September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Hetty will miss me,’ I said. ‘She’s going to be doing all the baking herself.’

  Frank lowered Gerald to the floor and put an arm across my shoulders. ‘You can’t tell Hetty anything. If Tommo gets to her, she might give him our address.’

  ‘I can’t lie to her.’

  Frank shrugged, then straightened his shoulders. ‘There is an alternative, love. We can just stay put and face him. But he won’t fight fair. The difference between fighting with my brother and with an ordinary human will be as big as the gap between warfare and terrorism. He’ll not stand up to be shot at. He’ll come carefully. I think we’d best just do a bunk when Hetty’s at one of her afternoon bingo sessions.’

  ‘I know you’re right, I do know.’

  ‘So?’ His eyebrows were raised. ‘It’s up to you, Laura. I can’t carry on in the job, because he’s going to blacken the name of McNally in every shop while I’m involved with the firm. But I can always find another job in St Helens or Liverpool—’

  ‘No, we’ll go to Sale.’

  We moved while Hetty the Hawk was out for a few hours. One day, when I could talk, I would tell her why. And she would understand.

  Edward Thompson was born in 1963. He had sandy hair, deep grey eyes and a fine set of lungs. He screamed as soon as his head was born, and he continued in the same vein for several months. Gerald did not like his little brother, thought that the new arrival was a pest. ‘He’s a pest,’ he said daily.

  Daily, I agreed with him. ‘He’ll grow up, Gerald. He won’t always cry.’ We kept the radio on all day, had the volume turned as high as we could bear. When Dad brought us a Hoover, I used it more often than was really necessary, because even the drone of the machine was preferable to Edward’s screaming.

  The small estate on which we were living was almost completed when I came home from hospital, so we faced another packing session when Edward was just a few weeks old. This time, my father had found accommodation for us in a Liverpool suburb called Woolton, and we were expecting to move to our new home by the end of August.

  Sale had been OK, but we hadn’t been able to settle. Frank became restless there, grew tired of having no proper job. So the idea of moving on appealed to us, as Frank was confident about getting work in Liverpool on the strength of my father’s reference. But I had grown fond of the house, which was not much more than a modern box, all open-plan and pale cream walls. There was a school at the back, and I often watched the children playing on the field. The shopkeepers in Sale were friendly without being inquisitive, which taught me that a larger community, especially a middle-class one, was probably the safest place in which to hide. Everyone was too wrapped up in his or her own ambition to take an interest in us.

  We were due to move on the Friday. By Wednesday, our bags and boxes were packed and the house was being subjected to my final clean-up. I was sweeping the bare boards in an unoccupied bedroom when the phone rang. Frank answered it – I heard his soft, deep voice as he talked into the instrument.

  ‘Laura?’ There was a lift in the word, a sound that was not a stranger to panic. ‘Laura?’

  I stood at the top of the stairs, the broom still clutched in my hand. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come down, love.’

  I went slowly, strongly aware that I was walking towards something unpalatable. As soon as I reached the bottom of the flight, he grabbed me, held me tightly. ‘Darling, your dad has had a stroke.’

  This couldn’t be right. I knew that the whole thing had to be a mistake, because my father was going to live for ever. ‘No,’ I said. My voice was even, as I was quite sure of my ground.

  ‘Yes, Laura.’

  ‘No, he can’t do that. My father can’t do that, Frank. It’s not true.’

  He was shaking. The dear man was trembling like a leaf in the wind, all because someone had played this terrible trick on us. It would be Tommo, of course. Tommo had got someone to phone us with this disgusting lie. I held Frank close, listened to the pounding of his heart. ‘Who was on the phone, Frank?’

  ‘Maisie,’ he said.

  ‘My Auntie Maisie? Why would she ring and tell us such a pack of lies? Are you sure it was Auntie Maisie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I pulled away from him, held him at arm’s length. ‘A stroke? A brain thing?’

  He nodded, his eyes bright with water. ‘Laura, he’s very sick. We must go to him. Maisie and Freddie will mind the boys while we get to the hospital. We have to go right away, love.’

