Parallel Life

by Ruth Hamilton

  Kidnap was a big deal. But the only thing that mattered was the truth. For once, he was not guilty. Birmingham was just a place halfway between here and London. He scarcely remembered being there. But he would carry the can for it if the cops got the weapon used on that guard. God, he wished he could stop shaking. Get the stuff, take it to the farm, phone Lisa, go for the gun.

  Or. Get the stuff, take it to the farm, phone Lisa, pick up her daughter. Risky. ‘But it wasn’t my gun. I never had a gun, never shot anybody,’ he told the windscreen. Birmingham. It was nothing to do with him. That was his truth, his one truth. If only his hands and legs would calm down . . .

  Gus wasn’t at all well. Sheila did her best, but she wanted to call her doctor. ‘You’ll be classed as a temporary resident,’ she told him. ‘You can’t go on like this, can you?’ His hair was thinner. She’d found some of it floating in the lavatory. ‘Gus?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She swallowed hard. ‘Are you on chemotherapy?’

  He turned to face the wall. There was a gap in that lovely head of hair.

  ‘You’ve the funeral to see to, haven’t you?’

  He managed to sit up. ‘I go for more tests this afternoon. Yes, it is chemotherapy, and I may need radiotherapy as well. There’s also a possibility of further surgery.’

  Gus had never been a highly animated person, but the life seemed to be draining out of him before her very eyes. He was giving up. ‘You have to fight this,’ she told him.

  ‘I am fighting. My immune system is depleted, and that is why you’re still boiling everything. But a patient can live too long in a bubble. I have to get out. And I have to go home after the funeral.’

  He had no home. He had a wife, a daughter and a son at the other side of Bolton, but his life was here and in the laboratories. The family didn’t care about him. She knew now that he hated whisky and chocolate mousse, was fully aware that Lisa and Harriet had put on a show for her. They knew who she was, all right. Nasty, nasty women. ‘I can look after you properly,’ she said.

  ‘Like you did for your husband? Why should you go through all that again?’

  ‘This is different. I didn’t love him.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth for a split second. ‘You’re like a brother to me.’

  ‘I know, and I’m grateful. But there are things I need to deal with. Most of my personal notes are at Weaver’s Warp, as is my blood family. I have a mother there. There’s a will to amend, the office to go through, and I must, must talk to my wife and to Harriet and Benjamin.’

  ‘Right.’ She was more than disappointed – she was devastated. What if he died? What if she never saw him again? This was a big house for one woman. Perhaps it was time for her to go the way of all flesh, put one foot in the grave and buy a two-bedroomed bungalow in Harwood. She could certainly afford it if she sold these two properties. Or she could keep one. The rent she charged was enough to live on.

  ‘Sheila?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll be all right. I know you will. You have more strength than you realize. You’re still relatively young, and you should develop some interests. Go to evening classes, make friends.’ That’s what he should have done, he mused. Perhaps not the evening classes, but a few close companions might have helped to make the next six months more palatable. Chemotherapy was no fun. He fell back on to the pillows. ‘Let me rest for an hour,’ he begged.

  Downstairs, Sheila decided to be practical. Being practical had brought her back from the edge many times when she had nursed her dying husband. She went out to the small shed and pulled out a wheelchair. Gus would get to Mathilda’s funeral even if she had to push him all the way from here and up Bury Road to the cemetery. She would not let him down.

  She cleaned the chair thoroughly before parking it in the front room. No, she would not forsake him. She wasn’t like those two women in their perfectly cut blue-grey and chocolate suits. Sheila Barton was a real woman, and a real woman stood by her brother.

  ‘Harrie? Where on earth are you?’ Lisa’s voice floated down two stairways until it reached the hall. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m on the phone.’ She was using a portable instrument, and she carried it out into the garden. Pregnant. Bloody hell. And who the heck was Mathilda, and what was the matter with Mother?

  ‘Hello, Nazareth House, Sister Marie Claire speaking. How can I help you?’

