Rusty stared at her husband’s back as he poured himself another drink, thinking that it was at least something to have got him to speak his feelings, which was not something at which Peter exactly excelled.
‘You always say you don’t understand me when I’ve upset you.’
‘Well I don’t – you’ve got everything you want, but that’s not enough.’
‘No, Peter, I’ve got everything you want me to have, not what I necessarily want for myself.’
Peter sat down again. ‘And now I suppose you want to borrow the money from me?’
‘No, actually, I don’t.’
He stared at her.
‘No, as a matter of fact – I’ve already borrowed it.’
‘Not from Waldo. I won’t have you borrowing from someone I’m in business with, Rusty. That’s right against the rules, and you know it. I won’t have it.’
Rusty, suppressing the anger building up in her, paused for a moment.
‘No, Peter, I’ve borrowed it from my father. As a matter of fact he volunteered to lend it to me. You see I think he sees the boutique as a way of seeing me more often, and Flavia, of course, because she can help me in the boutique, sitting behind the counter totting up things. With Tam gone, and my brother Mickey permanently up north, it’ll be a bit of a distraction for him.’
Rusty thought back to earlier in the afternoon when she’d been shamed into going to have tea with her father, after she bumped into him outside the post office. His pleasure at seeing his only daughter was so apparent that it’d brought tears to her eyes, although she’d been at pains not to let him see. Rusty knew that her dad missed Tam, every day, hardly an hour going by when he didn’t think of him.
‘The lad’s gone, but he writes to his old granddad,’ was all he said, as Rusty noted that all Tam’s airmail letters were propped up behind the photograph of her poor dead young brother, killed at Dunkirk.
She turned away, feeling her insides turning over as she realised that Tam might be writing to her dad, but not to his own parents, or even to Flavia. That must mean that Tam blamed his immediate family, Peter and herself, for being cast out of Bexham, and sent so far away from everything he knew and loved.
‘Well,’ Peter volunteered after a pause that was so long it had become ominous. ‘What time’s supper? Or do we get it ourselves?’
At this hint Rusty went obediently through to her Formica kitchen with its Formica-topped table, and its chairs covered in easy-wipe plastic. The subject was obviously now closed, which meant that Peter, as always, had accepted what she wanted without argument, because that was Peter’s way. He would never put up a fight, considering himself too much of a gentleman for that, but he would be watching her none the less, waiting to pounce the moment her armour showed a chink. Rusty pulled open the oven door. Thank God it was chicken pie, Peter’s favourite; that at least was something.
That night before she fell asleep, Rusty said her prayers, as she always did, first and foremost for the safety of her children, next for the safety of the world, thirdly for her own special intention. Tonight, as she found herself praying for the third item, she couldn’t help hoping that God was as shallow as herself, because she knew that for her, making Laurel Cottage Creations into a flying success meant more than she cared to admit even to herself, although what it meant to God was quite another thing.
The moment Tam heard the scream he knew that it was up to him to do something about it. First of all it was not a woman’s involuntary scream, not the scream of fright at seeing a spider or some such, but a girl’s terrified, insistent scream. Forgetting his resolution never to become involved in an incident, he pushed his way out of the men’s room. Throwing his cigarette butt on to the tarmac of the parking lot, he realised that the screams, now continuous, were coming from one of the parked cars over by the road. Weaving his way between pickup trucks and clapped-out Fords, he made his way to a Ford Woody, new-looking, shiny and multi-chromed with flash lights, the sort of vehicle favoured by cowpunchers who lived in the fast lane, a heavy-duty four-wheel drive that could not only shift loads but also shift miles with the speedo needle flicking around the ton, and guzzling gas as fast as the owner probably guzzled beer.
By the time Tam reached it the pickup was about to move off, but that wasn’t going to stop Tam, now in full heroic mood. He after all was not just a Sykes, he was a Todd, and Todds sailed to Dunkirk and lost their lives or – like his mother – came back and refused to talk about it, ever again. He ran fast and he ran hard until he found himself level pegging with the vehicle out of which a peculiarly feminine boot was sticking. He remembered those yellow boots. He’d had just enough time to take them in before he passed out, the day Tammy had floored him. Without another thought he wrenched open the door of the big Ford, and thrusting his hands inside he pulled the driver towards him by the thick black cotton of his much-studded shirt, yanking him out of the cab while the driver grabbed the handbrake.
