Nest of Sorrows

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘You did. You certainly did.’

  Christine sighed and turned her face away. ‘It was hard pretending to be like the rest of you. We made relations up, said we were going visiting mums and dads. That’s why Derek was so quiet with everybody. He didn’t want you asking why nobody ever visited.’

  Kate blinked rapidly. She knew what it was like to be unloved, didn’t she? Oh yes, she’d had a father, but . . . Her heart went out to the woman on the sofa. ‘We never guessed, Chris.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ She faced Kate again now. ‘Did we seem normal?’

  ‘Of course you were normal, you still are. In fact, I’d say you’re quite extraordinary in the best sense of the word. There is no shame in being an orphan, none at all.’

  ‘There is. Some days, there weren’t enough knickers to go round, so we had to wear yesterday’s. I have sixty pairs now, Kate, all different colours. I love colours. And it was so hard for Derek getting qualified, winning scholarships to Thornleigh, trying to pretend he was just like the other boys. He came out top in his electrical engineer class at the technical college, nothing he didn’t know about electrics. He was so strong and so good. What’ll I do, Kate? What’ll I do?’

  It was like Maureen all over again, only grimmer, more final – and certainly more desolate. ‘Do you have friends?’

  ‘Just who Derek worked with, and we don’t want them knowing too much. There’s you and Geoff. And you don’t like me much, do you?’

  Kate’s heart felt as if it were filled to bursting point. A great pity welled up inside her chest and she hugged the trembling woman tightly. ‘I like you, Chris. I understand you now. Try not to be afraid . . .’

  ‘I don’t know anything about funerals and monumentals. I want him to have a nice one with a bike on it. Bikes were his freedom. He never had a bike till he was twenty.’

  ‘Geoff will see to everything.’

  ‘We’re Catholics.’

  ‘That’s OK, so am I. Not that I practise, but I know the rudiments. We’ll sort it all out for you.’

  ‘I can’t go home, Kate. Derek’s not there. I can’t go to sleep in that bed without my cuddle. We loved cuddles, both of us. Neither of us got cuddles till we married one another.’

  It was all too much for Kate. Great sobs racked her body as she poured out her grief for Chris, for her own desolate childhood, for Derek whom she’d never troubled to understand, for Maureen and her children. Last, but never least, she cried for her baby, the baby Chris would have deserved and loved. So when Geoff returned with the cocoa, he found the situation greatly altered, for it was Chris who now did the comforting.

  ‘Come on, Kate,’ he said tightly. ‘That’s not helping Christine.’

  ‘Oh yes it is.’ Chris smiled through her own tears. ‘It’s lovely to know someone else cared about my Derek. This puts a different complexity on everything, as my Derek would have said. There may be only three of us, but we can give him a good send-off, God bless him.’

  ‘There’ll be more than three,’ sobbed Kate. ‘I can promise you that. Every biker in Bolton will come out for him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chris, calmer now. ‘I’d forgotten about the clubs. Let’s hope it stays fine, eh?’

  It didn’t stay fine. But the riders of Bolton lined up, each man holding his bike to attention while Derek Halls was carried to his last rest. Kate felt sorry for the bikers, because they had opted to wear their various ‘uniforms’, just thin shirts and nylon shorts, not a single umbrella between them. Chris had chosen a tasteful headstone, though this item would not be on show until the following week. In white Italian marble, it was a simple slab that stated the bare facts, then, under the carving of a racing bike, the words ‘ON HIS WAY TO FREEDOM’. As the only confidante of Chris, Kate felt truly moved by such restraint, because she knew how many years, how much feeling lay behind these five stark words.

  After the funeral, they all returned to Chris’s house where Dora presided over a feast of enormous proportions. There were vol-au-vents and sausage plaits, cheese straws and quiches, hot and cold drinks and a wide selection of puddings. But there were no ‘mush-erooms’ or ‘jacketed potatoes’. Kate had considered making this delicacy of Derek’s, but had finally decided that it would be wrong to include it. For one thing, it might have underlined Derek’s absence; for another, the poor man had been killed by his two favourite things, bikes and spuds.

