Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Linda promised. ‘There are other houses over the hill, so don’t think you have just these immediate neighbours. Decent people. Nice little school, and there’s a bike inside for you. Second-hand, but good condition. When we’ve got you settled, I’ll put the saddle right for you and teach you how to use it.’

  Linda Harris was filed immediately under the good people label in Anna’s mind. She talked funny, dressed like a man, smelled a bit of horse poo, but she was a good-people lister, as were Uncle Bert, Auntie Elsie, Father Brogan and Dr Moss. There were a lot more good people than bad. In fact, if it wasn’t for Mam being dead and ‘bloody’ Hitler remaining alive, the world would be a wonderful place. So Anna decided to be as happy as possible and walked with Linda into her new home.

  Three

  The Battle of the Bulge took place a couple of days after Susan moved into the caravan. I named the riot rather appropriately, as I had never seen so many beer bellies flopping about above too-tight waistbands of jeans. This display of sartorial elegance was further improved by T-shirts that had either shrunk in the wash, or simply failed to keep up with the growth of their owners. The possessors of bellies and ill-fitting clothing wanted our Susan, but our Susan didn’t want them.

  Fortunately, Den was away. He would never have coped, since his main concerns in life are his position at work, his membership of Round Table, his beautiful car, and the opinions of his neighbours. Because I have absolutely no patience with bullies, I sent for the police. They came screaming round the corner in a car christened a jam butty by Susan, who is clearly used to the sight of a vehicle with a red stripe across its middle.

  Two jaded constables leaned nonchalantly against the parked vehicle and enjoyed the beauty of the scene. They were so ‘excited’ that they might have been seeing a Renoir for the first time. My front lawn was scattered with beer bottles and broken plant pots. Dog dirt was smeared on the door, and the biggest of the men – our Gary – was screaming at the lesbo inside. According to him, I am a predatory lesbian who has stolen his sister, but the police were not impressed. ‘Right,’ said one before calling for backup. ‘Shut it, Hughes.’ He clicked a switch. ‘Send a wagon,’ he told his radio. ‘It’s the Hughes boys. Yes, it’s them again, and I’m sorry – get the disinfectant. Over and out and a happy Christmas.’ It was nearly August, but he didn’t care.

  ‘The paddy wagon’ll be here in a minute,’ Susan advised. ‘Then we have to get an injunction off a solicitor. If they come anywhere near, they’ll go straight to jail, do not pass go, do not collect a red cent. Daft buggers.’ Thus she dismissed her family before promising to clean up the front once the paddy bus had removed her offending relatives from the vicinity.

  Mrs Bee had to get involved, of course, but she had the sense to leave her gun inside. I came out of the house and whispered, ‘Mention no guns,’ before talking to the constable who had moved Christmas on his calendar. ‘Susan’s in my house,’ I advised him. ‘She’s sleeping in a spare room at present, but she has a caravan in the back garden. They had no room at home, and I am not a lesbian.’

  He chuckled. ‘Listen, love. I wouldn’t let my mother-in-law’s cat live at the Hughes place. It’s like Bedlam, but with a colour telly, and God knows how they came by that. That girl’s the only decent one. She deserves a break.’

  Mrs Bee was having a word or three with the men in handcuffs. ‘Dog shit?’ she yelled. She went on to inform them that if the cops didn’t shift them fast, she would scrape off the offending mess and shove it and her spade sideways right up—’

  ‘All right,’ said the other policeman. ‘Don’t get too graphic, or you’ll be giving the boys ideas above their station.’

  But her dander was up. Watching and hearing her magnificence in full flood was a privilege, and I sat on a low wall while she spat venom. ‘Come round here again and I’ll separate you from your future,’ she promised. ‘Hitler wasn’t all wrong, you know. Folk like you should get casterated, then you couldn’t breed and fill the world with fat bastards.’

  ‘Hang on, love,’ urged the nearest policeman.

  ‘Two bloody world wars, I’ve lived through,’ she went on seamlessly. ‘Good men gone and buried, some of them not even buried because we couldn’t find them. Did they get blown to bits so’s you lot can sit in the house all day drinking beer? Did my brother lose half a leg for you?’

