Parallel Life

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Yes.’

  There followed a silence during which Hermione learned much about her companion. She sweated when she was nervous; she touched an ear-lobe when lying; she had something sizeable to hide. ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your husband. What happened to him?’

  ‘Heart attack. Right as rain one minute, dead on the floor the next.’

  ‘Terrible business for you.’

  ‘Oh, it was. I tried that mouth-to-mouth, but it didn’t work.’

  ‘And the paramedics tried, too, I suppose. Did they shock him?’

  ‘Er . . . what?’

  ‘Did they use a machine to start his heart again? Like they do in Casualty?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, I think they did.’

  It was time for a pause, decided Hermione. Like a boxer, she needed to retreat to her corner in order to calculate her next move. She stood and took hold of a nearby walking frame. ‘I’m all right,’ she told Sal when the woman went to rise from her chair. ‘I can get to the bathroom, thank you.’

  Alone, Sal gazed around the room. It was all cream except for the chimney wall, which was done in an amazing wallpaper with bronze in its pattern. It probably looked lovely in the evenings when the lamps were on. Everything was so modern and clean, lots of metalwork, square shades on the lights, a black sofa with fancy cushions thrown about, all different geometric shapes in the fabrics. This was posh. This was how the rich people lived.

  The rich person returned. ‘And when did your husband die, Mrs Potter?’

  Sal squirmed. ‘Two years come September.’ She touched her left ear.

  ‘Very sad,’ said Hermione. ‘No children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just Barney.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  There was definite justification for Eileen’s misgivings, and Hermione told her so when Sally Potter had left the scene. It was difficult, though, to imagine why so many lies had been manufactured. Unless she was ‘casing the joint’ for some criminal, there could be little reason for such behaviour. ‘Carry on watching,’ advised Hermione.

  ‘I wasn’t wrong, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So that means you were wrong, while I was right?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Eileen made her jubilant exit. Sometimes, Mrs Clever-Clogs wasn’t as bright as she made herself out to be. When it came to people, Eileen Eckersley was the expert. And woe betide anyone who did not agree with that.

  Hermione sat in silence for over half an hour, an achievement that would have been termed miraculous by all who knew her. There were brown mottles on the lower parts of Sal Potter’s legs. They advertised a woman who had no central heating, who sat a great deal, who rested too close to an open fire in the winters. The scars were pale at present, but would deepen in colour towards the end of the year. There was no cat. Barney had been a quick touch-of-the-ear job, though the cleaner did not live alone at the present time.

  Hermione picked up her crossword, but could not concentrate. The failure to remember the activities of paramedics was another clue. She had not been married. Most widows continued to wear a wedding ring, but the lack of a ring had not been the main pointer. The date of death probably belonged to Sally Potter’s father. Most liars needed some truth to which they might cling, so she had used the real date of her father’s death. Why was she here? Why did she tell lies that seemed meaningless and non-essential? It would be relatively easy to find out if anyone named Potter had died on the date provided. Had she changed her surname? Probably not. No imagination, no mental energy in the poor creature.

  Hermione stood and hobbled across to the other dormer. Harrie’s house was almost completed. It was quite pretty, too. ‘She made all the doorways wide enough for me,’ whispered the old lady. ‘That is a good girl. I’ll miss her when she goes to university.’

  ‘Talking to yourself again?’

  Hermione did not turn. ‘This way, I am sure of an intelligent audience,’ she answered smartly. ‘And your scones were drier than usual.’

  Getting used to being in love took some doing, though it proved immensely enjoyable. Suddenly possessed of enormous energy, Harrie set herself the task of nest-building in her new home. It had to be right – absolutely right. With a flair for colour and style, and as owner of three magazines on the subject of beautiful homes, she considered herself to be adequately qualified. Also, there was an urgency in her, almost as if everything should have been done yesterday.

  Perched on a ladder, she painted a wall in her sitting room. Milly, who seemed to have moved in already, lay in a peaceful heap in the doorway. Will was asleep. Harrie laughed quietly. Vive la difference? she asked herself. The fact was that a woman, after making love, could probably do a week’s washing, tile a floor and varnish five doors. Men slept. Or was it just Will? She giggled again. The making love was probably harder work for a man. Also, women were programmed differently. Like all female animals, they treated sex like a beginning, not as an end in itself. It was about making babies. She shivered. Not yet, please God. Was she painting a bloody nursery?

