Parallel Life

by Ruth Hamilton

  His legs didn’t work any more. It was the knees. They didn’t seem to want to take his weight. As for the backbone – it was aching all the way down. He sank to the base of the column and waited. Whatever he waited for didn’t matter any more. As long as there was a glass of water at the end of it, he couldn’t have cared less.

  When they picked him up, he answered the question – yes – he was James Nuttall. They cautioned him, asked if he had anything to say, warned that whatever he did say would be used, that whatever he didn’t say, he’d wish he had said. All he managed was a request for water.

  Before they locked him up, they gave him a huge plastic cup and he took the lot in one draught. ‘More,’ he begged.

  A doctor arrived and asked questions. They were daft questions, and Jimmy was too tired. At the end of the session, he heard himself declared unfit to plead. He wasn’t unfit, just tired. And he hoped he’d get a proper breakfast in the morning.

  Epilogue

  9 May, 2008

  Summer came early. It was strange, because winter seemed to have lingered well into April, yet this first week in May had brought sunshine tempered by a slight breeze that kept thick-blooded Northern-Englanders from frying on the spot. The area now known as Greater Manchester was famous for its rainfall and for its complainers. It was always too cold, too windy, too wet, too hot, too cloudy. But today was just right.

  It is almost impossible to suit a determined Lancastrian. Hermione, who refused to accept the change of boundaries, would not allow the words ‘Greater Manchester’ to be included on her stationery. She was Lancastrian, as was everybody else right across to Liverpool. Her Majesty the Queen was Duke of Lancaster, and that was an end to the argument, as loyalty lay with the crown and with the Duchy. Government and opposition were great puddles of acid rain, she would no longer vote for any of them, and she complained the whole afternoon while Eileen Eckersley prepared her for a vital expedition. ‘Would you ever keep still for only a minute?’ asked the Irishwoman.

  ‘I have the shakes, you dreadful moan. Part and parcel of my condition, don’t you know?’

  Eileen knew the difference between MS shakes and naughtiness. This was definitely naughtiness. ‘The whole town hall will have its eyes on you – the Mayor and all. Do you want to arrive looking like a badly-cut privet with a birds’ nest on top?’

  ‘Why should I care? No one looks at a wheelchair. Everyone speaks to the person behind me, the one with the power to steer. If anyone asks you am I all right, I shall stand up and punch that person.’

  ‘Aye, you will and all. Think of Harrie. Think of what she has to do tonight. She’s worked herself to the bone with all this – and she has Hope to care for. On top of all of which she’s doing the university as well – can you not appreciate what you have in your life, Iona?’

  The older woman’s lower lip quivered, but she sat her ground and didn’t weep. Until Harrie had explained it all, she hadn’t known her son, hadn’t realized what Gus had gone through, how hard he had worked, how serious his research had been. ‘I know I’m blessed,’ she said softly. ‘My granddaughter is a star.’

  Lisa dashed in with two outfits on hangers. ‘Green or blue, Mum?’ she asked. ‘I need to know because the make-up girl will go with the colours. And Annie needs to know, too, as we don’t want to match. She has to choose between green and blue as well. Come on!’ They were both staring hard at her.

  ‘Green,’ said Eileen.

  ‘She’s Irish,’ pronounced Hermione unnecessarily. ‘Take no notice of her. Blue. Definitely the blue. But, before you go, what have you done to your hair?’

  ‘I am “sweating in” the oil,’ replied Lisa haughtily. ‘And you beggars are no use.’ She dashed off to ask Harrie.

  ‘“Sweating in” the oil?’ the two women repeated simultaneously. Lisa with her head wrapped in yards of towelling had not been an impressive sight. ‘Never mind,’ added Hermione. ‘It’ll be all right on the night, as they say.’ It had better be all right, because it had been all wrong for too long a time.

  Milly rushed in with Bella hot on her back paws. They did three rounds of the room, stopped for half-time, then scuttled out and rattled down the stairs. There was nothing quite so inelegant as an Alsatian and a black half-Persian pretending to be enemies. ‘Do they improve with age?’ Hermione asked.

