by Anna Jacobs
“I see.”
His brother’s stiff expression made Kit feel guilty, but not guilty enough to change his mind about leaving.
* * * *
As the days passed, Pat continued to get agitated every time she saw her daughter. Several times she threw things at Laura and had to be restrained by her husband.
Her niece saw it happen once and went into the front room, to which Laura had retreated, to find her aunt in tears.
“How can my own mother hate me?”
Angie came over and hugged her. “She doesn’t. This isn’t really Gran any more.”
“I try to tell myself that, but it still hurts.” More tears flowed, try as she would to pull herself together, and when Angie gave her a hug Laura was so grateful for it that she wept again, unable to explain that her own daughter hadn’t hugged her for years and she didn’t dare offer Deb any open affection.
She stayed in the front room when Angie went back to sit with her grandmother, worrying about the situation. It took a minute or two for her to realise that her father had come in and was about to sit down beside her.
“I don’t think your mother’s going to change, love,” he said gently. “Angie tells me you were crying just now.”
She nodded.
“It’s what I told you the other day. You have to get on with your own life.”
“But I wanted to help you, Dad!”
“The fact that you came all the way to England did help me. It made me feel loved, especially with our Sue being so . . . Well, no use going into that.”
“Did it really mean so much, me coming here?”
“Of course it did.” He took a deep breath. “But I think you’d better look for a job now and find yourself somewhere else to live. It’s not that I want you to leave - heaven knows I don’t - but the sad truth is that Pat’s easier for me to manage when you’re not here. Though I’ll miss your cooking.”
“A job.” She summoned up a smile but it wasn’t a very good one. “I haven’t worked outside the home for years. Who do you think is going to employ me?”
He thought for a minute then said slowly, “Maybe you could get a job inside someone’s home, then, as a housekeeper or something? Your house always looked so beautiful.”
She’d come to much the same conclusion herself. “I might try that. I suppose there’d be agencies dealing with that sort of thing.”
“And don’t forget the newspaper adverts.” He laid the evening paper down beside her. “You could even put your own ad in the Jobs Wanted column.”
When he’d gone, she sat staring at the paper and it was a while before she could bring herself to open it. Actually, she was scared stiff of applying for jobs and hadn’t expected to have to launch herself on the job market quite so soon. But if she had to pay rent and buy furniture, she’d need to find work. She didn’t want to erode her capital more than she absolutely had to until she knew where her future lay.
And she wasn’t going back to Australia until she’d sorted herself out. She was in such a muddle internally, going round in circles trying to find a way out of the mazes of indecision. She seemed to have lost her confidence, feeling hesitant every time she had to do something.
There was a photo of herself as a confident, laughing teenager in her room and it seemed to accuse her of something, she wasn’t sure what.
Chapter 9
Kit’s first advert for a housekeeper brought in only two replies. People who wanted live-in jobs were not, it seemed, thick on the ground in this part of the world.
The first woman he interviewed was fifty-something with iron grey hair and a steely expression to match. As he showed her round, he listened to her laying down the law about what she would or would not do, and what living conditions and wages she expected. He went through the motions but it didn’t take him long to decide that he could never live with such a sour-face.
The second woman was his own age, maybe a bit older, and eyed him in a way that suggested she fancied him. He still hadn’t regained his libido and that worried him, but even in his prime he’d never have wanted this blowsy female. Besides, he’d specified a non-smoker and she reeked of cigarette smoke. Did she think he wouldn’t be able to tell? Smokers never realised how strongly their habit perfumed them - skin, hair, clothes and even breath.
When he got back to Joe’s he felt depressed. Very. Drank several stiff gin and tonics then fell off his crutches when he tried to walk across the room. Got a lecture from Joe about being sensible, then had to let his brother help him up to bed.
Well, to hell with everything! He was sick to death of being sensible.
The leg he’d twisted in the fall woke him in the middle of the night aching furiously. He lay there for a while, willing himself to go to sleep again but couldn’t. He knew that if he got up and went down to find a painkiller he’d wake Joe, who was a very light sleeper. So he stayed where he was. He didn’t need any more lectures.
He wouldn’t get drunk again. Too risky. But somehow, he vowed, he was going to find a housekeeper he could get on with and move into that lovely spacious old home. And soon.
To prove his faith in that being possible, he arranged to have the electricity and phone switched on, then hired some commercial cleaners to go through the place. It looked so much better with the dust covers removed.
When they’d left he fell asleep on the sofa, waking in the dark as someone hammered on the front door.
Joe. Worrying about him again.
Kit prayed for patience as he got up from the sofa, opened the front door and waited for the lecture to start.
* * * *
Laura opened the newspaper and explored the Situations Vacant columns. She traced her finger past jobs she’d never even heard of, then came to the heading Domestic. What they mainly seemed to want was cleaners of all sorts: night-time, early mornings, in private homes, in shops. Not much good to her because most of them were for a few hours only and anyway, that sort of work definitely wouldn’t use her skills.
