Kissing Alice Page 12

  A few months after the wedding, at the low tide of late summer, Florrie called by with one of these letters. Alice answered the door.

  ‘Oh Ally,’ said Florrie, the sheets flapping in her hand. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  Alice glanced at the paper. ‘Another one?’ She knew Florrie and her mother read Eddie’s letters together. She had heard scraps of them drifting along the corridor to her room.

  Florrie nodded. ‘It’s a long one. And—’

  ‘Ma’s out,’ said Alice, but she was not abrupt. It was as though she were waiting for something.

  Florrie was quiet.

  ‘We could read it,’ Alice offered, ‘if you like. I could help.’

  Mary had seen her sister coming up the street and now bounced in the doorway behind Alice.

  ‘Can I, Flor? Can I read?’

  ‘Not now, Mary. It’s not for you,’ Alice said sharply. ‘You’re too young.’

  Florrie watched Mary’s pleasure collapse. ‘Perhaps another time,’ she said. ‘Get us some tea – that would be better.’

  Mary scraped her knuckles against the wall. She kicked at something, a mark on the skirting board or an unswept pebble, glaring at her sisters, wanting to matter. But Florrie and Alice didn’t see her. Florrie was steadying the first page of Eddie’s letter against the doorframe and they were both bent over it, beginning to read. Mary spat at the floor and ground the bubbles of phlegm into the boards with her bare heel. For a long time she stood in the shadow of the corridor, watching her sisters.

  They did not move inside. They stayed on the step where the light was good and where there was a view of things beyond, the bright-doored houses and the flat water and the wheeling gulls. The letter was long and dull and they began slowly at first, too aware of each other to concentrate. But they had been close before, many times over many years, and soon it felt ordinary. They read more fluently. Alice helped unpick the difficult words. And with the sun warm on their faces, and the bracing smell of rhubarb drifting from next door’s kitchen, they found their hair touching as it fell across their shoulders, their hands brushing aside the pages together. They laughed at Eddie’s pompous empty phrases, full and loudly and long, until their stomachs cramped with the effort, and, breathless, Alice had to lean on her sister for support.

  ‘He’s a bit puffed with himself, Flor,’ breathed Alice. ‘It’s nonsense, this stuff that he writes.’

  Florrie nodded and took her sister’s arm conspiratorially. ‘Yeah, but Ally, he’s good in bed, you know.’

  And they looked at each other for a moment, unsure, and then Florrie winked, and then they laughed again, together, raucous.

  After the letter, they went for a walk, taking the hill steadily arm in arm. Mary, who was finally setting out the tea things for them inside, heard the sudden quiet and went to the door to look for them. She sat on the empty doorstep, her feet tucked hard under her, and watched, but all she saw was Queenie May, struggling from the other direction with a heavy bag of shopping.

  ‘Give us a hand then, my girl,’ called her mother, when she was still near the end of the street. But Mary slunk away so that Queenie May was short with her later, slapping her around the legs for bringing mud into the house on her shoes, and refusing her a slice of bread. Waiting for Alice and Florrie, they could not settle. Queenie May could not bear the chatter of the wireless, and turned it off. She dropped a cup as she was washing up. Its handle sheared off cleanly leaving two short stumps and Mary dried it without comment, stacking it with the others on the shelf.

  When Florrie and Alice finally got back, they were hot and weary. Queenie May heard them, their voices high and clear in the twilight. She began unstringing her apron to greet Florrie but it was Alice, alone, who came into the house, puffing only slightly, red-faced, her eyes glossy, and wanting to talk about the book.

  ‘She says she doesn’t have it,’ she said, peaceably enough. ‘Florrie says she never got it. She didn’t take it. She hasn’t read it, what I wrote. But she won’t want it. Not now. I should have it back.’

  Mary was at the kitchen door, still holding the tea towel. Nobody noticed her. She could see her mother shaking.

  ‘You can’t take it back. It was a present,’ Queenie May pointed out.

  ‘But still.’

  ‘But still nothing, my girl.’ Queenie May’s voice rose. ‘It was a present, Ally, a wedding present. For Florrie and Eddie. And that’s that. You can’t just say you’ll have it back.’

