‘Not him!’ Cal muttered, his back still turned.
‘Jilly?’ Beth appealed to her elder daughter, who was staring moodily at the floor. ‘What do you think?’
‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’ she’d answered, in that offhand tone Beth so disliked. ‘You’ve made up your mind, and nothing we say will make any difference.’
‘But I want you to like him!’ wailed Beth. ‘Please, darlings, try to understand.’
But that was something they weren’t prepared to do, either then or later; which was why she’d never even suggested changing their names from Poole to Sheridan, though it seemed, to her distress, to create a ‘them-and-us’ division in the family.
In the hall below, the old clock wheezed into its three-quarter chime, recalling her to the present. Abandoning her introspection, she stepped out of the bath and reached for a towel.
The storm broke an hour later, thunder rolling between the hills and rain sluicing down the windows. The children were all home, but Harold, having parked his car in the garage, had to make a dash for the front door, head down, his grip clutched to his chest. By the time he reached the hall, his thin hair was plastered to his head and his suit drenched.
‘God, what weather!’ he exclaimed irritably, allowing Beth to kiss his wet cheek. ‘I’d better go and change out of these things.’
‘Welcome home, anyway!’ she said. ‘Liza’s made you a cranberry cake.’
‘That’s good of her. Pour me a stiff whisky, will you, love? I’ll be down in a minute.’
A deafening crash sounded directly overhead, and Abby came flying down the stairs, nearly cannoning into her stepfather and burying her face against Beth.
‘Look where you’re going!’ he admonished, smoothing his dripping hair. Then, as Beth’s arms went comfortingly round her, ‘Come along, now. You’re not a baby, to be scared of a bit of thunder.’
The dark hallway lit up in a garish gleam, followed instantly by another deafening peal, reverberating around them in a series of diminishing echoes. Abby clenched her mother’s skirt and Harold, with a disapproving click of his tongue, picked up his grip and went on up the stairs.
‘He always hates it when you hold me,’ Abby said, her voice muffled against the cloth.
‘Don’t be silly, darling. He’s only telling you there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
But the child’s words struck home. Beth herself had noticed that displays of affection between her and the children tended to call forth a caustic comment. Perhaps, she thought tiredly, that was the root of the trouble: Harold was jealous of the children’s claim on her, and they of his. Pulled in two directions, she felt a helpless resentment, and gave Abby a little push.
‘Go on, now; the storm’s moving away. Supper won’t be long, so if you haven’t washed your hands since your ride, please do so.’
‘I wish he hadn’t come back!’ Abby said under her breath, as she ran upstairs.
Another flash lit the hall, exacerbating the headache such storms invariably engendered. With a grimace, Beth went to pour her husband’s drink.
Upstairs, Harold stripped off his wet clothes and went into the bathroom. It smelled of flowers – Beth’s bubble bath, he assumed, since her towel was damp. He washed quickly and rubbed his hair dry, annoyed with himself for snapping at Abby. But Beth did tend to baby those children; she should be firmer with them, make them stand on their own feet.
Still, he had more pressing matters to consider. While in London, he’d received a call from his sister to say their mother’d had another fall.
‘I really haven’t the time to keep going over to check on her,’ she’d said, ‘and you know she refuses point blank to consider sheltered housing. You’ll have to speak to her, Harold. It’s all very well for you, up there in the Lake District, you’re well out of it. I’m the one who has all the hassle.’
‘All right, I’ll have a word,’ he’d said, surreptitiously checking the time of the next session.
‘Well, you’d better. She’s more likely to listen to you, God knows why. But get one thing very clear: there’s absolutely no chance of her coming here. She’d drive us insane within days.’
‘Understood,’ he’d said crisply, and switched off. Margaret had a point, though, he’d admitted as he hurried down to the lecture room. Two points, in fact. He was well out of it, and his mother, a cantankerous eighty-nine, would be impossible to live with. The least he could do was offer his sister some support.
