Be Careful What You Wish For: Three women, three men, three deaths (Kitty Thomas)

by Sue Nicholls

  ‘I am sure. I didn’t realise it when I first married Maurice but I’m positive about it now. Every person has a right to fulfilment.’ She takes a slopping gulp of her coffee and shakes her head at them. ‘I don’t mean neglect your children, but you know, this kind of thing should be talked about when you both set out in life together. Part of the deal. It needs compromise and determination. No person should make all the sacrifices in a marriage.’

  The other two stare at her. She’s never said so much before. Twitch prevents further comment by asking, ‘how did you and Mick meet?'

  'At a party. Mick towered above everyone else. I'm so little,’ she wrinkles her nose. 'I noticed him straight away. He looked so...', she pauses, 'noble. Like some African prince.’

  Twitch leans on her elbows and her shoulder brushes against Fee's. Fee, pulls away, but Twitch does not seem to notice.

  'You know that song?' Millie starts to croon. ‘Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger, you may see a stranger, across a crowded room.' Her eyes glow. 'My dad used to sing that. My childhood was joyous. I'm lucky.' Her face droops again. ‘But sad.’

  'It may pass.' Fee has her own story.

  'What happened next?' Twitch leans closer.

  'Our eyes met.’ Millie presses her heart with both hands and looks lovesick. ‘I knew he'd come over, and he did - not straight away. Suddenly he was beside me, offering me a glass of red wine. We talked all evening. The party went on around us but we were oblivious. Needless to say, he invited me out. We kissed but nothing more. He's always been incredibly romantic...’

  'But?' Twitch asks.

  But his mother disapproves of me. We don’t talk about it, but in a good relationship you should be able to discuss your differences, don't you think?'

  Fee shrugs. Discussion does not happen between herself and Paul. Their marriage is built on accusation and defence.

  Twitch keeps her eyes on her cup.

  'We found we shared a love of eating - we both adore spicy food. On our third date Mick took me for a curry.' Millie stops, her nose raised as if she is sniffing that long-ago Biryani, and her eyes stare into the past. It was a good meal.' She gives an apologetic laugh. 'We're both a bit obsessed.'

  Fee wonders if anyone could be less like herself.

  'Mick told me about his childhood. He arrived in England with his parents at the age of two, but his dad died - knocked over by a car almost as soon as they got here. Mick's mum was left to bring him up alone.'

  Millie's face takes on an impish mien. 'I asked Mick if his mum spoke English when they first arrived here, and Mick said Yes and No.’

  ‘I didn't understand until he explained that she could only say Yes and No. He makes me laugh.'

  'It sounds as though you love him,' observes Twitch.

  'That's the problem, I do, but I feel imprisoned and I can't make him see. It's a cultural thing. My parents tried to warn me when Mick and I first got together, but I stormed off accusing them of racism.'

  Fee pulls back her sleeve to uncover a gold watch - a gilt guilt present from her father, Clive.

  ‘We should go.’

  Back in the car, with Kitty fastened into her seat at the back, Fee contemplates the synchronicity of her meeting with Twitch and Millie. She points the car towards home, following the rural road’s twists and slopes, half aware that Kitty is talking.

  At home she is amazed to find Paul standing at the sink with his hands plunged in a soapy washing up bowl. She is on the brink of expressing her gratitude when she realises that the contents of the foamy water are not pots and pans. Projecting from the suds are the metallic edges of engine parts, and the floor is awash with oily water.

  ‘Paul! How could you? Look at this mess.’

  Paul takes in the puddle, and a sodden and grimy area round the sink.

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll clean up afterwards.’

  He might, but she will have to do it again.

  Chapter 4

  At the work-bench Paul hums under his breath. This is what he loves most – after Kitty of course - and Fee. He pauses in his task. Hmm, if he had to choose between his motor bike and his wife, at the moment, he is undecided which he would pick? He takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows a stream of smoke from his nose.

  Things are changing in their marriage. He is doing his utmost under difficult circumstances. Hasn’t he found another job after getting the push from the last one? And Kitty, he plays with her -that’s important. Left to Fee, Kitty would be polite, tight-arsed and bored.

