Duty and Delusion

by Shawna Lewis

  The Manns lived in a big house on the leafier fringes of Denswick, six miles from Sallby, thus it was easy for Aidan, Dan and Ben to join Solly ‘on retreat’ without fear of crossing paths with their own families. The two gigs at Sallby Village Hall would rely on a little bit of luck, but confidence in their own good judgement – typical of young men everywhere – made them blasé. The rest of the time they’d just sleep late, catch up with their assignments when necessary, watch Countdown and chill out. They’d put their names down for Bargain Hunt already and would conduct research by watching afternoon TV. The money they earned from the gigs would give them a kick start in a business enterprise of their own, the nature of which was, as yet, undetermined.

  The new venture proposed by Ambrose and Marnie was something different…but definitely not for parents to know about. They’d be doing good, for sure, and earning some useful money. Best not dwell on long-term consequences. You never got anywhere if you weren’t prepared to push boundaries and break free of red tape. Ambrose had convinced them of that, and Marnie swore she had all the equipment and knowledge necessary to make it work. All the lads had to do was turn up at the village hall as required and perform.

  *

  Belinda struggled on to keep the village hall functioning and even managed to persuade a few other committee members to attend a meeting by holding it in the pub in Densfield. She’d reported back on the bookings – just enough detail to make the minutes of the meeting sound official. The pressure was off for a while, at least. The others were happy in their ignorance of what needed to be done… Belinda only worked part-time after all. They’d become used to the treasurer’s absence from meetings; the chair passed on his presumed apologies as a matter of course.

  She had reached an accommodation with Drago whereby he could stay in the village hall loft, discreetly, in return for a few odd jobs and a slice of his wages. In return, she would furnish him with a few home comforts, some of which remained unspecified.

  As the days went by, the young man’s plight took on a more and more romantic hue, for he was far from home and family. The illegality of his presence paled into insignificance beside the poignancy of his lost love and mis-carried child.

  Doug was away most of the time and seemed more distant when he was home. There was no-one who was prepared to listen to her worries and no word from Marnie since her visit had been cut short by Dad’s stroke. That hurt. Melanie had turned into a teenage stereotype of the sulkiest kind – nowhere near the daughter her mother needed right now. That hurt. And Doug seemed in no hurry to return to life as normal. That hurt, too. She hadn’t the energy to argue or complain. In truth, she couldn’t wait for him to leave on Monday mornings so she could check on Drago.

  Her illicit secret, he gave meaning to her current existence. The rest was duty. She needed Drago for herself. He provided an outlet for her motherly nature: she’d always prided herself on her maternal instinct. Taking this unfortunate boy to her bosom, baking him an occasional cake, she told herself, were only natural. Any mother would do the same.

  *

  Drago’s job at the hand car wash was exhausting, tedious and paid below minimum wage, cash in hand. It had been agreed between them that thirty percent of his earnings would be adequate to pay for the electricity, water and Belinda’s acquiescence. That money, paid in coins and used notes, was dumped with the other cash at the bottom of Belinda’s wardrobe. She would get round to sorting it soon, once she’d made the appointment with the bank. Some of the cash was spent on buying paint, brushes and other DIY materials. People assumed she was doing a bit of decorating at the village hall in her spare time. The rest of the committee, relieved that she hadn’t asked them to help out, acquiesced from a distance.

  That suited Belinda. The more people kept their noses out the better. John the treasurer still lingered, a heart attack having followed close on the heels of the varicose vein operation. It wouldn’t be proper to write him off just yet, though. News of his condition leaked out from time to time, but Derek Spinks had still not managed to relax his mother’s grip on the paying-in book or the village hall accounts.

  With luck, it would all sort itself out before the Charity Commission got tough. Eliciting middle names and dates of birth from new members to complete the form each year was hard enough; cooking the books would be a whole new ball game! She must deal with it some time, but not just now.

  *

  All the cool kids, Melanie among them, had taken to setting off for school at 7.30am, but what they did between then and nine o’clock was a mystery.

  By 7.35am, Belinda was letting herself into the village hall by the back door, energised by the knowledge of Drago’s presence. Closing the door carefully behind her, she became aware of a noise. She froze, trying to identify the sound. Was it weeping? She tiptoed forward to where the young man sat sobbing, head in hands, his tears dripping unchecked onto the table.

  Bel walked up behind him and gently laid her hands on his bare shoulders. The shoulders were broad and muscular, tinged with a dark fuzz which continued down the long back to the unbuttoned jeans. The shoulders shook with sobs.

  Bel’s hands seemed to move of their own volition, strengthening, stroking and caressing as a mother’s hands caress her child, a lover’s her beloved.

  The dark head lifted and the man turned in his seat. Dark eyes, deep and wet as mountain tarns, were raised in search of her own, but found them not. The man turned away again. The stroking continued.

  He leaned his head back against her as she stood behind him. Her hands moved forward, stroking, stroking across the rough chest, up to the neck, the earlobes, the scalp. Down, over the nipples: hard; erect. Towards the waistband: tempting; forbidden.

