Mad Joy

by Jane Bailey

Genres: World War II; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A heart-warming and passionate tale from the author of Tommy Glover's Sketch of Heaven At the age of five I ran into a wood, and nearly two years later I walked out of it and into the nearest house. In 1927, Gracie returns to her house to find a young girl curled up on her armchair: a feral, rather grubby gift of fate. With no knowledge of the child's origins and no children of her own, Gracie adopts her and names her 'Joy'. Despite the endless speculation about Joy's unusual ways, Gracie is happy to remain ignorant about her past in case anyone should come forward to reclaim her as their own. Time passes and Joy grows into a young woman at the advent of World War II. But when she becomes romantically involved with a fighter pilot the mystery of her past slowly unravels . . . Praise for Jane Bailey 'A vivid and involving novel that reaches a truly page-turning climax ' Barbara Trepido ' Absorbing, compelling and intensely moving ' Lesley Glaister, author of As Far as You Can Go ' A gentle, poignant, achingly funny tale of displaced children, first love and the tragic secrets hidden behind so many respectable facades' Serena Mackesy, author of The Temp

Release date: September 7, 2006

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 321

Sample

It was a long, long time since I’d been in a house, and the being there brought a rush of chaotic ghosts. The smell of carbolic soap, paraffin and vegetable leaves; the sooty smell near the range and the linen warming above giving off a powdery cooked-cotton aroma. The sweet, oily smell of the pantry, laced with the trace of cheese and mould and bread and vinegar and everything that had ever been stored. The insides of old wood cupboards, tarry and camphoric: the echo of a chair-leg scraping; the space, the dryness, the silence, the warmth.


The garden was damp and sulphurous with cabbages, little white insects floating around them like thistledown. A stone path led down to the lav and robust clumps of nettle.


The front garden was altogether different. Just a few feet from the road, it was bursting with colour: marigolds, roses, lavender. It was the lavender which had struck me on that bleak September day. Its few remaining florets rose high on their stems, soft and grey with only a hint of mauve. The familiarity of that dignified mist toppled me back to another time, when sitting in its tall stems meant healing and calm.


I had seen a cat by the side of the road – a black and white cat with a pensive, intelligent face. Black and white was good. Dark and light. Balance. It rose and put its tail straight up, as if beckoning me to follow the little mast. I followed it breathlessly across the road, through the outrageous, uninhibited lavender, and in through Grade’s front door, which was ajar. It welcomed me into the parlour where two comfy chairs stood by the range. It took one, and settled into a snug curl on the cushion, showing me what to do on the other. She – for she introduced herself with her eyes – explained that this was a good house for me. Contented and exhausted, I fell asleep.


 

Grace Burrows was a tallish, big-boned woman who walked as if she were wading through a very deep river. Her face was wide and soft, and on each side of it, covering her ears, she wore a little brown bun.


From the very first moment I woke to see her, I felt I had arrived. The armchair opposite hers by the range seemed to have been waiting for me, its dense old cushion curved already into my shape. I was allowed to explore in any room, and I could touch anything I liked. The only exception was a beautiful porcelain shepherdess on the mantel above the range, because that – although it might not look like it – was a ‘nair loom’. I respected her wish. In any case, I was suspicious of something that pretended to be a shepherdess but which was, in fact, something else altogether.


I loved the picture of her parents on the mantel. They were kind, loving people, she said. I liked the way they looked so old-fashioned, and the advice they used to give, according to Gracie: ‘Never trust a woman with more than two handbags,’ ‘A bird in the hand isn’t worth anything unless you can eat it,’ and ‘A man who wears shop-bought socks is a gentleman.’ They peered out of their silver frame with remarkable goodwill, and I felt a twinge of regret that I hadn’t known them.


* * *

The bed that Gracie put me in that first night was so cool and deep and soft that I wanted to weep. But I was not used to sleeping alone, and she was not used to sleeping in the double bed in the front, so after several visits from her, checking on me, stroking my forehead, kissing me tentatively, I made my own way to the front bedroom and curled up in the soft curve of her, and fell into an easy sleep at last.


