One Step at a Time Read online

  One Step at a Time

  Beryl Matthews

  Penguin Books Ltd (2006)

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  Synopsis

  London 1934

  Amy Carter's great frustration is that at nearly fifteen she still can't read or write very well. She is intelligent, but has trouble with words. How is she going to survive when her father is hanged for murder and her mother dies, leaving her alone?

  Ben Scott, an artist she has met only once, finds her at this crucial time and takes her back to his landlady, who gives her a home. The people living in the house become her family, and, step-by-step, the past is put behind her. In 1939 she marries a young doctor, John Sterling, and her happiness is complete. Then war comes to tear her family apart. John is killed during an air raid, and Ben is reported missing.

  Is she destined to lose the two men she adores? And how many painful steps will it take to regain her happiness?

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  One Step at a Time

  Beryl Matthews was born in London, but now lives in a village in Hampshire. She grew up in a family of enthusiastic readers, and books have always been a very important part of her life. As a young girl her ambition was to become a professional singer, but lack of funds drove her into an office, where she worked her way up from tea girl to credit controller. Her hobbies are writing, reading, swimming and golf. Writing takes priority, though, and everything else has to wait. She is the author of The Open Door, Wings of the Morning, A Time of Peace, A Change of Fortune and Fighting with Shadows.

  One Step at a Time

  BERYL MATTHEWS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Published by Michael Joseph 2005

  Published in Penguin Books 2006

  1

  Copyright © Beryl Matthews, 2005

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject

  to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,

  re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s

  prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in

  which it is published and without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  EISBN: 978–0–141–90067–4

  The moving finger writes; and, having writ,

  Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit

  Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

  Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

  Edward Fitzgerald,

  The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

  1

  Wapping, London, June 1934

  ‘No, Dad!’ Amy Carter dug her heels in and skidded on the path as her father dragged her along, the defiance earning her a sharp clip around the ear, which made her head ring.

  ‘I ain’t got time for your nonsense,’ he growled, giving her another tug. ‘My ship sails in three hours and your mum needs you.’

  Tears of frustration filled her eyes as she stumbled. ‘But, Dad, we was going to have reading and writing. I’m the only one who can’t read well. I want to read and write like all the others.’

  ‘You’ll be fifteen in December. You’ll never do that now.’ He continued to pull her along, his grip biting into her thin arm. ‘You’re too bloody stupid.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ she muttered under her breath and stopped struggling as the familiar pain ran through her. ‘Everyone calls me that, but I’m not! I just can’t read or write proper.’

  ‘Course you are. I found you in a class with the eight-year-olds.’ Her father glared down at her in disgust. ‘Where’s your shame?’

  ‘I don’t care what they think of me.’ That was a lie, of course. She did care so very much, but she’d do anything to read and write properly, even suffer being put in the little class for this lesson. ‘I’m not stupid,’ she whispered again, close to tears.

  She walked along now, a picture of dejection, clutching the piece of paper from class. Why couldn’t she read? Everyone else did it easily enough, but the letters all looked funny to her and when she tried to write them they came out muddled up – or so they told her. She tried so hard until sheer frustration made her beat her hands on the desk and cry out in fury. That always got her a caning, but she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t stupid! She wasn’t, but it didn’t matter how many times she told herself this, the hurt and humiliation were still there. But when the others called her names she didn’t let them see how their taunts wounded her. They weren’t going to get that satisfaction.

  ‘What’s the matter with Mum now?’ They’d reached their house in Farthing Street. It was a modest place near the docks, and four families shared the three floors. Amy and her mum had three rooms on the ground floor. There was one toilet out at the back and that was for everyone. It was enough for them because her dad was hardly ever home.

  ‘She’s sick again.’ He pushed her through the door, slung his kit bag over his shoulder and stared down at her for a moment. ‘I didn’t mean to call you names, Amy. You have enough of that from everyone else, but you mustn’t get so upset about not being able to read. You’ll get through life fine without it.’

  ‘I can write, Dad, look.’ She held out the scrap of paper for him to see. ‘I was doing better today.’

  Her father took a quick glance and shook his head sadly. ‘Your spelling’s worse than your granddad’s was.’ Then he turned and strode off.

  Kicking the door shut, she fumed as she stared down at the writing she had been so proud of a while ago. Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill over. It was all right him saying she’d get along without it; he didn’t know how it upset her. She had this awful hollow place inside her, and what with looking after her mum a lot of the time, she didn’t have much of a life. She had missed so much school it was no wonder she couldn’t blasted well read! Dad was never here long enough to see how bad it was for her. Being a merchant seaman he just sailed away, calm as you please, leaving her to ride the storm at home.

