by Ricki Thomas
Steve was drying the crockery, Harry washing, whilst I, slimmer and fitter than I’d been since my teenage years scoured the surfaces around the house for the hidden dishes and glasses. “How are you feeling, Dad?”
He emitted a long, drawn out sigh, his persona deflated. “I don’t know, son. When I married your mum, it never occurred to me that I’d face my older years alone. We were to be with each other forever. There’s a part of me that’s died with her, but at my age I know I could have so many years ahead of me, and that’s what I have to work out. How I change my life now.”
“Why don’t you move in with me?”
Steve regretted the question instantly, relieved when his father rejected it. “No, you’re a grown man, you need your privacy. And, come to it, so do I. Anyway, this place holds thirty years of memories of your mother, I’m not ready to let that go.”
I had heard the final comment as I brought a tray full of empties through, setting them on the worktop beside the sink. “Of course you’re not, Harry, but you’re not doing so well on keeping the place clean.” I saw Harry balk having seen the minimal housekeeping that I applied to my own flat, although he couldn’t deny that since I’d moved back in, the junk hadn’t piled up so much. Maybe it was because all the rubbish, hoarded over many years, had burned, I guessed he was thinking, but didn’t really care. “I could make a suggestion.” Both men continued with their tasks, both listening. “I could move in, take Sophie’s old room again, and look after the housework. I mean, I wouldn’t ask for payment, just board, food. At least you’d have company that way.”
Steve’s comment was instant. “No, I don’t think Dad’s ready for that yet.”
Harry slowly laid the plate he was cleaning back into the water, thoughtful. “You know, I think that might be a very good idea.”
Darren had never met anybody as impulsive and wild as Vicki, she intrigued him, and he was smitten. Their late night sex sessions had become more frequent, and he’d definitely become hooked enough to spend the entire night with her, rather than leaving in the early hours to crawl into bed with his hefty, miserable wife. She made no move or suggestion to commit, but he knew she wanted more than just a shag every couple of days. When she suggested moving in with him, giving up the costly flat she could barely afford on her low wage, he had to finally admit his marital status.
She was stunned. “You’re married! And it didn’t occur to you to tell me before!”
Darren hated being put on the spot, he stomped to the fridge in Vicki’s pocket-sized kitchen area, an offshoot of the open plan living area, and dragged out the vodka bottle, and a carton of orange juice, already inebriated from the night of drinking at Blakes Bar. He poured them a generous tumbler full each, the dose of vodka exceeding the mixer, and brought them to the table. Sitting, he put his arm across her shoulders, and she pulled away, still outraged. “Babes, it’s an awkward situation. We’re not married in the conventional sense any more, that stopped months ago, but she’s expecting my baby and…”
“A fucking baby!” She was incredulous. “A wife and a bloody baby in one foul swoop! Darren Delaney, you are so, so history. Piss off back to wifey, I’m over this.” Vicki stood, firmly pointing at the door.
He remained seated. “Vicki, look, my son’s due in two months, once she’s had him, I’m leaving her. I don’t love her any more, in fact maybe I never did, I certainly didn’t feel about her the way I feel about you. You’re spontaneous, you’re fun, you live life to the full, no rules, no regulations. Sophie’s not…”
“Sophie is it? Fucking bitch!”
“Vicki, she’s too staid for me, she hates going out, she’s let herself go, she’s just not…” He tailed off, choosing his words but coming up with nothing better. “She’s just not you.”
Vicki knocked the ball of her hand against her forehead, marching across the room, trying to digest the situation. She knew she’d fallen for Darren Delaney, he was so much fun, such a laugh, especially after a few beers. He was handsome, hard-working, kept her exceedingly happy in bed. But he was married. And he was about to be a father. Her debating ceased instantly as he wrapped his arms about her, warm, comfortable, loving, protective. Reciprocating his kiss, lips not leaving lips, they shuffled back to the bedroom.
