Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

‘Never mind. It’s a theory.’

  ‘Please tell me, Anna.’

  He has to live in my head, doesn’t he? ‘You’ve heard people say what goes around comes around?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you keeping me talking just to make sure I’m OK, Alec?’

  ‘No. Carry on.’

  I take a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Mam was raped. I could do nothing for her when she bled to death. I just washed her hands and face, combed her hair and waited for someone to come and help me with the body.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So she sent me Susan and Marie. They landed in my part of the circle.’

  He’s smiling. I can hear him smiling. ‘I love the way you think, the way you talk. So you have to do the paying back? You are responsible for all the sins in the world, and your dead mother makes sure you pay your dues?’

  ‘Listen, Long Shanks. If you don’t want the answer, don’t ask the question. I know what I mean.’

  ‘So do I, darling. So do I.’

  A few hours ago, I was on a hospital trolley wearing one of those open-all-the-way-down-the-back designer overalls, so elegant and stylish. My belly was prodded, my child was listened to, and my mind had taken a holiday without picking up passport and ticket. They weighed me, measured me, stole a gallon and a half of blood, and I was fed up to the back teeth. Those medics did sod all for me, so I’m turning now to my proper doctor. When I began to love this man, I started to love myself. And, through loving Anna, I learned to love my children with such ferocity that it hurts.

  It’s a circle. Tender loving, careful, slow and sensual – that’s my medicine, Dr Turned-up-Collar. I can live without the bloody hospitals. But not without the man who whispers softly while he brings me back to the only life I want. His life. My life. Ours.

  Fourteen

  Billy MacRae’s fight against alcoholism was a lonely one. He would jump on the wagon and stay there for a few weeks, but reality hurt, and he needed his medicine. Another possible reason for his continuing descent was that although he loved Anna with all his heart, he could not take to his younger daughters, and that worried him. They were odd. Each had a look of her older sister, yet neither one resembled the other. Dead eyes. And several times, they brought whisky for him. He had no idea of its provenance and was not inclined to enquire, since the answer might have pushed him further into the dark and isolating world of dipsomania.

  Anna stopped yelling at him, even Bert and Elsie gave up the fight, while Polly, the housekeeper sent by Linda Mellor from the big house, said not a word on the subject. A kind enough woman, she told herself that she was here to cook, clean, wash, iron and shop so that Anna would have a chance of an education. Polly Fox wasn’t hanging round to separate him from the booze at the end of a hard day’s work. So, with that pragmatism known to most people in service, she got on with it all and kept her mouth shut.

  By 1953, Anna MacRae, having reached the age of eighteen, was studying for her advanced School Certificates. She had gained nine subjects at the lower level, and was now working on English Literature, French and History. With no need and no desire to attend university, she had been accepted at Didsbury Training College in Manchester, where she would be prepared for a future in educating infants and juniors. A people person, she wanted to teach children, not subjects, and it was her intention to study Religious Education, Physical Education and English at college.

  Deciding on RE as her main area of study had not been difficult, since there were a few things that had been omitted during her seven years at St Mary’s. The Old Testament had been ignored for the most part, as had other Christianities, Buddhism, Islam and Judaism. There was more than one way to heaven or hell, and she needed to know.

  Dad was driving her crackers. She needed college, needed not to be here, since she could do nothing constructive to alleviate the problem. Like Polly Fox, Anna was forced to accept the knowledge that it wasn’t worth it, wasn’t her job. She loved him, and she was watching him die. Had he been dying from cancer or some other horrible disease, she might have coped. But this was slow suicide, and she couldn’t manage to accept it. Mam had died by accident, and this was different, because Dad wouldn’t seek help.

  Living with a drunk drove her out of the house. She often did her homework in Bolton Central Library, which had become a haven of peace where she was left alone to do her own thing with no interference from staff. She was at the library when she met Den Fairbanks, who relieved her of her virginity within weeks and who became her shadow thereafter. He loved her. He said repeatedly that he loved her, and that was what she had sought. Love. She wanted someone of her own, so she kept him away from Dad and away from Kate and Beckie.

