Once Upon a Time in England

by Helen Walsh

  ‘I will survive …’

  She nudged him and glanced around the room at all the hefty tattooed lasses belting their lungs out mightily, their faces rippling with contempt for any man who caught their eye.

  Robbie laughed. ‘Proper marriage wrecker, that one.’

  ‘Serious though, Robbie. Put Gloria Gaynor on and the loveliest birds in the house are suddenly stabbing their fellas. I mean it. It’s the anthem, man. It’s our ladies’ call to arms.’

  He checked to see if there was any glint of fun in her eyes, and couldn’t be sure one way or the other. ‘Like I say. It’s banned in our house.’ As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Bitterly. Jodie used the entrée to steer the conversation towards her new obsession – Sheila and the kids.

  ‘Really? She’ll stand for that?’

  She was doing this more and more – usually when they were drunk, or after sex, when everything between them was easy and honest and devoid of agendas. She’d throw in a little comment, innocent on the face of it but as provocative as ever. And Robbie was learning hard and fast – with Jodie there was always an agenda. Every expression, every little comment demanded close scrutiny. Sometimes his mind would ache from always trying to second guess her. What did she mean by that? What did she mean? She was complex and contradictory, Jodie. Nothing was simple with her, not even sex. And that was exactly why he’d fallen for her. That’s why they were sitting here now. He flashed her a teasing grin. ‘She’ll take her cue from the master, aye.’

  She, too, was succumbing to the sheer wild romance of a stormy December night away with her lover – but she couldn’t let it go. She had to know. She had to know more. ‘But …’ She hesitated and ran her slim fingers across his chest to let him know this was curiosity, not war. ‘What’s she like, Robbie? I mean … I just can’t picture you as the family man, you know? I can’t picture you and her together. Do you get me? I mean… what kind of stuff do you two talk about? Say, when your havin’ your tea together, right? Fuck do you say to each other?’

  Robbie twinkled back at her, but he knew better than to take the bait. He made sure not to use Sheila’s name or, if he did, to use it in as dismissive a tone as he could muster. ‘We don’t have our tea together. She eats with the kids.’

  ‘OK. When you’re watching telly or whatever. What do you chat about?’

  Again, he told her exactly what she wanted to hear. ‘We hardly see each other, tell the truth. And when we do, it’s more … well, it’s not like this, if that’s what you’re wondering. We don’t talk about life and music or anything big like that. It’s all the bare necessities, really. It’s all stuff to do with the kids.’

  She liked what she was hearing and cut him a little slack. ‘You really love your kids, don’t you?’

  His instinct was to gush, but with Jodie he knew there was always a trap, a tripwire, somewhere. He shrugged his shoulders, pulled the ‘never really thought about it’ face. ‘Dunno. They’re my babies, aren’t they?’

  ‘So … how old’s little Vincent, again?’

  Robbie was starting to tense. This one felt like a trick question. ‘Our Vincent. He’s almost twelve.’

  She smiled and ran her finger around the rim of the whiskey glass. ‘Is he like you?’

  ‘Vincent? Oh God aye, yeah. Mirror image of us when I was his age. Proper little scoundrel, he is. Always scrapping, always getting into trouble at school.’ He looked up briefly, snorted and smiled at the same time. ‘Kids down the street are frigging terrified of him.’

  ‘And can he sing an’ all?’

  ‘He’s too much of a lad to say if he could.’

  She paused, treading carefully. ‘How come you chose that name, like?’

  ‘Vincent?’

  ‘That’s his name, isn’t it?’

  Robbie smiled, bashful now. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll remember it, like. It were me favourite song when me and She was, you know …’

  Jodie stared at her glass, picked it up and rotated the sliver of ice, creating a mouthful of whiskey-water.

  ‘Don Maclean. “Vincent”,’ he said.

  Eyes still lingering artfully on the table, Jodie pulled a sad smile. ‘I love that song. It’s about Van Gogh.’

  ‘Who?’

  Her wild gaze punched up at him. ‘Never mind.’ She stood up. ‘N’other one?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They drank more and, once again, grew carefree, in love with the night and the pure gorgeous immediacy of it. Jodie wrapped her arms around Robbie, licking his neck. ‘C’mon, then. Get up and show them. Sing, Robbie!’ She looked at him and added quietly, with a flicker of resignation, ‘Sing … for me.’