Sophie lay in the marital bed, alone, as was the norm nowadays. Every night Darren would leave for the bar after finishing the meal she prepared for him, having a shower, and overdoing the aftershave. Sometimes he’d be back before midnight, sometimes he’d stay until the early hours, reeking of an unfamiliar perfume. It was obvious he was having an affair, but she had no interest in him, in sex with him, in being with him. Her love for him had waned to nothing since the day he’d hit her knowing she was pregnant. In her mind she’d excused him throwing her down the stairs, assuming he wouldn’t have been so vicious if he’d known about the unborn child, but the second beating, and failure to apologise, had rooted deeply into her psyche.
It was a rotten situation to consider, what to do. She wasn’t the type of person who would tolerate adultery, so she knew the marriage was over, there wasn’t a chance of reconciliation even once the baby arrived and her sex-hating hormones diminished. Divorce wasn’t a word she’d have ever considered before, but anything had to be better than this farce of a partnership. But at the moment the money he brought in was necessary to keep her going. Once the child was born, she’d be able to get herself a job, it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t high-powered business like she’d dealt with in England: waitressing, shop work, cooking. It didn’t matter. With no mortgage, the only money she’d need to earn would be enough to put food on the table for her and the baby, enough to pay the bills. But for now, for the next two or three months, Darren had to be there.
The level of boredom and loneliness having risen to fever pitch within her, Sophie had stopped consulting the pregnancy manual she’d brought with her, and she excused her daily litre of vino Espanol tinto, a ridiculously cheap beverage if purchased by the carton, as a necessity, that it wouldn’t be bad for the baby because red wine was good for the heart. Wasn’t it? The baby kicked and punched for England, flitting about, turning and twisting, so it was obviously healthy. Anyway, one carton an evening seemed acceptable.
Darren, needlessly, had continued his verbal abuse, attempting to drain her soul of any confidence, but she let the words float over her head, not listening, not believing. The only snipe that continued to strike a chord was that her family hadn’t been in touch, he insisted it was because they didn’t want to know her any more. In the past few months she’d thought of them many times, the lies they led her to believe in her growing years, her adult years, but she’d also seen it from their perspective, and had found herself ready to forgive. She resolved to call her father at work the next day, once Darren left for the substantial, and lucrative, building project he was working on.
The call was futile, the receptionist advising her that Harold Waller had retired, and Pat Walton, his secretary, had decided she was too long in the tooth to get used to the quirks of a new boss, so had taken early retirement at the same time. Sophie searched high and low for her address book, unable to remember her parent’s number, or her brother’s, neither numbers having been dialled for such a long time, oblivious that Darren had discarded it with the rubbish before moving. She no longer had any contact details on her mobile phone, she’d failed to transfer them out of anger when Darren had presented her with a Spanish mobile to replace her English one. The only detail she could remember were their addresses, she would have to write to them and pray they’d respond.
Chapter 15
The Affair
It was mid-April, a wonderful spring day, the sun shining its merry beams in the cloudless sky, daffodils, tulips, unopened blooms of iris’s and lilies, swaying in the gentle breeze, cheering England’s soul. I had settled into Harry’s home with ease, and, although I was still sleeping in the spare room, we were becoming closer by the day, he relying on me for compa
ny and housekeeping, me relishing the beautiful semi and abundant money his healthy pension brought in. The house was kept so clean it was bordering on sterile, belying the clutter and junk that had riddled my flat, and I’d proved myself to be a wonderful, and inventive, chef.
The icing on the cake for both Harry and me was the re-invention of myself I’d worked so hard to achieve. A combination of the gym membership, regimentally visited three times a week, and a healthy, low-fat diet, had left me with a figure to be enviable of considering my age, and the fact I’d delivered five children out of four pregnancies in my years. And now I had access to Harry’s money, the clothes I wore were fitted, good quality, an utter contrast to the scruffy rags I’d previously worn due to poverty and hopelessness. I’d transformed into a handsome woman, and we were both enjoying our lives with each other.