  The offending articles were finally locked in the back of the van.

  She carried on shouting about ‘casteration’ and National Service and idle bastard Scouse gits. It was like watching a film or an early episode of Coronation Street when Ena Sharples had ruled the snug in the Rovers. Tony Warren knew what he was about when he invented the Street, because those powerful women had come through a couple of wars, and therein lay their strength. Though I had to admit that Mrs Bee’s language was a great deal more colourful than anything emerging from a soap opera. ‘Get in here,’ I told her when she stopped for breath. ‘I mean it. You’ll be ill if you don’t calm down.’

  Mrs Bee looked straight through me. ‘I’ll get me bucket,’ she said.

  Between them, the two women cleared up the front of the house while I phoned our lawyer. The injunction was to be sought, but the solicitor, a close friend, became almost hysterical when I told her about Mrs Bee. ‘It’s not funny,’ I said with great solemnity. ‘She could have a stroke or a heart attack, because she can’t help herself.’

  When I returned to the living room, the unmistakable smell of Dettol rose from both occupants. They were having a glass of the famous parsnip wine, but I refused to partake, as I had no intention of being charged with some felony like being drunk in charge of a pram.

  ‘Can me mam still come round?’ asked an anxious Susan.

  ‘Yes. I knocked her off the list.’ And it was quite a lengthy list. How so many could fit into a three-bedroomed house I would never understand. ‘Don’t drink any more of that,’ I told her. ‘You’ll be seeing double and walking like a ruptured duck.’

  She giggled. It was already too late, because her system hadn’t become inured to Mrs Bee’s wines. It is my belief that a person needs to work hard and slowly before setting foot inside a three-yard radius of Mrs Bee’s alcoholic beverages. Even a small dose can be nearly lethal, as I had discovered after imbibing a couple of sips of her rhubarb 1969.

  Mrs Bee went home. She travelled in a line that was less than straight, and would probably sleep off her problem in her favourite chair. But Susan had a baby to care for and – She was snoring softly, and I needed to amend my opinion. ‘Anna,’ I said. ‘Today, you have three babies.’

  It was, in fact, easier with three. Stephen lay between my girls and all was well. All was nearly well. I shivered. He was too quiet, too good, too perfect. The little lad was just . . . there. An occasional smile, a gurgle, a small movement of the arms . . . Beyond that, there seemed to be little in him. The day of the dog-shitty door was the day on which I began to worry about a small creature whose name was neither Lottie nor Emily. They could lift their heads, sometimes trying to raise themselves up on their arms when face down on the floor. He stayed where he was put. An icy finger travelled the length of my spine. There was possibly something wrong with little Stephen Hughes.

  We both like the graveyard behind St Luke’s in Hesford. We walk under the lych gate and along shale paths until we reach the back of the church. Older stones bear names of some very young occupants. It is easy now to believe that early in the century, one in five children died before they achieved a second birthday.

  She hasn’t said anything about Stephen. I have dropped a hint or two, but Susan insists that boys are always slower than girls until they reach their teens. Our prams are parked under a tree, and we rest on a bench nearby. ‘Susan?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He doesn’t play, does he?’

  She looks towards the prams. ‘I know, but he doesn’t kick the daylights out of Lottie, either, so let’s count our
blessings.’

  She is right, of course. But while my older twin is troublesome, she is developing, as is Lottie. They always reach for me, ‘talk’ to me, laugh at me. ‘He doesn’t often cry, does he?’

  ‘I’m lucky,’ Susan says.

  Running out of options, I decide to go for the full works. There is a baby involved and, much as I like that baby’s mother, he is the one who is truly important. This is not going to be easy. Shall I wait until we get home? Oh, God. ‘Susan, have none of the nurses at the clinic said anything about him?’

  She blushes slightly. ‘Not much, no.’

  ‘What have they said?’

  Susan turns and looks hard at me. ‘One said he wasn’t . . . wasn’t coming on as he should, but he might catch up suddenly. They do, you know.’

  ‘Yes, they all have their own speed. Emily focused properly weeks before Lottie did.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘He’s a bit floppy,’ I say.

  ‘Leave it, Anna. Please leave it.’

