Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

  But I broke number one and, in a way, I mended the breakage by saving Stephen. Any adult would rescue the child and get rid of the man. We’re programmed that way – it’s something to do with the continuation of the species. Come back, Maureen!

  As if in response to my unspoken request, Maureen enters with poker. ‘He’ll not be doing any more damage,’ she said. ‘I’ll just wash this poker—’

  ‘Is he dead?’ I shout.

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ is Maureen’s answer. ‘With a head as thick as his, he likely never felt a bloody thing – he was as pissed as a fart. He’s gone home. And he’s scared to bloody death of me, ’cos he knows I’m not nice with most men.’ She sits on the arm of a sofa, still clutching the weapon. ‘See, when you’ve been used as a parking place with fringe benefits, you look at them different. And soft shite knows I’d kill him as soon as spit on him. And I have friends. Some of them are armed and dangerous even on Sundays.’ She reaches out and strokes Susan’s hair. ‘You’ve got us, kid. And better still you’ve got Anna.’ She turns to me. ‘You knew already. She trusts you, babe.’

  Maureen has gone to wash the poker. She brings it back and tells me to hold it. ‘Just in case. Your fingerprints would be on here anyway, you see.’ Rubber gloves again. People with a criminal history are good to know, because they think of everything. ‘Thanks, Mo,’ I manage finally.

  ‘Look at you,’ she says. ‘You’re in a hell of a state. Here I am worrying about fingerprints, and you’re as white as a sheet.’

  So is Marie. She’s gone very still and silent, though she’s continuing to hold her beloved daughter. I open my mouth and force it to work. ‘She may finish what I started,’ I warn Maureen. ‘Marie, I mean. No one gets away with messing up her girl.’

  Maureen nods. ‘Don’t worry, queen. I’m in charge. It’ll be OK.’

  With that, I have to be satisfied. Maureen helps me upstairs and undresses me. ‘Get in that bloody bed now, you,’ she orders. ‘Me and our Marie’ll be stopping tonight. I’ll get you a sleeping pill.’

  ‘Are you on sleeping pills?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I buy them in a pub. They’re good. You can’t overdose. They’ve made them so you can’t kill yourself.’ She smiles at me. ‘Working girls need them, so I get them for my mates. On the game, you’ve a lot to block out before you can sleep.’

  I am in a room with my children and I am weeping into a pillow with a name. The best thought in my head is built on knowledge and instinct – if Alec were here now, he would simply hold me and comfort me. That’s how I know it’s love. That, and the gas fire. Smiling through saline, I fall asleep suddenly. The pills work.

  Life, as they say, has to go on. Before the business with Gary, we had already chosen two of our guinea-pigs carefully, because both are on my side. One is Juliet Anderson, my lawyer; the other unfortunate creature is Alec, who is bringing with him his older daughter, Jo. Mrs Bee, the fiercest critic of my acquaintance, will also be among us. And poor Alec will be the only male. We couldn’t think of a sixth, because most folk travel in pairs, so five will have to suffice. I have been nominated Minister without portfolio, and my brief is a roving one, in case anything goes wrong. I am to sit and eat until or unless otherwise ordered. In the background, Susan, Mo and Marie will be serving up just three courses. If my experience so far with this trio of women is anything to go by, the evening should be interesting.

  We are summoned to the dining room, where Maureen is moved to make a short speech. By that, I mean that the other two have forced her into it. ‘Third Party, without fire or theft, is the name Anna gave us. This is just a try-out, because normally, we wouldn’t be here. Well, we might be here, like, in Anna’s house, but we wouldn’t be here in your house when you’re eating. Any road, it’s mulligawotsit, then chicken with olives and them dry tomatoes—’

  ‘Sun-dried,’ I say helpfully. I would never have chosen mulligatawny before chicken, but who am I to offer criticism? Just the only investor, that’s all.

  ‘Yeah – like she said. And I don’t know what’s for pud, because our Susan changed her mind about five times.’

  At this point, I advise the guests that I have done none of the cooking, so any digestive difficulties should not be placed at my door. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ says Alec. He sounds like an accountant. ‘I know where the loo is.’ He doesn’t sound like an accountant.

