Her Turn to Cry

Acton, London – January 1951

Joycie is nine and a bit too old to cry so she’s trying to keep her chin from wobbling. She’s in the school playground all alone, or, at least, there are kids around her, but she can’t see them because the smog is so bad. They’re playing what they call ‘Hide and Seek in the Fog’ but is more like Blind Man’s Buff. Her friends are shouting her name and saying, ‘Cooee, come and get me.’ Now and then one of them taps her on the shoulder or screams close to her ear then disappears back into the surrounding mist.

She feels bad, her throat hurts, and she’s hot in her thick coat. The smog smells awful, smothering her in a wet blanket. She doesn’t want to play any more, and when the whistle goes she breathes again and heads for school. But she can’t tell which way to go. She turns round and round on the spot. And big sobs are coming out, making her ashamed to be such a cowardy custard.

‘Joyce Todd, what on earth are you doing out here?’

It’s Miss Hendry, and she grabs Joycie’s collar and pulls her along. And there are the lights and almost at once they’re inside school. She must be in trouble, but she doesn’t care, just wants to lie down on the cool floor of the corridor. Instead she leans against the wall and closes her eyes.

Then she feels Miss Hendry’s cold hand on her forehead. ‘Joyce, dear, where do you live?’

She parrots the address. At least this one in Acton is easy to remember because they stay in these digs every winter.

‘Ah, just down the road, that’s good. And Mummy will be home, I expect?’

She nods and Miss takes her hand again, and they are back in the playground. At the school gate Miss stops and points at the orange haloes of light gleaming through the fog.

‘Just keep on the pavement and follow the lampposts. Tell Mummy to put you to bed with a warm drink. And you’re to stay home tomorrow.’

Joycie’s legs are moving, one foot floating after the other over the shiny pavement. She can see the lamppost in front of her, its light a wavering orange moon. When she reaches it she holds the post for a moment then pushes on towards the next one.

Mrs McDonald, the landlady, opens the door at her knock. ‘You’re early, ducks, what’s up?’

‘Sent me home.’

Mrs McDonald’s hand rough on her cheek. ‘No wonder. You’re burning up. Well your mum’s in, so up you go.’ A laugh that’s more like a bark. ‘She’ll be pleased to see you so early, my love. I think she gets lonely on her own all day.’ Then she’s gone, back to the kitchen, laughing at something as she goes. She must have a funny programme on the wireless.

The stairs rear in front like a mountain, but Joycie pulls herself up by the banisters. At the door to their rooms she taps and taps, then calls her mum, but quietly because they mustn’t annoy Mrs McDonald or wake up Mr Grant next door, who does night work.

But her mum doesn’t come, and Joycie is too hot and tired to knock again. She pulls off the thick coat and spreads it on the floor so she can lie on it and rest her head on the cool lino.

‘Bloody hell, Mary, it’s your nipper.’

Mr Grant’s voice, but coming from their own doorway. A sickening feeling as the world lurches and she’s up in the air, held over Mr Grant’s shoulder. Hot skin against hers and stinky sweat.

Mum’s voice: ‘Bring her in. And for God’s sake be quiet, will you. I bet old McDonald’s down there earwigging again. Then you’d better go.’

She’s in bed, and Mum’s giving her warm milk, but it tastes bad, and Mum smells funny too: a bit like Mr Grant. And it’s all wrong anyway, because Mum is only wearing her slip, even though it’s the middle of the day.

Chapter Five

Westminster Bridge – May 1965

‘Concentrate now, Orchid baby.’ Marcus always called her Orchid in public. He had been so pleased with the pictures he’d taken on the way to Irene’s funeral that he’d decided to do their next shoot by the river too. So she was standing on Westminster Bridge in a red silk evening gown with the Houses of Parliament behind her.

It was very early on a morning that promised to be warm, but the ground was still shining with dew, and the mist on the water sent wafts of chill air around her feet. She wore strappy silver sandals and no underwear – nothing to spoil the line of the dress – and the black feather boa the magazine had sent to go with it gave no warmth. Marcus gestured for her to stretch out one leg to emphasize the fall of shining silk.

Joycie still remembered Mrs McDonald’s address because her dad had rented the same digs every winter until her mum disappeared, so Marcus was going to drive them there after the shoot. The landlady had seemed like an old woman when Joycie was a little girl, but thinking about it now she was probably only in her forties. So there was a good chance she might still be living in the same house.

Marcus came forward and teased out locks of black hair to tumble round her face.

‘Fantastic, baby.’

But she knew it wasn’t much good. All she could think of was getting to Acton. It was likely Mrs McDonald could tell her something about Mr Grant. He was certainly living there the last time they stayed in the March before her mum’s disappearance.

