by Maureen Lee
Thinking of Jason reminded her that Alex was coming home today and would find the children had gone. Sarah felt uneasy. Although he didn’t know her address, he would eventually find it, of that she felt convinced. But he couldn’t just come and take the children away. Could he?
The sun seemed to dim slightly, as Sarah realized she hadn’t done with Alex Rees-James, not yet.
When Gareth came downstairs, he found his in-laws hadn’t bothered to clean up before they’d left the night before – actually, it had been early morning, well past midnight. The kitchen was heaped with dirty dishes, there were lager bottles, mugs, and plates of half-eaten snacks on the living-room floor. Debbie had already left for work, having made no attempt to clear up. Well, she needn’t think he was going to touch it. He glared at Tabitha, who was licking greasy gravy off a plate that had been left on the kitchen table and poured him a saucer of leftover lager.
Why the hell had they moved? he thought bitterly. Things had been going quite smoothly when they’d lived in the flat. Debbie had always been extravagant, but since they’d come to Victoria Square, she’d been spending money as if there was no tomorrow and her relatives seemed determined to eat him out of house and home.
The phone rang. He considered not answering, but picked it up in case it was important, and was glad that he had when the caller turned out to be his mother.
‘Hello, son, I was just wondering if you were all right. You didn’t ring yesterday …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Oh, hell, Mum, I forgot.’ He always rang his mum on Sundays. ‘It’s just that the Hamiltons were here and it completely slipped me mind.’
‘Never mind, son. As long as you’re all right. It’s just that you know I always worry about you.’
‘I know, Mum, and I’m dead sorry.’ He imagined her sitting in the little terraced house in Wallasey where he’d grown up, a look of anxiety on her tired face. She’d never been in very good health. There was something wrong with her heart, but it hadn’t stopped her from working all the hours God sent to help him through university. His father had died when Gareth, an only child, was ten. ‘How are you, Mum?’ he asked.
‘Fine, son, absolutely fine.’ She would swear she felt fine on her deathbed. ‘How’s Debbie?’
‘OK.’ He didn’t want to talk about Debbie. ‘Why don’t you come over for the day next Sunday? You still haven’t seen the new house.’
‘I don’t know, luv,’ she said cautiously. ‘Will Debbie’s family be there?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He understood her caution. The widow Joyce and her tribe ignored her. They weren’t being rude, it was just that they only had time for each other. Gareth, having married into the clan, had been vetted, judged acceptable, and was now considered a Hamilton, while his mother was regarded as an outsider.
‘Joyce Hamilton always makes me feel as if I’m not your mother any more, that she’s taken over. I feel in the way.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ He felt like crying.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t moan. Anyroad, son, I’ll let you get on, otherwise you’ll be late for work. Tara, Gareth. Look after yourself.’
She always said that. ‘Bye, Mum. I love you,’ he said with a catch in his voice.
‘I love you too, son.’
Gareth slowly put down the receiver. He was neglecting his mum and it wasn’t fair. He was earning pots of money, but none of it was spent on her, yet it was she who’d been responsible for him getting a degree, which made earning pots of money possible. Mind you, he’d need to earn mountains to pay back all he owed and keep Debbie in the manner to which she had so quickly become accustomed.
He searched through the Yellow Pages for a florist and ordered two dozen red roses to be sent to Mrs Ellen Moran, and felt a bit better. Only a bit. It was him his mother wanted, not flowers.
The post had come while he’d been on the phone. He picked up the pile of envelopes and began to sift through them. They were either circulars wanting to sell him something, or bills, some marked with a stern ‘Overdue’. He paused over one envelope addressed to Mrs D. Moran. He hadn’t known Debbie had a Goldfish card. He tore open the envelope and saw that, in June, she had purchased goods to the value of £754.13. It wasn’t quite as bad as he’d expected, until he noticed that the amount still outstanding was nearly four thousand pounds. He wanted to kill her.
