A Cuckoo in Candle Lane

by Kitty Neale

  ‘Good,’ Ann snapped. ‘My mum’s a wonderful woman and you seem to have forgotten how good she’s been to you, and your family. Now go on – clear off – and in future stay out of my way!’

  Sally ran downstairs and through the kitchen, ignoring Elsie’s shout as she yanked open the back door, her emotions a turmoil of anger and misery.

  ‘Wait!’ her mum called as she rushed indoors, bolting for the stairs. ‘Come back here, Sally.’

  ‘Just leave me alone,’ she sobbed.

  Slamming her bedroom door she sprawled across the bed, going over and over her confrontation with Ann. I didn’t mean it the way it came out, she thought. I didn’t mean that Elsie’s a bad person. She closed her eyes, hating herself for what she’d said. Oh, what am I going to do? she fretted. Surely I haven’t lost Ann’s friendship!

  If only they understood. When John explained why she shouldn’t use psychic powers, it all made perfect sense, especially when she told him about Mr Cox. As John said, she hadn’t been able to save him and had just given his wife false hope, making his death harder to bear. Ever since he’d said that she had been wracked with guilt, realising that she must never use her healing powers again. John said that what happened in life was God’s will, and she had no right to change it. She felt her eyes filling with tears and prayed that God would forgive her for what she had done.

  Unbidden, her mind began to swim, and the room began to glow in a soft golden light. She felt a feathery touch on her cheek. ‘Sally,’ a voice whispered.

  ‘No! Go away!’ she screamed, burying her head in the pillows.

  Chapter Twenty

  The beach was crowded with holidaymakers and scattered haphazardly with brightly striped deck-chairs. Small children splashed by the sea or knelt in the sand with buckets and spades, their backs turning pink as they competed to build bigger and better castles. The occasional father could be seen enthusiastically joining in their endeavours, while mothers sat in deckchairs, daringly exposing their knees.

  Ken walked briskly along the promenade, puffing with exertion. The last six years had been prosperous and showed in his amply proportioned body. It was Barbara’s scathing comments about his beer belly that had piqued his vanity and sent him out on this excursion.

  He scowled as he slowed his pace, thinking about the bed and breakfast and the endless jobs waiting for him when he got back from his walk. Barbara had changed from the lovely sensuous woman he had left his wife for. Now she was nothing but a bloody old nag, he thought. Perfect, everything had to be bleedin’ perfect. Even though it was early in June, every room was full and they had advance bookings for the rest of the season – but did that satisfy her, oh no. She was already planning for next year and talking about having the whole house redecorated.

  A small black and white dog suddenly dashed across his path, causing him to stumble. ‘Naughty boy, Patch,’ a woman called as she walked towards him, a man at her side.

  As Ken recovered his balance he noticed a curly-haired toddler clinging to her hand and stumbling along on podgy little legs. He was a beautiful child, bright with laughter, and Ken felt a pang of envy as his eyes moved to the boy’s father.

  ‘Blimey,’ he gasped in recognition. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Harry put his arm defensively around the young blonde woman at his side. ‘Ken,’ he spluttered. ‘Fancy bumping into you, and in Blackpool of all places.’

  Ken narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, Harry?’

  ‘Er … yes, of course. Sheila, this is Ken Marchant.’

  ‘Hello, I’m pleased to meet you. Do you live in Blackpool too?’ she asked as the child plopped down on his bottom beside her. Not waiting for a reply, she bent down and swept him up into her arms, saying, ‘This little chap is Daniel. Here, darling, go to your daddy.’ She smiled at Ken. ‘My husband’s ever so good with him.’

  Harry’s eyes met his, mute with appeal, before he turned to take the toddler.

  ‘Well, you sly old dog,’ Ken grinned, suddenly enjoying himself. ‘What happened to Mary then?’

  ‘Um … Mary and I were divorced years ago,’ he stammered, his face reddening.

  Oh, this is lovely, Ken thought gleefully. It was obvious that Harry was lying and he was going to enjoy making the pervert squirm.

  He was just about to turn the screw when the baby lifted two chubby little hands and held them to Harry’s cheeks. ‘Da-da,’ he gurgled, bending his head to plant sloppy kisses all over his daddy’s face.

