Cross My Heart and Hope to Die Read online

  We settled down at last, with Brenda telling Mum how wonderful it was to have plenty of work at the turkey factory, and to have a telephone and a car. ‘Ray drives me to Saintsbury on Saturday mornings when he’s not working, and first off I take the washing to the launderette.’

  ‘I thought you’d got a washing-machine?’ said Mum.

  ‘So I have, but the launderette’s better for towels and bed-linen, everything comes out lovely and dry. None of that old-fashioned nuisance of drying your sheets on a clothes-horse in front of the fire.’

  ‘Did’oo want a bit more eggy then?’ said Mum to Samantha. ‘Well, there’s a good little girl.’

  ‘And then we go to the supermarket,’ Brenda went on, ‘and do the week’s shopping. Hundreds of bargains, you save no end. And we can park just round the back. No trouble at all, with a car.’

  ‘Eaten it all up? Well, there is a good girl,’ Mum said. ‘Sorry, Bren, what did you say? I wasn’t listening.’

  The men didn’t say a word to each other. I tried to get them started by enquiring about the football match they’d been watching, but Dad said it wasn’t bad and Ray said it was bloody terrible, and that was the end of that conversation. I stacked up the empty fruit dishes, climbed out over the back of Lyndon’s chair, took away the dishes and refilled the teapot while I was at it.

  ‘Janet’s quiet,’ said Brenda to Mum when I came back.

  I offered her another cup of tea. She refused, but her husband passed his empty cup.

  ‘Janet’s going to college, Ray.’

  ‘Oh ar. Going to join the layabouts, then?’

  Dad defended me. ‘Janet works very hard.’

  ‘And she’s a big help in the house,’ said Mum.

  ‘I should think so,’ said Brenda. ‘After all, you’re feeding and clothing her for nothing. I don’t know how you manage it.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have a county grant when she goes to college, and they pay her fares and books and dinner money while she’s at school,’ said Mum. ‘And she’s sensible, she doesn’t bother us for fancy clothes and make-up and things.’

  Brenda’s lipsticked mouth was thin with disapproval. ‘Funny way of going on at her age.’

  ‘What about your cream cakes?’ I said to the boys, offering them the plate.

  ‘I’m not having that one,’ said Lyndon disdainfully. ‘It’s got a finger-hole in it.’

  Darren shifted a mouthful of bread and jam to one cheek. ‘Well, you needn’t think I’m going to have it, you dirty little sod.’

  Ray reached across the table and smacked the side of Darren’s head. He bawled, and Lyndon howled in sympathy.

  ‘You bad boy, using such language,’ cried Brenda. ‘I don’t know where he gets it from,’ she assured Mum.

  ‘Too much bleedin’telly,’ growled Ray. ‘Shut up, the pair of you, or I’ll give you something to yell about.’

  The boys subsided into snuffles, which didn’t stop them from eating their way through the fancy cakes. Dad made a heroic attempt to talk to Ray about football.

  ‘D’you follow Yarchester?’ he asked.

  Ray laughed derisively. ‘Yarchester! I wouldn’t be paid to watch ’em, prancing round the ball like a lot of bloody nancy-boys –’

  ‘Ray!’

  ‘Well!’

  ‘No offence,’ said Brenda, placating us as though it was unusual for Ray to swear. She went back to her previous subject: me. ‘So what’s Janet going to be when she leaves college, Bet?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mum cautiously, ‘I don’t know as she’s going to be anything.’

  ‘’Cept a BA,’ said Dad proudly.

  They were all looking at me again. Samantha wriggled off Mum’s knee and held out her arms to me. I’m not much interested in small children but she was a sweet little thing, a miniature girl, with a blue ribbon in her hair and tiers of matching nylon frills on the broad seat of her plastic pants. I picked her up and chatted to her, trying to ignore what was being said about me.

  ‘What job’s she going to do, though?’

  Mum and Dad looked at me uncertainly and I tried to defend myself. ‘There are all sorts of jobs,’ I said. ‘Well … journalism. Publishing …’

  ‘Ah, but you’re not actually going to train for anything, are you?’ said Brenda. ‘Now that’s what I don’t hold with. I say nothing against going to college if you’re going to train for a teacher, but going when you don’t rightly know what you’re going for is daft, if you ask me.’

