by Lizzie Lane
Thinking of Sherman, or Carlos as he was now, reminded her of what he had said about his grandmother dying and not being able to join her until she had gone. She still had to tell Colin about him needing a home. I’ll get round to it, she told herself, but first I have to make sure Susan is OK.
Susan rubbed at her eyes before opening them.
Edna smiled brightly. ‘Hello, darling. Let’s get you dressed.’
She brought in a bowl of hot water, a face flannel and a towel. Susan chattered like a magpie.
‘I’m not ever going away again. I don’t like hospitals. There’s no one to talk to. Only Janet. And I didn’t see her every day.’
Edna became absorbed in everything Susan said. In between interruptions from Peter asking where his clean shirt was, and Colin asking whether she was going to get Pamela from her bed, and was she going to give her breakfast, and was she going to take Peter to school, and did she know where his clean socks were hiding …
Every so often she dashed out to save a situation, but hated to leave Susan.
Uncomplaining, though pushed for time, Colin got the kids their breakfast while Edna fussed over Susan, who was obviously enjoying all the attention. He told himself that it was only temporary, that she’d get over the novelty of having Susan home again and they’d go back to being a family.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Edna’s cleaning obsession persisted. The bathroom and kitchen were scrubbed to distraction every day of the week.
A week after Susan’s homecoming, she was still the same. Colin was losing patience.
“What about these kids?’
‘I’m busy. Susan needs a bath. Hot water’s good for her.’ She dashed out of the room and up the stairs before he could say anything.
Colin sighed at the sound of running water. Yet another dash of Dettol was being consigned to the drain, no doubt.
It wasn’t easy getting Susan up the stairs because one leg was useless and the other was a little weak after being in bed so long. But at least she could make it by hanging onto the banister and dragging herself up stair by stair. He agreed that it was a wonderful achievement. He only wished Edna would stop pampering the child at the expense of her other children.
‘Another week,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ll give her another week to sort herself out, then that’s it!’
Tie half-fastened and braces undone, Colin strapped Pamela into her high chair and placed a bowl of porridge in front of her, liberally laced with treacle, which he stirred in before giving her the spoon.
‘Toast is burning!’ Peter reached for the grill.
Colin got there first. ‘Mind you don’t burn yourself.’
Peter sat sullen with his arms folded. ‘It’s burnt!’
Colin picked up a knife and began to scrape. ‘Not for long.’
‘Yuck! I hate burnt toast.’
Colin put a plate in front of him.
Peter was unimpressed. ‘It isn’t burnt. It’s scraped.’
‘Like it or lump it!’
In between seeing to the kids Colin swigged tea and grimaced when he did. He hated cold drinks, cold meals, anything that should properly be served hot.
Just when he thought he had enough time to make a decent brew, Peter piped up, ‘Daddy. I think Pammy wants more porridge.’
‘No she doesn’t. She’s just had—oh no!’
The dish had been upended. Sticky globules dripped down the side of the high chair and onto the floor. Colin closed his eyes, tried counting to ten, but then took it to fifteen. The sound of letters through the letterbox came from the hall just as he was reaching for the dishcloth.
Peter slid out of his chair. ‘You stay there and clean up, Daddy. I’ll get the post.’
For the first time in a long while, Peter did a graceful canter out to the letterbox, collected the post, cantered back again, and handed it to Colin.
Colin flicked through the mix of brown and white envelopes. ‘I’ll take them with me.’ He turned to Peter. ‘Are you ready for school?’
Once Peter had his coat on and his well-stuffed satchel was slung over his shoulder, Colin shouted up the stairs to Edna. ‘I’ve done everything except Pamela needs feeding.’
‘You could have fed her and …’
He didn’t stop to hear the rest of it. If he did he might very well lose his temper, something he very rarely did.
Both he and Peter said goodbye to Susan before they left.
She looked bright as a button, a real little queen bee waiting for her willing workers to dance attendance on her.
When he got to the factory, he drank two cups of strongly sugared tea while sorting out a few problems on the shop floor, dashing from the lathe turning section, to the paint shop, to the despatch office and back again.
Labour relations were also a topic on today’s menu. The foreman was complaining again about more Poles being employed. Colin stood firm. He told the foreman he knew what he could do if he didn’t like it and was too tired to notice the black looks he got from some of the more militant of the workforce.
By the time he got behind his desk he could easily have closed his eyes and dozed. But there was post to be gone through, including that which he’d brought from home.
Two were household bills. One was a letter from Janet on behalf of the sanatorium thanking him for the donated toys.
The last letter was postmarked Germany. Colin was intrigued and presumed it was business. Austria and Germany still had a pretty good toy industry of their own, but he wasn’t adverse to learning from them or exporting to them. He ripped it open and too late realized it was addressed to Edna, but by then the words on the page were leaping out at him. Slowly the letter fell from his hand. He sat there wondering whether things could get any worse than they already were and what the hell he could do about it.
Ivan knocked on his door about half an hour later asking if he wanted to choose the next consignment of toys for the sanatorium himself or whether he wanted him to do it. Colin said he’d sort it out later. A few other people came along and knocked on the door. He told all of them he was busy. Ivan came back about two hours later and knocked. After waiting a few minutes and feeling sure that Colin was definitely in his office, Ivan entered.
