The pair of them had been three sheets to the wind, his mother surveying him through bleary eyes, her slack mouth half-open. It had been his father who had said, ‘Well, as I live an’ breathe. Look what the wind’s blown in.’
‘Hello, Da.’
His mother had attempted to straighten herself before flopping back in the armchair. ‘Who is it? Wh – what’s goin’ on?’
‘It’s Wilfred,’ he’d said shortly, his spirit recoiling.
‘What? Who?’
His father had cursed, his voice rough as he’d said, ‘Wilfred, the youngest, woman.’
Wilfred doubted his mother had heard; she’d already shut her eyes and to all intents and purposes dozed off.
His father had stared at him. ‘You’re back then? An’ lookin’ chipper. Had a comfortable war, did you? Not like us here in the thick of it, times we thought our number was up.’ He belched loudly, the sound glutinous and sticky, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Well, you’re in luck, boy. The room’s vacant upstairs so you’d better take your things up. We’ll talk rent when you come down – there’s no free rides here.’
Wilfred had looked at his father and he remembered just how much he hated him. He had little option but to stay the night but come morning he’d be on the hunt for a room somewhere else.
And now it was morning. He stood up, walking over to the window. The only good thing about living here had been that he was next door to Cora, but he’d look for a place close by and at least he had a bit of money behind him. The Crofts had paid him a decent wage along with his free board and lodging; they’d been more than fair. He’d been able to salt away most of what he had earned which stood him in good stead now.
He’d miss the Crofts. His eyes narrowed. But he hadn’t completely given up on the idea of going back one day, with Cora of course. He’d given little hints to Jed’s mother that he was interested in her now Jed was gone, skirting round the subject, until one day she’d asked him outright if they were courting. He’d acted embarrassed, asking her if she would mind, and when she’d said that they thought the world of Cora and of him too, he had smiled and said if he had their approval then nothing else was holding them back.
‘We’ll invite you to the wedding,’ he’d said, kissing her cheek, ‘but we’ll come and see you before then, I promise.’
He continued to stand at the window for a while as the street below woke up, men going off to work, housewives cleaning their doorsteps and bairns coming out to play. Just outside his window was a lamp post and two lads, no more than five or six years old, began to swing on a rope an older lad had tied to it.
Wilfred smiled to himself. Some things never changed. Hitler had dropped his bombs and Sunderland, like so many towns and cities throughout the land, had had large areas flattened with ordinary folk killed and injured, but bairns went on playing their games. Life went on. It was only right and proper. And his life was all about Cora. Nothing mattered but her.
He heard his parents’ muted voices from the room across the landing and after a while the sound of them going downstairs, but he was in no rush to join them. A few minutes later there was a knock at his door and then his father opened it and poked his head round to say, ‘Your mam’s made a brew. You comin’ down?’
Wilfred tried to hide his surprise. He couldn’t remember when his parents had offered him a cup of tea in the past. It had always been his brothers who had made sure he had something to eat or drink, and when they’d left home he’d had to fend for himself like a feral cat. Without Cora and her mam he doubted he’d have made it through his childhood. Still, he might as well keep things friendly until he found somewhere else, hopefully later today. His da was a nasty piece of work at the best of times. Nodding, he said, ‘Aye, I’ll be down in a minute or two.’
Alone again, he pulled a clean shirt out of his holdall and changed into it, sniffing it once it was on. The smell of the house had got up his nose and it felt as though everything was foul. He had visited the privy last night before retiring but he’d only got as far as opening the door. That had been enough to make him retch. Because it had been dark he had used a corner of the yard to relieve himself before going upstairs, but he’d just have to hold it in this morning. Once he was out of the house he’d find somewhere to go. He shook his head. They were a pair of dirty so-an’-sos all right.
When he entered the kitchen his parents were sitting at the table. He noticed that the debris that had cluttered it the night before had been cleared, but it was still crusty with a layer of goodness knows what.
His mother got up, saying, ‘I’ll get you a sup, lad. Sit yourself down.’
He sat down because there was little else he could do and as she placed the cup of tea in front of him he noticed that the folds of her neck were engrained with dirt. It turned his stomach, that and the smell of her.
‘So.’ His father stared at him. ‘I daresay you’ll be out lookin’ for work later then? Got anything in mind?’
Wilfred shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, think on. Can’t sit on your backside all day, boy.’
It was on the tip of Wilfred’s tongue to say he didn’t see why not – his father had done a pretty good job of it for years – but he kept himself in check. With any luck he’d be out of here today once he found himself a room, and that’d be the last of them he’d see because he had no intention of ever coming back. His brothers had done it and so could he now he was of an age to work.
After a minute or two when Wilfred didn’t speak but sat quietly drinking his tea, his father got up and walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. His mother had been standing with her back to them, stirring something or other in a black saucepan on the range, but now she turned and said, ‘Well, lad, it’s a stranger you are and no mistake. You’ve grown since you’ve been gone. What have you been doing with yourself since you left school? Working on that farm where you were placed, I suppose? Good to you, were they?’
‘Aye, they were.’