  ‘But you haven’t even given it to them, Ma,’ said Alice. ‘Florrie told me; she didn’t take it. She thought I meant something else, so she didn’t take it. But we’ve talked now and—’

  Queenie May couldn’t let her finish. ‘I haven’t given it to them – yet – because of the fuss. But I will give it them, when Eddie comes back. They should have it.’

  She spoke fiercely. Alice backed away, wondering, and made herself speak quietly, dispassionately, to show her mother how right her case was.

  ‘I wrote something in it, though, Ma, and Florrie doesn’t need to see that now. It would muddle things again. Give it me back and I’ll make it right. It’s mine after all, not yours. Da left it to me.’

  Perhaps, without bringing Arthur into it, Alice could have had the book back. But Queenie May shrank from the triumph she thought she heard ringing in her daughter’s voice, the confirmation of Alice’s continuing victory, and with a hiccuped yelp she turned away into the back of the house. Alice listened to the tap dripping in the kitchen, and saw Mary then, watching from the door.

  ‘What do you want?’ Alice spat, suddenly sharp.

  Mary twisted the tea towel and shrugged. ‘I’ve seen the book,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen what you wrote.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ said Alice.

  ‘’Tis so.’

  Alice was not interested. ‘Yes, and how’s that then?’

  ‘Because,’ said Mary, defiant. Then she thought of it. ‘Because you can’t have secrets like that in families.’

  ‘It’s not a secret,’ said Alice. ‘It’s just between me and Florrie, that’s all. And it’s nothing to do with you. You were too young.’ She took the tea towel from Mary and held it up to the light to show where holes had been torn in the linen. ‘It’s falling abroad. You should mend it,’ she said.

  Mary sank back into the kitchen. When she was out of sight, she put her fingers and then her hand into one of the holes, tearing it wider. The tea towel hung limp. She threw it on to the back of a chair.

  Left alone, Alice went to the window to look across in the direction of Florrie’s house. It was a beautiful evening, a slip of moon rising low and the flush of the day still strong. She noticed these things with a shock, as though they were new. There was a reflection in the window, of a girl, bright-eyed and hopeful. It was not her. The reflected girl wore her hair differently, closer cut and pale; she had long lashes and a nose that ran slightly crooked. There was something familiar about her, but that was all. Alice pressed her forehead to the cool glass and the reflection disappeared. Then, without saying a word to her mother or Mary, she took a light headscarf from the table and let herself out into the soft air and the low-voiced rattle of the evening streets, walking away towards the sea.

  When Alice had been gone almost a week, Queenie May stopped expecting her back. She stood by the open drawer of the flimsy bedroom chest, linen scattered around her, looped over handles and strewn on the floor, and the shimmer of dusk making the room uncertain. She had unwrapped Arthur’s book and was holding it in her hands. She felt quite calm. No real thoughts would come to her, just a thick swirl of sounds like the muffled voices of the wireless, scraps of words, unsteady tones, and the everlasting hum that was Arthur.

  Standing quite still, she opened the book. The lie of the pages seemed to direct her towards the back, but she bent it more forcefully towards the middle instead, hearing the growl of the binding as she pulled the covers apart, a small animal moan. Perhaps it was
this, or something about the flesh of the leather or the resistance of the stitching as she pushed the pages open, but whatever it was, Queenie May did not fulfil her intention of sitting quietly to try to trace something from the unfathomable words and dark pictures. She did not even sit down. Instead, with the whimper of a sigh, she took the thick paper in her hands and tore it. And when one page was shredded, she took the next and then the next, not looking at what she was doing but gazing out at a point somewhere on the grubby bedroom wall, listening only to the remarkably quiet sound of the book being destroyed.

  Nothing of Arthur came to Queenie May as she ripped the pages, not the slightest scent of him, and very soon there was exhaustion in the way she stood there. The book clung to itself, the paper heavy and unyielding, the binding still tight. So when Mary found her mother in a sea of paper scraps and trampled linen, the weight of the volume in Queenie May’s still shaking hands was not greatly diminished, and only the sag of Queenie May’s shoulders proved how great the loss had been.

