Dora took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do my best. I’ve always done my best. For years I tried to . . .’ She twittered on, and Geoff looked at Kate. ‘Bring him,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll keep her in order.’
His eyes were smiling, and Kate suddenly wanted to hug him for taking her side. Had he ever taken her side before?
Dora continued undeterred, ‘And everything I did for Melanie while Kate went to work. No thanks. You never get any thanks . . .’
‘Is she ever going to stop?’ mouthed Kate.
He nodded. ‘For good. Soon, she’ll stop for good.’
Kate inclined her head, then left the room to fetch Michael from next door.
He ran in eagerly, pausing just inside the doorway to study the man and the woman who were new words in his vocabulary. Would they fuss him? Michael didn’t like fuss. Would they give him presents? He loved presents.
Geoff turned away and swallowed a sob, his hand fumbling in a jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got something here for a boy,’ he said, his voice suspiciously thick. ‘He might be called Michael. Is he called Michael, Granny Dora?’
Dora dabbed at wet cheeks. ‘I think so. Oh, Geoffrey, look at his eyes!’
Kate blinked rapidly, then used her knee gently to propel her son further into the room. ‘Say hello,’ she said.
‘Hello.’
Geoff swivelled round. ‘Hello, cowboy. See in my pocket? It’s a little cardboard box. I wonder what’s in that little cardboard box?’
‘Daddy and Granny Dora,’ said Kate. ‘With a present for you.’
‘Present,’ repeated the child, his face beaming with anticipation. ‘Present for me.’ He snatched the box and opened it with chubby though dextrous fingers. ‘Racing car!’ he screamed. ‘Mummy, racing car! Red one!’
‘Aw, bless him.’ Dora seemed steadier now. ‘And in my handbag, I’ve got a tractor.’ She pulled this larger item from her bag. ‘What colour’s that, Michael?’
‘Green.’ He grabbed at it.
‘Kiss first,’ demanded Dora.
The little boy, apparently liking what he saw, climbed on to Dora’s lap. As she kissed her grandchild, the other two adults in the room stared at one another.
‘God, Kate,’ mumbled Geoff. ‘This is too much for me. What the hell do we do?’
‘Something. We’ll do something.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yes.’
Michael jumped down from his new-found granny’s lap and rushed out into the hall, from where many ‘vroom-vrooms’ and ‘beep-beeps’ were heard as he pushed car and tractor about on the parquet floor.
Dora wiped away a last stray tear. ‘Well,’ she said begrudgingly. ‘At least I did get to see him. Thanks for that. Thanks for not taking him off to the other side of the country. I . . . I won’t be here long, you know.’
‘I know.’ Kate’s tone was subdued. ‘And I’m very, very sorry.’
‘Oh Kate!’ cried the old woman. ‘Why didn’t we get on?’
Kate fell to her knees in front of Dora’s chair. ‘Because we’re both too bossy, Granny. And Geoff was too soft to manage us. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, Dora.’
‘I didn’t know what I was doing! He was all I had! I didn’t know I was causing damage . . .’
‘Forget that now.’ Kate placed her arms on Dora’s shoulders. There was a musty smell in the room, a smell that did not match Kate’s memory of this woman. Was it the odour of imminent death? Dora’s skin hung in loose yellow folds, large bags under the eyes, quivering layers where her fat chins had once been. ‘Let’s forgive one another, shall we? I’ll be buying a house nearby, probably on the Rookery estate. Then you can see Michael as often as you like.’
‘Come home.’ A mustard-coloured hand gripped Kate’s arm.
Geoff stepped forward. ‘No, Mother. Leave it all to Kate now. I’m sure she’s capable of reaching a decision on her own. Come on. We have to get home. You mustn’t tire yourself.’ He helped Kate to her feet. ‘I love you, girl,’ he whispered. ‘The door’s always open. Whenever you need me, I’ll be there. But you don’t need anyone, do you? You’re probably richer than the rest of us put together.’
She looked deep into the sad brown eyes. ‘There’s more to life than money, Geoff. A lot more.’ She smiled at her husband for what seemed like the first time ever. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
The accident happened on the way home from Kate’s house, just as they were driving through Atherton on the main Bolton road. It was not Geoff’s fault; there was nothing he might have done to prevent it. A large van travelling at speed towards them suddenly went out of control, sliding abruptly into their path. The Jaguar was crushed against a concrete lamp standard, and the impact was sufficiently vicious to kill Dora outright.
