It's Raining Men

by Milly Johnson

  Raine noted that whereas Clare’s voice was full of gusto, her enthusiasm was not reflected in her eyes. This was not a happy girl sitting in front of her.

  ‘You must be looking forward to getting back to it all.’ As she spoke, Raine watched Clare’s reaction closely.

  Clare merely nodded slowly. ‘Yes, well, I’ll have plenty to keep me busy: new job, new flash company car, sorting out my new office.’

  The girl is less excited about that than she was about scrubbing at my kitchen windows, thought Raine.

  ‘Maybe you’ll find a nice young man to bring some love into your life,’ said Raine.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Clare with a shrug of her shoulders, though she doubted it. She wouldn’t have enough time for anything but work from now on. Blackwoods and Margoyles would own her every breath.

  Abruptly she changed the subject. ‘Raine, did you ever regret moving here to be with Seymour?’

  ‘Never,’ said Raine. ‘I would have got over him eventually if I had returned home, but my life would not have been as rich. Love – real love – is a privilege, not a right. I was blessed to have a man like Seymour Acaster loving me.’

  Clare nodded. ‘He sounds amazing.’

  ‘He was just a man. An ordinary decent man with a good kind heart. But we fitted together. Like this,’ and she threaded her fingers together tightly.

  Clare tried not to think about Lud. Decent, kind, good-hearted Lud. But she remembered how, as he had said to Clare that she and he fitted together ‘like this’, he had also threaded his fingers together tightly. She missed him terribly. And he had probably forgotten all about her by now.

  ‘It doesn’t look too good outside today. I don’t think I’ll be sunbathing when I get back to the cottage,’ said Clare, over-brightly. Or rather cloud-bathing.

  ‘Will I see you again before you leave?’ asked Raine, hope in her voice.

  ‘I’d like that, Raine,’ said Clare. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

  Chapter 62

  Clare had barely stepped out of Spice Wood when, with a roar, a motorbike came up behind her. It passed and then braked hard, blocking her path. The leather-clad rider lifted off his helmet.

  ‘Well, fancy seeing you here,’ said Val Hathersage. Head to foot in leathers and sitting astride the bike he looked breath-takingly masculine. The padded outfit lent him solid square shoulders and beefy thighs. Clare felt her heart thudding against the wall of her chest. He pointed to the tin. ‘Where have you been and what have you been doing?’

  Clare felt herself colour. To answer that she had been cleaning would hardly sound alluring. ‘Helping someone in need,’ she said. ‘Is that yours?’

  ‘Borrowed. Want a ride?’ he said. ‘There’s a spare helmet.’

  ‘I’ve never been on a motorbike before.’

  ‘A ride for a ride,’ said Val with a slow smile. ‘Come on, live a little. Leave your box of spells behind a tree. No one will nick it.’

  Clare wasn’t sure, but Val was unlocking a helmet attached to the back. Come on, live a little. ‘Okay, then,’ she said, trying her best to appear daring and excited rather than what she really felt: scared stiff.

  Chapter 63

  She was here at last – at 1928. Another birth: Sarah Smith. And a death: poor old Thomas Hubbard who had only just got married. Then a marriage: Seymour Elias Acaster, Fisherman, aged nineteen, residing in High Top Cottage, married Raine de la Mer, no age, no address, no occupation. Gotcha. R had to be his wife.

  ‘What an exotic name,’ she said, trying not to sound as giddy as she felt.

  At her shoulder, Edwin made a confirming hum but said no more.

  Joan swilled the words around in her head hoping they’d make sense when placed together: Reines de la Mer . . . Ren Dullem . . . Raine de la Mer . . . R.

  ‘Why doesn’t it say how old she was or where she came from?’

  Tension had invaded Edwin’s shoulders; she could see it.

  ‘Parish records dated so long ago are often incomplete.’

  That was a lie because, from what she had seen, the records for Ren Dullem were meticulously kept and 1928 was hardly the Dark Ages. Even in this backwards spot.

