Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Ruth Hamilton
Title Page
Copyright
Once Upon a Time . . .
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
A Selection of Recent Titles by Ruth Hamilton
SPINNING JENNY
THE BELLS OF SCOTLAND ROAD
THE DREAM SELLERS
THE CORNER HOUSE
MISS HONORIA WEST
MULLIGAN’S YARD
MATTHEW AND SON
SATURDAY’S CHILD
CHANDLER’S GREEN
THE BELL HOUSE
DOROTHY’S WAR
THE JUDGE’S DAUGHTER
THE READING ROOM
A PARALLEL LIFE *
* available from Severn House
A PARALLEL LIFE
Ruth Hamilton
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2010
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2010 by Ruth Hamilton.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Hamilton, Ruth.
A Parallel Life.
1. Eccentrics and eccentricities–England–Bolton–
Fiction. 2. Family secrets–Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction.
I. Title
823.9'14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-253-5 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6886-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-226-0 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Once Upon a Time . . .
. . . in a white room at the top of a tall tower, there dwelt a beautiful princess named Mathilda. She had long, nut-brown tresses, perfect features and skin of creamy alabaster. The princess did nothing for herself. Every day, she was bathed, perfumed and dressed in pretty gowns. Her nails were shaped, hands moisturized, and her face was treated with the finest creams available to humankind.
She was fed by staff, massaged by physiotherapists, visited by servants. Mathilda did not even breathe for herself. Machinery dictated the rhythm of her life, delivering oxygen to lungs that stubbornly refused to inflate of their own accord. Her education was limited to the conductive type, which discipline involved two people working in unison to discourage the wastage of muscle by moving limbs and spine in a pattern dictated by experts. Food arrived via a tube, while waste matter was collected in bags and removed efficiently by her faithful attendants. Music was played several times a day, and nuns read to her from Dickens and Austen, though no one was sure that she could hear or interpret sound.
This existence, dictated and paid for by her only visitor, had endured for many years. But she was easier than most other residents of Nazareth House, so lay staff vied for the privilege of serving her. Nuns did as they were bidden by timetable, though a few admitted that the peace prevailing in Princess Mathilda’s tower was a blessed relief. It was a calm place to be, a room in which rosaries could be said in quietude, an area that allowed contemplative moments often denied to members of a working sisterhood.
Sister Mary Magdalene sat next to the pristine bed. The white, bright room seemed to be an echo of an untouched soul, because Mathilda had never sinned. Most rights of Earth’s superior species had been denied to this beautiful young woman because of a birth accident. It was a tragedy, but it was a fact. Mathilda, unlike several before and after her, had not been left to die in a side ward or a sluice room. She was here. She was here, and she deserved care.
Having taken her vows in seriousness, Magda allowed little space for suspicion that the patient was little more than a set of spare parts, an experiment, a guinea pig. The woman-child represented purity and, although she could make no choices, Mathilda was a physical embodiment of the primary rights of man – to life and to bodily integrity. Other choices would never be available to her, or so it appeared.
Magda finished her decade, placed the rosary in a pocket of her grey skirt, smoothed the bed, stroked a pale hand. ‘When you first came, we wore white habits, Mathilda. There was a legend about some poor nun standing here in this very room. No one saw her, because she blended with the walls, so she was run over by a trolley. Nonsense, of course, but it’s the nonsenses that get us through our days. I pray God that you will wake.’
The girl had woken in her infancy, but fits had forced doctors to tranquillize her. Now, she simply slept, though her sleep was deep enough to be labelled coma. No longer tranquillized, the young woman remained in her state of suspended animation. For Mathilda, there was no happiness, no sadness, no depression, no joy. Seasons came and went, but she was not aware of sun, of wind or of rain. She simply existed and did no harm. None but the hardest heart could bear with equanimity the sight of such unfulfilled promise. What might she have become? Who was she?
‘I’ll take myself off now,’ said the nun. ‘A bit of Mozart later on, something nice and gentle, then . . .’ Then what? The sound of a ventilator, sometimes a rush of air from a conditioning unit, footsteps in the corridor. This was a perfect environment in which to be not quite alive. God was good, Magda insisted inwardly as she left the room. He worked in mysterious ways, and no human was qualified to question Him. Nevertheless, a miracle was required. And there was no harm in asking, was there?
Mary Magdalene made her way across grounds towards the sisters’ quarters. Both the main house and the convent were unattractive buildings spattered liberally in dull, grey pebble-dash. Across the acres, the eerie cries of peacocks seemed a perfect accompaniment to the nun’s thoughts. She was sad today. The convent was no longer a convent. Housing just five sisters, it had been forced into commerce and was currently a bed and breakfast for people who came to the North on business. Sometimes, it was used as a base for retreat, though the small chapel provided penitents with limited space for prayer and contemplation. ‘God’s will,’ she muttered as she entered the convent’s kitchen. Lay staff were chattering, peeling vegetables, basting meats.
