by Maureen Lee
It was a signal for the memories to come pouring out. They recalled how flattered their father had been to be compared to Spencer Tracy, how much he had adored their mother, the way he had eagerly devoured the contents of the Picturegoer every week.
‘There’s hundreds, if not thousands of them, under the stairs,’ Paulette said. ‘They’d probably sell for a small fortune, but I’d prefer we kept them. We could have a few boxes each.’ She put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘Are we as happy now that we’re all in our fifties as we were then?’ she asked.
‘I’m not in my fifties,’ Judy reminded her. ‘I’m only forty-eight.’
‘OK, I’ll rephrase the question. Are we as happy now that three of us are in our fifties and our Judy’s forty-eight?’
There was silence for a while. Then Fred said, ‘Most of the time. Mavis and I have had our ups and downs, what marriage doesn’t? But all in all I’d say I’m happier. What about you, Pauly?’
Paulette made a face. ‘It wasn’t as nice living here after you’d all gone. I was beginning to think I’d end up an old maid. I was thirty when I met John and we fell in love. We had four kids in four years and I couldn’t be happier.’ She turned to her sister. ‘It’s your turn, Dot.’
‘Me?’ Dorothy shuddered. ‘I was dead unhappy when I first got married. It was a good ten years before I became resigned to Kevin’s affairs. I comfort myself with the thought that he always came back to me. Now the kids are grown up and Kevin doesn’t bother with other women. Perhaps he hasn’t got the energy. We go on holiday together. We’ve become friends more than anything. I suppose,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘you could say that I’m happy.’
Everyone turned to Judy. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she stammered when faced with three pairs of curious eyes.
‘Shall I repeat the question?’ Paulette asked.
‘No.’ Everyone else had told the truth: this wasn’t a time for lies. ‘When I married Harry,’ she began nervously, ‘I was happier than I’d thought possible. It stayed that way for years and years, but then something awful happened and everything fell apart. It’s never been the same since.’
‘So you’re the only one who’s not as happy now as when we were kids?’ Fred deduced.
‘It would seem so.’
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is Sam being gay the awful thing that happened?’
Judy caught her breath. ‘How did you know?’
‘Dad guessed that time Sam stayed here years ago. Nobody said anything, we were waiting for you to mention it first.’ Dorothy folded her arms and said, almost coldly, ‘I wouldn’t have described the thing with Sam as awful, Jude. Upsetting, maybe, but not awful. I can’t believe you let Harry throw him out – your own son. For all his faults, Kevin would never have done a thing like that.’
‘Neither would John,’ Paulette chimed in.
‘Harry was always a bit of a stuffed shirt,’ Fred said with a critical sniff. ‘He wanted his kids to grow up to be reflections of himself: nauseatingly moral and incredibly dull.’
Judy jumped to her feet. ‘I think I’ll go and sit with Dad until the ambulance comes.’
‘I’m sorry, sis. That was a bit harsh.’
‘No, Fred. It’s the truth. I’d already come to the same conclusion myself, but you phrased it better than I ever could.’
Another decade passed. When Mrs Moon died, there were no grandparents left, but by then the children had become grandparents themselves. Time was marching relentlessly onwards, arriving at the twenty-first century with the tick of the clock, a burst of fireworks, and celebrations throughout the land.
Judy and Harry spent Millennium’s Eve at Joe and Donna’s with a few old friends and Harry’s sister, Eve, and her family. Harry’s opinion of Donna had softened with the years. She had proved a loyal and supportive wife to his son, but his judgement of his other son had never altered. It was eighteen years since Sam had left home, but his name was rarely spoken in the house in Heathfield Road.
Fireworks were being let off in the garden when Donna came and squeezed Judy’s hand. ‘While everyone’s out here, I thought you might like to ring Sam from the extension in the bedroom.’
‘Thank you, love.’ Behind her rather grim exterior, Donna had a soft and tender heart and Judy had come to love her as a daughter.
‘It sounds like pandemonium there,’ she said when she got through to Sam and was met by thunderous music and a chorus of animated voices in the background. ‘Happy Millennium to you and Josh, son. You sound as if you’re having a good time.’