‘What in hell—’
Before he could say more Tam turned to see Tammy’s face, her eyes huge, her lips trembling with fright, her clothes everywhere except where they should be, a streak of blood across her mouth. But she was still Tammy.
‘Ah bit him!’ A momentary look of triumph came into her eyes. ‘Ah bit him, good and hard.’
‘Not enough to put him off, though, was it?’ Tam yelled at her, still pulling at the driver, who once out of the cab proved to be a good three stone heavier than his assailant, not to mention a good six inches taller.
‘Go at him!’
Tam obliged by swinging at the man, smacking him across the face with a closed fist. He fell against the door of his cab, his hand shooting up to his mouth and a look of astonished fury on his face. Wiping the blood away he stared at his reddened hand with disbelief before launching himself at Tam.
Tam steadied himself, put his left foot forward and his right one back, raised his left hand in classic defence and cocked his right arm back in line with his shoulder, unleashing a killer punch. The big fellow felt it, but it wasn’t enough to stop him coming after Tam, swinging at him so wildly that Tam was able to dodge his sledgehammer blows, the punches missing him by some way, thanks to nimble footwork. Tam had been taught by his uncle Mickey to jab quickly, jab, jab, jab, and then dodge, dodge, dodge, bang, bang, bang.
‘Fighting’s all footwork,’ Mickey used to tell him before he went up north to marry a Yorkshire lass, leaving Bexham for good. ‘Don’t matter how strong someone is, if you can dodge ’em, you’ve got ’em.’
And Tam had got the big brute. A minute or so into the contest and a crowd, men and women, most holding glasses, all smoking, started to gather in the parking lot, word having spread there was a fight on, some even leaving their pool games to watch the haphazard contest.
By now the big man was bleeding profusely. He was staggering too, unsteady on his feet, but still red hot with bull-like rage, lunging at the taut figure in front of him, despite the blood dripping into his eyes, despite the pain that was beginning to make itself felt. He wanted to kill this boy who’d dared to interrupt his night.
Of course, seeing how unsteady he was becoming, Tam knew that he had him now. It was easy to dodge him, easy to avoid the wild, slow, drunken blows being aimed at him. Before he delivered his coup de grâce he wondered just for one quick moment why he was so engaged with the brute, and then remembering the state of Tammy’s clothes, the fear in her eyes, he delivered a punch so quick that a murmur of satisfaction went up from the watching crowd, and they fell to something near to silence as the bruiser’s square-jawed head went backwards and the huge man was lifted off his feet. And then they sighed with gratified awe as the blow finally felled him backwards, and he crashed on to the bonnet of a neighbouring shiny black Cadillac, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, momentarily reminding Tam of one of Flavia’s rag dolls.
Tam stood over his opponent’s inert body and smiled as a roar of appreciation went up from the crowd. He nur
sed his aching fists, trying to rub the pain from them, before turning back to find Tammy standing behind him, also staring down at the large, inert body.
‘You hadn’t come along,’ she drawled, ‘I would have bitten his head right off, but seeing that you did, I guess you’ve been able to put in a bit of practice, Blue.’
Tam grinned at her bravura, still nursing his knuckles. The crowd was thinning out now, anxious to go back to the bars and the pool rooms to tell their mates of the David versus Goliath fight.
‘You done good, boy.’
Another of the ranch hands who worked at the Big U now came forward, and staring first at the man on the ground and then at Tam he nodded appreciatively.
‘Yah, you done good, Blue boy.’
Tam was just about to say ‘Thank you, Ned, thank you, Tim’ in a rather too Bexham way, when he remembered what he’d learnt on the road, and contented himself by merely nodding.
They all turned back towards the bars, beer being the only possible antidote to a fight. Tam felt as if he’d lost all the saliva from his mouth.
