Walking Alone

by Carolyn McCrae

  Iniquities Trilogy

  Book 2

  Walking Alone

  Carolyn McCrae

  This book is for my mother,

  Joanna Homan, 1920–1971

  and my step-father

  Edward (Chris) Homan, 1919-1999

  Acknowledgement is again due to my husband Colin.

  For all the meals he has cooked and all the hours he has spent talking about people he did not know until he read this book.

  And for the cover images. He has a vision I don’t.

  Copyright © 2008 Carolyn McCrae

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or

  transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance

  with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 De Montfort Mews

  Leicester LE1 7FW, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 255 9311 / 9312

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN

  Paperback: 978-1906510-XXX

  Typeset in 11pt Stempel Garamond by Troubador Publishing Ltd,

  Leicester, UK

  Printed in the UK by The Cromwell Press Ltd, Trowbridge, Wilts, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Iniquity

  • The word has two meanings according to the Shorter Oxford Dictionary

  1. Immoral, unrighteous or harmful action or conduct; gross injustice, wickedness, sin.

  2. Inequality, inequity, unfairness. (obsolete).

  Contents

  Something by Way of Explanation

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Finale

  Something by way of explanation

  Ted phoned this morning to tell me Max was dying.

  Perhaps I should have been more saddened than I was at hearing this news of the man who had been my friend for so long, but I have not seen him for some years and he was very old.

  “Is he in hospital?”

  “No. There’s no point. He’s back at Sandhey and Monika is looking after him.”

  It seemed strange to hear the names spoken again. I had lived in Max’s house, Sandhey, for many years and Monika, his housekeeper and friend, had looked after me for all the early part of my life.

  But Ted hadn’t called just to keep me informed; he wanted me to do something for him.

  He told me he had been writing the history of my family, introducing the youngest generation to their parents and grandparents as they would never have known them; trying to make sense of all that had happened in our lives. He left the words ‘before it’s too late’ unspoken.

  “I can write about the early years, in fact I have done so.” He spoke without emotion “but I know little of your lives as you all grew up and rebelled in your different ways against what your parents had made you.” Ted had always been in the background, the old family friend, the trusted lawyer, always available when we needed him. But he was right; he could have known very little of what really happened.

  “Charles, you must know I am not the person to write about that time.”

  I was reluctant to agree to do as he asked so I started to tell him how busy I was, how my life was full enough. I had no time.

  “Those are excuses, Charles, not reasons.” He spoke quietly; it had never been his way to raise his voice.

  I tried to give a better explanation.

  I would find it difficult to rake over the events of those years that followed the death of my Mother; the memories would be hard to bear, I’d tried to forget much of it for long enough.

  “Sometimes facing up to your failings makes them easier to bear.”

  So he agreed I had failed.

  There is a quotation ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ Was I the ‘good man’ who had done nothing? Evil had certainly triumphed. One way or another.

  I argued that by writing it all down I would make it real and unchangeable but Ted countered my points one by one. “It was real. Those people existed, those events occurred. Not accepting that won’t undo history.”

  Perhaps my biggest problem, I tried to put my fears into words, was that the people about whom I would be writing would read my version of what had happened. Perhaps they would remember it all differently.

  “Of course they will remember it differently.” Ted was dismissive. “No two human beings remember the same event in the same way. They are necessarily looking at it with different perspectives, they have views of themselves that are often totally at odds with those of others.”

  There would be so much I would want to change, conversations I would remember with embarrassment, circumstances I should have handled differently. I would be tempted to write about events as I wanted them to have been, not as they were.

  “You will write about those years as you saw them. Just because you see only your part of the picture does not necessarily mean it is wrong. It is still the truth, even if it isn’t the whole truth it is your truth.”

  It wouldn’t be objective I argued, knowing I was losing the argument.

  “Who said anything about objectivity Charles? What is needed is your knowledge of what happened, what you knew, what you thought Holly and Linda believed. Your view of why it all happened the way it did.”

  “I can’t do it Ted.”

  “If not you, who?” Over the many years I had known and liked him I had never seen him lose his temper. Whenever he wanted to persuade someone to a course of action he just made simple points in a straightforward manner. Sooner or later they gave in. “That part of the story needs to be told or the whole is incomplete.”

  So I agreed to dig out my memories of that time nearly 30 years ago, to make contact again with Carl and Susannah, to check the accuracy of my recollections with those of Holly and Linda.

