‘It’ll be nice at Brighton, won’t it kids,’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. ‘There’s a railway there runs all along the beach. I’ll take you for a ride on it.’
In the event, it was Morgan who treated them all to the ride on the railway, and two on the merry-go-round, and one on the dodgems. They ate Big Macs and drank milk shakes. And after that they trooped off to the pier for candy floss and slides and a ride on yet another roundabout. It was a lovely day.
And Brad capped it by telling them over tea and buns that she’d got a job in the kitchens in the local hospital, starting Wednesday. ‘Quite nice, really, all things considered. Lovely an’ clean. I shan’t be able to come to Portsmouth with you an’ the kids Ali, that’s the only thing, but I can’t turn up an offer like this, can I?’
‘It’s a new wing,’ Alison explained to Morgan. ‘They’ve just opened it.’
‘Mostly geriatrics,’ Brad said. ‘Poor ol’ things. They got dining rooms up on the wards. I shall be serving ’em dinner, that sort a’ thing.’
Working on Wednesday, Morgan thought, pleased by Brad’s news. It meant he could have Alison and the kids to himself.
That evening, when Brad had been dropped off at her flat and they were driving to Shore Street – extremely slowly – he told his third lie.
‘I might have a job to do in Portsmouth – well, Portsmouth area – Wednesday,’ he said. ‘If I do, perhaps we could meet there?’
‘I can’t let you go on treating us,’ Alison protested. ‘It makes me feel guilty. It must be costing you a fortune.’
‘I enjoy it,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to be with you an’ the kids, like.’
In the intimacy of the car it was possible to venture a personal question. ‘You haven’t got kids of your own, have you?’ she said. And when he took a long time to answer, she added, in case she’d been indelicate, ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said, acknowledging her sensitivity before answering her question. ‘I don’t mind you knowin.’ No. I haven’t got kids. I wish I had.’
His answer reassured her. He’s enjoying their company, she thought. It’s the kids he’s spoiling, not me. The kids he’s interested in.
‘Wednesday then?’ he said.
He looked so hopeful she couldn’t refuse him.
This time they visited the sealife centre and saw the rays with their wonderful spotted backs, and plaice swimming about and burrowing into the sand, and sharks so big and fierce that Jon had to hold Morgan’s hand for reassurance.
When they got home, Morgan didn’t fake excuses to see them again. He simply asked if he could come down on Sunday for a day on the beach. This time he was accepted without hesitation. They had established a pattern.
Chapter Nine
The long days of the August school holiday passed with their usual combination of languor and rapidity.
Brad settled into her new job at the hospital and was soon talking about her ‘old dears’ as if they were family. Emma and Jon took to calling their new friend ‘Morgan’ and climbing on to his lap as if he were family. The video shop opened and seemed to be doing well – although Rigg never phoned or visited his family. When Emma celebrated her second birthday, he didn’t send her a card. Not that Emma noticed. She was much too busy unwrapping Morgan’s present, which was a cuddle-sized teddy bear.
The sun shone intermittently, the rain was warm, campers and day trippers came and went. Morgan taught Jon to swim, and September was upon them before they knew it.
‘Jon’s going to school next week,’ Alison told Morgan on that last Sunday afternoon. It was one of the warmest days of the entire holiday and they were on the beach enjoying it.
‘Good for you, boy,’ Morgan said, ruffling the child’s fair hair.
‘I’ve got a uniform,’ Jon said. (Alison had bought it for him at a car-boot sale and he was very proud of it.)
‘There’s grand.’
‘I don’t know how he’ll get on,’ Alison said, when the little boy had gone rushing back to his sandcastle.
‘You’re not worryin’ are you?’
‘Well yes. I am a bit. It’s a long day and he’s so little and you never know how they’re going to take things, do you.’
She looked so anxious that Morgan had to stop himself putting his arms round her to console her. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘He’s a good kid. You won’t have any problems there, I can tell you.’
