“And Mum?”
“She came back… eventually. Her and Nan, they talked.” A tiny snigger. “God, did they talk. Anyway, the upshot of it all was that Mum and me dad would get a divorce. In those days, that was pretty scandalous, you know. Mum had to go away, leave this bloke she'd met. I remember the shouting, the pleading, but Nan, Nan was a stalwart, hard as nails. She told Mum there was no choice, could never be a choice. So, Mum left and Nan looked after me. Raised me. I was six years old.”
“Mat…I had no idea – I'm sorry.”
He shrugged, “It's not your fault, Jed. None of it. When Mum came back, she got a job with the Civil Service. Things got a bit calmer, a bit easier. The years went by and slowly things got better. As they do. I was about twelve when she met your dad. A year later, they were married, and then you came along.” He drained his coffee cup. “And now, here we all are, nearly sixteen years later, and it's all happening again.”
“But…Mat, are you sure it's the same bloke?”
“I'm sure, Jed. I've seen them.”
They strolled down to the lake and sat on a bench. Matthew had come prepared and threw a few scraps of stale bread into the water for the ducks. The brothers watched the birds without speaking, the silence heavy between them. Jed's emotions were running wild, all at once confused, angry and sad, but most of all, betrayed. His mother had been seeing this man for years and years, living a sort of double-life. Everything was clear now. Not only the business with the car, but other things. The way the telephone would ring, just twice, almost every night at about the same time. Dad complained to the Post Office about it, but they couldn't explain it. Mum had said she'd been to see them and they'd told her it was a nightly check on the line, making sure the connections were working properly. Nobody questioned this explanation, there being no reason to. Dad, happy in his ignorance, accepted the lie. Jed didn't even think about it. But of course, now it was all clear. It was him, ringing Mum to tell her he was thinking of her. Just two rings. Made her feel happy.
It all made Jed feel sick.
He should have noticed that something was wrong, he should have been able to protect his dad, save him from all of this…this hell.
“I used to blame myself,” said Matthew suddenly, sensing Jed's thoughts, perhaps. “At night, lying in bed, I could hear my dad crying and I'd say to myself, why is this happening, where has my mummy gone…I didn't understand it, none of it. Six years old, Jed. At school I started getting into trouble. I remember I kicked Miss Stretch, right in the shin. God, that was good – got me into loads of trouble, though. Then I started wetting the bed and dad – well, never mind about any of that. It all happened a long, long time ago. And, I guess because you're older, you'll be able to handle it better.”
“Where have you been, Mat? Why didn't you ever get in touch? All those years, nothing but cards. No phone calls, no visits. Why?”
Matthew sat back, stretching out his long legs before him. “I was inside, Jed. Did an off-license. Me and two other blokes. I got sent down for seven years. Served four.”
“What?”
He nodded, “Yeah…stupid.” He winked, “Should have done a sub-post office instead.”
“Don't joke.”
“I'm not – that bloody off-license had about thirty quid in the till, but, because Harry had a shotgun – well, all water under the bridge now, eh?”
“I don't…” Jed put his face in his hands and sobbed. Matthew gently put a hand on his shoulder and waited until the tears had subsided. It took quite a while.
“This is where it all happened then? Your daring rescue?”
“Yeah. He was just over there, fishing. Slipped on some ice and went straight under.”
“Who was he?”
“No idea. Never saw him before. Really weird looking guy, dead thin. Like a ghoul.”
“A ghoul? What the hell does one of them look like?”
“You know, really pale and thin. Almost like a skeleton. Flesh just hanging off his bones. Horrible, really. Anyway, I got talking to him in the hospital and he was really nice – but then he just left, and I've not seen him since.”
“Were you expecting to?”
“Dunno. I suppose. I feel a bit, you know, let down. Then all this television malarkey, and the newspapers – and that damned assembly at school.” Jed had told his brother what had happened, how he'd fainted at the crucial moment. Matthew didn't say anything, just nodded grimly, as if he knew all too well the pressure Jed had been under. “I don't suppose I'll see him again.”
