`It doesn`t matter.` Her fury with him had evaporated sometime during her leisurely ramble around the roads of the North Country. Like many others, he was merely a product of the age he lived in – Thatcher`s Children, people sometimes called them. Eventually life would teach him that there were other things more important than success and amassing wealth. Perhaps the process had already begun.
Curiosity got the better of her intention to take things slowly. `Edgar said you`d found out something about Tom`s estate?`
`Yes. That savings-fund he set up was to support scholarships worth five-thousand-a-year, to finance students to go on archaeological digs.`
About to ask why Tom would have donated so much money to such a cause, Sylvia found her thoughts harking back to their early days together, providing an explanation to enlighten her equally-disinherited daughters. `I think I`m beginning to understand. Tom went on a dig in Egypt while he was at University, and enjoyed it so much he always wanted to go again. But after we got married, he was never able. He had to get a steady job, with all of us to think of.`
For shame`s sake, Sylvia did not mention that Tom`s dream had not been abandoned voluntarily. She had demanded that wife and family must come first. Had he thereafter led a mummified life, his body visible, his inward ambitions preserved in phantom canopic-jars, awaiting unaccomplished resurrection? And was that resentment the reason for his leaving everything to other people, rather than to his own family? -- Oh, Tom, if only I could read the Great Spell over you now -- I`d have a dozen questions I should`ve asked while you were still alive.
To break an awkward silence, she enquired, `How did you find out? There was nothing about it in Tom`s personal papers, and believe me, I`ve been through the lot.`
`I advertised in legal and financial journals for information about the Harland Venture,` Paul explained. `I thought specialist publications like that might have a better chance of coming on to the radar of a business-organisation, and luckily it paid off.` She wished he had not used the word Paid. It reminded her that he had spent his own money on something she should have done at her personal expense.
`What did they have to say for themselves?` Aware of sounding censorious, Sylvia rephrased the question. `Why did he decide to give his money to them, instead of putting it into our retirement fund? There must`ve been some inducement offered, surely.`
`Well . . .` Paul pulled a face. `It wasn`t exactly an inducement, but it would`ve weighed pretty heavily in making his decision. Apparently he was under the impression he would`ve been able to go on a dig himself when he`d invested enough. But it took too long – by the time he got the right amount invested, he had missed the age-limit.`
`You mean they took our money – his money?` Sylvia corrected herself. `Then told him he couldn`t go abroad after all?`
`So it seems. Are you going to contest it?`
`No. I told you before. All that would do is fill lawyers` pockets, and most likely accomplish nothing. It`s plain enough Tom didn`t intend us to inherit.`
`He might have,` Delia suggested hesitantly. `Mum, do you think maybe... when he found out he couldn`t... and the money was all gone... might that be...?`
The incomplete sentences opened up a new scenario. `The reason he killed himself, you mean?`
`Why not, seeing how keen he was,` Edgar agreed. `It`s still no excuse for what he-done, but it might, just-about, be a reason.`
Sylvia tried to put herself in Tom`s place. How must he have felt on discovering he was too old to join one of the Harland expeditions? She could only imagine his deep sense of rejection. Perhaps it was while smarting under that humiliation that he had made the new Will, disinheriting Sylvia and the girls. Funding the Harland Venture would ensure that the dreams of a few people at least might come true. But that did nothing to explain who Daniel Franks was, or what made his dreams so much more important than the welfare of Tom`s own family.
At last she spoke, her mind clearer than it had been at any time since her traumatic bereavement. `Out of respect for Tom`s wishes, I won`t contest the Will, but I do feel like giving this Harland-outfit a piece of my mind. Have you got a phone-number for them, or anything?`
`Yes, here.` Paul handed her a sheet of paper covered in abstract doodles, the number in their centre like a bird in an untidy nest. `But you won`t get them today. Their office closes at three.`
`Then I`ll try tomorrow.` Sylvia sat up straight, surprised by her sudden burst of initiative. `In the meantime, whose drive can I leave the van in? Or am I dossing in the country again for the night?`
`You are not!` Paul responded, his white whitening. `If we let you go away again, God knows when you`ll come back.`
`It`s in our drive now, and it can stay there. You can sleep in the house like you did before, till Social Services find you a flat. It`ll be more comfortable for you, and a lot safer,` Delia offered. The concession was perhaps not so great as it first appeared – inside the house, Sylvia would be easier to keep track of.