He’s such a comfort, Alison thought, looking at Morgan’s craggy face and his tough, scarred hands. He wouldn’t say anything he didn’t mean. You can depend on him. It occurred to her that she’d come to depend on him quite a lot over the last few weeks.
‘We’re going to have a tea party when I go to school,’ Jon said. He’d worked his way round the castle and was facing Alison and Morgan again.
‘That’ll be nice,’ Morgan said.
‘We havin’ Smartie cakes,’ Emma said, from her pit beside the castle.
‘You could have some too, if you like,’ Jon said, looking straight at Morgan.
It was such an easy invitation that Morgan was touched, but it put Alison in a quandary.
Throughout the holiday she’d been feeling guilty about the amount of money Morgan had been spending on their behalf. He was so kind and so generous to them and she’d never given him anything, except the kids’ company. An invitation to tea would be a nice way to repay him but it would mean inviting him into her home, and she wasn’t sure whether that would be sensible or proper. It might embarrass him and it would certainly upset Rigg if he heard about it. It made her feel uncomfortable that Rigg didn’t know anything about this new friend of theirs.
‘Are you coming to tea with us then, Morgan?’ Jon asked. He stood with his legs astride and his head held high, his entire body demanding an answer.
‘Well…’ Morgan began, and his voice sounded full of laughter. ‘That depends on your Mam.’
The decision had been made for her. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘If you can get the time off, and you’d like to, you’re more than welcome.’
It seemed odd to Morgan to be driving down Shore Street again. This was only the second time he’d been there and so much had happened in between that he’d almost forgotten why he’d been sent to Hampton in the first place. He considered telling Alison the truth about it, worried that it was dishonest not to, and made up his mind to broach the subject over tea.
But when she answered the door to him, there was such a tense atmosphere in the house that it put all thought of Rigby Toan out of his mind.
She was rushing about. Darting from dresser to table. Tweaking at the table-cloth. Constantly on the move.
In the kitchen the kettle was as frantic as she was. It whistled and puffed clouds of steam into the living room.
‘Sit up to the table,’ Alison told the kids, hoisting Emma into her high-chair. ‘I’ve got to make the tea.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Morgan asked, following her into the kitchen.
It was a small cramped space, overlooking the backyard, and everything in it was cheap, well used and cheerful. The teapot was red and cracked, the biscuit tin faded and battered, the mugs an odd assortment.
‘No thanks,’ Alison said, refusing to look at him properly. As she put the lid on the teapot her hands were so shaky that the china clattered. ‘I’ve put a seat for you at the end of the table. Away from sticky fingers.’
Morgan sat where he’d been bidden and watched her butter bread, fill beakers and set plates away from the edge of the table. She’s quick about her work, he thought. Like Mam. The domestic details warmed him, taking him back to the richness and poverty of his own childhood in Port Talbot; to toast by the fire and errands in the rain; to his cold bedroom with its cracked lino and the warm welcome he got when he came home from school; to Mam’s chipped teapot and the caddy with its picture of ‘Nelson aboard the Victory’; to the graduated row of boots and sh
oes lined up for Dad to polish every evening.
‘It’s a nice place you got here,’ he said.
He’d hoped to put her at her ease but she accepted the compliment stiffly. ‘I try to keep it nice.’
Then there was a long pause because neither of them could think what to say next. On the beach they’d talked in an easy sort of way about all sorts of things – work, the kids, the state of the world. Now, thrown together in the enclosed intimacy of her small house, they were suddenly tongue-tied. He drank his tea and sampled one of the Smartie cakes. She attended to the children and replenished empty teacups.
Left without conversation, the private eye in Morgan took over. He noted the poverty of the furniture, the pictures of the two children blooming on the walls, the pot plants thriving on the windowsill. If Rigby Toan is making money, he thought, he’s not putting any of it into this house. Even more curious was the evidence – or lack of it – that suggested he wasn’t living in it either. There was no jacket on the hooks beside the door, no spare shoes, no newspapers or magazines. Lack of such things alerted Morgan to an intriguing possibility. Could they be separated? Not that it was any of his business.
