Nest of Sorrows

by Ruth Hamilton

  The answer arrived in the form of a swift nod.

  ‘You have nothing at all?’

  ‘I’ve got . . . I’ve got . . .’ The voice was choked by a hysterical giggle. ‘Just my running-away money. It was my mother, you see. She always told me to have running-away money, it’s in a building society down town.’ Again, a muffled sob. ‘Only I’m not the one who ran . . .’

  ‘Then . . . then what is there for me to see?’

  The car jerked forward. ‘Wait. Don’t say any more.’

  They drove in silence to Maureen’s house. She and Phil lived at the top end of Edgeford, while Kate’s house was lower down the moor. They stopped on Higher Lane, giving Maureen time to compose herself slightly before pulling into the drive of number 117.

  Like a pair of thieves, they crept in at the back door, Kate afraid because she didn’t know what to expect, Maureen shaking because she had already had a good view of the devastation.

  ‘Christ!’ Kate paddled her way through two inches of water that covered the kitchen floor. A note, which had been screwed up then flattened out again, lay in the centre of the table:

  Dear Mo,

  I’m taking half of everything to set myself up in a flat. The house will be sold when the solicitors have come to terms. I’ve emptied the bank account pro tem. I understand you have some money in a BS account. Sorry.

  Phil.

  ‘That’s all you get, Kate. After years of love and care. A roomful of H2O, a missing washing machine and a note you wouldn’t send to the milkman. The living room is great; he’s ripped down the front curtains, rail and all, he took the sofa and left me the chairs, it’s a wonder he didn’t saw the dining table into two equal halves. The kids are demented. I told them we’d had the burglars, but Tommy isn’t fooled, not at his age.’

  The icy fingers were back again, creeping around Kate’s middle and holding her like some hungry carnivorous plant. But it wasn’t a panic attack this time. Oh, no. This was anger, a real fury. That a wonderful wife and mother could be treated so shabbily.

  ‘Well?’ she cried eventually. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Are you going to let him get away with this? Are you going to sit here, or swim here, while he makes off with everything you’ve worked for?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You want your furniture back?’

  ‘I want him back! I don’t care what he’s done, I’ll forgive him anything, anything at all.’

  Kate tutted impatiently. ‘I can’t get him back, but I sure as sixpence will try to get the furniture. So. You can either have no him and no furniture, or no him and some furniture. Which is it to be?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ yelled Maureen. ‘Nothing matters now, not without Phil.’

  ‘The kids matter. Normality matters. Now, what’s it to be?’

  Maureen dabbed at her eyes with an ineffectual and very damp handkerchief. ‘Something to sit on, I suppose. Amanda was screaming, Kate, screaming past herself. We were on our way to Bury market for shoes and some bits of new uniform for next week. Then I turned back because I’d forgotten my chequebook. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? Some bloody good my cheques are now. The van was just disappearing down Rookery Lane – I’ll swear I even saw our gardener driving it. And everyone can see right in at the front because there are no curtains. I bet they all saw it happening.’ She dissolved into a new flood of tears.

  ‘Stop this. There’s enough water in here already without you adding to the mess.’ Where was this strength coming from? From anger? Or was it because this wasn’t her own problem? ‘This is a day for you to remember, love. And I’m going to turn it into a day Phil will never forget either.’

  ‘What . . . what are you going to do?’ Maureen blew her pink nose. ‘I love that man right to his bones, Kate, but I can tell you now that he’s clever. Clever and extremely dangerous. He’s an accountant, a professional cheat and liar of the highest order. Only lawyers get away with more. Be careful. Oh, by the way, he’s taken the fridge and left me the chest freezer in the garage. But he pulled the stuff off the shelves, so your insulin is in the larder.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ve told Geoff everything.’

  ‘No!’ The tears cleared miraculously. ‘Not . . . not everything? The abortion and how you feel about him and . . . oh, my God!’

