‘Who else lives here? It would have to be me or the dog, you daft thing.’
Neither would ever be able to account for what followed. She was standing, then she was sitting, then she was in the bed beside him. There was no question about it – Philomena Gallagher was not her usual self on this occasion. She was alive, abandoned, liberated. And she cried. The weeping happened not afterwards, but during, because she realized what she had been missing for the past two decades. Sex was beautiful; sex with a man who was loved and loving was something that defied description.
They lay together in the single bed. ‘I’ve got cramp,’ announced Dave, ‘but it was worth it. You’ve gone quiet.’
She had been extremely noisy. Fortunately, the walls were of thick stone, the woman next door was as deaf as a post, and Philly’s house was an end of terrace. ‘It’s a sin,’ she said.
‘We’re all born of sin, Philly.’
‘Yes, so we are. And we need a bigger bed.’ She kissed him on the forehead and went back to her own room.
The next morning, Dave woke with a smile on his face. He looked into Philly’s bedroom, but she was not there, so he went to find her downstairs. She wasn’t there, either. Skippy, too, had disappeared, so Dave assumed that Philly was doing the first of the dog’s walks. He made tea, went back up to get showered and dressed, came down again to an empty house.
It was time to get to the Reading Room, because the newspapers would need sorting. He and Philly breakfasted there almost every day. On Sundays and some holy days, Dave would be alone, but this was neither Sunday nor a holy day, because she would have informed him had she needed to attend church to celebrate the life of some long-dead saint.
An uneasiness crept over him, chilling his body right through to the bone. She was ashamed, and could not look him in the eye. Desperation had driven her to have one sexual encounter in her life, and he had happened to be there when she’d needed a man – any man. The mirror told the truth. Dave Barker was not handsome. Not desirable. Where was she?
At the shop, he sorted papers and set them out on stands. Breakfast was out of the question, since his stomach seemed to have moved north and was threatening to heave. What had he done? Why hadn’t he kept his bloody mouth shut, just as he had when sharing space with his mother? He couldn’t go back there, wouldn’t go back to the flat above the shop.
Why hadn’t he been satisfied with what he’d already had at Philly’s house? There had been no quarrel, no holding on to the rising tide of temper, no dread of going home. Where was she? And why hadn’t she left a note? Perhaps he should have searched her bedroom to see if she had taken any clothes, but no, Philly would never leave a house that had been in her family for three generations.
The door opened, and there she was, complete with a smile and a happy dog. ‘Did you get my note?’ she asked.
‘What note?’
‘You see?’ she cried. ‘It’s as if you’re already family. I expect you to know that we always leave messages next to the clock.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’d better get moving. Sandwiches don’t make themselves.’ She went through to the Reading Room, dog and employer hot on her heels.
‘Where were you?’ Dave asked.
‘Oh . . . yes . . . sorry. I had to wait for Father Walsh. There’s a funeral this morning, so I knew he’d be here. Before that, I went for a walk to clear my head. Anyway, the short story is that he knows.’
Dave’s spine was suddenly rigid.
‘It’s a sin,’ she advised him. ‘Though Father Walsh said – what did he say? It’s not that big a deal – something like that. He’ll sort it all out and marry us. After that, it won’t be a sin. Oh, and I told him I was a bit old for having babies, but that any children would be raised Catholic.’
Dave dropped into a chair. ‘Do you tell these priests everything? Like what you had for breakfast and what you watch on TV?’
‘No.’ Philly studied the man she loved. ‘There’s more to it, Dave. There’s a lot more. You know how some folk have to go and see psychiatrists because they’re not well?’
He nodded. ‘Came close enough myself when I lived with . . .’ He pointed to the ceiling.
‘Sometimes, when I go into the confessional box, I haven’t a lot to say. You can go through the Commandments and decide that your problems are on a different list. Little sins like wishing you had a baby or a partner or even a friend. A bit like jealousy, but not that strong. And he listens. You get a blessing and come out feeling a stone lighter.’
‘So it’s therapy?’
