The phone shrilled from the hall. Hilary half-rose. Would she have to answer it, as well as hold the child, keep an eye on Sylvie? Relieved, she heard it stop, heard Rita’s voice sounding frightened, yet annoyed. ‘No, you mustn’t, Joe, you can’t!’ she kept repeating, then the receiver was replaced and there was silence. Almost instantly it rang again. Was some row in progress, Joe furious he’d been cut off, or countered? No. Rita’s voice was different now, less edgy altogether. The call was brief. Rita came back to the sitting room, still smoking.
‘That was Liz. She says to tell you that your bloke’s rung and you’re not to worry – he’s quite all right and on his way. And she’s leaving now herself, she says. Okay?’
‘Er … yes. Fine.’
‘I didn’t know you was worrying about a bloke. Though it don’t surprise me. My mother used to say if there’s a man, there’s trouble, and I reckon she was right. Give me Kevin, will you? I’ve rinsed some nappies through. They’re still sopping wet, but we’ll fix him up in Sylvie’s whatsits just for now. No, you come with me, dear. It’s nice to have some company. Now the kids are grown up, they hardly ever visit, except to dump their own kids when they want to gad off somewhere. It’s Joe’s fault really. He’s always shouting at ’ em. I don’t think he ever wanted kids at all.’
Rita led the way upstairs into her bedroom, a cramped and dirty room with little space for anything save the unmade double bed and a chest of drawers piled with clothes and clutter, including a tin of dog de-fleaing powder and a stale half-eaten doughnut. She laid the baby on the bed, removed its nappy, rolled it in a parcel, held it out to Hilary. ‘Stick that in the bathroom, will you, dear? You’ll see a bucket in the corner. Oh, and bring me in a towel. If there’s none on the rail, you‘ll find one in the dirty laundry bin.’
When she returned, Rita was opening a packet of the largest thickest sanitary pads she’d ever seen.
‘These are Sylvie’s. They’re the ones for nursing mothers who are losing really heavy. God! That poor child suffers every month. It’s floods she has, not periods. It’s ridiculous for her to have the curse at all. I mean, she’d never going to have no baby, is she? I tried to get her sterilised, but they said it’s not allowed.’
Who said, thought Hilary? The Church again, or doctors, lawyers? Yes, male ones, more than likely, who never had pregnancies themselves, never menstruated. She herself had had another period, which had just finished two days ago, the most welcome so-called ‘curse’ of her whole adult life to date, since it proved she wasn’t pregnant. It had come on time, twenty-eight days exactly after that unexpected first one, as if her cycle had re-established itself, to accord with her re-entry to the world. She wasn’t sure she welcomed that particular aspect of it; all its implications about fertility and womanhood. She watched Rita make a nappy from three pads and the towel, secure it with two pins. Why did she feel so bitter, so depressed? Liz and Robert were both now on their way. The rest of the day was hers to relish. Wasn’t that the trouble, though? It seemed wrong now to enjoy herself, leave Rita here with three dependent children. Even at this moment, Sylvie might be trying to eat her doll again, choking on a foot, or righting Luke.
‘Is Sylvie all right downstairs on her own? I mean, should I go and check on her?’
‘Oh, no, dear. She’s no trouble, that one. She never seems to hurt herself, or even get bad colds and things, like all the others did. I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but she’s my favourite of them all. I know it’s wrong for mothers to have favourites, but I really love that child. Well, I love them all, but Sylvie’s special. People think she’s stupid, but she’s not, you know. I’m with her such a lot, you see, so of course I understand her, when other people don’t. And I suppose we’ve grown very close after all these years. Joe got wild because I wouldn’t ever leave her, or shove her in a home. We fought for years about it. He wanted her “put away”. I hate that word, don’t you? It makes her sound like a cup or plate or something, instead of a real person.’ Rita took a quick drag on her cigarette, nicked ash on a carpet already grey with dirt. ‘She really seemed to take to you. She always knows whether people like her and what they’re thinking underneath. You’re a nice quiet gentle type, you see, and she picked that up immediately.’