  ‘Why do you think the village was called Reines de la Mer in the first place?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t really know.’ Edwin shook his head vigorously. ‘People believed that this part of the country was once attached to France, I think, and gave it an exotic name.’

  That’s not really answering the question, Edwin, thought Joan. She prepared to ask the big question.

  ‘What is a queen of the sea?’

  Edwin was clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but out of innate politeness, he answered all the same.

  ‘A dolphin or similar creature,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘Local sailors often mistook them for sea monsters. They believed that if they named their village after them, they would be flattered enough to give them safe passage on the sea.’

  ‘Ah.’ Joan nodded, a voice inside her saying: That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? So why all the secrecy? No, there was more he hadn’t told her. She turned over the page and felt Edwin’s relief that the questions had stopped. More births, more deaths, more marriages followed. They reached the end of 1928 and moved onto subsequent years and Joan noticed how few girls were born. In fact, for the next ten years, none were born at all. She opened her mouth to ask why that was, but thought Edwin might be frightened into ending their session. Softly, softly.

  Chapter 64

  Clare was hardly dressed for a ride on a motorbike. Her thin shirt afforded her no protection against the cold wind rushing at her. Val was surprisingly sensible on the road, she was pleased to find, although she couldn’t say in all honesty that she enjoyed the experience. Not that she admitted to that when they parked on a cliff top by a picnic area.

  ‘Is there any better feeling?’ Val winked. ‘Apart from sex.’

  ‘Wow, that was great,’ said Clare, hoping she sounded more convinced than she felt. She was more than happy to have solid ground below her feet again. Her teeth were chattering from cold and with relief at being off the bike and safe. She was dreading the journey back.

  ‘Colleen used to love riding with me,’ he said. ‘Her hair used to stream behind her.’

  ‘Bully for Colleen,’ Clare murmured to herself.

  Val sat at the picnic table, his legs on the bench. ‘Come here,’ he said, inviting her to sit between his legs. Clare obeyed, hoping he would wrap his arms around her and warm up her bones. Instead he took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up.

  ‘Want a drag?’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Neither do I. Well, I gave up.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘I find women like the taste of cigarettes and whisky on a man’s breath. Turns you on, doesn’t it?’

  Clare hated whisky. The smell of it was enough to make her gag.

  ‘I’m not sure it would turn me on that much.’

  Val grabbed her hair and kissed her firmly, just as a strong, dominant hero might do in a film. Clare felt strangely detached. All she could think of was how bloody awful he tasted.

  ‘Let’s play dare,’ Val said, suddenly pulling away from her. ‘You first. I dare you to take your top off.’

  ‘What? No.’

  Val blew a perfect smoke ring above her head. ‘It’s your halo,’ he said, watching it float in the air. ‘Miss Goody Two-Shoes.’

  Clare knew what was coming next: some comment about Colleen, no doubt. Well, she’d show him that she could be as earthy as her.

  ‘Okay.’ Clare began to slowly unbutton her shirt. Then, she tried to look much braver than she felt and eased her arms out of it, spun it around and let it fly onto the ground.

  Then, out of the corner of her eye she saw an old couple carrying a picnic basket.

  ‘Oi. You shouldn’t be doing that here where children play,’ called the man as Clare scrabbled on
the ground for her shirt and tried to hide behind Val whilst she put it back on. ‘You should be arrested. Doris, don’t look. Filthy buggers.’

  Clare couldn’t get her arms into the sleeves. ‘Help me,’ she hissed at Val but he was too busy being creased up in hysterics.

  ‘I’m phoning the police,’ called the man. ‘Doris. Get your mobile out of your handbag.’

  ‘I didn’t bring it, Jim,’ came the reply.

  ‘You can’t remember anything, can you?’

  ‘Let’s go home, Jim. It’s too cold.’

  ‘This is a bloody disaster.’

  The old couple went off chuntering to each other. Val was crying with laughter, Clare was mortified. She wondered if any satellites had picked them up and someone in a space station was sitting sniggering at her or blowing up her picture to hand over to the North Yorkshire police.

