The Old House on the Corner Page 9

  ‘I’d love to see it,’ Kathleen said sincerely. She found Anna Burrows quite delightful. Then Ernie came in with the tea, and she saw the way he glanced at his sparkling wife, the way she looked back at him, her blue eyes full of love. He put the thin, china cup in her hands. ‘Can you manage it, luv?’ he said gruffly.

  Is this what Steve and I will be like when we’re this old? she wondered. If Anna had made a film before the war, she must be in her eighties.

  ‘Now, Kathleen,’ Anna said firmly when Ernie had returned to fixing the doorbell. ‘All I’ve done since you came is talk about myself. Tell me, dear, what do you do? I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me you were a film star or a model. You’re beautiful enough.’

  It was almost an hour later when Kathleen returned home. Steve was coming out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

  ‘I thought you’d left me,’ he grumbled. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘I just met this marvellous couple,’ she enthused. ‘Anna’s had multiple sclerosis for years, but it doesn’t get her down, not a bit. And Ernie’s wonderful. He waits on her hand and foot and it’s obvious they love each other very much.’ She paused for breath. ‘Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know we’re taking them to lunch.’

  Steve didn’t look even faintly pleased. ‘Are they posh?’ he asked.

  ‘Anna is, Ernie isn’t. He was very impressed when I said you’d been a miner. Anna asked us to lunch first, but we decided we couldn’t all fit in their little car. The boot isn’t big enough for her wheelchair and it usually goes on the back seat, so I said I’d take them in ours.’ The Mercedes was actually hers, but she wanted Steve to think of it as belonging to them both.

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,’ he sighed. ‘I just want you to meself, that’s all.’

  ‘I know, darling. But you’ll like Anna and Ernie, I promise. Oh, and I told them we’d only just got married, that we were both divorced. Anna wanted to know my life history – later, she’ll probably want to know yours. I couldn’t very well pretend Michael and Jean had never existed.’ She glanced at the phone and wondered if he’d rung Brenda while she’d been out.

  *

  Marie had asked Sarah and her children to lunch. ‘It’ll give you a wee break. It’s only salad with trifle for afters.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said apologetically, ‘but the children won’t eat salad. All they like is beans or spaghetti rings on toast.’

  ‘Ah, so did my lads when they were little. I was forgetting how finicky little children are. I can do beans on toast no problem. Have you tried them with fish fingers?’

  Liam said he was glad she’d made a friend, but when Patrick and Danny arrived, they were more than a bit put out to discover they’d be sharing the meal with strangers. ‘Oh, Ma, you shouldn’t have asked them,’ Danny complained, although when Sarah and the children arrived, Marie noticed Patrick couldn’t keep his eyes off Sarah’s bare, brown midriff, and Tiffany formed an instant crush on Danny. Danny pretended not to care, but Marie could tell he was flattered.

  From the window, Rachel had seen Sarah and the children come trooping out of number one and go next door to the Jordans’. As far as she knew, they were still there. They must be having lunch. Sarah must have done something to make Mrs Jordan feel sorry for her. What she didn’t realize was, given half a chance, Sarah would put on her ‘helpless little me’ act, and make off with her husband.

  ‘It can’t go on like this,’ Rachel had sternly told a blurry-eyed Sarah that morning when she’d taken the children home and found their mother fast asleep in bed. ‘You must get new locks on the doors, the sort that can be locked inside as well as out and hide the key in a place where the children can’t find it. Jack was about to wander into the road until Gareth Moran captured him.’ It had genuinely frightened Rachel, who knew to her cost what could happen to small children when they were out on their own.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah had replied in a voice as blurry as her eyes. ‘It’s just that I’m so tired.’

  ‘I’ve gone through the same sort of thing, being kept awake all night by a crying baby. You’ll just have to learn to cope, as other mothers do.’

  Sarah had looked at her oddly, as if she was wondering why the woman who had been so obliging the day before, had even offered to babysit, had so quickly changed. It was all Frank’s fault. He shouldn’t have started flirting with the girl. She’d wanted to be Sarah’s friend, but he’d spoilt it.