She found an employment agency in the Yellow Pages and went for an interview, coming home thoroughly depressed. They hadn’t thought her skills very marketable - that had been all too clear! - and they didn’t hold out much hope of finding her a job. People only wanted experienced housekeepers, it seemed.
And yet she knew she was good at running a house, could organise a dinner party in two hours flat as long as she had her pantry and freezer stocked with her usual standbys, could find and keep an eye on tradesmen, yes and stop them cheating her, too.
But she wasn’t good at interviews, as she proved when the man interviewing her videoed their practice one. She heard her voice wobble, some of her answers sounded foolish, her body language betrayed her nervousness, and she got angry once at something he said. He recommended that she attend their course on interview techniques and naturally that didn’t come cheap. She told him she’d think about it and left, muttering angry comments about him and his agency all the way back to her car.
She stopped at the supermarket on the way back and after she’d bought a few things just sat there in her car, unable to summon up the energy to do anything, think anything, plan anything. Only the knowledge that her dad would worry about her if she was late made her start the engine.
After her mother had gone to bed, she and her father watched a holiday show on TV, showing happy people staying in all sorts of sunny places.
“That’s what you need,” her father said. “A holiday.”
“So do you.”
“I can’t have one.” He paused and said in a strangled voice, “It’s so unfair. Poor Pat! What did she ever do to deserve this?”
She put her arms round him for a moment and patted his back, and he sighed against her before straightening his shoulders.
“Eh, I’m being silly. I can’t change things, but I’d like to see you getting a little holiday, love. I’m sure it’d do you good.”
His words stuck in her mind and she lay there in bed cons
idering her options. After living in a warm country she didn’t feel the longing for the sun that seemed to be sending shoals of Brits across the Channel heading south. But she suddenly remembered childhood holidays in Blackpool, building sandcastles, walking along the firm sand or paddling in the frilly white edges of the waves. She could drive there in a couple of hours, find a bed and breakfast and just chill out for a day or two. Surely then she’d be able to think about the future, plan something?
The mere thought of getting away lifted her spirits. Her dad was right. She did need a break.
But when she woke in the morning it didn’t seem as easy. She’d never in her whole life been on holiday on her own, except to bring the children to England. And even then her husband had dropped her at one airport and her dad had met her at the other. What if something went wrong?
She caught sight of her face in the mirror and glared at it. I’ve turned into a wimp, she thought. I’m afraid of everything. Why? What’s happened to me?
So in a spirit of grim determination she packed her case, had a cheerful chat with Angie on the phone - well, she hoped she’d sounded cheerful - kissed her father and left.
Maybe, if she was very lucky, she’d find her old self on the beach, or a new self.
Best of all, if she stuffed up this holiday, hated every minute of it, no one need ever know.
* * * *
Deb Wells went home from work that Friday feeling lonely. It was beginning to sink in that she had no family left in Perth now. She hadn’t realised she’d miss Ryan so much, and the mere thought of her father being dead brought tears to her eyes still. She’d phoned her brother a couple of times, but he sounded busy and excited about his new job. He wasn’t missing anyone, that was sure.
She even missed her mother, something she hadn’t expected, especially the knowledge that she was there if needed. But she doubted her mother missed her. She hadn’t tried to phone, had she? And anyway, Deb knew she’d been unkind to her after Dad died, had been feeling guilty about that.
The two other girls she shared the flat with came home just after her, rushing to get ready for their dates. She didn’t have a date, didn’t have much luck with men, somehow. She glued a smile to her face, insisted she was perfectly happy to have a quiet night in and thought she’d fooled them.
But Linda lingered to say, “You’re not happy to stay in on your own, Deb, however much you pretend. Maybe it’s time you made a few changes. How about going to see your grandmother?”
“Maybe.”
“And you should make it up with your mother, too.”
“She won’t want to.”
Linda looked at her scornfully. “Of course she will. She’s your mother. They’re always ready to forgive you. You were never fair to her and actually, I always thought your father was a bit of an old lech. He asked me out once, you know.”
Deb gaped at her in shock. “I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t.”
“Suit yourself. I’m telling the truth, though. As if I’d go out with an old man like him. That sucks. How old was his fancy lady?”
Deb didn’t answer. Caitlin wasn’t much older than her. What was wrong with that? Her father had been a good-looking man for his age. He’d been nearly fifty, though, over twenty years older than Caitlin. And soon Deb would have a brother or sister the same amount younger than herself. The thought of that didn’t sit easily with her.
There was nothing worth watching on the telly, she’d finished her novel and she definitely couldn’t be fussed with going out, so she did her washing and then phoned Pop in England. And he, at least, was there for her.
“Eh, love, you’ve just missed your mother. She’s gone away for a couple of days. What a pity! I’ll get her to call you back when she comes home.”
“Never mind. I’ll catch up with her next time. How’s Gran?”
Silence, then, “Failing fast. She doesn’t recognise your mother any more.”
And suddenly Deb found herself saying it, though she hadn’t intended to. “I’m coming over to see you. Soon. If you’ll have me, that is.”
