Annie stood. ‘I’d better tell you now, Mam, that I’m divorcing him.’
Freda waited for further clarification, but none was forthcoming. ‘Not before time, then. Don’t forget me sweeteners and make sure you don’t divorce me.’ She swallowed. ‘I think the world of you and them kids, girl, as well you know.’
Jimmy rose to his feet after Annie had left the room. ‘I’ll . . . er . . .’
‘Annie?’ shouted Freda. ‘Have a dekko in that there coronation mug. There should be forty pounds and ninety-seven pence for me lecky.’
Jimmy threw a note on to the coffee table before picking up Hermione’s envelope. ‘I borrowed a tenner from your electricity money,’ he said. Without waiting for a reply, he fled from the scene.
Annie came in. ‘You’re a tenner down, Mam.’
‘It’s all right,’ replied Freda wearily. ‘I’ve got it here. Oh, see if we’ve any Bourbons. I fancy a nice biscuit with me tea.’ She glanced at Hermione. ‘Why are you in that wheelchair?’
While the visitor explained about multiple sclerosis, Jimmy started up his car and drove away. No one made any further comment about him. But, as the small-talk continued, Annie and Lisa glanced at each other. A shadow remained in their hearts. He would be back – of that, both felt certain.
Driving round the Lancashire countryside with his heart in his mouth and bundles of clothes stuffed into the back of his car was not Jimmy Nuttall’s idea of fun. He didn’t notice the lushness born of heavier than average rainfall, the pleats and folds at the edges of moors, swans on a reservoir, children taking chances by trespassing on acres dedicated to crops. No. All he could think of was bloody Birmingham. He hadn’t even held the flipping gun, had he? He was just the soft swine who’d driven the car and found the weapon afterwards, when the other two had fled.
To conserve petrol, he parked in a country lane, ate a cold pasty and drank a can of lukewarm cola. ‘I never killed anybody,’ he told the windscreen, ‘but I feel as if I could now.’ Mind, he would probably need a wooden stake or some silver bullets to put a stop to those four witches – his own mam, Lisa, Mrs High-and-Mighty Compton-sodding-Milne and Annie. Almost drowning in self-pity, he lowered his head and rested it on hands that gripped the steering wheel.
He hadn’t cried for years, but he wept now because his life was all but over. If the cops got their hands on that gun, he would be doomed. Every truly guilty party had disappeared like smoke dashed from a windswept chimney pot. ‘I didn’t even see a penny,’ he wept. The handful of diamonds or whatever had been sold abroad, and the other two members of the gang had probably remained in Europe. Or South America, more like.
Where to go? He hadn’t the money for Brazil, didn’t know how to get a false passport, had no idea whether airport police had been alerted to look for him, Surely not? If they didn’t know about Birmingham, they’d not be on standby for an installer of alarms, surely? Or would they? He’d nicked a fair amount of stuff just lately . . .
‘Blood and stomach pills,’ he cursed. Damn Annie. Private detective? What had been the blinking point of that? He’d never have left her for good – she knew that.
Women were strange creatures. They forgave each other too readily and never forgave men at all. His mother had sat there without a single good word for him; his wife and his mistress had joined forces, while the third Charlie’s Angel, a hundred years old and in a wheelchair, remained close to a daughter-in-law who had cheated on her own scientist son. I might as well not have existed, he thought. Not one of them looked at me. I bet they never even noticed I’d left.
Tears drying on his face, Jimmy caught hold of a sudden brainwave. Sally Potter. Farm cottage, father dead, lived by herself. She’s always fancied me, has old Sal, he thought. Jimmy had taken Sally’s virginity and her heart, and she had waited for over fifteen years for him to become a fixture in her life. She worked, didn’t she? Yes. Sally had a bike, and she rode it all over the place – she cleaned houses. That farm she lived on was crumbling. The farmhouse and all outbuildings, left to rot quietly, would probably be acquired sooner or later by some builder with an eye for a bargain. But for now, Sally lived halfway up a path that led nowhere. And halfway to nowhere was precisely where Jimmy needed to be.
