Free Tara by Lesley Pearse Page B

being very narrow, opposite was a big old warehouse – but that day the rays had caught the top of the window at an angle and filtered through the lace curtains, making a pattern on the round supper table. The front door was propped open with a flat iron to let in the breeze and Mother was singing 'Barbara Allen' as she rolled out the pastry.
    They had been listening to the news of the evacuation of Dunkirk on the radio for what seemed like days and her mother had been on tenterhooks, waiting for news of Arthur. But only an hour or two earlier she had been her old optimistic self.
    'He must be all right, I'd have heard if he was hurt by now,' Amy had heard her say to Mrs Penny over the yard wall. 'Bet you he walks in here the moment I put my hair in curlers!'
    Amy could afford to be smug about her mother. Not for her the common headscarf or the crossover pinny. Mabel's lustrous hair tumbled on to her shoulders, her clothes, although just as cheap as anyone else's, had a certain flair. But it wasn't just that she was prettier and more lady-like than any other woman, more that she had the knack of getting what she wanted with seemingly no effort. While other mothers worked in munitions factories, Mabel painted greetings cards. Some women queued for hours to get meat; Mabel had only to smile and the butcher pressed a parcel into her hands.
    There were often fights in the street between women, but Mabel learned to sidestep them. She had a smile for everyone, a cheery greeting, yet she kept her distance, never allowing people to become over familiar.
    Amy never knew back in those days that they lived in what was termed a slum dwelling. She'd never been to a house with an inside lavatory or a bathroom. In Whitechapel terms there were much worse places than where they lived. In Cable Street and Limehouse there were reports of babies being bitten by rats and two families living in one room.
    'Time changes most things.' Amy patted Tara's cheek. 'You look back and find the details have gone fuzzy; you can't remember exactly who said what, or even in what order things happened. Yet I can see the moments just before the telegram boy arrived at our house as if it were just yesterday.'
    Paul was fighting sleep and losing the battle. His eyelids drooped, then he would force them open, only for them to close again.
    'I can pinpoint the very moment my cosy little world caved in,' Amy mused. 'I was sitting in our hall watching the dust flying around in a shaft of sunlight, because I liked to pretend it was fairies. Then suddenly there was this black shadow. It could have been a neighbour, the rent man or anyone, but I knew it was something nasty.'
    'What did Granny Mabel do?' Tara asked.
    'She stopped singing. She was out of the kitchen and up to the front door before I even got up off the floor. She just stood there with the telegram in her hand. I even remember her dress, it was green, with little pin-tucks down the bodice.'
    Amy couldn't tell Tara the full story. Even twenty years later, after enduring countless other harrowing scenes, the way her mother had gone to pieces that day still frightened her. Mabel had stood in the hall, bent over slightly as if she had a stitch, one hand on her stomach, the other supporting herself against the wall. All colour had gone from her face, she bit her lower lip so hard Amy saw spots of blood.
    Looking back, Amy knew her mother's spirit had left her body along with the last note of 'Barbara Allen'. Whatever was left behind didn't recognise her daughter, didn't seem either to hear or see.
    She had shaken off Amy's hand, stumbled into the parlour and sunk to her knees by the couch. Her daughter could only stare in horror as Mabel began to beat the seat with her fists. Dust had flown round the room, mingling with the screams of anguish.
    'I didn't know what to do.' Amy shrugged her shoulders as she told Tara the censored version of the story. 'I ran in to Mrs Penny next door and got her to help.'
    In fact