by Maureen Lee
But before any of these things happened, he had to say goodbye to Jean, something that he was dreading.
She was downstairs for a change when he got home, wearing one of her new frocks. The red-rimmed eyes in the waxen face made her look a bit like a clown and he felt a surge of pity. He could smell something delicious baking in the oven. ‘I’m making a steak and kidney pie,’ she said.
‘Ta, luv.’ He sat in his old chair, while she stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at him, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron.
‘You’re a very good-looking man, Steve.’ Her voice was low and tired. ‘I remember how proud I felt when we got married. I only noticed recently that you’ve hardly changed a bit. No wonder that woman fell in love with you.’ Her hands dropped to her sides. ‘I’ve let meself go, haven’t I? I stopped making meself pretty. It’s just that I felt so sure of you. I didn’t think it mattered how I looked.’
‘It wasn’t that, Jean,’ he muttered.
‘I know what it was and I’m sorry. I didn’t think that mattered either.’
He didn’t reply, worried that he’d say too much and it’d end up in a row. Later, he ate the pie, said how nice it was, and stayed in that night, saying little because there was little left to say, watching telly, when he’d meant to go the club for a last drink with Bert and Fudge and the other lads. It was just that he didn’t like to desert Jean on their last night together.
At ten o’clock, when she was engrossed in something on the telly, or pretending to be, he went upstairs and put a few clothes in a bag; a spare pair of jeans, underwear, and a couple of shirts. Jean could take the rest to one of them charity shops. There were enough around these days. As an afterthought, he included his best suit. He’d need it when he went after jobs. He put the bag, out of sight, in one of the unused bedrooms.
When he returned downstairs, Jean was making cocoa. ‘Would you like a snack of some sort, a sandwich?’
‘No, ta.’
‘I’ll turn in after I’ve drunk this.’
‘I’ll be up later,’ he lied. He had no intention of going to bed. He’d sleep in the chair. Jean had started turning to him during the night, putting her arms around him, whispering his name, while he pretended to be asleep. It was much too late for that, and he didn’t want it to happen again on his last night.
When he woke, aching all over, bright sunlight was pouring through the window and the birds were singing outside. The clock on the mantelpiece showed ten past seven. The taxi would arrive in fifty minutes. He stood, stretched his arms, and gave himself a good wash in the kitchen, shaving in front of the tiny mirror on the window sill. When he looked, it was only half past seven. Opening the kitchen door, he strolled down the narrow strip of lawn and imagined his girls playing on the grass when they were just kids, four pretty frilly figures batting balls to one another. He remembered putting up a length of rope, turning the grass into a tennis court, pretending it was Wimbledon.
There was a shed at the bottom where he’d occasionally gone for a bit of peace and quiet when the girls got older and had their boyfriends round and the house been turned into a disco.
‘There you are, skiving again,’ Jean would say in a bitter voice when she found him. He thought she’d hated him, but it turned out she’d loved him all the time, just not bothered to show it.
The shed door creaked when he opened it and the sun scorching on the corrugated roof had turned it into a hot house. It smelled of paint and turps, dirt and dust. The windows were draped with cobwebs. He should’ve cleaned it before he left, but it was too late now. It was too late for an awful lot of things.
Indoors, the clock showed quarter to eight. He went upstairs for his bag, peeked round the bedroom door and saw that Jean was fast asleep. She wore the nightie she’d bought when she went into hospital to have Alice, the pattern washed away over the years. He couldn’t have described the colour it was now. Perhaps he should’ve bought her things like pretty nighties, except, he thought ruefully, she was bound to have found something wrong with them, because nothing he could ever do was right.
He wouldn’t wake her: he’d had enough of tears. He visualized her running after him down the path, screaming, trying to drag him back. Once she woke and found him gone all she had to do was pick up the phone and the girls would be around in a jiffy.
Picking up the bag, he crept downstairs and decided to wait outside, so there’d be no need for the taxi driver to sound his horn. He stood by the gate in the brilliant July sunshine. It didn’t feel right to be leaving the village where he’d been born, where he’d always lived, without a soul around to wave him off, wish him luck.