Victoria had just started emptying the last of the drawers when she remembered Anna Burrows had invited her for coffee at eleven o’clock. She wallowed in the ancient bathtub for half an hour, washed her hair, dried it, and looked for something nice to wear. Anna was always beautifully dressed and mightn’t appreciate her visitor turning up in jeans and one of Granddad’s old shirts.
She put on a navy-blue blouse, a white skirt, and high-heeled sandals. Normally, Victoria never wore high heels because they made her fall over, but these had been bought for a wedding when she’d wanted to look smart, although she’d had to take them off when the dancing started. She should be able to get as far as Clematis Cottage without falling flat on her face.
Before leaving, she turned on the computer to see if there were any emails and found one from Parker Inc, asking if she’d let them know what time her plane would land on Sunday so someone could meet her at Kennedy airport. The same someone, whose name was Nancy Tucker, would put her up in her apartment until she found a place of her own. It finished by saying how much they were looking forward to having her work with them.
They sounded incredibly friendly. She emailed back immediately, giving the time of her arrival and thanking them for their help, then made her way to Clematis Cottage, wobbling slightly on the high heels.
Mr Burrows let her in after the doorbell had played a racy little tune she didn’t recognize. ‘That’s nice,’ she remarked. ‘The tune, that is.’
‘So everyone ses,’ he grumbled. ‘Although it’s not the one I’d’ve chosen meself.’
‘What would you have chosen?’
‘The Red Flag.’
‘I know that. “Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, we’ll keep the red flag flying here”’ Victoria sang, not very tunefully.
Mr Burrows looked at her with respect. ‘How come you know that?’
‘Me granddad used to sing it, much to Gran’s annoyance. She was a Conservative and he was Labour and they argued all the time, although she was terribly sad he wasn’t alive when Labour got elected in nineteen ninety-seven.’
‘And what’s your own politics, luv? That’s if you don’t mind me asking.’
‘I don’t mind a bit. I’m a Green,’ Victoria said proudly.
He gave her another look of respect. ‘Well, at least you thought for yourself. I like that.’
‘Ernie,’ Mrs Burrows called from somewhere inside. ‘Are you going to keep Victoria to yourself all morning?’
‘Sorry, luv. Go on in the parlour, Victoria. I’ve been ordered to make coffee. Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Both, please, two sugars.’
‘I never used to worry about my figure when I was young,’ Anna said when Victoria went in. ‘You look just right, neither fat nor thin.’ She patted the chair beside her. ‘Sit down, dear. Now, I want you to tell me all about yourself, from the day you were born, until you got out of bed this morning. I won’t interrupt once, I promise.’
I must stop this, Rachel told herself as she stood by the window of Three Farthings on yet another glorious day, and saw Victoria enter the Burrows’s bungalow. People will start to notice I’m always in the window, spying on them, a sort of female Peeping Tom. She had intended to call on Victoria herself later that morning to invite her back for coffee, but now it was too late.
If only she hadn’t been so unpleasant to Sarah Rees-James the day before! When she’d woken that morning, very early, she’d realized she must be mad to think a girl like that would have an affair with a paunchy, balding man more than twice her age. She’d been hoping Tiffany would come demanding a drink as she’d done the last
two days, and she could take her home and patch things up with Sarah, apologize for being short-tempered, claim she’d had a bad headache or something.
But Tiffany hadn’t come and now she and Danny Jordan were kicking a football against the garage doors and Sarah and Danny’s mother had been in and out of each other’s houses all morning. It looked as if Mrs Jordan was helping Sarah with the washing.
I could have done that, Rachel thought, if I hadn’t been such a fool. Now she was stuck in the house by herself, Frank and James having gone to work, and Kirsty to see friends. The beds were made, the breakfast dishes washed, the house tidied, and she had nothing to do except stand by the window and watch other people lead their lives.
Perhaps she should go into town, buy something: a new frock, for instance. It was ages since she’d had a new frock. But it wouldn’t help her find friends and, at this moment in time, a desperately unhappy Rachel needed friends more than anything else on earth.
Five minutes later, she was knocking on the door of number seven Victoria Square, having remembered she hadn’t introduced herself to the Cartwrights. She’d ask if they were coming to the barbecue, it was a perfect excuse.
