Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘I feel so sorry for Aunty Ali,’ Katy went on. ‘She’s always on her own.’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that,’ Elsie said, looking rather embarrassed. It wasn’t right for a thirteen-year-old to criticise her uncle like that.

  Fortunately at that moment a car turned into the drive.

  ‘Here’s your Dad,’ she said. ‘Just in the nick of time. Let’s get those potatoes mashed.’

  Car doors slammed, there was a babble of voices and before Elsie could empty the potatoes out of the saucepan, the kitchen was full of people. Alison was wearing a new fuchsia-pink sweater for the occasion and her arms were full of daffodils. Emma clutched a chewed teddy bear and Jon ran at full pelt to be picked up and swung about by big cousin, Katy. Behind them, Mark looked enormous in the doorway with his pretty Jenny all smiles beside him, and young William used his dark head like a battering ram to push past them and get in with the others. Then it was all kisses and greetings and the sort of noisy chaos they enjoyed.

  Elsie was arranging the daffodils in her best glass vases when Greg and Susie purred into the drive in their Rover, with their two little girls sitting in the back seats and looking very pretty in pale pink track suits. Ten minutes later, Andy and Clare came rattling up in that old banger of theirs – Andy clutching a cooked ham ‘to add to the feast.’ Now there were so many people in the house that the kitchen wouldn’t hold them all and they had to move on to the living room.

  This was the moment Alison enjoyed most: being back in the family bustle with her three brothers, laughing, teasing and full of life, and her sisters-in-law gossiping and setting the table – and children everywhere. Strictly speaking, she should have gone to Margaret Toan’s house after work that day, because it was her birthday, but she couldn’t have borne to miss a minute of the get-together. Every time she saw them she admired her brothers more. There was such a strong family resemblance between them, even if Greg was shorter than the other two. They had the same way of moving, the same laugh, the same shock of thick dark hair, although Greg’s was cut shorter than his brothers’ because he was an executive in the Rover plant at Southampton and had to look the part.

  It never ceased to amaze Alison that this huge family could be squashed so amicably into her mother’s limited house. There were fifteen at a full family gathering – fourteen if Rigg didn’t come – and the dining room was ‘technically’ only big enough to accommodate half that number. But they always managed. Andy and Mark opened the dividing doors between the two living rooms and the diners settled wherever they could. The oldest and youngest sat at the table, the rest squashed on to the sofa or packed two to an armchair, or sat cross-legged on cushions with their plates between their knees. They balanced glasses and bottles on every available bit of furniture and they talked nineteen to the dozen. Afterwards, Greg and Susie usually took the kids out in the garden or down to the beach while the remaining adults cleared the rooms and washed the dishes, talking and joking all the time. It was busy, and happy, and crowded with incident, like a holiday.

  But on that Saturday the holiday atmosphere was broken by the late afternoon news. Andy was sitting at the far end of the table, happily munching his way through a mound of cold meats and salad and pickle, when he looked up to catch sight of a riot on the television.

  ‘Good God! Look at that!’ he said. ‘Turn the sound up someone.’

  ‘What is it?’ Susie said anxiously. There were always far too many things on the news that weren’t suitable for her two little girls.

  ‘It’s the poll tax,’ Greg explained, glancing at it. ‘Some sort of demonstration, isn’t it, Mark?’

  ‘It’s in London,’ Clare said. ‘There’s the National Gallery. It’s in Trafalgar Square.’

  It looked more like a battle field. They watched as police horses galloped into the square, and police in riot gear charged at the crowds, riot shields held high. Running bodies blurred across the foreground of the picture, crash barriers toppled, the pavement was littered with the wreckage of broken poles and smashed placards. But there were still plenty of placards held aloft for the cameras to pick out, their bold stark print proclaiming, ‘PAY NO POLL TAX.’

  ‘It’s disgraceful!’ Susie said, putting down her fork. ‘They don’t think of those poor horses.’

