Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Too bloody right,’ Maureen slurs. ‘Power to the people.’

  ‘It was King’s College, London, I think. So there was a huge screen on which some film of an archeological dig was to be shown. But something went wrong, and the screen collapsed to reveal the prof buggering a friend.’

  Maureen is not impressed. ‘And?’

  Kate smiles. ‘There were only about half a dozen students there. One of them, a bespectacled swot, came down and pointed to a sign. “No smoking,” she said to the pair below. So the prof put out one fag and continued to engage with the other. He was loopy, of course. He disappeared the following week, as did the friend. Rumour has placed them in some retreat in Polynesia. Smoking is so bad for you.’

  Maureen grins. ‘You are like her. You’re exactly the bloody same, all posh words and mucky minds, the pair of you.’ She pauses. ‘Is that what buggery means, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maureen grins at everyone. ‘See? Stick with her, and we’ll learn something new every day.’

  Susan takes my hand and asks me whether I am nervous.

  ‘No. I’m excited, because I love him so much, and I think we need to be married. But he’s up to something. You’re all up to something, aren’t you?’

  Susan smiles. ‘I daren’t say.’

  I nudge her gently. ‘Go on. I won’t tell anyone.’ Then I realize that the other two are staring at us.

  ‘I never said a word,’ Susan announces.

  ‘She never said a word,’ I repeat.

  Maureen shakes a fist. ‘Better not. It’s taken a lot of careful planning.’

  ‘Kate?’ I say sweetly.

  ‘No chance. Sorry, sis. I like your style, but you’re not getting anything out of me – or Maureen.’

  ‘And our Susan doesn’t want a broken arm, do you, love?’

  ‘No.’

  Right. I’ve had enough, and I’m going to bed. It’s a bed I’ve used before. The tantric sex study chair is still here, as is that brand-new-at-the-time scarlet bed cover. But he isn’t here, and I’m lonely. Stupid. After tomorrow, he’ll be there every night. The baby might get up to five-times table before birth. Was Henry VIII Yorkshire’s fault? No idea. Mother Gertrude said that he was not a good man . . . Thoughts merge and lose focus. I’m going, going, gone.

  And it’s morning. And everyone’s running round me with scrambled eggs, coffee, make-up, brushes, combs, heated rollers. There’s a warm-ish debate about a French pleat or a loose chignon, and I make my exit in the middle of all the discussions. I know how he likes me. No patterns, positive colours, hair pulled away to show my face. I shower, wash my crowning-rather-less-than-glory, scrape it back into his favourite flamenco style, then place on my eyes the slices of cucumber I took from the fridge. The girls find me eventually lying on the bed. I get the feeling that I am incidental, that they didn’t really miss me until they found nowhere to put the dress.

  ‘You’ll ruin your hair lying down like that,’ Maureen says.

  ‘It’s the only way to lie down. I don’t know any other way. Just get lost and let me iron out these suitcases under my eyes.’

  They get lost. Deprived of the sense of sight, my body moves into listening gear. They’re whispering. They’re excited. Something monumental is happening today, and it won’t be at the register office. I pick up the phone next to his bed and dial my number. To do this, I have to remove one cucumber slice, but risks have to be taken sometimes. Is it all right to talk to him instead of seeing him? Am I cheating? Tough, because I have to tell him. He must be the first to know.

  ‘Anna soon-to-be-Halliwell’s phone,’ he says.

  I’m grinning like the Chesire cat. ‘Alec?’

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘Bump kicked. He’s moving.’ I won’t cry, because that will mean I’ve wasted the cucumber. ‘Bump’s a person now.’

  ‘Oh, God, I should have been there. Love you.’ He’s almost weeping. ‘See you later,’ he says. I hear another catch in his voice. When I put the receiver down, I have a word with my belly. ‘Be a boy. I’ll love you whatever. But do try to be a boy.’