  Harrie swallowed hard. ‘My name is Susan Watkins and I am calling from Rushton’s Funeral Services in Bolton. We have the first name of the deceased, but no surname. Mr Rushton left that part blank – sorry.’

  ‘Ah. You’re meaning Mathilda?’

  Harrie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Yes. We need a death certificate.’

  ‘I think Dr Compton-Milne has that. We already spoke to one of the Mr Rushtons a few minutes ago. Perhaps he didn’t tell you yet? Mr Compton-Milne will bring in the certificate later today. We have a copy, so we can release the body when the undertaker arrives.’

  He was in New Zealand and—

  ‘Hi, Harrie.’ BillyandCraig flew towards her. The whole household now lumped them together, no space between the names, because where one was, the other was almost always by his side and up to the same mischief.

  Harrie put a finger to her lips.

  They stood and stared at her.

  She didn’t know what else to say. The twins started jumping up and down and were pulling funny faces at her. The poor Irish nun at the other end said ‘Hello?’ several times.

  Harrie pulled herself together. ‘Sorry about that, Sister. Some children have come to say goodbye to their grandfather.’

  ‘You what?’ Billy asked.

  ‘God bless them,’ said the sister.

  ‘So Mr Compton-Milne has been to Nazareth House and has the death certificate?’ Harrie asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. He’ll give it to you later on today. He was with her when she passed, poor man.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’ Harrie switched off the phone.

  A tousled Annie was on her way to the house. It seemed that she, too, had been invited to the conference. ‘You coming?’ she asked.

  ‘Er . . . yes. What are you going to do with those two?’ Harrie said.

  ‘They’re off to Mrs Eckersley’s house. Her husband is going to watch them and Daisy. Mrs Eckersley took Daisy across earlier.’

  God would need to be on Stanley Eckersley’s side today, Harrie decided. Now, there was to be a meeting with Gran and Mother and goodness alone knew how many others. Mother had been missing earlier; Father was not where he was supposed to be. There were many mad people in the world, and most of them were related to Harrie.

  Annie disappeared up the side of the house, each arm clinging to one twin. She was blonde today. Well, a dirty sort of blonde, but it suited her. The wigs kept her feeling human until her hair grew back, Harrie supposed. Pregnant.

  Will was walking towards the bungalow. He was carrying supermarket bags loaded with groceries. ‘I don’t know where they put it all.’ He was referring to the twins and their capacity for food. ‘Hello, you,’ he said. ‘I’ve finished Annie’s shopping.’

  Right, he needed to be the first to know. It was hardly the right time and place, but it had to be done and—

  ‘Harriet!’

  Oh, well. Mother meant business. She had descended two flights of stairs in order to capture the attention of her wayward daughter. And she was using Harrie’s full name, so there was something deadly serious afoot. As well as all the other stuff . . .

  ‘Sorry, Will. Talk later. Oh – dump that lot, then get across the road and help Stanley Eckersley. He’s got the kids.’ She, also, had a kid. It would be about the size of a millet seed, she supposed . . .

  ‘Harriet?’ yelled Lisa again.

  ‘Coming! See you later,’ she said to Will before going off to do her mother’s bidding. She wouldn’t be much use. There was a dead Mathilda, a missing father and a cluster of cells – it wasn’t going to be ea
sy to concentrate. But Mother was flustered, so the meeting was bound to have almost as much significance as a G8. ‘Onward, Christian soldiers,’ she muttered before walking resignedly into the house. Mother was rattling on about cows, shoes and guns. The world was insane, and it promised to get worse.

  Stanley and Eileen had never been blessed with children, and both had been sad about it. But Stanley was having second – and third – thoughts. Daisy was lovely, yet the other two could start a war in a monastery – no doubt about that. They were in the garden. He had hidden most implements and was hoping that he would still have a garden at the end of the day. Daisy, happily established at the kitchen table with crayons and paper, was a saint.

  Craig ran in. ‘Can we water the garden for you?’

  There had been enough rain to provide water for half a century. ‘No.’

  ‘Even a little bit?’

  ‘No. And no means no, mister.’