  ‘Horses!’ Andy said, looking at his sister-in-law disparagingly. ‘What are you talking about? It’s people, Susie. They’re the ones getting cracked over the head. Ouch. Look at that. He’s going to end up in casualty.’ He spoke from professional concern, being a charge nurse in a casualty ward.

  ‘Look at that,’ Clare cried, as another demonstrator was dragged along the road by two policemen. ‘Now that’s nasty.’ She worked in the same hospital as Andy as a theatre sister, and she, too, could assess the seriousness of an injury.

  Susie tossed her fair hair. ‘Well if they don’t want to get hurt,’ she said, ‘they shouldn’t come out on the streets making a nuisance of themselves. That’s all I can say. They should stay at home out of harm’s way. Just look at that! He’s kicking that poor horse!’

  Her face was quite pink. This is getting out of hand, Alison thought. Clare and Andy were bristling, Greg was looking protective, poor old Mum was worried. I shall have to do something or they’ll start squabbling and we can’t have that. Clutching her plate, she stood up, hooked the big tray from its niche behind the settee and began to pick her way round the crowded room, gathering dirty plates and their attention as she went. ‘Come on slowcoach,’ she said to Andy. ‘You’re always the last to finish.’

  ‘Some of us don’t bolt our food,’ he laughed at her.

  ‘Please Miss, I’ve been a good boy Miss,’ Mark clowned. ‘I’ve got a nice clean plate. See?’

  Alison handed the tray to him and stood with her back to the television, masking its controversial pictures with the bulk of her pink jersey. While he added plates to the pile, she managed to turn down the sound and to switch channels.

  Watching her gratefully, Elsie thought – yet again – what a dear loving girl she was, always smoothing things over and making things easy. Bob always used to say she was the family peacemaker and that was nothing less than the truth. Dear Ali. She smiled at her daughter across the heads of her volatile sons and daughters-in-law, and they exchanged a glance which contained understanding, gratitude and affection.

  ‘Time for trifle,’ Alison said, heading for the kitchen.

  ‘Yes please!’ Jon shouted, running after her. ‘Can I have a really big helping? I am four.’

  Their laughter at his eagerness blew away the last awkwardness.

  Chapter Five

  It was very late when Alison and her children were finally driven home from her mother’s party, this time by her big brother Greg. Emma was in her pyjamas and so deeply asleep that she didn’t wake even when Alison lifted her out of the back seat and carried her into the house. Jon was asleep too, but he woke up sufficiently to stagger across the pavement of his own accord.

  ‘Can you manage?’ Greg asked, as his sister switched on the light with her elbow.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine,’ Alison said. She could hear a television playing and she wasn’t quite sure whether it was next door or in her bedroom. The sound made her heart leap. It could just be Rigg come home from Spain.

  It was. She could see the flicker of blue light under the bedroom door. Dear Rigg. What a lovely end to a lovely day. She settled both the children in their beds and then went in to welcome him, aware of how much she’d missed him and how glad she was to see him again.

  He was spread out on the duvet, with all their pillows mounded behind his head, watching television.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘When did you get back?’

  He smiled at her briefly. ‘Bout an hour ago.’

  ‘I didn’t see the car.’

  ‘Had to park it round the corner. There wasn’t a space.’

  ‘D’you want anything to eat?’

  ‘No thanks.’

 
; She sat on the edge of the bed and put her arms round his neck. ‘Oh Rigg!’ she said. ‘It is good to see you.’

  He kissed her. A long, lingering, exciting kiss. ‘Hello Kitten.’

  ‘Why are you still fully dressed?’

  ‘I’m not fully dressed. I’ve taken my shoes off.’

  ‘Correction,’ she said, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Why are you fully dressed except for your shoes?’

  He lifted her pink jersey over her head and threw it across the room. ‘I was waiting for you to undress me,’ he said.

  It was a rapturous homecoming, the best for a very long time.

  ‘Oh Rigg,’ she said, when they were both catching their breath afterwards. ‘I have missed you.’ Her eyes were closed with satisfied fatigue. ‘I do love you so much.’