‘Hi, Magda,’ cried the cook. ‘How’s your princess?’
‘No change,’ she replied. It was always the same answer, though people were kind enough to ask, at least. One of the better aspects of humanity was the tendency to care for a victim and to urge God Almighty to intervene.
‘Pretty girl,’ commented a peeler of potatoes. ‘Bloody shame.’ The woman blushed. ‘Sorry, Sister. Shouldn’t have said bloody.’
‘No matter. I know how you feel.’ Magda picked up a knife and attacke
d broccoli. It was a shame. The child should have died at birth. That was a sinful thought, so Mary Magdalene awarded herself another ten decades of the rosary for tonight. She must bow to the will of God . . .
One
Summer, 2006
Things were stirring in the roof.
Stirring was not the right word for the rumblings and stumblings of Hermione Compton-Milne. In a bedroom on the first floor, Harriet moaned and turned sideways, pulling a pillow over her head. Gran was on the loose. It was Tuesday, the loosest of all days, because Tuesday meant Family Breakfast. All residents of Weaver’s Warp were required by law to put in an appearance in the breakfast room. Any refusers were debited like failed runners in some field event – back to the stables with several fleas in the ear and no treats for the foreseeable future. Escape was impossible. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ breathed Harrie. The Gestapo was on its way.
The first stairlift hummed. Harrie raised her pillow to listen.
‘If he never smiled, he’d look better,’ proclaimed the matriarch, from the other side of her bedroom door. ‘What’s his name?’
Gran’s carer answered, ‘Michael Jardine.’
‘Yes, well, it was better when Taggart was alive. He’d a face like a bad knee, but he never looked like a pervert. When that Jardine smirks, you expect him to flash more than his teeth. He should wear a raincoat and frighten pigeons in the park. I’ve gone off that programme.’
Harrie grinned. Gran, a multiple sclerosis victim, had become a devotee of Sky Television and the many repeats on offer. Her favourite programme, Last of the Summer Wine, was praised frequently whenever she held court in her attic suite. No one was a patch on Bill Owen. Both the late John Thaw and Inspector Frost had also seemed to have gained her approval, as had some detective named Linley, who was judged to be ‘a beautiful piece of furniture, and every home should have one’.
Harrie climbed out of bed and threw on some clothes. She had bathed before bed, and Gran did not approve of latecomers, so further ablutions must wait.
She heard the second stairlift spring to life. Gran had moved to Mother’s room, part-way down the second flight of stairs. After dragging a comb through wilful tresses, Harrie left her room and banged on a door. ‘Ben?’
‘What?’
‘It’s Tuesday, brother dear.’
‘I know.’
‘She’s already on the rampage.’
‘I know.’
‘She’ll go mad if you don’t come down.’
‘I know.’
‘And if you say I know again, I’ll bloody kill you.’
The door opened. ‘I know.’
Harrie sighed. What was to be done about Ben? He was beautiful – far too beautiful for his own good. He was also an oddity and the cause of great worry for his sister. He lived apart, had no friends and was abnormally keen on cleanliness. A genius IQ contributed little to his emotional well-being; in fact, Harrie believed that her younger brother’s brain was a burden rather than an asset. ‘Come on,’ she demanded. ‘Time for us to pretend to be human.’
In the downstairs hallway, Gustav Compton-Milne was patting his pockets and looking appropriately distracted, while his wife, on all fours beneath a coat stand, announced that she was searching for an earring. It was only a Butler and Wilson, but Butler and Wilson had been good enough for Princess Diana when it came to fun jewellery, so it was certainly good enough for . . . I’ll look later, she advised herself.
Brother and sister walked into the breakfast room. Gran, who was not known for her patience, sniffed at the siblings. ‘What on earth are your parents doing?’
Ben shrugged. His father had probably invented a system for running cars on hot water, but the theorem would be lost among his many pockets. Mother was . . . Mother was just being Mother. ‘They’ve lost stuff,’ he said as he took his seat.
‘Gus?’ yelled Gran. ‘Come in here at once and eat.’
Gus wandered in. ‘The address has gone missing,’ he said to himself.
No one enquired about the address, so he took his position at the end of the table that faced his mother. ‘Good morning, Mater,’ he said absently. ‘Exchange and Mart,’ he added softly. ‘It was the right gauge and is very rare these days.’
‘Toy trains,’ scoffed Hermione. It was time for some people to grow up. Such a fuss Gus had made when the attics had been done over for her to live in. The man had almost wept when his railway layouts had been dismantled and removed.
Lisa sauntered in. ‘Good morning,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘If anyone finds an earring, it’s mine.’ On any other morning, she would have been able to miss breakfast and locate her missing decoration, but Mother-in-law dictated that Tuesday was a family day. Butler and Wilson was expensive tat and deserved some respect. Perhaps the lost piece was outside the house?