  Ray choked indignantly on a fish-paste sandwich. ‘It’s not daft,’ he cried, ‘it’s bloody criminal. Who pays for students, I’d like to know? Us working men, that’s who. What I pay in tax is terrible, and all to keep that long-haired lot in idleness! Marvellous, i’n it, when you can rely on other people to pay for your grown-up kids to do nothing!’

  Dad was a fuming red under his ginger hair, obviously longing to say something but not knowing what. I hugged the little girl, wretchedly conscious that Ray had a point, and having no more idea than Dad how to answer it. Then I remembered a game that Dad used to play with me when I was little, and I tried it on Samantha. I opened her small paw, wondering at the completeness of it, fingernails and all, and traced round it with my forefinger.

  ‘Round and round the gar-den, like a ted-dy bear …’

  ‘But what I mean is,’ went on Brenda, raising her voice above mine, ‘you’ve been keeping yourselves poor for her. If she was out earning, you could live a lot more comfortable than this. And she’ll think no more of you for it, you mark my words!’

  ‘… one step –’ I tickled Samantha’s creased wrist. ‘Two steps –’ I tickled the inside of her elbow …

  ‘And what good will it all come to? She’ll be married before you know where you are –’ Brenda looked me up and down ‘– and if she don’t get married she’ll leave home, so either way you’ll get nothing out of her. You’re just wasting your money.’

  ‘… tickle her under there!’ I scrabbled Samantha’s woolly cardigan in the approximate region of her armpit and she wriggled with pleasure. ‘’Gen,’ she said, ‘’gen.’

  Dad was so furious that he went white. His voice rose almost to a squeak. ‘I work to earn my money and I shall do as I like with it! Janet deserves the chance to better herself, and I’m going to support her all the way.’

  Ray shrugged, draining his teacup and lighting a cigarette. ‘Well, you suit yourself, but I reckon you’re a bloody fool. It’s not even as if she’s –’

  A pointed shoe stabbed me on the side of the foot, just where the hockey ball had hit me, and I yelped with the sudden pain.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Janet,’ said Brenda. ‘Me foot slipped.’

  Dad stood up, breathing quickly. ‘If you’ve quite finished,’ he said, ‘excuse me.’

  He and Ray looked at each other, and you couldn’t tell who despised the other most. Ray got up slowly and moved his chair out of the way, and Dad flounced out and slammed the back door behind him. Samantha slid off my knee, the boys began playing bears with her under the table, and Ray said it was time they got on their way and he’d go out and turn the car round.

  ‘You must all come and see us as soon as you can, Bet,’ said Brenda, fiddling about with her compact and lipstick. ‘You know we’d be pleased to have you. Only let us know in advance, else we might be out in the car.’

  I carried Samantha out to the lav, with the boys following. The path was illuminated by an outside light over the kitchen door, and I could see Dad leaning moodily against the rabbit hutches. ‘They’re just going,’ I whispered to him while I waited for the boys, but he didn’t answer.

  ‘Well,’ Mum was saying when I got back to the house, ‘it’s been lovely to see you all. A real nice surprise.’ She wrapped a dozen new-laid eggs in individual nests of newspaper and put them in an old carboard box. Brenda protested, but not too much. ‘They’re lovely, Bet, I do miss a nice fresh egg. And we enjoyed our teas, I hope we didn’t put you about too muc
h.’

  I carried Samantha out to the car, flourishing a torch to light the way for the boys. Ray wound down the driver’s window. ‘Sorry, Janet,’ he mumbled. ‘Didn’t mean to be personal. All the best, eh?’

  I gave Samantha a big hug before handing her over to her mother. Brenda brushed my cheek with hers and pushed two coins into my hand. ‘I know you’re grown up, Janet, but I daresay you can spend it. Thanks for looking after the children, Samantha’s taken quite a fancy to you. Hope you get on all right at college. It’ll be nice to have a BA in the family, we shall be real proud of you.’

  Mum and I stood at the gate to watch the lights of the car disappear down the lane. ‘You little devil,’ she said with vexation, though she was signalling affectionate farewells with the torch, ‘you little devil, our Bren,’ and I thought it would be tactless of me to mention Brenda’s present of four bob.

