Mother’s Day on Coronation Street

The fair-haired girl glanced about her almost furtively as she stepped nearer to the bar and, when she caught Annie’s eye, it seemed as if she might turn and run out again. But then a resolute look crossed her face and she made a strange sight as she walked up to the counter in a determined manner. Large black shoes flapped out beneath a blue serge skirt, so that it looked like the old-fashioned Edwardian style. The skirt’s coarse material was gathered at the waist under a stiff buckram band that seemed to be cutting her in half and the whole thing looked like a hand-me-down because it was too big and much too long for her, far longer than the current fashion dictated, given the limited availability of fabric. A tight, rib-knit jumper with several holes in it flattened whatever there was of her breasts. The girl’s hands were hidden from view, plunged into the two side pockets, and a small wooden box was tucked under one arm.

‘Can I help you? Annie asked in the most superior voice she could muster. Now that she was close to, she felt as if there was something familiar about the girl’s face. Was it the unusually high cheekbones that didn’t seem to have much flesh on them, or the narrow chin giving her a diffident, almost impish, look that Annie was sure she had seen before?

‘I’ve not come to drink,’ the girl said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking.’

Annie’s laughter was steeped in sarcasm. ‘I should hope not, young lady. I don’t know who you are, but one thing I do know is that you are far too young to be in a pub at all. Now I must ask you to leave or they’ll be after my licence.’ The girl glanced down. She had released her hands from her pockets and was twisting her fingers awkwardly, only stopping now and then to pick at the cuticles. Her hands looked red and sore; Annie’s response had obviously unnerved her and she suddenly seemed unsure.

‘You’d better leave quietly before I get cross.’ Annie made a waving motion in the direction of the door but the girl didn’t move. She plunged her hands back into her pockets.

‘I’ll go as soon as you’ve answered my question,’ she said, her voice suddenly strong.

‘Oh, and what question is that?’ Annie sounded amused.

‘Is your name Anne?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for someone called Anne.’

Annie’s first reaction was to raise her eyebrows in astonishment. As the landlady of the Rovers Return she was not unknown in these parts, but she would never have expected a young girl to march in and ask for her by name like that. Then she frowned. She tilted her head trying to get a closer look at the girl’s face; there was something familiar about those cheekbones …

‘And who …’ Annie began. But the girl cut across her.

‘Did you used to work at Fletcher’s Mill?’ the girl asked.

Now Annie’s jaw fell open and for a moment she was speechless. Nobody knew about the time she’d worked at the mill. Except for her mother and Jack, of course, but the shame of it would preclude Florence from ever disclosing the fact to anyone. She glanced round the room. Quite a few of the locals and several GI soldiers still lingered, though to her relief no one seemed to be listening to what the girl was saying.

‘I think you’d better come this way,’ Annie said abruptly, her voice stiff and unnatural, and lifting the velvet curtain she led the way through the little vestibule that lay behind it, and into the living room.

Gracie had seen the young girl enter the bar and was unsure what she should do so she was pleased that Annie had not yet gone upstairs and was still around to deal with her, but she was surprised to see Annie usher her into her private quarters. Annie had been looking tired before the girl appeared and was looking even more so after speaking to her. Gracie wondered who she was. She collected all the dead glasses and went to attend to Mrs Sharples, who had just banged her pint pot on the counter demanding immediate attention in her customary way. Gracie recognised the girl’s face. She had seen her hanging round outside on her way into work but when Gracie had tried to smile at her she had quickly looked away. She had been carrying a small wooden box with her then and she was carrying it now. What could she want with Annie Walker, she wondered? What would she give to listen at the living room door in the vestibule!

‘A pint of stout when you’ve finished dreaming.’ It was Ena Sharples. Her reputation went before her and Gracie was anxious not to cross swords with her.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Gracie said. ‘What can I get you?’

Ena shook her head at Gracie’s forgetfulness, but for once she just pointed at the row of black bottles and didn’t say anything.

Annie gathered herself in the time it took to usher the girl into the room and settle her in to a chair. It took a few moments but finally her breathing rate returned to normal. She would have welcomed any excuse to leave the room while she collected her thoughts. But she knew she couldn’t do that.

She sat down opposite the girl and entwined her fingers so that her hands lay passively in her lap.

‘Now then, young lady,’ she said and smiled benignly, ‘who are you exactly? And what is it you want to know?’

‘I want to know if you’re Anne Beaumont. It’s not such a difficult question, is it?’ The girl lifted her chin and tried to sound defiant but it was obvious her bubble of initial confidence was beginning to deflate as Annie’s gaze didn’t flinch. ‘My name’s Annette, Annette Oliver,’ she added looking away.

Annie’s brows knitted together. The name didn’t immediately mean anything to her, but the similarity to her own name was not lost on her. ‘Am I supposed to know you?’ she asked.

The girl shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ She looked as if she was going to say something else but then changed her mind.

Annie’s eyes were then drawn to a white lawn handkerchief Annette was pulling out of the box that had been under her arm. She could clearly see the initials that had been embroidered in the corner in red silk thread. AB. Now it was Annie’s turn to look uncomfortable. She visibly blanched. ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, her voice sharp now.

‘It was in this box the orphanage gave me now I’m old enough.’

