South of the Lights Page 3

  One day Mum was promoted to part-time usherette. She was very pleased about this, although it meant working late hours, leaving Brenda at home by herself a good part of the evening. Brenda did not mind. She was just sixteen and, on evenings she didn’t go out with friends, unafraid of being alone. She’d sit looking at telly all evening, or read a magazine and smoke her Woodbines, quite happy. Sometimes she’d even try her hand at making something for Mum to eat when she came home, warming up a pie and boiling frozen vegetables. But usually she forgot and simply made herself cups of Nescafe into which she poured an extravagant amount of condensed milk.

  One evening she was curled up on the sofa, watching a thriller on television, when Uncle Jim came in. His night shift had been changed, he said, and he hadn’t gone down for a drink as he wanted to watch the football. Without asking Brenda’s permission, he switched channels to the game, and flopped down on to the sofa beside her. He smelt of cheese and tobacco and sweat. He rarely washed. Brenda wrinkled her nose and watched the game. After a while she said:

  ‘I was enjoying that thriller.’

  ‘Poor little Brenda. Uncle Jim goes and spoils it all for her, doesn’t he?’ He put his hand on her knee. Brenda looked from the television screen to his hand. It was large and calloused, the nails black arcs, the knuckles chipped like dry wood. Heavy. She watched it slide up her thigh, over the flat plain of her stomach, and come to rest again on her breast.

  ‘One day our little Brenda’s going to have the prettiest boobs in Birmingham,’ he said. ‘Give them a year and they’ll be hanging out.’

  ‘Leave off,’ said Brenda. The hand was a comfortable cage round her breast, but it made her angry.

  ‘Just a feel. A feel doesn’t do nobody any harm, does it?’ He squeezed her.

  ‘I said take your filthy hands off me, Jim Roach.’

  ‘They’re bigger than your mother’s already.’

  Brenda slapped his face. He drew back, surprised.

  ‘No need to get nasty, now, is there? Just a cuddle. Your age, I’d been screwing all over the city. They called me Jim the –’

  ‘– I don’t care what they called you! You lay a finger on me ever again and I’ll tell Mum and you’ll be out.’

  ‘They knew they’d get it big and good,’ he sneered.

  ‘Mum’ll put you straight out on the street.’ Brenda stood up, shaking.

  ‘She wouldn’t dare. I give it to her too good.’

  ‘Shut up! You pig!’ Brenda turned to the door. At that moment her mother came in, scarf over her head, face shining with rain.

  ‘What’s all the shouting?’ she asked.

  ‘We was just having a little ding-dong.’ Jim stood with his hands on his hips, thick legs apart, flushed. ‘Brenda’s getting temperamental now she’s getting a big girl.’

  Brenda ran from the room, not wanting Mum to see her distress.

  The incident seemed to have spurred some kind of desire in Uncle Jim: Brenda grew to dread being in the house alone with him. He said he wasn’t going to do night shifts any more, and came back to the house early most evenings. He did not try to touch her again, but lay slumped back in a chair, one hand rubbing his pelvis, the other stuffing his mouth with sliced cheese. His eyes crawled over Brenda, his cheeks a solid crimson. He said just to watch her made him feel good. He said if only she wasn’t her Mum’s daughter he knew what he’d like to do to her. He’d pinch her tits, all nice, so’s she’d cry to him not to stop. Brenda, hot, weak and frightened, would go to her room and lock the door. Sometimes she would cry. She couldn’t tell Mum, because Mum would be wild and want Jim to go: though in her heart she would want Jim to stay. In a way he was good to her: gave her several pounds a week and took her out for a drink Saturdays. No: it would be unfair to Mum to say anything. Brenda kept silence for several weeks.