Geoff remained aware of most of what went on around him. He heard bells and sirens, caught the odd glimpse of flashing lights, knew when a needle was being inserted into his arm once the doctor found a hand space in the wreckage. He floated in and out of consciousness while the car shuddered with the vibration of cutting gear. There was little pain, but he could not turn in what was left of his seat to look at Mother.
As Geoff hung between life and death, Michael’s little face kept jumping into his mind. A sweet and pretty child who liked red racing cars and green tractors and old ladies. What else did he know about his son? Nothing. Or of Kate? Just a little more than nothing. He had been wrong, so wrong to try and mould her into whatever . . . Into what? What had he wanted? Why all those other women, all those nameless and faceless creatures? Then poor Christine. Regrets, regrets . . .
They lifted him on to a stretcher, and still he felt nothing. His mouth opened to speak, but someone clamped an oxygen mask over his face.
When he came to again, he was in a small white room filled with people. ‘Mother?’ he managed.
‘Sorry,’ said a doctor.
‘Dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Just as well, just as well . . .’ He drifted away again.
‘Your name?’ yelled a voice in his ear. ‘Come on, man, save yourself! What’s your name?’
‘Saunders. Geoff Saunders.’
‘Address?’
‘Fifty Beech Gardens, Edgeford. Phone my daughter. She will be worried.’
They seemed to be studying his feet. ‘There’s no response,’ said a nurse at the foot of the bed. ‘No reflex at all.’
‘I’ve broken my back.’ Geoff’s voice was small. ‘Haven’t I?’
‘We don’t know yet. It could be trauma, bad bruising . . .’
‘It’s broken,’ he repeated sadly. ‘I can feel my arms now, but not my legs. Get Kate. Tell Melanie to get Kate. I want Michael. Bring Michael. I have to apologize. To Kate. I must tell her . . . Get Kate!’
So great was his state of agitation, that the doctor, fearful that further damage might occur, decided to knock him out for the rest of the examination. All the vital signs were normal, but it did look as if the poor chap might have severed his lower spine.
Kate and Melanie came to him that night, sitting for hours by his bed until the sedative drug began to wear off. He blinked his eyes to force them to focus. ‘My girls,’ he smiled. ‘Both my girls. At last . . .’
Melanie choked on a sob. ‘Daddy!’
‘It’s all right, Melanie. Granny Dora can’t hurt any more.’ He looked at Kate. ‘Where’s Michael?’
‘At home, love. This is not the place for him. He’s a noisy little beggar at times. I’ll bring him to see you when you’re a bit better.’
‘Will I get better? Will I?’
‘They say so. I asked them.’
‘My . . . my legs?’
Mel was weeping openly now. ‘They don’t know, Dad. They don’t know . . .’
‘Hush,’ chided Kate gently. ‘Let’s look on the bright side. These things sometimes heal themselves.’
‘And if they don’t?’ His eyes were filled with fear. ‘How the hell do I earn my living?’
Tenderly, Kate stroked the hair from his damp forehead. ‘Let me worry about that,’ she said. ‘Let someone else take charge for a change . . .’
It was a beautiful April day.
Kate drove her new car along Church Road, past the bank where Maureen had had her fracas all those years ago, past the shops and the church and the old village hall. Almost everything remained the same. In Edgeford, not much changed over the years. There was a new corrugated scout hut next to the Post Office, and Kate parked outside this building for a while. Perhaps the fights for space in the village hall were less frequent now? She needed space too, just a few last moments of aloneness during which she might think, assess, speculate about the future.
Michael was asleep on the back seat, hiccuping now and then after that bad bout of crying. He hadn’t liked leaving Steve. Neither had she, because she loved him. It was a hopeless love, but that didn’t make it any less strong. Steve had given so much, had taken nothing. Perhaps if their relationship had been physical, she would not have cared so much for him. The end of an era. Kate sat and studied the village stocks. The past, no matter how bad it had been, was safe because it was known. The future? What did it hold?
Michael coughed and she turned to look at her son. He had kicked up one hell of a fuss when he’d noticed his things being packed. ‘Going to a nice house’ and ‘seeing Daddy and Melanie’ meant little to him. He wanted continuity; he wanted to stay in the only home he could remember. But no-one could remain in the past. So she sat in the present, wondering, as so many have wondered, whether or no this particular present was her correct gateway to the future.
There were Boothroyd puppets in the Post Office window. In classrooms all over Britain, five-year-olds were verbalizing Kate’s cartoons, taking their first steps towards reading. She had done all that. With her hands and her head, with her memories of Jemima and all the mallards, Kate had achieved a great deal.
