Parallel Life

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I have never understood hammocks,’ said Will sadly. ‘All those sailors hung up like that on heavy seas. It must have been dreadful – one big wave, and they’d be crippled.’

  Harrie sniffed. ‘It was the only way to keep them all in there. They couldn’t fit everybody on the floor. Poor sailors would have been laid like sardines from helm to poop.’

  ‘What is a poop?’ asked Will just before he tumbled down to earth yet again. From his new position in life, he asked how the meeting had gone.

  ‘Meeting? More like a fracas. I am confined to barracks, and you can stay where you are,’ ordered his fiancée. ‘Leave the hammock alone for a minute. The meeting was interesting, and I have something to tell you.’

  The cat shook herself, stiffened her tail as if raising a finger to the world, then stalked off. In her opinion, dogs and old ladies made more sense than these two clowns.

  Will was not one who gave up easily. Ignoring the order to the contrary, he struggled to climb back into his hammock. When he heard Harrie’s next words, he performed the classic full turn and re-deposited himself on the grass. ‘What? A baby?’ He scratched his head.

  Harrie shook hers. ‘Parenthood is not to be undertaken lightly. You will have to learn to comport yourself in a sensible and upright manner, and you have less than eight months to improve. Close your mouth – you look like a goldfish in a dry tank.’

  ‘You mean we can keep it?’ he asked.

  She remembered Annie’s remark about her twins. ‘Men never grow up,’ she had said. ‘Either keep it or put it to auction on eBay,’ Harrie replied. ‘Stop it, stop it. Put me down!’ She was suddenly airborne. He ran in circles, whooping and shouting like a cowboy who had just reined a heifer. But she wasn’t a heifer – not any more – she was twenty-one and a bit. ‘Put me down,’ she repeated.

  He put her down. ‘Are you pleased?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m hormonal. I’m pleased if you are.’

  ‘I’m pleased.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Shut up.’ He kissed her, and that shut her up. ‘We can get married now,’ he said, a grin stretching almost from ear to ear. ‘Can’t we?’

  She didn’t want the fuss, and she said so. ‘We shall elope to the Bolton Registry,’ she suggested. ‘Witnesses are easy to find. Give a couple of tramps a fiver each – sorted.’ She further decreed that they should live in the shed. It was a beautiful shed with all mod cons and double glazing, but they’d have to wait until Annie and the children felt safe enough to go home. ‘Then we can do a bit more painting and decorating and stuff.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But won’t our mothers be upset if we get married without telling them? Mothers can be very strange.’

  Harrie told him the rest of the story. Her father was not in New Zealand and someone named Mathilda was in Rushton’s Funeral Parlour, established 1871. She didn’t know who Mathilda was, but she thought they could track down Father with a bit of careful research. ‘He’s with his train woman, I bet. Sheila. On Wigan Road. There’s something strange going on.’

  Will thought that there would be something strange about Weaver’s Warp if nothing strange was happening, but he didn’t want to upset the mother of his child. ‘So you need to find your dad?’

  ‘Yes. I also need not to get kidnapped, and we are closing my shop until Jimmy Nuttall is safely behind bars. That should happen some time today or tomorrow, if our luck holds.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’ he shouted. ‘Kidnapped?’ He would not leave her side for a second. He listened open-mouthed while she outlined recent history about the gun, about Birmingham and some raid that had left a man paraplegic. ‘Annie’s husband has become dangerous. He’s been staying with our cleaner, Mrs Potter. She loved him to bits, but now even she is scared to death of him. He’s started talking to himself.’

  ‘We all do that.’ Good Lord, what was he getting himself into?

  ‘Yes, but not like this. He’s gone loopy.’

  They sat together on the swing, then a thought crawled into a small gap in Will’s overcrowded brain. ‘The paper,’ he said before running into the house.

  Harrie closed her eyes and concentrated on blood pressure. She must not get worked up, or her passenger might suffer. She realized in that moment how much she wanted the child – Will’s child. When he returned, she told him how dearly she needed to be a family with him and the blob.

