The Reading Room

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Like you.’

  She dug him in the ribs. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m old, my lover. I’ll send you a telegram.’

  Pete knew that ‘my lover’ didn’t mean anything, yet the phrase struck his heart with a soft, warm pain. Babs and Lily might not have survived all that had befallen them in recent years. Twin monuments to the strength and power of womankind, they had relocated, had made lives for themselves and were battling memories and fears that were known only to the unfortunate few. Unfortunate? He shook his head. Terrified might have been nearer the mark.

  ‘Why shake your head?’ she asked.

  ‘Thinking,’ he replied. ‘About you and Lily and Cassie.’

  Babs pondered for a moment. ‘Cassie knew nothing. In time, I expect she will be told. As for Lily – well, there’s a lot more to her than meets the eye at present. I never in all my life met such anger, strength, kindness – she’s not always been quiet. Not that I knew her, of course. Until . . .’

  ‘Until Clive Chalmers.’

  Babs nodded. ‘That’s the pig, yes. Though Lily loved her grandad’s pigs, so I apologize to the pig world. He brought us together, you might say. She’d go mad if she knew I was talking about her. She still feels trapped, you know. She’s started to peep through the bars of her prison, but she has a fair way to go yet.’

  The policeman cleared his throat of a mixture of emotions. ‘I’m a copper, love. I know most of it already. The details are yours and hers. But.’ He wiped his eyes to remove what might have been perspiration, might have been a couple of tears. ‘But you’re great women, both of you.’

  Babs lowered her head. ‘If I’m great, it’s because some of her must have rubbed off on me. I’ve never been what you might call a bad person, but she altered me. I was having a rare old time – hairdresser during the week, mad as a hatter at weekends. Expecting Cassie stopped me drinking right off, I can tell you that for nothing. Then I met Lily. She was cross with me at first, and then—’

  ‘Then it happened.’

  She sniffed. ‘Yes. I happened and he happened. The rest of it was all over the newspapers, wasn’t it? When she was away, I prayed for her day and night. Not in church – I’m not the churchified kind. But anything I did, like someone’s hair or a bit of cleaning, I sort of offered up as what the Catholics call penance. The harder I worked, the better were her chances of coming home. Daft.’

  ‘She came home, though.’

  Babs laughed. ‘She would have come home anyway, Pete. Her survival was nothing to do with the way I handled a difficult customer or scrubbed a floor. I can’t explain.’ She stopped for a few seconds. ‘Some people have a kind of light in them, a burning centre that doesn’t always show. Like the middle of the earth – white heat. Nowadays, it’s sometimes there in her eyes, like when she’s doing up that rambling place she bought. I think the light is the child we all used to be. Growing up completely isn’t a good idea. The Lily-child is on its way back. At least, I hope it is.’

  Pete placed an arm across the back of the bench and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘“Go forever children, hand in hand.” Wilfred Owen, I think. You’re right. Never grow up.’

  Then he kissed her lightly on the lips, not caring where he was, not worrying about the world and his wife’s witnessing a police sergeant loving a woman on the Town Hall square. ‘You should write poetry,’ he told her.

  ‘I already do,’ she answered.

  He was not surprised. Nothing she did would surprise him. For the first time in well over a decade, Sergeant Peter Haywood was in love.

  ‘That Babs one is going to retrain as a hairdresser.’ Mary Turnbull placed her shopping on the table. ‘And yon chap she’s hanging around with is a Sergeant Haywood with the police. Widower, or so I heard. Anyway, he seems to like Babs well enough and it looks as though she likes him.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Enid peered through her binoculars. ‘Lily Latimer’s looking set to move across the road any minute. She’ll be rattling about like a pea on a drum, because it’s big enough for a family of six or more.’ She placed the binoculars on a table and looked at her new flatmate. ‘Did you see him?’

  Enid nodded. ‘Downstairs with her and that three-legged dog. It’s getting well behaved, I have to say that. It begs for food, like, and it mithers the old folk a bit. But . . . er . . .’

  ‘But-er what?’

  ‘They keep smiling at one another. I’ve noticed that a fair few times. Always smiling.’

