The Staircase Girls Page 15

  With his softer voice Ann thought she’d misheard him, but hoped she hadn’t. ‘Are you asking me to marry you, Fred Adams?’ she shouted.

  ‘Yes, I am!’ he barked back.

  The whole cinema audience burst into applause. Embarrassed and excited, Ann buried her head in Fred’s shoulder as he laughed with delight. So it was decided. Ann would be moving in with his family in Waterbeach when they got married, and that was the last time they talked about Ann working at the colleges.

  As much to save money as it was a romantic idea, Ann and Fred had a double wedding with Bet and Barrel at St Luke’s church, Cambridge, in the summer of 1947. ‘It’s a lovely do,’ Rene was almost crying as she and her now married sisters stood in their backyard on Histon Road, having a quiet moment. ‘I can’t believe Mum said it was OK to use the front room for the reception! Dad did you proud, didn’t he?’

  ‘It’s all been lovely, Rene.’ Bet rubbed her sister’s shoulder gently.

  ‘You know he cooked all that food and made the cake? Didn’t ask for any help,’ Rene continued, as they looked through the window at Jack, who was taking a break from playing the piano and leading dances to share a beer with Fred, Barrel and Derek – who was clearly drunk. ‘Are you going to be alright out in the sticks, Nance?’ Bet looked squarely at her big sister, who shrugged her shoulders. ‘ ’Course we will, I’m more worried about you and Barrel being here with Mum and Dad. I don’t want there to be loads of arguments with Mum telling you what to do all the time.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us. Poor old Barrel will be out most of the day and asleep the rest of the time, I reckon. That job he has as a stoker in the boiler house at Fulbourn is shift work, and he either has to do from six till two in the morning, or from two in the afternoon till ten at night. So either I’ll work when he’s sleeping, or I’ll be sleeping when he gets in. Married life is great, in’t it? I reckon I saw more of him when we were courting than I’m going to as his wife.’ She smiled. ‘Still, there’s other things to be getting on with, aren’t there? Like trying to find somewhere else to live. At least you’re getting out of this place, Ann, and you, young Rene, you’re so gorgeous it won’t be long before a young man asks you to be his wife!’

  Rene cringed, laughed, and said, ‘Not blooming likely!’

  Three months later the same sisters were seated in the kitchen on Histon Road, having tea and chatting. Grace and Jack had gone to visit Aunt Win and Uncle George. ‘Are you alright, Nance? You look tired,’ Bet asked.

  Ann sighed. It was true that she had been feeling very tired lately, and she was sure it wasn’t just down to the stress of living with so many people. Something else was wrong, she thought, but she wasn’t going to trouble her sisters with health worries. Instead, she opened up to them about life in Waterbeach. ‘I don’t like it much at Fred’s place. You know, they’re nothing like us. The sisters argue all the time. I miss you and everyone,’ she sniffed and was grateful for the sympathetic looks from Bet and Rene. ‘I was thinking about going back to work,’ she continued. ‘Fred only gives me ten bob a week, and do you know what his mum says about that? She said, if I went out to work she would put the rent up. So it’s not worth it, I’m not going to bother.’

  Thinking about finding work had naturally led to her thinking about the colleges again. Not that she’d said anything to anyone about that. Bet wanted Ann to realize that it wasn’t plain sailing at home either, and told her, ‘I miss you too, Nance. It’s not easy here neither. I hardly see Barrel, you know.’

  Rene got up to go to the outside toilet, and Bet confided in Ann. ‘Joy is coming home for the Christmas holidays. Mum’s moaning about the prospect already. It’s not good. Me and Barrel are thinking about telling her that Joy can stay with us as soon as we find a place of our own, you know.’

  Ann was always happy to see Joy, and like Bet always wary of their mother’s reaction to having the youngest girl around the house, so she was genuinely delighted that Bet would offer Joy a room. ‘That’d be lovely!’ she exclaimed. Then her grin turned to a frown. ‘What about Rene?’ she asked. ‘She doesn’t look well either.’

  ‘She’s missing Johnny but she can’t talk to Mum about him. You know Rene loves him like he’s her own. But it was too much of a responsibility for a girl her age and Mum needs her to get a job.’

