Evil Relations

by David Smith

  I explain that I’m married with three sons and not long out of prison. I tell her that something very bad happened a few years ago. Then I stumble over my words and she sits silently, waiting for me to finish. Instead I light up two cigarettes and hand one to her, then take a deep drag on mine, feeling my mood turn dark and sad despite the company and the warmth of the sun over the water.

  I put my head down. Mary is like no one else I’ve ever met. There’s something about her that makes me want to go to the deepest parts of myself and reveal everything. I wait nervously to learn if she has anything to say, but she doesn’t seem to be thinking, just allowing the moment to pass between us. Quietly, she picks a few flowers and plaits a small daisy chain. Then she looks at me with a smile, passing me the daisy chain. I stare down at the small, silly ring of flowers in the palm of my hand and think, I just want to be somebody. That’s all. I just want to be somebody.

  Then she speaks, her voice knowing and confident, telling me of that time, years before, when as a child she stood with her friends in the school yard, watching as the car that took me and Maureen to the court hearings crawled through the press cordon and screaming public mob. She talks about the dark glasses we were wearing, the flashing camera bulbs, the chaos and the commotion. Then she explains how she became Dad’s confidante while I was in prison, listening while he prattled into the early hours about his plans to rebuild my future and his, and that of the boys. She knows about the bad time already – the murders and their aftermath, what people have said and are still saying about me. She tells me how, when I was in prison, she would take Paul, David and John to the park and play with them for hours until Dad came to take them back to the care home.

  I sit and listen, stunned. Then a piercing feeling sweeps over me; we’re not strangers, Mary and me. We never have been.

  Later, as we walk back along the canal bank in the afternoon sunlight, Mary gives me a playful nudge and tells me that I’ve lied to her. I stop instantly, panicked, and then smile: ‘You mean pretending to forget about my guitar?’

  ‘No,’ she laughs. ‘You lied about the sandwich. You said it was nice and I know it was horrible. The only thing I had in that day to give you was a slice off the Sunday roast and it had only been in the oven for 20 minutes.’ Her smile widens. ‘So you lied . . . but it was a nice lie.’

  I look at her and laugh.

  The walk along the canal becomes a habit. It gives us time together, a place to be where we can be alone to confide in each other – even a place to make a few meaningless daisy chains. Mary visits the boys with me in the Acorns; I carry my guitar and Mary always brings them a bag of succulent peaches. I couldn’t be more comfortable with her, but I sometimes find it strange to be in her company because I’m not used to friendships. I don’t trust them – they hurt. But Mary is different: she is security and trust, a warm feeling of comfort. I worry at night that I might lose or hurt her in some way. During the day it’s easier to believe that things might go well for once, and that this hot, miraculous summer could last for ever. The songs we listen to become the soundtrack to our first weeks together: when I hear ‘Maggie May’ or ‘Stand By Me’, I think immediately of Mary, and when the Beatles sing ‘Something’, I find myself crying along inside.

  Just when things seem as if they can’t get any better, I’m informed by the Welfare Department that the boys are allowed to come home. I’m given a grant to buy beds, blankets and clothes – we’ve already managed to stretch our limited finances to a telly, dining table and double bed for me – and the pleasure of shopping for it all makes me delirious. Everything is brand new and boxed up; no auction house rubbish, no hand-me-downs. The boys are coming home!

  That night I catch the bus into Hyde, wanting to share my news with Mary. We’ve shared so much already, but this is special and I’m walking on air as I head down the street, past a gang of youngsters on the corner – skinheads mostly, in Wrangler’s and Doc Martens, sitting astride Vespas. The girls in the gang tease and flirt, while the boys talk loudly. I smile at the young pretenders, realising that my trusty leather jacket and what it signifies is becoming a little faded.

