When Dr Adam Corcoran led Anna away into the corridor, he was drying his eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ Elsie asked.
‘Yes.’ He put away the handkerchief. ‘She’s his doctor now. He knew her. We owe a lot to Anna, because that’s the most sense we’ve had out of him since he came back to Blighty.’
Elsie nodded. ‘Sorry I was a bit nasty before, but—’
‘Don’t worry, dear lady. I’m used to it.’
Elsie put an arm around her foster daughter. ‘We had a priest, a good man who was drowning himself in whisky. She put a stop to that, didn’t you, love?’
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘My mother did. We were at her grave, and that’s where he poured the last of his drink. If there’s a heaven, my mam’s an angel. We both spoke to her. And Father Brogan never touched a drop again, though he still calls himself sorely tempted.’
The doctor smiled to himself. Out of the mouths of babes came some of the wisest thoughts. ‘Do you have room for Billy when he gets better?’ the doctor asked after sniffing back some drops of emotion. Sergeant MacRae was probably going to be a handful for the rest of his life, but he could not be contained for ever.
‘I’ve sorted all that out,’ Anna answered before Elsie got the chance.
‘But we’ve only three bedrooms,’ cried Elsie in pretended horror.
‘And we’ve got Linda Mellor. Mr and Mrs Aston next door are going to live with their son just outside Chorley, and my dad can have their house. It’s all arranged. They’re even leaving most of the furniture, because they said a hero should have somewhere to sit, somewhere to eat and a bed to sleep in.’
Elsie smiled, but said nothing. She knew all about the arrangement, yet she allowed Anna to think she’d planned it herself. He would come home eventually. And, if he were to be protected from the twins and their ongoings, Billy would need a place of his own.
It was a big secret to keep, but Bert and Elsie would hold it tightly for the rest of their lives. There was a small legacy for them, and it had come into play only recently. They knew the deceased Mrs Mellor had arranged for the bequest to become available when Anna’s senior education began. In an effort to conceal their own hidden wealth, which was in cash under a floorboard, they applied for the uniform grant and carried on as before.
Deeds for the two houses were lodged in a bank under Anna’s name, while a sizeable sum was invested for her. The Dixons were to have access to all monies in case of emergencies of their own, or for Anna, but the bulk of the cash would go to the child once both foster parents had died. There had been no mention of the twins in Iris Mellor’s will. Even then, when the older Mrs Mellor had been alive, the behaviour of Rebecca and Katherine had been spectacularly bad. Until they needed to be good, that was, at which point they had invariably transformed into angels.
On the run-up to Anna taking her place among the elite of St Mary’s, the twins were as quiet as mice. She scarcely noticed them, since she was occupied in the preparation of Dad’s house after the Astons had vacated it. She scrubbed floors and polished furniture, washed curtains, placed family photographs on tables, raided her Post Office account to buy new pans and a kettle.
Tom Brogan was a man who did not give up easily. Giving up drink had been hard, and giving up on Anna MacRae was something he wasn’t going to do. No. She was a good girl, a kind girl, so she ought to be a good Catholic. He knew what she was going through. Anyone with half a brain was bound to question something that had happened almost two thousand years earlier, and the Church was far from perfect.
Also far from perfect were her sisters. Having listened several times to a litany of their sins, he didn’t hold out a great deal of hope, since they sounded crackers. Was there a difference between sinfulness and insanity? They knew what they were at, knew they were doing wrong, so they were liable and had clearly reached the age of reason. He’d heard it all from Anna, from Bert and even from Elsie, though she had been slower than the others to voice her concerns.
On the day of Billy MacRae’s return to society, Tom blessed the house. He prayed in every room, and scattered Lourdes water all over the place. Anna watched, and hoped he wouldn’t spoil her polishing, but he was only doing what he knew, what he felt to be right.
When the blessing was over, they went outside and sat on their favourite wall. ‘St Mary’s, then?’ he said.
‘Mmm. Yes.’ She was too busy watching for Dr Corcoran’s car.
