The Way We Heard: What Do You Want (December 1959)

THE WAY WE HEARD: WHAT DO YOU WANT?

(December 1959)

Eddie shifted in his armchair and lowered his newspaper. “Turn that racket off. That boy can’t sing. All he can do is burble. He can’t even say the words properly.”

Seventeen-year-old Carrie walked over to the radio and turned it off. “I don’t care much about the words, Mr Anderson. Adam Faith can burble at me any time.” She gave a little giggle and fluttered her eyelashes.

Eddie looked at her, shook his head and raised The Daily Express in front of his face.

His wife Beattie said, “Carrie, why don’t you pop upstairs again and see what’s keeping Laura? Otherwise the picture will be over before you two get there.”

When she was sure Carrie was up the stairs and in Laura’s room she said, “I told you, I don’t like Laura going about with that Carrie.”

Eddie lowered the paper. “They’re only going to the pictures.”

“Yes, and they’re going to see that Some Like It Hot, with that Marilyn Monroe. It’s on again at the Gaumont.”

“And?”

“I don’t want my daughter thinking it’s all right to go about like that Marilyn Monroe.”

“Beattie, with the best will in the world, I don’t think anybody’s going to look at our Laura the way they look at Marilyn Monroe.”

“And those records they listen to. You said it yourself. Those rock and roll people can’t sing. They can’t even say the words properly. But the girls fall all over them.”

“Girls used to fall at Sinatra’s feet, if I remember, and I could never understand that either. At her age, maybe it’s better if Laura has a thing for some twerp braying on the radio, who she’ll never meet, rather than some twerp round here with a bright smile and a motorbike and no good intentions.”

“Carrie’s been going out with one of those Teddy Boys. Her mum and dad don’t know, but Mrs Lewis, in Green Lane, she told me she’d seen Carrie with that Ritchie Craig. He’s a Teddy Boy.”

“He may be a Teddy Boy, Beattie, but from what I’ve heard about Ritchie Craig, Carrie’s mum and dad don’t have to worry about him. Carrie isn’t his type.”

“What do you mean? What do they say? What type does he like then?”

“Not Carrie, or Laura, or even Marilyn Monroe, from what I’ve heard. He prefers the company of Teddy Boys.”

Beattie looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean Mrs Lewis puts two and two together and usually comes up with half a dozen. Or in this case, twelve.”

“Has he got someone then? I bet he’s got some girl in trouble.”

“Beattie, just forget about Ritchie Craig.”

“I might mention it to her parents, though. They ought to know.”

Eddie laid the Daily Express on his knees. “No, Beattie, don’t mention it to her parents. Don’t mention it to anybody. You’ve never even met Ritchie Craig. I don’t know what Carrie was doing with him, or even if Mrs Lewis really did see them, but I don’t think Carrie, or Laura, are at any risk from that boy.”

Beattie looked sullen. “You let everything go. I don’t know what’s happened to you, Eddie Anderson. You never come to church. You never say a word to Laura about anything. Not about those jumpers she wears. They leave nothing to the imagination. Like a second skin, they are. And those tight skirts. Pencil skirts they call them. Slits half-way up the legs. Young girls shouldn’t wear those.”

“She’s nearly eighteen, Beattie. She’s not a child.”

“No, Eddie, she isn’t. That’s the point. She isn’t.”

“Beattie, how can I talk to Laura about her clothes? That’s for her mother to do.”

“She doesn’t pay attention to me, Eddie. No attention at all. That’s wrong, isn’t it? A girl should pay attention to her mother. But these youngsters, these days, they think they know everything. It’s all James Dean this and Elvis Presley that. I paid attention to my mother, when I was Laura’s age. I couldn’t imagine not doing so.”

“Everyone paid attention to your mother, Beattie. If we’d had her in the front line, Hitler would have packed it in before he got out of Berlin. And James Dean’s dead.”

They heard the bedroom door open, and footsteps coming down the stairs.

Laura popped her head round the door. “We’re off then.”

Beattie said, “What time does the film finish?”

“Oh I don’t know, Mum. It’s not that long. It’s not Ben-Hur. I’ll be back by ten.”

“You’ve got work in the morning.”

Laura raised her eyebrows. “I know that, Mum.”

Beattie looked at Laura’s feet. “You ought to have something sturdier than those heels on. They say it might snow tonight.”

“I’ll take my sledge then.”

“All right,” said Eddie. “No need to be cheeky. Just make sure you’re back here by ten. Take the brolly, in case it snows.”

When the front door closed Beattie said, “You see? Cheek. Nothing but cheek.”

Eddie stood up. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“I’ll do it.”

“It’s all right, you put your feet up. See what’s on the telly. Take your mind off things.”

In the kitchen, Eddie put the kettle on the hob and stood looking out of the window.

He knew it was his fault about Beattie. She’d always been a worrier, and the worrying had changed into something else over the years. A fear, a bitterness. He’d never been a real companion to her. It wasn’t just being away in the war. He was never a real companion to her before that.

