‘Surely you wouldn’t want me to do this for other people? Half of them women?’
He’s right, of course. Again.
‘You have a map of South America just above your left buttock. Is this a sign? Do we emigrate?’
‘No.’ It’s just a birthmark, and I am British, couldn’t imagine myself living elsewhere, couldn’t even move south in my own country. But I’m far too sleepy to put any of that into words. Is Gary dead yet?
‘You’ve tensed again, Anna. Clear your mind and think only of a Crosby sunset.’
‘Love you,’ I manage just before sleep claims me.
He wakes me with tea and one slice of toast. I’ve had another night of good, refreshing sleep, and I accept now that he is the reason.
‘I’m going to feed Winston,’ he says. ‘He attacks chairs if I don’t give him a good breakfast. Speaking of which, I’ve fed and changed your daughters, and they’re downstairs with Susan.’
I owe him an explanation. It’s not my business, yet it is affecting me, and I trust him totally. He knew already that Susan was terrified of her brother, but I tell him why. A man who will help run a business, who will clean my house and give me breakfast, who will attend to my twins, deserves truth. ‘Marie did what had to be done.’
He chews thoughtfully on half my toast. ‘There are times when justice and the law don’t marry. A case would have exposed Susan’s little lad as the result of a dreadful action, and he doesn’t deserve that – neither does his mother. And, of course, the lovely Gary might have repeated his performance on some other girl, or on Susan yet again. No wonder Marie was odd yesterday. Is he dead?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look, I’ll be back. Are we doing a Third Party job tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Then we’ll feed the Hughes family. Get them here, and I’ll cook.’
‘Curry?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Can we have our own cutlery and plates, please?’
‘I shall take your request under consideration.’ He kisses me on the mouth, but almost chastely, then leaves me. I feel cold without him. With no Alec in my life, it would always be the dark time after the sun has fallen away behind the Mersey. So I’m keeping him.
Babies are time-consuming. Susan and I spend yet another daft morning playing peek-a-boo with teddies and blankets, crawling around the floor to show our amused audience how it’s done, singing nursery rhymes – Susan’s tone deaf, by the way – and generally making complete prats of ourselves. When the kids are exhausted, we put them down for a nap and make lunch. Alec hasn’t returned yet, so there are just the two of us.
I eat my sandwich in the living room so that I can watch News North-West. The scene is there, the blood is there, the hospital is there. Stephen’s father/uncle died in the ambulance and was confirmed dead on arrival at the Royal. Several members of his gang were beaten up the night before, and a senior policeman is telling us about gang problems in Liverpool. The body has yet to be identified, but I know who it is. Dear God, I am paying for that murder! I realize I’ve almost stopped breathing, and I inhale a few crumbs. This causes me to cough, and Susan rushes in with a glass of water.
By the time the bout of coughing and spluttering is over, the news has moved on, and a weather girl is telling us to take umbrellas, because meteorology remains an inexact science, so I suppose she’s just trying to hang onto her job. I am not going to say anything to Susan, as it’s not my place, and I wouldn’t know where to start, but I am assuming that Marie must have heard by now. Therefore, I need to get to the bank before it closes.
Leaving Susan in charge yet again, I carry out the necessary transaction, and the bank manager has to become involved. I am not fond of small, moustachioed, pigeon-chested little farts. So I tell him to mind his own bloody business, or I’ll take mine to the Midland. Sometimes, I can be so ill-tempered. I suppose the temper is something Alec will discover at some stage, but he’s not a small, moustachioed, pigeon-chested little fart, so he won’t be on the receiving end of it – he’ll be a mere witness.
When I get back, Alec is here, but Susan has disappeared with the babies. She’s trying to give us some time alone, and he is clearly grateful. He closes the living room door and, just like before, presses me against it. He is the young buck again, is claiming his territory on a patch of wall in some darkened alley. I really could kiss this man for ever. I suppose we’d have to come up for air, food and water, but apart from all that . . .