  ‘I doubt it very much,’ was Eileen’s reply. She continued, just as she often did, with a tale. ‘We’d a calf back home with its mother dead. Another took her for a while, but got fed up with it, so we had it in the house. All very well and good, you might say, but they pull so hard on the bottle teat, you’ve your shoulder out of socket. And it grew.’

  ‘The shoulder?’

  ‘The cow. But it didn’t know it had grown until it got stuck in the doorway. We’d half the local lads round cursing and swearing and trying to shift the cow with oil.’

  ‘Like Lisa with her hair?’

  ‘No comment. At the finish, we lost the door frame. They learn only the hard way. When Bella finds herself flattened under three or four stones of dog, she may change the way she votes. Until then, be sure to remain seated, or they’ll have you spread out from here to Manchester.’

  ‘I don’t like Manchester.’

  ‘Aye. Then keep yourself still, but.’

  Eileen was now full-time carer for Hermione. Sometimes, when alone, she wept buckets, because the illness had taken so much from a proud and independent woman who should have gone far. She should have gone to London for a start. The Tory and Labour parties might both have run for the hills had Hermione got to them. She said some daft things, but Hermione Compton-Milne was a wonderful, if somewhat eclectic, mix. Left wing to the core, she remained a landowner and lady of the manor. She had hated selling all those acres for housing, yet she recognized the right of every Briton to shelter and care for a family. As far as Eileen was concerned, her employer was everything good rolled up into one frail person.

  ‘What are you trying to do to my hair?’ asked the good, frail person. ‘Don’t you need planning permission and a decent architect?’

  Eileen smiled. As long as the old lady had her humour, there was hope for the world.

  Annie phoned Lisa. Lisa was wearing the blue, so Annie could sport her new designer-labelled emerald green three-piece with the diamanté flower on the clasp of its edge-to-edge jacket. It had come from Oxfam, but it was brilliant. She even had shoes to match, so she sang happily through her housework while Daisy washed dishes. The lads were up Wigan Road with their blessed train sets. Sheila had almost tamed them. Almost, but not quite. With their energy channelled, they now spent hours reading railway books. They also continued to annoy most of the neighbours, but a woman couldn’t have everything.

  She seated herself with a cup of tea and thought for a few minutes about Jimmy. Declared fit to plead after a month of treatment, Annie’s husband had hanged himself in his cell. In spite of fifteen-minute checks, James Nuttall had rendered himself terminally unfit to plead, and he now rested with his mother. It had all been too much for poor Freda; Jimmy had killed her, too. Annie glanced at her mantelpiece where some of Freda’s treasures sat. She hadn’t been able to throw away all the figurines. Those bits and pieces were Daisy’s now; she made up stories about them, just as she had with her paternal grandmother. ‘Sad, sad time,’ Annie murmured.

  But it hadn’t all been sad. Matthew Warburton of Warboys Security Services was now living with Annie and her children. He would be a good influence on Billy and Craig, she told herself repeatedly. His brother, Luke, was trying to court Lisa, but Lisa had declared herself to be a recycled virgin and an excellent grandmother. Luke would wear her down – of that, Annie was certain. He would be there tonight as Lisa’s escort. They looked beautiful together. ‘And together is what they should and will be,’ whispered the determined little woman.

  Daisy stepped down from her stool. She was four years old – but going on forty, as her mother often told her. ‘Mam?’
<
br />   ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I not come tonight? I’d be good.’

  ‘No, love. It’s just for grown-ups. There’ll be no little girls or boys there.’

  ‘But I’m clever.’

  She was. Annie wondered where little Daisy had come from because she seemed to have brains and common sense. ‘I know you’re clever, babe, but we’d have to take the twins as well. To the Town Hall. The Albert Hall. They’d wreck it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, they would.’ Daisy moved on happily to her next task. They were tidying up for Mrs Mason. Mrs Mason was the fiercest of babysitters, and she would keep BillyandCraig quiet. Mam was too gentle with them, and she always laughed at her twins. They were funny, but they were naughty. Did she want her mam to be more like Mrs Mason? No. Daisy hugged her mother. This was the best mam ever.