She nodded, her flabby face wobbling. ‘Don’t suppose they paid much, not for farm work, eh?’
Wilfred stared at the woman who had given birth to him. But that was all she had done, he thought flatly. Given birth to him, suckled him for a couple of years and then left him to fend for himself. Animals treated their young better.
As he looked at her, it suddenly dawned on him why his father had gone upstairs leaving her to engage him in conversation down here.
He was out of his chair like a shot, taking the stairs two at a time, and as he burst into his bedroom his father was bending over the holdall he’d left on the chair. Wilfred looked at the wad of notes tied with an elastic band in his father’s hand. ‘Put that back,’ he said softly.
‘Put it back? The hell I will.’ His father straightened, glaring at him. ‘Me an’ your mam weren’t going to see a penny of this lot, were we? Oh, I know your game, boy. I saw the look on your face when you walked in last night. Not good enough for the likes of you now, are we? I can read you like a book. You weren’t gonna stick here for more than a day or two afore you skedaddled like your brothers. Well, you do that, go and be damned, but I’m keeping this for all the years we fed and clothed you afore the war.’
‘I said, put it back.’
‘You gonna make me?’
‘Aye, if I have to.’
‘Oh, we’re the big man now, are we?’ His father gave a growl of a laugh. ‘I could lick you with one hand tied behind me back, boy.’
Wilfred stared at the man who had terrified him all his life. There had been occasions when he was a bairn when just hearing his da’s voice or his heavy footsteps had caused him to wet himself. But not any more. No, not any more.
His father gave a ‘huh’ of contempt as he made to push past him, but Wilfred grabbed his arm and swung him round. As his father’s fist shot out, aiming full in his face, Wilfred ducked. He had been expecting the blow. And although he would always be small and wiry, he wasn
’t the weak, puny boy of yesteryear. He twisted one of his father’s arms behind his back with enough force to bring him to his knees shouting in pain. Prising the wad of notes from his hand, Wilfred dragged him across the landing to the top of the stairs where he pulled his father to his feet, and he actually heard his arm break in the process.
‘This is for all the years of misery,’ he said, his voice low but hate-filled. ‘Rot in hell, Da.’ And with that he threw his father down the stairs with the force of a stone from a catapult. There was one high-pitched scream as the body plummeted through the air before hitting a step almost at the bottom of the stairs and turning a rag-doll somersault, landing with a crash in the hall.
Wilfred stood quite still, elation that he had finally done what he had dreamed of doing for years filling his chest and making his head buzz. His mother came into the hall and when she screamed, he said, ‘Shut up. Do you hear me? Shut up,’ as he walked down the stairs. He didn’t need to check the twisted body to make sure his father was dead; the head was at such an unnatural angle, practically back to front, and it was clear the neck had snapped.
Nevertheless, his mother said, ‘Is he dead? What did you do? You’ve killed him.’
She couldn’t have seen anything, she had been in the kitchen, and knowing this Wilfred said, ‘He fell. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He fell, probably because he was still drunk from last night.’
Her hands pressed to her face, his mother said, ‘He wouldn’t fall, not Abe. He’s bin up and down them stairs with a load on more times than I’ve had hot dinners.’
‘Aye, well, he clearly pushed his luck.’ Wilfred stepped over the sprawled shape and took her arm, manhandling her back into the kitchen and pushing her down on a chair.
She was crying but he made no effort to comfort her; the smell emanating from her was turning his stomach.
‘You did it,’ she said again. ‘You found him going through your things.’
‘What makes you think he was doing that, Mam?’ He stared down at her, his eyes cold. ‘No parents would steal from their own, would they? No, I came upstairs and he must have been in your room because the next thing I heard was him scream as he fell.’
‘No—’
‘Yes, I’m telling you that’s what happened, all right, and you wouldn’t want to call me a liar, not with me being the breadwinner and standing between you and the workhouse. Course, they don’t call them places where they stick old folk like you with nowt to their name workhouses any more, but that’s what they are sure enough. He was an old soak. Everyone knows it and no one would be surprised he came a cropper. It’s more surprising it hasn’t happened before now.’
She had stopped crying and now she was staring up at him as though he was the devil himself. Wiping her snotty nose on the back of her hand, she mumbled, ‘I need a drink.’
Knowing she didn’t mean a cup of tea, he said softly, ‘All in good time. I need to get the story straight before I go and fetch the doctor ’cause this’ll involve the law an’ all. To keep it nice and simple, we were both sitting here having a cuppa when we heard him fall down the stairs, right? It was an accident, pure and simple. That way you get to stay here. Lucky, really, the accident happened when your son had come home in time to look after you. But a few things’ll change here, Mam. First, between us we’re going to clean this muckhole from top to bottom and once it’s done you’ll keep it that way. You’ll cook and clean like any other housewife and no one’ll step through the door except on my say-so. None of your and Da’s cronies, not at any time of the day or night and especially not while I’m at work. Once I’m home of an evening and had me dinner you can get as drunk as a lord, but until then you’ll keep sober.’
His mother was gaping at him, her mouth half-open.
