We are aiming for the Highwayman and, if Maureen’s driving gets any worse, any highwayman will be a victim of hit-and-run, and even his horse will be a goner. But it’s the pub we need. The Highwayman’s a happy hunting ground to which bored housewives repair at the end of another boring day with a boring family. They search for a bite of someone else’s apple, and my apple is probably in there now with his latest huntress. Descriptions of the would-be Diana are scary. She has hair dyed jet black, wears at least three pairs of false eyelashes, and has a bosom big enough to preclude the need for a table at meal times.
‘Worrif she’s not there?’ asks Maureen, who has become excitable due to the misbehaviour of her car. Her pronunciation tends to deteriorate when she’s stressed.
‘Diana? She’ll be there,’ I answer.
‘Is that her name?’
I shrug. ‘Goddess of the hunt. No idea of her name, but she’s been seen pointing her arrows at Den, so we need to get the real name for the divorce petition.’
Susan and I wait in the Mini, because Den might recognize her – he’d certainly remember me. Maureen squeezes her bulk through the driver’s open door, and I find myself waiting for Maureen to get stuck.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Susan tells me. ‘She knows what she’s doing. She’ll know him from the photo you gave her, and she’ll see you right, I promise.’
‘She’d better. She’ll get no car out of me if she fails.’
‘There you go, then,’ Susan says. ‘She’s got a good incentive, so—’
‘Why has she left the engine running?’ I ask.
The answer arrives in the shape of our Maureen plus two handbags, one of which is clearly not her own. She tosses these items at the two of us in the rear seat, squeezes herself into place, then roars off the forecourt and round the corner.
‘Jesus.’ Susan was speaking for both of us. ‘It’s terrifying, Maureen. Have you done a bank robbery or something?’
‘As good as,’ she says as she waits for the bypass lights to change. ‘I pinched her bag. She never noticed and neither did he – they were practically glued together.’
I pull myself into some sort of order. ‘That’s because he has a gob like a suction cup – they may need to be separated surgically. Maureen, keep your eyes on the road, love. I want to get home in one piece and preferably without being charged with theft.’
Maureen laughs. ‘This is nothing, mate. Good job you don’t live by me – your nerves’d be shredded. They come home with three-piece suites, pianos – one feller turned up with a coffin last week for his mam, and she’s not even dead yet. She’s nearly dead, like, but not quite.’
Oh my God. All I wanted was a name. Person or persons unknown could be OK, but a name is better when it comes to adultery. I wish we’d never bothered. I’ll be having a heart attack at this rate – coffins, pianos? I am in with the criminal element! When we turn right at the roundabout, I get the distinct feeling that we are on two wheels, because our Maureen is bigger than the rest of us, and we are listing to starboard. Or is it port? Whatever, we’re in a mess. Please, God, just get us home. It’s starboard, I think.
We enter the house and throw ourselves onto chairs. Marie is watching TV and hardly notices us.
‘That,’ I tell our Maureen sternly, ‘was a waste of time. You were supposed to get her talking, find out her name in the general run of conversation.’
‘Run of conver-bloody-sation? She was halfway down your husband’s throat, girl.’
I sigh. ‘Look. She’ll notice that her handbag is missing. If she puts two and two together, she might just realize that I’ve got her name, address and so forth out of that missing handbag. The evidence is useless if it’s stolen.’
‘You weren’t there.’
‘I was. I was outside in a car. Of sorts.’
Maureen stands up, leaves the room and returns almost immediately with a cloth and a pair of Marigolds. She dons the rubber gloves, cleans the outside of the bag, then tips its contents onto the floor. Susan copies down all she needs before watching while our Maureen puts everything back.
‘Where are you going now?’ I ask as Maureen turns to leave the scene.
‘To put the handbag back,’ is her answer. ‘I’ll borrow your driving gloves off that stand in the hall.’
Susan and I jump up.
‘Stop where you are.’ Maureen has clearly had enough. ‘I am going by myself, because you two are as much use as concrete cushions.’
At last, Marie looks up. ‘Has something happened?’ she asks.
I can’t help it. I double over with laughter and tears stream down my face. The perfect stupidity of the situation has me in pleats. Concentrating on a soap opera has allowed Marie to miss everything. I suppose she’s used to this sort of carry-on; I am not.
