Chris Curran - Her Turn to Cry

The words echoed in her head along with the memory of cloying Brylcreem and smoke-clogged tweed, and Joycie flinched back. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she managed to gasp, turning away to hide her face in the wall, gulping down the bile, afraid he would guess how she felt. For a few moments she had wanted him so much. But that voice was in her head again, and she knew she could never let go with any man, even with Marcus.

He hadn’t moved, and after what seemed an age she felt his hand touch her shoulder. It stayed there for a moment before sliding down her arm. When he reached her hand he gripped her fingers. ‘It’s fine, come on, sit up and look at me, Joycie. It’s only me.’

She grabbed more tissues and scrubbed at her face saying sorry over and over. When she was finally able to look at him, he smiled, and she longed to hold him again and tell him she loved him and one day it might work between them. But that was impossible.

‘This’, he made a gesture that seemed to take in her tear-stained face, the crumple of tissues on the bed, and even himself, ‘is all because of what happened to your mum, isn’t it?’

She met his eyes. ‘I used to think someone, or something, might have forced her to go away.’

‘This guy she was having it off with, you mean?’

A flicker of memory. ‘Or someone else. I just don’t know.’ He squeezed her forearm and for a moment she longed to lean into him again. Instead she climbed out of bed.

‘You’re not going to leave it at that, though, are you?’ he said. ‘You’ll see this aunt again?’

‘She’s sending me some letters they got from Mum.’

‘Good, and in the meantime why don’t we try to find out if there was another guy and have a go at tracking him down? I’ve got Sid Sergeant’s phone number, so we could get in touch with him. He and your parents were close so I bet he’ll have some idea.’

Her dressing gown was on the end of the bed, and she pulled it round her, swallowing to get rid of the sick feeling in her throat. ‘No, I don’t want anything to do with him, with either of them.’

Her voice came out louder than she meant, and Marcus raised his palms in front of him. ‘Fine, fine, no need to scream at me.’ She fastened the dressing gown, her fingers fumbling on the buttons, as he went on, ‘I wish you’d tell me everything, Joycie, it might even help you. It’s not just your mum, is it? Something happened to you as well.’

She went to sit at the dressing table, wincing at her reflection. God, she looked awful .

‘Sid is obviously a lecherous old bastard, and it doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to see you can’t stand to be near him,’ Marcus said.

With her hands in her hair she stared at herself in the mirror, trying to see the whole truth in her own face. Brylcreem, stale beer, and rough tweed smelling of sweat and wee. ‘There’s things from when I was a kid I just can’t remember and other things that …’

‘You don’t want to remember or even think about?’

A deep breath, pushing her hair back and meeting his eyes in the mirror. ‘Please, Marcus, let it be for now. I think if I can find what really happened to my mum the rest might sort itself out.’

He picked up the empty cup and plate. ‘OK.’ At the door he turned. ‘What about talking to Deirdre then? She and Irene were your mum’s friends.’

Joycie had lived with Irene and Deirdre after her dad died: shell-shocked by what had happened to him. And although Irene was full of stories about her life in the theatre, they rarely mentioned either of her parents.

‘We could take those photos of you wearing the jewellery Irene left you. I’m sure Deirdre would love that.’

‘Yes, let’s. I should go and see her anyway. I ought to have visited her and Irene more often. They were so good to me. But, Marcus, please throw away the card Sid gave you. I want to forget all about him.’

***

Marcus handed Deirdre the brown envelope with the photos of Joycie wearing Irene’s necklaces. As she looked at them Deirdre’s tiny hands shook and her eyes, when she raised them, were full of tears. ‘Oh, Joycie, you look lovely. Irene would have been so pleased to see them on you. She always loved them, and she loved you too, sweetheart.’ She reached over and gripped Joycie’s hands. Her own were cool, the skin stretched paper-thin over the bones.

Joycie looked around at the room. It hadn’t changed at all, still too warm and too crowded. Little tables covered with knick-knacks, empty candlesticks, and photo frames. More pictures on the upright piano, which was still open with some sheet music propped on it. Deirdre couldn’t play, but Joycie could see she’d kept everything as it was when Irene was alive.

The time when Joycie lived here after her dad died was mostly a blur of misery, but Irene with her stories and songs, and Deirdre with her fry-ups and stodgy puddings had made it a bit more bearable. Irene had paid for Joycie to go to secretarial college in Chelsea. When she was spotted by Marcus and started earning as a model she repaid the tuition money, but she visited Irene and Deirdre less and less, telling herself she was too busy, but knowing it was because they were part of a past she wanted to forget.

She sipped her sweet Cinzano. In Irene’s day it would have had a big slug of gin added. She hoped Deirdre was all right for money.

Deirdre was holding out one of the photos and a pen. ‘You will both sign them, won’t you, to join the collection?’ She waved her hand at the pictures all around. Joycie recognized the old ones like Charlie Chester and Dame Myra Hess, but there were some more recent photos too: Helen Shapiro, all bouffant hair and big smile, and Marty Wilde in a leather jacket attempting an Elvis lip curl.

She put her name on the photos opposite Marcus’s adding: with all my love to dearest Deirdre XXX. The signatures would make the photos worth some money, but Deirdre wouldn’t want to part with them so Joycie decided she’d send her another batch telling her to do what she wanted with them. If Deirdre sold them no one need know, and it would be a way of helping out without hurting her pride.

Leaning back in her chair she was aware that Marcus was watching her, waiting for her to say what they’d come for. Deirdre refilled her own glass and waved the bottle first at Marcus and then at Joycie, who shook her head. ‘Deirdre?’ she paused feeling a tremor deep inside, but forcing herself on. ‘I was wondering if you knew anything about that bloke my mum ran away with. I’ve met her sister, you see, and she said Mum never mentioned anyone.’

Deirdre put down her glass. ‘So she’s seen Mary, has she, the sister?’

‘No, but she seems to doubt there was a man in ’53.’

‘Well, I’m only going by what everyone said. They all seemed sure there was someone. Your mum was a lovely girl, of course, but we all knew things weren’t quite right between her and your dad even though you could tell they really loved each other.’

Marcus leaned forward. ‘So Irene never said anything to you about a man when Mary disappeared?’

‘No, and she just couldn’t understand it.’ She turned towards Joycie. ‘You should ask Sid’s wife, Cora. I’m sure she mentioned a fancy man, but I don’t think we ever heard his name.’

Deirdre insisted they stay for sandwiches and cake, and they promised not to be strangers, but when they were outside in the Morgan again Joycie said, ‘Well that’s it: another dead end.’

Marcus put the keys in the ignition. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to see Sid, but why not try to speak to Cora? I could see her if you like. I think she took a shine to me.’

Joycie managed a small laugh. ‘You noticed that, did you? OK, but make sure she doesn’t get the idea we want to be friends.’