  ‘No, no, NO!’ Someone was screaming and it wasn’t Edward. There were words in the scream, horrible words full of hatred and pain. The screamer was me. When Frank’s hand swept across my face, I dissolved into tears, ran away from him and crouched in a corner, my hands over my head. I was a child again and Mother was standing over me. In a moment, she would pull my hair and lift me up, then she would swing her palm against my face. No. I was with Frank. If I allowed myself to go back into my history, I would surely court insanity.

  ‘Sorry,’ he was saying.

  I rose, patted his arm, told him not to worry, not to cry. When the children were bundled into the car, I sat in the front passenger seat and saw nothing. There was nothing left, nothing to see, nothing worth looking at.

  I have no memory of that journey. As we entered Barr Bridge, I stirred myself to life, climbed out of the car, handed my children to my aunt and uncle. ‘We’ve been longing to see them,’ said Maisie. ‘But not like this, Laura. Not for a reason like this.’ She looked old. Uncle Freddie had a marked stoop, and his eyes were red with weeping. My father was not going to make it. He would leave the hospital in a box, and I had to get to him, wanted to say goodbye, thank you, I love you, wanted to say so much to him.

  Dad was in a side ward. He was a mass of tubes and wires, was connected to things that buzzed and bleeped. Mother sat by his side, her make-up perfect for the outing, her nails polished and filed to smooth, rounded shapes. It was strange, because now I took in all the details, anything that would distract my eye from the figure on the bed. She had black patent shoes and a matching bag. The handkerchief bunched in her hand was dry. It was a prop, something she needed for when the audience arrived. And we were the audience.

  ‘Laura. So you deigned to come, then.’ She sniffed, dabbed her nose with the square of cotton and lace. ‘He worked too hard, poor man. This was inevitable.’

  I stared at her. ‘He’s still alive, Mother.’

  She fixed her gimlet eyes on Frank. ‘So you are my daughter’s husband’s brother.’ The tone was accusatory.

  ‘Frank is my husband,’ I said. ‘And you will treat him as such.’

  ‘Pardon me, I’m sure.’ She took a mint from her bag, pushed it into her mouth. Deprived of nicotine, she needed a substitute.

  I walked to the window, gazed out at the grounds. ‘Will you leave me alone with Dad?’ I asked. ‘Just for a few minutes.’

  The clasp of her bag snapped. ‘This is my legal husband.’ She underlined the adjective, savoured it. ‘I have a right to be here.’

  I swivelled, kept my eyes away from my father. ‘Go, please,’ I said.

  Frank held out his hand, guided my mother out of the chair and towards the door. Before going into the corridor, she threw a handful of words over her shoulder. ‘Tommo’s mother is here,’ she said, and I could hear the venom beneath this statement. She would never change, would never learn love and tolerance.

  It meant nothing. I didn’t care who was here, who was not, who was hanging washing out to dry. At last, I looked at him. He was grey and small, with blue veins on his eyelids and snaking up his forehead. His chest moved slightly with each breath, but apart from this small sign of life, he was as still as stone. I sat by him, picked up a hand. His flesh was smooth, clammy, cold. ‘Dad?’

  Nothing. He was a shell, a piece of housing that had held my father’s soul.

  ‘Dad, I love you. You are such a good man, so kind. Thank you for all you’ve done for me and
Frank. Thank you for keeping us safe.’ Who would care for us now? I chided myself, repeated inwardly the words I had said to my mother. The man was still alive. ‘I love you, Dad.’

  He didn’t move at all, didn’t respond, gave no clues about his senses. Had he heard me? Did it matter?

  A nurse rushed in, shouted the word ‘crash’, pushed me towards the door. I was met by three or four other people, all of them pushing to enter the room. Frank was in the corridor with my mother and Mrs Thompson. ‘Is he dead?’ asked Mother. She tried to enter my father’s room, was placed gently in a chair by a youngish nurse.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I told Frank. ‘I’ve just remembered how it sounded, though I didn’t seem to hear it at the time. There was a bleep, a very long bleep. My dad’s dead.’

  Frank’s mother approached me. ‘I’ve been wanting to catch up with you for some time,’ she said. ‘A woman in our street told me about Mr McNally’s stroke. He was experimenting at the time, fell down at his bench. It’s been a terrible strain for all of us, wondering where you were—’ She silenced herself as the door opened. ‘I’m sorry,’ said a doctor to my mother. ‘There was nothing more we could do.’

