Nest of Sorrows

by Ruth Hamilton

  Santosh grinned. ‘You are a clever man, Arthur. That is a good idea.’ He gazed round the room. ‘This is the sort of home I wish for my son. At each weekend, he will return home into poverty . . .’

  ‘Back to his dad, that’s what’s important.’ Rachel’s tone was firm. ‘You keep in touch with him. He’s an Indian boy who needs a proper Indian parent.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that.’

  Chris stood in the doorway. ‘He says he likes it here,’ she announced determinedly. ‘I shall look after him, Mr Mathur. Though I wish I hadn’t been needed. Everyone should have his own mother. I never had one . . .’

  Santosh gulped back his grief, which was still raw. ‘My wife would have liked you, Mrs Halls. Hamida’s soul is in the boy, so he will like you too.’ He rose stiffly to his feet. ‘The equipment is in the car. I shall go now and carry it into your house.’

  ‘I have everything, Mr Mathur.’

  Large brown eyes stared at her sadly. ‘No. You have not a photograph of his mother. She will sit by his bed so that he will know her face. Also, he has his own toys, carved in India, the things I had when I was a child.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I won’t let him think I’m his mother, Mr Mathur. He’ll know who his mother was, which is more than I ever did. I agree with you. This little one has to know where he really belongs. Don’t worry, please. I won’t take him over. But I can’t help loving him. I love all babies.’

  Santosh gazed at her for an uncomfortably long time. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘You are like Rachel. Your goodness is in your face.’

  After everyone had left, Chris sat with the child in her arms and thanked God for sending salvation in such a warm and lovable form. And she knew she was smiling as she sat by her fire. The thing that caused her to smile was an echo in her mind. ‘Your goodness is in your face.’ He was a nice man. A very nice man.

  14

  By 1970, nothing had happened to alter Kate’s marital status. She had hit a snag, a rather large one. Although Geoff had apparently made no effort to trace her, and in spite of the fact that both Melanie and Rachel had kept their promises, she was up the creek without a paddle and it was difficult to know whether to float or swim against the tide.

  She could not sue for divorce: Michael John, now in the second year of his life, had been registered as Geoff’s son; if she pursued the legal dissolution, then all this would come out in court, because she could not deny Michael’s existence in case somebody decided to cross-refer. She had registered two children to Geoff and there was no getting away from that fact. Also, if she simply sat it out and waited for Geoff to sue – which he inevitably must in the end – then she would still have to confess that she had a son. So her basic dilemma was the fact that she fell between two stools. Should she continue to keep quiet and wait? If only she had entered Michael as ‘father unknown’! No, that would have been selfish. But this was hell at times.

  Apart from all that, life was great, better than it had ever been. So successful had Boothroyd become, that Kate was thinking of giving up what she called her day job at school. Three times she had travelled to London for meetings with the Mercury’s editor. He had introduced her to the manufacturers who would be using her drawings for greetings cards, posters and items of pottery. Boothroyd had become something of a cult figure, particularly with children, and Kate was currently negotiating a deal for T-shirts, socks and underwear. She now had her own accountant in Southport, and he was advising her to go full-time freelance because most of her teacher’s salary was being wasted in tax.

  But she loved her job. It was both challenging and satisfying, so she found herself juggling with time, dividing her out-of-school hours between Michael and Boothroyd. Yes, life was busy and good. Steve was fun to live with and Mrs Melia next door looked after Michael perfectly well while Kate was out at work.

  It was a Sunday afternoon in October. Kate sat in the back living room working out programmes for a brain-damaged child in her class. The sun streamed through a large square bay window, and Michael played happily with wooden blocks and some kitchen spoons. Steve popped his head round the door. ‘He’s outside,’ he said tersely.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Your husband. He sits there quite often on a Sunday, but I thought it was time I told you.’

  Her face drained of colour as she pressed a hand to her stomach. This was the sort of shock she could do without, she could almost feel the sugar level reducing to nought in her bloodstream. With difficulty, she took some deep breaths. ‘Good grief! How long has this been going on?’