  For my second wedding, I chose drama. There was no point in wearing pastels or cream, because he wouldn’t like them. So here I stand, a scarlet woman with gypsy earrings in gold, everything else in red. The dress sweeps the floor at the back, sits just above my knees at the expertly draped front. My red shoes are not new, but my dress is. The blue is where no one can see it. A minute Immaculate Conception medal given to me by Gertrude many years ago, is pinned to my bra. And I have borrowed a small clutch bag from Maureen. ‘Don’t carry money in it,’ she tells me cheerfully. ‘There’s an ‘ole in the bottom.’ Par for the course, what?

  ‘I look like a pillar box,’ I tell everyone.

  ‘You look bloody gorgeous,’ Maureen insists as she pins a red rose in my hair. ‘And I’ve covered your bump and sewn all them crystals on by hand, so one word about changing, and you’ll be collected by the council when they come for the bins on Monday. Don’t start.’

  Kate is dabbing at her eyes. ‘When we were little, I always thought how brave you were. When things . . . happened, I was sure Anna would put them right. And throughout all the fear, I knew I’d be rid of Rebecca in the end, and that I’d find you. You look absolutely stunning. It’s the colour of bravery. Now. Go and get your hombre, senorita.’

  As I pass through the hall, I catch sight of a tall, blonde Spanish woman in the mirror, and it’s me. Yes. They’re right. I look wonderful, and he’ll love this outfit. We get into the car, and everything is fine. In thirty minutes, I’ll be Mrs Alec Halliwell.

  I need to savour every moment of today, because I scarcely noticed my first wedding. That was all white lace, yellow roses and disappointment; this is the real thing. But the person I fix on right away is not my darling Alec – it’s his best man, Michael Wotsisname. He has turned and is watching Kate, his mouth hanging open and almost drooling. She’s in black satin with red roses at her waist. Although a slight woodenness lingers in her facial demeanour, she is a perfect picture. I cross my fingers. Perhaps she’ll be happier with a northerner, because she’s never managed to settle with anything from below the non-existent waistline of our plump little country.

  Alec looks like a delicious James Bond. His best man is dressed in similar style, all the way from a real bow tie to shiny shoes, but he can’t hold a candle to my 007. I look into Alec’s eyes and can see that he loves the red. It’s the same shade as the bedspread he bought for me when we first began to be us.

  And I miss the whole bloody thing again. All I’ll remember afterwards is saying the words, signing Anna Fairbanks for the final time and making everyone laugh. Two things distract me – three if I count Lottie’s whimpering. Firstly, I truly cannot believe my luck and, for the first few minutes, am unable to take my eyes off the man I’m marrying. Secondly, something’s happening. It’s a bit like being in his car for the first time, except we’re not in a car, and it isn’t us. There’s stuff hanging in the air between Kate and Michael Wotsisname. He really does answer to Wotsisname, since no one can pronounce his real one. It’s Greek! Oh, my God! I glance over my shoulder. She lectures in Greek – perfect.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you going to let me put this ring on your finger, or have you turned chicken?’

  The place erupts. I’m not sure that eruptions are usual in a place licensed to kill – I mean to marry. James Bond is another slight distraction. I give him my hand and he twinkles at me. Oh, how I adore a man who twinkles. ‘Wrong hand,’ he says, mock-patience hammered into the words. This statement of his brings forth another wave of laughter from the audience. Perhaps I should have been a comedienne, because I would have been paid for such a performance.

  I do the necessary swap, and we’re married after a bit of paperwork.

  Confetti, confusion, photographs. Then I am whisked away at lightning speed in an ugly black Cadillac with my husban
d, my sister and Wotsisname. We are travelling in the wrong direction. Everyone else is on the way back to Hesford, while I have been kidnapped and am on my way to God alone knows where. Kate and Michael are OK, because I think any direction would suit them. I don’t believe this. What happened to us is happening to them. ‘Why are we going west instead of east?’ I ask.

  ‘Shut up, Mrs Halliwell,’ orders my husband. Such a polite bridegroom he turned out to be.

  There’s no point in blindfolding me, because I know now where we are going. There’s something about the sound around Anfield on a match day. It’s like a choir that isn’t rehearsed, because noise rises and falls in unequal measures and in many different tones. It hangs in the air like a cluster of balloons, then drifts away on the breeze. Thousands of voices have been heard in this hallowed place, and I am sitting now next to gates built a couple of years ago as tribute to Bill Shankly, one of my greatest heroes. ‘What’s happening?’ I ask.

