Does he think I don’t see the dried stuff in the bed? I don’t want this good, honest, trustworthy man near my children or near me. St Jude, hear my prayer. Why is the father of Lucy and Matt having . . . those wet dream things that happen to teenage boys when their bodies are . . . developing?
I gulp down some iced water from a glass next to my bed, and lie down with my face pointing to the wall. The door opens. Go away, please go away.
‘Laura?’
He’s whispering. That’ll be for Lucy’s sake.
‘What?’ I almost growl.
‘Come downstairs,’ he says.
I hear him padding down in slippers. Brown slippers. They last two years exactly, almost to the hour. Every alternate Christmas, he asks for the same brown slippers. On the in-between Christmases, it’s a scarf or gloves or socks. He winds the grandmother clock fourteen times every evening, careful not to over-tighten the spring. When making cocoa, he pounds away at the original mix in the bottom of the mug, pours on hot milk mixed with boiling water, adds sugar, then does twenty-one stirs with the spoon. Forty-two if there are two mugs, eighty-four if the children want some too.
I’d better go downstairs.
Babs and Sal spent their last night at Meadowbank Farm in a small ground-floor spare bedroom with their luggage piled all round the walls.
‘We’ll be OK, won’t we?’ the anxious Sally asked.
‘Course we will. He’s fascinated by the idea of watching two girls making love. If he doesn’t have a heart attack, he’ll be a very happy man.’
‘I’m not sure I want anybody watching,’ the younger girl moaned. ‘And who’s going to look after them poor lads in the hut?’
‘Sorted. Go to sleep.’
Sally did as she was told, dozing with the top of her head nestling against her beloved’s neck. As she drifted towards sleep, she saw a beautiful house with beautiful gardens and lots of happy animals.
Babs had left a letter for Cynthia to give to Belle on her return. Cynthia, in spite of her broad spectrum of sexual adventures, was a thoroughly dependable girl. If she borrowed cash, she returned it; if told a secret, she sat on it. So she held the letter, and Belle would get it as soon as she returned to Meadowbank. Belle would keep an eye on the occupants of the scout hut.
The lads now had a compendium of games, some playing cards, a domino set and a dartboard with darts. Their friends brought food and cash for them, so they were safe for the time being. If anything went wrong, the boys had Don’s telephone number.
Sorted.
Six
He was sitting on the sofa, and he tapped the seat cushion next to his, inviting his wife to join him, but Laura chose to place herself in an armchair. She refused to contemplate the thought of physical contact with him, since the very idea of any closeness in the future almost turned her stomach. Even being in the same room wasn’t easy.
Once settled, she folded her arms and waited for him to speak, since she was here at his invitation – or had he issued an order? She was the innocent one; she had the axe to grind. As Laura stared at him, something strange happened to her. Although she didn’t know how or why, she suddenly found a place inside herself, an area she hadn’t visited before. It was a cold island just south of her diaphragm, an isolated region in which this man didn’t matter, because she had children, and they came first. Laura Carson had encountered her own strength.
Offended by her stay-away-from-me folded arms, Neil drew back his weak chin until it folded near his throat. His legs were crossed, and he swung the upper limb rhythmically, dangling one brown slipper from the toes. This was a signal that expressed displeasure or impatience. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Why the kidney all of a sudden? You know I can’t stand any kind of offal.’
She gazed at him, suddenly finding no problem in meeting his eyes. ‘It’s a good source of nourishment for the children,’ she replied. ‘They need variety in their diet. You’re looking at the fireplace again.’ She congratulated herself for sounding so normal in spite of a quickening heartbeat. Determinedly, she returned to the chilled place below her stomach.
He turned his head so rapidly that a red-hot crick shot up his neck. ‘And why were you in Lucy’s room? Is she having nightmares again?’
‘No, she isn’t. I’m in there because I don’t want to sleep with you.’ Her tone was calm, but brave. ‘You can wash that set of sheets; I’ve had enough of your sick behaviour.’ She couldn’t believe that she was managing this so well. He seemed smaller, as if he were shrinking into the sofa. ‘A man of your age having wet dreams? You really should see the doctor.’