Hilary retrieved the Vaseline lid which had fallen on the floor, glad to hide her face. She had, in fact, felt quite a strong aversion to Sylvie’s vacant stare and bloated limbs, the patchwork of old stains on her cheap and skimpy nightie. How did you love a child like that, look after it year in, year out; tie ribbons in its limp and greasy hair, even feel a pride in it? She watched Rita change the baby’s clothes, button up its tiny knitted jacket. She appeared to know its language just as well as Sylvie’s, replied to its gurgles with a string of babbled words. Hilary felt a twinge of envy as Kevin smiled in answer. He hadn’t smiled for her. The room was dirty, dust on all the surfaces, two waste-bins overflowing, but at least Rita Craddock knew what love meant; could call herself a normal woman, not a cold and heartless spinster who shrank from babies, from any human contact.
‘It’s sad for Sylvie, really. I mean, even her own flesh and blood seem to be ashamed of her. My oldest son don’t come home at all now. He’s made good, you see, married one of them bright types with GCEs and whatsits, and she don’t like it here. I suppose you can’t blame her, can you? They’ve got a patio at their place with those coloured stones, in squares, and a really fancy kitchen with everything electric and more switches than a power-station.’
Hilary said nothing. She had been offered just a glimpse of a small domestic tragedy, which had been playing out for over thirty years – an angry feckless husband who didn’t want his kids; kids who’d managed to escape themselves, yet still felt bitter and ashamed. Liz had bailed out from bad marriages; Rita was still trapped, had neither house nor money of her own, was tied for life to Sylvie and to Joe. And what would happen when she died – to Luke as well as Sylvie? She was already in bad health, had constant spells of illness. Sylvie would land up in a home, no doubt, despite Rita’s lifelong efforts to keep her out of one – but Luke … Where was the boy? She ought to say goodbye to him; could see Liz’s car nosing slowly round the junk heaps, bumping on the rough uneven ground. She waved from the window, felt a little better as she saw Liz’s cheerful grin.
‘Know where Luke’s gone, Rita?’
‘He’s in the airing cupboard. He often goes in there to have a sulk, or think, or something. It’s like his – you know – burrow.’
‘Can I say goodbye to him?’
‘If you want.’ Rita shrugged, pointed down the landing. ‘It’s the next door to the bathroom.’
Hilary tapped gently on the door. No answer, so she pulled it open. Luke was lying fast asleep on a pile of flannel sheets. She was amazed that he could sleep in that awkward cramped position, with his back hunched up and no room for his feet. He was breathing very heavily, as if sickening for a cold, nose running into open mouth, tear stains on his face. This was the vandal and the bully, the liar and the thief.
‘Goodbye, Luke,’ she said softly.
His eyes flickered in his sleep, as if aware that she had spoken. ‘Good luck,’ she added desperately, and walked downstairs to Liz, brushing dribble, ash and dog hairs off Robert’s favourite dress.
Chapter Twenty Three
‘So what happened to Robert?’ Hilary tried to sound casual as she fastened her seat belt, watched Liz negotiate the hazards in Joe’s yard.
‘Oh, half a dozen crises, by the sound of it. He went to some auction sale this morning; said something about how he was buying you a dragon, though I can’t have heard that right. The line was dreadful, very faint and crackly. Then he had to go back home, to sort some problem out, and he was just about to leave when the phone rang – a client in Leicestershire he’d built a house for once, who was really in a state, complaining about … God! This is getting complicated, but then Bob’s always complicated and often very late. Don’t worry, love. H
e’ll turn up for tea, at least.’
‘But didn’t he try to phone me or …’
‘Yeah, ’course he did. Give the lad credit where it’s due. He missed me by five minutes, just like you did, then he phoned again and the damn line was engaged. Then,’ she shrugged and grinned. ‘Third time lucky. Mind you, Hilary, you shouldn’t have run away like that. If he had arrived on time, he’d have felt pretty miffed to find you gone.’
‘Run away? I didn’t.’ Hilary jerked forward as Liz braked hard at traffic lights. ‘I told you what happened with the school and everything. I couldn’t just leave Luke in the lurch.’
‘Actually, you could, love. And a lot of people would have done, in your shoes.’
‘But that’s cruel, Liz. He’d been sick and wasn’t well and …’
‘There’s a perfectly adequate sickroom at the school. Or you could have brought him home to me.’
‘You weren’t in.’