  Something pierced Ken’s heart as he watched the scene. His own father had died when he was about the same age as Daniel, and his mother, left in hardship to bring him up on her own, had turned into a cruel, cold and bitter woman. He had tried to forget the misery of his childhood – the beatings, the hunger, the lack of love and affection. Now, looking at this child’s happy smile, he wondered how he could even think about destroying his small world. Bloody hell, he thought, what sort of man am I?

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Marchant?’ Sheila asked, concern in her voice.

  ‘What? Yes … sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Look, I must go. I own a little B and B close by and I must get back. It was nice to see yer again, Harry.’ He held out his hand. ‘Take good care of your son. You’re a lucky man.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Harry said softly, relief flooding his face. ‘Thanks, mate.’ He stepped towards him ready to shake his hand, but the child leaned forward and reached out chubby arms. ‘I think he wants you to hold him, Ken.’

  Holding the small body close to his chest, Ken felt a lump in his throat as he too was given a wet kiss on the cheek. ‘Da-da,’ the child said, touching his face.

  ‘No, not me, mate,’ he said sadly, adding, ‘More’s the pity.’ Handing him back to Harry he turned to walk away. ‘Well, bye then. Nice to ’ave met you, Sheila. See you again some time, Harry.’ Ken hurried off then, smiling ruefully. Blimey, he thought, I must be going soft.

  ‘Barbara!’ he called, when he returned to the B&B. She was in the kitchen peeling a mound of potatoes, and walking up behind her he placed his arms around her ample waist, saying, ‘Listen, love, I know we’ve talked about this before, but can’t we try for a baby before it’s too late?’

  She spun around, placing her hands on his chest and pushing him away. ‘Get off me, you daft bugger. Can’t you see I’m busy? We’ve had six bookings for dinner.’

  ‘Forget the bloody guests for five minutes, Babs. Didn’t you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. But I’ve told you before, and I meant it. I ain’t bringing a bastard into the world.’

  ‘All right then,’ he said, taking her back in his arms. ‘As soon as the season’s over I’ll go and ask Ruth for a divorce.’

  ‘Is this your idea of a proposal, Ken Marchant?’

  ‘Yeah, it is. Will you marry me, Barbara?’

  ‘Of course I will, you daft sod. Now bugger off, I’ve still got these flippin’ spuds to peel.’

  Meanwhile, Harry, still holding his son in his arms, ushered Sheila to the car. He was still reeling from his confrontation with Ken, and unable to believe his luck. Christ, it could have ruined everything, he thought. It was unbelievable really; both he and Ken had walked out on their wives, and both had ended up in Blackpool. He had been so sure it would be safe living in the North of England, never expecting to bump into anyone he knew from London. Realising what a close call it had been, a slight sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Could he trust Ken to keep his mouth shut, he wondered now, and what if they bumped into him again? He could inadvertently give the game away to Sheila, who was already looking at him with a frown on her forehead.

  ‘Who was that chap, darling? He was a bit odd,’ she asked, once settled comfortably in the back seat, Daniel on her lap and the dog by her side.

  ‘He’s just someone I used to work with,’ he lied, anxious to change the subject. ‘Look, we had better get a move on. Linda’s due ou
t of school soon and we don’t want to be late.’

  Driving faster than usual Harry drew up at the gates. ‘Stay there, dear,’ he urged, smiling at Sheila over his shoulder. ‘I’ll get her.’

  Climbing out of the car he stood watching the children as they came tumbling out of the main entrance, eyes alert for Sheila’s eight-year-old daughter. A smile curled his lips when he spotted her skipping along, blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders. God, she was beautiful, and he was determined not to lose her, even if it meant persuading Sheila to move to another area.

  ‘Here, Linda, come to Harry,’ he called, crouching down and holding out his arms.

  She hesitated when she saw him, her bright blue eyes darkening as she spun her head this way and that, as though looking for an escape.

  ‘Come on, princess,’ he urged, a frown on his face. ‘We don’t want to upset Mummy, do we? She’s still not well and you know how sad she gets when you behave like this.’