  I will have to write it all down for the others to read.

  And judge.

  Charles Donaldson

  Sevenoaks, Kent

  August 1998

  Chapter One

  To anyone who may have been watching them, the three figures illustrated the less glamorous aspects of international travel.

  They must have travelled a long way and have been very tired, because the middle-aged woman, although somew
hat dishevelled, was far too stylishly dressed to be sitting on the kerb with her feet in the gutter. She yawned as she ran her fingers through her hair.

  “When I do that I get told off.” her daughter complained, continuing in a voice mimicking her Mother “You should always put your hand in front of your mouth when you yawn.” She was silenced by a look from her father.

  It was only just past lunchtime but Speke Airport had a middle-of-the-night feel about it as no more flights were expected for some hours. The family had had every opportunity to know this since there had been only the Arrivals and Departures screens to entertain them while they had waited for their bags to appear on the conveyor belt. Their fellow passengers on the flight up from Heathrow had had only hand baggage and had all quickly disappeared through the hall.

  The middle-of-the-night feeling was emphasised when they had eventually wheeled their luggage trolleys outside to be met by an empty road with no sign of a single cab waiting for a fare.

  They stood for a while by the taxi sign before deciding it was to be a long wait and making themselves a bit more comfortable. Holly perched herself on top of the cases on the trolley, Mary sat on the kerb, her legs stretched out in front of her while Matt tried to lean as much of his weight as possible on the handle of the trolley without tipping Holly onto the pavement.

  “At home there’d be hundreds of cabs.” Their daughter wound her long hair around her fingers and sucked on it.

  “Don’t do that! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “A cab will be along soon just hang on in there a few minutes more. We’re on the last leg.” Matt tried to sound encouraging but there was no sign of any vehicle let alone a taxi cab.

  “At least it’s not raining.” Mary had been expecting it always to be raining in England, even in July, but the sun was shining and it was pleasantly warm.

  “What time is it?” asked Holly “I’m ready for a shower, though I bet they don’t have such things as showers over here.”

  “Of course they have showers.” Matt sounded rather more confident than he felt. He hoped that the hotel he had been assured was the best in Liverpool would live up to its reputation. “You’ll be very comfortable here, Sir,” the reservations clerk had said “we have lots of Americans staying here. We’re used to your special requirements.” Whatever that means Matt had thought at the time. Still a shower shouldn’t be too much to ask.

  Holly was not only tired, she was sulking because she didn’t want to be in England.

  She hadn’t wanted to leave her friends and her school to come to England for God knows how long – a few weeks, a few months, years, forever? Especially Paul. She hadn’t wanted to leave him when she’d only just managed to get him to notice her. She was determined to write him every week, as she had promised. She was pretty sure he would write to her.

  “I bet they only have bathtubs. I hate them. Why did we have to come?”

  “You’ll be OK tomorrow, right now you’re just tired. You always act way below your age when you’re tired.” Her father had a way of putting her down that she could never argue against.

  There was no way either of her parents would have answered Holly’s question truthfully and explained why Matt had uprooted his family. Her Mother didn’t know and her father wasn’t going to tell.

  The simple answer was that her Mother had been persuaded to leave her job in Boston to take up a post as visiting lecturer in the Department of Statistics and Computational Maths at Liverpool University. ‘Why can’t they just call it Computing like the rest of the world?’ Holly had commented when she had first been told.

  But it was more complicated than that.

  It had all been Matt’s idea and Mary felt he had never really explained why he insisted on uprooting the family.

  It took over half an hour before a cab finally appeared. It was small and an undistinguished colour of pale green but at least they could finally be on their way into the city. The driver got out and spoke loudly and quickly in what sounded to them all like a foreign language.

  “I think he’s telling us not to worry – he’ll fit us and all our bags in the cab.” translated Matthew. “I’m not so sure.”

  As they drove towards the city the driver kept saying something that was probably an apology but none of his passengers could understand what he was saying.

  “Can you speak slower?” Matthew had decided we must try to communicate with the driver.

  “Sorry wack! Keep forgerring you don’ speak English you know warr I mean like you being yanks an’ all youknowwarrImeanlike.”

  “Is that English? I’ll never understand anyone.” Holly moaned and slouched against the door.

  Matthew and Mary settled back as best they could amongst the bags on the back seat.