I always slept with her after that, pressed up against her wide back or cupped in the warm cotton of her nightgown. And I knew I had always slept with someone. The sappy woodsmoke smell of Nipper, the musky, shadowy smells of long past, and the warm cake smell of Gracie’s soft skin, these all smelt of security. There was nothing that terrified me more – truly terrified me – than a cold, empty bed, with no one but myself to fill it. I did not choose to ask myself why. I slept with Gracie until I left home, although as far as anyone else was concerned, the back room was my room. In it I kept my few clothes, and spent time looking out of the window at the hills, or talking to myself in the mirror.


Views out of windows were dangerous for me. They were a reminder of being inside. But the view from my back room was a good one. It was a long view, taking in the hills in the distance, with sheep that grazed and were going nowhere. I liked the sheep for staying on the hill. Their progress was slow, and when they weren’t there, they were somewhere else. But they never, ever disappeared for good, and I was grateful to them for their consistency.


 

Because I arrived so soon after her father’s death, Gracie saw me as a gift. She named me ‘Joy’ and told people I was the orphan of a distant cousin who’d died of a tubercular cough. Owing to my mouth being permanently ajar like an idiot, and my tendency to say very little, I was soon known as Mad Joy by my classmates at Woodside School. There was no bullying involved; it was purely descriptive. They had all sorts at that school, and mad was just one in a spectrum of words to describe the ragbag of children we were. Others were Stinker, the boy who sat on my right in class, Weasel, the girl who sat on my left, and Spit Palmer, the sweet-natured girl in front of me whose neat parting and pigtails I gazed at for most of the day and who had a slight lisp.


Mo Mustoe was a few months younger than me, and emaciated. Most of the children in Woodside were thin because our diet was so poor and we ran around a lot. But Mo Mustoe looked as if you could pick her up and put her in your pocket. Mo’s older brother was Stinker (or Robert) and her younger brother – who was two but weighed more than she did – was called George, and thought he was a sheepdog as long as I ever knew him.


From the moment she patted the empty seat beside her, I saw little Mo Mustoe as an ally. She seemed perfectly content with my silence, and chattered away to me as if my grateful looks were replies. I must’ve always said the right thing because she was always delighted with me.


Other children were not so safe:

‘She mad or what?’

‘Bit touched, ent she?’

‘She got a tongue or what?’

Once Mo put her hands on her hips with pride and said, ‘She only speaks to me.’


They laughed at her, and I could see a worried frown appear. Her confidence was so frail and I began to see it was something new she had invented for herself: for a moment her special powers had made her interesting. This playing dumb lark was not so easy as I’d thought. The trick was to make no connections and therefore risk no hurt or derision. But if you overplayed it, you became too interesting. And now this thin runt of a girl had drawn attention to both of us, and I had to make a decision. I could stay mute and watch them laugh at her, or I could play along.


I waited for her to test me out. She looked at me helplessly, as if she’d been caught out trying to be someone when she was, in fact, worthless. I looked back at her, willing her to make me speak. I would, I decided, say something short if she asked me to: a yes or a no. That wouldn’t hurt. But she said nothing, just looked crumpled and defeated.


Suddenly I lunged forward and put my hand to her ear. I could think of nothing to say, so I whispered ‘Yes.’


The children, who had started to turn away, turned back.

‘What she say, then?’

Mo seemed to grow and glow with my one small action. ‘She got a spell on her!’ Mo breathed, her face alight with excitement. ‘If you want to speak to her, you best ask me.’


I had done that. I had made little Mo happy and important. And she for her part had let me fit in. She had given me a role – and a place beside her.


We sat there in class all day, learned nothing and were very happy. It seemed a far better place than the last school I could remember. Here at Woodside, Miss Prosser loved us as if we were her very own, and gave us each a quarter of an apple on Fridays. We had a kitchen garden to plant and dig, logs to play on, songs to sing and triangles and tambourines to make a nice racket on. We thought we loved Miss Prosser with all our hearts. We loved her headphone hairdo, her downy face and her dingy brown handbag; but although we knew she was lonely, we prayed she would never get married in case we lost her for ever.


