Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  What could she explain? And supposing Joe picked up the phone, a still more drunk and bitter Joe, who might shriek at her again, use every ugly swear-word in his repertory? How would that help Luke? She couldn’t help him, could she – not in any way – despite her good intentions, her irrational assumption that she knew better than the experts, and could save a child whom they would only harm? She blushed at her own arrogance. She was completely inexperienced, not to mention ignorant, knew nothing of remedial schools, had simply jumped to rash conclusions, condemned them all as useless, with no evidence at all. She must leave Luke to the social workers, the educational officers – trained professional people who were used to handling cases as complex as his own. She could actually do him damage by her amateurish meddling, simplistic good intentions. Luke wasn’t just a separate individual, but part of a whole family, part of its very hopelessness, its problems, and it was sheer delusion to imagine she could solve those on her own. Liz herself had tried and failed, yet Liz had so much more to offer: a proper home and family, a grandson the same age, all her long experience as a mother and a home-maker.

  She sagged down on the window-seat, shivering now in the cold and draughty room. Liz had acted out of simple kindness, but her own motives were more suspect. Was she trying to seek penance still, search out worthy causes? She had suspected that last night, in fact, dismissed it far too glibly; realised only now that her training as a nun was still nowhere near totally destroyed. She would have to hack more fiercely at those remaining Brignor roots, yank them out completely; change the medieval concept of living for one’s Creator to the modern one of living for oneself She was still denying self – had spent eleven months in a house with a piano and never touched it once before today. There was irony in that. The piano was now sold, would be moved to its new owner the day after tomorrow, so she had found it only to lose it. She blessed the fact that she was moving, too, to somewhere she could play, make up for those lost and wasted months. It was sin, in Robert’s book, to let her talents shrivel, ignore her gifts, deny her strongest feelings. She must follow his advice, give expression to those feelings, display her obvious passion – not in bed, in music.

  She drifted to the mantelpiece, picked up his small bronze dragon, smiled to see its furious expression, a metal tongue of angry flame exploding from its mouth, bulbous eyes distended. She held it on her palm, stroked its sharp ridged scales. Why still chafe at Robert, when he’d given her so much, and would actually help her music by the fact he had encouraged her to dig up buried feelings, unwrap her shrouded self? Even the pain and violence of their parting had taught her something more about humanity, helped her gain maturity, rely more on herself. She realised now that suffering could have point – not as penance, or for God, but because it gave you wider sympathies, deeper understanding, and she could use those in her music.

  She returned to the piano, discarded the Haydn for no other reason than the poor man’s Christian name – picked out a Mozart Sonata which she set up on the music-rest instead. Wolfgang Amadeus. Amadeus meant ‘love God’. She would love god – the god in her, her talent, all Robert’s subtle complex gods which included art and music. She adjusted her position on the stool, tried out the opening bars, surprised again to find her hands obeyed her; elated by the vigour of the piece, its zest and sheer resilience – qualities she’d forgotten still existed. She had returned her silver ring to Mother Abbess, two severed scraps of lost and broken joy, yet here was joy intact.

  Christmas faded, the Craddocks faded. It was no longer bitter winter in a faceless London street in the dreary 1980s, but summer in Vienna two centuries earlier, Wolfgang Amadeus scribbling down these bars. Nothing was important save that she played them as he wished; nothing even existed save her fingers on the keys, that crescendo in the next line, followed by a sudden pianissimo, that marking at the top: ‘Allegro con spirito’. She’d caught the mood – the liveliness, the spirit – but the technique was still eluding her. She bungled a transition, botched a change of key, almost exploded with frustration as she heard the music limping, refusing to match the perfection of the score. It needed work – endless work – discipline and patience, total dedication. Those qualities she had; had learned them as a nun, practised them for decades as virtues in themselves; could put them to some use, at last, justify those years of arid training. Nothing would stop her now she’d returned to the piano, neither lack of time or money, nor any guilts and scruples.