He blinked stupidly, his hands balling themselves into tight fists. He wanted to hit her. She was his wife. He loved her, yet he longed to beat the life out of her.
Laura tutted, her head shaking slowly from side to side. ‘And you talk. You talk about body parts, but you use crude words when you do. You wet the bed, not with wee, but with the other stuff, and you shout when that happens. I don’t want to spend another night with you. I’m the one having nightmares. First you were screaming, and now you’re carrying on like a demented creature. I’ve had enough of it – more than enough.’
He was still blinking. ‘But I’ve no idea what’s going on,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m asleep.’
‘I know you are. You’re acting crazy, and I can’t cope any longer.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asked, raising his voice.
‘Be quiet; you’ve made too much noise already, what with your night terrors and now this. You dream of a woman with big . . . I’m not going to say the word, but it means breasts. As for her lower regions – well, I’d no idea that such words existed, because most were new to me. But the rest of the phrases left not much room for doubt. My children will hear you; the neighbours might well hear you. It’s all too much, Neil. You’re shouting the F word.’
He put his head in his hands. ‘Jesus, help me,’ he mumbled.
She rose to her feet. ‘There are two ways of dealing with this.’
He lifted his head hopefully.
Laura continued. ‘Neil, either you leave this house or I take the children to my parents’ place. The decision is yours. You seem to be having some kind of crisis, but you need to have it in someone else’s bed, and far away from your family. Perhaps you have premature senile dementia, but I think you need to turn into a dirty old man well beyond the reach of Matt and Lucy.’ She swept out of the room without awarding him a single backward glance.
On the stairs, she found herself shaking, while her knees threatened to buckle. The adrenalin was deserting her, and she felt grateful to return to the spare bed. He hadn’t followed her up. She lay, almost as stiff as a board, trying hard to court sleep. It was impossible. What would the neighbours say? What would Mum, Dad and Father Doherty think? The school? She would have to explain the disappearance of her husband there, too. Life so far had been relatively simple, but this was about to be a complicated new beginning.
When she woke from a short doze, it was dawn, and he was clattering about in the bedroom across the landing. She heard the slamming of a drawer and the unmistakable sound of clothes hangers colliding angrily in his wardrobe. He was leaving.
Lucy sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Mummy? Why are you in here?’
The first lie was born. ‘Your daddy’s started snoring. He sounds like a train running through the house.’
Laura realized that he was listening, because he’d stopped crashing about. She took advantage of the silence to produce the bigger lie, because she knew he was packing. ‘He’s going on a course for people who want promotion. Many of the lectures are in the evenings, so they all have to sleep in a big hotel where the course is being held.’
‘Oh. All right.’ Lucy snuggled herself down under the covers and went back to sleep immediately.
Laura smiled. How precious was the innocence of the young, allowing them to sleep or wake within a split second. She stood up, pulled on her robe and went
to check on Matt. He was curled up with his teddy bear and remained secure in the land of dreams.
Steeling herself, she crossed the landing and entered the marital bedroom. ‘Thank you,’ she told Neil. ‘The children can continue at the same school if I don’t have to move out.’
‘I’ll send you housekeeping money,’ he said.
‘Again, thank you.’
He left the room carrying a large suitcase and a canvas bag. ‘Goodbye, Laura,’ he said.
She stood at the top of the flight while he descended. Goodbye? That word had never been used in this house, because there was a sense of finality built into it; they always used bye, or see you later, but never the full goodbye. ‘Neil?’
‘What?’ He didn’t even bother to look at her.
‘Come for a meal when you can.’
At last, he turned and glanced at her for no more than an instant. Without saying a word, he put down the case, swivelled to face the door, opened it, picked up his luggage and set it outside. Taking a Yale key from a pocket, he placed it on the hall table, left the house and closed the door quietly in his wake. Goodbye. He really meant it, then.
Laura sat on the stairs, her mind strangely blank. For several seconds, not a single thought wandered through her frozen brain; perhaps she was in shock. She leaned her head against the wall and wept. Thank goodness the children were not at school, because she hadn’t the energy to prepare them. The thinking began, and she wished it would stop.
