of shiny blonde hair, pulled it hard down, forcing Sophie’s head towards the tarmac.
Someone grabbed her from behind. Other hands joined in.
‘Get off!’ The ringing tones of a teacher split the girls apart. Nina brushed the hair from her face, pulled her sweater round where it had twisted. She took some comfort from Sophie’s flushed face and the way her hair was all messed up.
Mrs Day, the head, went bonkers. She would have to write to Nina’s parents. If Nina couldn't control her temper then there would be no place for her in the school. It was unladylike and unacceptable. Mrs Day didn’t bother trying to establish what had led up to the brawl and Nina didn't bother trying to tell her. Sophie was a clever pupil. Her father gave the school a lot of money. She didn’t pick on anyone else, only Nina, so they all thought Nina was the troublemaker.
When she went back to her class she saw people’s eyes flicking at her to see if she’d been crying. Well, she hadn't, so bully for them. She saw Veronica nudge Rosie.
‘Sit down, Nina,’ Mrs Sinclair said. ‘And get out your Egyptian topic.’
Brilliant. She’d nearly finished her cover. She’d copied a mummy from a library book and she’d used bits of real gold paper from Dad’s cigarette packets to do the stripes on the sarcophagus with. She’d filled in-between with a lovely blue ink from the Fred Aldous shop in town. She’d done a border of proper hieroglyphics down the sides, and across the top and bottom she was doing a row of pyramids with a Sphinx in each corner. All she needed to do now was to colour in the pyramids and it would be finished.
She knew Miss Sinclair would put it on display, she’d held it up to show everyone last time.
Nina sat down and opened her desk. The bottle of blue ink lay on its side, the top open and a thick pool of it all over her folder. Her work was ruined. She could smell the metallic fumes of the ink. She wanted to cry, her eyes burned like coals and her nose prickled but she wouldn’t. She had left the ink at the other side, next to her pencil case. She knew she had. She looked across at her enemies. Saw the sly smile that Sophie shot Rosie and the prim curl on Veronica’s lips, the way her shoulders jerked a bit with a mocking, silent laugh.
She plunged her hands into the pool of ink, spreading it over the whole of the cover, and then crumpled the paper up. Rotten stinking pigs.
‘Miss!’ She held up her hands and heard the communal gasp.
‘Oh, Nina!’ Miss Sinclair’s voice was thick with frustration. ‘After all that work. You’d done so well. See – a moment’s clumsiness and it’s all spoilt. How many times do I have to tell you girls to put the tops back on properly. Go wash your hands.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘And try not to get into any more trouble on the way. I think we’ve had enough drama for one day, don't you?’
Marjorie
She was in the middle of spring cleaning. A house like this was easier to keep up with than something larger but even so you’d be amazed at how much grime accumulated from one year to the next. They couldn’t afford to be repainting and changing carpets whenever things got grubby but with plenty of elbow grease the place looked fresh and clean again.
She was methodical in her approach. A floor at a time, starting upstairs. First tidy and clear away the items that had a place to go. Put aside anything for jumble or good-as-new. Strip the beds. Remove and wash the curtains. That was a job and a half in itself. Filthy and tiring. Up the stepladder undoing all the curtain hooks, supporting the weight of the fabric on one arm. Curtains in to wash, or to the dry-cleaners. Wipe down the pelmet and the curtain rails. Clean the windows. Shift all the furniture and vacuum underneath, more swathes of grey fluff and hair and lost things. Return furniture. Dust lamps and picture rails. Vacuum again. Wipe down the paintwork with a bucket of hot water and Stardrops. Polish the mirrors. When she was damp with exertion and groaning from the effort she would stop for coffee and a cigarette.
Doing the downstairs, she put on records to jolly her along: Tony Bennett or Burt Bacharach, Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald. Downstairs was worse. The kitchen worst of all. Grease in every crevice. She had to dismantle and soak the Expel-Air, watch the water turn brown with the muck coming off it, till it was ivory-coloured again like it should be. All the crockery had to come out so she could clean the cupboards and put fresh lining paper in. The food in the larder and all the baking stuff had to be moved so she could clean the shelves. The drawers in the cabinets sorted out and tidied. The nets had to be soaked in Glo-White. The kitchen took at least a full day to do properly. Top to toe.
She had done their room and next was Nina’s but she’d have a break first.
It was a system. She had learnt from her mother. It was different back then. A girl knew looking after a home and a family was the most important skill she could learn. It was expected that daughters helped out. Not now. When was the last time Nina had ever done anything with her? The pain of them rubbing along together hurt her still. It was a familiar pain. Like a tender tooth, deep and perplexing. She had dreamt of the joys a daughter would bring: shared interests, like going shopping together; up Market Street or down Deansgate to Kendals for a new coat, arm in arm. You saw people like that. She felt a prickle of sadness in her nose. Daft. She could never work out whether it was her or Nina that had set the limits, or the pair of them together, but whatever it was they just weren’t close.
In her darkest moments she would admit to herself that she despaired of the girl. Nina’s bad temper and ill grace had left her disappointed and worn down. God knows she had tried to breach the gap, countless times, knowing as she did that Nina would lash out with clever words or pull back physically and wound her anew.
I’ve tried, I’ve done my best. That was her refrain. She had fed and clothed her daughter. She had bitten back the fresh remarks and sharp retorts that sprang to mind when Nina was behaving badly. Thoughts she never shared, not even with Robert.
Thank God for Stephen. Her lovely boy. Without him . . . well, she couldn’t imagine. She’d have been a bad mother, wouldn’t she? Unable to bear them, incapable of rearing them. Lacking the maternal instinct. But Stephen was her rock, her touchstone. And when she felt miserable about relations with her daughter she would think of him and her heart would lighten.