  ‘Oh, chillax,’ said Val, his green eyes ablaze with mischief. ‘They’ve gone. Talking of picnics, as they were, I’m peckish. I wish I’d brought something to eat.’

  ‘We could, er, find a café.’

  ‘There’s a sandwich shop down the road.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Clare reached for the helmet.

  ‘I’ll go and pick up something. Wait here,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not waiting here. What if that man and his wife come back?’

  ‘There’s no chance of that, is there?’ Val nipped the tip of his cigarette between his fingers to kill it. ‘Promise, I’ll only be two minutes. Oh, haven’t got any change, have you?’

  ‘I’ve only got this twenty-pound note.’ She pulled it from her pocket.

  Val snatched it out of her hand. ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’ said Clare as he revved up the engine.

  ‘Might do.’ He grinned and roared off.

  After half an hour, Clare was beginning to panic. Plus, the wind was coming across the sea now, bringing with it spots of rain. She was frozen and she had no coat or money or phone with her. How stupid was she, letting him leave without her? Her parents were right, after all: she really should learn to engage her brain more. That was their stock phrase for her when she was growing up.

  To her tremendous relief she heard the mosquito-type buzz of a bike engine getting closer and into her range of vision came the black rider on the black bike. When he lifted his helmet she could smell beer on his breath.

  ‘You’ve been to a pub?’

  ‘Had to call in the Dog and Duck to get these.’ He took two packs of sandwiches out of his pocket. ‘The garage was shut.’

  She didn’t believe him but neither did she want to make a fuss.

  ‘Cold?’ he said, watching her teeth chatter.

  ‘Very.’

  Ludwig would have stripped his coat off at this point and hung it around her shoulders. Val Hathersage gave her first pick of the sandwiches. She picked the cheese and left him with the tuna.

  They sat down on the bench.

  ‘I used to come up here with Colleen,’ said Val, through a mouthful of bread.

  ‘I think you loved Colleen,’ said Clare, biting back her annoyance. ‘Why didn’t you marry her?’

  ‘Because she was already married,’ said Val. ‘To my brother.’

  Chapter 65

  Joan feigned puppyish delight whenever they came across the name of Moody, and she scribbled down the details on her pad. There was page after page of entries: deaths seemed to outweigh marriages, and births of boys outweighed those of girls. The pattern continued. At this rate, Ren Dullem would be a place totally populated by bachelors in ten years, thought Joan. Either that or it would be a ghost town.

  In 1969 saw the death of Seymour Elias Acaster, which she noted but read without comment. She carried on turning the pages. More boys born, more marriages, more deaths of the dwindling village population but, she noticed, no expiry notice for Raine de la Mer. She was still living, then; that would explain why money from the estate was still being paid to her, although no other widow was afforded the same courtesy. What was so special about Raine de la Mer? And, more to the point – was there a story in it that newspapers might be interested in? Joan’s mind was always on the cash.

  Chapter 66

  Clare stopped chewing.

  ‘She was married to your brother?’

  Val laughed. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Gene?’

  ‘Gene.’

  ‘Did he know you were . . . ?’

  ‘Well, yes, seeing as he found us in Spice Wood together.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘Last year. His divorce came through a few months ago. Understandably we don’t talk. Frank tried to be a mediator but Gene took the stance that if he wasn’t against me then he was against him. Brotherly relations are not good.’ He smiled as if it were all a big joke.

  So Gene Hathersage had been married to the wayward Colleen, then. He was the brother whose heart had been broken. That explained why he wasn’t exactly in line for any Smiler of the Year award.

  ‘Did he hit you?’ Clare imagined Gene coming at him like a bull.

  ‘I thought he was going to, but he just turned and walked away.’

  ‘And what did Colleen do?’

  ‘She ran after him but he wouldn’t have anything to do with her. She went half mad trying to get him back – pleading, breaking into his house, crying, following him wherever he went.’

  ‘Weren’t you upset?’

  ‘That she cried about him whilst she was in bed with me? It got annoying.’

