Read Online A Better World than This by Marie Joseph - Free Book Online
Authors: Marie Joseph
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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standing here on your own, getting soaked to the bone. If you’re waiting for somebody then he’s not coming. Not at going on for ten o’clock. Best come on with us, eh, Cyril?’
‘Right.’ Cyril relinquished his hold on the umbrella. ‘You two girls share that, I won’t melt.’
‘Off you go, then.’ Daisy knew she was being rude, but the idea of sharing the umbrella with cousin Betty was unthinkable. She had to be alone. She guessed that they knew about Sam and anticipated the questions that would surely come on the walk home. ‘I’m not keeping you,’ she said.
‘Well!’ Taking her husband’s arm, Betty wedged him closer to her side. ‘Suit yourself, Daisy Bell.’
Daisy watched them walk away, Cyril’s baggy trousers flapping wetly round his ankles, Betty’s rubber overshoes making little smacking noises on the wet pavement. Their steps matched as if they were in a three-legged race, and even their backs looked affronted.
Bursting to get home and tell Auntie Edna they’ve seen me standing on the Boulevard at ten o’clock at night, like a potty woman with no hat on, Daisy told herself, waiting until they were well out of sight round the corner by the White Bull.
When she was sure they’d gone she set off herself, the mock-crocodile shoes clenching her toes like viciously held pincers, across the road past Woolworth’s with a window dressed with a fan of gramophone records at one and threepence each. Going the long way round to avoid catching up with Betty and Cyril, past the shops and up a side street with a square-faced chapel at the top. Past terraced houses with aspidistra plants in never-used front parlours, with soft lights behind yellow paper blinds at the upper windows.
The shoes were by now a burning agony, so she took them off and ran the rest of the way, tossing the wet fringe from her eyes, Claudette Colbert running through a field of daffodils, with a blue sky above and the sun warm on her head. Running to meet her lover, a tall man with black wavy hair and a profile to match that of Frederic March in
The Sign of the Cross
.
The lights were on in the house as Daisy slopped her way through the kitchen, making dirty footmarks on the nice clean linoleum. And rising from her mother’s rocking-chair, Auntie Edna, stern and forbidding in a cross-over pinafore with safety-pins pinned to the front, her perm trapped in an invisible hairnet.
She wasn’t in the mood to pull punches, so she came straight out with it:
‘The doctor went an hour back,’ she said, ‘and she’s asleep now, so there’s nowt for you to do, madam.’ She closed her eyes as if she couldn’t bear the sight of her sopping-wet niece. ‘Arnold found her in the bakehouse seeing to the fire. Leaning on the shovel with her face as white as a piece of bleached fent. Trying to do your job while you were out breaking her heart!’
‘The fire didn’t need seeing to!’ Daisy was already half-way to the stairs. ‘I left it damped down, and she knew it. There was no call for her to be in there lifting that heavy shovel.’
At the door of her mother’s room she stopped, her hand going to her throat at the sight of Martha neatly parcelled into bed, her face grey, but her eyes wide open and glittering, as if they were the only thing about her alive.
Down on her knees by the bed Daisy stretched out a hand and gently patted her mother’s face. ‘You had no call, Mammy,’ she said, using the childish word she hadn’t used since she was very small. ‘You’ve never lifted that big shovel before.’ Her voice caught on a sob. ‘Why do it tonight? You knew I’d be back to see to it. Why? Listen to me! Why?’
‘Because I just felt like it, that’s why.’ Martha pushed Daisy’s hand away. ‘Fat lot you care, anyroad.’
‘Yoo-hoo!’
Cousin Betty’s voice spiralled up the stairs and, hovering in the doorway, Edna turned with obvious reluctance.
‘It’s our Betty, bless her. Come to see what she can
‘Right.’ Cyril relinquished his hold on the umbrella. ‘You two girls share that, I won’t melt.’
‘Off you go, then.’ Daisy knew she was being rude, but the idea of sharing the umbrella with cousin Betty was unthinkable. She had to be alone. She guessed that they knew about Sam and anticipated the questions that would surely come on the walk home. ‘I’m not keeping you,’ she said.
‘Well!’ Taking her husband’s arm, Betty wedged him closer to her side. ‘Suit yourself, Daisy Bell.’
Daisy watched them walk away, Cyril’s baggy trousers flapping wetly round his ankles, Betty’s rubber overshoes making little smacking noises on the wet pavement. Their steps matched as if they were in a three-legged race, and even their backs looked affronted.
Bursting to get home and tell Auntie Edna they’ve seen me standing on the Boulevard at ten o’clock at night, like a potty woman with no hat on, Daisy told herself, waiting until they were well out of sight round the corner by the White Bull.
When she was sure they’d gone she set off herself, the mock-crocodile shoes clenching her toes like viciously held pincers, across the road past Woolworth’s with a window dressed with a fan of gramophone records at one and threepence each. Going the long way round to avoid catching up with Betty and Cyril, past the shops and up a side street with a square-faced chapel at the top. Past terraced houses with aspidistra plants in never-used front parlours, with soft lights behind yellow paper blinds at the upper windows.
The shoes were by now a burning agony, so she took them off and ran the rest of the way, tossing the wet fringe from her eyes, Claudette Colbert running through a field of daffodils, with a blue sky above and the sun warm on her head. Running to meet her lover, a tall man with black wavy hair and a profile to match that of Frederic March in
The Sign of the Cross
.
The lights were on in the house as Daisy slopped her way through the kitchen, making dirty footmarks on the nice clean linoleum. And rising from her mother’s rocking-chair, Auntie Edna, stern and forbidding in a cross-over pinafore with safety-pins pinned to the front, her perm trapped in an invisible hairnet.
She wasn’t in the mood to pull punches, so she came straight out with it:
‘The doctor went an hour back,’ she said, ‘and she’s asleep now, so there’s nowt for you to do, madam.’ She closed her eyes as if she couldn’t bear the sight of her sopping-wet niece. ‘Arnold found her in the bakehouse seeing to the fire. Leaning on the shovel with her face as white as a piece of bleached fent. Trying to do your job while you were out breaking her heart!’
‘The fire didn’t need seeing to!’ Daisy was already half-way to the stairs. ‘I left it damped down, and she knew it. There was no call for her to be in there lifting that heavy shovel.’
At the door of her mother’s room she stopped, her hand going to her throat at the sight of Martha neatly parcelled into bed, her face grey, but her eyes wide open and glittering, as if they were the only thing about her alive.
Down on her knees by the bed Daisy stretched out a hand and gently patted her mother’s face. ‘You had no call, Mammy,’ she said, using the childish word she hadn’t used since she was very small. ‘You’ve never lifted that big shovel before.’ Her voice caught on a sob. ‘Why do it tonight? You knew I’d be back to see to it. Why? Listen to me! Why?’
‘Because I just felt like it, that’s why.’ Martha pushed Daisy’s hand away. ‘Fat lot you care, anyroad.’
‘Yoo-hoo!’
Cousin Betty’s voice spiralled up the stairs and, hovering in the doorway, Edna turned with obvious reluctance.
‘It’s our Betty, bless her. Come to see what she can
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