  At Mary Street, I turn, amused as always to think that only Mary could live in a street named after her. Georgina, a friend of Mary’s, opens the door. I’m bursting with my news and walk quickly into the sitting room, which smells of freshly sprayed perfume. But Mary isn’t there. I stand with a smile frozen to my face, staring at the other girl in front of me, while Georgina watches us both curiously.

  ‘Hi, I didn’t expect to see you today. Is everything all right?’ The girl’s voice reveals that she is, in fact, my Mary. But I’ve never seen her wearing make-up and a skirt before, and I’m lost for words. She looks stunning, nothing like the tomboy I’ve grown to care so deeply about; this is a young woman ready to hit the town and my elation vanishes in a pool of embarrassment. I feel a fool, an intruder, aware suddenly that Mary has a life of her own apart from me, with friends I’ve never met.

  I need to be out of here. I need to be alone. I feel wrong and out of place, old and finished, grasping that the young pretenders on the corner are waiting for her. But with an understanding far beyond her years, Mary senses my humiliation and shock. As I apologise non-stop, with infinite tact she guides Georgina through to the kitchen and talks to her quietly. I hear her promising to catch up later, and when the two of them emerge, Georgina throws me an unfriendly, meaningful look.

  A slow trickle of relief warms my veins. I’m still here and I’m with Mary – a very different-looking Mary, but it’s still her. Doing the right thing, I offer, ‘I should go and let you see your friends.’

  She responds as I’d hoped: ‘No, let’s go for a walk. It doesn’t matter about my friends – I can see them another time. Let’s go.’

  A smile breaks across my face.

  Together we walk through Hyde and I tell her my news. She’s overjoyed and suggests coming to the red house, as we call it, to help me set up the beds and get the place ready for the boys. They won’t be home for a couple of weeks, but that’s OK; we’ll use the time to prepare everything. Deep in discussion, we end up on a bench at the bus station, where the last bus to Manchester is due to pull out in a few minutes. As we talk, I become increasingly aware of everything about this gorgeous new Mary; my friendship with the tomboy is fading fast and I’m already battling with something else, its heat and strength pulsating through me.

  The bus revs its engine while the last of the passengers board. When the driver leans out of his window to shout ‘Last bus!’, I look silently at Mary, and when the bus growls away from the station, its headlights fading along the dark road, I edge a little closer to her.

  At two o’clock in the morning, we’re still sitting on the bench and Mary tells me I’ll have to stay the night at her house; she’ll sort it with Big Martin. I’m only too happy to go along with her suggestion. When we get home, I wait downstairs while she goes up to speak to her father in bed, feeling glad beyond reason to be there with her.

  Mary fetches bedding, telling me with a grin that Big Martin’s only concern is that I get a good breakfast in the morning. She makes up a bed on the settee. Now that she’s removed her coat, I’m more conscious of her than ever and try not to stare at her short skirt. She doesn’t seem to notice, teasing me that I’m too big to be tucked in and she’ll see me in the morning – she’s off to bed.

  I don’t sleep. Mary has built up the fire and I spend the hours waiting for dawn staring into the flames. In my head I hear ‘Maggie May’ on a perpetual loop. I look fondly but regretfully at my leather jacket over the back of a chair and think it’s time we parted at last. The world is changing and I want to be part of it. But inside me is the sadness of recognising that my future is here, and that there is no more Maureen or Joyce, no more bad times, only Mary. I’m letting go. I’m about to be the somebody I always wanted to be: myself.

  Mary is always in my thoughts over the next few days. I’m happy
visiting the boys, bringing along the peaches from her. At the red house, I’m quiet, with this feeling growing inside me; Dad is suspicious but doesn’t ask any questions. At night I can’t sleep, beginning to worry about something new: how to protect my friendship with Mary from what’s going on within me. I write to her, asking if she’ll meet me at the bandstand in the park. I add that everything is fine, but I need to speak to her. I’m sure she sees me as nothing more than a close friend, which is what I want most – or what I tell myself while I’m busy thinking of her as much more than that.