She’d never paid a bill. The responsibility for a household had not rested on her shoulders, as he had played his part. Children needed two parents, because that was how God had designed humankind. Neil was going to be paying rent somewhere. There was something she needed to do.
Laura dressed herself quickly and started to set the table for breakfast. The job in the Bramwells’ chip shop might go some way towards covering the shortfall in household money. Matt and Lucy could play with the Bramwell twins during school holidays, and she’d been promised free wet fish to bring home every Friday to cook for tea. The Bramwells were good, Catholic people, and their children were adorable. She’d promised to let them know by today, and she would. As head of the family, she must learn to make decisions. It wasn’t going to be easy, but if she revisited that cold place from time to time, surely she would be able to work things out?
Matt and Lucy clattered down the stairs. The new start had begun.
Mad Murdoch approached the open stable door tentatively. He raised his magnificent head, looked out at his mother, Murma, who was standing still in the paddock and probably considering the wonders of the universe, like apples, carrots, and the misbehaviour of her recalcitrant son. Murdoch nudged Nicholas Nye and emerged into daylight with the blind donkey in his wake.
‘About bleeding time,’ Gordy Hourigan exclaimed loudly. ‘I thought you’d retired without paying any tax or National Insurance. There’ll be no pension if you don’t buck up, lad.’
The lively gelding sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring and narrowing many times as he analysed the day. With his tail waving almost listlessly at flies that had gathered in his filthy stable, he ambled nonchalantly round the paddock’s perimeter. Two stable boys leapt forward with rakes, forks, shovels and wheelbarrows; at last, Murdoch’s place of residence could be cleaned. The animal had been in a bad mood for days, and no one but the donkey had wanted to share space with him.
‘It bloody stinks in here,’ one of the boys yelled. The sitting/standing tenant of the stable and his donkey friend had been given winter feed, as Murdoch had refused to emerge even to graze, and Nicholas Nye had remained by his side. The horse had discovered and perfected a talent for sulking. Gordy Hourigan found himself wondering about the male equivalent of prima donna because the horse had an appalling attitude. It was Babs. Gordy knew this was all about Babs.
Nicholas Nye, guessing his best friend’s intentions, clung to Murma, who never suffered from or indulged in flights of fancy. Murdoch had a plan, and the wise donkey knew when to stay away from his protector.
Gordy’s gaze was fixed firmly on his naughty pupil. He had never worked with so great a horse; nor had he met a worse one. The powerful yet strangely graceful steed was beginning to prance as if aiming for proficiency in a military two-step with a bit of the St Bernard’s waltz thrown in for good measure. If all else failed, he might clatter about in a circus.
Murdoch nodded constantly, urging himself onward, trotting, cantering, picking up speed until at last the nodding slowed and he was streamlined.
‘Bugger,’ Gordy whispered. ‘Here we go again. He knows she’s on her way.’
Murdoch cleared the five foot paddock fence as if he owned invisible wings, and after he had landed gracefully he greeted four dogs with a warm whinny as they ran towards him. He stopped, lay on the grass and allowed the smaller creatures to make a fuss of him. They leapt on him, licked him, tugged at his tail, chewed on his mane and barked. He played with them, pushing them gently with a front leg. Murdoch was a star, and this was his curtain call.
‘One way or another, that animal will be the death of me,’ Gordy mused aloud while watching the tatty mongrels worshipping their master. ‘He’ll be wanting a bouquet of roses soon.’ Geese, cats and chickens remained out of reach, of course. A natural affiliation between equines and canines appeared to exist at Wordsworth House, probably because Mr Crawford had encouraged it, but smaller beasts knew when to keep their distance.
Murdoch raised his beautiful head again just as Eve Mellor’s van pulled onto the gravel driveway. The day was living up to his expectations, because he had tasted Babs in the air. He rose to his feet, and the dogs scattered. For Murdoch, nothing else mattered now. She had arrived, and the real fun could begin.
As Babs jumped down from the vehicle, a tall, handsome man of middle age approached her. ‘Miss Schofield?’ he asked, extending his right hand.