  He said he was pleased, then carried on with the result of his earlier thought. ‘It’s in,’ he said. ‘Her mother’s name was Katherina Barford. Mathilda’s death is announced.’

  ‘What time is it now?’ she asked.

  ‘Ten to three.’

  Harrie stood up. ‘Come on. We’re going to meet Mathilda.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you stay here?’

  ‘Be my knight in shining armour. Come and protect me.’

  They left the garden hand in hand. During the drive to town, they spoke quietly about the future, about Harrie’s determination to attend university, about crèches and mothers-in-law and the old bats in the belfry of Weaver’s Warp. With joy seasoned with not a little trepidation, they planned their future.

  Then they saw Mathilda.

  In spite of bright sunshine and a temperature that had made her sweat on her journey home, Sal shivered when she entered the cottage. It felt deadly cold and empty. Her footfalls in the little hallway echoed loudly throughout the place, and she knew right away that Jimmy had gone. It was amazing how the presence of just one other person’s effects could soak up sound, how the absence of that same body and its belongings served only to magnify the isolation of someone who lived alone.

  Retracing her steps, she confirmed that the van was not there, but she needed to find out whether he had gone for good. Relief was mixed with fear. She had what he wanted, had been told to say that she had found it in the garage. The photograph should confirm that the squashed item had been a gun, but how could she pass it and her lies on to a man who was no longer here?

  What would he do? Where might he be?

  Upstairs, she looked in the wardrobe and a chest of drawers in which he had kept his clothing. Apart from a holey sock and its intact twin, there was no trace of the man she had once adored. The top pillow still bore the shape of his head. Weeks ago, she might have lifted that just to smell him again, but love had died, had been murdered by him. She, too, had helped in the killing, because she had become depressed and anxious once more. ‘No bloody wonder,’ she grumbled quietly.

  There was no longer a working phone. Sal had never found the need for one since she had no friends, and a short bicycle ride would take her to a public telephone in any one of three nearby villages. Had Jimmy needed to communicate, he had been free to pay the bill for reconnection. Lisa had given her a mobile. Sal recalled listening carefully to instructions, but could she remember how to use it? After calming down through controlled breathing, she found that it was easy. She just keyed in the numbers and pressed green.

  But telling Lisa was far from easy.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Lisa asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. There’s nothing left here. He’s even taken a few quid I kept behind the clock for emergencies.’

  ‘And the van?’

  ‘Gone. What shall I do?’ She waited for what seemed an age for the answer.

  ‘Just put what’s left of his gun somewhere safe. The police are already on their way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I got them in case he hurt you, Sal. Once he had what he needed from you, he might have wanted to tidy you away.’

  ‘But he’s not here! He could be near enough to be watching me, or he could be in town getting ready to kidnap Harrie. When he sees her shop closed, he’ll know I’ve told you he was going to take her.’

  ‘Calm down,’ ordered Lisa. ‘We’ve put a refurbishment notice in the shop window. He won’t know you’ve said a word against him.’

&n
bsp; But Sal was not convinced. She turned off the phone, sat and waited for Armageddon. It arrived within minutes and with a magnificent flourish, just like something out of a film. Two police cars and one unmarked vehicle screeched to a halt in the lane. She felt surrounded, vulnerable and terribly alone. A female officer in uniform took her to one side, and Sal spilled out the whole truth. While she spoke, men ran up and downstairs, into the garden, into the shed. The ruined gun was handed over, together with a rough explanation about its provenance.

  ‘And he was involved in that incident?’ asked the constable.

  ‘He drove. I believe him when he says he just drove and knew nothing about the crime till it was too late. That’s why he feels so strongly about it. The pair that did it disappeared abroad, and they left the gun in his car. He hid it, but his wife found it and took it away.’ Should she mention the Compton-Milnes? ‘He’s not right, you know. In his head, I mean, because he’s not thinking straight. There’s more to the story, but I don’t want to—’

  ‘We know the rest,’ said the policewoman. ‘You were too afraid to come to us – that’s understandable, since he seems to have given his wife a hiding. Mrs Compton-Milne has been very open with us, and she is anxious to protect you. She wants us to take you back to her house.’

