Uphill All The Way

by Sue Moorcroft

  Judith couldn't resist taking her literally. 'Actually, I can. I wish you wouldn't talk as if I need your permission or approval. The days when Mum used to put you in charge of me have gone.'

  'Pity.'

  'Come off it, Molly - !'

  'I'm just thinking about Mum.'

  Judith sighed, and drank half her lager in one swill, instead of making it last as she normally did when she was driving. 'I'm aware that I handled it badly. I didn't think she'd take it quite so hard,' she admitted gloomily.

  Molly picked up the menu as the red-haired teenager returned with his pad and pen, and ordered chicken and chips. 'I'm afraid she's well aware that she's old,' she said, when he'd returned to the kitchens. For once she didn't sound judgmental or bossy. Just sad. 'Every time she sees you, she'll upset herself over whether it's the last time.' She held up her hand. 'And I know that the same could apply wherever you lived - but when you're in Lavender Row you're only ten minutes from her. Malta, in Mum's mind, is an unconceivable distance away. She can no longer grasp the reality of it, a little country in the middle of a big sea. The longer you're away, the further it seems, to her. And don't waste your breath trying to convince me otherwise. I've had three years of being cheerfully comforting when all she wants is to see you!'

  Judith sank into guilty silence.

  Molly unrolled her cutlery from the paper napkin to inspect it for watermarks. 'How much was that purse?'

  Judith groaned. 'Eighteen pounds.'

  Molly burst out laughing, schadenfreude diverting her momentarily from worrying about her mother. 'Eighteen? And you've got orders for five more? You'll have to pretend they've sold out, won't you? Eighteen pounds!'

  Finishing the rest of her drink, Judith shrugged. 'I wouldn't buy them the same as Mum, you know what she's like, it'll take the shine off for her if everyone gets the same. I'll get them the smaller size. They're only eleven.'

  'That's still fifty-five pounds!'

  'Well, I'm not disappointing them!' Suddenly, Judith wanted to cry. At the thought of those old ladies watching other people's visitors and waiting for their wonderful one pound purses?

  Or was the indigestible lump of emotion lodged in her throat at the memory of Wilma trying to hide her tears?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  But it was a week until the tears finally fell.

  They'd been to take pix of twin brothers who'd married twin sisters, and now the sisters were each expecting babies - single births, disappointingly - during the summer.

  A magazine was doing a feature on this convoluted family branch, and intended follow-ups in one year and two years, keen to see how alike or unlike the children would prove to be.

  The shoot had been an easy one, and they were home by mid-afternoon with the images downloaded for Adam to look at the next day.

  Judith shut the machine down. 'I've got the ingredients at home for a Thai green curry, fancy joining me?'

  'You get me where I'm most vulnerable. You know I love Thai curry.'

  'Play you at paper-rock-scissors for who's going to cook it?'

  Adam studied his right hand thoughtfully. 'I'll be OK so long as you don't notice I can only make a rock.'

  Judith grinned. 'Don't try that stuff on me - we'll both play left-handed.'

  Adam still lost, leaving him to cook a curry in an iron wok in Judith's kitchen, while, free of domestic responsibility, Judith switched on her computer to download her e-mails. She clicked on send and receive, and watched four messages download. A message from Richard. One from Microsoft. And from her book club. Then an unfamiliar electronic address.

  Kierycakeeater@yahoo.co.uk.

  It was a moment before it made sense, a moment of her mind hunting for the right memory to tune into, like a hound circling for the scent. Kiery Cake Eater. And the words kicked her heart into a gallop.

  That silly nickname, used only between her and Kieran in the days when Kieran was a child and life was simple and Judith was always aware of her son's whereabouts and that he was safe, her greatest problem likely to be how to prevent him from sneaking a third slice of cake from the fridge. She had a sudden vision of playing a silly, raucous game of chase around Tom's sprawling house, she roaring, troll-like, 'Where is Kiery Cake Eater?'

  Kieran, breathless from giggles and the delicious panic of the pursued, 'Eating all the cake!'

  The scalding tears welled as she fumbled over the two simple clicks it took to open the message. She had to swipe them away before she could read.

