Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

Flustered, and fearing she had made an incorrect assumption regarding the occupancy, she did not speak.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman urged.

  There was movement at her rear. A wrinkled man wearing an ill-fitting jacket and matching trousers approached the door. Their eyes met.

  ‘Dad?’ she asked.

  The woman stepped out of the way allowing Eric through.

  For a few moments, neither spoke. Janet decided against giving him a hug and welcomed his suggestion for her to go through to the living room. It was similar to her London home, possibly a little smaller, and there were newspapers scattered on the sofa, several ashtrays on the surfaces, and dirty marks on the wallpaper.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  Tentatively, she smoothed out her skirt and perched on the edge, keeping her legs together and her back straight.

  ‘I see you’ve not changed,’ he said.

  There was a disapproving undertone in his voice and she became the little girl, returning after spending a year in the country. Her planned speech vanished, her mouth dried, her imaginary happy reunion a forgotten dream.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve come to see you.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for happy families don’t you think.’

  ‘I . . .’ Janet was stunned.

  Her sickness swirled and her emotions scurried; the day she had discovered they had moved away from London seeming only days previous. She had knocked on the door. She had spoken to a stranger. She had slumped onto a wall, dazed and forlorn.

  For years, she had told herself it was a misunderstanding. She convinced herself that they had made a mistake and in actuality wanted contact. She had even made up excuses for them and felt their desperation having discovered that they had lost her address. She had listened to their panic, envisaged their tears, and felt their burning hearts, an exact reflection of her own.

  None of it was true and the reality was crushing.

  There they were, living in her village, sharing her country life, just as she had dreamed of years previous, yet it was not for her.

  ‘I should go,’ she said.

  She was about to raise herself to her feet when Patrick entered the room. He was tall and handsome, and not the slip of a boy that she remembered, but there was no doubt it was him, his long dark eyelashes, large round eyes and prominent cheekbones the giveaway.

  ‘Patrick,’ she said excitedly.

  The expected outburst of joy was absent, and coolly, he nodded his head.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Married . . . expecting my second child.’

  ‘That was your wife? What’s her name?’

  ‘Janice. It’s due in a few weeks.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. I have two girls, Karen and Fiona. You must come and see them.’ She glanced at her father. ‘All of you.’

  Eric held a stony glare.

  ‘I . . .’ she knotted her hands. ‘I thought you’d be happy to see me.’

  ‘It’s a little too late for that. You’ve got your life, we’ve got ours.’

  ‘So why did you come? Why here?’

  He raised a cigarette to his mouth and exhaled small circles of smoke, his eyes locked with hers. ‘We’ve met your fancy guardians. We heard they were after workers but he turned us down. It seems we’re not good enough. We would ruin their cosy life and fancy ideas.’

  ‘Gerry and Ann are not like that.’

  ‘You think? They always wanted us out of the picture. You know she’s barren . . . couldn’t wait to get their hands on you.’

  ‘That’s not how it was. I had no choice but to stay. You all left!’

  Eric’s forehead crumpled and his eyes narrowed. ‘How do you think your mother felt when you turned your back on us? Do you think we’re ever going to forgive you for that? It broke her heart. She never wanted you to leave in the first place.’

  ‘It wasn’t my choice. I admit I enjoyed living here, but I wanted to return. I wanted us to all be together.’

  ‘Likely story.’

  ‘It’s true!’

  Her eyes shifted between Eric and Patrick, both men at different ends of the room, both looking at her with disgust and contempt. They did not see her as the victim but the assailant, and she felt cornered and silently pleaded for their forgiveness. Yet Janet did not have a clue what she had done wrong; Patrick had been an evacuee and he had been able to return home. Why hadn’t she been able to do the same?

  ‘I returned to London after the war,’ Janet said, hoping for a reprieve, ‘but you’d left.’

  A glance past between the two men.

  ‘We weren’t going to hang around forever,’ Eric said, ‘you’d made clear your decision.’

  ‘I did no such thing! I wrote to you. I sent you letters! You didn’t read them.’

  ‘If anyone should be throwing accusations it should be me. Your poor mother . . .’ Eric’s eyes became watery and his head dropped, searching his feet for privacy. ‘. . . I can’t forgive you for that.’

  Focusing on his sorrowful figure became too difficult, and she turned to Patrick. He too displayed a deep regret.

  ‘W-where is she?’ Janet asked.

  ‘You should have come to see her. Her last words were for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn’t right . . . the funeral wasn’t the same. We all waited . . . expected to see you there.’

  She raised her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and her colour fading. Her gaze flitted to Eric, a desolate hunched figure on a worn-out fabric armchair, and then to her brother, hoping that one of them would admit to the cruel joke.

  There was an oppressive silence and her chest tightened, and her legs shook. She tried to speak to offer her apologies, yet stared open-mouthed, unable to comprehend the crushing news. Her mother had gone, died during the intervening years. It was a devastating blow.

  Craving freedom and privacy, Janet hurried out of the room and to the outer door. A burst of sunlight tightened her eyes. She shivered, cold to the bone, and started to run. Her mother was dead, gone forever. Tears dripped onto her cheeks.

