‘Anna?’
‘What, Kate?’
‘Did he see us. The daddy – did he see us?’
‘Yes, he came when I was ill.’
‘And will we live with the daddy when he comes back from the war?’
Anna didn’t want to think about that. The idea of having just one adult in the house was not attractive. Uncle Bert went to work, but Auntie Elsie was at home for most of the day. How would it be with just Dad? She shivered.
‘Are you cold, Anna?’
She wasn’t cold. Something had just walked over her grave, and she feared for the future. Their father would go to work, and who would mind the twins? Would it not be better if they stayed with the Dixons while Anna went to Dad? That had been Anna’s intention – well – her dearest wish, but she was older now, and she realized that Dad would probably want all three of his children back when he came home.
She had to wait and see.
Seven
We decided to meet at the scene of the crime at one o’clock for a bite of lunch. The part-time amateur hookers come out to play only in the evenings, and his wife is one of them. She’s the one who’s currently servicing my husband, but there is no awkwardness when I meet her official other half.
He didn’t do justice when describing himself to me. The only bit that fits is the Guardian crossword and a silver pen. The rest is – well – beautiful. And it’s as if we have known each other all our lives, because we have similar humour and similar concerns. I order orange juice, he has a half pint of lager, and we settle in one of the private booths in which magic moments occur, but only after tea time. It’s a tatty dump, probably looks a bit better when daylight fades.
‘We’re batting for the same side,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve two girls to bring up, and they’ll be a damned sight better off without Dolores as an example. Unfit mother, you see. She says she’s taking them with her, but I’ll fight for them right to the end.’
‘Good for you.’ He is extraordinarily handsome. Like me, he has too much hair; like me, he has inherited good bone structure – what does she see in Den? He’s staring at me. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. Is he waiting for me to say something? ‘Yes, I have two girls, but they’re only three months old. So she’s planning to go to Lincolnshire with Den? Don’t you think we should warn the populace, get the town crier out?’
Alec grins. ‘This is the first time she’s actually come near to the point of leaving, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed and hoping for better luck this time. Holding a knife and fork’s difficult, and it slows me down at work, but crossed they are and crossed they’ll stay.’ He makes a show of picking up his half of lager with crippled fingers. ‘It’s a bugger,’ he sighs. I like this man. He’s easy company, and wonderfully easy on the eye.
I tell him about the Dutch crab lice, and he asks how I know their nationality. ‘Clogs,’ I say. ‘And their accent was strange.’
He shakes his head thoughtfully. ‘That’s why she was scratching, then. Thank God for small mercies, eh? Good job I can’t bear to touch her.’ He ponders for a moment. ‘You know, they might not have been Dutch, because she’s been with God knows how many men. Don’t blame foreigners, Anna. The accent was possibly a speech defect, and the clogs – well – anyone’s entitled to the odd fashion blunder. My wife’s probably bred a strain all her own. I’m OK. I keep my distance.’
I like him. And the way he looks at me . . . I think he likes me, too. Alec Halliwell doesn’t deserve any of this because he’s a decent – and very attractive – man. And he loved her so much. When she had an evening job, he used to stand at a bedroom window and wait for her to come home. If she walked down one side of the avenue, he knew she’d come home on the bus; when she was on the opposite side, she’d had a lift – and the rest – from a man.
‘I started having headaches,’ he says. ‘Blinders, they were. They stopped when I stopped standing at the bedroom window.’
‘They stopped when you stopped loving her, Alec.’
‘Undoubtedly. And now, I can’t wait for her to go. But I must say, I feel a bit sorry for your husband. She’s not the full quid – bottom stream of the Secondary Modern before they invented this comprehensive doo-dah. But she was beautiful, you see. And I fell for her hook, line and sinker when we were both fourteen. I’ve never quite managed to love anyone else. So far, anyway.’
As owner of a wild imagination, I have to keep my feet on the ground. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me . . . I take a sip from my glass. Nothing is happening. He’s talking to me, that’s all. And yet . . . those bright eyes are travelling from my face to my neck, then down to the rest of me. I should have worn better clothes.
