by Maureen Lee
Chapter 14
The sun was a stark sliver of gold on the horizon and the sky a pearly grey when a milk cart glided into Victoria Square for the first time, the only sound the faint rattle of bottles in their metal crates. The elderly driver stopped the vehicle in front of Clematis Cottage and placed two pints of milk and a small toast loaf outside the door – Anna liked the milk fresh, not bought in bulk and left in the fridge for days. Ernie had only placed the order the day before.
The driver glanced speculatively at the other houses: was there any chance of more business here? When he came to collect the money, he’d deliver a leaflet to each house saying he could provide free-range eggs, yoghurt, and fresh fruit juice as well as milk and bread. Since supermarkets had started selling milk in cartons, he’d found it hard to make a living. He sighed: it was going to be another blisteringly hot day. It wasn’t that he longed for rain, but this sort of weather was unnatural and it would be a relief to see some clouds back in the sky. The milkman got in the cart and glided away, having not disturbed a soul.
Two hours later, the sun by now a pale shimmering ball, a postman strode briskly into the mews: new, young, and enthusiastic, determined to get his round done in record time. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, navy-blue shorts, and three-quarter-length white socks – people could laugh all they liked: it was the way postmen dressed in Neighbours.
There was nothing for numbers one and two, one letter for number three – it felt as if there was a card inside. Number four had decided to call itself Three Farthings and most of the letters had been re-directed from their previous address in Lydiate. The next house was Hamilton Lodge – how bloody pretentious, the young man thought as he pushed a pile of official looking envelopes through the letterbox. Clematis Cottage had joined a book club and sent for a mail order catalogue. He stood the catalogue outside the door – it didn’t look the sort of place where it would be pinched. Number seven had a letter from Liverpool General Hospital – he hoped it wasn’t bad news.
The post alerted Gareth who was wide awake, but still in bed. He cringed when he heard the thud of letters on the floor. They were bills, he could tell from the sound: ominous and threatening. He groaned. He had a grinding headache and what felt very much like a hangover, although he hadn’t had a drop to drink last night. Downstairs, Debbie was throwing dishes at the wall. He groaned again, turned over, turned back again and rolled out of bed. She would be leaving for work soon and he wanted to clear the air before she went.
Debbie wasn’t throwing dishes, but stacking them in the dishwasher. It was new and he’d forgotten they had it. There was no sign of Tabitha, who’d probably gone to hide in a place of safety.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked politely. He’d slept in the guest room: they had three and he was the first guest.
‘What do you think?’ Debbie snarled. ‘What were you doing to the computer last night – attacking it with a hammer?’
‘I was typing,’ he said truthfully. ‘About last night …’
Debbie turned on him, eyes ablaze. ‘I am not,’ she repeated the word, putting even more stress on it, ‘not going to live in that crappy little house and rent my lovely one to strangers. not, Gareth, not, not, not.’
‘In that case,’ he said mildly, ‘would you kindly explain how we can pay the mortgage, keep up with the hire purchase payments, give the credit card companies their monthly pounds of flesh, buy food, pay the council tax, the gas, electric, and water bills, the house and contents and various other insurances, run the car, entertain your large and avaricious family?’ He paused. ‘Have I missed anything? Of course: your regular supply of very expensive clothes and the holiday in Barbados that I’m really looking forward to. How can we do all that, Debbie, when you’re no longer working because you’ll have a baby to look after?’
It was last night’s row all over again. Debbie said, ‘I told you, Gareth, I have no intention of leaving work. I’ll take maternity leave and then Mum will look after the baby.’
And he said, ‘And I told you, Debbie, that you’ll leave my baby with your mother in that filthy house over my dead body.’
‘Your baby!’ Debbie snorted.
‘Isn’t it?’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Of course it bloody well is. How dare you suggest it isn’t?’
‘You said, “your baby” in the tone of voice that made me think otherwise.’
‘Anyroad, what’s wrong with my mother?’ she demanded aggressively. ‘She’s already had five children of her own.’