  Mary looked at the back of her mother for some time before deciding to intervene. When she did step forward she was wary.

  ‘Ma, what are you doing? What are you doing to Ally’s book?’

  Queenie May shook her head sharply, as if to dismiss the shrill voice. She did not turn around.

  ‘Ma!’

  Eventually Mary had to touch her, feeling the sting of nylon from her mother’s housecoat. Queenie May spoke quietly then. ‘I just thought it was better this way. We don’t need it.’

  Mary picked up some of the scraps at her feet, ragged jigsaws of bright colours, spoilt words suspended. She turned the pieces over in her hands. ‘You’ve made a proper mess, Ma.’

  Queenie May handed her what was left of the book. ‘You take it, Mary. It’s best. Clear up for me, my love.’

  Mary held the book lightly. She did not reply. Queenie May felt angry for the first time. ‘Mary. Do as you’re told. Take it away, out of my sight. Get a broom, girl.’

  She stepped out of the debris, brushing herself down, scraps of paper floating from her. The colour grew in Mary’s cheeks.

  ‘Before Alice comes and there’s a row,’ said Queenie May, more quietly.

  Mary held tighter to the book. ‘Ally’ll not come, not now,’ she said. ‘She’s gone off somewhere, I warrant. Gone off with a man.’

  ‘Mary, how can you say that? That’s wicked my girl. You don’t know anything.’

  This stung Mary even more. ‘I do, I do, I know everything,’ she lied. ‘She’ll have taken him away, so they can do things. She’ll never come back. And you’ll not want her back. Not now.’

  ‘Taken who away? Mary, what are you talking about?’

  ‘The man. The man she’s with.’

  Queenie May lunged at her daughter, her arms out, wanting to shake her. But she spoke slowly. ‘What man? Mary Craythorne, if you know anything, my girl, anything at all…’

  The sudden solemnity frightened Mary. She wished she hadn’t started it and stepped away, out of reach, her eyes fixed on the cover of the book.

  ‘I just thought…’

  ‘Have you heard anything, Mary? Has anyone said anything? Anything at all?’

  Mary, still not looking at her mother, shook her head. But Queenie May felt there was something there and pressed her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, my love, if it’s not nice. If it’s rude. It doesn’t matter. You just need to tell me what they say.’

  Mary wished she had left her mother to rip the book. She shook her head again, and a tear dropped on to the leather binding, splaying. ‘There’ll just be the two of us, won’t there, now,’ she said. ‘Just together, me and you, Ma.’ She looked up. ‘And we’ll have the house to ourselves and the money from your wages, and then…’

  ‘You must tell me, Mary. This man? Who is this man?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But there is a man, my girl? That’s what they’re saying?’

  ‘Ma, I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  ‘Mary, please. Did she go away with a man?’

  Mary heard the baffling plea, and felt she could not disappoint her mother even if it meant making up her sister’s shame.

  ‘I think she did,’ she said, at last.

  Queenie May sighed and nodded a long succession of tiny nods. ‘Take the book,’ she said flatly. ‘We’ll tidy round.’

  ‘I’ll ditch it,’ said Mary, bright now. ‘I’ll put it in the big bins behind the shops.’

  But her mother surprised her again, squealing, trying to snatch the book back with unexpected energy. ‘No, don’t, Mary. Mary, you can’t. Give it to me. Give me the book.’

  Mary spun around, eluding her grasp. They stood for a moment unresolved, sculptural. Queenie May had her hands outstretched towards her daughter and Mary, sideways to her, was lifting the book high, out of reach, her hands trembling with the weight of it and the anger of not understanding. There was a silence.

  ‘It’s not worth keeping, Ma, is it?’ tested Mary. ‘You should ditch it.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Queenie May.

  ‘Why though? Why bother so much? It’s an old thing.’

  There was no reply. Mary let her sore arms drop, but kept a grip on the book.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘It’s special, that’s all, Mary. You wouldn’t understand. Your father… You were very young.’