  ‘Exactly. He knows enough. Listen, Mo, all our lives are going to change. Now, I’ll have to leave you with this mess, save what you can of my shopping, will you? I’ll pop back for it later. But there are one or two things I have to do. He had no right, you know. No-one less than a judge can empty a house, I know that much. Will you manage for a few hours? Only if I leave the legal situation as it is, time may not be on our side.’

  ‘Let me come! I don’t want to stay here on my own. You’ve only seen the kitchen, I can’t bear to look at the rest of the house again.’

  ‘You won’t want to be where I’m going. It will be humiliating for you, and certainly for him. Sorry, pet. This is one time I really do have to go when you need me most. Get on the phone, ruin his reputation with everyone you know . . .’

  ‘I can’t do that. I still love him. I want him back . . .’

  ‘Then talk to your mother or to his mother. Just talk to somebody. And for God’s sake, cheer up. There’s a lot worse off at sea.’

  ‘Is there? We’re standing in the bloody Atlantic. How will I cope? What shall I do? He’s mine. He’s my husband and I thought he loved me and I know I love him.’

  ‘Don’t start all that again. We can all love the unlovable till we view them from a distance. This is your chance for a bit of space. And believe me, Maureen Carter, he’ll sell this house over both our dead bodies. You’ve a twelve-year-old and another who’s only ten. He’ll not get custody, and the house stays with the kids.’

  Kate left the little woman pouring her grief and hurt into the phone, then ran the downhill distance to her own house.

  Three o’clock found her alighting from a taxi outside Woolworth’s on Deansgate. She crossed the road and walked slowly along Mealhouse Lane, a large plastic portfolio clutched to her right side. The offices of Willow and Carter, chartered accountants, were a few doors away from the Bolton Evening News, and she smiled grimly to herself as she passed the doorway that led to the News. This paper would be her biggest bluff, her heaviest weapon. Bolton was the largest town in England, the readership was vast.

  ‘Have you an appointment?’ asked the pretty young thing behind the Willows and Carter desk. Kate stared at her with a degree of enmity. Perhaps this was the one Phil was about to make off with. ‘No. It’s an emergency involving a lot of cash and property. I want to see Mr Carter, I believe he’s very good. There’s an urgent need for a sensible tax consultant and I understand that he’s the best in the north west.’

  The girl preened herself on her employer’s behalf, and Kate’s hatred grew hotter. ‘What name shall I say?’ Red lips parted in a smile that displayed perfect teeth. Too perfect, thought Kate, praying hard that the teeth were a job for Steradent. ‘Mrs Hardcastle,’ she replied with all the sweetness she could dredge up.

  He was seated at an immaculately tidy desk, no papers, no books, just a few pens and pencils lined up parallel to the top of a huge clean blotter. His face changed colour when ‘Mrs Hardcastle’ was ushered in, and it did not settle to a proper shade until the pretty receptionist had left.

  ‘Well, Kate,’ he finally managed.

  ‘Lovely office,’ she said slyly. ‘Not a bit damp, no water in here. And a good chair for you to sit on. Never mind well, Phil Carter! Your children are in a terrible state of hysteria. What sort of a nutcase makes off with a plumbed-in washing machine without turning it off at the hoses? And did you never learn to take down curtains by removing the hooks from the eyes? Then there’s the legal aspect. You must know some law, Phil, goodness knows you’ve helped in enough division of prop
erty cases.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Isn’t it? It’ll be something to do with you, though. Especially when my husband tells all his Rotary friends to take their business elsewhere.’ She paused for effect, amazed at her own strength. That a woman with ‘bad nerves’ could stand here and tackle an important man . . . No. She mustn’t think of it. ‘Then there’s the publicity.’ Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears, but she ignored it. ‘Publicity can damage a man.’

  ‘What publicity? I only took what I considered to be fair, and who’s going to be interested in a marriage break-up these days? Stop bluffing, Kate, and mind your own bloody business.’

  ‘What you considered to be fair? You?’ Her voice rose. ‘Let’s see what the people of Bolton think after they’ve seen the photos. Oh, there’ll be no mention of your name, Maureen can’t afford to defend a trumped-up libel action. But people will know it’s you.’