With his new, comfortable routine, he took the broadsheet newspaper, which was delivered daily, to the living room, and settled peacefully in his armchair, languidly taking his time reading from cover to cover, a hot mug of tea sipped slowly. I busied myself in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal in advance, stopping only to answer the front door to the postman, who presented me with a package. I was curious, I glanced at the writing and it was addressed to Harry, but I noted the postmark: Espaňa. Excited, my heart almost ceasing to beat, I ran through to Harry, flourishing the parcel.
Hearing the news, he threw the newspaper on the floor, grabbing the brown paper and tearing at it. A bunch of photographs, wrapped neatly with an elastic band, toppled onto his lap, and he unfolded the enclosed letter. “Yes! It’s from Sophie.”
“What does she have to say? Oh, I can’t wait to tell Alan!” Although Alan and Steve were enjoying making up for lost time with their brotherly relationship, the latter had been irked with my obvious attempts to replace his mother in his former childhood home, and he had ceased to be a regular visitor, regardless that I made his father happy.
Harry lightly scanned the note, eyes flickering back and forth with speed. “Well, she says the photos are of the Puerto de Pollenca area, and of the apartment she and Darren have purchased. She sounds a bit lonely though. Says Darren’s out all the time and not wholeheartedly supporting the pregnancy.” He glanced up, moving his reading glasses to the end of his nose to focus on me. “I don’t think that comes as a surprise, really, does it, dear?” I shook my head in reply, and he returned his glasses, attention flitting back on the letter. “She’s invited us over, oh, you’ll like this, Mary. She’s calling you Mum. She must have managed to work things out in her mind.”
Well, as you can imagine, I was thrilled, at my daughter’s unexpected return to me, at the prospect of a sunny holiday. “Oh, Harry, tell me you’ll say yes, it’ll do us both the world of good to get away, have a break.”
He laughed. “Well, of course we’re going. No question about it! In fact, I’ll get down to the travel agent without further delay.”
Later, sitting down at the table, the tempting salad, first of the year, lying in front of us, Harry and I were excitedly discussing the holiday we were about to embark on the following week to see our daughter. We’d scoured the photographs with interest, commenting on the dramatic scenery, the apartment block she lived in, especially the stunning backdrop of mountains from her balcony, and the sprinkling of pictures showing her extensive belly, full of our grandchild. It dawned on me first that they should let her know the date they’d be arriving. “Has she put a phone number in the letter?”
Harry unfolded the note, glancing at the top. “No. And I suppose if we mailed it to her, it’s unlikely to get there in time, you know what the post’s like.”
Taking another mouthful of the honey roasted ham, I pondered. “We’ve not really got a choice but to turn up unannounced, then.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll drop a card in the post in the hope it’ll get there before we do, and if it doesn’t, it’ll be a nice surprise anyway.”
We both tucked into our meals, assured with the plan. What we’d failed to notice was that the address on the top of the letter was different to the one Harry had scribbled onto a piece of paper from his address book while packing for the trip. I didn’t realise this until later.
The card arrived at Maureen and Bob’s villa the day before Harold and Mary were due to arrive, and, after reading the information on the back, Maureen passed it to her son, greedily scoffing his sandwiches on the patio table. He didn’t need to say a word, but his sworn exclamation befitted the mood at the table.
“Well, if you think about it, they’ve sent the details here, so they’ll probably turn up here. All we have to do is tell them you’ve moved away, and we have no idea where to.” Bob wasn’t overly concerned, and his comment made sense. They arranged that Darren wouldn’t have his lunch with them the following day, and his parents would plead ignorance. With just three weeks before the baby’s due date, neither Maureen nor Darren intended Sophie’s family to ruin their carefully made plans in the eleventh hour.
Harry and I stepped out of the cool taxi into the warm spring sunshine, the deep blue sky overhead contrasting magnificently with the fuchsia pink bougainvillea that adorned the white painted walls fronting the gardens on the delightful street. We glanced around, then at each other. “This doesn’t look like the photos, I can’t see an apartment block.”
Harry leaned back through the window to the driver. “Are you sure this is the right address?”
The driver shrugged, dismissive. “Inglés? No, señor, arrepentido. No olvide sus maletas.” Harry stared a moment longer, sighing at his incomprehension, and gave up. He opened the boot of the saloon and removed the two suitcases, and the cab swiftly drove away as soon as the lid slammed.
