The Old House on the Corner Page 3

  ‘I’m ever so glad we moved, Ernie,’ she said breathily as they left the square, an elderly man out with his invalid wife. They probably looked very ordinary, very boring. Ernest chuckled to himself, and supposed they were, now. But they hadn’t always been.

  ‘Debbie,’ Gareth shouted when he went into Hamilton Lodge – he loathed the name, considered it pretentious, but Debbie had insisted. He was relieved that she had decided Moran didn’t sound as grand as Hamilton and had used her own name instead of his.

  There was a note by the phone. ‘Gone to town. Let’s meet for coffee in Bluecoat Chambers at 3.30. Deb.’

  He searched for his mobile, found it in his jeans pocket, and texted her a message. ‘No can do. C u at home.’ She would be cross, but he didn’t care. He had work to do in his office upstairs.

  In the kitchen, he wrinkled his nose when he saw the place was a tip. A fluffy tortoiseshell kitten jumped off the table and rubbed itself against his leg, purring loudly.

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ Gareth muttered, giving it a saucer of milk that looked slightly off. The kitten had already been christened Tabitha before they had discovered it was a tom, by which time it was too late to change the name and confuse it.

  ‘Well, this is a fine old mess,’ he sighed. That morning’s breakfast dishes were piled on top of last night’s dinner dishes. Gareth was perfectly willing to do his share of housework, but Debbie had taken the day off and it seemed unreasonable that she hadn’t washed up while he was at work. He sniffed virtuously. The other way round, he’d have done the dishes like a shot.

  Debbie wanted a cleaner. ‘I can’t be expected to clean a big house like this on my own,’ she complained, although they’d barely been in the place a fortnight. She was irritated when he pointed out they hadn’t had to buy such a big house in the first place. He’d been keen on moving to the square, giving up the flat in Woolton that cost an arm and a leg in rent, expecting to pay much less for a mortgage on one of the semis or a bungalow, but Debbie had insisted on this one, although they had no need for four bedrooms. Both were too busy with their careers to think of having children for years. Debbie was a beauty therapist and wanted to open her own salon one day.

  I should have put my foot down, Gareth told himself. Easier said than done when faced with Debbie’s appealing little face and appealing little voice. ‘Oh, go on, Gareth, we can afford it.’ She could wrap him around her little finger and Gareth, who loved her to bits, was only too willing to let her. It accounted for why the house was full of dead expensive furniture and Debbie wore dead expensive clothes, why they were going on holiday to Barbados in October, why, any minute now, he would get rid of the old Ford Escort that he was rather fond of and buy a ghastly four-wheeled drive thing called a Prairie Dog that he considered as pretentious as the name of the house. He sighed, picked up his mobile and texted another message. ‘Changed mind. Meet u 3.30. OK. Luv u. G.’

  Victoria was still badly missing her gran. There was something very unsatisfactory about having one-sided conversations with a woman who’d been dead for two years, no matter how dear to her she’d been. From her window, she had seen the Burrows speak to Rachel who was looking after Sarah Rees-James’s children, seen Gareth Moran drive in and join them. Then Frank Williams and Sarah had arrived, and Victoria was about to go round and introduce herself, when the Burrows left and Rachel went indoors, Gareth Moran disappeared into Hamilton Lodge, Frank carried Sarah’s shopping into number one, Sarah carried the baby, the other children followed, and there wasn’t a soul left on the grass.

  It frightened the usually fearless Victoria that things could so quickly change. One minute there was a crowd of people yet, in a flash, all had gone. The same thing had happened with her mum and dad, who’d vanished from her life within the space of weeks. Gran was old and apparently in the best of health, but had died quite unexpectedly in her sleep, leaving Victoria without a soul in the world to call her own. The boyfriend who had expressed his undying love only a few months ago had turned out to have a very pregnant wife, although Victoria tried hard not to think about that particular episode in her life. She would get over it one day soon.

  She told Gran that Mrs Burrows looked very sweet and glamorous and her husband was remarkably handsome for his age; that Rachel had seemed rather fed up, though it was difficult to tell from so far away; Gareth was nice and she’d quite like to talk to him about his job; Frank Williams was terribly over-bearing, though she’d already guessed that from what Rachel had told her, and he was paying far more attention to the delicious Sarah than was decent, which was probably why Rachel was fed up.

