by Maureen Lee
Ernest was a professional gambler. In the years after the war when he and Anna had lived in Cairo, he’d worked in a small office for a group of English newspapers, sending home items of local news and gossip. King Farouk of Egypt was pursuing an increasingly flamboyant lifestyle and it was all quite fascinating. Then the King ordered the British to leave Egypt, Britain retaliated by occupying the Suez Canal, and the papers sent over their star reporters to deal with such a major story. Ernest found himself sidelined during this critical stage in world history. He handed in his notice feeling deeply hurt.
For a long time, Anna had been longing to travel and see the world; now was the ideal opportunity. They sold all their possessions and flew to Monte Carlo, meaning only to stay a few weeks before moving on – at some point soon he’d have to get another job. Anna, who couldn’t wait to see the inside of a casino, had virtually to drag him along, and he watched men and women with manic faces gamble away huge sums of money on roulette. Ernest, cautious to his bones, was astounded. There were thirty-seven slots that the ball could land in and the odds against winning were exceptionally low.
He continued to watch over the heads of the crowd around one of the tables and saw it was possible to bet on the colour the ball would land in, red or black, which meant the chance of winning was a mere two to one. Anna had already lost fourteen of the twenty chips she’d bought. He cadged the remaining six off her and placed one on the black. He lost. He tried again, two chips this time, the ball landed in the black, and he doubled his money. It wasn’t a way of making a fortune but, by the end of the evening, Ernest left the casino with more than twice the francs they’d started with. Next day, they rented an apartment and stayed in Monte Carlo for ten years.
Ernest’s cautious method of gambling still provided him and Anna with a more than satisfactory living. These days, he bet on horses, scorning hunches, spur of the moment inspirations that a particular horse would win a particular race. If a horse had been called Anna Kosztolanyi, he wouldn’t have put money on it without first studying its form, the track it was about to race on, and how well it had performed on the same track before. How successful had the animal’s trainer been with other horses? How many winners had the jockey had in the past? What would the track be like on the day: good, firm, or soft? This meant waiting until the very last minute before putting a bet on and the odds might have shortened, but Ernest wasn’t prepared to take the risk there wouldn’t be a thunderstorm overnight and the course would turn to mud or the horse would be injured or ill and be withdrawn.
He had accounts with four of the leading bookmakers, sharing out his custom so it would become less obvious when he won more often than he lost. He supposed he could have become a rich man, but it didn’t do to be greedy. Rarely did he wager a really large amount, only when he went to a race meeting, although it was a long time since that had happened because he didn’t want to go without Anna.
He smiled, remembering how much she’d loved the races. At Ascot, she’d get dressed up to the nines wearing hats that she’d decorated herself with flowers and ribbon and bits of net, a different style every year. She’d looked far smarter, far prettier, than the women in the Royal Enclosure whose outfits had cost ten, twenty times as much. Still, those days were over, and now Ernie did his betting by phone.
In the past, people had frequently asked what he did for a living. ‘Insurance,’ Ernie always replied. ‘I’m in insurance.’ If he’d told them the truth, he’d be badgered for tips by all and sundry. No one had asked what he did for a long time. They assumed he’d retired.
He made a list of the horses he’d back tomorrow. All the bets were slightly higher than usual. Anna had asked for a computer, and a computer she would have.
‘I love you, Marie,’ Liam whispered. ‘I’ve loved you for a long time.’
‘Why didn’t you say before?’ Marie whispered back. She couldn’t stop shaking. Whey they’d arrived home from the cinema, Patrick and Danny were fast asleep, having left the living room in quite a state: books, videos, clothes, and magazines all over the place. She had immediately set to and tidied up the mess. Marie couldn’t stand untidiness. Her fingers would itch until everything had been put away and the room was itself again.
Liam had stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching her with a smile on his face. They’d been to see Gladiator with Russell Crowe. She didn’t like it a bit, it was too violent, but Liam seemed to enjoy it.
