‘Sorry.’
‘Yes, well, we all make mistakes. This one is a pearler, though. Would you really have gone?’
Lisa bowed her head. ‘Yes, I would. No one needs me here.’
Hermione tapped her walking stick on the floor. ‘You need us,’ she said sharply. ‘And need breeds need. This is the bridge you will build with your daughter. It won’t be easy, but let’s pull three members of this family together while we can. Go and rest – Simon will run the shop. I have to think and make notes. You know how forgetful I have become.’
Hermione lingered all day by her front window while Lisa slept. In spite of several tellings-off from Eileen, she refused to rest. ‘Shut up, for God’s sake,’ she ordered when things came to a head. ‘I’m thinking. Leave me alone – go and torment that poor man at home for a change.’
‘You don’t deserve me,’ came the swift response.
‘Nobody deserves you, with the possible exceptions of Pontius Pilate and Adolf Hitler. Go away.’
An elderly but pristine camper van insinuated itself through the double gates. Ben got out, locked the vehicle, then disappeared into the house. ‘Good gracious,’ whispered Hermione to herself. ‘Perhaps he’ll park that outside poor Harrie’s bungalow. Stupid boy.’ Thus she dismissed from immediate thought her only grandson.
A plate was slammed down on the small table in front of Hermione’s chair. ‘Liver,’ snapped the deliverer of good tidings. ‘With onions. Great for your blood, the both of them. I’ll be back later.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Because I will.’ Woebetide Eileen Eckersley left the apartment and banged the door.
At last, the little red MG turned into the drive. Hermione watched while Harrie examined her brother’s camper, waited until the girl was in the house, pressed a bell that would sound in the kitchen.
A pink-faced Harrie ran into the room. ‘Are you all right, Gran?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Harrie stood, arms akimbo. ‘Have you seen what he’s done? Did you give him the money to buy that abomination?’
‘I did not.’
‘It’s sparkling clean inside. I bet he had it valeted before picking it up.’
‘You mean fumigated.’ Hermione began to plod her unenthusiastic way through a small part of the liver and onions. ‘Your mother’s in trouble. I sent her to bed. Not a word to your father – if he turns up. Not that he’d hear you, of course. Can you put this disgusting food in a plastic bag and lose it for me? And if you’d kindly make me a sandwich, I’d be grateful.’
Harrie did her grandmother’s bidding, taking care to keep the liver and onions with her so that she could dispose of the evidence elsewhere. ‘There’s your sandwich, Gran – ham and salad.’
‘Thank you. Liver, indeed.’ She bit into more palatable food.
Harrie walked to the window and looked down at her brother’s vehicle. What was he up to this time? Did he intend to go to university and live in that thing? Or was he up to something bigger? ‘What was that about Mum?’ she asked.
Hermione swallowed. Sandwiches were not easy because swallowing was not easy. ‘Your mother has got herself into a great deal of difficulty. I’ll tell you about it after I have eaten, then we must make a plan. She needs our help.’
Well, that was a novelty, Harrie pondered as she waited for her grandmother to finish eating. Her mother flittered about like a butterfly, hither, thither, seldom in the same place for more than a moment. Life still held some surprises, then. Though this hardly promised to be a happy one.
The camper van was to make for further distraction and experimentation. It was not only a means of travelling from A to B, but its very nature provided a situation in which a man might travel, yet live alone and separate from his fellows. Meals would have to be catch-as-catch-can, but he would manage. His intention was not only to discover a degree of independence in himself, but also to demonstrate to his sister that he could manage without her. The very thought of leaving his safety zone was daunting, but the time had come. Harrie, at twenty-one, was ready to move out and begin a life of her own. With summer stretching before him, Ben’s intention was to explore the country as best he could once all exams were over. He would show her. He would show all of them.
She had kept her word, had not visited him since the evening of the accident. He steered clear of the sites. Soon, he would be out on the open road without his broadband connection, so he might as well prepare himself for that eventuality. A kind of excitement bubbled in him as he laid his plans. Scotland and Wales were well worth a look, as was the south of England. He could and would do this thing. He could and would make a life for himself away from all his self-imposed cleanliness and ritual.
