be ’avin’ tea parties wi’ bone-china cups and lace doyleys. I’d not be at all surprised if she stopped talkin’ to the likes of us.’
‘Shut up, Mam. Before you go too far again.’
But Mrs Hyatt was not going to shut up, not for anyone. She was on her high horse and she’d probably stop there till she fell off, or got kicked off – and Tom was too gentle a man to go hard on his mother.
‘Buying a house then, is it, Annie?’ she asked, her tone sweetening.
‘Yes. My Mam says we are to have a mort-gage.’ Instead of a rent book, my mother had said. Perhaps it was bigger than a rent book, or a different colour. Though it sounded more like an exotic fruit to me.
‘Well, we’ll just have to see ’ow your Mam goes about paying her mort-gage while she’s married to that soft bugger. Oh, ’e doesn’t fool me, Tom. Like I said before, ’e’s no bleeding ’ero, comin’ back snivelling from a prison camp after sittin’ it out for four bloody years. I’ll bet ’e built no escape tunnels. Only reason ’e joined up was over that lass . . .’
‘Watch what you’re saying, Mam.’
‘Anyroad, Nancy’ll have to work all the hours God sends for ’er fancy ideas. ’Cos there’s no road as ’e’ll pay for much. And shortage o’ money’s not the only thing she’ll be worrying about . . .’
‘Nancy knows nothing about all that, Mam. And neither do you if the truth were but told.’
‘Don’t talk to me about truth, Tom Hyatt. Are you going to eat this or not?’ When Tom made no reply, she snatched his plate from the table, then, jabbing the air with Tom’s fork as if to emphasize every word, she said, ‘The truth is dead, Tom, dead and can’t speak up for itself. And ’e seems to me to be the right type to . . .’ she faltered, placing the fork on the plate. ‘Alright, Tom. ’Ave it your own way. Maybe I am wrong, maybe I’ve said too much in front of this one.’ She gestured towards me. ‘But I do know this – something about you-know-who is not quite right. And I can’t ’elp ’aving me say. Speak as I find, I do.’
She wobbled into the scullery and we heard her, as she scraped Tom’s dinner into the slops bucket, muttering not quite to herself ‘there’s no smoke without fire’ and ‘a wrong un if ever I saw one’.
Tom took my chin in his fingers and gently turned my face towards his. ‘Look, lass. I’m sorry if it looks like I’m letting you down, but I’ll be back some day with all kinds of tales to tell you – and presents for you too. Oh yes, I’ll bring back some fine presents for my little Annie. You’re a sensible girl, got a good head on them shoulders. Now listen to me. Just you stick up for yourself, do what you think’s right and do your best at school. I shall write to you every week from Philadelphia – for that’s the name of the town I’ll be bound for – and you can write to me. How does that sound? You’ll have a pen pal in America.’
I knew I was beaten. I had no way of preventing Tom from going to America, no way of changing my mother’s mind about moving to the other end of the town.
When I got down from Tom’s knee and crossed the room towards the door, I was aware that I was letting him go there and then, for he had already left me, was making plans for a new start away from me. He didn’t love me, couldn’t love me. Perhaps I really was not lovable, perhaps nobody would ever love me enough to stay with me.
Within the space of two years I had lost the three people who had been most important to me. With my father, I had had no choice, but with my mother and Tom, I felt I had made a conscious decision to let go.
But that decision was just an invention of mind, a pride-saving piece of my imagination. Because, in truth, I had had no choice in any of these matters.
I was forced to admit to myself, however grudgingly, that Long Moor Lane was a great improvement on Ensign Street. Although the rooms at the back of the
‘Shut up, Mam. Before you go too far again.’
But Mrs Hyatt was not going to shut up, not for anyone. She was on her high horse and she’d probably stop there till she fell off, or got kicked off – and Tom was too gentle a man to go hard on his mother.
‘Buying a house then, is it, Annie?’ she asked, her tone sweetening.
‘Yes. My Mam says we are to have a mort-gage.’ Instead of a rent book, my mother had said. Perhaps it was bigger than a rent book, or a different colour. Though it sounded more like an exotic fruit to me.
‘Well, we’ll just have to see ’ow your Mam goes about paying her mort-gage while she’s married to that soft bugger. Oh, ’e doesn’t fool me, Tom. Like I said before, ’e’s no bleeding ’ero, comin’ back snivelling from a prison camp after sittin’ it out for four bloody years. I’ll bet ’e built no escape tunnels. Only reason ’e joined up was over that lass . . .’
‘Watch what you’re saying, Mam.’
‘Anyroad, Nancy’ll have to work all the hours God sends for ’er fancy ideas. ’Cos there’s no road as ’e’ll pay for much. And shortage o’ money’s not the only thing she’ll be worrying about . . .’
‘Nancy knows nothing about all that, Mam. And neither do you if the truth were but told.’
‘Don’t talk to me about truth, Tom Hyatt. Are you going to eat this or not?’ When Tom made no reply, she snatched his plate from the table, then, jabbing the air with Tom’s fork as if to emphasize every word, she said, ‘The truth is dead, Tom, dead and can’t speak up for itself. And ’e seems to me to be the right type to . . .’ she faltered, placing the fork on the plate. ‘Alright, Tom. ’Ave it your own way. Maybe I am wrong, maybe I’ve said too much in front of this one.’ She gestured towards me. ‘But I do know this – something about you-know-who is not quite right. And I can’t ’elp ’aving me say. Speak as I find, I do.’
She wobbled into the scullery and we heard her, as she scraped Tom’s dinner into the slops bucket, muttering not quite to herself ‘there’s no smoke without fire’ and ‘a wrong un if ever I saw one’.
Tom took my chin in his fingers and gently turned my face towards his. ‘Look, lass. I’m sorry if it looks like I’m letting you down, but I’ll be back some day with all kinds of tales to tell you – and presents for you too. Oh yes, I’ll bring back some fine presents for my little Annie. You’re a sensible girl, got a good head on them shoulders. Now listen to me. Just you stick up for yourself, do what you think’s right and do your best at school. I shall write to you every week from Philadelphia – for that’s the name of the town I’ll be bound for – and you can write to me. How does that sound? You’ll have a pen pal in America.’
I knew I was beaten. I had no way of preventing Tom from going to America, no way of changing my mother’s mind about moving to the other end of the town.
When I got down from Tom’s knee and crossed the room towards the door, I was aware that I was letting him go there and then, for he had already left me, was making plans for a new start away from me. He didn’t love me, couldn’t love me. Perhaps I really was not lovable, perhaps nobody would ever love me enough to stay with me.
Within the space of two years I had lost the three people who had been most important to me. With my father, I had had no choice, but with my mother and Tom, I felt I had made a conscious decision to let go.
But that decision was just an invention of mind, a pride-saving piece of my imagination. Because, in truth, I had had no choice in any of these matters.
I was forced to admit to myself, however grudgingly, that Long Moor Lane was a great improvement on Ensign Street. Although the rooms at the back of the
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