  My mother did a fair imitation of grief, patted her face with the handkerchief, tried a few sobs, sank back against the wall. Frank kept his eyes on me, was waiting for my reaction. But I felt nothing. Perhaps this was a dream. I wondered if I would waken shortly to find the sun streaming through the curtains.

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Mrs Thompson still had that painted-doll look, every hair scraped to the back of her small head. ‘Frank, you’ve a lot to answer for. Running off with that poor man’s daughter, making fools of all of us.’

  I turned slowly and gave her my full attention. ‘Shut up,’ I said softly. ‘No-one here is interested in your opinion. Just go home.’

  She bristled, sucked in her cheeks, looked as if she might explode at any moment. ‘I’ll have my day with you, lady.’ She awarded her son a look of fury. ‘And with you, Frank. He’s heartbroken, is our Bernard—’

  ‘He can’t be,’ I said. ‘He has no heart to break.’ My father was dead, was lying a few feet away from me, and I was arguing with this nasty creature. ‘Frank’s a good man,’ I added. ‘And your other son’s a monster.’

  ‘How dare you—’

  ‘I dare because he broke my leg. I dare because of what he did to that girl, the one who ran from Bolton to be away from him.’ My voice was still quiet. ‘Please go. This is not the place—’

  ‘And where’s your place?’ she hissed. ‘In bed with our Frank while our Bernard’s grieving? Years he’s searched for you, years and years.’

  Frank stepped between us. ‘Then I hope he never finds us. If he does, I’ll kill him.’ He pulled me into his arms. ‘Come on, love. Let’s go and say goodbye to John.’

  I clung to Frank as his mother walked away. In that moment, I felt closer to him than ever, because we shared the same problem. Mothers. Frank’s mother was a nightmare, and mine was another. When we stood round my father’s broken body, the tears welled up and drowned me, but I felt comforted by Frank’s arms. Mother simply stared at me, a new light flickering in her bright eyes. I recognized this as a glint of victory, and I feared anew for my future.

  ‘Come outside, Laura.’ Anne reached out a hand as if to guide me through the door. She was beautiful now, had matured into a stunning woman with the figure of a model and the face of an angel. But Anne was no angel. Anne was practising law, was a new force to be reckoned with when it came to litigation. ‘Come on, we’ll talk about divorce,’ she urged.

  ‘No, I don’t want to go outside.’

  She clicked her tongue, reminded me of Confetti.

  ‘The nuns used to tut like that, Anne. Don’t tut at me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She brushed a speck of invisible dust from the white blouse. ‘Just a short walk. We could take the little ones—’

  ‘I’m not going out. And the children can’t go out either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He might be there. Frank’s gone to pick up the rest of our stuff from Sale and I want to be here when he gets back. It’s bad enough knowing that we’ll be staying in Barr Bridge for a while, but I refuse to tempt fate. Tommo will be out there waiting. When he finds me, he’ll kill me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  I looked hard at her, felt the anger colouring my cheeks. I couldn’t talk about it, would never be able to talk, yet I exploded now. ‘Don’t you dare to minimize my situation, Anne. I will not be treated like a neurotic. There is no drama in what I’m saying, no exaggeration at all. The fact is that Tommo will kill me one day if he gets a chance, or even half a chance. Don’t dare to belittle what you don’t bloody well understand.’

  She reached out again, placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Laura, how can I understand when you won’t talk? What did he do to you? Why are you and Frank running all the time? This is why I want you to get a divorce, then you’ll be rid of him for ever.’

  I sighed. ‘Look, it took the Great Fire to rid London of the plague. I daresay we’ll need another act of arson to clear him out. It’s him or me. Don’t ask for details, because I’ve no wish to dwell on the past.’

  She leaned on Auntie Maisie’s table. ‘I’ve got a junior partnership in Bolton. Divorce isn’t as messy as it used to be. Look, let me talk to Tommo. After all this time, and now that you’ve had Frank’s child, he might be wanting his freedom. He’s probably over you now.’