  “He’s driving so fast.” Mary was used to more gentle speeds and the way they were being driven was almost the last straw. She felt as though she would soon break down in tears and she couldn’t do that until they were in their room and Holly wouldn’t know. She hoped Holly couldn’t hear her with the noise of the car and the driver who was still talking to no one in particular. “Oh Matt are we doing the right thing?”

  “It’ll be fine Mary, it’ll all work out OK you’ll see.”

  “Sure, it’ll all be OK. I’m just tired.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I’d thought that England would just be like home only wetter and, just, somehow, greyer. I thought the people would be just like us, and the language just the same. But it’s all so different. It’s all so foreign.”

  Holly had regained some of her energy when they arrived at the hotel.

  She ran up the steps, turned round and looked out at the crowded city streets, her tiredness and bad mood forgotten. “Wow. Liverpool. This is so neat!”

  “Tomorrow, Holly, you can explore tomorrow. Meanwhile don’t wander away while I check in.” Matt, having shepherded his wife and daughter across the Atlantic, had just about had enough. He was ready for a shower and bed.

  As they crossed the foyer Holly bumped straight into two men who were deep in conversation. Normally she would have just pushed on, she was used to crowds, but she made a thing of this collision because she thought one was pretty nice-looking. She noticed him because he was exactly as he had hoped English men would be, with long hair tied in a pony-tail and wearing a black polo necked sweater with a brown leather jacket and denim jeans.

  She stopped and rubbed her arm as if hurt.

  “I beg your pardon.” She had got what she had wanted, a longer look at him, but he didn’t seem to have noticed her other than the automatic reaction of apology.

  “Oh no, Holly got in your way – it’s not your fault at all.” Mary knew she was in England when people apologised for things that were not their fault, and she hustled Holly out of their way.

  “Mom! He walked into me. It wasn’t my fault.” Holly turned to watch over her shoulder as the hunk walked away, talking animatedly with his older companion, engrossed in their own business as they left through the revolving door.

  “He was kinda smart.”

  As Matt had a bath Mary unpacked, bemoaning the lack of drawer and cupboard space. She sat down on the side of the bed, hit by the realisation that there was no going back.

  For at least a year they were stuck here, in Liverpool.

  She repeated to herself the question her daughter had asked earlier.

  “Did we have to come?”

  Chapter Two

  It had been just over two years earlier, in the spring of 1968, when Matt had first mentioned his idea of going to Europe. He had asked Mary, apparently nonchalantly, whether they should go to Europe on vacation that summer. “Just you and me. Holly can go to camp.”

  It seemed like an innocent question at the time and Mary had no reason to question his motives. She had agreed with surprise but little hesitation. All their vacations had been family ones and since she had always been looking after Holly and her friends they had not really been vacations
for her at all.

  In the week that followed Mary bought guidebooks for all the capitals so she could make sure their time would be well spent and she dreamed of staying at sophisticated hotels in Paris and Rome. She and Matt could spend time together, sitting at pavement cafes and sightseeing, doing those tourist things that they could never do with Holly.

  They needed time together, to restore something of their marriage, perhaps even to get to like each other again.

  “Austria? Innsbruck?” She was shocked when the following weekend Matthew told her he had bought the tickets, arranged the hire car, and booked the hotel in a place she had barely heard of.

  “What happened to Paris and Rome? I thought going to Europe meant going to Europe the cities, the culture, not some remote place in the middle of nowhere! What do we do in Austria? Couldn’t we even discuss this?”

  The argument was not easily resolved. Matt had decided where they were going and was used to getting his way but Mary was unusually determined that she was not going to miss seeing Rome and Paris.

  She tried to compromise “Well, Rome only this trip – we can do Paris next year.” But he was adamant. “We fly to Innsbruck. It is all arranged. I’m not going to change anything.”

  She had asked him why he was so determined to go to Austria. Did he know anyone there? Was there something he wanted to learn for his work? But Matt was not forthcoming and simply shrugged, repeating that the tickets were bought and the arrangements made.

  He had always treated her like this. Throughout their 18-year marriage he had made all the important decisions about their lives. She knew she should have stood up for herself more but she hadn’t, she had gone along with whatever Matt said with never more than token resistance.

  In 1948 Matt had a good job as an assistant librarian at the University in Toronto, was living in a small but adequate apartment and had been swiftly improving his English. But he knew that if he were to truly integrate into his chosen country’s society he would have to marry. With a Canadian wife his status could never be questioned.