‘Tonight,’ he whispers, ‘I shall turn you over after your massage and . . .’ And. The terms we seldom use, those that are usually employed as swear words, drift on warm breath into my ear. He is extraordinarily graphic and wonderfully exciting. I should not like to live in a world that did not contain this clever, sensitive, desirable soul. But oh, how I wish my legs could be steadier in his presence . . .
‘Where is she?’ Alec and I place the twins on Maureen’s hearthrug. There will be no curry tonight, because we’ve scarcely had time to think.
‘Identifying him,’ replies Mo. ‘The cops sent an unmarked car for her. She wouldn’t let me go with her, but she’s told me. About you giving her the money. There was no other way, was there? No other way of making sure that Susan and Stephen will be OK.’
‘And Marie. She might have become a target. Or, if he was developing a taste for rape, some other poor females might have suffered. I know what’s happened is wrong, Mo, and I know I am making a contribution, but I could see no alternative without the whole sorry mess coming out. Susan’s stronger now, and—’
‘Does she know? Does our Susan know Gary’s dead?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure – she may find out while we’re here, so we can’t stay long. I won’t have her weakened again. I don’t want to see her in the state she was when I met her at the clinic. His death means the story doesn’t need to come out. Perhaps I’m not family like you are, but . . .’
‘You don’t know, do you?’ Maureen asks, her voice suddenly shrill. ‘Susan thinks I’m Marie’s sister, but I’m not. No, Susan isn’t my niece, she’s my sister. Marie’s my mother. She was fourteen when she had me. See? Scum of the earth, so why are you bothering with us, eh? We’re the sort of people who get gang-raped when we’re thirteen, then we hand the baby to our parents and pretend she’s our sister. And she grows up knowing she’s different and goes off with the first man who looks at her. And he puts her on the game because he needs the drugs, so she gets too fat for the game and becomes a shoplifter. Why are you mixing with frigging criminals? Eh? And you a teacher, pillar of the sodding community.’
Alec holds her while she sobs her heart out into his shoulder. This is not a bad woman. This is a woman who did what she had to do, who never fitted in anywhere, whose identity became a confused, dark secret. And I understand Marie now; I know her better, can see where her anger came from, and why she had to do this terrible thing. Marie remembers rape, and the product of her suffering is now howling in my lover’s arms.
The police come in with Marie. The remaining sliver of reason in my head tells me I’m glad that Maureen is crying, because these officers will think it’s grief attached to the murder of her . . . nephew. That’s right, he’s supposed to be her nephew.
‘We’ll look after them now,’ I tell the detectives.
‘We’re very sorry,’ says one. ‘It’s the gangs. We do our best, but . . .’
‘I know. Thanks for bringing her home.’
They leave. Maureen pulls away from Alec and drops into a chair. ‘They know all of it now, Marie,’ she says. ‘They know you’re my mam, but Susan doesn’t need to be told, does she?’
‘That’s up to you, love. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Marie is strangely calm, but not robotic this time, thank goodness.
I lie down with my babies and tickle their faces, but my eyes are on Alec. What the hell have I dragged the poor fellow into? He’s an accessory after the fact, as am I. No, I’m worse – I’
m a part of the fact. He shouldn’t be here among weeping women in a house with virtually no furniture, peeling wallpaper and a board where one of the windows used to be.
But he’s smiling down at me. ‘I had a thought,’ he says. ‘Unusual, I know – especially in view of the fact that I had a thought yesterday as well.’
Maureen’s giggle wears a hysterical edge.
‘When everything’s over – the divorces and so forth – Anna and I will live together, probably in her house with the twins and one of my daughters. Susan can stay or go – whatever she wants to do. But I think the three of you – four, counting Stephen – should use my house.’
Marie is in the doorway with a teapot in her hand and a half-smile on her face. ‘In Eccleston?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it posh?’
‘It thinks it is.’
She sits at a table, her hand still clutching the teapot. ‘Is Eccleston ready for us?’
