Bells

by Jo Verity

  The cat, curled in the shabby chair in the corner, yawned and stretched a paw; the tap dripped into the sink; Jack’s proposition settled. Then a grin split Iolo’s face and he clapped his hands ‘Hallelujah. We’re saved.’

  But Non silenced him. ‘Hang on, Dad. If we can’t repay the bank loan, how on earth is Jack going to get his money back?’

  Jack did, in fact, have a great deal more than twenty thousand pounds or, more accurately, he and Fay did. It was money that Fay’s father, an astute investor all his life, had left them when he’d died a couple of years earlier. As they were comfortably off and could expect generous work pensions, and Caitlin and Dylan were both in good jobs, they’d stashed it away in the building society, where it was accumulating at a healthy rate. Considering how on the ball she was in every other area, it was odd that Fay left fiscal matters to him. In the beginning he’d wondered whether she wasn’t confident with numbers, then he’d come to the conclusion that she found it all rather tedious – the sort of thing a dentist should deal with. But, at that moment, he was grateful for it and for the fact that the money was accessible on either signature.

  His mind raced in all directions. ‘I’m sure we can work something out. For starters, I’d only want to match the interest I’m getting at the moment, which is bound to be a lot less than the bank’s charging. You can pay it off, as and when. And,’ the plan was firming up, ‘if you decide you want to pack it in, you can pay me back when you sell up. At least it buys you time to make alternative plans. How does that sound?’

  Iolo flapped his apron, as though his thighs needed cooling. ‘Wonderful. Fan-bloody-tastic. If we can just have more time, I know we can put this place on the map. And,’ he banged the table with the flat of his hand, ‘you can come up whenever you like. Treat the place like home.’

  This possibility had crossed Jack’s mind.

  But Non wasn’t looking convinced. ‘It’s terribly generous, Jack, but we couldn’t accept. For a start, you don’t know anything about us. We could be con men for all you know.’

  She looked so earnest and innocent that he couldn’t help smiling. ‘I don’t think so. Con men don’t generally get people’s cars fixed for free then send them home with half a dozen eggs.’

  While Iolo pottered around the kitchen, whistling and rustling up wedges of fruit cake, Non collected the papers together and tapped the pile. ‘I wish you’d take a look at this lot before you make a decision, Jack.’ She checked that her father was out of earshot. ‘Dad’s not the most shrewd businessman and,’ she searched for the right words, ‘I couldn’t bear the thought that he might fail a second time. It might be kinder to draw a line under it now.’

  Her beautiful face was full of concern for her father. There was no sign of the irritation or impatience that she might be excused for having with an incompetent, ageing parent. Her consideration for Iolo raised her even higher in Jack’s esteem and he wondered if she might not, in fact, be a kind of secular saint, radiating a top-to-toe halo of goodness. It would certainly explain the glow he felt when he was near her. ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘The bank’s given him a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m overstepping the mark, but shouldn’t your mother be involved in the decision?’

  Non closed her eyes, raising her hands to her face and pulling the flesh taught across her cheek bones. ‘It’s not that straightforward. They’ve had a bit of a rocky ride over the years. They came here to make a fresh start. Mum has a huge emotional stake in the place. The silly thing is, Dad was so desperate not to mess up again, he was scared to tell her when things started coming adrift. Then, when she discovered that he’s been keeping her in the dark, she said she couldn’t trust him any more.’

  He wondered how loveable, generous Iolo had ‘messed up’ the first time. Women? Drink? Gambling? It surely couldn’t have been that bad or the bank wouldn’t have lent him any money in the first place.They drank their tea and Iolo babbled on, expounding schemes that he had cooked up to improve the profitability of The Welcome Stranger, and Jack wondered whether the man was on anti-depressant medication. His naive enthusiasm, so appealing and contagious on carnival day, seemed inappropriate in the current crisis.

  When Iolo went out to shut up the hens for the night, Non insisted that Jack read through the letters from the bank. ‘You must be wondering why I don’t sell up the nursery to raise the money.’

  ‘It hadn’t crossed my mind,’ he gave the honest answer.

