Ten Steps to Happiness

by Daisy Waugh

  The journalists–and as they travelled northwards, there had been numerous confirmations – were due at the house within the hour. As was Charlie, of course. And Grey – or so Jo, in her determination, had blithely promised everyone. At that stage, and with a single goal in sight, she would have said anything to get the press into the same room as Mr and Mrs Deagle and their statement. So Grey would be there, she proclaimed, standing shoulder to shoulder with the parents of his so-called victim, breaking his silence, protesting his innocence after fifteen long years. He was the only reason any media was coming. Which was a serious problem, because with just one hour to go, he still hadn’t made contact with anyone. Nobody knew where he was.

  Eddie Deagle, tall, thin, pale, bearded and dressed up for the occasion in a V-necked sweater and uncomfortable-looking tie, pulled open the door of his small grey terraced cottage while the bell was still ringing. ‘All right. I heard you,’ he said. There was a nervous glow about him as he glanced first at Jo’s distended belly, and then over her shoulder, over Messy’s shoulder, to the taxi, just pulling away. ‘Where is he then?’

  ‘Grey? He’s on his way. He’s definitely on his way.’ She felt another stab of pain, leant briefly against the doorframe. ‘Do you mind? Sorry. Can we sit down?’

  The four of them settled together in the Deagles’ tidy front room, which smelled of Mr Sheen and was uncomfortably cold, and endured a quarter of an hour of very difficult conversation. Corrine Deagle – buxom, with bright-yellow hair and a gaudily made-up face which belied the grey, weary sadness in her eyes – made them cups of watery tea, handed round a plate of biscuits, and told Messy and Jo how anxious she and her husband were feeling. As the years had passed, and the anger had faded and the fact of their daughter’s death could begin to be separated, just a little, from the way that it came about, they had both slowly begun to acknowledge how much Grey (or ‘Alistair’) must have loved their daughter. And when, last year, he had still said nothing, still never said a word to defend himself, they had wanted to call him, to comfort him, tell him they had forgiven him. In spite of everything. ‘He loved her, you see,’ she said again. ‘He loved her. So there…’ She cleared her throat, gave a quick, embarrassed laugh. ‘An’ we’re that keen to set this right now, me and Eddie haven’t eaten a thing since your husband’s telephone call.’

  They wanted to know where Grey was coming from, where he was now, whether he was arriving with Charlie, or on his own, whether he was travelling by train, or bus, or taxi…and it wasn’t until Messy and Jo were actually sitting there, in the house of the grieving couple and confronted by their hungry interrogation, that they finally understood the cruelty of their situation. Jo, until this point, had been operating on a tidal wave of optimism. Now she could hear the clock ticking on Eddie and Corrine’s mantelpiece. She could see the nervous anticipation in their dry eyes, and she felt mortified. An uneasy glance across at Messy, sitting awkwardly beside her, assured her that she was feeling no better. ‘Mr and Mrs Deagle,’ Jo began, ‘I think I should explain—’ when she felt a contraction so strong she had to cough to stop herself from crying out.

  ‘You shouldn’t be rushin’ around,’ said Corrine Deagle disapprovingly. ‘Not in your condition. You should be putting your feet up.’

  ‘Jo?’ said Messy. ‘Are you all right?’

  Jo could feel herself breaking into a panicky sweat. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll just er—’

  She had slipped off to the lavatory and was bending over the edge of the basin fervently muttering antenatal mantras to try to calm herself down when Messy’s mobile rang. Messy jumped on it, but it wasn’t Grey of course. It was Charlie, ringing for an update.

  ‘Ah! Charlie,’ Messy said. ‘Have you arrived?’

  ‘I’m in a minicab a couple of miles outside Bonnyrigg, only I thought I’d check—’

  ‘And, er—have you brought any friends with you? Because this is, er. This is very bad. Very bad, Charlie…I don’t know if you realise…’

  ‘No news yet, then? OK…’ He was thinking. ‘How’s Jo, by the way?’

  ‘She’s fine. What…um—’ She smiled at the Deagles, neither of whom smiled back. ‘Suggestions. I think. Is what we’re after. I have Mr and Mrs Deagle here, very much anticipating your arrival. And Grey’s. Of course. And I’m thinking it’s about time—’

  Suddenly Mr Deagle leant forward and snatched the telephone out of her hand. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said. ‘You don’t know where the bugger’s got to, do you?…Is that you, Charlie?’

