Duty and Delusion

by Shawna Lewis

  Truth be told, Belinda didn’t think much of Gerrard Street, but there are times when a woman needs a man and a man needs a woman, and Gerrard’s needs were stronger than most. Having three kids to care for he needed help, not least with the ironing and Sloane’s impending puberty. With this in mind, he thought about running his mower over next door’s grass once in a while. Over the fence, Belinda had acknowledged that this would be a godsend. She currently had no intention of taking in ironing – though with her job disappearing, who knows what she might have to do to make ends meet?

  While Gerrard was working in her garden one day, the PCSOs paid a visit to Mrs Lowe’s address. Their stated aim was to enquire about Melanie’s wellbeing, but privately they were keen to discover anything to confirm their belief that the library assistant was a wrong’un. Yes, they had their sources and knew that Belinda Lowe was regarded locally as a pillar of the community, but there’d been many a public servant who hid behind a cloak of respectability to promote her perversions.

  It was a normal domestic scene that greeted them at the house on Dapple Grove, a greenfinch singing on the breeze-stirred cherry tree while the man of the house mowed the lawn in the afternoon sunshine.

  “We’ve just come to check up on how your daughter’s doing after all the upset,” Grant explained over the whirr of the electric hover mower.

  Gerrard Street stopped mowing. “What upset?”

  “Has no one told you? Is your wife around?”

  “No, she’s gone. I don’t know anything about any upset. What’s happened?”

  “Your wife should have told you, sir. Where has she gone to? When will she be back?” This was Heather.

  “She won’t. She’s sodded off and I’m not expecting her back. Good riddance.”

  “I see. May we see your daughter then?”

  “She’s staying late at school, rehearsing for some play or other. What upset?”

  “The mix-up over her lunch box.” Heather was cagey. The less they gave away, the more likely he was to spill the beans on his wife.

  Gerrard had heard a little about the lunchtime riot from Jermyn but had been concentrating on the football at the time. It had gone in one ear and out the other.

  “Kids run wild all the time. They get over it.” Gerrard didn’t like the police sniffing around … not that he had anything to worry about, as far as he knew.

  “And your wife – if you don’t mind, we’d like a little chat about her.” Heather was all sweetness. “There have been a few upsetting incidents recently and we wonder how she’s bearing up.”

  “Don’t ask me! She’s always been keen on getting her own way. Headstrong, like. She’s buggered off… took the caravan an’all. She’s a crazy tart!”

  “And your daughter?”

  “Still at school, I told you. I’ll be picking her up in half an hour. Nothing wrong with her.”

  He gripped the Start handle and recommenced the slow trudge up and down the lawn, making it clear that the conversation was at an end.

  Grant and Heather had got what they came for: the mother was a crazy tart who’d buggered off weeks ago, taking the family caravan. They knew a few trailer parks in the area. Did Mrs Lowe have connections with the travelling community? That would be a new twist. A stroll round the unauthorised sites for a look-see was called for, when they got chance.

  Passing Sallby Village Hall, they noted with interest two men loading weathered pantiles onto a flatbed truck, but it soon slipped their minds.

  *

  While Gerrard Street was mowing her front lawn, Belinda had been baking a couple of quiches and a batch of cherry buns. Half, she would take to her parents: the rest would go to the Street chap in repayment for his work. She hated cutting the grass herself so it was a fair swap.

  Gerrard mowed the remainder of the lawn feeling resentful. He missed Patricia in the way you miss a verruca when it’s gone. Mind, she’d been good at looking after the young’uns – give the crazy tart her due. He’d never thought she’d just walk away from them.

  Dirty washing was piling up around the house. He gathered it randomly together from time to time and stuck as much in the machine as would fit, but it never looked right when it had dried, somehow. He lacked that mystical understanding of laundry known only to women. Gerrard had no interest in honing his own domestic skills.