  She wandered with her glass of mulled wine into the empty kitchen. Kate didn’t particularly like herself these days, and she was learning that not liking herself was one of the causes of her depressive phases. But she had many reasons to question herself just now, many attitudes to analyse.

  There was the ‘Pristine’ thing for a start. She had condemned poor old Chris without ever giving her a chance. Derek too. Skinless, gutless, spineless and boring . . . She slammed her glass on to the surface by the cooker. If she was going to be a cartoonist, a commentator and critic of her times, then she had better put a stop to this horribly superior way of assessing people. People, like diamonds, were multi-faceted, rare, unique, very special.

  Then there was the way she treated Dora, sending her off to the doctor’s with a bottle big enough to fill her shopping bag. Not a nice thing to do to anyone, and sad old Dotty couldn’t help her hypochondria. Dora’s ‘illnesses’ were probably an illness in themselves. And Melanie weeping for a mother she’d scarcely had, and Geoff being treated like a whipped dog. By God, how she had set about him lately, what a harridan she was becoming! After all those years of passivity, why had she suddenly turned? Was this the proverbial worm, was she justified?

  She sank on to Chris’s pine bench. What a bloody mess, eh? Everyone seemed to be losing a husband. Maureen’s had gone off, Chris’s had been wiped out. Those two women would probably give an arm and a leg for what Kate had now. Security, a home, a man. Yet Kate Saunders, with all her airs and graces, was just going to turn and walk away! When, though? Melanie wasn’t accepting the situation. Chris wasn’t fit to be left, Maureen was still running round like a headless chicken, Geoff wore an air of great hurt, while Dora was feeling decidedly put upon. Running Kate’s home on a voluntary basis was one thing; to be forced into it would be another matter altogether. And there’d be no Kate to preside over, no-one to punish, no inferior wife to . . .

  Stop it! She beat her hands against the table. It was happening again. In her mind, she was destroying people. It was like cutting up caterpillars or taking the wings off flies, it was not a fair fight. Dora was Dora, Geoff was Geoff, Mel was Mel. A leaden sky hung over the window and Kate stared at it as if searching for a ray of light. Yes! That was it! She must accept them as they were, but she must also accept herself. The main thing was accepting herself. This was how she was made, she had her faults and her good points just like everyone else. Taking the wings off and making judgements was probably a part of what she had to do, the thing she was moving towards.

  Her head was in her hands when the door opened. ‘What am I going to do, Kate?’ The eternal cry now, and in that tiny little-girlish voice. ‘They’re all quite happy in there, plenty of refresh-erments. What’ll I do? There’s nothing I can do, Kate.’

  Kate straightened. ‘Sit down, love.’ She waited until Chris’s earnest face was level with hers. ‘How has he left you? Financially, I mean?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. He had one of those mortgage pertection policies. The house is mine and he was well-insured. There’s no money worry. But . . . it’s all day and all night, isn’t it? Every day and every night. I think Father Costigan’s drunk,’ she added irrelevantly.

  ‘Priests always get drunk at funerals. It’s a perk of the job.’

  ‘What’ll I do with my life?’

  Kate smiled and reached across to pat a rigid hand. ‘You’ll free some women, pet.’

  ‘Eh? Free some women? Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Stop putting yourself down, Christine Halls, before I give you a good smacking. You love children, don’t you?’r />
  ‘Oh yes. Only I couldn’t have any. My o-verries are all right, but it’s these filipine . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know, Chris. Damned nuisance, blocked Fallopian tubes.’

  After a small pause, Chris shrugged and said, ‘See? I can’t even talk properly. I’ve got my accent better, Derek said so. Only I can’t do big words. So how do I free women when I can’t do big words?’

  ‘Margaret Liptrot on Rookery Lane would give her right arm for a lady like you. She needs to work. Hubby’s gone back to do his Ph.D., so they’re living on fresh air. A qualified nurse like Margaret could work if someone would mind the kids.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You could take a couple of under-fives, then pick a few up after school, keep them till the mums finish work.’

  ‘Like one of them creeches?’

  ‘Yes, like a crèche. You would be doing a tremendous thing for this community, Chris.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’ll help me? To set it up?’

  ‘Initially, yes. But you’ll soon get the hang of it.’