The spokesman for the Harland Venture – most likely surprised to hear from Sylvia after more than three months – explained what had happened. `Mr. Brandon apparently didn`t read the whole of the document properly, or he would have realised that nobody over thirty-five can be financed under our scheme. It`s only meant for newly-qualified students, to give them the chance of practical experience before they embark on their future careers.`
`You were ready enough to go on taking his money long after he was thirty-five. That`s not very ethical, is it?`
Probably afraid she might try to reclaim the legacy, the Harland employee quoted a gallimaufry of chapters-and-verses to prove that everything had been strictly legal. Doubtless they were right. In any case, the money was serving the purpose Tom had intended, and she left it at that. Paul would most likely think she was a fool for letting the matter go uncontested, but the longer she coped without the lost inheritance, the less important it seemed.
Family fears that she might decamp again must have been very strong, for they reacted quickly to the situation. Through a business-contact, Paul almost immediately found a potential buyer for the caravan. `They`ll give you two-thousand, cash in hand, provided you`re willing to sell straight away. It`s going to be a wedding-present for their son, and they`d like to have it beforehand, in case it needs anything doing to it. What do you say?`
Sylvia thought the matter over for all of ten seconds before agreeing. The time spent living in the caravan had provided a vital break in her psychological downward-spiral following Tom`s death, but she would not repeat the trip. Somewhere during that time, she had found at least part of what she was looking for. Rather more regretfully, she decided to part with the car as well. It would mean using public transport to get about, but she would save a fortune on licensing, testing and running-costs, avoid repair-bills, and gain another useful addition to the dwindling capital in her bank-account.
On this occasion, she answered Social Services` questions without flippancy, and they found her a flat of sorts, in a converted terrace-property in Elswick. At one time she would not have dreamt of living in such a downmarket suburb but, unwilling to presume on Paul and Delia`s hospitality for too long, she accepted the flat, although it sounded like little more than a glorified bed-sit. So what? she told herself -- I`ve lived for weeks in a caravan, and if I managed there, I can cope with what they`ve offered me -- there won`t be much housework, and at least I`ll be able to call my soul my own again -- I`ll just have to think of ways of making the place more homely.
Unglamorous as her new abode was, finding an unfurnished flat in a more salubrious area was beyond her means. Facing facts with realism, she accepted that most of the stuff stored in Jenny`s workshop would have to be sold. `If there`s anything amongst it you think you could use, let me know,` she told Paul and Edgar that weekend, as they loaded a hired van with the furniture stored at Jenny`s home, for temporary relocation in Paul`s garage. `What`s left can go to the Salerooms.`
She moved into the flat on a dre
ary afternoon in early November, with the help of Patty and Edgar. He had asked for and obtained permission to use the lorry for an hour, to collect boxes only. The bulkier furniture he was not allowed to move, on the grounds of insufficient time, but her TV, microwave, CD-player, two small bookshelves and a coffee-table were also sneaked aboard, without his employer being any the wiser.
When they had gone, Sylvia unpacked kettle and teapot and brewed-up, wincing at the noise from the water pipes -- I`ll never stick this – Tom Brandon, I hope you`re proud of yourself.
In the meantime, there were things in Paul`s garage that were not destined for the Salerooms. Seated on a dining-chair alongside a rickety gateleg-table by the window, she made lists on the back of an old letter. Patty, with her hungry brood to cater for, could certainly make use of the big freezer from the museum-flat -- she probably doesn`t like to ask for it, but I`ll give her it anyway -- they`ve been absolute bricks, her and Edgar. They might like the illuminated display-unit as well, since Edgar had often admired it. Delia was unlikely to want cast-off furniture, but there was a painting of the Cheviot Hills that she had often seemed to gaze wistfully at, and this might be the right time to let her have her grandmother`s wedding-china. It could not be displayed in Sylvia`s flat for lack of space, and most likely would not survive six weeks in Patty`s chaotic household.