She had just finished straightening the living room when Liam had told her that he loved her. ‘Why didn’t you say before?’ she’d asked for want of something to say and because she couldn’t think of anything more sensible or fitting to the occasion.
‘I didn’t say anything before,’ Liam said gently, ‘because our lives were so insecure, too upside down. But I reckon we’re going to be happy in Liverpool, make a good life here. You’ve made friends – you’ve never done before. The lads are settling in, particularly Danny, and Patrick’s agreed to sing at the barbecue.’ He reached for her arm and stroked it. ‘Everyone thinks we’re a couple, so why don’t we become a proper one? I love you, Marie,’ he repeated. His long fingers curled around the soft flesh on her arm and he led her upstairs and lay on the bed with her, kissed her trembling lips, caressed her trembling body, and would have made love to her, but Marie, with a supreme effort, managed to push him away.
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘No!’
‘Why not?’ Liam pleaded, kissing her neck.
‘You know why not.’
‘That doesn’t matter any more, Marie.’
‘It does to me.’ She pushed herself into a sitting position and sat on the pillow, clutching her knees, as far away from him as she could get.
After Liam had gone reluctantly back to his room, Marie reached for her rosary and sat up half the night saying all five decades over and over again, knowing it was a waste of time because the good Lord would never forgive her for having nearly made love to a priest.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight and Gareth realized with a shock that he and Victoria had been talking for five whole hours. The time had flown by. They had so much in common. Computers apart, they read the same books, liked the same films, watched the same programmes on television. Gareth had never had much interest in politics, but always voted for the Green party, as did Victoria. ‘At least they want to make the world a better place,’ he said. ‘The other parties only make it worse,’ and Victoria said they were her sentiments exactly.
‘I didn’t know it was so late.’ He got to his feet after the clock had finished striking. ‘I’d better be getting home.’
‘Your wife will be wondering where you’ve got to. Don’t forget to take those books with you. They’re on the table in the kitchen.’
‘I won’t. Well, thank you for an enjoyable evening – and the books,’ he said politely.
‘It’s been nice having you,’ Victoria replied, just as politely.
Gareth contemplated kissing her, politely, on the cheek, but didn’t trust himself not to kiss her lips, not all that politely, once they were in such close contact. ‘Do you mind if I come and see you again?’ he asked.
‘Come whenever you want. I won’t be here for much longer.’
‘I know you won’t,’ he said sadly.
When Gareth returned to Hamilton Lodge, he found a note on the fridge. ‘Gone to see Mum,’ it said in big, black, angry letters. Debbie often ran back to her mother if she was cross with him, usually staying the night as an extra punishment. Gareth’s own night would then be spent tossing and turning, worried she wouldn’t come back, although that night he slept like a log and dreamed about Victoria.
In Three Farthings, Rachel Williams was also dreaming. She was alone in an empty place in the dark and mist of a winter night. Every now and then, the mist would drift away, like smoke, to reveal an angry mass of black clouds overhead. Then the clouds would disappear, exposing a weak, yellow moon like an eye, watching her accusin
gly. Rachel wondered what she had done to make the moon look at her in such a horrible way. She was grateful when the clouds closed over and the moon was no longer there.
Then, all of a sudden, she was swimming in water that smelled strongly of oil and tasted filthy, and a ship, huge and menacing, was coming slowly towards her, its black shape barely visible through the mist. Someone on board must have seen her as they were shouting furiously, ‘Get out of the way!’
But all Rachel could do was tread water, feeling her feet sink into mud, tugging her downwards, while the ship approached, relentlessly, unable to stop. As was the way with dreams, she was able to see the water after both she and the ship had gone. It looked flat and undisturbed, the surface broken only by swirls of darkly coloured oil, and she had to assume that she had drowned.
