Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Try,’ he urges. ‘I did it all for you.’

  I look at the plate. A runny egg lies between two pieces of something or other. ‘What’s that? And that?’

  ‘Bacon,’ he says.

  ‘You cremated it,’ I announce. ‘I don’t know whether to eat it or send flowers. A cup of tea will do, thanks.’

  He goes away.

  Not once during my marriage was I offered breakfast in bed. Not once did Den wash dishes, hoover a carpet, clean a window. I suppose I don’t hate Den, but I never loved him, not like this, not like Alec. It’s too hot to last in its current state, and I understand that very well. Because it’s not just about sex, this should not worry me unduly. When I’m covered in baby-sick, when my hair’s like a bird’s nest, when I can’t be bothered with make-up, this man will love me, the me that’s inside. Whereas Den would be afraid of anyone seeing his wife in a state worse than Russia.

  I listen as he clatters about in the kitchen, hear him talking to his cat. Above the dressing table, I see a wedding photograph. Underneath, he has posted a reminder to himself – THIS IS AS BAD AS IT GETS. He used to love her, but now, her gnomes are in the naughty corner, her green woman print is full of holes, and her wedding photo is a warning. She doesn’t know what she’s given away, does she? Perhaps she did not bring out this side of him, the playfulness, the teasing. I smile to myself. He needed an intelligent woman, and now, he has one.

  Alec brings tea, serves me a heated croissant and gets into bed. The tea goes cold, as does the croissant, because we are occupied. On this occasion, he’s in charge and he’s wonderful, so caring, yet exciting. I am given words of love and words born of good, healthy lust. There’s no laughter, and everything is urgent and fast. He knows more about women than any man has a right to know, and I believe this to come from instinct rather than experience. Or perhaps he reads a lot of books?

  The thoughts disappear on a wave of excitement, because there is no reason in sensations as animalistic as these. Wonderful. I am in the arms of a man I love, who loves me, who, in a way, is me. Two halves of one whole, a meeting of minds and souls, the perfect couple. Yes, as I come to my senses, I am pinching words from novels I discarded twenty years ago. Perhaps they weren’t so silly after all.

  He drives me home, and there’s no one here. I imagine Susan, Mo and Marie struggling in a two-bedroomed house with three babies and a young puppy. But I don’t feel guilty, because I need this man – even I deserve a break from time to time. He leaves me making coffee while he weeds the rockery. With his sleeves rolled, he reminds me of men who worked in the fields where I grew up. He’s a chameleon, and I love him in any or all of his colours. And it’s true – love hurts. Happiness hurts. These feelings are painful, because everything is finite. From such certainty comes the work of every romantic poet who struggles and starves while trying to express the fleeting moment we spend on the planet. I look at Alec and my heart is full; it is also afraid of becoming empty again.

  When we sit at my kitchen table drinking Kenya blend, it’s as if he belongs here. We talk. He asks more about my childhood, about the troubles caused by Katherine, Rebecca and my father. I tell him that Linda Mellor finally revealed the truth, that there was no pools win, that the lady of the manor loved me enough to go some way towards providing for my future, and for my foster parents. He speaks about the disastrous Dolores, his mother, his children, his gut-grindingly boring job.

  ‘How will Sarah take this?’ I ask him.

  He stares into his cup. ‘She misses her mum too much, Anna. I have to let her go. Sometimes, love means letting go. Jo’s OK. But she’ll steal your babies, because she’s a born mother. Aside from that, she thinks you’re cool, man. I could put her right, tell her you’re a red hot momma, but I’m her father, and fathers don’t do sex.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alec. About Sarah, I mean.’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ll have access, but it’s hardly the same. She’ll be reared by a mother who can’t spell Torquay and a man who sees women as an aid to masturbation. And you think he has a psychiatrist as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any proof?’

  ‘No. There was a weird prescription for some drug or other, but he threw it away. And he’ll put up a good fight, because the rational side of him is super-clever. But I do know this – he isn’t as ill or as devious as my twin sisters.’

  ‘And you feared your own twins when they were born?’

  ‘God, yes. Especially when Emily carried on with the behaviour she’d practised in the womb. I think what she did was connected to the survival instinct. It stopped. She’s no longer a bully, so I’m no longer afraid of a repeat performance. In fact, she shows a sense of humour already. I think she’s going to be my little clown, and Lottie will be my philosopher.’