  Sal bit her lip; she would not cry, not now. ‘They’re already looking after Jimmy’s wife and kids. The house is going to be bursting at the seams.’ Mind, they did have about eight bedrooms . . .

  ‘So we understand. Strength in numbers, Mrs Potter.’

  ‘Miss.’

  The woman patted Sal’s arm. ‘Come on. Let’s take you up there. We shall keep watch around here, so don’t worry.’

  Sal collected clean underwear, a change of clothing and a few toiletries from her little bathroom. She was going back to where all the eggs sat in one basket. It would not feel completely safe, but anything was better than staying here alone. Once again, she felt chilled to the bone. With all his perceived enemies in one place, Jimmy needed only a can of petrol and a match. She would not dare to sleep that night.

  Using binoculars stolen from Sal Potter’s shed, Jimmy watched the scenario as it unfolded down the lane. He was furious. So this was how she paid him back for all he had done? He had furnished her house, for goodness’ sake. They were all in it together, the women ganging up to plot against him – even his own mother was not to be trusted completely.

  He descended from the tall tree and walked. He strode back and forth, all the time cursing Sal, Lisa and Annie under his breath. The van. Where had he put it? Remember, remember! Third beech along, small gap, covered in branches. All his stuff was in the vehicle, so there was nothing here to advertise his presence. ‘Except me,’ he muttered. ‘I’m here.’ Could he stay?

  He climbed the tree again. The cars had gone, and Sal’s house seemed deserted. Were the cops in there? Were they waiting for him? Did they have the gun? Anger overwhelmed him, and he fell. Fortunately, a lower branch managed to hold his weight, and he waited for his lungs to get back to normal. Normal? He couldn’t even remember bloody normal.

  He paced about, unable to settle, incapable of ordered thought. The van. She would have given the police the number; Jimmy thanked his stars that he had taken her bike in the back of his van. He could travel under the cover of darkness, at least. Those false number plates had been a good idea, too. Good ideas were few now. He had collected the number plates when he had been thinking sensibly. Remember, remember. His mind was like a colander . . .

  Where could he go, though? She might have found the gun, might not have found it. She could be in league with the Compton-Milne family. And Annie. Yes, Annie would be at the back of all this. He had hit her, and Annie was not renowned for her forgiving nature whenever she allowed herself to feel righteous indignation.

  ‘Go and see Annie,’ he told himself aloud. ‘Get the truth out of her.’

  He advised himself over and over to see Annie. It became the mantra of the day. Annie had to be his next port of call. But would the police be there as well?

  Will knocked at the door. It was black and shiny, and its leaded lights gleamed to advertise recent polishing. The house looked well-maintained, as did the tiered front garden. This part of Wigan Road was blessed with lovely views across the valley that contained Bolton. ‘It’s all right round here, isn’t it, Hat?’

  Harrie made no reply – she simply stared at the door behind which her father was possibly hidden.

  A woman answered. She was a plain person, not particularly ugly, not pretty – the sort of woman nobody noticed, really. There was sadness in her eyes, and not a little fear. ‘Yes?’

  Harrie recognized her from the day in the coffee shop when she and Mother had played tricks. Had they but known the truth . . . ‘Mrs Barton?’

  Sheila nodded.

  ‘Is my father here?’

  ‘No. But please come in.’ She led them through to her middle room, the one in which she lived and ate for the most part. ‘Your dad isn’t here, Harriet. But he has been staying here – he is still staying here. And . . .’ She broke down and began to weep. ‘Does your mother know he never went to New Zealand?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Harrie looked at Will. ‘Find the kitchen and go and make a cuppa, love.’

  He left the two women together. ‘What is it?’ Harrie asked.

  Sheila shook her head, then mopped at her face with a tissue. ‘He’s gone for more tests.’

  ‘More tests? What kind of tests?’