‘You knew I would be fairly soon. And at least you could have explained to Bob, not left him in a lather on the doorstep.’
‘But he wasn’t in a lather on the …
‘Look, forget it, love. I’m not trying to interfere. I’m just aware you’re pretty bloody nervous of the guy, so maybe unconsciously you were giving him the slip.’
Hilary said nothing. Could that be true, in fact? She felt annoyed with Robert, certainly, though she couldn’t quite say why; annoyed with all men – Joe, Simon, Luke, Luke’s headmaster; even Stephen for quarrelling with Luke. But why should Liz take Robert’s side, when he’d been delayed himself? She tried to change the subject, steer the conversation round to Sylvie.
‘Yes, pathetic, isn’t it?’ Liz hooted at two cyclists who were weaving in and out. ‘She and Rita even sleep together, in the so-called marital bed. From what I’ve heard, Joe doesn’t get his oats now – in fact not since Luke was born. That birth almost killed her, and although she’s over fifty she still hasn’t had the “change”, so she’s absolutely terrified she’ll be up the spout again. It must be more or less impossible at her age – but you just can’t reason with her. She’s paranoid about it, and who can blame her really? God! It’s such a mess. I feel sorry for them all, in fact – even Joe – but Rita gets the worst of it, that’s certain.’
Hilary sat silent. Never before had her vows seemed such a sham. Rita Craddock hadn’t knelt before a priest vowing Holy Poverty. She merely lived it year by year– with debts and bills piling up around her, squalor on all sides. Poverty of hope and of surroundings; poverty of expectation. And what about the other vows? Obedience? Certainly. Obedience and subservience to Joe. Rita hadn’t much alternative if he was tyrannical and violent. Enclosure? More or less. It couldn’t be easy to get out if you were tied to a retarded child and used as a free crèche by all your grown-up children. Chastity? Oh, yes. Rita welcomed chastity, would envy nuns their vow of lifelong continence: a vow based on the premise that sex was valuable, something worth a sacrifice, worth renunciation. To Rita, it could well be an ordeal, another burden and demand, where she must obey her Lord and Master without question, and maybe without any shred of pleasure.
She said nothing more until they drew up at Cranleigh Gardens; felt strangely exhausted by her brief spell at the Craddocks, as if Rita’s own fatigue and problems had descended on her shoulders. She followed Liz into the hall, took her jacket off.
‘Oh, look!’ said Liz. ‘You’ve spoilt your dress. What’s that? Shit or gravy? Probably both, knowing Maison Craddock. You’d better hurry up and change. Bob’ll be here any minute, unless he stops off at another sale, or decides to make a detour up to Leicestershire.’
Hilary tried to smile, feeling dirty altogether, not just dribble, excrement, but a sense of grime engrained right in her pores.
‘Wear your Laura Ashley. He’ll really go for that. God! I’m dying for a cup of tea. No, I’ll do it, love. You go up and change.’
Hilary walked slowly up the stairs. She had changed once already with an eagerness, excitement, which seemed pathetic, if not puerile, in her present state of mind. Where was Robert now, for heaven’s sake? She had half-expected him to be waiting on the doorstep; had experienced a curious mixture of annoyance, disappointment and relief when she realised that he wasn’t. They had been taught at Brignor that it was both disorderly and discourteous to be late, whatever one’s excuses; a form of self-indulgence. What riled her especially was that he had made the plans, fixed the date and time, told her to be ready, made her take the day off, yet still he wasn’t here. She dragged her dress off, removed her tights and petticoat as well. They weren’t stained or grubby, but she somehow felt she wanted a total change of clothes, as if to start again, erase the past few hours. She was just unrolling a new pair of tights when Liz knocked with the tea.
‘Just a minute.’ Hilary snatched up her dressing gown, tried to scramble into it, but Liz was already through the door, had stopped with both cups poised. ‘Good God! What have you done? Those marks. They look like bruises.’
Hilary darted to the wardrobe, concealed herself between its heavy doors, hiding both the marks and her embarrassment. The scars had faded, surely, were barely noticeable – at least far less so than they had been just a week ago, when she’d been extra specially careful that nobody should see her without tights on and long sleeves. She mumbled something half-inaudible, started searching for her dress in the crush and press of Di’s clothes, which still cluttered up the rail. She was praying Liz would leave, but she plumped down on the chair instead, took a gulp of tea.