  ‘You thought they’d be like your sisters?’

  ‘It wasn’t thought, Alec. It was a feeling, a terror.’

  ‘A phobia,’ he says. His eyes are embracing my soul – God – stupid novella-speak again. ‘Don’t ever lose me, Anna. There’s more to us than a roll in the sand dunes.’

  ‘Or cleaning a gas fire,’ I say. ‘Or a green woman with three double-tops scored in her forehead, or tantric sex with a side dish of burnt bacon. I do love you. Making things work with two babies, your daughters, a pending divorce and a new business won’t be easy. Could you live here?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No room at the inn just yet, sweetheart. And you can’t throw Susan out, because that brother of hers will be waiting. I am a patient man. Accountants have to develop a doggedness, as the work can get bloody tedious. Actually, it’s not the work, it’s the explaining to clients that numbs the mind. Budgets, tax years, claims, interest, how to be creative with money before the government steals it.’

  ‘Then do something else.’

  The eyes twinkle. ‘Will you pay me to lie down with you every night?’

  ‘Is it tax deductible?’ I ask. ‘Will it be worth your while?’

  ‘Do you need an answer?’ he whispers. ‘Don’t you know already how much I’d give up to be with you?’

  ‘Yes, I do know. We have to find a way around this, though. And the “this” we have to find a way around is complicated. If Den were to find out . . .’

  ‘Hang onto the last fifteen hours,’ he orders. ‘I never experienced anything like that in my life – it was good, it was perfect and I want it all again.’ He looks at me for several seconds. ‘When it’s all over, will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say it again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stands. ‘I’ll finish the weeding, then.’

  After depositing a kiss on the top of my head, he goes outside again. This time, he removes his shirt and I remember that vertebra just below his neck, can feel it now under hands that don’t want to let go. I have touched the skin that stretches over biceps and triceps, have threaded my fingers through that shock of hair, have kissed his throat.

  Discovering one’s sexuality at the age of forty is better than failing to find it at all. But how I resent the wasted years, all that time with Den and his expectations, his perfunctory love-making, his total selfishness, his adoring mother. Geoff led me out of the wilderness, but Alec was the one who stood in the light provided by Earth’s star; it was he who was with me when the sun went down, and when it came back this morning. Yes. Love hurts. But it’s worth it.

  Bedlam arrives in an estate car that does look very like an ice-cream van. Sheba is the first to make her presence known, and she dashes off to ‘help’ Alec with the weeding. I daren’t look.

  Maureen stuffs two babies into my arms and asks if she can have the caravan. She’s had enough, she’s going back on the game and the van would be ideal for the entertaining of clients. ‘I can’t work for Third Party with her while she’s in that mood.’ The her in question walks through without a word to anyone. Marie has a face like thunder, un
combed hair and odd slippers.

  ‘See?’ Maureen cries. ‘She’s gone like a bloody zombie, and we’ve three parties booked. Tell her, Anna.’

  I wait until Marie has wandered off. ‘Mo, she’s got so much on her mind—’

  ‘I know, I know. But the only way to snap her out of it is to kick her up the bum. I understand her – she’s part of my family.’

  ‘Her son raped her daughter,’ I say quietly. ‘She doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going . . .’

  ‘She’s going,’ Maureen answers. ‘She’s going out all the while looking for him. He signed himself out of hospital a day early, and she’s like a cat on hot bricks.’

  ‘Then go with her when she leaves the house,’ I advise.

  ‘I couldn’t leave our Susan last night with three babies and a lunatic animal what was eating the sweeping brush. I mean, I know you have to make hay while his kids are on holiday, Anna so . . .’ She stops and stares hard. ‘Well. I can see you’ve had a great time.’ She takes a step nearer to me. ‘Was he any good?’

  I hand Lottie over – these two are getting heavy. ‘He’s brilliant. Sorry to have put you out, though, but I didn’t know that Marie had gone hunting. I shan’t stay with him again – I’ll be here.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be with him?’