  When the day arrives for our meeting, she isn’t there. I wait on the empty bandstand below the fancy ironwork of the round roof, not knowing what I’m going to say. There’s been no hint of romance, nothing to show that our friendship might lead to something more. We haven’t even held hands. I walk in circles, asking myself what the hell I’m doing, what I’m going to tell her . . . Then I spot her in the familiar Crombie, running towards me across the grass. She’s flustered and breathless, that big smile on her face. The tomboy is back – she has a shawl over her head that frames her smile – but I no longer think of her as a tomboy at all.

  My sleepless nights and worries disappear. I lie that there’s no problem, I just wanted to see her. She tells me it’s her birthday at the weekend and it would be nice if I could come down and have a drink with her. I nod and smile, puzzled about the shawl. When I tease her about it, she blushes and laughs, explaining that she was at the hairdresser’s when she suddenly remembered our meeting. Her haircut is only half-finished and she slowly removes the shawl to reveal half of a new Mary. My mouth falls open in surprise: part of her head is shaved to the skin, while the other half – straight down the middle – is still in the familiar feathered cut.

  We both begin to laugh and play a game: which Mary do we like best? She struts the bandstand, turning first this way and then that, singing, showing off both sides of herself. Every last worry I’ve ever had is blown away, taking me even closer to where I want to be – with her, always with her.

  I dress up for Mary’s birthday, binning my old leather jacket in favour of a new one, a shirt and tie, and polished shoes. When I arrive at her house, I’m glad to find it isn’t a party as such, just me, Mary and her friend Christine, whom I like and call ‘Pilchard’ because she’s so small. We head out to a pub that’s just a short walk from Big Martin’s house, with both girls dressed to the nines. Mary looks more striking than ever with her buzz-cut and perfect make-up. In the pub, I happily get the rounds in, then return to join the girls, listening with interest as they chat about things I’ve never paid attention to before – their friends, who’s going out with who, what happened at the weekend. I’m on cloud nine about everything except their short skirts; when they visit the Ladies, I look at their legs and feel alarmed by the feelings I’d forgotten that are now flooding back through me in a torrent.

  Afterwards we walk home together cheerfully. On the way, Mary suddenly puts her arm through mine, a small, innocent gesture that sends my nerve-ends skywards. Her grip is tight and she presses hard against my side. I know then that this is it: I really have to let go of the past if I want something to happen with Mary, something real.

  The girls share Mary’s bedroom and I’ve accidentally-on-purpose missed the last bus again. I’m offered the settee for the second time and am more than pleased. When Pilchard goes to bed, Mary arranges my blankets and I make small talk while secretly looking at every inch of her. She comes to kiss me on the cheek and say see you in the morning, and I hold back for a moment, then kiss her on the mouth, not hard but enough for it to linger. Her breath enters me, as I look at her and whisper, ‘Happy birthday, Mary.’

  She leaves the room silently and I sit alone, staring into the flames of the banked-up fire in a welter of confusion, hoping the door will open and Mary will be there, but it doesn’t and she isn’t.

  I shut my eyes and try to sleep.

  Mary doesn’t come to me that night, but everything changes afterwards, moving in the right direction. Within days we’re spending a lot of time kissing; Mary controls the temperature on our fledgling relationship and turns down the heat when necessary. I respect the situation, but with typical male difficulty, though Big Martin’s empty chair in the evening serves as a useful reminder to behave myself.

  The closeness between us grows. Mary joins me at the red house and together we clean the place from top to bottom, adding proper pots and pans to the kitchen, cleaning the windows and hanging decent curtains. Even the filthy bathroom is brought back to life and we light a big, open coal fire at teatime, eating fish and chips before its cosy glow. Then the biggest day so far arrives: the all-important beds are shuttled up the stairs to the rooms where the boys will sleep and Mary rips off the thin polythene so that we can start assembling them. We’ve bought three bedside tables too, and I leave it to Mary to arrange the final position of everything.