They’ll think I’ve gone to London or somewhere down south, he thought. But I’m too clever for them. There had to be a way of getting that gun back. Going down for burglaries was one thing; attempted murder or manslaughter was another matter altogether. Yes, he had to stay here, in Lancashire. Yes, it had to be Sally Potter.
He swallowed audibly. Could he tolerate her? She fawned and slobbered over him every time he visited – even after her dad’s funeral, which had been attended by just him, her and the vicar. Sally wasn’t completely ugly, but . . . those craters in her face, large dents created by a morbid tendency to pick at teenage spots. And Sal’s teenage spots had lasted well into her twenties. He wiped his forehead. Sal was a mess. But he had to go somewhere, wanted food and a bed. It was going to be Sally Potter. He needed her.
Gus polished off the last of his treacle sponge. ‘That was wonderful,’ he said.
Sheila Barton smiled. She felt truly blessed, because she had always wanted someone appreciative for whom she might cook. Her dead husband had been confined to a strict diet on account of some digestive diagnosis with a name longer than Wigan Road, so this relationship with Gus had been her first opportunity to shine at good, plain cooking.
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I am very full,’ he declared.
‘Good.’ Sheila began to gather dishes. ‘I saw your daughter the other week,’ she said, her tone deliberately casual.
‘Really? Where?’
‘Visiting that psychiatric person a few doors along. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she saw you, because you’d forgotten your key again, and you waited for me at the bottom of Hawthorne Road. Remember?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘I’ve put a key under the middle-sized plant pot on the top step. All right?’
He nodded. ‘They know I keep my trains somewhere and that they aren’t likely to be in a laboratory. And there is nothing untoward about our friendship. Whereas my wife . . .’ His voice died away.
Sheila, tray in hands, waited for him to continue. ‘What about her?’ she asked finally. Sometimes, Gus made her slightly impatient.
He shrugged. ‘She leads an adventurous life, I believe.’
‘Men?’
‘Several. And not always savoury.’
In the kitchen, Sheila washed dishes noisily. She understood him very well. The conjoining of male and female flesh had been necessary, as Gus had needed children to whom he could bequeath his brilliance. But now that he was a father, he no longer needed to perform those ridiculous acts on which the survival of the species depended. Lisa Compton-Milne didn’t know how lucky she was, it seemed. Also, she was clearly one of those cheap women who liked throwing herself all over the place to be prodded and pinched by lowlifes.
‘There’s something going on right now.’
Sheila looked over her shoulder; he was standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Even my mother is involved in it. I could be wrong, of course. If I were wrong, it would not be for the first time. But there is a new level of anxiety in the house. Because they think of me as some stereotypical mad professor, they believe I am impervious to atmosphere. I do notice things. Eventually.’
She dried her hands and set the percolator to perform its task. Gus liked Kenya blend, so she, too, had decided to prefer it above all other coffees. ‘How’s Benjamin?’ she asked.
‘As ill-informed as I am, I suppose. He’s too busy keeping himself apart from the rest of us. I am hopeful that he will emerge in time to do something with his life.’
She poured the coffee and handed him a glass cup in a stainless steel holder. ‘They don’t deserve you, any of them,’ she said.
Gus suspected that she was righ
t, though the track along which she travelled led in the wrong direction. He should be the one to shift the points, wave the flag and take control of the journey – before it was too late. He did not know where to start, how to change himself into a parent. ‘I have not been much of a father,’ he said when they were seated in easy chairs. ‘I can’t remember their childhood, you see. One minute, they were babies, and the next – well – they were fully-grown strangers.’
‘But you’re a genius,’ his companion cried.
Gus nodded. ‘Perhaps – though that is hard for me to judge. But even a forgetful scientist should know his children. She – Harriet – is extremely beautiful and as bright as the sun. Yet she has dedicated her life to her little brother. Benjamin needs help, but so does she.’
Sheila felt her jaw slackening. For the first time ever, the most important person – the only person in her life – was admitting a fault in his make-up. Panic flooded through her veins. Would he give up his trains and dedicate his time to his offspring? ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked tentatively.
‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ he replied. And that was the absolute truth.
Will Carpenter was not making great strides in his effort to court Harrie. Although he had a first in chemistry and a postgraduate degree in education, he was not at all talented in the field of communication. No, that was hardly the case, as he was good at teaching, yet the one-to-one business between himself and his chosen one was not plain sailing. She was witty and inclined to deliver smart, double-edged answers to questions. Comments he made were similarly drowned beneath waves of humorous monologue. He adored her, feared her, was terrified by her family.
Their meeting place had been turned into a building site, so he was now forced to knock at the front door of Weaver’s Warp in order to see her. Mrs Compton-Milne the Elder had always allowed people right of way through the copse, but builders had stemmed the easy flow of walkers, and there was a danger that the woods might become out of bounds once Harrie’s chalet had been completed.
Now, the courtship had taken on a formal air. How could knocking on a door make a difference? It did, though. Their meetings were visibly engineered; the fact that he had often waited for hours in the copse to ‘happen upon’ her did not matter. He was knocking on a door, now, and was thereby declaring his intentions. Perhaps he had been born into the wrong era; perhaps he should wear a top hat and cutaway coat and raise a glass to Queen Victoria after meals.
They walked in silence along Weaver’s Weft, the lane on which the Compton-Milne house stood. Milly, released from the restraints of a leash, bounded along like a practising young kangaroo.
Will cleared his throat. ‘Your house seems to be making good progress.’
‘Yes. It’s just a shed with electricity and drains. Americans live in them all the time. It comes with all appliances built in, you know. Brilliant idea.’
‘And it gets you away from Ben.’
Harrie nodded. ‘Something has to shock him back to life. That apartment of his is a tomb. The camper van hasn’t been used yet, but I live in hope. He couldn’t have taken driving lessons and a test a year ago. He’s working it out. I’m leaving him to it.’
Milly arrived with a large bough between her teeth. ‘That’s nearly half a tree,’ Harrie chided. ‘We are supposed to be saving the planet, you daft dog.’
Milly dumped her find before dashing off in search of further mischief.
‘And . . . erm . . . how is your mother?’
Harrie stopped walking, causing him to go into reverse for a couple of paces. ‘My mother is brilliant. Some people think she’s so loose with her favours that her ankles have separate postcodes, but she’s not like that. She’s lonely and lively and she’s forgotten more about precious minerals than I shall ever know.’
Will cleared his throat. ‘Does your dad know about . . .?’
‘About her dalliances? Of course he does. He has his own arrangements. I think I saw him waiting to meet his own arrangements a couple of weeks ago on Wigan Road. Plays the mad professor, but he’s not as daft as he wants us to believe he is. They survive, both of them. Gran brought us up.’ She touched his arm. ‘You think we’re all mad, don’t you?’
He paused before replying. ‘Eccentric, yes.’
‘It’s been an unusual childhood,’ Harrie admitted, ‘but I wouldn’t change a moment for myself. Ben was more needful than I. All I wanted was Gran’s awesome stories, something to read and the odd hour with Woebee.’
‘Mrs Eckersley?’
Harrie nodded. ‘She’s amazing, a real-life Mrs Malaprop, every wrong word a winner. I remember her saying she was having mortal trouble with her cubicles. She meant cuticles. Childhood was a maze of guesswork and dragons. Gran gave us the dragons, knights and fairies, while Woebee provided us with a whole alternative thesaurus. Mother worked, Father worked, and Gran and Woebee were our carers. That’s just the way it was. Why does this feel like some sort of job interview?’ Without waiting for an answer, she dashed off in pursuit of the wayward dog.
Will followed her. He had a sudden feeling that it was now or never. She wouldn’t tolerate any messing about. Harriet Compton-Milne was a pragmatic young woman, outspoken to the point of recklessness and as straight as any die. He grabbed her arm. ‘Remember when I kissed you?’ he asked, knowing that so stupid a question would throw her straight into the role of comedienne.
‘How could I forget?’ she asked. ‘Liquorice.’
‘What?’
‘You tasted of one of those terrible black Spanish sticks.’