‘Definitely. I didn’t go into the box this morning. I told him face to face. And I could tell he was pleased for me. He went on a bit about sex not being the worst thing unless it was rape. Then he wished us happiness and told me you’re one of the best men he’s met in his life.’
‘So we’re all right?’
‘Better than that, because he approves.’
Dave nodded. ‘And if he hadn’t?’
Philly shrugged. ‘Never mind if. Open that door, because Bert and Sam will be here for breakfast and a newspaper in about two minutes. Oh – one thing, Dave Barker.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No more shenanigans till we’re married.’
‘All right.’ With a big fat grin on his face, Dave went to invite the day to enter his shop. Philly was very Victorian. Dave, who had studied the enigmatic queen, knew that her composed exterior had hidden a multitude of passions. No more shenanigans, indeed. Philly was the one who’d come to him in the night. In that moment, he was the happiest man on earth. For the first time ever, someone valued him.
Lily, who had received all monies from the sale of her home and the business premises in Somerset, paid off the bridging loan and took possession of the deeds to her latest acquisition. She owned the huge house, and that meant something. The pile of bricks and mortar was testament to a past that had not been wasted; it stood proud and tall in memory of Leanne Chalmers, the most successful interior designer in three or four west country counties. In part, it belonged to her grandfather, who had left a small fortune for Lily in his will. He would have approved, she thought. He would have loved that wild garden with its meanders, sundial and orchard, and the broken-down summerhouse. ‘Make money work for you, Leanne.’
Leanne was not dead. It was she who dictated to Lily what must be done, she who colour-coded and themed the rooms, who chose drapes, cushions, rugs, and bartered for fireplaces reclaimed from purveyors of architectural antiques. Was this Lily’s happiness? Or were she and her previous self merely papering over cracks with materials that cost an arm and both legs? ‘Oh, Leanne,’ she breathed on the evening of the first FADS meeting. ‘Name this house for me, will you? Come on, you know you can do it.’
The name Chalmers could never come into it – didn’t deserve to be used. Latimer had been her grandmother’s maiden name, and she was tempted to use it as the replacement for St Faith’s Presbytery, but the need not to be discovered dictated that Latimer was rendered unsuitable. She had deemed it safe to have as an adopted name for herself, but she didn’t want it chipped into stone near the front door. ‘You’re silly,’ she told herself sharply. ‘You have it as a surname, but you don’t want to advertise? Per-lease!’
Who knew her grandmother’s maiden name, anyway? Probably no one, yet she must leave no trail, no solid evidence on which people might work in order to find her. The church was St Faith’s. St Faith had been a martyr in the fifth century, or even earlier, and her death had been nasty – grilled over an open fire, then beheaded. Oh, joy. She wasn’t going to use that. ‘Faith, hope and charity,’ Lily said aloud. ‘And the greatest of these is charity.’ That wouldn’t do, either, or she might have every tramp in the district begging for food at the door. Charity House? No.
Hope seemed just about right. Hope House. Where there was life, there was hope, and that was another little riddle solved. ‘Thanks, Leanne,’ she breathed. It was almost seven o’clock. Tonight, after the meeting in the c
hurch hall, Lily would be sleeping for the first time in Hope House. The room with the circular window was ready. Excitement did battle with trepidation, and Lily forced the former to win. She would not be afraid. Fear had belonged to Leanne, who was doing a good job on the house, since her soul lived on in Lily Latimer. But this was Lily’s house, and she would claim it right away.
In her best jeans and a T-shirt, she made her way for the first time to the St Faith’s school hall. Unlike the church, this was partly modern, with cheap, almost prefabricated classrooms fastened on to the original building. Inside, every centimetre of wall was covered in posters and the work of children, bright colours clashing joyfully on walls panelled in plasterboard. It felt happy and busy, exactly as a primary school should.
The first person she met was Michael Walsh, and this time he was not attached to the supposedly less dangerous end of a motorized tree-trimmer. He wore a dark shirt, black trousers and no dog collar. His hair looked as if it had taken a walk on the wild side, so there was no improvement in that area.