  Juliet comes off worst, because while the rest of us drink water after taking a sip of the soup, she has bravely imbibed a whole spoonful. I never before saw her move so fast.

  Marie’s dulcet tones can be heard over the sound of my solicitor coughing and spluttering in the downstairs bathroom. ‘Can you not read, you daft bugger? That’s two teaspoons, not two friggin’ tablespoons.’ She puts her head round the door. ‘Sorry,’ she says sweetly. ‘Just a small problem with the staff.’ She disappears again. ‘If any of that lot has false teeth, they’ll be melted by now, you soft mare,’ she screams.

  I look at my majestic table with its elegant crystal, beautiful flower arrangements, pretty candles and good Irish linen. Mrs Bee is laughing until tears stream down her face, my soon-to-be lover is making sure his daughter has survived the experiment, and I am listening to poor Juliet who is still in the loo. ‘Would anyone like some wine?’ I ask innocently. That just about puts the tin hat on it, because everyone is suddenly helpless. Even Juliet, when she returns, is weak with mirth bordering on hysteria. ‘Poisoners,’ she manages to gasp before sinking into her chair.

  Maureen comes in. ‘Erm . . .’ She exits quickly. Over gales of laughter, I hear her complaining, ‘No use talking to that lot in there. They’re all away with the bleeding mixer.’

  We calm down eventually. And Mrs Bee fixes Alec with a steely stare. ‘Is it you?’ she demands to know.

  He nods.

  ‘Is it you what’s wife’s run off with Anna’s husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that your daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’ll be asking you to present your documents next,’ I advise him. ‘Plead the fifth.’

  The chicken is a triumph, so things calm down in the kitchen. Juliet starts making eyes at Alec until I kick her under the table. ‘If you have five minutes, I’d like to talk to you later,’ she says. So I kick her again – what are friends for?

  The pièce de résistance is the third course. A mountain of profiteroles is carried in by a very proud Susan. She was determined to triumph over choux pastry, and she has certainly achieved that. Mrs Bee puts some on one side for her daughter and son-in-law. ‘You, girl,’ she says to Susan, ‘are a natural pastry chef.’

  ‘So’s our Maureen,’ comes the reply. ‘Which is why she should have stayed away from Mulligatawny. It was our Maureen that showed me how to do profiteroles.’ She lowers her tone. ‘She’s no good with soup. Me mam’s the one for soups, but she’s shy.’

  Marie isn’t shy at all. Marie is wondering when she’s going to get her hands on Gary and who’s going to help her kill him. So she hasn’t been concentrating on Third Party, because she’s upset.

  Juliet and I repair to the garden so that we can talk and she can smoke without annoying anyone. Halfway between the house and the caravan, we have a rockery and an arbour with seats, so we sit there while she puffs on a Silk Cut. I have plenty to tell her, and she is on her second king size before I’ve dragged the baby out of the water. ‘Where is he?’ she asks.

  ‘Upstairs asleep.’

  ‘Not him. Don’t get cute with me, Anna, just because that man in there is ringing your chimes.’

  ‘We don’t know where Gary is. But I’m worried that his mother might finish him off.’ I take a deep breath. ‘You know what I tell you is in confidence, don’t you?’

  She nods. ‘Of course.’

  ‘He raped Susan, Juliet. She was a virgin, wanted to do exams and become a vet nurse, but he impregnated her and—’

  ‘And that’s why he tried to kill the little bo
y,’ she finishes for me. ‘He won’t prosecute you – he’s too much of a coward, I’d guess. But thanks for telling me, Anna. Jeez, what a time you’ve had. But that man in there – is that Dolores’s husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you and he are . . .?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re still doing the mating dance – give me a drag of that ciggy.’ I inhale, and it makes me dizzy. Glad I gave up. ‘I am helplessly and hopelessly in love with him.’

  She sighs. ‘Don’t give Den grounds for a counter-suit. Alec’s daughter’s old enough to tell her mother what’s going on. Whilst there’s supposed to be no guilty party, and while all divorces are based on simple breakdown, judges do judge. Don’t endanger our position. Now,’ she taps my hand, ‘tell me about him.’

