‘Mum, I’ve got something to tell you. Neville has asked me to marry him.’ Hazel stood in the doorway, ready for an argument.
Cora Butler wasn’t surprised at the news. Her middle daughter had been courting Neville Parrot for a year, but as she didn’t think he’d make much of a husband, she said, ‘I hope you didn’t say yes. You’ll never be rich if you marry him.’
‘Money isn’t everything.’
‘It is when you’ve hardly got two pennies to rub together,’ Cora snapped. She knew what it was to struggle and wanted better for her daughter. After losing her husband during the war Cora had been left to raise three girls on her own. It had been so hard. She’d had to do anything to earn a few bob to feed them, and along with cleaning she’d taken in washing and ironing. Her back was permanently damaged from bending over the bath for hours on end, rubbing at the soaking laundry, and her knuckles were scarred from using a scrubbing board. Even though the war had ended twelve years ago she still felt the effects of it every day.
‘I don’t care about money,’ Hazel protested. ‘I love Neville and I’m going to marry him.’
Cora’s lips tightened and, gathering her thoughts, she walked across her tiny front room to the window. The room was as immaculate as she could get it, seeing as there were three of them living there, but nothing in it was new or close to it. She flicked back the lace curtain to gaze out onto another cold, miserable January day in Ennis Street. All the houses were the same, basically two-up, two-down, narrow, terraced, flat-fronted, and bleak. As bleak as her mood. She had hoped that her daughter would find a way out of this ugly working-class area, but Neville offered little chance of that. The streets were so close together she could hardly see the sky when she looked up. The houses opposite were a bit bigger because of the way the road curved but they were still nothing to shout about.
With a sigh Cora dropped the curtain and turned to her daughter again. Of her three girls, Hazel was the prettiest, with auburn hair that fell in natural curls to her shoulders. Her femininity was marred only by her big-boned build, making her look formidable, but with green eyes, a pert nose and full lips, she nevertheless turned men’s heads. Hazel could have taken her pick, but instead she’d fallen for Neville Parrot. His family lived in one of the houses opposite them, and they had moved in eighteen months ago when his father got a job on the railway. They seemed nice enough and Neville was a good-looking lad, but he probably earned a pittance in the local paint factory. ‘You’ve fallen for his looks, but looks ain’t everything. As I said, you’ll never be rich if you marry him.’
‘We’ll both be working, so we’ll be fine. I’m going to carry on at the café.’
‘Yeah, until kids come along,’ Cora commented. ‘You’ll feel the pinch then.’
‘Mum, stop going on about it. Can’t you just be happy for me?’
Cora saw that Hazel’s eyes were flooding with tears, something she rarely saw from her tough daughter, and though Cora was hardened from the life she’d had to live, she nevertheless felt a twinge of guilt. Hazel’s eyes had been bright with happiness when she’d announced that Neville had asked her to marry him, but now they were pools of pain. ‘Yeah, all right. I’m sorry, love. I just wanted better for you, but if you’re happy, then I’m happy,’ she said, and then, trying to lighten the mood, added, ‘Mind you, it’s just as well I didn’t name you Polly.’
‘Why’s that?’ Hazel asked.
‘Think about it. You’d be Mrs Polly Parrot,’ Cora said and chuckled.
Hazel laughed, happy again now, but as pain shot across Cora’s back, she hurried to sit by the fire once more where she could warm it a little, taking the chance to hold out her aching hands to the flames whilst she was there.
Alison Butler, Cora’s youngest daughter, scurried along Ennis Street, her shoulders hunched as though expecting an attack at any moment. It wouldn’t be physical – it rarely was, although she got the occasional shove or push from behind – but it would be verbal and hurtful. Hardly a day went by when something along those lines failed to happen. Her fears came to fruition as two boys of about eleven darted up in front of her.
‘Watcha, horse face,’ mocked Jimmy Small.
‘My dad said she’s got a face that could win the Epsom Derby,’ Ian Young said.
‘Yeah, that’s a good one,’ laughed Jimmy.
‘Come on. Gee up, horsey,’ Ian urged. ‘Let’s see how fast you can gallop.’
Alison kept her head down, hiding her pain. She had suffered name-calling all her young life, at school, on the streets, and it never seemed to stop. She knew only too well that her looks weren’t anything to write home about – growing up with such pretty sisters had made that only too clear – but she could never understand why so many people were so keen to point it out, with thoughtless cruelty. She picked up her pace and reaching her front door she dashed inside before closing it quickly behind her. Only then did she give vent to her feelings and was unable to hold back a sob of distress.
As the door opened directly into the front room, she could see that her mother was sitting on one side of the fireplace, her sister on the other. Both stared at her. It was her mother who spoke, though her tone was uncaring. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t tell me. I can guess. Someone’s been calling you names again?’
Alison nodded, finding that her throat was too constricted to speak.
‘With a face like that, it ain’t gonna stop and you should