Amy’s mother, fondly known as Big Molly, considered Thomas George to be the leper of Champion Street. He had never, personally, done anything to cause offence save for being born into the George family. The feud which had separated the two families and nearly destroyed Chris and Amy’s hopes of marriage had lasted for years, ever since Big Molly had been a young woman herself.
It all had something to do with Big Molly’s sister being badly treated by Thomas’s brother, Howard, but memories were long and some hurts never could be forgotten. This was the reason Chris and Amy had eloped to Gretna Green, in order to escape the bitterness of the family feud. There were times when Amy still felt trapped by it, as if Mavis were punishing her for these old wrongs.
Yet strangely, it was Chris’s father, Thomas the leper himself, who proved to be Amy’s greatest ally.
One evening, as they were washing up together in the kitchen, he suddenly said to her, ‘You can’t stay here, lass. She’ll strangle the life out of your marriage. You must get away before it’s too late.’
Amy was so startled she almost dropped the tea cup she was drying, completely taken aback by this remark. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Mavis to whom he was referring, but he’d never before displayed such animosity towards his wife.
As if that wasn’t surprising enough, he glanced over towards the kitchen door then went to push it closed before continuing with what he had to say. He spoke in a rushed whisper, as if he feared she might appear at any moment and overhear his betrayal.
‘I know what she’s like, how she deliberately makes your life a misery by having you working all hours when really you should be putting your feet up. I’ve told her you need to rest, but I’m the last person she listens to. You should move into a place of your own before it’s too late.’
Amy looked at him, bemused. What was he saying? What on earth did he mean? ‘Too late for what?’ she asked.
‘For you and Chris to be happy. She poisons everything she touches, that woman.’
Too shocked to think clearly, Amy gabbled something about Chris not wanting to put any strain on her by moving house while she was pregnant. ‘In any case, I’m not sure we could afford to rent a place of our own just yet.’
‘Yes, you can.’
Again he glanced towards the kitchen door as he handed her a plate to dry. ‘Believe me, it’s important you get out of here. I’ve put the word out that your looking for a place. I’ll let you know if I hear owt.’
‘Oh, goodness, I don’t know. Do you think we should?’
‘Now don’t get all flummoxed. You have to stay calm when you’re carrying. You need a place of your own, love, for the baby. Remember, I might not always be here to stand up for you.’
Now Amy really was alarmed. ‘You aren’t sick, are you?’ She didn’t share her mother’s contempt for this man. On the contrary, she felt rather sorry for the old man, seeing him as a fellow sufferer at Mavis’s hand.
‘Nay, I’m not going to die, if that’s what yer thinking.’ This quiet man who usually barely spoke more than half a dozen words to anyone now grinned from ear to ear and gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘But one of these days I might do summat, shall we say, a bit daring like.’
At which point the door did open and the woman herself marched in. ‘Have you two not finished that washing up yet? Goodness me, look at all those bubbles. You’ve used far too much soap.’
Mavis prudently saved left-over pieces of soap and put them in a small plastic cage which could be swished about in the washing up water. Unfortunately, Thomas had been so busy talking he’d rather overdone it and bubbles were everywhere.
‘What a waste! Really, I can’t trust you to do anything properly.’
Thomas took his hands out of the water and carefully dried them on a towel. ‘Best do it yourself then, so you can be sure the job’s done right,’ and walked out of the kitchen.
It was the first hint of rebellion Amy had ever seen in him, and, following on their most interesting conversation, and that last enigmatic remark just as they were interrupted, she couldn’t help wondering why. What on earth was going on? Thomas was behaving very oddly, very oddly indeed.
Amy thought no more of this unsettling conversation, finding that her life had quite livened up just by getting involved with the Peace Movement. Jeff Stockton, the old school friend whom she’d met when he asked her to sign his petition, had invited her along to a meeting and she’d gone, just to see what it was all about.
There’d been a speaker talking about the threat to England’s security, how if it chose to follow the nuclear route, this would ultimately lead to the destruction of mankind. It was all very depressing, particularly with the baby coming. Jeff, and his girl friend Sue didn’t agree with her.
‘We need to understand what’s going on so that we can fight back. Youth must have a voice. It’s our future they’re messing up, after all.’
Amy went to more meetings, carried along by the rhetoric, by the sheer passion and energy of these people. These were often held at the Friends Meeting House or the Rechobite’s Hall, but for some reason she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Chris where she was going, feeling sure he would object. She would pretend that she was going over to Patsy’s, or to see Lizzie Pringle. It wasn’t really a lie, Amy told herself, well, only a white one.
Ever cautious, her husband wasn’t at all the sort of man to get involved in demonstrations. He was turning into a replica of his father: a family man with a small business mentality. He certainly wanted his world to be safe, but he trusted the government to make sure of that for him. And as a tried and true conservative, he saw the new peace movement as far too left wing for his taste.
Amy, on the other hand, wasn’t the least interested in politics, either left or right. She focused entirely on that one important word: Peace. She interpreted this in a simplistic way, as a safe future for her child. And if this new movement was full of students, journalists and intellectuals, making her sometimes feel a little out of her depth, that was simply her own lack of education showing. Mixing with such people could surely only be a good thing.
Besides, with the state of housing in Manchester the way it was, that’s what the government should be spending their hard earned taxes on, not nuclear rockets to start yet another war. Amy spent every waking moment longing for a place of their own.
And with the cold war she was fighting with Mavis, peace, like privacy, seemed like a distant dream.
But then one morning when Amy was pegging clothes out on the line, Thomas came creeping down the back stairs from the bakery above and spoke to her once more in hushed conspiratorial tones.