  Craig left the scene. Stanley watched while Annie made her way back to the big house. She’d hardly been away twenty seconds, and they were already playing up. Would they survive to the age of nine? How old had Bonnie and Clyde been when they’d blown the kick-off whistle?

  It was Billy’s turn. Billy was the taller one, Stanley reminded himself. And he owned the cheekier grin.

  ‘Do you want any weeding done?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Not at the moment, thanks,’ replied the man of the house. ‘I do my own weeding regular as clockwork.’ That was an apt remark, thought Stanley, because these two were winding him up something shocking.

  ‘We only charge two quid. And we know the difference between weeds and flowers.’

  ‘So do I.’ Stanley comforted himself by gazing at Daisy at the table. She was a lovely little flower, whereas these two weeds . . . He turned to look at Billy, but there was just an empty doorway. As quickly as age allowed, Stanley went to the back window. There was no sign of either boy in the rear garden. He ran to the front window – no joy there, either.

  ‘Cat,’ said Daisy.

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘BillyandCraig have a cat. They ran with it.’

  ‘To the big house?’

  Daisy nodded. Not yet three, she had already learned that she was required as a second pair of eyes in the service of her mother. ‘They found it outside that door.’

  ‘Bugger,’ said Stanley.

  ‘Bugger.’ Daisy lined up her crayons in an orderly fashion, got down from her chair and took Stanley’s hand. ‘Find them,’ she said. She was used to this. She and Mam often went on long walks in search of the twins. ‘Find BillyandCraig,’ she insisted.

  They walked hand in hand out of the house, only to find that Will was halfway across the lane and moving in their direction. ‘Did they get away already?’ he asked cheerfully.

  ‘They did.’ Stanley’s mouth was set for a moment in a grim, tight line. ‘Daisy says they’ve got a cat. Did you not see them coming across? With a cat?’

  Will shook his head. ‘They could have gone down the other side of the house. All the gates are open. We’d better find them, because there’s some sort of summit conference going on in the roof. Harrie’s mother is not in the best of moods.’

  On the brink of saying ‘bugger’ again, Stanley bit his tongue. Daisy was too quick a learner, and he must not curse in front of her. She could already count to twenteen, and Stanley had been teaching her, with a degree of success, that it was really twenty. Counting that far at such an age meant that ‘bugger’ would be just another bon mot to add to her increasing collection.

  They entered the house and mayhem was advertised immediately by Eileen, who stood halfway up the first flight, arms folded, expression far from inviting and hugely less than pretty. ‘What are you at?’ she asked her husband. ‘Three children we gave you. Just three kiddies for you to tend. The twins arrived just seconds ago at our house across the way. Can you not keep an eye on Annie’s lot for a short time?’

  ‘They disappeared,’ he said. ‘I can’t keep up with them.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You can get yourself up here now and see the mess you made of it all. I’ve never come across the likes in all me born days, may the Mother of God be my witness. They’re here. With a cat that has no patience and no sense of humour at all.’

  Daisy climbed on to the stairlift. ‘Ride,’ she demanded.

  Stanley pressed the switch and the ascent began.

  ‘Get up here now, the both of you. Will, you’re a tall lad. We need a tall lad.’ Eileen lifted Daisy off her throne and sat her on the second stairlift.

  Stanley was fed up. He was falling behind with his gardening jobs, which paid better in the summer months. And why was he falling behind? Because of two kids and a cat. A thought struck. ‘Oh, no,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ Will was right behind Stanley in more ways than one. The twins were driving just about everyone to drink, distraction, or both.

  ‘Your dog!’ Stanley shouted.

  Will stood in the doorway of Hermione’s living room and wondered why a person never had a camera at moments like this. The cat was up the curtains, was clinging to the pelmet like a desperate survivor of the Titanic. Milly, acting as jailer, was at the hem of the curtains. She was whining because she had lost her new toy. Her new toy began to spit and yowl. Annie, who was not long out of hospital, was standing precariously on the window seat. Even on the window seat, she was too tiny for the job, though the dormer was relatively shallow.