  ‘In fact it’s not mine to sell. It belongs to my partner. We run the place together but she actually owns it.’

  She. Non’s ‘partner’ was a woman.

  17

  After their meal, Laura suggested that they go for a stroll. ‘It’s a beautiful evening and there’s a pub with a beer garden, down by the river.’ She went outside and shouted towards the shed, ‘Cass? We’re going to The Plough. D’you want to come?’

  Cassidy hadn’t eaten supper with them, explaining that he’d had a late lunch, with friends. ‘Sounds good. I’ve still got a bit to do here, so you carry on. I’ll catch you up.’

  Fay hurried upstairs to collect her bag and check her hair. It seemed days since she left Cardiff. Her scalp felt itchy and she longed for a shower. The plumber had phoned while they were eating, promising that he would be along first thing in the morning. Laura had offered to boil a kettle so that she could wash her hair, ‘Or we could go down to the leisure centre, have a quick swim and make use of the facilities.’ The frightening thing was that she’d meant it.

  Fay splashed her face with cold water and, noting that Laura was still in her old tee-shirt, decided not to change. Her clothes were creased beyond trendiness but, uncertain what the next day might bring, it seemed safer to keep a clean set in reserve.

  The walk to the pub took over half an hour. Victorian terraces gave way to wider streets of semi-detached houses, driveways blocked with cars and caravans. There was nothing to distinguish this part of Nottingham, a city which she’d always associated with Lawrence, coal miners and the privations of the industrial revolution, from the suburbs of any other English town.

  ‘I meant to ask if you wanted to phone Jack,’ Laura said.

  ‘He’s going to see his parents this evening, I think, so he won’t be home.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘We saw them on Monday. They came to us for a barbecue.’ It sounded so natural; so everyday.

  ‘But how are they?’ Laura persisted.

  ‘The same as ever,’ Fay laughed. ‘Critical. Miserable. Inflexible. Thoroughly heavy going. They never change.’ She expected Laura to leap to their defence but the conversation was curtailed when a girl, aged three or four, running full tilt along the pavement ahead of her mother, tripped and fell and the three women spent several minutes calming her down.

  ‘How d’you feel about grandparenthood?’ Laura asked as they continued on their way. ‘Kingsley’s got a child, hasn’t he?’

  Why did Laura ask such direct questions? Most people hedged around, making it easy for her to respond with vague generalisations.

  ‘Possibly.’ It sounded ridiculous. ‘I know that the girl, the woman, whatever, whom he’s with, has a son but I don’t know if the child is his. You’d think he’d have the decency to set the record straight.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s not sure himself,’ Laura ventured.

  It was an odd thing to say and Fay wondered where this was leading. ‘That’s all well and good, but I think Jack and I deserve to know if we aregrandparents. I see it as a basic human right.’

  Laura nodded. ‘I know what you mean. When we’re young, all that genealogy stuff seems irrelevant. We feel it’s dragging us back, slowing us down. All we want is to get on with things. But I do feel that there comes a moment – maybe some deep-seated imperative clicks in – when we do need to set the record straight.

  They walked on in silence.

  Fay had trained herself to block though
ts of Kingsley. When he left, and it became clear that he wasn’t merely making a gesture, concern for his safety drove her mad and she’d had to take the term off work. The police had been disinterested once they learned that he was eighteen – even though he’d gone only three days after his birthday – reeling off statistics on the numbers of young people who left home and were perfectly fine. Then, when the note arrived saying that he would be in touch again if he had anything to tell them, the police were proved right and there was nothing she could do. Occasionally they received cards and emails. Once he’d written a three-page letter, reassuring them that he was fine, whilst avoiding telling them anything about his situation. Then postcards had turned up from India and Thailand but more recently they were from Australia. He mentioned ‘Anya and the baby’ but, despite explicit requests for information, all she knew was that he was still alive.

  ‘Maybe the woman isn’t sure herself,’ Laura continued.

  ‘Strangely enough, I don’t find it at all comforting to think my son has taken up with a tart who isn’t even sure who’s fathered her child.