  The lawn completed, he reached in his pocket for a pair of rusty secateurs and began deadheading last year’s roses, which straggled, brown and papery, over the fence. The remnants of fallen blooms formed a squelchy mush beneath his feet. He was pensive, weighing up the possibility of engaging Belinda Lowe as a stand-in for his wife. With the library due to close, she’d soon be out of work. Loads of time on her hands. That girl of hers was staying with her grandparents, by all accounts. The lad had left home and the husband too, as good as.

  Gerrard straightened his back and eyed his reflection in the front window. Still a full head of hair, not much of a paunch if viewed from the right angle… yeah, he could still cut it with the ladies, he reckoned. The Lowe woman would be a pushover.

  Not that he wanted commitment. Nothing like that. Just some domestic help, a few home comforts… and maybe the odd bit on the side. She’d be gagging for it, at her age.

  He’d talked himself into it. Clipping the secateurs shut, he walked round to the back door, rattled the handle and walked inside, wearing his most disarming grin.

  The smell of fresh baking brought a tear to his eye, in memory of his long-dead grandmother. Neither his own mum nor Patricia had gone in for home cooking, preferring to “leave it to the professionals,” as they said. Culinary conversation in the Street household rarely strayed further than comparisons of M&S and Sainsbury’s ready meals.

  Belinda was at the sink, washing the utensils. She saw the tear in his eye. Poor chap must be missing his wife. She gestured to a chair at the kitchen table, handed him a steaming mug and pulled out a stool opposite.

  Her opening was tentative. “Must be hard, with three children to care for.” She reached for the oven glove hanging from a hook on the door.

  Gerrard said nothing, but sipped his coffee, savouring the scent of the quiches cooling on a mesh tray on the worktop. The face of his grandma was as clear as day in his mind’s eye. Not that she’d ever made quiches… but she’d been a dab hand at bacon and egg flans.

  More tears came to his eyes as memories of his childhood flooded in. Life had seemed – no, was – so simple then.

  Belinda reached over and patted his hands, which were grubby but slender-fingered.

  “It will get better,” she assured him.

  He lifted his head and directed the moist beam of his eyes into hers. He grasped her hands, oven cloth as well.

  “You’re a wonderful woman,” he ventured. “So capable.”

  Belinda glowed with satisfaction. She had always prided herself on her capabilities. The cherry buns, having reached a state of perfection, glowed golden under the oven light. Using the glove, she lifted out the tray.

  “So capable and so fragrant,” smiled the quite-good-looking neighbour, who perhaps was a man of discernment after all, she admitted. Gerrard inhaled deeply, slipping back in time.

  The appreciation was making Bel feel coquettish. She ventured a flirtatious glance. “There’s plenty more I’m good at,” she simpered, making wide eyes in his direction. What are you doing? Belinda’s voice was faint in her ear.

  He was wondering if she’d be good at cosy chats about periods with their Sloane – that’s what was really bugging him – that, and the ironing. But needs must when the devil drives.

  “So … what else are you good at?” He tried out a saucy wink.

  Belinda began to feel flustered but Bel overruled her prudery. “It depends what you’re looking for.”

  He laughed. “Well, right now I’m looking for a nice
warm cherry… bun.” He pointed at the largest one, still burning hot in its tray. “I like hot stuff.”

  They snorted, laughing at themselves. Bel began to think Gerrard was quite something.

  Suddenly his face resumed its serious expression. “No more hot stuff for me though, now that Patricia’s gone. I’ve got to put all my attention into keeping things stable for the kids.”

  “How’ve they taken it?”

  “They don’t say much, but the heart’s gone out of them. It’s Sloane I feel most sorry for, what with puberty coming and all that. A girl needs a woman’s touch.”

  He chanced a wary glance at Belinda’s expression. It was hard as nails. This might be more difficult than he’d thought. Silence ensued.

  Soon, the buns were cool enough to touch. She took one between thumb and forefinger and held it six inches from his mouth, tempting him, laughing quietly.

