her ways.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘It’s like your grandmother, all over again. My Marie was just the same, God rest her soul. You see, my boy, I just can’t go through it all again. We’ve allus given in, but not this time. I’m too old and tired to take it any more. It’ll be the death of me.’
‘But you can’t send her away!’ The boy panicked. ‘Where will she go?’
‘Back to the streets where she belongs.’
‘That’s fine.’ Rita struggled to stand. Holding on to the back of the chair, she told them both, ‘I’m a proud woman, and I don’t stay where I’m not wanted. Help me, Davie. I know where we can go, me and you. We don’t need this hovel. We can do better, you and me!’
‘Not you, Davie!’ Just as Don had pleaded with Davie, so now did the old man. ‘She’s not worth it. Let her go and find her own sort. You stay here.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Please, Davie, don’t go with her. Stay here, with me.’ Truth was, at this moment in time, he needed the boy more than ever.
But the boy’s answer was the same as before. ‘I can’t leave her, she’s my mam. We’ll take care of each other.’
‘So, you mean to desert me as well, do you?’
‘I have to look after her.’
‘No, Davie!’ Somehow, he had to stop the boy from going. ‘You’re not listening to what I’m saying. Your father tried to warn you, and now I’m begging you … don’t go with her. She’ll take you down the road to ruin. Stay here with me … please.’
The boy was steadfast. ‘No, Grandad. She needs me.’
‘What? And you don’t think I need you?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Not as much as Mam does.’
‘Right!’ Desperation heightened to anger. ‘Go on then! If that’s what you want, you can bugger off the pair of you, out of my house and out of my life. And I pray to God I never see either of you again!’
For a long, shocked moment, the boy looked him in the eye, not wanting to believe what he’d just heard.
‘Come on, sweetheart.’ Rita stubbed out her cigarette and tugged at his sleeve. ‘We don’t need him. We don’t need anybody. You and me, we’ll be fine on our own.’
The old man lingered a moment longer, silently pleading with Davie to see sense and change his mind. But he knew how loyal the boy was, and he had seen how his father leaving had made him all the more protective of his mother. And he realised he had lost to her, yet again.
Without a word, he went upstairs, where he sat on the edge of his bed, saddened at what his own daughter had become, and worried about Davie: there was no telling where Rita might take him. God only knew where it would all end.
A few minutes later, Davie came upstairs to collect a few things. He paused at the old man’s door. ‘I’m sorry, Grandad,’ he said.
But there was no forgiveness in the old man’s heart, only fear for the boy, and hatred for his daughter. ‘Go away,’ he grunted.
‘I don’t want to leave like this.’
For a fleeting moment, the old man almost relented; for the boy’s sake, perhaps he should give her another chance. But how many chances would she need before she saw what she was doing to herself and others? No! The mixture of old and new anger was still burning, and he deliberately turned away, his heart like a lead weight inside him.
After a while he heard the boy move away, heard his footsteps dragging down the stairs – and it was all he could do not to go after him and catch him in his arms and tell him they would have a home here for as long as they wanted.
But he had been through it all so many times with her, just as he had with her mother, and each time she sank deeper into the swamp. Then there was the gossip and the sly looks in the street. You couldn’t go on like it, and she wouldn’t change her ways. Why couldn’t Davie see her for what she was?
The slam of the front door shattered his thoughts. Slowly and heavily, he went downstairs to the front room and looked out of the window. As he watched them go down the street, his daughter limping – from the drink, he assumed – he could hardly see them for the tears scalding his eyes. ‘Look at you,’ he murmured. ‘A mere scrap of a lad, and yet you take it all in your stride.’
He saw how the woman leaned her weight on the boy, and how he took it, like the little man he was. ‘God help you, Davie,’ he muttered. ‘She’ll use you and then she’ll desert you.’
He was bone-tired, and his heart full of sorrow.
When they were out of sight, he left the window and went back to sit down, holding the broken bits of the clock, the tears he’d managed to hold back now flowing down his face. It was all such a mess. What a dreadful night’s work this had been. ‘I’m sorry, Davie. I had to send her away,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve don emy best, but I’m too old and frail to put up with her bad ways.’
He glanced out at the waking skies and he prayed. ‘Dear God, keep them both safe. Let her realise the harm she’s done. And keep young Davie under Your divine protection.’ He hoped the Almighty was listening.
The rage inside him was easing and now, with the coming of the dawn, there was another feeling, a sense of horror and shame. What in God’s name had he been thinking of, to do such a terrible thing?
Suddenly he was out of the front door and shouting for them to come back. ‘We’ll give it another go! We’ll work at it! We’ll try again!’ His lonely voice echoed along the early-morning street.
He paused to get his breath, then he hurried up to the top of Derwent Street and round the corner, and he called yet again, but the pair were gone, out of sight, out of his life, just as he’d ordered them to do. And it was more than he could bear.
Wearily, he made his way back. In his troubled heart he feared for them both.
But even Joseph could not have foreseen the shocking sequence of events that were about to unfold.
ON LEAVING THE house, Davie did not look back. With his mother leaning heavily on his arm and stumbling at every turn, he threaded his way through the familiar streets of Blackburn, his heart frozen with shock at the night’s events and his mind swamped with all manner of torment.
He suspected his grandfather had been watching from the window, and he knew how bad he must be feeling. From past experience and having been on the receiving end of the old man’s kindness countless times, he knew the calibre of the man, knew how it went against Joseph’s loving nature, to have thrown his own daughter out onto the streets. Davie readily forgave his grandfather. He did not want Joseph to feel guilty, because he had always done right by Rita. Over the years, he had done right by them all.
Twice the old man had taken the whole family in; once, a few years back, when a little business Don had set up after the war, had gone bust, and then again, more recently, when Rita had squandered the rent money and they were evicted. Most of her own wages and tips went on drink and cigarettes, these days.
Through it all, Joseph had supported them. No man could have done more for his family. And who could blame him for turning her away? The neverending fights and arguments had tired the old chap to the bone.
‘Where are we going, Mam?’ The boy knew she was hurt and he was anxious. ‘Maybe we should go straight to Doctor Arnold’s house? He’ll be up by now.’
But Rita would have none of it. ‘I’m not going to no bloody quack!’ she retorted. ‘We’ll pay a call on a good friend of mine. Jack will help us, I know