  He swivelled in his seat, turning the chair noisily. His face buried itself between her breasts; hirsute hands clasped her buttocks as the sobbing reached a more violent pitch. Her arms wrapped themselves around the head. Her own chin rose; her eyes shut tight; her head flung back.

  At the same instant, she noticed the bird’s corpse.

  “Mama! Mama!” he howled. “Prevara prostitutka!”

  Even in Serbo-Croat, the words were recognisable.

  What was he saying? That his mother was a prostitute? That she, Belinda Lowe, Mrs Ordinary, was a prostitute? And a prevaricating one?

  But worse than prostitutka: he had called her Mama! It was Bud Baxter all over again. She felt the blood rise to her cheeks; stepped away, unable to look him in the face.

  *

  The black dot of the sparrow’s one visible eye seemed to wink at her. The bird’s neck was awry; the temptation to set it straight, to smooth the ruffled feathers and give the creature a decent burial, was too strong to resist. Tipping the fruit loaf out of its container, she folded the creature’s wings, wrapped the body in a shroud of paper towels, laid the package in its plastic coffin and sealed the lid.

  Businesslike, she moved into the kitchen, made coffee and handed it to the man, whose sobs had subsided when the stroking stopped. His eyes still sought for hers: still they failed to find them. His fingers searched for hers as he took the mug, but were evaded. He could not understand the sudden coldness. She who had been so warm, so comforting…

  Drago wept, not for his mother, not even for his lost phone, but for his lost love and lost dreams, dreams that had evaporated in this very hall just eleven hours earlier, in an episode of which Belinda was ignorant. She indicated that he should clothe himself, still avoiding those eyes; saw a T-shirt discarded on a chair; smelt it; tossed it onto the table. He had expected her to take it home to wash and dry. They usually came back, neatly ironed, within a few hours.

  She sat down opposite him, shoulders back, face deadpan. Emotions battled for dominance: pride had the upper hand at the moment. Coolly, she asked the reason for his tears.

  His halting English was difficult to comprehend, interspersed as it was
with sobs and heaves, but she recognised the name Samantha somewhere in the explanation.

  The name would go on her list.

  Changing the subject, she asked him for the rent. It was Drago’s turn to be shocked. Yes, he’d agreed to pay her something, but he’d not expected to hand over actual cash every week. To his way of thinking, he was earning his keep by painting the skirting boards. He had other methods of payment in mind as well – his cousin had told him that old English women were eager to please and easily satisfied. He fished a couple of £20 notes from his back pocket and held them out to her. She indicated that more was needed – only nodding when five notes lay on her upturned palm. As her fingers closed over them, his left hand cupped hers from beneath and his right from above. Her hand was captured. Involuntarily, her eyes flicked to his: were captured also. Her heart pounded. Resolve and pride succumbed to folly, compassion, and a smidgeon of desire.

  *

  He wondered how much she knew about the events of the previous night and whether his faltering English would do justice to what he was about to describe. Snivelling, stumbling over his words, Drago reported the scene observed through the crack in the loft floor.

  Some time after dark, he’d been relaxing on his bed when he heard a vehicle arriving, then footsteps up to the door. Swiftly and silently, he’d lifted the ladder and closed the hatch in a well-practised move, before settling down to peer through the crack and see what was going on.

  As curtains were drawn and lights came on one by one, he could see the top of a woman’s head, blonde, short-haired. She was wearing a winter coat. Next time she passed beneath him she was dressed all in white – such a uniform as he had seen worn by beautiful nurses in American hospital dramas on TV. Her movements were brisk and businesslike.

  Another vehicle arrived; the sound of rattling wheels rotating on changing surfaces, hushed voices and manly footsteps. Something was trundled indoors.

  Two men: one, thickset and shaven-headed; the other, taller, wearing a hat and long, dark overcoat. They seemed to be working to a plan.

  Twenty minutes later, the hall had been transformed into a clinic. Wheeled screens divided the space into cubicles. The one in his view housed an examination couch such as those used by doctors and therapists, and a medical trolley in stainless steel, which was topped by mysterious items in sealed bags. A folding chair; glossy magazines; a folded white garment lay neatly on the couch, with two chairs placed at a small, square table. A bottle of wine, two glasses, a small posy of flowers and a disposable camera added to the mystery.

  Drago was baffled. Tired from his work and weary of peering through floorboards, he had rolled onto his back and tried to sleep.

  *

  Unobserved from above, five feet below, Marina Batty had adjusted her nurse’s cap and smoothed the starched, white uniform. This project meant a lot to her, but if it went wrong she could lose everything. Without the pressure from Daryl Baxter and Ambrose Mulholland, Marnie would have backed out when she married. But they had too much on her: she couldn’t take the risk.

  During her spell in prison, she’d thought long and hard about using her professional knowledge in less sordid ways. She had a lot to give, and now, as a minister’s wife, felt a calling to bring comfort and support to those in need. She had identified a need; she had cogitated and consulted, planned and persuaded. She was confident that it could work. She was less confident that it was entirely legal, but no-one was likely to tell. Anyway, as far as Marnie was concerned, people were free to do what they liked with their own bodies. There was not much she didn’t know about what the ‘experts’ call Sexual Health. Contraception, disease, abortion – she’d seen it all, though her grasp on the physiology of conception and pregnancy was based more on avoidance than formal education.