‘By the way, boys.’ Tammy spoke. ‘You ain’t seen nothin’, you hear?’
They nodded. They knew. Tammy’s father back at the Big U heard of this there wouldn’t be a fight, there wouldn’t be a battle – there’d be war.
Later, as Tam walked Tammy back to the Mustang, he found his second and third beer of the night had made him curious.
‘You know him?’
Tammy shook her head. ‘Course not.’
There was a long pause as Tammy stood by the old car waiting for Tam to open the passenger door for her while he waited for her to volunteer more.
‘I don’t rightly want to tell you, Blue.’
‘Well then, I don’t rightly want to take you home, girl.’
Tammy sighed and looked down at her feet.
‘He sold me these ’ere boots a while back, that’s what. Sent to tell me he had some more. Red. Red boots. I always did want red boots for myself. But then my money wasn’t enough. He wanted me and the money.’
Tam nodded, still remembering to say as little as possible, the Texan way.
‘Some people just don’t know when too far is too far.’
‘Good boots, though.’
Tammy stretched out her legs and stared ahead as Tam started to drive out of Reedsville towards the Big U. ‘Yah, but I ain’t giving myself to no one for a pair of boots.’ She turned to look at Tam briefly, her green eyes seeming to glitter in the lights they were passing as they left town. ‘Until now, that is. You saved me, Blue. Ah owe you for that.’
Tam shook his head.
‘Yes, you did.’
Tam shook his head again. ‘So what was that back there, then, Blue?’
‘That,’ Tam answered, luxuriating in thinking that he had at last conquered the Texan manner. ‘That was just me having fun, girl. You didn’t need me.’ He looked sideways at Tammy before redirecting his gaze to the road ahead. ‘One more yard and like you said, you’d have bitten his head off.’
There was a long silence as Tammy digested this thought.
‘Ah would, wouldn’t I?’ she finally agreed, sighing with some satisfaction and propping her yellow boots up on the dashboard in front of her. They drove on in a new silence.
‘Urrrrrrgh! Urrrrrrgh!’ The sound came out of Max as if it had a life of its own. It must have been vaguely impressive because it caused his flatmate Tony Miles to open one bleary, beery eye to witness Max staring at the television screen while writhing over-dramatically on the other end of the sofa.
‘Please, Max. . .’
But Max was determined to continue with the sound.
‘Urrrrrgh! I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it, this is not acting, this is aaar-cting! Whatever happened to naturalism? What – ever – happened – to – naturalism,’ he repeated, emphasising each word one by one in order to spell out his disgust more heavily. ‘And whoever thought to cast John Deerham in that part should be shot!’
Tony having settled for taking in one minute of the said actor’s performance promptly reclosed his eyes again. Nothing new going on there, nothing that had not been happening, over and over again, in their rented house by the river at Twickenham for the past heaven only knew – and only heaven did know – how many months. The fact was that the whole house was out of work, which meant that there was always someone either returning from the pub, or going to it, to drown their sorrows, or sitting in front of the telly bemoaning the luck of other less talented actors who had been cast in parts that could have, should have been theirs.
At that point the telephone in the far end of the sitting room rang, and both actors leaped up from their variously prone positions to bolt towards it.
‘It’s for you. Your agent.’ Tony handed the telephone to Max who, after a statutory few seconds, took it from him and assuming a deeply uninterested voice said, ‘Yes, hallo, Barry.’
Tony, slouch-shouldered and drawing on his cigarette twice as hard as strictly necessary, wandered off back to the television and resumed his seat.
‘Look at that untalented so-and-so,’ he muttered, squinting at the black and white television, ‘look at him! Can’t act his way out of a paper bag.’
He continued muttering while at the same time trying to catch what Max was saying to his agent. Eventually, when Max strolled back to the sofa and sat back beside him, he turned and smiled at him.
‘Good news?’
Max shrugged. ‘The Royal want me for an audition. Well, no. They want to see me.’
‘Hey, that’s great.’ Tony stubbed out his cigarette and turned and smiled at Max. ‘You’ll be making the bridge then? No more revue, on with the straight acting.’