‘Will you come back to your faith?’
She sighed. What faith? She wasn’t yet old enough to read the books she needed to read and understand, so she had no basis from which she might start to work out her opinions. ‘I’ll do what the nuns demand of me,’ she said. ‘So that’ll mean Confession, Communion, Mass – even Benediction. I’ll sing in Latin and bring my prayer book – but I’m still me, Father. I listened to you, didn’t I? I applied for St Mary’s rather than the other schools. I’ll work it out for myself.’
Anna would never ‘do’ blind faith, and he knew it. He’d read to her from the Epistles and Gospels, but nothing had worked. The death of her mother, the misfortunes of her father, and the ill behaviour of her little sisters made her question the very basis upon which Christ had founded His church.
He watched her now as she ran towards an approaching car, and he experienced little hope. Her father was here, and she would have a hard time believing in a benign God when Billy became difficult.
Sometimes, there was little to be done to rectify a situation. But he wouldn’t give up. He would never desert her. He passed the Dixons’ house and saw two small faces at the window. They made no move to come out and greet their father. It was all going to be left to Anna.
Two men got out of the car, and Anna immediately grabbed the hand of the taller one, Billy MacRae. This was a big part of her future, and it wouldn’t be easy for her. While he prayed for further guidance, Father Brogan approached the party of three. The doctor made no move towards the house, so the number was reduced to two. Tom would go with Billy and Anna into the house. It was part of his job. When doctors could do no more, the representatives of God had to take over. It had always been so.
Eleven
It’s a between the wars semi-detached house on a long road, and it has many almost identical siblings. Attempts to make differences abound – stone-cladding, planks of wood between ground and first floor bays, wishing wells and cart wheels in gardens. This is a decent area of St Helens, far superior to the council maze on which Marie and Maureen have been parked. They seem happy enough, and the neighbours have been decent and helpful, but I know they would love it here – a broad avenue, trees on each side, good cars parked on most driveways.
Alec’s house is plain, apart from white-painted pebble-dash on the upper level. His gate reminds me of my childhood – five-barred and with a horizontal piece holding it together. I notice a cluster of gnomes in a corner. These were probably the property of Mrs Halliwell, because they are now parked with their backs to the road, and I am sure that the master of the house has ill-treated them since the departure of their mistress. A large black-and-white cat decides to weave itself around my ankles, and this is not good news, since I am trying to be elegant as I stride up the drive in my high-heeled dyed-to-match-the-dress shoes.
The door opens. ‘Winston,’ Alec calls to the animal. ‘Put that woman down, you’ve no idea where she’s been.’ He looks into my face. ‘Or where she’s going to be in a few minutes.’ His gaze travels the length of me, beginning with my hair, which I have almost managed to tame, pausing where my upper body disappears into the dress, then fixing on the legs.
Never before have I met a man such as this. He opens his mouth, speaks, smiles, and I go to pieces. I was a bit like this over Gregory Peck during my teenage years, but he never offered me a bed and a gas fire. And tantric what? He is wearing an apron over his clothes, and the item fails to make him look ridiculous. He’s also clutching an enormous book with the title positioned so that
it faces me.
‘What’s that about?’ I ask.
‘Can’t you read?’
‘I can read. But why are hanging for dear life onto that volume?’
‘Biggest book in the library – makes a great doorstop.’ He moves his lower hand to display the word sex. Tantric sex? For an accountant, he certainly counts more than beans. Has he been calculating chickens before they’ve hatched? There’s a gleam in his eye, and I recognize it as mischief. Somewhere not too far below the surface, Alec is an adorable rogue and a torment. We are going to have fun.
‘Have you read it?’ I ask.
‘Come in. And don’t be daft – one paragraph was enough. I couldn’t make head or tail of it. I’m still getting to grips with the Kama Sutra – they must all have been double-jointed, or deformed in some way.’