  ‘Get down,’ shouted Hermione.

  Annie got down.

  Stanley, muttering oaths under his breath, dragged the Alsatian from the room. Will reached up to rescue the cat and was repaid for his trouble by the removal of skin from his left arm and the pain that accompanied this attack.

  ‘It’s lost,’ said Billy sadly.

  ‘Out,’ yelled Will. ‘And take the other one with you. And don’t let the dog in.’ Said dog was now barking furiously.

  ‘Lost,’ repeated the twins in unison.

  Will glared at the twins. ‘The cat is not lost – it’s too well fed to be lost. Didn’t I tell you to get out? Well?’

  Harrie watched as the twins slunk from the room. Will was probably good at his job in a concrete jungle populated by ASBOs and delinquent parents. He had presence.

  So did the cat.

  It took about twenty minutes and several towels before the feline was captured. The dog was still barking, but Stanley had shown enough sense to drag her out into the gardens. Blinded by the towels, Puss was placed in an upside-down bird cage on to which the bottom – now the top – was attached at speed. ‘Good God,’ breathed Will. ‘That was nearly as much trouble as year nine.’ Sweating profusely, he faced an appreciative audience. ‘You can carry on now.’ He winked at Harrie, then left the room, a screaming caged cat in his arms.

  Lisa was open-mouthed. The day had developed a surreal character that was not enjoyable. Everyone else was laughing fit to burst, but she was deadly serious. ‘Shut up,’ she yelled. ‘Sal Potter will be here shortly. So be quiet and listen.’

  ‘Bugger,’ announced Daisy as she left the room.

  More gales of laughter bounced off the walls.

  ‘Will you all stop and listen?’

  They shut up. Lisa meant business, and they had best take heed before she started tearing out her hair.

  Milly returned and sat beside her beloved friend. They weren’t going to remove Hermione, not while Milly lived. A cat was one thing, but—

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said the old woman as she patted the dog’s head. ‘We can start now because we are a full committee.’ Thus was the meeting announced as officially begun.

  He had to get to the undertaker’s to pass on the death certificate. There was a copy, but the nuns needed that for their records. There was also a requiem Mass to be booked – the undertaker would deal with that and with the local newspaper. In the end, Gus settled for a simple statement mentioning only Mathilda’s mother, already de
ceased.

  He was beyond tired. Walking was a chore. Even eating was an exhausting business, while dressing himself took several minutes. But he had to keep going. For Mathilda, for Katherina, he needed to do as Henry V had advised via Shakespeare – stiffen sinew and summon up blood. Which was very good advice except when meted out to a chap whose blood was useless due to chemotherapy.

  Sheila was a great help. She now understood the tablets, knew what had to be taken before or after meals, before sleep, after waking. She was a pragmatic, down-to-earth woman, the sort he should have married instead of poor Lisa. Poor Lisa had fitted the bill. She had been an experienced jeweller and in good health. After Katherina, there had been no point in looking for love; he had given it all away to her, and she had taken it to the grave in Tonge Cemetery.

  Sheila had just posed a question.

  ‘Sorry? I wasn’t paying attention.’

  ‘Shall we take my husband’s wheelchair? It’s lightweight, and you . . .’ She looked at him. He was becoming smaller by the day. ‘You’re not heavy,’ she added.

  ‘Five kilos,’ he answered. ‘That’s how much I have lost. Nothing fits me any more.’

  She had a suit upstairs that might just do for the funeral, she thought. He was now about the size her husband had been when that last suit had been bought. She must remember to give it to Gus before he went home. He had no home. He should remain here, where he would be looked after and properly medicated, where his absent-mindedness would not interfere with the strict regime dictated by doctors. It wasn’t simple forgetfulness any more; his condition was worsened by the terrible tiredness and its accompanying apathy. He was depressed.

  ‘You’ll come to the undertaker’s as well?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. Now. What about this wheelchair?’

  He looked at her for several seconds before replying, ‘Not yet, Sheila. We’ll take taxis and stop to buy flowers.’