No one answers, because she’s still talking, almost to herself. ‘He looked as if he was asleep, you know. Not a mark on his face, but white and stiff, like a statue lying down. And I stood there and told them yeah, it is my son, and my belly hurt, like I could feel him being born. Then I thought about our Susan and her little lad, and I knew I’d done the right thing.’ She nods. ‘The wrong thing was the right thing. Crazy bloody world. Does anyone fancy a suggestive?’
Maureen explains. ‘She means a digestive biscuit. She’s the same with them self-assembly shelves and suchlike, never reads what she calls the destructions.’
So, that’s the first hurdle cleared. I stand and follow Marie into a grim cupboard of a kitchen, and I give her the envelope. I tell her that the bank manager tried to get clever over the size of the sum, and why I needed it in used notes, and that I wiped his eye for him.
‘That’s a Liverpool expression,’ she informs me.
‘I know, Marie. I’ve made myself an honorary member.’
Dolores has accepted a lump sum settlement, while Den, having fought the good fight with all his might for weeks, has been forced to concur with the proposal by Juliet that Emily, Lottie and their mother should be allowed to remain in the house until the twins have completed their education. Fortunately, Jo has kept her mouth shut about Alec and me, and Lincolnshire is far enough away to hold our respective spice (oh, Alec) out of our hair until the decrees nisi come through.
Mrs Bee marches in with a beef pie, a chicken pie and an apple crumble. ‘Hello, love,’ she says to Alec, who is becoming part of the brood she insists on looking after. She sees him as the other victim, and views the pair of us as conspirators in search of revenge, a concept of which she approves. ‘These pies is for Marie and Maureen. You don’t feel like cooking when someone as young as their Gary gets murdered through fighting. Was he one of them there football hooligans?’
‘Probably.’ I relieve her of her burdens and go to put the kettle on. But she follows me. Like a gas, she seems to permeate everything everywhere. ‘Anna?’ she whispers.
‘What?’
She closes the door silently. ‘He’s a grand looking man, that Alec.’
‘Yes. I suppose he is.’
At my side now, she whispers, ‘I reckon he’s sweet on you, girl. I’ve seen him. Looking at you. Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if you and him finished up wed, and his wife and your Den ended up separated and lonely? It’s like that there poetical justice when summat like that happens.’
I switch on the kettle and plant a kiss below her left eye. ‘I love him, Mrs Bee.’
Those wise eyes fill with tears and she fishes in a pocket for her handkerchief. ‘And I can’t tell nobody about that news, can I?’
‘No. Not till we’re properly divorced.’
Jo bursts in. She has a baby in each arm and is wearing the blue dress I bought when I went to seduce her father. She advises me that it will fit her if her boobs grow a bit, and I tell her to go and show her dad how she looks in it. Mrs Bee, who never misses a trick, asks me whether it’s a special frock, and I tell her it is.
‘Is she part of the package?’ the old woman asks.
I won’t laugh. I’m remembering when he told me I was well-packaged that evening when we first got together. He made me feel like a rather special and unexpected parcel left by the Royal Mail. ‘Yes, she is. Sarah’s with her mother now, but Jo says my clothes fit her better, so Dolores lost the fight.’
‘No!’
I laugh. ‘Mrs Bee, it’s a joke. She’s a daddy’s girl and I don’t blame her. He’s a special man.’
She dries her eyes and mutters something about scones in the oven and Jenny being prone to neglect when it comes to cooking. Mrs Bee is happy for me, for us. Alec comes in for the tea tray. ‘Jo wants us to sleep here tonight, Anna. She’s working on taking over your babies.’
‘And?’
He smiles. He has a glorious smile. ‘She’s accepted me and you, sweetheart. But. If you lend her that dress, I’ll probably kill you. She could meet some dirty old man – like you did – who’ll peel it away and—’
‘And read a book on tantric sex?’ I ask sweetly.
He draws himself to his full height, which is six feet and two and a half inches. He won’t allow anyone to forget that half inch. ‘Listen, Sugarplum. There is no other man like me. I am unique, imaginative, handsome, sweet-natured and very, very humble.’