  After an indeterminable amount of time spent processing her thoughts, she felt a presence at her rear and turned her head. Patrick was walking towards her. He joined her on the bench.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Janet said.

  ‘We sent letters.’

  ‘But I never got them.’

  Silence.

  ‘Was it cancer?’

  ‘You know it was.’

  She gave him a stern look. ‘It was a guess.’

  His expression told her he didn’t believe her, but she felt too emotional to fight, and could not evacuate horrendous images of her sick mother dying slowly and painfully in her bed in a shabby London house.

  ‘How long was she ill?’

  ‘A couple of years. It was far spread when they discovered it.’

  ‘When did they find out?’

  ‘1942.’

  ‘After we were evacuated?’

  He nodded, ‘About a year after.’

  ‘At least she didn’t have to worry about looking after us.’

  Patrick gawked. ‘She was devastated that you never returned.’ His hands made a fist and his face coloured. ‘It’s all she talked about. “Where’s Janet?” she would say. We had to lie for you. Hell Janet. Why wouldn’t you come?’

  Her body quivered, her voice lost. She shook her head, the image brutally relentless.

  His stare was persistent.

  ‘I never knew,’ she said weakly.

  ‘You didn’t want to part from your cushy life more likely.’

  ‘That’s not true. I would have come if I had known. Of course, I would.’

  He flung a dark, intense glare filled with hatred and pain, one that told her he did not believe her, not even for a second, and her nagging doubts emerged. Maybe she had been so livid with her parents for not reading her letters that in a moment’s fury, she had tor
n up one of theirs. She racked her brain for an answer.

  It was difficult to accept, and in her defence, she formed an alternative. Her father may never have told her. He had hated her desire to learn and despised her for wanting to improve her lifestyle. Could it have been punishment? It seemed fitting although also a little unlikely. Nonetheless, she had never really known him, nor had she been aware of what he had been capable of, and so she had to accept it as a possibility.

  She turned to her brother. ‘Do you have any idea how it felt to learn they never read my letters? When I returned home the first time, I found them in their bedroom. They were all unopened.’

  ‘Dad said you’d changed and had forgotten about your upbringing.’

  ‘I wanted to learn. I don’t know why he was so dead-set against it. He should have been proud.’

  ‘You always looked down your nose at him.’

  ‘I did not!’

  ‘You did so! You still do. I saw the look you gave us just now.’

  ‘I wanted an education and didn’t want to live my entire life in a hovel. What’s so terrible about that? I set myself a few standards, that’s all.’

  ‘So that’s how you see us. We’re nothing more than gutter rats!’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it!’

  ‘I might not be as clever as you, but I’m far from stupid, and at least we fend for ourselves.’

  ‘Roy works. We pay our way too. Nothing’s gifted to us.’

  ‘Do you pay rent too?’

  Swallowing, she looked at her feet.

  ‘You’re nothing like us. I was willing to give you a second chance, but . . .’ he stood up.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Dad’s right. We’re too different. It was a mistake coming here. I should have listened to him.’

  He strode away.

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘I think we should stay out of each other’s way.’

  Ignoring her instincts that were telling her to grab him and force him to listen, she watched him leave, noticing his shapeless jacket, tatty shoes and the broken hem seam. Nevertheless, he was her brother and she loved him.

  Her emptiness swelled.

  Chapter 21

  1965

  Janet placed the scrunched up cleaning cloth by the sink, puffed out, and dropped her weary body onto a chair next to the table. Except for the throbbing beat of drums bellowing from Karen’s room coming from the room above, there was silence. Gerry and Ann had departed to their designated part of the house, Roy was across the hall watching television, and Fiona had wandered to another part of the house. Now it was Janet’s opportunity to relax, the week of teaching teenagers sapping her energies.

  There had been a time when she took immense pleasure from her job, but as the years past, her attitude changed, and her earlier exuberance now seemed naïve and misplaced. Some of the kids were a delight to teach - always eager, always full of positive comment, always willing to learn. However, other pupils despised every moment and talked throughout the class, cracked jokes at every opportunity, and put in no effort whatsoever. She had tried a firm hand, gentle cajoling, and speaking in their language, yet it made no difference. Some pupils were there against their will and only wanted to pass time.

  The thought of having a peaceful weekend with the family was her reward and she pondered her choice of activities. She could take a walk with Roy. She could potter in the garden. She could go to the shopping centre with Ann. Alternatively, she might choose to spend time with Fiona, whose preferred choice of activity was to visit museums and historical sites. It was a strange passion for someone of fourteen years, but she did not intend to discourage it, and it filled her with pride. She turned off the light and drifted along the hallway.

  Fiona was alone in the room. Her legs were to her chest, her shoes on the floor and her eyes engrossed in the pages of a book. Smiling, Janet sauntered through the doorway and peered at the text. It looked as though it was a non-fiction, although she could not see what it was.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  Fiona flipped over the cover. It was a local history book. ‘It’s for a geography assignment.’

  ‘You should take some time out for yourself. Relax a bit.’