  ‘Which photos?’

  She stood up and placed the portfolio on the desk, slowly unzipping it while her eyes remained riveted to his face. ‘Posters. I’ve done a lot more, so you can keep these as samples. The Evening News is interested in this kind of social issue. After all, leaving two kiddies in a half-furnished house with a flooded kitchen is bad news. Good for the paper, though. I’ve done one large poster for each of the rooms you . . . er . . . altered.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Two doors away, I’ve a photographer waiting. So call my bluff, eh?’

  ‘You always were a devious bitch, Kate.’

  ‘Yes. And loyal to my friends.’ She sighed with heavy drama. ‘Maureen’s angry. I had to sit on her so that she wouldn’t go straight for an injunction. The injunction would give you seven days to restore your children’s home to order. I’ll give you seven hours. If that furniture isn’t back, if that house isn’t spotless by half past ten tonight, you’ll get all the glory you need.’ She rose to leave. ‘Is that the tart, the one in the outer office?’

  ‘Get out!’

  She snatched up her portfolio. ‘Ten thirty. That’s all the time you have. You’ve just lost a damned good wife, two lovely kids and all your goods and chattels. We’re going to take you for every penny, Phil. And you’d better play fair, or you’ll lose more than clients.’

  ‘Is that a threat? Are you daring to threaten me?’ He jumped up from his chair and she noticed as he moved how bald he had become lately. ‘They do some quite good toupées these days, Phil. And get a bit of that weight off; if you’re running with the fillies again, you’ll never keep up.’ She shuddered inwardly. Was this to be her forte then, her lot in life? Was she going to become one of those awful masculine women who went round ruining men, men who had neither sense nor guts to defend themselves? Surely not! She didn’t like what she was doing, but it had to be done; someone had to help poor Maureen.

  As she closed the door, the word ‘bitch’ was thrown, together with some weightier object, against the frame. The girl sat round-eyed at the idle phone, her colour betraying that she had heard every word. And suddenly Kate knew that this was the one, that young madam here had hitched her carriage to a passing star, an older and obviously affluent bloke. Was it the men, then, who caused such problems? Or was it scheming females who left children homeless, wives suicidal, hearts bleeding and bank accounts dry?

  ‘Want your picture in the paper, sweetheart?’ asked Kate airily before marching out into fresher air.

  On Deansgate, she paced up and down past the shops for a while until the shaking subsided. What she had just done was amazing, unbelievable. She would never be able to do that sort of thing for herself. Had she enjoyed it just a little bit? After all, she was the unloved child of a loveless marriage – no. Rachel did love her, she did! But was Kate paying back the world, particularly the men, for her own unhappy childhood? It suddenly struck her as she passed Marks and Spencers for the fourth time that she was incapable of loving. There was something missing, something deep inside her. It probably wasn’t Geoff’s fault, any of it. Even Dora might have been tolerated by someone kinder. Was it her dead father’s fault, then? And if it was, for how long could a person blame the dead for her own shortcomings?

  She phoned Maureen from outside the Post Office. ‘Your furniture will be back tonight. Leave the children at your mother’s.’

  ‘What did he say? Is he all right? And if I leave the kids at Mum’s, I’ll be alone.’

  ‘He said several things, he’s fine, and no you won’t be alone. I would not leave you at a time like this.’

  A muffled sob came over the line. ‘Thanks, Kate. But after that abortion thing, will Geoff believe you’re here with me?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’d scarcely be needing another operation just yet. We’ll go to the Black Bull, it’s quiz night. Then we can sit in the car and eat chips out of the News Of The World, see if there are any juicy bits of gossip in the paper. It’ll all be over by the time you get home.’

  ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘Kate, I’m getting angry. I think I want to scratch his eyes out.’

  ‘That’s why you don’t want to see him. Anyway, I’ve already altered the shape of his face for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Eh? What have you done? Did you hit him? You haven’t hurt him . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Mo. The size of him and the size of me, well, it would be like setting a tiddler to attack Moby Dick. No, I was speaking metaphorically.’