  She had him and she knew it. Robbie got up and, as he stepped onto the low stage, decided he’d do the first one unaccompanied. He filtered out all the background noise and looked out beyond the smattering of bodies until he could see her clearly. He took a deep breath and with the clearest, most searing and heartbroken timbre, he sang: ‘Every time we say goodbye, I cry a little …’

  The room fell to a hush. He sang, without a backing band, for forty-five minutes. The end of each song brought wilder, more passionate applause and by the end, they were thrusting drinks into his hand as well as shirts and napkins for autographs. The manageress of Hardy’s came bounding over to him. ‘You can see how we’re fixed here, love. It’s six hundred max even during the August bank holiday. But you can name your price, love. Within reason.’

  Robbie thanked her and promised he’d definitely get his agent to phone, but he only had eyes for Jodie right now. He was overcome with love for the girl. He had to get her back to the B&B.

  Outside was wild. Unhinged by the violent wind, bins and shop signs cartwheeled down the prom, belting into the sides of cars, crashing into bus shelters. A tumultuous sea was pummelling the promenade walls, spuming up high and smashing down onto car roofs and bonnets. Giggling and yelling, Robbie and Jodie ran out of the pub and dived into the hub of it, hand in hand. The trams had closed down for the night and they staggered through in the angry teeth of the wind to the taxi rank. The wooden hut of an office was closed. More people came up behind them, huddled and soaked and frozen. Nobody spoke a word to one another, but they gave each other faith that something would turn up soon.

  Dim yellow headlights turned the corner, burning through the drizzle which seemed to be turning to snow. Robbie refused to get his hopes up. Jodie stuck out an arm, then a leg. The car slowed to pick them up. Robbie opened the door for Jodie to jump in first, wishing she’d be quick about it, but no sooner had he ducked his head down inside than Jodie, bug-eyed with disgust, or contempt, he couldn’t quite make out, was pushing him back out into the ferocious night.

  ‘What! What’s up? What’d he say?’ Robbie bent down again, ready to take it up with the driver. Jodie pulled him back.

  ‘I’m not getting in there, no fucking way.’

  ‘What. The fuck. Has happened?’

  But she was already beckoning for the women behind to take the cab. Robbie held on to the door doggedly. Seizing their lifeline, the two women muscled their way past Robbie and ducked down into the taxi. Jodie marched away, head held rigid and aloof, out into the wild night. Robbie ran to catch up with her, pulling her back by the arm. ‘Tell us what that cunt said, Jodie! I’ll nut the bastard …’

  Jodie swung round, her face wriggling with disdain. ‘Robbie, I don’t care if we fucking drown out here. There’s no fucking way I’m getting in a car with any Paki.’

  Nothing could have prepared Robbie for that. In saying so little about Sheila, he’d told Jodie nothing. And looking at it now, though there had been little hints and nudges – off the cuff remarks about gypsies and foreigners stealing all the jobs and all the usual bullshit – he’d always been quick to steer things away. And in his shame now, he had to accept that he’d even insinuated Sheila was a blonde. He should have guessed. But how could he have known? Devastated and utterly drained, he trudged behind her, back
towards the B&B, hoping it would be hours before they got there. His head was swimming. He needed to think. Think it all through.

  Nineteen

  For the second time in three weeks Robbie did not come home. And this time, Sheila only had herself to blame. She lay awake, shivering. Propped up on one elbow, she observed his empty space. The man who had slept by her side for thirteen years was somewhere out there, slowly, irredeemably slipping away. She felt a keen anger at him, underscored by an enormous tristesse. Where had they been, she and Robbie? Where were they going?

  She could tell there was snow without having to go to the window. Beyond the rasp of Vincent’s snoring in the next room, Sheila tuned in to the merry peal of drunk lads, pelting one another with snowballs. She smiled and thought fondly of her early days at Warrington General. How very long ago it seemed. She stared up at the ceiling, too cold to get up and go downstairs. The flashing green digits of the alarm clock taunted her: 3:00, then 3:30, then 4:00. She heard the low-pitch whine of the milk van, skidding in the road. Then nothing.

