by Diane Janes
By the time mother and daughter returned to the kitchen, Bruce had talked with Jamie and heard all about his abandonment at the Websters’ house. This did nothing to improve his mood. ‘As soon as Tara gets in I’ll fetch a takeaway,’ he said. ‘Since you couldn’t manage to remember that we’d all need a meal tonight as usual.’
‘Please calm down, Bruce. It’s not the end of the world. It only happened because I got a bit distracted by what Joan was telling me.’
‘Naturally, complete strangers take priority over the needs of your own children.’ He stalked out of the kitchen and along the hall.
It’s the heat, she told herself. This run of hot weather was hell for people who had to sit in an office all day. At the same time, she knew that she had failed badly on the domestic front. Amends ought to be made. She followed him to the sitting room where he had taken up a position behind the newspaper.
‘Why don’t I take the car down to Asda and pick up some things so I can put together a nice salad? That would be better for everyone than a takeaway on a warm evening like this.’
‘I’d rather wait for Tara, then fetch something. It will be quicker. Particularly if you get waylaid en-route.’
‘I won’t get waylaid. How on earth could I get waylaid?’
‘Distracted then.’
‘I won’t. Oh, please don’t be annoyed with me, Bruce. I’ve said I’m sorry.’
‘And I’ve said I would rather have a takeaway.’
Unfortunately, Wendy had also forgotten that Tara had told her she wouldn’t be back in time for tea. It was well after seven o’clock before she returned, announcing that she’d had a wonderful day at the beach.
‘At last,’ Bruce said, when Tara finally drifted in. ‘Now we can all eat.’
Wendy refrained from pointing out that her salad plan could have been brought to fruition a good deal earlier, with a portion plated up and put in the fridge for Tara.
‘Sorry,’ Tara said. ‘Have you guys waited? I didn’t expect you to wait for me. Mam, I told you I’d be late.’
‘It isn’t your fault,’ said Bruce. ‘Your mother has completely lost her marbles since some nosy old bat arrived, wanting to see over the house, of all things. We can’t expect her to remember little matters like what time any of her family are expected home.’
Wendy’s attempts to lighten the mood as she unpacked and plated the containers of sweet and sour chicken, beef chow mein and fried rice mostly fell on deaf ears. Katie and Jamie were subdued and Tara picked up on the atmosphere and contributed little to her mother’s tentative attempts at conversation. Wendy decided that it was not a good time to talk about Joan Webb’s visit.
They had eaten so late that she sent Jamie up to get into his pyjamas while she cleared everything away. She had just finished when the telephone rang, and since Bruce made no move to answer it and the children had all gone upstairs, Wendy went into the hall and lifted the receiver. The voice was male and vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place the owner.
‘Could I speak to Tara, please?’
‘Hold on.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece and bawled, ‘Tara … telephone …’
Tara came flying down the stairs and Wendy wordlessly handed the phone over. It was a well-practised manoeuvre as the majority of incoming calls were for Tara.
‘Hello,’ she heard her daughter say as she went into the sitting room, closing the door behind her. Bruce was in his usual chair, flicking through the Radio Times. The window was open admitting birdsong and the scent of flowers from the front garden.
‘Who was on the phone?’ he asked, with no particular interest.
‘Someone for Tara. I’m not sure who it is.’ As she spoke, a memory clicked in her head, of an accent which had once been part of her everyday life – yet that made no sense at all. She picked up a stray glass which had been left on the coffee table and headed back into the hall, closing the sitting room door behind her.
‘Yes,’ Tara was saying. ‘And when they threw her in … oh, I know, it was brill.’
A silence followed. Evidently the caller was speaking. Wendy went into the kitchen where she put the glass into the dishwasher. As she moved away from the machine back in the direction of the kitchen door, she heard Tara’s voice, coming from out of sight round the corner in the hall. She was speaking more softly now and in a very different tone.
‘It was special for me too … Of course I will … You know I do …’
‘Ma-a-am,’ Jamie’s voice came from the upper landing. ‘I can’t find my Flintstones book.’