Thus mentally disposing of her property gave Sylvia a pleasant Santa-Claus feeling, lightening her mood considerably -- this place might not be Buckingham Palace, but it`s my own space, and I can do what I like in it -- lie in bed till noon if I want, slob around in my dressing-gown all day, watch every soap on the telly, and no more of those boring stock-market figures and business-documentaries Paul didn`t seem to be able to live without - maybe life in a bed-sit won`t be so bad after all.
In fact the place was not quite a bed-sit, comprising a small walk-in cupboard, shower-room with toilet, and one large room serving as lounge, kitchen and bedroom combined. The main drawback was a loud groaning noise from the pipes whenever a tap was turned on anywhere in the building. The front-windows looked down on the main street and a set of traffic-lights. A narrow cul-de-sac at the side led past a discount-furniture showroom into a featureless yard where the residents of the flats kept their dustbins.
To reach Sylvia`s entrance-door, it was necessary to climb a flight of exterior stairs rising above the yard to a tiny verandah. At first imagining it might be possible to sit out there on fine days, Sylvia revised her plan when the burger-bar next door commenced selling at tea-time. A pungent stench of hot meat and onions made merely opening the window something to be undertaken only in face of dire necessity.
The proximity of the traffic-lights meant that vehicles halted by the signals revved up again for departure with maddening frequency. Not so frequent, but still irritating, were lorries reversing in the yard behind the furniture-discount-shop and emitting either a high-pitched beeping-sound or a monotonous computer-generated voice repeating over and over, "This vehicle is reversing – please stand clear."
Night-time might not be much more peaceful than day. On the opposite side of the road was a large and busy twenty-four-hour filling station, its garish lights glaring brightly through her flimsy curtains. I`ll need something thicker than these, she decided, wondering if anything among her stored possessions could be made to serve. First impressions were disheartening, after the quiet elegance of the museum flat and the informal comfort of the caravan. Nevertheless, for the moment, this was home – she could afford no better.
TEN
The chief thing wrong with the flat was its lack of cosiness. I might be able to remedy that if I move the furniture around a bit, Sylvia decided -- I`ll draw a plan, and try things different ways round. It would be a lot easier moving them on paper than actually pushing them.
Having something to occupy her mind filled that first evening, so that she did not have to think about Tom so much. Under the light of the table-lamp, the face in his photograph looked lonely -- is that because I`m not thinking about him all the time, like I used to?
After breakfast the following morning, Sylvia began rearranging the furniture to divide the big room into smaller spaces with specific uses. A massive wardrobe and dressing table, placed to face the bed, screened it from public view, their exposed backs hidden behind a curtain drawing-pinned to the wall and the back of the wardrobe. The kitchen was confined to one windowless corner - dark, but better than having cooking facilities and dirty dishes on view all the time. With an angle-poise lamp standing on a worktop, it was possible to cook in reasonable comfort. The rest of the room she arranged as a sitting-area, using a tall display-unit as a partition screening relaxing-area from kitchen.
The sofa and one armchair butted together at right-angles left a capacious corner where several more boxes of Tom`s documents could be stored beneath her dining-table from the museum flat. With a table-lamp placed on a crocheted mat at its centre, the newly-created corner appeared comfortable at once. This isn`t bad at all, she told herself, vigorously denying how tacky the end-result looked. However, moving the settee from the middle of the carpet revealed a large stain, alarmingly like blood. Sylvia dared not speculate as to the cause, but decided to hide it at the earliest opportunity beneath one of the rugs temporarily stored in Paul`s garage.
By the end of the day she was exhausted. Not only had the work been tiring, but had been carried out to the accompaniment of loud rock-music from the floor above. As it continued unabated into early evening, Sylvia decided enough was enough. She had no desire to fall out with neighbours she hadn`t yet got-to-know, but it would be best to speak out now, before festering resentment boiled over into uncontrollable anger.
