Page 32

BEFORE

September 1976

Sally

Doddington Estate, Battersea Park Road, London

Sally awoke the next morning a little before nine o’clock. Her head felt woozy, and her stomach groaned in protest as she tried to sit up. Memories of her late-night shellfish feast and her breath reeking of fish made her stomach heave. She ran to the bathroom, ill from the night’s overindulgence. Sally wasn’t a drinker, yet she’d drunk more last night than she had in the entire time since she’d left the orphanage. She put the kettle on to make tea.

She didn’t regret the hangover, though. They’d needed that blowout. It had been so much fun with Elsie, dancing and singing along to their favourite songs, celebrating and planning for a future that seemed achievable now.

And then she remembered her mother. The image she had burned in her memories of her mother sitting in front of her dressing table, brushing her flame-red hair, pouting her perfect ruby lips, spraying peach perfume liberally onto her neck and her wrists.

Once she’d made a pot of tea and had drunk her first cup, Sally walked out to the small hallway of her flat and picked up the London phone directory from the floor. It sat, gathering dust in the corner, rarely used. Her heart raced as she brought it back to the kitchen table. She laid her hand on the cover, and she could almost feel it throb under her touch.

‘She’s not going to be listed,’ she whispered to herself, trying desperately not to let herself get her hopes up. But her hand shook as she flicked through the pages. Sally’s breath came in shallow bursts as she tried to find the courage to move to the ‘F’ section of the book. Because she knew that there was another possibility, worse than her mother leaving her behind for a new life, unburdened from her responsibilities.

She might be dead.

Sally steadied her right hand with her left, then she flicked through the pages, slowing down when she reached the surnames that started with ‘Fo’. She traced her finger down the page, stopping halfway through the second column.

Fox, Lizzie, Ms, 12 Campbell Road, North Islington, London.

The room stilled, her hand stopped trembling and the words blurred as Sally blinked back tears.

That was her mother. It had to be. And, without any real thought of running through the pros and cons, Sally knew that she had to visit her. See her for herself. She caught a sob in her throat as she imagined feeling her mother’s arms round her one more time.

What would Sally say to her if she found the nerve to visit her? Her body began to shake as a hidden memory resurfaced. Her mother, clicking the latch on her small suitcase, avoiding Sally’s questioning eyes. And then the moment her mother had turned her back on Sally, walking away from her daughter, who sat quivering in the back of Mrs Burton’s car.

Why did you send me away, Mum? Did I do something wrong?

Sally shook the thoughts away. If she did go to see her mother, Sally would keep these questions to herself. She wasn’t sure she was brave enough to ask them, or to hear the answer.

Sally stood up and made her way to the bathroom. This was the most critical first impression of her life. Her mother was a glamorous woman – she remembered that much clearly – who spent a lot of time sitting in front of her dressing table, getting ready to go out. So Sally took her time, teasing her hair into place, then applying her make-up carefully. She knew what she was going to wear. High-waisted mint-green flared trousers, a small gold buckle belt that cinched in her waist and a bell-sleeved silk print blouse in creams, with mint-green and light-blue patterns swirling prettily together. She’d bought the blouse for 50p in her favourite second-hand shop and had worn it on her first day of college.

Once she was ready, she looked at herself in her mirror, turning sideways to check her appearance from every direction. Would her mother be proud of her daughter? Would she think Sally was pretty? Her hammering heart told her that, no matter what she might tell herself, she still desperately needed her mother’s approval.

Sally made her way to Battersea Park Station and, with the help of a kind ticket agent, worked out her route to North Islington. Her mother’s house was only a three-minute walk from the station. Less than an hour later, she arrived at Campbell Road. Had she been living this close to her mother all this time? A mere sixty minutes from the only person to whom she was related in this world?

Sally felt a tension headache begin to pound as she ran through the words she’d practised in her mind during the train journey here. She looked at her small Timex watch, surprised it was only eleven. It felt as if a day had passed since she’d written down her mother’s address on the back of a brown envelope. Was it too early to call? She hoped not. Sally paused at a corner shop and went inside to buy a box of Milk Tray chocolates.

