by Maureen Lee
‘Let’s hope so.’ Judy crossed her fingers. ‘Would you like some tea? I’ll have to get a little table for out here, it’s one of the things Sam and Josh didn’t have.’ Judy bustled around, putting the kettle on, looking for mugs. ‘Oh, and thanks for the tea bags and the milk and the other things. I really appreciated them last night. I got here awful late. I went to Heathrow with Sam to see him off to India, then back to Islington for my luggage. It was all hours by the time I got to Euston and caught the Liverpool train.’
‘How is Sam?’ Donna asked.
‘Rather subdued, but quite serene.’ Judy smiled tenderly. ‘He had a long time to get used to the fact that Josh was dying. But he couldn’t stay in the flat. He never wants to live there again and was dead pleased when I said I’d like the furniture. He’s going to wander the earth, taking photographs and making videos, until he feels like coming home. I’ll sort out the other bedroom in case he wants to live with his mum for a while. He’s never been able to do it before.’ Judy couldn’t hide her delight at the idea of having her son to stay.
‘Joe said Josh’s funeral was lovely and there were loads of people there.’
‘Sam was so pleased that Joe came. It was the only time he nearly broke down, when he saw his brother. Shall we take the tea into the living room? There’s nowhere to sit out here.’
They sat on the squashy blue linen settee on which Josh had died, although it seemed too morbid a thing to tell Donna – not that there’d been anything remotely morbid about Josh’s dignified and moving death. Judy had brought a ghost with her to her brand-new house and was conscious of its friendly presence.
Donna regarded her mother-in-law critically. ‘You look different. I’d expected you to come back all washed out, but you’re quite radiant. And those clothes! They’re not the sort you usually wear.’
Judy flushed and smoothed her hands over her tiered, filmy cotton skirt, the colour of red wine. ‘Isabella gave it me for my sixtieth birthday,’ she said shyly. ‘She said my clothes were too mature for such a young-looking woman. Sam bought the embroidered top. There’s more stuff like this in the suitcase.’ It wasn’t that she was changing her image, but she could no longer see why age should dictate the way a person dressed or what they did or how they led their lives. She intended learning to play Josh’s guitar, doing all sorts of things she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing before.
Donna left, promising to come back that night with Joe and the children. ‘We’ll bring a take away. What would you prefer, Chinese or Indian?’
‘Either, I like both, but nothing with meat in. While I was away I became a vegetarian like Sam and Josh. That reminds me, I must ring our Dorothy, Paulette, and Fred and tell them I’m home. I’ll invite everyone to tea on Sunday. I’ll have sorted myself out by then. Bye, love.’
Judy wandered into the kitchen, stood at the open back door and frowned at the area of dry grass that badly needed watering – it was almost as hot here as it had been in London. She’d get rid of the rotating clothes line, it would take up too much room when extended – one of those pull-out lines that were attached to the wall would be sufficient – and do something really exciting with the garden: get some exotic plants, statues, hanging baskets, and fast-growing ivy to cover the bare wooden fence. The Mystery was on the other side, she remembered, where the Smith children had played when they were young: rounders was the favourite, although the boys had been keen on football that the girls were hopeless at. Dad used to come with them on Sundays. Ever since he’d taken Ronnie and Fred to see The Babe Ruth Story with William Bendix, he’d called rounders ‘baseball’, she recalled with a smile. She could hear children playing a ball game of some sort right now and it brought the memory of her own time there even closer.
That afternoon she’d get a book on Japanese bonsai from the library. She jumped, startled, when there was a knock on the door. Another thing to get was a doorbell and she’d ask Joe if he’d fit it tonight – no, she wouldn’t, she’d do it herself. Now she was living alone, she’d have to learn to do things like fitting doorbells. In the past, Harry had always done those sorts of jobs, but Harry was no longer around.
She opened the door. A woman was standing outside, her face red and dripping with perspiration. She wore baggy, knee-length khaki shorts and a T-shirt that was much too tight. Her feet were bare.