He closed the door behind him and turned the key. ‘Whisky cures nothing, Colin.’
But Colin didn’t hear. He was slumped over the desk, his fingers wound around a half-finished bottle of Johnny Walker.
Ivan shook his shoulder. ‘Colin?’
Colin raised his head from off his arms, blinked, then covered his face with his hands. ‘Go away.’
‘No. I will not. Because you do not really want me to go away. I stay here.’ Ivan took a seat, folded his arms and crossed one leg over the other.
Colin looked at him through his fingers. He licked his lips. ‘I need a drink.’
‘It is there on your desk.’
One hazel eye peered at Ivan from between spread fingers. Ivan’s gaze was steady, his features controlled. Colin had expected him to take the bottle away, to tell him he was being a fool and to drown his gullet in copious amounts of tea, coffee or plain water. Instead he was sitting there as though he had come for a job interview and was waiting to know how much he’d be paid.
Colin licked the dryness from his lips and heaved himself up onto his elbows. ‘I could do with some water.’
‘Get it yourself. It is the best way to get the booze out of your system.’ Ivan emphasized the word ‘booze’. It was one of the most interesting words in the English language and he’d only just learned it.
Colin sat deathly still, then struggled to his feet, wobbling on his tin legs as he tried to focus, which was not that easy. The desk, the chair, the filing cabinets were all islands, places to cling to on his way to the sink. Left over from a time when the building had been part of a tannery, the sink was clay brown, deep and had a single brass tap. Colin reached for a teacup with one hand, holding onto the edge of the sink with the other
. The cup was filled and drained, filled and drained, again and again and again.
Ivan willed himself not to move. Colin must make this journey alone. Not just the one from the sink to the desk, but the other one, the one that would bring him peace of mind. There needed to be a final laying of ghosts, of old guilt and disappointments, whatever they happened to be.
Colin regained his desk and slumped in his chair. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands shook with emotion as well as with drink. He sniffed and brushed blunt fingers at his eyes. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Ivan watched a lone tear trickle down Colin’s cheek and said, ‘Tell me about it. Even if I cannot help you, I can at least listen.’
Colin leaned on the desk took a deep breath and said, ‘Our Susan’s home, but things are not as they should be.’
Ivan shrugged. ‘They never are.’
‘Edna’s all over her. And our Susan! If I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes, I would never have believed it. She’s got Edna running round in circles, almost as if she’s trying to make up to the kid for what happened. But it wasn’t her fault! It wasn’t any of our faults! Living like this is bloody murder! And now this!’ He waved the letter, but did not attempt to offer it to Ivan to read.
Ivan hung his head and looked at the cracked brown lino. ‘Children are just as complicated as adults, just as brave too. I saw children die back in Poland. Some of them were brave up until the last moment. I wish I could have saved them. I still feel guilty that I could not do that. Now I help at the hospital and try to make things better for the children there. I think this helps me. It …’ He struggled for the right word. ‘How do you say it? One thing helps the other?’
‘It compensates.’
‘Yes. It compensates. Isn’t that what she is trying to do? Compensate?’
Colin blinked, but didn’t answer.
Ivan carried on. ‘Perhaps there is some way that one of her other children could compensate for this one. I do not know in what way.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘But perhaps there may be something special about another child who needs her attention as much as this one.’
Colin reached for the letter he’d opened by mistake, flattened it between his thick fingers and read it again. At last he made a decision. ‘Read this,’ he said and handed it to Ivan.
Ivan took his time taking the letter. His hands were loosely clasped and his elbows resting on his knees. He read it quickly, then slowly as if to ensure that he’d mastered both the English language and the subject matter.
At last Colin said, ‘It’s from a kid. His grandma’s died. Poor little sod. He’s got no one – except his mother.’
He had wanted Ivan to ask who the boy was, and who his mother was … but Ivan said nothing. He just sat there, his elbows still resting on his knees, his cool, defiant eyes watching Colin, willing him to make the next move and to make it well.
Colin made a decision and began refolding the letter. ‘Now there’s a case for compensation if ever I saw one.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
Edna was dashing around the house, attempting to divide her time between Susan and the kitchen where bangers and mash and rice pudding were cooking nicely.
‘Dinner’s nearly ready,’ she said to Colin as he entered the front door. She was on her way to the front room when Colin grabbed her arm.
‘I want to talk to you.’
Edna was taken by surprise. Wriggling against his grip, she tried to prise his fingers from around her arm. ‘I have to see Susan!’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘It can wait.’
‘No, it can’t!’
In a final act of desperation, she slapped his face.
He stared at her as his cheek reddened. ‘You’ve never done that before, old girl.’
Her voice was spiteful. ‘You haven’t gripped my arm like that before. Now! Let go! My child needs me.’
‘She’s not the only one!’
‘Peter and Pamela are quite capa—’
‘Carlos!’ he said. ‘What about Carlos?’
She stared at him open-mouthed, then dropped her gaze to the letter that he’d taken from his coat pocket and now dangled in front of her face.