  ‘Come back, Kate. This is awful. I’ve always known where he was, always been sure. Now it’s like . . . like somebody’s cut off my right arm. I’m furious and sad and all churned up like butter. Will he come back, Kate? Will he?’

  ‘I don’t know, love. But I’m coming back, that will have to do for now.’

  ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying . . .’

  They sat outside Kate’s house eating fish and chips rich with brown malt vinegar. Beech Gardens had houses on one side only, so they enjoyed a dim view across the brook and into a vast barley field. ‘Daft quiz, that,’ mumbled Kate through a mouthful of cod. ‘They didn’t ask any good questions.’

  ‘Watch your carbohydrates,’ came the quiet answer. ‘And the quiz was daft because you didn’t know any of the answers. Will he be there now? In the house? What time will he be gone?’

  ‘Don’t think about it. Look at the stars.’ Kate licked her greasy fingers and screwed the remaining chips into a ball of newspaper. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could eat without counting bloody diabetic points? I’d have creamcakes and trifles and . . .’

  ‘Let’s go and see him. If I talk to him, I might change his mind.’

  ‘Not tonight, Mo. If you’re going to change his mind, it won’t be tonight. He’ll be fixing the fridge and the washing machine, you know how ill-tempered he is around anything mechanical. Listen, I’ve got a good question.’

  Maureen sighed loudly. ‘All right, go on.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Right. What’s the difference between a duck?’

  ‘Eh? Between a duck and what?’

  ‘And nothing. What’s the difference between a duck?’

  ‘That’s crazy.’ Maureen fingered the cooling food without interest. ‘OK. What is the difference between a duck?’

  Kate giggled. ‘One of its legs is both the same.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You heard. I think it’s hilarious. It’s one of Mel’s.’

  ‘Huh. That’s not a question, it’s not even a joke! There is some of you in Mel after all, then.’

  ‘Yes.’ Kate fixed her eyes on the silent bank with its border of tall rushes. ‘Jemima’s a different duck. So am I. So’s Boothroyd, but he’s a drake and a figment of my imagination.’

  ‘Boothroyd?’

  ‘I draw cartoons of him sometimes.’ Lord, how was she going to keep Maureen occupied for the next fifteen minutes? She had to make sure that she and
Phil did not come together tonight while all the wounds were still raw. Any coming together would have to take place some other time, after they had both had the chance to calm down. ‘Mo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t stand any more. I have reached the end of my tolerance. As old Winston used to say in his heyday, up with more I cannot put.’

  ‘Neither can I. What will I do without him? Phil made all the decisions, paid all the bills. I never had to worry once during my whole married life . . .’

  ‘Let’s talk about me. I’m leaving Geoff.’

  ‘That’s old news.’

  ‘I’m leaving him now-ish. Within weeks, I’d say.’

  ‘Weeks? I’d give anything for weeks. This is happening to me now, tonight. At this very minute, Phil is in my house and you won’t let me go anywhere near him.’

  ‘I can’t stop you, not ultimately. You’re the driver.’

  ‘I know. But you’re very good at putting me off.’

  ‘A talent at last!’

  ‘Shut up! You’re the best teacher in Bolton.’

  ‘Let’s walk a bit.’

  They linked arms after getting out of the car and strolled across the tiny bridge that spanned the brook between Beech Gardens and Harper’s Farm. The water rippled and gurgled over stones and through small channels, sending up the scents of a lovely spring night as it hurried along to find a larger river.

  ‘Water is so free,’ sighed Kate. ‘If I come back again as something elemental, I shall be water.’

  ‘You should have been born under Aquarius.’

  ‘Aquarius is an air sign, Mo.’

  ‘Daft.’

  ‘Yes.’ She leaned over the rusted iron rail. ‘I think I shall be water.’

  Maureen shrugged listless shoulders. ‘Then you’ll get consumed one way or another. Some bugger will drink you, or flush you down the lav. Probably both. Or you might stagnate then evaporate.’

  ‘And come down again as rain. The eternal cycle.’

  ‘Whatever, you’d get consumed, Kate.’