  ‘The usual. Blood and stuff, then some sort of scan. He’s been quite poorly, lots of tablets, very tired and nauseous. He hasn’t been near his trains for a long time. That’s why he comes here, you see. The trains. My husband was a collector, and your dad needed somewhere . . .’ She grabbed Harrie’s hand. ‘I am so glad you’re here. I’ve come close enough to getting on a bus up to your house, but he might not have liked that.’

  Harrie swallowed hard. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asked.

  Breath left Sheila’s body in a long sigh. ‘Well, he had a biopsy, and they gave him tablets that make him fit for nothing. He says they compromise his immune system, then he starts going on about doctors being too free and easy with antibiotics and destroying the world. Sometimes, it sounds as if he’s not thinking straight, and that’s a shame. Such a clever man, your dad. Those tablets do damage. His hair’s coming out in clumps.’

  The younger woman gulped again. ‘Cancer?’ she asked.

  Sheila shook her head. ‘Well, that’s the conclusion I came to, but he’s not a great talker, is he? Very private sort of man. He’s never said the word cancer. Not in my hearing, anyway. He’s inside himself and doesn’t often reach out. Too quiet, if you ask me.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he is.’

  Sheila wrung her hands. ‘I don’t know what to do. He eats next to nothing, and I try to stay on top of the medication, but it’s not easy.’

  Harrie stared through the window into an imaginative rear garden with arches, trellises, pebbled areas and a bit of lawn. Pots of flowers provided a riot of colour, and roses bowed their weighty heads. The woman was a nest-maker, but she couldn’t manage her cuckoo. ‘Do you know who Mathilda is?’ she asked.

  Sheila paused before replying. ‘There are some questions I will answer for the sake of his health. But there are other areas where I daren’t tread. It has to come from him, Harriet. I’m just a friend. He has treated me well in return for the use of my attics – always brought trout or salmon or a good cut of meat. We’ve been close, but there’s been nothing . . . personal. He’s become a brother, yet not a brother, because I’d expect a close relative to confide in me.’

  ‘He confides in no one,’ said Harrie sadly.

  ‘He needs to go home, love. If anything happens to him, he should be with his own family.’

  Harrie nodded. ‘I know. Look, tell him we have been – he knows who Will is. And tell him if he doesn’t come home, I’ll dig him out of here with a shovel. We may not
be close, Father and I, but he knows my threats are never empty.’

  They left Sheila with a full pot of tea. Harrie did not want to encroach any further, and the whole afternoon had been distressing for her. How big did a blob have to be before it suffered via its carrier’s emotions? She sat in Will’s car and held his hand tightly. ‘That was scary,’ she said.

  He knew she didn’t mean the meeting with Sheila Barton. The big shock had happened earlier in the day, when Harrie had stood in the chapel of rest at Rushton’s.

  Because today, Harrie had seen herself in a coffin.

  ‘What worries me,’ said Hermione, ‘is the idea of them finishing up in borstal or whatever they call such places these days. They’re not bad boys – they’re just temporarily impossible. I’m sure they can be cured.’

  Eileen wasn’t so sure. ‘They took my washing line and several personal items of clothing. They folded up the clothes very neatly, sure enough, and placed them in the laundry basket, but that’s not the point. The washing line was used to swing from tree to tree in the manner of Tarzan. They were lucky not to break their necks, so they were.’

  Hermione expressed the hope that they would not destroy Harrie’s little wooden bungalow. ‘I know she doesn’t say much on the subject, but Harrie’s going to be an excellent homemaker. The sooner that man is arrested, the sooner Annie and her children can go home.’

  Lisa ran in. ‘He’s disappeared,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Sal phoned me. She’s on her way back here in a police car. They stopped off while she made a proper statement at the central police station. She can’t go back to her own place. She’ll have to stay here.’

  ‘You should change the name of the house,’ suggested Eileen. ‘It’s becoming a home for waifs and strays who bring back cats and steal a person’s washing line and—’

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ Hermione ordered.

  Eileen stopped. There was an edge to her employer’s tone that spoke volumes to all who knew her well. Hermione was not pleased – and that was putting it mildly.