‘Yes, and they’re all slobs, apart from you. You’re the only one who turned out a decent human being.’
‘Am I?’ She looked slightly flattered for a second then returned to the attack. ‘Why don’t you give up work to look after the baby?’
‘Oh, yeah! Your wages wouldn’t meet a fraction of the bills. We’re not managing now, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Strange how such a tiny head can be so thick.’
She threw a plate at him. Fortunately, he caught it, a relief, as he had a feeling the dinner service had cost about a million pounds. ‘It wouldn’t be for ever,’ he continued, ‘living in the corner house. It’s furnished and we could rent this place out for two, even three, times the cost of the mortgage. It’d be what’s called, “an executive let”. Victoria doesn’t want much in rent. A couple of years and we’d be straight. Then we could come back, free of debt. It’s a great idea, Debs.’
‘It’s a daft idea. We’d probably find all the furniture’s been chopped up for fire wood.’
‘Not all families are like yours.’ It was probably the wrong thing to say, but he couldn’t resist it.
Debbie looked at him, eyes like daggers, and he realized he was wasting his time. She positively refused to listen to reason: she behaved as if he was trying to convince her that black was white.
Victoria was making the bed when she saw Debbie Moran march out of the square. It was obvious from her scowling face that there’d been a row. Debbie worked in a beauty parlour. Even from here, Victoria could see how perfectly made-up she was. She wore bright red matador pants, a white off-the-shoulder top, white hoop earrings that touched her shoulders, and strappy sandals with enormously high heels as thin as pencils.
Debbie disappeared and Victoria sat on the bed and hugged a pillow to her chest. If Gareth persuaded Debbie to come and live in her house, he’d probably bring her to look at it. If so, Victoria would make herself scarce, go for a walk or something. She couldn’t stand the thought of showing them around, knowing that one day they would sleep together in this very bed, face each other across the kitchen table.
She wondered if Gareth had gone to work, or was he home, still pretending to have the flu, and feeling as miserable as she did? But it wasn’t just misery, more an all-consuming ache and sense of despair that she would never see him again after tomorrow. She buried her head in the pillow and began to cry. There was a saying, ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ but Victoria didn’t believe it.
‘Your catalogue’s come, luv,’ Ernest shouted, ‘and details of that book club I sent for. We’d better get one of those cooler things to put outside for the milk,’ he said when he took the catalogue into Anna. ‘It might go off in this weather.’
‘Shall we go shopping this afternoon, just locally? We could have lunch in that nice pub again where everyone was so friendly.’
‘Of course, luv,’ he said contentedly. He liked having a programme arranged for the day ahead.
‘I was wondering what to wear for the barbecue.’
‘Jeans, boots, check shirt, leather belt, handkerchief around the neck, and a Stetson hat.’
Anna looked at him doubtfully. ‘Isn’t that square dancing?’
Ernest conceded it might be. He’d never square-danced or been to a barbecue in his life and could have got confused.
‘Hi, Julie. It’s me, Sarah. Did you have a nice holiday in the Lake Distric
t? Good, but I’m not surprised you’re tired after living in a tent for yonks. Julie, you’ll never guess what’s happened. I’ve left Alex. Yes, left him. I bought a house, awfully tiny, but terribly sweet. Alex came round and tried to drag the children away, then he tried to kidnap them and now he’s in jail and Midge came wanting to know if she could see them, but Tiffany told her to go away. Didn’t you, darling?’
Tiffany nodded proudly as she leaned against her mother and listened to the amazed squawks coming from Aunt Julie at the other end of the phone.
‘Oh, and Julie, I’ve been doing simply loads and loads of washing. Yes, all on my own, although Marie from next door explained how the machine worked and showed me how to iron things. I’ve got a vacuum cleaner, too. It’s enormous fun. And I can fry sausages and fish fingers and eggs. Did you know you could make chips in the oven? Alastair has stopped teething, and Jack actually paddles in the pool without his blanket, and Tiffany’s made friends with the boy next door, and we’re getting a computer and tonight we’re going to a barbecue. Oh, and I’m reading a book. Yes, a book. It has loads of pages and is about a dear little boy called Harry. It’s frightfully interesting. Of course you can come round, Jules. Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s fine. Come to tea. Well, I won’t keep you, I’m just about to ring Mummy’s and see if she’s back from Monte Carlo.’