‘What’s up with her?’ Marie asks her daughter. ‘And where’s our Maureen gone again?’
Oh, the pain of it. I sink to the floor and curl like a baby in the womb.
‘Is she always like this?’ Marie further enquires. ‘Is she on tablets?’
It seems that Susan isn’t coping too well, either. She leaves the room and I hear the door of the downstairs loo slamming home.
‘Anna?’
I look at poor Marie. ‘Yes?’
‘What are you laughing at?’
I can’t tell her about the dyed-haired, huge-breasted goddess of the hunt. I certainly can’t tell tales about poor Maureen, because poor Maureen is up to her neck in it already. I stand up. ‘I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll put the kettle on.’
Susan joins me in the kitchen. ‘What if she gets caught?’ she asks. ‘How will we know?’
‘Oh, stop it. She’ll be back soon, won’t she?’
Susan shrugs. ‘Or she’ll be in a cop car. Whatever happens, our Maureen’ll take it in her stride.’
‘But she can’t go to prison, Susan.’
‘Why not? They keep her bed aired between visits. Just calm down, because my mam thinks you’re ready for a straitjacket.’
We carry tea through to the living room, but Marie is engrossed again in a television programme. She’s forgotten me, and I’m glad about that. I keep glancing at my watch and looking at the clock. If Maureen gets picked up and charged with theft, I’ll never forgive myself.
A sound like gunshot makes me rush to the door. Thank God. That antiquated little Mini has served its time and is backfiring because it’s worn out, poor thing. Maureen gets out of the wreck. ‘Never again,’ she says, her eyes fixed on me. ‘I’ve had enough now, Anna. Let me in.’
She steps inside. ‘She’d come up for air after kissing your husband, yon Diana—’
‘Dolores,’ Susan says.
Maureen ignores her and motors on. ‘She was on her hands and knees looking for her bag. Your feller was on his hands and knees looking for her, because the place was pretty full. So I dropped me bundle, and I says to the woman next to me, “Hey, what’s that under the chair?” and it’s the handbag. So the woman next to me’s an ‘ero, and I cleared off sharpish.’
‘Shush,’ orders Marie. ‘I’m just getting into this.’
My life thus far has been eventful and interesting, but the colours added by this family are primary shades. No pastels or delicate greys for the Hughes clan – they remind me of Laurie Lee, who wrote in great splashes of colour, but you never knew where his next spillage would settle. ‘You are amazing,’ I tell Maureen from the bottom of my heart.
‘And you owe me a car.’
I can’t help myself. I throw my arms as far as they will reach around our Maureen, and burst into tears.
The adverts are on. Marie stands up and touches my shoulder. ‘Listen, love. You want to see a doctor about all this – laughing your head off one minute, whinging the next. I had an auntie like that. Finished up in the funny farm for a month. They plugged her into the mains a few times, then she was great. Well, she was quiet, which was a big improvement. Have you tried evening primrose?’ Her play ha
s started again, so she can’t wait for an answer.
It’s a white Hillman Imp so-called estate, very square, and with a rear door so that Maureen can easily stash her shopping. Or shoplifting. My friend from Skelmersdale has brought the car round, and is about to load the defunct Mini onto a breakdown vehicle.
Maureen walks round the Imp. ‘Looks like an ice-cream van,’ she says. ‘All I need is a jingle-jangler and a bit of a fridge – I could coin it in down Crosby beach. Few lollies, ninety-nines, wafers.’
‘Someone has the franchise,’ I tell her. ‘Please stay out of trouble, Maureen.’
‘Call me Mo. I love you. You’re a bit mad, like, but I’ve took to you. And thanks for this, love. First time anybody’s given me anything for a long while, I can tell you that. And, er . . .’ She drops her voice. ‘Our Sue. Twenty-four carat, she is. Something rotten’s happened to her. I don’t know what, but she’s a lot better with you, Anna. She’s nearly back to how she was before she had our Stephen. Look after her, and she’ll look after you. I mean it.’
I nod.
‘Do you know what happened to her?’
