Hermione and Freda were both doubled over with laughter.
Eileen scowled at both of them and asked why they found so tragic a tale in the least way funny, then she joined in the merriment.
The door opened. In walked Milly like the leader of the band. Behind her, both looking suspiciously clean, Craig and Billy each held a hand of their little sister. Harrie brought up the rear. ‘I followed them so they wouldn’t get filthy on the way,’ she explained.
They kissed their grandmother, and Daisy climbed on to her knee. ‘When Mummy coming?’ she asked.
‘Very soon,’ promised Freda.
‘With new hair,’ added Hermione. ‘She knew more about wigs than I did. So we got two. She can have a split personality for as long as she likes.’
‘Have they took her hair off?’ Craig asked.
Billy dug him in the ribs. ‘Course they have, you div. You can’t use a Black & Decker on hair. All the hair would go through to your brain.’
In Harrie’s opinion, this was rather too much information for Daisy, so she changed the subject by displaying the child’s works of art. ‘That’s Princess Diana’s castle, and this is Princess Beatrice’s palace.’
Everyone made the right noises until pasta started to drop off. There was an immediate scuffle, and the children retrieved all except for two pieces, both of which were consumed by the dog.
‘You see?’ said Eileen to no one in particular. ‘It’s always complicated. Still, as long as they don’t start playing the mouth organ and begging, you should come out of it with no shame.’
Enlivened by the idea of mouth organs and begging, the twins bombarded Eileen with questions. ‘My lips are sealed,’ she said.
‘And so they should be,’ remarked Hermione. ‘Get that superglue, Harriet.’
Ten
The children were in bed at last. The battle had been fought, and Harrie, who had emerged triumphant from the field of battle, was exhausted. She tidied away debris and thought about motherhood, wondering how on earth women coped with kids and a full-time job. Most had a kid before they gave birth, since few men she knew had really achieved full adulthood. Will probably had. It was nothing to do with the ‘new man’ thing, it was about inner maturation. He had it. She hoped with all her heart that her little brother was finding it. It wasn’t enough for her own life to be sorted; Ben had to get a sense of direction, and it seemed to be happening.
Texts from him came thicker and faster, though they grew shorter. ‘OK n still alive’, and ‘how ya doin? Rode a horse today’. That last one was brilliant, because horses had to be dirty. Equines certainly didn’t keep their CDs in order and never worried about a scratch on a kettle. They didn’t take three showers a day, either, so Ben’s chances of recovery looked good.
She finished her tasks, lay down on the sofa and wondered about normality. Mother had been running all her life from an apparently cold husband who was buried in microbiology. Why was Father so embedded in his work? God alone knew the answer to that one. Ben’s obsession with cleanliness had possibly come from the mad prof who was his dad. But Ben had found refuge in a bad place, a bolt-hole that had turned out to be the catalyst that began the mending. Was Father a bad man? Probably not. Mother was definitely not bad; she had been lonely to the point of desperation.
Gran was becoming forgetful – just a symptom of old age. She had always been eccentric and was travelling in splendid disgrace through the winter of her life. Woebee was wise, but wonderfully daft. Will, though sensible on the whole, was madly in love. The twins were enjoying and employing the lunacy of youth.
But true insanity rested with the man who had beaten the mother of his three children. Jimmy Nuttall was the one who had truly lost it. She shivered. No one knew where he was. He could be outside now, might be preparing to take away Daisy, Billy and Craig. ‘He’d have to get past me first,’ she said. All the same, she was glad that Will was on his way. They had to sleep on the sofa bed, since the children filled two divans, but she and Will would be together if the ogre appeared.
‘And I was the one with the psychologist,’ she said. ‘I was the one who needed treatment? Sheesh!’
‘Talking to yourself again?’ Will leaned over and kissed her. ‘An early warning of madness.’
‘It’s the only way I can be sure of an appreciative reception,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. Did you see any mad men skulking around outside? Anyone with a chainsaw or an axe? Perhaps a black-hatted bloke carrying a violin case?’
‘No. Just a mad woman in here.’ He went into the kitchen and clattered things.