Nothing much really happened in Woodside except the seasons, and I was happy enough with that. But no one ever went anywhere. If they walked to the next village they’d get homesick and if they had to go to Gloucester or Stroud for market they’d come back full of complaints about the place, consoling themselves they were glad they lived in Woodside. It seemed to me they had no aspirations and no curiosity. They got up in the mornings and went to work in the fields and grew so bored that they invented days to celebrate.


A few weeks after I arrived there was ‘Apple Day’ in October. I remember it well because there was a smell of ripe apples in the air, and just before I was put to bed Gracie rapped on her back window at some people taking apples from the orchard down beyond the end of her garden.


‘Tiz them bloody gypsies again,’ said Mrs Mustoe from next door. She walked right on in whenever she felt like it, and gave her two pennies worth. ‘Steal the ruddy shirt off our back, they would. Greedy beggars.’


‘Only take what they need,’ I ventured.

This sudden utterance drew such surprise from Mrs Mustoe and Gracie that I thought they were pleased I was speaking. But then Mrs Mustoe narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously, and Gracie shuffled me off to bed, at pains to change the subject. Later when she tucked me in she looked at me with a mixture of anxiety and tenderness, and opened her mouth to say something. But, of course, she didn’t want to know too much, so the matter was left floating. If only she had asked, I could have told her I wasn’t a gypsy, and saved her a lifetime of worry. Instead I rolled on my side, paddled my limbs in the coolness of the smooth cotton sheets, and remembered.





I remembered running in a wood. It was damp and chilly and leaves stuck to my shoes and my breath smoked. I had bare arms; I remember the wet leaves flicking them and soft ferns drenching my socks. Was I running towards something or away from it?


Running. Out of breath. Completely unknown pathways. I think I was running away, for what came next seemed like being caught. There was an almighty snap, the bite of a ferocious animal at my ankle. I can’t remember the pain, but I know it must have hurt, because I howled, and when I looked up I saw him standing there, right next to me, fixing his eyes on mine, almost as terrified as me.


He must have been very brave, because he didn’t run away. He would have been seven or eight, a couple of years older than me, but he had the presence of a wild animal.


I hadn’t heard him coming; he seemed just to be there, standing silently in the ferns. His face was as still as a deer, and he watched me a long time, motionless, with his dark green eyes. Then he knelt down at my feet and parted the undergrowth, so that I could clearly see the iron teeth that had sunk into my left ankle. He released the trap, and gently put my arm around his shoulder.


It was the first time I had smelt a human since … The smells came at me suddenly from his neck and arms and clothes, drenching the air. They were disturbing. I was shocked and fascinated, tasting them on the back of my tongue. My pulse thumped and my head began to swim. But woven in with these siren smells were calming ones, tugging gently at my memory.


I went with him in a trance, and he took me to a clearing in the woods. That was how I came to meet Alice Snow, and I would share a pillow with her – or her relations – for the next four seasons, in her caravan or out of it, under the stars.


 

I missed Alice in the simple luxury of my feather bed. I missed the easy warmth of her through the night, I missed the smell of her, the raw musty whiff of her neck. But it didn’t do to talk of gypsies too much at Woodside. People loved them well enough when they wanted illnesses healed, but that was in private. In public they were mere thieves and liars who ate hedgehogs, and sent their children to school when the fancy took them. Even so, there was a mystique about gypsies which Mo from next door was the first to impress upon me.


No one ever listened to Mo because she was too small and insignificant to be bothered with. So I was quite a catch for her.


‘See that big house up there?’ she said to me one day as we were building a den. ‘Just see it hidden in the trees … that’s cursed, that is.’


I murmured something in idiot fashion to show I was interested, and she knelt down and turned huge stealthy eyes on me: ‘Cursed by a gypsy woman!’


I looked puzzled. The gypsy women I’d known had been gentle folk. But anything to do with gypsies intrigued me. I longed for news of Alice. Mo looked about as if we might be overheard in the middle of nowhere and lowered her voice to a whisper.


‘Swear you won’t tell no one.’

I nodded and spat three times on my hand to shake hers.