  ‘Is it a secret?’

  ‘No, Mary, it’s not a secret. It’s just, I don’t know, my girl, sometimes some things are special, that’s all. And Ally likes it, the book. It’s hers.’

  Mary flipped the front cover of the book and held it out towards Queenie May, open at the page on which Alice had written the dedication tight into the paper. ‘You’ve seen this? You’ve seen what she’s written?’

  Queenie May pulled her daughter to her with stiff hands, and Mary yelped in protest. ‘Ally?’ said Queenie May. ‘To who? Who’s she writing to?’

  Mary took time before replying. Her mother’s grasp was tight on her arms and she wriggled. The book, between them, jabbed its sharp edges against her chest. She could not think of anything to say; her invention failed her. But then the answer came to her naturally, as though right.

  ‘To Eddie,’ she said. ‘She’s written to Eddie.’ She thought of something else. ‘A love letter, Ma.’

  ‘Let me see. Show me.’

  Queenie May took the book in her hands again, and looked hard at what was written there, but could make out nothing, not even the names. She nodded though, all the same.

  ‘Read it to me, Mary. Read it out,’ she said, but then, instantly, knowing she could not hear it and seeing Mary’s reluctance she said, ‘no, it’s all right, my girl. I don’t want to hear.’

  There was a moment’s quiet.

  ‘She’s written to Eddie,’ said Queenie May, certain.

  Mary knew there was no going back. Her mother’s face tightened around the eyes, the colour draining from her. She nodded. ‘We shouldn’t let them know we’ve read it though, Ma.’

  Queenie May glanced at the scraps around her.

  Mary spoke quickly, firm. ‘We’ll clear up everything, all the pieces, and then we’ll ditch it. I’ll get the dustpan.’

  While she was gone, Queenie May looked again at what Alice had written. ‘Oh, Ally. Oh, Ally,’ she said, out loud, because it was a relief. ‘Oh, Arthur.’

  And she turned the pages that were left, carefully, seeing mothers reaching out to hold their children, babies held high on strong shoulders, rows of heads bent in prayer and words entwined like blessings with the infinite blue of summer skies.

  They worked hard to sweep up every piece of paper, even those that had floated under the furniture. For good measure, Queenie May ironed and folded all the linen that had been disturbed in the drawer. It took her several hours and it was dark by the time she finished. Mary had gone to bed. She was alone in the kitchen and the book was on the table beside her. Even though the hous
e was quiet she looked around her before opening it again. She went straight to the page on which Alice had written and she looked at it by the pale light. She sat for many hours wondering about the words Alice might have used. When Mary woke, she immediately missed the weight of her mother beside her and padded into the kitchen, feeling the cold on her bare feet. Queenie May was sitting at the table, yawning, flickering golden in the low dawn sunlight. The book was beside her, re-wrapped in its wedding paper.

  Queenie May spoke without looking around. Her voice was steady. ‘I didn’t know there was a letter,’ she said. ‘When I broke the book, I didn’t know there was a letter. I didn’t know anything like that. I thought it was still like it was when your father gave it to her.’

  Mary yawned. ‘But you’re going to ditch it, Ma? You’re going to let me get rid of it?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Queenie May.

  When Eddie got his first period of leave it was nearly two years later, summer again, and Alice had still not come home. Her things had been cleared away and neatly packaged. Queenie May had returned the library loans, sheepishly, paying the fine on them. Mary had moved into Alice’s bed.

  They arranged an excursion to a beach further along the coast where the coves were sheltered and a great grass-topped rock emerged from the sand in the middle of the bay, a relic of land. The morning clouds hung low, and away from the shore the waves were tipped with white and bucking in the wind. Florrie wore a cardigan buttoned up tight, and refused to take a swimming costume. When they found an empty inlet she sat up close to the rock, facing the path up through the cliffs, her back to the sea, and she pulled the sand around her in ridges, corrugating her body shape into the beach. Queenie May peeled her skirt up towards her thighs and sat with her legs and feet in the occasional slip of sun. Only Eddie and Mary wanted to swim.