*
‘I’m off now, Marie,’ Liam said stiffly when he came into the kitchen where Marie was making jam tarts for tonight. Rachel hadn’t asked, but she thought it would nice to take some refreshments to the barbecue as well as wine. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be home.’
‘Don’t forget the barbecue,’ she reminded him, wishing she hadn’t the second the words were out of her mouth.
To her relief, he pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll be back by then.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she lied. She wanted him to be late. Not only was he out most of the time and they hardly saw each other, but she felt awkward when they did. Since the shameful night she’d let him kiss her and only a superhuman effort on her part had stopped them making love, everything had changed. He’d changed, she’d changed, and so had the boys. Before, they’d managed to pass off as a reasonably normal family. Liam had made friends of Patrick and Danny, but now they were enemies. It couldn’t go on like this. Something would have to give.
There’d been no more calls about the computer, which wasn’t surprising, seeing as the card hadn’t gone in the window of O’Connor’s shop. It was very mysterious and a little bit frightening. She tried not to think about computers, or Liam, and concentrated all her attention on the jam tarts.
Rachel had been baking all morning: fairy cakes, sausage rolls, biscuits, two giant fruitcakes. Kirsty had given her a hand. ‘How many people are you expecting, Mum? There’s enough here to feed the five thousand.’
‘I don’t know how many will come, but I’d sooner have too much food than too little. It can always be kept for another day.’
‘Did you remember to get the burgers?’
‘There are fifty in the freezer and fifty rolls, and beer in the garage. I’ll get the rolls out in a minute so they’ll be nice and soft for tonight. Is everything done, apart from the cakes I’ve still to take out the oven?’
‘That’s the lot.’
‘In that case, you go and do your own thing, love. I’ll see to the cakes. After that I’m going into town. There’s something I want to buy. Thanks for your help, Kirsty.’
Kirsty gave her an odd look and went upstairs. She was probably wondering why her mother wasn’t dropping things all over the place and being her usual wretched, useless self. Rachel opened the oven, removed the cake from the top shelf, and put the cake underneath in its place. She closed the door with her foot and stared at it for a good minute. Say if Tiffany hadn’t come in and found her? If Ernest hadn’t been outside watering his clematis? If Anna hadn’t been astute enough to understand the significance of what Tiffany had said?
Rachel put the cake on the draining board, removed her oven gloves, and stared unseeingly out of the window. She’d come a hair’s breadth close to killing herself. And it was such a cowardly way out. She still had her health and strength. She still had two lovely children. Alice was dead and she would never cease to mourn her, but she wasn’t the only woman in the world to lose a child. Life went on and she’d just have to learn to live with it.
Kathleen had moped about the house all day, smoking cigarette after cigarette until she’d had to open the back door and all the windows when the place began to smell. Steve should have rung hours ago. Perhaps he was furious with her for being so furious with him for rushing off to Huddersfield just because Jean had had a heart attack that could well be merely a bout of indigestion. She’d known it happen loads of times before.
She lit another cigarette, put the kettle on for more coffee and made it strong. Fine doctor she was: lungs full of smoke, stomach full of caffeine. She’d go out if it didn’t mean she might miss Steve’s call, although he could always try again.
Back in the living room, she stood by the window, half expecting the Mercedes to drive in and for a cross Steve to get out and say it had all been a waste of time: there’d been nothing wrong and he’d told Jean and the girls to stop bothering him.
Victoria walked past, a big brown envelope in her hand. She waved and came over to the window. ‘Would you mind doing me a favour?’ she asked. Close up, Kathleen saw the girl’s eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
She wasn’t in the mood for doing favours, but it seemed churlish to refuse. ‘Of course, what is it?’