‘Eurh!’ She looked at my spit and then continued in hushed tones. ‘He wanted a boy so’s he could leave all his land to him. But his wife’s only ever had a girl. And every baby she’s had since have come out all bleeding.’


I looked suitably shocked.

‘And,’ she continued through suddenly slitted eyes, ‘she’s very very very scared of cats.’


I nodded gravely and somehow managed to agree that we should seek him out and try to lift the curse by fair means or foul.


‘I seen lots of people go in an’ out. I never seen him, yet.’

I looked curious.

‘We’ll know him when we see him, mind. Our mam says he wears his heart on his sleeve.’


‘Eeeurch!’ I managed.

‘Tiz ’orrible! No one knows why!’

We both tried to imagine the organ strapped by some sort of belt to his arm. He certainly would be hard to miss.


Although it seemed perfectly natural that I should be referred to as ‘Mad Joy’, it is surprising that I didn’t contest it, given that most of the population of Woodside seemed clinically insane.


Violet (or Vile It as we called her) was the resident tramp. There were many tramps passing through the village, but Vile It made her bed at the memorial cross or the bus shelter and her living room was the main street and village green. She spent her days telling people to clear out of her house, and since she smelt of stale cider and wee, they usually obliged. Mo said she’d lost her husband and all her four sons in the Great War, but I couldn’t imagine anyone marrying her so it must have been made up. Once, when we were about eleven, we asked her and she said, ‘Fuck off you fuckers,’ and Mo was cross because we both knew real mothers didn’t speak like that and therefore she was probably wrong.


Then there was Swallockelder. It took me years to realize that she was Miss Wallock Elder, and the older sister of Miss Wallock, my piano teacher. Swallockelder was truly barking mad. Every time you saw her she was pushing a pramful of lambs about. As the lambs grew bigger they looked even dafter, and by winter she was forced to carry one fat sheep at a time. She did not lay off mothering them until the following spring, when some more lucky lambs were shown off proudly, bleating at the top of their voices for her generous bottles and trampling carelessly on the lovingly crocheted pram blankets.


Mr Bearpark was the most famous cyclist in Woodside. He wore bicycle clips that displayed mustard-coloured socks, hand-knitted by Mrs Bearpark. Every day he could be seen pushing his bicycle. He pushed it down the hill to work in the sawmill and back up again at dinnertime and teatime. He pushed his bicycle to church on Sundays and to Libby’s grocery stores on Saturdays and even to Stroud and Gloucester and Cheltenham. He wasn’t afraid of hills, he had ‘a fine pair of lungs’, he said. On Sunday evenings he could always be seen on his front step with a piece of rag, tenderly rubbing the sacred machine and polishing the chrome handlebars, oiling the chain, adjusting the tyres. And when he passed the top year boys slouching on walls with their cigarette butts, he would always say something like ‘You need some exercise, you do. Wanna get a bike, you do. Work those limbs – that’s the trick!’ No one ever saw him astride his bicycle. But no one – not even the bad boys – ever pointed this out.


It wasn’t long before these people seemed perfectly normal to me as well, and they were always somewhere in the background, gently going about their oddball lives in a world that never changed.


* * *

Mo’s advantage over me came to an abrupt end three months later when Miss Prosser came to visit Gracie and announced that I was not mad but deaf. A little stay in hospital would sort it all out.


My ‘little stay’ was a shock to Gracie. I screamed at the nurses and spat at them and had to be held down. I spat at the nurses because no one understood that I didn’t want them near me. I didn’t want to be left in a place where women wore tight smiles, a determined look in their eyes and starched white veils clamped to their heads. I didn’t like the way they sported syringes and smelt of nursey chemicals probably designed to knock you out. I had a terror of the rows of iron bedsteads. I felt locked in. I felt alarm. In the end they let me out early, and the fact that Gracie came back for me, like she’d promised, made me love her more than ever.


I had had my adenoids out and my ears syringed, and the world transformed itself overnight. I no longer had any excuse not to speak, but at least now I knew the story I was supposed to tell.


Not that speaking was an easy business by any means. Now that I had a tongue in my mouth, people expected the worst language to come out of it. I remember going into Mr Tribbit’s, the grocer’s, to get something for Gracie. I had a sore throat and a cough and didn’t feel much like talking.