  Chapter Ten

  We had a good row after they’d gone.

  Dad said what he thought about Mum’s relations, and she said what she thought about his mother, and I said I was sick to death of being got at. They agreed that they should never have married, and I pointed out that I hadn’t asked to be born. Mum said she’d clear off and leave us, and Dad said if anyone cleared off it would be him, and I said I’d leave school and get a job in town and they could do what they liked. Mum cried with tiredness and vexation, and I sulked with bad temper, and Dad said he hated women anyway and stamped out to brood over the rabbits.

  ‘Let’s clear this lot away and have a cup of tea,’ said Mum, drying her eyes. So we washed up together and agreed that at least we shouldn’t see any more of Brenda and her family for another year, but that Samantha was a dear little girl. Then Mum made the tea and Dad sloped in and we finished off the swiss roll and spent a nice quiet evening, Mum knitting, Dad reading, me reading, and all of us watching the telly.

  We had to get up early on Sunday to catch up with the jobs we should have done on Saturday afternoon, including the remainder of the washing. Mum’s dream of luxury is a washing-machine. She’s saving for a twin tub with a spin-dryer, like Brenda’s, but until she gets it she still has to do the washing by hand. At least she’s got an electric boiler now, though, so she doesn’t have to heat the water in the old copper. And it was a good blowy day, ideal for drying.

  While Dad carried water to fill the boiler, Mum began collecting dirty clothes together. She gave me a searching look as I stood at the sink washing up, and I knew why. There are times when she regards me simply in terms of potential dirty washing.

  ‘What shall you wear this afternoon?’

  ‘My best, of course.’

  ‘I thought you might be wearing your school uniform, seeing as how you’re going out with a teacher.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake …’

  ‘I could wash that blouse if you took it off.’

  ‘I can’t wear just the sweater, it scratches.’

  ‘Well, if I’m spending Sunday morning slaving over the wash, I’m not having you filling up the basket again directly after dinner. Give it here.’

  We’d quarrelled enough for one weekend, so I sacrificed the blouse and itched for the rest of the morning.

  While Mum got on with the washing, I carried the living-room mats out to the garden fence and brushed them in a cloud of dust, then swept the floor and gave the lino a bit of a polish for luck. Dad had the nastiest job, scrubbing out the lavatory and digging a hole in the garden for the contents of the bucket. The youngest Crackjaw kids stood on the other side of the fence goggling at him. Their lav hasn’t been scrubbed out in living memory.

  By eleven, we were glad to sit down for five minutes. I’ve tried to persuade Mum to buy Nescafé, but it’s not just that it’s more expensive, she really prefers bottled Camp coffee essence mixed with hot water and evaporated milk.

  ‘What shall you spend your money on, Janet?’ asked Dad as we drank the gluey mixture.

  I gave him a quick look, wondering how he knew about Brenda’s four bob. But then I remembered the two pounds Miss Massingham had given me. ‘Clothes,’ I said promptly, feeling rich and happy.

  That interested him immediately. He liked clothes, and though he hardly ever bought anything new unless it was essential he was always very particular about his appearance. He polished his shoes every day, and wore a fresh shirt for work three times a week, and regularly sponged and pressed his suit. Mum sometimes called him an old woman, but I was thankful my Dad was like that. It would be disgusting to have someone as slovenly as Ziggy Crackjaw for a father.

  ‘Have you saved enough for your boots yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘What sort shall you get?’

  I recalled the enviable boots Mrs Bloomfield had been wearing. ‘Tan suede,’ I said. ‘With about a two-inch heel.’

  ‘Very smart.’ He thought about it as he drained his cup. ‘Though I prefer the look of the soft black leather ones, meself.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mum, ‘I don’t know why you want to go spending pounds and pounds on them fancy boots, when you’ve got a perfectly good pair of wellies.’

  You just can’t talk to her, she’s got about as much clothes-sense as the hens.

  We had a hen for dinner that day. If I’d had any occasion to mention it at school afterwards I’d have said we’d had chicken for lunch; I’d learned the idiom. But what we actually had was an old hen, boiled, for our dinner. Mum had killed it on Friday night and plucked and drawn it before she went to bed on Saturday.