‘The best, Mum. How about you?’
‘We’re at Joe’s. Oh, but I wish you were here too!’ Suddenly, she wanted to weep because the whole family weren’t together on such a momentous night.
Sam chuckled. ‘You never know, by the time the next Millennium comes, Dad might have accepted he has a gay son.’
Judy said she thought it would take more than another thousand years. ‘He’s thinking of retiring, your dad: selling the business and the house and moving to a smaller place in the countryside.’
‘Do you fancy that, Mum?’
Judy shuddered. ‘No!’ There’d been a time when she would have looked forward to Harry retiring and wouldn’t have cared where she lived as long as it was with him, but now she dreaded it. ‘We haven’t really got round to discussing it properly. I’ll tell him how I feel when the time comes.’
Sam had met Josh, his long-term partner, not long after he’d arrived in London. Josh was a talented artist who made his living designing theatre sets and was rarely seen without a cigarette between his lips. He was also a brilliant guitarist. Small, as thin as a whip, with great dark eyes and a beautiful, soulful face, he and Sam loved each other very much.
When Judy went to visit her son in the summer, she was shocked at how ill Josh looked. His skin was taut over his already prominent cheekbones and his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets.
‘Is Josh sick?’ she asked Sam when they were alone.
Sam looked startled. ‘Is it noticeable?’
‘Very much so.’
‘He looks just the same to me.’ Tears began to trickle down her son’s face.
‘Oh, Sam! He hasn’t got AIDS?’
‘Gay men don’t only die of AIDS, Mum,’ Sam said a trifle impatiently. ‘Josh has lung cancer – you’ve seen the way he smokes. It’s inoperable. He’s been having chemotherapy and it takes an awful lot out of him.’
‘But he’ll get better?’ Please say he will, Judy prayed, but Sam’s reply wasn’t terribly satisfactory.
‘I hope so, Mum. I don’t know how I’ll live without Josh.’
Judy took her son in her arms. She stayed silent, unable to think of anything to say.
The chemotherapy must have worked. By the time autumn came, Josh looked much better and seemed his own self again at Christmas.
‘I didn’t mention to Sam, but he might just be in remission,’ Judy sighed next time she met Donna.
‘Have you told Harry about Josh?’ Donna enquired.
‘He wasn’t interested. Oh, I didn’t mean it to sound like that,’ she said quickly when Donna pulled a face. ‘He wasn’t interested because Josh is a man and he can’t see how it can matter half as much as it would if Josh were a woman. He can’t get his head around two men being in love. It’s not just unnatural, it’s impossible.’
‘Poor Harry,’ Donna said, smiling sadly.
Easter came and went and the house in Heathfield Road was put on the market. Judy was shocked when she returned from shopping and saw a For Sale board outside.
‘You should have discussed it with me first,’ she said crossly to Harry when she went in.
He looked surprised. ‘We discussed it on Good Friday. I thought we’d agreed.’
‘Did we?’ She couldn’t remember, too worried about Josh who was showing signs of having relapsed and was sicker now than he’d been before. ‘Did we agree on where we were going to l
ive?’
‘Well, no,’ Harry conceded. ‘We went to look at that cottage over the water in Thornton Hough. I liked it, but you thought it was too far away from Liverpool.’
‘It’s much too far. Donna tells me there’s a little estate being built right by the Mystery,’ she said eagerly. ‘It’s called Victoria Square: just seven properties and three are bungalows. Perhaps we could take a look tomorrow?’
‘No.’ Harry shook his head. ‘I’m tired, Judy.’ He briefly closed his eyes as if to prove how tired he was. ‘I want to get away from everything familiar and have some peace for a change. This house, this road, even the area, they’re all full of too many horrible memories. I want to go where I won’t be reminded of them any more.’
