Life_ An Exploded Diagram - Mal Peet [5]
Her mother used this as a pretext to excuse herself from the proceedings.
“I ent gorna stay here an lissun to any more of yer language, Ruth,” Win said. “If you can’t get ahold of yerself, I’m off downstairs.”
In truth, Win was more frightened than offended. She noisily cleared up the soot and shards of chimney pot that had spilled from the fireplace, then busied herself in the garden. When it got dark, she sat in the living room with her fingers in her ears, humming hymns. At eleven o’clock, she was shaken awake by Chrissie Slender, who said, “Win? Come you upstairs an say hello to yer grandson. He’re had a helluva struggle gettun here.”
Win followed Chrissie up the stairs. Ruth’s bedroom smelled of sweat and disinfectant. Nurse Salmon was putting things into her leather bag. A stained sheet was bundled at the foot of the bed. It would need a salt-and-soda soak, Win thought, and even that probably wouldn’t do the job. Ruth’s face was yellow and slick in the lamplight. The child lay on her chest, wrapped in a towel. From where she stood, Win could not see its face.
“So. How’re yer doing, Ruth?”
“Dear God,” Ruth said, “I ent gorn through that again.”
“I should hope not,” Win said.
In accordance with George’s wishes, Ruth named the baby boy Clement, after Clement Attlee, the leader of the Labour Party. Win thought it was absurd.
AS FAR AS Win was concerned, men were coarse and troublesome when you didn’t need them and gone when you did.
She was the youngest of five children. The others were all boys.
John, the eldest, died of diphtheria before she was born.
James — Jimmy — was a dark-haired unruly boy. His love for his little sister, which was awkward but genuine, took the form of teasing, of comedic tormenting. He would carry her to the top of the dark staircase and leave her there. Then he would creep into the understairs cupboard and make spooky noises while scratching his nails against the underside of the treads. Not long after Win had started to sob in terror, he would emerge and bound up to her, saying, “Blas’ me, Winnie, if there ent a big old wolf come and et up mother! But dunt yer worry; I’ll save yer.” He’d scoop her up and leap, whooping, down to where lamplight and safety and a scolding awaited.
Jimmy fought with their father. Verbally and then physically. One night in 1902, when Win was four and fast asleep, Jimmy kissed her good-bye. He had blood on his teeth, which left a smear on her chin. Then he walked all the way to Lowestoft and got work on a trawler. He was fourteen years old. Five years later, he wrote a short letter to his family from Nova Scotia, in Canada. They never heard from him again.
The next boy was Albert, who was born with his brain askew. As a baby, Win would be laid for her daytime naps in a pulled-out drawer of a chest in her parents’ bedroom. Albert would go up there and watch her sleeping. Then he would put something he’d found outdoors — a snail, a special stone, the part-rotted corpse of a bird — next to her and push the drawer back in. He’d coffin her. Death interested him. Not long after Jimmy set off for the coast, Albert did something to another little girl and got taken off to an institution the other side of Norwich.
Then there was Stanley. He was a year and a half older than Win. She wore his hand-me-down nappies and jumpers. Later, she walked with him to school, holding his hand until they met up with other children along the lane. Then he