Supper was a less than scintillating occasion, Jilly – Beth suspected deliberately – having set the tone.
‘Felicity’s had her ears pierced,’ she announced. ‘Can I have mine done?’
‘No!’ said Beth and Harold as one, and Beth felt a spurt of irritation. The question had been directed at her, and surely she was responsible for the children.
Jilly glared at Harold, and turned back to her mother. ‘Please, Mum.’
Beth put a hand to her head. ‘Let’s not start an argument, Jilly. Daddy and I always said not until you were sixteen.’
‘Well, I will be, in March!’
‘But it’s only June,’ Harold pointed out pedantically, the mention of Simon, as always, discomfiting him.
‘This has nothing to do with you!’ Jilly flared.
Beth’s head pounded. ‘Jilly! Apologize to Harold at once!’
‘Why should I? He’s always butting in! No one asked for his opinion!’
‘Apologize, or go to your room. You have the choice.’
There was a taut silence while Jilly stared down at the table, her cheeks flaming. Then she said, barely audibly, ‘Sorry.’
Beth glanced at Harold, mutely beseeching him to accept the apology, grudging as it was, and though anger churned inside him, he gave a curt nod. Ignoring the girl, he turned to his wife.
‘I had a call from Margaret while I was away,’ he told her. ‘Mother’s had another fall.’
With an effort, Beth switched her attention from daughter to husband. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did she hurt herself?’
‘I don’t think so, but it raises concerns. Margaret feels she’s no longer fit to live alone.’
Beth felt a clutch of panic. ‘You don’t—?’
‘No, no,’ Harold said hastily. ‘There’s no question of that. Nor can she go to Margaret. It’s just a matter of getting her to agree to move in somewhere.’
Beth was silent. Martha Sheridan was a difficult woman, who still ruled her children, middle-aged though they were, with a rod of iron. Beth and Harold had held their wedding down south for her convenience, during which she’d confounded them by demanding loudly why he wanted to get married at his age. But on a brighter note, Beth’s sister and her husband also lived in Surrey, and had taken the children back with them when she and Harold left on their honeymoon.
Their honeymoon. Her mind slipped back to the first days of their marriage, when they were still virtual strangers. There’d been no mention of sex before the wedding, and Beth guessed that her husband was a virgin. Consequently, she’d expected little of their love life – possibly a dutiful coupling every month or so – and consoled herself with the thought that she wouldn’t be betraying Simon; it would simply be a case of lying back and thinking of England.
But after the first fumbling and embarrassing coming together, Harold had astonished her by his passion and increasing dexterity, to which her love-starved body had instantly responded. It was as though his desires, having been damped down all his life, had at last found expression, and he exulted in the experience. No doubt, after several days’ abstinence, he would want her tonight. She could only hope her headache had lifted by then.
Cal’s voice broke into her musings. ‘What’s for pudding?’
‘Cranberry cake.’ It was Liza, in the act of clearing away the main course, who answered him.
‘Especially for Harold,’ Beth said quickly, willing him to show some sign of appreciation. But, his mind presumably still on his mother,
he merely nodded with a slight smile, and Beth, with sinking heart, saw Liza’s lips tighten.
‘Can I have ice cream instead?’ Abby asked. ‘I don’t like cranberries.’
‘No, you can’t.’ Beth spoke sharply, her annoyance with her husband transferring itself to her daughter. ‘This isn’t a hotel. Tonight’s pudding is cranberry cake, but you may ask for a small slice.’
Abby’s face took on a mutinous expression, Harold’s one of satisfaction. Beth didn’t know which irritated her the most. It was a relief to all of them when the meal was over.
The thunder had indeed cleared the air, and the next day dawned fine and dry, with a breeze to temper the summer heat. At eight thirty, Harold having already left, Beth stood at the front door to see the children off to school. Beyond them the lake, now shining blue and gold in the sunshine, hurt her eyes, still weak after the headache, which always left her drained.
