Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

  He blows his nose on something that looks like it was born in a cow pat – ah yes, he was changing plugs in his car before the meal we failed to finish. I smile at both of them. ‘He isn’t just all right, Kate. He’s a star. But never lend him a handkerchief.’ And she bursts out laughing, and it’s real laughter – and yes, the tears come. It pours from her in fractured sentences, the odd sexual behaviour, Rebecca’s determination to turn Kate into a clone of herself. ‘Until I was fourteen, I thought I was a lesbian. She did things, made me do things . . .’ Kate glances at Alec.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘He’s unshockable – he lives with me.’ But I am not unshockable. However, I will not let that show.

  Alec announces his intention to make coffee, and leaves the room.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ says Kate. ‘I never cared much for Den. And you did the right thing. Every time she was in London, he arranged a business meeting and slept with Rebecca. I wouldn’t have said anything, but now that you’re divorced, I—’

  Alec is back. He is in the company of a large piece of wood, a retriever and a bemused expression. ‘She’s eaten a leg off the kitchen table.’

  ‘Teething,’ I tell him.

  The dog isn’t bothered. Knowing herself to be beautiful and irresistible, she launches herself at new company, pawing at a very good suit and slobbering all over our visitor’s hands. My sister’s hands. But Kate is not daft, and she deals quite competently with the . . . Oh. Well, she was doing OK till the pup leapt onto the sofa, parked herself next to the newcomer, leaned her full weight against her and started to pant. As dog owners, we are failures.

  I look at the piece of wood. ‘She’s teething,’ I repeat.

  ‘So are our twins, but they don’t chew legs off things.’ He shakes what’s left of the newish table’s fourth limb. ‘Naughty girl,’ he says. ‘Everything slides west now. I wouldn’t care if you were starved, but why can’t you be good?’

  ‘Are you taking to me, dearest heart?’ I ask.

  He waves the lump of wood once more. ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ he threatens. ‘I am going to make coffee. Definitely this time.’

  Kate is smiling – she’s one stunning woman. ‘He’s the right one, Anna.’

  ‘Yes. He’s delightful.’ He’s going to deal with me later. Sometimes, this man of mine can be a bit much for a pregnant mother of twins. Even so, I shiver inside at the thought of being dealt with later.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Yes?’ I like having a sister, but I shall take it slowly.

  She won’t. ‘I’m due a long break, and my assistant lecturer is capable,’ she tells me. ‘May I come to your wedding?’

  ‘Of course. Mind, there’ll be some rum folk there – Scousers with attitude. If you’re staying for a while, come tomorrow and meet your nieces. And there’s another one.’ I pat my belly. ‘This one’s Alec’s.’

  She tells me how lucky I am, explains her abortions once more. It’s in her genes, so she daren’t breed. I can understand that. No one knows Rebecca as well as Kate does.

  It’s late when she leaves with Alec. I tell myself several times that I mustn’t worry, that she’ll be fine, that I am lucky because I have a whole new relationship to explore. Then I clean my teeth, remove make-up and wait for him to come home. Because he promised to deal with me.

  Dad hadn’t bothered to wake up. Again. He was becoming less and less reliable, and he should not be let out with axes. Anna called him from the bottom of the stairs and, after three unproductive shouts, she went up to fetch him.

  Trying not to breathe, she stood in his bedroom. It wasn’t just the smell of whisky and beer; Dad was filthy. He lived for days in the same clothes, slept in them, ate in them. Well, he pretended to eat, but most of his food went for pigswill, and he probably thought no one knew.

  He was eating less, drinking more. The whites of his eyes were yellow. Even the palms of his hands were advertisements for his condition, since they, too, were jaundiced, and they bore other marks – bright red ones that spoke volumes on the subject of liver failure. Capillaries had exploded all over his face, and he looked like a tramp. But he was her dad, and she had to keep him going during these last few weeks before college.

  She shook him. ‘Dad? Dad?’

  There was still no response. ‘Don’t panic, Anna,’ she said aloud.

  For half an hour, she sat with him, holding one of his unclean hands in her softer ones. The not going to work didn’t matter any more, because this man needed to leave the village today. His daughter wanted him to die peacefully, in comfort and in a clean bed.

