by Pamela Evans
nearanddear
PAMELA EVANS
headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 1997 Pamela Evans
The right of Pamela Evans to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7286 7
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Pamela Evans was born and brought up in Hanwell in the Borough of Ealing, London, the youngest of six children. She is married with two sons and now lives in Wales.
Her previous London sagas have been warmly praised:
‘A good traditional romance, and its author has a feeling for the atmosphere of postwar London’ Sunday Express
‘Well peopled with warm personalities’ Liverpool Post
‘Very readable’ Bella
‘The leading characters are finely drawn . . . crisp prose ... a superb and heartwarming read’
Irish Independent
To Alma and Harry,
for all they have done.
Chapter One
Because Mick Parker thought material success was the key to admiration and respect, it was with a great deal of satisfaction that he drew up on his driveway in a brand new Jaguar and parked beside the small car he provided for his wife.
Singing along with the Beatles to ‘We Can Work It Out’ on the radio, he lingered awhile before getting out, running his fingers over the soft leather upholstery and relishing the status value of his latest acquisition.
Standing on the drive in the rain, he continued to admire the fruits of his labours gleaming in the street lights, too deeply absorbed in the sight to care about getting wet. His and hers, side by side, he thought. Symbolic of their life together.
His happiness mounted at the sight of his young son and daughter waving to him at the window. Coming home from work was the highlight of Mick’s day, which wasn’t surprising since he had a devoted wife, two lovely children and a beautiful home on a modern executive development.
It was a murky March evening in 1966. Darkness had already fallen and the smart detached dwellings of Maple Avenue were bathed in an amber neon glow, mist floating patchily above the dripping pavements, trees and grass verges.
This tranquil scene on the outskirts of Twickenham was a world away from the council flats where Mick and his wife had grown up. When he thought of the quality of life he had achieved for them, he was proud to the point of physical pleasure - and he hadn’t finished, not by a long chalk. At twenty-nine, the future held endless possibilities for him.
Excited childish voices interrupted his thoughts as the front door opened and Jane and the children stood in the porch to greet him, the children dressed in pyjamas and bright red dressing gowns.
‘Cor, is that car yours, Daddy?’ asked Davey as Mick walked up the path with his usual swaggering gait, trendy black leather jacket worn over a business suit, dark hair shining in the porch light.
‘That’s right, son,’ he replied proudly. ‘Nice, innit?’
‘It’s lovely,’ said the soon-to-be four year old, breathless with admiration because he was mad about cars and had lots of toy ones. ‘Will you take us for a ride in it?’
‘Sure . . . we’ll go for a run at the weekend.’
‘I wanna go now.’
‘Oh, no, son, I don’t think Mummy will want you to go out in the rain.’
‘We wanna go now, Daddy . . . please,’ chanted three-year-old Pip, short for Philippa.
‘But you can’t go out in your pi-jams, Princess,’ said Mick with a smile.
But they all went anyway, anoraks and wellies excitedly donned over the kiddies’ nightclothes, all four of them enjoying the latest family possession as they cruised through the wet suburban streets.
‘Well, your father certainly does things in style, kids,’ said Jane, a petite woman of twenty-eight with caramel-coloured hair and huge hazel eyes. This was the first she’d heard of a new car. Not that she’d expect to be consulted about such a purchase because anything outside the domestic side of their family life was strictly Mick’s domain.
‘Can I have a car like this one to put in my toy garage?’ asked Davey excitedly.
‘Yeah, I should think we can manage that, son,’ agreed Mick amiably.
Indulging his children was part and parcel of being well-off and Mick revelled in it. Pip was promised a treat, too, then both children became overexcited and noisy and were threatened with the cancellation of their trip to the toyshop if they didn’t quieten down.
At home it was hot milk and a story for the children before they were put to bed, after which Jane and Mick had a peaceful supper of grilled pork chops.
‘So how was your day then, babe?’ enquired Mick as his wife served them with a mouth-watering dessert of home-made apple sponge and custard.
‘Smashing,’ said Jane, who enjoyed being a full-time housewife.
‘Did you do anything nice?’ he asked, just to show an interest.
‘Nothing special,’ she replied casually. ‘Had coffee and a chat with a woman whose children go to the nursery school. Pottered about here . . . did some shopping. I know it sounds really boring but I enjoy it.’
‘It suits us both then, doesn’t it? ’Cause I’d hate it if you had to go out to work,’ he said. ‘I’d never let that happen.’