  ‘It is,’ said Charlie. ‘Hello, Mr Deagle.’

  ‘Do you know where the bugger’s got to or don’t you? ’Cos we’re not sittin’ here all afternoon, waiting for the man to turn up if he’s never goin’ to.’

  There was a long pause. ‘He said he was going home, Mr Deagle. I think we all assumed he would have contacted you by now. Or us. I’m very sorry—’

  Mr Deagle’s face sagged. The light went out. ‘…So is he comin’ here or isn’t he?’ he said doggedly.

  ‘Not. He’s not.’

  ‘’Cos if the silly bugger can’t be arsed to save ’is own skin, I’m certainly not doin’ it for him.’

  ‘I know. Of course. And I’m so sorry,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m so sorry to put you through this. We had no right—’

  ‘Aye. It’s a bit late for that.’ Mr Deagle looked across at his wife, who was listening intently, and slowly shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered us wi’ this, you know. You shouldn’t a’ done it.’

  Charlie hesitated. He and Jo had already caused them enough trouble. He knew it. He was ashamed. But they’d all come this far. They were so close. He had to ask. ‘There’s just one possibility,’ he said. ‘Would you mind very much telling me where Emily is buried?’

  And that, half an hour later, at the cemetery on the other side of town, was exactly where Charlie found him. Not looking his best. Because he’d been there ever since he’d left Fiddleford.

  It was raining and windy and already very dark when Charlie’s driver drew up at the cemetery gates.

  ‘Rather you than me, my friend,’ the driver said, keeping his engine running.

  They looked out into the Scottish November blackness. In front of them, looming out through the rain, all they could see were gravestones, and beyond them the shadows and outlines of more. ‘If you hear any strange noises,’ Charlie said dismally, ‘you’ll come after me, won’t you?’

  ‘I shall not.’

  He chuckled unhappily. ‘But promise me you’ll wait.’

  ‘Depends how strange the bloody noises are. How long are you goin’ to be?’

  Charlie scaled the gates without much difficulty and strode through the absolute darkness for several long, long minutes. When he walked into the second tombstone he started humming to himself to try to keep himself calm, and then, with increasing desperation, he started calling out Grey’s name. But Grey didn’t call back.

  The place seemed to be deserted. All he could hear was the wind in the trees and the rain beating on unseen graves, and it was truly – not very enjoyable. He was about to turn back when twenty or so yards in front of him he thought he glimpsed a lighted cigarette.

  ‘Grey?…Grey?’ He broke into a run. ‘Grey, if that’s you…’ In his haste to reach him Charlie stumbled on something, a loose brick, or a rock, or an empty flower vase – he never saw what it was exactly – and it sent him flying to the ground, and as he landed he thought he heard someone laughing. ‘Grey?…GREY!’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘Answer me! Grey, you bugger, if that’s you, and you’re not saying anything, I swear I’m going to—’

  He saw Grey’s outline, sitting hunched on the ground against a small cross, taking a drag from the cigarette and then treading on it. He was still laughing.

  ‘Is it my imagination or am I sensing a wee bi’ o’ fear out here in the darkness, Charlie, my friend?’ he said.

  ‘Jesus! You wanker. You fucking wanker…J
esus.’ Charlie collapsed onto the wet grass beside him. ‘I’ve never been so fucking terrified in my life…How long have you been out here?’

  ‘You get used to it after a while. Until someone comes yelling at you out o’ the blackness.’ He gave another deep chuckle. ‘Callin’ you a fuckin’ wanker.’ He offered up his bottle of gin and Charlie snatched at it greedily. ‘How d’you know I was here?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He passed the bottle back to Grey and stood up. ‘Dad guessed. Says you’re grave-obsessed, which I must say I’d never noticed. Until now, obviously. Come on. I’ve got a car waiting. We’ve got to go. Messy, Jo, Mr and Mrs Deagle and a load of reporters are waiting to see you. We’ve got ten minutes. Mr Deagle says if you’re not there by five past five he’s throwing everyone out. So we’d better hurry.’

  Grey didn’t move.

  ‘Come on, Grey. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Thank you, Charlie, for takin’ the trouble. Thank you kindly. I truly mean that. But I’m not comin’.’