  Frank had taken James for a drink. Neither had thought to invite her. Perhaps they’d only gone to get away from her, the inadequate wife, the useless mother.

  Rachel went into the kitchen to get the dinner ready. It would have to be something that could easily be warmed up later when her husband and son came home and that could be any time. She was peeling potatoes, wondering what to have with them, when she heard laughter outside, and immediately went to see who it was. Victoria was having a friend round for a meal, Carrie. Perhaps she was bringing Carrie to meet her, she thought hopefully. She felt badly in need of company.

  Instead, the laughter was coming from Anna and Ernie Burrows and the people from next door, the Cart-wrights, who were all slowly making their way towards the garages. Anna was leaning on Mrs Cartwright’s arm. Rachel had only glimpsed her once and she really was quite lovely. She wore a scarlet dress with no sleeves that fitted her slim figure perfectly. And that hair – so thick and smooth and shiny, it looked like silk, the way it fell forward when she bent to speak to Anna. Rachel fingered her own lifeless brown hair, lying flat against her head, and felt deeply envious.

  She wondered how the couples had become friendly enough to go out together – almost certainly to lunch. Mr Cartwright, who reminded her of a younger Sean Connery, rolled up the garage door, revealing a gleaming black Mercedes. He backed the car out, everyone got in, Anna with some difficulty and a great amount of giggling. Ernie Burrows transferred a wheelchair from his own car into the boot of the other, and they drove away.

  Tears pricked Rachel’s eyes. Four of the families in the square were lunching with each other and no one had thought to ask her, yet she’d tried her hardest to be friendly, arranging a barbecue so everyone could get to know each other. Perhaps she’d tried too hard and it had put them off.

  She felt even worse when a crowd of people arrived and made for Hamilton Lodge, and she realized she was the only one in Victoria Square who was in the house by herself.

  Gareth was becoming paranoid. Was this going to be a regular event, having the Hamiltons for Sunday dinner, the whole tribe of them – the widow Joyce (Debbie’s mother), Kelly and Tracy (Debbie’s elder sisters), Grant and Luke (Debbie’s younger brothers), and Keith and Ivor (Debbie’s elder sisters’ boyfriends)? It hadn’t happened when they’d lived in the flat in Woolton, because there hadn’t been the room or the chairs for them to sit on or a table big enough for them to sit around. In those days, they’d come surreptitiously in their twos and threes.

  When they’d moved, he’d argued with Debbie when she’d insisted on buying a table that, when opened, could seat twelve, little realizing that the Hamiltons were about to descend upon them every Sunday en masse, and no doubt at Christmas and on Bank Holidays too.

  The girls helped cook the meal, while the men sat in the front room drinking beer, can after can. To Gareth’s horror, he began to count them, working out how much they’d cost. He reckoned, between them, they’d drunk about twenty quid’s worth before everyone sat down to the joint of beef that had set him back … He tried not to think how much the meat had cost, or the wine, or the massive cream and peach gateau for afters, or whether Debbie had bought one or two.

  As well as paranoid, he was beginning to feel like a milch cow kept soley to provide milk. He was now a milch man, kept to provide food for his wife’s family, plus various hangers-on.

  ‘You’re awfully quiet, Gar,’ Debbie said. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘I’m thinking
.’ He glanced at her and his heart melted. She looked good enough to eat herself, her dark hair in plaits, and wearing a shell pink top he’d never seen before and pale blue matador pants he’d never seen before either. The blue sandals with impossibly high heels were strangers to him too. No doubt they’d been in the bags she’d been surrounded by in Bluecoat Chambers the day before. The make-up on her small, elf-like face was a work of art, which wasn’t surprising, seeing as she was a beautician.

  Kelly’s frilly blue top, he recognized. He’d actually been with Debbie when she’d bought it a few weeks ago, wincing at the price. He’d only seen it on her a few times and it would seem she’d passed it on to her sister. Kelly couldn’t have afforded the top out of a shop assistant’s wages. Not only were they feeding the Hamiltons, but it would appear they were clothing them too.