‘You do have to act to be in revues, Tony,’ Max told him for the twentieth time, in a tired voice.
‘So what’s the part?’
‘Puck.’
‘Puck?’
There was a long silence as Tony considered this.
‘Not your part, mate, sorry, just not your part.’
Max stared at him. ‘They don’t happen to think so. The powers that be that rule our destinies seem to think it’s only a matter of seeing me, old love.’
He turned and looked at Tony, implacable, assured. He wasn’t going to get talked out of Puck, not for all the pints of lager in Twickenham.
‘No, mate. Puck’s just not your part. You have many parts ahead of you, but not Puck, believe me. Besides, it will be taking a too big step for you at this time, after revue, too big a step.’ He shook his head and resumed staring at the television.
‘We’ll see. I’d like to have a crack at it, I must say.’ Max smiled happily. With any luck he would be in work in a matter of days. Wow, that was just such a wowee thought. Tony turned back to him and patted his shoulder.
‘What you don’t want, old love, is to get cast in a showy part like that, make a hash of it, and . . .’ He drew a finger across his throat. ‘And so endeth the career of Mr Max Eastcott, of number forty-three Victoria Villas, Twickenham.’
Max shrugged his shoulders. He would see. He looked at Tony lighting another cigarette. And he smiled at his profile as he watched the television, eaten up with jealousy for everyone who was on it. If Tony thought Max was that stupid, he would need to have another thought coming. He might be a ‘middle-class so-and-so’ as dear, working-class Tony was always stating, but a brainless middle-class so-and-so he wasn’t.
Judy was finding it impossible to write to Kim addressing her by her adopted name. She’d also held back from telling Walter that this was what Kim wanted.
‘What is this?’
Walter, home for the weekend, was standing in the extension to Owl Cottage that made up his study, a small sitting room, and a new guest room with bathroom, and pointing, frowning, at a letter from Kim. Judy stared at the signature as if she’d never noticed it before, but, finding herself helpless in the face of the all too clearly signed ‘Jenny’ that Kim had writt
en at the bottom of one of her rare letters home, she frowned and looked from it to Walter, who was still pointing accusingly at the signature, and back to the letter.
‘I don’t know why she puts that, Walter,’ she said, in a vaguely puzzled voice. ‘I think it must be all part of the therapy at Loughnalaire.’
‘Therapy!’
The word burst from her husband’s lips as if she had said ‘Nazi’ or ‘Communist’.
‘Loughnalaire does have its own built-in – er, therapy, Walter.’ Judy paused. ‘I did tell you all about it when I came back from Ireland.’
Walter turned away. ‘The more you tell me about that place, the dafter it sounds.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It sounds to me like a lot of fey Irish leprechauns running about letting a load of badly behaved teenagers do what they blasted well like.’
‘It’s not like that, Walter. You should go there for yourself, you should really, you should go there and see, and when you have, you’d be better for it, really you would.’
‘Even if I had the time, it’s the last thing I will be doing, Judy, believe me.’
Judy gave a small sigh. ‘I understand. You do work so hard, Walter.’ She stared at his back. He was still slim, still so good-looking, tanned and fit from sailing, even at this time of year. ‘They’re doing Kim a lot of good at Loughnalaire, Walter, really they are. Mrs—’
‘They’re taking you for a ride, Judy, that’s what they’re doing, but really – if that’s what you think’s right for your daughter, then that’s what has to be. Hubert is different, thank God. Hubert is not going to give us that kind of trouble.’ The meaning behind Walter’s words was quite clear. Hubert wasn’t going to be allowed to give trouble.
‘Mrs Hackett wrote to tell us – you saw the letter, I think – that Kim’s eczema is clearing up, that she is putting on a little weight, and that, best of all, she seems really happy. Made friends, everything.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Walter moved off, yawning suddenly. Judy started to say something but then she too turned away. What in heaven was the point? In all honesty, there was none. The Walter that she loved was not at home at that moment, he was somewhere else. ‘Not at home’ – the very phrase reminded her of the old happy days, playing Happy Families with her children in front of the fire.
The Moon At Midnight Page 16