  ‘That’s about it, Gran. If anything else happens, I’ll tell you later.’

  The morning had been spent sorting through her clothes, wondering what to throw away, what to give to a charity shop, what to take with her to New York, or whether to get rid of the lot and buy a whole new wardrobe. If so, should she buy it in Liverpool or wait until she was in America? It was great having money for the first time in her life, although she wished Gran was still around to enjoy it with her.

  She decided to go round to Three Farthings and offer to give Rachel a hand with the barbecue. It was merely an excuse because Rachel had seemed so down and would almost certainly like someone to talk to.

  There was no reply when she knocked on the Williams’s front door. Rachel and the children must have gone out – Frank could be seen in the Rees-James’s where he was putting up a mirror over the fireplace. She was on her way home, when two boys turned into the square. They were examining a computer game they must have just bought.

  ‘Hi, what’s that called?’ she enquired, stopping in front of them. They were very alike, obviously brothers, with heavily freckled faces, green eyes, and dark ginger hair.

  ‘Moon Rider,’ the younger one replied. He looked about fourteen. The older one regarded her suspiciously. Perhaps he thought she was about to molest them.

  ‘I’ve got Moon Rider Two,’ she said. ‘It’s much better, more exciting.’

  ‘Yeah, but our computer isn’t powerful enough to take it.’ He had an Irish accent. They must be the Jordan boys from number two.

  ‘Mine is, it’s sixty-four Ram. You can come round and use it if you like. I’ve loads of games. I live in the old house over there.’

  His green eyes lit up. ‘Can we come now? Ours is only sixteen Ram.’

  ‘If you like.’

  The older boy spoke for the first time. ‘We can’t, Danny,’ he said shortly. ‘Ma will have the dinner ready for us.’

  ‘I’d forgotten.’ Danny bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, we can’t come. But thanks for asking,’ he added politely.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Victoria said easily. ‘Any time.’

  The other boy virtually dragged his brother away. The door to their house opened a crack and a woman shouted, ‘Patrick, Danny, your dinner’s ready now.’

  Victoria waved in the direction of the voice, but there was no sign of its owner. She shrugged, vaguely hurt. She’d only wanted to be friendly.

  Marie Jordan stood in the hall, her hands on her hips. She was angry, and when Marie was angry, her green eyes blazed, her freckles glowed, and her red hair looked as if it was on fire. Her heart was leaping all over the place after spying her lads conversing with a stranger directly outside the house.

  ‘What did that woman want?’ she demanded hoarsely.

  ‘She said we could play on her computer,’ Danny explained.

  ‘He’d have gone an’ all,’ Patrick said coldly, ‘if I hadn’t stopped him. He’s an eejit, Ma.’

  ‘Did she ask any questions like?’ Marie put her hand on her breast in an effort to control the beating of her heart.

  ‘Only what our new game was called.’ Danny looked defensively at his mother. ‘She was a nice lady, Ma. She only lives in the ould house on the corner.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Danny, mind who you speak to. You can’t be too careful, none of us can.’

&n
bsp; ‘It’s possible to be too careful, Marie.’ A man was coming downstairs, slight and not very tall. He always reminded Marie of Jesus Christ himself, with his long brown hair, beard, and calm brown eyes. His voice was soft and gentle. ‘We should mix with the neighbours, not draw attention to ourselves by being rude and unfriendly, making people wonder what we have to hide. Come on, lads,’ he put an arm around each of the boys’ shoulders, ‘your ma’s made us a fantastic salad, seeing as it’s such a hot day, with trifle and cream for afters.’ He led them into the kitchen diner and they sat at the table. ‘No grace,’ he warned when Marie clasped her hands ready to pray. ‘No more grace, no more going to Mass, no more holy pictures on the walls. The Jordans are no longer a religious family, not after what happened in London.’

  In London, they’d gone to Mass one Sunday and, a few aisles in front, Patrick had spied a boy who’d gone to the same school as he had in Belfast. He was with his family – Marie recognized the mother slightly. Perhaps aware she was being stared at, the woman had turned her head and Marie could have sworn she recognised her. The Jordans had left the church immediately and moved to Liverpool with all possible speed.

