by J M Gregson
‘You’d have put it off for ever if it had been left to you. Thank goodness you’re getting a husband with more sense than you have!’
Lucy was silent for a moment. She’d have to get used to that word ‘husband’, she supposed. She’d just about got over her surprise that she had taken Percy Peach as a lover. Now she’d have to spend the rest of her life introducing him as her husband. She found that an unexpectedly pleasing prospect.
She enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, accepting the bacon, egg and tomato she never had at any other time, drawing the line at the fried bread her mother tried to slide on to her plate. It was a luxury to linger over her toast, to savour the home-made marmalade, even to admit to her mother that she usually snatched breakfast on the move in her tiny kitchen at the flat.
She took a big mug of tea into the cosy lounge, settling into the cushions on the sofa and smiling up at the twin photographs in their silver frames upon the mantelpiece. One was a black and white one of her father in cricket gear, sweater over his shoulder, smiling shyly at the applause as he climbed the steps towards the sanctuary of the pavilion. The caption beneath, in her mother’s familiar, careful print, gave the information that this was Jim Blake leaving the field after taking six wickets for thirty-three against Blackpool in the Northern League.
The coloured one beside it was of Percy Peach, taken only three years ago in front of another pavilion. He looked surprisingly young and dapper, his baldness hidden beneath a bright red cricket cap. Agnes Blake’s neat black printing beneath it read: ‘Denis Charles Scott Peach leaving the field after another dashing half-century for East Lancs in the Lancashire League.’
Typical of her mum to give Percy his full and proper names, thought Lucy with a smile. Then she thought of the vicar at the marriage service, enunciating those names clearly to Percy’s CID colleagues who had never heard them, and the smile became much broader. Now that she had time to get accustomed to the notion, marriage was beginning to seem quite a good idea after all.
‘Percy gave the game up much too early. I hope that was nothing to do with you, our Lucy.’ The older woman had stolen unnoticed into the room and interrupted her daughter’s reverie.
‘Nothing at all. He gave cricket up before I ever met him – just before, admittedly. But he’d taken up golf by then.’
‘GOLF!’ Agnes produced the decisive explosion of contempt her daughter loved to hear; she would not have thought it possible to compress so much derision and indignation into a simple monosyllable. Mrs Blake did not go in for expletives, but golf was the most obscene of all the four-letter words for her. ‘Percy was a fine aggressive batsman; I tell you, he should never have given up cricket so early.’
‘From what I hear, he’s also quite good at golf,’ said Lucy provocatively.
‘Game for nincompoops and people with too much time and money!’ said Agnes dismissively. ‘Game for the Bertie Woosters of this life, not hard-working men like Percy.’
‘I think times have moved on, Mum. All sorts of people play golf now.’
‘All sorts of idiots and creeps, you mean! You even hear of men losing games to their bosses deliberately, to curry favour. What sort of a game is it where men are willing to do that? What sort of boss is it who doesn’t realize what’s going on?’
Lucy had a secret sympathy for that point of view. She found it hard to envisage anyone deliberately throwing away a golf match, least of all Percy Peach with Tommy Bloody Tucker. So she said casually, ‘I might even take up golf myself. It would give me some exercise and fresh air in my leisure time.’
‘You won’t have much leisure time in the next few years. Not with a home to set up and children to cope with.’
Lucy decided it wasn’t the moment to discuss this. Agnes had not borne her only child until she was forty-one, and it was perfectly understandable that a woman of seventy should want grandchildren sooner rather than later. But Lucy did not want to abandon a promising CID career which was giving her much satisfaction. She could not at the moment see a way of reconciling these contrary ambitions of mother and daughter, and the situation was not helped by the fact that Percy Peach as usual favoured her mother’s viewpoint.
She said hastily, ‘Should we look at those replies to the wedding invitations now? Is it too early to begin thinking about a seating plan?’
The ploy worked well enough. Agnes had the box of replies and her tentative seating plans out in an instant. The pair spent a happy hour exchanging views on the various guests and who would go well with whom. After a cup of coffee, Lucy eased herself into her wedding dress – and caused a rare phenomenon. For almost a full minute, Agnes Blake was lost for words.
Lucy twirled repeatedly in what she thought would be the approved manner, looking into the long mirror they had brought in from the hall and secretly delighted with the way she looked in the ivory silk. Finally, she stood very still and looked down with concern at the small figure on the sofa. ‘You don’t like it, Mum, do you? It’s not what you were expecting.’
‘It’s lovely, our Lucy!’ Agnes’s eyes filled with moisture. It was a few seconds before she controlled herself enough to add, ‘I just wish your Dad could see you, that’s all.’
They held each other tight on the sofa for a moment which seemed to stretch much longer. Then Lucy said softly, ‘Perhaps he can, Mum. Perhaps he’ll see us all in the church, on the day. Who knows? Who really knows?’
A little while later, she changed out of the dress into olive trousers and a dark green sweater which matched the colour of her eyes, and said, ‘Now what about that pub lunch? You choose which one.’
