The Actuary's Wife

by K T Bowes

  “Ok, thanks for your help.” Emma smiled at Eve but couldn’t keep her brow from creasing at the obvious hostility oozing from Clarissa. Feeling awkward and disinclined to explore the architectural magnificence of the ancient church beneath those angry gimlet eyes, Emma left, pulling her scarf tighter round her neck in the icy street.

  At Freda’s apartment, Emma was subdued and her friend noticed. “Out with it, dear,” Freda demanded, folding a pleated tweed skirt into a neat square and shoving it into a plastic supermarket bag ready to go to the laundry.

  “How many tweed skirts do you own?” Emma sipped her tea and watched another get squashed into the bag.

  “Why? Don’t you like them?” Freda paused in her haphazard packing and stared at Emma over the top of her bifocals.

  “I don’t mind.” Emma squeezed her eyes closed and then opened them again. Freda stood with her hands on her hips, an expectant look on her lined face. “I don’t. I wondered if they were the same or different.”

  Freda peered into the bag and pursed her lips. “I love tweed and they’re all a teensy bit different. Lots of clothing interferes with one’s corset nowadays but these never do.”

  “You don’t need a corset,” Emma replied, running her eyes up Freda’s neat frame.

  The old lady humphed. “Easy for you to say. A young thing like you won’t be tripping over your breasts anytime soon!”

  Emma looked at the tender swelling buds filling her bra and gave the left one a poke. “I can’t guarantee that,” she mused, wincing at the tightness under her blouse. “Pregnancy does weird things.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Are you distressed about the plaque we found in the attic? Or something else?”

  Emma exhaled, putting her tea cup on a coaster. “The plaque mostly,” she lied. “I met this officious woman at St Di’s. She didn’t enjoy me asking questions about the school opening at all.”

  “Eva?” Freda said. “Little woman, very conservative but delightful? That doesn’t sound like her.”

  “No, not her. It was another lady.” Emma concentrated, trying to recall her posh sounding name. “Clarice something. If she could’ve forcibly ejected me from the church, she would.”

  “Ohhhh.” Freda drew out her reply and rolled her eyes. “Clarissa Jameson-Arden. You’ve locked horns with the lady of the manor without realising it, dear.”

  “What manor? There aren’t any manors, they were disbanded over a century ago and they weren’t secure anyway. From what I’ve read, the king gifted them and took them back on a whim.”

  “Quite.” Freda smirked. “But Clarissa would’ve been perfectly happy to go toe to toe with any monarch plundering her heritage.”

  “Jameson-Arden sounds pompous,” Emma scoffed and then her eyes glazed over in thought. “It also sounds familiar.”

  “St Mary in Arden was the church near the railway station,” Freda replied, shoving a bundle of knee high tights into the plastic bag and watching them slither through a rip in the side. “Arden’s her husband’s side of the family. She’s a Jameson from her soles of her nasty bunions to the top of her salon coiffed curls.”

  “Oh, no!” Emma put her hand up to her mouth and groaned. “She’s also the chairwoman for the school’s board of governors. I recognise the name from my employment contract.” Emma shrugged in resignation. “Ah well, she’ll enjoy tearing that up.”

  “Don’t worry about her!” Freda snorted. “She’s all piff nafafa.” At the look of consternation on Emma’s face the old lady laughed and jerked her head towards the front door, indicating she was ready to leave. “It means she’s all wind and rain,” Freda giggled and Emma swallowed the last of her tea and shook her head.

  “You’re a very wicked old lady,” she told Freda.

  “Oh, I know,” Freda snorted. “It’s what makes me such fun.”

  Emma hugged Freda outside the laundry room, drawing comfort from the strength of the hug.

  Temperatures outside plummeted towards zero as Emma walked through the park and she drew her coat tighter around her slender body.

  “Brrrrrr!” Allaine walked up behind her, slipping her arm through Emma’s and smiling. “It’s freezing! You should be careful walking along here. You can’t afford to fall and hurt yourself.” She gripped Emma’s arm, supporting her as they walked together. “Where have you been? I feel like I hardly see you.”