  ‘Him and the dog?’

  ‘No. Him and her.’

  Enid delivered another of her famous snorts. ‘Who’d look at him? Can you imagine Dave with a woman?’

  Mary shrugged. Dave was a bit overweight, but he wasn’t ugly, and he was a lovely man. ‘They’ve always got on,’ she ventured tentatively. ‘He’s not a bad bloke, Enid.’

  ‘Nor should he be. I raised him, didn’t I? But he’s chapel, and chapel doesn’t mix with Roman. Anyway, she’s no bloody oil painting either. She’s not what you’d call a beauty, Philly Gallagher. Her mam was plain, and her grandma, too.’

  Mary decided to shut up. Compared to Enid, Mary judged herself to be a gentle soul, though everyone knew she was capable of giving as good as she got. She’d never met anyone quite like Enid Barker. Enid seemed to hate just about every soul in the village, and her own son looked to be top of her list. ‘Will I make a brew?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye. And I’ll have a couple of arrowroot biscuits – they aren’t too bad on my sugar. I’m bad with melegs today, have to be careful what I eat. Bloody diabetes. Type one, I am – had it nearly all my life.’

  While Mary made tea, she wondered whether Enid had ever used the words please, thank you or sorry. Mary wasn’t renowned for politeness, especially when it came to her opinion of her daughter-in-law, but she’d never been as nasty as Enid seemed to be. Had she done the right thing by deciding to move in here? Reluctantly, she had to believe that she had, because the grandchildren were too many, too noisy and too near her bedroom in her son’s house. But Enid was a big pill to swallow. She moaned all the time, and never had a good word for anybody.

  They sat drinking tea. ‘When’s the drama kicking off?’ Enid asked. ‘This stupid society they’re supposed to be starting.’

  ‘In a couple of days, I think. Why?’

  ‘You should go.’

  ‘Me?’ cried Mary. ‘What the bloody hell could I do in drama? Can you see me as Lady Macbeth or the back end of a pantomime horse? I’m well past all that.’

  Enid nodded. ‘They want people as can sew and make costumes. Then some poor bugger has to sit at the side with the book in case they forget their lines. There’s all kinds of jobs. You could keep an eye out for me. You’d hear all the latest in that school hall.’

  Mary sighed. The sooner that wheelchair turned up, the better. Though Mary would have to push the damned thing, she supposed. Weren’t there chairs with motors? With one of those, Enid Barker might be able to do her own spying. ‘I’ll go, then. But if I don’t like it, I’ll not go again. I don’t like shoving myself in where I’m not needed.’

  Something in Mary’s tone told Enid to shut up, so she shut up. People were not as easily manipulated as they used to be. They didn’t listen to sense any more, were no longer open to ideas or suggestions. Used to her placid son, the old woman was not pleased about having to moderate her demands. This was her flat, and Mary Turnbull should be doing as she was asked, but there was no point in over-labouring the drama society thing.

  The main problem for Enid was that things just weren’t the same any more. She needed her son, though she would never admit that to herself. It had been more fun with him around, because he was vulnerable. On the outside, he was a strong, stocky man, but she had been able to get to him. Even when he made no reply or pretended not to hear her, she could tell by his stance, by the back of his neck or the curl of a hand, that she was affecting him. Mary was different. She was a woman and she was stronger. More than anything, Eni
d wanted Dave back. He would come back. Wouldn’t he?

  ‘That cuppa all right for you, love?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Lovely.’ Her flatmate would go to the initial meeting. For now, that would have to be enough. ‘I wish that wheelchair would hurry up.’

  Mary nodded. ‘I was just thinking the same thing myself. And I wondered about them motorised ones – you’d have to keep it downstairs, but you could get anywhere you wanted with one of those.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ snapped Enid. ‘Now that my own son’s abandoned me, I suppose I’m going to need all the help I can get.’

  Mary sipped her tea. The only thing that amazed her was the fact that Dave had stayed for so long. Would she stay? Could she tolerate the drip, drip, drip of something caustic on a daily basis? Time would tell, she supposed. Meanwhile, when her tea was finished, she would go downstairs in search of more pleasant company.