‘She won’t talk about anything,’ I say carefully. ‘Get this one taxed and insured, will you? Otherwise, you’ll never be out of the woods.’
The Mini is finally abandoned after Mo ‘blesses’ it with a drop of holy water. Although she made the pronouncement last night that religion does no good, she clearly believes in the Last Rites. She goes into the house, brings Susan out, shows off her new car.
Susan admires it and goes to check on the children. I follow Susan into the house. The children are lined up on the sofa, and Susan is counting toes. For once, Stephen is not the buffer between my girls, and all three are watching and listening to Susan. Emily glares at Lottie a couple of times, and I know exactly how she feels. I remember. I remember Kate and Beckie handed over to a stranger at Preston’s of Bolton because I wanted them not to be a part of my family. Oh, yes. A place in me understands Emily only too well. Is this to be my punishment?
It happens very suddenly. One minute, it’s This Little Piggy Went to Market, and the next is chaos. Emily has dug her nails into the back of Lottie’s hand. I act too quickly and slap my bigger twin. She looks at me disdainfully and doesn’t even bother to cry. Lottie makes enough noise for both of them. I pick her up and carry her out of the room. At the bottom of the stairs, we sit, Lottie and I. She sobs out her little heart while I weep into her hair.
A long time ago, I disliked intensely two little girls whose births caused my beloved mother to die. Did God disapprove of me for that? Has He watched me down the years, has He sent me a repeat prescription in the shape of Charlotte and Emily? Even now, with Catholicism fading to grey in my life, I still manage to believe in God. Also, I have read enough child psychology to begin to understand that my reaction to my sisters was not abnormal. But would Katherine and Rebecca have turned out differently had I loved them better, had our mother lived?
Susan joins us. ‘She’s fallen asleep. He’s playing on the floor. Don’t cry.’
I shake my head. ‘Will Emily carry on like this?’ I ask. I’m the teacher, for goodness sake – why should I need comfort from this young woman?
‘I don’t know,’ she answers. ‘But you shouldn’t smack Emily. You should never hurt a baby.’
‘She had to be stopped before she drew blood. Susan, it’s getting worse by the day.’
‘It will stop,’ she says determinedly. ‘I’ll go and do us some fish fingers for our lunch.’ And off she goes. And I’m still sitting here at the bottom of a blue-carpeted flight of stairs, Lottie in my arms, Emily on her own in the living room. So. I have to start leaving Lottie with Stephen so that I can spend quality time with Emily. I have to love her. I have to learn. Life’s not easy, is it?
Susan is both brave and willing. She has taken out all three babies, Emily strapped to her chest, the other two in my twin pram. An hour without children is an island of bliss, but the strata in the rock include several layers of guilt. I sit doing absolutely nothing. I’m thinking, I suppose. About Den and his girlfriend, about Maureen, about this poor chap Alec Halliwell who is about to get a phone call from me. I hope Susan is OK, hope Emily behaves herself.
Here we go again. I am not allowed to be alone – the doorbell has just informed me of that. It’s Geoff. Still young, still beautiful, still with come-to-bed eyes that crinkle in the corners. He got fed up waiting, he says. He has been driving past to make sure that Den wasn’t here. He didn’t like to keep phoning in case he woke the twins.
I hold the door wide. ‘Come in. You’re ruining Mothers’ Hour, so you’re committing a mortal sin.’
‘Is it on?’
‘No. It isn’t even a programme. I offloaded the kids and got some time to myself.’
He’s sorry and he says so. ‘How are you, Anna?’
Edited highlights will have to do, so I skim over the surface of recent events. His face lights up when I tell him about the coming divorce. He thinks everything’s so simple – move from one man to another, settle down, drink wine, have sex, go for walks. He isn’t stupid – he’s a very good deputy head – but he’s a man, so he misses some of the detail.
‘So you’ve had a bit of a rough time, then?’
‘You could say that, Geoff.’
He asks me to go for dinner with him soon, and I tell him I’ll think about it. There’s no kissing, no cuddling, not today, not in a house that belongs to my daughters. It’s like seeing the Hay Wain painted onto a tumultuous Turner seascape – Geoff is in the wrong setting. And I am becoming what Mrs Bee might term flummoxed. Geoff notices that. He does see some of the detail, then. Loving this man could be so easy. It could also be cradle-snatching – I’m twelve years his senior.