Hermione glared at her small congregation. Benjamin, her grandson, had taken to living separately – his own kitchen and bathroom. Gus was . . . She sighed quietly. Gus was Gus. He was her only son and had been named, at his father’s insistence, after Gustav Holst. Originally a doctor of medicine, Gus Compton-Milne had not related well to his fellow man, and he had wandered off into the bowels of medical research. His tracts on the subject of killer bacteria were renowned worldwide, and he had even managed to give the odd lecture at Yale and Harvard. Yes, his lectures would be very odd, Hermione judged.
Lisa. Poor Lisa. The mother of Hermione’s grandchildren had been chosen at random, it seemed. Gus had married her within weeks of meeting her and had given her sparse attention once the two statutory offspring had been delivered. The neglected woman worked hard, supporting her family financially, and, in order to keep some sanity, taking a series of lovers about whom no one was supposed to know.
Munching on toast, Hermione allowed her gaze to stray once again to her son. Gus had a woman. She was a common-or-garden type and she had enough room in her loft for all his bloody children’s trains. Gus was a remarkably stupid man. He didn’t deserve his wife. He certainly didn’t deserve Harriet.
Harriet. Now, there was an almost perfect pearl. Harriet had given up her chance of university to stay at home and . . . And what? And sell jewellery in the second of the Compton-Milne shops? Why had the child taken upon herself the task of looking after Ben? Whether Harriet stayed or went, Ben would always be a bloody mess. Look at him! He was staring hard at his plate, was probably envisaging a million microbes clomping in clogs across its ceramic surface. He should work for his silly father.
‘This family is a mess,’ declared the grandmother. ‘Harriet, you should not be here. Ben, you need some psychological help.’ She grinned at Lisa. However naughty she became, Lisa would always be forgivable. As for Gus – what was the point? She could shout and bawl, but he would not hear. Gus marched to a different drummer. His children did not count. His wife was of no significance. His mother lived where his trains used to be. ‘Multiple sclerosis is the least of my woes,’ moaned Hermione. She would do better to conserve her limited energies . . .
The day still wouldn’t make up its mind, mused Harriet Compton-Milne as she dried the bench with a handkerchief. ‘No guts,’ she muttered under her breath. Light showers, the odd flash of sun, some mist earlier on. It was a half-hearted day. Heavier clouds had begun to drift in like late trains at Trinity Street. They rested on Harrie’s shoulders with all the other stuff: the anger, the panic, the why-am-I-here business. Now, there was the why-was-Dad-standing-across-the-road stuff, but that probably wasn’t worth thinking about. His woman must live in these parts, Harrie concluded absently. A spit of rain hit her arm.
She sat down and gazed at a park area that had once been pretty: flower beds, lawns, a bowling green. All gone now; all replaced by battered beer-cans and bottles from which liquid had been released into the stomachs of several errant teenagers. She was old before her time, could not remember feeling young. Bitter at twenty-one? Ridiculous. It was almost four o’clock. What the hell was she going to say
this time? Should she help herself along with a few milligrams of diazepam? What about stepping in front of a bus? That would provide a solution of sorts, she supposed.
Raising her head, she stared into Bolton, noting that the day was not warm enough to show the blue rinse of pollution that inevitably wigged its busy streets. She could see all the way across to Bolton School, her old alma, the institution that had fitted her for Oxford. Why hadn’t she taken her place among those spires and buttresses? Were there buttresses in Oxford? She asks the questions, Harrie advised herself before rising from the bench, leaving the park and crossing Wigan Road. I’m supposed to supply the answers to her queries. Bloody psychoanalysts. There was, she believed, a Bridge of Sighs – one in Cambridge, too.
Rain began to fall properly. Well, the day, at least, had made up its mind. Thunder rumbled down the moors, while a fork of bright electricity warned the world that some ill-humoured deity was still in charge. She ran into the large terraced house and sat in a waiting room. It was beige, brown and cream. Abstract prints punctuated walls painted in magnolia over geriatric wallpaper. It was supposed to be a calm atmosphere, she believed. Outside, the storm raged noisily, seeming to echo her own inner turmoil. One of the gentler Beatles songs played in the background. ‘Strawberry Fields’. She was unaccountably angry. Depression, she had been told, was self-loathing. Her own illness wanted to make her sleep all the time, but she resisted the urge. Life went on. It wasn’t fair, but it went on. The woman was smiling and beckoning Harrie into the inner sanctum.
She rose. ‘Here we go again,’ she mumbled as she entered the consultation room. The doc was already seated – she was a fast mover. More magnolia in here, but with a bit of maroon thrown in as some kind of blessed relief; a few French Impressionist prints on the chimney breast. Oh, bugger it . . .
The door wouldn’t slam. It owned one of those swing-slow contraptions at the top, and Harrie gave this item a baleful glance before focusing sternly on Miriam Goldberg. ‘You should have a noisy door,’ complained the new arrival. ‘A heavy slam is probably just what the doctor ordered for cases like mine.’ The anger drifted away, because she could not be ill-behaved with so pleasant a woman.
Parallel Life Page 1
