by Ricki Thomas
Outside, Darren leant against the wall, lit his cigarette, and inhaled deeply, soon becoming aware that he had company. Glancing round, Vicki stood beside him, lighting her own. He studied her, a glint in his eye. Tall, much taller than his wife, long legs in opaque tights, topped with a black mini skirt. Breasts squeezed provocatively in a tight red top, slim arms ending with scarlet nails. The kiss was inevitable, the sexual tension between them had been apparent to everyone, and as they urgently caressed each other’s bodies, passionately, desperately, Darren realised his drinking was about to be replaced by something far more fun.
When he arrived back at the apartment, smiling in his reminiscence, Sophie was sleeping peacefully, the mound underneath the covers reminding him why he’d had to stray. Every man needed regular sex with a pretty girl.
The day had come for me to move out of Harry and Beryl’s house, my own flat now repaired, redecorated, and ready for habitation. Neither of us had mentioned the New Year kiss again, but every time we made eye contact, the closeness between us was obvious. I was sure that Beryl had noticed, and that she was far too polite to mention anything for fear of what she might hear in return, and that the comfort within her marriage had been replaced by trepidation. At fifty-nine, she was too old to consider her husband leaving, but she also couldn’t tolerate an affair again: it was better not to know.
I had been honourably regimented with my diet, my body, still overweight, but increasingly attractive, especially since joining a gym early in January, was slimming at an alarmingly rapid pace. My milk-bottle glasses, once severe across my face, had been replaced with contact lenses, my hair coloured a pleasing sandy shade with highlights, reducing the grey, and I had become a master at applying cosmetics in a subtle, accentuating manner. It had taken most of the money I’d stolen from Harry to transform myself, but I knew, with his puppy-dog affection, more would be presented to me if I requested it.
Harry offered to drive me to the renovated flat, with the meagre belongings I had that hadn’t been destroyed by the fire, which I agreed to gratefully, and Beryl drew a long sigh of relief as we disappeared at the end of her street, turning towards central Derby. Collecting cleaning fluids, a scrubbing brush, and several cloths, I ran up the stairs, eager to scrub every trace of Mary Miller out of the place I’d inhabited for too long.
Entering the drab building, stepping over the spewed rubbish, climbing the depressing concrete steps, reaching the newly painted turquoise door, the new key I’d been given fitting the replacement lock, I failed to raise a smile. I’d become accustomed to the luxurious life I was now leaving, and there had to be some way to return to it. If only Beryl would just go away, clear the path for me to replace. Now I had a place of my own back, I could move on with my plotting. I took the suitcase I’d borrowed into the living room, devoid of furniture, the charred remains having been dumped by the council, and I removed a bottle of wine, setting it on the floor, before checking the flat to see what I’d been left with.
The bedroom was still intact, the fire stopping at the door that dreadful night, and the kitchen and bathroom were also unaffected. I arrived back in the hallway at the same time as Harry, who had retrieved the last of my belongings from the car. I took him by the hand, leading him to the barren living room, and he surveyed the empty room with disdain. “Oh Mary, you can’t stay here, you’ve got no furniture, not even a place to sit.”
“I’ll be fine, Harry, at least I’ve got my home back. I’ll cope, somehow.”
My words and expression had evoked the sympathy I’d been angling for. “Look, at least let me buy you some new things, a sofa, a table, cabinets, I don’t know, whatever you want to make this, this,” again his eyes scanned the room, this time with sorrow, “void, yes, this void liveable.”
“That’s really sweet of you, Harry, but I couldn’t do that. I’ll tell you what you could do to make this more bearable, though.” I was good at this! I picked up the wine, brandishing it. “You could share this with me. I bought it yesterday, something to celebrate coming home with, and it’ll be much more fun with some company.”
I could see that Harry was torn, he wanted to stay, because we always had such an interesting time when we were together, after all, I had so much more to say, so many thought provoking opinions, than his wife, who now seemed so irritable and straight-laced all the time. “I can’t, Mary, I’m driving, aren’t I.”
I waved my hand, dismissive, as I headed for the kitchen to find two glasses. “One or two won’t hurt.”
We were each on our third glass, the bottle empty, when Harry noticed the time. “I’m going to have to get home, Beryl’s expecting me for lunch.”
I could feel my face fall, this wasn’t going in the right direction, and I sensed my blue/grey eyes dulling. I rose to my feet, feeling the gentle swoosh of alcohol hitting me, but still in control somehow. “Oh, I wish you could stay, it’s going to be so quiet without you and Beryl around for company. I used to get so lonely before the fire.”
Guilt furrowed his brow, he’d become so fond of me, enjoying my cleverness, my quirky outlook and eccentricities. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll have my lunch, then I’ll come back, we can go to the Furniture Superstore, get you some things in here to cheer the place up.”
“Oh, Harry, you’re such a good hearted man, but really, I’m sure Beryl would go crazy if she found out.”
Taking my hand, smoother than it had been for years now I was using creams and moisturisers, in both of his, he gazed at me intently. Once more I felt I was the knight who had won the battle. “I insist. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Okay?”