I shall love this silly, wonderful man until the day one of us dies. Because sex has moved down the podium to silver medal status. For both of us, it’s the being together that matters. Actually, sex is probably reduced to bronze, because our children are high on the list of priorities. To be together, we will pay any price. Apart from allowing Jo to wear the blue dress, that is.
Twelve
School was heaven and hell rolled into the one package whose colours of brown and gold were on the backs of over three hundred of Bolton’s cleverest Catholic girls. For Anna, the heavenly parts were French, Latin, maths and English. Hell came in the guises of religious instruction, which was on the menu daily, and science. Science turned out to be hopeless because it consisted of a couple of pipettes and the odd Bunsen burner. The nuns were here to create young ladies, so they concentrated on the arts, because the arts were feminine.
These young ladies would leave school, marry, and produce many good, Catholic children. Among that number would be more girls, who would come along and fail to learn any physics or chemistry, because the subjects were a bit messy. Domestic science was untidy, but the lessons had to be endured, since no good Catholic girl would catch a good Catholic husband unless she had the ability to cook, wash and iron for him.
Anna learned to shut up, which wasn’t easy for her. Having argued openly with Sister Beatrice on the subjects of transubstantiation, Limbo for the unbaptized and hell for Protestants, she was sent to the office of a fierce little nun named Mother Gertrude, headmistress.
Here, she was given a lecture on the evils of Henry VIII, who seemed to have started the whole slide into perdition by cutting off heads and getting divorced. Protestants could not enter the Kingdom and that was an end to it. Transubstantiation had to be accepted via an Act of Faith. Anna was used to those because of Father Brogan. The Communion host was not a piece of bread, it was the living body of Jesus, and she felt nauseous. Was this cannibalism? Limbo was yet another Act of Faith, so Anna should be ashamed of herself and, should the bold child have any further questions, would she kindly make an appointment to see Mother Gertrude instead of inciting dissent in the classroom. Such appointments, should they be required, were to be obtained via the school secretary, and Anna was dismissed.
At home, life was far from easy. Billy MacRae, having sat in his house for several months, decided it was time to venture forth. He ventured off for four days and three nights, and Anna found herself in a state of desperation, since no one in authority would listen to her.
She used the telephone kiosk to speak to Mother Gertrude. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, only my daddy�
��s gone missing.’
‘But you can’t stay away from school, Anna.’
‘I know, Mother, I know. But he came back from the war in a bad state. They had to look after him for a long time in hospitals and rest homes. The police say he’s a grown man and there’s nothing they can do. Ask the sisters to pray, would you?’
‘Of course, child. We’ll all pray. Come back to us soon, and I shall make it my very own business to take from your teachers all you have missed, and you can work from notes and text books. God bless, Anna.’
Anna opened the kiosk door to find Bert standing on the pavement. His face was like thunder, and he grabbed her arm as soon as she emerged. ‘They’ve done it again,’ he said, his words forced through tightened lips. ‘We’ve a tent missing, one that Master Roger used to play in when he was a lad.’
‘Who . . . what do you mean, Uncle Bert?’
‘Them bloody sisters of yours. They’ve been visiting him before you’re back from school. And there’s been a bit of giggling. I reckon they’ve talked him into going to find the enemy during the night, and he’s buggered off with yon tent and God knows what. Elsie’s got stuff missing from the larder, and we’ve put two and two together.’
‘I’ll kill them,’ she said.
‘You’d have to stand at the back of a very long queue, and that queue will get longer with every year that passes. They’ve refused to make their First Holy Communion, because they want to go to Bolton School. St Mary’s is good enough for you, but not for them.’
Bolton School was a private school, and very few scholarships were available. ‘They’re clever enough,’ Anna said.
‘Aye. So imagine what sort of grown women they’re going to turn into. It’ll be either the House of Commons or a prison cell, no half-measures.’
Sugar and Spice Page 21