The place is testament to the taste – well – the disastrous choices of the recently departed Dolores. Garish carpets, ghastly curtains, little figurines of crinolined ladies on almost every surface. In the dining room hangs a print that had a run of popularity so huge that almost every idiot bought one. It’s an Eastern woman who looks as if she has a bad case of food-cum-blood poisoning. Her skin is green. Three darts stick out of her forehead, so it is plain that Alec has found a use for the hideous object. He marches me into the living room and gives me a duster. ‘This is a test,’ he says sombrely. ‘Go and clean that fire.’
I click off the grille and he pretends to write in his tantric tome. ‘Can clean gas fire,’ he mouths. He then bends down. ‘What if I’ve read more than a paragraph? Do you mind being a guinea pig? It’s all for the good of mankind, you know. We do have a responsibility to improve life for our fellow citizens.’
‘Will I suffer unduly?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. If there’s any sign of that, we have chloroform. See, what is supposed to happen is that you linger on the edge of the abyss – you can even jump if you like. Several times. But I have to hang in there with my crampons on.’ He shakes his head. ‘This is not going to be easy. If I didn’t worship the ground across which you totter in those delightful but very silly shoes—’
‘Crampons? In bed?’
‘They are figurative crampons, and you already knew that. But first, we have curry. I made it myself just for you, my darling. Not too hot, of course. We don’t want you fighting for breath just yet, do we?’
Now, this is something else. There is one plate and one spoon, so he sits me on his knee and feeds both of us. I know now why he’s wearing the apron, because he cannot control his state of preparedness. And it’s not just eating, it’s . . . where are the words, Anna? It’s sexual. There’s no touching, no roaming hands – just me, him, the spoon, the plate and the food. It should be horrible. It should be off-putting and odd and savage and awful and . . . other things, but it isn’t. When a crumb of rice stays on my lips, he removes it with his tongue. I should feel sick. I don’t feel sick, I feel aroused. The man is a torment, and I should go home. Immediately. But I can’t go home, because nothing will stop me now. I want him, and I intend to have him.
And there’s a noise, and it’s coming from my throat, and I can’t stop it. I never had this before, never felt a chemistry so strong that I scarcely need to be touched. In an effort to ensure that this embrace will be eternal, I hold his head and pull him hard against my face. It’s our first all-the-way open-mouthed kiss, and it is not describable. My heart is demanding double pay, because it’s working way beyond the call of duty. The man is in no hurry – there’s almost a carelessness in him. Or perhaps it’s acceptance, because he knows he’s drowning.
‘Jesus,’ he blasphemes when we finally separate. ‘Where have you been all my life?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
‘Where, Anna?’
Come on, brain, get into gear. ‘Bolton, Eagle Vale, Sale in Cheshire, Hesford and here.’
‘And here,’ he repeats. ‘Are you still hungry?’
I shake my head. I am not hungry for food.
I’m a tall woman, and weightier than I used to be, yet he carries me easily to the stairs and places me about halfway up. Here, he undresses me very slowly. When he gets to the hold-up stockings with the black lace tops, he smiles at me and tuts. ‘Naughty girl,’ he says. ‘Sweet, but naughty.’
The really strange thing is that I’m no longer bothered about saggy bits and stretch marks. He’ll want me anyway, because he is trying to get into my head and my heart – the body is a mere channel to an end. How do I know this? I’m not completely sure, but I can see that this is not the face of a predator. His eyes give away his every thought. He is an honest man, and this – whatever this is – is not just about sex.
Soft as butterflies, firm as his hold on my heart, those hands begin making love to me. I was right – he’s imaginative and decisive without demanding to take over. So different from any lover I have known, he begins his exploration. When he moves over my body, his eyes ask me from time to time whether it’s OK, and it is. It’s wonderful, and I am no longer on the stairs of an ill-dressed semi-detached in Eccleston, because I am no longer me. The kisses begin, and I start to moan. The noise I make urges him on, and I find myself enjoying sensations that are completely new to me. I am a forty-year-old teenager and I want him. Now.