  Hey Mum. Me and Beth are fine. We live in a house we rent from a bloke. I got a job and Beth's doing her A2s at a college next year, so she can go to uni. She's temping till then.' Impatiently, she used her sleeve against her eyes again. 'Sorry I haven't been in touch, I could've e-mailed u earlier, but we needed 2 get our heads round things. You know how it is. U know how it is! Clearing off and coping on your own is sometimes the only way. I know all the things u r going 2 ask, so I'll save you the bother. 1) Yes, Bethan sent a letter to her parents, so they know she's ok. But she posted it when we went away on a coach for a day so they won't know where she is. 2) Leaving was her plan, but I wanted the same. 3) No, I haven't contacted Dad. If you want to tell him I'm ok, that's up 2 u. He'll be completely peed at me, anyway. C u again, luv luv luv, Kieran.

  Judith wiped her cheeks with the backs her hands, and then dried her hands on her jeans. C u again! It didn't matter so much when. Just so long as it happened. So long as she knew he was safe, and one day she'd see his brown hair sticking up at the front and his lip creasing when he smiled.

  Shaking, she began to type a reply, careful to let him know how much she loved him, how much it meant to hear from him and know him to be out of harm's way. Not giving even a hint that her cheeks were wet and her fingers rubbery with emotion, as she ended: I shall certainly let Dad know that you're OK, darling. He was distraught when you left. I'm glad Bethan wrote to her parents, they must've been so relieved... any chance of you doing the same for Dad? Please? Tons of love forever, Mum xxxxxxxxxxx

  And then Adam was beside her, sliding his arms around her and pulling her head onto his shoulder, not asking any questions, just stating, gruff with dismay, 'I don't like it when you cry.'

  But she only sobbed harder. 'He's OK! Adam, he's OK! He's living in a rented house and he's got a job...'

  He rocked her while relief shook through her, stroking her hair and letting her tears soak his shirt while the curry stuck and burnt, and the rice he'd been watching like a mother with a baby, boiled dry.

  They ordered a takeaway while the pans containing the ruins of Adam's green curry steeped in hot soapy water.

  Adam watched as she ladled rice from The Oriental Garden - never as fluffy as his - and creamy yellow korma out of the foil cartons and onto hot plates. 'Are you going to ring him?'

  'Him' meant Tom. She blew on a steaming, fragrant spoonful of curry that she was suddenly ravenous for, but which scorched her lip when she approached it. 'He'll hang up on me.'

  Adam nodded, annoyingly managing a spoonful of succulent chicken and plump sultanas as if it wasn't hot at all. 'And if you knock on his door?'

  Judith sucked air into her mouth in inelegant whoops as she put the curry sauce in anyway, and it stung her tongue. 'Big risk of having door slammed in my face. I'll have to write the stupid man a letter.'

  'Perhaps he'll thaw. He'll realise that you didn't have to put yourself out to give him information about Kieran.'

  Blowing gustily on her second spoonful, she shook her head. 'Not Tom. He bears a grudge. But at least if he doesn't want anything to do with me I won't have to worry about him any more. It'll be a relief in a way.'

  'You haven't had to worry about him since you separated.'

  'True. Maybe I should've accepted that sooner.' Then she added, honestly. 'I hope Kieran does write to him, though, and that they make up at some time in the future. Tom's later years ought to be happier than they are.'

  He cracked open a cold can
of Strongbow, and shared it between their two glasses, his eyes exasperated. 'I hope you still worry about me when I'm as old and grouchy as Tom.'

  'Of course.' She took the glass up and toasted him. 'To the coming of your grouchy old age.'

  He clinked his glass with hers. 'But not too soon.'

  Old age that was occasionally grouchy had already come to Judith's mother.

  Judith was glad Adam was with her, because Wilma wasn't in one of her sunnier moods. She was waiting for them in her pink-and-white room, rather than in the lounge, her walking frame before her chair like a barrier.

  Her first words were, 'Did you get them purses?'

  Judith was ready for the question. Experience told her that Wilma wouldn't want the shine being taken off her lovely - cheap - new purse by her companions getting newer ones the same. Petty jealousies and one-upmanship seemed to feature large in communal living. 'Well, I have, but they're not as nice as yours.' She displayed five purses without the section for cards or the stitchery design on the front that Wilma's boasted. 'Do you think the ladies will mind?'

