Parallel Life

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I couldn’t send her back up there, Mum. You know I couldn’t do that. It’s very isolated. Except for the blinking cows.’ She smiled ruefully.

  The old woman nodded. ‘You did right, Lisa. If he’d done to her what he did to poor Annie, we would never have forgiven ourselves. Have you space for her?’

  ‘Of course. One thing we’ve never been short of in this house is space.’ She touched her mother-in-law’s arm. ‘You’ve looked after us all well. Try not to worry.’

  Hermione wondered whether they would feel looked after when she was dead, because she had decided to leave everything to the one person she trusted to act fairly – Harriet. Gus would be too engrossed in his work, Lisa might become addicted to cosmetic procedures again, while Ben was simply too self-absorbed. ‘I do my best,’ she replied absently. Though she might have been better pleased had she not needed to sell off so much of the land. That housing estate was a damned nuisance.

  ‘The cat’s settled, then,’ said Lisa to Eileen in an effort to lighten the mood.

  Hermione looked at both her animals. Neither was hers in reality, yet both had chosen her. She had never had pets. Harrie and Ben used to own cockatiels, but no dogs or cats. Bella and Milly were content; they had decided what they wanted, and had gone for it. The dog needed Hermione, while the cat needed the dog. Had it not been for the housing estate, perhaps Hermione would have gone to the grave without having been privy to such an excellent relationship between natural enemies. Humans could learn a lot from certain quarters, she concluded.

  ‘We had better batten down the hatches tonight, then,’ she told Lisa. ‘Since our police force could scarcely catch a cold, we shall be forced to look after ourselves.’

  ‘They’ll send someone to keep watch if we ask,’ Lisa suggested.

  But Hermione had seen practically every episode of The Bill, and she knew the stories off by heart. A pair went on watch. One fell asleep in the car, while the other relieved himself behind some poor soul’s privet hedge. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘While one’s nodding off and the other’s emptying his bladder, the crook gets in and does the dirty deed. If we want guards, we’ll pay our own.’

  Sal tapped at the door, then put her head into the room. ‘I’m back, and thank you.’ She smiled nervously. ‘Shall I cook?’ she asked Lisa.

  ‘No. Glad you got here, Sal. Don’t worry about a meal – there’s loads of salad stuff – I’ll do it. Come along and I’ll show you your room. Try not to get upset again – we’ve all made mistakes.’

  ‘Especially with my washing line,’ Eileen grumbled.

  ‘Be quiet,’ chorused Hermione and Lisa.

  The Irishwoman stalked off to feed her husband, close on the heels of Sal and Lisa. On her way downstairs, she advised Sal not to get into a state and smiled reassuringly.

  Sal nodded. Eileen Eckersley wearing a smile made this witness think of a heavyweight boxer in a tutu. Some things just didn’t seem right together.

  She wasn’t there. Find Annie, find Annie – those repeated words had rattled round his skull all day. The van was hidden and he was on a pushbike. He was pretty sure there were no police around; he was certain there was no one at all around because the house looked dead.

  Locks had been changed. He broke in through the living-room window at the rear of the building, switched on no lights, simply sat in a corner until his eyes adjusted. There were bits and pieces all over the place. While Annie was not the tidiest of housewives, she did have her standards. Someone had left here in a hurry. Yes, of course – Annie had been taken to hospital. But she wasn’t in hospital any longer, because a report in the newspaper had announced her discharge. Hadn’t it? Was he right?

  Where were his kids? Had they been taken to his mother and mother-in-law, or were they in care? He walked up the stairs as quietly as he could. It wasn’t easy, because toys were strewn around like large pieces of lumpy confetti. It wasn’t at all like Annie, this mess.

  In Daisy’s room, he found Dilly-Dolly. It was a soft rag toy, and Daisy had seldom been separated from it since Annie had made it for her. Daisy was growing up fast, faster than the lads. If he missed anyone at all, it was this precious little girl, his flower, his ray of sunshine. She had brains enough to change the world, a world of which he would soon cease to be a part.

