Page 9 of A Good Mother
Hilda shook her head. ‘No, she’s on her own. Jack and Tommy fell in France, her parents and sister were buried in Hackney and my parents were cremated. But I do go up there now and then, not as much as I should, but my knees aren’t what they used to be. That’s by the by though, because Martha won’t care if I go or not. She’s with her boys now, and that’s what matters. It’s how I think of her, and my parents. Free at last, happy, and together forever.’
Movement from behind distracted them for a moment as the barmaid announced that refreshments were being served, which signalled the end of their chat.
Hilda smiled. ‘Right, I’m off to get some food before it all goes, and I might treat myself to a large sherry. All this nattering’s given me a thirst.’
‘Yes, you go, and I’ll get my husband to bring you a sherry. You sit down and relax. And thank you for telling me about Martha.’ Robin placed her hand on Hilda’s arm and received a smile and a gentle pat in return.
Once Hilda had shuffled off to the buffet table, Robin stepped forward, drawn in closer, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to say hello and touch the face of a woman she’d never met, on an image taken long ago.
Peering at Martha she whispered, ‘Hello, my name’s Robin and I’m new here.’
In return, an imagined voice from nowhere replied,’Ello darlin’, nice to meet yer.
It had played on Robin’s mind all night. Martha’s story had touched her soul and first thing the next morning, she’d gone to Edmund’s study and searched the records of names and plot numbers of everyone buried in the graveyard. It was easy enough to find Martha, and once she had, Robin raced, as fast as an eight-month pregnant woman can, to Martha’s resting place. It was the beginning of their most special friendship.
* * *
Robin looked at the inscription on the headstone and then down at the plot which she’d fastidiously kept tended and brightened up with flowers all year round. ‘What would I do without you to talk to, eh? We’ve been through some stuff together that’s for sure.’
In Robin’s mind, Martha nodded, then took a drag of her ciggie. She was exactly as the photo in the pub portrayed her. White-blonde hair that always looked lovely. A kind of fluffy Doris Day style, backcombed on top and the side tucked neatly behind her ears, set under space helmet driers at the salon during her weekly appointment.
She was captured in time and Robin’s imagination, wearing a flowery dress, a riot of summer colours, the New Look that became popular after Dior put a bit of oomph back into women’s clothing in 1947. The style, three-quarter sleeved, boat necked and nipped in at the waist emphasised an hourglass figure. Having no idea what Martha wore on her feet Robin improvised and chose pale pink kitten heels, sling back, a hint of glamour but sensible enough for working behind the bar all day.
Looking down at her own sandalled feet, size 8, definitely not kitten heel dainty, Robin imagined her and Martha side by side. She tall and gangly, reed thin and rather bohemian in her choice of attire, whereas her friend would be petite yet curvy, and about two feet shorter. Oh, how she wished she could have met Martha in life.
Lifting her face to the sun, Robin was jolted by the sound of a car, louder it seemed than normal as it sped past, and it caused her to check her watch. Seeing that she’d overstayed, her thoughts moved from sleepy Martha to dinner duties so with a sigh and a tut she stood. Brushing dust from her skirt, she bade goodbye to her friend. ‘I’ll no doubt pop by tomorrow, but if not, soon as. Be good, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
As she headed along the path deep in thought, Robin was aware of being followed. The shadow of gloom lurked only a few inches behind her, stealthy, patient and by the time she’d reached the vicarage it was ready to pounce.
She never looked at the gargoyles above the lintel; they reminded her of Edmund and instead closed her eyes. Before she stepped inside, Robin rested her hand on the front door in preparation for the hours ahead, avoiding Edmund and focusing her devotions on someone who deserved it. Willow.
Just like dear Martha had been trapped in a world of sorrow, her pain hidden behind eyes that yearned to see their loved ones once again, Robin’s daughter was locked in the prison of her mind. And as much as Robin had tried to find the key so she could open the door and get Willow back, or set her free, it was nowhere to be found.
Edmund failed to see that prayers weren’t going to work, and she sensed that Nate was slowly pulling away from the wife he’d promised to love in sickness and in health. Robin would never give up, though, not on her child. So, it was with a deep sigh that she pushed open the door, and leaving Martha and the sunshine behind, she and gloom stepped inside.
CHAPTERSEVEN
GINA
I bring it on myself,I know I do. I’m my own worst enemy. If only I had a tenner for every time someone has said that to me. For a start my best friend Willow would be quids in.
You see, no matter how good life is, I find a way to ruin it by giving in to the overwhelming fear that it’s all going to go wrong. And yes, I know exactly where it all started, why I do it. The way I cope with it isn’t ideal either. The fact is, eventually bad luck always turns up and bites me on the bum.
42 Lily Lane. That’s where it began on the day my dad, Don, came home and caught my mum, Debbie, in bed with the man who drove the road sweeping cart. Apparently she’d been at it with the bin man, too, and the bloke who came to fit a new bulb to the streetlamp outside our house. I reckon she had a thing about council workers and high-vis vests. She did buck the trend with a taxi driver who brought her home from the pub, which proves my case: he was easy, like her.
It was a Thursday, almost the end of the summer term. I was six and we were due to go camping that weekend: two weeks in Tenby and I’d been looking forward to it for months.
Apparently after Dad thumped the road sweeper, Mum threw all Dad’s clothes out of the bedroom window onto the front garden, then rang the police. By the time I got home, Babs once again swooping in when she saw me waiting at the gate alone, Dad had been locked up and Mum was well into the role of the victim. I remember being so embarrassed because a pair of Dad’s Y-fronts were tangled in the privets and the parents and kids who passed by were laughing.
While I cried myself to sleep that night, all I could think of was Tenby, our holiday, and how it had all gone wrong.
Life went downhill from there really. I became that kid who was pulled apart by warring parents because while Dad made a big show of wanting me to go and live with him, it was never going to happen. He might have been the more capable, sensible parent but working continental shifts and living in a bedsit miles away meant he became Weekend Dad. You know the score, bad atmosphere, sarky comments when he picked me up. Then the tutting and door slamming when we were five minutes late, her threatening to ring her solicitor. Like she even had one.
Mum never worked again after Dad left. Said her nerves were bad and we lived on benefits and the kindness of strangers, friends really, like Babs and Robin. They both took me under their wings thank the Lord.
Mum struggled to get out of bed on time to walk me to school and I was always late, so seeing as she knew my mum of old, Babs stepped in and offered to take me. She lived next door but one in those days, so each morning as she passed by with her son Isaac, two years younger than me, she’d wait at the gate and I’d rush down the path, cling on to her pram that contained baby Sasha, and off we’d go.
One day, as I skipped along eating a slice of toast – Babs always wrapped something in tin foil for me, a crumpet or a potato cake which I loved the most – I passed on a worldly-wise thought to my guardian angel.