  Wilma took a purse in swollen hands, turning it over and unzipping compartments with stiff fingers. 'I'm sure they won't have to! Goodness me, if they send you out for their shopping they'll have to put up with what you bring them, won't they, duck?' And then, 'Smaller than mine, aren't they? Same price?'

  Judith agreed that they were, feeling that one more lie in the Great Purse Deceit was scarcely important.

  Wilma looked sharply at Adam. 'You haven't put a pound coin in all of these, have you?'

  Looking slightly surprised but forbearing to enquire why the devil he should, Adam confirmed that he hadn't.

  'Ten pee in each, that's all.' Judith dropped the purses back in the carrier. 'Shall I hand these out, or will you?'

  Wilma looked suddenly much mollified. 'I will, duck, to save you the bother.'

  Hiding her grin, Judith handed the carrier over, knowing Wilma wouldn't be able to resist reminding all her friends that they must remember to thank Judith.

  'So,' Wilma turned to Adam. 'You're letting her go off back to Malta, then?'

  Adam raised a rueful eyebrow. 'I'm afraid I have no power to let her or prevent her.'

  Rattling her dentures around her mouth, Wilma looked thoughtful. 'I thought you might have. Will you try?'

  He raised both eyebrows this time, and seemed to consider carefully. 'I don't think there would be much point.'

  Wilma sighed. 'No, there never was.' She shook her head dolefully, folding her hands. 'But you're going with her, aren't you?'

  'For a couple of weeks.'

  'You're a good man. I hope she'll let you look after her.'

  'Shouldn't think so.'

  As there was only one chair apart from Wilma's, Judith perched on the corner of Wilma's bed, listening with rising irritation to this discussion of her behaviour. 'I have lived in Malta before, it's a safer environment than Brinham,' she pointed out.

  Wilma lifted her stick and used it to push her Zimmer aside. 'Do you miss Kieran?' she demanded.

  Taken by surprise at Wilma's swerve to another subject, Judith hesitated. She hadn't told her mother that Kieran and Beth had run off, wishing to be in possession of a happy ending in the form of hard information of Kieran's whereabouts first. Kieran's visits had always been sporadic, so Wilma hadn't complained about not seeing him lately. 'Yes,' she agreed, cautiously.

  'I know about him and his young lady doing a moonlight.' Wilma ruminated over her dentures again. 'He came to say goodbye.'

  Distantly, the rattling of the cocoa trolley beginning its evening circuit could be heard, and the loud and clear voices of the carers talking to other residents. But in Wilma's room the hush swelled until Judith's ears buzzed with the pressure. 'I see.' Her voice somehow sounded as if she were under water.

  She minded, she realised, with a rush of hot anger. She minded that Wilma had seen Kieran to say goodbye, when Judith hadn't. Dimly, she was aware of Adam leaving the room, of the murmur of his voice, of him returning with cocoa for three. Automatically, she let him pass her a cup and saucer. The crockery used by The Cottage had a matte feel to it that she disliked, and now it positively set her teeth on edge as she sipped to ease her rigid throat.

  Wilma took saucer in one hand and cup in the other. 'He told me about the baby. Poor little dot, wasn't he? Poor, poor little dot.'

  Judith's voice seemed to be coming from someone else. 'And what did you say to him?'

  The light reflected off Wilma's glasses. 'I told him how much you'd miss him, duck. Have you heard from him?'

  'Yes.' Judith swallowed more of the milky cocoa. 'Did he tell you where he was going?'

  'Back to Sheffield.' Wilma said it as if there should be an 'of course' at the end of the sentence.

  The cocoa was gone and Judith felt sick. It had been too milky, too sweet. Kieran hadn't trusted her enough to tell her where he was going to live. Of course, Sheffield, where he'd been at university and knew the area, had friends, was an obvious choice. Easy for him to organise accommodation and a job. Why had she never thought of it? And what possible use was the information now that she had it?

  In the darkness of the car Adam delayed starting the engine, and took her hand instead. 'He may have been trying to protect you. He knew his father's temper, he probably felt that you'd be more comfortable facing Tom if you genuinely didn't know where he'd gone.'