‘For anyone special?’ the shopkeeper asked as Sally paid him.

‘For my mother,’ Sally replied, and felt a flush of warmth move from her chest to her face. She loved how that sounded on her lips.

My mother.

Campbell Road was an eclectic group of old houses comprising red, grey and white brick, with many of them derelict. A couple of cars were parked up along the street. A group of kids played chase with each other, dodging cars as their drivers honked their horns to move them out of the way. A man wearing a heavy knitted cardigan leaned on his front door, smoking a pipe. He paid her no attention as she passed him by. A stench filled the air. Putrid damp and decay. Several houses had ‘Sold’ signs pinned to boarded-up windows and doors. Graffiti scarred the facade of a large corner house, painted white. Windows were broken in another.

She counted down the numbers from 103 until she came to 20. Then she slowed to almost a standstill. Her heart raced again as she willed herself the courage to walk the last few feet. Sally noticed a woman with hair in large round curlers. She wore a bright-red housecoat. Smoke drifted upwards, as she took a deep drag of her cigarette. Two more steps and she arrived outside number 12. Pink flowery curtains were closed in the window beside the black front door and grey-brick home. Their bright colour was a lonely but hopeful sight in a grey landscape. A promising sign, Sally told herself, lifting her hand to knock on the door.

She felt the eyes of the woman in curlers watching her as she rapped the brass knocker. The woman said, ‘She won’t be up, love.’ She sniffed, then added, ‘She’ll have been up half the night.’

Sally ignored her. She knew her type, always watching, judging, gossiping. She had half a dozen neighbours on her landing who were the same. Sally took a step back, preparing herself for disappointment. But then a flash of movement on her left caught her eye. The curtains twitched. Sally knocked a second time, and then she heard the sound of footsteps making their way towards the front door.

Sally crossed her fingers, holding her hands behind her back.

Please, Mum, let it be you.

And her wish was granted because the door opened to reveal Lizzie Fox.

She was older, but nonetheless impossible to mistake. Her hair was still vibrant red, back-combed high on her head. Dark kohl eyeliner framed her green eyes, and her signature ruby red lipstick stained her lips. But the colour bled into new lines running around her mother’s mouth.

Her mother looked at her, and Sally watched her, hoping she would see instant recognition in her eyes. But there was no Hollywood reunion.

‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.’

Her voice threw Sally. It was deeper than she remembered it, raspy, as if she had smoked too much. Prepared speeches disappeared as a rush of emotion flooded Sally again.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ her mother asked again. But her voice wasn’t cruel as she surveyed Sally, and she smiled lopsidedly at her.

Sally remembered that smile, and it gave her the courage to move closer again.

‘Hello, Mum.’

Her mother’s face paled as Sally’s words landed. Her eyes drifted up and down Sally, and then, with a quick glance up and down the road, she gestured inside.

‘You better come in.’

The house was clean; that was Sally’s first thought as she walked down the small hallway into a square sitting room. The heavy scent of cologne lingered behind her mother as she moved. It wasn’t Pretty in Peach, though. Something muskier that she didn’t recognise. A brown velvet couch and armchair were pushed against the wall. The floor was carpeted, deep red, with a beige pattern running through it. A coffee table sat in the middle of the room, and several magazines were on top. It looked normal, like any mother’s home.

‘I can’t believe it’s you,’ her mum said as she took a seat in the armchair, her eyes running over Sally from head to toe. Sally perched herself on the edge of the sofa, her body trembling as her heart raced.

‘You look well, Mum,’ Sally said, clasping her hands on her lap so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

‘And you’ve all grown up,’ her mum replied. She smoothed down her hair, licking her lips as she took in Sally. ‘How’d you find me?’

‘The phone book,’ Sally said. ‘I thought you might have left England. I was happy to see you are still here.’