‘Hold on, I’m coming up,’ Wendy called. ‘Have you cleaned your teeth yet?’
Tara was still glued to the phone ten minutes later, by which time Wendy had settled Jamie in bed, having first inspected his teeth and retrieved his favourite bedtime reading matter from under the bed.
‘Is Tara still on the phone?’ Bruce asked, as Wendy re-entered the sitting room. ‘I wish she’d think of the bill.’
‘Don’t worry, this one’s on his parents.’
‘Oh, it’s a him, is it?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. Ought she to provide a more concrete identification? But then she herself was not absolutely certain.
At that moment the door opened and Tara entered the room. ‘That,’ she said, evidently making what she perceived as an important announcement, ‘is the new love of my life.’
‘Is it anyone we know?’ Bruce smiled. It was his first genuine smile of the evening, but Wendy suddenly knew that she ought to have forewarned him.
‘Yes, you’ve both met him loads of times. It’s John.’
Bruce was clearly none the wiser. ‘John who?’
‘John McIlroy. He worked on our house.’
‘One of those brickies?’ Bruce looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Yes, John.’ Tara sounded impatient. Her announcement had clearly not generated the effect that she was hoping for.
‘You are joking, of course.’
Wendy wanted to shout, Oh no Bruce … Don’t go at this head on … That will be a terrible mistake … But she had no opportunity to say anything at all.
‘Of course I’m not joking.’ Tara was full of seventeen-year-old haughtiness and outrage.
‘Are you trying to tell me that you have been seeing this John? Behind our backs?’ Bruce seldom ever got angry with Tara, but this was an exception.
Tara raised her voice to match his. ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything. I am going out with John. I spent most of today with him, as a matter of fact.’
‘You told us you were going to spend the day with friends.’ The accusation in Bruce’s voice was inescapable.
‘I did spend the day with friends. John happens to be one of my friends. I don’t see anything wrong with that.’
‘Don’t you? Don’t you?’ Bruce had gone red under his sunburn. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, shall I? To begin with, he’s years older than you. Secondly, he’s the type who’s out for only one thing. A pig-ignorant yobbo, who goes around picking up naïve young girls while he lays cement and fixes up other people’s toilets.’
‘You snob!’ Tara yelled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with laying bricks or cement, or doing an honest day’s work. For your information, John is really intelligent and sensitive. He’s a good person. You’d have found that out if you’d taken the trouble to get to know him.’
‘I don’t “get to know” people I’ve paid to do jobs at my house,’ Bruce sneered.
‘I’m sure he is a very nice person.’ Wendy managed to put in a word. ‘It’s just that you’ve sprung this on us, Tara. We’re used to your boyfriends being from college, or lads you’ve met at the ice rink. People of your own age. Your dad and I just want what’s best for you. We don’t want you to get into bad company. It isn’t that we object to John in particular.’
‘As a matter of fact, I do object to John in particular,’ Bruce interrupted. ‘And I forbid you to see him again.�
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‘I’m old enough to please myself who I see,’ flashed Tara.
‘You’ll do as you’re told!’ shouted Bruce.
‘Don’t try to come the heavy-handed father with me,’ stormed Tara. ‘You’re not even my real father.’
‘Tara!’ Wendy was horrified. How had things helter-skeltered into this? Bruce had always been Tara’s father – she’d known no other.
‘Well, he’s not.’ Tara turned her ire on her mother. ‘It’s no use you trying to pretend. I’m a big girl now, you know.’
‘Tara,’ Wendy pleaded. ‘There’s never been any pretence. You’ve always known that Bruce isn’t your biological father, but he’s the person who’s brought you up—’
‘I don’t have to do what he says. I’m eighteen soon and after that I don’t have to do what you say either.’ She turned back to Bruce. ‘I don’t have to listen to your pathetic, snobbish lecturing. I shall go on seeing John and anyone else I want to see.’ She left the room, not slamming the door as Wendy had half expected her to, but closing it emphatically, like a victor removing themselves from the field of battle.