The door was opened by Mrs Cartwright. She wore a red, satin dressing gown, the belt pulled tightly around her slim waist. Her face was flushed, her dark hair tousled, and she was smiling, as if something marvellous had just had happened.
‘Oh, dear!’ Rachel said in a voice that sounded too loud and terribly false. ‘I hope I didn’t get you out of bed. My name is Rachel Williams. I live over there.’ She vaguely waved her hand. ‘I thought you’d like this.’ She pushed a pot plant at the woman, so suddenly that she didn’t take it quickly enough, and the pot fell, smashing to pieces and spilling soil all over the step.
‘Oh, dear!’ Rachel said again. She knelt on the path and began to collect the soil with her hands. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll see to this, don’t worry. You go back to bed. I wish I hadn’t disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t disturb me,’ Mrs Cartwright said. ‘And I wasn’t in bed. Steve, that’s my husband, has just left for a job interview and I was about to have a shower. Rachel,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘why are you crying?’
‘Am I crying?’
‘Well, it’s not raining, yet the step is getting very wet.’ Mrs Cartwright knelt and took hold of her dirty hands. ‘Come inside, Rachel, and tell me what’s wrong.’
Rachel didn’t know how to describe what was wrong. Mrs Cartwright took her into the kitchen, sat her at the table, and made tea. To say she badly wanted a friend sounded awfully childish.
‘I feel depressed,’ she said, which was true. And, ‘I want to cry all the time.’ Which was also true.
‘Is it the menopause?’ Mrs Cartwright asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve been feeling like this for months and months, more than a year, ever since …’
‘Ever since what?’
‘Ever since something awful happened. I’d sooner not go into it, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. How old are you? I hope you don’t mind my asking that, but I’m a doctor and back in Huddersfield I saw a lot of women of about your age with the same symptoms.’
‘You don’t look remotely like a doctor.’
Mrs Cartwright smiled. ‘Well, I am.’
‘I’m fifty-one,’ Rachel sighed.
‘You really should go and see your own doctor. It might possibly be the menopause and he or she will give you something for it.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Rachel knew darn well her ‘symptoms’ as Mrs Cartwright put it, were nothing to do with the menopause. She pushed back the chair and got to her feet. ‘I won’t disturb you any longer.’
Mrs Cartwright looked disappointed. ‘Oh, you’re not going already. I was hoping you’d stay and we could have a little chat. Apart from the Burrows next door, I don’t know anyone here. I’m Kathleen, by the way.’
A sensation of warmth spread through Rachel’s body, making it tingle. This lovely woman actually wanted to talk to her. ‘I’d love to stay,’ she gulped.
‘Good,’ Kathleen beamed. ‘Now you must excuse me for a minute while I get dressed. Perhaps you’d like to make another cup of tea while I’m gone, then we’ll go in the front room where it’s more comfortable. You can tell me about the other people who live in the square. I’m dying to know.’
*
Steve had gone for the interview wearing the suit he’d had on when he had first met Kathleen. The cheap material held no warmth in winter and clung clammily to his skin when it was hot. He returned home, perspiring mightily, and looking very glum. Kathleen assumed the interview hadn’t been successful, but he announced he’d got the job and would start on Monday.
‘Then why the miserable face?’ she asked.
‘It’s the minimum wage, the hours are disgraceful, and I’ve got to wear a poncy uniform,’ he grunted.
‘Poor Steve.’ She kissed him. ‘Still, it won’t be for long. I’m sure you’ll get a much better job soon.’
‘Huh!’ he snorted.
‘I had a visitor while you were out,’ she told him. ‘This poor woman from across the way, Rachel, came and burst into tears on our doorstep. I felt so sorry for her, I persuaded her to stay for the whole morning. She badly needed someone to talk to. Tomorrow, I’m taking her to lunch.’
His face took on a set expression and she knew he was thinking about Jean, who was an entirely different case to Rachel Williams. Jean had four daughters and hordes of neighbours to pour out her troubles to. Rachel appeared to have no one.
