***
Some weeks after my visit to Tilly in Inishowen, my parents went and died within weeks of each other. They were managing fine alone in the terraced house in Belfast, until Daddy took sick with consumption and then Mammy took to her bed with exhaustion and hysteria. So, I forgot all about Tilly’s naughty chat. “Lost without their love for each other,” someone mentioned at my mother’s funeral and my heart throbbed in agony that I was lost without love too. I slunk about the house for months, sometimes not bothering to wash or even to get out of bed. There was no point to anything. John said that I was “losing myself”. He encouraged it. Left whiskey out, bought cigarettes and suggested when we were in company that I was very melancholic and in need of doctors. I lost even more weight, which made my clothes hang oddly. I didn’t care.
Then John was inexplicably moved to Newburn. I was to be a new person in strange surroundings. I was interesting to the church ladies, until they realised I could only bake scones and had little to offer in the way of gossip. It was tiring.
Six months later, while picking daffodils in the grounds of the churchyard, I realised the unusual house next door to the church, with the name on the gatepost, was the one Tilly mentioned to me.
Immediately I felt a rush of excitement. This is the place Tilly told me to visit. It was the house which hosted the organisation we all called the Sinful Roses. It was very grand compared to our home. Our Number 5, Newburn Crescent, sat on the end of a cul-de-sac and was on the main Belfast to Whinpark road. And our Number 5 was modest compared to Number 4 next door. However, we had three storeys, with an attic on top that was the whole width of the house. It was an old building that needed work which John refused to recognise.
I opened my front door with the key and pushed the shiny, brass knob and felt content. John wouldn’t be home and I was glad of the space that gave my head and heart for a few hours. I loved the quietness, the stillness of the dust gathering on the few pieces of old furniture. Sometimes I even sat and watched it. Even though our main road was on a bus route, no-one called to us all the way out there. I was glad of that. The days were my own and the evenings usually free of him too. Aside from the odd snore in the other single bed, I was not lumbered with him heaving and panting on top of me any more. For warmth, I heated the small front parlour with an open fire and brought a hot bottle to bed to curl my toes around. The stairs needed a new carpet. The bare threads were always catching in my heels.
However, now I clipped up those steps like a young girl with purpose. Further on up, the wooden attic stairs were worn smooth. I hated everything in the early days in the house and the attic had become my own hidden fortress at the top of it. John never went up that far, and it was where I spend much of my time. When I was not under the slanting roof or watching the trees swaying down below in the garden, I was up in the attic in my mind.
I’ve always been a naughty girl and I’m bad inside. I must have been this way all my life. Why else would I thrive on the worst of daydreams? Why else does my heart pound with the joy of you now knowing the truth about me? Why would a woman like me need to be a Sinful Rose, unless I was made incorrectly from the beginning?
Like Lydia said, I’m Eve Good and I am bad.
She did say that I was bad, didn’t she? Yes, she did. And Lydia is a woman who sees the real woman within us all. Lydia could immediately see and understand my predicament.
She told me when I was leaving, “We’ll make it all better, Eve. I promise.”
I might be plain-looking but when I climbed those attic stairs, I was the most beautiful, sensual woman in the country. Alice might have thought that she was above me, but up there and in my own space and time, I was a queen.
“I know you’re here!” I said and opened the small attic door.
And there he was on the mattress on the floor. My young Tim.
He was pretending to be reading and not waiting on me at all.
“I’m sorry that I’m late, but I had things to do.”
His handsome eyes met mine and his dimples sank into those smooth cheeks. “I’d wait forever. You know that.”
His need of me was nothing to the want I had for him. I found when he was not filling me I was lost in long daydreams of the times that he was.
I still cannot believe that it actually happened. It was a mystery to me how I couldn’t get enough of him.
But the other side of my life was John.
Later I watched as he slurped at the vegetable soup I made. I knew by the way he held the spoon that he was in a foul humour. The house groaned and the draughty corridors allowed doors left ajar to creak and bang all by themselves, but every so often even John noticed an odd presence in his house.
“Don’t you feel watched here?” he asked, not for the first time. “And I don’t mean the nosey neighbour overlooking our every move. I get a constant feeling of someone else being here though. Don’t you get it too? You used to hate this place. And why lock the doors upstairs? I hope you have the keys? Should we talk to the minister and see about removing the ghostly feel? Or should we just move somewhere else? A terraced house would give you more people to talk with . . . being alone is making you even more odd. When I’m not home you might have some company if we lived elsewhere?”
“Have you lost this place in a card game?” I countered. It was usually his gambling habit that forced changes for us.
“No, I’m thinking of you,” he whispered.
He was tall and lean and I knew that his policeman’s right hook could take the wind out of my lungs if I talked back to him.
Clearing the dishes, I sensed him gawping at me. There was no thanks in him for the work I did to keep his house. No appreciation that I tried to darn his socks and make him good food. But then there was no gratitude in me that he hauled himself into a terrible job every day to do whatever he did. We were like strangers who once humped each other in the vain attempt to bring a screaming child into the world. The lunacy of life was not lost on me. I’ve thought long and hard about it. Whenever I finally liked the way things were back then, John spoiled things.