He’d married her because she was beautiful, and naïve. She wouldn’t ask questions, so he’d have to tell no lies. She had indeed paid attention to her harpy of a mother, who’d felt Eddie was the best of a bad bunch.

Several young men wanted to court Beatrice Smith. Partly because of her beauty, and partly because her father owned two butcher’s shops and did quite well out of them. She was an only child and her mother thought that, in a time of uncertainty, most of those young men wanted to marry Mr Smith’s solid business rather than his daughter. Eddie thought Beattie’s mother had a point.

Before they got engaged, there was one Saturday he’d arrived at their house earlier than planned. He was taking Beattie on the train for a day at Southend. Mr Smith was out, and Mrs Smith took Eddie into the parlour while Beattie finished getting ready.

“I don’t really know about you, Eddie Anderson,” Mrs Smith said, scrutinising him. “I don’t think you want Beattie just for a share in a butcher’s shop. In fact I have a feeling you’d be kind to her. But I don’t think you love her.”

Eddie blushed. He squirmed. “I haven’t…I mean, I wouldn’t want to presume anything. I respect Beattie very much.”

She continued peering at him. “I think you do. If I didn’t think that, you wouldn’t be taking her on a trip to Southend. But you’re not a bad looking young man. As far as I can tell, you’re not a pig like some of them. You would have other options. If you’re not after her money, why would you be courting someone you have no strong feelings for?”

Eddie squirmed again. “I don’t want to…Beattie hasn’t known me very long…”

“Maybe you’re just sensible.” Mrs Smith pursed her lips. “Love’s overrated, Eddie. Love ebbs and flows, and after marriage there’s a lot more ebbing than flowing. But respect, that’s more solid. That’s worth more than love any day of the week. Maybe, Eddie Anderson, you can’t have who you really love. But if you’re kind to my daughter, if you respect her, if you promise to do your best for her and never let her down, and never bring her shame, then I won’t object if it’s you she picks.”

There were conditions, of course. Mrs Smith made that clear.  The churchgoing was a big one. Mrs Smith was prominent in her church community. Eddie wasn’t bothered about that. He was content to go and say the words and sing the hymns and know that it pleased Beattie. All he wanted was to please Beattie. To keep her with him. To shield him.

The war came and went. Laura’s two brothers were born, and then Laura herself. The boys grew up and left home, and in a few years Laura would no doubt do the same, to be with the man of her choice. And there would be no-one but Eddie and Beattie.

Beattie was not the same as she had been, and neither was he. The war had changed them both. Her mother died suddenly in 1943, and her father followed two years later, leaving a lot less money than expected. The shops had been profitable, but the loss of his wife had given Mr Smith freedom, some called it recklessness, and the money had gone on gambling and other pursuits he had been far too afraid of his wife to indulge in before. Meanwhile, the war had shown Eddie that life could indeed be short, and he had chosen the wrong path. Not only for him, but for Beattie.

He couldn’t leave her, not with three children. She didn’t deserve that. She deserved better than him, but there was nowhere else for either of them to go.

The world was cruel, and it had made both of them so.

The kettle whistled. Eddie made the tea, and put cups, saucers and spoons on the tray. Beattie had her standards.

Maybe things would be better for the likes of Ritchie Craig, a short and rather stolid looking young man who’d presumably be called up for National Service soon. Better after he got through National Service, that was. Would he, like Eddie, choose marriage and children, or would he pick the ‘confirmed bachelor’ route? Neither was easy.

Would there ever be a time when the likes of himself and – he assumed – Ritchie Craig wouldn’t have to choose either route? When they could just be themselves? Not in his lifetime, he thought. Probably not in Ritchie’s.

He poured the tea, and put some digestive biscuits on a plate.

Beattie’s mother had been wrong. Respect also ebbed and flowed. He doubted that Beattie respected him now, but it was his lapsed churchgoing, and failure to tell Laura what was what, that annoyed her.

Eddie picked up the tray. He accepted that he’d never be able to offer real love openly. Was it his fault he’d never been able to offer it at all? If he’d had a bit more courage, a bit more acceptance of himself, would he have been able to offer it quietly, and sincerely? Or would the world have put the kibosh on that too?

Beattie had turned the television on and that song, that damn song by the boy who couldn’t even pronounce his words properly, was bellowing out of the set.

I suppose it’s their world now, Eddie thought, as he carried the tray into the sitting room. That young man. All those young people. With their cheek and their new ideas and their certainty that we got it all wrong and they will do it all better.

 Somehow, as he smiled at his wife and she gave him a neutral rather than a hostile look back, that thought gave him hope.

 

Picture by by Jack de Nijs, free to use at Wikimedia Commons: File:Adam Faith.jpg - Wikimedia Commons

Adam Faith sings 'What Do You Want?': Adam Faith - What Do You Want (1959)