“You never know. Do you want to?”
“I guess – just to make sure he's okay.”
“He didn't make any plans, then? To meet up with you, I mean?”
Jed frowned. “You seem really interested in this guy, Matthew. Do you know him?”
“Know him? How could I possibly know him?”
“I don't know, just a hunch.”
“A hunch? That's what policemen have, Jed.”
“You'd know about that.”
“Eh?” For a moment, Matthew seemed tense, sitting up slightly, looking awkward.
“You being inside, having lots of dealings with them.”
Matthew smiled, a little too widely, almost as if he were relieved. But relieved about what? Had Jed's words touched a nerve, and if so, why?
Matthew patted Jed's knee. “Well, maybe after he reads your story in the papers, he'll get in touch.” Matthew clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “I'm off now, Jed. I'll give you a ring in the next few days. Maybe we can, you know, go for a drink or something…”
“I'm not old enough, Mat. Not for a pub.”
“Yeah, but you look it though. You haven't half grown. What are you, six foot?”
“Six-one. Gets me into trouble sometimes.”
“Yeah, but you can handle yourself, right?”
“I guess.” Images of Watson crumpling to the ground, nose bleeding like a tap. Yes, he could handle himself. Perhaps a bit too well.
Matthew took his hand and shook it, the grip firm and dry. “You take care, yeah?” Then he was gone, arms swinging, marching off without a backward glance.
Jed watched him, wanting to run after him, ask all the questions running round in his head. Especially the name, the name of the man who had stolen Mum. Nothing else mattered, except for that. He wanted that name, he wanted to find him.
He let out a long, controlled sigh. The time would come. All he had to do was wait.
5
September, 1947, cold, but bright. The morning air bit sharp as she stood on the doorstep, dressing gown pulled close. She leaned against the door well and watched her husband stomping off down the street. He paused at the corner, looking back, raising a hand in a solemn goodbye. She smiled, gave a little nod, and then he was gone and the loneliness closed in upon her like a prison door.
In the tiny living room, Matthew sat amongst a mess of strewn building blocks. He barely looked up when his mother came in and flopped down on the settee next to him. A little while later she got up and went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.
Trudy was there, sitting in her basket, her little tail wagging, big eyes all expectant. “Later,” was all her mistress said, filling the kettle then settling it on the gas ring. She swilled out the teapot, shovelled in two heaped teaspoons of Mantunna Tea and leant back against the sink to watch the kettle come to the boil. Just another long, long day, stretching out forever. That's all she had waiting for her, once again – the same routine, unchanging, every single day of her life.
She jumped when the doorbell rang, and a little thrill ran through her. Anything to break the monotony.
It was the postman. He made a double take as she pulled open the door and she wondered for a moment why he was standing there, eyes on stalks. Then she gave a little embarrassed giggle, and pulled her dressing gown closer, covering up her breasts. He was bright red and she leant against the door well, looking him straight in the eyes.
“Can I help you?”
The postman kept his eyes averted, not daring to match her stare as he fumbled in his bag and brought out a small parcel. He handed it over and she took it from him, her fingers brushing against his for a moment. He looked up and this time there was the flicker of a smile.
From inside the house, Matthew gave a cry of triumph, followed by the sound of crashing bricks. She glanced down the hallway and sighed. “Ah well, back to my extraordinary life.” She looked at the postman again and shrugged, subconsciously gathering her dressing gown even more tightly about herself, then slowly closed the door.
“I did it,” shouted Matthew as his mum came back in. He beamed. “I made the biggest tower ever.”
“Well, you'll have to rebuild it now, so I can see.”
Enthused, Matthew quickly took to gathering the bricks together once more. Sighing, she took the parcel into the kitchen just as the kettle began to whistle.
Pouring the boiling water into the pot, she sat down and fingered the parcel, a deep frown crossing her face. She never got anything through the post. Frank, her husband, received everything, including the bills, but this one had her name written across the front: Mrs Mary Cowper. There was something vaguely familiar about the handwriting. Very even and very neat, all of it in upper case, great care taken to form each letter. Yet, the formation of the 'a' reminded her of something…
Teasing open the wrapping, curiosity and excitement gathered. But as she pulled away the brown paper, her heart stilled and the frown on her face grew deeper.
