‘Have you stopped drinking completely then?’ Mary keeps her voice neutral, trying to hide her amazement.
‘Just for a few days. See how it goes. It’s all this remembering, see. I want to be sharp, like.’ He looks across at the far bank. ‘When you’re on the Stella, you’re always losing things.’
‘I can let you borrow that tape, if you need to jog your memory.’
‘No, you’re all right. It’s fresh in my mind still, most of it. In fact I been getting more, the more I think about it. To fill in the gaps like.’
‘Some people might prefer to forget some of those things,’ she prompts gently.
He looks at her. ‘That Tom, you mean? Oh ay. I won’t forget him again in a hurry.’ He rubs his chin thoughtfully, as if surprised to find it clean-shaven. ‘You hear about them battered wives, don’t you? And you think, why does she put up with it? But she thought she deserved it.’
‘Did he ever love her, do you think?’
‘He loved that other lass, didn’t he? That Annie. That was the trouble. It was there between them the whole time. So she was always trying to please him, to make up for not being her. Then he’d want to thump her – because you do, don’t you? When a dog’s all over you, you just want to slap it down. So then she’d try harder, which made him even madder.’
‘Then once the baby was born, they were both trapped,’ Mary says. ‘You can see how such a situation might escalate, can’t you?’
The old man stares into the distance. ‘It drags you down, loving someone that can’t stand the sight of you. It makes you feel like nothing. Worse than nothing. You forget there’s any good in you.’ He blows smoke.
‘She must have felt so guilty about not telling anyone what happened that night.’
‘It ruined her, I reckon. Her whole life was a sort of lie from then on. Funny, isn’t it? How one wrong thing can turn everything bad?’
‘Guilt is a more powerful force than most people are aware,’ Mary muses. ‘We tend to assume it’s merely a reaction to some ill one has committed, but I think it’s actually an urge in itself that can motivate all kinds of self-destructive behaviour.’
‘He was always saying he wanted to teach her a lesson. He blamed her for everything.’ He pushes the hair off his forehead to reveal the edge of his port wine stain. ‘See this?’ he says. ‘I got this off her, I reckon. Because that’s where he’d always hit her, on the side of her head where the bruises wouldn’t show. He liked to get her kneeling, didn’t he? And make her say sorry. Then he’d hit her to teach her a lesson.’
She lights another Gitanes and they smoke quietly for a minute of two. Then: ‘I reckon Paul’s lad will be along later,’ he says casually. ‘Got something to show you.’
‘Oh?’ Mary wonders if Paul knows about this visit. ‘Any idea what?’
A knowing smile: ‘I’ll let him tell you himself.’
‘What have you two been up to?’ she asks, vaguely considering whether she should be concerned. A vulnerable young boy spending time alone with an alcoholic schizophrenic, albeit one temporarily on the wagon.
‘I been doing a bit painting,’ he remarks, changing the subject. ‘Not them old scenes, from Flo’s time and that. I been doing things from my today life instead, from back when I were a nipper. To anchor me, like.’
‘Has it been successful?’
‘I been trying for a likeness of my mam. It’s just the beginnings, mind. I don’t know if it will come to something.’ Then, raising his hand in a wave: ‘Here comes the lad now.’
Ben breaks into a run when he spots them, then stands there grinning.
‘What’s all this about?’ she asks, taken aback by how very very pleased she is to see him. As he charged in through her gate it’s only by sheer effort of will that she prevented her arms gathering him into a hug.
‘I found out where Lord Jim lived – and it’s right over old Skip’s place! His landlady used to look after him before he died. And look! She wrote all these diaries, like going back to the year dot. So there’s tons of stuff about Lord Jim and what he was like, what he said and that.’
‘I’m not sure you should be talking to me about this,’ Mary cautions.
‘They’re sort of private, but Skip said it was all right to read them.’
‘I mean, I’m not sure your father would approve of you being here.’
‘I don’t care what he thinks,’ he says, jutting his chin mutinously. ‘Anyway, he’s not here. He’s off on the boat till tomorrow night.’