‘Oh, hello,’ the woman said brightly, a bit too brightly: her voice was tinged with hysteria. ‘I’m Rachel Williams from next door. I’ve come to welcome you to Victoria Square …’
*
‘I wonder why she does it?’ Kathleen mused aloud. She was standing by the window watching Rachel at the door of the bungalow that she’d thought was empty. The woman must have moved in overnight.
Steve raised his head from the Daily Mirror. ‘Why who does what?’
‘Why Rachel calls on the new arrivals, why she organizes things like barbecues and coffee mornings when she’s clearly not up to it. It’s just piling on the agony. Any minute now she’ll tip over the edge.’ She noticed Rachel wasn’t wearing shoes. Was it deliberate, or had she forgotten to put them on?
‘You should be able to read Rachel’s mind. You’ve got a degree in psychiatry – or is it psychology? Or is it both?’
‘Neither. I have a degree in medicine, that’s all.’
‘I thought you had degrees in just about everything.’
Kathleen turned and was relieved to see he was grinning. She grinned back. ‘I was worried then you were gearing up for a fight, but I assume that was a pathetic attempt at being funny.’
‘I thought it was quite a good attempt meself.’ He threw the paper on to the floor and patted his knee. She went over and sat on it, murmuring that they must get some net curtains so people couldn’t see inside.
‘You’ve never asked what qualifications I have,’ Steve said in an injured tone.
‘I didn’t know you had any.’
‘Well, I have, so there! I have a cycling certificate, a swimming diploma, a runner-up cup for snooker, two B grade O levels, one for English, the other for Geography, and a very official looking piece of paper informing me I’d failed the rest. Oh, and a photo of me in the fifth-form football team. I played right half. Does that count?’
Kathleen kissed his nose. She had forgotten about Rachel. ‘You were quite clearly a brilliant student. Would you like a certificate from me?’
‘What for?’
‘To certify that you have passed a very rigid test with flying colours and are, without a shred of doubt, one hell of a lover and the sexiest man alive.’
Steve looked at her gravely. ‘I think I need testing on that again.’
‘Shall we do it now?’
‘This very minute. I’ll carry you into the classroom. You needn’t bother with your gown and mortarboard. I’ll do the test better if you’ve got nothing on.’
He stood, Kathleen in his arms, lifting her effortlessly. His strength always turned her on. She was looking forward to the next hour, when Steve groaned and nearly dropped her. ‘Sod it!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Anna’s tottering in our direction and she looks awful, poor old soul.’ He put Kathleen down. ‘Next time I have an affair it’ll be with a lap dancer or a model, definitely not a doctor. They’re too much in demand.’
He went into the garden to get on with preparing the soil for the plants he’d bought the day before and Kathleen let Anna in.
Steve was right. She looked awful, nothing like her normal glamorous and chirpy self: no make-up on or jewellery, her silver hair a wild halo around her deeply wrinkled face. She wore a white blouse, buttoned crookedly, a dirndl skirt and fluffy mules. Kathleen helped her inside and into a comfortable chair.
‘I hope you weren’t in the middle of anything important,’ she said in a cracked whisper.
‘Not at all,’ Kathleen lied. ‘Don’t you feel well, dear?’
‘I’m all right. It’s Ernie. There’s something wrong with Ernie.’ Her eyes,
usually so brightly blue, were watery and faded. ‘He helped me to get up and dressed and made my breakfast, then went back to bed. Now he won’t talk to me. I’m sorry about my hair.’ She made an attempt to pat it, but her hand wouldn’t reach that far. ‘Sometimes I can comb it, sometimes I can’t, and then Ernie does it for me. This morning, he didn’t even ask, nor what shoes I wanted. And he buttoned my blouse all wrong. It’s not like him at all.’
‘Would you like me to go and see him?’
‘I’m not sure. I really came because I wanted to talk to someone. I’m frightened, Kathleen.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘I couldn’t live without Ernie. It would be the end of everything and there’d be no point. He’d feel the same if I died first. We need each other and it keeps us both alive.’