  He leant forward to within an inch of the cake, lips parted. His eyes flicked up to hers and back to the bun.

  “What an offer.” His voice was throaty now. His teeth sank into the warmth, tongue seeking out the smooth sweetness of the glacé fruit.

  Mouth full, he looked her in the eye. “You’re just like my grandma. She was a teaser, too.”

  Belinda failed to hear the second sentence. His grandma, for Heaven’s sake!

  She caught sight of the distorted reflection in the glass of a cabinet door. Her hair was mussed from the heat of the oven, but otherwise she didn’t look too bad for her age, surely? The guy must be forty if he was a day, so his grandmother would have been eighty or ninety by now.

  Gerrard saw her changed expression and knew he’d blown it, for the time being. The spell was broken, and Belinda kicked Bel out of her head. Matter-of-factly, carelessly, the cook turned to remove the rest of the baking.

  “Mmm! Smells delicious.”

  “It’s only a quiche. Hardly cordon bleu.”

  She made sure no eye contact was possible, and Gerrard was stumped. Not known for staying power, he got up to leave.

  “Here, take the buns and a quiche – but don’t put the lid on until everything’s cool.”

  She held the door open, watched him shuffle out and struggle to unlatch the gate with one hand. She did not offer to help. He turned and caught her eye.

  “I meant to say… your girl did well the other night. They all did.”

  “Well at what?”

  “The show! You know… The Mikado. Star quality, that one. I was looking out for you there but must have missed you.” He began to walk away then paused. “It was good to see your lad looking so well.” Did she know he’d been back? From the look on her face, he didn’t think so.

  Her expression didn’t falter. “Thanks.” She nodded brusquely and slammed the door shut.

  *

  Why did she not know? Her daughter had been in a show! And Aidan had been there to watch. When he was supposed to be at university! Were they ashamed of her, their own mother? How could she not have known? Had her own children disowned her?

  She felt a constriction in her chest; was unable to inhale, try as she might; back through the door to the garden, gasping for air; fell to her knees by the pond, shoulder hurting where it knocked against the wooden snail, which toppled and cracked. She lay prone. From the ground, the atmosphere seemed easier to breathe: greener, earthier, sweeter. Eyes closed, she concentrated on the air slowly re-entering her lungs. Her skin was cold as ice, corpselike. This latest realisation could not be borne. She breathed, but longed for oblivion. It would not come.

  *

  Time passed, who knows how long? There was no dealing with anything anymore. So she wouldn’t bother. She would just lie there, though it was chilly on the stones. If only she had a blanket. She tried to sleep, there, where she lay. Let them find her dead. It was time for the easy way out. She’d given life her best shot and failed. Might as well give up.

  She could hear the phone ringing inside the house but let it continue until the caller gave up. Every few minutes it rang again. Why would no-one leave her in peace? But there was no peace in these ice halls of hell. It rang, time and time again, relentless, intrusive, obsessive in its insistence, until at last she succumbed to its urgency. Stiffly, she pulled herself to her knees. The snail had lost its head and she mourned the loss for what it signified. Grasping anything she could for support, she stood and slowly edged her way back inside. The ringing had stopped, but would soon start again.

  It took ten minutes. By now warming a little and sipping a hot drink, Belinda picked up the receiver cautiously.

  “Belinda, thank goodness I’ve got hold of you. I’ve been trying for ages. It’s Anita. Whatever’s going on at the village hall?”

  The reply was non-committal.

  “A customer’s just come in and said there are no tiles on the roof. I thought I’d better ring and ask what it’s all about. I know I’ve not been able to get to meetings recently so I’m a bit out of touch. Have we got a grant? When’s it all going to be finished? We need some work doing on the shop roof so if the firm’s any good will you ask them to call round here? I know you’ll have done plenty of research and found someone reliable… I just wanted to say well done for sorting it all out.” The voice tailed off, aware that it was getting no response.