‘Listen, love, I’m not trying to pry or anything, but Bob didn’t do that, did he?’
‘Bob?’
‘Well, he’s a funny guy, you know – a bit unpredictable. I mean, he’s kind and generous to a fault and great fun and everything, but I’ve always thought there’s something rather weird about him. And you’ve been so strange yourself, Hil, since you came back from that conference. You hardly said a word about the lectures or the programme, and even less about your time with Robert. And then you tried to kid me you only went out for a drive with him, when actually I know you stayed at his place, a night or two at least.’
Hilary let the wardrobe doors swing shut, anger fighting guilt. Had Robert betrayed her, confided everything to Liz when he had sworn to keep her confidence?
‘It sounds as if I’m snooping, love, and honestly I’m not. It’s just that Bob and I have got a friend in common – a guy called Hugh O’ Connor. He phoned to ask me to a party on the Monday we got back, told me he’d invited Bob as well, and Bob had asked if he could bring this bird called Hilary who was staying the weekend.’ Liz fiddled with her teaspoon, jabbed it in her palm. ‘I’ve been quite worried, Hilary, if you really want to know. I mean, you’ve missed Sunday Mass twice running and you’ve never done that, ever, not before that conference. I assumed you must be what you call “in sin”, and the sin was probably sexual, and I kept wondering what had happened, whether you were scared you might be pregnant, or if things had gone all wrong or … In fact, I blamed myself. I know it’s stupid, Hilary, when we’re not that far apart in age, but I felt I ought to have tried to help you more – you know, sort of like a daughter – fixed you up with an appointment at the Family Planning Clinic, or …’
Liz put her cup down, moved over to the bed, sprawled on the end of it, kicking off her shoes. ‘Well, aren’t you going to say something? I feel such a charlie jawing on like this, while you just stand there looking like the victim in a silent movie. Look, if Robert bloody Harrington laid a finger on you, I’ll never let him in this house again.’
‘He … He didn’t.’ Hilary went on hunting through the wardrobe, hardly seeing any clothes now, just a blur of dizzy colours, which seemed to strobe and flicker through her head. ‘I just … bruised myself. It’s nothing.’
‘Nothing? But your whole body’s marked and scarred. Oh, I know they’re very faint now, but when I walked in through that door and you were standing in the light, I had
this sudden ghastly memory of a friend of mine called Val, whose husband roughed her up. He actually used a strap on her, and the really awful thing was she encouraged him at first. I mean, they were into kinky sex and she liked to be tied up and even hurt, but then the whole relationship turned sour and the things they’d done for pleasure suddenly recoiled on her. Look, I’m sorry, love, you don’t want to hear all this. It’s just that since that time I’ve been much more aware of the peculiar things men do – well, some men, anyway.’
Hilary found a dress, the wrong one, pulled it on. It felt tight – tight and rather chilly, like her voice. ‘No one hurt me, Liz. I hurt myself. And I don’t wish to discuss it, if you don’t mind.’
Liz swung up from the bed, rammed her shoes back on. ‘Okay, please yourself. I thought I was your friend, but I’m obviously mistaken. In fact, I’m getting rather tired of what I see as just a one-way friendship. I tell you everything and you clam up completely. I fetch and carry, lend you clothes, cook you meals, and then you turn round and tell me to fuck off. Okay, I will fuck off, but don’t expect me to come running next time you’re in a jam.’
The door slammed shut behind her. Hilary stood paralysed, listening to her footsteps crashing down the stairs. Liz was her friend, her only real and close friend – her mother, aunt, sister, home and sanctuary. She could feel them all crumbling, the cold wind of the street blowing on her shoulders. It was Christmas Eve again and she was just emerging from the tube at Oxford Circus, totally alone, bewildered, guilty, terrified. No – that was stupid. She’d made enormous progress since December; found her feet, found a job. Yet even her job was tied to Liz; everything she had and did depended on the Kingsleys. One row with Liz and she’d be unemployed again, crawling round the Job Centres, inspecting shabby bedsits. But it wasn’t only that, wasn’t just a question of employment or security; she valued Liz’s friendship, craved her affection and her interest.
Devils, for a change Page 41