  Chris smiled weakly. ‘There’ll be nappies on my line after all. Nappies and little coatees and bibs. I can pretend they’re mine . . .’

  ‘Don’t get too close. I find at school that it’s important to keep a distance. Otherwise, some of the little beggars would have my heart wrung dry.’ She thought briefly about little Rosie Collins and her tormented brother, was momentarily back in that awful hospital with the sweet dying child. Yes, a heart could be broken, couldn’t it? She shook herself visibly.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you really like that, you know, all cold and hard? I know I shouldn’t say this, but sometimes you seem . . . well . . . cruel. Derek thought you were a hard woman. He was terrified of you ever finding out about us not being wanted by our mothers.’

  Kate’s head dropped. ‘Chris. I wasn’t wanted either. By my father. All his life he made sure I knew I wasn’t wanted.’

  ‘Ooh! Ooh, how awful for you. I never guessed, never thought. Perhaps that’s why you seem to have no patience. Derek said you were very . . . what was the word . . . ? judgementical. As if you’re better than everyone else. Poor Kate. Like us, you had something to hide.’

  Kate drew a hand across her brow. ‘I’m not nice, Chris. I was just thinking before you came in that I’m not nice. Dora and Geoff both drive me to distraction, but it’s my fault, not theirs. I get very depressed.’

  ‘I know. Dora said. And I’m sorry.’

  ‘I have to accept their faults, stop laughing at them and getting angry. But at the same time, I have to understand my own limitations. Being judgemental is part of my character, it’s deep in here.’ She placed a hand against her breast. ‘I must learn to like myself, Chris. The depressions are because I don’t trust me, don’t want to love myself.’

  The pine-framed clock ticked. ‘Did you laugh at me and Derek? Did you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Not now. You’re my friend now, aren’t you?’

  ‘And you’re mine. Hey! This is the first time I’ve seen crumbs on your carpets.’ She inclined her head towards the living room. ‘Crumbs and paper napkins and fagash.’

  ‘This is the first time I haven’t cared. But with kiddies coming, I’ll have to start caring again, won’t I?’

  Kate smiled. ‘That’s right. I’ll put the word out and I’ll place some adverts in the local shops. We’ll have you run off your feet in no time.’

  ‘That’s what I want, isn’t it? Oh, I shall miss him, though. Daft way to die, wasn’t it? Under a pile of spuds?’

  ‘It was unusual. But his mates loved him, Chris. That wasn’t just rain on the bikers’ faces. Those were real tears.’

  ‘I haven’t cried today. Am I getting better? Am I?’

  ‘Another door will open. Perhaps you’ll find another relationship in time.’

  ‘No. He’d have to be an orphan. Only an orphan can understand.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Chris gazed at her neighbour thoughtfully. With a perspicacity Kate would never have suspected, the young widow said, ‘Yes. But in your heart, you’re an orphan too, Kate. It’s as if you were brought up like me and Derek, sort of different. I always knew you were different, but lately I’ve realized that you are one of the loneliest people I ever knew. I can’t understand why you’re lonely, not with Geoff and Melanie and Geoff’s mum popping in all the time. But I think you’re . . . iserlated.’

  And the tears came for both of them, so they sat and wept, hands gripped together across the pine table. A door had opened for each of them and they stepped into the light of an odd friendship, a friendship that would become odder with the years. But its strength would never be diminished.

  9

  Kate wandered along Deansgate in the centre of Bolton, a brown carrier containing Melanie’s new blazer dangling from her left hand. It was a short walk from Henry Barrie’s along to her favourite shop, Preston’s of Bolton, and she lingered in the doorway indulging her passion for diamonds. This was a splendid display, undoubtedly the best for many a mile, thousands of pounds worth of precious gems beautifully displayed on royal blue velvet cushions.

  The staff knew her well. Here she had bought her small collection of jewellery, including her engagement and wedding rings, the former being an expensive twist of two large clear whites set in yellow gold. Here they had become used to her over the years, because she would pop in at Christmas and birthdays to buy a charm for Melanie’s gold bracelet, and she would linger every time to study stones and to learn about flaws and deposits and carat values. There was much to know about diamonds, because each had its own character, its very own essential personality. There were blues and yellows, pure clear whites – some even had a hint of pink about them.