  No tiles on the village hall roof?

  Did she care?

  She should do.

  It was her duty.

  But did she?

  “Sorry, Anita. The line’s really bad. I can tell it’s you but not what you’re saying. I’ll call you back.”

  She ended the call and laid the receiver on the windowsill. Stopping first in the kitchen, she grabbed four of the cherry buns intended for her parents before climbing the stairs slowly and seeking comfort from the duvet. Beneath its tented mound, she stuffed the cakes into her mouth one by one, relishing their sweetness in the search for oblivion.

  *

  By the time the weathered red pantiles were missed, most of them had found their way atop the splendid barn conversion nearing completion in a field half a mile from the road between Denton and Denshill. Bearing as they did the lichen and smoke stains of ninety years, the tiles blended perfectly with those on the crumbling grey limestone farm buildings, constructed two centuries ago from rocks picked by hand from the land. Patrick Kevin McVeigh had a good eye – and the knack of spotting an opportunity. When his two roofers had called for instructions on the job at Sallby Village Hall, he needed no pause for thought. Those tiles were just what he’d been looking for to complete his latest acquisition in the traditional manner.

  The converted barn stood alone in a big field, with room for a sizeable site behind the house. He’d put up some nice ornate gates – he was fond of big gates and big dogs, was Pakamac – moved a trailer or two on and started the build. When that was complete, he’d invite selected members of his family and the wider travelling community to take up residence. Sometimes, living in a house got too much for the missus so he’d keep a couple of trailers for her, too. He planned to face the council with a fait accompli. What with the closeness of family bonds, the need for the children’s schooling, the desire to integrate into mainstream society and the special emotional needs of his wife – well, Patrick’s expensive lawyers would make mincemeat of the poor sods pleading the council’s case if retrospective planning permission was refused.

  As for the roof, it would be finished in a day or two, with a team of men working on it as long as daylight lasted. The weathering being genuine, no passer-by could tell the tiles were newly fixed, so when Grant and Heather heard reports of a roof-full of pantiles going AWOL, their eyes never lighted on Mr McVeigh’s retirement home. They dimly remembered seeing the tiles being loaded outside the hall, but thought better of mentioning how they’d witnessed a daylight robbery and walked on by.

  Patrick McVeigh was del
ighted with the way things had fallen into place.

  27

  As March drew to a close, the DOCILE scheme for interfaith enlightenment inched its way forward with a formal invitation from Rejoice with Jesus!

  Only Darren was excited at the prospect, although it was inconceivable to the pastor that others on the committee might be less enthusiastic. Whilst it had been tricky to arrange a full-blown evangelical service midweek, Darren’s fervour was strong enough to persuade an impressive congregation of sixty born-again souls to Rejoice with Jesus! at the old Odeon on a damp Wednesday afternoon.

  There was singing, there was clapping, there were random Praise the Lords! and Hallelujahs! aplenty from the audience which swayed in front of the big screen, from where a toupéed, glinting-toothed American filled them with fear of the Lord’s wrath and the imperative joys of being saved by Jesus, reinforced by drum rolls and guitar riffs from two musical reborns on stage either side of the screen. Impromptu prayers and exhortations from the front four rows (which seated the congregation with room to spare) echoed around the vast auditorium.

  Darren’s long, straight legs stalked the aisles where ice cream and popcorn had once been sold, his eyes bright with a messianic gleam. He urged his guests to cast off their inhibitions and let his Lord into their hearts. This really mattered to Darren: at stake was not only the salvation of the DOCILE souls, but also the salvation of the Denswick branch of the Rejoice with Jesus! Evangelical Church.

  Just ten days after DOCILE’s visit to Our Lady of Sorrows, the owners of the former cinema-cum-bingo hall had given Rejoice with Jesus! notice to quit. The premises were to be demolished, the land sold for development. In an ironic twist of fate, in so energetically promoting his church’s value to the town, the pastor had prompted its downfall.