The Reading Room

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘He’s looked after Leanne,’ whispered Diane.

  ‘I know, love. I know he has.’

  The man stumbled, righted himself against the graveyard wall, slipped off a shoe and emptied from it some foreign object.

  ‘He is funny,’ Diane admitted.

  Enid nodded. ‘You should see him in a corset.’

  A streak of humanity shot onto the green. When it ground to a halt, it was seen to own auburn curls and a small girl. ‘Babs and Cassie,’ remarked Diane unnecessarily. ‘Is Pete at work?’

  ‘I suppose so. Look at her.’ Babs left Cassie with Valda, Philly and Sally, ran towards Hope House, came back with a colouring book, ran again, stopped, returned with Cassie’s juice. Enid sighed. ‘It’ll be a rum do with her, Eve and Chas in charge. They couldn’t organize a riot in Strangeways. Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Mike?’ Diane shrugged. ‘He’s in the house. I suppose I’d better get ready.’

  ‘A cardy will do,’ Enid called to her disappearing friend. ‘Too hot for a coat. And don’t start skriking.’ She paused. ‘That’s Lancashire for crying.’

  Diane presented herself for inspection. ‘Will I do?’

  Enid nodded. ‘Aye, you’ll pass muster. Go on. Get gone with you. I’ll still be here when you get back.’

  The door closed behind Diane, and Enid wiped her face. She wasn’t weeping. It was sweat, wasn’t it? She watched while her lodger crossed the road and entered Hope House. After a few moments Diane and Mike emerged, got into Mike’s car and drove off in the direction of Bolton.

  Then it all began. Sally was left to mind three babies in prams and one small girl who was trying to colour the village green red. Wax crayons made little impression, so there was no danger of too much change in that area. But the rest of Eagleton was a flurry of poorly coordinated activity.

  Chas, Eve, Babs, Philly, Valda and Dave struggled with bunting, strings of coloured lights and home-made signs. Chas had to do all the climbing up ladders, and he made a poor fist of fastening items to street lights and telegraph poles, but it was fun to watch. Enid’s laugh made its way up rusty pipes before bursting out of her body and into the room. She hadn’t howled like this in years; the scene below was funnier than anything ever produced by Buster Keaton or the Keystone Cops.

  They had to be quick, because the people for whom the surprise was being arranged were no more than five miles away. On a whim, Enid picked up her phone. She nursed not the smallest hope of preparations being completed satisfactorily, so she stepped in. ‘Listen, love, you keep them there for as long as you can,’ she begged. ‘Because they’re making a right pig’s breakfast here.’ She paused. ‘Well, I don’t know what you must do, do I? Just . . . oh . . . give them some advice, some lists about how to do stuff . . .’ Chas Boswell was wrapped in flex and light bulbs. ‘Look, there’s a bloke here going to be electrified if we don’t shape. Right. Right. That’s the ticket. Thanks.’

  She put down the instrument and leaned through the open window. ‘Oi!’ she yelled. ‘You’ve an extra ten minutes, so buck up. It’s like watching a bloody Charlie Chaplin film. And that sign’s not straight.’

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. If she didn’t stare at them, they might do better. And the above-mentioned pig might fly to its breakfast . . .

  As soon as Diane Chalmers entered the room, Leanne passed Matthew to her. ‘There you go, Grandma,’ she said softly. ‘He won’t break.’

  ‘So tiny,’ remarked Diane. A tear ploughed a lonely furrow down a careworn cheek.

  ‘Tiny?’ Leanne pretended to frown. ‘He was a bag and a half of sugar when he was born. He’s huge now. Aren’t you, Matthew?’

  Mike lingered in the doorway and surveyed the scene. Only his beloved wife could hand her child over to a woman whose son had killed this baby’s half-brother. Only Leanne seemed blessed with sufficient generosity of heart to blame no one for anything. He swallowed hard and walked to the window.

  It had been hell. Leanne had spent months in the unit, monitors and drips attached, blood pressure gauge always in situ, people forbidding her to worry, sometimes not allowing her to walk, always watching, taking blood, testing, scanning, listening to her belly. Had he heard the word placenta one more time, he would have screamed.

  They had delivered Matthew by section at thirty-three weeks. Leanne had refused to leave him, and had remained with the Augustinian sisters until this very day. She was brave, strong, wonderful and adorable. As for his son – well – he was definitely a fighter. Right from the start, the baby had gripped his father’s finger every time it had made its way into the incubator.