  She stepped tentatively towards him and he pulled her stiff little body into his arms. ‘There’s a good girl,’ he said, giving her a gentle squeeze. ‘Now come on, get into the car.’

  Only five minutes later they pulled up outside their neat little house on the main road, just on the outskirts of town. Harry got out of the car, and walking round to the passenger door, he took Daniel from Sheila’s lap, saying, ‘Come on, big fella, we’re home.’

  Later, when they had nearly finished their tea, Sheila was trying to wipe away the thick coating of strawberry jam that was plastered all over Daniel’s cheeks. ‘I don’t know how he does it,’ she groaned. ‘There’s more on his face than went into his mouth. Hold still you little devil,’ she laughed, as he twisted his head this way and that, doing his best to avoid the damp sponge.

  Harry heaved a sigh. ‘It’s been nice having an extra day off, but it’s back to work for me tomorrow.’

  ‘How long will you be away for?’ she asked, finally removing the last trace of jam from her son’s cheeks.

  ‘Only for a week this time,’ he told her, and pushing himself to his feet, added, ‘Now come on, give that little hooligan to me.’

  He swung him high in the air, laughing as Daniel chuckled with delight. ‘Now, what do you reckon, Danny boy – shall we go into the garden to play for a while? With any luck it might wear you out before your bedtime. Coming, Linda?’ he called, his face tightening when he saw her eyes slide away from his.

  ‘No, I’ll help Mummy,’ she whispered.

  Lowering Danny to the floor he walked over to her side, caressing her soft, shiny hair. ‘There’s a good girl. She does look a little tired, doesn’t she? I think I had better give you a bath tonight, your mummy needs to rest.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sally looked anxiously at the clock, unable to do anything with her hair. She’d be late if she didn’t get a move on.

  ‘Mum,’ she begged, rushing anxiously into the kitchen. ‘Please, can you do something with my hair? I’m meeting John in the park at three o’clock.’

  ‘Sal, you know I like a doze after me Sunday dinner.’ Ruth yawned widely. ‘Anyway, it looks all right.’

  ‘Oh Mum, it’s a mess.’

  Ruth clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Come here then. When are you gonna make it up with Ann? It’s been months now and I’m fed up with looking at your long face.’

  ‘I’ve tried, Mum, but she doesn’t want to know.’

  The door opened and Sally gazed at her aunt as she walked across to the table, tapping it six times with her knuckles before sitting down. It was this bizarre ritual, along with the way Mary constantly washed her hands, which had finally forced Sadie to admit that her daughter needed professional help.

  She had been seeing a psychiatrist for eight weeks now and he had diagnosed something called OCD, an obsessive-compulsive disorder. There were signs of improvement, but Mary was still too fragile to return to her own home.

  ‘Are you going out, Sally?’ her aunt now asked, eyes dulled by the effects of the antidepressants she’d been prescribed.

  ‘Yes, I’m meeting John.’ Sally glanced in the mirror. ‘Thanks, Mum, that looks much better.’

  Her aunt suddenly leaned forward and clutched her arm. ‘Is everything all right between you and your chap?’

  ‘Yes, of course, we’re fine,’ she told her, puzzled by the question.

  ‘Sally, are you sure? I need to know that things haven’t been ruined for you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Auntie, but I really must go now. Perhaps we could talk later.’

  ‘Sally, do you know what the date is?’ John asked as they sat on the grass under the shade of a large willow tree, enshrouded by the graceful draping fronds.

  She stared across the lake, fascinated by a pair of swans as they glided regally across the surface of the water. ‘They’re so beautiful,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes they are, darling, but did you hear what I said?’

  ‘What?’ she teased. ‘Oh yes, something about the date.’

  ‘It’s the fifth of August – doesn’t that mean anything to you?’ he asked quizzically, leaning back against the thick tree trunk.

  Sally twisted round to meet his eyes. ‘Of course it does, darling. How could I forget that we met a year ago today?’ She chuckled. ‘Do you remember how I choked on my cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ he laughed. ‘Still, it broke the ice, didn’t it?’