After smiling broadly at me, he tells me about the obsessive cleaning that begins at six o’clock every morning. She attacks every room, windows included, is done by ten o’clock, then the rest of the day is hers. ‘The gas fire has a grille in front that comes off, but she doesn’t know that. She pokes her fingers through the slots and struggles with the duster—’
‘You haven’t told her it comes off?’
‘Why should I? I can’t be bothered,’ he answers. ‘When I’m there, I just watch her doing it and smile to myself. But just before she leaves for good, I’ll pull the grille off and say nothing. She may guess then what the smiling was about, though I have my doubts.’
I know exactly what he means. We rub along with friends, colleagues, neighbours and relatives even when they annoy, but the person closest to us is the one we punish once the love dies. The punishments may be small, yet they are calculated, continuous and deliberate. Den likes the toilet paper placed on its spool so that the loose end hangs against the wall. I always put it on the ‘wrong’ way round, and he inevitably turns it to suit himself. A small thing, but once combined with other annoyances, it is a weapon. We are cruel. Marriage can be extremely cruel. It can also be the loneliest place.
‘I stopped loving him a long time ago,’ I say. ‘But when I stopped liking him, that was the end. We weren’t supposed to be able to have children. Then, at the grand old age of forty, I had twins. He wanted a son, got two girls. Girls are a waste of space.’
‘But OK for jumping into bed with?’ he says dryly.
‘And cooking. They have to be able to cook.’
He takes a photograph from his pocket and turns it over. ‘See?’ he says. ‘That’s Dolly.’ She has written Our holliday in Torkey on the reverse side. Den will never cope with this. Although he swears he has had enough of clever women, he needs the odd game of Scrabble or bridge from time to time. I pass the item back to Alec, and our fingers touch for a brief, delightful second. ‘Excellent,’ I say. ‘They’ll do very well together.’
He agrees. I give him the details of a good solicitor based in Liverpool. ‘Or you can share mine – I’ll give you her card. Make sure it’s what you want,’ I tell him. ‘Divorce is stressful.’
‘So is living with her. I’d rather have dirty windows and less hassle.’
‘And your daughters safe.’ I notice the pain in his face whenever his children are mentioned. Unlike Den, he cares. He is terrified of losing them; he doesn’t want them to turn out like their mother. This is a caring, gentle man who has always deserved better than Dolores. The longer our conversation continues, the more determined we become to push the two together. But I have one reservation, because Den will take no interest in Alec’s girls. Would they not be better here, with their father? Even if Dolores had to stay, Alec could be around to influence his children. ‘You may lose them.’ I say. ‘And to keep them, you may have to keep Dolores as well.’
But he convinces me that the older girl will refuse to leave. At fourteen, she will be listened to by the court, and there’s a possibility that the same court will choose not to separate siblings. ‘As for Dolly – Dolores – as far as I’m concerned, she’s going for good.’
Time is flying by. We have a standard pub lunch of chicken and chips, and I don’t want the me
eting to end. It’s silly. Haven’t I enough on my plate with chicken and chips, Lottie, Emily, Susan, Stephen, Marie, Maureen and Geoff? Am I trying to establish a new nation? He’s a friend, I tell my conscience. An accidental friend, and they have a habit of turning out to be the best. Don’t get too fond of him, I order myself firmly.
‘No need to kill it,’ Alec says. ‘If you’re lucky, that chicken was already dead before it hit the plate.’
I haven’t realized that I am stabbing at the items in front of me.
‘Angry?’ he asks.
‘Something like that. It comes over me in waves.’
‘Not long since you gave birth, Anna. Bad time to get divorced.’
‘There is no good time. If I wait, won’t the girls notice their daddy? This way, they aren’t going to miss him. He’s away a lot, so they hardly know him. He’s not interested.’
‘And you’re happier when he’s abroad.’ It isn’t a question. He knows.
It’s raining. We sit in his car and exchange vital information, promise to keep in touch by phone. He smells of soap. No aftershave. I have this strong dislike for perfumed men. Nice hands, soft voice, decent but casual clothes. Stop it, Anna!