  He staggered in from the bedroom, each hand rubbing sleep from an eye.

  ‘Is there a war on?’ she asked.

  Will sighed. ‘Don’t go all clever on me, Hat. Not at this time of day.’

  ‘It’s ten o’clock and it’s Saturday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we are going into town to see my mother.’

  ‘Right.’

  She climbed down from her perch. ‘No more sex in the morning, love. It clearly causes the gradual death of your brain cells, while it turns me into a decorator. See?’ She spun round. ‘I have done one and a half walls while you snored. I’ll invent some brunch. Make yourself at home. Pull up a crate and put a cloth on the tea chest. We are going to eat in style.’

  He smiled, ran a hand through tousled hair, then did as he had been told. She was the most wonderful, beautiful, troublesome part of his life, and he adored her. But he had always felt like this about her, whereas she had taken a longer and more measured route into love. He refused to imagine life without her. And her family – apart from her father – consisted of people who were merely eccentric, he told himself repeatedly.

  Today, they were going to buy the ring – at cost, of course. Harrie, ever the watchful businesswoman, had no intention of paying retail. Connections were there to be used, she said. So romantic, his Hat. A bowl of cornflakes was set down in front of him. ‘No bacon?’ he asked.

  ‘No bacon.’

  ‘Eggs?’

  ‘Eggs is orf, sir,’ she replied smartly.

  ‘Why?’

  Harrie carried a box of candles to the makeshift table. ‘Here, dangle your bacon over a couple of those – it’ll cook in about a week. No gas, no electricity, no breakfast.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Quite.’ She sat and grinned while he ate his cereal. ‘Just think, by next week we shall have a table and some chairs. Oh – thank your mother for the bits of furniture; I like an eclectic mix. There’s milk on your chin.’

  ‘And paint in your hair. Touché.’ He finished and pushed away the bowl. ‘Who’s going to look after Milly? Our house is empty today, and I can’t leave her there because she ate Mum’s kitchen lino last time.’

  ‘Keep her here, then?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. She’ll chew all your paintbrushes and overdose on apple-white emulsion.’

  Thus it happened. Hermione Compton-Milne met her new best friend that Saturday morning. She’d never owned a dog, never wanted one, thought they were best leading the blind or sniffing for drugs. Until she met Milly.

  She glared at Harrie when the dog appeared. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘German shepherd,’ said Will.

  Hermione liked Will. He was a good, sensible chap and was, therefore, fit to be joined in wedlock to her only granddaughter. ‘Have you brought the sheep as well, then? Because she’ll need some
thing to masticate.’

  ‘Old shoes,’ Harrie suggested. ‘And chicken. She’ll do anything for chicken.’

  Before negotiations reached breaking point, Harrie dragged Will out of the room and slammed the door.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Will asked.

  ‘As long as she has no more falls.’

  ‘I meant the dog.’

  ‘I know.’ Harrie squeezed his hand. ‘Gran has never eaten a whole one. Although a very small Yorkshire terrier did go missing a few years ago, and Gran was discovered standing at the window licking her lips.’

  It was his turn to pull her out of the house.

  Upstairs, a stand-off between dog and lady-of-the-upper-chamber was taking place. Eileen had gone to the shops, so just the canine and the almost-octogenarian were in residence. The dog blinked. Hermione did the same. Milly scratched an ear; Hermione followed suit, though she could not use a lower limb for such purpose.

  It happened when she tried to stand. The walker was just out of reach and, as she leaned over to grab it, Milly rushed to her side, providing a warm, strong wall against which the old woman could steady herself. The dog remained beside her, though not as closely, as she walked to the bathroom. Together, they entered the room, Milly standing on guard while Hermione performed her ablutions. For several seconds, they studied each other – and fell head-over-heels in love.

  ‘You’re a clever girl, aren’t you?’

  The animal woofed politely.