  ‘Which one’s this?’ said Dad, inspecting a yellowish forkful.

  ‘The Old Rhode Island. She was a good layer in her time, but there, no use feeling sorry for fowls. She eats all right, anyway.’

  After I’d helped Mum wash up, I gave the bowl a thorough going-over with Vim, poured out a kettleful of hot water, undressed and had a good wash. Then I put on my raincoat for decency and went through the living-room and upstairs to change.

  My best wasn’t exactly sensational, just a newish skirt and a non-itch sweater. I didn’t need Mum to tell me that with over a mile to bike down to the village in all weathers, it was no use hankering after flimsy clothes. Biking doesn’t do tights much good either, but I put on a new pair regardless.

  I brushed my hair and looked at my face. It was depressingly round and healthy, no character there at all. I’d recently bought a pair of false eyelashes from Woollies for a giggle, but when I finally got them fixed I looked just like a cow, so I pulled them off and did what I could with eyeliner. Finally I put on the dark green poncho that Mum and I had made from a cut-out-and-ready-to-sew offer in her magazine. My school shoes spoiled the effect, it really needed boots, but when I went downstairs Dad looked up from the week’s supply of shirts he was ironing and said affectionately, ‘You do look nice, our Janet. Hope you have a lovely time.’

  Mum, having her feet-up Sunday afternoon treat, kept her eyes on the old film on the telly. She shifted a boiled sweet to the side of her mouth and what she said was, ‘Have you got a clean hanky?’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’

  ‘And have you remembered your money this time? Mind how you behave, then, and don’t miss the last bus.’

  Joe Willis was driving. I was quite surprised to see him on a Sunday, and evidently he was surprised to see me. ‘Well, well,’ he said, looking quite impressed as he took my fare. ‘Hardly recognized you, all dressed up. Going to meet your boy-friend?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Joe winked. ‘Tell him not to do anything I wouldn’t – that’ll give him plenty of scope!’

  I blushed, thinking that chance would be a fine thing. As the bus toured the villages, gradually filling with families who looked as though they were going to Sunday tea with relations in Breckham Market, I longed for an unattached man to come and sit next to me and start a conversation. I’d been hoping that for years, in buses and coffee bars and the public library, but it never happened. There seemed to be a severe shortage of unatt
ached men in my part of Suffolk. Roll on university, and a start to living.

  The bus arrived in town just before four, as it was getting dark. There was an hour to fill before I could present myself at Mrs Bloomfield’s, and nowhere to go on a Sunday except for a walk. To begin with, I went through the market place, down Bridge Street, and along the riverside to check discreetly where she lived. Then I circled back to the town centre, intending to look at the lighted shops, but the cold wind funnelled through the streets and up my poncho and round the seat of my tights. I had to walk fast to keep warm, so to kill time I had to go further than I’d intended. The main Yarchester road was well-lighted so I stepped briskly out along it, past the police headquarters and the library and on towards the new by-pass.

  The wind was making my eyes water. I was also beginning to feel nervous about going to tea with Mrs Bloomfield, and then meeting her friends. I wanted to make a good adult impression, cool and confident, but I had no idea what to talk about and I was afraid that I might come out with some stupid Mum-type remark. Nervousness made my nose feel runny, and I stopped in the shelter of a garden hedge and opened my shoulder bag to find my hanky.

  It wasn’t there. I searched the bag, but I hadn’t got one. I’d snapped at Mum for treating me as though I were a kid by asking if I had a clean hanky, but suddenly I knew perfectly well that I hadn’t brought a hanky of any description. I’d been using one of Mum’s waste-not-want-not pieces of old sheet that morning, and I’d thrown it on the fire before I had my wash, intending to take a proper hanky from my bedroom drawer. But, like a fool, I’d forgotten.

  Turning my back on the street I opened my poncho and searched my clothes, hoping to discover a secret pocket where Mum might have thoughtfully planted an emergency hanky. No such luck. My nose definitely began to run, and sniffing only made it worse. Going to Mrs Bloomfield’s suddenly turned into an ordeal. Fine and cool I’d look, with a running nose and a sniff. The evening was ruined in advance.