A Hopscotch Summer (4 page)

Molly lay in bed that night, the smelly blanket pulled up to her chin, for once thinking back happily on her day. The look of gratitude on Em’s face as Molly had soothed the burns from the cane against the cool railings had made it one of the best days she could remember. She had done something for Em, and Em had looked pleased and grateful!

Looking up into the darkness she wove dreams about being Em’s friend, how Em and Katie would invite her into all their games without begrudging it or rolling their eyes when she came near. Maybe she could even share a desk with Em instead of sitting on her own. But Em was always with Katie O’Neill, the stuck-up little bitch, wrinkling her nose whenever Molly came near. Molly knew the nicknames the others called her – Moll the Pong, Yellow Drawers, Wee Wee Molly . . . She tried not to notice. Every day she tried to join in, hanging around her classmates and trying to make them like her, until their ganging up and name-calling got too much and she burst out in a temper and yelled at them all. But today Em had smiled at her – actually smiled!

Her reverie was shattered by the sound of the springs of the other bed creaking, and she tensed with dread. Not tonight . . . Oh please, not tonight . . . Molly felt the terrible pulse between her legs, a reflex. She clenched herself, pressing her hand over her private parts to stop it. She couldn’t get out and sit on the bucket now! He was coming, in his thick socks, round the bed, shuffle, shuffle.

Mom had divided the room with a curtain, tied up between two nails. There were only two upstairs rooms in the house and she had to share with
them
.

‘There,’ Iris had said with one of her odd, cruel laughs. ‘There’s your room now – you’ve got a wall between yer!’

Molly’s metal bedstead was tucked in close to the window. On the other side of the curtain, in the big bed, her brother Bert slept top to tail with her grandfather, William Rathbone: Iris’s father and Molly’s tormentor.

She didn’t speak, but he knew she was awake. He always knew. Not that he cared if she was or not when he wanted to do his dirty things. Bert would be listening too; he would say dirty things to her tomorrow, nudging, poking her. All she could do was play dead until it was over.

Screwing her eyes tightly shut, she pulled the blanket in closer, with its reek of stale urine. It was no use doing anything but lie still. He was a strong, heavy man. Whatever she did he’d get his way in the end.

‘Molly?’ His hoarse whisper shattered the quiet, and then his weight sagged onto the bed. The rank smell of him, already pervading the room, grew horribly strong in her nostrils, the combined stenches of stale sweat, unwashed clothes in which he slept, and the snuff which was his solace, his addiction. Or one of them.

‘Molly?’ The voice was stern now. He was a hefty man, sixty-six years old, who prided himself on his youthful looks, his hair only just turning grey. Its blackness was further darkened by grease. His face, though, was lined like an old boot, the mouth curving down cruelly below a bulbous nose and eyes like cold grey stones. Molly had scarcely ever seen William Rathbone smile, and when he did it was usually at something harsh and sadistic.

‘C’mon, wench – let’s be ’aving yer.’ His hand gripped her shoulder and he was leaning over her so that she was enveloped in his stink. Molly screwed her eyes even more tightly shut. Even those times when he had done it in daylight she had tried to lock herself away in the dark, to take herself away in her own head. She had no choice but to wait until it was over, filling her heart with a dull numbness.

But even with her eyes closed she knew exactly what he was doing. It was always the same. With no further preparation he burrowed his hand roughly under the blanket until he could grope up far enough to yank down her bloomers. There was a rip – Mom would tan her for that later. With his other hand he tugged at his buttons to release his thick, purple thing, agitating it up and down, grunting as he worked at it while he jabbed his fingers hard inside her inflamed passage, for all the long time it took him to climax. Dirty words spat out between his lips. At last his fingers stilled and he gave a sputtering gasp, then let out a long, relieved breath.

Soon he was snoring on the other side of the curtain.

Molly lay rigid, both hands pressed on the sore place between her legs once again to quell the burning sensation. Soon the pressure got too much and she started to sit up, dreading the loud spattering sound of her urine in the bucket. It was already too late: she couldn’t hold it. A hot gush came, burning her, making her whimper with the pain. The bed was saturated.

There was nothing to do except curl up in its embracing warmth, comforting for a short while, hoping she might be asleep before the liquid cooled and she was too chilled to settle.

Pulling the blanket close round her again to keep as warm as possible, she turned onto her side and conjured up a picture of Em in Miss Lineham’s class, the cane swishing down onto her hand, then Em by the railings, smiling back at her in wonder. Emma Brown, her friend.

All the Brown children’s hopes of kite-flying came to nothing the next morning. The fine weather broke: they woke to a rainy day.

And Cynthia could not pretend any more.

The baby had been crying on and off in the night. Cynthia had paced the floor, taken her downstairs to hold her, feeling utterly desperate and alone in the dead of night. When daylight came she at last managed a little sleep, and Bob woke first. Muzzy with sleep, he reached for the warmth of his wife beside him and snuggled up to her.