The taxi turned the corner. When it got nearer, he recognized Jim Brogan, an ex-miner behind the wheel. According to Jean, Jim was someone who, unlike him, hadn’t gone under when the pit closed. ‘Why don’t you do summat like that?’ she’d demanded and didn’t want to know when he explained Jim barely scraped a living from his taxi and had two other jobs on the go.
‘Hiya, Steve.’ Jim opened the passenger door. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Threshers’ End, it’s a big house at the bottom of Coopers’ Hill.’ He threw his bag on to the back seat, climbed inside, and turned to take one last look at the house where he no longer lived. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn the net curtain on the bedroom window twitched slightly. Perhaps Jean had been pretending to be asleep when he’d looked in.
‘Is there summat wrong with your own car?’ Jim asked.
‘No, it’s just that I won’t be needing it any more.’
He stopped thinking about Jean and thought about Kathleen instead.
Sunday
8 JULY 2001
Chapter 3
‘Steve!’ Kathleen cried when she woke on Sunday morning and saw she was alone in bed. She rubbed her eyes and found them wet with tears.
‘Morning, luv.’ He came in, feet bare, wearing only jeans and carrying tea in the pretty china mugs they’d bought the day before. ‘The sun’s splitting the flags outside. It’s a grand day. Shall we drive into the countryside later and have a pub meal?’
‘I thought you’d left me.’
He hurriedly put the teas on the floor and took her in his arms. ‘Left you! As if I would.’ He looked at her indignantly. ‘You can’t think much of me, Kath, to say summat like that.’
‘I had this dream,’ she said. ‘I was in this horrible dark house, feeling terribly alone.’ The feeling had weighed down on her until she could hardly breathe. It was still there, the feeling, just a little.
‘Well, you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and you’ll never be alone again.’
‘I know.’ She relaxed against him. Everything had been going so well since they’d come to Liverpool. She was already in a state of euphoria when a secretary from the hospital had phoned the hotel where they were staying to say she’d discovered a new house that was available to rent. ‘Actually, it’s a bungalow, detached, on a tiny estate in a very nice area.’
They’d gone to see it immediately and taken it on the spot. It was less than a quarter of the size of Threshers’ End, but Kathleen didn’t care. As long as she was with Steve, nothing else mattered.
Then, yesterday, she discovered he’d rung Brenda because he was worried about his wife. It wasn’t exactly a betrayal, but felt like one. He was such a soft old thing, worried he’d hurt Jean, forgetting how much she’d hurt him in the past. But how could he and Kathleen start a new life together when he was still clinging to the old?
When Ernest Burrows woke that Sunday morning, it took him a while to work out where he was. He looked at his wife, sleeping peacefully in the twin bed, and for the briefest of seconds, he couldn’t remember her name.
Anna. Her name was Anna.
The hairs prickled ominously on Ernest’s taut neck. It had been happening a lot lately, forgetting the obvious, like Anna’s name. The other day, he couldn’t think what the things were called he was puttin
g on his feet. ‘They’re me … shoes.’ It had taken more time than it should have for the word to come.
While his body remained in perfect condition, he was beginning to lose his mind. And what would happen to Anna then?
Victoria Macara had been up since six, clearing out drawers. There were dozens of them: sideboard drawers, chests of drawers, huge drawers at the bottom of wardrobes. The kitchen was full of drawers and so far she had only managed to empty two. The contents were spread on the table. What was she supposed to do with the neat balls of string Gran had collected over the years, the odd shoelaces, half-used notebooks, the enormous number of perfectly good ballpoint pens, boxes of matches, key rings galore, some with keys attached that she didn’t recognize but it seemed wrong to chuck away?
The house was to be let, fully furnished, while she was in America. The developer had wanted to buy it and put another house, or two, in its place. She’d said ‘no’, because it would have felt traitorous to sell the house where generations of Macaras had lived – and she’d have had nowhere to live when she came back. If she came back. It depended on how things went. Either way, the drawers and cupboards still had to be cleared.