  It was midnight in Victoria Square. Ernest was in bed, listening to Anna’s quiet breathing and saying his nine times table under his breath – he’d always found it the most difficult. He felt triumphant when he reached nine times twelve without a pause. Maybe his mind wasn’t going, after all. He counted down from a hundred, just to make sure, and managed it successfully.

  Before going to bed, while Steve was still in the bathroom, Kathleen picked up the phone and found there was a message on voicemail. She felt slightly sick when she pressed seven and the message began to play.

  ‘It’s Brenda,’ announced a hard, brittle voice. ‘Just thought you’d like to know, Dad, that Mam’s not stopped crying all day and it’s all your fault. How could you do this to her? How could you be so cruel? If she carries on much longer, she’s going to be really ill and you’ll have that on your conscience for the rest of your days – and that tart of a doctor you’ve taken up with …’

  Kathleen wasn’t prepared to listen to any more. She pressed three for delete, then pulled the plug out of the phone. Tomorrow, while Steve was at his job interview, she’d change the number and ask to go ex-directory.

  Victoria was still emptying drawers. Her back ached from bending down. ‘What am I supposed to do with all this lot, Gran?’ she asked when she opened the drawer in her grandmother’s wardrobe and found it full of bedding. Normal bedding, she could have left for whoever rented the place, but nowadays people would turn up their noses at flannelette sheets full of darns, no matter how sparklingly white they were or how neat the darns. There were also loads of blankets, the hard, thick sort that itched your skin if they happened to touch you during the night.

  ‘I wish you’d used a duvet, Gran, like everyone else,’ Victoria complained.

  The bedding took up four big plastic bags. ‘I suppose someone, somewhere will make use of it,’ she muttered, as she had done a dozen times that day when faced with drawers full of thick, lisle stockings, silky bloomers that reached the knees, lock-knit petticoats. One of Gran’s nighties actually had a Utility label inside and must have been bought during the war. Victoria had never known her wear it. Unlike the other, more practical nighties, this was plain black crêpe, long and slinky, with narrow shoulder straps.

  ‘I bet she got this for when Granddad came home from India.’ Granddad had been in the Army and had spent four long years away from home. She had pressed the nightie to her breast. ‘I can’t possibly give it away.’ Later, she put it with the ‘things to keep’ pile, which was growing ominously large.

  Victoria stretched her arms. She felt tired and it was time to go to bed, but first she’d make some cocoa. The football books she’d promised Gareth Moran were on the kitchen table. Most were very old and she hoped he’d find them useful.

  ‘I liked him, Gran,’ she murmured wistfully. ‘I liked him an awful lot. And I’m sure he liked me.’

  If only he wasn’t married. If only, if only …

  Gareth was thinking about Victoria at the same moment as she was thinking about him. The Hamiltons were still downstairs where they’d been watching television for the last – he looked at his watch – seven hours – seven very noisy hours – and he’d been thinking how nice it would be to live in a quiet house where people didn’t scream with laughter at every damn thing the telly threw up. Even the news could send the widow Joyce into convulsions. He wondered what his late father-in-law had died of and reckoned his brain had probably exploded from the noise made by his charmless wife. He must ask Debbie sometime.

  Shit, it had been an awful day. He’d been hoping to get further on with his footy site over the weekend, but hadn’t had a minute, not until a few hours ago, when he couldn’t stand watching another old comedy programme on telly – it was on some digital channel that showed them one after the other, and even the ones he liked, Seinfeld, for instance, he’d already seen before – so he’d gone upstairs and switched on the computer. It was ages before anyone had noticed that he’d gone. Debbie came, hours later, and told him he was rude just to disappear, and he told her, rudely, that he was busy.

  ‘I don’t have a nine to five job like most people. I have work to do at home.’

  ‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ Debbie had pouted, ‘I’ll leave you in peace to get on with it.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ he’d said sarcastically. Peace was at a premium in Hamilton Lodge. He couldn’t remember when he’d last experienced it. Then he remembered that morning, talking to Victoria Macara in her comfy old house with its comfy old furniture. It had been peaceful there. The time had flown by. He looked out the window and saw there was a light on upstairs in Victoria’s and wondered if she had finished emptying drawers. There’d been something awfully brave and honest about her. She was tough, yet at the same time fragile. He hoped she would manage, all on her own, in New York. Perhaps they could email each other. He felt he didn’t want to lose all contact with Victoria Macara.