  Polly stood in the doorway. ‘Has he gone?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘Not yet. Would you run up and ask Mrs Mellor to phone Dr Corcoran? He’s in charge of a few rest homes for ex-servicemen. He’ll know what we should do. The doctor needs to be told about the blood, the not eating and . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I think he’s had a stroke – his mouth’s crooked.’

  Polly ran. Anna noted blood on the floor, was fairly sure that there would be more in the bed, and she’d seen what happened when he used the lavatory, because he often forgot to clean away the bright red décor in the bowl.

  Time went out of order. One minute, she was holding her father’s hand; the next found her alone in that filthy room. Elsie brought the village doctor, who gave Anna an injection.

  When she woke, she was in her own room. It was almost dark, and Elsie was sitting next to her. And the memories returned as if borne on a powerful gust of wind. The ambulance men wrinkling their noses because of the smell, her sisters standing and staring when the stretcher was pushed into the vehicle. Their dad was dying, but they might as well have been watching an old Laurel and Hardy, since their expressions were almost always the same. Kate’s face was the more mobile of the two, but both were quite wooden.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He died, love. He took a second massive stroke and went.’

  Anna gulped. It was over, and she felt nothing at all.

  ‘I’ll stay with you tonight, pet. The doc says that injection can make you woozy for a while. Now, I’ll make us both a cuppa. Oh and don’t worry over the funeral – Bert’s been to the Co-op.’

  Anna didn’t feel much until the day before the funeral. Then the whole bloody shooting match moved in on her, because both her parents had died covered in the stuff. In the arms of Polly Fox, Anna allowed her grief to pour. Then Linda arrived and took Anna to say goodbye to her father in the chapel of rest at the Co-op funeral parlour. Neither of them mentioned taking the twins, because they were not fit company, even for the dead.

  Linda wept. ‘I tried to look after him.’

  ‘We both did. There was no more to be done,’ Anna said. ‘And see how normal he looks now – almost beautiful.’

  ‘He was beautiful.’

  Anna knew then that Linda Mellor had lost her heart to a hopeless drunk, and that fact hurt almost as much as Dad’s death. ‘He’s all right now, Linda. No more pain.’

  ‘Yes. Come on. Let’s go home.’

  Billy MacRae was laid to rest on a beautiful day. Birds sang, the sun shone, and everyone wept. Apart from the twins, of course. They employed themselves by reading names and dates on surrounding headstones. Anna barely glanced at them. She knew, but was unable to prove that they had given Dad alcohol. They were demons from hell, and they had no right to attend a Christian service.

  Billy was placed above his beloved and long-dead wife. On that very spot, Thomas Brogan had poured the last of his supply of whisky; now, Frankie was in the company of a man she had loved, a man who had been incapable of facing withdrawal from booze. But they were together at last, and Anna drew a small amount of comfort from that.

  It was over. She had done this all alone, because Den was sitting exams in London and had been unable to attend. She could do some things alone, it seemed. Perhaps growing up would not be too bad after all.

  Fifteen

  The
thing about weddings is that they creep up on you like muggers, vagabonds, and that landmark birthday you’ve always dreaded. You’re confident that everything’s under control, and you’re going to be fine, because nothing’s happening for six weeks, a month, a fortnight. Then suddenly, when you were least expecting trouble, it’s going to be next Saturday and oh, my God, are we ready? The answer is almost invariably that we are definitely unready.

  Lists. You start off with lists and end up with lists of lists, and the dog’s eaten them all anyway, so there was never any point. You thank goodness Maureen’s making your dress, the marquee is ordered, your twin babies have at least three changes of clothing in case they vomit in the registry, and you are very grateful that every neighbour in the area has opened up heart and freezer in order to accommodate the food.

  Oh, hell. You promised to phone his mother, who owns two new suits and which one shall she wear? She’s so pleased for us that she will weep again on the phone, and I am dangerously near to spilling saline of my own. But the call has to be made. I prefer the lovely, cuddly woman in the blue one, so I ring and tell her so. You see, if I had a list, I could cross that one off. Dry your eyes, Anna, you’ll look like a panda.