Agnes loved going with her daughter to eat at the pub. Respectable women had not frequented public houses when she was young. Even now she would never have ventured into such a place on her own. But somehow food made such places much more respectable than if you just went there to drink. And though she would never have admitted it, she loved to show off her detective sergeant daughter to the locals, some of whom had known her since she was a child.
She looked up in admiration at the girl who was six inches taller than her, who had the striking chestnut hair to set off those remarkable eyes and a figure which turned heads wherever she ventured. ‘The Hare and Hounds, I think. Everything there’s cooked on the premises, not bought in.’
‘The Hare and Hounds it is, then! You can guide me through the menu.’
Agnes Blake nodded happily. ‘I will that, our Lucy. And whilst we’re waiting for the food to come, we can talk about these bonny grandchildren you’re going to produce.’
The head teacher was scrupulously polite, concerned to treat these visitors like any other parents. They had, she allowed, a certain distinction, and their presence in the school had been noted by other parents collecting their children. Neither of these things must affect her determinedly professional attitude. She tried to shut out thoughts of the eager speculation which would be going on at the school gates at this very moment.
Nevertheless, as she led Robbie and Debbie Black into her office, she found herself irritated by her own reactions. Designer clothes would not affect her, any more than the fact that with a sport-crazy boyfriend she had watched this woman at Wimbledon and this man at Old Trafford. But a little extra excitement coursed through her veins at the prospect of an exchange with these celebrities. That was ridiculous. Didn’t she constantly preach the tawdriness of the celebrity concept to staff and children? Didn’t she abhor the very idea that fame should in any way influence her dealings with parents?
They must be in their forties now, these two; they were contemporaries of hers. For the first time that she could ever remember, she found herself wishing she was of an older generation, bringing the assets of age and gravitas to an exchange with parents. Yet she found herself hoping that she would be able to help with whatever problem had brought them here. She always wanted to do that, of course, she told herself firmly. But she was hoping a little more strongly than usual that she would be able to rea
ssure this glamorous pair.
As if she read these thoughts, Debbie Black produced her familiar dazzling smile and said, ‘I should say at the outset, Mrs Hurst, that we are not asking for any special consideration. We wish to be treated in exactly the same way as any other parents.’
‘Of course. That should be taken as read.’ Louise Hurst found her mouth was unusually dry and cleared her throat. ‘What is the problem? People who come to see me usually have a problem.’ Her little laugh sounded artificial to her.
Robbie Black smiled, trying to put the woman at ease, when in truth on her own ground she should have been in control. ‘I have the same problem as a football manager. Whenever a player knocks on my door, I know they’re bringing in trouble of some kind. You’d be surprised how many big-name players are no more than kids. Pampered kids, really – they’ve had everything done for them by their clubs, been thoroughly spoilt. You can’t tell them that, of course.’
Louise realized with relief that he was talking a little too much because he too was nervous, that this was a situation Robbie Black had never been in before. She even divined correctly that like many men he had not wished to come here at all, had been hauled along only by his wife’s insistence that he should show solidarity. She said more confidently, ‘So what is it that is worrying you, Mr Black?’
He glanced sideways at his wife, who said, ‘It may be something and nothing, but we felt we should bring it to your attention. We think Eleanor is being bullied at school.’
‘Not physically knocked about, you understand,’ her husband added hastily. ‘It’s more a matter of other girls being spiteful to her, saying nasty things about her and about us. A boy might shrug it off, but—’
Louise Hurst hastened to intervene before this gender discrimination could go any further. ‘No one should have to shrug it off, Mr Black. If a child is being seriously upset, the situation needs attention.’
‘It may not be a serious problem. It may be that as parents we are over-reacting,’ said Debbie Black, wondering now if they should have come here, whether this was something they should have sorted out for themselves.
‘And it may be that you have pinpointed a problem which needs attention,’ said Mrs Hurst firmly, treating them now like any other parents with a worry over their precious progeny, reassured by this rediscovery of her professional attitude. ‘Would you say the problem is in school or outside it? We often find what seems quite petty in here is pursued outside the school gates and made into something much larger.’
‘We only know what Eleanor tells us. But she says not much happens when the teacher is around. They pull her hair a bit and push her around. But what really upsets her is that they say wounding things about us.’
‘What sort of things?’
Debbie glanced sideways at her husband, ‘Well, she came home a fortnight ago asking what a tart was. They’d been saying her mother was a tart and her Dad was a jumped-up hooligan.’
Mrs Hurst nodded. Nothing she hadn’t come across before. Routine stuff, but very upsetting for the small girl at the centre of it and the man and woman who sat before her. ‘These aren’t children’s words and phrases, as you no doubt realize.’
‘No.’ Debbie Black’s anxious features split into an unexpected smile as she thought of her daughter struggling to pronounce that word ‘hooligan’. ‘These girls can’t have very nice mothers.’
Louise Hurst shrugged. ‘They’re probably no worse and no better than average. What you see and hear sometimes in this job could make you into a confirmed pessimist about human nature. It’s the children who cheer you up and give you hope.’
Robbie Black said in his soft Scottish accent, ‘D’ye think we’re taking this too seriously, Mrs Hurst?’ Like many parents, he found that once they’d come here and stated their concern, it seemed much more petty than it had when they were comforting a tearful little girl in her bedroom.