‘There, there!’ Kathleen patted her hand, although it seemed very inadequate. ‘Has anything happened recently that might have upset him?’
‘His brother came last night, Charlie. Ernie hadn’t seen him since the war. They seemed to get on all right, although it was me who did most of the talking.’ Anna sniffed. ‘Ernie tells me I could talk the hind leg off a donkey. When he came back from showing Charlie out, he was very pale and said he felt nauseous. I had expected him to go and play on that damned computer, but he went to lie down instead.’
‘I think the best thing to do is make you some coffee and then I’ll go and have a word with Ernie, see if I can discover what’s wrong.’
Ernest lay on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. He was responsible for Mam’s death. The words had hammered through his brain all night long as he’d lain in the same position and sleep had refused to come. He was the reason why she’d cried herself to sleep, night after night, year after year. ‘You broke her heart,’ Charlie had said. Not normally given to melodrama, Ernest was forced to concede that, to all intents, he was a murderer who’d led a frivolous, useless life, contributing nothing to society. Not even the numerous casinos he had frequented had profited from his custom, as he’d always won far more than he’d lost.
It wouldn’t have mattered quite so much if he hadn’t been so close to Mam. Until she’d married Cuthbert Burtonshaw there’d only been the two of them, not counting Desmond Whitely whose occasional visits hadn’t been much help. He remembered how happy they’d been in the dingy little room in Chaucer Street, Mam knitting like a maniac, him lying in bed, watching the patterns the fire made on the ceiling or reading a book. Mam and him had been best mates. How could he have treated her so cruelly?
The phone started to ring, but he didn’t move. It was on the little table beside Anna’s chair, easy for her to answer. Ernest began to feel uneasy when the ringing went on and on.
‘Anna,’ he called. When there was no reply, he swung his feet off the bed and stood up so quickly his head swam. Feeling dizzy, he stumbled towards the door. The telephone was still ringing, but there was no sign of Anna in the lounge. Neither was she in the kitchen or the bathroom. He threw open the door to the second bedroom that was going to be a study: the door slammed against the wall, swinging back and almost hitting him. He’d forgotten to turn off the computer the night before and a multi-coloured blob floated across the screen, changing shape as it moved.
‘Anna!’ Ernest shouted, his voice hoarse now. He’d forgotten about Anna! He’d actually forgotten about her. The past didn’t matter, he told himself. It was over and done with and there was no going back. ‘It’s no good crying over spilt milk,’ Mam used to say. What mattered was now, the present, and his beloved Anna.
The back door opened and he turned expectantly, but it was the woman from next door, he couldn’t remember her name although they’d gone to lunch together only the other day.
‘Anna said it was unlocked.’ She smiled at him. ‘Are you all right? She’s very worried about you.’
‘Is she with you?’ He recalled the woman’s name: Kathleen.
‘Yes. I’ve left her with some coffee. She’s fine, just worried, that’s all.’
‘I’ll come and fetch her.’
‘Hadn’t you better put some shoes on first?’
‘Oh!’ Ernest looked down at his feet, encased in navy-blue socks. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘I’ll go back and tell Anna you’re all right, shall I?’ She looked at him searchingly. ‘You are all right, aren’t you, Ernie?’
‘As all right as I’ll ever be.’ He looked at his feet again and mumbled, ‘Have you ever done something in the past that you’re deeply ashamed of?’
‘Of course,’ Kathleen said kindly. ‘Haven’t we all? But it’s no good crying over spilt milk, is it? We can’t go back and put right whatever the something was. See you in a minute, Ernie.’
‘You’re as soft as a brush, Ernie Burrows,’ Anna said gently, stroking his hair after he’d told her the whole story from beginning to end.
‘Daft, luv, daft as a brush. I know,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t know what got into me. Charlie made me feel like a murderer.’ They were home again, together, Anna in her chair, he crouched on a stool at her feet.