  I find myself painting a beautiful word-picture of a man standing in front of a sunset, a man who is gentle, yet keen and powerful. ‘He’s good, Juliet. That’s all I can say about him. He’s a lovely, ordinary, extraordinary person with humour and good looks – have you seen his hands? So beautiful. I imagine them moving over the strings of a violin or the keys of a piano.’

  ‘Or over you,’ she says.

  ‘Yes. Or over me with all my stretch marks and wobbly bits – yes. Falling in love with me has given him pain – he didn’t plan this when we met for lunch. It’s as if it was already there in that dreadful pub, part of the menu. I have to go along with it, have to see what happens next. It may burn out.’

  She stamps on her cigarette stub. ‘And it may not. Go to it, girl. But be very, very careful.’

  It’s Tuesday. I am a physical and emotional wreck; Gary, suffering from loss of memory and severe concussion, has been discovered in Providence Hospital covered in bandages and confusion. I did that. His brothers are planning to take him home and wait to see if a familiar environment will act as an aide mémoire.

  Marie is shaken. Maureen is walking about with a face like a bad knee – all lines and wrinkles. Little Susan is scared. She’s holding onto her son almost every minute of the day, and I wonder whether we should hire a bodyguard. I gather them together in the dining room. ‘I want you all to stay here for a few nights. Not just because I may not be here, but because there’s strength in numbers. Now. Do we have an our-somebody-or-other in the depths of Liverpool who’s trustworthy? A man, I mean.’

  Maureen shakes her worried head. ‘We don’t do men in our family. We do piss-heads, coke-heads, dick-heads and weedy bastards who couldn’t swat a fly. Men? Not a one.’

  Marie stands up. ‘Gary’s got at least one more night in hospital. They’re not letting him out till tomorrow at the earliest.’ Her face and voice are grim. Something’s going to happen, but it won’t be here, in my house. I stare at Marie and see that her eyes, while open, are closed to me for a few seconds. She’s blank. We have all been shut out yet again, because there is stuff going on in her head.

  ‘Marie?’ says Maureen.

  ‘What? Look, leave me alone. I have to deal with this, because he’s my son and he’s something else as well.’ She straightens her shoulders. ‘Let me put it this way – he won’t be living in this village any more. I can guarantee that.’

  The icy finger of fear traces a line down my backbone. I am hearing words she isn’t saying, am sensing her determination.

  She hasn’t finished. ‘Me and Maureen are going to take our Susan and Stephen to our house, and your two and the dog can come as well. There’ll be nobody here, babe. We’ll manage.’ She sniffs, so some emotion is being allowed to return. ‘After what you’ve done for me and mine, Anna, you’ve earned your time with yon feller. He loves the bones of you. You deserve him, sweetheart. You deserve that kind of love. So shut up and get on with it.’

  Maureen is dabbing her eyes; Susan is smiling at me. ‘Are you sure Gary doesn’t know where you live?’ I ask.

  ‘One thousand percent,’ is her reply. ‘Anna, go and get a life. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for your kids. He’d make a smashing stepdad.’

  I suppose he would. But there’s a hurdle I haven’t yet seen – his younger daughter, Sarah, might not approve. And children are our biggest burden, as well as our greatest achievement. However, I am now convinced. If I don’t go tonight, this lot will probably never forgive me.

  They’ve gone. The house is far too big for me alone. I feel as if I’m rattling about like a pebble in a magnum-sized bottle. When I drop the wedding ring into a glass bowl, the sound echoes down the stairs. There’s a mark on my finger. I don’t tan deeply, but that unkissed circle is a testament to my adultery. In reality, I’ve only committed the sin with one person, while Den . . .‘Remember the crab lice and the marks on your throat,’ I tell the woman in the mirror.

  Why did I remove the ring? Why wait until now? Silly question. When I give myself to this man, it will be the real thing. I suspect that I’ve only just matured to the point where I can recognize true love – I’ve been too busy teaching and catering to a man whose mood was never predictable.