  She sighed greedily as she studied a small but perfect tear-drop set to dangle free inside a hollow gold heart. On its fine chain, it made a wonderful necklace, and she had coveted this item for weeks. No hope now. No hope of any fripperies once she had fled the nest.

  ‘Splendid, isn’t it?’

  She turned to look at the man by her side. ‘Oh. It’s you. Strange place for you, isn’t it? Or are you looking for something for your floozie?’

  Phil Carter grinned sheepishly. ‘How’s Maureen?’

  ‘Coping. Just about. That interim maintenance buys the catfood, don’t worry. Everyone else in the house has learned to exist on faith, hope and fresh air . . .’

  ‘Kate!’

  ‘Don’t “Kate” me! You make me sick. Those poor children are crying themselves to sleep.’ Would Melanie cry? Should she really stay for Melanie’s sake? Oh, what good was she to Melanie? ‘And your wife’s a shadow of her former self.’ Thin, but suddenly having the time of her life, was Maureen. Grief had given way to the undeniable urge to get out and do something useful. So Maureen, when she could get babysitters, attended no less than three evening classes and was becoming proficient in spoken French, modern dance and the art of throwing pots.

  ‘Come for a drink?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve still to get to Woolworth’s for Mel’s hair ribbons. Then I’m going for a quick dash round the market, see if they’ve any decent towels that don’t cost an arm and a leg.’ For my flat, Phil. God, if he only knew!

  ‘Please?’

  She studied him for a moment or two. He had the air of a man Who was carrying the world on his shoulders. ‘OK. We’ll nip into the Man and Scythe, that’s the nearest.’

  He held her arm as they crossed Bank Street to the opposite corner where stood the oldest pub in Bolton. Inside it was dark, filled with the atmosphere of stale tobacco, fresh ale and long-dead ghosts. He found a table, then went off to buy a half of dry cider for Kate and a pint of bitter for himself. She watched him. He seemed ill at ease, uncomfortable with himself. The usual cloak of self-assurance had slipped, for once. And a hole in his sock s
howed in the slight gap between trouser and shoe as he lifted his foot against the low bar-rail.

  He did not beat about the bush. After taking a swallow that left his glass half-empty, he said quietly, ‘I want to go home. I’ve had enough of this lark to last me a lifteime.’

  She fingered a cardboard beer mat. It was probably all to do with undarned socks and badly cooked meals. His complexion was grey; she envisaged him living on a diet of shop-bought chips and meat puddings, all suet and dripping. ‘Why tell me?’ she asked. ‘Just go home.’

  ‘Things have got out of hand.’ His chin dropped and he was blushing right to the top of his bare scalp. ‘These bloody lawyers have turned the whole thing into a slanging match. Talk to her, Kate.’ He looked so vulnerable and lost, she could have wept on the spot for him.

  She laughed grimly, determined to hide her pity. ‘Why me? Why the bloody hell does it always have to be me? I’m the one with bad nerves, remember? What do you think I am? Some kind of winged messenger? They should have built a statue to me up some pole in a London circus. Send her a letter, sack your solicitor . . .’

  ‘She might knock me back. I want to know where I stand.’ He pushed a hand across his mouth to remove a small moustache of beer foam. ‘I’ve gone through something, Kate. Something I don’t understand. All of a sudden, I was scared of getting old without anything ever happening. I think it’s had a lot to do with fear of death. Death or senility.’

  Kate inhaled deeply. She understood; after all, wasn’t she ‘going through something’, too? ‘Male menopause,’ she pronounced. ‘It does exist. Look, lad, there’s nothing wrong with admitting a mistake. Just go and see Mo. It’s not my job to patch things up between you. If I’m not a messenger, I certainly can’t be a puncture kit. Oh, Phil!’ Her tone expressed frustration. ‘My own life’s about as straight as a pan of soggy spaghetti.’

  ‘She’s . . . going out at nights, isn’t she? Having a whale of a time . . .’

  ‘Well, she certainly hasn’t taken the veil. But I think you’ll find most of Maureen’s expeditions to be educational. She’s doing pottery and stuff like that. There’s no man.’