‘We’re starting off with a pantomime,’ he advised her. ‘For January. That gives us plenty of time to write it, learn it and get dressed up for it. Though one of us is dressed up already.’ He led her into the hall.
Maurice Jones, having heard that it was to be pantomime, had arrived to claim his place as dame. He staggered about on red high-heeled shoes wearing a terrible dress with false boobs clearly straining towards freedom, while his face was a multi-coloured mess. Topped by an incredible red wig and some huge hooped earrings in scarlet plastic, he looked marvellous.
His wife touched Lily’s arm. ‘I couldn’t stop him,’ she whispered. ‘Look at the state of him – ever the exhibitionist.’
‘Nor should you stop him,’ said the priest. ‘He’s got it, so he should blooming well flaunt it. Unfortunately, there is no dame in Cinderella, but he can be one of the ugly sisters.’
When Mike Walsh had left them, Sally sat down with Lily at the back of the hall. ‘He’s nothing like a priest, is he? I thought they were dead serious miserable creatures.’
Lily shook her head. ‘Not this one. But if you ever get a garden and he offers to help, say no. He tramples. He cuts shrubs back at the wrong time of year, and he rescues things like foxes and rabbits. I let him loose and am beginning to regret it.’
‘He’s nice, though,’ remarked Sally.
‘Yes, he’s very nice.’
The very nice man was clearing his throat and welcoming all to FADS. The pantomime was to be Cinderella, and he would write it. Philomena Gallagher was in charge of meetings and money, Lily Latimer would do sets and props, others would be acting, making refreshments, selling tickets, keeping order in the hall – this was a school, so they had to leave it as they found it. Costumes needed to be sewn and fitted, strong men would be required for scene-shifting, and he would produce and direct. Next time, someone else could have the hard job of keeping everyone up to scratch.
‘He’s doing a lot,’ said Sally quietly.
‘He does,’ answered Lily. ‘And he’s lumbered me with sets, even though I never quite agreed.’
‘Is there dissent in the ranks at the back?’ he called.
Sally shook her head, but Lily stood up. ‘Thanks for volunteering me without my permission,’ she said loudly.
‘No problem,’ came the reply. ‘Always happy to help. You’ll make a very fine job of it, Lily.’
She sat down again. There had been quite a good response to Philly’s leaflets, and Lily recognized only about half of the faces. She poked Sally’s arm. ‘Isn’t that Valda’s mother? Over there, near the front.’
‘It is. She’s staying with Enid Barker, isn’t she?’
Lily nodded. ‘And God help her.’
Philly was there with Dave and the Boswells, and Babs had dragged Pete along. He was holding Cassie, who would be late to bed tonight. ‘They look cosy,’ Sally commented. ‘Philly and Dave, I mean. Do you think there’s something going on?’
‘No idea.’ Tim Mellor was present, as was Derek Boswell. Both had begun to buy rather a lot of flowers. Lily, whose radar was powerful, awarded no more than a glance to Dave and his landlady, because she was suddenly aware that the two men were not looking at her. The vet’s eyes were temporarily fixed on the priest, while Derek’s gaze was wandering about like a dog released from its lead. She could have done without this. All she needed now were complications in the form of interested males.
‘She’ll go mad.’ Sally was whispering now.
‘What? Who?’
‘Mrs Barker. She can’t stand Philly, because she’s a devout Catholic and she can cook. Mrs Barker’s cakes were designed to break teeth, and she knows we were all glad when she retired to the first floor.’
Lily looked at Philomena Gallagher and her lodger. ‘You may be right,’ she said. ‘And if we can see it, so can Mrs Turnbull.’
‘I like Dave and Philly,’ said Sally. ‘They’re looking like a couple already. It’ll be handbags at dawn.’
Michael Walsh brought the inaugural meeting to a close. ‘I’ve nearly finished writing,’ he informed the room. ‘We’ll meet again next week for casting. Come even if you don’t want an audition, because we need a lot of help.’
Maurice stood up in his finery. ‘Mike?’
‘Yes, my love?’
The hairdresser waited until the ensuing laughter died. ‘I’m not ugly,’ he said in a very effeminate voice. ‘People would die for looks like mine. Is it all right if I read for Cinderella?’