Her mother’s face clouded, and the lines around her lips deepened as she frowned. ‘I should have gone to Australia when I had the chance.’

Sally shifted in her seat as her mother’s eyes glared at her. It was as if Sally were to blame for this missed opportunity. ‘Why didn’t you go?’

‘My friend and I applied for the ten-pound passage as part of the Australian Migration Scheme – Ten-pound Poms, they called it. I was all set. But then I got pregnant. I had to stay here while my pal was out in Perth, living her best life. The sun shines every day there, so I’m told.’

Ah, it was her fault. Sally didn’t know how to respond, so she stayed dumb. An uneasy silence filled the small sitting room.

Ask me how I am, Mum, please.

‘I haven’t got any money if that’s what you’re looking for,’ her mother eventually said.

‘I didn’t come for money, Mum,’ Sally replied. Her hands felt clammy, so she wiped them on her trousers. ‘I have a job. Well, two, actually. I’m an apprentice hairdresser, and I work at night cleaning offices.’

Her mother smiled again, and the tension left the room. ‘My daughter is a hairdresser!’ She clapped her hands in delight, clearly pleased with this career choice. ‘You have pretty hair. I like that style,’ she stated, and Sally basked in the compliment.

‘The Farrah Fawcett flick is popular in my salon. Nicola, she’s my boss, she styled my hair like this. I’m glad you like it.’

Sally passed the brown paper bag to her mother. ‘I got you some chocolates.’

Her mother opened the bag and smiled her lopsided grin again. ‘All because the lady loves Milk Tray. My favourite. Tell you what, let’s have some tea and chocolates now.’

Her mother disappeared, and Sally took the chance to look at the photographs that lined the mantlepiece over the fire as she heard her fill the kettle.

‘There’s none of you there,’ her mother’s voice said from behind. ‘Too hard to look at you after I handed you over.’

This was the first sign of emotion from her mother, and Sally clung to it.

‘I understand.’ Sally paused, trying to work up the courage to admit her truth. ‘I missed you, Mum.’

There, she’d said it.

Her mother walked to her and held her hands between her own. Bright red nail polish gleamed on her mother’s long acrylic nails.

‘I can’t wear polish because of the cleaning job. It never lasts,’ Sally explained, feeling a little embarrassed by her boring, unadorned nails.

‘You have pretty hands. Keep putting hand cream on every morning and night. It’s the only way to keep age at bay. The lines on her hands are such a giveaway tale about a woman’s age.’

‘You have pretty hands too, Mum,’ Sally said, and she could see that her mother was pleased with that compliment too.

The kettle whistled its readiness, so her mum disappeared again, returning a few moments later with two mugs of steaming tea.

‘I hope you like milk and sugar. I made it the same way I like mine.’

‘It’s exactly as I drink it,’ Sally replied as she took her first sip. Another sign, she told herself. They had something else in common. This was going to work out. They’d be friends again, once more in each other’s lives. Her mum could come to the salon once a week, and Sally would do her hair for her.

‘Tell me about your life,’ her mother said.

And so, as they tucked into the chocolates, Sally told her mother about Nicola, Elsie and her flat in Doddington.

‘I made the right choice for you,’ her mother stated. ‘Giving you to the orphanage.’

Sally couldn’t bring herself to agree with her mother, even though she knew that was what was expected of her.

‘Why did you give me away?’ Sally whispered, unable to keep the question in one moment more.

Her mother stood up, her green kaftan billowing out behind her as she walked to the windows. Had she heard Sally? She moved aside the flowery curtains and looked out, her forehead furrowed in a frown.

‘Look at those poor buggers trying to pretend that they are having fun as they kick a tin can about. The kids here will never see the ocean. They’ll never get to ride a rollercoaster. Or play in a green field. They’ll live and die in this dump. I wanted more than that for you.’ She turned round, her eyes glistening as the sunlight hit them from the window. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Have you seen the ocean?’