‘I’ve just drawn up a Will on the computer. I was going to ask Anna and Ernie if they’d witness it for me, but they’re out and so is Rachel. Sarah and Marie are busy with the children, and I wondered if you’d do it and I can ask my friend, Carrie, when she comes to see me off in the morning. I need two signatures, you see.’
‘You’d better come in.’ You’re a bit young to be making a Will, aren’t you?’ she said when Victoria was inside.
‘I know, but I’ve suddenly acquired loads of money and the house is worth a bit. If I had a fatal accident, everything would go to the State – unless my father could be traced, but he walked out when my mother died. It doesn’t seem fair that he should get everything.’
‘That seems very sensible.’ It also seemed very sad that someone so young should be thinking about Wills and death. ‘Of course I’ll sign it for you. I’ll get a pen and you can show me where.’
‘I’ve brought a pen. You sign here, on the second page. You don’t want to read the first page, do you?’ Victoria looked anxiously at the other woman.
‘As long as you can assure me it really is a Will I’m signing and not anything compromising,’ Kathleen laughed. Victoria obviously wanted to keep the identity of her beneficiary a secret.
‘Oh! Oh, no!’ The girl blushed. ‘Look, it says “Last Will & Testament” on the top of the first page.’ She held up the document so Kathleen could see.
‘I was only joking, Victoria. You’re the last person in the world I would expect to deceive anyone.’ The girl was completely without guile. She signed the document ‘Kathleen Quinn’, although, as Steve’s ‘wife’ her name was supposedly Cartwright. Hopefully Victoria wouldn’t notice and query it. She gave the Will back and Victoria put it in the envelope without even glancing at the signature.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said politely. ‘I hope I didn’t disturb you.’
‘I’m glad you came,’ Kathleen said sincerely. ‘I was worrying myself to death over something and you took my mind off it for a good ten minutes.’
‘Would you like to talk about it?’ Victoria offered. ‘People say I’m a good listener and I promise I won’t repeat it if it’s personal.’
Kathleen shrugged and made a face. It wouldn’t hurt to get things off her chest. ‘It’s nothing much. I’m probably getting upset over nothing, but Steve’s wife – his first wife – has been tak
en ill and he’s gone to Huddersfield to see her. I’ve been expecting to hear from him all day, but I was so cross with him for going, he’s probably taken umbrage and hasn’t phoned.’
Victoria looked surprised. ‘Why were you cross?’
‘Wouldn’t you be? I’m his wife now. His first loyalty should be to me.’
‘Only if you were ill too,’ Victoria said practically. ‘Then there’d be no question he should put you first. But as you’re not, it’s only right he should go to his first wife. She hasn’t re-married, has she?’
‘No,’ Kathleen said sulkily, at the same time praying that one day Jean would.
‘Would you still like him if he knew his first wife was ill and didn’t care?’
‘Like him?’ Kathleen was puzzled.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be very honourable, would it, not to give a damn about someone you’d been married to for years?’ It seemed an old-fashioned word for someone so young to use: ‘honourable’. ‘There’s this girl I know,’ Victoria continued gravely, ‘who’s been having an affair with a married man. They love each other very much and were going to go away together, but the man learned that his wife was expecting a baby, their first, and he and the girl decided he couldn’t possibly leave. It would have been dishonourable and terribly selfish.’
‘How is the girl now?’ Kathleen asked gently.
‘Broken-hearted.’
‘I’m so sorry, Victoria.’
Tears, like tiny, shimmering diamonds, trickled down Victoria’s smooth, creamy cheeks. ‘So am I,’ she said in a cracked voice.
*
‘If everyone’s going to sit looking out of their windows waiting for someone else to go first, then none of us will go to the barbecue,’ Anna argued.
‘I’d sooner not be the first.’ The Williamses had opened their windows and music issued forth, very loud – Anna claimed it was rap, Ernest insisted it was hip-hop. A table and four garden chairs had been placed on the communal lawn and a pasting table was covered with a gingham cloth on which stood half a dozen bottles of wine and plates of food covered with cloth napkins.