  ‘And so beautiful. God, you really are so beautiful.’ Hermione sniffed. How could a young, healthy dog make her cry? It was the eyes, she decided. They were dark, warm and so wonderfully intelligent. ‘You’ve a better brain than Eileen, but, now that I consider the statement I just made, you could scarcely fail.’

  Back in the sitting room, they waited for Eileen, Hermione in her chair, the dog stretched out near her feet. Hermione told her all about the family, about Lisa’s trouble, about the forthcoming wedding. ‘You’ll be a lovely bridesmaid,’ she said. ‘But not in pink or peach. You would look ridiculous.’

  Eileen, complaining vociferously about the cost of beef, entered the room and stopped in her tracks. ‘Is that Milly?’

  ‘It is, indeed. She’s my chambermaid.’

  ‘She’s a what?’

  ‘A member of staff. Feed her.’

  Milly, who gave the impression of one who understood English perfectly, followed Eileen into the kitchen. After a few minutes, the dog emerged.

  ‘What did you give her?’ Hermione asked.

  ‘The leftover chicken and at least two of my fingers.’

  ‘Good.’ Hermione closed her eyes. With the dog beside her and Eileen in the house, she was safer than ever before.

  Harrie had never before met Annie, and she was pleased to find that her mother was working in pleasant company. Simon, the deputy manager, was sweet, effeminate, and a very good friend to his employer, but Annie was amazing.

  She took charge of the situation right from the start, since both Lisa and Simon were busy with customers. ‘Come through,’ she said. ‘See what we have. Though you could have got it from your own shop.’

  Harrie shook her head. ‘Roger and his wife are looking after the place. They tend to get overenthusiastic when doing something special. Anyway, I know every item of stock in there – I want a surprise.’

  Annie chuckled and took a seat at the desk. She eyed Will critically. ‘Yes, nice looking bloke, Harriet. Your mother said he was handsome. When’s the wedding? Only, I’ve got a pouf at home and—’

  ‘I’m the only poof we need.’ Simon’s head was poking through the doorway.

  ‘Bog off,’ ordered Annie. ‘It’s not a poof, it’s a pouf.’

  Simon pulled a face. ‘Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right, then.’

  Annie explained her pouf. ‘The colour’s buttered toast, but it has all shades of brown and blonde going through it. You use it like a scrunchie, only it’s made of hair. Well, not hair, but better than hair. Or you can figure-of-eight it round a chopstick – that looks nice.’

  ‘Useful, too,’ added Will. ‘If we have a Chinese restaurant reception.’

  Harrie dug Will in the ribs. ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ she threatened.

  ‘Promises,’ he mumbled.

  Annie continued to wax about her pouf. ‘All the brides have them. You can put rhinestones in – they look like real hair – or hang a veil underneath if you want to make a bun of it.’

  Will scratched his head and said he had never eaten a bun with chopsticks, but he was willing to give it a go. In receipt of withering glances from both women, he kept his counsel.

  ‘I’m not wearing a veil,’ Harrie said.

  ‘Oh. A Juliet cap, then?’ asked Annie.

  ‘No. A gas mask.’

  Lisa walked in to gales of laughter. ‘Is she at it again?’ She pointed at her daughter. ‘Behave yourself, Harriet. Simon’s in charge out there. I’ll show you the rings.’

  Annie was still mopping her face after the gas mask statement. She looked at the tray in Lisa’s hands, put her head on one side and pursed her lips. ‘Lisa?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember that little Ceylon sapphire? Two diamonds each side? Look at your daughter’s eyes. And it’s got an uneven number – remember? That book you gave me says an even number is unlucky and it should be a solitaire, or three, or five and so on?’

  Lisa nodded.

  ‘One Ceylon, four diamonds. That makes five. And just look at this girl’s eyes. Perfect with those eyes, that sapphire.’

  The owner of the shop sighed deeply. ‘There’s been no dealing with Annie since she read that book. She’s still trying to get her head round platinum – aren’t you?’

  Annie smiled. ‘If they melted down all the platinum found so far on this planet, it wouldn’t fill an average room. Isn’t that something?’ She opened a drawer and picked out a box. ‘Here it is.’

