Lily nodded. ‘But I can tell you now that I offer full price subject to survey and valuation. Should anything major need doing, I shall lower the offer accordingly.’
‘I see. Erm . . .’ He shuffled some papers. ‘Mortgage?’ he asked. ‘Do you need help? We are in contact with all the major societies, and we have an adviser to help you find whichever deal is most suitable.’
She shook her head. ‘It will be cash,’ she said. ‘I shall put the wheels in motion right away. Don’t worry, I have the Yellow Pages, so I can find my own lawyer and surveyor.’
He blinked. It wasn’t every day he sold a house of this price for cash. Was she serious, or might she be one of those time-wasters who visited houses for recreational purposes? ‘Right,’ he mumbled. ‘If you would care to come into the office – shall we say Monday?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You will need to come to me – I run a business single-handed at present, and can’t just up and away whenever I like. To come and view this house, I’ve had to close my shop.’ She handed him a card. ‘That’s my personal number, and the shop details are below. Thank you.’
He was being dismissed. Yet he had to make the house secure and report back to work. ‘I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll be downstairs in the room at the front when you have finished. You see, I am required to secure the premises and then I have to go to an appointment—’
The front door slammed. ‘Buckets of blood,’ cried a male voice. ‘I’ll get the hang of that door if it kills me.’
Lily and her companion stared down at the top of a head owned by Father Michael Walsh. He was struggling with a pile of books and papers, and was clearly annoyed by his burden. He looked up, saw two people, and dropped everything. ‘Sugar,’ he said.
Lily felt the corners of her mouth beginning to twitch slightly. He had very untidy hair. ‘Good afternoon, Father,’ she said.
He opened his mouth, but offered no reply.
The estate agent descended the staircase. ‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ he said, his tone apologetic. He pointed to the mess on the floor. ‘I’d help you with that lot, but I’m due to show a house on Bradshaw Brow in twenty minutes.’ He left the scene.
‘There are rabbits in the garden,’ announced Michael.
‘Right.’ Was he all there? What had rabbits to do with anything?
‘And one of them’s in trouble. But I had to go and . . . There was stuff in the sacristy . . . I won’t be a minute.’ He left scattered items on the floor and ran through to the dining room. ‘Watership Down was never like this,’ was his departing remark as he made for the French windows.
Lily followed and watched him as he poked his head into a tangle of exposed roots beneath an old tree. Watership Down was a sad film . . . His pose could never have been deemed dignified, as he was on his knees, backside in the air, T-shirt riding high and displaying a great deal of skin. She thought she heard him swear. Well, it might have been ‘sugar’ again, but she didn’t think so. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘The bugger bit me.’
It hadn’t been sugar, then.
He pulled the animal out and shoved it in a box. ‘Get the cat basket out of the utility place,’ he ordered. ‘I should have thought. Get it before this nightmare eats its way through the cardboard. Go on! I’m serious. The fellow’s a big buck and he hates me.’
She found the requested item and carried it out to the rear garden. The scent of honeysuckle touched her nose as she passed the plastic and metal container over to him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Open it. Put it on the floor, woman, and open it.’
She did as she was ordered.
There followed a blur of activity which she would never in a million years have been able to describe, but the animal was finally behind bars and the priest was triumphant.
Lily looked at the angry rabbit. ‘What’s the matter with it?’ she asked.
‘Big sore on his ear. We’d been getting along famously till now – he even took carrots and stuff from me. Not bad going for a wild rabbit.’
‘He’s very wild now,’ remarked Lily.
‘Well – wouldn’t you be if your freedom had been curtailed?’ He watched the cloud arriving in her eyes, realized that she had seemed almost normal up to this point. He studied his prisoner. ‘I am not inflicting you on that poor vet,’ he told the furious creature. ‘It’ll be an antiseptic, then you can take your chances with the rest.’ He looked at his visitor. ‘We have foxes, too. There’s a mum and a dad and some young ones.’ He sighed. ‘Until just now, I thought of myself as a watered-down Francis of Assisi – he had a way with animals. But I was sadly mistaken.’ She was thawing again. ‘I’ll get the towels.’ Suddenly, he ran away.