‘Nevertheless, I think I really ought to inform him that we’ve been in contact, don’t you? It could be tricky for me professionally otherwise, if he were to find out.’
‘Do you have to?’ He looks pleadingly at her.
‘Unfortunately, it appears I’ve mislaid the number of his satellite phone,’ she says, smiling. ‘So how about if I just leave a message on his landline?’
‘So he won’t get it till he gets back – which means we’ve got nearly two whole days!’ He beams at her, and there it is again, an almost physical impulse to reach out and hold him.
‘Look, here’s one of the 1967 diaries. It’s got all about him having his legs off, just like Dad remembered.’
He hands it to Mary: it’s one of those hard-backed exercise books with a cloth spine. It’s the kind she uses herself, actually, though they’re difficult to find nowadays.
‘She knew him for ages, Skip says, like thirty years or something, ever since he moved into the flat. So I thought there might be something about Annie. I mean if she knew him for that long, maybe he talked about her disappearing and that.’
Mary opens the diary at random. The writing is neat and old-fashioned; the unhurried hand of someone who likes things nice and tidy. ‘“Another terrible day,”’ she reads, then looks up.
They’re both watching her, waiting for her to react. Seeing their expectant faces, she bursts into laughter.
‘Come on,’ she says, getting up. ‘If we’re going to read them together, let’s find somewhere a bit more comfortable, shall we? What about the Seamen’s Mission? I’ll treat us all to bacon sandwiches.’
Chapter Forty-Six
25 August 1967
Another terrible day. My cold was a bit better, and that Vaseline helped with the chapped nose, but I still felt very low. I can’t remember being this bad last year when the lass went off on holiday. But I was still doing for Mr M. then, so I was keeping busy, and the lad was in and out with the herring boats so I wasn’t on my own so much.
Mrs J. popped in with half a dozen eggs and some Lemsip, but she had to get back for her grandchildren. I keep thinking of Alfie, I don’t know why. I keep thinking, what if I’d said yes and we’d ended up with a baby? Would it really have been the end of the world?
After she’d gone, I had a little cry, then put the radio on for Woman’s Hour, and slept for a bit in the chair. Mr M. had his music on all afternoon, and folk up and down the stairs, so I kept the radio on.
Davy rang the bell later. I didn’t feel like talking, but he insisted, so I asked him in for a cup of tea.
I must say he looked very well, with a nice tan and his hair blonde from the sun. It was too long, of course, but that’s the fashion now, isn’t it? At least he wasn’t wearing make-up, so that’s something.
He told me that Mr M.’s been taken bad these last few days and has been asking for me. I said it doesn’t sound like he’s bad, what with the music blaring out. (That wasn’t very charitable, Lord, I know, but I was feeling so poorly.) Davy said it was the visitors who put the music on and he was sorry if it disturbed me.
I asked why Mr M. wanted to see me and Davy said he thought he “wanted forgiveness”. I said that didn’t sound much like Mr M., and Davy said no, but he hasn’t been much like himself lately, so maybe that’s why.
He said he’s still eating those custard creams like they’re going out of fashion, and he’s never stuck to that diet, so the weight’s not come off. And he’
s been on antibiotics for weeks because the sugar diabetes means he’s been getting one bug after another. But every time he gets better, he goes down with something else. He’s got pneumonia now, and the doctor’s talking about putting him back in the hospital.
I couldn’t face going up to see him this evening, so I said I’d think about it.
After Davy left, they turned the music off.
Maybe I’ll pop in tomorrow if I’m feeling a bit brighter.
26 August 1967
I managed a boiled egg for breakfast. The milk’s been piling up while I’ve been bad. I had to pour a whole pint away because it had gone sour. That got me started on clearing out the fridge, so I finished that off before I went up.
But I wish now that I’d gone up yesterday, when he was asking for me, because he’d taken a turn for the worse by the time I got there. Davy had stayed the night (there was one of them rubber lilo things propped up behind the sofa) and said he hardly slept at all, because Mr M. was talking in his sleep. I felt his forehead and he was red hot, so I think the fever had probably made him delirious.