Hearing Harold close the front door, the jingle as he hung his keys up, Beryl took the pan from the hotplate and poured the thick soup into the waiting bowls, the delicious aroma sifting through the house. The thickly buttered bread was already on the table, and the cutlery neatly lay beside the placemats. As he strolled into the room, she brought the food over, and they both sat. “You were a long time.”
“Yes.”
She was desperate for him to elaborate, but he had nothing more to add. “I have to say that I’m really pleased Mary’s gone, it’s nice to be back to just the two of us again.” The agreement she’d hoped for didn’t arrive. “I’m going to make your favourite tonight, boeuf-en-croute with mashed potatoes and gravy.”
He’d just taken a spoonful. “Mmmmm,” waving his hand as he swallowed, “you haven’t prepared it yet, have you?”
“No, but…”
“Good. I won’t be back for dinner, I told Mary I’d take her to get some furniture, her place is barren.”
Beryl slammed her spoon on the table. “Harold!”
He shrugged his shoulders, emphasising his point, palms displayed upwards. “Now Beryl, be charitable. That poor woman lost everything to that fire…”
“And I’m losing everything to that woman! Can’t you just remember for once that it’s you and I who are married, not you and Mary. For crying out loud, you had an affair with that woman, she bore your children, and it took me years of pain to come to terms with that. I’ve had to put up with her dishing you doting looks for the past two months, and now I just want her out of our lives.”
“Be reasonable, Beryl, we can’t leave her destitute. And I know I was wrong to have seen her within our marriage, but it was nearly thirty-two years ago, and you were exceedingly depressed at the time.”
That was the last straw, excusing his sordid indiscretion with her illness. She shot him a filthy glare and stormed upstairs. She was going to have to find some way, any way, of getting that woman out of their lives.
From his stance I knew that an argument had taken place, and this pleased me deeply. But, with my humour, any remorse he’d felt following the dispute with Beryl was soon forgotten, choosing new furniture with me was such fun, I knew I had such an exuberant way of challenging life when I wanted to, with such a sunny disposition. My enthusiasm was catching. He couldn’t manage it all in one day, assemb
ling the flat-pack cupboards, but there was plenty of time to spare now he’d retired, as long as he told little white lies to Beryl regarding his whereabouts, reasoning the inevitable arguments wouldn’t be worth telling the truth for. He believed the friendship was innocent, and where Beryl’s ridiculous jealous streak had come from, he couldn’t fathom. I knew. And I was ready.
Harold was stunned when he returned home to find Beryl’s car gone, and the house empty. For an age he trotted around the house, searching for a note from her, even a clue to her whereabouts, and at midnight when she still hadn’t returned, he called Steve. To no avail: Steve had neither seen, nor heard from, his mother. Fretting, Harold surmised the most sensible solution would be to go to bed, sleep off the worry, and try to track her down tomorrow.
He didn’t have to. The doorbell ringing incessantly at four in the morning had him jumping out of bed, irked at the intrusion on his sleep. “Mr Waller.” He nodded at the two policemen, both holding their hats. “Can we come in, please?”
Harold moved aside for them to pass, showing them into the living room, and they all sat. “Mr Waller, could you please tell me if your wife is named Mrs Beryl Eveline Waller?”
A slight trepidation touched his reply. “Yes.”
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” he paused, this was the worst part of his job, “I’m very sorry to tell you, but a lady we believe to be your wife has been found. She sustained serious injuries in a fall.”
It felt as if he’d stepped into a parallel universe, words were being said that he couldn’t comprehend, a tension in his belly, bile in his throat, and a sensation of total and utter emptiness. He had to focus on what these men were telling him.
“… a mugging gone wrong, we believe.”
“What? Start again please, I’m afraid my head wasn’t clear for a moment.”
“A lady we believe to be your wife had a fall, Mr Waller, and I’m afraid she was killed instantly on impact.”
He was angry, what were they blundering about. “On impact with what, for God’s sake! You don’t die from a fall!”
The two officers glanced at each other. “I think you must have misheard. Mr Waller, your wife fell four storeys from the balcony of a block of flats. We suspect she was being mugged, her handbag wasn’t at the scene which is why it took us so long to identify the b… I mean, her. We think she must have had a struggle, there were numerous defence bruises on her arms and hands, and that she fell over the railings during the conflict.”
Harold gasped, horrified at the violence of his wife’s demise, he stood abruptly, almost pushing the policemen from the house. “I can’t deal with this now. Please go. Please go, now.”
Darren pulled his van into the driveway of his parent’s villa, he’d taken to having his midday meal with them rather than Sophie, irritated with her whining and moaning. Maureen was cheerfully singing along to the radio in the kitchen, buttering rolls and filling them with ham, and when she heard him enter the kitchen, she fished a cold beer from the fridge for him. “Go and sit down, baby, I’ll bring your lunch through in a mo.”