  I am clad in dark blue velvet, strapless and with the bra built in. A single strand of good pearls is my only jewellery. The best thing of all is that I can, at last, wear high-heeled shoes. I’ve been practising in these shoes for over a week, and I can balance OK now. Arms are all right, no loose skin yet. The dress is short enough to display one of my better areas – the legs. This shoulder-length hair will have to go soon enough, because there’s no worse sight than a woman of a certain age with long hair. Unless she puts it up, that is.

  He’ll be waiting. Will he be as nervous as I am? He won’t be pacing about in new high-heeled shoes, that much is certain. And I can walk in them, I can. My stomach growls, because I have been too edgy to face food. There’s a silly smile on my face, because I’m remembering him at the sand dunes when he told me that we aren’t sixteen. And the way he talks, the words he uses, so strange dropping from the mouth of a well-spoken man. Perhaps his voice empowers the earthy language and makes it acceptable.

  I close my house, making sure all bolts are in position, and I double-lock the front door before walking to the taxi. I can’t allow my car to be seen in the vicinity of his place – Juliet would frown upon such carelessness. And I’m on my way to Eccleston, on my way into a future that is uncertain for all of us. I am doing the right thing. I think.

  Ten

  Sometimes, Anna had to admit that she was a little bit proud of her sisters. They won writing competitions, spelling tests, and always came top in arithmetic. Some of the work they did was for twelve-year-olds, and they seemed to grow cleverer with each passing month. Criminal events were fading into history, and the twins were adapting very well to school. Anna, lulled into a sense of security, concentrated on preparing for her scholarship and entrance exams for grammar school. Until it came to Jimmy Hardcastle and mental arithmetic.

  Jimmy was a mouthy little chap with thick spectacles and a limp, as he had been born with poor vision and one leg shorter than the other. He was a happy child, and most of his peers accepted him, because he had been prepared at home by parents sensible and decent enough to help him minimize his difficulties and concentrate on his strengths. As far as Jimmy was concerned, he was as good as the next man, and he did well at school, since his brain, unlike his body, was in good order.

  The twins bided their time until the days grew shorter. Dressed from head to toe in dark clothes, and with masks made out of old blackout material, they captured Jimmy, took him into Grantham Woods and tied him to a tree. Their final act before leaving was the smashing of his glasses, without which he was almost blind. They congratulated each other on their cleverness, hid their extra clothing and rushed home in time for tea. But there was no meal on the table. Familiar with the pattern of the Dixon household, Beckie and Kate made a light meal of bread, butter and jam, and drank Vimto instead of weak tea. Supper would come later, so that was all right. They did not pause to wonder where Elsie was, where Anna might be. They simply fuelled their own bodies a
nd went upstairs in search of amusement.

  In their bedroom, they communicated their glee at having put Jimmy-Game-Leg-and-Specky-Four-Eyes in his place. Because Jimmy had committed an unforgivable crime – he had beaten Rebecca in a mental arithmetic test some weeks earlier. He had to be punished. No one could be allowed to outdo the MacRae twins. Street-wise enough at five years of age, they had stopped stealing, but not because it was wrong. They hadn’t got away with stealing; the kitten, the bottles and the jewellery had all served to put them in difficult situations, so they needed to get their fun elsewhere. Having held themselves in check for many months, they were now confident enough to pay back the crippled boy who had bested them.

  The house was empty, so they spoke in English. ‘What if he never gets found?’ asked Kate. ‘He’s a long way into the woods, and not many people go there unless they’re chasing rabbits or pheasants.’

  Beckie shrugged. ‘He’ll die. Then his mental arithmetic won’t be any use to him, will it?’

  Kate frowned. ‘But what if they find out it was us?’

  ‘How? We were just two people with hoods on.’

  ‘But everyone always thinks of us, Beckie.’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it great?’

  They giggled and carried on with the homework set for them by a teacher from the grammar school. They were singularly smart, and they would never get caught.

  A matron was now in charge of the mother and baby section of Berkeley Hall, but Elsie still helped out, as did Maggie Chadwick, who had been nurse to the deceased lady of the manor. It was easier with the nursery classes off the premises, because it was quieter and a lot better organized. Many of the mothers and babies had returned home, so the war work allocated to the big house was being wound down. Maggie, who had met a decent farm labourer, was planning to marry soon, and she, too, would be leaving the hall.