Rachel
Chapter 6
Rachel Paige was born in June 1950. It had come as an unpleasant surprise to her mother, Martha, to discover she was pregnant again at forty-seven. Her husband, Reg, was in his early sixties and they already had two grown-up sons. The eldest, Christopher, was a bachelor making a career for himself in the Army, and Peter had a wife and two children, so Rachel came into the world already an aunt.
The Paiges lived in a little, cramped cottage in Maghull on the outskirts of Liverpool. Their once-isolated home had gradually been surrounded by new estates that they very much disapproved of, even if it meant there were lots of new shops and other facilities.
Martha and Reg felt too tired to care for another baby at their ages. Rachel was well fed, well dressed but, although nothing was said, she soon learned it was a waste of time to expect them to play with her. Even making childish conversation with their little girl required too much effort – every night, her father fell asleep in the chair as soon as he’d had his tea, while her mother sat in gloomy silence, not bothering to switch on the light until it was almost dark.
From the age of three, Rachel attended a day nursery. A quiet, solitary child, she found it hard to mix with other children and her mother never encouraged her to invite a child back to play – she found it difficult enough caring for her own. The thought of having two children in the house appalled her.
With few social skills and an inability to carry on a conversation with her peers, Rachel had a hard time at infant and junior school. It didn’t help that she was conscious of her isolation. She badly wanted to make friends and often tried to talk to other girls, but found herself saying the stupidest things and the words that came out sounded stilted and unreal. Most of the girls just laughed and ran away. A few were kind enough to tolerate her for a while, but Rachel could sense their pity, knew she was being a nuisance, and left these girls alone.
It didn’t help that her parents were so old and the source of much merriment among the other pupils. By now, her father was almost seventy and looked it with his straggly grey hair and elderly gait and Martha Paige seemed much older than her already advancing years.
‘Your mum and dad look like Mr and Mrs Rip Van Winkle,’ Rachel’s classmates taunted. Sometimes, it was assumed they were her grandparents and Rachel didn’t contradict anyone who made this assumption.
The best times of her life were when her brother, Christopher, came home on leave – Peter lived in Plymouth and she rarely saw him. Christopher was immensely tall and sporty looking with the build of a heavyweight boxer. He gave her piggybacks in the garden, wrestled with her on the grass, and took her to the pictures. Rachel would never forget the first time they went and saw a film called The Shaggy Dog with Fred MacMurray. She sat with a box of chocolates on her knee and entered a completely different, magical world. A few days later, he took her to see Sleeping Beauty. She could hardly wait for Christopher to come home so they could go again. He would send her postcards and presents from faraway places like Cyprus and Berlin.
‘You’ve led a pretty lousy life so far, haven’t you, Titch?’ Christopher said one day when Rachel was about nine.
‘Have I?’ She couldn’t imagine life being any different to the way it was and always had been.
‘Well, Mum and Dad aren’t exactly the liveliest of souls and they’ve got worse with the years. I always said they were born under-fuelled. Perhaps that’s what attracted them to each other. They really should start the day with a double whisky each and top up every few hours. At least Peter and I had each other. You’ve got no one. Poor little Titch.’ He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder and she squealed with delight.
When Rachel was eleven and went to comprehensive school, things got very much better. First of all, she discovered she was clever. She had an ‘aptitude for figures’ according to the maths teacher, Mrs Hubbard, and ‘a way with words’, Mr Newley, the English teacher claimed. She also discovered she was quite good at art, found geography fascinating and history absorbing. None of these talents had been obvious at her previous school where shyness had been mistaken for a lack of intelligence.
She made friends with several girls and a few boys who shared her interest in lessons. Her best friends of all were Eileen McNichol and Grace Parry. As the girls grew older, they would go into Liverpool together, to the theatre or the pictures, sometimes to discos, which Rachel didn’t like as she was rarely asked to dance. Her mirror had already told her she wasn’t even faintly attractive. Her face was very flat, her eyes very small, her mouth very thin, and she could never do anything with her fine hair – the only colour she could think to describe it was khaki.