  She dragged herself out of bed, sat on the toilet, too cold to go, and padded downstairs. She lit the oven. She pulled back the curtains and stared out into the garden, already levelled by fat white snow. Beyond it, the white saddle of wasteland loped down to the frozen canal. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, the landscape was drugged. She stayed at the window, enchanted by the sight of the whirling, white-speckled air, moved by the memories it evoked. She shuffled to the table, resting her weary head on her forearms, and drifted quickly into a white, swirling sleep.

  A vague consciousness of footfall woke her. Her neck was stiff from laying her head on the table. She sat up and squinted into the heat-flushed darkness. Wide-awake whites of eyes glowed back at her from the stairs.

  ‘Ellie?’ Even now in the chaste safety belt of Thelwall, and especially in this kind of weather, Sheila could find herself gripped by an irrational slash of panic. ‘Ellie? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s snowing!’ bleated a tiny voice. A face jammed itself between the spindles of the staircase. ‘I want to go outside.’

  ‘It’s too early, Ellie! Go back to bed, darling. Go on! I’ll wake you when it’s time. Promise.’ Sheila’s tone was soft but nonnegotiable. Ellie negotiated.

  ‘But … but … I want to be first! I want to be the first out in the snow.’

  Sensing an opening when her mother didn’t immediately chase her back upstairs, Ellie drew in her head and came quickly down to the kitchen. She reached up for her mummy to lift her onto her knee. Sheila couldn’t resist her. One side of her face was impressed with the pattern of the carpet, where she’d fallen out of bed and slept half the night on the floor. Sheila lifted her onto her lap and smoothed down her herringbone cheek. Ellie pushed her face up close, trying to look adorable. She stared right into her mother’s eyes. ‘Please. Oh pleeease,’ she beseeched. ‘I haven’t got school today. Why can’t I go out? Oh can I?’

  Sheila smiled, trying to fight back a familiar sensation – that this was her husband staring into her, trying to talk her round. Her daughter’s eyes reminded her so much of Robbie’s, when they’d first met. Robbie could never, would never sit still. He was always pacing and flitting, always changing his mind. He’d lunge headlong into one quixotic enterprise before abandoning it halfway through to pursue the thrill of another. She hadn’t noticed how or when Robbie’s eyes had stopped darting and glistening, only that they no longer did.

  Sheila looked deep into the ambit of her husband’s emerald eyes and, smitten all over again, her heart danced to the thought that she still had the power to transform. ‘Come on!’ She smiled, and kissed her beautiful little girl hard on the head.

  Ellie’s bottom lip was already quivering, ready for the rejection she anticipated. She peered up at her mum, disbelieving.

  Sheila bumped her down onto the kitchen floor.

  ‘Really?!’

  ‘Yes! Really. Come on! Let’s do it! Me and you. Let’s make a great big snowman out on the lawn.’

  Twenty

  It was the week before Christmas and on Liza’s suggestion, Sheila had bitten the bullet and taken herself off to Minsky’s in Stockton Heath for a ‘radical new look’. Liza herself had just had a complete overhaul – five days in Tenerife with her sister and a stunning, pixieish, short spiky cut with highlights that only she could pull off, Sheila thought. Where other women might look hard or brash with such salt and pepper contrasts in such a rude crop, the cut only accentuated Liza’s cheekbones, her dazzling blue eyes, and her light, healthy tan. She looked beautiful. Whatever the point of the mini-break – and she’d pretty well told Sheila how the land lay, back at Cohen Central – it had worked. Even in late December, she was a svelte honey-hued beauty. Sheila found herself admiring Liza’s slim calves and taut bottom and it took no persuasion at all when she suggested a change might be as good as a rest for Sheila, too. They spent a lazy Friday afternoon in the Stockton Heath Wine Bar with a bottle of wine, flicking through Vogue and Harpers, but it was from the glittering pages of Cheshire Life’s Society section that Liza found her inspiration. Tucked away on the last page, after the Bowden Women’s Guild’s Yule Fayre, was a brief photo spread about a medics’ ball in Tarporley. Three radiant young wenches were mugging up to the camera, each still desirable in spite of tightly curled tresses.