‘Are we going on the beach Sunday?’ Jon wanted to know.
‘Depends on the weather,’ Alison said, and kissed him on the nose. ‘You’d live on the beach if I let you.’
‘I like it on the beach,’ Jon said. ‘It’s happy.’
‘Right,’ Morgan agreed. ‘So it is.’
For the first time since he’d arrived Alison looked at him. ‘It’s odd that,’ she said. ‘It is a happy place. You sort of leave your troubles behind when you’re by the sea. I don’t know why it is.’ Just thinking about it was making her relax.
‘Holiday?’ he suggested.
‘No. More than that,’ she said. ‘For me, it’s something to do with being near the sea, I think. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I have a sort of affinity with the sea.’ She paused and grimaced. ‘No, that’s pretentious. You can’t have an affinity with the sea, only with people. What I mean is I always feel happy by the sea. As if it’s the right place to be. As if I belong there. No matter how I feel or what’s been going on, it makes me feel better to be down on the beach. It’s so dependable, isn’t it, the sea? Always different, never the same two days running, but always there, if you see what I mean.’ Then feeling she’d run on far too much, she added, ‘I’m talking nonsense.’
‘You make a lot a’ sense to me,’ he said, setting down his cup. ‘That’s how I feel about the sea. First place I go to when I got somethin’ to think about. I don’t know why either. Per’aps it’s bein’ brought up on the coast, like.’
‘Were you? Where?’ He’d never talked to her about his childhood.
‘Port Talbot.’
‘The steel town.’
He was encouraged by the warmer note in her voice. ‘You been there?’
‘No,’ she grinned. ‘We did it in Geography.’
‘It’s not really a steel town,’ he said. ‘Not now. It’s all make-up factories an’ things like that. There’s only about a quarter of the steelworks left. Beach is still there though. They can’t close that down; I spent a lot a’ time on that beach when I was a littl’un. Me an’ my brother an’ my sisters. A lot a’ time.’
She already knew that he was one of a large family. ‘How many sisters have you got?’ she asked. This was better. Now they were talking more easily.
‘Three. There are five of us.’
‘I was one of four,’ she confided. ‘I’ve got three brothers.’
‘We got somethin’ in common then.’
They were smiling at one another, almost at ease. But then Emma pulled at her mother’s elbow and held up her mug. ‘More juice, Mummy. P’ease.’
Alison refilled the mug with orange juice and Morgan noticed that Jon was blinking with fatigue.
‘Your Jon’s nearly asleep,’ he said.
‘It’s been a long day,’ Alison said. ‘I shall have to get him to bed soon. He won’t last out till six.’
Awkwardness had returned. She was fussing with the cups and plates.
‘Time I was off anyway,’ Morgan said. For a tea party, this had gone on quite long enough. He stood up and walked across the room to the door. ‘Thanks for the tea!’
Preoccupied with Jon but feeling she ought to see him out, Alison followed him, and waited quietly while he took his jacket from the hook beside the door.
It was a well-worn jacket, made of brown leather that had creased and faded over the years into a pattern of tawny stripes and black scratches. She watched as he put it on. It lay across his shoulders like a mane and the colour and texture of it suddenly made her acutely aware of him; of his tanned skin, his thick tawny hair, the power and strength of his body, the power and strength of those big, scarred hands. He zipped the jacket, quickly, smiling at her. And to her horror she realised that the sight of those hands was turning her on. My God! Actually turning her on – and with increasing strength.
‘See you Sunday,’ he said, waved at the kids and walked out of the door.
For a few silly seconds she knew she wanted to reach out and pull him back. But then – and just as well – he was gone and all that remained was surprise and guilt.
What a thing to have happened! she thought, as she lifted Emma out of the high-chair. What a way for a married woman to behave. She felt overwhelmed with guilt. I should never have invited him to the house, she thought. I knew it wasn’t wise. We should have had this tea party on our own. Then she thought: what if Rigg were to find out I’d invited another man to tea? He’d be furious.