‘The horrible memories are of your own making, Harry,’ she told him sharply. ‘Mine are quite different. I love it around here. I don’t want to leave.’ She had a thought that made her head swim. ‘Am I part of the horrible memories, Harry?’ she asked, her voice kinder now. ‘Just like the house and the road?’ When he didn’t answer, she went on, her heart in her mouth, knowing she was about to say something that she would have once thought inconceivable, ‘Do you think it would be a good idea if we separated? You go your way, I go mine?’ There would be enough money from the house and the business to buy the cottage in Thornton Hough and a bungalow by the Mystery.
Harry didn’t answer immediately. Judy watched his blank face until it settled into an expression of relief, as if her suggestion was one he might eventually have made himself. ‘You’re right, Jude,’ he said sadly, ‘it is a good idea.’ He closed his eyes again, as if to shut out the world in which everything had gone so horribly wrong.
‘Don’t worry,’ Donna soothed. ‘You can stay with us while you buy your furniture. Joe and I won’t let you sleep on a cold, carpetless floor.’
‘I won’t need carpets, all the rooms will have wooden tiles.’
‘Then what are you worried about?’
‘I don’t know,’ Judy admitted. ‘I would have liked to keep some of our old furniture, but I let Harry have first pick and the rest is far too big.’
She glanced around the half-empty room. It was three months later, the house had been sold, Harry had already moved into his cottage across the water and, as from yesterday, the bungalow in Victoria Square, as yet unfinished, was hers.
‘You’ll be able to buy new stuff, modern,’ Donna said encouragingly. ‘I’ll come with you. It’ll be quite exciting.’
‘It’s a bit much, having to furnish a house from scratch at my age.’
‘What do you mean, at your age?’ Donna pretended to look shocked. ‘You’re not yet sixty, still in your prime.’
‘I’ll be sixty in a few weeks and out of my prime,’ Judy said fretfully.
‘Would you like a lift to Lime Street Station?’
‘No thanks, the traffic will be murder. I’ll phone for a taxi. I’d catch a bus, but that suitcase weighs a ton. There’s everything in there apart from the kitchen sink.’
‘Well, you don’t know how long you’ll be in London, do you?’
They exchanged glances, both knowing she would stay until Josh died and, after that, for as long as Sam wanted her.
‘Sam seems to think Josh is nearing the end.’
‘It’s going to be very sad for you, Judy.’
But the four weeks Judy spent in Sam’s basement flat in Islington were anything but sad. She had never before known such a joyous and uplifting time.
The room was on two levels: half buried underground at the front with French windows opening on to a small garden at the rear. Even in the brightest sunshine, the room could be dark but, that evening when Judy entered, she gasped in surprise when she saw that almost every surface was covered with candles in vividly coloured glass containers so that the room shivered and glittered on all four sides. The smell of melting wax was mixed with the musky aroma of incense and the scent of flowers.
Josh was half sitting, half lying on the settee covered with a patchwork quilt. In front of him, on the floor, a small crowd were sitting, and he looked like a king among his admiring courtiers. To Judy’s further surprise, two of the admirers were quite famous actresses. Sam whispered in her ear, ‘All Josh’s old friends are coming to say goodbye.’
‘Hi, Jude.’ Josh had noticed her arrival. He waved a weak hand. ‘Folks, this is Sam’s mum, Judy. She’s going to stay until yours truly has gone to meet his maker, aren’t you, darling?’
Judy endeavoured a smile when everyone called, ‘Hi, Judy.’ In her experience, people didn’t announce they were dying. Even when there was no possible chance of survival, the impression would be given by all concerned that there was always hope the patient would pull through.
But Josh appeared quite blasé about his imminent demise. He frequently began sentences with, ‘When I’m gone …’
The days passed. When Judy got up from the camp bed in the tiny room that had once been a scullery, people would already have arrived bringing with them more candles, more incense, more flowers, and the boxes of Turkish Delight that Josh loved. The atmosphere in the flat was almost mystical, as if pilgrims had come to witness a supernatural event. Judy asked Sam how Josh could possibly remain in such good spirits, and he replied, ‘Two reasons: firstly, he’s a Catholic, so he believes he’s going to a better place; secondly, he’s as high as a kite on marijuana.’
‘He doesn’t smoke it, surely?’ She thought of Josh’s lungs, eaten away by cancer.
