Every Day Is Mother’s Day

‘The topic of romance on trams has worn thin,’ Florence said. ‘I see that we must have something else. Sylvia sees it too.’

Defiantly, Colin took out a cigarette and lit it. Love is blind, Florence thought: for a year or two.

‘Unhygienic habit,’ Sylvia said. ‘I gave it up when I was pregnant with Suzanne. I read it in a magazine. Smoking and Pregnancy.’

‘Sylvia takes magazines devoted to housewifery,’ Florence said. ‘Does she have recipes making use of frozen chicken which are both tasty and economical?’

‘I know what you eat,’ Sylvia said. ‘Bread and jam.’

‘In its place,’ Florence murmured.

‘Tea,’ said Colin.

‘I know. And tomato sandwiches. I don’t think Colin had ever had a proper meal in his life until we got married.’ She got up. ‘We’ll be off, Florence.’ She went out through the kitchen to the back door. ‘Come on, you lot, we’re off.’

An argument ensued. Florence could hear the protests of the children overridden by Sylvia’s firm flat voice. It made her nervous. If they wanted to stay, it probably meant that they were engaged in some form of covert vandalism. ‘The roses,’ she said nervously.

‘Roses.’ Colin put his head in his hands. ‘You ought to get some cabbages in. The cost of living being what it is.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t. They were Father’s roses.’

‘Grub them up,’ Colin said. ‘That’s it. Grub them up.’ He groaned quietly, then stood up, stretching himself. He was a man on poor terms with his clothes—his shirt always coming out of his waistband, his trousers shooting up around his calves as he sat; it was difficult not to see this as a symptom of a more general failure of control. He had once been remarkably good-looking, but now his looks had faded, as if his features were doubtful of their application in his current circumstances. His habitual expression was one of anxious astonishment, like that of a man who has been stopped in the street by a policeman and finds he has forgotten his name. ‘Where’s my pullover?’ he said, looking about. He hauled it over his head and smoothed his thinning fair hair.

‘You’re ageing, Colin,’ Florence said in a low voice.

‘Ah well. At my back I always hear time’s wingèd chariot etc. It’s been ten years you know, me and Sylvia. I should have thought the amusement would have palled. You hurt her, you know. She cries. She isn’t entirely the jolly factory lass you take her to be.’

‘Come on, Colin.’ Sylvia was standing in the doorway holding the hands of her two younger children. ‘Thank you very much, Florence. Say thank you to your Auntie for the nice tea.’

Freeing their hands, pushing past Florence, the children whooped out to the car. Sylvia followed them.

‘I wanted your opinion,’ Florence said. ‘About Mrs Axon and her daughter.’

‘I have no opinion,’ Colin said. ‘Mrs Axon has lived around the corner for as long as I can remember without having done anything to warrant my having an opinon on her.’ His shirt had come out again; he was stuffing it back, hauling at his belt. ‘You know, Florence, Sylvia’s quite right. You’ve got to make a life of your own.’

Outside, Sylvia wound the car window down. ‘Colin, are you coming?’

‘Anon, good Sylvia, anon. You see, the problem is, you were geared up to years of self-sacrifice, looking after Mother. Now all that’s aborted…well, you know what I mean. Eh, old girl? Pop over next Sunday.’ A peck on the cheek. She stood in the porch watching Sylvia wind the window up again. There was something incongruously patrician about Sylvia’s averted profile, her mouth was set, her chin sagging. Colin hunched himself into the driver’s seat.

‘It’s a flaming bloodsport,’ Sylvia said.

‘Sorry, love,’ On a sudden whim Colin transferred his hand from the knob of the gearstick to her knee. He patted it. ‘You mustn’t let her get you down. She’s lonely, you know.’

Sylvia sniffed. ‘Come on, let’s get home.’

Colin steered along Buckingham Avenue with his usual caution. The little saloon forced him to drive with his arms stiffly extended, as if he were fending off the week ahead.

‘You were getting at me,’ she said.

‘Well, just a bit.’

‘Florence sets you off.’

‘I said I’m sorry. Can we have a bit of peace? I said,’ he raised his voice for the children in the back, ‘can we have a bit of peace?’

The most difficult thing was not knowing: how many months. Evelyn took down the calendar and pored over it. You could not be positive that the missing Thursdays were implicated. That would be a jump altogether too far ahead.

‘Do you want to go to the doctor?’ she said. ‘It would cost.’

Muriel said that it was free now.

‘Free? Nothing’s free. What sort of stupid talk is that?’

She didn’t know what was going on in the world, Muriel said craftily. Craftily, because it was Muriel’s scheme to have her inadequacy prick her, so that she would buy a television set. Evelyn wouldn’t have one in the house, not while she was alive; and after her death she expected to exercise some sway. After all, they hadn’t missed the radio when it had broken down, and they didn’t feel the lack of newspapers. Soon after the last war Muriel had been sent with the month’s money to the newsagent’s. It had been wrapped up in a piece of paper, and she had lost it. Evelyn couldn’t see her way to finding the money twice over. So the shop had stopped delivering. Evelyn had never read them anyway. All the news was the same, and all bogus. The papers took no cognizance of the other world, except when they found some cheap talk of poltergeists or table-turning to fill the pages up.

‘And where do you go?’ she demanded of Muriel. ‘Where do you go, that you know so much?’

Muriel didn’t answer that question. Either Evelyn knew where she had been, and was mocking her, or she did not; in which case, her powers were on the wane, the long battle was drawing to an end. They tell you what’s free at the Class, Muriel said. They tell you what you can get for nothing.

It was strongly in Evelyn’s mind now that it must be someone from the class who was the father of Muriel’s child. But it was no use bothering Muriel about it, no use trying to get anything out of her. It did cross her mind that something malign in the house might be responsible for the girl’s condition; but she had to admit that in her extensive experience she had not heard of such a thing. There were unnatural unions, but did they come to fruition? Muriel looked as if she would come to fruition, quite soon. No, surely her first thought was right. The lax Welfare had turned their backs. Some half-wit had prevailed on a quarter-wit. Only one thing she would have liked to find out; was he in some way deformed?

Social Services Department

Luther King House

Tel: 51212 Ext. 27

10th October 1974

Dear Mrs Axon,

I must apologise for the delay in contacting you, but Miss Axon’s file was mislaid when the Department moved to new offices recently, and has only just come to hand.

As Miss Axon has not attended our Daycare Sessions since the move to The Hollies, we are anxious to know whether any difficulty has arisen. Miss Taft of this Department wrote to you on July 3rd, but you may perhaps have overlooked this letter. If it is convenient for you, I will call at your home on October 15th at about 3 pm, and I will hope to see Miss Axon then and have a chat with her. If this date is not convenient perhaps you would kindly telephone me at the number above.

Miss Taft is now attending a course, and as she will be away for six months Miss Axon’s case has been handed over to me. I hope to be able to help you with any problems that arise.

Yours sincerely,

ISABEL FIELD

CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_c866fa1c-2b5b-579a-9efe-94184b1ccf90)

‘Isabel,’ Colin said. ‘Isabel.’

‘Don’t slobber, Colin.’

‘You are unkind.’