She remembered she’d meant to contact British Telecom and ask for a new, unlisted number. Meanwhile, the phone remained unplugged. It was hard luck on Brenda if she was trying to get through.
‘I think I’ll have a shower,’ he muttered.
She kissed him again and pulled him into the bedroom by the lapels of his horrible suit. ‘Why don’t we …’
Before she could finish the sentence, Steve whooped, lifted her up and threw her on to the bed.
*
Patrick Jordan was practising on his guitar, the bedroom window open, the music sounding faintly subdued, as if it was being smothered under the heat of the afternoon, and Sarah was hanging the last of the washing on the whirly thing in the garden that Marie said was called a rotating clothes line. Marie, who was sitting on the back step, watching, had loaned her the pegs.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ Sarah cried, ‘but I’ve never hung out washing until today.’ She could hardly believe it herself. It seemed an awfully satisfying thing to do, washing. There was a huge pile of clean stuff indoors and just looking at it made Sarah’s heart swell with pride.
‘I’ve never met a woman before who didn’t do her own washing,’ Marie said with a grin. ‘Apart from the Mother Superior of the convent I went to, and she probably did enough when she was a novice. Don’t hang that frock by the hem, Sarah, it’ll stretch and make it droop. Peg it under the arms. Same with them T-shirts.’
‘I’ve never dusted before, or used a vacuum cleaner either,’ Sarah confessed, adjusting the frock. ‘Daddy expected Julia and me to tidy our rooms when we were little, but not clean them. Julia’s my sister,’ she explained. ‘She lives in a place called Fazakerley. I’m not sure how to get there from here. I think it’s on the other side of Liverpool.’
‘We’ve got an A to Z,’ Marie said helpfully. ‘I’ll look it up for you.’
‘Julia doesn’t know I’ve moved. She’s gone to the Lake District on a camping holiday with her husband and children.’ Sarah shuddered at the idea of looking after three young children in a tent. ‘I’ll phone on Saturday and tell her. She’ll be back by then. Mummy doesn’t know either. She’s staying in Monte Carlo with friends. I’ll ring her on Saturday too. She’ll be terribly surprised.’ She wasn’t sure if Mummy would be all that surprised that she’d left Alex. She’d never liked him from the start.
‘I’ve got eight siste
rs and three brothers, me,’ Marie said proudly.
‘You mean there are twelve of you?’ Sarah was impressed.
‘And fifty-eight cousins.’
‘Fifty-eight!’ Sarah squeaked. ‘I have just one and she lives in New Zealand. We’ve never met.’ She sighed happily. ‘Shall we go and see how Danny, Tiffany, and Jack are getting on at Victoria’s?’ Victoria had seemed terribly sweet and she’d liked her straight away. ‘I’ll take Alastair. He’s actually awake and not crying. Oh, isn’t this nice?’ she cried. ‘Going from house to house and doing so much washing! It’s like a game.’ She had never enjoyed herself quite so much.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Victoria, ‘but Tiffany’s been rooting through the stuff I’d put aside for charity and she’s found loads of things she fancies. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Mummy!’ Tiffany appeared clad in a straw picture hat, a long winceyette nightdress, a gold belt around her waist, fur slippers as big as cats, and carrying a crocheted handbag. ‘Don’t I look lovely?’
‘Adorable, darling.’
‘Victoria said I could have them, but only if you’ll let me.’
‘If you want them, Tiff, then you shall have them.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not all. She’s got a whole bag full of stuff,’ Victoria said apologetically. ‘And Jack’s taken a fancy to a harmonium that belonged to me granddad. It doesn’t work very well.’
‘What’s a harmonium?’ Sarah enquired. ‘Where is Jack, by the way?’
‘It’s like a concertina,’ explained Victoria, ‘And Jack’s upstairs watching Danny on the computer, quite enthralled.
‘I hope Danny’s not being a nuisance,’ Marie said.
‘No one’s being a nuisance. I’ve loved having them. I almost wish I wasn’t going to America now that you’ve all come to live here.’
If Gareth Moran hadn’t been married, she would have almost certainly stayed.