  She wandered into her mother’s room, knowing full well what she would see. Her mother was propped up in bed looking pale and exhausted. Amy hadn’t been able to find out what was the matter with her. She would be all right for a while, and then take to her bed again, coughing and not being able to eat.

  ‘Your dad gone?’ Dolly Carter asked as soon as her daughter came in.

  ‘Yes, he came and took me out of school and then left.’ Amy looked carefully at the woman in t
he bed. Her left eye was swollen. ‘What you done to your face?’

  ‘I had a fainting fit and hit my head as I fell.’ Her mother touched her sore face. ‘I told him not to fetch you from school. I could’ve managed until you finished your lessons.’

  Amy wasn’t too sure she believed this story, because her dad had a short temper, but she’d never seen him hit her mum. ‘You ought to see the doc if you’re that bad.’

  ‘They can’t do nothing for me.’ Her mother sat up straight. ‘Now, get me a nice cup of tea, there’s a good girl.’

  Apart from the two bedrooms, the only other room they had was a scullery. It was large enough to have a table and chairs in there, and by the old black-leaded stove there was a shabby but comfortable armchair. Amy filled the kettle with water and put it on to boil, then gazed in the larder, grunting with satisfaction. When her father had been home there was always plenty of grub in the place. She made some cheese sandwiches while she was at it.

  Loading it all on a tin tray she took it to her mother. What she saw made her stop in fury. Her mother was dressed and peering in the mirror as she tried to hide the bruise with heavy make-up. ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Trying to make myself look presentable.’ She eyed the tray Amy had plonked on the dressing table. ‘Good girl, you’ve made me a bite to eat. Don’t want to drink on an empty stomach.’

  ‘You’re not going out?’ Amy spluttered. ‘Dad got me because he said you were too sick to be on your own.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have done that. I know how much school means to you. But I feel better now, and a night out will do me good.’

  Amy could have screamed in frustration, but there was no point getting in a rage about it. Her dad had been worried, that’s all. ‘That a new frock you’re wearing?’

  ‘Do you like it?’ Her mother preened. ‘Got it off the tallyman. Not bad, is it?’

  ‘Nice.’ Amy might not be able to read, but she was no slouch when it came to money, and she knew her mother would have some to spare. Dolly always did when Dad came home flush from a long trip at sea. ‘I need a new one myself, and shoes; these let in the wet. Don’t know what the neighbours must think when they see me walking around looking like a rag bag.’

  That made Dolly stare at her daughter, eyeing her up and down critically. ‘You’re quite right. You could do with some new things. The tallyman’ll be here soon, so you’d better choose something then. Can’t have everyone saying you’re scruffy as well as…’

  Clenching her hands behind her back, Amy forced out a smile. ‘I know what everyone says about me, Mum.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy.’ Her mother looked upset. ‘I know you can’t help what’s wrong with you. People say such nasty things, but I know you’re not daft.’

  Amy knew that’s what everyone thought and it distressed her so much. She had seen people who weren’t right in the head, and she wasn’t like them. She wasn’t! Her mum and dad got impatient when she couldn’t get things right, and they said things they were sorry about after. But she wasn’t lazy like the teachers thought; she tried so hard.

  She plonked herself in the old armchair and buried her head in her hands. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t!

  When the tallyman arrived ten minutes later she looked through his book and picked out a pretty summer dress in green with tiny flowers around the neck and short sleeves, and a pair of shoes with a bar across the instep. She didn’t have any trouble making out pictures, and although she couldn’t read how much they cost, they looked good.

  ‘Right, I’ll bring them the day after tomorrow. That will be an extra one and six a week, Mrs Carter.’

  Amy watched carefully as the tallyman wrote the order in his book, fascinated to see him do it with such ease. Her heart ached to be able to do that.

  When he’d gone, her mum shut the front door. Business was always done on the doorstep. The tallyman was never asked in.

  ‘Why don’t you forget about school?’ Her mother spoke gently. ‘Most kids are working by fourteen.’

  ‘But, Mum, I can’t get a job if I can’t read or write my name.’

  ‘Course you can, factories don’t care about that sort of thing. All you got to do is put a cross for your name. If you haven’t learnt to read by now you’ll never do it, and I see how upset you are sometimes when you come home. Think about it, Amy.’ With that Dolly left the house, heading for the Lord Nelson just down the road.

  Amy knew her mother wouldn’t be back until chucking-out time. Her dad had dragged her out of school for nothing this time. It wasn’t always so, because at times her mum was terribly sick and Amy couldn’t leave her side, but she’d recovered quickly today.