  Then one Sunday morning she was drying her hair in the kitchen. As it straggled wetly over her back she had pulled down the neck of her tee-shirt, and undone several buttons. She sat in a shaft of sun rubbing at her head with a towel, thinking of the afternoon she was going to spend with Robert, with the beautiful face, who seemed to be her boyfriend now. All the girls wanted Robert and she’d been out with him three times. Last time he’d kissed her. He’d kiss her again this afternoon, for sure. At the thought Brenda rubbed her hair harder, full of energy and excitement.

  Uncle Jim came in. He’d been down to the pub for an early beer. There was white foam at the corners of his mouth. He was full of menace, sweaty. Brenda looked up from her towel, afraid. Instinctively she did up the buttons of her shirt. Uncle Jim laughed, and tugged at the belt of his trousers, began to unbutton his flies. Then he started saying filthy things, very fast, the words stumbling over one another. Brenda flung her towel at him with a scream, got up and ran. She ran to her friend Lindy’s house and told her all about it. Lindy was barely sympathetic. So what? she said. At least it was Brenda’s uncle. In her house it was their Dad who was always begging them to have a look every time their Mum’s back was turned. For some reason this made Brenda laugh. It gave her strength, to think she wasn’t the only one being pursued by filthy middle-aged men. It also gave her resolve. She dried her hair and went to the cinema with Robert. He kissed her again, very gently, and she felt a wild elation that was quite new to her. She told Robert she was going to run away. He said that was a good idea, and if she sent him her address he’d come and visit her.

  That evening Brenda told her mother she was leaving. She wanted to see the world, she said. She’d be all right, easy enough to get a job somewhere. Perhaps in the country, she was sick of cities. Her mother gave her a funny look, didn’t ask any questions. Instead she went to her savings – a tin of canned peaches which didn’t look as if it had been opened – and took out all the money: £20.

  ‘I been saving it for emergencies,’ she said. ‘Here, you take it. It’s probably time you left home. But let me know you’re all right, and come back sometimes.’

  Brenda took the money and briefly touched her mother’s scratchy hair, not quite knowing what sort of gesture she should make in the circumstances. Uncle Jim didn’t come home that night. She and Mum opened a tin of rock salmon which they spread thickly with salad dressing and made it into great oozy sandwiches. They drank whisky from the small bottle that was kept for other kind of emergencies and, in front of the small fire, both admitted to feeling a bit spinny. Brenda promised she’d keep in touch, and Mum said don’t get pregnant if you can help it.

  Brenda left Birmingham next day. She travelled south of the lights in a meat lorry which she hitched in the suburbs. The driver told her he was going to London. Brenda thought she might as well go too, unless she saw somewhere that caught her fancy on the way. Two hours down the motorway she saw the chimneys of the brick works looming in the sky. It was still early morning. Brenda liked the way they made a tall, precise pattern against the saffron clouds. They seemed to be protecting the country behind them.

  ‘I fancy it here rather than going to London,’ she said. The driver obligingly pulled up on to the hard shoulder. He said the local town wasn’t much, full of Italians, but there was a nice bit of country roundabout.

  Brenda thanked him and jumped down from the high seat. From then on, as she wrote and told Mum, she fell on her feet in the funniest way. She hitched another lift to the local town and, hungry, went straight to a coffee shop. She hadn’t been there five minutes when a thin, sad-looking girl sat down opposite her, and asked if she knew anyone who’d like to share a flat. Brenda said yes straight away. The girl was called Lark, a typist for a firm of engineers. She said there was plenty of work in the town, especially in shops. Brenda shouldn’t worry. Brenda didn’t worry. She was so excited by her good fortune her breath came in uneven gusts. She and Lark went directly to the flat: two small rooms, a stove in a cupboard, and a bathroom on a landing upstairs. It overlooked a jumble of dark buildings, beyond which rose the high walls of the prison. Brenda cried out with delight. The p
eeling wallpaper and gloomy paint meant nothing to her. It was her own flat – well, hers and Lark’s. She was to sleep in the living-room: by day the bed was covered with an Indian cotton cover, excitingly patterned. Lark had made everything very clean and neat. A smell of polish came from somewhere, though Brenda could see nothing that was actually in need of polish.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Brenda. ‘Are you sure I can come?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for the right person for two weeks,’ said Lark. ‘I’m sure you’re her.’