  I have allowed Emily to slide down to my hip, and I realize that I am copying a stance used by women since time began. Emily feels like a part of me. She’s warm and giggly and I love her. I’m glad she’s turning out a bit silly. We all need a silly daughter. ‘Mo, I want to be with him for the rest of my life, so the next few days aren’t going to matter.’

  We both turn and look through the window where a half-naked man wrestles in the grass with a small retriever. ‘He’s so nearly perfect, it scares me, Mo. I wonder when I’ll find his faults and how much difference they will make. More to the point, what about when he discovers my deficiencies?’

  The hard-faced kleptomaniac prostitute sniffs back a tear. ‘Just hang onto him, love,’ she says. ‘I wish I’d . . .’

  ‘You wish what?’

  ‘That I’d ever felt as happy as you look now, queen. That I’d met a decent man who’d take me as I am and love me no matter what.’

  ‘Maureen, I—’

  ‘She’s going to kill Gary. Our Marie. She says she brought him into the world and did a bad job, so she has to remove him. Then she shut up. And shut down.’ Mo is crying openly now. ‘I can’t do nothing with her, Anna. Even our Susan can’t. It’s like living with a photograph, because Marie’s not really there, and I’m scared. If I go out with her, do you think I could stand there while it all goes off? He’s more likely to kill her than the other way round.’

  I place Emily in the pram and look for Marie. As she’s nowhere to be found on the ground floor, I make my way upstairs. She’s in that smallest bedroom, is curled on the bed, cardigan and odd slippers still in place. All her little bags and parcels have disappeared into the St Helens house. She looks so small, and she may be asleep or may be pretending to be asleep. Whatever, she isn’t open for business.

  Downstairs, Maureen has placed the sleeping Lottie on a mattress in the playpen. She’s looking down at my daughter, a sad smile playing on her lips.

  ‘Mo? Are you OK?’

  She nods.

  ‘Where’s Susan?’

  ‘Outside with your feller. Isn’t Lottie beautiful? My kids are grown and cheeky and all over the place, old enough to look after themselves. I never really looked at them, you know. I was too busy keeping one step ahead of Jimmy, pinching from shops, getting enough for them to eat. Anna?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love them, but I think I might have forgotten to tell them.’

  I put my arms around her. ‘It’s never too late, Mo. Go and find them and tell them. If Marie budges, I’ll follow her. And if she’s not fit to cook, you, Susan and I will cope. We will, you know. It’s amazing how we survive, isn’t it?’

  Her head hangs low. ‘Glad I met you,’ she mumbles. ‘You’re clever, you are.’ And she dashes off to tell her children . . . Oh, God, this is a sad world.

  Chaos continues while we do our pale imitation of Martha Stewart. Using the client’s dishes, we set up a rack of lamb with the leg-frills placed to one side, since the hostess will need to heat the rack all the way through without burning its paper decorations. Maureen is doing vegetables, Susan is repeating her mountain of profiteroles, while Alec – God love him – is doing a great job with avocado and tissue-thin slices of smoked salmon.

  This is a large kitchen, but it’s suddenly the size of a bathroom cabinet, as we all seem to be falling over each other. ‘I can’t breathe in,’ Susan complains. ‘Mo? Any chance of me having room to drizzle my chocolate?’

  Maureen is placing her vegetables into hostess trays designed to keep the contents hot and fresh for up to four hours. They’ll have to go into the estate car, of course, but we’ll plug them in again as soon as we get to our destination. She’s smiling. She’s smiling because she drove all the way to Liverpool to tell her offspring that she loves them and would die for them.

  ‘Hang on, Susan,’ I advise. ‘You’ll have room enough in a few minutes.’

  ‘The chocolate’s ready now,’ she moans.

  ‘Just wait.’ I say. ‘Or I’ll set Alec to beat you with his big book.’

  He turns away and faces the wall, but his back is shaking with laughter.

  ‘What big book?’ Mo’s eyes are wide.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ is my answer. ‘It’s a state secret.’

  ‘Behave yourself, Anna,’ he warns. ‘Because I’m going home soon to feed my cat, and God knows what I’ll bring back with me.’