  ‘Oh, darling! Look! Yes!’ trilled Liza.

  ‘Curls?’

  ‘A perm! Oh, darling – you have the sweetest little face! You’d look adorable!’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Sheila couldn’t keep the pleasure out of her voice. But she’d got way, way more than she’d bargained for at Minsky’s. The camp coiffeur, stroking her elegant neck and teasing her tresses up in bunches, had suggested that not only was a bubble-perm the very last word in Cheshire glamour, but if she lay back and let him have his way with her – lowlights at the back graduated through to bold, unapologetic, gold and copper highlights up top – she’d have a queue around the block. He complimented her pretty face and swan-like neck. He even said he’d give her her money back if she didn’t like it. Still unsure, she twisted her head round to her style guru for her verdict.

  ‘Do it, Sheila! Forget about him! Do it for yourself …’

  She took it that Liza was talking about the hairdresser, who stood to take twenty-five pounds off her for a full perm and highlights. But Liza had spent the walk back to the bus stop steeling her against her husband’s likely response.

  ‘If Robbie doesn’t take one look at you and just faint with the wonder of your beauty … if he doesn’t realise how lucky he is …’

  ‘But are you sure it’s me, Liza?’ With Robbie out singing that evening, Sheila had invited Liza back to the homestead. They stopped off en route to pick up two bottles of excellent wine. She threw off her coat, her tanned arms slim in a tight green vest top. ‘Cos I really can’t get used to it myself …’

  Liza followed Sheila into the kitchen, cooing. ‘Oh, darling, yes! Yes!’

  While Liza uncorked the first bottle and slid the other one into the fridge, Sheila hung in the doorway and tilted her head. She took a chin-length spiral of hair and pulled it down to her shoulder. ‘It just takes a bit of getting used to, I suppose. It just feels so … short. Like all my neck’s on display.’

  ‘You do realise the Japanese would worship you for that neck. And I mean worship you. I still think you could have gone for something shorter. You’ve got such a pretty face – you don’t need to hide behind all that hair.’

  Sheila blew through her cheeks, unconvinced. Liza surprised her with a close, lingering hug. Her breasts were firm as they dug against her.

  ‘You’re beautiful. Don’t you forget that, you …’

  Sheila pulled away, still toying with her brittle, springy curls. ‘Anyway, Marco said it would drop after a while. And the highlights will not look so orange after a few washes. And I mean… my hair grows really quick – that’s the main thing. I could h
ave it back to its natural length in no time.’

  Liza shook her head, indulgently amused. ‘Natural length?’ She smiled. ‘I’d love to know, actually – what is a person’s natural length?’

  ‘Well, you know, the length I’ve always been used to.’

  Smiling and feeling faintly childish, Sheila went to check how the curry was coming on and, swooping to straighten a lopsided Advent calendar, she now noticed the scruffy lattice of sellotape criss-crossing the nativity scene. She couldn’t help smiling. Every single door had been jemmied open, looted of chocolate and hastily patched back up again. Ellie.

  A while later Liza followed Sheila into the lounge with a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio and poured two ample glasses. They sat down on the floor by the coal-effect fire, and both took a long, thirsty slug, parched from the curries and savouries. Liza half reclined so she was propped up on her elbow and forearms. She stifled a little yawn, stretched and extended her long legs. She turned to Sheila. ‘Can I ask you something?’ Her tone was light, but Sheila was panicked.

  ‘Course. What?’

  ‘Do you …’ Liza gripped her with her bright eyes, fierce and unblinking. ‘Do you ever wonder if Robbie’s got anyone else?’

  ‘What?’

  Seeing the sudden anguish in Sheila’s face, she switched to a more soothing tone. ‘It’s not such a crazy question, She. Most of the men we know have got someone on the side …’

  ‘Do you know something? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’ Sheila looked anxiously to the ceiling, where Ellie was stomping about.

  ‘God! No! No, no, no – not at all. It’s more … I’m just … It’s nothing, really. Just something I’m thinking about a lot at the moment. Ignore me!’ She tried an ironic smile, but she just looked tense and drawn.