The offender proved to be a pleasant enough young woman, with brassy blonde hair and a formidable Geordie accent. Asked to turn down the volume, she did so and – thankfully – was friendly about it. `Sorry, hinny. Nivvor knew it upset neebody. I get that-used to it, you divven`t notice it. Howway in and have a brew.` Sylvia surprised herself by accepting the invitation.
The flat was similar in size to hers, but with flashy ornaments, garish posters and a good deal of mess for which the young woman apologised. `When I get in, it`s the middle o`the night, so I cannot hoover then, and later on I divven`t feel like it.`
`You work nights? Sylvia asked, to make polite conversation rather than because she was interested.
`That`s me.` Her companion pointed out a glitter-encrusted poster on the wall behind Sylvia: "Miranda Miracle. The Girl with the Get-Up-and-Go-Go." `I`m a dancer at a night-club.`
`Miranda? Is that really your name?` Sylvia wondered if the remark sounded as rude as she feared.
The girl shrugged, `It`s only a stage-name, but it sounds a damn-sight better than Joyce Hogg.`
Sylvia agreed that it did. `Do I call you Miranda, or Joyce?`
`Miranda, or Randa. I got away from Joyce Hogg for-good when I left home to take the dancing-job.`
`Do you enjoy it?` Sylvia hoped it did not sound too crass a question.
`It`s okay, but some of the chaps are mucky buggers. While you`re up on the stage it`s no problem, but when you come down among the audience, you`ve not-half got to watch where they`re putting their hands. The waitresses hardly dare turn their backs.`
`I never met a professional dancer before.` Genuinely interested by now, Sylvia found herself warming to the brash young woman, so unlike herself - I bet she`s never known what it is to be nervous.
`Come and watch`z sometime.`
The offer startled Sylvia. `Could I? I mean, is it all right? Would they let me in?`
Miranda giggled. `Wey-aye! If anybody does say aught, tell`em you`re a mate o`mine, then the bouncers won`t take the mickey.` Sylvia doubted that she would ever take up the invitation. Men with wandering hands – bouncers – the whole scenario sounded most alarming.
Though Miranda kept down the volume of her music, the reduced sound of the melody-line left the pounding bass vibrating down the walls and w
earing Sylvia`s nerves like the incessant aching of a bad tooth -- is this any way to get on with new neighbours? -- she`ll think I`m a proper old misery-guts. But the dreadful thumping must be stopped, and perhaps it could be dealt with more easily on a friend-to-friend basis.
Miranda greeted her with delight. `Howway in, the kettle`s on. Are you just on-the-tap for a cup o`tea, or was there summick particular you wanted?`
`It`s the music. I know I`m a proper nuisance, but I wonder ... it`s the bass... could you just turn it down a bit more?`
Miranda looked guilty. `Is it still over-loud? God, I`m sorry. I get accustomed to the sound of it at the club, and the gadji that used to live in your place worked all the hours God sent, so he must-nivvor noticed. He nivvor sayed nowt, anyway. Are you In a lot?`
`Too much,` Sylvia confessed. `It`s high-time I set-to and found myself a job. I`ll never manage on just my widow`s pension, and I`m doing myself no good, stuck in four walls day after day.`
Miranda looked thoughtful. `Would it bother you, working funny hours?`
For one mad instant Sylvia wondered if she was about to be recruited into the night-club business. No way did she intend serving drinks in a skimpy costume, for a load of strange men to leer at. `What sort of funny hours?`
`Soon-starts. They want somebody at the paper-shop up-the-road.`
Sylvia knew the place, having made one or two purchases there. `How soon is Soon?`
`Five-o`clock in the morning. Could you get up for then? That`s why she needs a new assistant. The last one had trouble with her back – couldn`t get it up off the bed. Not at five-o`clock in the morning, anyroads.`
Would it be safe to walk the winter streets at such an hour? Sylvia wondered. But she would never find another job so close to home. The less spent on travel, the more she would have to live on. Why not? she thought – it`s a risk, but if we tried hard enough we could all find a dozen reasons for spending our whole lives hiding under the bed. `If I set the clock, I could get up all right. But would they take me on, at my age?`
A Long Road Through The Night Page 12