  Harrie tried it on, picked up a jeweller’s glass and examined the ring. The sapphire, palest blue and beautifully cut, had a good, solid heart and excellent refraction. ‘These diamonds are quite fine – probably from one parent stone. Mother?’

  Lisa took the glass. ‘Amsterdam’s best,’ she declared. ‘Annie, you have a good eye.’

  The little trainee jeweller looked as pleased as Punch when Harrie eventually decided to choose the Ceylon. At the same time, she shed a few tears because these two people were so beautiful, and it was the beginning for them. Annie prayed that there would be no ending like her own had been. But there was little danger of that. Will was an educated man. He wouldn’t fit alarms and then go back on the rob.

  Across the road, a figure lingered. In overalls and Sal’s father’s flat cap, he looked like a working man on his way to a job. When Annie, Lisa and the young couple came to the door of Milne’s, he tried not to stare. But it was clear that the daughter had taken after Lisa in the looks department. She was a stunner.

  In that moment, the seed of an idea took root in his head. It was a dangerous thought, ambitious and frightening. He would use it only if all else failed. If Sal failed, he corrected himself inwardly. He didn’t know how much longer Sal would stay up at Weaver’s Warp, because the stress was getting to her. So, if nothing else worked, there was a way. Drastic? Yes, it was. But living in the knowledge that any one of three females could take the gun and grass him up was just as terrifying. Needs must when the devil drove. And the devil was a fast mover.

  Ben knew only too well that he would not recover overnight, as most of his problems seemed to have been rooted in childhood, but he was determined to win. The Internet now became a learning tool via which he intended to hasten matters. He was different from other people; every person on earth was an individual, and he had to learn to accept and love himself exactly as he was before stepping forward. ‘I must forgive me,’ he told the screen. ‘And my parents. They, too, have been in the wrong.’ His father was still in the wrong. His father h
adn’t bothered to attend the meeting so carefully arranged by Harrie. Even so, both parents must be forgiven. Anyway, the meeting had turned silly, and Father didn’t do silly. Mother was making a real effort. She was even likeable, so that was a huge bonus.

  The diary had to be filled in every day. He did that on the computer, printing it out in duplicate – one copy for himself, one for Alan Browne, his Manchester-based therapist. Every event had to be listed and, alongside each account, he had to write his feelings and how he had dealt with them and with the situation in hand. Behaviour modification was the flavour of the month, and he worked hard at it.

  He came to realize early on that he had begun his own treatment when he had learned to drive and bought the van, when he had gone into the woods in order to get dirty. Ben knew that he was fortunate. His excellent brain provided him with all he needed, because he was able to study the true meaning of cognitive behavioural therapy and could understand all that had been written about it.

  University would be postponed for twelve months. During that time, he would do as Harrie had done – he would sell jewellery, meet people, touch them, assist them. In order to help himself, he needed to inter-react. Already, he had one real friend, because Will Carpenter had turned out to be a brilliant listener. ‘I suppose I am gaining a brother,’ Ben had told Harrie. ‘He’s a good bloke, sis. Very bright, too.’

  ‘Too bright to be teaching in a comp?’ had been her question.

  Ben had shaken his head. ‘I was wrong. I am happy to be wrong.’

  There was a long road ahead of him, but he would take those baby-steps, would keep his diary, would survive. His mantra came from Popeye, that cartoon character who depended so heavily on spinach. ‘I am what I am,’ Ben told himself repeatedly.

  He was what he was. And there was a great deal of room for improvement.

  Lisa did not forsake all her friends. There were some she had known for years, and she introduced several to Annie, who found that she truly enjoyed the company of the older women. Most were in retail, one owning a couple of market stalls, another having her own dress shop, a third running a dance school. Annie’s life was opening up, and she loved it, loved Lisa’s humour. ‘Alice named her shop Veronica’s Haute Couture, though her pronunciation’s nothing like the French,’ Lisa told Annie. ‘She sells frocks with posh labels. To folk who fancy themselves as haughty culture, which sounds a bit like gardening, eh? Most of them are weeds, so it suits. Size six? They look like bloody Barbie dolls, according to Alice.’