Trio by Cath Staincliffe Page A

You couldn’t tell anyone about thoughts like that. They’d lock you up in Springfield or Prestwich, chuck away the key.
    Peter handed her the bottle. The room was cool and once Pamela had started to feed it was peaceful. She looked out towards the small garden. It was full of roses. They had no lawn, only paving, between the rose beds. In the summer the roses looked showy, hot colours and big blooms. It was an adult’s garden, all those thorns. No place for a child to play. What did it matter? Pamela would never come here to stay with Granny Gough. Her throat constricted, anger and sadness together. The baby spluttered and Lilian raised her upright and patted her back. The rich burp made Lilian giggle. ‘Lovely manners,’ she whispered, and kissed the baby’s forehead. Pamela’s fist curled round a strand of her hair. She pulled back, gently loosening the grip. When she offered her the bottle again, Pamela turned away from the teat.
    Perhaps Alicia was just shy? No daughter herself, years since she’s been around a baby. Not sure how to act with us?
    ‘Let’s go see.’
    She found Peter and his mother in the dining room. He was engrossed in the paper and she was studying the crossword puzzle. Bernard would be back in his shed.
    ‘Hello.’ She stood beside him. He put the paper down, held his arms out to Pamela.
    ‘I thought you might like a hold,’ she turned to Alicia. ‘She’s happy now, had her feed.’
    ‘Oh, er . . . yes.’ Alicia looked dismayed, her mouth twitching and eyes blinking. Lilian handed her the child before she could demur, passing her the muslin square too, in case Pamela possetted.
    Alicia held the child on her lap, a picture of uncomfortable tension. She didn’t attempt to communicate with the baby but spoke to Peter. ‘And you’ve got a new car?’
    It took only thirty seconds for Pamela to twist and begin to whimper. Alicia looked helplessly at Lilian, who rescued her daughter.
    She doesn’t care. She swung her toffee-coloured hair out of the way and nestled the infant against her shoulder. She’d have more affection if we’d bought a bloody dog. She decided then that she would never come again. Blast tradition. She would not subject her wonderful, brilliant new daughter to these loveless afternoons of stifling boredom. If Peter wished to come, he could come alone. And if his parents ever woke up and realised just exactly what they were missing, then they could damn well come and see Pamela and Lilian in their own house.
     
    Joan
    ‘It’s perfect,’ Lena pronounced. ‘I love you!’ She leapt across the carpet and planted a kiss on Joan’s head. ‘Do it again, the chorus.’
    ‘Walk my way,’ Joan sang in a breathy voice and picked the chords out on the guitar. ‘Make my day. You can take what you need but you’re never going to take this away. Oh, baby, walk my way.’
    When she had finished Lena sang the song all the way through, her voice rich and full.
    ‘Wonderful. It needs strings, do you think? Or maybe a really moody sax? You're so clever, Joan. I knew you could do it. Tonight we celebrate.’
    Joan laughed at her friend’s exuberance. Lena wasn’t all stuffy and bossy like you heard Germans were. She was like a child. Full of life and always excited about something.
    ‘You’re working tonight,’ Joan pointed out.
    ‘After.’
    ‘Some of us sleep at night.’
    ‘This is a special day. What do you call it – a letter day?’
    ‘Red-letter day.’
    ‘So?’ She cocked her head, smiling as ever.
    ‘OK.’
    ‘Good. Ooh, wait till Roger hears this. Shall we tell him it’s your song?’
    ‘No. Only if it’s a hit.’
    ‘When it’s a hit. It has to be. Forget Doris Day, Connie Francis, here comes Lena!’
    Joan didn’t enjoy waiting in the club for Lena. It was a seedy place, noisy and thick with smoke. Lena’s act provided background but few of the patrons paid much attention, they were here for the exotic dancers who topped the bill. Joan