It was amazing, she thought, how the sound of plates and cups could be such a comfort. Rattling kept the world sane, somehow. He appeared with drinking chocolate and a rose in a jam jar. It was a beautiful yellow flower, but it didn’t seem too happy in its Sainsbury’s ‘Reduced Sugar Strawberry Jam’ pot. Harrie rescued it and placed it in a tiny vase. ‘Men,’ she said sweetly. ‘No idea.’
He sat down. ‘Harrie?’
‘What?’
‘Can we get married now?’
She glanced round the room. ‘Well, I see no vicars or registrars. We could use the twins, I suppose. Daisy’s a bit young.’ She laughed. ‘What’s the rush? Are you pregnant?’
‘No. Just scared.’
That was it, she decided. The fact that he could admit his fear was a symptom of adulthood. He wasn’t concerned about his masculinity, couldn’t care less if people thought him weak. That was his strength. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘If there’s no rush, things are fine as they are. We are almost living together.’
‘You might meet someone else at uni.’
‘And a certificate would prevent that?’
Will shrugged.
Harrie clouted him with a cushion. ‘And here was I, congratulating myself on having found a grown-up man. Marriage changes nothing. No, that’s not true, because it often ruins a relationship. And children don’t mend it. If the cracks are there, offspring will make the building tumble. Let’s make sure we have good foundations before we start bricking ourselves in.’
He rubbed his head. ‘I only asked,’ he said. ‘No need to give me brain damage. Or a property surveyor’s report, come to that. Anyway, our marriage will be fine. I’ve loved you since I was a mere boy.’
‘Will?’
‘What?
‘Shut up.’
He drew a hand across his mouth as if closing a zip fastener, then sat still and held her hand. Each knew that life without the other would not be bearable. Married or not, they were welded together. But she could not resist a final dig. ‘You could get me an ASBO and one of those ankle things – a tag. I’d have to be inside by seven p.m. every evening. But –’ she grinned mischievously – ‘would I be alone? Would I?’
Sheila never once complained about the tedium. Happy to do Gus’s bidding, she planned her day around his needs: cooking, cleaning, boiling bed linen and pyjamas, shopping for whatever he fancied. He never said much, yet she knew she was appreciated. They were like brother and sister; it felt as if they had been together for ever.
It was during an expedition to Bolton that she happened to wander past Lisa Compton-Milne’s jewellery shop. Deep down, she knew that this was no accident, that she had followed her instincts without allowing the knowledge to seep through completely. She stood at the window and looked past displays all set out on dark-blue velvet. Lisa Compton-Milne was just about visible. She was a pretty enough woman and was probably very well-dressed, though Sheila could see only head and shoulders.
While she lingered as if planning on choosing an item, a younger version of Gus’s wife arrived at the shop. So this was his daughter. She, too, was remarkably pretty. Sheila had seen her before, but not closely. This was a lovely girl. Yet he didn’t seem to be involved with these beautiful people. He chose instead to spend time with Sheila, because she allowed him to be himself.
The pair emerged from the shop. They were arm in arm as they went to
the pavement’s edge to prepare for crossing the road. The younger one was speaking about children being minded by . . . Woebee? What kind of a name was that? They crossed and entered an elegant coffee shop across the way. Sheila followed suit and chose a table next to theirs.
The girl had blue eyes. They were similar in shape to her father’s, although the rest of her face seemed to have been borrowed from her mother. Conversation at this point related to blends of coffee: skinny latte, cappuccino and espresso. Sheila guessed that they also knew about fine wines, designer clothes and good shoes, but she was still better than they were. In her house, a good man lay trying to hide from hospital infections. He was at war with germs, was the very embodiment of hope for the future, and here they sat deciding about coffee.
Lisa was not as uninformed as she pretended. She knew all about Gus’s friend, had made a note of the address he visited, and had immediately recognized the woman skulking outside the shop. So. Gus’s chosen companion had followed them here, presumably to look at the competition. There was no competition. However, some devil in Lisa made her play the situation for all it was worth. ‘I wonder how your father’s getting along in New Zealand?’ she asked.