  “Busy with the celebration stuff mainly.” Emma pushed away thoughts of her failed marriage. “I never imagined they’d left sorting the photos and artifacts to the last minute. Freda’s helped me go through most of the boxes stuffed into the attic, otherwise I’d never have everything ready in time.”

  Allaine pulled a face. “I’ll help with displays but I’m rubbish with anything dusty. I’ll cover it with snot from my allergy and you’ll have to invent tales of green crusty mildew which attacks old photos kept in attics.”

  Emma smiled, sensing Allaine wasn’t fooled by her downcast eyes and the sad turn of her lips. Her friend eyed her with maternal expertise. “What’s really wrong, Em? Rohan’s back now, isn’t he? I met Freda whizzing around Welland Park on her scooter the other day and she entertained most of the dog walkers with her tale of his glorious, naked return.”

  Emma wrinkled her nose and shook her head, affording herself a small smile at the image of Freda’s storytelling. She trusted her friend not to mention Rohan’s prosthetic leg, but imagined most of Market Harborough believing her tales of him being hung like an elephant. “She’s a worry,” Emma sighed.

  “So what else can it be?” Allaine pressed and Emma dismissed the news of her impending divorce with a heavy heart, opting instead for relating her run-in with Clarissa Jameson-Arden.

  “Everyone else has been lovely, but she was ripping her nightie all over the place just because I asked a few questions.”

  Allaine snorted at Emma’s description, but agreed. “Oh yes. Our Clarissa likes the town to run as she decrees. She claims her husband’s genealogy from the owners of Arden Manor and hers from the Jamesons of Leicester. She’s the most stuck up person you’ll find here; everyone else is relatively normal.”

  “Jameson. Is that a common name?” Emma asked, climbing the steps into the playground. “There’s been children of that name from the start of the school’s history and at least one teacher per decade, including a headmistress.”

  “That’s them!” Allaine punched the air with her mittened hand. “All over the town like a rash. They usually push themselves into leadership roles as if it’s their right and Clarissa’s no exception. She was a pupil here at the school and then headmistress for a while.”

  “She was the headmistress?” Emma narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t realise it was Clarissa in the photos. She had longer hair and it was a different colour.”

  “Yes, she dyed it red. My older children didn’t like her and she wasn’t popular; too much ‘my way or the highway.’ One minute she was retiring and the next getting herself elected onto the board of governors. In no time she’d wheedled her way into the chairperson’s role. She’s got siblings all over the place and her father taught here for years and his father before him. They’re as miserable as sin. Will calls it ‘The Jameson Effect.’”

  Emma looked confused. “What’s that?”

  “You’d have to ask him.” Allaine shrugged. “They’re like a masonic lodge when they get together; all strange nods and funny handshakes. He’s run across them a few times as a police officer; they get each other out of trouble and cover their own backs. Think of them as the Harborough Mafia and you won’t go far wrong. If you have a problem with one of them, the rest rally around like a parasitic infestation.”

  “And so sayeth the biologist,” Emma laughed.

  “Oh, I’m so much more than that!” Allaine said, raising one eyebrow coyly. “Oh, here we go. My rug rat’s got a face like a slapped bum.” Emma’s friend rolled her eyes as Kaylee pressed her face into her mother’s coat and insisted on
leaving. “See ya,” Allaine said, touching Emma’s arm as Nicky appeared with a face like thunder.

  Emma’s son greeted her with a tight lipped grimace and began a steady list of complaints which lasted through the park and onto Northampton Road. It began with his insistence he didn’t have a single friend and ended with a generalised grumble about having to walk half a mile and then wait in the icy breeze for the bus. “Stop moaning!” Emma exclaimed finally, tired of the monotone which faded into one continuous bleat. “I’m doing my best, Nicky. Just give me a break for once, will you?”

  “I miss Old Mo. Can we visit the estate and see our friends?” Nicky’s expression changed to a futile, earnest hope. “Fat Brian would love our new house.”

  Emma stopped walking and whirled around, keeping hold of Nicky’s hand and ignoring the look of annoyance on his face. “I know how you feel, baby. But they can’t know we have a big house and money. It’s complicated.”