  Alec leaves the car and shakes hands with an official. And I’m in the trophy room, in a corridor, on some stairs, on the pitch. And a voice that defeats all others announces the arrival of one of our back room boys, Mr Alec Halliwell, club accountancy committee, with his bride. There must be thirty-odd thousand witnesses when I am carried to the penalty spot, Kop end. Oh, yes. Red was the right colour for this glorious day. I can scarcely breathe. I am with the man I love in a place I love, and it’s all too perfect. Only now do I understand all the tension and the whispering. It’s all been worked out in minute detail, because we had to arrive at exactly the right time.

  And they cheer. God, please let this mascara do what it says on the box. He stands me near the spot, removes my high-heeled shoes in deference to the pitch, picks up a ball, sets it down, and scores into an empty goal. They cheer and whistle again, stamp and clap until we are almost deafened. Then he closes in on my left ear, tells me he knew he’d score, as he’s sacked the goalkeeper, and that he loves me more than he loves this place. That means something, because my own love affair with Liverpool FC has a long history. So I give him a big, sloppy kiss, and that sets the crowd off again.

  He could not have presented me with a better wedding gift. He already gave me a silly paddling pool as he could not afford a swimming pool, a diamond pendant that matches the engagement ring, plus some studs for my ears. He has style, because he knew not to buy earrings in the shape of flowers, since that would have made for a cluttered effect.

  It isn’t over, because we’re back in the tunnel and I am given my shoes. Kick-off is in two minutes, and I’m glad I have the shoes, since I am kissed by every red and every blue in the lines, and these are tall men. Gorgeous legs, too. It’s Derby day, and Everton is our little brother from next door. Reds and blues – perfect purple when mixed, perfect rivals and friends in a city that bears no grudge.

  Kate hugs me. ‘He knew you’d love it, Anna.’

  ‘I did. That will be in my heart for the rest of my life. Everton, too – I still don’t believe it. I felt the grass under my feet – wonderful. And I saw how big a pitch really is, Kate. We watch, but we’ve no idea of the size of the job they do. Terrifying.’ I turn my attention to my better half. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you work for them?’

  ‘I like to maintain an air of mystery,’ he replies.

  I laugh and Kate laughs. But Michael Wotsisname is too busy lusting after my kid sister, so he delivers just a pale smile. He’d better watch out. I’m married to a bloke who knows a lot of big men – I just kissed most of them.

  College was a walk in the park after Advanced levels in the sixth. There was reading to be done, and it was tedious, since experts in education stated the blatantly obvious, couching it in fancy language as if icing a plain cake just to make it look good. But the work had to be done, since the blatantly obvious was easy to forget, though Anna MacRae found her own way through teaching practices, as she realized from the start that the place to begin was with humour, not with books. For exams, she studied the experts; when teaching, she drove from the heart.

  Faced with forty hungry little faces whose names she would have difficulty remembering within the allocated fortnight, she breezed in and made life fun. She used brighter kids to prop up the slow learners and, occasionally, she had the good fortune to be there when a child began to read for the first time. As she would admit for the rest of her life, she wasn’t sure that she actually taught any of them to read; she simply presented them with the necessary materials and waited for the magic to begin.

  Miss Millichamp was Anna’s supervising lecturer. She visited without warning, and she made note of this girl’s methods. Never a fan of Montessori, Anna applied discipline with kindness and innovation, a fact that went down in writing. When sent to a school in Stockport, Anna was shown by the headmistress a letter from Miss Millichamp. ‘I’m not supposed to let you see this, but . . .’

  Thus Anna learned that she was calm, industrious and inventive. ‘She is mature for her age, and children enjoy her teaching. If she continues to obtain good results from the application of her home-grown theories, I shall carry on believing that this is a gifted student who will gain a distinction in Principles and Practice of Education at the end of her time at Didsbury.’