  He stops thinking about Fee and Kitty to administer some loving care to his bike, enjoying the simple rituals of filing and brushing, shining and buffing. He tightens a screw, and stands back to admire his handy work, then pats his mistress and leaves her alone in the middle of the garage.

  In the silent house he removes his shoes at the back door, congratulating himself on being such a thoughtful fellow, then, after removing the oil from his fingers, pads up to the bedroom. The weighty wardrobe door opens smoothly at his pull, and he runs a hand along shirts and jackets to the stiff brown and slightly flaky arm of a World War I flying-jacket. Its bulbous sleeve looks as though the pilot might still occupy it. Using both hands he pulls the coat from its slot and lies it on the bed, then donning leather trousers, boots and sweater, he lifts the garment from its hanger, pokes his hands into the tubular sheepskin arms and shrugs himself into its snug interior. In the mirror his stocky body stands like a small boy in a snow suit, but this does not dampen his admiration. He decides that a scarf would complete the effect.

  Sweat breaks out under his layers, so grabbing his helmet from the bottom of a cupboard, he squeaks down the stairs.

  The stage is set. Swinging open the doors of the garage he gives a silent 'Tadaa.' The bike glints in the Super Trouper autumn sunlight, and he cocks his leg ready to mount it. The sound of grinding grit interrupts him, and Fee’s car pulls into the driveway. He watches her elegant ankle extend below the edge of the door.

  ‘The car’s playing up. It keeps hesitating.’ She is not whining, more like expecting the problem to be fixed.

  Kitty bounces up. ‘Ooh Daddy, she’s beautiful. Can we go for a ride?’

  Paul lowers his poised leg and smiles in approval of Kitty’s use of the personal pronoun.

  Fee pauses in the porch. ‘Certainly not. You’re not big enough.’ She stares hard at Paul, who was going to make a more optimistic reply.

  ‘Go on in with Mummy.’ He puts on a wonky face, wrinkling his nose and pushing his chin sideways in Fee’s direction. Kitty squeals with laughter and runs off.

  ‘We’ll go to the park later,’ he calls, ‘When I’ve given this beauty her maiden voyage.’ He settles into the saddle and stands on the kick start. The roar of the motor prevents him from answering the question Kitty is taking a breath to ask.

  ‘What’s a…?’

  The bike reverberates between his thighs, and with a wave of his stiffly encased arm and a twist of the throttle grip, he roars off down the road.

  Chapter 5

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking…’ Fee wonders if this is too personal? ‘Twitch... is a very unusual name. Is it short for anything?’

  ‘Sabrina.’ Twitch smiles.

  ‘Sabrina?’

  ‘Yes, it’s short for Sabrina.’

  Fee spends a moment thinking until Twitch says, ‘The Teenage Witch. There was an American magazine. We had copies at home from a time when my dad travelled all over the world for work.’

  Millie laughs. ‘I didn’t know what she was talking about, either.’

  ‘My parents must have been out of their minds with a surname of Hazel.’ Twitch gives a rare smile.

  A loud guffaw explodes from Millie. ‘What’s your married name?’

  ‘Roman. I suppose I should be grateful. There was a teacher at school called Miss Craft. Imagine if I’d wed a Mr Craft, I’d have been in the national papers. She punches splayed hands at
an imaginary, headline. ‘Twitch Hazel becomes Twitch Craft.’

  Millie puts her chin in her palm and leans her elbow on the table. ‘Are you ready to tell us about your life now, Twitch?’

  ‘Millie.’ Fee reproves.

  ‘It’s OK, I don’t mind, but it’s not particularly exciting.’ Twitch pulls a long face. ‘Sex got between us.’ She stoops to check on Josh, leaning against her leg and playing with his dinosaurs, then lowers her voice. ‘Not Maurice’s and mine, but his with some girl at the office.’

  A crash from across the room causes Fee to slop her drink. For a brief time, the camouflaging hubbub drops, and Twitch falls silent. A few metres away, a waitress drops to her knees between tables to gather white shards and crescents of broken crockery. The silenced diners return to their conversations, and Twitch turns back to Fee and Millie.