Harrie wiped off her frothy moustache. ‘As long as he has an audience, he’ll be happy. I do hope he wears a new shirt to his lectures. Frankly, most of the germs in the world are probably attached to that suit of his. He’s had it since Noah emptied the ark.’
‘Oh, I bought him a new one,’ said Lisa. ‘Marks and Spencer – two pairs of trousers with it. If he remembered to pack it.’
Sheila stirred her coffee. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He was in her back bedroom reading books and making notes on his laptop. It wasn’t worth her getting an Internet provider, he had said. All the work he needed to send electronically could wait until he got home. Or back from New Zealand, because that was where the family believed him to be.
‘Such a brilliant mind,’ said Lisa loudly. ‘I hope he gets the recognition he deserves at the end of his search for hospital safety.’
Harrie stared at her mother. What the heck was she going on about?
‘Just a minute,’ Lisa went on. ‘I’ll finish this list, then you can see if you have anything to add.’ She scribbled for a while, then tore the sheet from her notebook.
Harrie read the note: ‘The woman to our right is your father’s friend. She lives near the psycho you were visiting. DON’T STARE AT HER.’ Harrie passed it back. ‘No, that’s fine, Mother. Though you must remember to get some single malt before Father comes home. You know how much he loves a good scotch.’
Lisa managed not to choke on her drink. Gus hated alcohol. Apart from the odd glass of red wine with a meal, he was almost teetotal. Happy that her daughter was partaking in the naughtiness, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and told Harrie to add whisky to the list. ‘And chocolate mousse. He enjoys that, as well.’ Gus never ate chocolate mousse. Would the woman go and buy the items they had listed? Was she so desperate to impress him that she would follow such ill-advice?
Sheila drank her coffee. They were beautifully dressed, these Compton-Milne females. The younger wore a suit of blue-grey, the elder a dress and coat in milk-chocolate silk. Chocolate mousse. She must remember that. They were talking now about furnishing a bungalow, about a melee of modern and traditional, some bunk beds in case Annie’s children wanted to stay. Oh well. Let them get on with their empty little lives.
She stood at the bus stop. In her bag, she had a bottle of Cream of the Barley and some chocolate mousse from the food hall at Marks and Spencer. She would keep him happy. Perhaps he would not want to go home ever again.
Meanwhile, Lisa and Harrie were giggling about their own delinquency. The thought of Gus returning from the Antipodes to a diet of scotch and mousse was too funny for words.
‘Were we cruel?’ gasped Harrie eventually.
‘Probably.’ Lisa dried her eyes. ‘But she isn’t his lover, I am sure. She thinks the relationship is pure and beautiful. Wait till she serves him a shot of single malt – he’ll be so polite, yet forceful. She’ll get the lecture on liver disease—’
‘And the mousse will attract a homily on type-two diabetes.’
They ordered a second coffee and talked about Annie. That subject led them into territory that was occupied by fear. James Nuttall. ‘We haven’t seen the last of him,’ Lisa predicted. ‘But let’s hope the next time we catch sight, he’ll be under arrest and on the six o’clock news.’
Harrie shivered. She was in nominal charge of his children, and she hoped that he would not discover where they were living. If he was vindictive enough to batter a small woman halfway to death, he’d be well capable of trying to take her children from her.
They left to return to their respective shops. Harrie found herself hoping against hope that the twins were behaving themselves for Woebee; Lisa’s mind was more happily occupied. How was Gus’s woman going to explain away her odd purchases? Or had he told her about his aversion to hard liquor and over-sweet puddings? She imagined him on his first visit after his return, pictured him kneeling among his precious trains, then going into the dining room to be greeted with scotch and rich, sweet stuff.
When she entered the shop, Simon was grinning like the Cheshire cat. ‘They’re letting Annie out,’ he cried.
Lisa grinned. ‘Throwing her out, more likely. Simon, put the kettle on. Coffee leaves me so thirsty. Bring on the Earl Grey.’