  She turned back to the beginning of the Mozart, to the lively scampering figure which had slowed her down, spoilt the flow and sparkle of the piece. She cursed as she went wrong again, fingers stumbling, left hand still too feeble, even the pedalling unsubtle, overdone. She must find a proper teacher, however much it cost, start her practice the very day she arrived at Claremont College; keep playing, persevering, so that by Christmas Day next year she could sweep through this sonata as if those two dumb and silent decades had simply never been.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Hilary snipped her thread, took a final appraising glance at Emma Lawley’s wedding dress, before she returned it to its special padded hanger. She had to admit it did look rather special, modelled on an Elizabethan court gown, with elaborate sleeves, yards and yards of frothy swirling skirt. She stretched her cramped fingers, tried to ease the tension in her neck. Her whole body seemed to ache from the strain of so much close and finicky sewing. Over these last weeks, she had worked with something very close to passion, becoming more and more involved as the gown grew from paper concept into organza actuality. She had come to regard it as her own dream dress – Gloria’s dress – the one she’d never had, either for her Clothing or her almost-marriage. The bridesmaids’ dresses, too, had become part of the whole fantasy, as she’d helped Emma choose a more tasteful style and colour than her own borrowed frilled pink tulle of twenty years ago. It would be quite a wrench to hand the dresses over. She knew she’d be renouncing her last romantic dreams, her last vain hope of leaning on some stronger wiser figure, or following a Master, be he God or man.

  Yet she wasn’t miserable, had felt instead a sense of real achievement, especially last night, when she had sat up late, like half the world, to see the New Year in. She had heard laughter from next door, garbled shouts and greetings from the drunken guests who’d left at 2 a.m.; had felt no twinge of envy as she watched a second party spill over into the street from the big house opposite. She was doing what she wanted – practising the piano, finishing the dresses – almost relieved to be alone, so she could achieve so much: four hand-sewn hems, fifty fiddly buttonholes and a definite improvement in the Mozart. Anyway, at least she’d had the television to enliven things at midnight, wish her happy New Year. She’d poured herself a glass of sparkling wine, drunk to that New Year with real hope and conviction; drunk a second toast to Liz and all her circle, and a final one to Mr Humphrey Sheed.

  Mr Sheed was the new owner of the piano, a sprightly septuagenarian, whom she’d managed to charm into allowing her to keep it for an extra week. She had somehow felt a quite irrational terror that if she didn’t play again until she moved to Claremont College, her resurrected gift might simply vanish. She had told Mr Sheed a slightly different story, but at least he had accepted it, rebooked the removal van for tomorrow afternoon. The day after was completion day; her own carrier arriving to transport her bike and luggage up to Hertfordshire; all the precious things which Liz had given her, to transform her humble room – the stereo, the radio, the two framed watercolours, the old but eager sewing machine, plus the kitchen bits and pieces which she didn’t actually need, but which no one else had use for.

  Her excitement was building like Emma Lawley’s wedding nerves. She had made the last arrangements with Andy at the College, even got permission to use the college piano – not the battered one, the grand – so long as she practised when no one else required it, and not after ten at night. The piano lessons were still a source of worry. How could she afford them on her meagre wage
? Yet she’d been considering having driving lessons, to carry on where Robert had left off, and they’d be more expensive still. She’d take her test eventually – that, too, was an ambition – but music took priority, both in money and in time.

  She tidied up her sewing things, sat at the piano, began a flurry of arpeggios and scales, only stopping when the phone rang. It was probably Gill or Emma, impatient to collect the finished dresses. She picked up the receiver, tensed at the male voice – not a cultured Lawley voice, but a rough untutored bark.

  ‘You left your coat behind.’

  ‘I know.’ Her own voice became immediately defensive, hand gripping the receiver as if throttling Joe’s thick neck.

  ‘And all your Christmas presents.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Don’t you want ’ em, then?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘I could bring ’em over in my van – like now.’

  ‘No,’ The word came out like a shout, as she tried to think up some excuse, protect herself from a further dose of Joe.

  ‘It won’t be any trouble. I’ve got to fetch a set of wheels, so I’ll be passing your street anyway.’

  ‘No, really, I … I’m going out. In fact, I’m late already. I ought to leave this minute, or I’ll miss my train.’

  ‘Don’t go. Please. Don’t ring off.’