Distracted by the horse, she smiled, nodded and walked past the stranger.
Gordy stopped her in her tracks. ‘That’s Mr Philip Macey,’ he whispered. ‘He’s a great man, a town councillor, supporter of dozens of charities, and Murdoch’s other owner. When he knows you, he asks you to call him Lippy. That’s his nickname.’
Babs returned to Mr Philip Macey. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I love that terrible horse. I’ve seen you in the papers.’
The visitor shook her hand. ‘The nuisance has boundless potential, but he’s picky and stubborn. I hear he’s taken a liking to you.’
She shrugged. ‘No accounting for taste, is there?’
Mr Macey’s smile broadened in response to her accent. She was Liverpool to the bone, and Liverpool delivered strong fillies. ‘And you don’t ride?’
‘Not yet.’
He led her into the kitchen. ‘Mr Crawford’s resting upstairs. I understand that you and your friend are intending to look after him because of his heart problem—’ He stopped abruptly; Murdoch was coming through the door.
Babs sat at the kitchen table and waited until the animal placed his nose in her hair. ‘He’ll be all right now,’ she announced, thanking her lucky stars that this man seemed to know nothing about Don Crawford’s sexual requirements.
Lippy Macey sat in a chair opposite hers, a frown and a smile fighting for dominance on his face. ‘This has been – and continues to be – a difficult young horse to train,’ he explained. ‘If he has a bond with you, we must take full advantage. He’s very intelligent, stubborn and feisty. Where’s your friend?’
‘Sally? Still in the van, I think. She’s not keen on great big animals.’
‘And you are?’
She turned and looked at her tormentor. ‘It’s just this smelly horse. Will you stop spitting in my hair, Murdoch? Go on. I’ll play with you later.’ She grinned at her human companion. ‘I’ve visited twice so far, and he always goes for my hair. Still, I’ll get compensation for shampoo used, I suppose – oh, and I’ll have a hard hat with my hair tied up underneath it.’
&n
bsp; ‘He obeys you, Miss Schofield,’ Mr Macey said as the horse executed an admirable three-point turn in order to leave the house. ‘Have you seen National Hunt racing?’
Babs offered no reply.
‘Well, have you?’
She spoke. ‘Jumping over fences and stuff? Yeah, I’ve seen it on the telly. They break their legs and get shot, and I don’t mean the jockeys. It wants stopping. Flat racing’s all right, but—’
‘But Murdoch’s a flier.’
‘I know.’
‘We have our eyes on the Grand National.’
‘I know.’
‘We want you to ride him.’
‘I know.’
‘Will you?’
Babs shrugged. ‘Look, they don’t let women ride, and I’ve nearly broke me neck falling off a bike, so he’d get to the finish without a rider.’
‘If he drops you, he’ll stay with you. Can’t you feel his love?’ He paused. ‘The rules are going to be relaxed, and women will ride in the National. Hasn’t Gordy told you that?’
She pondered for a moment. ‘Yes.’
‘He would grind to a halt and stand over you to prevent the rest of the field trampling you. His attitude is that of a warhorse, and if you read about World War One and earlier wars, you’ll know how many mounts gave their lives while attempting to shield their riders. You are what we need, and you’re all he needs. Gordy Hourigan is a great trainer, and Murdoch occasionally shows him an edge of respect, but that animal runs from the heart. Will you help?’
Again, Babs raised her shoulders. ‘You know I’ll do my best, but I draw the line at sleeping in the stable with him. And you’ll need a man jockey on standby in case I’m not allowed.’
Lippy Macey laughed. ‘He has Nicholas Nye to share his stable. And you shall go to the ball, Cinderella.’
Babs failed to hear the last few words. ‘And he has his mam close by. Mr Macey, have you seen Murma? I mean, Murdoch looks nothing like his mother, does he?’
‘I have seen her, of course. It seems impossible, doesn’t it? She looks as if she should be between the shafts of a gypsy caravan. But I understand that his sire’s like greased lightning.’
Midnight on Lime Street Page 13