  Looking at her now, I see the girl I first caught sight of in the village hall on baby clinic day. She is lost, lonely and terrified. ‘I can’t talk about it,’ she tells me. Fear blazes behind unshed tears. She begins to rock back and forth like some long-neglected inmate in an ancient mental institution. ‘Please, Anna,’ she repeats.

  I move closer and pull her into my arms. Her hair smells of my shampoo. She is young, tiny, beautiful and immeasurably afraid. ‘You can say anything at all to me, Susan. If he needs hospital tests, I’ll go with you. I will never, ever betray you. I won’t take the caravan away from you, and I’ll deal with any trouble like I dealt with your brothers. From the age of five, I’ve lived with fear and emptiness. But I stamped on it. I still have to manage it. My dreams and nightmares are not controllable, but I cope. Give me your burden.’

  ‘At home,’ she answers. ‘Let me think while we walk home.’

  To my extreme disappointment, Den’s car is on the driveway. I send Susan to the caravan and go into the house. It’s deadly silent. Perhaps Amsterdam has worn him out, because the house feels empty. Without knowing why, I creep upstairs and along the landing. He is in the bathroom and hasn’t closed the door. My husband is sitting on the loo picking at his pubic area. Whatever he harvests goes into the washbasin.

  I stand there for several seconds. This person, managing director of the largest company in the area, is collecting crab lice. I remember Auntie Elsie’s weekly safari for nits when I was young, then I clear my throat. ‘Would you like me to see if the chemist has a little fine-toothed comb for your pubes?’ I ask, my tone light and pleasant.

  Red-faced, he jumps up. ‘They mustn’t have changed the sheets,’ he cries.

  ‘Bollocks,’ is my immediate response. It’s appropriate, at least. ‘You come back from Amsterdam with crabs? They don’t live in sheets. You’ve picked them up from a whore, you stupid man.’

  ‘She wasn’t a—’ His face reddens even further.

  ‘Whatever she was, there was wildlife on her body. Now. Listen to me, Denis Fairbanks. Come near me again, and I shall not be answerable for my actions. Remember, I’m post-natal, so it wouldn’t be murder. Get out of this house now, and take your crabby little friends with you. I want you gone by six, otherwise I phone the doctor and tell him about your little visitors.’

  ‘But Anna—’

  ‘Bugger off. I mean it, Den. You are a despicable, spineless little shit.’I descend the stairs and he tries to follow me, trousers and underpants round his ankles, sweat pouring from his brow. He reminds me of one of those Brian Rix oops-the-vicar’s-lost-his-dignity farces, and I find myself laughing. Bad mistake. He has a sense of humour until he becomes the subject of ridicule. Is he really English?

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that, you bitch,’ he shouts.

  For some reason or other, I cannot take this man seriously. He wants patting on the head and praising several times a day. Like a dog, he needs to be told how precious he is. ‘Hear me, birdbrain,’ I say. ‘Get out, or I’ll go and ask Mrs Bee if she knows a remedy for crabs. She’ll start off with a recipe, I daresay, but I’ll soon put her right. Get to a clinic and, when you’ve got rid of your sexually transmitted lodgers, find yourself somewhere to live, because you, too, are a louse.’

  When I get outside, I am shaking so much that I can scarcely steer the pram. My bolster is still in place, but Emily is getting so strong that she will soon be able to kick it out of the pram. Lottie is asleep, and Emily glares at me. She always has to be placed at the end facing me. If I put her at the other end, she screams like a banshee. I am fed up with everything, but Susan needs help. My divorce will be sooner rather than later; I must sit it on a low light for a while, as young Stephen deserves my attention more.

  But I don’t get the chance, as Susan is learning fast. She’s becoming very astute when it comes to the assessment of people. ‘What happened?’ she asks. ‘Something’s happened – I can tell.’

  So I tell her. If I am expecting her to open up her heart, I have to be prepared to do the same.

  ‘Bugger in a bucket,’ she says. I can tell she is truly shocked. When she has placed all three babies on a soft rug – Stephen in the centre, of course – she asks me what I am going to do.

  ‘Divorce,’ I say. ‘Then, perhaps I’ll go back to work. You cope with the kids and you get free bed and board, plus all child allowance and a small wage on top. OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘What if it had been something worse than crabs, Anna?’