‘There’s a two-bedroom house come empty down the bottom of the street, just next door to the pawn shop. I’ve spoken to the landlord, and, thankfully, it’s not that Billy Quinn but an old mate of mine. He says it’s in a bit of a mess so he’s not asking too much. You must take it, lass. I’ll help you fix it up, give it a daub of paint and such like. You choose the colours, I’ll wield the brush. You won’t recognise the place once we’ve given it a wash and brush up. Just don’t tell Chris it were my idea, that’s all I ask.’
It was a week or two later and Amy was so excited she couldn’t wait for Chris to come home so she called in at the bakery during his dinner hour, begging him to come with her there and then. ‘There’s something I want to show you. It won’t take long.’
Chris was tempted to refuse, to protest that he’d left some dough proving and must bake several dozen currant teacakes this afternoon, but Amy looked so lovely with her fly-away auburn hair, her patient, loving smile. And she was all round and cuddly with the child she was carrying,
his
child, that he’d really no wish to upset her.
‘Very well then,’ he conceded with a gentle sigh. Yet he felt compelled to put in a reminder that life wasn’t all girlish fancies; that he was a family man now with responsibilities. ‘Make it quick, whatever it was.’
Amy bit back the protest that she too had responsibilities, producing his son or daughter for one thing. It irritated her sometimes the way Chris had started talking to her as if she’d turned deaf, blind and stupid simply because she was pregnant. Sometimes she would do battle with him over this condescending attitude but today she swallowed her pride and hurried him along Champion Street, drawing to a halt on the corner by the pawn shop.
‘Here it is.’ She did a little flourish with her hands, rather as a conjurer might produce a rabbit out of a hat. ‘See, I’ve found us a house to rent. What do you think? Isn’t it wonderful?’ She carefully stuck to her promise that she wouldn’t reveal his father’s part in the deal.
Chris stared at the small terrace house, utterly dumbfounded. Several long seconds ticked by before he spoke. ‘I thought we’d agreed to do nothing about this until after the baby was born?’
‘I changed my mind. A woman’s privilege. A
pregnant
woman’s privilege. Oh, Chris, think of it. Wouldn’t it be marvellous to have our own place? Once this little one is born I’ll be far too busy to have time to move house, and I can’t wait until it’s four, five or six months old. We need a place of our own
now
!’
Chris continued to look doubtful as she fitted the key in the lock and ushered him inside, the scowl on his face deepening.
‘Even supposing we could afford the rent, what with a baby coming an’ all, how could you begin to manage a house in your condition, without Mother’s help? Look what silly things you do. How would I know that you could manage on your own?’
‘I’ll take good care to wash your pink socks separately,’ Amy told him, straight-faced.
The corners of Chris’s mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. ‘It’s not only that. I don’t want you lifting anything heavy, or trying to cope with things you know nothing about. How could I be sure that you’d be sensible and take proper rest of an afternoon? Keeping house might look easy when Mother is around, but she is far more experienced than you, love.’
‘Oh, thanks a bunch. You mean because my own mother’s home is an untidy mess?’ This was undoubtedly true. The Poulson’s abode always looked a complete shambles with clothes and dog hairs scattered about everywhere, but Amy adored her mother and really didn’t like anyone, outside of the family, to criticise Big Molly.
‘I meant nothing of the sort. I’m saying that Mother has the skills, and you don’t.’
‘As a matter of fact your mother has taught me a great deal, for which I’m truly grateful, even if I don’t always care for the way she does it. But having said that, she and I have entirely different ideas about how things should be done. She insists on using only a brush and dustpan to clean the carpet while I’d prefer a vacuum cleaner. She uses hard soap and a scrubbing board for your soiled white baker’s overalls. I’d use Omo. I’d even rather like to buy a washing machine. It’s not a crime to want to be modern. We’re a different generation.’
‘I know, love, but Mother likes things to be done in the traditional way.’
‘Don’t I know it!’ So long as she has someone willing to wield the brush and shovel for her, Amy thought, although didn’t say as much out loud.
According to the gospel of Mavis, cleaning must be done not only in a particular way but also in a certain order. There was a strict daily routine in which the carpet must be swept and the furniture dusted. She maintained windows must be kept closed while this was going on so that the dust didn’t fly around too much, and would scold Amy should she dare to open one to rid the room of stale air.
Then there was the weekly clean which, in addition, required rugs to be hung on the washing line and given a good beating; awkward ledges, picture rails and shelves wiped down with a damp cloth, windows cleaned and last of all, the furniture polished to perfection with bees wax.
Most important of all was the annual spring-clean. This had been carried out only recently, an exhausting task which Amy could well have done without at this stage in her pregnancy. The big carpet rugs had to be rolled up and floorboards scrubbed; curtains taken down and washed, drawers and cupboards emptied, disinfected with a weak solution of bleach and everything put back in a tidy fashion.
And once all of that was done, a fan of newspaper was set into the cleaned fire grate for the summer. No more fires would be allowed until the autumn, no matter how cold or wet it might be as the chimney might belch out soot and smoke and make the room dirty again.
Poor Thomas’s life was a misery while all of this was going on and he would retreat, yet again, to his precious allotment.
Chris was saying, ‘Besides, this place is a mess, a real dump. How could we ever make it decent enough to live in? I don’t have the time and you aren’t fit to do the job.’
‘I’m sure your dad would help. I’ll ask him. We
need
our own
place,’ Amy insisted. ‘I’ve already spoken to the landlord and we
can
afford the rent, simply because the house does need so much work doing to it. But a lick of paint will work wonders. Oh, come on Chris, do say yes. I want us to be in our own home by the time the baby comes.’
‘I know, love, so do I, but ...’
‘No buts!’ Amy kissed him, a sweet, lingering kiss. ‘And we’ll only be at the end of the street so I can still ask your mother for advice, should I need it. Which I’m sure I won’t,’ she hastily added.