  He pulled his arm away from under her shoulders and sat up. The movement made her wonder a little, because he usually went straight to sleep afterwards. ‘What is it?’ she said, her eyes still shut.

  The mattress tilted. He was getting out of bed. This time she opened her eyes. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong?’

  He was putting on his clothes. Why was he putting on his clothes? But he stopped long enough to look at his wife. It was a disquieting look, distant and calculating.

  ‘No,’ he said, pulling on his trousers. ‘Not wrong exactly. A bit difficult, that’s all.’

  She waited and watched his expression. She knew it was serious – he wouldn’t be dressing otherwise – and she knew she mustn’t put pressure on him – because of the look he’d given her. But the longer she waited the more anxious she became.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said eventually, ‘the thing is, I’m moving out.’

  Alison didn’t understand him. Wouldn’t understand him. He couldn’t be moving out. Not when they’d just made love. Not when they were so happy. ‘Moving out?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, and now he sounded irritable. ‘I’m all packed. I could have gone an hour ago. I’ve been waiting to tell you.’

  ‘Packed?’ she echoed. ‘Packed.’ Now she noticed the travelling cases standing against the wall with his squash racket and a bundle of fishing rods tied to the handles. Despite a desperate effort to stay calm, she began to panic. What had she done wrong? He couldn’t be doing this! He mustn’t!

  ‘You mean you’re leaving me?’ she asked, her voice suddenly husky.

  He strode back to the bed and put his arms round her. ‘No, no, course not. We’ll still be married. It’s nothing like that. You mustn’t think that. It’s just … well I’ve got to live over the shop, that’s all. I can’t go on living here. Oh hell! It’s because of the poll tax. If I live here and run the two shops I shall have to pay three lots of tax again.’

  Distress made her blunt. ‘Can’t you afford it then?’

  He answered bluntness with bluntness. ‘Not this year. No. I can’t. I’ve got to make economies.’

  Alison was so upset she couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ Rigg said, breaking the silence. ‘I’ll soon be back.’

  ‘How long?’ she asked bleakly.

  ‘Three months. Six. A year at the outside.’

  ‘A year!’ It felt like a lifetime.

  He back-tracked at once. ‘Well not a year. That’s stretching it a bit. A matter of months, that’s all.’

  ‘But why now? You don’t have to leave now, do you?’

  ‘It’s for a year’s tax,’ he explained. ‘That’s why. April is the end of the tax year. It’s got to look as though I’ve left you by the time they send the next demand. Oh come on Kitten. Every couple has to make sacrifices.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said dully. But not this sort of sacrifice. That wasn’t part of the plan.

  ‘I’m doing this for you,’ he said, taking her by the shoulders and gazing earnestly into her eyes. ‘It’s all for you. I know it’s tough but if we can stick it out we shall soon turn the corner. You’ll see. This is just a blip, that’s all. Look at it that way. A blip. It’ll soon be over and then we can start expanding again. By this time next year we could be on our way to our first million. Living in clover. Eh?’

  It was what he’d said to her a thousand times but in her present state of shock it made no sense. How could he be doing it for her when he was leaving her? How could he be leaving her? How would she manage without him? What about the bills? When she’d recovered enough to look at him, he was pulling on his jersey and checking the straps on the two cases.

  ‘Are you going to pay me any housekeeping while you’re away?’ she asked, forcing the question out. And when he scowled she added, ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to know where I stand.’

  ‘Well obviously not,’ he said, reasonably. ‘If I’m not living here you won’t need money for my keep.’

  She frowned with worry. ‘Who’ll pay the mortgage?’ she asked.

  ‘I will,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Leave that to me.’

  ‘All of it? Every month?’ She had to be sure because it was a terrifying bill and she would never manage to meet her half of it without his housekeeping money. ‘We won’t go halves any more? You’ll pay it all?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, rather tetchily. ‘If you’ll pay all the other bills. You can manage that, can’t you?’

  She didn’t know whether she could or not. Things were happening too quickly for her to digest and she felt too bewildered and too frightened. But she nodded anyway.