  The twins, at thirteen, were sexually active. Anna knew that, since she had found Beckie with Peter Simpson, who had been Anna’s third or fourth boyfriend. She wouldn’t give him sex, so Beckie had stepped in and spread herself beneath him in a place in which she was almost certain to be found by her older sister. Sometimes, when Anna closed her eyes, she saw the look of triumph burning in Beckie’s face. With the boy labouring over her, she had fixed all her attention on Anna, because this was another game of chess, and she had won again.

  Fine. If the twins wanted to get themselves pregnant, that was OK with Anna. She hadn’t seen Kate on that fateful day, yet something told Anna that Kate had been watching her sister and Peter at play. Anna believed that once Peter had recovered, Kate would take her twin’s place and commit the same deed. Anna remained their target, but she was going to Manchester so, as far as she was concerned, they could do as they liked.

  She went just once to see Dr Corcoran, who had looked after Dad before he had been released into the community. ‘He’s drinking himself to death,’ she said. ‘He’s drunk at work, at home, and in the pub.’

  Dr Corcoran nodded. ‘He’s not the only one, Miss MacRae. And I know you have always demanded the truth from me, so I must tell you now that alcohol has become his drug of choice.’

  She fiddled in her handbag with the rosary she was given at school. Although she didn’t regard herself as a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic, Anna remembered that a good woman had spent almost half her life with these beads at her waist. Sometimes, she spoke to God and asked for help, yet she knew in her bones that no creature, living or dead, would improve the behaviour of Billy MacRae.

  ‘How much is he drinking?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘No idea. There are boxes of bottles all over the woods, and I find them in his bedroom, under the kitchen sink, in the shed – all over the place. I can’t manage him.’

  ‘Nor should you attempt to do that. He has to go alone for help, or alone to his death. He is not your responsibility.’

  ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘Yes, and you have a life to begin, your own adult life. University?’

  ‘Training college. I want to teach younger children.’

  ‘Good for you. Now, listen. Do nothing for your father. Let him look after himself and, once you have gone to college, leave him all alone. There will be nowhere for him to turn except to doctors. This may sound cruel, and he might well stop eating and concentrate solely on the booze. Whatever, he won’t listen to you.’

  ‘We have help in the house. Meals are made for us.’

  ‘Then get rid of that help when you move to Manchester.’

  It seemed cold and cruel, yet Anna understood what the doctor meant. Screaming, pleading, reasoning, asking – none of these had worked. So Dad had to do it for himself. There were places where he could be helped – Dr Corcoran had said so, but Dad had to go by himself. No one could make the decision for him, and no one could steer him towards the right thing. She hadn’t been able to save Mam thirteen years ago, and she couldn’t save Dad now. But it still hurt. It would always hurt.

  It was a lonely feeling. Anna, at eighteen, was teetering on the brink of womanhood, and all she saw around her were the props that had held her upright during some difficult years. She was t
he only one left. The rest of the upper sixth had escaped, and were having a party in the house of one of the rich girls. Anna could not attend, because she had her unpredictable and sick father to deal with, and her boyfriend to meet in a couple of hours. She had been summoned by his mother, and his mother was not a woman to be denied.

  She walked past the statue of St Francis of Assisi, the soft footfalls of her indoor shoes leaving no echo of the past. Washrooms and sixth form lavatories to the right, gymnasium-cum-assembly hall straight ahead. Silver-edged stairs led up to art, gold-edged to the science that never happened. Upstairs was the music room, desks and chairs tiered steeply like the arrangements in some of the better football grounds. She would never come here again, because she hadn’t remained completely Catholic, since it didn’t make full sense. It was over. She should now know everything about being an adult. She knew next to nothing.

  The Bishop of Salford had granted permission for her to attend a non-denominational college, and Anna resented that. Why should she need permission? Many girls her age were working or married, some were mothers. At eighteen, she was old enough to join the forces and be killed, but she needed to plead with a bishop for a place at Didsbury. Silly.