  He shrugged. ‘Months. Don’t go into a coma over it, for God’s sake. I usually take Michael up to my room, haven’t you noticed? But Michael’s getting a bit big to hide now. One of these days, your old man is going to spot him playing in the side garden.’

  Kate snapped her jaw shut. ‘Why? Why didn’t you tell me before this?’

  ‘Because of your health. Because I knew it would put you into a flat spin. The baby was easy to hide but a two-year-old is another matter altogether. Anyway, I think you should tell Geoff. I’ve always thought he should know . . .’

  ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘It’s the man in that photograph you brought with you by accident. New car, same man. Didn’t Mel say on her last visit that he often sneaks off at the weekends? Well, this is where he sneaks to. Where are you going?’ He watched as she dragged on a coat against the October wind. ‘Stay in, Kate. You’ll gain nothing by tackling him.’

  She pulled a wry face. ‘Has he ever seen you?’

  ‘No. I always keep the net curtain across the front window on Sundays. But it can’t go on forever. Sooner or later, we are bound to slip up . . .’

  She marched out of the house and across the Northern Road. He sat in a huge red Jaguar, his face almost matching the car for colour as he watched her approach. Kate hauled open the passenger door and stared down at him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked coldly.

  He inhaled sharply. ‘Oh, it’s you. I’d no idea you lived round here. I was . . . just sitting. There are no parking regulations, and I’ve paid my road tax. Whose is the white Ford outside your house, by the way? I suppose that is your house, since you just walked out of it.’

  ‘The car is mine.’ A lie, but for a good reason.

  ‘Passed your test, then?’

  ‘Yes. First time.’ She noticed how his teeth were gritted as he absorbed these three words. He had taken his test twice, and he could not bear to think of her beating him even at this one small thing. For a few moments she studied him, as if she were summing him up. He hadn’t changed much except for a few deeper lines on his forehead. The bearing was still the same, upright to a point, shoulders slightly rounded when he felt cowed. He obviously felt cowed now. She nodded slightly. He was a man of mistakes, and she had been the biggest. He had married a young girl in order to be dominant, in order to keep the place his mother had ordained for him. But the young girl had grown into what he probably considered to be a virago.

  ‘Working?’ He tapped the steering wheel with a leather-gloved finger.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  Her lip curled into what almost became a snarl. ‘I can’t tell you. That was the trouble last time, wasn’t it? You phoning the school in the hope that you’d wear me down or drive me insane. Or that I’d lose my job and come home defeated. But you have never defeated me, Geoff Saunders.’

  ‘Oh dear. We are tetchy, aren’t we?’

  ‘“We” are not tetchy at all. “We” are bleeding furious. The injunction still stands. You are not to contact me and you are to stay away from my home. The limit is, I think, a mile. So bugger off.’

  ‘Still the complete lady, I see.’

  ‘In response to the perfect gentleman.’

  He stared at the road ahead. ‘Melanie needs you. She’s got to that age, some big exams coming up too.’

  ‘She seemed all right to me. I do see my daughte
r, Geoff. We meet on a Saturday . . .’

  ‘And she’s been here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He decided to go for a different tack. ‘Mother can’t cope any more. She’s seventy-five now and she has trouble with . . . well . . . with her bowels.’

  Kate smiled grimly. ‘So? What else is new? I got your mother’s bowels served up for breakfast, lunch and supper over a period of fourteen years . . .’

  ‘That is hardly a savoury comment to make, Kate.’

  ‘Your mother is hardly a savoury woman. We had everything from the common cold to bloody gangrene and suppurating leg sores for every meal. But I’m not going to start about your mother; if I did, we’d be here all day and most of next week.’

  ‘You’ve always hated her. Why? Why, though? A poor harmless old woman . . .’