  ‘Mike?’

  He turned to look at her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you carry my bags, please?’

  A nun rushed in. She stared hard at her little upside-down watch and began to gabble in a thick Irish brogue. ‘Now, you know not to overfeed, don’t you?’

  Leanne nodded.

  ‘And,’ continued Sister Bridget seamlessly, ‘we’ve written down a few bits and bobs and found some interesting items that say about development and suchlike and so forth.’ She looked at the watch once more. ‘Now, you’re to treat him just like any other baby, but a few weeks younger than he actually is when it comes to the picking and choosing of clothing and what have you, and he may wean a bit later than usual. Now, I had a thought, and—’

  Leanne wondered whether Bridget was going to start every sentence with the word ‘now’.

  ‘—don’t be wrapping him up too tight, for he’s better upholstered in himself than most prems at this stage.’

  Mike raised an eyebrow and Leanne fought a giggle. Had their son just been compared to part of a three-piece suite?

  ‘Out of the sun, of course,’ the nun continued. ‘And . . . er . . .’ She glanced at the watch once more. ‘I wonder would Mrs Chalmers bring him to the office so we can all say goodbye? He’s been such a blessing and a treasure, and we’ll miss him sorely, so we will . . .’ The voice faded into the corridor as nun and adoptive grandmother left the room.

  Mike sank into a chair while Leanne stretched out on her bed. She would be glad to leave behind all this clinical whiteness, found herself longing for colour, sound and texture out there in the real world.

  ‘You all right, darling?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. I just want to get the hell out of here.’

  Mike smiled. He knew what they were all up to back in Eagleton. Chas had been flustered for two days, bunting had disappeared from beneath the school hall stage, and there wasn’t a coloured bulb to be found in the whole village. Would Leanne want a fuss? He looked at her. She wouldn’t mind as long as she got a decent cup of tea. Her gifts were many, yet her needs were few and simple. The nun was in on the surprise; she was stalling them because someone had phoned to request it.

  At last, they made their escape. When the baby was in his safety harness and the grandmother had settled next to him, the new mother and father got into the front of the car. Leanne found herself almost overwhelmed by the outside – so many shades of green along the road to Eagleton, so many different colours of cars, doors, flowers in gardens. Everything was bright and beautiful, but Matthew would soon be hungry.

  WELCOME HOME signs stretched across shop fronts, while almost every resident had crowded onto the green to welcome home the youngest member of their community. As soon as the car came round the corner, applause rang out. Skippy, with a blue bow on her collar, waited at the gate of Hope House.

  It had all been leaked, of course. A news crew approached Leanne as soon as she stepped out of the car. Diane took the baby indoors while Mike remained on hand if his wife should need him.

  ‘How are you?’ asked a journalist. ‘How’s the baby?’

  ‘Fine,’ she answered, looking not at them but at Enid in her wheelchair, her son and daughter-in-law by her side. She smiled at Eve and Chas, at Babs, at the vet and at a very happy Labrador. ‘It’s good to be home,’ she said into the mike.

&n
bsp; ‘And Mr Walsh?’ came the next question.

  Leanne sighed. ‘As well as can be expected. Now that the baby’s born, we have the full grid for noughts and crosses.’ She tried not to smile when the man looked puzzled. ‘But I have to tell you this,’ she said. With the air of one looking for interlopers, she glanced over her shoulder. ‘There is no such thing as a perfect man. He is absolutely hopeless with ironing boards.’ With that, Mrs Leanne Walsh turned on her heel and walked into the house.

  Mike followed her. ‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ he told her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I fixed it.’

  She stared very hard at the man she adored. ‘You fixed it?’

  ‘Yes. Well, sort of. There was a bit of plastering, so I had to get an expert in after the brickie had mended the wall. Then the tiler did his bit. Oh, a painter made good, and . . .’

  ‘And?’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, I bought you a new ironing board.’

  She hit him with her handbag and pushed him into the kitchen.

  Acknowledgements

  I thank Gill Currie, who keeps my household ticking over – she has the common sense with which I was never endowed.

  Also cheers to a certain young man who spent some weeks at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Walton, our local prison, where the guards are nowhere near as cruel as they are painted herein.

  Thanks to Billy Guy, Cassie, Tilly, Fudge and Treacle. Billy is not a Labrador, but the rest are.

  Special gratitude to Avril, my captive audience, who listens to every plot-line and absorbs every developing character. She would escape, but MS keeps her contained.

  Readers – thanks yet again.