  ‘I’d forgotten, Liam.’ Marie would never get used to calling him that.

  ‘It’s hard to forget the habits of a lifetime. Shall we eat? And afterwards, I suggest Danny goes round and plays on the lady’s computer. Just watch what you say, lad. If anyone asks, your daddy’s a salesman and he travels a lot, you’ll both be starting your new school in September, and you come from County Donegal, where your mammy was born. Is that all right with you, Marie?’ His calm gaze rested on her anxious face.

  ‘It is indeed, Liam. Whatever you say.’ Her heart was beating normally again. It was the effect he had on her. She’d over-reacted earlier. ‘I might go round with our Danny, say hello like. He’s right. She looked a nice young woman. She waved, but I just ignored her. She’ll think I’m desperately rude.’

  ‘A card came this morning, inviting us to a barbecue. Can we go to that too?’ Danny enquired eagerly. ‘It’s next Saturday, our Patrick’s birthday.’

  ‘We can,’ Liam replied. ‘We’ll take a bottle of wine and Patrick his guitar and give everyone a song.’ He smiled and Marie’s erratic heart turned over. ‘But none of that Irish protest stuff, lad. Stick to rock’n’roll or rap or whatever’s in vogue these days.’

  At this, the usually dour Patrick looked quite pleased. ‘I’ll do some Blur and Oasis numbers – I’ll start practising after dinner.’

  Anna returned from the walk quite animated, insisting she was drunk.

  ‘You only had a single glass of wine, luv,’ Ernie remarked. ‘You can’t possibly be drunk.’

  ‘Ah, but I feel drunk,’ she insisted. ‘I feel completely sozzled, if you must know.’

  ‘You’d better have a little nap when we get home.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing, Ernie. I like feeling drunk. We must go to that pub again. Everyone was so friendly. I’m ever so glad we moved. Queen’s Drive was very nice but, apart from being noisy, there were no shops around, no pubs. I really enjoyed going in Woollies.’ She had an assortment of plastic bags on her lap, having bought a pair of ghastly hoop earrings, a box of chocolates, some blue eyeshadow, and a bottle of Irish whiskey for Ernest – he was partial to a dram before going to bed. ‘I wonder who lives in the next-door bungalow?’ she said when they turned into Victoria Square. ‘Have you seen any sign of them, dear?’

  ‘It’s a couple, middle-aged. They were in the kitchen when I was hanging out the washing the other day.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘They weren’t exactly looking out the window, luv. They were in the middle of what we used to call a good old necking session. Nowadays, I think it’s called a snog.’

  ‘You mean they were kissing?’

  ‘Kissing with knobs on.’ Ernie had felt a bit like a stalker.

  ‘Isn’t that nice.’ She sighed. ‘We used to do it all the time.’

  ‘We’ll do it again, as soon as we get in,’ Ernest promised, and Anna shrieked with delight.

  ‘People will think this house is empty,’ Kathleen whispered after Steve kissed her again, very long and very hard. ‘I don’t think anyone’s seen us yet.’

  ‘Who cares about people?’ Steve stroked her face, her neck, her breasts. His hands were rough and coarse against her delicate skin. She shivered ecstatically and he took her again. She’d lost count of the number of times they’d made love that day.

  ‘It’s nearly three o’clock,’ she said. ‘We’ve been in bed for fifteen hours.’

  ‘Who’s counting?’

  ‘Me. I’m hungry and I’d love a cup of tea.’ She sat up and he ran his fingers down her spine. She shuddered again. ‘That tickles.’

  ‘Stay there and I’ll make some tea.’ He got out of bed and stood beside her, naked, his broad, muscled body as hard and solid as a rock. She felt dizzy, already wanting him again.

  ‘No,’ she said determinedly. ‘I’m getting up. We need groceries. At this rate, we’ll never eat again. There’s hardly any milk left and I’m out of cigarettes.’

  ‘It’s time you stopped smoking. I’ll put the water on.’

  ‘You’d better get dressed first. There are no curtains in the kitchen. If someone sees you, they’ll think we’ve started our own nudist colony.’