‘Did I?’
‘You did. That was ten years ago, and I still get a whiff of it whenever you are around. Well, that and wet dog-hair. When it’s raining, of course.’
His heart went into overdrive. There was no doubt in him – he loved her and wanted her and . . .
She kissed him. He pulled her close and hoped that his breath didn’t smell of anything peculiar this time. She was reluctant to release him, so he was pleased about the new mouthwash he had acquired. Moments passed, and he forgot about liquorice and wet dog and mouthwash. How could one embrace mean so much? This was a match made in heaven or hell – certainly not on earth. ‘God,’ he whispered.
‘Where?’ she asked, her eyes mocking him gently. ‘It was what you wanted, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were getting nowhere, yes?’
‘Yes.’
Harrie stroked his face, one hand on each cheek. ‘You’re lovely, Will Carpenter. But you’re afraid I might turn out as cracked as my brother. I won’t. I am a totally unique kind of loony. God broke the mould when he invented me.’
‘Are you ever serious?’ he asked.
‘Only when in love,’ she answered before marching off to find his dog.
Amazed, Will stayed where he was for several seconds. She loved him. She had almost said so – hadn’t she? He wanted to run about punching the air, but he didn’t. Teachers of maths, physics and chemistry didn’t run about wild, but perhaps they should. His throat felt full, and he experienced a ridiculous need to shed tears. It was the happiest day of his life so far and here she came, dog behind her, the other half of some God-forsaken tree between its teeth. ‘Thank you, Milly,’ he said to himself. Because Milly had been a vital part of the whole equation.
The cottage looked derelict from the outside.
Jimmy pulled his car on to a dirt track at one side of the house, climbed out of the passenger seat and went to press his face against a window. Visibility was severely restricted by dirt and greying net curtains; it seemed that Sally’s place had scarcely altered since the death of her father. She cleaned other people’s houses, but not her own. Had she moved?
He tapped a coin against the window, banged on the door, walked round to the back of the cottage. The rear door was unlocked, so he let himself into a small, filthy kitchen and announced his presence by calling her name. There was no response. He walked through to the living room, sho
ok his head when he saw the clutter and dust, lifted a pile of magazines and newspapers from a chair and sat down.
It was hell in here. Jimmy hoped he was mistaken, but he thought he caught a hint of an odour that had once been only too familiar when Sal’s father had become incontinent. Surely not? Surely, she must have made some effort after the old man’s death? The bed had been under the window. Good heavens – Mr Potter’s medicines were still lined up on a plastic trolley – and were they his teeth in a jar? The television screen was clean enough. It was plain that Sal still enjoyed her soaps, then. But no detergents had been used on this place in many a month – could he really live here?
Just as he was about to beat a retreat, the back door swung inward. ‘Jimmy?’ Sal called. She entered the room, homely face glowing with anticipation. ‘I recognized your car. How long have you been here?’ she asked.
He cleared his throat. ‘Not long, but long enough, Sal. This place is a bloody pigsty. When did you last clean up?’
The colour in her cheeks deepened further. ‘I lost heart living on me own. Doctor gave me pills for depression, but they don’t seem to help. All I’ve got is me telly. When I come home from work, I just sit and watch me programmes, then drag meself off to bed. I can’t help it. Any road, why are you here?’
He sighed heavily. ‘I’ve left her.’
‘Left Annie?’
‘Aye. Thought I’d shack up here with you, but I can’t live like this. Nobody should live like this, Sal.’
She dropped into another chair, her position in the world remaining unnaturally high, as she was perched on a pile of clothing. ‘I’ll clean up. I promise. I’ll go through top to bottom, honest. You know I’d do anything for you, Jimmy.’
‘Well.’ He pondered for a few seconds. ‘I’ll sleep in the car till you get straight. And we need a few bits of new furniture. You can sort that out – I’ll give you some money.’
Sally beamed. ‘Ooh, thanks, love.’
‘Just one thing, though. Nobody must know I’m here. There’s a good reason for that, so just trust me.’
‘You know I trust you, Jimmy.’
Parallel Life Page 9