There was nothing inside except for some folded up tissue paper. No note, nothing. She sat back, arms crossed, and stared at the torn open package before her and wondered what on earth was going on.
The doorbell broke through her thoughts and she slowly got up and padded to the door. Who could it be this time?
She pulled open the door and gaped.
It was Frank.
Before she could say anything he was on her, like some wild cat, right hand gripping her around the bottom jaw, forcing her lips together, hurting her. As she tried to tear herself away, his left hand came across, slapping her with brute force, knocking her off her feet. She fell against the far wall, her head making a sharp crack as it hit the plaster. She slumped down, blood coming from her mouth and he straddled her, features contorted with rage, fists bunched. “I saw you, you bloody bitch! I knew this was going on, I just knew it.”
“Frank, for God's sake—”
He drew back his fist, “Bloody bitch – I knew it, I just knew it!”
Matthew came out of the living room in time to see his daddy punching his mummy square in the face.
They'd met during the War. He was a friend of her cousin's. Frank Cowper. Nice enough, lovely smile. He had a bit of reputation, but she didn't mind that. In fact, she found it all rather exciting. He was wiry, broad shouldered, had the look of a troublemaker about him. Rumour had it that he fancied himself as a street fighter and was always getting into scraps. But she didn't mind that either. In a funny sort of way, it made her feel safe. He was in a 'reserved occupation', a dockworker down in Birkenhead. That pleased her, because if anything did come of them walking out together, then she wouldn't have to worry about him going off to Africa or somewhere and getting himself killed. Ida's boyfriend, Terence, he'd been shipped off abroad, to fight the Italians. Two weeks he'd been gone, then his mother called her round. They'd received a telegram, from the government. Killed-in-action it said. Ida had been inconsolable for ages, only emerging from her house after a month or so. Terence, gone. Mary never ever wanted to go through anything like that.
When Frank had called, together with his friend Stanley, he was driving an old Ford. Its headlamps were fitted with black card, a rectangular shape cut out of it, to make the beam a mere slit so that the German bombers couldn't see it in the blackout. That meant they would have to drive slowly. But not on the way. On the way, Frank drove at breakneck speed and Mary and Ida, in the back seat, squealed with delight. It was exciting driving in a car, something neither she nor Ida had ever done before. A boyfriend with a car. The stuff of dreams. The two girls grinned at each other. Nineteen years of age and the whole world ahead of them.
New Brighton Tower ballroom was full to bursting that night and the band was particularly good. They danced and chatted and laughed more than any other time she could remember. Frank was so funny, always cracking jokes, and he had a particularly clever way of rolling his cigarettes with one hand. He said he'd learned it from watching cowboy films down at the Court Cinema but she didn't care. It was wonderful and so was he.
When the air raid started, no one took a blind bit of notice. No one ever did. The music continued, pausing only briefly for the manager to make the announcement that he could take no responsibility for any injuries caused if people decided to remain in the ballroom during the raid. Everyone just jeered and whistled, the music started up again, and the dancing continued.
About five minutes into the raid, the landmine struck. Its impact shook the whole building like a toy, as if it were the epicentre of an earthquake. The entire stage upon which the band sat collapsed, sending up a great cloud of dust and debris. The lights went out and there was pandemonium as people ran around in every direction, screaming and shouting in a wild stampede. The manager tried to calm everyone, shouting out to them not to push, but the microphones weren't working, his voice drowned in the chaos. Ignoring the pleas for calm, everyone made a mad scramble to get to the exits.
Frank took charge, grabbing Mary around the waist, and he pushed his way through the mad crowd towards the exit sign. The emergency generator had kicked in and a soft red glow above the doors directed them towards the outside. Mary wasn't so sure if that was the best place to be right at that moment. As they neared the door, the sound of falling bombs drew closer. It was a heavy raid, perhaps the heaviest yet.