I thought I’d still be cross, but when I saw him lying there, sweating in one of his frilly nighties, I just felt ashamed that I’d not been more forgiving.
He was asleep, and his make-up was off. He had a scarf tied round his head like a sort of turban, instead of the wig I suppose, so he looked for all the world like a fat old fishwife snoring by the fire. Davy looked all in so I sent him off to take a nap, while I pottered round tidying up a bit. It was almost like old times, with Davy and me working together.
The phone rang at about 11.30 and I answered it. It was someone asking after Mr M., so I said he was asleep and left the receiver off.
I woke Mr M. at 12 for his pills. He’s still on the antibiotics, but I don’t know what good they’re doing. He hardly recognized me, and fell back asleep straight away. Davy came back at about 4, so he was asleep for nearly 6 hours, poor dab! He called Dr Fraser, and he came round at about 5.30 and said he didn’t think it was worth disturbing Mr M. to take him to the hospital. He never said, but it was obvious what he meant.
After he left we had a cup of tea and Davy set out a plate of custard creams, which made us both laugh and cry for a bit. Then Davy went off home to pick up a change of clothes, so I got my knitting and my rosary and sat with Mr M.
He was snoring away, propped up on the pillows (Dr F. said he’d be more comfortable like that), then he sort of spluttered a bit so I looked up, and he was staring straight at me.
“Is that Edith Lillian?” he said, so I said yes, and he said, “Silly old trout,” and closed his eyes again. I thought he’d gone back to sleep, but a bit later he reached out his hand and said, “Are you still there?” I caught hold of it and said I was. Then he said, “I did a bad thing, Edith. A long time ago. I should have said something, but I never did.”
So I asked did he want me to call Father Gregory, and he said no, he’d rather talk to me. Then he said, “He was lugging something heavy.” So I said, “Who?” And he said, “Tom.” And then he said, “It must have been her.” So I said, “Who do you mean?” But he’d closed his eyes again.
I kept a hold of his hand, and stroked it a bit to let him know I was there, and a bit later he opened his eyes again and said, “I knew it was Annie.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but there were tears pouring down his cheeks. Then he said, “We looked everywhere for her. I kept hoping I was wrong.”
I got a Kleenex and wiped his eyes for him, but he kept crying and saying, “I’m so sorry,” and, “I should have said something.” So whatever it was had obviously been on his conscience for years. I tried to comfort him by telling him that God is merciful, and will always forgive a sinner who truly repents, but I don’t think he could hear me.
27 August 1967
He’s gone and everything’s settled. Davy called the Co-op and they took him away this afternoon. They didn’t have a coffin big enough, so they had to wrap him up and tie him onto a stretcher. It was quite a business getting him down them stairs, but they managed it with care and respect, so I suppose they’re used to that sort of thing.
Davy said he talked once about wanting a proper funeral, with lots of flowers and black lace, so he’s going to have a word with that new vicar at Holy Trinity about it tomorrow. Davy says he’s quite ‘trendy’, so Lord knows what the service will be like. There’s still quite a lot of money in his bank account, so that’s all right.
Once I put the phone back on, it never stopped ringing all day.
I can’t believe he’s gone. When I popped downstairs to have a quick bath and change, I kept thinking I could hear his wheelchair trundling around upstairs. It was an extra large one they had to get in specially. I wonder if they’ll come to collect it, or if I’m supposed to take it back. How do they know when someone passes and doesn’t need their wheelchair anymore?
Davy went home, but came back later and knocked on my door saying he couldn’t settle. I made us cheese on toast and hot chocolate and we watched that Terry and June programme to take our minds off it for a bit. Then I said a prayer, and Davy joined in, and I said he could fetch down the lilo and sleep here if he wanted. So that’s where he is now. He went out like a light, bless him.
Dear God, in Your mercy, forgive us our sins now and at the hour of our end, amen.