  It was almost midnight, and he was bone-weary. They wouldn’t look for him here, surely? Not after all these weeks. There was a gun somewhere. Hadn’t he been looking for a gun? Yes. Who had it and did it matter? His ruination had come via Lisa Compton-Milne – oh, he remembered her, all right. She had broken . . . things. Somewhere, she had broken – yes – she had broken his mother’s ornaments. Where was Annie? Where was Sal?

  He sang the song invented by Annie. ‘Dilly-Dolly licked a lolly, dropped it on the floor. Asked her mummy for another, Mummy said no more.’ Things had been all right, hadn’t they? Here. They’d been all right here. He picked up Dilly-Dolly and left the house. With the doll inside his jacket, he rode off on a bike without lights, cutting through alleys, pushing the vehicle along pavements when forced to use the main routes. He had to find . . . not Annie. He had to find Lisa, because Lisa had broken things.

  Sal didn’t sleep. It wasn’t the change of bed that made her wakeful; it was the watching, the waiting and the listening. Weaver’s Warp was a creaky sort of house. She could hear it falling asleep – floorboards relaxing, treads on stairs breathing out because they were glad of a rest, windows settling as if relieved that no one would move them in the night.

  He would. Any room in which there was no anti-burglar alarm could be entered as and when he pleased. The system had been renewed, but he was clever, far too astute for Sal to rest easy. Yet he wasn’t as clever as he used to be, was he? His mind had changed a gear, had moved to an area that was either too fast or too slow – sometimes both. She could not explain to herself what she meant, yet she had seen him, heard him moving his thoughts along at the speed of light while, at the same time, unable to process the simplest of questions. He needed doctors, not prison warders.

  It was a long night. She slept when dawn arrived, only to be woken just after seven by noises from upstairs. A dog was scuttling about; she and her feline friend would be celebrating another day’s living. These daily sessions had been designated by Hermione as ‘o joy, o joy, the morning’. Animals celebrated life; humans sometimes feared it. Sal feared it. She feared it even more when she went downstairs to be greeted by Annie, who had all three children in tow.

  ‘Dilly-Dolly,’ sang the little girl.

  ‘He’s been in our empty house, then he’s been here. We found Daisy’s Dilly-Dolly in the hammock. The doll was at home. He’s fetched it here. It has to be him – no one else would do this.’

  ‘I never told him you were here, honest,’ said Sal.

  ‘I believe you. But other people notice things, you see. He might still be around – there’s a lot of land, a lot of trees.’ She dragged the children upstairs because she needed to talk to Hermione.

  Sal sat on the third step up. A rail ran all the way to the top so that Hermione could move about the house. The poor woman would be better off without all these lodgers, but what was to be done? That doll hadn’t walked here by itself. She remembered the creakings and groanings in the night, wondered whether she had misdiagnosed their origins. Because he was here. She could feel him, could almost smell him.

  Annie came down again at speed, the two boys behind her, Daisy in her arms. ‘Stay in all day, Sal,’ she ordered. ‘Missus upstairs is getting a couple of security men to come for the night. She doesn’t trust the cops unless they’re Frost or Morse. We’ll be bedding down in the big house as well, you see. That wooden bungalow’s too easy for him.’ She went off to feed the children in the kitchen.

  Lisa came down. ‘Are you all right?’

  Sal shook her head. She told Lisa about the doll, about the security men and about the Nuttalls having to come into the main house. ‘He was here in th
e night, Lisa. I don’t know what’s going through his head – neither does he, half the time. Annie’s scared half to death – finding that toy really upset her.’

  Lisa was doing a mental bed-count. ‘Yes, we can manage.’ Right. What must she do next? She turned and went back upstairs, knocked frantically on Harrie’s door. Will opened it. He was a fine-looking boy, Lisa mused. Especially in nothing more than his boxers. She blurted out the tale. ‘So we stay in. All of us sit tight here until he’s caught.

  ‘We’re going to a funeral.’ He turned and looked at Harrie. She was sitting up in bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘It’s your mother,’ he said.

  ‘Come in,’ Harrie called.

  Lisa stepped inside and was invited to sit on the bed.

  ‘Don’t flip your lid,’ Harrie warned, ‘but you are going to be a granny. I haven’t told Gran yet.’