  ‘What makes you sure?’

  ‘I’m just sure. And don’t worry about the money for a week or two till you get a job. I can tide us over easily and you can pay me back. I’ve nothing but rent to spend my money on.’

  ‘I got plenty, all me Mum’s savings.’ Brenda tapped her bag.

  ‘You get settled in, then, and I’ll be back this evening. There’s plenty to eat, nothing to worry about.’ Lark wore a grey jersey stretched down over her flat chest. She had yellow-green eyes, cat-shaped, the saddest Brenda had ever seen.

  Alone, Brenda unpacked her small case. On the shelf above the gas fire she propped up an old Polyfoto of Mum, and an even more faded print of the man Mum had always claimed was her Dad. He was a Polish sailor with a long blond beard and wonderful eyes: even through the dimness of the photograph you could tell they must have shone more brightly than other men’s. He had come into the café where Mum was working in the war in Solihull, and they had taken an immediate fancy to each other. He had taken her out dancing when the café closed – there had been no time for Mum to change, she had gone in her working clothes. Zeus, as he was called, said he didn’t care. He gave her two pairs of nylon stockings, a great luxury in those days, and spent the night with her. Then he had to be on his way, but said he would come back. Mum, pregnant, waited. Although she hardly knew him, she felt he would have been pleased about the baby – she was positive it was his. He’d had the deepest kindest voice she’d ever heard. Yes, he’d be pleased all right and give her more stockings, perhaps. But the months passed and he never came. The night Brenda was born Mum prayed especially hard, through all the pains, that Zeus would come: all she had of him was the one photograph (the stockings were long since worn out). He had taken it from his wallet and told her to keep it till he returned: he had said it as if he meant it. Brenda knew the story off by heart. Every time Mum told it, even now, her voice went all low and a small pulse in her neck began to tick, and she’d be forced to sip at the emergency whisky. Brenda liked the idea of having a Dad called Zeus who was a brave Polish sailor. (She had no doubts as to his bravery.) She supposed he was probably an admiral by now, clanking with gold on his uniform and very important. She took particular interest in pictures in the newspapers that were anything to do with the Navy. One day she might spot him. She was proud of her unknown father.

  When Lark came back she took great interest in the photographs, and asked many questions. Brenda told her a lot about Mum, and gave the merest hints about her father. Within an hour she liked Lark more than she had ever liked Lindy or Sybil or any of her Birmingham friends. Lark was marvellous, all drawn into herself, somehow, and yet seemingly full of interest in outside things. They ate egg and chips, then took a bus to the local village. Lark said there was a nice pub there called the Star, and on the way they’d see a bit of the countryside. They saw fields of kale. Brenda said they were a lovely green, and Lark said what got her was the red of geraniums.

  They met a friend of Lark’s in the bar, a fat man who bred pigs. He was talking to a tall young man with a droopy eyelid, introduced as plain Evans. Lark started talking most earnestly to her friend about pigs: Brenda was left to Evans. He didn’t seem to have much to say. She asked him about jobs, and at once he perked up. When he was able to be helpful, she discovered later, he became his most vivacious. Yes, he knew of a job, if it was the sort of thing she might consider. Wilberforce, the poultry farmer, needed someone to look after his chickens. Not bad wages, though of course Brenda would have to come out on the bus every day if she was living in the town. Brenda was warm from the two whiskies Evans had bought her. She thought back, first time for two years, to Hen. Silly tears came to her eyes. Evans said he’d arrange an interview with Wilberforce.