  Dave’s clothes were hanging quite loosely. At last, he was losing weight, because Skippy needed to be walked. In spite of the loss of a limb, the young bitch loved her daily exercise. She also liked the shop and all the people who visited it, especially those who slipped her a bit of sandwich or scone on the sly. She was hard to resist when it came to looking hungry, but Tim Mellor had stressed that she must not put on weight. ‘You’ll be on a diet soon,’ Dave advised his pet. Then he told Philly, ‘I’ll have to be going for some new things soon, though I don’t want to spend a lot, because I’m not halfway there yet.’

  She smiled to herself. She, too, was losing weight, and it was amazing, since neither of them seemed to be suffering any great pangs of hunger. ‘Bolton Market,’ she told him. ‘Couple of shirts, a pair of trousers – you’ll get by until you’ve lost the rest. You don’t need to go mad, and I may be able to alter some of the stuff you already have.’

  He chuckled. ‘We’re doing great, aren’t we, Philly?’

  ‘We are. Come on – Skippy wants her evening walk. We’ll take her behind the church, because it looks like it’s thinking about raining, so we don’t want to go up into the hills.’ Exercise was vital, because the young Lab ate like a horse and would soon be the size of one if care wasn’t taken.

  Moving as one person, they swapped slippers for shoes, put on lightweight, waterproof jackets, called the dog. She stood in front of them, tongue extended and quivering as she panted her excitement. Philly fastened lead to collar, stood straight and found herself looking into Dave Barker’s eyes.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked. Her face was flushed, while frown lines between her eyes told him that something or other was afoot.

  ‘Yes.’ Of course she was all right. Or was something showing in her face – did she look guilty? She hadn’t done anything, not really. Like Dave, she needed new clothes; unlike Dave, she had allowed herself to be persuaded in the direction of fashion, but he hadn’t seen any of the catalogue things. And she could send them back to the company if she changed her mind. Some of the items were . . . not exactly racy, but a far cry from anything she had ever bought in her whole life. She was forty-three. She was still blushing. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Before it starts to rain.’ Busying herself with the excited animal, she opened the door and stepped out.

  They crossed the village green, each aware that the eyes of Enid Barker were boring into them. If looks could kill, Dave thought, he and his companion would be pools of grease on the path. ‘She never leaves that window,’ he said. ‘Sitting there taking the mickey out of everybody – and that’s on a good day. Mostly, she moans and curses us all. I’ve wondered all my life what the hell it is she gets out of hurting people – mostly me.’

  ‘Take no notice of her,’ ordered Philly. ‘We’re doing nothing wrong.’

  Behind the presbytery, they heard banter passing from Father Walsh to Lily Latimer and back again. They were clearing part of the garden, and he was obviously the labourer, while she was acting foreman.

  ‘If you lop any more off, it’ll be a bush, not a tree,’ cried the female voice. ‘I’d like to see you making chips – I bet there’s more peel than potato when you’re let loose with a knife.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he called. ‘And if a job’s worth doing—’ This reply was cut short.

  ‘You’re going to fall if you don’t stop playing the fool,’ Lily shouted. ‘Just be careful, because my insurance doesn’t cover mad clergymen.’

  ‘I am not playing the fool – I am a fool. Or I wouldn’t be up here trying to be the Texas chainsaw massacre-ist. This isn’t easy, you know. The ground is very uneven just here.’

  ‘Just don’t saw the bough your ladder’s leaning on,’ was Lily’s answer. ‘You’re getting more like a Buster Keaton film by the minute. Forget the Texas thing, you’re definitely Keystone Cops.’ A door slammed.

  ‘Well,’ muttered Dave. ‘They seem to be getting on like a house afire.’

  Philly was of the same opinion, though she found nothing to say on the subject. If her parish priest had decided to stray, it was none of her business, and he would have to deal with his soul via his own confessor. He and Lily Latimer would have been well suited had he not taken Holy Orders.

  Skippy had spotted a rabbit and was hopping along behind the frightened animal. Philly called her name, and the dog came back immediately. Skippy was well fed, and therefore obedient.