  At the beginning of 1947 the Sunshine Home had told Grace and Jack that they were unable to teach their youngest son anything, because he wasn’t like the other children, his disabilities were far too severe. Before her wedding, Ann (and Bet) helped Rene to care for Johnny while he lived on Histon Road with them for a brief few months, but once Ann had left home, Grace decided that he wasn’t being looked after ‘properly’ and so had to be put in another home. So she had Johnny committed to what used to be called the pauper lunatic asylum at Fulbourn, which was now known as Cambridge’s ‘mental’ hospital. Ann and Bet felt terrible about it, and somehow responsible for him being sent there – because they weren’t around to help out.

  Bet’s tone was becoming angrier. ‘I know he had to go somewhere but . . . Now he’s got nobody and he’s in there with all them. There’s over 900 patients in that hospital, Nance . . . it’s not a hospital, is it though? It’s an asylum, Nance, it’s no place for a child. Barrel says there’s some real violent patients in there. “The chronics, the incurables and the intractables”, that’s what they’re called, the ones who have been abandoned. Barrel thinks that Johnny is left in a cot all day. He said he’s going to ask Miss Fossey the matron if it’s OK for him to see Johnny when he’s on a break from stoking.’

  ‘He’s a good man your Barrel.’ Ann was holding back her tears, trying to be strong. She knew Bet was holding back her anger. Neither of them wanted Rene to know the full extent of what Johnny would be experiencing in Fulbourn Hospital. She had been told that it was for the best, that they would be able to care for him better than Grace would manage.

  ‘I would come back as often as I could, you know that, don’t you?’ Ann looked as if she was going to cry.

  ‘I know, Nance. It wasn’t our decision though, was it? It was Mum.’ She reached over and patted Ann’s hands that were folded round her mug of tea.

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Rene asked as she came through the back door.

  ‘Oh, you know, married life . . .’ Ann told her.

  JOYCE

  Cambridge 1946–53

  Joyce blamed herself for the death of her brother. She would never forget the cold, callous manner of the doctor who had done nothing for Trevor as he lay dying, and she felt anger at the boys who’d chased her brother into the path of the lorry. But she was supposed to look after the twins and keep them both safe, and she’d failed. Her mother was heartbroken, distraught and in her distress did once – but only once – ask pitifully, ‘Where were you, Joyce? Why didn’t you stop him running out like that?’ Celia knew that it wasn’t nine-year-old Joyce’s fault, but she refused to let either of her remaining children go anywhere without her for a good two years after Trevor’s death.

  Despite the war having ended, Joyce’s dad didn’t return for the funeral, which was a small, miserable affair at the cemetery on Newmarket Road attended only by Celia, Joyce, Aggie and a handful of parents whose children were friends with the twins. Celia’s grandparents came for the day only but the funeral made Joyce so sad that she couldn’t even feel happy to see them again.

  Charles Jones was demobilized in 1946 and arrived back in Cambridge with four medals that he put in the bottom of a drawer and didn’t look at again until his grandsons asked about them, two decades later. With Celia having found work as a cleaner and Joyce so settled in the Fenland town, and with no real reason for them to return to Surrey, Charles took employment as a painter and decorator at a fast-growing company in Cambridge. The job allowed the Jones family to rent a flat of their own, next door to the Bird in the Hand public house on Newmarket Road, above a barbers’ shop. Aggie was sorry to see them leav
e, especially after her husband failed to return, having been reported missing in action during what proved to be the final weeks of the conflict. She understood their need to be together as a family, though, and so reapplied to the university to register as a landlady and soon had two students lodging with her.

  Her father didn’t talk to Joyce about what he’d seen or done in Italy, but as she grew up he encouraged her to join the territorial army as soon as she could. Charles was proud of the service that he’d given his country and of the discipline and training that the army had given him. He must have considered that his daughter would benefit from the sense of camaraderie, well-being and sense of purpose that putting on a military uniform brought.