Perhaps she could put all this stuff in the loft, out of people’s way. She looked at the dresser, full of plates at the top, more drawers in the middle, cupboards underneath. The loft would be full to bursting if everything went up there. No, she’d give the good things to a charity shop and chuck the rest away.
The items on the table were ruthlessly swept into a black plastic bag although, a few moments later, she retrieved the pens. Someone, somewhere, could make use of them.
Three Farthings’ doorbell rang at more or less the same time as it had the previous morning. In her smart, white kitchen, Rachel Williams was watching the tiny flecks of dust and what looked like minuscule threads of cotton that were dancing in the shaft of sunlight pouring through the window. It looked so pretty, if you forgot you were breathing in all this stuff. The particles were dancing up her nose, into her ears, and would dance into her mouth when she opened it.
She sighed deeply when she went to answer the door. Kirsty had got up very early, saying she was going to Wales with some friends and wouldn’t be back till late. Frank and James were still in bed. Frank was tired after his exertions the day before, putting up Sarah Rees-James’s curtains, hanging pictures, helping her unpack. Rachel’s lips twisted bitterly. There were plenty of things in their own house still to do.
She opened the door. Tiffany was outside, carrying her teddy bear, but wearing a nightdress instead of yesterday’s vest and pants.
‘Mummy’s dead again,’ she said brightly.
‘I don’t think she is, darling. Mummy’s just fast asleep and she’ll wake up when she’s ready.’
‘Can I have some milk then? I’m thirsty.’
‘Of course you can. Come in.’
With a regal gesture, Tiffany lifted the hem of her nightdress and stepped inside. She followed Rachel into the kitchen and hoisted her small body on to a chair. ‘He’s called Oliver,’ she said.
‘Who is?’ Rachel asked, perplexed.
‘Him.’ The girl held up the teddy bear. ‘You can kiss him if you like.’
Rachel obligingly kissed Oliver’s furry cheek. ‘He’s very handsome,’ she said.
‘I’m going to marry him when I grow up.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.’
‘I shan’t let him slap me the way daddy used to slap mummy.’
Oh, Lord! Rachel was taking a carton of milk out of the fridge. She let it close with an unintentional bang. ‘Did he do it often?’
‘Often enough,’ Tiffany said darkly.
She wanted to ask more questions, but it seemed wrong to pry. ‘How do you like your new house?’ she asked instead, sliding a glass of milk in front of the child.
‘It’s nice, nicer than our old one. And I like Frank. He’s much nicer than Daddy.’
Rachel didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry that Sarah’s children were forming an attachment to her husband. It would only give him more reason to visit the house, which was an awfully mean thought to have. Tiffany was such a dear little girl and Jack was clearly disturbed, the way he clung to that scrap of blanket. It could only be a good thing for them to have a kindly father figure in their lives – for all his faults, Frank adored children. On the other hand, Rachel couldn’t be expected to endorse her husband spending half his time in another woman’s house, a woman who hadn’t exactly discouraged Frank’s advances the day before.
‘I’m hungry,’ Tiffany announced.
‘Would you like some cornflakes?’
‘Scrambled eggs on toast would do nicely, thank you.’
‘Would they now.’ Rachel smiled. She was a cheeky little madam, but quite charming. ‘All right, I’ll make some for us both. Did Alastair keep Mummy awake last night?’
‘Only for a bit. Jack cried the most. He’s …’ she struggled for the word, ‘… homesick,’ she finished triumphantly. ‘He’s missing Jason.’
‘And who is Jason?’ Rachel enquired.
‘Mummy’s boyfriend,’ Tiffany replied.
The egg Rachel was breaking nearly missed the bowl it was intended for. She rather hoped Jason would turn up soon. That’d certainly put Frank in his place.
Tabitha was curled in a striped ball on the kitchen window sill when Gareth went in. It was very unhygienic because he must have jumped on to the draining board to get there. One of Debbie’s sisters, Kelly, had done the dishes when she’d come the night before. ‘How can you live in this mess?’ she’d asked, casting an aggrieved glance at Gareth for some reason.