‘Not at all. I’m glad you’ve voiced your concerns. I’ll have a word with the teacher and we’ll keep a watch on Eleanor and the way the other girls behave towards her. I don’t think this is a very serious problem. Usually once children know there’s an adult eye upon them the trouble stops.’
The Blacks had driven most of the short journey to their home when Debbie said, ‘Do you think she thought we were over-reacting?’
Robbie was silent for a moment. He had been thinking about his very different first school, in the roughest part of a great Scottish city. He’d been small for his age. Fights had been common and he’d been in plenty of them, until his football skill gradually made him into a boyish hero. Times changed, but children were still children. ‘No, not really. Mrs Hurst seemed to be taking it seriously. I don’t think it will be a big thing from now on, though. I believe her when she says the school will attend to it.’
‘I agree with that. It’s a good school. I like it here. I want us to put down roots.’
Darren Pearson sighed wearily at the end of his day. As usual, he was the last to leave the Brunton Rovers’ offices at Grafton Park. The night security officer was in his office beside the single thick wooden door which was all that was left open at nights. The ex-policeman bade a cheerful but respectful goodnight to the man who had appointed him, the man who did more than anyone else to keep the day to day navigation of the club upon an even keel.
Pearson was responsible for the non-footballing staff at the club. He knew all their first names and rarely forgot them; even the tea ladies and the part-time cleaners got a cheery word from him. He knew much about the triumphs and tragedies of their private lives and rarely forgot to comment on or enquire about whatever was most important to them. Apart from the one or two who had been around for a long time, the people who worked for him knew little about his own background and he preferred it that way. But most of them not only respected his authority but admired his bearing and his attitude.
If only they knew, thought Darren Pearson, as he pulled the door to behind him and walked away into the darkness. If only they knew how the man who seemed to them so competent and balanced plunged into a world of chaos when he left the familiar corridors of the football club.
He knew where he was going. He had nerved himself to do it many hours ago. Perhaps he had lingered a little longer within the familiar, intricate surroundings of Grafton Park to put off this moment. As usual, the coolness and space of the world outside was a surprise after the artificial lights and heating of the honeycomb of offices beneath the main stand of Brunton Rovers FC. Most people would have relaxed on re-entering this wider world, but Darren Pearson felt nothing but fear. He felt he was a man flung out from the womb, where all was safe and happy, into the wider and heavier threats of a world he could not deal with.
He started the engine, set in motion the heater fan which would soon mitigate the damp cold of the interior. But then he sat motionless for a long time behind the wheel, building up his nerve, trying to force action through the atrophy which beset his limbs. He had not had an alcoholic drink throughout the long day, but his body told his brain that he was not fit to drive, that he could not drive, that his legs and arms would not conduct the familiar, automatic movements to control the vehicle. Mere fancy, he told himself: it was the brain which directed the body, not the other way round. He heard a dry, scarcely human sound, and realized a second later that it was his own harsh laughter. He rehearsed yet again the speeches he had devised during the sleepless hours of the preceding night.
Brunton’s brief rush hour was over. Darren drove competently enough, once he had forced himself to begin the process. The car was an automatic. He listened to the gears changing as he steered the Vectra through the town. If only someone would programme his own gears and his own humanity for him, would guide him smoothly and painlessly on automatic through whatever was left of his life.
He drove more slowly as he approached the place, beset by the familiar doubts, which dragged like weights on his resolution. He slid the Vectra into one of the visitors’ bays i
n the small car park and switched off the engine. He would give himself a few seconds to compose himself; you could achieve little in any field if you were not composed, could you? He was frightened not of the meeting itself but of the rejection which must surely result from it. Then a sudden shiver shook his body and he felt the numbness in his legs: he must have been there for many minutes.
He stamped his feet before he went to the entrance to the flats; a man going out to his car looked at him curiously. The door he wanted was on the ground floor. His wife’s face fell as soon as she opened the door. ‘What is it you want, Darren?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
‘We’ve nothing to say to each other.’ But she stood back and watched him walk past her, then shut the door behind him. Then she heard herself saying illogically, ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
He didn’t know whether he did or he didn’t. ‘That would be nice.’
She went into the flat’s small modern kitchen. He moved over to the bright new sofa and sat down. When she brought the tea, it was in a china mug which was familiar to him from years ago. Perhaps it was this single link with the past in her new home that emboldened him at last to speak. ‘It’s small, this place.’
‘You’ve said that before. And I’ve told you before that it’s big enough, now the kids have gone. It’s modern. It’s convenient. There’s an extra bedroom, for when either of them wants to come to stay.’ She wondered why she was giving him these arguments, volunteering as much as that when she had planned not to talk at all. Perhaps it was just because she wanted this over, wanted to truncate any conversation about the flat.
‘There’s plenty of room in our old place. I rattle around in it.’
She had been determined to keep emotion out of her face, but it creased now into a little frown. She said nothing. He was forced to say, ‘I’d like you to come back, Margaret.’ All the fine, persuasive phrases he had prepared last night and rehearsed during the day fled like cats into the night. He had to force out even the few words of this blunt, inadequate statement.