Bruce’s face was a strange mixture of emotions.
‘You know she doesn’t mean it,’ Wendy said.
‘Doesn’t she? It’s true, after all. I’m not her father.’
‘You have been – are – a wonderful father,’ Wendy began, but Bruce stood up and walked out of the room, not bothering to shut the door behind him.
Wendy jumped to her feet and pursued him to the bottom of the stairs, but he didn’t look back. For a moment, she hoped that he might be following Tara up to her room, intending to talk things out and make up, but when he reached the half landing he turned the other way. He must be going to their own bedroom. She considered following him, but then she remembered that he was already angry with her too. If she had not put him in such a bad mood to start with, Wendy reflected, he might not have lost his temper so quickly with Tara.
She stood debating for a moment, before returning to the sitting room, where she noticed that it was very still, as if the room was holding its breath, nervous after the drama just witnessed. Bruce and Tara had always been so close. She couldn’t remember them ever quarrelling like that before. Bruce had always lavished so much love on Tara, almost as if he was trying to compensate for the absent father she had never known. No wonder he was wounded by this abrupt rejection. If only he had not been in such an irritable mood … Bruce wasn’t a snob. Normally he would have laughed off the Brummie brickie as no more than a teenage fad. Tara fell madly in love with a different boy on an almost weekly basis – announcements about the latest ‘love of her life’ were a regular source of mutual amusement. Tara wasn’t about to do anything silly. She had her mind set on a place at university. It would be all right. Bruce would have a lie down, reflect that it was all a storm in a teacup and come back downstairs soon. He was always so sensible …
She continued to wait for him in the gathering dusk. The only sounds in the room came from the birds in the garden and occasional cars passing along Green Lane. The other four occupants of the house might not have existed. The sense of drama and unease had dissipated, replaced by more familiar sensations, as the comfort and safety of home wrapped itself around her. The steady tick of the grandfather clock soothed her. When it was almost completely dark she closed all the downstairs windows and locked up for the night. She found Bruce in bed, fast asleep. On reflection, she couldn’t help feeling that it was rather pathetic of him to have come up to bed like this: it was reminiscent of a child in a sulk.
She slipped along to Tara’s room, but the door was closed and Tara failed to respond to a quiet repetition of her name from the landing. Perhaps she too had already gone to bed. Only when she returned to the upper landing and noticed that Katie’s door was ajar did Wendy remember that she and her younger daughter had not wished each other goodnight. She opened the door another foot and saw that Katie had fallen asleep lying on top of the bed. Alice’s Adventures lay on the duvet cover beside her. Wendy slipped across the room and closed the curtains. There was still a little bit of light in the sky and the nearest street lamp in Green Lane created a paler patch at the top of the drive. She contemplated trying to get Katie under the duvet, but it seemed a pity to disturb her, and anyway it was such a warm night. Deciding it would be best to leave her be, Wendy crept into her own room, undressed among the soft, familiar shadows and climbed into bed, where she eventually succumbed to a restless, uneasy sleep.
A child’s screams woke her. She was immediately aware of Bruce, swearing under his breath as he sat up and fumbled for the bedside lamp. As it illuminated the room, they both leaped out of bed and raced for the landing. Bruce was several strides ahead of her and reached Katie’s room – the source of the noise – before Wendy. He flung open the bedroom door and she saw him taking Katie in his arms in the same moment as she heard a sleepy voice behind her.
‘Mam? Mam, what’s happening?’
Wendy diverted from her original intention in order to intercept Jamie. ‘It’s nothing, pet. Katie’s having a nightmare, that’s all. Come on now. You come back to bed.’
By the time she had reassured Jamie and settled him back into bed, then gone to check on Tara, who had apparently heard nothing and was fast asleep, Bruce was emerging from Katie’s room.
‘Is she all right now?’ Wendy asked.
‘She’s gone straight back to sleep.’
Wendy followed him into their bedroom. It was so airless, she could hardly breathe. ‘She hadn’t … she didn’t say she’d seen anything, did she?’
