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

by Sue Nicholls

  Gloria remembers his pleading face with affection.

  Robert found them a flat in Watford, near to the new job. They took a train from Dover and struggled through St Pancras Station, hanging onto one another and marvelling at the high ceiling and rushing crowds. They found a taxi. It had cost a fortune. Gloria’s English was not good then, but Albert told her later that he only just had enough money to pay the driver. When he counted out notes and coins, the man had raised his eyebrows in a disdain that might have expressed his opinion on Albert’s colour, or on the lack of a tip.

  From the pavement Gloria, holding the infant Mick tightly by the hand, stared at their new home. At the front, behind black metal railings with a matching gate, was a wide, shallow patch of scrubby lawn. Beyond the garden, rose a majestic if shabby, Victorian, red brick building, with a fading leaf-green front door and a symmetrical pattern of sash windows. They let themselves in through the low gate and struggled over a path of cobbles, with grass and moss growing between. A push on the door brought them into a narrow, lino floored hallway with doors to right and left, and a staircase ahead.

  ‘Smile.’ Albert held up a camera.

  ‘Aw, Albert I look terrible.’

  ‘Just smile woman, ‘dis is an important day.’

  She stood obediently with Mick, by the newel post, and the instamatic discharged a dazzling flash.

  ‘Now me. You take me.’

  She pulled Mick across the passage and let go of his hand to do as he asked, trying not to complain about the soreness of her feet and her longing to see their new home.

  Albert took a set of keys from his pocket and studied the fob. ‘It’s number 31.’

  They toiled up three staircases heaving suitcases behind them, and once inside, fell exhausted onto chairs in the living room, unable for a moment, to take in their surroundings. Eventually Gloria looked around and admitted that the flat was beyond her dreams. It did indeed have a fitted kitchen and a bathroom, a matter of excitement for Gloria, who had not had plumbing before. Her only complaint was the number of stairs.

  Gloria chortles to herself. That breathless climb, and the delight and fear.

  Poor Albert never got a chance to take up his new job. She kissed him goodbye, sending him off to his interview in his best clothes, with his shoes conker-shiny. It was the last time she saw him alive. Witnesses said he had looked the wrong way at the main road. They had just got used to cars driving on the right back home and then there they were in the busy streets of Watford with everything reversed again.

  Gloria and little Mick waited, excited to know how Albert’s first day at work had been but when the doorbell rang, they opened it to Robert. The police had found the interview letter in Albert’s pocket and traced Robert at work. He had been to identify the body and come straight over to break the news.

  Gloria looks up at her son’s hanging face and reflects that every life is touched by sorrow. ‘How much do you remember of your father?’

  ‘A bit. Mostly I remember you being there for me. You were so strong. Do you still miss him Ma?’

  ‘I was just wishin’ he was here,’ Gloria admits, and nudges her son. ‘To make sure you don’t do anythin’ else stupid.’ She grins up at him.

  They have both come a long way since she opened the door to hear of her husband’s death. That was the worst day of her life, but she did not give in. How could you, with a three-year-old son?

  Robert whisked Gloria and Mick back to his house that day, and she saw Alicia, Robert’s wife for the first time in years, and met their three children. There was barely room for two extra people in the tiny house, but Gloria was thankful for the bed and their support.

  She and Mick began taking outings, to get out from under Alicia’s feet. Gradually they found their way around Watford, then began to venture on the train into London. There they walked and walked, through the wet and gloomy streets of the capital, jostled among its pale inhabitants.

  With the help of her in-laws, television, and friends at church, Gloria's English improved. She and Mick learned the history of the dirty capital with its rich, cruel royals and filthy residents.

  It was on one of these trips to the capital that Gloria spotted an advert. CLEANER AND HOUSEKEEPER REQUIRED. It was a live-in job, space for herself and Mick, and money for food. She made a note of the number, and that evening rang it. In her best diction she asked for details of the job, and to her utter amazement was invited for an interview.

  The people were Arabs, and the flat was extensive, with floors deep with Chinese carpet, and bathrooms of marble and gold. Although Gloria was overwhelmed, she managed to keep her poise, and with the bearing of a woman used to such surroundings lied shamefully about her experience back home. No, she couldn’t provide references, but she was a poor widow with a son to bring up. She got the job.