  ‘She slept with you afterwards?’ Clare gasped.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Val, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. ‘Colleen wanted a man who was made up from parts of me and parts of Gene, with Frank’s farm thrown in. She always craved what she couldn’t have. She was more in love with Gene when he turned his back on her than she ever was when they were together. Well, as much as Colleen could love.’

  What a charmer, thought Clare. She couldn’t wait to go home and tell the others.

  ‘I ought to be getting back,’ she said as a large blob of rain landed on her hand. The sky had darkened by degrees in the last minute.

  ‘You eating that?’ Val pointed to the uneaten half of Clare’s sandwich. She handed it over to him and he stuffed it into his mouth before picking up his helmet. Clare climbed on the bike behind him.

  ‘Let’s see what this little beauty can do,’ said Val, revving up the engine and speeding off at a crazy pace, with Clare hanging on tightly, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth crying protestations.

  He stopped the bike at the bottom of the hill. Clare lifted off her helmet and was sick at the side of the road.

  ‘Whoops. You all right there?’ He sounded more amused than concerned.

  ‘You drove like a maniac. I asked you to slow down and you sped up.’ Her legs felt as insubstantial as marshmallows and about as capable of holding her up.

  ‘Lighten up, will you?’

  ‘You could have killed us, weaving in and out of traffic like that. I have no protective clothing on, if you hadn’t noticed.’

  He sighed, bored. ‘You can walk the rest of the way, can’t you? Save me a bit of time. I’ve got to take the bike back.’

  ‘And I’ve lost a shoe,’ cried Clare crossly.

  ‘I wasn’t turning back for it on a busy A road.’ Val grinned inside his helmet. That grin was starting to get on Clare’s nerves. ‘I’ll meet you here tomorrow at twelve if you like.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m busy.’ As if I want a repeat performance of that!

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Val treated her to another Harrison Ford lopsided grin, but Clare wasn’t in the least bit impressed by it any more. She was cold, wet, wind-blown, traumatized and, she remembered, immediately after he drove off spraying her with earth, also £20 short.

  Clare arrived back at Well Cottage shivering and embarrassed. More people than ever were on the road as she’d walked back, and she’d had to p
ass them whilst wearing only one shoe and sporting hair like Ken Dodd’s. Lara and May exchanged puzzled glances when she walked in.

  ‘What the heck happened to you?’

  ‘Just don’t ask,’ said Clare, reaching for the hand towel that was hanging on a hook by the sink. ‘Don’t bloody ask.’

  They asked. Why was she carrying a box of cleaning stuff and walking about with one shoe on?

  Clare didn’t mention Val. She felt disgusted with herself, but at least the scales had been lifted from her eyes and she could see Val Hathersage for what he was: a knob. He wasn’t a sexy man of mystery or a non-conformist spirit. He was Tianne Lee with designer stubble: shallow and self-serving, a tease, a game-player and, after what he had done to his brother, a total shit.

  She wished she were more like May and Lara who evidently found it cathartic to unburden themselves and talk things through. She, however, would rather just forget the Val Hathersage episode ever happened. That way she might fool herself into thinking that it really hadn’t.

  ‘I’ve just come back from Raine’s house,’ she said finally.

  ‘How come you ended up wearing one shoe, though? Did it dissolve in your bleach?’ laughed May.

  ‘I threw it over the cliff,’ Clare said, reciting the story she had concocted on the walk back up the hill. ‘And before you ask, no, I didn’t mean to. I took my shoes off to climb up and wash the windows and didn’t realize one of them had fallen in the bucket. And it’s really windy up there.’

  Clare couldn’t believe they bought it. What they couldn’t believe was that she was spending a big chunk of her holiday doing housework.

  ‘She’s a lovely old lady,’ said Clare. ‘I wanted to help her out a bit. It’s odd but . . . I feel as if I’ve known her a lot longer than I have. I like her company. And her cat.’ Then she was distracted by the crutch at Lara’s side. ‘Where did this come from?’

  May was standing by the window, looking across at High Top through the blur of rain on the glass.