  He looked at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘That’s an idea – it might catch on.’ He pulled on jeans, shrugged his massive arms into a check shirt, and threw a scarlet satin dressing gown in her direction. It was part of her ‘trousseau’. ‘Come on. You’re right. It’s time we came up for air. It’s a nice day, we can go for a walk. Hey, there’s something come through the letterbox. We’ve got mail.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Three Farthings have invited us to a barby.’

  ‘What’s a barby?’

  ‘A barbecue. By God, you’re an ignorant woman, Kathleen Quinn. I suppose you don’t know what a telly is, either. Or a chippy, or a cossy, or a butty. What’s a nana?’ he demanded.

  ‘A banana, and I know all the other things apart from a cossy.’

  ‘It’s a swimming costume.’

  He went into the kitchen. Kathleen got out of bed and languorously stretched her arms. In the wardrobe mirror, she watched herself put on the satin gown. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was loose, her eyes like stars. She looked sexy, wanton, wholly satisfied. ‘I’ve never looked like this before in my life,’ she said, and the reflection smiled in agreement.

  ‘Shall we give our house a name?’ she asked when she followed Steve into the kitchen. ‘Would the landlord let us?’

  ‘Our house!’ His deep, gravely voice was full of wonder. ‘Our house.’ He took her in his arms. ‘Let’s not ask. A number’s good enough for me.’

  ‘And me. Number seven sounds better than Three Farthings.’

  ‘Any day. Would you kindly let go of me, Mrs Quinn? The water’s just about to boil.’

  They moved reluctantly out of each other’s arms. Kathleen washed two mugs and put a teabag in each. ‘We need a teapot,’ she said fussily. ‘And a cosy, and all sorts of other things, like pans, more towels and bedding, crockery …’ Her voice trailed away. There were too many things to list.

  ‘We’ll get ’em today.’ They sat down, one each side of the small table, and looked at each other for a long time. ‘I love you, Kathleen.’

  ‘I love you, Steve.’

  The phone rang. She got up and went into the living room to answer it. Strange, she thought, no one knows our number. She didn’t even know it herself, she realized when she picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to me dad,’ a woman’s voice said curtly.

  Kathleen went cold. Steve came in. ‘Who is it?’ He refused to meet her eyes.

  ‘I think it’s Brenda. It’s one of your daughters.’ She shrugged, pushed the receiver at him, and returned to the kitchen. The
re was an ashtray on the draining board, full of butts. As yet, they hadn’t got a wastebin to empty them in. She took a lighter from the pocket of the scarlet gown, chose the biggest butt and smoked it until it reached the tip, then the next-to-biggest.

  He’d let Brenda have their number. He’d promised her – and she him – that they would start a new life together, just the two of them, leaving the past and all its various unpleasant attachments behind. This wouldn’t have been necessary had his four daughters been even vaguely sympathetic to the fact he’d fallen in love with another woman. But they hated her. She was the harlot who had stolen their father away from their mother, his wife, the clinging, helpless, whining Jean, to whom he hadn’t made love since the youngest girl had been born twenty-four years ago.

  Steve was standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said humbly. ‘It was Brenda. I rang the other day, just to see how Jean was. She must have pressed 1471 and got our number.’

  ‘Didn’t it cross your mind that’s exactly what she would do?’

  ‘I didn’t think of it.’

  ‘I might ring Michael later, see how he is.’

  ‘I’m sure Michael’s fine.’

  ‘And I’m sure Jean is too. She’s probably watching television. According to you, that’s all she ever did.’

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, still refusing to meet her eyes. ‘Brenda ses she’s not stopped crying since I left. The girls are worried sick about her.’

  ‘What do they expect you to do? Go home and kiss her better?’

  His shoulders hunched. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I would have thought the obvious thing to do was nothing, but if you’re actually thinking of going home, Steve, then don’t bother to come back.’

  ‘You don’t mean that!’ He looked deeply hurt.

  ‘I do.’ She was lying through her teeth, wanting to hurt him, yet knowing she would die if she never saw him again. ‘I’m not sharing you with a wife who lives miles away, you rushing back every time someone rings to say she’s cut her little finger. Would you mind if I went to see Michael at the same time? He’s bound to be lonely on his own.’