  It was inevitable that Gerty would find her. A part of Anna needed to say thank you and goodbye, but her cowardly side wanted to run, just as the others had run. Mother Gertrude had been very patient and kind to this almost non-believer, so she would face the nun, because facing up to whatever came along was part of being grown up.

  ‘So it’s there you are,’ said a little Irish voice.

  Anna turned. ‘Yes, it’s here I am, Mother.’

  ‘Did you say farewell to Pauline and Rita?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And here’s you off to a non-Catholic college with every intention of studying comparative religion.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it exists, and I have to know.’

  Mother tutted. ‘But when you’re at the end of your rope, it’s a priest you’ll be sending for. A pity your friend Father Brogan died. Perhaps he might have knocked some sense into you.’

  Anna chuckled. ‘He tried for years, but my skull was too thick to allow it all inside. I think I’m too . . . analytical by nature to just accept what I am ordered to accept. But, having studied moral philosophy in the sixth, I can now lay claim to the third right of man, which is, as I’m sure you know, the right to have a family and to educate them in accordance with my own chosen beliefs.’

  ‘Will you come with me to chapel before you leave?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mother. I stayed just to tell you I’m grateful. And to look at the place that has housed me for so long. It’s all very . . . brown, isn’t it?’

  ‘Huh. Still the bold girl, is it? Well, you have been a credit to us and I’m proud of you. All the same, I wish . . .’ The voice died, and the little, black-veiled head shook slightly. ‘God bless you, Miss Anna MacRae.’

  ‘And you, Mother.’

  The nun left the building and walked across to the convent. Now, only Anna remained, though a distant clatter of buckets announced the advent of those nuns who cleaned, because they had received no education. Tears pricked and threatened, but she held them at bay. So alone. Dad was on his way to death via alcohol, Bert and Elsie were tired, while her sisters were . . . were her sisters.

  There was only Den and his dreaded mother, his lovely father. They would have to be her family now. She needed him, because he was there. He was a way out, and she would grow to love him. His mother was rather frightening, but perhaps that was the way mothers acted when their children grew and went off to London for an education. Or when they brought home somebody who’d attended a Catholic school. She had no blueprint, no mother of her own with whom she might compare the protective Mrs Fairbanks.

  She walked for the last time down to Deane Road and waited for the bus to town. Adulthood loomed, and she didn’t feel ready. She was going to college, and she didn’t feel equipped for that, either. No bells would ring to summon her from lesson to lesson. There would be choices to be made, decisions to be taken. Suddenly aware that there was almost no one on whom she might lean, she was filled with fear. Thank goodness for Den, she thought as she walked onto the bus. This was her final journey as a child. Tomorrow, Anna MacRae would be a woman. And that was official.

  I’m thinking about having my hair cut shorter, but Alec wouldn’t like it. He loves to brush it, play with it, and use it as an anchor when we make love, since he likes to look into my eyes during the act. I’m thinking about all kinds of things, actually, because I won’t allow my mind to settle on Kate.

  Glad the house extension has begun. No one needs seven bedrooms, I suppose, though we do have rather a lot of children between us. Even little Sarah, who visits infrequently, deserves a small space of her own. Juliet is drawing up something or other, so that when we leave the house, more of its value will come to me, as I have spent some of my legacy on the project.

  Alec and I are to be married in a few days. It will be low-key, though I fear there may be a plot afoot, and the Hughes family will have instigated it. God help us. It could turn into another fight with chairs and drinking vessels. Perhaps we should elope?

  Charlie is doing OK in the caravan. He’s not intrusive, though he enjoys a meal with us a couple of times a week. He’s moving in with his wife tomorrow. And always, always, there will be a room in my house, or in a caravan, for Susan. She’s become more of a little sister to me than . . .

  When my hair is wet, it behaves in a manner commensurate with its position in life. I can scrape it back in the style of a flamenco dancer, because I have my mother’s bones, and the slight puffiness of morning has long disappeared from my face. I look good. It is suddenly vital that I look good. A pair of large, gold hoops depending from my ears completes the picture. Had I been less blonde, I might have looked Spanish.