  ‘Why not? Grey, it’s all set up. It’s ready to go. It’s a chance—Please, don’t be stupid. It’s your one chance to set things straight.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘But Mr and Mrs Deagle want to see you. They want to set the record straight.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair on Emily.’

  ‘Why? Grey, I don’t want to—But they’re very…frank. From what I understand you’re about the only person in Bonnyrigg Emily didn’t sleep with. So what’s the fuss? Corrine Deagle told me Emily didn’t even know who the baby’s father was. God rest her soul. Not that anyone’s blaming her and all that.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘All right. I’m sorry. But if her parents can say it…You’ve spent fifteen years grieving for her. What does it really matter, anyway?’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t.’

  ‘Well then,’ Charlie nudged him. ‘Grey, I’m freezing out here. We’ve now got nine minutes. Please. Let’s go.’

  ‘I just don’t want to be draggin’ Emily’s name through the mud all over again. It’s not right. When she can’t defend her own self.’

  ‘That’s not what her parents think.’

  ‘Aye – well, I never said we thought the same.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re right and you’re wrong. She’s dead. Look!’ He pointed at her grave. ‘You honestly think she’s worrying about her reputation right now?’

  Grey smiled.

  ‘That’s the whole bloody point of dying. You stop worrying about crap like that—’

  ‘Oh, is that right?’ said Grey dryly.

  ‘Hm?…Look, Grey,’ he added more quietly, ‘maybe she is sitting up there somewhere, cursing herself for having been a bit of an old slapper. I don’t know…Seems unlikely. But who knows? What I do know is that she’s dead. And that you’ve been punishing yourself for it long enough. And that Messy isn’t dead. And nor is Chloe. And you aren’t either. Yet…’

  Grey didn’t move. Charlie stood waiting, bent against the wind and the rain. But Grey stayed where he was. ‘The Deagles won’t do it without you, you know. I told you they’re going to throw everyone out. It’s your last chance…’

  But Grey said nothing. He stayed put. He pulled out another cigarette and started lighting it. With a sigh Charlie turned away, back into the blackness.

  For a while he walked slowly between the gravestones, searching half-heartedly for the minicab headlights. But he didn’t care anymore. There was no need to hurry…He imagined Jo and Messy and Mr and Mrs Deagle, waiting, pinning their hopes on him. He imagined their faces as he arrived, looking behind him for Grey, and then their disappointment when they realised he was on his own…

  Crack!

  He jumped. A twig snapping. A footstep.

  ‘Grey?’

  Crack!

  It was coming towards him. Charlie walked faster. He started humming again.

  Crack!

  It was right behind him, and then so was the familiar laugh and then Grey—‘You’re goin’ the wrong way, Charlie old man. Come on. It’s this way. We’d better hurry.’

  But by the time they reached the road, the minicab had left without them.

  Ten minutes past five. The Deagles’ sitting room was already full, Messy had slipped off to buy some crowd-mollifying alcohol and Jo was doing her best to keep everybody under control. ‘They’ll be here at any minute,’ she kept saying. ‘Any minute now…’

  Eddie Deagle pulled Jo into the kitchen. ‘He’s not found him, has he?’ he asked.

  ‘He might have done,’ Jo said stubbornly. ‘He probably has, for all we know. We’ve just got to wait a tiny bit more.’

  Mr Deagle wanted to believe her but it was becoming ridiculous. They both knew it. ‘I’m givin’ him ten minutes. Ten minutes,’ he said, just as a man with a moustache pushed his head round the kitchen door. ‘And then,’ Mr Deagle continued, ‘I’m throwin’ the whole bloody lot of you out.’

  ‘Is this a bloody wind-up or what?’ said the moustache. ‘Is he coming or isn’t he, excuse my French…But where the fuck is this character?’

  ‘I told you!’ Jo cried, spinning around. ‘He’s on his way! He’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘So why do I get the impression this is a total fucking fuck-up? Why’s Mrs – Whatsername telling me nobody knows where he is?’

  ‘She’s called Mrs Deagle,’ said Jo. ‘And I don’t know why she’s telling you that. You’ll have to ask her—’

  ‘She told me to ask you.’

  A pasty-faced man in glasses barged up from behind, knocking the moustached one out of the way and straight into Jo’s belly. ‘Sorry,’ he said vaguely, adjusting his glasses. ‘But can someone just tell us what’s going on?’