Dragging the slip of paper containing what he believed was Sophie’s address from his hand luggage, he checked the street name, and the number on the gate of the villa they stood beside, deep blue numbers set into white, flower adorned white tiles. “It’s Calle El Nogal. And it’s plot two, number one two three. Let’s see what we find.”
Pushing against the gate, it failed to open, locked at all times as a deterrent to the illegal immigrants that plagued the English, Dutch and German colonies, so I pressed the doorbell button that Harry hadn’t noticed. Within seconds Maureen hastened out with a key to let us in. “Harold.” She glanced at me and did a swift double take, shock registering. “Who’s this? Where’s Beryl?”
Harry’s heart must have leapt, because his mouth was devoid of words. “But…”
Maureen, obviously realising she really didn’t care who the I was, we were unwelcome and about to be dismissed anyway, moved aside to let us through, guiding us into the pleasant, understated yet ornate, villa, indicating the table to sit, and offering us drinks. Bob had left the villa when he’d heard the doorbell, busying himself in the garden, sweeping the patio slabs of the red sand that blighted the area daily from the north-westerly winds.
“Is Sophie not here? We hoped she’d be here to greet us, it’s such a long time since we saw her. I expect she’s nearly fit to burst that baby out any day soon.”
Maureen donned her best sorrowful expression, eyelids drooping to the tiled floor, eyes watering, a performance worthy of an Oscar. “We got your card yesterday, there wasn’t enough time to let you know before your flight, as we don’t have your telephone number. Harold, it’s dreadful. Darren and I had a falling out shortly after we emigrated, and they moved away as soon as they could. We have no idea if they’re even still in Mallorca, we’ve not heard from him. It’s been such a terrible time. I miss my baby so much.”
Harry laid a comforting hand on Maureen’s arm. “Goodness! Maureen, I’m so sorry to hear that. How terrible for you.”
Watching the scene with distaste, sceptical and suspicious, I had met this kind of woman before, the block of council flats I’d spent near on thirty years of my life in were full of them: women protecting their vandalising sons or their thieving husbands from the eager eyes of the la
w. “Oh Harry! You don’t believe that rot, do you! Maureen knows exactly where our daughter is, she just doesn’t intend to tell you.”
Maureen wasn’t a person to be crossed, she shot a withering look at me. “I don’t know who you are, love, or what you’re doing here, but you can keep your bloody nose out of our business. Neither my Darren or his wife are any of your concern.”
And I wasn’t a person to threaten, those years of living in an area swamped with poverty had given me a hard nose and a tough backbone. “Well, that’s where you’re so wrong, dear. Sophie is my daughter and her whereabouts is very much my concern. Give me their address.”
Bristling for a fully-fledged argument, but simultaneously trying to digest the words, and my identity suddenly dawned on Maureen. “You mean it was Beryl who died, not the birth mother?”
Harry was stunned, he watched the altercation glibly. “Oh, is that what you told her?” I was enjoying the spat. I laid my hand on Harry’s, now removed from Maureen’s arm, and viewed him compassionately. “That’ll explain why she didn’t come to Beryl’s funeral, you see, I told you she wasn’t the vindictive type.” Directing my cold, blue-grey glare back to Maureen, I continued. “She just wasn’t given the facts. This woman has intercepted every attempt you’ve made at contacting Sophie. She’s been lied to, Harry.”
Harry stood fiercely, uncommon to anger, but this time vitriol pumped through his veins. “Is this true?”
Maureen laughed, a sneering, victorious chuckle that taunted the furious man. “If you can find her, you can ask her, can’t you. But you won’t, Mallorca’s a big haystack to find one little needle in, and she’s got no NIE number, my baby made sure of that, so you won’t be able to find her in the official records. As far as your pathetic daughter is concerned to the Spanish government, little Sophie Delaney doesn’t exist.” She could see how deeply her words were hitting, but she decided to go below the belt anyway. “She’s just an illegal immigrant.”