“Someone told me there was someone here today,” he said.
“No, dear. No one called here.”
He smoked a cigar and twiddled with the knob on his new wireless. He meant Mrs Marjorie Fellows, the curtain-twitcher next door in Number 4 who had seen Tim come and go through the front and side entrances.
“Why are you suddenly all cheery and polite?” John asked. “One minute I can’t look at you for the temper that’s on you and the next you’re grinning like the Cheshire Cat?”
John was not the sort to bother with joking or teasing. He truly believed that I was a lunatic. Sometimes he came home early to catch me out or convince me that I needed to see a doctor. Always he tried to make out things were my fault.
The floorboards above him cracked loudly and he looked upwards, sighing. I wondered if Tim had slipped out and gone home to his uninterested father and starving siblings. Or if he was waiting on my soup and cold dinner in the attic.
So, yes, I went back to the Sinful Roses and visited them a few times. Much to Alice’s disgust.
I got a sense from Lydia and Alice that they were constant, active members. They recruited candidates and also seemed to have been involved for many years. I’ve no proof of that – only the memory of a gut-feeling.
There is this annoying oath that women who are helped must give back to the Roses, and I refused to obey it. I still do. This was and still is the problem. I was almost killed by them because I refused to attend meetings and listen to other women’s problems and give them advice. It’s unbelievable really. Could you think of anyone less suitable for that role? However, I think too that they were possibly correct to try to remove me. Women are usually loyal creatures. I don’t think I’m built like that.
Alice was right to be wary of me from the start and, even though I wasn’t scared of too many people in my life, I just knew not to mess with Alice.
> Despite this, I never expected the Sinful Roses to have the wherewithal to actually kill anyone. Again, I was naive. I thought it was all hot air. Pah! I’ll say again that we all need to vigilant. I now believe they are capable of murdering us all.
Alice fascinated me. From her manner, accent and dress, she was English. I don’t think she was ever in trouble. I always read the paper from cover to cover, and I have an excellent memory. I didn’t recall ever reading about a murdering Alice. There again, I always felt it was not her real name. Hiding our true selves is easier than people think. Is it not? Even John didn’t truly know me.
“What do you mean you forgot the time?” John asked, open-mouthed in the kitchen when I’d not made him his supper. “And you do know that your jumper is on inside-out and back-to-front too?”
Being with the Roses changed me forever more. It was like I was lost and was trying to find my place in the world again.
Tim wondered why I had changed my hair and tied my scarf tightly under my chin and I realised it was Alice who controlled a lot of my decisions. When with Tim I pictured her watching us, being impressed by my naughtiness, eager to join in but I wouldn’t let her. It was a helpful fantasy and I loved thinking of her annoyance that I was better than her, braver than her and, yes, a better lover than her.
So, having instructed me, they told me to get on with it. As simple as that.
But it wasn’t that simple.
I took the bus to the house. I’m not sure why I went there. I didn’t have an appointment with them and I had no errands to do nearby. But when I got off the bus in Netterby and marched with my blistered heels out the road, I found myself where I wanted to be.
The house asked me why I was staring over the low wall at it? I strode up the brushed avenue and clashed the brass knocker shaped like a lion against the sturdy door. The echo of it gleaned no results. No one came to my aid.
I retreated to the roadside and leaned against the pillar a moment. I was conflicted. Conforming and performing to the Sinful Roses’ instructions bothered me. I hated being dictated to. But I simply couldn’t go through with it alone. I did not want to go forward without the Roses. If they weren’t with me then no-one would know of my greatness, you see. It would all be a big, quiet secret. There would be no witness aware of how I had orchestrated it all. What was the point in killing if no-one shared in the pleasure? However, Eve Good did not do others’ bidding and it felt like I was being backed into a corner. I didn’t like that.
I watched a large black crow perch on the ridge-tile and saw it soar off to where it nested in the high trees. The curtains were drawn and there was no life about the place bar the hopping wrens and magpies.
What had I hoped to see? What had I thought the trip would achieve? Tim was possibly finished the library books I’d brought him. He was waiting on me to be naked with him and still there I stood. Passers-by noticed me in the spitting rain, gawping at the house.
“It’s mostly derelict,” said an old man who stopped to chat. “But it’s a fine property. Once owned by wealthy people.”
“Do you live nearby?” I asked. Attack is the best form of defence.
“Top of the main street. You do know about this place?”
I shook my head.
“You must! It’s the scandal of the whole area. Left to that criminal! And her with all sorts of women coming and going all hours of the day and night. I want to know who could want to visit at night?” He began to move on but paused. “You aren’t from around here?”
I shook my head again. “I felt drawn to the house. I saw it from the bus.”
“Ah …” He pushed the cap back on his grey head and scratched at his nose. “Even the children running around here are afraid of this place. And it a house next to the church an’ all, It’s a dreadful carry-on.”
“And women from all over come here?”
“Yes. Fine-looking women. Like yourself.”
Bless him, he was trying to be flirtatious.
“You’ve such lovely brown hair and the most striking eyes.” He stared at me.