‘Do what you like,’ replied the man in charge. ‘But save yourself for me, ducky. I’ll meet you later behind the bike sheds. Any other business?’
Had anyone in the room still considered the parish priest to be a dry stick, they would have altered their opinion immediately. He was just a bloke with tatty hair, and he wanted to do something for the community.
Maurice hadn’t finished. ‘Free haircut for you, young man. It’s time we tidied you up. You look like a string mop parked the wrong way up.’
The any other business part of the meeting went completely downhill after that. Lily, anxious to get out as quickly as possible, slipped through the door and into the corridor. But men have notoriously long legs, and the vet caught up with her almost immediately. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked, his tone engineered to be casual.
‘No thanks, Tim. I’ve stuff to do at home.’
‘So you’ve finally made the move?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m moving,’ he said. ‘Business, not house. I’ll have a nurse on stand-by in case we get something serious in, but number three will be largely work premises.’
‘Right. Good luck with that.’
‘Thank you.’
After bidding him good night, Lily walked home. On the long path that led to the front door, she found herself almost running. She was supposed to have stopped doing that. Her vow to have nothing whatsoever to do with men still stood. Neither Leanne nor Lily needed courtship, but there was no need to run. ‘This is a safe place,’ she said as she entered the house.
Inside, she leaned against the door. The building was so big, so silent. Had she done the right thing? Time would tell, she supposed – and she could sell it on if necessary. There was someone at the other side of the door. Its thickness meant that she heard nothing, yet some sixth sense warned her that she was not alone. Was Michael Walsh thinking of sleeping here tonight? Would she feel safer if he did?
The someone tapped quietly on the knocker.
‘Who is it?’
‘Derek. Derek Boswell. Wondered if you might come for a drink or two.’
Lily sagged against the wall. ‘Not tonight, Derek.’
‘Oh. OK, then. Another time, perhaps?’
She made no reply. In the kitchen, she sat at a white deal table that looked as if it had been there since the house was built. Something was missing. She closed her eyes and took herself back to the farm. Carbolic. The table had always been
scrubbed with that harsh soap. Another scent she recalled was new bread in an oven. She remembered blue-rimmed enamel bowls left near the fireplace while their contents proved; the sight of her mother kneading, breaking dough and shaping loaves. Plaits, oven-bottom bread, cobs, pound loaves still hot from baking, butter dripping after it was spread.
So safe, she had been in those days. Nothing could touch any of the family, or so she had believed. Innocence. People dying, no more bread, kitchen table no longer as clean as it had always been. Cows sent to market, fields left fallow, living with an aunt, going to college, growing up, meeting him.
Her eyes flew open. How had she failed to see what was hidden behind the sparkling eyes and handsome face? Suddenly, she was weeping. It wasn’t an ordinary weep, wasn’t just a few tears and a bit of sniffing; this was a full-blown event, loud, painful and draining. Nothing had changed since yesterday. There had been no new trauma, no earth-shattering event that had altered irrevocably the course of her life. One of the doctors had warned her about flashbacks, but she hadn’t been thinking about the night when it had all gone—
‘Lily?’
She almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Father—’
‘Mike. When I’m not in uniform, I’m Mike. Makes me feel human.’ She had been breaking her heart, and she didn’t need a witness. ‘Do you want the keys back? You can kick me out and change the locks – I won’t be offended. I’m intruding.’
The shock made her stop in her tracks. ‘No. I said you could stay, and you can. I’m just . . . just remembering.’ She dabbed at her face.
‘Can I help?’
‘Of course not. You weren’t there. How can you help me remember?’
‘Perhaps forgetting would be better.’ He sat opposite her. ‘Talk to me. Did I upset you by lumbering you with the stage dressing?’
‘No. Well, yes, but that isn’t anything to do with . . . with anything.’
‘Right. Where do we stand on the cuppa front? Do I bring in my own, do I pay you, or do you drink strange herbal stuff?’
‘Tetley’s,’ she answered. ‘Just get on with it.’
The Reading Room Page 12