After finishing revision for the day, he went out into the rear garden again. He had to get used to the great outdoors, to not having a shower, to getting dirty and remaining so for several hours at a time. He would need to use public facilities, would be forced to ignore the existence of germs and disease. A chemical lavatory could serve only a part of the purpose – there would be times when he would need to visit a proper, flushing loo. Perhaps this might be the first step towards a normal existence.
He entered the copse and stamped about, trying not to care about damage to shoes and trousers. It was a fine night, and he climbed his tree, sitting very still and studying a star-spattered sky. There were so many things he could be doing – swimming, go-carting, even skiing abroad. He could visit Manchester Airport, see the big jets taking off; he could try tennis or even golf. Chess wasn’t enough. To gain a rounder, healthier attitude, he must go forth and mix with people.
‘Milly?’ It was Harrie’s voice. Ben drew up his legs and sat very still on the bough.
‘Found her?’ That was Will Carpenter.
‘No sign,’ shouted Harrie. ‘She’s probably discovered a rabbit hole.’
They passed right beneath Ben’s feet before moving away to the old summer house. Harrie yelled, ‘Here she is,’ then all became quiet again.
Stealthily, Ben climbed down and moved in the direction taken by Harrie and her companion.
‘I’ll put her lead on,’ said Will. ‘Let’s sit for a while, shall we?’
As silently as he could, Ben made his way along the side of the building. The dog sensed his presence and barked, but was ignored – they probably thought she was reacting to wildlife.
‘Do you intend to stay in jewellery forever?’ Will asked.
‘No idea,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve decided to take life as it comes, see what happens and roll with the punches.’
‘And your brother?’
‘No idea. He isn’t interested in jewellery. Unless he’s bought that contraption as some kind of mobile shop, I’d say he intends to steer clear of retail. If he can steer the bloody thing at all. I wouldn’t care to drive it.’
Ben backed away and took a circuitous root in the direction of home. A tear-stained Lisa sat at the kitchen table. He grunted, ‘Hello, Mum,’ and fled past her.
Lisa, her mouth still open in preparation for speech, clamped her jaw closed as he disappeared towards the stairs. No good would come to that lad, she told herself. There was an indefinable something in him that was wrong, out of tune and out of step. A different drummer? Did he walk through life to a rhythm no one else could hear?
Harrie was outside with Will Carpenter and that daft dog. It was an adorable item with attitude and beauty. It was also a thief – Lisa had seen it digging through the dustbins on more than one occasion.
Gus drifted in, patted his pockets, smiled absently at her, wandered off. She heard him rattling about in his study. Soon, he would find something and become engrossed in it, but the likelihood of him finding whatever he had been searching for was remote. He would forget his original target and set to work on something else. Wasn’t he looking at honey? Hadn’t she heard him talking on the phone about honey?
Alec/Jimmy remained at the front of her mind. She was also acute
ly grateful to his wife, the poor soul who had run back home to her mother. It was a grim life, but, with luck and a good following wind, Hermione and Harrie would come up with something regarding the money.
Police. Could she? Would she? Perhaps Annie Nuttall was right – bets should be hedged via the law before too much time elapsed. But Lisa would wait until Hermione had worn the thinking cap for a day or two. The old woman was a caution, but a rock when someone needed support.
Harrie came in. ‘How are you now?’ she asked. ‘Gran told me.’
‘Ashamed is how I am.’
‘Don’t be. Love makes fools of many people. You’re hardly the first.’
‘And won’t be the last.’ Lisa took a sip of tea. ‘Thanks.’
‘What for?’
‘For being there. For not turning on me. Just . . . thanks.’
‘It’s OK. Gran is on to it. Her mind is very sharp for her age, isn’t it? Unless you want to know about the very recent past.’
‘She’s a good egg,’ concluded Lisa. ‘I owe her a lot.’