Lily squatted down. ‘Hello, bright eyes burning like fire,’ she said. The rabbit immediately became still. ‘Why would we need towels?’ she asked. ‘Are you going in the bath?’
‘Here.’ Michael thrust a pair of large bath sheets into Lily’s hands.
‘He’s gone off,’ Lily told the rabbit when the priest did another of his now familiar disappearing acts.
‘Here.’ He was back once more. ‘Put these on.’ It was a pair of thick gardening gloves. ‘Strategy. We need to discuss.’
What was this? Lily asked herself. A G8 conference, a meeting of heads of state? ‘You first,’ she suggested.
‘Right, yes.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Erm . . . I’ll get the first aid. Not for us,’ he added in a tone that was meant to be reassuring. ‘For him. There’s a thorn stuck in his ear and he’s been trapped in those roots for who knows how long, so no wonder he’s in a bad mood. And gentian violet.’
‘What?’
‘My grandmother swore by it.’ He walked away again.
The task proved far from easy. Lily held the struggling animal in two towels, her hands protected by heavy-duty gloves. Michael used tweezers to remove the thorn before soaking the ear in a bright blue dye. ‘You can let him go now.’
She released Bright Eyes, watched him lolloping away, was surprised when he stopped, turned and looked at them. ‘You’d think he was saying thank you,’ she said. ‘He looks a bit odd, doesn’t he?’
Michael Walsh shook his head. ‘A priest’s life is often surreal, but this takes the chocolate digestive. We’re not even drunk, are we? Pink elephants, purple rabbits – what’s the difference?’
‘Size,’ was her prompt reply.
‘He looks cute, though,’ Michael said. ‘I’m sure the lady rabbits will find him more attractive.’ He turned and looked her full in the face. ‘So, it is to be you, I take it? Who’ll force me out of house and home?’
Lily shrugged. ‘You’re here only two or three nights a week. Anyway, talk to the bishop and the Pope – it’s their fault.’ She paused for a couple of seconds. ‘Religion’s dying, isn’t it? They have football now – they can sing in a stadium instead.’
‘Very astute,’ he remarked drily.
If anyone chose to ask her, Lily would never be able to explain what happened next, why it happened, whether she wished it hadn’t. ‘You can have a couple of rooms upstairs,’ she said. ‘For nothing. Just in case there is a God, heaven, hell – all that stuff. You can tell the angels I paid my dues by sheltering a man of the cloth. Who’s the bloke with the keys?’
‘St Peter.’
‘Have a word with him. Tell him I’ve paid my rent. OK?’
She was a good woman, a hurt woman, a person who had held a terrified creature and helped calm its fears. ‘Thank you, Lily,’ he said. ‘I truly appreciate that. I’ve a bit of family money, and I was considering buying a cottage, but we’ll see. Thanks again. Very good of you.’
Lily didn’t know what else to say. She told him that she would keep him advised about the progress of her intended purchase, that she wanted the kitchen left as it was; asked who owned all the furniture. He kept smiling and trying to make eye contact with her, but she couldn’t quite manage to look at him. She felt safe, be
cause he was a priest, yet his behaviour was that of a very ordinary – no – a very extraordinary layman. He’d cared about that daft, purple-eared rabbit, had cared enough to expose hands and arms to some angry little teeth. ‘There’s an orchard?’
‘Yes. Way down at the bottom of the garden. Greenhouse, too. I grow my own tomatoes. You could perhaps propagate some of the rarer lilies?’ She was a rare lily, but a damaged one. ‘Or orchids? The sort that need a special feed tube in with the rest of the bouquet?’
Lily shook her head. ‘Probably not, Father. I won’t have the time to spare, not with the business. Mind, I have a friend coming tomorrow. She’s bringing her baby daughter, but she’ll give me some help, I’m sure. But I like to sell flowers that are slightly more robust.’
‘I see.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve sinners to deal with,’ he told her. ‘Confession time.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She picked up her small clutch bag. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She walked through the beautiful panelled hall, saw his scattered papers on the floor, picked them up and placed them on a table.
‘Thanks.’ He stood behind her.