Joycie wondered for a moment when she had started to think of Mum as disappearing rather than leaving them.

Marcus must have realized he was wasting his time, and in any case the milky light he loved was more or less gone, and the bridge was getting busier with commuters, hurrying along, tut-tutting as they stepped between Joycie and Marcus. He took a few snaps as a couple of bowler-hatted gents wove past, then gave up. ‘OK, let’s go.’

She struggled after him in her flimsy shoes, the red silk twisting around her legs. As he drove she grabbed her big bag from the back seat, pulling a sweater on top of the dress, wriggling into jeans, and shoving the red silk down into the waistband. The magazine would complain that the dress was creased and grubby, but sod ’em.

‘So you think this Mr Grant might have been your mum’s boyfriend?’ Marcus said.

‘I know there was something between them for a while, at least, and we stayed in Mrs McDonald’s every winter, so it could have gone on for years. Dad and Sid used to work the summer season at the seaside, but London was a good base the rest of the time. They did lots of pantos at the Chiswick Empire, so Acton was convenient.’

‘Were you living there when they arrested your dad?’

Two men smelling of sweat fill the tiny living room. They wear heavy suits, not uniforms, although they say they’re the police. One of them goes into her dad’s bedroom and comes out waving a bundle of open envelopes in the air. He grins at Dad. ‘Nice love letters from your nancy-boy pal. Charming turn of phrase he’s got.’ He chuckles, but Joycie can tell he isn’t joking.

The other man pushes Dad from behind. ‘Right, duckie, you’re coming with us.’

Dad stares at Joycie, his eyes wide, she’s never seen him scared before and she can’t breathe. He sounds like he can hardly breathe either, looking from her to the men and back again. ‘My daughter?’

They turn to Joycie as if they’ve forgotten her and one of them says, ‘We’ll get the landlady to look after her for now.’ Then he shakes his head and mutters, ‘Poor kid.’

The other man looks down at the letters he’s holding, and says, ‘Disgusting.’ She feels her armpits prickle and smells her own sweat – does he mean she’s disgusting?

‘Joycie?’ Marcus touched her knee. ‘I said, were you in Acton when your dad was arrested?’

‘Oh no, we never went back to those digs after Mum disappeared.’

‘It was disgusting …’ Marcus said. How strange to hear him echoing the policeman’s word. ‘… the witch-hunt they ran against homosexuals in the ’50s. No one could be more conventional than my father, but apparently when he was at the Ministry he met the journalist who was involved in the Lord Montagu case.’ He lowered his voice to a posh growl. ‘He said, “Seemed a decent chap. Couldn’t help the way he was made.” And decent chap was high praise from Dad. It’s ridiculous that it’s still illegal even now, but at least they don’t persecute them the way they did then.’

‘It was a while before I even realized what my dad was supposed to have done,’ she said. ‘Some of the guys in the shows were very camp, and one or two of them were obviously friendly with Dad, but I was so green I didn’t guess. And, like I told you, Dad was really popular with the girls too.’

They were passing the iron gates of a school, the playground full of children just arriving, and Marcus slowed to a crawl as a small boy in grey shorts charged across the road in front of them. As he pulled away again he said, ‘From what your aunt told you your parents were in love at the start.’

‘And they seemed to love each other when I was a kid.’ A lump filled her throat. ‘But then I thought they loved me.’

Marcus reached out and rubbed her knee, and once again she saw her dad looking back at her as the police led him away. He did love her. She couldn’t imagine what he went through in jail, but it must have been terrible to make him commit suicide, knowing it would leave her alone.

‘Did you ever find out who turned your dad in?’

She twisted to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well you said the only evidence they had was the letters.’ He changed gear as he turned the car into a narrow street, but he must have heard her breath catch. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

‘The police. When they came to our lodgings they didn’t really have to search. They seemed to know exactly what to look for and where to find them.’

‘So whoever tipped them off was someone he knew.’

‘Someone he must have known really well.’

***

You could have knocked Mrs McDonald down with a feather when she realized she had Marcus Blake and Orchid on her doorstep. She was even more astonished when Joycie explained she was Charlie and Mary Todd’s daughter.

‘Come in, come in.’

The landlady was almost quivering with excitement as she bustled ahead of them into her overheated kitchen: somewhere little Joycie had only glimpsed through a half-open door. Over tea and custard cream biscuits she told them Mr Grant – George – had been a long-term lodger until he left to get married. ‘Ooh, that must have been five years ago now. She was a widow with a bit of money and they moved out to Surrey, but he still sends me a Christmas card every year.’

‘So he was living here for some time after we stopped coming.’

‘Yes, it would have been ’59 or ’60 when he left.’

‘My mum and he were close for a while, weren’t they?’