At the bend in the path they turned to wave, a daily ritual, and she reciprocated before going back inside, reflecting yet again how fortunate they were that the school was so close. King Edward’s and its excellent reputation was one of the reasons she and Simon had come to Scarthorpe. Though primarily a boarding school, there was a small number of day pupils, and the fact that it took children from kindergarten right through to eighteen was another advantage. The handsome building, surrounded by its playing fields, was at the foot of the hill on which their house stood, and Beth passed it several times a day as she went about her business. Which today would consist of driving the mobile library to outlying farms and villages.
Scarthorpe itself lay half a mile from the school gates, the road running alongside the lake and passing the local sailing club en route. Largely thanks to the school, it was saved from depending solely on the tourist trade, boasting a bank, library, up-to-date health centre, restaurants, a hotel where visiting parents stayed, and a larger range of shops than its neighbours. Not to mention a firm of accountants, of which Harold was a partner.
In the breakfast room, Liza had replenished Beth’s coffee and laid out the daily paper, both of which she took to an easy chair for a brief relaxation before her working day.
The time she’d allotted was almost up, and she’d made a start on the crossword when the telephone interrupted her, and she lifted it to hear her sister’s voice.
‘How’s the northern tribe this sunny morning?’
‘Pam! Lovely to hear from you! We’re fine, how are you?’
‘Somewhat harassed. I’m trying to organize a trip to Scotland, which, of course, includes arranging for people to come in and feed the animals. Actually, that’s why I’m ringing.’
‘To ask us to baby-sit your horses?’
Pam laughed. ‘Hardly, though no doubt Abby would love to. No, I’m wondering if we could scrounge a bed next weekend? It would be a lovely way of breaking the journey.’
‘Of course you can. We’ve not seen you since the wedding.’
‘True enough. How’s the bridegroom?’
Beth bit her lip. Though Pam hadn’t said as much, Beth knew she’d been dumbfounded by her choice of husband.
‘Very well. He’s just back from a few days in London, attending some course or other.’
‘A long way to go. He didn’t drive, surely?’
‘No, he gets the train to Manchester, and flies from there.’
‘Still a long way. And the kids?’
‘Stroppy, as usual.’
‘Seriously, are they settling down?’
‘Oh God, Pam, I don’t know. They and Harold continually wind each other up. Sometimes I could knock their heads together.’
‘Like us to have them for a while during the summer hols?’
‘Would you? They always love staying with you.’
‘And we love having them.’ It was a continuing sadness to Pam and her husband that they were childless.
‘Well, there’s time enough to discuss that. As to next weekend, when should we expect you?’
‘Stephen’s taking Friday off, so – a week today, in time for dinner?’
‘Great. Till the Monday morning?’
‘If we don’t outstay our welcome. And perhaps at some stage you and I can slip away for a while and have a good old natter.’
‘I’ll make certain of it.’
Beth replaced the phone, feeling all at once more cheerful, and, putting the paper aside, went into the hall and put her head round the kitchen door.
‘I shan’t be in for lunch, Liza, so feel free to go out earlier, if you’d like to.’
Liza turned from the sink. ‘I might, at that. Thanks, Beth.’
‘See you later, then.’
When the front door had closed behind her, Liza went into the hall and lifted the phone.
‘Cora, it’s me. I can manage lunch, if you’re free? . . . Fine; I’ll catch the twelve thirty, and be with you about quarter to one.’
She put down the phone, felt in her pocket and extracted a few coins, which she laid on the small table beside it. At first, there had been arguments when she’d tried to pay for her calls, but once Beth understood how strongly she felt, she tacitly accepted the occasional offering. From Liza’s viewpoint, it meant she needn’t feel guilty about using the phone as and when needed.
She stood for a moment, drawing a deep breath and enjoying the peacefulness of the now-silent house – lozenges of sunshine on the floor, richly gleaming wood and tapestry-seated chairs. How lucky she was to be living here, and with this family, even though things weren’t as happy as they had been.