  ‘Right,’ he said briskly, taking the nod for assent. ‘I’m off then. I’ll give you a ring. We’ll get through it, you’ll see. We never pretended it would be easy. Remember our pact, eh.’

  ‘Our pact?’ she said, feeling and sounding foolish.

  ‘Our pact,’ he said. ‘Two individuals. Personal freedom. Give and take. That’s what it’s all about. I let you have the children. You got what you wanted.’

  And with that he was out of the door.

  She listened as he carried the cases downstairs, bumping them against the walls. She heard the front door open and shut, his feet walking away along the cracked pavement, the sound of his BMW starting up, purring off, diminishing into the silence. She felt more alone than she’d ever done in the whole of her life.

  Turning on her side, she tried to be sensible and settle to sleep. But sleep was impossible. How could she sleep when her husband had just walked out on her? If he had walked out on her. Just for a few months, he’d said, hadn’t he? But what did he mean by a few months? What did he mean by any of it?

  ‘Remember our pact,’ he’d said. Was that a clue? And if it was, what did he mean by it? She’d always remembered the pact. She’d lived by it. They both had. Because it was their invention, their freedom pact. She remembered how thrilled she’d been with it, when they first discussed it. Then it had seemed a wonderful idea, clean and daring, breaking all the fuddy-duddy rules of the older generation that Rigg despised so much. They were both going to be perfectly free – to live their own lives, go their own way, each spending their own money, each doing their own thing. Neither of them would suffer the ignominy of being a dependant. Even if they got married they would still be two individuals, two – what was it Rigg always said? – two free spirits. And that’s what they had been. Hadn’t they? Even when it was really difficult.

  The more she thought about it now, the more difficulties she remembered. Sometimes, even in those early years, she’d found it hard to rustle up enough cash to pay her share of the bills and her half of the mortgage, even though she was working full time then and knew exactly how much money she had to budget with. When Jon was born, life got really difficult because she could only work part time and she was always short of cash. But she’d never complained. No matter what.

  ‘Remember our pact,’ he’d said. ‘I let you have the children. You got what you wanted.’ It was almost as if he saw it as some sort of bargain. Surely he wasn’t equating her right to have children with his right to walk out on them. That wasn’t what their p
act had been about. No, he couldn’t have meant that. It was too ugly.

  But thinking back on it through the long night, Alison had to admit it had given her a nasty shock to realise that Rigg’s ideas about freedom didn’t include any consideration of the possibility of a baby. Miserably, she remembered the day she had told him she was pregnant – and how he’d rounded on her.

  ‘I’m too young to be a father,’ he’d said. ‘I thought we’d agreed to wait until we could afford it.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ she said, because she hadn’t done it deliberately. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Well then, I think you ought to get rid of it.’

  She’d been horrified. ‘I can’t do that,’ she’d said. ‘It’s your baby Rigg. I want it.’

  ‘But not now,’ he said. ‘You can have one later, can’t you? I’m no good with children. Anyway, we’re too young to be parents.’

  ‘I’m exactly the right age,’ she told him. ‘Twenty five. That’s quite old enough.’

  ‘Not for me it isn’t. Anyway we can’t afford it. Wait till we’re ready.’

  ‘I could be too old by the time you’re ready,’ she tried joking.

  But he was hideously serious. ‘Get rid of it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to look after it,’ he told her. ‘I’m not getting up in the night to attend to some howling brat.’

  ‘I’ll look after it,’ Alison promised eagerly. ‘Anyway, they don’t always howl. Some of them are dear little things. Ever so quiet.’

  ‘Ours’ll howl,’ Rigg said lugubriously.

  ‘Well you won’t have to get up to it,’ Alison reassured him. ‘I promise.’

  But he was still adamant. It had taken three difficult hours to get him to the point where he would agree to let her go ahead and then it was only because she’d told him she would be responsible for the baby’s keep.

  ‘All right then,’ he said at last. ‘You can have it. But it’s your responsibility, don’t forget. Nothing to do with me.’