‘Oh. Yes. See you soon, then.’ Lily stepped out into the sunlight and walked down the path. Feeling like a very silly schoolgirl, she crossed the road, entered her shop and turned the sign to OPEN. He was standing at his gate, staring at her. ‘Stupid,’ she said aloud. ‘Because you know you’re safe, you’ve taken a liking to him.’ She shouldn’t take likings to new people, because she wasn’t allowed to get to know anyone, was she? Thank goodness Babs would be here in about twenty-four hours.
She turned her back on the village road and started to sort out her bedding plants. These could sit outside where passers-by could see them. How quickly the months passed. In a matter of weeks, she would be buying in spring bulbs. Cassie was coming. Cassie could never take the place of the dead, but she did brighten up life. Cassie. She would soon be here.
‘Dave?’ Enid Barker craned her thin neck and peered into the street below. ‘There’s two of them been in there this afternoon. Two.’ She raised her voice by several decibels. ‘Can you hear me? I’ve seen two going in.’
He dried the last plate and placed it in the cupboard. Could he hear her? She was probably audible as far away as Salford Quays in one direction, John Lennon Airport in the other. ‘Here I am,’ he said after finishing his chores and walking to her side. ‘I have to go back down, because Philly’s gone home, and I’ve left Valda in charge. She’s helping out for nothing, so I don’t want to take advantage of her good nature.’
‘Good nature?’ The old woman cackled. ‘You’d best watch her, son. Her nature’s that generous, she’ll have a thriving whorehouse running if you’re not careful. She’s anybody’s for the price of a skirt off Bolton Market.’
He sighed resignedly. As far as he was concerned, Valda’s arrangements were private, as were everyone else’s. And his mother should be the last on earth to criticize anyone who chose to survive by unorthodox methods. ‘Two what been where, Mother?’
She pointed to the presbytery. ‘Over yon. I know Eve Boswell’s likely Catholic, because most of them Scouse types are, but Lily Wotserface? I don’t think she’s one of them.’
‘Her name’s Latimer.’
‘Daft name. They went across, then he came home from church with a load of papers and books—’
‘Who did?’
‘The priest. Oh, I wish you would listen properly. You take all the bone out of a story with all them daft questions.’
He closed his mouth, folded his arms and waited.
‘Two women he had inside the house. She’s never been to church across there since she came here, that Lily one. As for Mrs Boswell – she’s too busy keeping an eye on her old man and his late deliveries.’ She nodded. ‘Oh, aye, I’ve seen and heard them in the night. And he keeps stuff in that garage, you know – that’s why he has it alarmed.’
Dave maintained his silence.
‘Well? Nowt to say for yourself?’
‘I don’t want to fillet your story, do I? I mustn’t take the bones out, you said.’
Enid pursed her lips. ‘I sometimes wonder if they gave me the wrong baby. Somewhere, there might be a tall, slim lad with a sense of style and a bit of humour in him, happen some hair and all. And I got you.’
He’d wished all his life that he’d had a different mother – a mix-up at the hospital might have been a good thing in his case. The computer man was downstairs. The poor chap was surrounded by potential silver surfers who didn’t know their pixels from their hard drive. ‘I’m going,’ was all he had to say.
‘You’re no fun,’ she complained.
‘I’ll send Valda up with a cup of tea.’
‘I don’t want her here. She swaps sex for clothes, and she’s—’
‘Some old women used to sell it for cash,’ he snapped before crashing out of the flat. On the landing, he held his breath for a few seconds. God, what was the matter with him? In his hands, he could almost feel her scrawny neck as she breathed her last. He wanted to kill his own mother? Sitting on the top step, Dave Barker considered his options, knew he had just two. He could stay, or he could go. There was the shop, and there was his mother. He loved the shop. As for his mother – well, he loved the shop, and she had the ability to close it. Number three was empty – could he rent just the flat? Would Chas Boswell find a tenant for a lock-up?
Dave rose to his feet. It was an effort, because weight had become an impediment, while his centre of gravity seemed to have planted new roots. Next door was too near. Africa was too near, he supposed, because her tentacles were longer than the Nile. Hatred for one’s own single parent was neither usual nor pleasant, but Enid had filled every waking hour he had known. A lousy childhood had drifted into a lousy adulthood, no seams showing, just a natural progression from bad to worse. It was worse because he now understood what she was; as a child, he had simply obeyed the orders of a larger person who had not been averse to slapping his head. He remembered the belt – it had been her father’s. She’d used that with relish on the legs of her only child. Then the cupboard in the hallway of their old terraced house, so dark and lonely . . .