  Booze. Has your intended ordered it? He was last seen crawling with twin girls in the living room, but he’s disappeared and how much is champagne these days? Flowers. Not having bridesmaids helps. Your sister will walk you into the place, but she’s having trouble finding something to wear that won’t clash with your stuff. Because you’ve gone bonkers and chosen something so unusual that people will need sun glasses when you walk in. The dress wants a volume control, and you should have gone for a nice dove grey or a creamy beige. He would have hated it, but it would have been nearer to normal than the thing Maureen’s making.

  Then you wake up one morning, and the wedding’s tomorrow. At this point, a false feeling of calm descends, because there isn’t a thing you can do to mend any of it – it’s too late. It’s a bit like going into hospital – you panic till the last moment, then you just go with the flow, because there’s no choice.

  And here I am, on the eve of my wedding, trying to fight my way out of the house. He doesn’t want me to go. Marie is coming to look after the twins, but he still doesn’t want me to go. I don’t want to bloody go. I’d rather lie down with him than sleep alone in his tantric sex bed at the other side of the bypass.

  ‘I’m younger than I look,’ he moans. ‘I can’t be trusted by myself overnight, because I need a motherly bosom to which I might turn when—’

  ‘Behave yourself, Alec. Embedded somewhere in ancient folklore is a rule that bids me leave this house before midnight, and—’

  ‘Why? Will you turn into a glass slipper?’

  ‘No. Probably a pumpkin and six white mice. Now, let me pass.’ He is blocking the doorway. ‘Your best man and favourite client will be here, Mike Wotsisname. He’ll look after you.’

  ‘He has no bosoms. And there’s my bump. How can I manage without Bump?’

  Alec has started to educate Bump already. He/she is currently learning the three-times table. The two-times has been done, as have the colours of the rainbow, The Dong with the Luminous Nose, elementary statistics, and the Tudor dynasty, which, according to the father of said Bump, was all the fault of Yorkshire. Because I am still attached to Bump, I am force-fed the same educational soup, and I love the server of this sustenance more with every mad thing he does. ‘Let me go,’ I beg. ‘It’s only for a few hours. Oh, and what’s all the whispering about?’

  He leans his head to one side and tells me that he can’t hear anything and should I see a doctor? But I know he understands what I mean. There’s a plot on. Everyone but me knows what’s afoot – even my newly-retrieved sister is in on it. ‘I’ll slap your face again,’ I promise.

  He looks at his watch. ‘No time for what follows that sort of behaviour. Unless you stay. Stay with me, hit me very hard, and we’ll make up for a few hours.’ More of his delightfully vulgar whispering in my ear is followed by, ‘Please, Anna. I bathed the twins and I—’

  I launch myself at him and inflict the torture he often uses on me. Yes, he’s bigger and heavier than I am, but I can still pin him against the door and pretend to be whatever is the female equivalent of a young buck. A buckess? Oh, dear. I shouldn’t have done this . . . I want to stay. I want to drag him off upstairs and— Shut up, Anna.

  We separate. And my serious Alec arrives. ‘Before you leave me – I am so proud to be marrying you, Anna. You are the most wonderful, delightfully silly woman I have ever met. We seem to have been designed for each other, yet I can’t believe my luck. I thought you were too good, too classy for me. I expect I believed Dolly was all I deserved.’

  I touch that beloved face. ‘No, I’m the fortunate one. I never truly connected with anyone since my mother’s death. Den seemed a safe place, and I tried so hard to love him, but,’ I shrug. ‘But he wasn’t right for me, and I was no good for him, because I refused to worship the man. You are my light and my life, but Marie and I need to change places now, just until morning. Stop the game now, Mr Halliwell. The next time you see me, I shall be Mrs Halliwell.’

  One more kiss, and he lets me go.

  I sit on the wall and wait for Maureen. She arrives and deposits her mother on the path before going back to the car in order to retrieve Marie’s clothes for tomorrow. Stress crackles in the air – this lot takes weddings very seriously. No smiles, just dark looks. ‘If my suit’s creased, I’ll leather you, lady,’ Marie promises. Sounds great, doesn’t it? Oh, yes, I am really looking forward to tomorrow.