  ‘It’s not always straightforward, Fay. People said I was a tart when I had Sadie,’ Laura replied softly.

  ‘But that was different. At least you knew'

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Laura interrupted. ‘Are you sure you want to associate with me?'

  *

  By the time they reached the pub, Fay’s feet were sore where the stitching on the handmade shoes had rubbed. She went to the Ladies and sat in the locked cubicle, cooling her feet on the tiled floor and wishing that she were at home, with a water heating system that worked. It was likely that Jack had gone to visit Vi and Harry but she rang home, on the off chance that she might catch him. When there was no reply, she left a brief message, letting him know that she’d arrived safe.

  Although it was midweek, the pub was crowded. They carried their lemonade-shandies to a rickety table in the corner of the beer garden, watching the dark river eddying and racing just beyond. It was picturesque but, as the light faded, it altered and became sinister and Fay turned her chair to face away from it, keeping an eye on the do.

  By nine o’clock it was dark. Strings of coloured fairy lights illuminated the garden and all that remained of the swirling water was a scatter of dancing reflections and the sound of it, lapping against the stone wall beneath the terrace. But there was no sign of Cassidy.

  ‘I expect he got a better offer.’ Laura appeared to be explaining to herself more than Fay.

  ‘Wouldn’t he phonA‘I’m terrible about carrying my phone. He’s given up nagging me about it.'

  ‘You can use mine.’ Fay volunteered her mobile.

  ‘Oh, it’s hardly worth it now. We’d better be starting back.'

  Fay had slipped her shoes off under the table and her feet had swollen. She rammed them hard into the toes and pulled the back of the shoes up, feeling the sharp pain of the blister that had bubbled up on her right heel.

  ‘Have you got a plaster?’ she asked when they had gone a little way, and Laura had magic-ed one, rather fluffy but perfectly serviceable, from a compartment in her shabby purse.

  They walked back through the dark suburb. At home she hardly ever – never in fact – walked anywhere in the dark. Why would she? To be honest, now that the streets were deserted, she would be nervous to walk here alone. The city held the dubious reputation of being ‘murder capital of the UK’, but she assumed that Laura wouldn’t bring her here unless it was pretty safe. It was fascinating to observe, in the few seconds that it took to pass each house, the snapshot of the lives which animated the rows of semis. Lights illuminated sitting rooms and hallways. She was surprised how many people had left the curtains open and how few of them had net curtains. Her mother had been obsessive about excluding prying eyes and had communicated her fear to Fay. ‘Un-curtained windows – God’s gift to peeping Toms,’ she’d explained.

  In one sitting room, illuminated by a bare light-bulb, a young couple were stripping wallpaper. She wore shorts and a bikini top. He was sipping from a AA few doors along, the room glowed cosily from side lamps and a woman stood at an ironing board, in front of the television, clothes dangling from hangers hooked on the picture rail.

  Little semi-detached lives.

  Laura must have read her thoughts. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? All of us, living out our dreams in tiny boxes. Don’t you love walking in the dark? There’s something sensuous, dangerous, about it. And such exotic smells.’ She sniffed the air noisily. ‘It’s like wine. I’m getting honeysuckle. Mmmm. What else? Carbon monoxide. A hint of curry.'

  The streetscape changed and they came into some sort of housing estate, dominated by ugly concrete blocks of flats. The inefficient street lights revealed the litter that had accumulated, caught by the straggly clumps of municipal planting between the graffitied buildings and the road. A cyclist drew up alongside them. It was Cassidy, breathing heavily. ‘There you are. I’ve been riding around like a maniac, trying to track you down. Can’t you persuade Mum to carry her mobile, F AThey walked three abreast, Cassidy on the kerb with the wheels of his bike in the gutter, Laura in the middle. Fay had to trot to keep up with her long-legged companions and she felt the interloper, almost the gooseberry, as mother and son conversed in a kind of affectionate shorthand. Had she not known better, from tone of voice and body language, she would have guessed they were partners. Cassidy had been the man in Laura’s life, the constant man, since David died and there was a rapport between them that she’d never had with either of her sons.