  Let nature take care of all that. Her role tonight was to start the balls rolling, in a manner of speaking, and make people happy. Who could quarrel with that? Michael was unaware of the plan, but she was confident that in essence, he would be wholeheartedly behind it –and what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

  Marina’s preparation had been thorough: having first identified Samantha as a potential beneficiary, and Samantha having been at the wedding, only a confidential little chat was needed to convince the swimming instructress that the scheme must be above board, emanating as it did from the minister’s wife. Word soon got round among the yearning, childless singletons of Denswick and its environs (though Samantha always swore she’d told no-one).

  Marnie had met each young woman for coffee and a chat, explained the procedures, handed over a green leaflet issued by the Denswick Hospital Trust’s Department of Genito-Urinary Medicine and stressed the statement on the back: The benefits of knowing a positive result usually outweigh the drawbacks. It was, she made clear, the client’s responsibility to be checked out for potentially harmful sexually-transmitted diseases.

  The girls had all known grief or rejection, but why should they lose hope of motherhood? They were sufficiently liberated to know they could choose an alternative path to barren spinsterhood. £500 was a lot of money, but nothing in comparison with the charges made for official Artificial Insemination by Donor treatment. The girls had begged or borrowed to raise the cash.

  As far as the men went, she’d thought about involving the Serbian, but decided against it and told him, by text, to vacate the premises for the evening. Unfortunately, the arrival of the text message had been heard only by the spiders in the kitchen drawer, where the occasional cleaner habitually deposited any lost property she found.

  Mr and Mrs Mann’s cruise having now reached the South Pacific, the four students were raring to go. Ambrose had roped in Bud Baxter plus Sam and Vic, the shoe-fight transvestites, whose mothers would be happy at the suggestion their sons had fathered a child, even if the babes themselves would never be dandled on grandmamas’ knees.

  Solly, Dan, Aidan and Jim had each taken a little trouble to disguise his appearance. Nothing drastic – but enough to have made their mothers weep had they been present. The chaps would get £200 each for the two sessions… much more than the £35 maximum permitted by law.

  Arriving together in Mrs Mann’s rather swish runabout, they were directed to a cubicle apiece to familiarise themselves with the set-up. Ten minutes to look at the magazines, and by the time the nervous young women arrived, the men were up for the task ahead.

  Candy Dunne was the first to walk in. She needed a sibling for her darling Job, who regularly asked for a baby sister. Her husband’s behaviour at Job’s birthday party had scandalised both families and broken her heart, yet since the separation her longing for another child had been overwhelming. Things got even worse when Tyson was remanded in custody, awaiting trial for his part in a countywide farm machinery insurance fraud scam. There was little hope of reconciliation. Job’s mother did not want to play the slag herself and go with just anyone. She wanted her ex to think someone else had loved her enough to give her a child. When the gossip mill spread word about this baby-making opportunity, she’d decided to give it a go.

  Gone were Candy’s flash car and superior tone. She barely raised her eyes high enough to notice that no cobwebs dangled from the rafters before being seated at one of the tables with a glass of wine. Candy thumbed through a glossy Motherhood magazine as more women arrived and were seated at a table apiece, eyes averted.

  At a signal from Bud, the men took their places opposite the women. Pseudonymous introductions were made, more wine poured, and each couple photographed cheek-to-cheek and smiling. The cameras were handed to the women to keep and develop as they saw fit.

  Marnie insisted on the photos. It was the not knowing that hurt a child. Not knowing why she was thin when her mother was voluptuously built. Not knowing why she had blue eyes when her mother’s were brown. She had no evidence that her mother had even conversed with her father. She was determined that any infant conce
ived as a result of this operation would have this one luxury: a photograph of the two parents together, looking happy, sharing a drink. Every child deserved that, at least.

  When the couples were ready, the men returned to the cubicles, to fill the turkey basters waiting in sealed bags to receive the product of their self-stimulation. At a quiet cough from behind each screen, the women entered and readied themselves on the couches. Some chose to administer to themselves, while others preferred Marnie or the partner to press the plunger. Most of the women wanted the father to be present at insemination and the hoped-for conception; the men looked coyly at the magazines while the procedure took place.

  Up in the loft Drago had dozed until roused by the sound of a voice he recognised. He returned to the spy hole. The view was restricted to an area about three metres in diameter immediately beneath him: half a couch; a magazine open at a double-page spread of a naked woman with pendulous breasts; some sort of barrier, and a young man seated at a table, drinking wine and conversing with someone out of Drago’s sight. Drago was certain: the young man was speaking to Samantha. Soon she walked beneath him and stepped out of her underwear. The man was close by.

  Drago couldn’t make out what was going on, but there was no doubt that his beloved Samantha, for whom he had hidden in this chilly loft for seven wintry weeks, had taken off her pants for another man. He couldn’t watch anymore, but climbed into his sleeping bag, buried his head under the pillow and wept silently.

  He had been through all this agony, discomfort and deprivation for nothing.