‘Mum, we just get through. It isn’t about mistakes and regrets and debts to people – it’s about getting up every morning and doing what needs to be done.’
‘Yes.’ Lisa paused. ‘How’s Will?’
‘Fine.’
‘The dog?’
Harrie laughed. ‘Terrible. Intelligent pups are always the worst. She ate Will’s bike.’
‘What?’
‘Two tyres and a pedal.’ Harrie stared hard at her mother. ‘It’ll be all right. And, if it isn’t, it’ll be all wrong, but we’ll cope.’
Lisa sat for a while after Harrie had gone to bed. ‘The daughter is the mother and the mother is the child,’ she advised her teacup.
Gus returned. ‘Have you seen a yellow-bound manuscript marked urgent?’
‘No, sorry.’
He drifted off, and Lisa allowed herself a slight smile. He had lost his papers again; they were probably in the place where he had buried his feelings and half of his mind. If that was genius, she was better off in diamonds.
After watching rather too many of the documentary channels, Hermione did not trust the police unless they were Morse or Frost. The chances of encountering a real-life version of either of those two saints were remote at best. Crime programmes on Sky demonstrated only too clearly the shortcomings of forces on each side of the Atlantic, so the boys in blue – or in plain clothes – did not feature in her equation. Also, Lisa was guilty – there was no way of dressing up the fact. She had never questioned the source of the man’s swag, so she was not going to be completely in the clear. He would condemn her, of course. He – whoever he was – was a blighter with a wife and children, so he would never take full blame for his crimes. Was Gus any better? Was Hermione’s son less guilty because he was not a thief?
‘And what if she gets into trouble?’ asked Woebee, a feather duster held aloft. ‘A fine mess that’ll be, as Oliver Laurel used to say.’
‘Hardy.’
‘Whatever. But, if they come for her, how will she talk her way out of it? She handled goods that were stolen, didn’t she?’
Hermione awarded her carer a long, hard stare. ‘Sometimes, I think you know too much. This is too heavy a weight for your few brain cells. Just be quiet and do some cooking or cleaning or something.’
The Irishwoman bridled, arms folded beneath a non-existent bosom, neck craning towards the ceiling, foot tapping on carpet, feather duster tucked under one arm. ‘I’m the only one daft enough to put up with the shenanigans of this family, and well you know it. I care about what happens to you all, so I do. It’s a mess, and I am praying all the time.’
‘Then pick up your rosary and pray silently, please. There will be no police. Lisa is of a nervous disposition.’ Gus had made her so. ‘My son is as much to blame as anyone, Eileen.’ He was a thief, yet his sins needed no safe in which they might be hidden, as he stole invisible and more important aspects of life.
The Jill-of-all-trades relaxed slightly. ‘He was never a husband, never a daddy. My own daddy might have been a drunken old fool, but he loved us, came home with enough for us to eat, God rest him.’ She sat down opposite her friend and employer. ‘This isn’t good for you, either.’
Hermione nodded. ‘I know.’
‘It’ll play havoc with your shakes and your swallowing.’
‘Yes.’
Eileen/Woebee got on with her dusting. The old lady needed time to think, and no one could help her just now.
Someone tapped at the door. ‘Come in,’ called Hermione.
Lisa entered. Even now, in one of her darker hours, she was perfectly dressed and manicured. She perched on the chair recently vacated by Eileen. ‘I tried to handle it,’ she began softly. ‘Went to the police station, stood outside, went for a cup of coffee, looked in shop windows, returned to the police station. I wanted to keep you out of it, but I just drank a lot of coffee.’
Hermione frowned before asking Eileen to go out to the shops. When the two of them were alone, she sat and listened to Lisa’s explanation. The police had not been told. Lisa had decided to come clean because a private detective hired by Nuttall’s wife knew that Bolton police were interested in the man’s movements. But she had failed. She was a coward.
‘Would he involve you if he was arrested?’ asked the older woman.
Lisa shrugged. She did not know the man she had so recently loved.