The press of screaming people at the door was frightening. Frank elbowed one man in the jaw, knocking him down, and kicked another one out of the way. It was madness, everyone battling each other, legs and arms flailing about, kicking, pushing, gouging, a mad, uncontrolled rugby scrum, nobody giving a damn about anyone else. Except Frank, of course. He held Mary close and he wasn't letting go.
At last, they burst into the night and he pulled her round and hugged her hard. The night sky was lit up with the glow of a thousand incendiary bombs, spotlights arcing through the blackness, the drone of the bombers high above them and everywhere the screams of people as they floundered about. Some fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, others wandered around as if drunk. Mary glanced back towards the ballroom and felt sick. It appeared as if made of paper, scrunched up into a tight ball, twisting and buckling as the flames lapped through broken and distorted masonry. The landmine must have been huge and the tower had taken the brunt of the explosion. Then Frank was pulling her away, heading towards the car, and he bundled her inside.
“What about Ida?” she screamed.
Frank looked at her, debating whether he should go back or not. He bit his lip, looking at the people spewing out from the exit doors. In the distance, the heavy crump of bombs exploding in the night, incendiaries bursting into flames, a curious smell filling the air. A scene from a nightmare, dazed, confused figures moving like gyrating ghosts, blurred and indistinct in the night, briefly illuminated every now and then by a flash from exploding bombs. Faces unrecognisable in the gloom. He shook his head, “I'll never find her.”
“Frank, please – we can't just leave her!”
His shoulders sagged and he gave her a wink, a brief nod, and then was gone, plunging into the crowd, his wide shoulders making him stand out for a moment before he disappeared, swallowed up by the night and the surging mob.
She staggered over to a little grassy hillock and sat there for a moment, wondering what she could do. Weeping women and crying men whirled past, drunk with fear, some mumbling, deep in shock, others calling out the names of friends and loved o
nes. Another terrific blast close by spurred her into running into the car park and the few vehicles waiting there. Breathing a sigh of relief, she found Frank's Ford with little difficulty and tried the door. It creaked open and, in the comforting, darkened interior, cocooned against the bleating madness of those outside, she put her face in her hands and cried.
The War, once so distant, phoney as some had called it, had suddenly become so immediate. There had been raids before, but nothing like this. She pulled back her head and, through her tears, peered at the night sky, lit up by a hundred orange-red fires. New Brighton stood opposite Liverpool, the prime target for the bombers. Everyone had made jokes about it all at first, laughing it off, making insults about Hitler and his goose-stepping storm-troopers, but no one would be joking and laughing anymore. This was all too real. How many more nights would there be like this one, she wondered, before Churchill finally came to terms with the Germans? The whole of Europe lay under the jackboot and soon Britain would be too. She imagined a troop of German soldiers marching along the Prom, hard chiselled faces, the new masters, and he shivered at the thought.
Pressing a screwed-up piece of tissue against her mouth, she watched people stumbling about, wide eyed and terrified. The car rocked as another blast erupted nearby and she pressed herself down into the seat, curling her body up into a ball, the tissue crammed tight in her mouth to muffle her cries. This was the night from hell, the night she'd always dreaded and always hoped would never come.
She cried out as the door tore open, but then Frank's reassuring voice made her relax, telling her it was all right, and she felt such relief she almost swooned. Ida, crying uncontrollably, she fell into the back seat, and Stan was there, blood running from his scalp in little rivulets to drip off the end of his jaw. He looked hideous in the gloom, but they were alive and they were safe and Mary held them both.
Soon Frank took the car down onto the prom and carefully guided it up Victoria Street. The blackout was in full force, but the incendiaries gave off more light than any streetlamp. Far more than the useless headlamps anyway, the meagre drizzle of light as good as useless. Frank had his face pressed up against the windscreen, jaw set, concentrating with every fibre of his body as he slowly guided the little car up the street. He didn't see the crater until it was too late, the car tipping downwards sharply, all of them shooting forward, Frank's head hitting the windscreen, cracking the glass.
Splintered Ice Page 4