  ‘I got pregnant at Art College. We didn’t plan it, obviously, but Maurice and I were in love so finishing my art degree wasn’t a priority. We got married and moved to a grotty little terrace and Sam came along. Maurice finished his exams and found a job. After a couple of years, we could afford our own house – Maurice was working for a chain of estate agents, so we were given the best choice of properties, and good deals on the mortgage and surveys and so on.’

  She gazes at her coffee cup and after a few seconds picks up a snowy paper napkin and pulls at one corner. A slender strip of tissue wafts to the table and lies like a shredded promise.

  Millie nods, her eyebrows high and her pupils shining like the eyes of a blackbird.

  ‘We moved, then moved again. Maurice was doing well so we had Josh,’ she jerks her thumb at the little boy beneath the table. ‘I had two rowdy boys and a big house to manage. There wasn’t time to think.’ She strips strand after strand from the napkin making a feathery pile that shifts in the current of air. ‘Sex was non-existent. Maurice put on weight and lost interest in the family. He watched TV every Saturday and ignored us.’ Twitch covers the delicate heap of paper with long bony fingers and crushes it into a sweaty bundle. ‘Aren’t men supposed to play football with their sons, not watch it on television, complaining if they’re interrupted?’ She stuffs the shreds into her cup where it sucks slowly on the dregs of her cold coffee.

  ‘Our relationship was going downhill, and then one night he came home looking more unhappy than usual. I thought this is it, he wants to split up, but he broke down and apologised for the way he’d behaved. I didn’t understand what he meant. I imagined he was bored – I know I was. But he was confessing to an affair. It was over and had never been important because he loved me.’ Twitch throws her eyes at the ceiling.

  ‘My first reaction was, I couldn’t believe anyone would fancy him.’ She blinks at Fee and Millie. ‘I couldn’t see the attraction at all.’

  ‘You drifted out of love. It happens.’ Fee leans back against the metal bars of the chair and folds her arms across her breast as Twitch continues.

  ‘When I'd had time to take in what Maurice had told me, I was angry. I kept thinking about everything I'd given up: my career, my friends. I felt stupid. Duped. I moved into the spare bedroom and that’s where I am now.’ Twitch shuffles in the chair and shakes her hair. ‘Maurice says I’m trying to make him suffer, but I‘m not. I simply want to be away from him, and the spare room is as far as I can get. I don’t work, so I can’t support the boys, and I won’t leave them with a man who can’t even boil an egg.’

  Twitch drops her face into her hands and hunches over her elbows. The others reach out uselessly.

  Chapter 6

  Paul has bought a side car; it is a thing of beauty. He and Kitty are roaring along ‘A’ roads towards Alton Towers. As the road twists between hedges and through villages, Kitty shrieks with delight, her small features grinning under a lopsided red helmet.

  They have left pan-faced Fee at home. She disapproves of the trip. Paul expected her negative response when he announced it, intentionally late, over dinner last night.

  They queue for tickets. They queue for rides. They scream on sweeping curves and dips and they line up for hot dogs.

  ‘Can we have chips Daddy?’

  ‘Sure. You can’t have a hot dog without chips.’ Paul adds mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise to his meal. Kitty adds ketchup, twice.

  Kitty is too small for many of the attractions.

  ‘We’ll come back next year,’ says Paul.

  ‘Shall we come back every year?’

  ‘Until we’re old.’

  When they have been on every possible ride and thrown quoits and steered boats, Paul drags his stumbling daughter through the October darkness. They cross car park after car park on throbbing feet.

  At the corner of a distant field Paul lifts his daughter into the sidecar. He straps her in with the non-authentic seat belt, insisted upon by Fee. Kitty’s neck flops like a tulip stem under the heavy helmet.

  ‘Did you have a good time Pops?’ Paul smiles down at Kitty. In the distance they can still hear music from the merry-go-round.

  The helmet nods.

  Paul tucks a rug around his daughter.

  ***

  The head-light streaks past silver tree trunks, through a lamp-lit village where some houses already have Christmas trees. Ridiculous.

  Kitty’s head is motionless inside the rug.