  After the death of Gus, Sheila Barton had been a wreck. She had given up on life, on herself, on her appearance – even her beloved home had suffered. After one of her visits to Weaver’s Warp, Hermione had decided to take Sheila in hand. Being taken in hand by a woman like Hermione Compton-Milne was an unforgettable experience. In fact, Iona was probably a one-off in this day and age, when folk seemed to care nothing for each other.

  Sheila remembered the scene vividly. It had been populated by the lady of the house, her Irish carer, a lunatic dog and a cat with attitude. Looking back now, it was easy to laugh, but laughter had not come easily at the time.

  ‘Sit down,’ Mrs Compton-Milne had ordered.

  Sheila grinned. Accidentally sitting on a cat was not a situation that was easy to forget. The cat had taken the huff, and Sheila’s scars had lasted for a week. Eileen had bathed and dressed the hand. Such kindness, so well hidden behind that gargoyle face – bless her.

  Sheila closed her eyes and went back to that day. ‘Is it hurting now?’ asked Eileen.

  ‘Yes. But thank you.’

  ‘Do you like living alone?’ the old woman asked.

  ‘No. But I don’t want another husband.’

  ‘One is enough for anyone,’ replied Hermione.

  ‘One is one too many when he leaves screws and nails all over the path for me to step on,’ interspersed Eileen.

  Hermione cast a withering eye in the direction of her carer. ‘Tea, please,’ she said.

  Sheila found herself almost grinning.

  ‘I know another woman who needs not to be by herself,’ Hermione continued. ‘Cottage tied to an estate that no longer functions – she’ll be out on her ear when the developers move in.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Needs a bit of encouragement, a little company from time to time. Like you, she nursed an older man – her father – until he died. There is something to be said for a mutual support system. Your house is big enough, I take it?’

  Sheila nodded.

  ‘Then I suggest you get together with Sal Potter and discuss the matter. She works here in this house. She could live here – there’s sufficient room – but I think she’d be happier with you.’

  Sal and Sheila had shared for some time now. They each had a sitting room and a bedroom, and the other facilities were communal. Pleasant evenings were spent walking in the nearby park, or, when daylight hours were shorter, they would sit in one room and read, the shared silence comfortable and appreciated. They bought dictionaries and learned to cheat at Scrabble, went to the cinema, sometimes to Manchester for shopping and an evening at the theatre. They were content.

  Sal was going to wear dove grey tonight. She had gone on for months about a well-cut suit and, in the end, a seamstress had produced exactly what Sal had craved. Sheila had chosen navy because she already had an outfit in that colour. Gus wouldn’t have needed her to dress up specially, and the whole evening was about him.

  They had been to the hairdresser. Sheila’s hair was its usual sensible self, but Sal, who had discovered the Internet, had bought some Hot Hair and it was added in at the back like a French pleat. She wanted to be elegant and, having lost some weight, was looking just about as elegant as she would ever manage. The country girl had come to town, and she wanted the town to notice her.

  ‘Are we eating?’ shouted Sal from the kitchen.

  ‘We’re having supper up at Weaver’s after the do.’

  Sal dashed in. ‘And we’re invited? I’m invited?’

  ‘Of course we are. It wasn’t your fault, any of it. God knows they’ve told you that often enough. You were not responsible for the behaviour of Jimmy Nuttall.’

  Sal stared blankly for a moment. ‘What? Oh, I know that. It’s just going to feel odd because I’m the cook and cleaner – tonight, I’ll be a guest.’

  ‘Then make the most of it,’ Sheila said, laughing. ‘Remember – a cat can look at a king. And their cat is a force to be reckoned with.’

  Sal stood in the doorway, a question in her eyes. ‘Sheila?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you think she didn’t really mind when he got buried with that other woman?’

  ‘Lisa Compton-Milne?’ Sheila pondered for a moment. ‘There’s something . . . big about her. As if she can put up with just about everything. It was more important that she did as Gus asked. If the world wants to talk about her, she won’t listen.’

  ‘A great woman, then?’

  Sheila nodded. ‘Oh yes. A very great woman. All three of them are exceptional – the Grandma, the mother and the daughter. I think the best is yet to come, though. When Harrie comes into her own, the rest of us will sit up very straight and listen.’