He hadn’t bothered to say it wasn’t his turn, that he’d been working all morning while Debbie had been out, using her credit card in every shop in Liverpool it would seem. When they’d met in Bluecoat Chambers’ restaurant, he’d found her sitting in a sea of plastic bags.
Which worried him somewhat. Debbie behaved as if money grew on trees, yet their finances were already stretched to the limit, what with the mortgage and the hire purchase on the furniture that had been bought from the very best shops, no expense spared.
The Hamiltons had always lived on the edge. Joyce Hamilton, his fearsome mother-in-law, whom Gareth didn’t like very much, had a row of jam jars on the sideboard labelled ‘Gas’, ‘Electricity’, ‘Rates’, ‘HP’ (which stood for hire purchase), ‘HE’ (household expenses), ‘Car’, (she didn’t have one at the moment), ‘Flowers’ (for the church), into which she slipped a few quid every week. Last night, Debbie had come up with the brilliant idea of handing over his cherished Escort to her mother when it could easily raise a few hundred useful quid towards the ridiculous Prairie Dog vehicle she yearned for. In no time, his prized car would be as filthy as the old banger Joyce used to have: full of rotten apple cores, empty burger boxes, sweet papers, old clothes, and enough dust to stuff a cushion.
Gareth gave Tabitha a nudge. The kitten raised its head and yawned. ‘Talk to me,’ Gareth demanded, but the little bugger just went back to sleep.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ he told it huffily, ‘I’m going for a walk to clear me head.’ Debbie was still in bed, watching some pop programme on television – they’d had digital installed straight away because she couldn’t live without it.
He yelled, ‘I’m just going out for a while. Be back in time for twelve o’clock Mass,’ and didn’t wait for a reply in case she tried to stop him.
This is a great place to live, he thought, when he went outside and surveyed the new houses. I think I’ll like it here, but I wish we were in one of the bungalows or the semis that hadn’t cost an arm and a leg. Damn Debbie. He was beginning to feel just a little bit cross with her. At the rate she was going, they’d be bankrupt.
The woman in Clematis Cottage banged on the window and gave him a friendly wave. She’d seemed a nice old bird when he’d met her yesterday. He waved back and gave the thumbs up sign for
some reason.
As he strolled towards the exit, already feeling slightly better now that he was out of the house where all he seemed to think about was money and how much he owed, he spied a small boy also on the point of leaving the square. He was clutching a tatty blanket and wore pyjamas that were much too small, exposing half his bottom to the world. Gareth hurried after the faintly familiar figure. A paedophile’s dream, the child should definitely not be allowed out on his own.
‘Hey, kid,’ he called. ‘Where are you off to?’
The little boy turned, his eyes moist with tears. ‘Home,’ he hiccupped. ‘Want Jason.’
‘I’ve got a feeling your home’s back there.’ He belonged to that cracking blonde, Gareth remembered. But which house did she live in? He picked up the child, just as the back gate of the old house in the corner opened and a girl came out.
‘Oh, you’ve got him,’ she said. ‘That’s good. I went upstairs for something and saw through the window he was about to wander away. His name’s Jack, and you’re Gareth Moran, aren’t you? I’m Victoria Macara.’
‘How do you do. I’d shake hands, but they’re otherwise engaged.’ He jiggled the child in his arms. ‘Jack told me he’s going home.’
‘He probably hasn’t got used to living here yet, have you, Jack?’ Victoria chucked the little boy under his chin. ‘His mum mustn’t be up yet. The baby’s teething and she doesn’t get much sleep. Shall we take him back? He lives at number one.’
‘We’d better had.’ As they walked towards the house, Gareth said, ‘Rachel Williams told me you were something to do with computers.’
‘She told me about you too. I design websites and you’re a database developer.’
‘And you’re going to work in New York next week?’ He rather liked Victoria Macara. She wasn’t exactly pretty, she was a bit too boyish for that, but she had a guileless, open face and lovely brown eyes that he found very appealing.