  Lisa didn’t know how to feel or what to say. Harrie was so young, and she and Will were just getting to know each other. Perhaps if the house had been in less turmoil, she would have found the words. As things were, she simply burst into tears.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Harrie. ‘As long as the child has my looks, everything will be OK.’

  ‘I don’t know how to act or react any more,’ sobbed Lisa. ‘Too much going on. But, as long as you love each other . . .’

  ‘We do,’ they said simultaneously.

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ She dried her eyes. A grandmother? That was truly frightening. ‘What’s this about a funeral?’ she asked.

  Will came to the rescue. A girl had died very young – that much was truth, at least. And they had to go because she was sort of related to his family. Well, he was nearly married to Harrie, so if Mathilda really was Harrie’s half-sister, the rest hadn’t been too much of a lie, either. ‘It can’t be avoided,’ he finished.

  Harrie smiled at him. She was not going to allow her father to go through this day on his own. Sheila would be there, but Sheila was the one who kept Father on the rails – in more ways than one, she suspected. Because Sheila was ordinary and he needed ordinary. Will understood so well . . . He was perfect. Almost.

  ‘Then stick together,’ ordered Lisa. ‘Stay close to the rest of the funeral party. Remember Jimmy Nuttall threatened to kidnap you, Harrie. Both shops are now closed. Gran is getting in some guards for the house. No one sleeps in the bungalow – not until all this is resolved.’ She smiled at her daughter and left the room.

  ‘Black doesn’t suit me,’ said Harrie, apropos of nothing at all.

  ‘Then wear dark blue or something. Come on, it’s not a fashion show. It’s for your dad, and he’s ill.’

  Once again, she knew why she was marrying him. He was sensible and daft – exactly what she needed.

  Harrie and Will waited at the graveyard. The requiem had been held at the church of Sts Peter and Paul, and they had decided not to intrude there. It was a fine day, too pretty a morning for the burial of one as young as Mathilda had been. They found the open grave in the Catholic part of Tonge Cemetery, saw Katherina’s name on a temporarily moved headstone, watched as the cortège moved slowly towards them. ‘He might not want us here,’ said Harrie at the last minute. ‘If he’d wanted us, he would have asked.’

  ‘You’re more like your father than you think. Too late, anyway,’ replied Will. ‘He’s probably seen us by now. Stay strong.’

  Father looked so thin, and his shoulders were bent just as they always had been when he had curled into the Mini. He was standing unrestricted now, yet he looked frail, old and shrunken, almost as if he had folded his body in readiness for packing away somewhere. Harrie drew in breath sharply. Parents were an institution she had taken for granted. They had always been there, had not been ideal, but they were her own. She had never imagined that either would die while young. ‘Oh, Will,’ she gasped, ‘look at him.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘As I said, stand firm, lass. Your being here is already a shock for him. Be strong, Hat. Today’s word is strong.’

  ‘Thanks, Will.’

  ‘For what?’

  She blinked rapidly. ‘For being Will.’

  Gus made a beeline for his daughter. ‘Harriet,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .’ He inhaled deeply. ‘She was your sister. I wanted to spare you, but—’

  ‘It’s all right, Father,’ she whispered. ‘I went to visit her in the chapel of rest. I knew she was related to me. Finding out wasn’t difficult – a few phone calls, a bit of impersonation. Here she comes now.’ She clung tightly to her father’s arm, while Sheila propped him up from the other side. ‘We’re here for you, Father,’ said Harrie.

  Will stood back. These minutes and seconds belonged to a family of which he was almost, yet not quite, a member. Birds stopped singing. It felt as if the whole planet had ground to a sudden halt. As the sombre procession approached the grave, a cloud covered the sun’s shame.

  The coffin was carried by four men, a priest leading the way. Prayers were droned, the casket was lowered into the ground, then bearers and priest left the scene. Gus gazed down into the gaping hole. Mathilda’s earthly remains were with her mother now, and, although he had no faith in a hereafter, he had needed to be here when mother and child were reunited. This was, for him, the last of Mathilda, and yet . . . He opened his mouth, and a whisper emerged. ‘Istenhozzad,’ he breathed. ‘Kedvenc.’