  One afternoon I visit a shop to have a duplicate front-door key cut. Dad has one key, I have another and I want Mary to have the third. When I hold it out to her, telling her that if she ever wants to see me she must use the key because it belongs to her, she answers that she doesn’t need it. I persist, picking my words carefully, repeating, no, please listen, use the key if you really want to see me. Then she understands and accepts the key, tucking it away in her pocket.

  The only blot on the landscape is Dad. He’s started to play mind games again: while Mary is at the red house, he’s considerate and complimentary towards her, but when she’s gone he talks incessantly about Maureen and how I should find her for the boys’ sake, so that we can be a family again. He conveniently forgets the hours he spent with Mary while I was in prison, blubbing on her shoulder, the care she gave his grandsons while he was at the pub, and – most infuriating of all – he forgets how much he and Maureen despised each other.

  The day before the boys are due home, Mary tells me she has a job interview at Henrique’s sewing-machine factory. We’re both hopeful that she’ll get it and in high spirits as we walk to the telephone box to call for a taxi into Hyde. We talk nineteen-to-the-dozen while we wait; Mary quietly explains that she intends to stay away for a while to allow me and the boys to settle down together and, although I know it’s the wise thing to do, I can’t help feeling dismayed at the thought of not seeing her. She adds that I need to be very patient in the days to come because it’s been a long and disruptive time for the boys as well. Then she writes down the number of the phone box so that we can speak to each other in a few days.

  The taxi arrives too soon. I wish her good luck with the job interview and say goodbye with a long, hard kiss. She gives me a gentle nudge, telling me to return to the house and check the boys’ bedroom. As soon as the taxi rumbles away, I head home and dive upstairs. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom, I can see it immediately: sitting on one of the bedside tables is a basket of fresh peaches with a propped-up card that simply reads: ‘Love from Mary.’

  I’ve told the Welfare Officers that I’d like to collect the boys and bring them home from the Acorns myself, and I’ve told Dad the same thing. He grumbles, but it washes over me; this day belongs to no one but my sons and me.

  I walk slowly through the Acorns’ private grounds, squinting up at the sunlight filtering through the thick trees. My heart soars: this is the beginning of everything. Inside the building, young children with neatly pressed clothes and hopeful faces run up to me asking, ‘Are you my daddy?’ I pause for breath; although I’m used to the question, having heard it every time I’ve visited the Acorns, it still hurts to hear it, realising that every child’s situation is heart-breaking. The older children sit sullenly at tables or slouch in chairs, their eyes hard and cold.

  A chatty member of staff shows me through to where Paul, David and John are waiting. Nurse Josephine is with them. It’s her day off, but she’s grown so close to the boys that I’m not surprised to find her here, dressed in ‘civilian’ clothes, with her long hair
loose, looking nothing like the girl in the blue uniform whom I’ve met so often on my visits to the home. The boys are the picture of health and happiness, clean and tidy in new shoes, new coats and each topped off with a fine new haircut. I greet them all together with a mammoth hug, and Nurse Josephine’s eyes begin to water unprofessionally. She hands me three bags of jumpers, socks and underwear that she’s bought for the boys from her own wages. I take them gratefully, my own eyes welling. As we walk to the door, David slips his hand into hers; he was always her favourite. Paul and John leap up and down, shouting excitedly in unison, ‘Have you got our beds, Dad, have you got our beds?’

  There are no forms for me to sign, but members of staff and young residents delay our departure, gathering in the hallway to wish us good luck and goodbye. A taxi waits by the main entrance; I ordered one to take us back to the red house and, as we climb in, everyone but Nurse Josephine disappears indoors. She stands on the steps, tears streaming down her kind young face, putting up two thumbs. We do the same to her, smiling.

  Then the taxi pulls away and the home is gone for ever.

  Chapter 21

  ‘David Smith’s appearance at the Moors trial eight years ago was a searing and blistering experience, and it had a profound effect on him.’