She sighed, manoeuvred the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard, and set off with it up the stairs. No thanks for the cranberry cake, she reflected, despite Beth’s prompting, bless her. Not that she’d really expected any, the sour-faced old stick. (That Mr Sheridan was roughly the same age as herself was irrelevant.)
She knew he resented her familiarity with the family – calling Beth by her first name, for instance. But Beth and Simon had insisted on it when she first came, which admittedly had been unusual in the seventies, though things were becoming less formal now. Beth had even suggested Liza continue the practice with her second husband, but the name had stuck in her throat – nor, she was sure, would it have been well received. When Simon was alive, she’d known the accountant as Mr Sheridan, and that was how she continued to address him. Beth, perhaps understanding, hadn’t pressed the point.
But names and cranberry cake weren’t really the issue. What did upset her was the way he was with the children, and they with him. Poor mites, they still missed their father. A less stiff-necked man would have seen that, though to be fair, it had to be said they played him up, particularly Jilly, who cheeked him as often as she dared. So the chasm between them widened daily, while she and Beth stood helplessly on the sidelines, seemingly powerless to intervene.
There was a request stop outside the gates of The Lodge, and Liza flagged down the bus and climbed on board. The ten-minute drive beside the lake was always interesting; in winter, the water lay darkly brooding, strong winds whipping up white ruffles and gulls swooping and crying. In summer, as now, it was serenely blue, dotted with small craft of every description. She’d had to learn to block its connection with Simon’s horrific death – though her dreams were still troubled by it – as she’d also buried her shock at Beth’s second marriage. It wasn’t her place to criticize or condemn. Having no experience of marriage, or even of the love between a man and a woman, she was in no position to judge, and whatever she felt privately, she’d fiercely defended Beth’s actions against anyone who questioned them – Cora, for instance. And Cora, good friend that she was, had subsided and said no more.
Cora Selby was the proprietor of one of the cafés on the lakeside of Scarthorpe’s main road. A widow with a son in his twenties, they had met when Liza first came to work for the Pooles, and had popped into the Willow Pattern on her afternoon off. Fifteen years on, though both were forthright women, there’d been scarcely a wrong word b
etween them. They had shared confidences, discussed problems, helped each other through good times and bad, and for several years now had gone on holiday together.
Cora was, in fact, her first real friend. Liza had been a large, ungainly child, not popular at school, where she was teased because her parents were so much older. Though come to think of it, her younger brother, Ted, had managed to escape such baiting – just as, years later, he’d escaped to marry Freda, leaving Liza to stay home and care for their increasingly frail parents. Ted the escapologist, she thought now, with wry amusement. The domestic science course she’d taken with a view to teaching, had, instead, been utilized in running her parents’ home, and any hopes of marriage and a home of her own were stillborn.
Mother had been the first to go, and thereafter Father became increasingly difficult, finally refusing to leave his bed. When he too died, Liza’s grieving was mixed with a guilty sense of relief. Free for the first time to make her own decisions – she was then thirty-seven – she was at a loss to know what to do.
Her parents, after a discussion with Ted and Freda, had left their house and its contents outright to their daughter, in recognition of her care for them. It was, after all, the only home she had, and Ted hadn’t argued the point. Money was not a problem for him; he was doing well in his job, had recently been promoted, and did not grudge his sister her reward. But Liza had no desire to continue living in the small, cluttered house, reminiscent of old age and sickness, and lost no time in putting it on the market. And because it was on a main road, close to shops, schools and station, she’d had no trouble in getting a good price for it. On completion, she’d moved into temporary accommodation, to allow herself time to take stock.
Her original goal of teaching was no longer feasible. Domestic science had evolved into food technology, and everything she’d learned was hopelessly out of date. On one thing, however, she was determined; she would not apply as housekeeper-companion to some elderly lady, even though, by default, she was qualified for little else. Enough, she told herself, was more than enough. But though retraining courses of all kinds were widely advertised, none stirred so much as a flicker of interest, and the months slipped by without any decision being reached.
Thicker Than Water Page 17