‘Aren’t we going to hear that lovely new voice of yours?’ said Mr Tribbit.


I looked at the soap I was holding out to him. ‘A cough,’ I mumbled.


He looked outraged. ‘I beg your pardon? What did you just say?’


‘What did she say?’ asked Mrs Tribbit, coming up from behind him.


‘I couldn’t possibly repeat it,’ said Mr Tribbit. ‘Told me where to go. And,’ he said, jabbing his finger at me, ‘you can go straight home to Miss Burrows, you can. No one speaks to me like that and buys my produce!’


Speaking was quite a dodgy business, then. You could offend people without knowing it and come home without any soap. Language was a dangerous thing.





Gracie and the Mustoes lived in two little stone houses in a row of four. Opposite was a spring and a field of sheep penned in by a lichen-covered stone wall. To the left was the church and graveyard and to the right was the pub. Further up the road in this direction – about half a mile – was Buckleigh House.


It was a fine-looking building, if you made the effort to get right up close and look through the iron gates and between the trees. There was a grand driveway leading up to a golden-pillared porch, and the tall windows were the same on both sides. Its symmetry was part of its beauty, but the way the drive approached almost from the side seemed to add to its mystery. There would be no full view of this house unless you were standing squarely in front of it, inside the grounds.


Mo and I could not leave this house alone. We were fascinated by it. As time went on we invented even more gruesome additions to the stories we had heard, and since I was no longer mute, Stinker became interested in our games too, and joined us in ever more daring feats of voyeurism.


We had a good excuse for playing up the road beyond the church, because that was where Mrs Emery lived.


Mrs Emery had a reliably short temper and a husband who worked nights. We didn’t know where he worked, only that in the daytime he was sure to be sleeping. We took a shameful delight in trying to wake him, not because we wished him any harm, but because our attempts drew out Mrs Emery like rain drew out the lady with the umbrella on Gracie’s hall barometer. And Mrs Emery’s temper thrilled us. We never stayed around long enough to hear a word she said, but the sight of her standing beetroot at her gate and gabbling furiously sent us flying up the road to hide, breathless with exhilaration.


It was always up the road we ran, because of the slight bend. Down the road we would be seen, but up was all hedges and trees and, if we ran far enough, the imposing gateway to Buckleigh House, totally invisible from the village.


The road was good here, and the yellow gravel of the drive entrance so impacted by car wheels that you could bounce a ball on it. The boys liked it because from time to time you got to see a car drive in and out, and we girls liked it because we very occasionally got to see the beautiful Mrs Buckleigh with her incredible changing outfits. If there were too many of us or if we came too close she told us to clear off, but mostly she allowed us to admire her. This she did by ignoring us completely while the driver opened the gates. She tantalized us with her matching coats and hats and feathers and her long trail of dead babies that had come out bleeding.


Once, loitering by the iron gates, we saw a man striding across the lawn, and we squealed and scattered in all directions. He came right out of the gates and told us to clear off, but Mo said it was only Mr Rollins the gardener. Another time we saw a face at an upstairs window, and Stinker said for certain it was Mr Buckleigh, but no sooner had we seen it than it was gone. The next time we saw the face we all looked much more carefully, but it was a long way off and we couldn’t see for certain the heart on his sleeve or any blood or anything.


Our interest never waned though, fuelled as it was by the little bits of information we all contributed to keep it alive. Spit Palmer said her mother had said he was a philanthropist. Stinker said he’d thought as much and we’d better watch out, because they did terrible things to children. George said he had a room full of guns, which was most likely true. I said I’d heard he had a hook for a hand, which wasn’t true at all but seemed to fit in with the general picture.


Often Mo and I would play on our own, and then I had to be Buster Keaton and she would be Mo grown up. I think she somehow knew I’d come from the woods, because we always had to be lost in the woods which she found terribly romantic, and I just knew it was cold and damp so I tried to make us find a cottage. Mo insisted the cottage was always deserted, although it miraculously had plenty of fresh food and a warm fire blazing.


‘Look! . . .