‘Whenever you need me, just shout,’ he says. ‘Anything round the house – have toolbox, will travel.’
We have four daughters between us. The atmosphere in this car is loaded, so I must get out immediately, if not sooner. I don’t want to go. Then he takes my hand and we are both trembling. I don’t know what to do, how to react. If I retrieve my hand, he’ll think I’m offended, or that I don’t want him near me, or that I’m an anal retentive who can’t bear to be touched. What shall I do? Will someone tell me?
‘It’s eased off,’ he says.
What does he mean? ‘Are you talking abut the rain?’ I ask.
‘Of course. What did you think I meant?’
‘I don’t know.’
He looks straight at me. ‘Oh, but you do know. Something’s gone a little haywire, hasn’t it? It’s been haywire since you walked in and sat with me.’
My mouth opens, but delivers no words. This is all too silly to deserve an airing – better to keep it inside under lock and key. And there’s Geoff. And there’s Alec’s wife and my husband – too complicated. This can’t happen, won’t happen, as I can’t and won’t allow it. My willpower is legendary . . .
Such a sweet kiss. Not demanding, not threatening, just promising. My lips are still parted, but he takes no advantage. Nevertheless, it is the embrace of a lover, not a peck from a friend. ‘Alec . . .’
‘What?’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘Where?’ he asks. ‘When did he come in?’ Another kiss, warmer, deeper, and a hand on my belly. Desire for him shoots through me like a bullet fired at close range. ‘It’s a long time since I did that,’ he whispers. ‘God, you’re lovely, Anna. Did you know you wear your heart in your eyes? Can you bear to spend some time with me? Soon?’
My breathing isn’t right. I have never suffered from asthma, and this is not a good time to start. Hands should do as they are told by the owner, but mine aren’t listening. I am holding his face, can feel a light stubble trying to break through his skin. Good skin, quite dark for an Englishman. ‘Alec, you’re amazing,’ I inform him. ‘But this won’t do.’
He agrees, and carries on agreeing until I kiss him back. ‘We’re even now,’ I say.
‘No. I did it twice. You owe me one, baby.’
I have read some daft books in my youth, and I recall ‘long and lingering kisses’ and ‘kisses that melt the heart’ and all that kind of trash. That kind of trash happens, because we cannot separate. His hands are inside my blouse, and I don’t care, as now is the only moment that matters. In this state of lunacy, I am willing to lose anything and everything just in order to cling to him. For minutes, the kiss goes on. He’s gentle. Needy, yet restrained.
It ends. Everything ends – I’ve noticed that.
He fiddles with a non-existent tie. ‘That’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Stanley.’
Whatever happens, there is no chance that he will stop being amusing. Even when aroused and needful, he remains a clown.
Yet Den was like that. I must never forget how Den was and what he became, because it can happen all over again. But Alec can laugh at himself, so that’s the difference. Perhaps we both need sex. In which case, we could get this business over and done with in an evening. However, I am forced to admit that for me, it would be more than sex. Love at first sight? It’s just a legend, or an excuse for people who choose to behave like animals, wham, bam, thank you, sir. Or Ma’am. I am not like that. I have never been like that.
‘When shall we three meet again?’ he asks.
‘Three?’
‘It was you who brought Jesus into it. I’d say it was out of character for him to get involved in this kind of thing. Because it is a thing, Anna. Isn’t it?’
I nod, don’t trust my voice.
‘When?’ he asks again.
‘I’ll phone you.’ It takes tremendous will power, but I am out of that car like an Olympic sprinter off the blocks. It’s a frightening situation, because I am losing control and I have only just picked up the guide lines of my own life. Fingers don’t work, and I drop the keys twice before opening the door. The left foot isn’t much better, and the car leaps about a bit when I put it into gear and pull away.
He’s still sitting in his car, and he’s laughing at me. I don’t mind. He’s the sort of person whose kindness overrides everything. Just about. I put out my tongue, blow him a kiss, then turn towards the bypass. I’m a good driver. Passed my test first time, never had an accident, but there’s always a first time, so I pull into a lay-by and repair my make-up. It’s not easy. Hands are clumsy and I get mascara in an eye. Great. Now, I’ll be driving half-blind.