  Rachel Williams was in bed on the verge of sleep. She’d taken a sleeping tablet. It had been a truly horrible day and the sooner it was over the better. Frank and James had come home and announced they’d had a pub meal and didn’t want anything to eat. Neither seemed to care she’d already made them dinner. Then James had gone out again and Frank had spent the afternoon watching a football match on television and Rachel watching for the Burrows and the Cartwrights to come back – it was ages before they did and they looked as if they’d had a great time. Sarah Rees-James and the children had spent virtually all afternoon in the Jordans. The younger Jordan boy had taken Tiffany for a ride around the square on the crossbar of his bike.

  ‘I’m being left out,’ Rachel whispered. ‘No one wants to know me.’

  In number two Victoria Square, Marie Jordan was saying the rosary under the bedclothes, her fingers touching the beads lovingly before moving to the next. When she finished, she kissed the crucifix, and slid the rosary under the pillow.

  She’d really enjoyed today. It was a long time since she’d felt like a normal human being. There’d been no need to look over her shoulder every few minutes, worried someone might be watching, wondering where they’d seen her before.

  At around ten o’clock, she’d gone to Sarah’s to make sure the children had settled down for the night. The two older ones were asleep and Alastair was grizzling pathetically in his cot. Marie had dosed him with Calpol and changed his soaking nappy – she wished she could have afforded the disposable sort when Patrick and Danny had been babies. It was something his mother should have done, but the girl had looked dead on her feet. Besides which, she didn’t have much idea how to look after children. Until recently, she’d had a nanny who’d done everything, she’d explained earlier. There was a mountain of clothes in the kitchen waiting to be washed. Tomorrow, Marie would give her a hand, bring some of the washing home and do it in her own machine. Helping Sarah could well occupy her until Patrick and Danny started school when she intended to look for a job. She’d never been a lady of leisure and didn’t fancy it a bit. By then, Sarah would surely be able to cope on her own.

  Marie was curious to know what had happened. Why had Sarah dispensed with the nanny? Why had sh
e moved to Victoria Square? Where was the children’s father? She would never ask. She hated it when questioned about her own life. Even so, she felt curious …

  Sarah

  Chapter 4

  Sarah’s mother was a timid little thing. She went around with a helpless look on her pretty face, which didn’t matter, because Daddy was the most capable man in the entire world. It was Daddy who paid the bills, told Mrs Wesley, the housekeeper, what they should have for dinner, went with Mummy to the supermarket to make sure she bought the right groceries. Daddy had interviewed the au pairs who’d looked after Sarah and her sister, Julia, when they were small, and he organized their schooling – they went to private schools, naturally, as there was no question of Robin Fitzgerald’s daughters being educated by the State.

  Daddy didn’t go to work like most girls’ daddies. He had an office upstairs with a word processor and a telephone and he invested in things, bought stocks and shares and property. He’d once tried to explain what he did to Sarah, but she didn’t understand.

  ‘I’ll have to make sure you marry a rich husband,’ he’d chortled. ‘You’re not likely to get very far with your brains.’

  Sarah was glad she took after her father, physically, at least. He was tall and blond, with the features of a Greek god – she wasn’t the only person to think that. Quite a few girls at school had a crush on him.

  ‘He looks like a film star,’ they would say admiringly when he came to collect her and Julia in his vintage Bentley. Somehow, even in old jeans and a crumpled jacket, he managed to look smarter and more elegant than most other girls’ fathers.

  While Julia was small and delicately pretty like their mother, Sarah was tall, fair-haired and striking. She was also very athletic, always winning at least half a dozen medals on Sports Day, Daddy watching from the side and frantically cheering her on. He bought a frame to put the medals in, adding more each year. When Sarah grew older, she captained the hockey team and twice won a cup when she represented the school in a tennis tournament.