  'You're probably right,' she agreed, dully.

  'I don't think Wilma realised she might hurt your feelings.'

  'Probably not.' It was raining now, the droplets on the windscreen shattering the car park lights into fragments in the navy blue evening.

  His thumb stroked her knuckles. 'I think she was just hinting that she'll miss you in the same way that you miss Kieran.'

  'I expect so,' she muttered, by way of variation. She knew the leaden emptiness of missing someone. The way you got used to it, learnt to live around an absence.

  'She's bound to miss you. So will Molly. And so will I.'

  'I'm only going for a recce, that's all. If I decide to live there again it'll take time to organise.'

  His breath came out in a heavy sigh, steaming up the windscreen. 'I suppose...' He considered his words, then began again. 'I suppose none of us can see quite what would keep you here. We feel the "recce" is just a formality. You're humouring us.'

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Adam pulled up outside Judith's house, where the windows were dark, as usual.

  She screwed up her eyes and stared across the street. 'Hell's blood, is that Tom waiting in his truck?'

  He followed her gaze. 'Looks like it. Shame. I quite liked it when he wasn't speaking to you.' His tone of voice told her that he wasn't entirely joking.

  They listened to the hiss of the rain, the warmth generated by the heaters quickly seeping away. The rain increased, until the hiss became a grumble. Grudgingly, Adam offered, 'I can stay out of earshot while you talk to him.' The inference being that he intended to remain within eyesight.

  Judith unfastened the seat belt and let it slither over her shoulder. 'Let's make a run for the door. If he spots us, I suppose we'll have to let him in.'

  'Run quickly, then.'

  But he did spot them.

  By the time Judith had jiggled the key in the lock and Adam had hit the door to make it open, Tom was on the garden path behind them, huddled against the sting of the rain.

  Switching on the hall light and hanging her wet coat over the newel post, Judith faced Tom in the hall while Adam went down the passage to the kitchen, discreet but not out of sight. 'Not cutting me dead, tonight?' Judith challenged.

  Rain dripped from the peak of Tom's navy baseball cap with the name of a builders' merchant embroidered on the front. He ignored her question. 'Do you know where he is?'

  'He didn't tell me.'

  In the kitchen, Adam coughed.

  Tom scowled. 'I suppose it's too much to ask that we do this priva
tely?'

  Judith folded her arms. 'Yes, actually.'

  He stepped closer to loom over her. 'Did he phone, or write? Where's the letter?'

  She felt her temper rising. 'Get out of my face! You really are lacking in all manners and grace!' she challenged. 'Leave my house, or allow me to breathe.'

  Another glower, but Tom stepped back.

  She let enough silence elapse to annoy him. Then, 'I can't tell you more than I have. He contacted me. He gave me permission to let you know he's all right. That's it.'

  In the kitchen, the kettle bubbled to the boil, and clicked off. Adam turned the pages of a newspaper as loudly as it was possible to turn them, lounging against the kitchen worktop. Tom removed his sullen stare from Judith and narrowed his eyes in Adam's direction. 'Do I have to worry about him?'

  'In what way?' Judith hadn't quite meant to inject the astonishment that coloured her voice.

  He turned his angry eyes back to her. 'Are you together? A couple? An item?'

  She laughed. 'Mind your own bloody business! The days when who I slept with was your concern are long gone! Very long gone, you ridiculous arse!' She turned to glance at Adam, to find that he had lifted his head, and was staring at her.

  'I don't like the way he hangs around,' Tom persisted, obstinately.

  Adam snapped the paper shut. 'I was just thinking the same about you.'

  With an exasperated tut, Judith shoved past Tom and yanked open the door. 'Well, I like him hanging around,' she snapped. 'Good night, Tom.'

  On Thursday, she accompanied Adam to shoot pix of Podraig Mahoney, a man who kept losing his short-term memory and had to be constantly reminded of his surname. He was highly reliant on his dark-eyed wife, Loraine, because if he left the house for too long alone, he forgot his route home.

  He treated his highly unusual and frustrating condition with humour, and had to be constantly reminded not to smile into camera, as the magazine wanted a pensive mood to the piece.