  Work ceases. Two pairs of female eyes are fixed on me. ‘What?’ I ask the women. ‘What?’ Not a word is born. Maureen and Susan are as still as two of the uprights at Stonehenge. ‘Yes, he’s staying here. You and Marie will go home, Maureen. The twins can go into Marie’s room, and—’

  ‘Mam,’ mutters Susan. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I’ll go and look.’ Upstairs, I open the door and look inside. She isn’t here. Four neglected cups of tea are lined up on the window sill. We have a problem. Marie is out there somewhere in an odd mood and in odd slippers. And we need to deliver food for a function that begins in two hours. Which means we must also set the client’s table and leave serving instructions hidden discreetly in a pre-arranged place where she alone will look.

  I re-enter my kitchen. The profiteroles are drizzled and everything seems to be in order. ‘Alec – will you stick this lot in the back of the estate? Maureen, you’ll have to do this one on your own – well – with Alec . . .’I look at him and he nods. ‘Susan, you stay here and mind babies. I’m going to try to find your mother.’

  Susan starts to weep, and Alec holds her in his arms. I don’t know where I’m going to start, but I have to appear confident and decided. I turn to Maureen. ‘Look, Mo – it doesn’t matter any more who knows what. Agreed?’

  She nods.

  ‘Fetch Mrs Bee. Susan can’t be alone, not if Gary’s on the prowl. Mrs Bee might be old, but she’d frighten the skin off a rice pudding at forty paces.’ I speak to Susan. ‘All Mrs Bee needs to know is that your mother’s upset, missing, and not quite herself. This may sound hard, but the business can’t be allowed to fail at the first hurdle. Third Party is for your future, and for Stephen, too. Alec – fill the car. Maureen, you drive, because you’re used to the vehicle. Alec, sit in the back and make sure the food stays where it’s put.’ I sound like some bloody-minded Sergeant Major in a particularly filthy mood. So he’ll know now that I am bossy, but that can’t be allowed to matter. ‘Oh, and feed your cat on the way back.’

  Ten minutes later, I am on Church Road and I can see Marie. She’s in the telephone kiosk outside the Eagle and Child, and she’s talking. Fear plunges its cold knife into my chest, and I can scarcely breathe. I don’t need to hear what she’s saying, since I
already know. This is the moment. She’s making it happen now. I pull into the pub car park and wait. I’m old enough to remember the days of a judge’s black cloth, the square he placed on his bewigged head before issuing the death penalty. Marie has no black cloth. Just odd slippers and an empty stomach, since she hasn’t eaten all day. And I’m praying, just as I prayed when Ruth Ellis was hanged for killing a man who had treated her appallingly for years. She did it in what was seen as cold blood, since she emptied the gun of all its bullets in order to ensure that he would die.

  She replaces the receiver, and I get out of my car. When I reach her, she smiles at me. ‘Hello, Anna.’

  ‘Hello, Marie. Susan’s waiting for you.’

  ‘Yes.’ She pulls the cardigan tight. ‘Gone a bit chilly, hasn’t it? And you know what? I’m dead hungry.’

  I take her arm, lead her to the car, and put her in the passenger seat. When I start the engine, she speaks again. ‘Anna?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need a grand. Cash. Used notes, fivers and tenners.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Do you know what I’ve just done?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve saved two lives – possibly three if we include your own. I can’t condone what you’ve made happen, but I sure as hell understand it. Will he be . . . found?’

  She nods. ‘He’s in a gang. Some of the others have already been beaten halfway to kingdom come. It was part of the plan, Anna. But he’ll . . . Well, let’s wait and see. I fancy scrambled eggs on toast and a nice cuppa.’

  Maureen has taken Marie home. I think they all know what’s happened, though no one is speaking about it. Marie ate her eggs and toast as if food were going out of fashion and she needed to stock up. Susan and Stephen are at the other end of the house, while my girls are next door, in the room that was Marie’s.

  I am in bed with my lover, and he is trying to massage the knots that have formed in my shoulders. Magic hands. He bestrides me and attempts to rub away the tension. He guesses that something unusually bad has gone down, but he asks no questions. After spending an evening cleaning my kitchen, he now works on my back, and he is not gentle. He attacks muscle and bone, bringing blood and oxygen into each section and giving me the chance to relax and sleep. He could take this up professionally, and I tell him so. Talking isn’t easy, because I appear to have gone completely limp.