‘And the newspapers would have plenty to say if you were involved.’ Hermione bowed her head for a moment. ‘Try to get hold of his wife. There must be a history of such behaviour – he is probably a seasoned blackguard.’
‘Yes. I am not the first woman to be fooled by him.’
Hermione studied her daughter-in-law. ‘Even Gus will notice he’s been cuckolded if it’s in the Daily Mirror.’
Lisa straightened her spine. ‘He won’t care. As long as he has his trains in Sheila Barton’s house, he’ll weather the storm. Three years she has been his mistress. Mind, there’s always a chance that sex isn’t on the agenda for my dearly beloved husband, but his connection with her might stop his tantrums.’
Both women suddenly burst out laughing. The idea of Gus in a tantrum was too much, and it spilled out of them in loud chuckles. He would never shout, would never stamp and rage, because such actions were born of deep feelings, and he seldom displayed anything beyond mild displeasure.
‘He won’t throw his rattle out of the pram,’ said Hermione as she dried her eyes with an unsteady hand. ‘And he won’t throw you out of my house, either. You are stronger than any of us, Lisa. I am pleased that you didn’t involve the law, though goodness knows what might be the right way of handling this. Talk to the woman.’
Lisa nodded. Annie had promised to phone tonight. And Annie, unlike her husband, had a habit of keeping her word.
Four
They all thought Gus noticed nothing, laboured under the delusion that he was deaf, blind and lacking in common sense. But he wasn’t. And he did notice things. The wife was in overdrive, Harrie was more worried than ever, while his son stayed out of the way as usual. Even Eileen Eckersley was in a state astutely described by Mother as ‘worse than Russia’. Mother was herself, but that was typical as she took everything in her stride even now, when her stride had become dependent on walking frames. There was a plot on. It was big enough to send Harrie pacing about in the copse at night, sufficiently momentous to cause loud clattering of dishes and some Irish jabbering in the kitchen, and it had affected Gus, who usually maintained a position of silent neutrality.
His main concern continued to be the boy. There had been a degree of disappointment when Harriet had refused to attend university, but Benjamin was brilliant and could follow quite easily in the footsteps of Gus’s much-respected father. If Benjamin wasted his life, that would be a sin, indeed. But the lad had managed school, just about, and was now in possession of a full driving licence, so surely there was hope? Perhaps the camper van wou
ld be a new beginning for him.
Things were coming to a head this morning. Wheels for Wheels had arrived. Part of a larger organization that owned limousines and wedding cars, Wheels for Wheels provided a private service for disabled people who wanted transferring from A to B. Today, ‘A’ was Weaver’s Warp and ‘B’ was God alone knew where, but Hermione Compton-Milne’s wheelchair was currently being bolted into the rear of a large, black van. Lisa fussed, just as she always did, while Harriet, in jeans and a ragged T-shirt that left her midriff bare, had clearly dressed with no intention of accompanying her mother and grandmother.
Gus stepped to one side of the open window and listened. ‘Don’t lose your temper, Gran,’ Harriet was pleading.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Lisa answered. ‘Annie won’t let us down. Perhaps I have known her for no more than five minutes, but I trust her. She’s honourable – more than can be said for her husband.’
Doors slid into the closed position, and the engine started up. Gus looked at his watch. Wasn’t he supposed to be somewhere? Doing something? He knew it wasn’t bleach because he had done all of those tests – hadn’t he? Yes, he had. Five of them this time. The public probably thought that the television advertisements were faked, but Gus earned a good living by analysing swabs from kitchens before and after the application of a certain product. It wasn’t a swabs day, then.
Who was Annie? Why was Annie’s husband not to be trusted? Mother was in pain. It had to be something big to drag her out of her penthouse. Where was he supposed to be? Diary. Not on the desk, not on the bookshelves. Ah – it sat next to the clock on the mantelpiece. And Harriet had become a drug-dealer for her grandmother. She brought home skunk, a commodity that supposedly helped people with neurological disorders. It also made them paranoid . . . He opened the diary and smiled. Ah, yes. This was to be a special day.
Parallel Life Page 7