  It was hopeless. She kept talking about Tommo as if he were normal, as if he might just carry on like an ordinary, everyday type of person. ‘He’s obsessive,’ I said softly. ‘His behaviour follows no pattern that you or I could understand. Tommo is sick in his head, and I have no intention of discussing the subject.’

  Anne poured two glasses of fresh lemon. Auntie Maisie always made this in the summer, and now that the twentieth century had reached middle age, there were ice-cubes floating amid pieces of tangy lemon peel. She had a fridge, a freezer and a shop to run, because she had taken over Mrs Miles’s General Store after the old lady’s death.

  She came in now with Edward in her arms. He never cried when Auntie Maisie held him, seemed to recognize a born mother. ‘I’m opening up again, Laura. Gerald can stay with me – he enjoys playing shop. But this little fellow needs his nap. Laura? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The kind and gentle woman approached me. ‘Stop here, lovey. Stop here with me and Uncle Freddie. We can soon have a toilet put in above the shop, then that back room will make a kitchen. It’ll mean having a bed in the front room, like a bed-sitting room, but there’s loads of room for two cots in that store place. You can have a bath at our house, can’t you? See, with living next to the shop, we can use our Anne’s old room for storage.’

  Anne nodded. ‘OK by me. I’ve a car and a flat in town, so there’ll be no problem as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I don’t want to live round here.’ I must have sounded ungrateful and churlish. ‘We can’t stay,’ I said firmly.

  Maisie looked puzzled. ‘Then where will you go? I know John was finding somewhere, but … but he can’t do it now.’

  ‘I know, Auntie Maisie.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘He may have provided for me.’ The funeral was due to take place the following day, then the reading of the will was to be held at the solicitor’s office in Mealhouse Lane. ‘Wait until the funeral’s over.’

  ‘He’d have wanted you to be with us.’ There was a stubborn set to Auntie Maisie’s jaw. ‘He’d have wanted you to be with family.’

  I sighed, wished that everyone would go away and let me grieve selfishly for a while. ‘Mother’s my family. Dad wouldn’t want me anywhere near her. And he kept moving us on for a very good reason. That wasn’t a game we were playing, Frank, Dad and I. The need to be at a safe distance from … the past has not disappeared just because my dad’s dead.’

  Anne looke
d at her mother. ‘Laura’s still afraid of Tommo. From what she says – or rather from what she can’t make herself say – she is probably right to be careful. So we’ll wait and see what Uncle John wanted for her.’

  Dad’s funeral service was held at the church of St Patrick where Tommo had served at the altar so long ago. I passed the very pew where Ginger had played his foul-smelling tunes, remembered little Art spread-eagled in the aisle, wondered what had happened to Enid and Irene. There were five of us in the front pew – Mother, myself, Anne, Maisie and Freddie. Frank had stayed at home to mind the babies, was suddenly aware of his lack of proper status in my life. I missed him, missed his smile, his shoulder, his support and love.

  The coffin was too small to contain my father, I thought. The requiem mass, which was solemn and long, had a calming effect on me. The priest was a tender man who seemed to care genuinely for the deceased man. He spoke of my father’s generosity to his workers, of his dedication to the employment and rehabilitation of the physically handicapped. I knew that this priest had loved my father, that most people who had known my dad had probably been fond of him. John McNally suddenly belonged to the whole world, not just to his selfish daughter.

  Mother sniffed a lot, rubbed at her nose, played with a slight crack in a rose-tinted thumbnail. She was dressed in lavish black, had no doubt spent a fortune on the new role she was playing. The hat had a veil, a short curtain of netting that was decorated with black polka dots. I would have expected such a pattern to cause nausea, but she seemed unruffled.

  Dad was carried out to the hearse, then we all followed at a sober pace until we reached Heaton Cemetery. My tears came when I cast soil and a rose onto the coffin, when I heard the clatter of earth on the box. I would never see him again, would never hear his voice. It seemed to me in that moment that life was just a series of losses, that the older we grew, the bigger the emptiness became. In our own death, we would finally have nothing, would be nothing. Until our own death, we practised for nothingness by losing everything we cared about. On the day of my father’s burial, I could see no positive reason for staying alive.