She observed him with affection, eyes shining with warmth, cheeks flushed from the wine they had become accustomed to having with their evening meal since they’d become so comfortably off. Being slim and small-featured, Jane had remained youthful, her hair in a short bouffant style. She wore a mini skirt which she’d teamed with a black polo-necked sweater.
‘I’m quite happy to stay at home and leave the exciting things like buying posh new cars to you,’ she said.
The smile he gave her was devastating. Even though she’d known him all her life and been married to him for eight years, it still made her breath catch in her throat.
‘The Jag will do wonders for our image, eh, babe?’ he said.
‘Yeah, I suppose so.�
��
‘No doubt about it,’ Mick said forcefully. ‘Having one of those on the drive means instant prestige.’
‘You won’t be putting it away in the garage then?’ she teased.
‘Not likely! Not until it’s been well and truly noticed anyway.’
Status symbols meant so much to Mick, Jane often wondered if he derived more pleasure from the statement they made than from the possessions themselves. He didn’t seem able to enjoy life for its own sake, as she did. Some deep-rooted sense of inferiority had created in him a profound need to be noticed. Happiness for Mick meant victory in competition.
Her husband’s success mattered to her only because it was so important to him. Over the years they had become as one in their aims and opinions. On the rare occasions that she was even aware of his domination of her, Jane didn’t object. Loving him so deeply, she was happily in thrall to him.
‘We’ll go out for a long run at the weekend, shall we?’ suggested Mick.
‘Sure.’
‘We could go to the coast for the day on Sunday, if you like?’
‘That’d be lovely.’
‘It’s time we booked a holiday too, if we want to go abroad,’ he said. ‘We’ve left it late as it is.’
‘Mmm, I suppose we have, now you come to mention it.’ Jane paused, remembering a conversation she’d had with their neighbour. ‘The people next-door are going somewhere in the Canary Islands this year.’
‘Are they now?’ said Mick, frowning. ‘Don’t they usually go to Majorca?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, not sounding terribly concerned. ‘Perhaps they think that’s a bit ordinary now that so many people are going there?’
‘Oh, really?’ he said, suddenly pugnacious. ‘In that case, we’ll go one better.’
‘We’re not in competition with them, Mick,’ his wife pointed out.
‘Ooh, not much,’ he said with a cynical grin. ‘We’ll soon show them who can afford the best holiday around here!’
‘But why bother?’
‘Because I’m not having anyone lording it over us, that’s why,’ said Mick dogmatically.
‘I don’t see that it matters where people go for their . . .’
‘Well, it does,’ he cut in firmly. ‘So you’d better go to the travel agent’s tomorrow and pick up some holiday brochures.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’ll give us something to talk about on Saturday night over dinner as well,’ he said, because he’d invited a business contact and his wife for the evening. Mick would much rather take his leisure at the pub but considered a spot of home entertaining to be appropriate now that they had moved into a different class.
‘Holidays are always useful as a back-up if the conversation starts to flag,’ Jane agreed, adding lightly, ‘I must give some thought to the meal on Saturday, too.’
‘They’ll be impressed whatever you make,’ he said, for cooking was her forte.
‘I’ll certainly be aiming to please,’ she said, welcoming the opportunity to stretch her culinary skills.
‘Wherever they say they’re going on holiday, we’ll say we’re going somewhere more exotic, even if we still haven’t decided,’ Mick declared, sounding intense.
‘But that’s so silly,’ she replied in mild rebuke. ‘It’s supposed to be a social occasion, not an excuse for one-upmanship. ’
‘Wake up, Jane,’ he said dismissively. ‘The whole purpose of having people to dinner is to make sure they know you’re worth a few bob.’
‘But trying to go one better is so pointless,’ she argued.
‘Everybody does it.’
‘Not everybody.’
‘Most people.’
‘Well, I think it’s a complete waste of time. Because no matter how high you rise there will always be someone further up the ladder.’
‘But I intend to make sure that someone is me,’ said Mick, his mood lightening again.
‘Oh, I give up!’ But Jane was smiling too for she rarely criticised Mick in any serious way.
She didn’t query the cost of their expensive lifestyle because Mick had always been in sole charge of their finances and didn’t welcome any interest from her. The facts that he’d recently moved his wholesale business into larger premises, and that brand new Jaguars didn’t come cheap, indicated that he was doing well, but she deemed it wisest not to enquire.
Being provider, protector and decision-maker was almost an obsession with Mick, so Jane concentrated on her role as wife and mother and left him to it. Even the fact that she didn’t have access to a bank account and had to ask him for every penny she needed didn’t bother her, partly because she’d known nothing else and also because he never kept her short of cash. Having her independence wasn’t a thing Jane gave much thought to, though she knew it was a burning issue with many modern women.