She sighed heavily. If she hadn’t left home, then Geoff would never have driven to see her on that fateful day. If she’d tried, like Maureen had tried, to be a good wife, a conventional middle-class woman, then Geoff would not be in a wheelchair now. So much to blame herself for! But if she’d stayed, there would have been no Boothroyd, no reading scheme, possibly no Kate! And Geoff might have had an accident anywhere, at any time. It was not her fault, surely? At least she had money now; at least she could replace his income.
It was going to be a long haul. She would have to learn to accept Geoff the way he was, just as he would have to accept her, warts and all. Poor little Michael was probably worst off, a new family to cope with, different surroundings, a complete change of life. It was easier for Kate; Kate had memories of this place. Michael had nothing to build on.
There was quite a crowd gathered on the open-plan lawn in front of number 50. Santosh and Chris, Phil and Maureen, Arthur and Rachel. And standing on the path was Melanie. It looked as if the girl had deliberately set herself aside so that she would be the first to welcome Mum and Michael. Her solitude touched Kate, made her feel guilty all over again. She climbed out of the car and lifted Michael on to the grass, where he made an immediate bee-line for Rachel.
Melanie opened her arms. ‘Welcome home, Mum. I’m so glad . . .’ The rest was muffled by tears and a tight hug. Then they all surrounded Kate with smiles, handshakes and unsteady laughter. Everyone here understood the size of the step she was taking.
Geoff trolleyed his way down the side drive, his right hand shaking on the control of his motor wheelchair. And suddenly, everyone melted away, disappeared into the house, leaving the two of them together.
She looked at him for a long time. He would never walk again. The rest of his life would be spent in bed or on a chair.
‘I’m sorry it had to be this way, Kate,’ he said gruffly. ‘I didn’t want you to have to come home. I wanted you to want to come home.’
Kate smiled. ‘I’m here. That’s a start, isn’t it?’ He needed her. For the first time in her life, she was needed by an adult. ‘We’ll just have to get by as best we can. Are you still in the granny flat?’
He shrugged. ‘Can’t get upstairs.’
‘Then we’ll have a lift put in, buy you a wheelchair for upstairs too.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Neither do I.’
She left him sitting there while she walked across to the brook. Jemima, or perhaps one of her daughters, was leading an armada of ducklings in a straight line through the rushes. On the opposite bank sat a perfect Boothroyd, a pure mallard with all the greens and blues that made him so wonderfully elegant and dinner party-ish.
An arm touched Kate’s shoulder. ‘Katherine? We’ve a meal on, a buffet. Are you coming in, lass?’
Kate turned and looked into the sad-happy face that belonged to Rachel Bottomley. ‘I’m scared, Mam,’ she whispered.
‘You’ll be all right.’
‘Will I?’
‘Aye. Come in now. That lad of yours has demolished a plate of best salmon butties already. He seems quite at home.’
‘Oh, Mother!’
‘What?’
Kate swivelled on her heel and looked at all of it. House, garden, husband in wheelchair, happy faces at the window. She sighed. ‘I don’t know what. Just, oh, Mother, that’s all.’
THE END
About the Author
Ruth Hamilton was born in Bolton and has spent most of her life in Lancashire. Her novels, A Whisper to the Living, With Love From Ma Maguire, Nest of Sorrows, Billy London’s Girls, Spinning Jenny, The September Starlings, A Crooked Mile, Paradise Lane, The Bells of Scotland Road, The Dream Sellers, The Corner House, Miss Honoria West and Mulligan’s Yard, are all published by Corgi Books and she is a national bestseller. She has written a six-part television series and over forty children’s programmes for independent television. Ruth Hamilton now lives in Liverpool with her family.
For more information on Ruth Hamilton and her books, see her website at:
www.Ruth-Hamilton.co.uk
Also by Ruth Hamilton
A WHISPER TO THE LIVING
WITH LOVE FROM MA MAGUIRE
BILLY LONDON’S GIRLS
SPINNING JENNY
THE SEPTEMBER STARLINGS
A CROOKED MILE
PARADISE LANE
THE BELLS OF SCOTLAND ROAD
THE DREAM SELLERS
THE CORNER HOUSE
MISS HONORIA WEST
MULLIGAN’S YARD
and published by Corgi Books
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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A Random House Group Company
www.rbooks.co.uk
NEST OF SORROWS
A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 13755 3
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781446465653
First publication in Great Britain
PRINTING HISTORY
Corgi edition published 1991
7 9 10 8 6
Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 1991
The right of Ruth Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, any any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers
a division of The Random House Group Ltd
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