  She and Mick, to the unspoken relief of Robert and Alicia, left Watford to start the next stage of their lives, in Hampstead.

  Gloria spent three years in the employ of the Arabs. By the time she left she had saved enough money to move to a small, rented flat.

  She transferred to a job with a bookmaker nearby, running his office and managing the money. Her new boss was not always comfortable with the way she talked to his customers. While her fingers flew through piles of grimy notes and her portly body bowled between office and counter, her mouth berated the sinners who lost their precious incomes. ‘How is your wife goin’ to pay for the food on the table now?’ She scolded as they departed with empty pockets. ‘Ain’t you got nowhere better to go than this?’ But Gloria was a bundle of energy, and despite her nagging, the punters seemed fond of her - a reliable and motherly figure in a less than stable world.

  They cross the road to the station. Gloria is to go home by train, and Mick and the children will pick up a taxi. They all huddle into the small entrance, and Gloria turns to her family, her eyes suddenly filling. ‘Son.’ Mick stoops to receive her hug and they hang together for a minute, then she turns to embrace the children and tells them she loves them and will see them very soon. Backing through the ticket gate, she waves and sniffs, watching her big, sad son turn away.

  She finds a seat on the train and digs out her book. She is not going to read it but opens it to discourage chatty neighbours. Her mind returns to the betting shop and those sorry men. She wonders what happened to them, especially Jim.

  Jim was a nice man with a good job in a bank. Over the months Gloria watched in horror and scolded mercilessly as he squandered thousands of pounds.

  At the end of each day, back in her cosy house she prayed for him, and after hours on her knees, inspired if not instructed by the Lord, she decided on a plan. The next time Jim came in Gloria proposed a deal. She would put £20 on his recommended horse, a significant sum in those days, and when she lost it, Jim was to give up gambling. With distorted logic she hoped her uncharacteristic fling might demonstrate to Jim how much she cared and longed for him to put his home and career first. Jim listened to her proposal, his clerk’s hands resting on the counter and his wispy pate tilted to one side, and she was delighted when he agreed, saying in a resigned voice,

  'Gimme £50 each way on Flaming Glory in the two O'clock, just for old time’s sake.’ The odds were long.

  Gloria took his bet, and after clearing it with her boss, put her own £20 on the same horse.

  The train begins to fill up. Gloria squeezes herself into the corner of her seat, gripping her book like a shield. A heavy, male body compresses the springs, and brings with him a smell of fresh air and aftershave.

  In the bookmaker’s, a dusty television blared from a high shelf. Gloria and Jim watched the race, with Gloria expecting every moment for her £20 to be lost forever. The horse however ran strongly, and gradually pulled to the front. At the end of the race Gloria found herself clinging to Jim in excitement as their runner finished in first place. To her chagrin, as it crossed the line, she was leaping and cheering. Oh, she understood Jim’s addiction a
t that moment. Was that God's intention?

  Jim was financially set up, and as promised, after hugging her tight, he walked from the shop and she never saw him again. She hoped he had not taken his business elsewhere.

  The win provided Gloria with enough money to buy the little terraced house in Fulham, where she now lives. The real cost, though, was a lifetime praying for forgiveness, for accepting the ‘wagers’ of sin. In her shame she has never shared this story.

  The locomotive jerks to a start. In half an hour she will be in Euston. She stares sightlessly at the charcoal print on her page and prays that she has been a good mother. Mick is her reason for living - him and the children. Millie had never been good enough for him. She stops and chastises herself. Mick’s right. You don’t speak ill of the dead. After all Millie gave them those lovely kiddies. Gloria loves Lucas and Olivia deeply, and now she worries about their future, brought up by those women. She would like to get a toe in the door there.

  Chapter 40

  The fine weather that began on Millie’s last day, has continued for two weeks, now.

  Mick sits, sandwiched once again between Paul and Mo on a playground bench. A phalanx of green railings protects their rear, interrupted by a metal gate that allows grinding access to and from a wide pavement. Beyond the slabs, a noisy road imposes pauses in their conversation as HGVs roar past trailing sooty exhaust fumes that pollute the crisp air.