The side door crashes inward. ‘I’m back,’ yells Susan.
She walks into the house, looks at my visitor, says, ‘Whoops,’ and does a swift about-turn. Peace, perfect peace? Tell me about it.
He goes out through the front door. Susan, still wearing Emily, returns from the side. ‘Was that him?’
Oh, not again. We’ve been through this before.
After a small silence, she says what she needs to say. ‘Then the twins are definitely Den’s.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because that other one—’
‘Geoff?’
‘Yes. He’s black.’
‘Is he?’ I say. ‘I never noticed.’ Does she hear the sarcasm? No idea.
‘Are you . . . er . . .?’
‘What?’
‘Are you back with him, like?’
‘No. I’m with me.’ That’s how it has to be for the foreseeable future. I have to love me before I can love anyone else. But Susan doesn’t need to know that. She has enough to carry with that heavy twin of mine pinned to her bosom. I relieve Susan of her burden. ‘Were they good?’ I ask.
‘Oh, yes. But Emily pulls some terrible faces. I had a job not to laugh. There’s a funny little devil in there somewhere, Anna. Not just the naughty one. She’s got a sense of humour.’
Ah, well. Where there’s life, there’s hope.
My cup runs over about an hour after supper. Susan is still washing dishes, while I have just walked downstairs after putting our children to bed. It’s a lovely evening, with a spectacular sunset dipping away towards the Mersey plain, mackerel clouds, orange streaks resting on an improbable aquamarine. If an artist were to paint this faithfully, no one would believe that it had not emerged from the fevered imagination of a person who might have cut off an ear.
So. Now we have Den. He stands outside the front door, shoulders rounded, head bowed, hands clasped in front of his body. I half expect him to remove his shoes, because he seems to be begging admission to some holy place.
‘What now?’ I ask.
He looks at me. Paul McCartney eyes again. I’ve always preferred John Lennon, but that doesn’t matter. ‘It’s all been a mistake,’ he says.
My face i
s blank. At least, I hope it is. ‘You’d better come in.’ He follows me into the living room, but I haven’t finished. ‘I shall be talking to Mr Halliwell about his wife and her relationship with you.’
His lower lip hangs, puts me in mind of half an orange that has been sucked dry. Almost dry. ‘Have I been followed?’ he asks.
I use part of the truth. ‘You’ve been seen by several people in the Highwayman with Mrs Halliwell.’
He seems to have lost a few inches in height. Height matters to him, because I am just about half an inch shorter than he is, so I’ve had to be careful with shoes. I’ve had to be careful with a lot of things, actually. ‘Den, you came home with crab lice. You tried to kill me. You’re fornicating with someone who’s just about ready to start learning to read. This marriage is over, and I’ve a feeling hers will be, too. I hope you’ll take responsibility for the poor soul when she’s homeless.’
‘I want to come back,’ he almost whimpers.
‘Well, you can’t. This house is the twins’ home. You can make a nice new life with Dolores.’
He gulps audibly. I can see that a future with a big bosom and no brain is not an attractive prospect in his book. Perhaps he’ll run away and get a job on the continent, because some of his harem out there must be uninfected. Or disinfected, at least. Susan is going upstairs. She’s quiet, but he hears her. ‘That girl still here?’ he asks.
‘She helps,’ I reply. ‘And, if you hurt me again, I have a witness in residence. Don’t mess with her, because she has a family who’ll bend your membership card as soon as look at you. So. Is our business concluded?’
‘I don’t know you, Anna,’
‘You never did. I, on the other hand, know you only too well.’
The thing that really hurts is that he doesn’t ask to see the girls. Any normal man would grab with both hands the opportunity to creep upstairs and look at his children, but he isn’t normal. My doctor, who should know better, has told me that my husband is mad, and I thought he meant mad for endangering his marriage, but I am not so sure now. Manic depression has been mentioned, as has a drug with an unpronounceable title. Den showed me the prescription before binning it a few weeks ago. I am pretty sure that he’s seeing a psychiatrist.
Sugar and Spice Page 9