‘Umm – Sat’day,’ he murmured into her neck. ‘That’s nice. No rush. And that’un’s asleep for a change.’

Cynthia stirred and Bob leaned up on his elbow, looking down at her. Her hair curled prettily round her forehead. Often in the mornings it was quite frizzy and she cursed it and damped it down, but he could never see why. He thought it looked lovely. She was lying on her side and where the neck of her nightdress sagged forward he could see the soft, shadowy cleft between her full breasts. He longed to stroke them, fasten his lips on her milky nipples, and becoming aroused he began to stroke her back.

‘There’s my lovely . . .’

Cynthia opened her eyes. She knew he was looking at her, that his honest face would be full of desire, but she didn’t move. Bob pressed on her shoulder, wanting her to roll onto her back as she would normally, reaching round to caress her breasts. She did move onto her back, but there was a deadness, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she was somewhere else, far away.

‘Love, are you there?’ He kissed her lips, then gently eased the nightdress down, exposing her swollen breasts. Gently he began to lick the nearest enlarged nipple. When he stopped for a moment, a jet of milk needled out at his cheek and he chuckled and fastened his mouth back on, tasting the milk’s thin sweetness. He moved to the other breast, its dark nipple seeping in sympathy and sucked, then smiled up at Cynthia, urgently aroused now, needing to be inside her.

‘Mustn’t take the little’un’s breakfast, must I? Let us in, Cynth – I’m burning for yer.’

He was horrified to see that she was weeping, her face contorted in anguish.

‘What’s up with you?’ Hurt, his desire thwarted, he spoke more harshly than he meant to.

‘Don’t,’ she begged, like a frightened child. ‘Don’t get angry with me . . .’

‘It’s all right, love.’ He lay behind her, holding her, still longing to thrust up inside her but knowing he mustn’t, not now. He summoned his patience, trying to quell his desire, and said, ‘What’s the matter? You still feeling poorly?’

This produced a storm of crying, her body shaking in his arms. When she could speak again, she flung out the words, ‘I can’t go on. I don’t know what’s up with me . . . but I can’t stand it, just can’t.’

Bob was completely bewildered and flayed by her emotion. He knew things hadn’t been right, but he could make no sense of this outburst, nor judge what to do.

‘You’re just a bit tired after the babby. It’ll be all right, love. You’ll be right as rain in a few days. Tell you what.’ Inspiration came to him. ‘Look, you have a good rest today, eh? I’ll take the kids out like I was going to and you stay here, have a bit of peace. How’s that?’

Cynthia turned to him, suddenly intense. ‘Take the babby. Take her as well . . .’

‘The babby? But . . .’

‘You’ve got to take her!’ She was wild now, as if terrified, and sat up, pulling the front of her nightdress close to her in a strangely chaste gesture which made Bob feel even more shut out. ‘I’m frightened of her. Don’t leave me with her!’

‘What d’you mean?’ He was utterly lost. ‘She’s only a little babby! What harm can she do?’

‘I’m . . .’ Cynthia’s face crumpled again. ‘I’m afraid of, of . . .
me.
What I might do. I’m not myself!’

‘Oh, love!’ He was half laughing now. ‘What are you on about? You’ve looked after the other three with no mishaps! What’s all this?’

She stared at him, knowing he didn’t understand, had no idea.

‘Look,’ Bob climbed wearily out of bed. She averted her eyes from his aroused state. ‘I’ll get myself dressed and take the kiddies out, right? Now, you can have a rest like I told yer. No working round the house. We’ll soon ’ave yer better, eh?’

It was far too wet to take a trip to the Lickeys. When Sid heard that they wouldn’t be going he roared with disappointment and Joyce burst into tears as well. Em took the news quietly, especially as Mom had not appeared downstairs that morning. The younger ones didn’t really know what was going on, but she knew something was wrong.

‘Pack that in!’ Bob said sharply when the bawling didn’t let up. ‘We’ll go to the Lickeys with the kite another day. Any road, the thing’ll work best if it’s left to dry longer. Yer don’t want it coming apart in midair, do yer, in all the wet? What we’ll do – this afternoon we’ll go down to the park and let your mother have a rest.’

‘What’s the matter with our mom?’ Em whispered to him, solemnly.

‘Oh, the babby had us up and down a lot in the night. She needs to catch up a bit, that’s all.’

‘I’ll stay here,’ Em said.

‘No, Em!’ Sid wailed. ‘You gotta come to the park. Joycie’s no good!’

‘I
am
good!’ Outraged, Joyce went to hit him but he dodged and she knocked her hand on the arm of the chair instead and started wailing all over again.

Em stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Now look what you’ve done, stupid! And I’m staying to help our mom and that’s that!’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Bob shouted, already on his nerves. ‘Shut it, Joycie, that’s enough. You can stay behind if yer want, Em. You can mind the babby and let your mother lie down. There’s a good wench. And I’ll bring you back a lollipop.’

‘I want a lollipop!’ Joyce grizzled.