  Like any young person, Anna was encouraged by the news that someone valued her. She was managing her chosen subjects – Scripture with Comparative Religion as main, English and Physical Education as her secondaries, so college was more fun than hard work.

  Den Fairbanks, whose time in London was over, visited her several evenings each week, drove her home every Friday, and back to college on Sundays. She leaned on him, since he was going to be her means of acquiring a family away from the dreaded twins. They were still there, of course, when she went home, but she lived next door in the house that had been Dad’s, taking some meals with Elsie and Bert while the twins continued to eat upstairs.

  Den learned to hide his car, and they had very careful sex in her bed whenever they could. Or, to be more precise, whenever he needed it. Anna accepted his performances and, at first, wondered whether this must be a woman’s lot, as she gained little pleasure from the activity. It seemed that something was always promised at the start, though it was never delivered, and she couldn’t understand why he enjoyed himself to the point of puffing, panting and shuddering, while she had to be satisfied with so much less. She decided that she was nervous because of Bert and Elsie next door, and that she would improve when more privacy was available. It was her fault, of course. He knew about everything, so he had to be right.

  His mother was a powerful person who cooked him a three-course breakfast every morning, cleaned his shoes daily, and spoiled him to the point where he knew he could do no wrong. Anna pretended not to notice, since she was so grateful to be a semi-detached part of a family that she might have tolerated almost anything. He would change when they were married – if his mother ever allowed him to be married, that was.

  Strictly in the interests of research, Anna MacRae, in the year 1954, decided to put herself about a bit. It was a mixed college, and the wings were joined via the common room, so assignations were commonplace. It was just the sex, she told herself repeatedly. If someone else could do it well, perhaps she would be more likely to enjoy it with Den. And she wasn’t engaged, wasn’t hurting anyone as long as she didn’t get pregnant. It didn’t work, so she concluded that she was frigid, and she had better forget about ever having the earth move for her.

  She got distinctions in all subjects, left college in 1955, and was wed within a week. Although she felt guilty once again about abandoning her foster parents, the urge to escape and survive was stronger than the self-blame.

  The married life of Den and Anna Fairbanks began in a small house in Cheshire, and they moved on to Hesford within a few years. Den turned out to be an excellent businessman and a womanizer, but Anna managed to hang in, since she wasn’t sure what else might have been done.

  When his mother began to demand grandchildre
n, Den followed orders and did his duty rather too frequently for his wife’s liking. Anna was scared. A child would fasten her to him, yet she could see no way out. When she went to the doctor to ask for tests, he ordered her to send her husband in first. Thus they discovered that Den had insufficient live sperm, though she complied with his wish to pretend that it was her ‘fault’. There was still a chance that pregnancy could be achieved, but they were advised by medics not to bank on it, to enjoy life and accept whatever happened.

  Stuck in a loveless marriage, Anna submerged herself in work. For almost twenty years, she toiled at the coal face, since she preferred to remain a classroom teacher with no particular responsibility beyond her debt to those she taught. She cooked, cleaned, went out to work and lay obediently underneath her husband whenever he insisted. His day-to-day behaviour worsened after the death of his mother. He endured two nervous breakdowns, and his wife began to realize that he was suffering from a little more than simple depression. Den was either as high as a kite or as low as a snail, no half-measures.

  Then she met Geoff. His father was Afro-Caribbean, while his mother was a Liverpool girl. Despite a huge difference in their ages, he pursued her relentlessly, finally wearing her down after a pub quiz at which the staff had been a team. They won. Anna celebrated by giving herself to a lovely man whose teaching skills extended way beyond his classroom. The decision to allow sex had been made before she left home that evening, and she was protected by a Dutch cap, while he completed the belt-and-braces law by making his own arrangements.

  At the age of thirty-nine, Anna found the truth. It was simple, yet she had clearly been too stupid to work it out. Before love, there was chemistry. A person had to desire another person – that was the law. But there needed to be affection as well, and she did love Geoff in a way. The sex was glorious, but she would never commit to him, as there was still something missing. That missing factor was probably total, unconditional and very romantic love.