  Annie Nuttall’s boys clattered their way downstairs. They had spent an hour with Gus’s favourite trains and were due to be picked up shortly by their mother. ‘Thanks for the biscuits,’ said the taller one.

  ‘You’re welcome, Billy,’ replied Sheila.

  ‘And the orange juice with no additives.’ Craig grinned. He and his brother knew that they could blame almost anything on additives. If they were naughty, they used the excuse that someone had given them the wrong food.

  Sheila was fit for them, though. She had taken their measure right from the start. ‘No trouble tonight. That new babysitter of yours knows full well that your diet’s controlled. Don’t spoil things for your poor mother. She deserves a bit of fun.’

  They stood there, a picture of innocence. For the chance to play with the trains, they would have promised the earth on a bed of lettuce. ‘No, Mrs Barton,’ they chorused. There would be no chance, anyway. They had been working for weeks to create a situation that might flummox Mrs Mason, but Mrs Mason was not an easy target. For a start, she moved too fast and owned a tongue that lashed like whipcord.

  Sheila smiled inwardly. These two precious souls reminded her each time they visited that she was, indeed, a fortunate woman. She had not been blessed with children; nor had she been cursed by them. They made her laugh, but so did Joe Pasquale. Best of all, she could send them away when the laughter stopped. Life was good.

  Harrie had named her wooden bungalow The Carding Shed. It was almost an annexe to a house that paid tribute to the art of cotton-weaving, so her little place was a nod in the direction of labourers from the bottom of the pile, low-paid carders who combed the cotton once bales were broken. Like her grandmother, she was deliberately eccentric and immovably left wing.

  She, Will and Hope lived happily in their hut. It was a very nice hut, big enough, well insulated and beautifully furnished in bright, happy colours. Sometimes, Harrie stayed in Liverpool with other students, but she managed to get home most of the time, as she had no difficulty in maintaining a decent standard without attending every available lecture.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ called Will from the bedroom.

  ‘Probably clothes,’ was her reply. She followed it with, ‘Be quiet – I am making a few last minute adjustments.’

  Hope was playing on the floor. She was now fifteen months old and walking, though she preferred to be carried. Harrie was all for leaving the child to get on with it, but Hope only had to reach
up her arms and say, ‘High,’ and her dad couldn’t resist picking her up. He did that now, then came to lean over his wife’s shoulder.

  ‘The frightening thing is that I understand most of that now,’ he told her.

  ‘The frightening thing is that it’s a frightening thing,’ she answered. ‘Go and give Hope a bath. She is to be carried in at the end. Father would have liked that.’

  Will went off to clean up Hope’s act. She was still at the getting-into-everything stage, and much of what she got into clung to her person. The child had made such a wonderful difference to their lives. It was early days, but the marriage looked strong enough to support Hope and, perhaps, one or two more. Harrie wanted ‘heaps’ of children, and Will would be happy to oblige. But the hut would need extending. That was the beauty of these section homes – another child meant sticking on an extra room – it was no big deal.

  ‘Why can’t they give these bloody antibiotics pronounceable names?’ Harrie yelled from the other room.

  Will placed his daughter in the bath and didn’t bother to reply. When it came to her subject, Harrie’s questions were, for the most part, rhetorical. He was proud of his Hat. She had taken up the cause, was on her way to a first-class degree, and she was determined.

  As was her daughter. ‘Duck,’ shouted Hope before throwing the yellow plastic object. Will smiled. The word had been appropriate as noun and verb, though he had not heeded the latter. ‘If I have a black eye tonight, it will be your fault,’ he told his daughter.

  Hope smiled prettily. Then she threw the second duck.

  Ben was on his way up the M6. Studying maths and computer science at St Anne’s College, Oxford, his intention was to gain an MSc before moving into a job involving the police, the government and, almost certainly, the Official Secrets Act. Like several others on the course, he was determined to make some contribution towards stemming Internet crime, and the road ahead promised not to provide easy travelling. Nor did the M6, since the world and his wife had decided to come out and enjoy a weekend of decent weather.