  After living in the flat for a couple of years, Charles had found them a small three-bedroom house in Ditton Fields to rent. Two of the bedrooms were much larger than those above the barbers’ shop, and Joyce had one of those to herself. On entering the house, a little door on the left hand side hid the toilet, which was still something of a luxury given that a lot of the other houses in the street had outside loos in their garden. Along a short hallway on the right there was a front room used for best, then a dining room in the middle, a kitchen and scullery with a copper sink used for the washing. It was a little further out from town and a lot further from the two houses that Celia cleaned for on the Barton Road, but it was their first family home.

  Douglas, who’d withdrawn into himself following the death of his twin, seemed to enjoy being in a different place, away from so much that reminded him of Trevor. Joyce often sat quietly with him during evenings when they’d listen to the radio, not speaking, but not feeling the need to communicate. In the first few weeks after losing Trevor, Douglas had woken in the night and gone to his mother’s bed. When Charles returned, sometimes Douglas would find his way into Joyce’s bed, and she’d awake in the morning to find him there, having not been woken as he climbed under the blankets with her.

  In their Ditton Fields house though, Douglas had never strayed from his own room at night. Slowly, it seemed to Joyce, he’d come to terms with being alone, and was no longer missing the physical presence of his twin. Still though, sometimes she’d walk past the closed door of Douglas’ room and hear him talking out loud, even though she knew there was no-one in the room with him. He was talking to Trevor, she knew. And that was a good thing, she thought.

  On leaving school at fifteen, in 1951, Joyce, along with her best friends Janet, Vicky and Rita, worked at the Lyons tearooms in Petty Cury. They waited on tables in shifts, which would usually see two of them ‘on’ at the same time. It was hard work, but they liked the uniforms and meeting customers, most of them being what the girls thought of as ‘well-to-do’, they’d leave tips of thruppence or even sixpence. Like all of her friends, Joyce gave half of her weekly wages to her mum for her keep, which now included her part of the rent on a house.

  Working at Lyons made Joyce feel like an adult, and she asked Celia for more freedom to go out and about on her own, or with friends, particularly in the evenings. Reluctantly her mother agreed, albeit with a very early curfew time of 9 p.m. Joyce stuck to the time and made certain she was home from wherever she’d gone – often the cinema, sometimes dancing at a church hall youth club in Oakington (reached by bus) – to prove that she was sensible and obedient. Within a few weeks the curfew was loosened and before long Joyce could be home after the pubs closed at 11 p.m. – not that she was drinking, but the dances she went to kept pub opening hours.

  By then, because Joyce had kept her tips stored away she could afford to buy a tight, bright green, flared-waisted coat that she’d seen and a black, tight pencil skirt to go with it. When she, Janet, Vicky and Rita went out dancing together they were always done up to the nines, and attracted a swarm of boys around them eager for a dance (and more, if they were allowed). The girls loved to dance but did not enjoy the ‘taking a walk outside’ with boys after a couple of turns on the floor. Joyce’s solution to the problem was to invite Celia to go to dances in Oakington with her. On these occasions, whenever a boy asked if she wanted to go outside with him, she could point to Celia, apologize and say, ‘My mum’s here . . .’ It worked every time; the boys would get embarrassed, mumble apologies and back away. Celia was happy to play chaperone, being all too aware of how attractive her teenage daughter had become. Whenever Joyce went out without her, Celia would warn her not to talk to, and certainly never dance with, any ‘Yanks’, disparaging the American servicemen who still populated Cambridge’s pubs and clubs (it would take a few years for the U.S. services to decamp back to their homeland).

  Joyce had only been at Lyons for a few months when she was accused of stealing cold meats from the kitchen. Being wholly innocent, she protested strongly against the accusation, and in an argument with the manageress about it, tore off the doily-like hairpiece and white apron that made up part of her uniform, threw them at the woman and marched out, slamming the door behind her. While Celia said she’d done the right thing in quitting, her father wanted to go to the tearooms and demand an apology from the manageress. Joyce told him that it wasn’t worth it, and the following Monday went looking for a new job. By the end of the day she’d found one, working at Woolworths on the flower counter, starting the following Monday.

  Weeks later, Joyce received a letter of apology from Lyons, in which it was explained that a kitchen porter had been discovered with a ham under his coat as he left work one night, and he then confessed to having taken the items that Joyce had been accused of stealing. She kept the letter and showed it to Janet, Vicky and Rita, who made sure that the manageress didn’t forget what she’d done to their friend.