  I shrug. ‘Life’s a bitch, then you get syphilis.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ she chides.

  ‘I’m joking. Do you think I’m going to let him near me again? He’s got till six to sod off, then, if he’s still here, I phone the doctor and tell him about Den’s new pets.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘Just watch this space if and when,’ I tell her. ‘And put the kettle on.’

  Susan makes three bottles for the babies while I change their nappies. It’s half past five. He has half an hour to bugger off out of here. If necessary, we can all sleep in the caravan, because I am not going inside the house while he remains. I already feel itchy all over every time I think about those blinking lice. I don’t give a damn about all his women, but he should keep the filth away from me and my kids.

  ‘So I’ll live in the house when he’s gone?’ Susan asks.

  ‘Yes. But he won’t go without a fight, love. This house and the extra acre are evidence of his success. He has a position to maintain, and I am his wife – he owns me. And it’s all the fault of womankind – his mother reared him as if he were another Messiah.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.

  I allow her a tight smile. ‘Just watch a professional at work, babe. Then, when the road’s cleared, we’ll talk about Stephen.’

  Six o’clock comes, and he is still in the house. I can open none of the doors, as he has put the bolts on. OK. I leave the children with Susan and walk to a telephone box on the main road. After informing our doctor that I have had to move into the caravan with three babies and another mother, I explain that I cannot share a home with a man who has a venereal problem. Next, I phone our solicitor and give her the same news. ‘Before he jumps in and asks you,’ I tell her, ‘I want you for my side of the divorce.’

  Smiling grimly, I go into the pub for a quick brandy. It’s early, so the place is empty apart from a couple of old men playing dominoes. The landlord asks me if I am all right and, after swallowing the alcohol, I tell him I am fine and dandy, thanks. Feeling slightly more optimistic, I walk home and remember my childhood beliefs, the strength of my faith in the Catholic Church. No divorce. Divorce is a sin, but no one ever mentioned prostitutes and crab lice, did they? No longer bound by archaic law, I march down Beech Grove and knock at my own door.

  ‘Come in,’ he says after opening it.

  ‘I’ll come in when you’re out. I’ve started div
orce proceedings, and the doctor knows why the twins and I are living in the van. Get out now, or I go to Mrs Bee. And I am sure the firm would like to hear about your jaunts on the continent. A word with Mrs Bee, and the whole village will know within the hour. Get packing, Buster.’

  He looks at me with those big, doggy eyes. He’s scared to death of another breakdown, of being alone, of not owning a wife, a house, an acre and a couple of kids. I can almost read his simple thoughts – because he is simple. He will have to start applying for jobs elsewhere, will need to convince everyone that he has ended the marriage, will want to find some female clown who will take him on and do kitchens and bedrooms. Really, he requires a cook who works as a concubine on the side. He should advertise. ‘You need to be married,’ I tell him. ‘I need not to be married. So find somebody PDQ and pray she doesn’t have the brains to see through the sham that you are.’

  He blinks rapidly. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m joking. Let’s go upstairs, make mad, passionate love and give your tenants a future. We could set up our own little farm and sell them to people who want to plant evidence. Grow up, for God’s sake.’ I take a step back. ‘Hello, Mrs Bee,’ I say, turning my head as if in response to her presence. She isn’t there, and neither is Den – he’s stepping away.

  He closes the door and I hear him running up the stairs. He’ll go. He’ll have to go in case I start alerting the neighbourhood about his carelessness. Mrs Bee continues to be absent, but he thinks she’s with me. She’s probably inside like all sensible people, will be helping her daughter to prepare the evening meal.

  Back in the van, all babies are asleep in a row along the sofa. Susan and I are a bit cheesed off, so she dashes off to the chip shop while I stay with the offspring. It’s all been a bit musical chairs, and I sink gratefully into the sofa next to our children. Asleep, Emily is nothing short of gorgeous. Lottie is pretty, but Emily the Terrible is a thing of beauty rather than a joy for ever. It’s so hard. This post-natal disquiet from which I am supposedly suffering should make it impossible to love either of my babies. The awesome truth is that I adore Lottie and am scared to death of Emily.