  Maureen drags me away. Everything I need is in Alec’s ex-home, where I shall be sleeping tonight. Charlie, who is now an official resident alongside his wife in the Eccleston house, has made room for all invading females by retreating once again to the caravan. I don’t blame him. Susan is in Eccleston with her son, and Kate arrives just after Maureen and a tired, pregnant bride. ‘Bed,’ my sister orders as soon as she sees me. ‘You look shattered.’

  ‘Bed?’ I cry. ‘I have to try on the dress, because Bump’s expanding in all directions. Mrs Bee says it’s a boy, since I’m carrying high or low or something. Her daughter says it’s a girl, and I say it’s a pest if I can’t get into the dress. Anyway, this is my last night of freedom.’

  I get into my dress. Another thing I have learned about Maureen is that she is an excellent, instinctive and self-taught seamstress. She has done some clever drapery over my bump, and I don’t look too bad, though I know my hair will be hard work – it’s always bloody hard work. Why I had to be endowed with enough for two people I shall never know.

  We’re having what is usually known as a hen party. Everyone except me can get drunk, and I know from past experience that a sozzled Maureen is not a thing of beauty, nor a joy to treasure. Susan stays reasonably sober for the sake of Stephen, so I’m not suffering completely alone. Winston is with us. Visited regularly by his ‘dad’, he seems to be settling well with his new servants. My dog would never have survived Winston, since the cat is arrogant, spoilt and very feisty.

  So, I can’t enjoy a drink. But what I can do is watch an interesting phenomenon. My sister, who was supposed to be a mental case and a genius, is developing a relationship with Mo, ex-prostitute, ex-shoplifter, brilliant cook and dressmaker. Now. This is a thing of beauty. Maureen, on her third double vodka diluted with something or other, is in full flood. ‘See, we told her she hated him, but she still wanted him back. So we had to go looking for him. Again. We found him with a stripper at the back of the Grafton – he’d been chucked out of grab-a-granny night. Welded to her, he was. I’m not kidding, you couldn’t have got a postage stamp between ’em. And they were – you know – doing it.’ She drops her voice for the last two words, and I wonder why. Perhaps it’s because Kate seems posh.

  ‘In the street?’ Kate asks. ‘What time of year was it?’

  ‘Bloody freezing time of year, but he was managing. ‘
Er tassels looked a bit stiff, like, but there he was, doing his best, and Mary Hall, what’s never been any use since her hysterical rectum, shouted, “Oi! John Hooton – your wife wants you back.” We flew out of there – couldn’t get away quick enough. One of me mates got wedged between a wall and a badly parked Reliant Robin. No.’ She shakes her head and gulps another gallon of vodka and whatever. ‘Never get involved with divorce, Kate. It’s not worth it – bloody murder. One way or another, you end up being the meat in the butty.’

  ‘What’s a hysterical rectum?’ my sister asks.

  ‘Hysterectomy,’ I reply.

  ‘And what happened to her?’

  ‘Who?’ Maureen is well on her way to tired and emotional.

  ‘The one whose husband was frozen to a stripper.’

  ‘Oh, her. Well, she went all Avon cosmetics and introduction agencies, finished up with a plumber from Warrington with five kids and a wart on his nose.’

  At this point, Kate ceases to cope. She literally falls from her chair and rolls about in agony. I understand all about this syndrome, as I have suffered from it for most of my life, and there’s no help for it. I know she has placed the five kids alongside his wart, and I am sharing her mental picture of a man with several children depending from his proboscis.

  Maureen delivers a scathing look to the figure on the floor. ‘Have you seen the bloody state of this here? Oxford don in Greek? She’s like you, Anna. Weak as water and hysterical. The future of our country depends on people what are being taught by the likes of that.’

  She’s like me? If she’s like me, she’s nowhere near Rebecca, then.

  Kate struggles back into her chair. ‘Listen, you,’ she says to Mo. ‘That’s nothing. You have clearly never had the pleasure of Professor Harrington-Fielding-Smythe, OBE. It was in one of those lecture theatres where the seats rise in layers until they reach the back of the room. Students look down on their educators in more ways than one.’