‘You’ll want for nowt but you’ll do as you’re told and I won’t be messed with. Do you understand?’
His words had made her face contract, her eyes narrow, screwed up as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You – you’re not the same lad who went away—’
‘No, I’m not,’ he interrupted grimly. ‘And I tell you now, Mam, you play ball with me and I’ll be fair with you, but you start carrying on and playing silly beggars and you’ll live to regret it. That’s a promise. So . . .’ He stared at her, his eyes unblinking. ‘What happened here this morning?’
‘Your – your da fell down the stairs.’
‘And where were you when this accident happened?’
‘In here, with – with you.’
‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘We found him like he is now and I told you to sit and have a cup of tea while I fetch the doctor.’ He waited a moment. ‘So get the tea,’ he said sharply, and as she immediately lumbered to her feet, he said again, ‘Good, good,’ in the manner in which someone would speak to the mentally impaired.
Before leaving the house Wilfred went again into the hall, standing and staring down at the grotesque contorted shape that had been his father. He felt the same sense of deep satisfaction that he had experienced when he had gazed at Farmer Burns after killing him.
He smiled a smile that wasn’t a smile at all as he said softly, ‘So, I win, Da. I bet that’s sticking in your craw right now, isn’t it. I wish your passing could have lasted longer and been more painful but beggars can’t be choosers and I had to take the opportunity when it arose. I’m sure you appreciate that.’ He straightened, throwing back his shoulders. Now that he had time to collect his thoughts he was realizing this couldn’t have worked out better if he had planned it. He could remain close to Cora and keep an eye on her, and being next door he’d make sure he got back on the old footing with her mam and da and the rest of them. Her da was disabled now, he wouldn’t be able to do what he’d used to, and what was more natural than the next-door neighbour stepping in and helping out? Especially when it was Cora’s best friend.
Once he got this stinking hole cleaned and fumigated to the last nook and cranny, he’d paint and wallpaper every room. You wouldn’t recognize the place by the time he was finished. New curtains and rugs and bedding, new furniture where needed as well. He’d got enough put by to do all that with plenty left over for a deposit on a house. And if he couldn’t buy this place, if the landlord wouldn’t sell, then he could take all the stuff with him when he got somewhere else and took a mortgage because he wasn’t going to rent for ever and a day. That was a mug’s game, besides which, when he asked Cora to marry him he wanted her to know she would have her own place in time, bought and paid for. It would be nice if it could be here, next to her mam an’ da, because he knew she’d like that, but they’d have to see.
He had the sudden urge to laugh, to raise his hands in the air and clap for sheer pleasure, but with his mother in the kitchen he didn’t. The thought of her brought him frowning to himself. His da had got one thing right when he’d said they weren’t good enough for him, and certainly his mam wasn’t good enough to associate with Cora. He didn’t want Cora to have to be polite, not with a filthy, debauched old scrubber like his dear mam, but for the present it would be canny to bide his time. In a few months, perhaps even a few weeks, a pillow over her face once she was in a drunken stupor should do it, and then it would be plain sailing. With the size of his mam and the way she had drunk herself insensible for years, no one would question that her heart had finally given up. He’d be careful to make sure there wasn’t a mark on her. Aye, his mam would be no trouble.
He smiled again. He could hear the neighbours. ‘What a shame about Mrs Hutton, her going so quick after him, but that’s often the way when a couple’s been married that long. The one that’s left sort of gives up, strange that. But it’s the lad I feel sorry for. Back from the country and losing them both in such a short time. I mean, I know the Huttons weren’t the best mam an’ da to them boys, but blood’s thicker than water . . .’
Oh, aye, he could hear them all, he thought with a grimace of contempt. Everyone knew what his mam an’ da were and how he and his broth
ers had been kicked and beaten by their da and starved by their mam, but in death they’d acquire sainthood in some quarters. And he could play the grieving son if it suited his purposes.
His smile widened. It was good, this feeling of being in control of his own destiny. He wouldn’t let anything or anyone stand in the way of that. You had to be strong to survive in this world, take life by the horns and subdue it and always look out for number one. He took a deep intake of breath and nodded twice. But for now he had to start the ball rolling and fetch the doctor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘We can never thank you enough, you know that, Etta. Are you going to be all right here by yourself?’
It had been a beautiful warm day, the sky a bright blue with fluffy white clouds. Now it was evening but still warm. The calendar in Etta’s kitchen said it was the middle of June, but that was the only way they had of knowing the date. For the last little while they’d lived in total isolation, cut off from the outside world.
It had been true what Etta had told them that first day, Jed thought, as he hugged the little woman goodbye. No one ventured this way and Etta rarely went further than her garden and the copse at the end of it where she collected wood for the range in the kitchen. As she told them, apart from a visit to the nearest town a couple of times a year to buy a supply of flour and sugar and tea which then lasted her for months, she had no need to leave her home. She grew her own vegetables; collected eggs from her hens, milk from Oriel and honey from her bees; and caught the occasional wild rabbit or pheasant for meat. She was self-sufficient and proud of it.
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