  She was astonished by the tremor in his voice, a new note of desperate pleading. Joe must be simply acting, putting on a show. ‘I’ve got to, Joe, I’m sorry. There’s this friend of mine who’s …’

  ‘Rita’s left.’

  ‘What?

  ‘Rita. She’s walked out. Last night. Took Sylvie and the cats.’

  ‘Walked out?’

  ‘Well, drove – went roaring off with Maureen in the car. They came down again last night, my daughter and her bloody brats, came to see the New Year in. Except we never saw it, did we? They was gone again by half past ten. Yeah, another fucking row, with everybody screaming and Rita quite hysterical. She’s mental, my old woman. Maureen says she’s ill, but it’s worse than that – she’s losing her marbles. I blame that hospital. She’s never been the same since they took her womb away. I reckon they took a good bit more than that …’

  ‘Where’s Luke, Joe?’

  ‘He’s here, with me. Maureen wouldn’t take him. She said Sylvie was enough. Well, I hope our fucking halfwit really gives her hell. That’s what she deserves, for winding Rita up, telling her to stick up for her rights and not take shit from me. She … She …’ The last words faltered to a halt, as if Joe were running out of steam and even fury. She heard his laboured breathing fill the gap, heard the silent fear behind the swearwords and the rage.

  ‘She’ll be back, Joe, in a day or two. She won’t leave Luke, I know.’

  ‘She’s bloody left him, ain’t she? And me. She told me she weren’t never coming back, yelled it in my face, really lost her rag and …’

  ‘Well, she was probably just upset. People often say things when they’re angry, and don’t mean half of them. Once she’s cooled down and had a day or two to rest, she’ll be on the phone to say she’s coming home.’

  ‘Not with Maureen there, she won’t. Maureen’s had it in for me for years. She’s won now, ain’t she – split me up from Rita, got her own back?’

  Hilary struggled with a ferment of emotions – selfish irritation that Joe had burst into her life again, worry over Rita, mounting fears for Luke, and a strong desire simply to put the phone down. She fought the last, tried instead to make her voice sound reasonable. ‘It’s not a question of winning, Joe. Rita really isn’t well. She’s never had a chance to get her strength back. She’ll be better for a break, a bit of convalescence, if you like, with someone else to cook and shop, and help her out with Sylvie. She’ll probably be a completely different person once she …’

  ‘And what about my cooking? Who’s going to help me out, I’d like to know? Or the lad?’

  Hilary drew her breath in. She already knew the next line, and already knew her answer. This time, she didn’t need excuses, fabrications. ‘Well, I can’t have him, Joe. It’s out of the question. I’m moving in two days and the Philpot tribe take over. I’m already half packed up. All the beds have gone, and there’s no proper furniture. I’m sleeping in a sleeping bag and living out of a suitcase.’

  ‘If you need a place, you could always move in here. I mean, it would help us both out, wouldn’t it? We’ve got half a dozen beds and so much bloody furniture we’re always tripping over it.’

  She shuddered at the thought of living in a breaker’s yard, alone with Joe and Luke. The idea was quite grotesque. ‘I’ve got a place, I told you, Joe – weeks ago, in fact – a residential job with room and board.’

  ‘Well, this could be another job, a better one. I’ll make it worth your while this time. Just tell me what they’re paying you, and I’ll up it by a tenner, and the whole lot cash in hand. I had a big win on the horses, so I’m not short of a bob or two.’

  ‘Joe, I’m sorry, it’s impossible. This job is really important. It means a lot to me.’

  ‘And I suppose my poor lad’s not important?’

  ‘Yes, of course he is. But you said yourself I wasn’t any good with children, that I’d never had any of my own and …’ She realised with a twinge of guilt that she was actually taking pleasure in throwing back his words at him, evening up the score from Christmas Day. Yet if he could blackmail her, call Luke his ‘poor lad’, to appeal to her compassion, when he’d been a ‘bloody bastard’ just last week, then he deserved what he was getting. She was worried over Luke; horrified, in fact, that now even Rita had walked out on him, but she must harden her own heart, refuse to get involved. She couldn’t help – she knew that now – had been making a real effort to cut off from the Craddocks since the hideous debacle of Christmas Day.

