escape, Katie lapsed into a dream: in the flames she kept seeing Simon Collinge as she’d seen him that first day, so different from the bantering lads downstairs, long-limbed, energetic, leaning over the work table, then turning with that energy of his, his handsome smile, which turned into the impish grin he had given her when she pulled that face. She found herself smiling back as if he was actually in front of her, then she caught herself. How stupid she was being! There was she, a little typist, and he not only the boss’s son, but someone who’d been to the university, somewhere she couldn’t even imagine! She really was going to have to pull herself together and stop mooning about like this.
A gasp came from the bed behind her. Vera was thrashing her head from side to side.
‘Is that him . . . ?’ she said in a slurred voice. ‘Spots, Spots, come here!’ A moment later, more loudly, she cried, ‘Daddy! Is that you, Daddy?’
Katie got up and went over, alarmed. She sat down and reluctantly took her mother’s hand. This felt awkward. Being in any way close to Vera was not comfortable. But soon Vera had gone back to sleep.
Vera’s throat was on fire. One minute she was sweating, the next shivering with aching cold. The glands in her neck throbbed, and if she opened her eyes the walls seemed to bulge in and out, so she mostly kept them closed, except when she was looking for Mummy. She seemed to have been gone for a long time. Where was she? And why was Spots barking, on and on, next door?
The little bedroom in Sparkhill seemed to have become her childhood room in Hall Green, with the watercolour picture of Jesus calming the storm on the wall by the bed, so that that was what she saw each time she looked up: Jesus in a halo of light amid the towering waves and bucking ship. He would always be there to make things right, that was what Mummy said – Mummy with her childlike beliefs.
They were Congregationalists, deeply involved in the Church and Bible Study, saying prayers before every meal. Vera had no brothers and sisters, so she was thrown into the company of her parents and of adults in general. Her father, Harold Porter, was a big man, imposing, with strong-featured good looks and dark-brown curly hair. He was a travelling salesman, and good at it – his looks must have helped, his air of knowing something that other people would benefit by learning from him – so they had a car. He was away for a night or two quite often.
When Vera was eight, he disappeared for two years, almost to the day.
Vera’s mother, Jean Porter, a tiny, doll-like woman with curling auburn hair and porcelain skin, told no one that he had gone – not even herself.
‘I haven’t seen your Harold for a while,’ her friends might remark. Vera could remember them, in the parlour with the net curtains, drinking tea and eating dainty scones and cake.
‘Oh, I know,’ Jean would say in a vexed way. ‘It’s so naughty of him. He will take on these big jobs that keep him away from home. He was home earlier in the week, but you missed him, I’m afraid. He’s had to go away again on urgent business overseas. ’
At this, her voice would sink to an awed whisper and the other women would look suitably impressed. If they ever asked exactly what he was doing overseas , Jean would laugh in her girlish way, fiddling with a curling strand of her hair and say, ‘Oh, you know – it’s all to do with buying and selling. I don’t interfere too much in his work, to tell you the truth. You know what the male of the species is like, don’t you? They don’t like to be interfered with!’
She would tell her friends that he was due home in a few days, and that then they would be away, taking a little holiday – perhaps by the seaside?
Vera, whose ninth birthday came and went without her seeing her father, did start to doubt things. When Mummy said to people that Daddy had been home for a few days last week, she started to think that
A gasp came from the bed behind her. Vera was thrashing her head from side to side.
‘Is that him . . . ?’ she said in a slurred voice. ‘Spots, Spots, come here!’ A moment later, more loudly, she cried, ‘Daddy! Is that you, Daddy?’
Katie got up and went over, alarmed. She sat down and reluctantly took her mother’s hand. This felt awkward. Being in any way close to Vera was not comfortable. But soon Vera had gone back to sleep.
Vera’s throat was on fire. One minute she was sweating, the next shivering with aching cold. The glands in her neck throbbed, and if she opened her eyes the walls seemed to bulge in and out, so she mostly kept them closed, except when she was looking for Mummy. She seemed to have been gone for a long time. Where was she? And why was Spots barking, on and on, next door?
The little bedroom in Sparkhill seemed to have become her childhood room in Hall Green, with the watercolour picture of Jesus calming the storm on the wall by the bed, so that that was what she saw each time she looked up: Jesus in a halo of light amid the towering waves and bucking ship. He would always be there to make things right, that was what Mummy said – Mummy with her childlike beliefs.
They were Congregationalists, deeply involved in the Church and Bible Study, saying prayers before every meal. Vera had no brothers and sisters, so she was thrown into the company of her parents and of adults in general. Her father, Harold Porter, was a big man, imposing, with strong-featured good looks and dark-brown curly hair. He was a travelling salesman, and good at it – his looks must have helped, his air of knowing something that other people would benefit by learning from him – so they had a car. He was away for a night or two quite often.
When Vera was eight, he disappeared for two years, almost to the day.
Vera’s mother, Jean Porter, a tiny, doll-like woman with curling auburn hair and porcelain skin, told no one that he had gone – not even herself.
‘I haven’t seen your Harold for a while,’ her friends might remark. Vera could remember them, in the parlour with the net curtains, drinking tea and eating dainty scones and cake.
‘Oh, I know,’ Jean would say in a vexed way. ‘It’s so naughty of him. He will take on these big jobs that keep him away from home. He was home earlier in the week, but you missed him, I’m afraid. He’s had to go away again on urgent business overseas. ’
At this, her voice would sink to an awed whisper and the other women would look suitably impressed. If they ever asked exactly what he was doing overseas , Jean would laugh in her girlish way, fiddling with a curling strand of her hair and say, ‘Oh, you know – it’s all to do with buying and selling. I don’t interfere too much in his work, to tell you the truth. You know what the male of the species is like, don’t you? They don’t like to be interfered with!’
She would tell her friends that he was due home in a few days, and that then they would be away, taking a little holiday – perhaps by the seaside?
Vera, whose ninth birthday came and went without her seeing her father, did start to doubt things. When Mummy said to people that Daddy had been home for a few days last week, she started to think that
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