I’ll tell him about it, she decided, the very next time I see him. Not every single detail, naturally. I’ll say Morgan befriended the kids and we invited him to tea because he’d been so kind to them. I’ll tell him the next time he comes here. Whenever that is.
In fact it was Friday evening, which was sooner than she was expecting.
The evening began like any other. Jon and Emma were in bed and asleep, Alison was in the kitchen washing up the supper things and singing along to an old Beatles LP and the neighbour’s television was loud enough to hear through the wall. Without any warning, Rigg let himself into the house.
His face was twisted in such terrible anger and distress that Alison left the sink at once and ran across the living room to put her arms round him and comfort him.
‘What is it?’ she soothed, searching for any sign of an injury. Blood? Bruises? ‘Rigg darling! What’s the matter?’
‘I’m ruined,’ he said, his voice muffled by her shoulder. ‘Ruined. It’s all gone down the pan.’
She rubbed his spine as though he was one of the children, kissed his hair and murmured comfort. ‘Oh Rigg, my poor love.’ He couldn’t possibly be ruined, not with the video shop doing so well. He’d got himself in a state, that was all, made worse by drinking too much. His breath smelt of brandy and his jacket and moustache of cigar smoke, so she knew he’d been in a pub.
Being comforted irritated him. ‘I’m not your poor love,’ he said, pulling away from her. I’m ruined. Don’t you understand? That bloody Harry’s run off with all the money.’
‘Harry?’ For a second she couldn’t think who he was talking about.
‘Harry Elton,’ he said irritably. ‘Who’d you think? He’s a bloody crook. God knows why I ever trusted him. I’m ruined, Kitten. Finished. Oh, for God’s sake, turn that bloody row off.’
She dealt with the hi-fi, eased him to the sofa, sat him down, wished they’d turn the telly down next door, tried to think of something helpful to say. But before she could find the right words, he began to weep. Alison felt her heart squeeze with distress at the sight.
‘Just when we were doing so well,’ he said, his voice thick with tears. ‘Up and running we were. People coming in all the time. We took well over a grand last week alone. And now the bills are coming in and he’s buggered off with all the cash and left me holding the baby.
Christ, Ali, what are we going to do?’
Next door, guns were pinging and the music was building up to a climax. ‘Is it a lot of money?’ she asked.
‘I can’t tell you how much.’
She was silent for a moment while horses whinnied and American voices screamed through the wall. She knew it was no good suggesting the bank.
‘If only I was thirty five,’ he said. ‘There’d be no problem if I was thirty five. Oh God, Ali, it’s all so unfair. Why can’t she let me have the money now, when I need it? It should have come to me when I was twenty one. Everybody else inherits when they’re twenty one. There was no need to tie me up for ever like this.’
‘Perhaps if you went and asked her … explain what’s happened … she might…’
‘I’m not grovelling to her for my own money,’ he said. ‘If she can’t give it to me without being asked, she’s no sort of mother.’ He paused and wiped his wet cheek with the back of his hand. ‘She’s no sort of mother anyway. A decent mother would have given it to me years ago, when I was first setting up. But would she? Would she hell? She’s just a bloody awful, selfish woman, got to have mink coats and luxury cruises and shop at Harrods. She doesn’t care what happens to me.’
‘She does,’ Alison said, defending her mother-in-law. ‘She’s very proud of you. She’s always talking about you. You and your shops and how you’re going to be a millionaire before you’re forty.’
‘I shall be a bankrupt before I’m forty,’ Rigg groaned, and fresh tears ran down his cheeks. ‘The video shop’ll go bust. God rot that bloody Harry Elton. I can’t even run the bloody place without a partner.’
‘Do you mean he was working in the shop?’
The question enraged him. ‘No, I don’t mean he was working in the shop,’ he said angrily. ‘We’ve got girls to do that. He was my partner, for God’s sake. My partner. We’re a limited liability company. Or don’t you know what that means?’
She didn’t, but she couldn’t say so, because that would have provoked even more anger. So she waited. Now that he was crying he would go on talking – he always did once he started to cry. Tears loosened his tongue.
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