  ‘She’s about as harmless as one of those Australian spiders that bite you in the vitals when you’re on the loo. But no, I will not be drawn on that particular subject. Save to say that you could never see your mother for what she is. Until we can see our mothers clearly, we can have no separate identity. That’s why you’re such a blurred person.’ She paused and looked at his troubled face. ‘You’ve still no idea where you went wrong, have you? It’s hopeless. You use women, Geoff . . .’

  ‘There’s no need for all this. Come back, I’ll put Mother in a home.’

  She shook her head. ‘Putting her away will solve nothing.’

  ‘But you just said . . .’

  ‘Go away. You are practically on my property, and if you don’t move, I shall implement the injunction immediately.’

  ‘Kate!’

  She slammed the car door and began to walk away. He wound down his window. ‘Come home! There’s never been . . . anyone like you. I can’t . . .’

  Kate stopped in the middle of the road, then sauntered back to the car. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t live without me,’ she said quietly.

  ‘It’s been a half-life. I didn’t know how much I cared until you’d gone.’

  ‘Stop it. This is hurting me. Haven’t you hurt me enough?’

  Tears threatened in his large brown eyes. ‘I’m sorry. The other women, everything, I’m sorry. Please?’

  ‘No. I’m happy here, happier than I’ve ever been.’

  Sadness quickly turned to temper. ‘I’ll break in!’ he shouted desperately.

  She stepped back a pace or two. ‘And I’ll break your sodding neck, after the court has dealt with you. Now, go away.’

  A few middle-aged Sunday strollers pretended not to notice this exchange, but Kate was wise to the Crosby people, she knew they were taking it all in. Yet she didn’t care.

  ‘Divorce, then?’ he yelled as she crossed the road.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with volume and enthusiasm. ‘This place is full of drop-outs anyway, what would one more matter?’ This was said to annoy the passers-by, and Kate immediately felt ashamed of herself. Perhaps she did care after all? ‘Divorce me!’ she screamed. ‘Get it over with! But stay away from my house!’ She marched inside and slammed the door hard.

  Steve was waiting with open arms, as ever. ‘Come on, now, don’t fret. What’s the point of getting yourself into a lather about it? He’s bound to find out in the end . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ she wailed. ‘And what will he do then? What will he do when he finds out about the abortion I never had, and about the child I hid from him? He has parental rights and I have denied him access. Think what a good solicitor would make out of that, Steve.’

  ‘They don’t take a child from its mother. Not without a damned good reason.’

  She stepped back a fraction. ‘He always said I was unfit. I’ve had a psychiatrist. He’ll tell them I’ve had a shrink and that I’m not fit to be a mother, won’t he?’

  Steve tutted, folded his arms and shook his head. ‘And your headmaster will tell them – whoever “they” are – that you run a special care unit efficiently, imaginatively and effectively.’

  She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her coat. ‘Will I win? Will I?’

  He tickled her under the chin. ‘Let the war start first, Kate.’ He stared at the closed door. Battle was about to commence at any time. Somewhere in his bones, Steve Collins felt that.

  Kate had always thought of Crosby as a funny old place, and living here over a period of some eighteen months had scarcely altered her opinion. Although the settlement was steeped in history, having taken its name from the Norse and Scandanavian words for ‘village’ and ‘cross’, it somehow seemed, at first glance, to have little identity of its own.

  Bootle, which was just down the road, was another matter altogether. Bootle had managed to become Liverpudlian, whereas Crosby housed a somewhat ‘cultured’ population that seemed either geriatric or itinerant. The former group had lived in the village forever, while the latter comprised those who were putting their children through the three public schools, or commuters who worked in the city.

  There were, in fact, two Crosbys. There was Great Crosby where Kate lived – a vast sprawling mass of largely subsiding houses – and there was Little Crosby. To live in Little Crosby, one almost needed a letter from the Pope, for the community was solidly Roman Catholic, as was its parish church. Kate loved Little Crosby with its cluster of stone cottages, and she spent many hours reading about its history of religious purges and secret chapels.