Sam grinned. ‘No, Mum, he sprinkles it on the Turkish Delight. It works better than painkillers any day.’
That was the night Isabella came, a magnificent woman of about forty with pure white skin and bright red lips. She arrived very late because she was in a West End show and descended upon Josh, a bundle of black lace frills and wild black hair, arms outstretched, and gave him an enormous hug that made him wince and brought on a bout of coughing.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she cried. ‘You are a delicate flower and I’m being too rough.’ She planted a sloppy kiss on his thin cheek. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were so ill? I only heard this afternoon. I came as soon as I could.’
‘I’m not just ill,’ Josh said, almost boastfully, ‘I’m dying.’
Isabella screamed, ‘You can’t, darling. I won’t let you.’
‘Two weeks, maybe three, and I’ll be dead.’ Josh rolled his big brown eyes dramatically. ‘I’m sinking rapidly.’
This was true. In the fortnight Judy had been there, he slept more, ate less, and was sometimes too tired to speak, just watched his friends and listened to their chatter, a beatific smile on his face that seemed to be growing more beautiful as he edged closer towards death.
‘Sing to me, Isabella,’ he said now, ‘my favourite song.’
‘Where is the guitar?’
Sam fetched the guitar from the bedroom. Isabella played a few notes, then began to sing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ in a mellow contralto voice that spread like honey over the magical room with its flickering candles and heady scents.
Judy listened, entranced, letting the music and the spine-tingling ambience wash over, feeling as if her mind and her soul were being cleansed, made pure, that she would never have a bad thought again.
Isabella finished the song and began another, ‘The Streets of London.’ This time, everybody joined in. Even Josh managed to croak a few words.
True to his word, two weeks later, Josh departed from this world. By then, the postman had popped his head around the door to say goodbye, and Mr Patel from the newsagent’s had brought his last box of Turkish Delight. Judy hadn’t counted, but reckoned about two hundred people had visited the flat since she’d arrived, most coming more than once.
Isabella always arrived late. It was after midnight, she was singing ‘The Long and Winding Road’, when Sam noticed that Josh, who appeared to be asleep, hadn’t moved for a long time. Tenderly, he put his hand on his lover’s throat to feel for a pulse, looked
at his mother, and shook his head. Isabella stopped singing and began to weep. Everyone breathed a deep, concerted sigh. Perhaps it was just coincidence that a number of the candles went out, the flames flickering wildly before dying, just like Josh.
Friday
13 JULY 2001
Chapter 13
Donna came the next morning. Judy was in the kitchen examining the new units, making sure the drawers ran smoothly and the cupboards closed properly. The room was very clinical: white units, white tiles, white walls. Donna had left the ornaments and the smaller odds and ends from Sam’s flat for Judy to find places for herself. Later, she’d search for bright, colourful things for the window sill out here. She was just thinking how hard her daughter-in-law must have worked to have arranged everything so nicely, when the front door opened and Donna shouted, ‘It’s only me.’
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ Judy shouted back. ‘Oh, aren’t they lovely,’ she gasped when Donna came in and presented her with a bunch of dark red roses. ‘Thank you, love.’ She kissed her daughter-in-law fondly. ‘I’ll find a vase in a minute. You’ve worked wonders with the house. Everything is exactly where I would have put it myself.’
‘I’ve stored what was over in the second bedroom. It’s beautifully painted, the furniture,’ Donna said admiringly. She leaned against a worktop and folded her arms. On the other side of the room, Judy did the same. ‘You say Josh did it?’
‘When he first became ill, before he was bedridden. It was Sam’s idea, just to keep him occupied. You know Josh was a set designer, don’t you? Well, he painted a different backdrop on every piece of furniture: a jungle, a garden, the night sky, a desert and so on.’ Judy sighed with pleasure. ‘The place feels just like home – not Heathfield Road, but where I’ve been living for the last month or so. By the way, there were two police cars here last night. I hope it doesn’t happen often.’
‘It was probably just a one off,’ Donna said comfortingly. ‘Maybe someone ran into the square and the police chased them.’