Two buttons open on the blouse, thank goodness I notice, because Susan would have found plenty to say about that, I don’t doubt. I’m in trouble, aren’t I? Most people will understand that I didn’t go out today to catch a man. I’d have dressed a damned sight more carefully for a start, higher heels and a better skirt. I just went to make sure that Dolores’s husband was singing from my hymn sheet.
Elsie would be disgusted with me. Bert would wish me happiness. My twin sisters would crow, while Den would probably counter-sue. As for Mrs Bee – she’d have five fits and a litter of kittens. Yes, I know I’ve had an affair with the gorgeous Geoff, but this is different. It’s odd. No one starts messing about with a man whose wife is messing about with . . . You see? Confusing.
Maureen’s ice-cream van is not parked on the drive. From the moment I step into the house, I know it’s completely empty. People, like furniture, absorb noise, and the place seems echo-y and sinister, like one of those films where men leave dehydrated, dead mothers in the cellar and run around outside with knives and evil intentions. Why am I thinking like this? We don’t have a cellar.
Panic grips my throat. I can almost feel Den’s hands throttling me. Upstairs, I find all rooms except mine are messy, as if folk have left in a great hurry. Something has happened. Have they been kidnapped by Maureen’s Jimmy’s friends, by Marie’s sons, by the alcoholic husband? They’re my babies, they’re mine! And yes, I know what motherhood is at that level, when a cold hand reaches your heart and squeezes it dry of blood. I love them, I bloody do!
O my God, I am sorry, and beg pardon for all my sins. Act of Contrition? What’s that going to achieve? Apart from the Dixons’ double funeral, I haven’t set foot inside a church since . . . since the last time I set foot in a church. Three adults and three babies have disappeared from my house while I . . . Never mind about that. Don’t think about it, nothing happened, nothing ever will happen. My kids are all that matter – everything else is salad dressing, and I prefer my lettuce free from slime.
‘Are you there, Anna?’
Mrs Bee. ‘Where are they all?’ I scream.
‘Doctor’s
,’ she answers.
‘What? All of them?’
She nods. ‘They all just piled into that daft van and buggered off.’
‘The babies?’
‘Oh, yes. They took them all in case, you see.’
‘In case of what?’
‘Emily’s rash.’
I sink into a chair. My legs don’t belong with me any more. ‘Rash?’
‘Aye. They were worried in case it was thingummy. So they’ve got one baby each, because you weren’t here. Where’ve you been?’
‘She didn’t have a rash, Mrs Bee.’
‘Well, she’s got one now. They don’t run to timetables, babies. They’re not like trains and buses, so – Where are you off to now?’ she screams as my legs return to normal.
‘The doctor’s,’ I yell. But the car turns into my driveway before I have stepped out of the side door. Maureen tumbles out. ‘It’s all right,’ she gabbles. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘What’s nothing?’
She reaches into the car, grabs Emily and pushes her into my arms. ‘That’s nothing.’
I look at the more beautiful of my two babies. She’s a bit spotty, and her left eye seems wetter than normal.
‘She was worser than that,’ Maureen informs me. ‘A lot worser. It was like purple, wasn’t it, Marie? And she felt dead hot. So we took them all in case it was menin . . . What’s that word, Marie?’
‘Meningitis.’ Marie blows a strand of hair out of her line of vision. ‘Can’t be too careful, and we were in loco parentage while you were out. So we made a decision and went. Doctor says it’s just a virus and there’s a lot of it about. He grumbled on a bit about how breastfed is best fed and all that rubbish, but she just needs a bit of baby medicine and a lot of drinks. Oh, and keep her cool.’
Susan arrives with Stephen. ‘Well, she’s not going in the fridge, because I’ve had a go at that crème caramel in your cookery book, Anna. So that’s tough titty to you, our Emily, because the bloody fridge is full.’
Sugar and Spice Page 12