  During his previous visits to Llangwm, Jack had been playing a minor role in a zany romantic comedy, where anything might happen. But he’d foolishly believed the ‘anything’ would always be on the positive side. This evening, glumness hung about the place. The current guests were a colourless bunch, keeping themselves to themselves as they came back from wherever they’d spent the evening, barely stopping to say goodnight before they crept up to their rooms.

  ‘We’re full, I’m afraid, Jack’ Non apologised, ‘But I could easily put the camp-bed in Dad’s room.

  ‘No worries. And “full” is what we want to hear,’ he said. It had been his intention to stay overnight. He’d calculated that, if he made an early start in the morning, he could get home, shower, change and be in work for his first appointment at eight-thirty, but this evening he felt peculiarly out of place.

  There wasn’t much traffic about and, as he drove back to Cardiff, he pondered his evening with Non and Iolo. He was sure that he would be able to lend Iolo the money, as he’d offered, and soon replenish their savings account from his salary. In any case, the whole sum would be repaid within the next ten years or so, whenever Iolo and Zena decided to retire. Fay need never know.

  The financial side of things was straightforward compared to Non’s disclosure concerning the ownership of the nursery. The English language was getting much too confusing. There was a time when the word ‘partner’ was used purely in a business context. Or ballroom dancing. Or, at a push, in cowboy films. But when Non had mentioned that her partner owned the business, already having told him that she lived with her partner, he hadn’t know what to think. He had no problem with anyone’s sexual orientation, as long as it wasn’t the woman he loved.

  When he got home, there was a message from Fay to let him know that she was safe at Laura’s, her voice sounding strangely echo-y, as if she were talking to him from the bottom of a well. Neil Bentley had rung, too. ‘Hello Mr…Jack. I know Mrs…Fay is away until Saturday, but it would be great if I could drop off a couple of boxes tomorrow evening.’ He’d left a contact number in case it wasn’t convenient. The whole thing wasn’t convenient, if Jack were honest.

  There were films and stories that started like this, weren’t there? Harmless young man ingratiates himself with gullible couple. Moves in. Starts to take over. Manipulates them. Seduces the woman. Murders the man. Takes over his identity. ‘The Servant’, Dirk Bogarde. He couldn’t quit
e see how Neil Bentley was going to work at the practice without Sheila, or the patients, spotting that something was amiss, but it was perfectly possible that he might try it on with Fay.

  Jack knew that, since their marriage, Fay hadn’t slept with anyone else. They’d never discussed it, but he knew. If she had, she would have told him because, if there was one thing he could say about his wife, she was blisteringly honest. When they had first got together, he’d envied her that trait. He, from childhood, had done everything in his power to avoid confrontation. Occasionally this was to escape punishment but, more often, it was to spare his parents’ feelings or to make life run smoothly. Fay took things head on. This may well have benefited her career but most of the family’s problems resulted form her inability to keep her opinions to herself. It was doubtful that she would ever change, so perhaps it was time he did.

  It was past his usual bedtime but he didn’t feel in the least tired. Here he was, on his own, able to spend the night hours entirely as he wished. He might not even go to bed. Iolo certainly wouldn’t lie tossing and turning just because it was ‘bedtime’. His thoughts were butterflies in his head, flitting and fluttering from one topic to the next. Money. Non. Neil Bentley. Laura. Kingsley. Always Kingsley. He poured himself a large whiskey, although he didn’t really want it, and meandered around the dark house, the street lamp providing enough light to guide him. The first sip of alcohol burned his throat and within seconds he felt flushed and light-headed, not surprising as he’d barely eaten anything all day.

  When they were children, he and Marion hadn’t played together often, but one of the games they both enjoyed started with Blind Man’s Buff and developed into just Blind Man. As soon as they tired of chasing each other, they carried on alone, a scarf wrapped tightly around their eyes, imagining what it would be like to lose their sight. Now, in the hall, he closed his eyes and discovered that he could go straight to the door handle of each room then walk across it without bumping into the furniture. It depressed him to acknowledge how familiar the confines of the house had become.