I’m sure that I blushed.
He left.
Alice would’ve wanted to knock sense into me. I imagined her shouting at me “Go away, you fool!” but I couldn’t leave even when my hat got so heavy with rain that it began to soak through and drip onto my face.
Lydia and Alice knew a great deal about me. They were aware of almost every facet of my boring life. But I knew very little about them.
“It’s helpful that you are an only child,” Lydia said. “Someone with no family and not too many friends is good. People can let you down, you see. It is important that you are self-reliant and not a talker. You must trust no one with any information about what you intend to do.”
Such was their probing, I almost expected for them to know about my Tim in the attic.
A flush came to my cheeks when Lydia mentioned that I had “normal desires”.
What desires did she mean? And what desires might they have had? What were normal ones? I had asked them that, hadn’t I? Yes, I did, for they laughed and mentioned that some women, like Alice, had unusual passions. What did that mean? My bravery had ended there. I hadn’t asked any more.
I watched the rain bounce heavily from the pathway in front of me and thought that I should have trusted them and mentioned my Tim. I worried that a piece of the puzzle had not been presented and that it might have been my undoing. Also I longed to see Alice’s face when she heard such a thing.
I should have told them. Tim was just a distraction, a weakness, but he did have the most glorious ass and an exceptionally long cock.
I’m not embarrassed about the immorality, or the intercourse we had. Tim was my prize and I couldn’t let them sneer at what was important to me.
Tim used to work in the garage where John got work done on his vehicles. The affair was all very Lady Chatterley’s Lover but, even if I do say so myself, it was even more salacious than that.
“I’m Tim Harbour,” he’d told me, lowering his beautiful eyes to look at his mucky boots and his two rough hands thrust into poor pockets. “I fix the cars.” His dirty finger came out to point at John in the distance. “I mind his.”
“You might look after me too?” I moved us both inside the door.
I couldn't resist the innuendo, and it made him grin. I wanted to hold his face and kiss those deep dimples – so I did. I smacked my lips on the two of them, on each cheek right then and there – kiss – kiss. And then my lips hit him square on the mouth. It was passionate, wrong and perfect!
“I’ll not tell a soul,” he said after I slipped my tongue into his mouth and we fumbled at each other in the stall that smelt of engine-oil and grease. I believed him but if he told people I didn’t care in the slightest. The thought of people knowing had kept me living in a state of bliss. There was something a little sinister in me that enjoyed debauchery.
A couple of nights later, his teeth shone in the gloom when he knocked on the side door. John wasn’t home and I expected he wouldn’t be, but my problem was – where could we go so that he wouldn’t find us if he did come back?
I decided the attic would be our bedchamber and I thanked God for it.
Tim loved what curves I had left and his hands moved over my naked breasts and it made me die with desire. It was like a disgusting novel; the panting, the perspiring, the thinking I’d die without him. I never understood lust until Tim found the place between my legs. The passion between lovers made sense. There was never enough time to hold him and I never tired of kissing him. It evolved from an animal-like eating, to a lingering, elegant sucking of the best sweet.
“Do you love John?” Tim whispered and found his way inside me. I couldn’t think of John then and I didn’t answer him. “Do you love me?” He kissed the back of my neck and I suppose in a way I did love him in those moments. But it was silly to love another man when I was a married woman! Why did I need someone younger to make me happy?
&
nbsp; “Your mother?” I asked him once. I bit my lip, waiting for the reply. His handsomeness made me hold my breath sometimes.
“Dead. She’s dead.”
“Ah.” The relief flooded me.
It became more and more awkward finding ways and times to get Tim in and out of the house unseen. Therefore, he stayed for far too long. He lost his job and there was no need for him to go home or to leave me. His appetite for food and other things was satisfied. Then he slept, wrote silly love stories or read the library books I brought him. That was his life. All of it. I provided it for him. He was a clever enough young man if things were right, but they weren’t and neither was I. He was almost a prisoner, a slave in ways. Was I manipulating him, the way John did to me? Possibly. Did I keep him like a pet? John used to joke about me being his lapdog. I became like an animal he fed and gave love to when he took the notion. Was I doing that to Tim? No. I was always attentive to him. Even when I didn’t want to be. Even when I was tired I spent time and effort on being kind to him. Like a dog, he gave me unconditional love and humped at my leg and made me feel attractive.
Oh lord, I liked that. But I didn’t force him into being dependent on me. He chose to be with me. There again, I chose to be with John and I still longed for escape. Tim didn’t want to escape from me though.
“I’m not your mother,” I told Tim when his clothes needed to be washed. “You don’t see me as old – like a mother? Do you?”
His look was one I couldn’t place. He was fearful of upsetting me. He had never thought about what we were doing. Why would he? He was happy. I let him lie with me. What else was there in his life? Until Tim came along I had nothing good in mine. He was everything exciting in my life.
I was wrong to want people to know about us but I knew I should have told the Sinful Rose. This aching in my guts wouldn’t leave and the desire to shock was massive.
After my stint of standing in the rain a small, plain brown envelope with no stamp arrived at my house.
The Murdering Wives Club Page 5