  She was aware of Joe’s embarrassment as he mumbled an apology. He was obviously unused to saying sorry, only doing It now so he could try to change her mind.

  ‘I said a lot of stupid things on Christmas Day. Blame it on the drink, dear. Or blame my bloody daughter. She got me all wound up, and it’s like you said yourself about people getting angry. They say things they don’t mean.’

  ‘I think you did mean some of them. And it’s true I’ve no experience of children. Your poor lad, as you call him, would be far better off in a proper family, with other children, and a normal kindly mother who knows what she’s about.’

  ‘There ain’t no fucking family like that. If my own kids won’t help me out, then how the bloody hell d’you think …?’

  ‘Joe, if you keep on swearing, I’m going to put the phone down.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It’s only bloody habit. My own Dad used them words and his Dad before him. I don’t know any other words, that’s all. But look, I’ve got a new, idea. There’s this pal of mine – Charlie – rents this shop in Tooting where they sell batteries and car parts. He owes me a favour, several favours, actually. If it wasn’t for his old pal Joe, he’d be doing a stretch in the Scrubs. But never you mind that – what’s important is he’s got this empty flat above the shop. If you take Luke, help me out till Rita’s had her little rest – it’s yours. Yes – no rent, no charge, no questions asked. You can take Luke there to start with, and when the laddie’s back with us, you just stay on, however long you want. And don’t worry about furniture. I’ll take care of that. If you’re short of beds, no problem. I can …’

  ‘I’m not, Joe. You don’t listen. I’ve already got everything I want – a bed, a room, a job, a …’

  ‘Look, a flat like that’s worth hundreds. Tell you what, I’ll throw in a colour telly, one of them big fancy ones with remote control and …’

  ‘Joe!’ She raised her voice, made it almost threatening. ‘The answer’s no. D’you understand? And I’ve simply got to go now. I was late before you rang.’

  ‘Wait, please wait! Forget about the flat. I’ll sort out something else. Fo
rget I even asked you to help out with the lad. It ain’t fair – I realise that. But just do one small thing for him. Find him a new school.’

  ‘Joe, I can’t. I …’

  ‘But you said yourself how he must go somewhere different. I mean, you made a fucking speech about it, didn’t you, as if you was up there on your soap-box – how he needed a new Head who’d give kids like him a chance, even give him love, you said, love and understanding.’

  Hilary swore beneath her breath. Now Joe was doing what she had done herself, throwing back her words at her, words which made her cringe now.

  ‘You see, I don’t want them people coming here – them snoopers from the Education whatsit – when Rita’s not at home. It don’t look good, do it? But if we moved him to another school, we could stop the whole damn – what’s the word?’

  ‘Assessment.’

  ‘Yeah, assessment. That word sounds like trouble – you told me so yourself – and I don’t want no more trouble. I’ve had enough, and so’s the boy.’

  ‘But term starts in a few days, Joe. How on earth can …?’

  ‘All the better! I’ll go and see his old Head the first day of fucking term, tell him we don’t need his school no more. And if you sort him out a new one, I’ll fix him up a place to live, okay?’

  ‘But can’t he stay at home, Joe? I mean, you’re there at the weekends, aren’t you, and almost every, evening?’

  ‘No, I’m fucking not. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to swear, but there’s no way I can have that boy at home – not without his mother there. Don’t worry, I’ll ask Les again. He’s my eldest son, married to a prize cow who trunks she’s far too good for us, but even cows can change their minds, if you make it worth their while. They live quite close, so the lad could pop back here from time to time. That way, I’ll see him, won’t I, and …?’

  It was several minutes more before Hilary managed to ring off; stood trembling by the window, her whole day and mood destroyed. What a way to start a brave New Year, struggling with this weight of guilt and anger. Joe had bawled her out on Christmas Day and was now grovelling back to ask her help. Yet how could she not give it, when Luke’s future was at stake? She must at least try to find a school for him, if only for partly selfish reasons. If she left him in the hands of some kind but firm headmaster, or perhaps a motherly headmistress who understood his problems, then she could depart for Claremont College with a distinctly lighter conscience.