Darren sat on the sofa, next to his father’s chair, and eagerly watched the satellite football on the television alongside Bob. She brought some tea-plates through, handing them out, and returned for the drinks, then the food, placing the platter of filled rolls on the coffee table. They all tucked in hungrily, neither man removing their eyes from the screen. Until Maureen remembered the letter that had arrived that morning. She collected it from the worktop in the kitchen, and held it out for Darren. “This came addressed to your wife.”
Rolling his eyes, recognising Harold’s handwriting, he tore at the envelope, irritated at the intrusion into his sport. “It’s from her dad again, probably just sentimental rubbish.” He threw the note aside, returning to the football.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” When he shook his head, absorbed in the game, she took the letter and scanned it out of curiosity. Gasping, Maureen jumped up and stood between the men and the screen. “Beryl Waller is dead!”
Darren laughed. “The old dragon! She can’t be, she’s invincible.”
Maureen waved the letter, then read the first sentence aloud. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news, I’m so terribly sorry to have to tell you that your mother has unfortunately died.”
Bob picked up the remote control and silenced the television, and the room echoed from the disconcerting quietness. “Well, blow me down! Does he say what of?”
She continued to read, to herself this time. “Seems there was some violent altercation, and she fell, or was pushed, from a fourth floor balcony.”
Darren breathed out, smiling. “Oh, that’ll be the birth mother I told you about, Mary something or other, not the old dragon. She lives in a fourth floor flat. Well, that’s no loss to society, I can assure you. Just some dole scrounging good for nothing, that woman was!”
“Thank god for that! We don’t want your wife traipsing back to England for a funeral with our baby due in less than three months.” Maureen contemplated her words, adding. “Well, that is, I assume she won’t want to go, will she, baby?”
Darren poured the refreshing beer down his throat thirstily, the rolls having dried his mouth. “She couldn’t stand the woman, hated her. She’ll be pleased if anything. You never know, she might actually raise a smile for once.”
It wasn’t a smile, so much, more an air of dismissal, when Darren told her the news. He didn’t mention the letter, that might provoke an argument, telling her he’d heard the news from an old friend from England. It didn’t occur to her to question anything, why a friend in England would phone Darren at his parents to tell him news about a woman nobody had reason to link her or Darren with, it wasn’t important to her. She continued to caress her stretched belly with a tender hand, relishing the baby’s movements underneath her skin. “She meant nothing to me, she was crazy anyway.”
The first week after her death, Harry had stayed rooted in his house, not able to face the world, trying to clear his head of ‘what ifs’ and ‘if only’s before he braved visiting the building his wife had taken her last steps in.
I was pleased to see him, yet feigned shock when he told me that the woman I’d ‘heard’ about on the grapevine that had fallen to death outside my flat had, in fact, been Beryl. I hastened to the kitchen to make him a strong mug of tea, after ensuring he was seated comfortably, blanket over his knees to ward off the biting cold of the unheated room. Over the ensuing conversation, both of us warming our hands with the steaming cups, we both came to the conclusion that Beryl must have come to visit me on the fated night for some reason. So near, yet so far, as her life had been stolen so viciously moments away from the safety of my home. I felt victorious, although, obviously, I couldn’t share that.
Harry, a traditional man with a very British ‘stiff upper lip’ had kept his tears in check, but I made sure mine ran copiously as I listened to the grief in his voice, holding his hand gently in mine.
After several hours of reminiscing about Beryl’s life, her personality, achievements, woes, Harry brought the meeting to an end when I offered him a meal, telling me his appetite hadn’t returned since he’d received the terrible news. I knew he’d be back, it was a dreadful situation, but one that would bring us closer, of that I was certain. Harry was going to need a friendly face to talk to, and I could give him the tenderness only a woman could issue when holding a hand, or patting his back. I knew that the more he burdened me with his grief, the more he would come to rely on my company. As I waved him goodbye along the balcony where his wife had taken her final steps, I knew I was winning the game, the way was clear for me and Harold, it was just a matter of time before I could leave the cold, featureless flat for the luxurious semi I’d spent the most comfortable two months of my life in. Only this time, I would be the lady of the house. Poor Beryl.
The funeral was a tidy, intimate affair. Beryl had been, apart from her children who didn’t bear her ma
iden surname, Shillaw, the last in the line of her family, so the only people who attended were Harry, me, which would have made her turn in her coffin, Steve, Alan, and the very few close friends she’d had. It was a distressing occasion anyway, but rendered even more upsetting to see how, with her life extinguished, very few people actually cared about the woman.
Every single member of the mourners was disgusted that her daughter, once close, hadn’t bothered to attend. It was a much discussed matter at the private wake held in the home she’d once run with utmost efficiency, now gathering dust with Harry’s hapless attempts at cleaning. He, ever the optimist, had reasoned that Sophie would be in the latter trimester of her pregnancy, but even he had to admit that the absence of a wreath, a card, in fact, no contact at all, showed the utmost cruelty. However, he knew his daughter too well and in the back of his mind he could see that something was amiss with life in Mallorca.
The few guests gradually tailed off, leaving crumb laden plates over the tables, and used glasses in every nook and cranny, and Harry, with only me and Steve left for company, began the arduous task of clearing the clutter away.