  Lucas and Olivia have been staying with Mick since the funeral. Like iron filings to a magnet, they have clung to him, whether it be squeezed into the kitchen during food preparation, or heaped on the couch with a book, or the television. Lately though, their cluster has loosened, as though the strength of the force has reduced.

  ‘I need to get back to work.’ Mick presses his lips together and frowns. ‘The children have been asking when they can go home. Home.’ He shakes his head then shrugs. ‘Fee and Twitch seem keen to take them. It’s good of them really.’ He inhales deeply, expanding his chest and forcing his shoulder against Paul’s.

  ‘How are the nippers now?’ Maurice raises his voice over a passing truck.

  ‘I think they’ll be OK. Thing is I have no choice really. Work’s been good to me but two weeks off - it’s putting pressure on the rest of the team.’

  ‘You can still see the kids, nobody’s going to object to that,' observes Paul. 'It’ll be easier for you than me and Maurice now. You can play the sympathy card.’

  Mick nods without comment.

  The three men fill the long, slatted seat. At their feet, the remains of a take-away and the discarded outer clothing of their young, overflow from rucksacks. Maurice is pushing and pulling a buggy in which Josh, too big for it, lolls with his eyes closed. Their other three children, and a few other families, are dotted around the playground. Nearby, a boy-toddler supervised by his father, climbs a ladder with rungs as high as his shoulders. The dad offers gung-ho encouragement, and the mother warns, ‘Hold his hand; he’s going to fall off.’

  The men lapse into quietude, listening to the rumble of the traffic and to childish squeals. Mick looks for his kids and spots Lucas pushed on a swing by Olivia, now even more motherly and grown up.

  Kitty and Sam are at the top of the climbing frame, about 7ft from the ground.

  ‘Look Daddy,’ Kitty cries in the way of children the world over: Mira Mama. Regards Grand-pere. Paul glances up and nods vaguely at her.

  ‘No, keep looking, I’m going to do something amazing,’ and when his eyes are focussed to her satisfaction, she throws herself from the top of the tower.

  Paul leaps to his feet, fright choking his cry, and launches himself towards her.

  She bounces to her feet. ‘See, I told you I’m amazing!’ She beams up at him, panting, and triumphant.

  With a racing heart Paul grasps Kitty by her sleeve and yanks her to him, then seizing both her shoulders he pushes his face into hers, yelling, ‘That was very silly. You could have hurt yourself.’

  The child’s pride transforms into astonishment, then her eyes brim with tears.

  Immediately he smothers her in his chest. ‘I’m sorry Pops. I shouldn’t have shouted, but you gave me a fright.’ He squats down and hugs her. ‘Look at me, I’m crying too, daft old Dad.’ What a bloody life.

  Behind Paul, Mick rises from the bench and begins gathering his things. He has made the decision to take Lucas and Olivia back to Crispin Road. ‘Come on man,’ he calls ‘We need to make a move.’

  The group files through the gate and a passing refuse cart wafts its foetid fumes at them.

  Chapter 41

  Millie is gone. Fee, standing in the ‘quick’ queue at Watco, finds she must remind herself again and again.

  Early evening is a lonely time to shop. There are no mothers with unruly children, no oblivious elderly couples, gossiping with unexpectedly met neighbours, the supermarket is quiet, occupied only by hurrying, suited women, and loose-tied men in shirt sleeves. Harsh lights make even the light evening outside look grim. People’s baskets speak of evening plans: ready meals, bottles of wine or beer, loaves of bread and pints of milk.

  Fee puts on her few items onto the conveyor belt: eggs, yoghurts and chocolate, then a red plastic strip to separate her goods from the next.

  ‘Thank you,’ says a warm male voice, and she looks behind her.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘The queue for the lost and the lonely,’ comments the man.

  ‘Well, some of them,’ she smiles briefly, ‘I’m not as sad as you might imagine from my shopping. The eggs and yoghurts are for the children and the chocolate is for myself and my girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He looks away, misunderstanding.