  “But we shared heaps of things on the estate. We shared furniture and money. Some of the grown ups shared husbands and wives and you didn’t have anyone to swap but...”

  “Nicky! Sometimes in life we can’t go back. We have to keep going forwards and that’s how it is, whether we like it or not.”

  “But Old Mo thought I was only going for a couple of weeks and that was months ago. Now I’ve got Daddy, a house, you’ve got a baby in your tummy and he doesn’t know any of that. What if he misses me like I miss him?”

  Emma huffed and bit her lip, exasperation stiffening her body. “Nicky, I’ll say this once. They’ll hate us now. If we turn up with all our new stuff, they’ll resent us. And worse, they’ll think we owe them and they’ll take until we have nothing left and we’re like them again. Do you understand?” Her warm breath made puffs of smoke in the freezing dusk.

  Nicky shook his head. “That sucks. You’re wrong.”

  “Maybe I am.” Emma’s voice softened. “But I’m too scared to put it to the test. I know it’s horrid, baby, but I want to put that life behind me. It’s awful being the poor single mother with holes in her boots and not enough money to feed her son. I’m terrified of ending up back there, Nicky. It gives me a pain.” Emma gripped her chest and shook her head, fear making her tremble.

  Who am I? Devastation curled Emma’s bottom lip and made her chin wobble. I’m still a single mother but I have nice new shoes and money to burn, an unfaithful husband and an Irishman who won’t go away. Emma sniffed and Nicky stopped trotting next to her, turning to put his hands on her stomach. “Don’t cry, Mummy. You’ve still got me. I won’t talk about it again and I’ll cheer up, I promise.”

  Emma swallowed and the groan emitted from her lips too quickly for her mittened hand to cover its escape. “No, it’s me who’s sorry! You’re right and I’m wrong. You shouldn’t leave people behind but I don’t know what to do.” Tears coursed down Emma’s cheeks, feeling warm against the Arctic March blast. “I feel like if I go near them again, it’ll open us up to trouble. They’ll want our money and when it’s gone, we’ll be back where we started. I know you miss Mo, but I don’t know how to fix it.” Emma’s sobs caused huge clouds of white air to mix in the darkness and Nicky reached his arms around her in misery.

  “It’s ok, Mummy. It’ll be ok, promise.”

  Guilt assailed Emma’s heart. How could she ever think her loyal son would exchange comfort for friendship. The bus approached with lumbering surety and Emma wiped her face on her mitten and fished in her pocket for her purse. They clambered aboard and held hands as the bus headed down the fast Northampton Road towards the end of their driveway, a few miles out of town. Emma’s two lives mixed like oil and water in her mind, the decaying, unfurnished council house and the ornate, opulence of Wingate Hall. The puzzle pieces clashed against one another with no hope of fitting into place.

  “Mummy?” Nicky said, squashing himself closer. “Are you thinking about Little Pete?”

  Emma nodded and a tear dropped onto her skirt. “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Oh, I get it.” Nicky patted her hand and Emma’s heart broke. She swayed with the motion of the half empty bus as her breath caught in her throat. Nicky sighed. “He moved away and got a job and a girl and a baby, din’t he?”

  Emma nodded. Nicky pursed his lips. “And then when he came to show us, Fat Brian beat him up and took his wallet because he wouldn’t let him take his car off him. And the girl called the cops but they wouldn’t come onto the estate and Little Pete crawled to the end of the road and his girl cried and his baby cried. Is that what they’ll do to us?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma gulped. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “It’s ok, Mummy,” her son said, threading his tiny fingers through hers. “I won’t let you be the poor, single mum again. I’ll get a job and take care of you just like you always take care of me.”

  Emma clung to her son like a drowning woman on a life raft, terror washing over her in waves. She felt like a failure as a parent, condemning her son to know things about the world she’d rather he didn’t. When the bus driver glanced in his mirror and asked if she was ok, Emma nodded and lied about a fictitious bout of cold.