‘Seen anything?’ Bruce turned to face her. ‘What do you mean, seen anything?’
‘I just wondered … when I heard her scream like that, it reminded me of Dora.’
‘Dora? Who’s Dora? What are you talking about, Wendy?’
‘Dora was one of Mrs Duncan’s children. Joan thinks she may have seen a ghost here one night—’
Bruce didn’t allow her to get any further. ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about? Have you been filling Katie’s head with all this rubbish?’
‘Of course I haven’t. And for heaven’s sake keep your voice down. You’ll wake the children again. I wouldn’t tell them about a thing like that. It’s just that Katie waking up and screaming reminded me of Joan’s story, that’s all.’
‘Your daughter is overheated through too much sun and all you can think about is some stupid ghost story?’
‘No, it isn’t. You’re being very unfair. It was only that, as children, Joan and her cousins all thought the house had a ghost and—’
‘Look, Wendy, I don’t care what that stupid old woman told you. I don’t want to hear about it. Let me tell you, if you start harping on about this kind of nonsense again, the house goes straight on the market, do you hear me?’
‘I’m surprised half of Green Lane can’t hear you. There’s no need to talk to me as if I was a child.’
‘Then stop acting like one. Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t start crying.’
‘You know I can’t stand it when you shout at me.’
‘I’m not shouting. Here.’ He threw a box of tissues across the bed.
She caught it and drew out a tissue, which she used to dab her eyes and blow her nose.
‘I’m going to open our window wider,’ she said. ‘It’s still awfully stuffy.’
He grunted an assent as he climbed into bed, waiting until she had finished with the window and climbed in beside him before switching off the bedside light.
Bruce’s breathing soon assumed a steady rhythm, but it took Wendy a long time to get back to sleep. Even when she laid on top of the bedclothes, she felt stifled, as if the heat covered her like a dense, dark blanket, and when she awoke the next day it was with a sense of unease. The all-important happiness of the household had been disturbed, she thought, and the problems which had led to this state of affairs remained unresolved.
Bruce – never much of a
conversationalist in the mornings – made no reference to Katie’s nightmares or the fracas of the previous evening with Tara. Katie appeared to have forgotten all about her bad dream and Wendy decided not to mention it. Tara rose long after Bruce had left for work, rebuffed all of Wendy’s overtures and absented herself for the day, saying that she was going to her friend Helen’s house. Later, she phoned to say that Helen had invited her to stay for tea. As it was Bruce’s night for playing squash, only Wendy and the two younger children were eating home-made quiche with salad and new potatoes at the kitchen table when Jamie enquired, out of the blue, ‘Why were you shouting out last night, Katie?’
‘I had a bad dream.’ Katie concentrated on securing another piece of cucumber on her fork. ‘Daddy said it was just a bad dream.’
‘What was it about?’
‘Now, Jamie,’ Wendy intervened. ‘It doesn’t matter what it was about.’
‘It’s the dream about the nasty man,’ Katie said. ‘I’ve had it before. But when I wake up, the man isn’t there.’
‘Which is what always happens with dreams,’ Wendy said. ‘Because dreams aren’t real.’
‘I’ve only dreamed it since we moved to this house.’ For the first time, Katie looked up from her plate and met her mother’s eye. ‘I never used to dream it in my old bedroom, in our old house.’
‘Well, I expect that’s just a coincidence, pet.’
‘It’s probably because people make too many noises in this house,’ Jamie asserted. ‘I wish people would stop going up into the attic after my bedtime. Their feet make too much noise, walking about up there. Maybe you should put carpet in the attic. That way I wouldn’t keep hearing people when they walk about.’
Wendy hesitated. A part of her was curious, especially after Joan’s tale about Dora and her ghost. Then she remembered Bruce’s views on the subject. It would be a mistake to take too much interest in these supposed footsteps in the attic, particularly when Jamie appeared unconcerned about any aspect of them apart from their potential for noise. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Some carpet would be a good idea. When we get round to it.’