  A sudden movement to Paul’s left makes him swerve, too late. The creature skitters under the wheels and Paul yanks on the brakes. They bump to a halt and Kitty’s helmet bobs up.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing Pops. Go back to sleep.’ Paul climbs off the Matchless and squats in the road to look beneath the fuselage. In her seat, Kitty cranes her neck so that her helmet clonks on the plastic side-screen.

  A cat. Stone dead and bloody.

  Kitty struggles with her straps and fumbles with the door of the sidecar, then falls headfirst onto the pavement and remains on the ground, twisting her protective hat to look between the wheels and across the motionless feline to Paul’s face.

  ‘The poor thing! Why did you run it over?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. It ran straight into the road before I could avoid it.’

  ‘You were going too fast Daddy.’ She sounds like her fucking mother.

  Paul reaches out to extricate the warm, lifeless creature. It looks loved. Apart from a gash to its head and a tax-disc sized patch of blood matting the fur on its back, it seems undamaged, but it is unquestionably dead. A tiny bell hangs limp from a sea-green collar around its neck but there is no means of identification. Paul looks around at the nearby houses.

  Kitty stands up on the tarmac. ‘Here. It came from here.’ she points to a cottage, set back from the road. Its path through a narrow hedge-lined front garden, leads to a faintly lit door. At the foot of the door he can make out the shadowy rectangle of a cat flap.

  ‘Go and see. Go and tell them!’ Kitty pummels his leather-clad leg.

  The metal knocker echoes in a hallway then they hear the slow shuffle of feet approaching. The door opens.

  ‘Yes?’ The old man’s speech is querulous. An odour of decay mixed with cat pee floats out into the chill darkness. A grey sock peeps through a hole in his slipper.

  ‘Have you got a cat with a greeny collar?’ Kitty squints up at him.

  ‘Trixi?’ The parchment face projects towards them, crumpled with the expectation of unwelcome news. ‘Is she alright?’

  Paul shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. She just ran out under my wheels.’

  The rheumy eyes fill.

  ‘She was only young.’ He turns away as if to shut the door, but after reaching for something beyond their view, turns back and thrusts a carrier bag at them with an age spotted hand. ‘Put her in here. I’ll get my neighbour to stick her in the incinerator in the morning.’

  ‘What’s an…?’

  ‘Come on Kitty, back into your seat.’

  ‘But what is an incinimater?’

  ‘Ask Mummy.’

  ‘C
an we have a cat Daddy?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair to have a pet Pops. You know what Mummy says: animals make work and need company during the day.’

  ‘Mummy is mean!’

  ‘Don’t say that about Mummy, Kitty. She loves you.’

  Chapter 7

  The children burst from their drama class clutching pieces of paper. Kitty does not wait to be asked for news of her morning.

  ‘Mummy, we're going to do a ferformance.’

  ‘That's exciting.’

  Kitty shoves a mangled leaflet at Fee. ‘It’s in three weeks’ time. You will come, won't you - and Daddy?’

  ‘Definitely, and Daddy wouldn't miss it for anything.’

  When they get home, the phone is ringing.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Her mother’s words have an unaccustomed quake.

  ‘Mummy, are you OK? Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s not that, but can I see you.’

  ‘Kitty and I have just got home the theatre. We’ll come straight over.’

  ‘Leave Kitty at home.’

  ***

  In the open driveway Mummy’s car stands alone - Father must be playing golf. Fee slams her door and teeters across the gravel in her heels. Her mother, Joy, waits at the open door, her hand resting on the catch, her eyes ruddy. They embrace, and stroll hand in hand to the stone flagged kitchen.

  The older woman scrapes out a chair from the heavy oak table and makes Fee sit, then she sits next to Fee so that their shoulders touch. She takes one of Fee's hands in both of hers, and Fee's stomach twists.

  ‘I've been to the hospital.’

  ***

  Millie looks across at Fee’s drawn face and glances at Twitch.

  ‘It's terrible out there today.’ Twitch nods her head upwards at the battering of hailstones on the roof of the restaurant.

  ‘Yes, we're in the best place here,’ Millie replies, lightly.

  Fee stares at her spoon until Millie can no longer resist. ‘Fee. What's happened? Are you all right?’

  Fee raises her eyes and slips the spoon into her saucer. ‘Not great. My mother has cancer.’ Her face crumples.