  Then he turned to his daughter. ‘She was beautiful like you. But she never woke properly, you see. I kept her, and it was cruel, because without sedation she fitted. Now, as I approach my own end, I have let her go. It was time to let her go.’ There was a hysterical edge to his voice. ‘Katherina died the day Mathilda was born. Mathilda was Katherina’s only child.’

  A man approached. He was dressed in black, and he carried a single cream rose. ‘Gustav?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am John Barford.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Yes, I remember you.’ Gus’s eyes filled with saline. ‘She bewitched us, didn’t she? I hurt you. I am sorry I hurt you.’

  This was not the father Harrie had known. Had she known him at all? He was crying in the arms of the man whose wife he had stolen. Gustav Compton-Milne had feelings. As if agreeing with her, the sun broke through in that moment.

  The two men whispered to each other, spoke of a past they had shared, of a young woman they had loved to distraction. Knowing their weaknesses, they separated, yet still their hands clung together.

  The widower finally drew away from his old adversary and threw the rose into the grave. He raised his hat, said his goodbye, then left the cemetery.

  They had been so dignified, thought Harrie. And men, too, were capable of huge forgiveness – that was plain.

  Katherina must have owned a power given to very few. Absolute beauty was extraordinarily dangerous because it swept before it all in its path. Would Katherina have stayed with Father, would she have returned to John Barford, would she have moved on? She noticed at the base of the headstone some smaller words. The inscription read ‘Daughter Of Hungary’. So that was the language Father had used when talking to those he had loved and lost.

  Gus and Sheila climbed into a black car and left the cemetery.

  ‘She was of Hungarian origin,’ Harrie told Will.

  ‘Yes, I noticed. Let’s follow them, shall we?’

  At Sheila’s house, the small cortège stopped. ‘Look,’ said Harrie. ‘She has to help him up the steps. So ill in so short a time. It’s frightening.’

  The four of them sat in Sheila’s living room. It occurred to Harrie that, while Gus must come home, she needed to prepare her mother and to empty the house. She could not imagine her father coping with the twins, with Annie’s enthusiasms, Sal’s misery, Daisy’s happiness, with a crazed man lurking in the shadows. ‘There are things happening at Weaver’s Warp,’ she told him. ‘They are beyond our control.’

  Gus smiled weakly. ‘Another of the indiscretions for whi
ch my wife must never be blamed? Lisa is a good woman, Harriet. Remember that. She had a difficult husband.’

  ‘Yes. Are you very ill, Father?’

  He shrugged. ‘I am ill, yes.’

  ‘How ill?’

  ‘They are thinking of removing something from my abdomen next. It will supposedly improve the quality of my life for a while. But the tumour in my brain will be the worst. Perhaps the chemo and radiotherapies may help. I am at the mercy of doctors and am therefore not safe. They are killing us, have been killing us for years with unnecessary antibiotics. Now, we pay the price. Filth in theatres doesn’t help, either. My own ailment does not arise from overprescription, but it is one whose grip on the world is tightening. It’s man-made. Of that I have little doubt.’

  Father had cancer. Sheila was heartbroken. Harrie was suddenly terrified. ‘Father?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Try to stay alive until my baby comes.’ That was vitally important. He had to see hope before he left the world. If she had a daughter, she would name her Hope – as long as Will agreed, of course.

  Gus smiled. The lines in his face were deep, the skin grey. ‘All our tomorrows,’ he said. ‘I wish I had—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, Father. I don’t believe in blame.’ Although she had to admit to blaming Jimmy Nuttall for a lot of things. But this man had provided for his family, had worked hard, had hidden a heart as unsteady as the San Andreas Fault. ‘Stay here for a few days longer. Is that all right with you, Sheila?’

  The woman nodded. She had plodded her way through the morning like someone on automatic pilot: no words, no tears, just going through the motions. Would the Compton-Milnes allow her to visit him after he had gone home? Judging by the attitude of Harriet, the answer was probably positive. ‘I’ll make some tea.’ These were the first words she had spoken.

  When Sheila had left the room, Harrie asked the big question. ‘Does Mother know about Katherina or Mathilda?’

  ‘No. There was no need. But there is need now because I wish to be buried with them. Lisa must be told, and I have not the energy.’