  At home, Emma dished up soup for two at the rustic kitchen table downstairs. The wood grains held traces of the lives of countless servants who looked after the Ayers family and Emma bit her lip and tried not to ponder on their slavery to a social class she found herself thrust into. Nicky reached for his bowl and buttered bread with a knife which looked immense in his tiny hand. He glanced at Emma, deliberately putting too much on. When she didn’t react, he goaded her, looking for reassurance. “Mummy, is too much butter bad for you?”

  Emma nodded. “Too much of anything is bad for you.”

  “Like too much money is bad for us? Because it stops us seeing our friends?”

  Emma’s hand shook as chicken soup dripped from her spoon, the food half way to her mouth. She set the spoon back in her bowl with a clink. “Nicky, I need to tell you some grown up stuff,” she said, pushing her bowl away and resting her trembling hands on the table.

  “About Daddy? About the other lady and why he doesn’t come home no more?” Nicky’s face creased in concern and he reached for more bread. Emma pushed the loaf away, the plastic crinkling under her hand.

  “Just eat what you’ve got,” she told him and her son looked relieved having finally hit the elusive boundary. He relaxed and Emma fought not to get side tracked. “No, not about Daddy. This is about the council estate.”

  “And Old Mo?” Nicky looked hopeful.

  Emma lifted her hand to silence his questions and delivered the truth as she saw it. “The estate was horrid, Nicky. It was hell on earth and I hated every minute of living there. It was dangerous and terrifying and I always thought Fat Brian looked out for us because he liked us. But he didn’t.”

  “He liked you,” Nicky said, dipping his bread in the soup. A chunk fell off and plunged into the liquid and he mounted a rescue mission with his spoon and the butter knife. “Big Jason liked you heaps.” He stressed the last word and Emma continued before her son became graphic, under no illusions what Big Jason was interested in.

  “Uncle Anton paid them to make sure we stayed safe. He gave them cash when he visited so they kept the druggies away from our house. It stopped them asking us for protection money. They might have liked us, Nicky, but mostly it was about what we were worth to them. Everything has a cost, baby and Uncle Anton paid ours.”

  Nicky stared at Emma in disbelief. “They was paid? Like bodyguards?”

  Emma nodded. “But not in a cool way, Nicky. Remember your friend, Elise, who looked like Kaylee? Fat Brian broke her daddy’s arm because they didn’t want to swap houses with him. Then his men moved Elise’s family up the road to the derelict house next to the rubbish dump and it made Elise sick so they left in the night.”

  “No, Elise wanted to be near the rubbish dump so her daddy didn’t have so far to walk with the black bags wiv his broken ar
m. Then they went to Spain and I cried for a month.”

  “I know you cried for a month, but Fat Brian made it impossible for them to stay. They didn’t go to Spain, baby. They went into a homeless shelter in town until the council moved them onto a different estate. I know because I saw her mummy just before we left and she told me.”

  “But Fat Brian liked me. He gave me jobs until you stopped him. I earned pennies.”

  “He used you to carry drugs to his customers.” Emma’s voice grew hard. “And when I told him to stop, he said I’d be sorry. I didn’t sleep for two weeks waiting for him to torch the house with us in it. Then Anton visited and in a moment of weakness I told him the truth. I suspect he paid Fat Brian off. Again!”

  “Oh.” Nicky pushed the remains of his soup around the bottom of the plate, chasing the lump of soggy bread with concentration. “So they wasn’t my friends really?”

  Emma swallowed. “Some were, but some weren’t. The facts are that Anton paid them and they did their job, mostly. Now when I look back, I just feel horrified.”

  “What about Old Mo?” A tear ran down Nicky’s face and bounced off the rim of his bowl. “Was he paid?”

  “No!” The emphatic tone in Emma’s voice made Nicky’s head jerk up. “Never! Mohammed is a dear, sweet little boy who loved you. But if we contact him and he tells anyone that Anton died and left us the house, we’ll never be free of Fat Brian and his cronies.”

  “Mo wouldn’t tell, not if I made him promise.” The hope in Nicky’s eyes unpicked Emma from the inside out.

  “So how would you tell him?” Insight made Emma turn the problem round on her son.

  “Post him a letter,” Nicky said, his eyes growing distant as he drew pictures and wrote facts in crayon on a fictitious piece of paper in his mind.