  The job at Woolworths was better paid than that at Lyons, and even without tips to top up her earnings Joyce took more money home on a Friday. Now working full-time, Joyce began to go out at nights with her friends and without Celia. She went dancing at the Rex and even visited pubs beforehand. Bored by the attentions of boys of her own age, Joyce began to forget her mum’s advice concerning Americans, and one late September evening she was approached by a tall, handsome American sergeant while at the Rex, dancing with Janet. He introduced himself as Sergeant Alan Brodsky and asked if she could jive. She could, and while she thought she was OK at it, after only a couple of numbers with Alan she’d become pretty good; he was a fantastic dancer and teacher. At the end of the night he asked if Joyce would show him around Cambridge the next day because he’d only just arrived. The next day being Saturday, Joyce told Celia she was off to meet Vicky, and met Alan to be his guide.

  They had tea at Lyons ( Joyce really enjoyed that), walked through the greens and she took him to the University Arms, telling him he had to take a room there, because it was the smartest place that she knew. He agreed, and took a room at the Arms, telling her that it ‘sure is nicer than the room I’ve been given at a tiny house in the south of the town’. As the day ended Alan asked how old she was, and Joyce didn’t lie and admitted she was fifteen. Sergeant Alan Brodsky was a gentleman and showed no sign of disappointment at discovering that she was younger than he’d hoped. He told her that they would be ‘best chums’ if she’d like that.

  She did, and for three weeks the pair met regularly to dance, walk, talk and have tea. Joyce learned more about his home state of Minnesota than she could ever hope to (she’d never heard of it until they met), and more about America than even the movies could teach her. And then, without warning or explanation, he was gone.

  Joyce went to visit him at the University Arms on Friday after work, just as they had arranged two days earlier, only to be told at the reception that he’d checked out, leaving no forwarding address. She wasn’t heartbroken, exactly – they’d never so much as kissed – but for the next week Joyce felt in turns angry, sad and absent-minded, somehow. At work she’d be in the middle of wrapping flowers, cleaning pots or pruning stalks when her mind would wander and she’d think, what had she done? Why had he run away? He’d gone – just upped and went �
�� but why?

  Perhaps, she thought, it had been because she’d told him about being hit with a stick by her mother the Monday before they’d last met. A neighbour – Celia wouldn’t say who – had knocked on their door while Joyce was at work, and told her mother that she’d seen her daughter out and about on Sunday evening with a black American soldier. She knew it was Joyce because she was wearing her green jacket and black skirt, the neighbour said.

  As it happened, Joyce did go out wearing her green jacket and black skirt that evening, but she and Alan (who was not black) had been at the cinema, to see Monkey Business with Cary Grant and Ginger Rogers (Alan looks a bit like Cary Grant, Joyce had thought, as they sat in the dark, warm, Empire cinema). She kept telling her mother, ‘It can’t have been me that the neighbour has seen,’ but Celia wouldn’t listen and set about her legs with the stick, a piece of bamboo that her father had left outside the back door ready to use in the garden. Joyce’s legs were black and blue the next day and they hurt like hell. She had to wear thick socks and a long skirt to work so no one noticed, and when she met Alan she told him about it, half embarrassed, half wanting his sympathy and comfort, which he seemed happy to give. But perhaps he was scared that her mother and father would find out that Joyce had been to his hotel room? Joyce knew her parents wouldn’t believe she hadn’t been intimate with him.

  With her mind not on her work, Joyce kept pricking her fingers on bulbs and roses, barely noticing that she did. But when she cut her neck on a box of bulbs (she held the top one of three, in place with her chin), she really felt the pain, and dropping the boxes sank to the floor. Her supervisor came running over and scolded Joyce about the bulbs flying everywhere, when she saw blood oozing from her neck and hands.

  The following day, Joyce felt too awful and weak to go to work, so Celia cycled past Woolies on her way to Barton Road to tell her supervisor. Over the next two days Joyce felt worse and couldn’t get out of bed. Celia realized that her daughter was running a temperature and when it wasn’t helped by taking aspirin she called their doctor, who gave Joyce a short examination and sent her to the hospital.