Daughter of Mine. Anne Bennett

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      ‘“Only went to the pictures”,’ Flo mimicked. ‘And his father waiting on him at The Bell.’

      ‘He works with his father every day,’ Lizzie answered, and added a little bitterly, ‘Anyway, he’s at The Bell every other night.’

      ‘Oh so that’s your tack, is it,’ Flo said. ‘Stopping a man having a drink after he’s been at work all day.’

      ‘No, but…’

      ‘He’s always enjoyed a drink, like his father before him. Brass workers need to drink. They’re all the same.’

      Flo was right there and not just about brass workers either. The Bell would be full of men most nights, and while the women might moan and nag their men a little, in the main they put up with it.

      Flo was the thorn in Lizzie’s life that her mother had prophesised, coming around and always complaining. She was jealous of the friendship developing between Violet and Lizzie, which meant Lizzie wasn’t depending on her as she’d thought she would be. Lizzie could have told her she’d never have leant on her anyway. She’d rather rely on a viper than her mother-in-law, or muddle through on her own before she’d ask her to do a hand’s turn.

      Flo also constantly complained of Lizzie’s housekeeping skills. Steve’s shirt collars weren’t clean enough, nor stiff enough in her opinion, and her ironing left a lot to be desired. She ran her finger over the mantelpiece and clicked her tongue at the state of the grate, and made disparaging remarks about Lizzie’s cooking. If there was washing on the line she’d sniff her disapproval and say she wasn’t maiding the things well enough and had she boiled up those sheets?

      ‘How do you keep your patience?’ Violet asked her one day.

      ‘Oh she’s just a bag of old wind,’ Lizzie said. ‘And Steve hates me to argue with his mother.’

      That was an understatement. One day, when she’d had an up and downer with Flo, his father was quick to make Steve well aware of it that night at the pub. ‘Your mother was proper put out,’ he said. ‘Your Lizzie really flew at her, she said, and all she did was make a comment, like.’

      Later, a drunken Steve went for Lizzie. He said the last thing he wanted to cope with was arguments between her and his mother. Lizzie had to understand Flo’s position. ‘Can’t you show some consideration? You knew she would be jealous.’

      Lizzie knew she should let Steve rave on, knowing he hated to be criticised, argued with, and especially when he had a load on, but the unfairness of his accusations got to her. ‘Why doesn’t she show me any understanding? She’s always moaning, complaining and finding fault, and I’m sick of it.’

      Steve grasped Lizzie by the arms and shook her as if she was a rag doll, shook her till she felt as if every bone in her body had loosened. ‘She needs to show no consideration for you, you stupid bitch. You respect her because she’s my mother, or I’ll want to know the reason why.’

      Lizzie, shocked to the core and frightened, said not another word but got into bed, and later, while Steve slept, cried herself to sleep.

      The next morning he was contrite when he saw the dark blue and black bruises ringing both arms. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised. ‘I know I was a bit too rough, like, but dad went on and on, and God, she is my mother. I can’t have my wife treating her badly.’

      Lizzie didn’t bother with a reply and kept her arms hidden from Violet and the others. They’d have sympathised, but would be unable to lift a finger to help her. Lizzie had heard of women near killed by violent husbands, and within the bosom of the community, where everyone had been aware of it and those in the house adjoining must have heard every blow, every shuddering scream through those paper-thin walls, and yet none had gone to their aid. So, what price sympathy?

      When Lizzie told Steve she was expecting, she could have done anything to Flo he was that delighted with her. Later, at Phillip’s first birthday party, Lizzie found out Tressa was pregnant again too, both babies due towards the end of May, but Steve seemed to think no one had ever been pregnant before.

      Lizzie was a little annoyed with Mike turning the conversation around to less joyful things, like the Jews who’d marched through London to draw attention to the persecution of their race, which they claimed was happening in Germany.

      ‘What the hell are we supposed to do about it?’ Steve said. ‘Declare war for a handful of Jews, when we’ve not recovered from the last one?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Mike answered. ‘But I don’t like this Hitler. Anyway, I’m getting a wireless, see what is going on in the world.’

      ‘You can, man, you have the electric in.’

      ‘You can get one too,’ Arthur said. ‘Even without electric. You get one with a battery and get an accumulator with it for power, like, and get it charged up every so often. They do it at any garage.’

      ‘I’ll certainly look into it,’ Steve promised. ‘I suppose it’s probably as well to know.’

      Lizzie began having pains just a few days before Christmas and her knickers were stained with blood when she went to the lavatory, so she went for Violet.

      She was in the bed, warmed by the hot-water bottle, when Doctor Taylor arrived, closely followed by a frantic Steve.

      ‘She might be miscarrying,’ Doctor Taylor said, ‘and then again it might be a warning that she’s doing too much. Only time will tell. Call me if you’re worried.’

      Worried! Steve was beside himself. But he needn’t have fretted quite so much for the neighbours were all willing to give Lizzie a hand with things till she was on her feet again, and the doctor was pleased when he called again. ‘It might be better,’ he told Steve, ‘if sexual activity were to cease for a little while. Best to be on the safe side.’

      Steve wanted this child as much as Lizzie, and wanted it, son or daughter, to be born hale and hearty; and yet, ‘God,’ he confided to Stuart, ‘it could be months. I’ll be a raving loony by then.’

      ‘There’s an alternative,’ Stuart told him. ‘Like I’ve said before. You’re often doing the woman a favour.’

      ‘Oh I don’t know, I’ve not been with another woman since…well, for months.’

      A month later, Steve was burning up with frustration. ‘She won’t know owt about it,’ Stuart encouraged. ‘How could she, and how would it hurt her anyroad?’

      ‘You’re right,’ Steve decided. ‘She needn’t know a thing about it.’

      But Lizzie did know, or at least had reasonable doubt, for the odour of cheap perfume lingering around Steve and the smell of cosmetics on the shirt he’d worn were apparent enough. Later, she had further evidence, for she knew the marks on his neck that she saw when he stripped for his wash had nothing to do with her. However, Lizzie was too ashamed to voice her suspicions and far too nervous of Steve to challenge him about it, and so she drew a veil of secrecy over it all.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      Niamh СКАЧАТЬ