  Janet wandered across the room to Karen’s jacket laid skewed on a chair. As she lifted it, she sensed a slight lump from within the pocket and reached inside. Instinctively, she believed it was drugs, a realisation causing a surge of panic. With trembling hands, she scurried the packet into her skirt pocket and replaced the jacket onto the back of the chair.

  She didn’t know what to do, and flopped onto a seat, clutching it through the fabric and stared blindly into space. Needing clarity to her thoughts, she considered a mounting list of questions crisscrossing her mind, although primarily, she tried to find the most suitable approach to talking it through with her daughter. Karen was hot headed at the best of times, meaning that an outright accusation would be unproductive.

  Fiona broke the silence. ‘Oh, I forget to ask. There’s a show on next Wednesday at the theatre and a few of the girls are going. Can I go? It’ll be a late finish.’

  Footsteps pounded the steps, causing a brief distraction. ‘Fine. Do you need a lift?’

  Karen burst into the room. ‘You never let me go out!’

  ‘You go out all the time.’

  ‘I have to be back by nine-thirty.’

  ‘You never are.’

  Karen held a determined pose; her legs were apart, her arms stiff by her side, and her head back. ‘Have you any idea how humiliating it is having you come looking for me?’

  Janet tensed. ‘I wouldn’t have to if you came back at a reasonable hour.’

  ‘We can’t all be little-miss-perfect.’ She glanced at her sister. ‘I have a life . . . friends.’

  ‘If you came back when you should, we’d give you more leeway.’

  ‘If you respected me more, I would do as you say. I’m not a child.’

  ‘You certainly act like one.’

  ‘Why? Just because I like boys, music and sex. I’m normal. I’m doing what teenagers should do.’

  ‘Karen!’

  ‘What? You don’t like to hear that I sleep around? You’re such a prig. I bet I’ve seen more willys than you.’

  ‘Where are your morals you cheap little tart?’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’

  She snatched her jacket and ran from the room, heading along the hallway to the outer door. Moments later she returned, her face red with anger.

  ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Janet said, displaying the packet.

  Karen raced towards her and their locked eyes. Janet placed her hand around her back, causing her daughter a moment of hesitation.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Karen said, spinning around. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’

  The door slammed.

  Their conversation continued to batter her head, the silence offering no distraction. She looked to Fiona, who stared into a book, seemingly tense and waiting for tranquillity to prevail.

  ‘Do you know where she’s getting it?’ Janet asked eventually.

  Fiona raised her head. She did not speak but her expression displayed her anxiety causing Janet to conclude that she knew the answer. Refusing to flinch, refusing to give her daughter an opt-out, she maintained a hardened stared. Fiona looked everywhere but at her. She shifted her legs from under her body and repositioned herself on the chair. She scratched her nose. She smoothed out her hair.

  Maybe it was unfair to ask one daughter to tell on the other, and for a moment, Janet considered withdrawing her question. The bond between the two girls had never been that great, and she sensed that this could be perceived to be the ultimate betrayal. But what choice did she have? Karen was in real danger and she could not let it lie.

  ‘Please Fiona. If you know something you must tell me.’

  Her mouth opened and shut. ‘But Mum . . .’

  ‘D
o you understand how serious this is? This is dangerous stuff. Unchecked, it will do untold damage.’

  ‘I do know! I’m not stupid.’

  But your sister might not be so wise, Janet thought. ‘I know you’re not, and I wasn’t accusing you of anything. However, I’m not sure Karen is aware. She needs our help. You have to work with me on this.’

  Flustered and with her skin red, Fiona hurried to her feet, still clutching her book, and rushed to the door. ‘It was Uncle Patrick,’ she said, and then she ran.

  It took a while for Janet’s mood to revert to a gentle simmer. Ever since her family had arrived in the village, their lives had been inundated with differences, yet none more so than what she faced now. No matter how she tried, she could not see any reason why her brother would want to do such a wicked thing. He had children of his own. He should be acting more responsibly.

  This time, Patrick could not offer excuses. It was more serious than when he was encouraging alcohol and when he claimed he was teaching Karen to respect it. It was more serious than when he was encouraging her to have multiple boyfriends, saying it would help her stay faithful to a husband in future years. It was more serious than when he told her that a good education was overrated.

  No matter what Janet and Roy had said to Karen, she had still refused to listen. She was enamoured with her uncle, loving his liberating values and exciting lifestyle, and was besotted with his every word. It was infuriating. Her daughter showed the Smith family far more respect than she ever showed them, and her personality and behaviour changed when in their presence. She was polite, easy to get on with and helpful, the exact opposite of how she was with her, Roy, Gerry and Ann.

  Janet dropped her head into her hands, exasperated. She had to pull Karen into line and stop Patrick from influencing her, yet it seemed that their link would not be broken. Despite all the years that passed, she wasn’t certain where his affections lay, and wondered if he had ever forgiven her for failing to visit their mother when she was dying. Ever since his arrival in the village, and at every opportunity he had flung verbal abuse at the Coombs’, taunting them for their wealth, their position in the community, and their obvious good manners. They had all tried to rise above it, but so often, it proved difficult.