  She rushes to put him right. ‘I live with friends, we are divorced, with children.’ Why is she explaining herself to a complete stranger?

  ‘Oh, right’ He gives an embarrassed chortle. ‘That’s a good arrangement.’ He eyes her shopping as she puts it into a plastic bag. ‘And do you live on eggs and chocolate?’

  ‘Only if I’m cooking.’ Her items have reached the till and are being blipped by a bar code reader held in a pudgy hand.

  ‘One pound, twenty-eight please,’ says the round pasty faced and busty girl behind the till. The young sales assistant beams from beneath a shock of orange hair, and her breasts strain at the buttons of staid blue overalls.

  Fee rummages for her purse and pays for the goods then turns to the man. ‘Goodbye, have a nice evening.’ She looks at his basket, what tale does it tell? Something fish shaped in a white crispy bag, new potatoes, garlic, ginger and watercress, and a bottle of white wine, she cannot see the label. Impressive. ‘It doesn’t look as though you’ll starve.’ She starts to move off.

  ‘Would you like a coffee before you go?’ Fee turns back to meet two enquiring faces: the man indicating the supermarket’s café, and the sales assistant with her eyebrows raised in enquiry, clearly enjoying the exchange.

  ‘I must get this stuff to the children but thank you for the invitation.’ Her cheeks are warm as she appraises the man’s friendly face with regret. Oh, what the heck? ‘Actually, that would be lovely.’

  There is an awkward moment when they both want to pay, but Fee allows herself to be treated.

  ‘So - are you on your way home from work?’ he asks when they have settled onto plastic seats.

  ‘Not today.’ She does not explain that she is on compassionate leave. ‘I do work though - in Kingsthorpe. And you?’

  ‘I’m an engineer. Will.’ He holds out his hand. It is warm and dry.

  ‘Fee.’

  He grins and settles into his seat.

  ‘I work on the oil rigs. I’m away for a few weeks and then home for a couple. I’ve just got back from Aberdeen - it’s been a long drive. I’m not sure why I bought this fish, oven crispy stuff would have been much easier tonight, but you can’t always get red mullet, can you?’

  ‘No idea,’ admits Fee, ‘I don’t normally cook, or shop, I d
o the washing up and help with the children. My kitchen speciality is goats’ cheese salad, no cooking, no clearing up and ready in five minutes.’

  ‘And it tastes delicious too,’ he says, ‘especially if you grill it and serve it with figs or fresh mango and watercress.’

  Gosh, the man understands food, is good with his hands - presumably, and is away for weeks at a time. Has someone up there planted him to tempt her from celibacy? ‘Do you live locally?’ she asks, hoping she is not being nosey.

  ‘I have a flat on Mill Road. It’s neglected,’ He raises his shoulders. ‘I’m never there long enough to make it a proper home.’ He leans back in the seat. ‘But this leave I’ve promised myself I’m going to start decorating.’

  Occasionally, if the traffic on the main street is too heavy, Fee takes a detour along Mill Road. It is a wide residential street lined with trees and large mansions, most of which bear the tatty evidence and zig-zag escape ladders of apartment buildings. ‘Oh, you should speak to my housemate, Twitch, she’s very artistic.’

  ‘To be honest, I fancy having a go at it myself,’ he says. ‘I have a good idea what I want, and I like the feeling that I’ve done a job totally by myself.’

  As they chat, Fee scrutinises Will and is mildly dismayed to find nothing she can criticise. He is striking in a dishevelled but stylish way. Dishevelled, mainly due to his habit of scraping his fingers through his longish, mid brown hair. Stylish because he is not dressed by a chain store. He models well-fitting jeans and a black round-necked sweater that shows a glimpse of bare chest, and a soft grey casual jacket. This he manages to sling or drape from a finger, over his shoulder with casual indifference. Notwithstanding his looks, he is easy to talk to and seems bright.

  ‘You said you were an engineer on the rigs?’

  ‘I'm a diver, you know, scuba? I do under water safety checks.’

  ‘That sounds dangerous. I’ve done a little scuba diving on holiday. I loved it. It’s so beautiful under the sea.’

  Will smiles. ‘Not so much in the North Sea on a grey day.’