  Wandering back to the scullery she set about making herself a huge doorstep of bread and cheese, and it went down well with a glass of milk. Nicely full, she sat at the table, cupped her chin in her hands and stared moodily at nothing. Perhaps it would be better if she went out to work. She was desperate to learn to read, but the teachers didn’t seem to have time for her. All they kept doing was putting her in younger and younger classes. The other children all sniggered at her, calling her beastly names, but she kept her head up defiantly, and if they ganged up and punched her, she walked away as if she didn’t care. Well, her mum was right, she wouldn’t go back again, because tomorrow she’d get herself a job. But there was no way she was going to put a cross for her name.

  She went to her bedroom and brought back the sheets of paper her gran had done for her about five years ago. They were dog-eared from constant use, but she treasured them. Her gran had died three years ago and that had been a terrible blow, because she had been the only one who had had any patience with Amy, and tried to help.

  Smoothing out the first page she gazed at it. Granny had drawn pictures and written underneath what they were. There were animals, fruit and all sorts of things. The pictures were really good, but the cat was her favourite. It had a cheeky face and looked as if it was smiling. Her granny had been so clever. Why hadn’t she taken after her?

  She traced her finger over the letters, trying to fix the shapes in her mind, but when she copied them, they didn’t look the same, no matter how hard she tried.

  Half an hour later she gave up and decided it would be better if she concentrated on her signature. Her initials were AC, so she sorted through the sheets until she found a large A for apple, and C for cat. She had seen lots of people sign things, because she always watched very carefully, and they just scribbled. The tallyman’s name just looked like a wiggly line. With tongue sticking out in determination, she began to practise.

  After quite a while she gave a satisfied grunt. She had managed to make the same marks over and over again. Whether it was anything like her name, she didn’t know, but it was better than a cross!

  Now she was hungry again, and stood up to rifle through the larder to see what she could find. There was a tin almost full of biscuits, so she made tea and dunked them until nearly half of them had disappeared. Then she practised her signature again, just to be sure she could still do it. It took a great deal of concentration, but it looked something like those she had done earlier – at least she thought so. She would just act as if she knew what she was doing if there was something to sign.

  It was only eight o’clock and the sun was still shining. Amy knew her mother wouldn’t be back for ages yet, so, slipping the spare key into her pocket, she left the house. She would wander down to the docks and see if her dad had sailed yet. But she’d been so upset about being taken out of class that she hadn’t asked him the name of his ship. It was always in big letters, and if she already knew the name she could sometimes pick out the right one when she got close enough. Some days she could make out words, but other days were hopeless and she couldn’t read at all. That usually happened if she panicked or was feeling miserable. Then everything was just jumbled up.

  Her heart missed a beat when she saw a gang of boys at the end of the road, and they jeered as she got near them.

>   ‘Barmy Amy can’t read. She can’t read,’ they chanted. ‘She ain’t got no brains.’

  Her step didn’t falter. Walking through the middle of them and ignoring their grinning faces, she moved unhurriedly until she was past them.

  Once round the corner and out of their sight, her bottom lip trembled, but she refused to let the tears of self-pity flow. She was always being picked on, both in and out of school. Why did they have to be rotten to her? She’d never done anything to hurt them. No one wanted to be her friend. Why? She was always on her own, and very lonely.

  There were three girls she knew across the road, laughing and walking arm-in-arm. Amy watched, longing to be with them, but they ignored her, just like always. Her mouth set in a determined line. They were too soppy and giggly for her, anyway. She didn’t need them.

  Running the rest of the way to reach her vantage spot, she saw a ship setting out, its horn blasting. Oh, it was lovely. Was her dad on that one? If only she were a boy, she’d be able to go to sea like him and visit all the lovely places he told them about. It had crossed her mind to cut her hair short and try to pass herself off as a boy, but it wouldn’t work: she was already sprouting breasts. Looking down at her chest she grimaced; they were quite big and she wouldn’t be able to hide them for long. Her dad said she was going to be pretty like her mum, but she couldn’t see it. Her hair was long, dark and much too curly, her eyes were green with a strange upward tilt at the corners, and her mouth was too big. No, she didn’t think she was going to be attractive, but she certainly wouldn’t pass for a boy. She giggled when she thought what fun it would be to try, but with her dad away so much she couldn’t leave her mum. When Dolly was bad she could hardly lift her head off the pillow. That’s when there was no time for school as Amy’s days were taken up with cooking, shopping and cleaning.

  How she wished her life was different. How she longed to be like the other children. But she wasn’t. It was no good trying to kid herself about that. Her eyes filled with tears and she brushed them away before they could spill over. Her granny had told her she was special, but she couldn’t believe that. She just didn’t fit. If only she could sail away like her dad.