‘But you’ve got an incredibly kind face,’ Grace would insist whenever Rachel complained about her looks. Grace was small, blonde, and pretty.
‘It’s got loads of character,’ claimed Eileen, who was tall, dark, and equally pretty. ‘You look terribly brainy. Me,’ she said disparagingly in order to make Rachel feel better, ‘I look as thick as two short planks.’
The three girls went to each other’s houses, sat in their respective bedrooms and talked about what they would do when it was time to leave school. Mrs Paige didn’t mind them coming to the cottage: they were out of sight and out of hearing and didn’t disturb her and Reg at all. It was Rachel who made any drinks that were required.
Grace and Eileen intended going to university: Grace to become a teacher and Eileen, who was good at languages, to travel the world as an interpreter. ‘I want to visit as many countries as possible,’ she breathed excitedly. They were dismayed that all Rachel wanted to do was get married and have children.
‘But you’re so clever,’ they said together when Rachel first expressed this rather limited ambition.
‘Then I’ll be a clever wife and a clever mother,’ Rachel said with a smile.
‘It’s such a waste,’ Eileen cried.
‘Such a shame,’ said Grace.
But Rachel longed to be a wife and mother. She was determined to play with her children every minute of every day and never stop showing how much she loved them. She would have long conversations with her husband about the weightier aspects of life, and the house would be filled with music, bright lights, and the scent of flowers. Despite her plain looks, she just knew that somewhere in the world there was a man who’d been made especially for her and she for him.
‘You can still get a degree,’ Grace insisted. ‘Let’s all go to the same university. We’ll have a marvellous time.’
It was a hard invitation to resist. The idea of living away from home with her two best friends was very appealing. Rachel agreed, but said she’d leave immediately if she met her future husband while she was there. ‘I don’t believe in long engagements.’ She sighed happily. She couldn’t wait.
In 1968, the girls left school with three top grade A levels each, easily enough to admit them to Manchester University to which they had applied and been accepted on condition of achieving their predicted grades. Rachel planned to take English Literature, her favourite subject of all. They discussed what they would take with them.
‘I’ll take my hairdryer and an electric kettle,’ Grace o
ffered.
Eileen said she’d bring her curling tongs and a travelling clock that also had an alarm.
‘I’ll fetch that portable wireless our Christopher bought me for Christmas and an electric iron,’ Rachel promised. Christopher, his Army service over, had bought an apartment in Cyprus that had a stunning view of the Mediterranean, so it said in his letters. To occupy his time, he had bought into a small travel agency.
Their bags were ready, except for clothes that would crease and couldn’t be packed until the last minute when, one night, only days before they were due to leave, Rachel’s father died peacefully in his sleep.
‘You’ll come as soon as the funeral’s over, won’t you?’ Eileen asked anxiously.
‘The very minute,’ Rachel promised. It would have been a lie to say she was terribly upset. Neither of her parents had shown much fondness for her and she’d never grown to love them as a daughter should. Despite the changed circumstances, it didn’t cross her mind to stay at home. She felt quite confident her mother would prefer to be left alone rather than have Rachel cluttering up the place, disturbing her solitude.
Christopher flew home for the funeral. Peter, her other brother, whom Rachel had only seen about half a dozen times, also came, but didn’t stay overnight. ‘I have a business to run,’ he said crisply. ‘I can’t possibly spare the time.’
The funeral was terribly sad, if only because nobody seemed the least bit upset about her father’s passing: Peter kept glancing at his watch, Christopher looked inscrutable, her mother’s face bore no expression at all, and Rachel found herself wondering how Grace and Eileen were getting on in Manchester without an iron and the wireless she had promised to bring.
Two days later, Christopher returned to Cyprus. Rachel gave him her address in Manchester to write to. ‘You girls must come and stay with me sometime, Titch,’ he said heartily. ‘I can get you cheap flights and I’ve a spare bedroom, but it’d have to be sleeping bags on the floor.’
