Chapter 2 Betty March 1937
Betty
Betty lay in the bath, her white legs flushing a blotchy pink in the scorching water. The passage light leaked around the edges of the bathroom door, merging into the glow from the streetlamp, fractured through the frosted glass window. The mirror perspired in the heat, dripping into the basin.
She took another gulp straight from the half-empty bottle balanced on the corner of the bath where the mould bred between the tiles. Her face twisted at the gin’s bitter burn, but the bottle was cool against her cheek as she pulled a breath into her tight lungs.
Her mother’s knitting needle balanced on the cloth used to wipe her sisters’ faces.
As she leaned forward to feel the pointed tip again with her finger, the water sloshed over the sides of the bath, on to the floor.
The muffled sounds of her sisters finishing off their tea in the kitchen next door mingled with her mother’s muted scolding.
There wasn’t much time. Not for me, not for it. He. Betty was sure it was a he. He would look just like him. But not grow up to be the coward his father was. He’d have a proper job where he’d have clean hands, a smart suit and a bowler hat. Live somewhere posh like Epsom, not in this tiny tenement.
The hum of buses grinding up Battersea Park Road past St Saviour blurred with the shouts of the men clocking off, heading to the pub, and the yelling of the boys playing football by the dim streetlights.
She reached forward, over the tightness of her belly, and grasped the knitting needle, then let it float on the surface of the scalding water until it sunk beneath the water line, turning almost gaily downwards. The intense heat made her drowsy. It was difficult to move.
The pain won’t be bad. Not as bad as standing there, looking the best I’ve ever looked, wearing that beautiful dress, waiting for him. Father pacing up and down. Then realising he wasn’t ever going to come. That awful journey back home.
Angry steps sounded.
‘You’ve taken all me bleedin’ hot water. There ain’t none left.’ Her mother was at the door, shaking the handle.
‘I won’t be long, Ma.’
‘Least you could do is be ’ere helping me with this lot, not dilly-dallying in there. Betty?’
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘What you doing in there anyway? Dolling yerself up? Got yerself another fancy man already, ’ave yer?’
‘I won’t be long, Mum.’
‘Bloody hurry up. Cheek taking all that water. Nothing for yer pa when he gets home.’
The sound of steps moved away, and Betty imagined her mother, her thin, faded housecoat wrapped around her ample frame, stomping back into the tiny front room. There was a shout from next door, the sound of a child being slapped and then whimpering.
The knitting needle had settled, resting across the dark mound of her pubic hair. She stared at it. One small movement. Over. Quick.
She closed her eyes. She had no choice.