‘There’s more than one child that needs you. Do you think you can possibly drag yourself away from Susan long enough to make sure his path in life is a little easier?’
Edna stopped struggling and stared at him in amazement.
‘It won’t be easy,’ he went on as if reading her thoughts, ‘for him as well as for me. But I think we have to try. Your child should be with us.’
Edna could not take her eyes off him as she tried to say something, something that would convey exactly how she felt about her children, and about him. But healing wasn’t easy. It would take time to put her feelings into words. At last she managed to say, ‘I’ll have to write, to arrange things.’ She spoke in a broken fashion, as if she were drawing together all the bits and pieces of information that were needed to bring this about.
Colin shook his head. His voice was gentle. ‘You’ve got Susan to contend with and I’ve got a business to run. God knows I’ve neglected it lately. Let’s hand the matter over to someone who knows about these things.’
Edna’s eyes glistened with tears. ‘Thank you, Colin.’
He kissed the top of her head, just as he had done so with Susan a week or so ago. ‘Thank you, Edna. Thank you for being who you are.’
When he got to the factory, Charlotte was there with her car boot wide open. Ivan was loading it up with toys for the sanatorium.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he called from beneath the white Perspex canopy supported on a wooden frame above the front door.
Dusty and dull as it was, his office seemed like a palace this morning as Colin told Charlotte of how he had inadvertently opened a letter addressed to Edna.
‘And in that regard, I want to ask you to arrange things,’ he said. ‘It may seem a bit daft, but I think it might cure or, at the very least, help Edna get back to her old self. I’ve read this letter and want you to handle matters.’ Charlotte took the letter, noted the postmark and looked at Colin a little warily.
Colin was amused. ‘Blimey, Charlotte. We don’t often see you lost for words, do we?’
‘What does Edna have to say?’
Still smirking as though he were a small boy, had climbed the tree and picked the best conkers, he said, ‘She keeps looking at me as though Cary Grant’s just walked in the door and no one told her he was coming.’
Charlotte had known Colin for a long while and had always admired his big-heartedness and his down-to-earth sensibility. Her curiosity was aroused. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Folding his hands in front of him, he carefully outlined his reasons. At last he said, ‘Susan has become more than the apple of her eye. It’s not going to do any good in the long run. Somehow I had to divide or, perhaps, expand Edna’s loyalty and love. Sherman – or Carlos as he is now – should do the trick. One child will compensate for the other.’ He grinned thoughtfully. ‘I’m kind of glad that we let all them Poles into this country. Some of them are real good apples.’
‘It all sounds very logical,’ said Charlotte, at a loss to say anything else, though logic didn’t really figure in his decision. This was about love, and Colin was full of it.
‘I’ll leave you to arrange the time and the place,’ he added. ‘I know you’ve got other things to do.’
‘Indeed I have,’ said Charlotte ruefully. ‘Some of which are connected to very bad apples.’
In a moment of extreme need Polly had given into Mickey O’Hara’s sexual advances. Now she baulked at the very thought of it, yet she must not show that his presence now sickened her. All she wanted now was revenge.
Charlotte had told her that fingerprints would be useful, but that it would go some way to assuaging her guilt if she could get into the circular cocktail cabinet that held his personal papers. In the meantime she’d pretend that nothi
ng had changed.
Tonight Ginger was driving and they’d called for her at home.
‘If I’m not back by dawn, call Charlotte,’ Polly had whispered in Aunty Meg’s ear before leaving.
‘Can we go to the house?’ she asked Mickey.
‘Sure.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll give you a guided tour.’ He was aware how much she liked the house he lived in, but she fancied his comment had a double meaning.
At present Mickey sat in the back with her using a clipper on his nails. Both the sound of the clipper and the shavings landing on her black pleated skirt disgusted her, but she held her tongue – just in case she bit it off! Tonight was too important to mess up and she did her best not to appear nervous.
As he put the clipper away, he looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
She forced herself to bubble. ‘Yeah! Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You just seem a bit quiet this evening. I thought someone might have said something to upset you.’
She sensed he was studying her closely, but did not look at him, preferring to stare as if entranced by the cluttered shops that ran the length of Gloucester Road. Most had already closed for the evening though some still closed at midday. Not everyone had changed to all day Saturday opening.
He pulled her closer, the heat of his breath moist upon her neck. Earlier on in their relationship, she had found the smell of the eau de cologne he wore incredibly attractive. In the light of what she now knew it made her feel sick. Charlotte had told her a terrible truth that had opened a door in her mind. Now she remembered him. Now she recalled the emotions she had felt at that time, Aaron’s irresistible charm and the things he had told her about the prisoners, and about the man who had made his life hell.
The creeping of Mickey’s hand up her skirt brought her back to reality and she couldn’t help almost jumping out of her skin.
‘No!’ She gripped his hand just as it got to the top of her stockings. The thought of it going any further made her flesh creep.
He clenched his jaw and she half-expected him to hit her. Mickey O’Hara didn’t like rejection and she was treading on thin ice. Deep down she now knew that if something was not freely given he’d take it anyway. There would be no tenderness, no exchange of words meant to soften and excite.