  He was quickly followed by others, until there was hardly breathing space in the tiny kitchen. Within minutes they were all shouting and arguing with each other, shouting into their mobiles, shouting at Eddie, shouting at Corrine, shouting at Jo. Eddie Deagle stared out over the crowded room, through all the mayhem, and suddenly something snapped. He couldn’t stand any more. ‘Right then!’ he roared. ‘That’s it! He’s not comin’. Everyone out!’

  ‘Oh no, please, wait…’ begged Jo. But another contraction, the fiercest by far, made her cry out in pain. She grasped hold of the kitchen sink. Breathed…Breathed…Breathed…Breathed…Nobody seemed to notice. When she looked up most of the press had already spilled out into the hall and back onto the road again, and Mrs Deagle was standing over her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jo babbled. ‘I am so sorry. I thought—Christ, I don’t know what I thought. I wanted to help Grey…and Messy, and Chloe. You don’t know Chloe but they’ve put her in a fucking home. And then there’s poor little Colin. And I was so certain…You know, if you want something badly enough…I am so, so sorry.’

  ‘I think you should sit down.’

  She would have done, and very gladly, but outside they heard a car sound its horn, and people had all started yelling again. The two women stared at each other.

  ‘Eddie?’ Mrs Deagle shouted. ‘What’s going on?’

  By the time Jo, Eddie and Corrine Deagle reached the road, the disbanded press conference had re-formed itself into a tight cluster around a white van, and Charlie and Grey McShane, to the flash of many cameras, were both climbing out of the back of it.

  They straightened up, surveyed what they could of the scene.

  ‘Excuse me,’ murmured Grey. He fought his way through the journalists towards the Deagles, who were waiting for him, arm in arm at the door of the house he had once known so well…

  They looked at each other for a long time. A long time. Grey nodded uncertainly.

  ‘…I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘And so we all are,’ said Mrs Deagle at last, and two fat tears spilled out over her painted cheeks. ‘Come on in.’

  He followed the Deagles into the house. Jo, thinking after fifteen years they might welcome a few minutes alone
, tried to close the door behind them. But the press pack had already waited long enough. They jostled her out of the way and hurriedly jammed themselves back into the hall behind them.

  Which left Charlie, still bloodstained and bruised from the experience with Les, and now smeared in mud from the cemetery, and Jo, monstrously, grotesquely pregnant. On their own at last. And they looked at each other. Charlie started walking towards her. She took a single step towards him.

  And her waters broke.

  By the time Messy found her way back from the off-licence, which turned out to be quite a distance away, Charlie and Jo were already in the ambulance on their way back to Edinburgh and the nearest hospital. In the crammed front room Eddie and Corrine Deagle had positioned themselves (just as Jo had promised) on either side of Grey, and Mr Deagle had delivered a short and moving statement apologising to the police, the courts and especially to Grey, and finally admitting that he and his wife had lied.

  ‘If Grey McShane had been anything more than a friend to our daughter,’ said Corrine, ‘I would have known about it…Eddie and me can never forget what he did, and nor can he, and now Emily’s dead. But it was an accident. We’ve accepted that. He was never a bad man. And he loved her. Which is a lot more than I can say for most o’ the young fellas she brought back here. Emily was a beautiful girl.’ Mrs Deagle’s brightly coloured face suddenly broke into a smile. ‘…But she liked her fun, didn’t she, Alistair?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all very well,’ came a nasal voice from the middle of the room, ‘but if young Emily was having it away with all the lads, I don’t see why we should be expected to believe that Grey McShane was an exception.’

  ‘You can believe what you fuckin’ like,’ snapped Grey.

  ‘Because,’ Mrs Deagle said quietly, ‘I’ve got her diaries.’

  Grey paused. He hadn’t known. Not that it mattered anymore. Not that it had ever mattered. It was just that he hadn’t known. When they sent him to jail all those years ago he hadn’t known that they’d known; that they’d had evidence to prove it. He turned back to the nasal journalist. ‘I’m tellin’ you the facts now because my girlfriend…The woman I love—’ He glanced across at her. She had just come in, bringing cold air with her into the smoky room, and a carrier bag full of alcohol. ‘Hey,’ he said, gazing into her beautiful face, ‘all right, Messy? You OK there?’