  The rain began very suddenly, pouring from a leaden sky, huge drops at first, then a steady stream that soaked them both right through to the skin. ‘Waterproof?’ scoffed Dave. ‘Ridiculous. I’m fair witchered.’

  Philly smiled. The old Lancashire word probably came from ‘wet-shod’, and it was certainly appropriate on this occasion. She re-fastened lead to collar, then began to run past the back of the presbytery, the graveyard and the end of Rose Cottage’s garden.

  When they reached home, Dave panting slightly from unusual exertion, each started to laugh at the other. Philly’s hair, which had been newly coiffed and coloured at Pour Les Dames, dripped all over her face like lengths of dark, soggy string. Dave took off his jacket, opened the front door and wrung the item out in the fashion of an old washerwoman from days long gone. ‘There’s rain and there’s rain,’ he commented. ‘But this rain is filled with bad intentions. God’s emptying His watering can. Why does it always have to be Lancashire?’

  Philly went off to dry the dog and set the kettle to boil, while Dave climbed the stairs and changed into pyjamas and dressing gown. There was no point in wearing proper clothes, as he had no plans to set foot outside on a night as determinedly bad as this one had decided to become.

  When Philly had taken her turn upstairs and Dave had poured the tea, they sat in armchairs near the fireplace. Philly turned on a little halogen heater that she used in summertime when the weather turned inclement – it was not worth lighting a real fire, as she explained to her lodger.

  Dave drank his tea. ‘You know, Philly, this is the first time in my life that I’ve been happy.’

  ‘Me too.’

  The following few minutes were spent trying to avoid each other’s eyes. Neither was used to announcing feelings; neither was used to having anyone who cared about those feelings. Dave washed dishes in the kitchen while Philly talked to the dog. She wanted Dave to stay for ever, and she wanted him to be more than just a lodger. That was a frightening realization. She stood up and hung wet clothes on a maiden near the heater.

  He came in. ‘Philly?’

  ‘What?’

  Dave sat down in his chair. It was his chair. Right from the start, each had known where to place him or herself in relation to the other. It was as if they had been together for twenty years or more. ‘I don’t know how to put it,’ he began. He was afraid that she would throw him out, because the words he needed to use might well offend her Catholic sensitivities beyond endurance.

  ‘Just say it,’ she said. ‘No matter what, just say it.’

  So he did. It all tumbled out of him in a disorganized, stupid mess, possessing neither rhyme nor reason, no framework, no bou
ndaries, no finesse. And she was fighting a smile. He couldn’t be a Catholic, but they might marry mixed, and any child would be reared within her faith. He wasn’t a good-looking chap, but he loved her. She might be too old to have children, anyway, and that would be all right, too. They got on well and they both loved the shop and they both loved Skippy. He’d never thought of himself as fit for marriage, and his mother hadn’t helped. ‘I’m certainly no Heathcliff,’ he finished.

  Philly nodded and tried hard not to look pleased. As well read as he was, she denounced in moments three of the greatest heroes in English literature. ‘Heathcliff was a sociopath,’ she said, ‘and Rochester a fool. Why try to marry an innocent governess when you’ve a killer wife locked in the roof? As for Darcy – well, he was socially inept, ill-mannered to the point of boorishness and, if Colin Firth was anything to go by, needed a damned good wash, a haircut and a shave.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dave.

  Philly stood up. ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she said. ‘And I’ll think about all this. I don’t want to spoil our friendship by saying yes or no just yet. At my age, marriage is a big step.’

  He understood, and he said so.

  Philly ran upstairs like an eighteen-year-old. She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Dave was a lovely man, one of the best people she had ever met. He was kind, generous, thoughtful and intelligent. She was happy working in his shop, was even happier sharing her home with him and Skippy. He’d looked so worried when he’d said all that – could she leave him lying awake all night and wondering what she would say, what she would do?

  At just before midnight, she slipped out of bed, walked past the bathroom door and let herself into Dave’s bedroom. Even in the darkness, she knew he was awake, because his breathing quickened as soon as she went in.

  ‘Philly?’ he whispered.