I am dumped without ceremony on his recently acquired replacement bed. It has a scarlet coverlet, and the material smells brand new. This was bought for me, just me. He removes his trousers, folds them with excruciatingly slow care, then tosses them to the floor, where they lie in a crumpled heap. Helpless with laughter, I roll away to make room for him. Few naked men manage to be beautiful, but there’s always an exception, and here it is. With all due courtesy, he begs to be excused, and I hear him stumbling down the stairs. What the heck is he doing now?
He returns and repairs to a chair near the window. Thank goodness the curtains are closed. It’s that bloody book again. A lamp is switched on, and he studies a page, turning the huge tome as if trying to work out a diagram. ‘Just a moment,’ he says apologetically. ‘I shan’t be very long.’ He looks down at his lower body. ‘Long enough, I hope.’ Every vulgar statement he makes fails completely to be vulgar.
I cannot cope with him. Never before has sex been a pantomime. Whatever he says, whatever he does, he makes me happy, makes me laugh. And he isn’t afraid of me laughing at him. I remember the coastal road, the unusual terms and words he made acceptable, even welcome. Alec owns no inhibitions, and he removed most of mine on the staircase. But this performance is worthy of an Oscar. ‘I think I need an eye test,’ he announces after poring over the page.
When the book is on the floor next to the bed, he joins me and asks me am I sure. I shall kill him in a minute. He combs my hair with his fingers, kisses my face, my neck, begins his travels. And I’m waiting, wanting, urging him to complete what he has started. But he won’t. He has read that bloody book from cover to cover, hasn’t he? ‘Where’s the chloroform?’ I ask when I find enough oxygen to produce words.
‘Are you in pain?’ His hair is tousled when he emerges, and he becomes a child who’s been running about in the park all day.
‘Yes.’
‘How can I help?’
‘You know how.’
‘Oh. Right.’ And he picks up that blasted book.
Why am I chuckling? Why, when every nerve in my body is screaming, do I lie here giggling in the manner of a two-year-old?
‘It won’t always be like this,’ he informs me. ‘I thought you needed a special treat.’
‘A treat?’ I shout. ‘Making love with someone in a supposed state of transcendental meditation is not my idea of a treat. Especially when he needs to look at the instructions every five minutes. And what makes you so sure there’ll be other times? You’ve been leaping about like a frog in a box. Put the book down and come here.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
He lies down, turns again into a submissive schoolboy after a telling-off. And I
know now what he has wanted all along, can guess the reason for the book and the jumping about. He needs me to be sure. To make himself sure that I am sure, he has teased me until I take charge. So it’s my turn to play the game, my turn to make him beg, and it’s easy. This is an evening I shall remember for the rest of my life, because it’s perfect. If I never make love again, I shall always know the possibilities, the seemingly endless joy, the after-tears from both of us.
He tells me he loves me, and I tell him the same. We must try not to lose each other. Even if we can’t live together, we can meet, talk, laugh, find a place where we can be alone like this. He says he feels that we should have been together all along, and that our respective spouses (or spice, as he insists on terming the departed) have done us a favour. Then he asks me to give him more of my childhood, because my voice is wonderful. He’s lovely.
‘So what happened next?’ he asks.
‘I went to grammar school and got into all kinds of trouble about not going to church, et al. My father became my responsibility. The twins went to a non-Catholic school – Bert and Elsie weren’t overjoyed, but I was. Because they would have been first formers while I was still in the sixth.’
‘And where are they now?’
‘One dashes around between London and Oxford, while the other is based in London and Paris. Very successful women. They’ve had at least one abortion each, and have managed to ruin several marriages. It’s what they do. Ruination.’
I lie in his arms until we both drift into slumber. Occasionally, I wake to find him kissing my cheek or pulling me closer, but it’s a wonderfully refreshing sleep. In the morning, he wakes me and presents me with what smells like bacon, plus an egg. The offering is on a tray with little legs. Am I an invalid? I sit up and rub my eyes. ‘Breakfast isn’t my thing,’ I tell him.
Sugar and Spice Page 19
