Now six weeks had elapsed and still Sydney had not returned. At first this did not alarm Mother, but after another week’s delay she wrote to the offices of the Donovan and Castle Line and received information that he had been put ashore at Cape Town for treatment of rheumatism. This news worried Mother and affected her health. Still she continued working at her sewing machine and I was fortunate in obtaining a little work by giving a few dancing lessons to a family after school for the sum of five shillings a week.
About this time the McCarthys came to live in Kennington Road. Mrs McCarthy had been an Irish comedienne and was a friend of Mother’s. She was married to Walter McCarthy, a chartered accountant. But when Mother was obliged to give up the stage we lost sight of Mr and Mrs McCarthy and not until seven years later did we meet them again, when they came to live at Walcott Mansions in the select part of Kennington Road.
Their son, Wally McCarthy, and I were the same age. As little children, we used to play at grown-ups, pretending we were vaudevillians, smoking our imaginary cigars and driving in our imaginary pony and trap, much to the amusement of our parents.
Since the McCarthys had come to live in Walcott Mansions, Mother had rarely seen them, but Wally and I had formed an inseparable friendship. As soon as I was through with school I would race home to Mother to find out if she needed any errands done, then race up to the McCarthys’. We would play theatre at the back of Walcott Mansions. As the director, I always gave myself the villain parts, knowing instinctively they were more colourful than the hero. We would play until Wally’s supper-time. Usually I was invited. At mealtimes I had an ingratiating way of making myself available. There were occasions, however, when my manoeuvring did not work and I would reluctantly return home. Mother was always happy to see me and would prepare something for me, fried bread in dripping or one of Grandfather’s eggs and a cup of tea. She would read to me or we would sit together at the window and she would amuse me by making remarks about the pedestrians as they passed by. She would invent stories about them. If it were a young man with a breezy, bobbing gait she would say: ‘There goes Mr Hopand-scotch. He’s on his way to place a bet. If he’s lucky today he’s going to buy a second-hand tandem for him and his girl.’
Then a man would pass slowly, moping along. ‘Hm, he’s going home to have stew and parsnips for dinner, which he hates.’
Then someone with an air of superiority would walk by. ‘Now there’s a refined young man, but at the moment he’s worried about the hole in the seat of his pants.’
Then another with a fast gait would streak past. ‘That gentleman has just taken Eno’s!’ And so she would go on, sending me into gales of laughter.
Another week had gone by and not a word from Sydney. Had I been less a boy and more sensitive to Mother’s anxiety I might have realized what was impending. I might have noticed that for several days she had been sitting listlessly at the window, had neglected to tidy up the room, had grown unusually quiet. I might have been concerned when the firm of shirtmakers began finding fault with her work and stopped giving it to her, and when they took away her sewing machine for arrears in payments, and when the five shillings I earned from dancing lessons suddenly ended; through all this I might have noticed that Mother remained indifferent, apathetic.
Mrs McCarthy suddenly died. She had been ailing for some time, and her health rapidly deteriorated until she passed on. Immediately, thoughts invaded my mind: how wonderful if Mr McCarthy married Mother – Wally and I being such good friends. Besides, it would be an ideal solution to all Mother’s problems.
Soon after the funeral I spoke to Mother about it: ‘You should make it your business to see a lot of Mr McCarthy. I bet he’d like to marry you.’
Mother smiled wanly. ‘Give the poor man a chance,’ she said.
‘If you were all dressed up and made yourself attractive, as you used to be, he would. But you don’t make any effort; all you do is to sit around this filthy room and look awful.’
Poor Mother. How I regret those words. I never realized that she was weak from malnutrition. Yet the next day, by some super-human effort, she had tidied up the room.
The school’s summer holidays were on, so I thought I would go early to the McCarthys’ – anything to get away from the wretchedness of our garret. They had invited me to stay for lunch, but I had an intuition that I should return home to Mother. When I reached Pownall Terrace, I was stopped at the gate by some children of the neighbourhood.
‘Your mother’s gone insane,’ said a little girl.
The words were like a slap in the face.
‘What do you mean?’ I mumbled.
‘It’s true,’ said another. ‘She’s been knocking at all our doors, giving away pieces of coal, saying they were birthday presents for the children. You can ask my mother.’
Without hearing more, I ran up the pathway, through the open door of the house and leaped up the stairs and opened the door