Chapter Forty-Seven
2007
Ben’s sitting with the doc and old Skip down the Mission with the remains of their stotties on thick plates. Old fishing blokes keep trundling in and out, going howay to Skip and getting their teas and fried eggs and that, scraping chair legs on the floor and lighting up.
The doc started off reading Miss Turnbull’s diary between mouthfuls, to catch up to where he’d got to, but now it’s open between them on the table, and they’re reading it together. They’ve just got to the bit where Lord Jim’s on his death bed and Ben can hardly believe it: there in Miss Turnbull’s old-lady handwriting, with all its careful loops, is this tiny little glimpse into Annie’s life.
‘He saw Tom!’ he says. ‘He was carrying Annie’s body!’
‘It certainly looks like that, doesn’t it? And it preyed on his mind ever since.’
‘So why didn’t he tell someone before?’
‘I don’t know, Ben. Perhaps he was frightened. Or ashamed. Perhaps he was somewhere he shouldn’t have been. It can’t have been easy for a young man with his proclivities at that time. It’s hard enough these days for people to admit to being homosexual.’
‘Oh,’ says Ben. ‘Right. I’d forgotten about that. So he kept quiet to protect himself.’
‘Possibly. Without asking him, we can’t know for sure.’
‘So Dad’s got to be hypnotized again.’
‘After his last experience, I doubt there’s much hope of that,’ says the doc, getting out her tabs and looking around – at the big new No Smoking signs on the wall and all the old blokes puffing away.
‘But he’s our only witness!’
‘To continue with your detective analogy, this is certainly a very good lead. But it’s not the only one.’ She leans back and blows smoke up into the blue cloud hanging over the tables. ‘Did Mr Skipper tell you about our interesting time together yesterday?’ she asks.
‘No. What happened?’ Ben’s eyes have started stinging, but he doesn’t mind.
The doc glances at old Skip across the table, as though asking for permission.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘You’ll tell it better than me.’
So she tells Ben all about how old Skip used to be Flo in a previous life, which is really weird, and how that Ian bloke used to be Annie’s mam, which is even weirder. Which starts Ben going through everyone he knows in his mind, trying to match them all up, like in a game of Cluedo, which leaves him with Laura and Nana and the doc in this life, and Sam and Tom and Annie’s dad in 1898 – which makes him feel sort of sick and excited at the same time.
‘Did they say wha
t happened to Annie?’ he asks after a bit.
‘I think perhaps it’s better if we don’t talk too much about that,’ says the doc. ‘It might influence our future sessions – in the unlikely event that your father relents and allows me to hypnotize you again.’ She raises her eyebrows at him. ‘No advance on that front, I assume?’
He shakes his head and she squeezes his arm with a gloved hand. ‘I’ll have a word with him when he gets back, shall I?’ she says. ‘You never know, perhaps a bit of sea air will make him see things differently. Meanwhile, I think we ought to let Ian know about these diaries. Do you have his number?’
‘It’s under BBC,’ Ben says, handing her his mobile – then taking it back again when it’s obvious she has no idea what to do with it. ‘Here you are. It’s ringing,’ he says, handing it back.
‘Do I need to press something?’
‘Just talk into it like a normal phone when he answers.’
She holds it nervously to her ear, like she’s afraid it’s going to irradiate her brain.
‘Hello, Ian? It’s Mary – yes, he lent it to me – yes, well that’s because I was angry. You can’t just – well, don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Thank you, yes. I would appreciate that. But in the meantime something’s happened with Ben – no, he’s fine. But there’s something I think you ought to see.’
Why is she being so narky with him, Ben wonders. Have they had a row or something?
‘He’s found some old diaries at Mr Skipper’s house,’ she goes on. ‘They appear to have been written by Lord Jim’s housekeeper, if you can believe that – yes, I know, amazing coincidence – though naturally I’d have a somewhat different perspective on it. Anyway, it seems young Jimmy witnessed something the night Annie disappeared, but neglected to report it at the time – I’ve got the relevant volume here, but there are lots of other volumes, Ben says. Yes, at Mr Skipper’s house – here, I’ll pass you to Mr Skipper. He’ll give you directions.’
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