  But the more she got to know about the larger Crosby, the more fascinated she became. In Moor Lane there stood a working mill where locals bought wholemeal flour to bake their bread. Coronation Park housed an ice-age boulder, which item had been carried down by glacier from the Lake District, while the site of St Michael’s Well, which stood on what used to be the village green, was marked by a suitably ancient wooden cross. There were some strange place names too. She never discovered the origin of Sniggery Wood, a place owned by the public since the jubilee of George V and Queen Mary, but she did get to the root of Endbutt Lane’s beginnings; Endbutt was a corruption of endboat, as this avenue had once held the terminus for Liverpool-bound canal boats. So while Crosby was, in its own way, an interesting place, it was a place of another people’s past, and it was Bolton that Kate continued to miss.

  In the here and now, Crosby village was simply a suburb of the city, a collection of shops, supermarkets and houses. It was not a market town, and Kate, coming from the largest market town in England, longed for the personality provided by a three-times weekly influx of business. The people of Crosby were kind on the whole, but they seemed aloof and terribly self-contained in comparison to the Bolton folk. As Kate’s doctor told her, ‘Here, you could die and no-one would notice until milk bottles stretched to the gate. In Bootle, where I used to work, sickness brought help automatically. If you want neighbours, move to Bootle.’ Kate didn’t feel like moving to Bootle. This was because of her long-term plan for Michael. If she could continue successful as a cartoonist, if the money carried on rolling in, then the lad could go to Merchant Taylors’. That he was going to be bright enough she did not doubt, while her faith – or lack of that commodity – in the state system of education remained unaltered.

  In the evenings, after Michael had gone to bed, and after she had finished commissioned cartoon work, Kate worked on her magnum opus which, like Topsy, grew and grew. It was a reading scheme, a scheme without words. Because she understood children’s love for comics, Kate was trying to invent an educational programme in strip form. Infants did not need the printed word; she was giving them the opportunity to write, with their teachers’ help, their own first reading book. The cartoons were funny, simple at first, then gradually becoming more detailed in order to extend a child’s spoken vocabulary. She had confidence in this system, but she needed a publisher to share her views, and the time was coming when she would show what she called ‘The Play Away Scheme’ to some educational boffin who would, no doubt, tear the concept to pieces. But before leaving teaching, she wanted to make her mark.

  On the Sunday after
Geoff’s ‘visit’, she was working on the sixth and final book in the set. Steve was in the kitchen with Michael when the knock at the front door came, and he immediately scurried through to Kate’s living room with the child in his arms. ‘Well?’ he whispered.

  Kate flung down her pencil. ‘It can’t be,’ she said quietly. ‘The injunction . . .’

  ‘It might be. What the hell do I do?’ His face was white with tension; the child’s cheeks were white with flour. ‘Shall I take him out? This can’t go on, Kate. We can’t spend the rest of our lives on the run. And what if Melanie lets it out? What if . . . ?’

  ‘Take him out.’ The doorbell rang shrilly. ‘When I open the front door, you nip out of the back.’

  With a huge sigh of frustration, Steve grabbed Michael’s anorak from a chair and went back into the kitchen.

  Kate composed herself, pushed her hair from her work-damped forehead, then walked into the hall. ‘Now!’ she stage-whispered. Both doors opened simultaneously, Kate gasping aloud when she found Chris standing in the porch. The back door closed softly. ‘Chris! Whatever . . . ? I mean, come in . . .’ She pulled Christine into the hallway so that Steve would not be seen sneaking through the side garden with the child.

  As soon as she was in the house, Chris burst into tears. ‘I tried to stop it, Kate. I took my key back and gave him his, but the weekends were so lonely. It was all right in the week when I had Robert and the others, but when Santosh took the baby back every Friday . . . Oh, what have I done?’

  Kate studied the distressed woman. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Chris? Come in, come right into the sitting room . . .’ She watched through the window as Steve drove off with Michael fastened into the rear seat. They were in the front room now and Kate gestured towards the sofa, offering Chris a seat.

  ‘You mightn’t want me to stay.’ There was a hysterical edge to the voice. ‘Not after what I’ve done.’