  Dressed in a kaftan that hides my little bump, I descend the stairs. I hear them talking. In the shower when they arrived, I felt the intrusion, though I could not hear it. She got here when I was rinsing my hair. How did I know? No idea. It’s an automatic thing that developed during childhood. It is a sixth sense job.

  Judas kisses me again. He is dressed this time in a deceptively plain suit that must have cost several arms and legs, and he is disguised once more as a woman. The woman tells me I look beautiful, and her companion informs her that Anna always looks beautiful.

  We sit. For the first time ever, there are tears in Kate MacRae’s eyes. Has she been in the company of onions? But there’s stuff happening in my head, little pinpricks of memory returning, and I am uncomfortable. It’s as if I have spent the past few years under some kind of canopy, a sunshade, perhaps, and the light is fighting its way through tiny holes. I once told someone – can’t remember who – that Rebecca was the light, and Kate was the reflective surface from which Rebecca bounced and gained strength. But I was a kid then, and what do kids know?

  ‘Where is she now?’ I ask suddenly.

  Kate shrugs. ‘Well, you’ll probably get a visit from the police any day now. Interpol is looking for her, but I doubt they’ll have any success. She’s disappeared with a man and about five million pounds’ worth of French francs. It’ll be South America. We won’t hear of her or from her again, because she’s clever.’

  ‘I see.’ Bert once said that they’d end up either in Parliament, or in jail. ‘So they’ll be somewhere that won’t extradite them.’

  Kate stands, crosses the room and hands me a sheet of paper. ‘Her final letter to me. Read it. You’re at the core of it, anyway. You always were at the core. Posted in Paris three days after Rebecca and the man left. That’s what the police told me, anyway.’

  So I read. I read aloud about their secret society, so exclusive that it had only two members. I learn that Kate was never any use, in spite of the training given to her by the superior twin. You always loved her more than you l
oved me. Pretty Anna? She can’t hold a candle to either of us in the looks department. A pity you didn’t listen, because you could be sharing the high life with me. I watched you watching her. Always, you wanted her good opinion. Well she’s all yours now, and I am out of here.

  I look up. ‘You loved me when we were children?’

  She nods. ‘God knows I tried to please her. But, as my psychiatrist says, when my ego and super ego kicked in, I became a balanced person. Until she unseated me repeatedly.’

  ‘While Rebecca’s id remained in charge,’ I say. ‘Strange. I was talking to myself just the other day about Freud’s theories, but I was applying them to him.’ I jerk a thumb in the direction of my lover.

  He clears his throat, which didn’t need clearing. ‘So I’m him now? Wonderful. She is marrying this him in a few days, Kate.’

  Kate smiles. ‘Shut up, Alec. Be a witness, by all means, but don’t make me laugh, because laughter will turn to tears.’

  And in that moment, I know. There’s no point in asking myself why and how I suddenly know, because I’ve always been quick to act and react. My instincts are seldom wrong, as I have been studying people, albeit subconsciously, since Mam died. Some folk collect ships in bottles; I bypass the ships and collect people. Some are given to me, others are chosen. This one is a bit of both, I suppose. Given to me the day my mother died, Kate is now picked by me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I was just a child, and I didn’t dare look too closely. Come here.’

  And I sit with my sister on the baby-making sofa. She touches my face for the first time in thirty-odd years. ‘Anna borra,’ she whispers. ‘Inside and out, Anna borra.’

  ‘Welcome home,’ I tell her.

  The article I have agreed to marry is melting at the other side of this large room. Although I am busy with my sister, I make time to thank goodness yet again that I have a man who can cry without loss of perceived dignity. He’s human, delightfully so.

  ‘Alec?’ Kate leans forward. ‘Are you all right?’ She can ask people how they are, is capable of caring. How can I have missed so much? It’s because I moved in with Dad. During their teenage years, I was scarcely there, and that’s how I got it all so wrong.