Downstairs, he found that the IT man was currently buried beneath a crowd of pensioners.
Valda laughed when she saw the expression on Dave’s face. ‘He’s in there somewhere, love,’ she advised him. ‘I promise you they haven’t eaten him. You’re out of snacks till tomorrow, but he’s still alive.’ She grinned. ‘They wouldn’t get far with National Health dentures, any road.’
Dave dug his way through the three-deep circle of people. They were looking at soft porn. He smiled to himself, then pushed his way out into slightly fresher air. ‘He’s all right,’ he told Valda.
‘See? I told you he was. He asked them what they wanted, and they said dirty pictures. So he did as he was told.’
‘I noticed.’
Valda piled up the clean saucers in readiness for the next day. ‘How’s your mam?’ she asked.
Dave sat down at one of his five tables. ‘Evil,’ he answered.
‘Normal, then.’ It was not a question.
‘Yes.’ He drew a hand across his forehead. ‘I’d hate to go through life like she does – finding fault after sin after mistake. She can only see the worst, Valda. In all my life, I never heard her say either thank you or sorry.’
‘Perhaps she had a hard time and it turned her?’
He nodded. ‘Perhaps. But why spend the rest of your life making trouble for everybody else? Is unhappiness something that needs spreading, like margarine?’
‘There’s folk like that, Dave. It’s as if they just can’t help theirselves. Take my mother-in-law – oh, I wish you would. You could stick her in with your mother and you’d swear they were twins. She’s a right one. Nice to your face, but never turn your back, or you’ll end up with a knife in the middle of it.’
Dave stared at Valda. ‘You’re serious?’
She pu
rsed her lips. ‘She’s not happy living with us, and she makes my life a misery. Shall I introduce them? Bring her round for tea, cakes and a slanging match? We’d need a referee with a strong stomach, mind.’
He thought about that. Valda was a Catholic, and Mam didn’t like them. She didn’t like gay people, black people, Muslim people, any kind of people. ‘Is your main-law a churchgoer?’
‘No. Lapsed. I reckon if she went to confession, it would take her a week to say her penance on the beads. Tell you what, though. We’d be better off with all the bad apples in one barrel, eh? It would make my life easier – and yours. Imagine it. Your life with no Enid, mine with no Mary.’
Dave closed his eyes. ‘Bliss,’ he breathed.
Valda took her cardigan from a hanger. ‘Think about it. I’ll think, and all. We’re not getting any younger, lad. I’ve kids to see to, and you’ve got your shop. Nothing to lose, eh?’ She left him to an uncertain fate. The poor IT man was buried under pensioners, and their questions were sealing him in.
‘You all right in there?’ Dave called.
The man emerged. He was red in the face and decidedly the worse for wear. ‘They’re keen,’ he complained. ‘Fortunately, computers are tough these days, but I hope your software survives.’ He left his card and dashed off in search of somewhere safer.
‘Has he gone?’ someone asked.
‘Yes,’ shouted Dave. ‘You had him frightened halfway to death. Now, who has a child or a grandchild who’s experienced in computers?’
It seemed that most of them knew someone.
‘Send them round,’ Dave told them. ‘We’ll have a rota. Now, you can all go home, because I’ve things to do.’
He locked the door and looked round his empty shop. This was all he had in the world. Tuesdays and Fridays, he went to the Hen and Chickens for a pint. Tuesdays and Fridays, he got an earful from his mother. It was clear that her selective memory had deleted much of her own past from the hard drive, but it was retrievable – oh, yes. Nothing was ever completely wiped. A word here, a word there, and he could make her life totally unbearable.
The times she had come home the worse for wear; the many occasions on which he had cleaned up vomit because fish and chips didn’t always sit well on a bellyful of cider and spirits. Her sex life had been audible and had sometimes involved more than just herself and one other. Did she really believe that he could forget all that? How could she imagine that a child of at least average intellect would not remember at least some of what he had seen and heard?
The Reading Room Page 4