Trio - [34]

‘But Paul…’

‘Marry me.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ll meet another girl, someone… better.’

‘I don’t want anyone else, better or worse. I want you.’ He spoke urgently, his face creased with anguish. ‘I’ve been going crazy. We could have a future together, a good one. Get married, buy some land. It was your dream… I thought you might feel the same.’

‘I do…’ she whispered. She blinked furiously. Tell him about the baby. Tell him now. No. She didn’t want to think about it. It was too hard. She couldn’t. She saw herself watering plants, potting on seedlings. Outside, rain and shine. No more antiseptic and bloodied dressings, enemas and vomit. Paul with her, sharing their lives together. She might never meet a man she liked so much. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Yes. I will marry you.’ She was smiling and tears ran into the corners of her mouth. He gazed at her, his own eyes bright. ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘You’re hurting my hand.’

He kissed her then. Tentative at first as though he was holding back and then hungry. She thought how strange that she had promised to marry him before they had even shared a kiss.

Part Three: Growing Up

Joan Lilian

Pamela

Pamela

‘Goal! What a goal!’ Her dad leapt up and Pamela bounced off the sofa and back on again, her arms raised and cheering with him.

Geoff Hurst. Geoff Hurst had made it four-two and there was no way Germany could beat that in the remaining seconds.

‘We won the cup, we won the cup, eee-aye-adio, we won the cup!’

Her mum stuck her head through the serving hatch. ‘Have we won?’

‘Four-two! And it was two-all at the end of full time. Two goals in extra time! Fantastic. Hurst was unbelievable.’

They watched the squad go up to receive their medals and the cup and hoist Bobby Moore on their shoulders. The Charlton brothers were playing, Pamela liked them best. Dad liked Alan Ball.

The beginning of the summer holidays and Pamela had plans. Mum and Dad had been saving all their cigarette coupons and they’d enough now to get a pogo stick. She’d helped count last night after tea. They said she could get one before Christmas, when, as she had pointed out, it would be too cold for it. Then they’d been to see The Sound Of Music the night before. It was absolutely brilliant. Pamela wanted her mum to get the LP so she could learn all the songs. The Nazis had been awful. She was glad she hadn’t been a Jew then. Dad said there were still things like that going on, it wasn’t always Jews. Like black children in America and South Africa who weren’t allowed at school with white children. There were only two black children at Pamela’s school but you had to be Catholic or pay lots of fees to go there. School was OK. The worst was when a gang came up, especially the big girls, and said, ‘Are you a mod or a rocker?’

Pamela wasn't anything but you couldn’t say that, they made you pick one. Sometimes if you got it wrong they pulled faces or pushed you. Sometimes they said, ‘Who do you like best, the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?’ She loved the Beatles, they were miles better, and her favourite was Paul because he was the most good-looking. Elizabeth, her friend at school, liked John because he was funny. But he wore glasses. Ringo was sweet but he had a big nose. She didn’t know anyone who liked George best. George Best, hah!

In the middle of the holidays they’d go to Criccieth. They would set off really early in the morning and not even have breakfast and sing songs all the way. ‘Summer Holiday’ and pop songs like ‘Pretty Flamingo’ and ‘Every Turn’ by Candy and Dusty’s new one, ‘You Don’t Have to Say Forever’. She knew all the words to that one and could sing it really loud and Dad would be the instruments, the trombone and the drums.

There was a caravan at Criccieth and it was so good. If she was an orphan and she had to live somewhere by herself she’d go there and live in a caravan. And get a dog. A golden Labrador that would walk to heel and fetch the paper. Auntie Sally had one called Queenie.

‘Fancy a kick about?’ Dad said and she leapt up.

‘I’ll get changed.’

She swapped her shift dress, the one with purple and green swirls on, for her shorts and PE top. And ran to get the ball. This was going to be the best summer ever.

Lilian

‘Peter?’ His breathing sounded strange. Lilian felt fear douse her veins with ice. ‘Peter?’

She switched the bedside lamp on, put on her glasses and looked at him. He lay face down but even in the dim light she could see his skin was a horrible grey colour and when she put her hand out to touch him his pyjama top was soaked with sweat. She shook his shoulder. ‘Peter.’ There was no response, only the awful sound of his breath sucking in and out.

She ran downstairs, her heart thumping, stitch pains in her chest. She telephoned for an ambulance, watching the dial creep slowly back after each nine. Why nine-nine-nine, she thought, why not one-one-one? It would be so much quicker.

‘It’s my husband,’ she said to the operator, ‘I think it’s a heart attack.’ She hadn’t named it till then, hadn’t known she’d thought that till she said the words. She wondered what led her to that conclusion. ‘Please hurry.’ She gave her name and address and the woman reassured her that the ambulance would be there very soon. She ran back upstairs then, got on the bed beside him. ‘There’s an ambulance coming, it won’t be long now. Peter?’