  He drove Lark and Brenda back to their flat in his white Mini with the posh red seats, and promised to be in touch next day. By now Brenda was tired, but too excited to sleep. When Lark had gone to her room, she sat at the small table and wrote a letter to Mum. Then, taking more time, she wrote to Robert. He could come at once, she said. Everything had happened smashing. There was plenty of room for him, Lark wouldn’t mind. She must leave off now but she loved him, she really loved him, and she hoped he loved her. In the weeks to come she wrote again and again to Robert, but no reply. Now, she could scarcely remember the colour of his hair.

  Now, three years later, people said Brenda had changed out of all recognition. She was both buxom and lithe, long legs topped with a high small bottom, luminous skin, shining hair the colour of conkers. She was quite aware of the fact that men fancied her no end. They made all sorts of suggestions and sometimes she was tempted to let them try out their skills, without going too far. For basically she felt quite an affection for Evans, and trying to remain faithful to him was something of a masochistic pleasure. He was no Gary Cooper, as her Mum had said on their first visit to Birmingham: but he was a good man, kind and loyal, solid, and willing to please. Brenda appreciated these things; for the time being they were good substitutes to the unreliable excitements that Robert had wrought in her. She could rely on Evans. If she wanted, she could have him just where she wanted for the rest of her life. The very realisation of this filled her with guilty unease. For the most part she put such thoughts from her mind.

  Brenda rubbed her pink ring on the knee of her jeans. She reflected that it seemed to grow smaller every day, but it was pretty in the sunlight. People remarked upon it – at least they used to. In two years the wonder of it had somewhat decreased. In two years the excitement of the whole engagement had dimmed alarmingly: not even on the day Evans had given her the ring, here in this very shed with all the birds looking on, had Brenda felt the kind of ecstasy she had assumed might grip her. No wonder, really. It was with reluctance she had agreed to the arrangement at all. Engagement didn’t mean much to her: both Lindy and Sybil had written from Birmingham to say they were having babies and might get married later. They had no rings, but they lived with their boyfriends. Here, Mr and Mrs Evans and, surprisingly, even Lark, would have been upset by that sort of thing. So after Brenda had been going out with Evans for a year – yacketing on about marriage and security for most of the time, he was – Brenda finally gave in. She said yes to please him and shut him up. She did please him but he didn’t shut up. Every day he’d come up with some new idea about the prospective kitchen or fireplace or life assurance, till she thought he’d drive her bloody mad. Sometimes she shouted at him, sometimes she didn’t listen. Either way he didn’t stop producing his plans, but inflation swiped at his savings and meant their fruition was still a long way off. Privately (something Brenda wouldn’t even tell Lark) the distance of the marriage gave Brenda a feeling of curious, pleasurable safety.

  Evans was in the doorway, evening sun behind him. He’d put on a clean shirt, rolled up the sleeves in the way Brenda said she liked. Only he should have rolled them up a bit further. He had no natural style, though he did try. He was big-boned, clumsy, awkward about his funny eye. He began to walk down the passage between the cages, pushing through the sunbeams as if they didn’t exist. The chickens flicked their heads at him with no pretence at interest: nothing could stir the apathy of their lives. Evans reached Brenda, looked down at her. She covered her cigarette stub with her shoe. Evans flushed. The blood surged right across his chest, clashing with the lemon of his shirt. Irritation pricked Brenda’s skin. She’d wanted a quiet time with Elizabeth.

  ‘All afternoon I’ve been thinking,�
� said Evans. The chickens continued their purring with no respect for his coming thoughts. He had on his quiet voice, the one he used at more appropriate times, when Brenda was past minding what he said. Now, she sighed. Tried for patience. ‘All afternoon I’ve been thinking that it’s the tilt of your eyes makes you seem nearer to smiling than other girls, even when you aren’t feeling like smiling at all.’

  Brenda glanced up at his red face. She wanted to laugh, but saw his seriousness.

  ‘Quite the poet, aren’t we? What’s that supposed to mean?’ She stood up. Evans kissed her, roughly squashing her breasts against his crisp shirt. She could feel the heat of his chest.

  ‘It’s not supposed to mean anything. You just get to thinking, sitting in a post office all afternoon.’