Sally remembered a trip when she was twelve years old. With Sister Jones in charge, she’d hired a bus and taken them all to Margate for the day. Most of the girls in Sunshine House had never been outside London before. There had been so much excitement on the bus that it had felt like it would combust, blowing its rusty seams apart. And when they’d stopped at the pier they’d run at full speed towards the sea, pulling their stockings and shoes off. Her toes curled in memory of that first shock as the water kissed her feet. Gulls had cawed in the blue skies, harmonising with the squeals of the girls.

‘I saw the ocean, Mum. And it was the most wondrous sight.’

Her mother nodded, wiping under her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It broke my heart that day. Sending you to the orphanage.’

Sally’s breath caught in her throat.

‘I loved you. But I couldn’t take care of you any more. Life was . . . complicated. I had no choice. I had to give you up. But I need you to know that it cost me.’

Sally watched her mother’s face crumple as she spoke, decades of hurt and loss etched onto the fine lines of her face.

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Sally said, desperate to take away her mother’s pain.

‘You must hate me.’

Sally shook her head, knowing it to be true that she did not. ‘I missed you. I was worried for you. I was scared and hurt. But I never hated you, Mum.’

Her mother turned back to the window again, and said softly, ‘My daughter got to see the ocean . . .’

‘One day, I’d like to live near the water,’ Sally said shyly, admitting out loud a secret dream.

‘You could open a hairdressing salon somewhere on the coast. Bournemouth is meant to be lovely.’ Her mother frowned. ‘I knew a man from Bournemouth once. He had the longest fingernails. Off-putting.’

Sally stood up, placing her mug on the coffee table. ‘Maybe I could do your hair for you.’

For a moment, happiness sparked its way through her mother, like sunbeams on the window pane, as she smiled in delight at Sally’s suggestion. Sally couldn’t help herself. She lunged forward and threw her arms round her mother, holding her close. She inhaled her musky scent hungrily as her hands reached up to touch her mother’s hair again. They stood in each other’s embrace, their breaths moving in synchrony.

‘I’m afraid I need to ask you to leave. I have to go to work,’ her mother said, pulling apart and stepping backwards until she touched the window frame.

Sally almost stumbled, such was her surprise at her mother’s sudden mood change. ‘What do you work at?’ Sally asked, keeping her smile brightly fixed on as she tried to hide her hurt.

‘This and that,’ was her unsatisfactory answer. ‘I’m truly happy to have seen you, Sally. You are a beautiful young woman, and I’m proud of all you are doing in your life. But I’m sorry. I don’t have it in me to be your mother – not how you want me to be.’

Sally raised her hands in protest, reaching out to clasp her mother’s again. But they fell into a growing abyss between them.

‘I don’t need anything from you, Mum. Promise. I want to see you every now and then.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. But you need to go now.’ Her eyes darted to the front door as if expecting someone to come through at any minute.

‘Shall I come back next Sunday to talk some more?’ Sally asked, her voice coming out in a high-pitched squeak.

‘No! Don’t come back. Only if we’ve arranged it beforehand. You can’t just show up here.’

Sally’s stomach dropped in disappointment. ‘Okay, Mum. But can I call you first to arrange it? Do you have a phone?’

‘No. When I need the phone, I use the call box at the end of the road.’

‘I can write to you,’ Sally said, desperate to find a way to keep in touch.

‘It’s a free world,’ her mother replied, her voice now cool, and unyielding. ‘Thank you for the chocolates. And good luck with the hairdressing.’

Her mother moved towards the front door, leaving a confused Sally no option but to follow her out.

‘Is everything okay?’ Sally asked, failing to catch her mother’s eyes.

‘It’s fine. I’m busy, that’s all.’ Her mother’s voice caught as she continued, ‘It was good to see you Sally. Goodbye.’

And then she closed the front door softly between them.

‘Don’t send me away again mum, please . . .’ Sally whispered, as she stood rooted to the spot, holding back tears.

But the door remained closed, so Sally made her way home.