‘Charlie’s not a very nice man. I didn’t like the look of him from the start. He seemed rather sly.’ Ernest recalled last night she’d liked him, but didn’t bother to point it out. ‘What a thing to say to someone you haven’t seen for sixty years! I’ll have something to say to Charlie if I ever see him again,’ she finished indignantly.
‘I doubt if you will, luv.’ He certainly hoped not. ‘Anyroad, what he said was true. Mam died of a broken heart and it was all my fault.’
Anna shook her head dismissively. ‘I don’t believe it. She had two other children, didn’t she? Her lover, your father, had come to live with her. She was probably upset at not hearing from you, but not upset enough to let it break her heart, not when she had everything to live for. Charlie’s having you on, darling, he was just being spiteful, Lord knows why.’
‘I never looked at it that way.’ He hoped and prayed she was right, but would never know.
She continued with her ruthless mission to demolish every single one of his worries. ‘As to that other thing, that you’ve led a completely useless life, what nonsense! Remember when you took the Montands all the way to Palestine? That was incredibly brave. And that job you had in Cairo was terribly important: you would never have left if they hadn’t treated you so unfairly. You may never have had a proper job since, but just think of some of the jobs you could have had: a door-to-door salesman, for instance – everybody loathes them.’ She began to tick them off on her fingers. ‘A politician – they’re loathed even more. You could have made weapons of mass destruction, poison gas, guns; worked for one of those dreadful firms that lend money at extortionate rates; become a bailiff, which is probably one of the worst jobs in the world.’ She’d run out of fingers on one hand.
‘All right, luv, all right, you’ve made your point,’ Ernest said hastily when she looked about to start on the other hand. He found her logic somewhat confusing, yet comforting.
‘I could go on and on. We’ve led a fine life, Ernie. We never hurt anybody so you must stop thinking like that. We can’t all be Mother Teresa.’ She patted his head. ‘Have you finished, darling?’ she cried gaily. ‘Have you told me everything that’s been worrying you? If so, let’s go out and have the most expensive lunch that money can buy. The weather’s beautiful again and it’s not going to last for ever. But comb my hair first and button my blouse properly. And fetch my gold sandals and those gypsy earrings I got in Woolworths the other day. Oh, and a lipstick: the raspberry pink. And some blue eye shadow. What’s the matter, Ernie?’ she said apprehensively when he didn’t move. ‘Is something else bothering you, darling?’
Ernest decided to get everything off his chest in one go. Normally, he was the stronger of the two, but today he was letting Anna take a turn. ‘I’m losing me memory, luv.’ He sniffed pathetically. ‘I keep forgetting words, quite simple words. I think I’m getting Alzheimer’s. What’ll become of us then?’
‘Bag ladies,’ Ernest said promptly.
‘See!’ she said triumphantly. ‘You remembered that.’
He fetched the comb, suitably humbled. She’d always had the knack of turning his troubles into little ones or making them vanish into thin air. He wasn’t entirely convinced by everything she’d said, but it had been enough to set his mind at rest.
By now, Victoria could say she was leaving for New York the day after tomorrow. It was that close. She could actually count down the hours: forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six, and so on until it was time to leave the house and her new friends. Every time she and Gareth made love she tried not to think it could be for the last time: tonight, Debbie might be there and he’d find it impossible to get away; tomorrow was the barbecue and he would have to go because he’d invited his mother. Anyroad, they couldn’t let Rachel down.
That morning, after Sarah and her family had gone home – the police were coming to interview Sarah at ten o’clock about Alex’s abortive attempt to kidnap the children – Victoria and Gareth sat down to breakfast, grinning at each other stupidly across the table because they were high on love, having spent a truly fantastic night together.
‘If we got married, we could do this every morning for the rest of our lives,’ Gareth reminded her as he bit into a piece of toast.
‘You’re already married,’ she reminded him.
‘Have you never heard of divorce?’
‘You’ve asked me that before.’
‘And what was your answer?’