Ben had locked himself in the van. He needed space not for the usual reason, but because he had something to do. Solitude had become a sudden necessity. After a quick dip in a stream, he was not in a state of real cleanliness, yet that scarcely mattered any more. There was no longer a need for such rigid control in small day-to-day details, but he wanted to be alone for a couple of hours from time to time. For now, he had to be totally in charge, because he had discovered a project.
The first chapter – if it was a chapter – had been written. It was in longhand and in pencil, because pencil was easier to erase. And there had been a fair amount of erasing. Starting a story was difficult. He knew the ending, had a rough idea of the middle, but a beginning was where the reader started, of course. ‘Not that it will sell,’ he told his grubby fingernails. It was therapy. It had grown from the diary he had kept, but the start altered from day to day, so his tale had an open opening. He’d heard of open endings, but open openings? That would never do.
Compromise was a necessity. He would write down the performers, choose names for them, describe them, then give an account of them. Names would have to be changed to protect the guilty, but that was probably normal. Normal. He gazed round his living space, saw that it was a mess, though hardly filthy. That was normal. Bathing in a stream into which fish had defecated was all right, too. There was no need to worry; he was learning to live and share space with humans and other creatures.
A title had invented itself right from the start. A Head over my Roof might seem odd, but he knew what he meant. He was controlling his need to control. He was the head, while the roof was a cap worn by the life he had known thus far. There had been too many ceilings, too many no-go areas.
What was it Mr Martin said? Mr Martin was reputed to be the best teacher of English and creative writing this side of the moon. ‘Speak as you find, write as you speak, and never fear language.’ Yes, that was it. So the way to write this . . . whatever it was, must be as if Ben were speaking it. Gran had what she called a talking-into-it machine, a voice-activated recorder that helped her remember lists.
Thinking of Gran, Ben found himself grinning. She was useless with lists. Woebee’s opinion was that Gran wrote the lists then ate them, as she believed they were top-secret documents. He could hear Woebee, too. ‘She’s never got over reading about Burgess and MacLean – they were spies for the Russians.’ Were Woebee and Gran suitable material? Because truth was very strange indeed, a great deal less credible than manufactured stories.
He looked out, saw Josh leadi
ng out a mare recently acquired at the Appleby Fair, watched children at play, noticed one of the women hanging out washing. Berated and vilified wherever they went, the travellers held on to their corporate temper for the most part, lived from hand to mouth, loved each other, loved their animals. Their homes were, on the whole, ramshackle wrecks that could be driven or towed at short notice, since moving on was a part of everyday life. Nobody wanted them. Yet they retained a remarkable sense of identity.
They had taken him into their camp without the slightest hesitation. He ate some strange foods and was set to chop wood or fish the stream in return for being fed. It was a barter system seasoned with kindness; it was a way of living he had come not just to endure, but also to enjoy. He’d ridden a horse and had his fortune told; he had experienced more real – and surreal – life in a few weeks than in the previous ten years.
Was he a writer? Writers were meant to be a bit weird, he supposed. But he had been more than a bit weird; he had been off the bloody radar altogether. However, writing was a channel and a challenge. Even if the exercise proved to have no more use than to empty his soul of debris, it would have done its job.
When Annie left the hospital, she behaved in the manner of the Queen Mother, waving from her wheelchair with a slight movement of the hand, almost as if bestowing a blessing on her people. She had so many flowers and planted baskets that she was likened to a trolley emerging from some garden centre after a massive sale.
Outside, she turned, sneezed when a fern interfered with her a nostril, then looked at her pilot. ‘James,’ she said. ‘Take me home.’
‘I’m Simon.’
‘Who’s counting?’
Lisa helped Simon to install Annie in the back of the car. Floral attachments were removed from her: some stowed quickly in the boot, others left to chance in the spare rear-seat. Annie, with a colourful turban covering her dignity, chattered almost all the way to Weaver’s Warp. Her list of grievances against the hospital was long. The beds were uncomfortable, and no one should be expected to sleep on plastic. ‘I’ve never wet the bed since I was two,’ she said. ‘And why they have central heating on at the end of July – God only knows. It’s like living in a Turkish baths.’
Parallel Life Page 22