Mick had been her first and only boyfriend. He’d lived in the next street to hers on the Berrywood Council Estate on the Chiswick-Hammersmith borders. She’d known him by sight all her life and had become better acquainted with him through his sister Marie, who’d been her best friend at secondary school.
Jane had been fifteen when she and Mick had gone out on their first date and there had been no one else for either of them since. Even now she couldn’t understand what a charismatic man like him saw in someone as ordinary as her. But he loved her, of that she was certain. Safe in this knowledge, she never felt threatened by infidelity, especially as all Mick’s time and energy outside the home went into making his fortune.
When they had finished their meal, Jane washed the dishes in their luxury kitchen while Mick relaxed with a cigarette in front of the television set in their elegant lounge. She didn’t expect him to help in the home. She considered that to be solely her job, in the same way as providing for her and the children was his.
Her chores done, she made some coffee and joined him on the sofa where they sat snuggled up together watching I Love Lucy, utterly content in each other’s company.
‘Oh, no,’ said Mick suddenly.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve left something in the office that I meant to bring home.’
‘Can’t you get it in the morning?’
‘I’d rather get it now,’ he said, standing up with a purposeful air. ‘It’s the catalogue for the sale of bankrupt stock that I’m going to first thing tomorrow. I want to have a look through it so that I know what I’m aiming for when I get there.’
‘Any excuse to go out and drive that Jag,’ she said playfully. Trusting him so completely, she wasn’t in the least possessive.
‘I won’t deny it,’ he grinned, teeth white against his dark complexion. ‘But I really do need that catalogue.’
‘Will you call in and show your mum and dad the new car while you’re out?’ she asked. ‘Or did you show them on the way home?’
‘No, I wouldn’t show it to anyone before you’d seen it.’
‘That’s nice.’
He looked down at her, his expression becoming serious, dark eyes soft with love, hair falling boyishly over his brow. He’d changed out of his business clothes and was wearing a brushed cotton checked shirt with denim jeans. Square-jawed and rugged, he was a rough diamond for all his pretensions but his common touch was the essence of his appeal.
‘You’re everything to me, Jane . . . you and the kids,’ he said.
‘I know that, love.’
A certain look passed between them and they both chuckled.
‘I could go to the warehouse a bit later on,’ he said meaningfully.
‘When you get back,’ she said, eyes meeting his expressively. ‘I’ll be waiting. So go and do what you have to do.’
‘In that case, I’ll get back as soon as I can,’ he laughed.
‘If you have time, could you pop in and see my dad?’ she said, because her father and Mick’s parents still lived on the Berrywood Estate, though they had all moved to smaller flats now that the children had l
eft home. ‘Just to make sure he’s okay.’
‘Will he be in?’
‘When is he not in?’ she said, her expression darkening. Since her mother’s death two years ago, her father had become something of a recluse outside working hours. ‘The only time he goes out is to work and to visit us of a Sunday. He wouldn’t come here if I didn’t absolutely insist on it. Tell him one of us will pick him up about midday on Sunday - and I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘Will do.’
‘See you soon, then.’
‘Just as soon as I can,’ said Mick, kissing her on the lips.
Then, slipping into a casual jacket, he left the house singing ‘We Can Work It Out’.
Listening to him go, Jane was smiling. He was terrific and she was crazy about him.
Mick drove through the grey streets of his childhood and pulled up outside a block of flats. It had stopped raining and a chilly breeze had sprung up, blowing the litter around his feet as he hurried towards the building. Making his way up to the first floor, his footsteps echoed on the concrete steps.
‘How are you, Mum?’ he asked, pecking her on the cheek on the way in. Stale echoes of his parents’ evening meal lingered inside the flat.
‘Mustn’t grumble, son,’ said Rita Parker with a smile. A docile, good-hearted woman, she had grey hair, gentle blue eyes and a permanent look of defeat about her. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.’
‘I didn’t intend to come over but as I had to go out to the warehouse anyway, I thought I might as well call in.’ He peered into the empty living room. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Three guesses.’
‘The King’s Arms?’
She nodded.
‘I might have known.’
‘Cuppa tea?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’ Mick sat down on the sofa in the garishly furnished living room with its glaring orange suite, multicoloured carpet and abundance of cheap ornaments, the whole ambience reflecting the personality of his father rather than his mother. ‘I think I’ll pop into the pub on my way past and buy the old man a drink, though.’