Mrs McDonald chuckled. ‘That’s one way of putting it, darling. George was a real ladies’ man, and your mum wasn’t the only one by a long chalk, but it was never serious with him. Not until his rich widow came along.’

‘Was Mum serious about him?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Only doing it to make your dad jealous, I thought.’ She looked suddenly suspicious. ‘This isn’t a divorce thing, is it? I wouldn’t want to get George in any trouble.’

‘Oh no, my dad’s dead.’

Mrs McDonald reached a hand towards Joycie, but then put it to her mouth. ‘Poor Charlie, that’s terrible, he was no age.’

‘But Mum left us in ’53, just after the last time we stayed here, and I wondered if she went off with Mr Grant.’

‘No, darling, George was just a bit of comfort for her. She was a lovely girl, and what with Charlie being the way he was …’ She looked at Marcus as if for help, and when he nodded she let out a heavy breath. ‘He was a theatrical, wasn’t he? And like a lot of them he was light on his feet, as they say. Probably should never have married, but then your mum was a slim little thing, boyish like, and they must have been very young when they got together. But they were still fond of each other, you could tell that.’

Marcus leaned forward. ‘Do you think Charlie knew about the affair?’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised, but she would never have left him for George, and George wouldn’t have asked her to.’

They managed to avoid more tea and said their goodbyes, but on the doorstep Joycie said: ‘So you knew my dad was homosexual?’ Mrs McDonald pursed her lips, as if the word was too rude to respond to, and crossed her arms over her acreage of bosom, but Joycie carried on. ‘It’s just … I wondered if you ever mentioned it to the police?’

Mrs McDonald squeezed her bosom tighter, hands high in her armpits. ‘Certainly not. Apart from a couple of commercial travellers, like Mr Grant, I’ve always had theatricals staying here. If I reported everyone who was that way inclined the place would soon be empty. Anyway, live and let live is my motto.’

Joycie touched her beefy forearm. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’

They thanked her and turned to go, but she said, ‘Why do you want to know all this after so long?’

‘My aunt just got in touch with me hoping to trace Mum.’

‘Only I was wondering. Because someone else was asking after your mum and dad a week or so ago. I thought he was a debt collector, but perhaps it was your uncle?’

A chill down her back. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Smart chap, fortyish, and as I say looked like a debt collector to me. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, if you know what I mean. Lovely shiny shoes, though.’

***

‘It was the same man – the one from Manchester – the one with the autograph book,’ Joycie said.

‘Surely not.’

‘The way she described him, I just know it’s him.’

‘But why would he be calling on your old landlady?’

‘I don’t know, but it scares me.’

‘Do you want to go to the police then?’

‘They’d just laugh at me, you know that,’ she said.

They were both quiet for the rest of the journey, but when she got out of the car and was climbing the steps to the house Joycie found herself looking up and down the sunny street. Marcus put his arm round her as he slotted in his key. ‘Relax, there’s no one there.’

There was the usual pile of post on the hall floor, and Joycie put it on the little table and began to look through it, trying to calm herself.

‘There you are – Fort Knox,’ Marcus said, attaching the chain to the front door and slapping the heavy wooden frame. ‘And we could get a dog, if you like. I wouldn’t mind an Afghan or something.’

Joycie only half-heard him because she was opening a big brown envelope, her heart beating hard.

Dear Joyce,

These are the letters from Mary to our mam or all the ones Mam kept anyway. It was lovely to see you and the kids haven’t stopped talking about you. It would be nice if you could come for a proper visit sometime.

Your loving aunt,

Susan

Marcus came behind her and rested his warm hand on her shoulder. She put her head against his cheek. ‘You’ll want to read those on your own I expect?’ he said. When she nodded he rubbed her arm. ‘I’ll be in the darkroom. Call me if you need to talk.’

It was sunny outside now so she made a cup of Earl Grey and took the bundle of letters into the garden. Marcus had dragged a couple of old wicker chairs out from the shed the other day, and she put the brown envelope on one and sat on the other. A deep breath, a gulp of tea, then with her cup carefully placed on the grass beside her she took out the letters.

They were in no particular order. One from ’43, another from ’52 and one from ’49, all signed: Your loving daughter Mary. The careful handwriting wasn’t familiar, but then she’d only ever seen a shopping list or two scribbled by her mum. Odd phrases jumped out at her as she tried to organize the letters by date.

The postal order is for Susie’s birthday. Please buy something nice for her.

Joycie is walking really well and is into everything.

Charlie and Sid are doing the summer season in Clacton …

… in Margate,

… in Blackpool. Perhaps you could try to get over sometime while we’re there. If you drop a note at the box office I can arrange to meet you. I’d love you to see Joycie. She’s so pretty and she never stops talking.