  He picked up his neatly folded jacket and Sally smiled affectionately at his fastidiousness. She had never seen him looking less than immaculate. Taking something from the pocket, he came to kneel at her side, his expression solemn. Her eyes widened as he opened a small box, and holding it out towards her, asked, ‘Sally, will you marry me?’

  The large diamond solitaire sparkled in the sunlight and she gasped; it was gorgeous.

  ‘It was my mother’s engagement ring,’ he whispered as he took it from the box, and lifting her hand, slipped it onto her finger. ‘Look, it’s a perfect fit.’ He then tilted his head to one side, giving her the lopsided grin that she loved so much. ‘You will say yes – won’t you?’

  ‘Oh John, of course I will,’ she cried, flinging herself into his arms.

  He held her gently for a second before kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘Come on,’ he said, grasping her hand and pulling her up. ‘Let’s go and tell Lottie.’

  They hurried to the flat and as soon as they entered the sitting room, Sally proudly held out her left hand, twiddling her ring finger.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Lottie said, smiling with delight. ‘Now come on, this calls for a celebration.’ She opened the drinks cabinet, and poured three liberal glasses of sherry. ‘I’m sorry it isn’t champagne, darling, but you didn’t warn me, you naughty boy,’ she said girlishly, patting him gently on his cheek.

  Sally still found John’s aunt an enigma. There was the haughty, prim and efficient Miss French, her manageress, who attended church twice a week and helped with fund-raising events. But at home she was Lottie, transformed, like a butterfly that had broken out of its chrysalis: Lottie, who would play the piano for them, pounding out Brahms and Beethoven with passion, and producing paintings that were bold splashes of colour that screamed at you from the canvas.

  ‘Well now,’ she asked, breaking into Sally’s thoughts. ‘Have you fixed a date for the wedding?’

  ‘Hold on, Auntie, we’ve only just got engaged,’ John answered, laughing softly.

  Feeling hot and sticky, Sally decided to freshen up, and placing her glass of sherry on the coffee-table, she said, ‘Please excuse me, I’m just going to the bathroom.’

  Leaving the sitting room, she started to walk along the hall, her eyes drawn to one of Lottie’s newly hung abstract paintings. She peered in fascination at the vivid daubs of yellow, orange and red swirling across the canvas, finding herself thinking of a Spanish dancer, arms held high and spinning in a frenzy of wild passionate movement.

  Then, becoming aware of John’s vo
ice drifting from the sitting room and hearing her name mentioned, she pricked up her ears.

  ‘Yes, I know, John, she’s perfect – so innocent and pliable. I’m glad that you’re so fond of her, but are you sure you’ll be able to deal with it when you’re married?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Very well. I was right about her then and she’ll be a good cover. But be careful, John; it would be a disaster if anyone found out.’

  Sally frowned. What were they talking about? It didn’t make sense, and what would be a disaster?

  ‘Ah, there you are, Sally,’ Lottie said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she stepped into the hall. ‘I see you’re looking at my painting. Have you been to the bathroom?’

  She felt her face flush. ‘Yes, thank you, I was just on my way back,’ she lied, not wanting Lottie to know she’d been eavesdropping.

  ‘Well, what do you think of it then?’

  ‘What? Oh, the painting. It’s wonderful, it reminds me of someone dancing the flamenco.’

  ‘How marvellous,’ Lottie smiled. ‘That’s just what it is. Well done, Sally, my technique must be improving. Now come on, I’ve poured you another drink.’

  The reception they received at Sally’s house was in complete contrast. Her mother stared at them in horror. ‘But she won’t be seventeen until February,’ she spluttered, her eyes on John. ‘She’s far too young to get married.’

  ‘We aren’t planning to get married straight away, Mrs Marchant. We thought perhaps when Sally is eighteen.’

  Ruth did a rapid calculation on her fingers, ‘Hmm, and that’s in about eighteen months. Yeah, well, I suppose that’ll be all right,’ she said begrudgingly. ‘But I still think it’s too young.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mum,’ Sally said indignantly. ‘You were married at nineteen; there’s only a year’s difference. Please, can’t you just be happy for us?’

  ‘All right, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you expect – it was a bit of a shock springing it on me like that. Well, come on then, you might as well show me yer ring.’