‘Right, I’ve ’ad enough of the lot of yer!’ Bob reached the end of his patience. ‘Just clear out and play for a bit. I don’t care if it’s raining. You’ll just ’ave to make the best of it!’

The children tumbled out to the wet pavement as ordered. A few minutes later Bob came out and walked through the drizzle to the corner shop for his Woodbines. Once home, he sank into his chair and lit up. He was tired out himself and his shoulders ached. He ought to get Cynthia a bite of breakfast, keep her strength up, but he’d got time for a fag, hadn’t he?

Resting his feet on the fender he sucked in the smoke like a soothing balm. Cynthia being upstairs all morning felt as wrong to him as it did to the kids. The mother was the heart of the house, no doubt about it. But in another way he was relieved. What was he supposed to do or say to the woman when she was in that state? He had no idea. If he just did his best and looked after the kiddies for a bit, she’d come round, he told himself. Things’d get back to normal, and the sooner the better so far as he was concerned.

Em sat on her dad’s chair by the range, feeling very grown up. They’d had a bite of dinner and the others had gone out to the park with the tall slippery slide that Sid loved to go whizzing down.

‘You’re going to get a wet arse,’ Bob told him. ‘But never mind. Come on, get moving!’

Violet had had a feed and was asleep in Em’s arms. Mom had said to put her on the floor on a blanket but Em couldn’t resist holding her, looking down at her face, twitching in sleep, at the tiny pink marks on her eyelids and her astonishing little ears and nostrils. Em had adored Joyce from the moment she arrived. She’d been her baby, her playmate ever since. And she felt very loving to Violet too, but she wished her new sister hadn’t made Mom so poorly.

‘Never mind, Violet. T’ain’t your fault. I s’pect our mom’ll get better soon,’ she said, enjoying the milky baby smell, warm in her nostrils.

After a while her arms grew tired and she laid Violet carefully on the soft bed she had made on the floor. Now what should she do? She had her drawing, and she thought about cleaning up, the way Mom did, as she was the one grown-up and in charge today. But she couldn’t seem to think how to get going on that.

Quite soon she felt lonely, and decided to go and check if her mother was asleep. If she wasn’t, maybe she’d let Em cuddle up beside her on the bed, the blissful way she used to when Em was little, before the time came when there was always another babby in the way and no room for her. If Violet stayed asleep, Em thought, she could just curl up with mom until the others got back.

She tiptoed upstairs, her bare feet silent on the threadbare runner of carpet, once dark green, now an indeterminate sludge colour. Halfway up she stopped, hearing the creak of bedsprings, and realized, excited, that Cynthia was not asleep. She could go to Mom, who would smile and open her arms and say, ‘Come on – you can get up here, young lady!’

The shock hit her in the pit of her stomach. Peeping round the bedroom door, she saw Cynthia sitting up in bed, head in her hands, rocking back and forth. The saddest, most desolate mewling issued from her, like an injured cat Em once saw hit by a dray on the horse road. The noise went on and on, and its inhuman strangeness made her mother seem like someone else.

Em’s legs turned weak and she crept back down the stairs, trying to block out of her mind what she had seen and heard. She prayed Violet wouldn’t wake up and as the baby had been on the go such a lot in the night she did settle in for a long nap. Em sat at the table with her pieces of paper, drawing all her favourite things, cats and puppies and the baby horse she once saw just after it was born in the stable over on the other side of the gas works. Horses were so hard to draw. She didn’t want to go upstairs again. She wanted Dad and the others to come back. It crossed her mind to run to Dot’s, or across to Mrs Button, but she didn’t want to leave Violet, or wake her by moving her.

Eventually, when the others were still not back, Violet did wake. Full of dread, Em carried her upstairs, daring herself to look into the bedroom, but to her relief Cynthia was lying quietly now, though not asleep.

‘I think she wants her milk, Mom,’ Em suggested.

Cynthia turned on her side as if her limbs were almost too heavy to move. Her face looked puffy and strange and her nightdress fell open at the front.

‘Give her here,’ she commanded, in a lifeless voice.

Em perched timidly on the bed as her mother lay with the baby at her breast.

‘Good girl, Em,’ Cynthia said, but the words seemed to cost her a great effort.

A few moments later they heard the door open downstairs and the others come in. Normally there would be squeaks of excitement, or quarrels, but it was strangely quiet as if they had been warned not to wake their mother. She heard Bob say something, then his feet on the stairs. Somewhere in her mind she already knew something was wrong by the quiet and the way he was walking: heavily, not calling out.

And then he was standing in the doorway, pale and aghast, his features sucked in tight.

‘It’s . . .’ he began. For a second he seemed about to weep but caught himself. ‘It’s Joyce. We were down the park and I bought ’em an ice cream. They were playing and . . . I was only talking to John Fowler, he was passing, like, and I turned round and she weren’t there – weren’t nowhere. We searched high and low. We’ve been round and round everywhere, but . . . our Joycie’s disappeared.’