“Lovely! I can’t wait to see you, love. Your mother’ll be that pleased when I tell her. She’s a bit down in the dumps, needs something to cheer her up. Your Dad leaving her will take a while to get over. She’s not as confident as she tries to appear. But then, you’ll know that better than I do.”
Deb put the phone down. She didn’t know much about her mother, actually. She’d always been Daddy’s little girl. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She missed him dreadfully, still thought of things to tell him, only to be brought up short by the realisation that she’d never see him again.
He couldn’t really have invited Linda out. He’d probably just been teasing and Linda had taken it the wrong way. Yeah, that was it.
Only - when she said that to her friend on Monday evening as they were having a drink after work, Linda got really angry. She dragged Deb across the café to two other girls they knew slightly and asked them baldly, “You’ve met Deb’s father, haven’t you? She won’t believe he asked me for a date.”
They both laughed loudly. “She was mistaken. He was just teasing her,” Deb insisted.
They looked at her pityingly and when she glared at them one said, “Sorry. Don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but he was known for it. Mind you, those who went out with him said he gave them a good time. But I don’t fancy dir - er, older men.”
Deb turned and left the café without a word. Dirty old men, the girl had been going to say. Her dad hadn’t been the sort of man who chased young girls. He couldn’t have been!
She didn’t care who saw her crying as she stumbled back towards her car.
Chapter 10
Laura turned westwards, glad of the motorway system, which made travel so easy. She was soon on the M55 heading towards the coast. Cars whizzed past her, driving more quickly than in Australia, but she didn’t feel like hurrying. She’d decided not to stay in Blackpool itself. It was too big and brash for her present mood. Seeking somewhere quieter she turned off north when she got to the Fylde region. After a while she came to a sign saying Tideshall and took a whim to visit it.
The land was very flat round here. Home-made signs advertised farm potatoes for sale. Fields stretched in every direction with low hedges separating them. The older cottages were whitewashed and picturesque. Large modern houses guarded by walls and hedges were succeeded every now and then by rows of small terraced houses with gleaming windows and carefully arranged ornaments displaying the owners’ pride in their homes to passers-by.
Tideshall itself consisted mainly of a cluster of three-storey terraced houses backed by rows of small bungalows. It boasted a tiny promenade, a few shops and a beach of reddish sand on which two people were strolling. It looked peaceful, which was the main thing Laura was after. She got out of the car and leaned on the wall that separated the promenade from the beach, breathing in the tangy sea air.
When she went to find a bed and breakfast, however, she found that there were only two places offering accommodation and both were full. “We don’t get a lot of casuals here, love,” the second woman said. “I’ve got mostly regulars here now. Try the Fisherman’s Arms at the other end of the promenade. They do B and B for commercial travellers and such.” She closed the door again before Laura could even thank her.
The pub stood on its own next to a couple of boarded up shops. It looked very old, huddling under a sprawl of uneven roofs. A new and over-ornate sign said “Fisherman’s Arms” in gold against maroon, but the effect was spoiled by the way the sign tilted to the right, as if it had been drinking heavily.
When she went inside she found the bar empty and had to call out before someone came to attend to her. “I’m looking for a room for a couple of nights.”
The man stared at her as if suspicious of her reasons for this, then admitted grudgingly that he did have a room available, though the main floor was being refurbished so there was only the top floor. He showed her up tw
o flights of creaking stairs to an attic room with a shared bathroom next to it. The room was shabby but clean and the price very reasonable, Laura considered, including a cooked breakfast.
She couldn’t be bothered to drive on and look elsewhere. After all, a bed was a bed, and if the room was shabby, at least the view was lovely, looking out over the beach. “I’ll take it. I’ll just fetch my suitcase in.”
“Breakfast is at half-past eight.” He handed her the room key and shambled off downstairs without another word.
When she went out through the bar, there was no sign of him, but a cheerful barmaid nodded a greeting. Laura fetched her suitcase and lugged it upstairs, then couldn’t resist walking along the beach. But the tide was coming in fast, so she returned to her car and sat wondering where to spend the rest of the day. She settled on Fleetwood because she could vaguely remember going there as a child.
The outskirts of the town were busy and very different from her memories, with new factory shopping outlets and industry of various sorts. But there was enough of the old promenade still for her to walk off her fidgets and fill her lungs with more salty air.
She fell asleep in the car afterwards, waking with a start, not knowing where she was.
Feeling ravenous, she was tempted by Singh’s Fish Bar, which was doing a lively trade. It took her back to her childhood again to sit at a plastic-topped table and eat fish and chips with vinegar, accompanied by white bread and butter on the side. Full of fat, not at all healthy, but she enjoyed every mouthful.
As she got into the car, she shivered, suddenly aware that it was getting dark and she was feeling chilly. The wind had turned fresh and she suspected it’d rain before morning. Well, let it. There was always something to do in Blackpool.
But she couldn’t help wishing she had someone to go there with. She hadn’t yet grown accustomed to being on her own and still turned to share comments about what was happening around her, feeling foolish to find herself talking to thin air.