She passed it to Annie, who held it loosely in her fingers as if she were afraid to touch it. Then she let it fall into her lap. Even though her eyes had misted she could recognize the unevenly embroidered stitching and the sight of it brought back floods of unwelcome memories. She looked at the girl from under hooded lids. Annette was almost twelve years old, she’d said. Annie did some quick arithmetic and sat back in shock. She looked again at the handkerchief and her breathing quickened. Then she looked at the girl. There was something familiar about the girl’s face, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.

‘I grew up in the orphanage, no one ever knew my mum or dad.’ It was Annette who broke the silence. ‘And for some reason they thought I should have the box on my twelfth birthday. It was the only thing that was left with me, apparently, when I was abandoned in a shopping basket outside the gates. I was only a baby, just a few days old, one of the staff once told me, but no one had any idea where I came from.’

‘That’s very sad,’ Annie said.

‘I suppose it is, but it’s all I’ve got. That handkerchief’s my only clue, really. You recognize it, don’t you? I can tell the way you was looking at it.’ The girl was staring at her disconcertingly and Annie began to feel uncomfortable.

‘There was a dummy and a rattle in the box as well,’ Annette went on. ‘But they had no marks on them to say where they came from. Or where I came from, for that matter.’ Annette stopped and stared directly at Annie. ‘I was hoping the rattle might be silver so’s it could make me rich.’ She shook her head. ‘No such luck, though.’ Annette gave a little smile. ‘It’s shaped like a man in a funny hat and it’s got bells hanging from it. Mean anything?’

Annie looked at her, her expression blank. She didn’t know what to think. She shook her head slowly. Though she was still wracking her brains about what was so familiar about the girl’s face.

‘The box has a letter in it too, telling me to go look for Anne Beaumont. I haven’t had much time lately because I’ve started working after school and most weekends as a scullerymaid in Grant House on the edge of the big park in Cheshire.’

‘But that’s miles from here.’ Annie lifted her head and looked with pity at the young girl.

‘I know. But whenever I gets a day off I goes looking. And though I save what I earn to help pay fares, I usually have to walk most of the way so it takes me a while. But I do what I can. I really wanted to find you.’ She hesitated. ‘That’s supposing … you are Anne Beaumont?’ She peered directly into Annie’s face, as if she was hoping to recognize something, some specific feature.

Annie didn’t answer. She looked down into her lap and fingered the white lawn square. What was Annette reading into this, she wondered? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling agitated and unsure. How did Annette think she was related to AB?

‘Do you want to see the letter?’ Annette stood up and carefully unfolded the fragile piece of paper into Annie’s lap. Then she stood behind her so she could read it over Annie’s shoulder. ‘See?’ She pointed a red, swollen finger. ‘See there, it says I’m to contact Anne Beaumont from Clitheroe. That is you, init? I know I’m right.’

Annie picked up the delicate letter by the corner. It looked as if it had been torn from a notebook. She turned it over but there was nothing written on the back. The letter wasn’t signed and she didn’t recognize the tiny scrawl. Finally, she gave a little nod.

‘Yes, it is me,’ she said. ‘Beaumont was my maiden name. But … but I don’t know how my handkerchief ended up in your box. I … I don’t know anything about your mother,’ she said softly.

Annette stiffened.’

‘The trouble is …’ Annie hesitated. ‘I don’t know how you think I can help you.’

Annette didn’t reply.

‘Do you know who wrote the letter? You do realize it could have been written by anybody?’ Annie said.

Annette hung her head. She sighed and her shoulders dropped as she turned away and slumped back into the chair.

‘I’ve been looking for you for ages,’ was all she said then.

‘But the fact that your letter mentions me by name is no proof that I’ve any connection with your mother,’ Annie said, ‘or that I even know who she is. For all we know, it could be a different Anne Beaumont entirely.’

‘I suppose so.’ Annette sounded dejected. She leaned forward and put out her hands in a pleading gesture. ‘But I’ve got to find out about her. I’ve got to know where I come from and the letter says you could help …’ Her voice cracked and a tear plopped onto the carpet.

‘Are you sure you—’ the girl tried again, but Annie cut in sharply, ‘The letter is wrong.’ Her voice was firm, but then she saw the despondent look on the girl’s face and Annie had to look away. ‘I’m truly sorry, Annette,’ Annie said sadly, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

Gracie was pulling a pint of Shires for Albert Tatlock when the bedraggled young girl finally came out from Annie’s living quarters, the small wooden box still tucked under her arm. Gracie watched her make her way to the door, her shoulders slumped. Annie was only a few steps behind her, as if to make sure she didn’t turn to come back into the bar. Gracie thought Annie looked a lot paler now than she had before and somehow even more weary, though her jaw seemed set in a kind of grim determination. Neither she nor the girl spoke so Gracie was left to wonder who the stranger was and what she had wanted.

As soon as Annette had gone, Annie climbed the stairs as fast as her unsteady legs would carry her but she stood uncertainly on the landing for a few moments, remembering the feel of the handkerchief, seeing again the words of the letter. Her legs were trembling and she had to work hard to control her breathing as her mind was flooded with memories. She gripped hold of the bannister and opened her eyes wide, hoping the sight of the vase of silk flowers tucked into the recess on the landing would help to shut out the images that assailed her.

Annie felt sorry for Annette. How dreadful not to have any idea who your parents were. She had seemed a nice enough child, but Annie really hoped she would never have to meet her again. For Annette, even in her short visit, had managed to rake up so many painful memories of heat and lung-filling dust, memories of long, uncomfortable hours in a loom shed; memories Annie would rather forget.

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